Delusions of Grandeur

This Just In: Still Not Dead

2011-08-15T01:46:00.000-04:00

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

Camden

PW halfway to Rockland Light

Weskeag River

Perty.

COOKIES.

The Reports of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

2010-12-21T20:51:00.000-05:00

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

2010-08-10T19:26:00.004-04:00

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

2010-07-12T14:02:00.004-04:00

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

2010-06-16T18:56:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-20T22:56:00.004-04:00

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.

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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

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Honestly, why would anyone object to that? Weird.

So there.

2010-05-05T18:48:00.001-04:00

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

It's Not Easy Being Green

2010-04-29T13:00:00.006-04:00

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...."

2010-04-21T10:48:00.010-04:00

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....

2010-04-14T09:20:00.004-04:00

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.

Stages of Pregnancy

2010-04-08T13:23:00.003-04:00

Hey, remember when I used to write a humor column for the local parenting newsletter here? Yeah, well I stopped that. They stopped mailing it out to parents and started emailing it instead, so I called it quits. Writing the darn thing was too much effort to have it immediately sent to everyone's email trash. Take that, stupid environment-loving Technology!

So anyway, here's the last column I wrote for that, or at least the last one that I haven't posted here yet. I'll explain some things at the end, too, but obviously this is quite dated since it's about being pregnant. And I'm not anymore. Are we all on the same page now?

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We are taught in school that there are three stages of pregnancy. My husband and I have survived all three stages, three times now. We will not be enduring them again after this time as our minds and bodies can’t live through it again. Let’s review these stages, shall we? It’s fun!

Stage 1: the Age of Puking.

Ah, nausea. My, my how you manage to take over and deaden the soul! I hadn’t had many problems with nausea with my first two pregnancies, but this last one was determined to be different. The worst instigator of my puking habits happened to be my toothbrush. The first time it happened I was merrily brushing my teeth when out of nowhere I puked in the sink. Now, how lucky was that, right? I mean, the sink was right there. And what is this? A toothbrush with toothpaste already on it?? Why, that’s exactly what I need after puking! Perfect! And I proceeded to brush my teeth again, only to throw up in the sink again. After the fifth or sixth time of this happening in a row, I began to notice a pattern (I do have a college degree after all!). And that’s when I begged, with nasty breath, that I be medicated to the best of my OB’s ability.

Stage 2: the Age of Prosperity.

Finally, your energy has returned, the puking medication is working on all fronts, people recognize you as pregnant rather than grotesquely obese, and your OBs are doing their best to inflict a heart attack as soon as possible. “You look great, Abby! Keep it up so you WON’T KILL THE BABY. Sure, yeah, you’re doing well just as long as you stay calm enough to NOT KILL THE BABY WITH YOUR RISING BLOOD PRESSURE. Why are you suddenly so upset? All you have to do is make sure you DON’T KILL YOUR BABY. Have a safe and NON-LETHAL DAY.”

This is also right around the time when your kids start to question you about where babies come from and why you and your partner would feel the need to introduce competition to them. I recall my five-year-old asking me one day who will take the baby out of my stomach once I got to the hospital. “The doctors will take her out.” “How will they take her out?” “With their hands.” “IN YOUR MOUTH?!?” and she laughed that hysterical, maniacal laugh she reserves just for me. While I was listening to her evil little laugh, it occurred to me that a baby coming out that end probably couldn’t hurt any more than the standard way we shove them out now.

Stage 3: the Age of Perpetual Senility.

I’ve come to look at this stage as being a window into the future of what I’ll be like 50 years from now. I’m but 33 at this moment, and yet I’ve already turned into a senile old woman who is suffering from complete and utter memory loss. The other day I got a phone call from a friend and she started out by saying, “So your mom’s coming to stay with you soon, huh?”

I gasped in amazement. “HOW did you know that??”

“Because you JUST sent me an email telling me that, like, two minutes ago, you dork.”

Sure enough, my email history did not lie to me, nor did my friend. “Oh, um, yeah, I vaguely recall that now (which is to say not at all).” Again, this happens frequently.

On several occasions I’ve gotten up in the morning, gone to the bathroom, looked in the mirror and declared with some shock and horror, “My GOSH I have really let myself go! When did I get so darn fat?!”, only to realize two seconds later that I’m in fact pregnant. I’m fairly certain I could be arrested for committing a multi-state armed bank robbery scheme and summarily convicted based upon numerous eyewitness accounts, plentiful DNA evidence, clear-as-day security video footage, and I wouldn’t have remembered a single second of it.

I’ve heard it said that our memories can only hold so much before non-essential information is expelled to make room for new data. This leads me to conclude that my baby is actually growing inside my skull, preventing any information from attaching itself to my brain at all. That huge lump on the front of my gut must therefore be the stores of fat that will see me through the long winter months ahead or something. Or at least that’s what the baby inside my head is telling me.

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Many thanks to Stephanie for proof-reading this piece. Apparently I went on and on and on and on in one section and she very kindly told me it was getting boring. The end result was far better due to her very wise warning.

About the puking. It was bad enough that when I'd throw up all the capillaries in my face and neck would burst (called "petechia" I've just discovered), leaving my face and neck completely purple. No, I am NOT exaggerating. It would eventually fade after about four days, but it was so embarrassing I never left the house unless I was going to the hospital to be put on fluids (yeah--like I was going to leave the house looking like a giant hickey? No thanks). So it was bad, hence the medication.

There is one more piece I started to write for the newsletter before I decided to quit. The columns had to be short and this one just plain didn't work as a short piece, so I buried it. If I ever resurrect it I'll let you know.

The Flattest Guest I've Ever Had

2010-03-31T15:00:00.003-04:00

Dang, has it been a month already? Holy cow. Oh well.

Hey, so one of my friends has this nephew, see, and he's in grade school in Canada somewheres. His class is participating in the Flat Stanley Project where they mail out a Flat Stanley (based on the children's book), a journal, and see where he winds up before being shipped back home. So far Stanley has visited California, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Texas, and Maryland (at right is a picture of him driving through Baltimore). Within the next week I will take Stanley to D.C. and to Arlington, VA.

Now, if any of you are familiar with the Canadian postal system, you know it is on par with that of a third world country. In fact, I'm fairly sure the "postal system" involves Canadians standing outside in a long line and just passing letters and packages between them. Therefore, Stanley has only about one more destination to make after here before he needs to be mailed back to Canada by the end of May.

The question is, where should he go? Is there anyone out there who would like to have Stanley in their home for a week to show him around? It doesn't have to be spectacular. One person just raked leaves with him, another took him on a school field trip. My friend took him snow tubing, and I have taken him sightseeing. Whatever floats your boat. You just write a couple of sentences about your town in the journal, maybe include a photo or two of Stanley doing something with you, and you're done.

So, would anyone like to have him for a week?

Like Two Ships, Passing in the Night

2010-03-01T12:31:00.005-05:00

I hope that if there's one thing you've learned from faithfully reading my blog, it's that the only way to go grocery shopping is in an unkempt, unshowered state of disarray. You do this, of course, because you have raced out the door as early in the morning as you can to avoid seeing anyone you know at the store. This guarantees that you will see someone you know at the store. Now, if the person you see is a good friend, you can feel free to mock that person openly and perhaps start taking things from their cart and surreptitiously moving them into your own to lessen your walk-around time at the store. However, if you barely know this person--say, an acquaintance from church who you've only had normal, polite, and very brief conversations with, and half the time you can't even remember her name, this is the person you will run into in your unshowered and hair-sticking-out-one-side state. Because of this, she will be dressed perfectly with nary a hair out of place. When you get home, you will also note with despair that you've been walking around with mascara flakes on your cheeks all morning. Perfect! Now let's shop!

I will now outline how to deal with this type of person whilst in the store:

1) Aisle the first: since she will see you first and alarm you with her presence, you will be caught off-guard to the point of being unable to recall her name until long after you've left the store. So a politely awkward "Oh! Hello...there!" will do just fine. Smile brightly as you quickly move on from one another to continue your shopping.

2) Aisle the Second: you run into Lady X yet again, and you realize with growing horror that you both are at the beginning of your shopping experience, you both move at an equal pace, and you're both shopping in the same aisles at the store. You now know that you will be seeing her in every aisle for the rest of your shopping day.

3) Skip aisles three and four in an attempt to get in a different pattern from your new shopping mate, only to note later that she's had the same brilliant idea.

4) Race through the dairy section to get ahead of her, only to nearly run over her offspring upon exiting at the yogurt wall.

5) Aisle the Fifth: Quickly formulate a reason to speak to her since it's becoming obvious you cannot avoid her to save your life, i.e., think of something to say to her, stupid. Again smile brightly, act normal for once, and say, "Soooooo...is your husband in the Army?" She seems delighted that you've saved the day, however briefly, by stabbing at the engulfing awkwardness with some attempt at regular conversation. "No, Air Force." "Oh, I see." 30 seconds of silence ensue while you realize that you failed to think of any follow-up questions to your newly invented conversation. You ask a few more fool questions before both of you tire of the made-up attempt at being friendly and you just sort of aimlessly walk away from her as she gratefully runs in the other direction.

6) See her scoot down Aisle Six, and slyly move to Aisle Seven, hoping to backtrack after she's left. When you go to turn against traffic to go to Aisle Six, be sure to ram into her cart going in the opposite direction. Apologize profusely while she assures you she's fine. Be half grateful you managed to find another excuse to say something a normal person would say, despite the fact it's becoming increasingly obvious to this woman that you're anything but normal.

7) Run to Meats, turn to see her coming, and grab as many random packaged beef products you can before she overtakes you. Run away.

8) Confident that you're now ahead of her, take your merry time down the bread aisle and make for your getaway at check-out, but not before yet again, nearly running into her on your way out. Smile ever so briefly while making as little eye-contact as possible. Her own motivation to fake a smile has vanished, and she pretends she no longer knows you. Totally fine with you.

9) Check out and run to your car. Pray for death before next Sunday.

This Is Your Brain Exploding

2010-02-17T13:26:00.006-05:00

See, most people would watch the following and think, "WOW. That is amazing!" And then there's me, who thought, "WOW. I'm going to vomit!" I'm clearly incapable of handling the greater picture. Shocker for most of you, I'm sure.

(half of this is cut off if you're look at my blog, so click on the video again to watch it full screen)

I think I have to go throw up my brains now.

Do you think this has anything to do with my gut-wrenching reaction to icebergs? (See, it's not the tops that freak me out so much--it's the bottoms that make me want to crap my pants.)

P.S. This commercial also makes me want to crap my pants, but in a totally funny way, not a creeped-out way.

They're Baaaaaaaaack

2010-02-01T15:02:00.004-05:00

I've been remiss in posting this story, mostly because I keep forgetting it until it shows up in my nightmares. So there's that.

Several, several months ago The Husband (and Melissa's husband as well, I later found out) was excited to watch one of his favorite programs on PBS (or MPT as it's know here), Maryland Outdoors, or Outdoors Maryland. Whatever. Something not inside. So anyway, he was all sorts of thrilled to get to watch it again, and judging by our TV schedule, it should have been on when he tuned to that channel. And yet, it wasn't on. What was you might ask?

The one, the only, Celtic Man. YES, that intrepidly stupid group of singing and assumedly drunken Irishmen who couldn't emote their way out of a paper bag. What are the odds that not only was The Husband's show not on as promised, but it was superseded by this, the most unintentionally entertaining musical group of all time?

Oh, but wait, it gets better! Not only was Celtic Man performing at that time, but at the very moment we tuned in, Creepy, Leering, Future Public Sex Offender Guy was singing. No, not his signature "Ride On" piece, but...wait for it...the man who looks every moment as if he's going to crack your skull open and eat his Coco Crispies out of it was singing "Every Breath You Take." NO, I CERTAINLY AM NOT KIDDING. The creepiest stalker singer on earth was singing the creepiest stalker song ever written. It's like he reads this blog and does it out of spite or something.

Don't believe me? It's right on their fricking youtube channel.

And for our added amusement, some totally random dancer dances on stage while he awkwardly haunts her from his perch. Why doesn't he just sing with a hockey mask on while he's at it? Now THAT I'd pay to see.

It's the Little Things

2010-01-26T11:08:00.005-05:00

I've been talking about this recently with friends and I decided I simply had to share it here. One of my favorite things in the world to do is yell at children. I am not kidding. It actually puts a smile on my face. I'm smiling just thinking about all the kids I've gotten to yell at within the past week. Does this make me a bad person? What are the odds I care?

Let me be more specific: I enjoy yelling at older children. I don't yell at young children. For one, it doesn't phase them, and when it does, all they do is bawl. And then I feel bad, which is the opposite personal reaction I'm going for. After all, the goal is to brighten MY day. I honestly am quite nice to the little ones (unless they're related to me, in which case all bets are off). I even politely and sweetly ask them to be kind to each other so Jesus will be happy and we can all feel happy warm thoughts and blah blah blah. See? I'm nice to little kids.

But older kids? The ones who know better? The ones WHO HAVE IT COMING? The ones I never liked even when I WAS a kid? Oh my goodness, there is nothing in this beautiful world that gives me greater joy than to point out, VERY LOUDLY that they DO know better and they TOTALLY have it coming.

Take church for example. You'd think with the bishopric and God and everyone staring at me that I would not take joy in yelling at the older kids. Oh, but you'd be wrong. Lisa wasn't in church this week. For some reason she makes me feel guilty for yelling at them. That's why I wait until she's gone. I always have to do it lots to make up for all the times she is there, so the Senior Primary got several heapin' helpins of my Very Loud Voice this past Sunday. I know you don't believe me, but I am still absolutely giddy thinking about it. I have so few true not-so-guilty pleasures in this life that I revel in them when I can get a hold of them.

Did I ever tell you about the best job I ever had? While I was pregnant with Peawhistle I had a job at our apartment complex's swimming pool as a Pool Chick. I tested the water, I checked pool passes, I cleaned the bathrooms, I cleaned the pool each morning. All OK tasks. But the thing that made it all worthwhile? You guessed it. Yelling at all the children. And boy, was I given many an opportunity to do so. Shoot, I even got to yell at ADULTS! A rare treat indeed! Now those jerks REALLY should have known better! I gave those individuals a taste of swearing thrown in to show my disdain for their stupidity. But yelling at the kids was the best part. And better yet, I got to yell at them with their parents right there! Can you even imagine my utter bliss?? It's like getting to yell at kids AND their parents at the same time! I defy you to name a better job than that!

So Lisa, thank you for missing church this week. I missed your funny self indeed, but with you gone I was allowed to engage in my favorite past time. And to Greta's husband, many thanks to you for giving me an excuse to yell at the not-so-little tots. BEST SUNDAY EVER.

God Loves a Peanut

2010-01-21T14:30:00.005-05:00

So it appears Stephanie was right, I was totally making everything up. OR SO SHE'D LIKE TO THINK.

I just got a call from Peanut's allergy doctor (well, one of them anyway). She said his endoscopy looked wonderful with nary a eosinophil to be seen. She also called with his latest allergy testing. Of every allergen he's come up positive for in the past, he is now negative for all of them except for cashews and pistachios. Milk and sesame didn't even register, while peanut has fallen below the positive allergen line. IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. Seriously though, IT'S A FRICKING CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. Now, his doctor warned me not to get too excited and start shoving peanut butter down his throat. No problem, we don't have any anyway. She said people can test negative for something and still have a clinical reaction to it upon exposure. So we are to proceed as if he were still allergic to these things, avoiding them as much as possible. However, the likelihood of him actually dying now is pretty slim (well, for peanut, milk, and sesame anyway--gotta still avoid those tree nuts). Plus, he can still have serious GI reactions to these things, particularly milk, which is notorious for producing severe GI issues in the allergic crowd. But not LIFE-THREATENING issues, which is what has given us all ulcers for the past year and a half. He likely still has an oral allergy to apples and pears, and a GI allergy to soy, which sucks, but hey, we can live with that. So can he--literally.

So it would appear that he is outgrowing his life-threatening allergies, including very possibly cashews and pistachios, whose numbers have dropped since the last time. He's still young, things can still change, albeit very unlikely that they would, so we still have to be careful.

But do you have any idea what this means for us in the next few years? He will be able to go to church. He can go to the playground. He can touch a grocery cart handle. We can go out to eat again. He can go to a baseball game. He can sit with other kids at the school lunch table. He can have a cupcake at school parties. He can go on an airplane. He can visit my family. He can go on a mission. Someone will actually want to marry him. The deadly toxins they warned us he would not outgrow are disappearing. I can't even convey how happy I am right now. I'm so relieved I could cry and feed my kid peanut butter. Well, maybe just the first one.

Yes, Master

2010-01-19T11:48:00.003-05:00

Last night I dreamed Morgan Freeman and I were super tight friends. Or at least I thought we were, despite the fact he was thoroughly convinced my name was "Igor."

See? Tight.

Is This Thing On?

2010-01-16T21:04:00.005-05:00

The following conversation just happened this evening. No joke.

Me: Peawhistle, please finish cleaning up the toys so I can get you a quick bath before bed.

Peawhistle: OK Mommy.

[five minutes later she comes upstairs]

Me: OK kiddo, go brush your teeth, pee in the potty, but don't put your PJs on yet because I need to give you a bath first.

PW: What?

Me: Brush your teeth. Pee in the potty. Don't put on PJs.

PW: But I thought I was going to have a late bath.

Me: You ARE. That's why I don't want you to put on pajamas yet.

PW: No pajamas?

Me: NO. PAJAMAS. YET. BATH. FIRST.

PW: [blank stare]

Me: Go!

PW: (pause) Am I having a late bath?

This went on for some time so I'll spare you the incredible tedium. But MY GOSH. At least this wasn't as bad as this afternoon when the following occurred:

Me: OK PW, what do you want for lunch?

PW: [blank stare]

Me: PW, what do you want for lunch?

PW: [blank stare]

Me: WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR LUNCH??

Kid you not, she stares at me like I'm speaking Elfish; she's utterly fascinated that I'm trying to communicate with her, but there is ZERO comprehension on her end.

This is an all-day thing and my head hurts just from trying to interact with her so I don't even know how to end this, so I'll just stop typing. There.

*Oh, and I apologize for re-instituting word verification. I'm getting sick and tired of all the spam I've been getting lately and having to go back and delete it. So I'll just torture you all instead, cool?

The Medical Wonders

2010-01-13T11:05:00.002-05:00

Being old really sucks. I think of things that happen all day and say, "I could totally write a whole blog post about that." And by the time I get to the computer I've completely forgotten about it. So it's not my fault I never post.

Peanut had an endoscopy yesterday. All went well, but when that kid came out of the anesthesia, boy was he P.I.S.T.-MAD. He glared at everybody for a good hour. This, coming from my happiest kid with the perpetual smile on his face. He was most concerned about the needle stuck in his hand, which he kept trying to cover up. He also refused to use that hand for hours afterwards, like it was broken or something. Weird kid.

Right before the procedure he took part in a medical study for allergies and eosinophilic esophagitis (which they think he has--again). So for participating in the study he got an awesome Fisher Price dump truck. The one toy this kid doesn't have, too. What were the odds? And we got free parking. Woohoo! Good times all around.

So after the procedure while Peanut was scowling at everyone, the GI doctor came out and started talking to me about what went on and asked for his history and blah blah blah. He stopped me about halfway in and asked me if I was a nurse. I, not being one, did not lie. He said, "Wow, you really sound like one. You know a lot about this stuff." I've heard on more than one occasion that when you kid has a condition, you have to make yourself an instant expert on it. Just further proof that I'm an excellent mother. I don't care what CPS says.

Speaking of mothering, remember when Peawhistle scared the crap out of me and the drama of the ambulance ride, ER visit, etc.? Guess what? SHE FRICKING DID IT AGAIN. No, not the trip to the hospital, but she did pass out again (sort of). This time I managed to catch her on the way down, so no career-ending Steve Young-esque concussions for her. So last week she had a really loose tooth. I'm always scared she'll swallow the darn things in her sleep so I told her I was going to take it out before bed since the gross thing could bend at a 90 degree angle in her mouth. I popped it out, she whined, she started fussing about, "Ew, the blood! I don't like the blood in my mouth!" so I told her to wash her mouth out with some cold water and come back to bed. She did so, came back, and promptly fell limp. And freakier than that, she never closed her eyes, she just lay there, completely stiff, teeth gritted, shaking like crazy. And then she stopped, I asked her if she was OK, and I stuffed her in bed while I conferred with The Husband. She was feeling back to normal after a half hour or so, so we decided against any ER visit and I decided to tell her doctor on Monday. Dr. Guilt Trip was supremely interested in this turn of events, especially after I informed her that prior to the first episode, she had lost her second tooth not 5-10 minutes before she collapsed in the parking lot. Two collapsing episodes following two tooth losses? Surely more than a coincidence (take that new, younger, creepier Sherlock!). Her doctor thinks that because the stiff/shaking episodes were so brief (probably only 5-10 seconds at most) that they weren't seizure related, but rather post -something-something-effect (darned if I can remember what she said) related to fear of blood, almost as if she's locked in fear rather than just passing out. We have to call the doctor if she does it again and it's NOT related to teeth loss or blood of course.

I don't get this. This is my blood 'n' guts girl. She is scared of nothing gross or icky. I was convinced she could have been an EMT with her talk of body parts, bones, blood, guts, etc. She falls down or hurts herself and she merely brushes it off and continues to play. The girl laughs at the very thought of zombies, monsters, and witches (I've tried to encourage that frame of mind actually). And here she is, freaking out over two drops of her own blood in her mouth?? To the point of passing out on me? And she's only lost three teeth so far. My gosh have we got a long way to go. She better hope I'm around when she loses another one or we're going for another trip in an ambulance I fear.

The Age-old Question

2010-01-06T09:21:00.004-05:00

If there's one thing you know I am, it's a follower! So the fact that everyone else is making resolutions this week, despite the fact that resolutions repel me, I will indeed jump on the bandwagon.

I have but one resolution: to remember how old I am.

Sounds easy, right? For you, yes. For idiots like me, not so much. For the past five years or so (something like that anyway--years confuse me) I have not been able to produce my age when asked. When I do blurt out an age, it's always off by a year or two, hence why I usually just avoid that pothole.

Questioner: And how old are you ma'am?

Me: [blank stare]

Q: Your age?

Me: Uh...lemme think a minute.

Q: [incredulous glare]

Me: JUST GIMME A MINUTE. [fruitless pause] Do you have a calculator?

I usually wind up throwing out my birth year and making them do the math on their own. And then they usually tell me my age as a kindness.

Remember when you were a kid and your age was everything? You weren't just 7, you were 7 5/8. You were 9 in 34 days and two hours and 15 minutes. Now I couldn't tell you how many months/days until my birthday if you paid me. I don't even remember my birthday's approaching half the time. Fun fact: my brother and I share a birthday. I remember either his birthday or mine, but never at the same time. My friend, Misty, has to email me a week in advance every year (which she does, the dear) to remind me my brother's birthday is coming up. What I'm saying is, it's all very sad.

I tried to think how old I am just now and I failed by a year. Resolution success already!

"Let Them Frost Something Else!"

2009-12-31T15:07:00.007-05:00

Peawhistle is watching SpongeBob, per usual. She's singing the opening theme song as "SpongeBob HotPants." Now THAT I'd like to see.

Speaking of SpongeBob.... Cakes! Yes, cakes. Now, if I had to guess, my most popular post to date is the Dora Cake post. (Don't agree? Send those disagreements to abbysspamfolder@gmail.com.) Anyway, if everyone learned anything from that post, it's that I suck.

This is a redemption post. For years I forced my mother to make my kids' birthday cakes so those kids wouldn't require therapy when they saw photos of them years from now. But when Peawhistle turned five, I decided to finally decorate a cake of my own. Now, if you recall I'm also sucky when it comes to drawing/artisty in general. However, over the years I've become much better about at least copying characters onto paper, or at least good enough so that PW thinks I'm awesome at it. So given her love affair with WALL-E (and seriously, who doesn't have a love affair with that guy?), I decided to make her a WALL-E cake. I drew it free-hand while looking at the DVD cover art. Trust me, the leaf looked better in person; the angle is making it look like mildew right there. Also, forgive the fact that I forgot to make his treads 3-D and just pay attention to the fact that you can at least tell what it was supposed to be over all.

Meh, it did the trick anyway. Motivated by my quasi-success, I decided to do Peanut's cake this year as well. And there is nothing in this world that Peanut loves more than SpongeBob. I chose to do a mixture of frosting and fondant, despite my utmost hatred for that crap. It was my first time working with fondant and if I had it to do all over again (yeah, I can really see that happening), I would have ignored their advice to roll it 1/4" thick and gone much, much thinner. And I wouldn't have hosed up the fricking eyelashes so much. But by and large, I think it turned out fairly well.

As Peawhistle pointed out repeatedly, he has no holes. Honestly, I'm pretty sure that would have hosed up the entire thing, so I'm glad I didn't. I also should have put the eyes closer together, but oh well. As for what is fondant, his eyes, teeth, nose, shirt, sleeves, arms, pant legs, legs, socks, and shoes. The shoes I had to paint using black frosting, which sucked for lightyears, but they turned out well. What sucked more was frosting the pant legs. I'm fairly certain now fondant wasn't ever meant to be frosted. That crap is slicker than snot.

Given this, I'm perplexed by the Dora Fiasco. It was clearly not the fault of Stephanie, but I must have some frosting ability somewhere, right? Apparently neither of us was ever meant to work in tandem. But I'll go ahead and blame her for it anyway.

So for all of you named Vann who laughed at the very IDEA of me frosting something other than a complete disaster, I DEMAND THAT YOU APOLOGIZE IMMEDIATELY. In cookies.

We Are Good Friends Now

2009-12-28T14:04:00.004-05:00

If you recall (and by you, I mean none of you, apparently), I love me some catalogs! I still get enough catalogs to choke a horse, and I still read through all of them. Boy howdy, am I glad I do! Let me refer you to one catalog in particular. "Toys to Grow On" is full of toys that supposedly make your kid a genius. (Honestly parents, toys aren't going to keep your kid from being an idiot. I know this for a fact.) Anyway, the last time I got a catalog from these jerks I flipped through it, only to end up thoroughly delighted at what I'd found. There is a roll of paper called a "Create-A-Story Paper Center." Your budding author draws pictures on the top half of the roll of paper and writes his genius on the lower half. Fine idea (in some cases anyway). They have an example written and drawn of just what your little future MENSA offspring mayhaps could create. The story they've written goes like so: "A rabbit stole a carrot out of our garden, so I took a piano out of the rabbit's house. We are good friends now." No, I am most certainly NOT kidding. Where to start, where to start? First of all, props to the jerks who drew the accompanying picture of a rabbit holding a carrot while a kid barrels across a meadow hauling a piano. Good show.

Now, to the text. So, so many questions. I'll narrow them down to the most pressing: what the hell have you been teaching your children? Exaggerated retribution is the key to achieving lifelong friendship? OK, fine. Two can play at this.

"The next-door neighbor scratched the paint on my car, so I filled his house with scorpions. We're vacationing together next spring."

"A hobo begged for spare change, so I set him on fire. We're running together in the next election."

"Our dog peed in my shoe, so I chopped off his leg. We love each other so much."

"My teacher gave me a C on my last paper, so I turned her into the FBI for domestic terrorism. I'm testifying on her behalf tomorrow."

"Tommy teased me at recess today, so I heinously murdered his family and framed him for it. We're marrying right before he's hanged for it."

You get the gist. Essentially, these people think kids are certifiably insane. Now, some are, don't get me wrong. I've met more than my share I think. But all? And advertising those crazy children's innermost thoughts about the strange and complicated workings of society's norms? Eh. No.

