Saturday, January 30, 2010


As I bake for Hospitality Sunday and mentally prepare myself for a Chuck E Cheese birthday party at two (three Advils and a two liter of Diet Pepsi, my drug of choice)....I was looking through some of my youtube videos and wondering why my husband always seems to have to work when there is one of these "events". And while browsing through my youtube library -- I have about fifty videos there (icywit is my user name should anyone like to browse), I found this one from two years ago:

How cute is that kid (and the husband isn't bad either)? My husband always says that my videos have a Blair Witch quality to them. To which I respond, "Hey, Blair Witch was wildly received."

Two years...I remember making this video. Time is going by so quickly. In a blink of an eye, I'll be posting about a wedding video -- no, no not my third wedding -- but Andrew's wedding.

Happy Saturday folks.

Update - 4:24 p.m. I would rather be the only woman allowed into Riker's Prison on conjugal visit day than to go to Chuck E Cheese on a Saturday.

Further update: Baked two things for Hospitality Sunday - and guess when Hospitality Sunday isn't until NEXT Sunday. Aggggrrrrrrhhhh. I swear I thought it was the first Saturday in February tomorrow.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

What BROWN can't do for Andrew

Every night since his birth we've been reading to Andrew. For the last three years, we've been reading a minimum of thirty minutes each night. Perhaps this explains why he has been reading since age four - yes, I'm bragging. After reading, we say our prayers and we recite the Pledge of Allegiance. Since age three Andrew has been able to recite the Our Father and the Pledge of Allegiance.

Since the tragedy in Haiti, we've been adding to our good night prayers "Dear God, please help the people in Haiti. Give them food and water and shelter and keep them safe. Thank you God for all you give us."

It is no secret, Jim and I have desperately tried to have another baby. We've talked of adoption but not even worrying about the cost - how could I, or Jim, travel to China or another country three different times (a requirement). I cannot leave Andrew (it is hard on any child to be separated from his mother but Andrew's anxiety would be tripled) and Jim being able to take off work is extremely difficult.

I've heard talk that adopting from Haiti now has been simplified.

Andrew had two doctor's appointments today. His pediatric neurologist to review his medication and progress and then his regular pediatrician to check his ear infection and do a tympanogram and get phase II of the swine flu shot.

While waiting in the pediatrician's exam room - we had this discussion - verbatim:

"Andrew come here please I want to ask you a very important question."

I pull him in my arms and say, "What would you think about us trying to adopt an orphan from Haiti?"

"You mean like get him."

I replied, "Sort of, we would make them a part of our family to love and he would live with us." (I don't know why Andrew thought it would be a "him".)

"I guess I'm okay with that as long as he isn't brown."

"What do you mean? Your friend Ryan is brown. Our President is brown. Many of your friends in class are all shades of brown." (after I pick myself up off the floor)

"I know...but I don't care for brown."

"Andrew, people aren't colors - we can't judge a person like that."

"Well, okay if you want to but I won't spend a lot of time looking at him if he is brown - I like lighter colors."

PLEASE NOTE: No one that lives in this household has a racist bone in their body, nor have we ever referred to anyone as "brown" or "white" or even "African American" or "Caucasian". So where he got this from it puzzling.

So a few minutes ago, I asked "Andrew what did you mean about your brown comments because we don't like people based on their skin color or what they look like."

"I know that."

"So what did you mean?"

"It's okay if you want to get a brown orphan that's okay. But if he won't play with me, we have to return him." (I held in a laugh. Then a light clicked on.)

"Andrew, are you trying to say that some of your friends that are brown or tan don't play with you at school?"

"Yes, sometimes they don't play with me and it hurts my feelings."

Thank God, we didn't raise an Archie Bunker.

UPDATE: Adopting from Haiti is still an arduous process. If we had started the paperwork a year ago, they might have rushed it through but now there are so many displaced people that they are being extra cautious declaring children as orphans and they are diligent in stopping possible child-sex trafficking rings (which is very smart).

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

There's Ziti in My Bag....

My husband never fails to remind me that he lived over thirty years before he found me and did fine. (But when someone forgets one of his friend's or relative's birthdays - it's "my" fault.)

My husband got himself ready for work this morning. I usually pack his backpack and warm up the car to make life a little easier for him. He leaves the house at 6:45 a.m. comes home at 9:30 p.m. and then works an hour or more after he eats dinner at 9:45 p.m. And trust me - he isn't doing the Tiger dance unless he's doing it at his desk in the middle of a bank - because he is always at his desk and he wants to hold on to all the parts that God gave him.

This morning he left at 5:30. I was too tired to get up. I haven't been sleeping - Andrew has been having a hard time the last couple nights. This morning I woke up at 3:15 and really couldn't fall back to sleep so I laid in bed and dozed.

I asked if he was okay and needed any help at 5:15 and he said "no honey I'm okay". I reminded him to take his lunch (ziti) and I did hear the fridge open and close. I heard some other noises but I thought I was dreaming.

