whiskey in my sippy cup

Why the heck are you still HERE?

We're all over at the new joint. Won't you join us?

I know NOTHING about feeds, but I tried to transfer y'alls feeds and it spit at me. Here's the new feed:


Subscribe to the NEW blog in a reader

Movin' on up

So, yeah, I broke up with Blogger. I haven't actually told Blogger this yet, so keep it on the down-low, K?

Andy at World Wide Rant cleaned out a closet for me, and Judith Shakespeare kindly let me hit her in the head with my stupid-stick for a month or so, and though the curtains aren't quite up yet, we do have toilet paper and beer, so come on over...

Whiskey in my Sippy Cup. Dot COM, baby! Take 4. I swear I'll stop moving.

If loving you is wrong...

...then I am so very, very wrong.

A typical Friday night at Chez Mr Lady:

• Dinner
• Movies
• Harrass OHMommy on gmail chat

Last night?

That's right. I brushed my teeth and went out with girls. My neighbor had a birthday this weekend, and we spent the night drinking our dinner straight up schwanky-style.

In celebration of doing it like the humans do, my recipe this week is for Stay at Home Mommy Martinis, aka Shit-tons of Coffee Martinis. All you have to do is....

• Combine 2 oz Vanilla vodka (use Stoli or something equally or more not-sucky)
• 1 oz Kahlua
• 3 tbsp brewed and chilled espresso (me likey the Starbucks)
• 1 tbsp sugar
• 3 espresso beans to garnish, if you're feeling fancy-pants

Shake the crap out of it. Use a martini shaker or, dare I say it, a sippy cup without the pluggy thing in it*, filled with ice. You want to shake it, like, 30 times so it gets a little frothy.

Pour it in a chilled martini glass and go drunk dial someone.

So, what did you drink cook for dinner this week?

*Dudes, they make the VERY BEST martini shakers. Try it; you'll see.

Entirely not appropriate

Today, I would like to share a post with you that I wrote just about a year ago today. Melissa as Such Simple Pleasures invites bloggers to re-post an old story from their archives on Saturdays. Here's my post from one year ago yesterday:

Today is the day one of my 157th* period. That number should be a lot higher, but I got to take of a lot of months off due to some fantastically awesome birth control, and a lot more months due to some fantastically failed birth control. Nursing took a chunk out of that number. So, in almost 19 years, I have pulled off only having to do this shit 157 times.

And after 19 long years of reproductivity, of mature womanhood, I have but one thing to say:

This shit still motherfucking sucks. I have a goddamn inner-tube of pain. Grrrr.

But, being National Compliment Day, I will be cheery and nice while I eat a whole carton of Bon Bons and chase it with a bag of the saltiest chips money can buy.

Ready?

Wow, you are totally awesome. You are so funny and witty and nice. Did I mention cute? Dude, you are way smoking. The pants make you ass look fantastic! Did you do something different with your hair? New pomade? Are those highlights going on in there? Whatever it is, keep doing it for sure. You don't look a day over 28, seriously! And that thing you said the other day? Sheer poetry. You simply blow my mind. How did I ever get so lucky as to have you for a friend?

*Yes, I actually busted out a calculator for this post. Sad, isn't it? Any hobby suggestions?

Good to know that not much has changed in a year, huh?

Valentine's applications are still rolling in!

This is exactly why I have grey hair

Remember the other day when I got my shiny new carpets in? Remember how happy I was? How totally AWESOME it was? How I had such grand visions for the future of the basement?

Apparently, I am psychic.

This morning, my lovely, beautiful, darling daughter wanted to watch Babe. We toddled down the stairs to the basement and while she enjoyed her bowl of scrumptious blueberries, I searching in earnest for her movie. I aim to please. After 5 minutes of searching, I turned to her to tell her I couldn't find Babe and she would just have to suffer through Monsters Inc, and what did I spy with my little eye?

That chump had throw her blueberries all over the brand new almost white carpets and was making wine out of them.

Did you know that tiny little size 8 feet are the perfect size to extract ALL the gooey, blue, tannic juices from your berry of choice?

Now you do.

Day one

Just 6 days ago, I celebrated my third Blogoversary. I really meant to mention it, but I was a bit busy getting, oh, 1/3 of my house back. I guess I'm supposed to type a 100 things about me post, but really? 100? I tried that once and by the time I got to 33, I was talking about the direction my chin hair grows in. I'm just going to do you a favor and spare you all that.

I did, however, go back and read my very first post. Let me tell you, it's profound. Earth shattering. It's amazing that I didn't get picked up by some company looking for the World's Best Blogger right then and there. Wanna read it? Brace yourselves....

Well, this is my first official post.
Not much to say right now.
So hi, and see you soon!

Please, hold your applause. I'll be signing autographs at the end of the show.

Sometimes, when I find a blog that I particularly like, I go snooping. I don't read all the archives; I have been trying to read my OWN archives for a year straight now and haven't done it. Maybe I just bore myself. Bygones. I like to read the first posts people have written, however many years ago. Because I have nothing BETTER to do, that's why.

Anyway, in honor of my Happy 3rd, I thought I'd share some of my favorite first posts I had stumbled on. Some that are one bazillion times better than I could have ever pulled off.

• Suburban Kamikaze. I do not talk about her enough over here. She is, hands down, the funniest mom blogger I have EVER read. Here's her very first post. It's the perfect demonstration of her, her writing, her family.
• David. Zombyboy. My one true love. This shit makes my heart sing. I am fully aware that this is probably NOT David's first post, but it is the first one I could find aside from this page that I can't get a good link to, and it was exactly everything I'd hoped it would be.)
• I was trying to pick a little quip out of Anne Nahm's first post for you to read, but my little quip turned into a rather large paragraph and so I flipped a coin. A heavily weighted coin. I "randomly" chose this:

  Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuckit. And poop-damn-fart. There. The gentle vibration you feel in your seat is my grandfather rolling in his grave.

  Anne, dude, don't you EVER change.
• The last one I'm going to link you to is actually the catalyst for this whole post. Sometimes people start blogging with introductions, like I did. Sometimes, people swear. Sometimes, people just start talking. Kelly just started talking. Like we were all standing around the water cooler. The day I read this post was the day I got hooked into her blog. She could draw scribbles in Microsoft Paint every day if she wanted on her blog, and I would keep coming back, looking for another one of these:

  I never go anywhere without my cell phone. At work, the gym, the shower, the
  phone is always at my side. I'm waiting on a call. Not just any call. The call
  that will change everything. The call from our birthmother telling us that a son
  has been born.

  How's that for a first line? The whole post just gets better and better. I encourage you to go read it. It's beautiful.

If you all really have to have the 100 things posts, you are more than welcome to write 100 things about me and I will smack it straight in the sidebar. Just sayin'. ;)

Oh, I'm still looking for a Valentine, in case you're interested......

Um, I can't blog right now. I have to go chain up a girl so I can eat her kids.

Or maybe I could duct tape the kids together and make out with the girl.

Either way.

Before I go, I just want to tell y'all that you rock. You are funny. You are cracking me the hell up with this contest. I let my husband read my blog for the FIRST TIME EVER to show you all off. Also, a few of you need to talk to me more in-depth about what it is I am actually looking for in a one-night-stand Valentine. Lastly, a couple of you can expect restraining orders in you mailboxes soon.

Be mine

It's almost that time again. Valentine's Day. Could they have invented a stupider holiday, really? Anyway, in my house, Valentine's Day doesn't really happen. SOMEONE has a job that (lucky for him) forces him to work awwwl night long that night, and the kids and I eat chocolate dipped chocolate for dinner and then I drown my sorrows in a bottle of Johny Depp. It's alright; I'm used to it. But this year I want a Valentine, god damn it. There is no way I'll win The Retropolitan's contest (bastard riggs it against me every stinking year) and so I thought I'd open it up to you all.

Would you like to be MY Valentine? I'll understand if you decide to just go be Retro's (he's much cooler than I am) but if you think you'd like the job, you could have it in only a few, easy steps.

Below is a short questionnaire. Simply fill in the blanks. It's like Mad Libs for booty. Leave an ANONYMOUS comment* with your answers, and I will announce the top three** winning answers on February 1st.



There are no wrong answers here, kids. It's even ok if you don't fill in all the questions; I'm all about quality over quantity***.



The mostest awesomest three answers win my undying affection, a virtual smooch, and one rockin' Valentine's Day mix courtesy of Bit Torrent very legal iTunes downloads.

"Do you like ___________ and getting _________________?"

"I would _____________ - I'd ____________, Walk the wire for you - ya I'd ___________."

"I wanna _________________on the mountains, until the _____________________."

"I swear that I can ____________ in your ____________."


"What about ____, don't you want someone to ______________?"

And last but oh, no, not least:

"You're here in my _____, and my ____ will ____________."



*I like to play fair. Not-anonymous answers will not be counted, no matter how freaking cool they are.

**Yes, three. I would like 3 Valentine's. I need one for the 5:30-7:30 shift, the awkward, sober happy hour date. I need one for the 8-10 shift, the dinner and champagne in stilettos. I also require one for the 10:30 until god-knows-when shift, the "I'm gonna hate myself in the morning for this one" date. The CD's awarded will correspond appropriately.

***The line that was GOING to go there? You'd disown me for it. Just sayin'.

I'm not entirely sure I want you to read this

Today, I am talking about choice. I really wish it was the choice between chocolate ice cream and chocolate cake, but it's not. I'm talking about women's choice, along with a bazillion other bloggers.
I could throw a bunch of carefully researched numbers at you; I could give you facts and figures and speeches by predominate leaders, but that's not how I roll over here.

Today, I am going to tell you a little story. I am in no way proud of this story, but I am telling it anyway, and then we are never going to speak of this again.

Once upon a time, I was a 21 year old very pro-lifer Mr Lady dating the wrong boy for the wrong reasons, and at the perfectly wrong point in my life I found myself all knockered up. I wasn't careless or reckless; quite the contrary, actually. I tried very hard to not get pregnant, I just failed miserably.

I had a moral dilemma on my hands. I knew that if I had a kid, I would be a single mother. A single waitress mother. With no education, no parents to help me, nothing. I would become my mother.

I went to my dad. I asked my dad what to do. Now, my dad does NOT believe in abortion. He has 9 kids, 5 of them illegitimate, backing up those beliefs. He sat me down and said, "Mr. Lady, I am giving you ONE get out of jail free card. You go, you take care of this, and you never, ever forget it."

I went to baby-daddy and told him I was pregnant. He cried. He didn't sleep for a week. His heart was broken. He knew, too, what we had to do, and he hated it in a way I didn't expect.

Shortly after I turned 22, I became a pro-choicer. It wasn't the horrible torture they told me it would be. It wasn't calloused and superficial and awful the way I was taught it was going to be. Even before the crazy rule structure got put into place, they sat me down before, told me ALL about what was happening, laid out every conceivable option in front of me, and then made me go away and really, really think about what I was about to do.

I really, really thought about it. And then I really did it.

Four years later, I was married to that same baby-daddy. We had 2 children. I was losing my mind and his was planted quite firmly in the bottom of a bottle of Mouvedre. I was trying to figure out if I could leave him. I was trying to raise two infants all by myself while he found himself. Our shit was not good.

Of-mother-fucking-course I got pregnant again. We had one very good day together, and I am as fertile as the Tennessee valley, yo. I was totally in denial, even though I was late and right back up to a DD cup. I refused to even admit it until I had to admit it. When I finally did admit it, I came immediately to one very clear conclusion; I could in no way have another baby with a man who I was *this* close to getting away from, who had hurt me and made me an evil person. I had 1 3/4 of my feet out that damn door and I wasn't getting trapped back in it. I went to my best friend, I talked to her. I cried to her. We really, really thought about it.

I really, really thought about it. And then I really did it.

I ended my fourth pregnancy, and this one was so much harder than the first time. I think it was because I knew how great being a momma was. I knew how much I loved my babies. I was so thoroughly in that place where your whole life is your kids, where every minute in a sacrifice for them, and I did something I saw as purely selfish.

It wasn't purely selfish, though. We had to go. We had to let dad figure out his crap, and we had to leave him to do it. And that's exactly what we did.

If I had kept that pregnancy, I never would have left. I never would have learned that I could leave. I would have disappeared into the haze of co-dependency that IS life with an alcoholic. Being able to leave then braced me for being able to leave in '06, when I really, really had to leave, when it was international and gruelingly difficult and totally a non-option.

There was no way I could seen those two pregnancies through.

I wish that it was different. I watch these people that are so much a part of my heart and who are going through adoption processes overseas because one little thing went awry for them and the can't have the babies they are so desperate for, and it makes me feel small and ungrateful for the gift I have been given. I am not ungrateful. Every day I rejoice in these creatures that I have made, even the days when I want to sell them to the circus. I know that this thing, this raising children gig, is the single best gig in the world, but that doesn't change the fact that sometimes, well, sometimes people just can't do it. Sometimes people try really hard to avoid the situation, and the situation finds them anyway, and sometimes it can destroy people.

I thank whatever every stinking day that I had the options I had. I will kick and fight and scream and rally and throw things and cry to make sure that some other 'me' out there has those options, too. The world is not black and white on Ariel, and everyone has a different story, a different history, and different reasons to make the choices that they make. What's important to me it that the option exists for women who need it.

This is the point where I would really like to get into everything that I think is wrong with the system now. I would like to talk about the men who don't get a say in the process because it's such a convoluted, screwed up lobbying topic and has become this drastic, political monster rather than the save-haven for people it should be. I would like to get into all the serious flaws in the system, and how I firmly believe that it should be WAY more regulated than it is, with limits, with accountability, with responsibility and compassion. I would LOVE to get into the fact that those people who make posters of aborted fetuses to propagate their own political agendas, those people who mock and abuse the pure hell that women go through in making this choice, need to be hung by the nearest tree. I am not going to get into all that though, because I know that if I had once ounce of gumption I would get off my lazy ass already and be the change I want to see in the system. I haven't, and I doubt I will, and I am totally ashamed of that.

I have this box that I keep; one, small, wooden box full of all the little favorite letters and notes and secret, special things to me. In it are plane tickets from the day I left my mother, drunkenly scrawled on cocktail napkins, birthday and mother's day cards, and buried deep in the bottom of that box is an ultrasound picture with a tiny little dot in the middle of it taken 11 years ago. I will never look at that picture, but I will also never throw it away. Because I refuse to forget. I will not ever take it lightly. I will always know that I did the right thing at the right time, and I will always be grateful that I live in a world where I could.

Would I do it again? Hell no. Would I hold your hand and rub your hair and make you tea if you had to? You bet your sweet ass I would.

OK, that's it. I cannot talk about this anymore. That is my story, and I'm sticking to it. I hope y'all don't hate me for it. I hope that no matter how you feel about it that you google Blog For Choice today and read what I can only imagine are seriously more eloquent, more poignant posts on the subject. This is merely my experience, and I share it only in the hopes that maybe someday, someone who needs to read it will.

Tomorrow we resume our normal broadcast days.

Remember

Just another Memie Monday

I got tagged for this doosey, too. Thanks, Rachel! Someone whom I can't remember!

See, the thing is, kids...I act all 'too cool for memes' and I really almost never do them, but that's only because I really almost never get asked to. Even though I'm all snooty about it, I secretly kinda like them. Not memes, exactly, but getting the invite. I hate volleyball, too, but don't think I didn't jump for fucking joy that one day the really cool girl named Dana who smoked and did it asked me to be on her team during gym.

Recently, I have had a lot of viral lovin' thrown my way. Yes, I totally meant that as dirty as it sounded. In honor of not being the very last girl in class picked, I am dedicating Mondays to memes. Only. Check out the title of the post.

So now y'all have to tag me. So now none of you will again. Bygones.

Your Month Meme
tagged by Monkeys and Princesses someone! :)
(Rules heavily edited to abide by the Laws of Common Sense)

1. Copy-paste the traits for all the twelve months (see below).
2. Pick your month of birth (see below).
3. Highlight the traits that apply to you.
4. Share the love. Or don't. Your call.

My birthday is March 20, 19somewhere-inbetween-menstruation-and-death. That makes me a Pisces, so we'll talk about them.

Before I do this, I have to mention that there is no way humanly possible for Rachel someone to have known that I am sort of an astrology buff. As in, an 'I could do your chart and all of my tattoos are astrological' buff. Already, I'm having an internal battle with this meme, because, seriously? You can't split the months up like this if you're talking personalities. The beginning of October and the end of October? Two TOTALLY different people.
Moving on...

MARCH: Attractive personality. Yeah, sure, if you like nagging, whiny, indecisive pessimists. Sexy. Your brother/boss/father thought so. Affectionate. Just to stop you from bugging us. Shy and reserved. It makes avoiding human beings easier. Secretive. We would rather eat worms than tell you what we ate for lunch. Naturally honest, generous and sympathetic. Hanging out with people who require honesty, generosity and sympathy gives us an excuse to bitch and drink. Loves peace and serenity. Chemically induced peace and serenity. Sensitive to others. Sure, we are psychic. Painfully so. We are so self-absorbed that the only future we care about is our own. Loves to serve others. Because we're terrified of conflict and would rather disappear. Easily angered. You would be, too, if your whole life was a fantasy. Trustworthy. Oh yes, and I have some lovely beachfront property in Denver for sale, too. Appreciative and returns kindness. True, true. The more story-book life is, the better. Observant and assesses others. Looking for your weakness is more like it. Revengeful. Will leave you with a bloody chunk of your heart under our red nails and not think twice about it. Loves to dream and fantasize. ONLY dreams and fantasizes. Loves traveling. Doesn't always know where we're going, or how we got there, though. Loves attention. Will always be the topless chic at the party. Hasty decisions in choosing partners. Talking to us is like talking to a bobble head doll. We'll choose whatever we're told to choose. Loves home decors. Does not love cleaning them. Musically talented. Everything talented. Just won't admit it. Loves special things. Is addicted to most of those special things. Moody. Only when conscious.

Now, this is the part where I usually 'Oopsie, I'm Blond Forget' to tag people. Today, I am greyish brunette. I'm tagging my homegirl Hucks, my Secret Agent Lover Mama, and the hottest stalker alive, Kim. Molls, I totally would tagged you, too, but I just did it for ya. Hearts. Now somebody tag me for something for next week, k? :)

All Months:
JANUARY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Ambitious and serious. Loves to teach and be taught. Always looking at people’s flaws and weaknesses. Likes to criticize. Hardworking and productive. Smart, neat and organized. Sensitive and has deep thoughts. Knows how to make others happy. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Rather reserved. Highly attentive. Resistant to illnesses but prone to colds. Romantic but has difficulties expressing love. Loves children. Loyal. Has great social abilities yet easily jealous. Very stubborn and money cautious.

FEBRUARY: Abstract thoughts. Loves reality and abstract. Intelligent and clever. Changing personality. Attractive. Sexy. Temperamental. Quiet, shy and humble. Honest and loyal. Determined to reach goals. Loves freedom. Rebellious when restricted. Loves aggressiveness. Too sensitive and easily hurt. Gets angry really easily but does not show it. Dislikes unnecessary things. Loves making friends but rarely shows it. Daring and stubborn. Ambitious. Realizes dreams and hopes. Sharp. Loves entertainment and leisure. Romantic on the inside not outside. Superstitious and ludicrous. Spendthrift. Tries to learn to show emotions.

MARCH: Attractive personality. Sexy. Affectionate. Shy and reserved. Secretive. Naturally honest, generous and sympathetic. Loves peace and serenity. Sensitive to others. Loves to serve others. Easily angered. Trustworthy. Appreciative and returns kindness. Observant and assesses others. Revengeful. Loves to dream and fantasize. Loves traveling. Loves attention. Hasty decisions in choosing partners. Loves home decors. Musically talented. Loves special things. Moody.

APRIL: Active and dynamic. Decisive and hasty but tends to regret. Attractive and affectionate to oneself. Strong mentality. Loves attention. Diplomatic. Consoling, friendly and solves people’s problems. Brave and fearless. Adventurous. Loving and caring. Suave and generous. Emotional. Aggressive. Hasty. Good memory. Moving. Motivates oneself and others. Sickness usually of the head and chest. Sexy in a way that only their lover can see.

MAY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Strong-willed and highly motivated. Sharp thoughts. Easily angered. Attracts others and loves attention. Deep feelings. Beautiful physically and mentally. Firm Standpoint. Needs no motivation. Easily consoled. Systematic (left brain). Loves to dream. Strong clairvoyance. Understanding. Sickness usually in the ear and neck. Good imagination. Good physical. Weak breathing. Loves literature and the arts. Loves traveling. Dislike being at home. Restless. Not having many children. Hardworking. High spirited. Spendthrift.

