My Day in Hell

I had such hopes for today. I was going to get so much done. I would get up early and run my errands. I would beat the snow storm coming in the afternoon. I would also bake a cake.

Well, I got up early. I called ahead before my run to the high school to pick up my transcripts, sealed this time. It's a good thing I called ahead. I was told not to bother coming today. "Come tomorrow," she said, "Come early." I needed to fill out paperwork. I barely managed to hold back my groan and assured her I would come tomorrow. Early. If school's open tomorrow.

Since my plans were dashed, I decided it was time for an ass flake steam facial. I boiled the water, added the correct amount of flakes, threw a towel over me and my steaming pot of ass flakes and realized that steam? Is hot. Very hot. I quickly stood and sorta hovered over the pot, towel still draped over me. Still too hot. My eyes were tearing. I waved the towel a bit, hoping to introduce some air and lose some steam. I giggled as I thought of that scene in Seinfeld where Kramer was sitting in a sauna and said, "It's like a sauna in here." I briefly wondered if this was a sign of heat stroke but soon became more concerned with my now dripping nose. I didn't realize that this pore cleansing would make water pour from everywhere. I was kinda squicked out by the tears and snot mingling with the ass flake tea in the pot. Suddenly, time was up and I was free. The air seemed so cold compared to life under the towel. And less musty herb smelling. (Sorry, Rachel, I didn't smell chicken soup ass.) Will I continue the treatment? Yes, purely for scientific research. I'm curious to see if this will indeed purge my pores.

Then I decided to pop in my new workout dvd and try the balance ball workout. At one point, I pulled off an impressive move (I shocked myself) and got a bit show off-y with it. I lost my balance and put too much weight on my bad wrist. I instinctively shifted all of my weight to my good wrist and felt a very bad twinge. I don't think I hurt it badly, but I will be careful with it next time. I don't even know why I was showing off since there was no one to impress. Just the cat. And he spent half of the workout attacking various flailing body parts. I got a lovely scratch, shaky muscles and a sore wrist or two for my troubles. Being healthy is bad for your health.

Then The Boy came up to me. I had-- stupidly-- gotten him a toy that needed assembly. I'm the one who usually does the assembling. I'm from a long line of machinists and engineers. Definitely mechanically inclined. I laid out the pieces, smoothed out the instructions, and soon the cursing began. After my 4th try, I finally got it together and working. I also made him promise to never use any of the bad words I muttered. What does he do? Complains that it's not working to his liking. I told him he's out of the will.

And the worst part of this day? No cake.

Googletastic

My goodness... You post one conversation you had with your mother about some woman on Oprah who claims that slathering your face with vaginal cream and Preparation H is the key to youthful looking skin and the people come in droves. Sorry, I don't know the name of the cooter cream the lady used.

This makes me wonder how people come up with these ideas. Who thinks "Well, it made my hemorrhoids go down, so maybe it'll get rid of the bags under my eyes?" because maybe I'm just odd and don't think that way. Or maybe someone wasn't wearing their glasses and mixed up their eye cream and ass cream. I suppose that could happen. Maybe. But probably not. I'm totally blind without my contacts or glasses, but even I couldn't confuse the two.

Also on the Google tip: Prepare to battle! I give you Google Fight, a new search engine game. (link via Daily Candy)

Sugar and Shopping Highs

I went on a massive spending spree today. So bad. I think the gods are conspiring against me. They won't let me save money.

First, there was a liquidation sale at this little dinky store. Last day. Everything must go. It was nearly empty when we walked in. Almost everything had already been grabbed up. I told the kids, "If you see something you like, just grab it. Just grab!" Yes, shopping turns me into that woman. I quickly rifled through everything, tossing anything that was deemed "decent" into my basket. I got a huge bag of stuff-- toys and makeup-- for only $3 and change. It was almost enough to send me running back through the store, but the kids wanted to move on.

There was a sale on winter coats, so we headed off coat shopping next. This is where the difference between The Boy and The Girl are most apparent. The Girl will quickly disregard anything I say because I'm old and old people don't know anything. Never mind that each and every time I suggested she buy something and she refused it, she'd find all of the girls sporting that very thing in the coming months. Then she'd beg for it. Evil child. The Boy, on the other hand, generally likes what I like. We both gravitate towards the same colors. We have similar styles. It's easy to shop for him. This is the only time we aren't snarling at each other, I think.

Today was no exception. We, of course, have to get The Girl's coat first. I suggest this cute pink jacket. It was fashionable, big name label, one of my younger cousins-- whom she worships-- has almost the same coat. It was even pink. She loves pink. Did she like the coat? No. Later on, when she decided that she did like it, after all, it was gone. Some little girl swooped in and carried it off. I suggested this lovely dark gold coat to her and got an "Oh, gawd!" for my troubles. I forced her to try it on-- it almost exactly matched her hair-- and showed her how it brightened up her skin and made her eyes glow. That sold her. And it only took an hour of muttered threats.

Then we went off to get The Boy's coat. I saw this funky looking coat with an unusual zipper. Showed it to him. He loved it. We got it. Took less than a minute. No threats. And there was much rejoicing. Yay!

I had a coupon for my music club dealie at the music store, so off I ran to pick up something. I was determined to buy Monty Python and the Holy Grail. It's one of my favoritest movies ever and I just had to have it. They had several special editions, but I pushed those aside and saw it. The Collector's Edition. On sale. $20. I snatched that bad boy up and ran to the cashier. Today, I got Mr. Sum 41. I like Mr. Sum 41. He's a good kid. I find out from Mr. Sum 41 and the manager that they all hate, and mock behind his back (you think I'm there too much?), that it's not supposed to be on sale, but since it was tagged with the wrong sticker, they have to honor it. Woo! The original price? $40. I got it half off. I did a happy dance on out of there and decided that I'd better go home before I spent all of my savings.

Did I mention that I finally found the ass flakes? Oh, yeah. Thank you, Whole Foods! I also got a workout dvd that has not only yoga and pilates on it, but also a balance ball workout. Yes, I will actually do it. Maybe.

Stay tuned for the ass flake report some time this week.

The (dun dun DUN) Interview

Ah, yes. The Interview. You know it eventually had to come. The lovely Edana offered to grill me. Here are her questions and my answers:

1) When did you first learn of your container obsession?

My container obsession started when I was about 2 years old and an animal cracker addict. I loved those delectable crackers mostly for the cute little box-- with convenient string handle-- that they came in. I would keep the boxes after I'd finished the contents. I'd carry it around-- very much like a handbag-- until the string broke. Then it would become storage for my room. I think I was the only child who dreamed of, and begged for, a lovely, large toy box.

2) How do you deal with Insomnia issues? (ie, how do you get to sleep or what do you do to take up the time you have when you should be sleeping?)

I actually considered myself a recovering insomniac until my recent relapse. I was getting a full 7 hours of sleep a night for a few weeks. I don't know what happened. How do I spend my time? Mostly trying to not wake up everyone else in the house. Usually on Photoshop. I'm addicted to Photoshop. I also find that time useful for catching up on my reading.

To get to sleep: I play some very soothing music and try to keep my mind blank. Failing that, I try to think of boring things (like counting my relatives and trying to remember a birthday for each or counting how many Jennifers I've known) and that usually conks me out. If all else fails, Tylenol PM is my hero.

3) What's the one thing you couldn't live without?

Besides my kids? (Come on now. All together. One, two, three.. "Aww..") The one thing besides them, that I couldn't live without, is probably air. Barring that, I'd say music or lip balm.

4) What's your favorite song and dance number?

Oh, my. Such a difficult choice. Umm.. The most fun would probably be "Rose Tint My World" from the floor show part of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

and finally...

