...for a different kind of girl

further proof that feeds my theory that one day, this song will likely be our national anthem

2009-11-22T21:55:00.004-06:00

My kids aren't that interested in popular music, which is a bit of a shame, really, for their refusal to rebel against authority by storming up to their bedrooms, slamming the doors and cranking the volume on their non-existent stereos up to 11 denies me one of life's most time-honored traditions of sighing loudly and lamenting about kids today and their pesky rock and roll.

Oh, sure, my oldest son is vaguely aware of Top 40 pop acts because girls in middle school are apparently gaga for Lady Gaga (sorry...I had to go with that)(and seriously, I can't blame them because, though I'm no middle school girl, damn if I can't stop listening to Bad Romance), and my youngest might not turn the channel if Miley Cyrus is wailing about enjoying American social gatherings or some such thing, but for the most part, they couldn't care less what's on the radio.

So it was a surprise to me tonight when my youngest raced into the kitchen, stood directly behind me as I was at the stove prepping dinner, and announced his intent to perform a musical number for my enjoyment. Before I could turn around, he launched into the most spot-on and amazing rendition of Beyonce's Single Ladies I'd ever heard, and I'm not just saying that because he's my kid and well, wow, can my kid smack his own butt and do that whole 'Look at me! I'm a horse jockey!' dance move!

I also don't know why in the world I'm surprised he'd know that song because that song will never, ever go away, and I firmly believe that one day, we all will be forced to either dance to it or sing it for our very salvation. What I AM surprised by is that when I turned around to commend his performance, I noticed he was waving five one dollar bills in the air as he spun and sang, and I wasn't sure if I should be thrilled that he seems to be really latching onto the concept of money he's currently learning in second grade - one dollar bills are singles, after all - or concerned about how he one day plans to make his money. I've always said this kid was born to be on the stage. I've just always been hopeful there wouldn't be a pole of any kind in the middle of it.

hooray, hooray! it's my birthday today!

2009-11-15T20:44:00.005-06:00

Well, it's my birthday today for about three more hours. Depending on when you read this, it could just be plain old Wednesday. Understandable. It sometimes takes me a few days to get to your blogs, too.

Also, no offense to anyone who has a birthday on Wednesday. Happy birthday to you!

I spent my birthday as I do each November 15th - snorting cocaine from the small of a male model's back and sipping Cristal from the sexy pair of Crocs I bought online a few weeks ago. I can afford the good stuff because I used a coupon code for 10 percent off the sale price of those sexy and sensible shoes and huzzah! No sales tax OR shipping fee! That's just how I roll. Isn't that what the kids say these days? I have no idea because I turned 42 today, and apparently I'm not a kid anymore. Thanks, crazy old lady knee for reminding me of that every morning as I try to get out of bed! Kudos to you!

(and to sweet Ali Martell for calling me both hot AND 25 - though not in that order - on Facebook today. Oh, I remember 25. It was back when I thought 42 seemed like a lifetime away!)

There was also cake to be had today! Hooray! Cake is so much better than cocaine and Cristal, neither of which I've actually had. That previous paragraph is what's called 'a creative license' or some such thing. I'm writing this strung out on a big old hunk of that triple chocolate creation up there, which my Mom graciously volunteered to make by saying, "If I made you, the least I can do is make you a birthday cake." It made a lot of sense once I got past that whole ooky thought of my parents once having sex, which, yes, is still quite ooky even though I am now 42.

It also makes sense because my husband wasn't around much this weekend to toss a few eggs in a bowl to do me the honor. Good times.

Where was I? Oh, so seriously, I'm a little shaky on the cake thing. And on the fact that my boys referred to it as a butt cake. Because it's a bundt cake. Get it? Yeah. Classy. They also wanted to put 42 candles in it and burn our house down, but I begged them not to, even though I'd have appreciated the warmth that sugary inferno would have put off. It's chilly in here. Or maybe I'm just going through menopause and my hormones are all out of whack. That might explain the brief crying jag I had in the shower this morning, but nope, I'm pretty sure all this is still open for business. What's that got to do with lighting my cake up Bon Jovi-style (in a blaze of glory...get it? hilarious!)? Nothing. I just didn't want it to join the Great Wall of China as the only man-made (or in this case, mom-made) object visible from space.

So how did I spend my birthday? Brace yourself for the excitement I'm about to throw down on you! Ready? OK. I caught up on episodes of Cougar Town on hulu. Because given my age and my fondness for young male celebrities, it seemed appropriate. After about three episodes, I began to think the man who does the pre-show advertising voice-overs was imagining me naked because he seems very, very smarmy. Go! Check out a couple shows and then come back and tell me I'm not imagining things!

...waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting...waiting...

See what I mean?! But do you want to know what's worse? When he told me "The following is brought to you with limited commercial interruption by Tide (implied Rawr!!)" I was all, "So...how you doin'?" to my laptop. Yeah. Would a woman going through menopause be trying to hit on a faceless man inside her computer? I didn't think so. Instead, I saved my sexy come on for my Health Choice Cafe Steamer (poor name, poorer taste) that I warmed up for lunch. No, my basil chicken didn't speak to me first. I didn't give it the chance. I dove right in as soon as I pulled it out of the microwave and saw the two measly bites of pale chicken nestled next to a lone broccoli floret and a sad slice of red pepper and cried "Oh, yeah, Healthy Choice, you just try to tempt me with your massive zucchini chunks and intoxicating half-frozen glaze of indistinguishable flavor!"

Yeah, I think someone needs to stay home a bit more and bake me some cake, if he knows what's good for him...

But since he doesn't read my blog, I'll just have to tell him. Anyway...

Oh, I also bought a Food Saver vacuum packaging system online today after talking to my sister on the phone about how we don't have any money. I know. Talk about impulse! She told me she'd bought one a few weeks ago, and because I've always wanted what she has (mostly that just entails her naturally curly hair and the extra six inches of height she has on me, but still), I whipped out my handy dandy golden ticket - a Kohls 30 percent off coupon - and got a steal on it (not really). Then I called her back and told her how much less I paid for the same thing and she responded by yelling "You suck!!" and I said "First, that's no way to speak to your elders and second, I think you mean this awesome food vacuum that I'll probably only use to reseal our bags of generic corn chips sucks because that's what it's made to do and if you ask some people here if I am made to do the same way, they would say no, I am not, but that person didn't bake me a birthday cake today, so there."

Or something like that. I'm just excited to get it so I can freeze the half a butt cake we have left and spend days preserving 5-pound bags of chicken breasts.

Because I figure if mine are getting older, at least the ones we eat don't have to.

i'm all over your internet today!

2009-11-13T09:12:00.006-06:00

Guess what I get to go do today?

Give up? I get to renew my driver's license! Hooray! I had six years to achieve my goals so that when I reached November 2009, I'd be the person I lied and said I was when I last visited the DMV. Six years! Apparently I'm not one to jump on a goal. Oh, how I look forward to the uproarious laughter of the clerk when I try to slip the weight thing in when they ask about changes.

As soon as I post this, I'm going to jump through the shower, curl up my hair, slap some make-up on and work out a few modeling poses in the mirror. Basically, I'm going to be doing what I do every morning. Except this time, I'm going to get all this (picture my hands running up and down myself like a game show hostess displaying the curves on a Ford F-250) captured for the ages in a washed out tiny license photo. Stand back, modeling agents. I have toilets to scrub and school fundraiser items to pick up! There's two boys who need shuttled around town for basketball games all day Saturday! I can can't be jetting off to exotic locales for magazine covers and ritzy parties!

While I'm suffering the indignities of the DMV, I thought why not share some insight into who I am with all of you! To do this, I emailed my friend DC Urban Dad and said "Listen, I think you should come up with five questions and have me answer them and then post them on your blog and people will read my answers and they will either fall in love with me or perhaps shake their heads and say things like 'tsk, tsk...poor disillusioned girl...'" and he totally fell for it!

Except in reality, he kindly emailed me, asked if I'd answer a few questions (which, thankfully, didn't involve him having to read me my Miranda rights), and I gladly complied. A day later. Because I had to shower, curl my hair and put make-up on so I looked nice while doing it. I'd love if you visited DC Urban Dad's blog and leave us a comment!

When you're done there, why don't you hop on over to Polite Fictions and read the various ways all the contributing writers are wrapping up our first story. We're in the director's cut chapter of our tale and each of us are crafting an ending to the story. Mine is up today. Be kind. Enjoy a donut.

Finally, there's that post down there (look down...I'm used to it) that I wrote yesterday. Adorable things courtesy of my adorable boys. Has anyone gotten on that time-freezing machine yet? I would like to buy one.

So I think that's about it. I must now go spend some time crafting the perfect liar's face so I don't cave when giving my info the DMV. It looks a little like Blue Steel, which is also the look I want in mhy license photo. Something that screams sexy AND law abiding! Perfect!

they might have also thanked 16 vestal virgins, too

2009-11-12T08:06:00.003-06:00

"We had an assembly for the veterinarians today," shared my oldest son during dinner Wednesday night.

"Oh, yeah?" I responded. "Just for veterinarians?"

"Yep"

"Was it career day today at school?"

"What? No. They were there to talk about their time in the military and serving our country."

"I think you mean veterans, honey."

"That would make more sense."

Later that same evening...

"Today in school, we wrote letters to the vegans," shared my youngest son while he and I ran an errand.

"The vegans?" I asked. "Really?"

"Yeah. We thanked them for all the things they've done for us and for protecting our freedoms."

"While I respect their decisions, what freedoms, exactly, have vegans protected us from?"

"Fighting in wars and stuff,"

"I think you mean veterans, honey."

"Oh...maybe..."

"Yeah...Where were you during dinner?"

in honor of maddie

2009-11-11T08:00:00.001-06:00

I don't think there are too many people reading this who didn't have their heart broken on April 7th of this year. That's the day we learned that Madeline Alice Spohr, whom we all knew as Maddie from The Spohrs Are Multiplying, was suddenly taken from her parents, Heather and Mike, when a respiratory infection coupled with a collapsed lung was more than her 17-month-old body could fight. Thousands of people across the country mourned with Heather and Mike, and thousands came to their support by donating to the March of Dimes in Maddie's memory.

Since then, the Spohrs, along with family and friends, have created Friends of Maddie , a fund dedicated to supporting families of critically ill or prematurely-born infants during their stay in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) with supplies, help finding temporary lodging (because the NICU isn't always within commuting distance of home) and by creating a network of support. Friends of Maddie uses your donation to put together support packs for families who find themselves overwhelmed with the care of an at-risk newborn. The packs include items such as reusable water bottles, snack bars, tissues, mints, and most importantly, a tri-fold binder with a note pad and accordion file to keep track of paperwork. "We're hopeful it will make it at a little easier for parents to keep track of everything," Heather says."You get SO many papers, business cards, etc., every day, and it's hard to keep track of everything."

