The importance of good customer service

I bought a couple trees tonight. It was a swell experience.

First I called the nursery where we'd purchased our last two trees. They sent my call to (tree lady)'s voicemail. I left her a message, asking for a quick response if possible.

No call. I called back. I asked if (tree lady) was in today or if she was just busy. (Receptionist lady) pretty much told me to shove off and continue to wait for (tree lady)'s call. She ended the call before I had a chance to ask: DO YOU HAVE FRUIT-BEARING TREES? Do you think that's something that a specialized (tree lady) needs to answer? Hmmm...

So I hung up waiting for (tree lady)'s call. No call.

I picked the kids up from school.

I drove a total of 40 minutes to the nursery in question.

I got the kids out of the car.

My phone rang.

Me: You have got to be f*cking kidding me.

I told (tree lady) I was in the parking lot, but she may as well tell me over the phone if they had any fruit-bearing trees in stock. Can you guess the answer? As a bonus, she gave me her best patronizing voice: You're still waaay early for planting those. Yeah? Well, guess what: Not for bare-root trees, which is what I'm looking for. You're supposed to plant those before the buds open. But thanks for your time.

I wonder if she could feel that spank from all the way outside in the parking lot.

I hung up and packed the kids back in the car. Shortest shopping trip in history.

Of course I went to my parents to commiserate and hang with my mom. Read: feed all their food to my ravenous children.

As we wrapped up for the evening, I figured I'd call around on pricing. Some had trees but they weren't ready to sell. Others had to order them. I was defeated.

We headed home, and just for giggles, I swung through a local Earl May nursery. It looked closed, even though the neon sign was lit, so I pulled up to the front and started scoping out their tree tags in the near-dark.

Apple tree.

Apple tree.

Apple, cherry, peach, apple, apple, apple......

Oh. My. God. I was in apple tree heaven. And they were all straight and looked healthy. I jotted down the names, and when I wasn't paying attention, a cute high school kid ran out and asked me if I needed help. He was so nice.

I told him I could come back since they were closed. He laughed: Well, we're open for at least five more minutes.

Gasp! Seriously? Good customer service???

I jumped on it. You want to make the fastest apple tree sale in your life? He laughed and waited outside with my trees while I took my kids inside to pay, then he loaded both of them up and threw a couple red tags on the end so the cops wouldn't pull me over.

I tied the trees together ghetto-fabulously with my jumper cables and drove all the way home on the back roads, just in case.

I'm so excited. Hopefully this fall we'll have Honeycrisp

and McIntosh apples.

I worked in sales for years, and even while writing this, I am moved by how awesome that team was tonight. Every one of them. The guy who loaded my trees to the girl who searched her books to make sure my trees would cross-pollinate, and the guy who was chit-chatting with me at the register and ran off to find my tree spikes I'd been searching for.

I am so writing the manager a letter of thanks. Hopefully it'll get someone a raise or at the very least let them know how much I appreciated the change in attitude from the first nursery.

Tomorrow's world-changing feat?

Deciding on a mid-height fence design to build. And then buying the lumber.

Thoughts?

Haircut? Check. Ricky Martin: gay? Check.

Well, it finally happened. And I didn't have to shave a stripe down his head.

Mike cut his hair.

He no longer looks like the second coming of Jesus.

(I imagine that Jesus would drink Budweiser... nothing less than the King of Beers for the King of Jews.)

I don't have a picture yet, but he now looks a little like this:

Yeah, I know what you're thinking... how could I possibly stand to live with someone who looks like that?

It's day-to-day, really. We manage.

I can't complain, especially since my sister just found out her love interest - Ricky Martin - is a "fortunate homosexual man." Via my text message of course. Taunting her. I've been telling her for years but she just doesn't listen. Here's how the texts went down:

Me: Guess what? Ricky Martin just came out of the closet. Wait for it, waaaaait for it... I TOLD YOU SO.

Stephie: I hate you

(She later called to theorize that he's just "confused" and that he'll come back to her. Denial in its finest.)

Now that I'm no longer married to Mr. Wildebeest and have officially shattered my sister's dreams, I can focus on more important things like getting my yard fenced in while it's in the 70s/80s this week. Because the girls are lacking in patience and I made the colossal mistake of telling them about our coming garden.

Mom, are you making our garden today? Can I plant my tomatoes? And my corn? And my pumpkins? I loooove corn! Cowly-flower is my favorite.

Maybe I cut shave off all my hair and go into the Parent Protection Program.

Anyone have an extra room or tool shed I could sleep in for a couple weeks?

Titillating Tuesday: Gardening plus a bit of chicken vomit paste

Mike: Why does it smell like crap in here?.... Why do you have crappy underpants soaking in the sink???

Me: Emma had an accident. Don't worry, I'll use Comet afterward.

(Long pause.)

Mike: I think we can afford to ditch one pair of underwear.

Me: D'oh.

---

The city is doing construction nearby and the entrance to the worksite is even closer. That means all the bulldozers, cranes, dumptrucks are rumbling past our house all day long.

I have an irrational fear of large equipment, ever since I sat down to watch Terminator 2 with my uncle Kevin. I was 12.

I went with my parents to visit, and I left with an undying fear of nuclear war and machinery.

All I hear with all that metal noise is that horrible moaning sound played during T2's war scenes.

I keep waiting for one of them to come crashing through our livingroom, a red-eyed metal monster riding on its back.

---

This is what the north side of our lot looks like right now:

That boring gray thing is the driveway. The problem with our yard has always been that we have a front side, and then our driveway goes out to a different street entirely. Weird, right? And it confuses the hell outta the UPS guy.

