Lent

We had a family discussion about our observance of Lent and what we would be giving up during this time. I had thought about giving up chocolate, but that seemed impossible. I settled on coffee, which is hard, but doable. Drama Queen gave up Dr. Pepper. Again, hard, but doable. I anticipate a lot of whining.

Later that evening, I asked Mr. Clairol what he had decided one. When he told me, I quailed. I begged him to think of something else, anything else. But he is determined and so, for the next several weeks, my life won't be worth a plug nickel.

My husband is giving up....Mountain Dew.

That's right. Cold turkey, with only grape Crush to soothe the pangs of withdrawal. Lest you think I'm being melodramatic, I will share that he polishes off a 2 liter bottle every day and a half or so. Plus the 52 ouncer he drinks at work. It is an addiction. And him coming down from that addiciton is something too frightening to ponder. He will be grumpy. He will be irritable. He will be a monster. And I have to live with him.

But his sacrifice inspired me. It made my giving up coffee seem paltry. I know Lent isn't about a competition, but I want him to have support during this detox, so I'll be suffering some withdrawal pangs of my own.

I'm giving up romance novels for Lent. Just as the new JD Robb comes out and I have finally scored her Suite 606 anthology from the library. Be proud of me, because I returned it this morning, without even cracking the spine. And I'll admit, a little piece of me died as I dropped it in the chute. I did not, however, shed a tear. Be proud, because it was an achievement.

Or you can ask, as my husband did, "What on earth will you read???"

The PROJECT From Hell Preschool

Our preschool teacher this year has a project for us. Since it's a year-long task, it earns the title of PROJECT. Her reasoning is that since this is ostensibly a parenting class, we should have a mid-term. Just shoot me now, okay?

Ever since grade school, I have hated school projects. Most of the time, it's a relatively fun thing, but the "have to" component really bothers me. I tend to rebel against forcible work. I'd like to say it's my independent spirit, but in reality, I'm lazy.

The PROJECT consists of a 3" binder that is to be filled with scrapbooking style layouts of school events, pictures, art work, etc. Really, shoot me. Now.

I am entirely lacking the scrapbook gene. If I wasn't so poor, I would pay Andrea $100 just to do the damn thing. I've tried. And this isn't a potshot at you scrapbookers. Mostly because Andrea is one and she can beat me up. It's just not for me. There are a lot of things I do well. Scrapbooking is definitely not one of them. Lucky for me, my husband ranks sex and a well-cooked meal above recording precious memories.

We started this PROJECT at our monthly curriculum meeting this week, and I got jack shit done. I sat around, laughing and talking, ignoring the dirty looks from the "good mommies." See? That's the rebel lazy thing coming into play. I played it off by saying I was culling good ideas from my neighbors. I don't think anyone bought it. This crew is smarter than that.

I just wasn't feeling it. I didn't like the color choices of background paper and while I had scissors, tape and glue sticks, it wasn't gonna happen. Not then, not there.

This isn't to say I'm blowing the book off. I'm not. I have several layouts done. I even made a collage of Missy's valentines. Sure, it looks like ass, but that isn't the point. At least, I hope it's not, because if it is, I'm screwed! No! The point is, I did it. I made it happen. And I will keep making it happen, if I can just find the rest of my pictures. And get Missy to actually do an art project or two.

Ready. Aim. Fire! Please.

I Love You Guys. And I'm Not Even Drunk.

I need to take a little moment and thank my "followers." No, I haven't flipped out and decided I am the Messiah or anything like that. But there are several of you that clicked that little link that brings my words of wit and wisdom and whining to you on a regular basis. Thank you.

I have to say, I think about you all on a daily basis. The other day, I saw a red, white and blue rag rug and thought, Hmmm, that would look so cute in Marnie's kid's room! I regularly regale my mother with David's hilarious recaps. And those of you on Facebook are not safe from my profane little comments as D and Bubba's sis already know.

But Ramona is even worse than I am , so watch out!