5) What's your best beauty tip? (that's right miss "I have great eyebrows and lips" )

The number one, most important thing you can do to make you look better is to wear sunscreen. Really, it's true. As anyone in the skin industry (i.e., dermatologists, facialists, make up artists, not porn stars, you pervs) and they'll tell you the same thing. Get a good broad spectrum sunblock with at least an SPF of 15. My pale skinned brethren will need SPF 30, I'm afraid. You want something that blocks both UVA and UVB rays. Look for either Parasol 1789 or titanium oxide or zinc oxide in the ingredients list. If you have sensitive skin, you might do better with the titanium or zinc as they are physical blocks-- rather than chemical, like Parasol 1789-- and less irritating for the skin.

I can't stress the importance of a good skin care regime. This doesn't mean you have to spend a lot of money. Just find what works for you. Never sleep with make up on!

Also, listen to your mom. Don't slouch, smoke, drink. Eat your veggies. Water is your friend. Smile. You look so pretty when you smile. But mostly, be you. When you're comfortable and happy in your skin, your true beauty shows. Sounds trite, but it's true.


And now it's my turn. I will interview the first five people to comment. If you want to comment, but don't want to be interviewed, please let me know.

Question

Where do you blog? (i.e., Blogspot, Modblog, Blog-city, etc.)

Also, do you like it? What are the pros? What are the cons?



Any information would be appreciated. Much thanks!

An Oldie, but Goodie!

Remember how much fun it was to Babelize things? Of course you do! So I took various product slogans and massacred them for the hell of it.

Let's examine Bounty's little slogan. "The quilted quicker picker upper." Simple and to the point. They can't mangle that much. Or can they?

After translation: "But the short hour of e, the man of Scozia of the production of the
fast alcohol the fact that is not great beginning of intelligence and
- the returns are of you of the leather."

Uh..? Guess they can.

Hmm.. I wonder what they would do to Maxwell House's "Good to the last drop."

A.T.: "The escapes and are a good amortization."

"Amortization"? I pride myself on knowing rather large words. Not that I often use them. I just like knowing them. I have no idea what amortization means. So I looked it up.

From m-w.com:
Main Entry: am·or·ti·za·tion
Pronunciation: "a-m&r-t&-'zA-sh&n also &-"mor-
Function: noun
1 : the act or process of amortizing
2 : the result of amortizing

Well, that certainly cleared things up, didn't it? Let's move on..

Last, but not least, we have Rice Krispies' "Snap, crackle, pop!"

A.T: "It is free and the noises that are the noises and to a healthful width
eight of water N,"

I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. And, yes, it ended with a comma.

Have fun!

Wheel turning, no hamster...

I've been feeling very off-kilter and out of sorts lately. Restless, unsettled and sure that I've forgotten to do something. Usually feeling like that sets off my panic button, but not this time. I don't mind it. I even like it a bit. My mind's spinning with thousands of incomplete thoughts. When I get this way, I know what will happen.

I will start a new project.

I know, not exactly a grand declaration there. It's kinda exciting for me because I'm not sure what I'm going to do exactly. I think I will start a new blog. But I don't want another ramble-y, babble-y blog like I've got now. Not that this is a bad kind of blog to have. I've come to need it. It helps me focus my thoughts and it's a place for my stories. I do love telling a story.

I'm trying to find a purpose for this other blog. I thought about maybe making it a place to focus on working on my writing skills. I'm not, nor will I ever be, a writer. I don't do the flowery prose thing very well. I find that I can't draw a picture with my words. That's a big problem for me. I'm visually inclined, so I like being able to picture what I'm reading. In here, it all seems...flat. There's no way I can use my gestures, expression, or tone to convey the story. That's how I usually do things. I'm all about the delivery.

But I worry about starting a blog with that purpose. I could start it, I'd be good about writing in it. For a while. Then I'd begin to neglect it. I hate leaving projects unfinished.

So I leave it to you, dear readers. Any suggestions? What kind of blog should I start? Should I go with a group blog idea? Should I do a super-secret blog? Do you have more than one blog? Do other people know about it? Are there any other questions I should be thinking about?

Delay

Sorry I'm late with an update. Today was National Scan the Hell Out of Your Computer Day. Ok, so it wasn't a national holiday. Just a household holiday of sorts. I'm the tech support in the family-- scary thought, isn't it?-- and I decided that we were all due for more than the usual virus scan. Ain't no way no virus survived.

How is it that something that requires so little from me can be so arduous?

Proud and Frightened

The Boy was just talking to me. I don't recall much of what was said. I do recall something about "polymerization" and how he wasn't sure how to spell it so he used "fusion" instead. I got scared. The rest was all fuzzy around the edges.

Did I mention that he's 8? And in the 3rd grade?

Hot Mama

As many of you know, my mother and I are very close. Most of the time we seem like girlfriends or sisters rather than mother and child. The fact that she's a wee slip of a thing and darn beautiful often makes people think that we're sisters. Yes, I've been relegated to the ugly sister role. I've learned to cope after many years of...

Classmate: "She's your mom?!"
Me: "Uh.. Yeah."
Classmate: "Really?"
Me: "Yeah. She's my mom."
Classmate: "She's really hot!"
Me: "Uh.. Ok."
Classmate: "I mean, really hot!"
Me: "Thanks?"
Classmate: "She's your mom?"
Me: "YES!"
Classmate: "You look nothing like her.."
Me: "Gee, thanks."

It's also fun watching boys/men your age-- from the time I was 16 on up-- trying to pick up your mom. No, really. It was fun. Ok, funny. Mom always got flustered and oddly offended by the whole experience. And, at some point during it, she would loudly proclaim her age and point to me and say, "She's my daughter!" I would then have to go through the above conversation, only this time with the would-be suitor instead of a classmate.

You would think that this would have destroyed my self-confidence, but it never did. I always knew I was decent-looking and never really wanted anyone chasing after me based on looks alone anyway. To be honest, I never really wanted to be chased. I'm weirdly anti-social like that.

But that's another story.

I'm a Moron

Not that that's much of an update. Or a surprise.

I fixed my little SmashTheTONES problem and now have a FREE ringtone that I like for FREE! Did I mention that it's FREE? And that I like it? A lot?

Right. Ahem. As you were.

Two or Three Addictions

I've become addicted to Lifehacker. So many nifty cool things. My head is spinning!

The SmarterChild IM bot is one of the nifty cool things that I've been playing with more often than I should. It works with AIM or ICQ and it's so cute with the little questions and not very good if you're paranoid (that means you, J) because you'll be all "Gah! Why must you know my pet's name?"

The other is SmashTheTONES which is a free service that allows you to send any mp3 to your phone to download and use as a ringtone. FREE. Free ringtones. That you like. How amazing is that? I'm having a bit of a snag with it right now, though. It's garbling my mp3s. I hope someone has a solution for the garbled tone mess because I want my free ringtones of music I do not hate that are FREE.

So pardon me if I get nothing done today. I will be lurking around the forums for a solution to the garbled-y mess that was my mp3 and hope to get my FREE ringtone that I really like and do not hate and that's FREE.

And, also, BlogClicker is a vindictive bitch when you break up with him. What's this with the swanky new stuff? Evil.

Thinking and Talking

I've been thinking of starting another blog. I was thinking of making it a group blog. So I bring it up with J, who is used to hearing my weird ideas and schemes.

J: "So who would be a part of this group blog?"

Me: "I don't know. You? And some other people?"

J: "What would you write about?"

Me: "No clue. Interesting and, hopefully, funny stuff."

J: "Would we make fun of each other?"

Me: "Not necessarily, but it would be encouraged!"

Did I mention that we've been in talks about this group blog on and off now for several months? And this is the furthest we've come so far.

Conversations with My Mother

Me: "Mom? Remember when I was little and nothing was child-proofed? How the playground was rife with metal, rust and sharp, pointy objects?"

Mom: "Uh huh.."

Me: "Remember the big metal slides? How you always got stuck to them?"

Mom: "And the backs of your legs fried because the metal had been baking in the sun all day..."

Me: "Right, and since you were stuck because sticky child flesh doesn't exactly glide on metal, you'd burn.."

Mom: "Until you scooted yourself down the slide.."

Me: "Or the kid behind you barreled into you, shoving you down the slide into the rough gravel at the bottom.."

