A Reminder Never Hurts

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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?