The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades (?)

The question mark in the title is mine. While I'm loving being in school (get up off the floor, Mom & Dad), I do know that graduation is coming up faster rather than slower. My classes end in February 2011, even though I don't "officially" graduate until June 2011. And, before anyone asks, yes, there will be two graduation parties: one here in MOFN and one in NJ at Dad's house.

(Oh, Dad, did I mention that? Is that cool?)

Fun stuff like grad parties aside, I've begun The Great Job Search. It's never too early to see what's out there. Since my school is located in New York, I'll automatically be taking the medical assistant exam for New York State. I can also take the Pennsylvania exam for a small fee and, since about 60% of the girls who go to EBI live in PA, I shouldn't be alone in the testing center. I figured with both exams under my belt, I can either stay up here (I can hear Erick screaming "NO!" in my head as I typed that) or we can try to relocate closer to NJ via southern PA.

I know I don't have to tell anyone how hard it is out there, but doing a search for "medical assistant jobs in {fill in state}" dished up tons of jobs. I did a little happy dance in my seat before I started actually reading the job posts: True to form, the search engine brought up every job that had "medical" and "assistant" in the text. So pretty much any job that offered medical insurance was listed for me.

Rolling my eyes, I started to weed out the irrelevant jobs (oh, like pet grooming assistant at Petco, which offered medical and dental insurance). It took forever. Umpteen hours later, I finally had a coherent list of jobs. Time for another happy dance.

Well, I happy danced too soon. Every job wanted 1 - 2 years' experience. Most of the jobs in New Jersey and southeastern Pennsylvania wanted 3 - 5 years' experience.

Cancel happy dance. Commence flop sweat.

I tried not to panic. I tried to stay cool. I tried not to burst into tears. I suddenly felt very much like a real college student, facing a real problem that real college students face:

"HOW IN THE NAME OF THE SWEET BABY JESUS DO I FIND A JOB WHEN I HAVE NO EXPERIENCE?!?!"

(Okay, deep breaths, Aim. Calm down.)

So I'm thinking that as much as I hate to admit it, we may be stuck up here a little bit longer than planned. EBI helps you get interviews, which is invaluable in a place where things are so far apart and a lot of jobs are word-of-mouth and not actually advertised, but it also means we can't escape as soon as we wanted.

That being said, I put out this request (or what I'm picturing in my head as me throwing myself on the ground in front of everyone, prostrate with grief, clasping my hands, rolling my eyes and gnashing my teeth): "SOMEBODY FIND ME A JOB!!"

Preferably one that doesn't require experience.

Perspective

It seems that I've been giving Will a bad rap lately.

As I've met up with friends over the last couple of weeks, people have said things like, "Oh, I read your blog. How's it going with Will?"

I'd wince internally and have a momentary sense of guilt for slandering my poor child on the internet. But this guilt would be fleeting when he would live up to his reputation. Wild and crazy. Ignoring my directions and beating up his little brother.

For example...

Mischievous smile. Obviously plotting something.

I believe I was saying, "Will, go stand by Liam so I can take a picture."

A tube on the head.

Will thinks this is hilarious. Liam is calm and unaffected.

Will realizes he needs to up his game.

Will steals hose, aims and squirts.

Liam is screaming. Mission accomplished.

Notice the pure joy on Will's face.

And other times, he'd make my posts seem like complete fabrications. Acting calm, reasonable and mature.

"Play on the sprayground? No thanks, Mom.

Instead, I'll just sit here quietly reading my magazine. La, la, la..."

When we brought Liam home from the hospital, people would often ask how Will was adjusting. Was he acting out and trying to get our attention? Was he regressing? Was he being aggressive towards the baby? Our answers to all of these questions were negative. Overall, Will was indifferent. After all, not much really changed for him. He was still the star of the show and he got plenty of attention. Liam just kind of sat there-- with not much of an opinion. His needs simply didn't conflict with Will's. Liam needed a bottle, a diaper, and some cuddling and soothing. He'd sit and watch from the sidelines-- in his bouncer or on a blanket. From Will's standpoint, not much to be jealous of. There was very little competition and almost no opportunity for disagreement between them. Liam was the baby and Will was the big boy.

