I will NOT get a dog. Will NOT.

Sam has been asking for a dog for a while. We talk about it, and then I ignore him. Mostly we talk about the different kinds of dogs he wants. His first choice would be to have a dog like Blue, the clue-leaving, game-playing, animated blue dog. I can understand that. If we could have a dog like Blue I would be down with that, too.

But, see, we can't. Because Blue already belongs to Joe. Duh. While I try to indulge my children's every whim, every once in a while they come up with something that I just can't produce.

Still, whenever we see a dog on the street, Sam says, "Oh, we could have a black dog like that!" He said that today on the way to school and my somewhat-shorter-than-usual fuse resulted in a terse response of, "No. No we could not."

Terseness doesn't work with children.

So Sam asks why.

"Because dogs are a lot of work. They need to be fed and walked . . ."

"And I could give him a bath after we play in the mud together and we can wrestle . . .!"

Dude. This was not meant to be a slow motion series of touching vignettes starring a boy and his dog. Also, I don't think you should wrestle with dogs. What is it WITH boys and wrestling? I don't get it. STOP WRESTLING. READ A BOOK.

So I respond with the best shot I have, "And they POOP. When you have a dog you have to clean up it's POOP."

"Well, he can poop outside."

"You still have to clean it up."

"But why?"

"So you don't step in it. You don't want to step in dog poop."

"Well that's okay. We clean up Owii's poop. Maybe we could put a diaper on our dog."

"No. Because that would be weird. Sam, dogs are just a lot of work and I don't want to do that right now."

"But Daddy could do it. And I could help!"

Aw, that's cute. Also it is a lie.

At this point I realize this is going nowhere so I just tune into the radio for a while. Until . . .

"What should we name our dog?"

Sigh.

"Dude. That's up to you. I have enough to worry about trying to name this baby."

"Her name is Lily."

"Really? I thought you liked Abby better?"

"Well, but Abby has really ugly hair."

"Do you even know an Abby?"

"What?"

"What?"

And that, my friends, is what happens when you have kids. You have conversations you can't even follow.

Oh children. You are so honest about my flaws.

Something happened to my face recently. Don't know exactly what's going on, but I know that the visual result is a horrifying conglomeration of red splotches on my cheek. Just on the right cheek. And they aren't even pimples, because, trust me, I would know how to handle those. They just LOOK like pimples.

They are, however, in a symmetrical arrangement that defies nature. Three in a line right down my cheek. And then a few more besides. But it's the three in a line that are really distracting.

So I broke out the foundation this morning. Put on some concealer. That's why it's good to be a woman, right? You have the option of concealing when weird shit happens on your face. Why, if I were a boy I'd just have to pretend it wasn't happening. Or put a large bandage over the right side of my face. Thank goodness for concealer.

When I was getting the kids in the car, Owen found a little pink marshmallow in his car seat. He can find these little treasures because Owii takes time to smell the roses, my friend. He doesn't rush though his day, missing the finer points of world around us. He OBSERVES. The rest of you, with your getting-to-work-on-time-ness, and your not-being-late-ness, well, that's all fine and good, but you just keep missing all the little pink marshmallows, you know. All those, old, stale, hard, tiny pink marshmallows just fly under your radar.

Anyway, Owii found his tiny pink marshmallow and Sam says, "LOOK! Owii found a little marshmallow! Like you have on your face! HA HA! It looks like you have marshmallows on your face! Or, no, wait, I think it looks more like a candy cane, because it's all like that!" As he traces the line of theoretically concealed splotches down my face.

Just in case I thought I was fooling anybody.

The one where I say "vagina"

Recently, I was reading this article about the 10 biggest scientific advances of 2009. One of them was this new method of surgery wherein they preform "ectomies" (the removal of stuff) through an "already existing opening." That would be the mouth or the vagina, folks.

Gross.

So they are talking about all this removing through the vagina (that seemed to be the favored route) and I keep thinking it's a little creepy. But maybe we can get over that if it is true that the rate of complications and infections are less, recovery is faster and less painful, and scarring is minimized. The thing is, they don't have to cut through so many layers. And no cutting of abdominal muscles.

So I start thinking (and this is pretty much my exact thought process), That doesn't sound so bad. I've had a couple of surgeries ("ectomies," if you will) in the past few years and let me tell you, they were no spring picnic. The scars don't bother me so much as the recovery. Maybe they can figure out how to use this 'vaginal removal procedure' with women having babies.

Wait.

Man. This haircut.

I got a haircut last week.

Since my old hair place closed down and my mom left town, I was going crazy with all my saggy hair.

So I tried a new salon. And, boy, it was a lovely experience. People were friendly, and you got a free head and hand massage and she really took some time on my hair and then did my make up for free. It was great.

And my hair looked good.

For a night.

And then I washed it and . . .

It just keeps getting worse. Worse and worse, every day. Some days it looks like a boy haircut. Some days it is evocative of a mullet. All days it is strange and flat and strangely flat and also weirdly long in the back but short in the front and are these layers? Because they are not working.

I'm eager to see how bad it will be in another week. Good thing it is hat season.

Oh, the eating I will do

Congratulations!
Today is my day.
I'm off to Great Restaurants!
I'm off and away!

I have an appetite in my stomach.
I have feet in my shoes.
I can steer myself
any direction I choose.
I'm home from work. On maternity leave.
And I am the guy who'll decided what to eat!

I'll look in the up and down cupboards. Look 'em over with care.
About some veggies I will say, "I don't choose to go there."
With my appetite back in my stomach and my shoes full of feet,
I'm way too smart to forget about the store down the street.

With the nausea finally gone
Because the baby is here
I'll eat myself silly,
Stuff my belly to HERE.

It's hard to remember
but I'll someday recover

With the baby outside me,
restoring my love of food
the price for a baby visit will be treats
and what you bring better taste good.

And when the scale starts to creep,
I won't worry, I won't stew.
I'll just continue to eat
And NOT vomit it up, too.


OH!
THE EATING I'LL DO!

So, I'm surviving swine flu so far. And I *think* the family is starting to regain some health.

Gail, I know you're the only one actually reading this so I'm going to go ahead and use this forum to let you know how excited Sam is about Florida this year. He's obviously thinking about it a lot because he frequently says, out of the blue, things like, "when we go to Florida I can wear shorts and Croc's with holes again." and "Do you think Gail is making me a scarf this year?" and "I'm going to have my birthday in Florida!"

I'm not so psyched about getting there. Why is Florida so very far away?

It's like talking to yourself, but less informative and more frustrating.

Alex: Hi, I'm Alex, your continental.com Virtual Expert. Let me know how I can help you by typing in your question below.

You Asked: Hi, we plan on flying with our two kids down to florida. One of them will be a few days under two, but we plan on flying him as a lap child. He's a big kid, so I'm assuming we'll need some kind of proof that he's under two? What would suffice?
Alex: Children over the age of two must have a ticket and occupy their own seat. When booking your flights, be sure to select the correct number of children for each age available on the corresponding reservations page. If you're interested in tickets for infants, lap infants or children traveling alone, please see the links below. View Page
Here's More:
Booking Flights for Unaccompanied Minors
Booking Flights for Infants
Booking Flights for Lap Infants


You Asked: Wow. That doesn't answer my question at all. Are you a real person? Did you even read my question?
Alex: I'm a Virtual Expert for Continental. I'm here to help you find your way around continental.com.

You Asked: So, I guess I'll ask again, We plan on flying with our two kids down to florida. One of them will be a few days under two. He's a big kid, so I'm assuming we'll need some kind of proof of age?
Alex: Children over the age of two must have a ticket and occupy their own seat. When booking your flights, be sure to select the correct number of children for each age available on the corresponding reservations page. If you're interested in tickets for infants, lap infants or children traveling alone, please see the links below. View Page
Here's More:
Booking Flights for Unaccompanied Minors
Booking Flights for Infants
Booking Flights for Lap Infants

You Asked: Proof of age for children under two?
Alex: We want to make your flight as safe and comfortable as possible when traveling with your children. On this page, you will find information about traveling with children under the age of two. View Page
Here's More:
Booking Flights for Infants
Booking Flights for Lap Infants
Traveling with Children

You Asked: The pages you keep giving me do not have the info I need!
Alex: I am not positive that I understand what you are asking, please try rewording your question.

You Asked: That link is NOT USEFUL. I'm asking if you need PROOF OF AGE for an infant under two flying as a LAP CHILD.
Alex: We want to make your flight as safe and comfortable as possible when traveling with your children. On this page, you will find information about traveling with children under the age of two. View Page
Here's More:
Booking Flights for Infants
Booking Flights for Lap Infants
Traveling with Children

You Asked: Can I talk to a human?
Alex: If you would like to contact us, visit this page.

HAHA! Guess what? That page took me back to the "Ask Alex" homepage!

I'm like superwoman

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but somewhere along the way Sam decided that when my hair is down I'm Mommy, but when my hair is up in a rubber band, I'm Beth. I keep my hair relatively short, so I don't put it up that often. When it does happen to grow out a bit and I do put it up, Sam always looks at me happily and says, "Oh! You're Beth again!" I don't know if Beth is better than Mommy or what, but right now I just think it's funny.

Also, Sam calls hairbands "ram-bands." Don't know why. I'm sure Chris will beat that out of him just like he does all Sam's other adorable mis-statements.

Today, when I was going crazy trying to find the car key that Chris had in his pocket at work, Sam was helping me look. He found a ram-band and asked if he could put it in my hair and make me be Beth.

I don't know what goes on inside the heads of my children, but it's funny sometimes.

