Hell Hath No Fury Like A Toddler Scorned

It's a gorgeous, Carolina blue-sky day and I'm finally getting around to spring cleaning because, you know, it's October. I was cleaning windows on the front porch while The Boy and The Princess were riding bikes. She kept getting mad because he kept winning the race up the driveway. (It's only a race if he's in front already or it has been predetermined that he shall be the victor. Every time they get to the end of the driveway, he turns quick and starts heading back toward the house screaming, "I win! I win!" This reduces The Princess to a screaming puddle of girl standing in the middle of the driveway beside the crumpled bike that she has slammed to the ground.)

She ran up the steps, stepped inside the front door and yelled, "Mom...and you help me wock dis door!"
"Why Princess?
"'Cause I want wock Brother out!"
"Princess, you can't lock your brother out."
"FINE! Den I go up my woom!"
"Baby, that's not a nice thing to do."
"FINE! Den I hate you!" Stomp, stomp, ...stomp, stomp, ...stomp, stomp. (Stomping up the stairs is a painfully long process when you're three and you have to land both feet on every step before you go up to the next one. By the time she gets about half way up, you're over the shock of the stubborn, screaming toddler and you have to turn away to not laugh at her.)
"Baby Girl! That is a terrible thing to say!"
Stomp, stomp...stomp, stomp...SLAM!
O......M......G.
Yeah, she's cute now. But one day this is going to be the one that shows up with the long-haired boyfriend and takes the hubby and I out with a .38 for insurance money. Remember that I said this.

I'm Gonna Miss Stupid...

"Stupid is as stupid does." - Forrest Gump

stu-pid adj. 1. In a stupor; stupefied. 2. Slow to apprehend; dull; obtuse. 3. Showing a lack of sense or intelligence. 4. Uninteresting; trite or dull. -n Informal. A stupid person. - The American Heritage Dictionary

When exactly did "stupid" become the latest in a long list of words we can no longer use? Certainly, some words should have gone away long before they did...the "n-word", "colored", "retarded"(oh, I miss "retarded"), "faggot", etc....but "stupid"? What was the cataclysmic event that happened to cause all the hatred toward "stupid"? These other words indeed are derogatory toward certain groups of people that refer to something that they can't change about themselves...color, sexual orientation, mental handicaps....but, really..."stupid'? Honey...that's a whole other group of people altogether!

If nothing happens because of stupidity then we have to find a "real reason" behind doing stupid things. Everything has to have a meaning, an excuse, a cause and effect... I hate to break it to you....but sometimes "stupid" IS the reason.

"Johnny broke his arm because he tried to skateboard off the roof into the swimming pool."
"Why in the world would he do a thing like that?"
"Because....he's stu-....wait....because he was acting out against tyranny and oppression, the stress of eighth grade math, the-the-the destruction of the rain forests, arctic ice caps are melting, um...Daddy doesn't hug him enough, uh.....uh....and did you know that jellyfish are taking over the oceans?!!!"

Exhausting. Geez, wouldn't it be easier to just go straight to "stupid"?

And in case you haven't seen this, nothing gets a Mom up in arms like one kid calling another "stupid". Recently I witnessed the following:

"Dude...that was so stupid!"
"Johnny...you know we don't use THAT word in OUR house!"
"But, Mom...."
"Absolutely NOT, Johnny........"

Okay, now wait a minute. Wasn't that same little brat just screaming at his mom to buy him a "new frickin' Nintendo" five minutes ago? "Frickin'"....and "stupid" was the thing that put her over the edge.

Isn't it so funny that we get all caught up in the new Mom rules of the day that we forget common sense. So busy trying to measure up the new PC standards that we can't even see the stupid forest for the stupid trees?

"Stupid" is a great word. It's useful, succinct, and, usually, pretty accurate. I'm holding on to you "stupid"! I'll fight the "stupid" fight!!!

Not Quite The Circle of Life

I was sitting at breakfast with The Boy this morning, enjoying a little "boy & Mommy time", which we seldom get to have. As we were enjoying our grilled cheeses, he said to me, "Mom, and you know what I dreamed 'bout this night?"

"What, little buddy?" (Oh, he's sharing a little picture into his soul...what a moment! The house is quiet and it's just my baby boy and me. Oh...this is sooo "Hallmarky".)

"Well, you 'member we watched that show the other (pronounced "udder") day and there was that jaguar chasing that baby reindeer (a baby antelope, but at my house anything with four legs and the possibility of having horns is called a reindeer)?"

"Yeah, little man, I remember that."

"Well, I dreamed last night that I was standing in front and I caught that little baby reindeer." (Ahhh, a hero in the making! What a kind, loving heart he has already. Taking on a jaguar! He's going to be such a lovely grown man...considerate, gentle, with a touch of heroic when necessary. I'm quite amazed at myself for molding this little creature into the kind of man he'll become. I wasn't raised around boys so I was nervous I wouldn't be able to pull it off, ya know? I chuckle and shake my head at doubting myself. I'm actually getting a little teary just thinking about it. I've got to set this grilled cheese down so that when he finishes this tale I can scoop him up and cover him with kisses. What an angel! A blond haired, blue-eyed angel!)

