Blog Like Ninja

Sucker vs. lollipop

2011-11-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

My 11 year old son held flat blob of candy on a stick and called it a lollipop. I asked him if it was a lollipop or a sucker. Definitely a lollipop mom. So what is the difference. Lollipops are flat blobs of hard candy on a stick. Suckers are balls of hard candy on a stick. I got on line and did a little research of my own. I found a blog that said a 10 year stated it was just the opposite of what my son thinks. I always thought of a lollipop as something you have to lick. (You know those big coiled lollipops that are as big as your face.) and a sucker as something you could put in your mouth and suck on.

It turns out that they are all lollipops whether you call it a lollipop, sucker, pop, or a lolly. It is hard candy on a stick that can be licked or sucked. Who knew.

Summer Memories

2011-09-02T08:48:00.001-07:00

Most of the memories I have from this past summer include a lot of work and a lot of school. I didn't get a chance to spend a lot of time with my family. I think I spent more time at both work and school than I did with my family this summer. I just keep telling myself that when school is done, I'll have an Associate's degree in something that will help me get a better job than the cashier job I have now.

I went to the lake with a couple of friends of mine earlier in the summer before it got really, really hot. Bella loved it and and made some new friends. As it happens, one of those new friends lives less than a minute away! We haven't been over there, though. I work with her daddy and bonus mom. Hopefully we'll be able to hang out more often.

While this next bit has nothing to do with today's title, I think that if I really like the math instructor I have, I might take an additional math class or two to complete my Associate's in Business Administration. I think I need Finite Mathematics and Statistics, so we'll see how that goes.

I also need to take a Spanish class. I think I'm going to take a full load in the Spring semester (five classes) to try and finish up as much as I can toward my Associate's in Business Administration. I think that with all that classes I've taken (and will take during winter break and intersession next year), I'll have enough for SOMETHING besides General Studies.

I've also been going back to my Milady book. When I have the funds for it, I'm going to register online to take practice tests and save the money I need to take the REAL written exam. After I take the written exam, I can do the practical exam and then I'm done! I think I'm going to drive to Shreveport instead of Dallas. I need to make sure that it won't count as a Louisiana cosmetology license, though. I also need to replenish what I need for my practical exam and find someone to go with me to Shreveport when I take my practical exam. I'm sure if I post something on Facebook around that time, I won't have a problem finding someone.

Old Friends

2010-09-28T13:46:00.001-07:00

It's strange to have ex-boyfriends on one's social networking page. I suppose I'm one of the strange ones. Of the few serious relationships I've been in (including my current as a wife), only one boyfriend isn't on my friends list. I'm not losing sleep over it, if that's what one wonders. I do see if they're on this networking site, but maybe only once a year.

The first love of my life is on my friends list. Though things were tough and quite rocky toward the end, we managed to scrape up what was once a good friendship, and reform that friendship. We're both happily married and have children close in age. His oldest daughter is less than 14 days younger than my only daughter.

He instant messaged me on this networking site to just chat. I have no problem with this. I found it odd that he IM'ed me first; he rarely does this. Either way, I was happy to chat (I was already chatting with an old friend from 12 or so years ago). We talked about life, kids, work. Out of the blue, he says to me, "And don't take this the wrong way, but your profile pic really brings out your features," or something like that. I wish I could remember the exact wording.

I bring it up because it caught me off-guard. I've never been all that great at accepting compliments. Considering our past, I just never really expected it from him. He still admits that he's an asshole. I was really mad at him back then for being an asshole, not caring about the feelings of others.

However, maturing and parenthood tends to change people; most of them, for the better. I enjoy talking to him. We've finally come back around the circle and become friends again and this makes me happy. Even if he was an asshole of a boyfriend, when we were still just friends all those years ago, he was a good one to have. And he still is.

Oh, Bella, my Bella

2010-08-24T08:35:00.000-07:00

My daughter, Belladonna, talks in her sleep. She's also pretty good at telling me about bad dreams that she's had just moments before. Last night was no different.

She woke up from a bad dream last night. I heard her call for me over the monitor and rushed to her room. She was laying on her bed, feet under the pillow, snuggling her special pink blanket (made just for her) and a smallish Pooh Bear quilt. I asked her to tell me about her dream.

She said her animals were taken by a human; a "chocolate" man named Gabriel who's been following her. She said that he has two dragons: a silver one and a gold one. She says her green dragon, Gorbash (points to your House if you can remember where that name orignates), will help her.

I told her that if she returns to the Land of Dreams, she can go back and get her animals from the human and that Mommy can help her from that place.

After some kisses and "Mommy, I forgot something..." I left her room and attempted sleep. I then hear over the monitor the following statements:

"Who is making that noise?"
"Who is that?"
"Who's there?"
"No!"

I'm wondering what her dream entailed. I'm hoping she got her animals back and ran away from "Gabriel." I honestly have no recollection of helping her. I feel bad about that, but I can't control my dreams currently.

Conversations with my kids

2010-08-13T11:43:00.000-07:00

My 4 year old comes in and says, "Can you pie me?"
Me, "Can I what?"
Blaine, "Can you pie me."
ME, "Go..." he ran off to Daddy.
Blaine, "Can you pie me?"
Daddy, "What?"
Blaine, "Pie!"
Daddy, "Is that how you ask?"
Blaine, "Please?"
Daddy, "Please what?"
Blaine, "Pie."
Me, "Blaine what do you want?"
Blaine, "Pie"
Me, "So how do you ask."
Blaine, "Please pie!"
Me, "Blaine , can I."
Blaine, "Can I,"
Me, "Have some."
Blaine, "Some pie?"
Me "Pie please?"
Blaine, "Please pie?" Almost dancing to get his point across.
Yes kid, we know you want pie.

Speech therapy is helping. He is a lot easier to understand, but sentence structures still fails him. We go through this every time he wants something. He gets a little frustrated and says it louder, but he is still not saying it in a manner that will get him what he wants. Thankfully he is silly and doesn't really get mad at us for trying to get him to speak properly. We usually all end up laughing by the time he finally tells us what he wants. He got his pie.

False Idols

2010-03-21T08:33:00.000-07:00

You know, it's an odd thing when you find out both sides to the same story. You keep thinking the side you've been around your entire life is so truthful when, in fact, she pretended to be a Vulcan or Minbari and omit information.

For the majority of my life, I've been lead to believe that my father has been very irresponsible and never wanted to keep me when my parents divorced. Come to find out, he was pretty much forced to give me up for adoption when my mom divorced him.

She had the bright idea of sending him the paperwork while he was away in Korea (both of them were in Air Force then), she was fucking around on him.. in their bed!

Turns out my dad was an innocent bystander in everything. Yeah, he was young but he loved me. My mother has even admitted to tricking him into giving me up for adoption. I'm not sure if she feels bad about it. I wish I would have had the choice of who I wanted to live with, once I was of age.

It's amazing the things that come to light when you're older.

NO means "NO" - A Lesson In Self-Control

2009-09-21T06:14:00.000-07:00

Pizza seduces me. It tempts me with its slightly browned cheese and its rich and nommable tomato sauce. It whispers, "Eat me" and without hesitation I do. I can't help myself.

I was having a(nother) piece of pizza at dinner tonight, despite the annoying little voice that said,

"No, Erika. Put that back. You don't want another slice."

I ignored that voice and went for the second helping:

"Add more crushed red pepper! Mama-Mia, I like-a the spicy pizza!"

*shake-a shake-a shak-AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!! MYEYESITBURNSMYEYESOWOWOWOWOW!!!*

Yes. In my fevered frenzy of seasoning, the smallest particles of (really) crushed red pepper caught the wind of the ceiling fan and...I peppered myself.

Ow.

After about ten minutes of flushing my very sore, very red eyes under the bathroom faucet and cursing the employees of McCormick Spices and their offspring and their offspring's offspring and anyone who knew their offspring's offspring, I spent another ten minutes enduring watery eyes and an uncontrollably runny nose. I now understand what it is that pepper spray will do to an assailant.

I have learned my lesson. If I insist on forcing myself on the pizza, I MUST NOT ARM THE PIZZA. (Clearly, I was asking for it.) Better yet, I should steer clear of that Italian-American tease and never think of it again.

"NO" means "NO". I get that now.

I guess I didn't really want that piece of pizza after all. Now that I think about it, it probably had a parasite in its pepperoni.

(Ah-HA! Did you see what I did there? I rejected the pizza, it didn't reject me. I dumped it first, therefore I win. Humph!)

*quietly* Slut.

There's No Place Like Home?

2009-07-15T23:56:00.000-07:00

After seeing the musical Wicked the other night (which was a completely amazing experience), I'm stuck with multiple Oz-related references resounding through my cranium. But Dorothy's famous click-of-the-slippers catchphrase hits me much closer to home than the lions and tigers and bears that we saw at the zoo today.

I've been at my mom's house for three weeks. This weekend, I'm packing up the kids and returning home. I sorta have to, right? After all, I do live there. I have bills to pay and obligations to fulfill, my kids are enrolled in swim lessons at the local community center in August and will be starting school again in September...and oh yeah, my husband is there.

My marriage has been so emotionally tumultuous over the past year that I was on the verge of filing for divorce a month ago. I changed my mind when my husband experienced what seemed to be a genuine change of heart just before I left. My only explanation for his apparent turnaround is that he could tell how disconnected I was from the relationship, and it helped something click for him. I can't quite explain it, but he acts much differently towards me now. I can tell that he is feeling things more deeply and has gained some awareness of his own emotion.

He calls it a miracle. If it turns out to carry any sustainability, I might use the same word.

That should be a good thing, right? Honestly, the lack of any deep sense of connection between the two of us was one of the biggest voids in our marriage. And it seemed that all of a sudden, his emotional light bulb went on--but it felt more like a stadium flood light than a 50-watt reading lamp.

That's typical for him, though. He's a very extreme person overall. With him, there is almost never such a thing as a middle ground. His positive emotions are smothering and his negative emotions are crippling. And now, even though I can clearly sense that he feels things much differently than he has before, I am still very much aware that he is still the same highly intense person he has always been.

I want love to grow in my marriage, without a doubt. But it feels like his love for me has turned from a tiny seed into a mighty oak overnight, and any love I might feel for him is still a young, tender shoot that needs gentle and proper care--not a sudden blast of desert sun doused with a tsunami of water, but something warm, nurturing, and appropriate.

Although I feel ready to go back home and get back into my regular routine with my kids, I carry with me a sense of dread about the emotional roller coaster ride that awaits me. Caring for my husband is a hell of a lot of work. I hadn't realized how much until being away from him for a while. And ultimately, I've been much happier while not having to live with all that uncertainty about what my day to day life will be like.

Living with my parents can be difficult, for sure, but at least it's predictably so. I know my mom is anal about crumbs on the counter and dishes in the sink, I know my dad is rather silent and endearingly protective, and I know that my kids have to clean up after themselves around here or they'll send my mother to an early grave.

But I can always count on that, every day. It's secure. It's stable. It carries a vague sense of lunacy and a slight air of dementia, but those things feel comfy here because they have always been a part of this house. It's much easier than living with a person whose personality is so naturally volatile that he can seemingly turn from an arrogant bastard into a smothering emotional flood overnight.

I have been able to discuss some of these feelings with my husband over the phone, and I can tell by his responses that he is listening and understanding at least a portion of what I'm saying. But the conversations feel eerily vacuous when I lack the ability see his face or read his body language, and I can't feel confident that the person I will be living with when I get home will be at all receptive to my efforts to communicate with him.

I'm going home because I live there, because I want to give my marriage another chance, and because I know my husband needs me. But I wish I needed him as much as he needs me. I wish that I was going home with a sense of excitement and anticipation. I wish that I really missed my husband and couldn't wait to see him again. I wish that I could trust him to ask me what I need from him instead of assuming that he has already figured it out.

But mostly, I wish that I could be as certain as Dorothy that there's no place like home.

Can't live with 'em, can't sell 'em on Craigslist.

2009-07-03T17:06:00.000-07:00

I've noticed a lot of my mommy friends are encountering the same stressful problem right now. Our seemingly delightful offspring are fighting more and it's bugging the snot out of us all. Summer is here and we're still trying to get everything done that we normally do, only now we've got all these little needy people in the house and no school to send them off to during the day...and they're BORED little needy people.

Planning things to keep them busy will work to cut the fighting down a lot, but I know I'm not always that on-the-ball. So when we fall asleep at the Parental Wheel and the fighting begins, what can we do to keep our cool?

There are a couple of quick and easy fixes, that I use myself, They really will work. I just need to remember them in my day.

Say this. Don't think about it, just say it.

"I charge a dollar a minute to listen to children argue. Solve it yourselves."

Then look at the clock. Those kids will skedaddle out of there faster than you can blink. If it comes to fisticuffs, so be it. They'll learn other ways of solving their disagreements without bringing you into it.

For those kids who have no sense and very few cents, toys can be easily substituted for cash. Only the most awesomely cool, most played with toys are confiscated. Then they have the opportunity to earn the toys (or money) back by replacing the energy they drained out of you in doing some extra chore(s).

One for the tweens and/or teens who need to be chauffeured everywhere is this little gem: "I'll drive you to (wherever) as soon as ____, ____ and ____ are done." If these ____s are not completed before it's time to leave, the kid doesn't go. Simple as that. Their friends' birthday parties are not a grade requirement.

Whatever you need to get done today, make your job less stressful by getting those able-bodied young'uns to help. They live there, too. Home is more than a place for them to eat and sleep and ask for sh*t.

These are actually a couple of techniques I picked up from Parenting with Love and Logic, and although I can't take credit for them, I can certainly tell you that Love and Logic really does work.

Even the toddlers can do this stuff! It keeps me ahead of the AAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHH Moments when I remember to use it.

I hope I've just made your day easier. If you like these, use them. If you don't, forget them. Just remember that we DON'T have to do it all. Really. Keep your cool. It's summer and it's a jungle out there.

Spoiling Kiddo.

2009-06-18T20:51:00.000-07:00

Kiddo is my little sister. I'm not quite sure how she got the nickname, but it stuck - even some of her teachers refer to her as Kiddo. Oh, and by little sister I mean my nearly 16 year old 5'9 or so sister who has curves in the right places and makes clothes look good. Did I mention I'm 5'5 on a good day? Her legal name is Nicole Christen.

Kiddo has been having difficulty with backstabbing faux-friends and assorted other high school drama. It seems to have peaked lately, with one girl telling my sister to watch her back. Ugh.

Through a state funded program, my sister got a job that pretty much teaches her how to work. It is, in essence a paid internship. She gets $800 for 4 days a week for 5 weeks. Not bad for a first job. She has her official interview tomorrow (even though she already has the position, and starts Monday). Until my friend Kate and I took my sister on a shopping spree at H&M, she had no clothes that I would deem interview worthy. The only caveat was that Kate and I had final say on her clothes - since I was buying, I thought it was only fair. We picked out everything for her, living vicariously through the skinny girl.

She left H&M with a black pencil skirt that falls right at her knees, deep charcoal semi-wide leg dress pants, and salmon colored skinny fit dress pants to cover her 'non-butt' as she puts it. She also took home a gorgeous deep purple top that fits her like it is tailored just for her, a nifty looking non-fitted black top with flowers printed at the bottom hem (to go with the salmon pants) and a turquoise sundress.

We then headed over to Old Navy where she got two nice dressy tee shirts (one is Pink and the other is Teal), followed by Famous Footwear where she found a really cute pair of black low heels (not too easy in size 11!) on clearance.

Lucky girl made out like a bandit. She looks like an adult, instead of a trend-worshipping teenage drone. I walked out of the mall nearly $200 poorer. I spent a portion of my tattoo fund on her. I don't even spend that much on clothes for myself, but without hesitation I bought her every single thing that looked great on her.

However, Kiddo deserves it. She's the baby of the family who got shorted on so much, because my parents had done so much for my brother and myself that there isn't extra to spend. Kiddo watches Connor whenever needed, without asking any repayment. She rarely complains about anything, especially the lack of spending money that her friends have. They're the annoying girls at the mall that I hate with a passion.

Back to my point - my sister is one of the best people that I know. She is selfless, she gives and gives without expecting anything in return. To see her reaction when she saw exactly how much I'd spent on her was priceless. She was shocked. And unlike most people in her generation, grateful.

That is why I love spoiling my sister.

Where did I go wrong?

2009-06-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

My oldest son is 9 years old. He used to come and talk to me all the time. Then suddenly he wasn't able to talk to me about things. Now he comes and stands in front of me and just stares at me. If I ask him what he wants he puts his head down and talks so softly I can't hear him. If I ask him to repeat what he said he starts to cry. Sometimes he will write out his question, toss it at me and run away. The thing is I usually say yes.

This has been going on for a couple of years now. It is getting to the point where I just want to send him away as soon as he comes to me with that look on his face. I don't even want to try to deal with him because I know it would be easier to milk a bull that to get any information out of the child.

I know something has to change, but at this point I don't even know how to go about getting there. At the moment I am getting frustrated with him and yelling at him. I know that doesn't help the problem, but asking him nicely doesn't get through to him either. At this point I just want to scream.

I always hoped that I would have a really good relationship with my kids. I wanted to be the mom that all the kids came to. I want to be the cool mom. I feel like I am the mom that just yells at my kids and can't get them to listen or get through to them. I wanted to do 'do today' with my kids. My dad used to sit with us before bed and ask us 'what did you do today.' It was shortened to do today. I want that. I would ask my son when he got home from kindergarten what did you do today. NOTHING. I know you did something, what was it? Ever since then I can't get through to him. What happened? Where did I go wrong? At what point did I lose that little boy that use to tell me everything? I don't know. I do know I need to do something about it. I jsut don't know what.

Specializing in the removal of live things

2009-06-15T17:31:00.000-07:00

"If it grows, it goes."

I'm forming a new landscape company, and the above is the company motto. Screw the careful delicacy of only removing weeds. Nevermind a well-shaped wall of hedgery. You want us to prune your trees but leave them standing? You need a different company. I and my mighty army of weed whackers, clippers, shears, hedge pruners and lawn mowers will remove everything in your yard to a close-cropped three inch height.

I'm done with having to choose what stays or goes in the yard. I give up on trying to remember if I planted X. Having to decide if it's a foxtail or something destined to be pretty. Should that random fig tree stay, or will it eventually wreak havoc on a plumbing line. Nope. Not gonna do it. I've spent my time in the trenches carefully nurturing what became a burr nursery. I once weeded a patch of the yard, convinced that I was yanking up a patch of soon-to-be ickery-stickery pokery things, and realized later that I'd removed the sproutings of a packet of Alyssum seeds. I'm plagued with tree of heaven rootlets everywhere, and the oaks I DO want to grow keep falling down.

Part of the problem I face is that I've got some of the best dirt on earth. The only place that nothing will grow is under my olive trees. (Really, what does one plant under a tree that oozes acidic oil 8 months of the year?) Anything that can grow, WILL grow, and when you're confronted with 18 varieties of "Well, it's green, it has leaves, and it's in the dirt", it's hard to determine what you've got. If it's all three inches tall, who cares?

I can't even kill what I do want dead. Two summers ago, I decided to intentionally kill a rose bush. It was in the most inconvenient of places; I'd fallen into it several times because it's right by a walkway, and due to its size, there wasn't a chance of being able to transplant it. In the middle of a Redding summer, I cut the thing to the ground, didn't water it for the rest of the year, and figured it was done for. The next spring, it blew back out of the ground bigger than ever. The only thing I'd managed to do turned out pretty impressive - I'd whacked the outer canes far enough down that they grew out as wild bright-red roses, and the inner portion of the rose bush spits out buttery yellow blooms.

Beauty, even in my failure.

Post-Consumer Waste and Impressionable Young Minds

2009-06-12T19:11:00.000-07:00

Pondering jingles.

Yes, I was thinking of commercials and slogans and my brain wandered as it tends to do and it ended up here. I know you like to get a ringside seat to the craziness, so I decided to share.

I’ve been stuck on Band-Aids ever since I was a Toys-R-Us kid eating hot dogs…Armor Hot Dogs. I drank Pepsi before and after it became the Choice of a New Generation. I’ve celebrated moments of my life with International Instant Coffees. I filled it to the rim with Brim (of course I would’ve rather had Taster’s Choice, especially if Rupert Giles was likely to show up at my door).

My bologna had a first name. I made things last a little longer with Big Red. I soaked in it because Madge told me to. When I spilled a drink, I reached for the quicker picker upper. A sprinkle a day helped keep odor away! I had it my way at Burger King.

Now I’m tired and rambling. I digress…but WAIT!

Speaking of jingles and the like, what made execs approve the Juicy Fruit song?
“...Take a sniff, pull it out. The taste is gonna move ya when you POP it in your mouth...

(That’s pure pervy genius, right there.)

When I think of how simple some of those little song snippets were, I’m certain I have what it takes. After all, it’s probably so easy a caveman could do it.

The Need to Talk

2009-06-09T06:03:00.000-07:00

Since the beginning of time, women have needed to talk. While passing the time while sewing, crafting supplies, or birthing a child- women have worked together. The idea of a village comes from the idea of women working together in order to make life happen.

Today, we no longer live in villages. We live worlds apart from even our families and friends. Women get up each day and make life happen for their loved ones. This can be a lonely job- rewarding, but none-the-less, lonely.

Women still have the need to talk, which is more than a well known fact. Cell phone companies and Internet networking sites are very much aware, as one of their largest target audiences are women. Places such as CafeMom have targeted the female audience because we are a shore win- give us room to talk... we'll have at it!

Even those of us with partners here in the home are privy to a well known fact: Our husbands may love us dearly, but they are not the same thing as a female friend. Men are fixers, and while this is nice when they use this skill to fix a leak, a broken toilet and even that weird noise coming from the basement... fixing is not what a woman needs when she has the urge to talk. The need to chat, to cry, to love, to vent, to scream or to just converse is merely a way of release for a woman- no doing is necessary, other than being.

CafeMom fills this need for many of us, which is why we are such "addicts." It gives us women something we need- each other. Simply genius, if you ask me. You do nothing but let women talk- something we all know comes so naturally. We can talk about anything and everything- and we do! This place is a wealth of information and misinformation, strong feelings and stronger emotions. It is both perfect and dangerous- and I hope it lasts forever.

I have been lucky to have found a great niche here in our virtual world. 30 wonderful friends that have grown together in ways real-life friends couldn't begin to understand. From one small commonality- we've become something life changing and unforgettable.

30 women have come together to share everything. We've seen love lost and love anew, the birth of a child and the loss of those loved, everyday triumphs and super life achievements, the joys and agonies of motherhood and most importantly- WAY too much information! :0) We've shared stories that would make a sailor blush, advice you wouldn't seek out from a normal play-date and held each others virtual hands during times deemed too much to handle.

There have been days that I have been late to the computer, yet still my thoughts have been on friends I know are going through hard times... times where my friends haven't been online and the rest of us have began to worry about where they are. When a person enters your thoughts during the day in worry, in joy and in happiness- and do not directly effect you or your being- this person is a friend. It doesn't matter if they are a part of your real life village or a virtual one. What matters is that we all have someone we can reach out to, someone we can talk to, someone that isn't trying to fix us... but rather just let us be the women we were born to be and the talkers that we are meant to be.

Thank you my friends... You are my village. :0)

If you don't like the weather, just wait.

2009-06-08T10:30:00.000-07:00

The weather in Kansas is a very dynamic thing. It does usually get hot in summer by about mid June and stay hot until late September. By hot I mean 100+ temperatures. This year do far has been It has been relatively cool. Only one week do far of 90+ degrees. Usually in the summer the storms just make it more humid and sticky, but lately the storms have brought cool weather. It is nice after a week of 90 degrees to be back in the low 70's. I love having the house opened up and the cool air blowing in.

Speaking of the air blowing, the wind is usually a constant thing here in Kansas. When the wind doesn't blow you have to wonder what is wrong. We do have some days with little to no wind, but it is much more common to have a steady breeze blowing at least 20 mph.

The big draw back of the ever changing weather is the storms. We get lots of severe weather, thunderstorms, hail, and the occasional tornado. We always hope there won't be one, but we get a tornado warning with almost every storm we get. Thankfully we don't always get a tornado.

Today I am going to enjoy the beautiful cool weather. I am going to take advantage of having the windows open and go for a nice walk. I may even play outside with the boys and work in the garden if the baby lets me. Enjoy your weather where ever you may be.

The Good Sport

2009-06-04T07:37:00.000-07:00

A shame it was about old Bert, they said,
A drinking man; a sport; a thoroughbred.
He'd never mean ill to beast or man or mind,
And seldom would utter a word unkind.

Forget, meanwhile, less-then-perfect Bert
Libido pert; ego-girted Bert
Attractive flirt; oh happy Bert.
Voracious dilettante; ah shallow Bert.

When Bert decided on a taste of grog
He'd shock the bar with cronies' eyes agog
He'd quaff his beer making gin a double-chaser
A glass of sherry made an ample bracer.

Fired with fuel, instead of heading home,
The wayward ways of wine tempt him to roam
The suburbs seeking fun, games and kisses
Carefree coupling robbed from married misses.

Unwise, he fails to see that trouble's brewing
His wife ignores his none-too-secret wooing
She's other interests sank while hubby drank
Unwitting, Bert was free to hanky-pank.