I've Got a Lot of Collecting to Do!

2009-12-28T12:19:00.004-05:00

So apparently Barbie.com will be allowing commoners to vote for which career Barbie should have next. Barbie has been many a thing in her many years--most of them slutty. But I have a few items I'd like to see covered when voting time comes around. This means I expect you to submit them.

1) Civil War Re-enactor Barbie

2) GED Barbie

3) White Supremacist Barbie (with Skinhead Ken)

4) Homeless Barbie

5) Stalker Barbie

6) Dungeons and Dragons Player Barbie

7) "Ho's 'n' Bitches" Barbie (with Pimp Daddy Ken)

8) Tourette Syndrome Barbie

9) Meth Barbie

10) Telemarketer Barbie

11) Polygamist Sect Barbie

12) Glenn Beck Barbie

Get on that.

A Peanut Won't Eat

2009-12-15T11:14:00.002-05:00

I know you've been losing sleep, wondering how Peanut is doing, so here we go (yet again). You knew that he couldn't chew food, right? I told you that, yes? I'm sure I did. So anyway, since the boy is over two and is still eating baby food out of jars, several doctors decided he needed intervention (not that kind; the alcoholic intervention will come later). So after months and months of hating on the insurance company, he got approved to go to Mt. Washington Pediatric Hospital. This is a fairly well-known hospital in Baltimore that was started in 1922 with the sole purpose of treating children with severe medical disorders. They have a feeding clinic as part of it for kids just like Peanut. Most of the kids in the feeding clinic are kids who have been on a feeding tube their whole lives and are just now figuring out solid foods for the first time. A few are like Peanut, who have food phobias due to various factors, usually severe food allergies like he has. Six doctors observed Peanut in various rooms/environments and/or a live-feed video. They finally concluded that he likely has all the tools he needs, he just doesn't choose to use them. Great. Maybe now when I tell people that he is so fricking stubborn he would rather starve himself to death than eat something he doesn't want to, they'll believe me. He literally will starve himself. And when I say literally, I mean it the right way, not the way stupid people use it.

So the good news is that they think over the course of several months they'll be able to coax him into chewing something. He'll have to go once a week every week for possibly up to a year or more, but they're fairly confident it'll happen. The bad news is that the doctor in charge of this whole feeding clinic team of folks says that Peanut has the most severe food allergies he's ever seen in his career. Mind you, this is a doctor who works in a hospital designed to treat seriously medically-hosed up kids. SO COMFORTING. So given that he's on that end of the spectrum, who knows how long it'll take to get him to eat. He still gets most of his calories from the hypoallergenic formula they put him on after his hospital stay when he was six months old. They've tried to switch him to other things designed for kids his age (because they need more calories than the formula has to offer) and he refuses to switch. Refuses to the point of simply stopping eating until we switch him back. He's skin and bones already so they said no more trying to force a change for now.

I mean, can you believe the sheer STUBBORNNESS of this child?? What the frick is with my kids anyway?

So, you know, if you'd like to pray for little Peanut or just send good thoughts his way, they'd all be greatly appreciated. Fricking kid....

Because You Want It....

2009-12-07T13:59:00.001-05:00

Yeah.

Ode to a Brat*

2009-11-30T11:25:00.007-05:00

I'm sick as a dog. Someone please shoot me in the face. (I'd make a Dick Cheney joke here, but it's so passé. And if there's one thing you know I am, it's totally up to date on that crap.)

SO. I have this blog. But see, here's the thing:

1) I never have time to write on it.

2) That's a total lie. I have lots of time. What I don't have is hands-free time. And I really hate typing one-handed. Hence why I just stare at your blog for hours at a time waiting for you to update it.

3) My mind is a blank. And I don't just mean I have writer's block or something like that, I mean I have a completely empty skull, wind whistling through it Homer Simpson-style and everything, 24 hours a day. I don't think anything at all. Ever. Even now I'm staring at these words wondering what the hell I'm writing. I'm sure you and I have that in common at least. It's nice to have friends.

4) Cheese and crackers.

So I have nothing of worth to tell you, but I almost started to feel guilty the other day for not writing anything in nearly a month so I figured I'd better get rid of that feeling right-quick. Wouldn't want the ol' emotions to get in gear after all this time or anything.

Hey, speaking of food, I have a random story to tell you. So back in the church congregation the Husband and I attended when we first got married I was one of the folks in charge of making sure all the kids saw the light and got religion. I remember one of the kids that moved into the ward's boundaries was named Rusty. Rusty was maybe five or six, was very active, and had never been to any church before in his life. The concept of sitting still, without inflicting damage or harm, was completely foreign to him. Speaking of foreign, this kid was German, too. He was born in America and all, but his parents were flat-out German, accents and all (this is important, trust me). He was a big, sturdy, solid, German kid.

So anyway, little Rusty was a handful. The Sunday School class he was in had to have two teachers, despite the class's small number of students: one teacher taught the class, and the other teacher held Rusty down until he got learnded good. Or I'm assuming that's what happened; all I know is it took two of them. And frequently they needed more than that because Rusty was quite often brought to his mother rather than cause any further medical or emotional distress. So one Sunday a group of us gathered outside of Rusty's classroom door, waiting for him to be shoved out by his handler at any moment. He had already been talked to once that day and had been given his last warning, and wouldn't you know it, he didn't seem as if he was going to heed that warning any century soon. So it started with me (one of the counselors) and Bryn (the other counselor), and eventually grew to include, I believe, the secretary (who knows what her name was), and the entire bishopric. Normally, the only member of the bishopric who should have been there was [Kirk], but Rusty usually attracted a crowd and we got all of them. All of us standing in the hall, not two feet from his door, waiting for him to be shoved out, and all swapping Rusty stories in the mean time. [Kirk] told a great tale that day in the hallway. He said one day Rusty was acting up (of course) so he personally took him to the foyer and sat him down on the couch, sat next to him, and they sat there for the remainder of church together. He said their conversation soon turned to Rusty's very solid, German-like frame:

Rusty: I'm hungry.

Kirk: Sorry to hear that.

Rusty: I'm really hungry!

Kirk: No, Rusty.

Rusty: But I'm REALLY HUNGRY.

Kirk: Well, you can't eat right now. You'll just have to wait.

Rusty: But I wanna talk about sausages!

Kirk said it was all he could do to not crack up laughing. It wasn't even that Rusty wanted to EAT sausages, he just wanted to TALK about them.

Kirk, thinking to himself: Geez, kid, how German can you get?

I'm fairly certain that Bryn and I said, "But I wanna talk about sausages!" to each other for months afterwards, busting up laughing each and every time. I still laugh just thinking about it. See, now you're in on the joke, too.

So there you have it. My Rusty story for the day. I'm pretty sure either he'll wind up on America's Most Wanted or wind up speaking to us at General Conference. Either way, I wouldn't be surprised in the least.

*Get it? Brat? 'Cause "brat" is short for bratwurst? Man, I'm brilliant even on my stupidest day.

Hairy Care-y

2009-11-05T12:31:00.004-05:00

Couple things. It finally occurred to me this morning that I must not care anymore. I wander out of the house without showering constantly. I run errands first, then come home and shower, not the other way around. I remember a time when I would have rather cut my hands off than leave the home unbathed. And yet, today I didn't even attempt to do my hair before running off to Toys R Us for a birthday party gift. And of course, today's the day the Marine Corps is hanging around at the exit looking for donations for Toys For Tots. Gotta love impressing the Marines with scraggly hair and frumpy clothes. And get this, on Monday I told Greta I was going to the commissary. An hour later I pull into a parking spot, look at the car next to me, and see Greta sitting there looking back at me (she's stalking me; I'm flattered). And of course I hadn't showered yet then, either, because honestly who am I going to see at the commissary? Have I reached some magic point in my life when everything else takes priority over how I look to strangers? That I only shower every day so my husband won't have to see me in my PJs when he comes home at night? What's next, public, drunken nudity?

So Greta. This lovely woman. She claims to be baby hungry so she can steal your baby and babysit her, but really she's just trying to be nice or some such crap. Anyway, I took her up on her babysitting offer the other day. How great of her was that? And she even took pictures of her so I wouldn't have to be a parent and do it instead. Fantastic! Here's one she didn't put up on her blog but still let me have:

Cute, ain't she? No, her hair isn't really that dark, she just needs a shampoo. And lest you think I've been ignoring her hygiene, her hair looks like that about six hours after washing it. It oils up FAST. And to add to that joy, she has dandruff like crazy. And it's not just a little flake here and there, her entire fricking head is peeling. You lift up any section of hair and you see the entire top layer of skin in sections waiting to peel off. It's down-right creepy I tells ya. Other than that, she's adorable. Honest.

It Hurts When I Think

2009-11-02T09:55:00.006-05:00

Hey, have you ever taken an item out of its packaging, and then accidentally thrown the item away and held onto the wrapper? And when you look at what's in your hand and realize what you've just done you have to get another item out? And then you do the exact same thing again?

I just wanted you to know what kind of a person you're dealing with here.

Answer: complete moron

Further Clarification

2009-10-29T16:53:00.003-04:00

So apparently there's been some confusion about the crazy website. Yes, I wrote it. I also wrote the blog. It's my version of dark humor. I just don't want to be associated with it by name because I value my life. But it is all mine (but my unnamed accomplice did much of the website design).

And because it is mine, I'd appreciate feedback (via email of course). Good, bad, meh, stupid, whatever. Any feedback or suggestions are welcome.

Are You In a Good Mood?

2009-10-28T18:29:00.003-04:00

I know I haven't been writing much lately. I'm lazy...so there's that. But I have another excuse as well. Remember that post from about a year ago when I talked about an idea I had for a fun website? And by "fun" I mean scary and legally prosecutable?

Well, it's done, and with no small degree of assistance from my faithful accomplice. I am not going to expose any connection to that site to my blog here (again with the legal thing), so anyone who wants to see it can email me (it's to the right there) and I'll send them the link.

Fun Facts About SweetPea

2009-10-15T14:54:00.003-04:00

1) She is either crying, asleep, or seems to have a pair of car's high-beams bearing down on her at all times. She really does seem alarmed by her surroundings. As she very well should.

2) When she starts to cry she sounds like a cat. And this, of course, makes me feel bad when I tell our stupid cat to shut up only to discover it's just SP waking up. Hooray for a mother's instinct!

3) Her poop not only looks like pumpkin innards, it smells exactly like it, too. This makes diaper changes very festive.

4) She has started to smile but is extremely selective toward whom she is smiling. I get smiles because I feed her. And Peawhistle gets smiles because she loves her. Peanut and the Husband don't get any. And neither does that damn cat I keep telling to shut up.

Parenting For Dummies

2009-10-07T12:23:00.004-04:00

It's that time again! As in, when I have a few minutes to myself to type and yet have absolutely nothing to say! So you're getting old crap!

The following is yet another article I wrote for the neighborhood parenting newsletter here. It's a tad dated since it mentions my having only the two kids, but I'm fairly confident you can pretend.

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A lot of people accost me on the street and demand to know how I’ve managed to raise two children, ages five and one, not to be serial killers and/or international terrorists. I’ll tell you what I tell all of them: being the mother of 2.5 children makes me an instant parenting expert. It’s as if all of the right answers just flow into my brain like whispers from heaven. This is why I rush up to you and shout parenting advice at you in front of your children. You’re welcome!

Now, word limits prevent me from telling you absolutely everything you need to know to be as great a mother as I am, but I would be remiss (and I am also completely incapable of not doing this) if I didn’t share at least one parenting tip with you: the most important thing you need to teach your children is independence. If you don’t teach them they can live without you, they’ll be living with you until they’re 47 and they’ll wind up on the evening news being hauled away by federal officers with you crying and running behind, insisting that his or her anti-government club had no part in that international incident CNN’s been talking about for the past month. It’s embarrassing, believe you me, particularly when I make fun of you publicly for it.

So how do you teach small children independence? First off, these little freeloaders need to learn to earn their keep. Unfortunately, U.S. Child Labor Laws prevent you from making your kids get a proper job. The people who made these laws don’t have 47-year-old children in a federal prison, either, so what do they know? Fortunately for your kids though, those laws are very loosely enforced. Feel free to send your kids out knocking on doors, selling their various craft projects they’ve stayed up until 2a.m. making for unreasonably high sale prices, all for your retirement fund. And their ultimate well being of course. Naturally. Mind you, make sure to make your kids throw out their really crappy efforts, ‘cause those lousy things will never sell. It’s important they learn when they’re just plain not good enough for the rest of the world. Also make sure the little worker bees are home before dark or the cops will start to catch on. Lastly, teach ‘em to keep their traps shut or we’re all going to prison. And heaven knows that would be counterproductive.

Besides mental and physical independence, your kids need to learn emotional independence. If there’s one thing your kids do, it’s whine and cry, am I right? I know I am. I’ve seen them do it in Safeway. And I know if it’s even half as annoying to you as it is to me, then you’ve got to nip that problem in the bud. If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that terrifying surprise will be your biggest asset here. As soon as you see one of your children look like they’re about to cry, quickly rush up to them and shout, “NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!” in their faces. Only two things will happen at this point: they’ll instantly stop (success!) or they’ll cry harder. Don’t you give up, mom! You just keep screaming for as long as they’re crying and guaranteed, either they’ll eventually give in and stop or one of you will pass out. Either way, you’ve won this battle! Repeat as necessary. Sure, my five-year-old walks in a circle for hours at a time and stutters a bit, and the one-year-old sits in the corner all day twitching and chewing on his arms, but at least they’re quiet. And independent. Now, you see there? Prime parenting at its finest. This one’s on the house, folks.

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Mad props to my lovely and funny friend, Lisa, who read rough draft after rough draft of this piece without complaining. She also made wonderful contributions in the form of pointing out when things were really funny, things weren't funny at all, what could make sections funnier (which I added), and what parts were just downright creepy (I removed those, trust me). Many thanks, Lisa!

And finally, I used to have a bit in there about Machiavelli but too many people didn't get the joke so I took it out. But I still maintain that confusing The Prince with a self-help parenting guide is pure comedic genius. So there.

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

2009-10-01T10:06:00.006-04:00

If my ego is accurate, you're probably worried sick wondering, "Man, what I wouldn't give to know what the heck Abby is up to right now! I'd give all the puppies in the world to know!" Well, today is your lucky day, friend!

What I'm doing is simple: waiting for Peanut's laundry to dry (that kid has soaked his sheets for the LAST TIME, and by LAST TIME I mean NOWHERE NEAR THE LAST TIME), writing on my blog, and eating Cookie Crisp cereal.

I'd like to point out some things with that last one. First, I grew up eating Cheerios and that's it. If I was good (read: rarely) I could get a box of Apple Jacks. But Cheerios was usually all because that's what was healthy and darn it, that's what my mother wanted for us. And I swore I would do the same with my beautiful healthy children. Right up until last week when I took a gander at not just Cookie Crisp cereal in the cereal isle, but Cookie Crisp Sprinkles cereal! Oh yes. They make it. And it tastes like sugar cookies. I've never had the regular kind of Cookie Crisp, but I can't possibly comprehend how it can be any better than the Sprinkles variety.

Second, I had just finished eating an actual sugar cookie (thanks Holly!), contemplated its awesome power of sugarness, and thought I would care for another. However, not wishing to dizzy myself jiggling when I walk, I decided against it. Until I remembered that I had just fed PW her first bowl of Sprinkles Cookie Crisp that very morning and that I wouldn't mind "tasting" it in a very large cereal bowl with lots of milk.

Third, let me summarize this for you: I ate a sugar cookie at 10 in the morning. And then I chased it with a bowl of miniature sugar cookies drowning in milk.

Well, is your curiousity satisfied? I HOPE SO. You made me eat Sprinkles Cookie Crisp cereal to do it! Now apologize!!

A Peawhistle By Any Other Name

2009-09-30T12:56:00.007-04:00

Two kids napping at the same time and another off at school? The crap you say! This doesn't happen often as I've discovered over the past month, hence why I made a mad dash to do as many important things as I possibly could squeeze in, namely checking my email and blogging. You know, life-and-death sorta stuff.

Speaking of life and death, guess what Peawhistle did to me last week? SCARED THE POPSICLES OUT OF ME, THAT'S WHAT. So we're in the parking lot of the grocery store and I'm unloading my many, many children to go shopping. I have Peanut in the cart seat and PW is standing next to him while I get SweetPea in the sling. My back was turned to the older two while I was extracting SP and I hear a sick-sounding thwack. I turn around to see PW on the asphalt, flat on her back, head in a puddle of water. My first thought was that she was screwing around as usual and I told her to get up. She lifted her head and let it fall back on the ground in the puddle and she stopped moving. I went to help pull her up and she was completely limp and her eyes went cross-eyed and then started to move in circles. She didn't say a word or make a sound as I started screaming her name to wake up, all while trying to pick her up unsuccessfully. After a while she came around enough so that she wasn't steady, but she wasn't limp anymore, and as I asked her if she was OK she started to freak out and demanded to know why I sounded "weird"(-er than normal). That's when I threw everyone back in the car and sped over to the pediatrician's office. The triage nurse came out and sat with PW while the receptionist called the ambulance. My dear friend Ethel willingly dropped everything (she was in the middle of making dinner by the way) to race over and take Peanut and SweetPea to my house along with her own daughter, Pippy Longstocking. Fortunately, Pippy and Peanut are very close in age and get along very well, or as well as two nearly 2-year-olds can get along. Pippy is Peanut's only friend, which made his evening a little more fun anyway, even if Ethel's (and Fred's by association) evening was all shot to heck as a result of the events. She graciously stayed and entertained my children until The Husband could get home from work and take her and Pippy back home to a very, very late dinner. I will forever be in debt to Ethel and the entire Mertz family for that.

The ambulance strapped PW all up, loaded her in, and we shot off out of there with lights and sirens blazing. They had called around to various ERs and the Children's Center at the main Hopkins hospital had said they were intensely interested in seeing her (and you recall my thoughts on medical professionals being intensely interested in my children). So we flew down to Baltimore in rushhour traffic. The sirens made the stop-and-go traffic not so bad as most people are still good about getting out of the way for an ambulance, even when there seems to be no place for them to really go. However, one or two motorists blew my mind a bit. Here's the ambulance, flying down the highway at 75 mph with lights and sirens and the whole deal, and there were still people who thought it was going too slow and actually cut us off. I'm no cop as we all know, but isn't that illegal or something? And extremely unethical? And supremely jerky? Yeah, well I'll see you in HELL you jerks. Man alive.

So we get to the ER and they rush her off to the trauma unit as a "Bravo," whatever that means (sounds important though!), but they wouldn't let me follow her. Why, because I'm going to start accidentally doing surgery on her or something? I wasn't screaming and freaking out, but I would sure like to see where the crap they're taking my child. Eventually a social worker came and escorted me around the long way to her room, which looked more like an operating room to me (comforting!), and let me stand by the doorway while several people hovered over her. I also had to sign release forms because they were video taping the whole thing, presumably for teaching purposes, or just kicks and giggles later on. Either one.

She had a CT scan on her head and neck to look for internal bleeding or cracks, none of which were found fortunately. And then came the question of why the kid fell in the first place. She kept telling everyone she just closed her eyes, fell asleep, and that's the last thing she remembered. I didn't see anything seizure-like when I saw her on the ground, and nothing else in her recent history would explain why she would just pass out like that. So that is still a mystery to some extent. We're all hoping and assuming she was just playing on the cart, slipped off, hit her head and then passed out, but we can't be positive as I wasn't watching. But they did an EKG on her heart just to rule out any heart defects or issues that would have caused her to lose consciousness.

They considered keeping her overnight until the final results of the CT scan came back, but given that the preliminary results looked fine and she was back to her old self, PeaWhistle-esque Personality in tact, they released her with Hannah Montana stickers and sent her home. I tell you, I fell in love with PW all over again. And not just because I thought I was going to lose her, but I realized just how much I take the little thing for granted. Within 10 minutes of her being admitted to the ER she had the entire trauma staff in her room cracking up laughing at everything she said. She is an absolute riot, no doubt. Combine that with her adorable little singsong voice and you have quite the crowd-pleaser (who knows when she's captured an audience's attention and hams it up to the Nth degree). They asked me if she's like this all the time, and that's when I realized how lucky I am to have such a fantastic kid. I'm used to her funny conversations and cute little voice, and really, really bad jokes that make you laugh anyway, so I don't always think of her as something special. She's just Peawhistle, you know? But she is unique and special and I'm so glad that she came out of this with just a concussion and nothing worse. And I'm so glad she's mine. I love you Peawhistle!

AND SO HELP ME IF YOU EVER SCARE ME LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL TOTALLY KILL YOU. Love you, Sweetheart!

"Oh, You Better Watch Out...."

2009-09-30T12:36:00.006-04:00

I have news of a wonderous variety! I am famous yet again! And by "famous," I mean "nobody knows who the hell I am!" Nor do they care to! I am, of course, speaking of the wonderful new Cake Wrecks book that just came out and is on bookstore shelves as we speak. You recall that awesome website, right? Well, they put out a book with new and old wrecks galore! And if you all care to turn with me to page 47, you will see a very familiar face staring back at you:

Rudolph the Poop-torsoed Reindeer has staged a return more historic than MacArthur storming the Philippines! Unfortunately, my kitchen linoleum is not book-famous as they cut it out of the photo for printing, which means only my money is famous now, in that it was my money that bought the stupid cake in the first place. Not even my colon, which graciously digested the cake, is famous as no one cares that I sacrificed my health to ingest such a wreckacular wonder. I really should be getting awards for this kinda selfless stuff, you know? Something big made of gold with the words "Humble Genius" somewhere on there. Yeah, that should do it.

A Sweet Little Pea

2009-09-14T13:01:00.006-04:00

My my, has it been nearly a month already? Did you miss me? No? Shut up.

So I had the baby. And by "the baby," I mean adorable SweetPea. As it turns out, the name fits her to a T. She is not only very sweet, but was the smallest at birth, too. Not the size of a pea, but you get the gist.

So here's what happened. The blood pressures went up and up and up, they tested my urine, it had craploads of protein in it making me officially pre-eclemptic (3-for-3 ladies and gentlemen!), and it was decided on that Monday to immediately expel the infant from my hefty womb. So she was scheduled for eviction on that Thursday evening. I had a headache Monday and into Tuesday, but it was manageable. By Wednesday afternoon it was a screaming migraine and I knew that as soon as I called Labor and Delivery, they'd induce me right away (as bad migraine is a sign of worsening pre-eclempsia and all that). So I waited for Peawhistle to get home from her very first day of kindergarten and I limped to a phone and called and sure enough they told me to come and in and bring all my hospital crap with me. [Fun sidestory: on PW's first day of preschool I went to the hospital for a high risk appointment and they wound up keeping me there and inducing Peanut; PW's first day of kindergarten I would up going to the hospital and being induced with SweetPea--totally not even planned, but way for her siblings to completely overshadow PW's personal milestones, eh?)

And it is here and now that I will openly whine and complain about one of the greatest gift God has ever given me. WORST LABOR EVER. FOR ME ANYWAY. Well, technically the worst delivery ever would have resulted in no baby and/or my demise, so not really the worst delivery ever, BUT certainly very painful. There was nothing the staff could do to assist in my dialation as I was just barely at 3cm when I went in Wednesday afternoon and 3cm is all they can get you to with their magic pills and balloons and whatever else they can think to shove up there, so all they could do was stick me on pitocin to start contractions. And 12 hours later I had progressed to a whopping 4 cm! Hooray for all that fricking excruciating pain for nothing! I've always wondered what going into labor naturally would feel like since I've heard forcing it with pitocin is a million times worse, and I had high hopes for this one, but oh well. And it is usually because of this unnecessarily accelerated pain that most folks on pitocin with no signs of natural labor starting any day soon choose to go with an epidural, as I did. And wouldn't you know it, it was medical student day there in L&D and I had a student try it three different times in three different places in my spine, all without result, before her mentor stepped in and supposedly did it right, also without pain relief in any form. But at least my back still hurts from it nearly three weeks later, so that's good anyway! And the best part? Dr. SourPuss who looked like she was in labor every second I saw her and yet, not being pregnant, I'm fairly sure she wasn't and thus had absolutely no excuse for her major attitude problem. This is the same woman who thought my hoo-hoo was her personal mitten. Remember the OJ trial where OJ kept trying to fit that glove over his too-big hand? That was her and me. And the woman would NOT STOP. She'd get in there and twist and turn and poke and prod and scrape and puncture and rip and whatnot, all while I'm screaming at her to get the hell out and away from me, which only made her do it all the more purely out of spite. I hate that woman. The rest of the crew, including the 3,582 medical students and nurses who were learning on the job and constantly taking my BPs, listening to my heart and lungs, testing my reflexes, poking my legs and feet, taking my temperature, and all every 5-10 minutes or so, were all very nice to me. The real nurses assigned to me were brilliant about delivering every combination of pain killer they possibly could for my migraine and bringing bags of ice from the ice machine for my head every half hour. I am forever in their debt. After a couple of days the migraine finally went away, but that was after the delivery of course, which didn't make it any better naturally. So after the 18 hour delivery (aren't they supposed to get shorter with each kid, not longer?), we had our sweet baby girl. And immediately after expelling her I turned to the Husband and said, "We are NEVER DOING THAT AGAIN." He agreed.

And SP had a hole in her head. It's called cutis aplasia and can be associated with horrific birth defects, but sometimes just shows up without reason and eventually heals over and whatnot. Basically, the skin didn't completely form over a very small spot on top of her head so it looked like someone dug a spoon into her scalp and scooped the skin out of it (they didn't though). Two weeks later it's completely healed over and the worst to be expected is no hair will ever grow from the scar. Meh, big deal. Coulda been much worse. Speaking of which, remember when they tested me three months into this pregnancy and announced that based upon my blood results I had a higher risk of having a baby with something awful like Trisomy 13 or 18? Her hole in her head is what gave them the false positive for that test. The presence of such a skin problem was evident even that early on, and since it can also be seen with 13/18 kids, it came up as positive on the test. Honestly, the medical world never ceases to amaze me.

But what makes this story even more entertaining was the head of Neonatology at the hospital who magically appeared the second it was reported that our kid had a hole in her head. She was an odd duck, this doctor, and she wandered the hospital with her own entourage of little medical students furiously scribbling notes whenever she spoke. I swear, you have never seen a doctor so excited to see a birth defect like this. I mean, she was just BARELY containing her smile as she spoke to us about it. She ran and retrieved her medical books about this with pictures of what SP had, which happened to be next to the photos of the worst versions of what kids with 13/18 could expect to be seen with, and with her reassurance that that didn't apply to us and we shouldn't look at those. All while she was showing them to us. Nice. So after she gleefully told us about the baby's problem and the phone calls she'd already made over to the main Hopkins Hospital to everyone who would be interested, who also definitely were, she yelled at her students to take photos of our kid's head in every position possible, at every angle, with and without flash, etc. "Well did you try the macro setting?? Well then get a camera that HAS it! Run!" And then she'd turn to us and, again, just barely keeping her feet on the ground, excitedly inform us that, "I only see this sort of thing about once a year. But don't worry, she's totally fine!" All while we could see she hoped and prayed she wasn't.

The next day she informed me that I was asleep when they came to tell me they were hauling the baby off for an ultrasound of her head by order of the main Hopkins hospital, so she, with her crew, told me after the fact, and that they were anxiously awaiting the results. I noted with much amusement that when she did finally come back with the results, her line of medical students was missing. She popped her head into my room, tossed the results on my bed and said, "Um, yeah, she's totally fine. Perfectly normal. Bye." and she scampered away. Well, more like dragged her feet out of there with a sad look on her face, but whatever. If this has reinforced one thing for me, it's that it's never a good thing when doctors are intensely interested in your child. Unfortunately, doctors are still intensely interested in Peanut. I don't need two kids like that.

