That's the way it is.

2009-04-22T21:14:00.002-05:00

I am a bit of a safety freak. I see danger everywhere: escalators, parking lots, balloons, Home Depot shelving, pedicure establishments. Tis' a blessing and a curse. If I was attorney, it would definitely be a blessing. But I am not an attorney. I am a mom. It's definitely a personal thing, one's safety threshold. And, while I am not naming any names, it can be extremely frustrating (on both ends) to parent near or with someone with vastly different safety sensibilities than you have.

Personally, and I'm sure you'll agree, one should always defer to the person with the higher safety standards. If I'M wrong, you'll have a really safe kid. If "HE" is wrong (again, not naming any names) then you'll have a kid with a softball down their throat and teeth in their sinuses.

This brings me to the above mask I am proud to have my daughter wear while pitching. Thankfully, Rocky's league has just made this mask mandatory for pitchers. Ha! Cause you know that "he" and "she" would gfaw at me and call me "wimp" were it not for the blessing of "the league".

So what's you're achilles heel? What scares the hell out of you?

Mr. Do Do

2009-04-01T22:12:00.003-05:00

I've always admired people who can capture huge ideas and thoughts into brief phrases or sentences. Maybe that's because I frequently say too little using too many words.

Joe, at two, has to be the king of brevity. All day long he proclaims, insists, demands "Do! Do!" because he wants to do it all himself. "Do!" may mean, "Get your slimy white hand out of that dishwasher and allow me to gather all the cutlery and slap it in the drawer by MYSELF, you selfish giant!" Or, "So what if I am putting both of my socks on the same foot? It's my foot, isn't it? You control freak!" Or, "Hand over that sponge, sister. I am perfectly capable of scraping the soggy Cheerio shrapnel off of my tray. What do you think I am? A baby?!"

Forgive me, your majesty, for I know not what I "do".

2012: Who's with me?

2009-03-27T05:45:00.003-05:00

I've definitely been a little lost in my own world these last few months, so imagine my surprise when my good friend, La, told me about The End of Days some are preparing for. No need to panic, the world isn't set to implode until December 21, 2012. Google it if you don't believe me.

This really upsets me for two reasons:

1. Apparently millions have been preparing for this event for years, and I didn't even know about it. There are blogs, lectures, and even kits you can buy, and I have missed it all.

2. I love to freak out, and I feel totally behind the 8 ball. I could be buying gold and hoarding tuna and batteries. Perhaps I'll get started today.

Anyone want to buy my class ring?

If the end of days is around the corner, so be it - especially if it is, as some theorists suggest, due to a polar switcheroo. I've always thought that dying sounded like supremely lonely business, so I embrace the opportunity to bite it just about when everyone else does.

For My Three Faithful Friends

2009-02-13T06:22:00.002-06:00

This post is for you, my 3 faithful lurkers! Each day you visit my blog knowing that I have basically abandoned it. But you keep coming back and looking for me. That, my mystery friends, is what I call faith.

I will raise my glass of red to you tonight!

Teach a man to fish?

2008-12-22T05:17:00.003-06:00

This question is plaguing me of late. I have never really been the recipient of charity, and I wonder what it would be like to be on the other end of it. On the one hand, it would be so nice to have help. It would mean food or gifts or medical care when I couldn't provide it for myself or my children. But what about the times when the people on the other end couldn't or didn't give to me? Do I just go without food then? Or medical treatment? Is my existence, then, tied to the whims of people I don't know? How unnerving that must be. And scary. But, then again, what if there was no help at all? Isn't some help, whenever it comes, better than no help? Or will I learn to wait for that help instead of try and make it myself? Will I learn helplessness if I am given things instead of earning them? Where is the line?

I am drawn most to charities like Heifer International and Kiva which are more "teach a man to fish" than "give a man a fish" organizations. Still, if I was hungry and my kids were hungry, I'd want someone to give me a fish because you can't fish on an empty stomach.

How do you feel about charities? Which ones do you support and why? What are your feelings about learned helplessness?

Migraining . . . again.

2008-12-05T09:16:00.001-06:00

My good friend, Matt, says that every good Jew gets "a condition" if you live long enough. Migraining is my "condition". Does everyone really have a condition?

What's yours? (TMI is welcome here!)

North Face in my face

2008-11-30T06:38:00.002-06:00

So, Rocky wants one of these things. You know, these uber-trendy jackets that range from your basic polar fleece sweatshirts, to down jackets for $275.

It's no news to anyone, that you are paying $100 outright for the little, square North Face tag. No news to anyone, except Rocky. She keeps spouting the "They're so comfortable!" mantra at me, when we in "the know" know that the ones from Land's End are just as comfortable, particularly where the wallet is concerned. The "comfort" comes from looking just like all the other cool kids at the mall or in the hall at school.

And she's angling hard for UGG boots, too. But I digress . . .

What would my mom have said? "Absolutely not!" Have I mentioned lately that Rocky is 9?

Here's what I want:
I want a kid who knows the value of a dollar (damn, I sound like an old man).
I want a kid who has enough self esteem to not care what other kids are wearing.
I want a kid who feels cool in her own skin and knows that any friend who is interested in the name brand of your jacket isn't a friend worth having.

She intends to pay for it on her own, assuming she is coming into some cash this holiday season, (which she may or may not - certainly won't be getting any from me), but I'm not sure that's entirely the point. Don't I have to take a stand now? Isn't this the moment in the history of her life when I teach her an important lesson?

Help! What do I do?

It's a beautiful day.

2008-11-05T16:48:00.004-06:00

I can hardly believe that I am about to admit this but . . . I was watching the election night festivities in bed (Rocky and Steve were at the Grant Park rally). I saw the entourage pulling into Grant Park, and, the next thing I knew, everyone was applauding the end of the speech. I missed the whole. thing. The whole thing! So the first time I saw the whole speech was while my classroommate was showing it to her students. And, yes, I cried like a baby. Yes, I did!

I can't remember ever feeling so hopeful about the fate of the world. I am walking on air. Gobama! Gobama! Gobama!

Captionfest

2008-11-03T19:04:00.000-06:00

I am speechless. I just can't sum it up. Can you?

Why would anyone vote for John McCain, I wonder?

2008-10-25T13:10:00.003-05:00

Politics is for people who are way smarter than I am. People who actually know what is going on in the world, in the economy, at the pump, down in Washington, or who know what "gubernatorial" means have so many more synapses and brain cells than I do.

Regardless, I do have a very strong opinion in this presidential race, though I have said little here about that. Because I cannot wrap my brain around

a. what all the issues are
b. who stands exactly where on exactly what
c. whether or not the media is feeding me an accurate picture of any / all of the above

I instead base my political vote on the following:

a. How smart does the candidate appear to be?
b. How sincere does the candidate appear to be?
c. How likely is the candidate to get along with people around the world?
d. How likely is the candidate to be able to get others to reach a reasonable consensus?
e. How likely am I or world leaders likely to get with the candidate?

So, needless to say, I'm voting for Barack Obama. He has a brilliant mind. He seems very sincere and real to me. He is calm and steady, charismatic and likable. People come together under his leadership. And I believe that he will be brilliantly received in cultures all around the world.