But, matrons flirty meet at eight-thirty,
And plan a trap to humble Bertie,
To catch him liquored and quick to bandy
They mean to prove that 'candy is dandy'.

Now Bert, in spite of sophisticated face
Is prudish, tense and straight-of-lace.
The missioner's position's rule of thumb
Is looser once upon some rum.

The party plans to nobble Bertie
To quell his drunken sprees by playing dirty
To catch him late with belly full from drinking
Bed-hopping Bertie seldom stops for thinking.

True to say Bert might never learn
Until he's well and truly burned
He hangs one on 'til pulses roll
Then heads for sunset matinee, still droll.

Stopping dead, he sniffs the air
As nymphs present their bodies bare
Some nude, some rude and dressed exotic
With hairstyles outrageous, makeup exotic.

First hot, then cold and funny, feeling sick
Bert suffers claustrophobia, panics quick;
Seductive ladies sing and belly dance,
Ringed fingers gesture, vulgar stockings prance.

A guild of giggling girls, a touch too tipsy,
Their heat and sweat and scent would scare a gypsy.
Enrapture Bert with wet and loveless kisses
And take his trousers down with loathsome hisses.

He's perfumed and painted and stands half-naked
No place for wowsers intimidated;
The multi-mirrored entrance hall reflected
Defective Bertie, bottom bared, dejected.

He shakes with fear and rage and shamed aghast
He finds his car and sobers up at last;
He races reckless, gray and looking queer
And hurtles off the end of the lofty pier.

'A shame it was about old Bert', they said,
'A drinking man, a sport, a thoroughbred'.

The child who would not be dirty.

2009-06-03T11:31:00.000-07:00

My second son loves to get dirty, but to be dirty is another thing. One drop of water on his shirt, one speck of food on his pants, any dirt at all and he needs clean clothes. This makes for an awful lot of laundry. It get to be a challenge to keep him in the same clothes for more than an hour. Heaven forbid he gets water on his shirt. It's water! It will dry!

The last few days the boys have been playing in the mud. The younger one's shirt gets dirty he wants to change. I stopped to it today. Knowing full well he was going to go back out to play in the mud. By the time all was said and done both boys were pretty much covered. The front door was covered from all the splashing in the mud. My car had mud on it. Yes I yelled at the younger child for that one. No scratching Mommy's paint while finger painting my car. The house had also been finger painted in a few places. I can't get too mad at them. I always knew I would be that mom that let her kids get muddy. After all what are bathtubs and washing machines for if kids can't be kids. I think my next door neighbor is glas her child has snece enough to not play in the mud with my children. I can't wait until the baby is old enough to join them. My little girl will be a mud montser too. Oh the joys of being a parent.

Papa's Boy

2009-06-02T08:33:00.000-07:00

When my father is home... nobody else exists to my son. I find it to be cute, and very endearing. Of course my dad loves it. I was Nana's girl when I was young, and my brother & sister were mommy's kids. So, Dad never really got the "Daddy's Lil Kiddo" thing. Well, Connor has my dad wrapped firmly around his little fingers. It is always "Papa Doooo Eeeet (think a French Accent on Eeet)" or "Papa hold You? (Hold Me)" or "Papa Game? Monsta Cuck!" If we put Connor's outside shoes on, he'll grab my dad's Sox cap and say "Papa Ouside?" until Papa gives in to the persistent blonde. Dad can be watching the ball game, trying to fix a car, cleaning the pool, or doing other puttering around the house type things and Connor will be right there beside him.

I think it is absolutely the most adorable thing!

I am so jealous!

Will I ever got to eat my food by myself?

2009-06-01T11:29:00.000-07:00

When my second child was about 9 months old he finally decided that food was a good thing. By 10 months old he was eating all of his food and then eating off of my plate. That was fine and even cute when he was that little, but at 3 years old he really needs to eat his own food. Don't get me wrong we make both boys their own plate and feed them the same stuff we are eating. He just has to eat off my plate. He will go eat what he wants off of his plate and move on to mine. If I poor a bowl of cereal he will go get a spoon and help himself to mine. He doesn't ask for his own he just eats mine. I have not had a meal to myself, uninterrupted since the child was a year old. That was almost 2 and half years ago. Of course we have talked to him about. We tell him if he wants more we can get him more, but no. I am going to go crazy.

Why I can't lose weight I will never know. For example today I pored half a bowl of cereal and only got to eat half of that. I made a sandwich and only got to eat half of that. My meals are never my own. Some day, maybe when he moves out, I will get to put food on my plate and actually eat as much of it as I want. I still have the baby to contend with. I will not feed her off of my plate. She will get her own. I vow to not share with her. I will not I tell you I will not. Who am I kidding. I am sure I will share food with her too. One can dream, right?

Dear Hulu. Thank you for the memories.

2009-05-30T16:48:00.000-07:00

My daughter is a Hulu fanatic.

She loves being able to sit on her computer and watch shows. Kids shows, of course, its not like she's just surfing the web and watching any ol' thing. Most of the time. But the best part is, she isn't watching just any ol' kid shows- she's enjoying the very same ones that I remember watching as a child.

It started with Rocky and Bullwinkle. Sure, that is a show that was on long before my time... but I remember enjoying those same episodes with my dad. Next, she stumbled onto Woody Woodpecker. Remember him? He's obnoxious... and not really how I remember him- but I guess things are different now. Now that her and her brother are expert Woody laughers- it was time to help move her onto the next shows.

Felix the Cat, Pink Panther, Casper the Friendly Ghost, ... all great oldies. As I type, Fat Albert is Hey Hey Heying in the background. And she loves to mimic the funky words and phrases they use! It is rather comical watching my 5 year old daughter wander around talking like a male teen from the early 80's! Flash backs, man... flash. backs.

I'm going to throw in my own little promo here and say, if you haven't ventured onto the Hulu site before- now is a fine time to start. Think back to your favorite childhood memories and introduce them to your child. Who knows what great stories it'll bring back- but I promise... it'll be a great time.

Identity Theft

2009-05-29T13:44:00.000-07:00

I volunteered in my son’s kindergarten class this morning. My job was to sit at one of the activity centers and work on an activity with three or four kids at a time.

I’ve volunteered a few times this year, and by now have gotten to know just a few of the kids. But often, the childrens' names still escape me, especially if it’s not one of my son’s friends and if I don’t know his or her parents.

Such was the case with Hannah Montana, the spunky brunette who showed up wearing a sequined pink tee with said logo. I figured that rather than ask her for her name, I’d be manipulative about dragging it out of her.

I was handing out the activity sheets and came around to her. “Here you go, Hannah Montana.”

I was met with giggles and huffiness. “My name is NOT Hannah Montana!”

“Sure it is. It says so right there on your shirt.”

“No, that is NOT my name! It’s just a costume!”

“But it SAYS so, right THERE! Stop being silly, Hannah Montana.”

The little brunette is now giggling profusely and her voice is escalating. “No, I said it’s just a costume! My name is not Hannah Montana!”

I sigh in exasperation. “Look, of COURSE that is your name because it is ON your shirt. Just like my name is on my shirt.” I point to the sticker from the front office that says “Volunteer” on it. “See? My name is Volunteer and your name is Hannah Montana. That’s so easy!”

Now they’re all into the game. “Your name is NOT Volunteer!”

“Wait a minute. I know my name, man. How can YOU tell me that my name is not Volunteer when I say that it is? And besides, see? On my shirt.”

Three of them answer, in unison.

“Because your name is Samuel’s Mom!”

And that is how my identity was stolen.

Beer Pong - Poison Your Peers

2009-05-28T10:04:00.000-07:00

*in affected Martha Stewart voice*

Hosting a party that will have you waking up with a bad case of the Oh-No’s is a time-honored college tradition. Bored, underage and irresponsible drinkers the world over have played drinking games for years, because alcohol poisoning is so entertaining. The secrets of success are massive amounts of alcohol and reckless abandon. You can get your friends drunk, or you can get your friends DRUUuuUUuuNK. What better way to do this than to play Beer Pong?

If you haven't got your own table, a cherry-wood closet door can be transformed into a wonderful Beer Pong Table in just a few short hours.

First, acquire a cherry-wood closet door...by any means necessary. I got this one by inviting myself into the home of a friend with cherry woodwork, knocking her over the head with my chartreuse Everyday ball-peen hammer and lifting it while she was passed out. *wry smile*
Once you've gotten it home and wiped the fingerprints off the hammer, remove the hardware on your new cherry-wood door.

Next, simply paint circles on the top surface of the door at the appropriate points with a sable brush and acrylic paint. I use a simple, antique compass I found at the most pretentious shop in Turkey Hill. I find if I use it without being inebriated myself, I make the most perfect circles.
Now, lacquer the top of the beer pong table, making sure the strokes go with the grain, of course, for a better rebound.

Once the finish is dry, I find that a grosgrain ribbon attached with decorative upholstery tacks really brings the whole thing together, adding that special touch.

Everyone should have a table like this at their next drunken gathering.

The Beer Pong Table...it's a good thing.

Where Do We Learn to Mother?

2009-05-26T17:29:00.000-07:00

I know that many who would argue that mothering is a natural skill, inborn rather than learned. I agree - but there are necessary skills and sage wisdom that every mother acquires. Hence, my question - Where do we learn to mother?

Much of mothering is trial and error. It incorporates every general field of education, in an interesting harmonic balance. Management, Bookkeeping, Cooking, Medicine, Fashion, Music... to name a few. However most mothers have "mommy inspiration", a picture in their head of what their ideal version of motherhood is. Some of this probably comes from observing our own mothers, or the mothers of our friends. I am willing to bet that it is equally through both positive experiences ("That was great! When I have kids, I'll do that!") and negatives experiences ("I would Never do that to MY kid!"). That is where most of my parenting inspiration comes from. Television cannot be overlooked, either, though. How many women of a past generation looked at June Cleaver as a role model? Watching shows like "Jon and Kate Plus 8" and "18 Kids & Counting" or other parenting related shows, is relevant here as well. I don't want to emulate either Kate Gosselin or Michelle Duggar but I've learned things from them that I would consider to be essential! Experience dealing with children before having one of my own, I consider to have been an essential part of learning to parent.

I was entrusted with the care of four little boys ranging from 2, 5,6 & 9 years old when I was 16. The oldest was a great help to me. He was very levelheaded and enjoyed helping out with grownup tasks. The middle two both had mental issues - ODD, ADHD and the 5 yr old would later be diagnosed as Bi-Polar. The baby was just that - a toddler. He was the light of my life. Little did I know that from then on, I'd help my best friend raise him, while their parents were pursuing a musical career (not famous, but really talented - they teach now). They weren't the best parents, but they're far from horrible. I don't necessarily agree with all of their parenting choices, but that is part of the reason they influenced me so much. Who leaves two 16 year old girls alone for a weekend with 4 little boys!?

I learned to cook, do laundry and clean - it was expected of me. I also learned better manners, and actual proper table manners. They held their children to a higher standard than my parents did. Respect is a major thing in their household - "Yes, Ma'am, No Ma'am...etc". I learned not to slouch, let my mouth sit agape or talk over people - unacceptable behaviors that my parents ignored. I also learned an important lesson - how to behave in a manner contrary to your personality if that is what is expected of you. They also taught me when to hold my tongue, how to manage a household, and how to care for a very sick child. When the littlest one's appendix nearly burst, and he had complications from surgery I had to pack his wound with gauze and change the bandages when I cared for him. It made me love him even more.

My adopted parents were not afraid to bring up any topics with us. My best friend and I were often engaged in thought provoking conversations about politics, sex and other adult things - not lecturing, but conversing. They challenged us to think for ourselves. This definitely helped me become a more mature person (as if being thrown in charge of a household, didn't!) and to define who I am. They didn't hide things from us, but instead used real life lessons (no matter how awkward, difficult or painful to discuss) in order to educate us. I love and highly respect both of my friend's parents. From the time that I became an extended part of their family, they treated me more like an adult than my parents do even to this day. I hope to have a similar relationship with my son.

The children themselves taught me the most lessons. The oldest boy was mindful and smart, but he let his grades slip when in High School because he was lazy. As a team, his parents, elder sister, "adopted" brother (another friend who'd been taken in) and I found a way to encourage and motivate him to bring his grades out without threatening him (at least not too much!), and he did. The middle boys have been a struggle to deal with for years - testing their parents' patience. I gave them much more leeway than their parents would like, but the boys respected me more. Hrm... The youngest, he is a treasure. I can't believe he'll be twelve in July. They say that you can't love anyone the same way that you love your own child. The love I feel for that little boy comes very, very close. I watched him grow up, from a cuddly lap warmer into a kind, thoughtful young man. He's got an amazing imagination, and the drive to do whatever he dreams. I know that he will be successful. During summer break, I helped him understand the importance of legible penmanship - we wrote a story. After school, I taught him tips for remembering his spelling words, and challenged him to come up with more complex sentences.

There are some days while watching Connor run around and play, a memory pops into my head about the little guy that I watched grow. It melts my heart. I smile, but on the inside, I cry. Some things I do, the way I react - on first thought, it was an instinctual thing but upon reflection, it often turns out to be something I've experienced or observed before.

I love my parents. My mother drives me nuts, though. She's a cleaning nut. She loves to organize and re-organize. I like having a house that looks lived in. She likes perfection. I'm rather relaxed about dishes (isn't that what the sink is for?) and dusting (forget dust bunnies, I have a dust Zoo). My mom has always been supportive of me, but she has never shown genuine faith in me. There is always the shadow of a doubt behind her smile, and a hint of disbelief when I state that I believe or plan on doing something. I generally disagree with her parenting style. That probably is part of the reason that I respect my friend's parents more. Nevertheless, how she raised me shaped who I am.

Where did you learn to parent? Who do you cite as a mommy-inspriration? Where do you get your tips and tricks from?

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T06:58:00.001-07:00

As I was looking up information to write a great Memorial Day post, I came across this poem- I do believe that in honor of today, it says more than I could ever.

His uniform, it gathers dust,
And yet she keeps it, as she must.
For since she heard the word, bereft,
It's all of him that she has left.

His many medals, multi-hued,
Recall his image, love renewed.
With pride and sorrow, in his stead,

They form a pillow for her head.

Her love was spilt across the sea
To answer calls for liberty.
Though he's been gone for many years,
His memory still ties her to tears.

Parades may form, and troops may march,
Processionals of neatest starch.
And they salute the sacrificed,
Who gave beyond what could be priced.

She'll line her walk with flags again
To honor all the fallen men
And pray for loved ones left alone
With nothing by a granite stone.

She'll lay some blossoms by his name,
Her loyalty thus to proclaim,
And hold his empty hat again
Until she joins the freedom train.

Out of line?

2009-05-24T10:43:00.000-07:00

My daughter is in the first grade. There are children in first grade that have boyfriends and girlfriends. These are normal baby crushes but don't add up to much.

Where I think it is getting out of line is when parents start to encourage actual dates.

Recently we had a school auction. One of the mothers won a trip for her kid and three friends to go see a live performance of Cats. She had her son invite the little girl that he likes. Then she invited two other first graders that liked each other so they could have a double date.

She purchased a corsage for her sons little boy, had him walk to the door to pick her up, open the car door, and take her to the door when it was done. She said this was to teach him how to treat women.

The next week the boy thought it was okay to kiss the girl on the playground. He kissed her on the lips.

I may be a prude but this is not okay for first grade. If they start this behavior in first grade what will be left for teen years?

Happy Birthdays are a Matter of Perspective

2009-05-23T09:50:00.000-07:00

Today should be a good day. All I want to do is snap at people. Maybe it's the weather; maybe it's because I'm still sick.

I was hoping to sleep in more than an hour-and-a-half today, but I was the only one who heard Bella screaming, "Daddy!" with an urgency over the monitor. (She'll be 14 and we'll still have it in her room, I swear.) So, I awoke from my slumber to take her potty and we climbed into Mommy and Daddy's bed for weekend morning cuddles. This didn't last for long; she kept saying, "I hungry, Maddy," which is her own word for both "Mommy" and "Daddy."

She gets all set up in her chair this morning, and it's obviously I'm barely coherent. My mother says, "I know you just woke up, but would you wear this?" and she holds up a hideous-looking sea foam green shirt. I said, "Uh, no," and proceeded to fix Bella's breakfast. I'm really not one for talking first thing in the morning.

Dishes in the dishwasher this morning were clean and have been clean, but nothing was emptied from it; the sink was filled with dirty dishes. I emptied and filled it. I'm tempted to do something with the bathroom as well, but why? It's my birthday, so why should I do anything productive?

On a lighter, happier note, the hubs and I are going to see Star Trek once Bella goes down for her nap this afternoon. We have to do it then so that my mother can "watch" her and take care of her invalid asshole husband (he had foot surgery on the 13th and is a huge pansy for pain of any kind).

Bella's playing in the background and SpongeBob is even further in the background.

Happy 28th Birthday to me.

They're already broken

2009-05-20T10:14:00.000-07:00

As parents, we all fear that we are constantly doing and saying things to our kids that will inevitably screw them up for life and cost them millions of dollars in therapy to recover from.

I say that we should stop worrying. They’re already screwed up before they even squeeze through the expandable tunnel to enter this cruel world. Or at least mine are.

You see, they are missing the brain cells responsible for telling them that public butt scratching is not okay. And they are also missing the brain cells responsible for determining that poop is no laughing matter.

Last month, the kids and I spent Easter weekend at my sister's house. My daughter brought her favorite stuffed duck with her, who we'll call Duck and who has a zipper on his back for obvious reasons. After all, with wings instead of hands, how else are ducks to carry things around if we don’t provide them with built-in storage?

By introducing this toy to my sister’s sense of humor, Duck was soon undergoing “surgery.” (He had a tonsillectomy.)

But before long, my son had moved from surgical humor (which I find rather amusing) directly into potty humor (decidedly less amusing) by hiding tiny Lego people in the duck’s body cavity and laughing hysterically as Duck “pooped Jedi warriors.”

This was so funny to him that he brought the humor with him the next day to our Sunday morning Easter service, then picked the most inappropriate moment possible to loudly declare that Duck poops Jedi warriors. Except that it sounded for all the world like he was saying “Jedi lawyers.”

I presume that Jedi knights make good defense lawyers? That lightsaber is surely a good negotiation tool.

As for the butt scratching, it all began with a case of the itchies brought on by the darling new dress my daughter was wearing in honor of the occasion. But my daughter was having a hard time reaching this particular itch, which she announced to every single person in the room, one at a time, via a simple request:

“Will you pweease skwatch my bottom?”

To which only my 17-year-old niece, Grace, had a really great answer. “You should ask your Auntie Therese. I bet she’d love to do that.”

The Hordes of RatDom - Confessions of a Packrat

2009-05-16T08:44:00.001-07:00

My husband and I finally realized that a family of five living in a two bedroom house is good way to lose our minds, so we are now in the process of getting our house ready to sell. It’s been home to us for almost thirteen years and to our offspring, who are 10 and under, it’s the only home they’ve ever known. This is a strange and exciting time for our family, to say the least.

In thinning out some of the (for lack of a better term) crap I’ve kept over the years, a truth has been discovered. I thought I was frugal. This is not so. I am a packrat.

The proof showed itself at every turn. Each room I went through, trying to rid some of the clutter, I unearthed…

*echoing voice* The Hordes Of RatDom!

Did I really need to keep three pairs of Just In Case I Need the Material for Something Jeans that no one will ever fit into again?
And what about the Assorted Threads and Buttons that came with shirts I no longer own? Do I really need to save them if I didn’t care enough to keep the shirt?

I have twenty pieces of Rubbermaid and/or Tupperware. I don’t need twenty plastic containers, do I? I think not.

True, some of the things I’ve “collected” over the years have been little pictures my girls have drawn for me. So I should get a folder for each child and put in that folder only the pictures that make me smile when I think of how young and sweet they were when they drew it for me. I don’t need to keep each book report and spelling test.

Boots that fit no one, a lonely shoe that hasn’t seen its mate in eons, and part of a board book that I thought I’d repair if I ever found the cover are all going bye-bye. I believe it’s also time to say so long to Jaws since the last pages disappeared long ago and the shark never bites it in the end. Can you say cliffhanger?!

What about these boxer shorts adorned with “Get me to the Church on time” that my husband wore for approximately seven hours on our wedding day nearly fifteen years ago and never wore again? They served their purpose. Buh-bye, boxers! *toss*

After long consideration, I decided to give my tiny hotel shampoo collection the boot. I hope someone at Goodwill can appreciate those little bottles because I’ve just gained a cubic foot of closet space!

Whoa, look at the space we have in this place now. Maybe we don’t have to move after all.

“Mom! Tell her to get off my third of the room!”

Oh yeah, we do.

Forgive me, Father, for I hath sinned

2009-05-14T15:02:00.000-07:00

Those of you who are or have been Catholic will recognize this as the traditional opening line for confession. That’s the thing where you go into the little Superman booth with the voice box that lets you hear, but not see, the priest in the adjacent little Superman booth who will listen to you spill your guts about all of your most horrific, guilt-inducing sins, then tell you what prayers to say how many times before granting you divine absolution from The Things Of Which You’re Most Ashamed.

I grew up Catholic. And I can honestly say I’m thankful for the fact that my parents raised me that way, because it provided me with at least two vital components of my adult life. The first one is an ever-present belief that God is real, though my version of who He is has changed many times during my life and is still evolving even now. The second, and equally important, reason is that it gives me great blog material.

For example, the other night, as my husband and I were on our way to marriage counseling, I made a confession.

“I feel like I’m going to confession.”

He was puzzled. “Confession?”

I frequently have to remind myself that his dad is Anglican (not that I know what that means), so he does not share my childhood images of priests, tabernacles, and altar boys of whom I was always envious because why on earth is it fair that I don’t get to wear the ridiculous white garb and stand up in front of everybody and be on the Holy Altar and ring a bell just because I’m a girl?

So I explained that I was experiencing the same feeling I always had as a child going to confession, the one about trying to remember all your faults and flaws and things that make you feel like crap about yourself before admitting them to somebody else with the hopes that your life will somehow be better for it in the end.

Turns out, I was wrong. Compared to marriage counseling, confession is a cake walk. “So, you pulled the dog’s tail, talked back to your mother, and didn’t do your math homework, again? Those things are not good. You should stop that. That’s ten Our Fathers and five Hail Marys. Now go in peace, and sin no more.”

But somehow, the admonition to “sin no more” never worked, because I would inevitably do something else for which I was ashamed and then feel guilty about walking around with the resulting black mark on my soul while I avoided the little Superman booth in back of the church for a few more weeks.

Marriage counseling, at least the kind I am getting, is a totally different experience. It starts in a similar manner, where you have to admit that you didn’t do all of the things you knew you should have been doing since the last time you met and vow to do better. But then you have to sit there, look at the face of the person to whom you just spilled your guts, and listen to them tell you why that’s wrong and what you must do to improve upon it. What makes that much worse is when you’re telling them about something that you are positive is your husband’s fault and not yours, and then they point out to you that had you responded with a tad less attitude, you might have been able to avoid fighting about it.

And when you leave, there’s no Insta-Cure involving a rosary and some uncomfortable kneeling in a pew. You can’t make things better by reciting anything from memory over and over. But you still get that sense that you are to “sin no more,” except that this time, you actually have to work at the avoidance of said sin, in a way that involves a monumental amount of effort every day and not ten minutes of quiet meditation in the back of a church.

Because when you go back there again, if you haven’t put forth any of that monumental effort, there will be no virtual slap on the hand followed by a series of Hail Marys as a consequence. Instead, you will be further along the road towards the disintegration of something that you swore would last until death do you part. And instead of living with the guilt-inducing image of little black marks on your soul, you could end up living alone.

I think I want to go back to confession.

Baby's First Kiss

2009-05-13T07:08:00.000-07:00

There are so many moments in a mother's time that stand out. First step, first word, first full night's sleep... I, as a mother of three, have loved them all. However, I will openly admit that I have a favorite- a first baby kiss. Sadly, yesterday I received my last first baby kiss.
My littlest child is 19 months and has been a loving/cuddly child since birth. He has always loved getting super-nomming monster kisses. You know the kind- you start with a kiss and then muah-muah-muah into their neck to make them squeal with fits of baby giggles. All my children have loved that- but the littlest guy, he'd always slam his face into yours asking for more... to which you must oblige with tears of pain, but those darn giggles are so worth it!
Back to the kissing... After diaper changes, I have always given kisses. Usually whilst pulling up the pants- that is a good time to pull them close and steal a quick smooching. Yesterday, I changed a diaper- pulled up the pants and said, "Gimme a kiss." Suddenly, his adorable little self walked right up to me and gave me a kiss! Not just a cheek for me to kiss- but a real baby kiss.
I melted.
Then, he gave me a high five, a another kiss and ran away. He was rather proud of himself... but he'll never know how he made me feel. 100%, without a doubt, that moment right there made it all worth it. That was one of those moments that really proves that motherhood is the best gig- and though I'll never have another "first" kiss, it only reminded me that the rest of his firsts (as well as those of the other two children) are too quick to come. :0)

When Titans Fall - Role Models and the Age of Steroids

2009-05-12T10:07:00.000-07:00

By now, most Americans are familiar with the steriod scandals that have been plaguing Major League Baseball for the past several years. Since the early days of baseball, players have been the real life superheroes that little boys (and girls) admire and look up to. In a child's eyes they're beloved, held in high regard and virtually worshipped. From the time that they can toddle, many little ones swing a minaturized bat at a ball resting atop a rather short Tee. Some of their first words are baseball related. Baseball is America's game - a tradition, a part of our heritage.