She should know, she lived the experience. Maddie's sixty-eight-day stay in the NICU is chronicled on Heather's blog and her husband Mike's blog as well. Readers across the country followed every setback and every victory. What message would she like to pass on to parents in the same situation? "Patience. Take things a day at a time and live in the moment. Don't look down the road or things will get REALLY scary and overwhelming," shared Heather. The reaction to the packs has been terrific, according to Heather. "We've been getting a FANTASTIC response from everyone! We weren't expecting such a big response so we are really behind in getting back to everyone, but it's a good problem to have!" By now, you are all wondering how you can help, right? I knew it. You people rock. Your options:

Donate! I know, the economy is bad right now, but every little bit helps!
Let your local NICU know about Friends of Maddie.
Do you work for a company that might bring a valuable service to NICU parents? Contact Friends of Maddie.
Just spread the word! Write a blog post! Send out a tweet! You all know how this works!

Mike and Heather's loss is unimaginable. In spite of their grief, they have found a way to pay forward all the love poured out from thousands of hearts across the Internet. Tell your friends about Friends of Maddie!

my best friend's sister's boyfriend's brother's girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who's going with the girl who saw him pass out...

2009-11-08T21:00:00.001-06:00

My husband's been sick for three weeks. I'll pause to allow for the requisite sympathetic reactions this news typically provokes. The ooohing. The awwwing. The hushed - because of his constant headache - whispers that he get better soon. Hell, I hope he gets better soon, but as it is, it's been three weeks.

I feel like yelling that. Hold on.

THREE WEEKS!!! MY HUSBAND'S BEEN SICK FOR THREE WEEKS!!! TWENTY ONE DAYS!!! ALMOST AN ENTIRE MONTH!!!

Good God.

Three weeks ago, he returned from a long weekend away with the boys. As soon as he entered the house, I knew something was wrong because he bypassed my loving arms, which were open to engulf him in an embrace meant to say "Hello! Welcome home! I'm glad you returned to me! As you can see, despite my irrational fears, I didn't die nor was I killed while you were gone for four days and three nights, and though I'm holding the tiniest nugget of a grudge regarding the complete ramshackle mess you left the house in for me to clean while you were away, I love you. Kiss me. Please. Before I mention all the laundry you stuck me with, too, thanks."

Odd, I know. Hell, you probably want to make out with me right now knowing that's how I greet loved ones when they enter my home. Understandable. Truth be told, I secretly want to make out with many of you, too. I also usually have fresh baked cookies somewhere in the house at all times ("...it's been in my pocket; they're real warm and soft."), so think about that, too, when you're imagining us fondly. I realize it's an uncomfortable feeling, but just relax. It's OK.

Anyway, my dear husband chose not to make out with me that night. Instead, he put his hand in front of my face and scurried upstairs, almost as if he were Will Smith rushing to his basement laboratory to hide from The Infected (duh duh duh DUH!!) except the irony here is he's infected one. Thankfully not with something that transformed him into a big-headed CGI mutant starring in one of the worst movies ever that I can't NOT watch when it's on FX, which is all the damn time, though, truth be told, it felt a little touch and go there for several days.

As if the sniffling, coughing, aching head, fever, you're making it hard for ME to sleep symptoms weren't enough to make it clear my husband was sick, his lack of work ethic really drove the point home. For as long as I've known him, my husband has bravely gone forth to sell power tools (or whatever else his previous jobs have required) even if he was in a full body cast or had accidentally removed a limb in a tragic caulking accident. He's the Black Knight of our family. No mere flesh wound is going to keep my man away from an honest day's work! 'Tis noble, really, for you might know me as a wee bit of a whiner. I hope you know me as such because when I went into the blog and searched 'sick' to provide you a few hilarious links to my past feverish foibles, far too many entries popped up, and while I'm sure not all of them were directly about my maladies, it was enough to be mildly embarrassing. Suffice to say, I can be whiny.

The first week, I watched my husband return home at various points in the day and huddle on the couch enshrouded in his coat, a hat, and a blanket around his shaking shoulders. "Where are you off to today?" I'd ask. "To any early grave," he'd reply. When he wasn't trying to dislodge his lungs through a series of volcanic coughs, I often confused him for someone who'd stopped to rest on the couch while trekking across the barren lands in search of hope in a post-apocalyptic world, and week two was looming ahead of us. After days of no relief and entirely too much togetherness that was beginning to border on a possible manslaughter conviction, I suggested he visit the doctor. That's really what helped convince me the man's sick. If there's one thing he hates more than missing work, it's going to the doctor and paying a pesky co-pay, but I returned one afternoon to find a note stuck to the counter with the words Walk-in Clinic scrawled on it, the final 'c' ending in a tiny ink trail to the bottom corner of the note, as if the effort of holding a pen was too much for the man.

By now you're probably asking "Hey, is there a point to this endless tale of misery? Because I gotta be honest, while I'm sorry your husband's sick, I'm a little sick, too. Yeah. I'm a little damn sick of reading all this! Can we speed things up maybe?"

Yes there's a point to all this! Just chill out, Dr. Feelgood! Sheesh!

When my husband finally returned home from the medical clinic, he burst feebly through the door, sat down on the couch, and patted the cushion next to him as a signal I should join him. "It must be bad news," I thought.

"It's bad news," he mumbled.

("I'm a genius!" I thought)

"Just tell me," I said. "I can take it."

"I've got pneumonia," he sighed, collapsing weakly into the cushions. "Can you believe that bad news?"

I appropriately expressed my concern. Fetched a blanket, offered to take his prescriptions to the pharmacy to be filled, stirred a pot of homemade chicken soup. All the good wifely things I'll admit I'd given up on around the 8th day. I rubbed his feet as we sat quietly together and processed his diagnosis. In sickness and in health? Oh, I'm with you, my love!

"There is some good news, though!" he said, and though I thought he might be delirious with fever, for when would there ever be good news again, I took a bite of one of those fresh baked cookies I keep around the house and asked what it could possibly be.

"I've lost 10 pounds in five days!" he cheered.

And then I killed him.

The end.

OK, not really. But let's just say that after he gave me that little glimmer of sunshine, I gave him a heaping helping of my medicine. With my mighty fists.

OK, also not really.

But the FDA really should get on approving the healthy dose of eye-rolling I gave him as my sympathy flew out the window. Perhaps in a convenient time-release capsule. Or a patch that could be worn on the body and releases a steady dose of common sense. My husband could wear his over his mouth.

To prevent the spread of germs, of course.

sure, i took photos, but only so my kids could avenge me

2009-11-04T09:01:00.009-06:00

You know how I'm always "Mark my words - I will die by the meaty paws of a Bigfoot!"?

Yeah, well, I take it all back. I take it all back and issue the following apology to Sasquatches:
I am sorry. You will not be responsible for my untimely demise. Forgive me for disparaging you through the years. You are cute, cuddly, and sweet, and my fear of you was misplaced. Please, come inside. Let me make you a nice bowl of soup and we'll watch Animal Planet together. Here, let me work the remote for you. I realize it can be difficult to push those tiny buttons with your large, not lethal hands. I love you, Sassy! That's right. I'm going to call you Sassy now. Kisses, Sassy!

Maybe you're asking Why the change of heart, Irrational Girl? Because this beast is currently laying in wait on my front steps and, as you can tell by it's wild eyes, it fully intends to massacre me!

PEOPLE!!!

PEOPLE!!!

This thing popped up and was all "You use Evian skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps, but not today," when I stepped out of the house to take my youngest son to the bus this morning. Did I scream?

Yes.

Yes, I did, and rather than sliding over the hood of his car to save me, the neighbor guy, as usual, just smiled and waved goodbye to me as he prepared to head to work. It was fitting he waved goodbye, of course, because this things is out there, and it wants me.

While walking back home, I honestly plotted ways to get back in my house that would let me avoid this beast, but the garage door was shut and the windows were all locked, and because we all know how Tool Man approaches home repair projects (don't make me say caulk again), I frown on damaging the dwelling. This meant I had to walk near this monster again, and I know. I know you're all probably saying "Big deal. It's just a bug. Buck up, little camper," but let me give you another perspective:

"You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube. A well scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste."

What's the big deal, you ask? Well, let me point out that my camera was rendered incapable of fully capturing this thing's 59-foot wingspan (Twig span?). Oh, you think I'm kidding, but I assure you, I am not one for hyperbole! Sure, you THINK it won't harm me, but let me point out that a praying mantis can capture a hummingbird! Granted, I'm no hummingbird (and I can't carry a tune in a bucket)(ba da bum!), but please, if they are training on hummingbirds, it's just a matter of time before they work up to humans. Look! It can IMPALE a hummingbird's chest! There's nothing nice about the word impale. Praying mantis? Oh, no, my friends. This spawn of Satan should be called what it is - a PREYING mantis.

I have no way of ending this post. I just pray it's not The End of my posts. Rest assured I'll not be fooled by someone ringing my doorbell or tapping the glass today.

Pray for me. This thing absolutely isn't.

in which I pore my heart out. (you'll get it if you read it all)

2009-11-01T22:07:00.002-06:00

Dear Universe,

The year was 1967. A young Iowa farm girl and a young Iowa town boy had married and made a home for themselves in a tropical land where palm trees and pineapple grow. "Ah...Hawaii!" friends of the young Iowa farm girl would say wistfully on the rare opportunities she had to speak with them. "Bah! Hawaii!" she would reply before launching into tales she speaks of yet today of snakes slithering up the pipes and pushing the toilet seat up to greet the human inhabitants and of creepy creatures "larger than cows!" crawling across the walls of their tiny home.

Oh, but it was their tiny home, and at the time, it was filled with love. So much love, in fact, that the young Iowa farm girl and the young Iowa town boy welcomed a baby into their hearts as November reached it's mid-point peak. "Just one child!" the young Iowa farm girl screamed between her upright knees as she peered down the delivery table toward the naval base doctor who, through diced English and a cigarette clamped between his teeth - though not necessarily in that order - insisted the young Iowa farm girl would be delivering twins.

Twin boys.

Between contractions and clashes, the child - unaccompanied - was born.

That child? A girl.

"Huh?" puffed the perplexed doctor from his vantage point through the young Iowa farm girl's upright knees at the end of the delivery table.

"Aha!" pointed the young Iowa farm girl who had just become a mother of one from between her upright knees - again - to the perplexed doctor.

That girl? Me.

Since that triumphant arrival, Universe, we've had some good times together, you and me. Two years spent pampered - literally - in paradise kept me away from the Snakes In The Toilet until the day the young Iowa farm girl and the young Iowa town boy packed me along on their homecoming journey to the heartland, and it was there with patience, love, guidance, and understanding the girl - me - grew up.

Oh, sure, Universe, we've had some tough times, starting with that interloper who invaded the home of the young Iowa farm girl, the young Iowa town boy, and their perfect paradise-born, Iowa raised princess when the princess was almost 3. They called her "Your sister!" and I greeted the sibling's arrival in a fashion typically reserved for - and thankfully outgrown of - the most distasteful of things - by vomiting repeatedly off the back steps. Eventually, we grew to love one another, the sister and I, but I must thank you, Universe, with gifting me with cheetah-like reflexes which came in handy when, as adults who, as they say, "Should know better," the sister chucked a steak knife at me from across the kitchen for reasons neither of us can recall now.