What I would really like to know is, why would anyone vote for McCain?

Guatoberfest 2008

2008-10-14T05:31:00.004-05:00

This family of five headed down to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina this weekend to rock it out with families with babies from Guatemala. A good 'ol time was had by all!

It was especially nice to meet "old" blog buddies, meet new friends, and to re-unite with Tricia, Sofia the One Dimple Wonder, and Victoria the Great.

I can't remember what I've forgotten.

2008-10-08T06:51:00.002-05:00

Recently, on my new love, Facebook, I have had a sahweet trip down memory lane with old friends. One of the things that I love about this technological age (I realize that statement makes me sound very 40-years-old, but I don't know how else to say it) is re-living my childhood with friends via the help of Youtube. Here's one that plays in my mind every time I'm at the grocery store:

a loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of buttah!

What was your favorite Sesame Street "bit"?

I have left you all for my new love.

2008-09-30T20:09:00.002-05:00

It's Facebook. I am completely addicted. It is the ultimate solution to the nagging thoughts that crop up in the recesses of my mind and begin with "I wonder what ever happened to Betsy or Jim or Rich or Laurie . . . ?" Chances are that Besty, Jim, Rich, and Trish are all hooked up with Facebook. And it's not like I want to have PLANS with Betsy or Jim or Trish (I wouldn't mind hanging out with Rich, actually), but it's nice to know what they're up to and that they're well.

Plus the teenie-bopper-whanna-be in me is crazy for the live chat feature. I must admit, it can suck up my ever waning free time into a time-warping abyss, but it is such a thrill.

I recommend it highly. It's not that I don't love you anymore. I do. I just love Facebook more.

I'd like my bacterium on the side, please.

2008-09-21T10:47:00.001-05:00

http://www.engrish.com
All of these are from one of my favorite sites of all time, engrish.com. Somehow, I feel a little badly about laughing so hard, especially since I am not proficient in a language other than English. But I can't help myself.

Got any guilty pleasures? Chicken with bacterium, right?

A huge sigh of relief.

2008-09-20T13:54:00.002-05:00

Two years ago when I was in the process of adopting Mindy, I stumbled across the blog jesuswasnotarepublican and their adoption journey to baby A. A "went into PGN" the final major step in the process on September 28, 2006, two weeks before Mindy did, so I watched their case with great interest as I figured Mindy was about two weeks behind A.

But A's case hit a major snag.

Mindy got out of PGN in February of 2007 and was home later that month.

A month later, we started Joe's adoption, and he came home in March 2008.

A got out of PGN YESTERDAY - September 19, 2008. Almost 2 years after she went in.

Erin and her husband moved down to foster A in the Spring of 2007 and have been living in Guatemala the whole time.

I can't tell you what a relief it is to know that A is officially Erin's. The thought that Erin could lose her has plagued me many a night.

It's a good, good day.

A Room with a View

2008-09-16T06:01:00.002-05:00

Of a lake! I've got one, baby! I've always wanted lakeside property. Dreams really CAN come true!

If you want to annoy me, please . . .

2008-09-10T04:07:00.003-05:00

Yeah, it's 4 AM here in Chicagoland, and this is what is on my mind:

Pet Peeve #1

You are at a conference, a lecture, a class, any gathering where somebody has a microphone. Microphone Person comes to the mic and says

Microphone Man: Good Morning!
Listeners: Good morning.
Microphone Man: Aw, come on! You can do better than that. GOOD MORNING!
Listeners (except for grumbly Laurie): GOOD MORNING!

I hate that, and I'm not even sure I have a really good reason to hate it. It's just that it absolutely ruins my morning (okay, an exaggeration, but still) to hear a tired-out give-and-take first thing in the morning. And there is nothing good about people yelling "Good Morning!" In fact, it's weird. Do they teach this technique at Talk In Front of People School? Instead, they should teach people to avoid phrases like, "If you can't hear me, raise your hand."

Pet Peeve #2

People walking through a swinging door in front of you and not holding it open for you. Here's why this bothers me:

1. It's rude.
2. The centrifugal force of the door swinging back while I'm trying to open it actually makes it much harder for me to open. So, in addition to being rude, you are making my life harder. Do I need this added physics debacle in my daily life? I do not. It's all I can do to refrain from shouting, "Didn't your mama teach you nothin', buddy?" Of course, this sort of remark could get me killed, so I keep it all telepathic. Or I yell "ow" as the door smacks one of my body parts. Nobody cares, though.

Pet Peeve #3

Clip art. People are writing a memo about kids and homework and then they slap on a badly drawn picture of a kid at a table writing in a book. Why? I know what a kid looks like. I know what homework looks like. And if you have the misfortune of printing one of these out in color, the kid always has a Crayola Crayon complexion like "pink carnation" or "burnt sienna" instead of a human skin tone.

So, what really peeves you? I'd love to know, so I can immediately stop doing it (or start).

Soap Opera Sunday: Three's a Crowd

2008-09-06T18:15:00.005-05:00

Welcome to my first attempt at Soap Opera Sunday!

It all started off sweetly and happily enough . . .

16-year-old Boy meets 16-year-old Girl. Boy and Girl fall madly in love. Boy and Girl spend a year full of dates and parties and dances and laughter and goofiness. And then, one day, well, it just ends for Boy. He decides he doesn't love Girl anymore. Now he loves New Girl.

I done got kicked to the curb. Hard. And I didn't even see it coming. I was thoroughly gutted. I couldn't accept it. For weeks and weeks I pounded my head against the wall (figuratively and literally) certain that if I just called up Boy (he went to a different school) and said the right thing, he would come back to me . Naturally, I couldn't eat, sleep, smile, or enjoy anything at all. I called him weekly, trying different tactics. I think it was the first time in my life that something that I really, really wanted (and needed) was out of my reach, and I could not wrap my brain around it. After several weeks of futile overtures, I realized that he was lost to me. But, for some reason, I was compelled to keep up the embarrassing periodic phone calls. I was a stalker (although, thank God, that word was not yet in vogue). I knew I needed help.

Of course, like any good teenage girl, I turned to my girlfriends. I enlisted the help of 3 or 4 of my closest homies to "talk me down from the ledge" should I feel tempted to call Boy. One of these girls was Julie.

Julie was there for me every time. She talked me down and cheered me up. I actually tallied the days that I managed to abstain from calling. First 2, then 12, then a month, and then several months.

And, suddenly, it was Spring. And the strangest thing happened. Another friend, Kristin, called and insisted that I call Boy. What?! Over and over, she insisted. I smelled a rat, so I broke down, breaking my stellar record, and called him. He immediately told me that Julie had started to call him. I hung up and called Kristin. She had vowed to Julie that she wouldn't tell me that Julie had started to pursue Boy and intended to ask him to our prom.

