Country Mouse Comes Unhinged

The picture. It's a metaphor. A really obvious one.

2010-09-18T21:43:00.000-07:00

Soooo . . . I'm shuttin it down. Which isn't a huge surprise, right?

I haven't posted--or even been inspired to post--in forever. Sad.

And I haven't been checking in on anyone else's blogs in the last couple months. Also sad.

A quick update on my family before I close the door on the Country Mouse House:

My beautiful daughter and her husband have taken 3 month old Logan back to the hospital because he has a painfully difficult time digesting food. They haven't been able to get anyone to take their concerns seriously until now. Logan, when he isn't in agony, is a happy, sweet little guy. He has hit all his developmental milestones on schedule and appears to be headed in the right direction. The food/digestion thing needs to be worked out but besides that he's really doing miraculously well.

My darling little Sweet Pea will celebrate her 2nd birthday in a little over a week. She is extremely verbally competent and, like her older brother, is quite clever. A little too clever sometimes : )

And speaking of Sweet Pea's older brother, Gabe started Kindergarten this year *and* caught a 15 pound King salmon while fishing with Grandpa! w00t!

Youngest has his driver's permit and thinks he's all grown up. As 15-year-olds do : ) He also had his very first day of school EVER recently. He's attending a private school for a couple classes a week and doing the rest at home as per the usual schedule of events. He has matured enough to begin to know his strengths and weaknesses and to know where he needs help. He also has become a much harder worker with school and sports and is doing well at football--freshman team (his first year playing.) He's such a laid back, sweet kid. It's great to see him coming into his own : )

Number One Son is engaged!!! He finally asked his girl to marry him and it looks like the wedding will be next July before they move to Texas for grad school. Number One is also on the front cover of a climbing magazine. Kinda cool! He did some climbing with a friend this year in the Brooks Range in Alaska and actually named a mountain. Named it after his fiancee. What an unusual, and beautiful, gift : )

My not quite adopted son, Guy, and I don't have as close a relationship as we once did but I think that's a good and healthy thing. He has come a long way--he has grown and has taken my naggy advice on many fronts. He will *never* admit to that though : )

My sweet Mister and I are continuing to enjoy getting to know each other again now that we pretty much have an empty nest. He is still funny and sweet and a pain in the ass. Nothing's changed : )

And the voices in my head for which I started this forum? Still there : ) Still raucous and bickering and still making me who I am : )

Thank you all so so so so so much for hanging out with me and being supportive and funny and loyal. I wish you all the best. Take care!

XXXOOO,
Kristin

Long overdue update!

2010-08-02T21:50:00.000-07:00

Yikes--so much has happened and we've been so busy!

First of all, Logan is doing fantastically well!

Secondly, thank you so much for all your thoughts and continued concern for our little guy.

Logan was finally discharged from the hospital about a week and a half or two weeks ago (I'm sorry--you'd think I'd never ever forget that special day, but . . . )

He is living at home now with his big sis and with regular visits from big brother. He was sent home *without* a feeding tube or any other medical intervention. He is still having some difficulty with food and seems to be suffering from colic but is otherwise healthy and completely normal for an infant his age.

Both his neurologist and pediatrician have said that Logan is, so far, exactly where he should be in terms of development. The pediatrician went on to tell Logan's mommy and daddy that he has seen children who were deprived of oxygen during their births who then had cool cap therapy and children who haven't had the therapy available to them and the difference is drastic. Children who have not had cool cap therapy are visibly affected and it's devastating. On the other hand, children like Logan have outcomes that are about as close to 180 degrees opposite as possible. I cannot even begin to tell you how humbled I am by how blessed our family is. My heart goes out to families who are the other side of that fateful coin.

Again, I am so touched by your support. Thank you all so much!

Logan was talking to his mommy when this picture was taken : )

Gabe, so thrilled with his bravery in the water!

Lily, *always* moving very fast and always excited!

new nursery!

2010-06-18T09:29:00.000-07:00

Yay! I am happy to report that Logan was moved to the Intermediate Care Nursery on Tuesday or Wednesday (sorry--so much happening, I've lost track : ) The new nursery is much less "medical" and much more "baby nursery" in appearance. It's cute and dimly lit and decked out in Beatrix Potter character paintings.

Logan had an EEG on Wednesday morning but his mommy and daddy have been so busy tag teaming with his care and with the care of their other two children that they haven't had a chance to sit down with Logan's doctor and get the full report. What they have learned from the nurses and one phone conversation with the doctor is that he is making improvements! His sleep/wake patterns look normal (via EEG) and the voltage in his brain is higher than last time, however, I'm not sure if that's universally or in limited places.

On the downside, he is having some seizure activity. Not full-blown seizures, but it is problematic enough that he is on the highest possible dose of phenobarbitol and will have to be bumped up to the next level of anti-seizure drug. I do not know whether there are any long term side effects to be concerned about--I can't think that far down the road right now. I can only concentrate on the here and now at this moment.

I wish I had updated pictures to share! I have some on my phone but no way to upload them from the house where we are staying. I am returning to work next week on a restricted hour schedule. I will still be able to help the kids and I hope it will only be a couple more weeks until Logan can come home.

Again--thank you all for the thoughts, prayer, and support. You have no idea what strength I have been able to draw from that : ) And someday when things slow down, maybe I'll be able to catch up on your blogs as well!

encouraging news

2010-06-14T17:31:00.000-07:00

Whew--what a week this has been! Yesterday our family celebrated Logan's first week with us--and that was a milestone we weren't sure we would reach.

Logan had a cranial ultrasound and an EEG last Thursday. The neurologist and neonatologist told Logan's parents they were "cautiously optimistic" about his prognosis. We'll take that!!!! All areas of his brain are functioning--they all have low voltage compared to what is normally seen in a newborn, but that is to be expected under the circumstances. He will have another EEG sometime this week and again, we're hoping for miracles. Frankly, that seems kind of selfish in light of what we've already been given and in light of the human suffering going on all over the world, but we're still asking for just that.

Logan has been breathing on his own for a couple days now and hasn't had any seizures (to my knowledge) during the last couple days. His outlook is good enough that the medical staff will likely be moving him up to the intermediate nursery sometime in the next day or two. Praise God : )

Here are a couple pictures--much easier to look at than the ones I posted before. And thank you all for your thoughts and kind e-mails!

Logan and mommy having a chat

no happier feeling in the world for this girl

we've come a long way, baby!

my grandson

2010-06-08T20:05:00.000-07:00

I'm going to make this short. Main details only:

My daughter was in labor on Sunday. She was pushing when the baby's heartbeat plummeted and didn't recover. An emergency C-section was performed but baby Logan was delivered without a pulse. Resuscitation efforts went on for 15 minutes with no response. At one point my daughter heard a nurse ask the pediatrician, "Do you want to call it?" Shortly after that, Logan's heart started beating again.

Logan was without oxygen for at least 15 minutes. It could have been up to 24 minutes.

He is a beautiful, 8 lb 8 oz, baby. He's well filled out and physically healthy and lovely. His heart and lungs seem to be strong and functioning well, but there is brain damage. He is currently on a cold cap and will be until Thursday. On that day they'll do brain function scans. I don't know what or how much that will tell us.

We are praying for miracles. I don't think there's anything else to say but that.

Logan Wyatt

No sh*t.

2010-06-01T22:22:00.000-07:00

I think I've mentioned before that my daughter lives in a bit of a sketchy neighborhood. It's not the kind of area where there's the "good" side of town and the "bad" side of town. It's a "good" house next door to a crack house . . . next door to a junkyard . . . next door to a charming elementary school. That kind of sketchy.

Case in point: here is the view looking across the street from my daughter's front gate

Nuff said? Yeah, I thought so.

Monday, Monday, so bad to me . . .

2010-05-26T18:30:00.000-07:00

Monday was a crapfully crapful day! From beginning to end. Awful. Personal stuff. Family stuff. Work stuff. Friend stuff. AWFULLLLLLLLL!

One bright spot in my day was that my sweet, sweet husband, without knowing a thing about how sucky my day was, dropped by to see me at work and brought me flowers. Just because. Just because he loves me and likes to surprise me from time to time and let me know how much he appreciates me. You can't buy that kind of devotion.

Non bright spot? After Doug surprised me with flowers, I asked him to go over to the coffee shop and bring me back a cup of cocoa since it was way too busy for me to go myself. When he returned with the cocoa I was in the middle of a transaction with one of our regular customers, Mr. M.

Handsome Mr. M was standing at the counter holding his 3 year old child while sliding his debit card through the terminal. While Mr. M was looking down to enter his PIN, Doug put my cup down on the counter over to my right--out of Mr. M's view. As Doug was leaving I looked over his way and said, "Thank you, Honey. See you later." When I looked back at my customer, I could see a funny expression on his face. I laughed and explained, "I wasn't calling you honey--my husband was over there." Of course by then Doug was nowhere to be seen. Mr. M forced a nervous chuckle and told me, "I just thought you were talking to my daughter . . . " AWKWARD!!!

Another a non bright spot? And this one isn't even funny? Sweet hubby took me out for dinner and drinks later that evening. I was just unwinding and feeling okay when hubby's aunt walked in. Hubby's aunt is a little doom-and-gloom, a little woe-is-me. Also? She has never approved of homeschooling--even in light of my older two kids' success . . .

I was trying to be cheerful by mentioning the light of Aunt's life--her grandkids. "Youngest is going to attend the private school with your grandkids next year," I happily reported.

"Oh, good," she replied, "because every time I see Youngest he looks so unhappy."

Wha???

a) He's 14. Both my daughter and I vividly recall cultivating that look on our faces when we were that age. That look that reads, "I cannot believe I'm stuck with these people." It's a teen thing, right?

b) Whenever I mention this run-in with Aunt (and believe me, I mention it a lot) everyone says, "Happy-go-lucky Youngest looking unhappy?" Exactly.

c) Aunt only sees Youngest once--maybe twice--yearly. WTH is she even talking about????

d) So what if Youngest does look unhappy. Who says that to someone's mom? Who talks that way?

On the other hand, I went home that evening with a man who understands and loves me. Aunt went home to an aging cat. Now who's having the crappy day?

I said "Be careful his bowtie is really a camera"

2010-05-18T16:22:00.000-07:00

Driving Youngest up to the school this afternoon for track, we were in the middle of a conversation when I noticed an odd thing.

"Check it out," I said to Youngest and nodded toward the unusual scene I was watching. "An older man walks to the corner of the high school campus, puts a suspicious box on the ground and takes a step back."

"Wearing a cowboy hat and a suit," Youngest takes up the thread. "And he's putting his hand into his pocket."

"You think he's going for the detonator?" I ask. "Oh, wait a minute," I change my tone, "the side of the box is printed with the letters NKJV. He's passing out Bibles to the students as they leave school . . . "

"Nice going, Mom!" Youngest chides. "You've just made a terrorist out of a well-meaning pastor!"

Eh. Can't win em all : )

randomy stuff

2010-04-29T21:51:00.001-07:00

Last night Doug and I went out for dinner at what is supposed to be a swanky-ish restaurant. The food sucked. Bad experience. But what was interesting was the couple at the table across from us.

She looked to be in her late 60's, maybe early 70's. He looked 10 or more years younger. Maybe. I couldn't decide what kind of relationship they had. Were they a married couple? Was he her care giver? Relatives? I don't know. What fascinated me was that they both had books and were independently reading between courses.

At first I wondered why they would bother sharing a nice dinner if they weren't going to also share conversation. But then it occurred to me that if they're both retired and spend all their days together anyway, they're probably all talked out. They both enjoy reading. They both enjoy good food. They're not eating alone. So what's the harm? Still though, I was glad to be eating with my friend and partner and having interesting and funny discussion.

*********

Earlier yesterday afternoon I picked my grandson, Gabe, up from preschool because Beautiful's pre-natal exam went late. Over the last couple weeks, every time Gabe's daddy has picked him up from school, Gabe has asked for a milkshake. Daddy doesn't give in to junk food often, so the answer has been no. Since yesterday was a special day with Grammy, Daddy gave the go ahead for us to indulge in a special milkshake treat.

Gabe emphatically chose strawberry. Over the whole of the 30 minute drive back to my house, Gabe kept repeating over and over, "This is delicious!" It tickled me : ) He also kept referring to it as a smoothie. A very new-millennium moniker.

When Beautiful came to take Gabe home she reminded him to thank Grammy for the goody. He started but got stuck between the words 'smoothie' and 'milkshake.' What came out of his mouth was, "Grammy, thank you for the smoothcake!"

I would buy that little boy a smoothcake every day of the week just to see his happy little smile : )

*********

Youngest is in track at the junior high. He tried out for shot put, discus and low hurdles. He was chosen to do the field events, but not the running event. It is, however, open to kids even if they weren't formally chosen--which is really kinda cool so the kids can try whatever they want and not be told they can't. I think that's how it should be in junior high.

Since he's allowed to run hurdles if he wants to, he put his name on the list for tomorrow's meet. The major problem is that he hasn't practiced the hurdles for 2 weeks!

This morning, with puffed up chest and his funny false bravado, he told me, "Yep, I'm pretty sure I'm going to be the Hurdle King." I mentioned the lack of practice. He didn't think that would be an issue. So I let it go, tried to say something encouraging while hoping he doesn't fall flat on his face. Literally.

This evening he came to me and said, "So . . . I'm a little worried about the hurdles tomorrow."

"Oh?" I asked, "what happened to Hurdle King?"

"Turns out," he told me, "I haven't practiced in two weeks. It might not go so well tomorrow."

"That's okay," I reassured him, "I won't tell anyone you're my son."

heh heh

A nice, tidy ring.

2010-04-27T17:37:00.001-07:00

My husband has a friend, Chuck, who knows everything. At least my husband thinks he does.

They've known each other since they were kids. For a few years, they even worked together. That was the worst. There was no end to, "Hey Honey, guess what Chuck told me today?" and, "Chuck mentioned this book he thinks I should read." Ad nauseum.

It went so far as, "Chuck thinks we should build the porch this way . . . " with, as you might guess, my reply being, "But I think we should build it that way."

In a not terribly surprising coincidence, my lovely daughter went through a similar phase as a teenager. Only it wasn't Chuck to whom she deferred, it was her mentor, Sara.

"Hey Mom, Sara thinks I should take summer dance classes at Cornish to stretch my range and broaden my horizons!" she told me one day. Funny how she didn't hear me say exactly the same thing only days before.

"Mom, Sara wants me to start teaching classes at her studio. She thinks it will help my confidence and be a good addition to my dance resume." Really? Sara thinks that? You don't remember me thinking that several months ago?

Today, Beautiful called me with a medical/pregnancy related question. She does that a lot lately.

"You don't have a fever?"

"No."

"And you're not uncomfortable?"

"No."

"And you aren't having any other symptoms that concern you?"

"No."

"And the nurse said it was fine to wait until tomorrow to see them? She wasn't panicky like you should come in right now?"

"No, she was calm. She said it would be fine to wait."

"Okay, then I don't think you have anything to worry about. You're seeing your doctor tomorrow anyway and if you have *any* discomfort or fever tonight then you can just go in to prompt care. But I'm pretty sure your husband has said all the same things to you, hasn't he?"

"Yes. But I evidently ignored every word he said and went directly to the phone for your advice."

"You mean the way you used to do to me with Sara's advice?"

"Yep," she laughed, "just exactly like that."

Ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved full circle : )

Now if only I could get rid of that Chuck guy . . .

Bag of vomit trumps all.

2010-03-31T18:50:00.000-07:00

In the Grocery Store Protocol Governing Right of Way, employees, especially those taking out the garbage, come last. Very, very last.

When walking around in any grocery store, it's considered polite to let the handicapped, the elderly and women with small children go before you, Mr. or Mrs. Regular Customer. For a grocery store employee, the code is a little more complicated than that. The sequence of who gets priority goes a little something like this:

Handicapped with service dogs
Handicapped in motorized carts
Pregnant woman in her 3rd trimester
Self-important SOB from nearby Island Community because, goodness knows, they own the very air we are privileged to breathe.
Handicapped not in motorized carts
Elderly
and/or confused
Mother with a child who needs to go potty RIGHT NOW
Mother with a child who needed to go potty a moment ago and is now a wet, embarrassed, bawling mess
Pregnant woman in her 2nd trimester
Mother with an infant
Mother with a 2-year-old
Rogue 2-year-old
60-something woman with long gray hair and a blindingly pink velour track suit--don't look directly at the track suit!
Customers who dawdle along, oblivious to anyone else in the world, sniffing all the handmade soaps and trying out the backscratchers with no concern whatsoever for the other people who exist in the same space and have either shopping or a job to do . . .
Regular customers
Employees
Employees taking out the garbage

Today, however, I made an executive decision and amended the rules. The card that trumps them all, the situation, no matter who is in the aisle and with what infirmity, that outweighs all other situations is: Employee Carrying Bag of Vomit.

Could my job *be* any more glamorous?

a little announcement . . .

2010-03-09T16:37:00.001-08:00

I meant to mention this earlier. Like a month or four ago . . . And yesterday a couple girlfriends stopped by to see me at work and called me out on this. Sorry, girlfriends! Here it is:

Remember this little girl?

Hi, Sweet Pea!

Well, she's grown a whole lot!

Hi again, Lily! Oh, wait--what does your shirt say?????

Yep! Our little Lily is going to be the big sister very soon! The new baby is due on May 30th. All the babies in the family have always been late--so I'm shooting for June 12th . . . which just happens to be my birthday! Beautiful isn't willing for any such date. Beautiful is willing for, mmmm, let's say sometime in late May. And that is all. Period. We'll just see : )

Oh, and guess what else?

New baby is a boy!!!!

And just one last picture because I am, after all, the Grammy and I am, after all, contractually obliged to shamelessly indulge : )

Who's that darling little girl sitting on Uncle Wrestler's lap?

Yeah, I know. Even I am going into a diabetic coma : )

This is going to hurt you way more than it's going to hurt me.

2010-03-04T14:28:00.000-08:00

In the midst of making my famous--and delicious--Mexican Chicken Chili, Youngest walks in to the kitchen and says, "That looks good. But you know what's really good? Grandma's white bean chili."

Oh, that poor, stupid little bastard.

"First of all, Youngest, you're not having any dinner tonight. Secondly, here's a heads up for you: If a girl is ever cooking you a meal do not start a sentence with, 'You know what's really good?' You'll thank me later."

Viva, Baby!

2010-02-18T18:13:00.000-08:00

This month Doug and I celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary.

Twenty five years of wedded bliss. Or as close to bliss as anyone in a relationship for 25 years can muster : )

Our favorite toast when we're out with friends is, "To whores!" There's a funny story behind that, as you could probably guess, but I'm going to leave that out for now and just tell you right up front that I had no intention of toasting to our wonderful life together using that particular sentiment.