Mom: "Into the kid climbing up the slide, then into the gravel.."

Me: "Right, and there was always that one kid who peed on the slide, effectively ruining it for all.."

Mom: "Good times, good times.."

Me: "Good times.."

***

Mom: "Put it on Oprah now!!"

Me: "...?"

Mom: "Oprah! Now!"

Me: "Ok.. Any particular reason why?"

Mom: "This lady! She's in her 60s and she looks like she could be in her 30s!"

Me: "While I won't deny that she looks fabulous for her age, she doesn't quite look.."

Mom: "Shh! She's talking!"

Me: Upon hearing her secret to youthful skin, "Vaginal cream and Preparation H?"

Mom: "Hee!"

Me: "I think I'm finally speechless.."

***

Me: "I love these jeans, but they need to make them higher in the back for my big ass.."

Mom: "I have no butt and I'm constantly hoisting them up."

Me: "So imagine the plumber's crack I'm sporting right now. And you look fantastic in those jeans."

Mom: "I know. That's why I keep wearing them."

So sad...

Dear BlogClicker,

I'm sorry. Really very sorry. But we have to break up. No, don't cry. I didn't want to hurt you. We can still be friends, right? No hurt feelings. It's just that I need my space. No, no. You weren't too clingy, babe. You weren't. It's not you. It's me. Totally me. I just don't have the time right now. I need more "me" time. I can't click your little images as much as I used to. I know how you like your images clicked, sweetie. But I have to end things. After my credits run out, that's it. I'm sorry.

I know you'll find that special someone just right for you.

Missing you already,
R

Redesign!

It's been a while.

You knew it was coming.

Yes, a redesign.

Well, not a total redesign. Just, uh, most of it. A mostly redesign.

Because I was bored. And I'm tired from shoveling snow.

And, if I'm perfectly honest, it's become a compulsion of sorts.

The Evil Within

My skin hates me.

No, really. It does. It's a temperamental little bitch. Just when I think I have it all figured out. I know what cleansers to use, what moisturizers to use, how to make it all pretty, it turns on me. It's evil. There is so much evilness contained within my skin.

It must be possessed.

I need to get all exorcist on it. Bring out the holy water or some shit. I can't take this anymore. And I'm still waiting for my Lush order to come in. I've been hearing much about these Swiss Kriss "ass flakes" (TM Rachel). Apparently, the herbal laxative makes a wonderful steamer for the face.

But it smells bad.

But good skin.

I think I can breathe through my mouth for five minutes if it means lovely skin. Now, if it smelled like bananas..

I hope it works. I'm at my limit. My skin has boggled dermatologists and facialists. It's sensitive. Too sensitive. You look at it funny, it becomes offended and will produce a blemish the size of a small planet in retaliation. It breaks out if it gets too oily. It breaks out if it's too dry. It's enough to make the baby Jesus cry. The kicker? I had gloriously beautiful skin as a teen. Hardly a blemish ever. This only started in my mid-20s. So cruel. So unfair.

Is this normal? Who else has this problem? Any suggestions? Solutions? Please?

Birthday Cards

I know my mom's birthday was weeks ago, but she took off with the cards my kids made for her before I could scan them in for everyone's amusement.

The Boy:

I think this is supposed to be Sonic the hedgehog. I told him to make something for his grandmother. Something bright and colorful. Be careful what you wish for.

I guess she is pretty energetic..

Why jumping? I don't think he even knows.

The obligatory To/From page. But it's on the back.

The Girl:

Unfortunately, she did not listen to me when I suggested she use either construction paper or printer paper. I guess she thought the lines added a much needed design element.

In case you can't read what she wrote, click the image. Yes, she's generous with her love. She'll even love her grandma when she has blisters.

She's a BIG lady!

My daughter's version of London Bridge:

All the branches falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
All the branches falling down,
My god, lady!

I think I like it better than the original. It's certainly funnier.

Book Meme

After a long day of power-shopping, I'm beat. So I'll be lazy and I'll steal this book meme from Michelle!

What are you reading now?
Not currently reading anything. Unless you count fashion rags..?

Favorite Bookshop?
I'm a Barnes and Noble kind of gal.

All Time Favorite Book?
Oh... Tough. Either Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll or American Gods by Neil Gaiman (one of my most prized possessions-- which is autographed by the man himself thanks to J).

Favorite Place to Read?
On the couch, pillow at my back and blanket on my lap-- preferably without the cat sitting on the book.

Where are most of the books in your home?
Everywhere.. We have books scattered throughout the home. We are a family of readers.

How are the books on your bookshelf organised?
Downstairs, they're organized by height (for the kids). On my bookshelf, by genre and then alphabetized. Everywhere else? In piles.

Which books do you re read?
Anything I loved the first time, but I usually re-read anything by Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, or P.G. Wodehouse.

Do you use bookmarks or fold the pages back?
Bookmarks. I'm adamant about them.

Favorite film made from a book?
The Princess Bride.

Book you've been meaning to read but as yet not got round to?
Too many to list.

Book you've never finished or enjoyed?
Pretty much any romance novel foisted on me by well-meaning, but clueless, relatives.

Author you'd most like to meet?
Neil Gaiman, of course!

Looking at the books on your shelves, which category dominates?
I can't tell if there's more fantasy or more mystery. That's a pretty telling statement, isn't it?

Bloody Easter Eggs

I hate Cadbury cream eggs.

I used to love them. I obsessively hoarded them when I was a child. I'd save my money up for them. I loved Easter just because of the cream eggs.

What changed all this?

It happened when I was 6ish or so. My neighbor knew of my cream egg obsession. Since her kids hated them, I got them. But none of this was her fault. No, I didn't eat too many and get sick. Nothing like that. It was far more gruesome.

Should I go on?

Yes, I know I started this, but.. Ok. You're an adult. I'm sure you can handle this. Well, I lovingly unwrapped the egg and I took a big bite and..

Did I mention that I had a loose tooth?

Yes, another loose tooth story. Hush, you wanted to hear it. Well, I bit into the egg and, well, there went my tooth. No, I didn't swallow it. I was too busy gagging on the blood. Blood mixed with cream filling. And the tooth.

I still can't look at a cream egg without tasting blood in my mouth and gagging.

Ant Farm

I don't usually blog about my dreams-- but I'll bore my friends with them because that's the kind of friend I am-- but this dream was so vivid that I can't shake it. I was with some friends, driving around, and we wound up in a warehouse somewhere. They said a really great band was playing there tonight.

When I got there, I saw it was Nirvana playing. There were these huge speakers, some laying on their sides. Kurt was sitting on one that was on its side. He was off to the side, near the back, mostly in shadow. He was singing "On a Plain" while sitting with one knee up, the hand with the microphone propped on his knee. His voice was lovely.

In the back of my mind, I knew he was dead. But none of that bothered me. I wanted to get closer to hear better. When he got to the chorus, he held his mic out to Novoselic. Novoselic was turned away from the audience. He stood, facing the large speaker, but turned slightly towards Kurt. He started out singing the chorus, but then sang an entirely different song. Everything got very quiet. There was just Novoselic singing. It was a beautiful song and it moved Kurt deeply. He cried and held the mic out for Novoselic's song.

It was only when I woke up singing the song that I realized it was Eels' "Ant Farm". That song always moved me. And I've had it in my head all day.

Here's the lyrics to "Ant Farm":

hate a lot of things
but i love a few things
and you are one of them

hard to believe
after all of these years
but you are one of them

walk down the street
i'm thinking:
everybody move along
i've got a sad-hearted needing
to belong

nevertheless
it's all the mess you made
but i can let it go

walk down the street
i'm thinking:
look at all the ants in a farm
i've got a sad-hearted feeling
to harm

hate a lot of things
but i love a few things
and you are one of them

Letters Sent and Never Sent

Dear Blogger,

Why do I always type "Blooger" instead of "Blogger"? I hate having to delete and retype. Slows me down. Maybe you could change your name to Blooger and then I'll type Blogger.