I love you guys. You are a circle of friends. You keep me from getting crazier than I already am. And you help me just say no to the Google. Thank you. Gracias. Domo Arigato. Danke. Merci

That's all the thank-yous I know and Drama Queen is at school. Bummer.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

Rainy Mornings

Revelation, Repeated

So, my gall stones. Yeah. It's an obesity-related disease, did you all know that? I did not. While you can have gall stones and be thin, being obese puts you at risk for it. As it does many other things. Yes, I've been googling gall stones. Shut up.

Turns out I'm begging for high blood pressure, breast cancer, heart disease, diabetes and oh yeah, gout. Because after I googled gall stones, I googled obesity related diseases. SHUT UP! I like knowing what I'm up against here. I don't want gout, you guys. Have you ever seen someone with gout? It is nasty. Nasteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Years ago, Dr. Barbie told me that I had no business being as healthy as I was. Since I was fat. Because yes, my cholesterol was low, my blood pressure was great and my sugars were well within normal ranges. But I was still fat. So I shouldn't let all these great test results lull me into a false sense of security. Because I was still fat. And killing myself.

You can imagine what my reaction was to that. At least I waited until I was out of the examining room to flip her off. And my new doctor is more diplomatic (read this as kind), but the fact remains that I stand perched on the edge of a slippery, slippery slope. My body is starting to pay the price for all the abuse I put it through.

So this is no longer about wanting to look good in a pair of jeans, have more energy, keep up with my kids, give my husband a hot wife. This is about life. Not quality of, but quantity. Dr. Barbie was right and I should have listened to her then, instead of grousing about blond bitches with medical degrees.

I've made some bad choices. As my mother says, unhappy choices have unhappy consequences. And abdominal surgery is one hell of an unhappy consequence. So I'm back to it. Counting calories, exercising, shedding the weight that is slowly killing me. I can't help but see the poison symbol on every package of cookies in the grocery store. Food has to stop being my medication of choice, my celebration of choice, my entertainment of choice.

It feels like I've said all this before. That makes me sad. Because I'm still at the same place. There's been no progress. Of course, back then I was still only at risk. That's changed. It's real now.

I promise to make with the funny again. But right now, I'm busy freaking the hell out.

It's All Rather Galling

I went in on Wednesday to have an ultrasound.

Ultrasounds suck.

I used to look forward to them. Back in the days when I was gestating and dying to see that little heart a'beatin' and the little limbs a'flailin'. Ah, good times. Didn't even matter that my bladder was on the verge of exploding and soaking the tech in projectile urine. Nope. That little baby made it all worthwhile.

But there is no tiny flailing, heart beating baby these days. No there is only a gall bladder. One that has been causing significant pain for months now. One that refuses to digest anything even remotely fatty, which has led to the complete absence of *sniff* Arby's in my life. Oh and an ultrasound tech who is trying to dig the actual gall bladder out from between my ribs. I think she may have cracked my sternum. She was much nicer when I was pregnant. Just saying.

I got a letter in the mail Saturday. My gall bladder is apparently "full of stones" and has "questionable thickness in the wall." Dear Kaiser, please don't send me test results full of alarming and abstract information. I went from being completely calm to fucking-freaked-the-hell-out in the space of two minutes! What does it mean "full of stones?" Is that just a generic term or is my poor little gb literally full of calcified crap? And questionable thickening of the walls? WHAT DOES THAT MEEEEEEEEEEAN?

Now I have to wait until next week for a surgical consult. The surgeon will explain what the situation is and what my options are. (if I have any besides live with it and surgery) I didn't really think it would come down to actual surgery. I've never done this before. I'm trying to reclaim my previous Zen state of wait and see, but frankly, that ship has done sailed. And the SS What the Hell is Gonna Happen has now taken it's slip.

Naming the Van

You guys know I'm a giant dork and I like to name my cars. I appreciate your keeping the mockery on the down-low.

After much deliberation and getting to know my lovely new van, I stumbled across the perfect name. It's perfect. And stolen. See, I read a little blurb that the gorgeous and sexeeee Jackie over at Taiwan On wrote a few years ago. About her Odyssey. Which she calls the Hotyssey. Oh yeah.

