Saturday, October 31, 2009

Trick or Treat

Halloween. A dentist's dream day. A behavioral nightmare for parents that starts Halloween evening and runs until the candy is gone. Especially if you have kids like ours, kids that respond to sugar like crack-addicts respond to glass pipes. The phrase "ape-poo batty" about covers it.

So, we do Halloween differently. For the Nowells, Halloween is about the costume and little else. And because we can't find an enclave of homes that give out nothing but good, old-fashioned cashola, Halloween isn't about springing from house to house, knocking on doors.

The kids are OK with this because we've created a new tradition, resting on video games, at places like Chuck E Cheese and Adventure Landing. I understand very few people haunt* these locales on the actual holiday, so we should have plenty of fun without plenty o' lines.

So, go enjoy All Hallows Eve in whatever traditional or non-traditional way your family sees fit.

And, while you are at it, enjoy this joke, courtesy of Dad Huber:

A man goes into the hospital for surgery and ends up with "bathroom issues" during his recovery. No matter how much it feels like he has to go, trips to the bathroom yield nothing.

Tired of fruitless trip to the bathroom, the next time he feels the urge, he decides to stay in his bed. Unfortunately, he has diarrhea all over the sheets.

Embarrased, he wads up the dirty sheets and throws them out the window.

Passing by, a drunk is hit on the head with the sheets. Furiously waving his arms to get them off, he catches the attention of a police officer.

The police officer asks "What are you doing?"

The drunk says "I don't know. But I think I just beat the crap out of a ghost!"


*Couldn't resist. My fingers were just itching to do this.

Friday, October 30, 2009

No, thank you. NO, thank you. NO, THANK YOU.

In the spirit of Halloween: Did you hear the one about a skeleton who walked into a bar and ordered a drink and a mop?

By far, one of my favorite jokey, non-jokes. Most people don't get it the first time they hear it, so you get to watch the lines in their forehead wrinkle, their eyebrows knit together and the gears in their brain grind. THEN they go "OH." Very rarely does anybody laugh. They just acknowledge that they GET IT.

But, do they really?

I, for one, know I fain understanding sometimes just to get out of a situation. Like the one at Tom Thumb the other night.

I was purchasing a 36-pack of water bottles. I had lifted the bottles off the bottom shelf and carried them to the conveyor belt myself. It wasn't a back-breaking experience and, actually, I needed to work out my arms, so I was glad to carry them*.

Once I got to the head of the line, the kind checker asked if I wanted a cart for the bottles. "No, thank you" was my response.

Then the inquisition began.

"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Thank you."

Enter our handy bagger. Who happened to be deaf, God bless her. She pointed to the cart area and said something I couldn't understand. I smiled, doing my best "I totally get what you just said" look.

It was clear she thought I needed a cart, too. And she wasn't giving up easily.

Me, hoping I was about to respond to the unitelligble statement correctly: "No. Thank you."
Bagger: "Need cart."
Me, waving my arms and hands like I was a line judge at the Super Bowl: "No. That's OK."

Then the bagger stopped an elderly gentleman. A co-worker. "Cart", she commanded. And pointed at me.

I'm sure the confluence of wrinkles on my forehead could have held pennies in it. I just couldn't believe how insistent these people were. What did I look like, a 90-year-old with arthritis and no muscle tone**?

At this point, the gracious thing would have been to accept the cart. But, by golly, it had became a matter of principle. I just wasn't in the mood to deal with GREAT CUSTOMER SERVICE and these people needed to back the heck up!

By this time, my handy credit card had posted the $4.99 charge and mutiny was about to start in the line behind me. Who could blame the other line-dwellers? Here I was with one freakin' item and you'd think I was buying an elephant and leaving without peanuts. Or a big shovel.

Deaf bagger person continued to insist I needed a cart as the checker handed me my receipt. I reached to pick up the water bottles, saw the 80-year-old savior, with MY cart jetisoning toward the checkout stand. I did my best peripheral blindness imitation and passed by him.

After I got to the car, I couldn't help but think about how this would have panned out at Walmart. I would have picked up the bottles, drug them to the checkout stand, the checker would have slung them up on the merry-go-round-for-plastic-bags and, if I was lucky, said "Have a nice day." Or grunted goodbye, depending on the hour and the checker.

