Single-handedly keeping Stayfree in business.

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Originally uploaded by buffpuff

I haven't been writing enough lately. It has something to do with my INTENSE EXHAUSTION- it causes me to pay less attention to the things that aren't absolutely necessary to make it from getting out of the bed in the morning to getting into the bed at night.

I am now the proud owner of one less baby and one more little boy. It is truly bizarre how much he understands and can communicate on a daily basis. He tells me what makes him sad, what makes him happy, when he's hungry and thirsty, when he's tired. He listens when I'm talking to other people and asks me questions about the stories I tell.

Living with Kane, Jude, and Reed is unlike anything I could have possibly predicted for myself. They are loud, rough, funny, irreverent. Some days it's like living with every male friend and boyfriend I've ever had, except at the end of the day I still want to be around them.

I mean, you know, most of the time.

Anyways, most days I lean heavily on patience, perseverance, Jesus, instinct, and the telephone to make it through.

Last night I actually found myself in bed, reading, and thinking that I couldn't wait until bedtime tonight. I was in my bed, and longing for being in my bed, just 24 hours later. Wrap your head around that one. I just knew that today would be a test, a wonderful day that would start with a lot of candy, so much sugar that Reed would vibrate, and that Jason would be at work all day, that there would be laughter and wonder but many, many fits and tantrums and misunderstandings and impatience. And today was beautiful and affirming and lovely, and long and exhausting.

The first period I had since November is still here, still happening, one month long so far. This is a condition I've been dealing with since I was thirteen years old, and I've been to numerous doctors countless times to try and deal with it. When it flares up like this it is so consuming that it becomes difficult to see past it, to remember that there MIGHT be a time again when I won't have to carry 17 pounds of lady supplies, along with iron pills and ibuprofen, everywhere I go, that the intense and lasting rushing hormones won't control my emotions forever, that one day I will be normal again.

That last one is a real stretch; I think I won't hold my breath.

I'll take the high road, and you take the low road.

So we went out for St. Patrick's Day last night, which was a triumph over the germs and illness and lung crap I've been experiencing for the past week. I have to say that I just can't party like I used to. I mean, I DID party like I used to, but I spent this whole entire day feeling totally obliterated, nauseated and headachy, and it was the antithesis of fun. Last night, however, was the THESIS of fun. There were jello shots and green beer and sequined bow ties and puppies and much needed laughter.

I don't think Reed has pink eye, but something is wrong with him and I'm not sure what. I think maybe the pollen is coming in and it's just affecting him adversely. We'll see.

Today I was off work; tomorrow it's back to the grindstone. Perhaps this incredible hangover will have worn off by then.

Bird flu?

This is what happens...
Originally uploaded by cuttingroomfloor

Bronchitis? I don't know. Whatever it is, it's hanging around for a second week. The fever is gone, as well as that pesky sense that I am just about to die from all the mucus. My nose is only partly stopped up. But my eyes and nostrils still feel hot and fat, and I'm still using my inhaler four or five times a day.

So, all in all, some is, some ain't.

I went to the craft shop one day week-before-last, right before the plague came to my house, and totally loaded up on my favorite polymer clay. I went in thinking, "I'm going to buy one or two new colors to make new stuff for our show." Then it was on sale for much cheaper than normal, and the next thing I knew I had a basket full of stuff. The sad part is, I'm looking at this picture and thinking, "Wait, I didn't get any greens!"

I'm feeling like Jason and I are in the midst of this whirlwind of opportunities and we're grasping at all of them, and waiting to see what we have in our hands once the weather calms down. No matter what happens, it feels good to be striving for something.

Now we're just waiting for tomorrow morning when we can discern whether or not Reed has the pink eye.

It is NEVER boring in this house.

There's a picture opposite me of my primitive ancestry.

I forgot to mention that They Might Be Giants was FANTASTIC. I've seen them once before in Atlanta at the Roxy Theatre, about a million years ago- seven years? Six? I've slept since then, so I don't really know.

Anyway, when I was telling Jason that he must go with me to see them I said, "There will be BALLOONS and CONFETTI. Of course you're going."

We went on Sunday night to Workplay despite Jason's stomach virus and my possible impending stomach virus- Reed threw up a couple of times on Friday and is STILL having diarrhea. My day today started off with my thinking that I might die because my chest is so tight and congested and then having the distinct pleasure of cleaning poop off one of my kitchen chairs. Where it had exploded out of the TOP of the back of the pull-up. Jealous?

Yes, so we went and sort of cautiously started nursing a beer apiece and listened to Oppenheimer who were opening, and we were quite pleased. I laid into a couple more beers and took some pictures and it was nice. Of course they sold out, and we didn't get there until 8:10 when the doors opened at 8:00, for Pete's sakes, so there wasn't any place to sit. But we found a nice place to stand where we could see the stage really well, and I thought about the show at the Roxy where I was about a football field away from the band and thanked life for tiny blessings.

Right before the headliner went on a couple of guys took the stage and started throwing big, foam fingers out into the audience. These were the last pictures I took before a Mrs. Hoss security woman took me outside and told me that only one person was aloud to take professional shots of the band, so I couldn't take any. I used some meditation-style breathing and just kept my mouth shut; Jason took the camera to the car and we went back in just as They Might Be Giants took the stage.

And, just as I promised, there was confetti and balloons. They played a good set list- a nice mix of new songs and old stuff. I have to admit that I don't know that new stuff but I like it. Lincoln, Apollo 18, and Flood are the albums that I know best. They played Birdhouse In Your Soul, and I couldn't stop smiling, I mean my cheeks hurt by the end of it. Then during the encore I leaned up to Jason and said, "Oh, they're going to play Istanbul." He looked at me skeptically and said, "Hm. I don't now; maybe." And then, like clockwork, they closed with Istanbul.

I told Jason after the show that in a way I understand the desire to be unpredictable and to keep moving forward and do new stuff and get appreciation for it. But I've been listening to that band for ten years now, and it's like hugging and old friend to hear them play some of my favorite old songs.

But it's still nowhere near as satisfying as cleaning poop of off my two-year-old's shoulder blades.

Hep meh!

Okay; sorry for my absence. Here's a quick update:

Vomit, diarrhea, bronchitis, oh my! My doctor said, "You know, you've had a hard year." I said, "You don't know the half of it."

We got our tax refund a couple of weeks ago, and as a result livin' has been easy, at least easier than usual for a while. This is the one time of year when the kids have lunch money and the bills get paid and we stop to breathe for just a minute.

Jason and I are showing our photographs, jewelry, and possibly some artwork on April 17 at Speakeasy, and I am awfully excited about it. Now if I can just kick the liquid in my bronchial areas maybe I can actually prepare.

I have a lot of things in store for my jewelry-making, but I might not be listing any of it until after the show. It makes sense to make tons and tons of new stuff and have it there for sale and just hold off on listing things until after. So my Etsy will probably slow down for the next few weeks, but I'll be back in full force on April 18. Or, let's face it, it'll be a few days after that.

I asked Reed this morning how he feels, and he replied, "Well, I feel good." It's nice having a miniature, white James Brown in my house. I hope I'll feel good, too, in a few days.

Five things.

1. I am very much looking forward to a girly night with one of my many bitches this Wednesday night.

2. I am very much looking forward to Officer Nick's birthday party this Saturday night- put a keg, some policemen, at least one police car, two photographers, and the Party Bot all in one location and something odd is sure to happen.

3. I am pooping my pants about seeing They Might Be Giants Sunday night. I didn't even know that they're coming until Jason clued me in last night. Needless to say within five minutes, two tickets were mine.

4. I am hopeful about a trip to Mexico for New Year's Eve this year. The last time Jason and I went on a vacation that lasted more then 2 days and that didn't involve sleeping over at a friend's house was when we went on our honeymoon- four-and-a-half years ago.

5. Upon thinking about this trip to Mexico, I am realizing that Reed will be three years old when we take this trip. I can't really clearly describe the way this makes me feel. It's very surreal, actually, like, there will be this little dude in my house who somehow sprung from the baby my body made. But instead of being my baby, he'll be... a little dude.

And a post script: I have now been at this job for one year. People Who Accuse Me of Stealing Sunglasses, People Who Throw Boxes At Me, People Who Talk To Me Like I'm An Idiot, YOU CANNOT GET ME DOWN. I throw down celebratorily on all your asses.

Reply with a star date and coordinates for rendezvouses.

You are going to have to read this, and just keep reading all the way to the end, all the way through the comments that people left at the bottom. This had me laughing several different times. Here are some of my favorite moments:

this sounds pretty koo

I do not speak Klingon,
How ever I am open to interspecies relationships.
I am starfleet and have a uniform.
I am 6'2 w hazel eyes.
reply with a star date and coordinates for rendezvouses.

I have an hedonistic and somehow artistic point of view about of life, made of perfect scenes, days like music, hours like paintings and sex like pictures.

Just thought I would write because I make a mean roasted turkey...

The lizard king approves of your post and gives it 5 blue buses.