Now, two years later, there's a new big boy in town.

Note that Will is out of frame, but nearby.

Pouting on the couch because we didn't build the track his way.

All of the "adjustment" issues people warned us about finally arrived this summer. This, of course, makes total sense. Rather than being stationed at separate daycare centers, the boys are constantly sharing the same play space this summer. After spending the year shadowing and observing his big brother, Liam has become his own person.

He wants the Batcave, not the Little People Treehouse. He wants the best Transformer, not the broken one Will used to hand him. He wants to choose the television show, and he's not a fan of Pokemon. They are often in conflict and they're both learning, at different levels, how to deal with it.

When upset, Liam screams and hits and throws himself on the floor in full freakout mode. I try to be patient with him, because he is learning and because he's not even two for crying out loud. When Will does the same, I have absolutely no patience, because he should know better and he's, again with the crying out loud, almost five freaking years old. On a pretty regular basis, they are both grabbing toys, refusing to share and fighting. Liam gets gentle warnings and redirection. Will gets yelled at and sent to time out. I can see, from Will's perspective, how that might seem incredibly unfair. And it makes total sense that this might cause Will to exact a little "justice" (see pool incident above) now and then.

On the upside, we've all gotten a little more perspective on the issue. Will is learning better "negotiation" skills. I'm trying to treat Will with a little more TLC and understanding. And Liam? Well, he's just being two-- for like, the entire next twelve months.

Oh God.

In Which Amy Laments Writer's Block

Writer's block sucks.

Okay, that's an oversimplification.

Writer's block blows.

See 2nd statement.

If I was more eloquent and verbose, I would throw around statements like:

Writer's block is abominable, odious and contemptible. (thank you, dictionary.com)

I don't know how many of my massive amounts of readers know, but I write short stories. I always have. Mom says that she can't remember a time that I didn't have a pencil and paper in my hand. If I dig deep enough, I can probably find all my old journals, dating back to elementary school, when I would write pages about ponies and unicorns and princesses and ghosts and knights and so on ad naseum. Back then--even then, I should say--I was insanely dramatic, noting that all my stories were written by Amethyst Kathleen Vanessa Marie DiLonardo (I had about 3 more middle names, but I can't remember them now).

I never had a problem coming up with stories then. Of course, I stuck to what I "knew": princesses and unicorns. It was always some brave princess besting some stupid boy and talking to her unicorn (who could speak too, of course. had you any doubt?) about how stupid boys were and how she was so glad she didn't have to go to school. Look, elementary school was hard: I hadn't grown into my Italian nose yet and Billy Clay (yeah, I name-dropped him) started calling me Gonzo. Unfortunately, the name stuck. And, for that reason, my princess aways had a Irish, turned-up button nose.

When I hit high school, the stories got darker and more angsty. I was in the throes of teenagerhood, where everything is a trauma and life and death hung in the balance of whether Marc Sheehan (yeah, I name-dropped again) would say hi to me in the hallway or not. Princesses were replaced by teenage girls so confident, you'd think she'd never popped a zit during lunch period and watched in horror as it poured blood down her chin as the realization that "Oh, sweet bloody baby Jesus! I have 3 more periods to go!" meant that she had to walk around with a peice of toilet paper stuck to her chin to stop the flow.

But then sometime after high school (maybe in the Daria years), I stopped writing as much. Who knows why? I suddenly had a life, a boyfriend, and a bf who's idea of fun was driving into NYC for a hot dog from the vendor in front of the Met and then driving home again. Can you blame me for not writing?

I do have a few stories saved on my USB stick. I'll open one up every once and a while and write for hours and hours and hours until I'm exhausted or until my fingers cramp up whichever comes first. Then I won't touch the story again for months (no, seriously, months) because I've exhausted my idea store and everything's out of stock and on back-order.

That was fine when I was "doodling" along on my own, writing for myself and my own sense of humor. But then I was invited to Blog with a Friend (it sounds like a Jennifer Aniston rom-com, doesn't it?) and I was all for it.

"Woo-HOO!!" I thought. "Now I can show everyone how funny I am!"