My son is a born and bred Red Sox fan. I stopped nursing him, and turned him towards the television to watch the Red Sox win the World Series in 2007. Connor was born in August, so he was a little over three months old. He's got a Red Sox board book, and can identify most of the tools related to the game - helmet, bat, ball, glove, etc. He loves hitting his little wiffle ball of the tee we got him, however he hasn't mastered the concept that he needs to hit the ball horizontally not vertically. More often than not he is bedecked in a Sox related shirt, sometimes it is a specific player tee, at others it is just a team related shirt - my favorite says "Yankees Yuck." My little boy is going to grow up as a card carrying member of Red Sox nation. Should he decide to root for another team as an adult, I will not disown him... but I won't watch a ball game with him either!

When Manny Ramirez left the Sox I tossed his shirt in the donation bag. I'm glad that I did. I am also glad that my son is young. I don't have to explain, as many parents do, why his favorite player has been suspended. Why his hero is a failure and a cheater. The impact of the Age of Steriods, to steal a term often used by commentators and players alike, affects not only the ball clubs, the players or the management. The people most affected by the scandal are the youngest fans. I realize that this brings up a teachable moment about the usage of drugs, but the question that begs to be asked is - why?

Why is it that so many of baseball's great players have tainted the integrity of the game by acting in such a selfish and irresponsible manner?

My theory is fairly simple - Greed. Look at the salary budget of teams like the Yankees. Oh yes, Texiera is a good player, but not $170 million good, at least not to the Sox. Certain players seem to have an inflated sense of self worth. Free agents shop themselves around, trying to get the highest price possible for themselves - a strange and somewhat convoluted version of prostitution. Never mind looking at factors such as team compatibility and the overall atmosphere of the ball club. Money does not a championship team make! Having a working, cohesive team on the field and properly ordered in the batting line up are the two factors in how games are won.

What needs to occur in Major League Baseball is that players need to realize that it is not, indeed, all about them. Once they realize across the board that they need to focus on the fans. The kids who want to grow up and be just like them.

Heather

Birth though five

2009-05-11T07:18:00.000-07:00

I have been asked several times to write down the story of my youth. This will be a condensed version because I understand that this a blog and not a novel. Today's post will be birth through five. Five through nineteen are colorful too but it is too much for one post.

I was born into a large family. My mother had 5 of us total, 1 boy and 4 girls. Each of us were conceived on a different type of birth control. I was an IUD baby. My mother promptly had her tubes tied following my birth. Five children by the the you are 28 is a blessing and difficult at the same time.

We were very poor. My father and mother worked at a used car dealership. The were able to provide our basic needs but we never had extra. If we did they would spend it frivolously. They had no idea how to save.

My mother took me everywhere with her. We were joined at the hip. She knew that she was having no more children so she wanted to enjoy me. She even had me glued to her while she worked. My siblings were all about a year apart but I was 2 1/2 years younger than my sister.

I only have a few memories of my father. I do remember my siblings hiding me from him. They would put me on shelves of the closet. They would hide me under covers. They told me to be very quiet or he would hurt me and bruise me. Mostly I was with my mother so this was rare.

My mother had 4 of us in the house. My oldest sister was living with my dad's mother in Houston. My mother had to get a babysitter. Her name was Niki. We called her Niki the hooker but I wasn't sure why. (now I know)

The biggest memory I have of my father was the night/morning that I was asleep in the bedroom. He came in and sat on the bed. The jostle woke me up. I pretended to be asleep because I did not want to get in trouble. He pulled the crotch of my panties to the side and I wondered what he was doing. I knew it felt wrong but I didn't know what to do. He put his fingers on me and his nail hurt me. I screamed. He ran out of the bedroom. (it happened other times but this was the time I remember and the time I reported it)

I told my mother and Niki. They got me out of the house. I was 3 so all the memories here are jumbled in my brain. I remember waking up at my mom's office and ants crawling all over me and it hurt but took my mind off of other things. I am not sure if this is the same day or not. I remember being scared and not knowing what to do.

This is the event in which my mother became aware of the sexual and physical abuse that my siblings and endured.

I remember going to a foster home for a little while. There was a nice couple with 3 foster kids including me. They told me to call them Nana and Papa. They where so cool. I remember getting ripped from them and back into my home. Apparently I had taken a bath with a 4 year old boy and I was 3.

I was glad to be back with my mother. We had a super strong bond. She had left my father and was taking care of us. She had to get sitters for the older ones when they were home from school.

She liked helping others although she didn't have much. There was a boy named Richard that was 15 years old and homeless. She took him in, gave him food to eat and a place to live. He offered to help watch us while she worked and the older kids were out of school. She took me with her. He ended up raping everyone (but me) including my brother and making them do things together. She got rid of him quick.

My father ended up in prison for raping 2 kids in Kansas. My mother had to do something and took my brother and sister with her. I am not sure exactly what that something was. She arranged for her sister and mom to take the other two of us. They were poor too so she used all the money she had to get them a car and set them up in an apartment. She was going to be gone a week. (she didn't want to repeat any of the sitter problems)

When she returned she came to pick us up. They said they wanted one more night with us and my sister too. She told them a one night sleepover was okay. They kidnapped us and ran.

We were running from the state and my mother for a year. We lived in a car, in homeless shelters, and in strangers homes for that year. I picked up the measles, bed bugs, and lice. I was taught how to hide from the cops. I also learned that the government and my mother were evil.

I was abused by my aunt especially but also my grandmother. I remember my grandmother telling me that I was an evil sexual deviant because I liked to lay my head on my mothers breast while I slept. She told me that that was a sexual act that I should be ashamed of. (I later learned she was bi-polar woman who was married something like 10 times)

My grandmother and aunt had a big falling out and we went to a motel. My sisters and I were left in a motel room by ourselves while our aunt went to work. I was 5 and the other two were 7 and 8.

I would hate to have been the cops on the day they found us. There was a knock on the door. Someone told us to open the door, and that it was the law. We hid in the closet as we practiced for the last year. The cop had the manager of the motel open the door. They looked all around and even looked where we were hiding. They were about to leave and they said something about thinking we had gone out a window. They decided to take one more look in the closet and there were were. We were huddled up in a corner, shaking in fear.

When they got us in the car we spilled our guts. We told the poor policeman our whole story. He kept telling us to wait to tell him when he got us to the home. We wouldn't stop talking.

We lived in a children's home before being placed into foster care. That was where I was adopted. I will save the tale of that adventure another day.

My story is not a story of pity or sadness. It is a story to tell you where I have been and how far I have come.

I am a strong and happy woman now.

Just a SAHM

2009-05-10T05:24:00.000-07:00

Hello, Mrs. Jones,
I've just called to say,
I'm sorry I cried when you phoned me today.
No, I didn't get angry when your call came at four,
Just as eight muddy Cub Scouts burst through the door;
It's just that I had such a really full day.
I'd baked eighteen pies for the PTA;
And washing and ironing and scrubbing the floor
Were chores I had finished not too long before.
The reason I cried and gave that big yelp
Was not 'cause you phoned just to ask for my help.
The comment that just about drove me berserk
Was, "I'm sure you'll have time because you don't work."

So glad I'm not a tweenage girl...

2009-05-09T10:13:00.000-07:00

So, I've exposed myself to the latest sensation of Twilight. Patrick and I watched the movie, not expecting much, and we were pleasantly surprised. As soon as we were able, we picked up all four books. I began reading the first one the week before last and enjoyed it greatly; I couldn't put the damn thing down.

The following week (the one we just finished), I read New Moon and finished it in two days. I couldn't start on the third one, Eclipse, because it was still out on loan. I begged (okay, just simply asked) Patrick to run to the store and get another copy of the third one for me (I wasn't able to leave the school for longer periods than 20 minutes; duties). He calls me to say that Wally World only has the first one. Damnit.

Instead, he finds a book by the same author called The Host.

The Host is very different from the Twilight series. Twilight is paranormal romance and The Host is more sci-fi. I'm not as addicted to it as I was the other series, but I'm giving it a chance. So far, so good.

However, since I've finished the first two books, I've been wanting to put in the movie. There just hasn't been the time for it, unfortunately. I'm going to try and start reading multiple books at once, again, and hope I can get more from the experience. I miss reading. I have a couple of Christine Feehan books and hopefully those will tide me over as well until we get the third book back.

Love Under the Stairs

2009-05-09T07:42:00.000-07:00

I have to confess that living on the cheap has become a matter of pride with me. I’ve always been thrilled to not be a slave to the Frappuccino’d machinations of Starbuck’s. I re-use plastic grocery bags as garbage can liners, and while I use disposable diapers, I don’t pony up the money for the Huggies or Pampers, but instead clad my children’s dimpled little butt cheeks in the store brands of Target and ShopKo. The “How to Live Frugally” articles are read through carefully, and their suggestions are often met with a “...but I’m already doing that!”

Sadly, this mindset is not blending too well with the planning of the upcoming nuptials.
I’m less-than-thrilled that it’s 75 bucks for the local government to grant me a marriage license. It took the clerk two minutes to type the papers up; considering what she typed, that license ran about 50 cents per keystroke. Of course, she did give Killian two squirts of the antibacterial hand sanitizer that The Small Thing finds so interesting. (It’s cold! It’s wet! It’s neat!) With the way the bidding process for government supplies works, that hand sanitizer very well could have cost $37.50 per squirt.

I’m not having to pay for a church or a reception hall, thanks to my best friend’s parents willingness to have their house invaded, their backyard turned into a wedding chapel, and their game room used for a reception hall. Shawn and I could have been married at the county clerk’s office, but I saw a wedding take place there while we were picking up the license, and even my non-sentimental heart cringed at getting married under a stairwell with the utility closet door as a backdrop.

The wedding dress acquisition proved for some entertainment. Craigslist was a gigantic fail, as that website seems to be overrun with people who missed the day in school when “cheap” was defined. $450? Yes, ma’am, I recognize that you paid $750 for the dress, but that was ten years ago, and no, that enormous stain from the cake smash your ex performed against your wishes is probably not going to come out no matter how good the dry cleaner is. I hit up the secondhand stores, but apparently the only people who donate wedding dresses are either a size 2 or they got married in 1973. My bacon was saved by a local dress shop owner, who chose to have her moving sale the week I shopped for dresses. I even found two I liked, but the one left hanging on the rack made me look like a Coke ad, where the lady is dressed like it’s 1902 and she’s dangerously close to spilling not her soda, but her breasts. It’s hard to pull off bride-like innocence when your cleavage is erupting like Mt. Vesuvius. The victor cost a whopping 40 dollars, and I WILL bring that up in 30 years when I’m trying to foist the dress off to Killian or Adria for their wedding.

We originally had a grand total of 13 people for this wedding, but caved to the pressure of parents and invited siblings as well. We’ve now got around 30 people (where did all of them COME FROM!?), and ohcrap they should all be fed. Double up the tri-tip and chicken boob plans, and pray we don’t run out of propane. ...-pane, -pane, -pagne, CHAMPAGNE! Awww, dangit! Even if we go with Andre for all, and four glasses per bottle, that’s still eight bottles of bubbly to buy. Bubbly, bubbly, bubbles, BUBBLES! Really should buy some bubbles to keep the kids occupied, but don’t get the little bottles they sell as wedding party favors because those suck. Party favors, party favors, party favors, PARTY FAVORS!? Awww, hell. I should give some sort of memento to the guests. Let’s see, no Jordan almonds as those are a dentist’s wet dream. Too little time to splurge for M&Ms with our name on ‘em. Uhhhh, howzabout a little tea candle in a glass with some sand and seashells? We’ll use the sister-in-law’s Cricut to do some fancy-dancy tags and tie ‘em up with ribbon. Ribbons? Yeah, we should get some to dangle oh-so-fetchingly from the arch. Arch? Shitfire, I need an arch. I wonder what I ever did with the one that was in the front yard by the roses?

Oh, yeah.

The dogs knocked it over and dismantled it during a particularly high-spirited game of what-can-we-wreck-today. Stupid ass dogs, and now I should find an arch. At least flowers aren’t a monetary concern, as I’ve got roses up the hoo-hah around my house, and I’m more than willing to strip my bushes bare. I’ll take it as a sign that even Mother Nature approves of this wedding, as my Sterling Silver rose bush bloomed this year for the first time in three years. Won’t those petals look pretty scattered over the top of the wedding cake? Cake, cake, cake, OH CRAP! I need to buy a wedding cake!

Y’know, a wedding under the stairs may be all I’ve ever hoped for...

Ode to a cell phone

2009-05-07T07:51:00.000-07:00

Oh cell phone, how amazing you are. You bring good new and bad. You relay information. The little one plays with you. The older one hates you. You have been dropped oh so many times. Pieces have broken off and yet you still work. Now I get to use you to send messages to my friends and family. Though texting without a keyboard is not a fun thing to do, communication is so important. Dry hands, slippery covers. These things do not go well together. Poor cell phone you have been dropped in a cup of milk. Obviously you are not that important, cell phone. We laughed hysterically for a good couple of minutes over the fact that you are now all wet and milky. Ah poor cell phone your front screen no longer works. Oh well. You are now two years old. New contracts will be signed, new phones will be had. The life of the cell phone is short and sweet. Poor, poor cell phone, your life is coming to an end.

Update: the cell phone lives.

CSI: Mommy

2009-05-07T07:10:00.000-07:00

As a Mom, I have found myself doing things that I never thought that I would do. Things like arranging the food on a dinner plate so that it looks like an alien in order for my child to eat it. Or marveling over my child's fascination when he farts in the bathtub and produces bubbles. Even things like feigning amazement when my boy-child describes in rather technical detail all of the deadly features of the latest Bionicle he's created.

The one thing that stands out above all the rest in the category of "I can't believe I'm doing this", is my natural proclivity to identify the ingredients in my childrens' feces and vomit. I mean, c'mon! Who does that? Moms. That's who does that.

Last night at exactly 2:18am, I was awakened by my 4-year old who was sobbing and carrying a handful of puke. It didn't even occur to me to cringe. I ushered him into the bathroom, and because there was no toilet paper in there, I didn't hesitate to use my own hands to wipe away the icky and wash it down the sink. It did occur to me, however, to try to identify what the vomit consisted of. Seriously. Here I am, bleary-eyed with a nose full of eau de puke, and I'm studying the nutritional make-up of the recent contents of my child's stomach. Oh, Motherhood!

I recall the shock I felt when my son recycled an entire can of green play-doh. I'm here to tell ya that when it comes out the other end of an 18-month old, play-doh looks no different than it did before entering that child's mouth. Color and all. I didn't realize how acutely I usually studied the contents of his diaper until I was seeing Kelly Green poo, and couldn't possibly identify what he could have eaten to have that effect on his feces. I used the front of the diaper to smear the poop to see if there were any solids in there. I smelled it - yes, I did. I held it up to the light at an angle for no discernible reason. I had no reason to think that it was play-doh at the time. I thought that maybe his daycare lady had fed him unnaturally colored cookies, or concentrated kool-aid, or... or... It was then that I realized how much I base my childrens' overall health on what they secrete. The smell of those secretions. The appearance and consistency of those secretions. I felt like a goddamned blood hound. I learned about the play-doh after my daycare provider searched her house and found an empty container under a table in a corner with traces of Kelly Green inside.

Back to last night. After cleaning up Little Man and getting him comfortably back to bed with clean sheets, clean jammies, and a hopefully settled tummy, I returned to the kitchen. He had emptied his stomach once again, from over my shoulder, when I thought he was done puking. So, I had puddles of vomit specimens to study under the glare of the kitchen lights... at 3:00 in the morning. I saw last night's dinner splattered all over the floor - egg noodles, watermelon, and though I know he ate a PB&J, I saw no sign of it. Oddly, I wondered why my two dogs who voraciously consume kitty poop, had not cleaned up the puke puddles while I was upstairs tending to the child. I realized that I was hoping that my canines would slurp up the mess while I couldn't see or hear them doing so. So, I studied my fifth puke specimen in under one hour. As soon as I realized that this specimen was made up of the exact same stuff as the specimen which I had earlier studied in the palm of my hand, I quit examining it, and cleaned it up the best I could. I did order the dogs to remove all traces of it that I may have missed, however. Apparently, they were awaiting my permission. They attacked the scene with forensic-like precision, ensuring that the grout between the tiles would hold no evidence of the mess that occurred there. Bless those dogs.

Why do we potty train them?

2009-05-06T08:48:00.000-07:00

I know that sounds like a rhetorical question. But seriously, I’m asking. Why? Is it because we expect them to become self sufficient in all things excrement related? Or is it because we still expect the universe to hit the pause button on its expansion in honor of potty-related events, and understand that we are merely transferring our financial investment in poop-related products from the diaper industry to the toilet paper industry?

I contemplate this often, because my daughter’s potty needs are a much higher priority now than ever they were during the diaper stage. A wet diaper was not the end of the world to my toddler. She would deal with it until I completed whatever important mommy task I was involved in, then I would take a break, change the diaper, and life would return to normal.

But my potty trained three-year-old is an entirely different creature. She has what I call Baby Walnut Bladder, which apparently becomes excruciatingly full upon every third swig from the sippy cup. This sensation of fullness causes her to abandon all tasks great and small—everything from princess dress-up to Play-Doh—and launch into full-blown emergency mode:

“Mommeeeee, Ineedtogo potteeeeeeeee!”

I pause to consider. Is she capable of taking off her own clothes? Check. Is the bathroom completely equipped with a stool and all the child-friendly potty accessories imaginable solely for her comfort and convenience? Check. Does she understand what toilet paper is for and how to tear off an appropriate amount? Check (though her willingness to tear off only enough for one wipe cannot be relied upon under any circumstances).

So with all these factors in place, as I stop and look at my darling little girl who has developed the art of jumping, bouncing, and squirming about while holding her hands between her knees, I ask myself why she insists that she cannot go potty without my help. My guess is that it’s a form of manipulation that gives her the upper hand. She knows that potty needs take priority, and she’s using it as a way to gain control of me by forcing me to pay attention to her needs.

I finally managed to work out a deal with her. If she has to go that bad, as in rightthisinstant, she runs off to do her deed and I’ll come along shortly to help her wipe her bottom. I am still willing to assist with this task, as I figure that her days for asking me to wipe her tushie are numbered. All too soon I suspect that I will miss the sight of that bare little behind.

The other choice that she occasionally opts for is to hold it until I’m ready to help her. Those are the times when I realize that it’s about much more than potty assistance or the capacity of her wee walnut bladder (which is way stronger than she’ll let on). It’s about her wanting my attention. So we talk while she sits, and we giggle together, and I give her a courtesy wipe followed by an up-with-the-pants and an arm-tight hands-free hug, and we have fun splashing in the soapy bubbles together, and suddenly, I realize that we just bonded over a pee break.

And then I understand why us women always go to the bathroom in pairs. It’s bonding time—minus the courtesy wipe.

What Was I Thinking?

2009-05-05T13:19:00.001-07:00

It turns out that today is my day to blog. Why did I pick today? Don’t I know how busy I am? Do I ever take that into consideration?

Aaaand I’m arguing with myself. Again. At least this time I’m not doing it out loud… or is it worse that I’m doing it here, in red text, on a public blog?

Ok, so. I should probably get down to this blogging business. Get serious. Write something really good. Meaningful. Deep. Beautiful. Poignant.

Or I could… not… and say I did. Let’s all pretend.

So this is what I’m currently doing. Today I’m writing a ten page research paper on polygamy. So far, it’s going well. I’m on page four. I had a previous six pages written that I wound up scrapping and starting over; the writing was bad. This is worth 20% of my grade. So yeah. It has to be gooo-ooood. Lucky for me I’m a good writer, right?

*snort*

I read some good books, and am currently reading The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir. SO GOOD and definitely worth checking out if you like historical fiction.

I need to mop my floors, but that shall wait for another day.

I feel like this has been the lamest post in Blog Like Ninja history, and I apologize for that. My head is full of polygamy. I need to get back to that paper.

Peace!

What I learned today - Where's the BEEF?!

2009-05-03T18:23:00.000-07:00

Today I learned that if you leave a beautifully prepared filet mignon on the counter where a furry, soon-to-be-dead member of the animal kingdom can reach it, while you run an extra plate out to your husband, the Almighty Meat Griller, he will be nomming down on it in less time than it takes you to come to your senses and run to the kitchen, screaming "NOOOOOOOOO".

What did you learn today?

Sick Ninja - hack cough

2009-04-25T10:14:00.000-07:00

April 24th plus sick ninja equals an anniversary that could have been better. Patrick and I went for massages (first time since August) and then Lonestar for dinner. This ninja could barely breathe throughout the massage (needed kleenex 3-4 times in a span of 50 minutes), not to mention dinner. Lighting up the cigarette for post massage and dinner was ridiculous.

Before bed, a DayQuil was taken. If this ninja takes a NyQuil, she's out for 18 hours. Not so good when one has to be at work by 3pm.

There was anniversary nookie to be had. Details will be spared.

The BellaMonster was awoken by Daddy this morning and then brought in by Daddy (after potty time, of course) to wake up Mommy. Feeling a little better today; I can breleathe through my nose again.

There is a question. Why is it that when I'm sick, I don't mind not kissing my husband (I really don't want to get him sick) but Bella is irresistable?

Today is not much of an interesting post. Today is rather boring for me. This ninja apologizes for not having something more.. fun to read.

Hot, in 2 ways!

2009-04-24T05:39:00.000-07:00

Recently, my family moved into our first home. Actually, we’ve lived in many homes- but this one is special, as it is our first owned home. We’re really excited! It is a great house, sitting in a great town and located in a wonderful cul-de-sac.

When you look out the front window, you see many more gorgeous homes. They are of similar style but all made to look individual. Each home sits on a good chuck of property, and each and every one of them are beautifully maintained. Except for mine, of course.

The best part is that you hear and see children everywhere, playing basketball in the street, riding bikes, using sidewalk chalk... and being kids! Since we’ve moved in I had been watching the kids looking for suitable playmates for my darlings. Sadly, it seemed all the kids were older than my brood of 5, 3 and 1. Our neighbor confirmed my suspicion by telling me that her daughter was the youngest of the area at 8.

However, being a rather close knit neighborhood, it wasn’t long before the kids starting scouting us out as well. I noticed lingering looks down the driveway. Staring when they thought no one was looking. Finally, one brave set of little girls came up and introduced themselves. They were 9 and wanted to play.

Our house is a construction zone. Carefully, I directed them to the “playroom” and then to our daughter’s bedroom. Happily, they sat right down and played with my 5 year old daughter for an hour. They spoke nicely and treated her well. They were definitely older and wiser to the world than my little baby girl, but they were good sounding girls.

The next day, they came back. They asked if my daughter could go with them to their house. My husband looked panicked, but I took a deep breath and said, “yes.” (I’ve met the mother, a nice lady.) Off they strolled away, 4 houses down to the right. My baby girl was walking away with friends. She was a part of the “gang.”

I do believe that was one of the most exciting part of moving into our new house, thus far.

Later that night she told me that she was going to change her clothes because she was hot. She said, “Mom, I am so hot- in 2 ways!”

Say what?

And then, with her adorably forward self asked, “What does that mean anyway? My friends said it but didn’t tell me what it meant.” I laughed. They might not have known either!

I explained that it meant you are hot, temperature wise, but also that you are hot, cute wise and that some people used the word hot to mean “cute”. She thought about it for a second and asked, am I hot?

“No, love-bug, you are 5. You don’t get to be hot until you are a teen-ager. But you are adorably cute.”

Ok, then I’m only hot in one way- mom.

She walked off to change her clothes and I shook my head. I have a feeling with older friends; I’m going to be explaining a lot. Hopefully some younger kids will move into the house for sale next door… that would just make the neighborhood perfect!

Education is Neverending.

2009-04-21T08:48:00.000-07:00

Many people are under the impression that once a degree (or two, or three) is had, it is time to stop using their grey matter. Like anything, if you don't use it, you lose it. There is absolutely no rhyme or reason to stop learning, simply because you have that expensive piece of paper in your possesion. I read constantly, everything from science fiction to scientific literature, from romance to research. The subject is not necessarily as important as keeping my brain stimulated. I have an extremely vivid imagination (which has gotten me into some interesting situations, believe me! But, that is another post for another day!) and it needs to be exercised much like a dog needs to be taken out for a long run. My imagination however, even though it isn't always pure as the driven snow, is housebroken. I very rarely pick up a book and do not finish it, even if I hate it. I plan to refresh myself on subjects that I struggled with, as Connor gets close to learning them so that I can actually help him learn, as opposed to looking like a complete moron to my child. My mother learned algebra right along with me, because I struggled with it, and she took business math for secretaries when she was in school.

The blatant refusal by some people to learn anything at all, or pick up a book at any time other than during an extended stay in the bathroom is frustrating. I know big words, and I'm not afraid to use them. Unfortunately, I often end up needing to reexplain myself to people. Suffice it to say that many of the people who I work with fall into the anti-reading category. I would go as far as including hobbies under learning. Having a hobby, whether it is scrapbooking, gardening, sewing or pogo-sticking also stimulates the brain! Of course, how much you actively use your reasoning and comprehension skills, along with verbal and written language, and mathematics does depend on what you do in life. If you're a janitor for example, you don't necessarily have the practical need for algebra, or physics.