Small accomplishments

I made the most perfect check mark the other day. I do a lot of assessments so I make a lot of check marks and my check marks, like my handwriting, are big and weird. But the forces of the cosmos came together and I made a check mark so beautiful it could be used as the font for check marks. This is the check mark against which all other check marks should be compared. I should take a picture and make it my new facebook profile picture. It was so pretty I got distracted from the task at hand. This was the first in a series of 70-odd check marks I have to make and I was trying really hard to duplicate my perfect check mark but, alas, that check mark stands alone in my history. Also, the kid was kind of dumb so instead of check marks I had to make a lot of x's. No perfect x's either.

I didn't really mean it for real

The day I wrote the post asking somebody to shoot me in the face, I saw this Oprah where this lady's husband did, in fact, shoot her in the face and I take it back. I don't think that improved her life at all. And then she had to have this face transplant and everybody was all excited about the first successful face transplant and I was watching and thinking that that technology has yet to be refined. I am a hideous puffy beast with beady eyes and bad skin, and yet I don't think the face transplant industry has anything better to offer. Maybe someday. And then Angelina Jolie will die and I will get her face. Because I think that Angelina is an organ donation kind of girl, don't you? That would be pretty sweet to have Angelina Jolie's corneas. Well, I guess if you needed new corneas, anybody's corneas would be sweet.

Visited a new doctor this week. She prescribed me some medications to take to help the nausea and that is making my life significantly more bearable. Fortunately that happened the day after my parents took all my laundry to their house to clean and fold it. I'm sorry they had to rent a truck, but I'm grateful. Of course, now that they have my dirty laundry and have not yet returned the clean laundry I'm dressing for work in things from the very back of my closet. Tomorrow I'm going to break out my wedding dress.

So I'm feeling better, and that's good. And I'm getting all my laundry cleaned for me, and that's good. Things are looking up around here!

There have been some rumblings recently. That maybe this blog has become a little pathetic . . . “whiny,” even.

There seems to be some suggestion that maybe this used to be about the kids, and world events, and now it’s all Me, Me, Me.

“I’M dying.”

“Call ME an ambulance.”

“Could somebody please shoot ME in the face?”

I’m sure you are all thinking, boy, she used to be funnier before she got pregnant.

Well you know what?

You were funnier before I got pregnant, too.

You are letting me down, peeps.

Doing the morning thing this morning. Sam climbs up next to me on the couch. A few minutes later, he turns to me and, with an expression of mild disgust, says, "I don't know what you smell like."

And then, just in case I was confused and thought maybe he didn't know which flower I smelled like, he said, "But you smell stinky."

People. You cannot rely on my three-year-old to save me from myself. You are all adults. If I am stinky, you need to tell me. Because while, so far, I've been able to shower everyday, I will admit that many of my clothes are being "recycled." From the floor.

I'm struggling, folks. You all know that. But my efforts to accomplish the bare minimum in maintaining functionality have apparently failed, and nobody is telling me that I shouldn't wear Chris's clothes to work except my son. And that's a joke, because Chris doesn't have any clean clothes, either.

To be honest, I really don't want to hear it. But if Sam thinks I need an intervention, maybe you shouldn't leave him on his own to organize it, because then he will get balloons and pupcakes and sing happy birthday and I will MISS THE POINT. The thing is, unfortunately, I still have to go to work everyday, and interact with society and stuff like that. So while it is unnecessary for you to supply the word "beast?" when I get distracted while saying "I am a hideous puffy . . ." (thanks, Chris), you can feel free to point out when I have crossed the line in letting grooming slide.

It has a head, but no penis. Yet.

So, it looks like everybody who reads this has figured out that I'm pregnant. With Satan, apparently.

Had my first doctor's appointment this morning. He did an ultrasound so I actually got to see that it was a for-real baby, and not a tumor or something like that. It has a head and two legs and two arms that it was waving. Crazy. Nine weeks along, the size of a grape, and the thing was moving around. PEOPLE, LIFE IS A MIRACLE.

Just thought I'd throw a little original, profound, thought your way today, guys.

Anyway, I lied about dates so that he would push the due date back a week to increase my chances of a VBAC, but these fancy ultrasound machines are now smarter than people. Honestly, I don't even know why they asked because he frowned a bit, double-checked and was all, "Well, my measurements here indicate that you are 9 weeks, 3 days. Or thereabouts." Jimminy Cricket that is SPOT ON. Who knew they could measure that closely? So my lying was for naught.

Also, he could not have cared less about my morning sickness unless he, himself, had morning sickness this bad and knew what it was like to really not care about anything. He suggested I stop eating and start drinking more water. What the hell kind of advice is that? He recommended I stop eating until I feel better, but I believe that would be about three weeks from now (please, god) and by then I would be dead of not eating.

So he was over an hour late to the appointment, caught me lying, and didn't care one whit about my morning sickness WHICH IS SAPPING MY WILL TO LIVE. But he is, theoretically, cool with me trying for a VBAC so it wasn't a total failure.

Further proof something has gone VERY wrong inside me

Somebody brought a plate of homemade brownies into work yesterday. In the old days, I would have been obsessed with figuring out how many I could eat before other people would notice.

But yesterday the very sight of them repulsed me. I couldn't even stand to have them in my line of vision.

Part of my brain remembered that chocolate used to bring me joy, but it was like remembering that time you stubbed your toe; you can remember that it happened, but not at all what if felt like.

Where is the joy in life when homemade brownies are repulsive? What's next? Butterflies are annoying? Sunshine giving me a migraine? World peace turns out to be boring? IF YOU CAN'T COUNT ON BROWNIES, WHAT CAN YOU COUNT ON?

But seriously, don't have me committed. That's not cool.

Things I care about right now:

1) Food. I am constantly thinking about food, and what kind of food my body might be willing/interested in eating.

2) How I feel. What is my currently level of misery? Intense? Moderate? Dying?



Things I don't care about right now:

1) Everything. Is this what it is like to be depressed? Because it blows. It's hard to get anything done when you feel awful and don't care anyway. I don't care that the house is a disaster. I don't care that we are quickly running out of clean laundry. I don't care that there are rotting leftovers in the fridge. I don't care about work. And you know what else? I don't even care about FARMTOWN anymore. That's how bad this is.

Global Climate Change appears to have struck our spending freeze

THUD. Ouch. That wagon you see rolling away? It is our spending freeze and we appear to have fallen off.

I mean, not entirely. But we ran a tight ship there for two months and what with how awful I’ve been feeling recently and how awful it feels to not spend any money ever, we’ve just been losing our grip a little bit.

Here’s a look back at the month of August.

Just so you have a little background, Chris and I do not have a joint account. Not because we split finances or anything, but because we just never got around to it. We both have our paychecks deposited into our separate accounts. He is responsible for daycare and most of the bills, I am responsible for mortgage. That’s just kind of the way it works our around here.

So, I spent a total of 435 dollars (not including mortgage) in August, which is a significant decrease from the average of $1100 a month I had been spending. But still, not exactly a “freeze.”

The biggest chunk of that was my yearly $240 premium for life insurance. Of the roughly $200 left, $141 is groceries and diapers. Now, that could have been less, but I am dying here with the sickness and I’m buying whatever it is I think I can get my body to accept. Other than that we have a $28 expenditure for a doctor’s visit and antibiotics for Owen, a $5 movie ticket for me, a $13 bill for lunch out with coworkers (see, because they don’t know about the spending freeze I still have to do things like that) and $8 for parking for jury duty.

Yes, there are some things that could have been cut there, but we’re not trying to be weirdos that grow our own food and raise our own chickens and medicate our children with prayer. But man that insurance payment was killer, wasn’t it?

That statement doesn’t even reflect the beginning of September, which includes the trip to Dunkin Doughnuts ($9), Sam’s emergency dental visit ($25, $30 including the trip to McDonald's that came after), or whatever the heck Chris has been doing because lord know that man can fall off a wagon harder than anybody else I know.

I’m sure we’ll regroup. And in the plus column, we have subjected our children to a vaccine study which should net us about $400. Sweet! And all I have to do is risk the health of my children on an unproven vaccine! I’m kidding people. It was a phase 3, open-label study with no blood-draws . . . I believe in vaccines, especially since this one is supposed to help protect against some of the new antibiotic-resistant super bugs. So I probably would have done the study anyway, but now we can justify buying the children new shoes.

But Owii won the war, little hooligan

Owii's daycare nemesis got kicked out this week. Today is his last day. That's pretty awesome. I understand that all kids act horrible sometimes, but I think that kid just was horrible. He's totally going to be one of those kids that hammers nails into living frogs and starts fires on cats and microwaves bugs. I never got to meet his parents but I really wanted to see them. You know, see if his crazy was nature or nurture.

When we got the news my mom asked if Owii ever talked about this kid. Well, he never really talks about anything not OF THE MOMENT, but it is true that he can talk a little bit now. So I ask him, "Hey Owii, you know Osbourne?"
"Abourn," he agrees. "Abourn HITS."
People, when that's your kid's defining characteristic, he deserves to get kicked out of daycare.

Today the teacher told me that yesterday, when Osbourne was messing with Owii, Owii said to him, "I TOE YOU, ABOURN, YEAVE ME A-YONE!" HA. That makes me laugh. Not the whole my-kid-getting-messed-with-at-daycare thing, but Owen's verbal judo. If the death glare doesn't get you (and it will), you still can't escape the scathing retorts.

Based on the statements that the director has made, and barring an unknown surge in my powers of telepathy, the teachers totally used me as a scapegoat for why they had to kick this kid out. But I'm okay with that. I should have been more vocal about my concerns about this child. I need to work on that.



A little extra story for you today:
I was putting Owen to bed while Chris ran a quick errand.
"Where Daddy? Where Daddy?" Owen asks.
"He's not here right now, buddy, Daddy go bye-bye."
He scowls at me and shouts, as he is wont to do, "NO!"
Then he says, "Daddy ONSARS!" (downstairs)
"He is?" I ask.
"Yeah. Daddy onsars," he nods to himself, "Daddy eat nak." (Daddy's downstairs eating snacks.)
He knows us so well.