Because I am totally shameless, I am claiming this name for my van. My van is now the Hotyssey. Honest, Jackie, I do feel bad about the blatant theft but damn, girl, that is a great name. Plus, it makes my fourteen year old die a little each time I say it. So I say it. A LOT!

There you have it. Proof that I am a thief. And unoriginal. At least my van has a cool name.

Under The Heading Of What The Hell Were We Thinking?

Most of the time, I feel as if I had a pretty great childhood. I was loved, clothed, fed and sent to school. It was a typical childhood in many, many ways.

But every once in a while, I remember something that makes me do a mental double take and say, "Whoa, that was a little fucked-up."

Like Red Fanny. When we would visit my paternal grandparents, my grandfather would play a little game with us called Red Fanny. I think most of you already see where this is headed. The kids would run around my grandpa as he sat on a chair and he would randomly grab a kid, haul him or her over his lap and spank the kid. Yes, spank. Hard. Not belt or wooden spoon hard, but the name of the game was accurate.

And we would beg for it. BEG! "Please, Grandpa, play Red Fanny, Pleeeease!" I told you it was fucked up! What normal child begs to be spanked? My mom would try to dissuade us, but for some insane reason, Red Fanny was the number one source of amusement at their house. Maybe because the other option was sitting quietly, watching golf or tennis with the adults. I'm not exaggerating. There was always golf or tennis on.

And it had to be Grandpa. He was a big, gruff man, with huge hands. He had this great, growly voice and would inject just the right amount of terror into the game. No one was as scary as him. Not my uncles, not even my dad. Grandpa was the Red Fanny King.

It gets more twisted. That game ranks as one of my top ten childhood memories. My brother and I will look at each other every so often and say, "Do you remember Red Fanny?" and dissolve into laughter. I guess when you're a kid, fun is a relative concept. Spinning in circles until you're so dizzy you fall ass over ankles, telling each other stories about a house you both know damn well isn't haunted, even jumping up on an old pottery wheel and pretending it's a portal to Narnia, those are things that lose their magic as you mature.

But the memories never fade, never lose their wonderful sheen. Luckily, the rosy butt cheeks do. For some of us, anyway.

Love Is Spelled D-A-D-D-Y

Our church's annual Father-Daughter Dance. Missy was awfully excited to go to the "dance party" in her new pink princess dress. She beamed and told me, "I am a beautiful princess and Daddy is my handsome prince." Yes, sweetie, he certainly is.

Every princess knows how to pirouette!

And Conga!

Fueling the dancing machine.

Say Goodnight, Missy.

She had a lovely time. Daddy left with a bubbly, excited princess and came home with a limp little girl, asleep in his strong arms. The next morning, I heard about ice cream and the balloons and ice cream and fish on the jumbo screens and the ice cream and the dancing and oh! They had ICE CREAM!

Like I said, this is an annual event. When Drama Queen was Missy's age, she went with her Poppy (my dad), and had a wonderful time. When Mr. Clairol came into our lives, my dad graciously stepped down, allowing Art to accompany her for the last two years she attended.

Drama Queen and Poppy off to their last dance.

This year, Missy was finally old enough to have a Daddy date. DQ was the one who graciously stood aside this time, since she was too old to attend. She did help as a volunteer and had a lot of fun. Honestly, I think watching her little sister dance and sing and jump around (and eat ice cream!) brought back lovely memories of her own dancing days.

There is a magic between daddies and their little girls. I had it with mine, and now my girls have it with theirs. I cannot think of a more lovely example of love. Happy Love Thursday, everyone!

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

He's got mischief on his mind. Don't let the charming smile fool you.

Shivering In Sac County

It's been cold, gray and raining. I'm going a wee bit crazy.


Somewhere out there, Heather is saying, "Yeah, cry me a freakin' river, babe. We'll talk when it's snowed for weeks at your house."


