Oooo...Sparkly

Yes, I wear Crocs. Fugly Crocs in a crazy shade of pink that my husband bought me for Christmas a few years ago. I try to restrict my Croc-wearage to around the house, but they occasionally sashay into public because they are ferociously comfortable and I am lazy.

They're pretty beat up. They are my slip on shoes that I do a lot of dirty stuff in. Like picking up dog poop, gardening and painting. They've needed a little pick me up for a while. I'm not really a frills, glitter and ruffle sort of girl, but when I saw these sparkly jewels at my local dollar store last night, I scooped them up. They are a little silly, but they make me smile and hey, a dollar for a smile is pretty cheap these days. I even wore them to our small group meeting. I was sitting directly across from my pastor and as he led the meeting I noticed his eyes kept returning to my shoes. Whether he was amazed at the ugliness of my shoes or distracted by the shininess, I don't know. A couple of times he lost his train of thought and I half expected him to say something about the shoes, but he didn't. Probably just being kind.

I don't care how ugly they are. I love my Crocs and my shiny jewels. Plus, they help me rationalize putting off a pedicure.

Update on Go Girl

This is weird. I hate to keep raving about this crap, because a) not getting paid and b) it probably causes tumors on your sweat glands or toe cuticles or something. But Sleeping Mommy wondered how Go Girl tastes and I can't figure out how to email her back, so she gets an ENTIRE post to answer her question, because I am rather fond of her and love her blog, especially the side bar about trollish comments. Pure gold.

I had another Can O' Meth Go Girl today. At 1:00 pm, rather than 5, since my husband has this silly little thing about going to bed before the next day actually begins. Killjoy. Yesterday I actually drank one of the Go Girl Glo drinks, in a turquoise can and it was okay, taste wise. Today I had an original pink drink and it tasted pretty good. It didn't have that really strong cough medicine flavor that a lot of energy drinks have. It actually tasted (to me anyway) like Mountain Dew mixed with some funky South American alcohol. Not that I would know what that tastes like. A-hem

Energy boost was there, and gave me consistent burn through about 8:30 pm. No jitters or racing heart, which everything, including my beloved NyQuil, gives me. Both contain a mild appetite suppressant, so I worried about that. I also slept well (when I finally went to bed) and woke up bright-eyed and bushy tailed. So all in all, good stuff. My husband is talking about finding it by the case. Am I really that lazy?

Keep in mind, this may just be an up-cycle for me. I do tend to have a few hyper-productive days, right before I go into a massive week-long slump. Maybe it's not the drink but my mental illness playing a fun little prank. Perhaps it is colluding with the makers of Go Girl for free advertising. I dunno. I kind of think it's the drink. Go Girl! For the lazy-ass in all of us! YAY!

The Perils of The Go Girl

This stuff should seriously come with a warning label.

Tonight, at about 5 pm, I was in the grocery store with my kids and Mr. Clairol and was feeling a bit run down freakin' exhausted and grabbed one of these from the cold case. I sucked it down on the way home and felt a pleasant boost. Great!

After trips to Costco, Wal-Mart, Dairy Queen and Home Depot, scrubbing the flaking tempera hand prints off a plastic wheelbarrow, disassembling it and priming it, eating dinner, bathing kids, making three foam birthday crowns and coordinating wands, then cleaning up the entire huge mess, I am still wide awake and ready to rock. I'm surfing the web and blogging while my husband snores on the couch. Saturday Night Live is over. Do you know how long it's been since I watched an entire SNL? Probably more than a decade, my friends.

It's been six hours and I am not even remotely tired. All I can think is I am SO going to regret this in the morning.

Spouting Ideas

Here's my problem. Sometimes, I take an idea and run so far with it, that it becomes an overblown mess and I just drop it because it has become unwieldy and well, slightly overwhelming. They almost always start small.

Hey, how about a coat of paint on the bedroom walls? Get rid of the tan, maybe a nice blue.

*agonize agonize agonize over color* I think this sorta periwinkle blue. Oooh, what if we used some navy as an accent color? Maybe the window box and doors?

*explain the concept of accent color to my husband as I agonize over which navy to choose* And I think bright white for the trim.

*finding white paint in the aisle, which is harder than you might think* You know, while we are at it, we should paint the hall and get rid of the peach. We have a week. It'll be easy.

Fast forward two weeks and my room is almost done, save some trim work and touch ups, the hall needs a second coat and the bathroom door is half painted. My closet is halfway re-assembled, but there are still shoe racks in the living room and my elliptical machine is on the back patio. It will be lovely as a planter, I am sure! Big Sigh.

It would be one thing if I learned from these experiences, but I never, ever do. Even in the midst of Paint-O-Rama '08, I am hankering for my IKEA fabric and plotting the darling window seat cushions it will make. But you know, some throw pillows on the couch would really tie the room together. And, oh! What of I bought extra and when we have the dining nook built, I can make cushions for that as well! Yay! Plus, I've pretty much decided that the wall behind my sofa must be red. Soon. It is truly a wonder my husband does not leave me for a woman with less style and flair.

And that isn't all. I've resurrected my garden idea. There is a small bit of yard (not really small, but I'm selling it that way to the hubs) that was previously a dog run. The Beast never goes in there any more, and it has become the place I fling his dog poop when I pick it up from the bark on our playground. (Say it with me, ewwwwww)

I'd like to convert this unused, neglected plot into a garden. It is already enclosed by a lovely chain link fence, so the Beast will not be able to dig in the beds. I'd have space for tomatoes, plus some carrots, maybe eggplant and zucchini, a lemon tree and maybe two or three blueberry bushes. Just a few raised beds, and a tree in the corner. Easy. Because I will be doing approximately none of the actual work. I'm actually pulling out the big guns and making this a birthday request. I've notified my mom and brother that their services will be required, as well as few gift cards to my local garden/hardware store. I have visions of Missy, Red and I lovingly tending our little plot of land, enjoying the bounty of veggies and halcyon days of teaching them to tend the land.

Pardon me while I puke from the Ingalls-ness of it all.

More like I'll be sneaking out at twilight to enjoy a martini in a plastic cup as I survey the weeds and withered vines, thinking, "Damn, I oughta weed or water or something." I should put a bench in there. With cup holders. Oh! And the seat could open up into an ice chest. Or a WET BAR! YAY! Honey, can we run electricity out to the garden so I could have a min-fridge? Happy Birthday to me!

Fridge Friday

Jenny has been participating in Fridge Friday for a while now, and I'll admit to be intrigued. Hers always looks so clean and well organized. Mine is like a toxic waste dump. I've resisted the lure to bare all here for some time, but it's getting stronger.

I'm not sure what the rules are. Is it only the inside that counts? Can you take the photo after the weekly monthly fridge cleaning or does it have to be pre-clean? Should there be commentary? I just don't know. It's very overwhelming. I'm just going to dip my toe in.

Yes. That really is my fridge. It doesn't go in my current kitchen at all, but when we lived in the bungalow, sweet baby Jesse, it was perfection. Honey wood floors, steel cabinets painted crimson red with stainless handles, original stainless steel counter top. Antique metal signs hanging on the walls. Brushed steel shelves with hooks for my pots and pans. It was awesome.