This brings me back to a conversation that I had with my fifteen year old sister recently. She asked what the point was of learning things that she doesn't like. I gave her the standard answer that I always heard - "You never know when you'll need it!" Well, that is true. I sat in the breakroom at work recently and helped a coworker with geometry homework. It took a little work, wringing the math out of my rusted steel trap of a mind... but once I reread the work I knew it well enough to explain it. I had a different coworker ask me to proofread their thesis. Word gets around, I suppose, about the time I took a red felt tip pen teacher-style to a manager's note to us associates. I gladly said yes, and that I charge money for that service. I don't know how many pages yet, but I'll figure out a cost per page. It is within the major that I studied in college, so it shouldn't be too much of a challenge. I'll have my style guide sitting here on the desk, though. I'm looking into going back to school. Maybe taking a course or two to get back in the habit before diving in gung-ho to finish getting a degree.

Whether it benefits me in the short term, or in the long term, continuing my education is a personal goal - and one that I believe should be far more popular.

Good Provider

2009-04-19T05:52:00.000-07:00

"Is your husband a good provider?" I see and hear this question all the time, particularly in situations in which the wife is pontificating about how pissed off she is about some Man Shenanigans of the more serious nature. While I can certainly see the value of considering a man's potential to earn and provide as a necessary criterion to his suitability for marriage, I have to admit that in my own case, I did not put it at or even near the top of the list.

The Zen Master takes his work at the comic book store quite seriously as far as his customers' satisfaction is concerned. After all, the life's blood of a healthy comic book store is a steadyish stream of 20-to-40-something single dudes with disposable income and a thing for spandex. Because my husband also runs Gaming Nights at the store, there's a small core group of die-hard role-playing Ubernerds, most of whom are over 35 and have no families other than the aging parents in whose garage, basement or attic they live. These guys, known affectionately as "The Huzbros", are my husband's most loyal customers and they are the ones who will miss the store the most when it closes in October of this year. The store rarely ever did better than just breaking even in the seven years we've had it; as a business venture it has not been what anyone would term as "lucrative". More than anything else, it has been a place for The Zen Master to do what he does best: helping people when and how they truly need it.

The Zen Master used to be a bartender in a rather upscale restaurant in Houston before he packed up his truck and moved to Bumfrag, Nowhere to be with me, his lady love. When he and I were just plain roommates back in the day, I used to go and pick him up from work occasionally when he couldn't get a ride from someone else, and I had the pleasure of watching him work his regulars. Again, Zen Master had loyal, regular customers who came there to drink because he was there in addition to the libations. A bartender's job is to throw down the drinks and listen to the patrons, and he did both with a particular style that earned him his richly-deserved nickname "Zen Master". The job of Comic Book Guy really isn't that different; he throws down the comics or the dice, and he listens to his customers.

Zen Master's been staying out late all this past week. He comes home reeking of beer and anime and he falls into bed exhausted. What's he been up to that's keeping him so occupied? He's working. Not at the shop and not for money but he's working just the same. One of The Huzbros was just diagnosed with colorectal cancer. Darren is 35 and lives in his parents' garage, no wife, no kids. Zen Master has been staying out late to keep him company and cheer him up in that very special Zen Master way. When Darren first got his diagnosis, he called Zen Master and said he was going to take all his Oxycontin and end it all before he was hooked up to machines and unable to reach the bottle.

"Go for it," said Zen Master "I'm not going to tell you that you have everything to live for because you know that's bullshit and you already have 47 other people shoveling that bullshit at you. I'll say that I think suicide is a chickenshit way to go considering all the medical advances there have been and ass cancer isn't quite the death sentence it once was. I'll also say that I don't think it's the cancer that's really scaring you, it's the thought of trying to bang an Asian chick while hooked up to a colostomy bag that's really freaking you out and man, I have to tell you that you personally have a better chance of getting an Asian chick to bang you with a colostomy bag than without one, but you do whatever you want."

It's this kind of in-your-face wisdom that draws people to Zen Master and keeps them there. The other day he was speculating as to exactly why he's That Guy; his theory was that it's because he never seems to be in a bad place and need help himself that makes The Huzbros feel safe being vulnerable with him. Even though the shop is closing and that ought to be the kind of thing that would depress a person, he's not depressed about it, he really has no feelings about it one way or the other because he knows he'll still do the work he does best, taking care of The Huzbros and me and the kids his very special way, and everything will be fine just fine. While I may not have considered earning potential as particularly pertinent criterion, he did. And while I may not have the best track record when it comes to career paths and staying on them, I've never been presented with the opportunity to really try my hardest at something while being emotionally supported in the manner to which Zen Master is accustomed to supporting me. I am scared at the thought of being the sole breadwinner for this family, especially since it involves an entire year of difficult schooling before I can take an exam before I can apply for a job before I get a job, but I know I'd feel way more scared about it if I didn't have Zen Master in my corner. He is an extremely good provider in all the ways that count the most.

Pleasure

2009-04-18T09:41:00.000-07:00

Oprah has been doing a series on sexuality. The last two weeks have been specifically talking to our children about sex.

The sex therapist was saying that when talking to our girls we need to talk about self pleasure. They need to understand that this is a normal part of sexuality. Also it empowers them to not think they need a boy to satisfy that need so they can wait for the right time for sex.

They talked about boys doing it in the womb. They continue to fondle themselves until their bodies change and then they don't leave the bathroom.

What are your thoughts on the issue? I personally think it is a good idea. Will I go out and buy my daughter a toy no. But when she was little and would touch herself I would tell her she needed to do that in her bedroom.

I think it is a good tool to arm our girls with to prevent unwanted sexual displays. They need to know that those feels are natural. They don't need to be giving boys oral sex in the school to feel good about themselves.

Where does the time go?

2009-04-16T10:45:00.000-07:00

I used to have lots of time. I could spend hours playing video games with my child. I could stay totally caught up with CafeMom and be on top of all that was happening and important. I was actually able to keep the house clean and stay on top of the laundry.

Then the baby came. I am now lucky if I can get the kitchen clean every other day. I usually get the laundry folded at least once a week. Getting the whole house cleaned? That is another story all together. I used to clean the whole house once a week and mop the floors and everything. I am lucky to get that done every three weeks now. Of course with all the stuff that gets spilled on the floors they get spot cleaned almost daily. Why is this so hard now? The baby takes all my time. I don't remember having this problem when the other two were babies. Is this baby more demanding? I am really that much older now? I was only 28 when the first one was born. I am now 37. I can't even sit and type out a blog without interruption. It doesn't help that the three year old was just in here screaming and woke the baby up again. I hope I can get back to some sort of schedule and normalcy by the end of the summer. I will have two kids to get to school every day and one to pick up midday. That will give me more one on one time with the baby. Maybe I can actually clean while the kids nap. I know I will have my own time again at some point. Maybe when they are all in school I will get back on track and can get stuff done. Maybe.

Chronicles of a Lifestyle change....Part I

2009-04-16T06:02:00.000-07:00

So, my lifestyle change began yesterday. I refuse to call it a diet, it's much, much more than that! I started my day off by gathering up my ebbing courage and taking that big leap. I pulled the digital monster out from under the bathroom sink. It mocked me. Its glowing green "Zero" taunting me to, "Go ahead, step on me, I won't bite!" Lies. All lies.

I took a steadying breath and placed one foot on and slowly, ever so slowly, placed the other. The Zero flashed wildly, like some mad carnival lights. All it needed to complete the nightmare effect was Calliope music. Ugh.

Then, it happened. Nuh-uh! No way. Nope. Can a scale even GO this high? Did I goof and buy a truck scale by mistake? SHOCKER. Those digits glowed at me like a beacon. Honey, it's way past time. This is what I get for my constant habit of procrastination.

I dropped the kids off at daycare and boogied straight home. From there I grabbed the big trash bags and systematically scoured my cupboard, my pantry, my fridge and freezer. Out went the processed foods, the carb dripping foods, the fatty-fying foods. Anything that had "high fructose corn syrup"...gone. The ice cream...gone. The crackers...gone. My beloved apple pies....bye-bye. I must've tossed at least $300 worth of "slow death" in that bag.

Then I hit the market. $250 later I think I have everything I need to make more health conscious choices.

The math: $550 for a total fridge makeover. Do I have that kind of cash just sitting around? Oh HELL no...but, I figure this little investment now would be a much weaker punch to my shrinking wallet than the Insurance Premiums I'll have to pay on my ginormous ass in a few years.

3 years ago, I'd have taken my weight in stride. Then came my daughter....I was 36. I only gained 11 pounds while pregnant with her. Of course, I continued "justifying" my eating habits after she was born. 6 months later, I found out my son was coming. No biggie, I did it once, I can do it again. I only gained 10 pounds with him. And, yet again, continued that dreaded "justification."

After my son came, my relationship went to hell in a hand basket (okay, it went to hell in a runaway freight train, but I'm trying to be nice here)...being an "emotional" eater, this pretty much spelled my doom. Now, almost a full year after my son's birth, the mocking, glowing numbers of the digital scale show me just how bad the past year has been.

It's also showed me that I need to get my rear, in gear. I'll be 39 shortly. I refuse to be this weight at 40. I have children now. I need to think about THEM instead of thinking about how to satisfy that 1am craving for an apple pie.

I want to run with them, play with them. I want to have the energy it's going to take to keep up with 2 active toddlers. I don't want to be the "Fat" mom. I want my kids to be proud of me and, most importantly, I do NOT want my kids learning my bad eating habits.

So, I begin. Wow, do I have a road ahead of me.

Peace.

The Opera Gene

2009-04-08T05:54:00.000-07:00

I've been anticipating this ever since the kid's head got stuck on the Birth Canal Expressway; manifestation of the family Opera Gene.

The Opera Gene is not exactly a musical gift, it's more of a tendency toward musicalizing everyday events and it comes with a flair for the dramatic. In me, The Opera Gene showed itself at age five, when I staged my own production entitled "The Princess And The Avocado", featuring my baby sister and the dog. My sister Sarah got the more moody and thoughtful form of The Gene which caused her to be able to amuse herself for hours making up little ditties such as her famous composition "Newts":

Newts, newts, living in the roots. Newts, newts, wearing furry boots. Newts, newts, playing silver flutes. Newts, newts, getting in cahoots....(goes on for 20 minutes or until we get to our violin lesson, whichever comes first.)

My youngest sister Molly got the most aggressive form of The Gene, being so affected that she actually took parts in school musicals even though she only made the chorus most of the time and at the age of seven put together her own television program (on videotape) entitled "The One Hand Man", starring Lego people and smiliarly-sized plastic zoo animals.

Both my parents have The Opera Gene. My mother is genuinely musically gifted but my father has the off-brand form of the gene that causes people to make up song parodies at the drop of a hat and as his musical tastes lean towards the classical, we'd often get work from him like "Don't Sing At The Table", which is set to the tune of De Meistersinger and goes simply "Don't sing at the table, don't sing at the table." From him also came "I'm In The Middle" set to the tune of The Barber of Seville and is just "I'm in the middle, I'm in the middle, I'm in the middle, the middle, the miiiidllllle..." and was typically performed by anyone who was sitting in between two other people.

So when Nigel began to sing instead of talk, it wasn't too much of a shock to me. Unfortunately, he also inherited a family tendency to talk really fast and loudly and he did not inherit perfect pitch, so listening to him yodel can be a little jarring, especially when the yodeling lyrics come from the Cricut manual we are perusing, he affects Lois Griffin's disctinctive Northeast nasal inflection or Spongebob's nails-on-chalkboard giggle. His Guitar Hero activities have provided him with a vast number of tunes to plunder for parody, however that knowledge comes with a social price, as he knows the original lyrics to songs such as "Talk Dirty To Me" by heart and will occasionally start singing them under his breath at Wal-Mart and end up shocking some old lady by mistake.

Mess and Chaos. Do We Ever Grow Up? Is Disorganization a Sign of Immaturity?

2009-04-07T16:52:00.001-07:00

I need a sign that reads "Martha Stewart Does Not Live Here". I have many friends who are also what I would call "anti-Marthas", several of them are my fellow BLN bloggers - I'm not naming any names.

My mother is not Martha, but she's pretty close. In a conversation with her recently, she said that I was immature for not having the oversized closet that my son and I share perfectly neat and organized. My priorities are apparently different than hers. I'd rather spend more time with my son, and my friends (both in person, and online) than alone in my room trying to make the impossible happen. I hate, hate, hate folding clothes. I do it at work, and loathe the idea of doing it at home. My dresser does not have an adequate amount of space for the clothing that I have. I also am lacking space for all of my books. The majority of them, sadly, are in boxes in my aunt's basement.

There was originally the deal that if I kept my room clean and organized, my parents would allow Connor and I to have the master bedroom (theirs) instead, giving me a little more space to function. At this point, Connor's dresser is downstairs in the living room. This task has been impossible, so we remain crowded into a tiny space.

I am semi-embarrassed about the state of disorganization that my room has fallen into, but I lack the ambition to fix it - a FLYlady I am NOT. I can decorate, I can organize, but I can't maintain. I feel better to know that I'm not alone, but I feel that in some ways I'm failing as an adult.

Best Time Ever

2009-04-07T08:59:00.001-07:00

“Your house must be really fun,” people will say when they find out how many children I have and their ages. I always nod with enthusiasm and agree with them, but inside I think Yeah, but it’s a lot of work.

I don’t really think about that part of it, honestly, how much fun my house is. Mostly my days are filled with just getting through it intact and better off then when we started out. Making sure that the children are happy and healthy and getting done what needs to get done. True, there’s usually a lot of good humor and laughter involved, and I work really hard to remain upbeat and positive throughout the day. And that’s where I think I lose the “it’s really fun” part. I work at having fun.

That isn’t to say that I’m not sincere in my attempts at humor. That doesn’t mean that I’m not having a good time. It means that I let a lot of things roll off my back. It means that I try to find the happy side of things and direct them towards it. It means that even though I’m irritable some days, I put a smile on face whilst dealing with the kidlets, and grump it out after they go to bed (naturally, some days this proves impossible, so I let them know it isn’t them, but me, and they generally steer clear).

All day long my house rings with laughter. It isn’t constant; they do fight and spat and argue, and sometimes they do something foolish and get in trouble. But for the most part, there’s a lot of laughing going on. And I’m usually right there, a part of it if not the instigator. Again, though, I work at it, for them. And in no small part for me, too. It’s a lot easier to let the little stuff go than it is to be upset over.

And then something happens and it brings it all home that yeah, my house is a lot of fun for us. Last nite at dinner, we were having our usual lively conversations about everything and anything. The subject of dimples came up (don’t ask how, I’m not sure). We were teasing our oldest daughter that drinking milk made her dimple cuter (she has one on her right cheek), and my husband commented that when you get old, you get dimples in lots of other places. My son took that and ran with it. He started singing a song about how getting old, getting fat, and getting dimples on your butt. For whatever reason, this struck my second daughter as particularly hilarious, and she laughed so hard she spat milk across the table. More like, sprayed milk everywhere.

Although we all got splattered, and it made a bit of a mess, how could I get mad at that? My daughter was laughing so hard she was holding in her sides. The rest of us were dying. Except for my youngest, who watched us all with her brows furrowed in perplexity, and when we all calmed down some, asked in honest confusion “What’s so funny?” which set us all off again. I think we laughed for a good ten minutes, the kind of laughing that hurts your sides and makes you cry and almost pee at the same time. The kind of laughing where you start to calm down, and all it takes is just looking at each other and you’re cracking up all over again.

And that was just at dinner.

Upon reflection, I realize that for the most part, when we’re all gathered together like that, there is generally a lot of laughing going on. Not usually that dramatic, but still….

…it really is, the best time ever. My house IS a lot of fun.

Ceiling fans and water.

2009-04-06T09:08:00.000-07:00

It is amazing what will entertain, captivate and enthral a child. All three of my children have been entertained by a ceiling fan. Plop the kid down where he or she can watch is spin and you might actually get 5 minutes of time to yourself. If the child is not fussy when you put them down you might get 20 minutes to get something done. It is amazing how something so simple as a spinning blade can captivate a baby. Yeah mommy can pee in peace, or change another child's diaper, or move the laundry along, something that might otherwise get put off a little bit longer, but doesn't take very long to do.

Water is the other thing that can thoroughly entertain a child. The sound of it, the feel of it, the mess it can make. Again all three of my children love water. From a very young age. I am talking about a couple of days old my kids have loved water. It started with baths and moved to the pool for the older two. We will take the baby swimming for the first time hopefully tomorrow. Hopefully she will love it too.

Today I had to go mop up the bathroom, because the three year old overfilled the sink. I think all bathrooms should be designed with a drain in the middle of the floor and tile the whole thing so that it won't be a huge issue when they get flooded as mine invariably does. At least he isn't playing in the cat box.

Is It Art, Or Is It Crap?

2009-04-04T09:05:00.000-07:00

This past week, I happened to watch two diametrically different films that brought the same question to mind: "Is it art, or is it crap?" I'm fairly certain about one, but still torn about the other.
I tend to channel-surf on Friday evenings rather than going straight for whatever DVD box set I'm currently obsessing over. Last night I happened to catch Saw IV right as it was starting, so I decided to watch it. I adored the first Saw flick, "Jigsaw" is without a doubt one of the most interesting Bad Dudes ever invented and the whole movie just had that crazy caffeinated indie feel to it. I was less-than-overwhelmed by the subsequent films although Saw II still has a piece of my heart for the awesome set pieces. Saw III was simply terrible and I had the feeling that Saw IV would be similarly terrible, but I figured I owed it to myself to give it a shot. By the end, I was convinced that Saw III and Saw IV had pretty much destroyed the character of Jigsaw (and there's a Saw V in the works, ungungung...) by burying him under a ludicrous backstory and relying on the dumbest of all plot twists AGAIN! I'm sorry, but if you're any kind of horror film fan, you will have figured things out by the second half hour. But one thing still shines through all four films. The musical score. "Jigsaw's Theme" is a jewel, it's something to be treasured and held up as a paragon of musical achievement because no matter who you are or how you feel about horror films in general or the Saw films specifically, that piece of music is fantastic and evokes a strong emotional response. While the original Saw film is art and the musical score is art, the rest is just crap.

Last Tuesday, while we were at Blockbuster picking out our weekly movie, Zen Master had me choose between two films that he was equally interested in, the Jean-Claude Van Damme flick in which he plays himself, or a flick I'd never heard of entitled Extreme Movie. Since I'd just seen the Bruce Campbell flick in which he plays himself and Extreme Movie starred Frankie Muniz, Michael Cera and Matthew Lillard, I chose it. Extreme Movie was shot in 2005 but released in 2008 following Michael Cera's peerless performances in the films Juno and Superbad. It is a collection of shorts about various teen sexcapades surrounding a central unifying story. In tone and temperament, it strongly resembles Woody Allen's 1972 film Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask). Extreme Movie does max out on tasteless a lot of the time, but I found myself agog at several points due to the sheer breadth and depth of that tastelessness. The flick spoke to me several times, I was moved beyond words due to the amazing and beautifully done musical score (I do have a thing for great music). The entire experience of Extreme Movie brought me back to similarly over-the-top flicks like Monty Python's Meaning Of Life and The South Park Movie--Bigger, Longer and Uncut, both of which were difficult to watch at times but were artistically compelling because many of the scenes in those movies had never been done before and both had great music. While I could very happily not have seen the young lady use her cell phone (set to vibrate) for an unsavory purpose, I don't think I would want to unsee or unhear Matthew Lillard's questionable "sex tips", or poor Frankie Muniz being subjected to his virginal girlfriend's desire to "take things to the next level" or even the only Silent Porn Film ever made, starring Abraham Lincoln, because those scenes were utterly unique, perfectly done and can never be done again. And that's where the question "is it art or is it crap" comes in. I'd like to completely buy into Extreme Movie being art, I might be able to respect myself in the morning if I could justify every second of the film artistically, but I can't. The score was art, certain scenes were art, but the film as a whole I can't honestly recommend to anyone because my enjoyment of it was subjective.

Some amazingly terrible flicks have been given the "art" stamp merely because they broke technological or emotional barriers. While Extreme Movie could be classified as art because and only because it managed to shine some light on taboo behaviors in an entirely unique manner, Saw IV does not get such a pass because in the end, it wasn't at all unique.

You Can Let Go, Now... It Won't Fall Off

2009-04-03T11:43:00.000-07:00

"Let go of that!" "Get your hands out of there!" "Hand out of Diaper, Connor... it won't fall off!"

The joys of parenting a toddler boy! Connor realized his penis was fun to play with a few weeks ago. During baths and diaper changes he yanks, contorts and squishes it in a manner that makes even ME cringe.

It is healthy self discovery, it is normal... it is annoying. He walks around like a miniature Al Bundy, with his juice cup (80% water, 20% organic, HFC free juice) in one hand, and the other hand tucked wrist deep into his diaper. Sometimes he changes it up, and sticks his hand down the back of his diaper, leading to a plumber's crack experience. Yse, Connor has a cute bum. The world does not need to see it!

I don't want to create any major hangups in his future sex life, so I've been trying to ignore the behavior or say something like "We don't do that in the living room" or something. That's not working. My friend Erin's 5 year old sits in front of the tv and fondles himself every time that he thinks that Erin isn't looking. I don't want Connor to be like that.

Gerber makes 24 month and 3t onesies. I am thrilled to bits! However, they're hard to find. I read a suggestion of overalls, but that idea went out the window with the photographic proof that my brother worked both of his arms into his overalls in order to walk around with his hands on his prize.

Does anyone have a suggestion?

Dots and lies

2009-04-03T10:40:00.000-07:00

The man who smiles when things go wrong has thought of someone to blame it on. - Robert Bloch

I have wonderful kids. They are well behaved and polite for the most part. They make eye contact when they are speaking to you. My daughter and son are best friends and rarely even argue with each other. I am a proud momma.

When my oldest was 3 she went though a phase of testing. She tried her hand at telling lies. It was frustrating.

I was trying to figure out a creative way to stop the damaging behavior. I am anti-spanking or harming your kids in any way.

One day The View was running in the background. Rosie O'Donald was a co-host at the time. She was dealing with the same issue in her house. She said that she told her kids that when they told a lie they got a bright yellow dot on their forehead. (Light Bulb)

I have now been using that idea for years. The kids crack me up. When they tell a lie they cover their forehead. They think only parents can see it.
Yes, I know that it is not good to lie to your kids. I usually am very careful to tell the truth. When it comes to fairy tales, Santa, Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny I always answer their questions with a question. This is my one place that I fib and I wear the badge with pride.

This is the best lie detector ever! I won't give it up ;)

Fake it until you feel it.

2009-03-30T09:31:00.001-07:00

I love being an actress. I don't get to do it often because I am a mom. I hope to get back into my passion when my son starts kindergarten next year.

I was thinking about this today when I started thinking about how actors sometimes become their rolls until the play/movie is over. How does this apply to us? Lets start immersing ourselves in faking sexy, confident, and healthy ladies!

● Talk to yourself Do you ever wonder what others say behind your back? Forget about it. What do you say about yourself? Are you always putting yourself down? Do you look in the mirror and think "Pfft"? Start stopping negative self talk and love yourself. This task is one of the hardest to do because it is internal. Just yell to yourself "STOP" when you find yourself doing this. Then find something positive you can say about you.

● Lose the loser. Folding your arms, slouching, or gnawing on your cuticles is a great way of telling yourself that you are not happy. It sends a negative message to others too. This makes friendships harder to attract. Our friends help fulfill us.

● Poised Stance. Projecting confidence with your body will make people respond to you more positively, boosting your self-assurance. Head up and shoulders back is the pose that is most attractive to others and makes you feel better.

● Dress the part. You may think your fat jeans make you feel better when you’re feeling blah, but you’re actually perpetuating that“I’m a whale” mind-set every time you slip them on. That means trade the ugly weekend wear for cute body-hugging threads that make you like what you see in the mirror. I don't mean to wear something that makes you feel bad about yourself in the opposite way either. I mean something that is attractive on you but doesn't look like you put no thought into your wardrobe.

● Sexy down under. Your underwear is the key to confidence. So ditch the granny panties, and make your “special occasion” undies part of your everyday wardrobe. This also includes shaving those legs and armpits. When you are sexy down under you exude it to your spouse. That boosts your sex life which then in turn ups your life span and your confidence.

● Pretend you are a pro at exercising Don't act like you hate to go to the gym. Pretend you love it. One day you will love it!

And The Truth Shall Set You Free (Even Though You Smell Like Pee)!

2009-03-29T17:50:00.000-07:00

Fade in: My living room. Picture me cuddling with my seven year old and my nine year old daughters. Enter husband, wearing serious face.

"Honey, you'll want to come see this."

Me: *sigh*

I followed him to the kitchen, where my husband, soul-mate, sugar daddy said, "That's pee on the floor," as he made a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand. Yes, indeedily, it certainly was pee, and a good portion of the kitchen floor and a step-stool were covered with it. The dog hasn't hosed down a room like that in some time and quite frankly, the husband hasn't either. I knew who the culprit was by the fact that the dog wasn't the only pantless one in the kitchen. I looked at the guilty three-year-old Samantha and said, "Sam, did you pee on the floor?"

