Steamy Hot Werewolf Love And No Fergie References. DOH!

Sleeping Mommy tagged me for a meme, so I get to share the 5th sentence on the 123rd page of my current book, titled Night Life, by Caitlin Kittredge. It's about a werewolf detective. I read trashy novels. Sue me.



"Bryson is working your case, not Lilia's," I snarled.



Sorry, Ammie. No sex. I actually haven't gotten to the good dirty bits yet. And no, Jenny. There are no pictures. I'm sorry. I looked for a romance novel with pics, but they call them things like Penthouse and Hustler.

Now I want some hella big props for doing this after the Great Birthday Burglary of '08. And for being honest about what I'm reading and not giving you ladies lines from Shakespeare ('cause y'all'd never see through that) or Dave Ramsey. I'm just keepin' it real, playas.

Can girls be playas or is that just boys?

I'm tagging Andrea and...and...and...crap. Just Andrea. You're not reading five books, are you? If you want to be tagged for this, You're It!

Happy Frickin' Birthday; Give Me Your TV

It really started off to be super swell birthday. I truly believed my streak of so-so birthdays was over. The evidence?

*Mr. Clairol got streamers, balloons, cake, cards and confetti. The birthday pent-fecta. (Geez, did that sound dirty to anyone else? I was going for trifecta but with five. That probably isn't a word and with good reason. Sorry. Random tangent. Let's blame Fergie, shall we? Good.)

*Andrea brought me a homemade birthday cake with fresh strawberries. I don't have a picture to post and I'll explain why in a bit. She also gave me the most adorable, hand-made garden stakes. They are so fabulous, I hate to put them in dirt. I will, mind you, but I'll hate every minute of it. Until I stand back and coo over how darling they are. She actually has a camera and posted pictures, so go visit her and check them out.

*I had a lovely visit with my folks and got a nice little wad o' cash for my garden project. I don't care if it's tacky. Money is my most favoritest gift of all. I am trashy. But my garden? She's gonna be bitchin'! I also got a lovely bit of cash from my grandmother, who stipulated I buy something very pretty to wear to BlogHer. Oh well, Grandma. If you insist.

*It was not my day to work at preschool. Enough said.

*I was going to have a nice steak and a stiff drink for dinner at The Outback with a dear friend and my darling hubby. It's not my favorite place to eat, but it's good steak, reasonably priced. Or more reasonable the Ruth's/Morton's/Chops.

*Y'all did not disappoint with the birthday wishes. In fact, Jenny is still doing the Running Man in the corner. She rocks the Running Man.

See? Wasn't it going to be a great start to 36? But apparently, the cosmos is lined up against my having a good birthday. The better they start, the worse they end. Because my little birthday train came to a screeching halt around 12:00 pm, when I pulled into my driveway and noticed my front door wide open and the screen popped off my window. My house had been broken into, people. On my frickin' Birthday! What the Fuckety-fuck? Who does that? And don't tell me they didn't know it was a birthday, because they had to duck the freakin' streamers as they came in the window!!! There were cards on the table and a cake on the counter. They knew.

They took our 53 inch TV (out the front door, mind you), my wedding ring, our camera (why there are no cake/stake pictures), our camcorder, some tools and a rechargeable flashlight that my husband whispers sweet nothings to when they are alone in the garage. Also, ten dollars off my dresser. Did I mention they trashed my bedroom? Yes, they did. Pawed through my lingerie (perverts), my jewelry (costume, so ha ha, you bastards!), my jammies (is nothing sacred?!?) and my closet. Oh, the humanity. THE HUMANITY!!!! I'm not sure, but I think they took a book of checks, so I had to close my bank account and open a new one.

Now, there were some bright spots. Andrea stuck around and helped corral the children, who were stuck in our vans while we waited for the police. She was awesome. SO, so awesome. So props to her. Major props. She is so getting a loaf of bread.

Also, one of the cops was a yummy, Billy Zane type, so that didn't suck. He had heard it was my birthday and was very sweet and sympathetic. Both the cops were actually great. So MWAH to the cops, especially Officer Sorta Billy Zane. Oh, did I slip a little tongue in there? So sorry. Musta been the trauma of my house getting robbed. Okay, I won't grab your tush again. Sorry, Officer. Geez, put the gun away. Cripes.

And my husband rushed home to help me deal with the crap of cops, insurance and what did they take. So he's cemented his title as Best Husband I've Ever Had. Not that it was close before, but this really put him over the top. He's also told me repeatedly that he's so sorry this happened and I still have Friday, so that's not so bad, right? Right. It really isn't.

Because I'll lay it on the line. No one was hurt. (Except my husband, but that's the emotional pain of a boy without his big screen TV.) It's just stuff. Nothing was irreplaceable, except my wedding ring and that was merely a symbol of a living, breathing love. We have insurance, so we can replace most of what we lost. And to the rotten sumbitches who took my stuff? Suck it. Choke on it. And I forgive you. Jesus loves you and I'm certainly trying. If I were Fergie, I'd write a wildly catchy, stupid lyrics song about the experience. Something about felonies being un-Fergalicious. 'Cause they are. As Un-Fergalicious as can be. The veritable opposite of Fergalicious. Okay, I'll stop now.

Now, God? If I could have a Fergalicious nice, non-robbery, birthday next year? I promise not to bitch if my husband forgets stuff. Just no crime, m'kay? Thanks. Amen.

The Boogie That Be

Put on some Black-Eyed Peas or the Duchess ('cause I am all about the Fergie these days), if you prefer and shake your booty! It's a party!


*fat, sad white housewife dance moves inserted here*


I'm 36 years old today, people! UH-HUH! Right over there is the champagne. To the left of that are the chips and dip. Across the room are cupcakes and ice cream. Don't knock your noggin on the balloons and streamers. There are a bunch of them up there. 'Cause it's a party!


Dance a little dance for me (but don't slip on the confetti), have a drink, some yummy food and sing a few bars of Happy Birthday for me. Doesn't matter which version or if you're off-key, because it's party! Hell to the yes!


