This Just In: Still Not Dead

Although my communication as of late has suggested otherwise.  As always, enough whining and complaining from my clamoring fans (all two of you) has prompted yet another statement from my agent affirming that I am alive, definition-wise.

My excuse as to why I stopped writing has always been the same.  So much has happened in the, uh, more-than-a-year (oops) that it's too overwhelming to write about everything.  So I've decided to sum up.  Those of you who remember me know that I'm incapable of truly summing up anything and ramble on and on and on, mostly so I can hear the monotonous tone of my own voice.  So we'll just do that.

K, last June-July (2010) the Delusional Family took another trip up to Maine.  What's not to love about Maine?  Or rather, what's not to love about driving to Maine with several small children and staying in a decidedly non-kid-friendly house for over a week?  Lots, as it turns out.  Worst. Vacation. Ever.  "But Abby, that Titanic vacation probably sucked pretty hard.  I mean, all the screaming, and the drowning, and the..."  NO!  WORST. VACATION. EVER.  The screaming on the decks of the Titanic paled in comparison to the screaming in our minivan on the 16-hour drive up and the 13-hour drive home.  Most of my time in the  deathtrap that was our car was spent either handing toys to a shrieking baby or fervently praying the Husband didn't drive off the side of the nearest cliff just to end it all.  Why do our children hate us so?  Why does the baby cry at all available opportunities until passing out from exhaustion, only to be awakened when the toddler sees her sleeping and gleefully screams until she wakes up?  And why did we bother saving that same-said boy's life when he repeatedly tried to end it by balancing on the two-story deck on the back of a chair?  Or when he did his best to destroy everything in that entire house and for the third time in as many vacations there the Husband had to repaint the children's room to cover the glaring evidence of our having stayed there?  I defy any survivor of a world-famous disaster to beat my tales of woe at the next group therapy session.  NEVER AGAIN.

On the other hand, I did score some wonderful photos while we were there and I didn't even erase them all this time!  The next time you see me, be sure and high-five me for that one.

So then what?  Huh.  I think I've discovered the solution to my too-overwhelmed-to-blog issue.  Wait long enough and you can't remember anything anyway.  Problem solved!  All right then, moving on.

Miss Misty and I have started our own book club because everyone else's book clubs suck, including yours.  Our first book is "Washington: a Life" by Ron Chernow.  I hope the title didn't spoil it for you, but it's about the life of George Washington.  I've been intensely interested in becoming more intimately acquainted with the Father of our Country for some time, particularly since I refused to believe he was as boring as every history text book has ever made him out to be.  And I was right!  As usual!  I've barely made a dent into that enormous doorstop/murder weapon and I've already discovered a side of Washington no one ever talks about in schools.  He was vain and ambitious, had a volcanic temper, had a mother he probably dreamed of throwing off the nearest tall building, and suffered an unrequited crush on his best friend's wife.  He was tall and handsome, but intensely self-conscious about his bad teeth and facial smallpox scars.  He was egotistical but shy, and anything but a ladies' man, but surrounded by female admirers for much of his life.  Awkward in social situations, but a wonderful dancer.  Deadly serious, but loved a good dirty joke.  Like most of us, he was full of contradictions and reading about them makes him human and real.  Something fun to consider: Washington nearly single-handedly started the French and Indian War (it's not everyone who can put "Started a War by Myself" on their resume).  We can also thank the proud British for refusing Washington a regular British Army officer commission, despite the fact that he undoubtedly deserved one.  He never forgot the slight and it came back to bite them in the butt when his resentment towards the British culminated in, "Why yes, I would like to lead the Revolutionary forces against the British Army for our country's independence.  How did you guess?"  It's a book I can already highly recommend.  Once we've finished this mammoth of a biography some time in the next decade, we promised we'll go see Mount Vernon again to celebrate.  Who's with us??  This Book Club Presentation has been brought to you by My Efforts to Talk Endlessly About Myself.

What else?  Oh, we're moving.  Not far, but I figured since most of my JERK FRIENDS were moving, I might as well, too.  JERKS.  JERKS.  JERKS.  'CAUSE THAT WON'T COME UP IN THERAPY EITHER OR ANYTHING.

Wanna see some vacation pics?  Of course you do.  Especially since you'll never see any ever again.