The fridge came to me with my husband. He had purchased a new fridge shortly before we began dating and one of his friends was dating an artist. Mr. Clairol had her paint flames on his brand new black fridge. I feel compelled to tell you all that she freehanded this. She is gifted. Too bad she dumped Mr. Clairol's friend. I could use some art.

Anyway, it took me a while to warm up to flaming fridge, but eventually, I began to see her beauty. When we moved into the old house, I began slowly changing it (it was a man-cave in the worst possible way; the coffee table was a huge tire with a glass top. No I am so not kidding.) The kitchen was truly the crowning achievement. I designed it around the fridge, because I knew she wasn't going anywhere and it really worked. (Geez, Jen, brag much?) When we had our house on the market, we got three offers for the fridge! Crazy. My realtor told me that the kitchen was what convinced our buyers to buy it.

Okay, I've bored you by bragging about my decorating flair long enough. Trust me, I don't usually congratulate myself so heartily. I promise, the next post will be about a bomb. Not a literal bomb, Big Brother. Just a decorating/landscaping one. I can feel the surveillance cameras already.

Raw IS War.

Big Red and I are in the middle of a epic, smack-down battle. At stake: the nap.

Missy Hoohaw and I waged this battle last year and I lost. I was not a gracious loser. In fact, every afternoon around 2:00, you can hear me mumble, "Rotten, bleepin' kids and their 'I'm not tired,' bleep." I'm determined not to lose this one.

Big Red used to be my sleeper. After Missy, who made putting her to sleep an Olympic event, it was refreshing to have a baby that laid right down in his crib and went to sleep. It was great because I knew when he needed a nap and when he didn't. If I put him down and he fussed, I could pick him up and wait an hour before laying him down again. He'd go right to sleep and there would be much rejoicing in the land. Hooray!

We had a routine. I'd lay him down at 10:00 and he'd sleep for two hours. I'd lay him down around 2:00 and he'd sleep for another two hours. Then he'd go to bed at 7:00 and I'd start on Missy. About 6 months ago, he dropped the afternoon nap and that was okay. He was a year old and I was expecting shorter naps. But just recently, within the last week or so, he's been fighting the morning nap. If I believed for one minute that he didn't need the nap, I'd let it go. But he needs that nap. NEEDS it.

Red has tells. He rubs his blanket across his face and throws it over his head. He rubs his eyes and lays down on the floor, only to pop right back up again as if denying the fatigue. He's not subtle, that boy of mine. When I see these omens and portents, I put him down. Now, rather than give me a sleepy smile and cuddle up with his blankie, he hollers and scrunches up his face and flails. I leave the room and he yells and cries. Occasionally, he concedes and I take the match. Most times, he keeps it up until I give in and pick him up. This usually takes a half-hour, though it feels like a day and a half.

He needs the nap. There's no question about that. The days he doesn't nap, by three o'clock in the afternoon, he's a wreck. Every little thing hurts his feelings, he wants a snack constantly, he'll ask for cuddles, then bark at me for holding him. Hmmm, maybe he just has PMS.

I will win this battle. I will. I just have to re-configure my game plan. I'm going to push back nap time a half hour and let him cry it out several days. I really hope I can get it figured out. He may not want the nap, but mama does. And what mama wants, mama gets.

Love is Movies in the Mail

I love Netflix. I love Netflix so much that I might leave my husband for them, if they asked it of me. Netflix is truly one of the greatest inventions of the Decade, in my book. Maybe even the century.


But they aren't perfect. My love has not blinded me to the flaws in the system. Some are not their fault. They can't speed up my lazy mail man or keep him from taking my movies and watching them before I get them. Yeah, I know you do it, Mailman. I don't believe those envelopes just fall open in your truck. (Note: My mailman is great and does not actually do that. I was just trying to be funny. Crickets, commence with the chirping.)


One of the faults that is their fault is the terrible, awful, perfectly horrible new releases page. When we first signed up it was bad. Releases were listed in alphabetical order, but there was some mysterious sub organization as well, perhaps genre or date of release. It was hard to find a movie I wanted. When I rent movies, I tend to go for the new releases, since I can't remember all the movie trailers I've seen and said, "OOOO! I want to see that!"


So the new release page was my major complaint. And they changed it. I didn't think it was possible to make it worse, but they did. Now it's just a random collection of "Popular New Releases" that doesn't include anything I want to see. It makes it very hard to add anything to my queue. I was keeping a list of movies to see, but of course, I lost it. Welcome to my world.It's not like I'm after obscure art movies either. Things like Atonement, We Own the Night and Dan in Real Life weren't in the new release section of Netflix. Suburban Girl is featured heavily and has been for a month and a half now. Hey guys, I loved Buffy too. I think it's great that Sarah Michelle Gellar is working again. But take it off the new releases, alright?


I've discovered the Movieweb website that has helped enormously. New DVD releases, listed by date of release, then in alphabetical order. They don't break it into genre, so you have to wade through some d-level horror flicks and Bawdy Bimbos of Brazil, though I hear that is generating some Oscar buzz. But it is easier to wade through the acres of garbage on Movieweb and know I'm seeing everything released, than to wonder what the hades Netflix is keeping from me. Like Bawdy Bimbos of Brazil. Just where does Netflix think I'm going to get my hot South American action?

Even On A Thursday, No Love For Caillou

I feel like the worlds biggest meanie-pants for saying this, but Caillou climbs my spine in a major way. I have many problems with Caillou. Why is he bald? Is he a cancer survivor? Why do they not address his troubling lack of hair? The child is four. His sister has hair. His parents have hair. His grand-parents have hair. All his friends have hair. Why doesn't he?

Cay-loo? Ki-low? No, it's Ki-yoo. I can't complain about this too much, because this show is a Canadian creation and it sounds French, so I'm supposing there is a Montreal/Quebec influence at work here. But still. What's wrong with Peter? Or Billy? Just something that bears a passing resemblance to it's pronunciation.

What is with the fakey laughing? Can they seriously not pull in actors who can generate a genuine sounding laugh? Fake laughter is annoying and these people laugh at everything. Even things that would make a normal parent holler, "What in the hades do you think you are doing? Are you insane?!?" Missy Hoohaw started fakey laughing while watching Caillou and it was all I could do not to tape her mouth shut. Have you noticed fake laughter is my pet peeve?



Dear Caillou's mom,
Get thee to a Nordstom Rack now!!! Do not pass go, but do stop and pull $200 out of the ATM.

I know we moms are pressed for time and aren't always looking like we oughta, but if I had a friend who dressed like this, I would stage an intervention. Ruffles? Really? Even a stained t-shirt and sweat pants would be better that the red shirt and yellow ruffles. Cut/curl/highlight your hair and ditch the headband! Dad isn't so bad, but he could use a haircut and maybe a break from the Christmas sweater. I wonder if What Not To Wear does cartoon characters...

Okay, I'm done now. I will stop picking on sweet little four-year-olds who are sensitive and just trying to deal with the world around them the best they can. Though I will say, I can see a grown up Caillou workin' the pole in a gay bar in Vancouver. Just sayin'.