We have no use for it. There are no doors leading to that side of the house. There is only one small window. It's an odd shape.

We'd tried throwing a stupid inflatable pool back there last year, but the kids were afraid of the stupid bugs. And what else can you do on a chunk of sandy soil with a hint of grass? (Because apparently the grass hates it over there, too.)

This is my goal:

Raised bed gardens, dwarf apple trees, fruit bushes, flowers and a compost pile - all surrounded by a fence to make that part of the yard "official."

I'm hoping to start making it a reality this week. You can't even begin to imagine how much thought I've put into this (note: mowable spaces between beds, large gateway for vehicle access, compost away from window, blah blah blah......)

Oh, I've failed at projects before... you wanna know why? Lack of money.

Well, if I can keep Mike to his word not to buy any more bike supplies, I think we might have enough to do it. And we need to do it. I'm spending a G/D fortune on food.

---

My mother has a rice cooker, and I swear it's the love of her life. Much like my bread cooker has replaced my husband. Which might explain why I look five months pregnant. mmmm... BREAD.

Anyway, my mom makes this rice pilaf stuff - noodles and rice cooked in a chicken broth - and since Mom is incapacitated, Dad gave it a shot in the cooker. Mind you, those cookers always have "special instructions." Meaning you'll fuck it up 50% of the time, even if you do exactly as told by those Chinese people who write the directions in broken English.

When his rice pilaf ended up more like rice and noodle gel, Mom and Mike took to giving him a hard time. Mike was laughing and telling the girls to eat their "rice paste" - they DID, and loved it! - and Dad waxed about his cooking skills.

After dinner, I tapped the bits of food from the plates into the trash. The rice paste was a bit stubborn.

Suddenly, memories of St. Robert's cafeteria flooded back to me... when I'd hurriedly tap-tap-tap my equally stubborn mac-n-glue off my tray and into the garbage. *Shudder* All day I've been thinking about how nasty school lunch was.

And then I went and watched Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution tonight. He did an experiment where he took a chicken, cleaned off the good meat, and ground the carcass along with chicken fat and skin, making a chicken vomit paste. After adding flour and flavoring, he pattied it up, covered it in breadcrumbs and fried it into CHICKEN NUGGETS.

We don't eat nuggets, but still. Chicken. Vomit. Paste. And the kids who watched Jamie go through the whole process ate them.

I would've been begging for my mac-n-glue.

The most popular vegetable gardening drug dealers on the block

I'm finally doing it. I'm making my vegetable garden.

Thirty dollars in seed and several seeds-are-evil, you're-in-over-your-head warnings from my mother later, I finally have the energy, motivation and most importantly money to build my gardens. I am such a dork. Is this what happens to women who breed too soon? They become domesticated to the extreme?

Oh well...

We're doing raised bed gardens, so I'll be spending the next couple days measuring for and buying lumber and supplies. I love the looks middle-aged men give us as we walk through Home Depot with the girls sighing, We need TOOLS. Yup, lotsa tools.

I guess I'm so excited about this because of what it will do for our budget AND our yard. In a nutshell, we have a good-sized corner lot on a main street, and the builders plunked the house right in the middle, so we have pretty much all front/side yard with no definitive backyard. This garden plus a fence is going to try to change that.

As a bonus, my girls are obsessed with picking vegetables. Particularly tomatoes.

Herbs, and veggies, and fruits... OH MY!

It looks like I'll be spending a good amount of time outside this summer, which might make it difficult to dodge the Jehovah's Witnesses and peddlers who are making the rounds again. I want a country or picket fence, but that privacy fence is looking more and more appetizing.

Just a few minutes ago, I informed my neighbor of my grandiose plans with a laugh, and she asked if I would be growing marijuana - a joke, of course - and that has become our Plan C if money becomes tight, after selling a kidney and getting a job. We're gonna become drug dealers. Or maybe just growers... I'm not really sure how that works considering I'm not a criminal.

And if moron druggies can figure out how to grow pot in ditches, I can surely figure out how to grow vegetables in gardens.

All kidding aside, I hope this pans out because I really really really have to prove my mother wrong.

It's raining glitter

It looks like someone shat Easter on our diningroom.

There is glitter, chopped up paper and sparkly pompons everywhere.

But you know what? I don't mind. The girls decided today to make Daddy some Easter eggs - completely their idea and completely their artwork.

So now we have gigantic foam board Easter eggs adorning our light fixture above the table.

I used to be worried about the kids creating messes or how long it would take me to clean up after them. Then I realized some of my favorite childhood memories were pretty messy: art projects with my mom, planting flowers, playing in the vegetable garden...

That's not to say we didn't do our share of cleaning. I have fond memories of our weekend chore sessions... the windows open in the Summer and the radio blaring 80s music, then my mom turning down the volume when The Divinyls inevitably came on.

I hated indoor chores in general and would have paid to swap the dishes for picking weeds if I had had any money to my name. I had dish duty every other day for as long as I can remember, and it wasn't until I got my own apartment that I finally let go of that dish-hating grudge. It probably comes as no shock that I had a really messy room. That didn't matter because I had a great memory. (I think that's fate's way of preparing me to live with a husband who loses everything.)

Instead of dusting I'd beg to mow the lawn or help pick veggies from our garden. (I ate half the beans and peas before they got to the kitchen.) Thankfully, my mom tried to make those wretched chores seem fun, and she never made me feel like the house came before us. I am trying to apply that same attitude in raising our girls.

There can be fun in clean and messy times.

I've been trying to do more craft time when I just throw the supplies at the girls and let them at it. I'm still a little wary about the scissors since their hair has finally kinda grown back into a normal length, but we're working on gaining the trust back. That says nothing of the mess their 10-minute art projects leave behind, though...