I get up at 6:30 and I notice a number of things - the paper* is still on the kitchen table (Bryan brings it in when he comes home from work at 4 a.m.), a wooden wall hanging is on the floor, Jim's pager is vibrating on the office floor, the Dorito's chip clip has exploded and bits of it are on the floor (related or not to Jim's departure is a mystery to me).....

I GoogleTalked with him this morning - I said, "you forgot your pager and paper, there is a wall hanging on the floor in the kitchen and the chip clip has exploded". He wrote back: "Yeah, AND my ziti opened up in my back pack and I just spent 15 minutes cleaning it out. The Z to the I to the M to the B." A second later, he wrote "There's ziti in my bag." "I'm a wreck without you."

I laughed so hard. There is a Phineas & Ferb episode where Candace gets squirrels in her pants and she sang this song: Andrew loves this show and so do we.

I told Jim that this experience is a blog entry for sure. He asked that I not use his real name. I said, "Don't worry James F. Hartin - I won't."

*My husband loves his Daily News - he is George Costanza and reads it cover to cover.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

A blast from the past

Fifteen years ago I started seriously writing - I have pages and pages of material - one of my personal best (in my estimation) was a piece I wrote entitled Romance and Other Delusions. I wrote this over fifteen years ago - (1) this has nothing to do with my studly current and hopefully last husband and (2) I didn't edit for errors....have a laugh.

In my life I have had three great loves; to read; to write; and to rejoice in the sound of laughter. While I have nurtured two of my loves, sharing them with others, shamelessly flaunting them about; I have kept one, locked in a closet, alone and neglected. I've treated it as if it is forbidden; a love that no one must know about. Well, the time has come to go "public"; I have decided to share my writing skill, or lack thereof, with the masses.

In the past, I have written for my own pleasure and as a deterrent to the high cost of psychiatric care. To begin my writing career, I first had to choose the type of writing I would attempt. I considered the various genres __ should I try my hand at science fiction, mystery or another type of fiction? After weighing the pros and cons of each genre, the only choice for me was romance.

Since I have made and shared my decision with a few of my close friends, I have been asked why romance? The answer is as follows: I have always chosen the road that presented the most challenge. I chose a genre which would be most arduous. That is the reason I chose romance.

Romance, in all actuality, is a delusion and delusions are my specialty -- after all, I think I've been happily married for ten years. Romance, love and sex are foreign to me -- romance having been evasive, love hiding right behind romance (wherever the hell it is) and sex, well I just don't understand what all the hoopla is about.

One might venture to say that it couldn't be possible for a 30 year old woman in this day and age to make that type of statement. In the pages that follow I have recounted various experiences of my life as proof of my statement.

Regarding romance, love and sex, I have had a minimal amount of technical experience and no objective experience. Romance and love I can at least understand. Sex, to me, is like parallel parking or programming the VCR, no matter how many times I've attempted those tasks, I haven't been successful -- either I hit the car in front or back of me when I try to park or I miss the program I tried to tape. I have the same result with sex -- hit and miss.

Perchance my confusion with sex stems back to my mother's wise and carefully planned talk about how babies are made. I quote, my mother, July 31, 1978 2:00 p.m. "Well you see, he puts his thing in your thing and that's it." The word sex or the proper name for body parts were never mentioned in our home. I didn't know what things were but I sure as hell was going to stay away from them.

My father was as helpful as my mother. He died five days before my high school graduation being selfish even in death. Had he one ounce of compassion he would have died a year prior to my graduation allowing me to possibly enjoy life as a "normal" teenaged girl. Maybe then I could have gone to a movie or even a dance or game, but no -- he clung to life right until the end of my senior year. There were boys in high school that asked me out and flirted with me but there was absolutely no chance of being allowed to accept an invitation. My sisters and I weren't even allow to have a girlfriend over or to go visit their homes. Thus, I didn't have all the secret talks girls have about boys. I was kept blissfully ignorant with only my mother's explanation to go on and my parents shining example of love, romance and happiness. Some examples might be found in the physical abuse, abuse of alcohol and prescription medication and the countless trips to the psychiatric floor for my mother.

After my father died my mother went 'man crazy'. If it had testicles and a pulse, it was fair game (sometimes she was lenient with regard to the pulse). Perhaps what caused her sudden attack on anything male and breathing was partially caused by my father. It may have been my father didn't pay much attention to her or maybe he never put his thing in hers after us kids, but who knows. After he died, a turnstile was installed in her bedroom and plans are in the making for a sign that reads "Over 1,000,000 Served". I knew it was time to move out when I was awaken at the tender age of 17 by a burly truck driver asking me for a light. I immediately found an apartment as far away from my mother's house as possible because too many "things" were going on there.

Several years ago she took to the personal ads having serviced all the men in the bi-state area. At one time she was involved with so many men from different parts of the United States, I had to remember them by the state in which they lived, I couldn't remember their names. "Hi, mom, how's Arkansas? Hear from Vermont lately?".