Oh, oh, oh, and then there was The Nurse. When they switched me over to the recovery room where I stayed for a day or two after the delivery, I was assigned nurses in the morning and at night. At night I had the same nurse both times, but during the first day I had The Nurse. The second we met she seemed incredibly nervous. I have no clue why. I mean, I hadn't even threatened that one so what did she have against me? So all day she was walking on egg shells around me like some headcase. Because of my ever-persistant migraine, the nursery was very good about taking SP so I could get some sleep. Or rather, my night nurse was very good about insisting the nursery take her so I could get some sleep. I loved my night nurse. Greatest person in that hospital. Anyway, all day The Nurse kept asking me if I needed my baby or whathaveyou. If I knew she was sleeping peacefully in the nursery, mostly because I used to sneak across the hall and peek in the window to look at her and note that she was, I'd tell her no and that she and I were both just fine. Why pester the kid, am I right? Never bug a sleeping baby, folks. If they're happy, just let 'em be. This worried The Nurse to no end. The next morning nurse was awesome. I asked what else I had to wait for before being discharged and she said I still needed my Rhogam shot, and then she paused and said, "Your nurse from yesterday recommended that we call a social worker because she didn't think you were properly bonding with your baby. But the rest of the nurses said they didn't see that and I've been with you all of five minutes and I can see that's not the case at all, you're bonding with her just fine. So I'm not going to do that." THANK YOU AWESOME NURSE. What the hell?? I have CPS called on me and I'm not even out of the damn hospital yet?!? Holy crap alive! I will say here and now that The Nurse is an idiot. Has she honestly never seen a woman not hold her baby obsessively every fricking second of the day? What you're seeing here, dear lady, is not a lack of bonding but an overabundance of experience. Third kid, lady. I know what it's going to be like when I bring her home. I know I will have numerous hours upon hours with this child to look forward to. I also know how to accept help when it's offered, especially when it's being offered by professionals who are being PAID to watch her. And on top of that, I had a bloody migraine that would not have gone away otherwise. On top of this, I am the sort of mother who holds the baby constantly. Honestly, I am. I know you would never believe me unless you saw it, but unless she happens to be sleeping somewhere else for a couple of minutes (like her car seat or something) then I am holding her. I sleep next to her. I put her down to pee and shower and that's it. I know this about me: that I'm paranoid to not be with my babies constantly for fear they'll stop breathing. Part of that is just natural paranoia and part of it is Peanut's history. Everyone asks if that doesn't put more stress on me, but honestly it reduces the stress for me overall. If I can't see the baby and know that he/she's breathing, I freak out. So I simply don't put them down. So to have someone who is more adept at caring for newborns than I offer to take her for a few hours so I can get some sleep to dull my head pain is very kind and I'll take it, dammit. I wonder how many other women who have gladly take the nursery up on their offer have been called on by social services for it? Nice. Very nice.

SweetPea is doing well, despite my horrific parenting in the hospital. She is easier to figure out than the other two were: all she asks is to be fed, burbed, rested, and changed, in that order. Otherwise, she merely looks around very curiously, wondering why she was forced outside two weeks too early and why she was sent to us and not better parents. And oh my, the hair. The other two were hairless wonders, but this one. Oh my the hair!! I figure God put it there to distract us from the hole in her head and to cover it up a bit, which it certainly does. And honestly, she is so sweet. The Husband has never been too up on newborns as he's a little nervous around them, but this baby already has him wound around her little finger. PW adores her and Peanut is actually very gentle with her (now), occasionally giving her loving pats on the head and gently poking her eyes and nose (he's learning the names of facial features now, see). For someone who was created slightly unexpectedly, she's become the favorite of everyone around her. What a sweet doll.

Thanks again to everyone who helped make her entry into this world a healthy one, including everyone who prayed for her/us and helped reduce my BPs for as long as possible (it definitely prolonged her gestation). You're wonderful people. Also, thanks for never calling CPS. Really.

Pooling Our Resources

2009-08-17T11:32:00.005-04:00

Good news everyone! I have craploads of protein in my urine! Hooray! Hooray for this! Because I didn't fricking JINX myself or anything when I told The Husband last week, "Wow, everything's going pretty well still, considering. This could be the ONE healthy pregnancy I produce!" Yay, I'm an idiot! Anyway, I'm back to testing for this crap and we'll see just how bad it is in a couple of days. And if I actually have to be stuck in bed like my mother wants me to be, or if they'll just call it good and force the poor little tot out now. Like I said, we'll see.

In other news, I have nothing more to say. So I'll post one of the articles I wrote for our neighborhood parenting newsletter. It's not as good as the next one that's coming, but it has to do with summer and stuff so I figured I should post it now and get it out of the way. Who's gonna stop me? YOU? Yeah, I didn't think so.

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It’s summer! Time for the outdoor excursions and fun to begin, specifically at the pool! Or, as it’s known in my house, waterboarding! Allow me to introduce the detainees to you:

*My daughter, 5, whose nickname is “Peawhistle.” If you have ever heard the screeching sound that a pea whistle makes, and the screeching sounds that constantly emanate from my daughter’s mouth, the correlation would be obvious.

*My son, 1.5, whose nickname is “Peanut.” He is allergic to everything he touches. Thanks Nature!

For some reason, my children view water as the worst thing ever created. Now, Peawhistle has never been a huge fan of the pool, but before last year she still went with me and at least moved around the shallow end largely unassisted. That’s fine. Last year I thought, idiotically it would later appear, that she was ready for beginner swimming lessons. Two weeks and eight lessons later, it was obvious that this was not to be the case. Most of the first week involved an overly dramatic and hysterical Peawhistle, dressed in a life vest no less, clinging to the swimming teacher like a spider monkey, and screaming, “HELP ME, I’M DROWNING, I’M DROWNING!!!!” while no fewer than one on-duty lifeguard and two other off-duty lifeguards all stared are her most intently, and every visitor at the pool looked on in amazement. The second week proceeded with her having nothing to do with the pool whatsoever, merely looking on at the other three students, while comfortably sitting in a chair in the shade with me and Peanut. Even the baby pool earned her utter distain after that.

Well that was a healthy $120 down the drain! It’s coming out of your allowance, kid!
Fortunately, I had the foresight to videotape much of this disaster in personal preparedness so at least it wasn’t a total waste. I’m sure she’ll thank me when we screen it at her wedding reception.

And then there is Peanut. Ah, Peanut, there are no words. This is the adorable boy who refuses to sit in an inch of water in the bathtub, resulting in every bathing session being conducted with a standing toddler enforcing a death-like grip on his mother, all the while screaming like he’s being beaten. I’ll assure you now, as I assure him every single time, that is not the case. I am comfortable in predicting that the odds of him enjoying a pool-time experience are less than optimal at this point.

This year Peawhistle has assured me that she will be braver at the pool. And true to her word, with a set of bright pink water wings in place (that never once got wet), she managed to survive her first experience in depths up to two feet of water without heart failure or screaming on either of our parts. She also confided very loudly that she is going to be a life guard one day. I pointed out that life guards typically need to know how to swim, nay, love to swim. She brushed aside my concerns as petty and assured me yet again that such trivial matters would not deter her from her newly discovered career path. We shall certainly see. (To be on the safe side, however, I would caution against swimming in any pool that advertises her as being in charge of your family’s welfare.)

This summer I encourage everyone to pull out the sunblock, don your swimgear, and have loads of fun at the pool! I can’t say we’ll see you there!

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I realize that much of this is familiar to many of you, probably because I just simply plagarized my own blog for it. But see, I moved some words around so it's totally OK now. See that?

Also, some of you who know the circumstances will also realize that shortly after this was written (not even published, just written mind you) both of these adorable children turned me into a filthy rotten liar. PW turned into a brave little fish for some inexplicable reason, and Peanut now loves the bathtub. Well, he likes it OK anyway. The trick there, though, was to have PW put on her very best and hammiest performance for Peanut whilst in the tub, going on and on about how great bathing is and how much more fun she's having in the tub than outside of it. After we convinced him to try a bath with her, he warmed up to it just fine and now can even bathe on his own without complaint. A hearty thanks to the consummate actress, Peawhistle, for convincing her dear brother within two week's time that taking baths is the most marvelous time one can possibly have on this earth. Heaven knows I tried for a year and a half to convince him of the same thing, all without any hint of success. Turns out big sisters are good for something after all.

There In Idaho

2009-08-10T15:00:00.004-04:00

Oh, I got away all right. I GOT AWAY GOOD.

Actually, I just told my mother last night that it would be nice (and relaxing) to be able to sit with my email once in a while without Peawhistle constantly asking me questions about every keystroke I make. So she's entertaining PW while I read and write. See, so she's good so far.

I've been meaning to plug a certain website for some time. Actually, I plugged it half-heartedly a long time ago, but I don't think I did it the proper justice it required then. Have you all heard of The Onion? The online satirical, swear-heavy humorous newspaper? It's not for everyone, due mostly to the afore-mentioned swearing and other subject matter sometimes contained therein. It's run by a large staff of very funny and talented people.

Anyway, there is a delightfully hilarious woman out there who writes her own satirical, non-swear-heavy humorous newspaper-like website ALL BY HERSELF. She is that fricking funny. I love her dearly, in every way possible that blog-stalking and the law can allow. Yes, Kristi Harrison is the genius behind one of my very favorite websites, Here In Idaho (also linked on the sidebar there if you care to look). I first discovered her humor through her Very Famous Post about running (for exercise? Crazy, I know) around her neighborhood and what her neighbors must think of her efforts. This post (which has apparently disappeared forever unfortunately) was featured on the well-known blog, Navel Gazing At Its Finest, and I've been a loyal follower of Kristi's ever since. Her humor is everything I wish mine was, but clearly isn't.

As I said, I meant to plug this website much, much sooner but I kept forgetting or putting it off. But I cannot put it off any longer. No, ladies and gentleman (there's just one of you, right?), her latest contribution is an article post entitled: "Twilight Makes More Sense if Bella is Disabled (Mentally and Physically)." Oh yes. OH. YES.

Oh my holy yes. Check it out. Become a Google Reader Follower. You will never regret it. She doesn't post often, but when she does she more than makes up for it. Genius takes time you know.

"The Time Has Come My Little Friends...."

2009-08-06T14:27:00.003-04:00

Once again, a great big thank you to all my adorable friends who have taken Peawhistle into their homes for months on end in an effort to save us all from a world of more destruction, chaos, and tears. But now it's time for a new era of destruction, chaos, and tears, and that era will come in the form of my mother flying in on Sunday to stay with us until the baby is born and then afterwards for a week or two, or until the police are summoned, whichever comes first.

My blood pressure, as I've exlained to a few of you over the past two days, has reached the end of its healthy limits. It is assumed it will pass into unhealthy territory very soon, and thus they have strongly suggested without argument from me that I begin fetal assessment testing twice a week until the birth. This put the Husband and I in a bind childcare-wise, which left us our only option left: call the Beloved Mother for help. And help she will give. In copious amounts no doubt. This "help" also means that the activities that I see as relaxing (such as writing like this) are not activities that she would see as relaxing, despite the fact that it keeps me sane and alone and quiet and all those wonderful things. No, my mother will likely insist I sleep 19 hours a day if at all possible, and if not, I'll simply be padlocked in my room until she's determined I'm relaxed enough to come out, i.e., never. So I can't imagine I'll be writing a whole heck of a lot in the month to come. I'll try to sneak in here on occasion--if nothing else, I feel an overwhelming need to check my email at least once a day--perhaps when I've been able to successfully overwhelm her and tie her up and/or completely knock her out (in a totally legal I-know-her-so-it's-totally-OK kinda way).

Anyway. That's that. Thanks again to my dear friends for all your help and please allow me to bring you a dinner and/or dessert of your choosing. Otherwise I'm going to make a fabulous meal that will get thrown through your front glass window, and trust me, no one wants that. Least of all you, because I'll be damned if I'm cleaning that mess up.

Wish us all luck in the coming month and pray no one dies in the process of us all loving each other too much and crap.

Peanutish Report

2009-07-29T19:36:00.005-04:00

Greta's just heard this update so she can go to sleep. The rest of you need to pay so much attention to what I'm about to say that you cannot even go to the bathroom first. NO BLADDER RELIEF FOR YOU.

OK, so as I said in the comments of the last one, Peanut's hearing is just fine according to the hearing chick, or at least he's hearing well enough that nothing should be barring him from hearing well enough to speak. Fine. We kinda figured that since he responds to us and all. We also know from three different evalutations that he's not autistic--not even close. This kid is about as socially engaging as you can possibly get. And given that I keep him locked in our basement with no contact with the outside world, that's pretty incredible. Conclusion: I'm an awesome parent, even when I'm trying to be the opposite. See there CPS investigators? No need for intervention!

However, there is still a distinct problem. He was evaluated by a pediatric speech therapist yesterday as I threatened you all that he would be. First, the good news. He excels in several areas of development. One or two he's completely maxed out on progress-wise, as in no child can do any better than that. In the area of gesturing to get what he wants, he's on par with a 2 1/2 year old child. And in the area of playing (how well he interacts with other children, his level of play, etc.) he's up there with kids who are nearly three years old. But there's a downside and that is this: the reason he's so advanced in all these areas is because he has to compensate for his lack of communication in the verbal region. The worst news is he's on par, verbally, with a child who is about nine months old. As a kid who is actually 21 months old, that's considerably behind the curve. He makes different sounds, but his favorite is a strange buzzing sound (like "thzzzzzthzzzz") he makes when he points at things. The therapist told him he sounds like a little bumble bee, which made me laugh out loud because she hit it right on the head. The Husband laughed too, and now that's what we tell everyone. Cracks us up. Anyway. So we accepted that he definitely needs intervention and they said he qualifies for the infants and toddlers program in our county, blah blah blah. Fantastic.

And then I talked to his assigned allergy specialist today. We went over the foods he's passed and those he's failed and what he has permission to try for next and all that. As we were about to hang up I asked her why all the speech people keep asking me how he's eating/chewing and if there's a correlation between the two. She said absolutely there's a correlation and if he can't chew/swallow well, he's that much more likely to have a speech delay. Well what do you know about that? Apparently the same way your mouth moves to properly chew food is the same way your mouth moves to properly form words. And the fact that Peanut is in the 6-9 month age range for speaking should have come to no surprise since he is at that level for food progression as well. I hope your mind just exploded. Because mine sure did!

See, when he was 15 months old he went to see the Uber Allergist Specialist which he sees once a year. He's the Big Cheese of Pediatric Allergy there at Johns Hopkins. We love him with the intensity of a billion suns. He's the fellow that you're not allowed to speak to on the phone but you're allowed to speak to many of his underling doctors who are assigned to you at any given time who is your intercessory with Big Cheese--much like the purpose of Catholic patron saints. Anyway, at the time he said that about half of the kids in Peanut's boat suddently click with the chewing thing between 18 and 24 months and half of them don't. Of the half that don't, they require occupational therapy to teach them how to chew and swallow properly. Seems strange that kids would need that at all, but as we've learned very young children with food allergies are terrified of food on several levels and resist any progress with eating and exploring with new foods, textures, consistencies, flavors, and anything else you can invent food-wise. So they need to be taught by specialists how to overcome their paranoias and do it correctly so they can move on to normal foods and beyond formulas and jarred baby food, which is all that Peanut trusts at this point.

I was resisting this therapy idea for some time, thinking that if he could just get enough different solid "snack" types of foods to try that it would click for him and we wouldn't need the hassle. That's apparently not to be. So we will try to get him into a very good program here that teaches kids his age to eat and, surprise surprise, these same people also teach them to speak at the same time. Seriously, who would have ever thought of this?? I am absolutely amazed that his speaking was related to his issues with allergies all this time.

And YOU thought I was just a bad mother. Stick it, jerks!!

P.S. Happy Birthday BStephanie! You're old!

I Regret to Inform You....

2009-07-27T08:44:00.005-04:00

Regrets. I've got 'em. The first regret I have is that I've apparently been lacking in my entertain-the-masses duties, according to all of two people. I haven't posted much of anything this month, and not because I've been having an amazing, exciting summer, but exactly the opposite. Every day is much like the others, so there's nothing new to report other than I'm alive. And you can just go ahead and assume that anyway, barring any large news stories contrary to that assumption. (Reminds me of what my dad always says when we wish him a safe flight home: "If I don't, you'll hear about it on the news!") So really, you haven't been missing much. But apparently I have. Hence the lack of writing.

Regret #2: that I'm not in the hospital at this point. I was telling Lovely Lisa the other day that I feel genuinely awful that I'm not at least on bed rest by now, and hospitalized at the most. I've been threatening/been threatened with horrible news this entire pregnancy, only to have it pan out that I'm still merrily chugging along at nearly 34 weeks. This is not to say there are no more concerns, but so far none of them have forced me into desperate circumstances. Or at least none beyond guilting my loving friends into helping me out when apparently there was no need to help me at all. I can only blame one set of people for this paradox: My Loving Friends. Yes YOU all are to blame for this and let me tell you why. You have all admitted to sending good thoughts and prayers in my direction for months. How many times have you been warned to be careful what you pray for, huh?!? God is listening! What, do you think this is some kind of joke or something?? My goodness folks, if you expect me to wind up medically incapacited at some point it would really help if you didn't pray for the opposite effect. And on top of that, you actually volunteered to take my irritating child when I asked you to, which has significantly lowered my blood pressures all around! So on top of praying to the one person who can actually perform miracles in this department, you also did all you could to help me physically. I just don't know what to say to that except that my still being in tact and running on full steam here is all your doing. I just hope you're all sufficiently happy now.

And finally, regret #3: not speaking to my son directly since the day he was born. Supposedly speaking to him results in his speaking back to me or some such voodoo like that. But since I don't talk to anyone on earth if I don't have to, let alone my adorably annoying children, my kids don't hear "words and phrases" or "communication in any form." This has led to Peanut's inability to speak on command. At 21 months he should be saying at the very least six words, and by two years should be speaking in two-word phrases. Pfffttttppppphahahahahaha! Oh my, but he is no where close to that. Now, PW wasn't a quick, early talker herself (again with the not talking to her either), but extended family came through and talked to her instead and now you couldn't pay her to shut up (I know this for a fact from sorry experience). Peanut has not had the travelling advantages that PW had early in her life and he is paying for it now. So today he has a hearing test to make sure he's hearing us correctly, which I'm assuming he is, and tomorrow he's being evaluated by speech therapists to make sure he doesn't require professional intervention (which I'm guessing they'll say he does, regardless of whether or not he actually does require it because that's simply what they do). His pediatrician, Dr. Smart-alec, isn't overly concerned as he himself didn't say a word until he was three and he seems to speak OK now and all, but ever since the incident he and his overwhelming guilt will never allow him to take things in stride with Peanut ever again. Hey, whatever does the trick.

And FINALLY finally, Regret the Fourth is admitting to you jerks on facebook that I have occasional bouts of stupidity in my head that I typically keep to myself as a form of natural deception in an attempt to convince you I'm a genius. I regret this because according to two of you bastards, I'm not good at keeping those thoughts to myself at all. In fact, according to one of you, that's exactly what my blog is for. My blog (this one right here) is full of nothing but idiotic ramblings having no purpose here on earth except to expose my vast lack of intelligence on any scale. Did I mention I hold grudges? And that I gave you ample opportunities to take back what you suggested, which neither of you cared to do? I just thought I should remind you two of that. Every single time I speak to you from now on. You know, because we're friends and all.

My Kid Is More Talented Than Your Kid

2009-07-15T12:59:00.006-04:00

Now, I don't normally brag about my kids on my blog. Mostly because it isn't funny at all. I mean, come on. "My kid is better than your kid at something and allow me to prove it here! Are you laughing yet?" No. However, I will at this time point out that my child is better than your child at something. No, she can't speak in grammatically correct sentences in our language or any other language, nor is she terribly polite when she's angry ("OK, Your Highness...." Why does my child have to be just. like. me?).

However, one thing she's always excelled at was drawing. This kid can draw some pretty amazing things. She can draw the hell out of any character on SpongeBob, as well she should given the number of episodes she sees in a week (Me: "Oh look, it must be another SpongeBob marithon." Husband: "Isn't every day a SpongeBob marathon?"). But this kid also has creativity coming out of every orafice. No kidding. She has actually come to the point in her artistic progression where she is equal to me (not that that's saying much, but I AM in my 30s remember) in artistic talent. The first picture she ever drew that actually looked exactly like it was supposed to look was of a bunch of balloons. She was two. I was thrilled. And she's excelled at an impressive rate since that time.

She can usually draw more complicated characters than this so that in and of itself was not impressive so much here, but what shocked the Husband and I about the following drawing on her favorite medium, the ProDoodle, was how obvious the intent of her expression was. I mean, it's as plain as day to us. Tell me if it's as obvious to you what this is a picture of:

It's a damn fencing match. A fencing match! It even has a sign. And check out the masks and foils, let alone the stances. Where on earth does she get this stuff anyway?

A Fool In Love

2009-07-08T13:52:00.003-04:00

Hey, remember that writing contest where everyone submitted stories to be included in the NieNie Fund book? I sent in a handful of stories at the time, nearly all of which came directly from this blog. I could only manage to come up with one previously unread story. It wasn't the one that got picked, obviously. Possibly because it was depressing and pathetic. I don't know. Anyway, I figured I'd finally stick it on the old blog. Again, for posterity's sake. Man, posterity is SO fricking lucky!

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A few friends and I were talking the other day. I wondered aloud how some people managed to get married in this world, what with them being complete freaks and all. Then I continued by noting that I'm positive many, if not all, of the people I've met have wondered the very same about myself, calling my husband's selection criteria into serious question.

It should come as quite a shock then to learn that no fewer than five men/boys/weirdoes have sought my hand, some with more aggressiveness than others. I think the most aggressive of the group had to be Crazy Italian Boyfriend. I will call him Guido. I met Guido at work and my-oh-my was he crazy. However, I didn't know this until later. On our first date his incomprehensible ranting was endearing--after all, I assumed he was showing his Crazy because he was perhaps a bit nervous on our first date together. And our second date. And our third date. It was on that third date that I came to the conclusion that his insanity was not a nervous mental tick, but rather his normal state of mind. It hit me right about the time we finished watching a movie and he turned to me and announced that he was going to marry me but we had to do it right away so we should go ring shopping as soon as possible. Overwhelmed by his romantic gesture, I swooned, "Excuse me?" To which he insisted this was the prescribed course of action, after which he gave me a rundown of his savings account and how much of a ring he could afford. "Must...escape...Nutty...McStraightjacket...." I whispered to my terrified myself.

It's here that I would like to abandon my Christian principles and pick the man apart. First of all, I dated him for his sexy uniform. He was a cop, complete with badge and gun and everything (more on that later). I will also admit that I found him more than attractive even in civilian clothing, let alone in the uniform (the rippling pectorals didn't hurt, either). He was genuinely kind to me--at first--and I found his Brooklyn accent amusing as well. A few conversations at work with him (he stopped me in the hall each time to talk to me, which was intensely flattering) and I was taken. Sure, he talked about odd things, but who doesn't have strange thoughts, right? So I decided to date him. And kissing him was fun, too (yes, I was a kissing slut. Shut up.).

When the real Crazy started to come out I learned that he was not the funny or entertaining kind of crazy, but rather the fricking scary kind of crazy. He would drop off photos to be developed at the drug store and use an alias. He never put down his address or his real phone number. When we decided to meet at a Metro subway stop to go into D.C. on a date, he pretended to be talking on a pay phone until I arrived so no one would know he was waiting for someone. He never sat with his back to the door. You know, stuff like that. Then he'd brag about the neighbors he'd spied on as a strange sort of father-son bonding activity he and his dad used to do when he was young. He suddenly decided he desperately wanted to work for the CIA, and he filled out their application in a second-grader's scrawl in pencil (he surely could have done no worse if he'd filled it out in crayon). I imagine his being thrown out of the Navy after only a few months in (for what he claimed was a problem with authority, but which later came out to be for psychological issues, like...wait for it...delusions of grandeur--the real kind) probably did not help his chances either (thankfully, they never called).

Guido used to regale me with his brilliant thoughts, all of which he repeatedly insisted were completely original, despite my having learned some of the very same concepts in my college Freshman entry-level classes (which he never believed). And he proudly invented inventions, brushing away my comments that they already existed. When I told my father about the insanity I had immersed myself in, he exclaimed, "You know, one day you're going to be watching the news and you'll see this guy on the steps of city hall, ranting and raving, wrapped in a Nazi flag, and you'll say, 'Hey! I used to date that guy!'" Indeed.

Why didn't I drop him sooner? The gun that he carried everywhere whether he was in uniform or not. Angering/surprising an armed, insane police officer is not my idea of bright. And frankly, I loved living at that time and did not wish to stop. So I kept dating him, putting off his matrimonial advances, and trying to gradually distance myself until perhaps he tired of me. I intentionally made comments that I knew he strenuously disagreed with. My favorite response came after I suggested that if a wife made more money than her husband she should go to work and he should stay home and raise the children. He FLIPPED OUT. Did I mention he disapproved of the fact that I had a job at all, saying that I was the cause of the decline of society? I asked sarcastically if I should be still sitting in my parents' house, waiting for a banker to knock on my door and propose marriage to me. He said yes. And he was very, very serious. Again, with the Crazy. So suggesting that a wife should be the breadwinner I think finally did the lad in and he never pushed the marriage issue after that. However, he still wouldn't leave me.

I had been looking for a good enough excuse to dump him--an excuse so obvious that even he would see the value in it--and I found it at Thanksgiving. A kind couple in his church congregation had invited him to their Thanksgiving feast and he invited me to go with him. He lived a good 45 minutes from me and traffic was terrible. I arrived at his place 15 minutes late. He had already left. No note. No directions to the couple's home. No nothing. I was angry, to say the least. I called his cell phone from a payphone nearby and he was already having dinner. He said I was late so why should he wait for me? I gave him my one good fricking reason, which he had apparently not thought about prior to my pointing it out to him. I hung up on him and drove home. I spent Thanksgiving in my apartment, alone. I was thrilled and relieved.

The following Monday after work I knew I would run into him on my way out the door. I asked my boss to walk with me, which he didn't mind at all. My boss was somewhat wide, and I figured if shots rang out I could use his body as a shield. I saw Guido standing near the exit, waiting for me. He asked if he could talk to me and I told him no. He asked again as I walked past, again telling him he could not, nor could he at any point in the future. I kept walking and lived to tell the tale. He emailed me a few times afterwards, which only set my blood pressure spiking, and he eventually stopped after my many angry responses pointing out his raving lunacy to him. He married some poor, young, unsuspecting thing, despite her mother's pleas to reconsider. And then he got fired for spying on his coworkers--something he found perplexing since he was positive that they were terrorists. "Stupid laws!" he complained. So. Very. Comforting.

Is there a moral to this story? But one: clearly, I am entirely and completely irresistible. And you can take that to the bank/asylum.

Goodnight, Loud Prince....

2009-06-30T14:18:00.006-04:00

I honestly can't believe I'm still getting visitors to this blog from people googling how to murder people and get away with it. I admit, the most recent search from an individual in England is my favorite so far though: "how to kill your girlfriend and get away scott free like no csi stuff or nothing." That's the British education system for you there, friends. Sooooo many things wrong with that search specifically, sooooo many things wrong with that person in general.