The conversation I had with Julie in her homeroom the next day went something like this:

Me: &*#@! You! Have you been calling Boy?
Julie: So? So what if I have? You can't tell me what to do.
Me: Okay, that's true. I am asking you as a friend since the sixth grade, please do not call Boy. Please do not ask Boy to prom.
Julie: I'll think about it.
Me: I am asking you right now, as an old friend, please do not call Boy. If you can't give me your word that you won't, then we are no longer friends.
Julie: I'll think about it.
Me: We are no longer friends.

I never spoke to her again.

Over the years when I have relayed this story to other people they have said that she did nothing wrong. I had no rights to Boy since we had broken up long ago. But I don't see it that way. She had privileged information about how devastated I was. She knew it would crush me to smithereens to see them together. If she couldn't safeguard my feelings, then I could never trust her. If I couldn't trust her, we couldn't be friends. I have thought about this over the years and still feel certain that I made the right decision.

What do you think?

Because you are more creative than I am:

2008-09-06T15:25:00.003-05:00

One of the blessings of being a school teacher is Halloween. All the kids dress up, we have a big parade, and a Halloween dance. But every year I have to come up with a costume, and that kind of blows. In the past I have been:

1. The strung out rabbit from Alice in Wonderland
2. A silver crayon
3. Little Red Riding Hood (to Rocky's 4-year-old Big Bad Wolf)
4. Dorothy (to Rocky's 3-year-old Wicked Witch)
5. An 8th grader
6. A leopard
7. a genie

So I'm putting it out there for suggestions. It can be for a single costume or for something in a group of 4 or 5 so the 8th grade team can dress alike. Occasionally we get inspired like that.

Guidelines:
1. Must be "school friendly"
2. Should steer clear of current politics (i.e. Sarah Palin, although that would be fun, especially if they have already started churning out horrible molded rubber masks of her).
3. Should be relatively cheap and easily constructed.

Okay, my brilliant chums! Have at!

Why You Should Watch Wife Swap and Supernanny

2008-09-04T04:59:00.002-05:00

I don't know when shows come on anymore. If I'm folding laundry, I'll flip on the TV and find the show I hate the least. And that's sans cable, people. I told you I live in a little house on the prairie, right?

Except, now Rocky is nine. Nine-year-olds KNOW when their favorite show is on as sure as they know to ask for Sour Skittles 10,000 times until they whittle your head into a nub and your answer to a "yes" and you are begging all that is pre-pubescent to just give you an iota of peace . . . But I digress.

However, there are two shows on, back-to-back, thank you very much, that are worth their weight in gold, and Rocky has their schedule down flat:

1. Wife Swap.

Basic premise: Families living with extreme philosophies (i.e. We drink our coffee through a straw so as not to stain our teeth and scrub the house from top to bottom daily) switch wives (mothers) with another extreme family (i.e. We let our band of ferrets, geese, and budgies crap all over the house because we love them and they are members of the family, and, hey, family craps all over the house right?). Etc.

After a week of living by the rules of the house they are visiting, the wives change the rules for the new family in an attempt to teach the other family the errors of their ways.

There are temper tantrums, tears, arguments, and lots of other fun, but that's not the best part. The best part is trying to predict what is going to happen at the onset of the show: Guess who is going to have the hardest time adjusting. Guess who is going to be a stick in the mud. Guess who is going to stand up for themselves and put the other wife in their place. And here's the best part: I AM ALMOST ALWAYS WRONG. Some people make miraculous growth and changes (i.e. The tidy coffee straw lady kept the kitten the other mom bought her, fell in love with it, and even slept with it in her bed, while the animal shit lady tore the tidy lady's new rules off her wall and went back to her chaotic, poopy life.) In general, the more uptight people are, the more willing they seem to be to growing and changing and considering another point of view. The liberal, free thinkers seem to have trouble accepting any structure at all into their lives. And this fascinates me.

Plus, some of the kids are foul beasts on the show, and it makes me love Rocky, Posey, and Pete all the more. So if you want to feel good about your kids and watch the way extreme families live, try Wife Swap or:

2. Supernanny! In short, watch other people's kids act like lunatics and feel ultra proud of your own parenting skills.

During both shows I tell Rocky how much I love her 1,000 times, so it is great for our relationship (except that last night she kept telling me how much she would rather date the rapper dude without a job over the bluegrass playing sweetheart, so that part was no fun at all . . . except that it did open up a dialogue between us, but it wasn't a fun dialogue . . .).

So those are my TV recs for you. I'm going to Starbucks now.

And that, my friends, is the way it is.

P.S. Nancy, if you leave a comment, I will give you my George Bush magent. You know, the one you've been coveting? I've seen your longing glances at my green filing cabinet . . .

I'm not as big as Barack. I can't lay off this one.

2008-09-02T05:32:00.004-05:00

All right. I'm from Illinois and a demorcrat, and even if I wasn't, I'm pretty sure I'd be voting for BaROCK Obama anyway. However this whole Palin teen pregnancy issue is stuck in my craw. Most of the reaction from the GOP is so politically motivated, and, therefore, hypocritical (i.e. Well, we generally promote abstinence, but if you're going to get pregnant, why, bless your heart for not killing the fetus.) Hmmmm. Let's promote abstinence, even though our prospective vice president couldn't

A. get that message across in her own HOUSE, let alone the nation

and

B. avoid a teenage pregnancy and birth IN (okay very near) the White House

And . . . SCENE! It's over. If this isn't the pinnacle of hypocrisy, I don't know what is. And John McCain said he knew that Bristol was pregnant when he chose Palin. This is the best he could do? Don't get me wrong, I've said it before and I'll say it again, parenting is more like chipping away at a brick than molding clay, and the behavior of Bristol Palin is only a partial reflection of her mother. But don't you think that if mom was being realistic with her high school senior, she would have gotten her some birth control? Is mom paying attention? Can she pay attention? But I digress . . .

And, lastly, I am really disturbed that I have yet to hear anyone from the GOP camp, official or otherwise, consider that Bristol has more than two options (choosing to raise the child or abort the pregnancy). She could make an adoption plan for her child.

And that's the way it is.

She said, she said.

2008-09-01T11:17:00.002-05:00

Me: Isn't it weird how Posey is crazy about you no matter how mean you are to her or how much you ignore her?
Rocky: I know. It's a miracle.
scene

At the Chicago Botanic Garden watching groups of wedding parties pose for photos-
Posey: Look, Mommy! Princesses!

Mommy and Rocky Rock "The View"

2008-08-30T08:59:00.003-05:00

Too stinkin' busy now for clever or interesting, so you'll have to settle for a little typicalmommyblog post.

Rocky did start going to school at MY school this year, so I did get to peek on her a bunch of times. She was "on task" 4 out of 5 peeks and left her shoes on the floor in the path of the class, so at least I know this type of booby trap left in our home is not personal. This is news to me.

And that's the way it is.

Time Capsule Essentials?

2008-08-26T21:26:00.002-05:00

I am putting together a time capsule for Posey and Pete to be opened on Pete's 21st birthday (February 26, 2028). It is going to be stored in a sealed tin can about they size of a bread box.

Any ideas of cool things I can include that would be fun for them to open when they are adults?

