My new blog is here.
It's, like, way newer.
It is with a sad heart that we announce the demise of Musings and Misadventures. M&M passed away peacefully this morning while trying to publish a post. It died doing what it loved best, which is a great comfort to close family, friends and a few guys at Google.
Musings and Misadventures was born on December 6, 2005 and made a huge impact on up to 10 people during its short 2.75 years on Blogger. It chronicled the average life and random misadventures of one Mrs. Dub, who is just like you, only shorter.
M&M was proud to have made many friends in Blogville, including "Save Now," "Edit Layout," and the N key. (Sadly, the N key was killed by Miss Dub in a tragic accident several weeks ago. Our condolences to his family, M, O & P.)
Farewell, dear friend. We've had a great run. But it's time for bigger and better things, like a domain that is much easier to say and spell. Like www.mrsdub.com. We will carry on the great sarcastic spirit of M&M there, but in different colors and better posts. (And quite possibly more parentheses.)
In lieu of flowers, please send blank checks to Mrs. Dub. She'll be happy to fill in the amount for you.
A viewing will be held here until the Web expires in some sort of freak hacker accident.
I'm ecstatic to report that Pdaddy's surgery was a success. If by success you mean he's now missing a vital organ.
Some of you have wondered how someone lives with an esophagus. (It's a question I asked myself when I first found out my dad had esophageal cancer, shortly after, "No, dad!" and, "I will beat you with a wrench, cancer!") Just call it God's Gastric Bypass, because it's a modified version of the surgery made popular by B-list celebs like Carnie Wilson and Al Roker. Basically, they pull up your stomach and attach it to what's left of the esophagus. That makes your stomach smaller and your faux esophagus not as good at things like eating spicy foods and vomiting, but it's a small price to pay in exchange for your life ... though I do know my dad loves him some hot sauce.
And I so know that if Pdaddy was awake and alert right now, he would school us all on the risky procedure using intricate vocabulary and a few tart jokes. But he's still coming out of anesthesia so you'll have to settle for me. And recent polls suggest I'm slightly more accurate than Wikipedia, except when discussing Arctic animals. (Never been my strong suit.)
Anyway, I really appreciate the prayers and fasting and general love that I've felt from my fellow bloggees this entire year. I found out my dad had a horrible form of cancer a mere six weeks after Baby Zee died. It was like getting punched in the stomach - one still healing from a C-section. So things have been rough, to say the least.
But I have never lost my hope or faith, though I'll be darned if the devil didn't try to beat both of them out of me. So thanks to all of you for keeping me strong. It truly takes a village to get out of bed sometimes.
Now, where's that wrench?
p.s. You can keep praying for Pdaddy. The hard part has just begun.
Posted by Mrs. Dub at 8:11 PM
This is going to be a weird week.
Mr. Dub is taking a vacation without me since I took a few this year without him. (We do love each other; were just not crazy about airfare prices.) In his place, my bro and SIL* will be coming to hang out with me and Miss Dub and our baby, Chicago.
Oh, and my dad is having his esophagus removed tomorrow. (That's not a joke; they actually do this.)
You can imagine I'm a bit nervous. I'm not even sure if Pdaddy will sleep tonight. I've already lost my appetite in support of the poor guy, who will be getting his meals through a tube while he recovers for the next few months.
So we'd really appreciate your prayers, even though I know they're pretty full these days.
I also won't be "normal blogging" this week out of respect to my dad and to my guests, though I will post an update when I get a chance.
But if all goes well (and it WILL), I will share a big surprise with you all next Tuesday. And, no, the stork did not deliver it.
* I should note that SIL is one of the few Web acronyms that I approve of. DS and DH drive me crazy, as do IMHO and YKTR. And if you know what EWCM is - gross, huh?
Posted by Mrs. Dub at 5:20 AM
This is the blog post that wasn't.
It started yesterday when I realized that I'm over all our summer activities (pool, park, beach, bungee jumping). Yet, staying home all day is not an option with my TV-loving, mommy-come-watch-this, easily frustrated toddler.
So I decided on a whim to head down to Steve & Barry's, the world's weirdest store where I've had mediocre luck in the past. (And only thanks to SPJ and her Bitten line.) I knew that S&B had fallen on hard times, so when I saw a sign announcing the store was closing in a week, I assumed it was related to their bankruptcy.
