SQUEAL!

You guys know I have a tiny little addiction called Project Runway. I'm obsessed. I record it, then watch it two or three times, run and find David's hilarious recap, then go on the The Minx and Project Rungay. I know, it's sick. Don't care.

This morning, I'm eating a slice of chocolate chip pound cake (why the hell do I make this stuff when I say I'm sick of being fat???) and drinking my coffee, checking what's up and stirring in the Internest. I'm clicking around Project Rungay, because it's sort of my new favorite site and I stumble upon this. A Craig Ferguson interview with Tim Gunn. *squealing like a tween girl confronted with the cute Jonas Brother* *still squealing* *Yep, squealing*

Why the excitement? Okay, I kind of have a small crush on Mr. Ferguson. It's pretty tiny and mostly tucked into a dark corner, but it's there. The major excitement is that I L-O-V-E Tim Gunn. I think he is wonderful. Elegant and witty, like you favorite rich, gay uncle. Mr. Gunn is getting all fan girl on Mr. Ferguson and vice versa, and the conversation turns to Kenley! Kenley! Who I hate! It's like hearing the really popular kids hate on the poser! I'm in HEA-VEN! Mr. Gunn is being as kind as he can, attributing her sarcasm, disrespect and general (as David calls it) stank-ness to insecurity. Which is true. She's desperately insecure. But she's also a bitch. A nasty, back-stabbing, it's all about me, I'm so hot, you wish you worked this used-to-be-hot-but-is-now-cliche-40's-look like I do, bitch. Yes, I said it. I know, I'm trying to lay off the swearing, but you know what, she is. Be happy I deleted the several f-bombs that peppered the rant.

So far, I've watched it twice. I'll probably watch at least once more. I'm sort of dorky like that. Thank you, Project Rungay!

Proposition 8 or My Jaunt Into Heresy

I'm not a very political person and I'm certainly NOT a political blogger, but there is some ugly stuff happening in California these days, and it's been gnawing at me. So here I go, getting all pundit-y on you.

After the California Supreme Court gave all Californians the right to marry, people are still getting their panties in a bunch about it. Honestly, with the budget fiasco going on right now and all of our public services being slashed, are we really going to get up in arms about people getting married? Seriously?


I get it, guys. I understand that this seems radical and against God, but there is this little thing called separation of church and state. If we don't want the state to interfere in our ability to worship, we need to not inflict Biblical beliefs on the state. This isn't a church government and Biblical legislation has no place in it. I know, I know, sin and the Bible and blah, blah, blah. I'm fairly sure that sin is between God and the sinner. I've got enough sin on my plate, I don't need to be nibbling off of others.


I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that God loves us all. No matter who we love. And if you're really so concerned about the institution of marriage, why not start with the divorce rate and spousal abuse? People rant and rave about marriage being between a man and a woman and yet, I feel like we heterosexuals have done an awful lot to screw up the institution. I personally don't feel that two people who love each other, joining their lives together threatens my marriage. Let's face it. Marriage is between the people making the vows. It's not a domino effect!

And here's the thing. This raillery against homosexuality disturbs me because it feels like prejudice and hatred. It seems divisive and that's not what I'm about, so if that makes you feel my Christianity is suspect, I'm okay with that. Pray for me. I'm praying for you as well.

So I'm voting No on Prop 8. Because I think that the government has no business denying marriage to any segment of the population.

Time To Close The Pool For The Year

The kids desperately want to get in the pool. Bringing out their bathing suits and pressing their faces to the sliding glass doors desperately. It is 96 degrees, so I relent and take them out, knowing the water is going to be sub-arctic. And yes, it is! My poor feet are blue with cold and that is the only part of my body that will be getting wet, thank you very much.

Missy agrees with me. She is in up to her knees, telling me the water is freezing. She then squats in the water and looks at me, smiling wide. "It's working, Mommy! My pee-pee is warming up the water!"

Just thought I'd share a tiny portion of the glamour that is my life. You're welcome.

You Might Be A Stay At Home Mom Saturday

If you know all the words to the theme song of Curious George, and consider it a pretty happening pop song, you might be a stay-at-home-mom.

For Future Reference

Dear Big Red,

When you put a clean pair of training pants on your head and say, "Haaat?" then crack up laughing, I will forgive you anything, including a loaded diaper before I've even had a cup of coffee in the morning.

Love,

Mommy

A Bad Case Of Wii Wanting

I'm going to be very up front about something. I desperately want a Wii. And a Wii Fit.

I won't buy one because hello, you cannot find them and even if you could they are ridiculously expensive and if I was to ever pay almost $500 for a video game, y'all would be required to come over and smack me upside the head. Hard, and in Heather's case, repeatedly. I won't do it. I just won't.

But, Oh. My. Heck. I really, rilly, want to!

One of Mr. Clairol's friends debuted their Wii at a New Year's party and it was hilarious, mostly because the players were in various stages of inebriation. Then Sleeping Mommy got a Wii Fit and started blogging about it. The hunger was born.

I actually got to try one out at BlogHer and oh, baby, baby, baby. They are tremendous fun. I might actually exercise if I had the console and the Fit. Might is the operative word. But I can see our family game night taking a turn, Missy joining in on the fun without the mental anesthetic of Candy Land. I want to look like an idiot as I throw and imaginary bowling ball. Or pitch an imaginary baseball. Or swing an imaginary racket.