That toast aside, we've been talking for a year about how we wanted to celebrate this truly Herculean feat. I wanted to go to Hawaii. Doug wanted to take a cruise. In the end, we decided we didn't want to commit that kind of money. We were just about to book a room for a couple nights at our favorite hotel at the ocean when Doug turned to me and said, "You know, it wouldn't cost too much more to go to Vegas instead."

He was right--airfare and a nice hotel didn't cost much more than spending the same number of days at the ocean. However, as we all know, add in the ground transportation, baggage fees, higher end restaurants, show tickets, rental car, tips for everyone and his brother, and it's a little more expensive after all. But at some point we stopped tallying the cost and decided that after 25 years together we could just relax and enjoy the ride.

And that is exactly what we did.

Also, as everyone knows, as long as you're in Las Vegas, you're pretty much obliged to get married. Only we're already married. So we opted for a vow renewal. Which is odd because it seems like such a hokey, saccharine thing to do--it's really not in my character to buy into that sort of thing. But buy into it, I did!

All I was really looking for was a moment between my husband and me at a pretty outdoor location. I wanted to wear a lovely dress. I wanted a bouquet (which I didn't have in our original ceremony) and pictures by a professional photographer (another item we didn't have 25 years ago.)

I looked online at a dozen little chapels and called the wedding coordinators at a number of the larger hotels. I couldn't get a photographer without also paying for the clergy, the witnesses, changing room, certificate, keepsake silk flowers and the rest of the tacky Vegas wedding trappings. We even dropped in on one of the little chapels at the far end of the strip to see if they'd cut us a last minute bargain. When I told the woman what I wanted, the first question out of her mouth was, "Do you want Elvis to officiate?"

Not. Even. Close.

In the end, we decided that we'd dress nicely, I'd have a bouquet, we'd choose an outdoor location, spend a few moments alone together and take photos with our own digital camera.

Surprisingly, it was Doug who picked a romantic location. He chose the observation deck of the fake Eiffel Tower at night with all the twinkly lights below us. Unsurprisingly, his choice was at least 50% attributable to the 50% off coupon he had for the Eiffel Tower elevator . . .

Surrounded by a bunch of other tourists oohing and ahhing over the lights and the Bellagio fountain show across the street, Doug and I stood aside to talk to each other about the past 25 years, the accomplishments, the disappointments, the changes, the kids, the grandkids, and the future.

Yes, I cried. A little. Or whatever . . . And Doug gave me a lovely silver ring. As he put it on my hand, he got a twinkle in his eyes and said, "To whores!" And I could do nothing but laugh because that sense of humor is exactly the reason I married this wonderful man and have stuck with him through all the good, the bad, and the everything in between.

This is my favorite picture of our trip. We were at Red Rock Canyon. I'm telling Doug how to operate the camera ("No, Doug--tilt the camera down a little or it will cut me off!") and he's intentionally cropping my mouth out of the photo. God love that man! I sure do : )

Olympic dreams do come true! Well, you know, sort of . . .

2010-02-18T01:24:00.000-08:00

Tonight while watching the Olympics with hubby I suddenly had a memory from when I was a kid. When I was 11 or 12 I was chosen, along with another member of my gymnastics team, to compete in the Junior Olympics which were being held somewhere in the Seattle area.

At the last minute our coach pulled out because she was concerned that the level of competition was way above our heads. And boy was she right! Instead of competing, we took a fantastic road trip to watch the meet. The girls who we watched were so far out of our league that they had a different zip code than our league. My teammate and I looked at each other with relief and gratitude for being saved from what would have been certain humiliation.

So. While I was trying to tell hubby of my near Junior Olympic moment, I accidentally said that when I was a kid I was slated to take part in the Special Olympics . . .

Yeah. I'm never going to hear the end of that one.

My car perished in a murder/attempted suicide.

2010-01-27T05:02:00.000-08:00

Forgive me for not posting in such a very long time. I am sure you will understand when I tell you that our family suffered a tragedy.

A couple weeks ago, we lost a dear family friend: my car. My dependable, comfortable, fully loaded car.

The circumstances surrounding the death of my car are still unsolved. While it's clear that my car was slain in cold blood, it is yet uncertain as to why this tragedy occurred and whether it could have been avoided.

Had my car been parking beneath another tree? Did it come home late with foreign pollen on it's windshield?

We may never know.

All we do know is that it was ruthlessly butchered by the vengeful tree in our front yard. Sadly, a few innocent bystanders were also injured in the attack. Our daughter's car is in serious, but stable, condition. Hubby's truck, our boat and a classic car suffered minor injuries. The extent of Jet Ski A's injuries are undetermined. Jet Ski B and the jet ski trailer are not likely to survive.

Though the tree attempted to end its own life, it was not successful. However, the prosecuting attorneys (hubby and me) asked for the death penalty. The judge (our insurance company, and let's face it, insurance companies are the final authorities on everything anymore . . . ) concurred and has sent the tree to the chair, so to speak. The date of execution has yet to be released.

Pictures do not capture the true carnage, still, here are few photos from the crime scene. (Note: Out of respect for the victim, the graphic photo of the jagged branch stabbed through the back seat of the car has not been posted . . . )

Exhibit A

These photos don't even *begin* to capture the true violence of this attack.

The deceased . . .

Jet Ski B is not likely to survive its injuries. *sniff*

death by chocolate

2010-01-03T23:42:00.000-08:00

I stood at the drinking fountain with my two small children inside the Baskin-Robbins at the mall. Nearby, a high school girl ordered a double ice cream sundae with caramel sauce and whipped cream, nuts and sprinkles--the works. Her mother was obviously unhappy with the choice. "I'm going on my diet tomorrow, Mom--this is just my last hurrah," the girl explained.

I knew then that her diet was going to fail in short time just as certainly as I know now, twenty years later, that the girl is still fighting that battle. And I'm quite sure that inside her head there has been a catalog of justifications, bargains, excuses and plans.

Visualizing her slimmer frame, she's been telling herself, "in time for graduation . . . " "before my 10 year high school reunion . . . " "before the wedding . . . " "I'll start right after the holidays . . . " "after the baby is born . . . " "when the little one is in school full time and I can exercise regularly . . . " "before my 20 year high school reunion . . . " each time allowing herself to have that one final indulgence before getting serious and really doing it.

Having waged a similar campaign on and off over the last 10 years, I know better than "the last hurrah." It's an act I've never much participated in.

At work, five technicians and one pharmacist are going on the crazy-ass diet as of Monday, January 4. Since, once again, I allowed a few holiday pounds to make themselves a cozy home on my hips and thighs, I'm joining the madness and going on the diet with everyone else. And I've revelled in enough special treats lately that I won't be feeling any deprivation and, in fact, am quite anxious to start this regime in order to get back to healthier eating. I have had no "last hurrah" mindset. None whatsoever.

Still. All it took was working with Robbie on Saturday. He mentioned that he and Tracy would very likely eat fudge brownies on Sunday before buckling down to the rigors of the diet on Monday.

Fudge brownies. Mmmmm . . . fudge brownies . . . . It was all I could think about during the last couple hours of our Saturday shift.

By the time I clocked out on Saturday evening, I was famished. And I couldn't go home to eat dinner because I had to drop some things by my daughter's house first. Just to tide me over, it wouldn't hurt to eat a brownie or two in the car, right? A last hurrah, if you will . . .

Arriving in the bakery department, I realized the fudge brownies that I was craving so weren't cut into convenient pieces. Just a sheet of brownies in an aluminum pan. How could I eat a brownie while driving?

I did the unthinkable. I grabbed a fork from the salad bar. Yes, I drove in the dark, in the rain to my daughter's house while maneuvering a pan of fudge brownies and a fork. I knew without doubt that the paramedics would have no difficulty seeing what caused the accident I was surely destined to die in. There would be fudge smeared all over the smashed windshield and my face would be mingled blood, bone and chocolate.

"It was a classic 'Housewife Special', " they would tell the police officers. "Eating while driving," they'd say with authority.

I'm just going to pre-order my headstone now. It's going to say, "But she would have looked great after the diet!" I think that about covers it.

one perfect moment

2009-12-26T21:34:00.000-08:00

That guy. Everyone knows a that guy. That guy who was hurt badly by a couple of soulless women in his 20's and 30's so he gave up attempting to trust any woman. That guy who is sincere and incredibly generous and should have had a family of his own but never did. That guy who has such a big heart to give but only pets to give it to.

My brother is that guy.

Now I can say he was that guy.

Almost a year ago he started a relationship with a wonderful, warm, faithful, giving woman. A woman worthy of my brother's kind and bountiful heart.

My brother, B, didn't even introduce his girlfriend to our family until August, so conservative was he with sharing the news that he had met someone who made him happy lest it all evaporate quickly as it had appeared.

The girlfriend has 3 children. Two are teenage girls who like B very much. The third is a 7 year old boy, Mikey. Mikey adores B. And the feeling is obviously shared.

For Christmas B built an electric train table for Mikey. Mikey ecstatically raced into the room--barely able to contain his joy! He looked and oohed and ahhed for a brief couple of moments before turning back around and making a bee line for B. Racing to B's side, Mikey spontaneously wrapped his arms around B and hugged him tight. B put his arm around Mikey's shoulders and hugged him back--an unheard of shower of affection from B.

I was immediately misty. That moment--that tiny, lightning quick moment was, for me, all the love and joy and familial warmth that is the meaning of Christmas.

I hope you all had a Christmas season filled with little moments.

Happy New Year!

My life is beginning to resemble a Rodney Dangerfield bit. And I have a blackbelt in guilt.

2009-12-16T19:51:00.000-08:00

Rodney Dangerfield was one of my husband's all time favorite comedians. I married a man who reveres Rodney Dangerfield? There is, as the saying goes, no accounting for taste . . .

Today at work, the tall, slender, pretty girl pharmacist and the slim technician with the nice rack were both looking at me. Said the willowy girl pharmacist while gazing in my direction, "I'd give anything for that body." "Yeah," the tech concurred.

They were talking about my hair.

Also, a couple days ago I wrote what I thought was a touching tribute to my mom's unflappable spirit and the giving heart of a teacher. It garnered almost no comments. Today I opened up my mail to find--yay!--another comment!

The comment was via robot. The equivalent of junk mail. But worse. Because it was from an escort service . . .

You see where this is going, yes?

No respect.

*********

Beautiful has asked me a couple times lately whether I could help her out by taking Lily for a couple hours. As much as I love to be with that baby, I've had to say no. I'm knee deep in Christmas projects and social events and work. And really that's no excuse for not making time for my grandbaby, but I can only do what I can do.

This morning on the phone Beautiful asked me, "Do you not like Lily anymore? You used to beg me to let you have her for the afternoon and now you don't want to be with her at all."

I was stung. Of course I like Lily. That child is the apple of my eye! I explained that it has pained me to say no--that I want to spend time with Lily and I want to be helpful to Beautiful, but that the timing has been awful for me. Beautiful let it go at that.

Hours later I called her back. "I realized another reason that I've been saying no to taking Lily with me," I said.

"Still feeling guilty about that, are you?" she joked.

"No--it's not guilt, but I had to really think about why it hasn't been working out, and honestly it's because of the carseat. Now that she's in the bigger carseat and it's either pouring rain or 16 degrees out, I'm reluctant to stand out in the weather in a parking lot for 20 minutes trying to contain a 14 month old while buckling her carseat into my car. And that is actually a huge part of the reason I've been unable to take care of Lily when you just don't feel like taking care of her yourself."

Beautiful was speechless from the poison dart of that last phrase.

"See that?" I asked. "Did you like how I turned that around to make you the one to feel completely unnecessary and groundless guilt? Yes, I do hold a blackbelt in guilt." heh heh

Christmas past. Waaaaaay past.

2009-12-11T17:10:00.000-08:00

My mom is the third of eight children. Daughter of a very hard working fisherman. There was never any money. Ever.

The family was lucky to have food on the table. Anything else--be it toys or proper clothing--was considered great fortune. The only doll my mother remembers having was a sack of onions she packed around, wrapped in some scrap of fabric for a 'blankie'. With 10 mouths to feed, Dolly didn't last long.

Many Christmases my mom and her siblings each had a small present only because of local charity. The children didn't bother with any notion of a man called Santa Clause. A fact which slayed their father.

One very cold December when my mom was seven, the second grade teacher took Mom over her knee and spanked her (way back in the day when teacher meted corporal punishment was commonplace : ) for not wearing her snow boots to school in such miserable weather. It was only after the spanking that my mom had the chance to admit, with red hot shame, that she didn't wear her snow boots because she had none.

The teacher was taken aback. Of course she was.

A few days later on Christmas morning, inexplicably, at least to my mom's 7-year-old comprehension, in addition to the annual Benevolence League donation of candy, there was a pair of warm winter boots in bright wrapping just for her.

It was a hard time in a poor fishing town. Lots of families went without things that you and I would consider barbaric to live without today. No doubt that teacher had a dozen students, or more, with some pretty hard luck stories and on a teacher's salary she couldn't have fixed everything for them. But God bless her soul for having tried.

Glitter? Is a nuisance. And other Christmas laments.

2009-12-11T07:17:00.000-08:00

This is my studio:

Does it look suspiciously like a dining room table covered in Mom's craft crap?

Those are pieces of old music carefully torn into 4 x 6" sheets with the the edges glued and glittered. I'm one of those people. I am a Christmas Themer.

This year's 'theme' is music. I had this lovely idea to use old music as the backdrop to our Christmas drama. The torn and glittered bits are to be strung as garland. For our tree I wanted to make the pieces of music into cone shapes or something--haven't quite fleshed out that idea yet. Nor will I get the chance to. Because Youngest has effectively put an end to my fun . . .

"Oh no. Not a theme!" he groaned.

"Yes! A theme! The theme is music--isn't that perfect for Christmas? Flocked tree, lots of silver and glitter with a little red and green for accent!" I chirped.

Youngest was unimpressed. Youngest is 14 and is unimpressed by everything . . .

"Can't we just have a normal, old-fashioned Christmas?" he whined.

"Hmm, okay, what does 'normal, old-fashioned Christmas' mean to you?" If it meant that much to him, I was willing to bend a little to make him happy.

"The tree with all of our regular ornaments on it? Not just the ones that fit your color scheme?"

Translation: All the tacky crap we've ever purchased or been given by anyone. Like the Luke Skywalker ornament. And the blown glass Buzz Lightyear. And the gumball machine . . .

"Okay, fine. Do whatever you want with the tree, but I'm going to have my garlands up on the windows."

"No!!! I don't want your theme all over the house!"

"Seriously? I'm trying to compromise with you. You get the tree the way you want it and I get the garlands. That's not good enough for you?"

"Whatever."

Later, having forgotten that his mother is the most despicable creature on the Earth, he came to ask me advice on gift giving. Advice which he refused to take. I mentioned he's 14, right?

And speaking of Christmas gifts--Number One Son generously purchased tickets for Beautiful and me to go watch ice dancing at the Olympics. At the OLYMPICS!!! I am beyond excited.

However.

I have to renew my passport in order to collect on this wonderful gift. Which means a new passport photo. UGH!!!! I am a seriously craptastic picture taker!

Tonight I went to Costco to have the photos done. I was wearing my nice leather jacket with a becoming, festive red scarf. I have a really fun new chic, short haircut. I looked great! But the camera was evil and didn't like me and made me look like a chubby, colorless 40-year-old mom.

The nerve!

To recap: My themed Christmas is a bust. My 14 year old--who is normally a delightful kid--is practicing his morose, languid, detached teen skills. And my older son gave me a huge downer for Christmas disguised as something I should have loved.

Yep. Sounds like a normal day around here : )

How are you all doing with your Christmas and other holiday plans?

technical difficulties: comments to "glitter"

2009-12-10T22:53:00.000-08:00

Casual Friday. And Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday . . .

2009-12-02T14:45:00.000-08:00

Saturday I invited my single friend, Dude, to meet me at work for lunch because I am concerned that he's not getting out enough lately. And I won't tell him, but I'll tell you, I am deeply worried that he's the kind of guy who, in the future, neighbors will describe as, "a loner who always kept to himself." And I'm going to be the deluded idiot on the witness stand saying, "He was always gentle and kind with his cats. I never had any idea he was burying victims in his garden . . . "

My concern about his isolation stems from several e-mail and phone conversations. In one of which he reported to me that he'd spent the whole of the previous day in his sweats.

The next time I spoke to him, I asked what he'd been up to. "Have you been doing anything interesting lately? Getting out of the house much?"

Why yes, he in fact had gotten out of the house recently. He'd spent the afternoon doing errands with a friend. "Oh, good," I remarked, "that must mean you didn't spend the whole day in sweats!"

"Yes, I did!" he answered with not just a little bit of defensiveness. "But I wore nice sweats. They even have pockets. And a back pocket for my wallet."

Oy.

"No," I was adamant, "I'm not going to let this go. Sweats in public? Not an option. Not if you have any hope of being found attractive by women. No. Not even if they're nice sweats or unstained, unripped sweats. Not even if they have pockets! (And by the way? Just because they have a back pocket for your wallet does not make them non-sweats . . . ) Not even if they are your dress sweats. Just no.

"You're a good looking guy, Dude, but most women do not find men in sweats attractive. Trust me on this."

"But I was wearing my nice leather loafers!" Dude countered. Seriously. That was his defense.

"Yeah? Leather loafers? And were you also wearing an ascot tie? And a jaunty cap? Because that would make it . . . STILL SWEATS! And still completely repellent to women!"

"I'm wearing my sweats again today," he said, and I could almost hear his lower lip jutting out as he said it : )

"So, how's that working for you?" I asked with sticky sweet mock concern in my voice, "Wearing sweats. No girlfriend. Correlation?"

"Probably a correlation between the sweats and something," he reluctantly capitulated.

"Ah well, at least you're comfortable, right?" Yes--straight for the jugular! I am such a good friend!

Funny, Dude hasn't called or e-mailed me since then. I wonder why?

We've been together for 25 years. And there's nothing else to say about that . . .

2009-11-30T18:16:00.000-08:00

Hubby and I just got back from having some "special alone time." Where "special alone time" equals we went to the local drugstore for Ibuprofen. And garlic crackers . . .

Yeah, our lives are provocative and wild!

As we pulled into the driveway I cheerfully said, "Hey, thanks for the date!"

"Sure," he answered, "anything for my lady." And then we got out of the car and he started walking to the house well ahead of me.

"Wait!" I whined, "Aren't you going take my hand and walk me to the front door like you used to when I was 17? Like you used to when you were hoping for a kiss and maybe to touch a boob?"