This Old Porch Is Just A Long Time Of Waiting and Forgetting

Do you ever look around and say, "Wow, I think I got it all done," after a busy, productive day? I just did that and my first thought after was, "Holy Hades, what have I forgotten???"

Because, children? I never get it all done.

Usually when I have this thought, it means that there are a half dozen twiddly things that have fallen off the radar. They are under the surface, ready to wake me up at 2 am. Sneaky, insidious, gotta-do-'em-now things.

I'm racking my brain now, trying to remember what I am forgetting to do. I've thought of two, so, that means I need at least 4 more. Gah! They're probably big, important boogers too. The ones I can't remember almost always are.

We'll see. I'll let you guys know what the forgotten things are. That 2:15 am phone call? Gonna be me.

I'll Do It Myself

Missy Hoohaw is three and half now and as most of the mommies out there know, this is the age of, "I do it!" Woe to those who do not honor the drive for independence. They shall be run over by a stampede of Stride-rite shoes.

I try very hard to let her do what is reasonable. I have found that it winds up being easier for you, especially in the long run. You see, back when Drama Queen was three and a half, I was young, single and quite frankly, too damned tired to let a three year old get the milk. I told DQ no, more often than not, and I see the error of that now. I find myself wondering if her lack of confidence in her own abilities is a result of my lack of patience. I guess her therapist can get back to me on that.

Missy is benefiting from my experience. I let her do a lot of things, "helper" type stuff, and it works. She likes it, and the older she gets, the better she can accomplish tasks. Today, I even moved the yogurt to a lower shelf, so she can get part of her breakfast herself. Who knows? If this learning curve continues, Big Red should be making dinner and taking out the trash by the time he's 5. Awesome. I will have so much more free time!

But there is a dark side to the skill building. They start wanting to do all sorts of things by themselves. Like pick out their clothes. Like get a snack. Like turn on the TV and find Spongebob Squarepants, even though I have tried to ban that show for a few years. Yeah. That's the downside. Next thing you know, she'll be offering to start the car and drive Drama Queen to school. By herself.

Edward Who?

I've never had a crush on a celebrity younger than I am, even Daniel Radcliffe or Shia LaBeouf. (Stop it, I have a teenage girl. Of course I know their names.) I've never thought lascivious things about boys walking past, no matter how cut and sweaty they are jogging past my house with no shirts on. I am a mother and a former teacher and my mind simply does not go there. Ever.

Seriously boys, what would your mothers say? Put a damn shirt on, it isn't that hot.

I have developed slight crushes on fictional characters. Acheron? Oh, baby. Joe Morelli and Ranger? Yes, please. Roarke? Bring it on. But these character are older than I am...though there is a question mark on Ranger. Yes, I know I am pathetic. Just hold on to your big girl panties, I'm going to sink deeper.

I've also never really devoured teen novels, but the Twilight books by Stephanie Meyers are changing that. They are great books. I've developed a slight obsession with them and along with that, my first literary crush on a young character. I'm ashamed and am fully aware of how sad I am. I recognize my pressing need to get a life. Find me a support group and point the way.

I have a minor crush on Jacob Black.

I know! I feel the shame, children. I mean, c'mon. A) He's a teenager. B) He's a werewolf. C) He's NOT REAL! God, I'm sad. Drama Queen is horrified, since she is firmly on Team Edward. She protests my assertion that Bella should choose Jacob, saying that Edward is perfect and her true love. The fact that I am having the conversation at all is cause for concern. Ugh. I need to step back and get a grip. Read some adult fiction. Something that my daughter has no interest in reading. Where's a new Stephanie Plum novel when you need it?

Actually, Candi is going to be my salvation here. I got my library's website and requested the first three Charlain Harris vampire novels on her recommendation and can't wait to dive in. Maybe Sookie and her crew can take my mind of a teenage Native American werewolf. Sad, sad, sad. Please don't tell my husband.

Meet the New Additions

I bought plastic dinosaurs for Big Red's basket because, frankly, I didn't know what else to get. I'm new at the whole son gig and it shows. A girl's Easter basket is easy. Hair bows, stickers, Curious George puzzles, candy and whamo! You're done. But a boy? That's harder. Much harder.

Part of the reason is his age. He's a mere 18 months, so Hot Wheels, Legos and Pokemon cards are a no-go. He's pretty much into food and cars, and I don't anticipate that changing over the next 18 years, but I really hope his interests broaden a bit, since putting Cheerios in his plastic eggs makes me feel like a Grinch. Shut-up, they were frosted.

So when I found these dinosaurs in the dollar bin at the Tar-jay, I snapped 'em up. (I actually bought five, and put the other three aside for his birthday. After my TJ Maxx jackpot, I can safely say birthdays are taken care of. ) Turns out his interests are expanding, because the dinosaurs are a hit. He carries them around, making them roar and growl, then sets them down and gives them each a kiss. Trust me, it's even more adorable than it sounds. I've named them Mabel and Rex. Rex is the red one, since I don't want to be to cliche and Mabel sort of resembles me when I go on a chocolate binge.

The dinosaurs' immediate acceptance makes me feel better about the whole boy thing. Maybe I won't completely stifle his masculinity before he reaches 18. I get nervous about it, because I've been somewhat successful with girls and they are easier for me to relate to. I look at my friends, most of whom only birthed males, and get a little intimidated. Poor Andrea probably thinks I don't have an original though in my head. I am forever copying her. But dang it, she makes it look easy and I need a little easy in my life.

Noooooooooooo!

It is 9:58 pm on Easter Sunday and I am not ready for Spring Break to be over! I need another break to recuperate from my break!

For Candi

Candi over at Bittersweet wanted to see pictures of my crowning decorating achievement, Big Red's room. Because I am all that is sweet and generous, not to mention a big, fat showoff, here they are. With commentary, because I cannot shut up and let the pictures do the talking. To truly appreciate this you should have "before" photos, showing the awful wood grain wall paper and brown paint. Unfortunately, I was seven months pregnant at the time and not even remotely together enough to think about "before" pictures.

This is the view from the door. We were struggling with the color pallet, until I found the curtain fabric. After that, it was like freakin' kismet. I was finding stuff every where! I found the rug at a Wal-Mart and about had kittens because the colors were so perfect.

This is the changing table. You can tell it used to be a closet, but the previous owners had taken down the doors and installed a slab that functioned as a desk. We raised that slab, painted it, added shelves and a light, and voila! The plan is to bring the slab back down to desk level, after the sweet day that Big Red is potty trained.

You can't see it very well but the certificate on the wall belonged to Mr. Clairol's father, who was a Navy man. Apparently, when they cross the equator for the first time, there is some hazing of the "wogs." Once they become a "shellback," they are presented with a certificate, or they were back in my father-in-law's day. Since Big Red is named for his grandfathers, I used the certificate as a launching pad for the room. This is where the nautical theme came from.

And the rocking chair? My mom covered the pads with fabric from a quilt. She so rocks.