Now she is happily shacked up with a truck driver. She told me all about him over the phone - how wonderful he is, how handsome, he looks like Elvis... I met him recently. He may look like Elvis now if they yank his decomposed body out of his final resting place. In case you're wondering, my mother and reality have never met. His looks do not worry me in the least. It is the way he treats her that troubles me - barking orders, drinking, name calling. If I ever publish the romance I am working on, I will have to dedicate a portion of it to my mother for teaching me beyond a doubt what romance, love and sex are not.

Fortunately, for my sake, insanity skips a generation in my family. Having ruled out my mother's pristine example, I knew I had to learn about amour myself.

So, of course, I foolishly rushed into marriage to the first decent guy that came around. My entire adolescent I longed for a loving family. I wanted and would have a man who cherished me and placed me upon a pedestal. Jack (name changed to protect the guilty - his real name is Ron) professed his undying love for me and I thought I might not get another chance so I accepted. I told him of my total lack of experience and he told me wild tales of his escapades and vast experience with the fairer sex.

Knowing nothing about the workings of the male mind or for that matter any of their other organs or appendages, when Jack and I first started dating I managed to keep him in line except for a few kisses and touches here and there (more here than there). My first clue that Jack may have exaggerated his extensive experience with females should have been when it took him twenty five minutes to try and unhook my bra. I had no idea why he wanted it off, because I was comfortable enough, and I didn't find out that night, because he gave up.

After a few weeks of dating, he got his courage up (so to speak) and began asking (pleading) me to do certain things to one certain appendage. I was shocked at the activity he wished me to perform. He actually wanted my mouth- the same virginal mouth that read at the altar each day at mass during my eight year incarceration at St. Mary's Catholic School - placed on his thing to coin my mother's terminology. If this is romance, I say forget it.

Thankfully I had crisis training, having worked at a hospital, so I told myself, at that time, to remain calm, not to make any sudden movements and to just smile politely and soon this totally deranged man would be out of my apartment. He had to be out of his mind to suggest that I do that to him. I momentarily thought about giving him my mom's phone number but I couldn't even do that to him and realistically the waiting line at her place was too long. So, after playing it cool I got him out of my apartment and bolted my door. I watched his car pull away (jotting down the license plate number just in case). After he turned the corner, I rushed to the telephone and called an older, married friend for comfort. Expecting to receive cries of dismay and words of comfort, I found myself the recipient of her hysterical laughter. After several minutes my experienced friend regained her composure and said, "Honey, they all want that."
MY GOD! Every man expected that! I was never to be safe. Well, I'd just have to join the convent; nuns didn't have to worry about those things. But after some deliberation, I voted against a celibate life with Our Lady of Perpetual Hope. I had waited too long for love, I'd take my chances with the mad man. I decided to see Jack again and exercise extreme caution around him. Since then I have resigned myself to excuses to avoid that particular activity. I've had a sore throat since 1983.

After a lengthy six month courtship, Jack and I got married at the courthouse in our small town amongst cries of horror from his mother. We could hardly hear the Judge due to her incessant wails. You would have thought he was being sent to the gallows instead of marrying sweet virginal me. Well, it seems I wasn't good enough for her baby since she had come to the conclusion that I was a slut. Me, the closest thing to Doris Day in Illinois, promiscuous! She thought I had snared her little angel with my womanly wiles and holding him prisoner with nights of unbridled passion. She had reached the conclusion that Jack and I were sleeping together because each and every time he came over to my apartment he fell asleep, eating dinner he fell asleep, watching television he fell asleep, talking with our friends he fell asleep. See Jack tired, see Jack sleeping, see Jack comatose. There was no way I could wake him either, for once Jack is catatonic there is no hope for consciousness until morning.

Back to the ceremony -- when the Judge threatened to remove her from the room, Jack's loving mother quieted down long enough to allow the Judge to finish the ceremony. Jack promised me a lavish dinner at a fancy restaurant and what I got was homemade barbecue at his parent's cabin (Broken Promise Number 1). I couldn't eat anyway, I was so worried about the wonderful night ahead that he promised me (Broken Promise Number 2).

After two hours of procrastination, I finally found the courage to leave the bathroom and enter the bedroom. I was terrified. After all, he had done this many times before and I was going in there a rookie, not even warming up in the bull pen. I had all sorts of doubts about myself. Would I be any good? Would he be happy? Would I do something wrong? I didn't know.

Exactly fifteen seconds later (with barely an impression in the mattress where I lay), I knew. There was one thing for certain. He lied. He had no more experience than I. I wasted two hours of "prime time" television delaying a major milestone in my life for fifteen seconds of "making love". Jack sure didn't think much of love for he didn't make much of it.

