WHEW!

I just read that an anonymous source confirmed that NBC has given the green light to two more episodes of the show Friday Night Lights. I can breath again.


This show caught Mr. Clairol's attention when it first began and has been a "must see" for us ever since. We love this show. I've been a fan of Connie Britton since her days on Spin City and she really shines as Tami Taylor. She has spectacular chemistry with Kyle Chandler and their fictional marriage seems so real it's hard to believe they're not a real life couple. Her working mother weariness rings true and as the mother of both a teenager and small children, I ought to know. FNL tells the story of a town and a culture that is so foreign to me, it makes me feel like an alien just watching it. Do people really get that excited about high school football? And then I remember the hordes at the Corcoran Panthers games.


The show may be set in a high school, but it isn't a high school show. The stories focus on the adults as much as the students and the student's story lines are real. None of the gloss and sheen of other high school centric shows, just honest to life struggles. A high school senior struggles as the grandmother who raised him descends into dementia. At the same time, he loses his starting quarterback position to a freshman phenom.


The freshman is struggling with a father who is so controlling, it borders on disease, but the actor playing his father manages to portray love and concern as well. It's just great writing and wonderful acting. And it doesn't hurt that Kyle Chandler, who plays Coach Taylor is really, really good looking. Not in a George Clooney sort of way. Just like the hot dad of one of your friends. Though as I think back, I can't remember I can't really remember any of my friends having hot dads. In fact, I think, for a time, my dad was the hot dad. Ewwwwwww.


I digress. Fans of the show have been holding their breath for a while now. Last year's renewal was something of a miracle and ratings have stayed low. This has shades of Freaks and Geeks for me, another show that I absolutely loved that got the axe because of low ratings. So hearing that there are at least a couple more seasons is a relief. To be honest, I'd probably be relieved to have one less show to watch, but this is one I don't want to go away. And c'mon, what else is on Friday nights at 9? And I really do not want to live with my husband if this shows goes away.

If you're home on Friday night, consider turning this show on. It's worth a look, I promise.

Do Not Get Me * Angry.

I've had trouble with this post. A lot. Mostly because every time I try to write it, every sentence has more curses than vanilla words. Not good. That's how angry I am about this, something that happened two weeks ago. So for your edification, I've inserted an asterisk where a curse once dwelt. Count them up. It's enormous fun.

I'm not an "animal" person, for the most part. I like them and all, but my life wouldn't be missing anything without an animal in it. But I married an animal lover and then bred two. So I am conscious of animals and care. A lot. Because at the end of the day, they are God's creation and I am called to care for them.

Last week, I was putting the little ones in the car, sort of in a hurry, because we were running late to pick up Drama Queen. A white Acura pulls up on my cross street and a young man gets out. He opens the trunk and pulls out two puppies, probably about 6 months old. Yes, I said the ***trunk. * loser. I'm watching him, out of the corner of my eye, since Big Red is making a break for the back seat, where Mommy can't reach him. A random white van pulls up and the driver tells this *loser that he can't have dogs in the park without a leash.

* loser *throws these poor dogs back in his *trunk and pulls down my street. And now I'm really watching this **. He gets back out of the car and *throws these puppies into the **street! And now, I'm shocked. What the *? He tootles around his *car for a bit, then gets in and takes off, without the dogs! WHAT THE ***? The dogs are looking a little confused, sniffing around I'm thinking the * maybe forgot them, but no. The *** abandoned two defenseless puppies on a busy corner. What a **!

At this point, I'm torn. I can't put them in the yard with the Beast, because while he's friendly, he's territorial and very alpha. I don't want these dogs traumatized, especially when the only thing I know about them is that their owner was a ***. So I round them up and lure them into my garage, giving them some food and water. Then I call animal control. Because I can barely keep the dog I have in kibble, much less add two more pooches into the mix. Though they were beautiful dogs and appeared to be well cared for.

By this time, I'm almost a 1/2 hour late picking up DQ, but I'm not sweating yet, because the kids like to hang out and visit after school. I'm on hold for *eternity, but finally I get someone, who tells me I have the wrong agency. Urgh. I transfer to my cell, call the right agency and find out they can't get anyone to me for two days. Not okay, since the longer I keep these puppies, the more attached my kids get. And we are not having any more dogs.