"Son, you caught that little baby reindeer? I'm so proud of you! You rescued that poor, tiny thing and saved it from that big, bad jaguar?"

"No, Mom. I let him eat it."

Pestilence, Contamination, and Water Bugs...Oh, My

Funny, a rose by any other name would smell the same...but if you find a cockroach in YOUR house it's called a "water bug"!

Not too long after we moved into the new house, I opened the kitchen cabinet where I keep the kids' cups one morning and, lo and behold, what should be up on the top shelf...a ginormous, disgusting, creep-crawly "water bug"! Holy...total...contamination. Great. Now I'm going to have to bleach everything in the cabinet. You caught the whole "kid's cups" part, right? Water bottles, sippy cups and ALL those little pieces. What the hell? I've NEVER had a "water bug" in my house! I'm completely freakish about cleanliness in the kitchen. How could this have happened? OMG - I want to gut the whole kitchen and build a new one! After a few seconds of repulsive dry heaving, I knew I had to get up there and get the thing. Top shelf, mind you, so I had to get a chair. No one else was up yet, so it was up to me to handle the situation. I quietly dragged a chair over to the counter, yanked off one of my wedge-heeled flip flops, and slowly approached the thing, which was haphazardly perched atop a plastic water bottle. Ew! Didn't like that bottle anyway.

Anyhow, I carefully, timidly, silently came up behind the thing, lifting up my flip flop in my right hand like a sword ready to strike...preparing myself for the disgusting crunch sound of the kill...and so help me God, that thing FLEW off the cup and HIT me in my LIP nearly knocking me and my one flip flop off the chair and onto the floor! Holy, holy, holy complete and total contamination!!! I'M GOING TO HAVE TO BLEACH MY UPPER LIP! Um...for the FIRST TIME!

It flew (Yes...FLEW! They FLY! Gross factor just got multiplied by 10,000.) across the kitchen and landed, of course, on the top of the cabinet on the other side of the island. I grabbed a paper towel and a bottle of 409 and scoured my face, all the while keeping an eye on my "friend" on the other side of the room. Oh, it is SO on! You came into the WRONG house, buddy! After three attempts, nearly spraining my ankle, knocking stuff off the counters, and hobbling around the room with the chair(one flip flop still on and one in hand) I finally caught up with that damn thing and nearly gagged when I squashed it beneath my shoe. Oh *shiver* that is SO gross! (I failed to mention the part about when all the racket woke the kids up and they came downstairs and said, "Mommy, don't kill it. Catch it and put it outside." Oh, go hug a tree you little hippies. This is war...and war is ugly! Grab a PopTart and go find a cartoon or something. Put it outside...geesh...)

As soon as it was over and I reclaimed the kitchen as MY domain, I grabbed the phone book and called the exterminator. "I don't care what it costs...get here now! I HAVE A SITUATION!" I've heard that if you see one bug, there are a hundred. I sat at the kitchen table, waiting for them to start dive bombing me from every direction, seeking revenge for their fallen comrade. I had my flip flop. I was ready.

David the Bug Man, my new best friend, arrived and went all around the house, inside and out, up and down, and assured me this bug was a lone ranger. He also said that most people don't know this, but it is very common for cockroaches, I mean...um..."water bugs", to come into your home at night, scurry around, and leave out the same place they came in before dawn. Oh yeah...and EVERYBODY has them.

So sleep well my friends. Rest peacefully thinking that your house is quiet, clean, and "water bug"-free. But, apparently, no matter how completely OCD you are about cleanliness, cockroaches are up all night and they are probably doing a conga line down your kitchen counter.

Night, night. Don't let the "water bugs" bite.

How Y'alls Guys Doin'?

Northerners listen up. I'm just going to say this one time. People that are born and bred in the south NEVER refer to one lone person as "y'all". "Y'all" is plural. It's not that we mind you mimicking the talk when you are down here visiting. We know. It IS cute and it IS fun to talk this way. But when you refer to one person as "y'all", it's as wrong as Renee Zellweger's accent in "Bridget Jones' Diary" and you ain't foolin' nobody, sugar. It'd be like if one of us headed up north, walked up to you in a deli and said, "How y'alls guys doin'?"

You Might Be A Redneck...

If you've ever ordered a cake in the shape of a pound of bacon for your best friend's 40th birthday...you might be a redneck.

Add this cake to the many reasons why I love living in the South. Not too many folks up North would order up a bacon birthday cake.

No, it wasn't bacon flavored, but I wonder....

Hope It's Not Lost In Translation

This is how they REALLY say them...and they correct me if I say them the "right" way.

God is great. God is good.
Lettuce thank 'em for our food.
By his hands, we are Fred.
Give us, Lord, our daily bread.
Amen.


Now I weigh me down a sweep,
I pray da wormie soul a keep.
And if I die before I wake,
I pray da wormie soul a cake.
Amen.

Are You There God? It's Me, Xanax.

(Mommy Disclaimer: My Big Girl is getting her feelings hurt because, to date, I have mostly just published posts about the two little ones. I explained to her that this is because I pretty much only post things that will later be completely embarrassing to them and they will probably hate me for it. She's all about the drama and, therefore, any press is good press. I write the following with her permission...and she chose the picture, too.)