SHUT UP!

I'm going to tell you guys this little story about what just happened to me and you are just not going to understand how weird it is.

It's like that one time that Amanda D. friended me on facebook, but the Amanda D. I know is now Amanda S. and I'm already facebook friends with her. How many Amanda D.'s are there in the world, and why would a random one of them try to friend me?? I think that is so crazy but nobody else seems to get that that is a really strange coincidence.

So, anyway, today's story is going to be kind of like that.

When I was on jury duty I exchanged contact information with one of my fellow jurors. We've emailed back and forth a little bit, and arranged to have lunch today. It's been, by the way, exactly four weeks since we convicted that guy. This is the first time I've been out to lunch in about two months (spending freeze you know . . . and my plan to control costs were completely thwarted by this lunch partner which is why you have to tell everyone when you are a spending freeze, because otherwise they will thwart it), and the first time I've seen my juror friend since, well, we were on the jury. While at lunch we start talking about the other jurors and how it's a little weird that there are these people that we will remember for the rest of our lives and not ever know what happened to them.

And then . . .

SHUT UP!

ANOTHER JUROR (the one who made me cupcakes for my birthday) WALKS BY.

Seriously, the chances of that have to be like one in a billion.

But you don't think it's that weird, do you?

Maybe it's because when you are listening to a story there is always something happening. I'm not, for example, talking about all the people who didn't walk by during lunch. BUT COME ON! I wasn't having lunch with a colleague!! I was having lunch with another JUROR!

Trust me, it was pretty unbelievable.

It's no use fighting it. We just ARE those parents.

Just so you know, after all that talking about homework in that post yesterday (aka, "homework day"), we forgot about homework. I remembered this morning. I wish I could more like Chris in that regard. I just forget until it's almost too late and we have to scramble. Chris could forget about homework so completely that it would be like it never existed. Seriously, my constant remembering must be annoying to Ignoring Man.

So I reminded us this morning and we start to scrambling and . . . we can't find the homework. Huh. Well.

Maybe next week.

I didn't like it then, either.

When we switched the boys to their new daycare back in March it was a huge improvement. In many, many, ways the new place was a better fit for us.

Except one way.

This daycare assigns . . .

HOMEWORK.

I remember hearing about that on the tour and the look on my face must have been akin to the expression one gets upon hearing one of those stories where people escape being trapped under a tree by cutting off a limb, because the backpedaling, it was speedy.

But they DO assign homework. Even to Owen. My 18 month old gets homework. Great. And the PACKETS that Sam brings home.

I was always opposed to this concept of homework for BABIES, but initially Chris said he "appreciated" the bonding with Sam. That lasted about two weeks. Now he employees his old superhero alter-ego, Ignoring Man. He's so good that he actually IS his own sidekick, Denial Boy.

Homework is assigned on Monday, due on Friday. And Thursday nights are not the same, people.

I think in the beginning Sam liked it, too. But the PACKETS people. THE PACKETS. They are ENDLESS. Just page after page of "circle the rhyming words," and "draw a line between things that start with the same letter" and "write the letter 'M.'" Just when he gets the hang of rhyming, all of a sudden we're matching. And as soon as he finished one page, there's another.

And you know what? There's a reason we're not teachers. It's because I get frustrated when I try to explain the concept of RHYMING. Seriously. Go ahead. You try to explain it to a 3-year-old who is looking at you like you're talking in GERMAN.

I'm not going to lie. Sometimes we just do it for them. Chris will hold the crayon in his left hand, and I'll move the paper around and together we do our best to produce convincing scribble-scrabble. As Sam calls it. I mean, I would just forget about it, but then the kids don't get their HOMEWORK STICKER. And do you know where the homework sticker goes? On the poster on the wall in the classroom. For everybody to see. That we are the kind of parents who don't care enough about school. Bad Parents. Just big ole "Bad Parent" empty spaces where stickers should be.

The worst is when we actually DO work with the kids to get the homework done, but then we forget to, you know, BRING IT TO SCHOOL. Which is totally expected from us.

I was really counting on a few more years before we had to fight with our kids about homework.

Weekend

People are all the time asking me if I had a good weekend. How the hell am I supposed to know? That happened, like, HOURS AGO.

Plus the whole good/bad dichotomy can be hard to work with. It was a GOOD weekend if I found money or got a cupcake. It was a BAD weekend if someone threw up. This weekend none of those things happened so I don't really know how to categorize it.

Chris took the boys to his parents house Saturday morning. I . . . worked around the house? I don't remember. I feel confident that I can assure you it wasn't fun, however. But it also wasn't throwing up. Oh, I changed sheets and put away clothes and stuff. Then the boys came home and they took naps. Owen is a great napper, but Sam has recently been doing this thing where he can only calm down enough to fall asleep if you lay next to his bed, ignoring him.

Chris went to work after Owen went down so I . . . sat around the house? I think I was reading the last of the Twilight series. And laying next to Sam's bed ignoring him. Which would only take five minutes, except I always fall asleep and wake up twenty minutes later, drooling and uncomfortable.

Chris was going to a football game that night so I was happy when I got invited to dinner with the family. It was Valentino's pizza and I loved it so much and it tasted so good that I ate too much of it and felt sick for HOURS AND HOURS.

Sunday we took the boys to the grocery store. We tried Giant Eagle because it is our $20 week and just not worth the gas it takes to get to the Super WalMart. And, Giant Eagle has those carts that look like cars and I thought the boys would like that. But that didn't really work out. Because Sam had somehow gotten it in his head that the "car cart" would be motorized. That kid wants a Powerwheels the way I want to win the lottery. As in, really bad, but not going to happen. Especially because I don't play the lottery. And if I don't win the lottery there is no way we can afford a powerwheels. Also, my mom thinks it is lazy-making for kids to have motorized riding toys. And I'm like, come on, I'm his mother. He's got no chance. I would have one of them motorized scooters if it weren't embarrassing. And if I didn't have to carry two giant children everywhere I go. "Oh Mommy, I want Up Up!" "Well I want to lay down on the ground right now, so we're all going to have to compromise, aren't we?" But my threat to lay on the ground is empty, and their threat to throw a fit is not, so guess who wins that one. And you just can't carry children around on a scooter, you need hands for steering. Although, now that I think about it, Sam would probably appreciate a motorized scooter as much as a Powerwheels, so maybe . . .

I digress.

Anyway, the car cart wasn't quite the panacea I had hoped for and shopping trip was short but intensely unpleasant. Then we stopped at Kim and Kristi's house so Chris could mooch some coffee and a haircut. And Owen, as per usual, screamed whenever he saw their dog, Gracie, as if Gracie were an actual Lights-Out-Hiding-Under-The-Bed Monster. If they ever need a baby for a horror movie, Owen would be awesome. As long as they bring Gracie. Then we had brunch at my parents house, but sans my actual parents, where I ate myself sick, again. But it was delicious!

After brunch we made a quick trip to the Children's Museum, the ground zero of headaches and exploding eyeballs.

Home for naps and, fortunately, long nap for myself as well. After naps Chris took Owen to dinner with his parents, and I stayed home and had a living-room picnic with Sam. Then he watched TV and I read a book (sTori Telling, by Tori Spelling. Don't ask why. Just blame Amanda). Then we gave the children their first bath together, filled with much joyous shouting of "DOP IT HAM" and "OWII TOOK MY CUP." Yes, before they took separate baths. Mostly because the vibrant and heart-felt screaming Owen used to do in response to being touched by water. It upset Sam.

Then bedtime for the boys and I read a book (Notes from the Underbelly - yech, I do not recommend) and ate leftovers from Chris's dinner with his parents. Was so yummy I went to have seconds. But soon realized that seconds was too much and I felt sick. Then, bedtime for us.

So, that was my weekend. And I couldn't really tell you if I had a "nice" weekend. Does it sound nice? And how bout yourself? Did you have a nice weekend?

And I complain about my windowless office

Sentencing was today. Of the man I convicted of murdering his mother. Even though he had no reason to. I was really torn over whether or not to go to the sentencing hearing.

Part of me was scared to sit next to this man's relatives, who clearly believe in his innocence, in case they recognized me as Juror Number One. And, you know, hated me for putting their innocent relative in jail.

But part of me really wanted to know what the judge would say, and what he would have to say. He never spoke at the trial, and in a trial concerning the motive-less killing of one's mother, hearing what the suspected killer has to say might have been interesting.

I ended up not going, mostly because fear and lazy are my default. I'm kind of glad because the article about the sentencing hearing mentioned lots of weeping. And I'm not great with that. What if I would have stood up and been like, "I take it back! Juror Number One RECANTS!" How embarrassing.

Apparently, he is still protesting his innocence, and so is his family. Still, the judge sentenced him to life without parole. I wonder why she did that? I do wish I'd been there so I could have heard her reasoning. That means that the man I convicted will never, ever, again be a free man.

Unless the appeal goes well.

He will never have another job, or apartment. I don't see how he can get married or have children, but you see crazy things on TV these days. He will never ever again in his whole life get to decide what's for dinner. He won't even get to chose to have a late lunch and then eat second dinner instead.

So here's the lesson folks: Don't own a gun. Because then a jury can never falsely convict you based on the fact that the bullets that killed your mom are a match to your gun. Because, remember, you don't have a gun.

Also, not having a gun decreases the chance that you will shoot your mother in the face.

Either way, he would have been better off with no gun.

Now I'm all bummed out.

You may notice that ads are missing from the page. It is because I decided I didn't want to sell out. I'm not going to subject you to mindless advertisements I don't even believe in!