Post me a birthday wish in the comments!

More Adventures in FergieRandomness

Oh, I love you people. I was so reluctant to actually put that last post out there. In the "real" world, I haven't been getting a whole lot of sympathy. Mostly weird looks and as my brother said, "Geez, Jen, three kids is a big family."

Thank you for you support. Now I'm crying with the joy of awesome internet peeps, instead of the fact that we're returning the crib to it's rightful owner, never to be used by us again. So thank you, all. Your kind words mean more than you will ever know! Just knowing I am not being silly helps so much. Onto happier topics...

This weekend has been Fergaliciously relaxed. We bbq'd some ribs, had our first outside meal of the summer, played outside until it got too hot and I'm back on track with my fitness plan. We're anticipating the stimulus check and being Fergalicious unpatriotic, we're going to invest it, rather than spend it. I know, I know...for every deposit into savings, President Bush sheds a tear. Whatever.

We took a nice walk last night and I am excited to be back on track, though I definitely need to remember the skeeter repellent. I have several lovely lumps (my humps, my humps, my lovely lady lumps...Sorry! Random Fergialicious moment there.) since sweat attracts the little buggers and I was a sweaty Betty. Is that over sharing? Sorry.

I'm finding fresh motivation since the big company dinner is in June and BlogHer is coming in July. I'm gonna have to cruise around with Miss Thang Jenny and while I'm definitely not going to be in her league, I'd like to be less fat and more Fergalicious. Crazy, I know, but hey! It's part of my charm.

Did I mention my birthday is tomorrow? I'm going to be 36. It's nice to be comparatively young, since I feel freakin' 86! I'll get all happy birthday tomorrow, so be looking for more random Fergalicious moments. I'm kind of obsessed with Fergie these days and for the life of me, I can not say why. Must be all the working out and listening to my ipod. And by the way, can I get a Woot! for the ipod. I can finally listen to all my raunchy music without my preschooler busting out with "Lay Your Hands On Me" or "Dr. Feelgood" at school. Or my middle schooler saying, "Why can't I buy Low? It's not nearly as bad as your music!" Aaah, the trials and tribulations of a rock n roll mommy. How the hades does Chrissy Hynde do it?

Okay, I'm going to go make out with my bread machine bake some bread. Have a great Monday all you Fergalicious Mamas!

Further Proof That I Am Certifiable

Sleeping Mommy recently posted about knowing when your family is complete. It really hit home for me, since I am, once again, struggling with this issue.

I think I've accepted it and then it rears up and slaps me in the face. I don't feel done. Crazy, I know. I can barely handle the three I have. How does adding another to the mix make sense? It doesn't and I get that, but it doesn't stop the yearning in my heart. I read Jenni at One Thing and know 12 would be a little much, but hey, 6 or 7 sounds doable. No matter that I am 36 and Mr. Clairol 41. No matter that we can't really afford the three we have. I'm simply not done.

This is heartbreaking for me, since Mr. Clairol most assuredly is. He has had a vasectomy and we are in the middle of collecting samples to ensure there are no little live ones swimming in the mix. Last night, we has a long tearful discussion, which consisted mostly of me begging and bargaining for another child. I don't know why I do this. It doesn't accomplish anything and it makes us both miserable. He's simply not willing to have another child and I have to respect that, as unhappy as it might make me.

He asked me if I was sorry I married him. I told him no, but in some small corner of my heart I wish that I had been more clear about my desire for a large family. I know I would have still married him, but I think I would have had time to prepare myself for only having two more children. Maybe I wouldn't have. Maybe I would have held out for someone who wanted a large family. I don't know.

The maybes are destructive. They breed discontent and that is truly the enemy of a happy marriage. I have got to stop that wondering and accept that my child-bearing days are done. I'm not really sure how to do this. I try just deciding to be okay with it, but that has been a spectacular failure so far. I suppose it's time to go to my old standby of prayer. It's not something I can talk about with my mom, since she isn't familiar with the concept of actually wanting children. Her pregnancies were always more "Oh shit!" than "Oh Boy!" It's a raw subject for me, so people telling me I'm crazy and pointing out the practical aspect makes me a wee bit homicidal. I'm not even sure I'll actually post this, since it seems so totally ridiculous.


I know I'll deal with it. I don't really have a choice. It's not an area for compromise, not really. I guess I'm really just a spoiled brat. Not getting my way makes me cranky.

Buzz, Buzz Said The Busy Bee

This week has been a flurry of activity. This entire month, I've been eyeing this week, dreading it, knowing it was waiting to devour me whole. Every time I would add something to the calendar, I would gulp. I actually said no to a few things (which physically hurt me, people.) and began thinking about what I could reschedule.

No Luck. Everything was essential and needed to be done, so I was stuck. Eep.

I got smart about it and planned my weeks menu to include easy meals that would cook a loooong time or be super quick. Blog entries were pre-written. I made sure the laundry was started on the weekend. Mr. Clairol and I agreed that the TV would stay off in the evening. And I prayed.

God is good. On Tuesday, I got a message saying the meeting I was most dreading had to be postponed. I wasn't dreading it because of the people involved or even the topic being addressed, but simply because the prep involved for the meeting was going to be onerous. And Andrea bailed on our weekly lunch/play date. Not that I don't love those days, but it gave me a nice chunk to get some other stuff done.

So it all got done. Bread and cookies were baked. Meals delivered to new parents and sick members of our congregation. I went to the grocery store, the video store and the warehouse store with the children. The last preschool meeting of the year is over. Big Red and the Beast have had their physicals. Drama Queen is turning in (yet another) project today. The piggy banks were made at preschool and they were cute. Sheets were changed, floors were vacuumed. I gave the dog a bath. I managed to fit in a couple of workouts, my eating was not too crazy and I even tracked my spending.

So, whew! Thank you God, for coming up alongside me and getting me through the week. I'm not tired, I'm not burned out. I just feel a pleasant sense of accomplishment. And a burning desire to get rid of our TVs.