I've also been focusing on creating that vegetable garden I've always wanted for the girls and I. I think it'll give them another fun way to experience life - planting and growing and caring for their "treasures."

I'm not saying it's easy to let go of the messes, but I'm finding the rewards of giving my children those messy mini-adventures are greater than anything I've gotten from cleaning.

Bad dreams

It has been a few weeks since my last nightmare, unless you count the dream I had a few days ago involving our runaway TV remote. I can't for the life of me remember where I'd dreamed it's hiding.

Unfortunately, the girls have started having horrible dreams.

Last week, Emma told me with huge eyeballs about her pirate dream and their "shooters" (also known as "guns" to everyone else in the world).

Last night, Alison was restless - tossing and turning and talking. I threw her in bed by her Gomer-esque father (he just might kill me for posting this picture) and she passed out immediately.

I hope this dreaming thing isn't genetic or they're all gonna be in for a long childhood.

Speaking of nightmares, Mike isn't scheduled to cut his pelt until April 1st or July 4th. I'm not sure which will happen. I'm scared. He already looks like Zach Galifianakis... can you imagine another couple weeks or months??? This picture is from two months ago:

See the resemblance?

The horror... the horror...

I just might shave a strip down the middle so he has to cut it.

The longest day, week, year...

The whole world probably knows by now, but Mom went in for surgery this Wednesday. She was scheduled to have a lymph node dissection, cervix and omentum removal, along with a robotic Spring cleaning.

Her surgery was supposed to start around 11:40. She was bumped to 4:30.

Note to random doctor who came in at 10 AM to tell us surgery was delayed: Avoid references using the words "BUCKET LIST" when speaking to someone about to undergo surgery to remove CANCER. I dunno. Might just be me.

Thankfully Mom had us (my sister, my dad, my Aunt Hootie-Zhudy and me) to keep her entertained. About three hours into waiting, Mom said, I'm surprised. I told Dad you'd probably take and post a bunch of horrible pictures of me online!

Oh wait, that reminds me... I did bring my camera...

Isn't she cute? Her braces make her look like a baby! And sometimes a toothless hillbilly, if you catch her at the wrong angle.

She hadn't eaten for 40 hours at this point. Gimme my puddin'!

We kept busy by looking at Demotivational Posters online and pretending to play card games until almost everyone fell asleep. Judy and I tooled around a little through the maze of levels and hallways, and I found an $8 pack of questionable sushi at a cafeteria which I immediately bought and guilted my sister into eating. Because Salmonella Roulette is fun when it's someone else's bowels.

Around 4:30 the Russian anesthesiologist carted Mom off to hugs and tears. Stephanie - a newfound-quasi-Karma believer - promised to send Mom's vagina "inner light brightness." We got the giggles a few times on the elevators just mentioning those three words.

Then began the waiting game.

As it got later and later, everything shut down. We were moved from our penthouse waiting room to a Waiting Closet with this sign on a smaller closet door inside said Waiting Closet:

Random but useful. I told Dad if there was a fire, I'd have better luck jumping out the window than trying to find the stairs in that place. And then the fire alarm went off at 10 PM as Dad and I got back from our smoke break (I was the chaperone).

Did you know that the University of Iowa Hospital is a university? Clever! And there's no smoking on campus? I told Dad the long walk through the cold mist should be his deterrent from smoking. Dad is a slave to logic: Quit whining... it's exercise. It makes up for the smoking.

Two pops, two bags of chips, three waiting rooms, one 5000 calorie rice krispie treat, three chapters of my book, way too many oncology patients, two cribbage games in which I embarrassed my sister and just over four hours later...

The surgeon walked in the room.

Since way back when the girls were in the NICU, I adopted the policy of "Don't worry until there's something to worry about." It keeps a person sane when you can't control the outcome in treacherous times.

I didn't realize how worried and how high my stress level was until that moment. He walked in, and I held my breath searching his face for good or bad news. Why was he back so soon? This was supposed to take up to eight hours and it's only 9 o'clock. SAY SOMETHING.

He pulled up a chair with a straight face, sat down and turned toward us. It was like that tiny waiting room had been sucked dry of all the oxygen. No one was moving.

Then suddenly he spoke and said, She did wonderfully.

Phwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwww. The air came back. I felt like jumping up and high-fiving everyone.

Surgery took an hour less than the minimum she was scheduled for. He removed everything he had planned to, including an enlarged lymph node and a few nodules that he found. She lost very little blood (1/7 of a pop can) which was a huge relief. There was no need to cut the vertical incision from breast plate to belly button, which was a big fear.

At an hour post-surgery, Mom was awake and asking for us. She didn't want us to have to drive home late at night. My God, woman. Of course that would be the first thing on her mind. Since there was practically no one there, the nurse took us up to see her in post-op recovery.

When we walked up, she immediately asked, How do I look?

A little like Angelina Jolie at age 25. I think you should adopt this look permanently. Her lips, eyelids, tongue and skin were puffy from being head-down for 4 hours. Stephanie pointed out that at least it meant no wrinkles.

An hour later, she was sucking water out of her sponge-cicle and scoping out the number for room service. I heard, They said I could eat tonight, at least five times.

Thank you to everyone who wished her well. We'll know the pathology results sometime after next Wednesday. She's home resting now and back to being her backseat phone operator self. I called Dad tonight to check in and I could hear her hollering things to me from across the room and into the phone.

The girls are excited because we're going to see her tomorrow. All day, the girls have been asking Is Grandma okay now? Is she all better? They're also concerned that Grandpa won't wear his Green Bay Packer clothes when we visit, for whatever reason.

Weird children.