So I get the lovely job of taking two puppies to the **pound. I hate the pound. It is so sad and all the dogs are so pathetic and need homes and oh Lord, I just can't deal with more sorrow right now. But I did. Because someone had to, since the ** that had them didn't have the * balls to do it his own ** self. And I cried the whole way home, even though the manager of the pound told me she was going to take one of them home as soon as the dog was cleared.

So now you know. People who abandon animals make me incredibly mad. And that *** better pray I never clap eyes on him again. Because I will go up to him and give him a ** piece of my * mind. And I won't use asterisks.

Quick updates in bullet form.

* Except for a outlet cover and a plant, the bathroom is done. I go in there and swoon, but it's a lot of white and I'm trying to figure out how to break it up. Once I've finished, I promise to post pics.

*Drama Queen is sick. She has emerged from the Pit of Despair approximately twice in the last 24 hours. I am sympathetic, to a point. I allow her to call the house phone when she needs something. I bought her a copy of the Twilight movie to aid her recovery. I will not, however, risk my neck navigating my way through her room, delivering soup and Sprite on a tray. She must come and get it. I know, I'm really mean. It's even more fun when they're sick!

*I have baked three loaves of bread and two batches of cookies this week. There is not a crumb left in the house. My children appear to be carb-loading. And I confess, I ate most of the cookies. Snickerdoodles, man. Snicker-fuckin'-doodles.

*My dog is in love with a skunk. She appears to be resisting his advances.

*Something happened last week that pissed me off so much, I am still working on a post that doesn't feature more swear words than vanilla ones. Hopefully, I'll have it up on Monday.

*We watched Pineapple Express last Monday and I laughed so hard, diet Pepsi shot out my nose. That is painful, by the way.

*My legs and eyebrows have reached their natural state of being again. This is bad. Because I love my husband (and it is effortless), I have kept my pits bare. TMI?

*This weekend I have a birthday party, a sleepover to bake for, church, taxes, a doctor's appointment and massive cleaning to do. Anyone want to trade me places?

*I'm having a recurring nightmare that I wake up on Easter morning and have forgotten to buy Easter baskets for the kids. This is weird, because I have three complete baskets sitting on the floor of the Bus.

*Big Red has his first ear infection. I'm so proud!

That's it, folks. Actually, there's tons more, but I don't want to overload you with the glamour of my scintillating life.

Things I Have Said Today That Should Never Have To Be Said

1. "It's probably a bad idea to hit out friends with hammers."

2. "Please take the pillow off your brother's face."

3. "Paint is not a styling product."

4. "Don't lick the bottoms of your feet."

5. "Underwear goes on our bottoms, not our heads."

6. "If you put the cereal up your nose, please don't put it in your mouth."

7. "If it has glitter or glue on it, it isn't meant to be eaten."

And it is only 1:00 pm. I'm thinking I'll need a drink tonight, because let's face it, anti-depressants only go so far.

Better Living Through Chemicals

Life has become a struggle as of late. It is during times like these that I generally throw up my hands, buy several gallons of Ben and Jerry's and a slew of torrid romances, then hide under the covers until life has become less overwhelming. Thanks to Welbutrin, I now paint my bathroom.

I don't quite know how to process this phenomenon. I mean, really, ice cream and Whitney, My Love vs. paint and sandpaper? I'm simply not used to making positive choices. Even more frightening, the decisions I'm making burn calories, rather than accumulate them. Scary. Very, very scary. I might even be able to wear my fat jeans without putting crease marks in my skin.

When we moved into this house four years ago, I had a list of things that must. be. done. The top five included the removal of wallpaper. Because I don't like wallpaper. I blame my mother. She has passed her prejudice against wallpaper down with her wide hips and talent for cooking. *If you have wallpaper and adore it, please know that I lam not dissing you or your decor. The most attractive homes reflect their owners' taste. I've been in many papered homes and truly admired the rooms.*

Red's room was the first to get stripped and frankly, four walls of paper attached with rubber cement on top of paint that was on top of yet more wallpaper, cured me of this disdain for a while. I was pregnant, then I had a tiny baby and a toddler, then a preschooler and a toddler. That takes a girl's mind off the home decor tangent.