This is a close up of the stenciling around the room. My mom designed this, with a little input from me. You can't tell from the photo, but the mast and stars are actually nailed on. It's pretty rad, if I do say so myself. Oh lord, I just said "rad." I truly am stuck in the 80's.

So there it is, Candi. And just because I love ya, there will be pictures of my bedroom. Before and after. You lucky, lucky readers.

Morning Roll Call

These are the travel mugs that get filled various hot beverages in the early morning hours at Chez PTN. Missy Hoohaw, Drama Queen and Mama Bear all have to have warm drinks in the car. Big Red does not have one as yet, since he prefers juice to hot chocolate and tea. Hmph. His father's son.

Last week I noticed them, lined up on the counter, waiting and thought, hmmm, that's a blog post. Now, I'm not really sure why. There isn't a whole lot to say about travel mugs, especially empty ones. I could detail the exquisite detail that goes into filling each one, especially Missy's. She is quite the hot cocoa connoisseur. 1 tablespoon of chocolate powder, 3/4 cup of hot water and 3 (no more, no less) ice cubes. If this recipe is not followed to the letter, bad things happen. She is not what you'd call a morning person.

But I gotta tell you, I'm lost as to how to make this post interesting. I snapped the picture, so I feel compelled to post about it. Perhaps an imaginary conversation, but I can't really even get that flowing. The good news is, I'm tapped for the blog, but the book is finally moving again. Yay! For me anyway. Take heart, I'm sure writer's block will once more set in and the blog will be full of snappy wit and clever mom-isms once more. Yeah, right.

Love Is A Not-So-Clean Shirt

Actual conversation that took place on the way home from church Sunday.


Me: You have sap on your shirt.


Mr. Clairol: Yeah, but it's only dirty in spots.


We laughed until my mascara ran. I love, love, love that man.

Works For Me Wednesday

So, my works for me Wednesday tip is this: Use mini muffin tins to hold tempera paint for rainy day projects. I usually deposit a tbs of paint in 6 of the wells and water in the other 6. You could also leave them empty for mixing colors, if your children are that advanced, which mine...not so much.

Go see Shannon and the links for more wonderful tips.

Home Improvement

Yesterday, my girlfriend Madeline and I went to Ikea. I came away with some picture frames, a wooden train and a metric ass-load of things I want to do to my house.

Ikea is insidious like that. You stroll through the sample rooms and marvel at how everything fits together. It's inexpensive stuff, so it seems doable. The furniture is not so tempting to me. I actually am more susceptible to the downstairs "market" area, where all the knick-knacks and doo-dads are. I love me some doo-dads.

I found this fabric and I am in love with it. In Love. In-divorce my husband and run away to Puerto Vallarta with a bolt of the stuff-love. I keep thinking how bright and fun my living room would be with a red wall and some throw pillows in that print and maybe a little of this. A striped rug, something bright over the fireplace and my living room isn't boring brown and blue anymore.

I love brighter colors. I like the warmth and life they lend to a room. My decorating tends to be more adventurous, or as my brother says, tacky, than my family's. It used to bother me, but I seem to have outgrown that. When we were newlyweds, Mr. Clairol and I lived in a little two bedroom bungalow from the 50's. It was pretty much a disaster when I moved in, but by the time we sold it, we had made it really special. We had a ton of compliments, especially from Realtors, so I knew we had accomplished something there.

Then there is the magic that is Big Red's nursery. It seems like I am tooting my own horn here, and maybe I am, but know that my husband and mother were instrumental in making it happen. Big Red's room went from ugly brown cave to a spread from Pottery Barn Kids for under $700. I had to fight to make it happen. Mr. Clairol wasn't sold on the nautical theme and my mom wasn't sure about the color scheme, but when it all came together, wow! When I walk in that room, I smile. Over a year later and I still say, "I love this room."

That's what I want for my entire house. We're working on the bedroom now. First a coat or three of paint. Just getting rid of the old matte tan walls is fabulous. I hated that color. It will be slow going, since I don't want to blow our entire tax return on the bedroom, but that works in my favor. Taking my time means I'll find exactly the right things. Like those cute little lamps at Ikea.

I Also Answer To Imelda

I think I have a problem. I just went through my closet and went through my shoes. The goal was to halve the collection. Reasonable goal, tight?
I could not do it.
It's not that I was unable to get rid of things. All in all, I got rid of 25 pairs. But that wasn't half my collection. I have 32 pairs left.
Schedule the intervention ASAP. I feel a trip to Payless coming on.

Free Time

So, you thought you were taking a family outing, but your husband discovers a coolant leak in your car. He takes it to his place of work to fix the problem and the toddler goes down for a nap. Your preschooler is sitting in front of a movie. Your teenager is in her room, doing God knows what, but probably not cleaning said room. Do you:

a) Clean your house, which resembles the aftermath of a hurricane?

b) Plan your menus and grocery list for the week?

c) Write an extraneous blog entry about wasting the time you have been gifted with?

Right. Me too. I'd never waste a couple of hours blogging when I could be cleaning or planning. Nevah evah. A-hem.

I'm Standing In Line For My Ticket Now

Way, way back, in my pre-Mr. Clairol days, I dated a nerd who loved him some Star Wars. This was during the Episode 1 days, when Star Wars geeks were in a lather about the new prequels being made. This boy (he was 3o-something, but he was still a boy, if you get my drift) made me watch all three of the original films (I slept through most of them) in preparation for viewing Episode 1 in the theater. He camped out overnight to buy tickets. I will mention here that he totally didn't need to. There were maybe 4 people in line behind him. Whatever.

But I can finally feel some sympathy for him. Because my favorite films of all time are being resurrected! On May 22, a fourth Indiana Jones film will be released. Swoon. I enjoy Harrison Ford as an actor and loved the Indy movies. They are some of a very few movies I own and watch repeatedly.

*Jenny, do you remember when our parents took us to Visalia and we saw Raiders of the Lost Ark? And our moms covered our eyes at the face melting scene? I think of you every time I watch that. In a good way!*

A while ago, I saw the cover of Vanity Fair, featuring Harrison Ford and the adorable Shia Labeouf, (whom I loved in Transformers, by the by). I got pretty excited and this morning, saw an online interview with Mr. Ford himself, talking about the film. So I'm breaking out my sleeping bag and trotting over to the multiplex. Or maybe not. But I'll definitely be catching that in the theater. If he's good, I'll even let my husband come with me.

Twilight

Yesterday, I dropped Missy Hoohaw off at preschool and Big Red and I set off to do a few errands. I had to go to the craft store (cha-ching!) and the bookstore (cha-ching! cha-ching!). I love going to these places, especially the bookstore. I could spend hours and hours in a bookstore, just browsing. I could also spend millions and millions of dollars there.

I didn't this time. I had a set purpose and I stuck with it. Big Red and I were looking for a copy of Twilight , a vampire novel by Stephanie Meyer that Drama Queen just had to read, because all her friends were reading it and it was the best book ever and if she didn't get to read it she would be a social outcast! Well, I didn't want my daughter's social failure on my head, so of course, I ran out and bought it!!!

You guys know me better than that, right? Right.