I don't do well without sunshine. It's a little known fact that I am half-reptile. My mother is a lizard. But without the scales and flicky tongue. She's the first to admit this. She actually liked the menopausal hot flashes at first, saying, "I'm finally warm!"


I didn't realize this was an inherited condition. I used to love the winter. Now, I shrivel up and die. I'm never, ever warm enough. I actually tuck a heating pad under my fleece blanket and down comforter, just so I can warm up my feet enough to fall asleep. I wear three to four layers. I am even seriously thinking about investing long underwear.


I live in CALIFORNIA, people. Long underwear is against the law.


I just want some damn sunshine. Is that too much to ask? Enough to heat up the inside of my car, so I can get in and relax. Seriously, I love that. When you first sit in a hot car and it feels like an oven? I can literally feel the heat sinking into my bones. Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh.


I can't even have a fire most days. My county has decided to be "environmentally responsible," and "playing kissy face with Al Gore's butt"-ish, so now, when the alleged pollution has passed a certain level, no burning is allowed. You know what? I lived in Southern California. Pollution was a friend of mine. And you, Northern California, are not polluted.


Yes, I know if we don't do something about pollution and our carbon footprints, the ice caps will melt and the polar bears will die and the whole earth will get so warm, we'll fry like slugs under salt. I'm so cold, that sounds appealing.


My husband laughs at me. He grew up in Rapid City, South Dakota. He wears shorts and t-shirts all year long. I'm not exaggerating. Ask Andrea. He loves to tell me I don't know cold. I love to reply that he doesn't know how a baseball bat to the groin feels and does he want to find out? What can I say? The cold makes me mean.


It is approximately 69 days until it warms up enough to be tolerable here. That is hoping for an early, warm spring. Send slippers, cocoa and blankets!

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

So Bubba's Sis laid a little challenge on me. Seems Ms. D... has picked up a game, begun by Maggie, in which you are assigned a letter and must find ten things you love that start with said letter. Now, this is volunteer only and I raised my pretty little hand and said, "OOO OOOO Pick me! Pick ME!" Whaddaya know. She did. My letter is the lovely M. And I'm all, shah, make it easier why doncha?


I love M. I love the soft round humm of it, the shapely peaks and valley, her lovely legs...crap. I've been reading too many romance novels.



My Man: Obvious, but true none the less. Particularly when he gets home from work, uniform all grease stained, grimy hands and all. I have quite the fetish. Don't judge me.

Mechanics: See above

Meat: Beef. Rare. Unadorned. Good thing my man is good with the grill.

Morelli: Okay, so Ranger is my first choice, but that doesn't start with M, now does it? Besides, Morelli can call me "cupcake" any day.

Mail: E mail, snail mail, whatever. I'm not crazy about bills so much, but I love cards, letters and samples! Whoo hoo!

Music: Earth, Wind and Fire is a current fave. I'm heavy into the danceable right now. And I sorta dig Miss Brit's new one, Circus. Don't even get me started on Justin Timberlake. It embarrasses Drama Queen to the point of aneurysm.

Movies: I recently saw a movie that blew me away. SO GOOD. But I can't remember the title. Or who was in it. Because I suck. But I deeply dig movies, funny, sad, challenging, intense, shoot 'em- up- bang- bang, pretty much anything. Except The Notebook. I don't have enough estrogen to appreciate that one, I guess.

Marriage: There is something about the comfort of daily life with him, the laughter and joy, as well as the occasional blow-up, that makes me completely happy. It's hell with the wrong one, but heaven when it's right.

Money: I'm shallow. Don't act so surprised.

Medication: I cannot tell you how my life has changed. So many things have leveled out for me. This is a replacement for the last thing I loved, Merlot. The no alcohol thing is an easy trade-off for a little sanity.

So there you have it! My top ten that starts with M! I'm not tagging. You gotta volunteer, so if you want a letter, ask nice. Chocolate wouldn't hurt either. No begging, it just cheapens what we have together.

God's Perfect Gifts

There was a long stretch in my life in which I was a completely content single woman. I had been through marriage. It just wasn't for me. I had a lovely daughter and no pressing need to have more children. I didn't want to compromise. I wanted the messes I cleaned up to be those that I had made. Marriage was fine for other people, but I wasn't the marrying kind.