Is it bad that of the 14,351 celebrities to die within the last two weeks the one that devastated me the most was that of Billy Mays? And not just because I was in the planning process of making fun of him on my blog, either (THANKS FOR THAT). I genuinely liked seeing his huge face screaming at me through my TV. I watched a program on TV pitchmen not too long ago and they interviewed Billy. I was absolutely dumbfounded. He was...normal. He spoke in a quiet, calm voice, and he sat there like a regular person and not, you know, racing around the room at a fevered pace with the interviewer throwing one word at a time at him with every lap past him. I don't know what I expected him to sound like in reality, either, but it sure wasn't that. I guess I was imagining him at home, sitting at the dinner table with his family, screaming, "SO IT TURNS OUT THAT LUMP ON MY LEFT TESTICLE WAS JUST BENIGN THANK GOODNESS BECAUSE I WAS GETTING WORRIED. WHERE'S THE BUTTER? JOHNNY, GO GET IT FROM THE FRIDGE WILL YOU? AND WILL SOMEONE PASS THE SALT PLEASE?" Turns out he was normal all those years and we just never knew it. Surprising, really.

Anyway, I'm sad that he's gone. My New York City Slider Station and I will miss him severely. I'll also miss my opportunity to tell him personally that the damn thing doesn't work!! Stupid slider station.

And yeah, Michael Jackson's gone too, but he wasn't putting out any new music anyway. Meh.

Hey, speaking of things not working, did you know there are companies and agencies out there that actually test TV products to ensure they actually do what they claim to do? And that they can halt sale of the product and impose heavy fines if found otherwise? Whodathunk?! I just assumed buying things off TV was akin to buying magic elixers from 19th century travelling salesmen (which I do infrequently); you buy at your own risk and if you get a dud, hey, you're stupid! Not so! And did you know that these companies also guiltlessly admit to raising the shipping and processing fees to make an extra buck? I knew they did, but I didn't expect them to fess up to it. Amazing what having a lack of conscience will do for you these days.

FYI: one company tested the ShamWow absorbant cloths on the show and concluded that they do indeed do everything they claim to be able to do. So I ran out and bought some. No, I haven't tested them yet. Why would I? That's what those companies are for, remember?

"Dear Abby"'s Most Helpful Advice

2009-06-27T13:59:00.005-04:00

We're doing a quite bit around here to prepare for Baby #3. One thing that appears to be essential is finding sleeping arrangements for this young thing (supposedly dresser drawers are no longer kosher or something; whatever). I belong to a parenting group out here and we have a fancy mailing list and everything. One day a mother in the group was selling quite a bit of her baby stuff for very cheap and I noted a mini-pack-n-play for $25. Hardly ever been used and exactly what I'd been looking for. How great is that? So she drove it over and we made the exchange. At the time she asked how far along I was and when I told her she very wonderfully exclaimed, "Why, I'd never guess you were that far along! You look great!" I felt fabulous. Right until I remembered that she had likely already read about my rant regarding such things in the parenting newsletter I write for. Yes, My Neighbor Melissa Who Lives Three Doors Down From Me asked me to write a humor article for the parenting newsletter each month. I'm sure she's regretting that decision now, but there's also little she can do about it without hurt feelings ensuing (mostly hers, like when I set her car on fire out of spite).

Looking for something to write about on my blog today and not actually wanting to write it, allow me to reproduce that month's article here, won't you? Yes, I am that lazy. Take it or leave it.

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

Q: Dear Abby,

I’m 34 weeks pregnant with my first baby. My husband has shown less and less interest in me physically over this pregnancy as my girth has gradually increased and I worry that he won’t ever be attracted to me again, even after the baby’s born. Do you think he’ll ever think I’m attractive?

Sincerely,
Heartsick

A: Dear Heartsick,

Well, that kinda depends on if you were attractive before. If you weren’t, then there’s probably not a lot of hope for you now. Good luck, Gigantor!

Hey, that totally reminds me of a story! I was six months along with my first pregnancy when my husband and I flew out to spend Christmas with my family. None of them had seen me pregnant so I was a bit nervous. I’m the baby of the family and the only girl to boot, so I didn’t know how my family, particularly my parents who still treat me like I’m five, would take to seeing me very pregnant and, you know, adult-ish. When I got a moment alone with my folks I decided to satisfy my curiosity and simply ask if they thought it was strange to see me pregnant. And my ever-helpful mother immediately replied, “Oh honey, you’re supposed to look puffy.”

OK, 1.) Thanks a lot, Mom,
and 2.) NOT WHAT I MEANT.

I’m working on my third pregnancy right now and am recently into my second trimester. You would have thought that my mother would be used to seeing just how huge I can get during a pregnancy, despite my never gaining more than 23 pounds total per ordeal thankyouverymuch. And yet, last week I caught my mother telling complete strangers (to her AND me I might add) over the phone that I am most likely having twins. Mind you, I’m not. When I corrected her she said,

“Are you sure? They have sonograms now that can tell you these things.”
“YES Mom, I’m sure. I’ve had three sonograms so far and they’ve each said there’s just one baby in there.”
“Perhaps you should check again. Sometimes those things can be wrong.”

SIGH. I’m getting to the point in my pregnancy when I’m becoming quite insane, belligerent (more than usual I mean) and rude (actually, that’s about the same). I swear that the next time someone asks if I’m overdue or just expecting multiples, I’m going to take that person’s fist and shove it down their throat. So, you know, don’t ask that. ‘Cause I don’t want to have to give birth in prison.

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

FYI, Melissa's husband (who had read this article previously) asked me recently if I was having twins. Because he's that VERY FUNNY KIND OF PERSON. I'M WATCHING YOU, PAL. AND YOUR CAR.

Spread the Talent

2009-06-23T10:18:00.004-04:00

Even if you've never seen an episode of SpongeBob, you've gotta admit this is pretty funny. (For those who haven't seen an episode, Gary is SpongeBob's pet snail. All snails sound and act like cats where SpongeBob lives.)

Apparently the voice talents behind SpongeBob and his friends wanted to prove they were capable of more than just cartoons (or so goes the story they tell anyway). Heh heh. The "Singin' in the Rain" bit still makes me laugh.

Revelation: the Creepy Kind

2009-06-18T15:18:00.004-04:00

My boy Peanut is adorable, despite the crying. And yet, I get the uneasiest feeling in my gut when I put him in one specific outfit:

Like I've seen him somewhere else before.

Keeps me up nights.

An Apron Has a Thousand Faces

2009-06-16T10:14:00.006-04:00

Hey, hey, hey, remember back when I finally won a blog giveaway and got that beautiful apron that Lovely Loralee made and subsequently mailed to me? And I said I'd post pictures of it when I got it? And then I never did it? And you all forgot? Except Loralee who now thinks I'm the most ungrateful person ever? Well, fret not my little hamsters, I've finally downloaded the pictures and am prepared to post them at this time! Unfortunately, the cat was far more tolerant of wearing clothing than I had previously anticipated (lousy cat!) so those pictures were less than exciting. So I had to find other, BETTER models to show off this gorgeous apron! Let's go!

Tic, you irritating cat! Run away! Do something! You're boring! Stupid thing.

Peanut, pre-haircut. He's wondering why I'm abusing him so (with the apron and the girly hairstyle)

By far, the most cooperative of my models.

A tad too cooperative.

And the youngest, SweetPea. She was asleep at the time. Wake up! You're as boring as the cat!

Thank you, Loralee! It's gorgeous! I will make sure not to wear it around any foodstuffs so as to not soil it. 'Cause we sure wouldn't want that to happen. You know, more than it has been already being dragged around the house by my various models. Hooray for family! And free crap!

A Veritable Online Book of Faces

2009-06-11T09:33:00.003-04:00

Wow, I haven't posted in eight days! Did anyone notice but me? No? Fine. Now, it's not uncommon for me not to post for short periods of time, but there are usually other reasons for it. Like, I hate you or something. You know, good reasons. But this past hiatus is due to only one person: Nancy. I feel very comfortable in talking about my friend, Nancy, on my blog because she has never ONCE deemed her time useless enough to visit here. Ever. No, Nancy only does facebook, that treasure-amongst-preteens. She has made this very explicitly clear on more than one occasion. If we want to communicate outside of email and Christmas cards, it will only be through facebook.

Fine. So when I got that email reminder telling me I was ignoring valuable friends on facebook RIGHT NOW, I finally gave in and signed up. And oh my, the glory I beheld before me! Why, the stalking possibilities are up there in the thousands of dollars!

Now, I'm still new to this facebook thing by nearly a week (nearly a week of reading about people's thoughts, mocking others, and taking online quizzes and ignoring all else in my life, if I may be specific). If I understand this correctly, the concept behind this game is to con/guilt/confuse as many friends/brief acquaintences/total strangers as possible into admitting they know you and adding you as one of their "friends," thus pushing your overall numbers high enough until someone wins. Is that about the long and short of it? What do we get at the end? A prize of some construction? I sure hope it's candy. Because candy is totally worth exposing my personal information to a gaggle of people I barely know.

And is it just me, or is this publicizing of one's thoughts in brief sentences for all the world to see exactly like Twitter? I hate Twitter! I don’t even care about what I think about every second of the day, let alone anyone else on earth. And I'm the most interesting person I know! You could be the most fascinating person on the planet and I wouldn’t care what you’re thinking every blasted second of the day. So stop asking me to. 'Cause it ain't gonna happen. Now let us never speak of this again.

If you are already on The Facebook and I haven't yet added you to my group of facebook friends it's because I don't have your email address, I don't know your full name, or I hate you. If I have your email and I know your name, well, I guess you know where that leaves us. Take the hint already.

And Nancy? Thanks. THANKS A LOT.

Why Do I Even Bother?

2009-06-03T19:34:00.005-04:00

Blogs are for whining and complaining, right? Right? Fantastic. Let it proceed.

So yesterday I developed a bad headache that I knew would wind up to be a migraine. I knew because I'm brilliant. Around 9:15 pm, coincidentally right at the moment The Husband walked in on me watching that freakshow "18 Kids and Counting" and said, "What the hell is this?!" I developed said whopper of a migraine. After arguing for 30 seconds about who "the hell" the Duggars were and if, in fact, The Husband had indeed heard of them before that very moment like I know he had, I stumbled to bed. And I didn't sleep until 4:45am. This had to be one of the worst and most painful migraines I've ever had in my life. And not only that, it freaked me the crap out because it didn't hurt in the same places it usually does, cold didn't help it but made it ten times worse, and lying down made it downright unbearable. So I would sit in bed clutching my head until I would pass out from lack of sleep, only to bolt straight upright in bed again 30 seconds later because the excrutiating pain had woken me up. As I mentioned, this went on all. night. long. *

Finally, I got desperate enough that I decided to call the hospital, or more accurately, the Labor and Delivery doctors at the hospital since they love to hear about any complaint you have while you're pregnant. Now, you know my thoughts on hospitals and their effectiveness when it comes to solving migraines. As in, they suck at it. And so it was with great misery and desperation that I called them at 4:30 in the morning. This after avoiding such all night, thinking The Husband would have to miss work and Peanut would starve to death while I was gone, and blah blah blah. I finally stopped caring about my loved ones at all and made the call. I mumbled my problem and the doctor asked a couple of questions and said...wait for it..."Take some Tylenol and call back in an hour if it isn't better." If I could have seen straight I would have driven to the hospital and murdered this doctor. TYLENOL?? OF COURSE! IT'S ALL SO CLEAR NOW. THE WORST MIGRAINE EVER CAN BE SOLVED BY TYLENOL. WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF IT FIRST? BECAUSE I DIDN'T GO TO EXPENSIVE DOCTOR SCHOOL, THAT'S WHY.

But I couldn't see to drive, so I decided to do what she said just out of spite. "FINE, I'll take the damn Tylenol. Stupid doctor. Yes! Tylenol! That genius of medications that solves absolutely nothing! Hooray! *popping of Tylenol in mouth* Just wait you jerks. My brain will be bleeding out of my ear when I show up on your doorstep in an hour, you wait and see. Tylenol. That's the fricking stupidest thing I've been told yet and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."

I woke up two hours later to my inner baby trying to kick her way out of my stomach and with the worst migraine of all time, uh, gone. I was left with only a standard migraine. I can deal with that. I know how to handle that kind. That other kind, not so much, obviously. And I missed the one hour deadline to complain to the hospital, too. Damn.

No, I will most certainly NOT apologize to you, Tylenol! Where were you all those years before when I needed you?? Sure, you come riding in on your white steed at the last possible moment before I cram my head into the garbage disposal and claim victory, but that just isn't good enough! It doesn't make up for all the other failures, do you hear me??

Stupid Tylenol.

*In case you're confused, I long ago made a pact with The Husband that my migraine=his sleeping somewhere else. He gets sleep and I get to thrash and writh about in agony without worrying that I'm keeping him awake. Plus I can hog the blankets.

I Love You Too, Aubrey!

2009-05-27T09:06:00.003-04:00

My friend, Greta, has three kids. The oldest is Aubrey, a most delightful child. This is the girl who just this past Sunday raced down the hall and tried with mighty intent to cut in front of me on her way to the Primary room. And being the absolute and utter child that I am, I continually pushed in front of her so she couldn't get around (what, like it was an emergency that she had to be there at a certain time? I didn't think so). And when it finally looked as if she would get past my hulking frame I took the tone of voice I usually take when addressing medium-aged children and said, "YOU WOULDN'T BE TRYING TO CUT IN FRONT OF ME, WOULD YOU??" To which she sheepishly smiled and then immediately began to push past me again. But my legs are longer so I prevailed in the end anyway. Now that lass is my kinda girl.

A couple of days ago this same lovely child wrote her parents lovely thank you letters, which, combined with childhood honesty, turned out to be lovely insults to their parenting skills. I love it! However, reading through her notes to each of them (a good beginning effort for her), and feeling the need to appoint myself Role Model For Disillusioned Children Everywhere, I decided I can do even better. Take copious notes, my dear girl!

Dear Mom,

I love you! I love the way you pay attention to all of my other siblings before me; they need it more than I and it also teaches me to not have to rely on others for the attention I so desperately crave and that the school counselors insist I need to be a functioning member of society. I really appreciate that you make me wait for meals, even though I've been hungry and begging for food for hours; next time I promise not to tell the pediatrician that you do that...because I love you! I really like how you laugh at everything I do, even when I didn't mean to be funny or when I'm crying. After all, bad attention is better than none at all!

Thank you for doing chores and cleaning up my "messes" and making me food and sending me to school. You're right, that's so much better than loving me. I also love the rags you dress me in because I'm pretty sure it's teaching me humility somehow. According to my Primary teachers, that's a good thing, even if I don't get any sleep because I'm crying too much. And thank you for all the compliments you give me, even if they do sound pretty damn hollow.

Thank you for once in a blue moon retelling my birth story. If nothing else, it makes it pretty clear that all those security precautions at the hospital meant I wasn't switched at birth after all. And the recounting of your pain and misery just to see me into this world really makes me grateful I wasn't twins or we both would have been out on the street ages ago. Only one of me means you only resent me 50% of the time! Good thing I love you 100% of the time to make up for it!

You're such a great mother, Mom. Other kids dread Mother's Day, too, right?

Love,
Aubrey

Dear Dad,

Thanks for being such a fantastic parent! I love you so much! And thanks for marrying Mom. Are you sure you really hunted around first though?

Love,
Aubrey

So Why Is PW At My House Again?

2009-05-22T13:40:00.004-04:00

It's been a while since I've talked about The Pregnancy, so let's get on with it. First off, let me get something out of the way. All of the dear people who have actual contact with me and know of the looming medical problems I have hanging over my head always ask me how I'm feeling. This is terribly kind and thoughtful of them, particularly when accompanied by that worried furrowed brow-thing they do at the same time. Allow me to answer you here with the same answer I've been giving all along: I feel fantastic, thanks for asking! And this is where those of you who have been kind enough to entertain certain peawhistles in your homes give me a look that says, "Then why the hell am I babysitting your kid for you every week??" Because I asked and you're nice, that's why. You're an angel for this, trust me.

Allow me to explain the situation further, won't you? I have two issues the OBs are constantly hounding me with, or rather one big issue with two defining initial symptoms. The two symptoms are extreme protein loss and high blood pressure. OK, prepare yourselves for talk about my urination. Peeing protein doesn't hurt one bit. Losing protein doesn't hurt one bit. You'd never know you were doing it without a test telling you so. So there's that. High blood pressure doesn't hurt. It hurts your heart, sure, but you can't feel that. Occasionally I can feel my heart practically beating out of my chest, but that's usually when Peawhistle is bugging the crap out of me, hence why she's now at your house instead of mine. Otherwise, I would never have guessed my BPs are higher than normal without doctors telling me so. I feel fine pretty much all the time, aside from occasional pregnancy annoyances that most pregnant mothers deal with. I have more energy than ever and I find it difficult to sit still sometimes because my body is telling me I'm just fine. I have to force myself to sit down at the very least, let alone lie down when I can. Without OBs thrown in the mix I would think this was a perfectly normal and healthy pregnancy. However, it is the tests contradicting my opinion of my overall health. And it is the OBs conducting these tests telling me that if things get worse I'll be put on bed rest, and if they get worse than that I'll be hospitalized until the birth. I really, really, really don't want that, and neither does anyone else related to me in any way, hence why I took the bull by the horns once I discovered a problem rearing its annoying head. That's why you're watching Peawhistle and why also, so far, I'm doing great. And you have my undying devotion for it, too, believe me. You'll all be getting cakes after this affair is over with.

As for my tests of late, they're looking good, although I admit that hinging on the cusp of a potentially life-threatening disease that has no personally perceivable symptoms is not encouraging and isn't doing my peace of mind any good at all (otherwise I'm terrific!). They did baseline tests for everything to make sure they have something to compare it to if things start to go south. I still have protein in my urine, but not huge amounts yet so they say I'm still within normal ranges. Also, my BPs have been down these last two times. I got very hopeful by this news and hoped the OB would be as well until she informed me that they expected them to drop in the second trimester anyway as all women's do during this time, but they were up initially in the second trimester too, so I don't know what they're going on about. But at least they're down for now. She did hint that third trimester is when they start to go up again so that's when they would think a problem would come up if at all, but at least I've got 4-5 more weeks until then, and she said if I do wind up with pre-eclempsia again they could induce as early as 37 weeks if all is still going relatively well. So that's not tooooo long, but long enough to be worrisome.

Also, I've found that yet another switch in OBs has helped tremendously. The second-to-last one went into labor so I switched to the one I wanted all along for the last two visits (the ones with lower BPs I might remind you). I love this woman because she is very, very, very calm. There are no emergencies with this woman, no life-or-death consequences, no "YOU BETTER LOWER YOUR BLOOD PRESSURES OR YOU'LL KILL YOUR BABY." Just an all-around optimistic and happy, easy-going attitude. The woman is so calm I wouldn't be surprised at all if a waft of weed followed her into every appointment; in fact, if it helps me to be calm too, I'd highly encourage it from her. So thank you, pot-smoking OB! Your attitude keeps me calm. Let's hope it carries over into the next trimester. Otherwise you'll be seeing a lot more of my dear mother, and that's not good for anyone's blood pressure, trust me.

Come On, Be A Sport!

2009-05-20T11:26:00.005-04:00

You ever have so much you can write about but you can't decide which topic to choose so you just sit staring at your computer hoping someone else will give you an excuse not to write at all? That's pretty much what I do every day. And it's also, obviously, why I don't post every day. So when you're sitting behind your computer wondering why I'm not enlightening your world at that very moment, chances are I'm thinking the exact same thing about you. I sure hope that keeps you awake tonight.

So as long as I'm here I might as well write something. I have a stash of already-written pieces that were written for one reason or another that I plan to post one day, but I feel like writing something from scratch. FOR YOU. Actually, for me since I don't care about you, but you benefit so you can pretend it's for you. You, the one who fails to entertain me every second of my life forcing me to provide entertainment for myself. Are you catching on yet?

So sports. It would appear that I'm not terribly physically talented when it comes to outdoor, or even indoor as it turns out, sports. Allow me to take you on a tour of my life vs. the sporting world.

Physical Education: Ah, P.E. I enjoyed elementary school P.E. to the extent that it wasn't classroom study and those days were the only days my mother allowed me to wear pants to school because I had just "so many adorable dresses and that's what you're wearing." (If you ever wonder why Peawhistle doesn't wear dresses except on Sunday, I guarantee some of that childhood trauma got passed along in there somehow.) Other than the no classroom/pants benefit, I saw little point in P.E. I sucked at everything. Gymnastics, running, basketball, obstacle courses, everything. The worst moments were the P.E. tests we were put through where the whole class got to watch you suck at it and fail miserably rather than just a small select group (of horrible, taunting children). Ah, Chin-up Bar. My old nemesis. I will never forgive you for the hours of torture you put me through. Dangling there, helpless, occasionally flinging my legs in an unorderly fashion in a vain attempt to propel my body in an upward direction, all while the gym instructor privately rolled his eyes and shouted mildly encouraging statements like, "Pull up! Use your arms, Abby, your ARMS." Very helpful advice. No, really.

The P.E. abuse continued on through high school. And then there was college. In the years prior to my arriving, BYU had only one class everyone had to take to graduate. I can't even remember what it was called, but half of the class was a health class and the other half was a running/jogging/torture class where, rumor had it, you had to run/jog/torture yourself for 20 miles. SCREW THAT. Fortunately for the university and my temper, the requirements had just changed by the time I got there and instead of the Health Class From Hell, you could instead take three sporting classes to fulfil the requirement instead. I chose the three sports I thought I could handle the most without therapy, crying, and heavy medication: tennis, golf, and bowling.

Tennis. My, my, do we go back some! I took tennis back when all my friends were taking it in grade school during the summer. It wasn't too bad because I didn't stick out so much then, mostly because everyone sucked at it. We were just kids starting out and every one of us was proud just to occasionally hit the ball when it came to our side of the court. I only assumed my talent for this sport would have somehow improved magically over the span of a decade and so I chose it as my first class. I don't really know how to describe how ineffective my performance in this endeavor was, but suffice it to say the whole of the experience was nothing less than a perpetual comedy of errors. I don't even know how it's possible, but I wound up being worse at tennis in college than I ever was as a child. At least back then I won a round or two, even if only by default; but college? No. People were kind to me, but you could see just how much they loathed the experience of being paired with me.

Serving was always the worst. Once in a while the ball actually left my side of the court, only to wind up on the street by the pizza parlor. But usually the ball landed right back on my head resulting in many a concussion-like state during play. When the ball came to me from my opponent it either went right past me or back out on the street like I was some MLB superstar going for a homerun record. But I really knew I was never meant to excel in this sport when the instructor himself finally took me aside and tried to give me personal lessons. Away from everyone else, mind you. Usually he had a baffled look on his face, wondering how I could possibly be this retarded. Every ball, served softly and slowly, directly at me, went right past. Sometimes I even swung at it to show I was trying, but usually it was just pointless to waste the energy, hence his frustration.* I have a couple of friends who play tennis, and very well mind you, who are probably wondering how all this is even possible. I don't know what to tell you. I don't know myself. I tried, honestly. Don't fret though, it gets worse.

Golf. I enjoy a round of putt-putt so how could I possibly not love golf? Yeah, it was somewhat entertaining, but man did I suck at it. I wasn't too bad at putting, and I even got singled out as a good example once or twice early on in the course. I tell you, those were some of my proudest moments on earth. Aaaaaand then it went downhill from there. Turns out I can't aim when driving the ball, and that's only when I actually managed to hit it (are you detecting a pattern of defectiveness yet?). I don't think I was the worst in the class for once, but I think I was close. In order to pass the class we had to go out to an actual course and play a round. A friend who came from a golfing family felt pity on me and offered to play my required game with me. The day we chose was a gorgeous day: overcast, rainy, with gusting winds. Perfect! If only we'd been struck by lightning too, we could have called it a day! My friend soon realized just how bad I was at this sport and gave me at least three mulligans per hole, even eventually going so far as to stand with her feet around each of the holes so I had no choice but to hit it in. Even after all of this vastly dishonest help, I still wound up with a score of 88. 88 you say? Why, that's excellent! Yes, but not for only nine holes it isn't! Let's move on.

Bowling. *sigh* I don't know where to begin with this. I started at an Obama-level expertise, ending only slightly higher by the end of the class. I had the highest handicap in the class with a whopping 98 (as in, 98 points had to be added on to my score after every game just to make me slightly competetive with the rest of the players). That came in kinda handy come the tournament when I magically began playing better, but it still didn't dull the sting of the fact that I needed such extreme artificial assistance to begin with. There's really nothing more to be said about bowling. Let's just leave it in the past and try to get past it all, shall we?

Peawhistle is in sports now. Or rather, I drive her to gymnastics, she runs around for 45 minutes, and we drive home. Where I take her for gymnastics is actually a pretty hardcore gym that prides itself on creating national-level competetive gymnasts. And then there's Peawhistle who wanders around, doing very little that could actually be defined as gymnastics and showing even less latent talent for it, with me clapping and calling, "Just have fun, honey!" They hate me there.

And thus the genes get passed along. YOU'RE WELCOME SPORTING WORLD.

*If it helps your opinion of me, Bonny and Gwennifer, it turns out I have an awesome backhand. The instructor positioned the racket in my hand, went and served a ball to me, and I hit it right back to him. He was so shocked he didn't even swing at it. He just stood there with his mouth open. He hit another one to me, and I hit it back again, and we actually had an entire match with me using only my backhand. Unfortunately, that wouldn't have sailed in the real world so I didn't pursue it further, but needless to say he was proud of me, even if only for one afternoon.

Crap! Get Yer Crap Rightchere!

2009-05-15T10:35:00.002-04:00

Hey, have you ever looked at my stuff and thought, "Man, what I wouldn't give to have some of Abby's crap!" Well, your wildest dreams are about to come true, friend! I'm selling some of our Very Desirable Crap here at our multi-family yardsale Saturday morning from 8-12 (though rain is expected at around 10ish or so, so you best get up bright and early to catch the great offerings of crap I've got goin' on).

So come on down and give me cash! I promise to give you something in return!

Hey! Guess What I Won and You Therefore Did Not?

2009-05-13T18:01:00.005-04:00

I actually won a blogger giveaway, can you believe it?? I cannot. As I told Lovely Loralee at the time, this is the first time I've won anything without resorting to my usual solution of bribery or life-threatening letters in the mail. I'm so excited I could absolutely assault a stranger!

And what piece of fantastickery did I win? An awesomely Martha Stewartesque homemade apron, seen here:

She herself took this photo (I have yet to receive actual physical evidence of my win. Because she failed to FedEx-Overnight it to me for some strange reason) so I don't see any reason to take another once I get it, and certainly no reason for me myself to model it since I am far too careful to post my actual face (can you imagine the large-scale international kidnapping effort that would be underway within minutes?? Why, it absolutely boggles the paranoid mind.). So if I do post another photo of it in my possession, it will be modeled by one of the Peas or Tic. I prefer the option of Tic if for no other reason than it would really piss her off and the photo I'd get of her would be her racing away with an apron tied around her neck. And how is that possibly not entertainment?

Thanks Loralee! I'll thank you even more once I find out it's not all one Big Fat Lie!

Onion Alert!

2009-05-13T14:44:00.004-04:00

I had grand plans to post something else today, but I have just become aware of this and I feel I must therefore post it instead.

Trekkies Bash New Star Trek Film As 'Fun, Watchable'

OH IF ONLY SOMEONE WOULD BABYSIT MY CHILDREN AFTER DARK SO I COULD GO WATCH THIS.

Ah, Controversy! Is There Anything You Can't Do?

2009-05-11T11:37:00.007-04:00

I love the smell of indignation in the morning! Unfortunately, my last post only vaguely offended two of you, one of whom only if I hadn't been funny about it and the other only because I don't post more often. Poo! What does it take to offend the greatest group of offense-by-proxy crowd on the planet anyway?? Well, at least you all have a sense of humor, which is more than I can say for most jerks in my life. I'm sure you can say the same. Go ahead, say it. On your blog. Naming names. Can't wait to read it.