Stormy weather.

Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Last night the ominous, indifferent sound of the sirens woke me up around 3:30 a.m. I tripped over about 7 toys and a couple of odd shoes until I made my way to the living room, where I turned on the television to find red and fuschia flashing patches over maps of my county and my city. Jason and I watched and realized that it was moving quickly towards us, and I actually started to get nervous. Jason was due at work at 4 a.m., so he left for work during the calm before the storm; all was quiet, and he said everything would be fine.

About two minutes after he left, the house was surrounded by an intense whirring noise, which I finally figured out was "just the wind". Next came heavy rain and hail, and anything that wasn't tied down around the house was flying about, knocking up against the outside walls. The cable went out, so no more weather updates on the news. I sat on the futon holding a flashlight and my cell phone and waited- for something to happen, for a gut feeling that I needed to wake up all the kids and hustle them into the bathroom, for the urge to poop. I called my mom and her power was out but she said that the worst had already passed and it would probably pass us in the next couple of minutes. We got off the phone and I waited and sure enough, minute by minute the wind and rain got quieter. The hail stopped.

By 4:30 I was falling asleep to the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof, not realizing how bad the damage would be, not realizing that all around us people would be cleaning garbage and limbs and pieces of their own homes and lives out of their yards, not realizing just how lucky we are.


This morning the air around us smells intensely like a sawmill, so much so that it's turning my stomach a little bit. The police have our street blocked off to try and divert some of the traffic that's coming through just to get a look at the worst of the damage. The kids are home, the schools closed. I think a lot of people are still without power; ours never even went off. And right in the middle of all the bad luck, the complaining I've done, I am reminded that it can always get worse. Today I'm thankful to have a roof, a heater that works, little sweet people around me, and a husband who can drive from Leeds to Mountain Brook in the middle of a really awful storm unscathed.

Love, Buffy.

Coming home from a trip is always depressing for me; I'm not really sure, maybe it's the end of something I've looked forward to, or having to leave the people I've been dying to see, or going back to work, or going back to a stinky catbox and moldy leftovers in the fridge. Whatever it is, it's the way it's always been.

Today I'm particularly overwhelmed; I'm not afraid to reveal that I am having the first period I've had since the beginning of November. It has been a while, and the intense rush of hormones is really hitting me hard tonight. The melancholy and fear and loneliness and just the absolute ache, it's like a large blunt object hitting me in the back of my head from inside my stomach.

It's a bad night for the Oscars, and YES, the Oscars should always be planned around my menstrual cycles, because every speech and every look and all the subject matter is just keeping me in tears and I'm running out of tissues.

I've always been a movie-watcher, a person who enjoys films- comedies, tragedies, documentaries, musicals, cartoons, whatever there is. There was a time when I knew a lot about film, the making of, the content of, the best actors and best performances. I am no longer so much in the know. Since I had Reed I have been, shall we say, emotional, and it makes me avoid things that bring too much to the surface. Really, the sadness or fear or regret that a good movie brings out in me will last days, sometimes weeks, and I've found myself in a place where I just don't even pay attention to what's coming out and what's on dvd and what's nominated and who's a hopeful, if only as a defense mechanism. I'm too afraid, really, of what I might feel and how long it might take to go away to get involved. It's sad, because when I was invited to join an Oscar pool I realized that I hadn't seen a single film that had been nominated in any category this year. While it's true that the pool was about guesses, whether educated or not, and I was welcome to join in and give my best guess regardless, it's still sad to think how much good shit I'm missing. I mean, I'm thoroughly aware that I chose not to see the movies, that this isn't something that is being done to me or something that is just happening to me, but it's still all sad.

In other words, I'd be sad if I was watching them, and now I'm sad that I'm not watching them.

Right now someone needs to be handing Jason a medal for staying married to me.

Anyway, I decided that I would write the Oscar speech that I will give if ever I win one. I mean, with all those speeches about not giving up and never recognizing the impossible, I am realizing that I could one day win an Oscar in any one of the many categories. So I decided to think about what I'd like to say.

Thank you to the Academy for recognizing my intense dedication to my craft. This Oscar for Best Jokes Ever/Most Stylish, Affordable, and Unique Jewelry Ever/Best Most Serious Actress/Best Friend/Most Attention to the Picking Up of Socks/Best On-Set Cheerleader/Best Keep-Your-Drinks-Full Lady really means so much, because it reinforces my deep love of actors, movies, entertainment, and the art of getting away from it all (thank you, Jack Nicholson).

Thank you to my husband for being able to deal with it all, for taking care of my children when I can't, and for being so supportive, attentive, unwavering, trustworthy, and so different from every other man I've ever spent any time with.

Thank you to all the other people in the film- Johnny Depp, Leonardo DiCaprio, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Çasey Affleck, I love you all. I'm sorry that I can't say yes to all of your lovely, heartfelt marriage proposals, but Jason Agan is a sexy motherfucker, too hot for words really, but just in case he ever wises up and leaves me I'll keep your numbers so I can call you and cry and read you haikus that I wrote for Jason that he won't respond to when I send them to him on Myspace.

Thank you to Russell Means, Sherman Alexie, John Kennedy Toole, and Kurt Vonnegut for writing that makes me at once so sorrowful and joyous that it has inspired me to keep living, if only to see if maybe life is as interesting, as heart-breaking, as unforgiving and callous, as rewarding as you all make it out to be.

Thank you, finally, to God and my mother for bringing me into this world that is so terrifying, horrifying, beautiful, and odd, but bringing me into a particular place where I am not in the middle of a war, not physically or mentally abused, not afraid for my life (in an immediate sense), not homeless, not alone, not forsaken. Thank you both for giving me this life in which I am surrounded by these crazy, ridiculous people who love me and take care of me, without whom I would be so lost, so lonely, so abjectly pointless, that I would have to just bash myself on the head with this Oscar and get it over with. Thank you for bringing me into a world where there is a Reed to talk to me about playing guitar with his pick, where there is an Aunt CJ and an Uncle Rog to laugh with me and remind me why life should be celebrated and to teach me how to make a latte, where there is a Kristi to come home to even if I have to wait a few days because she's in law school WHAT AN EXCUSE, where there are beaches and big water and sand and family and parties and dancing. AND DANCING.

Thank you, Nick Agan, for not ripping my arms out of their sockets. This has allowed me to keep writing, keep typing, and keep picking my nose at red lights.

And thank you, True Baker, for just letting me know that there exists a seven-foot-tall, John Kennedy, Jr. look-alike who is sweet and loves his mother and asks me to dance. You may not be quite as sexy as my tattooed, red-headed husband, but that's an awful lot to live up to, especially with all that equine-vetting you have to do, and I will definitely recommend you to all of my friends.

The bayou, Aunt CJ, the Jimmy I never knew, and a wedding tomorrow.

Tonight has been a night of telling tales, reliving old times, relating more recent ones, and just plain, old making shit up. Maybe not making shit up, but wondering if we were.

I feel a lot like this life is a really, awfully hard one, for everybody really, and there are stories and moments and memories and just things imagined that break my heart.

Tonight Jason is asleep like a baby, deeper and more sound than I've seen him in a long time, goosedown and a kitty named Elliott singing his lullaby.

I'm sleeping on a bayou tonight, and the air is thick with things untold and things waiting to happen.

Mama, I love you and I'm sorry that your life is so hard. I hope that the things I've done to make it harder haven't been too much to bear. I hope that the good things I've brought to you have been enough to make you happy that I'm here. I hope that you can get past all the things that have made you sad, all your gut-wrenching disappointments, to find joy in guitars, picks, footballs and xylophones.

Tonight I go to bed waiting for Biddy to tell me that everything is going to be okay. I know that it probably will be, but it's nice when a dead person takes the time to tell you.

I would like some wine with this cheese.

So on Sunday Kane and Jude's bikes were stolen. They were on the carport, chained to a post with a titanium bicycle chain. It was midday, and I was at home. No shit- someone apparently came up and cut through the "impenetrable" titanium chain and hauled off two medium-sized trick bikes in broad daylight, while I was in my bed complaining about all the aches and snot.

Jason came home and was like, "Do you know where the kids' bikes are?" I was like, "NO. But I know where the FLU is. RIGHT HERE, BUDDY." But don't worry; then my indignation set in.

My flu-induced stupor kept me from encouraging Jason to call the police and file a report until he came home from work last night telling me about seeing some 15-year-old kid riding Kane's bike around just a mile or two away from here. Finally I was like, "Wait a minute! Before you go beat up a minor, how 'bout we call the cops?" Of course Jude was raring to go with Jason looking for this kid, and I let Jude know that if his dad was going to go abuse a child, he would have to stay at home. (He moped.)

So the policeman came over and got all the information from Jason; the entire time they were on the front porch talking, Jude was standing at the front door staring out with little hearts bubbling up above his head.

Reed heard Jason talking and asked what he was doing. I said, "He's outside, talking to a policeman." Reed thought about it for a minute and then exclaimed, "EWWWWWWWWW, NASTY!!"