I'm pretty sure we consummated our marriage that night although I'm not positive. Wasn't there at least suppose to be pain? Perhaps my husband believes in the theory that some mothers practice when pulling a bandage from one of their child's limbs, if you pull it off quickly the pain is momentary. That was it, he was trying to protect me. Well, I need no man's protection. I want the pain. Feeling something, no matter if it was pain, was better than feeling nothing at all.

My fervent prayer is that all men aren't so considerate. I hope there are some men who are heartless and can control their bodies and inflict hours (okay minutes, remember I hope to write fiction) of pleasure on their women.

The problem I see is that men are always trying to save time. They know a short cut for everything. A short cut across town, a faster way to do the grocery shopping, etc. Even my employer, a man, is constantly trying to find ways to save time in everything including word processing. When I roll my eyes at all his suggestions for speeding things up, he tells me each time, "Just trying to save strokes." Aren't they all.

Now my dilemma begins, how can I write a sensual scene when I wouldn't know an orgasm if it came up and introduced itself. I'm sure the publishers at Harlequin would reject my manuscript due to the repetitious use of the term "thing". I'm a modest, strictly reared, Catholic girl could I dare type the word nipple or worst yet shaft? The thought of putting adjectives before these words such as throbbing or heated breaks me out in a cold sweat. Poor Sister Mary Agnes is rotating like a rotisserie in her grave. "I'm sorry Sister. I know, five Hail Mary's. Yes and I'll go to confession."

So, I delved in and ordered How to Write Erotica and sent away for a list of "The Most 100 Sensual Words". (This cost me ten Hail Mary's). Now I have the manuals but I still have a problem. I have never been good with "how to" books. I have always learned better with hands on training. Hemingway wrote from real life experience, I would have to be a far better writer, I must use my imagination.

When writing a romance you must have a dark, sexy, handsome, muscular man, well Jack is Howdy Doody without the benefit of Buffalo Bill. Jack is the silent type (note to reader strong is blatantly missing). He won't even give his order to a waitress at a restaurant he defers to me. Just recently, we went out to dinner with my in-laws and to my dismay I heard my mother-in-law order for her husband, too. Good Lord, it runs in the family, must be a defective gene pool.

Upon reflection, perhaps his lack of conversational skills around anyone other than myself is a protective measure, like quills on a porcupine. Jack doesn't have a firm grasp of the English language he refers unwittingly to his "genitals" as his "gentiles". I definitely have to create my hero from scratch. My hero will be based on no one I know.

Second thing you need for a romance is a beautiful, innocent heroine. Easily done.
Step three is passion. Big problem here folks. As for passion, even after ten years of practice, my idea of good sex is dictated by the fact if I'm still awake when he is done. But then how could I fall asleep when I hadn't even had time to take my glasses off? There is a story about a ball player who was so fast that when he would turn the light off as he entered a room, he would be in bed before the room was dark. My husband should have been a ball player.

A rule to live by: A man who can't go the distance should never perform in a room with a digital clock. There are none in our bedroom. We also never frolic near the VCR or microwave unless, of course, it is blinking 12:00 .. 12:00 .. 12:00. Yeah, baby, time stood still for me, too.
Passion must be stoked by foreplay, yet another area in which I am uneducated. Jack's idea of foreplay is when he removes both his socks and his watch (non-illuminating face plate, of course). Having never experienced an orgasm myself, I was curious to at least know what a male's orgasm feels like. I've asked Jack several times what does one feel like and his answer is that it feels like a release. Bodily functions can feel like a release I would like a little more detail please. Perhaps I've had one and missed it. It's hard to catch a bullet.

It scares me to say this, more than anyone could ever know, but the more I think about it maybe my mother was speaking the truth in her description of sex he does put his thing in my thing and that is it! In the movies I see repetitive movement. Richard Gere call my husband.
Once my husband talked me into having sex in the morning before he went away for the weekend with our son fishing (yes my husband's parts are functional he's fast but effective). It took some coaxing people aren't suppose to have sex in the daylight, you know, but it was worth it to get them out of the house for two days.

In the middle of the "heated" (there, I used it) action (approximately thirty seconds in) I started screaming. He was proud and beaming. Nine years of hard work (an investment of one hour and two minutes total time) and he had finally given me the ultimate gift. He gave me a leg cramp. I was trying to roll over and tell him okay we could do it and he caught me in midroll with my leg twisted. It broke my heart to tell him the truth, but if he thought he had succeeded well it wouldn't be fair. He wouldn't reach for the gold, he would never build up endurance. He had to know the truth. Didn't he?

But, I let him have his delusions too. Every year on his birthday I give him a couple of "oh babys". Lucky for him I talk fast if I stuttered or had a sexy, southern drawl he would barely get an "o"___. Before I receive countless letters from sex therapists worldwide explaining that it isn't healthy to fake an orgasm __ STOP. I am a writer not an actress. Even Jack knows the difference between an 'oh baby' and the wailing and screeching made in the thralls of passion. Another note to any therapist with their pens poised, Jack doesn't have a medical problem and I am a warm and loving wife. Jack has no desire to master an activity in which he, alone, attains satisfaction.