Peawhistle's Beach Finds

Marshall Point Light

Port Clyde General Store

Port Clyde

Port Clyde

Camden

PW halfway to Rockland Light 

Weskeag River

Perty.

COOKIES.

The Reports of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

For months I've been wondering how I would get back into the swing of blogging things, considering I haven't blogged about anything substantial in, oh, half a year, depending on your definition of "substantial."  And as each month passes the more likely I am to put off the whole blogging thing because the more happens to me and the more I then have to write about.  Bonny, the ever helpful advisor, suggested I forget everything that's happened to me in the last six months--feign a coma if you will--and start afresh.  I may be lazy in some things, and by "some" I mean "almost all," but I cannot permit myself to do that.  What, deprive my vast reading public from reliving the minutiae of my days, allowing them to sadly shake their heads, and possibly, if I've done my job, fall on their knees and thank heaven above they're not me?  It ain't me, man.  


First off, apologies all around.  I just TODAY finally finished reading all of the blog posts that have been stacking up in my Google Reader since August.  Yeah.  over 500 posts at one point.  I'm sorry I haven't commented on, well, almost any of them, but I can at least now say I've read them all.  Whew.  Also, I've received several, SEVERAL inquiries into the status of my existence here on earth, mostly in the form of "OH MY GOSH DID YOU DIE??" followed thereafter by queries regarding my health, mental stability, and workload.  When none of my answers satisfy their curiosity as to why I quit writing, they berate/plead with/threaten me.  Yeah.  Like that's ever worked. 


Which brings us to our next point.  It is FOUR days until Christmas!  And you'll never guess what I don't have enough of!  FRICKING FLIPPIN SUGAR COOKIES.  Now, I've also been asked why the annual pleas/threats regarding Christmas cookies is so late in coming this year.  Well, I'll tell you.  For reasons beyond my understanding friends actually started bringing me cookies without the threats.  I know, right?  It blew me away, too.  So I've been munching on those.  However, my cookie numbers are waning and my mood is darkening.  I suggested to dear, sweet Jody that I might threaten to put my blog on hold until said cookies were forthcoming, but she pointed out that it's been on hold for six months as it is so it's not really much of a threat now, is it?  College-educated, that one.  


So here I am, pleading and threatening, but mostly threatening, that unless I start seeing some damn sugar cookies on my doorstep before Christmas is over, this blog will be nothing but cheap clip-art accompanied by a dull and witless description of it.  OH YES I WILL.  That, or the cat again, but honestly the cat threat didn't work as well last year.   Odd.  So clip-art it is.


Oh, hey, so I had a dream the other night that our next-door neighbors decided to build an outdoor amphitheater in their backyard, complete with roller-coaster.  The husband asked, "Are we even zoned for that here?" while I asked, "And why are they concentrating on this project when there's a fricking zombie apocalypse going on here?  We could all be eaten!  While on the roller-coaster!"  Yet, it didn't stop us from taking a tour just the same.  And then we turned into zombies.  THE END.


COOKIES.  

A Little Too Cute

A note to all owners of yellow Hummers world-wide (and this is by no means based upon personal observation from this afternoon):

Painting an enormous Tweety Bird on the side of your Hummer kind of cancels out the supposed "cool factor" of this, your testosterone-choked car of choice. Just FYI.

Happy Late Rebellion Day

Coulda sworn there was something I was going to write about today. Huh. Oh well.

Hey, do you read Epbot.com? You remember Cake Wrecks(.com), right? The creator, Jen, decided to start a personal blog for her personal thoughts on her not-so-personal website, epbot.com (epbot being a combination of Epcot--and if you don't know the Epcot reference, you don't read Cake Wrecks enough--and robot, something she's into). It's cute. Anyway, if you read that already then you've seen this. If not, then here it is.

As she said in her post, it gets a little odd at the end, but I can't stop watching it. It's just so well done. And I realize it's a little late, being that it's well after the Fourth of July at this point, but I wasn't in town on the 4th so here it is now (oh yeah! That's what I was going to write about! Well, later.).

I dare you not to watch this more than once. I DARE YOU!

Perhaps it's just me in a patriotic mood, or perhaps it was the entire "John Adams" series the Husband and I saw. (John Adams turns out to be one of the most influential founding fathers we had, but the history books were never kind to him and rarely gave him his rightful dues.) At any rate, I've been in the mood for Revolutionary War-era things lately and this fun video fit in nicely with that. Also, feel free to research the era on your own; it's a fascinating time period.