Love Is The Perfect Gift

I know y'all are really sick of hearing how wonderful and fabulous my husband is, but bear with me, because he knocked my socks off last night.

No, not like that. Even if he did, I wouldn't share it. A girl has to have some boundaries.

I told you about the camp out yesterday, but did I mention it's the weekend after my birthday? He was going to tell his boss he needed to leave a little early, so that he could get home and showered in time for the evening. He wound up taking the whole day off and is giving it to me.

A DAY OFF! He hates to take time off. It's not that he's essential to the shop, but he is a senior tech and the guys function as a team. He works with his best friend (The Worm). One of his other co-workers is so close it is more of a father-son relationship than friends. This man fills the hole in Mr. Clairol's life that came from losing his father so early. So work is a good place for him. But he's taking a day off and giving me the most precious and elusive commodity in motherhood. Time for myself.

He told me that was my day to do whatever I wanted. I might swoon. This is in addition to the garden he is building me. I'm light-headed, folks. What a man, what a man, what a mighty fine man.

Okay, I'm done telling you how blessed I am. What is the best gift you've ever received?

Love Thursday, A Day Early

I am reminded every so often about how very lucky I am to have my husband. Last night, we had a preschool curriculum meeting, where we planned next months camp-out. The dads will bring the preschoolers to school on a Friday evening and set up tents in the back play area. They'll roast weenies, make smores, hike to an old bridge and sing songs around a campfire, then sleep out doors at school. It's going to be a really fun evening for the kids. And bless the dads who are going to sacrifice an evening for the event.

But Mr. Clairol is super excited about it. He asked several questions at the meeting and kept exclaiming, "Cool!" as we talked about it. Not a reservation in sight. He is gung-ho and so ready to participate in this. I love that about him. I love that he'll get jazzed about these things and not require any coercing. He wants to do these things and that is great.

He's a good dad. He's a good husband. And I am a lucky, lucky woman.

Just An Irish Rose

While I could claim many different extractions, as most Americans can, I always tend to claim my Irish heritage above all others. I was born here, as were all the relatives I know of, and I have never been to Ireland, though I would love to visit some day. I have no legitimate claim on the land, other than the fact that my paternal grandmother never tires of reminding us how Irish we are.


But in my heart, I am an Irish girl. I know this, because I long for a neighborhood pub.


I would love to find a cozy neighborhood bar, where my husband and I could nip off to, for a pint and chat with our friends. It frustrates me that most of our local bars are meat markets, places where getting a drink depends on how "hot" you are and your fellow drinkers don't want to talk to you, unless there's a remote chance they can score. I'm sure there is a quiet little hole-in-the-wall with good beer and friendly people. There must be. But dang if I can find it.


I'm all for a good dance spot, where I can grab a stiff drink and shake my groove thang. But that's an occasional thing for me. I'm talking about a bar where I'm not afraid to sit on the seats for fear of catching something I can't wash off. A bar where the patrons greet you and the bar tender is friendly, maybe even remembering what you like if you become a regular. A bar with a decent jukebox, a pool table or two (M.C. is a wicked good pool shark) and darts (I suck, but I love 'em). Doesn't that sound great?


I haven't given up. Right now, we're making due with the Chile's around the corner. It's okay, but the bartenders can't build a black and tan to save their lives. On the plus side, they have pretty good garlic fries. I'll live with that until I find my place.

First Kiss

My first real kiss was in the summer of 1987, when I was 15. (Shut up, I was a late bloomer with a seriously awful awkward period.)


We had been at that hotbed of hook-up, church camp. For those of you that think I'm being sarcastic, you've never been to a church camp. You always came back with a boyfriend. Always. My best friend Cherie had a boyfriend and her boyfriend had a friend who liked me. Okay, he liked Cherie, but she was dating Matt and was definitely not breaking up with him. He decided I was the next best thing.


He was okay. A big, tall guy, dark hair and eyes. His name was Scott and he was the JV quarterback at a local public high school. I had never had a boyfriend, never even attracted any male attention. (see aforementioned awkward period) I wasn't savvy enough to understand the politics of dating, but Cherie and Dawn manevered me through it. By the end of camp, we had gotten together, broken up and reunited. I sort of liked him, but mostly, I just liked having a boyfriend.


We sat together on the bus ride home, of course. It was late and I was asleep on his shoulder. I couldn't breathe and suddenly woke up to find his tongue in my mouth! Gross! I understood what he was doing, just not why. Come on. I was totally asleep. I probably even drooled on his shoulder. What the Hell? Needless to say, it was not something I wanted to do again, but he seemed to enjoy it and definitely wanted to, so I let him continue for a little bit before breaking it off and curling up with my face against the window. I must not have been as rude about it as it sounds, or perhaps he was thicker than I remember, because he wasn't upset in the least. In fact, he told all his friends I was a great kisser. Okay, he was either as new to kissing as I was, or I am a natural. I'm willing to entertain the latter, but I strongly suspect the first.


I should have let it go, but when Cherie came to me with the news that I was a fantastic kisser, I was mortified and confessed that I had been asleep. She found this hilarious and of course, told everyone who would listen. Guess how long my first relationship lasted after that little nugget dropped. Did you guess 45 minutes? Winner, winner, chicken dinner! Yup, he called me up to yell at me and I dumped his sorry, sleep-kissing bootie. Over the phone. 'Cause I'm cold like that.


It really wasn't the magical experience I had anticipated. Thankfully, over the years, it got better. (Thank you, Jeremy Neuman and Brian Miller, wherever you boys are.) By now, I've pretty much got the hang of it and I don't even mind when Mr. Clairol wakes me up with kisses. In fact, I pretty much dig it.


Do you remember your first kiss? Tell me about it. You can post it in the comments or use it as a blog post. If you post about it, leave a link in my comments, because you know we want to hear all about it.

Wind + Pool = Pain the Tuchus And Ripped Upper Arms

Skimming your pool in windy weather is akin to picking up the living room before your children go to bed. You turn around and the same stuff you just got rid of is laying out again. Argh!

