Silent Saturday 11: DragonCon is On!

(Me and Ty with George Takei (a.k.a. Sulu), at Dragon Con in 2003. Going back there today for the first time in five years. Woo hoo!)

Dialog, Part 13

Miss-Miss: Mama! Papa! My toy wet!

Me: Well, of course it's wet, hon. You're in the bathtub.

Miss-Miss: Dry her off! Dry her off!

Me: When you get out of the bath and get dried off, we'll dry off your toy, too.

Miss-Miss: Oh, crap.

Me and Ty: *blink*

Ty: Did she hear that from you?

Me: Yep. Look on the bright side. At least she didn't say "Oh, fuck!" Pause, realizing I just said that out loud.

Get on over there, please?

Well, I'm finally feeling back to my old, odd self. And it turns out that today is my day over at Burt's 'Stache. You may want to check it out. I have some news!

Well, it isn't really cool or exciting news. It's kind of lame, actually. Ty-man will probably smack me when he finds out. "Whaddaya think yer doin' takin' that crap on!?! Looney toons!"

Prob'ly.

Black Death

What's the score?

Temperature peak - 101^oF

Missed calls to pick up a sick Miss-Miss from school because I had the ringer off in the bedroom while I napped and I left my cell phone in the car - 10

Embarrassment factor over missing said calls, on a scale of 1 to 10? - 9 million

Times I apologized to the teacher in the span of one minute? - 15

Hours slept yesterday afternoon - 4

Doses of Motrin and Tylenol taken yesterday afternoon - 5

How soon my liver is going to reject me - day after tomorrow

Cheesy 80s movie watched while in the throws of above fever - The Pirate Movie

Number of times I wanted the fever to kill me during said movie - 200

Number of blogs read - 0

Number of Gene Simmons/KISS related blog posts written as promised for today - 0

Hope I'm back on my game soon. I'll let you know!

Two Weeks

I wondered how long it would take.

How long what took, you ask.

How long it would take for my beautiful pre-school aged twins to become incubators of viral plague. A viral plague brought into their school by other beautiful pre-school aged children and passed on through the "swapping of snot" (a very old and cherished ceremony in which one child swipes their hand across their nose, picks up a toy, and passes it onto one of my children, thereby completing the virus life cycle).

A viral plague now dripping down the noses and upper lips of all three of my children.

A viral plague now residing in the back of my throat.

A viral plague hitting the CMG household in August.

I'm reeling a bit. Lemme say that again. We all have colds and it's only August.

By December I will have called in the CDC and their high-tech Haz-Mat suits.

I hope by tomorrow I will feel somewhat normal and can get back to my regularly scheduled blog post about Gene Simmons and my fear of KISS as a teenager.

No, really.

Entertainment for the Masses

Saturday was a normal, average, everyday Saturday here at Casa del CMG* - kid-rearing, late shower, giving the psycho his Prozac, stuff.

And then? At promptly 6PM? I put on my proton pack and got ready for some local ghost hunting. OK, I didn't put on a proton pack. I can't get a license for said nuclear accelerator, so I had to leave it at home, but I did pack my digital voice recorder, my digital camera, some cash for coffee, and off I went to a private residence in a suburb of northwest Georgia to track down whatever it is that is scaring the shit out of this particular family.

Would you like to know the best part of the evening? No, it wasn't the full-body apparitions (none) or the disembodied voices (nada) or the cup levitating off the kitchen counter (don't I wish). It was the next-door, and the across-the-street, and the diagonally-across-the-street neighbors. In the driveway. With folding camp chairs. And a beach umbrella (that bitch Fay). And beer and wine. Watching us watch four infra-red camera feeds. Until 1:30AM.

I. Shit. You. Not.

I'm not quite sure what they expected by watching us. Bleeding walls? The Stay-Puft man? Local ghost hunters running and screaming from the house? To be honest, true and honest, ghost hunting is six to eight hours of sheer boredom interspersed with random seconds of racing hearts. It's the equivalent of watching paint dry (but not as bad as watching the NASA channel).