Since My Big Girl is about to turn 11, I pretty much stay in a nervous Aunt Flow mode waiting for her "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret" moment to arrive. (Boys, you're not going to get the reference unless you've spent at least some portion of your life as a fifth grade girl.) Every time she yells from the bathroom, I run at break-neck speed across the house only to find, to my relief, that she just forgot to get a towel before she got in the shower or something to that effect. I'm really dreading the day. Such unfortunate business and I hate for her to have to deal with it. (I have Yankee family members that practically throw a party for the lucky girl when she starts her "lady's days" and then they go on and on to her about how "wonderful it is" and "you're a woman now." Are you people serious?)

My Big Girl has picked up on my fear and is now starting to toy with me. She ran into the office the other day in a panic and screamed, "Mom! Mom! I started my period!"

I nearly jumped out of my chair, "What? What? What!"

"Just kidding," she smiled. "Can I have some ice cream?"

Sigh. Fan myself. "It's in the freezer."

Takes One To Know One

To maintain my good standing with all my Johnston County friends referred to in "You Say Tomato.....", here is a picture of my kids' very own Redneck Water Slide.

I said I had Rednecks in my family, too. I just didn't tell you that I was one of 'em.

Life's a Bea-otch.

I live at the coast but I rarely take my kids to the beach. It is a complete and total hassle to lug the kids and all their gear from the parking lot (if the gods smile upon you and you find a parking spot), across the blistering hot sand, and down to the shore. Oh, and don't forget to factor in The Boy, who is completely friggin' OCD about having sand in his flip flops. I have to leave the girls with him at the edge of the parking lot, take all the crap down to the shore by myself, come back across the scorching sand, gather up the girls and lug the boy Dead Man style over my shoulder whilst balancing on my wedge flip flops (Flat flips flops? Cretin.) back again across the Sahara only to find that a couple of tourist kids have snagged half of my kids' sand toys while I was gone. Then, when it's time to leave, you have to reverse the whole from-the-parking-lot-to-the-beach-deal, but this time with tired, wet, sandy, salty, sticky, sweaty, cranky children in tow. Don't even get me started on the de-sanding of the crotches when we get home. Who needs her hoo-ha exfoliated? For all these reasons, I usually just take my kids to my mother's house and let them swim in her pool.

Since beach-going is a rare occasion, taking my kids out of the pool and onto a beach is like taking me out of the AC and into a tent, especially since my idea of camping is when the cable goes out. Today when we went, once I snapped out of the grips of my shark phobia (thanks a lot, Shark Week), I got quite tickled when I looked around and noticed what my kids were wearing compared to all the other kids out there. While the tourist's kids and the laying-out-not-paying-attention-and-OMG-are-you-really-still-laying-out-using-baby oil-have-you-not-seen-the-data-on-skin-cancer momma's kids were out there nearly drowning in the surf, my kids had decked themselves out in arm floaties and inner tubes. Pool wear...at the beach. My Big Girl's little friend was even wearing swim goggles. Could they have looked MORE out of place? These kids are SO not acclimated to surf and sand. And then there was me, snapping pics of my little monkeys from every possible angle: from the beach, from the sand, in the water, making a sandcastle, etc. What a bunch of dorks. It's like we should've been wearing T-shirts that say, "No, seriously. We're not tourists. We actually live here."

I waited until we got on the beach to put sunscreen on us all. Mistake. Sunscreen plus sand equals something like an apricot facial scrub. Except is doesn't rinse off. The surf was unrelenting and kept knocking the little ones down, flotation devices and all. I tried to keep up with them but the current kept dragging them away from me. Once I saw a rogue wave approach and as I bent down to reach for The Princess, the wave knocked her under and all I got was a handful of ruffly baby butt. Something banged into my leg (which I was positive was a Great White). I screamed and turned to find The Boy smashing into me, butt up head down, too. They both came up spitting and crying. Fun fun fun. My Big Girl, however, was purely delighted with the waves because, "Dude, the boogie boarding is awesome!" (From Mom to Dude. Is that an upgrade?) I figured out about half-way through our beach fun that there was going to be Smirnoff and a Xanax in my future this evening. I was so completely freaked by the rip current and pounding surf that I had to keep counting heads - my three kids plus one. I must have looked like some sort of deranged Rain Man Mom out there, pointing with my finger as I counted one-two-three-four.....one-two-three-four...one-two-three-where the hell is-oh, there she is-four. Mommy says I'm an excellent counter.

After about two hours of all this excitment and the salt water getting into my eyes and making my mascara run (don't ask...I don't know why either), I was ready to call it quits. I loaded up all the I-don't-want-to-go-home-so-I'm-going-to-stand-here-and-scream sandy bottoms and their gear and headed inland. The two little ones, exhausted and sunburned where their apricot facial scrub suncreen treatment had rubbed off, could only whine and cry the whole way home. My Big Girl sat in the back irritated that, once again, the younger two had ruined her life because she had to leave her "killer wave session" and "sit in the back seat with the whiny babies." Then she added the obligatory, "I hate my life." (Don't mistake me, I get a similar reaction when we leave the pool, but it's only a 10 minute ride home with all this "familial love", compared to the 30 minute hell ride that it is from the beach to my house.)