Oh, and Fred? I can officially now say that I'm intensely proud to know you. Just knowing that you and your entire ancestral line have been chastized by LDS church leaders for over 150 years is simply heartwarming to me. To think: your entire family tree sitting in hell together, reminiscing over the good ol' days. Just brings a tear to your eye, don't it?

Speaking of hell, remember that little boy Peawhistle sentenced to Hades not long ago? Three days later his mother dropped PW off at home after preschool for me and I heard the two of these children express their undying affection for one another and how they will miss each other painfully while separated for the next less-than-24 hours of their little lives. Peawhistle digs the bad boys it would seem. That's fine, but he just better get a good job while he's at it. As my dad said, "Honey, I don't care who you marry, but he just better have a lot of zeroes after his name."

And for the several, several of you from last week's post whose only concern was that you didn't possess a proper recipe for beef stroganoff and would like to have it so that you, too, may know what goodness tastes like, I congratulate you for shunning crap. Welcome to Abby's Quality Cooking That Is Not Crap 101! And the best part that while it isn't cheap, it is easy. Takes me maybe 30 minutes total to make it.

Here's what you do. Go to the grocery store and buy a packet of McCormick's Beef Stroganoff Sauce Mix. See that? You don't even have to take the time to mix the flour and spices yourself, you lazy creations, you! And it tastes just as good and convincing as if you'd slaved over a mixing bowl yourself. It even comes with a helpful recipe on the back of the packet. Here's what else you have to pick up while you're there (assuming you already have water and vegetable oil in your home): 1 c. sour cream, package of wide egg noodles, and at least 1.5 lbs boneless, quality sirloin steak, the leaner the better. The sauce mix contains dehydrated bits of mushroom in it, but if you're a fan of mushrooms you can buy a small can of sliced mushrooms to add as well.

Some variations of stroganoff call for the sirloin to be cut into strips, but we prefer the version with cubed bite-size pieces. If you choose to go this route, make sure not to cut the cubes too small because they will shrink in size and they'll be miniscule and tough to boot. So make them a little larger than what you'd want. Also, try to cut away as much fat as possible. There's nothing worse than sinking your teeth into rubbery steak. Nasty. Also, trimming and cutting the meat is the most time-consuming aspect of this entire venture. And even that doesn't take too long.

Start boiling the water for the egg noodles when you start browning the meat and they should come out timed OK in the end. Brown meat completely in oil, then add 1 c. hot water and the sauce mix packet. Stir, simmer for 10 minutes (while your noodles are cooking for 8 or 9; you can add mushrooms at this point if you choose, or later if you don't like them as soft), add sour cream, remove from heat, stir, and you're done. Add some butter/margarine to the noodles once they're drained. Serve the stroganoff on top of the noodles. Eat. Enjoy. Send me thank you cards.

And for those of you who are culinarily challenged but whose husbands prefer the good version to that dispicable cheap version, I'd be happy to make this for you one day if you like. Because you're nice. And apparently so am I.

*For the rest of the discussion on this subject, and my advice for making beef stroganoff from scratch, see the discussion on Trina's Recipe Blog here.

I Like Beef Stroganoff And I Cannot Lie

2009-05-06T12:48:00.004-04:00

Now, I'm not normally one for complaining about random, stupid stuff (feel free to stop laughing RIGHT THIS DAMN MINUTE), but this has been bugging me for decades and I feel that now's the time to drag it all out in the open. This post is about beef stroganoff (or "stroganov" if you're feeling particularly Russian heritage-ish). So prepare yourselves for a roller coaster of excitement.

You know I love me some Mormons. I have to. I go to church with them every fricking week. But there is one subgroup within the Mormon community that just bugs the crap out of me sometimes. Let me say that I admire a good Mormon who can actually live within his/her means, which is something that escapes many, many of their fellow churchgoers. But what bugs me are the pretentiously cheap Mormons. They also coincidentally happen to be the same Mormons who proudly brag about their pioneer ancestors who heroically swam the Atlantic Ocean with their handcarts clenched between their teeth. You know who I’m talking about. Them. I grew up in a convert family. Our family took every opportunity to make fun of this group and I'm certainly not going to turn my back on family tradition now. On with the beef stroganoff rant.

A quick lesson for all you pioneer-heritage handicapped folks out there: traditional beef stroganoff is made with high quality sirloin steak, egg noodles, a sour cream sauce, and mushrooms (among other things). It is NOT made with 82% lean ground hamburger, rice, and a can of Campbell's cream of mushroom soup. I'll let you soak that in for a minute. Now that the shock of the moment has worn off, allow me to elucidate. If you really want to eat hamburger, rice, and cream of mushroom soup, by all means. It's a nice, cheap dinner and if it's tasty to you, go right ahead. But don't call it beef stroganoff. Because it's not. It's like calling a ham and cheese sandwich "chicken cordon bleu." Surely you see the problem there. And the problem I have personally with this whole mistaken-identity issue is this: I say I am going to/already have made beef stroganoff for my family and you, the snobbishly cheap Mormon, have the gall to look down your prissy nose at me and declare with disgust, "Beef stroganoff? That stuff's disgusting. I don't care for it at all." Well, of course it's disgusting. Or rather, it's disgusting the way YOU make it. I make it properly, which leads to a most exquisitly culinary piece of perfection.

These people's cheap and easy version of a fine dining experience has sullied the good name of what would otherwise be congratulated in every eating circle. Instead, I have yet to meet a Mormon who likes beef stroganoff because in reality they have never experienced what it's supposed to taste like, or that a better and more classic, traditional version is even in existence. Now, you see what happens when you call something something it isn't? YOU MAKE ME LOOK BAD. KNOCK IT OFF. So the next time I talk about making stroganoff for my family and the fact that it was superb (because it was; because I know how to make it), don’t pretend like I’m crazy and lack a discerning palate. BECAUSE I WILL BEAT YOU WITHIN AN INCH OF YOUR CHEAP, LAZY LIFE.

Oh, and speaking of which, I think you left an oxen or two back there in the Atlantic. Better run and fetch 'em.

A Reminder Never Hurts

2009-04-27T14:55:00.006-04:00

I don't deserve such marvelous friends. I'll take 'em, but I don't deserve 'em. My lovely friends, Fred and Ethel Mertz, were browsing in a craft store and found a desk plaque that they thought I would love. So they bought it for me.

As I said at the time, should I ever lack for writing inspiration, I have but one place to look for a reminder. Thank you Fred and Ethel!

Get Yer Handbaskets Here

2009-04-27T13:52:00.007-04:00

Being a terribly Sunday-appropriate topic I mean to post this yesterday, but yesterday wasn't computer-friendly for me. So you're getting it now. The following, by the way, was related by Peawhistle's Sunday School teacher to Peter's mother, Jenny, and to Greta, both of whom told me; I then received personal confirmation by PW's teacher herself this past Sunday.

Last week in Peawhistle's Sunday School class for the 4 and 5-year-old kids they were learning about baptism. Actually, they've been learning about it for quite some time if PW's church art projects have been any indication, but those lessons continued through to last Sunday as well. One of her classmates (who also happens to go to preschool with her) apparently wasn't terribly excited about being baptised when he was older because, like most kids, they think the adult folks in charge of this momentous event are nimrods and are going to drop them in the drink and just let them drown. So this boy told his class that he didn't want to be baptised. And Peawhistle said, "Well, then you'll go to hell."

Let us rank this response using World Olympic Game scoring, shall we?

Accuracy: 10.0

Tactfulness: 0.0

Concern for Her Fellow Man: 2.5

Timing: 10.0

Delivery: 11.15

Overall Score: AWESOME

As both her teacher and Jenny pointed out, they were surprised that PW could come up with such a response. I mean, never mind it's the funniest thing anyone has heard in at least a month's time, her response was actually correct according to our religion. And the most amazing part of this is I didn't teach her that, her father certainly didn't teach her that, and her teacher swears she didn't teach ANY of them that. The only teacher left would be SpongeBob himself, but I honestly don't recall any episodes featuring the link between less baptism = more hell. And believe you me, I've seen every episode ever made as any person who has watched at least a week's worth of Nickelodeon reruns can also claim. Sure, she's heard the word "hell" before (she lives with me if you recall), but to know what it means? And what it'll take to get you there? My goodness, my child is a gospel child prodigy.

Lesson learned: don't screw with Peawhistle. Not only will you get a tongue-lashing, but you'll also likely be told where to go and how to get there. That's my girl.

For Those In Authority

2009-04-24T08:09:00.008-04:00

For those who were looking for the videos in the old Celtic Man post through the link in the last post, I've replaced the broken video links with different (not necessarily better) videos from Youtube. Also, I've added new commentary.

So I went in for my ultrasound on Tuesday to see what's what. They found no signs of any abnormalities associated with Trisomy 13 or 18, so that's good news. They did find an enlarged stomach (the baby's, not mine, although I'm certain they noticed that as well) though, which can be associated with Downs Syndrome. However, given that when I had my Downs Syndrome screening I came out with a lower chance of it than when I went into the screening, they're basically ruling that out as a possibility. Worst case scenario is the baby has a blockage in the intestines which would be fixed with surgery as soon after birth as possible. But more likely than that, there's just a bunch of amniotic fluid in there that hasn't passed out of the stomach and into the bladder yet. So I go back in five weeks to be looked at again to see if it's any smaller. Hey, could be worse.

Good news folks! My blood pressure went down slightly, but the OB wasn't nearly as thrilled about this as I was since it's supposed to go down in the second trimester anyway. But I was in the second trimester when it was going up, so I still claim it as a good sign that all of you stealing my child is working. Thank you so much! And even though she keeps asking me why I keep taking her to her friends' houses (can you guess how often she saw her friends before?), she's still thrilled either way. Thanks to all of you givers out there. And for all of you non-givers, I totally don't blame you. Honest.

Speaking of Peawhistle, she had a bit of a run-in with her instructors at gymnastics a week ago. Because these people serve peanuts directly out of their vending machines, I can't keep Peanut in the waiting room while we wait for PW's class to get over. So I drop off PW and Peanut and I drive around or go to the grocery store or whathaveyou until her class is nearly done and then we go hang out in the doorway for five minutes until she comes out. Every week. Yes, it's just as fun as you're imagining. Anyway, when I went to greet her at the door as she was coming out her instructor (20-ish; surly) informed me that PW had been "nasty" to her teachers that day on the beam. Now, I've seen PW be a little jerk before, but it's almost always completely unintentional. I've never seen her do anything I would label as outright nasty behavior. She's a good kid who has absolutely no tact and very strong opinions (more on that below). But nasty? Hm. So I asked her what she did and apparently PW had been trying to walk across the beam as instructed, but when the teachers went to take her hand to help her across, PW insisted most strenuously and none-too-kindly that she wanted to do it by herself and she didn't need their help. And when they grabbed for her hand anyway, she tried to slap it away. Now, the slapping is inexcusable. I don't tolerate that crap. I've seen her do it many, many times mind you, usually to me, but that doesn't mean it's OK. So I made her apologize to her teachers for being mean, I chastized her all the way home, her father lectured her when he got home, and I reminded her throughout the week that she has to be nice to her teachers because they're there to help her and keep her safe, not hinder her independence as she suspects, and they know what's safe and she doesn't. I told her about her older cousin who was doing something across the beam and wasn't being spotted when she fell and broke...some limb, I can't recall. Not important. Anyway, I think I got the point across. So all week I reminded her that she was to be nice to the teachers and that if she was mean even one more time she would be pulled out of gymnastics permanently.

So this week I asked a kind lady at church to babysit Peanut at home so I could sit and watch PW to make sure she wouldn't wield havoc on the entire gymnasium. And as I watched her walk across the beam all by herself (something she used to refuse to do out of fear) with her teachers merely watching her, I realized why she got upset: she actually CAN do it alone and she knew it. And I was reminded of something Peter's mother, Jenny, said a long time ago. Jenny, Greta, and I were sitting around talking about our kids behind their backs and Jenny said that PW is a very good, sweet kid who plays well on her own and is very nice to others, etc. But she does NOT like being told what to do. And it hit me that that is PW's biggest problem in general when it comes to why she gets in trouble at home or anywhere else. She's a great kid right up until you tell her to do something. And then her head spins around and fire shoots from her eyes and we wind up having to call in the exorcist. AGAIN. And then I realized with a mixture of horror and pride that I am exactly the same way. I mean, exactly. For example:

Poor, unsuspecting individual: "Peawhistle, would you please help me clean up the toys?"
Peawhistle: "Why, sure!" (actually, she says "shee-you-er;" she has the weirdest accent)
vs.
PUI: "Peawhistle, clean up the toys."
PW: "NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!"

PUI: "Hey Abby, would you volunteer to help out with so-and-so some time?"
Me: "Yeah, I'll look at my calendar and see what I can do."
vs.
PUI: "Abby, I need you to do this."
Me: "Yeah, well I need you to go to hell."

You see what I'm getting at. Essentially, we both have a major problem with authority, and I in particular have a problem with those who believe erroniously they hold some authority over me but have yet to prove how this is possible in any way or fashion. And I will gladly tell them this. Peawhistle hasn't yet developed a sense for who actually has authority over her and who does not, but she is sure as hell certain that it doesn't include everyone who's telling her they do. That's my girl.

So my point in telling you all this is to serve as my private warning, particularly to those very kind individuals who have volunteered to take her for an afternoon and have yet to discover for themselves what it's like to order her to do something. Because that sweet smiling face that you all can't believe could turn hideously deformed in a second? Believe you me, it's there. Waiting. Waiting for you to screw up your courage enough to test her limits.

For the record, PW behaved wonderfully in gymnastics this week, doing everything she was told to do, including taking her instructors' hands while on the beam when they dared stretch it forward to her. It took convincing her they were there for her safety and not just because they were jerks who like to boss her around. Safety: cool; bossing: screw you, lady. So don't say I didn't warn you.

Oh, I almost forgot.

I am now taking name suggestions for the newest Pea-? in our blogpod. I liked Kristi's "SweetPea" suggestion from ages ago, but I'm also open to other ideas. Anything?

Owing Taxes on Your Three Wishes

2009-04-15T14:13:00.007-04:00

Well folks, it's tax day! And you all know what that means, don't you? Long-forgotten St. Patrick's Day Memories! Now settle down, settle down. I know I promised this weeks ago, but if there's one thing I'm not too particular about, it's your happiness. So here we are.

When you think of St. Patrick's Day, what do you think about? Leprechauns? Pots of gold? Random green crap? Drunken Irishmen? Drunken non-Irishmen? Correct responses, all. But the Husband and I decided that the best way of celebrating this holiest of holy inebriation holidays would be to pay to see hopefully mostly-sober Irish folks singing on stage. Celtic Thunder/Man you hope? I'm afraid not, although the Husband did at one time suggest that we might see them in concert, to which I laughed and laughed and laughed. And then I laughed some more. "Wait, I assumed you would like them?" he asked. And then I snorted and laughed again. No, gentle readers, we went to see the better of the two groups, Celtic Woman, who was performing on the 17th in Baltimore (aren't we special here in Maryland?). I was surprised that the Husband had suggested we go several months ago, but he lamented that he'd been too tight with money lately and we never get to go out and do fun stuff like that anymore (darn our little ball-and-chain children) and he knew I really liked them. And later I got it out of him that he thinks they're all hot. Fair enough. So my mother flew in extra early to babysit so we could go and we headed off for Baltimore. After parking, we knew we were walking in the right direction given the flow of white-haired PBS-viewing old fogeys headed for the same location.

After finding our seats inside we were awed by the realization that we were, in fact, the youngest people in the entire audience. Being considerably younger than the Husband, I was the youngest in the crowd BY FAR. I think only a few of the performers themselves approached my age range. I sat there thinking how strange it would be to be a young person, have an amazing talent, go on the road with your talent, and find that the only people it attracted were escapees from the old folk's home. Nice.

I won't bore you with all the details from the show, but suffice it to say it was highly entertaining. As always, Chloë Agnew was amazing, although it took me half the show to realize that she was not wearing a short-sleeved shrug over her sleeveless gown, but rather just had a very noticable farmer tan. Despite this revelation, she still managed to wow me/us all. That chick really can sing something fierce.

I was also pleased that they not only decided to sing the very appropriate "Danny Boy" for us that evening, but that they chose not to torture us by having Méav Ní Mhaolchatha attempt to sing it a cappella. You know, seeing as how she sucks at it. As it turns out, she's no longer with the group anymore anyway, saving us all a great deal of nausea that evening. Instead, the four singers sung it in four-part harmony, also a cappella, and a more beautiful rendition I have never heard. The audience didn't even make a sound after it finished they were so stunned (which then turned to a standing ovation). So good call on dumping the crappy chick! It completely made up for the fact that they failed to do justice to one of my favorite songs, "Shenandoah." But they're Irish so I'll give them a break. YOU GET ONE, CELTIC WOMAN.

But the most unexpectedly entertaining part of the evening was dealt to us by the group's fiddler, Máiréad Nesbitt. She is talented, no doubt. And also quite insane. Now, in an interview she claims that what she does she does not consider "dancing," but rather just really getting into her music. Personally, I'd consider it "flinging her body across the stage in a most awkward and delightful fashion that under any other circumstances would conclude with a fractured pelvis and a trip to the emergency room." The fact that she never once landed on any body part other than her feet was jaw-droppingly awing, and it was exciting to see what she would do next and if she would kill herself trying it or not. Her fiddling and flinging was accompanied by near-constant commentary coming from almost directly behind us by a group of likely not-too sober old people who had no clue they were in a live audience and not at home yelling at their television sets. Every single time that crazy woman leapt onto the stage one of the old women, without fail, would say, "Oh, there she is! There's your girl!" To which the other woman whose girl Nesbitt apparently was, would reply, "Oh my goodness I just LOVE her!" Every time. The Husband and I were polite throughout this annoying habit of theirs (swearing at old people is not a hobby of mine, although I'll do it if necessary), only turning to look at each other every time they did this to simply roll our eyes. The second half of the show they tired of commenting on "her girl" and began critiquing the stage decor. "I just love those curtains! Don't you just love those curtains? What great curtains!" For your enlightenment, their favorite curtains consisted of a cloth loosely draped over a metal rod.

Now, I understand that you old people are senile and don't get out much and blah blah blah, but I do not get dressed up and leave my home to listen to you scream about curtains. I didn't pay wads of cash to listen to you people squak about whose girl you're successfully seeing in front of you, I paid money to watch a crazy woman in Princess Leia garb orgasmicly flail about the stage while I hope she trips and lands on her fiddle! Got it??

With the unpleasantness out of the way, a hearty congratulations to Celtic Woman for a performance well executed. The songs about turn-of-the-century Irish immigrants coming to America, their land of hope, were also very moving and it's always nice to hear at least one group say that they love America (to be fair, things probably would have ended poorly if they'd said otherwise). So good on ya, Irish chicks! Come back again if you can, but not before medicating that poor fiddling woman before she breaks something important.

UGH.

2009-04-09T12:48:00.008-04:00

Two things. First off I meant to tell you this last night but I forgot. Two nights ago I had a dream where I was looking at the display buttons on my oven and noticed for the first time that one of them said "End Of The World" and another said "End Of The World LIVE!" So it turns out that once the end of the world came about, I could watch it happen, live even, on my oven display screen, which is approximately 1.5" across. I don't know about you, but when the world comes to an end the last place I want to be is staring at my stovetop. Because that probably means I'm cooking, which happens to be one of my least favorite necessary activites ever. But then, Heidi helpfully pointed out that I could instead watch the end of the world on the 5" screen on the side of my fridge (that magically appeared just then), which naturally would afford a much better view of the Four Horsemen. I agreed that that was a far better option. Of all of my appliances, the fridge is by far my favorite as it holds all of my precious, precious goodies. If I have to die during an apocalypse, I can think of no other overly large object I'd rather spend my last moments here on earth with. I love you, Sweet Refrigerator! I will send you a Hallmark card to make this clear.

And the second thing. *Sigh* I HATE asking for help. HATE IT. Because I don't ever feel I need it and then your friends help you anyway because they feel guilty/scared of hell if they don't. But apparently I do actually need help according to my OB (the good one, not the one I hate; or at least "good one" so far). I am not known for having healthy pregnancies in the least. They turn into high-risk pregnancies for various reasons, some imagined by doctors, some genuine. The most serious genuine problem I have had with both pregnancies is pre-eclempsia. It can be very, very serious if it's not controlled properly, as in seizures, organ failure, and death of mother and/or infant. Not pleasant. Given my poor history with this (bed rest for two months with PW and doctors constantly debating about how early to force PN out versus our collective health) I knew I would wind up with it with this one, too. However, I kinda figured I could dodge it for a while, especially given the fact that they didn't suspect me of having it with Peanut until I was three weeks from my due date. Well, apparently that wasn't meant to be. I am already leaking protein and my blood pressures are slowly going up and I'm only 18 weeks along. The OB thought it best to properly warn me that given how early this could be starting I could be looking at hospitalization if it's not controlled well enough with medication and resting as much as I can. She recommended I stay off my feet while I can now to hopefully stave off rising BPs, but I think I made a case that with an 18-month-old Holy Terrorist Mamma's Boy in the house, that's not too bloody likely. She asked if I could put the kids in daycare every day, but I can't do that with Peanut because of his allergies. I can stick PW in, but she's the one who keeps Peanut out of my hair most days, or at least more than when she's not around. She asked if I had relatives who could come and help out, but my in-laws are so old that they're exhausted if they simply stare at my children for an hour (and avoid doing even that as much as possible), and my mother drives my BP up more than any other situation on earth. The Husband absolutely has to work, but he is shifting his schedule to drive in at O-dark-thirty so he can be home in time to help feed PW and put the kids to bed so I can rest then. She asked if I had friends who could come watch my kids, but every person I know has trillions of small kids themselves and I really don't want THEM developing high blood pressure as a result of my kids.

So here is my pathetic plea: are there any friends close by who are currently Peawhistleless who would be willing to watch a Peawhistle play with their similarly-aged child while Peanut takes a nap in the afternoon, maybe just one day a week or something? She's good at playing on her own and she's usually good at not starting fights and stuff. Sometimes she's polite and she won't pee on your carpet. She has preschool for one more month that goes in the afternoons until 1:30 and that's when I've been able to put Peanut down for a nap. I just need some quiet time to lie down and more importantly calm down, because if there's one thing I'm not exactly known for, it's being calm, particularly around small children, especially my own. They stress me out like none else, particularly when elevated hormones are at play and I just want to cry and/or run away. So would anyone please help me with Peawhistle once in a while? Not every day or you'll wind up hating her, and worse yet, hating me. And we certainly don't want that because we all know you can barely stand the sight of me as it is. I feel really bad asking because now I feel like a complete failure both in the parenting department and especially the pregnancy department. But I really do need help. If this gets worse I won't be able to watch my kids at all, or worse yet, not even see them because I'll be in the hospital and we all know what that means: my mother will be here for months. I love her and I especially love knowing that she would do whatever she had to do for me and my kids. But she really, really stresses me the crap out. And the poor Husband said, "I really, really, really, really don't want to have to have your mom come out here for months. Really. Really. Really." Really. Anyone? Please? Help....

And I Didn't Even Have To Give Them My Address

2009-04-08T21:19:00.002-04:00

As I was turning onto my street this afternoon I noticed a county police cruiser parked in front of my house. The very first thought in my mind was, "I asked permission for that, I swear!" Turns out he was just eating his lunch, i.e., not there to question and/or give me a beat-down after all. Police brutality averted!

I'm Too Busy Thinking For Title-Making

2009-04-07T16:11:00.008-04:00

All right, enough is enough. For all of you folks out there who are finding my blog by googling "how to get away with murder" and particularly to the brainy fellow who googled "how to murder your girlfriend and get away with it," I'd just like to ask you all, just how stupid does one have to be to attempt to try to get away with committing murder in the first place, and THEN lack the brains to figure it out without the assistance of Google as your nearest accomplice? JUST STOP IT. YOU'RE EMBARRASSING YOURSELVES.

I know you're all tired of hearing just how huge I am right now and I truly care about your feelings. That's why I'm going to continue beating this dead horse until I have no friends left. Yesterday I was at the grocery store and got talking to another woman my age who was also waiting for her turn at the deli counter (it should come to no surprise to you all that it was she who struck up the conversation, not me; hormones don't make me social). She asked how old Peanut was and then added, "And I see you're expecting another one as well!" I confirmed this for her but assured her I wasn't that far along. She shared that she was also expecting another baby, but she in turn assured me she wasn't nearly as far along as I was. "You'd be surprised," I told her. She scoffed and asked when I was due. I told her September, and her face froze in a lack of comprehension. Then it shifted to a rather surprised look, but she kept her cool and said, "O...oh. OK." And she forced a smile. I hoped to beat her to the next line of questioning and said, "And now is when most folks would ask me if I'm having twins (no) or assume I'm going to have a huge baby (again, no)." And she sorta smiled and said, "Well, you know, people make comments" and turned away without another word. Do you see now people? DO YOU SEE?? Yes, strange tactful lady, people DO make comments, and I thank you for keeping yours to yourself. Keep it up.

I would like to share two major accomplishments for our little family here over the past week. First off, the Husband and I went on a date while my mother was here and wound up looking for bunk beds to cram our millions of children into. We found a great set for cheap at a going-out-of-business sale and bought it. Last Friday he collected the boxed set and began putting it together. He began later in the afternoon because "it'll take two hours, tops. I mean, this is totally easy." Nine hours and several previously undiscovered swearing combinations later, the bunk beds were as completed as necessary for one child to sleep in them without it killing her in her sleep. Hooray for the Husband and his various tools and terribly useful curse words!

As for my own accomplishment, let me take you back in time to last week. I was famished. Now, this is a recent development as I had previously been puking everything in site on a near-constant basis as I believe I alluded to in my last post. I am on anti-puking medication now so I can eat and keep it down. And it's working! So I was famished. I really, really wanted a Pizza Hut pizza. And so after driving Peawhistle to preschool, Peanut and I stopped in and ordered a medium deep-dish cheese pizza to-go. On the way home I ate the whole thing. Well, I restrained myself and saved the two smallest pieces for PW's dinner, but the whole time I never once thought, "Wow, I'm getting full." No, in fact with each piece I ate my stomach continued to grumble with hunger. No, I'm most certainly NOT pulling your leg. After I ate most of the pizza I had to drink an Orange Crush followed by several glasses of water before the hunger pangs subsided. The frick you say?

I have never been able to consume more than half a medium pizza in my entire life up until last week. Curiosity got the better of me and I decided today to try to duplicate the event to see if it was just a fluke or if I had indeed discovered a newfound superpower. This time I upped the ante and ordered a medium pepperoni pizza to see if that would make a difference. I finished the second-to-last piece before I couldn't eat anymore. Apparently the pepperonis do indeed offset the results of this experiment. Anyhoo, I don't think I'll be replicating it again soon as I'm sure a heart attack is merely biding its time, but pretty amazing, huh? Yeah, I was proud of me, too. Feel free to high-five me the next time you see me.

Go Ahead, Call me Ishmael

2009-04-01T14:19:00.010-04:00

In case you were curious, I don't do April Fool's crap. Mostly because I'm not 12. Take a lesson, adults.

Geez, all right already! Here are the fat pregnancy photos, as promised. (Actually, I haven't had any complaints that they weren't being posted, but I like to act like my public is constantly clamoring for every stupid detail about my life. They aren't, by the way. Probably because my clamoring public cares less than I do.) I know you think I was trying to get out of it, and honestly I was, but I keep my promises I assure you. That'll learn you to assume the worst about me, even if you totally should.