Also, why all the hate, yo? If you're not eating posts, you're not letting me comment, or you're really slow with the comments. We have to really want to comment to wait that long. The problem? I forget my witty little bon mot during that waiting period. Oh, shut up. I do too have witty little bon mots.

And when I send you a complaint. Please don't send me a form letter directing me to your Help section. Yes, I already looked there. I also looked at your Known Issues and your Blogger Status page. Yes, I'm sure you've had many morons badger you with questions that were covered on one of those three pages. I'm not one of them.

Not a moron (not this time, anyway),
R

P.S. Hurry up with the comment thing! I'm going into withdrawal here.

***

Dear Google,

Do you hate me? What's with the 50 gmail invites? I don't know 50 people! I don't want to know 50 people! And you gave them to everyone on the bloody internet, anyway, so there's no one left to give them to.

Except my parents, but they don't want one. They are distrustful and wary about having so much space for email. Also, my kids and cat do not have gmail. But I think everyone else on the planet-- and possibly some not on the planet-- already have it.

What sick, twisted game are you playing?

All a-twitch,
R

P.S. Can you take them back? Please?

***

Dear Survivor,

I'm really looking forward to watching you. Please don't suck.

Willing to give you a fair chance,
R

***

Dear Angie from Survivor,

I have the feeling that I'm really going to like you. We have a lot in common. I'm sorry to tell you that this means you will be one of the first survivors voted off.

Despondently yours,
R

P.S. We should so hang out.

***

Dear readers,

You guys rock! I'm sorry Blogger's being an ass about the comments. Hopefully, all will be straightened out soon enough.

Hugs all around,
R

Strange things, indeed...

Dear person who googled "lamb cupcakes" and found my blog,

Ew. No, really. That's ew.

Also.. Why?

Curiously yours,
R

P.S. Yes, I do realize that that form of "curiously" doesn't mean what I used it to mean. Go away, Mr. M-W.

Two fingers?

The Boy comes up to me. "Mom, I don't get this part. What am I supposed to do?"

I read. It asks to list things that come in 2s, 3s, and 4s. I tell him in the first row that he has to list things that come in twos and hold up my hands as an example. I see comprehension dawn on his face and he shouts out, "Fingers!"

Yes, I can see my work here is done. Sigh.

10 Reasons

Ten reasons why today sucks:

1. It's cold.
2. It's rainy.
3. The Boy broke his glasses.
4. Again.
5. I'm carless.
6. Since it's cold and rainy and I'm carless, I couldn't go run errands today without bumming a ride.
7. I couldn't bum a ride.
8. I didn't get my errands done.
9. The Girl came home from school saying that her throat felt scratchy.
10. My head is pounding.

Ten reasons why today rocks:

1. I got to play with Photoshop. (I wish I had CS.)
2. I was complimented on some work I did in photoshop.
   
3. My Boo-kitty is in a cuddlicious mood today.
4. The house is quiet.
5. Even with the kids home. (This is a rare event. The quiet, not the kids being home.)
   
6. The sound of the rain is soothing.
7. I don't have to cook dinner tonight.
8. Tea.
   
9. Lost comes on tonight.
10. Alias comes on tonight, too.

Here's to the good outweighing the bad! Salut!

Please save me!

My little Munchkin (a.k.a., Baby Girl, The Girl, Get Out of My Lipglosses! Now!, Ms. Mini Fashionplate) has been sick the past few days. She caught the bug, once again, and had been feverish and miserable. She's feeling much better now. Want to know how I know? Because she:

1. Dragged out all of my 500-piece puzzles, mixed up all the pieces, left a few on the kitchen table and lost one of the boxes.
2. While doing her homework, she tells me that she doesn't understand what to do and asks me to explain. When I ask her if she read the directions, she gets very quiet.
3. She started planning what she will be doing tomorrow, totally assuming that she'd be staying home. She's not.
4. Chased the cat around the house until I threaten to tie her down to the couch.
5. Followed me everywhere asking me what I'm currently doing.
6. Planned a day trip that won't happen.
   
7. Tried to sneak a bunch of Valentine's candy at 10:30 A.M.
8. Whined about the vcr not working when, clearly, it does.
9. Repeatedly rewound and played sections of a video until I threatened to burn it.
10. Stared at me while I was eating until I asked if there was anything she needed. Found out she wanted my food instead of the meal she requested.
    
11. And, last but not least, sang. A lot. Loudly.

She's so going to school tomorrow.

Awww.. How sweet!

In honor of Valentine's Day, I plastered hearts all over the background. Isn't it sickeningly sweet? Don't you just hate me now?

Happy Valentine's Day, all!

Of lemon curd and toasted coconut...

Or Update:Cupcake (since Blogger isn't letting me comment).

I spent a good portion of the day yesterday baking up so yummy-licious lemon coconut cupcakes. From scratch! I had a slight problem with the runny frosting/thick glaze. I sprinkled the tops with toasted coconut, so the frosting/glaze issue wasn't much of an issue. They looked pretty. They smelled wonderful. I wanted to eat.

Only my mother would partake of and enjoy the lemony coconutty goodness of these lovely cakes. Here are the complaints as follows:

• The Father said: "It's too sticky and messy. Why's the middle soft? Did you cook it long enough?" I then explained that the "soft" part was lemon filling. And, sorry, I can't make frosting/glaze not sticky. I then refused to share any future cupcakes with him as he was extremely rude and a big ol' poopyhead.
• The Boy said: "It has coconut.." I mentioned that he's eaten, and enjoyed, coconut on many occasions. "But it's brown coconut.." I explain that it's toasted and that toasted is good. Really good. "But it has brown coconut.." I growled and walked away. I managed to refrain from calling my son a poopyhead, too, but only barely.
• The Girl said: "It has lemon.." I mention that she likes lemonade. "No. Just..no." I remind her that she totally stole that from me and stomp off with my cupcakes.

Only The Mother-- dear, sweet, wonderful soul-- took a cupcake and said "They're wonderful!" So I will share my cupcakes-- all 24 of them (we are so gonna get fat)-- with my dear mom. I knew I loved her for a reason.

Now with more sheep!

More new banners for everyone to see. Yes, I'm still running with the sheep theme. I'm somewhat obsessed with them. They make me giggle.

• This one has been around for a little bit at 'Splody. It's my sheep, Roscoe (Yes, I named him. Don't you name your sheep?), in wolf's clothing. Well, mask anyway.
• Just made today! My wonderfully, adorably disgruntled sheep. Cower under their silent disapproval.

The older banners can be seen here.

Steroid Hair and Runny Frosting

What do you do when you have two semi-sick kids who, for some unknown reason, are acting more spazzy than usual and are slowly driving your completely over the edge?

You lock yourself in the kitchen-- metaphorically speaking, since the kitchen doesn't have a door unless you count the back door that leads into the yard-- and bake lemon coconut cupcakes from scratch! You also threaten anyone entering the kitchen with the electric mixer and spatter the still too runny frosting everywhere.

After taking one look at the steroid hair (it's huge and won't de-poof), the powdered sugar smudges all over the clothes and a Pollock-esque splash of cupcake batter on the jeans, they tend to run screaming anyway.

And the frosting is still runny, no matter how much powdered sugar I put in it. Fuck it. I'll say it's decorative and call it a day.

Talking to myself again...

For some reason, anytime I can't answer the phone is exactly the time everyone will call me. The other day, I was up to my elbows in something or other and my cell phone rang. I couldn't get to it, so I asked one of the kids to see who it was.

I heard the scampering of little feet. Ok, that's a lie. No one in this family has little feet. I heard the clomping of growing feet and then silence.

Curious, I dropped what I was doing and went to answer the phone myself. I walk into the room and I see The Boy holding the phone and looking confused. I asked him who it was and he said, "Mom, it's you!"

I gave him an odd look, but didn't think too much about it. I figured it was the fever talking. I grabbed the phone and answered it before the voicemail picked up. It was my mother. We chatted for a bit and then I hung up.