Enough of this beach business! I've gotten in my mandatory beach day this summer. Back to the pool tomorrow. At the pool the toys are already there, the only rogue wave is from a cannonball dive in the deep end, the worst thing you have to rinse off of you when you leave is the smell of chlorine, and the only thing that is going to bite you is one of my kids - which is bound to happen at some point in the day anyway. I think I'm going to stick with my original theory. If it doesn't smell like chlorine and have a pretty, fake blue tile print on the liner, I ain't going in.

You say 'tomato', I say 'to-mah-to'...but I'm pretty sure lil' Preston calls it a 'mater'.

I took my mom, my three monkeys, and a little buddy for some R&R at the local beach today. I was wading in the surf with The Princess when this little boy (about 8) rams into me on his boogie board and says through two missing teeth, "These here ain't zackly good condeetions fer surfin." It was all I could do not to giggle. So I said back, "It shore ain't, sugar." Bless his heart. ("Bless his heart." Much has been written about this saying and it's all true. If somebody says anything ugly or demeaning about you and they tag it with a "bless your heart", they can say pretty much anything horrible that they want to and it's all on you to forgive them. It's like a giant eraser. To a lesser extent, you can also tag "sweetie", "sugar", or "honey" at the end of anything, combined with an arm rub, it's sort of the same thing. "Well, your back-end looks as wide as the hills in that dress, sugar." *rub the arm* See, you're not allowed to get mad at that.) When we were leaving, he and his momma were up by the showers rinsing off and I heard her yell to him, "Preston, git yourself over here raht now!" That there was one of them Johnston County accents! Then she said to me, "The problem ain't gettin' 'em on da beach, it's agettin' 'em off! That's why we got ourselves a pool." Immediately I pictured five folding beach chairs and a leaky, red Igloo cooler around one of those plastic pools they sell in front of the grocery store every summer. This, of course, would be sitting out in the yard right beside the car on cinder blocks and at the end of the slide on the swing set so the 'youngerns' would have 'theirselves' a water slide!' I can see little Preston at the top of the slide right now saying, "Hey, ya'll...watch 'iss!" Lord, I do love me some rednecks! Don't write me and call me judgmental! I've got 'em in family, too. Honey, I live in the South. We've ALL got 'em in here! Sugar. Bless their hearts.

And on the eighth day...

And on the eighth day, God said, "Let there be pralines made at River Street Sweets in Charleston." And God saw that it was gooooooooood.

Mom-Mo-Mo-Mom, thisth sith what she's tryin' to thay...

It cracks me up that The Boy, 4, still feels the need to "translate" what The Princess, 3, is saying to us, especially considering that he stutters and has a lisp and she doesn't. Sometimes if we don't hear it from her first, we have no idea what the hell he is talking about!

The Return of the Prodigal Mom

I just got back into town from being away for four days on vacation with my cousin, M. (Only my own bottom to wipe for four days....ah....nirvana.) I just knew when I drove up to my house the kids were going to go CRAZY and run out to the car and cover me with kisses and hugs and "PLEASE DON'T LEAVE US AGAINs" and "WE LOVE YOU MOMMYs". I pulled in and layed on the horn, put the mini-van (Honda Mom-Mobile) in park, got out, and readied myself for the blast of affection I was about to receive. (I do, after all, spend my entire life caring for their every whim and need. I know that my leaving for four days must have been excruciatingly painful for them. My welcome was sure to be a tearful and joyful reunion!) Finally, after I honked the horn AGAIN, the husband and kids sauntered out the house onto the porch (looking a little irritated at having to leave the air conditioner to welcome me). They all said, "Hey" in a rather obligatory manner and then The Boy yelled across the driveway, "Mom....why did your carriage ride last SO long?" (Okay - I remember telling him that I was going to Charleston and that I was going on a carriage ride. Apparently, The Boy thought I had been on a carriage ride the whole time. What the hell did he think I was doing...reenacting the friggin' Lewis and Clark Expedition?) So, I'm still standing there by the van and it becomes evident to me that the only effort any of them was going to make to welcome me home was to step out of the front door. (What, no banners? No balloons? Flowers?) They certainly were not about to go all out and come down the steps! So I ran across the driveway, up the steps, grabbed the little ones up, and asked, "Did you miss me?" My husband smiled and said nothing, but I could tell that he was silently contemplating whether or not now would be a good time to ask if he could go play golf. I silently told him back, Oh hell no! My Big Girl kissed my cheek. The Princess said nothing. The Boy said, "Not bad and not much, but a little bit." I'll take it.

I decided to show my appreciation for all my husband, my parents, and friends had done with the kids to make my trip possible, so I made a big dinner for all of them: fried chicken (it was going to be grilled but a severe thunderstorm rolled in right as I found the charcoal), pasta salad, big green salad, the works. Needless to say, any effort like that takes a lot of prep and cookware to pull off. I was exhausted from the trip, worn out from prep work and cooking, and all my husband could say when he came into the kitchen right before I put the meal on the table was, "This kitchen didn't look THIS bad the whole time you were gone." Sigh.

Did I mention that there was also a raging forest fire a few miles from my house when I came home, too? Lightning struck a tree in the national forest nearby moments before I drove up. Coincidence?