And let's take a moment to display some more random children's art. Here's Emma's monster.

And Kristin's chalk project including a picture of herself in a tent under a lightning storm next to Daddy's campfire (did I call the obsession with camping or what?)

As well as her drawing of a ghost next to the moon and stars flying into the forest. Strange child.

In more exciting news, I have to announce the addition of a new family member: Mike's Motobecane Vent Noir road bike with the fancy shmancy wheels.

She doesn't have a name yet, but for what we paid, she should probably get one. Along with life insurance. I know it's a girl bike because she's been a pain in my ass for months.

You wanna know what I'm spending my portion of the tax money on? Paint. For the livingroom and kitchen. And probably a new couch because I haven't had the balls to put my face on our couch for over three years now. Even through the couch cover.

So things are good. Good good good.

Unfortunately, with the adrenaline rush triggered by stress often comes the fall. I'm in a valley of energy-suck. As a bonus, I'm out of Pepsi Crack. The girls found their swimsuits tonight and were running through the house in them, and I didn't have the energy to care. They (initially) went to bed in them until Alison decided bathroom breaks took too much time.

The only thing keeping me going tonight is the curiosity of what tomorrow will bring in the way of art projects. Maybe Alison can draw me another picture of her famous but camera shy dog-pooping giraffe...

Giraffe, giraffe... GOOSE!

Emma's giraffe - cute, tall... looks a little like an alien llama with the chicken pox.

Alison's giraffe - silly, spotty... looks a little like the family dog dressed up as a ladybug wearing bellbottoms.

Kristin's I-don't-know-what.

She said she was making a dot-to-dot of a goose.

I assumed it wasn't a giraffe to begin with, but you can never be sure with that one.

I can't believe how much the zoo talk has started up again. We went last summer to the Milwaukee Zoo and it's all they can talk about. Well, that and camping and how Daddy makes fire.

Enjoy the artwork because I need to get out of here. My mom's surgery is at 11:40 and I'm carpooling down to the University with Stephie in a short while.

Titillating Tuesday: Chop sticks

Emma ran around the yard yesterday with her bike helmet on, wielding street hockey sticks like weapons.

Here she is striking fear into her sisters. Clickety clack. Clickety clack.

She was at it for almost an hour when Kristin karate chopped a rock and broke one of Emma's precious clackers.

---

Did every neighbor go to work late this morning?

I'm so glad garbage day gave me the opportunity to sport my pink and green polka-dotted fairy pajama pants and non-matching hoodie in front of half the neighborhood.

---

Speaking of garbage, I've been cleaning out the garage for months. A little here, a little there.

A lot of stuff is still usable, but I don't want it so I'm giving it away at the next garage sale. I started filling a tote with the shoes from 1997, incense burners from my grunge stage, and picture frames with gem-encrusted parrots on them. You know, things that people might take for free but wouldn't PAY for.

Mike has put in a cumulative three hours in the garage over the last week and miraculously it's pretty empty. Also miraculous? Our three garbage cans are completely cram-packed full. Mike thinks throwing everything in the garbage is "cleaning."

He doesn't believe me when I tell him that someone will want my collection of hair scrunchies.

Oh, just wait and see, Mikey.

---

Like I said, every year I put a "FREE" sign at the end of the driveway during garage sale season and throw tons of stuff down there - usually housewares or kids' clothes that have a stain on them. It's how I Spring clean.

People often think of needy people as worthless bottom-feeders... often it's not the case, and I've seen a lot of those needy people digging desperately through my FREE bin for things like slightly-stained kids' PJs or old phones or alarm clocks - things we would normally throw in the garbage when we replace them, even though they work fine.

Last year, a middle-aged man happened to be walking by my driveway when he spotted an item I had marked for FREE. He paused, then walked up to me and quietly asked, Is that ironing board really free? I smiled and nodded and told him to help himself.

I swear to God that man nearly broke down in tears. He told me thank you at least four times, explaining that he had lost his house and had just gotten an apartment... he had nothing to his name. He walked down the street proudly carting his new treasure with him. (It didn't even have an ironing pad on it... it was just the frame.)

Do you understand why I'm more excited every year about that stupid FREE bin than the money we make on all the kids' clothes and toys?

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Did anyone catch Dancing with the Stars last night? I happened to flip it on right as Kate Gosselin was getting ready to dance.

I've said it before and I'll say it again... she danced like RoboCop meets Fantasia Barbie.

It was so bad that I almost sent her a pity vote. Then I remembered that I don't vote on shows. And if anyone was going to get my pity vote last night, it was Buzz.

Isn't Buzz the most adorable little old man there ever was? Plus he walked on the moon. That's gotta count for something...

---

Is it noon yet?

I'm so tired, I can't wait for the kids to go to school so I can sleep.

---

Tomorrow's the big day... Mom is having her surgery, although we're still not sure about the time. I hope they have TV there because I'm pretty sure 8 hours of beating my sister at cribbage would put me into a deep, dark coma.

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone!!!

Just another Satanic Sunday

I was searching desperately tonight for the journal I'd kept during the girls' NICU days and instead found Criminal Minds, a book about profiling murderers that I'd been looking for since 2007. No journal. Criminal Minds.

It's been another one of those kinds of nights.

I took the girls on a "bike walk" looking like hell incarnate and ran into no less than five neighbors in the course of one block.

Yep.

I got halfway through making baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy and the thought crossed my mind that I could bag up that floured chicken, toss it in the fridge, and order pizza instead. Gasp! Clearly I have lost my mind.

Like I said, one of those kinds of nights.

I was lying down at 3:30 this afternoon - because I am still exhausted just from breathing - and the new-ish neighbor rang the bell. She and her daughter were selling Girl Scout cookies.