It was only then that I realized what The Boy meant when he said I was calling. I have my mother's number saved to my phone under "Mom". He naturally assumed I had somehow managed to call myself. I didn't bother asking why. I was afraid of the answer.

Epidemic?

It seems like everyone in my area is sick. Particularly the children.

Yesterday, I noticed we were getting low on children's Motrin and had to run to several stores before I could find anything. I got stuck with chewables. The kids weren't thrilled about that, but I had little choice in the matter.

All of the children's cold medicines were taken everywhere else. All of them. I've never seen shelves look so bare since I lived in Memphis and there was almost an inch of snow on the ground and the whole city panicked and raided the stores. There wasn't a gallon of water to be found for miles around. We had to bum toilet paper off of (the ex's) relatives-- no pun intended. And it was that really thin and sandpaper-y kind. I hate that stuff. But I digress.

This lack of cold medicine is disturbing. I feel like we should call in the national guard or something. Maybe get the Center for Disease Control and Prevention up in here.

Uh oh, ten minutes to Wapner...

I feel like I have been turned into Rain Man.

How? Why?

Who concocted the diabolical plot that would fry my brain?

He did, of course. He is evil. Oh, so evil.

Am I broken? For good?

I don't think so. No. Definitely not.



...maybe.

Technical Difficulties

For those who've noticed that I've republished about fifty million times today and are wondering why, I was experiencing technical difficulties.

Whilst fixing said technical difficulties, I noticed how crap my blog looks in IE. I tried to fix it, but it's still a bit off. As hard as it is for me, I'm leaving well enough alone before I make it all go kablooey. Like I did earlier. Ahem.

Yes, I was responsible for the technical difficulties. Surprised?

I also tweaked one or two things. Lookie! Blogger's new commenting system. Pretty, isn't it? Now if they'd let me customize it a bit more... Ahem.

Don't worry if you don't notice any changes. I was going for seriously subtle. And the changes were minor.

Did I mention that I'm suffering from a slight case of cabin fever? It makes me do stupid things like:

1. Make my blog go kablooey so I have to spend most of the afternoon fixing it.
   
2. Cut my hair late at night (Usually because I'm bored, stir crazy and hopped up on caffeine.), cut it too short, try to fix it as much as possible until friend can fix it (This has happened more often than I should, or care to, admit.)
3. Decide to move furniture at 3 AM, pissing off everyone else in the house.
   
4. Freak out over a few pimples, use cleanser with salicylic acid for 3 days and nights straight even though I know that my skin is too sensitive to do that and each time I have (Yes, I've done this many times, too.) I've burned my skin (Yes, actual chemical burns. My skin is that sensitive.) and now have weird bumpy, peely, itchy skin.
   
5. Buy more stuff than I need at Lush.

Ok, nix the last, I'd do that even if I weren't dealing with the cabin fever thing. And, really, I did hold back a bit. There were so many things I wanted. And I need to find an alternative to The Soap because I think my skin is either getting drier or something because, ouch, dry skin that made me use a heavier moisturizer than usual and, yep, that's how I got the pimples. So I need to try different cleansers because my skin hates me and is so picky and sensitive and did I mention that it burns if you look at it funny? And I wanted a Gold Glitterbug because I like shiny things and I love their massage bars because they make my skin all nice and soft and not all irritated like everything else in the world does.

Do you think I have enough run-on sentences in here? I need to get out.

No school for you..

When The Boy came home from school yesterday, he was hacking and wheezing like he'd been smoking 2 packs of unfiltereds for about 20 years. Half of it was sincere, half was over-dramatized. His eyes were hopeful when he asked, "No *hackhack* school *coughcough* tomorrow?" To which I answered, "Drink some water, suck on a candy and we'll see."

Periodically he'd return, same hopeful expression, same question. I'd look him over-- a mom knows how sick her kid is just by looking at him-- and give him the same answer.

At bedtime, he came to kiss me good night. That's when I saw it. The bright eyes, pale yet flushed skin and I knew it. "Fever," I told him, "Sit and let me take your temperature." Sure enough, he had a low-grade fever. The bugger actually said, "Phew. So no school, right?" He didn't even try coughing this time.

Today, the fever's gone. He's slightly restless. I'm making him park his little buns on the couch. He pouted a bit. He wanted to cuddle with the cat. I allowed that since he would be forced to sit still during that time. I've been plying him with water and soup and other sick foods. But he's bored, mom. Bored. I told him that he was supposed to be too sick to be bored. I even threatened him with homework if he doesn't rest. I got a thoroughly evil look for that one.

This is why they usually have a very good attendance record.

Knock on Wood

It's been almost two months since the psycho stalker has tried to contact me-- knock on wood. Psycho stalker was the guy who was a friend who thought he might become something more. It was not to be.

He didn't see things that way. He was Mr. I'll-Love-You-Till-the-Day-You-Die. He once told me that I was secretly in love with him but in denial and that one day we would be married. I had flashes of Tom Petty's "Mary Jane's Last Dance" video running through my head, which made me giggle because I not only have an inappropriate sense of humor, but a seriously morbid sense of humor.

It's also been a while since I've heard from Aunt Jo. Almost a month! Thank you, Sally! I'm sure she must've heard my pleas and either gave Aunt Jo a different fake number or her actual number. I don't care which. She's not calling me anymore. Yay!

Now, this time, I'm sure I didn't jinx myself because I knocked on wood.

Kids and Clothes

From the moment my kids could point, they wanted to pick out their own clothes.

The Boy was always excellent at selecting an outfit. He had an eye for color and could match like nobody's business. I recall the time the ex had tried to dress The Boy. He complained that the child started throwing the mother of all fits the second he tried to put clothes on him. The ex also marvelled at how I managed to dress the child each day if this was how he behaved.

I took one look at The Boy and told the ex, "No wonder he's throwing a fit. He doesn't match. Did you let him pick his outfit out?" The ex scoffed. How could a mere baby pick and choose and outfit? And one that matched? I took the poor thing and removed the offending clothing, we walked over to the closet and I let him point out what he wanted. He cooed happily and was quickly dressed. Simple. The ex had learned a lesson that day.

The Girl needed more guidance with her clothing. She thought matching meant wearing one item of each color. Her outfits were loud, to say the least. So, with her, I'd select two outfits and would put them out for her to choose from. We were both happy with this arrangement. I didn't let the ex dress her because he thought that since The Boy picked perfectly fine outfits that The Girl would too.

Did I mention that my ex also dressed as if he were not only blind, but blind drunk and in the dark? Yeah. I had to teach him that plaid and stripes do not go together, I don't care if both contain the color blue.

Now The Girl is a budding fashionista. If she could, she'd dress as if every day were a black tie affair. She's a little princess. I'm teaching her now about makeup application. You don't want to see the kabuki mask she put on herself when I gave her some extra shadows and blush. I'm also teaching her that jeans and a tee? Are a good thing. And I'm teaching her to love the hair she has. She's always felt a bit like an odd duck with her dark blonde hair. But she's the one who gets the most compliments on her hair.

The Boy? He's still well dressed. His clothes are almost always neat and in good condition. I don't know how he manages to keep them so well. He doesn't mind shopping so much-- as long as it's for him. He also doesn't mind dressing up-- as long as it isn't too often. His hair is always rumpled, but I told him that that's fashionable and he's ok with it. Seriously. He was upset about it before that. Yet he never remembers to wipe his mouth after lunch, and crumbs and smears will be found on his face. I don't get it either.

Me? I live in jeans and t-shirts. I hate dressing up, but love how I look when I do. After more than 20 years of fighting with my hair, I've just let it be as wild and crazy as it wants. And it works. I'm addicted to makeup, shoes and bags. I could happily live in Macys. From the time I could point, my mother let me pick out my own outfits. And I always matched.

Next thing you know...

...she'll be wearing Manolos.

My little girl is currently strutting around in her grandmother's borrowed heels. They don't fit, but that doesn't matter. But there was one thing that concerned her:

The Girl: "How do you wear these? Do they ever get more comfortable?"

