We'll Call Him Mr. Destructo

Last night my husband came home sporting the biggest grin I've ever seen. And yes, I was a little suspicious. Didn't need to be though. It's not another woman putting that smile on his face. It's the opportunity to do some damage.

You see, the "cash for clunkers" program that the government is touting means that there are several cars ready for disposal, sitting on the dealership lot. Turns out there's a procedure that must be done for each car, rendering it completely destroyed and unable to be driven forever and ever amen. And guess who got his sexy butt outta bed at 4:30 this morning, just so he could be a part of said procedure? Nooooo, not Ryan Seacrest, silly! He doesn't have a sexy butt! It was my husband. DUH!

Sorry, I'm dieting and it's making me a bit silly.

Mr. Clairol scampered off to work this morning, so that he could pour a special solution into the motor of these cars, then run them until the motor seizes. Yeah, it didn't sound fun to me either, but judging from the glee in his eyes, this beats our wedding night for sheer anticipation.

I'm baffled, because I've always assumed that destroying a car would hurt his mechanic's heart. Much like a doctor would be repelled by unnecessary harm to a person. Not the case. Turns out, that boy loves to destroy stuff, cars particularly. He's playing with his best work buddy and they are tearing the crap at of these cars. In his words, "Honey, I get to make stuff explode! YEAH!"

And he gets paid for it. His life is stinkin' beautiful right now.

CRASH!

The one morning that everything is going smoothly, the morning no one is grumpy, everyone is ready on time and the morning I have nothing, sweet nothing on my plate, is the morning I witness a traffic accident.

Sweet.

I'm stopped at a red light and as it turns green, I motion for a Lexus to pull into traffic from a parking lot. POW! Some ass-hat swerves around my right side and clips her bumper clean off! Before you ask, the Hotyssey is fine.

I debated driving on, but did the right thing by parking and asking her if they needed a witness. Turns out they do, since Mr. Asshat in the big truck was whining like a little bitch about a scratch on his truck. DUDE! She has NO BUMPER! Because of YOU! No apologies for driving too fast, trying to pass on the right side in a turn lane, or being a giant dick. Just shouting and going on, literally waving his arms. I was hoping he'd jump up and down, but no luck.

Of course, he shut right the hell up when he realized that I had seen everything and was willing to testify.

This poor woman. Completely rattled. The guy with her was no help whatsoever. She trying to talk to the insurance company, but could not tell them what happened. She didn't even know the cross-streets. When she asked, I take her phone and talk to the insurance rep, giving her my information. When it seemed like everything was under control, I left, because hello, I need to get two small children to vacation bible school.

But on my way home, I saw them, still parked there, and I'm fighting the urge to go back. I've done what I could and right now, I think I'd just be in the way. But it makes me mad when I see people pushed around, and Mr. Asshat seemed like a bully to me. One that thinks he might be able to pull something, since she had a thick Indian accent and seemed confused and helpless.

I think I have to go back.

Bad Karma

Missy Hoohaw had her first dental appointment today. So why is it that I was the one who wound up in the chair, discovering I will probably need a root canal? Seriously, does this stuff only happen to me?

When we enrolled Missy for Kindergarten, we discovered all children entering school must have a dental exam. Which tells me the ADA has far more muscle than I realized. Now I fear dentists even more than I did, which was not an insubstantial amount. Have you seen Little Shop Of Horrors? There's a reason for the sadistic dentist. If I'm offending any readers of the dental persuasion, I am so sorry. Please do not come after me with your drills.

Anyway, I dutifully made the appointment, gritting my teeth against the grating helpfulness of their receptionist, only to discover neither of our small children made it onto the dental insurance. And guess what? We couldn't add them until December, according to the HR lady. I was prepared to let it rest, but the chirpy receptionist informed me that our human resources department should be able to call and add the little ones immediately. Really? Then why didn't she? This is truly baffling, since both of the kids are on our vision insurance. We enrolled for eyes, but not teeth? I got good drugs during labor, but they weren't that good. Besides, that was Mr. Clairol's responsibility. What was his excuse? We're blaming the HR lady. Mostly because I don't know her and Mr. C rarely has to see her. She's a convenient scapegoat. Yes, we're awful people. Live with it. We do.