I actually requested it from the library and when I found I was 354 out of 354 requests, I knew that we would receive the book just as DQ was graduating from high school. I asked her to borrow it from a friend, but the friend she asked would only lend it on the condition that I didn't read it. Whaaaat?

Now, let me share that I had every intention of previewing this book for DQ, even before her friend told her that I must not. But you know how that goes. Now, it was essential that I read this book. Anytime a teen doesn't want you to know something, I find you had better ferret that information out with a quickness. Thus, the trip to the bookstore.

Oh my gosh. Best Book EVER! Well, not ever, but it is a great book. I am hooked. It is taking a monumental expending of will power to blog instead of read. I'm probably using up all my will power to do this and will eat crap all day because I simply cannot help myself. The things I do for you people. I bought it yesterday and I am about 3/4 of the way through. I actually forgot to pick up DQ at school yesterday, because I was so caught up in the story! I'm trying to figure out how to shave enough off my grocery budget to buy the next one. I know, I know, it's a teen book, but it's well written and has a tremendous plot. Meyer's writing is taut and delicate, her characters complex and well-drawn. Let me say it again, I am hooked. Hooked!

And yes, I'm going to let DQ read it.

Ignore the Muffled Screaming

I'm going to kill Drama Queen. Anyone want to provide me an alibi?

I've often laughed about how long it's been since I've cleaned my kitchen. That task fell to DQ when we moved here. But here's the thing. When a teenager cleans your kitchen, it looks like a teenager cleaned your kitchen. There have been nights when my kitchen looked better before it was cleaned. Which is scary.


Today I pulled dishes out of the dishwasher, covered with spots and dried food. I knew the dishwasher had been run, since I heard it last night. So why were the dishes all crusty? She forgot to put detergent in the dishwasher. That was loaded with every sippy cup we own. Argh.


Then I found a trail of ants on the counter. Migrating to a puddle of syrup from yesterday's french toast sticks. Theoretically, that should have been wiped up during last night's cleaning. It was not.


I was ready to shrug it off until I opened the fridge and found all the yucky rotten veggies I had cleared out of the fridge yesterday, sitting in the crisper, leaking fluid over the clean bottom. This is when I decided to kill her, chop her up into tiny pieces and feed her to the dog. She had to look at slimy brown lettuce, desiccated carrots and an onion so old it had sprouted, take them out of the plastic bag on the counter and put them away in the fridge. This is an academically brilliant teenager, who can quote from Hemingway and Proust, yet cannot look at vegetables and determine whether or not they should be tossed.


Pardon me, while I bang my head on my sticky kitchen counter. I wonder if they'll let me post from jail.

My Stupid, Stupid Ex-Husband

My ex cracks me up sometimes. I swear, I don't mean to be bitchy or rude and I do adhere to the say nice things only rule, but oh my lord, he makes it really hard sometimes. There are times when I just want to ask him, "Have you always thought I was an idiot, or is this a recent development?"


I know I told you all about Child Support Services clearing out his bank account. Well, his wife mentioned something during a phone call about getting the new bank accounts set up. I could hear him in the background, yelling, "Don't tell her that!" Oh lord.


Does he think I was the one that initiated this action against him? Really? After 10 years of not pursuing the support angle and taking what I could get from him? Suddenly, I hacked my way into his accounts and cleared them out? Or ferreted out his account number and gave it to the DA? Whatever.


Or is it that he thinks I don't realize he actively tries to avoid paying support? That he would if he could, but he just can't? His wife told me every week, he looked at his check and panicked, because the support wasn't deducted. Uh-huh. I refrained from pointing out that he can make those payments himself. It isn't a requirement that the money be deducted and CSS makes it pretty easy. You can even do it online. Wow.


I am more than a little fed up with them, in case you couldn't tell. I'm tired of the ridiculous lies, the false bonhomie, the subtle jabs that he feels the need to give during every conversation. The latest was about my marrying a "manual laborer." I saw red. How dare he impugn my husband, a skilled professional with almost 20 years in his chosen career. A man who works hard, every single day, to provide for the child of another man! I resisted replying, though I did get in a jab of my own.


"Well, he doesn't have a super-glamorous job like pulling cable for a construction company, but he has a college degree, which is more than I can say for some."


That shut him up.

Memories

Memories are wonderful things. They can be sweet, tender, bitter, painful and embarrassing. But even the worst of memories serves as a signpost for us. You Survived This.

I have great memories of my childhood. For some reason, the bad ones crowd out the sweet and I hate that about myself. For some reason, Nicole Heck calling me a whore in third grade drowns out all of the truly halcyon moments of my youth. I'd rather not let that happen. Now that I'm an adult and a parent, I can look back and see those shiny moments among the dreck. That is a good thing.

A lot of my best memories involve my dad. He was a great dad for a small girl. We were involved with Indian Princesses for a few years. We built cars for the annual Pinewood Derby. ( Okay, he built a car and let me hand him things. That derby was competitive, let me tell you.) There was the fort he built in the backyard of our first house in Corcoran. It had a sand box underneath and outdoor carpeting. We could see into all of the neighbors backyards. It was awesome.

I don't know that I've ever adequately thanked my dad for being such an integral part of my childhood. I suppose that is one benefit of ALS. You have time to think of things to say and to say them. That is a blessing in the midst of the curse. I have a friend who lost her beloved father in an airplane crash and it simply wrecked her. The most common regret I have ever heard is that there were things left unsaid. It would be foolish for me to let that happen, when I have time to prevent it.

Over the next few weeks, that will be my project. Thanking all of the people that had such a huge part in making my childhood bright and shiny. It will have to be letters, since I am a crier and nothing botches a great thank you like tears. Tears and copious amounts of snot. I'm even teary typing this post, which is disastrous. I already put on my eye makeup this morning!

Random Much?

Why yes, thank you.

I hate Daylight Savings Time. Mostly because while I'm trying to adjust my internal clock, I'm also coping with children who have had their internal clocks messed with. Ugh.

Shopping with Drama Queen was difficult. We were both suffering from a touch of the PMS and Drama Queen was in a mood to test the boundaries. We went to Purgatory the mall but after 6 stores, she had still found nothing. We eventually found some things at Mervyn's but she'll need some more basic type things, like shorts. Which means more shopping. Lest you think I simply don't appreciate the wonderfulness that is my daughter (she asserts this daily), let me give you some stats on the day:

Hours shopping: 4

Hours it felt like: 72

Number of times she asked to go to a bookstore: 15

Number of times she told me I had no fashion sense: 7

Number of times she mentioned her current crush: 1,234,567,290

I did get a little something for me.



Aren't they beee-youtiful? I love wedges. Granted, they aren't sparkly Converse, but it doesn't do to be a copycat. I love them and they are surprisingly comfortable. Now I have to find some pretty red toenail polish to go with them. Maybe that will be sparkly...







The pool pump is broken. My brother and husband spent a huge portion of yesterday trying to locate the problem and they sort of think they might have, but it's one of those, "we'll do this and see if it works," sort of things. I really hope this fixes it, since the alternative is to drain the pool until we can get the pump fixed. Of course, we could take up skate boarding and get all "Lords of Dogtown." Crap! I'm going to take that off our Netflix queue. Don't want to give the boy ideas.