I took the following photo for you ingrates when I was almost 15 weeks (that being two weeks ago). Note, this is what I looked like after not having gained any weight yet, either. In fact, I had lost weight to the point of concern. Behold:

Now tell me, does that look like 3+ months pregnant to you? I didn't think so.

Oh, have no fear, it gets much, much worse. Stephanie was kind enough to forward the photo she took of me on my last day of being pregnant with Peanut. Sidestory: I went to her house that morning and asked her to take a photo of me pregnant since I didn't have any pregnancy photos for Peanut at all. Turns out it was a good thing I asked her since I left her house to immediately go to a regular OB appointment at the hospital where they insisted on freaking the crap out for various reasons and moving my induction date up to, well, that very second. So I didn't get to leave the hospital for a few days and by then I wasn't pregnant anymore. Anyway.

Here's me at 38+ weeks the last time:

Yeah. Alarming, ain't it? I didn't even stretch the photo to make me look that scary; it's all natural, baby. By the way, that was after having gained less than 20 pounds the whole pregnancy. Oh yes, I'm a modern mircale all right. So this is what I, and many of the rest of you who are forced to look upon me on a regular basis, have to look forward to in the next five months. Huzzah!

OK folks, per the comments that have been coming in I have two things to say. First of all, I know I look pregnant. I never said I looked anything but. The problem is everyone assumes I look further along in this pregnancy than I actually am. So the fact that I look pregnant is not up for debate here. Personally, I don't think I look AWFUL right now, but I think I look a little large for 17 weeks. But I've been through a couple of pregnancies before this, too. So whatever.

And secondly, everyone keeps asking who is accusing me of being so huge as if I'm going to name names or something. I usually don't even know these people's names but I do know they're all RAT BASTARDS. End commentary.

Apparently I Am A Danger to Everyone, Including Myself

2009-03-27T14:28:00.009-04:00

Yeah, so I haven't written in some time. I keep meaning to, but I've had my parents in town and blah blah blah they want me to talk to them instead of hiding in here, typing on my computer. Whatever. One day I'll get around to posting those fat pictures you've all been dreaming about, as well as a very now-out-of-date accounting of our St. Patrick's Day festivities. But for now, I'm going to post about last night's adventures.

A few of us got together last night to celebrate the fact that Stephanie is finally moving. For those of you who were not invited to this get-together, rest assured it was probably my fault that you weren't. And for the rest of you who were invited and then summarily uninvited, that was definitely my fault. Walk it off.

My father went back home several days ago because he has to work, but my mother being workless has stayed on until this coming weekend. Now, I will warn you now that the incident that I am about to recount made me so completely furious that I lay awake last night thinking that this morning I would gladly pack my mother's bags and call her a cab to the airport. But then I thought better of it after I awoke and decided that writing about it instead would be better. Or at least it would be cheaper anyway, because honestly, cabfare is way too expensive.

As I was leaving my house last night I happened to walk past the home of Melissa Who Lives Three Doors Down From Me at the precise moment she was coming out of her door to race to the same party. Sidenote: Stephanie and I have this running joke about driving ridiculously short distances (mostly her mocking me I should point out). When Melissa had a get-together at her home last month I told Stephanie that I was going to drive to it, and more importantly I was going to park in Melissa's parking spot, too. Unfortunately I left too late to pull that off so I had to walk all 20 feet to get there instead (bummer!). Anyway, Stephanie asked if I was going to drive to her nextdoor neighbor's house for the party last night and even asked if I was going to carpool with Melissa to get there, but we decided in the end it would probably be better if we drove separately in case we wanted to leave at different times. Remember, we were joking. Because Stephanie lives two blocks away from us. So as I was walking past Melissa's house I jokingly asked to bum a ride, assuming she was also walking; as it turns out she was actually going to drive. Seeing me walking guilted her into walking as well ("Well, now I have to walk, too!"). Seriously folks, the closest parking spot we could have gotten would have been halfway between our houses.

As it turns out, it's fortunate that Melissa felt guilty enough to walk with me, what with all the dangers lurking around every lamppost, or at least according to my ever-paranoid mother. "It'll be dark and you're pregnant and you could get mugged! It could be a moonless night and someone could pop up out of NOWHERE and KILL YOU DEAD." By the very grace of the saints in heaven above, we made it safely there.

And we stayed for hours and hours and hours. Now, I don't normally go to functions. Probably because of you. Anyway, I have no clue how long these things last. I definitely had no idea they would last four hours. I was perfectly entertained the entire time, don't get me wrong. It just didn't occur to me that I would need to call anyone to let them know what time I'd be home since I clearly had no clue myself. When the party broke up around midnight and Melissa and I were headed out the door on our dangerous mission home, Stephanie got a call on her cell from my house. We didn't get it in time but I knew it was my freaked out mother wondering if I was facedown in a gutter somewhere. We hurried home (I am a fast walker, sorry Melissa), all while my traveling companion amazed me with horror stories of the crime that goes on in our very own neighborhood. I had no idea I'd moved inside an 18th century London prison, but apparently so. We were just rounding the corner onto our street and I was retelling the story of some freak who I caught stalking my house (if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: I'm irresistable) when Melissa says, "Is that your mom?" And I look towards the sidewalk ahead to see my mother stomping towards us at a clipped pace. "*sigh* Yes." "Are you in trouble?" And given the look on my mother's face it was easy to reply, "It would appear so, yes." When my mother came within speaking/yelling distance she proceeded to chide me for staying out so late and intentionally trying to get myself killed. And I introduced her to Melissa and bid her goodnight as she giggled up to her front door (I'm glad at least someone finds my mother amusing).

For the next 30 minutes my mother bawled me out for being irresponsible. Admittedly, I am actually a stupid seven-year-old child posing as an idiotic 32-year-old woman so she had every right to be concerned about my being kidnapped within the confines of a two-block section of our neighborhood. But as it turns out she had not just been upset for the last hour or so, but for three hours straight. THREE HOURS. When my husband got home from work one hour after the party had started she was already waiting at the front door with the door wide open, waiting for me. He said when he got inside that she lectured him for those three hours about the obvious need for keeping me on a tighter leash (...excuse me, what? Don't worry, he found it funny, too) and even called my father to complain that this was his fault for being the lenient one when they were raising me. No I am most certainly NOT kidding. I will be kind and say that she was merely "temporarily" insane, although in all honesty, there is nothing temporary about her freaking the hell out about this sort of thing. Did she really think I would die? Really? Yes. Yes she did.

So given my horrificly immature and irresponsible behavior, I'd like to issue the following apologies to My Neighbor Melissa Who Lives Three Doors Down From Me:

1) I hereby apologize for forcing you into danger by making you walk with me to and from the party. That shotgun I had at your back was probably fairly uncomfortable and it admittedly made it very difficult to carry on a conversation. And I apologize for my itchy trigger finger, too.

2) I hereby apologize on behalf of my mother who did not introduce herself properly last evening as she was too busy shaking with rage and swearing oaths against me. It was rude of her to be so impolite.

3) Finally, I hereby apologize for exposing you to the following dangers last evening: murder, rape, decapitation, kidnapping, robbery, incest, IRS tax evasion, treason, insurance fraud, suicide, shoplifting, breaking and entering, ritual sacrifice, grave robbery, human trafficking, auto theft, genocide, identity theft, money laundering, conspiracy, drug trafficking, disorderly conduct, perjury, arson, bigamy, terrorism, espionage, extortion, bribery, forgery, highjacking, slander, trespassing, driving under the influence, indecent exposure, telemarking fraud, prostitution, hate crimes, pyramid schemes, and embezzlement. Oh, and to me. Because I'm really very irresponsible.

Post Script: today my mother acts as if nothing out of the ordinary ever occurred last evening, which I believe is her way of acknowledging that she had perhaps "gone round the bend" as it were. However, if you asked her this she would deny it it vehemently. But she's normal now otherwise. Which is fortunate since she does handmake the best Chicago deepdish pizza I've ever tasted. Despite this, the Husband commented, "Perhaps we shouldn't have your mother stay for so long in the future. 'Cause she really seems to get uptight after a while. You know, just a suggestion...." Poor, patient Husband.

A Serious Post For Once

2009-03-13T13:13:00.003-04:00

Don't worry, I'll post my fat pregnancy pictures just as soon as my camera decides it doesn't need new batteries after all. I'm assuming it just has to choose not to want them rather insisting than it does. Stupid, spoiled camera.

In the mean time I'm going to write about something that's been weighing on my mind for a couple of days. It's a serious topic, it's going to be very long and wordy, and it won't be funny in the least. So if you're looking for amusement today you won't find it here. I can't always be your little entertainment monkey, you ingrates.

Some drama has happened in our family over the past week. My husband's 16-year-old niece went missing on Sunday and still hadn't been heard of four days later. She hadn't taken anything with her except her ipod (very important) and her cell phone, which she never answered. Money, keys, and ID were all left in her room. Obviously, her parents were frantic, but the police labeled it a runaway situation and basically ignored it. It wasn't until she still hadn't resurfaced on Thursday that the police actually sat up and took notice and actually began investigating her disappearance. And 24 hours later, and one ex-convict 19-year-old lousy boyfriend back in prison later, she was safely back at home again. She'd been keeping this idiot boyfriend a secret for over a year. When her parents finally found out about him, they went to all lenghts to keep him away from her, all to no avail. They even had the cops come to their home and tell their daughter just how bad her boyfriend was and illuminate her life about his extensive rapsheet. She refused to believe it of course, because "he's the only one who understands me and we're in love." Got it.

The whole family assumed the worst about our niece and they were naturally worried sick. However, the more I thought about the situation and the evidence available, the more I was convinced that she was perfectly safe, being sheltered by her idiot boyfriend. He felt the same way about her--that she was the only one who truly understood and loved him for the way he was--and as such I didn't believe he would hurt her. But he would definitely hide her. I'm very disturbed that elements of this case reminded me a great deal of one that the husband and I heard about via one of our many crime shows we're addicted to at the moment, and not the fake ones but the real ones. There was a case of a young teen girl who was a bit of an outcast who befriended an older teen hoodlum with serious issues inside and out of prison. Eventually they and his friend began to do drugs together, specifically LSD. When her mother objected to their undying love for each other, they decided to do away with her. And one night, the boyfriend stabbed her mother to death while her daughter and his friend hung out in the other room or watched or helped, depending on whose version of events you believe. The daughter and friend were sentenced to prison and the boyfriend was sentenced to death. Unless it has since been overturned by appeal, he is still on death row for the offense.

Here is my problem. While a heinous act, no doubt, he should not have been sentenced to death for that. All three were unbelievably high on LSD when they not only commited the murder, but also when they discussed doing it a couple of days before. There wasn't any evidence to suggest that they discussed her murder when they were not high. If I had been on the jury that sentenced this lad you would have had to convince me that he was not only capable, but also even willing to take that woman's life while he was stone-cold sober. Drugs impair one's reasoning ability to the degree that most of us are willing to do things under their influence that we would never even dream of doing otherwise; after all, isn't that the point of doing drugs? That would be the same as taking a drunken driver who had committed vehicular homicide and sentencing him to death for it. Surely he (or she) is responsible for the deaths his selfishness and carelessness caused and he should certainly be punished for not thinking ahead to take into account the possible consequences of his actions. But it was not premediated. He did not begin drinking that evening thinking that he would kill someone with his car. It is this same reasoning that makes me believe the boy was unfairly sentenced in his girlfriend's mother's murder. It was never properly proven that took LSD that evening with the intent of using it to aid him in murdering her mother, nor was it ever proven that he took it days prior with the intent of talking about it with his friends. The prosecution argued that because they had discussed her murder prior, that pointed to intent and premeditation. However, is it truly premeditated when it only occurs to them as a viable option when they are not in their right minds? The mention of murder was never brought up in conversation until well after the effects of the drug had worked its way into their systems. So while the boy certainly deserved to be put in jail for killing her, because really this speaks to his suitability as a common citizen in general, I believe handing down a death sentence for it was unnecessarily extreme given the circumstances surrounding the crime.

I was emailing my friend, Trina, back and forth and she was talking about black and white issues in society. I was reminded then that I believe there are very, very few situations that are truly black and white in this world. I believe that there are exceptions to almost every rule and circumstances vary to such a degree that no two situations can ever be truly compared to one another with the intent of laying out a solid, indefensible solution for both. I believe God is the only one who can do so and I believe He takes everything into effect before passing judgement. We are imperfect as humans, but we do our best by usually having juries decide each individual case based upon the unique evidence and circumstances that go with it. Juries aren't perfect, but they're the best we've got in an imperfect situation.

The death penalty. I believe in using the death penalty, but sparingly. Also, not for the same reasons many people believe in it. Often proponents of capital punishment use the "eye for an eye" argument to justify its use. If you kill someone, you deserve to be killed. I don't believe that. I believe if you kill someone or multiple people, or something just as heinous AND you've proven yourself incapable of ever being a capable contributing member of society AND you are just as much a danger in prison as out and if you ever escaped you would immediately resort to your previous heinous activities, then you have forfeited your chance to live and should be put to death. In my opinion, just because a murder has been committed does not mean the person who did it should also die. Here's an example. Say that a man comes home from work, catches his wife in bed with another man, and in a fit of rage and jealousy picks up the first object he sees and chucks it at her head. The blunt-force trama results in excessive internal bleeding and she dies. Should her husband be sentenced do death? Why or why not? I believe not. Not only was there no time for him to develop a plan before his emotions took over, but what are the chances that he will go and murder again after this initial crime? For a man who had previously no former criminal past, it would seem that only such an extreme emotionally charged event was capable of making him irrational enough to forgo his usual non-violent nature and act upon his over stimulated emotions. What are the chances that this same man will be found again in a similarly emotionally charged position that would force him to react in the same way? Therefore, is he a danger to society? Possibly. Some would argue that it's easier to murder the second time than the first. If he's capable of it at all, he's capable of it again. I would argue we're all capable of it if forced into an extreme enough situation. Would I kill someone who was trying to permanately harm one of my children? Yes, I might. The law would likely excuse me for protecting my young, but not necessarily in every situation, even if we at the time feel it is more than warranted.

The husband in my example is not necessarily uncommon. There is a reason lawyers have used "temporary insanity" as a defense in the past. It is an attempt to show the jury that this was an isolated event brought on by the most extreme of circumstances and that the odds of replicating those circumstances to the point of replicating the result as well is nearly non-existent. Does that argument work? Not always. But it still brings the point across that not everyone is a serial killer.

America's prison system was the first of its kind on earth. While other countries reserved prison for people who couldn't pay their debts and handed out death sentences for nearly everything else, America used its prisons as a form of rehabilitation. The U.S. had the idea that if prisoners could be reformed, they would not need to be executed but rather re-taught and then released back into society as productive citizens. Sometimes that works and obviously sometimes it doesn't, evidenced by the number of repeat offenders out there. And some are deemed to be beyond the point of rehabilitation so that they are sentenced to life in prison. They cannot be trusted within society any longer and thus have been stripped of the privilige of living with the rest of us.

So then what specifics separate those with a life sentence from those with a death sentence? Well, that's truly the question, isn't it? This is what citizens and politicians argue about unceasingly. People in favor of the death penalty use several arguments in their favor: the afore-mentioned eye for an eye argument, the argument that it provides closure for the victims' families, the argument that it serves as a deterrent to those who would otherwise commit these crimes, and the argument that what they did is just so bad that they have essentially proven that they are inhuman enough that they cannot be allowed to live. I believe only one of those arguments holds water, and it is the last one. But first, the others. I've already gone over the eye for an eye argument and why I don't believe it's justified to kill everyone who takes a life no matter what. Every situation is different and each needs to be analyzed based upon its own unique circumstances. The closure argument. I have yet to see a family member of a victim say that the death of the murder makes them feel better. In fact, most of the time they express the idea that even though the murderer is dead, they feel just as much pain and that person's execution will never bring their loved ones back. The only positive outcome they ever express is that now the murderer can't hurt anyone else. We will be coming back to that one, guaranteed.

And finally the deterrent argument. This is touted as being the strongest argument in the pro-capital punishment arena, and yet it is the argument that holds the least water. No one has ever provided evidence that I've ever heard of that has polled individuals with the results being "Yeah, I was gonna kill her, but man, then I thought about how our state allows the death penalty and then I thought, oh crap! I better not do it then! So I let her live." Most murders do not lend themselves to enough prior thought that would allow the would-be killer to think far enough in advance of that specific consequence. When humans are presented with enough time to think before they act on something they know they shouldn't do, the farthest their thoughts will carry them is, "I might get caught." It is from there that they exercise the idea of whether or not it's worth the risk of being caught or not. I daresay it would be a rare event for an individual to think about killing someone else for their own reasons that they've concocted as good enough to justify such an act and then pause to think about the consequences through to their complete end: "OK, so I kill this guy. If I don't cover my tracks enough, the cops might get the idea it's me. So I better do a good job of hiding what I did so I don't get caught. If I don't do that well enough, what will happen to me? The cops will come and they'll question me. If I don't lie well enough I'll have to sign my confession and get thrown in jail. Then I'll have to wait for my day in court and I'll have to have a good lawyer. If he can't argue well enough the jury might find me guilty. Oh man, and then I'll go to prison. Oh, but wait! What if they decide that what I'm about to do is so bad, despite my assertions that it had to be done because this dude totally has it coming and/or has something I really, really want that think I'm unfit to breathe another breath! OH MY GOSH I COULD GET THE CHAIR FOR THIS. Maybe this guy doesn't have it coming after all? Yeah, they're totally right. It's just not worth it. Time for Wheel of Fortune!" I guarantee you that that thought process and the type of person capable of carrying out a capital punishment-worthy offense are not compatable. As indicated, most people don't even register that what they're doing is worthy of such a sentence or it wouldn't occur to them to do it in the first place. While they may admit what they're about to do is wrong (if they've even thought about it long enough to come to that conclusion at all), they either do not believe they'll be caught for it, or they don't believe that a jury would think it's so wrong that they should die for it. Very few people on this earth would knowingly and willingly commit a crime so unbelievably horrendous that they believe they would be sentenced to die for it. Of those who know they would, typically serial killer types, those criminals believe themselves to be, and are usually correct to some degree, that they are intelligent enough to get away with it. And for those of us who do think about capital punishment, we are usually also right-thinking enough to not believe in committing the act in the first place if for no other reason than a strong sense of right and wrong. More of us are scared out of ever committing murder and other horrible acts for the consequence of eternal damnation rather than lethal injection. The death penality is not the deterrent people believe it to be.

I believe the death penalty is based in fear. There is a line that has been crossed in such a crime that is so unsettling to us as human beings that we cannot fathom its purpose or possible justification. An angry and jealous husband who murders in the heat of the moment will not be forgiven, but he can be understood to some degree. While most of us would not have reacted in the same way (or so we believe), we are not disgusted with his actions to the point of taking his life. But a man who rapes and murders dozens of teenaged girls on a spree that lasts years and crosses 32 states is unfathomable. It is inexusable. It has crossed a line. It shakes us to our cores. It terrifies us. Such a man cannot only not be trusted in society, he cannot even be trusted in prison. If he escapes he will do the same all over again because his mind is deseased to such a point that he can never be cured of his sadistic urges and he will continue until he is dead. There is little reason to keep him alive, and the risk of doing so far outweighs the guilt of taking his life. And so we execute him. It is the only solution to his personal problem and our problem with him. He will never be rehabilitated, he will never be in his right mind, he will never be forgiven by society, he can never pay his debt. He is hopeless and thus extremely expendable. There is a reason that states are willing to pay the price of killing some people versus the much cheaper option of simply keeping them in prison until they die naturally. Because they feel it's worth the cost. It's worth the peace of mind. It's worth the safety of everyone else in society because until that individual is six feet underground, he will always be a potential danger to us. And not just a danger, but a cancer. A disease that is pulling our society under with it. The criminal must be completely erradicated to cleanse us and more importantly for us to feel safe. Fear is a very powerful motivator in our society, don't ever doubt that. It can decide if you live or die.

And what do you think?

And So It Begins....

2009-03-12T16:10:00.002-04:00

Yesterday I had someone ask me if I was having twins. Remember, I'm only 14 weeks along. Admittedly, I look about five months at this point, but the twin question? Already? I assured her I was not and then sighed as the inevitable "Wow, you're gonna have one huge baby!" comment followed. Again, I assured her I was not. And then I bored her silent with my standard tedious pregnancy history. I plan to do the same here.

It's difficult to explain my personal physique to other people and why I look unnaturally and monumentally huge compared to everyone else with the same gestational aged baby as myself. For one, I have absolutely no stomach muscles. My body gave up on those about halfway through with Peawhistle. To make matters worse, maternity pants offer no support whatsoever. So what used to be shoved against me with the assistance of the threadbare strength of my Eddie Bauer jeans is now left to hang pathetically in front of me. Mind you, it used to be even worse on Sundays. Given my horrendously long waist and unnaturally midget-like legs, no pantyhose actually stay up past my waist for more than 10 minutes. That is, except for the maternity pantyhose that are designed to ride up far over your belly's expansiveness. So starting at about six weeks pregnant I had to start wearing those suckers, and if there's one thing they're not, it's "control top."

Anyway. So it all hangs out in front. A lot. Mostly because there is absolutely no other place in my torso for the baby to sit, what with that space being occupied mostly by my valuable stores of fat that see me through the long harsh months across the Sahari Desert. So my little satellite lives entirely outside of my body, attached onto it only by a thin layer of skin. With Sputnik in place, it pulls all of the fat and extra skin from all over my body and yanks it out in front of me. So surprisingly, I don't look like I'm pregnant from the back at all. In fact, I look thinner from back there. Even from the front, or even just the waist up I don't look that pregnant. But you catch me on the profile (which isn't hard to do in my condition) and, based entirely upon past experiences, you and your companions will gasp in wide-eyed horror at the sight before you. That's also when you'll unpolitely ask just how much weight I've gained in my obviously 90-week pregnancy.

For the record, I haven't gained a pound since even before I got pregnant. No, I'm not kidding. But look at my gut. Go ahead; I dare you. See if you believe me. Of course you don't. Because I'm having twins. Huge, fricking twins.

In other happy news, both Jody and Lisa have delivered delicious cookies to me within the past two days (where were these people in December?). Because if there's one thing I'm not, it's fat enough. Thanks again!

It's Not Polite to Stare

2009-03-06T19:55:00.009-05:00

YES, for the love of all that's holy, I'm pregnant, all right? 13 weeks even. Because I've only been having people ask me since I was, what, eight weeks? As in, when my body completely failed to keep it a secret from anyone I came in contact with? Because all the fat that I used to try to stuff into my pants was pushed up and out by my watermelon-sized super uterus resulting in the Most Overflowing Muffintop Ever Vaulted Onto Mankind? Yeah.

See, I'm not as talented in the baby-hiding department as say, my friend, Jody. Jody walked into labor wearing the same pants she'd been wearing nine months prior. In fact, when she produced the baby at church, none of us believed it actually came out of her. She assured us it did. How she managed to hide that entire baby in there can only be explained by Jody's miraculous survival skills, seeing as how she obviously does not possess internal organs.

But I, on the other hand, do have all my parts in tact, and then some. When I was pregnant with Peawhistle I looked obviously pregnant by 12 weeks and had to move into maternity wear. With Peanut, it was 10 weeks. This one, 8. At this rate I'll be moving into maternity pants before I even know I'm pregnant. Or worse yet, just wear them all the time. I guess that would solve everything.

I am huge throughout my pregnancies in case you haven't caught on. By six months I am getting the comments about "Isn't that baby out yet??" and "How overdue are you?" With Peanut I was in for a six-month ultrasound and a woman in the waiting room nodded her head and said, "Twins, huh?" "No, actually, just the one." "Are you sure? They can check those things now." (She was older, but apparently also an idiot.). "Yes. I've seen it on the scans. Just the one." "Hm. Well, that's gonna be one huge baby!" [Curt smile, followed by ignoring her.] For the record, Peanut couldn't even manage to top 7 lbs. I get this a lot. A LOT. And for those who have not actually seen me at nine months pregnancy, you cannot possibly fathom what a sight I make for the general public. Really. Don't even try or it'll hurt something internal (unless you're Jody).

Oh, and the doctors. Oh my goodness the doctors. I had an OB appointment today. I came out of there absolutely fuming. I consider myself an easy patient. If it makes sense, I'm going to do what I'm told to. If you're not an idiot, dealing with me will be smooth sailing, I assure you. The OB/GYNs that I saw for Peanut left me with such perpetual heartburn and spiking blood pressure that I swore I would never go through them again. And yet, here I am with them again, experiencing the same damn heartburn, etc., mostly because they're too darn convenient to get to vs. the good ones who are half a world away. With Peanut they swore up and down throughout the entire thing that something must be wrong with me. No, the test results always came back just fine. But someone at my age? With my enormous fattitude? Being healthy? Why that's preposterous!! Here, let's find something that's wrong with you to justify our existences here!

Here's how the conversation went today. The conversation that made my blood boil. You know, for the record and all.

OB: OK, and we're going to do the glucose challenge today as we discussed at our last meeting.
Me: We did not discuss any such thing at our last meeting.
OB: Yes we did, because here is the information right here in your file.
Me: We DID NOT DISCUSS THIS. You know why? Because I would have LOST MY CRAP, JUST LIKE I'M DOING RIGHT NOW.
OB: What is the problem? It says right here in your file that you were gestational diabetic Type 2A. It says it right there. You were on medication and everything. You were diabetic so we have to test you early now.
Me: I WAS NOT DIABETIC. EVER.
OB: Fine. I'm going to go look at your glucose test results and just see for myself.
OB: You know, I just looked at these test results. Your test results came back fine; you passed your glucose test. Did you know that you weren't diabetic?
(And here's where I really lost it): YES, I JUST SAID THAT. I WAS NOT DIABETIC!!
OB: Well then, why did they say you were? Why did they put you on medication for something you didn't have?
Me: Because they're paranoid freaks who wanted to find something wrong with me and settled on gestational diabetes, that's why! And I'm getting a little sick and tired of this crap and I'm not going to do it anymore!
OB: Now Abby, you know you can refuse any treatment. That's your decision. But we're really just looking out for your best interests and, of course, your baby's.

I nearly slapped her for that pathetic excuse for a guilt trip. These people constantly put me through the wringer for their own sense of satisfaction and then have the gall to act offended when I call them on the carpet for it. If they think I'm going through their Crazy House of Obstetrics again, they're out of their fricking crazy minds. I'd rather deliver on the front lawn of the hospital.

Oh, and this is fun, too. So they did the first trimester screening last week to determine the odds of having a baby with Down Syndrome, Trisomy 13 and Trisomy 18 (because at 32, I'm ancient). Fine. Tests results came back as my being at a higher risk for 13 and 18 than when I went in. But not terribly high, but higher (1/550 vs. 1/720). However, the risk of killing the baby via amnio to find out would be 1/300. Easy decision, right? This OB asked me repeatedly what I wanted to do, despite she herself saying my chances of having a baby with a chromosomal defect are incredibly slim and the risk of having the amnio to find out conclusively isn't worth risking the baby's life. And yet when I agreed, she didn't believe me. I told her that if this baby has even a chance of taking one breathe outside my body, I will give it that chance, period. I'm not going to abort. I will also not unnecessarily risk the life of the baby just to ease my mind a little, either. If the baby has major problems then there's nothing we can do about it anyway. "Yeah, but you'd at least get some warning." "Consider us warned. Thanks." She just wouldn't take it. I can only assume that she didn't like my expressionless, "heartless" approach to the problem. Did she expect me to burst into tears? Would it have solved the problem if I had? No. So what is her deal? Man, she bugs the hell out of me. Unfortunately, they all do.