But the absolute, crazy-best part of the evening? When one of the neighbors took up residence in the garage with us, quietly watching the monitors behind us, and suddenly, without warning shouted, "Did ya'll see that orb?"

I. Shit. You. Not.**

So, if you ever find yourself looking for something to do on a quiet Saturday night, look up a local ghost hunting group and camp out while they investigate. Make sure you bring a beer. Or ten. It's going to be a looooong night.

* I didn't take Spanish. Is "del" correct? Frack if I know.

** Ghost hunters, like us, who investigate with the purpose of debunking the ghost first, proving its existence second, feel that orbs do not indicate paranormal activity. What they do typically indicate is a rather dusty environment.

Silent Saturday 10: School is Dirty

Site Meter Tomfoolery

Yep, it's that time again. Time to search the Site Meter records for some of the more interesting searches performed by the public who, unfortunately, didn't find what they were looking for. Instead, they found me. Poor bastards.

all i want just a time to make up my mind: OK, you? Mr. or Ms. Resident of Ankara, Turkey? I'm so sorry that you found this rambling post instead of something a bit more philosophical about making up your mind. But, you know. Screw up the Mother tongue? You're gonna end up here.

coal: The best part about this search? It was initiated by someone at... ready? The International Coal Group in Scott Depot, WV. Someone at the International Coal Group is doing a search on coal. This says to me, "Duh, what's this coal stuff my boss keeps talking about?" In the future, darlin', please go here.

zip ties lowes: FAB! QUIT USING ZIP TIES ON THE HOOKERS! SERIOUSLY! Whew. 'Kay.*

smell like a wookie shirt: Yes, J-man has one. But you? Employee of Veterans' Affairs in Lexington, Kentucky? You should be working! Naughty, naughty!

panty confessions: Yeah, weren't you disappointed? Or, maybe you weren't. Never mind.

* Just kidding, darlin'. You're just using them to tidy up wires and stuff, right? RIGHT?!?!

Dialog, Part 12

Miss-Miss: Mama, I have vul-va!

Me: Yes! You do!

Miss-Miss: And Bubba has a... a pe-nis!

Me: You're right!

Miss-Miss: And J-man has a pe-nis, too! And Papa has pe-nis!

Me: What does Mama have? What do I have?

Miss-Miss: You have a vul-va! Jus' like me!

Me: Good, Miss-Miss! You're right!

Miss-Miss: And Weagan has a pe-nis! And 'Livia has a vul-va!

Me: You're right! Wondering if Reagan's and Olivia's moms are having this same conversation about my kids' private parts, and glad to finally know the names, and sexual orientations, of the kids at the twins' school.

Slacker

I've been a very, very naughty blogger.

For the past couple of weeks, I haven't replied to comments. Don't take it personally, I've just become lazy. Or busy. Or crazy?

All of the above.

And not only am I lazy replying to comments, I'm lazy regarding the writing of a blog post for today. Yesterday was fraught with school, vaccinations, defective school uniforms, and the consumption of any crappy food I could get my hands on.

So, instead of writing something pithy and amusing, I present you with my favorite music video of all time. While you watch, I will respond to my lonely comments and vow to keep up in the future.

The Ty-man is on the Edge

The Ty-man is a bit stressed. He's not a happy camper. He's on the verge of a panic attack.

The Ty-man. Yeah.

For those of you who know him, this is so rare that it's never happened. Never.

All I know is that through two phone calls yesterday afternoon and when he later came home from work, this was the gist of our conversations together:

Me: Hey, hon. How's it going?
Ty: Gah! Stuff! Spreadsheets! Contracts! Shit!*
Me: Really? Have you eaten lunch? I just had a homemade ham and smoked Gouda with lettuce, tomato, and Grey Poupon on sourdough.**
Ty: Crackers! Meetings! D.C.! Sonuva! No time! Rabbit hole!
Me: OK. Well, let me know if you need anything. I'm gonna have some chocolate truffles.
Ty: Brain enema! No time! Motherpussbucket!*** One week!
Me: Whatever. I don't have time for all this bitching. I need to give myself a pedicure while the twins are napping. Soap operas!
Ty: Christonabike! Money! Contractors! Work! GAH! (Strangling noises in the background as he hung up.)