JUNE: Thinks far with vision. Easily influenced by kindness. Polite and soft-spoken. Having ideas. Sensitive. Active mind. Hesitating, tends to delay. Choosy and always wants the best. Temperamental. Funny and humorous. Loves to joke. Good debating skills. Talkative. Daydreamer. Friendly. Knows how to make friends. Able to show character. Easily hurt. Prone to getting colds. Loves to dress up. Easily bored. Fussy. Seldom shows emotions. Takes time to recover when hurt. Brand conscious. Executive. Stubborn.

JULY: Fun to be with. Secretive. Difficult to fathom and to be understood. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Takes pride in oneself. Has reputation. Easily consoled. Honest. Concerned about people’s feelings. Tactful. Friendly. Approachable. Emotional temperamental and unpredictable. Moody and easily hurt. Witty and sparkly. Not revengeful. Forgiving but never forgets. Dislikes nonsensical and unnecessary things. Guides others physically and mentally. Sensitive and forms impressions carefully. Caring and loving. Treats others equally. Strong sense of sympathy. Wary and sharp. Judges people through observations. Hardworking. No difficulties in studying. Loves to be alone. Always broods about the past and the old friends. Likes to be quiet. Homely person. Waits for friends. Never looks for friends. Not aggressive unless provoked. Prone to having stomach and dieting problems. Loves to be loved. Easily hurt but takes long to recover.

AUGUST: Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless. Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous and egoistic. Takes high pride in oneself. Thirsty for praises. Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous. Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns to relax. Hasty and trusty. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends.

SEPTEMBER: Suave and compromising. Careful, cautious and organized. Likes to point out people’s mistakes. Likes to criticize. Stubborn. Quiet but able to talk well. Calm and cool. Kind and sympathetic. Concerned and detailed. Loyal but not always honest. Does work well. Very confident. Sensitive. Good memory. Clever and knowledgeable. Loves to look for information. Must control oneself when criticizing. Able to motivate oneself. Understanding. Fun to be around. Secretive. Loves leisure and traveling. Hardly shows emotions. Tends to bottle up feelings. Very choosy, especially in relationships. Systematic.

OCTOBER: Loves to chat. Loves those who loves them. Loves to take things at the center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn’t pretend. Gets angry often. Treats friends importantly. Always making friends. Easily hurt but recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does not care of what others think. Emotional. Decisive. Strong clairvoyance. Loves to travel, the arts and literature. Touchy and easily jealous. Concerned. Loves outdoors. Just and fair. Spendthrift. Easily influenced. Easily loses confidence. Loves children.

NOVEMBER: Has a lot of ideas. Difficult to fathom. Thinks forward. Unique and brilliant. Extraordinary ideas. Sharp thinking. Fine and strong clairvoyance. Can become good doctors. Dynamic in personality. Secretive. Inquisitive. Knows how to dig secrets. Always thinking. Less talkative but amiable. Brave and generous. Patient. Stubborn and hard-hearted. If there is a will, there is a way. Determined. Never give up. Hardly becomes angry unless provoked. Loves to be alone. Thinks differently from others. Sharp-minded. Motivates oneself. Does not appreciate praises. High-spirited. Well-built and tough. Deep love and emotions. Romantic. Uncertain in relationships. Homely. Hardworking. High abilities. Trustworthy. Honest and keeps secrets. Not able to control emotions. Unpredictable.

DECEMBER: Loyal and generous. Sexy. Patriotic. Active in games and interactions. Impatient and hasty. Ambitious. Influential in organizations. Fun to be with. Loves to socialize. Loves praises. Loves attention. Loves to be loved. Honest and trustworthy. Not pretending. Short tempered. Changing personality. Not egotistic. Take high pride in oneself. Hates restrictions. Loves to joke. Good sense of humor. Logical.

This is Dedicated...

For Hucks, for whom I will happily ignore my children on a Saturday night until 11 to gossip on the phone with.For Molly, because it didn't work and I wish it did because I love you so bad.For tiny little baby skates, one of the many freaking awesome natural resources of Canada.For Aimee; don't forget the 2T's. They are the coolest. For more of Lotus' Weekly Winners, click right here.

Rate the Hate Version Duh.

2of3 doesn't eat.

Period.

Is he anorexic? No. He's just way too cool for forks. Chopsticks, however, are right up his alley. After 7 years of trying to explain to this kid that we live in North America and that forks are just the Way Things Are, I broke down and bought the kid his own pack of chopsticks.

Needless to say, the theme o' the week has been Asian food. Chinese, Japanese, whatever. If it comes on rice, he's in.

Unfortunately, the theme o' the week was not also Going To The Grocery, so we came down to that lovely place called What Exactly Can I Make With A Can of Sauerkraut?

Behind the sauerkraut was a can of pineapples. In the freezer were 2 chicken breast. And so was born the Night of the Aki.Teriyaki, for you non-parents. I never make this at home because I never knew how to make it. But, when push comes to shove, I'm willing to guess. Or eat Sauerkraut Oatmeal.

So, you grill 2 chicken breasts and steam some rice. Once they're BOTH done, you drain the juice from a can of pineapples into a pan. You add to that enough PLAIN teriyaki sauce to make it the right color (stick your finger in it a few times and taste it. You'll know when it's right.) Bring that to a boil and then turn the heat to simmer. Add to it, oh, I think around a tablespoon of cornstarch. Add it slowly and whisk it in until it gets kinda thick. Add the pineapples from the can to the sauce. Slice the chicken into strips, place them on top of some white rice, and dump the sauce on top.

Now, I am as far from Asian as Tom Cruise is from straight, but god golly, Ms. Molly, that was a fine dinner. And super freaking easy. And ready in less than 20. We all loved it. Except for one of us."The teriyaki at the mall is better," he says. The kid eats his own snot. Bygones.

What did you have this week?

Possibilities

The new carpets? Totally in. After 3 1/2 long ass months, we have our basement back. I can hardly wait to get all the crap out of the carport, the kitchen and my bedroom and back where it belongs. I can almost picture it......

The most boring post in the world

The NEW CARPET is coming in 40 minutes, so we don't have a lot of time this morning. I wanted to run a few things by y'all, though.

One: This right here?

.Canadian Blogger's Awards. All you have to do is click a button. If I win, everyone who votes, at the request of Kelly, gets an autographed pair of my undies!*

Two: I am knee-deep in the throws of building my new website. It's gonna be ready really soon and my blogroll doesn't have its moving buddies. If you should be on my blogroll and you are not on it, please leave me a comment and I'll fix that this weekend.

Happy Friday!

*No one is getting an autographed pair of my undies.

UPDATE: Yes,the carpet dude is here. Yes, the new carpets are half way in. And hey? Are you missing summer? Dreaming of Hawaii? Well, come on over. 'Cause, see, the carpet dude needs the horribly insulated basement to be warm in order to stretch the carpets properly and apparently the only way to achieve that lofty goal is to crank the heat up in my house from Cozy Warm to Fires of Hell. I've lost 3 pounds already.

Lame-O

Here's my Thursday Thirteen brainstorm:

1. I wanted to list 13 dates I've been on, but I haven't been on anywhere near 13 dates. That's sad.
2. I wanted to list 13 things that make me homesick, but there is really only a handful. A heavy handful. (Who are you that comes here every night from Phili, anyway? You're killing me, dude)
3. I thought it would be fun to tell you about 13 awesome, death-defying feats I have performed, but really? I can't even get on a roller coaster.
4. Maybe I could talk about 13 radical places I've been, but I have never even been to Detroit.
5. What about my favorite 13 childhood memories? Please.
6. My 13 favorite people? I'd have to do that list 6 times. I know awesomely awesome people.
7. Perhaps I could narrow it down a bit to 13 favorite neighbors. I counted. I have, like, 7. So much for that.
8. 13 reasons why potty training is my new BFF? Sure, I could do that, but if you look at NO MORE DIAPERS 13 times in a row, they don't look like real words anymore.
9. I'd do something about my relatives, but I don't know the full, legal names of anyone beyond my parents.
10. What about old ex's? Oh yeah, that's right. I have ONE.
11. There are, maybe, if I really stretched, 13 places I'd like to see before I die. I honestly only have to see one, though.
12. I could write an ode to the 13 random body hairs that I hate with a fire that burns with the heat of a thousand suns. But who wants to read that? That's gross, even for me.
13. I know! I could totally do a list of the 13 reasons that Mr Lady is much cooler than her real life alter-ego. Oh, wait. I just did that.

Should be filed under "Inner Monologe"

Things I have lost:

• My keys (over and over again)
• Other people's keys
• My wallet
• My purse
• Scrabble
• My mind (that was fun)
• My children (recovered shortly thereafter under clothing rack at Old Navy)
• My wedding ring (intentionally)
• Risk
• My shit
• Every watch I've ever owned
• Every race I've ever run
• A job
• Battleship
• Pole Position
• My cell phone

And there is one more thing I've lost, and I lost it 14 short years ago today, and there is no way to further this conversation without crossing my imaginary line I have drawn.

But, well, you know. You really know.

This, right here, is my dream come true

Da duh dum, dum da du-dumDa duh dum, du-dum

Upside, inside out

Living La Vida Withdrawal!

I never have writers block. Why? Because I never write anything of substance. I am an excellent rambler. You should hear the crap I say to me all day long.

Anyway, it seems that I have made a wee little mistake. See, my prescription for my pills (did you really think I am this pure genius without chemical assistance?) has almost ran out, and being the good little hoarder that I am, I refused to take the last 3 pills, just in case. And now I am switching from Wonder Drug A to Wonder Drug B and I haven't filled Wonder Drug B yet, so I am a bit, well, scattered.

I never realize how much I need Wonder Drug until I stop taking Wonder Drug, and then I start to fidget. Last night, it seems my au naturale mind decided it would be a super great idea to start picking at shit. I am a picker. And now I am a picker with 1/2 a toenail on one toe and that toe has gone from the size of a toe to the size of a bloodied, abused grape over night. A throbbing, bloody, abused grape.

Ouch.

Point is, I don't much think I'm having a coherent thought for the next few days. That makes the blogging the teenciest bit laborious, you know? I decided that this might be a fine time to clean out the drafts that were drafted when I was all clear and drugged and sane.

Here goes:

1. See, I told you. I AM a 12 year old boy.



2. Ah, music. Secret Agent Mama hit me with this one a LONG time ago, but my iPod wasn't tan or buff enough to show it's privates in public. 16 hours and one headache later, here goes:

You need your iPod/mp3 player, for this. It’s a list of questions that you
answer with the title of a random song. I put my iPod/mp3 player on shuffle and
here are the questions with the song title answers. HILARIOUS!

What would describe your personality?
The City and the Traveler, HEM.

What do you like in a guy/girl?
No Surprises, Radiohead (oh, that's right)

How do you feel, today?
Sugar Kane, Sonic Youth

What’s your life’s purpose?
Plan B, Badly drawn Boy

What is your motto?
Let's fall in Love, Ol' Blue Eyes

What do your friends think of you?
Mama, Genesis (WEIRD)

What do you think of your parents?
Schizophrenia's Weighted Me Down, Cat Power

What do you think about very often?
Saints, Breeders

What do you think of your best friend?
Love Spreads, Stone Roses

What do you think of the person you like?
Black Star, Radiohead

What is your life story?
Somebody's Gotta Do It, The Roots

What do you want to be when you grow up?
Lesbian Eskimo Midget, The Dead Milkmen (you can't make this shit up)

What do you think when you see the person you like?
Sweet Children, Green Day

What do your parents think of you?
No One Ever Is To Blame, Howard Jones (Oh, that one is way off)

What is your hobby/interest?
When the day is Done, Samples

What is your biggest secret?
The Rockafeller Skank, Fatboy Slim (I will not divulge. Don't ask.)

What do you think of your friends?
If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out, Cat Stevens (wow, that's an excellent response)

3. 4x Mr Lady:
Four Jobs I've held:

• Bounty Hunter's bitch (it's true)
• Money Launderer (also true)
• Fry Cook (horrifyingly true, but I make great fries now)
• Like, almost all of my jobs are already posted here and here.

Four places I've Lived:

• Philadelphia! The city of Brotherly Love, also Gansta shootings, The Fresh Prince and some awful movie.
• Denver! The Mile High City, the Fittest City, the Naughtiest City.
• Vancouver! Home of the 2010 Olympics. Also home of the palest people in the world. Sheesh, could it stop raining already?
• Delaware! It's the speed bump in between Pennsylvania and Maryland.

Four places I've been on vacation

• Philadelphia!
• Nashville (almost didn't make it back)
• Mesa Verde
• Idaho. No exclamation point.

Four of my favorite foods:

• Butter Chicken
• Chicken Parmesan
• Brownies with cream cheese swirl
• Sharp White Cheddar. Mmmmm.

Four places I'd rather be right now

• Denver!
• Philadelphia!
• In a clean house
• Hawaii. Damn it's cold here.

I think that's just about it. Excepting this birthday one that Rachel (I think) tagged me for. Soon.....

More than half is better than none.

• Laundry? SO not done
• House break-ins? Well, the door is totally broken now, so I shouldn't ever have to do THAT again. Please don't come rob me.
• Coffee? Of course I got that right. What is one without one's priorities?
• Possessions? Moved. Currently being rained on.
• Kids to school? Yep, early for once.
• New carpets? Fucking teases. 3rd time in a row new carpets promised, delivery failed. Grrr.
• Doctor? Not helpful. Not one little bit.
• Hot date? Better than hot. Made up for rest of it.
• Dentist? Will it never end? I'm considering dentures.
• Find kids floor? Going right now.....

Pushing it a bit

Normal day:

• Coffee
• Kids to school
• Blog
• Blog
• Tickle babies
• Facebook
• Lunch
• TV
• Blog
• Blog
• Blog

Today:

• Desperate push to do laundry
• Break into own house
• Coffee
• Move 1/2 of possessions to carport
• Kids to school
• New Carpets
• Doctors appointment
• HOT DATE!
• Dentist Appointment
• Find kids' bedroom floor

All of that? Before the kids come home today.

I already have a headache.

Peace Out, diapers!

"Hi Mr Lady!"

"Hi yourself!"

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Not much, just sipping some coffee and enjoying my 4th day of NOT changing a diaper."

"Oh, Mr Lady, you didn't forget again that your littlest kid isn't potty trained yet, did you? The last time you forgot, you had to spend your life savings on Desitin, remember?"

"See, that's where you're wrong."

"Yeah, but I thought she couldn't get her pants up and down around that J Lo booty?"

"The Stripper Butt? Yeah, we figured that out. I just dug into the box of clothes for next year, and voila! Pants that come up and down like a breeze."

"For the record, I hate changing diapers and vow to never do it again. This is AWESOME."

"Well, it looks like your little girl is all grown up now."

"Um Hum. She even let me do her hair.""The whole reason I agreed to having a girl in the first place was to put her hair up in braids, but so far she's only ever let her Auntie N do it, and Auntie N is a teency bit far away now."

"Oh Mr Lady, I am so happy for you! Looks like the kids are all awesomely self-sufficient now. Maybe you could get a job or do your laundry or something now."

"I think you may be right. They all can even get themselves food when I'm not looking.""Hey, 3of3! What's that all over your face?"

"Isa Yummanummy!"

"I see that. WHAT yummanummy?"

"Yummanummy!"

"I guess we still have to work on the whole bi-lingual illiterate thing, too." *sigh*

Sarcastic Mom has more awesome Weekly Winners right this way....

Rate the Hate the Playing With Others Edition

So, yeah, it's Saturday again. We're talking chicken. Before we do that, though, let's talk about that little box way down there.

See, this is where you all can play, too.

Hucks is joining me in trying really hard to post recipes on Saturdays. And while I was lurking about today, I saw that Judith Shakes also posted something about food today too.

Um, you guys wanna play with me?

Saturday, if you are so inclined, whip up a post about something awesome or easily or color coordinated or otherwise generally eaten by you and yours. Again, if enough people play along, I will totally cook someones recipe each month and send you an awesome prize in the mail. A kitcheny prize. Just ask The Retropolitan. HIS winning chili recipe prize has been wrapped, boxed, addressed and shoved in the back of my closet for 3 months now. (Dude, I'm working on it.)

Anyway, chicken.

The default.

The vodka of proteins.

"Oh, I don't know, I guess I'll just have a vodka ______." Sure, a Maker's Manhattan would be so very much better, but vodka is the Windows Media Player of drinks, and chicken is the vodka of dinner.

Unless, of course, you get creative.Those are chicken toes. You just take a couple chicken breasts and slice them short-ways, you know? Not down the length, but the width. Toss them in olive oil and some salt & pepper. Pop the strips onto the end of skewers and grill them. Then drown those suckers in your favorite barbecue sauce.

I like to put a big old pile of mashed potatoes in the middle of the plate and then prop the skewers around it, like a tee-pee. Maybe boil some corn on the cob. Perhaps bake a biscuit or two.

This is my kids single favorite dinner, because, I imagine, it looks lethal. I love it because it takes 20 minutes tops to make. And I am having a full-blown torrid love affair with barbecue sauce. Sue me.

So that's it. Whatcha got for me?

730 days later

I already have this perfectly good Saturday thingy I do, and now Hucks is going it with me, and maybe someday we'll take over the world with it, but damn it if Melissa didn't go and one-up me, with something better. Curse you, woman. I must play along.

You're supposed to repost some old, random post from your archives that you really like. Well, dude, I write utter crap, but fortunately, this one is a breeze for me.

See, I have this niece, a niece who I have never managed to meet, but 2 short years ago she took her first breath.

Baby K, your very shitty auntie who never has bothered to make the eencie little drive to Albuquerque to meet your cute wittle butt loves ya. Happy 2. Have fun ruining your parents lives.


Here's my post from 730 days ago today:

So much for dear 3of3 being the only baby girl in the family. Kaede Niamh was born to my brother and his wife around 8:20 this morning. More details and pictures are coming later.
Yeah niece!and a very proud papa...

Survival of the Fittest

What a fun little box!I wonder what's in it. Could it be chocolates? A new necklace? Some gizmo for the computer? What could it be?

Is the suspense killing you yet?

How ironic. That box contains one un-hamster. It is the new home of the furry friend who recently inhabited these cool digs.Our dear friend Timex has moved on to the Great Big Wheel in the Sky after only 16 short days with our family.

Santa ought not bring disposable gifts.

Or, at least, he could bring ones that do not expire 2 days after their warranty does. Did you know hamsters come with a 14 day warranty? Neither did I.

Timex was a beloved member of the Mr Lady household. Timex's daddy, 1of3, spent his entire allowance last week on a fun new exercise ball and treats for him. After carefully negotiating their relationship, Timex had finally consented, not two days earlier, to being fed by hand.Oh, a father's love is a powerful thing. There were 3 failed escape attempts that all ended quietly and peacefully. There was a water change every day. Treats were given daily, too. The food and litter in the cages have been refreshed often. I swear to god my kids didn't kill this hamster.

Dudes, it was totally me.

Remember this post where I gave you a sneak peek at our Christmas stash? Well, my BFF left this nugget of a comment.

Dear Mr. Lady's Children:

You mother is about to give you hamsters for Christmas. Under no circumstances are you to relegate Hamster-care to your mother. Do not allow her to feed them, pet them, look at them, or otherwise be alone in the house with them.

I know what you will say, and yes, you have a good, loving mama. She has not lost a single one of you to an air vent or lawnmower. However, she can not state the same fact regarding hamsters. What she hasn't told you is that at 16, she moved to Colorado because she had already killed all of the hamsters in Delaware.

The life you might save are those of your beloved hammies.

God speed.
Love,
Your Auntie Molly

See, Molly knows something you don't know. She knows that of all my many talents, hamster-killin' is my greatest strength. She has heard the tales. She has watched me laugh so hard I almost peed, retelling the stories of Mr Lady's adventures in genocide. To date, I have had a hand in, or been within suspicious proximity of, the deaths of:

• 9 hamsters (10 now)
• 2 cockatiels
• one lizard
• one salamander
• an entire tank of salt-water fish

Yes, yes, we were not children fit for the burden of pet-care. And yet, for some incomprehensible reason, people kept giving us animals. Those beloved pets died in rather unpleasant manners, including but not limited to:

• burning to death (2)
• bottle of fantastic brand household cleaner (1)
• learning to swim (1)
• eating own toes due to starvation (1)
• over-feeding, namely over-feeding with acid and alkaline bottles (1 tankful)
• gnawing off own leg to escape cast on it after break-out and subsequent broken bone (1)
• decapitation (1)

The list goes on and on. The fact that I have kept one dog and 3 children alive for as long as I have is a Christmas miracle.