Turns out Chirpy Receptionist was right! EXCEPT! When we arrived at the appointment today, Missy was still not on our insurance plan. Oye. The girl truly made my shit list when she offered me Missy's place in the chair. How does a mother say, "oh HELL NO!!" without giving her off-spring the idea that maybe a dentist visit isn't all duckies and movies and glittery stars?

The answer is, she doesn't. She puts on her big girl panties, gets in the chair and takes it like a woman, smiling and reassuring the child. She earns a frickin' gold star in the Mommy Hall Of Fame for not cursing when "root canal" was uttered. She sucks it up and makes the follow-up appointments. And she keeps them. Maybe.

Why does this shit happen to me?

Dino-MITE!

Please don't tell my son this, but I am pretty sick of dinosaurs. I'm ready for the next obsession to begin, but so far, it's still all dino, all the time. No end in sight. So I google the difference between pteranadon and pterodactyl, sighing to myself, knowing that eventually, my conversations will not be punctuated with roars and swooshing.

The birthday was dino-riffic. Dinosaur decorations, dinosaur cake, dinosaur gifts...we picked our theme and remained true. The one gift that wasn't dino-centric was a pair of Tonka trucks that Red ignores and Missy has adopted as her own. She's quite the opportunist. I'm getting a minor break as I plan Missy's kitty-themed bash, but the background is full of Jurassic Park. Oye.

I've tried to console myself, remembering last year and how sick I was of Lightening McQueen and Chick Hicks, but damned if I'm not feeling nostalgic for those guys. At least when they were smuggled to the dinner table, they didn't try to eat Red's dinner. Drama Queen added a couple of raptors to her usual dish duty last night. Red is good at breaking up the routines.

I have to end this post. My son is waving his new dinosaur encyclopedia in my face, asking for a story. The upside is I'm becoming quite proficient in the pronunciation of prehistoric names.

LAHLLER LAHLLER LAHLLER

I am suffering from a severe case of the lahller-lahllers. This is otherwise known as laziness. Why should I empty the dishwasher, fold the laundry, pick up the toys? There are books to read. There is "farming" to be done. There is lovely, cool water in the pool and two small children, simply dying for me to toss them in.

As a result, my house approximates the ruins of Pompeii. (I'll be getting an injunction any day, saying, "Do NOT compare our lovely ruins with your cesspit of a house.) No one has clean clothes. My husband is grilling dinner every night and when I can stir myself, I might throw a salad together. Or not.

I don't even have a good excuse. I'm not pregnant, like lovely Heather. Not sick either. I'm taking my meds. Definitely not dieting or working out. The kids schedule is not overly demanding. I didn't even go to BlogHer, like those lucky wenches over at 3 Giraffes.

I'm just unmotivated. So a big fat SUCK IT to the mountain of laundry taunting me and pile of dirty dishes. My husband is home today, the teen is at summer school and the wee ones are at Vacation Bible School. (Yes, again. What's your point?) I'm enjoying the three delicious kid-free hours with my man and I'm not even going to think about the piles and messes awaiting me.

So there. PPPPBHHHHBBBTTTT!

Beware the Angry Wife

I'm pretty irritated with my husband. I have what you might term a vindictive nature, so not plotting revenge is a major effort. Fuming over the offense until my anger becomes larger than merited is even harder. And the offense is relatively small.

He neglected to get the day off so we could go camping.

So I don't get to go and sleep on the ground and cook outdoors and fight off bugs for two days. Poor me. It should be a blessing, right? Except...