8th Graders: All That and a Bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetoes

2008-08-25T20:31:00.005-05:00

When I tell people that I teach 8th grade, I am almost always met with a reaction of shock and awe. It's important to note that teaching an 8th grader is nothing like

A. being an 8th grader

OR

B. owning an 8th grader

The only thing worse than A. has got to be B. Rest assured, the life of an 8th grade teacher is easy peasy, lemon squeezy compared to that.

Without further ado, LAURIE'S TOP TEN REASONS WHY 8TH GRADERS ARE ALL THAT AND A BAG OF FLAMIN' HOT CHEETOES

10. Unlike 5th graders, they have embraced the concepts and rituals of daily showering, shampooing, and deodorant applying.

9. Unlike 1st graders, they are capable and make frequent practice of wiping their own noses.

8. They can fix anything wrong with my computer in 68 seconds flat.

7. They bring Ferraro Rocher to teacher at both holiday time and at the end of the year.

6. Unlike 4th graders, they change their clothes daily.

5. Their parents don't volunteer to help in the classroom.

4. They are well aware of whether or not they can actually sing on pitch and behave accordingly.

3. Usually the most beautiful ones have not yet figured out how cute they are.

2. They will do absolutely anything for pizza.

1. They graduate 5 days before the rest of the school gets out for summer.

Olympics: Inside Edition

2008-08-23T10:34:00.008-05:00

Like many of you, I've gone somewhat insane over the Olympics. But what I have enjoyed most about this Olympics is the addition of the commentary from hilarious bloggers like dogs and jeans and his witty daily posts, especially August 13th's entry: Paedomorphism versus Neotony in Chinese Gymnastics. And don't miss yeahtotallyright 's tributes to Beijing as well (see Aug. 13th).

Finally, thanks to my bosom buddy Kristine who was actually AT the Olympics in BEIJING and came home last Sunday, I have, what I feel quite certain is my exact take on the importance of the games had I, myself, been present. Because Kristine is my twin separated at birth (or roughly six months prior to birth). Here is what Kristine reported to me:

Item #1: THE OLYMPIC VOLUNTEERS
Hundreds of thousands of volunteers were apparently recruited by the government to help Beijing achieve their two primary objectives of the games: safety and cleanliness. Kristine estimates that there was one olympic volunteer stationed for each square yard in all of Beijing. If you dropped a coin, 72 olympic volunteers swarmed it to retrieve it for you. Kristine believes that they were taught approximately 10 English phrases and were only able to use those. Here were her favorites:
A. "Please to sit down". This one was used continually during all sporting events. Since the Chinese were trained in appropriate cheering and it strictly prohibited standing or crouching, 72 olympic volunteers would dash over to anyone in the crowd who had risen, and politely instruct them to sit down. I wonder how that went over with the Brazilian soccer fans? Please to sit down!
B. "Have a pleasant time!": This was used after all answered questions. Kristine's favorite use was for the following -
Kristine: Where is the bathroom?
Olympic Volunteer: It is to the right. Have a pleasant time!
C. "Thank you for your cooperation": This one was used after any and all requests. As in, "Please to sit down. Thank you for your cooperation." Very Heinlein, isn't it?

Also, there was an obvious hierarchy of cuteness. The closer you were to an important venue, the more attractive the volunteers became. If you wore glasses, you were relegated to concession stands.

Item #2: THE LOVE OF AMERICAN LETTERS, REGARDLESS OF WHAT THEY SPELL OR MESSAGE CONVEYED
For more of this sort of fun, see blog An Englishman in Osaka. because the Japanese share this fascination.
A. Woman wearing a t-shirt that reads: "I give all happy smiles because I am in Cheerful Monkey!"
B. A child wearing a t-shirt with teddy bears having a tea party and over the bears is one giant word: HAMBURGER

Item #3: SECURITY CHECK-POINTS
What you can't see on TV is that it was impossible to get anywhere near any of the venues unless you had a ticket for an upcoming event. There were no less than 5 security check-points to pass before entering. Here is Kristine's experience getting into "The Nest":
Guard: (referring to Kristine's 5 granola bars, brought to share with her friends) Too much for one person! Choose 2!
Kristine: But they're for my family! They are for all of us to share.
Guard: Too much for one person! Choose 2!
Kristine: (chooses 2)
Guard: What is this?!
Kristine: It's lotion.
Guard: Use it!
Kristine: (uses it)
Guard: What is this?!
Kristine: Purell, for germs.
Guard: Use it!
Kristine: (Uses it.)
Guard: What is this?!
Kristine: Tic Tacs. For breath.
Guard: Eat one!
Kristine: (Eats one.)

That is why there were no Tic Tac bombs as the Olympics this year. Phew! I hope London is taking notes.

Item #4: YOU COULDN'T BUY ANYTHING "OLYMPICS" AT THE OLYMPICS
Now this one is quite confounding to my capitalistic soul because you KNOW that on every single corner at the Atlanta games you could buy anything from a t-shirt to a microwave oven with the Olympic logo. I asked her to get an Olympic hoodie sweatshirt for Rocky, and there were none, absolutely none to be found. I guess I'll have to go to Footlocker or something.

However, she did get the darling Chinese outfits for Posey and Pete. I threw in the picture of Rocky and Posey where Rocky is obviously not wearing the Olympic sweatshirt that the Chinese did not want to sell Kristine even though the one I will probably get her was made there.

So, in a way, I was at the Olympics myself. Notice how I mentioned nothing of fencing or beach volleyball? Yep, all that would have been lost on me thanks to the Olympic Volunteers and the perplexing use of the word "hamburger" on children's clothing. Welcome to my world.

still migraining

2008-08-21T20:47:00.003-05:00

not as bad, but not good

here are some pics of Pete's first haircut, before, during, and after (and with Posey).

maybe tomorrow the ice pick will be removed from my left temple

ulch and ulch

am migraining today

2008-08-20T05:44:00.000-05:00

ulch
ow
anybody of you get these?

ow ow ow ow

Luckily Infertile

2008-08-19T06:06:00.004-05:00

There are many blogs out there on infertility. One, however, has really touched me because xbox4nappyrash is one heck of a writer and appears to be, if you can judge somebody just from reading their blog, one heck of a sweet and special guy. His tender writing about he and his wife's journey to create a baby has swept me back to a time in my life that I don't give a lot of thought to now, but I can channel those memories as if they were yesterday.

I had always wanted to be a mom. I was a "doll" kid. All I wanted for most of my childhood was to play with dolls. Drowsy (she was my rockstar), Baby Tenderlove, Kiddle Kiddiddles, and, yes, Barbie.

And then my love of dolls became a love of babies and kids. My first jobs were babysitter and then camp counselor. And I was one of those people who stops every baby on the street to ooh and ahh. I was the first one to ask, "Can I hold the baby?" at any family function.

So the "Why me's?" came hard and thick when months and months of trying went by and we never got pregnant. Those babies that I always loved to see in public started to haunt me, as did the pregnant women who were everywhere, too. It was torture for me, and one that I basically suffered through silently. There were no blogs back then, and one by one, the women who I did know who were going through some infertility problems became pregnant with their first child and sometimes a second, while I remained unexplainedly infertile.