"Nah," he laughingly answered, "I don't want a kiss, you've been eating garlic crackers. And nowadays I have my own boobs to feel."

Middle age. Awesome!

Canned Black Olives + Vicodin = Higher Than Normal Threat of Divorce. That's a standard formula, right?

2009-11-26T01:27:00.000-08:00

I have a tradition of cooking an entire turkey dinner with all the trimmings every year on Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve. I do this because my house has been deemed too small by the Thanksgiving SS so I have lost eligibility to host the Big Ass Family Thanksgiving Dinner.

Thanksgiving bylaws are complicated. What can I say?

Consequently, we get no house full of Thanksgiving smell, no leftover turkey (no turkey sandwiches or turkey soup!) and no apple pie for breakfast over the weekend.

Eight or nine years ago I made my own damn tradition, thankyouverymuch, wherein I treat my hubby and kids to a scrumptious, gluttonous feast. The day before the real feast. Rendering the actual Thanksgiving Day dinner rather "leftoverish."

Don't you hate when your attempt to solve a problem only begets its own set of problems?

So. To remedy that issue, I vary from the conventionally accepted Strict Menu Of Thanksgiving, thus making Thursday's meal entirely different from my Wednesday meal. Except for the turkey. And the stuffing. And gravy. Cranberry sauce . . .

Also? I am not a fan of what Thanksgiving has become. I loathe pushing a cart through the grocery store late in November and finding that my basket has identical contents to every other basket I pass in the aisles.

Sparkling cider? Check.
Boxed stuffing? Check.
Cans of pumpkin and evaporated milk for pumpkin pie? Check.
Ingredients for "The Green Bean Casserole"? Check. Check. Check.

When, in our nation's history, did this banquet become so rigidly codified?

I diverge from the party line. I'm a rebel with my Thanksgiving menu. Gone rogue, if you will : )

While I was preparing our Thanksgiving Eve Thanksgiving Repast, hubby started opening a can of jumbo black olives and asked which dish I wanted to serve them in.

"I'm not serving olives." I answered, matter of factly.

"Why?" he was perplexed.

"Because they don't really go with the food I'm serving tonight."

"But we always have olives and pickles on the table at Thanksgiving," he counters. "Why do you have to be all 'fancy'?" And by 'fancy' he means, "This is different from the way my mom does things--therefore I don't like it."

"Not serving canned jumbo black olives qualifies as 'fancy' now?" I ask with not at all disguised contempt.

He continues opening his can of olives, puts them in a pretty bowl and sets them on the table. I seem to have lost that round. Bastard.

Later, when nibbling from the hors d'oeuvre dish, he quips that he needs to go check his Pilgrim Manual to make sure that pear/onion/cheese strudel was served in 1621. He's completely lost sight of my intention. I've lost another round. Bastard.

Oh, at this point I should probably tell you that I have a non life threatening, temporary medical condition and, since it's a holiday weekend and all, my physician has put me on constant and strong doses of Vicodin just to get me by. So my head's a little fuzzy. And I can't string two thoughts together, much less make a complex recipe or finish a conversation without looking around and asking, "What?" as though I've just entered the room and don't know what's going on . . .

My original idea was, instead of serving squash at the meal, to pay homage to the gourd family by making roasted pumpkin and garlic hummus. I put all the ingredients into the blender and it was all a yummy orange puree speckled with seasonings. Thank you, prescription narcotics, I got a little confused and poured my lovely blended concoction into a pie crust . . . I lost that round too and it wasn't even my husband's fault.

Later, while singing Comcast karaoke with the kids, I was 100% committed to belting out a song I love, Kryptonite, when I realized I really didn't know the lyrics and was singing completely different words. In a different key. With different timing. And they were all chuckling at me . . . "Take another pill, honey," my sweet mister mocked. He wins another round! Damn, that guy is good! El bastardo!

And when did this whole day become a competition anyway? Actually, let's face it, any day that is about family and celebration where a husband and a wife have different ideas about things, and where alcohol and/or medication are involved, naturally becomes a competition.

Can't wait til Christmas!

A Typical Mouse Family Thanksgiving

2009-11-19T18:50:00.000-08:00

I don't have any real blog posts in me right now. But ripping off conversations I have where other people are funny is okay, right? Plagiarism who?

A series of e-mails between me and my Aunt Candi who is hosting Thanksgiving dinner this year:

Aunt Candi
Hi Kristin,
You and your family are cordially invited to have Thanksgiving dinner with us! If you can come, think about what you'd like to bring.

Me
Thanks! I’m not picky about what to bring for dinner (okay, except I hate Jell-O : )

Aunt Candi
We feel the same about Jell-O. Guess what I'm assigning to your mom? :D

Me
Are you looking for specific veggies or side dishes or are you wanting everyone to just bring what they have a wild hair to make?

(Hint: don’t give me too much leeway because I’ll pick a recipe I’ve never tried before, I’ll realize at the last second that I don’t have one of the essential ingredients, have to run to the store, start making the food an hour later than I need to in order to make it to your house on time and I will not have read the recipe all the way through and won’t realize it needs to chill for 4 hours and can’t be served the moment I finish making it . . . in my car . . . on the way to your house . . . )

The moral of the story here is: don’t trust me with anything of major significance : )

Aunt Candi
I suspect there is a grain of truth to your story as I seem to know exactly what you're talking about from my own personal experience!

I'm just working up the details of what we should have to eat. No hurry right? After all, I've got 3 whole weeks to figure out the details, clean the house, prepare food, oh, and clean the guest house because my younger son's girlfriend will be staying there a few days. We all know what is (or should I say isn't) going to get completed so, as usual, bring your dusting cloth!

Me
I think the only requirement to make it a true Mouse Family Thanksgiving is pie. Fourteen different kinds of pie! Also, if I get around to it, I might supply peppermint schnapps and cocoa mix if that’s okay with you? I like a warm, sleepy drink after a tryptophan laced dinner : )

Best of luck with the planning and shopping and cooking and cleaning and cleaning the guest house and all that! Glad it’s you, not me : )

Aunt Candi
Schnapps and cocoa - that's a good idea! Oh, and the house cleaning is a little behind schedule. Because I've never met my son's girlfriend before. So I had to run right out and buy a new bra. You, of course, understand . . .

Guest Post by my lovely daughter, Beautiful. (Wait, is that redundant?)

2009-11-18T22:22:00.000-08:00

Okay, not really a guest post so much as I'm cutting and pasting from an e-conversation I had with my daughter*.

Somehow we got to talking about intellectual giant, Levi Johnston, and it went south from there. Because really? Where else but south could it have gone?

Kristin:
a) I'm pretty sure the only people who read Playgirl are gay men. Ergo, the only people excited about seeing Levi Johntson's Playgirl spread are gay men. I can't fathom it. He's not all that great to look at. And maybe kinda dumb? Maybe it's not his brain they're excited about : )

b) According to a gossip website (which, I'm sure, is impeccable in its reporting) one of Kate Moss' favorite quotes is "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." That just irritates me. That's a *terrible* message to be putting out there for young girls! Both for the ones who will ruin their bodies, teeth and health obsessing over being Kate Moss skinny and for the ones who can never achieve that kind of skinny and will forever think they don't deserve to be happy because of it. Biotch!!!!!!!

Beautiful:
a) And Levi's conservative and probably doesn't support gay rights so why would they want to look at a big, stupid, ignorant teenager who knocked up the daughter of what some people say is what's wrong with America?

b) That's a profoundly stupid quote by Kate Moss. Are we conceited much?

Kristin
" . . . why would they want to look at a big, stupid, ignorant teenager who knocked up the daughter of what some people say is what's wrong with America? "

I think that's my favorite the quote of the year. And I'm totally blogging it : )

Beautiful
Thank you :) But seriously, it's true. I hope people aren't stupid enough to buy that Playgirl issue for the novelty or something.

Here is a list of people who should not be allowed to be interviewed ever again:

1)Carrie Prejean. Because she has completely embarrassed anyone who is opposed to gay marriage by her double standards, skankiness and all around stupidity. Any time the girl opens her mouth it's a train wreck.

2) John Gosselin. Need I say more?

3) Kate Gosselin. Not quite as bad as John but is talking about wanting a TV career when she's supposed to be Mommy Of The Year at home with her kids not out globe trotting and working so hard to make herself look better than her embarrassment of an ex.

4) Sara Palin. The woman made such a fool of herself and the Republican party and makes rednecks everywhere look bad. Same thing as Carrie, every time she opens her mouth it ends badly.

5) Levi Johnston. His only talent seems to be that he knocked up his teenage girlfriend. Okay, and his incessant whining. Why is he getting interviews? We do not care. So far, he has had nothing profound or remotely interesting to say and should not be famous! You know, the media jumps all over young mothers, especially ones in Hollywood, for taking teen pregnancy too lightly. But the only thing Levi has ever done to be noticed is to get a teenager pregnant so what kind of message is that sending?

All these people should step out of the public eye and go be good people. Or at least try not to daily embarrass themselves and our country.

Can I get a witness?!

*Editor's Note: Beautiful is concerned that she comes off as a negative whiner in this post because I cut out all the parts of this conversation where we talked about kittens and rainbows and unicorns. Trust me, she's not completely negative. Wicked funny, sarcastic and cutting, but in a happy, positive, life-affirming way.

Also? Add Tyra Banks to my list of people who should shut it already. Just sayin.

One small rant

2009-11-17T07:15:00.001-08:00

Can we be done with vampires yet?

Bull**it

2009-11-11T20:40:00.000-08:00

I don't know quite how to explain the chain of events that happened inside my head which got me to this point . . .

Let's start with Dave. In fact, let's just skip right to saying it's Dave's fault.

Dave posted this entry. I thought it was funny and immediately recognized the everyday usefulness of the phrase.

However--and I guess this is because I have two young grandchildren and read lots of kids' stories--since initially seeing it within the context of Busytown, I can't divorce that phrase from children's literature.

Every kids' book I can think of--including every book I read to Gabe or Lily--has an opportunity to insert this versatile little epithet.

For example: Old Yeller, just as Travis headed toward him with the rifle, surely must have been thinking, "this is bull**it."

Cinderella, when given a mile-long chore list to complete before being allowed to go to the ball, had to have been silently saying to her evil step mother, "this is bull**it."

It even works with nursery rhymes:
This little piggy went to market,
This little piggy stayed home,
This little piggy ate roast beef,
This little piggy said, "this is bull**it"

Nothing--no piece of literature, no sentimental movie, no historical figure--is exempt from my mind's heedless substitution of any poignant moment with my new favorite phrase.

And you know what the British Royal Governor was thinking as colonists dumped boatloads of tea into Boston Harbor, right?

battling dehydration

2009-11-03T22:19:00.002-08:00

I didn't start watching The Biggest Loser until the tail end of last season. And what I found out in watching the show is that, like adorable Mike, I cry over everything!

Okay, so he's not technically crying here, but you can see he's CLOSE!

For example, at the end of last season, I cried when Helen won. But not because I was happy for her (I was happy for her) but because she looked unhealthily skinny and it bothered me that the healthier body type Tara sported didn't win.

Hmmm . . . this picture doesn't really show the too skinny. But trust me. She was.

While Tara, on the other hand, looked healthy. And isn't healthy the quality we're looking for in losers? Yes, healthy is how I like my losers.

The new season started right out with the tugging of the heartstrings. For one thing, Daniel (who, up until this season's first weigh in, was the heaviest person in Biggest Loser history) was back from last season--he had been given a second chance. What a huge blessing! (Um, sorry, no pun intended . . . )

Daniel before and Daniel mid--not quite after because he's still working on it . . .

And they brought in Shay. Specifically to make me cry. Shay lost her inattentive mother to longtime heroin addiction. Maybe some of that played a role in Shay's weight issue? We need to get Sherlock Holmes on the case . . .

Anyhoo, Shay, as of this season's first weigh in, became The Biggest Loser's heaviest person ever. And it made her cry. And it made me cry--surprise! And then [*sniff* I can barely get through this *sniff sniff*] just so I would spill over into a giant puddle Daniel chose Shay to be his partner because if anyone understands what it means to be young and enormously overweight and have to face that and work back down and try to gain health that was always undermined in the first place and . . . *sniff* . . . I just have to stop there . . .

Hi, Shay. You go, girl!

I already resembled a used tissue by the time they let Abby tell her story. For those of you who don't know, Abby started rapidly gaining weight and not quite knowing what to do with her life two years ago in the aftermath of losing her husband, 5 year old daughter and 2 week old son all at once in a car accident. If you aren't tearing up just a little while reading this, then you might want to see a doctor. You're probably a robot.

Spunky, loving, been-to-hell-and-back Abby.

Where were we? Ah, yes. Sobbing.

Every week no matter what happens, no matter how much weight is lost or who prevails in the challenge of the week or who is voted to go home, I always cry. For two hours. Pretty much non stop. Good heavens, someone help me!

Case in point, last night the group visited Washington D.C. The week's challenge was to recruit as many folks as they could to do a public exercise class with Bob and Jillian. When Amanda was recognized by a huge group of girls on the street for being the contestant voted in at last season's finale? Yeah, a few tears spilled over . . .

And when Allen rounded up a bunch of firefighters, well, what can I say? Guys in uniform? Guys being part of a brotherhood no matter where in the country they're from? Guys helping out their fellow firefighter? Okay, fine, a few buckets of tears spilled over . . .

Later, during the public exercise class, when Bob lead (led?) the group of hundreds in some warm up squats? Oh, come on! Who doesn't break down and blubber at the sight of hundreds of people in the nation's capital doing squats?

I couldn't find a picture of Bob leading the squats. So just look at that body and imagine the muscles rippling and the sweat beading and . . . wait . . . what were we talking about?

And then? Later? After the emotional week and the emotional weigh in and the emotional speeches and the emotional voting and the EMOTIONS, when, after weeks of maneuvering and conniving and betraying people right and left to stay in the game, Crazy-Eyes-Tracey was voted out?

Meh.

Buh bye.

Why? Why do teenagers insist on disagreeing about things they cannot even know?

2009-10-27T23:09:00.000-07:00

Youngest wants to start looking for a new guitar teacher as his last one retired. That's cool. I'm all for shelling out the money for music lessons.

"Sure," I agree. "Your playing is fantastic and I'd love to see you continue. Also, you need a coach to help you with your timing, you seem to have some difficulty staying on beat."

Okay. That's not really what I said. That's what a tactful mother would say. The kind and thoughtful words that left my mouth and went straight on to mangle Youngest's psyche were, "Sure, we can find another teacher. By the way, your rhythm sucks. You need to work on that."

"Your rhythm sucks." he adroitly replies. "Besides," he continues, because you know a teen can't let an insult go without trying to get the last word, "you don't know anything about music, you never played an instrument so who are you to judge?"

Good one. But his facts are woefully incorrect!

"Oh, yes I did play an instrument! I played saxophone in junior high! Which is why I know the fingerings for sax, clarinet and flute--they're all very similar. And that's also why whenever I eat red licorice I bite holes in it and play it like a recorder."

Youngest, who apparently has never witnessed my great talent, answered, " . . . >blink< . . . wha? I don't even know where to begin with that . . . "

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You know how Beautiful and Number One's friends all think you're the cool mom?"

"Yeah?"

"They're misled."

"I know."

signs that my focus is a leeeeetle bit off . . .

2009-10-09T23:19:00.000-07:00

I was at my daughter's house on a Friday night so she could pin up a pair of jeans I needed to hem. Because I'm a midget. Practically.

But that's not the important part.

I had worn the jeans to her house because blah, blah, blah, nobody cares why.

After the brisk work of pinning my pants up, Beautiful went to the fridge for a bottle of water and asked me if I'd like anything to drink. A large bottle of Gatorade was in the fridge. Suddenly I had a hankering for Gatorade.

For the life of us, we could not get that bottle open. And that's a serious blow to my ego because I am a freakishly strong woman and I am always the one people ask to open lids. Dammit.

We gave up and I decided to just stop at a convenience store on the way home and buy some of my own. Then I realized I was wearing pants that were pinned up and could not be seen in public that way--and I had nothing to change into. Naturally.

Discussing this conundrum with my daughter, she offered that, since she lives in a bit of a sketchy neighborhood, I could just take my pants off and go into the store pantsless for my juice. "Nobody would even notice," she added.

What I should have been thinking was how dangerous it is for my daughter and her young family to live in such a shady neighborhood and whether we should offer to help them locate a home in better surroundings.

What I was actually thinking was, "No, I can't take my pants off and go into a store. I totally have the wrong underwear on for that."

Sweet Pea is already a whole year old!

2009-09-27T14:31:00.001-07:00

How did that happen so quickly????

it's FLAN, g**dammit!

2009-09-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

On some occasions, our differences make certain events challenging. Or, more to the point, for Hubby and me certain events can be a real bitch. Eating dinner out is one such event.

Hubby and I like different food and different restaurants. Hubby likes generous portions and a reasonable bill. I like fresh, local ingredients in small, non-chain establishments and I realize that there is a price tag attached to such an experience. With our family budget, my style of eating out doesn't happen very often, but when it does, I want to enjoy it.

We tried to compromise last night. We tried really hard . . .

Hubby wanted to go to an all-you-can-eat buffet that features prime rib *and*, because it was Tuesday, it was 2-for-1 night! That wasn't exactly what I was going for, but I also didn't feel like staying home and eating leftovers or cooking something myself, so I agreed to go. As luck would have it, there was a one hour wait--I was off the hook : )

Instead, we went to a smaller, sort of high-end establishment that features a lot of northwest specialties (read: salmon and clams.) Luckily for my sweet Mister, there was a 4-course-meal-for-$18 deal. Yeah. Four courses for $18? Didn't promise to be outstanding, but it also wasn't Azteca. It was an okay compromise for us both.

Hubby doesn't like fussy food. He could not care less about presentation. He wants to be full and happy. "What you're looking for is abnormally American serving sizes," I chide. "So? I'm an American, aren't I?" he rejoins. How can I argue with that?

I don't like fussy food just to pretend to be something I'm not, but I do appreciate eating something new or something we don't normally have at home.

The meal was okay. Not spectacular, but not awful. Early into the second course I asked hubby to table the complaining. He had one more gripe to air--which made us both laugh--and then he agreed to finish the meal without grousing over every little thing.

Oh, but that didn't stop him from embarrassing me!

He ordered the flank steak and when the waitress asked how he would like his meat cooked, he surprised me by saying, "Rare." Usually he likes medium-rare, but whatever.

When it came to the table, it was too undercooked for his taste and he sent it back, "to be microwaved a little." Yeah.