Everything in the store was marked $8.98, because $8.99 is, like, sooo expensive. But ever greedy, I decided I was going to barter for a better deal like the inspiring blogger I inspire to be. I started to craft this post in my head, envisioning the great comments I'd get, like, "You always do things I never have the guts to try."
So I started to throw things in my cart. Cute things. Average things. Things you would give to a person you really don't like on her birthday. I gathered pants, capris, shorts, shoes, tops and one item that might have been a shirt, a dress or some sort of nursing wrap.
I cruised up to the register with my sky-high pile of threads, pulled out some cash and said:
"Look, I'm going to offer you $40 for this pile of clothes right now."
Startled cashier: "What?"
Me: "I know you're going out of business next week, and I've seen the massive amount of clothes you still have, so there's no way you are going to sell this all before then. This is a deal for you guys."
Startled cashier: "Um, we're closing because they are redeveloping this shopping center. We're just going to send our leftover stuff to the other Steve & Barry's."
Me: "Oh. So this isn't related to the bankruptcy?"
Annoyed cashier: "No."
Me: "Oh. So you're not going to adjust the prices?"
Incredulous cashier: "No."
Me: "I better sort through that pile then."
Me: (Handing her my three pieces.) "Sorry about that confusion. It's shopping tradition to barter when a store is going out of business."
Interested cashier: "Really?"
Me: (Continuing to lie to assuage my discomfort.) "Oh yeah, I do it all the time. I usually get things for 90-95 percent off."
Impressed cashier: "Wow. I'll have to remember it."
Me: "Glad to help."
The worst part is I got home and decided I don't even like the three things I bought. So now I have to go back and return them. I'm just hoping they've managed to put away my pile of clothes by then.
p.s. It's a no-TV, no-computer day at our house, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Miss Dub about this post.
I read this article last week.
I then threw up in my mouth.
If you are too lazy to read it, and 9 out of 10 people are, then I'll sum it up: Moms are taking their young (i.e. 10 and under) kids to be waxed - eyebrows, legs, back, bikini line - all in the name of beauty. Because, you know, young kids with hair (gasp!) are so disgusting.
I'm disturbed by this, just like I am by all beauty trends that that dictate maintenance standards until we are waxed, plucked and primped into copies of each other. And I'm even more disturbed that mothers are behind this latest craze.
Let me make this clear - your child is beautiful just as he/she is. Right now. With a unibrow. With an unnatural amount of back hair. With average peach fuzz on her legs.
Now, I should clarify that there are two types of moms they discussed in the articles - those who bring their children in to avoid/curb teasing and those who do it to improve their child's appearance. I can sympathize with the former, but the latter may be the scum of the earth. (Oops! Just checked and that title still belongs to people who take advantage of the mentally disabled ... but it's a close second.)
In my house, we didn't get to shave until 12. I cheated at 10, but I fell into that early puberty category that necessitated it. But I was probably the only girl in fifth grade with smooth skin. We all wore our unruly hair in ponytails and loose T-shirts and distinct child body odor scent with pride. Whereas today's fifth graders are sporting highlights, fitted designer gear and hairless gams. It's sad.
Kids deserve to be kids, and teenagers deserve to be young, as well. The pressure to be perfectly primped is too much to ask emotionally, physically and financially of people who can't even drive themselves to an appointment.
But what do you think?
Is this just a harmless trend?
Or is it hurting our kids?
Since I started blogging, I've received news of several tragedies - some of true friends who spread the news on their blogs, some from people I only know through their blogs, and some of people I've met after their traumatic experiences.
The latter happened to me last night, like it probably did to all of you, when I found out that Stephanie and Christian of "Nienie" fame were in a private plane crash and fighting for their lives.
I don't know Stephanie personally, and I've only met Christian a few times, but I do know that they are parents to four small children - and that they have a unique passion for life and finding its dramatic charm. (Even if it made some of our homes look awfully average.)
So I'm praying for them and hoping for the best. I'm sure you are, too.
Do I feel completely unjustified in posting about them when they aren't my family or even my friends? Yes. Is it still weighing heavily on my mind? Yes.
It's hard to not feel like tragedy is raining down on our world between the recent experiences in my family, world affairs and roundabout news like this. Maybe it's being an adult. Maybe it's modern communications. Maybe it's the end of the world.
But this I know - there always still hope. While one person lies in a hospital, another lies there bringing new life into this world. It's tempting to stop living for fear of all the things that can happen to us, but as NieNie showed us, you have to keep believing in beautiful things.
... unfortunately, I'm not so sure that my hair is one of them. So that pic will have to wait for another day and lighter post fare.
