It Turns Out I’m Night-Blind. Also, I Can’t Run. Also, My Face Hurts.

When I was a child, I never liked the game “ghosts in the graveyard.” For those who don’t know, the game is played like this:

The game is played outdoors at nighttime. One person is the ghost and hides while the rest of the group stays on home base and counts "one o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock, rock...'till you got to midnight (after every 3rd number say "rock" in remembrance of the ancient and revered minstrel Bill Haley ). Then the players go search for the ghost. Whoever finds the ghost yells "ghost in the graveyard" and all the seekers run like hell back to home base while the ghost tries to tag them. Whoever is tagged is the next ghost. If the ghost doesn’t tag any one, they remain the ghost for the next round.

This was how the game was played if you were me:

When I was the ghost, I would hide in the most well-lit area I could find because I could never find a place to hide in a truly dark area (it’s hard to find a hiding place when you can’t see.) Also, was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to see if evil spiders were crawling all over me.

Spiders are evil.

Inevitably I would be found, and then I’d run ineffectively after everyone, whom I could not really see in the dark. I’d never tag any one, so I always had to be the ghost until one of the other kids gave up and let me tag them on purpose. Then I’d be a seeker.

As a seeker, I never found the ghost. It was too dark. Then I could never see the ghost chasing me. It was too dark. Ultimately, I’d be tagged, and then I had to be the stupid ghost again.

It turns out I’m night-blind. Also, I run like a pansy.

My night-blindness caused Husband and I to have the constant “light fight.” It always goes like this:

Husband: Why are all these lights on?

Me: I like a well-lit home.

Husband: You have lights on in rooms you’re not even using! You’re wasting money!

Me: We’re talking about pennies a month. Who cares?

Husband: It all adds up!

Me: AAARRRGGGHH!!!

Husband: WHARRRGARBBLE!!!

The problem was solved one day when Husband had the idea to study how terrible my vision actually was in the dark. We went to the darkest area of the house. He stood in front of me with his hand out, and brought it incrementally closer to my face. When I could finally see his hand, I was supposed to say stop.

He ended up smacking me in the face.

We repeated the experiment in various areas of the house with various degrees of lighting. By the end of the experiment, he exclaimed “So THIS is what it’s like! I never knew....”

Thus the great “light-fight” was ended. I get to have as many lights on at night as I want.

Except when we’re sleeping, where when I have to get up to comfort one of the kids I end up running into the bedpost and giving myself a bloody lip.

It’s a win-lose situation.

Phoning Failure

My children are waging war, to ensure I never, ever finish a single phone call.

I think they're winning.

They will be playing quietly by themselves. They will be neither poopy nor wet. They will both recently have been fed. They do not need naps. There is nothing they could possibly need from me for the next five minutes.

Then I will have the audacity to try to make a phone call. The call will go something like this:

Me: Hello, I need to make an appointment to...

Toddler: Mommy? What’s that? What are you doing?

Me (to toddler): Shhhh... I’m trying to make a phone call.

Me (to receptionist): Sorry about that, I need to make an appointment to see Dr. ...

Toddler: Let’s play hide-and-seek! I want to play hide-and-seek!

Me (to toddler): Not right now...

Me (to receptionist): No, not you... IneedtomakeanappointmenttoseeDr.Gillman

Receptionist: What is your name?

Me: Angela

Receptionist: How do you spell that?


Me: A-N-G....

Toddler: LET’S PLAY HIDE AND SEEK!!!!

Receptionist: A-N-C?

Me: No, A-N-G...

Baby: Nu nu?

Receptionist: A-N-G

Me: Yes. A-N-G-E...

Baby: NU NU NU!

Toddler: MOMMY????

Baby: WHAAAAA!!!

Receptionist: Uhhh...A-N-G-E?

Me: Sorry! Yes, A-

Baby: WHAAAAAAAAAAA!!!

Toddler: BABY CRYING!!! BABY CRYING!!!

Me: Look, can I call you back later?

I haven’t been able to make a complete phone call in months.

The other day I received a phone call from one of those robotic telemarketers, the kind where the phone call starts off with about 30 seconds of silence. Before I could even hang up, the torrent began:

Toddler: Mama? MAMA? MAMA MAMA MAMA MAMA?

Baby: Blurg? BLURG? BLURG BLURG BLURG BLURG?

Toddler: Can I have a snack? I want a snack?

Me: Just a minute...

Toddler: Can I have a snack??? I want square crackers!

I hand her some Ritz crackers.

Toddler: No, SQUARE crackers!!