(Universe? I ABSOLUTELY can recall, but seeing as how you gave her the Hidden Dragon and me the Crouching Tiger, I figure it is best not to stir the pot, and I thank you for backing me up on that for the last 20 years)

There were boys who did not love us like we loved them, Universe, and jobs we wanted that did not work out. That's OK. I believe that is what's commonly referred to as Life Lessons, right Universe? Consider me magna cum laude, Universe! We've had our ups and our downs. We have had our dark days and our seemingly endless nights. There have been trials and there have been tribulations. Oh, yes, we have had our bumps in the road, haven't we, Universe?

Speaking of bumps, Universe, my friend, I have but one question for you. Did you happen to catch the part at the start of this letter to you where I mentioned the year - 1967? That means in just two weeks, I'll turn 42 years old, buddy. Yeah. Forty-two. I know! So my question is this -

WHY THE HELL AT NEARLY 42 YEARS OLD HAVE YOU GRACED ME WITH THE ACNE-RAVAGED CHIN OF A 15 YEAR OLD BOY??!?!

I'm not talking any standard issue pimple, either, Universe. No. These are some grade-A, hardcore beauties. Why, I quite imagine there are adrenaline-fueled adventurers out there this very minute scrapping plans to mount the Himalayas and instead are redirecting their Sherpas to prepare to ascend these pustules.

These eruptions are so inflamed that I think eruptions may very well be the best word for them for they, indeed, may be storing lava under there. They are so red that clowns first approach me in anger, assuming I have stolen their trademark red noses and attempted to adhere them to my tiny chin, but they are quickly turned away, embarrassed by their mistake, when they notice the tiny old men guiding mountain climbers up the Zitterhorn.

What's that? You want more, Universe? Get comfortable, because I've got a million of 'em!

(actually, chillax, it's just three)

These things are so huge and red NASA attempted to land an un-manned exploratory rover on my face until I swatted it away like some kind of King Kong!

They're so red and engorged my face looks like that of the Lord of Darkness from the most magnificent movie about unicorns and, well, I really don't know what else, of all time, Legend. "Was it not your sin that trapped the oil in your glands and killed the unicorn?" Ah, yes. Aside from Legend nerds, I may be the only person on earth who has mentioned this movie in two separate posts, Universe. You're welcome.

Finally, these zits are as angry, engorged and inflamed as the father character from the beginning of Twisted Sister's iconic video for We're Not Gonna Take It. "Who are you? Where do you come from? Was it because I ate too many fun size Butterfingers last week?"

(yeah, OK, that one was a little lame, I'll admit, Universe)

Anyway, I guess what I want to say is well damn done, Universe! Thank you for turning my chin into Kuato from Total Recall. I can think of absolutely nothing more sexy, or fair, as I approach my 42nd year.

Actually, I can. Chin hair. Ah, it's just a matter of time before you turn me into an elderly man, isn't it, Universe? Kudos.

p.s. - While I've got you here, Universe, can you tell me why it is I like this song? Because I do not wish to like this song, but every time it comes on the radio, my fingers are rendered incapable of doing anything other than turning the volume up. Yes, I do not want to like this song, but forces far greater than my own are making me, primarily by pinning me to the ground and tickling me until I beg for mercy. Or until someone experiences an unfortunate kick in the gonads.

and now for something completely different

2009-10-30T08:28:00.004-05:00

I've spent part of this week wondering what I could come back here and write about, and while there's a bunch of random nouns and verbs languishing in my drafts, I honestly couldn't think of anything I felt like pulling together into a cohesive thought after going through these past seven days. In light of that, I'm going to serve up this post potluck-style. Please, I beg you, enjoy some of the Jell-O with shredded carrots and raisins so I don't have to bring it home.

********************

First, and really, the only important thing here, my thanks to all of you for your notes and condolences for the loss of my friend Shawn. It meant a great deal to me to receive them, especially those who told me they got a true sense of the type of man he was because I finished that post feeling that I'd failed to do so. Shawn was such a vast personality there's really no way I could contain him in words. That aspect of him also explains why his memorial was a two-hour event where more than 800 of us were filled with so much laughter, boisterous singing, and celebrating.

So I thank you. Very, very much.

********************

Tonight is trick-or-treat night in our community. I bought two huge bags of miniature Butterfinger candy bars three weeks ago, then promptly hid them so I'd stay out of them. Last night, sadly, I found them. When I did, I stood over them and considered the cute little children and annoyingly uncostumed teenagers who would be coming to my door seeking sugary sustenance and tried to talk myself out of opening them. The bags of candy, that is. I would not intentionally rip into an annoyingly uncostumed teenagers, although in my mind, I could see pulling a Freddy Krueger on one or two who've darkened my door over the years.

Anyway, screw that, I said, and I opened them. At first I ate two. An hour later, I ate two more. By 8 p.m., I was telling myself stupid knock-knock jokes so I could justify the nearly empty bag resting on my chest like a sleeping baby. Today, in the harsh light of morning guilt, I must now decide if I want to go shopping and buy more candy, or just keep the porch light off and hide away from the goblins in the night.

********************

Considering how damn cold it is outside, I may stay home and just spend the day chopping up the solid chocolate rabbit my youngest son got last Easter to hand out to the kids. Yes, that damn thing is still in my house. Unopened. For more than seven months.

And you said I didn't have any will power, Butterfingers!

********************

Speaking of my youngest son, last night, I heard him telling his brother the punchline of his trick-or-treat joke and then roaring with laughter. Want to hear it? Well, I wish I could tell you, but so far, he's not been able to tell me without suffering from a serious case of the guffaws, so all I can tell you is the punchline. Ready? Brace yourselves:

Alice Pooper!

(He gets his comedy stylings from me)

********************

Which explains why I was laughing like the 14 year old boy who resides inside me while driving home from QuikTrip Wednesday afternoon with the free hot dog and pop I scored with a coupon because I'd pulled my hot dog bun out of a draw labeled "Warm Buns."

Except now, when I share that story with you all, it's really not that funny. Weird.

********************

Which is also odd, because when I placed my delicious free hot dog and pop on the counter and whipped out my coupon and handed it to the kid behind the counter, he totally gave me the "Heh, heh, heh" chuckle and said "Have fun with your free hot dog now!" and at first I was all, "And what are you implying, my good man?!" but then I sort of laughed and muttered something about warm buns, and I don't know. I guess you had to be there.

********************

Which is also odd because I thought that you all were always there anyway! I thought you lived in my mind!

********************

Warm buns.

********************

So just over a week ago, I colored my reddish-hair an incredibly WHOA!! TOO DARK SHADE OF BROWN!!! I have a name for this shade, which was deemed "Warm Mocha" on the box, but because I like to give off an air of sophistication (despite the fun I can have with a free hot dog), I are not tell you what I I renamed it. Suffice to say it involves a bodily function.

I thought this would be a glamorous new look for me (before the name change) and people would be captivated by my mysterious ways, so far, that has not been the case. Eight days later and my husband STILL HAS NOT NOTICED!!! See that profile picture up there to your left? See that red hair? It's brown now. Trust me. It's a noticeable change. Also? I want the red back now.

********************

If I had to make excuses for my Tool Man, I would say he's not noticed because he was gone for more than three days after I changed the color, and then when he returned, he declared himself a zombie and has been fighting the zombie infection for the past week. After a week of hearing him attempt to hoist a lung through his nasal cavity and having flashes of what it will be like to live with him when he's the same age as my father-in-law, I'm ready for this zombie virus to be out of his system. I am trying desperately not to lose my sympathy, but at this point, it's hanging by the tendon where his arm once was.

********************

My plan was to keep this post of nothing brief. Last night, while scrounging around on my nightstand for something to read (because I'd left Ace of Cakes: Inside the World of Charm City Cakes downstairs)(damn but I love that show, btw. Tool Man and I are going to go see Anthony Bourdain - swoon! - next week, but just this week, I learned Duff and Mary Alice are going to be here next month for another event and I am down with getting my culinary on, so now I'm working on Tool Man to get tickets for that), I landed on my copy of Not Quite What I Was Planning, a collection of six-word memoirs I've shared my love of (in a far, far better post than this). I love this book for the amazing way the contributors allowed brevity to say so much. I wonder what that's like. I can't even make a brief paragraph.

********************

Oh, wait! Yes, I can!

Warm buns.

********************

Anyway, back to what I was getting to when I attempted to be brief. Have you been reading Polite Fictions? What? Did you just say "Yes, master"? Good. Very good, indeed, because there's some awesome new contributors up in that tangled web and to paraphrase my good friend Sir Mix-A-Lot, they are down to get the fiction on. Please, click the link. Get caught up. Remark "Geeeeeyawww, that's a damn long entry!!" when you read my turn at the knife from last week, and then marvel at the thunder everyone else has been bringing. Then be thankful you are not privy to the depravity that ensues when the emails start flying between us.

********************

I guess that's about it. It's Friday, which means no one is probably around to read this post anyway. I read yours on Friday, though. No guilt or anything. I'm just saying...

Before I go get ready for the day, let me say thank you all one more time from the bottom of my heart, which hurts something awful because it's resting atop a 10 pound, 12 ounce Butterfinger baby at the moment.

Thank you.

********************

Alice Pooper!!

well done, my friend. well done...

2009-10-25T22:23:00.008-05:00

My friend Shawn is boisterous. When I’ve described him as such, he’s thrown a sturdy arm around my shoulders, tugged me in close, and said, “Just tell ‘em the truth. I’m loud!” It’s the truth. Shawn is loud. Like sirens sounding, cymbals crashing, and bombs exploding, all at the same time. He doesn’t quietly enter a room and take a seat in the corner, hoping to melt into the shadows. He kicks in the door, throws open his arms, tosses back his head, and trumpets his arrival.

The trouble with describing Shawn simply as loud, however, is that it’s not quite a powerful enough adjective. Everything about him is emphatic and rambunctious. His personality is powerful. His laughter is booming. His curiosity is intense. His faith in God is immense. His compassion is emphatic. His love is encompassing. Nothing about him is minute. Shawn is a crescendo.

My dear friend is the very definition of ‘larger than life,’ but on Tuesday afternoon, I’ll be attending his funeral.

I learned last Thursday Shawn died when another friend phoned at one of those early morning hours that compels you to say "What's happened?" rather than "Hello” when you answer. Grief rushed through me so quickly I had to hand the phone to my husband so the news could be repeated to him. My tears, instant and fierce, left me gasping for air and incapable of speaking, although I think my hope was that if I didn't have to say the words out loud, they wouldn't be true. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. One of my very best friends, someone I was honored to know for more than 10 years, was dead at 44 of a heart attack.

Shawn and I met at church. Curious and searching, he’d been invited to worship at the same church my husband and I had recently started attending for much the same reason. Less than a year later, Shawn and his wife, my husband and I, and a handful of other couples gathered around a dining room table, filled with ideas and eagerness to plant a new church. I was still a very new Christian, and so was Shawn, but his passion for learning and serving was contagious. The light that shined in his eyes and fueled his heart was forever intense, and it spilled into the community. He was never invasive, but if your heart was burdened, you knew after meeting Shawn that there was someone praying for you. He knew I’ve not been a particularly happy person for the last several months, and on a recent Sunday morning, during worship, I looked across the gym where we hold church and saw him staring in my direction. He was stabbing the air with his index finger, and I casually glanced behind me to see whose attention he was trying to capture. After several more covert glances, I realized he was pointing at me. When he had my attention, he shaped his fingers into a heart, held them to his chest, and smiled. The gesture, simple and pure, made me cry. The last time we spoke, he asked me if there was anything he could do to be of help to me. That's the essence of who Shawn was.