But then the bathroom wallpaper began curling.

My OCD kicked into hyper-drive.

Large strips were torn off the walls at random.

"Must be the kids," I said. Bad Mommy!

Of the two bathrooms, I've been most obsessed with the one allotted for guests and children. It's the one that gets the most use and it's dark brown tile and tan faux marble sink confused my inner decorator. She is afraid of brown, all earth tones, in fact. She prefers bright colors against white. That isn't happening, since I refuse to tear up tile and buy a new vanity. She hates me, but I don't care.

Then I found it. Sweet little jungle-themed decor in the perfect shades for that bathroom. It was inspiring, even if I didn't want to spend $100 on the entire suite. I could compromise and only get the throw rug and shower curtain. It matched the tile and vanity. I could finally do away with the seashell paper that has been haunting my nightmares! Huzzah! And then, not huzzah. No huzzah. Not even a huz-peep. My dear husband decreed that our bathroom had to be completed before I could start tearing the kids' to shreds.

PPHHBBTTTT!

I suspect this was a stalling tactic, but he underestimated the difference medication has made. In the pre-pill days, I would have hemmed and hawed about it for a year or more, then eventually decided on the direction I wanted. Finances would limit me for months. Another year would pass before I creeped into action. But not now. The paper, she is stripped. The walls, they are prepped. The cabinets are sanded and painted. Tomorrow, the walls will have one, possibly two coats and I can begin reassembling my bathroom. It has cost me $30. TOTAL. And I love it. Mr. Clairol is pretty much flabbergasted, which is at least as rewarding as the shiny new bathroom.

Next weekend: Project No More Seashells!

Reassurance, In A Hundred Words or Less

I shouldn't post about this. I know better. It's sure to jinx everything and my next few days are going to be horrific. But oh, it was a good day. The sort of good day that settles into your bones, brings tears to your eyes. You tuck it away and cherish it in your heart. Or share it with the Internet. Whatever floats your boat.


On Friday, Missy Hoohaw told me about her day. In detail. Unprompted.


And you are staring at your screen wondering what rock I live under, that this small thing would be momentous. I know, it seems so trivial. But for us, it isn't. I've shared before that Missy marches to the beat of her own drummer. She is usually at the end of the educational developmental spectrum. When compared to her physical development, which is currently more in line with a six-year-old than a four and a half year-old girl, it is particularly glaring. She looks like the oldest child in the class, when she is usually the youngest. People base their expectations on what she looks like. This makes it hard for her and for me.


Watching your child struggle is heart-breaking. When she doesn't have the words to express her frustration and sadness, she hides and cries. The fear in her eyes when confronted by new people or even people that she doesn't know well is agonizing. It's so hard to watch her classmates draw recognizable items in their pictures, even form letters and numbers, then not compare them to her loose scribbles. I listen to her speak in rehearsed phrases that she takes from movies or things she hears us say. When she likes dinner, she gives me a 20 line scene from Kung-Fu Panda, a movie she's seen twice.


We had to have her tested for autism when she was three. Her preschool teacher insisted, even though I pointed out that she had little experience with any PDD, and that I had taught autistic children for years. I figured my experience gave my opinion more weight. And I was vindicated. The report stated that she was an exceptionally intelligent child with a stubborn streak. I come back to that often, every time I become afraid that her social development is never going to progress, that she will always be the child in the corner, the one that is victimized and ignored.

After each preschool day, I ask her what she did. She almost always responds with the phrase, "I played." You'd never know she's quite the conversationalist. Occasionally, I can draw out some facts about the day by asking leading questions. But Friday, on the way home, before I even had a chance to ask, she told me she didn't like snack. And then she told me that she had done art and described the project. As I was untangling my jaw from the dashboard, she continued on, informing me that in science, they learned that snakes and birds and lizards and chicks came from eggs. And that the quail eggs the class had been incubating had hatched and there were five chicks and they were "so little and fuzzy and cute!" I was then told about how she played with Victoria and Sydney and that Maya was a little mean to her. She didn't get a turn on the swing when she wanted it. She cried a little, but went to the bathroom during circle and then stopped crying.