Wait, yeah, I'm totally willing to do that.

But Google apparently sensed something fishy about the click activity, and they disabled my account. I'm no longer allowed to earn money through this blog.

Now I'm just a person. Sitting here writing. For no particular reason. Except to entertain people.

For free.

Money. Also money. And money.

We've almost made it through month two of the spending freeze and I've had some rocky moments recently. I struggled for the first few weeks, with no going out to lunch with work friends, and no running out to target to get a waterproof mattress cover the minute I decide we need one, but it was relatively easy to shake that mindset. I think I had it easier than Chris, who misses his Burger King breakfast and weekend coffee IMMENSELY. Fortunately, Kristi just got an at-home espresso machine, and is still interested enough in it to make us wonderful lattes.


We've done an excellent job cutting the grocery bill, but there just isn't anything I can think to do about the DAMN INSURANCE BILLS. This month would have been really clean for me, but I had to pay my life insurance premium and these days I just translate that kind of cost into: "good lord, that's more than a month of groceries!" And the car insurance! It's like every time I turn around, people want me to give them money and get nothing tangible in return. It was a lot more satisfying when I got to go buy the waterproof mattress cover. Maybe I'll turn republican, and then I can shout that the government should keep their hands off my money, while simultaneously enjoying my paved roads and government-funded job. That would be nice.


One thing I've been surprised by is how easy it is to "make do" with what we have. I look at the living room and think, "oh, we really need a new rug. There is just nothing left to do with these stains. And a we need a new TV stand. That one is going to literally fall apart one of these days." But then I think, well, we're just going to have to live with it a little while longer. And try to keep the children a full four feet back from the TV. Did you know that more children are seriously injured each year by TV sets than by scissors?


Hopefully the spending freeze won't last FOREVER. I mean, at some point one of us will get a raise, right? Sure, maybe it'll be Sam, but we can wait. Oh, except his first raise will probably be an allowance and that DOESN'T HELP the situation AT ALL. Maybe we'll just tell his 8 year old self that we are on a spending freeze. Really, though, I know this is just a stop gap measure. People will probably notice at Christmas if all the gifts we give turn out to be handmade. Mostly because we have no talent. Some people could get away with that. Ours would be "heirloom" t-shirts "decorated" with Sharpie. And Chef Boyardee. Because once that orange sauce touches a surface, that surface is, henceforth, permanently orange and I've always thought they should find a useful outlet for that kind of staying power.


Last week I passed up a REALLY GOOD sale at Gymboree. That was kind of hard. But I figure, Sam doesn't need his fall wardrobe right now, so we'll worry about that later. If the damn kid didn't GROW so TALL, he could wear the same clothes he wore last year like the rest of us. Assuming we didn't get all fat. Which I will simply not have the luxury of doing, giving said spending freeze and powerful desire to button up my shirts and pants. Owen can get by fine with hand-me-downs (except for shirts that met with Chef Boyardee). Sam should be okay except for his wrists and ankles. I've been thinking of finding some fabric (my mom might have some extra) and just sewing bands of cloth around the cuffs of his shirt and pants.


Like this:

How cute is that? Also, how impressed are you that I finally put a picture in this blog? Eh? Eh?

Well my computer says you're an idiot so it must be true

At work, in order to see research participants (i.e. "human subjects") you have to be certified. So when I was hired, I was certified. Certification lasts for three years, and in that time you have to receive 12 continuing education credits in order to be recertified. There is an on-line system where you can track your progress, and I log in to check every once in a while and last I checked I was at 9 credits. On Tuesday, I logged in because I was realizing I only have two months before my three years are up and I need to have earned the total 12 credits. So I'm looking at the list of seminars they offer and I happen to glance up and then get all confused because the system seems to be indicating that I have earned NO continuing education credits. None. In three years. Like I said, this was confusing to me because, a) I was with me when I went to previous seminars, so I know I went to them, and b) I have checked this system over the years, and previously the number had been less like zero and more like 9. Which is greater than zero. And closer to 12.

So I call the lady in charge and she's just a real sweetheart; competent and willing to help. But it is CLEAR that the most she is willing to believe is that I went to some seminars and forgot to sign in. She's going to help me get my credits for the ones I attended (assuming I can remember that seminar on informed consent I went to in February of 2007) but REPEATEDLY reminds me that from now on I need to remember to sign in.

I understand. It's her system. She believes in her system. But I know me. I went with myself to the seminars. I reminded myself to sign it. I watched when I checked the on-line system. So I believe myself when I say, the system is wrong. That's not what happened. Not only did I go, and sign it, but it was entered into the system and reflected in the count . . . until it wasn't. But the lady can "tell me for a fact" that there is no way that there were ever any credits entered into the on-line system. She tells me this for a fact and I want to push her off a cliff. Or a tall hill. Because, like I said, she is helping me, quickly and pleasantly. But she doesn't BELIEVE me.

And maybe you don't either. I mean, we are all kind of inclined to believe the system, aren't we? You're probably sitting there thinking, well, I'm glad it worked out for Beth, she seems like a nice person and I'm glad she's not going to lose her certification. But next time she should sign in like everybody else.

Someday computers are going to take over. And we are so going to lose that fight. Because somebody will be all like, hey, "I used to have money and a family and a home and the computer TOOK it all!" And we'll look it up on-line and it will say, "Computers have never taken families or money or homes. Don't worry about it!" and then will tell the first dude, "sorry dude, I googled it and that didn't happen."

Like you'd want to hear from me everyday anyway

Those mommy bloggers. Wow. They are tearing up the internet. Wasn't looking for that kind of competition. Recent report said that there are something like 10 million mommy-blogs.

Jiminy Christmas, ladies, don't you have children to raise?

That's astonishing. Who's reading all these blogs? I mean, when you subtract the 14 people that read my blog, there's just not that much audience left over. Unless you guys are reading multiple mommy-blogs.

Blog-sluts. All of you.

In other news, Chris and I are in month two of our spending freeze. July was relatively successful except I took a trip to Chicago and Chris had his wisdom teeth removed. Kind of negated the savings on cutting out Burger King. This month we also cut grocery spending to practically NOTHING. Which has worked out so far because we seem to have a lot of food just kind of jammed in our cupboards. But I'm starting to be worried about what to do when we work our way through and end up in the back of that one cupboard, eating taco shells that expired in 2006 spread with souvenir jellies from god only knows.

Guess we will start making the rounds. Dinner's at your house! But I'd watch the refrigerator when we got ready to leave. We are not to be trusted when on a spending freeze.

Oh, did you have a watermelon? No I can't imagine where that would have gotten to. What's in my shirt? Did I not tell you I was pregnant? Shame on me! We should get together more often! How is tomorrow at dinner time looking for you?

Still stunned

We had a big storm here yesterday. Didn't last long, but did some minor damage to trees and we had a couple of significant branches down. By the time we got home the power was on again and the storm was over. Still hot as balls though. Jesus god I dislike using the oven when it is that hot. I thought I was going to die there for a minute, with the kids clamoring for EAT! EAT! OOOD NOW! and the sweatyness and then Chris was LATE getting home from work and I barely lived through being that hot with the oven on and the kids cranky and no back up.

Anyhow, when Chris FINALLY got home, he took Owen on a walk. Owen came back, hurried up to me and, in a voice filled with real concern and surprise said, "Oose a ond."

I flair around in my head for a minute trying to translate and come up with, "Goose fell down?" And I must be better at this than I thought because he responds "YES!" in a yeah-can-you-believe-it! tone of voice.

Apparently on their little walk Chris and Owen had discovered that the plastic goose of Wonder and Amazement that the neighbors keep in their yard had been knocked down in the storm. And that's not the worst. Gentlemen, please make sure the ladies are away, but the goose's head had . . . become detached from the body. Horrors.

At this point, Sam has tuned in and hears this talk. Of a walk. A walk which he did not attend, and he finds this a little UNFAIR. So he says, "Should I go on a walk?" Because that is the way that he asks for things these days. "Should I watch a movie?" "Should I have a marshmallow?" No, you shouldn't watch a movie and eat marshmallows, but whatever, go ahead. Especially if Mommy is hot and tired.

So we go on a family walk and Owen, as if he were a malfunctioning robot, is repeating, over and over. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on." Goose gone, folks. Goose gone. The whole walk he is trying to swerve in the direction of the fallen goose of Wonder and Amazement, and refuses to be distracted, refuses to speak of anything else. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on."

Finally we give in and go to gaze in sorrow at the headless goose.

"Oh, God," Sam whispers, then asks, "Can I pat it?"

There is some discussion about whether we should let him wander into a stranger's yard to pat a headless goose, but we decide he should be allowed his moment of mourning. He gets to the goose and pats it, then looks around for the head. He picks the head up and begins to try to reattach it . . . to the goose's butt. He is actually relatively successful and ends up propping the head, with the beak on the ground and the neck attached to the tail. None of this, by the way, is having any impact on Owen's relentless chant. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on."

When Sam gives the goose a final pat, he dislodges the carefully balanced head and I, seeing the rest of my life flashing before my eyes, finally intervene. I discover that the head actually screws on and I can fix it easy-peasy. The goose of wonder and amazement is fully restored.

But Owen, like the mother of a child who has barely survived a terrible, terrible accident, can not forget. "Oose on. Oose on. Oose on." No, dude, goose FIXED! "Oose on?" "No, goose FIXED!" "Oose on?" "Can we PLEASE let it go?"

No. We cannot. This morning when I go into Owii's room the first thing out of his mouth was,

"MAMA!! Oose on."

Got a fancy new ear infection detector for my birthday. No Barbies, though. I miss getting Barbies. I loved Barbies. Now I'm just psyched I got an ear infection detector, and crossing my fingers for a temporal thermometer for Christmas.