Happy late Independence Day, America. You rock.

Dear Abby

Well at least it's been less than a month since my last post, so you can thank your lucky stars for that tonight.

So this is what I lay awake thinking about a few nights ago:

"Abby.

Aaaaaaaabby.

Ayyyyybby.

Abbeeeeeeeeee.

Ab...bee.

A...bee.

Abb...eee.

A..b...e.

Abbbbbbbbby.

I HAVE THE STUPIDEST NAME EVER."

On a related note, after high school I worked for a Korean man who pronounced my name A.B. Yes, like the first two letters of the alphabet. And then I had a college professor who had, I'm assuming, NEVER heard the name Abigail before in his life, despite it being a biblical and popular name. The man could not pronounce it to save his life. So I begged him to just call me Abby (most professors just stuck with your given name and didn't care about your stupid nickname).

Also, in reference to the title of this post, here is what I get from every single person who has ever written me a letter or email for the first time:

Dear Abby,

Oh my gosh! I didn't even realize the connection between your name and that old lady who answers questions! How funny!

Every. Time.

Aren't you glad you waited for this?

Just Write What You Know

So here's the last column I wrote for the parenting newsletter that I never sent in for publishing. I didn't think it worked as well as I wanted, plus there was some discussion about whether or not the parents in my neighborhood would be sufficiently appreciative of the subject matter. Hey, you never know.

-------------------------------------------------

I have a few friends who have expressed an interest in getting into the field of writing children’s books. The problem, they say, is writing a good enough story to get noticed in such a competitive field. Personally, I don’t see what’s so hard about it:

Fluffy Bunny raced down the green path through Happy Forest. The trees had never seemed so welcoming before. Fluffy was just about as happy as he could remember being in a long, long time. The parole board had granted his request and he was out of the pen on good behavior after serving only two years of a five year sentence for possession of illegal substances. His best friend and dealer, Silly Puppy, hadn’t been so lucky. He was still serving his 25 year sentence for distribution of illegal substances to minor woodland creatures. But Fluffy’s lawyer, Rabid Robin, had convinced the jury of furry animals that although Fluffy was certainly there when the meth lab blew, the D.A. couldn’t prove it actually belonged to him.

Rabid Robin had been there to welcome Fluffy upon his release from the hoosegow and they decided to meet up again for a celebratory drink afterwards.

“Thanks again, Rabid. You really did a great job back then. Can I buy you a shot?”

“Oh, no thanks, Fluffy. I’m still in AA you know--my sponsor would have a fit. I had that relapse back when Cheeky divorced me and I can’t afford to let him down again. Speaking of which, I’d like to officially apologize to you for being intoxicated during the majority of your hearing two years ago. Restitution you know.”

“No worries, Rabid. You did a-okay by me. I gotta run anyway. I’m meeting Adorable Kitty in an hour.”

“Your old cellmate? You better not let your new parole officer see you with that old trouble maker or you’ll be in big for it. Who did they give you again? Cuddly Squirrel, right? He’s one bad fellow, friend. You mess with him even one little bit, he’ll jack you up good.”

Fluffy thanked Rabid Robin for the warning and left. He stopped long enough to verbally harass his ex-girlfriend outside the diner where she was a waitress before the cook stepped out wielding a greasy spatula and a threatening look. Fluffy skipped along Happy Trail, hoping to avoid Main Street where he knew his P.O. was most likely to hang out. He ducked into a pawn shop off of Chipper Bird Drive and walked straight to the proprietor, who was none other than Adorable Kitty himself. A.K., as he was known to his friends, had been released three months prior after an appeals court found him not guilty of the first degree murder of eight judges. (Coincidentally, the judge who had initially sentenced Adorable had gone missing the day after his release from prison and was found floating in Joyful Pond two days later with a 9mm slug in her back. The police were positively perplexed.)

“Well if it isn’t the Meth Lab Muskrat! How’s my ol’ buddy these days? Have you had a chance to see Bubbly Chicken yet?”