Seriously, though, these hamsters that Santa brought? SO WELL TAKEN CARE OF. I have sat up at night, watching them, relishing the fact that my children love them so much and that these boys will never know the pain of pet-death that I knew all to well as a little girl. These hamsters made me happy. I liked them, Timex in particular. I wanted them to live.

It would appear that I am cursed. Animals of the world, be warned: You enter my house at your own risk. No matter my intentions, regardless of my efforts to the contrary, odds are your days are numbered.

I wonder how long poor Mae has left.

So gangsta

It's friday, and that means one thing...really naughty Haiku! Here's some more. Less naughty, but more.

How could I forget
the greatest cover song of
all time? I'll fix that.

Please be warned that this
song is NOT for your children.
Put in your earbuds.

There are loads of bad
words and naughty lyrics, but
listen anyway.

How I get out of washing dishes

Last week, I tried really hard to sift through the Thursday Thirteen roll and read all of the other entries. The problem is, there were, like, 250 of them. if I ever get 250 comments on this blog, accept my apologies now. I can't read 250 anythings.

Anyway, I did stumble across one in particular that I liked (can't remember where now) where the writer listed their 13 favorite song remakes.

The best things come to those who steal.

I'm so going to give this a whirl.

1. Mrs. Robinson: Originally done by Simon and Garfunkel. Rocked the hell out by the Lemonheads. Normally, I'd decapitate you with my eyes if I caught you daring to touch a S&G song, but this one is totally sweet.


2. Losing My Religion: I own every single stinking REM album. It's not that I love them so very very much, but sheesh the husband does. After having them shoved straight down my throat for 12 years, I have grown to appreciate their genius. They have this lead singer with a specific sort of voice, and they write their music specifically for him, at least as I see it. I would never have approved of someone covering them until Higher Learning came out in 1995. Tori Amos covers REM's (arguably) biggest hit and takes it from its tongue-and-cheek poppy blasphemous nature and makes it fragile and tender. I think that song was written for her to sing. Of course, Tori Amos could sing Hot Crossed Buns and make you cry. (You can't get it on iTunes, so that's the Amazon link)


3. South Central Rain: Again, I have serious issues with those who try to redo REM songs, only because Michael Stipes has one of those voices that makes the songs he write work. But see, there's this band, and their name is Hem, and they are quite possibly the greatest band alive today and they covered South Central Rain. It is is a thing of beauty.


4. I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love With You: (Also not available on iTunes. Grrr.) God may strike me down for saying this, but Tom Waits has got nothin' on Darius Rucker's version of this song with Hootie and the Blowfish. Listen to it before you start throwing rocks at me. It's brilliant.


5. Tangled up in Blue: I am not old enough to really really love Dylan the way some people do. I think I missed the cutoff by 3 years tops. I like him, but I'm open on the subject. And so, naturally, when I first heard the Indigo Girls crank out this song in their rocky, harmonic, bluesy way that they so do, I about died. I have bought many albums for one song, but I have never bought a $40 double cd for one song before. It was worth it. The whole album is phenomenal, but this song takes the cake.


6. Hallelujah: In 1984, Leonard Cohen first recorded Hallelujah. (It's my favorite word in the English language, btw.) Since then, oh, everyone has covered it. It's in 8,000 tv show and movie soundtracks. Your kids know it from Shrek. No one, however, not one single person, has ever or will ever sing it like Jeff Buckley. I first heard Jeff Buckley soon after he died, and my world has never been the same. He had the most beautiful voice I have ever heard, and he sings Hallelujah like his cat just died and the IRS took the house. It never doesn't make me cry.


7. Maybe I'm Amazed: I am totally old enough to love the Beatles like some people do. And thank GOD for that. Once upon a time, some horrible little teeney-bop show called the OC went kind of mental with sound-tracking their episodes, and to their credit, they did a good job. A band called Jem decided to take on the gargantuan task of doing-up Sir Paul with a cover of Maybe I'm Amazed, and I would bet you $5 that Sir Paul has it on HIS iPod.


8. Little Wing: Since Jimi Hendrix first sang this in 1967, people far and wide have tried to cover it. Stevie Ray Vaughn may have the most famous cover of it. Sting also covered it on his album Nothing Like the Sun. It is the only Sting album I have ever liked (*ducks*) and Little Wing is definitely one of the main highlights of the album. I think it does justice to and pays respect to the great great greatness that is Jimi Hendrix. Sting didn't try to change the song, or improve it, he just sang it from his heart. Jimi would be proud.


9. When Doves Cry: I am head over heels in L.O.V.E. with Baz Luhrmann. You know, the insane man who did Moulin Rouge? I love his movies for the cinematography, the casting, the raw grittiness of what he does. Mostly, though, I am gaga for his soundtracks. That man is a freaking genius with the music. When he did Romeo and Juliet in 1997, he found Quindon Tarver and had him cover When Doves Cry. I think that's what Prince meant that song to be when he wrote it. Even if you hate Prince, you can't help but love listening to this 10 year old belt out his song.


10. Thank You: I really like Led Zeppelin, and this song in particular. When Encomium was released, Duran Duran covered Thank You and it was super good. But when Tori Amos did it, when she sang the song originally sung by the man who inspired her to be what she is today, she meant it. She felt it. She sang it for Robert Plant. It almost hurts to listen to it.


11. A Friend of the Devil: (Seriously, iTunes. You're killing me here.) I am by no means a Dead-Head, but I get it. I get how they spoke to people like Elvis did. I never was blown over by them myself, but the husband likes them a lot and so every now and then we wear the tie-dye and don't shower and listen to a cd of theirs. All I have to say is Thank Jebus for Lyle Lovett. Lyle Lovett could come to my house and sing me Belinda Carlisle songs all day long and I would swoon. He nailed A Friend of the Devil.


12. Try a Little Tenderness: (You know what, iTunes? I hate YOUR taste in music, too.) Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know. No one should touch this song. But one day in 199-something, this local group in Denver called The 17th Avenue All-Stars came to my high school and did a show. They sang this song. We all died. They are an incredible a cappella group and I cannot believe that they don't own you yet. I love this cover because A) it's good and B) you remember my ex that I posted about the other day? The one who hates my guts now? Yeah, he can sing that song just as well as those guys do, maybe better. And he totally used to sing it to me all the time. Go listen, and be 19 year old Mr Lady in love for 5 minutes.


13. Whiskey in the Jar: I am of Irish decent, and being of Irish decent with a rock and roll lineage, I am contractually obligated to like Thin Lizzy. I do, I really do. Now, if you were ever to meet me, you'd be all, "Oh, look at the mild-mannered milf. how cute! I bet she likes classical music and air fresheners." Dudes, please. I need Metallica like Kathy needs Regis. And man, seriously, oh man. They do to Whiskey in the Jar what I can only hope and pray Johny Depp does to me someday.

Honorable mention, only because it's not fair to include her 3 times on one list? Tori Amos, Smells Like Teen Spirit. Wowzas. Who knew?

So it is written

...so it shall be done.

My #1 blog crush, Chris at Rude Cactus, has taken upon his own shoulders the mighty weight of saving the blogosphere. Or, at the least, adding some transparency to it.(Greeblemonkey sure does make some cool buttons, doesn't she?)

DO NOT pass go. DO NOT collect $200. Go straight to the comments and say hello. What up? Howdy. Whatever it is you say, today is the day to say it!

Delurk, you lurky lurkers. Chris said you have to.

(You know you want that badge. Ask for it when you LEAVE A COMMENT today, because it's delurking day, so you will totally leave a comment, right, and I will email it straight to you!)

The 16 year recap

Happy birthday to me.

Oh, it's not really my birthday, but it sorta is.

16 years ago, today, I did something brave. I did something I didn't want to do, and didn't know how to do, and didn't think I could do. I did the one thing that scared me the most; I had an independent thought. I had the very first independent thought I think I'd ever had before that day, and that thought and its subsequent choices have altered my life in a way I don't even want to think about. The alternative was completely unacceptable.

16 years ago today, I gave myself a window to grieve, to wallow, to hurt, and to let it all end. I gave myself exactly as long without that nightmare as I had with it, 16 years, to accept it, maybe forgive it, and to move forward.

16 years ago today I snuck onto an airplane and I left my mother, my family, my church, my friends and my whole world behind. I flew all day and landed one mile higher than I had departed and that moment when I stepped out of the plane into the snow and the dryness and the nighttime sky, my life finally began. I never looked back.

For 16 years I have been working through this thing, this running, this burying of anger. I have cried, I have dreamt murderous dreams in shades of red that I have never seen with my waking eyes, I have yelled and lashed out, and each day I have grown.

Today, I almost forgot about it. This thing, the very thing that formed me and made me what I am today, it doesn't own me anymore. It is a book that I read a long time ago. It is a nightmare after too much wine and chocolate. It is of almost no consequence at all.

I had 16 years with my family, and I have had 16 years without them. I hardly remember them anymore, and I don't miss them, and I almost never think about them anymore. I can't remember the smell of my mother or the sound of her voice. My brother and sister will never be older than 13. My friends will always have zits and braces.

I am totally ok with that.

Maybe tomorrow there will be more. You know, details. For tonight, raise a glass to the little girl who thought she could.

She could. And she did.

Hanson's got nothin' on us

The Great 08 Battle of the Bands will feature Factsheet Five against David, Andy, Hubs and The Retropolitan's bands. Who ARE Factsheet Five, you ask? Only the greatest collection of sugar-crazed, stinky musicians who have ever been to bed before 9, that's who!*

This is our debut album, which Secret Agent Mama produced.

Love Factsheet Five. Adore us. Buy our plastic Fischer Price records. Throw your diapers and onesies at us. Wave your lighters cell phones in the air for our sweet, sweet melodies.

Wanna meet the band? Sure thing! I just so happen to have Backstage Passes.

On keyboards and flute, 1of3, the rage of the Tween-Age. Greatest influence? Jethro Tull.

On the electric guitar, 2of3, aka TXU (don't ask). Greatest influence? Flock Of Seagulls.

On classic piano and dancer for the band, 3of3. Greatest influences? The Connells, Alkaline Trio and the Killers. God damn it, I love this kid.

Do you have a great band, too? Find out!

How to Play:

1. Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random - The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. Click http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3 - The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. Visit http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days/ - The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4.Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the result. And then ask someone else to play.

*Guys? Um, er, that was me subtly tagging you.

I really stand a chance with THIS one

Updated: Ignore this until Friday. But, come Friday, hit it HARD.
Go! Go right now! Go right now and vote! Vote for me, vote for Huckdoll, vote for LatteMommy, for for Rilah. Vote for me! I'm totally, 100% Canadian, eh? All youhave to do is leave a comment. GO GO GO!

Seriously, are you tired of voting for crap yet?

GO ANYWAY!

I'm gonna get killed for this one

(Updated: Yep, totally busted. Shit.)

Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's Elvis' birthday. Who cares?

That's right. I just talked smack about the king. Whatcha gonna do 'bout it? I also wear tacky clothes and eat Twinkies soaked in gravy, and ain't nobody ever screamed and/or fainted when I walked on a stage. As for the whole "hip-gyration" thing, clearly you've never seen me drunk.

Anyway, today is someone else's birthday, too. I have two paths in front of me right now; the shiny, pastely, gold-plated road of adoration and the dark, weedy, overgrown path of bitchiness.

Guess which one I'm heading down.

The nice thing about having ex-boyfriends is that sometimes, if you are very careful and very lucky, you get to keep them around long after you've broken up with them in the horrid, teenaged way you did. Keeping them around is nice, because you get someone to giggle about the good ol' days with, someone who knows little things about you that even your very best girlfriends don't, someone who rocks your socks all the time. (In the laughter way, not the adultery way, you pervs.)

You know what makes it even more fun, though? Having a blog and a prideful ex, that's what. See, my ex will never admit to reading this blog, and the precious few comments he's left have been so carefully anonymotized that I had to do a bit of googling before I could figure out who they were even from. He's strange like that. I read his blog and my comments are all, THIS IS FROM MR LADY, THE FIRST GIRL YOU EVER SAW NAKED. His? Hi. This is some random reader. Shhhh.

There is a point here. Someone turns 33 today, and someone else thought she'd flip through some old pictures of him. Because, honestly, what's he going to do about it? Leave me a comment? That would totally be outing himself, and there are things Funny Ol' does do and there are things Funny Ol' doesn't do; outing himself from his cloak of invisiblogity would be in the doesn't category.

This is one of the few pictures of us together, which is odd because we dated for 3 1/2 years and have known each other for 16. In case you're wondering, we are both 19 and he is wearing a sweatshirt with, if I remember correctly, Donald Duck on it. *snicker*This is a picture I cropped out of a group picture in our high school yearbook. I was one of the photographers for the yearbook. Why? To take pictures of him, that's why. I was sorta stalking him in high school. And yes, he totally hated me for it. (I think I made up for it after high school, though.)Every single person I have showed this picture to has said one thing, and one thing only. "Suspenders?"

Be ye not fooled by the suspenders.

There are some things in life that one can do well, very well, even if one wears suspenders, by simply reading a book or two.

That's all I'm saying about that.

How trampy do I have to get here?

See, this year I just so happened to get a little nod.



I never, ever win anything. Once, I won $100 on scratch tickets and I had a heart attack and died. Other than that, nada. Never first place in the three-legged-race, No Spelling Bee victories, not one heart of one fair maiden, nothing. And I won't win those two up there, either. But the one I could win, the one I have IN THE BAG, is the Hottest Mommy Blogger. They invented that category FOR ME. I'm easy like Sunday morning.

And heck, that Blogitzer one wouldn't suck, either.

And so, the first people to go over to Blogger's Choice and nominate me for ones of those damn categories already will receive one totally naked picture of me in their inbox. Prizes for subsequent votes will be happily negotiated.

Why yes, I have thought this through. Why do you ask?

Normalcy has been achieved

This morning I dumped my kids back off at school. You'd think I'd be doing cartwheels naked in a field of poppies.

I'm not.

I know that next week I will be singing a very different tune indeed, but I kinda like having them home. Not in the 'I could homeschool them way', because seriously? That is a special breed of person, and I am not of that breed. My kids don't listen when I tell them how to brush their teeth let alone when I help them with multiplication.

Anyway, I have rules about school-days. Horrible rules. Bad, evil, naughty mommy rules. NO TV on school days rules. No computer on school days, and no Wii on school days. Yes, I am that mean.

After our little tour of North America last year, living with any number of people who do not share my penchant for child-torture, that rule has flown straight out the window. Having a tv the size of Detroit does not help. Today, this very morning, that rule went back into action. There is no tv from Sunday night until Friday night.

That's not exactly true. I have softened a bit in my old age. They are each getting 30 minutes of the media of their choosing every day after homework and chores. They are really nervous about this.

This morning we all got up on time, thanks to a lovely little pill momma had to pop to get her to sleep before 3 am. Momma's having some insomnia issues these days. We all got up on time, 1of3 got himself in the shower before 7:15, and there were eggs scrambled and danishes sliced and jeans thrown in the dryer to warm them up. There was also the discovery of ravioli lunch left in the back-up lunch box 2 weeks ago, and let me tell you, that'll wake you up better than a gallon of coffee.

This morning? Gorgeous. No YuGiOh yelling at us, no kids zombied out. No whimpering, no running late, no nothing. And then 3of3 turned the tv on, and it all came to a crashing halt. Already they are so deprived of essential daily stimulation that they were instantly transfixed by the freaking Magic School Bus.

Ugh.

And now they are back in the saddle again, and the PTA crap will ensue, and so will hockey lessons and gymnastics class and tennis (I hope) and Cub Scouts and Destination Imagination and science projects and track and oh my god I am already exhausted and it hasn't even started yet.

Yes, I like vacation. I like it a lot. Viva la Spring Break!

You're a better mom than me.

Before we get into my awesome skilz of a parent, let's first get into my mad picture linking abilities. Behind this click is the link to Sarcastic Mom's Weekly Winners, which has lovely little graphics and everything but clearly I am too Blond, Dumb or Tired to make the graphic magically appear. Trust me, it's there.

And now, pictures that should make you feel better about yourself.

I wouldn't exactly call any of these winners, but they do go to illustrate a point. This poorly lit picture is of my crazy smart toddler. She got The Pukes. What did she do, with no prompting AT ALL on my part? She ran to her Dora potty and puked in it, that's what. How the hell did she know to do that? See my 7 year old helping here there? Yeah, exactly .34 seconds later, he turned around and yelled at me for taking pictures instead of helping his little sister. I froze my poor son's little piggy-wiggies off just to take a fuzzy picture of him by a great big gift box that gave exactly not one shit about. New Years Day = new cabinet configuration = Momma's busy for a while and why don't you eat some grapes? A helpful addition to that equation would have been putting away the skewers first.

Whoops.

Rate the Hate the Messy Edition

I heart brownies. Possibly more than it's legal to. My husband, however, is stalking brownies. Brownies have had to take a restraining order out against him. He, who asks me for almost nothing domestically, specifically decreed that our home shall always have a chocolate substance baked and readily available to him. The guy's gotta pull rank sometimes, eh?

I share with you this recipe not because it is the world's best recipe. In fact, my very first Rate the Hate was brownies, you will recall, and that is a damn fine recipe. But there are pictures of chocolate dipped children that I must share, and a recipe for eggplant parmesean doesn't work so very well with them. Also, it's a one bowl recipe, and I am the Queen of the Messy Kitchen, so one bowl works well for me.

So, you melt 4 ounces of unsweetened chocolate over a double boiler (meaning a sauce pan on top of a pot in my white trash kitchen) and then stir 3/4 c. melted butter into that. Add 2 c. sugar, then stir in 3 eggs (I always beat them first, but I don't know that it matters, really) and 1 tsp vanilla.

(Rilah asked a good question in the comments. If you are going to use a metal or glass mixing bowl, just use that as the top of the double boiler. If not, this would be a good time to move the chocolate mix into a mixing bowl.)

Stir that up well and then slowly add 1 c. flour until well blended. You can throw in a cup of nuts if you like; I don't.

You pour all of that into a greased 13X9 ban and bake it for 30-35 minutes at 350. And then you do the MOST IMPORTANT THING; you let your helpers lick the bowl.

Reflections Upon Opening This Month's Mastercard Statement

You would think that sex
with a picture and an old
tube sock would cost less.

Slighty more appropriate Haikus to be had here.

Christmas Ornaments (or the impending death thereof)...A Continuing Series

Christmas is a time of the year to reflect on the true meaning of the words, "Survival of the Fittest." Turkeys, pigs, evergreen trees; you are all put on notice from December 1st to December 24th. In our house, that warning extends one step further....to the Christmas Ornaments. Those lovely childhood mementos stand little chance up against 2007's most infamous mass murderer, The Notorious Three of Three.Once a noble Santa stood tall and proud, now he is merely two creepy red sticks of the man he used to be.Not even the iconic Snoopy was spared from her Rampage of Carnage..That's much more disturbing than a headless horseman, if you ask me.She moved from heads to legs, which are apparently less messy to transport and easier to shove in the freezer. Or something like that. Poor, tailless bird.I know it's hard to make out, but that little nugget on the box? A foot from, yes, our most important holiday figure, the Man in Red, Santa Claus himself.Her reign of terror knows no limits.

Notice how she so subtly lures her prey into the trap."Well, aren't you just the pwettiest fing I have ever seen! Wanna pway wif me?I have my Chwistmas dwess on and we are gonna have so much fun pwaying wif Dorwa and Boots!""Aha! Gotcha, sucka! You're mine, now. Mwahahahahaha!"

That kid? Pure. Evil.

We'll see if I actually pull any of this off

Thirteen things I am going to do this year, damn it.