So, basically, the family business (being run by Ty-man) is over-run with government contract issues, meetings, and such. Ty is feeling a bit overwhelmed in a way that freaks me out. So, please, send ma man some love (or Xanax) and tell him he's a strong, virile man who can kick his customers' collective asses all the way to the bank account.

Or, just copy him some Lolcats pictures. Yep, that should do it.

* The Ty-man never cusses. Unless he misses an episode of the digitally remastered Star Trek: The Original Series.

** Not really. I actually had a grilled cheese and whatever of J-man's PB&J he slobbered on and offered to me with much reverence, but I imagined it was all the aforementioned ham/Gouda masterpiece.

*** Don't ask.

Inappropriate Panties?

I am such a news freak. I have it on all day for background noise (as if the musical stylings of Laurie Berkner, the Pooh Bear fire truck, and three children freaking out about everything aren't enough noise already) and to keep current. It's an addiction but I'll be damned if I join a 12-step program for it.

Last week, I saw this. It's a news story about a grandmother who is pissed that her 7-year-old granddaughter's High School Musical "knickers" include the words "Dive In!"

Civil servant Sue, 57, said: “When she put them on, myself and my daughter thought, ‘Oh my goodness’. It is inappropriate because it is sexually suggestive.

“You just never know who could see that and think it was a bit too enticing for a young child to be wearing.”

Um, yeah.

According to the Urban Dictionary, the definition of cherry is:

A membrane in a woman's vagina, known more properly as a hymen.

Used in a sentence: I popped my girlfriend's cherry.

Now that you've soaked up that definition, I present you with these:


To go along with her Sunday Princess Belle panties, Miss-Miss can now wear suggestive cherries. On her panties. Thank you Carter's.

Um, yeah.

Silent Saturday 9: I Like Quitters!

Go over to Britt's and Karl's blog 'hoods and give them some love and props for quitting the dreaded cancer sticks. This Monday. In 48 hours.

Oh, Adam, you are so screwed.

I Shoulda Bought an Iguana Part 3

Oh, yes. There's a part three. There may be a part four, part five, who knows. Yeesh.

As Ty-man marched upstairs for yesterday's morning constitutional, I heard Heather, could you come here, please?

Uh-oh.

And there is was. Cat piss. On the living room floor. Uh-oh indeed.

All I could think was That's it. Ty-man has absolutely had it and I'm going to come home from dropping the twins off at school and Pirtuk will be gone. Poof. A smear on the floor. Little tufts of white fur here and there. And then I'll have to get out the shotgun. Or the steak knives. Or some such method of quick Ty-man death that will make a huge mess, but retribution will be had if he does away with my cat. Crap. It's going to be such a cluster. You know, the usual: blood, guts, and whining kids.

Crap.

So, off I went to the vet, 16-pound cat in tow (don't ask) to make absolutely sure the furball didn't have some sort of, well, urinary tract crud.

Turns out? No crud (duh). It's all behavioral as in I'm pissed you brought those hairless monkeys home instead of pawning them off on some other unsuspecting family because, after all, it is all about me (and that other cat, Whatshisname) and since you haven't figured that out I think I'll miss the litter box. On purpose. Cha-cha! And put me Lolcats already! What is your damage?

Joy.

The vet reiterated the need for multiple litter boxes and then? Here comes the best part. Are you ready?

Vet: We can prescribe him Prozac.
Me: *blink*
Vet: It will help with his anxiety over the obvious changes in the house that are causing him to pee and poo all over the place.
Me: *blink*
Vet: And it might keep him from doing this any more.
Me: *blink*
Vet: It's only $7.50 for a month's supply.
Me: Really? Could you plop me down on that scale and prescribe me some of that for $7.50 a month? I could piss on the floor right now.
Vet: *blink*

So, to re-cap; my cat is now medicated, I am now the proud owner of three litter boxes, a trip to the pound has been averted, I'm currently eye-balling a $7.50 bottle of kitty Prozac and wondering if thirty half-pills would get me through one afternoon, and I didn't need a crime scene clean-up service after all.