I wasn't joking when I mentioned planning my summer garden. I had high hopes for clearing out the dog run and converting it to a garden. That simply isn't going to happen this year, but I am going to branch out a little and try green beans and carrots in my garden. Thus far it's been tomatoes, so I'm looking forward to something different. Of course, I will still put in a tomato plant. Missy Hoohaw and Big Red would stage a coup if I neglected the tomatoes.

Tomorrow, we go bowling with the preschool class. I'm torn. Fun Mom says, "Cool, this will be so much fun!" Tired Mom says, "Are you frickin' kidding me? We're taking them bowling? What kind of crack did we smoke at the last meeting???" We'll see how it goes. The bouncehouse will be hard to compete with.

And for those of you, like me, who love a good romance novel, I highly recommend Sugar Daddy
by Lisa Kleypas. I literally could not put it down.

Now is the time on Sprockets when we turn off the computer and actually accomplish something during the day. Do you want to touch my monkey?

Breakin' The Law

I have some business to take care of before I share my criminal activities of the weekend. Mr. Clairol heartily objects to my naming the bus Fraulein Helga, so her name has been changed. The bus is now officially named Fraulein Greta, a name my husband does not object to. I had to do a Google search for German names to find one that pleased him. He didn't like Ermentrude, Dagmar or Freya. Greta was perfect, since it means "pearl" and the bus paint is Pearl. Sigh. Onto my story...

The bus show was a big yawn, but it did help me remember how utterly cool the bus is. Greta's a gem (A pearl to be specific). She's a '66 camper with a Roadrunner interior kit, safari windows and original paint. The original paint is apparently important in the bus world. I dunno. I'd rather have cool, shiny, new paint in bitchin' colors, but that's just me. We drove to the show with the safari windows up, attracting a fair amount of attention. No peace signs, but a lot of pointing and "Cool bus, man!" Mr. Clairol was in heaven.

After the show, we cooked up a couple of tri-tips and the hash brown casserole that is a heart attack waiting to happen. We delivered dinner to the new parents, then ate our own. Then we broke the law took a drive with the family. Cool, huh? Missy Hoohaw loves Greta and Big Red had never been in her, so it was a great time. Just a cruise around the block, windows down and twilight falling. Awesome.

Since it was a just a quick cruise, we decided to not put the car seats in. Stupid, in hind sight. Very stupid. Missy was up front with Daddy, standing and holding on the dash handle, wind blowing through her hair. She resembled nothing so much as a large puppy. I was in the back, holding Red on my lap. Drama Queen was on the back bench, chillin'. We were putting down the last leg, coming off a stop sign, when around the corner came a police car. Can you say, Oh shit, children? Good.

Mr. Clairol and I both died a little. We knew that he has seen our small children, no car seats, no seat belts even and a ticket had to be forthcoming. We drove on, watching for the u-turn and flashing lights, but it never came. It never CAME! Are you kidding me? Here we are, being the worst, stupidest parents in the world, blatantly breaking the law, risking our small children and he doesn't even pull us over? I don't get it. I would have given us a big, expensive ticket and a tongue lashing to be remembered. I might have even arrested us, because as I look back, I'm thinking that taking the kids in the bus, unsecured was possibly the most foolish thing we as parents, have ever done.

Yes, Mr. Clairol is a great driver, but it's Saturday evening and there are a lot of stupid-heads on the road, possibly with a few adult beverages in them. Yes, we were just tooling around the neighborhood, but I doubt bad drivers confine themselves to main thoroughfares, you know? So we had a pretty close call and learned a valuable lesson. This week, Mr. Clairol will be installing seat belts in the bus and I will be here, waiting for our Worst Parents Ever Award to arrive in the mail, thanking God that He had his hand on us and protected our children from our stupidity. Amen.

Women Rock

Today is for my family. I am taking Drama Queen to the mall this morning. *shudder* She has done an abrupt 180 and decided she loved American Eagle clothes and must have some for the warm weather coming up. So to the mall we go. I'm giving her $100 budget and letting her choose her own clothes. I, of course, retain veto power. We'll see how it goes.

Then, this afternoon, I am attending a VW Bus gathering with Mr. Clairol. You would think he would want some time with just the guys, but he has practically begged me to come, so we will dust off Fraulein Helga and let her stretch her wheels a bit. It should be fun. In a so-bored-I could-die-and-if-I-have-to-look-at-another-bus-I-will-have-an-aneurysm type of way. No, I kid. I love spending time with my husband and it will be a great gift to give him. I'm actually looking forward to some grown-up time with him. We try to date, but it gets hard sometimes.

After that, I'm taking dinner to a pre-school mommy who is struggling with mastitis. I don't know how many of us have actually done it, but I think several have and that makes me feel good about this group of women. There is power in the community of women. The husband is a little bewildered by it, but it seems the natural thing to do. After I had Big Red, Andrea brought us dinner and it was such a blessing. The Worm Woman told me to let her know when we needed it, but when I mentioned it, I was told she was "on track now, so I was SOL" . That is verbatim. Classic Worm Woman. I'm finding that I can love her for it though. She is straight-forward and that is something to be appreciated. I think sometimes, I wish I could simply say "No, that is too much on my plate right now. I can't do that." I am so not good at that.

I'm going to digress here slightly and say, I love being a woman. Not a girl, but a woman. I think the emotional support and abiding friendships that woman provide each other are a priceless gift. The way a group of women can surround one of their members and care for her astounds me at times. And I don't think it is limited to the real world. I've read so many blog entries that prompted an outpouring of support. Even though I wasn't the recipient, it made me cry a bit, to see this spontaneous flood of well-wishes. Nor do I think it's limited to women. Men may or may not express the feelings verbally, but they do in other ways.

So Yay Estrogen! The sappy part of the morning is now concluded. On to the shopping!

It's In A Book

My friend Andrea regularly thanks God that she has only boys. I do understand why. There is a stretch of raising girls that is like the highway to hell. There are no exits, short of throttling her and going to prison. And the worst thing is, she probably is a lot like you at that age.

Like when Drama Queen rolls her eyes or gets her dander up over a perfectly reasonable request, like cleaning her room. Or when she will not shut up about her latest crush and I can't ignore her or tell her to shut up, because I don't want to discourage her from telling me things. There are the incessant phone conversations (she must have her own phone line and soon, if only for my own sanity.), im sessions, giggling with the girls and complaints that we are the worst parents ever.

A while back, she gave me a book that she really felt I should read. She had checked it out from the library and read through it. This was the optimum parenting method for her. Uh-huh. I read through it and really, it's pretty close to the way I already parent her, but they discourage parents from saying one sided crushes just aren't smart enough to like them back . Okay, can do. I was laughing about this with a mother of one of her friends and the mom said, "Welcome to academically gifted kids. The answer to every problem must be found in a book."

Oye. Does this mean I'm going to be getting a steady stream of how-to books now? More importantly, will her father be getting a few reading suggestions as well?