I need to get out of town. I need to get away from the heat, the house and the grind. My kids think camping the ultimate adventure and since it's cheap, it's a vacation that we can do. But year after year, I ask him to get the time off and he "forgets." So at the last minute, I'm frantically searching for a campground that has openings, flush toilets and showers, not necessarily in that order. My last option slipped through my fingers today because he never got around to talking to his boss, who can find time to take a week off. I'm a wee bit irked. Could you tell?

If it were a financial burden for him to take the time off, I would understand. But he gets three weeks vacation a year, plus a paid day off every month. These days, he would make more money taking the day off than he would going in to work. Other guys manage to get away. He managed to take a day and go to Livermoore for VW testing. So why is it so impossible to manage a day for his kids???

I'm whining here. He's an amazing man, an wonderful father and truly the best gift that God has ever given me. If this is the worst thing he ever does, I am the most blessed of women. I'm really trying to keep that in my mind. But damned if I'm not plotting to take the kids to Monterey next year, with or without him.

Year Three

Three years ago today, my water broke. It was a Saturday and I had sworn that I would call my mom when the time was upon us. And even though they were on their way to Tahoe, with tickets and backstage passes to a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young concert, they came back. Because their first grandson was coming into the world and my mom, who had been there for the birth of both of her granddaughters, was bound and determined not to miss this one.

My poor dad. I don't think he's forgiven me for this one. Not yet, perhaps not ever. Because 15 hours later, there was still no baby. He graciously pointed out that they could have attended the concert and been back in plenty of time. I think I flipped him off, but it's sort of a blur. I'll blame the labor.

In the end, it was worth it. Late in the morning, I gave him a grandson. I even named the child for him. Okay, just the middle name, but still, that gets me points. And it's pure Karma that his sorta-namesake is a little turd. Of course, whose karma is the question, since my dad gets the cute and funny and I'm left cleaning up the shit.

I wouldn't trade it for the world. I'd clean up a mountain of shit (and probably will) for that little boy. He's my treasure and my joy, this child whose smile lights my world. He's aware of the significance for the first time this year. For days, we've been hearing, "Guess what? Today is my birthday!" And today, we got to say, "YES! Happy Birthday, Red!"

Happy Third Birthday, Red. Now strap in, because this year is gonna be a doozy.

Hello, My Name Is Jennifer And I'm Addicted To FaceBook

Don't you hate it when you start following a blog, reading, enjoying and then suddenly, with no explanation, the blogger just stops posting?

Yeah, me too.

Sorry, you guys. There's no good excuse. It's Facebook's fault. Those damn games are like mommy meth. And now I'm a dealer. Getting friends and family hooked on FarmTown and Bejeweled. Even my mother, who is proudly anti-tech, has succumbed and not only joined Facebook, but started a farm. I'm ashamed, truly I am.

It seems like the minute I sit down to write a post, I feel the urge to just check my farm and see how it's doing, or play a single game of Bejeweled, or maybe a Farkle or two. Four hours later, I realize I've accomplished nothing but planting a field of virtual cabbage or scoring 65,000 by sliding jewels around a grid. It's sad, really. Pathetic, even.

It would be one thing if I were reading the updates and corresponding with friends, but I'm even more introverted online than I am in real life! I get irritated if someone interrupts my farming with their silly comments. I'm like a hoary old hermit farmer. Can you be an online hermit? You must, because that's certainly what I'm becoming. I don't even like the Pro Farkle, because some of the players want to chat. Though the married guy who tried to pick me up over a game was pretty amusing. Dude, if you're trolling for cyber sex in Farkle games, it's probably time to examine your life.

Is there such a thing as Facebook Anonymous? Because I think I have a problem.

He'll Be Getting A Commission

I'm driving home from the splash park, a friend's son in the backseat. We're bopping along when suddenly Red starts spazzing out and my friend's son says something so funny, there is a moment when I think I might have to pull over because I am laughing so hard.

"Jen, Red is making a tool out of himself."
"What? A fool?"
"No, why is he making a tool of himself?"