1. Quit smoking. For reals. I will cheat for a long, long time. I like smoking. But seriously, I use really good, expensive shampoo that smells like heaven on chocolate cake, and I'd like to reap the benefits of that.
2. Buy something on credit. Anything. Really expensive shampoo, it doesn't matter what. Josh and I are restaurant people, which means that, though he has a lovely check that comes twice a month, we still have an influx of cash daily. The checks cover the bills and the cash covers the incidentals. And Josh has taken care of the finances for 10 years. Sounds great, doesn't it? It's NOT. Do you know what it feels like to have NO credit score, to not exist in the world of credit? It's almost harder than having bad credit. 15 year olds can get a cell phone; I cannot. I am going to find some way to begin to re-establish my currency in the real world, and I am going to start with a Target card or something.
3. Meet my niece. We have been waiting for 3 freaking years for someone to give my sisterish and brotherish a baby, and it is so close now we can taste it. She is not imaginary anymore; we know her name and her shoe size. Everything crossable is crossed in hopes of a March homecoming. For those of you curious, you can track her story right here.
4. Go on a real vacation. I am Captain Roadtrip. The emblem emblazoned on my cape would be a can of spray cheese and a box of saltines. I once drove from Denver to Phili and back for a cheesesteak. 2 years ago, we packed the kids in the car and drove for a week, and as lovely as that was, it wasn't the real family vacation, with the plane tickets and the hotel room and the portable crib. This year, Josh's sister and I are taking these people, perhaps against their will, and using the family timeshare that got dumped on us, and we are going to Mexico. Remote Mexico. Margaritas and seashells and questionable food Mexico. Cheap and beautiful Mexico. I cannot wait.
5. Lose the baby weight already. And by baby weight I mean the Tim Hortons weight. The cooking with butter weight. The 30 extra pounds I have sat on a whined about for 10 years weight. I honestly only need to lose 20, but I want to lose 30 and so I will. If you met me, you'd be all, "Pshaw, you don't have 30 pounds to spare", but see, I do. Before I had kids I worked 2 jobs, 6 days a week, spent every stinking lunch break at the gym, and I was freakishly smoking hot. And then I had 1of3 and gained one hundred and five goddamn pounds. It took a year to lose half of that weight, and the 2of3 came and brought me 80 more pounds to lose. I am not having one more kid and I have no reason at all to not lose this weight. I have nothing but time, and a fancy new pair of gym shoes, and I am going to burn this inner-tube off. Period. I am 32 years old and it is time to MILF it up.
6. Not starve myself in order to lose that weight. I am a non-practicing anorexic. If I just go 2 days without eating, I totally remember how to do it again and then, voila!, I am all skinny again. I am also sallow and groggy and spastic and my head hurts all the time. I am trying to make better choices in my life, and eating breakfast should be one of them.
7. Keep my house really clean for one whole week straight. That would involve me finding a really good happy place, because when momma's happy, so are the toilets. I have 51 weeks to screw this up, but with Jebus as my witness, we will have one solid week of squeak.
8. Go on two dates with my husband. We have our time, and things we like to do together, but getting my ass kicked at Wii and watching SuperNanny only go so far. We are going to get away from the short people twice this year and eat grownup food and drink coffee and watch a stupid movie or something. We used to go out once a month and every time it was the same drill; dinner at the same place, then the same Barnes and Noble, the same Starbucks, window shopping in the same shops in The Pavillions downtown, and home. It was boringly predictable, and we knew that, but we never did anything else because it was ours. I would like to have an ours here.
9. Sew something fabulous. I finally have a sewing machine. I have absolutely no clue how to use the thing, but I am smart and I am crafty and I can figure it out. I know what I want to make, so now I just have to get on it. I am great at measurements and straight lines and anything, really, that involves precision or detail work. Sewing may just be my new addiction.
10. Plant a garden. Not a flower garden; I already have that. I am going to plant a big ol' vegetable garden. I am going to teach my kids how sow seeds, how to cultivate them, how to harvest them. I am going to teach them how the moon cycles can help them dictate when things are ready to go. I am going to show them the difference between that candy bar and the tomato they worked on all summer, watering and fertilizing and tending. We are going to grow beans and strawberries and tomatoes and herbs. And then, when the time is right, we are going to have to best dinner ever.
11. Update our family photo albums. I haven't touched them since 2003. The digital camera is the single greatest invention in the history of mankind, but it's not doing my albums any favours. Looking at images on a screen is one thing; flipping through pages of pictures is another thing entirely. I am going to get all scrapbooky on their ass and I am going to love every minute of it. I am almost not totally ashamed to admit that I Heart Scrapbooking. I could blow a large chunk of our income at Archivers. I made some wedding invites for a friend a few years ago, and the two weeks I had to spend in that store were paradise. And besides, someday soon I am going to have to get a job and I want this done while I still have the time.
12. Go vegetarian. I love meat. I love meat more than I love Johny Depp. I am starting to realize, though, that my digestive system doesn't share my passion. I have almost cut out red meat entirely. (Date night last week was steak. Ouch.) I am easing off the dairy, which I don't eat a ton of anyway, and I am hoping that my little science experiment works and that I start feeling better. I am not going crazy radical vegetarian; you would have to threaten me with something very grand indeed to get me off yogurt or cheese. I am just trying to stop eating meat in general, as much as possible. Except, if course, on Butter Chicken night. Seriously? Best. Food. Ever.
13. Enroll in school. I am going to fucking college in 2008, and I don't care who tries to stop me. School for what, you ask? Great question. I don't know. I will figure that out later. I will never work in a bar again. I will do something awesome with my life, and I am going to start that by giving my brain the education it deserves. If I don't do this, you have full permission to slap me around a bit at the end of the year.

The Obligatory New Years Post Part Deux

...continued from here.

The other big thing that I have done this year is reading blogs. Mommy blogs. I have never, ever been a Mommy Blog reader. It's not that I don't like them, it's just that I am really against reading books on parenting and even more against the whole air of superiority that women seem to have towards one another. I mean, aren't we all supposed to be working together here? And yet we bicker about whether nursing or bottle feeding is the One True Method, we snicker about those who spank, or those who don't, we call ourselves 'Baby Wearers' or 'SAHM moms' or 'working mothers', and we get really freaking inflexible about those who do it differently.

I didn't hang out in the bathroom in middle school for a reason.

I tried it with the Big Mom Bloggers, I really did, but I just never felt moved or inspired or driven to fits of laughter the way I heard I was supposed to be, and so I threw in the towel. I figured I was ok sticking with Andy and David and The Retropolitan and Stephen. I heart Andy and David and The Retropolitan and Stephen. They WERE my blogroll for a while. And then Beth and Chris went and had a baby, and then Diane and Darla found me. And then Molly started a blog. And then the Piglet was born. And you know what? I loved them, too.

At the behest of the Gawdfather, I put some ads on my blog. I went with Blogher because I wanted to give momblogs another try. I wanted to network it a bit and see if maybe, just maybe, I could find one or two that really spoke to me. I have made almost Zero Dollars American off those ads, and I really don't care. Because those ads, and the little linky goodness under them, opened a great big door for me. Behind that door were women, lots of them, and some dudes, too, all negotiating with people who don't speak English yet, all knee-deep in poop, and tired and unshowered. They are funny, clever, beautiful people, and the further in I go,the more doors open up.

I am cracked out of my skull on mommy blogs now.

I know a lot of people do a New Year's summation of their favorite posts they wrote last year, but I write utter crap and so, instead, I would like to share with you the new people I have met, the new friends I have made, the new writers I am stalking like John Warnock Hinckley, Jr. to Jodie Foster.

• There's Secret Agent Mama. She posts a lot. An intimidating lot. I saw her here or there, and clicked on links to her just because her name is cool, and I loved her design. I came back a few times just to look at her template. I cannot recall what made me stop one day and just read. I just now sifted through her archives and I can't figure it out, because, well, she's good. It all stands out in my mind. And then one social networking thing after another happened, and then one day we realised we were lurking in the same groups, and literally THE NEXT THING I KNOW we are totally blog BFF's. We text and IM and stalk and lurk and threaten makeout sessions and I feel like I have known her my whole life. She is beautiful and so wonderful and down-to-earth and captivating that I can't believe she's real sometimes. If nothing else happened in 2007, I made a new friend name Mishele, and I am keeping her.



• And then there's Loralee. I have been peeking in her windows for quite some time now. She's really funny and interesting and I never was let down. I didn't go dive into her archives or her Bio's or anything, but she definitely was my occasional guilty pleasure. And then one day I read this. And then, a little later, I read this. I couldn't tell you how I totally missed the fact that she lost an infant not too long ago, but maybe that's why I like her. She's just real, and real people get hit hard with stuff one day, and the next day it's back to the silly memes. She is truly a diamond in the seriously, unimaginably sort of rough.





• See this supermodel looking chick? Yeah, that's OhMommy, and I crack her the fuck up. Why? The world may never know, but my guess is she could do with a little more OhMommy time *wink* Good lordy, I like this lady. You know why? Because she, like me, takes the picture BEFORE helping the child. She can wait to unpack. I bet you she's, eh, this <-> much disorganized. But she's A Barrel of Monkeys When You're All Drunk fun, and not too heavy, and not too light. She has fabulous stories of using her superhuman powers of strength and destruction to defeat her foes and win beauty pageants immigrating to America as a child. She is lovely and perky and goodness, me, do I ever swoon.



• There's Aimee. I signed up for the NaBloOhYouKnow thing, that I totally rocked BTW, and though I am really bad about using those sites to find new stuff to read, Aimee isn't. She sent me a little friend request because she liked my avatar. Um, she's totally my old next door neighbor. I knew her before she was a mom, before she had a blog. Clearly, I didn't know her well enough. That girl Rocks My Socks. She is goddamn hilarious and takes beautiful pictures and is thoughtful and wise. I am so very happy she likes my feet, or I would have never known I lived 10 feet from such greatness.

• Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, thank you for Anne Nahm, and please spare her from your wrath when it comes to judgement day. Now, I don't have the world's strongest bladder anymore (27 months of using anything as a trampoline tends to void the warranty) but I haven't reached Poise Pads yet or anything. Well, until I found Anne, that is. I am serious, and I don't care how gross it is, I peed my pants one day reading her blog, these posts in particular. Just go see. You'll thank me later.





• Speaking of Poise Pads, there is Judith Shakespeare. Honestly, I saw her picture over at Cre8Buzz, and I thought she was hot, and so I started reading her stuff. I am a 12 year old boy. When she's not busy cracking me up, or looking hot, or wearing really cool shoes, she's slowly re-skinning the internetowebosphere. In fact, you will soon see her hand at work around my humble little shanty of a blog. And she says motherfucking. That's really I all ever needed to know.



• Kelly. Oh, Kelly. I lurked around Kelly's site for a while and then I read this. My sisterish is knee-deep in an adoption right now, and Kelly's posts on her experience are so honest and from the heart and she finds a way to express those fears about adoption that I imagine many people have as they go through it. If I ever meet someone who is against adoption, I am totally sicking Kelly on them. She has this shit down. And somewhere out there, she has posted a picture of her booty. Girl's got balls, which I adore.



• There is Veronica, and the thing that I love about her is this...you know, when you're reading around, books, blogs, whatever, and you get a picture of what the person looks like, who they are? Yeah, I read Veronica and I picture someone about my age, someone who is certainly not a 19 year old mum. Veronica is a 19 year old mum. Go read something of hers; you'll never believe it. She is eloquent and honest and way the fuck more mature than I was at 19. Or am now. She is a breath of fresh air.



• There is LatteMommy, and I love her because she is me (well, me with a college education and a PhD and the ability to write and a much higher caffeine tolerance.) I can't peg it more than that. She just is who she is and she's terribly hilarious and off-the-cuff and damn that girl knows how to order a coffee. I am thrilled beyond happy that she is GOING TO DO Blog 365. You're going to do it.







• There is Huckdoll, and again, I have no idea how I found her. And again, I totally thought she was hot. At least I'm consistent. Um, dudes, she is fabulous. Something about the way she writes made me think that maybe I stood a chance with this chick and so I asked her out. We asked each other out. We went out. I am in love. She's a momma to twin girls and if I was a momma to twin girls I would be bald and filthy with one googly-eye. She is not. She's got this mom-gig down. And she's totally the real deal. Hearts.



• Dan is the only daddio I'm giving a shout-out to during Estrogen Fest YK28, and that is just because I really, really adore him. He's a dad, an atheist, a blogger, and not at all afraid to play with the girls. Maybe he's just a perv, I don't know, but I am freshly beginning a love affair with the Cafe Leone. I encourage you to join me.


• And last but not least is Rilah. I'm going to be totally upfront and tell you that I have not given Rilah's blog nearly the time it deserves, and that is only because she is my newest find. I'm slow. What I love about her is our late night email exchanges. We seem to run on the same schedule. She is kind and thoughtful and easy and really trying to be the best single mom ever. She ought not try so hard; she's doing a fucking fantastic job already.

There are so many more great, wonderful mommy bloggers, like Piper and Emory and Kim and Rachal and SuchSimplePleasures (um, what's your real name already?) and Lisa and The Mommy (same question, sister) and MomoFali that have forced me to neglect my hously duties and who are all equally to blame for the diaper rash on my baby's butt. I am missing too many people here, but kids? I'm blonde. I forget regularly how to spell my own name. I heart you all. I just can't look at HTML anymore today.

So, for the wrap up of the year, I am thankful that in 2007 I found a community of mothers. I would be more thankful if they all put themselves in FedEx boxes and showed up in the mailbox next week, but I get to spend every day with them anyway. It's a wonderful thing, the village. And finally, after years of searching, I found somewhere that I can be the idiot.

I was lucky enough to receive a few virtual makeouts over the past few months,
(From Rachal)


(From Veronica)












(From Huckdoll)






and I have been holding on to them until I knew what to do with them. I'm not exactly the blingiest type of girl. Today, I am paying them forward to all of you moms. Thank you for sharing your stories and your lives. Here's to 2008!

Obligatory New Years Post

The first day of the New Year. It means, for me, cleaning out the cabinets (which sucks), getting ALL the laundry done (also sucks) washing our sheets (which are fucking gnarly) and wiping a few slates clean. What better way to do that (and NOT do the other stuff) that with the blog.

I spent the first 6 months of this year, and a few from the previous year, as a single mom. A frantic, scared, disorganized, afraid mom. This was my choice, and it was the hardest thing I have ever done. Mad props to Molly, to Darla, to Piper, to all of you who do this every day so seamlessly. My life did one of those super fabulous fun rewrites in the middle of the night one night, and some very tough choices had to be made.

Sometimes the hard thing and the right thing are the same.

That first half of '07 taught me so incredibly much about myself. I taught me to be content, and humble, and accepting. It taught me that pride is, for sure, my number ONE personality flaw, and it forced me to kill that where it sat. It made me prioritize my life, and appreciate the gifts that I have been given in my children and my family. It taught me who my family really is, and the answer surprised even me. It pushed me to learn what I am capable of, and showed me exactly what I am certainly not capable of. It made me look long and hard in mirrors, lots of mirrors, and see what I am and where I want to be. I learned to stop being such a horrifying martyr already and to just live. Righteously. As best as. I wouldn't trade one stinking minute of it for the world.

I spent the second half of this year as a married mom, with a partner. I spent it as an ex-pat with a very shitty Visa that has prohibited me from working or furthering my education. I went from going in 11th gear to going in 2nd, overnight, with no warning. I came back to this place, were I was totally alone, to rebuild a marriage that has failed more than it has succeeded, that was founded too early for the wrong reasons, with skeletons in every closet and war wounds upon scars upon bruises. I came back a re-worked woman, mother and human, nothing remotely like the one that left 10 months before, to a completely re-worked man, who stayed and fought for his life alone and afraid and with little hope. I came back, and I cried a lot and I fought a lot and I worried so much my teeth ache and it has worked. Beautifully. Better than anyone thought it would. I wouldn't trade one stinking minute of it for the world.

Sometimes the right thing and the hard thing are the same.

That is where I am starting this new year. This year, I look forward to my son reaching his first decade in my life. I look forward to eating Hamburger Helper and drinking orange soda on my 10th wedding anniversary. This year we will take our first ever real, not in a car, family vacation to a location requiring passports and perhaps a vaccine or two. I will live in one house, in one country, and I will do it with four other people who share my last name and understand that I cannot help but leave my dirty clothes in the bathroom.

These are not resolutions; these are cold, hard facts. That I have cold, hard facts again is reason enough to believe in God again.

This year I solidified a few relationships that, in my heart, needed some definition. I learned who I needed to keep, to nurture, to envelope without the fear of rejection or abandonment that I carry around everywhere I go. Those are the people who I dug into, knee deep, dirt under the nails and all. I worked. I tried. Little seeds turned into beautiful gardens. I learned to accept some of those relationships for what they were, not what I wished they could be, and to be at peace. I learned who I just needed to let go. I learned that anger is so easily replaced with joy, and that I am really good at making that jump. And that I'm getting better with practice.

...to be continued

Not missing 07 at all

How was your New Years Eve? Did you drink yummy champagne? Did you kiss your one true love at midnight? Did you resolve to really quit smoking, only to break that resolution before you passed out last night?

I only pulled off one of those; go ahead and guess which one.

We spent New Years with neighbors. Every family in our 'hood has 3 children. They are all really close in age. It's like Soylent Green mixed with The Stepford wives around here; we all bred about the same time, and almost all the moms here are teachers. It makes me giggle, but it also makes for great NYE parties.

We had potluck dinner at my neighbour's house, and then sat around and gabbed until midnight. The kids, who I thought would be dead on their feet by 12, were tearing it up. They blew noise makers, they drank Kiddie Champagne and toasted to friends. We had mugs of the very best Indian tea that has ever crossed my lips, and also toasted to friends.

It. Was. Wonderful.

I know my neighbors a little more, and like them more, too. I have cool neighbors. Funny, hot, cool neighbors.

I resolve this year to stop being such a damn recluse already and start hanging out with these people more. I love where I live for a reason. I am totally surrounded by awesomeness.

Josh had the most crappy night at work imaginable, and made it home before 2 am, and we watched The Dirty Dozen for a while and then we headed to bed where he gave me a little present. One of those Not Everyday presents. One of those things married people never bother to do presents.

Oh yeah, baby, I got a footrub. I got a footrub after he had just worked 15 hours on his feet. I think I fell asleep halfway through it, it was so damn good. That is the finest way to end a year.

Picture one of Blog 365, aka Project 365, coming later. Welcome to Y2K8. I, for one, am totally looking forward to it.

Be warned...

Now that it's all over, and I actually pulled it off, I feel like it's safe to tell you that I signed up for this craziness in November:This is actually my 46th post in December, and I bet my drunk ass will have one more coming tonight. My drunk head. If I manage to get my ass drunk, I think I'll have a bit of soul-searching to do.

And now that I have gone since October 28th with at least one post a day (it's quantity, not so much quality, they're going for) I can also tell you that I signed up for even more fabulous fun.As much as I'd love to say all 365 glorious, witty, and mildly questionable posts will show up here, I imagine that at some point in the near future I will get a job have a torrid love affair join a playgroup take up drinking get a freaking life already. My hope is to post one picture every day of my sweet, lovely, clean, pleasant children* on My Own Private Idaho.

I hope that explains why you have been forced to listen to such an astonishing amount of pure dribble from me, or at least warns you to delete me from your readers before tomorrow, when I'm going to hit it. Hard.

*If you're buying that, I have some beach-front property in Denver I'm looking to unload, too.

Craigslist - Crazy goodness

After calling every kid in the neighborhood over the age of 12 to babysit, and getting shot down repeatedly, I did the thing I never thought I'd do....I went hunting for teenaged girls on the internet. My husband was flat out afraid of the whole situation. He wanted to interview someone and have her over for dinner first and get a list of references and perhaps know her blood type first.

I reminded him that if I can manage to not drown these kids, anyone can do it.

I got a lot of replies to my ad. Some were definite no's. Anyone who uses texting type in an email automatically gets bumped. Anyone who types in ALL CAPS gets bumped, too. If you are 52 years old, I'm just not going to hire you to babysit. Nanny, maybe. Babysit on the fly, no way. I've seen the Cat in the Hat. I know about these things.

For someone who was desperate, I sure do have a lot of conditions.

Anyway, it just so happened to work out that a 13 year old responded to the ad, who just so happens to live on the same street as me, who just so happens to have a little sister who goes to school with my kids.

HIRED.

She rocked, and wasn't nervous, and was CPR and sitter certified, which makes her more qualified to be alone with these kids than I am, and the kids were great to her, and I left her out some cream puffs, and she is now my Regular Sitter.

Squee!

We went out with a lady that works for Josh and her husband and their 4 friends. Of course, we went to the restaurant they work at for dinner, which was crazy fancy fun for me and another night at work for him. Still, they make excellent martinis, so it all worked out fine and I may have ever-so-subtly propositioned the man sitting next to me at the table. Vodka is my baby-making drink. Bygones.

And hey! Thanks to you all for offering to sit for me. I have saved, tagged and starred every one of those comments and you can rest assured that I WILL call on you someday. Get those passports ready. I am SICK of these kids.

Which one?

The Question is this:

Would you call us for a job, or would you call child services?

Rate the Hate Version Last Minute

See, I skip one little week and I totally forget the one structured thing on this blog. Bad, naughty, evil blogger.

So, yes, Santa loves me and brought me every stinking thing on my list. I wrote a long list because I usually write short lists (cheap) and Santa is left to his own powers of deduction to figure out gifts for me, which usually end up being too-small sweaters. Santa thinks I am much hotter than I actually am. This year, I figured I would help Santa out by giving him lots of options. Some of them were quite expensive options. I really crossed my fingers and hoped for one of those items to show up under my tree with all my new titty-shirts. They all did. Except the vacuum. Santa has issues with giving vacuums, and I really can't blame him.