In an effort to provide him with some assistance, I purchased How to Satisfy a Woman Every Time and Have Her Beg for More. Allegedly this book guarantees successful results. I marked the sections he should first read quietly to himself, then read out loud for maximum comprehension. After he was finished, he was requested to come immediately to bed to practice what he read before all the details would escape him. With what appeared to be crib notes in hand, he began. Let's just say I've returned the book to get my money back.

Recently, I had a reunion with a few friends (two males and one female) from my single days. The subject eventually rolled around to sex. These males boasted about their prowess and how they always satisfy their women. Of course! It is always the men you haven't been with or will never be with who are good. Not that I believe their tales, I'm from Missouri "show me".

Obviously my life's experience in the romance department is lacking. Accordingly, I must rely on the many wonderful love stories I have read to conjure up the feelings of a woman satisfied. This wasn't going to be an easy task, but I knew that going in. Good things in life are worth working hard for. Wine improves with age, perhaps Jack will. If not, perhaps Our Lady of Perpetual Hope will still have a bed for me. I'm as close to a 30 year old virgin as they are going to get.

With trust in my God-given talents, those being imagination, strength and patience and dismissing anything I learned from my family or husband, I penetrate (good word) the unknown confines of romance. I now know what Columbus felt like sailing for unchartered lands. Romance take me away!

Enter a tall, dark, virile hero. Perfectly muscled, gallant and bronzed. He gathers his beautiful heroine in his strong arms and whisks her away to a night of passion. She, of course, is a virgin and he, of course, erupts multiple orgasms on this her first encounter.

They find themselves forced apart. Just when you fear there is no hope, that they must live a life apart yearning for each other, fate strides in and brings them back together for a lifetime of romance, love and unquenchable passion. He spends his days worshipping, protecting and dwelling on her every word as she does for him. This is how it should be and this is how it will be at least in my mind and in my heart.

That is why I chose to write a romance.

Exit Howdy Doody.

Monday, January 18, 2010

You are uninvited....

Do you ever invite people for dinner and then the day of the dinner have no desire to cook, clean...and seriously ponder the ramifications of pulling out the paper plates and throwing down some KFC. KFC yeah you know me. (BTW, I hate KFC. I also hate abbreviations).

Gotta run - company is coming in fifteen minutes and I did cook. Two bacon roasted chickens - courtesy of Nat at Hot Off the Garlic Press (, roasted garlic potatoes, honey glazed carrots and egg noodles (my husband not a big potato fan).

I'll also serve the Drunken Layered Apple Cake I made this morning from Warm Bread and Honey Cakes (a new favorite cookbook). I made two cakes this morning one for my brother in law's birthday and one for tonight. Andrew and I delivered the cake this morning. (I made two little mini cupcake size cakes and had one and it is flipping fantastic.)

Flo and Rosemary are bringing bread and a cake as well (no fruit for my hubby) but in case they mess up - I have brownies left over from yesterday too.

Time to get out the real glasses.

Happy Monday.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Does this ever happen to you?

I tell my "grown" son to stop dirtying so many dishes....he eats more times a day than Heidi Montag has plastic surgery. I plead with him to at least rinse a bowl out once in a while....but in response to that plea - and to avoid washing a dish....he dissects the milk carton with milk still in it (1/4 of the gallon left).

I gave birth to someone who would do this.

Feliz Navidad

Just a quick post.

Years ago when Jim and I would sing along to the radio to songs - any songs...we'd make up lyrics for parts we didn't know - or couldn't understand or we thought was funny.

One of these was - Feliz Navidad. The song's lyrics are:

Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Prospero Año y Felicidad.

We'd sing...

Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Feliz Navidad
Somethin' in Spanish that we don't know...

I wanna wish you a Merry Christmas...

Well apparently Andrew has picked up our bad habit - he thinks the song really does contain: Somethin' in Spanish that we don't know instead of Prospero Ano y Felicidad.

7:30 Friday morning - he's singing the Hartin version in the living room.

Wednesday, January 13, 2010

Three little words.....

I screwed up big time using three little words.

Andrew has been so obsessed with death and heaven lately. Last night while reading (we read every night without fail for at least thirty minutes), I had a massive headache. I mentioned to him that my head really hurt and to stop fidgeting around. He said, "Are you going to die?" I said, "No." (At least not that night).

I read a few more lines. Andrew asks, "When you die, will you go to heaven?". I said, "I hope so." As soon as those three words were out of my mouth I knew I had f'd up and royally. "If you don't go to heaven, where else would you go?"

It isn't enough that my five year old Asperger's inflicted son worries about everything under the sun, I have to add to his ever increasing list of worries and anxieties.

I tried to explain that heaven was a wonderful place full of light and love and our family is there. Then I said to the best of my ability that there is another place that really evil, mean people go. It's dark and not very pleasant. To which he replied, "But mommy sometimes I'm mean."