Boy, was I wrong.

Three weeks after our first date, he looked me in the eye and said flat-out, "I'm off the market. I've found what I'm looking for. I don't need you to say it yet, and if you don't feel the same, it's okay. But you need to know. You're it for me."

Those were his exact words. I knew in that moment I would be getting married again. I hoped that it would work out, but had some pretty significant reservations. You can't be burned as badly as I had been and not get a bit cynical.

Nine years later, I can say I've never been happier. Things aren't perfect. Not by a long shot. But this man is a rock. He is utterly stable, wonderfully strong. How lucky am I, that I wake up next to my best friend every single day? He's given me two more beautiful children. He's given me perspective, confidence and laughter. We laugh a lot. No one makes me laugh the way he does.

He has broadened my horizons. Taught me to play pool. Introduced me to hard rock and blues. Explained innumerable automotive issues to me. Shown me the joy of Volkswagens. Convinced me that (to him, at least) I am beautiful, smart and a great mother.

He is my gift from God and a promise fulfilled. I don't deserve him, but I am keeping him. I have no choice, because he is the other part of me. While we have hobbies and interests that are solely mine or his, for the most part, we are a unit. I can't imagine my life without him.

Thank-you, God, for this man.

A Continuing Rant Against THE F BOOK

Yes, I mean that like "the F word," since I'm thinking of making Facebook my new swear word. Jenny, your children are getting drums and tambourines for Christmas.

This is one of those things that I feel I might regret. Could the bajillion and seven emails I've gotten. Or my complete and utter lack of time these days. Or perhaps my overwhelming need to occasionally withdraw from all social contact, pull the covers over my head and just exist. I would so love a sensory deprivation tank.

I have all these new friends now! A lot of them. And they are "writing on my wall" which I didn't understand at first, but now know is just leaving me a little message, which is nice. Oh and they poke. Yes, Bubba's Sis, I'm looking straight at you, missy! Watch those pokes, only my husband gets to touch me there.

I kid. It's fun, but finding the time to write on people's walls and poke and whatever else these Facebookies do is hard! I was on the computer yesterday, trying to respond to people and in the time it took me to simply find my wall and write back, Missy and Red ate a half pound of grape tomatoes and a small clamshell of blueberries! (What really cracks me up is the fact that there were cookies as well and those were overlooked.)

So those of you on the 'book, the neglected friends, please be patient. I am delighted to see your lovely faces again, particularly Jessica, whom I babysat long, long ago. She's grown now, a gorgeous woman and a mother. Way to make me feel ancient. There are others of course that I am equally delighted to see. But I have three demanding children and a husband who gets snippy if I spend all evening making out with my computer, while he sits on the couch.

Which let me say, WTF? You think he would love the time to watch the Frontlines and 60 Minutes that he records, but noooooo. He sits there and waits for me. I can freakin' feel his eyes on my back! Argh! He wants to watch them with me. Um, hi? I'm your wife. The only part of 60 Minutes that I like is laughing at Andy Rooney's eyebrows. And Frontline is better than Ambien for me. If he keeps this up, I'm going to make him watch Days with me. And I won't answer his "now what's up with these two" questions.

Caving

Jenny called yesterday. I never suspected she had an agenda. But she did.
We're chatting and she comes right out with it.

"Jen, you need to be on Facebook. It's free!" She said other stuff, but I have a bad case of mommy brain and I was probably yelling at one or more of my kids at the time.

I resisted, recalling my foray into MySpace and my lack of knowledge about what you actually do there. I am still in the dark because I am a social moron. But she persisted. And I caved. I am weak and easily led. And Jenny, she knows my buttons. A lifetime as friends will do that. I need to set an expiration on my friendships or something. Next thing I know, Andrea will be getting me into scrapbooking, Ramona will have me adopting and David will have me stuffing dollar bills in go-go boys man-panties. I'd say D and Bubba's Sis would have me at a Bon Jovi concert, but we all know I'd already be there, tossing my undies at Tico Torres.