Mom: "No. You just get used to them."

The Girl: "Eh, doesn't matter. They look good."

I'm telling you, she's 7 going on 27. Did I tell you about the time we were in Macys and she wanted me to buy her a Guess bag because it was "just too cute"?

Poor Kitty

My poor Booboo. He's getting too fat. It's not that he's eating more, he's moving less. We've all been trying to get him to exercise more.

The problem is that you have to pretty much piss him off before he'll play. So we taunt him with string, tease him with his mousie, irritate him with little jangly things. He's moving more, but he's also swiping at us in irritation.

I figured that since he was attacking us anyway, we should smear ourselves with tuna and run around the house in the hopes that he'll give chase. The idea was nixed. I still think it was a stroke of pure brilliance. Maybe I'll try it on the girl. She's a fast runner and it'll be a lesson in Darwinism. It'll be all so very lion in the savannah taking down the graceful-- or in my daughter's case, not so-- gazelle. How very National Geographic.

(Note: Before anyone gets all huffy about the above statement, I would not put my child in harm's way. I was being facetious. Besides, the cat doesn't like red meat, he'd only nip at her a few times. The tuna? Would so be gone, though.)

Another reason why I bring up the cat's weight is his window seat. This is the second morning in a row that I've woken up and found that it had fallen. The velcro was not holding. I wonder if the cold is interfering with the stickiness. I know I cleaned the window sill before I stuck the velcro on.

I think poor Boo was on the window seat when it fell. He seems traumatized. He won't go near it today. Even after I screwed that sucker down. It's not coming off. Well, unless I sit on it. I even tried to demonstrate for the cat how firmly in place it now was. He looked at me like I was mentally unhinged-- which I suppose I am if I'm trying to explain things to a cat-- and walked away.

It has now become my sole mission in life to get this cat back on his window seat. And on a diet and exercise regime.

Weakness

I have a horrible weakness for accents. Granted, that's not unusual. Many find accents charming. But I've been put into embarrassing situations because I've been too busy swooning to actually listen.

Case in point: Many moons ago, I was introduced to a friend of a friend of a friend. He was a lovely, charming British chap. I have a serious weakness for any and all British accents. (I'm worse with Irish and Scottish accents, though.)

During that first week, I saw him quite a few times. We were a close-knit group. Also a bored group since we lived in the sticks. We were often found at each other's apartments. I remember sitting there and turning into a drunken, lobotomized chimp-- no offense to any chimps out there. As hard as I might try, I couldn't wipe the idiotic grin off my face. I nodded, not hearing a word said, and oftentimes asking him to please repeat himself when I realized that the pause in conversation was my cue to reply. I sat in a puddle of my own drool, people. And these were my angry feminist years-- I'm still a feminist, but I've mellowed (translation: I don't hate men).

I finally had to stop him and tell him, "Look, I'm not actually stupid. Nor am I deaf. I'm sorry about drooling on your hand when I shook it. I have a horrible weakness for accents. I will try harder to listen to your actual words, rather than that adorable accent, in the future. " Yes, it was embarrassing to say, but it had to be done. He laughed his charming laugh and we got along smashingly after that.

I still have my drunken, lobotomized chimpanzee moments, but they are, thankfully, less frequent because who wants to have to explain why they've turned into a blithering idiot?

Sunrise, Sunset

Ahh.. Today, while my stomach decided to revolt and I prayed for a swift death, my mind went off into la la land. In other words, I had a flashback.

I was in college, all of 18 years old. I went to this private all girls' school in upstate New York. It was a very small college set on a pretty lake. The campus was gorgeous. I swooned daily from the beauty of it all. Until I moved into the dorm with the geese, but that's another story.

A lot of the time was either spent at a neighboring university or hanging out on the dock at the lake. Many a sunset was spent there. Since it was a small school, we bored easily. We would find entertainment value in the silliest of things. And if it kept us up all night? All the better. Sleep deprivation makes everything more fun!

The school also had many odd little rituals and ceremonies. Either massive amounts of alcohol or sleep deprivation were involved. Sometimes both. Like I said, we made our own fun. On this night, we were required to stay awake all night. Most spent the time drinking. Some moved their dorm's couches out onto the lawns. We could be heard calling to one another across the campus all night. My friends and I had a prime spot and a comfy couch. We decided at dawn, we'd watch the sunrise on the dock. If you were paying attention earlier, you'd see the flaw in our logic. Shh.. Don't tell anyone yet.

We partied it up. Anything to keep awake. I even recall jogging around the building to stay conscious at one point. A bit before dawn, we grabbed our stuff and headed for the lake. We sat and waited. And waited. We noticed the sky getting lighter, but no sunrise. We didn't get it. We determinedly faced west and waited some more. Ahh.. I see you caught it that time. Yes, we faced west.

After it had gotten pretty light, I blurrily wondered what the hell was up with the sunrise. I looked at my watch. Well, past the right time. I turned to look back at the campus. That's when the anvil fell. My excuse is that I was drunk and seriously lacking in sleep. I'll stand by that till the day I die.

I turned to my friends and told them how stupid we were. There was a lot of face palming. We groggily gathered our things and slumped back to campus to watch the seniors do a little ritual dance around a very phallic tree. No, it wasn't May Day. We did a maypole dance then, too. This is what they did before graduating. Then we all went to breakfast and watched the seniors get hammered on mimosas. There was dancing on the tables.

What? You didn't do this at your college?

Was Nietzsche right?

There I was, going through my usual morning routine, visiting each of the blogs on my very long list and one was missing. The blog in question? God's Blog. The god of the uppercase letters. Missing.

Does this mean the end is coming? Should I panic?

The (Quotable) Family

Either my family is very amusing or these drugs are really good.

My father, with his heavy accent and ignorance of all things technological, asked me if I could "de-faggot" his computer. No, he wasn't being bigoted. He meant "defrag". He didn't understand why my mother and I were laughing when he asked how long this process would take. He really didn't get it when I said that his computer was born that way.

My son wondered if he was adopted. Confused, I asked him why he would think that. He said he found a paper with his name on it. He thought it was a receipt from when we bought him. It was his birth certificate.

Maybe it's the drugs.

My Father, the Cheese Pusher

I forgot all about this during my recent woes with my children's doctor's office...

This morning, my father and I were tiredly shuffling around the kitchen, getting our breakfasts ready. I was all bleary eyes and scratchy throated. All I wanted was some tea and food and maybe a cyanide pill or two. My father was seated with his coffee, cheese and bread.

Now, anyone who knows me knows I love cheese. I could probably eat it all day and watch my ass balloon to thrice its size, but I restrain myself a bit. I don't like the stinky, moldy, snobby cheeses. I'm not into processed cheese-food type cheeses either. I just like normal cheese ( i.e., cheddar, edam, gouda, swiss, brie, camembert, parmesan, etc).

I'm not the only cheese-freak in my family either. The only cheese hater in the family is my mom. She can only eat the stuff if it's melted on something. She's a freak.

I should also mention that my father has this tendency to buy things in bulk. The man lives in Costco. He also shops the fresh fruit markets almost constantly. The only problem with this is that half of the time, he refuses to wear his glasses-- vanity-- and brings home half-dead fruits and vegetables. Not just one or two either. Bags of the stuff. We currently have about 3 pounds of spotty bananas. I refuse to look at them much less eat them. Why am I bringing this up? He bought too much cheese. We have a crapload of cheese in our fridge.

My father: "This cheese is good. Try some."

Me: "No, thanks. I've got my brie."

My father: "Here. Just try a piece."

Me: "I'm sure it's very good. Maybe some other time."

My father: After slicing off a chunk, stabs it with the knife and waves it at me. "Eat! It's good!"

Me: "I don't want your cheese! I want my cheese! You can't make me eat the cheese!"

My father: Yelling after me as I run away, "You didn't try the cheese!"