“Yep, I just stopped by the diner to yell at her. She looks good. Angry, but good. I still can’t imagine why she issued that restraining order against me, but I’m sure with enough verbal and visual contact outside of 100 yards, she’ll come around. She still loves me, I know it. Loves me too much is all.”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s it. So what mischief are you up for now that you’re out of the big house? There’s a new judge in town—something-or-other Raccoon. Finally convinced one to work here again, can you believe it? I’d like to get a look at his new digs. See what sort he is, you know? Up for a walk?”

“Nah, I’ve got a guy to see about a loan. Maybe later, huh?”

As Fluffy skipped toward Skid Row to meet the infamous loan shark who dressed like a 70s pimp, he felt good. Free. Happy. He had learned many valuable lessons during his 26 months in the clink. He had learned to value friendship, loyalty, and most of all what a pack of cigs on the inside will get you. He had learned to hoard food, make shivs, join the right gangs, make tats with a ballpoint pen, and bribe guards to the best of his ability. Yes, he had learned all this. And yet, he had learned so much more about his soul. He learned he’s happy being on the outside in Happy Forest, among his free friends, among good citizens who won’t shank him in his sleep for a slice of bread.

And he had learned to deny all knowledge of anything when that new Judge Raccoon turns up as a bullet-ridden floater in a few days.

THE END

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Honestly, why would anyone object to that? Weird.

So there.

If you don't think this is the cutest baby ever, then we can't be friends anymore.

It's Not Easy Being Green

So while we're blabbing about Peawhistle, I figured I'd talk about her views on the supernatural. Now, I'm not a big fan of terrifying my children unnecessarily. Other people's kid, yeah, but not my own. I have to live with them after all. I still recall the many weeks when PW started getting out of bed at night because she was scared giants were going to come crashing through her window. It took many explanations to get her to believe that giants (as those in her imagination) do not exist outside storybooks. This is also why I've very strenuously asserted that things like ghosts, witches, vampires, etc. do not exist. I'm not prepared to get into a discussion about Wicca or modern-day vampire wanna-bes with a six-year-old, so I've just decided to make things simple by telling her they're all make-believe. She's on board with this and often remarks about how none of these things exist, hence why she thinks they're funny.

Not long after St. Patrick's Day, PW informed me that she thinks St. Patrick's Day is a stupid holiday. I asked why (before it was because she wanted a holiday named after her instead) and she said it's because she thinks St. Patrick was a leprechaun and she doesn't believe in leprechauns. This, coming from the kid who is all about living the Santa/Easter Bunny/Tooth Fairy lie. I explained who St. Patrick was, that he did indeed exist, and why the Irish/Catholics felt it necessary to give him a holiday. She was only vaguely satisfied with this, but she still clearly resents the whole affair.

PW just recently told me that she does not believe in elves. Not the wood-sprite kinda elves, but Santa's elves. Remember, she is an ardent supporter of Santa himself, but his elves? Screw them. They're not real. I asked her where the toys come from and she said they came from a factory, with a "Duh!" look on her face. You know, Santa's Factory, where Canadian minimum-wage workers crank out her favorite toys in between smoke breaks and quittin' time.

So let's review:

Santa Claus: real

elves: fake

Easter Bunny: real

Tooth Fairy: real

ghosts: fake

witches: fake

vampires: fake

leprechauns: fake

giants: ?

Saint Patrick: fake

So...anybody who willingly forks over toys, candy, or cash has to be the real thing. Everybody else can just go to hell. Fair enough.

"Hey, Donkey...."

OK, here's my conundrum. Greta and I went to the movies the other night because we're awesome like that. Also, we're awesome for collapsing into bed the second we got to our respective homes at 11 p.m. (sucks getting old). Anyway, we went to see the new Steve Carrell/Tina Fey comedy "Date Night." I'll let Greta do the official movie review since it's her shtick; suffice it to say it was funny. It wasn't the most hilarious thing I've ever seen, but it was pretty darn funny. I'd watch it again, but I wouldn't own it--that funny.

So now to the conundrum. The best part of that whole fricking movie was Mark Wahlberg. And not only just Mark Wahlberg, but a shirtless, funny Mark Wahlberg. Now, I'm not normally ga-ga over movie stars. I'm not the fangirl type, you know? I appreciate actors for how well they do their jobs, period. If they happen to be easy on the eyes (most of them are), even better. But I'm not plastering posters of Matt Damon on the wall above my bed, you know (the Husband would likely object anyway)?