I'm sure it's character building to not get what you want. I tell Drama Queen that little gem all the time. But then I answer myself with her favorite comeback. Wouldn't want my character to get taller than I am!

My friend David lost his darling cat Emmy today. She was, in his words, "the best cat in the world." My heart goes out to him. Losing a pet is a terrible thing, and even though Emmy had been sick, the loss of her has been extremely sad. He makes me laugh all the time and now I cry with him.

Knock Knock

I need help, yet again. I know, you're just aquiver with shock. Missy Hoohaw has discovered the knock- knock joke. Oh my hades. Has she ever.

I'm fairly sure that this is a common stage. Drama Queen went through it and her gem was this:

Knock Knock
Who's there?
Potato.
Potato who?
Potato Chip!

I know, it's not even remotely funny, but trust me when I tell you that was the best of her many jokes. She refused to tell actual jokes, preferring to make up her own nonsense. She remains bizarre, I'm proud to report.

But now Missy has started and I know about four. She's mastered them all and is hungry for more material. I even taught her DQ's potato chip clunker out of desperation. So I need you nice, pretty people to share your preschool appropriate knock knock jokes. Here's what we have:

*Interrupting Cow, which showcases Missy's utter lack of comic timing. Her cow never interrupts.

*Ivan working on the railroad.

*Atchoo. Her very favorite, courtesy of G-ma.

*Banana repeated, then Orange you glad I didn't say banana.

*The aforementioned Potato Chip, which Missy makes her own by adding Giraffe to the second round. What the hades is a potato chip giraffe, you ask? Ask Missy. Preferably in knock knock format.

Help me out, Internet. My sanity hangs in the balance!

I Knew I Would Be

Hi, I am a giant dork. What, you doubt this? I submit the following evidence: I found a link to this and raced to take the quiz. As I took the quiz, I giggled, knowing which Austin heroine each answer choice refered to. I knew, before I ever clicked the submit button, which character I would be. See? I told you I was a dork.

Take the Quiz here!

Because naming my gargoyles after Austen and Brönte heroes wasn't clue enough.

YAH!

It's like I've been given a fedora and a bull whip. Yesterday morning's lethargy has been replaced with a can-do spirit and a fresh desire to excel in my job. I'm motivated to eat right. I feel excited about exercising.

Must be the prayer. Thanks, Floydster!

Yesterday was just what the doctor ordered. I finished the grocery shopping, got some warm clothes for the kids and headed out to my brother's new place. After dropping off some stuff for him, we headed to my folks house and had a great time, eating lunch and visiting. The kids and Mr. Clairol even braved the Arctic pool. It was lovely. There are times in my life when I just need to be still and my parent's house is a wonderful place to do that. My mom had some Ebay booty to show off, I had cute kid anecdotes and Drama Queen had magazines to sell. Around 4:00, we rounded up the troops and headed home. A quiet dinner, a run to my favorite dollar store for my annual Halloween purchase. Meet the gargoyles:

Mr. Darcy

and

Mr. Rochester

I love these boys. The fact that they were a dollar apiece? It makes them even more precious to me. I love Halloween and every year, it's a struggle to not jump the gun with decorating. For a month, I've been resisting the urge to pull out the spiders and skeletons out of the loft. But it's time. I've waited as long as I can and this week is Halloween week for me. I'll be good and put off the outside decor until this weekend, but I think 5 weeks is appropriate. Especially when I would keep it up until it was time to get out the Christmas tree!

Happy Fall, everyone!

Behind

I'm behind. Way behind. Too much to do, too little time.


Laundry? Completely backed up. (Guess the novel and wine was a bad idea.)

Grocery shopping? Half done. I made it to the Warehouse store and WalMart, but the actual food type groceries are still waiting for me.

Church? No. Not today. As much as I love our church and the fellowship, I am tired and feel a cold coming on, so I am opting to worship in my home.

The house is a wreck. My head aches and I am so, so exhausted that making coffee felt like a major victory. I need a break. Some quiet time when we are not on our way somewhere, not doing housework, not cooking, not minding children. And I'm not sure how to make this happen. My heart says I need a shot of prayer. My body says a nice long nap is in order. My head says I have a stack of books waiting to be read. Somehow, I am going to get all three of those in today.

You Might Be A Stay At Home Mom Saturday

If folding laundry takes hours because you have chocolate, a novel and possibly wine stashed by the washer and dryer, you might be a stay at home mother.

So Proud

Monday night, Drama Queen came tearing out of her room, pissed as hell. "I know I haven't done my chores but I NEED to use the computer."

She'd been on the phone with her father, so my curiosity was piqued. "For what?"

"I just had the worst conversation with my father, ever, and I need to check some things out." (If that seemed like excessive use of italics and bold, you have not spent enough time with an adolescent girl.)

Apparently, she had told her father about her school's mock election and he was horrified that she was planning to vote for Barak Obama. Dude, it is a mock election and she is 13. Get a grip. But they argued and he urged her to really know what she was supporting, not to just go with the media's take on things. This will become very ironic in a minute. Wait for it. Here's what he asserts as "truth" :

*Barak Obama is a Muslim. (Yes, I know, I wanted to thwap his pointy little head as well.) I swallowed the worst of my bile and helped DQ look up the facts. I then asked her if she would have continued to support Obama, had he, in fact, been a Muslim. This is a verbatim quote.