Didn't have an answer for that, aside from "everyone's gotta have a hobby." But I need a bumper sticker that says, "Stop Making A Tool Of Yourself."

To Be Read Upon The Birth Of Missy's First Child

Dear Missy Hoohaw,

I know you don't understand this yet, but when you sneak out of bed, I can hear you. You're not exactly stealthy yet, honey. And when you run back and jump into bed? I can totally see you. Also, you're not fooling me by shutting your eyes, opening them and sitting up to stretch. Not even when you fake-yawn and say, "That was a good rest, mama."

Mommy's not laughing at you. I promise. I'm just laughing near you. And dreading your teen years.

Apply Head To Wall Now

Irony, thy name is motherhood. All morning, I've been mediating disputes, halting sibling assaults and quelling the inevitable bickering that comes from having more than one child. Finally, I've laid down the law. They are confined to their rooms, forced to play by themselves. And now, what they want more than anything, is to play with each other! There is wailing and stretching of arms over the baby gates that keep them bedroom-bound. All Missy wants is to "play with her sweet little brother." The same one that was hiding her baby dolls and hollering at her. And he wants "sisser." The one that pushed him away and wouldn't let him sit by her on the couch.

Pardon me while I self-medicate with chocolate chip cookie dough.

"Introducing The Hardest Working Band In The World...."

My parents have introduced me to a lot of wonderful things: Lyle Lovett, wine, sushi and carnitas, Lake Payette and Trivial Pursuit. That is the job of a parent, to expand the horizons of their children. But last night, the tables were turned and I was able to introduce them to a movie they had never seen.

The Commitments.

I had forgotten how good it is. An Irish soul band? Classic. Great music, good story, very funny and poignant without being saccharine. I fell in love again and took my parents and husband along for the ride. Raven, this movie MUST be a part of Sprog's education, if he hasn't already seen it.

Is there something that you introduced to your parents, siblings or spouse? Tell me about it.

Random Bits of Hilarity

I am sitting here, debating the meaning of shmegma with Ramona and Kathy. My life has gone from the glamor of butt-wiping to almost surreal ridiculousness. And I'm getting paid for it. Lucky, lucky girl, is I.

Did I mention that this started because the word in question is the root of Ramona's nickname for her friend Don? I don't even want to know what she calls me behind my back.

Adventures in Poverty

I try to be very careful with our money. I have to, because there isn't a lot of it around right now. But every now and then, I drop the ball.

This morning, I got in the car to drive Drama Queen to summer school and low and behold, my poor little Hotyssey was on E. My main concern was time, since we were running late, but I got her to school and pulled into the gas station just as the little light came on. Whew!

Or not.

The tank rejected my card! ARGH! This station has tricky pumps and I sort of shrugged it off. Got us across the street, but AMPM said, "Nu-uh, honey, no money, no gas," which if that's the case why does Ramen, the staple of poverty, make you fart? Sorry, still having those middle school moments. So I was all, "WHAAAA? I know we're not rolling Trump-style, but I should have at least enough to buy a tank of gas!" We took a trip across the street, my children wailing that they were starving to death and me ignoring them while I pulled into the ATM parking lot. It confirmed what the gas pumps had told me, which convinces me that the machines have entered into a huge conspiracy to take over the world.

Yes, I did, in fact, watch Eagle Eye last night. Why do you ask?

We managed to get home, the gas icon glowering at me like some evil portent of doom. Those poor little babies got fed their breakfast, watched some PBS and bickered like little hamsters while I scrambled around ad got us ready for story time at the library. I emptied my change jar into a ziploc, hoping I had enough gas to get me to the library and then to the grocery store, where I could magically transform these shiny bits of metal into actual paper money! Whoo! Even better, this grocery store had a gas station attached!

You may pause here and ask why I did not simply use change to buy the gas. I have no good answer for that, aside from the fact that I am stupid.