So the policeman said the description sounded like someone they had busted several times stealing bikes, and said he'd call us if they found anything. We haven't heard back yet. It IS kind of sad, though; they haven't had the bikes for long, and they were kind of expensive. Plus, it's the SECOND time Kane's has been stolen.

For Pete's sake, we really need a break around here.

Scratch, scratch, scritch scratch.

So last night, totally exhausted, Jason and I snuggled up in bed around ten. Jason wasn't in the best mood because I had nagged him to fold a load of jeans while I washed the dinner dishes, so when we started hearing the scampering, scraping and scratching above our heads he wasn't happy.

I've mentioned the squirrels fucking in our ceiling; last night they weren't so much fucking as squirreling- scratching about, making noises, just generally making angry the man of the house. Jason got up and banged on the ceiling a few good times, which did nothing whatsoever. He went poking about and stepped into our closet to have a listen from there; he said, "Buffy. Come here."

I stepped into the closet and followed his pointing finger to discover a little hole in the ceiling, a little place where something had popped or scratched or scraped through the popcorn.

I have to tell you, I NEARLY SHAT MYSELF. Now I can't stop thinking about squirrels and rodents and RABIES, RABIES, people. It has made it's way into the house!! It has GUTS and GUMPTION and I will run away if I see it. Jason jammed a small suitcase underneath it so whatever has been poking its rabies-laden nose through there can do so no longer, but now I'm thinking, it'll just do it again! Next thing I know there will be little holes everywhere in the ceiling, with little noses and eyes poking through! GROSS. SCARY. I mean, what we heard last night was likely the sounds of the next hole, the next stop on the way to Buffy's insanity.

It's a short trip.

I think I'm turning orange.

I finally managed to get some new things up on Etsy tonight, and I'm feeling pretty good about it. I got a request to make some earrings to match one of my pendants; hopefully I'll be able to work on that tomorrow night.

I'm fighting tooth and nail to not be a sick person; I take a multivitamin and a B complex every day already. Now I'm taking an extra C tablet, and using Airborne three times a day. And still my throat hurts, and my chest feels tight and sore.

I really, really don't want to be sick. This Friday will mark the end of a week in Hell at my job, and it will be the birthday of one of my favorite girls in the world. Also Jason and I are miraculously both off work on Saturday which never happens, so Friday will be the perfect night to go out and celebrate IF I can just not be sick.

Don'tbesickdon'tbesickdon'tbesick.

The good things in life are free.

I know that I've been writing a lot about the bad things lately, and I'm glad that you have been sticking with me through all of it. I decided it might be good for all of us if I made note of some of the good things.

- I've been making a lot of pretty jewelry these days. I haven't had a chance to post it on Etsy yet, but I'm sure I'll get to it in the next few days.

- Kane, Jude, and Jason are on the mend. I think Kane and Jude will go back to school tomorrow, and Jason is off work tomorrow so he still has one more day to rest and recuperate.

- I haven't gotten fired.

- At the very heart of it, when I can get away from the absolute insanity that is my job, I really like the actual work that I'm doing. It's creative and intense and never, never dull.

- People read this blog and comment.

- Jesus is listening.

- I have not been buying anything off of eBay. Apparently I make jokes that are SO awesome, people don't get it.

- Sometimes I sleep for, like, eight hours at a time.

- I eat breakfast almost every day.

-Reed and I haven't gotten the flu.

- My family and friends are sweet and caring and funny and concerned and fun and I have fun when I'm with them.

- My husband is smokin' hot. Even with all the snot and body aches and coughing.

- My two-year-old child told me today that I'm pretty. I might not always agree with him, but I know that I'm trying to be pretty. And at least I am to him.

Clorox wipes- check. Vitamin C- check. Large bottle of vodka- check.

It really only gets better and better around here. I'm entering a time of year at my job, a period of a couple of weeks in which everyone I work with goes totally bonkers, stiff with dread. I've gotten a lot of advice over the past few days since this is my first time to attempt to traverse the insanity at this establishment during the Valentine's day season. I've been told to eat my Wheaties, take my vitamins, bring snacks, pack a flask, duck and cover- the list goes on and on. We've been givin several sheets of typed instructions, flat and black, ominous on the paper, on what to ask and inform every single person we talk to on the phone.

Given the seriousness, the absolute terror this season inspires, my boss rather matter-of-factly told me that regarding my children I need to make sure I "make other arrangements" for the next couple of weeks. She was referring to the fact that any time one of them is sick, I call in to work and stay home with them. If Jason is off work, he stays with them, and sometimes my mom stays home from work with them, but usually it is I. I don't ever expect to find a job where they tell me "you know it's really fine for you to call in any time you want to", but I also really don't know what other options we have when it comes to sick children. I mean, Kane is almost 12, so pretty soon he'll be old enough to stay home alone. But Jude is 8 and Reed is 2; they just might still need some supervision.

Nonetheless, I've been told to make other arrangements. OH BUT GUESS WHAT? Jason, Kane, and Jude all have the flu! The absolute motherfucking influenza! It's great news, right? Now yesterday I went all over the house Clorox-wiping in hopes that Reed, Jason, and I might not catch what Kane and Jude have; Jason came down with it, Reed appears to be okay, and I've been nauseated, nasally, hot-eyed, and slightly sore-throated all day. The only good news is that I've been feeling mildly like this for about a week-and-a-half now, so maybe it won't go any further than this.

In other news, I chose all of this. I totally forgot that I ordered postpartum depression off of eBay for $17.34 plus shipping. Damn! I missed the 7 day return period, too, as I purchased it in December 2005. Stupid, stupid me.

Working together.

Mm, fighting with Kane and Jude's mom about whether or not she's going to grow up and take care of her kids every now and then is just so refreshing. I was going to write out the entire exchange, but suffice it to say that she wants to let us do all the work even though we each actually work 40 hours a week AT JOBS, and then take care of three children; the fact that we worry about bus schedules, field trips, lunch money, homework, and clean underwear with absolutely no financial assistance from her isn't enough. She also feels like if the kids are sick we should be calling in to take them to the doctor and feed them chicken soup. While she sits at home and smokes cigarettes and buys cars.

Nice, huh?

I was thinking today that I'm ready for a new tattoo, and I'd like to find something lovely that somehow represents my most recent resolution- that I'm going to start letting people know if they're hurting my feelings or wronging me in some way. And then it hit me- I just need a big tattoo of a bird. Right on my forehead. Obviously I'm not talking about Tweety here; I need a good old-fashioned, long, skinny, erect middle finger right in the middle of my head.

Because, really, it would save me so much time, breath, and energy to be able to just show people what I'm thinking in the first place.

Happy birthday, Steph!

Originally uploaded by cuttingroomfloor

Way late, but late is better than never.

I've been "written up" for being late to work, because the mornings are so unpredicable so I'm late to work sometimes.

Then this morning, I got a nice, fat speeding ticket trying to hurry to work. The sad part is that I would have been on time if I hadn't gotten pulled over.

Stupid, inconvenient policemen.

I made my first sale on Etsy, and I have some serious awesomeness that I'm working on to post on my store some time in the next couple of days. I have high hopes.

Our finances are totally in the shitter, but my marriage has really been enjoying some good times lately. I'm not perfect, but I'm working on it; I think Jason enjoys watching the process.

To all of you who have been saying nice things to me, sending me sweet messages and calling me and spending time with my defective ass, I love you. The people who surround me right now are the best I've ever had. I've never felt so supported, so cared for, so loved in my entire life. Y'all just brace yourselves; it's either going to get so much better or so much worse from here- and either way I will react with a lot of yelling, spanking, hugging and drinking.

To the folks I know who are waiting for me to break, who are banking on my downfall, I hope one day you get a life. This one isn't yours, and it ain't going no where.

Well, here we are, home from the emergency room.

Oh yes, that's what I said.

Reed fell off my lap and hit his eye on the coffee table, resulting in a bloody shiner that rivals any drunken bar injury I've ever seen.

Now he's officially an Agan. And Irish.

Fishes DO need bicycles.

Lordy mercy, the more I read on this blog the more I keep nodding my head, saying to the empty room "I know, right?!?". I mean it is eery.

On Tuesday, I was still having a hard time with basic life functions, like say, eating. I showed up to that interview having ingested nothing but dark chocolate M&Ms and Diet Pepsi for two full days. Jittery and constantly on the verge of tears. I was still crying when I fell asleep and crying when I woke up, and crying at many inconvenient intervals between. Like at intersections if the light took too long to change, while pumping gas at the Shell station, or in line at the bank. In New York, no one would have noticed. Here, they ask if I'm okay. "Allergies," I say. Because everyone here has allergies.

I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the kind, healing words you've left here. I appreciate them, but to tell you the truth, I am not at all surprised by them. Because I know that there are good, caring people out there - people who experience life in the same kaleidescope of emotions, who love and hurt and trust and mourn as I do. It's why I continue to blog; I love sharing what makes us human.