Shawn and I shared a mutual love of 80s music and outrageous comedies. “Our friendship was built on Madonna and the Messiah!” he’d say. “Where would we be without prayer and The Princess Bride?” I’d ask. Our phone calls often involved him serenading me with a song we both loved (far too many to count based on the number of mix CDs he created for me), or reciting a scene or six from one of our favorite movies before our outrageous laughter forced me to beg for mercy. Sometimes after such fits, Shawn would have to hang up and then call back a few minutes later because he’d forgotten the point of his original call. Last Tuesday, I called to tell him IFC was airing Monty Python and the Holy Grail later that evening, and we immediately unleashed as King Arthur and the Black Knight ("Look, you stupid bastard, you've got no arms left!" "Yes I have!" "Look!" "It's just a flesh wound."). I watched the movie this weekend and it felt very quiet among the pieces of my broken heart.

I realize none of you know my friend Shawn, although if one or two of you did, I'd not be surprised. It might be a cliché, but the man never knew a stranger. Once, a group of six of us went out to dinner, and between the salads and the entrees, we had to push three additional tables together and add eight more chairs to our intimate setting because Shawn knew – or just knew of – half the people in the restaurant. When I first got to know him, I selfishly wished to be his sole best friend, but there's a reason why his funeral will be held at a church that seats more than 800 people. Shawn would say he was a black hole that sucked us all in, but the truth is, he was a bright sun the rest of us orbited around.

My heart has been raw and so very heavy since I learned of Shawn’s death. I can’t stop thinking of his wife and two sons and the awesome love they shared. I feel cheated of more time with him here. Walking into church today and not having his voice be the first thing I heard was jolting. I’m profoundly sad, and moved to tears at the slightest thought, but a faith I credit him for bolstering means I know my friend wouldn’t want me, or anyone else who loves him, to feel so sad for long. I know he wouldn’t have chosen to leave his family, but he’s happy and healed where he is now, and I firmly believe he kicked open the gates and cheered his arrival.

And secretly, I hope by now he’s gotten God to join in on a Python riff (“Every time I try to talk to someone, it’s ‘sorry this’ and ‘forgive me that’ and ‘I’m not worthy…’”). I'd expect nothing less.

but they're too busy reading to put anybody down

2009-10-20T23:00:00.001-05:00

In addition to finding clever ways to display 187 copies of the first book in the eternally popular (somewhere) Boxcar Children series or the 49 copies (because 48 didn't seem like quite enough) of Handy Manny's Motorcycle Adventure, the majority of my days at the book store involve connecting shoppers with the perfect book for their young readers.

I routinely scan my department for shoppers who appear dazed (and occasionally injured - sorry about those books falling off the top shelf and onto your head today, lady. Sometimes, if you give a mouse a cookie, he's going to ask for a glass of milk. Then he's going to punch you in the face)(Oh, don't worry! The moose had a muffin, so it had the strength to knock the lady out of the way with it's mighty rack). Typically, helping shoppers involves fielding a lot of questions. "He's 8 years old and he doesn't read. What would he like?" or "I have to buy a book for my grandson, who I never see. Do you think he'd like books about the Civil War?" Occasionally, the shopper comes prepared with a detailed set of requirements. "She likes fantasy books, but we don't want her reading Harry Potter, or anything with dragons, witches, fairies, unicorns, castles, mermaids, goblins, sprites, pixies, glowing orbs capable of casting spells or anything else like that. What do you recommend?" As a matter of fact, yes. How do you feel about teenage vampires?

It sounds like a tough job, doesn't it? Oh, sure, I imagine it's not as tough as piloting fighter jets, performing brain surgery, brokering world peace, forecasting the weather, or preparing a meal my children will eat without suspecting sabotage, but as you can see, it does present some routine challenges. However, that doesn't mean you should feel like you can't handle it. Let me run you through a little training exercise I developed after helping a woman who journeyed into the children's department this afternoon. To make this experience extra fun, let's roll play, shall we? I'll play the role of 'Me,' and if you wish, you can play the part of the woman. Ready? Let's go!

Me: Hi! It looks like you have a rather long list of items you're looking for. Can I be of any help to you today?

(sidebar - Did you notice how nice I am? How costumer-focused? Yeah. Me, too. So, why do you think I only got a quarter raise at my review three weeks ago?)

(Take 2!)(or, as we say in the book biz, Chapter 2!)

Me: Hi! It looks like you have a rather long list of items you're looking for. Can I be of any help to you today?

Woman: Oh, that would be lovely! I'm looking for a variety of books to build the children's library at my church and I need books for all ages.

Me: I'd be glad to suggest some great titles! Follow me! I'll show you!

(seriously, friends. a quarter.)

Cut to the part where you see me showing the grateful shopper a variety of books, primarily those with recognizable, time-honored titles such as I'll Love You Forever, Hop on Pop, Guess How Much I Love You, Goodnight, Moon, Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Olivia, etc.

Woman: These all seems like great choices! You've been tremendously helpful! What other books would you recommend?

Me: Well, my children were big fans of Chicka Chicka Boom Boom when they were younger. I really think you must include that book in your collection.

Woman: Perfect! Anything else?

Me: Yes! You absolutely MUST get Good Night, Gorilla! Children LOVE this story."

Woman: What's it about?

Me: It's a very cute story about a zoo keeper, his wife, and a mischievous little gorilla and what happens when the gorilla steals away with the zoo keeper's keys.

Woman: Oh. Hmmm. Well....I'm not sure...

Me: Is it the stealing you're worried about? Don't give it a second thought!

Woman: No, it's not that...

Me (thinking): Please don't make me say something about the gorilla crawling into bed with the zoo keeper's wife, please don't make me say...

Woman: Well, it's just that I have to be courteous and think of the members of our congregation who are vegetarians...

Me: ::blink blink::

Woman: ::blink blink::

Me: Um...

Woman: I just really don't want to offend those who choose not to eat meat.

Me: Well, I can assure you, the zookeeper doesn't fillet the gorilla and toss him on the grill after marinating him overnight in a delicious balsamic reduction.

(in maintaining your good customer service skills, say the preceding with a smile that you enhance with a lighthearted chuckle)

(plus, p.s., where do your congregants eat where things like gorilla or hyena are on the menu? Be thee not confused between 'Good night, deer' and 'good night, dear,' my children.)

Woman: So...any other suggestions?

Of course I had suggestions for her.

The Carrot Seed

There you go. Everyone's happy, and that, friends, is good customer service. Here's a quarter, I think you're ready! Can you fill my shift Thursday?

********************

We currently have 170 paperback copies of Where The Wild Things Are in the store. Today, while suggesting books to another shopper, I placed a copy of the book in her hand and raved about what a great book it would be to share with her child, who was running around the place and was definitely not young. "Oh, that story would be far too long for him!" she responded.

The book is 10 sentences long. If it was a video game, the kid would probably play it for hours.

********************

I try to read at least one book a week. Sometimes it takes a bit longer. Sadly, I've spent more than a month trying to get through The Time Traveler's Wife. I tend to be one who tries to finish what I start, but I'm to the point where I wish I was the one who could flit through the time and get this beast done. I also wish I could let go of my irritation about the author's love affair with commas. There are way too many misplaced commas in this story.

********************

Do you need something fun to read? After Whit wrote about the Skulduggery Pleasant series at Dadcentric, I was all, "Oh, I must read those!" However, need I remind you my raise was just a quarter an hour? Yeah, so as a result, I am not buying them, but I am listening to them. Well, I'm listening to the first one, and strongly suggest you do, too. Sure, they're found in the young reader's section of your favorite bookstore, but they make a fun adult read, too.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, yes, there's vampires in the book, but thankfully, they're not glowing and angst-ridden.

we are golden

2009-10-15T00:00:00.003-05:00

I went shopping earlier this week, hoping to find a card to give my husband. Today is our 15th wedding anniversary. Fifteen years ago this afternoon, my father flung the sanctuary doors open, revealing me to friends, family, and my soon-to-be husband, and even now, when I think about the way he looked at me in that moment, I tear up.

Happily.

Thankfully.

Blessed.

I've never been a great fan of mass produced greeting cards meant to mark off birthdays, sympathies, or anniversaries. Often I'll stand before the colorful, typically haphazard displays, and become overwhelmed. Other times I'll read each one in a desired category, sometimes more than once, hoping to find the card to best describe what my heart wishes to say to the intended recipient. Very rarely, though, does that seem to happen. Such was the case this week. How do you wrap 15 years of marriage up succinctly in four or five lines of flowery prose when there's so much I want to say to him? I could add my own words to Hallmark's efforts, but when I've done that, I fill the pleasing white space with my charms, causing my husband to twist and turn the card in an acrobatic attempt to read my writing, while I'll have long finished reading the one handed to me moments before. The one signed simply Love, Your Husband.

My husband is a man of few words and I am a woman of many. There are countless nights I lay my head down at the end of the day and wonder why it aches before I remember that it's filled with all the things I wanted to say that day but never got - or took - the chance to, whereas my husband barely gets the words "good night" out before plunging into a deep sleep. I see it as frustrating. He probably sees it as a gift.

This has not been the easiest year of our marriage. We've spent far more days and nights away from each other than I care to tally. For the first time in its (amazing, impressive) 15 year tenure, we raised our voices to each other, and word(s) we've never said to the other were lobbed like grenades across the length of our living room and left to lie there, waiting to see how the other might react. I'm not at all proud of that. I thank God every day the man who made me well up with tears of happiness 15 years ago today may have ducked and looked for cover, but never once ran away. I pray that he's happy I didn't either.

I can't imagine life without him, the same way I can't fathom how it is 15 years with him have sped by. When I joined him at the altar on our wedding day, I only saw that day in my mind. I knew we'd have many together. I simply couldn't picture them in that moment. I didn't see our two amazing sons in our future, or the daughter we'll one day reunite with on another realm. I couldn't envision how we'd lift each other out of the depths of depression each of us would go through, or how we'd celebrate that which we have (thankfully, far more often than we've had to mourn for that which we do not). There's not a greeting card for that.

As I write this, my husband is downstairs with our boys, each of them skimming their game pieces across the Sorry board. The man of few words tackles the things I don't particularly care to do while I, the woman with (too) many words, spills a few. I hope he's never been sorry of any of the time we've had together during this rapid-fire 15 years. I'm not. Even though I never truly pictured our life together beyond the moment we married, I'd rush through our courtship and engagement the same way we did then to marry him again today if we were granted a do-over.

I have too many words, and the greeting cards I looked at (and ultimately left without) while on my shopping excursion didn't have the ideal ones, but in this particular moment, I can think of only single words that best convey what I feel today on our anniversary and every day after.

Lucky.

Grateful.