And, you know the strange thing? I prefer the Walmart experience. Because I really hate to try to reason with strangers or explain my point-of-view to people I don't know. That's hard enough with people I know intimately.

So, Tom Thumb. Thanks for the water. Best of luck in the grocery wars. When I can't find something I need at Walmart, I'll be back.

But I damn sure won't be buying anything heavy. Or bulky.

Unless I'm in the mood to accept that forsaken cart.

*Over the Summer I attempted to pull myself out of the pool by the arms, without assistance from the legs. I found myself flopping back into the pool like an epileptic fish. Let's just say, when you are laughing at your own lack of strength, it's not a good idea to try this stunt a second time. Best just to use the ladder.

**Don't answer that.

Thursday, October 29, 2009


A smallish voice calls from the backseat of the car "Mommy? What are you going to be for Halloween?"

"I think I'll just go as a Mommy."

A logical voice responds "You'll need toilet paper."

A perplexed voice answers "Why would I need toilet paper?"

I hear this response "Because mommies have lots of toilet paper."

I'm still WAY out of touch with what he is talking about, so I ask "What do we do with the toilet paper?", hoping to clarify the situation.

The answer made perfect sense "You know. They wrap it all around their bodies and tape it."

OH. MUMMIES. You've gotta love the English language, the blessed speak that allows the change of one vowel to completely screw up communication.

No, dear, I won't be wrapping my body in Charmin on Saturday. I'll be a MOMMY for Halloween. Not King Tut.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Booty Call

Listen, my children, and you will hear
the infamous booty call of Mikey-dear.

It started with potty at a neighbor's house
And a boy, not timid, unlike most mouse.

Who stated "You may not wipe my rear.
Please call my Mommy or Daddy dear."

The sitter, perplexed, did dial the phone
And found that the husband was, indeed, home.

Out the front door, across the grass
To wipe a little lad's smallish ***.

Mission accomplished! To home, returned
Grateful the privacy lesson was learned.

Listen, my children, and you will hear
A new lesson taught, one so dear

To kindergarten teachers across the land
and babysitters young and bronzed with tan.

A lesson including "Wipe front to rear!"
And laughter from parents who needed to steer

Their littlest boy to booty-wiping
And way, far away, from adult griping.

Listen, my children, and really take heed.
If you desire to not follow our steed.

Put toilet paper in your little one's hands
The minute you move away from diaper land.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Of Course You're Right

One of my favorite lines, in any movie, EVER is Carrie Fisher's "You're right. You're right. I know you're right."*

Of course, her character, Marie, continues to say this OVER and OVER again, never heeding the advice that will infinitely improve her life.

Isn't life just like that, though? It's a continuum of KNOWING instinctively what we SHOULD do then doing what we know we SHOULDN'T do. Then, regretting our decision, and turning around and doing the right thing.

I'm constantly on wee ones around here to get it right the first time. Cripe--if they could recapture the time they spent re-brushing their teeth** or returning to their rooms to make their beds *again*, they would have enough time to watch all six episodes of Star Wars in 1/60th motion, with plenty of potty and snack breaks.

The big kids in this house aren't without their own issues. On point: if diabetes was actually directly in proportion to the amount of sugar a human body consumed, I'd have been diagnosed when I was two. I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn't looking for the white stuff***.

The frequency of my sugar cravings actually astounds even me. You'd think I'd know better than to heed the cravings. I KNOW, from plenty of experience, that having a big slice of cake after lunch is directly related to a 2pm slump**** AND the cottage cheese that has taken up residence on my thighs and backside. I also know, from experience, that when I give up sugar, I feel 1000% times better. Yet, back I go, again and again.

I guess it's all about the journey, though. We all have to learn life's lessons. Some of us are just really.slow.learners.

And of myself I say "You're right. I know you're right."

*From one of the bestest movies of all times "When Harry Met Sally".

**A constant battle for us. They are not at all moved by the "sugar bugs" that are attacking their teeth because they eat so little sugar. Our oral hygiene has been foiled by a good diet.

***Thank goodness I never graduated to "the other white stuff". It's not exactly as innocent as "the other white meat".

****The need for a nap of monumental proportions, more appropriately. Problem is, this is the exact same time carpool starts. OOPS.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Oh, Nuts!

