Paul bought me two pounds of assorted promotional pens from American Science & Surplus, which went a good long way to repair any lingering bad feelings from our fight from the other day—especially since, unlike a bouquet of apology flowers, these were ordered ahead of time out of pure thoughtfulness, when he hadn’t yet realized he might be motivated to act thoughtful in order to smooth things over.

I wish I could take photos of the pens to show you, but the children have misplaced my camera and it’s been long enough now that I actually ordered a new camera (I bought this one) (and I’m keeping it in my purse where they can’t get to it). You know what would be fun? Dividing a house up like a cow field and letting people choose a square where they bet the camera is, and then having a prize for the winner (maybe some pens!). Except, unlike waiting for a cow to poop, we might have to wait until the kids move out to find that stupid camera.

Anyway, the pens. What they are is promotional pen rejects—the ones that didn’t meet quality control for the promotional printing on the barrels. There are about 50 pens to a pound, so I have about 100 (Miss Zoot will envy my pen riches). I would say my favorite so far is an orange one with black polkadots that says “OMNIMOUNT” and “1-800-MOUNT-IT”. I have a nice big handful of those. But I also have a few red-and-white Iowa State University pens, a whole bunch of pens that make me look like I stole pens from a bank, and a whole bunch of pens that make me look like I stole pens from a CHURCH. That would be a bold move, huh?

Oh, wait, new winner: FUNERAL HOME pens. I think I would prefer NOT to see a promotional pen at a funeral home. Plain black businesslike pens would be better, I think, not only for the dignity of it but because I don’t want to think about anyone PROMOTING a funeral home. But for my own pen mug, I want the funeral home promotional pen.

Speaking of promotional, I hope to have lots of future experiences to prove me wrong, but at this point I’d have to say there are few things as satisfying as owning things with one’s OWN advertising on them. From the expression “Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt” I glean that THE T-SHIRT is a crucial part of fully experiencing an experience. And now I have been there, done that, and paid too much for a t-shirt designed by a total amateur:

I also made a bumper sticker:

Hee!

(Both screen shots from Zazzle.com.)

Anyway, I fully recommend this. It is EXPENSIVE, but then you have your OWN t-shirt or whatever, with your OWN slogan on it! It is super-fun, and it really is startling to see it—I’m sure Angelina Jolie feels the same way when she sees her billboards. And you can do many, many versions as you try to figure out what looks nice.

AND, Zazzle has sales pretty often: I got the shirt when they were doing a deal where it was a 4-hour 50% off shirts sale, so it was still pretty expensive but easier to deal with. If you register, they’ll send you emails about the sales. And heavens, NO, they have not asked me to write this or paid me to talk about it or given me anything for free or ANYTHING—if they had, this would be over on the reviews blog.

Paul and I had one of our very rare fights last night (I clean when I’m mad, so probably Paul has mixed feelings about our fights). Then this morning I woke up queasy and feeling like I was fizzing with Teh Krazy, and then I thought, “Huh, this is just how I felt when….” And then I took a pregnancy test (I will keep these things on hand until long after menopause: it is well worth 80 cents for peace of mind), and it’s negative, so I guess I’m just a regular mess, or possible a PMesS. So anyway then I shopped for small expensive handbags I have no intention of buying.

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Mouse is still peeing out of her box about once per day. Two nights ago I woke up at 4:00 in the morning and noticed her doing some pre-pee prowling on our bed, so I took her down to the basement and stood there in my bare feet in the middle of the night, putting her in her litter box again and again, petting her and speaking soothingly. Then I gave up, and she followed me back to bed and peed on Paul.

So last night Paul and I switched sides of the bed, and have you ever tried to do that? It seems really weird. I kept waking up feeling like everything was all strange, and now the lamp is on my side. Anyway, I was wondering if Mouse was peeing ON PAUL or if she was peeing on that side of the BED, but last night’s test was a bust because she sniffed around for awhile and then went out to the hallway and peed on a pair of pants one of the kids left there.