Loved.

do not go gentle into that sorta OK post

2009-10-13T08:53:00.006-05:00

My junior year in college, I took a poetry class as part of my ever fluctuating major requirements. I thought it would be interesting to sit around with my classmates, my fellow intellectuals, my real life Dead Poets Society. When I rushed in for the first day of class, however, I found it severely lacking in Ethan Hawkes. Instead, the room was filled with other clueless classmates staring at a man at the front of the room with a head of manic ivory white hair and wearing an unironic tweed jacket so infused with the scent of cigarette smoke I wondered if it hadn't actually been woven from the leaves of the very first tobacco plant ever grown. When he introduced himself to us as Doctor, I knew we weren't going to just sit around and listen to pretty, pretty poems, but we were, in fact, going to have to write our own.

As soon as he told us that, before adding that we'd also be critiquing our works in class, I wanted to die. "Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee and my fear of poetry," I thought (except, you may note by that thought, I was already a poet and didn't know it)(heh...). Before Dr. Ivory N. Tweed was halfway through the syllabus, I was plotting the quickest route to rage, rage against the dying light at the end of the registrar's line to drop this class.

Then he told the class about the many published collections of poems he'd written about King Kong and I thought, "Oh, I am in like Flynn!" (still with the poetry, btw!) because other than the words ding and dong, what can someone rhyme with the name of a giant ape? If such a thing can be a fertile muse, then easy A, yo!

Turns out, you don't have to rhyme in poetry, friends. I learned that after turning in my first attempt, which came back with more red slashes from the good doctor than actual poorly attempted stanzas on my part. I wish I had it to include here, but if I recall correctly, I think it was about snowflakes and their fickle hearts and melting spirits. It was from that work I learned the meaning of trite, which the the professor so kindly defined for me between my verses.

I wish I could find the poems I wrote that semester because I don't recall a single one beyond my snowflake sonnet. However, I can recall the work of a classmate who penned the following after we were assigned a poem about something we loved:

Basketball

The crowd is loud in the gym tonight
The score is tied. We have to fight.
I grab the rebound. I check the clock.
He's open for the pass. I ignore his spot.

Dribble, dribble, dribble I do
Down the court to shoot for two
The orange ball spins 'round the rim
The shot is good! We crowd goes wild!
Hooray! Hooray! We won today!

Inspiring, is it not? Oh, had Shakespeare only thought to have Romeo stop for a quick pick up game before meeting Juliet in the tomb! You'll note the author started off strong, but then seemingly shot his wad after he shot his ball, and the poem seemed to fall apart. However, the fact I can recall this from memory nearly 20 years later, and none of my own poetic attempts speaks to one's view of art, perhaps. I mean, we all know about that girl from Nantucket, do we not?

When the class finally ended, I earned a solid B for my collected works, which I imagine will one day be unearthed in my mother's basement and published upon my death from mysterious circumstances or at the hands of a former lover...OR BOTH! While I can't give you any of my former works, this post does serves as a way for me to give you the words that follow, which I found over the weekend while cleaning out the drafts folder in my email account:

hiss...

hissed...

growl growing up from his chest

whispers

blah, blah, blah, eye roll, blah

glowered

stone

Apparently I wrote that back in early January. Obviously, I have titled it Untitled. I don't remember writing it or what it's supposed to be about (King Kong, perhaps? Hmmm....). It's possible that I, like many famous poets in history, was drunk, high on opium, or suffering from the effects of syphilis. I don't know. Is it a line of dialogue from a television show I was watching at the time? I suppose there's always the chance, but unlikely. I don't know what inspired it, but it's powerful, is it not? Read it aloud this time. Listen. Blah, blah, blah, eye roll, blah. That is intense. Yep.

Whatever the case, the reality is, I just wrote another long-winded post about nothing that allowed me to clean out my engorged email folders, and you all played along. Thank you and you're welcome.

(Also, feel free to share with me any awesome poetry attempts or haikus you have. Just don't be sad if they don't live up to the majesty that is Untitled. We can't all be poet laureates on our first attempt - need I remind you of Basketball?)

hey...wanna hear a joke?

2009-10-12T07:20:00.003-05:00

Knock knock!

(that's your cue)

(I'm not kidding about the joke!)

(do you need me to start over?)

Knock knock!

(you're saying "Who's there?" right? Good!)

Not me!

(your turn again...do we have to start this over again? no? oh, sorry. I didn't hear you.)

Not me who!

Bwahahahahahaha!

What? That was hilarious!! 'Not me who!' Cripes, that's a classic! People are going to be repeating that for decades! So long "Aren't you glad I didn't say orange!" There's a new classic knock knock joke in town!

Why aren't you laughing? Listen - 'Not me who!' Did your sense of humor stay home today? Sheesh.

Wait! Where are you going? Come back! There's more to the joke! I know. I know. Unless your a little kid who doesn't know when to stick the laugh, most knock knock jokes end right there, but there's more to mine. Ready?

Ready?

Please?

Pretty please?

Come on! Just play along!

Ok, say "Not me who?"

(waiting!)

Not me who boo hoo hoo!

Why aren't you laughing? That's a perfectly fantastic joke! Don't you get it? I'm not HERE, and you're all BOO HOO HOO. Hilarious! What are you? Dead inside?

OK, let me try this joke on you - Why did the reader click the link?

To get to my guest post over at Kat's Three Bedroom Bungalow!

HAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHA! Stop! Stop it now! My sides ache! I might pee my pants, and omg, seriously, I can only do that if I have a cold accompanied by a hacking cough, so STOP LAUGHING!

No, wait! What am I saying? Go visit me over the pond at Kat's place, where I share a little Halloween-related story involving devils and devilish things. Don't worry, though. It's a sweet, heart-warming tale, which is odd when you consider it features devils and perhaps evil hobos. I promise you, though, you won't end up in...INTENSIVE SCARE!!

Bwahahahahahahaha!!!

call me my love you can call me any day or night

2009-10-04T23:15:00.003-05:00

Remember being a kid and living for Friday because not only did it mean another week of school was over, but also you got to catch up with the precocious Tanner family on Full House and Larry and his wacky cousin Balki on Perfect Strangers? Ah, yes, ABC's TGIF line-up was nothing short of inspired back in the day. I wouldn't know, of course, because I considered myself far too sophisticated for such fare in the late 80s. I was in college by then and into Bel Biv Devoe not Mr. Belvedere. I believe I knew one day I'd have children obsessed with Full House, so why take in more than necessary?

That doesn't mean I didn't love Fridays. I love Fridays! Who doesn't love Fridays? As I write this, it's Sunday, and we all know Sunday means two things - a new episode of Mad Men and the desire for it to be Friday. Well, I have the power to give you a little Friday as your new week starts! Please visit I Pick Pretty, where last Friday, Mel graciously profiled me in her Featured Blogger Friday post. There I give you an amuse-bouche of what I'm like. Did you just say I'm amazing? Yes, that's true. However, I don't get into that over there. Do you question my inspirations? Do you wonder what my favorite books are? Well, I'm not going to tell you here. You have to go there. See what I just did? I gave you some Friday! You're welcome!

When you're done - and that means leaving Mel a lovely comment - then please come back here and read the new post below. To those new here from I Pick Pretty, I hope you'll enjoy the comfortable surroundings, and will leave me a comment so I know you've been by.

*************************

My oldest son turned 12 a few weeks ago. It's a brave new world living with a pre-teen. Our once semi-quiet home has transformed into an incoming call center of young girls phoning to speak to my son. My sweet boy speaks politely to each girl, including the one with an extreme case of short-term memory because she neglects to remember the many times I've asked her not to call at 6:30 a.m., Monday through Friday, when I grumpily answer the phone. I'm very proud of my son's good manners. However, it's clear by his routine use of monosyllabic responses, he's oblivious to the true intent behind some of the calls these girls are making - they think he's cute, and they want him to think they're cute, too.

Here's the thing about 12 year old boys - they don't think much is cute yet. Especially girls. At least that's the case with my particular 12 year old boy, and to be perfectly honest, based on the giggly girls calling here, I'm glad to be living with the Y chromosome during this new phase of life.

I do look forward to the day when my son no longer recoils in horror when I playfully ask him if he has a girlfriend, but right now, I'm OK with him still thinking the only kind of wrestling around with another person that's interesting is the kind that happens on WWE Monday Night RAW. This opinion was cemented for me earlier in the week after spending some time on Facebook and reading the updates of a 12 year old girl who attends our church. Last Monday, she changed her status from 'single' to 'in a relationship,' and updated her page with the mysteriously dreamy line "WOW! He's SOOOOOOO amazing!!" A few of her friends didn't agree, and soon the debate raged between those who posted "Glad your (sic) so happy!!!!!" and those who thought "If u say so..." Things became so heated it forced my young friend to update her page 11 minutes later with a plea for to those who didn't understand her choice to "...except (sic) the AMAZING things about him and don't reflect on the bad!!!!"

The discourse that followed taught me a few things. First, students should spend less time trying to bone each other and more time boning up on their spelling. Second, the rampant abuse of exclamation points needs to cease. Finally, study hall is the modern day Sex and The City. "WE DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THE DANG GUY!!!!!!!!!! STOP MAKING US SOUND EVIL BECUZ WE DON'T HAVE BACKGROUND INFO!!!!!!!!" exclaimed the cynical middle school Miranda Hobbes. "U need to let her have her space! She can date whoever she wants!" a young, love defies all Charlotte York soothed.

The battle waged on forever, or in this particular case of young love, just a few days. By Thursday, my young friend returned her relationship status to 'single,' and her updates became triumphant female empowerment mantras the likes of which would be the battle cries of the uninhibited Samantha Jones. "WOW!!!!! I'm SINGLE and I LUV IT!!!!!!!" she wrote ("I knew that something was wrong with him. What did I tell u? I was right AGAIN!!! I think you should start listening to me," the young Miranda jabbed back). This was followed by a long string of updates championing her love of being single and how she "...wasn't waistin' (sic)(sigh...) any more time on boys!!!!" Where once I hoped to hear Journey's Separate Ways in my head while reading her Facebook page, I was now hearing the omnipresent lyrics of Beyonce's Single Ladies. "Life is full of jerks and that is all I have left to say," she concluded.

That may be my acquaintance's opinion of young love now, but in a thoughtful - and correctly spelled - comment, I assured her the day would come soon enough (though, honestly, at 12?!?) when she'd not think of boys as jerks. I also told her there was plenty of time to be in love. Preferably, though, that time is not between 6:30 a.m., every Monday through Wednesday.

because he asked nicely, but mostly because he's made of awesome...

2009-10-02T00:00:00.001-05:00

For the past two weeks, I've been listening to my youngest son restlessly attempt to sleep when not having his rest interrupted by coughing fits that make me hurt just to hear. He's exhausted. I'm exhausted. While trying to help him, I'm also attempting to fend off the first hint of a seasonal cold I knew was going to attack my immune system when I walked through a fine mist of germs upon entering the children's department at work. My Tool Man is hoping all the vitamin C tablets I'm ingesting work their magic because I may have a bit of a whining problem when I'm sick, the type that I do not doubt makes him question that whole "In sickness and in health" bit from our wedding vows.

But this is not about me and my woe is me headache today. This is about my friend Kevin of Always Home and Uncool. Last month, Kevin hatched an amazing plan to take control of the Internet, and in using the power that type of thing provides, he commanded (nay - asked) his friends and fellow bloggers if they would publish the following post today as a way to help his family in their effort to raise awareness of juvenile myositis, which is a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with seven years ago today. Friday is also his wife's birthday, and this effort is Kevin's gift to his beloved. Kevin is pretty awesome. I hope you'll read today in support of him and his family.