I love having a pool about 4 months out of the year. The other 8 are a fat pain in the ass. I'm up to a daily skimming of the pool, since the wind is blowing crap from my neighbors trees into the water. It's not quite hot enough to swim yet, so there is no tangible reward for this. Used to be, I could look out my window to a shimmering blue oasis, but right now, by the time I get inside from skimming, it's covered with more leaves, petals and pollen. Awesome.


I find myself using the same argument Drama Queen uses about making her bed. It's just going to get messed up again, so why bother? And then I tell myself the same thing I tell her. That isn't the point. Go do it. I'll be so happy next month, when the kids and I play in the pool. When dinner is, more often than not, eaten outside. When Mr. Clairol and I spend the evenings floating in the pool listening to Rex, the next-door-neighbor, play his tribal drums. When I can float those wicked cool little disco lights in the pool and get a light show. Then it will be totally worth it.

Epiphany

Jenni, over at One Thing, just had a baby (and live blogged her labor. She is the original bad mutha) and wrote a couple of lovely posts from Baby Xavier to God. Seems X is not so sure about Earth Camp.

Earth Camp. I loved this when I first read this post, thinking it was a clever little twist on the mommy- authored, from-child-perspective writing. Jenny did a Christmas letter or two like that and I got such a giggle out of them. But as I read this post today and the Truth hit me like a bolt from the blue. This is Earth Camp for all of us.

Wow. Talk about a light bulb. I've been raised in the church, so I've always sort of known that there is more than this, but it's been nebulous and sort of theoretical. Somehow the notion that this is camp makes so much sense to me. It's fun, messy, a little painful sometimes, and this odd, slight sadness I sometimes feel? I'm homesick.

I need to live like this is camp and that I'll be going home some day soon. The more I extend the metaphor the cooler it gets. Does this mean my kids are like my camp projects? I better do a great job. I sure want Dad to be proud.

Wanted:Dead Or Alive

You'll need to hum the song, okay? Or perhaps the theme from Young Guns. Up to you.

Yesterday, Mir brought a moral dilemma to her readers: whether or not to sneak dollar store candy into the movie theater for her daughter and friend for the daughter's birthday party.

It's funny, because as I was reading Kristy, over at She Just Walks Around With It (the blog with possibly the best tag line ever), she was offering a prize of booze for a blog give-away. One of her choices was tiny cans of champagne. Yes, cans. They are adorable. And surprisingly tasty.

This all came together in a crystalline moment for me as I realized I made almost identical comments for each blog, something to the effect of me sneaking in tiny bottles of wine and fish tacos from Dos to the movies. I am such an outlaw, people. And I frickin' brag about it!

(If you choose to smuggle fish tacos into a movie, pack a ziploc bag, so your purse is not soaked in white sauce.)

Though I will say that I got caught once and the manager just said to me, "Oh, those are the best fish tacos ever! Your movie is to the left, theater 3."

Manna From Heaven (Or Oster)

As I am typing this, my home is redolent with the aroma of baking bread. Dear God in His Heaven, what a glorious smell!

Yes, I finally bought a bread machine. I am justifying this by telling myself that my children will have fresh preservative-free bread all the time and with the money I save on buying bread, it will pay for itself. The last is spurious in the extreme, since I suspect it costs more to buy the ingredients that the $.79 loaf I usually get. But I don't care. I am high off the odor of baking bread.

I took a little break while the bread was cooling and ran to Sam's Club. Yes, I took the kids. Into the store even! And it was fine. They were well behaved and we got desperately needed diapers and wipes. Whew! And when I came home? We had the first slice of homemade bread with real butter. Yum. YUM, YUM, YUMMY, YUM, YUM.

I Remember

I remember riding my bike across town, staying out all day and my mom not freaking out about that.


I remember when Saturday morning cartoons were Scooby Doo, Josie and The Pussycats, and the Superfriends.


I remember how good a fresh cut lawn felt on my bare feet and the cold water spraying from the sprinkler as we ran through.


I remember when parachute pants were the height of fashion and the more Swatch watches and rubber bracelets you piled on, the cooler you were.


I remember the smell of my Aqua Net soaked bangs as they fried on my curling iron.


I remember finally getting my ears pierced at 13 years old and the hot anticipation of wearing tiny gold hoops.


I remember when MTV first aired.


I remember when Happy Days and the Muppet Show were prime time television.


I remember driving to Hanford and seeing the Karate Kid on the big screen with Jenny P and Adriane Martin.


I remember being a kid. It was exquisite and painful. I wonder what my children will remember when they are 36. What do you remember?

Dropping The Bomb

A while ago, I promised that I would share one of my (many, many) failures, in order to offset the abhorent bragging I have been indulging in lately. Please know that I realize I am a lame-o. I actually have grown quite comfortable in my lameness. It is my claim to fame lame. AHAHAHAHAHA!

Whew. Here is proof of my lameness. Do you remember this post? How delighted I was with my front flower beds? The $500 we laid out for plants? Would you like to see how it looks now?

Yep. That's what it looks like today. Awesome, huh? I especially like the fat clumps of weeds. They give a nice touch of green that breaks up the brown and gray. The funny thing is, when you water, you have to weed. The weeds like water. That sucks. I am the only person I know that cannot sustain lavender. It's supposed to be bullet-proof. Apparently, bullet-proof does not equal Jennie-proof. My mom says we're just not "yard people." I respond with "Shut-up. I could totally be a yard person if I wanted to." Then I get grounded. Good, good times.

So now I have to back through, re-weed, rake and plant. I'd let it go, except my neighbors all have lovely yards and I get sick of our front yard marking us as the neighborhood losers. I mean, we totally are, but I'd rather not advertise that, ya know? It could stay our little secret.

Lamest Post Ever

I am sick. sick, sick, throwing up sick. Bleh.