Let's see what else I can whine about here.... Huh. Guess I'm plum out. I'm sure more will come later. I'll have to keep you updated. So I'll move on for now.

Only a couple of friends officially knew about my pregnancy early on, and their main job was to tell me if I looked pregnant that day or not. Stephanie was the best for this. At the ward dance she said, "You don't look pregnant at all (i.e. only incredibly fat!)! You should definitely wear that shirt to the Moms Night Out party this Wednesday!" I dutifully did as I was told, all the while thinking that this group of women has only thus far seen me wear my "More Cowbell" t-shirt and nothing else. I'm sure they think I own no clothes. Anyway, because she knew of The Secret That Apparently Wasn't Much of a Secret Due to My Ridiculously Ever-Expanding Size, she was also sworn to secrecy. This, despite the fact that she's a terrible, terrible liar. But she did her best and I appreciate it. You're free, Stephanie! Free!

And for all of my neighbors named Melissa who live three doors down from me, I would like to officially apologize on behalf of Stephanie and her enormously unconvincing lie when you asked her if I was pregnant four weeks ago. I assure you she made me pay for that, but not before pleading with the Lord to forgive her for deceiving you and everyone else in the room she lied to at the time. She has been torturing herself for my sake to the point of fearing for her very salvation, so I ask that you forgive her for her pathetic attempt at deception. And Stephanie, when the Judgment Day arrives, I will gladly step up to the Judgement Bar and take full responsibility for those false witnesses you bore. I'm only happy to. It's the least I can do in exchange for you never actually calling me "only fat and not pregnant," despite every opportunity I gave you to do so.

Can I pick the right friends or what?

An Affair to Remember

2009-03-06T12:54:00.003-05:00

I'm always on the lookout for new ideas for posts. Lisa, clearly my favorite person of the week because she told everyone on her blog that I'm funny, asked me to post about the conversation I had with the county police in relation to my previous post (the one about murder; you remember the one).

I hate to burst your rosy bubble, Lisa, but I did not actually speak to the police on the phone. For the rest of you, in case you haven't noticed, or haven't spoken with me in person yet, I'm a complete idiot on the phone. Really. There is no other mode of communication that I succeed with less than that of telephone communication. I come off as extremely mentally handicapped. Fortunately, I know this (there are many like me who are still in denial). What are the odds that a retarded person calling the cops and asking if she can teach people how to commit a felony would be met with approval of any sort? "OH BUT DON'T WORRY COMMISSIONER OR LIEUTENANT OR COMMODORE OR WHATEVER YOU'RE CALLED DOWN THERE, IT'S ALL JUST A JOKE HAHAHAHAH SNORT COUGH GAG CRY." No. I'm stupid, but not that stupid.

So I emailed them instead. And the emails go to a PR guy who is used to dealing with morons, hopefully worse off than myself. We exchanged a few emails while using Very Pretty, Smart Words, never saying what we really meant, but knowing perfectly well what the other one was saying. So to satisfy Lisa's curiosity, I will not just replicate our communication, but moreover I will write what we actually thought, rather than what we actually said. For our purposes, PR Guy will be known by the name Kojak.

Me: Hello, cops! I want to write something on my blog but I don't want to get in trouble for it.

Kojak: You can say you hate us and we suck all you want and we can't stop you. That whole Freedom of Speech deal. Look it up. Ungrateful snot....

Me: I wasn't going to say I hate you and you suck, I swear! I just wanted to teach people how to get away with murder. BUT IT'S A JOKE I SWEAR DON'T ARREST ME.

Kojak: Oh, yeah, that's much better. Listen, criminals get enough good ideas from the plethora of TV shows and movies out there that getting bad ideas from your idiot blog really isn't going to put a dent into our efforts here, trust me. Get over yourself. And stop emailing me, too.

Me: Woohoo! Free ticket from the cops to do whatever I want!

Voila. See? Not the exciting encounter you were hoping for I'm afraid. Why? Because I wasn't stupid enough to talk to them on the phone.

Oh, I know how these things roll. Don't you doubt it.

How To Get Away With Murder

2009-03-05T12:54:00.004-05:00

A while back I told Lisa that I could totally hide a body because I watch "CSI." It's time to come clean though. I actually watch "CSI," "CSI: Miami," AND "CSI: New York." I'm practically a professional with all this training I've been getting via CBS's weekly lineup! I can't withhold my vast array of crime-related knowledge any longer. And because I know so many of you have been holding out until you've received the proper guidance, I will now give you some tips on how to get away with murder.

1. Selecting your victim:

If there's one thing I've learned from crime shows, it's that the police are always on the trail of serial killers. Serial killers are the "big ticket" criminals that launch careers and make cops famous. Measly one-time killers like you don't. So when you're selecting your victim, be sure and pick someone you know and are close to--in fact the closer the better. Serial killers always choose victims randomly and have no motive, so be sure and have tons and tons of motive to make sure you're not a suspect! If you've threatened to kill someone whilst both of you are in a very public forum, preferably with video cameras rolling, this is the perfect victim for you. They will never suspect you as you're too easy a solution; if there's one thing detectives love, it's a good mystery! You killing your ex-girlfriend after writing about your intentions to do so on your blog for five years and taking out a full-length page in the newspaper is no mystery at all! Guaranteed you're getting off scott-free, friend!

2. Selecting your weapon:

Whatever weapon you choose, be sure and leave it at the crime scene. If you're going to go through the effort of offing someone, at least let the rest of us in on how you did it! Really, it's called common courtesy.

3. Hiding the body:

We all know you gotta hide the body afterwards, right? Be sure and pick a place they'll never think to look. I suggest the city morgue (imagine how confusing it'll be for the cadaver dogs). Sure, that annoying medical examiner is likely to ask you a few personal questions ("Who is this?" and "Why is this person's blood all over your clothes and face?"), but never fear, they're just curious cats! Also, they may ask you to fill out some paperwork while you're there, too, but it has nothing to do with the murder, trust me. It's for demographic purposes only. Why, you'll probably be getting some coupons in the mail within 2-4 weeks, so be sure and stay home so you'll receive these great savings!

4. The Crime Scene:

Let's face it: you're doing this to get attention to some degree, or at least a one-time mention on the nightly news, am I right? Sure I am. But you're going to get no attention at all if they never know anything ever happened. Be sure to select a crime scene that'll get noticed, preferably before the blood dries. We're looking for pizazz, people! So make it some place that people will come across within a very short time, but not so many people that will mess up your crime scene's look. On the front lawn of a busy neighborhood is a good choice. Also, night time is not your friend. Be sure and do this in broad daylight so you can be sure the scene looks the way you want it to before the cops get there. The police will respect you that much more when they've seen what pride you took in your work to get your crime scene looking the way you did.

5. Witnesses:

As people are staring at you committing this murder, be sure and give a smile and wave. Friendly people are never thought of as murderers; these people will only remember your winning good looks and charm instead of the gushing blood. Remember: a smile can fix any problem at all. Everyone loves a smile!

6. Evidence:

As I indicated, be sure and leave the murder weapon at the scene. We're on pins and needles to know how you did it and for sure that pesky medical examiner is never going to guess without a little help from you. Also, remember that crime solving is more of an art than a science, making detectives and CSIs primarily artists. Artists who thrive on flashy designs. So do these artists a favor and leave some fingerprints/palm prints/footprints behind, the more the better. Use the victim's blood if you can, because red really makes the scene pop! You're doing this for the city's finest remember; they're protecting us against criminals, it's the least you can do for them.

7. Bragging Rights:

Everyone loves a person with self-confidence. Those murderers who never say anything are not only cowards, but clearly lack self-esteem. No one likes those people. But you! You're confident in what you do and how you do it. Don't be afraid to share what you've accomplished, why and how you did it, and where the rest of the evidence is stashed. It takes someone with a lot of guts to admit to others when they've committed murder; you want to be in that category of confident people, don't you? Of course you do! Tell everyone you know. They'll probably brag to their friends what an awesome person you are and how privileged they are to even know you! And if that doesn't boost your ego, I don't know what will.

8. The Confession:

On the off chance the police do ask you politely to come to their workplace and write about what you did, use this opportunity to impress them with your vivid and accurate memory! It's hard to remember every darn little detail, what with the blood and the screaming and whatnot. They'll be amazed the more you can remember, evidenced by the copious notes they frantically take while you're talking. You'll be the center of attention for hours and hours! When they finally ask you to write it all down yourself (you can't expect them to keep up with your amazing recounting of events, you genius you) be sure and write legibly. Penmanship really counts for something these days, believe you me.

9. Choosing a Lawyer:

Don't you hate it when someone doesn't have enough faith in you to believe you can do something that you know you can? Doesn't it just chap your hide when you hear someone telling a dozen strangers that you're completely incapable of a crime you yourself know you did? Be sure and stand up and correct that idiot lawyer so these strangers won't go home thinking you're an incapable loser! You left a marvelous crime scene there, Tiger! Don't you let that courtroom forget it!

10. Impressing Your Prisonmates:

Have you ever heard that first impressions are everything? It's absolutely true. These fellow prisoners are going to be your chums for the rest of your life, Sport! Be sure and let them know right off the bat how willing you are to be friends so as to maximize your mutual experience there in the state penitentiary you're all calling home. Who doesn't love to be complimented, right? Everyone loves a compliment. Be sure and spread them around as soon as you come into your new digs, followed by a brisk slap on the back for your new mates. You'll be enjoying your new life in no time!

Disclaimer 1: Don't actually commit murder. It's illegal. And it makes me sad.

Disclaimer 2: I went to the effort of asking the county police if I could post this. They basically said, "Knock yourself out. Can't be half as bad as what's on TV." Score! THE LENGTHS I GO TO FOR YOU PEOPLE.

All It Takes Is a Little Perspective

2009-03-03T17:35:00.007-05:00

So I was all set to write a post about Peanut's latest foray into his personal medical book of history with the most disgusting case of pink eye I've ever seen in my life. I was going to write that my usually adorable baby boy has neon-yellow goop constantly pouring out of both eyes and how I can barely keep my lunch down around the little tot. I was going to say that strangers come up to see how cute Peanut is, as per our usual treatment when we're out, but instead of oohing and aahing they take one look at his petri-dish eyes and politely turn away without another word. And I was all set to threaten the miscreant who dared infect my boy with a disease that will likely spread to the rest of us by week's end with the most heinous and discriptive of tortures I could concoct.

And then I read Ms. Mindy's Now-Secret Blog (so don't bother) asking for well wishes for a family who had to take their sweet and adorable baby girl Gracie, who was not much younger than Peanut, off life support yesterday because the heart she was given for a heart transplant turned out to be a bad heart and the surgeons didn't find out until it was too late. And her new little heart gave out and they had to let her go.

I'll take Peanut and all his nasty, vomit-inducing pink eye any day over no Peanut to hug at all. Thanks for the perspective, Mindy.

Let's all give our kids one extra hug tonight. Because we can.

Consider This Product Plugged!

2009-03-01T13:56:00.004-05:00

I just wanted to quickly share with you, my friends and stalkers, a product that I have recently purchased that I now love. I first saw this product on another Mommy Blog somewhere (can't recall which one now--sorry anonymous mom!), and gave it some thought at the time. Then Greta ranted and raved about the same thing on hers. Not known to be a liar (or at least that I know of...yet), I checked out the website and was sold! The Magic Product? The Baby Vac! The Baby Vac is a contraption that you hook onto your vacuum cleaner that sucks all the snot out of a baby's/toddler's/preschooler's/adult's nose. Yeehaw! And let me just tell you, this little sucker (pun not intended, but not avoided) totally works. Case in point:

Peawhistle and Peanut got sick about a few days apart, PW coming down with it first. I used the baby vac on PW once (she is capable of blowing her nose, even if not terribly effectively), and PN in the morning, before his naps, and before bedtime. Peanut's cold is now gone, and Peawhistle's is still hanging on with the running, stopped up nose and the coughing. Peanut never had the chance to cough because none of the mucus ever made its way into his little chest. It's a wonder, people. A fricking wonder.

How does it actually feel? I haven't tried it out myself, so I'll have to go by my kids' reactions. PW seemed taken aback by the contraption, but stood still long enough to get the job done. She coughed a little. And then she ran off none the worse for wear. Peanut...well, Peanut is, uh, "special" as always. Mind you, he's not scared of the nose-sucker at all. With his ever-increasing desire to morph into the family's household pet, Peanut is terrified of the vacuum cleaner. So it's not so much that he bawled and wailed because all the crap was getting sucked out of his nose, but rather the noise our ancient vacuum cleaner makes and I'm assuming how much he thinks it will eat him or something. So. Wasn't exactly a pleasant experience for him typically, but with Peanut very few things are. Take that for what it's worth.

If you're interested in obtaining one of these fine Snot Suckers for yourselves, the cheapest I've found online (which happens to be the same one Greta found) is sold by folks in New Zealand. It costs $22.99, and that includes shipping and handling. Not a bad price for something that's relatively easy to clean and won't get you just as sick in the process by asking you to suck out the mucus yourselves as some makers of proposed baby nose vacuums do, because ew. Also, they take PayPal, which makes them even more awesome. Why, I didn't even have to get up off my fat and lazy butt to find my credit card! These are my kinda people!

Gettin' Jiggy Wit It

2009-02-24T12:01:00.005-05:00

No, I haven't decided to post more. My life is just that much more exciting this week. Quit inviting me to stuff.

So our church had a dance last Saturday night with a it's-not-a-valentine's-dance-despite-all-the-hearts-and-crap-you-see-everywhere theme. Greta and I decorated for the event and were quite pleased to receive so many positive comments. And by "so many" I mean two grade school kids said it looked awesome. Hey, we're here to please.

You all know my thoughts on dancing, as I've expressed them in the past here. Bonny and I were comparing our various thoughts on the subject later in the evening and I told her what I'm going to tell you now: watching me dance is a terribly unsettling experience. I recall enjoying dancing at one point in my life. I danced at a wedding once as a young teenager, later saw the video, decided it was the most disturbing thing I'd ever seen in my life, and vowed to never subject another to such a sight ever again, including myself. I am not a good dancer. If I honestly can't resist the beat of a great song, I'll bob my head. Otherwise...no. So I sat at a table and instead enjoyed myself immensely watching other people who are far more talented than I dance for my personal pleasure. I was especially impressed with Jody and her husband getting their groove on, because they are wonderful dancers. I was also fascinated to learn that neither Stephanie nor Kristen have any shame at all whatsoever. Good for them, I say! Let it all hang out!

Towards the end, our DJ, Ryan (who happens to be Bonny's husband), played one of the songs I'd requested earlier: The Hustle by Van McCoy. You can't go wrong with The Hustle. The Husband was at one time quite the bar-hopping dancer in his day and when I mentioned the song earlier he treated me to a move or two. As always, I was delighted. As I sat next to a friend at the table at the dance, she leaned over and said, "Hey, wasn't there a dance that went with this song?" I said, "Yeah, the Husband said it went something like this..." and I proceeded to do a jerking arm motion or two to prove to her I wasn't lying. Two seconds later, Ryan stopped the music mid-song and inquired, "OK, does anyone actually know how to do the Hustle? I mean, besides Abby who's doing it at the table there at the back?" I was horrified that the entire dance floor of people then turned to stare at me, and even more so when he suggested I get up and teach them how to do the Hustle, which as I've explained, I only know like, two moves from. Personally, I was impressed that Ryan guessed what I was attempting to do at the time, let alone that he noticed I was doing it at all, given the quick and amateurish performance I had displayed to my table partner. I waved him and the whole fricking group off (really, for their own good) and they proceeded to dance however they wanted to, which is how it should have been anyway. I still like the song. Gets my head a-bobbin'.

Finally, DJ Ryan came to the end of the evening with his final as-yet unannounced song, and commanded everyone that this would be a full participation song. And I shivered to myself as I realized that there was only one song that had not been played yet, would be reserved to the end of a dance full up with white people, and that requires "full participation." Ryan said, "And that includes you, too, Abby." I responded, "IT BETTER NOT BE YMCA." And he said, "It IS YMCA." And the dance ended on a low note. I was curious to note that Kristen, who I mentioned was completely devoid of any self-consciousness as far as I could detect, also refused to dance to YMCA because she hates that song. So she has my approval, both for that and the fact that she clearly doesn't care what people think of her.

And in case you all were curious:

Have I Told You You're Wonderful Lately?

2009-02-23T16:00:00.005-05:00

OK, so I was just about to come over here to write my own take on last night's Oscars when I decided to be impulsive and read Gwennifer's comments on the Oscars first. BIG MISTAKE. She wrote exactly what I was about to write, which makes the following post completely pointless. You'll notice that's not stopping me, however. But in case you want to read hers, too (the "original" one--whatever), it's here.

I was enjoying last night's Oscars immensely, including the crappy parts, up until Sean Penn took the stage. At this point I'm fairly certain that the only reason he performs his best in his films is so he can win awards and then use his acceptance speech as yet another opportunity to tell us all what's on his holier-than-thou mind. Let me give it to you straight, Sean. I don't care. In fact, I have yet to meet anyone on this earth who does. It seems to me that the only reason you use your acceptance speeches to torture us with your witless diatribes is because we are a ready and captive audience and you would be unable to get anyone to listen to your mind-numbingly idiot rants during any other opportunity in your life. This should tell you something. It should be telling you you're a moron and need to stop. And I have to ask, is this the first time an event you've attended been picketed by a group that didn't contain you as a fellow demonstrator? Is it so uncomfortable to you that someone disagrees with you or people you know that you have to whine about it on stage? I hate to tell you this, but I've been to TONS of events that were picketed by demonstrators outside and I've never felt the need to turn crybaby and complain to everyone I know. I realize this is all new to you in your little imaginary world and all, but those people who are demonstrating at the Oscars are perfectly legal in what they're doing, despite it not being sanctioned directly by you. Now, I'm not saying I agree with the demonstrators. I don't even know, or care, what they were demonstrating. The fact that you had to complain about it though, shows a lack of maturity on your part. Suck it up and move on with your life if you can. You'll be better for it.

Oh, and the "You should be ashamed of yourselves" and something retarded about their grandchildren being ashamed of themselves too, or of you, or something else, whatever the crap it was? Excuse me? Who told you that your definition of right and wrong was the last word on the subject?

I have no problem with gay people. I have gay friends, and while I would never encourage them to spread their genes around the human population because they are insane beyond measure and, gay or straight, should definitely not be procreating, I believe they should not be descriminated against for how their biological wiring has told them to feel. They're good people and I love them. I hate knowing that there are people out there who would gladly harm them, even kill them, simply because they are gay.

I am not homophobic. I don't live in constant fear that gangs of lesbians will surround me in the cereal isle of the supermarket and rape me and then give me a crew cut and make me wear plaid. I even had a lesbian hit on me once and the only thing I thought was, "Oh my gosh, BOTH sexes find me irresistable! I'm officially the most awesome person I know!" I wasn't disgusted, I was flattered. The fact that she wasn't hideous only made me feel that much more awesome. Because really, I got it goin' on, wedding ring and all. You know you wish you were me.

The issue of Prop 8 in CA was a difficult one for me and one I was glad I didn't have to make. I am at odds with the whole concept. Part of me says yes, and part says no. I imagine it was that way for a lot of people on both sides of the issue. I don't believe homosexual couples are evil; I believe they are doing what they believe to be right and good. As one example, I don't believe in denying homosexual couples the opportunity to welcome foster children into their homes, especially considering those homes possess a lot more love, affection, nutrition, education, and attention than many heterosexual homes where some of the parents only look forward to the monthly check they get and otherwise abuse and/or neglect the children in their care. I would much rather see these children go to a loving home, regardless of their orientation, than an abusive one simply because it there was one man and one woman occupying it. And thus, the same goes for adoption. There are many children who are mentally, physically, or medically handicapped who are unwelcome in many homes. But I've heard of loving homosexual couples who are more than willing to love and care for these children to the point of adopting them, but are unable to because they are gay. And so these children get shuffled around in the system for the rest of their lives because no one else will take them. That isn't fair to the children. And don't tell me that gay homes put out gay children. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. The stark majority of gay children/adults come from hetersexual homes and a good, healthy number of heterosexual children come from homosexual homes. They just come out a little more liberal, and I imagine we can fix that with some good therapy. The point is, I believe homosexual people should not be denied these rights based on their orientation. The marriage issue is a sticky one for me because I don't believe their being married affects my own personal marriage in any way. It does not invalidate it, nor make it any less powerful on its own. And yet, I'm hesitant to say it's the one and only answer to the problem. I am divided on several different issues regarding the homosexual community. My heart says one thing and my head says something completely different. It's a difficult decision for me, and for a lot of people.

So for Sean Penn to call people's motives into question because they used their American-given right to vote their consciences and announce that they should be ashamed of themselves is hypocracy to the extreme. How do you know what these people's motives were, or even if they were wrong to decide what they did? And if you're going to chide Americans for voting and/or contributing to a cause as they best see fit, then why aren't you also condemning those who then went to such extreme lengths to hunt these individuals down and attack them? If you want to boycott a certain store because its owner contributed to Prop 8, that's certainly within your right to do so. If you want to write letters to the editor and to your congressmen telling them how unfair Prop 8 was and how it should be overturned by the state supreme court, again, that's your constitutional right to do so. You are allowed to disagree all you like. Protest, congregate, demonstrate, boycott, all to your hearts' content. But when you take your anger to the point of desecrating churches, threatening citizens, and actually harming those who don't agree with you, you are no longer protected by this country. You literally HAVE NO RIGHTS TO DO THIS. So where is your scorn for those who took their hatred and anger to that point, Mr. Penn? Oh, I forgot, you don't care because you are too busy condemning to hell those citizens who don't happen to agree with your political stance. THIS is why I don't respect you, Sean Penn. You fare far better in life when you recite what someone else has written for you rather than what you've come up with on your own, so take the hint.

I had left the room when the Oscars for Best Screenplay(s) were handed out so I missed the "Milk" guy's diatribe on his evil Mormon parents/upbringing. Again, he's allowed to say it/believe it of course, but what is it with turning the Academy Awards into a political rally? And unwanted political rally? I'm quite certain most people were there to watch an entertainment broadcast, not be lectured, or listen to others be lectured, by a bunch of damn peons. Take it elsewhere.

I did love Hugh Jackman though. I especially loved that he sang about being Wolverine.

And a final note. Other than the bits mentioned above, I really did enjoy the Oscars. However, I began to note something along the way and I finally noted to The Husband, "I do believe this is the most self-absorbed Oscars I've ever seen." Honestly, it's bad enough that the entire industry insists on patting itself on the back throughout the entire year with awards show after awards show (do they really need that much validation? I mean, besides the trillions of dollars their industry brings in?), but to hike it up to this level? Doesn't the fact that being nominated for an Oscar tell you that others think you're one of the best in your chosen field? Do they have to then have these people individually singled out and told just how wonderful they are in their own little segment by Hollywood's past award winners in front of a billion people on top of that? Were their little egos so shaky they needed that extra boost ON OSCARS NIGHT, SITTING IN THE FRONT ROW AT THE OSCARS THAT THEY WERE INVITED TO BECAUSE EVERYONE AGREES THEY'RE THE BEST ACTORS THIS YEAR? Oh my goodness, spare me this. Yes, it was different at least, so that was a welcome change, and it was nice to see Hollywood legends out there doing their bit, but the whole "You're a wonderful person because blah, blah, blah, and I just know you'll continue to be a wonderful person because yada, yada, yada, and OH MY GOSH we just love you so fricking much we can hardly stand to be in your presence!" Please stop it. These people are validated enough, they don't need any more reassurances that they're good actors. Trust me, their self-confidence levels and the millions of dollars in their bank accounts tell them they're the best every single day. They're fine. Quit holding their little hands.

Oh, and Sean? In case it needs reiterating, for the love of all that's holy, just shut. Up.

Hired!

2009-02-18T20:46:00.005-05:00

I occasionally peruse a website called "Not Hired." It's a website where people can send various cover letters and resumes they've received or otherwise run across that simply boggle the mind; there are actually people like that out there? Who tell the truth on their resumes? The wrong kinda truth? Oh, my. I won't link to the website directly in order to save my viewers' virgin eyes from the bawdy language that is sometimes included in these resumes (only one of the many reasons these people were not asked for an interview I imagine). But gosh, it is funny. And then I got to thinking: I haven't written a resume in ages. What if I needed a job tomorrow? Holy crap, we'll all be in the poor house! I better get crackin' on that list of what makes me a winner!

ABBY'S ROCKIN' RESUME

PROCEED WITH AWESOMENESS

Abby is the greatest person you'll ever meet, let alone employee. Here's why she's so mind-blowingly superb:

* I can type 470 wpm (less without mistakes--or using words you'd recognize)

* I have professional experience yelling at children, adults, objects, and random passers-by.

* I excell at stalking those I love, hate, don't even know, and anyone else. Especially you.

* Given the opportunity, I can tan beyond normal physical comprehension.

* I enjoy eating cheese.

* I think mild swearing is hilarious.

* I avoid hanging out with my "friends," so I won't have to get dressed.

* Birds avoid me.

* I'm terrified of pennies. And wet lettuce.

* I was self-elected president of the Abbys Only Club in 5th grade.

* I personally supply my entire neighborhood's pharmaceudicals.

* I totally kicked Mickey Mouse in the head at Disneyland.

* I am not permitted on Walt Disney Co. property, nor are my future descendents.

* I am obsessively lazy.

* I can file paperwork alphabetically, or using the less-traditional letters-I-think-they-should-start-with-instead method.

* I think I have several undiagnosed mental illnesses.

* I have been arrested twice for selling narcotics to children and small animals, but I wasn't convicted so it doesn't count.

* I am phone-tapping the FBI without a warrant.

* I believe the gastrointestinal tract is holy, and thus can only be filled with Hostess Snowballs and Hawaiian Punch.

* I can do your taxes for you. I can also hide a body for you.

* I sleep with a Jack-in-the-Box toy. His name is Hunny.

Future employer, I am everything you've been looking for, even if you don't realize it yet. Hire me! Shoot, I'll even work for free! If I can live with you and use your toiletries and eat directly from your pantry! I'll even pat your various pets if you can get them to hold still long enough and not scratch my eyes out like I'm imagining they will! I will rock your world, employer! NOW HIRE ME AND GIVE ME AWESOME BENEFITS OR I WILL SO TOTALLY SLASH YOUR TIRES.
Love Forever,
Abby

Sucks to Be in the Spotlight, Don't It?

2009-02-16T15:43:00.006-05:00

Three posts within a fortnight? Madness you say! Indeed. INDEED.

In honor of President's Day, I will now make fun of the president. And when I say the president, I mean the former president. And when I say the former president, I actually mean the former president's family. Do you see how I just did that?

Now, these photos have been in my collection for some time, awaiting their natural debut. And given that I can't think of anything else to write about on President's Day (which I just remembered it was two minutes ago), today's the day!

You all remember George W. Bush, right? And that he had two kids? And one of them got married somewhat recently, like within the last decade or something? I stole some photos of the wedding off the internets for my own amusement. Note how everyone looks very normal and relaxed except for one glaring example (nevermind that the groom looks like Howdy Doody; I don't mean him). Tell me if you see what I see:

You see it too, right? The other one? Looking...strange beyond words? I suppose it's not her fault she's dressed like that chick from "Clash of the Titans" at her sister's wedding, possibly by her own sister's behest, but what the hell is she doing? Is she posing for the new Sears catalog or something? Who is she trying to impress with that stance? Is she attempting to land her own husband by looking as abnormal as possible? Sweetheart, just stop it. You're embarrassing yourself. And seriously, I should know, because I embarrass myself constantly. But at least I'm not the president's daughter when I'm doing it. (And can we get a quick round of applause for the Old Man there? For once he's not the most awkward looking person in the photograph. High-five, W.!)