I asked him why he didn't just order it medium-rare to begin with. "Well, usually in these places," which is his semi-disparaging code for any restaurant that he deems fancy just for the purpose of raising the prices to the roof, "'medium-rare' ends up being well done and I didn't want that." Okay, darling, whatever you say.

He asked me if it would be PC to inquire what country the waitress was from. I didn't want him asking that because I was afraid it would come off as though he was complaining that she somehow didn't belong here. That's not what he meant at all, but I was worried that's how it would sound.

Naturally, he did not take my advice and asked her anyway. "I noticed your accent and I wondered where you're from," he pleasantly asked.

"Ethiopia," was the answer.

Hubby had thought Sudan, so really he wasn't too far off and I was impressed. Except that 'Ethiopia' conjures up images of skeletal, haunted looking women and children. It's probable that not *everybody* in Ethiopia is or was starving, but it strikes me that it must seem obscene to an Ethiopian to work in an American restaurant with our fat asses sitting on large chairs eating 4 courses and groaning as we walk away from the table . . .

And also I wonder whether she suffered genital mutilation when she was a girl . . .

These thoughts are not conducive to a happy dinner . . .

At the end of the meal, lovely miss Ethiopia brought us our dessert course. I ordered flan.

"I see you ordered a plate of phlegm," chirps my husband.

"Really? After 25 years you still think that's funny?" I ask, disgusted.

Taking a bite of my dessert, he exuberantly answers, "Yes!" and starts to laugh. And while laughing, manages to spit a booger sized piece of flan out of his mouth and onto my side of the table where it now, indeed, looks like phlegm.

I start to laugh. "See!" hubby happily notes, "you're laughing--you still think it's funny too!"

This is a typical evening out with my husband. I would say I need to be rescued by a knight on a brawny steed, but in the end, he would burp and fart and repeatedly make stupid jokes too. Because he'd be a guy. And let's face it, there's pretty much one model : )

In which

2009-09-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

Country Mouse gives up

a reasonable facsimile of

a 'dream'

for the greater good.

Sort of.

Or,

What I Did This Summer.

I took a little detour this summer. I began going to school. I've been researching and considering and planning for a long time. And I made a decision.

A couple years ago I was committed to massage therapy school, but at the eleventh hour I had to take a sharp left turn and quickly come up with a job that offered benefits. I landed at the pharmacy. Which I like very much.

However . . .

Okay, so here's my ego talking. My job is entry level. Yes, there's a little more finesse in my position than there is in, say, flipping burgers. (Although, to be fair, almost any job has its challenges and a person is either equipped to handle those challenges or learns how. Or doesn't learn and sucks at his job. I do not suck.) I'm not above my job. But I am capable of more.

And, to be completely honest, I would like to have some sort of title or job description that sounds a little less assistanty and a little more--I'm just going to say it--important.

How's that for ego?

So. I did the research and started ticking off the handful of pre-reqs I needed to qualify for a two year program to become a:

(drum roll, please)

Diagnostic Ultrasound Technician!

Doesn't that sound all Technical and Important and Responsible and Respectable???

Also--ultrasound techs make decent money. And that is the true heart of the matter. My sweet hubby who has taken care of my financial needs for my entire adult life is not able to provide for us like he used to. His disability money is waning and I don't yet know when it will cease, but when it does, ladies and gentlemen, it will be up to me to take care of us.

So. This summer, in addition to working more hours than usual, helping my daughter plan and execute her wedding, babysitting the grand kids, and, of course, the day-to-day with my own family and home, I was, in my spare time, taking a math course [*cough* 4.0 *cough*]

And then I had to pause. And think. And what I was thinking was that the hours of class time, homework time and commute time add up to 20 hours per week--tacked onto the 24+ hours a week of my regular job. And that's just with one class. That's a lot of time away from my family.

My youngest is 14 and is just beginning his high school years. It felt fervently unfair to be planning my own course of 4 years of abandoning my family when this is the time, both educationally and emotionally, he needs me the most.

So. Short story long, I withdrew from the chemistry class I was set to begin this month. And, therefore, withdrew from my future plans.

I don't know what we're going to do in the future, but I do know things will work out. They always do. For now I'm going to be here. At home. Raising my son. With no regrets.

And I'm going to be at my job. Where I am an assistant. Entry level. Also with no regrets. I'm good at my job. And there is no shame at being good at one's job. Ever. No matter how entry level it is. (Well, maybe if one is a hitman or a drug dealer or a prostitute, then *maybe* there would be some shame in being good at one's job . . . )

Besides being home and teaching my last child and rocking the pharmacy flunky job, I'll also finish the giant stuffed octopus I'm making for my grand kids. And I'm going to design the craft room I am getting at long last! But I probably won't be learning Portuguese . . .

something's in the air

2009-08-23T21:33:00.001-07:00

I feel like I've been through a very long creative drought. And suddenly, I want to read everything, and I want to cook everything, and I want to make, sew, create, repurpose, organize, clean EVERYTHING!!!

Which probably means I'm dying of some swift and terrible, and undiscovered, disease. Like John Travolta in that one movie. The one where he can predict earthquakes.

So if I don't post for awhile, it either means I died, or I'm learning Portuguese. Overnight.

I'll let you know how it goes . . .

A cake I made based (loosely) on Van Gogh's "Almond Blossoms."

Yeah. He'd be crushed to know he'd been this trivialized . . .

P.S. If I die, y'all will send armloads of sweet peas, right? RIGHT????

Irony has it out for me

2009-08-19T19:57:00.000-07:00

I have a running 'joke' with my sort-of-adopted Non Son, Guy. Every year I tell him when sweet peas (my favorite flowers IN THE WORLD) are blooming. And for the past two years, I have also informed him when bouquets of sweet peas are for sale at the store in which my pharmacy is located.

Guy has yet to bring me any sweet peas. But I keep trying . . .

We discussed it one day last week. I told him that Friday, which was destined to be a bit of a bummer kind of day for me, would be the perfect day to come see me at work and, on his way in, stop by the flower display to pick out some lovely blossoms for me.

"Would you be upset if I told you I have other plans that afternoon? I'm going to the Mariner's game," he explained with sincerity.

So much for my for my baseless hope that one day he'll do one thing--just one thing--to make me happy.

Friday afternoon found me at work (on a day I wasn't scheduled to be there) feeling kind of low. Out of the clear blue sky, one of the women from the floral department came to my window carrying a stunning bouquet of flowers--roses and lilies, all luscious shades of reds and purples. And for one split second, the most inane notion raced straight to my heart, "Did he really? Did he actually make arrangements for flowers to be brought to me even though he couldn't come see me himself?"

I hadn't even had enough time to knock myself off that puffy, pink cloud of a pipe dream before the floral lady said to me, "These flowers are a little too old to sell, but they're still kind of pretty. Do you mind if I leave them here on your counter?"

Not only a cruel twist, but an apt analogy for my station in life.

O, Irony, thou art one stone cold bitch.

teach your children well

2009-08-18T13:18:00.000-07:00

Opening our bank statement the other day, I was stunned. It's an account we don't have much money in. We only use it for paypal. It's at a different bank than we use for our checking, savings, etc.

I was floored to see almost $10k in the balance column.

How long has this been going on? Hubby has been secreting away money? Is he building a plan to leave me? Is he using this account as a means to pay his kept woman's bills? Oh no, he ditn't! He is so NOT getting away with this!

Before you could say, "Step back and think, woman!" I had a list half a dozen items long of things I would buy with that stolen money.

I'd love a new car.

A cruise!

A vacation on an island. With a ripped, young stud rubbing oil into my skin . . .

A shopping spree! In New York City.

I'll show that hubby of mine! There will be no embezzling of our family funds for his extracurricular activities!

Oh, wait a second. The name on this account is Douglas J. P____, not Douglas S. P____. This is my son's bank statement.

Never mind.

momzilla

2009-08-04T12:58:00.000-07:00

Are we all sick of discussing the wedding yet?

I told one of my friends that I have done many exhausting things--given birth to three children, hosted very large Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, organized/planned/spearheaded many events . . . for heaven's sake, I once threw a prom--but this? This wedding? It was my daughter's project, she planned and executed the lion's share of it and, though I loved it, I can still say it was the hardest, most draining experience of my life!

I was on my cell so much that the battery ran dead--twice. I heard my daughter's phone ring so often that her ring tone is forever imprinted on my brain.

Near the end of the evening the photographer was trying to get one last, huge family photo but Gabe's tux jacket was all bunched up around his shoulders and face. I tried to unbutton the jacket but he did not want it unbuttoned, thankyouverymuchgrammy. The fact that he didn't want me to adjust his clothing did not deter me. A few seconds later I realized that I was wrestling a 4-year-old while his real grandma looked on. I'm sure she was impressed by my natural gift with children . . .

That was the moment that I realized I had officially lost my sh*t.

Returning to the ballroom, the first person I saw was my husband's best friend. I wasted no time enlisting his help.

"Peter," I pleaded, "will you go to the lounge and get me whatever the best man is drinking?" He must have seen the crazy in my eyes because he did not question, he just did as he was bid. Five minutes later I was sipping a tall, strong glass of calm-the-f%&k-down.

And then we danced. And it was wildly fun. And I was somewhat sane again : )

Daddy's little girl

2009-08-02T14:56:00.000-07:00

One of my all-time favorite pictures of my daughter is from 1994. Beautiful was 6 and we were at Knott's Berry Farm. I was walking behind Beautiful and my husband as I snapped the photo. She was holding her daddy's hand. He was looking down at her, talking. She was looking up at him with the sunshine on her precious face.

Yesterday, as Daddy was walking her down the aisle to give her away, I noticed she was holding his hand. She briefly looked up at him and he down at her. The sun was shining on her lovely face. Any guesses as to when I started to cry?

Beautiful married a man who is a lot like her dad. We were surrounded by beloved friends and family. My two adorable grandchildren were in the wedding party. Number One Son delivered a touching toast to his little sister and his new brother-in-law. Youngest entertained the crowd when he busted out dance moves--and a complete lack of inhibition--which were, heretofore, not known to exist.

At the end of a very, very, very, long day, my husband slid into bed beside me, held me very close and whispered, "I love you."

Who could ask for anything more?

How I offended people this week

2009-07-29T22:04:00.000-07:00

The wedding is Saturday. Most things are coming together very well (with the exception of a bridesmaid dress that doesn't fit at all . . . )

The groom's family is flying in tonight from Tennessee and Indiana. They called the groom, Dan, a couple days ago to ask what kind of attire would be appropriate for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Dan was at our house when the phone call came in, so he deferred to me.

The idea I wanted to get across to them was to feel free to keep it casual. However, as Dan was speaking to his younger brother, I also wanted to make it clear that casual did not mean sloppy. And my choice of words? To a young man I've never met? Who hails from the South?

"No wife beaters."

Yeah. I'm pretty sure our first meeting will go swimmingly . . .

2009-07-22T02:43:00.000-07:00

Poor little Youngest.

Youngest is suffering a terrible loss of mother time because of a small thing called THE WEDDING THAT'S IN 11 DAYS!!!

Also, Youngest spends all his time hiking with friends and skateboarding and doing yard work for grandparents. Whenever I am home, he cares not whether he is here to take advantage of that wonderful fact. But the days when I go in to work, or, heaven forbid!, the time I am spending on last minute schlepping/creating/helping for the upcoming party he counts as time that I am blatantly ignoring him. If you could only see the pathetic expression on his sad little face as he moans, "I have no mother . . . *sigh* . . . "

Yeah. Don't try for the guilt or anything, Youngest.

Before he went to bed tonight I poked my head in to wish him sweet dreams and maybe give him a smidgen of my highly sought after attention.

"Goodnight, Youngest," I said.

"No sprecken ze Witch," came the reply.

If it hadn't been so clever I'd really be upset : )

motherless waif . . .

talk the talk

2009-07-18T18:25:00.000-07:00

We have been a significant part of Sweet Pea's life since she was born. We babysit several times a week at our house and I'm frequently at their house as well. It's been such a privilege to watch her change and grow. Babies are endlessly fascinating to watch.

She has been crawling for some time. And now she stands up on her own--it's so cool because she'll be in the middle of a room or the yard and, with nothing to help her, she'll just stand up. Cutest thing ever : )

She also talks! She says mama and dada and yumyum (which comes out more like num num : ) She says hi and bye bye and Gabe (big brother's name.) And she says doggie.

Doggie.

But not Grammy.

Yeah.

It won't be long, I'm quite sure, until she learns that to get the things she really wants (that pretty dress or candy . . . or a pony . . . ) "Grammy" is the only word necessary : )

sneak preview

2009-07-17T00:43:00.000-07:00

The flowers--or bouquet--if you will, for a friend . . .

I'll expand on this when I have time : )

Why can't I just win one?

2009-07-14T21:29:00.000-07:00

Why is it that nothing interesting ever comes my way on a normal day? But on a day when I end up leaving the house looking like a hot tranny mess--anything can happen!

I went to work at 8:30 this morning. Directly after work (without passing Go and without collecting $200) I had a meeting with some people about a thing. For a couple hours. Long, long hours . . . After the meeting with the people about the thing, I decided to finally go set up an account at the tanning place because the wedding is two and a half weeks away and what better time to risk burning, blistering and peeling. Am I right?

Next, sans makeup and covered in oily tanning goo, I decided to make a quick trip to Wal-Mart. (You don't even have to say it. I already know. Wal-Mart is the crux of the problem. I'm aware. Whenever I add Wal-Mart into any equation, it's like trying to multiply by zero--nothing good or positive or rational is ever going to come of it.)

I was at Wal-Mart buying flowers for a friend. Standing in line with no make-up, wearing jeans and my work T-shirt (not the most feminine garment ever engineered) and holding a bouquet of delicious roses, I suddenly thought that I probably looked (and I hope this isn't offensive) really butchy and like I was probably in trouble with my girlfriend so I was apologizing with roses.

And then I got to wondering because, darn it anyway, I'm adorable so if I'm standing there looking all gay and remorseful for having hurt my partner's feelings, why aren't all the lesbians in the store hitting on me?

And while I was mulling over my failure as a lesbian, I heard someone say my name. Not my actual name, Kristin, but the flat, tepid, defying-society-while-attempting-to-fade-into-the-junior-high-crowd name, Kris.

I am so unaccustomed to being called by that name that I didn't connect it with myself. After I heard it ring out a second time I realized I was being spoken to and turned around.

It was one of the most important people not to be seen by when one has no make-up, is covered in oily tanning goo and wearing unflattering clothes--it was a high school flame. It was Bobby. (Who, if he hadn't been the one to say hello, I never would have recognized. Because of the facial hair. And the 25 intervening years . . . )

Bobby and I had a brief relationship back in the day. We clung to each other as salve for both of our broken hearts. I don't remember how it ended (no doubt with me being a giant jerk . . . ) but I don't think there are any hard feelings. Or, if there were, it was so long ago that it's forgotten.

Standing in Wal-Mart, Bobby and I caught up for a few delightful minutes and then, when there was pretty much nothing else to say, we parted ways.

Obsessing over how craptastic I looked for this chance meeting with a ghost of relationships past, I walked quickly to my car. Or a car that looked like mine . . . that didn't respond to my remote . . . just in case I didn't already look like a big enough loser today . . . Seriously. Just one break, one time would be fanfreakingtastic!

I know, I know, I haven't been updating at all . . .

2009-07-12T22:19:00.000-07:00

T minus 3 weeks from the wedding.

My lovely daughter has everything very well planned out, but at the same time she is being laid back and trusting about the details. For example, her mentor, Sara, is making her dress. They bought the fabric and discussed the pattern months ago but only took Beautiful's measurements last Wednesday. Beautiful isn't worried. Sara will deliver and it will be lovely.

Though most everything has been thoughtfully mapped out--we have a timeline, we have farmed out tasks to willing family members--it's still difficult not to be a little frantic as the date nears. There are things I can't finish too far ahead of time--like the programs. There are issues we can't control--like extra people inviting themselves to the rehearsal dinner. But my sweet girl keeps reminding me (and herself) that it doesn't have to be a perfect day. It's a day to celebrate being a family with all the people she loves. The most important thing is that they will be married.

And I believe it when she tells me that. Last night I was at their house discussing the order of the ceremony. Lily stirred a little in her sleep so I picked her up and rocked her. Meanwhile, Daddy ran to get a bottle for his sweet baby. Beautiful looked at her slumbering child in my arms and then looked at Dan. I could see her expression change. A smile and a flush. Her eyes welled up. She is a woman who is deeply in love and is grateful for her blessings. And what a blessing it was for me to witness that moment.

*sigh* . . .

For Gail

2009-06-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

I probably won't be able to speak at her memorial service. But she was important and she was exceptional and she deserves to be remembered.

My ex-sister-in-law, Gail, died last Sunday. She was only 52. I don't know the official cause of death, but I can guess it was due to complications of her demons.

Actually, Gail and I had a bit of a tempestuous relationship. She didn't have children of her own. She adored my kids and was pretty opinionated about how they should be raised and cared for. Unsurprisingly, this caused a bit of friction between us.

For the most part though, I loved her. And I admired her.

She was bubbly and energetic and was the very definition of verve. She was never intimidated by a career challenge--she dove straight in and made the best of any situation.

Gail also loved to entertain and was a fantastic hostess. But the way she influenced my life the most was through her proclivity to celebrate her birthday with panache!

Gail didn't mind aging. And she didn't subscribe to the martyr theory of birthdays (I'm sure you all know people who do the martyr thing, "Oh, it's no big deal--it's just another day . . . ")

Gail celebrated much and with relish. But it wasn't all about her--she used her birthday parties as a platform to celebrate family and friends and especially to glorify the largesse of a brand new, freshly ripened year just waiting to be plucked and savored.

Her death was a long time coming. And the last several years of her life could not have been anything like enjoyable or comfortable. She's at peace now.

Godspeed, Gail. And when we meet again I'll look forward to hearing your familiar old words, "How ya doin? Can I get you something to drink?

Sweet Pea

2009-06-14T12:24:00.000-07:00

apples and oranges

2009-06-11T23:26:00.000-07:00

The Girl Pharmacist* got a phone call from her 11-year-old son after school on Wednesday. He was very excited to tell his mom that according to the results of some standardized testing he'd endured, his reading level is that of a 9th grader, while his math skills were at the 12th grade level.

Not bad for an 11 year old.

The Girl Pharmacist was, understandably, pleased (though not surprised : ) at the news. And a little part of me whimpered.

My Youngest does not have testable skills. Youngest is a great kid, but scholastic, he is not.

Youngest, like his father, has common sense. And a fairly good work ethic. He's got a big heart. He loves women, respects his mother (well, you know . . . mostly . . . ) Also, like his father, Youngest is mechanically minded--he's been fixing the neighbor kids' toys and bicycles since he was 7.