You want to hear something funny? My infertility doctor was pregnant and so was her nurse. Ha. Ha.

I could go on and on, but I will get to the point.

One day I was involved in a random conversation with some colleagues at school and the topic of DNA came up. And all of sudden, out of the blue, it just hit me like a ton of bricks. What is so special about my DNA? What is so special about my DNA? And I realized, quite suddenly, that the answer is: nothing. I am not smarter, nicer, cuter, or funnier than anybody else on the planet. There are millions of kids out there who have no parents, who have no home.

And we decided to adopt. (My husband had been open to adoption all along.)

We didn't adopt for altruistic reasons. We weren't trying to save anyone or to save the planet. We weren't trying to give back. We weren't trying to share our bounty with an orphan. We adopted because we wanted to be parents and we wanted to love a child.

And now comes the part where I am writing through my tears. This is the part where I tell you how the whole thing has left me so humbled. While I knew there was nothing special about my DNA, I had many fears about the child we would adopt. Would they be sickly? Would they have a genetic issue too much for us to handle? Maybe these fears are similar to a pregnant woman's fears, after all, nobody gets a guarantee about the health of their child. Still, it pains me to remember my fears because as soon as I saw Rocky for the very first time, I knew how backwards all my worries had been. I immediately switched all thoughts to: Will I ever be good enough for her? What did I do to be so lucky? How will I ever be worthy of her? Ever?

7 years after that we adopted Posey and then Pete, and not a day goes by, not one single day goes by when I don't thank my lucky stars that I never got pregnant. To some degree, every parent "has" to say that they have no regrets in regards to their children. I mean, you can't just say, "Boy, I sure do wish we never had Maurice. He sure is a pain in the ass." But since making the leap to adopt (and it is a big leap, my friend), it pains me all the more to reflect on my infertility struggles. The energy, the heartache, the money (whether ours or the insurance company's), and the time we spent, all in the pursuit of something that was already here. I know that this will sound crass, but I think that adoption is the ultimate in reduce, reuse, recycle. These are people. They are here. They need a mom and a dad and a home and a school and a future. And we need them.

The U5MR (infant mortality rate) in Guatemala is at 49%, which means that statistically speaking, either Posey or Pete would have died before their 5th birthday had they stayed in Guatemala (I am VERY aware of the all the icky press on Guatemalan adoption - another post for another time). And what would have eventually happened to Rocky, had she grown up in a Ukrainian orphanage? Statistically speaking, she would have lived on the street when released as a teenager and been dead by 21-years-old. These are my kids. The very ones sleeping in their cribs and bed as I type this. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I love these pumpkins every bit as much (and maybe even a teensy bit more, right Angelina?) as I would had I birthed them myself.

So here I sit in, the luckiest mom in the world. Thank God, thank God, thank God I never got pregnant.

Are you feeling plauzhig en blauw?

2008-08-17T21:50:00.001-05:00

This is a fill-in-the-blank test. Plauzhig en blauw means___________________.

Grades will be awarded based on accuracy, creativity, or flattery to your host.

Dig my curves.

2008-08-14T21:01:00.010-05:00

my posture plagues me
shoulders curve forward, not back
what's with gravity?

centrifugal force
pulling my shoulders southward
making me look old

I should not look old
I should look young, though am old
stand up straight, old bat

Your parents try to tell you. They warn you: stand up straight, don't make that face or it'll stick like that, don't sunbathe, wear sunscreen. But do we listen? Nope. And where does it get us? All Quasimodo, that's where. What has gravity done for you lately (other than stick you to the planet's surface, I mean)?

Everyone's a-Twitter but me.

2008-08-14T08:13:00.004-05:00

I just don't get it.

All right, I admit that I am sluggish on the technology front. I was the last on my block to have a cell phone, to have cable, heck, even to relinquish my phone with the coily cord.

I don't text.

I have no myspace or facebook or xanga.

But at least I can understand why people would want these things or do these things. I get it.

But why, why for all that is good and virtuous, would anyone want to Twitter?

Do you really want constant updates on the mundane of my life (I mean even MORE mundane than the content of my blog)?

What would my twitters look like?

- Hi, I am on the toilet with two toddlers staring at me.
- Hi, I just stepped in gum in the parking lot of Dominick's.
- Hi, the lady at the dry cleaner just said it will be at least $28 to clean this coat. Should I go for it?
- Hi, I can't find my other brown sandal.

Here's what "Twitter" says:

Eating soup? Research shows that moms want to know.
Running late to a meeting? Your co–workers might find that useful.
Partying? Your friends may want to join you.

Research shows that moms want to know. What!????
Really? Not me. I don't want to know.

Am I missing something here? Why do people Twitter? If you really want to know what I'm doing every minute of my life, I may just have to oblige. But I can guarantee one thing, I'm not partying.

The School Supply Gauntlet

2008-08-12T17:42:00.009-05:00

If you want to sum up all that motherhood is, go buy school supplies for your kids. I ventured forth with a positive attitude and a spring in my step. I arrived at Staples at the opening bell, cart ready, list in hand. It is still early August, all should be smooth sailing. Fool. FOOL! School supplies shopping is the most harrowing of tasks for a mother trying to prove her chops.

The Cast of Characters:
me
my list
my red cart
the hapless Staples employee I interrupted no less than eight - EIGHT! times during my excursion
my inner voice

There were 26 items on the "School Supplies Needed for 4th Grade" for my daughter's school, which happens to be the very school at which I teach (so you would think that I would be hip to the scene and with it and secure and sure of myself, after all, my colleagues of 19 (yes 19!) years had carefully chosen these vital items and would surely forgive and understand any problems or hiccups I might encounter, . . .) and some were pretty inocuous and I had no trouble at all handling:

item #16 clear plastic ruler (metric and standard)
and
item #17 package of 3 1/2 x 5 index cards

Child's play, I tell you.

But many, MANY, of the other items struck fear, indecision, and visions of parental failure into my heart and soul.

(note: I am prone to hyperbole, to sarcasm, to dramatic description, to be sure, but the following is absolutely, dead-on accurate and true)

I will now recount for you the internal dialogue of choosing 2 (only 2!) of the more challenging items on the list. Fasten your safety belts.

Item #13 "fine tip black flair markers"

internal dialogue Laurie: Okay, let me see here, markers, markers markers. I see many black markers. Is flair a style? Do several companies make flairs? The "f" is not capitalized, indicating a proper noun, but I seem to remember Flairs in my grade school days . . . hmmmm . . . .

Aha! Flair! It is, indeed, a brand name. And there is the black Flair section. My list calls for 2 black flairs, but they come in packs of 4. I guess I will have 2 extras . . . but! What's this? They are labeled "medium tip" when my list SPECIFICALLY calls for fine tip. Shit!

(eyes scanning, scanning, and locating a gigantic box (24) black Flairs). What to do? Do I buy dozens of extra pens for $17.99, thank you very much, to meet the requirements of the blessed list? But, wait. Huh, wuh? Even the obscene box of pens is (Gasp!) medium tip! They are all, all of them, medium tip. (scan, scan, scan) Yes, all black flairs are medium tipped! Now what?