"Probably. Daddy was saying that he was lying or something to cover it up and when I asked him why, he said because those are the people terrorizing our country. Like all Muslims are terrorists or something and I pointed out to him that I seriously doubted Obama is planting bombs." *insert eye roll and huff*

*That Obama has never authored any legislation.

* Obama did not support the Iraq war. (They support the war because the brother- in- law is in the Army. Um, I think I'd rather he come home to his pregnant wife and 2 year old son! But I'm a bleeding heart like that.)

*Obama was planning on raising taxes. (Not that a 13 year old cares about taxes, but she did pin him down with this response: "Why do you care if he raises taxes? You never work!" I gather that was when the conversation got ugly.)

Yes, apparently my ex watched the Republican National Convention and has a boner for Sarah Palin. Whatever. For me, this isn't about politics. It's about my daughter and her clueless father.

I love that my daughter is smart enough to look at her father's assertions and say, I want the facts. I'm delighted that at 13, she has more common sense than her 36 year old father, and can separate violent extremists from a larger group that does not condone those actions. I'm so proud that she will argue and search for facts, rather than let her need for her father's approval sway her into agreeing something she doesn't believe in. Anyone who is going to argue with a 13 year old over a frickin' mock election is an idiot, because hello? She's 13 and a 13 year old is a glitter-bleeding, pink-puffy- hearted liberal to her Starburst- flavored, lip gloss core. Just go with it, for God's sake and be glad she understands what an election is!

I'd like to promise you that I'm done bashing my ex-husband, because I honestly don't care enough about him to waste the post, but I don't know. He's reaching epic new height of stupidity recently and I may need to share more. I'll try to restrain myself and only share the truly numb-skulled.

New Love

I have a secret love. It's a little weird and so I will ask that you not judge. Here in California, we have this "Mexican" fast food chain called Del Taco. The food is okay, but they have the best taco sauce ever. I have actually sauntered into a restaurant and grabbed a fistful, stuffing it in my purse and leaving. I have even gone through the drive thru, ordering a diet coke, then asking for a handful of mild sauce as well. Sometimes I get it, sometimes I get the whole, "we can only give you sauce if you order food, so sorry, blah, blah blah..." spiel. How do they know I don't put the sauce in my coke, huh? (Just grossed myself out there.)

But children, I am cheating on my Del Taco mild. YES! I have discovered this...

Oh. My. Hades. This is heaven in a bottle. Heaven! I bought the bottle, innocently, needing it for a recipe. I swear, I didn't mean this to happen. But I flirted with it a little, putting some on a burger, then in some ketchup for fries. Ooooooh. It escalated from there. I was making eggs, tacos, even buying chips just to have a chance to fondle the bottle and taste the smoky, spicy goodness.

I'm out of Del Taco mild and haven't even bothered to steal more. I know, I'm horrible. I drive by our place and think about the good times, missing the cool foil in my fingers, but that saucy bottle sings a siren song and the mild? Well, it's soon forgotten in the sweet heat of chipotles.

Since I'm obsessing about food, let me share another discovery. I'm pretty sure the secret ingredient in Sonic's cherry limeade is meth. I'm seriously jonesing. Okay, back to the dieting.

Screen Time

Oh, wise Internet, I need your help.

Recently, Missy has discovered the joy of computer games. It started with a Word World game on PBS Kids and has branched into Curious George, which has a dozen different games and has Missy Hoohaw mesmerized.

At first, it was cute. Exciting even, as she was so interested in a (sort-of) educational pursuit and acting like a "big kid." But yesterday, she was at the computer for almost an hour before I shut it down and made her find something else to do. Her first choice? TV. Sigh.

So help me out. I'm concerned about the sedentary activity and am looking for a way to curtail it in a way that she will understand. How do you handle the issue of screen time in your home? Do you allow your preschoolers to play computer games? How much time do you let them spend on that? Do you set a limit on TV time and if you do, do you combine that with computer time as well? I appreciate any and all advice, and please, if you don't have kids, feel FREE to chime in.

It Takes Balls

DQ got an invitation to a baby shower in the mail yesterday. From her father. Does this strike anyone else as weird?

Now the shower is scheduled for a weekend that she will be with them. I get that there is a sweet gesture somewhere in here. But the man cannot make a scheduled phone call to save his life. In order to talk to him, DQ must call, then he calls right back. Nine times out of ten, he has to get off the phone to tend to his young son. This frustrates her. In her words, "if you can make time to talk to me, check my homework, and nag me about my room every day, with two kids, you would think he could do it three times a week with one kid." She's got a point.

Also frustrating is the fact that this summer, while she was spending a month with them, she was bored to tears and felt completely neglected. She would have traded the day at Disneyland and the day at Knotts, for a few meaningful conversations with her father, that did not revolve around her younger brother or the baby. She would have loved to have her father express some interest in her. That apparently, was not happening.

So an invitation to a shower for this baby is a nice gesture, but ultimately, just a clear indication of how clueless these people are. This invitation was like the desire for me to participate in their wedding, in his wife's insistence on making a friend of me. It makes them feel good and in no way takes into account DQ's feelings. They married without her, after making a big deal about her (and me, which was so not happening) being a part of the ceremony. They insisted on her being with them for a family event, then couldn't afford a plane ticket. These things have happened repeatedly. So I'm a little torqued.