Got the chance to use it pretty quick when Owen woke up with a fever (which I detected no thanks to my non-existent temporal thermometer) this past Wednesday. I was actually a little excited when the little gadget read, "FLUID DETECTED - SEE DOCTOR" because I wouldn't have to wait around wondering about the validity of my new toy.

So we went to the doctor and Owen DID have an ear infection and I LOVE my detector. So just for fun I was playing with it again. And Sam was . . . resisting. Finally I wrestled him down and did my detecting thing and then he was all cool with it. So he did it to himself, and then me, and then to Owen, and we talked about how it was a Green Light For GOOD for us and a Red Light for . . . having an ear infection (I'm not always so good on the fly) for Owii.

Later I was giving Owen his medicine and Sam got jealous and wanted some delicious pink medicine his own self and I reminded him that Owii got medicine because the detector showed us he had an ear infection, and we didn't need medicine because the detector said we were fine. And he was IRATE. "I DO!" He shouts, "I do has an ear inflection!"

Stupid conversations to have:
"Sam, you do not have an ear infection."
"I DO has an ear inflection."
"Do not."
"I DO. My ear IS inflected."
"IT IS NOT."

Next time I'm just going to pick up some random pink liquid at the same time I'm getting the amoxicillian and avoid the battle because GOD FORBID Owen have something that Sam doesn't get. Strawberry milk? Melted strawberry ice cream? PEPTO?

Someday they will take pills.

I will resist you, penile implants!!!

Junky email. Is there anything more irritating? I guess the thing that gets me is that they just don't give up. I consistently get junk emails about things I'm just never going to be interested in. Penile implants, for example.

It's like they think I'm going to give in. That these emails, in sufficiant volume, will wear me down. That the only thing standing between them and sucess is a few dozen more email attempts. That eventually I will tire of resisting the lure of working from home for $500 an hour and finally sign up so I can be the stay-at-home-mom my kids deserve. I want to email them back and let them know that I am not now, nor will I ever be, interested in answering questionnaires, even at a payment rate of $1000 per.

Especially at the payment rate of $1000 per.

Because I am NOT STUPID.

I think they might actually have a better chance if they were a little less ridiculous. What's that? I've been chosen to receive a $1500 Walmart gift card?! That's awesome! WHAT?! I'm also eligible for a free LAP TOP COMPUTER?! What an amazing day!

"Chosen" is the word that, for me, translates to "this is a complete rip-off." I've never been chosen for anything in my life and I'm pretty sure that it's not going to start with Walmart. If they sent me an email that said, "you and everybody else and their moms can all have this $1.00 off coupon for peanut butter," I might actually believe it.

It would be hilarious if one of these days I did win something legit and I just kept erasing the notification. Have any of you readers ever legitimately been "chosen?" Because I think it would be smart - just to keep us on our toes - to make those preposterous emails true every once in a while.

Apparently, though, enough people fall for them as is.

In other news: NO, we don't give Sam WINE at home.

Crap. Ooooh, maybe literally

Oh, man. Not to belabor the colon cleansing point, but this morning I was looking at the ads here and I thought, "That's a good point, Ad Number One, what DO I need to know about colon cleansing?" So I clicked on it.

I clicked on it.

I CLICKED on it.

And then I GASPED. Because I have have signed an agreement NOT to click on any of the links. But I just DID. I broke the LAW. And what's worse, now my word means nothing. I promise something, SIGN MY NAME to it (or click on the equivalent box) and then, oooooo, SPARKLY THING. Do not trust me. I am easily distracted.

But I figured once I had done the damage to my reputation by clicking I might as well read about it. And did you know that cleansing you colon can help you lose up to 10 pounds? I didn't. But while that sounds attractive in theory, I guess I'm more interested in losing actual fat. Still, this thing is supposed to help your tummy be flatter (that word is surprising close to fatter), increase your energy and decrease your chances of colon cancer. Did you know that Katie Couric had a colonoscopy on national TV? Apparently her husband died of colon cancer when their children were 2 and 4 and she's made it her mission to lesson the fear and stigma that surrounds colonoscopies.

1. Mad props to her, because I was still like, really? You did, um, THAT on national TV? But in response to her doing that there has been what is now known as the Couric effect (how awesome would that be?) where screenings went up twenty percent after she did that. She's SAVING LIVES MAN.

2. Chris apparently has some 6 months left before I make him go in for a colonoscopy because no way in hell is he going to leave me with a four year old and a two year old.

3. That was totally not Katie's point. She made a real effort to say that women are just as likely to be diagnosed with colon cancer. But I still don't want to get one. I am IMMUNE to the Couric Effect!

Learn something new everyday, doncha?

So, the party last night was okay after all. The children kept it together relatively well, considering. Until about 7:45 when Owen FELL APART. You know, I'm going to try really hard not to get mad at the kids anymore when they don't learn some rule even after endless repetition. So what if Sam can't remember to say please after nearly three days of constant reminders? We can't remember that Owen needs to be in bed on time and he's been reminding us his WHOLE LIFE.

But other than that, and Owen's freakish obsession with the water fountain, which would be one thing if he was tall enough to reach it himself, but he can't so you have to help, it was pretty fun. It was at the metro parks. Sam swung on the swings, and found a frog, and ate a hot dog and got to have HIS OWN CAN OF SODA. Owen mostly wandered around shrieking when a dog looked at him (which was relatively often given this is a PET INSURANCE COMPANY).

When we first got there, Chris's boss came up to me and Sam. She pointed out the drinks area, educating me about the beer that I would need to put in a plastic cup, and that there were plenty of drinks for kids, too. I said to Sam, "Hey, do you want to go check out the drinks?" And he said,

"Yeah. I think I would like some wine."

Not sure that's an improvement

So apparently the colon cleansing ads morphed into detox ads. You know, alcohol detox, colon detox. For a minute it changed into ads about pregnancy but now it seems we're back to detox. I'm starting to think that my ads say more about my readers and less about my subject content. Because I'm neither pregnant nor in detox. So somebody out there needs to fess up!

Thought for the day.

It's cute when kids start talking. Makes you really pay attention to language and the way words actually sound. The problem is when you start to think it is also cute to imitate it. Then you are telling grown ass adults that your fly-day night plans are to watch a DVDV and eat nacker cheese.

Except my Friday night plans are not nearly that delightful. We are going to a picnic-party thing for Chris' work tonight. Sounds fun, right? But the children are little monsters and that's just embarrassing to stand next to. "That kid? No idea. I'm not sure but I think he wandered out from the woods there. Looks feral, doesn't he?"

Okay, they are not actually little monsters. They are actually BIG SCREECHING monsters. Especially when they are tired. And like I said, that's cool around the house, but I don't like the look that other people give me when Owen is screaming his Super-Sonic Scream of Thwartedness. He should have to wear a sign: WARNING - Do Not Thwart the Baby. Because good lord you will pay with your eardrums. Also watch for Flailing Feet of Fury.

Well, I guess I will do what I always do in these situations. Cross my fingers, pack fruit snacks (FOUT NAX) and leave quickly.

In other news, Amanda, one of my favorite from work - and recent reader - had her last day of work today. How dare she? What is with young people these days? Trying to better themselves and whatnot. Trying to IMPROVE their lives. Jeez. In my day, you found something you didn't hate and settled in to have kids until you were too poor to risk losing anything.

Have a nice weekend!

How DARE he?!

Chris just accused me of making up the fried chicken story at the bottom of my last post.

First of all, I resent the implication that I am a liar, or that I would EVER LIE in this blog. This is just you and me here, guys. If we can't trust each other, we have nothing.

Second, what kind of crazy person makes up cute stories about their kids? People who don't actually have kids and are about the steal the fetus from your womb, that's who. Seriously, anyone who has kids knows you couldn't make this shit up.

Except for Chris.

Guess I shouldn't tell him that I'm actually copying this blog whole-cloth from the blog of this lady from Virgina.

Fun for the whole family!

I thought it was time for a new blog posting. Mostly because the advertising had become disturbing. Apparently, these fancy advertising programs scanned my last post and honed in on the sentence about not pooping for days. Suddenly, I was learning more about colon cleansings than I ever wanted to. Including that you can get them for your kids. You know, make it family bonding time. But really? Out of the whole thing, they thought that was most relevant? Is that what you guys got out of it? "Blah blah blah, oh gross she's talking about poop"? Because that was not my point.

Oh, man. Now I've mentioned poop twice. Well, three times including that last one there. They are going to have a field day with that. Now there will be advertisement for adult diapers and Imodium AD and Ex lax. BLAST! I'm only encouraging them with my words!! Butterflies! Fairies! Rainbows! Stardust and Barbies and Ballerinas!

Anywho . . .

Jury duty. Man. Not cut out for that shit. We found the guy guilty, and there was pretty strong agreement in the jury so it certainly wasn't as bad as it could have been, but I DWELLED. Or DWELT. Whichever. Getting back into the routine of my regular life helped ease the crazy stuck-in-a-movie feeling I'd been having. Because, you know, in my regular life, I don't see pictures of dead, shot-up, people. I don't look at guns. I don't hear forensic testimony. I don't actually hear testimony at all. Mostly I'm used to mailing letters and filing papers. This was a stretch and was causing my brain some problems. Confusing in the same way that I imagine it would be if a pixie rode up on a unicorn, suggesting we go on a quest for the lost marble of Zemo. Seriously, I was living the kind of thing I'd only ever seen on TV and it felt REALLY WEIRD. Remind me never to be friends with a criminal defense attorney because they see some fucked up things in the normal course of their day. That has to have an effect on you.

