Tag Archives: genghis kahn

Morning Meditation 10/12/12

Oooo-mmm. Ooo–mmmm. Oooo—mmmm…

Yay. Mike took MJ out to the garage. They’re gonna work on painting toys. He’s such a good dad. Thank God he does crafty stuff with her. My idea of craft is making a dirty sock talk with my hands. Ommmm…

Interesting to learn that “hooray” was a Mongol war cry. Kind of changes things. Guess I should use “huzzah” instead. Pretentious, though. Om. Don’t think of Mongols. Don’t do it. Peace. Peace. Genghis Kahn. No. Peace. Calm and peace, calm and peace. Do not think of things, things, things like Mongols and  — no! — the birthday party. No. Stop. I am thinking of the birthday party. Ommmmm….

Party favors for three-year-olds. Shit. Give them their freedom. I still like the idea. Just an empty bag. With a rock in it, maybe, for the wind. No. The rock doesn’t work. They’ll think it’s a symbol. Of what? Doesn’t matter. They don’t “do” metaphors. But I’m out of other ideas. Everything is made in China. Goodie bags always have the same three cheap-piece-of-plastic things. One: a rubber duck. Two: the little self-inking stamp that gets used once, then it’s dropped on the floor and finally you step on it with bare feet and scream “Fuck!” and your kid thinks you’re psychotic. Three: a kazoo. I don’t think kids can even use a kazoo until they’re four. And then it’s just annoying. Ommmm….

I suck at meditating….I suck at meditating…try harder. Try harder! Ommmmmm! FUCK. I have to go to Michael’s. Get the party favors. And a craft. Why does every party need a craft? When I was young we just played spin the bottle. But we were six. At three we just sat on the ground and stared dully. Didn’t we?

Ommm….that kid’s party last weekend was good. With the two fairies who did face paint. Actually, they were actresses. Pretty. Sisters. Twins. I heard one dad say he wished he could “have some face time with them” in the men’s room. “Every guy’s fantasy,” he said, apologetically, when he noticed I’d overheard. Really? Two 20-somethings in tutus and wings? Ew. But they did a good job. The fairies. All the kids wanted the same thing. Hello Kitty. Creepy. What’s up with her? One of the moms said she’s problematic from a feminist point of view. No mouth. I never noticed. I think she’s problematic from a crap point of view. And her name. So weird. “Hello Kitty.” It’s a salutation. Not a name. The kids just accept it. You can sell them anything as long as it comes on a cute backpack.

Omm…Goddammit. I have to wash the dishes. I have no clothes. The underwear I bought at H&M is going to give me a yeast infection. I’m PMS. We need a new roof. Goodbye, dream of landscaping…

Om. Fuck it. No craft. If I go to Michael’s I’m going to kill myself in a self-generated conflagration of fake flowers, press-on foam letters, and sparkly pumpkin garlands. God damn the place, and all it represents.

Where can I buy lox for forty people?

I’ve got to get my kid dressed.

Scrub Bud

One thing I did manage to remember yesterday when I was at Ikea? Scrub-brushes. Even Genghis Kahn couldn’t stop me from stocking up on them. I’m sure you’re familiar with the type. Rubber? Colorful? A popular point-of-purchase add-on? If you don’t know them they’re great. Good to look at, hardy, cheap. And I love the way they stick to the counter. A suction cup is so often an empty promise, wouldn’t you agree? It hardly ever works the way it says it will. But the ones on these scrub-brushes are an exception. They suck. With a vengeance. I like to clap mine onto the inner side of the sink so it’s jutting into space horizontally. It’s like a happy little flagpole, the bristles its national banner.

The other reason we have to keep these in stock? MJ sleeps with one. Religiously. Oh, she likes to cuddle with all kinds of weird stuff at night; at last count her crib contained a digital clock, five jackets, two sweaters, thirty or so stuffed animals, six blankets, miscellaneous hair clips, and a sheet of stickers. Her scrub-brush, though, is probably her favorite. I have no idea how the tradition started, but it’s been going on for months now. Many is the night that we go in to check on her and find her cuddling beatifically with it, fingers wrapped around the stem, the bristles tickling her chin.

Recently, however, we had a mishap. Her brush — accidentally — got used in the kitchen. Not by me! Or maybe it was. Anyway, there was no chance it would be returning to her bed. A long talk about bacteria ensued. There was quite a scene.

But now she is content again, with a shiny new blue brush for her bed. We’re all set , too, with extras for the sink. All is joy, all is calm. Or all is bizarre. Depends on how you see it. (I suggest the latter.) Just moments ago, in fact, Myra-Jean called me into her bedroom, where I’d recently left her to nap, and uttered words to me I suspect few parents ever hear:

“Mama, I want Easter bunny, I want Wolfie, and I want scrub-brush.”

Having supplied her with all three she dutifully fell asleep. Ah, my eccentric child. May you always have what makes you feel safe at night.

Unless I need it to clean a frying pan.

Genghis Can’t

Genghis Kahn killed between 10 and 60 million people. Now he’s after my to-do list.

I can’t stop listening to this podcast about him. It’s 5 hours long; I’m already on my second go-around. It’s fascinating. Gripping. Horrifying. Awe inspiring. But listening to historical podcasts, especially of the intense variety, is not conducive to doing anything else well. Except for ironing. Which I, of course, have not done — the 10 million shirts awaiting my attention notwithstanding.