Could we get a little fresh breeze in here kthanx

On one hand I’m reaching my limit, and on the other hand “reaching my limit” doesn’t really mean anything because I don’t want to put her to sleep and that’s pretty much the only option sitting around at the limit. If she had other issues I would consider it, but she’s a very good cat. She’s been a very good cat for 16 years. I don’t want to stop the CAT, I just want to stop the PEEING. We’ve talked about it with the vet several times now, and she’s been tested but she’s fine, and we got her a Feliway-knock-off collar, and we’ve gotten multiple litter boxes, and we’ve put a box aside for her in a secluded place, and we’ve put a box on the main floor in case she’s having trouble with the stairs to the basement, and she seems accustomed to the new cats now—and sometimes things seem better and then they seem not-better again. And she IS peeing MOST of the time in the box (or, as Paul says darkly, “or somewhere else we haven’t found yet”). We have a vinyl mattress cover on our bed, which I hate, and we’ve taken our down blanket and our quilt off and replaced them with cheap blankets that are easier to wash cat pee out of.

Anyway. I guess I don’t have any point to that. Just venting/complaining. Mouse goes back to the vet in November for blood tests anyway, so that’s another chance for them to find something. The vet also mentioned cat prozac, except Mouse doesn’t seem UPSET or anything now. She just keeps peeing on our stuff. And maybe she’s just kind of old and needs a cat-sized Depends.

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(image from Amazon.com)

I read The Bedwetter by Sarah Silverman and liked it. I feel very invested in her getting back together with Jimmy Kimmel. I mean, assuming they’d be happy together—I don’t mean they have to get together if they had a bad relationship. But it SEEMED good, didn’t it? And I felt sad when they broke up, and I’d feel happy if they got back together and were happy and had babies if they wanted them and so forth.

The playdate went as well as could be expected. Which for a non-socially-anxious person would probably be “It was AWESOME! We got along GREAT! I like the mom AND the kids, HALLELUJAH!!!”

I do like the mom. She’s ten years younger than me, which. I mean. Some of YOU are ten years younger than me and I don’t have any trouble thinking of you as peers, but it’s the flip side of the problem I more often have, which is when moms are ten years older than me. Ten years is a GAP. There are times I feel it more than others. This time I didn’t feel it much, but I wondered if SHE did. Her husband is three years older than her, but he’s still seven years younger than me.

But I like her. She swore appropriately and cheerfully several times when the kids were out of earshot, but then creatively non-swore (“That’ll really sssss” for “suck”) when they were nearby. She was interested in talking at least for awhile about baby names. From what I could tell in an hour and a half, her parenting doesn’t clash with mine. She’s comfortable and social, which can be helpful: she assumes there’s no awkwardness, which can make me less awkward in response.

The kids got along, although Elizabeth and the other girl excluded Edward, which left Edward crying in the sand, which was a little embarrassing and also hard to know how to handle. But that went okay. In fact, the only real issue was that I got sand on my feet and had to chop off my feet because OMG SAND ON MY FEET AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Speaking of awkward, after Henry and I dropped the twins off at kindergarten (both still sandy from their park time in the morning), we went to the music store to buy a music book for William, who has decided to take clarinet (it doesn’t seem like two whole years since Rob chose clarinet, but here we are). And the guy who owns the store came over to help us, and Henry said, “Hey, that guy has girl hair!”

So I was immediately torn: do I act like it’s no big deal, or do I die outwardly as well as inwardly? I went with Option A, saying absently, “LONG hair, Henry, yes.” And the guy said to Henry, “Yep. How’re ya?” Then the guy went into another room, so while the cashier was ringing up our purchase I lectured Henry about how some girls have short hair but it’s NOT BOY HAIR IT’S SHORT HAIR, and some boys have long hair but it’s NOT GIRL HAIR IT’S LONG HAIR, with the intention that the cashier would overhear and perhaps report to the guy that “the mom was really embarrassed and also not at all the type of person who would refer to long-haired guys as ‘looking like girls’.” She kept chuckling, so I thought to myself “Success!”