In this invitation was a slip of paper, saying that the couple was registered at Target. Uh-huh. I tell you what, when you are no longer $21,000 behind in your child support, we'll talk about a gift. When you can make you phone calls and make your oldest child feel like she matters a little bit, I will buy the most expensive thing on your list, wrap it pretty paper and deliver it to your door while singing Raffi lullabies. I will be happy for your joy, when you stop causing my child pain with your benign neglect. Until then, keep your damn invitations.

Bulletproof Excuse

New was released that will have men everywhere crying in their beer.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/05/09/AR2007050902322.html

I am so bringing this up at dinner tonight!

Mr. Sedaris

I have always loved to read. My childhood friends were bewildered by my continuous desire to read. At a very young age, I carried books everywhere, forgoing jump ropes and monkey bars to find a quiet spot in the field where I could get lost in Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden. The biggest problem with soccer was that I could not smuggle a book onto the field. I tried once. From then on, my mother was zealous about the pre-game pat down.

I grew up in a house of readers. My mother had books scattered everywhere and though she frequently shooed me outside, she hardly ever protested when I brought a book with me. She always had a book. I don't remember seeing my father read as frequently, but he loves books as well. He will occasionally recommend something to me and I usually try to read it, since he rarely steers me wrong.

He told me months ago that I had to read David Sedaris. "Like David Spade on estrogen," he told me, knowing we shared a love of snark. I finally checked out a copy of When You Are Engulfed In Flames and laughed my way through it. Last week, I found a playaway copy of Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim at the library, so I checked it out and made an wonderful discovery. David Sedaris, on the page, is funny, wry and at times, poignant. But the beauty of his words, the wit of his stories, take a new facet, when told in his own voice.

I am not a fan of audio books. They are disconcerting to me. I can't concentrate on the words and get distracted by the voice of the narrator. When accents or varying registers to suggest different genders are employed, I get downright aggravated. I don't want to be read to like a child. It distracts me from the plot and dialogue. It's probably the difference in genre, but Sedaris' work is actually better when he reads it, lending the pauses and inflection that make the stories he tells more hilarious and more uncomfortable.

I like David Sedaris. His self-conscious confessions are uncomfortable for me to a degree, because they so closely reflect my own. When he relates his fear of zombies, I shudder with him, remembering a conversation I had with Mr. Clairol when we were house-hunting. We had arrived at a house and as we looked around, he discussed features with the realtor. Back in the car, he said, "You were quiet in there."

"Did you like it?" I asked
"No, the garage is too small and I'm not crazy about the location."
"I know. Who would live next to a graveyard?" Yes! There was an actual graveyard on the other side of the chainlink fence!! With bodies! And headstones! Come on! Do people not realize that when the zombies rise, your brains will be the appetizer?

I know my fear of zombies is irrational. I "know" that the dead will not rise and scratch their way into my home. But that knowledge is not nearly as concrete at 11:30 pm as it might be at, say, 9:00 am.

"I was more thinking of the busy intersection and the crappy houses there and there," Mr. Clairol replied, after a lengthy pause.
"I promise you, crappy houses will not eat your eyeballs." I said, knowing he would laugh. I was just relieved he didn't like the house.

I get the feeling that I could tell Sedaris this story and he would look at me, then say, "I know!" I'm pretty sure this is a false feeling. I imagine Sedaris is far too sophisticated and urbane to trade irrational fears over coffee with a Northern California housewife. He lives in France for God's sake. But that false sense of simpatico makes his work very enjoyable for me. And so, I'm looking up Flames as an audio book, looking forward to letting him tell me stories over coffee.

If you haven't read Sedaris, you should. Go for the audio, even if you normally avoid them. And be prepared to look like an idiot when you are convulsed with laughter while stopped at a red light, alone in your car.

True Blood on the Runway

Since this a TV post, I'm going to whine for a bit about Terri being Aufed on Project Runway. I
l-o-v-e-d her and especially when she was paired up with whiny Keith. This last episode, when she tells him he can count pins, then threw him under a bus at the judging? I was laughing so hard, I cried. Blaine (Holla atcha boy!) is gone as well, so the potential for hilarity has diminished. Though I will say, Lee-animal is still around, so I have that going for me. Now if someone would just baste Kenley's mouth shut (preferably Tim Gunn with help from Christain Siriano, aka Mango), I could be perfectly happy. Onto the actual topic now.

When I heard HBO was creating a series based on the Sookie Stackouse books by Charlaine Harris, I was pretty dang excited. I enjoy the book so much, I'm willing to overlook the vampire thing, which is hard for me to overcome. I'm not a fan of paranormal romance, mostly because a lot of it is overblown, melodramatic and winds up being so hard to read and follow that I simply give up.


That being said, there are a few authors, who, for me, get it right. I have always been a big fan of Christina Dodd's work and her Varinski books are great. Sherilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter series is a guilty pleasure. I enjoyed the first few Betsy Taylor books from Mary Janice Davidson, but her lead character is such a whiny brat that I just can't read them anymore. The Sookie Stackhouse books are wonderful. They are at the top of my list. So the series True Blood was like the second coming of Buffy.