Okay, so let's sum it up...no one really cared much that I had returned (did they even give a damn that I left?), they only missed me a "little bit", I was told that I did more damage in the kitchen in one meal than had been done in there in almost a week, and we had a monster storm roll in which, conveniently, put out a forest fire a few miles from my house. Welcome home, me.

For Brenda

A drunken E.T. in my kitchen floor.

Don't Tread On Me

This is a pic of the evil clown face in the floor at the end of our hallway. It used to scare the hell out of me. (Yes, I scare easily. I'm almost 40 and when I'm walking down a dark hallway at nighttime I still dash the last few steps to the bedroom door because, you know, the monster sneaking up behind me can't run and there is a magical barrier that keeps it out of the bedroom!) At first I thought it's demonic, crooked grin might be hypnotizing me, compelling me to look down and acknowledge it's evil hold on me every time I turned the corner. But now, we've made amends and are even friendly with one another. "Morning, Mr. Clown Face." "Don't step on my face, woman!"

What's on your mind? (a la Facebook)

Kimberly Murdoch just lulled the little ones away from the computer with the promise of cartoons, lemonade, and Pop Tarts for breakfast. What? Oh, pipe down Granola Mom! I'm going to give them a vitamin later. I'm trying to teach them that life is all about balance, anyway. Yes, Mrs. Wheat Bread...they were sugar coated and covered with sprinkles! Don't you dare try to guilt me, woman! Isn't there a baby seal out there somewhere being clubbed right now that you should run off and save?

Life, Humility, and the Pursuit of Smirnoff

On Sunday mornings we go to the early church service at 8:30 am. It's works well for us. We get out early enough to buy hash browns at McDonald's for the masses (our kids) in the backseats (minivan; shocking, right?) and we are usually home by 10:30, which works out irritatingly well for the husband, whose tee time is usually 11:30. One Sunday morning, we got out a little earlier than usual and, upon arriving at home with the masses, oval-shaped fried potato manna in hand, I announce to the hubby that I am going to run to the grocery store for a couple of things and I assure him that I will be home in time for him to make his precious tee time (I'm not bitter. Were you sensing that? Because, really...I'm not. Really. Not.)

I jump back into the van and head down the highway. I pull into Food Lion, run in, grab my cart, and off I go to collect a few groceries and drinks for a cookout with friends that evening. I am already getting into a mood because I realize on the way to the store that it's going to be a near impossibility for me to get my stuff, get through checkout, and get back home for you-know-who to make his you-know-what. (Okay, maybe just a little bitter.)

Now, if you haven't been in the grocery store early on Sunday morning lately, let me tell you, honey, there's almost nothing that can test your faith in humanity like dealing with the dregs that you run into. (There aren't many of them there, so it's definitely one of those "quality vs. quantity" deals.)

Man, I gotta hurry. So, what do I need first? Green leaf lettuce. Gotta be quick. Produce - head right. The first person that I blow past on the way to the produce is a lovely older gentlemen sporting a not-on-purpose dreadlocked, dirty, gray beard, and a half-buttoned (some might say half-unbuttoned, but I try to be an optimist) red plaid shirt that almost makes it down to the waistband of his dingy, wrinkled, tan pants, which are apparently designed by magician David Blaine because they are completely and mystifyingly defying gravity by hanging on the way they do. (And, literally, I blow past him. I could tell from 20 feet away that the b.o. was going to be off the chart. I exhaled as I ran past him, fearing that, if I inhaled, his b.o. particles would become permanently stuck to the linings of my lungs. You could almost see the green mist rolling down from his body and swirling around his feet, a la Pigpen from Peanuts. Dear Lord, just let me get my lettuce and get away on one breath!) "Hey shuuuuger. Mmmpf," he grunts, "you lookin' gooood this mornin'. You know where dey keep de hot dog chili at?" By the stain on your chest I'm thinking you've already found it! You know, sir, you ARE in a grocery store...there's a whole friggin' aisle dedicated to HYGIENE! Keep moving past the tampons, creep. See the Right Guard and the Irish Spring? There you go. And stop grinning at me and rubbing your belly, for crying out loud! Dang!

"I thinks it's on the canned food aisle." Pretty nice of me considering I don't have time for idle chit chat with redneck Grizzly Adams and he just grunted at me! What time is it? Crap! Getting late, looks like I'll be rolling through Stop signs. Certainly don't want to keep The Boys waiting at the first hole now, do we? (Yeah, I AM bitter.)

What's next? French bread. Flying past the end caps. Gotta to, gotta go, gotta go. Four aisles down. All clear. Here we go...Aisle 7 Bread. As I turn the corner, there she is...Ms. Rode Hard and Put Up Wet. Honey, don't even act like you put that halter top, way-too-tight way-too-low blue jeans, and cowboy boots on this morning to come to the store to pick up some Wonder Bread. (Ironic that we were on the bread aisle, as I was having to see all that muffin top spilling out of the top of those jeans of hers. Ladies, seriously. Stop it. It's not pretty.) Her head is a sight, all bleached out and ratted (I swear I saw a piece of straw in it) and the eye makeup she applied last night is now a set of speckly, black smudges beneath her eyes. She turns and looks over at me and says, with a voice that sounds like that Froggy kid from Our Gang, "Heeeeeey" and then she smiles. Oh my, I think somebody left her teeth in a Dixie cup at the party at Bubba's house last night. "You know where de Alkie Seltzer's at?" Yeah, same aisle as hygiene. What is the matter with people? Don't you have any pride at all?