I'm going somewhere with this, really. One of those items was this, the Cuisinart Grill thingy they came out with not too long ago. I saw it on t.v. and had to spend a few minutes "alone". Seriously, sha-wing. It is my new boyfriend and we totally messed around the other night.Those are ham and cheese paninis. Leftover Christmas ham may just be the greatest food in the universe. Ham and cheese paninis are in no way remarkable, but here's where it gets good.

2of3 hates ham. I may disown him over this, but it is true. I hate bacon, so I can't judge too harshly. Ham and cheese paninis do not work for him, so I came up with a fast alternative. The paninis are just ham, sharp white cheddar, deli mustard and mayo on ciabatta. The sandwich next to that, though, is all the same minus the ham and plus a sliced apple.

That's right; a Braeburn apple.

Seriously? This sandwich is so good I could DIE. So, ciabatta bread, good mustard, mayo, white cheddar (not the sliced crap, get the good deli stuff), sliced crisp apples; throw it all on a panini press. If you don't have one, well, if you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up. They rock so bad it hurts.

Sorry, Ron

I am screwing with the blog again. This time, however, I brought in the big guns. I hired a professional. A hot professional. More on that, and her, later.

In the meantime, I have to figure out how I want this thing to feel. I most definitely want to add a FAQ section, in the interest of cleaning up some clutter. The problem is that, aside from some incomprehensible Tron conversations and a rather embarrassing round of emails that included fetishes, handcuffs and vertically challenged Americans, no one has really ever asked me a question. Like, ever.

This is where you come in, dear readers. I want an FAQ, I need and FAQ. So here's the deal. You get to ask me any questions you want. Any. I don't really have personal boundaries, per se, so ask away. I will do my best to dance around a straightforward answer as humanly possible. The most inappropriate frequently asked ones will get slapped in my fancy new Frequently Asked Vaguely Answered Questions section.

Sounds totally awesome, doesn't it? Get crackin', kids.

Dear God in Heaven

I need your help.

See, a few years ago, I sat my kids down to watch Cloak and Dagger. I appreciate that my kids could never, ever understand what the hell an Atari 2600 is, but still, they could've liked the movie if they just opened their minds up to it. They didn't, and it caused a bit of a rift in the family.

Next, I tried Explorers. No luck there, either. Is it possible that both of my children were mistakenly switched at birth?

I thought that perhaps they were a bit too young for such awesomeness, so I waited a little and then, well, and then I pulled out my Trump Card. Yes, that's right, we snuggled up and with ice cream AND popcorn, we watch The Goonies. I was sure this was going to Do The Trick. We were going to be eternally bonded in the ties of holy Goontramony.

Not. So.

Who hates the Goonies? My idiot children, that's who.

I waited more, and prayed to you for an answer, and the answer came to me with trumpets and rainbows and bright, shining light. The Princess Bride.

Duh.

We went in again, this time with even better snackage, but it was no use. Pokemon and grand Theft Auto have rotted the taste receptors in their brains. I almost mailed them to the South Pacific that night.

Tonight, dear lord, tonight I am desperate. I wanted to wait a little longer for this one, but I am at the end of my rope here, and I thought maybe, just maybe, it would work. If it doesn't, I don't know what I'm going to do. I might have to rent them out or list them on eBay or something.

So, if, in your infinite wisdom, you see fit to help a girl out, a girl who has said some rather questionable things about you in the past, I would be grateful. Please, Lord, please let them like Labyrinth*.

*Oddly enough, even as I type this, I am asking myself if this movie is all I cracked it up to be. Maybe it's just because I've seen Jennifer Connelly naked, and now she's not a plausible theater geek to me anymore. Maybe it's David Bowie's hair. Seriously, What The Fuck?

Why Canada is cooler than the USA; A Continuing Series

We have seriously better holidays than you.

Did you know that in Canada, we have TWO holidays in December? That's right, two. And they are right next to each other. First, you get Christmas, the day to buy Jesus a bunch of birthday presents and then regift them to your spoiled children. And then, the very next day, you get Boxing Day. The whole point of Boxing Day is to get your over-stimulated, sugar-crazed, sticky kids in the car and go commune with your fellow Canucks at, you guessed it, the mall. It's National Shopping Day, and the Post Office closes for it. The entire country goes on sale. You get to go buy all the stuff you didn't get under your tree. Cheap. Crazy cheap. Day after Thanksgiving on crack cheap.

For example, you could pick up 9 CD's for the price of, oh, 4.You could buy yourself a bag full of new sweaters because your fat ass A) needs to break up with Tim Horton's and B) won't fit in any of your totally awesome old ones.You could get yourself a new phone, the phone your wife tried for two months to get you, but since she's spent the last ten years as a stay-at-home-mom who's husband takes care of everything, she doesn't exactly exist in the world of credit, and straight out buying the phone was, like, twice her entire budget for you.I'd show you the actual phone, but he can't stop making out with it yet. You could return the very nice, fancy, totally awesome coffee pot you got under the tree that had nothing at all wrong with it except that it failed in every way to work, and exchange it for some very cute glassware that Good Lordy you needed so very, very much.And when you're all done torturing your poor children by dragging them all over the mall, you could get them something, too. Like jeans, because Santa brought excellent sweaters but it never even occurred to him that boys like to wear more than boxers with their new tops. And you could buy your baby some new clothes, too,
because as you can plainly see, she doesn't havenearly enoughas it is.But, be warned: if your baby, who you are shopping for, happens to be the youngest of 3 and the only girl, you would do well to closely inspect those new footie jammies before you pick them up. (Sweet, aren't they?) And maybe chant a few times, "We have a girl. We have a girl." Because even though she really likes skateboards and worms and stuff, she might prefer rainbows on her new jammies over trucks.And if you do get away with the trucks, which you will, someone, someday, is bound to raise an eyebrow to the footballs.Yeah, America, you so totally need to steal this holiday. It may be the coolest holiday in the whole wide world.

Sucker for the pretty girls

It is (was) exactly 1:57 in the A.M. and I am sitting here with a two year old that could not, for anything in the whole world, go one more minute without her high heeled shoes and Dora's World Adventure.

Gah.

Here's hoping the big ol' slab of peanut butter bread knocks her the hell out the way it would me. Or at least glues her tongue to her mouth so I don't have to listen to her screams. Either way, really.

So, while I sit here missing some hot Donnie Darko action going on in my bedroom (we're WILD like that), I thought I'd do this little Hoopla that a ridiculously hot chick who likes to call herself Judith tagged me for. I thought I'd also make this my Thursday Thirteen. Lazy much? Before I do that, though, I have to do this. There's this new blog that I read by a guy named Dan, and Dan has a meme rule that he will do any meme you send his way as long as you first link to a blog that you think is better than yours. I agree with that rule, and I am going to propagate it. Dan, consider yourself linked.

'Da Rules:
1. List 12 13 random things about yourself that have to do with Christmas
2. Please refer to it as a ‘hoopla’ and not the dreaded ‘m’-word
3. You have to specifically tag people when you’re done. None of this “if you’re reading this, consider yourself tagged” stuff is allowed…then nobody ends up actually doing it. The number of people who you tag is really up to you — but the more, the merrier to get this ‘hoopla’ circulating through the Blog-o-sphere.
4. Please try and do it as quickly as possible. The Christmas season will be over before we know it.

Ok, I'm going to try this. I don't think I have 12 things, let alone 13, but we'll see.

1. This was supposed to be The Preface, but I have 11 more to go, and I need the ammo. I didn't celebrate Christmas as a kid. Yes, most of you know that I was lucky enough to be raised in one of the more awesome pseudo-Judaeo-Christian cults, the one where we didn't celebrate Christmas. It's no biggie, really; I mean, who needs silly old Christmas when you have birthdays the Easter Bunny Halloween your wedding anniversary Sex! that isn't missionary. Well, that turned depressing...



2. Not celebrating Christmas, I never believed in Santa. AND I always knew that Christ wasn't born in December. AND I knew that Christmas was flat out stolen from the Pagans. But I was told to never, ever tell this to people, which really counters everything my "Fun Happy Group of Friends" was all about. I guess, even though Christmas was pure evil, even those guys understood the magic of Christmas. For other people. NEVER for us. Cheap bastards. And I never did spill the beans, by the way, even though I thought it was mind-numbingly stupid.



3. Not celebrating Christmas, I also had no reason to know what day it fell on. I knew that we got out of school towards the end of December and came back in January to a bunch of classmates with cool ass shit to rub in our poor, nasty, weird faces, and so I assumed it happened sometime in-between. I was 23, and had celebrated my second Christmas, before I could remember the date.


4. I cut myself off from my congregation when I was 17, but didn't celebrate Christmas until I was 22 and pregnant. I just didn't get it. And I didn't care to.



5. I was one of those people who never replied to a kind "Merry Christmas!" from someone; I totally was all, "Thank you but I don't celebrate you evil Devil worship holiday." Well, maybe not that last bit, but I was a party pooper. And now, my big fat hypocritical ass freaking hates it when people don't say Merry Christmas back. Like the girl at the mall today, who replied with, "And a very happy holiday season to you, too!" Self-righteous bitch.



6. I get the Holiday Mascots mixed up sometimes. Like, this one time, I was trying to explain Easter to my boys and it went something like this; "So, guys, you go to bed and while you sleep, the Easter Bunny comes. He hides eggs full of toys and candy all over the house, and when you wake up, you get to find them and open them! Because he loves you and you have been so GOOD!" My husband stood back while I told this story, came up to us after, put a sad, condescending hand on my shoulder and said, "Um, that's Christmas, you dork."



7. I still, to this very day, have no idea what the story is behind the Easter Bunny.



8. And I don't care to.



9. I really, really like Christmas now. I like hiding the presents from the kids. I like the surprise in the morning. I have never once shaken a box or undone wrapping paper with razor blades to peek inside gifts. I like to wait for it.



10. I also really like all the pomp that goes into Christmas. I like(d) going and picking a tree. I liked forgetting to water it and sitting on a fire hazard for a month straight. I like hanging the freaking son-of-a-nutcracker lights. I like the candy canes and the special Hershey Kisses and wearing a Santa hat everywhere I go, no matter how inappropriate.



11. I never sang Christmas songs, even though I was in the choir my whole life, so I never learned the words. I did, however, learn all the super awful naughty words to all the crazy evil raunchy spoof songs. My kids have gotten quite an education just listening to me try and sing along to my Starbucks Christmas CD.



12. I am deathly, horridly afraid that my kids are going to stop believing in Santa. I have given myself panic attacks about it. They are 9 and 7, and one of those kids is well past his belief window, and yet they sit with hearts and minds wide open, and it is one of the few parts of them that is still small and quiet and little. They are wide eyed wondrous children come December. Thank god I'm so flipping cheap, or I think this gig would have been up a few years ago. Last Christmas, 2of3 came home and said that someone in his class told him that there was no Santa. I threw up in my mouth a little and then asked him what he thought about that. He said, and I quote, "Mom, he thinks the parents are Santa. PLEASE! You never would have spent that much money on me!"



13. I need a thirteen, for Thursday Thirteen. My favorite presents to give my kids are the stocking presents. I think I like them because they have nothing to do with the Million Dollar list. I like trying to find treasure to put in there; little charms, crystals and rocks, cool candy, all the little crap I usually yell at them for leaving all over the floor for the baby to eat. I still, however, suck a large amount of ass at the whole "Grown Up Stocking" bit. It's almost sad, really.

Is that thirteen? IT IS! I did it! And now I have to do the thing I hate most in the whole world, and that is tagging people. Hmmm, who hasn't done this? Ok, I'm totally representin' Vancouver here by tagging Huckdoll and LatteMommy and I'm tagging Kelly, too, provided she's all settled into her new old digs. I will also tag my BFF's Molly and Sarah because I bet they have awesome stories. But, you know what? Christmas is OVER, so let's kill this thing already. Mr Lady says Don't Tag Anyone Else!

Christmas Means Dinner

Dinner means death.
Death means Carnage.
Christmas means CARNAGE!

Dude, we totally ate Babe. Your favorite movie and your favorite dinner should have NOTHING in common.

After a rather freakish display of materialism love and appreciation for each family member, I got busy cooking the dinner I totally could have prepped the night before, but didn't because I chose to drink a bunch of wine instead. Bygones. We didn't have anything special, except that I borrowed recipes from people, so even that we weren't with them, their holidays could be with us, at least at our table. That makes it totally special. I made Gigi's family green beans, which were good but not nearly as good as when she makes them, and I made Leslie Dillinger's Gruyere scalloped potatoes. Holy Greasy Jumping Jesus Christ on a Popsicle Cupcake Crutch! Those are some damn delicious potatoes. Leslie, I'm stealing your recipe for myself. Gigi, I'm letting you cook next year. You bring the beans, I'll bring the cookies.

For dinner, I decided I'd try something I haven't tried before. Because I like to experiment, that's why. I thought it would be fun to try out 'Suburban Soccer Mom Martha WannaBe'. Yep, that's just about everything I rally against. But I can't fight it anymore, I like the suburbs and Martha, and soccer moms are crazy hot. And so, my normally white on white table was set with gramma's china, my dad's silver, and kitsch.Even the baby got in on the action. She has a thing for Martha. Just ask her Gramma Gigi.We had "Champagne"And since a certain Godfather has taught all of my children to toast, properly, we said "Cheers!" (or Earws!, depending on the person) 4,936 times.
We had a ham that actually didn't suck, though I expected it to, seeings how the last time I roasted a ham I was still A) less than 23 and B) single. A gorgeous bouquet of flowers capped it all off nicely, and then we ate that poor, helpless little pig.Why, yes, I DO have an enormous ring on my table, thank you for asking. That table is one bazillion years old. YOU try and keep rings from forming on it.

Dinner was lovely and quiet. We did not have to run to Gramma's and then my dad's and then Aunt Jane's and then home before bed. We didn't have to vacuum before company came over. We didn't have to put on deodorant (though maybe we should have). We had to sit on our butts and eat too much food and enjoy each other's company in a way we rarely get to in my house. It was nice, and the nice made it a little easier for us all to ditch the sad we were all feeling on our first Christmas away from everything we hold dear. The staying put was great, the staying put at Gigi's would have been heaven.

I made dessert, and I learned something.I learned that what takes you 3 days the first time may only take you two hours the second time, and that you should only substitute almonds for hazelnuts if you want your Busch de Noel to, although sweet-looking on the outside, be bitter on the inside to a freakish degree.

And then we took pictures and then we watched movies and then we were so tired one eye wouldn't stay open anymore and so we went to bed. And that was our amazing, action packed holiday. Go big or go home. Apparently, we went home.
(Nine years olds just don't take the world's best pictures)

Everything we wanted, even the front tooth

Anyone know a good maid?

Dude, my house is a WRECK. Seriously, my mother-in-law would have a conniption fit if she walked in here right now. Thank God South Africa is a really long walk from here.

We spent yesterday getting ready for the big guy, baking cookies and making food for the reindeer. Feeding the reindeer is right up there at the top of my Favorite Christmas Shit list. We made food for them from oatmeal, some left-over cereal, raisins, brown sugar, cinnamon bark and pralines. Yumma. Nummy.Then, it was cookie time. You know how I'm all 'I can't bake cookies' and you are all 'Pshaw, I totally know you can'? You are WRONG. I made Shortbread cookies, the easiest cookies in the known universe, for the kids to frost and even busted out my fancy cutters. This is how they turned out.They aren't just burnt; I managed to melt them. We scraped that idea, and thank Baby Jesus (who's home now, by the way) that mom keeps a box of mini-eclairs in the freezer. Santa got some gourmet shit from us last night.

After the milk was poured and sweet faces were made, the kids were off to bed and I wrapped like I've never wrapped before. Like it was 1999. Like a virgin. You get it. (No Molly, I haven't killed the hamsters yet. Patience, dude.) That closet full of presents turned into a pile of boxes so large, I wished I had a bigger tree. And I have a big motherfucking tree.It seems that Santa found his way into the living room, but perhaps went a little too heavy on the eggnog last night.The chair over-turned, the cold, blank stare at the ceiling....I know drunk when I see drunk. For shame, Santa, for shame.

I got to bed at 1:30, and at two o'clock in the gosh darn morning, those boys woke up. I think the only thing I managed to say to them was, "Um, NO." They were back up at 7 this morning and the mayhem ensued.

Santa, I kid you not, brought the left side of the mall to my house last night. Every kid got the thing they wished most for. 1of3 got his iPod and some very cool Olympics schwag(half off at Please Mum right now, Canucks!). 2of3 got an iCoaster, which I rolled my eyes at fairly hard, but soon realized was Wicked. Cool.He also got a Power Tour electric guitar, because no 7 year old can have too many guitars. (We're at 3 right now. Yikes!)

Oh, and they both got scratch tickets in their stockings. Because that's how Santa rolls around here, that's what. 2of3 won $9, which is like $9.17 American, or 3 jawbreakers.

We tried, repeatedly, to get the baby out of her bed, but she just groaned at us and rolled over, back to sleep. She slept until 10:15. Which rocked. She got up, played with her dollhouse and Dora toys, clomped about in her high heeled shoes and refused to open any more presents. She still has one under the tree right now.Dad got clothes and golf stuff and some more clothes and did I mention golf stuff? Thank god his kids are more creative than Santa, and got him an Avalanche jersey and a shining new crazy hot pair of skates. When in Rome and all.Me? Oh, I got everything. It's almost embarrasing. We'll get to that later.

And then we failed miserably to clean up, I cooked a little (a freaking ton) and the kids tried to break each other's toys. We talked to the family, all of them, Josh's and mine, which killed me simply because I want to be home with them so bad it aches, and even Gramma in Africa, and then there was dinner.And that is a story for another day. And a different color scheme. Right now, I have to try and find my floor. Merry Christmas to you all!

HURRY! Time's almost up!

Oh dear god, HOW THE HELL could I forget this?

Do you know that the friendly folks at Norad in Colorado Springs track the big guy in red every year? THEY DO. Here's the YouTube link, if you don't want to mess with Google Earth. It's updated every thirty minutes.They use Google Earth and fancy satellite feeds to track him in his travels all over the world tonight. You can watch him in real time. This is seriously THE COOLEST SHIT EVER. It is our one dire-hard family tradition. I totally meant to tell you about it yesterday, but I am an idiot. I hope you catch it tonight so your kids can watch Santa work his magic!

Also, it makes a lovely "Get To Bed So Momma Can Drink Eggnog" tool. 'Oh shit, guys, he's in OHIO! He's COMING!!! SLEEP NOW!!!!'

Crucial Information

You Are a Christmas Sweater!

Over the top, colorful, and totally flashy. You're not afraid to be a little tacky.

What Crappy Christmas Gift Are You?

Truer words? Never Spoken.

Christmas; Take One

I am sure there will be something completely inappropriate going up here later, but for now, it's with the mush.

I have this tree full of presents and all 4 of the people who are contractually obligated to hang out with me all under the same roof for Christmas this year, and you think that would be the best gift of all.

It. Gets. Better.

I can't believe it either. This morning, my family grew. Not in size, but in reality. My niece, my beautiful niece who lives somewhere very far away, who is waiting for her momma and daddy to be allowed to go get her, well, I got a PICTURE of her today. 4 pictures. She is fine and beautiful and has a smile that could stop a train. My heart exploded. BLAM.

And, as if that wasn't enough, the phone rang. That in itself is a Christmas miracle. That bitch never rings. But then, oh, and then, I answered it and on the other line was my babiest baby brother, the one who was in diapers the last time I saw him, the one who didn't know any single stinking thing about us until my other baby brother forwarded him a MySpace message I sent. He's 23, in the military, stationed in Italy. And he called me. ME.

I think I could die.

So, good luck topping that this Christmas. I don't care if Santa leaves bubble-wrap*, I just got everything I could ever ask for.

*Honestly, I wish Santa would leave bubble-wrap. I loves me some bubble-wrap.

Silver Linings

One silver lining:
At least, by not actually owning any clothing that I would have put in this closet, I have room for all this.Good lord, do I ever have some wrapping to do.

Another:
Dudes, yes, you are stuck in the basement storage room right there next to the paint cans, in the dark, but in a day and a half, it's gonna be all with the climbing and the carrots and the apples and stuff.*Two little boys are going to love the hell out of you.

One last one:
We may not ever see more of each other than the eyes over dueling laptops, but it's super hard to make more babies this way.And man oh lordy do we ever have a lot of gigs. Big. Hard. Drives. Mmmmm.