*******************

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

it's the great mellowcreme pumpkin, hips and thighs!

2009-09-30T08:48:00.006-05:00

Oh, Fall. You know what I think of when people say they love this season, with it's shorter days, confusing weather patterns, and trees resplendent with vibrant colors?

Meh. Big deal. Whatever.

When this time of year rolls around, I only have one thing in mind and that is the triumphant return of mellowcreme pumpkins to the grocery store. Oh, yes, my friends. You can have your nippy temperatures, but I only want this nipply confection!

When I went to the grocery store last week to buy wholesome items like fruits and whole grain breads, these were the first things that hit me when I walked through the door. In fact, when I caught sight of them out of the corner of my eye while making my initial beeline for the berries, I immediately made that squeaky brakes noise, and then I said "beep, beep, beep" while backing my cart up to bow before the towering display of Halloween candy. It was absolutely necessary I made that wide load/watch out for large objects/things in mirror are closer than they appear safety beep because if I keep eating from the bag (OK, BAGS! SHUT IT!) I brought home, I'm going to need pilot trucks with the flashing lights trailing in front of and behind me as warning to my fellow shoppers to make a wide path for me when I eventually return to the grocery store. I'd feel bad about knocking down an unsuspecting child with my thighs.

There's a method I have to eating these treats:

Only purchase Brachs mellowcreme pumpkins and no other. Do not try to ply me with your generic mellowcremes for I will not be fooled. Yes, I will eat two or 18 before declaring them inferior, but I will not be fooled.

Hide the bag(s) from my Tool Man and my children. Every fall, my boys insist they love mellowcreme pumpkins and beg me to share with them, and though I resist mightily, I eventually cave (for they are adorable) and give them one apiece, into which they bite, make a face, and then declare them disgusting. Then I send them to their rooms and tell them not to come out until they understand what they did, which was waste two perfectly good mellowcremes that I could have eaten and also forced me to say "I told you so!" and I hate saying that.

Laugh sarcastically at the suggested serving size (six candies? pffft!) and proceed to dump fistfuls out into my grubby paws. Hold one aloft and alternate declarations of love with sneers of contempt. Saying "Oh, mellowcreme pumpkin, I see we meet again!" can go either way.

Indulge in an elaborate eating process that signals to everyone around you that you have a little bit of a problem with disordered eating. My method for consuming mellowcreme pumpkins involves first biting the tiny green tip off the top, then scraping at the green layer surrounding the former tip. Finally, bite the pumpkin in half, sometimes horizontally, but preferably vertically, and enjoy the two bites this provides. Then tell observers that if they think that ritual is odd, they should see me eat a slice of pizza. And pie. And also cake. And seriously, watch me eat a sandwich sometime. Oh, and ice cream? It's a process, too.

I'd eaten eight of these sugary orbs of fantastic bliss before 8:30 a.m., today and I can assure you that pairing them with only a small glass of water may not meet the USDA's recommendation for a healthy breakfast, but I feel like I can cut through steel using just the power of my eyes. I'm like Jared Leto in Requiem For A Dream after dancing with the devil and a pound of pure. Or Jared Leto in eyeliner with some sweet sword fighting moves. I don't know. What I do know is I've got a case of the Kenickie shakes and if I keep eating these, I'll end up looking like Jared Leto in Chapter 27 after he beefed up to play Mark David Chapman.

Besides, I need to leave room for the Reece's peanut butter pumpkins that are waiting for me at lunch.

this post brought to you today by the letter B

2009-09-27T19:00:00.003-05:00

I planned to be a bitch today.

To be the best bitch on a day begging for bitchdom, I brainstormed and blueprinted and banged out a mission. I'd cry "Just because!" while banishing boys to the basement, then retrace my steps and return to my bed to burrow under blankets and perhaps even bawl. Find my inner Betty Draper, bend my hair into a bun. Imbibe in badly mixed elixirs while brooding about my day, bury myself face first into pillows once tastefully cornered on the davenport. My mind was bent on saying davenport rather than sofa or couch, because it's what my grandmother would say, and though she is forever among my beloved, she could also be quite a bitch, and today, that trait was going to run in the family.

I planned to be a bitch today.

But instead...

Instead I chose to burst forth upon the day where burst forth was the eager understudy for take a moment to stretch my weary bones. "Nay," I broadcast. "I shall not be a bitch today!"

Instead of banishing boys to the basement, I bunched them both up, the one who is a beanstalk and the other who answers to the nickname Boo, and we banded together to bake blueberry muffins. Because we don't believe in store bought mixes here (no offense to the other Betty, this one a Crocker), we blended and buttered and beat our way through bags of flour, sugar and broken eggs - blissfully, just two. Blessed with but only a 1/2 teaspoon measuring spoon where 2 teaspoons were a must, we bent our brains around the business of beefing up fractions (thank you, seventh grade math, chapter 2, for backing us up and bolstering our egos), then we watched the all the pretty flour(s) bloom upon the counter top.

While waiting for tiny blue pillows to burst, we also made these, and while I can think of no B-words to describe them and blow you away, I can break the news these cookies are the bomb. The secret ingredient? Banana pudding. "Best believe it," boasts the beanstalk, so you can bank on it being true.

Then the boy nicknamed Boo brought forth books and a query, so we buried ourselves in the pages. A blow-by-blow account of a chicken with a craving and a belly in need of filling, he set out to brew up bites for his buddies while they watched the big game. But just then came the big twist in the story! Those buffalo wings? They weren't quite what they seemed!

After bursting into laughter at our protagonist's beguiling tale, we broke free of the building to brave the great outdoors, where we backed down from blowing bubbles because we were blown away by the breeze before boogieing back inside to sample our fruity treats. The night is still young, there's time yet for burgers that have been barbecued and Buffy's season six exploits, but I already believe we've made the best of this day.

I planned to be a bitch today, but I'm blessed to know I thought better of it.

oops, i did it again!

2009-09-25T08:42:00.005-05:00

So last night, with homework finally done and peace in the land once again brokered, I sat down prepared to soak in the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy, which I was looking forward to because my Tool Man and I spent a recent weekend watching 17 episodes from last season that were clogging our DVR. Before you say anything, just let me say I know. I know that Grey's Anatomy is hardly Shakespeare. I know it's ripe with trite moments, and seriously, believe me, I have paused the action plenty of times to question how it is doctors have so much time to sleep with one another in tiny closets throughout Seattle Grace. Don't even get me started on how amazing it is that they're also always able to schedule surgeries for the very same day and that complicated brain surgeries take mere minutes.

I know. Because it's a television show. "It's not real, honey," is what I always say to Tool Man when he goes off on one of his science fiction programs, though I do think there would be something oddly satisfying about knowing there could be a mega shark terrorizing the oceans.

Anyway, long story short, my night was set. Until I turned the TV, fired up the DVR, and discovered no McDreamy. None. Because my very own McDreamy had chosen to record two different shows at the same time Grey's Anatomy was broadcast. Like those 17 hours (14 1/2 if you count fast forwarding through the commercials) we'd spent like slugs on our couch a couple weekends ago meant nothing to him. Needless to say, this made me want to be entirely angsty like a fictional television doctor, and perhaps preface and end my rant with a thoughtful voice over.

Tool Man, of course, pretended he forgot how to cancel a previously set recording on the DVR in order for Grey's Anatomy to be recorded. Thanks to the knowledge I have gleaned from that medical drama, I was able to diagnose him with something called "Convenient Amnesia Because You Have To Watch That Stupid Show 'Supernatural'." He's just lucky this doesn't require removing a portion of his frontal lobe.

Alas, it also isn't cured with sex in the linen closet, either.

Well, it might, but I don't think it would be covered under his insurance.

So my night, while not ruined, left me a little dejected. Would have been a perfect time to maybe write a post here, but I think I have a case of serious writer's block that may be incurable. At the very least, it may involve a complicated series of tense and down to the wire organ donations.

However, that doesn't mean I haven't been writing at all! Remember a couple weeks ago when I shared one or 18 links to Polite Fiction and the chunk of a growing story there that I had written? Well, guess what? I'm there again today! Have you been reading along? Oh, you should! There are some really damn fantastic writers there, and then there's me. We'd love if you read and chimed in with your thoughts. Do you see that totally kick ass button for Polite Fiction over there to the left? Click on it. It'll take you to a world of mystery, intrigue, and veiled baking references. And cursing. Yes. Remember what I said last time? Art is messy? Yeah. It's gotten messier. We're about twenty uses of the f-word away from being a Tarantino movie.

So after all this, what's the moral of the story, Meredith Grey? Sometimes you get what you weren't expecting. The one you love will give you ghosts when you expected grief. A woman suffering from potentially fatal writer's block will pace her kitchen, stare at the pile of drafts littering her files, and spend a crazy amount of time worrying her four-paragraph contribution to a kick ass fiction writing blog will be the mega shark that emerges from the murky depths that she'll then have to jump over.

Or something like that. I don't know. What I do know is this:

Please go check out the latest at Polite Fiction. Except the latest won't make a lot of sense if you haven't been following along. Wind back. Savor it. There are people there who love words and know how to use them in ways that should be illegal. And then, of course, there's me.
The title of this particular post actually does make sense.
Please don't tell me what happened on the season premiere of Grey's Anatomy. Thanks to this new-fangled thing called The Internet, I'll be watching online tonight while plotting ways to regain control over the DVR.

if the real thing don't do the trick you better make up something quick

2009-09-22T08:24:00.007-05:00

Hello, my name is fadkog. You might know me from my work here at ...for a different kind of girl or twitter. I appreciate you tuning in, and I apologize for not being around for more than a week. I'll assume you've noticed I've not been around for more than a week. If you haven't, then I'm going to feel like a goof, in which case, here, let me me just tell you, again, that you're looking especially pretty and/or handsome today in an attempt to hide my assumptions. It's a pretty damn big assumption, too, because I've been stuffing fistfuls of candy corn and salted peanuts in my gullet for days.

What?

I know.

And THAT is why I've not been around for awhile. I've got nothing with the words lately. I sit down to write and then my kid has the nerve to come home with homework and OMG, THE HOMEWORK!!! Or my Tool Man starts hanging around the house on a daily basis and I'm all, "Um, don't you have a job? OMG! Did you lose your job?!" and no, he didn't, he's just taking some vacation days, but interesting, very interesting, he's growing that whole "I have no job" beard, and though it's only been four days, he already looks like Barry Gibb and I wonder every day I come home from my taxing book selling days if he's going to ask me how deep is my love.

What?

Yeah, I just wrote a paragraph name-checking a musical icon from the 70s. I like to keep up on what the kids are diggin' these days. So much so that, over the weekend, while the boys and I were running errands, a song came on the radio and I was all, "What is this crap?! Do kids like this crap?! In my day, singers didn't need radio edits! They needed a mean synthesizer and a pseudo-military jacket and they sang things like being hungry the way a wolf is hungry or obsessing over someone and demanding to know what they could do to make that person love them." In short, I felt old. Let me get my shawl, get off my lawn, "Oh, look, NCIS is on!" old.