I’ve tried multi-tasking. The results have been universally poor. Listening to the podcast has hurt my driving, (“he chopped their what off with a battle axe?” Beep BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP! Screech!!!). It’s been awful for my grocery shopping, (“excuse me, stranger in the nut aisle? Oh, no, I’m fine. It’s just — um — 60,000 virgins just killed themselves to avoid him, see, and — oh. Ahem. Have a nice day too.”) I learned this morning that it’s disasterous at Ikea, where the furniture names sound vaguely Mongol, the meatballs look like little severed heads — I ate twelve, mind you — and the chair displays look like great, heaped up piles of bone. Lastly  — as I said in my previous post — it’s inappropriately distracting while shopping for toddler birthday presents. Three-year-old girls don’t want swords. They want tea sets. Or maybe they don’t. I have no fucking idea, and none of it seems to matter when you think of the scale of destruction the 13th century people went through.

Then there are the things that can’t be done with earbuds in. These are being fully neglected. I need to call my mother, a few old friends, and my mortgage company. Not happening. I need to locate a party rental place. Because, did I mention? Myra-Jean’s birthday party is in two weeks and I’ve invited the equivalent of a small town in Nebraska to come. I should be planning food, considering themes, preparing gift bags. But how can I? It’s too sad. It’s ridiculous. These kids today. They have no idea how good they have it. Gift bags? They’re lucky not to be chattel! Maybe that should be the theme. Non-chattlement. “What’s in the sack? Your freedom. Now quit whining, kid.”

It won’t make me popular. It will, however, make the get-together memorable.

If it happens at all. Because right now it’s not looking good. All I want to do is sit on the couch — an Ikea Säter, I might add; gah! — and stare into space as I listen, shake my head, and try to imagine what it was all like. It’s a weird kind of imprisonment: totally self-imposed, but effective nonetheless. Maybe I need one of those gift bags myself.

Or maybe I just need to give in and head for the ironing board.

To Done, Saturday 10/6

  • Up at 8:30
  • Made tea. Took toast — forgotten from yesterday — out of toaster. Put in new batch for myself.
  • Played “yoga class” with MJ and Mike. Wondered where she came up with move called the “humpback.” Did much videotaping. Realized the resultant footage would be interesting to 5-8 people on the entire planet.
  • Uploaded it anyway.
  • Realized I had forgotten my toast. Took it out, put jam on it, and commenced to eat it cold.
  • Lost toast to MJ.
  • Said goodbye to her and Mike, who left to go look at art.
  • Picked up every item on the floor in every room. This included yoga mat, a bra, my black heels, three corner protectors, 600 or so toys and parts of toys, miscellaneous ribbons, two magic markers, several Band Aid wrappers, two rubber stamps (aka foot killers), 18 stuffed animals, a Trader Joe’s receipt, a pantry’s worth of play food, and innumerable plastic dishes.
  • Vacuumed whole house, as well as couch, windowsills, and lint filter on dryer.
  • Mopped utility room and kitchen. Then the mop broke, causing me to fly into a minor rage at “cheaply made appliances.” Ruminated on whether or not a mop is an appliance. Decided not. Remained annoyed.
  • Threw away all trash in house. Including mop.
  • Watered tomato plants, which I’ve been doing just enough to keep them from dying, but not enough to make them produce more fruit. Realized I’ve put them in a floral coma. Wondered if this makes me tender, sadistic, or both.
  • Watered hibiscus. See above.
  • Threw away two broken paving stones from the large stack of them leaning in the corner of our driveway. Very heavy. Worried I would break the trash bin. Wondered if there was a weight limit for the same. Got distracted and confused. Moved on.
  • Emptied kiddie pool in front yard. Expressed under-my-breath revulsion at the natural detritus that manages to accumulate in it in “only a week.”
  • Cleaned half bathroom, which had gotten so dirty it was more like a science experiment than a habitable space.
  • Folded two loads of laundry.
  • Showered.
  • Sat down to eat leftover pasta and watch MJ videos.
  • Mike and MJ walked in. Pressed pause. Got up to make them lunch.
  • Finished eating.
  • Put MJ down for nap.
  • Watched rest of videos with Mike.
  • Drove to toy store to buy a present for a 3rd birthday party tomorrow. Simultaneously listened to a podcast about Genghis Khan. Nearly bought a fake sword and suit of armor for the little girl in question.
  • Drove home. Picked up Mike and MJ, left for parenting class.
  • Arrived. Dropped MJ in childcare. Went to class. Learned about empathy and “emotional flooding.”
  • Came home. Made MJ almond butter and jelly sandwich. Baby carrots on side.
  • Made Mike leftover pasta.
  • Washed MJ’s feet, face, and hands in lieu of a bath. Brushed teeth.
  • Felt wave of relief when she asked Mike, not me, to put her down. Empathized with her desire for “Daddy time.” Felt giddy. Empathized with my own giddiness. Felt flooded with giddy.
  • Checked e-mail.
  • Said goodbye to Mike, who was going out for the evening.
  • Put in a frozen pizza.
  • Spent the evening with Genghis.