"A few aisles over, I think." And where in the hell is the French bread? Oh, here's some Italian. Close enough. Bye-bye, Ms. Rode Hard.

Alright, what else? Duh, Smirnoff! It is a cookout! Gotta have tongs in one hand, cold one in the other. I make my way to the cold beverage aisle as fast as I can. Are you kidding me? Where is the regular Smirnoff? I don't want any of this fruity crap. Here it is. Got it.

As I sail toward the only register open, I can see that B.O. and Rode Hard are coming up the aisle and heading to the register, too. Oh, hell no! I am not about to stand in line behind all THAT! So I bust a move and slide my cart into the check-out lane just before they reach it, throwing them a nice, polite, churchy smile so they don't cuss me out. Oh, joy, lookie who we have behind the register...Miss Apathetic, Stringy-Hair Teenager who seems to moving at the speed of slug and, oh, what's this? Someone has a pierced eyebrow. Joy.

"Hello," I said as I put my lettuce, bread, and six-pack of bottles up to check out, trying to sound cheerful and not nearly as irritated and rushed as I feel.

"MVP?" mutters Stringy-Hair.

"Yes," I say as I hurriedly hand her my MVP card.

"Ma'am, you can't buy this."

"Excuse me?"

"You can't buy this," she says, pointing to the Smirnoff.

What? Huh? What the hell is she talking about? Oh, I get it. She's carding me! God bless her heart! Stringy-Hair must sense that I'm having a bad morning and she is trying to make me feel better by carding me. (I mean, I'm closing in on 40 and I haven't been carded since in 15 years. Obviously, she KNOWS I'm old enough to buy Smirnoff, but her effort to make me feel better is just absolutely PRECIOUS.) I certainly don't want to deny her the opportunity to make my day. I feel my faith in humanity being restored in that one sweet, sweet gesture! As I look at her once more, I notice highlights in her hair that I didn't before. You know with a little make-up, Stringy-Hair would be a very attractive girl. I turn and look at B.O. and Rode Hard waiting in line behind me. He's not so bad, ya know. Nothing a little soap and a razor couldn't fix. And as for Rode Hard, well, we've all had a night like that, when we had a little too much to drink and didn't want to drive home til the next morning. I feel a little guilty for judging them. Did I learn nothing in church today?

Sensing that they realize what Stringy-Hair (I mean, Miss Check-Out) is doing, I smile a knowing smile at them to make them aware that I get it, too. I get out my wallet and make a very big deal about pulling out my Driver's License. I wave it in the air and say loud enough (well, yelling, really) so that all those present, even Mr. Pimple, the bagboy, can hear, "Well, you're just about the sweetest thing ever, darlin'. You certainly know how to make a girl feel good about herself this morning! (I flash another smile and flick my hair back.) I can't even begin to remember the last time I was carded."

Miss Check-Out says in a loud, monotone voice (probably thought I was hard of hearing, because I was yelling), "It's Sunday, lady. Can't buy booze 'til noon."

All I hear is snickering behind me as Mr. Pimple bags my bread and lettuce and puts it back into my cart.

Oh shut up, B.O.

Yeah, baby...I still got itOUCH!

The kids are all out of the house (at Nanny's) so I cranked up the stereo this morning while I was decorating a cake. "Ice Cream Man" by Van Halen came on so I ran into the living room, spatula in hand (still in my nightgown - the benefit of working at home) and started belting it out and dancing (a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business). I went with a Naughty Librarian theme at the beginning, hair up in a clip, singing coyly into the spatula. Then, when it got all rock-n-roll toward the end, I went all out Stripperella (flung the hair clip over to the couch, rustled my hair, nightgown was swaying, even licked a little icing off my spatula/microphone between verses for effect), bent down to do one of those sexy hair flings and pulled a muscle in my stomach when I came back up too fast. *ouch!* VERY UNSEXY. *ugh* Blast ye old body. *sigh* Turned on talk radio and limped back to the kitchen...*sniff* now I have to find another clean spatula.

It's just for my brows, really.

As my 40th birthday is nearing, I have certainly taken notice of how things are rapidly changing, physically speaking. For instance, 20 years ago, my beauty regimen consisted mainly of a swipe of Cover Girl mascara and a sparkly, fruity lip gloss. Now, it's pretty much all about a well-lit magnifying mirror and a good set of tweezers...

Yo Gabba Badda!

Last night I put The Boy in his bed in his sleeping bag (he wanted to camp out) and then went to tuck The Princess into her bed. When I came back to his room to tuck him in, he said, "Mom, what does 'defecate' mean?" Ugh...I'm going to kill his big sister. She's probably outside his door right now stifling a giggle. How did she sneak in and corrupt The Boy so quickly? I was only out of the room for a minute!

"What?!"

"What does 'defecate' mean?" Okay, maybe I won't kill her. It's a pretty big word so part of me is sort of impressed. I'm a little surprised she knew it, actually. Wait, maybe it was on Noggin...he learns so much from Noggin. Can't really remember a song about defecation, though...hmm. "Don't wait..defecate. Don't wait...defecate." Nah...I would've remembered that.