"Oh no. They screwed up. They didn't put my nuts in here."

Only my sweet, precious husband could utter something so hysterical, yet have no Earthly idea why I was practically wetting my pants with laughter.

I only have God to thank that it was well past bedtime and none of the kids was awakened by my uproarious laughter or snort-producing-guffaws. I was cracking up so hard that I started cry-laughing.

Why is it that my sense of humor rivals that of a pre-pubescent boy lately? Truly, have I not been forwarded enough good jokes? Am I being prepared for what is to come with the kids? WHAT?????

Which reminds me of a joke:
A Catholic priest, Baptist minister and a Jewish rabbi go into the jungle to convert a lion, each thinking he has the best way.

Later, the Catholic priest emerges from the dense forest, unscathed. He sees the minister and asks how it went. The minister, also unscathed, says "GREAT! The lion didn't at all seem to mind being baptized in the Congo."

The priest, recounting his lion's conversion, states "Yes. My lion didn't mind going to confession, saying "Hail, Mary's" OR counting his rosary beads."

Just then, the rabbi stumbles out of the woods, bloodied from head to foot, and collapses at the feet of the priest and minister.

They both inquire as to what happened and the rabbi, with extreme pain and difficulty replies: "I guess I shouldn't have started with the circumcision."


So, there you have it. If you don't like it, complain to Mike, since he started it.

But don't call right now. He's gone to Wal-Mart. He claims they have his nuts.


Sunday, October 25, 2009

Kill Joy

We just bought some new furnishings on which to sit and pig-out two to three times a day*.

As Mike was doing some simple installation**, he noticed the "Made in Malaysia" signs on the underside of some of the pieces.

To which he observed: "These chairs have seen more of the world than either of us has. And, they've been to Malaysia, so they know which country it is in and that it actually exists, which is more than the average American can say."

I'm now totally depressed. I don't think I'll be able to sit on these world-traveling, geographically-elite pieces of wood.

And I was SO looking forward to breakfast in the morning, perched atop our newly acquired chairs, running my hands over the shiny table-top, eating gluten-free waffles and drinking my 64 ounce cup of coffee.

Way to kill my new furniture buzz, buddy. SIGH.

*In case you are caffeine-deprived or drunk, that equals a new dining table and chairs.

**He hasn't cussed once. Come close, but, no cigar.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

An Open Letter to a Jackass

Dear Soccer Dad--
What a coordinated person you were today on the soccer sidelines, wearing a shirt that matched the soccer jersey's of your son's team.

What a nice guy you seemed to be when you were at your son's side each and every time he came to the sidelines. You provided him a good, old-fashioned sugar-high with his sport's drink by a big brand company, as well as what seemed to be encouragement.

How cute your son looked with his black under-eye patches. If he had been four feet taller and had hairs where men grow them in private places, he could have actually been the professional soccer player you made him dress up to look like.

What a complete nincompoop you became when you actually had the following conversation with your FOUR YEAR OLD SON:

Soccer Dad: "Do you want to play your Playstation 3 this afternoon?"
Four-year-old son: "YEAH" (Completely stoked)
Soccer Dad: "Then go out there and score a goal."
Four-year-old son: "OK" (Still completely stoked)
Soccer Dad: "Because, if you don't score, you aren't going to play your Playstation 3. Got it?"

Soccer Dad was super lucky that my butt was comfortably seated in a foldout chair and that I didn't have enough coffee in my system to jump to his son's defense. If I had gotten out of my chair, I'm sure I would have tripped over my lower jaw, which hit the field at warp speed when I heard this.

If I had my way, there would be a little circle of Hell reserved just for sport's parents who don't know any better than to be an ass to their own kids.

News flash, sport's parents: Your time to be the star is over. You are way too old. Your kids have a chance to do what you couldn't or wouldn't do. But, if you continue to denigrate their little spirits, you'll have a kid who can't perform, even if they want to, because they'll be too afraid to disappoint you.

So, get over the fact that you didn't make it into the pros and go cheer on your kids in a positive way.

Just don't threaten or yell at them. 'Cause next time, MommaJ is going to be tanked on caffeine and I'm going for the jugular.


Friday, October 23, 2009

Crying over You

Tonight my middle guy cried his own bucket of tears.