Except it's not. Visually, it is spot on. Dark and a bit dirty, the location shots are creepy and sexy at the same time. The casting is perfect as well, with all the actors looking exactly as I have pictured them in my head, with the notable exception of Sookie. I always pictured her prettier than the lovely-when-brunette Anna Paquin. Blonde hair doesn't do much for Anna. And Sookie is non-negotiably blonde. I wonder if they were focusing on appearance, rather than actual chemistry. But once you get past the visuals, it starts to unravel. The show is well written but the acting is lacking. There is so little connection between the cast that it is actually uncomfortable to watch them interact. The Louisiana accents are pretty tragic, especially Paquin's, though I will say, I expected this, having seen all three X-men films.


There are a few exceptions. Stephen Moyer does a fantastic job playing Bill. Nelsan Ellis gives Lafayette flair and flamboyance without descending into caricature. (This is my opinion. Many critics and viewers felt the character was completely over the top.) Sam Trammell was the perfect Sam Merlotte. But the other characters were irritating, especially Tara, Sookie's best friend. And Lois Smith, who has done compelling work on television and in movies, is unfocused as Gran. The character seems in the grip of dementia, which is not the way she was written.



So I'm disappointed. This had a lot of potential to be a great series and I don't think the pilot lived up to that. Hopefully, it gets better. I'm willing to give it a chance. But not much of one. Here's to hoping tonight's episode is better than the premiere.

You Might Be A Stay At Home Mom Saturday

If a day of painting and lawnwork at church sounds like a fun time solely because they are offering childcare, you might be a stay at home mom.

*This was inspired by last Saturday's workday at church. As I was dropping off Missy Hoohaw, my friend Selena looked at me and said, "It's a little sad that this feels like a day out!"

This Post Sucks. Blame Turning Leaf

I am typing this Thursday night after two glasses of wine (I will probably consume the entire bottle, so thank me for doing this whilst I am semi-coherent.)

Today sucked ass. Hairy, poopy monkey ass, to be specific.

Nothing went my way. Red tore off his duct taped diaper and POOPED ON MY KITCHEN FLOOR!!!!! I got a headache from the bleach fumes while cleaning shit off my tile. Both children were impossibly whiny and clingy, insisting that I play with them and read to them and would not just shut the hell up and watch some damn Barney already. Dear God.

I got nothing done. Nothing. And I had a lot of crap to do today. Ordinarily, I would be pretty Zen about the whole thing. I'm good at Zen. But today, it wasn't happening. Everything climbed my spine and made me KEEE-RAZY. I yelled, I gave time-outs and I cried in the bathroom. It was bad, y'all. B-A-D. And now, I am so drunk off of three glasses of Pinot Grigio, that I just typed Ponit instead of Pinot. HAHAHAHAHAHA. That is damned funny. I just typed damend. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Do not drunk-blog. It isn't pretty.

Head Bowed, Heart Heavy

I'd like to take a moment (day) of blog silence to commemerate the 7th anniversary of September 11th. My prayers are with the families and friends of those who died.

Red's Come Undone

Okay, you sickos. Here is a picture of Big Red's duct taped diaper. This is the 2.0 version, since the initial short strip covering both tapes proved less than Red-proof. Do you know how hard it is to duct tape a diaper and avoid the skin of a wriggling two year old? The tape now goes all the way around and meets in the back. Any bets on how long that will stop him from removing it?

20 years from now, he'll be thanking me in his speech at the Porn Star Awards, when he wins best male actor, bondage and S&M. I wonder what I'll wear to the ceremony.

For A Good Time, Call A Schmaiser Receptionist

Wow. I had no idea my rant would strike a chord with so many. Apparently, the Polly plague has struck many a household. Y'all have my deepest sympathies. Also, I promise a picture of a duct tape diaper is forth-coming. Though they aren't nearly as funny as they sound. I just wouldn't want you lovely people to be disappointed.

I've think I've shared that my son is well on his way to becoming a little man-whore. He took it to a new level today.

Drama Queen had a doctor's appointment and since she is a TEENAGER, visits are now confidential. M'kay. She went in and I stayed in the waiting area with my two little ones. (Schmaiser? Enclose your stupid waiting areas, please, at least in pediatrics. Thanks. Love you. Bye.) Missy was fine, watching the movie, playing with the toys I brought, trying to wheedle one of her brother's fruit snacks because "I like to share, Mommy."

Red was going monkey-poo crazy. Bouncing off the frickin' walls. He was running back and forth up the corridor and I was letting him, ignoring the dirty looks from the seated parents with children who are clearly being raised better than mine. Whatever. He'd run up and down, giggling like crazy. Suddenly, he noticed he had an audience. The receptionists were watching him, smiling and laughing. Oh, it was on. He ran up to the desk, ducked down, then popped up and said, "BOO!" This delighted the ladies and Red went into full on, Casanova, you- can't- resist- my- charm- so- don't- even- try mode. Lock up your daughters, folks. Your wives and mothers too.

After a few rounds of peek-a-boo, it was time for us to get de-briefed, so back we went. The receptionist popped her head out, gave Red a tickle and got a wave and bye-bye. As we were walking back out, he darted into the ladies' work area and laid his head in the lap of the closest woman, saying, "awwwww," and smiling his best lady-killer smile. THEN, he crawled into her lap and kissed. her. cheek. There were literal cartoon hearts swirling above her head. Did the child walk out with a metric butt-load of stickers? Why, yes. Yes, he did.