"Where did you hear that word, son?"

"When you zipped up my sleeping bag, you said to not go to sleep at the bottom because I would defecate."

"Son....'suffocate'."

Eat As I Say, Don't Eat As I Do.

It's hard to explain to your kids why cookies aren't breakfast, but Cookie Crisp cereal is...especially when you just hid in the bathroom with a cup of coffee and the last piece of birthday cake (standing in the corner with the door locked, a la Reefer Madness) and called that breakfast! (Oh, that reminds me, the fork and plate are still hidden under the sink.)


Speaking of breakfast, this conversation took place recently between The Boy and me:

"Mommy, I want mac and cheese."

"You can't have mac and cheese right now."

"Why not?"

"Because mac and cheese isn't breakfast."

"Then what is it?"

"It's lunch or dinner, honey."

"Oh. Okay. Well, then I want lunch."

Silence...trumped by a four year old. 15 minutes later (10:00 a.m.) he was eating his mac and cheese.

The Urinator II - The Saga Continues

I had to hurry out the door the other day and noticed that The Boy was wearing a different pair of pants than he had been wearing and that they were, big surprise, on backwards.

"Dude, what happened?"

"Don't be mad at me, Mom."

"Where are your pants?"

"I had a accident." (I know it's "an", but he said "a".)

"Aw, man." In a jiff the pants were off, the bottom and legs were wiped down, the pants were back on (this time with the zipper in the front).

"Give me a hug, buddy. It's okay. Ew, you still smell like tinkle." (I mentioned I was in a hurry, right?) So, I grabbed a can of air freshener off the back of the toilet and gave him a quick spritz.

What? I ask you, what is worse...to go out of the house with a kid that smells like pee, or go out of the house with a kid that smells like Flowers and Spring Morning Mist?

The Urinator

Russell Crowe was the Gladiator, Arnold Schwartzeneger was the Terminator, Dale Earnhardt was the Intimidator...meet The Boy....the Urinator. Having a four year old boy in the house is like owning a urine-filled fire hose that is ready to burst at any moment. For some reason he thinks that any hole or vessel that can hold fluid is a toilet.

He was three when we moved into the new house. Out of nowhere he started taking the covers off the floor vents and peeing into them (imagine my glee, lying on the floor with my hand down the vent up to my shoulder sopping up urine with paper towels in MY BRAND NEW HOUSE). Within days, our beautiful new home smelled like a high school locker room (I spritzed the vents with Febreeze every time the heat came on - but it never lasted. Eventually I just started opening the damn bottle and POURING it down the holes.). He peed into a set of bongo drums (carefully switching from side to side for equal distribution - you really had to admire his effort). He's annointed nearly every shrub in yard, walking past the bathroom to go outside to do it (one time it was raining and he couldn't go outside - so a houseplant got annointed instead...and we had company over that day). And then, bless her heart, he christened The Princess' brand new Tinkerbell teapot the day after she got it for Christmas. Why? I mean, really. Who looks at a pink, glittery teapot and thinks 'toilet'? Seriously! What is the deal with the peeing, fellas? Just another mystery of the 'dumb stick' that I shall never understand.

I finally got him to go ONLY in the toilet, which has been a big ordeal. Suddenly, I'm finding it on the floor, around the sides of the commode, on the back of the seat, on TOP of the seat (he thinks he found a loophole in that whole put-the-seat-back-down thing, now he just leaves the seat down to begin with). I couldn't figure out how he was making such a mess until I walked by the bathroom yesterday and caught him doing a figure eight in the commode. I guess being a straight shooter isn't enough anymore. Now he's going for style points.

Listerine is anti-bacterial, right?

The Princess has been potty trained for a while now, but her wiping and handwashing skills are still, let's say, lacking. The wiping is more of a wipe-the-leg-and-drop-the-paper-in, and the hand washing is, apparently, a challenge to see just how high she can get the soap bubbles to fly up the mirror (...and the counter...and the wall...and the floor...).

Imagine, then, my surprise when she ran into the kitchen the other day saying, "Mom, I go potty!"

"You need to go?"

"No, I awready go."

"You did? Big girl! Let's go wash your hands."

"No, I awready wash hands."

Oh crap. I run to the bathroom preparing for a full on bubble disaster. Hmm....dry floor. Hmm...dry sink. "Madeline, how exactly did you wash your hands?"

"I WASH *lick finger* DEM WIFF *lick finger* MY MOUF!"

Oooh, that one would be good after the prayer....

You know you're getting older when you listen to the radio and think, "Hey, I want that song played at my funeral." Don't act like you haven't done it.

As I am learning to embrace my inner redneck, I am considering being rolled out of the sanctuary to the heartfelt strains of "Freebird". Nothing says 'end of the show' like a Skynard anthem. I'm going to stipulate that lighters be passed out to the mourners on the way into the service.

It takes a bitch to raise a pack...

So I'm going to chime in on this whole Jon & Kate Plus Eight deal. Yeah, I know Kate was tough on Jon, but let me just say, all day home with my three and I'm ready to go homicidal or suicidal! I used to feel a little bad for poor old Jon, with wifey berating him and correcting him in front of the world. Well I'm over that baby! Evidently, the new hair plugs he got (thanks to the show) went to his head, literally.