Three years ago, I was embroiled in a horribly dysfunctional relationship with a person whose behavior could, at best, be described as amoral, and at worst, just a hair shy of deliberately cruel. And because at the time, I was too busy hating myself for not having enough of a backbone, I didn't deal with things. Not really. One day, almost two years later, I woke up and realized I was mad. Really, bone-deep angry. And it was like poison. In the time that it took me to understand and process that nasty toxic hate (and it was months), not a single one of my friends uttered anything even remotely so calloused as, "get the hell over it." I am thankful every single day that they chose me, as I chose them.

On Marting Luther King, Jr., and the Civil Rights Movement.

I don't believe Dr. King, if he were here today, would say that police dogs and fire hoses are what he remembers of Birmingham in the 50s and 60s. I think he would say he remembers the brave people who shouted for freedom and demanded justice in the face of white-sheeted threats from cowardly terrorists, the heart-breaking heresy of burning crosses, and the danger of shotgun blasts in the night. I think Dr. King might consider Birmingham almost a mecca of the Civil Rights movement--a place where Freedom, once awakened, would never lapse back into its coma.

- From my aunt Susie's blog.

Some Reedy thingies.

- Right now, one of Reed's favorite things to watch is Hee Haw. My mom has the complete Hee Haw on dvd, and he watches is obsessively when he's at her house. And I mean that he sits right in front of the television and doesn't move, except to sway back and forth to the music.

- Right now, Reed understands pretty much everything we tell him. We talk in complete sentences, and he responds in mostly complete sentences. He lets us teach him how to do things, and he sometimes sits and listens calmly when we explain why he can't do certain things.

- Right now, Reed is somewhat obsessed with birthdays. Like, every day is someone's birthday, mine or daddy's or his own. Yesterday my mom invited Reed over to spend the night, and Reed and I were sitting on the futon talking about it. I said, "Do you want to sleep here or at ma's?" "I sleep at ma's." "Okay, you want to go to ma's to spend the night?" "Yep. HAPPY BIRTHDAAAAAAAY!"

- Right now, Reed also loves to watch Finding Nemo, Wiggles, and Yo Gabba Gabba. Yo Gabba Gabba is the children's show I would have made if I had made a children's show. Sadly, Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo beat me to it.

Okay.

Originally uploaded by buffpuff

So it snowed- but just a little bit. Most of the snow has melted now. I think it's supposed to get pretty cold, but the snow has passed.

I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free. And ineligible.

So the weather dudes around here are all talking about snow, and what's more they're talking about five inches of it. We very rarely get snow here in Alabama, and when we do it's usually just a tiny flurry that follows four or five days of intense bread- and milk-buying as well as urgings to stock up on batteries and blankets.

People freak out about snow here, and it usually never happens anyways. This morning I was telling a coworker who has only lived here for a couple of months how it almost never happens, how everyone gets very worked up and nearly panicked about it, and then it will suddenly be 75 degrees outside, when another coworker who has lived here all her life chimed in with, "Actually, Buffy, this time they're saying it's real and serious." And I'm thinking, "Oh, THIS time it's real, unlike all those other times it's been real and serious but NOTHING HAPPENS." I'm sure that now that I've thought this we'll have some sort of blizzard, a SNOWSTORM rivaling the great snowstorm of '93 (or was it '94?) when we were stuck at home for a few days with no power, unable to travel because of all the ice and snow, when we could make actual snowmen and snowballs and wear heavy coats and scarves and gloves and hats without breaking a sweat.

But probably not.

In other news instead of getting a new job from the place I had started the interview process with, I got a packet containing my credit report and a letter stating that I wasn't eligible to apply with them at this time because of it. Upon reading the letter I had immediate and intense feelings of nausea and panic, much like the way Alabamians react when they hear the word "snow". So now I have to write them a letter about all the inaccuracies in the the report (there were several) and the extenuating circumstances (there are several) and see if I can still pursue the job.

I find it to be heartwarming that I'm too poor to pay my debts, and as a direct result I can't apply for the jobs that would enable me to pay my debts. It's all just so very American.

Early morning kid.

Early morning kid.
Originally uploaded by cuttingroomfloor

Raising this kid has been 50% absolutely excrutiating, 50% wonderful heartwarming loveliness for the past week or so. He'll be so crazy, so over-the-top angry and uncontrollable until I think that God has finally decided how I'm going to die- by listening to the screeching of a toddler- and then he'll suddenly be listening to every single thing I'm saying, singing songs, kissing me, having conversations with me.

It's enough to drive a sane person crazy. It's a good thing I wasn't sane to begin with.

I've got items for sale on Etsy. There's a little badge down there to the left.

Some stuff and things.

I have to say this to jerkface: thank you for letting me know that I might not be so crazy after all! Apparently "word God is bad math". I would have never known.

I usually don't like to see stuff on other people's blogs and repost it; it just feels like cheating some how. Apparently "there is no cheating in art", according to one infinitely smarter than me in these matters. So in that spirit, here is something that cracked me up and completely disturbed me simultaeously, snagged from dooce.

I've opened my own etsy store! Yes, there is absolutely nothing on it. Hopefully that will have changed by the end of the day tomorrow. Lindsey, want to help me make a banner?

Part Three.

Here's part one, and here's part two.

Age Eleven: My mom and I drive from Leeds to Santa Fe, New Mexico; it's a two-and-a-half day drive. At one point I'm eating sugar buttons in the back seat and singing Ninety Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall, and I get to -47. My mother must be made out of Prozac and kitten fur to have enjoyed this trip.

Age Twelve: I have left the Leeds school system and am attending my second year at a school where the majority is upper-middle class. They wear really nice clothes and carry expensive purses and wear expensive make-up. The only person I really like there is my biology teacher who is Cajun and tells us stories about being in Vietnam and having to drink her own urine to survive.

Age Thirteen: I go back to Leeds and realize that I don't fit in there either as I spent the first two formative years of middle school at a different school. This forever marks me as weird and different in the eyes of the popular crowd at Leeds. I have my first real boyfriend, the only redhead I ever go out with until I marry Jason.

Age Fourteen: I once again leave the Leeds school system to go to Shades Valley RLC. They stress maturity and responsibility by not taking or requiring attendence in any of their classes. I flunk out in February.

Age Fifteen: I date boys. The main one is seventeen and has had sex before and says that something must be wrong with me because I want to wait to have sex. One of my best friends tells me that she feels sorry for him because I won't have sex with him. Consequently, I give in and do it. It hurts and I don't enjoy it, but I am ecstatic to have gotten it over with so maybe we can talk about something else for a while.

The idea to write this came from this post in this blog.

Time, time, time- see what's become of me?

Well then, back to reality, right?

I'm starting my interview process tomorrow for a new job. Tonight I'm sacrificing a young female virgin to the gods in accordance with the ancient rules so that I may get this new job. Or perhaps I'll just cross my fingers. Either way.

Reed and I are still in the process of getting well. I tell you, I've been saying b's for m's for a couple of weeks at this point. After a while it ceases to amuse me.

Tonight, I light a few candles and drink a beer and visualize the days when I didn't worry day in and day out about money and bills and survival. I'm trying to will that time back into existence. It's either that or set the house on fire when no one's in it and blame it on my straightening iron.

Whatever works, eh?

Here's to a new year.

DSC_0150.jpg
Originally uploaded by cuttingroomfloor

We definitely had a good time on New Year's Eve- we talked, made stuff, drank champagne out of paper cups, and made good use of the timer on our camera.

The next day, Reed and I both fell ill with what can only be described as "worse than the end of your life because it keeps on going". The coughing, the snotting, the sneezing and flying snot, the sore throat, fever- in other words, the works. Jason has spent this entire week wrangling an angry toddler, and I've spent most of it that way. The time I haven't been wrangling a toddler I've spent in bed shivering and cursing the gods, shaking my fist at the sky and feeling very sorry for myself.

Finally last night Jason and I met the limits of our parenthood, and around 9:30 we put Reed in his crib and said "GOODNIGHT." He cried and screamed off an on until around 2:00, when he fell asleep and slept until 9:00 this morning. It was good.

Today I think we both feel much better, with just a bit of snot hanging around for good measure. Jason is in Tijuana, and now goes by the name Cymbilugia.

If I find him I'll let you know.

Part Two.

Part One is here.

Age Six: I spend the night with Kasie. Her parents have a gun cabinet in the playroom where we sleep. We are up late giggling and being girls, when Kasie gets out a pistol and points it at my head and says she's going to shoot me, and it scares me. She says later that she was sleepwalking. My mother has what can only be described as a shit-fit when I tell her, and she calls Kasie's mom and yells and Kasie's mom says that I must have talked her into playing with the gun.

Age Seven: I stay with my grandma a lot when my mom needs to run errands. She plays Scrabble, watches soap operas, and smokes cigarettes. There's always a ham in the refridgerator. She won't play Scrabble with me because I'll "just lose", but we play Sorry and Uno and Parcheesi for hours and hours and hours.