At which point it turned into the-kind-of-night-when-I-devour-an-entire-box-of-peanut-butter-Girl-Scout-cookies-in-one-sitting.

(On a funny note, I answered the door with, Oh, I'm sorry I look so lovely! I don't want to get you sick... I've got walking pneumonia. The neighbor said, That's alright... it's a Sunday. That caused me to laugh, simply because 3/4 of our neighbors are very religious and would probably be more dressed up on a Sunday. I made a mental note of their possible heathen status...)

I think I'm going to start off tomorrow with the other box of Girl Scout cookies. And maybe harass the neighbor again. That seems to be when tonight turned around for me.

That, and when (HALF of) our government decided to pass a few laws that keep people insured when they need coverage. Yeah. That was a pretty good moment, too.

No lifetime limits for my million dollar NICU babies to worry about...

Cheese!

I was reminded of something today.

We are really happy people. (Especially when we're about to get cheese sticks.)

I don't know why. We can find fun in almost anything, including a trip to the grocery store on a day when I would have paid someone to put me in a coma so I could sleep.

The girls and I spent over two hours at Target this evening... on a Saturday. Mind you, I've gotten to be an expert at toting two carts through aisles and between small mobs of humans, but Target on a Saturday is like my Olympics.

Saturday shopping is by far the most grueling grocery experience a person can undertake, especially with triplets. That's when the real gawkers come out to play. I almost checked a woman's pulse at the food court because she sat frozen, staring at us, the entire time I opened three juice boxes and divvied out two bags of gummies. Maybe she recognized my children for the midget ninjas that they are and thought if she sat still they would spare her...

As a bonus, nearly everything is gone on Saturdays. All the remaining cartons of eggs are broken and the butter is hiding behind other objects. I feel like I'm on SuperMarket Sweep... Maybe if I mix and match these eggs with this carton's unbroken eggs, and I thought I saw some cottage cheese hiding by the yogurt...

But man, did we have fun!

I have no idea why the girls love that store so much - then again, why do I love that store so much - but they would go every day of the week if it was an option. And they love coupons. The girls fight over who gets to hold them for me.

Something about that store puts all of us in a better mood.

Unfortunately, it doesn't have that effect on everyone.

A woman passed by us in the dairy section with the most sour (no pun intended) look on her face. Then she started counting my happy and well-behaved children. 1 up top... another one in the next cart... and one down below? They look all the same age, wait... let me look again... and her face lightened for just a split second until she saw me smiling at her. She looked back at her two children swinging like monkeys from her cart and the sour look came back full force.

The Target magic is lost on them, I guess.

In other magical news, I found a woodchip in my underwear about two minutes ago. I know I've been coughing a lot, but wow is that talent! And it raises the question: what exactly does Mike do with my clothes when he washes them?

That white stuff

It's Christmas Eve Day!!!!

Sorry to break it to you, Alison, but it's still March, just with more snow. From jean jackets back to snowpants... sigh.

Iowa's weather is bipolar.

I grew up in Northern Wisconsin where there are four definitive seasons:

• snow
• melting snow
• lukewarm and sunny
• leaves

Here in Iowa, we skip those pesky "transitional" seasons of Spring and Fall. We move from ice and wind to hot and wind. Occasionally we have monsoon and wind, which is when we spend a week in the basement so we don't get Dorothied to Oz.

It's as if The Odd Couple is in charge of the weather for March. Sixty degrees and sunny? How about 30 degrees and snow?

I'm not complaining... I don't mind the snow. I'm sure the neighbors will be glad to see it go, though, since the snow plow needed only three tries to leave them with what I call a "mailbucket."

I think the green gallon pail adds that certain something design-wise.

I was probably a little premature in taking the bikes outside this week. Unfortunately, Emma is convinced she can ride her bike in snowpants. Mom, can we go on a bike walk today?

I'm actually considering it, since I'm pretty sure the neighbors think I'm on drugs anyway...

Watch out, Hells Angels

What day of the week is it? I have completely lost track.

In an effort to forget what's going on with our medical issues, I magically instructed Mike's car to go on the clink. Who knew I was so powerful? And in what way should I put my evil to use next?

It was gorgeous weather today - in the 60s - and we couldn't let it go to waste. Mike pulled out his Cannondale and practiced a few laps with it, claiming it was for RAGBRAI. I think he was secretly practicing in case I put another hex on his car. Mwahahahahaha.

Of course the girls couldn't be left out of the fun. They'd been trying out their bikes in the basement for weeks now, and it was getting kind of cramped. Plus, all I could hear down there was the whirring of tires, crashing of bikes and mischievous laughter. I wanted to witness what all the noise was about.

Off we went...

Alison (or as she now spells it: AliRson, pronounced Ellison):

Emma (or Eeeeeemawww):

and Squirrel (still just Squirrel):

Yes, those helmets look ridiculous. The girls think they're some kind of cool bike accessory like shoes or a purse. In reality, they accent just how skinny and crooked Kristin's head is.

Here's the bike posse, heading down the street to cause trouble, aka ram into anything that comes within ten feet of them.

I caught Kristin's braking method on film. It has nothing to do with brakes and everything to do with ram-rodding.

Three bike trips later (Let's do that again!), Mike took charge and headed out with the ducklings for a walk. Do all multiples walk in single file line, or is that just a weird thing our kids do?

After all that, they still went to bed after 10:45 tonight. They're trying to kill me, I swear.

The ugly side of cancer

Oh hell, I don't even know where to start tonight.

I was struggling all day with this. What I wanted to do was write a scathing open letter to everyone who has made my mother feel like she owes them something because she has cancer. Because this isn't about anyone except my mother and maybe my father.