I had a mediocre day yesterday.
There was nothing tragic about it, but my mind was a constant recording of things I needed to do, including future ones, like, "Make sure to get a tuneup in 3,000 miles." And yet, I didn't really do anything. So then I started to beat myself up about my utter failure, adding even more things to my list, like, "Research alternative fuels" ... and by the end of the day I had a migraine and several stains on my shirt of unknown origin.
(I might be crazy, but sometimes crazy people make lots of money so I'm just rolling with it for now.)
So when the night came, I did what anyone would do - I blew off a friend's baby shower and got my hair done.
I'm now a brunette with blond highlights - something I've dreamed about doing for years in protest of the over-peroxided world we live in. But I took one look in the mirror and thought, "Caramel blond would be perfect." Plus, I'm not crazy about the cut. I wanted to ditch my A-line, but ended up with a few too many layers, a la 1994.
I guess I should have gone to the baby shower.
Mr. Dub says he likes it (good boy!). Miss Dub, however, took one look at me and said:
"Mommy hair dark. Noooo! Like it yellow!"
I'm afraid today may be mediocre as well.
* As for the lack of picture - please, I'm not going to post one until my confidence deepens to match my new hue.
Posted by Mrs. Dub at 7:50 AM
I consider myself a pretty busy person, but every now and then I accomplish so much on Monday and Tuesday that Wednesday comes and it's, like, "Will I just be counting the minutes until I eventually die?" (Technically, this is impossible, because you can't count while you're sleeping; and if you're not sleeping, you might be an alien and therefore immune to human boredom. Glad to clear that up.)
Miss Dub, despite her tender age, is actually quite content to keep herself busy playing with her three baby dolls - Mimi, Kiki and Carma. She could spend several hours just rearranging their sitting positions: "Mimi, Carma, Kiki - no, Carma, Mimi, Kiki!" She also likes to mimic me, which is very telling. She's either having a party with them or ordering them to the "mad chair." So apparently I'm a disciplinarian socialite. There are worse things.
But I can only handle so much baby doll time myself. So I decided we would take a trip to Target and let Miss Dub walk around sans cart. (Insert gasps.) Upon getting there, we immediately headed to the ... baby doll section! Yes, I let my child play in the baby doll aisle of Target for 90 minutes. (You did not read wrong. I am a bad person.)
When I realized the aisle had serious appeal, I went and got some magazines. (No worries, I just hid Miss Dub among the baby dolls while I browsed the tabloid section.) I then removed a few stuffed puppies and made myself comfortable on a bottom shelf. Miss Dub happily took down a nice selection of baby dolls - some that pee themselves, some that talk, some that perform delicate surgeries - and rearranged them.
It was sheer genius. Not to be confused with Shear Genius, which is really letting me down this season. No wonder I'm in desperate need of a haircut. I'm just so uninspired in this world of Holmes 'dos. (And, yet, it's still so cute. Curses!)
But the best moment came when I finally insisted we go to the "Mommy section." Miss Dub ran off for a second and then came back carrying a bra.
"Wook, Mommy!" she exclaimed, quite proud of herself, and in full view of Target's teenage male population. (Why were they in the intimates section, anyway?)
"Our house," she added, meaning I have some at our house.
Not one to embarrass my daughter, I gave the bra an enthusiastic examination.
Very flattering. Maybe I am doing something right.
Four wonderful things happened to me yesterday:
1. I got mistaken for a lesbian at the park. I took it as a compliment that I was raising my daughter in such a modern way that I could only be a same-sex partner parent. Obviously, the person didn't see the fruit snacks I was giving her. Lesbians hate fruit snacks.
2. Mr. Dub made me an amazing dessert, like right now - as I'm blogging it. (Welcome to the future, folks.) If I was a cool blogger, I would tell you how it was home-churned vanilla bean ice milk with tender cubes of fresh bananas and ripe strawberries served in a red vintage bowl. But I'm not. So I won't. (And it wasn't.)
3. I found a baby on the side of the road and brought it home to live with me. Or maybe that was just a dream. I'm really baby hungry. Did I mention there were baby bits on that ice milk? Mmm ... delicious.
4. Lyndsay (a friend of a friend) sent me this fabulous masthead. Don't you love it? I love it. Or, as Miss Dub has been saying lately, "I wuv it, wuv it." I do believe you can get one, too, right here. Or here. Or here. (Yes, it's all the same link, but have you linked yet?)