For now.

Church Mouse

Have you heard the expression "quiet as a church mouse?" If you look up that expression in the dictionary or on the Web, you would find the perfect definition of J-man. He is just the most content, sweet child and while riding in the back of the minivan on our way to and from school? He truly is as quiet as a church mouse.

Now I understand why people leave their kids in the car while going to the grocery store, or to the mall, or just wherever. I get why you see news stories about a child who has died in an extremely hot car on a nasty, August afternoon, because Mom went into the grocery store and forgot Child was in the back seat. Obviously Mom was distracted and Child was a little too quiet. I get it because when I'm in the driver's seat and Mr. Church Mouse is in the very back seat, on the right side of the minivan? I can't see him in the rear view mirror. And I can't hear him because he is quiet and content, watching the traffic go by. To see him I have to make like an owl and turn my head 180^o. Then? I see him. Of course, I also plow into the rear of the person in front of me trying to go to work.

As I drove home yesterday, my mind on the twins and if they're enjoying school, if they like their classmates, if they like their teacher, yadda, yadda, yadda, I forgot about J-man for just a moment. And that scared me.

Moments like this? I wish I had a loud, rowdy kid giving me moment-by-moment commentary of the traffic.

Happy Blogiversary To Me!

One year ago, today, I began blogging.

Wow.

It doesn't feel like a year.

Wow.

I have no words of wisdom. I could probably look up a ton of "time has flown" clichés that would drive you all crazy. Mmmm, no. What I can do is tell you the winner of my contest!

BUCKY! The West Virginia Blogger!

Woo hoo! My fellow mountaineer took it home with 12 correct answers to 12 questions and the randomizer spit out his name in first place. So, Bucky m'dear, just e-mail me your mailing address (and your shirt size) and I'll be shipping off to you a box full of goodies. There'll be a t-shirt (emblazoned with my scary mug) and a few other knick-knacks (Probably some lint J-man picked up and put in his mouth that I had to then pull out of his mouth at risk of getting my fingers chewed off. Then there might be a baggie of stale Cheerios and a 4-month-old issue of Ty-man's Maxim magazine that has been sitting in our bathroom. You never know what I'll send!). So, get ready, Bucky! Here it comes! And then? In a couple of months? I'll be showing up at your house for a 3-month visit. Cool? Sweet.

(Not to worry. Before sending off Bucky's t-shirt I'll be sure to post a picture of it for all of you to "Oh!" and "Ah!" and "Dude, Dave's Artificial Duck stuff is so much cooler!" over.)

Now, I am going to bed. Sleepy-time. If any of you feel like sending me presents for my one-year blogiversary, feel free. I'll take cash, diamonds, or a week at Club Med.

Or just your continued friendship. Yeah, that would be the best gift EVAH!

And here are answers to the contest questions:

1. What is a snubble? A snot bubble
2. Who did I fall in love with in the Turks & Caicos? Loretta the grouper
3. What is the fourth step in becoming a super geek? Go to Space Camp
4. What kind of deal do I want to make with Columbian drug smugglers? I want to buy the coffee beans they use to cover up the smuggled cocaine smell.
5. Why did USA Nails call me? I'm one number off from the local cops' phone number and they called me because of a water main break.
6. What am I missing from both big toes? Each is missing a sesamoid bone
7. When I start to think too much, what do I call the honey on my morning toast? Bee vomit
8. What's my cup size? D, baby!
9. What kind of swim trunks did my dad wear? Campbell's Pork 'n Beans
10. Why did I need three prescription motrins, one oxycodone, and one bag of frozen peas in one afternoon? I was engorged from weaning J-man and already in pain when Miss-Miss kneed me in the breast.
11. What did the dead-beat dad try to ship his kid, via UPS, from Georgia to California? A live bunny.
12. What was the name of the husband who fainted while having his blood drawn? Corbett

I Shoulda Bought an Iguana Part 2

You all know that I have two cats. I really don't blog about them because they're cats. They have the same facial expressions, the same attitudes, no matter the time of day or happenings in the house.