We're talking crocodile tears. The kind that are accompanied by a soul-retching sobbing sound. The type that make your body shake uncontrollably.

Mike was lying in bed with him and shooed me off when I asked what was the matter.

So, I went in to tell The Babe goodnight. We started playing "kiss this". I'd kiss his nose, he'd kiss mine. I'd kiss his ear, he'd kiss mine. Then, he asked me to kiss his armpit. After that, the game ended. But, it was fun while it lasted.

Meanwhile, bawling son seemed to be going up the tall side of the world's longest roller-coaster of a cry. Even the front seat of the coaster was no where near the peak.

Being unable to listen to a child of mine wail without knowing WHY, I started noodling this issue. Had Mike finally admitted they weren't going camping with the Boy Scouts this weekend? Had my boy remembered his friends are moving to Italy soon? WHAT???

The suspense/crying was killing me, so I told The Babe I'd be back.* And into middle son's room I went. Again.

This time, I decided to play it cool and not ask about the issue. Instead, I told my son I was sorry he was sad. Then, he rolled over and said, "I'm sad about Don."

At that moment, I was a little confused. I wasn't sure if I heard the word correctly, so I asked Mike. Sure enough, he said Don.

Great-Grandpa Don, that is. Who married Mike's maternal Grandmother after his Grandfather died. Don was the only Great-Grandpa my guy had ever known.

When I snuggled in next to him, I asked what his favorite memories of Don were. After thinking about it for a few seconds, he said "I don't know." And started crying even harder.

After a Kleenex break, I said "Grandpa Don really liked it when you visited him."

He said "Grandpa Don was always nice to me" and "I liked visiting him."

Though his memories of specifics were vague, I completely understood. Years after my Grandpa Robbie died, I couldn't tell you a single conversation we ever had. The specifics were never important. It was the TIME that mattered. And, for my son, time with Grandpa Don had come to an end. Before my boy was ready.

As well, at the tender age of seven, he was beginning to understand the permanency of death; that there are no more do-overs, hugs and kisses, or "See you next time".

And it brought great sadness to him that Grandpa Don had forgotten who has was the last time they saw each other. Parkinson's had taken it's toll. But, being so young, my boy just couldn't understand.

I prayed over him that he would continue having a soft heart and that his future wife would see his tenderness as a strength.

After I prayed, a wonderful thought came to mind: he's not just my son, he's a little bit of me. And he's so much like me that it's scary.

Thank you, Lord. I'd have it no other way.

*But, like Mom, not The Terminator.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Stupid Dog

What do you get when you decide your dogs make good carpool buddies?

Poo. On the back floor mat. And lots of sad, droopy eyes, and no-tail wagging from the little guy who made the doggie deposit.

I swear. If Doug weren't so stinkin' cute and sweet, I'd have had him driven back to where we first met him.*

In fact, it crossed my mind for the first time today that, maybe, the reason he ended up in the hoosegow to begin with was his penchant for pooping and peeing places where even toddlers know are off limits.

In every other area of life, he is a perfect gentledog. But, at this? He.Really.Sucks.

I guess it's time we try leash training for him. He does get really excited everytime he sees "big blue", so maybe we'll just work that angle for awhile.

Unless someone can educate me on Kohler-potty-training a dog.

As long as he doesn't pee on the seat or use all my toilet paper without refilling it, I'll be good.

*Notice I didn't say I'd drive him. Because it would just kill me to take him on this journey and have him wag his tail at me and look up with those big eyes like "Are we at the doggie park yet?"

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Here Come the Holidays!

The Pre-Holiday Edition of "Really Stupid Things People Do Even Though They Fully Know 'This is the stupidest thing I'm going to do all year long'":

1. Parking your "new" car, which has obviously seen the interior of a chop shop for alteration, across two parking spots in the dead of winter, in sub-40 degree weather, at the height of shopping-season for Christmas.

The employees in the adjacent Dillard's should just pass out sharp objects with which to key these offending cars, because this is exactly what every body who passes by is going to be thinking: "If I only had a sharp object, I'd draw a little picture on the side of this piece o' work, shaped like a middle finger, to show the owner what I think of their parking job."

Dillard's would blow the competition out of the water, just in sharp-object-sales alone.