Riiiiiiight.

Most of the time, I find myself staring at the empty blog post page, the stark white blankness of it and blinking cursor just fucking taunting me to write something simple but clever, acerbic but nice, and with depth and meaning. Have you read Cara's posts? Pearls of delightfully storytelling just rolls off her fingertips like . . . pearls (g-d you, writer's block!). And just share with you that I'm not alone in my thinking this, I share this anecdote:

Flinging myself over Mom's picnic table, I moaned, "Cara's posts are so much better than mine. Have you read her new one? About the taking her boys to the water park? I laughed my ass off. I don't even laugh my ass off over my own posts."

Looking up at Mom for some warm, Donna Reed-type encouragement, I was (not-so) shocked to see Mom making the face I like to call the "How the hell do I lie to my daughter about how brilliant of a blogger she is when I don't laugh at her posts nearly as much as I laugh at her friends'?" face. She couldn't even rearrange her features fast enough to cover it up. So I stared in anguish with a dawning understanding that Mom doesn't think I'm the funniest lady next to Tina Fey and she stammered out:

"Well, she's a teacher. She's used to producing more than you are. She's in a different mindset."

Knife, meet back.

(In my defense, I do know how to produce, in my own way. I wrote a 12 page paper on the three types of plague for my A&P class last semester in an hour. So there.)

Surprisingly enough, my next blog post after that conversation (Damn Right it Was a Good Day) so sparse, limp and pathetic, I could almost call it impotent.

I figured to get some bloggy inspiration, I'd read some blogs written by people I either really like or who I think are really funny. I chose:

1. Motherhood Uncensored (as the title explains, it's one woman's more than candid examination of her life with a pilot husband and 3-going-on-4 kids)

2. The Raucous Royals (all about epically naughty royals and the cool shit they didn't teach us in history class)

3. Wil Wheaton in Exile (written by my first geek crush, Wil Wheaton, it's a daily study of his life as a husband, father, writer, gaming geek, and struggling/working actor)

4. Trying to Survive (my nearly-bff Sarah's blog on living in MOFN, PA with 3 kids and a near-husband)

So I read. And read. And read. Boy, did it make me depressed. I mean, they were all such good writers.

"C'mon, Aim," I said to myself last night around 2.30 am when I finally finished reading 4 years' worth of archived Wil Wheaton-penned blog entries. "Excluding Sarah, these are all published authors."

And, as a person who's been writing since she could hold a pencil and form complete sentences, that just bummed me out even more.

ps: And just to prove I'm suffering a case of EPIC WRITER'S BLOCK, I walked away from this post to rinse dishes and load Washie for 45 minutes and think of what the hell I was going to write next.

Guilt Free

After dropping the kids at summer camp, I spent most of Tuesday morning at the dealership where we purchased our car. There was a recall issue which needed to be taken care of. And additionally, our 'smart key' had stopped working.

A few weeks ago, it became a little temperamental. Locking, unlocking, opening and closing whenever it felt like it. With two kids in tow, in crowded parking lots, this was a problem.

The huz suspiciously asked if I had been slipping the key in my sports bra during my runs-- implying that this was my fault.

"No", I answered innocently. But we probably both knew that I was lying.

Because I am alone when working out or racing, all of my possessions are locked in the van and the key is usually stuffed into my sports bra for safe keeping. Unfortunately, swimming in boob sweat isn't exactly the the definition of safe keeping. Bill had informed me that replacement of the key was probably not covered under the warranty and that it would cost something like $200 to replace.

So I was sitting in the waiting room at the car dealership. Drinking bad coffee, flipping through Golfers Digest and realizing that Nick Jr. has a way better morning lineup than ABC. I was preparing to shoulder the responsibility for this screw up. For this two hundred dollar screw up. I should have tied it to my shoes or in the drawstring of my shorts or stored it in some fancy running fanny pack. But now it was too late.

All I could do was try to think of a similar screw up by the huz. To ease my guilt. To make things feel a little more even. I was sure that there was something. He had to have broken something expensive around here. But what? Think, think, think....