See all of Sarcastic Mom's Weekly Winners right here!


*The creepy basement domes are full of hamsters. I know, I know. They're going into their new homes tonight. They chewed through every box I put them in. And I kinda have a history with killing hamsters. That's me, serial-hamster-killers. Molly, I cannot wait to hear what you have to say about this.

Oh, screw it

'Twas the week before Christmas
and all through the house
Mr. Lady stopped cooking;
She felt like a louse.

She just couldn't handle
one more dirty dish;
she took the kids to McDonald's,
they all screamed, "Delish!"

The next day, off to IHop
because two kids eat free
with every adult meal;
Cheap works for me!

Her Saturday posting
of scrumptious, good dinners
would have to wait just one week;
Cheeseburgers are not winners.

Her fridge has just milk,
Cheese and some NA beer
They kids' had better get used to it;
College is near.

Saturday next
will bring entrees galore
into your reader
that you will adore.

This week we are skipping
to shop and to see
just how long the kids will eat
breakfast cereal with glee.

Merry Christmas to you
and to your lovely pack
from Mr Lady, her family
and her empty dish rack.

I'm not proud

Fancy desserts? Nah!
All I need is this big box
of Count Chocula!

How Time Flys

Today is my father's 59th birthday. I honestly cannot believe that. My parents will perpetually be 35 year old angst-ridden rock stars in my mind's eye.

Those of you who have been around here for a while will know that both of my parents are alive and well-ish, but that I speak to neither of them. I haven't said word one to my father in just over 2 years. Well, except for that email I sent a few weeks ago, apologizing for my lack of communication, which he chose to ignore. Bygones.

I don't miss them terribly; I mean, I have totally replaced them with two amazing people that I really wish were really my parents, and whom I think wish the same. All is well in parentville over here. But really; sometimes a girl wants her daddy.

My kids ask about my dad all the time, and every stinking question is like a knife through my heart. I refuse to say anything nasty about their grandfather to them, so I just change the subject. It is a sad, sad situation.

But today is not about that. Today is the Friday before Christmas, and the day a 4 pound baby came into the world in Media, Pennsylvania many years ago. That baby grew up to be an amazing guitarist, arguably the best I've ever heard. He grew to be a father to an excessive amount of children, husband to 2 women, and friend to many. Here's what I remember of him:

I remember band practice when I was a little girl. I remember sneaking downstairs long after I was sent to bed, sneaking up to the couch, burying myself in between pot-smoking, beer drinking band members and falling back to sleep in a flood of guitars, tambourines and immaculate harmonies. It is my single most happiest childhood memory.

I remember sitting on the stoop one day, eating ice cream from the ice cream truck, melting in the heat, and getting sprayed with the garden hose by my dad. It was one of the few days he actually stopped to play with us, and I couldn't have been older than 3 or 4, but I will never forget it.

I remember the look on his face through his rear view mirror as he drove away, car packed, belongings shipped, on his way to Colorado. No matter how sad I felt, that look in his eye told me he was breaking a little, leaving me behind. No words could have conveyed that more clearly.

I remember turning off all the lights and sitting on the living room floor listening to Meddle on vinyl. I remember how he sat beside me, and we were both silent and motionless, and I remember drowning in the music and the Old Spice in the air and the absolute still perfection.

I remember how every year on my birthday, he would call to sing to me, even though it was totally FORBIDDEN in my religion and it made my mother go crazy. I remember how some years he'd get really sneaky and send me a birthday present. Those were my favorite years.

My dad wasn't the world's best dad, and I don't think he ever will be. He's just not wired that way. But sometimes, when he forgot about his obligations and his pursuits and his life, he was able to find a way to make me feel like the very center of the universe, in small, quiet sorts of ways. I was his little girl, and he was my daddy. There is no relationship in the world like that one. And I miss him.

Close, but not quite

Potty Training in 13 easy steps:

1. Wait until they are ready. They'll let you know.
2. Get a potty chair for every room the kid spends time in. Yes, that means you should probably buy stock in potty chairs. So. Worth. It.
3. Get used to naked babies. Take their pants off. If you leave their pants on, they will pee in them. Even if you buy really cute Dora panties. It doesn't work to tell them not to pee on Dora when the potty they are to pee in also has Dora's face plastered all over it. It DOESN'T work. Trust Mr. Lady on this one.
4. If you must put pants on your kid, put pants on that are way too big. Make sure the crotch of those pants comes no higher than their knees. They won't feel the pants on their bottom, and won't pee in them. Make sure they can get them off easily, though.
5. If you put pants that are too big on them, get used to bruised babies. They're going to trip. A lot.
6. Pump'm full of liquid. Break your no juice rule...let them go crazy on the juice, the water, the popsicles, whatever. Make them have to go.
7. Go with them. Let'm watch YOU pee. Let'm watch you poo. Which is seriously gross and really uncomfortable, but it works, yo.
8. Don't worry about overnight. Staying dry overnight takes much longer. Keep a diaper stash on hand for outings (naked babies at the mall in December are frowned upon.)
9. Ask them every ten minutes to go potty. Set a timer if you have to. You will get so good at this that you will find yourself rolling over in the middle of the night, rubbing your husband's head, and asking him in your sweet voice if he needs to go potty. He will not be amused.
10. Create a reward system. Lollipops work, stickers work, but 3 kids in, I have found that 'You DID it!'s and high-fives kinda work best.
11. Keep potty fun. If they manage to stand in front of the potty and pee all over the floor, that still counts. High fives are in order. (They WILL stand in front of the potty and pee on the floor, by the way.)
12. Make sure you keep the potty chair accessible. Do not, under any circumstances, allow your older children to come home and throw their backpacks and coats on top of the potty chair. Do not let the potty chair get shoved into the corner when no one's looking. Keep it in the middle of the room. Especially when you're cooking dinner and are all distracted.
13. In the event that the potty chair does get buried in a pile of clutter, be sure that you do not have another Dora item in the living room, like, say, a Dora push car
    who's seat has a lid and a hole in it, one small enough that a toddler can sit on it easily, all by her big girl self, while you're slaving away in the kitchen. You know, one that seems, to a toddler, to be a perfectly acceptable substitute. Horrors will ensue.

All I Want for Christmas is Last Christmas

Awesomely awesome awesomeness

You know what is the best bestest ever? When you meet a girl out for a playdate that you've never met before and you aren't even sure you want to go because you have horrid social issues that make you an uber dork in public settings but you force yourself to go anyway and the girl turns out to be cooler than cool and brutally hot and her kids are seriously seriously SERIOUSLY cute and you don't even need to get coffee to mask awkward pauses or anything because their aren't any and the WMD was totally (almost) well behaved and you think that maybe you might just have made your first real life friend in the foreign country you call home and as you're heading home feeling very good about your brave self indeed but just a little worried that you talked too much or maybe interrupted somewhere while totally second-guessing your choice to not blowdry your hair so that you'd be on time and you glimpse in the mirror and realize that you have a hugemungous zit on your chin?

Yeah, I like that, too.

Auld Lang Syne

I grew up in a house full of music, and most of my memories of childhood have a soundtrack. A strange soundtrack. Maybe we'll talk about that someday.

Today, we're going to talk about one guy. That one guy shaped a whole lot of my views on music. His voice gets me right *here* no matter how old I get or how outdated he gets. That guy died on Sunday.

Longer was one of the first songs I learned to play on the piano. The Leader of the Band has been and always will be the song I listen to when I just really need my dad. Same Old Lang Syne is my very favorite of his songs, and only for its' simplicity and realness. That shit could happen to anyone. Someone put it on a mixtape for me once, and now that song forever has a home in my heart, too.

Yes, I am completely aware of the fact that I am way too young to love Dan Fogelberg, but I love Dan Fogelberg. It's one of those things I will never fess up to loving in public, but I really, really do when I'm all by myself.

There's no point to this, really. He died, and I find myself a little sad about that.

He Knows How to Treat a Lady

I went on a date with a very cute boy yesterday.

Once upon a time, when we lived in Denver and the kids' gramma did, too, she would take them on Saturday nights. Sometimes, though, she would just take one of them. Those were the days before 3of3, and the odd-boy-out and I would go on a date. A FANCY date. A not-McDonalds date. Since those days, gramma has moved to South Africa and we moved to Canada, back to Denver, and back to Canada again. Oh, and I went and had another baby. I totally screwed up date night for my boys.

2of3 is taking it the hardest. He lost his place as the baby and he lost his place as the IT boy at school. He doesn't know where he his in his life right now, and we are all paying for it.

Yesterday, dad was actually home for once and 1of3 had a birthday party to attend, so we dumped big brother on the party and the baby on dad and 2of3 and I hit the town. The mall. Whatever. It was awesome.

I just followed him for a while. We started at Walmart, where he got to choose a present. He picked out a $20 pack of hockey cards. (A week before Christmas. Grrr.) We also grabbed a travel checkers kit. And then we headed over to Starbucks. We both got grown-up sized hot chocolates (YUM) and sat at Starbucks where my 7 year old kicked my motherfucking ass at some checkers without me letting him win in any way (not true).

After that, he thought we should ride the little train they have set up for babies around Santa. So we did. We only got nasty looks from about half of the people running the thing. We totally held hands while the train rode around the mall. Oh, we are suckers for the romance. And then 2of3 wanted to go into his favorite store in the whole wide world....House Of Knives. Creepy? A little. Almost my favorite store? Perhaps. We looked at axes and swords and old-fashioned shaving kits and all sorts of sharp, pointy, shiny things. Oh, we are suckers for the sharp, the pointy and the shiny.

And then we went to the grocery store (don't you want to go on a date with me now?) and 2of3 got his dad a chocolate bar and his brother and sister each a necklace out of the vending machine thing. He's thoughtful like that.

We came home after that and for the first time in I can't tell you when, I did NOT have a child rocking in his chair, talking at me incessantly, picking at his brother or whining because the baby got more milk than him. I had a pleasant, sweet kid. I had MY kid back. It. Was. Glorious.

He decreed that Date Night shall be a regular event around here, one Sunday every month. He wanted every Sunday, but I had to remind him that there are 3 other people in this house who would like a date with me, and he agreed to once a month. I wonder where he'll take me next time. Maybe Home Depot.

This Week in Belief

We're just a typical American Canadian family, with fine holiday traditions that we embrace, no matter how much they annoy the piss out of the 9 year old.
(I assure you, that said Noel 5 minutes later) An innocent night of holiday cheerTurned into a night of destruction plotting. Note the fierce battle-cry.First, I'm going to throw you on the floor. And then I'm going to dance to Mambo on top of you in my fancy shoes.For you, it's going to be a long drop down the railing. You think you're all cool, half horse, half fish. We'll see if you've got any bird in you.Oooo, the moose. You might be tough. You're made pretty well. Hmmm...Maybe if I chew on you or something. Maybe. Just you wait. I'll think of something.Later in the week: Well, Santa. It's like this. I'm 9 now. I cook dinner and do my own laundry. Yes, I NEED a Nano.I don't get it. I sat on the creepy guy's lap, I told him I wanted a skateboard, and I got my candy. When's he gonna put me down already?I am pretty sure that you're not who you're saying you are, dude, but if it's gonna get me an iCoaster, I will play your little game. And look viciously cute while I do it. iCoaster.
See Sarcastic Mom's other Weekly Winners right here.

Rate the Hate the I Could Get Used To This Edition

Once again, my nine year old cooked us dinner, and once again, he chose to make salmon. Dude, if my kid grows up to be a chef, I'm gonna be the happiest momma ever.

He made Salmon Piccata for us. It's crazy easy, and wonderful for dinner parties. You bake/grill/whatever you do to your salmon, sprinkled with just a little salt and pepper. Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan you cook 2 tbsp olive oil with 6 minced garlic cloves for about 2 minutes. To that, you add 1/2 cup fresh lemon juice and 1 1/2 cups chicken broth (or white wine for grown ups) and bring it to a boil. In a small bowl, mix 2 tbsp butter with 2 tbsp flour to make a roux, and then whisk that into the sauce, stirring it constantly until it thickens, about 2 more minutes. Add 2/3 c. capers and 1/2 cup fresh chopped parsley to that and season it to taste with salt and pepper. You can serve that over pasta, but I really like to serve it over steamed broccoli. Or both. Both is nice.But did they eat it? Well, 1of3 made it, so he loved it. 3of3 totally dug the broccoli. She likes broccoli. What can I say?And what did 2of3 think? Well, he thought he'd ask for Kraft Dinner. The kid hates fish. But he does like boogers.

Tee Hee

Who comes up with these things anyway?

Really? A meme? About spanking? Really?

Well, Kelly tagged me for it, and I sorta totally, with all of my heart, more that Johny Depp OR Eminem, heart Kelly, so I'll do it.

The question is whether or not I spank my kids. The answer is I have spanked them, I will in all likelihood spank them again. Am I a spanker? By no means. I will spank when spanking is called for.

I am all about appropriate discipline. I have no interest in being these kids' friend; they HAVE those, they NEED a parent. I have rules, much like their teachers and bosses and girlfriends and roommates and mothers-in-law will. Those rules will be followed. Period. No one's negotiating with them in the real world and I'm not doing them any favors by caving to their whims now.

That sounds really bitchy.

We come to the house rules together. We talk about it, me explaining the whys and them stating their opinions. We settle, and that is final. Rules are not to be broken. It's a democracy; I am the president.

Spanking is a last resort round here, and I so rarely have to come to it that they can never remember what one is like, and they are totally afraid of them. The last one 2of3 got....after it was over, he said, "That's it? I thought it was gonna be MUCH worse." See, it's all about the build up.

Sometimes, I certain cases, I think it is important for these kids to be just a little afraid of me. You know, like y'all are with your god. You love him, but you fear him. THAT'S the fear I'm talking about. My kids have to know that I am in charge and that I am to be listened to, otherwise I've got boys running around after dark getting kidnapped and raped and murdered and stuff. They're almost big enough to overpower me if they want.

I have this spanking thing down to a science. I didn't always, though. Let me tell you an awful story for a second...

I was spanked as a kid, and not just paddled on the butt; my parents stopped when they drew blood. Naturally, I wasn't ever going to spank my kids. And then one night, when 1of3 was really close to 2, we had THAT night. You know, that night when your kid hates you and will make you miserable at any cost? Well, I lost it. Completely. I screamed, I hit, I threw him across the room. I. Threw. My. Son. Right then, I grabbed the house keys and the phone, walked outside, locked him in the house and me out of it, called his dad at work and told him to come home.

We had the talk that night. I am sure Josh knew it was coming; he knows my past and gets it that I just did what came natural, what I learned to do. Now it was time to unlearn it. We made rules for spankings. All night long we sat, hashing it out. This is what we came up with:

Spankings can be no more than 3 swats. They can be butt only. CLOTHED butt only. They can never happen right at naughty-time. There must be notice given, like this, "Dude, you totally screwed up when you (insert horrid thing here) and you will have to get a spanking for it. Go in your room and I will see you in 5 minutes." Once notice is given, the spanking MUST happen. It's the ace in our deck. We have to be consistent.

That last incident, the one I linked to up there, when 2of3 decided to disappear for a whole evening, he certainly got a spanking. First, he went out with his dad for an hour. It gave me time to think long and hard about what to do. When he got his spanking, we talked for a long time about it, and I made sure he knew that I hated hated hated it, but it had to be done. He cried, not in fear or pain, but in shame. He knew he had disappointed, and he knew he was hurting me, too. That is more effective than any grounding or spanking or anything I could think up. He took his 3 swats, laid right out over my knee all old-school, and that was that.

Shit works, yo.

Spankings are not violent in my home. They are not painful or in anger. They are just necessary discipline at certain points. They are not for little things, they are for very VERY large infractions, usually involving safety. There are certainly little swats on the butt when attitudes get stinky, and there has been a bad-word or utter-disrespect pop on the mouth here and there. The toddler will get her hand slapped when she colors all over the couch with a Sharpie. The first time my kid tells me to fuck off, I guarantee he will get knocked in the teeth. But, as a rule, we do not hit. They know that if it comes to a smack, they have seriously screwed up.

Most of the people I have read who have done this have very small children, and most of you think you will never, ever spank. I agree that hitting/spanking/swatting a very small child is as effective as rationalizing with a toilet. But when they get a little older, when they start feeling those hormones a bit, when defiance goes from 'I don't want to drink my milk' to 'I would really like to play in traffic with random thug kids and poke at dead rats with sticks', well, something more than a time out is called for. And my children are fine, rational, very loved, very confident and secure young men. And yes, they have been spanked. And I think that every time, it has been the right choice.

Miche does not spare the rod. Jo-N wants to be her children's best friend. Tot's Mom spares the rod and believes in patience. Huckdoll spares the rod and believes there are more effective yet gentle ways to discipline than spanking when dealing with kids. Kelly at Ordinary Art has a three-step approach that does not always work but leaves tiny tushes mark free. Mr Lady has spanked, will probably spank again, but only when necessary.

Bah. With a little Humbug.

Christmas has been slow to come to me. Don't get me wrong, I really like Christmas. Any excuse to lie to my kids makes my cold, dead heart sing. But there's just some things I don't get yet.

I get the whole 'buy everyone a bunch of crap they don't need' part of Christmas. I like having the tree, and the pretty gifts under the tree. I like baking the cookies and eating the ham. I love wrapping presents. The look on my kids' faces on Christmas morning makes every single other thing in life totally worth it.

Will someone please explain the stockings to me already? What exactly is the deal with them? I have just spent 2 weeks, and the mortgage, searching for presents for 4 people who have every stinking thing they could want already, and I DID IT. I got great presents. I was feeling all full of myself, and then I looked at the mantle.

OH SHIT.

I have to fill those up, too?

My husband likes to fill them with candy. This from a man who hates that I give the kids dessert. This from the man who will have to pay the orthodonture bill. I'm guessing his mom filled his with candy. I love candy, but I have no inclination whatsoever to relive the horror we just finished called "Huge Bags of Candy Laying Around", aka "Halloween Aftermath". And I bought them everything I wanted to already.

WHAT AM I GOING TO PUT IN THESE STOCKINGS?

Maybe it's my cheapness talking, but if I'm spending more than $5 bucks on it, it's going under the tree. More than $5 should count towards the bulk. Anything less than $5 is going to break in less than 5 minutes.

Stockings stress me out. I got them Hot Wheels, candy, stickers, candy, toothbrushes, candy, stuffed elves and reindeer, candy and pencils. I think that's going to do it. But there is still one problem....I have a 35 year old man who thinks his stocking should have stuff in it, too.

When the boys were little, I used to put a pack of Marlboros and a fancy lighter in his. They boys would frown on that, now. I gave him a lovely, small, grooming kit in his stocking two years ago, so there goes that idea. He already owns 2 watches worth more than the toddler, so that's out, too. He doesn't wear ties, ever, and if I put tube socks and Vasoline in there, then I have no right to bitch about his middle of the night "Email Checks", now do I? I got him really, uber, fancy golfs balls for under the tree, the kind I won't let him spend the money on normally, and now I am flat out of ideas.

Grrrrrr.

It shouldn't be this hard. Whoever came up with the stocking idea, I loathe you. You, sir, are on my short list. Pray you don't bump into me in a dark alley.

I accept your challenge!

It takes a special sort of someone, someone with mad homemakin' skilz, to take this(yes, that says Wrinkle Free) and do this to it.I am a domestic GODDESS.

Wasting my time in the waiting line

You are what you eat

Aimee sent me an email last week with a link to pictures of families all over the world and their groceries for the week.

It. Blew. My. Mind.

I thought I'd share. *Disclaimer: I do not own these photos. I just got them in an email. I Googled around a bit, and here is the photoset I found on FlickR, and here is the link to the book it seems like they came from.

Japan: 37,699 Yen or $317.25

Italy: 214.36 Euros or $260.11

Germany: 375.39 Euros or $500.07 North Carolina, U.S.A: $341.98 Mexico: 1,862.78 Mexican Pesos or $189.09 Poland: 582.48 Zlotys or $151.27 Cairo, Egypt: 387.85 Egyptian Pounds or $68.53Ecuador: $31.55 Bhutan: 224.93 ngultrum or $5.03 Kuwait: 63.63 dinar or $221.45
Beijing, China: 1,233.76 Yuan or $155.06
California, U.S.A.: $159.18
Mongolia: 41,985.85 togrogs or $40.02 Great Britian: 155.54 British Pounds or $253.15 Chad: 685 CFA Francs or $1.23

What I found the most interesting is that the less money spent, the more fresh produce was bought. Conversely, those who spent the most purchased the most frozen and pre-packaged, which are the least healthy. Yes, maybe the quantity we can afford counts for something, but my friend GiGi and I bought thought that the German family was probably just as malnourished as the family from Chad. And we both agreed we'd rather be the Chad malnourished. At least our skin would feel better.