He's the kind of kid who doesn't like other people to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed and will do what he can to put a person at ease. He's a natural with small children and is our go-to man when it comes to babysitting our extremely exuberant step-grandson.

I don't know what it is about his personality that makes him such a draw, but for some reason, with several different groups of friends, he is like the egg in a recipe--he is the ingredient that binds everyone together.

Four or five years ago, Youngest was away camping with his grandparents for two weeks. The neighborhood kids missed him so much that near the end of his absence a bunch of them were sitting in the lawn--and I am not exaggerating--chanting his name, "Youngest, Youngest, Youngest . . . "

Yesterday, he was with his dad running some errands. I noticed two of his friends sitting on the grass near our driveway. "What's up, guys?" I asked. "Oh, we're just waiting for Youngest to get home," they told me. It was the 13-year-old-boy-trying-to-maintain-some-semblance-of-cool version of chanting my son's name.

Don't get me wrong--my boy is by no means perfect. I'm sure the moms of a few of his friends could tell me things about him that I'd rather not hear : ) And, of course, we do have our bad days. Today, in fact, was one of them. Today, was just so darn much fun with my darling little Youngest that my facebook status reads, "Free to good home: 13 year old boy. Knows everything. We'll deliver."

He'll never test well. He'll never call me at work to tell me he scored light years above his age level. But as far as the intangibles? He excels. He has qualities that make him a good, decent person and which will make him a good husband and father some day.

All said and done, he is a boy I am proud of.

*Note to the Girl Pharmacist: Should you ever happen to read this, it's important to me that you know I am in no way disrepecting your son--I think he's wonderful : )

Happy Mother's Day!

2009-05-10T11:14:00.000-07:00

Number One Son told me he had planned to buy me a dogwood tree and plant it in my yard for Mother's Day. I thought it was a lovely idea but he said he'd been shot down by his dad.

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"Because Dad says our yard isn't big enough for another tree."

Number One and I surveyed the landscape and had a good chuckle over the lack of room for a tree. What with the wood splitter, the tractor, non-working hot tub, dirt bikes, in-need-of-repair jet ski and ski boat, cars waiting to be fixed up and resold . . . yeah--no room for a beautiful tree.

"I wanted to plant it in the front yard by the gate," he said.

"I think that's a lovely idea."

"Okay," he agreed, "I'll plant it and you and Dad can duke it out from there."

"So," I summed up, "what you're giving me for Mother's Day is a divorce?"

What a sweet, sweet boy : )

Icky x Gross = Disgusting

2009-05-05T21:56:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned my friend, Bob, from the produce department before. In addition to his fine work with fruits and veggies, twenty-five year old Bob is going to school right now to become a nurse.

Passing through his department the other day, I stopped to ask him how school was going. He mentioned that they were preparing for their clinicals in which they would practice on their classmates.

"Oh," I asked--which was truly the beginning of my problems, "do you mean taking blood pressure and pulse and things like that?"

"Actually no, we're going to be doing things like sponge bathing and clipping nails."

It was then that I gagged and he had the most impish grin on his face.

This, naturally, segued into a discussion of Things Which Skeeve Me Out.

Things like the hot tub at the gym Bob and I both belong to. The hot tub in which I have seen enough hair to braid a friendship bracelet and upon whose foam I have seen a scum of body oil and dirt such that I will not go near that place ever again. But the real capper was when I saw a large toenail piece lying by the side of the hot tub.

Laughing at my squeamishness, Bob promised to fill me in on all the gritty details of his clinicals.

Seriously, Bob, thanks. A lot.

After a conversation like that, it is but a certainty that more nastiness would follow. Am I right? I was just asking for it.

Later that evening at The Gym Which Is Expensive Enough That It Ought To Be Pristine, I went to the pool for laps. The pool is tiny. Approximately 8' x 10'. Two other people were already in the pool, but they were in separate corners of the shallow end doing exercises, leaving me the middle "lane."

Careful not to swim into their spaces, I was using a little white thing at the edge of the pool as my spotting and turnaround point. Up close, it turned out that the little white thing was a band aid.

I thought maybe instead of trying to do laps without getting in the other folks' way and avoiding the lifeless (one hopes) band aid, I could do laps crosswise in the deep end. I started on one side and when I reached the opposite side for the turnaround, guess what was sitting at the edge of the pool? Anyone? Yes, another band aid!

And a few feet away--what's that? Oh tell me that isn't a cond . . . Nah--I'm pretty sure it's just a latex glove. But why? Why is there an abandoned latex glove at the edge of the pool? Some questions are better left unanswered.

I spent the rest of my 20 minutes not counting laps, but counting every single amoeba in the pool. Yes. I was that freaked out.

{shudder}

That was last night and I still feel like I need to shower. Again.

Does this dog make me look fat?

2009-05-01T22:33:00.001-07:00

Three months until my lovely daughter's wedding and I'm dreading how I'll look in the photos. I am not photogenic. At all. I'm an attractive enough woman in person (well . . . attractive for my age . . . ) but I do not translate well to 2D.

Also? I weigh 20 (or 150--but who's counting?) more pounds than I'd like to and what with me being short anyway and photographs making people look even heavier . . . It doesn't bode well.

I'm thinking of getting that Valerie-Bertinelli-in-the-bikini People Magazine cover made into a life-sized cardboard cut-out from the neck down and standing behind it because really she and I are built about the same with similar coloring and face shape. As long as I'm going that far, I might as well just leave her head on the cardboard cut-out and stand it next to the wedding party. That's subtle, right?

But I've gotten off track.

So. I am perpetually trying to get rid of these 20 (or 150--but who's counting?) pounds and now I'm totally ramping it up because I only have three months!!!!

I've been working out a lot and eating really well and have shed a few pounds. And I feel great! Well, I did feel great until that thing with the dog happened . . .

My daughter has a dog. I hate that dog. He's really not a bad guy--just a big puppy who doesn't know his strength. Somehow he managed to poop on my daughter's pant leg the other day just before she got into her car to come to my house. (Yeah--on her pant leg. How does that happen?)

When she got to my house I loaned her a pair of my smallest denim Capris thinking they might be a bit loose on her but they'd be fine.

They weren't fine.

I saw my daughter swimming in my cute little Capris. My little Capris! The waist didn't fit at all, there were huge gaps where her butt didn't fill them out and they were all loose on the legs.

Great.

I know what my daughter weighs. And I know exactly how much I have to lose before I can look as good as the girl who just had a baby! And now after all my hard work and determination, I am completely let down.

It's the dog's fault.

I hate that #$%& dog.

thanks : )

2009-04-24T09:15:00.000-07:00

Y'all are so supportive and kind : )

Still on hiatus. Working on some stuff at home. Helping my lovely daughter with wedding details--eeeeeeeeeee!

In the meantime, a little gratuitous grammy sharing:

Lily, 6 1/2 months old

hiatus

2009-04-19T13:03:00.001-07:00

Taking a blogging break for awhile, but I'll be keeping up with your blogs : )

Happy spring, y'all!

I think they make drugs for that . . .

2009-04-14T19:05:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that I was cleaning out my purse. It was a mess. At first, I was pulling out food wrappers and half-empty bottles of soda. Not much of a stretch from reality.

Next, I started removing books from my purse--books that had been stained and leaked on by the food wrappers and half-empty bottles of soda.

Again, not a huge deviation from my real life.

Next, I pulled out a banjo.

That's just weird. Because I don't keep my banjo in my purse.

In which I offer empirical proof that I am not married to Chuck Norris' cousin . . .

2009-04-12T18:36:00.000-07:00

As if.

Who are Chuck Norris' parents? Might, Justice and Cunning. Yes, all three.

So, obviously, Chuck Norris has no cousins . . .

I got to looking at my sweet hubby the other day and the thought struck me that he bears a passing resemblance to Chuck Norris. Chuck Norris can kick through all 6 degrees of separation, hitting anyone, anywhere, in the face, at any time.

He is very muscular, has a reddish beard and when he's serious he gets a look on his face that you wouldn't dream of arguing with. Okay, maybe you wouldn't dream of arguing with him, but I would because I'm his wife : ) There is no 'ctrl' button on Chuck Norris' computer. Chuck Norris is ALWAYS in control.

Hubby doesn't wear Wrangler jeans. However, that fact, in and of itself, isn't proof enough that they aren't somehow related. Chuck Norris has a Wrangler belt in Karate.

There is other evidence though that proves my sweet Mister is not descended from the line that brought forth Chuck Norris:

We pay taxes every year.

When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes. Ever.

Hubby is pretty darn good with math, especially interest rate calculations and anything to do with money. But even Hubby can't hold a candle to Chuck:

Chuck Norris is considered a prime number in certain schools in Ontario.
Chuck Norris counted to infinity. Twice.
Chuck Norris can divide by zero.

In addition to his grasp of intricate financial matters, my sweet Hubby has a common sense kind of intelligence. But . . . Chuck Norris is so smart, Stephen Hawking stood up to bow down to him.

Hubby is strong and tough and manly and possesses self control. But . . .

Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door.
If you Google search "Chuck Norris getting his ass kicked" you will generate zero results. It just doesn't happen.
When an episode of Walker Texas Ranger was aired in France, the French surrendered to Chuck Norris just to be on the safe side.
Chuck Norris can eat just one Lay's potato chip.

But the most compelling evidence that Hubby is not in any way related to Chuck Norris?

No human child could withstand the force of being this close

to a biologically related beard of Chuck Norris

It would be funny if it weren't true.

2009-04-10T00:02:00.000-07:00

I don't usually think of myself as a clumsy or stupid person. But my body and mouth rebelliously tell a different story. Like the Thanksgiving I was playing Pictionary with my entire extended family.

I was partnered with my cousin, Greg, who was a college student. I have no idea what the word was nor what the clues he was drawing were, but I vividly remember yelling out in a strong and clear voice "nutsack!" Greg looked at me with such surprise on his face. And then launched into a giggling fit such that he could no longer hold a pencil, let alone coherently draw clues . . .

And there was the housewarming party for another cousin, Leslie. Leslie is one of those people whose home is always neat as a pin even though she has two children and a rambunctious dog. She's so tidy and together that she opted to put white carpeting in her family room.

We were extremely careful to insist that Gabe, still 3 at the time, eat and drink only on the patio outside so we wouldn't have any unfortunate carpet accidents.

Naturally, I was the one who dropped a strawberry margarita on the floor. The white carpeted floor. And it splashed all over the back of the white couch. I don't even know how it happened. I wasn't tipsy. Nobody bumped me. I didn't trip. It just slipped out of my hand . . .

A couple weeks ago at work I was waiting on a stunning younger man. Does anyone else have the problem of being klutzy once a month related to menstrual cycle? I do. Waiting on him I kept dropping things and generally making an idiot of myself. Anyone in the world looking on would have thought I was flustered because I was taken with his handsomeness. But I wasn't. I was just being me.

The piece de resistance was when, at the very end of the transaction, I was handing him the bag with his medications and I managed to scoop up my name badge too--as though I was attempting to not-so-casually encourage him to give me a call.

While I was strangling myself with the lanyard and, red faced, trying to untangle it from his hand, he was chuckling at me. I was dying and wishing I could say, "No really--I'm not coming on to you, I'm just short-bus special."

I could tell a hundred stories like that. So it came as no surprise to my darling husband the other night when I again found myself in a bit of a jam.

Sitting at the computer, I had an itch on my knee. I was alone, it was dark and I was wearing yoga pants. Seemed like a fine idea to put my hand inside the waistband of my pants, reach down to my knee and scratch.

My bracelet got caught on my pants seam. Really caught. And I couldn't dislodge it. I had to walk into the other room, bent over double with my hand still in my pants, and ask hubby to unhook my hand from my knee. I was laughing so hard I could barely explain to him what had happened.

Not that he was asking.

He's used to me and my problems by now.

I swear it was disguised as a Monday . . .

2009-04-05T20:54:00.000-07:00

2:30 a.m. Friday--allergies are a bitch. Took a Benadryl so I could actually get some sleep. Only a few more hours til get-ready-for-work time.

3:30 a.m. Friday--woke up to hubby snoring. Sent him to a different room. Could still hear him snoring. Eventually forced my way back to sleep.

5:00 a.m. Friday--Number One Son absentmindedly slammed front door as he left for work. Jarred me awake. Trying to get back to sleep--again--I contemplate "absentmindedly" changing the locks before Number One returns home.

6:30 a.m. Friday--phone rings. In my stupor, I mistake that noise for the alarm and jump out of bed. Realize it's the f***ing phone. Enter kitchen just in time to hear the message. It's our friend Randy who doesn't live here anymore. Because he lives 2/10 of a mile away. He's calling because he wants to come over for morning coffee. He's calling from the road directly in front of our kitchen window. The kitchen window I am standing in front of. I am naked. Awesome.

7:00 a.m. Friday--my cell rings. It's Beautiful. She's very, very ill. Wants to know if I'm working and whether I can give her a hand with the kids because she's miserable. Redeeming his snoring self, sweet Hubby rises to the call and offers to take both children by himself all day.

7:02 a.m. Friday--Hubby achieves sainthood. There is no absolution for snoring, however.

7:30 a.m. Friday--my alarm goes off. Anticlimactic. Oh, and? Migraine. Naturally . . .

8:30 a.m. Friday--phone call from work. Instead of working 10-2, they'd like me to fill in for Cindy who is sick. Would I be willing to work 11-7:30? Of course I would.

11:00 a.m. Friday--haul groggy, cantankerous carcass to work. Notice that Cindy is there. Cindy, it seems, has had the worst of it and is feeling enough better to earn her 8 hours. Cindy has been in a serious financial bind for some time now and can't afford not to work--I suspect she's squirrelling away her sick leave in case something major comes up. And who could blame her?

11:01 a.m. Friday--"Since Cindy's here, can I go home?" I jokingly seriously ask. But I can't. Because Robby is sick too.

3:00 p.m. Friday--Manage to make it to previously scheduled doctor's appointment. Miss 2-1/2 hours of work in the middle of the day. Leaving me free to stay late helping out since they're still shorthanded and it's unusually busy for a Friday afternoon.

8:45 p.m. Friday--came home. Tired. Ill-humored. Obliged to spend an evening out with friends visiting from out-of-state. Visiting because their dad is dying. Turning them down is not an option.

9:30 p.m. Friday until 3:00 a.m. Saturday--drama. Juvenile drama. I might as well not even be in the room. I am not being talked to so much as I'm being used. And ignored. And now I am so angry and irritable. Just. Don't. Freaking. Care anymore. Wish that turning them down had been an option.

3:30 a.m. Saturday--finally get to come home. Find Hubby's stash of special chocolate and invite myself to sample.

3:32 a.m. Saturday--Hubby would like to know why I got into his chocolate. Seriously? Where's the mystery????

Bitch tryin to steal my boyfriend!

2009-04-01T19:13:00.000-07:00

While having my eyebrows waxed today (yes, I know there's some big ole recession--but this was an eyebrow emergency!) I was chatting with my esthetician (and yes, I refer to her as my esthetician because, hello, have you met my eyebrows?) about books (and yes, that was one hell of a long sentence just to say I talked about books with a sort-of acquaintance.)

She has been reading The Shack while I recently finished The Road. After she sadistically ripped the hair from my face, we were standing at the reception desk still discussing.

When the receptionist overheard me mention Cormac McCarthy, she looked up excitedly and asked, "What did you think of The Road?"

"While sad and depressing, I loved it! Did you know they're making it into a movie even as we speak?"

"Yes!" she answered gleefully, "and it's starring my boyfriend!"

"Wha? No--that can't be right. He's my boyfriend!"

"Nope. Sorry. Mine."

Quickly changing the subject, the ~~hussy~~ receptionist asked if I'd read or watched No Country For Old Men.

"I've read it, but haven't had a chance to see it yet. I've heard the movie holds up well to the book. Did you think so?" I asked--feigning interest with this woman who would steal my man!

"Yes, but I was glad to have read the book first. Some parts of the movie would have been hard to understand if I hadn't. And Javier Bardem was perfect as the crazy guy."

"Mmmmmm, Javier Bardem . . . " I drooled, "he's my second choice boyfriend in case Viggo should for some reason pick you over me."

[Okay, I said Javier Bardem . . .

but I was thinking Benicio Del Toro . . .

Come to think of it, either man would do . . . either dark, mysterious, handsome, sultry man . . . ]

"Viggo? He's not the star of The Road--it's Christian Bale."

"No, it's Viggo. I've looked it up on imdb.com--that must mean it's true." Then, doing the math in my head, I added, "So, since Christian Bale is your boyfriend, that leaves Viggo open for me--we don't have to have a girlfight!"

"Did you see Viggo in Eastern Promises? That scene with him in the Turkish bath?"

"Yeah--and omigosh was I impressed! To do that whole scene naked was an incredibly brave thing--but the only way it could have been done."

I looked around at the other women in the reception area who were openly gawking at us and asked, "Everyone knows what we're talking about, right?"

"No," laughed another patron, "but I sure do want to know!"

Oh yes. What woman doesn't want to know?

On-line solutions. Part II. *With special instructions!

2009-03-29T22:14:00.000-07:00

Back to the craigslist thing . . .

When I realized Hubby was having some fun with me by searching for new wife candidates, I figured I'd help out by narrowing down the prospects.

One thing we figured out right away is that women don't post photos of themselves in these ads nearly as often as men do.

I scrolled down the list of hopefuls. Hubby blurted, "Hey wait, click on that one--there's a picture!"

"Nope," I firmly responded.

"But why?" he sounded so dejected.

"Because she's only 28! You don't get to have anyone under 30."

He was speechless at my dictatorial command. heh heh

Quickly bored by the lack of interesting nominees, I changed the search parameters a bit.

Which is to say, I started checking out the guys.

Know what's interesting about men who post personal ads on craigslist? They also post photos. Lots of photos. Many of them post photos of their best features. Or what they consider to be their best features . . .

And so, in the interest of public service, I offer:

How *Not* To Photograph Your Naughty Bits.

A Tutorial For Men

If you are a man placing a men-seeking-women ad on craigslist and you insist on posting an up-close-and-personal shot of your manly parts, here are a few simple rules of thumb.