When I got back to work I asked what I'd missed. Everybody was all, "oh, nothing." Which is exhibit A (weird. In the trial exhibits were numbered, not lettered, but exhibit 1 just sounds wrong) for why you should not trust people to remember anything. I missed a party where we gave the guest of honor tuna (what's that about? I don't know. I wasn't there.). I missed a coworker going through the nightmare of having a child in the hospital, in agonizing pain, undiagnosed - then finally diagnosed with meningitis. I also missed harvesting my potato crop in Facebook Farm Town. Jury duty was very isolating.

Last night, my sister invited us over for homemade fried chicken. Sam usually LOVES to visit them so I thought it was a little weird that when I told him our plans he just got really quiet. A few minutes later he said, "Mama?"

"What's up Sam?"

"But I don't want flies on my chicken."

I'm an important part of the process. Bitches.

I got called for jury duty this week. I had visions of sitting around for days, reading books and watching daytime TV. I even thought of taking up scrap-booking. That's how you know you're a mom. You are completely delusional about what can be accomplished in a block of time Away From the Kids. Take the kids away for an hour or two and I should be able to get through the back-log of laundry, clean the kitchen, sew up some new shower curtains, and create and store healthy pre-made meals for the week ahead. In my head a weekend away should be enough to figure out this whole life-on-other-planets business. After I've managed denuclearization. And after I've figured out whether that is actually a word.

So I admit that maybe my expectations for down-time were a little astronomically unrealistic. But I got called before I'd even cracked my first trashy tabloid (that I took out from the library so is actually not trashy anymore because things from the library aren't trashy). And ever since then it's actually been kind of work-y.

Guys, there's something I've been keeping from you.

I'm weird. I may call my babies crazy, but they didn't get it all from their father.

Now that I've actually been selected to sit on a jury, I've come up with numerous ways I can humiliate myself while also bringing the justice system to a screeching halt.

Number one - I have a blood/injury/injection type phobia. And this case . . . well, let's just say that there is blood and injury involved. The second I took the oath it occurred to me that in their attempt to prove their case, the prosecution might actually, like, describe it to me. How embarrassing is that going to be? I mean when I pass out looking at the pictures.

Number two - I suffer from vertigo. Doesn't usually affect my daily life, but what if I get an attack while listening to testimony? This especially concerns me because of the physical appearance of the courtroom. When they were interviewing me from the back of the room I didn't realize it, but as soon as I moved into the jury box I realized that, for whatever reason, the front half of the room is made up of vertical strips of wood, which in my peripheral vision really seems to set off my whole vertigo issue. So I'm trying to imagine how I'm going to explain to the judge about the vertical lines without sounding like a FUCKING LUNATIC.

Number three - the whole thing is stressing me out. How am I supposed to concentrate on testimony when I'm consumed with fear that I will inadvertently fart? The anxiety has caused my bowels to contract or something so I haven't pooped in days (yeah, I did just go there) and now I'm also worried about what I'll do if the urge suddenly strikes. We get these unpredictable breaks and I looked around during one of them and realized that I'm not the only one who seems to have frozen their face in an "I'm concerned" look. We will all need botox when this is over except for juror number 6 and he's pretty clearly not operating on the same plain of reality as the rest of us. We joke sometimes but then we fall into these morose silences. And that's good because every time I laugh I hope the defendant didn't hear me because whether he did it or not (and believe me when I say I'm close to panic about how I DON'T KNOW) this probably isn't funny to him.

But I'm doing my best. I keep feeling like it's some kind of movie and any second now something dramatic and exciting will happen. Mostly it's just listening and taking notes and trying not to fall over because of the vertical stripes. They made us watch a movie in the beginning - like jury training. And they kept telling us how important we are. And man am I a sucker because I'm falling for it. I've started to feel important.

Also herded like cattle because they make us go everywhere together. But still important.

Like Hindu cattle, maybe.

Don't look up

Weird summer, eh? Really it’s just been an extended spring turning directly into fall. And I think it’s confusing everybody. I’ve been seeing advertisements for back-to-school sales for WEEKS now and my stomach drops each time in sympathy to all the kids who are crying, “But! No! Wait! I just got OUT!”

Of course, I don’t care about the summer break anymore because I don’t get a summer break. My kids are too young for summer breaks yet, thank god. You know, daycare doesn’t close in the summer. What do working parents do with their kids when June hits? Pack them in a purse?

So this weather is strange, and people across Ohio are aghast because seasons aren’t seasons until you are distinctly uncomfortable. I think we are afraid that we won’t be able to store up enough heat to last us through the winter.

Speaking of storing things up for the winter, the acorns have returned.

This is our fourth year in the house. I don’t remember the first fall, but the second fall I was still at home with our first-born and that was when I realized that the giant tree in our backyard is an oak tree.

In other words, it was raining head injuries.

Oh, the acorns. The many, many acorns falling from the heavens.

It is impossible to express in words what it is like to be outside, in the shade of your giant oak tree, and realize that your backyard is now a war zone and you, my friend, are losing. I know it is impossible to describe because I called Chris up at work to let him know the baby was going to need a helmet for outdoor play, and he was all, “Why are you calling me at work to talk about nuts?” And I was all, “Because they are not nuts, they are teeny missiles dropped on us by nature.” And he was all, “You need a hobby.”

But oh, the joys of I-told-you-so. Chris decided to barbecue that evening for dinner. I tried to warn him. “You don’t know what it’s LIKE out there!” I cried. But he went, heedlessly, recklessly, out into the line of fire. As the grill is right outside the living room windows, Sam and I had a front row seat to the carnage. It wasn’t long before I heard the familiar,
“peuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuooooooooooooooo . . .

BAM.”

“JESUS,” Chris mutters. There is another “peuuuuuu” and another, and Chris is getting slightly more emphatic in his exclamations. And then there is a “peuuuuoooo” that ends in a hollow “BLOOK” rather than a BAM and I know he’s hit. He does not mutter this “JESUS!”

When he comes inside, my husband has learned a lesson about ignoring his wife.

Last year, we had the tree trimmed and it really seemed to help the acorn volume. But this year they are back with a vengeance. I was in a minor fender-bender recently and when I took the car into the body shop the guy was perplexed about the small dents that cover the top of the car. "Acorns, dude," I said. "You gotta watch out for 'em." He looked at me all confused and disbelieving and do the rest of you not HAVE oak trees? Why does nobody understand this phenomenon. Or is our tree particularly violent? Are the acorns cute when they fall from 20 feet instead of 100?

All the squirrels, they are joyous. Fat, fat, squirrels. Now I have to worry about the legions of fat and rabid squirrels ready to eat the toes of my children in ADDITION to the nutty pellets of distruction falling on their tiny heads. The tiny heads of my children, not the squirrels. You know, Sam used to call squirrels, "Squirr-la-las." I thought it was really cute. But he doesn't do it anymore. He doesn't make as many pronunciation mistakes as he used to. So now I can totally understand his sass. Excellent.

Children - Cute + Attitude = Totally not irritating at all

Isn't it ironic?

Ever since Alanis Morissette sang that stupid song about things being ironic, it seems that people have become way too interested in pointing out what isn't, actually, ironic. How late-nineties IS IT to hear that song on the radio and say, "you know, none of those things are actually ironic." I always felt bad for her. I thought that most of those things met the fairly loose common definition of irony at the time she wrote the song. Who knew she was going be all famous and under a magnifying glass and stuff? She probably would have used a thesaurus.

Anyway, I went to visit some old college friends this week. Becky drove to my house and we were going to fly out together. The night before we left I remembered that Melissa had dogs and we were going to be sleeping there and the dogs would probably also be sleeping there. I asked Becky, "Oh, hey, please help me remember to pack my allergy pills. Actually, also help me remember to take them." So we fly out and I DID remember to pack my pills and when we got to Melissa's house Becky reminded me right away to take one. So I took one and things were good. We hung out and the dogs hardly bothered my allergies at all. Then I walked into the bathroom and the dog had eaten all my allergy pills.

Is that ironic?

Also, when I say "the dog ate all my allergy pills" I mean, "the dog chewed up the allergy pill bottle and probably didn't eat any allergy pills." There were no dogs harmed in the making of this blog post.

Book review: A Reliable Wife

I thought I'd start doing a quick review of books as I read them.

FYI, these are not going to be FUNNY so stop looking for the punch-line because it isn't coming.



A Reliable Wife, by Robert Goolrick

This is the story of Ralph, the rich man with a past of both undeserved pain and unfortunate choices, who advertises for "A Reliable Wife." Answering his ad is Catherine, a woman who is not entirely truthful about her past or her purpose.

Smoothly written and emotionally evocative, this book is a pleasure to read. I thought the pacing was quick and the author's use of language was both precise and eloquent. The story was interesting and it felt fresh even though it is set at the turn of the century. For all it's twists, the story is simple and easy to follow. I found this to be a satisfying but undemanding read.

I hope to do this fairly consistently. Stay tuned for the moving story of "Dog" - where fluffy dog, and scruffy dog meet their match in soft dog and smooth dog.

I'm kidding. That's Owen's book. Just because I've read it 100 times doesn't mean I'm going to review it. Though if I did I would have to say that while I appreciate the attempt to create language both simple and rhythmic, the rhymes were lost when you had to stop to pull the tab that wags the dog tail for, like, an hour before you could turn the page.

Gross. It's all "nature-y" out here.

So my crazy sister-out-law was all, "I have a good idea! How about we take a four-year-old camping!" and so my husband, who will jump on just about any bandwagon bound for It-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time, was all, "Super! Let me grab my three-year-old and I'll join you!"

I had misgivings.

I mean, camping? With a three-year-old? He's pretty reliant on routine, isn't really comfortable with new situations, god only knows about access to toilet facilities AND he would have to take care of a three-year-old?