Then as we left the store, Henry saw the guy again and said, “Hey, there’s that guy with girl hair!” Oh god. I mean, what is the right thing to do in this situation? Should I apologize to the guy, possibly making it into a big deal rather than a nothing deal? Should I act exasperated and say “GEEZ, Henry!”? Should I say, “Henry, dude, are you kidding me? that is AWESOME ROCK-STAR HAIR.” And I ask this knowing YOU know I can’t go back in time and do it over and can only do what I DID do which is to say “Henry” in a reproving tone of voice (with just a TOUCH of “Geez!”) and continue to take him out to the car, where I delivered the lecture a second time, adding a chapter about how it is rude to comment loudly about other people’s appearances, er yes, unless of course it is Mommy saying “Oh, I LOVE your shirt!” or whatever, so in fact why don’t you just play it safe and not say ANYTHING AT ALL until you come of age?

It seems to me (and it makes sense to me) that bloggers talk more often than other groups of people about social anxieties. So much, in fact, that I’m a little tired both of reading about it and of writing about it. BUT: it comes up so often, and affects so many areas of life, it’s not so much “writing about social anxiety x 5” as it is “writing about how social anxiety is screwing up my ability to call a doctor who could help with social anxiety x 1” plus “writing about how social anxiety is complicating the decision of whether or not to attend BlogHer x 1” plus “writing about…” and so on.

Today it’s “writing about how social anxiety is complicating my children’s social lives x 1”. Elizabeth is in kindergarten, and she’s socially comfortable at least for now. And she BADLY wanted a playdate with another little girl she knows and likes. And I REALLY DON’T WANT TO ARRANGE IT, NOR DO I WANT TO PARTICIPATE. I mean, REALLY don’t—as in, I would rather let a spider walk on my hand. BUT: I am aware that one of my responsibilities as a parent is to help my children arrange things they’re not able to arrange for themselves, especially when those things are actively good for them. And so. I waited for a brave moment and I pounced on it.

It helped x 1,000,000 that I had the other little girl’s parents’ email address from the class list: instead of Phone Hurdle plus Playdate Hurdle, it’s only a Playdate Hurdle. But this morning is the playdate, and I would rather be doing almost anything else. Going to the grocery store with three children? SURE! And they can’t sit in the cart? NO PROBLEM! And they’ll drink coffee first? WHY NOT! And a spider will walk over my hands while I’m shopping? NO BIG!

It won’t be as bad as I think. I might even enjoy parts of it. And certainly the relief when it’s over and we’re driving home will be glorious, and I’ll be so glad I did it for Elizabeth’s sake. And then she will want me to arrange another one.

You know what you can do, if your printer is out of paper but you don’t feel like putting in more right now because you’d have to move a bunch of stuff out of the way of the paper drawer first, but the “paper” light keeps BLINKING and BLINKING? Hit the “job cancel” button right near that blinking light. Possibly this will work for you, too, and ideally it will not be the case that someone else in your family got halfway through a print job and didn’t notice and you just canceled it for them. Because ANOTHER thing you could have done would have been to put a sheet of paper in the manual feed, just to get it over with and also not lose the print job, and someone might point this out to you in an irritable tone of voice.

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I empathize SO HARD with Marie Green’s post State of the State, about what it feels like to have a difference of opinion with a spouse about a desperately-wanted baby.

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Happy cat news: the vet said that the most we should hope for at Benchley’s follow-up appointment today was that his eye was not getting WORSE—but as it turns out, it’s even looking BETTER. He’s lucky to be a young and healthy cat, but also he’s just plain lucky his body happens to be working for him on this. I won’t detail some of the gross things the vet said could happen with eye injuries, but suffice it to say I came away from that discussion feeling like bodies were fragile and random places where the body’s own immune system could end up being a bigger problem than the original problem. Benchley goes back again in a week, but the vet said she feels very encouraged we’ll see good results and won’t have to call in The Cat Ophthalmologist. Did you know there were ophthalmologists for cats? You do now.

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I got a coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts this morning, and every time I get coffee at a restaurant I realize how weak I make my coffee at home. Because WOOOOOOOOO.