She said, "Yes, but I said I was sorry."

This surprised me (marking her territory on the linoleum, not her apology) and I asked her why she would do that. Sam looked up from cleaning her mess like a miniature Cinderella and said, "Well, I had to GO."

...Um...Yeah. Okay, that served me right for asking a three-year-old to explain herself.

Fast forward five minutes.

Back to the kitchen to refill my water. Seeing the monster of a dog, I give him a pat on the head as I pass. His head is damp. Wha...? *double take* "How did your head get...Oh, no." I smelled his furry melon and sure enough, that unmistakeable odor reached my nose. Lovely. Just lovely.

"SAM?!" *walks quickly to the living room where Sam sits watching t.v. with her sisters*

"Why is Brinkley's head wet?"

"He got it wet," said Sam.

"Yes, I know, but HOW did he get it wet, Samantha?"

Child makes up story quicker than you can blink..."He put his head in his water bowl."

I said, "No, his head is wet on TOP. How did that happen?"

Oldest sister Madison pipes up, "Sam, if you tell the truth you won't get in trouble." (Yes! Good thinking, Madison. That's how we'll get it out of her! I was just about to get the folding chair, rubber hose and a VERY bright light.)

Sam confesses. "Yes, I pee-peed on the doggy's head." (Mommy hides behind a pillow, giggling silently, thinking "Remember, you're her mother. Laugh later.")

"WHY did you pee on the dog's head?"

Sam, very matter-of-fact, shrugs her shoulders, explaining, "Because it was kinda FUNNY."

Note: Sam has apologized to the dog and promised not to pee on anyone ever again. Madison and I have recovered from our fits of laughter out of Sam's earshot and the floor and dog are once again, clean and pee-free.

Thanks for your support.

Dirty Little Secret... Erotica

2009-03-23T20:37:00.000-07:00

How do you feel about Erotica?

I enjoy it. Of course, the caveat to that is that they have to be well written! I admit it, back when I was in college, I wrote some rather smutty fanfiction for several television shows that I am a fan of. They were definitely better written than many of the fics that I read (which, I think is part of the reason I wrote them). I was on AOL Instant Messenger fairly recently, talking with a friend who happened to bring them up. He found a saved file with several of these stories on them - not surprising, I'd used his laptop and written some of them while we were hanging out. He majored in English, and said that rereading them made him realize that I've got a knack for writing erotica. He made the suggestion that I should perhaps take a little bit of my spare time and post some on the Literotica website. Hmm. Why I never thought of that, I don't know. So, here I sit actively contemplating the idea of authoring a story or two... to see how it goes.

A question begs to be asked though... is literary erotica the same thing as pornography?
I don't think so. They have obvious similarities, but erotica is less discriminatory in my opinion. Many of the stories are written in first person, allowing you to substitute yourself into the situation - you're not forced to stare at anorexic blonde teens, while thinking "Hey, I need to lose weight!" or "My thighs jiggle when I do that." or "Hey, if I bounced that much, my girls would give me a black eye!" Instead with the erotic writing, there is more personal depth.

Is it harmful to read? Or inspiring? I suppose, like with anything, that question is an individual one - in the same way that "Just One Beer" might not affect, but would throw a recovering alcoholic into a downward spiral. Definitely, within the context of a larger story, I think it is perfectly acceptable. Alone, I think it is okay, albeit usually somewhat cheesy. I don't think it is necessarily "bad".

The Pain of Beauty

2009-03-22T14:08:00.001-07:00

My husband has been in the Navy for nineteen and a half years. I have been trying to talk him into getting a tattoo for the last six years. He would not budge...until yesterday. A buddy of ours had been sending him little hint texts throughout the week that he was going in to get a new tat this weekend. Of course, I was all over it. A little later the eve before, Todd came to me and asked if we could Google some images. We looked at Celtic and Maori symbols. We looked at dragons. Then he says, “Can we look at skulls?”
“Sure.”
I pulled up some skull images and after clicking ‘next’ a few times, he saw the one he wanted. I had told him he might want to pick out something simple just in case he really did not like the way it felt, then the artist could stop after the outline and it would still look cool. It was a nice simple piece and I printed it out. He went off to watch more March Madness. I, for shits and grins, started to Google Goth and dark faerie images. I have wanted a faerie for so long. I already have three tattoos, but relatively small.
I went through the pages, not really with the intent to get one...but the itch had risen after getting excited for Todd and his soon to be virgin ink. I saw some pretty ones. I completely avoided the cartoonist ones. After about the tenth page...*gasp*...there she was. I found my faerie. She looked just like I had pictured her in my head for the last few years, now she was looking back at me. I printed it out, wordlessly walked over to Todd and handed him the picture.
“Wow, she’s hot!”
He looks up at me and says, “You want this, don’t you?”
My reply was simply the look of a child when being offered a piece of candy. He grinned and I knew I could get her.
The next afternoon, we picked up our buddy, Brett, and headed for the tattoo parlor. I have always believed things happen for a reason. When we arrived, Nate, the artist was just finishing up with another customer and there was no one else waiting.
When done, he came out and shook hands with Brett, as he was a frequenter of the place, and introductions made. Todd gave Nate the picture we had printed out; he looked at it and said no problem. I gave him the picture of the faerie I had picked out and he said, “Wow, she’s hot!”
Hmmm, same thing Todd said. *grins*
“We’re going to have to blow this up to get the detail.”
“How much bigger?” I asked.
“Where do you want it?”
“I want to be able to see her, so not on my back.”
Everyone is looking at each other. I pointed to the left underside of my forearm. We all agreed that would be a cool spot. Nate went in the back to blow it up. When he came back out, it was three times bigger than before. I know my eyes bugged. Then I said, “Dude, that’s like a quarter sleeve!”
All the guys are smiling and nodding. As I wrapped my head around this, we all walked to the back and had Todd go first so he wouldn’t chicken out. I was watching his face as the ink hit his skin for the first time. He didn’t like it much, lol. A half hour later, my husband had his first tat. It looked cool.
My turn. I had been getting excited watching Todd get his done, so all the worries about the size mine was to be had disappeared. I got in the chair and it took him about forty-five minutes to complete the outline. Holy shit that was just the outline! I asked, “How long do you think it will take to shade her in?”
“Maybe an hour, hour and fifteen.”
“OK...I need to go pee before you get started again.”
I came out of the bathroom. All of the guys had disappeared outside for a smoke. They come back in and Nate gets going again working the detail.
Then, Todd and Brett ditched me. Those two assholes went to the bar around the corner and left me there writhing and watching the clock all by myself. Soon, the tat-culture crowd starts to fill the back room. Now, there are half a dozen others besides myself the victim, and Nate. They all take their turns walking over to see the work. Much approval circled the room as everyone agreed that it was an awesome tat.
Todd and Brett come back, an hour later, just as Nate is finishing up.
I grinned and once again called them assholes.
Done, I got up and walked over to the mirror...wow...she was just as beautiful as I had hoped she would be. The detail was so amazing he even captured the demure, yet somewhat come-hither look on her face. She was standing and turned sideways in a shy stance. The wings incredibly detailed and the dress flowed. Her hair looked like it was billowing in the wind and the moon was behind her.
I had withstood two hours of soft-flesh tattooing and greatly rewarded for it.
The pain of beauty.

TMI Friday! "Hairum Scarum" Edition

2009-03-20T08:40:00.000-07:00

Hallelujah, I finally got some the other night! Between my "Aunt Flo", who apparently is back on the meth because she booked a flight, forgot to get on it and eventually got re-routed through Brazil before finally arriving, my kids' creative attempts to put off bedtime by asking 1001 Questions About Something Super-Serious and the extra dog I've got right now who doesn't really get along with a certain Psycho Cat I also have sleazing around here, opportunities for the nookie have been scarce.
When sex isn't going to happen and the both of us know it, I tend to let myself go in the extra-girly department and then I have to do catch-up maintenance right quick and in a hurry the day I re-open for business. It would probably be smart if I "vacuumed the basement and dusted the baseboards" more regularly; then it wouldn't take 90 minutes to get me from World-Class Skanky to First-Class MILF.
Due to a low-flying military jet that I really thought was going to crash in the front yard this morning, The Husband Person got up early and decided to play in his facial hair. I walked in on him doing that because I didn't figure he would be up that early and I had to pee like a racehorse.
Sooooo HOT! Dudes shaving is a major, weirdo turn-on of mine; it affects me as if I walked in on him shaking the weasel with Supernatural on in the background and yes, I know that's also really weird. He knows what I'm like, yet he asked me to help him get his new goatee evened up. Yeah, that ended up taking a LOT longer than he expected and we used up all the hot water, shaving cream and Astroglide.

2009-03-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

At this time last year, I was really struggling to stay perky and bright. I was pregnant, if I recall correctly. I must have been, as I now have a baby that refuses to go back back to her real mother. Last winter involved copious amounts of snow, to the point where we were all "snow-weary." "Snow-derangement" followed and Cabin Fever set in with a vengeance. I needed spring like a cactus needs a raindrop--anything, any sign of its arrival, was good enough for me. I hoarded each precious speck of sunshine.

This year, it isn't as bad. In fact, I am already thinking ahead to happy summer plans and events without craving the slightest hint of green in the foliage around my house. I am really beginning to suspect that I live in the wrong area of the country. Now, I must consider how to remedy that problem.

This country is divided up into three parts--California, New York, and everywhere else. I have lived in all three places. I hate living where it is too hot. I can remember in Texas opening my car door and feeling a BLAST of furnace-hot air roaring out at me. That particular car, my little Geo Metro, had no air conditioning. I had to drive along the Texan highways with my windows rolled down. One time my boyfriend was driving, and for some reason I stuck my head out of the window. Perhaps I was feeling wolfish. My glasses, which were missing an earpiece (if I remember correctly) went WHOOSH! right off my face into the roadside Texas Bluebells. In my case, love was truly blind at that point.

I have lived in the rainy Pacific Northwest, in a city riddled with steep inclines and one way streets. Seattle is a fantastic city to stay in shape as a pedestrian--unless you also work for a pasta company and eat what the kitchen cooks every day for lunch. I have seldom been more physically active in my life than at that time--but a diet of tortellini and alfredo sauce and Sherried Mushroom and Brie Soup do not a slim silhouette make. I am proof that you can be in fantastic shape and still be a heifer!

Having lived here, there and everywhere, I really do know that there isn't just one ideal place to dwell. Home is how ya make it. Too much snow, too much oven-hot heat, too much rain... you can find something to complain about no matter where you are.

The goal is to find to look back at where you've been, and appreciate how far you've come.

Fashion has no Sense

2009-03-19T07:40:00.000-07:00

Spring Break is a time of fun in the sun for most families. My family has taken the opportunity to hang out at our local amusement park.

The weather was perfect but people were not. There were the men that spit, the kids that argued, and the strange clothing.

The nice thing to see this year is that most ladies have it in their heads now that Capris are not and have not been in style for the past two summers. They are the new "Mom Jeans".

Here are a few tips:

1) If I am standing in line and can tell that your panties don't match your bra then you might want to rethink your wardrobe choice.

2) Muffin top beware. If you think you are in a size 10 pants but your size 18 shirt lets me see the inside of your belly button try going up a few sizes. There is nothing wrong with wearing a bigger size. There is something to be said for wearing clothes that fit. Embrace the size that you are.

3)I understand fully that you don't want to wear the high-waisted sports shorts. Rolling down a little is okay. If I can tell if your hair is your natural color it isn't a good thing.

4)If you want to wear flip-flops great for you. Some of you need to take sandpaper to those puppies. If I have to follow your feet up to your face to find out if they belong to a man or woman because of the polish....not good.

5)Ladies, please go get fitted for a bra. No matter how short you are your boobs should not touch your belt. Many stores will measure you for free. I beg you. If you give the person behind you on the roller coaster a black eye you might get sued.

St. Paddy's Day

2009-03-17T12:07:00.000-07:00

All information is taken from here.

The First Parade

St. Patrick's Day is celebrated on March 17, his religious feast day and the anniversary of his death in the fifth century. The Irish have observed this day as a religious holiday for thousands of years.

On St. Patrick's Day, which falls during the Christian season of Lent, Irish families would traditionally attend church in the morning and celebrate in the afternoon. Lenten prohibitions against the consumption of meat were waived and people would dance, drink, and feast—on the traditional meal of Irish bacon and cabbage.

The first St. Patrick's Day parade took place not in Ireland, but in the United States. Irish soldiers serving in the English military marched through New York City on March 17, 1762. Along with their music, the parade helped the soldiers to reconnect with their Irish roots, as well as fellow Irishmen serving in the English army.

Over the next thirty-five years, Irish patriotism among American immigrants flourished, prompting the rise of so-called "Irish Aid" societies, like the Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick and the Hibernian Society. Each group would hold annual parades featuring bagpipes (which actually first became popular in the Scottish and British armies) and drums.

No Irish Need Apply

Up until the mid-nineteenth century, most Irish immigrants in America were members of the Protestant middle class. When the Great Potato Famine hit Ireland in 1845, close to a million poor, uneducated, Catholic Irish began to pour into America to escape starvation. Despised for their religious beliefs and funny accents by the American Protestant majority, the immigrants had trouble finding even menial jobs. When Irish Americans in the country's cities took to the streets on St. Patrick's Day to celebrate their heritage, newspapers portrayed them in cartoons as drunk, violent monkeys.

However, the Irish soon began to realize that their great numbers endowed them with a political power that had yet to be exploited. They started to organize, and their voting block, known as the "green machine," became an important swing vote for political hopefuls. Suddenly, annual St. Patrick's Day parades became a show of strength for Irish Americans, as well as a must-attend event for a slew of political candidates. In 1948, President Truman attended New York City 's St. Patrick's Day parade, a proud moment for the many Irish whose ancestors had to fight stereotypes and racial prejudice to find acceptance in America.

Wearing of the Green Goes Global

Today, St. Patrick's Day is celebrated by people of all backgrounds in the United States, Canada, and Australia. Although North America is home to the largest productions, St. Patrick's Day has been celebrated in other locations far from Ireland, including Japan, Singapore, and Russia.

In modern-day Ireland, St. Patrick's Day has traditionally been a religious occasion. In fact, up until the 1970s, Irish laws mandated that pubs be closed on March 17. Beginning in 1995, however, the Irish government began a national campaign to use St. Patrick's Day as an opportunity to drive tourism and showcase Ireland to the rest of the world. Last year, close to one million people took part in Ireland 's St. Patrick's Festival in Dublin, a multi-day celebration featuring parades, concerts, outdoor theater productions, and fireworks shows.

In fact the first written mention of this story did not appear until nearly a thousand years after Patrick's death.

The shamrock, which was also called the "seamroy" by the Celts, was a sacred plant in ancient Ireland because it symbolized the rebirth of spring. By the seventeenth century, the shamrock had become a symbol of emerging Irish nationalism. As the English began to seize Irish land and make laws against the use of the Irish language and the practice of Catholicism, many Irish began to wear the shamrock as a symbol of their pride in their heritage and their displeasure with English rule.

It has long been recounted that, during his mission in Ireland, St. Patrick once stood on a hilltop (which is now called Croagh Patrick), and with only a wooden staff by his side, banished all the snakes from Ireland.

In fact, the island nation was never home to any snakes. The "banishing of the snakes" was really a metaphor for the eradication of pagan ideology from Ireland and the triumph of Christianity. Within two hundred years of Patrick's arrival, Ireland was completely Christianized.

Be prepared to toast on St. Patrick's Day!

For all those who were wondering what to say on March 17th, when they raise their glasses, here are a few phrases to remember:

May God bring good health to your enemies enemies

May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent.

May you be in heaven one half hour before the devil knows you're dead.

As you slide down the banisters of life may the splinters never point the wrong way.

There are many good reasons for drinking,
One has just entered my head,
If a man doesn't drink when he's living,
How the hell can he drink when he's dead?

May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future.

May you get all your wishes but one,
So you always have something to strive for.

Here's to you,
here's to me,
the best of friends we'll always be.
But if we ever disagree,
forget you here's to ME!!

Here's to your coffin...
May it be built of 100 year old oaks which I will plant tomorrow.

Here's to you as good as you are,
Here's to me as bad as I am,
As good as you are,
And as bad as I am,
I'm as good as you are,
As bad as I am.

May the sons of your daughters smile up in your face.

Health, and long life to you
Land without rent to you
The partner of your heart to you
and when you die, may your bones rest in Ireland!

May your blessings outnumber
The shamrocks that grow,
And may trouble avoid you
Wherever you go.

May your neighbors respect you,
Troubles neglect you,
The angels protect you,
And Heaven accept you.

An old Irish recipe for longevity:
Leave the table hungry.
Leave the bed sleepy.
Leave the bar thirsty.

I've drunk to your health in the pubs ,
I've drunk to your health in my home ,
I've drunk to your health so many times ,
That I've almost ruined my own.

May you never forget what is worth remembering,
Or remember what is best forgotten.

May you have the hindsight to know where you've been,
The insight to know where you are,
and the foresight to know when you've gone too far.

May you have warm words on a cold evening,
A full moon on a dark night,
And the road downhill all the way to your door.

May you never make an enemy
When you could make a friend
Unless you meet a fox among your chickens.

May your fire be as warm as the weather is cold.

The original Irish name for these figures of folklore is "lobaircin," meaning "small-bodied fellow."

Belief in leprechauns probably stems from Celtic belief in fairies, tiny men and women who could use their magical powers to serve good or evil. In Celtic folktales, leprechauns were cranky souls, responsible for mending the shoes of the other fairies. Though only minor figures in Celtic folklore, leprechauns were known for their trickery, which they often used to protect their much-fabled treasure.

Leprechauns had nothing to do with St. Patrick or the celebration of St. Patrick's Day, a Catholic holy day. In 1959, Walt Disney released a film called Darby O'Gill & the Little People, which introduced America to a very different sort of leprechaun than the cantankerous little man of Irish folklore. This cheerful, friendly leprechaun is a purely American invention, but has quickly evolved into an easily recognizable symbol of both St. Patrick's Day and Ireland in general.

St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, is one of Christianity's most widely known figures. But for all his celebrity, his life remains somewhat of a mystery. Many of the stories traditionally associated with St. Patrick, including the famous account of his banishing all the snakes from Ireland, are false, the products of hundreds of years of exaggerated storytelling.

Taken Prisoner By Irish Raiders

It is known that St. Patrick was born in Britain to wealthy parents near the end of the fourth century. He is believed to have died on March 17, around 460 A.D. Although his father was a Christian deacon, it has been suggested that he probably took on the role because of tax incentives and there is no evidence that Patrick came from a particularly religious family. At the age of sixteen, Patrick was taken prisoner by a group of Irish raiders who were attacking his family's estate. They transported him to Ireland where he spent six years in captivity. (There is some dispute over where this captivity took place. Although many believe he was taken to live in Mount Slemish in County Antrim, it is more likely that he was held in County Mayo near Killala.) During this time, he worked as a shepherd, outdoors and away from people. Lonely and afraid, he turned to his religion for solace, becoming a devout Christian. (It is also believed that Patrick first began to dream of converting the Irish people to Christianity during his captivity.)

Guided By Visions

After more than six years as a prisoner, Patrick escaped. According to his writing, a voice-which he believed to be God's-spoke to him in a dream, telling him it was time to leave Ireland.

To do so, Patrick walked nearly 200 miles from County Mayo, where it is believed he was held, to the Irish coast. After escaping to Britain, Patrick reported that he experienced a second revelation-an angel in a dream tells him to return to Ireland as a missionary. Soon after, Patrick began religious training, a course of study that lasted more than fifteen years. After his ordination as a priest, he was sent to Ireland with a dual mission-to minister to Christians already living in Ireland and to begin to convert the Irish. (Interestingly, this mission contradicts the widely held notion that Patrick introduced Christianity to Ireland.)

Bonfires and Crosses

Familiar with the Irish language and culture, Patrick chose to incorporate traditional ritual into his lessons of Christianity instead of attempting to eradicate native Irish beliefs. For instance, he used bonfires to celebrate Easter since the Irish were used to honoring their gods with fire. He also superimposed a sun, a powerful Irish symbol, onto the Christian cross to create what is now called a Celtic cross, so that veneration of the symbol would seem more natural to the Irish. (Although there were a small number of Christians on the island when Patrick arrived, most Irish practiced a nature-based pagan religion. The Irish culture centered around a rich tradition of oral legend and myth. When this is considered, it is no surprise that the story of Patrick's life became exaggerated over the centuries-spinning exciting tales to remember history has always been a part of the Irish way of life.)

My husband and I don't celebrate St. Paddy's in the typical fashion (go out, get hammered on green beer and make a fool of yourself). Due to his allergy to alcohol (and he's Irish to boot; he does love some good meat and potatoes, though!), we don't go out and drink. In fact, the last time I got completely hammered was St. Paddy's in 2004. Instead of celebrating the drunken way, we instead make a dinner of meat and potatoes, as well as corned beef and cabbage (which I love!). As for Irish drinks, I'm sure I can find something in the information I found.

Let them eat PI!

2009-03-14T11:01:00.000-07:00

March 14th (3.14) is Pi Day. I’ve never been big on math, but I love PI. The fact that pi represents an infinite number proves that…you can never have too much pi!

I know sometimes we find ourselves searching for ways to celebrate these lesser known holidays, so I’ve put together a few suggestions. Honestly, how can you call yourself a nerd if you don’t celebrate Pi Day?!

Here are some ways to get your geeky pi-party started:

You can enjoy 3.14 pieces of pizza pi, apple pi, pumpkin pi and/or various flavors of meringue pi or make a pi-napple upside down cake while you watch American Pi.

If you’re feeling particularly brainy, make up a song to help you recite as many numbers in Pi as you can. I’ll get you started: 3.14159265358979323846 (and away we go!)

Read the tale of the Pi-ed piper of Hamelin to your kids.

Do not use the Pi-thagorean Theorem…unless you’re working with your triangles inside of a circle (then I suppose it’s okay).

Wish people a happy Pi Day and if they respond with, “Oh, you mean like Pi r squared?” please correct them. Pi are round; cornbread and brownies are squared.

Looking to be Pi-lingual? Use these.

Pirate: The going price of pi.
Pints: units of volume in which pi is available.
Pinto: Ford’s official exploding vehicle of pi.
Pioneer: Within a reasonable distance to pi. (A yummy smell is usually a good indication that nomable pi is close by. Nom nom nom.)
Pi-sces: What pi does.
Pi-Romania: Where Transylvanian pi fanatics reside.
Pi-thon: refers to a skimpy undergarment adorned with the π symbol. (It is commonly misspelled by omitting a G at the end.)

Pi-sexual: The thought of scantily clad pi makes you horny regardless of its gender.

Remember, the party officially starts on 3/14 at 1:59:26.

Go forth and multi-pi.

:)

"No, you can’t."

2009-03-12T09:42:00.000-07:00

I hate, HATE to hear that phrase. No one likes to be told NO. In this instance I’m talking about food, specifically the unhealthy Two Minutes On The Lips, Twenty Years On The Hips variety. It makes me want whatever it is that much more.

If I say to myself: “Self, you can't have ice cream" what do you think I want for the rest of the day? The forbidden fruit that is ice cream, of course!

I am still learning to encourage myself. I parent by turning my negative into a positive. Well, why not guide myself the same way? Instead of telling my kids, "No, you cannot go outside and play. Your homework isn't finished" I say "Yes, you may go out to play as soon as your homework is done."

If I incorporate that positive tone into my self-talk I bet I'd have better results. It's about making a choice (the healthier choice) for me, and not about telling myself not to do something and scolding myself when I have a weak moment. It's about learning to replace a bad habit with a good one.

I kicked the smoking habit 11 years ago, but I replaced it with a sedentary lifestyle of binge-eating and television-watching. Now I have to get moving and create a new, positive habit for myself.

It's time I turned the "no, you can't" into "yes, I can".

Yes. I can.

"Listen to the wind blow... Watch the sun rise..."

2009-03-11T10:01:00.000-07:00

Who knew that these seven words (accompanied of course, by the appropriate musical accompaniment) would be enough to give me the chills? That isn't entirely true, as soon as I hear the opening chords to "The Chain", I get a chill down my spine, and a smile on my face. I can be anywhere and hear the famous bass line, then regardless of the circumstances I will smile involuntarily.

"Running in the shadows, Damn your love. Damn your lies"
I fell in love with the music of Fleetwood Mac nearly 8 years ago. Being a huge fan of Classic Rock during the Britney and the Boy Bands era of music made me an oddity. I have a personal requirement of my musicians - they must play their own music. None of the electronic stuff, no lip synching dance shows for me! I'll take the chance that my bands won't be perfect every performance, because live shows with real music is so much better.

"And if you don't love me now, You will never love me again"
Sometimes the little flubs and quirks make the shows even more memorable. There was one concert during the "Say You Will" tour (2003 & 2004) that had a VERY memorable quirk. During the song "Goodbye Baby" a fight broke out in the audience (who the hell fights at a Fleetwood Mac concert?!) and Stevie Nicks was surprised enough that she missed her cue to sing the second verse. So Lindsey Buckingham picked it up for her, singing the second verse of the song - allowing her the time to compose herself. This happened also with "Silver Springs" during the Dance tour (1997), with Stevie losing her composure and Lindsey singing the final "You could be my silver spring... my blue green colors flashing..." which of course added so much to the show. I've heard a bootleg recording of that show, and despite the poor recording quality - it was amazing and very moving.