Help me, Jesus. Do chastity belts come in uni-sex models or should I just buy a male version with Drama Queen's?

Diapering ala Home Depot

Well, it's official. Duct tape has officially joined my changing table must haves. Diapers, wipes, Boudreaux’s and now duct tape and sissors. You can call me a bad mom, but a woman can only clean so much poop out of the carpet before she looks to home improvement aisles for help.

Kim over at 3 Giraffes is worried about Sarah Palin being on the Republican ticket. I'm worried too. SO when she posted a link to this op-ed piece by Gloria Steinem, I clicked over and read it.

This is why I love Gloria Steinem. She boils down the Palin problem with no hatred, no name-calling, no vitriol. She lays it out simply and logically. I actually like Sarah Palin. (I know, it shames me). I found her witty and accessible (also deceptive) in her speeches and interviews. But there's no way in hell I'll vote for her. There are too many differences in her agenda and my needs as a woman and mother.

Go read the article and tell me what YOU think.

The New Face Of Evil

I apologize up front for the cursing. There is a lot of it. I cannot write this post without swearing. I have tried. If this offends you, please come back tomorrow, when I promise to have my mouth washed out with soap.

Do you know these rancid bitches? I do. I know them well.

It's my own fault, really. I allowed, nay, instigated Missy asking for Polly Pocket toys on her birthday. I was an idiot. I know that know. But in my own defense, I didn't realize the morass that is Polly.

Many moons ago, when Drama Queen was a wee one and still equated a Happy Meal with Nirvana (the paradise, not the band), she scored a few Polly Pocket toys from McDs. Just a couple of mini Barbies with molded plastic hair and snap on dresses. Totally benign. When Missy fell in love with these dolls and wanted to play with them 24/7, I figured, why not get a few more?


I am now kicking myself in the ass, folks. This rates as one of the dumbest things I have ever done. And let me tell you, that is a hard honor to win. They have had to work past things like drinking four chocolate martinis in about 45 minutes and a horrible dye job that resulted in eggplant colored hair. But like most mistakes, it didn't seem wrong at the time. Missy requested Polly Pockets and her Gma heard the call. The miniature dolls were procured and given. It is here that my nightmare began.


It seems that the snap on clothes are a thing of the past. Now the clothes are a rubber type of material that is nearly impossible to wrestle onto the doll. And the doll comes with many pieces of this crap. And shoes. Holy fuck, the shoes. Let me show you what I mean.


Imagine 10 pairs of these things in my home. All impossibly tiny and cleverly coordinated to outfits. Which my daughter, who is her mother's child in this, must have all together or the earth comes to a bloody and definite end. It's funny, I've never read about tiny plastic shoes in the Bible, but they are clearly the catalyst for Armageddon.

At least they are soft. I mean, it could be worse. Those of you that have stepped on Barbie shoes and/or tiny Legos know. These shoes are infinitely tinier and easier to lose, but hey, they don't hurt when you step on them. That keeps me from throwing the whole pile of shit into the fire pit and having an environmentally incorrect bonfire.

Polly is much like Barbie, in that she comes with a whole slew of plastic bric-a-crap. Holy Mary, Joseph and Isaiah. Every night, we pick this stuff up and store it in the box I have designated as Polly's hellhole crackhouse.

This is a small portion of Polly's regalia. I hate this stuff. But Missy, she loves it. I've lost track of her during the day, only to find her in her room, playing quietly with her friend Polly. Until her little brother comes in and wants to *gasp* play with her. Then, my friends, the shit hits the fan. In a big, old nasty way. (No, not because Red took off his diaper and threw it at the ceiling. Though that is a possibility. Let's just hope he never, never thinks of that one.)

If I ever find the person who invented these damn toys, I am going to...I don't know. Something really, really bad. I can't articulate something bad enough yet. And this is coming from a woman who once threatened to choke a man with his own bowels and make him eat the shit I squeezed from them. I know how to craft a chilling threat. You better hide well, Polly Puss Pocket Inventor Person.

Rant over. I'm going to have a glass of wine and not pick up the acre of toys covering my living room floor.

Bad Momma

A little confession. I did not take pictures of my children on the first day of school. I didn't do it last year either.

I intended to snap a picture last Wednesday, after haircuts. I even dressed Missy in the same outfit. But mornings are a bit harried here, so I ran out of time. The outfit got stained beyond redemption, so I had to punt.

That's right. I took pictures that Friday, a full week and two days after the first official day of preschool and will pass them off as first day pics. Missy and Red will never know the difference. Unless Drama Queen tells them. I may have to bribe her.

An Open Letter to My Husband

Dear Mr. Clairol,

It's been almost 8 years, four cars, three kids, two dogs, two houses and an apartment since we began dating. It seems like forever. I can tell you truly that my life, before you, is a big blur. The best part of my life began when you kissed me.

I vividly remember watching you on Maddy's patio, manning the grill, patiently talking to a 2 year old. I heard God so clearly. "This is Who I have been preparing you for." It took my breath away. They say God's gifts are perfect beyond compare. They are 100% correct.