I have tears in my eyes as I type this. It is such a huge milestone for us and it reassures me that she is normal, there is nothing at all wrong with her. She marches to her own beat and that's okay. I love that about her. Even when it makes me crazy.

Win It!

Want to win a Creative Vedo Pocket Video Cam? Head over to Momlogic and enter to win!

Das Bewbs

This goes out to all my full-figured sisters out there. Because they will get what I'm saying.

You have two categories of bras. I know you do, don't even deny it. There are the good bras, those that wrestle the melons into a position that closely resembles what nature blessed us with at puberty. I say melons not to be crude, but because the girls are in fact each the size of an actual cantaloupe. I know this because my husband and I once did a scientific study. He wanted to do it in the produce aisle, but I said, "No, buy the damn cantaloupe and let me at least pretend to possess some class."

Then there are the comfortable bras. The ones that don't make you feel like you're being strangled from the ribcage. These bras have a downside. They are comfortable because they allow the twins to...relax. Slouch. Droop, drag, and trip you. Yes, I figured you knew what I meant. There's no shame. Gravity can only be denied for so long. Eventually, everything succumbs. Men suffer as well. Trust me, it ain't pretty.

You should keep these bras separated. And it would be smart to do a quick boob check before leaving the house. Wearing a comfy bra under a fitted tee is all well and good in your own home. We all do that. Some of us even take the "let 'em flop" approach. But going to the store like that? Uh-uh. It's not fair to the shopping public. Because did that little old man deserve to have his walker tangled up in my nipples? No, he certainly didn't. And yes, the mom of the squalling four-year-old may appreciate that I (inadvertently, of course) smacked the tears right out of her kid with my left hooter, but she won't be laughing when the therapy bills start rolling in. Plus, that poor little checker didn't know what to charge me when my jugs hitched a ride on the conveyor belt. Luckily, I had swiped a cantaloupe code sticker and saved the day.

Mandatory bra checks, ladies. It's a life dignity saver.

I'm Saying Uncle

Ever have one of those days where the Universe says, "Hmmm. She's gettin' a little cocky. Time to take her down a peg,"? Then proceeds to bitch-slap you into whimpering submission?

Yes? Well, quell coinky-dink. Me too.

I woke up feelin' gooooooooooooood. Mr. Clairol was taking DQ to school, I had her lunch made up, and I had time to take a shower before the "I Need Breakfast/Juice/A Diaper" chorus began.

The kids were dressed and fed before 8 am. (Don't laugh, this is a friggin' accomplishment in my house.) I had bread rising, beds made, rooms clean and laundry waiting to be folded. Teeth were brushed, as was hair and Missy's booster was waiting for Andrea's pick up.

Needless to say, I was feeling like a homemakin' pimp. Yeah, baybeeee.

Then Andrea called and I realized that I was supposed to be at preschool today. And hadn't written it down. So I got shoes on the boy, grabbed my tea and a slice of bread, then stuffed everyone in the van and sped to the school. After throwing Red in Andrea's van, I skidded into school, signed our spawn in and tried to catch my breath.

I spent 3 1/2 hours attempting to write down everything a preschooler did and said. And then I died.

No such luck. Then I foolishly went through Taco Bell for lunch. That bought me about 4 hours of agony. That and the fact that while Andrea and I attempted adult conversation, we were interrupted every 10 minutes by various wails, screams, complaints and demonstrations of youthful mischief. We killed the children and buried them in the back, then toasted our newly discovered free time with a bottle of whiskey I gathered my brood and dashed to the middle school, where I waited for a half hour for my daughter to show. The daughter whose phone was turned off. The daughter who said, "Well you're always so late, I didn't think to check."

Honda's new ad campaign should feature the fact that the Odyssey roof rack will comfortably hold a teenage body, bungee cords not included.

We finally got home and the wee ones were put down. For a nap, people. I'm only 24% serious about actually killing them. A friend and her daughter dropped by and just as I was breaking the bad news that my kids were napping *insert happy dance here* a little diapered butt comes scampering around the corner, followed by a larger Pull-upped butt. Turns out the 20 some minutes they slept in the car was very refreshing. Awesome. Frickin', frackin' fuckin' awesome. Somebody shoot me now. Please.