So come find me on Facebook and be my friend. I don't know how, you'll have to figure it out on your own. Or ask Jenny. Yes, definitely ask Jenny. Harangue her about it, m'kay? Endlessly. Thanks, you guys. You're the best!

Update: One day after my entrance, there are 37 emails in my box, generated by Facebook. Some of them are people I know and like, but a lot are people I barely remember. That freaks me out a little. I don't think I am cool enough for Facebook.

Are You Kidding Me?

Dear Mr. Clairol,

After years of half-assed Valentine's days, good intention and poor follow-throughs, I told you we could take a break this year. I'm secure in your love for me. You tell me every single day that you love me and dude, I believe it. So I don't need a card, flowers, candy, all the assorted flotsam that merchants assure us spells L.O.V.E. Or at least S.E.X.

I figured we could take a break this year. Maybe a movie and a fire, some popcorn. Yeah, that's a typical weekend night, but we don't really need to wait for hours, just to eat a pre-fab meal in a crowded joint. I don't need flowers. I don't need a card. I don't really even want them.

So why on earth do you choose this year to go all out?!? Unh. So now I have to pull a card out of my butt, think about a fancy dinner (because I'm not eating out on V-day. Ain't gonna happen.) oh, and think of a gift for a man that wants for nothing.

Yes, I found the card. I found the gift. I found the candy and you're killing me here. For the record, I wasn't snooping. If you want to hide something, the closet that I'm into 50 times a day is not the place to do it!

Yes, I'm complaining about getting romantic crap. I know. I'm ridiculous. And I will smile and enjoy what you have prepared, with a happy heart, knowing that your love and desire for me to be delighted has motivated you. But next year, we're skipping the big V. I mean it. And you will still get lucky, I promise.

Watching The Grammys

I hate awards shows. Especially the Grammys. But Mr. Clairol heard that AC/DC was up for an award (which, WTF?, but Coldplay just won for a song that is blatant plagiarism, so whatever) so we're watching.

Carrie Underwood is up there in one of David Guest's old bathrobes, singing about getting drunk and married. There's a blond woman playing guitar, just rockin' it. Missy Hoohaw looks at me and says, "I love rock n' roll."

She wants to play the guitar so bad, you guys. Yesterday, I walked in on her playing air guitar to my Pat Benatar CD, DQ taking lead vocals. I wanted to laugh and cry in the same moment, because I could see her, grown and tattooed, traveling with the band. It was surreal, the overlay of an adult on that little body, her fierce expression the same.

We never know what the future holds for our children, but most of us imagine it. I'm pretty sure my mom pictured me married to a much older man, both of us college professors, maybe a child, maybe not. My life could not have turned out more differently if I had set out to make it that way. I can see futures for Big Red and Drama Queen, but Missy? Hers eludes me. She's a complex personality and just when I think I have her pegged, she does a 180.

I just hope she saves me tickets to her shows.

I'm going to say this and I hope you all don't hate me for it. Kid Rock kinda does it for me. He looks like Mr. Clairol, except I make my husband shower more often. I know, I'm ashamed and seeking counseling immediately.

And I just saw Nicole Kidman sit down prematurely as the entire audience was giving Jennifer Hudson a standing ovation. Classy, chica. Also, pretty sure Mr. Clairol will be saving this recorded program, just for Heidi Klum's Guitar Hero commercial. Girl's got legs. Good thing I'm not insecure.

That Jonas brother singing is So. Totally. Gay. Just sayin'. That or he thinks he's Mick Jagger. And you...the curly one, you do not get to say, "C'mon, Stevie." You show that man some damn respect! It is Mr. Wonder to you, punk. And "I'll take this one, Stevie" on Very Superstitious?????? I'ma gonna bitch slap that little boy.

I don't really like the Jonas Brothers. Could you tell?

Blink 182 is making Travis Barker open the envelope. That's just mean, boys. He's in a cast. And I'm not thinking Coldplay is rock...pop would be my guess, but I'm not a fan, so it's probably just me.