Thank Goodness For The DVR

Candi over at Bittersweet got me hooked on Charlian Harris' Sookie Stackhouse series and I have been devouring these books like buttered popcorn. I love book series. I'm a teensy bit anal, in that I must read them in order, because I hate it when a character references something I haven't yet read about. HATE IT. So imagine my chagrin, when I start picking up references to a story I haven't yet read.

I, of course, jumped online and did an Amazon search for any books I haven't read and I think the story I seek was published in an anthology. I requested all I could find and was treated to a little unsolicited information. Apparently, HBO is adapting the books for a series, with Anna Paquin playing Sookie. Hmmm. They're calling the series True Blood.

I don't know how to feel about this. I love the idea of a series but after Lifetime destroyed the Vicki Nelson books by Tanya Huff, I'm afraid to trust. Plus, when I picture Sookie, I don't see Anna Paquin. She did an excellent job as Rogue in the X-men movies though, so I'm prepared to watch. Great. Yet another show for me to become addicted to. Good thing I never was able to click with New Amsterdam.

Sibling Conversation

Missy Hoohaw was using the bathroom, when I heard her say to her brother,


"I'm sowwy, Wed, I know you want to be in de bafoom wif me, but I would like some pwivacy, pwease."


So much better than her previous, "NOooooooooooooooo, Wed! Go AWAY! I am going
POT-eeeeeeee and I do NOT have panties on!!!!!"

The List of Doom

I've got a lot on my to-do lists these days. I have a book I need to finish for our budget counseling meeting next week. I need to compile my expenditures into a spread sheet for the same meeting. I need to figure out a system for receipts.

More fun, but less essential: I need to touch up picture frames and get pictures in them to hang in our room. I need to clean said room and get my elliptical moved back in. I need to finish my cork board project and get them hung. I need to get Missy in for portraits, since she's almost 4 and I haven't taken 3 year pictures yet. (Let me confess that I have pics for the other two kids and have held off sending them because I want to do them all together.)

My garage is in desperate need of some cleaning and so is my kitchen. Haz Mat will be out if I don't get that floor mopped. Ceiling fans need to be dusted. Walls need to be wiped down.

Let me pause and ask, do you walls get mysterious smudges and drips as well, or is my family just a bunch of piggies?

That's in addition to the every day crap that accumulates. My laundry rhythm is off, so no one has complete outfits. Drama Queen's room is a pit, and it smells so bad my eyes watered from opening the door and throwing her belongings in. I swear to Jenny that I will deep clean it and douse it Febreeze before July.

In the midst of this, I have to post this. I rarely post photos of my kids, but Big Red is cracking me up today.

Artfully cropped from the shot are the two loads of towels he dumped. Who needs a couch?

Recovery

I have a brighter outlook today. After an evening snuggling with Mr. Clairol (who has a wonderful ability to make anything seem better) and watching a very bizarre, highly acclaimed movie, I can face the day and my children again.

We watched There Will Be Blood last night. I rented it because my husband really wanted to see it. My brother and dad gave it a thumbs up. It was nominated for a bajillion Oscars and a lot of people screamed when it didn't win everything it was up for. So I figured, why the hades not?

Because it is bizarre, depressing and lacking a cohesive plot. I think that I am not smart enough for movies like that because I am left wondering, "why did he hit that guy," "why do they have a baby on an oil lease" and "wait a minute, why is this character such a spaz?" I am not intellectual enough to "get" a movie that is a series of vignettes loosely connected by the fact that they are from a single man's life.

Now I will admit that after the first fifteen minutes or so, I gave up and read a Charlain Harris novel, paying nominal attention to the movie. So I may have missed crucial parts. But even Mr. Clairol, who watched the entire thing, was left cold. At the very end, he looked at me and asked, "What the F*&# was that?!?"

Lest you think we are complete philistines, we enjoyed No Country For Old Men. That was arty-ish and had an ambiguous ending as well, but there was a plot. I wasn't crazy about the violence, but it was well done and necessary to the story. So, I got it. But this one? Sorry, but not even Daniel Day Lewis swimming in his long johns could salvage it for me. On the other hand, the Charlain Harris novel was excellent!

My Life Kind Of Sucks Sometimes

There are times that I feel like a pretty good mom, on top of my kids and able to get the job done. Not the best mom, but not the worst by a pretty long shot. Today was simply not one of those days.

We spent a few hours at a race track today. It was a company "picnic" and supposed to be a fun event for all of the techs and their families. It seemed to be, from where I was sitting, in the parking lot where Fraulien Greta was ensconced, containing my recalcitrant children.

Other children of a similar age were playing in the allotted area, having fun, notably not wreaking havoc. Other mothers were calm and collected, supervising their children with low stress and appeared to even be having something that looked like fun. I was not.

I was hot and frazzled and my children were possessed. They lay in the dirt and hollered and tried repeatedly to run into the road. Did I mention we were in a parking lot? At a race track? Yes. Missy Hoohaw was stubborn and difficult and wanted to drive one of the full-size, go-kart looking race cars on the track. This wasn't a Malibu Grand Prix-type track, it was an actual track with cars for rent. She was vocal in her displeasure and insistent that she wanted to drive a race car. Big Red simply wanted to lay in the dirt and run into the road. It was awesome.

So tonight, I am hungover from the sun and heat, feeling like the worst mother ever. My children are ill-mannered and badly behaved, I am a shrew who is anti-social and sulky, and my husband is being pitied for his dreadful family. Best Day Ever!

Saturday, My Ass

So far today, I have:

*Walked a mile to our local farmer's market with all three kids and my husband, where I bought strawberries, spinach, sugar peas, and oranges. Yum. I didn't even make my husband go home to get the van for the trip home.

*Went to the grocery store, bank, post office, bank again, warehouse store and the Worm's house with my husband.

*Baked a batch of cookies and started a double batch of raisin bars for Mr. Clairol's company "picnic" tomorrow.

I am exhausted.

Sacramento Idol

Big Red has started to sing. And yes, I die from the cuteness of it every single time.