After a nice visit, interspersed with more crying, complaints and play food served as meals, our friends left. I looked at the clock and hello! It's 4:30. Guess who hadn't defrosted anything for dinner, was out of pasta and cream of anything, and had two cranky, semi-tired children on her hands? The woman whose darling hubby brought home fried chicken for dinner. Which is currently burning a hole through my stomach as I type!

It gets better. Remember how I mentioned a bunch of laundry, waiting to be folded? Well I had gathered it up and stowed it in my bedroom when my company arrived. Except a single pair of panties. Which I found later and stuffed in my pocket. And when I ducked into the library to pick some books, guess what fell out of my pocket? Go on, guess. That's right. My panties. In the public library. Because hey, when the Universe takes you down a peg, it doesn't fool around.

So much for being the Homemakin' Pimp. Better hang up the hat and cane, because it turns out the universe isn't fond of pimps. And neither am I.

Hear that, Universe?

Getting Lost

A while ago, Jenny started urging me to start watching LOST. More specifically, to rent season one of the show, since she claimed I would be lost (pun intended) if I just tuned in.

I agreed and fully intended to put those babies on my Netflix queue. And then I forgot.

I know, I'm shocked as well. I never forget things. Except my tooth fairy obligations, the date of my anniversary and on occasion, my kid's birthdays. And then there's the neglecting to send packages. That's a doozy. I recently came upon a cache of packages that I meant to take to the post office. Birthday gifts for Jenny's kids. A collection of pictures and artwork for my grandmothers and in-laws. Not one, but TWO packages for my friend David, which I think once had sticky notes with his address attached. Jenny will not be shocked to hear that I did not put his address in my Rolodex, opting instead in the much smarter and far less permanent step of sticky notes attached to the packages. I had to ask her for her new address about six times, I think. I am a raging idiot, but I'm cute and I cook well, so it evens out.

Did I have a point here? I think I might have forgotten it...

Oh yes, LOST. Well, my mother began partaking of that particular brand of kool-aid a while back. She too, was encouraging me to watch this show, one that I had resisted, despite the fanatic zealots that work to spread this gospel. My mom knows me better than Jenny. She wouldn't drop it. Every single time I spoke to her, she asked if we had started watching yet.
"Not yet," I'd tell her, "we've got other things to watch." So she harassed and harangued until I realized that if I didn't comply, I was going to get the first season as a birthday gift. We finally put it on the queue and got the first four episodes. I figured we'd watch a couple of episodes, let her know it wasn't quite our cup o' tea and then the matter could be laid to rest.

Because I'm not a sci-fi kinda girl. Buffy? Oh yeah, baby, bring it on! Firefly and Serenity? I adore. ADORE. But I chalk that up to my near-obsessive love of all things Whedon. We're more of a "Friday Night Lights" family. (Which, by the way, is an incredible show. Even if you hate football, like me.)

But I underestimated the sheer addictiveness of this show. Thirty minutes into the pilot and we were hooked. Pouring the kool-aid into our mouth from the pitcher, y'all. We've just finished that first disc and I am considering running out to Blockbuster to get the second. I hate Blockbuster, but that's how much I want to see what that mysterious beastie in the woods is and what the hell is up with the French woman's transmission and what exactly did Kate do to merit a Federal Marshall tailing her to Australia???? Yes, hooked.

The best part is that we watch it with Drama Queen, so it counts as family time. I like this. Sure, I'd like it more if we were shooting rabid rabbits with plungers or even playing Mille Bourne, but I'm the mother of a teenager and I have learned that you can't be picky when it comes to family time.

I've succumbed. Assimilated. Bowed low to peer pressure. And you know what? I like it.

To The Drivers On Greenback Lane

You know that woman? The one driving the minivan, rocking out in plain-ass view of everyone?

That's me. Yep. I'm the white woman in the sunglasses, singing at the top of my lungs, so loud you can hear me through the closed windows in both our cars. The one blasting music that just doesn't seem to be minivan appropriate. The one seat-dancing and pointing and slapping her steering wheel.