Age Eight: My mom's close friend Phil dies of a heart attack. When she comes home from the hospital crying, I know he's dead. It's the first time I've ever dealt with the death of a human being, and all I can do is sit in my room and try not to throw up. I am relieved when my mom leaves me at my grandma's during Phil's funeral.

Age Nine: My dad doesn't ever take me to play golf with him, but then when his daughter Jennifer comes into town they go together to the golf course and leave me at home. I'm inconsolably upset, and my mom calls my dad and makes him come back to get me. I feel stupid and bratty and defeated.

Age Ten: I read a lot, and fast. My mom takes me to Books-A-Million every week or so to get a new book, usually a Nancy Drew mystery. I will be done reading it by the end of the day. I also read Gone with the Wind, and I love it. Every time I'm sick and stay home from school, I watch the movie.



The idea to write this came from this post in this blog.

Book lights and facial forking- Merry Christmas, fuckers.

Well, we have almost made it through the holiday season. We managed the Christmas cards, the parties (including one of our own), the food, and the presents. Well, some of them. Jason and I didn't get each other presents on account of that whole not-having-money thing. Kane and Jude have been at their mom's house, so we haven't actually done the Christmas thing with them yet. We have them each their very own book light. WOW, right? I'm sure they won't even be able to contain their joy when they open those up. Luckily our families are loving and generous, so they'll get some other presents besides those. But seriously, a book light? They don't need anything else.

Jason and I are gearing up for a quiet evening at home with some $4 champagne and paper cups on New Year's Eve. Perhaps we'll think about going out to see the fireworks in Birmingham, but that sounds like too much trouble.

All in all, I'm totally exhausted. Working in retail during the holidays never fails to make me doubt my faith in the human race, what little I have.

Reed also makes me doubt my faith in humanity, but on a more personal level, as he makes me doubt my ability to go on existing. I honestly think he nearly screeched and screamed and writhed the face right off my head over the past couple of weeks. The terrible two's really ought to be renamed "your terrible life, you stupid parent, it will never end", I think. Last night over some Szechuan chicken he very nearly skewered Kristi in the face with a fork, and I think he would have had I not shrieked in horror when I saw what he meant to do. He wasn't being malicious; you could see that he thought that he was about to do something funny. FACIAL FORKING- NOT FUNNY, REED. We're really going to have to work on your technique.

Merry Christmas.

Originally uploaded by buffpuff

I'm currently full of eggs, oatmeal, and coffee, and I'm feeling pretty good. I'm supposed to be getting showered so we can go eat turkey and dressing at my mom's. It's a good day.

I hope all of you are with your loved ones, toasty and warm, relaxing and feeling good. May the coming year bring you peace, happiness, and fulfillment. And nachos.

Part One.

Age One: I'm laying in bed next to my sister watching her tiny black and white television in the dark, and I'm holding one of my baby bottles by the nipple so that the bottle is upside down. The nipple gives and bends and the bottle hits India in the head. She is really mad about it, and my mom spanks me. India still to this day, at the age of 37, will bring this up and say that my mom never did anything about it, suggesting that I'm the favorite child.

Age Two: I occasionally go to a daycare where there is a little boy named Kenneth who is blonde and cute and a couple of years older than me and I have a fluttery, intense crush on him. When I think of him now, he looks like Ricky Schroder from Silver Spoons.

Age Three: We move from Centerville to Leeds. When I look at the little white house as we're driving away from it, I see cats. Cats, everywhere. We're leaving them behind because they didn't really belong to us, just sort of adopted our house as a place to get food.

Age Four: I live across the street from a boy named Beau. We play together a lot. He smushes lightning bugs on his shirt and it horrifies me. I experience my first kiss with him, and subsequently we both get mono.

Age Five: I despise going to school, because my mother is my best friend and I hate being away from her. On more than one occasion she has to drag me into the school and pry me from her body and walk away as I cry and reach for her and the teacher has to hold me back. That same teacher will send me to get my first paddling from the principal when I get into a fight with another girl over the only bathroom stall with a lock on the door.*



*The idea to write this came from this entry in this blog.

Happy birthday to ME.

"They're having her birthday party at that antique store they own. You know, there'll be food, and alcohol, and Josh's band'll be playing, and-"

"You had me at alcohol."

A holiday extravaganza!!!

Candied bacon? I'll be making some of this for our Christmas party this weekend.

This blog is my barf bag.

Yes, so the barbarians are knocking at the gates, so to speak, once again. It seems that we can get caught up financially and then things go to shit all over again, like a never-ending roller coaster. Right now we are more behind on our mortgage payment than we've ever been before, and we're moderately behind on everything else.

At this point I'm at a loss, because Jason and I are both just worn totally out all the time from working and attempting to keep up with the three kids. I've applied for lots and lots of other jobs in hopes of finding something that pays better, or is closer to home, or is just BETTER in some way, but to no avail. The phone rings constantly with 800-numbers and "private name, private number" on the caller i.d., and we just don't answer. We are those people now, screeners. And since Mary has decided quite suddenly that she doesn't have to give us any money any more (to help out with Kane and Jude), we are having trouble paying for their lunch money, field trips, school supplies.

I think that's somewhere in the top three most irritating things, that a woman who is driving a new Miata and whose new husband is driving a new Jeep and who just moved into a new townhouse in Vestavia and who doesn't have to work since the government pays her to stay home and smoke cigarettes and not answer when her kids call says to us, "I will not help you pay for their school supplies." It makes me feel like I'm going to throw up to think about it.

Jude randomly had $25 when he came home from his great aunt's house that his grandmother gave him, and we had to talk him into using it to pay for two of his field trips because the deadline was here and our bank account is in the negative for the second week in a row.

My mom has gotten into the habit of just handing me her check card and letting me keep it for days at a time.

My father won't look me in the eye, and tries to stay off the subject of money or finances or bills when he's around me.

My boss has implied that when my kid is sick, it shouldn't keep me from coming to work because don't I have a HOUSEKEEPER or "some other option" than staying home with him?

NO. FUCK NO. FUCK NO TO EVERYBODY. I love when I'm talking to a collector and they say "Are you aware that your [whatever] account is past due?" I say yes. "Why is it past due?" "Because I don't have any money."

I can hear the blinking and the crickets and the question marks above heads on the other end of the line.

SOME PEOPLE DON'T HAVE MONEY, FUCKERS. I'm a little tense today. I'm on the verge of my lady time of the month, but it's two weeks late so I think the PMS has just built up and built up until I'm marinating in it.

My mother had to buy her 28-year-old daughter a pregnancy test. It was negative. Which doesn't surprise me, because everything is negative these days.

Making a wish.

Making a wish.
Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Reed's birthday party was yesterday. He was very subdued for the first half of it; he had a shorter nap than usual, and there were a lot of people there talking to him and watching him. He had fun though, and got a lot of nice things. He got a vacuum cleaner, since "making the noise" is one of his favorite things. He also got a sweet tricycle and some Spanish-speaking maracas, just to name a couple of things. It was a good day, with good pizza and good cake.

Be wogget!

Two years.

Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Reedy,

Today you turn two years old. That's 24 months, 104 weeks, 728 days that I've known you, and I still can't understand most of what you do.

This has been a year of huge, careening leaps in odd directions. Your mother got fired and consequently off the deep end went, and you went along for the ride as pleasant as could be. The months when I was unemployed are marked forever in my mind as some of the loveliest, most cherished months of my life because I spent them with you. Waking up in the morning with no agenda, no plan but to eat breakfast with you and play with you and snuggle up with you for a nap later was refreshing, and only confirmed my life-long wishes that I could stay home with my child instead of sending him to daycare.

Things being as they are, we sent you to daycare in March when I found another job. The first few weeks nearly crushed my bones with their intensity- besides what it felt like to leave my child with a bunch of people who weren't ME, it was AWFUL to walk away from you when you were reaching out to me, sobbing and begging for me to take you back. There is no way to be in that situation and feel justified, no way to feel like you are doing the right thing. I cried a lot then, and you did too.

Since then you've taken to daycare like a duck to water. The activities and the structure and the friendships all suit you. Let's face it- by Friday you're sick of it and ready for Ma's house, but aren't we all?

Shortly after starting daycare you suddenly were very very interested in potty training. We sort of shrugged and said, why not? Because Reed, as you've grown, your poops have grown, and I am starting to feel like I'm in charge of cleaning out the elephants' quarters at the zoo. And just as quickly as you jumped right in to the potty training, you sort of drifted back out into pull-up land. I've been telling your father that he'll have to start having the "pee races" that he used to have with Kane and Jude.

This year, after being introduced to the smorgasboard of germs that daycare has to offer, you got really terribly sick a few times in a row. One of those times, thanks to the wonders of inconsistent and impersonal medical care, I nearly overdosed you on Tylenol. That couple of weeks I'm nearly positive that we had the flu, and we were bumbling around together every day snotting and coughing and fevering and wasting away all over the place. Your fever was constant and steady, and when we took you to the emergency room the people there sort of chuckled and said no wonder you had a fever, your mother wasn't giving you enough medicine. And then I nearly killed you with all the Tylenol. And then I nearly killed every doctor and nurse I had ever laid eyes on, because the idea that I could have been without you, that I almost had to look at the world through the eyes of a person who was no longer your mother, it nearly put me completely over the edge. Luckily I only made it to the sofa, or else those doctors and nurses would have been FOR IT.