I had to spend thirty minutes assuring him he could never be THAT mean.

(I had this in a comment but it helps explain Andrew a little better.) Monday we arrive at therapy at Hofstra University(we go to three sessions a week, one individual, two group) - I pulled in a spot and a sign said "Visitors Only Violators Will Be Towed"...he almost started hyperventilating. "Mommy, please, please, please back out and find another spot". (He's been reading since 3 1/2). Even though I told him we were a visitor and not a student and we were okay - he couldn't calm down until I moved. If we make a wrong turn when driving and someone slips up and says "oops we went the wrong way" - he becomes so worried "are we lost? are we lost?" He has finally stopped worrying about the "evil woman". Sometimes things take weeks/months to pass - sometimes days. It's a crap shoot

Tonight at book time he was extra nervous - kept sitting up. "Andrew what is wrong."

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"That dark place."

Three little words.

I calmed him down. We said our prayers and said a long prayer for the souls in Haiti.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Six followers...

Half a dozen.


Now I know how Pioneer Woman feels.


I've been wanting to post why my "blog name" is Andrew's Mom -- some of you may relate. Before Andrew - I was always Jenny (even with Bryan when he was little years ago - I was Jenny because I worked and didn't get to do all the wonderful things I can do now).

When Andrew and I started Mommy & Me classes, I was Andrew's Mom to all the other kids, at the park "Andrew's Mom" that made me choose the log in name Andrew's Mom.

My g-mail and twitter accounts are "IcyWit" because at one of my first jobs - Ralph Kalish - a wonderful man and lawyer told me I had an "icy wit" that I was funny and sharp and could be mean. He also told me that I gave looks that could turn someone to stone. I kinda liked that. So all my sign in names have been Icywit.

Now I'll have to enter the Witness Protection Program.

Saturday, January 9, 2010

Enough Tales from the Hood....

Scooby Doo (Andrew) and Shaggy (Jim) - after seeing me (the ghost).

We interrupt our special report "Tales from the Hood" ....

I apologize for the posts about the insanity next door. God knows I have enough insanity behind my own doors (well not near as juicy....)...

I promise no more talk "Neighbor Talk"....we're resume regular programming tomorrow....all Andrew all the time...with a side of Jim.

It's 9:07 and I'm going to bed. Del Boca Vista here I come.

The Neighbor

Even though her cookies are shy a few chips and I think she is an emotional, disturbed mess of a person right now - the woman thinks I called Child Protective Services on her. I did not.

The husband who should pay me as his personal listening wench told me ten days ago that the Son's psychologist was going to file a report with CPS because the Son went into Wife's bedroom and she was allegedly drinking vodka and screamed "Get out!! Get out!!" Apparently, the Son informed his psychologist all about Sunday's Jerry Springer re-enactment and the ever shrinking bottle of vodka.

I really feel awful and sick inside. While she has her issues - I would never report her to the authorities. If I witnessed her abusing her Son, of course - I would do something - but I did, and would, not report her to CPS.

Her Son called his father (the Husband) and told him "Dad, Dad - tell Jenny to not say anything - Mom thinks she reported her to CPS." Husband and Son knows I did not - but apparently even though the Son said, "Dr. ____ did Mom" -- she doesn't believe it. The poor kid is still trying to protect me from his Mother's wrath.

If I ever become like that, I hope someone puts me out of my misery.

Andrew has seemed to settle down- he no longer cries about the crazy woman - although when Jim came home from work - they went downstairs and I heard Jim telling him that he doesn't have to worry - we would protect him. What's this "we" stuff - he works twelve hour days and then worked all day today, Saturday. I'm here fending for myself. I'm going to have to practice a routine to Kung Fu fighting.

I have learned my lesson. Don't talk to neighbors. Ever. Again.

Friday, January 8, 2010

It's not safe to go to the bathroom...

I go to the bathroom -- Andrew comes screaming - someone is at the door, someone is at the door.
I rush out and look out the window - crazy wife from next door and her hunchback neighbor friend are on my lawn. What in the hell?

They were screaming. I let them be. Jim isn't home and Andrew was scared - so I did not open the door.

Now Andrew keeps asking "will the evil woman come back?" He is so scared. I told him not to worry - now I think his nightmares this week have been because of the Sunday episode (see Exhibit A).

This is insanity. I'm moving to the country.


My baby woke up at 3:00 screaming. I went into his bed. That bed is torture - we went for the extra firm when we switched Andrew from a crib to a big boy bed because that is the recommendation (it's like the crib mattress) and we went full size because of the sleep issues (not often but enough). He wanted to get up at 3:30 - I said "no way only hookers are up at 3:30" (j/k). So he finally went back to sleep at 4:30 and I crawled back to my beautiful soft bed and my snoring bear husband.