He's pretty tuneless and he mumbles the words, mostly because he is 18 months and let's face it, not what I'd call articulate. But to hear that little baby voice warbling is the sweetest gift God has ever given me (with the exception of that whole, husband, family, home and hearth stuff.)

When Missy sings, Red joins right in. He does his little stompy, spinny dance move (such a white boy) and quavers the tune, clapping and grinning. It is the best thing ever. For the first time ever, I'm tempted to post video of my child. I'll resist, but you're welcome to come by and see the cuteness for yourself. It's intense. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Tag! I'm It!

That awesome mommy with the darling baby twins, Goddess In Progress, tagged me! This is what I have to do...

1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share seven facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag seven people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.



Seven Random Facts

See, when you make it capitalized and bold, it makes it fancier and tricks the reader into thinking you're saying something important-like, even when it isn't!


1. When I was seven, my mom threw a hobo-themed party for my birthday (I realize how obsessive I am about parties. As you will see, it all started with my mother) Everyone dressed in old clothes and we cooked beans and weenies in tin cans outside. She even used eyebrow pencil to make stubble on my face and tied a bandanna to a stick.


2. I woke up this morning to the sounds of a child vomiting. Missy Hoohaw is sick.


3. My biggest and most enduring celebrity crush has been a tie between Eric Stoltz and Sam Elliott. And I've never seen Mask. The scene in Some Kind Of Wonderful, when Eric Stoltz kisses Mary Stuart Masterson in an auto shop? Wow. Just ...wow. And people wonder why I married a mechanic.


4. I have seven robes. My favorite is black velvet trimmed with pink satin. I only have one pair of slippers, ratty old sock monkey house shoes.


5. I am secretly obsessed with dishes and glasses. I almost always browse through the dish section of whatever store I'm shopping in, even the dollar store. At one time, I had three sets of every day plates, two sets of outdoor plates, two sets of fancy dishes and my late MIL's china. It is a sickness, but I am trying to get better. I am down to one set of outdoor dishes, one set of every day and the china. That hurts me in ways you cannot imagine.

6. I am trying to write a book. Currently, I have three novels in progress. None of them are past the halfway mark.

7. Every car I have ever owned has been either white or maroon. This is not my choice since I have never chosen my own car, with the exception of the Vanagon. And even that, I told Mr. Clairol, "I want a Vanagon," and he made it happen. I'm not sure how I feel about this. A little resentful, a little taken care of. It's a delicate balance. I am sure that my next car will be blue.

So there you have it. Seven random facts about me. Scintillating, no? I'm off to tag seven blogger friends.

Birthday Update

Drama Queen nixed the luau/beach theme. She was, at least initially, for it, but I think she's been talking to her friends. Her new theme? Black and white. How the hades am I supposed to do anything with black and white? She's killing me. Her other requests?


*Nothing floating in the pool. Which makes sense, since they will be swimming. But that means no rubber duckies! The DUCKIES! Oh the humanity! (I may order the plain white, "design your own" ducks from OTC and sneak them into the gift bags. 'cause I love the duckies.) I am actually disobeying this dictate, since I found these floating projectors that do a "light show" on the bottom of your pool. Her response when I brought the home? "They aren't black and white." Ugh.


*No pizza. And there has to be vegetarian selections. I may overrule her on this item, as well. I don't know yet. If you want vegetarian, pizza is easy and most every teen likes it. (Dear DQ's weirdo friend. What is up with you not liking pizza? It's practically a law that if you are an American teenager, you have to like pizza. Thank God you aren't my child. You'd starve to death.)


*No glow sticks. Oh, huh. I am breaking out the glow sticks. I don't care if it is her birthday. Glow sticks are fun. I love glow sticks. Especially the necklaces. I hand them out almost every Halloween. Last year, I didn't and every other stinking kid asked about them. I am the glow stick lady. Don't harsh on my groove, DQ.


*No party favors! I practically had to twist her arm to do black and white paper bags with candy in them. Seriously, she is killing me! Ugh. Now does anyone have good black/white candy ideas? I have mini boxes of Jr. Mints and Hershey Bars so far. Help!


She wants to send out the invitations now, which is perhaps a wee bit early, since we're thinking early June for the party. Me thinks 2 months is probably too much notice. She disagrees, but this is why I have veto power. I will allow three weeks out, but no sooner. She has the date to design and send out invitations on her calendar (and mine). No she's not my daughter. Not at all.


See, I told you. This party is going to be a blogging goldmine!

More Birthday Fun

After my birthday and before Big Red's rolls around, there is Drama Queen's birthday to consider. She is a Thanksgiving baby. Have you ever tried to get kids to a late November birthday? It isn't going to happen. So we opt for a "half- birthday" party in the summer. The best part is the fact that it makes the easiest of all teen parties, the swim party, possible. Hooray!

There is an unexpected wrinkle this year. She wants a boy-girl party. Eeep. I should have seen it coming. After all, she's thirteen. After much deliberation, we've decided to allow it to happen. We're going to host a night-time luau. For boys and girls. There will be dancing. Possibly a bonfire. Hoo Boy.

The local dollar store has a ton of cute luau-themed decorations and I just got the Oriental Trading Company catalog, replete with luau-themed goodies. I'm going to lobby for a fleet of rubber duckies in the pool. Maybe these.

Can't you just see 3 dozen of these floating in the pool? Too cute. We'll break out our tiki torches, though the idea of mixing fire and teenage boys seems foolhardy. Maybe paper lanterns instead. Of course, there will be leis for the girls. Any suggestions for the boys? Maybe tiki necklaces. Uh-oh. The wheels are spinning. This has the potential to become like my home decor projects. Be afraid.

Oooo. Beach balls! Lots and lots of beach balls! Hanging with the paper lanterns over the dance floor! And twinkly lights! And, and, and....somebody smack me. It's running away from me.

Stay tuned for the insanity. It oughta be fun.

I Should Have Had Another Girl

I am a terrible boy-mom. Terrible. Big Red's birthday is looming on the horizon and I'm wondering about the "big gift."