I decided that, since it was grocery day anyway, I would add my family to the mix. And so, here we are, the Mr. Lady Family, Vancouver, Canada: @$300.This is a full week of breakfasts and dinners, about 2 weeks of sack lunches, and doesn't include the 5 more gallons of milk and the 2 or 3 more pounds of apples and pears I will buy this week. And I want to state for the record that I only bought Kraft Singles because they were out of Provolone. And I like Kraft Singles. So there. The tab was actually $357, but that included the months vitamins, toilet bowl cleaner, etc. I subtracted those and went just with food purchases.

What I notice most about my own spending habits is that though I do buy a lot of produce and fresh foods, I spend an assload of money on prepackaged lunch stuff, like Teddy Grams and crackers. I do this because A) I am too groggy in the morning to put a ton of thought into lunch and B) I ate gross, free school lunch every day for 12 years of school. I overcompensate by sending my kids with really cool, enviable, swappable lunch items. School lunch is crucial social networking time, and I want my kids on the top of that food chain. Yes, I have issues. Yes, many of them surround food. I'm ok with it.

OK. So there it is. I double dog dare you to post your groceries for the week on your blog. DOUBLE. DOG. DARE.

What up, Baby J?

I think I lost my will to blog. It's not anything bad, really. It's just that I realized the other day that no matter how hard I try, not matter what I say or do, nothing will ever be funnier than this.

Please, check it out. Put a diaper on first. And maybe grab some tissue.

Winter, Springs, Son-of-a-faaalllll!

This week came in like a lion and out like a, well, an emergency.

Winter Wonderland

Four stitches and one iPod movie later

Play along with the Weekly Weeklies by clicking the link below!

Totally. Worth. It.

(I apologize in advance for the camera phone pictures. I had no idea any of this was coming.)

We never leave this house.

Ok, that is a bit of an exaggeration. We go to school and the market and the video store. We don't get out out a whole lot, though.

Yesterday, I needed to go get Christmas cards. I am one of those people that has to have the Christmas cards, and I am willing to go to great lengths to get them. I thought I was going to have to make a trip to my country of origin to get the ones that I wanted, but I lucked out and found a store that carries them 10 whole blocks from Josh's work. So, we headed out for a downtown Vancouver day of fabulous fun. Well, I did. The boys headed out for a downtown day of sitting in the conference room at dad's work eating cherries and watching Harry Potter.

While I was out, I heard on the radio that the 2010 mascots were making an appearance at somewhere or the other downtown. 1of3 just so happens to be crazy obsessed with them. He knows their names, their stories, the whole thing. He prints pictures of them off the internet and hangs them in his room. He lurves them. Of course, I had to take them. So, I picked them up from dad and we headed down for the best surprise ever.This is Miga. She is 1of3's favorite. This is Sumi. He is a guardian spirit, and 2of3 like him the best. This is Quatchi. Apparently, Quatchi is a very good hugger and every family that tried to take a picture with him got a little, curly, blond blur of a head in their photo. She wasn't giving him up for anything.

I was officially named Best Mom Ever and after the purchase of stuffed animals, lapel pins, baseball caps and other assorted schwag, we headed home just in time to not miss Gymnastics class. This was turning out to the the greatest day ever for my kids. 1of3 actually said, on the way to gymnastics, "Mom, this is the best day of my whole life."

Mine, too. Gymnastics is 3 hours long, and, like, 3 blocks from Toys R Us. 3of3 and I dropped them off and then started Christmas shopping. Yes, we're just starting. Shut up. About 45 minutes into shopping, the phone rings. A squeaky teenager, either in the throws of puberty of very, very nervous, asks if I am 2of3's mom.

I am.

Well, she asks, could I maybe come back by the gym because it's not like he's unconscious or anything but he did hit his head pretty hard and and she's not the one putting pressure on it but wow is there a lot of blood and maybe I should come by and see it?

OK.

Yeah, 'he hit his head pretty hard' may be the understatement if the year. He landed a totally sweet double flip on the tramp, bounced off the mat and landed on the corner of an oddly located speaker cabinet.
After a complete freakout, a shit-load of blood, and a not at all unpleasant 2 hour wait at the ER, Frankenstein here is all better and feeling quite tough, indeed.And we totally got to go out for ice cream after, which seriously rocks. If that's not a day out on the town, I don't know what is.

Rate the Hate the Short Cut edition

So, I have this recipe for a rubbed, slow roasted pork shoulder that you then pull, soak in homemade barbecue sauce and eat on thick, Italian rolls. Sounds divine, doesn't it? Yeah, I thought so, too. But, alas, I have no patience right now and so totally took a short cut. And that brings us to tonight's dinner...Pulled Pork Sandwiches that Taste Like You Really Cared, but Actually Didn't.

You throw 2 whole pork tenderloins in a crock pot. You add enough water to just cover them, and then to that add 1 cup barbecue sauce, 4 tbsp cider vinegar and some hot sauce or seasoning. I, of course, added this. (Honestly, I rubbed the tenderloins with it first, but I seriously doubt that matters.) You let that go all day on low in the crock pot, or about 50 minutes on 350 in the oven. When the pork can be pulled apart easily with two forks, it's done. Pull it out, pour a little of the sauce on it to keep it moist, and let the meat rest.

Dump all the left-over sauce into a pan (I always add a little extra bbq sauce to the juices) and cook that over med-high heat until it reduces somewhere around in half. You need to keep checking the consistency so you don't reduce it too much. When it's as thick as you want, take it off the heat.

Pull the tenderloins apart with fork until they're really good and separated, pour the sauce on top and mix really well. Throw that on a bun (or in a pita with tomatoes and lettuce, YUM!) and serve with the one thing that is getting me through the day right now.Easiest. Yummy. Dinner. Ever. You can do the hardest part before you take a shower in the morning. It's not crazy-best-dinner-alive, but it sure will do on a Saturday night. My kids, well, they don't exactly hate it, but they wouldn't be sad if I forgot all about it. They do, however, like mom's fancy-pants chips.

That's it. In the very nearish future, I'm doing the all-out one, full of scratchy goodness. I'm betting it's 50 bazillion times better than this one.

Dear Leslie

(Of course I had to quit smoking the same week my period started and so all of my cranky hit it's peak on your birthday. Of course. That's how I roll. So, forgive me if this is shorter than I'd hoped for. Coherent thought streams aren't my strong point right now, unless of course those thought streams involve chocolate dipped deep fried salt.)

Dude, I love you so bad, man. SO bad. I love that you went to high school with the only girl I ever want to call sister, I love that you drank in college with my freaking soul mate. I love that the same girl that picked me up in a school cafeteria saw fit to pick you up on a college campus a few years later. I love that we have spent time in the same room and never met. I love that when I did meet you, it was through this crazy little thing called blogs where we all can lay it out on the line, because it's so easy to forget that someone else can read it. I love that the first time I ever got to hang out with you we were all so damn drunk I can't remember most of it. I love that I know what you look like in the morning. I love that we talk the same way and write the same way and think the same way. I love that we share so many friends, and idiosyncrasies, and character flaws. I love every stinking thing about you. I don't know how I made it so long without you in my world.

I wish I'd met you before kids and jobs and car payments and pets. I wish I had all the time to giggle and drink with you. But, we didn't and we don't. So, the only thing I can offer you for your birthday is this: Dude, when you come to visit, I will totally unquit smoking for you and go through this bullshit all over again after you leave. I've got a bottle of Jami with our name all over it. It's gonna be EPIC.

Your lovin',

~Mr Lady

Long overdue

Would someone invent
chocolate dipped potato
chips already? Please.

The only thing I'm willing to quit is quitting

I hate quitting. Anything. Smoking, doubly so.

It's not that it's oh so terribly hard for me to quit; in fact, I cold-turkey quit every single time I've ever done it. All 6 times or so. OK, maybe that I've had to re-quit 6 times or so means it's an eencey bit harder than I'm willing to admit. It's just that I like smoking and it's the one grown up thing I get to do every day.

Somebody asked why I quit. I don't really know, exactly. There are a few reasons.

One is that I am a cheap cheap bastard and when I look at the monthly budget and realize we spend more on cigarettes every month than we do our groceries, well, I take issue with that. Smoking is more expensive than crack here.

Another reason is that I have been going to the doctor, kind of a lot, because I am fairly sure something is significantly wrong with me. After throwing around a bunch of large, uncomfortable words and scanning/poking/prodding every inch of me, it turns out that I'm just fine except for my red blood cell count, which happens to be ridiculously high. How does one fix that? One quits smoking, that's how. As for the rest of my health issues, whether they exist on paper or not, I know they're there and now I'm left to find a dietary cause. Step one, cut out the meat. Meat makes me want to smoke. May as well cut them both at the same time, eh?

An even better reason is that my friend is battling cancer within her family right now, and she's about to quit, and I thought it would be a friendly gesture to quit with her.

The biggest reason of all, though, is that my kids are old enough to know better. I am sick of hearing, "Mom, you smell like cigarettes," and, "Eww, mom, you're gross," and the cold, flat, mono-tone, "You're going to die, you know." I promised them I'd quit, a year ago, and it's time to make good on that. 1of3 told he he'd stop biting his nails if I stopped smoking. If that's not incentive, I don't know what is.

And so, with all of this in mind, yesterday I just let myself run out of cigarettes. I figured if it got awful, I could always run out for more. It didn't get awful. It got a little hairy this morning, and I cheated a little this morning, but I am totally ok with a little cheating here and there. It's not like I really want to quit, it's just that I know I should. And I am. And I will.

It's fairly obvious how this is going to end

I don't want to get too ahead of myself, but I think I just quit smoking. Not just just, but like 2 hours and 20 minutes ago just. I've hit the point where it's all I can think about. So far, I have eaten:

• Several handfuls of animal crackers
• 3 big ol' chucks of sharp cheddar
• 5 pinches of hot chocolate powder
• 2 fingerfuls peanut butter

For some reason, I really want a huge cheeseburger, but I want a bag of carrots just as badly. I think we're hitting Dairy Queen tonight.

Be careful what you ask for.

I never get tagged for memes. Like, ever. And that's totally ok with me, because dear god am I ever bad at them. And I have this habit of telling you all too much on a daily basis, so it's not like there's all that much y'all don't know about me already.

A few weeks ago, Veronica tagged me for that Seven Things meme. I tried super hard to do it; really, I did. I got to Interesting Fact #3 and fell asleep flat on the keyboard. I will never suffer from insomnia; all I have to do is think about myself and I instantly am lulled to sleep.

Mr Lady, Dullsville, Canada.

And then LatteMommy tagged me for the same meme a few days ago. Clearly the Gods want me to do this this, and so I will try. I will in all probability fail, but here goes:

• I still, 3 years later, haven't told anyone in my immediate family about this blog. Except my brother, but he can keep a secret. I also haven't told any but a small handful of my closest friends about it. Molly didn't even know I had one until she started one. My husband has never even read this thing. He knows it exists, I just don't touch it when he's home. Fortunately, he's almost never home. There is not one good reason for this. In fact, when I moved it over here, I cleaned it all up so that my mother-in-law COULD stumble on it and my husband wouldn't start calling lawyers if he found it left up on the screen. I just, after all this time, have come to enjoy the public secret. It's sorta naughty, and I suffer from a severe lack of naughty in my life.
• Speaking of naughty, the word I hate most in the whole world, the one that makes my throat tighten up and my eyes dilate at the sound of it....just guess what it is. Go on. I've been called a very long list of questionable names in my life, and having spent most of my "professional life" in the back side of a whiskey bar, well, the imagination would have to stretch like Gumbi to try & come up with a phrase I don't know intimately. And with all that, the one word I loathe is....ready? PANTIES. Wanna know why? So do I. If you figure it out, let me know, K?
• I am severely, embarrassingly, nigh cripplingly dyslexic. Don't get me wrong, it totally works for me. I almost like it, really. It does tend to get in the way sometimes, though. Like when I golf, and I'm doing all great with my lefty clubs and then all of a sudden, for no good reason, my brain just decides to switch me to my right hand. Mid-swing. Grrr. Or when I'm typing. I will type entire sentences backwards. Spell check hates that. Or when I'm writing numbers, and this is when it's the worst. I'll set the scene for you; You and your buddy are out at the bars and you see me and my girlfriend and your buddy says to you, "Damn, do you see that smokin' hot chick over there? Dude, go be a good wingman and take care of her frumpy ass friend." So you, good wingman that you are, approach me and strike a conversation so your buddy can get all up on my girl. At the end of this, you ask for my number so you can totally blow me off later, because that's how this game is played, right? I give you mine and you give me yours. You say 555-867-5309 and I repeat 555-867-5309 but I write down 555-786-3095. You say, "No, no, it's 555-867-5309", and I say, "Yeah, that's what I wrote down." And I look at the paper, closely, and I read back 555-867-5309. Because to me, it looks right. I do this shit all the damn time.
• Speaking of numbers, I have a strange capacity for memorizing them. All I have to do is write a number down once, and I've got it forever. It has to be written on paper, with a pen, or the spell is broken. If you click the Birthday label on this blog, you will see the realization of that fact. I can't forget birthdays or phone numbers. Good lord I wish I could sometimes. I have figured out, though, that keying the number into my cell phone doesn't count in my weird ass head as writing it down, and I have opened up lots of RAM since learning this little nugget. Oh, and for some really odd reason, I can sometimes forget numbers and birthdays, but only the really, truly important ones. Like my work number. Or Hannah's birthday. I cannot, no matter what I do, remember Hannah's birthday. And she's one of my best friends ever. God, my brain hates me.

Ok, that's four. I'm going to need a Red Bull if I'm going to get through 3 more. Maybe you should get one, too.

• I have been in the diapering business for almost 10 years, and before that I had 5 smaller siblings, whose diapers I have all changed, and I still can't put a diaper on to save my ass. I see other babies and their diapers look just like they do one the commercials, but my kids always have one cheek hanging out and one side of the tape wrapped all the way from one hip to the other, with the other piece of tape dangling off the end, hanging on for dear life.
• I hate snow. This is no secret to anyone who has ever met me. I hate hate hate snow. I never played in it when I was a kid, I would rather eat my own toenails than drive to the grocery store in the snow. I hate snow. I could, however, shovel snow all day long. I love shoveling snow. It may be my single favorite chore ever. I won't even attempt to rationalize this one.
• And the last one (thank you baby Jesus) is this. I have never attended college. I really want to, though. I want to do something, and I want to do it bad. My problem lies in deciding what something I want to do most. I have a few things that I am freakishly, obsessively interested in; things I own books on and google too much and ask around about. And so, without further ado, I offer you the list of things I'd like to do when I grow up.

1. I'd like to teach. Maybe English, maybe Math. I can't decide.
2. I'd like to be a Handy Man. I think this would be the coolest job, ever. And I almost already possess the skill set to pull it off.
3. I'd like to play bass in a band. I would really like to play bass in a band. I dream that I play bass in a band. I'd just have to get a bass. And learn how to play it. And then get a band. Totally. Attainable. Goal.
4. I would like to write obituaries. I am not kidding you on this one. I think that a finely worded obit is important. I think I would be great at it. Just go read one of those birthday post and pretend the person is dead. I'll wait..........see? I'd rock the obits.
5. I want to grow up to be a debaser.
6. I would really like to be a seamstress. I like lines. That's why I was so good at Mechanical Drafting; I see things in lines and cuts and corners. I already have an entire wardrobe planned out for my daughter and my nieces (when they get here). Now, if I can just talk Santa into buying me a sewing machine. And perhaps this book.
7. I would like to work for the FBI. I would really love to be a handwriting analyst. I am a handwriting junkie. I keep snippets of my friends' handwriting in a box with letters and stuff. It's not as creepy as it sounds (maybe it is), I just like the idea behind it. I like that you can figure out so freaking much about someone by just paying attention to how they write the letter T. But more than that, more than any of this, honestly, I want to profile serial killers. I want to interview them and dismantle their brains (not literally, that would be the coroner's job) and write essays on them and compare them to each other. Why? Well, I don't know, really. But I do know this; aside from my bible, which I've had forever, the book that has been with me the longest, the one I can't get rid of no matter how much or little I read it, is this. Also, I was the only kid in 6th grade who could spell schizophrenia. I have always had a penchant for the crazies. And I'm betting I always will

And that, thankfully, is it. I'm not tagging anyone, because this meme is pure evil. And everyone with an internet connection has already done it. Oh, one other thing? Please don't turn me in to the authorities. I only sound nuts. I'm really just your average kid.

Dude, I love the internet. Here's why.

Happy birthday, Chris.

I haven't ever met you, and I'd bet my pinky toe that I never will. I have, however, spent three years solid so damn cracked out on your blog that come Monday morning, after you take the weekend off, I end up looking like this just waiting for that haiku to come.

It's not that you're such a great dad, and it's not that you have the best taste ever in music, and it's not that you take really, mind-numblingly beautiful pictures, and it's not that you're totally freaking hot (and I can say that only because I strongly hold that your wife is hotter), and it's not entirely that you're a Sag, and it's certainly not that you have a penchant for posting really hideous pictures of yourself on the internet; it's none of those things, really.In the end, it comes down to one thing, and one thing only. There is this one common link that we share, and it is perhaps stronger than any genetic link or lifestyle similarity or political leaning. It's something few people share, and when you meet someone who gets this the way you get this, you have to hold on to them tight.

But before we get to that, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for all of your silliness, your happiness, for sharing your joys and your angst and your stories and your life with us. You will always be my first click in the morning. Even before I get to the coffee, I get to your site. Thank you for being kind and funny and insightful and interesting and did I mention hot?

And my birthday gift to you, which was given to me not too long ago by my BFF Molly, who gets it too and you should really be her friend, too, is this. Enjoy. And have a fabulous birthday.

Stuff that scares me...A continuing series

My middle child scares the crap out of me. It's not just that he makes these faces all the time, though that would totally be reason enough. He scares me because I think there's more to him than meets the eye.

When he was a baby, he regularly watched, played with and conversed with a ghost in our house. Stop rolling your eyes at me; I don't believe in ghosts, either. But what I saw, what his godmother saw, it's undeniable. I can't explain it, and that is the creepiest part of all.

My father claims to have had encountered lots of ghosts. We lived in a part of the country that has a good, solid history in the haunting department, and his stories were definitely consistent enough with the historical facts we had on hand as children to achieve their desired affect*, which was either to make believers of us or keep us out of that gross, abandoned house on the corner already.

But this is not about my father, is it? It's about my son. Every Halloween, we play Ouija. Because I like to tempt fate, that's why. We only do it on Halloween. The three of us play together, and the damn thing never works. This year, however, 2of3 and I played alone. And, I kid you not, that thing went nuts. I wasn't pushing it, and 2of3 can't spell all that well just yet; and so, again, I can't explain it, and that is the creepiest part of all.

He is a Pisces, and this sort of thing comes with the territory. It also runs freakishly wild in our family. Both of my grandmothers were into divination to some degree, my dad, well, we covered that, his auntie and godmother are both practicing witches, and I regularly have dreams that come true. But, none of us are like this kid. And my dad is a story-teller, my grandmothers were bat-shit crazy, and the jury's still out on me.

I tell you all of this to tell you this:

I am not a checker-iner on my kids when they sleep. I don't have baby monitors and only once or twice have I ever licked a finger and stuck it by sleeping baby nostrils to check for breathing. I am, however, a tucker-iner. Anyone who falls asleep on my watch gets a blanket on them. Period. Every night, before I go to bed, I stick my head in my kids' rooms to make sure they haven't kicked their blankets off.

This one night, eons ago, I checked on the boys, and they were both covered. I paused by 2of3, because he's the most beautiful thing in the world when he sleeps, and I knelt down by his bed to stare at him for a minute. I didn't touch him, I didn't make a sound. I just sat there, and I thought to myself, "Oh, I love you, kid."

Right then, he rolled over on his side, shot both eyes wide open, and said, "Oh, I love you too, mom." And back to sleep he went.

This could quite possibly be the sweetest story in the history of stories, except that it was the single creepiest thing I have ever seen. He answered my thought exactly the way I thought it. I can't explain it, and that is the creepiest part of all.

(And this whole post is in response to LatteMommy's post the other day, because, sometimes, I'm just not smart enough to figure out how to leave comments. Blonde.)

*SHIT! Is it affect or effect? Affect is the verb, effect is the noun, right? Grammar police, HELP!

That's Mister Stupidpants to you, sir!

Breakfast!

