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."