Is it the "flair" that is important? The "fine tipped"? What are these pens used for, anyway? Are they for the dot-to-dots given with sub plans? Or will they be drafting architectural drawings for escape routes for the Pentagon? It matters! Or does it?

I'll look for other fine tipped pens in this vicinity. Sharpie (one of my best friends) makes some fine tipped black pens. But are they permanent? What if they are used for face painting? Oh, GOD!

(I decide to consult the Staples employee. I show her my list. She is dumbstruck at first. She feels quite certain that Flair in all its flairness does NOT manufacture a fine tip pen. It is her understanding and belief that the essence of flairness is its medium tip width.)

I swap out the renegade Sharpie fine tipped black felt pens in my shopping cart for the medium tipped Flair (flair). Flare?

Still, there is a twinge of doubt in my gut. Oh, how I am plagued by the what ifs . . .

What if the Staples employee is wrong?
What if the teacher berates my child for the extra width of her Flair flair (like Mrs. Fiedler did when I was in the 1st grade and several children had the NERVE to bring in packs of 24 crayons when the list asked for 8? And I was one of those kids. Oh the humiliation. Are we starting to see the root of my problem, people . . .)?
What if it is all really an IQ test for parents?
What if it is all really a test of a parent's love and devotion for their child based on the lengths one will go to procure the needed items on the 4th grade list?
What if the day AFTER school starts, when all stores are hopelessly picked over, I will be asked to traverse the universe in search of the proper flair, like I was when K was in 1st grade, and I couldn't find the proper sized pencil box for her desk? Remember that one? I do.

See what I mean? I don't even have the energy now to tell you about the thoughts that twisted the recesses of my over-active mind over

item #12 fine tipped washable markers.

I'll sum up that one: I spent $5.79 on the pack of 8 markers that included the word "washable" as prescribed by THE LIST and passed up on the 10 markers for $.79. I bought piece of mind for 5 smacks. Yep. It was that bad.

4 items down, 22 to go.

Neurotic freak of nature or just a mom? You decide.

You've got to be f&%$ing kidding me.

2008-08-10T21:12:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I passed this little restaurant today. Maybe they serve ambrosia there. Maybe it is an establishment whipping up culinary wizardry. I'll never know because I could never bring myself to patronize a restaurant that boasts ruined food in its name. Can you imagine? After eating at Burnt Toast you may as well . . .

get a massage at Slipped Disk Spa

buy some toys at Recalled Playthings

and send your sweetie flowers from Wilted Weeds Covered in Thorns and Fleas Florist.

Maybe we should change the name of our school to Make You Dumber Than a Brick Academy.

Can you think of a worse name for a business?

Little kids, little problems.

2008-08-08T06:59:00.000-05:00

My toddlin' toddlers.
little feeties, little toes
sticking through the crib

"I need a bandaid!"
"Mommy! You go in time out!"
"Is you sad, Mommy?"

"Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!"
"Ball! Ball! Ball! Ball! Ball! Ball! Ball!"
"Bye-bye. Bye-Bye. Heh."

bows and cars and dolls
fake food and blankies and books
all over the floor

relentless messes
little kids, little problems
Mine, mine, mine, mine. Mine.

Toddlers: Dysfunctional Hobbits

2008-08-07T12:10:00.000-05:00

I had two posts flying about in my head today. One was a list of things that drive me up a wall about toddlers and one was nice. I was going to write the nice one, but then I saw Mrs. Mouthy's latest post, and I realized that the toddler set so deserves a slamming post today. So, take that, you little loons:

Why, why, why, for all that is good and decent on this green and bountiful earth do they:

1. Sweep all the bits of food left on their tray when they are full. The shrapnel, the shrapnel! Especially during berry season. What did we do to deserve blueberry skins in the crevices of our wanes coating? What, I ask you?

2. Repeat the same statement or question. Why do they do that? Why do they do that, Mommy? Mommy, why do they do that? Why? Why, Mommy? Why do they do that? Mommy? Mommy? Laurie? Why do they do that? I need a bandaid. Why do they do that, Mommy?

3. Walk along, walk along, walk along and then PAUSE IN THE DOORWAY. Are they on a reconnaissance mission? Must they survey they house for intruders before entering? Are they paid extra if you trip over them and make them cry? You'd think, for they all seem to have this annoying habit.

4. Touch everything in the bathroom! Everything. Especially a public bathroom. Those are especially fun places to swipe the hand you are about to stick in your mouth. They never seem to miss the soiled piece of toilet paper smashed on the floor, or the errant hair (shudder), or the tiny garbage can hanging on the wall (shudder, shudder, shudder). And, of course, it's fun to sit on the public bathroom floor, too, don't you know. And, if you are like my eldest, it's extra cozy if you can actually lie down on it. No, I didn't make that one up, but, oh, how I wish I did.

This is why they make them so damn cute. It's so we love them anyway. Tomorrow, I just may write about that.

Mrs. Mouthy, where are you?

2008-08-07T12:06:00.000-05:00

Your blog won't let me on. Hrmph. And you are one funny broad.

Ever consider Blogger? Just a thought . . .

For those of you who haven't yet, check out Mrs. Mouthy.

Do you want to get your act together?

2008-08-06T06:45:00.000-05:00

If you are not a B.O. (born organized), the Fly Lady website is the one for you. It basically tells people with whirlwind minds but great expectations how to keep everything humming.

The beauty of it is:

a. You "jump in right where you are" and are not supposed to try and "catch up".
b. The "to-do" list comes right to your e-mail and you can just delete the e-mail (which I usually do) or pick one thing to do from the list, or several things if you are really flying.
c. Someone is TELLING you what to do and keeping you on track.

Sometimes I "fly" (term used by Fly Lady) but mostly I don't. I just use it when my house has spiraled out of control or when I know I will have limited time (like when I am working full time with three kids two are toddlers and I'm a teacher with take-home and grading and soccer practice and a leaky basement and long toenails on the babies and strawberries going to rot in the fridge and a pile of paperwork mocking me just behind the very chair I am sitting in as I write this . . . ).

So go ahead and try it, but REMEMBER: don't do everything at once. Baby steps! It didn't get our of control in one day, and it won't get back there in one day, either.

lace up shoes, shiny sink . . . lace up shoes, shiny sink . . . lace up shoes, shiny sink . . .

I deserve a smack down.

2008-08-05T10:43:00.000-05:00

I have had trouble sleeping the last few nights. One of my first posts on here, called something like "Am I the new girl?" was just plain mean and stupid.

In it, I had thoughts flying around in my head about blogging and the blog world and referenced (somewhat indirectly) a blog post I had recently read. Anyway, I don't want to bore you or end up defensive. The bottom line is:

I hurt somebody who didn't deserve it. When I realized she had found and read this blog (didn't think that was possible - how tech dumb am I?) thanks to Cameo's comments (I have to admit, I only read phrases of her comment before my face melted and my eyes popped out of my head and dropped onto the floor like the Nazis in Raiders of the Lost Ark) I got her e-mail and apologized. She could have:

a. ignored it (I might have).
b. given a brief acknowledgement
c. cut me a new one

But, she is a really good person. A REALLY good person. She told me a lot about her situation, her life, her philosophy, etc. She took the time, and she taught me a lesson, the most valuable one I've learned in a long time and probably should have learned long ago.