At 4:40, Andrew screamed again for me. I woke up the bear (had beers with his friends -- and beers and friends makes the bear growl louder), "please just go get him, take him to the bathroom and bring him here - I can't lay down on that slab for another minute my back is killing me". So the bear, jumps up - turns on all the lights - and says "Andrew get up, get up." I scream, "For the love of God, do this quietly so he knows it is still the middle of the night and not reveille." Like Jim spent any time in the military - Major Payne.

Andrew comes up to cuddle with me. He tells me he had a bad nightmare, a mean man cut him in half and I came to heaven to find him. I comforted him - I told him I would never let anyone hurt him and if he ever went to heaven - I would come and find him and to not be scared.

I remember reading The Lovely Bones - it broke my I can't watch the previews for the movie - I'm sure it is a wonderful movie - maddening and heart wrenching - but I won't watch it. I cannot watch any shows, movies or read any books that have anything to do with a child being hurt or dying -- there are enough news stories that can wreck me - why should "entertainment" do that to me as well. I become totally without the ability to function. I have always been like that - remember decades ago when Jessica fell down the well...I couldn't go to work without the radio on - I had to know the moment that girl was safe. I became obsessed with the Caylee Anthony case and the Madeleine McCann disappearance.

Everytime I turn the shower on and the cold water comes out for a second, I think of Nixzmary Brown - remember that sweet little girl? Beaten and abused and held under the cold freezing water in the bathtub. For a long time I cried when the water hit me, now I just think of her and pray.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

January cleaning....

So since Monday I have:

taken down the ENORMOUS Christmas tree and put the Christmas decorations away -- lights are still outside - the last time I did that I ended up picking thorns out of my bum for weeks - it was not pretty and WTF (herein will mean White Trash Folk) leave them up at least until Valentine's Day;

donated several large bags to charity of Andrew's things;

donated six large bags of games, books etc. to a person on Craigslist;

totally organized the living room;

cleaned out the foyer and office closet;

working on the basement and other areas....

I'm getting there. I'm actually sore from this work. Which brings me to the following topic...I have to get busy - my friend and Eileen are challenging ourselves to lose weight....I myself have to get going or else run the risk of a small, perky, curly haired man in silk gym shorts will come a knockin (Richard Simmons).

Doing great so far. Approaching it differently. More on that later.

Lastly, the nerve of some people - yesterday a follower of this blog thanked me for the brownies I sent in to him - his goal is to gain fifteen pounds this year. I offered myself as a fat donor - but the nerve...the nerve to complain about being too skinny. Men will never learn.

Over and out.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010 numbers are going up

just like the weeks after Tiger's, six, twelve...Jim said the numbers weren't going to stop until he got to 18 hos.

I got 3 followers! I got 3 followers!

How depressing and exciting all at the same time!

Thanks Ankit - only had to beg for a few minutes!

Tell your friends...about my blog - where else can you get your daily dose of white trash all in one place????

You should see me leaving my house now - if Wife (see Exhibit A entry) is home - I do a criss cross pattern - on Two and a Half Men...Jon Cryer's character (I think) was involved with a less than sane woman and he did the bob and weave pattern across the room when he thinks she has a gun - it was very funny and I will see if I can find the clip. I figure if Wife is drinking and I'm a moving, bobbing target - my chances are better.

Can you hear the Green Acres theme music playing in the background???

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Exhibit A

I'm documenting this drama here --- in case I end up swimming with the fishes.....

Husband and Wife are getting a divorce - unfortunately our next door neighbors (why couldn't this shit be down the street.)

Husband is a nice guy (strange but a nice guy -- who isn't strange? me included).
Wife is unbalanced - always has been.

Wife had an affair. She announced she wanted a divorce after a family trip to DR. For four years since she started working (her choice because she had to get away from everyone) – she was seldom home.

After the divorce proceedings she decided she wanted custody of Son (10) and the house. Husband is wealthy.

She started lying – Husband was gay (not), Husband was a pedophile abusing their son (not – why would she go away for 4 days every weekend if her child was being molested??), and take two vacations away from the family by herself??? plus - Jim and I both trust Husband one hundred percent with our child...he is not a molester).

Wife hates me because we are on husband’s side. I sent him an e-mail (as he requested) about the gate being left open – they have a pool and I added about the noise happening after 8:30 at night from the swimming pool (we were promised that after dark – no swimming parties etc. when they put the pool in). Well, unbeknownst to me, Wife and Husband took that as she wasn’t out there monitoring two ten year old boys in the pool after dark (Husband was happy about that - more evidence). – That was not my intent – it was to please stop the screaming at my five year old child’s bedroom window. I don't care if kids play outside after dark - but it is NOT necessary to scream repeatedly - it's not - it's common decency and respect. And truth to be told, I don't care if someone drowns in their damn pool - my responsibility is to my family first and if I see a kid drowning or struggling of course I would help - but I am not Oprah. I cannot raise a Village of children.