These past couple of months you've been in a STAGE, or a PHASE, or some other word that implies that this is only a period of time, that it will end, that the rest of our lives won't be this way. Because Reedy, you buck and writhe and scream and more than a few times a week I say "Dear God, strike me deaf!" because it gets very hard to feel like a failure as a mother for that large a percentage of the day.

But then, something will break away and something else will shift and suddenly you'll be sitting in my lap, telling me what a dog says or singing Jingle Bells or asking me if we can watch the bunnies. And it's in those moments that every Hallmark commercial, silly sitcom, and uplifting chick flick come true, because when you look at me that way I know that I am alive, that I have a purpose, and that I'm doing something good.

This year you learned to converse, and to use the word "yes" quite a bit. It's really lovely to say "Do you want some beans?" and have you reply, simply, "Yes." "Do you want to go outside?" "Yes." "I love you, punkin." "Love you."

I love you,

Mama

The Jesus.

The Jesus.
Originally uploaded by buffpuff

We've got most of our pictures up from Rolling on Shabbos, although I think a few more might make their way to the cuttingroom floor, but most of our favorites are posted. It was a great way to celebrate our anniversary, and we had a great time.

Next year, it's Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Start planning your costumes now.

"Now that's a Thanksgiving, motherfucker."

So I was browsing through the links on queserasera.org, and I stumbled upon Sweet Juniper. I found it to be funny and touching and very nice, and then I got to this Thanksgiving post.

I laughed out loud. So now I'm passing it on to you people.

He's been singing an awful lot of "gingle bell".

So Reed has started asking the question, "Why?" It has totally taken our relationship, the ship of our relations, to the next level. "It's time to put on your pants." "Why?" "Because we have to go." "Why?" "Because I have to go to work and you have to go to school." "Why?" "Because I have to make money so we can live in this house." "Why?" "Because that's the way the world works." "Oh."

And seriously, it goes on and on and on until I feel like I've accidentally wandered into a crappy, cliche movie, and just when I think I might have to start ignoring him, Reed will suddenly just say, "Oh." It's very odd, because he seems so little and young, so it's odd to me to think that he is really understanding me, that he really might be trying to understand what all I'm saying about our lives.

Reed's second birthday is this Thursday, and his party is this Sunday. I haven't done much to prepare besides buying him a couple of presents. I presume it won't take much- some paper plates and napkins and cups and sodas and pizzas and a few phone calls to let people know. And, seriously, half of you know now that you read that first sentence in this paragraph. Consider yourself invited. I'm not doing anything fancy like sending out invitations.

Our bowling party last Saturday night was THE BEST, but not that I'm a great bowler because I'm not. I'm not the WORST bowler either; I'll give that honor to Kristi. I'm either a pretty bad, good bowler, or a pretty good, bad bowler, whichever. I get equal numbers of strikes and gutter balls. I'll have pictures and video of us bowling in our costumes very soon. Why? Because we looked funny in our costumes. Why? Because it's funny to see a bunch of people in costume in a place where no one else is dressed up. Why? BECAUSE I SAID SO. Gah.

Rolling on Shabbos.

In honor of our anniversary, and also to celebrate Jason's birthday, we're rolling on Shabbos at the Superbowl in Tarrant this Saturday night. We're all dressing up as characters from The Big Lebowski, and I think it's going to be a great time. The lanes are officially reserved from 8:00 until 11:00, and I'm AWFULLY excited about it. I hope to see some serious action from The Jesus, The Dude, Walter, and all the heavy hitters. I hope to see you all there.

Four. Or five. Or six, if we're starting with the first time I really thought about you.

I've been thinking a lot about friends and lovers and family and what it all means, what it means to be friends and lovers and family.

I've talked a lot lately about trying, making a concentrated effort to be a good person.

I just think that it's so hard to be sincere and honest AND think about the effect you're having on other people. Not impossible, but hard. It takes a lot of thought and time and attention span to think that way, to think about the future and other people's brains and your own brain and your desires and feelings and other people's desires and feelings. It's easy to say what you want to say, to put your two cents in, to make your opinion heard. It's harder to live the life that you want to live and hold onto everything that you love.

I've had a lot of concerns lately about Kane, his being eleven, his being in sixth grade, his inching towards teenagerhood. We've all either been through it or are heading towards it, so I know it's not an impossible mountain to climb. But I feel very much like I wish it could be easier, or I wish he could just already know the self-aware, stand-up, impossibly smart person that he's going to be in ten years. I wish we could skip this part where people are mean and it hurts him. He told us recently that he can't wear this particular jacket he has, this corduroy jacket with a fleece collar, a jacket that Jason and I both have exact versions of, because "I already get called a nerd enough". It's heartbreaking in a very personal way having been a person who had to start finding ways to endure acne jokes at the age of eight, a person who was "weird", a person who wore clothes from Bargain Town and went to school not knowing that there was anything about her that deserved ridicule. And I know that a lot of us withstood ridicule, that I'm not special in that experience. But that doesn't make it any easier when your eleven-year-old tears up when you ask him how his day was.

Jude is pretty solid right now. He tears up when we make him do his homework, or when sundown is too close to let him wander the neighborhood, or when we won't let him have that thirteenth piece of candy. He is impossibly cool. I wish I was as unapologetic about my coolness.

I feel constant pity for their mother, a woman who tries to find ways to spend less time with them. She is missing out on her children, on actual human beings that her body made, and when I look at Reed and every time my body aches because I have to leave him with people who are not his family I wonder how Mary can seek this out, can actively seek out how to spend less time with them. Every time I hear them talk in their sleep I think how it's a special gift, an inside joke that she's giving away to a crazy person who obsesses about socks.

Reed is a powerhouse, a tiny little person who has his own agenda and his own rules and tells us all about his life at every chance he gets. He tells us that there are boogers in his ears, that the kitty hit him, that he wants wadah and fizzy-fizzy and be-bies (water and coke and french fries, the basis of any healthy diet), and I ache to my core when I look at him because I know that I have an open invitation to totally fuck him up if I make him anything like myself. PLEASE, GOD, LET HIM BE NORMAL, let him be sure of himself and unafraid and steadfast and hardworking, let him be a good man who takes care of his family and loves his wife/husband/significant other/children/whathaveyou, let him be a person who can stay calm and remember himself and let water slide off the duck's back, PLEASE just let him be a rock, a stable person who loves life and sucks it through his teeth at every turn.

And God, while you're at it, please let me be a woman who is constantly thankful for the man in my life, a man who is a rock and is constantly reminding me how to be positive and excited and happy for my life.

Happy anniversary, Jason. I love you.

All these poses, these beautiful poses.

All these poses, these beautiful poses.
Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Know what happens when you go out into the hall to take pictures at two in the morning after a lot of beer-drinking?

Reedy.
Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Well, we had a lovely Thanksgiving. We ate Thanksgiving dinner about four times, I think, and I am feeling good about it.

Jason's birthday was yesterday; he is now not only an old man, he's an older man. We celebrated by going to his brother's house where we drank beer, watched the kids scream, and tested Reed's limits concerning his bedtime. IT WAS INTERESTING. I told Jason that part of what is so disorienting about being with his family is that they MUST have the television turned up to THERE, that level where you can't hear anything but the t.v., and they won't ever let you watch something for more than five minutes. I'm serious. I watched maybe ten minutes of a football game, five minutes of Father of the Bride, five minutes of some kind of special about Garth Brooks, five minutes of country music videos, and five minutes of some movie with Diane Keaton and Mandy Moore. After a while you forget where you are and what you're doing there.

There's a lot coming up, including our fourth wedding anniversary and the party we're throwing in honor of it (and in honor of Jason's birthday). I'm also planning our Christmas party, Reed's birthday party, and working on our Christmas cards. Lately I've been holding it together pretty well, even enjoying moments in which I feel like I can handle all of this. Don't worry; it'll pass.

Now is the time for pie.

DSC_0182.jpg
Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Wow. My bad. I have been really terrible at getting to the computer lately.

Work has been really, bizarro crazy lately. I work in an industry that really capitalizes on the holidays, on people's desires to have their houses look like the houses in the magazines at Christmas time, and it makes for an interesting work day.

We went to see Captured By Robots on Sunday night, and it was AWESOME. If you haven't seen robots play instruments and sing then you haven't lived.

Reed is right smack-dab in the middle of the terrible two's. He'll turn two in a couple of weeks, but believe me when I say that the terrible part has begun. The last couple of weeks have been filled with tantrums, writhing fits, screaming until he's hoarse, kicking and screaming, crying and screaming- basically all things that make me want to stick my head in the front door and slam it repeatedly. Right now as I type this, he's in the living room screaming and crying because he wants to sit on the desk and poke the caps lock key. I CANNOT TYPE THAT WAY. My caps placement is very specific.