It's been an interesting week filled with lovely reactions to say the least.

I think we were prepared for the pity. And a lot of people have been exceptionally nice, but treating mom like she was given a death sentence (even though that couldn't be further from the truth), making her more scared than she needs to be.

What I wasn't prepared for was all the self-righteousness.

My mother has been in tears for the last two days, partly because people have sent her from one extreme to the next: thinking she's gonna die to dealing with people's anger over getting a phone call/not or finding out late... since mom found out a week ago that she has cancer. (Which is ludicrous... I found out on Day 2, they told Stephie on Day 4 or 5, and she called her parents last night.) Mom won't talk about it, but dad's upset, rightfully so.

Of course I'm feeling a little protective of her right now, so the entire family went to their house for a visit tonight.

And we had a lot of laughs, mostly about vaginas. I've been told vaginas are funny anyhow, so I'll excuse the crassness.

Mike had by far the best suggestions of the night, everything from flying an informative banner across the sky: Colleen has cancer, to his "fix" in case mom has to have her vagina sewn shut (seriously). He said: Maybe they could slide a manhole cover over it.

I don't think I've laughed that hard all week.

We talked about swapping kidneys in case they nick mom's one and only (she had donated one to grandma years ago). She said we could work up some kind of swap-an-organ program and exchange them as we need them. I offered her Mike's vagina if there ever came a need, although he said he'd have to get the sand out of it first.

This is what mom needs... she needs humor and love and support. I assume people are just upset because they care about her. I get that. But if it comes from some other, darker place, the attitude needs to be checked immediately.

Mom's about to go into surgery next Wednesday to have a few more cancer-loving breeding spots removed, just in case. The surgeon is also going to search for and destroy any suspicious growths. He said it will take 4 to 8 hours, and we'll all be down at the hospital to spend time with dad and wait for mom to be finished.

I just want to say one more thing: PLEASE GIVE HER TIME AND SPACE. Mom has said she doesn't mind talking about what's going on, and she plans to call everyone, but it's draining. Every phone call takes over an hour. Every person wants to rehash all the details. She needs to be saving her energy and preparing for surgery, not worrying that she hasn't fulfilled her "duties" as a cancer patient.

I hope everyone understands.

Because I know mom loves all of her friends and family, and thinking that people are upset with her during this time hurts her worse than the ugly cancer they dug out of her gut.

Titillating Tuesday: Pay attention, I'm only gonna say this once

Yes, my mother has cancer.

It has already been removed via hysterectomy. It was discovered in post-surgical testing as an endometrial stromal sarcoma. Very rare. High chance of recurrence, but so far, only growing at a moderate rate. I have already posted via rant some of this information.

They visited with a gynecological oncologist (say THAT five times fast) all day today and have scheduled a follow-up surgery for the end of this month. She appreciates your thoughts and prayers, but is really handling all of this well. The prognosis looks really good for now.

The reason for this announcement comes from my father.

We were chatting on the phone today and I told him I've been fielding calls on mom's well-being for a few days now, so he laughed and told me to tell the people to spread the news at will. They're tired of talking about it and reliving it over and over. Seriously. We have a huge family.

On top of that, I get the distinct feeling there are some people who feel left out of the cancer phone tree. They probably don't understand how our family operates, and how much my parents don't like telling people if they're not well. As my dad put it, The only time we hear from family is when someone's sick or dying.

And then we laughed.

Because we're really really sick in the head.

Is it really a shock anymore when someone in our family gets cancer? I was disappointed for mom, but not shocked.

---

Oh my gawd where is that blasted tax return money??? I'm gonna hunt Uncle Sam down and ram my hands down the front of his pants until I find my money or a really big sexual harassment suit.

Mike figured out how to check the bank balance from work, so I haven't had any Is the money there yet? calls tonight.

Because I'm this close to cuttin' someone.

---

The city is doing construction across the street from our house near the poo ponds.

The girls are obsessed with watching all the equipment, one of them being a gigantic excavator.

They call it a "digger."

Can you see where I'm going with this?

Mommy! Look at that huge digger!!! I want to stay outside and watch the digger!

And can you see me yell-herding them into the house as fast as I can shove?

Word of the week: EX-CA-VA-TOR.

Me, dying of embarrassment.

---

The snow is gone! The snow is gone! The snow . is . GONE!

I was excited for about ten seconds until I realized a bucket and a shovel/spatula will no longer suffice for "outdoor toys."

So I sat outside with the girls in the 60 degree weather today and watched them kick dodgeballs around the yard for about two minutes.

Until they found a couple of stray spatulas.

And then they sat down in the grass and scratched at the dirt for half an hour.

Phew. We're still good.

---

I'm reading the book Game Change by Heilemann and Halperin... seriously one of the most interesting political books I've ever read. It's a challenge (and might be difficult if you didn't follow much of the nomination race) but there hasn't been any moment I thought, This part is boring.

Scandals, affairs, animosity and friendship between unlikely candidates. Behind-the-scenes looks at the major turning points of the campaigns as well as strategies and what worked. Backstabbing. Anger. Sadness. Candidates calling each other arrogant assholes. Sigh... the beauty of it all!

It absolutely reaffirms how I felt about each of the candidates. I'm almost done with all 436 pages of it, so I'll be posting it on ST2 soon.

I feel like I'm on Reading Rainbow right now.

So if you like politics, you should positively pick my favorite book Game Change...

---

Happy Tuesday, Everyone!!!

Sexcapades of the grotesque and hairy

I'm ready for Monday!

I want all of you out there (yes, you) to take a deep breath in. Try to forget how much you hate the first day of the work week and relish the act of breathing.