This morning I made several phone calls, so this afternoon I’m resting and recovering. I don’t know why I put calls off for so long, considering that “suffering from making calls + suffering from anticipating making calls” is so much worse than “suffering from making calls.” Actually, I do know: it’s that I can do that math, but I still can’t make myself make the calls until they’ve become Very Urgent Indeed and one kind of anxiety finally trumps the other.

You know what would make calling way, way, WAY easier for me? If I could find out ahead of time when there were appointments available. Because “trying to figure out when to make the appointment” WHILE ON THE PHONE is nearly impossible: I’m too nervous and flustered to think straight, and often inadvertently make the appointment for exactly when I absolutely can’t be there. This morning I finally made an appointment to get the handle of our minivan replaced (it fell off, like, a year ago), and I made it for a day the kids have no school—not because I love the idea of bringing five kids with me to sit in a waiting room for several hours, but because I seriously couldn’t figure out how to fit it with our schedule otherwise and finally just thought, “When COULD it DEFINITELY work, if I don’t take SUFFERING into account?”

Our cat Mouse has started peeing on Paul’s side of the bed. While he’s sleeping in it. This is NOT AT ALL FUNNY.

Also not at all funny is Benchley in his Elizabethan collar:

It’s hard to tell, but it ties under his neck in a pretty bonnet-like bow.

The poor kitty has an ulcerated cornea, which the vet said is one of the more painful things a cat can have. He has four kinds of medicine, each of which has to be given to him 1-4 times per day, AND he has to wear the collar, AND he may not go outside. Best case scenario, it will heal beautifully and everything will be fine; worst case, he’ll lose the eye after costing us thousands of dollars trying to save it. Most likely is that he’ll keep the eye but have a scar that will make his vision worse in that eye to some degree. Probably he’ll lose his driver’s license.

Paul and I measure the success of a movie by what occurs to us afterward. Like, even if we were okay with the movie while we were watching it, sometimes as we’re processing it later we say, “Hey, wait a minute, THAT detail doesn’t make any sense!” And if we do that too many times, it was a bad movie.

On that topic, may I save you the trouble of seeing The Thirteenth Floor? A full HOUR after we were supposed to be asleep, we were still thinking of things to say in the dark about what was annoying. We both agreed that the CONCEPT was a very good one—but we think whoever made the movie screwed it up SO BADLY, we can’t believe the actors didn’t keep stopping in the middle to say, “Hey, wait…that doesn’t make SENSE, though. I mean, right?”

Plus, it was one of those movies that wants you to FULLY UNDERSTAND that it is SCI-FI, so everything is grey and metallic and dark. *Sci.*

Oh, AND, the script! OMG! We were seriously saying parts of it right along with the actors, and other parts were laughably awful in non-predictable ways so that both of us would cringe and groan as if injured. The detective’s lines were the worst: he was like someone who hadn’t seen very many detective movies, trying to improvise pretending to be a detective.

And why would he believe…? And why would she have to…? And why go to all that trouble when they could just…? And why would he say…? And once his alibi was removed, wouldn’t he have to go back to jail? And couldn’t they set it up to happen while the other person was sleeping? And “5’8″ and blond” is an insufficient description for finding someone. And why wouldn’t they ALSO use that technology to…? And seriously, how would THAT work? And couldn’t we have found actors who were a little easier to recognize? And if that little detail about switching were true, it would be happening pretty regularly, not just when plottily convenient. And then the icing on the cake: oh, I see, the THIRTEENTH floor. Because….wait, why, again, other than that it sounds a little creepy?

It was like someone came up with a really awesome idea (by reading it in a book, according to Wikipedia), but then failed the crucial step of thinking, “If this were really true, how would things work?” The whole movie was merely a set-up for Teh Big Reveal, rather than being even an ATTEMPT to approximate what life would be like in circumstances where Teh Big Reveal was as-yet-unrevealed.