Yes, mine is at the end of the month, but as every parent knows, your kids birthday's are fun. Yours are just sorta meh. Besides, it's 36. No big whoop.

I have lots of little stuff. So much that I'm pretty sure there will be leftovers for Christmas. But we traditionally get the kids a large present, along with a couple of small ones. I was thinking about a train table for the both of them (Missy's birthday follows hard on Red's) but I don't want to take up the space and frankly, my window seat is perfect for setting up out little train tracks. I thought about this because it is the coolest teeter totter I personally have ever seen, but $249? No. Just...no.

And here is where the confession comes. Mr. Clairol suggested a tricycle, but I nixed it, since Missy's is serviceable. Sure, it's pink and purple, but it still works. He doesn't know the difference. It's not like he's going to arch a brow and say to me, "Dude, so not riding this girly thing." Besides, Dad rides a Vespa proving that a girly bike need not compromise one's masculinity. Please do not tell my husband I said that.

I kind of think we'll just skip a big present this year. Money is tight and he's young enough that he will not miss it. Maybe it's even time to restructure the birthday gift policy. Great, more to think about. That awful smell is the smoke coming out of my brain.

Runnin' For The Ranch

Today was the first annual N----- Volkswagen Ranch Run. Woo to the Hoo!

Yes, they all met at a car dealership at 7:00 am, ate donuts and checked out the restored buses and Bugs, then jumped in their ancient vintage VW's, riding caravan-style (with CHP escort, no less) out to a ranch in the middle of BFE for a little car show/ BBQ/ swap meet/ carnival with the proceeds benefiting Ride to Walk, which provides equine therapy to disabled children and adults. The lake on the ranch was beautiful, but the geese who live there were not exactly hospitable. Missy Hoohaw got quite a bad scare when she came a little to close to a nesting mama. Having a large Canadian goose rise up, spread her wings and hiss at you can be terrifying. Maybe next time, she'll listen to me when I tell her stop.

Fraulein Greta, looking very pearly indeed. I'm sure Andrea really appreciates my getting her in my shot, all pretty and bent over. I'm a good friend. There were several beautiful cars there and more than a few beaters. Lots of buses, of course, but also Bugs, Rabbits (even a truck), Jettas and Passats, some Porsches (VW's snooty cousin, for those who didn't know) and several
Karmann Ghias, which are my very favorite car. There was a gorgeous silver blue model at the show, but she was driven home before I could sneak over and snap a picture. Too bad. She was a beauty.

There were a few vendors, a little swapping and a pretty decent band playing. It was sunny, with a light breeze, just a gorgeous, gorgeous day. Lunch was pretty good, but the main attraction were all the cool cars. The kids had a blast, checking out the horses, running all over the ranch (Ranch Run, indeed) and playing with their friends. Come to think of it, that pretty much sums up what Mr. Clairol and I did as well. It was a really great day.

I'll close by giving y'all a little peek at some typical VW humor.

What can I say? We are classy bunch.

Stuck in 1985

I am being tortured. TORTURED! New Kids On The Block are reuniting and touring. The temptation for me to get my best snarky pants on and riff is truly overwhelming. But...


My dear friend, Jenny and my dear blog buddy, Candi are legitimately excited about this. So I can't take pot shots at Old Men NKOTB. They wouldn't be hurt by it. Or particularly offended. They really don't care about my opinion of their music. Otherwise Jenny wouldn't ever speak to me since I feel free to cap on Vanilla Ice with impunity. Ice, ice, baby, indeed.


No, it's not that. I just remember getting way, way too excited that Duran Duran was reuniting and being so disappointed that they sounded like hades and looked worse. I still bust out the greatest hits album and rock out to The Reflex and New Moon on Monday. But time has not been kind to those boys. Jen and Candi are more fortunate. Their boy (man?) band has aged considerably better than mine. And I bet they sound better. It'd be hard not to.


My music was a little different. After my love affair with the New Romantics, I wandered down a darker path. The moody instrumentals of the Cocteau Twins, the shrieking of Siouxsie, the ethereal Kate Bush and soulful Peter Gabriel were the soundtrack for my high school years. I had to hide my copy of Disintegration from my parents and only played it in my car or while they were out of town. I listened to REM long before Losing My Religion became the soundtrack of 90210. I listened to other stuff as well, but these are the ones that stand out. The Dead Kennedy's were in there somewhere. So were the Dead Milkmen. Punk Rock Girl still puts a smile on my face.


This just proves what a loser dork I was in high school. It's okay. I've embraced my dorkitude. Today my 80's soundtrack is more hard rock than dark Goth, since Mr. Clairol was a mulleted (and permed!) metal head. It's true! I have the pictures to prove it! I wish I had discovered how great AC/DC, Guns and Roses, RATT and the Crue were back in the day. Though if I had, I suspect I would have had significantly less freedom to choose what I listened to. So I guess it all worked out in the end.


So welcome back, NKOTB. You look good. I'll be watching on May 16th when you boys drop it on the Plaza. The screams? Those will be Jen and Candi. I save my screams for the other Wahlberg. (Dear Mark, you are yummy. Yum-my. mwah! Love, Jennie.)

Love Thursday, A Little Late

I've been somewhat behind the eight ball this week and while I haven't forgotten anything major, Love Thursday slipped my mind. It's okay, because I probably would have posted about the ten yards of this fabric that I am making out with while my husband is at work. Today, I hit on something better.

We woke up this morning and Mr. Clairol helped me get kids up, diapers changed, morning juice poured and car seats buckled. We took off for school and as we were driving, I caught a familiar flash of green and red in my rearview. Since the light was red, I had time to tell the little ones, "Look out the window, there's daddy!" Sure enough, he was pulling up through the cars, approaching us. Missy Hoohaw was ecstatic to see her Daddy and told me, "MAMA! MAMA! It's Daddy on his scooter! He's going so fast!" (He wasn't, but she associates the scooter with major speed. Whatever.)