What's NCIS, you ask? Good question. It's apparently some television show that's been on for awhile and now has a spin-off staring Chris O'Donnell and LL Cool J, and to that I say WHAT? I don't know why I say that, though, because I've never seen a single moment of the original show, but because I've got nothing at all to write about, I actually tweeted about it.

Yes, this is the type of scintillating goodness I give the wonderful people who follow me on Twitter. What do you mean you're not following me there yet? That's a grade A zinger right there, folks.

And that's another reason I've got nothing going on here, either. Oh, sure, I could have told you about how I was TOTALLY hit on over the Campbell's tomato soup cans while at the grocery store last night. I mean TOTALLY! Like, the dude after remarking about the amazing way I handled the cans, asked if I'd come over to his place and actually make soup with him!! Of course, because I'm happily married to a bearded hunk of man (even though he doesn't love tomato soup), I had to decline this Lothario's advances before he started telling me about the noodles in his chicken noodle soup which I'm *pretty sure* weren't actually noodles but a euphemism for things that are sometimes noodle-like. I also was compelled to turn him down because he had a far, far prettier ponytail going on than I did at that particular moment. I can do beards, but the wavy, thick man ponytails make me jealous and I don't need that over my refreshing cup o' soup.

So I won't tell you that story.

I will tell you that I noticed my Tool Man is totally rocking a six-pack these days. I was captivated by it the other night when we were sitting on the couch as the glow of the TV set off the chiseled lines. Of course, the six-pack is on his forehead, and it really pops when he scrunches his brow while deep in thought. The beard? It absolutely sets it off.

Speaking of off, I must now be. If you read this entire post, please accept my apologies. There are just no words.

i got no car and it's breaking my heart

2009-09-13T23:00:00.006-05:00

You might remember in May we bid farewell to the Little Tikes turtle sandbox that had been in our backyard about a year longer than my boys cared for it to be. The day after dragging it to the curb for a citywide clean sweep, my Tool Man purchased a bag of grass seed, intent on offering the 43" x 47" circle of barren land back to Mother Earth. I watched him that weekend, sprinkling the ground, imagining the moment was like New Year's Eve on Time Square for the ants and other insects dwelling in the dirt, the seed falling like ticker tape from the sky.

I'd hoped having grass growing there, emerald green blades bursting upward, would help me forget the fact that we'd tossed out a link to my childrens' not so very distant pasts, but over the summer, real rabbits replaced the plastic turtle in our yard, and those rabbits circled the area like pygmies around a boiling cauldron, the seeds serving as their version of the hapless jungle explorer tied and trussed and prepared to meet his doom. Four months later, the grassless circle where memories and sand castles were made is still the first sight my eyes land upon when I look out my bedroom window each morning. Quite honestly, it still makes me sad.

"The rabbits are a sign," I told Tool Man one evening after I'd counted eight of them sunning themselves in the yard, perhaps smoking fat cigars and downing shots of aged scotch after another seed feast. "You know what they say about rabbits. I think the rabbits want us to have another baby."

Tool Man rolled his eyes because he thinks that I think everything wants us to have another baby. He made me stop finding reasons to go to Target last week during their baby sale because I'd return home and sigh about how I must have just missed that day's shipment of adorable infants. "I think if you buy five, you get a free $5 Target gift card," I'd wistfully remark. "Perhaps I should see if they're issuing rain checks!" Needless to say, no baby.

And now no Wiggles Big Red Car taking up a corner of my family room. When I returned from one of those many Target trips last week, I walked into the house and was immediately taken aback by the wide open floor plan. "There's something different going on here," I deduced while Tool Man remained calm and quiet. "Did you vacuum while I was away?"

"I sold the Wiggles car," he said. Then there was silence. Then some more silence. Tumbleweeds released from the expanse of open land where once the Wiggles parked their Big Red Car next to the couch may have actually rolled between us. I was physically crestfallen. In the hour and a half I was gone, this man who never gets rid of anything up and sold the Wiggles car. "I wish you would have just vacuumed," I cried, and not just because there were apparently tumbleweeds in our house.

Granted, my youngest son, for whom we delightfully purchased the Wiggles car as a Christmas present years ago during the height of his Wiggles love, is advancing toward the age when he can drive a real vehicle and not some plastic car one navigates with Fred Flintstone-like precision, tooting his horn at me when I jaywalked through the kitchen or watching for stuffed animal crossings. So many days my boy and his four Australian lads would cruise through the house, occasionally stopping to pick up that minx, Dorothy the Dinosaur, and sing ditties about fruit salads. For the last couple of years, the car's roomy front seat was the table where I rested my cup. It's trunk, with the gas tank lid that was typically flipped up because I'd reach down and flick it up and down with my index finger while we watched television, balanced my laptop each night when I logged off. Tool Man might say I kept the large toy car around these last few years because of my residual crush on Anthony Wiggle, and to that I would say...maybe.

Mostly, however, it was there for the memories. The memories and the lingering hope that maybe I'd come home one day, from Target or elsewhere, with another child who would cruise the house in it.

Toot, toot, chugga chugga, weep, weep, weep. The Big Red Car is gone.

"I got 20 bucks for it!" Tool Man said. Considering the car is practically an antique and formerly retailed for $39.99, I'll confess I was momentarily impressed with the man's salesmanship. But still...

Later that afternoon, my youngest son returned from school and plopped down on the couch next to me. "So, Dad sold your Wiggles car," I told him. I may have been pouting a little. "Yep," he nonchalantly replied. "That kind of makes me sad," I said. "How about you? Does that make you sad?" With a look on his face that stopped just short of including an eye roll, my sweet 7 year old responded, "Mother, honestly, I can't even remember the last time I used that car."

Honestly. So...so much for memories, eh?

(at least the ones I'm going to keep tucked away now that some other child is cruising around in the Big Red Car!)

With that, he asked for a snack (and in the spirit of all things Wiggles, I - albeit unsuccessfully - suggested fruit salad)(why? because it's yummy, yummy) and then was on his way, and Tool Man and I are 20 bucks richer. You know what you can buy with 20 bucks? A few memories, perhaps, and a hell of a lot of grass seed.

future employers, take heed!

2009-09-09T11:20:00.009-05:00

My boys didn't have school on Tuesday. Our district had scheduled a teacher work day for the day after Labor Day, thus effectively avoiding having to make a decision as to whether or not President Obama's speech on the importance of a good and responsible education would be shown to students interested in listening. That afternoon, I plucked the boys away from the grips of play and together we sat down and watched the President's speech online, and afterward, although they were itching to run back to see what kind of inane videos they could find on YouTube of dudes racking their gonads or field one of the 86 trillion phone calls made to the house for them, I emphasized that the President's hope that they choose to do well in school was a hope their father and I share.

"Remember what the President said? That each of you has something that you're good at," I reminded them. "Each of you has something to offer, and one of the best ways to do that is to work hard in school and discover something that interests you."

Later in the afternoon, because my oldest son is not interested being organized, I pulled out his school binder and went about flipping through his assignment book and notes to see if there was any outstanding projects to be completed before they returned to school today. Happily, I didn't find any outstanding projects. I did, however, find something that I, honestly, can only describe as outstanding. Perhaps also astounding. At the very least, I deem it exhausting. Take a look:

Sigh...

During this academic year, middle school students will be setting academic, home, and character goals. Because we're only three weeks into the school year, my son's academic goal was to maintain his already strong grades. He's a smart one, that kid of mine. However, his home and character goals, honestly, leave a little bit to be desired. I didn't put a direct call into the White House to see if the President would concur, but I'm pretty sure Sasha and Malia are striving for a little more than being cool.

Seriously, check that home goal out. This month - being cool and playing. First, please know that the spelling? Yeah, we get it. We know. He knows. THAT is our goal. Being proactive in remembering to spell being without an extra i is on our long term home goal list. What I love about his goal is how my son plans to achieve it - Like saying 'What's up, homey?' and playing with my brother."

What's up, homey?

Eh, not much, dude. Just chillaxin' here while I bust out some sweet life goals.

Wanna play later?

'Spose so.

Cool.

Yep.

Do you notice the part where I circled some ideas from the list of goals my sweet, sweet homey could really, truly benefit from? "What about being organized? Remember how we always talk about needing to be responsible for yourself?" I asked him. "I forgot," he replied. Homey forgot. That means later on, I circled listening.

Honestly, I give the kid credit for creativity. I also let his character goals slide because he really is already everything someone with good character demonstrates.

During his speech Tuesday, President Obama told students that "No one’s written your destiny for you. Here in America, you write your own destiny. You make your own future." Never mind the future. Around here, we're taking the future one month at a time. And being cool, homey.

i give you the greatest post about nothing ever!

2009-09-04T09:30:00.008-05:00

So I planned to come home yesterday and write an inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages, but by the time I returned from work and prepared to nestle safely back into the loving arms of my children, who immediately trumpeted my arrival with rapid-fire skedaddlin' out the door to play with their neighborhood friends (oh, and to tell me my Tool Man HAD been home, but had left because he apparently had, and I quote, things to do), my left foot was afflicted with a kind of pain that caused me to moan and thrash and weep mascara destroying pools of salt down my face, and apparently, though I've not yet figured out how, the pain in my foot makes it utterly impossible for me to also use my hands for such things as cleaning and typing, which is going to seem really odd in a few hours if you see me splattered all over Twitter or attempt to engage me in a jovial chat session where we spend enlightening moments LOLing each other's greatness.

So, long story short, my mysterious foot pain has rendered me incapable of writing my inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages. The human body is a miraculous and incredibly mysterious thing! As a result, you get this.

LOL!

When my Tool Man did return to the fold, he finally sighed and declared "Enough!" (although silently, for sometimes, and isn't that cute, I think he fears me), went out to the garage (aka - hell) and came back inside with the mangiest looking, science experiment containing plastic bucket and what appeared to be a dried up container of milk. I deduced it looked to be a dried up container of milk because he was shaking it and I could hear (over the gnashing of my teeth and crocodile tears)(seriously, when people say you forget the pain of childbirth, clearly that is the case for me, because I gave birth to two big babies without the benefit of modern pain temping medicine, but this foot, this demon appendage, is killing me. Were I to actually call a doctor - oh, what a novel idea! - and describe it to them, I would say, between the tears, remember, that it felt as though my heel had been secretly removed and replaced with a butcher knife. A BUTCHER KNIFE OF DOOM!) the maraca-like sounds of what could only be dried milk being forced to party. Or Epsom salt. It was totally Epsom salt (question - why do we have Epsom salt, dried out or otherwise, in our garage, aka hell?).

A few seconds later, Tool Man was plunging my demon paw into a vat of scalding hot, milky water, and when I was shocked out of the daze of my pain, I looked down to see he'd placed my foot in that nasty bucket he'd brought in from the garage (aka - hell). AND HE HADN'T REALLY CLEANED IT!! The the pain! The PAIN made it impossible for me to tell him that I now suspected I'd die of some parasite that would worm it's way in through the impenetrable fortress of my dried foot skin and wow, for that I hope you're happy, Tool Man! No. No, I didn't do that. Instead, I sat with my foot in that mysterious sludge factory for over an hour, and while my foot still does not feel the least bit better, something good did come of it. Want to know what?

Tool Man made supper last night! Hooray! Fireworks! No sex, though, because OMG, my foot!! She burns!