Yeah, sure the first chunk is free. Then what? Next thing you know, I'll be just a shadow of my former self. I'll haunt the cheese shops. I'll maybe get a job in one just to be near a good hunk of parmesano reggiano. After they fire me for carressing the gouda; I'll be found in the alley, living in a cardboard box that I decorated with bits of red wax, drawing pictures of great big wheels of cheddar. Is this the kind of life he wants for his only child?

Hallelujah!

Otherwise known as an update..

It was like a religious experience. There I was, down and out, depressed, cowering under my desk, weeping, wailing, wondering, "Why, god? Why?" I thought there was no hope left in this world. I dialed again.

And there she was. A tiny spark, but she shone so brightly in all the darkness. She took down my information. I asked if maybe I could please pick it up after school and she said, "Sure!"

I never got her name, but I'm sure she was sent from heaven above. Thank you, oh angel of mercy disguised as a nurse. I hope you will be there one month from now when I'll need you again.

Someone up there hates me..

Really hates me. Like big, steaming, heaping bowls full of hate.

The boy is running low on meds. He takes something for his ADHD. The doctor, neurologist, and I work together on this. If all is good, I just call ahead, telling them I need a 'script and then pick it up later. Every so often, they'll have us drop by for a check up. It's a good system. It works. Save everyone a lot of time.

Why don't they just call it in to the pharmacy? Well, that's not allowed due to the drug involved. I need an actual paper prescription to hand to the pharmacist. It's a pain, but I understand why.

So I call the doctor's office and I listen to the phone ring. For five minutes. This is after the receptionist has patched me to the office I need to talk to. I call again. Same thing. Again. I get someone, she puts me through to someone else and I listen to the phone ring for-- I'm not sure how long, I know it was longer than five minutes because I started dozing off. Call again. No answer at all. Call once more, "Hi, lovely receptionist! It is me. Again. Please, make someone not hate me and answer. I just want a voice.." so I get patched through, again, and listen to the lovely ringing, again, for-- I don't remember, I blacked out a bit after banging my head on the wall in time to the rings. Wait! A voice. I regain consciousness. Shit. It's voicemail. I leave a message and pray it is coherent and someone calls back. I crawl under my desk to weep bitterly.

While in the fetal postition, rocking back and forth, I consider switching doctors. Not because I don't like this one-- no, on the contrary, I love this doctor-- but because I can't handle the other people in his office. All of this not answering of the phones. I'm sure they're busy, but isn't it someone's job to answer phones? Isn't someone collecting a paycheck for this answering phone business? Maybe I should run down there and answer the phone for them, just so I could have someone to talk to. Do you think they'd pay me if I were to do that? Or would security ceremoniously toss me out of the building? Or would they even notice with all of this busy, busy not answering phone nonsense?

I need a nap.

No use denying it...

I've caught the munchkin's cold. She's been sniffling and snuffling away the past few days. School is rife with germs and this cold has been wending it's way to our house for a while now. It was only a matter of time. I knew the girl was getting sick. She looked awful. She has dark circles under her eyes and was crankier than usual. We all suffer from varying degrees of crankiness in this family.

I woke this morning feeling like someone had glued sandpaper to the insides of my lids and then glued my lids shut. My throat is starting to feel sympathy pains for my eyes. My body is just mimicking both my eyes and throat. I'm so going to bed early tonight. No, really. I mean it this time. Early bed time. Make the cold go away. Am I fooling anyone? I'll try to go to bed early, at least. That counts for something, right?

And the topper? No Arrested Development tonight! Damn you, Super Bowl! Damn you!

Spoiled

Our cat is very spoiled.

How many cats have their own water fountain? But to be honest, it's really cool and now I don't have to change his water constantly. It filters and cools the water! And it makes him happy. He likes drinking running water for some strange reason and I never liked giving him tap water. It's not safe to drink.

Did I mention how happy it makes him? Now he doesn't have to barge in on us when we're in the bathroom. He'll stand out side the door and meow until you let him in. Or he used to. Then he'd hop up on the sink and stare at you until you turned the water on. It had to be cool and had to run at a specific volume.

Did I mention how much of a pain in the ass he is? If you didn't do this, he'd first whine and act cute about it, but he has his evil side. He's been known to nip and/or scratch. He's gotten better about the claws, and usually slaps. I hate it when he runs up behind me to slap me behind the knee. Flashbacks to my childhood and my uncle who'd do that. I keep expecting him to give me "flat tires" next.

He also has his window seat. He adores this thing. He used to have to snuggle in fleece blankets, preferably when we were under them. Now he's got this and we've almost become obsolete. I'm not sure I can blame him. A soft, fuzzy seat, a view and all of the birds and squirrels he can look at.

He's also got nearly as many toys as the kids. But his favorites? The ones he stole from the kids. He has this little rubbery Tigger toy. It's about an inch tall. He drags that sucker everywhere with him. He also likes to bat it around at 3 A.M.

He also loves his little rubber tire. He stole it from the boy. The boy-- or Destructo Boy, as I fondly call him-- destroyed a little toy truck within .025 seconds of buying it. (Yes, I make them buy most of their own toys. They break them so quickly. I buy biggie items and threaten them with grievous harm if anything should happen to them.) The tires were the only surviving items from it. The Boo loves his little rubber tire(s). He can also be found batting them around, in front of our bedroom doors, at 3 A.M.

I'm thinking of getting him a kitty condo for Christmas. Is there a 12-step program for this? I'm turning into crazy cat lady.

Various Reactions to My Hair

Mom: Jaw dropped. She said, "I thought you were cutting your bangs?" After I explained the slip-up to her, she said, "It's cute. You had a cut like that before. I like it."

Cat: Wouldn't come near me until later this morning. Won't give me kisses. Will allow me to pet him. Not happy with the change.

Son: "You cut your hair?" and then shrugging and walking away. He's a charmer isn't he?

Daughter: "I'm not saying it's bad or anything, but it's....freaky. I mean, when I went to bed it was long. And now...it's short. Do you like it?"

Father: Still hasn't noticed. But then, once it took him a week to notice that I cut my hip-length hair into a short jaw-length bob. He then accused me of cutting it that very day and wouldn't talk to me for a week or so. It took him 3 days to notice the bright red and blonde streaks I put in my hair last year. I keep threatening to go with a purple mohawk just to see how long it takes him to notice.

A Snippet of Conversation

Me: I posted. I had to.

Me: A comment was just itching to come out.

J: You're always itching to comment. What someone had for dinner works you into a frenzy.

Me: Hee! I can't help it!

It's sad when your friends know you this well. It's amazing when they still put up with you anyway.

Oops!

Looks like I'm a hypocrite!

I've told many people to never ever cut their own hair. Unless it's just bangs 'cause that's nothing. I even used to yell at one of my girlfriends when we were in beauty school about cutting her own hair. She'd always tell me in her Albanian accent, "You had client! I cut a little."

So tonight.. I decided to trim up my bangs. Then I thought, some light layering to blend in the bangs would be good. And, well, oops. I cut too much. It was either sport a mullet or go short.

I went short, of course. As if there were any doubt! I had to lop off a good 5 inches. It's about jaw-length now. And I have to go to my dear Albanian friend and have her go over my hair and snip a bit here and there. I'm sure I'll be hearing a few "I told you so"s.

Oh, the irony. It's too funny.

Naps: the Pros and Cons.

Pros:

1. Sleeping is good.
2. I love my bed. So warm, so cozy.
3. I get some of my best ideas in that state between sleep and awake.
4. My dreams are odd and sometimes funny.
5. Did I mention that I love my bed?

Cons:

1. I wake up groggy.
2. My bed? Don't want to leave it.
3. Those great ideas? I forget most of them before I'm fully awake.
4. Sometimes I do weird things in my sleep.
5. No, you can't make me leave the bed.

I took a nap a little while ago. I know it's not even noon yet, but I woke up early. Really early. And I was tired. Really tired. Why did I wake up early? I had some ideas I needed to get down. I only remembered one of the ideas. I wrote it down on the notepad beside my bed and then couldn't sleep. So I got up and did the design that woke me up. You so owe me, J. I promised you two banners and-- by golly!-- my brain was determined to follow through.