2. Getting out of a car in this same parking area to STAND in a freshly-vacated parking spot whilst your friend idles behind other cars waiting to park*.

Now, mind you, there are thirty plus autos whose drivers rightfully SHOULD get this spot, as they've been driving in circles for twenty minutes trying, unsuccessfully and with utmost of manners, to garner a spot. But, apparently, this person's Momma told her "You are privileged. Others should allow you to do whatever you want 'cause your poop don't stink", which led you to believe, if you get out of the car and piss people off, anything in the parking garage is YOURS TO CLAIM.

Word to your Momma? WRONG.

3. Ordering a holiday ham from HAMCO.

This entitles you not only to a tasty piece of pig, but also a wait in line for upwards of fifty hours.

If you are lucky enough to time your queue-standing escapade to correspond to a date OTHER THAN when the fifteen thousand people in town also need to pick up their swine, you should play the lottery. Because you are the luckiest S.O.B. on the block.

Unlike you, every other schmoe in the city will be there on Wednesday afternoon, praying that the line progresses smoothly to allow everyone to drive 80mph and arrive, slightly-less-sane, at the Thanksgiving table just as the rest of the meal is served.

Good luck with that, buddy. You won't see me in line. I'm sending someone else.

So, go get 'em, Tiger. Attack those holidays with fervor by shopping at the worst times and ordering crazy-expensive meat. Just don't forget I warned you.

And don't EVER stand in the parking spot I'm attempting to occupy.

*Sad to admit, this happened to me. I scared the Bejeezus out of the 17-year-old chick because I started into the spot and honked at her. She was incredulous that I should think I deserved the spot. Even though I was sitting behind the car that just vacated the land, with my friggin' blinker on, waiting. Strangely, I gave up. In retrospect, and looking from a slightly older place than before, I should have backed her butt into the concrete wall and thrown it in "P".

Tuesday, October 20, 2009


I knew something stunk in Denmark the first time I saw the silver UFO balloon floating high above Denver, supposedly housing a young child. A boy, nonetheless.

First, this balloon had NO windows. A kid of the boy persuasion, floating through the air with the greatest of ease, is not going to settle for no window out of which to see the world go by. He's going to be working to MAKE a window, either with his handy pocket knife, a hangnail, or his teeth. All without regard to the hissing sound that is getting progressively louder as the helium is slowly let out in the process.

Second, the parents were WAY TOO CALM. If my kid is floating over Colorado in a balloon with no destination, I'm driving 5,000 mph with every police officer in the tri-state area following me.

As Mom, I'm on a bull horn, reassuring my little boy that he is safe. And making sure he doesn't pull down his pants and moon the world out of the window he's created.

Finally, the cock and bull story the Father gave to reporters made me happy I didn't have smell-o-vision. That crap was rancid.

Please, man. You aren't going to ground the kid who supposedly hid in the garage attic during this whole erratic, scary adventure? After you screamed and searched and screamed again, without response from him? There just aren't enough days in the lives of my kids for them to be grounded if they pulled that stunt on me.

Now that we all know that this WAS a hoax, I hope they throw the book at the parents. And make them pay back any airline that couldn't land in Denver during this debacle. And send those kids to their Auntie who owns a wooden spoon and knows how to use it.

And, if you are reading this thinking "WOW. A big balloon! What a novel idea. The Nowell boys could sure use one of those for Christmas!", I just have one thing to say:

No. Not just No. HECK No.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Rescue ME!!!

If you've never watched Dora the Explorer or Go, Diego, Go, you probably don't have kids or Grand kids under five who enjoy "educational TV".*

These little adventurers manage to save someone or something (usually of the animal persuasion) in a short 30-minutes, with astounding accuracy.

Most of this deliverence occurs because of their armada of rescue items, stealthily held in a talking piece of fabric, strapped to their backs. Dora has "Backpack" and Diego has "Rescue Pack".

Every episode is the same: Our hero hears someone/thing in distress, cues the theme song from the pack, checks the trusty map and route, and, finally, rescues the thing from calamity.

On today's episode, it was a chinchilla in a tree. We had a pogo stick, jet pack, a short ladder OR a sandwich to assist with the extrication. And we had to pick the "best" tool.