With my weird schedule right now (three schoolbuses to remember to catch/meet), I’ve been searching for a timer I could set to go off at the same times each day. I looked at medication timers, and they did look good but most had features I didn’t need and cost more than I wanted to spend, so then I’d think, “Meh, this is silly, I guess I can just remember.” But THEN, yesterday at Target I got William a Timex watch on 75% off, and I was reading the instructions to set the time and I saw that his watch can be set to beep at certain times each day, and THEN I realized his watch is the same brand as mine, so maybe…? And sure enough! Not only can I make my watch beep three different times a day, it even let me choose “weekdays” so it won’t beep at me on weekends. I love when things work out like this.

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I am in one of those dumb fits where I’m going over old conversations in my mind and doing them differently—suggesting, for example, that someone take a transcript of our conversation to his/her psychiatrist to see if the psychiatrist agrees with me that it’s time for him/her to get a big medication adjustment. I also had a long mental argument with a SPAMMER. And I delivered an entire mental SEMINAR on why it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard of to say a stay-at-home parent doesn’t own an equal share of the household income. And I keep catching myself and telling myself to quit it, but then the next time my mind drifts I’m doing it again. This usually lasts a day or two. Perhaps you picked up on that tone in my post yesterday: touchy and responding to criticisms that haven’t happened yet? Yeah. I am a joy to be around when I’m in one of these fits. Speaking of consulting psychiatrists.

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I had a DREAM about Hershey Almond and Toffee Symphony bars, so I bought one yesterday and…disappointing. First of all, they used to be 8 ounces and now they’re 4.25 ounces and cost MORE than when they were 8 ounces.

As I’ve mentioned before and will mention again, part of my deal with my review-blogging deal is that I need to mention those review posts on this blog. And normally I try to get this over with quickly for the benefit of those of you who would really rather NOT have review-blog reminders and who are in fact thinking, “You know, if I wanted to read your review blog I WOULD ALREADY BE READING IT,” but I do have one post I would want to bring your attention to anyway, even if I didn’t have to. It’s a post I’ve been composing in my head for months or possibly years now, about how one of my pet peeves is when women call themselves “bad moms” for small, unintentional mistakes. But it doesn’t really go over well around here when I talk about my pet peeves, I find, so I kept not writing and posting it—because another of my pet peeves is getting scolded by a commenter for not being exactly how they imagined me.

But then I got a review assignment for a post about how even good moms make mistakes, and after Paul fell asleep I got up and finally wrote the post I’d wanted to write. So here it is, my pet peeve post [link removed because blog is gone now], and if you tend to get all prickly when I talk about things that bug me, you don’t have to follow the link at all! Everyone wins.

Also there’s the fifth of twelve Kellogg’s posts, through September 13th, this time about favorite things you did this summer. And if those things involve breakfast, then Kellogg’s should have hired you instead of me.

Some of you are going to think I’m a PRIME IDIENT, but I am not worried, because I am comforted by the belief that others of you will be in the SAME BOAT: I have only JUST REALIZED, in my mid-thirties, that when people give me homemade jam THEY WOULD LIKE THE EMPTY JAR BACK. It never occurred to me! Not once!

It’s not that I’m inconsiderate, or a selfish jar-hoarder, or that I don’t care about the other person’s jar situation. No! Not at all! It’s that when I buy jam at the store I recycle the jar, I don’t bring it back to the store. The jar is TRASH to GET RID OF. It is a CONTAINER. This is the template for all jam situations.

Now that I have made jam myself, I see things anew. The jars! They need to go BACK to the person who made the jam! So that the person can put more jam in! Because the cost of the jars is one of the reasons jam-making barely makes sense, but the REUSABILITY of the jars is why in the long run it DOES make sense. BUT ONLY IF YOU HAVE THE JARS! The jar is part of the process! It must not be disposed of!

Fortunately my friends and family are not of the jam-making persuasion, so I don’t have to look back wincingly over a long history of carelessly-tossed-out jars from homemade jam. But still! I quake! Because I WOULD HAVE carelessly tossed out the jar, if someone had given me jam! Not because I didn’t care, but because a non-jam-maker wouldn’t KNOW! How could they?