"I can still hear you saying, you would never break, never break the chain"
The first concert I ever attended was September 24, 2003. I saw Fleetwood Mac at the Boston Garden (then called the FleetCenter), with my boyfriend Josh. I honestly to this day think he just humored my semi-obsession because I put up with his addiction to Anime. I mean serious addiction. I fell in love all over again (with the band, not the boy) that night. The music reverberated through my body and into the depths of my soul. How I ended up at the concert, is somewhat a sad tale. My aunt Barbara was dying, she had terminal lung cancer. Rather than working a summer job, I spent my days with her - keeping her company. Back in the 70s, she was a huge fan of Fleetwood Mac, and we talked about them from time to time. I went online to get tickets, and found nothing even halfway decent. I checked Ebay, and found two 9th row seats, for only a hair over the regular price. My mom wouldn't budge, said she'd only buy tix from ticketmaster. My aunt talked to her, I have no idea what she said, but mom relented, and I got the tickets. Fleetwood Mac's music got me through the next several months. It was nearly two months after the concert that my aunt passed away. I drowned my sorrows in music, and rejoiced when I had the opportunity to see the Mac perform again in May 2004. The second concert was at the Tweeter Center (formerly Great Woods, currently the Comcast Center). The acoustics there are less than stellar. I had a great time, nonetheless.

"And if you don't love me now, you will never love me again..."
I was more than disappointed when the tour ended, having only seen the band perform twice. I whined, and complained... until the Live In Boston dvd came out. Then there was more amazing news. Stevie was going on tour with Don Henley from the Eagles in 2005! I was all over that, and got myself a ticket the day that they went on sale. I went alone this time, without any company... I almost liked it better that way. It was again at the Tweeter Center, so the acoustics bit the big one, but I had a better vantage point this time. Hearing Stevie and Don duet on Hotel California rocked. Check it out.

I love that version, of the song, and think that they need to record it.

"I can still hear you saying you would never break, never break the chain"
In 2007, Stevie released a Greatest Hits album called Crystal Visions. Then she toured, this time with Chris Isaak. I'm not crazy about the pairing, and definitely not a Chris Isaak fan, but I had fun anyhow. I was VERY pregnant at this show, it was June 24th 2007. I had Connor a little over a month later. Apparently going to a concert while pregnant gets you dirty looks. I had a blast, though. So there! Connor kicked the whole time... haha. Musician in training? I hope so.

"Listen to the wind blow... watch the sun rise. Running in the shadows, Damn your love, Damn your lies"
So that brings us back to the present. I am more than excited to go see Fleetwood Mac tonight. I actually have spending money this time! Thank heaven for tax returns, right? I'm probably getting a tote bag, and a teeshirt, but I might splurge and get a sweatshirt instead... I'm not sure yet. I'm taking the train into the city, so I don't have to worry about parking. I'm actually wearing makeup, and styling my hair (or attempting to!) But with the rain, who knows if it'll hold. I'll be back for part two of my post late, late tonight.

Mental Capacity

2009-03-10T09:33:00.001-07:00

I was getting ready to take the kidlets to school this morning, and mentally going over all that I needed to get done today, when it dawned upon me; my brain was multi-tasking like a big dog. I was answering queries such as where one kid's backpack was, where another one had left their book, and telling my husband where his jacket was, all the while planning my dinner menu, mentally organizing my study schedule for the day, and listing all the chores I needed to get done and in what order. It was a hub-bub of activity in the ole bean department.

I remember days gone by, pre-kids, pre-husband, when my biggest concern was... me. Where were my shoes, should I wear this jacket or a sweater, did I remember to put a second coat of polish on my toes last nite, hair up or down, I wonder if Cute Guy One is going to call, and should I go out with him Saturday and the Cute Guy Two on Sunday...? I could think a thought through to completion. I could read a book, soak in the words, and think about it uninterrupted. I had actual conversations with real live grown-ups about the different things I thought about, and did things like "brain-storm". I had room to be air-headed and flighty and silly, because my brain had not yet filled to capacity. I could fill it with whatever nonsense I wanted, and call it "important".

Now it feels like my brain is crammed with information both useless and terribly important. The useless is more fodder for my children's amusement. The important is the stuff that keeps us all alive and the household functioning. There's more of the latter than the former, and as life rolls inexorably forward, the less useless I have floating around in there and the more terribly important takes it's place. It's cool, but at the same time, kind-of a drag.

They say that you never truly forget anything, that it, whatever it is, is actually stored away in your head somewhere, and the proper stimulation can bring it forth again. I beg to differ. I think that as I get older, and more responsible (don't laugh), the more the weird and silly and useless goes out one side and is replaced with the important, the things that "matter". But of course I couldn't tell you for sure, since I can't remember just what it is that I have forgotten. So how important, or not, it was or could be isn't something I can say.

And there you have it. Whatever it is. I kinda forgot the point I was trying to make... maybe I'll remember later, if it hasn't already been replaced...

Peace.

She wasn't the problem

2009-03-09T10:51:00.000-07:00

Why don’t dads get the adoration and irritation that moms get? Is it the estrogen molecules that cause us to butt heads? That we look at this woman who runs our lives for the first two decades and wonder, “Will I turn into THAT when I get older?”

0-12 years old: The woman was my bread and butter. She kissed the boo-boos, fed me, freaked out more than I did when my knee got crunched by a soccer teammate, always volunteered at school, tolerated piles of PTA-generated drama, always bought me books, and laughed at some incredibly dumb knock-knock jokes.

12-14 years old: She’s getting a little irritating what with always asking me what I did at school, who is it that I’m talking to on the phone, making sure that I’ve practiced for drill team. Whatever, Mom. She still buys me books.

14-17 years old: This woman has somehow morphed into a rule wielding, tight-fisted idiot that wants to cripple my social life, ban me from the telephone and radio forever, put me into ugly clothing and make me do nothing but take the dog for a walk and do my homework after I scrub the toilets.

Dad isn’t too cool either, with his “Go ask your mom” response anytime I ask him anything. It’s like he knows she’s going to say no. And it turned out they were serious when they said no driver’s license until your grades improve.
Her book buying ways continue, but Mom sucks.

17- 20 years old: They actually let me transfer out of high school into college early?! Wow.
My mother and I are able to have discussions about various topics, although boyfriends are an area to be avoided. She also makes the ultimate decision that I’m allowed to go to Mexico with my best friend and her parents, trusting that I will be responsible enough to handle any situations that occur. We’ve started swapping books back and forth.

20-25 years old: I moved out of the house. When my parents move 200 miles away, I *gasp* look forward to visiting them and hanging out when they come to town. My mother has become rather funny and insightful, and brings me bags full of books when she visits. She’s. . . human. And I’m not a completely insensitive beast towards her anymore. What the heck?

25-29 years old: Dude. It sucks that Mom lives so far away. AT&T thanks us for our business. She dumps 200+ romance novels on me during one visit. On this one, I’m not sure how happy I am.

29 -32 years old: Mom, I’m pregnant. Mom is struck dumb and silent over the phone lines, and then starts laughing. Mom stays with me for two weeks after first baby is born. I’m so incredibly relieved to have this very smart woman who did pretty well raising her kids here to help. I don’t take her suggestions as criticism, and she says I’m doing a danged good job of being a mom. I glow for days from this.

Mom, you’re going to be a grandma again. She says she’ll come stay with me for a while after the baby is born and she’s got a bunch of books for me. I can’t wait for her to get here.

And now, I’m stuck realizing that in thirty years, Killian and the as-yet-unnamed beastie to be born will be able to write this same journal post about me. Huh.

Wanted to share my (C)Saturday with you

2009-03-07T20:20:00.000-08:00

I know today isn't my day to blog, but I wrote this out and wanted to share how my Saturday was today. You can kill me later.
Today was originally set aside to do a home cleansing for two girls in our (mine and Pat's) cosmetology class. After some texts yesterday afternoon, they were both terribly sick and not feeling overly well. Home cleansing is to be rescheduled.

Pat got up with Bella and, after changing her dirty butt to a clean one, he brought her in the bed with us for some nice hanging out time. I love weekends for this reason. He brings in a Belladonna needing a bath wearing only Star Wars Clones pajama bottoms and no shirt. It was adorable.

We came out to the living room after a short time and put on Maggie and the Ferocious Beast (more like, Whiny Bitch). She had TWO bowls of Raisin Bran. Considering the amount she ate (or, rather, didn't eat) this past week, this is a huge accomplishment. I ate one as well. Pat mentioned that if our money hit the account, that we should just go out for breakfast or brunch. The words "shower" and "Tuesday" came from my mouth and it was decided that all three of us were going to cram in the shower and get clean. It was definitely a fun experience.

After we're all clean and Pat and I are dressed, my mother knocks on the door (she learned from when we were in Denver together the first time; mid-coitus and she didn't knock) and asks if we don't have anything planned, that she and her friend (they've known each other since they were 10; she's 51) are meeting up this afternoon at Mimi's Cafe for lunch and invited us along. Sweetness. I mentioned that I need to pick up some shoes (for school and a possible new, better paying job) at the Mills mall. She offered to take Bella for a bit so that we could do that and all of us would meet at Mimi's.

We spent just over $130 at Off Broadway Shoes for four pair of clearance shoes. There was an additional 10% discount on our purchase. Score. After that, Pat says that we can buy his games now (which is fine; I love watching him play) and spent $142 at Game Stop (two games, one strategy guide and membership cards for both of us). Then, it was lunch.

We still had some errands to run at Mills, so we went back. We proceeded to shop at Target, MasterCuts (I need silk drops), Sanrio, and Orange Julius. My mom dropped $160 at the Children's Place on stuff for Bella. Holy crowded store, Batman! Once home, we vegged. Bella decided she wanted to wear a pair of sunglasses and cute foam sandals we picked up at Children's Place, a spiffy hat from a kiosk (not really a kiosk, but there was a Native American guy there playing flutes and panpipes; sounded awesome) and a purse she really liked from Sanrio. So, she was walking around the house looking like how a Beverly Hills celeb wants to look when going for that "I just threw on whatever was clean" look. It was awesome on Bella.

(Jumping around a bit.) After Target, we walked over to Lens Crafters to wait for Mimi (my mom) and started trying on glasses frames. I will need some new glasses and am thinking about trying out different frames from what I have now. There are maybe a few possibles. I took Bella over to the kid's glasses and just put them on her face. She would keep them on long enough for Daddy to see and then take them off, saying, "Too big." It sounded like she kept saying "stupid." There were a couple that looked great on her (with Pat's genes and mine, the girl is destined to wear glasses).

Anyway, that was my day. The economy was properly stimulated.

"Everyone secretly hates the prettiest girl in the room." -Ani DiFranco

Kyle, How Do I Love Thee?

2009-03-05T06:17:00.000-08:00

As an admitted unregenerate television addict, it will surprise none of you to learn that I am besotted with the ABC Family program Kyle XY and therefore somewhat glum that in a few weeks, the show will be ending forever. But only somewhat glum, because I'd rather have something as beautiful and unique as Kyle XY leave me wanting more than get stale and fizzle out.

*imagine the movie ad announcer voice*
In a world where nothing is original anymore, one character stands alone. And he has no bellybutton.

The idea of an advanced and unique human isn't new. Pick your comic book hero. However, the beauty of the story of Kyle is in the character of Kyle himself. Hyper-intelligent and possessed of certain special abilities due to being a genetically modified clone grown in a pod, Kyle is also guileless, innocent, free from ego or ambition beyond the simple desire to help people. The typical American family who takes the boy with no bellybutton in provides both safe haven from the scads of various nefarious people and agencies anxious to get ahold of Kyle in order to exploit him and an important contrast between the complicated interplay of logic and emotion that governs the average parent-teenager relationship and Kyle's straightforward, completely honest approach to the world around him.

Kyle XY has taken advantage of the blogging community, spinning the story of Kyle with help from the people who adore the show. Intended to be a single-season space-filler, Kyle XY caught on so fast and so completely that the show's writers scrambled around to come up with a story arc for a theoretical Season Two, eventually cadging some plot details and other ideas off the ABC Family web forum. And while the creators of the show Smallville had plenty of time to slowly transform their flannel-shirt-sporting, power-developing Clark Kent into the Superman we all know and love because Tom Welling was already in his mid-20's when the show started, 18-year-old actor Matt Dallas went through a growth spurt and heavy hit of hormones between seasons One and Two, forcing the show's producers to change Kyle's "look" from jeans-and-white-t-shirt goofy kid to much more spiffy duds to match his maturing face. Not wanting to be stuck with the usual "Superman/Lois Lane" diad in which dishonesty is necessary to protect the object of his affection, the writers did some things that are unique in my experience: they had Kyle be almost completely honest with his lady-love (he left out the pod part) and they wrote in a second pod child--female. Any one of these moves is usually a shark-jumper; all of them together should have kiboshed any chance the show ever had.

But it didn't. As high as the cheese factor is on Kyle XY, it does provide the viewer with solid plots and resolutions, relateable characters, heart-wrenching epiphanic moments and utterly unique situations and imagery.

Girl card

2009-03-04T09:52:00.001-08:00

I hereby reserve my right to use my official girl card at will.

Undertaking
I hereby undertake the following valid rules and regulations of the girl card (Appendix 1), to be personally responsible for all uses of said card. I also undertake informing this blog if I personally misuse or lose my girl card.

I reserve the right to be a progressive woman while carry said card. I promise to use the card sparingly and wisely.

Rebecca

What is a girl card you ask? My hope is that you will understand fully at the end of this post.

Ladies I have previously posted about waxing, shaving, and plucking. There are so many things that we do in our daily lives to be girly.

We get points on our girl card for the following:
*Plucking
*Waxing
*Shaving
*Exercising
*Cleaning
*Moderate amounts of makeup
*Dressing in lady-like way
*Doing nice things for significant other
*painting nails and toe nails
*Being a great cook
*Wearing dresses and skirts
*Heels
*Fixing our hair pretty

We lose girl card points for the following:
*Cussing
*Never shaving
*Wearing boxy clothing or men's clothes
*Nagging
*Wearing too much makeup

What is the girl card used for? The girl card is thrown into the ring when there is a task to be done that we don't want to do.

This week I am using my girl card. It was hot outside the other day so we turn on the air conditioner. My husband figured out that our AC was blowing hot air. He called our maintenance guy. A large toothed animal had chewed through the wiring in the side yard. The animal was fried. The girl card was used so that I would not have to dispose of fried critter.

Does using the girl card mean that I am anti-feminist? No. I am perfectly capable of cleaning up the dead animal. I would if my husband was not around. I just don't want to.

How do you use your girl card?

Anything?

2009-03-04T09:45:00.001-08:00

"You can do anything you want to do. All you have to do is believe in yourself."
This is a conversation heard universally. Children all over God's creation go to sleep thinking they are going to grow up to be movies stars, pro basketball players, and pop artists.
Why is it that as parents we feel the need to perpetuate this misrepresentation of life? Of course we don't want to squash our children's dreams, but don't we want to help them dream in practicalities?
I have seen TV shows where parents lead their children to believe they have special talents. These poor children then are devastated when their dreams are shot down.
I am 5'2" girl. I will never be a pro basketball player. I can practice every day. I can work out. I can put my mind to it but I will never get farther than possibly being a basketball coach.
What is wrong with telling our children that you are glad they enjoy [fill in the blank] but it isn't their talent. Your child can do the activity for fun. Then ask them to look at something they are gifted with for a career.
Singing is one of those places where you can try your hardest but if you are not born with pipes you have no hope. You can get better. You will never even be near the best. So why does everyone want to be the best at singing?
I strive to balance my children with realistic hopes and really encouraging their gifts and talents.

What do you do?

2009-03-03T17:21:00.000-08:00

There are two sick babies in my [parent's] home. One, is my youngest, my daughter. She hasn't thrown up in the last couple of days, which is very good. She's still very much a cuddle bug, though. She's not normally a cuddle bug unless she's not feeling well. Currently, she's watching Dora the Explorer and the Silly Fiesta.

The other sick baby is my dearest, my husband. He's had a fever off and on the last couple of days. He's currently resting. He's supposed to do some Shake 'n' Bake chork pops tonight, but, if he's not feeling well, I have no problem making it instead.

I was offered a job [via telephone message] yesterday. It's full-time, admin work (which is what I've been wanting to do since we got to Denver) and it's quite close to where school and home are. Thing is, it's that, with it being full-time, I have to change up my school schedule. I'm going days currently and working nights (yay for nights off during the week!). If this job works out, I'll do the regular 8-4/9-5 work-day and then be at school from 5-10. This job also starts April 1st, a Wednesday. My school schedule has me going out on the salon floor starting March 30th, so I won't be in the classroom much longer. Yay!

I'm waiting on my federal tax refund, as well as some school money (might help if I actually go to the website, huh?). If anything, my school money should be in my bank account within a week of me verifying my enrollment. Woot. All to wait for after that, is my federal return.

That's it for this Ninja.

Play the game

2009-03-01T20:14:00.000-08:00

The three year old wants to play a video game. He has the basics, but not the fine control to really play. He asks over and over and finally you give in. The toys are still scattered all over the living room. The dishes are still piled up in the sink. The laundry still is not folded. You feed the baby while playing the game. The game has taken over you whole day. You need to play the game. The game is calling to you. It is now a thing that has taken over you life. You have to get to the next level. You have to complete the challenge. You need the game. The child is sitting next to you yelling Patrick! Spongebob! It suddenly dawns on you that you have been playing a Spongebob game all day. Where has the time gone? What has happened to your day. You finally tell the three year old you have to get some stuff done. He fusses, but gets over it. Beware however. The second you sit down he wants to play again. No, you need some adult conversation and some time to relax. Now when you go to bed you are playing the game in your sleep. That has not happened since 1992 when you played Tetris nonstop for days on end. You would put pieces together in your sleep. No more game playing for a few days. You need to get away from the game. Not to mention you have had Patrick's voice singing where is thumbkin in her head for the last three days. ACK!

Bringing A Little Bit Of My “Then” Into My “Now”

2009-02-25T07:41:00.000-08:00

Recently I discovered the Boomerang Channel, and found myself transported back in time to the simpler days of my youth. I watched with my daughters as the Hanna-Barbera star spiraled onto the screen and I felt positively giddy.

There they were! The Smurfs. The Snorks. The Pink Panther! Remembering it all so fondly, I was excited to introduce my own children to those classics.

I know it’s not the cartoons I love as much as what they represent to me. They call to mind a short version of me hopping off the school bus, running home and being greeted by the smell of dinner already filling the house, and most likely the after school snack of cookies - made with love, by Mom. There were no responsibilities except that of keeping my own room clean…ish. The days seemed so long but so full of…just…everything. I miss them.

Yes, I am a child of the 80’s, raised by the cathode ray tube. I had Pac Man Fever and “Atari thumb”. I remember too well that it was video that killed the radio star. I know how important it is to “keep them away from bright light, don’t get them wet and never feed them after midnight”.

I watched Courtney Cox long before she was Friends with anyone. I sported a jean jacket with a multitude of different inappropriate pins and wore fluorescent shoelaces. I owned a Swatch. I knew Tootie’s real name was Dorothy.

Yes, I could kick your butt at tetherball.

I was a Toys R Us kid who was stuck on Band-Aids. I was an Electric Company fan, who later watched Rita Moreno doing sitcom guest spots and half-expected her to shout “Hey, You GUYS!”

I wanted to be a DoubleMint Twin. I tried the New Coke, hated it, and subsequently danced for joy when they came out with Coke Classic. I owned clacker-balls and Weebles. I danced my cares away down at Fraggle Rock.

I’m glad to have a sort of window into Mommy’s past through these shows. I did have a pretty happy childhood and seeing them again reminds me of more simple pleasures that my kids will appreciate because although those days are gone, they are not forgotten.

One more thing -
Gee, your hair smells terrific, but I sunk your Battleship!

Deal with it.

Just A Mom

2009-02-24T18:30:00.001-08:00

Being a mom is a tough job. Always knowing what to do, how to do it, when to do it, and why to do it (or at least giving the appearance of such) can be rather taxing on the ole bean. Sometimes I want to say to my children, "I don't know! I never know! I just make this shit up as I go along!" but of course I don't, because then they'll lose all faith in me and dude... that will happen soon enough (enter teen years) without me speeding it up!

I have found that as a parent, I am pretty clueless. I go by gut and instinct most of the time; very rarely do I really know they why's and how's and what-for's. I make stuff up all the time. I go with what feels right and stick to it, and hope that it actually turns out the way I need it to. I've been pretty lucky; most of the time, things turn out alright.

And I come out looking like pure genius. My kids look at me with utter adoration and admiration... love in their faces and words of praise for my brilliance... aaaand then I wake up. My kids really don't do that when things go swimmingly; they just take it as due course that once again, Mom knew what she was doing/talking about.

Good thing they don't read this blog, or I'd be in deep shit.

The Start of Baseball Season in New England

2009-02-23T10:41:00.000-08:00

It's a bit early for baseball, you say? No Way! The Sox are at Fort Myers for training camp - signalling that it is time to prepare for the official start of the Regular Season. There are jerseys and tee shirts to buy, new players to investigate, stats to read... plenty to do until April 6th!
For the first time since 2002, the season opener is not an away game. The 6th of April is Opening Day, right here at Fenway! The Sox are playing the Tampa Bay Rays. Revenge?

The Evil Empire comes to town on April 24th. I'm sure the Fenway Faithful will give them the same welcome as always - mocking the Yanks' off season issues (and there were big ones... again!) and welcoming A-Roid and his buddies back to town. However, the Yankees are still respected - you have to respect a team with a record like theirs. I'm curious to see how the New Yankee Stadium fares as a playing field - the Yanks won't have much of a home field advantage this year.

I've had the pleasure of witnessing a Sox vs. Yankees game at Fenway in person. It is one heck of an experience! It of course didn't hurt that the Sox won in extra innings, either. The collective sigh when Papi strikes out, Sweet Caroline, the cheering, the beers and the raucous screaming and hugging when the last run is scored - it is a close to religious experience. I hope to again get the chance to see the Sox play.

Early last season was interesting for the Sox - with the Flu epidemic that ran through the clubhouse. There was a lot of improvisation on the field, with player shuffled to different positions. Thankfully the Sox have a wonderful Farm program to pick from. They called up several players, including Justin Masterson - who made his Major League Pitching debut at Fenway on April 24th 2008. He did a great job, allowing only two hits and one run in six innings - not bad for a 23 year old kid who plays for the double A Portland SeaDogs in Maine, especially since he only had 24 hours notice! Now Masterson is a core player on the team.

The new players are looking pretty sound, and I'm interested in seeing how Ramon Ramirez and Takashi Saito fit in with the Sox Bullpen. Lets hope this Ramirez brings less drama than the last. Thankfully Mike Lowell and Jason Varitek stayed with the Sox. I love Tek.

My little man, Connor is learning words left and right - so I've got a list of words he should learn for baseball season! Tek, Go Sox, Baseball, Red Sox, Yankees Yuck, Home Run, Go Papi... We'll expand from there.

The Ultimate Torture Device

2009-02-22T18:30:00.000-08:00

I've been fighting my weight for about 3 years, now. It goes up. It goes down. It goes up again. Then, it goes down, but not so much as last time. Then it goes up again, a whole lot faster than before. It's really rather disturbing to see my body mutiny against me like this.

I used to be proud to be able to honestly say, "Nah! I don't own a scale. I judge my weight by how well my clothes fit." God damn, that sounds pretentious as all hell! Maybe I deserve this weight war for ever having uttered those words.

Today, I finally gave up on being that person ever again. It's gotten to the point that I CAN'T judge my weight based on my clothes. I've got clothes for all weights! On the rare occasion that I want to gauge how much weight I have or have not lost, I put on my size 8 black slacks. Or rather, I TRY to put them on. Depending on how far up my thighs they get tells me how I'm doing. Except that it really doesn't tell me how I'm doing. It makes me reach for the closest chocolate edible thing and whoof it down jealously like a starved dog guards a bone.

Somehow, I can usually look at myself in the mirror and rationalize the extra weight.

"Geez! These jeans must have been washed in warm water. Hmm..."

"Gah! I just hate it when I retain water like this!"

Or, my favorite,
"At least my boobs are plump when I'm overweight."

I've completely given up on the old Mom's stand-by excuse of, "It's baby weight." My youngest child is a 4-year old.

I've had it with the excuses, the rationalizations, and even the legitimate reasons as to why I have not taken this weight off! It's about time that I keep track of the numbers and really monitor how much I weight every day.

So, I bought the dreaded scale. The most evil torture device ever created. Of course, I stood on it as soon as I got it home. I was expecting somewhere between 180 and 200. It was 184. My ideal weight is 150. I'd like to get down to 145, but 150 is still perfectly healthy and slim for my body. If I were 150 pounds, I could wear size 8-10 pants again. I'm in a 14 right now, with not much room for the girl scout cookies that I love so much at this time of year.