Because right now, that same breath sounds like a bathtub fart in my right lung. Glug, glug, glug. So annoying and disruptive to sleeping. (Thankfully, Mike let me sleep until TWO this afternoon. I'm wiped. I fed the kids, did the dishes and picked up the livingroom tonight and gave myself a big pat on the back before curling up on the couch.)

Let me tell ya, you haven't lived until you've coughed so hard you've burst the blood vessels in your eye.

Since it's Monday, that means I can go to a doctor. Yay for weekdays! I heart you, Monday.

While I'm at the doctor's office, I should ask if they have any Oops, I Crapped My Pants adult diapers. I've been pretty close a few times during my coughing fits.

Mike gave me a good ribbing today, telling me how long it's been since we've nudge-nudge wink-winked. And I asked him if I really "did it for him" in my current state. I'll give you a hint: he slept, well, I don't know where he slept last night, but it wasn't next to my lung-butter-projectile-vomiting hotness.

Besides, he still hasn't cut his hair. And I'm a stickler for following through on promises I make.

Mike now looks like a cross between my redneck uncle circa 1985 and the walrus carpenter from Alice in Wonderland.

I'm not sure which one of us is hotter.

Glug, glug, glug.

Yay, Sunday

Kristin has pneumonia. (Did I call it or what?)

Except it's atypical pneumonia not viral. Walking pneumonia. Not related at all to her flu.

If you're ever in a plane crash with us at the top of some obscure mountain peak, I highly suggest you don't eat us when the food runs out. We're rotten.

On to other news...

Our school district sent home a pack of information including what's required before our children can enroll in Kindergarten.

We have to have proof that our children have seen a dentist in recent past and that their teeth are in good condition. We also have to have immunization records proving we're up-to-date. We also have to have them tested for lead levels, etc. And on, and on, and on....

This is getting ridiculous.

While I am not normally a conspiracy theorist, I think the government saw a weak link here and is taking advantage of it. What will they do if I don't comply? Not let my kids receive their education? Put me on some kind of parental watch list?

Even the principal rolled his eyes at the checklist and apologized that it keeps growing every year.

It bothers me that so much can be tied to education.

And I really really really am not cut out for homeschooling.

Please excuse me while I get angry and swear a little...

This is such bullshit.

Poor Kristin is coming down with viral pneumonia, I'm sure of it. And while I'd love to get her to the doctor quickly, I refuse to take her to the germhole hell known as the ER unless the situation becomes desperate.

I have good reasoning, I swear.

Kristin had a horrible case of strep and a double ear infection 2-1/2 weeks ago.

And now H1N1. For a second goddamned time. And don't tell me you can't get it twice because we did. Because we're some kind of medical fucking phenomena.

So this pneumonia? Can you imagine adding anything else to her immunological plate? Me, either.

Hopefully, as is the case with most viral pneumonias, this will be slow-moving and we'll have plenty of time to get her in tomorrow. She's still pink and active with relatively clear breathing. It's just this horrendous fuckiferous dry cough, quickened breathing and relentless fever that tells me she'll need treatment.

Not to mention that she woke up whimpering tonight saying, I don't like it. "It" being the coughing. I tried rocking her, but she just wanted to be by her sisters.

I'm going to call and leave a message at the ped's office tonight begging asking them to call me ASAP in the morning to get in. As a bonus, maybe I should explain that three of us are still feverish and contagious with Swine Flu.

In the meantime, I'm gonna be nervous and pissed off and get absolutely no sleep.

At what point can I sign up to become a doctor? I've seen just about everything.

Oh, and while I'm on a roll, it's one week since I found out my mother has cancer. It's one of those really special kinds of cancer that you cut out of your body and wait until it grows back. Because it almost always grows back.

(I should add that if you know my mother and are just now hearing about this, please don't pester her. I'm not worried about the Big C as much as the tests and surgeries and stress.)

And since we're airing everyone's medical grievances tonight, my dad's getting his own special blood test next month. But I won't tell you what they're testing for, just that it rhymes with pukemia. Because hell... what's one more thing?

So yeah, this month has pretty much sucked shit.

Get out of here!

When my nephew was a baby, I remember my sister saying she would leave him at the sitter's so she could grocery shop or go to the mall in peace. Or she would usurp "babysitting hours" from our parents to go out on the town.

That idea was completely foreign to me.

I can't say I wouldn't have done the same if I had had one baby. But the harsh truth of it was that if the girls didn't go in public, I didn't go anywhere. Mike worked so often that the girls became three extra appendages on my body. And dropping them at my parents' house wasn't like leaving one child. Not to mention that my sister would catch wind of the girls being there and would drop her son off because what's one more, right? You know it's true...

It's not as if the girls and I went anywhere glamorous. Mostly it was to Target and the mall, and to parks. I hated the attention from strangers, but the girls loved being out of the house more than I did.

Even as babies, Mike and I would drag their carseats into restaurants on his days off, just to have a shadow of a date. I loved the mortified looks on people's faces when they saw three infants seated next to them during dinner (only because I knew we would be vindicated with yet another flawless performance by the girls).

We weren't afraid to go anywhere with our kids.

I assumed I was in the majority on this one and my sister: the minority.

I was wrong.

Apparently there are a lot of people who leave their kids home or with sitters to do all their shopping. Or, they just don't go anywhere. Ever. (Like for two whole years of isolation... scary!)

I'm telling you, it's a mistake.

Kids don't magically wake up one day understanding how to behave in public.

I'm not saying it's easy. There were a few times I thought I might strangle the girls in front of strangers in the checkout line, but we made it through.