Do not take the picture of yourself while in the bathroom. There are many, many reasons for this rule, chief among them is that if you're closed in your bathroom to take a picture, one imagines that you aren't alone in the house. Otherwise, why the need for privacy? And if you're not alone in the house, what kind of dog are you posting a personal ad on craigslist?
If, for whatever reason, you must shut yourself in the bathroom to take a photo of your Soldier of Love, crop the photo so that the viewer cannot see your pants and underwear around your ankles. Nothing says "classy guy" like seeing pants and underwear shrouding your ankles while you take naked pictures of yourself. In the bathroom. Seriously.
Again, if a natural disaster forces you to stage a photo shoot of your junk in the bathroom, in the name of all that is right and good, do not sit on the toilet. Images of toilets do not arouse women. Just no.
And if you're smart enough not to sit on the toilet while arranging the perfect Still Life of Meatballs and Sausage, do not in anywise capture the toilet in the photo. It bears repeating images of toilets do not arouse women. Just no.
That photo that you have of your ex performing lasciviously? DO NOT POST THIS PHOTO WITH YOUR 'HELP WANTED' AD. Seems like it should go without saying, doesn't it? But I'm saying . . .
No matter how good or bad your picture is, use spellcheck before posting. If you're already going to put yourself out there as the kind of guy who thinks uploading portraits of Peter The Great is an appropriate way to lure the love of your life, don't make the mistake of also appearing stoopid. To wit:

"not looking for eney drama"
"i need some people too chat with"
"my spelling it suck's sometimes and my gramer needs work too" [Okay, at least this guy knows and admits his limitations.]

And one final note, guys: It's not just lonely women looking for life partners who are perusing craigslist ads. There are also husbands and wives who are sitting at their computers, scrolling through the scores of ads and giggling their faces off at what you all think are seriously suave attempts to beguile the woman of your dreams. You might want to think it through a bit.

I'm just sayin' . . .

Craptastic!

2009-03-25T21:41:00.000-07:00

I had planned on finishing up my story about hubby and his far reaching search for a new wife.

But I have a craptastic headache.

And I'm going to bed early.

So that I can rise and shine first thing in the morning and visit my dentist.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, I'll be constipated too.

later . . .

On-line solutions. Part I.

2009-03-24T18:09:00.000-07:00

"I HATE BEING MARRIED!" I quietly opined.

"Oh?" he asked. With a raised eyebrow. And something else in his expression that I couldn't quite place. "Is that some sort of threat?"

"No," exasperation oozing all around my tone of voice. "A threat would have been 'If you don't stop doing that, I'll leave you.' I wasn't threatening. I was stating fact."

An hour later I sat down at the computer to check my e-mail.

"Hey--you didn't lose my place, did you?" Hubby wanted to know. Or, Hubby accused . . .

"No. I never mess with your craigslist searches. I always open a new window."

In fact, I never pay any attention whatsoever to his craigslist searches. They bore me. Car parts and motorcycles and all sorts of other odds and ends that he buys cheap, fixes and sells for a profit.

But something made me look this time.

To my surprise, Hubby's craigslist search wasn't automotive related at all. It was 'women seeking men.'

Hubby is actively looking for my replacement.

And now I realize, that extra something in his expression that I hadn't been able to place was hope . . .

Oy.

to be continued . . .

The subject I'm not very good with.

2009-03-22T23:11:00.000-07:00

A couple days ago, LeShallowGal wrote a hilarious post outlining her son's idea of how a baby enters into the world. It brought back memories of when my kids had similar questions.

Long ago and far away, Number One Son was a little guy of 6 or so. This little guy was one of those kids who asked questions. Deeper questions than I was prepared to answer.

One day in the car he was quiet for a long time and then came the question from the back seat, "Mama? Is the world the back of God's hand?"

Wha?

On another occasion--without provocation--he suddenly asked, "Mama, how does a mama get a baby in her tummy?"

Not a quick thinker on my feet, I hearkened back to a conversation I once had with my hubby's cousin, Sunny.

Sunny is one of those people who is friendly and easy to talk to, but she's not exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Or, a better way to put it is: she's really dumb.

She had told me about explaining the birds and bees to her child. Actually, "explaining" is a bit of a stretch.

"Jackson asked about how babies are made and I told him that the daddy gives the mommy a seed and the seed grows in the mommy's tummy and becomes a baby."

Evidently, Jackson is not exactly the brightest bulb in the chandelier either because he accepted his mother's interpretation without further thought or question.

So--back to me driving with little Number One Son in the back seat asking me how babies are made: I panicked and fell back on the story Sunny had given her kid.

"Well," I hesitantly started, "the daddy gives the mommy a seed and the seed grows in the mommy's tummy and becomes a baby?"

"Hmmmm . . . " he thought and thought.

Danger, Will Robinson!

"But how does the seed grow into a baby?"

"Ummm . . . " I mumbled out an explanation that really had no relation to my original statement.

"Is the seed the daddy gives the mommy like bird seed?"

"No, not exactly."

"Well, could birds eat the seed if they wanted to?"

AAAACCCCCKKKK!!!

A couple years later when Hubby and I could tell that our kids were on the verge of finding out the real scoop about babies from some of their friends, we decided we'd best give them the facts ourselves. And by 'ourselves', I mean that at the dinner table hubby did all the talking while I studied the food on my plate very intently.

Several years after that painful episode, I was talking with a friend during our kids' archery lessons. He was sharing his recent experience of the 'birds and bees . . . but not with birdseed' conversation with his son.

Inside my head I was smugly thinking "Ha! Too bad for you! I am so done with that phase of our lives! Best of luck!"

It only took a couple hours for me to realize that I had another child, Youngest, and I still had one facts-of-life conversation to go . . .

I totally rock as a mom.

How to ruin the mood in one easy step. Part II.

2009-03-19T12:47:00.000-07:00

This time it wasn't me. It was my usually sweet hubby.

Wishing to surprise him one night, I filled the bedroom with typical, cliche "romance." Rose petals on the bed, ice cold drinks and lots and lots of glowing candles.

Hubby walked into the room and without a moment's thought quipped, "Oh, are we practicing satanic worship tonight?"

Yeah. That's exactly what I was going for . . .

In which Country Mouse poisons her sweet Hubby . . .

2009-03-17T23:01:00.001-07:00

I usually take my lunch to work in an insulated lunch cooler thingy. For example, last Thursday I brought sauteed green beans, roasted asparagus with tapenade and grapes all in their own cute little plastic dishes.

When I came home from work I put the cooler on the counter next to the fridge--like I always do. It wasn't until Monday morning--Monday morning!--when I was packing Monday's lunch that I opened the cooler and realized I hadn't cleaned out Thursday's cute plastic dishes with the leftovers. And, being lazy . . . and since the kitchen was already a mess . . . which isn't my job because my hands can't deal with it . . . and what's a few extra dishes to my darling hubby who already has a whole kitchen of dishes to do? . . . oh yeah, and I was askairt of opening those containers that had been sitting there since Thursday because, well, yuck . . . I just piled them on the counter and went my merry way.

Today, Tuesday for crying out loud, I came home from work and put my cooler on the counter next to the fridge . . . and next to Thursday's plastic dishes . . . which still hadn't been cleaned out . . . which I assumed was Hubby's silent protest . . . oh yes, and I didn't clean out the leftovers from my cooler today either . . . and I mentioned I'm lazy, right?

Sitting at the computer, 6 feet away from the fridge, I was only half paying attention when hubby said, "You didn't finish all your lunch."

"Oh yeah--go ahead and polish it off," I answered. Distractedly . . .

Ten minutes later when he returned to the kitchen to take a second bite I made the effort of leaning my head 4 inches to the right to look at him while I asked a question when I noticed he was holding a piece of last Thursday's asparagus up and was just about to put it in his mouth.

"NOOOOOO!" I yelled, "that's so old!"

"How old?"

"Last Thursday."

"What?! You mean it's been sitting out on the counter going on a WEEK???"

"Ummm, yeah?"

"I thought it was a little slimier than usual."

The f***? Slimy? Slimier than usual? Bastard deserves the slow, painful death he is undoubtedly facing . . .

my date with a young man

2009-03-15T19:47:00.000-07:00

More shopping with Youngest on Friday afternoon.

He and I can't agree on clothing. I try to be laid back about it and allow him to dress the way he likes, but I have to draw the line occasionally.

And Heaven forbid that I like a piece of clothing and suggest he try it on. I am met with the sigh . . . the rolling of the eyes . . . the "Oh, Mom . . . " and the criticism. Always the criticism. With the implication that it should be so obvious even a mother could catch on . . . "It looks too 'Charlie Sheen' " is one of my favorites.

"It was easier when Dad and I bought my last pair of jeans," he wanly complained, "I tried them on, we both liked them, and we were done."

"But Youngest, they aren't a good looking pair of pants."

"They're comfortable!"

"Comfortable they may be, but they look slobby. And you shouldn't ever leave the house looking like a slob. For that matter, you shouldn't hang out inside the house looking like a slob."

"Well, some day when I have a house of my own I'm going to wear anything I want. As long as my wife lets me . . . "

After shopping, we had dinner out and generally had an enjoyable evening together. In the car on the way home the subject of girls came up--as it inevitably does with a 13 year old boy. After he let it slip that there's a girl he likes at church (and after the ensuing round of probing questions from me) I mentioned that it's best this girl doesn't know he likes her because he's a bit young for a girlfriend just yet.

"I don't want a girlfriend," he adamantly stated. "Girls mess with your head."

"Yeah--you saw what having a girlfriend did to your brother," I joshed.

He answered, "Oh, the humanity!"

Clothes. Girls. Oy.

I am a mother. Or--Why I Need A Very Long Vacation.

2009-03-12T23:56:00.000-07:00

Near the home where I babysat when I was 14 there was a house with a sign that reflected the growth and change in their family. It read:

The Thompson Household
Population 6
5 4 3
2

Years later I would make the mistake of telling my two older kids, who were then in their early teens, that they would always be welcome to live in our home so long as they were either in school or gainfully employed.

I want a do-over.

I had no idea what I was saying.

No. Freaking. Idea.

Number One Son lived with us until, at 18 ½, he moved across the state for college. It was a good move and we enjoyed him when he came home for Christmas, spring break and summer vacation, but I was always relieved when he went back to school and our household routine went back to normal.

The P_____ Household
Population 5
4

Beautiful lived here until she was 18 and we had such fun together! By ‘we’ I mean she and I did. Her dad wasn’t so much in favor of the enabling mother/daughter relationship we cultivated.

For awhile, her then boyfriend stayed with us—at first only on the weekends and then insinuating himself into our family for weeks on end . . .

The P_____ Household
Population 4
5

She moved out for awhile in the midst of finding her independence. He left with her. Eventually, circumstances with her roommates became intolerable so she moved back in with us. And brought him back too . . .

Within a matter of weeks, Beautiful sent the boyfriend packing and we were back to our normal little household.

The P_____ Household
Population 5
3 5
4

Beautiful did a lot of growing and changing that year and by the time she was 20 she moved out again. This time for good. *sniff*

The P_____ Household
Population 4
3

Half a year later, she learned that she and her new fiancee' were expecting a baby! Fiancee' was out to sea for awhile during the weeks leading up to the baby’s birth, leaving me with the duty of being Beautiful’s birth coach (not so much duty as privilege—yay!!!)

Awaiting the baby (uggghhh, all those sleepless nights of counting contractions . . . ) Beautiful spent a lot of time at our house. And for the first week or so after the baby was born and Baby Daddy was still away from home, Beautiful and her sweet little Lily stayed with us—three cheers for being a grammy and getting to see the baby EVERY DAY!!!

The P_____ Household
Population 3
4
4 + 1 tiny one

Finally, Beautiful was ready to go back to her own house (and took her baby with her : ( and Baby Daddy came home. Leaving us with

The Sad, Quiet, Lonely P_____ Household
Population whatever . . . .

Grammy Misses The Baby!!!!

And now? Now, Number One Son has graduated from college and has taken a job close to home before moving away for grad school. Why, you ask, would he live at home instead of proceeding directly to grad school????? I am asking the same question. And I’ll be damned if I can get an acceptable answer. And who in her right mind said that all this moving in and moving out of grown children was an okay thing? Someone who truly, truly did. not. know.

Not only is Number One back in the fold for the part of the week when he’s not living at his girlfriend’s house, but occasionally he brings the girlfriend here for several days in a row and I just can’t keep track anymore . . .

Oh yeah--and I almost forgot (Lord only knows how I could have almost forgotten) our dear friend Randy, who is once again picking himself up and dusting himself off, stayed with us for most of the last year. But has now moved out. To a house 2/10 of a mile away from ours. Literally. But he still visits us every. blessed. day.

The P_____ Household
Population 3 4

4
4 ½???

6???

Mama had to get a job at a bustling pharmacy just to get some peace and quiet.

The moral of the story:

Be very careful what you promise people when you have not an idea in your head what all those promises really add up to or you too might find yourself working at a bustling pharmacy just so you can clear your head . . .

It's a small world. Maybe a leeeeeetle too small . . .

2009-03-10T21:41:00.000-07:00

Number One Son is a nuclear engineer. He's decided to spend a couple years working at the local Navy base in the field of nuclear engineering before pursuing grad school. Right now he is facing a lot of training at the base before he beings the actual task of engineering--nuclearly.

He came home today and told me that one of his training instructors knows Hubby and me. Instructor went to high school with my brother, was acquainted with me, and met Hubby through me.

This description could fit any number of friends my brother and I had in school.

"I think his name might be Rick or something like that?" Number One helpfully added.

Still not enough information for me to narrow it down much. But then he tacked on this detail: "Oh yeah," Number One remembered, "he mentioned that until a couple years ago, our families used to exchange Christmas cards."

Ohhhhhh. That guy.

None other than my high school sweetheart, Eric.

I dated Eric off and on (mostly on) starting when I was still in junior high (okay, we weren't "dating" at that time so much as we were going steady) until I met my sweet hubby after I finished high school. That's practically a marriage in teenager terms.

Eric's family moved back to Connecticut a week after he graduated and from there Eric joined the Navy. During his time in boot camp, I met and got engaged to Hubby. But, lonely for his roots, Eric had kept up contact with my parents and brother a bit, even after I married someone who wasn't him.

Twenty years later, Eric retired from the Navy and, with his wife and son, moved back to western Washington where he took a job at the Navy base. I had no idea what that job was until today during the conversation with Number One Son.

What a coincidence that after all the years of traveling around the world--and with all the choices of jobs he could have had--he ended up standing in the same room with my grown son as an instructor.

Hubby, having been present during this whole conversation, made some snide remark about Eric. I think that's the required reaction for a husband when the subject of his wife's ex comes up--no matter how far in the past it lies.

After Hubby poked some gentle fun at me, I said that Eric was a nice guy and generally a good person. Number One agreed that he seems like he's nice guy.

And I didn't mention it to Number One, but I silently thanked Eric for having been tactful and gentlemanly in the way he said he knew Number One's parents and went to school with Number One's uncle. He could so easily have stated things differently to Number One. Like,

"Yeah, I know your dad. And I never thought he was good enough for your mom."

Or,

"When I was already feeling the most vulnerable, your mother broke my heart."

Or,

"Your mom is Kristin? Yeah, I tapped that."

WOLVERINES!*

2009-03-08T23:39:00.000-07:00

*A shout out to Jenny the Blogess. Which has precisely nothing to do with this post.

We came up with a new only-funny-when-you're-drinking game!

Saturday night Hubby and I were invited to hang out at a local bar by Number One Son and his girlfriend, Delight.

There was an enthusiastic, crowd pleasing band and the place was packed. Feeling all sloshy from my traditional 1/2 of a drink, I leaned over to Hubby and asked, "So what do you think the band members do for day jobs?"

He and I laughingly took 30 seconds to come up with their backstories.

By that time, Number One and Delight had joined us so I said, "Take a look at the band. Try to figure out what they do 9 to 5 and we'll compare notes!"

The kids thought this sounded like fun. Of course, they were both kinda lit so pretty much anything sounded fun. : )

Putting their heads together to confer, they took this task far less casually than Hubby and I had.

[I'm so sorry there aren't close up photos of these guys!]

The Keyboardist (all the way to the left)

Number One and Delight said: He's a car salesman. Definitely a car salesman.
Hubby and I said: We didn't even see him--our view was blocked. Upon inspection, we agree with the kids. Salesman. But we added that on the side he's either a Cub Scout leader or a Pee Wee wrestling coach.

The Guitarist with the short, white, messy hair (2nd from right)

I said he's a CPA.
Number One determined that he sells retail--probably at a local music store. Frankly, Number One is probably guessing closer to the truth, but I like to believe the man combs that wild mop of hair, dons a three piece and advises folks about deductions . . .

The Singer (who must be in her late 40s but is in fantastic shape and has a kick-ass voice)

Hubby and I came up with nurse. Probably a surgery nurse.
Number One and Delight disagree with me and slightly with each other. Number One says she married well and her husband bought her a bead shop in the touristy part of town. Delight says there is no ownership involved, but she definitely sells beads at the little shop in town. Either way, those kids are very detailed with their make believe stories!

The Drummer

Number One and Delight couldn't see him from their vantage point so they passed on this one.
I said he's a stock analyst.
Hubby said he's a stalker. With an extensive comic book collection . . .

And finally, The Other Guitarist (all the way to the right--with the scraggly long hair--in the first photo)

Hubby and I say he lives in his mother's basement.
Number One and Delight say he's a bus driver for the local transit company.
Number One and Delight amended their original decision and say that The Other Guitarist With the Scraggly Long Hair is a bus driver for the local transit company who lives in his mother's basement.

Such is bonding with my grown children : )

skillz

2009-03-04T22:37:00.000-08:00

I haz skillz.

Here, I demonstrate my

stick out tongue and blow teh bubblez

skillz:

I iz learning ta sit up so big!

Crunchez! Huzzah!

I can haz toes!

Givin' my mama the 411

I haz wicked sweet sleepy skillz:

Behold: Crawling Skillz

It might be the drugs talking . . .

2009-03-02T12:31:00.000-08:00

Did anybody else suffer grandiose visions when they were children, or was that just me?

In the middle of my second grade year, my grandparents spontaneously took my brother and me to Disneyland.

One Sunday evening, Angel and Pop (those are my grandparents--don't ask) were at our house visiting. They started talking with my parents about the possibility of having us for the week of Easter Vacation and taking us to the Happiest Place on Earth.

As the conversation progressed, the decision was made that instead of waiting until Easter Vacation, we would leave the next morning. This is how, without any notice whatsoever, my brother and I found ourselves packing our bags in order to drive to sunny SoCal and meet Mickey and the gang--smack dab in the middle of the school year !

And here is where the delusions of grandeur come in: Somehow, I had it in my head that my lacking presence in the second grade would be so mourned that when I returned on the following Monday, there would be cheering and confetti and probably a party. I might even be lifted on shoulders and paraded around the room. I was, after all, the second smartest kid in the class, the most athletic girl and was friends with pretty much everybody. Or so I saw it : )

Today is Monday and I'm writing a blog post. I am not at work. I am too sick to do my job.