We had a lovely time at the library and park, but the kids were less than happy when Mommy announced it was time to leave. I bundled the flailing little wrecks of humanity into the car (thank-you God for car seats and five point harness restraints!) and took off. Released them again, this time only loosely contained by a shopping cart, and entered the store, only to find their coin sorter was out of commission. *insert panicked whimpering here*

Did I have enough gas to get to the next grocery store? As it turns out, yes I did. Did they have an operational coin machine? No, they didn't. The panicked whimpering was now a constant mental scream of "ohhellnoIcannotrunoutofgaswithtwotiredandhungrychildreninmycarandnolorazapaninmypurse."
Red is screaming because we're leaving the store without buying anything and Missy is whining that she is SO THIRSTY her throat feels like the sandbox. Mommy is trying very hard not to cry.

(Let me ask you something here: are mine the only children that develop severe hunger whenever anyone stops and enters any sort of store where food might be purchased, including, but not limited to: grocery stores, gas stations and fast food restaurants? I swear I feed them at home, but if you drove anywhere with us, you would be hard-pressed to believe me.)

God hears the plea of a desperate woman. There was another grocery store across the street, with an operational coin machine AND a gas station. The magic of the coin machine hypnotized the rug rats into forgetting they were very angry with me and VOILA! a paper receipt that promised I will not in fact be broken down on the side of the road appeared. I cashed it out, got my gas and went upon my merry way.

OH! And a plastic bin of cut up watermelon magically appeared to ease my children's agony! Okay, not really. I had packed it as a snack and, in my fuel anxiety, forgotten about it, but really, the miracle of watermelon make a much better ending to the story, don't you think?

5 Simple Pleasures

We've been moving towards a simpler life for some time now. The beauty of it has been a new appreciation for things that are inexpensive or free. I find myself marveling at things that are familiar, yet so still lovely. Things like:

1. Warm toast with butter and apricot jam.

2. Diving into cold water on a hot day.

3. My husband's arms around me.

4. The laughter of my children.

5. A good book.

What are your top five simple pleasures?

Hosed

Ahhhhh, Starbucks. I love your coffee, but if you insist on treating me like a moron, I'm going to have to go over to Peets.

For the record, I don't consider coming to you establishment and dropping $2 on a cold drink a "thank-you." Especially after I've already done that once today. The pretty yellow receipt that is supposed to lure me back? Not working. It feels a bit like the schoolyard bully taking my lunch money for protection.

Which makes me wonder, are you adding something to my drink that I don't know about? Something that might make me think it's a good idea to give you another $2 for a drink that costs you approximately $.20 to make? Something like stupid pills?

So bite me, Starbucks. I'm smarter than you gave me credit for. And I've figured out how to make a damn good iced coffee at home.

Intervention Needed

Things I should be doing:

1. taking a shower.

2. brushing my teeth.

3. cleaning my house.

4. buying groceries.

5. playing with my kids.

6. folding laundry.

7. exercising.

8. plucking my eyebrows.

9. making cherry pie filling.

10. making the beds.

What I am doing: Wasting time surfing the net and writing an extraneous and boring blog post. What the hell is wrong with me?

He's Just Not That Into You

Warning: If you loved this movie, don't read this post. If you object to strong language, don't read this post. If you belong to the Scarlett Johanssen fan club, don't read this post. I'm pissed and it shows.

I don't know why I wanted to watch this movie. Maybe because I really like Ginnifer Goodwin. Maybe because I like the title message. I have no idea. But I threw away too many minutes of my life watching this ridiculous commentary on relationships and now I want my time back. It would have been better spent playing Farm Town or Farkle.

Seems to me that the premise of this movie is as follows: women want men so badly, they manufacture relationships and lie to themselves about male behavior, just so their fragile little minds can exist in this world without spontaneously combusting. Ugh. Leaving aside the fact that all of the woman and gay men are skinny and gorgeous (except, of course, the "real person" commentaries that divide the scenes.), the characters are completely cringe-worthy.