It hasn't been smooth sailing. We've had rough patches and there were times I was tempted to run away. But I can never imagine my life without you. There are so many wonderful things about you. Things I love. Things I hate. Things that make me laugh until I cry. Here are just a few:

*The way you mumble to yourself under your breath and when I ask what you just said, you have no idea what I am talking about. I sometimes suspect you just don't want tell me, but most of the time, I'm pretty convinced you don't realize what you are doing.

*The fact that you rarely stay awake for movies and television shows. And that you've gone to a bunch of Harry Potter movies, taking a $10 nap, for me.

*How you really listen to the sound of a car running and can discern a myriad of facts about said vehicle. And be able to tell me what kind of car drove by, just by the sound of the engine. For some reason, I find this absurdly sexy.

*How you think of my parents as yours.

* Your smile.

* The smiles on your children's faces as you walk through the door, and the fact that you always kiss me first. That is one of the best parts of my day.


* How you can take mean-spirited teasing with a small smile on your face and let it roll right off your back. You tell me you've had a lot of practice. This breaks my heart and makes me proud of you in the same moment.


* Your butt. I've said it before and I'll say it again. It is an awesome butt.


*Your odd obsession with firewood. It must be a Mid-Western thing, but I have to laugh every time you haul home big rounds of a felled tree and break out the splitter. You're right. Our woodpile is indeed a thing of beauty.

We've come a long way from the first date that almost didn't happen. I am a better person with you than I've ever been on my own. Thank you for six wonderful years of marriage. I can't wait to see what the next six have for us!

You Might Be A Stay At Home Mom Saturday

Let me set the scene: You and your spouse have gotten the children to bed and are relaxing on the couch. He slips his arm around your shoulder. If you threaten to rip his arm out of the socket and beat him senseless with it, you might be a stay at home mom.

Which Day Is Bon Bon Day?

The back to school poop is hitting the proverbial fan. I've come to the conclusion that I waste a colossal amount of time. That is no longer an option.

This sucks, because I like downtime. I actually love with a consuming passion. I have a deep, intense need to have at least a few minutes to sit on my butt and read/watch TV/be online. But my children have deep intense needs as well. Things like needing to eat dinner, have clean clothes and have homework checked. The little jerks. I mean really, just grab something out of the refrigerator and leave me alone. It's not like you want to actually wear clothes anyway, so quit moaning that your favorite shirt is dirty.


So I'm busting out a chart on, you guessed it, Excel. I've been consulting the experts, like Heather, and figuring out a schedule for household chores. This way the laundry actually gets done, my family gets fed and they quit whining so much. A win-win in my book. I'm hoping a chart, posted on my fridge will help me actually get stuff done, instead of looking around the house, feeling overwhelmed. I have a tendency to flit from task to task. This means that about half the things I start get finished.

My inspiration for this was the aforementioned Heather, who posted about scheduling tasks. She talked about how women used to have days devoted to certain tasks. This struck me as a common sense idea that might actually work. I think it would help me feel less like I was drowning in a sea of unfolded laundry as dinner goes unmade and my children suffer from benign neglect.

I've got high hopes, but this doesn't mean a whole lot. I'm able to form plans, but the follow-thru is mostly sketchy. We'll see how this goes.

What The F&@* Friday

No, this isn't a regular feature. But seriously, I have to talk to y'all about this.

Many months ago, I went to my doctor because I was having terrible stomach aches. Full or empty, bland or spicy, morning, noon and night, my tummy hurt. Dr. Barbie poked and prodded and hmmed and hawwed. She ran some tests. In the end, she decided it was acid reflux and prescribed Pepcid and another pill.

She never told me what the second pill was for. In all fairness, I didn't ask. I was trying to get out of there before she told me my stomach hurt because I was overweight. When I got home, I puzzled over the second prescription for a while and opted not to take it, reserving it for if the Pepcid didn't work.

Long story short, the Pepcid failed to stop the pain, but I soldiered on, mainly because I had forgotten about the other pills. While cleaning my dresser surface a week ago, I found the pills and thought, hmmm, I wonder what these do. Rather than blindly take the pills, I looked them up on the bastion of all things medical, Dr. Google. Seriously, why do I even need Schmaiser?

Turns out these pills are used to treat irritable bowel syndrome, which is puzzling because the pain is always high, right under my breasts, and I think of my bowels being lower...more in the ass region, if you will. But whatever, I was pretty desperate, because everything I ate caused pain, going hungry caused pain, sleeping and waking caused pain. It was horrible. I was spending a lot of time laying in bed with a heating pad on my stomach.

I took one of the pills. Like magic (only in a half an hour or so), the pain was gone. And so I continued to take the pills, one every four hours. The pain has stayed gone and I apparently have cranky bowels. Who knew?

But here's where the what the f$@* comes in. Since when do you just prescribe a medication because maybe Syndrome X is the problem and if it is, this should fix it. If it doesn't cause dizziness, drowsiness, nausea, diarrhea and migraines first. (Yes, those are actual side effects of this miracle pill.) (No, my doctor didn't tell me about any of that. I didn't even know she suspected IBS.) I know medicine is sometimes trial and error, but shouldn't a doctor discuss this with the patient??? Noble Pig, weigh in here, because I know your husband is in medicine and I'm curious as to the other side of it.