Unfortunately, all I could think of was the time he had volunteered to go ahead early and hold our place at the town's Memorial Day Parade. Working with whatever was in the van, he used my yoga mat. He laid my yoga mat down on the dirty sidewalk and the kids trampled it for two hours. Yes, that showed some poor judgement. And yes, that was pretty annoying. But ultimately, nothing was destroyed.

Nice baseball chair.

Then there was the pumpkin carving incident of 2008. But again, nothing destroyed-- just a little scarring. Fear of closed spaces, fear of pumpkins, Halloween, that sort of thing.

This was a bad, bad idea.

There was also the time I sent him to get Will a haircut before our vacation. After explicitly explaining the 'short on the sides, longer on the top' summer cut I had wanted, my baby came home with a super short crew cut. Poor judgement? Check. Pretty annoying? Check. But again, nothing destroyed.

Bald, but still cute.

Ultimately, the service manager put my guilt to rest. He rescued me from the waiting room with the service slip which indicated that no money was owed. The official word was that the key 'had a short in it' and it was covered under the warranty. So we got a brand new spanking new one.

Soon I'll be heading to a running store to get me one of those fancy running belts. In the meantime, I've been stuffing this bad boy in my bra.

Ouch.

It's the master key that pulls out of the valet key. In two words: sharp and unpleasant. In two other words: guilt free.

Damn Right it Was a Good Day

Today could be a really, really bad day. For many reasons.

No money, honey.

Too hot to function.

Midterms (Little known exam fact: Flop sweat stains ditto paper).

Instead, it's turning out to be a good day. For one reason.

Lizzie, showing off her dance moves.

I just wanted to mark that fact.

As you were.

Two

We live next door to a nice couple. They are around our age and in a similar stage of their lives. We are friendly neighbors, but not exactly friends. We wave and make small conversations when doing yard work or bringing in the garbage cans. When I hear a car door slam, I curiously look out the window to see what they're up to. I imagine that they do the same.

Five years ago, we were married young couples about to have our first babies. The curb outside of our homes was lined with crushed cardboard boxes that once held cribs and strollers and car seats. Our cars would come and go, as we were often out to dinner or the movies-- taking the advice of our friends and soaking up our last days of freedom.

After what seems like the shortest summer ever, we each brought home our baby boys.

In the months that followed, you could easily tell which room was the nursery in both of our houses by the soft glow of light that seemed to emanate, off and on, all night long. Instead of dinners out, there was a lot of take-out and delivery. Instead of the movie theater, there was television on the couch. On the chance meetings that we’d have upon arriving or leaving our homes, we’d commiserate about the challenges of raising a newborn. The sleep deprivation, the breastfeeding, the diapers, the laundry, the change in our lifestyles.

Two and a half years later, Bill and I were expecting our second baby. “Wow...”, our neighbors said, looking surprised. They were fine with one baby. Relieved that the ‘baby stage’ was over. Happy to have more independence. Confident that they could give their only son plenty of attention. Certain that, with one child, they would always have enough time and money and energy.

It sounded reasonable and I didn’t judge them. I was happy to be adding to our family and giving Will a sibling.

In August of 2008, we brought home our second baby and I was lucky enough to be able to afford an entire year of maternity leave.

Some days were easier than others, but overall I had my hands full. My three-year-old wanted to do elaborate art projects and build Lego models and play hide and seek. My infant wanted to eat and nap for 20 minutes and eat and nap for 20 minutes… and be held constantly. Add to this the ever-present piles of laundry and dishes and scattered piles of toys. Then toss in the fact that I was existing on 3 – 4 solid hours of sleep each night. Liam cried a lot. Will was frustrated with the things we couldn’t do. The house was falling apart. I was exhausted and fat and feeling incompetent.

In the beginning, I remember peering over at my neighbor’s house. In the late evening and early morning hours, the house was completely dark as everyone was getting a full nights sleep. She’d be gardening or sunbathing and her son would be busy playing. Sometimes she’d chase him or they’d be doing some kind of activity together. I’d see them coming and going—with restaurant leftovers or bags from various stores. In particular, she seemed so well-rested and put-together and content.