You know I was tossing off obscenities every single time the slutty Scarlett Johanssen character came on. Yes the guy was a prick, a nasty little herpes prick with an extra large side of genital cheese, but I was floored when she just went after him, deliberately trying to seduce him. Women do that? Of course they do. If anyone should know that, I should. HELLO??? But yuck. Not to mention leading on a separate schmuck. I was wanting to sit on that bitch and leave a greasy spot on the pavement.

Just a side note: I've never understood when a wronged wife blames the other woman. Your husband is the one who made the vows. She owes you nothing. That being said, women who pursue married men? Skanks.

Let's talk about the wife. Yes, I spent the whole movie relating to her so painfully, it felt as if I were reliving the very lowest parts of my first marriage all over again. Believing the lies, knowing them for what they are, but waiting for proof. He wants to leave her, but he doesn't have the balls to initiate it. Grow a pair, fucktard. Don't confess to infidelity and hope she'll end the marriage. The fact that finding the cigarettes pushed her over the edge? I totally get that. If my ex had been a better man, I might have been able to forgive a single affair. I really liked the resolution there, her note on the carton of cigarettes. I looked at Mr. Clairol and promised him, "You know that giant mirror she broke? I would have broken it over your head."

His reply? "I know."

The "married-except-for-the-technicality" couple cracked me up. He spends seven years not marrying her, and then, as he is moving back in, he proposes? WTF? I thought the entire point of this movie was that this does NOT happen. He won! I wanted her to say, "No. I agree with you. I don't believe in marriage either." Too cutsie-wootsie, all perfect and movie-ish. Note to filmmakers: I am female, not terminally stupid.

Liked the whole Drew bit, but there wasn't enough of that. And her rant about getting rejected by seven different technologies? Genius. She felt real. Of all the women, she was the only character who felt a little bit real. Why did she have to wind up with the Ho-bag's reject boy? Yes, it was a cute little tie-up for the loose threads, but she deserved better.

Now, on to my main complaint: pathetic girl catches the eye of Mr. Cassanova and he tries to help her by shredding her illusions. After misinterpreting his interest in her, she goes on to another guy and then the playboy falls in love with her. Again, wasn't the point of the book and movie supposed to be that this doesn't happen? Justin Long is skeevy. I don't like him. And I really didn't like the character. I've met these guys in real life. They aren't helpful, they are jerks. Yes, the truth hurts, but you know what? So does my foot in your nutsac. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot, even if I'm acting like one, you greasy little luv-ah man.

I didn't like this movie. It pissed me off. That's what I get for watching a chick-flick. Next time, I'm sticking to the action film. Preferably one with a bare-ass Hugh Jackman.

Fireworks, Beer and Lou

July 4th approaches. I love the 4th. I like firing up the grill, hanging in the pool and watching massive firework displays. I like red, white and blue, stars and stripes, ice cream and beer. What's not to love?

Here's something I didn't know: Lou Gherig bid goodbye to baseball on July 4th, 1939. So it's another reason to love this day and remember the man most people associate with ALS. To honor my dad. To fight. Because I won't want to commemorate the day he leaves us. I think I'll choose to remember him most on the 4th, a day that means a call to arms for those of us in the ALS community.

Have a wonderful 4th, everyone!

Oh, Canada

Happy Canada Day, eh! What a great country. They've given us John Candy, Michael J Fox, Colleen Dewhurst and Alanis Morrissette.

Also Dave Coulier, but we won't hold that against them, will we?

I'll be eating some Canadian bacon, drinking a Moulson and listening to some Anne Murray today. Not really. I might eat some actual bacon and pretend it's Canadian, maybe even moose bacon or some such thing, because honestly, I think cured moose is a lot more Canadian-seeming than round ham, but what do I know?

Come to think of it, I don't really like Moulson beer either, so I think I'll have a Pyramid Apricot Ale in a Moulson glass. And, um, I don't have any Anne Murray. God, I'm a sucky Canadian.

WAIT! I'm not Canadian. Damn. There goes the day. Happy Wednesday, everyone.