Food dish re-filled? Pissed.
Kid mauling? Pissed.
Cuddles? Pissed.
Me sucking on a self-inflicted paper cut? Maybe the slightest of smiles but still pissed one of them didn't inflict it instead.

You know, the usual state-of-being for our four-legged feline friends. It now seems that one of our cats has added a new dimension to our relationship.

He is shitting. on. the. floor.

Now, let me put your minds at ease. He's taking dumps just a couple of feet from the litter box. In the basement. Well away from the kids. Whew. I know, but it's still just nasty.

I swear I don't get it. Every cat we've ever owned has been litter-box trained and we've never had a problem and suddenly out of the blue (or brown - whatever) this one little corner of the basement is his happy little shit spot. I'm not following the feline reasoning.

I've watched various celebrity reality shows where the dogs are pissing and shitting everywhere and the pets are just out of control with their bodily functions. And while watching, I've archly thought to myself These people have just no idea how to train and take care of their animals and my pets will never do that. Never.

Um, yeah.

Hi, my name is Heather and I'm not a celebrity. I'm just a harried mother of three who doesn't get around to cleaning out the litter box every day. And Fresh Step recently changed their litter formula. And my cats still aren't used to their hairless monkey siblings. And now my cat shits on the floor.

Crap.* And the best part? Oh, this is great. To fix this? Requires multiple litter boxes. Filled with multiple types of litter. To determine my cat's litter preference. And placing food and water dishes on his favorite poop spot so maybe he'll stop pooping there because who wants to eat their own poop, right? Hmmmm, yeah, OK, this cat will crap in his food dish. I just know it, I feel it. Although that might not be a bad thing since he may just recycle his own crap and I won't have to scoop it ever again.

I might be on to something. I'll get back to you.

* No pun intended. Well maybe completely intended. Bite me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Don't forget! One more day (today, to be exact) to enter my fabulous one year blogiversary contest! Woo hoo! Adoration! Fabulous prizes! Celebrity writers.... how'm I kidding? I'm probably just going to send you my mom's 30-year-old Richard Nixon toilet paper. But? You'll be the coolest kid on the block, wiping your butt with some Tricky Dick!

Not Your Average, Everyday Mom

Today, as many of you read this, Bubba and Miss-Miss will be attending their first-ever day of school. Montessori pre-school to be exact. At 8:30 AM, I will drop them off. There won't be any gradual separation or walking them into the school while I quietly slip away as their attention is focused elsewhere. Their teachers will come out to help them out of the minivan and as the rear door slides closed, J-man and I will drive off. It seems this "cold-turkey separation" is easiest for the kids and the teachers.

And as I drive off? I may shed a couple of tears over their momentary trauma, but overall?

I will be so damned relieved.

I'm constantly reading mom blogs, and overhearing mom conversations, about mothers who are devastated that their children have started school. These moms cry because their little ones are all grown up and have started down the path of independence. As mom and child are separated the mothers feel a sense of loss and know that soon enough, their children will no longer depend on them. There's an over-all sense of sadness that their jobs as mothers are over and what will they do then?

Me? I'm looking forward to my kids' first day of school. I'm looking forward to that next step. I've always said to my children, I can't wait to see what kind of people you become. I can't wait to meet your friends, visit your colleges, check out your office, stay in your new apartment/house, and have lengthy discussions about your career choices or love lives! And this first day of school is that first step toward independence and their ever-elusive, ever-present futures.