I chose the sandwich 'cause it was lunchtime and I didn't care if the stupid animal got saved unless he'd sacrifice himself to become chinchilla numero uno in a rocking, soft fur coat.

Now, unlike jaded adults, all this rescuing stuff NEVER gets old when you are under five. When the hero asks you to chant, you chant. When you have to figure out whether to say "yes" or "no", you work those wheels in your brain until they almost freeze up. Then scream your answer at the TV screen.

For those of us five plus, this gets annoying after our first viewing.

But, it did get me thinking about what would be in my "rescue pack".

1. Wine. In plastic bottles that chill themselves. In cool shapes that won't make me look like a whino when I drink directly from them because I've discovered ANOTHER Doug poo on the dining room rug.

2. Chocolate. For quick energy. And, it's ability to satisfy that place in my brain that makes me happy. Think about it. You never hear about someone cranked up on chocolate killing everyone in their office after being laid off. Jacked up on crack? Killing machine. Chocolate? Mellow friend to everyone.

3. Duct Tape. For when the OFF button on one of the kids gets broken and I've just had enough of the talking. Or screaming. Or penis references.

4. A Plane Ticket. Good anytime, anywhere, on any airline, for when I just need to jet off and leave the driving to Mike. Bonus? A free ticket for a little drink on-board, just in case I get separated from my wine-chilling-bottle invention.

Basically, that should cover it. I'll always have something to eat and drink, an escape from the droning of children who don't know when their good looks aren't enough to make me want to listen longer, and a way out, should the going get way too tough.

Retrospectively, I guess I'm Dora in disguise. But with a smaller head. And no monkey.

I guess that's not such a bad thing. Diego IS kinda cute**.

*What a crock. Why don't we Americans just admit we like to sit on our butts and eat tasty treats in front of the boob tube? Why do we have to try to make our laziness educational?

**But not cuter then you, Mike :}

Sunday, October 18, 2009

A Minor Flaw in Logic

I just read this banner on the Internet: Financial Future? Ask a Psychic!

Wow! All it takes to determine my financial future is to sit down and talk with a psychic? Sign me up!

But, first, I have to get past the following:

1. If I'm a psychic with intimate knowledge of the financial future of the people I talk to, why don't I just pinpoint the wisdom that made these random people rich, use that information, and become a quadzillionaire?

Then I could get out of the pyschicing business which, I'm sure, is a very tiring industry to be in. I mean, really, how many times can you answer the question "Who am I going to marry? How many munchkins am I going to thrust out? Where should we live for maximum happiness?" I imagine that gets old after day two.

2. I really have a hard time trusting my money with someone who has CFA, CFP, ChFC, CPA and PFS after their name. I mean, it takes a pretty good leap of faith to write a check over to someone you aren't related to, don't live with, and who could be the head of another Ponzi scheme.

I'm thinking the only credential behind the name Psychic is B.S.* That doesn't exactly instill big-time financial confidence in me. I mean, most days I could qualify for THAT credential and I'm not the sharpest razor in the Schick plant.

So, I guess it's back to good old-fashioned saving and investing for the Nowells. And, good, old-fashioned billing for Mike.

Unless one of us can BECOME psychic.


*And I'm not talking a Bachelor of Science here.

Saturday, October 17, 2009

The flu is coming to get you, too

We all know one of these, so I'm sure you'll get this:

Dear _______,
Thank you for calling AGAIN to express your concern over my decision not to get the kids immunized against the flu and/or swine flu.

I hope you didn't find my logical, well-executed comeback offensive. The fact that this is an overblown media circus designed to up ratings, the swine flu vaccine is completely untried, and the regular flu vaccine isn't 100% effective seemed to pass completely over you. Oh, and did I mention loudly enough that my kids are healthy as oxes compared to the average snot-producing, cough-throwing kids in their demographic?

The truth that you are related to a DOCTOR, who has decided not to have his children (all younger than mine) vaccinated, should speak volumes to you. Unless you went to some stealth medical school in Guatamala and forgot to inform us in your Christmas card, I don't remember the letters "DR" coming before your name, so I'm just curious why you are running around trying to create medical panic.

I appreciate the concern you expressed and I appreciate the prayers you offered. I doubly appreciate them since they bookended our conversation. Truly, you were lucky to not get a dial tone after the initial inquiry and concern/prayer round, as this is the second phone call in as many weeks expressing angst.

