Inappropriate Laughter and Insincere Apologies

Dear Mister:

I am really sorry about that time I slammed your head in the door.

I KNOW you saw me go out to the garage to visit the beer fridge. And we both know that the pantry door and the door leading into the house from the garage are on a collision course. For this we can thank a lazy architect. But still, when you saw me go to fetch my cerveza, you chose this time to open the pantry door to get, oh, I don't know, chips, I'm guessing. Whatever it was, it was clearly eluding you, because you crouched down and stuck your head into the pantry, right about the time I returned with a cold one in hand. I opened the door, simultaneously felt and heard a thud, followed by a string of profanities. Once both doors were closed, there you were, rubbing your jaw and glaring at me.

This is the part where I start laughing, because I picture your jaw jangling from side to side, like a cartoon character. I know I should not laugh- insult to injury and what not. I should have also probably refrained from participating in the following exchange:

ME (laughing): You KNEW I was going out to the garage to get a beer. Why did you open the pantry and stick your face in it?

HIM (not a yell but close): Why do you have to throw the door open to come back in the house?

Well, he should know this. We've been married for 10 years and anyone who's lived with me for that long should know I do things with gusto. My steps are a 3-foot wide stride, I take 10 minutes to tell something that should take about 30 seconds (back story! you need the back story!) and I fling open doors.

Really, I am sorry about that incident. Seriously, ignore my smile. It's just that even just to say, "I'm sorry I slammed your head in the door," makes me laugh, let alone picturing your ears squished between the flour and the over-the-door spice rack.

Oh, and I also owe my son a fake apology. I am SO sorry that I started laughing during story time last night.

For whatever reason, it irritates my six year-old profoundly when I laugh. Also, when I sing or dance. Perhaps he has a latent Pentecostal streak?

Like a lot of ostensibly lighthearted activities, story time is an activity he takes very seriously. And his recent declaration that we should read "only learning books" has only added to the museum-like atmosphere of the evening reading ritual. Some of the "Eye Wonder" or "Ask Me" type books are pretty damn dry, frankly. But last night's description of ancient Roman culture was booby-trapped with funny. Because the editors of this book included a section on the bath house. I know I'm childish and perhaps slightly perverted, and that bath houses were indeed an important part of daily life in the Roman Empire. I also know not everyone who taps their feet in a men's room stall is soliciting sex, and not all nurses are naughty, etc., etc. But when I think bath house, I think of hedonism. And I'm not the only one, evidently, because Daddy's snickering, too. The book went on to describe these bath houses as "a place where people gathered to meet new people, socialize, and to chat with friends." "Wow, really?" smirks my husband. "That sounds sort of like the Internet."

I can really get incredibly tickled (read: slaphappy) or incredibly irritable in the final push to the finish line that is bedtime. And on this particular night it was the former. And with my own personal party pooper demanding that I stop laughing, now, it was several minutes before I could regain my composure, if you call call my normal demeanor "composed." Seriously, kid, I am sooooo sorry for the comic relief.

I am, really.

You can click here for a post from the olden days about my inappropriate laughter involving my dog humping another dog.

I've got one thing to say ... ok, two, make that three things

Happy Birthday, Babe

My husband's birthday was a couple of weeks ago. We had a lunch-date, the kids made him tiny cards, and then after dinner, we pigged out on the ugliest homemade carrot cake you ever saw. My rejected gift of boots was repackaged for UPS to bring right back to Piperlime by breakfast the next morning. (It's the thought that counts, right?)

On the subject of gift-giving, even though Hubby hated the boots, they were actually a good gift idea as he's been looking for a pair. He reminded me last night that I'm the world's worst gift receiver. I return everything he gives me, usually after admonishing him for spending so much or complaining that the gift is the wrong size/color/quantity. Why can't I just relax and enjoy his generosity?

All in all, I think the birthday was a successful day. Of course you'll have to ask him, though.

~ ~ ~
Not criminal, but annoying

So I know this isn't much of a logical segue, but I've been thinking about the health care debate. Who hasn't?

My family has been pretty fortunate. We have good health insurance, sponsored by my employer. Of course we've also been healthy so haven't had to put it to any major coverage tests.

I just remembered this really annoying episode, though:

When she was 18 months old, my daughter was prescribed with albuterol. It comes in an inhaler -- you know, like an asthma inhaler. Now, 18-month-old children are not physically capable of using those puffers, so there's an attachment thingy called an aero-chamber that you must use with small children so that they can inhale a puff of the medicine. Without the chamber, they can't take the albuterol.

The inhaler was covered ... the chamber was not. They would pay for the medicine, but not for her to take it. Figure that one out.

~ ~ ~
Words to your mother

And my third, and final, random thought of the day:

One of the best things about living in the information age is the preponderance of made-up words. Seriously, it's as though half of our language didn't even exist a decade ago.

People have always had nicknames, or high school kids have used some terms to amplify inside jokes. Lucy, me and the rest of our crew used the phrase "pee cow" to describe something extraordinarily hilarious. And "pee cow" was a derivative of a now-forgotten but more difficult term that sounded vaguely French. In any case, it made perfect sense to us. But we were high school kids. Grownups didn't do that.