After that, I crashed out for a few hours. I woke up spitting. Yes, literally spitting onto my pillow. I'd had a dream in which I'd eaten something unappealing. For the life of me, I can't remember what that was now. But I spit on my pillow. Spit. On my pillow. Not drool. Actually "ptooey" spit. I had to change the pillow case. I grossed myself out. That was the only reason I got out of bed today. It was so warm and cozy. Outside of the bed? Not warm and cozy. But no spitty pillows either.

Banner Day

I felt the creative spark and it set my brain afire. And burned it to a crisp. At least I got some banners done first. I made two new banners for myself and one for J (who has given me the titles: Head Technician, Head Designer, and Fashionista).

Unfortunately, I can't post the banners here. They're too wide and it'll look all icky. Instead, I'm posting the links. Well, to my banners anyway. Maybe J will post his, too.

The new banners (made today):

• 3 out of 4 (my favorite)
• Roscoe

An older banner: Clock

What's with the sheep? Just look at them. Comedic gold, my friends. Nothing says "big laughs" like disgruntled sheep.

3 out of 4 sheep agree.

The (Late) Obligatory Groundhog Day Post

Over dinner last night, I mention that I had heard that the irascible rodent saw his shadow and we were to have 6 more weeks of winter. I didn't know that this groundhog thing was such a touchy subject for my mother.

"That was the Punxsutawney Phil from Pennsylvania. But Chuck from Staten Island didn't see his shadow! Chuck is more accurate! I don't know why this Phil is more famous, his predictions are only 50/50 at best. Chuck's accuracy rate is around 80%!"

I stared at her, mouth agape, for a few seconds before I managed to get "Groundhog Day. That's why, uh, Phil is famous." To which she replied, "But he's not accurate!"

I think she finally heard the vehemency in her own voice because she looked almost embarrassed as she said, "And, uh, yeah. A groundhog. Heh."

Silly groundhog! You need to back up your theories with scientific data! No more of this willy nilly predicting. Someone might think you didn't know what you were doing or something.

Disclaimer

I feel like I need to put this here. If you don't know me personally, don't assume you know me by what you read. Being a "writer", I take certain liberties. I distort, manipulate, tweak. Basically, I lie a bit to make things more amusing. I do not write conversations word for word unless I specifically say so. I do not whip out a recorder if I think something might be funny so I can blog about it later. I remember the gist and fill in details.

If you don't like something you read here-- or at any blog-- move on. My blog is my house. You don't come into my house to tell me I'm a mean, bad person. Just go away. As your mother taught you-- or should have-- if you've got nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.

I could choose to show myself as a wonderfully perfect Mary Poppins version of a mother. I choose not to. Why? Because I'm not. I'm not perfect. I'm human. And guess what? Humans are fallible. It's true. I swear it. I even make it a point to show my kids that, yes, even moms make mistakes. I also practice what I preach when I tell them to always try their best because that's all they can do. And they know that I love them.

No one is perfect. No one is the perfect parent. Your style of parenting might be different from mine, but that doesn't make either better. They are just different. It doesn't matter how hard you try, eventually you will do something that will fuck up your child. You just hope that the damage is minimal. It could be something as simple as giving them a bunny for Easter. The bunny scratches them and there it is: The child has developed a life-long fear of rabbits. Did you mean to hurt the child when you bought the bunny? Of course not. Did you mean to make them scared? No! But it happened anyway. Is anyone to blame?

As you can see, I don't buy into Freudian psychology. I don't think everything is our parents' faults. Some do indeed do awful things and are bad people, but not most. Most just try to get along as best as they can. They love their children and want a better life for them. And yet some people will spend their entire lives blaming a parent for something that "ruined (their) entire life". Unless it was something truly devastating-- and believe me, I've heard horror stories-- I think people need to deal with it, get over it, and move on already. I didn't have the best childhood in the world, but damn, I'm not going to spend my life whining about it. Or blaming anyone else for my shortcomings. Any limits I place on myself? I take responsibility for them.

So, in summary, you don't know me. Unless you actually do, then "Hi!" We're all trying our best. Let's not beat up on everyone we don't agree with. My house, you don't like it, go. Someone said something mean when you were little? You're not little anymore, grow up and take responsibility for your actions.

I'm quite sure I'll get flamed for this, but I'm so over it already.

Pretty please?

I'm not one to ask people to join me in my crusades, but I think that this is a very important cause. A friend sent me this link. It's a petition to keep music in schools. So many schools cut out their arts programs. It's a crying shame, y'all! The arts are important! They actually help you with other subjects such as language, math, and sciences.

Please sign this petition. We need to keep arts programs in our schools. Thank you.

In an Operetta

My daughter came up to me last night, all bouncy and excited and said, "Mom! I can sing opera! Listen!" She then unleashed the most unholy sound that made not only the baby Jesus cry, but made all eardrums within a 5 mile radius rupture and bleed. I couldn't keep the pained wince off my face. I gently sat her down for yet another "talk".

Me: "Honey, you know I love you, right?"

The Girl: "Uh huh! I sing good, right?"

Me: "You know I don't lie to you, right?"

The Girl: "Uh huh! Wanna hear me sing again?"

Me: "NO! Umm.. No. Thanks. Baby, didn't we have a talk about singing? I don't want you to feel badly about this. No one in our family can sing. That doesn't mean.."

The Girl: "Except me! I can sing opera! I'm loud!"

Me: "Yes. Very..loud. But loud doesn't always equal good. I know you love singing, Munchkin. It's good that you love singing! But.."

The Girl: "I love singing and I'm good, too!"

Me: "Not exactly.."

Mom: "Sweetie, maybe if you pract-"

Me: "NO! No practicing. Ok, kiddo. I'm gonna give it to you straight. No one in this family can sing. No one."

The Girl: "Except me! I can sing opera! See?"

Much screeching ensued. The gentle sounds of weeping could be heard in the background.

Me: "Please stop! Please! Baby, you can't sing opera. No! No, you can't. You can't sing. That doesn't mean you..have to stop singing. You could sing quietly, right? Quiet is good."

The Girl: "But I'm a good.."

Me: "I'm sorry, Munch. Not good. But look at me! I can't sing! I sing really badly but that doesn't stop me! I just don't hurt people's ears because I'm not loud with it."

The Girl: "I can sing!"

Me: "Oh, you're just being stubborn now."

So if you hear an ungodly screech, I'm very sorry. I couldn't stop her. I recommend earplugs, a bottle of Percocets, and some vodka to wash them down with. It almost worked for me.

Here we go again...

Some minor tweakage.

I got bored.


As you were..

Such a little thing...

But it makes such a difference.

Every Saturday I go food shopping. It's always been that way. This past Saturday, I went food shopping. Nothing shocking there. It's actually a rather tedious experience made frustrating by two very easily distracted children who are prone to wandering off without notice. I come home from each shopping trip with a throbbing head, if that's any indication of how things go.

You would be surprised by how much food those two little bodies can pack away. Food is expensive, so I hunt for bargains. I was outraged by the price of boneless, skinless chicken breasts.

'How difficult could it be to debone and skin them?' I snidely thought aloud. Thinking I was outsmarting someone somewhere, I grabbed a package of (much cheaper) split chicken breasts. I really should stick around long enough to answer my own questions. They keep me from doing stupid things.

What I thought would be merely a 10-minute cost-effective mini-project turned into a half an hour of hell with a dull knife. At one point, I considered turning the knife on myself, but it was covered with chicken fat and ew.

I couldn't swear either since the boy was sitting at the kitchen table avoiding his homework. He'll take any excuse to not do his work and my swearing would definitely distract. The only thing worse than deboning and skinning a chicken is getting a lecture on cussing from an 8-year old.

I've learned my lesson, oh pricing god of the supermarket. I will, henceforth, pay the extra money for the boneless skinless chicken breasts. And a new knife set. You couldn't carve butter with this one.