Oh, and in case you've forgotten, The Babe has already survived some fever-inducing crap. And, apparently you know a middle-aged person who did as well. I just wonder who up and died a flu victim that has your Hanes all in a knot.

Well. Enjoy your hysteria. Savor it with fava beans and a nice Chianti, if you like. Just stop calling my butt because I'm not buying into it.

The Person who doesn't have caller ID but is seriously considering it

Friday, October 16, 2009

Marriage breakers

So have you heard the Terminator did his best to terminate his sex life this week?

It seems that Maria was driving in California and broke state law by talking on her cell phone. Of course, had she been any other Mom in America, this wouldn't be a big deal because nobody would have taken her picture. But gross TV hags TMZ shot pictures of her and now she's in hot water with THE ARNOLD.

For his part, he tweeted, "Thanks for bringing her violations to my attention. There's going to be swift action."

Dude. Why not just take a pitchfork to your tenders? You'll take "swift action"? NO. I think your wife will.

Two issues with this:
1. Maria wasn't caught by the law, so there is no basis for legal action here. Yeah, she broke the law but she wasn't CAUGHT by them.

Is Maria in the "right" here? Absolutely not. But, it's like the times I fly through a 35-mile-an-hour zone going 45 without getting caught. Not right, but if I manage to avoid the law, my infraction goes unpunished. Even if TMZ used a radar gun to nail my butt, Mr. Police Officer is just going to laugh in their faces.

2. Doesn't Arnold realize wife-Mom types are the only one who CAN handle driving and a cell phone?

Come on, man. We are the ones who can simultaneously wear three-inch heels and a nice dress, breastfeed a baby, and stir the macaroni and cheese on the stove for the toddlers to enjoy, while waiting for the babysitter to show up so you can take us out on the town. And, when we arrive at the restaurant? No milk or cheese stains on our Sunday best.

It is on an every-other-day basis that I'm glad we have the good sense to live in Texas, where I can carry a gun AND talk on a cell phone at the same time.

I just won't try to use them simultaneously. THAT might cause my driving to go a bit on the erratic side.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

A Worldly Education

Overheard on the way from Sunday School to the car this morning. Both older boys singing:

"These three kings of Orient are
trying to smoke a rubber cigar.
It was loaded; it exploded.
And that was the end of them."

Really? Where are they learning this stuff? I'm for the beatnik in all of us, but Christmas lyrics? Couldn't you just do your bestest Wierd Al Yankovic on some of the junk songs from the 90's? I mean, come on, rap has no where to go but UP.

Another example of "Where did you unearth THAT?": The babe, upon getting his shoes tied, throws his hand up into a "L" shape, against his forehead.

Figuring he had no idea what he was doing, and that he was copying some loser, I asked "What's that?"

"Oh, this? (Looking at his fingers) That's for LOSER."

"Was that for me?" I inquire.


"Then you best put it away if you want to go to your friend's house."

Case, and fingers, closed.

When these types of things rise up to the surface, I wonder "What's going on below that little person's skull that I'm NOT HEARING or SEEING?"

I'm sure, a lot. And, I'm probably better off not knowing. 'Cause if I'm patient enough, they usually spill the goods.

Of course, some of the nuggets they unleash are going to make singing at Christmas time a little harder. Especially if the loser in me accidentally forgets her place and subs lyrics during the Christmas Eve service.

At least there will be three "kings" in the audience who will get a big laugh out of it.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

The little number 100

When I started this adventure, my goal was to get a friend off my back. A friend who kept telling me I needed to write. Little did he know, he was right!

I found out I do need to write. Kind of like Ted Kennedy used to need booze. Or I need coffee to remain vertical after 10a.m.

My whole goal when I hit 50 posts was to get to 100. That seemed totally plausible.

When I saw Julie and Julia, I decided it would be cool if this thing made money.

So, reality check time:
1. My friend regularly reads this post and often comments. I'm afraid, if I stop now, I'll catch all kind of flack. What have I gotten myself into?

2. My need for writing is, to quote Mike, "an obsession." Just because I've chosen writing over showering some days doesn't make it so, Mister!

