Fiddledeedee

When I first started blogging, nearly two years ago, I posted once a week. And I let all 3 of my readers know that by announcing it in my right sidebar. At that time, I only had one sidebar. It went something like, “I post once a week, usually on Monday, blah, blah, blah.”

I mean, how much can one write about poop, boogers, vomit, and menstrual cramps?

Well, quite a bit, actually. If you were to peruse my archives.

And then, after about a week, I noticed that my palms would start to sweat. And then I implemented my two posts a week policy. Updating my sidebar, of course.

Comments began appearing. From people other than my family saying, “QUIT TALKING ABOUT ME!” That just fueled my little writing fire.

Before I knew it, I was posting five days a week. And had acquired a rather unnatural tic. Again, updating my sidebar, to keep my reading audience of 4 well informed.

Now I post at least 6 days a week. I try to take Sunday off, but I’m a full blown blogging addict, so it’s hard not to keep pressing “publish.” Even if the content is both embarrassing and inappropriate.

On Tuesday, I noticed that my sitemeter was at 199,250. I did some quick math in my head calculator and surmised that #200,000 would come occur sometime Wednesday.

And the really weird loser part of me wanted to watch it happen. But I missed it, since it turned to 200,000 some time while I was sleeping.

So, thank you #200,000. I would have thrown a party, if I had been conscious.

And usually, just prior to menses, I get all emotional. My husband has another word for it, but this is a family friendly blog and all.

Anyhoo, when I’m “emotional”, I get rather reflective. And I want to thank you all for stopping by 200,000 and something times. And for taking the time to comment. You brighten my day and often leave me giggling. And thank you for all your encouragement.

I just don’t tell you all that enough.

And listen, it’s totally okay if you lurk. I’ve had several people in this last week stop in and say “hello” after lurking for many months. I’m just glad you’re there.

But, if I start posting, say twice a day, my family may have me committed to a Blogoholics Anonymous type recovery program.

Which actually may be a nice change of pace.

So, I can finally write that book.

The only time I’ve been diligent about taking my vitamins has been when I’ve been pregnant. Or when my vitamins are in the shape of 60’s cartoon characters.

A few weeks ago, I turned on my kitchen TV and Oprah was on with Dr. Oz. I like Dr. Oz. More than I did Dr. Phil. Way more. I believe that he does his homework and really knows what he’s talking about. And cares about his patients.

Besides. He wears scrubs on national TV. Not expensive Armani suits. I like that.

Anyhoo. The show was dedicated to holding onto your health for as long as possible. And since I have entire body parts falling off of me, I perked up my ears. And when he started talking about vitamins, I got out my pencil and started writing.

I’ve been avoiding vitamins simply because I don’t know what I’m doing. I had no idea what I needed. I know I needed something. My gynecologist tells me that every time I go in for the annual scraping. Just didn’t know what.

I took copious notes, and here’s what I came up with:

As a currently menstruating woman who is over 40, (and I’m not bitter, but praying for menopause) I need the following vitamins:

•Baby Aspirin – 162 mg. = 2 per day (by the way, they are no longer packaged as “Baby Aspirin” anymore, but rather, a low dosage aspirin.

•Vitamin D – 1000 mg.

•Multivitamin (with iron) and 5000 units of Vitamin A (cut in half, taking half in the morning, and half at night.)

•Calcium – 600 mg. (with Magnesium 200 mg.) to avoid getting “stopped up.”

•DHA/Omega 3 – 600 mg.

Here’s a tip that Dr. Oz didn’t give. Don’t take your 3 hungry children to the store when you need to linger over all the vitamin labels. And for the love of all that is good, don’t forget your reading glasses.

Go here for more vitamin information at Oprah.com.

And go here to Rocks In My Dryer for more Works For Me Wednesday tips!

It began innocently enough. I just wanted the Sunday paper. For the coupons. I envisioned myself hopping into the car, armed only with my purse, and driving alone to our local Walgreens. I timed myself in my mind, and it would only take me 15 minutes, start to finish.

But then, the children caught wind of my plan. “ME TOO, ME TOO.” As if something wildly exciting would be happening at Walgreens on a Sunday, and they couldn’t bear to miss it.  And really, why would Mommy want to EVER go anywhere by herself. Where’s the sport in that?