It is a two part lesson:

Part 1: Never assume anything about anyone or anything. Ever.
Part 2: If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.

I'm on it.

Great America bled me out . . . for free!

2008-08-03T21:30:00.000-05:00

Generous-hearted, education-loving Great America gives school aged children a free ticket to their illustrious theme park if the kid reads, I don't exactly remember, something like for 6 hours during the month of January. Sounds like a cakewalk, doesn't it? Well, that's because you haven't met my oldest daughter . . . but I digress.

Anyway, after blood, sweat, and tears, my kid scored the blessed GA ticket, and since I know people in very high places, I scored a free teacher ticket for myself. FREE! FREE! FREE! Hallelujah!

Just some chump change on a few incidentals:

$15 to park in remote parking (I believe I parked my Toyota in Walnut Grove, next to Pa's wagon).
$10 burger and drink for my child (but the fries were FREE!).
$12 semi-permanent air-brushed ankle tattoo for said child
$7.99 for the Teriyaki Chicken Bowl from Panda Express (for me)
$3.50 (that's right, folks, not a typo) for my medium Diet Coke
$5.00 for chocolate Dippin' Dots
$3.00 for a 12" sandy candy
$12.00 for a t-shirt and sweatpants after my kid soaked through her A outfit and B outfit (yes, this was a bargain, I have to admit).
$0.00 the Trader Joe's lollipops I brought for myself to snack on

Total: $68.49

And, no, I am definitely NOT going to say, "Spending a sunny summer day with your kid? Priceless" because that would be played out and corny and stale.

But, it was pretty okay, I must say. So even if GA did suck almost $70 out of me yesterday, I forgive him. After all, he got my kid to read Upchuck Summer, and that's nothing to sneeze at.

The devil made me do it.

2008-08-01T07:15:00.000-05:00

haiku haiku hai
ku. Friday it's a must
whoring out for hits

play "Haiku Friday"

"Chicagoland" - I'm so humiliated.

2008-08-01T05:55:00.000-05:00

I'd really like to know the name of the genius who came up with "Chicagoland" as the humiliating moniker for Chicago and the surrounding areas (which, by the way, now includes a growing portion of Indiana, which, by the way, is also stupid because Indiana is not part of Chicago, or, (please correct me if I'm wrong) ILLINOIS!).

What is wrong with "The Chicago Viewing Area?" Does it connote TV watching too much?

Fine. How about "The Chicago Metropolitan Area?" Too many big words?

Fine. How about "Chicagoville?" Of course, I am kidding. That is almost equally stupid.

How are we supposed to hold our head up high when kickin' it with our friends New York and Sydney and LA? We sound like a children's amusement park (Kiddieland) or, worse, a neighborhood in a children's amusement park (Adventureland) or even worse, a made up children's drugged-out world (Wonderland).

One of my friends taught a little second grader whose name was Shakuntella. Seriously. Sometimes I feel like Shakuntella when I hear "Chicagoland".

Maybe I'm just not worldly enough. Maybe other cities around the country and world suffer the same dopey fate as Chicagoland. Or maybe your area has a cool and hip name. What is your city area called? Can anybody commiserate with poor Chicagoland?

Hassenpfeffer Incorporated, We're gonna do it!

2008-07-29T21:00:00.000-05:00

What Sucks About Good Night Moon: by Laurie

1. In the great green room there was a telephone and a red balloon.
a. kelly green is a putrid color for anybody's room, least of all a child (or a bunny in a child's pajamas)
b. Why does fake bunny person boy need a phone? And mightn't he choke on the long and springy cord? That is if he doesn't
c. choke on the red balloon floating above his bed

I am hip with the picture of the cow jumping over the moon and the three little bears sitting on chairs even though if you're going to include three bears in anything, to be fair to the child (bunny freak, whatever) one should be a big bear, one should be a mama, and only one should be a baby. I'm just saying.

2. The mittens are drying in front of the open fire in the child (pajamaed bunny's) room. Open fire. Unsupervised child. That warrants a call to DCFS in my book, and I am a state mandated reporter, you know.

3. And I would be fine with the two kittens, if it weren't for the SMALL MOUSE. So, let's say bunny boy doesn't leap into the open flame and cheecharonay his PJs, he will survive only to see the small mouse gutted and consumed by the small kittens. Gross, and, again, rodent infested bedrooms just might warrant another call to DCFS.
(And, now I'm starting to rethink the whole need-for-a-phone thing. Fufu just might need it.)

comb,fine
brush, fine

4. Bowl full of mush? All night? Why? Is this what is fed to the rabbit if he makes it through the horrid night?

Glad the old lady whispering "Hush" shows up to protect Peter Rabbit from the flames and the carnage and the mush. It may interest the reader to know that in my Spanish version (one of several of my LAME attempts to keep the kids' Spanish) she is "una amable viejicita que teje muy calladita." Cute.

And my absolute favorite part? "Goodnight nobody" Gives me a tee hee every time.

And, again, in the end, protective old rabbit woman is gone, leaving the flames unattended as little hassenpfeffer sleeps.

Yum!

Goodnight, Moon!

The Diaper of My Dreams!

2008-07-28T19:21:00.000-05:00

Back in my days of only two kids, I muscled through the whole cloth diaper machinations (is that a word?).
It was a crusade to be righteous, a feeling I love and pursue for the wrong reasons, not that there is ever a right reason to feel righteous. Am I right or am a righteous? Anyhoo . . .

It was mostly not that big of a deal, but the laundry was a pain in the who-ha, at times. And, at times, my house smelled an itsy bitsy bit like a rat's nest. No biggy.

Well check out the latest and greatest in diaper alternatives right here, folks, at gDiapers. Wow. I smell a fresh and clean revolution, I do! You use these covers with these little insert jobbies that you can flush or (gasp!) compost! I wouldn't want to grow my asparagus in them, but it sure beats filling up the landfills, right? There's even a video on the site where you can watch the buggers decompose. Now that's just good TV.

Has anyone tried these puppies? I want a review ASAP. I think I'll go call my sister . . . she is going to be way into this . . .

Baby say, "Pimp my ride!"

2008-07-28T05:46:00.000-05:00

We went to the zoo yesterday, and I was a-noticing again the new trend in strollerism: The Bugaboo. Some engineering genius, either here or abroad, has apparently found a most blessed way to attach the wheels to the thingy we put kids in so that we won't have to carry them, and it now costs, like, as much as a decent used car. $899!? I am not even kidding. Check the link out, people!

Seriously. What is the world coming to? So I scoped the folks pushing the vehicles to see if they looked rich in other ways. Cool watch? Nope. New shoes for the mom? Nope. Style? Class? Nope and nope. These people looked just like me! That means the average Joe is forking over this kind of bread (or being gifted it by equally style-less people whom those people know) for a BABY STROLLER!