But despite my reservations, my sister, Kim, and her Kristi packed up their four-year-old and a bunch of other stuff and my husband packed up Sam and half a blanket and some underpants and they headed off to the wilderness. And I'm glad he did. It seems like the kind of thing children should do and I am sure as heck not going to volunteer.

I did, however, take Owen out to have dinner with them Saturday night. When we arrived they were on a hike (so that's just, like, walking? in a circle? for no reason?), so we hung out and waited for them and it went kind of like this:

Owen! Stay AWAY from the campfire. HOT. HOT. BAD.

No! No, stop touching those plants! It could be poison ivy or something that drips acid! I think I read about a deadly, acid-dripping, plant once!

Jesus Pete how many mosquitoes are OUT here???

Why is it so HOT??

What are we supposed to DO???

NO. FIRE BAD. But not the plants either! And stop wandering! You could get eaten by a bear or run over by car or stolen by hill folk to increase their gene pool! Stay close! But not that close. Good lord you radiate heat. Why do we even need to turn the heat on in the winter when we have you and you could clearly be used in lieu of a fireplace? In fact, lets bury the campfire and roast marshmallows over you and solve a bunch of problems at once. But seriously, get off of me.

Eventually we just went and sat in the car.

So it was nice when everybody got back from their hike (all sweaty and not seeming to care??). It was more fun with other people, and the talking and the eating of food that somebody else had provided. Chris talked about taking the boys swimming and how gross the lake had been and how even he couldn't handle how nasty it was but it was so cute because the boys started to play a game where they jumped over the "goo." Ah-ha-ha.

Why are you letting the baby swim in pollution?

Overall, though, I think they had a good time. And there were no disasters, and Sam did way better than I thought he would at tackling this new experience.

This is one reason it is nice for kids to have two parents. Left on our own, I don't think Kim or I would do a lot of camping, but because we've partnered up, our children get to do these things that generations of crazy relatives have called "character-building" and "fun."

Mr. Man! Save me from that yucky thing!

When we arrived home from daycare/work yesterday the kids were feeling noodly and wanted to noodle around the backyard. Which was cool because the weather was nice and we now have a fabulous fenced in back-yard thanks to my Pops. Even though Owen is about as stumped by the gate across the driveway as I am.

It goes like this . . . waddle waddle waddle . . . reach waaaaay up high . . . flick the latch with the very tip of your extended finger . . . push open the gate . . . push it closed from the other side because you are Owen and weirdly taken with "putting things back where they belong??" and then . . . fast waddle! fast waddle! fast waddle! down the driveway while looking over your shoulder, laughing, as mommy demands you Come Back Here. Right NOW. She's hilarious. Then trip over a rock because you weren't looking where you were going. Squeal like an outraged teakettle.

I don't understand this about Owen. In the morning he waits about 10 minutes for us to get our act together and then starts demanding that we "oll OUT." What exactly is so awful about our lovely, toy-and-snack-filled home? When we pull into the driveway after daycare, Owen starts thrashing in his seat, crying, "nooooooo" "NOOOOO!" "Anywhere but heeeeeeeeere!" (maybe not that last part, but it's what he MEANS). And when I do pry him out of his seat and let him loose in our lovely, sand-box-and-climber-filled backyard, his first urge is to escape its clutches.

I digress.

So we're in the backyard and I'm looking at the driveway and see a piece of wood, and isn't it funny but that piece of wood looks just like a dead bird! OH SICK IT IS A DEAD BIRD. I see it's little empty eyeball. Why is it in the middle of my driveway? Did it just fall dead out of the sky? It is pretty little, maybe it's a baby. Wait. That doesn't explain anything. Are baby birds more prone to falling out of the sky? I don't think so. Out of nests, yes, but not the sky. But this appears to not be an infant bird, just a little bird. Do birds have heart attacks? But more to the point KEEP THE CHILDREN AWAY FROM DEAD BIRD. Neither of them have noticed it, but they do seem intent on inadvertently stepping on it. And, Oh, Jeez, now the neighbor girl is asking to come over to play. Well that's just not going to happen with a dead bird lying in the driveway. And you know who doesn't touch dead things? Me. That's cool, Chris will be home soon.

Any minute now.

Annnnnny minute now.

Now.

He's not coming.

But the chants from the neighbor girl and the imminent bird squashing by toddler feet are stretching my nerves and I think the neighbor girl's grandfather thinks I'm weird with the "you can come over when Chris gets home" and the acting like football player blocking for the quarterback (did I say that right, Chris?) except the quarterback is a dead bird. So I confess to the girl's grandfather, "Look, there's a dead bird in the driveway. I don't handle that kind of thing. But Chris will be home soon and as soon as he cleans it up, she can come over." And then he says, "Oh, I'll take care of it" and proceeds to LEAP OVER THE FENCE. I don't think Chris could do that. And then he gets a shovel and starts poking the dead bird. Gross, man. And then he PICKS IT UP with his BARE HANDS.

Then he turns to me and says, "Dear, this is a piece of wood."

I tried to argue with him about it's lifeless eye, but he wouldn't listen and just kept showing me this piece of wood.

It seems to me that the combined lack of judgment that Chris and I have been exhibiting recently should at least get me out of jury duty, if not disqualify me from parenthood.

Dude, I don't know if you've heard, but Michael Jackson is dead

It's a slow day at work today. We don't have any appointments scheduled and I am largely caught up on all my urgent stuff so I've spent the first two hours here playing on the computer.

And god is it boring.

What is wrong with me? I have access to a wealth of news, entertainment, commentary, and shopping the likes of which has never been seen in the history of human-kind. And I'm all, "But I already checked all the blogs I follow and CNN is just blah blah Michael Jackson blah. What is left to DO?"

What did I used to do for fun?

I used to not work, that was what.

Okay, well, then, what did CAVE PEOPLE do for fun? My guess is that they ate. But times have changed and wherein a cave person's snacky-snack might have been a pine cone, the snacks I've got access to are, again, unrivaled in human history. So I've already done the snack thing to excess and, thusly, I'm on a diet.

Okay, so you're a cave person. Sitting around, munching on moss. You are relatively safe, the sun is shining. Whoops now the moss is all gone. What else do you do? Maybe cave people talked to each other. Could cave people talk? NO QUESTION IS RHETORICAL IN THIS ERA: I just googled it and it looks like the answer is probably, in a fashion.

Maybe the problem is we used to email, and now we facebook. Used to be, if you were bored, you could write long emails to all your friends or hope one of them wrote one to you. But nobody does that anymore. I can't remember the last time I got an email that was just chatty. I still check my email, but it's only advertisements and Netflix notices.

Maybe I should stop writing boring blog posts about being bored and go do some work.

State Farm, like the undead, harshes my mellow

A lot of you have asked for details of the crappy meeting I mentioned in the last post. Actually, that's not true. Nobody has asked me about my crappy meeting. Thanks, guys. I love you to.

Well, because I feel like talking about it anyway, here it is.

We've got this State Farm insurance agent and she figured out at some point that we did not yet have life insurance, and boy it was like spilling fresh blood in front of a vampire. And like a vampire, I think you have to tear her apart and burn the pieces to keep her from coming back.

Chris did end up buying life insurance from her a few months ago and it was frustrating, but in the end, hey, we did need it, right? We're responsible adults, now. We should do things like get life insurance. So that's cool. We'll give her a pass on how freakin' irritating she was.

But then she got the idea to sell me the life insurance, too. And ever since that happened she's become my own personal person-in-the-mall-kiosk-trying-to-sell-you-spa-scrub. She calls me at home, on the cell, at work. And when I tell her I need to think about it, she gives me a week, or a day, and then calls again. She was relentless. She was like the terminator. Like a vampire terminator.

And then she calls and says, "We need to schedule your annual insurance review!" and while I find that irritating for it's own separate reason, I agreed. And I'm making this sound easier than it was. Initially, I resisted. The day I finally scheduled my insurance meeting, I logged TEN phone calls from them. Who calls you ten times in one day? SOMEONE YOU DON'T WANT TO TALK TO. Someone who is UNDEAD.

Vampires are ALWAYS going over their minutes.

So I go in for my meeting and my actual insurance lady isn't even there, I'm supposed to meet with this random guy. And this is not, it turns out, any kind of annual insurance meeting, unless by "annual insurance meeting" you mean, "meeting to hard sell life insurance." It took me a few minutes to figure out what was going on. That this guy was actually FILLING OUT MY APPLICATION FOR ME, while I watched, instead of, you know, having the dignity to ask me if I WANTED IT.

Did I let him? Yes. And that's what made it crappy. Every time I fall for a hard sell I feel awful. I KNOW the psychology here. I should know better. I should be a grown-up. And I hate them for it. I hate the smarmy, pushy, BLOOD-SUCKERS who do this to people. And I hate myself for LETTING them. That's a lot of hate, dude.

The thing about this experience is that it is hard for me to separate how I feel about the WAY it happened from how I feel about the actual purchase. I think I probably SHOULD have life insurance. And left on my own to mull it over for a few months, I'm pretty sure I would have come to the decision to purchase. And then they would have gotten my business, and I would have felt like I made an adult decision. Instead, I feel like I have life insurance with people who probably aren't even really alive. Who feed, in the night, off of LIFE (insurance policies).

So I don't feel good about how it went down, but I guess it is good that I have it, right?

NOTE - yeah I did just finish Twilight, what about it?
ANOTHER NOTE - If I die within the next month, my bad! State Farm totally rocks!

I DO, Jessica!

I came home from a crap meeting the other day (you know, the kind where for the rest of the day you are going about your business with the vague feeling that something TERRIBLE has happened) and I got the mail. In the mail was a personal card, addressed to ME! Well, that's exciting, isn't it? How often does that happen?