I haven't been to the dentist since I was 18. I have made up for that by going twice in two weeks so far, and 11 *gasp* fillings later, all the big work is done. Before you call me Dippy McDumbshitpants, let me assure you that I am paying for it, dearly, today. Good flippin' god, my mouth hurts.

I'm not afraid of the dentist in any way; in fact, I totally dig going to the dentist. Perhaps overly. However, every time I'm fixing to go, one of those kids either needs new shoes or a backpack or, and this happens with shocking frequency, I schedule an appointment and 2 days later get a positive pregnancy test. I don't know if you can go to the dentist while you're pregnant, but I'm a safer than sorrier kind of chick.

Yes, I know that I am supposed to take care of myself, too, and not just the kids, but before you go a'judgin', ask yourself how many times you've left the house looking like this...So, I'm taking care of all of this stuff now, and that means one thing:

I have to eat more antibiotics than I have ever consumed in my whole life.

I have this little heart thing. I was born with it, like my reddish hair* and the birthmark on my hip. Except that you don't have to premed for a birthmark, and the reddish hair just means they have to give you twice as much Novocaine to get you good and numb. I hate Novocaine, but I hate it even more when they don't give you enough and no one knows it but the nerve in your back tooth, and when the nerve decides to tell you, the nerve tells everyone in a 10-foot radius.

I'm rambling. Mostly because I can't talk with 2/3 of my face right now. But my teeth are (almost) all better, and I learned my Go To The Damn Dentist Already lesson. And thank god I don't take the pill, because I'd be knocked up for sure by now.

*The hair on my head is not reddish anymore, but the....oops, there's that pesky personal boundary line again. Almost tripped over it that time.

Eat your heart out, Norman Rockwell*

Snow days should always be on Saturdays. We woke up to snow, had lunch to snow, ate dinner to snow, and went to bed with snow. Some of us fell flat on our asses three times in snow.

The boys went outside at 9 AM and didn't come inside until 5:30 PM. 3of3 and I stayed outside until I couldn't feel my hands anymore. The entire neighborhood came out, and the kids had toboggan races with sleds, recycling bins and trash can lids. 2of3 either really likes to make out with lamp posts or needs to work on his steering skilz.

We had snowball fights, sliding races, and beer! Holy Suburbia, Batman. It rocked on seven different levels.

Now, I'm totally representin' Colorado here, and so, of course, I was all "I'm going to drive to the video store 'cause, pshaw, this is like 2 inches of snow, pussies." Silly Vancouver kids, can't handle a little snow driving, right? WRONG. I think the snow here falls doused in axle grease. Shit's slippery, yo. My Subaru, the Lesbaru, the Colorado big bad tough ass car of choice, the car that made it through 3 blizzards in 2 weeks and said, "Eh?", that car slid three times before I made it to the first stop sign. Screw you, snow, I'm going home.

We won't be leaving the house until this stuff is GONE. Or we run out of milk; whichever comes first. Which is fine, because it gives me time to play along with this weeks' installment of the Weekly Winners. This week is the Week Of The Snowball. Because I hear we only get one week of this here.





*That is a truly digusting phrase, and this is a super fun website. Go check it out!

Rate the Hate version The Best Things Come to Those Who Steal

Do you know what happens when you grow up with a kid with Polio? You vaccinate your kids, that's what. You know what happens when your cousin gets a teency eency wittle cut on his finger whilst cooking dinner one night? He gets a flesh eating bacteria, and then an amputation, and you get a total, overwhelming neurosis revolving around kitchen accidents, that's what.

I don't believe in antibacterial products*. I think kids need to build immunities to the safe, naturally occurring germs in their environment. The bathroom, of course, does not follow in this rule for me. Did you know that when you flush, you spray small droplets of urine and/or fecal matter as high as twenty feet into the air? Um, ew. And hell, my boys still can't pee in the toilet properly. Bleach, how I love thee.

Anyway, I have this issue with buying antibacterial stuff, and so of course I decided to take up sculpture again, right in the web of my pointer and middle fingers, on the very day I had to roast a freaking gross digusting chicken, and had nothing but regular old olive oil soap to clean it with. Except bleach. Bleach I've got. I managed to dig out the neosporin from the bottom of a box, but I am still totally convinced that my hand is going to turn black and rot off any minute now from the 1/2 inch incision and all the poultry guts. And the poopey diapers. Ugh.

Having said that, you'll understand why this week's dinner was sort of hard for me to pull off.

The other day, Huckdoll decided to taunt me with the sweet sweet promise of Butter Chicken and then totally, in no way at all, invite me over for dinner to eat some. She's just mean, that one (wink). But she's way hot, and so I can forgive her. Anyway, I couldn't shake the craving for it, so I went out and got all the stuff to make it myself. And then she went and PUT UP A WHOLE POST WITH PICTURES of her Butter Chicken, just to drive me insane. (wink wink).

I thought for sure I should scrap my Saturday dinner in the interest of good e-manners, but god damn it, Butter Chicken is my favorite food in the galaxy and I had to have it. So I totally stole her dinner.

I am not Indian, not even a little bit, but my nieces and nephews are. ALL THE WAY are. Does this make me the world's leading authority on Indian food? No, it doesn't. Does it make me get down on my old hand and knees and praise the Gods when Christmas is at their house? You bet your sweet ass it does. Do you wish I'd get with the recipe sharing already? I thought so.

Here is a wonderful Indian food site that has what sounds like the most scrumptious Butter Chicken evs. Go ahead, steal it. This week's all about stealing. If, however, you have only a waning interest in trying to find garam masala, well then, may I suggest doing as I do, not as I say?

Ok, first I roast one whole chicken that normally I sprinkle inside and out with salt and pepper but this time (see neurotic rant above) a tried really hard to get from the fridge to the pan telekinetically.

There was no way I was touching it. Anyway, roasted, set out to cool. I finely chop up one large onion and throw it in a large saute pan with 3 tbsp. melted butter. I let that cook down for about 3 minutes or so, and then I add 1/2 cup yogurt. 1/2 cup (I think) tomato sauce and 1/2 cup water. Then I pull all the (cooked=safe!) meat off the bird and dice that up, then throw it in the saute pan. To that, and this is the clincher, I add this: Yes, I cheat. I cheat HARD. And I don't care. This stuff Rocks. My. Socks.

I throw that all on a bed of rice, warm up some of the best bread known to humanity,
and dinner is served.Did they like it? Hell no. They hate it every stinking time I cook it**. I try to tell them that it's food from their cousins' culture, and that it's important that they eat it, and the gosh darn it I know they ate it for Auntie Arti and why the hell won't they eat it for ME....but honestly, I'm glad they hate it. That just means I get to eat the leftovers in peace all weekend long.

And hey, Hucks, if you're reading this...I'll try your if you try mine!

*This is not a subject I am willing to debate. Thank you for your input and kind concern, but you won't change my mind on this one.

**Why do I keep cooking it, you ask? Fine question. I hate McDonalds, and they keep making me go there. Quid pro quo, bitches.

It was bound to happen, I suppose

This morning, we woke up to snow. Correction; the boys woke up to snow. I woke up to, "2of3! Get OUT of that bed! It's 8:41...you have slept LONG ENOUGH! SNOW SNOW SNOW!"

I suppose this means it's time to put away the pool, eh?

How a little nudge changed my life

My BFF Gigi used to have this blog. It's gone now, and I am still sad about that. It was a wonderful blog. She was a teacher, and a damn fine one, and her blog was about education. She read lots of other edu-blogs, and had really interesting things to say about her experiences in the classroom, as a mother, and her unique outside perspective on the state of education today. She's the kind of mother and educator and person I hope I can be someday.

I actually met her through her blog. Her son and I met on a stoop one fateful day four years ago, and he told her about me and she wanted to ask me some questions for her blog about my school experience. So, before I ever saw her face, I got to read all of this amazing wisdom she has stored up. We shot a few emails back and forth, and then one day she wrote this post about me. I wish I could link you to it, because it's the most flattering thing anyone has ever said about me.

Me and her? The rest is history. My point is that she was the first blogger I have ever met, and hers was the first blog I ever read. I was hooked. I followed every link she put up; I read her whole blogroll, daily. My son was just entering Kindergarten and I was eating up anything I could get my hands on to brace myself for the American Public School Experience.

Her son used to hang out with the boys and me in the hallway, playing soccer or gluing stuff together. Every now & then, he'd say something like, "You know that thing you do with the boys where you [insert unorthodox parenting technique here]? You should really write that down. That's good."

No one had ever said I was a good parent before. I had just never thought of these stupid things I do with my kids as good parenting before. I didn't have any other mom friends, and no parents of my own, and really not any resources for parenting tips. I got to thinking about it, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, someone else out there in the internetowebosphere was in my same boat, and that's when I decided to try out this blog thing.

And so, on January 18th, 2005, I put up my first blog post. The first few months of it were choppy and random. I was still relatively new to the internet in general and wary of spending too much time on it. As the months rolled on, however, I got into a groove. The blog started to evolve. People started reading it. Yes, they were extensions of my inner circle of friends, but still...people were reading my blog. And they weren't emailing me threatening to turn me over to Child Services or the Grammar Police.

Now, almost 3 years later, I cannot imagine my days without it. I think in blog posts. I have tried to kill this thing a few times now, but I just keep coming back to it, and every time I come back, I'm a bit renewed. It's my old boyfriend that I just can't dump because god damn it he smells so freaking good. I would totally make out with my blog if I could.

I used to write when I was younger. I was quite prolific and, sometimes, what I wrote got noticed. I had teachers come to me, asking if I was interested in publishing my stuff. I wrote this one poem in fourth grade that got entered in a national competition and totally smoked the asses of kids way older than me and won me a trip to meet the President (Reagan, maybe?). I wasn't allowed to go (thanks, mom!) but still, it was an honor. And then, one day, after a long series of events that don't matter anymore, I just stopped. I stopped playing the guitar, I stopped playing the piano, and I stopped writing.

I have a lot of anxiety over this whole writing thing. I worry that it's not ever good enough and that I'm not clear enough and that I am too sarcastic. Keeping this blog, though, it is helping me get over that, albeit slowly. I still say totally way too much, I love starting sentences with but and I throw a lot of yo's in here, because I am Bart Simpson. I underachieve. I think that keeping this, every day, has helped me realize that no matter what I end up doing, I want it to have to do with the written word. I am in love with writing again. I want to find a way to get all the real, profound things I have floating around in my head between Dora and the science fair on paper. This blog has given me a direction to look in again.

So, thanks, Gigi, for your blog, and thanks, Chris, for pushing me all the time and thanks, January 18th, 2005, for changing my whole damn life.

And thank god in heaven that today is the last day of November.

I wish

I'd like the doctor
more if I could take my clothes
off by candlelight.

Christmas Ornaments (or the impending death thereof)...A Continuing Series

My Christmas tree has issues.

I mean, it just can't find it's motivation. There is no theme; no one idea that it fully subscribes to. It's all over the place.

We put it up the other day (if you give me shit about the fake tree, I'll stab you with something dull).

We got it all decorated, too.It's really lovely. And inviting. If you happen to be into music

or a foodie

yep, that's an Idaho spud on my tree. Yep, I'm a dork), or into abstract art or a fan of the animals native to Africaor interested in the sites of North Americaor feel the overwhelming need to buy your daughter-in-law ornaments ONLY in triangular shapes or just awesomely into Batman

well, this tree has got you covered. There is something for everyone. And there are lots of somethings for a two-year-old to smash into tiny bits, which is the best part of Christmas, really.

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcast

An open letter to Mr. Lady
From: Her hair follicles.
CC: Her skin
Date: 28 Nov 07

Dear Mr Lady,

What exactly is wrong with you? We've been working together for 32 3/4 years now, and so far, there have been few incidents. We have fulfilled our end of the deal with you; you have luscious, full hair, that isn't a terrible color and grows like a weed. You're welcome. We have worked very hard to take all of those Ding Dongs and Coffee Ice Cream treats and turn them into something that we can work with. You're welcome. You haven't exactly made this easy on us, but we have never complained. Yeah, we did give you a little gap in your left eyebrow, but dude, you so had that coming. Maybe if you didn't own 3 pairs of tweezers, we'd consider closing that gap for you. Bygones.

We feel it's time to remind you that nothing comes for free in this world. We sat back silently as you cut us, tweezed us, dyed us, did this shit to us:and now we're fighting back. You have officially crossed the line. The price you pay for that awesome head of hair is this; we will grow wherever we damn well choose, and you will deal with it. Can't handle a few little hairs around your belly button? Not. Our. Problem.

What is comes down to is this...yesterday, that thing you did in the bathroom with the hot wax? That means war. Do you not realize that the hair we grow on your upper lip is delicate? It's like our babies. And you murdered them. You ripped them out AT THEIR ROOTS and we can't ever get them back. We are devastated and we will get you for this. It may take us a few weeks, but we're sending new ones in. We suggest you leave them alone.

We appreciate that you don't have either a degree in biology or esthetics, in fact, we know your lazy, drunk ass never even went to college. Allow us to explain something to you; we grow on your lip for a reason. For your protection. We grow on your eyelids and in your nose for the same damned reason. Mother Nature is not one to be toyed with.

Are you aware that they used hot wax as a form of torture in the Spanish Inquisition (no one expects it, you know)? It is considered inhumane. Cruel. AND unusual. This isn't Guantanamo Bay, toots.

Your punishment for this most unspeakable offense is that we have spoken to the skin, and we're going to make you burn. And then the skin is going to get all dry. Dry, and splotchy. You're going to look like you have a really bad sunburn, maybe even chicken pox, for at least THREE days. It's going to itch. It's going to sting. And don't think we overlooked the Great Chin-hair Massacre of 2007, either. We noticed, and now you will, too. Your mother and her mother and her mother, too, all had the same 3 hairs growing out of their chins that you do. You don't see them running around ripping those hairs out, do yah? Sure, none of them have been laid since Juice Newton was in the top 40, but we're not the reproductive system, so we care not.

And we swear to god on high, if you so much as think about using that wax anywhere south of our equator, we're going medieval on your ass. Don't try us. You wouldn't like us when we're angry.

Sincerely,

Your Follicles.

PSA

Have you started your Christmas shopping yet? Seriously, guys, you've got less than thirty days left. Get cracking.

If you happen to live in Denver, you might want to know that tomorrow is the opening day of the Junior League Holiday Mart. Normally, I wouldn't give a dingo's kidney about it, but....

My BFF Nicole just so happens to design jewelry. Awesome jewelry. Cooler than you've ever seen ever jewelry. She also just so happens to have a booth in the Artisan's section of the Junior League Holiday Mart*.

If you've ever met me, you've seen her stuff. I'm dripping in it. I honestly don't think, outside of my wedding ring, that I own any jewelry NOT made by her. And oh my god she makes baby stuff now. OH MY GOD.

Here's where you can stalk her:

• This weekend at the Junior League Mart. I'd bet she'll give you an autograph if you ask real nice.
• Her website
• Her upcoming Etsy store
• Her adoption blog, which has much better pictures than I could ever take of her stuff. And her daughter's foot. You'll want to eat it, I promise.

*Yes, there will be other vendors there, and yes they are cool, too, and yes, I actually own a few things from those vendors. But she's the best one, I swear.

If loving you is wrong...

I don't wanna be right.

Molly got it stuck in my head again. Just when I thought I was over it. Damn you, Molly. Be warned, it's seriously like crack for moms. You're going to need it. Click with caution.

Trade-offs, or Good Vs. Evil

We all have our things with cleaning. Even those of you us* who hatehatehate housework have something that you like. Whether it be your Roomba, or huffing Pledge, we all like something. I, personally, cannot get enough of the smell of my laundry soap and would rather have a root canal than have to part with my excessively large stash of stain-removers. I like stains. I kick stains asses.

My husband simply cannot live without Windex. He loves it. He couldn't care less if the entire house had a hurricane blow through it (not true), so long as the coffee table shines. Turns out, he's not the only one.This, of course, is the most awesome awesomeness ever. This means I just got one less chore to do. She loved it. He sprayed; she wiped. She told him where to spray and he obliged.She and I have fun cleaning games, too; she'll grab a sponge and say, "Cwean, Momma!" and then my kitchen cabinets get scrubbed, but this was dad and she sorta has a crush on him and now they have this new game to play together. It's important to have someone who shares your obsessions passions.You know what's not awesome in any way about this whole thing? The fact that all of this happened at 11:30 in the PM last night. Eleven. And Thirty. At NIGHT. You see that bottle in the very corner of the picture? That was as close as she came to it for hours. Someone needs to talk to this kid about the human body and it's need to sleep.

No, really, I love housework. It's, like, my total favorite thing ever. And if you believe that, I also have some beach-front property in Denver I'm looking to unload.

Wiimergency!

How to repair a Wii in 10 easy steps:

1. Watch your wife totally lose her shit over a little jingle in the Wii.
2. Sit back calmly as wife goes at the Wii with tweezers and stuff.
3. Giggle when you remember the fate that befell the old VCR, and the $75 bill incurred 8 years ago to remove $0.73 from car cd player.
4. Listen as wife calls EB Games (site of purchase).
5. Wince when wife hangs up and calls Nintendo.
6. Shiver a bit as you hear words like, "Not covered under warranty" and "shipping to where?"
7. Clutch wallet in one hand while wife talks on the phone; start shaking the Wii with other hand.
8. Notice slight glimmer in wife's eye at the mention of Richmond.
9. With no way to know that wife has been looking for an excuse to go have coffee with this chick, but fully aware that something has made her very happy indeed at the prospect of driving to Richmond to drop off the Wii, and being quite certain that's it not that "I just found a way to save $20 on shipping" glimmer that she gets when she's cheap, ATTACK THE Wii. Go out it with ruthless abandon. Try to open the casing. Get out the really little screwdriver. Get that sumbitch fixed, and quick. She's got something up her sleeve, that one.
10. *Timing is crucial on this step* Right as wife (is she flirting with the Nintendo dude or something? Why the hell is she so happy all of a sudden?) writes down Repair Order number, right as she's doing it, close eyes, hold breath, pray a bit, and extract one small, white button that goes with nothing in this house from the belly of the Wii.

Voila! The Wii is repaired, you just saved $75, and now your wife doesn't get to go hang out with bloggers. Mission? Accomplished.

(mushy) Sunday Secret

I am not a girly girl. I like motorcycles and grease. I have 19 piercings and am planning a cleverly placed tapestry of tattoos. I own more hoodies than shoes. My favorite smell is sawdust. I am not afraid to pick my undies out of my butt in public settings. I'm tough, I really am.

But I swear to Jebus, if Anne of Green Gables comes on the tv, I am useless for the next 15 hours.

Like, can't function useless. Like, cannot stop watching it no matter what useless. It kills me. I whimper, I shed tears. One night, we were moving and we had literally 6 hours left to be all moved out, and at 1 am we flipped on the tube and there it was. Needless to say, we were late.

This show tugs at every cold, dead heart-string I have. Now that I'm all grown-up, I like to hide this little problem I have behind a well-moderated obsession with all things Jane Austin, but Jane Austin can't suck you back into your 13-year-old soul like Anne can.

Oh, Gilbert Blythe. Oh how I swoon. Swoon, I say.

I get giddy at the thought of my daughter being oh, I don't know, 8 or 9 and old enough to get the angst behind these stories. I'm going to read her every single book. And then we're going to have a Ding-Dong & Chocolate Milk movie marathon. And I'm totally going to sob, I know it.

Because I am a great big softy, that's why.

YummaNummy

Sarcastic Mom has this weekly photo meme where you can submit your favorite picture from the week to, well, show off your mad picture-takin' skilz or something.

I haven't played along yet, but sheesh I love this picture.I mean, come on already. The closed eyes, the greasy ecstasy, the juicy drips on the favorite green sweater. That, friends, is Thanksgiving at its best. And so, I humbly submit it for their vieweing pleasure.

Rate the Hate the Tryptophan Coma edition

Ah, Thanksgiving. Twice. I am thankful for two excuses to cook Turkey in 6 weeks. I told you all of my menu a few weeks ago, but for this Thanksgiving, I didn't cook any of it. I made entirely new stuff (except the Stove Top). Now, if you think I am mentally unstable enough to spend 2 more hours typing the menu from Thursday, you'd probably be right you have another thing coming. I will, however, happily share with you the gist of dinner, and the surprise item of the day.

First, the turkey:

Porcini mushrooms with fresh rosemary and thyme

blended with butter and garlicrubbed under the skin of the turkey that brined all night in salt water with pepper, Worcester sauce and brown sugar. The turkey got stuffed with and baked for just over 2 hours (god bless convection ovens).

There were basic old garlic green beans, and Stove Top, and gravy made from cremini mushrooms, porcini mushrooms, turkey stock, pan drippings and cream. And then there were potatoes.