Resignedly, I packed my three children into the van. And off we went in search of a Sunday paper. When we arrived at Walgreens, I had trouble finding a parking space. Unusual, indeed. I put Jensen in a stroller, and grabbed a cart and gave Cailey strict instructions not to mow down any elderly patrons. A cart was a last minute thought, because I reasoned that since I was there, I would search for the two elusive items that I had rain checks for. Toilet bowl cleaner. And dryer balls.

Because my life is just exciting like that.

The store was indeed packed. Why? I don’t know, because there wasn’t a single Sunday paper. I pressed on, hoping to find the cleaner and the balls. People were lined up waiting to check out, yet somehow, behind the throngs of patrons, Jensen spotted a hotwheels display.

That’s when the screaming began. He’s really been much better about this, but, last Sunday, he pulled out all the stops, just so I would appreciate the calm and quiet Jensen all the more. All heads turned in our direction. Quickly I steered him down an aisle away from the staring eyes. The screaming intensified.

They were out of the toilet bowl cleaner as well. At about this time, a flustered Cailey began bumping the cart into the back of both Mommy and an increasingly angry older sister. And the bickering began.

Have you ever noticed how well sound travels in Walgreens?

“FORGET IT!” I abandoned the cart and quickly removed my noisy children from the store.

“But Mom, what about looking at the crutches?” Because, when you’re 8 years old, you just really never know when you’ll be in need of a pair.

“We’ll try another Walgreens,” I replied, really wanting those coupons.

Lucky for me, we have a Walgreens on nearly every corner here in Armpit, Florida. Along with furniture stores and ammo shops. It’s a great place to live if you need to fill a lot of prescriptions, while sitting in your Ethan Allen barcalounger, loading your semiautomatic.

At Walgreens stop #2, I wisely stuffed Jensen into the miniature cart provided by the store. Leaving the stroller behind in the van. My ankles were still bruised from Cailey’s driving ability in Walgreens #1. And this was a wise choice, because it put me in direct proximity to Jensen should he decide to kick, and/or hit me with his Blues Clues blanket.

This Walgreens wasn’t as popular. I soon found out why. They did have my beloved Sunday paper at the entrance. Which is the place Jensen picked up where he left off with All The Screaming. As though someone were torturing him. I received a very judgmental sneer from a rather dour looking cashier. Her eyes followed me as I quickly turned down aisle #4. No wonder no one comes here, I thought to myself, looking over my shoulder.

Emme, in an effort to calm her baby brother and thusly stopping the embarrassment, retrieved a car from the toy aisle so that he could admire it. He attempted to rip the car from the box, when I noticed the TEN DOLLAR price tag. I took it from him, and tried to talk him into holding the .79 cent hotwheels car, in vain.

Because I would never dream of rewarding bad behavior just for a few shopping moments with peace and quiet.

Oh no, not me.

Since this was evidently an unpopular Walgreens, they were well stocked, and also had my raincheck items. Lightening fast, I threw them into the cart while dodging Jensen’s kicks and air slaps. The screaming had reached the pitch that only mad dogs should hear.

We quickly headed toward the disgruntled cashier, who still held me in contempt of motherhood. I apologized to her out loud for all the screaming, as we approached. Her eyes narrowed even more, and she let out a “hmmmpphhhh”, shaking her head in disgust. At this point, Jensen was screaming, Emme was trying to calm him with, “JENSEN, NO! JUST BE QUIET, THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING. BE QUIET. BE QUIET.” And Cailey began discussing the merits of buying the Hostess Cupcakes on display at the register. Meanwhile, I was trying to explain to Ms. I-Hate-My-Job that I had rain checks for the items I was purchasing.

Because, despite chaos all around me, I can have a conversation, balance my checkbook, and mentally recite the Preamble to the Constitution.

It comes from practice. Lots and lots of practice.

Evidently, the cashier does not possess the same gift. Because she did not understand me. And became even more agitated when she had to re-ring my 3 items. And she was not one to keep her feelings to herself.

At long last, I paid for the items and was looking forward to a hasty retreat. She mumbled in a monotone voice, “Have a nice day.”

Trying to keep things light, I chirped, “Well, it can only get better from here!” I flashed my most winningest smile. She shot me a look that should have vaporized me.

Being the good Godly Christian woman that I am, I looked at her and said, “You might try a smile.” And with that, I turned and headed for the automatic door.

Only to hear, “You forgot your merchandise.”