Also because he didn't do the dishes (and this surprises me why based on the bucket he had me put my foot in?), which was a little thing I discovered around 11:30 p.m., last night when I crawled my way up to the kitchen from the living room and sought refuge and inspiration for the arduous task of crawling up stairs to bed that lay before me. Living in a tri-split level house is not exactly The Tits when your toes (and your butcher knife heel) mocks you, my friends. So I busted out a flamingo move - balanced on one leg, don'tcha know - and did up those dishes because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's waking up to last night's dishes all over the kitchen.

Oh, and I also can't stand my unbearable, makes it difficult to stand, foot pain, too.

And world suffering.

And that show Eureka that Tool Man has to watch every Friday night.

Speaking of watching things, Tool Man and I are just now watching last season's Grey's Anatomy in an attempt to unclog our DVR and prepare for the hunting and gathering required of the new fall television season, and while we're watching Izzy go through her cancer issues (surely this is no longer a spoiler to anyone, right? I mean, it wasn't even a spoiler to me because hi, Grey's Anatomy has been off since early last May and even I wasn't able to avoid finding out how the season ended, but please, don't tell Tool Man because he doesn't know and, friends, in the past, Tool Man has totally wept a little bit at Grey's Anatomy and I find that adorable)(he doesn't find it adorable when I weep at Eureka, though, because he says I'm lying and my tears are to tears of heartfelt emotion but more of annoyance tinged with exhaustion) and as I was sitting there with my butcher knife stabby, potentially parasitic foot, I realized I was really starting to work on a headache and then after that, my left breast got incredibly itchy and while I thought that was odd, I also thought, "You know, that itchy sensation isn't exactly something new," and then I started to get hellishly paranoid that I have what Izzy has and I started to get emotional about not being there for my kids and OMG, Tool Man can't even wash dishes after making supper so how is he ever going to live without me?!

And then I thought hey, if I get a Dead Denny and his perpetually erect nipples out of the chance, then what's a few baked on messes?

I know. Seriously, I am not that insensitive, nor do I use as many curse words that screamed through my vortex last night. Stabby foot pain can and will make you think and do a lot of crazy things. I am not, however, sure what a routinely itchy left breast will make you do, though. Except scratch a lot, and I hear you're not supposed to do that.

And so today, instead of an inspiring, uplifting, highly quotable post for the ages, you get this. You're welcome.

You'd also be welcome to come do my bidding today because, seriously, I'm going to be kicking it (note - not ACTUALLY kicking)(because of the sickly foot, remember?) like Jabba The Hutt, unmoving and talking gibberish, on my couch. While it's not necessary, we can discuss whether or not there's any chain yanking or dancing that will take place while you're in that Princess Leia slave girl get-up. You're welcome, indeed!

one of these things is not like the other

2009-09-02T11:11:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, I logged onto my laptop, fired up my email account, and unearthed a couple emails from the ever-charming TwoBusy and clll asking if I'd like to be part of a writing project being cooked up among a handful of blog authors. Their initial emails were rather mysterious, but they used flattering words and I was having what could best be described as a colossally horrible day when they foolishly chose to lure me, and so I bit. It should be noted that this is pretty close to the way my Tool Man snared my heart and took me for his very own, lo these many moons ago. Apparently, if you refer to me as 'darling' or 'captivating' - which I'm not saying the above mentioned two men did, at least not necessarily in that order - I'm a pretty easy catch. So I was in.

Aha! THEN they told me their project - dubbed Polite Fictions - involved the participants creating a work of fiction, each one contributing their part to bring the story - whatever the story may be - to life. And that is when I panicked and considered pretending I was a 14 year old Japanese boy who had hacked onto Fadkog's account and agreed to this madness while also clearing out her measly bank account. Friends, I haven't written a piece of fiction in nearly 20 years when my college advisor and I made up an unaccredited minor in creative writing when I was a semester away from graduating. Remember that time when I said I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up? Yeah. There was no, nor is there to this day, creative writing minor at the college I attended.

(I just realized this may make me a trailblazer! Cool!)

Anyway, the only work of fiction I've been capable of for years is the weight on my driver's license, so admittedly, I was freaked out by the idea of jumping in on this project, but, I already told them I was in, and then TwoBusy spent far too much time talking me down. Did I mention he's charming? He's totally charming. So charming, in fact, that I think he thought he'd softened the blow enough to reveal to me the other INCREDIBLY TALENTED, FAR MORE GIFTED, BETTER QUALIFIED TO CALL THEMSELVES WRITERS who are also taking part in Polite Fictions and when he did, I began singing Alanis Morisette's Uninvited to him. "I don't belong here," I crooned.

Then I also dry heaved. Searched the internet for ways to render myself useless by breaking both my arms in the least painful way imaginable. Called ACTUAL 14 year old Japanese boys to inquire about blog hacking. Allowed TwoBusy to speak to me like Hannibal Lector as my scheduled day for posting at this new site approached.

And I caved because if there is one thing I am, it's a sucker for someone who asks me if the lambs have stopped crying.

So today's the day when my contribution posts at Polite Fictions and all those links to the site are my way of asking (pretty please) for you to go there and check it out. Seriously. Please. Start at the beginning and marvel at the way far better and more gifted writers are spinning this story, then read my entry and be nice. Then, I beg you, go back regularly to see how the story unfolds. Sure, there's curse words there. Whatever. Art is messy sometimes, yo. There's a pretty good chance some of us will have additional installments in this story. There's also a good chance the others will forget to tell me that, though, so I won't. Anyway, did you notice who else is writing at Polite Fictions? Check out that sidebar! That's what I'm talking about! You're going to want to know how this turns out!

Now, if you'll forgive me, I'm off to the mall with my new 14 year old buddy. His name is Shouhei, but I just call him...wait for it...Seth. You're not supposed to be here, anyway. You're supposed to be at Polite Fictions. Read there and leave some love, please! What are you waiting for? A picture of my boobs? HAHAHAHA! Go. Now. Scoot!

Here's the link one more time in case you missed it

everybody's got to grow up sometime. apparently.

2009-08-30T23:00:00.004-05:00

When last we met, I was all cried out (I'll pause a moment to give you time to engage in the requisite singing of that song, safe in the knowledge that I, too, got my Lisa Lisa on)(here's some help if you need it), had tucked my collection of old love letters back into a large storage container in my basement, and was faced with a few decisions. Did I want to:

put on my Velma glasses and, through a series of treacherous internet searches, find out what my former paramour is up to these days
give up the ghost and watch season 2 of Dexter
say "Hmmmm?" and/or "Wha?" in regard to another old letter I found while going through the treasure chest of my past

If you answered "All of the above," you're right! With a few keystrokes, I learned my former love has never tried to scare pesky (his word, not mine!) folk away from old ghost towns, but he has amassed an assortment of mundane traffic tickets over the years. Also, season 2 of Dexter, although bogged down a bit by the annoying British girl, was quite good, if not a smidgen predictable.

And what of the mysterious letter, you ask. What about the letter?! It was from a large state university that didn't award me my original journalism degree, and based on the jaunty way in which the registrar employee prefaced the letter, I wrote them first to inquire about graduate degree programs. In family and consumer science.

Apparently, I thought I wanted to be a dietitian.

(sidebar - at various times, I've also thought I wanted to be a zombie hunter, but they apparently hire them in-house because I never see help wanted ads for that position, or a king crab fisherman on the vast Bering Sea, but as I write this, I'm sitting in front of an open window and a brisk 65-degree breeze is wafting in, making me want to wrap up in the loving arms of my slanket, so those long hours toiling in arctic temperatures perhaps aren't ideal for my soft, cubicle-conditioned exterior)

I don't remember inquiring about graduate school, but based on the postmark on the outside of the envelope, I can understand why I thought it might be a good idea to spin my world a little more off it's axis at the time. I was sinking in the aftermath of the previously mentioned break up, and my father was in a hospital attempting to recover from a stroke we'd soon learn he'd never fully be able to. Why not toss another dash of chaos and potential remorse into the pot and see how it tasted, hmm? Since I thought I wanted to be a dietitian, I must have thought it would taste fantastic.

That moment - at 25 - was perhaps the first time I gave serious thought to what I wanted to be when I grew up. I spent the majority of my college years clueless to life afterward. There were two years in the education program thinking I'd be a teacher. God bless those who do teach, because the fact it took me two years to learn I didn't want to be a teacher was a strong indicator of how effective I'd have been getting a lesson across in a classroom. By junior year, I thought graphic arts sounded fun, but in the olden days, you had to know how to actually draw, so my first attempt was a sloppy straight line - with a ruler - through that option on my list.

Don't we all grow up with ideas of what we want to be when we grow up? Whether it's something attainable or a grand dream, don't we all imagine such things? Or is that something I've picked up from television programs? Because I honestly can't remember ever having a thought, big or small, about what I wanted to be when I reached adulthood.

(zombie hunter not withstanding, of course)

When I received this particular letter, I'd been working as a newspaper reporter for two years. A degree in journalism seemed like the last feasible option on my list when I decided to pursue it, and when I was offered the reporting job after graduation, I told anyone who'd listen I'd only be there a year because I absolutely didn't ever want to work at a newspaper, thank you very much. Hear me now, I'd say, I (who) don't want to be a news reporter (what) when I grow up (when)!

A year later, I was named editor of said newspaper.

I held that position for five years. Add that to the two years I spent as a reporter, subtract the part where I kept saying I didn't want to be a news reporter, and, well, you can see I was a news reporter for seven years. If you needed help figuring that out, remember to be sure to thank a math teacher, not me! Apparently, I'd decided reporting WAS what I was going to do when I grew up, but it wasn't want I WANTED to do.

While working as a reporter, I once spent a day in a preschool classroom for a feature story. As I scribbled notes and snapped photos, I overheard a boy tell a friend he intended to be a turtle when he grew up. Not a fireman nor policeman nor doctor. He only wanted to be a turtle. As he mapped out his plans, I felt envious of this five year old and his resolute goal, impossible as it was. By now, that boy has likely gone on to decidedly non-reptilian ventures (of which I hope he wasn't too disappointed), and I have tried out a few others, too, but I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. Finding this letter reminded me of that. From time to time, I've chalked this disconnected feeling up to the fact that, in all honesty, I don't feel like I'm a grown up. I mean, come on, I have an imaginary 14 year old boy living inside me, for god sake (hey Seth)! However, I'm 41, and I do grown up things and have grown up responsibilities, and I quite imagine it's about time I have a grown up plan. At the very least, it would be nice to have a plan that doesn't end in me floundering around clueless and/or afraid.

I love my primary job of being a stay-at-home mom, and I'm going to pretend I didn't call it a job even though many days it absolutely feels like work. I also, for the most part, love my part time bookseller job. However, my boys are fast approaching a time when they don't always need me around and I can't always work for minimum wage. It feels like I have to consider how to fill in the blanks created by not being part of the full time work force and how I can use that information to decide what I want to do for the rest of my life. Tonight we had take out food and ice cream for supper, so that dietitian's job may not be the first option that comes up. Tomorrow I'll return to my day shift at the bookstore while the boys are in school.

And if you know any turtles, would you maybe consider putting in a good word for me?