I have worked every single Monday in the last year and a half. And Mondays are tough. Mondays are challenging. The Monday Morning Assistant [me] juggles four major tasks (and a handful of lesser ones) all at once. And gracefully, if she can : ) When faced with what tasks to do and in which order on Monday mornings, I think of it as performing triage. Because what I do is just that important!

I'm pretty sure they're missing me--and my graceful juggling--terribly today. And hoping that I'm never sick again on a Monday morning. I imagine that whoever is working in my place today is a mess and is flustered and is wondering out loud, "How does she do all this? And so gracefully?"

Yeah. That's what my replacement is thinking.

And when I return on Wednesday, still a little pale and weak, but a team player to the end, there will be cheering and confetti and probably a party. I might even be lifted on shoulders and paraded around the room . . .

Keep the change.

2009-02-25T22:45:00.000-08:00

I have a new dentist. He is approximately 12 years old.

I didn't go willingly to the new mouth guy. The dentist I have had since I was nine years old retired a few months ago, leaving Doogie Howser in his stead.

I like my old dentist. Moreover, I am comfortable with my old dentist. He has seen me change from kid to young woman to wife to mom to grammy. I am friendly with his wife and though I don't know his sons personally, I know quite a lot about their lives. And he knows quite a lot about my kids' lives.

Dr. Retiree was a volunteer coach for the high school football team. In addition to dentisting my children's teeth, he coached my son on the field.

And then he hung up his drill and called it a day.

I do not savor change.

I did not happily present myself to Dr. Paper Route.

He tried to make small talk. He asked me about my parents and about my husband's health--Parents and Hubby apparently are so okay with being uprooted from their oral moorings that they went in months ago to open wide for Sunny Jim, DDS.

He was trying so hard to be personable that I decided I should probably throw the poor kid a crumb. I mentioned another of his patients, my son, Youngest.

"Oh, yes! Youngest! He's a great guy!" he remarked.

Of course he likes Youngest. They have so much in common--both being 8th graders.

I think they're going snow boarding next weekend. As long as their chores are done.

Change.

Blech.

yeah, she's still pretty much the center of my world : )

2009-02-22T01:09:00.001-08:00

now I'm just stealing material . . .

2009-02-15T22:49:00.000-08:00

Here's a fun fact:
I've been blogging again lately!

Another fun fact (only without the fun, so . . . just a fact . . . )
The muse has pretty much left me. Oh well, I sure enjoyed it while it lasted : )

And now that I've actually started blogging again, Hubby and I are going away for most of the week for our anniversary! I'll have no internet access, probably won't take pictures, won't be able to keep up with all of your blogs and generally will lose the rhythm again and have nothing to share for three more months except cute grandbaby pictures : )

Knowing that I'm letting all of my readers down (both of you--I know, it's scandalous!) I'll leave you with something I took straight from Kuckie's blog (Hi, Kuckie!)

Anyone willing to argue that the content of the following isn't the absolute truth about men and women? Anyone?

Didn't think so : )

HOW TO SHOWER LIKE A WOMAN:

Take off clothing and place it in sectioned laundry hamper according to lights and darks.
Walk to bathroom wearing long robe.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.
Look at your womanly physique in the mirror -- make mental note to do more sit-ups/leg-lifts, etc.
Get in the shower. Use wash cloth, long loofah, wide loofah and pumice stone.
Wash your hair once with cucumber and sage shampoo with 43 added vitamins.
Wash your hair again to make sure it's clean.
Condition your hair with grapefruit mint conditioner.
Wash your face with crushed apricot facial scrub for 10 minutes until red.
Wash entire rest of body with ginger nut and jaffa cake body wash.
Rinse conditioner off hair.
Shave armpits and legs.
Rinse off.
Turn off shower.
Squeegee off all wet surfaces in shower.
Spray mold spots with Tilex.
Get out of shower. Dry with towel the size of a small country.
Wrap hair in super absorbent towel.
Return to bedroom wearing long robe and towel on head.
If you see husband along the way, cover up any exposed areas.

HOW TO SHOWER LIKE A MAN:

Take off clothes while sitting on the edge of the bed and leave them in a pile.
Walk naked to the bathroom.
If you see wife along the way, shake wiener at her making the woo-woo sound.
Look at your manly physique in the mirror.
Admire the size of your wiener and scratch your butt.
Get in the shower. Wash your face. Wash your armpits.
Blow your nose in your hands and let the water rinse them off.
Fart and laugh at how loud it sounds in the shower.
Spend majority of time washing privates and surrounding area.
Wash your butt, leaving those coarse butt hairs stuck on the soap.
Wash your hair. Make a Shampoo Mohawk.
Pee.
Rinse off and get out of shower.
Partially dry off.
Fail to notice the water on floor because curtain was hanging out of tub the whole time.
Admire wiener size in mirror again.
Leave shower curtain open, wet mat on floor, and light and fan on.
Return to bedroom with towel around waist.
If you pass wife, pull off towel, shake wiener at her and make the woo-woo sound again.
Throw wet towel on bed.

ode to Aphrodite and Eros . . . and maybe Cupid . . .

2009-02-12T10:54:00.001-08:00

Number One Son is vehemently against Hallmark holidays. But he has a girlfriend and she is every bit a girl. She likes romance and a little wooing--nothing wrong with that.

While Number One adores her and doesn't mind thinking of creative ways to surprise his girl, the idea of climbing aboard the store bought courtship train rankles. He does what any self-respecting (and self-preserving) guy does: he compromises.

He's giving her a basket of goodies specifically aimed at calming her grade-school-teacher-in-an-economically-disadvantaged-area-with-baby-gangster-students nerves. Massage oil, bath salts--special little luxuries like that. Plus two unique medications.

Dr. Number One Son wrote the prescriptions and asked Greg The Pharmacist to type the official labels. Instructions are as follows:

ANTI-CHILD HISTAMINE--Take two tablets by mouth daily or as needed for temporary relief of unruly children.

EUPHORIEX--Promotes feelings of relaxation and well being when taken regularly with a steady dose of Boyfriend.

Discussing this clever dosage of love with my coworkers reminded a technician, Robbie, of a pseudo prescription his former boss made for a friend. The vial was filled with green M&Ms and was assigned the drug name Mycocksafloppin.

heh heh

Happy Valentine's Day.

Conversation. Or maybe I mean confrontation?

2009-02-11T20:27:00.000-08:00

She said: "I bought something today."

He asked: "Oh? What?"

She answered: "A heart monitor for keeping track of my workout."

He skeptically asked: "How much?"

She explained: "I was using the loaner ones they have at the gym, but I was concerned about getting hepatitis via sweat from the other people who use them."

He patiently asked again: "How much was the monitor, Kris?"

She explained some more: "It was on sale--20% off!"

He lost his patience: "I didn't ask you if it was on sale. I asked you how much you spent on it."

She sheepishly answered: "$95"

He exclaimed: "You spent 95 of our hard earned dollars?"

She tried a hard sell: "But look at all the cool features it has! See? It tells how long my workout was; how many calories I burned; how many of those calories were from fat; what my highest and lowest heart rates were; what my average heart rate was . . . "

He took a mischievous interest: "Let me look at that. It also tells me that you worked out for 45 minutes and spent 95 dollars!"

She didn't miss a beat: "But think of all the money in medical bills and prescriptions and a liver transplant I'm saving us by not getting hepatitis from the loaner heart monitors! Who's the savvy investor now, huh? Mmm hmm. That's right."

She called after him as he walked away: "Hey--eye rolling is not an answer!"

for every parent

2009-02-10T22:44:00.000-08:00

Even armed with the best professional advice, we're all destined to screw up our kids in some way : )

toothpastefordinner.com

How to ruin the mood in one easy step.

2009-02-04T09:38:00.000-08:00

Last night, Hubby and I were lying in bed watching TV. His hand was on my leg, gently caressing and squeezing. (Honestly, the way this man still digs me after 24 years is the sweetest thing : )

The leg thing went on and on--all very tender and slow. Finally I said, "You know, the way you're doing that, it's almost like you're judging livestock at the county fair." He was impressed. But undaunted.

"I have a question," I announced. He braced himself. "If pig meat is called pork, and cow meat is called beef, what do you think human meat would be called?"

His hand stopped. His arm moved. He rolled over.

I'll take 'Not Conducive To Romance' for $200, Alex!

Diet's going great! Thanks for asking : )

2009-01-30T21:59:00.000-08:00

Dieting is a bitch. I hate it. But it's going very well for me, nonetheless.

Know what I'm really angry about though? I let so much weight sneak back on over the last 5 or 6 months. It just makes me sick that all the success I'm having right now doesn't really count because I'm not quite back to where I was last summer.

D'oh! Stupid food that I love! And stupid utter lack of discipline and will power!

This is what my current diet looks like to my beloved family:

A view of my counter top:

Please, excuse the lack of proper punctuation on the banana . . .

But I do not withhold my affection for my family, even in my zeal, as evidenced by the backside of the 'BACK OFF BUCKY' banana:

This one's a bit difficult to read:

The tender message whispers, "Hands off, you little bastards!"

A look at my freezer door:

And the refrigerator greeting:

The pineapple is perfectly readable, but the label on the cottage cheese?:

"Selfish Mama's" but they don't even need to read it, they've been down this road with me before--they know!

heh heh--if you can find a better way to keep two boys out of the special milk, let me know ; )

worst lunch date evah

2009-01-28T20:51:00.000-08:00

Baby Lily and I met my dear friend Tracy today for lunch. Tracy and I are both on diets. She's doing Weight Watchers (completely balanced, logical and healthy) while I'm doing The Crazy-Ass Diet (freaking insane!)

Of today's 4 meals, I decided the chicken meal would be the easiest to eat at a restaurant. And by "chicken meal" I mean it was to consist of chicken and only chicken. No veggies, no fruit or dairy or grains of any kind. Just chicken.

The restaurant we chose is an upscale little bistro (well, upscale for my neighborhood. Translation: customers are expected to wear pants.) I checked out the menu on-line before going to be sure I could order chicken. I could, but the only chicken on the menu was fried chicken. Fried chicken? At a healthy, all-natural, mostly organic little bistro? Yeah, okay.

The plate they brought me was embarrassingly huge (especially compared to Tracy's respectable little plate of endive salad . . .) and consisted not only of 4 pieces of fried chicken, but also cole slaw and garlic fries--both of which I ignored and planned to take home to my family.

I thought I'd probably just eat the chicken breast and that would be enough. I'm pretty sure that particular delusion was the result of malnutrition.

After removing the breaded skin from the breast I realized there was about a tablespoon and a half of meat. Like a ravenous animal, I devoured the skinless remains of the other 3 pieces--all 1 ounce of it . . .

And then I sat there. Still hungry. Beyond hungry. I tried really hard to listen to Tracy tell me how her two lovely daughters are doing in college, but what I was thinking was "where can I get more chicken on the way home? Should I stop at Albertson's and get a big juicy breast? Because God knows I do love a big juicy breast! But I have the baby with me and it's a pain getting the car seat out and carrying it all over the place just for a piece of chicken. What about driving through Burger King? Nah--not nearly enough bang for my buck. Albertson's it is! Hmmm, I probably should have been paying attention to Tracy because she just asked me a question . . . "

Coming out of the store, I barely got Lily buckled into the car before I was trying to tear into the precious meat. It was super hot and was scalding my fingers but I didn't care, I'm sure I was about to have a seizure. Some horrible rap song about objectifying and degrading women started playing on the radio--and I'm pretty certain it was doing serious damage to Lily's psyche--but my hands were too sticky and greasy to change the station. Plus, it would have meant using my hand for something other than shoving food into my pie hole and that was not a sacrifice I was willing to make. Sorry, Lily, but GRAMMY IS STARVING!!!!!!!!

One breast wasn't enough. Wish I'd gotten two. The good news is that I think I lost 13 pounds today : )

my grandbabies

2009-01-25T06:08:00.001-08:00

Umm, so yeah. I've pretty much been reduced to posting pictures of the grandkids and little else. Luckily, they're really, really cute : )

I love this photo of Gabe and Lily. They both look so happy--which is not a true representation of what was going on while I tried to snap a few frames.

Gabe adores Lily. He always refers to her as "my baby." He never calls her Lily or even the baby. Always "my baby."

One evening while babysitting, I thought I'd try, for the eleventy millionth time, to get a nice picture of both kids together. Gabe usually loves to have his picture taken, but on that evening he was more interested in watching Wall-E. "My baby's hurting my tummy," he protested. She wasn't hurting him, her head was in the way of his movie viewing.

In the meantime, Lily shows signs of becoming quite the little diva! We were all concerned that Gabe would be the one to show typical sibling jealousy. He never has. Lily, on the other hand, squawks and tells us all what-for if we're paying too much attention to her big brother. It's adorable now . . . but 13 years from now?

The night before she was born, I had a dream that Lily turned out to be not at all like her mother (thoughtful, insightful, unselfish) but instead was just like me. My dreams are never prophetic. Except maybe this one time : )

watching Lily grow

2009-01-08T22:25:00.000-08:00

Lily is a little over 3 months now and has grown out of the newborn infant stage--she's even finally grown out of her newborn clothes! She holds her head up, she laughs and she's working very hard on sitting up skills. Every single thing she does is precious to me : )

sharing a laugh with mama

Tasty hand!

And look--she's also showing off her tiny, sweet toes--awww!

Here she is sitting on Grandpa's lap.

Grandpa *loves* to kiss the hand of the princess : )

Precious, I tell you.

lost in translation

2009-01-07T16:59:00.000-08:00

Youngest and I were coming out of a grocery store a week ago when a man approached us. He was holding a laminated card that said something along the lines of "I'm deaf. Give cash."

I don't know what exactly the money was for. Was it to increase education among the general public about the daily-life hurdles deaf folks face? Was it a donation to help fund a job training resource center for the hearing impaired? Was it just for him because he doesn't have regular employment? I have no clue. But who's going to be the asshole who doesn't give money to a deaf guy in a parking lot? Of course I handed over a bill.

He then gave me a small green leaflet with line drawings of 20 or so common American Sign Language signs. He also made some sign to me which I assumed meant "thank you."

Youngest glanced over the leaflet. "Hey mom," he started, "I found that sign he made to you. It doesn't mean thank you."

"Oh? What does it mean?"

"It means 'Sucka!' "

I wanted to "sign" something special to Youngest. But didn't. Cause I'm a good mom that way : )

Stephen King is a better writer than I am.

2009-01-04T23:34:00.000-08:00

Ha! How's that for a revelation?

Here's what I mean to say: Did you ever have a hobby or even a passion--something that you do well at, something that you take some pride in--only to experience someone else's genius and feel completely humbled and maybe like a poser?

I have fun writing. Always have. Since I was very young girl.

And sometimes I allow myself to believe I'm an okay writer. Once in college (and by "college" I'm referring to the local community college that wasn't much more than super high school) at the end of a term my English prof wrote a note on my final essay that read: "You were my best writer this quarter."

She didn't make that comment the following quarter, however . . .

Even so, I've enjoyed trotting out my little day-to-day life compositions and getting some positive feedback here on my blog. It's a fantastic outlet for me and there are some days when I'm really happy with something I've written. Some days I even let myself feel a sense of, hmmm, accomplishment maybe?

That sense is threadbare at best.

I've never read any Stephen King before but recently picked up "Duma Key" and from the beginning it was clear to me that King is an unmatchable craftsman.

Halfway through the book: "Each morning I walked on the beach with my pouch slung over my shoulder, prospecting for shells and any other interesting litter that might have washed up. I found a great many beer and soda cans (most worn as smooth and white as amnesia), a few prophylactics, a child's plastic raygun, and one bikini bottom."

"Most worn as smooth and white as amnesia." Who imagines that analogy? Not me. Not if given a thousand years to think it over. And the most frustrating thing about that line? It's parenthetical. An afterthought.

That's just showing off.

Yeah, I know the literati probably doesn't consider King any sort of serious heavyweight. But his skill blows me away just the same. Makes me want to break my pencils : )

Thank goodness the blogosphere leaves a place for amateurs!

wishing you a very happy!

2009-01-02T01:51:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve has never really been much of a big deal for me.

Actually, I take that back. When I was a little kid my parents usually had a big party. I loved that atmosphere. I loved the bottles of booze and mixers lined up on the counter top next to the chrome, penguin-bedecked ice bucket. Just thinking about Mom and Dad's soiree brings back the taste of ham and cream cheese pinwheels. I loved Mom and Dad's parties.

I guess my lackluster New Year's celebrations began in my adult life. At first because we had the responsibility of young children. Later because Hubby was usually in Alaska this time of year. Most recently because our first invitation every year is for a party that I don't enjoy and Hubby always accepts the invitation before remembering that it's really not much fun for me.

I usually make some excuse and stay home. And I always think it's really no big deal because that kind of celebration isn't important to me anyway.

But not this year. This year our friends from Alaska invited us to the local casino. Some of their kids joined us. Some of our kids joined us. And we met up with a whole bunch of other friends. We had a fantastic time.

Before we left the house I was thinking to myself that there was no such drunk as so drunk that I would actually dance in public. Famous last words, much?

Beautiful bought me a shot of something tasty. I've never done a shot before but I was game. That, plus 2-1/2 other drinks (would have been 3 others except that I managed to spill half of one down my pant leg . . . ) caused the dance floor to magically appear beneath my feet. I vividly remember a lot of smiling goofily at my sweet hubby and laughing and having a wonderful time together. I sure hope that's the way he remembers it.

Arriving home at nearly 4 in the morning, I suddenly had an itch to e-mail my NonSon to wish him a happy new year. Because drunk e-mailing (like drunk dialing, blogging and texting) is always a good idea, right?

Here, in part, is my brilliance:

subject: but oh wait! shoot dang . . .

body: What I *meant* to say was nopthing about dancing or drinking like a fish or talking about myself in the thri8d person.

What i meant to say was that my new year's resolution (which I don't believe in making anyway : ) had something to do with not being all u8ncontrollably crazy (WTH is up with the 8s appearing all over the place?????) But then I reflected for a moment and realized that a hormonal woman in her 40's has no control over that. So I'll just be the way I am. And you, and peop[le like you, will put up with me because you love me : )

peace out . . .

And there's my point. That's why we celebrate our birthdays and Valentine's Day and Thanksgiving and New Year's Eve. We do it to remember to take time out to revel in being with the people we love. We're celebrating relationships and the invisible silk threads that bind us all together. We're also celebrating, in the words of my friend Cindy, "waking up breathing." Amen to that, sister!

And on that preachy, didactic note: Happy 2009!

Peace out.

two of the young merrymakers

Two or three more years of this, tops, right?

2008-12-30T20:02:00.000-08:00

Back in August, Youngest turned 13. But he's a young 13 and at the time it was more like still having a 10 year old boy. Maybe 11.