Over time, the three of us (Liam, Will and I) found a rhythm. Liam started napping more and crying less. Will learned to be a little more independent and patient. I perfected the art of multi-tasking and got used to living with the minor imperfections of a sink full of dishes or an overflowing garbage can. I discovered ways to spend time with each child, complete a little housework and even (on some days) get a shower.

Here we are two years later. It’s a little before 8 am on a Monday and the kids have already been up for almost two hours. At this moment, there is folded laundry on my dining room table and the breakfast dishes are sitting on the countertop. I’ve microwaved my mug of coffee no less than three times and I’m unshowered, wearing yoga pants and an old t-shirt. There are toys everywhere and I’ve already refereed at least twelve disagreements over who gets what chair and what cup and what television show and what action figure. Our plans for today include going absolutely nowhere—art projects on the deck, a swim in the pool and a carpet picnic for lunch.

Here we are two years later and I still have my hands full— but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

August, 2008

Today.

Outnumbered

For the last few years, we've purchased season passes to a local water park. Throughout the summer, we've been going for an hour or two before closing, when Bill gets home from work.

During the day, when I'm on my own (translation: outnumbered), we tend to stick closer to home. Small playgrounds, the backyard, playdates, little outings. Situations that are fairly predictable and laid-back.

On Wednesday, however, I decided to mix it up a little and take my kids to said water park solo.

I announced my plans to Bill on Wednesday morning, as he was leaving for work, and asked him where the passes were. He had left them on the counter or in the cabinet or in his bathing suit pocket or in the van or the diaper bag or... You see where this is going, right? It took a little over an hour to find the passes (which were in none of the aforementioned places) and to pack lunch, bathing suits, swim diapers, towels, sunscreen and about a thousand other necessities that need to be gathered and carried in order to sustain two small children in a water park for two hours.

Not to be outdone, the boys were equally as busy.

Busy, busy, busy.

Maybe they were looking for the passes too.

No, probably not.

We cleaned up together (Me: 90%, Them: 10%. No. Scratch that. Me: 110%, Them: -10%) and I got them dressed and fed and slathered in sunscreen. Then I wrestled them into their water shoes and put them where they could do no more harm.

It's the old 'belt your kids in the car with movie and AC while you

lug the double stroller and multiple baggage into the van' trick.

We arrived at the park shortly after and I turned to see...

What?! Dumping toys all over the house is hard work.

Unfortunately, Liam is not a happy camper when woken up from a nap. That detail, combined with the fact that the walk through the parking lot and into the park seemed like seventy freaking miles across the sun, had him whining and crying the entire way. This, however, did not sway the security guards from inspecting very cubic inch of our belongings. (No worries though. Our stroller has many secret compartments for Goldfish, fruit snacks and water. Bwahahaha.)

I must admit though, things did improve once we got settled inside the park.

I gave the kids my 'remember what happened to Nemo speech'-- reminding them to stay close and listen. And then we sang the classic 'Stay. Stay. Stay by your Mom' song-- sung to the tune of the Yo Gabba Gabba classic, "Don't Bite Your Friends". Keeping my eyes on both of them is usually my biggest worry.

The kids were pretty well behaved with the exception of the 3,985 splashes Liam took to the face at the hands of his big brother. I wish that I had taken some pics, but having two arms and two kids in a huge crowd makes the camera work a little complicated. (Also, the lockers cost like a bajillion dollars and so I wasn't bringing my phone or camera into the park.)

The hardest part was probably all of the work entailed with getting out of the house and then getting back in. Handling the logistics of packing and then unpacking on top of supervising the kids is not an easy task. But all in all, it was a good experience. One that I will definitely try again with some minor readjustments... Like setting things out the night before, having Bill load the double stroller before work and getting there a little earlier for better parking.

Also, mentally preparing myself for running into my high school students while in a (gasp) bathing suit. As if that's even possible.

Enter the Awesomeness of the Summer Wedding

Before starting a family, Bill and I used to spend our summers playing tennis, watching movies, reading books and eating out. We were all about soaking up as much relaxation, and air conditioning, as possible.

