Yes, Master

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.

UGH.

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....

What Oprah Wants, Oprah Gets

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?

"We Help Daddy Win a Lawsuit Against Big Tobacco"

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 Should Have Had a Model in a Sequined Dress

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.

An Olympian Named Bob

Speaking of people who stalk me, guess what the Husband's company got him for Christmas this year? A GPS unit for the car. I'M TELLING YOU, IT WON'T HELP. IT'S JUST TOO EVIL.

So I had another dream last night. And if there's one thing people LOVE to read/hear about, it's other people's nonsensical dreams! Yes, you're just that lucky!

I was watching The Colbert Report last night (it's really the only thing I do) and Stephen's guest for the evening was "America's Hottest Ugly Man" Michael Phelps. So I guess I had to dream about him out of principle or something.

For some reason I was racing around London with a gang of ne're-do-wells on a scavanger hunt of the utmost stupidity. I ran into Mr. Phelps (who had put on a few pounds since we last saw him--like 50--perhaps put on from running a halfway house in London instead of swimming his brains out), mostly because we were looking for him as part of our hunt. I had to get his name down on paper to get credit, so I asked him what his full name was.

"Bob Carol."

"What?"

(Winking at me) "I go by Michael Phelps but my real name is Bob Carol."

"OK, Michael Carol."

"No, BOB Carol."

"Rob Carol."

"NO, BOB Carol."

"Oh, BOB! Got it. Bob Phelps." (Because I'm incredibly retarded in every dream I've ever had)

"BOB. CAROL."

"OK. Bob. Carol."

And then he winked at me again.

If I ever meet Michael Phelps in this life, you can bet your can of beans I'm gonna call him Bob Carol while winking madly at him. I'm sure he'll totally get it.

I Have Laser Vision

Last night I dreamed about Stephen Colbert. We dined together with friends (some of you were there, although I can't recall exactly which ones, so I'll just pretend I'd moved beyond all of you by then). And then I turned into a freakishly mutated superhero who went on a killing rampage, murdering everyone on earth. And then I travelled to other planets destroying them, too (Saturn got hit the hardest I'm afraid).

Now, you see what happens when you make me hunt for you all over D.C., Stephen?? I KILL THE SOLAR SYSTEM. Now let that be a lesson to you.

You're Who Now?

So I had a dream last night that I met Matt Damon. I was ecstatic.

MD: Hi.

Abby: Oh my gosh!!! Can you sign some of my Star Wars Stuff??

MD: ...You know I'm not Ewan McGregor, right?

Abby: Huh.

If memory serves, he signed them anyway, which means my subconscience is totally rich right now. Or at least it will be once it sells it all on eBay.


I was going to include a photo of Matt here in case you all forgot what he looked like, too, but I found this artist's rendering of him as Jason Bourne and I decided it was better than a photo. (Courtesy beFrank's @ coolshots.blogspot)





I love the internet.