Lately, however, he is 13.

Very 13.

The attitude is all there. The grumpy, disagreeable, sour attitude of a teenager. Intact.

There is nothing I say now that can't engender an argument.

This is my 3rd time through the teens though, so I don't take it personally. It will pass. It always does. Only to be repeated during the late teens/early 20's when children once again feel the need to stake out the border between themselves and their families.

Today Youngest and I were at Barnes & Noble. I managed to piss him off somehow. It's easy. All I have to do is exist and that's enough to irritate the young man.

We walked up to get in line for the cash registers--only not quite together. He walked a few paces behind me with a studied "I am so not with her" expression on his face. He, of course, has no idea that I *invented* that expression 30 years ago in the presence of my own mother.

Letting go of the current argument (which was over his clothing--how classic and cliche' is that?) I tried to engage him by pointing out something I thought would be of interest to him. His answer was, "grmmmph." Which anyone could have predicted.

On the way out of the store, he instinctively held the door open for me and for the older gentleman walking behind us. The man, in his mid 60's, thanked Youngest and gave me a smile. That one expression and the twinkle in his eye conveyed silent moral support. He was telling me in one look that he'd been there, he'd had teens himself, and that my boy--the one who had been raised to be polite to other people and even to his contemptable mother--was going to be fine.

Thank you for the confirmation, unknown older dude. I needed that : )

Yes, math does apply to real life.

2008-12-29T23:52:00.000-08:00

I watched Lord Of War with the guys tonight.

It's about a gunrunner's climb to the top and all that it costs him. It's about small countries and big countries and their roles in arming the world's poorest militia forces. It's about cover ups on high levels. It's about dirty money and blood diamonds and selling one's soul for material wealth.

But really? It's about the math.

It's a basic equation.

In its simplest terms:

Jared Leto = Yummy

There will be a quiz : )

car parts figured in prominently, part II

2008-12-28T22:13:00.000-08:00

Thought maybe I'd finally finish this story.

Back to the dinner with Beautiful and her fiance, Dan, plus Dan's mother (who Beautiful was meeting for the first time) and his mother's new husband who Dan was meeting for the first time.

Little Guy was also there. He is 3-1/2. He is high spirited and a-freaking-dorable.

Among other things, Beautiful has, with consistent effort, taught Little Guy to say "excuse me" when he burps.

I mentioned that he's 3-1/2? And that he's a boy? Burping--or making burping noises--is a delightful pastime for a boy of any age. Adhering carefully to his new training, whenever he burps he gets the most impish expression on his face and proudly announces, "Excuse me! I burped!"

At dinner that night, instead of his usual exhibition of belching prowess, he leaned forward in his booster seat and made a different noise.

Beautiful looked him in the eye--concealing the amusement that was creeping onto her face--and said, "Say 'excuse me.' "

"But 'excuse me' is for burps," he reasoned with her, "I farted!"

If the whole restaurant hadn't heard the act itself, they certainly were caught up with the details by now . . .

Beautiful and I had to look away so Little Guy wouldn't see us giggling. After all, he was making a sensible argument.

Grandma Robin didn't miss a beat. "You're right, Honey, 'excuse me' is for burps. When you pass gas you say 'pardon me.' "

Little Guy bought it hook, line and sinker. Gotta admire a woman who can outwit an irresistible 3-1/2 year old and keep a straight face about it!

*****

Meanwhile, Hubby and I were sitting at opposite ends of the table. I wanted Hubby to make a toast, but I didn't want to give him instructions in front of everyone. I wanted it to look like he came up with it on his own.

From my end of the table I made eye contact. I lifted my glass and mouthed "a toast?" to him. He nodded. And then went on with his conversation.

Fifteen minutes later I was certain he had forgotten what I asked him to do. Certain because all the guys were knee deep in a discussion about original and reproduction car parts--the only subject they all have in common.

Once again I caught Hubby's eye, pointed to my nearly empty glass and pantomimed "toast." He nodded in agreement again. And then I saw him nod at the wait staff. It suddenly made sense to me. He didn't realize I was asking him to propose a toast, he thought I was asking him to order me a Coke.

Giving up, I walked to his end of the table and whispered to him, "I hoped you'd make a toast. Something about joining families maybe?"

"Already thought of it!" he crowed. Loudly. So that now everyone at the table knew I had been attempting to tell him what to do . . .

I sat back down and my sweet Hubby started. It was long-winded because once Hubby gets going it's hard to stop him. And he often forgets his roadmap. And he detours . . .

It began well: he mentioned how pleased he was that Dan and Little Guy are joining our family. And how wonderful an addition Lily is. He said something about Dan's mom visiting and about her new husband also joining the family. And the new husband's affinity for classic cars. Then there was some meandering, and finally hubby ended by toasting Dan's mother's new husband's connection with someone who can get a discount on reconditioned car parts . . .

We all raised our glasses and drank a toast to, "discounts on reconditioned car parts!"

clink, clink

until then . . . .

2008-12-22T22:54:00.000-08:00

I'll get around to finishing some unattended stories sometime soon. But right now I'm busy. Aren't we all?

In the meantime, merry Christmas!

speaking of all in a day's work . . .

2008-12-16T07:38:00.000-08:00

Pharmacist Greg is building a new house. Recently, he and his son-in-law dug the foundation. And then, being western WA, it rained like a sonofabitch and his pit became a pool.

That was over a week ago.

In an unrelated story, yesterday a woman came in to the pharmacy pick up her bowel prep kit for her upcoming colonoscopy. She talked it over with Greg--who himself had one a month or so ago--and he advised her that it's much easier than it used to be. The volume of liquid required is about half what it was in 'the old days' and the results come quickly. The procedure itself isn't bad and likely won't be remembered anyway due to the drugs administered.

The customer is having this colonoscopy as a baseline for future reference after recently undergoing a virtual colonoscopy which garnered negative results. She didn't elaborate, but she said that the virtual colonoscopy is a terrible procedure and advised never having one if it's at all avoidable.

After she left, I asked Greg what a virtual colonoscopy was. He explained it and boy does it sound hideous! And uncomfortable. And unforgettable. The regular colonoscopy that Greg recently had is a virtual walk in the park by comparison.

A few minutes later I remembered that I had wanted to ask Greg about the progress on his house. And I was curious whether the "pool" that was his foundation was now an ice rink.

"Hey, Greg," I called to the other end of the pharmacy, "how's your hole?"

Greg paused for a long, long time while trying to figure out how to answer that question. When he realized I was referring to his foundation--not his colonoscopy--he erupted in laughter. And I turned a liiiiitle bit red . . .

A photo essay . . . bursting with pride : )

2008-12-15T18:29:00.000-08:00

Beneath his name in the program it reads "Summa Cum Laude."

Hell to the yes!

For the boy who was only walking because his mother wanted him to,

he sure has a big ole grin on!

with his very pleased father

a moment with mom

and here with his girl--who resembles mom a lot : )

Youngest, sliding in the parking lot.

You okay, Youngest?

Yep. All in a day's work!

the continuation of 'car parts' is to be continued . . . or something redundant like that . . .

2008-12-11T11:28:00.000-08:00

I'll finish up the story I started, but it will have to wait until early next week.

Right now we're getting ready to head over the mountains for Number One Son's graduation! The boy has done well. Summa Cum Laud well. Gold cords wearing well.

I might have a photo or two when we come back : )

car parts figured in prominently, part I

2008-12-09T13:02:00.001-08:00

What a difference a day makes. Okay, more like a year. Well, 14 months and a grandbaby if we're going to be accurate : )

In 2007, Hubby and I took our daughter out to dinner for her 20th birthday. We asked her if she would like to bring the new guy she was seeing. We regretted that decision later.

It was too much pressure. We thought she was just sort of "hanging out" with the new guy. We didn't realize they were an exclusively dating couple. Meeting him for the first time would have been so much better under more casual circumstances. Not at a restaurant over her birthday dinner.

Her boyfriend, Dan, was nervous. And he tends to come off as arrogant and a bit know-it-all when he's nervous. The worst part was when the subject of Beautiful's car came up. Dan knows a lot about cars, but my dear hubby has a lifetime of experience fixing, researching, restoring, buying and selling cars. Dan was in over his head. He accidentally said things that were insulting to Hubby.

It was not the best of beginnings.

A few months later, Beautiful discovered that she was pregnant. Hubby and I were reconciled to the fact that this relationship wasn't casual.

Since then, we have had occasion to observe that Dan treats our daughter with respect. He values her. They are equal partners in their relationship. What more could parents want for their child?

And things with Hubby and Dan got much better over time. In fact, so much better, that it appears that Hubby is just about as close to being a surrogate father to Dan (whose father died when he was 15) as one can imagine.

Fourteen months after that prickly first meeting, we had another dinner together at the same restaurant. This time it wasn't just us with Beautiful and Dan. Dan's 3 1/2 year old, Little Guy, was there. As was Lily, of course : ) And Dan's mom, Robin, was visiting from Tennessee. With her new husband who Dan had never met.

While talking to his beloved mom's new husband, Marty, I noticed Dan had turned his chair and was sitting next to Hubby as though they were on the same team, as though Hubby was in Dan's corner and had Dan's back. It was an interesting change from a little over a year ago.

The good part--the funny part--in the next edition . . . .

bah humbug

2008-12-05T21:46:00.000-08:00

I'm tired of people. Certain people get on my nerves this time of year. Christmas tends to bring out the worst in our fellow man, doesn't it?

Right now I can't stand people who want everybody else to know how wonderful they are. And I say this as one of those people who used to do that.

If you ever find yourself on the verge of saying or doing something to make yourself look good to strangers, stop and remind yourself that nobody f***ing cares.

In the checkout line at a store and feel the need to inform the clerk that your purchases are for charity? Keep it to yourself. NFC. Telling strangers about your donations of time/money/goods to a noble cause negates the good will and makes the act entirely self serving. And when it becomes self serving, NFC.

I hear this at the pharmacy at least once a week:

Pharmacist: "While you're taking this medication, you want to avoid alcohol."

Customer: "Oh, that's not a problem, I never drink alcohol."

Know what, dear customer? NFC. Least of all the pharmacist. He just wants to fulfil his legal obligation to give you the necessary information and to get back to his work. He really doesn't want to hear about how you think you're better than anyone who imbibes once in awhile.

In a public area with your small, adorable children who are saying precocious, adorable things? Resist the temptation to answer them in a voice just loud enough to be overheard and then look around to be sure other people are chuckling and smiling with approval not only at your clever youngling but also at your enviable buddy/parent relationship. You phony. NFC.

You're a vegan who eats only organic vegetables from local farms? That's great. And I'll bet you're healthy and our environment is better off for you. But I don't want to hear about it as I stand in the checkout line with my box of Twinkies. And it's not just me. NFC.

You're a greenie and are hand crafting all of your Christmas decorations and gifts out of recycled goods that originally came only from sustainable materials? Fantastic. Your family and fellow green pals will surely applaud you. But the rest of us? NFC, baby.

Your dogs are your "children" and any time a normal person brings up the subject of their actual children you feel the need to regale them with the antics of your precious pups? Seriously--take this to heart--NFC. And I do mean nobody.

Your daughter is in the local production of Nutcracker and is an hour late to dress rehearsal and you have a whole litany of excuses and reasons why she shouldn't have had to be at that rehearsal in the first place even though you agreed to get her to all of them two months ago? NFC. Get her in costume, in make-up, warmed up and on the stage. And you, mom, you go somewhere else--anywhere else--other than the wings because you have "stage mom" written all over you.

In public in the middle of a weekday with your school aged children and you feel it's your duty to enlighten the surrounding simpletons that your offspring are not in school because they don't go to "government" schools because you're better than that--you home school? Trying to cram it down everyone else's throat that you're willing to sacrifice money and time because you are a parent who really puts your kids first--inferring that anyone who makes a different decision is practically negligent? Listen closely: NFC. Do what you think is best for your own and leave everybody else out of it.

I could go on and on with this, but by now I think I've pretty much offended everyone so I'll stop. And I should probably 'fess up: I've been guilty of at least half of these offences. I hate people like me.

I'll bet you all have experienced some outstanding NFC moments. Please, feel free to share--I really do care about that : )

update

2008-11-30T23:02:00.001-08:00

I think she gets cuter every day. She's been smiling for some time, but now she smiles at faces she recognizes--like mine : ) And she talks and coos and gurgles. It's enough to make my heart burst with joy.

If you don't have one of these yet--run out and get one right now!

Bulls*it e-mail . . .

2008-11-29T18:48:00.000-08:00

After months of nothing but problems, I've opted to jump ship rather than try to solve : ) So I've just changed the e-mail account associated with this blog. I'm reluctant to just print it right here in the body of a post though . . .

If you've e-mailed me at the hotmail address any time over the last 6 or 8 months and I haven't replied, I swear it isn't because I'm inconsiderate : ) Try me at my new address if you'd like to reach me.

*smooches* kittens! (Okay, I totally stole that from vuboq . . . and I can't pull it off like he can : )

Just in case anyone is in need of professional diagnosis:

2008-11-26T18:11:00.000-08:00

intricacies

2008-11-24T22:06:00.000-08:00

This morning before the pharmacy opened we were talking about Christmas shopping.

"I'm just about done," reported Pharmacist Greg, "but I'm not sure what to get for the woman I'm seeing. She's not really a girlfriend yet. What do you women think?"

Robin answered sagely, "Whatever you give her, be careful about what meaning you want her to take from it."

"And whatever you give her," I added helpfully, "she will take some sort of meaning. Women take meaning from everything."

"So you're saying I shouldn't give her a can opener?" Greg quipped.

What do you think ladies? Any ideas? My advice to Greg was that you really can't go wrong with chocolate.

And what about you guys? Any thoughts?

How to annihilate a child's dreams in one easy step

2008-11-23T11:46:00.000-08:00

In the car a couple nights ago Youngest was making me crazy. It had been a long day with him. We were coming back from Aikido, he was chatty, I was tired and couldn't listen any longer to the constant prattling of a 13 year old who is half little boy and half teenager.

He flipped through radio stations as he droned on and on about one thing and another. One local station is already playing continuous Christmas songs and as Youngest accidentally stumbled over it I recognized the beginning of Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne."

"Oooh, I used to love this song," I mentioned, "I'd like to listen to it, please." Translation: Please, please, please shut it so I can enjoy this song.

He was quiet for at least 10 seconds and then started in again. He talked about small things at first--things I could easily dispatch with an intuitively placed "uh huh." But then he got more detailed. Something to do with a boat he wants to build for fishing at church camp next summer when his grandparents take him.

I completely lost my patience. As well as all sense of consideration. "Look, Youngest, first of all, you manage to catch plenty of fish at camp without a boat. Secondly, you know for a fact that Grandpa isn't going to let you drag along anything heavy that will cut down on his fuel efficiency. Third--didn't I tell you I wanted to listen to this song? Why have you talked all the way through it????"

Youngest didn't answer. Youngest was crushed. And he did something that I remember doing probably a thousand times when I was an emotional young teenager in the car with my mother: he turned his whole body toward his window and ignored me for the rest of the drive home.

I felt guilty. And I felt relief at the quiet.

I tried to remember what it was I wanted my mom to know, and what action I wanted her to take, from my body language when I was Youngest's age. But part of me just didn't effing care--as I'm sure my mom didn't--because in truth there is no rational thought--no perspective--in the case of an injured 13 year old.

And then it occurred to me that the bittersweet song on the radio--an accurate depiction of the pensive reality that is meeting someone who you loved in the distant past--would never hold the same meaning for my son as it holds for me. For him it would be a bad memory of a car ride with his killjoy mother.

And one more family experiences the generation gap . . .

gratuitous . . .

2008-11-20T19:20:00.001-08:00

Country Mouse Comes Unhinged

The picture. It's a metaphor. A *really* obvious one.

Long overdue update!

new nursery!

encouraging news

my grandson

No sh*t.

Monday, Monday, so bad to me . . .

I said "Be careful his bowtie is really a camera"

randomy stuff

A nice, tidy ring.

Bag of vomit trumps all.

a little announcement . . .

This is going to hurt you way more than it's going to hurt me.

Viva, Baby!

Olympic dreams do come true! Well, you know, sort of . . .

My car perished in a murder/attempted suicide.

death by chocolate

one perfect moment

My life is beginning to resemble a Rodney Dangerfield bit. And I have a blackbelt in guilt.

Christmas past. Waaaaaay past.

Glitter? Is a nuisance. And other Christmas laments.

technical difficulties: comments to "glitter"

Casual Friday. And Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday . . .

We've been together for 25 years. And there's nothing else to say about that . . .

Canned Black Olives + Vicodin = Higher Than Normal Threat of Divorce. That's a standard formula, right?

A Typical Mouse Family Thanksgiving

Guest Post by my lovely daughter, Beautiful. (Wait, is that redundant?)

One small rant

Bull**it

battling dehydration

Why? Why do teenagers *insist* on disagreeing about things they cannot even know?

signs that my focus is a leeeeetle bit off . . .

Sweet Pea is already a whole year old!

it's FLAN, g**dammit!

In which

something's in the air

Irony has it out for me

teach your children well

momzilla

Daddy's little girl

How I offended people this week

talk the talk

sneak preview

Why can't I just win *one*?

I know, I know, I haven't been updating at all . . .

For Gail

Sweet Pea

apples and oranges

Happy Mother's Day!

Icky x Gross = Disgusting

Does this dog make me look fat?

thanks : )

hiatus

I think they make drugs for that . . .

In which I offer empirical proof that I am *not* married to Chuck Norris' cousin . . .

It would be funny if it weren't true.

I swear it was disguised as a Monday . . .

Bitch tryin to steal my boyfriend!

On-line solutions. Part II. *With special instructions!

Craptastic!

On-line solutions. Part I.

The subject I'm not very good with.

How to ruin the mood in one easy step. Part II.

In which Country Mouse poisons her sweet Hubby . . .

my date with a young man

I am a mother. Or--Why I Need A Very Long Vacation.

It's a small world. Maybe a leeeeeetle too small . . .

WOLVERINES!*

skillz

It might be the drugs talking . . .

Keep the change.

yeah, she's still pretty much the center of my world : )

now I'm just stealing material . . .

ode to Aphrodite and Eros . . . and maybe Cupid . . .

Conversation. Or maybe I mean confrontation?

for every parent

How to ruin the mood in one easy step.

Diet's going great! Thanks for asking : )

worst lunch date *evah*

The picture. It's a metaphor. A really obvious one.

Why? Why do teenagers insist on disagreeing about things they cannot even know?

Why can't I just win one?

In which I offer empirical proof that I am not married to Chuck Norris' cousin . . .

worst lunch date evah

Yes, math does apply to real life.