In the last few years, our summers have changed pretty dramatically. Our laid-back summer vacation has been replaced by a routine that includes, but is not limited to: theme parks, boardwalks, water parks, playgrounds, county fairs, beaches, animated movies, pools, and lots of ice cream shops. While Bill is at work, I'll take the kids solo. When he's home, we go as a family. And while all of these events are packed with 'family fun', they are mainly geared towards providing our kids with some great and memorable summer experiences. Unfortunately, such an action-packed summer often leaves us exhausted and passed out on the couch no more than twenty minutes after the kids have gone to bed.

Enter the awesomeness of the summer wedding.

The summer wedding is awesome on so many levels. Let me explain. One: it is generally an 'adults only' affair. Which leads to two: five hours of a blissfully open bar. Which leads to three: a hotel room. Which leads to four: an overnight babysitter for the kids.

Now these, of course, are just the obvious advantages. In addition, we have some related awesomeness: a new dress and shoes, slow dancing with the huz, good food (and lots of it), adult conversation and downtime, and really, really, really good sex.

As much as I love changing a fantastic poop diaper or cleaning ravioli out of a onesie, it's nice to get a little break. And as much as I like being bumped awake from a really sound sleep by someone asking me if I'm 'in the mood', it's nice to do things a little more consciously (if you don't count the four Long Island Iced Teas) and romantically.

This past weekend, The Gods smiled upon us and the week of our eight year anniversary coincided with a family wedding in the northern part of the state. I'm tremendously pleased to say we enjoyed all of the advantages described above.

Empire waist and leopard print high heels

as per Stacy and Clinton.

I'm also pleased to say that another one of Bill's cousins is getting married next summer. And because Bill seems to have something like a hundred cousins, we could actually keep this up for a while.

Point-Not-So-Pleasant

If you had been in Point Pleasant on Thursday evening, we might have run into each other. If you had been searching for a spot in the municipal parking lot, across from the ride park, then it might have been your lucky day.

At a little after six, I rolled up to another minivan and motioned for the driver to roll down the window. He was a dad with a car full of kids. I said, "Hey, I already paid for six hours of parking and I've got to leave. Want my ticket?"

He looked confused. I don't think he really understood the awesome gift that I was offering him. Thirteen dollars worth of awesomeness. He also might have been taken aback by the screams, kicks and wails resonating from the back seat. I smiled, thrust the ticket at him, and kept driving.

This was a first. A milestone. And honesty, I had seen it coming.

A couple weeks ago, my sweet, polite, well-behaved almost-five-year-old began a downward spiral. "Please" and "Thank you" were replaced by "I want it!" and "NOW!". He was yelling and hitting and grabbing. Standing on the furniture, eating like an animal, lying about brushing his teeth and peeing with the seat down. Attempts at reasoning with him fell on deaf ears and he could most likely be found in time out.

As a matter of fact, he mastered the 'time out' maneuver.

He would be engaged in some unlawful activity-- like strangling his little brother or knocking over furniture. A parent would announce a time out and he would silently go to his little chair. No arguing, no crying. He would sit there quietly, waiting to be released. When time was up, he'd be back at it in a matter of minutes. Throwing toys at his little brother or purposely destroying something.

So we elevated to the 'go to bed early' maneuver.

This seemed a little more effective because he hated it so much more. He would head up to his room, crying and pleading for more chances. Promising to 'not be crazy anymore'. But we stayed the course and told each other it was for the best. That this was going to make a difference.

But the next morning, within 10 minutes of waking up, he was chasing poor Liam around the house. Growling and clawing like a wild animal as his little brother fled in terror-- screaming and crying, tripping over his own feet and wailing. All to his big brother's delight.

So, the other night, we elevated to 'go directly to home, do not see fireworks, do not collect any cotton candy'. In other words, we abandoned our plans for rides, games and fireworks because Will simply would not listen. He was torturing his brother, running around, yelling and fighting with some of the other kids we were with. It was unbelievable, really.

Surely, this would make an indelible impression. He would remember this next time.

So here we are. Tonight. At Great Adventure. On the Carousel.

Ahhh... this is more like it. A nice family outing.

But wait. What's this?

Caught in the act! Attacking his little brother.

My poor husband is going to lose it. Really.