Friday Poop Post

Missy Hoohaw is examining her bowel movement in the toilet.



"Mama, look! There's a Daddy poo-poo and a Mommy poo-poo and a Missy poo-poo!"



"That's great. Flush it down now."



"But Mama, they're so cute!"



Lord, that child makes me laugh.

Love is Lou

For Valentine's Day, my mother bought my father a puppy. A schnoodle puppy, to be exact. Want to know what it looks like? Go here. They named her Lou.

She is a cutie and my dad absolutely loves her. She will lay on his stomach and sleep and is so, so, so sweet she makes my teeth hurt. Missy Hoohaw loves her more than anything in the entire world and has told me on numerous occasions that Lou is her best, best friend. The feeling appears to be mutual, since Lou thinks Missy is a very large, very fun puppy that has more energy than even she, herself possesses. True Love.

We dropped Big Red at G-ma's house today since I was subbing at Preschool for another mommy. Missy played with Lou for a bit, but it was soon (too soon) time to go. Missy cried. She wailed. She told me preschool and Teacher Janet could suck it, she was so not going. Okay, not the last part, but she was totally thinking it. Mommy intuition. When we arrived at preschool, I opened the door and she looked at me, all sad eyes and quivering lip, and said, "Oh Mommy, I miss Lou." True Love, indeed.

Then, as happens in the truest of love, there was a falling out. Lou is a puppy, just a baby really, and she gets worked up. She nipped Missy's cheek and after a day of hard play and no naps, it was too much. Tears and wails and screams. She was inconsolable. The betrayal was absolute. G-ma tried telling Missy that Lou was a baby and didn't mean to hurt. "No! She bit my face! WAAAAHHHH!"

In the end, all was forgiven and Missy and Lou made up. Lou sat nicely in Missy's lap and let Missy cuddle her. It was almost as if Lou understood and was really was sorry. And all I could think was, "Why don't I bring my damn camera anywhere????"

Brrring, Brrring

Actually, since I'm referring to my husband's cell, it should be the opening to "Back in Black", but since I can't type music on my blog, I'll just go with the traditional phone sound.


I have a bad habit of calling my husband at work a few times each day. I didn't always do it, but it's developed over time and now I have to break it. Don't get me wrong. He doesn't complain and as far as I know, his boss hasn't either. But I don't like to bug him while he's working.

Yesterday was not a habit breaking day. I called him about four times. One to thank him for taking out the garbage every week. I had seen a woman wrestling with her cans dumpsters and it made me think of how I never have to take out the garbage anymore. (The first draft of that sentence provided a great visual. Couldn't bear to just delete it.) I love that. Then I called to tell him the transmission in the Vanagon was acting funny. Then I called him to ask if he'd bring home hot dog buns. Then, when my plans for the afternoon went haywire, I called to cancel the buns. All before 2:30 pm.

That's when he said he was packing up and coming home.

"What?? WHY??" I asked, dismayed not because he was on his way home, but because he sounded upset and I was afraid he was hurt or sick or in trouble...you know. I must have sounded panicky, because he replied,

"It's really slow. *pause* Why don't you want me home?"

Dear lord. All those jokes about my "piece on the side, Paolo" had come home to roost, as such jokes will. I quickly assured him that I was delighted to have him home, then told him to get the buns after all, since his coming home early knocked my afternoon plans back online. So, after she finished with her homework, Drama Queen got a coveted trip to the library, the little ones got a coveted trip to the park right by the library and I got a coveted afternoon with my sweet, sexy piece on the side, Paolo husband.

Things I Am Over

1. Cris Angel: Dude, you are kinda creepy and seriously skeevy. Please make yourself disappear.

2. Aging rockers doing "reality" shows: Bret, Gene? Guys, you have no idea how pathetic you look.

3. Donald Trump: If I have to hear, "You're fired," one more time, I will seriously have an aneurism. I don't even watch his show, which, hi? Could you get more Z list celebrities? Has is always been that sad and I just didn't realize?

4. Obnoxious Kids: That "My Dad Is Better than Your Dad" show? Wow, those kids need a spanking. So do the parents.

5. The breathless debate over who will win the Democratic nomination American Idol. People, it is a friggin' election year.

6. People who muscle their way in to your lane, then don't even wave in apology. It is a very good thing I don't have a ray gun or you would be toast!

7. The Lohan clan. All of them. Especially that pitiful mom.

8. Dan, from Biggest Loser. I was glad to see his obnoxious mom go and now I can't wait to see him get eliminated. Arrogant, deluded that he is somehow cool now, and kind of a butt to the other contestants. Yeah, buh-bye. Please let Brittany kick his sorry butt in a challenge. That would so make my day.

I'm A Busy, Busy, Busy Girl

I love you guys. Your comments on this post made me feel way better about my horrible housekeeping skills. Isn't it weird that we almost always imagine other women being better than we are? I had visions of y'all washing your windows once a week, since that's what I imagine the ideal is. But you don't and golly, I love each and every one of you for it!

I've had a weird burst of super productivity lately. It happens every once and a while, and usually comes before a slump. The more productive I am, the bigger my slump. I've been pretty productive, you know. two of the eight windows in my house have been washed. Jump back!Anyway, knowing what I know, I'm going to combat the slump. It's usually a pretty sharp drop, so I'm spacing out my projects, so I have stuff that needs to get done.

This is an experiment for me. I'm pretty sure I can pull it off, especially since exercise is part of the plan. We'll see. I hate the slumps and would love to level out a little. The burst of energy is great, but I wind up doing unimportant stuff like washing windows and cleaning my pantry, instead of necessary stuff, like laundry. Though I have been doing laundry. I've done approximately a metric ass-load of laundry since Monday.

Just an example. Since Monday, I have:
Washed kitchen windows and wiped down the white armoir in my kitchen
Vacuumed the ash out of my fireplace and set it up for warm weather
Vacuumed my carpet
Pack away most of the cold weather clothing for my kids
Buy their entire wardrobe of warm weather clothes (except socks...must get socks. And PJs. )
Reorganize my bookshelves
Cull through toys and get rid of broken/missing pieces toys (Somewhere, Woody and Buzz shed a tear)
Taken Big Red for a hair cut
Changed sheets on all our beds

The list goes on and on. I have done so many "put off" projects that I might be close to being caught up. My bathroom is still HazMat worthy, but that's on tap for tonight. There's the other thing. I have to do things on an abnormal schedule. You would think being a SAHM, I'd have lots of time to get these things done. If you aren't a SAHM, that is. If you are, you realize that you can't spend 45 minutes scrubbing a bathroom when you have a toddler and preschooler awake and aware. Bad things can happen in 45 minutes. Bad, bad things. I can't even unload the dishwasher, since Big Red has an unerring instinct about which sharp knife to pull out of the basket.

So there you have it. My big plan for continued productivity. I'll keep you updated. Now I have crap to do. Lot's of crap.

This Would Be Why My Children Get Store Bought Invitations

Because I spend my free time taking stupid quizzes on teh internest

You Are 84% A Child of the 80s

There's hardly a moment of the 80s that you missed out on. Was there ever a better decade? As if!