And I don't give a damn that you're looking at me as if I am crazy. I don't care (much) that you're pointing and laughing. I'm having a great time and frankly, you look like you need a laxative or something. And the teenage girls in the Jetta? I saw you roll your eyes. And guess what? You're not even a fraction as cool as you think you are. And yes, I did actually stick my tongue out at you and laugh when you flipped me the bird. When you started screaming "Stupid bitch," at me? I just turned Fergie up. You'll learn.

Takes more than a finger to bring me down when I've got Black Eyed Peas playing.

Just be glad I'm not your mother.

Sign Of The Times

I've been forming a friendship with a woman I've known for almost three years now. The first year, we were ships in the night. The second year, we started the mom chats and getting to know each other business.

She knows me now. We were talking about kids music and the irritation of having Bananaphone on a continous loop. (I can't even look at a damn banana without singing "cellular, modular, interactivodular. Fuck you very much, Raffi.) On Wednesday, she waltzes into preschool with three cds of kids music that won't make me want to stick a McDonald's straw through my eardrum. A compilation of Sesame Stree and Muppet Show songs (swooooon), a Sandra Boynton cd and a G-rated Johnny Cash mix.

Oh my freaking hades. I cannot tell you how much I love Johnny Cash. While I'm not a modern country music fan, I have an affection for old country. Emmylou Harris, Patsy Cline, Merle Haggard, John Prine...they all live in my CD collection. I own three Dolly Parton CDs and I confess, I know all the words to Islands In The Stream. There's no shame in this girl's game.

So getting those CDs was a major treat. I popped the Sesame Street disc in as we were taking Cody home from preschool on Wednesday.

Suuuuuunny days, chasin' the clouds away...

"What's that?" he asked. Let me tell you, that kid has the confused, slightly grossed out tone of voice down.

"That's from Sesame Street, silly!" I laughed.

"Huh, I never heard that before." He was pretty suspicious. Like maybe I was trying to pull one over on him. I can't blame him really. I'm pretty shady.

"Sure you have, hon, it's that first..."

And then it hit me. That isn't the opening song anymore. The lapse is understandable. Missy has an aversion to the Street (further proof of her weirdness uniqueness) and so we rarely tune in. But the old theme has been retired and more urban, hip-hop version has taken it's place.

I'm a little sad about this. Recent viewings show me that Big Bird and Snuffy are on the endangered list, replaced by some irritating orange girl monster and the ubiquitous Elmo. Luis is MIA but Maria is still running the Fix-It Shop with her daughter, Gabby. If I'm not mistaken, I believe she was on when DQ was still into SS. Mr. Hooper, of course, is selling groceries to God now. I got a little misty when I saw his picture on the wall. Bert and Ernie are now claymation and I DO NOT approve. It's weird. And the whole last segment of the show is "Elmo's World." Entirely too much Elmo. And pleeeeease tell me that isn't Carrot Top as Mr. Noodle!

They still have the celebrities visiting. And it's still delightful. I caught James Blunt singing "My Triangle" and hooo boy, it was great. I actually like that song now! And Jamie Foxx singing the alphabet? Yeah, baby.

But I am nostalgic for the Pointer Sisters, Paul Simon and John Denver. Luckily, Claire included this gem on my CD.


I'm awfully glad to have these memories on CD. Thank-you, Claire!

What's That Smell? *GIVEAWAY*

Usually, when I say that, it's a bad thing, like a napalm-grade diaper or leftovers that are...well, leftover.

But there are times when the smell is something delightful. Like an orchard of orange blossoms. Or fresh coffee.

You guys know me. I'm a total coffee whore. And there isn't a whole lot I wouldn't do for a great cup. I'm already prepping Drama Queen to work as a barista. Because a discount on Starbucks? SHWIIIIIIING!

But that's way off. Starbucks has this ridiculous rule about hiring people that are 16 or over. Stupid corporate policies. So you can imagine how excited I was when momlogic chose to feature me in the MLC Coffee Club. Everyday for a month (yes, I said a MONTH) you get a chance to win a Keurig Single-Cup Coffee Maker.