She then got crazier – calling me names – etc. So then I got mad and realized she was even more crazy than I originally thought. On December 11th – I sent husband an e-mail (hoping he was in the neighborhood so he could come and witness this and get a coat on his son) that Son and son's friend were outside in the 27 degree weather from 9 pm until 10:45 p.m. with no coat – this was the day they were telling the homeless to get off the street because of the winds and cold -- our son was at Aunt Flo's house having a sleepover - first and only sleepover he has had -- so it wasn't that I was worried about noise - I was ironing and cleaning - I was concerned about the boys' safety.

She saw this e-mail – because while Husband was away with Son and Wife’s daughter and Wife's daughter's boyfriend – Wife had her boyfriend break into Husband’s bedroom office and she stole bonds and went through his paperwork etc. Bryan (my son) and Jim had to install a new door and lock because of this event. Yes, Husband locks his bedroom/office - to protect his information and himself at night. Wife locks the upstairs bathroom because she doesn't want anyone using it but her. Neither one will leave the house - I.N.S.A.N.I.T.Y.


Sunday comes along and Husband wants to drive with Wife’s daughter to take the boyfriend back to school in Rhode Island (to make sure she is safe - winter weather - first time driving that distance etc.). He wanted to leave at 3 – but it was Wife’s night with Son – and she doesn’t get home until 4:30 (although while Husband was on vacation with the kids – she was home every day at 3:30). Anyway, Husband tried to switch days asking for Son on Sunday night - Wife said no. Husband wanted Son to stay with me until Wife came home. …Son wanted to stay here too – he didn’t want to go to Wife’s sister…etc.

Let it be clear that while Son was here - he said repeatedly he wanted his mother dead - Jim and I repeatedly told him to not talk this way about his mother - that she deserves his respect and love and that all this is temporary.

At 4:15 Son's phone rings – it’s Wife – she asked if he was at Mike’s (Husband’s friend) – Son said, “no mom Mike wasn’t home so I’m at Jenny’s”. Five minutes later she is banging on my door. I open the door and said Son will be right out –she screamed ‘I’ll stay out here’ (I thought of course you will crazy woman because I’m not inviting you in”.

Less than 5 minutes later, someone is knocking on my door – I open the door thinking it is Son (he forgot something maybe) and it’s her. She is screaming at the top of her lungs – "KEEP YOUR HANDS OFF MY SON – how dare you question my parenting skills. God bless you and your family and pick your friends carefully."

I go outside – and try to talk to her – she is hysterical – cussing, flinging her arms (neighbors across the street are watching at the window) – she said stuff about our autistic son – and that Husband says horrible things about our son and the sign in front of our house…(Autistic Child Area). She is whacked out. She tells us Husband talked about us all the time - etc. All the while - I'm thinking who the fuck cares - everyone talks about everyone. And truth be told - they could both disappear into the horizon and I wouldn't care.

Jim comes out and gets in her face and tells her to get off our lawn – they are screaming – Son is crying in the window – Andrew is on the porch screaming. I get Jim to go in after five minutes and I have it out with her. I ended up making peace because I fear for her son and my son. She smelled of vodka – she’s an alcoholic and pill popper. Towards the end of this – Son comes out and is crying and says, “Mom you can yell at me and scream at me but stop lying – you called Jenny a bitch and my dad an asshole and you say mean things about them.” And he went back into the house. He came out to defend me. Even then - even then - I yell after Son "it's okay _____ people say and do crazy things when they are upset". I told Wife to go in the house and take care of her son and to start acting sane.

Then she puts out her hand and hugs me.

She said she would never yell or hurt Andrew – I said “____ – you just did. You hurt Andrew and your own son -- he's terrified - do you think this display is good for anyone?”

Anyway, Husband had an appointment with the forensic evaluator yesterday because Wife had requested this months ago – due to her allegations of Husband being unfit….and now the evaluator is going to call me – and while I will tell the truth – I am fearful that she will try to hurt us – her boyfriend is a retired cop – she has access to a gun – my neighbor across the street was terrified when this was going on….so it’s not my imagination – I’ve been sick about this. BTW, spoke to Husband at length this a.m. - he agrees Wife could snap even further - to not do anything - wait and see if evaluator calls...but if I do testify to get a restraining order against her - because she will flip. Jim thinks I'm over-reacting Husband and Wife's Daughter think I'm right on the money. Jim thinks Wife doesn't have a history of shooting people -- did Amy Fisher have a history of shooting housewives? Did O.J. have a history of bludgeoning to death ex-wives and boyfriends? I say nay nay! (To quote John Pinette got to throw a little humor in here.)

Even though Wife's elevator doesn't go all the way to the top and Husband has his issues - why can't they just stop lying and fighting and do what is best for the child. Money makes people do crazy fucking things. I'm glad we don't have any.

Happy New Year and if Lifetime wants to make this into a movie - I get the damn money from it.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Jerry Springer is Comin' to Town....

My facebook status today: Still sick to my stomach about yesterday's ugliness - sad that people can be so nasty and evil and sad that what my father always told me seems true....given the chance people will disappoint you so don't trust anyone.

Will update later.