And it's also the first step toward gaining some of my sanity, some of me, back. If the last three years have taught me anything it's that I'm so very ready to get me back; I'm not cut out for mom-hood 24/7. I watch those mothers who home-school their children for 12 years and I don't know how they do it. How they can immerse themselves so completely in the lives of their children? I know that if I were to do the same, I would lose myself, my identity. I fear that I would forget about those things that made me me before the kids came along. I already feel like I'm losing myself and becoming this ever-cross, ever-stressed, ever-grumpy, baggy-eyed thing that barely resembles the girl my husband fell in love with. Honestly? I don't think I would still love the me I've turned into if I were the Ty-man.

As I write this, thinking about driving away from my sweet children that I take for granted and their new future, I know I'll be stressed about Miss-Miss and Bubba crying, sitting in this strange place and wondering if I'll ever come back, if I've left them forever. But me crying that they're growing up? No, that I won't cry about. I can't cry about something that is meant to be, something that is positive, and something that gives my children their identities and freedoms, and restores my identity and freedom as well.

If only for three hours a day.

Silent Saturday 8: Prom Night, Part 2

Since you loved last week's junior prom picture, I give you the side ponytail from senior year:


Don't forget to enter my 1st blogiversary contest!

That's Not Your Water

Britt posted a very funny story yesterday about her husband (a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far, away, and while in a drunken stupor) peeing in their closet. I snorted with laughter and, in the comments section, promised to tell my own embarrassing pee story. (And yes, the picture to the left is me, pregnant with the twins, on bed rest. Ah, those were the days...)

Pregnancy does funny things to us ladies. Twin pregnancies will just screw. you. up. Since there were two babies, rather than just one, all stuffed up in there, I looked bigger than my actual pregnancy date. This also meant that my bladder was the size of a walnut - at the five month mark! So you can understand why at seven-and-a-half months, I had no bladder to speak of. I seriously thought about investing in adult diapers.

The month before my labor was induced I was placed on bed rest, meaning I couldn't get out of the bed unless I wanted to shower or use the toilet. As you can imagine, I was peeing quite a bit and was holding out for as long as possible so that I wasn't up and down all day. When I finally couldn't stand the pressure any longer, I would ungracefully roll off the bed and waddle into the bathroom, all the while doing a very ungainly pregnant-lady-pee-pee dance. It was horrifying. Thank the gods for elastic maternity pants.

On September 13th, I was admitted to the hospital because I had developed preeclampsia and my OB/GYN wanted to monitor the twins' heartbeats as well as my liver. My stay was rather ho-hum until my second night there when I had, as usual, held the pee for as long as I could. I was not looking forward to waddling down the hall to the community bathroom. Just as I reached the door to my room, I felt it. Liquid was rushing down my legs and I was horrified, convinced my water had just broken. The liquid didn't smell like pee, didn't look like pee in the dim light, and it didn't feel like I was peeing. I was convinced I was having the twins right then and there in the basement of that hospital in that crappy room. The liquid just kept coming, and dribbling, and gushing down my legs. Think Austin Powers. "Evacuation com.... Evacu..... Evacuation comp...." Yeah.

I was hollering to the nurse's station next door, I think my water just broke! Or I just peed myself! Is it my water?!? Did my water just break?!? I think it's my water! It doesn't feel like I peed! The nurse just shook her head and said, You just peed, darlin'.

Oh, I was mortified. There was this trained, educated nurse cleaning up my pee while I just stood there in complete shock. I waddled on down the hall, leaving a trail of pee footprints behind me, to the community shower and washed away my embarrassing indiscretion and slunked (as much as a 7-and-a-half-month pregnant-with-twins woman can slink) back into my room knowing I would no longer wait until the last minute to pee.

I'm sure those nurses still talk about me to that day. Do ya'll remember that woman who was convinced her water broke?!? And it was really her pee?!? I swear, I was cleanin' that stuff up for at least an hour! You'd've thought it was Lake Lanier! Hee hee!

It's Over

The detective at the local police department who has been handling my case called today, two weeks after, you know, the incident. He called "the man" and asked him about the evening in question and, of course, the spineless piece of crap denied even being at the local movie theater that night or spitting in my face. In fact, he commented to the detective that I should be arrested for having the gall to do what I did.

