Chicago Labor Negotiations

Play for Maeve today! 

The house is a disaster. The family is coming over. And I've got about 7 mega-piles of laundry to put away....

Do I panic?

No.

Do I cancel?

Never.

Do I cry?

Of course not.

I simply call....

Dirt Busters!

The hourly rate for my somewhat illegal workers?  25 cents/hour.  Some people would say I'm taking jobs away from legal workers who need to support their families.  Hogwash.  Why even have kids if you can't put 'em to work?  It is the American way (during the 1920's-1940's at least, then we got soft).

For anyone thinking I don't allot my kids a single moment's fun between music lessons and scrubbing toilets, I've got photographic evidence to the contrary:

Look at those smiling faces.

That's right.  I took them to the toy department at Sears.  I know, I know.  I'm probably spoiling them a bit.

But it's not like we bought anything.

Gotta go.  Daniel is unloading the dishwasher and I need to supervise or my bowls will end up next to the pots and pans.  Sheesh.  They don't make 7-year-olds like they used to. 

Where Moms Go When the Savior Moves Out

Per my earlier posting on the lack of Virgin Mary statues in Beverly, I have good news to report. 

Mary has been found.

I had assumed that Mary was simply out of vogue and not considered front-lawn-worthy anymore - replaced by lawn gnomes and stolen sprinklers.  There was a certain loss in being unable to share the childhood road trip game of "find the Virgin" with my own kids.

Yet the truth revealed itself after a visit to my mom's.

Mary had simply moved to the 'burbs. 

Praying in front of aging 100-year old bungalows in Chicago must have proved too much for our blessed Mother.  She needed something simpler.  Something smaller.  Less to maintain.  Mary did what thousands of Beverly moms have done through the years - she got herself a nice townhouse away from city living.

And that's where I spotted her.  Coming home from my mom's condo in Orland Park, I caught a glimpse of her peeking out from behind a water meter.  I did a screeching u-turn and whipped out my camera to photograph this rare relic of devout Catholicism.  The kids perked up.

Why are we going this way, mommy?  I thought we were going home?

I then told them we were on a mission from God.  Whoever could find the most Virgin Mary statues would win a ticket to heaven (more on that recent good-behavior-inducing incentive another time). 

It was like shooting fish in a barrel.  They were everywhere.  The ultimate Virgin Motherload.  My kids would scream and point each time they spied another statue. 

Just like old times.

I found most of these in the same cul-de-sac:

On a day where I wasn't sure what I would be blogging about, God provided me a source of humor, blog continuity, and faith.  It can't be coincidence.

Some people think that divine inspiration is limited to just the Miltons of the world.  Men with great command of language and thought.  I disagree.  Isn't the greater miracle in providing a little "hello" to His more incompetent children?  Like simple-minded mom bloggers living on the southside of Chicago who drink Mike's Hard Lemonade and swear? 

Just a thought.  

Shark Week + Mob Week = Hell Week

I gave up on ever having a say in our family's television viewing habits a long time ago. The remote control is like the Holy Grail to me: powerful and always a bit beyond my grasp. Despite this predicament, I am occasionally able to sneak in an episode of What Not to Wear or I Didn't Know I was Pregnant.  You know.  Quality television.

Yet I understood my chances of catching a glimpse of Stacy or Clinton were miniscule this week. The moment I walked in our bedroom and found Joe excitedly flipping back and forth between The Godfather and, to quote my husband, a program about sharks eating sh*t, I knew I was out of luck. Shark Week and Mob Week.  Together.  At the same time. Because television executives hate women.

It was like my husband had died and gone to a very very violent heaven.

Buying shark photography is expensive.

With Scarface, Donnie Brasco, and Goodfellas on the docket for AMC and dozens of shows about "sharks eating sh*t" on Discovery Channel, I felt certain this was not the business I had chosen.  While we were still dating, Joe played along as though I would actually get to pick a program now and then.  That pipe dream went out the window with all my former size 8 business suits.

I often have difficulty sleeping.  That, coupled with the sounds of gunfights and shark attacks each night, has lead to some poor decision-making this week.  Decisions that may well effect the entire world.  Just as a butterfly that flaps its wings in China can cause a hurricane in Mexico, an over-tired Marianne is capable of starting her own ripple effect:

• Staunch refusal to do laundry = Decrease in Tide usage = Global economy diminished
• No laundered uniforms = Inability to take the boys to soccer = Forfeited game due to insufficient players = Angry 7 year olds who grow up and write computer viruses to get even with "the man"
• Irrational arguing with husband = Cranky husband who swears = Nothing too unusual there

You get the point.

I told my husband that after Shark Week and Mob Week are over, he will have had enough television to float his boat for the remainder of the year.  It is my turn: Half Ton Mom.  My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.  Toddlers and Tiaras.  Weird television...here I come!

Joe's response?

I think I'm gonna need a bigger boat.

Why Do I Even Try?

I was all prepared with my camera and extra batteries when I set off to photograph the "awards ceremony" at chess camp last month.