Okay, there's my rant for the day. Gotta go pop a mystery pill now.

How Do I Love Red? Let Me Count The Ways.

Forgive the list-style entry but I'm very frustrated with my son these days and in the spirit of Love Thursday, I'm going to count my blessings.

Things I Love About Big Red

1. His smile.

2. The twinkle in his eyes when he knows he's breaking the rules.

3. The way he will holler, "Yeah!" when offered something he wants.

Big Red, do you want to play cars?
YEAH!

It's always a holler, never just a normal volume yes.

4. The way he work his little arms and legs when he's "swimming."

5. His curls.

6. The way his plump little body snugs up to mine when we're reading a story.
6a. The way he will occasionally look up at me and when I look back, he grin.
6b. The way he always has to turn the page.

7. The way he pops awake the instant anyone enters his room.

8. The way he says his sisters' names.

9. The way he says Mommy and calls for Daddy or "dran-ma" when he needs saving from me.

10. How he stands at the glass doors and calls for the Beast, then runs away when the dog bounds up, yelling "HEP! HEP!" (Help).

11. His endless fascination with bubbles.

I love you Red, even though you're two.

I'm Not A Flake

Okay, maybe I am. I promise that a giveaway is coming up, but right now, my head is barely above water. Back to school is kicking my tail, with three schedules to coordinate. Can you imagine if I had gotten my way 6 months ago? I'd be pregnant, which for me, is code for barfing in Ziploc bags every ten minutes! Thank you, Mr. Clairol, for being smarter than I am.

I'm now shooting for Monday, hoping that this weekend will give me some time to gather the goodies and take pictures. Fingers crossed!

Looking For Chastity Belts On Craig's List

Dad, if you're reading this, you may want to quit here. Just saying.

We're rapidly approaching the point in Drama Queen's development when young men are going to approach us, offering dowries and cattle and bolts of rare and costly fabric for her hand in marriage.


Okay, maybe not. But the child is attracting a steadily increasing amount of male attention. I am alternately tickled and appalled by this. Tickled because I was 15 before a boy even noticed I was something other than a particularly ugly lamp post. Appalled, because she's only 13 and I've been lulled into complacency by her gay best friendboyfriend. (If you didn't click on the link to refresh your memory, you should. Go ahead, I'll wait. It's not like I've got anything better to do.) Boys that ignored her before are teasing her in class, calling names and throwing things at her. The male, middle school mating ritual.

Remember the hugger? Yeah, let's call him C. Now DQ is still A's best girl. She still likes him, though I sense boredom creeping in. She's rolling her eyes when I ask about him and they only have a single class together this year, which is the death knell of a middle school love affair. The vultures are circling and by vultures, I mean pervy 8th grade boys who ask for hugs and cop feels. In other words, C.

The other day, I pulled up to the school and saw Drama Queen sitting on the grass with this tall kid doing stupid tricks to make her laugh. If you've been around an 8th grade boy, you know what I mean. Someone should really shoot a documentary about this and air it on Animal Planet. He was successful, because she was laughing so hard, she didn't notice me watching. I got an eyeful. He climbed trees and jumped out. He danced. He did back flips, for crying out loud. When she finally noticed me, she jumped up, waved bye and ran to the van. Didn't look back or she would have seen him clutch his heart and stagger back, watching her walk away. Oh my fucking Hades, are you kidding me?!?

In the van, I asked who the boy was. Turns out, he's C, aka Pervy Huggy Pants. Apparently, he's been making a full court press since school began. Hanging around her, eating lunch with her group, offering to stop calling her "Demon Spawn" for a hug. This boy has it bad. She's pretending nonchalance, but when she got in the car today, she was blushing. Apparently, C and his friend were telling a group of boys she was "hella-cute." Is it too late to home school?

A was great while he lasted. Shorter than her, sweet and well-spoken, and oh yeah, completely non-threatening! He was perfect. I loved him. They've been dating for months and never kissed. Somehow, if C succeeds, I doubt he's going to want to put off kissing so they can take it slow. I think C is going to be trouble. I've got my eye on him and I'm not afraid to break out the mom/ninja/mercenary thing. I just pressed my camos and sharpened my throwing stars. Mr. Clairol and I have agreed that chaperoning every dance is essential this year. Never doubt, I will take this punk down. Hard and dirty, my friends. His ass is grass.

You know, he's probably a perfectly nice kid and he's smart enough to recognize my daughter for the beauty she is. But he's taller than her, broad shouldered and either has a chocolate milk addiction or is approaching razor readiness. He's also cute in a bad-boy sort of way and that worries me. At least she's not admitting to liking him yet. I have some time. Not a lot, but some.

Pray for us, if you are inclined. If not, keep good thoughts, light a candle, burn some sage, whatever sends good ju-ju our way. We are definitely going to need it. That and a cheap chastity belt. Oh, and some more throwing stars. Or a cattle prod. Whatever's handy.

Coming Soon

Something weird is happening in this house. Big Red has become Mr. Clingy. I am typing this post one-handed, because he is on my lap, snuggling. He's not sick, hurt or sad. He just wants a lot of cuddling right now. If I'm not available, Daddy or Drama Queen will do. Even Missy in a pinch.

So later today, when he's napping, I'll post this week's giveaway. Stay tuned!