So we're staying the course and waiting out what is hopefully a short phase. We're trying to be patient and firm without flipping out. We are drinking heavily. We are hanging in there.

And if all else fails, I believe that an exorcism may be in order.

You're Never Too Old for Cartoons

I know all of you Peanut Butter & Jelly fans have been enjoying Cara's posts over the past few days, but there's been a nagging little voice in the back of your head, saying, "Hey, where's Amy? Gosh, I miss her gut-busting posts!" So, here's another gut-buster for you.

In the late 90s (circa 1997), I was 20, had been out of high school for two years, and was--for lack of a better term--more than a little directionless. I was messing around at OCC (aka Hooper High or Brick High School Jr.) and barely working at K-Mart. My days were taken up with sleeping as late as possible and scurrying out of the house before Dad came home from work for lunch (some days, I barely made it around the block, going in the opposite direction that Dad came, watching fearfully as Dad's black Toyota approached our driveway in my rear view mirror). Due to my lackadaisical attitude, tensions ran high in the house: Dad would rant about how I wasn't living up to my potential (STILL!!) and Mom would wring her hands and try to appeal to me to "do something."

One day, after sitting mutely through one of Dad's lunchtime talks (I had overslept and didn't make it to my friend's house in time), I was moping around the house, putting any food I could find into my face and wishing that everyone would just leave me alone. I didn't have class and my shift at the Big Red K didn't start for hours, so I turned on the TV. Now, MTV and I have never been friends, but today I paused just long enough to see this face looking back at me:

I don't care what anyone says. She looks like me as a cartoon.

Holy crap. That looks like me, I thought gleefully.

(Look, a plain, brunette with round black-framed glasses doesn't come along on TV all that much. I'll take a cartoon character.)

Yes, I had discovered Daria. She was sarcastic, had one friend, couldn't wait to get out of high school where everyone was popular/stupid/exactly the same and her family was . . . well, let's just say they were less than perfect. I had found my role model.

Pathetic? Absolutely. What 20-year-old wants to admit that her role model was a cartoon spin-off from Beavis and Butthead? But Daria was hysterical. It skewered high school and portrayed it like I remembered it. Daria's younger sister Quinn was so my sister Beth (in my eyes) that I had a hard time not snickering when Beth would talk, hearing Quinn's voice instead. Mom and Dad were hardly like Daria's parents, but the overly Type A personality mom on the show made me feel better about Dad and his inspirational little "chats" with me about my future.

As time went on, I grew up a little and my enthusiasm for Daria didn't wan. But I got a regular 9 to 5 job and started missing episodes. I met Erick in '98 and began spending all my extra time at his house. I tried to catch episodes during my weekend visits to South Jersey, but Erick didn't like Daria and we were usually so--uh--busy that we didn't watch a lot of TV anyway. And, once Erick and I got married in '99, I didn't even know if Daria was on anymore.

Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead . . .

It's the middle of the night and I'm wide awake. I'm supposed to be doing my homework, but instead I'm watching TV (it's called a "break," Dad & Erick!). In fact, I was watching reruns of That 70s Show on TeenNick (nothing makes you feel older than contemporary shows as reruns. Realizing The Wonder Years was going to be on Nick at Nite after The Andy Griffin Show made me want to buy Geritol and denture cream, but that's another post. lol) Suddenly I saw this face looking back at me:

Yup, she still looks like me.

DARIA!!! She was back!!! Suddenly the fact I had missed the last three seasons of the original run didn't even matter. I was over-the-moon excited. My late teens-early 20s role model was back, better than ever. I was on Amazon faster than white on rice, only to discover that I'd probably have to ask Santa for Daria for Christmas.

In fact, I started my not-so-subtle campaign for the Daria DVDs the next night. Sitting on the couch with Erick, I turned to him and said, "Daria is coming out on DVD. Can you get it for me for Christmas?" I still can't believe he agreed. But that's what marriage is about, humouring your mate and buying them DVDs of cartoons they watched when they were a slacking, 20ish stoner with no motivation.

PS: I'm hoping that Erick knows I'm totally serious about the DVDs. I don't even care if they're my only gift. Daria rules!!