Yes, you may kiss me now. But not on the mouth. Mine is full of coffee.

When I got the email from momlogic, I did a little exploring and holy hades, this is an awesome coffee maker. I've always loved the single cup systems, because let's face it, the first cup is always the best. And this system is way fancy, not to mention it seems pretty compact. I find compact appliances to be a good thing, since counter space is at a premium in my house.

It's also a pod system and I of course, perused the brands available. Again, I'm damn impressed, since you can get coffee from Gloria Jean's, Caribou, Green Mountain and Tully's, plus tea from Celestial Seasonings and Twinnings. AND HOT CHOCOLATE! Not that Swiss Miss crap. No, this is premium Ghiradelli, children.

To make it even more appealing, the pods are available at Target and on Amazon. YAY!

So you want one, right? Of course you do. And momlogic is making it easy. All you need to do is:

1) Leave a comment on my featured MLC post, Crouching Mommy, Laughing Daddy. I'm sacrificing my dignity, just to make you laugh. Because I'm a giver. Regular readers remember this and I chose it, because I could actually hear you guys laughing about my humiliation.

2)Go to my momlogic profile page and leave a comment there.

That's it! momlogic will enter you to win the Keurig Single-Cup Coffee Maker! And then, when you win, you'll invite me to your house and make me a cup of coffee. Because you're all givers as well. I won't even bring my rotten children.

Good luck!

Coffee, With A Large Side Of Humiliation

Thank you for the comments on my new layout! I'm feeling quite fancy these days. Andrea must be rubbing off on me. Now, onto the embarrassment!

On Monday, I was driving Missy to preschool and I stopped for a latte. This is not a frequent occurrence, but the field trip money was due and I needed to break a twenty.

I stopped at the little coffee shack and ordered my usual, a French Twist. Except, this time, I didn't say "French Twist." I said "French Kiss." It was an accident, I swear. The coffee guy isn't cute enough for me to purposefully embarrass myself. I sat there as he made my coffee, praying hard that he hadn't heard my slip. He ducked out the window, handed me my coffee and gave me a big smile. "I assume you wanted a French Twist. I'm happy to give you a French kiss, but I don't charge for those."

I mumbled something back, hopefully witty but probably stupid, then drove off to die. Needless to say, I will be donning a wig and sunglasses the next time I stop for coffee. But I can take comfort that I didn't inadvertently flash him, like I did the poor kid working the Burger King drive-thru. That boy is probably scarred for life.

Speaking of coffee, be sure to check tomorrow for a giveaway from momlogic!

Bi-Polar Motherhood

I am a NICE mommy. I made my kids yogurt and bananas for dinner.

I am a MEAN mommy. I also made eggs and whole wheat toast. Then I wouldn't give them more bananas and yogurt until they had eaten the eggs and toast.

Quick, call CPS!

I am a NICE mommy. I agreed to shorten Drama Queen's quarter-long grounding if she got all A's and B's on her progress report.

I am a MEAN mommy. I will not take her word that the grades will be A's and B's, even though progress reports are delayed.

How long does it take to emancipate a minor?

I am a NICE mommy. I stayed at preschool and did art with the kids.

I am a MEAN mommy. I made Missy do the art project.

Is it still illegal if the child lists herself on Craig's List?

I am a NICE mommy. I let DQ have $15 to buy an itunes card.

I am a MEAN mommy. I made her babysit her siblings in order to get that money.

She'd move in with her father, but they have two small children as well, and one is an infant.

I'm torn between considering the torture of my children a hobby and wondering why the hell I had them in the first place.

Hopefully They Won't Find My Blog

I have taken my first steps toward becoming a Girl Scout troop leader. The minds of impressionable young girls will eventually be in my hands. I will become a mentor and role model to girls who have not come from my loins.


If you are not afraid, you must be drinking heavily. Stop that. It's bad. Pass me the bottle right now!

I grew up in a small town, and though we had a troop, I was only a member for about two days. My Scouting experience was minimal and for the life of me, I cannot remember what brought about the precipitous end. I wanted Drama Queen to have the experience, but was told repeatedly that our local troop had no room for her. I was a single mother, trying hard to earn a degree while simultaneously supporting the girl. You can understand why Girl Scouts became a low priority.