Baby: BLUUUURRRRRRGGGGG!

The robotic telemarketer hung up on me.

Even the robots know not to bother.

The Post About Religion Because I'm To Befuddled To Think Of A Catchier Title

I promise to return to my usual snark soon, but this post, by Tania of Chicky Chicky Baby, really got me thinking.

At the risk of alienating my tens of readers, I’m tackling the question: what is faith?

I was raised Christian Science, but I never really believed. I was down with the whole God thing, but as a child I just couldn’t grasp the interrelationship between the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and by the time I was old enough to understand I no longer cared.

College only increased my cynicism. Though I realize not every one thinks this, what about those who believe their God only allows believers into Heaven? There plenty of non-believers who were good, kind, wonderful people. Why should they be excluded from their loved ones in the afterlife? On another note, why do we need any religion to explain natural phenomena? Also, if you only believe some precepts of your religion, but not others, is that good enough? Or is it hypocritical?

In the end, I determined to be “faithless.” I had no reason to believe there wasn’t some higher power, but I felt there just wasn’t any way I could commit to believing in one to the exclusion of others. I thought they were all good, because in the end they all taught the same basic lessons; love thy neighbor, help those less fortunate, do not judge, be truthful, etc.

Yet in a way that makes me feel less... complete. People of faith (any faith) seem so peaceful. As if, like when they were a child, they have complete trust that they will be taken care of; but there is nothing childish about believing.

So I posit the question to those of faith (any faith): How did you know? What lead you to be able to put your faith in one religion to the exclusion of others? Or, if you believe simply in the goodness of mankind, or if you believe nothing at all, how does such a believe give you satisfaction?

Because I could really use some of that peace right now.

Follow Up:

I want to thank every one who contacted me about this post. I feel some explanation is needed.

Right now I’m experiencing a depressive period. Without medication, this would be very bad. I wouldn’t be able to recognize I was depressed, but neither would I be able to recognize my inherent value as a human being. I’d withdraw into my own mind, where I’d beat myself up until there was no hope left.

Because I am being treated for this illness, I’m able to recognize I’m depressed, which goes a long way towards being able to address the underlying problem of false beliefs.

But when I go through a depressive period, I often wish there was something more, something other than medication to help me cope. Something like faith.

For six years now I have claimed Unitarian Universalism as my church of choice. And for six years it was a true spiritual home. It allowed me to explore the goodness of all religions without forcing me to adopt a creed when I was clearly not ready to do so.

At this point in my life, though, I’m ready for... something else. I will continue to think critically about my personal beliefs, and I am keeping my ears and heart open to any answers that may come my way.

Commercially Cursed

My kids watch TV. Lots of TV. Hell, one of Baby's first words was "Dora."

Once, when Toddler was a baby, I made the mistake of watching The Patriot while she was eating lunch. Every time a soldier was shot she said, “Uh-oh.” At the final dramatic battle, all we could hear was, “Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh.”

Uh-oh.

So now when my children are awake, they primarily watch children's programming. In particular, they watch NickJr., Disney Channel, and PBS because those programs do not air commercials.

I dislike all commercials, but I particularly dislike commercials geared towards kids. At the risk of sounding like an old fart, kids don’t know what’s good for them.

For example, when grocery shopping we try to choose healthy snacks for Toddler. She barely knew chips existed, because we rarely went down that aisle. Yet one glimpse of Chester Cheetah, and she now has a Cheetos tantrum at the supermarket even though she has never eaten Cheetos.

So why, oh why, does her new Caillou DVD, a program only aired in America on PBS, contain a commercial for Chuck-E-Cheese that we cannot skip through to get to the main menu?

It’s bad enough we have to hear that ear-grating song.

Hell, Thy Name Is IKEA

We moved. We’re poor. Some of the furniture we’ve used since college finally fell apart. A trip to IKEA was in order.

I needed to bring my mother with me. When she decorates a room, it looks like this:

Everything coordinates. How odd...

When I decorate a room it looks like this:

Oh good! The carpet, sofa, AND coffee table match the plant! But why is that poor, disturbing
woman reading a book to a doll?

Problem is, no one else could watch after my kids, which meant they had to come with. Packing up the car for any extended journey with Toddler and Baby is like stocking up on supplies for a journey on the Oregon Trail. Who knows how long it might take, or what perils you may encounter? I hope I don’t have to shoot a buffalo; I’d only be able to carry back 200 pounds of meat.