Yeah.

I cried a lot this afternoon after his phone call. The nice detective said he could get the douche bag's picture and place it, along with pictures of several others, in a photo line-up and begin the process of a misdemeanor trial, but it would ultimately be his word against mine. And let's face it, a jury would have to let him off because of the lack of evidence. And deep down, I'm fearful of facing this idiot. What could he do to my family? My children? I'm scared. And so upset with myself for being scared and for telling the detective to forget it. It's not worth it. What's the point, right?

Right.

Until he does this or worse to another woman or person. I keep repeating to myself, "Don't research his license plate number on-line. Don't research his license plate number on-line. If you confront him, it won't do any good, it won't change his attitude. It will only make things worse. He'll hurt you. He'll hurt your family. Don't research his license plate number on-line. Don't be the woman on whom he snaps."

I ended up unloading onto poor Detective Bishop (I really wanted to ask him if he was an android) and asking him, "Was the asshole at least scared when you called him?" The kind, understanding detective admitted that the asshat was fairly uncomfortable during their phone conversation.

At least I have that.

Contest! Contest!

One week from today is my... drum roll if you please... one year blogiversary!

Woo hoo! Yippee! SQUEEEEEE!

So, in honor of said memorable day, I'm going to hold a contest. I'm going to ask 12 questions below (one for each month I've been blogging) regarding the content of this humble blog. Avitable always has a great way of determining contest winners, so I'm going to copy him. Each question will serve as one point. Based on how many questions you get right (how many points you accumulate), that's how many times I'll enter your name in a random number generator and finally come up with a winner. You have until next Tuesday, August 12th, 11:59 PM, to answer the questions in the comments section of this post if you want a chance to win a few fabulous prizes! Nothing special (Sorry, no iPods here.) but cool nonetheless. I'll announce the winner next Wednesday (and the answers) on the special day! So, good luck and here goes!

1. What is a snubble?

2. Who did I fall in love with in the Turks & Caicos?

3. What is the fourth step in becoming a super geek?

4. What kind of deal do I want to make with Columbian drug smugglers?

5. Why did USA Nails call me?

6. What am I missing from both big toes?

7. When I start to think too much, what do I call the honey on my morning toast?

8. What's my cup size?

9. What kind of swim trunks did my dad wear?

10. Why did I need three prescription motrins, one oxycodone, and one bag of frozen peas in one afternoon?

11. What did the dead-beat dad try to ship his kid, via UPS, from Georgia to California?

12. What was the name of the husband who fainted while having his blood drawn?

Have fun everyone!

This blog is meant for educational purposes only. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited. Some assembly required. Batteries not included. Use only as directed. Do not read while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. May be too intense for some viewers. For recreational use only. All models under 18 years of age. Freshest if read before date on carton. Subject to change without notice. Times approximate. Simulated pictures. As seen on TV. One size fits all. Slippery when wet. For office use only. Not responsible for direct, indirect, incidental or consequential damages resulting from any defect, error or failure to perform. Substantial penalty for early withdrawal. Do not write below this line. Sanitized for your protection. Sign here without admitting guilt. Employees and their families are not eligible. Beware of cats. Contestants have been briefed on some questions before the contest. Limited time offer, call now to insure prompt delivery. You must be present to win. No purchase necessary. Use only in well-ventilated area. Not recommended for children. Prerecorded for this time zone. Reproduction strictly prohibited. No solicitors. Driver does not carry cash. Decision of judges is final. Some side-effects may include diarrhea, vomiting, loss of vision, paralysis, facial twitching, anal itching, genital warts, inappropriate cursing, and leg lifts. Use as directed.

Sticking the Neck Out

From My Big Fat Greek Wedding:

Tula: Ma, dad is so stubborn. What he says goes. You know, “The man is the head of the house.”

Maria: Let me tell you something, Tula. The man is the head, but the woman is the neck and she can turn the head any way she wants.