As a reminder to newer readers of the blog, my master plan is to raise nerds. Big ones. Giant in fact. With adult heights for the boys predicted in the neighborhood of 6'2" to 6'7," the words "Super Nerd" best encompass my parental ambitions. Capes have even been provided courtesy of Atheist-Friend:

Poor Joe.  This may be the last shot where he's taller than the kids.

With my camera in focus, Jack marched proudly up to the instructor to collect his 2nd place medal. As he returned to his seat, he begrudgingly allowed me to take another photo:

"If I don't make eye contact, maybe the other kids won't think she's my mom."

In the meantime, Daniel realized what I was up to. Daniel hates having his photo taken.  So much in fact that I didn't even bother pre-ordering his 1st grade class pictures, figuring he'd just snarl and glare at the photographer like he does with me. Instead he grinned like the Cheshire Cat himself and once again proved that there is no predicting the behavior of my children.

Anyway back to chess camp. Daniel raced up to his instructor and grabbed his medal before I could even turn the camera on. He scampered under the nearest table to thwart the intentions of his Jimmy Olsen-like mom.

Like that's going to stop me:

You can run...but I've got zoom.

Moms Gone Manic

It's the possible explanation for you if you've ever agreed to the following:

Chaperoning a field trip to the zoo when it's 102 degrees outside.

Hosting a slumber party for 15 kids when you have to be up at 6:00 am the next morning.

Agreeing to be "room mom" when you can't remember any of the moms' names, kids' names, or even the teacher's name.  And which kid's school where you supposed to be at again?

Whipping up 15 homemade cupcakes for your kid's soccer team with each child's name spelled out...in mini M&M's.

Have you guessed?

It is not based in logic.  It is not born of kindness or generosity.  It is quite simply....

A Manic Episode.

Before the mental health experts jump down my keyboard, I'll qualify my definition of manic as a certain mom-related high whose cause is not limited to merely psychiatric elements.  It is a state of being brought about by any number of reasons, including:

• Too much coffee
• Too little coffee
• Not enough sleep
• Guilt over being employed
• Guilt over being unemployed
• Guilt over yelling at the kids too much
• Guilt over plugging the kids into the television on a nice day
• (The guilt thing can go on for a while, so we'll skip ahead)
• Finding $2 cereal at Dominick's
• Finding that your husband took out the garbage before he left for work
• Losing 3 pounds (albeit in water weight, but 3 pounds nonetheless)

As you can imagine, a mom gone manic is prone to doing things outside her norm.  After a week where I wasn't feeling particularly engaged with the kids, I stopped at 7-Eleven to get a coffee and added an extra 40 mg of caffeine via a Stok shot.  That's all it took.  Within an hour, I decided an art project was in order! 

From the depths of my 19-year-old former camp counselor brain, I pulled out an activity that I remembered kids really enjoying:  Popsicle stick boxes!  How fun would that be!

Of course it would be really fun for most kids.  But my kids are not like most kids.  How this went down:

DANIEL:  Mine's not perfect.  I want it perfect.  If it can't be perfect, I don't want to do it.  Why isn't this PERFECT?  I'm going inside to watch Star Wars.

JACK:  Um.  Is that glue?  I'll hand you the sticks, Mom.  You glue it.  I don't like to get sticky.  I'll let you know when it's how I want it.

JOEY:  Glue!  Gimme the glue!  I love GLUE!  Look at the glue in my HAIR, Mommy.  hahahahaha.  GLUE GLUE GLUE!

So that was Part I.

I contemplated taking a video, but the soundtrack would belie this more pleasant image that I'm saving in case the kids try to pull the whole "you ruined my life" thing later.

Of course Part II came the following day when my manic high was gone, but the boys clamoured to paint their now-dry popsicle stick boxes. 

Again, a synopsis:

DANIEL:  Tell Joey to stop mixing the colors together, Mom.  JOEY!  Stop putting your paintbrush in every color.  MOMMMM!  Joey is ruining EVERYTHING.

JACK:  Um.  This is really kind of messy, Mommy.  Can you just finish mine for me?  I want the top to be blue and the bottom green.  I'll let you know if it's okay when you're done.

JOEY:  PAINT!  I love paint!  Can I paint my hand, Mommy?  I'm going to paint Daniel's hand (Daniel explodes in rage).  hahahahahahahah  PAINT!

If Girls Gone Wild only knew what their futures held in store.

Donny Osmond Loves Me. Sort of.

Perhaps the title for today's blog is a bit of stretch, but I did get an actual, non-auto-generated response from Donny Osmond's webpage after requesting a photo of him for my blog:

Marianne

You can use the attached photo for your blog.  Thanks!

The Donny.com Team

Please email info@donny.com - do not reply to this message!

If you carefully analyze the subtext of the email, one can only interpret the words as a clear and focused declaration.  The message?

Donny Osmond loves me. 

Seriously..."do not reply to this message?"  That's code for call me. 

It's so obvious.

I'm beginning to understand why celebrities have security details and continue to lobby congress for better anti-stalking legislation. 

So here's the photo that "Team Donny" sent me which I can apparently use as often as I want on the blog.  You'll be getting to know this image well.  I can write about Donny Osmond forever.  Him and my driveway.

Perfect Man

vs.

Perfect Concrete