But they do now.

We live at a time in which it's perfectly de rigeur to invent language. Consider the existence of urbandictionary.com (thanks for enlightening me, Lucy).

I'm never quite certain whether I'm feeling crunk or janky. I often resort to a more outdated term, such as, fine or agitated. A coworker used the term "hornery," to describe her child's behavior, which, after I looked it up, I don't think she meant.

Do you remember Sniglets? It was a segment on the original news spoof show, Not Necessarily the News, which appeared on HBO (of course). You know, I think that show could totally make a comeback.

What's on your mind today?

R is for rockin'! ... Right?

You already know that you can find everything on the Internet. Everything.

And to prove it, one site, It's Just Coffee, has a fun little thing-a-ma-doobie that gives a letter rating to blogs, Web sites and other virtual locales using a sort of Motion Picture Association-style. In case you were wondering about Four Jugs' rating, behold:

Seems as though we've dropped the f-bomb, the a-bomb (hey, we could have been talking about donkeys), sex, drinking, death and murder (really? I missed that day) too many times to garner a PG rating.

But maybe that's why some of you keep coming back.

~ ~ ~

In other news, Lucy and I are having lunch together today. We fully expect to be full of ourselves, I mean full of writing inspiration after gorging on Thai food. (There, Lucy, I chose.)

Meanwhile, if you've got any ideas for us, feel free to comment below. We'll give you full credit. I promise.

Peace out.

~ Jane

P.S. Thanks to MaryMac at the R-rated Pajamas and Coffee for pointing out the rating system in her Tweet this morning.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Wednesday

Disclaimer #1:
I do not fancy myself Wallace Stevens. I don't even fancy myself a poet. Far from it. But I am going to borrow the format of Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, because I wanted to write a post about perspective.

Disclaimer #2: And again I say, I wanted to write a post about perspective.

Here’s a pitiful tale: I had to put my 13 year-old cat to sleep last year about a month before I delivered Bam-Bam. If you looked in the dictionary under “sad sack of shit” you’d see me, sixty pounds heavier, hauling a cat carrier into the vet to say goodbye to Oliver forever. It was awful. I cried so hard I worried about early labor and the effects of stress on my unborn son. So, that’s really sad, right? But, okay, was it as awful as, say, an earthquake or a bus wreck or a fire at an orphanage?Well, in my opinion, that’s the wrong question. I’m always a little bothered by people who minimize their own heartaches because they pale in comparison to someone else’s.

Then again, sometimes, like this week, when I’m griping and sniping about things that are so fleeting, I hear about someone else’s life, and I feel like the end of It’s a Wonderful Life AND A Christmas Carol.

Did you know there was a 1950's game show called "Queen for a Day," featuring an applause meter measuring the woman who described the saddest set of her life's circumstances? The winner won all sorts of prizes- vacations, dishes, appliances- all while draped in a velvet robe and crown. That's just messed up.

So this post is not about the comparisons, or legitimizing the things that trouble us, or stacking them against the troubles of another. It’s just a post about perspective, because I needed some.


Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Wednesday

I
How did we all four oversleep by an HOUR? Even the little rooster in his crib? Carbon monoxide detector, I hope you’re working better than the worthless alarm clock.

II
I think I just sneezed seventeen times in four minutes.
We had enough of sick. Nine days of sick. I just kicked a sinus infection and got my children over the flu. I don’t have time for a fucking allergy attack.
If snotty Kleenxes were currency, I’d buy myself a new head.

III
How many times can I tell you to get your clothes on? Are you listening? Look at me. Sit down. Eat your breakfast.
Lucky Charms? Sure. I mean, why the hell not?
Six, get your shoes on. Get your shoes on. Get your shoes on. Where are my keys? Get your shoes on.

IV
Three minute shower.
I have bags under my eyes, a Little Dipper of acne taking up the left side of my face, and two pairs of pants that fit, sort of.
I’ll be lucky to be only 10 minutes late to work. With wet hair. Who am I kidding? My schedule is a joke.

V
Sitting at a staff meeting. Nurse S is telling us about a patient. Pregnant. Pregnant mother with small children at home. Diagnosed with breast cancer. Surgery and chemo. During a pregnancy. Good God have mercy. Also, tells us of a friend who broke both elbows. Bike accident. Dumb luck.

VI
Suddenly I love my body. My healthy, whole body that can walk across the room, get a glass of water, drive to work, and blow my nose heartily, because of the beautiful fact that my elbows bend.
I’m going to laugh about my rotten morning, starting now. It’s already gone and none of it matters.

VII
Babysitter texts me that my sweet baby just stood alone and clapped his hands for half a minute.

I want to be there. I barely had time to tell him goodbye as I rushed out the door.

I got a raise. A teensy raise, but a raise. Being at my office is giving me whiplash today.

What time is it?

VIII
There are two moments in my day that make my heart fizz.
When I turn off the engine and walk around to the rear car door, I look in the window and see my baby’s beautiful, loved, mashed potato face. And he smiles at me, every time.
Six runs across the gymnasium when I get there to pick him up. He does his cute sideways, embarrassed smile. He’s going to be too cool for me soon- every sprint in my direction is cherished.