The light turned green and traffic pulled forward, he passed us, waving to the kids and me. Then he touched his hand to his helmet, as if blowing me a kiss and that little gesture just undid me. You know those times you look at your husband and the wave of love just breaks over you? That's what happened.

I was reminded in that instant how much I adore my husband. How I love his smile and the shoulder that is always there. His kisses and embraces, his hand holding mine. No woman was ever more blessed by God.

Happy Love Thursday Friday!

New Season, New Look

I don't know if it's spring fever, or what, but I felt the need to make some changes. I'm too poor to do much to the house, so I'm redecorating the blog. Whatcha think?

Best Big Sister, Ever

Today I picked up a rotten-tempered Drama Queen. It had been a terrible day at school, fraught with disappointment, humiliation, frustration and betrayal. In other words, a typical day in the life of a middle schooler.

On the way home, she announced, as usual, that she was hungry. "I think I need fries," she declared. That's my kid. Stressed and unhappy? Eat! Since it had been such a sucky day for her, I decided to forgo the usual lecture on healthy eating choices and the mood-enhancing benefits of exercise. I did something I almost never do and drove through McDonald's. She was buying, so I let her order.

When she ordered 2 large fries and 2 milkshakes, I raised an eyebrow at her. "What, did you think I was going to sit here and eat fries and a shake and not give my brother and sister some?"
That's right. She treated her siblings to french fries and milkshakes, even though she was feeling crappy. She even offered to buy me something. She also refused, repeatedly, to let me pay for it. "I want to buy this, Mom." What an amazing kid. There may be a little snow leopard in there after all.

Mr. Lover Man

By the by, this is my 333rd post. Cool, eh? Back to the subject at hand.

Big Red is facing a nickname change. The child is quite the Casanova. I have never, never, met a child less discriminating in his affections. He will hug complete strangers, unprompted and unsolicited. Case in point, when we started our mid-size group gathering at church, Red toddled right over to a couple and picked up his arms to be held. He had never met the couple before. I wondered if perhaps they had worked in the nursery and were familiar to him, but no. He spent about 45 minutes being held by the husband and wife, who were delighted. Bless them for loving my son on sight.

At Cody's birthday party this Monday, he hugged every mom there at least once. Andrea got a chuckle, watching him just move down the line. He doesn't give a full body embrace, but rests his head against the thigh and places his hands on your hips. If you pick him up, he'll nuzzle you for a bit, but then wriggles to be put down. He's a hug and run kind of guy. Typical male.

He seems to be developing a preference for women, which is nice. I could wish he were a bit more, let's say, selective. I'd love it if he saved the hugs for me. But alas, I am not his favorite woman. That honor belongs to Andrea. I don't know why, but my son adores her. That came out wrong. Let me just say he has superior taste in women and Andrea is a shining example of this.

Yesterday was hilarious. I had Tyler and Red at home, while Andrea worked at school. When school was over, she brought the big kids home and we had lunch and playtime. It's our typical Tuesday routine. Big Red would not leave her alone! He'd rub his face on her legs and ask for a snuggle. Let me point out that I was sitting right there, completely available. I, apparently, was chopped liver. All afternoon, he'd return to her, getting a snuggle then going about his business. Hilarious. She's got that special something, I tell ya. I'm relatively sure my future daughter in law will have straight brown hair and brown eyes.

I have to wonder how this behavior will evolve as he grows older. He follows older boys around, dying to play with them, so I think he'll be playing with boys at school. But I have visions of being called to school and told that Red was caught kissing a girl behind the jungle gym. Of 9 and 10 year old girls calling my house, asking for him. Of seeing a succession of young teenage girls march through my house. I'm taking his door off the hinges when he turns 14. Thank goodness I have several years to prepare for this.

So there you have it. My son is a cuddle-slut. Just call him Casanova.

No Joke

I've posted before about my father and his battle with ALS. As my family works through this hard time, I have found that the public at large has no idea what this disease is. When you mention that it's also known as Lou Gehrig's disease, there is some recognition, but people don't really know what it is.

There are a lot of diseases out there with famous faces attached and celebrities working to raise money for their cures. That is fantastic. Sheryl Crow, Melissa Etheridge and Edie Falco have courageously shared their struggle with breast cancer. Michael J Fox's work to fund research in Parkinson's disease is inspiring. Courtney Cox has shed light on epidermolysis bullosa. There has been no "celebrity face" for ALS (beyond Lou Gehrig himself) until now.

Angela Lansbury has filmed a PSA about ALS and appeared on the Today Show and will appear on CBS Weekend Round Up this weekend to talk about her association with the ALS Association. Ms. Lansbury does not suffer from the disease herself, but lost her sister to it in the late 80s. Her involvement is very exciting, since these spots help educate people about the existence of the disease and how truly horrifying it is.

We've been short on hope these days, but this is a small ray in a dark place. Thank you, Ms. Lansbury. Your involvement means more to us than you will ever know. You can see her segment on the Today show by going here. For more information about the disease itself, visit the ALS Association website.

Fool Me Once...

It's the first of April. This means April Fool's day to some and I love a good joke as much as anyone, but for me, the first of April is a far more significant date.

It's the start of my birthday month! Yay!

In honor of April Fool's day, I want to hear about the best joke played on you or the best joke you ever played on someone. Mine came from the Big Guy himself. God has a wicked sense of humor.

Several months ago, Mr. Clairol had a vasectomy. We got a letter at the beginning of March saying his sample was still infested with tiny sperm. Now smart people would have waited to be reckless with their intimacy until these results came back. As I have pointed out before, we are not terribly smart.

After feeling kind of meh for a while and finally noticing, hey, I haven't had a period in a while, I made the connection between the letter and my current condition. As in, oh shit. Surely I'm not pregnant. Surely. Please, no. God, I will do anything if You will deliver me from my foolishness. God's answer to that was, "Sorry, Charlie. Next time wait for the test results before you do the horizontal mambo with your husband."

Yes. We are pregnant. Again. God help us.



















APRIL FOOL!