Two of my oldest friends got married last Saturday, and we were fortunate enough to be able to be there and take pictures. It was really lovely and sweet, so sweet that we all had tears in our eyes by the time it was over.

But it's okay; there was beer hidden in the basement. Once we found it, the crying was remedied. Wonder if the same thing would work with Reed?

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours. Thank you for reading, for being my friends, for caring, for listening. I hope your day is filled with as much screaming and pie-eating as mine will be.

Amanda,

You know, it's been a long time. A long time that we've been friends, a long time that I've gotten to know you, a long time since I used to get mad every time you and Deanna got the last seat on the bus because that one would bounce you the highest when our clinically insane bus driver would drive us down that back road with all the curves and bumps at about sixty miles an hour. That was fourteen years ago, and if anyone had asked me then if I would be attending your wedding, if I would count you as one my favorite people, I would have said "I don't know but that bitch needs to let me sit in that seat JUST FOR ONE FREAKING DAY, God!"

I was in the midst of a hormonal breakdown back then. LUCKILY THINGS HAVE CHANGED.

Amanda, you are one of the nicest, just sincerely nice people I have ever known. I know that sounds trite and meaningless, but I mean it an the most meaningful way, because no one I know is always nice. I'm not always nice, my kid is not always nice, and you are always nice. You are thoughtful and sweet and when I have a conversation with you I can see that you are not only listening to what I'm saying but also emoting, thinking about how I feel about whatever tripe I'm whining about that week, and it makes me feel immediately close to you.

I'm so glad that we're still friends, and that we can still talk like old friends when we see each other. It can be hard sometimes to hold onto what makes people want to be friends in the first place. When you and John moved away I prayed that we would still be buddies and feared that we wouldn't. Luckily I'm an idiot and besides the fact that we don't see each other as often, it didn't really change anything.

I'm not going to spout off any random marriage advice, because let's face it, I'm lucky that Jason has put up with me this long. You and John have been living together for a while now, so not that much will change. The main thing will be the mentality- knowing that the only way to break up now is an expensive legal procedure.

It's also about knowing that you live with someone who looked at you and thought, "I need to find some way to bind myself to that woman forever, because she is just that awesome." It's a beautiful thing, and I know that some people find marriage altogether unnecessary, and that's understandable. But I find it to be lovely and exciting and awe-inspiring that people are able to think that about each other- able to think that it's not enough to wake up every day looking at each other, not enough to eat most meals together or help each other with chores or go places together. Marriage is, at least some times, for people who want to go one step further, who want to cement that breathless feeling, that wiggle in the tummy with something spiritual and ceremonial that isn't just to let other people know how you feel, but also to let your girlfriend/boyfriend know how you feel.

Plus, if it doesn't work out, you're entitled to half of his shit. GO FOR THE TV, AMANDA.

I'm obviously kidding.

If Jason and I had more money, we would have gotten you guys awesome presents. Possibly a pair of Segways. As it is, we can offer you our friendship, support, and a pair of smiling faces. Oh, and three kids- if you guys are ever in the market for a few kids, call us. We can hook you up.

Some times I get the menstrual cramps REAL HARD.

First, I made myself a plate of heavenly goodness, a crispy, fluffy, cheesy gift from the heavens, a Mexican omelette this morning. I have honestly never had a Mexican omelette before. I was on my way home from dropping Reed at school and I was thinking about making fried eggs, and I OF COURSE started thinking about salsa and sour creams, so I decided to throw some tomato and cheese in an omelette, stick some salsa and sour creams on top and go to town. It was RIGHT, is all I have to say.

Second, Reed stayed in bed until nine o'clock this morning. I cannot tell you how wonderful it was, how much I thought God has finally decided to throw me a bone, how utterly confused I felt when he finally seemed ready to get up. He woke up at his usual time, but when I tried to get him out of bed he laid down and yelled "NOOOOOO! NOOOOOOOOO!", closed his eyes, and covered up. As I was out late playing poker last night, I didn't have the energy to force him out of the bed, so I went back to bed myself. He stayed in bed and sang and counted and dozed until nine, NINE I TELL YOU, when he finally called out "Daddy at work?" which is baby talk for, "I know that my father is at work, so I will just have to deal with the fact that I have to hang out with the lesser half of my parenting team, my mother. Okay."

If my child suddenly turns into one of those kids who stays in bed until nine o'clock, it will be okay if I die because my life won't be able to get any better.

Third, lots of things. Last Saturday I helped two other people put chair covers and sashes on 400 chairs. I was bent over from ten until four that day, and not in the good way, okay? But that night I spent time with some of my best girlfriends and helped celebrate the fact that John and Amanda, two of my oldest friends, are getting married this Saturday. Besides the requisite excitement about this new step, this beautiful moment in their lives, I'M excited because Jason and I are taking pictures. We are slowly but surely building up our wedding portfolios, and it's good. Also, I'm continuing on my path to becoming a good person. I notice little changes, little differences in my thought patterns, and it feels good. My grandfather who I never met always said, "Remember who you are." I'm working on it.

Now is the time for my ass to grow.

Last night was Halloween, and it was another Halloween in which we didn't really get any good pictures of our children in their costumes. Kane was a dementor, Jude was a scary clown, and Reed was a monkey. Again.

You know how when you put clothes on cats, they sort of freeze up and act dead? That's what Reed does when you dress him up in a monkey costume. He would be very still, and wouldn't move his head but instead would look at you out of the corners of his eyes, as if to say, "SHIT THE BED. I'm in a monkey costume and I can't get out."

Jason and I didn't dress up this year for the first time since we started this adventure we call Trying To Deal With Each Other's Shit (except for the Halloween when I was pregnant; nothing counts during pregnancy). I'm going to have to go back and find some old pictures, because we have been some interesting stuff- a professor and a naughty school girl (I was the school girl, surprisingly enough), '70's porn stars, nuns. Good stuff. But we already have a good idea of what we're dressing up as next year. Only 363 days to go!

But at least I can fill these next few hundred days with eating candy. Kane and Jude are really good at replenishing my candy stash- Jude alone brought home 243 pieces of delicious candy last night.

If only one could trick or treat for bigger pants.

Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez.

Well, New Orleans was wonderful. I always tell everyone that every time I'm there I feel like I'm home, and then I get sad when I have to come back to Alabama. Jason says it's because I was born in Louisiana. I don't know, but I know I love it.

While we were there, I rekindled my love for Talk Soup. I also learned a lot about jelly fish and predators that use the ambush technique to capture their prey. I ate Mexican food, Vietnamese food, Spanish food, and Whole Food. I went to a house party where there was a sweet dj who opened up with early Michael Jackson. The weather was really perfect for being New Orleans- sunny and breezy, perfect temperatures for walking in the Quarter without getting hot and sweaty, cool enough at night to wear a pretty sweater.

Being back home with Reed is fun. This morning after he ate breakfast, I picked him up from the table to find that he had oatmeal underneath both of his arms. The kid can get oatmeal in his armpits. He lets the good times roll, let me tell you.

Check.

Well, last week was semi-productive, in that I got some things done that had been on the to-do list for a few months. Yes, MONTHS.

I got my oil changed. Well, I got Jason to get my oil changed while I was at work. It got done, okay? This is good because we're driving to New Orleans this Friday, so now we won't break down in Shit, Mississippi where there are no gas stations and no friendly faces. Look, I know every state has some places that creep foreigners out, but driving across Mississippi is pretty bleak. Especially when you do it late at night. Fortunately, this trip will be made during daylight hours, so no worries.

I also got my license renewed. It expired in June, people, and I've been thinking all these months how bad it would be to get pulled over and have my car impounded because I'm not prompt. But now I don't have to worry about that at all. The problem is that the new picture is awful, really AWFUL. It makes me wish that you could just bring your own picture to the DMV and let them laminate that onto your new license. I've got quite a few that I wouldn't mind whipping out every time an officer says, "Have you been drinking?"













Because once he saw it he'd think, "Well, obviously not THAT much."

Fun with counting.

Oh, man, work is getting me down. Don't you love having someone say "Hey, you!" and snap their fingers at you? It's marvelous. I marvel at it. Really.

The job search is discouraging as well, as I have gotten no phone calls. Except from bill collectors.

Those guys don't do much for my morale either. I have gotten repeated phone calls from not one, not two, but THREE different collectors for bills that I paid already. Yes, the whole telemarketer auto-dial thing has been explained to me. I still fucking hate it. I think that technology ain't as far ahead of its time as it thinks it is when I can pay a bill online, the money can come out of my checking account, and OLD NAVY AND THE GAP still want to call me THE NEXT DAY, and then THE DAY AFTER THAT, and then AGAIN AND AGAIN for DAYS IN A ROW to ask me why I haven't paid my bill. It apparently only took them about two weeks to get caught up; they've finally stopped calling. At least the Target people politely invite me to check out their clearance racks when they call to collect.