It was from my soon-to-be sister-in-law and, at first, I was really confused. She was saying all these nice things about me and that's just not something that I'm used to. Honestly, my first thought was that she was breaking up with me. Like, Beth, you're really great and, someday, you're going to find a sister-in-law who is really right for you. But it's not me. Tell Thomas I said "Peace."

But then I read all the actual, you know, words and stuff, and she was asking me to be a bridesmaid! And then I was all confused again. Because she's all little and cute and she does know I'm a cow, right? Besides, I'm old enough to have birthed her myself. Why would she want to hang out with me? On her wedding day? I don't get it.

Too late SUCKER!!! I'm totally accepting!!! I get to be a BRIDESMAID! I will wear a matching dress and cut in line at the bar! I will walk around and tell people to do things and when they hesitate I will ask, "Do you know who I am? Let me give you a HINT. I'm wearing a matching dress. That's right, I'm people that knows people. Now GIT." I will tell Jessica she is beautiful, because she is, and I will help her hold her dress while she pees (actually, I'm hoping her sister will take care of that). I will be served dinner first, or at least be first in line at the buffet! I will request a song and that DJ better take it seriously! I will shout, "WooooHooo!" at various times, and with increasing frequency as the night progresses, and nobody will be able to kick me out because I'm a BRIDESMAID, fool.

I'm so excited for my special day.

I don't think the doctor is taking my calls anymore

Chris usually takes the boys to his parents house on Saturday morning. It used to be a chance for me to get some extra sleep but sleep is for the WEAK and there is no TIME for weakness 'round HERE! Anyway, I was pairing socks (weird, I think I've mentioned that before in this blog. You'd think it was something I did a lot. It's not. Hence it being the Project of the Morning) and Chris called and told me that Sam had a rash on his skull. I told him that Sam probably didn't have a rash on his skull. He said, no, his skull is REALLY red. And I said, his SKULL is made of BONE and is covered by his SCALP so how do you know what it looks like? And he said, your child has a horrible rash and you are nitpicking about verbiage? And I said, point taken.

So back to the scalp. I'm pretty calm about it because, well, Sam is prone to rashes. He gets them a lot. It's not like I've never seen a rash on Sam, am I right?! Ha! I suggest a bath and maybe we'll put some ointment and keep an eye on it.

Then the boys come home and I look at Sam's head and GOOD LORD HIS SCALP IS COVERED BY THE MOST HEINOUS RASH I'VE EVER SEEN. I'm not kidding. This is Quick-Intake-of-Breath bad. I quickly review and realize that Sam also has had a bad cough, and threw up the day before. And if those symptoms don't add up to impending death, I don't know what does. I grab the phone and call the doctor and send Chris and Sam off for an emergency appointment in a half-hour. (Shout-out to FAB Dr. Senders and Associates!)

Chris calls about an hour later. Guess what? The rash? It . . . Oh, HA-HA! . . . it washes off. She swabbed it and it CAME OFF. It's like, highlighter or something.

That's not embarrassing AT ALL.

And back to real life

See, that was just ridiculous. If you haven't read the below post, go ahead and read that crap and then come back up here to real life.

There is something about the moments in the life of a parent of two (or, I imagine, more) kids when both (all) the kids are asleep. They make the children seem all innocent and lovable. Totally unlike when they are awake. When the children are asleep your life feels full and rich, instead of full of chaos and rich with poop like when they are awake.

But Sam wanted to remind me so he popped out of his room, said, "I better go to the bathroom." Which, I, unfortunately, took to mean he had to urinate in the toilet so I said, "Okay." Which he understood as, "Sweetie, go ahead and hang out in the bathroom like it is an all night rave." The thought process must have gone like this: I think I'll start by urinating on the floor, my pants and the toilet seat. I'll then unroll an entire roll of toilet paper to "clean it up." The only real way to follow that would be to knock over an open bottle of baby oil and try to help "clean that up," too.

And what the hell good is the scent of roasting marshmallows if I don't get to then EAT them?

Good times, good times

The other day, when it was hot as balls, I deliberately took a mental step back and thought about how freakin' cold it was this past January, aka the Month That Would Not End.

It didn't help. It was still hot as balls, and I was still sweaty and uncomfortable. But it did make me think about how in-the-moment life it.

Chris and I celebrated our five year anniversary yesterday. We went to a really nice restaurant (3 Birds, in Lakewood - try the bacon & blueberry pizza), and we started trying to list our top five memories of the last five years with the stipulation that it couldn't include our kids.

We couldn't come up with much.
-Number one, looking at the stars one night in Hawaii on our honeymoon.
-Number two, watching the entire second season of House on DVD right after Sam was born. Wait. That's not very romantic. Also, it kind of includes our kids. Whatever, moving on.
-Number three, our 2nd anniversary dinner. Have we only gone out five times since getting married?
-Number four, going to Becky and Gil's wedding. Oh. Except then you got wasted and I had to call the lobby and make the receptionist go find you and bring you back to our room. That wasn't cool.

See, it's not that I don't have good times with my husband. It's just that time moves quickly people. More quickly the older I get. And what with the getting older and all, I have more to remember but my brain isn't getting any bigger.

So right now, at this moment, my neck hurts because I pulled a muscle painting (shut up) but everything else is in pretty good working order. The smell of roasting marshmallows is coming through the window. Windows I can keep open because it is summer and my Dad installed new screens. My children are asleep. It's been over two and a half days since somebody has thrown up. I love the new paint in the living room. I have three more days before I have to go back to work. I had fun today, taking Owen and my Dad to the West Side Market.

This is a good moment. I don't know if I'll remember it, but I'm going to try. Because remember what it felt like when it had been below freezing for over a month? Neither do I, really, but remembering that it happened helps me appreciate this short-sleeved shirt I'm wearing.

Advertising tie-in!

Hey, so I was just looking at my blog (well SOMEBODY should) and the advertisement was for Pantene, um, naturals? Something like that. Herbal Pantene. Pantene Botanicals. You get the drift. And it totally reminded me about how irritating men can be sometimes!

Can somebody please back me up on this? We bought a Costco size Dove shampoo and conditioner and I really liked it. My hair was soft and shiny and good for twirling. But I've been using this same COSTCO SIZED Dove shampoo every day for about three months and I feel like my hair is getting tired of it and there is no end in sight. I keep picking it up to see if it feels like it weighs less, but this is the never-ending bottle of shampoo.

Am I alone in believing that using the same shampoo day in and day out leads to more grosser hair, less twirlable hair? After about three weeks of hating my hair I gave in and bought the aforementioned Pantene Natural and I feel like my hair is breathing a sigh of relief.

But I totally held off because I KNEW Chris was going to sass me about it. He HATES soapy products. If he were in charge we would have skipped the Costco Dove, and gone straight for a barrel of the Costco brand dish soap and used it for our dishes, hands, clothes, hair, and faces. He is personally affronted by my fickle hair. BUT I CAN'T HELP IT. Oddly, he feels quite differently about cleaning products. I don't even know how many bottles of pine-sol and Lysol and toilet-sol we have. Maybe he's just a sucker for the spray bottle? Or believes that if I actually trip over some Clorox wipes that I will use them to clean something? WELL, IT'S NOT WORKING, BUDDY!

Anyway, he spied the new shampoo in the shower this morning (thought about hiding it, but where??) and was all,

"Did you BUY NEW SHAMPOO?!?!"

And I was all, "Yeah, it's not good for your hair to use only one kind of shampoo for too long."

And he was all (you will have to say this all exasperated and demeaning in you head), "You are just incapable of using one kind of shampoo."

And I was all, "Suck on my balls."

Because that doesn't even make any sense. I mean, that's not even responsive to my point, is it? And if it is, doesn't it agree with my point? I'm not sure, but I think it was just designed to make me feel bad for willy-nilly flinging wads of cash around without thought. Does he KNOW how much poorer we would be if I actually wore MAKE-UP? Clearly this man has never read a women's magazine if he is complaining about DOUBLE SHAMPOO BOTTLEAGE. I didn't even buy the MATCHING CONDITIONER. Can I get some financial credit for the fact that my beauty purchases of the year totaled one tube of mascara and some chap stick?

HONESTLY.

Men are so irritating sometimes. But my hair . . . it is gorgeous.

Oh for Chris' sake

There has been some debate about whether the title of yesterday’s entry was an accident.

Let’s go with nooooo. Of course I wrote Jesus Chris on purpose. That’s what I always say to express shock and surprise.

I like my husband, and I actually even like his name, but it does bother my typing fingers that his name is so close to accidentally taking the lord’s name in vain. I mean, I'm cool with taking the lord's name in vain, but I like to do it on purpose. Conversely, when I DO aim to blaspheme, I’d like to be successful and not just ALL CAPS my husband's name.

At least his name isn’t Christian. Really, it’s a beautiful noun (is it? I think I was asleep when they went over that in English class), but I just don’t understand how it is also a name. Especially when other religions haven’t done so well at the crossover. Can you imagine?

“These are my sons, Christian and Orthodox Jew.”

“So, nice to meet you! And this is my daughter, Seventh Day Baptist.”

Jesus Chris I just had a heart attack

There are these shelves over my desk at work and they are jam-packed full of binders and books. A few minutes ago, I was typing away and then I heard a sliding sound followed by a heavy wooden bang and the sound was coming from my selves and for a second I was SURE the whole business was coming down on my head. You know? Like I was just preparing myself for a cascade of junk on my head. Junk with corners.

Turned out that it was just some stuff falling over onto the actual shelf itself.

But it must have been funny to see me assume my karate chopping position in anticipation of the marauding books.

That’s a lie. I just winced and put my hands over my eyes.

But, man, I felt stupid when I finally raised my head and realized that the sky wasn't falling. I'm sitting there, my heart is racing, my whole body is braced for impact and it was a BOOK. Just falling over. Not attacking.

I'm sure glad nobody knows about this!