Poor, poor Jon. People want to take my pictures. Wah. I don't have any privacy. Boo frickin' hoo. Those kids are only gonna be cute for so long, better cash in while you can! While Kate was out earning a living, Mr. Fabulous was out chasing skirts, trying to reclaim his inner-teenagerdom, and getting his ears pierced. Just SCREAMS responsible Daddy, doesn't it?

I'll still watch Kate Plus Eight...Jon Minus Nine, not so much.

Sidenote: Jon Minus Nine keeps saying that he is "here for my kids." Well, he just moved out of state. Apparently, he is now "there for his kids."

A Sign of the Times...

It is not so hard to see the effect celebrity has on our lives. I have wondered many times how today's mindless, no-talent, famous-for-being-famous celebs will influence my childrens' lives.

The loss of Michael Jackson has brought back memories of listening to Jackson 5 8-track tapes, roller skating to "ABC", dancing in front of a mirror to "Rock With You", donning one glove and parachute pants and trying to recreate "Thriller" in the living room with my nextdoor neighbor, having a near seizure at the thrill of MJ doing the moonwalk at the Grammy's, wishing as I walked down the sidewalk that it would light up under my feet a la "Billy Jean."

It certainly is a sign of the times when my mourning Michael Jackson - amazing pop star, musical prodigy, legendary dancer, multi-generational entertainer, is quickly eclipsed by My Big Girl, who is mourning the devastating loss of Billy Mays - OxiClean guy.

I run to the TV everytime I hear MJ sing, she runs to the TV everytime she hears a commercial for Orange Glo.

The 5 Second Rule

I'm noticing that the "5 Second Rule" lengthens exponentially with each additional kid. I just walked past the laundry room and found The Boy eating Fruit Loops that he spilled in the floor in there yesterday. I asked, "They still crunchy?" He said, "Yeah." I said, "Cool" and kept on walking.....

Speaking of The Boy...will somebody please explain to me how it is that the same kid that will eat cereal off of the floor will have a COMPLETE FRIGGIN PANIC ATTACK if corn juice gets on his mashed pototoes?

It's Called Perfect 10, Not Perfect 20...

...or Why NOT to Put on Haircolor and Then Log onto Facebook

Yes, I color my hair. There...I said it. Don't judge me. It's NOT to change my color, mind you. And it's CERTAINLY NOT to cover any gray for crying out loud. I am simply trying to enhance my already-stunning color of dirty dishwater brown.

Yes, I color my own hair. When I've gone to the salon to get it done, I've always been disappointed when the towel comes off and I don't look like Lisa Rinna or Angelina Jolie. (I used to pay big bucks to go blonde in the summertime. But, thanks to well water, the result a few weeks later becomes, let's say, less than desireable. I got so used to the look I just started asking for White Trash Blonde with Well Water Lowlights). (By the way...yes, Miss Hairdresser...I see your "It's a brush, not a wand" sign up by the mirror. Cute....whatever...but I'm always expecting WAND!) So I started doing it myself. I figure if I'm going to be underwhelmed by the final result, I might as well save $70.

Well, the other day I put on Perfect 10 Light Ash Brown to, you know, enhance. Anyhoo, I thought I'd make wise use of my time (i.e., there was nothing on Bravo) so I decided I'd check in with my FB pals (i.e., I was looking for my daily validation - "They like me. The really like me!"). Looked at the clock - 9:49 a.m. Ten minutes to play and peruse on my beloved FB. Funny comment here...quip there...oooh, vacation pictures...aw, somebody sent me a Mojito!...oh, goody, a quiz!...Like this...Fan of that...what time is it? 10:09! Twenty minutes!?! Sweet Fancy Moses! I tear down the hallway, slide into the bathroom. Oh my lord, what have I done? Jump in the shower. RINSE, RINSE, RINSE DARN YOU! It's orange, I just KNOW it's ORANGE! Scrub, rinse, shampoo, rinse, conditioner, rinse. I should've just gone to the blasted hairdresser...this is gonna cost me a fortune to fix! Squeeze dry, breathe, put up into a towel, breathe....sigh. Whatever is under this towel...we can fix it. Walk to the mirror. Moment of truth...I slowly unroll the towel to reveal my fate...

Apparently, Light Ash Brown is the hair color industry term for dirty dishwater brown...

Professional Hair Color - $80.00; Perfect 10 Hair Color - $10; Internet hookup for Facebook - $50.00; avoiding disaster and ending up with the same stinkin' color you started out with - Priceless.

So here we go....

Okay, all my Facebook friends, here goes. Thanks for suggesting this and for having faith that I could do it. Of course, by "do it" I mean turn on the computer and actually navigate myself to a site other than Facebook. As I said before, I barely know how to send something to the printer, and I'm practically euphoric if I pull off a successful Copy and Paste. And if you guys were all just blowing smoke up my butt just to mess with my emotions, well then there is a special place in hell for all of you: PSH, BJ, GH, SMS, JL, KPA, COB, FJS, RL, LVB, JRF, JO, DHW, RL, STT, SG, HBA, MNGF, LAMG....