Holy Crap. Katy Perry can't sing! She sounds like a really bad AI audition. I'm pretty impressed by today's technology, because girlie can't hit a note to save her life!

Okay, I'm done. They're threatening me with Kenny Chesney and I just can't deal with that. I cannot be expected to endure Da Chez and Carrie Underwood in one evening. Especially without alcohol. I suck at live blogging, what can I say?

Beth Is Playing StripTag

Beth got tagged. Beth tagged me. I was looking for blog post ideas and this seemed like an answer to prayer. Voila!

Make a list of things you can see without getting up: My computer and the completely cluttered desk, a huge bin of books that need to be donated to the library, a roaring fire, my favorite reading chair, my kitchen table and Missy Hoohaw playing with princess paper dolls, my backyard basking in the sunshine.

What were you like when you were five? Pretty loudmouthed and obnoxious. Good thing I've matured, eh?

What are you wearing now? A blue fleece pullover, jeans, tennies

What story/book/novel have you read over and over again in your life?Sense and Sensibility (Austen) A classic, one of those novels that I still cheer at the end.
Wide Sargasso Sea (Rhys) The story of Mr. Rochester's first wife, brilliantly written. I don't like sequels to classics as a rule, especially when written by modern authors, but the author handles the characters as if she originated them.
Whitney My Love (McNaught) Possibly the best Regency romance ever written.
Naked In Death (Robb) Roarke. That's all I really have to say.
One for the Money (Evanovich) I've read this at least twenty times and I still laugh out loud. Every single time.

What’s the last thing you read/are currently reading? The Lace Reader by Brunonia Barry

Do you nap a lot? Only when I'm pregnant. Otherwise, I can't sleep in the daylight.

Who was the last person you hugged? My husband, plus Missy and Red, who cannot see us hug without demanding to be included.

What’s your current fandom/obsession/addiction? Brotherhood of the Black Dagger books by J.R. Ward. I bought one at WalMart because I was desperate for a book and as soon as I finished it, I ran to Barnes and Noble to buy the others.

What was the last thing you ate today? A Tony Roll at my favorite sushi place. Beth blogged about trying her first piece of sushi and I have wanted it ever since!

What websites do you always visit when you go online? MSN, my bank, my Blogger dashboard, then all my blog buddies.

What was the last thing you bought? Pears, bananas, laundry detergent, white socks, diapers. Costco day!

What are you listening to right now? Van Halen's greatest hits

What movie are (or were!) you most excited to show your kids? Depends on the kid.
DQ: Anne of Green Gables, Emma, Sense and Sensibility
Missy: Beauty and the Beast
Red: Toy Story

If you could have any super power, what would it be? The power to read minds. I always want to know what people are thinking!

What is your favorite weather, and why? Clear skies, high 90's, light breeze.

What time do you usually get up? 5:00am

What is your most challenging goal right now? To lose one hundred pounds.

Say something to the person who tagged you: Beth, you complete me.

If you could have a house–totally paid for, fully furnished–anywhere in the world, where would you want it to be? Costa Rica

Favorite vacation spot? Tahoe, in the winter.

What is your favorite children’s book? This question is almost impossible for me. Harriet the Spy is the first that pops into my mind, so I'll go with that.

Name one thing you just can’t resist no matter how bad it is for you: Cheeseburgers from The Habit.

If you could meet anyone famous - I don't know, could I make out with them? If I could, Vin Diesel (I don't care if he's gay!) If not, President and First Lady Obama.

If you could go back in time to any part of your life, when would you revisit? High School. So many things I would do differently!

If you're reading this, consider your ass tagged, sucka! Copy the questions, paste them in your blog and link back in my comments. Kisses!

Getting In Touch With My Inner Beeetch

Y'all, it's getting bad. My crabby is taking on epic proportions and turning into no-holds-barred-bitchy. The kind of bitchy that loses friends and alienates strangers. I should honestly come with a warning label these days.