But five years later, I can take my children anywhere without worrying about tantrums or misbehavior, and my sister still does a lot of her shopping sans son.

Although, now that I think about it, shopping without children doesn't sound like too much of a bad thing...

So I encourage you, new mommies, to take your babies out. Even by yourself. I always gave myself permission to high-tail it out of the store or restaurant if the girls made too much noise, but I rarely had to go that route. And if they misbehave, draw the line and stick to it. If that means leaving behind a full grocery cart or putting them in time-out in front of a crowd of strangers, so be it. Children learn quickly if you're consistent and make going out fun.

You can do it! And eventually, you'll thank yourself that you did.

Forget the ER, take me to the bar

Mike has solved the mystery of my immune system.

He says I eat too healthy and don't drink enough alcohol. His theory - if I drank more alcohol, it would disinfect my system. That's why he was only sick for one day and I'm going on day 4 of burning up at 104 degrees.

Thanks to my throat getting mauled by strep a few weeks ago, the little bit of coughing I've done has taken away my ability to talk. Or whisper. I'm down to sign language and acting out what I need which ends up looking like some bizarre mating ritual.

So I have no voice and have sweat dripping from places I didn't realize had sweat glands. By that I mean my palms, you pervies.

I am really looking forward to being home alone with the kids tomorrow. I know it'll boil down to me throwing stuffed animals/pillows/Ninja Cat at the kids to get their attention. (They have radar that tells them when I can't yell.)

Hopefully this Piggy Plague ends soon. I'm looking forward to disinfecting my body with Spiced Cider.

Hello darkness, my old friend

Go to bed earlier.

I've been taking your advice. I moved bedtime up to around midnight almost every night this week.

You know what happens?

I wake up at 4:30.

On top of everything, my dad is going all vintage-like and is bringing the H1N1 back en vogue. Turns out it's a parting gift from New Mexico's tourism department. While mom and dad's doctor said they had all the symptoms, she was shocked to see two new cases. Apparently the last cases they saw were in November. (The kids' school secretary said the same thing when I called.) Which brings me to my next question: How long do you think before we've infected all of Iowa?

(And for the record, they're no longer contagious, although the kids and I are. Yay, us.)

If we weren't already infected with Swine Plague, I'd wrap myself and my house in cellophane and cut off all contact with humans for the next year.

Oink.

Time to try this sleeping thing again...

Titillating Tuesday: Ruffles

Ruffles are the work of the devil. I'm certain of it. Can you see all the little yellow pins in there?

Pinning those ruffles took me the entire last half of Bridget Jones's Diary.

I spent over two hours relaxing by making an apron completely without help from patterns or selling my soul to Martha Stewart.

Because I like a challenge, I made my first one reversible.

You heard right: my first one. There are more to come.

Because it's the only way I can get Mike to let me post a picture of his ass on the internet.

Everyone was excited about my new venture into apron-making land. Even Ninja Cat took time out from hiding in grocery bags while plotting my death to lie down and roll all over my fabric. Note to self: WASH FABRIC.

Mike asked me to make him an apron. (Does that make him a cross-dresser?) But honestly, I don't think I can handle this much fun two nights in a row. Tomorrow I'll settle for doing the dishes and scrubbing the dining room floor.

As long as there are no pins and foot pedals involved.

New world record: Longest tax prep in history

After 9 hours of doing personal and business taxes yesterday, my eyes glossed over. I don't think I would have lasted ten more minutes before doing some serious personal injury to Mike.

(I e-filed our returns just before Kathy Bates came out swinging her sledgehammer in the Academy Award "Horror Tribute." I thought it was fitting.)

NINE HOURS.

And Mike kept coming in the room. Are you a third of the way finished? A quarter?? Are you gonna need another day?

I tried to smack him in the head with a skillet but his Robert Pattinson rent-a-wig absorbed the hit. And the frying pan. And I'm pretty sure it broke some kind of defiance of gravity record. That is clean hair, I swear... it's just pure bedhead.

He's been showering every night before bed and waking up looking more and more like Kramer.

Anyway... now Mike's questions have evolved to: How long before the money gets here?

I don't know. Quit asking me. Call the IRS if you're so worried about it.

I need a nap...

Homecoming weekend

It wasn't long - only two months - before my 2-pound peanuts had grown into 4-1/2 pound peanuts and could prepare to come home.

Before they could be discharged from the NICU, though, the girls had to take all their feedings by breast or bottle for TWO WHOLE DAYS. (I tried breast feeding for half a second until the Nipple Nazi walked in and grabbed hold of my nipples like they were party favors.)

Alison was the first to finish her bottle feeds.

She was released into the wild five years ago yesterday on March 6th.

Unfortunately for her, we could only bring Alison home for a few hours while I packed to spend the night with Emma in the NICU. (We had to learn to use her apnea monitor.) It was just enough time to let Grandma rock Alison a bit and let her see her new bed.

That evening, at the NICU, Alison was excited to be back... all the familiar sights and sounds, and of course her friend - Pinky the Giraffe. So sad, but she probably thought that was her "home."

Emma passed her carseat test so we were outta there, five years ago today on March 7th. Once home, the girls took to snuggling each other non-stop. Reason #382 that we had separate cribs for them: they would have love-smothered each other to death.

It was a bittersweet moment for us because we had two babies home, but we knew it would be a while before Kristin could join them.

I explained to Kristin before we left - because I'm sure she could understand me - that we didn't want to leave her behind, and that she would come home soon. It was by far the worst part of the girls being in the NICU. (Especially looking back on how much water she was retaining... she didn't look healthy.)

The sisters spent some time together and said goodbye for the night. We'll be back, Peanut!

And now it's time to wait for our sister.....