IX

I love Indian Summer. I love watching Six on his Razor looking like a little skater flamingo. I love smelling other people's fireplaces. I love it when after school is a sweet blur and not a futile attempt.

X
We have just enough salsa verde
Just enough chicken from last night’s rotisserie,
Beans, broth, warm, spicy soup. Soup is sublime.

XI
My aunt tells us that my grandfather’s life is slowly coming to a close.
He’s ninety-two. He’s comfortable. He’s beloved. I don't want him to go.
In August, he told us a story about the time he saw the Hindenburg. He wasn’t supposed to ride his bike to the airport, so he couldn’t tell his mother he saw it.

XII
Lots of blogs today posted about a little girl named Maddie.
I’ve seen that beautiful smile on buttons before, but never read the whole story until tonight.
I read this mother’s words for her daughter. Intimate, heartbreaking words.

XIII
My family is home tonight. I love to watch my husband put the baby in his pajamas.
My children were so sick last week. They got better. We are all better.
They got better, and now they’re well. Their healthy little bodies are all over this house now. When you walk in my front door, you will see ample evidence that two healthy, strong little boys live here, with us, their daddy and their lucky, lucky mother.

Birth of a Blog: A Fractured Fairy Tale

Once Upon A Time,

There was no Internet.

If people wanted to find a pizza delivery restaurant, they looked up the name of the business in a large collection of yellow pages called a "phone book." If they wanted to find a friend, they went to a meeting place, such as a bar, a library or a roller skating rink. And when they used the telephone, it was to make "phone calls," during which time they would speak (with their mouths, not their thumbs) to actual people in real time, sometimes for hours on end, or at least until their mothers angrily demanded for them to "hang up that goddamn phone right now young lady it's a school night!" Before ripping the cord (cord?) from the wall jack.

But that was a long, long time ago.

Since that cold, dark, information void, there have been many advances that have made our lives better and afforded us countless opportunities to connect with other humans (or spambots) and answer life's questions such as "what do scabies look like?"

Now, we can self-diagnose mystery ailments and update our Facebook status in Swedish, if we so choose -- all with the click of a button. Jane Lively är matlagning Tilapia till middag. Ha, Swedish!

But, arguably, the most significant contribution of the Internet, is the advent of the Web Log, colloquially known as the "blog." Sure, people formerly kept diaries and journals, in which they'd painstakingly chronicle their thoughts and experiences, and then sequester these words in small books bound together with tiny locks and keys. But the blog enabled people to share these inner most feelings with, well, everyone.

Fast-forward from the time Al Gore blessed us with the Digital Wonderment to May 2009: The month when Lucy and I started FourJugs.

You see, we've been pals since 1984-ish. We grew up together. We went to college together. We were bridesmaids in each other's weddings and had our first babies within weeks of one another. In what seemed like just a few short years, we went from talking daily, sharing clothes and hanging out doing absolutely nothing for hours on end to going 48 entire hours (gasp!) without returning each other's phone calls.

Like every body else, we had gotten into the Facebook scene. And it was fun.

But, soon, I grew weary of learning about Lucy's life through her status updates. She had a whole cadre of "friends" I had never even heard of. Sure, the banter was clever and witty, but something was missing. I felt that all this devotion to social networking was hampering our actual socializing. We'd not speak for days, but we'd each have 17 status updates in between actual conversations.

And then it came to me. My mind was illuminated like the fabled blue light during the K-Mart Blue Light Specials of yore: We.Should.Start.A.Blog! (Preceding phrase is meant to be sung in a falsetto voice.)

The objective was twofold: Combine our creative energies and spend more time together in doing so. We'd hone our voices in a collaborative effort just for us. Maybe it would get us off our asses on starting the book we've been threatening to write for the past 20 years.

So, FourJugs was born. You can read about how we got our logo, see some alternate designs that readers voted for and be there with us when we unveiled the winner. And what about the name? Well, that simply sprang forth from my mouth like it had been waiting for the right purpose. Once our laughter died down and we realized that neither of us had actually wet our pants, we checked the availability of the name fourjugs.blogspot.com and that confirmed our choice. It was destiny.

To date, the existence of FourJ has been living up to its promise, for the most part. And it's still a ton of fun six months later, which is the equivalent of 76 months in Internet years. (Not unlike dog years.) The collaboration has been fulfilling. The girlfriend time has been well spent, albeit in less quantity than initially planned. And not many fights, either. Things would be even better if we could figure out how to get a better blog template loaded.

It has been fun being part of The Community and finding out that there's a funny, acerbic, sometimes dark, sometimes light, snarky, sarcastic world of other people whom I enjoy immensely. And the best part, is that nobody threatens to rip my phone out of the wall any longer -- but that could be because I don't have one anymore.

So what's next? What does the future hold? That's not how fairy tales roll! You know there's only one possible ending, and it goes like this:

And they lived happily ever after ...

... or at least until the next big Internet thing.

~ ~ ~