I think I really need to commit to this weight loss thing. I mean, really commit. I'm thinking I may even price the local gym and see if it's in the budget. It would give me some time away from the kids and husband, something that is just for ME, and I would feel good about it. Not that I wouldn't feel good about curling up with a book, a Hershey's bar, and mug of creamy vanilla chai tea, but then I'd still have to face the scale sitting obtrusively near the toilet every time I go in there.

So, we'll see how this all works. Who knew that such a relatively inexpensive hunk of metal could make me feel so inspired and so resentful all at the same time?

Oh, come on! Really?

2009-02-20T19:16:00.000-08:00

What’s with the jug of powdered pancake mix at the grocery store? The commercial of a mom who fills the jug with water, shakes and pours out the perfect pancake onto the griddle. Is it that difficult to buy a box of Bisquick? Or, wait!! How about taking some flour, eggs, milk, a little sugar and salt, some butter and making them yourself? Have the kids help. It could actually be *gasp* fun, and maybe even a little educational.
I admit I have indulged myself in the 3-second dinner when my husband is out to sea and the children are crawling on the floor begging for food. The Banquet Homestyle Bakes Creamy Chicken and Biscuits rocks! My point here is how companies have taken convenience to a completely new level. Some things simplified to the point where the container in which the product is, well, contained, is ten times more expensive than the product itself. The unit to cost ratio is out of control!!

Drive-thru liquor stores. What in the world are these people thinking? Isn’t that like an oxymoron or something?
*Deep Narrative Voice*
“Handy Dandy Andy’s Drive Thru Stop and Go. Stop and go without even getting out of your car. We have everything in a convenience store you are looking for. While your here, you can even get your Bud Light! Beer not your thing? Maybe some Disaronno Amaretto and have yourself a nice cold sour when you get home.”
*disclaimer: in a fast quiet voice*
“We do not condone drinking and driving. Please drink responsibly.”

12 items or less. Do I really need to say anything about this? 12 means 12. This does not mean 13 or 20. In addition, no, your 10 for $10 does not count as 1 item. It is ten items, meaning you are only allowed 2 more and that’s your limit!

Carpool lane, left lane and right lane. Ya, I am not even going to go there.
However, when 2 lanes converge down to 1, are you the person who stays in the correct lane? Are you the person who whizzes past everyone? Truthfully, it does not really matter except for the rudeness factor. Everyone zippers eventually.

Disturbing Adventures in Slumbertown

2009-02-19T05:49:00.000-08:00

Last night I was under attack. Zombies came after me in my sleep. It seems that I was at my high school and there was an assembly in the auditorium, possibly the WORST place to be in this situation. Everyone knows that in the event of a zombie attack, you want to avoid large social gatherings to increase your chances of survival. True, it wasn’t the mall, but this surely did not bode well.

At some point, I became aware of the looming presence of the brain-eating living dead, and I realized I needed a weapon. Luckily, I knew the props closet had an array of swords and sharp pointy things leftover from a recent production of Camelot, and they sat ripe for the picking. Only a Master Thespian, such as I would have remembered they had perfect zombie protection at their disposal.

I pushed aside a canvas flat and found the box I was looking for. I chose my weapon quickly, remembering that when it comes to zombies, a machete is very handy, and ended up grabbing something that I felt was the closest thing. Holed up in the props closet, armed with Big Ol’ Dream Knife, my zombie-slaying voice shouted,

“Bring it on!!”

Onward they came, these dream zombies made of random bits of my subconscious:

Best friend? *slash* Gone.
The family dog? *slice* Dead.
Alex P. Keaton (wth)? *swoosh* Severed.
Some guy with a head wound who may or may not have actually been zombified? Sorry, dude. Can’t risk it. *zing* Dead.

I’ve got to give props to my weapon of choice. Big Ol’ Dream Knife required very little upper arm strength from this particular heroine to prove effective against hordes of zombies (I’m not the strongest slayer on the block, you know). It was amazing, slicing those nasty zombie heads clean off, like…well, like a light saber (to borrow from George’s dream). Who wouldn’t love a knife like that? Got a chicken you need quartered? *slappity choppity* Done! Cleaning fish? *bam* Off with their heads!

Sadly, I learned that Big Ol’ Dream Knife had one fatal flaw. It was selective. Sure, it was able to cut through flesh and bone (ew ew ew ew! *shudder*) but it had noticeable trouble with fabric. I was able to holster it in my belt loop and it didn’t cut one thread.

Those turtleneck-clad Zombies would surely be my undoing…

Aw, crap.

Friends do not always agree...

2009-02-18T10:26:00.000-08:00

I am a lucky woman.

Most people choose to surround themselves with people that share similar values and ideas concerning life. I, however, seem to have a majority of friends and loved ones whose ideas vary vastly from my own. While, at times, this can drive me crazy- it also keeps me in check.

In order to maintain my relationships, I have to think about what I say. I have to wonder if it will upset a person or if it is unfair to say in their presence. I must also be true to myself and my own feelings. Therefore, I must know what I am talking about and I must be tactful in explaining my view points. This has, over time, created some great conversations.

I do not feel myself stifled by these encounters, but rather more open and aware. Both in regards to understanding my friend's views as well as more confident in my own. Their influence has given me much to think about- whether or not they sway thoughts and feelings. Their friendship has made me a better person and a better mother. I hope that I can impress upon my children the importance and power of understanding. Friends are a wonderful asset.

Thank you all- your attributes, lifestyles and knowledge make me a better person.

Hair Wars

2009-02-16T06:41:00.000-08:00

For several years now, my son Nigel has been lobbying for long hair, preferably a razor-trimmed, shaggy skater-type look. Unfortunately for him, a herd of cows invaded my uterus and licked his head for nine months and genetics handed him thick hair that has a certain "Bendaroo" quality, so when his hair gets longer than a few inches, it begins to have a life of its own; the sort of life that Don Quixote would enjoy taking a poke at. Back in October of last year, both children were going on a fantabulous trip to Pittsburgh with their grandmother, so I insisted that Nigel get a short, military-style haircut. He was less than enthusiastic about it but acquiesced under his father's promise that he would be permitted to grow his hair until summer swimming season. Four months later, the kid's head looked like a dandelion gone to seed.

Having suffered under my own mother's rigidly-held hairstyling philosophies that included a lot of ultra-short, super-tight bad home perms, I have sympathy for my son's hair wishes, but the flat fact of the matter was, he looked like Oliver Twist when he was hanging with the street urchins. My mother offered to bribe him into getting a haircut, but even the prospect of cold hard cash wasn't budging him. I wanted him to look nice, but I also wanted him to do it on his own terms. Every time I saw a nice-looking kid on a television show or in a movie, I'd point out his haircut and ask Nigel if that looked like something he could live with. Nothing was ever quite right, except of course for Chef Gordon Ramsay, whose hair closely resembles Nigel's "dandelion do" due to Ramsay's near-constant frustrated fondling of it while searching for fresh, local produce.

Nigel's hair continued to grow while we argued gently about haircuts week after week. I began Googling "short boy's haircuts" and showing him pictures of both The Naked and The Jonas Brothers, Freddie Highmore, Haley Joel Osment and young Macauley Culkin. No dice. And even though he idolizes Michael Phelps, there was no way he was adopting his look.

One morning we were looking at YouTube videos of various sporting events such as that quadruple-amputee kid from Ohio who is a wrestling champion and the sweet autistic kid who nailed all those three-pointers recently, when we happened across a video of David Beckham. Nigel gasped audibly. "That's it" he said "that's the haircut I want!" David Beckham's "faux hawk" had made the cut, so to speak. So we printed out a picture of Beckham with his trademark "do" and off to the salon we went.

So now, every morning I see Nigel in the bathroom dampening his hair and putting in a little dab of "product" and carefully spiking and shaping it up and giving it that little twist that Beckham has, which the lady at the salon showed him how to do. Nigel likes his new haircut, which makes all the talking and waiting and searching worth it. He had to get a haircut, but at least he got to choose it and to a seven-year-old, that means everything.

Positively Happy for You!

2009-02-15T08:46:00.000-08:00

I have noticed a common theme among people lately, negativity and narcissism. At what point did our society decide that this is acceptable?

This new attitude of negativity is not cool. Why does one choose jealousy and negativity? How does this benefit you? It makes you hard and cold.

Our life is a list of choices. We do not choose depression but we do choose how we handle the depression.

There is always someone that has more or less than you. Lets just learn to be content.

There is a rapper named TI and Rihanna that has a song out called, "Live Your Life". The words say so much.

You're gonna be a shining star, with fancy clothes, and fancy car-ars.
And then you'll see, you're gonna go far.
Cause everyone knows, just who you are-are.
So live your life, ay ay ay.
You Steady Chasin that paper.
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
Ain't got no time for no haters
Just live your life (Ay! ), ay ay ay.
No telling where it'll take ya.
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
Cause I'm a paper chaser.
Just living my life (ay), my life (oh), my life (ay), my life (oh)
Just living my life (ay), my life (oh), my life (ay), my life (oh)
Just living my life

(T.I.):
Never mind what haters say, ignore them 'til they fade away.
Amazing they ungrateful after all the game I gave away.
Safe to say I paved the way, for you cats to get paid today.
You still be wasting days away now had I never saved the day.
Consider them my protégé, homage I think they should pay.
Instead of being gracious, they violate in a major way.
I never been a hater still I love them, in a crazy way.
Some say they so yay and no they couldn't get work on Labor day.
It aint that they black or white, their hands a area the shade of grey.
I'm West side anyway, even if I left the day it stayed away.
Some move away to make a way not move away cause they afraid.
I'll go back to the hood and all you ever did was take away.
I pray for patience but they make me want to melt they face away.
Like I once made them scream, now I could make them plead their case away.
Been thuggin' all my life, can't say I don't deserve to take a break.
You'd rather see me catch a case, and watch my future fade away.

(Rihanna):
You're gonna be a shining star, with fancy clothes, and fancy car-ars.
And then you'll see, you're gonna go far.
Cause everyone knows, just who you are-are.
So live your life, ay ay ay.
Instead of chasing that paper.
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
You got no time for no haters
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
No telling where it'll take ya.
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
Cause I'm a paper chaser.
Just living my life (ay), my life (oh), my life (ay), my life (oh)
Just living my life (ay), my life (oh), my life (ay), my life (oh)
Just Livin My Life.

(T.I.):
I'm the opposite of moderate, immaculately polished with the spirit of a hustler and the swagger of a college kid.
Allergic to the counterfeit, impartial to the politics.
Articulate but still would grab a nigga by the collar quick.
Whoever havin problems, with they record sale just holla TIP.
If that don't work and all else fails, then turn around and follow TIP.
I got love for the game but ay I'm not in love with all of it.
I do without the fame and the rappers nowadays are comedy.
The hootin' and the hollerin', back and forth with the arguing.
Where you from, who you know, what you make and what kind of car you in.
Seems as though you lost sight of what's important with the positive.
And checks until your bank account, and you're about poverted.
Your values is a disarrayed, prioritizing horribly.
Unhappy with the riches cause you miss-poor morally.
Ignoring all prior advice and fore warning.
And we mighty full of ourselves all of a sudden aren't we?

(Rihanna):
You're gonna be a shining star, with fancy clothes, and fancy car-ars.
And then you'll see, you're gonna go far.
Cause everyone knows, just who you are-are.
So live your life, ay ay ay.
Instead of chasing that paper.
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
You got no time for no haters
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
No telling where it'll take ya.
Just live your life (Oh! ), ay ay ay.
Cause I'm a paper chaser.
Just living my life (ay), my life (oh), my life (ay), my life (oh)
Just living my life (ay), my life (oh), my life (ay), my life (oh)

[Rihanna]
Now everybody watchin what I do
Come walk in my shoes
And see the way that I'm livin if you really want to
I got my mind on my money and I'm not goin nowhere
So keep on gettin yo paper(ah ah)
And keep on climbin
Look in the mirror
And keep on shinin
Til the game end
Til the clock stop
We gon' post up on the top spot
Livin' the life, the life

In the brand new city
Got my whole team with me
Livin my life, my life
I do it how I wanna do
I'm livin' my life, my life
I will never loose 'em
Livin my life, my life
And I'm not stoppin

So live your life.

Adjusting to life with three kids.

2009-02-12T16:18:00.000-08:00

My oldest was an only child for almost 6 years. We did have the step siblings every other weekend more or less, but they weren't my kids so they weren't a threat to Mommy time. December of 2005 there was an intruder to the monopolized Mommy's time. The first born was jealous, he was insecure and he was feeling very left out. He knew the baby was coming. He was old enough to understand, but despite being reassured many times a day it was a very rough transition. He wanted nothing to do with this new intruder. No pictures with the baby, no touching the baby, wouldn't help mommy at all with the baby. Nothing!

Eventually the second child got older and started interacting. The first born started to warm up to this intruder. They started playing together and really getting along for the most part. They are friends and brothers and get along better than any parent could ask for. Then came the next intruder.

The third one is different. First off this intruder is a girl. The oldest now used to being a big brother is interested in the new baby. He will come and cuddle mommy while she is holding her. He will stroke her head. He still doesn't really want a whole lot to do with the baby, he won't hold her or anything, but not feeling completely left out this time around.

The now middle brother on the other hand can't get enough of the new baby and at the same time wants Mommy all to himself. Just being three he wants to help, but really isn't big enough or gentle enough to really be a help. He wants to hold the baby and get things for the baby, but HE is still the baby and HE still wants Mommy's undivided attention. He is still too young and doesn't have the patience yet to understand that Mommy is feeding the baby he has to wait a minute. Mommy is changing the baby he has to wait a minute. He just doesn't quite get it. He will eventually.

Getting used to having three kids isn't all that much harder. It is just juggling time for each one. The baby of course monopolizing all the time. Only being 3 days old things are still very crazy, but the routine is being set. Thankfully the oldest child has 5 days off school. Plenty of time to get adjusted to a new schedule. We will figure it out together. The three kids, Mommy and Daddy will get the routine going and everyone will have plenty of time with the desired parent. The family is complete. We have a full house.

The cats on the other hand......

The Joys of Networking

2009-02-10T10:08:00.000-08:00

WARNING: This is a rant.

So I decided to offer up going to "Networking" classes through DHHS as a part of my ASPIRE program requirements.

Basically, I'm required to seek work for 20 hours per week and do 20 hours per week of schoolwork to account for the Cash Benefits and Daycare I receive while trying to get back on my feet. Not a bad thing, considering I need to find a job anyway and I've been putting in MORE than 20 hours per week looking and I've been doing my schoolwork on top of it all. To me, the requirements for getting into ASPIRE and your "payback into the system" for the help you get is a GREAT idea. It teaches responsibility and it teaches "career welfare recipients" that it is NOT a free ride after all.

Now, most people are required to take the "Networking" classes. I, however, was not. Why? Because I have a child under 1 year old. But, nevertheless, I opted into the class for a few days per week. It's only an hour per day (for the most part, sometimes they double whammy you with a 2 to 3 hour workshop right after the class).

In any case, I went to the first class yesterday. It was nothing that I thought it would be. Someone needs to seriously tell the instructor (who's contracted by the way, they do not work for DHHS) to pull that enormous stick out of her ass. I understand she has a job to do, but the majority of people in this particular class are over the age of 35, they are parents who've never had to go on the "system" in the past, and they are parents who are desperately trying to find a job. What they are NOT is pre-pubescent teenagers in a 9th grade science class who'd rather talk about how many texts they sent the night before.

I don't envy the woman her job (hey, at least SHE has one), I do believe she's got her plate full, especially with the unemployment rate in Maine topping 7.6% but, c'mon! Being an ever loving raging bitch is not the way to get cooperation.

I argued with her for a full 20 minutes after the class yesterday. See, she sat there and tried to tell me I was required to put in 40 hours of job search and that I was required to attend all workshops (some of which didn't start until 3pm and didn't end until 6pm). She also informed me that I was required to attend "Networking" 5 days per week and that if I was absent without good cause, that I would be sanctioned. Three sanctions = loss of benefits.

I bit my tongue until after class because I didn't want to dress her down in front of everyone.

Honestly, it got so bad that I had to have my ASPIRE supervisor come in and reiterate to her that I was there of my own accord.

Why am I writing this? Well, I'll tell you. I think the program concept is pretty decent. What I would expect to be going on is actual networking. Talking to other students, sharing information on job openings you've seen that another student may be qualified for, use of the computers and the job bank that DHHS is given on a daily basis, resume writing courses, interviewing skills. Now these are all things that are listed on the brochure so, silly me assumed that's what the classes would entail. However, there's so much that this woman does that is an utter, total waste of time. For instance:

1. EVERY SINGLE MORNING she goes over the "expectations" list. Honestly, once is enough. If you feel the need to have to reiterate things you've either a.) not done your job appropriately to begin with or b.) haven't a clue how to fill that hour with networking skills. It's understandable when there's a new student, but when it's the same people that have been there for a couple weeks, where's the benefit?

2. EVERY SINGLE MORNING she has each student recite a portion of the "expectations." There's 30 bullets on the list. There's 20 students and she will have each student read a bullet until they're all read. Lazy much? If it's something you feel needs to be done daily, please do not waste my time that could be spent NETWORKING while you re-read the same dry list of rules to abide by.

3. EVERY SINGLE MORNING she feels the need to explain how to fill out the paperwork, where to go to use the computers, phone, or how to go through the job leads. Seriously, WTF? We have ONE HOUR to get what we need to get done, done. When she fills the first 40 minutes of the class with a review of the same old-same old, she's taking away from the class.

And, if this isn't bad enough, she had the students vote on what the next workshop would be about. The class voted for "financial preparation." She wrote on the schedule: "Financial stuff." Stuff? How unprofessional can you be?!

Now, for the reason why I wrote this...our workshop today, regarding "Financial 'stuff'" consisted of a 2 hour presentation on....are you ready? How to use a check register.

Not how to cut corners to save money, not how to find programs that work with you to reach a financial goal, not even how to SET a financial goal. It was, literally, how to use a check register. A room full of over-30 yo students, all of whom KNOW how to fill out a check register, being instructed on how to fill out a check register. Complete with the passing out of "blank registers" and calculators, and her detailing a fictitional "week's worth of expenses" and how and when to "add or subtract"...which culminated in her actually CHECKING everyone's check register to make sure they wrote down everything she said.

I can think of so much more I could have accomplished in that 2 hour period. Like the emailing of a couple dozen resumes.

But, hey, at least I can be assured I've been filling my check registers out correctly for the last 25 years.

The penny has lost its shine. Big time!

The Bare Necessities

2009-02-05T04:50:00.000-08:00

Howard is getting old.

He has been with us for a very long time. The years have not been easy but he wears the tattoos life has marked him with proudly. He has a scar on his right leg where he was bitten by a dog, long ago, and he leans because of a stitch in his side acquired some years later. It looks odd, but he never complains. It just isn’t in him.

Howard is unique.

He doesn’t eat (the Peanut Butter Incident swore him off food for good) and he no longer drinks (even water goes right through him). In fact, he doesn’t do much of anything, but he never says boo about it.

Howard is a friend.

He makes no demands, but gives constant comfort. He stays close by when someone is ill, just in case he is needed. He is a keeper of secrets and a winsome companion. In fact, he would travel to the ends of the earth, by any means necessary, if someone required his company.

A gentle hug is all it takes to bring sweet dreams. You might not ever even notice when he’s there, but someone invariably notices when he is NOT.

Howard’s endurance amazes me. He is still going strong after all this time. I think it is safe to say:

Teddy bears live longer in captivity.

Stupidity Hurts.

2009-02-04T12:46:00.000-08:00

I am sick of stupid people. Truly. There are many types of stupid people.

Lazy - Too lazy to care about whether or not what they're doing is smart or safe
In Denial - Refuse to believe that they are wrong, even when presented with facts
Ostrich - If they don't look at the evidence that they're wrong, said evidence doesn't exist.
Misinformed - They "heard" that what they're doing is right from "Someone".
Misguided - They're lead to believe they're doing the right thing, despite the evidence.
Too Smart To Research - They're right because they are smarter than the scientists.
Rule Breakers - They know the facts, but do their own thing, because they don't care.
Not A Student! - They refuse correction, because "This isn't school! I'm not getting graded!"

Of course, there are other categories, but these particular stupids have gotten on my nerves today. I don't know why the Stupid is bothering me today more than usual, but some Stupid is down right dangerous! Of course, because I'm anti-stupid, I'm apparently judgemental. Of course, that makes sense - the easiest way to deflect a question about something you're doing wrong is to cry "She's judging me! You're just being judgemental!" When in reality I'm usually questioning a poor choice, or inquiring if they fully understand the ramifications of making that choice. I'm not doing it to be spiteful, or hurtful. I'm not calling that person a bad parent (even though I've come across many!) or telling them how to raise their child.

There are three categories of Stupid that anger me more than the others - The Ostrich, The Denial, and The Too Smart To Research Stupids. These, I believe have the most potential to do harm.

If I say "There's a Tornado coming!" The Ostrich will refuse to look at the window, and go do something else, The Denial will say "No way! That's just a freight train." and the TSTR will say "You're from New England, you've never seen a tornado before, there is no way you'd know what a tornado was if it hit you!" Well, we can imagine how well those scenarios will end. I'll be waiting in the basement, thanks. I had so much fun with that, let's see what the Other Stupids will say!

Lazy Larry will say "Yeah, so?", and kick up his feet in the recliner. Missy Misinformed will announce "Someone said that this area never gets hit by tornadoes, so we're safe!" Mindy Misguided will say "It's okay if we stay up here, I've never had to go to the basement for a storm before." Robby Rule Breaker will go outside with his video camera, never to be seen again... and Nancy Not A Student will say "Yeah, since when are you a scientist?!" Like I said before... I'll be in the basement.

See how dangerous stupidity can be?

Do you shave your toes?

2009-02-01T22:29:00.000-08:00

Silly question? As mammals we are covered in body hair. Some you see and some no one wants to see.

There are many reasons for mammals to be covered in hair. Homosapiens originally had hair to trap pheromones. (Pheromones are natures hormones that attract us to one another.)

The amount of hair that covers your body can depend on what part of the world your ancestors are from. People with more hair are likely to come from an area of the world where malaria is prevalent. Hair would provide a barrier between mosquitoes and skin. It would also prove to warn the victim of the bugs impending bite.

In this current time of Brazilian waxes and bare legs how are we not all single and bitten? Are there ladies in this day and age that walk around with big puffs of toe hair? Should we?

Food for thought.

The Taste

2009-01-30T14:52:00.000-08:00

It was the summer of 1983. My buddies and I had been up for about 40 hours debugging a program and we were tired of the small screen and wanted a big screen, so we hit up the big brother of my pal David for a ride down to the Old Mill Multiplex. David’s brother Paul would take absolutely any excuse to fire up his super-sweet Trans Am so even though it meant someone riding over the gearshift and risking his tackle when Paul upshifted, we all piled in.
The Old Mill Multiplex was a combination of Kid Heaven and Yuppie Hell. There were eight theaters (a lot for that time) and an indoor-outdoor mall of sorts, with the best pizza parlor and video arcade and a number of freaky-boutique-y shops, such as the place that sold huge fiber optic “brush” lamps and ceramic fireplace cats with eyes that followed you. There was also a pool hall, which is where Paul headed after dropping us at the front of the theaters. We never checked out what flicks were playing or when, we’d just go down there and expect that something would be starting sometime soon.
“Look!” My friend John’s eyes were bugged out. “Evil Dead is here!” John was an avid horror film fan after surviving a trip to see Alien a few years back with only a few weeks of nightmares.
“We’ll never get in. Old Stony is on ticket duty.” said Bruce. ‘Old Stony’ was the hundred-year-old guy who ripped tickets and snarled “Teater tree, onyer left, teater shix, onyer right” at everyone passing through the turnstile and he was absolutely ruthless about the ratings and Evil Dead was rated R. We couldn’t even go and get Paul to buy us the tickets because Old Stony would kibosh the deal as soon as he got a load of David, who was 14 but looked about eleven. Not even my more-than-budding bosom was going to get us past Old Stony.
“But we HAVE to see Evil Dead!” wailed John, “It’s supposed to be awesome and super bloody!” David, who may have been short but was very sharp, said “Look, that dumb Disney thing is starting about the same time, we’ll just buy tickets to that and sneak into Evil Dead once we’re around the corner.” This idea had not occurred to any of us, probably because just saying the words “One ticket to (insert any Disney title) please” would have been like ashes in our teen-aged mouths. David, who was used to being treated like a little kid because he looked like one, had almost no shame about such things, so he went and bought us the tickets and called us all pussies, his right as the guy with the plan.
We shuffled up to the turnstile and one at a time handed Old Stony our tickets and were each told “Teater two, onyer left, teater two, onyer left, teater two, onyer left, teater two, onyer left.” We got up to the candy counter and Bruce said “Oh crap, Evil Dead is in theater SIX, that’s on the right!”
David was unmoved by this fact. “Come ON, nobody’s gonna notice. You are SUCH a pussy!” Bruce’s mother was a teacher at the grade school and Bruce was the youngest of six, the other five of whom were girls.
“Check it out, it’s easy!” I had just noticed something pertinent. “The women’s bathroom is on the right. I’ll go in the bathroom, you guys hang out over there by Galaxian and once I come out, we’ll all just drift that way. Old Stony won’t even see us!” We had a plan. We needed Milk Duds. Bruce was chosen for Dud Duty while I went in the bathroom and cooled my heels for five long minutes. Bruce had our Duds and was headed for Galaxian, I wandered out looking aimless and feeling like grifters, we all went straight into Theater Six and hit up the middle row, parking David on a pile of sweaters so he’d appear taller just in case anyone decided to shine a flashlight around in there. The theater was filling up fast with couples on dates and groups of teenagers, the lights dimmed and we had done it! We were going to see Evil Dead!
Given that our previous horror-flick experience was limited to what played on Channel 8 late on Friday nights and John’s Amazing Alien Adventure, Evil Dead blew us away. We stumbled out of there weak-kneed with utter joy, both from the film and how we got in to see it.
I've been a horror-film junkie ever since.