And now for the ironic part. My sister was group-gifted one of these strollers, and she is a fabulous woman just one tattoo shy of being a hippy. And if somebody gave me one of these masters of modern engineering, I would keep it, too. In fact, all the strollers I have ever owned have been gifts.

Okay, maybe you could only get a shitty used car for that price, but, still, come ON!

I'm just saying, you can't complain about $4.67 gas prices if your kid is cruisin' the zoo in one of these.

Blog High School: Am I the new girl?

2008-07-26T09:56:00.000-05:00

I've recently read that blogland is like high school, and I am seeing the parallel. One blog I have read regularly but plan to dump from my list soon because the author is going "private" (and I have a policy about dumping private bloggers because I don't want the popular girl to think that she is so popular that I am going to lower myself by asking her to please be my friend and keep me in her blessed circle. Not me. I'm cool like that) recently posted a tantrum of sorts because "somebody" out there was "talking smack" about her family. She can totally take it if someone picks on HER but NOT her family. And she is going to name names. And THEN her faithful readers charged to take her side against the family-smack talker.

And it did remind me of high school. And I guess this would make me the new girl, sort of. I do have a cute family type blog Little Blog on the Prairie, but I can't say everything I think and feel there because too many people who actually know me read that blog, so I have to lie. Also, it is an iMac blog which can be a suckfest because not all can comment and because I can't get my blog made into a book (albeit a half-truth book, but it would be nice to have), so this is my stranger friend blog (even though a FEW people who actually know me are allowed to my party. The cool kids. The kids who are allowed to know my truth.)

(Don't you feel special now, my blessed 3?)

So, here I am, bloggyworld. Who wants to be my friend?

I laughed. I cried. It became a part of me.

2008-07-25T12:10:00.000-05:00

Lars and the Real Girl
go rent that movie, y'all
so funny so sweet

I am going to commit a cardinal sin.

2008-07-24T12:57:00.000-05:00

I am going to tell you about a dream I had. Why is that sinful? Because other people's dreams suck; only your own are fascinating and mysterious and meaningful and wild and cool.

An example of a shitty conversation about somebody else's dream:

My Friend: It was so weird because my mom was wearing my 5th grade teacher's suit, except my 5th grade teacher didn't even wear suits, EVER. I was like, what's that about? And she was complaining about the crop circles on my lawn, and I don't even HAVE a lawn!

Me: Wow! That's so weird!

Internal Dialogue Me: That is so uninteresting and stupid. Who cares?

And, on that positive note, I will now bore you with my dream last night:

Baby Joe and I were in our family room when I saw, through the blinds, two men on our lawn. I knew immediately that they were bad news even though they appeared outwardly normal.

Then our house began to spin on an axis, and we didn't get dizzy. It stopped after about 10 spins, and both men were standing in our family room.

They told me that Joe and I were going to die. They were angels of death. I was to choose the method by which each of us would die. I ran to the phone. They said, "Go ahead. Call anyone you want, but anyone who shows up here must also die."

I hung up the phone, grabbed Joe, and ran down the street. The men appeared before me, and so did several of my friends and neighbors. The angels of death said I had to choose the method of our deaths or they would choose for me.

My mind raced. I considered a brain tumor (would take a while and give us more time), a car crash (we could die instantly together), a fire, etc., etc. I screamed, "I can't! I can't choose!"

They said they would choose for me. Then my friend and colleague, Chris, came forth and said, "I know what to do for Joe!" And he whispered the death choice to the death mongers. I was relieved that someone took control. I told the death mongers to choose for me.

That is all I remember. It was so horrifying. What does it mean? Somebody?

On a lighter note: Later that night I dreamt that I was in a couch bed with Anne Hathaway (totally talented and beautiful actress and singer) watching storms and tornados out a window. And I am not even gay, but it does seem like a very gay dream to me.

All you armchair psychologists, have at!

Who-ha: What it id and what it ain't.

2008-07-21T21:48:00.000-05:00

I just went out to dinner with women who have little kids at home. This scenerio will always be extremely entertaining because all jokes and enchiladas con carne come complete with a side of Iamsostinkinsickofprofoundisolationandpopsiclesticksthatanyjokeyoumakewillbehystericaltome. And, naturally, by profound isolation I mean stuck at home with The Need Machines without benefit of adult interaction.

That is, unless you consider Sabrina Soto on HGTVs Designed to Sell companionship, and, I must admit, that I do. Plus, she inspired me to try my hand at trimming the old bushes (no, not THOSE bushes, you sicko), and I enjoyed it. But I digress. Let's get back to my who-ha or to yours.

Who-ha (formerly "whoha") is a word used to substitute for any word that you don't want to say. Say, like ass or vagina or nipple. I don't like to say those words, so I say "Pull up your pants before someone sees your who-ha" or "It's hot out, can you smell my who-ha? Should I buy some Summers Eve?"

Gosh, I don't even like that I typed those other words before (see them up there? - blech. Now I have to wonder, who will read my blog? Will I be embarrassed by those yucky words? Oh, well. Hi, Mom! Hope you're laughing! I know I am! Always makes for a nice day when you can laugh at your own jokes. Or your own who-ha.)

And now I am off to scan through my 3,482 pictures to see if I have a suitable one to accompany this post. I am half afraid that I actually will.

Oh, sure, Blogger. Now you'll let me post pics . . . sheesh.

2008-07-16T10:37:00.000-05:00

It took about 25 seconds to load these, which seemed annoying at the time, as I counted, but I guess it's reasonable. It sure beats the shee-ot out of iMac. And I have earned the right to be impatient, after all. I mean, it is the 21st century when everything is supposed to be instant and gratifying. Or, it could just be instant, like my completely not gratifying coffee (Taster's Choice - Lazy Man's (woman's) coffee) or just gratifying but not instant, like my pedicures from Charming Nails.
Yep. That's the way it is, and I ought to know because I is, and I say so.

Where are the promised watermelon shots, ya Blogger Bugger?!@

2008-07-16T10:34:00.000-05:00

An Experiment: Anybody out there?

2008-07-16T06:36:00.000-05:00

I just thought I would experiment a little with a new blog, instead of mystupidpieceofshitiMacblog Little Blog on the Prairie, which is a slow and fussy pain in my whoha.

Please enjoy Mindy and Joe and just a touch of watermelon (which, by the way, cost me 6 bucks at Trader Joe's. 6 bucks! For a watermelon not much bigger than my shrinking whoha. What's the world coming to? Is this an organic way of making us all stop overindulging in things like gasoline and watermelon? And pudding cups? These are the thoughts that plague me. Maybe food should be expensive so that we won't be fat and stupid. And suck all the oil out of our planet's innards, which, by the way, must not be good for the planet itself, let alone what it does to the ozone, because if you sucked all the oil out of me I would be a dry prune or maybe I wouldn't exist at all. I think about this, too. I mean, even if we weren't using the gasoline to poison our air, wouldn't it destroy the earth anyway? I'm just saying. Science never was my strong suit, but it just makes sense to me. Black gold, Texas tea my whoha.).