Our yard is an absolute mess. After all the work we had done last year, the "lay of our land" is great. The weeds? Overtaking us moment-by-moment.

Back in 2004 BK (Before Kids) and earlier, I had the weed thing down and under control. I was out there every friggin' day keeping the little bastards at bay. Now? With three kids? And this house? The yard has suffered greatly and I am absolutely embarrassed regarding the state of it. (I keep waiting for the covenant Nazis to knock on our door and kick us out of the neighborhood because the weeds are taller than most of the kids around here.) Ty-man has some nasty outdoor allergies that keep him from mowing the grass. So, we've got a service but that's all they do is cut the grass. We need something more.

I've pestered Ty endlessly about calling our landscaper from last year's backyard overhaul and he kept putting me off. After watching the weeds reach epic heights, the neck finally moved the head. I called the landscaper. I got the quote. I found out that he charges less for mowing and weeding compared to what we're paying now for just mowing. I flatly stated that the weeds aren't going to get any better and that we need to hire the new landscaper. Finished. Done. There will be no discussion in committee.

And? Our old grass service has been dismissed. Donnie (the new landscaper) is on the job this Thursday. And the neck? I'm feeling pretty strong and ready to move the head any. way. I. want.

Ty-man has been warned.

Baby Shower Breakdown

Two hours and 30 minutes to Gadsden, Alabama with my mom driving. XM Radio's 80's on 8. Woo hoo!

Road snackage + Snapple tea = FULL BLADDER! (Quick Taco Bell stop-off...)

Southern Baptist Baby Shower (It was a full house - estrogen was bouncing off the walls!)

Cake, cookies, meatballs, peanuts, cake, icing, cake, cookies, cake, punch.... SUGAR RUSH!

Three tables full of gifts (read: loot!).

Southern accents abounded. "Brother so-and-so. Sister what's-her-name."

We were kicked out at promptly 5PM for the start of evening church set-up. Git. GIT!

Thus began the hauling of gifts to the soon-to-be parents' house, followed by a fabulous dinner with the uncle- and aunt-in-law, and finally the hauling of our butts 2 hours and 30 minutes home.

I'm exhausted, but cousin-in-law Lindsay's journey (read: bone-deep exhaustion) as a new mother is about to begin:

(Isn't she gorgeous?)

Silent Saturday 7: Prom Night

One Hour Break

Is it sad that I look forward to a doctor appointment just so I can get a break from the kids? If you're wondering how:

• sitting in a waiting room staring at people you don't know and reading three-year-old issues of People magazine,
• lounging on an exam chair wearing a drafty hospital gown in a room the temperature of an ice box,
• talking about my mystery diagnosis and sharing itchy butt stories regarding other patients,
• carrying on a "normal" conversation while the dermatologist closely examines every. square. millimeter of your naked skin, or
  
• sitting calmly, trying not to punch the doctor, while she freezes a wart off my foot
  

can be considered a break from the kids, then allow me to tell you. While under the care of my dermatologist, not once did I hear, "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA! J-man slobbered kitty!" "NOOOOO! Don't touch me Miss-Miss!" "Waaaaaaaaa!" or any other combination of the previous.

Bliss. Complete and utter bliss.

Until the freezing of the wart. At that moment I realized true dermatologic discomfort. When I've previously had smaller warts or questionable spots (read: pre-cancerous ick) frozen, it was all of five seconds while I mentally thought, Oh, that's cold. Oh, that hurts! and it was over. This time around?

Forty-five seconds of the doc carrying on a normal conversation and every vein popping out on my forehead while I mentally chanted, OK, that's cold. Oh, that hurts! OWOWOWOWOWOWOWOWOW! Motherfucker! Ow! Ow! G-damn! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! over and over and over again until I calmly looked down at the top of her head, imagined the liquid evil getting kicked across the room, and said, "OK. That's enough. Thanks!" through clenched lips.

Yeah. For the next few days, please refer to me as the Coal Miner's Gimp Granddaughter.