Oh, but Mark Wahlberg. This man puts me in a difficult situation. This is Marky Mark we're talking about here. That lousy rapper from the 90s who by all accounts should still be in jail right now. And please note that I said "still" because he was in jail. To use the term "punk" is playing it lightly with this guy. One website got it right when they called him "the biggest douche on MTV (no small feat)." He really was a piece of work. And no number of Calvin Klein underoos ads could have ever changed my mind.

Remember that idiot? Sure, we all do.

And this is what happy thoughts and a little pixie dust turned him into:

Smokin'-hot Oscar-nominated Mark Wahlberg, that's what. Now, I've seen Scorsese's "The Departed" (for which he was nominated), which won the Oscar for Best Picture in 2007. It's a fantastic movie. Not one for the kiddies though, what with all the people getting violently whacked and such (it is about the mob after all). Again, Mark-minus-his-Funky-Bunch had the best character in that film. Not just because he stole every scene he was in as a hardcore Boston cop, but because his whole job was to verbally abuse Leonardo DiCaprio, and who here hasn't fantasized about that at least once? Don't deny it. If you have the opportunity to watch the movie edited on TV, I highly recommend it.

So the problem is, I fully admit to having a crush on an actor. He's good at what he does too, which is part of the draw. But on the other hand HE'S MARKY MARK. How can I ever forgive myself? I can hardly face myself in the mirror these days, which fully explains my hair failure situation.

Anyway, lest we all think Mark is all seriousness and can't poke fun of himself, here's a favorite SNL sketch* about him:



Followed by his response:



Honestly, how can you dislike someone like that? Congrats to him for turning his crappy, worthless life around into something awesome and...awesome. Plus, he goes to church now. So maybe that'll keep him out of prison for a while.

And hey, say hi to your mother for me.

*These SNL videos won't play in Google Reader, only on the blog. So if you want to see them, you'll have to quit being lazy and actually click on my blog link.

Dear God....

So there are several posts I've been meaning to write for, oh, months and months, but I've been putting them off because I forget about them when I sit in front of a computer. Or I don't care. One of those. Anyway, I thought I'd finally do one of them now. Hooray for you!

So Peawhistle. She says awesome prayers. Greta keeps reminding me of this and has suggested that I blog about it for a while, so here we are. I would like to mention at this time that Dear Sweet Greta willingly left her own family on Christmas Eve with no notice to come and babysit my kids (the Husband was nowhere to be found) so I could race SweetPea to the emergency room that night. SweetPea is better, but I can never repay Greta for her kindness and selflessness. Five cheers for Greta and her amazing wonderfulness!

Anyway, before Peawhistle started eating her dinner that night, she said grace. Or rather her version of such. See, long ago when PW was learning how to pray and such, I told her it was OK if she told God how her day went because I was sure He was interested in her life, etc. Since then, her prayers have never been boring as a result. It should also be noted that regardless how much I've tried to direct her prayers since then, I've failed. I've tried for months to get her to ask for a blessing on the food; she refuses and will only announce in her prayer that she approves of it. Whatever. For a while in school they were learning the Chicken Soup With Rice poems for the months of the year (which she only occasionally got right), and she would treat Heavenly Father to a recitation each evening at dinner and before bed (two-for-one!). Here's how her prayer went the night Greta heard it:

"Dear Henry Father, thank you for the day, I had a great day today. I love the food. Now I'm going to tell you a December poem. In December I will beeeeeeeee, a baubled babble Christmas treeeeeeee. With soup bowls draped all over meeeeeee. Merry once, Merry twiiiiiiiiiice...Merry chick'n soup with rice! In the Jesus Christ Amen!" (She will continue to scream AMEN until everyone in the house has said it also. It's annoying.)

Now, usually the rhyming words were accompanied by claps, or on days she felt like it, scary faces. That lasted up through December (I guess they stopped teaching the poems in school or something) and now she just uses prayer time to relive the highlights of her day, followed by an airing of grievances with me, her mother. I guess if you're going to complain about how you're being parented by your mom, the guy to go to is God himself. But this is still better than praying for Spider-man's safety, which she used to do when she was little (I guess he could use some prayers), or thanking God for SpongeBob, which I'm sure she still secretly does. And honestly, don't we all? Bless you, SpongeBob.

*I would like to add on PW's behalf that when I have a migraine she always prays that I'll feel better, and all without prompting in any way. She's a sweet kid.