I halted in my tracks. Dang it and crud. Turning, I went back, picked up my bag, said “thank you,” hung my head in shame, and burned the rubber off the cart wheels getting the heck out of there.

To add salt to the wound, the newspaper didn’t even have any coupons.

“Dear Lord,

Help me to be a light in the world even in the midst of chaos. And please help me not to add to the darkness. And thank you for newspaper home delivery that I will be taking advantage of. Amen.”

The backseat was abuzz with the chatterings of my two divas-in-training. The discussion revolved around the upcoming auditions for the speaking lines and/or musical solos of their Musical Theatre Ministry that our homeschool group offers.

They were listing all the different roles available, and then they mentioned “The Parrot.”

My ears perked up.

“There’s a parrot part?”

“Well, you know that your mother played a parrot in a play once.” They leaned forward straining against their seatbelts. “Really Mom?”

Oh yeah. I went on to describe in limited detail how their mother assumed the identity of a parrot. And performed it, you know, in front of people. To thunderous applause.”

A hundred or so years ago, I was an actress living in Los Angeles. I performed in plays whenever anyone would be insane enough to hire me. I use the term “hire” loosely. Because I think I made at most $1.50 a show plus all the Doritos I could eat.

I loved the theatre most of all because of all the EXCITEMENT. And I grew to enjoy that feeling of extreme nausea that I would experience every single time I was about to go on.

In the early 90’s, I joined a theatre company. Some of my closest friendships were forged from that group. In fact, I even married one of them.

The first show that I was to perform in was “A Christmas Carol.” Fiddledaddy was cast as well. This particular adaptation centered around a band of circus performers who traveled from city to city mounting “A Christmas Carol.” The role I was cast in required me to roller skate, dance, sing (and don’t tell anyone, but for the good of the show, I perfected the lip-sync), and be a parrot.

I was really nervous about the parrot part. I didn’t learn that in Drama 101. As opening approached, I obsessed and whined enough about it that Fiddledaddy (who was just a “friend”) took it upon himself to encourage my inner parrot.

We rehearsed and rehearsed my voice. For hours. Until I was hoarse. And at last, the sound that spewed forth from my deepest innards, was so parrot-like, I should have been honored at the Tonys. And it was really really loud.

Fiddledaddy was so proud of me that he encouraged me to show off my parrot voice late one night in McDonald’s when we were sitting around with two of our closest friends, Keith and Karen.

Well. I was feeling a little cocky, as parrots often do, and I took a deep breath, and right there in a crowded McDonald’s, while sitting on hollow plastic, I let loose with my greatest Parrot rendition of my entire career. It was just building up in me dying to come out. Unfortunately, it was also followed with a round of flatulence, which as you may not know, reverberates and is amplified when sitting on hollow plastic.

I took my rightful place under the McDonald’s booth, and stayed there until everyone at that table swore to me they would never ever tell that story for the rest of our natural lives. Amen. The remainder of the restaurant, I had no control over.

Our friends Keith and Karen (who also ended up getting married) still, 16 years later, delight in torturing me with that story.

I stopped short of the McDonald’s booth when telling my daughters of my humble bird beginnings.

Even so, for a few moments, I was a rock star in their eyes. “Teach it to us Mommy!” And so I did. Even Jensen lets loose with a pretty good Parrot, if I do say so myself.

If you read my post “Life Upon the Wicked Stage”, you might think that I had a little problem with flatulence in front of an audience.

And you would be right.

Call it nerves. A bad diet. A sick need for attention.

Whatever.

If my children should embark on careers in the entertainment industry, I will not only lock them in the house pray for them with great consistency, but I will encourage them to spread their wings and let it fly.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

Last night, I was happily typing away on my computer. From the kitchen, Fiddledaddy nonchalantly says, “If you should ever be driving, and a large toad were to climb up your leg, you could remain calm and not freak out and crash killing yourself and all of our children, right?”

My fingers froze on the keyboard.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, a little while ago when I was getting out of the van, there was a rather large toad, not the cute little tree frogs that you’re obsessed with, but a big warty TOAD, that was by the driver’s door. When I went to shoo him away with my foot, he may have jumped up into the van. And I can’t find him.”

One of two things may happen today, people.

A) You may be reading about me in the news.

B) We may be spending the day at the car dealership, looking for a replacement for the mommy mobile.

Okay, three things.

3) I’m never leaving the house again. You’ll be hearing much more from me.