This is what made it clear to me. I just redacted an entire post in which I bitch about a blogger whom I have loved for literal years, but whom lately is just climbing my spine. I was in full rant mode about a give-away she recently did. I didn't enter, so no, I'm not pissed about not winning! But as I went back and read the actual post I was bitching about, I realized it's not as snarky and hurtful as I read it to be.

It's not her, it's me.

So, I think I need an attitude adjustment. Or maybe just to pull my head outta my ass and look around at rainbows and ponies and butterflies. Except I hate Mariah Carey, so maybe not. I'm really glad I resisted leaving the trollish comment that first occured to me. Sometimes, okay, all the times, it pays to think before you type.

Could it be that I am finally learning a lesson?

Speaking of giveaways, my homegirl, JennyontheSpot has a soundtrack and hoodie from the new movie, He's Just Not That Into You, that she is giving away! My girlie has hit the big time! Go over there and get yourself entered. I'm abstaining, since I am her bestest friend and my winning would probably cause a scandal, ya know?

Okay, so I'm not entering because the hoodie wouldn't fit me. Satisfied?

It's Not All Tears And Tissues

Things I am loving right now:

Brotherhood of the Black Dagger books by JR Ward.

Tetley tea with condensed milk.

Fires in the fireplace.

Welbutrin

My new van

Missy and Red, snuggled on either side of me, reading a book.

Black Eyed Peas, Elephunk album

My heating pad

El Pollo Loco

Update: Amy's comment reminded me that cinnamon toast is another thing I'm loving. Homemade raisin bread, toasted crisp with real butter and cinnamon sugar. Oh, my hades.

Just need to remind myself of the good things right now.

More Missed Connections

I love Craig's List!

You: Gorgeous black hair, red lips, black plastic glasses, and a sweet ass. Me: Brown guy with killer smile and tattoos We were at the grocery store and made eye contact. You smiled, I smiled back. You told me I look like someone you know. I told you that you remind me of my lesbian bff who sometimes have sexual fantasies about. You slapped me and stormed off. I really really think we connected so email me….

Oh my, sweetie, let's talk about the various definitions of "connect," shall we?

From a 49 year old man:

Looking for my beautiful Asian princess! Must be physically fit and financially stable! A classy and very clean women! Love to cuddle -very affectionate! Hit me back.........

Honey, anyone over the age of 30 should not be closing with "hit me back..." And you know he's a paunchy pervert. Do you think the plural was intentional?

hi im a mail looking for a good looking female to be freinds with benefits if interested send me a pic and u will receive mine and we can go from there

Would one of the benefits be spelling lessons?

I've lived next to you for years. I see you every once in awhile and we have short neighborly chats. I just want you to know that I think you're gorgeous and I think about you all the time. I catch myself fantasizing about you, and I know it's wrong, but I can't help myself. Like I said... I'm sure you never read these, but just in the off chance that you do, I thought you might want to know!

This is one of the sweet ones, but also, maybe a little stalker-ish. I'm undecided.

A Rookie Mistake

Remember how I was all, OMG, Kix are addicting, it's all my children want to eat, blah, blah, blah?

Yeah, not so much. I should have known. This isn't exactly my first rodeo. But I bought three more boxes of the stuff this Saturday.

Guess who doesn't like Kix anymore!

Excuse me while I go eat a bowl of cereal.

My New Baby

Well, I have a new van.



She's great. Really. A white Honda Odyssey. I'm having to fight the urge to enroll my children in soccer, ballet and gymnastics, but other than that, it's good.



But she's so...average. Driving my Vanagon, I stood out. She was different, special. The Odyssey, not so much. In fact, it's going to be a real bitch, finding her in a parking lot. There are an awful lot of white Odysseys out there.



But she runs. She seats seven. All the buttons and knobs work. I can even open the doors by remote. Which is pretty sweet. And best yet, she's not that damn pick-up. I can't complain. So I won't. For a change.

There she is. I must still be mourning the Vanagon, because I can't bring myself to name her. Yet. She's probably an Ashley or a Michelle. I dunno.

Any ideas?