The art of being pregnant.

2009-01-26T18:15:00.000-08:00

You would think that by the fourth time around one would have being pregnant down to a science. You would be wrong. Not only are pregnancies different between different women, they can be very different for the same woman.

My first pregnancy was so perfect. I was 28 years old. I had no morning sickness, no complications, nothing out of the ordinary. My energy level was up and I was so happy being pregnant. I lost 8 pounds and gained back 10 past my start weight. I had cravings, Reese's Peanut Butter cups. I had aversions, mainly the smell of fried chicken. I loved eating healthy food. I had the glow. I got the typical 2 ultrasounds. One at 11 weeks to confirm the pregnancy and one at 28 weeks for all the measurements. My water broke I arrived at the hospital 1 centimeter dilated and going no where fast. I was promptly induced. No warning at all as to the coming birth. The brilliant doctors had my due date wrong. Very wrong. So I was not prepared for his arrival. I thought I still had more time. He was delivered after 21 hours of labor. Not the way I had planned to have my first baby, but he was a perfect bouncing, baby boy.

My second pregnancy was totally unexpected. We were not trying to get pregnant. I had the aversion to the smell of fried chicken to confirm I was pregnant. At about 5 weeks I started spotting. At 6 weeks I got an ultrasound showing something was wrong. They determined it was an ectopic pregnancy and I was treated with Methotrexate. That was on July 13th. I was 8 weeks pregnant.

The third time around my pregnancy actually seemed more typical to me. Morning sickness started at exactly 8 weeks and ended at exactly 12 weeks. During that time I lost 12 pounds. I had no cravings at all. I didn't like anything. There were no foods that were better than any others. I had to actually force myself to eat something at least once a day. That was until I discovered the triple chocolate cake at the local grocery store. Then I was eating. Then I finally gained 10 pounds past my start weight. I got an ultrasound at 6 weeks to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be, another one at 11 weeks becuase they couldn't get the ultrasound with the Doppler, another one at 17 week for all the measurements and another at about 25 weeks to confirm the sex. I was tired and run down and by 34 weeks I was done. I was dilating rather consistently. By 36 weeks I was 2cm dilated and 50% effaced, by 37 weeks I was 3cm dilated and 70% effaced, by 38 weeks I was 3.5cm dilated and 100% effaced. I was having very random contractions for 3 weeks. Sometimes several a day sometimes only one a day. We decided I would be induced 3 days early. I arrived at the hospital ready to have a baby. A bit more ready than I realized. I was 4cm dilated and having regular contractions. Not that I was feeling them mind you. I wonder how long it would have been if I hadn't been induced. I delivered him after 6 hours of labor. That was a much better delivery in my book.

My first son was 5-3/4 when the baby was born. He was somewhat curious about the baby, but was very insecure after the birth. He had been an only child for so long. He thought he was being replaced. Poor kid. He did adjust and is a great big brother.

Now that I am pregnant for the fourth time it is a bit more of a challenge. I was 36 when this pregnancy started. I have had sever morning sickness from 6 weeks until almost 22 weeks. I lost 20 pounds. I got an ultrasound at 8 weeks, 13 weeks, and 17 weeks. This one woudn't sit still and they were having a real hard time getting a heart beat with the Doppler. I had one more at 20 weeks for all the measurements. I have been so tried from the get go. I again have no cravings. I don't like any kind of chicken at all. I am eating, but food is not my friend. I can find things I like, but not many. The oldest child is indifferent to my being pregnant this time around. He has a been there, done that attitude. The fun part is watching my second son react to my growing belly. There have been things about the pregnancy that he has not liked. I was still nursing him when I got pregnant. At about 3 months it was just hurting too much to continue and with being sick all the time I couldn't handle any pressure on my stomach at all. He still occasionally asks to nurse. He has been enjoying watching my belly grow. He pats my belly, rubs it, hugs it. It has been fun watching him. He has helped pick out things for the baby and talks about the baby. He is also doing things like sitting in the portable swing and saying he is the baby. I don't think his 3 year old mind has quite grasped the concept of the baby yet. The first night he spends without mommy she will bring home a new baby. I am really not too sure how that is going to go over with him. I am now almost 38 weeks, 2cm dilated, 80% effaced and ready to be done. I have finally back at my start weight. I am not having as many random contractions this time around, but a few. We also aren't having as much 'get this baby out' sex. Conflicting schedules and all. I do know that if I have not had the baby before February 9th I will be induced that morning.

My only fear at this time is going into labor while my wonderful husband is at work. Last time around it was no biggie. My oldest came with us. There was a small separate room in the delivery room and he hung out in there watching TV, movies, and playing his Nintendo DS. He would again be calm and quiet, it is the 3 year old I am worried about. He can be calm and collected, but he can also be a terror. I can't see him leaving me alone for very long without wanting to sit on mommy and see everything that is going on. He is a very curious child. Loves to be the center of everything. So I sit here typing, biding my time. Just waiting for something to happen. Will it be today, or next week? That is the big question.

Moron Exploitation - As Seen On TV!

2009-01-21T06:52:00.000-08:00

You’ve probably noticed them, too. “Wonder-product” commercials are popping up everywhere. They all have the same formula comprised of a menial task, an idiot doing it wrong and a new and improved, foolproof way to get the job done. If you call NOW they’ll throw in, not one, but TWO completely superfluous gadgets as a bonus - all for the incredible price of just $39.95 plus shipping & handling and quite possibly, your soul! I’m not saying that these products are not timesavers and worth every penny of your hard-earned $39.95, but where do they find these amateurs? Who makes commercials that exploit morons encountering their daily strife and why do I get so much enjoyment out of them? These are the commercials I love to hate.

Let’s look at exhibits A through E of Commercials for the Criminally Inane:

The poor woman in the Smart Spin Carousel commercial can’t open her cupboard without an avalanche of plastic containers raining down on her head. If you watch the very beginning of the commercial, you’ll actually see her throwing the plastic-ware onto herself. Who DOES that?! I’ve never seen anyone endure such a bombardment and then figure, “Well, it’s all coming down anyway; I might as well just …THROW IT AT MY FACE!!”

(Disclaimer: When the voices are telling you to hurl things at yourself, the Smart Spin cannot be used to replace prescription medication.)

Aqua Globes’ advertisement shows a woman who can’t seem to water her plants properly. She tries. Oh yes, she tries, but the water seems to just…go…EVERYWHERE. First, she pours too much water over the entire plant and the runoff ruins the finish on her table. Then she forgets to water the plant and it wilts (okay, I do that, too), causing her face to take on that “someone kicked my puppy” look. She’s positively devastated that her plant is wilting and lacks the skills required to keep its apparently insatiable thirst quenched. I figured that if she couldn’t pour water into a pot of dirt, then filling up a glass ball through a small tube would be difficult for this one to master. Of course when she puts the Aqua Globe into the pot, upside down, in one fluid movement, spilling not one drop, I had to say, “Sham-WOW!”

One of my favorites is a commercial for a “seed rug” or “flower carpet” called the Roll & Grow. In this one, a man is having such a difficult time planting flowers that he picks up poor, defenseless seedlings by the handful and throws them down into the dirt. Quite violently. Come on, people. Is it really THAT hard? Make a hole, put the plant in, fill it in with dirt – yeah, that’s a toughie.

Then there’s the Bay City Slider Station. This nifty little thing looks like a skillet and a divided lunch tray in one package. It’s super easy to use: Put in a few globs of meat and press down. Voila! No flipping necessary! They obviously understand that not everyone possesses the dexterity required to operate a spatula.

The Snuggie is my most recent favorite Commercial for the Criminally Inane. Apparently, a robe AND a blanket is just too cumbersome, so we have to make a robe OUT OF a blanket. This is akin to “Your seat becomes a floatation device”, isn’t it? And notice how the Snuggie-wearers all seem to look like members of some strange cult? “Put on your blanket/robe, grab a cup of the special punch, and prepare to rendezvous with the spaceship to Shangri-la.”

I could stay here and rant about these commercials all day, but I have to go Bedazzle my cat.

Word.

Thanks, Carmin!

2009-01-20T14:28:00.001-08:00

Of course, the day I remember to blog is when one of my own dear Ninjas has taken it for me. I did ask her, since I'm not as knowledgeable of politics, so I can not and will not be upset. I suppose I should go on about something. I'm not sure what this Ninja should blog about, but it should be something good.. she hopes.

Charmed is playing in the background. We've seen just about every single episode, so,it's there for background noise. Bella is napping and Patrick has gone to his previous workplace to help a friend of ours.

Typical day today. Get up as the sun rises, get ready and dressed and head out the door for "booty skool." I pick up one of the girls on the way there, because, well, she's on the way. I call her as soon as I hear the end of "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard only to find out that Sprint has shut off my phone. Great. She knows my morning schedule pretty well and is pretty much just waiting for me when I get there. Here's the kicker: I slept in half an hour and we still made it at our regular time. Nice.

I've been on a Def Leppard kick lately. Wal-Mart had a "Vault" album (pretty much all of their hits) and I bought it for Patrick. Guess who listens to it more. =) I rock it. Even when I'm in a bad mood, I rock it. When I get into my car from work at the end of the night, I blare it, making sure it's on a recognizable song. I want people to know I'm rockin'' it. Sad, but true.

I've nothing of real value to add to Blog Like Ninja today. When I think about it, I'll have to update a couple of other blogs, even if it means doing a copy/paste. Oh well; at least I 'membered today, right?

Oh, and, a huge congratulations to PRESIDENT OBAMA. I hope these next four years will help our economy and education system.

Inauguration Day Post

2009-01-20T06:19:00.000-08:00

Politics, the Death Penalty and Religion. The three most dangerous topics in any conversation. It doesn’t seem to matter how tight the group, nor how wonderful the conversation, the mention of just one of these topics is sure to add tension into the air. Passions run high and minds are not likely to change but they still require our attention. Either side to each topic will fight venomously, statistics will be thrown out and morality brought into question. Even the closest and best of friends might not know when to back down.

We are in the midst of political chaos. A new president and a divided country- sure to equate ruffled feathers and ongoing conversations and this year, we throw race into the already stewing pot and create an even nastier fight… but is it really any different? Or is it perhaps that such a span of time occurs from one election to the next that we fail to remember the hurt feelings and heated conversations that occurred in years past?

What ever the thoughts and feelings may be, today we will be swearing in the 44th President of the United States- with all the pomp and circumstance that an inauguration deserves. We are the United States of America, a nation built upon free ideas and radical thinking. We are a country, as diverse as the world within our borders that enables its citizens the right to discuss topics- such as Politics, Religion and the death penalty no matter where you stand.

Today, I urge you to talk to your children about our history. Whether you are a Republican or Democrat- or one of the many other parties that make up our society, discuss the happenings; discuss the whys and the hows. Take a moment to express your personal feelings and what you hope comes about- and take a moment to remind your child that not all people agree with you, but that is their right as an American as well.

Pieces of the Past

2009-01-19T20:28:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I spent the day at my grandfather's house. Back in September, my beloved grandmother passed away. Yesterday my grandfather assembled the group of us at his house in a belated Christmas celebration. The secondary purpose of the get together, was for my cousins, mother, sister and I to go through my grandmother's jewelry. Veronica, the black sheep cousin (she's held that role since she got pregnant at 17 and again at 19) did not go, neither did my cousin Kathleen or my late aunt's boyfriend Steve.

My mother, my cousin Theresa and I picked through all of the interesting baubles and bits, taking what we liked. One thing I noticed was that I have no recollection of my grandmother wearing the majority of the jewelry. I found pieces that screamed "Hey, Heather - grab me!" including a classy set of pearls, and a tiny anchor. Other pieces I chose because of their essence, and others still because of their potential. It makes me feel connected.

What is more of a connective thing for me were the lace and embroidered handkerchiefs that I took. Two of them have my grandmother's name embroidered on them - Jane. Another has the word Mother on a corner. Several are plain, with a tatted trim (that's what my aunt called it at least!). One of these is surrounded by a fringe of multiple shades of blue. My aunt nearly made me cry by handing it to me and stating simply "Something borrowed, something blue..." I have no current plans for getting married; I'm still lacking in the beau department, but it made me feel all warm and fuzzy that someone has faith that I'll eventually get hitched.

2 Arby's sandwiches please

2009-01-17T09:25:00.001-08:00

Last night Michael and I went on a double date with some friends. We had a lovely time discussing a myriad of topics. The conversation came around to our worst dates.

Let me preface this story with the excuse that I was young. I should have just called off the date as soon as it started going wrong. I just put up with it because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. (dumb I know)

When I was in college a young man wanted to go out with me. We arranged to have him come to my house and pick me up for dinner and a movie.

He showed up in his new Chevy cavilier. While we drove to the restaurant he proceeded to brag about his new "sports car". I was laughing inside because I wasn't impressed but I thought it was sweet. We were young and he paid for it himself.

Then we pull up in front of Arby's. I was taken aback.

"I thought we were going to a restaurant" I said.

"This is a restaurant. I take all my dates here" he replies.

We get out of the car and go in. He walks up to the counter and orders 2 Arby's sandwiches, a large fries, and a large Coke. The cashier tells him his total and he pays.

He turns to me and says, "Oh did you want something?"

"No" I said flatly. I wasn't going to eat with him.

I sat down at the table with the skinny hunk of an idiot. He took out his first sandwich and put tons of their sauces on it. He took a bite and the sauce started running down his arm to his elbow.

HE LICKS THE SAUCE OFF THE LENGTH OF HIS ARM! No he didn't I think to myself.

He finishes all of his food and suggests we go on to the movie. I almost suggested that he take me home.

The entire way to the movie he brags on his car again.

We get to the theater and he decides we need to go see George of the Jungle. He pays for his ticket. I pay for mine.

He says that he wants to play video games until showtime. I watch him play the games. I am bored but the movie is about to start and I won't have to pay any more attention to him.

He looks at me and says, "This game is fun. Do you want to play against me? I have lots of quarters here."

I say, "Okay." What could the harm be? It was better than watching him play.

He puts in his money and says, "Put in your money."

YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

The rest of the date went by. I blocked it out because it was horrible. He wanted to kiss me goodnight and asked me when we could go out again.

"Never!" I didn't care about his feelings anymore.

Sleeping like a mom...

2009-01-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

Ahh, I woke up this morning- on my own. Not to the sounds of anyone crying. Not to the sounds of someone whispering into my ear, breffast mom- I want breffast. I awoke on my own, snug as a bug. I was warm and cozy, nestled listening to my husband still sleeping next to me. The baby, between us (a little stuffed up so he was snoring.) looking deceptively like an angel.

Then I realize that said baby was sleeping on my arm… as I regain consciousness, I begin to become aware of the tingly feeling of my arm. It is telling me that something is wrong and it isn’t happy. Of course it isn’t, I think to myself. My arm is raised at the shoulder, then bent and the elbow- with 23 pounds of baby blocking the blood flow… eer, what to do. I don’t want to wake him, it is still too early!

As I begin to wonder how to move my arm, I begin to become aware of the rest of my body. I find myself leaning inwards (probably more of the arm tingling problem!) due to another child that has snuck into bed with me during the night. This one, built like a rock, has snuggled himself directly behind me- lying flat on his back. There is no room for me to lie on my back, nor enough room to wiggle loose the arm which has begun to scream with pain.

I look up to examine my options… only to become aware of my legs! Remember the upper part of my body, leaning inward- arm, screaming in pain… Well, a third child had made way into my bed during the night and she was sleeping soundly, head on my right thigh which was bent upwards with my knee resting into my husband’s side. My left leg had been pushed out of the way and was resting against her back- and from the looks of it, I’m gonna be limpin’ tomorrow!

*sigh* What am I going to do? Of course, I could just adjust myself with no care to the children. They were the ones that came to my bed- right? Not. A. Chance. This would only cause them to stir- most likely one of them to awaken. I look at the time- 4:55 am. NOT going to happen. I have to do something- my arm is in agony and my legs are beginning to let me know their unhappiness as well!

Determined to remain in bed and even more determined to keep the children asleep I look to my husband. HE was sleeping on his back, no child managed to manipulate that sleeping rock. Remember that right leg, bent up and resting next to his side… Gently I move it just enough to kick my husband. Damn sleeping husband… it took about 5 good kicks before he stirred. I hiss, Shhhhhhhhhhhhh! Help me! He looks up groggily and smiles. He stumbles himself out of the bed and quickly pulls the baby off my arm and onto his pillow. He picks another pillow up off the floor and together use it to replace my thigh. Now free I scoot over and adjust my body out… ahh. I look to my husband and smile- but he’s already grabbed another blanket and is headed out to the couch. This isn’t the first time we’ve done such early morning maneuverings.

Finally, resting on my pillow- snug in my bed I look about at my babies, resting happily on the mom bed. All three are cozy- my body no longer hurting… I hear the faint sounds of my husband snoring from the couch. 2 more hours before I have to get up- I snuggle in to sleep. What a wonderful life…

*Damn* Now I have to pee.

Stuck in the middle with you

2009-01-14T22:56:00.000-08:00

Winter term is officially underway. Now is the time for New Years' resolutions, a time for high heel snow boots, hot cocoa and the long haul towards graduation, or at least towards summer. My mother always said that winter term was the longest and hardest term. No longer is there the excitement of back to school, or the anticipation of summer plans. There aren't any good holidays, except maybe V-day, but that's arguable. There is just something about being stuck in the middle of the year that makes the days go slower and the work seem harder. Being in the middle gets a bum rap though. There are all sorts of phrases that invoke terror involving being in the middle; 'middle of nowhere', 'middle aged', 'middle child' (Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!), even 'mid-life crisis' or 'midterm'. It seems that being in the middle of something is wasted time, waiting for the end but no longer excited by the beginning. The planning is over, but you are far from finishing anything.

Currently I am in the middle of saving money for a house. I have a job, I have a plan, I have a budget. Now all I have to do is DO it. It all seems so dull sometimes, day in and day out, working and putting money away in the bank. Of course once it is all done I will have the rush of owning my own house, but right now, being in the middle, it gets a little monotonous.

Of course there are advantages to being in the middle. You have time. Time to think about your plan, your idea. Time to decide if this in fact is something you want to do. I can't tell you how many of my peers changed majors in the middle of the school year. You have that lull where you can sit back and think, "What the hell am I doing? and how am I going to lose these 15 pounds from Christmas?" When you are wrapped up in the beginning of a great journey, such as going to school, or deciding to buy a house, the possibilities are endless. All your time and energy is spent deciding how, when, where, papers get signed, things get bought, but there is so little time to really understand what it is you are signing up for. By the middle... you know what is being asked of you. You realize that maybe this isn't a piece of cake after all, but something you have to work at. If it is something important to you, you will get through it though. You will beat the boredom, the monotony, the aching anticipation of the END.

So, I am going to embrace my middle-ness. I am going to take advantage of the time and relatively low stress I have right now to enjoy this winter, to play with the kids more, and to relax and continue to revise and revisit my plans. Because as soon as I am done being in the middle of this, I will have something else to do, something else to finish, and this will just be the beginning.

Tooth and Plead

2009-01-13T15:57:00.000-08:00

Baby girl wrote us this letter. We covered up the names but we thought it was funny.

Baby girl lost her top front tooth today.

Epitome of Murphy's Law

2009-01-12T10:02:00.000-08:00

Everyone has their moments in which they fall victim to Murphy’s Law. If something can go wrong, it will go wrong. Well, I think my share of this is a bit more than necessary. We refinanced our house a few months ago. The loan slated to close by the end of November. I receive a phone call from the loan officer after Thanksgiving explaining that a few of the wires sent out had gone to the wrong place. Our money was on the way to a bank somewhere in Wyoming. Out of 1400 wires sent out, only twenty, one of which was ours, went to the wrong place.
The most recent snowstorm blanketed us with almost fourteen inches. We were ready for it. The world was white and beautiful and the kids went sledding everyday. The weather warmed and it started to rain and melt the snow. Well, everyone else’s snow was melting. We are partially rural and live in the woods. Our driveway is 500 feet long. On one side is a culvert, the other is a ravine about thirty feet down. After three days cooped in the house, I was going crazy. Luckily, I had a Doctor’s appointment (lucky to have a Doctor’s appointment? *rolls eyes*) and tried to leave the house. It had froze the night before and now our driveway was nothing but ice. I did not want to put my car in the culvert. The trees would prevent me from falling all the way down the ravine, but I like my car the way it is without dents. I had heard a rumor from the neighbor that the snow was gone. Defeated, I look out my window, which shows the world still white.
The next day, determined to leave the house, I slip and slide my way out of the driveway. It was a little hairy, but I made it. When I emerged from the dirt road, what do I see? Not one clump of snow anywhere! People are driving their cars and the mobility of mankind is back to normal. I run to the store for a few things ($100 later), grab a chai and go back home. I slip and slide my way back down the driveway and return to the winter wonderland that is our yard.
When I buy something that requires assembling, the pieces are always missing. Picking up a birthday cake from the store, they lost the slip and did not make it. Take the car in for an oil change, they did not schedule the appointment. Get new tires, two days later the wheel falls off while driving down the road. Out to eat at a restaurant, they forget to make my dinner.
Here is a good one. My dog had to have his knee rebuilt. Three weeks after surgery, he is still not walking on his leg. I take him back to the vet for x-rays and they find the kneecap had come back out. He needed surgery AGAIN to have a tendon repaired. What? They couldn’t do that the first time around?
I could keep going.
Most of the time, I take it in stride. I have come to accept that normal rules do not apply to me and try to think of it as an extra helping of ‘ha ha’ in my life. I am a good friend to have. Think of it this way. If we are chased by a bear in the woods, no worries for you because I will be the one to get eaten.

Ponderings

2009-01-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

I am not sure that I have anything to blog about. My week has been a combination of interesting and fairly boring. My son keeps calling my oldest brother grandpa, so on Wednesday we went visiting. My other brother is here visiting from California, so it was very entertaining with 5 'boys' in the house. I say boys, because I am not sure either of my brothers are very mature when they are together. Then there of course is my husband who can be immature with the rest of them and my two boys who of course are supposed to be immature. I sometimes wonder if I am the only one with any maturity. It is always entertaining in any event.

Family. My father recently passed and now there is the task of going through all his stuff. It all has to be inventoried and then kept for 6 months before anything can be done with it. That would be the lovely state law here. There is stuff of value and then there is the stuff that we don't even know what to begin to do with. I have the feeling this is all going to take a while.

I am ready for the weather to decide what it is doing. It was 64 this afternoon and now it is 33. That was a 30 degree drop in about 5 hours period. The temp dropped 10 degrees while we were eating dinner. We may get snow on Tuesday. That is typical weather for around here. To add tot he almost freezing temps we have 35 MPH winds. That is also normal for around here. When it isn't windy you wonder what is wrong.

Over all things are pretty quiet here. Which is actually nice for the moment. I know they will be crazy in a month with the new baby and all. I am enjoying the relative calm before the storm for now.

That Was My Name But You Wore It Out

2009-01-06T10:23:00.000-08:00

From the moment their little mouths could make one syllable of baby babble, I coaxed it out of them. I encouraged it. I wanted to hear them say that word, that special name I longed to be called - “Mommy”. All peeps and squeaks with any semblance of that magical title were rewarded with smiles and hugs and approval.

The simple truth is this: I started it.

*sigh* Clearly, I didn’t think that through.

Indeed, I got my wish. They say it. Boy, do they say it. Constantly! “Mommy” is now the most abused moniker of my existence. It’s both wonderful and terrible at once.

True, it is awesome to be so invaluable that my name is the one that they call instinctively. Also true is the fact that in their eyes, everything seems to be stamped in big bold letters - URGENT.

Don’t get me wrong. I have three of the most wonderful, silly children I could have ever hoped for, but there are days when I am needed to the point that I want to run far, far away.

Every so often, one of my kids becomes The Unflickable Booger. I can bob and weave and put myself in Time Out to lose whatever glue-child is tailing me, to no avail. The Unflickable Booger will follow me. She waits outside the bathroom door to bombard me with questions about everything from long breasts to the lock-picking finesse Santa uses on homes without chimneys. More often than not, however, The Unflickable Booger’s main calling is that of stool pigeon.

Her insistence on coupling what used to be such a lovely word with “she” is maddening. The “Mommy, she (this)” and “Mommy, she (that)” statements have piled high on this camel’s back. I really don’t need to know which “she” did what to whom and why and for how long, do I? (Okay, sometimes I do.)

I recently made an announcement to my children. I would no longer respond to the name “mommy” if they continued to follow it with the pronoun “she” or asinine requests for the unloading of a particular “she” into the wilderness to be raised by wolves.

My name henceforth will be Tapioca Puddin’.

*flick*