But things are different now. I have more time and survival has become more of a team effort. I can give Missy Hoohaw a better and brighter childhood than the gloom and drudgery that was Drama Queen's Dickensonian formative years.

That is DQ's recollection. I find that mine doesn't quite match, but I am the mother and therefore too stupid to live. I love my teenager.

So I'm applying to be a troop leader. They'll be doing a background check and I sure hope that having the charges dropped counts for something. Oh, I'm joking. There wasn't enough evidence to even file for charges. I'm not stupid. (Unless you ask DQ.)

I think I'll look simply fetching in that green beret. Don't you?

Glad We Don't Live In Australia.

Missy Hoohaw is on the couch feeding the Nameless Baby Doll a wooden egg.

The baby is not in fact nameless, but it's name is a random collection of syllables that changes every time Missy says the name. Every doll the child owns is named things like Chackatoo or Humacika or my personal favorite, Caca.

Yes, she named a baby Caca and wouldn't you know it? That's the name that never changes.

And she's not the first. Drama Queen had an imaginary friend named Cohmer. Actually, that was the brother of the imaginary friend. I don't remember what the imaginary friend's name was. Probably Pooper or Pisser or Number Two. It definitely wasn't Shit For Brains, because I'm pretty certain I would remember that.

DQ got a baby doll for Christmas the year she turned four. It was a little brother for the baby doll that she had gotten for her birthday. My then-father-in-law exclaimed, "Now you have two babies!" And the baby doll was forever christened, Two Baby. Which I guess, is pretty close to Number Two, so you know, the theme continues.

My children are so flippin' weird.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

Hope

More Of My Crazy On Display For Your Amusement.

I'm noticing some interesting fall-out from BlogHer 08. I probably mentioned I met some rock-star bloggers that I have long admired.

I may have even mentioned I approached one. And I was quick about it. I didn't interrupt her conversation, I just introduced myself, mentioned I liked her blog and especially the photographs, endured her blank stare and hesitant thank-you, then excused myself.

Now I hesitate to comment on her site. Because I'm afraid of offending or bothering her. How ridiculous is that? What blogger doesn't want positive comments? But I feel like the school nerd who just doesn't get it, who is trying to hang with the cool kids and is being laughed at behind her back.

Which is ridiculous. Because, let's face it, I'm not that memorable, unless you've seen me drunk. She's not going to connect me, the commenter, with me, the dorky wannabe that accosted her at Ruby Sky. This feels like a slight case of narcissism. I think I probably need to just get over myself and realize that people don't pay nearly as much attention to me as I think they do.

I hate this crippling self-consciousness. It hampers my interactions and makes me even dorkier than I am naturally. It's been with me for as long as I can remember, so it won't go away once I've shed the weight. I sometimes wonder if there is such a thing as social autism, because if there is, that's what I have. I don't always "get it." Someone gives me a look and I have to struggle to interpret it. Are they mad at me? Did I do something offensive? Maybe they just really hate me and are trying not to be overtly rude. Or maybe they are staring into space. Huh. What a concept.

I'm not exaggerating here. I really am that neurotic. I have days when I feel great, funny and in tune with those around me. Then there are days where I am sure everyone hates me and is talking about me behind my back. I am hoping that the Welbutrin addresses this, because it stresses me out. It's been a while since I had one of those days, but I was sure a preschool mom was pissed at me, because she didn't respond when I said hello. Of course, she might not have heard me. The classroom is pretty chaotic.

So there you have it. I am a irredeemable dork and a social misfit. It's probably why you all love me so much. Or maybe you really hate me and only come here to be nice. Something to obsess about, for sure.

I'm Freakin' Brilliant. Or Just A Freak.

So today, I wandered over to The Blozulfog and the lovely Lisa had this post about being at wit's end. As I'm commenting about hoping they serve liquor there, I realize, What a great title for a bar! Can you imagine?

"Where are you?"
"Having a martini at Wit's End."

Because this is where I'm at. Wishing I could feel okay about slipping hooch in my morning latte.