Are'>http://www.blogthings.com/areyouachildofthe80squiz/">Are You a Child of an 80s?

Your Summer Ride is a Beetle Convertible

Fun, funky, and a little bit euro. You love your summers to be full of style and sun!

What's" Your Summer Ride?

Your Theme Song is Back in Black by AC/DC

"Back in black, I hit the sack, I've been too long, I'm glad to be back" Things sometimes get really crazy for you, and sometimes you have to get away from all the chaos. But each time you stage your comeback, it's even better than the last!

What's" Your Theme Song?

Yeah, baby. If you need me, I'll be in my Beetle Convertible (Vapor Blue, natch), playing with my Rubik's Cube, listening to AC/DC's "Back In Black."

This Is Exactly Why I Sorta Hate Andrea

Yeah, they're hand made and completely adorable. She makes it hard to be her friend sometimes. Yaaaarrrr.

It's That Time Of Year

Ah, PBS, how I love you. I have such fond memories of Sesame Street and The Electric Company. Drama Queen loved Between The Lions. Now my youngest children have fallen in love with Curious George and Big Big World. I have contributed in the past and will contribute in the future, but I need a small favor from you.

Give me some #@!* notice when you are going to &%#$ up your (&*% scheduling because of a #@!* pledge %^&$ing drive!!!!

Yesterday, I turned on the TV so that Missy could watch her current favorite show, Big Big World. This is a recent favorite, so I haven't gotten any episodes on the DVR as yet. It was also the first TV she had watched that day, since I have decided to be meanest mommy ever and limit TV to 1 hour a day. I know, you're calling CPS. I don't blame you.

But Snook and company weren't on. You know who was? Suze Freakin' Orman. Are you kidding me? You're playing Suze Freakin' Orman at 12:30? %&^$ ^%&# @!#%*&^%@$%^&*&%^%$.
Missy fell apart. Nothing else would do. She had gone without Curious George and Clifford just to watch Big Big World and Word World. And they weren't on. Oddly enough, she wasn't entranced by Suze. And Mommy couldn't work the DVR voodoo and bring her shows to her. Life as she knew it was over. OVER! ^%&$ Suze Freankin' Orman and %^&$ PBS.

I think the drive is over today, but I'm not sure. It better be or I'm going to have to visit PBS and show them exactly what I'm pledging this year.

What Do You Do?

I'm between a rock and hard place. I have got to do laundry today. No ifs, ands, or buts. But I also have a few errands to run and I'm feeling stupid, so I may take the little ones out for a spin today. I dunno. I'm probably just trying to avoid laundry. I've been known to do that.

Here's my question. How often do you all wash your windows? Once a month? Once a week? Twice a week? If you say every day, I may shoot myself, so keep that in mind. I want to be more conscientious about my housekeeping and washing windows is my bugaboo. Along with mopping, laundry, wiping down walls and doors, making beds, vacuuming...okay, housework in general. Sigh.

So, how often do you wash windows?

Becoming the Mom I Swore I Never Would Be

I was walking past Drama Queen and our computer this afternoon and noticed a MySpace friend request in her mailbox. My heart jumped into my throat as she quickly jumped off that page and onto another. I didn't say anything at the time, choosing to let the panic recede before I addressed the issue. This was probably wisdom, as my first reaction was to scream, "What in mother-fuckin' hell are you doing on MySpace???? After we TOLD you we didn't feel that was an appropriate place for young teens? Does our trust mean THAT LITTLE TO YOU???? DOES IT??? DOES IT????"

Granted this would have been shouted at such a hysterically high pitch that only the Beast would have heard it. Drama Queen would have seen her red-faced mother wildly gesticulating and appearing to have some sort of fit.

I was on my way to the library and it was here that I took my first steps on the road to parent hell. I said nothing. That's right, nothing. And here's why. The evil mom on my right shoulder said, "Just see what she does. You can check her history when you get home." The good mom on my left shoulder said, "Sounds good to me." Do you see what I'm working with?

So that's what I did. When I got home, I told DQ that she had 10 minutes left on the computer. She took her 10, then hung around while I logged on. Good Mom suggested I talk to her, give her a chance to be open and honest. What the hell, might as well.

Me: DQ, you aren't on MySpace are you?

DQ: What? NO!

Me: *suspicion heightened by her wide eyed innocence* I thought I saw a friend request in you inbox. I just glanced at it, I wasn't reading it, so I might have been mistaken.

DQ: I just get those from time to time. I just delete them right away. I don't even open them. I don't know why I get them.

Ooooo-kay. How are total strangers getting my teen's email address to invite her to MySpace? Needless to say, I wasn't buying it and neither were Good and Bad Moms. We waited until she left for her room, then logged on under her name. I checked her history, and sure enough, there was no MySpace address. I even did a MySpace search for her name. Nothing.

So I was relaxing about it until I remembered that she is spelling her name differently these days. Well, hell. It's been several weeks since that initial search and I'm playing with the idea of another search, maybe looking at her email inbox. It kind of feels like invasion of privacy with a sprinkling of protecting my child. It's a pretty slippery slope and today's world doesn't make it any easier. I'm not really sure what to do.


It's days like these I wish I had opted for the no kids path.

Food Porn

You know what I had for dinner last night? Let me tell you.

I ate tri-tip, marinated for 24 hours in my special marinade, then grilled to rare perfection by my husband. I consumed baby greens tossed with roasted almond slivers and cranberries, dressed in a blue cheese vinaigrette. I enjoyed hot baked potatoes, loaded with butter, salt, pepper, cheese, sour cream and crumbled bacon. I devoured fresh french bread, dripping with butter and garlic, soft inside, crusty outside. To finish it off, I savored my mother's homemade apple pie, with granny smith apples, sliced so thin you can practically see through them, coated with sugar, cinnamon, butter and nutmeg, baked in flaky golden brown pastry, warm from the oven. Oh yeah, baby. Just like that. That's the stuff.

Screw the scale. It was totally worth it.

Apparently, I'm Not As Busy As I Think I Am

I went to TV Buddy and took a few quizzes. No, I have no idea how I came upon the spare time to do that. Yes, I'm pretty sure there were better things to do with my time. Whatever. I am this TV Villian:

Which TV Villain Are You?

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I don't know if that's good or bad, since I've never seen Ugly Betty. I have never gotten anything from sleeping with someone, (except the obvious: knocked up. Ha!) so I must be sleeping with the wrong people. Oh well.

I'm pretty sure I've mentioned my minor obsession with Buffy The Vampire Slayer, so it should come as no surprise that I took the Which Buffy Character Are You Quiz. I am this Buffy The Vampire Slayer character:

Which Buffy the Vampire Slayer Character Are You?

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I'm a little surprised since I always thought of myself as more a Faith type, but there you go. At least I wasn't Dawn or Xander.

And finally, in a fit of longing for fresh episodes of The Office, I decided to see which office character I am. Again, very surprised...

Which Character From The Office Are You?

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I was really trying for Meredith. Damn. I mean darn it. My husband is looking at me meaningfully. It must be time for Biggest Loser.