In related news, Old Navy has placed a note on my account that says, "She won't hesitate to use the word 'fuck' when you call her." I hope all their people are eighteen and up.

They.

I'd noticed lately that every time I use our computer, there's a folded piece of paper hanging over the top and front of the monitor. I figured that it must have some important password or some other kind of information that Jason didn't want to lose, so he put it there where he could get to it easily.

One day when I sat down to check my email, Jason said, "Oh, yeah, had you noticed my paper?" I nodded. He said, "I hate that fucking webcam being stuck in the top of the monitor. I just know that 'they're' watching me."

It totally cracked me up. And you know, since that day, every time I pick my nose sitting at the computer, I figure "they're" laughing. And then I pick up that piece of paper and hang it over the webcam.

A bunch of girls who sing "Wasted On Your Love" AND cover "Round and Round" by Ratt? They're alright with me.

Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Thanks to the generosity of my good friend Dave, I went to see The Donnas at Bottletree last night. Thanks to the generosity of my good friend Brock, I took some nice pictures of them. Honestly I didn't really know anything about their music; I was pleasantly surprised. I have to admit that, listening to their music on Myspace today, I think the live show is much better than the recordings. They are raw, energetic, tough, and tight. Somehow all that gets lost on the recordings.

The wedding on Saturday went extremely well. The weather was more perfect than I could have asked for- very sunny, a light breeze, warm but not hot. We got a lot of great pictures, and I'll be posting some soon to my Flickr. I figure we should get them to the happy couple before we start posting them to the internets.

The girl who hooked us up with that wedding told Jason that she has two more lined up for us. SCORE. Liz, my first-born child is kind of a pain in the ass, but I'll give you the next one, I promise.

Reedy.

Originally uploaded by buffpuff

Tomorrow morning, Reed will take the last dose of the antibiotic that his doctor prescribed last week. He's finally acting well; the fever has been gone for nearly a week, and the cough has quieted quite a bit in the last few days.

He will probably remember this last week as one of the best in his life- not because of all the love and tenderness he's received from his mommy and daddy, but because of all the suckers. We ceased to be able to get him to take his medicine somewhere around last Friday. He would literally writhe about, scream, and spit the medicine out. After I had offered him everything I could think of, including daddy's car and mommy's credit cards and all of Kane and Jude's toys, I randomly said, "What about candy? Do you want a nice sucker?" The moment those words left my lips he sat up, turned to face us, opened his mouth and swallowed the medicine. As there were quite a few days of antibiotic left, we went out a bought a large bag of Dum Dums. Every morning and evening now, I say "Okay, it's time to take your medicine." He replies, "Candy?" I say, "You have to take your medicine." He replies firmly, "Sucker." Like at first it's an exited question- you mean it's time for candy? But when I let him know that he's definitely going to be swallowing some nasty medicine, he lets me know in no uncertain terms that I'm going to be wearing it unless I'm prepared to buy him off with a tasty treat.

Kane's results from taking the SAT and the ARMT (Alabama Reading and Math Test) at the end of last year finally came in and it's official- he's a genius. Seriously, the kid got a perfect score on several different sections, and is in the 95th to 100th percentile in most subjects. He's smart like Reed is big. He's been invited to join the scholar's bowl which is the team of nerds that travels to other schools to see if they can out-nerd the other school's nerd-team. It's okay; I can say that because I was on the nerd-team in high school. I'm saying it from the inside.

Anyway, he's really freakin' smart. NOW do you see why I start to rip off my own fingernails when he says he can't remember to put his socks in the dirty clothes or put his dishes in the dish washer?

(For any of you who don't see, it's the irritation. That's the answer.)

I know, I KNOW, that there is at least one person right now who is thinking about leaving a comment about how Kane is just SO SMART that he is INCAPABLE of thinking about mundane, every-day things, that he has SO MUCH going through his head at any given moment that I cannot reasonably expect him to think about such tiny details as where his soiled clothing ends up at the end of the day.

To that person I say, you're probably right. You know, for me, dropping my clothes in the hamper or picking up my dishes after I eat is automatic; it's almost an autopilot kind of thing. I don't think about it, I just do it. It's kind of like how people automatically move or duck when someone throws something at them. Kane, on the other hand, gets hit with stuff all the time. Seriously, literally, he never seems to be able to get out of the way. He gets hit in the face with balls, and he doesn't pick up his socks. That's the price he has to pay for being able to recall every second of every episode ever of Naruto.

Bitter pill.

Oh, man, so I almost DIED last night. I mean, I probably didn't almost die, but I had a bad experience. So, same diff.

My doctor prescribed me phenergan last week when I was having this really long, drawn out stomach virus. Last night I was feeling really crappy, so I decided to take one. I had noticed that when I swallowed them they started dissolving really quickly, because I can always taste them a little- they taste pretty bad, too. Anyway, last night I thought, "This will knock me out and make me feel good and make me sleep really well, so why the hell not?" So I pop the little sucker in my mouth and take a swig of water and swallow. Lo and behold, the damn thing sticks to the back of my throat and starts dissolving- I could feel that it stuck right to that little place that opens and closes when you swallow. Let me tell you, IT FUCKING BURNED. I kept swallowing water and finally the majority of it went down, but there was still a nice little hunk stuck there, dissolving and running down my throat and FUCKING BURNING.

The next thing I knew it felt like my throat was closing up because it turns out the lining of my throat was absorbing the phenergan and getting numb. It got pretty hard to swallow, and talking was weird, and I can't say enough about the SON OF A BITCHIN' BURNING, y'all. I was guzzling water and shoving candy and popsicles down my throat as fast as possible to try and wash all of it down.

Anyway, I survived, but God I SO ALMOST DIED LAST NIGHT.

Nowadays.

Oh internets, how I love thee.

Reed and I have been sick all week long, and I just haven't walked the eight feet from the living room into the office/rec room/stinky cat litter room to do anything on the computer. Now I am salivating just thinking about all the good stuff I can do; you know how when you check your email and all your favorite websites daily it never takes you long to get caught up? But you know how when it's been a while, there's lots and lots of juicy stuff to read and look at? I love it. Go Fug Yourself, here I come. Dooce? Yes, please.

Reed and I both had a stomach virus, one that has lasted almost two weeks at this point. I think mine has gone away, but Reed is still having orange, squishy poo. HAHA! I bet you didn't wake up this morning thinking, "I'm going to go read about someone else's bowel movements." Gotcha! I've also got some nasty sinus stuff and a cough, and Reed has a pretty nasty ear infection that in turn has caused the awfully runny nose and the wet cough and fever. Our house is SO MUCH FUN right now, what with all the coughing and medicine and tissues and my OBSESSIVE shushing once we finally get Reed to sleep.

I'm hoping the next few weeks will be a little easier. We're photographing a wedding next weekend, and two weeks after that we're headed to New Orleans where I'll hang out with two of our best friends and drink beer and Jason will take pictures at Voodoo Fest JASON IF YOU SEE ZACK DE LA ROCHA YOU BEST PUT HIM IN YOUR POCKET AND BRING HIM HOME.

Plus, one of my best friends got fired this week, which I have chosen to see as a GOOD thing, because that means maybe she'll have to move in with us and then I'll have an automatic drinking/dancing/listening to Hall and Oats partner like, ALL THE TIME.

I have to say that I fear that Jude's teacher this year is unnecessarily hardassed.

Jude is in RLC this year, a gifted class that pulls him out of his regular class one day a week. In a meeting at the beginning of the year, the RLC teacher assured us that the kids would never have to make up work from their regular classes that they missed while in RLC. And still Jude has been bringing home worksheets every week that he says are make-up work from his class. Plus, he says that the class acts up while the RLC kids are gone, and then the whole class- including the RLC group- have to have "silent lunches", no snack, and no recess for several days in a row. Also, regardless of any make-up work, Jude will be doing homework until eight p.m. some nights.

Now I know that teachers have a hard job, and that kids are tough and wild and will act up and take advantage and manipulate and all that. However, I think expecting an eight-year-old to do homework for four hours straight or sit through an entire lunch without talking is severe. I also think that those eight-year-olds who miss an entire evening of fun activities like riding bikes or jumping on the trampoline or playing video games because they've had to do all that homework are going to get a little wound up when they're then told not to talk at the lunch table, and then told that they can't have recess, and then told that they can't have snack. Seems a bit much, don't you think? I'm not a teacher, but there must be some way to isolate and punish the kids who are actually causing the problems (they send home marks every night, so I would know by now if Jude was one of the troublemakers), at least enough that all three of those punishments wouldn't be necessary for every single kid in the class.

Anyway, I just wanted to comment on how teachers can take things overboard sometimes, and to their own detriment I think. I mean, once she's made all these young kids endure all that punishment, who has to deal with them? She does. And I just think punishment that extensive doesn't inspire fear in the kids, it inspires deviousness and skepticism. Before she knows it those kids are going to be clawing at the walls to try and get out of there.