So the four of us piled into the Conestoga wagon minivan, and headed into Schaumberg, IL where we drove in 38 circles and across 4 dimensions before finding the IKEA. Toddler lost a shoe in the minivan. I still don’t know where it is.

Then came the IKEA itself. I’ve been to several IKEA stores across the country, so I’m no stranger to the unique IKEA shopping experience.

They give you a little piece of note paper and a golf pencil to mark the aisles and bins where you can find your furniture. This would be useful if you were playing golf. I am not playing golf; I’m shopping. I brought my own green notebook and carefully wrote down all the details of everything I wanted in MY GIANT HANDWRITING.

I finally found my way through the maze of display rooms. We got nearly all the way to the first floor where they kept the flat boxes of furniture when I realized, I lost the green notebook.

Crap.

My children were threatening atomic warfare. Also, they needed naps. So my mother took them to the minivan, and I started afresh. It was kind of like that joke about Pete and Repeat except instead of falling out of a boat I was falling into one of the giant bins, which may or may not have been a portal to the seventh layer of Hell.

Once again, I found myself on the ground floor staring at a mile-long expanse of shelves. After realizing I could not lift an 80 pound box by myself, I hunted down the only employee on the floor, a very helpful man named Carlos. He helped me lift my first box onto the flat cart, and then quickly retreated.

I soon realized why. By the time I found the next aisle where my next box was located, and found Carlos again, he was faced by a line of approximately 18 patrons clamoring for his strong back.

After he helped me again, he started to leave. WAIT! COME BACK CARLOS! DON’T LEAVE ME!

He left.

Eventually, I had everything I needed and went to check out. After checking out, I was told that there were three loading docks located this way:


There were many doors labeled “Exit.” There were zero doors labeled “Loading Dock.” I took my chances, and went through an exit. It turns out the exits are also the loading docks.

Just as before, I had to track down one employee several times before getting everything in the minivan. But in the end it was worth it. Because instead of looking like this:

Note: This photo is only representative of my living room. All my photos are of
my kids, not my living room.

My living room will look something like this:

It’s amazing how far you can get with an allen wrench and some Swedish design.

Dipping My Toes Into The Blogging Pool

I read many, many a blog.

Unfortunately for all those wonderful bloggers, I’ve lurked for about a billion years.

Actually, my instinctual tendency in life is to lurk. I’m pretty sure my protozoa in the primordial slime of life’s beginning was that awkward protozoa at parties, hanging out in the corner of the room by the food.

Also, I have the tendency to stare straight ahead of me while off in my own thoughts, which causes people to think I’m staring at them when actually I’m probably contemplating whether eating that fourth waffle was really a good idea.

I’m not even good at small talk. It usually goes something like this:

Me: So, uhhh, do you like music?

Stranger: Yeah, especially classic rock.

Me: Yeah. *silence for the next 3 minutes... stranger finally gives up and walks away.*

Or alternatively:

Stranger: Hey, I love this song! Did you know this band started off as a garage band? Yeah, just a few guys hanging out in their garage.

Me: Errr....uh....pancake!

Stranger: ????

See, my small talk doesn’t even make sense.

So it only came natural for me to lurk on blogs. To love all the wonderful writing and wonderful people out there that I’d otherwise never meet, but never letting them meet me.

Shortly before entering the blogging world myself, I started to delurk. It was part of my decision to stop hiding and put myself out there. And it was great! All of a sudden I was part of the conversation, instead of just listening to it.

I feel like I’m rejoining society. The funny thing is, I didn’t even know I had left.

Hello, Wisconsin

I was all set to write some snarky post about approximately 57 things that went wrong during our move. But that would be too depressing. Even for me.

Instead, I offer a pictorial essay exemplifying a typical Saturday in my home state.

Note: I am no photographer. If I were, my photos would look like this. Instead, they look like this:



Also, after this I promise to lay off the posts gushing about how great it is to live in Wisconsin. I’m just glad to be back, ya’ll.

That being said....

Husband, Toddler, Baby and I, joined my college roommate Sarah at “Dogtober Fest” at the Capital Brewery. Dogs socialized with other dogs, dog owners met other dog owners, and beer enthusiasts caroused with other beer enthusiasts, dogs, and dog owners. All proceeds from the event went to the Dane County Humane Society.

Only in Wisconsin can you:

Celebrate a humane society fundraiser in a beer garden starting at 11:00 on a Saturday...

... With live music,




... And hand crafted beers,




... And small dogs,



... And big dogs,


... And dogs in costume.


As you can see, the excitement was too much to handle.

Hello, Wisconsin. It’s good to see you again.