What Oprah Wants, Oprah Gets

2009-02-12T14:36:00.009-05:00

I'm not excited about this post, I will tell you right now. So you shouldn't get excited either. But I have nothing else to write about, or rather nothing I actually want to take the time to write about right now, so this is what you're getting.

So I had a dream the other night (are you peeing with excitement yet?). Allow me to tell you about it, won't you?

Brian Williams and I were partners in a cake decorating class together. We decided to go with an Air Force One theme on ours (we're nerdy!) and I went off to find a model of the aircraft so we could make one for our cake. As dream-like luck would have it, a fellow running a presidential tourist shop was operating within our classroom.

Me: Excuse me, do you have a model of Air Force One amongst your wares?
Him: A model of what?
Me: Air Force One.
Him: I don't know what that is.
Me: You're joking of course. Please be serious.
Him: No, I don't know what an air force one is.
Me: It's the most photographed aircraft in the entire world, you run a U.S. presidential nicknack shop, and you've never heard of Air Force One before??
Him: Don't get sassy with me lady, I don't know what it is!

Me: Bad news, Brian. No luck.
Brian: *Sigh* OK, well then I guess it'll have to be orcas.
Me: ...as in, killer whales?
Brian: YES, you KNOW that's what Oprah wanted, so let's get started.
Oprah: I do love those orcas!
Me: Fine. Orcas. And how are we supposed to make those?
Brian: Fondant of course. Duh.
Me: FONDANT?? AHHHHGGGGGGGGG, I HATE FONDANT!!!

If I recall, I woke up hating fondant even more than I did before, if that's at all possible. DAMN YOU BRIAN WILLIAMS. AND OPRAH, COME TO THINK OF IT.

Did I ever tell you that the ONE thing I told the idiot who did our wedding cake to do was to frost the cake instead of using fondant because I HATE fondant? Hey, hey, hey, guess what he used instead of frosting? And guess what pissed me off royally when I saw the wedding cake at my reception? And guess which words I was thinking of as I pinched a fake smile across my face when the Husband and I cut into our cake?

Let the Whining Commence!

2009-02-10T14:01:00.008-05:00

So yesterday I had a migraine. Hosed up my entire schedule for the day and thus the entire week because instead of doing chores I had to spend the day wandering in a pained haze, telling my kids to sit in the corner and stop looking at me like that or get the crap out and get a job. I'm better now, thank you for asking, but I still have that migraine hangover that comes the day after you've survived an attack. Even now I am telling Peawhistle every five minutes to QUIT RACING AROUND THE ROOM OR I WILL CHOP YOUR LEGS OFF. *sigh*

I've had migraines since I was about seven, so I'm used to them; or rather, I'm accustomed to the idea of getting them. The worst migraines I've ever had have either lasted a week or landed me in the ER, which is frustrating in and of itself because they don't do anything for you anyway except give you Tylenol. Of course! Tylenol! Why didn't I think of that before?? Should I also not slit my wrists, because I'm considering that right now, doctor! I've learned to avoid the ER.

I do recall one episode that I'll share here. It was my first week at BYU and I was living in the dorms. My roommate, whom I'd never met, had just joined me two days prior. Normally, I would have had access to a freezer with which to freeze things to place on my forehead to help calm the pain a mite should a migraine present itself. However, no such freezer existed in the dorms. So when a bad migraine hit me one afternoon, it went quickly downhill. The roommate was concerned of course, but not nearly as much as when I began scraping my head against the cinder-block wall next to my bed. She began pleading with me to stop when I graduated to rhythmically banging my head against the brick wall (have I mentioned that migraines strip you of your ability to think clearly? They essentially drive you temporarily insane, and I'm not exaggerating this point). And then she nearly cried when I stopped moving altogether, too exhausted to even close my eyes all the way, and she thought I was dead. I still recall through my blurred vision her creeping up on what she assumed was the fresh corpse of her new roommate, checking for any sign of breathing, quietly calling out my name, which I did not have the energy to respond to. I eventually got better, we laughed about it weeks down the road, and she never totally forgave me for that heart attack I gave her. Who said college days aren't good times?

I don't suppose you recall my adventures with Dr. @#$%&*$%, the doctor who found her medical license in the bottom of a trash bin, do you? One more reason I hate her is because she knows nothing about headaches. Now, by the time I was forced to see her I had been diagnosed by several doctors, many of them trained neurologists who specialized in migraines, as a chronic migraine sufferer. I believe Dr. @#$%&*$% was the first doctor--and only doctor come to think of it--to ever question this diagnosis made by physicians far more learned in this field than she. She announced that I suffer from tension headaches, not migraines. And the reason? Because "people with migraines get nausea, but they don't actually throw up." But people with tension headaches do? What? So by her reasoning, everyone gets nausea with headaches, but the only people who would never conceivably vomit as a result of that nausea are the folks with migraines. Makes perfect sense to me, you fricking whackjob! Nevermind that every medical journal on earth describes vomiting as a major symptom of migraines, but whatever. You see what I mean about my knowing more about medicine than she. It's scary.

So what do I do in case of migraine? I know you're on the edge of your seats so I won't tease you any longer. Drugs are only effective at the beginning, unfortunately. After that they have no effect and you're just blowing your stash. So I lie in bed, in as dark a room as possible, as toasty warm as possible, with as freezing an icepack as my ridiculously under-performing freezer will produce attached to my forehead. Now, if I'm not too insane at that point, a little light and relaxing music can help the process. Only two CDs are acceptable migraine fare. The first is the soundtrack to "Chariots of Fire." It's kinda weird technocrap music if you recall, but I grew up listening to it, I love it, and it relaxes me. That is, until I get to the "Jerusalem" number by the Westminster Cathedral Choir, complete with full pipe organ. Then I get excited and hallucinate that I can actually play the organ that well too, instead of the comedic performance I usually treat the congregation to on Sundays. So I try not to listen to that specific number with a migraine (drives my blood pressure up).

The other CD I listen to is even preferable to the first and it is "Christopher Cross," by none other than Christopher Cross. I don't think I've ever made it through the entire album at one sitting/lying down. It is so peaceful and relaxing that faster than you can say "self-induced coma" you're out for 12 hours and you wake up wondering where you are and why your CD player's batteries are dead again. "Oh man, I love this soZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ." That pretty much sums up the result of that CD, which is why I resort to it sparingly lest I become immune to its wonderful morphine-like effects. It's also the main reason I don't ever listen to it while driving, lest I wake up in the front grill of an oncoming 18-wheeler.

God bless you and your strangely puffy features, Christopher Cross! May your soothingly smooth voice be recorded in medical journals everywhere under safe and effective anesthetics, suitable for knocking out migraine sufferers to organ transplant patients.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

"We Help Daddy Win a Lawsuit Against Big Tobacco"

2009-02-03T19:25:00.004-05:00

See, here's the thing, folks. I only have so much free time in a day. I use that time either writing on my blog or reading yours. And when I have many writer-crazy friends that means I spend two hours reading their stuff instead of writing my own. You can't have it both ways, people. So quit writing about your families and other crap you love. Then we'll be getting somewhere here.

I just finished reading Peawhistle her bedtime story. She chose "We Help Daddy," one of the classic Golden Books I had as a child and passed along to her. I am always struck by the shear number of chores these people (Daddy, Benjy, and little Sue) are able to accomplish, particularly given the fact that two of the three contributors are apparently under the age of five and by definition a liability rather than an asset. Any other man in "Daddy's" situation would take upwards of 56 hours to accomplish what this fellow does in just one day. He amazes me. And on top of that, "Daddy" also smokes like a chimney. He's like the Energizer Bunny, but with emphysema.

The book also shows "Mommy" baking cookies in the kitchen--I'm assuming all day long, because really, that's why I don't bother with them. Peawhistle pointed and said, "Look! That Mommy's making cookies! Just like BStephanie!" You'll notice she did not bother to assume I would ever do the same, or was even capable of such. At least her expectations aren't high.

Halfway through their day, the kids help Daddy bathe Zip, their dog, who according to legend hates baths. Zip reminds me of Peanut, who has despised baths since the day he was born. And I don't mean that he fusses or cries a little. He FREAKS THE HELL OUT. He begins to tremble the second you even start to clean the bathtub. You'd think I were pouring acid on him or something (I'm not). This is why I strongly suspect he's a witch.

Today it snowed again. Snow twice in the course of 30 days?? Crazy talk you say! Indeed. I was especially pleased though, that the snow didn't confuse our refuse collection fellows today as it did last week when the dusting of snow on our white trash bags camouflaged them so effectively that ours were the only trashbags left on our entire street after the fellows had come and gone. Nevermind that our trashbags were sitting right there on the sidewalk and thus created unnatural two-foot-high lumps on said sidewalk. Why no, we haven't installed sidewalks two feet higher than everyone else's, although we are trying to discourage visitors! (TAKE THE HINT ALREADY.) But white=snow, so no trash collection for you, jerks!

One last thought. No, two. First I have to click my tongue at Bob Carol on principle. No wonder he wound up in London running a halfway house. And second, it's also no wonder Congress has no trouble handing out cash left and right to any Tom, Dick, or Harry, Inc. since it's not their money they're giving away. PAY YOUR TAXES YOU SPENDTHRIFT HOSERS. We have little enough respect for you as it is without being forced to also give you a completely free ride for the rest of your worthless term in office. There's a place specially reserved for the worst of the worst of society like you, you leeches! It's called Annapolis! NO GPS FOR YOU!!

I Smell An Oscar!!

2009-01-26T15:33:00.005-05:00

The Husband and I watched a movie the other night. I was so delighted by it that I can't possibly withhold it from you any longer. This movie is so superb, yet I still don't know what its name is, and apparently neither does the internet. Husband and I were bored Saturday night, what with having exhausted both our and Stephanie's collection of Netflix movies, so we cornered Comcast On Demand and selected some free film called "Survival/Mountain," whatever that means. The description, a couple who survive an avalanche in the Himalayan Mountains and struggle to survive afterwards, sounded interesting enough. We're all about watching pathetic attempts to live. So we started it up and were immediately thrilled to see that it was a made-for-TV movie; few things afford laughs better than made-for-TV survival films, especially after the Husband's last choice about killer locusts devouring America who are finally defeated by a giant makeshift bug zapper. Brilliant!

Back to our Oscar-winning show. The movie was advertised as being based upon a true story. I have my doubts about this as I will explain later, or at least their definition of "based upon" and "true." Also, "story." The film begins with a snippet of what is later to come, I'm assuming to rope its viewers into hanging around. It certainly worked. I wanted to know how the hell two perfectly healthy looking individuals could be whining about dying. They looked fine to me, and I should know, since you all know I'm a trained doctor. The film goes back to two weeks prior in these healthy individuals' lives when we learn that Wife is turning 40, going through a midlife crisis (I'm assuming), and is insistant that she and Husband go hiking in the Himalayas in November. "We'll have two seasoned guides and a cook with us! What could go wrong?" they tell her wise, avalanche-nightmare-having mother who does not want them to go. We know what's going to happen of course, because Mom is worried sick for her daughter and son-in-law. And because we read the movie description beforehand.

These idiots show up and sure enough, set off with their crew, who are natives of Nepal and supposedly know what they're doing since they say so, and start hiking up this mountain. They camp overnight. The couple points out that one of the guides isn't wearing clothes, or at least not weather-appropriate clothes. Head Guide explains he's from the South (I don't think he means Mississippi, although that would explain it too) so he'll just have to learn the hard way to wear a coat the next time he goes up A MOUNTAIN WITH SNOW ON IT. Yeah, OK. Husband never ceases to vocally fret about Southern Boy. During all this, weather stations are freaking out because some weather system is coming--a hurricane or something (I don't pretend to know these things)--and everyone should get off the mountain in a hurry. And most do, except this troupe.

During the night, Head Guide says it's Bad Weather and they need to pack up and leave. They pack up one or two things, abandon the rest (like food and tents) and hurry off. Then the Weather System arrives in the form of the blizzard, followed shortly thereafter by the aforementioned avalanche. The avalanche misses them, but apparently covered up Head Guide's breadcrumb trail, because for some unfathomable reason, he has NO clue how to go back to the city they just came from, like, 12 hours ago. So these idiots wander around the Himalayans for days, looking for the city, and failing that, any settlement at all. During all of this, I am persistently quizzing the Husband about why they continue to climb UP the mountain when the city they just came from is below them. He assures me he has no clue, but it's thoroughly entertaining to him just the same. After another avalanche finally gets the cook and Southern Boy, the crew really starts taking this seriously. Well, after they miraculously find the two buried in snow (what, are they cadaver dogs or something?) after digging for two minutes. Southern Boy ain't looking so hot, so fretting Husband gives him his coat, and later his boots, and finally his gloves. Husband, or Martyr as I like to call him, goes largely without.

Having no shelter, these people who have been on this mountain with no food or shelter for about a week, cheerily build themselves a snow cave. And not even with impliments of any sort, but their bare hands. And within an hour or two they have a wonderfully spacious and firmly packed snow cave the size of a hotel lobby. They sleep comfortably and not at all fitfully, or you know, dyingly, like any other human would. Eventually, Martyr gets tired of Head Guide giving them an undesirable tour of the mountains and announces he's going to save them all once and for all, starting with following that there river down there. "Finally," I said to the Husband, "They're actually doing something sensible. I don't believe it." Not to worry pets, it didn't last long. Yes, the river does flow downhill and since most settlements can be found near watersources, following the river is a very good idea. But apparently these people don't know that you can actually follow the river on the side of it, because they insist that each and everyone of them, including those barely surviving hypothermia as it is, get IN the water and start following it that way. I'm convinced they would have slept in the water too, had they not already been so in love with their snow caves. Perhaps they were tired of walking in wet snow and were hoping the river would be less wet? I don't know.

Anyway, two minutes later Head Guide and Cook decide that the other three were slowing them down and they needed to beat feet. They take off, leaving Southern Boy half-dead and Martyr with obvious frostbitten hands and feet. Mind you, throughout the entire movie Wife is perfectly chipper at all times. Upbeat, never weary, hungry, cold, nothing. It'd be irritating if it weren't so funny. The three decide to camp for the night, and with Martyr and Southern Boy being out of it, Cheery Wife builds the snow cave with her own hands by herself in an afternoon. Perhaps not the Ritz-Carlton this time around, but at least a DoubleTree. SouthernBoy dies in the night and Martyr goes wandering off in a stupid haze and goes careening off a short cliff. He lies there and waits for Cheer Bear to show up and comfort him, despite the fact both of them look perfectly fine and healthy as horses. Oh, but the smudge of blood on Martyr's lip means he's dying! Right, forgot that. Then Wifey's dead father shows up in Mafia garb and throws up weird and disturbing gang signs and suddenly the couple see a band of a dozen hikers tromping past them up ahead. The couple argue about this, with Martyr saying things like, "Leave me, I'm done for! Save yourself! Get help!" And Wife saying, "No, I won't leave you! I can't! A soldier never leaves a fallen comrade behind, Semper Fi, Oorah!!" That last one may not have happened. But you get the idea. By the time Wife finally takes off running (again, through the river) to catch up to the hikers, she's completely lost them, despite the fact they were maybe five minutes ahead of her. And they left tracks in the snow for her to follow. Which she didn't. Of course.

We see Wife literally crawling through snowy mountains that have never been touched by humans, all the while thinking she can still catch up with the hikers. Hikers who had obviously never been there. The movie cuts back to Marytr, still on the side of the river (I wonder why she didn't just put him in it?), waiting patiently as he freezes to death, never thinking that perhaps that dead guy in the cave up there might have some coats, boots, gloves, pants, underwear, and whatever else Martyr gave him that he won't be using anymore. We're supposed to believe that Wife went crawling and stumbling forEVER, which she did, and did she find help? Of course she did. She accidentally wanders into the city they started from. No joke. These idiots have been lost for weeks and she crawls back in a day? Why wasn't she put in charge from the beginning? Oh wait, she was following those hikers, not trying to find the city, so logic would tell us had she been looking for the city, she would instead have found Hell. Or something like that. Anyway, she wasn't in charge for good reason.

So Helicopter guy takes her up and they start looking for Martyr. "I left him next to a river." "What, not in it?" (But I kid these retards.) She gives very helpful clues like, "We were around a bend in the river," and, "I think we were near some trees." Of course, they find Martyr, still waiting patiently for death. They yell down to him that they can't reach him on the banks of the river; he'll have to get in the river to reach him. Of course. What is it with these people and getting in the water in subfreezing conditions? When they get back to the city, they find Head Guide and Cook and Martyr more or less tells them they're going to hell for leaving them. Sounds good to me.

They get home to the States, Martyr loses his toes and fingers due to frostbite, and they all go on and on about how grateful they are to be alive. Indeed, Idiots. And it is here that I have to take serious issue with this being a true story. Without the aid of Hollywood (or whatever back alley company made this film) this couple would have died years ago with a collective hand on a fork in a light socket, and you and I both know it. People that stupid simply cannot survive something like that without artistic license on their side.

Even after reading this, if you have Comcast on Demand and a free hour and a half, check it out. You honestly can't go wrong with a movie like that.

I Should Have Had a Model in a Sequined Dress

2009-01-22T13:56:00.007-05:00

The results from the Post-it Note NieNie Free Book Prize Drawing are in and there are TWO winners! Yes, two winners! Why? Because I'm saintly. Also, because I decided that Heidi deserved a book no matter what, because within two hours of my quiz posting she had coughed up all of the answers, every whit correct on each and every one. She made me happy. It was also proved to me that the Fates wanted her to have one because I put her name in the drawing for laughs anyway and hers was the first name I drew out. So congratulations to Heidi! As soon as I get the books in the mail yours will be out the door to you.

And the second winner in the drawing was....Stephanie! Congratulations, Stephanie! She answered everything more or less correctly and got it in within the deadline I gave to her since my original deadline was before she even came home from vacation. So she got another day to get them in. Good job to her and to everyone who took the time to take the quiz and trip down memory lane with me in hopes of free prizes.

And now, for your edification, here are the answers:

1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis? Annapolis. Or more accurately, "the blasted city of Annapolis" as Stephanie, one of our winners you recall, answered.

2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous? There's a photo of it up on Cake Wrecks with my poopy Rudolph cake on top of it.

3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert? Janis Ian. Remember, that's just one of the time when I got lost in Annapolis. You see how it all links together with me?

4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you? Jerome Morris. Yes, that Mainer artist extraordinaire who indeed read my blog post about him and never spoke another word to me. I don't think he was nearly as amused as I was. I've said it before and I'll say it again: the theme of my blog is "It's funny when it's not you." On a related note, if you or your wealthy parents would like to pester Mr. Morris during a lovely and relaxing vacation to the coast of Maine, we rent our beautiful family cottage (it sleeps 6! Or 7 1/2 if you like couches!) out for the summer. Email me. We'll talk prices.

5) What is Michael Phelps's real name? Bob Carol. Oh, like he wouldn't be just as good at swimming with a name like that? Please.

6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF? Barbie dolls. A non-collection that has grown since I last wrote about it, by the way.

7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me. DNC, NSA, FBI, Smithsonian . I'd tell them to give it up, but I fear I'm just too addictive.

8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs? He is a former USAF intelligence officer trained in the art of being masterly sneaky. Or as Heidi, our first winner, put it, "Because he was a career USAF officer with Jason Bourne-like skills at hiding documents from the KGB-impersonating counterintelligence guys." Right on, Heidi.

9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they? Celtic Thunder/Celtic Man. To quote Gwennifer, "I didn't realize it was possible to feel physically assaulted by a singing group, but I now know the feeling." So do the rest of us. So do the rest of us.

10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants? The ever-endearing, overly self-confident, and always entertaining Dr. Combat. Did I mention healthgrades.com tells you where your doctors work? And that it told me Dr. Combat is alive and still in the Army torturing others at yet another Army hospital? It's nice to know he hasn't been stripped of his natural environment.

Many thanks again to everyone who participated. I wish I was rich enough to give books to everyone who submitted answers because you all deserve it. For everyone but Heidi and Stephanie, go buy the book! If you buy the digital copy all proceeds go to the NieNie Fund; the hardcopy version gives all proceeds minus $8 printing costs. Hurry! Buy it! Be famous by association! And do something nice for a nice couple with four nice kids who suffered unmeasurable tragedy. Go. Buy. Help. And feel good about yourselves afterward.

Free Books and Quizzes for NieNie

2009-01-15T15:01:00.008-05:00

Hey, hey, hey, remember when I told you about that blogger book that was being made for the NieNie Recovery Fund? And how a bunch of funny blog entries were chosen from 43 different authors (even me if you can stomach that) to make up this book to make it as funny as possible? And that all profits would go towards helping pay for the Nielson's medical bills and such? And how I would give you more information once the book was ready for purchase? WELL HANG ON TO YOUR HATS, 'CAUSE THE BOOK IS HERE. Grab a Kleenex if you have to.

SO. How can you procure this marvel for your very own coffee tables to wow and impress your friends, family, and unwanted houseguests (assuming they aren't all one and the same)? By clicking here, you silly ducks! Now, you'll also note that there is a downloadable version, allowing you to obtain The Brilliance within minutes rather than days, plus you avoid that mindboggling $5 shipping charge. On the other hand, you won't have anything to show off to people, plus it's hard to read it in the bathroom like that unless you drag your computer in there with you (if you do this, please don't tell me). But I'm not your mother so do whatever makes you happy. You know, just as long as you spend at least $19.60 (or multiples thereof) in the process.

BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE. If there are two things my readers have in common, it's that they're incredibly cheap and lazy. I am nothing if not accommodating in this regard. This is why I've sold my soul for charity and will host The First and Hopefully Only Delusions of Grandeur Giveaway!! Here's how this will work. This will work for all you tightwads out there since as the prize you will get one hardcopy of "Something Cleverish" for your very own on my dime. As an added bonus, you will be getting the Special Limited Edition of "Something Cleverish!" Why so special you ask? Because I will personally forge all 42 autographs of every other author in the book, accompanied by personal wishes from each and every one! I will now place my fingers in my ears since I hear you all screaming something about illegalities and lawsuits. LA LA LA LA LA, I CAN'T HEAR YOU, MY CHARITABLE HEART IS DROWNING OUT ALL OF YOUR BUMMER WORDS.

For all you lazy folks (same folks mind you), you won't be as into this next part. You'll have to answer questions to get it, and don't tell me it ain't gonna happen because at least one person already said she'd do it; if you don't want her to get it, then get on the ball. The person who answers the most questions correctly (emailed to me; any answers posted in the comments section will be deleted) will get a FREE book either hand delivered or mailed to his or her very own residence! If more than one of you actually bothers with this and answers the same number correctly, I'll close my eyes and choose at random. Fair enough? Good. Then the rest of you hosers will have to buy the book on your own. (Remember! It's for charity! And it's funny! Buying it counts for 25+ points for getting into Heaven.) All of the answers for this quiz can be found within the bowels of this blog (i.e., you don't have to know me to get them right). All responses are due in my inbox by Tuesday (the 20th) night at midnight EST. And...GO!

THE DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR QUIZ OF A LIFETIME

1) Who or what do I consider my arch nemesis?

2) Why is my kitchen linolium famous?

3) Who did Mark Austin tour with when I saw him in concert?

4) Say you chuck your model of the USS Constitution down two flights of stairs. Who could you get to fix that for you?

5) What is Michael Phelps's real name?

6) What do I absolutely NOT OWN A COLLECTION OF?

7) Name one professional organization that is stalking me.

8) Why is my dad so good at hiding Easter eggs?

9) They're foreign and ridiculously, unintentionally funny. Who are they?

10) Who has mastered the art of the Evil Eye to the point of making me poop my pants?

See? Too easy. Remember, no answers in the comments; please email your answers instead. Feel free to use the comments section to ask questions about the blog book, though.

Seriously though, buy the book. Everyone always says to themselves, "Gosh, I'd love to help but I don't know how!" Here's how. It even makes it easy by taking PayPal. Go on. Do the right thing: buy and feel good about it now, and then feel amused several days from now. It's win-win.

Next Time Splurge on the Fruit-of-the-Looms

2009-01-13T14:21:00.007-05:00

I ran across a couple of images a long time ago when temporary crazy infiltrated my brain and I thought for a second that I could actually sew men's pajamas. Fortunately, that idea went away, but the images I found have stayed in my files for some time and I've decided now is the time to share them.

Image The First

I imagine the thought process leading up to this gem as something like the following:

"You know, my husband needs new underwear, but darn it, those department stores are so expensive, what with their fancy elastic waistbands and cottons and such. And what if I needed to make them out of Polyester or faux fur?? Where am I then?"

Who the hell makes their own underwear? And tighty-whities no less? Olive green tighty-whities even.

Image The Second

I'm going to show this next one without explanation. Be sure and compare their "detail" box with the actual photo. Enlarge the photo by clicking on it if you need to. Take your time.

Now that we're all on the same page with the inappropriateness and such, I won't mention it further other than to use this as the preamble to a personal story.

Back when I was a young whippersnapper at BYU I lived in an apartment complex. I'm sure most apartment complexes/student congregations did something similar, but I never cared to check so I'll just stick with my own experience. In our complex we had what we called a Meet Directory, which everyone usually referred to as a "Meat Directory," what with the photos and names of every available person in the thing available for all to peruse and stalk. They usually lined us all up at the beginning of the school year and snapped our mug shots for this thing and a few weeks later the directory came out.

It must have been several weeks into the semester when I was leafing through the Meat Directory, noting those students who had failed to have their photo taken. In lieu of a photo these people had random designs in their box-that-would-be-a-photo. I was taken aback by one fellow's random design, thinking it looked awfully familiar. It finally dawned on me that the random design was my fricking shirt. As in, you could have taken this guy's design and put it directly beneath my own picture and it would have made a complete picture. And not only was it my shirt, but it was a picture of my boobular region specifically. My roommates were never so pleased to see this and one of them who knew the guy who put the directory together had him come over immediately. He apologized after I pointed out my boobs to him (the ones in the picture, not the ones on me at the time) and he explained that after taking our photos from the chest up they cut out just the heads and let the rest fall to the floor. In looking for something to put in place of this fellow's face, he looked down on the pile of cuttings, saw an interesting design, and inserted it.

It's not so much that the entire complex stared at my boobs for the rest of the school year in place of this guy's face, but the fact that Roommate's Friend didn't even realize they were boobs in the first place. *sigh* Cow lady, you have my sympathies. Except for the part where you agreed to dress up in cow pajamas and have your photo taken.

While I was searching for a higher resolution of cow lady's "detailed" photo I came across this interesting lass:

There's just something about that pose that seems just so wrong. Can't...quite...put my toe on it. Ah well, it'll come to me.

The Glass Is Half Full Until You Shoot It

2009-01-10T16:19:00.004-05:00

Ryann had this quiz link on her blog, and considering just how reliable and accurate online personality quizzes based on five multiple choice questions are, I thought I'd give it a go.

Your Word is "Hope"

You see life as an opportunity for learning, growth, and bringing out the best in others.

No matter how bad things get, you always have at least a glimmer of optimism.

You are accepting and forgiving. You encourage those who have wronged you to turn over a new leaf.

And while there is a lot of ugliness in the world, you believe that almost no one is beyond redemption.

What's Your Word?

So for all you jerkfaces out there who thought I was a mean, cruel, heartless and uncaring monster, you can FRICKING SHOVE IT. I'LL SEE YOU IN HELL, JERKS. Oh wait, no I won't. BECAUSE I'M NICE AND HOPEFUL AND CRAP. TAKE THAT.