3. I hope I don't give up at 100. I have a real talent of hitting goals then completely torching whatever I was doing. Check back tomorrow to see if 101 is here or not. No guarantees.

4. I have no more money today than I did 100 posts ago. In fact, if the time I spent writing these blessed things was spent writing a REAL book, I'd be halfway done by now. Crap.

In the process, I've discovered what I think God wanted me to discover all along: this writing thing works for me. It isn't the torture other people experience when they try to put words on paper. I can do it without pain or angst. Maybe not perfectly, but well enough to get my point across and make people chuckle every once in a while.

I don't know what the next 100 posts hold, or if there will even be another 100, but I thank you for reading this far.

It has been my pleasure to serve as your writer.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Conservative, that's me

I think I have come to realize the difference between conservatives and liberals.

Conservatives think they should keep their money and give it to others as they see fit.

Liberals think they should give their money to the government to use it as the government sees fit.

That's actually a pretty simple distillation of the differences, but I also think an accurate portrayal.

Earlier this week, I received a letter that encapsulated why I will continue to be a conservative. It came from Uganda. Land of the slaughtered, mutilated, and AIDS-ridden.

The little boy who sent the letter lives with his parents and four brothers. He attends "grade three" at a local school. He goes to church on Saturdays for "prayers".

And he signed the letter "Love from your child. Joel Tembo" See, we adopted Joel and two other boys from Africa via WorldVision. Joel is the first to send correspondence.

It is my sincere hope that the political and social climate in Africa will allow us to take the boys on a whirlwind trip to meet Joel, Tseliso (from the country of Lesotho), and Dereje (from the country of Ethiopia).

Adopting these boys and sending money to their community is life-changing, both for our family and for the communities in Africa. If we are able to take that trip, we'll see where our money has made a difference. But, if we never take that trip, I'll still KNOW we did something to be happy about and be glad we were able to help these three boys.

About the only way I would consider giving the government anymore than what I owe them is if they can somehow create the magic that happens when you do something personal for someone. Even if that person never knows who you are, at least you know you've affected their eternity. And once you make that connection, you want to give more.

So far, I haven't seen the same effect come from the government "giving" to people. I do, however, hear a lot of complaining about who has what and what they "deserve".

And in fairness to those complaining, it is really hard to be grateful when you receive from a faceless, non-emotional, "what's your number?" bureaucracy.

I consider it a personal privilege to give. I am grateful I'm allowed to seek out worthy charities and give as I see fit. I want to go above and beyond the "normal" person and help as much as I can. I wish more people would do the same. Because there really IS joy in giving; but you have to put yourself out there to know that.

I just didn't want to save General Motors. And that doesn't make me evil, because, on the flip side, I would have been happy to personally help the PEOPLE of General Motors, should they have asked for assistance.

So, there is the difference, in my eyes. I can either let the government continue to do the job I believe I was called to do or I can do the heavy lifting.

Now, if Washington continues down the path of centralizing every part of life as we know it, then I'll still give. But, my guess is, that I'm unusual. Most people will throw up their hands and let Pennsylvania Ave. do the work. After all, if they are paying higher taxes for those less fortunate, they'll have less to give. And, they will likely receive fewer tax breaks for doing so. And, most importantly, they'll forget what their job is here.

So, I'll continue on, sincerely hoping that some sense will come out of legislation in the next few months.

If it doesn't, I'll just fight harder and louder.

If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I'm good at that.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Peeing 101

At around 5pm on Thursdsay, the Babe decided it was time to lug half the Legos in the universe next door to his friend's house. Since his hands were full, I opened the door for him. Then I walked from the entryway, across the dining room, into Mike's office.

I was there to chat for a moment with Mike but mostly to watch out the front window as the Babe made his way next door, across our front yard.

But he never showed up.

Now, we are talking about 15 feet at the most here. Not a long walk and certainly not long enough for some freak to pick him up. In other words, I wasn't at all in a panic.

I got up, moved back into the dining room and saw the reason for the pokiness of my youngest.

He had taken his shorts down to about the top of his hip bones, pulled his wanker out, and was peeing off the side of the porch, into the bushes.

Facing Hillcrest. Major North/South route between downtown and everything North of here. Exposing himself to every commuter in North Texas.

When I knocked on the window to let him know "I see you!", he smiled sheepishly and waved*. As I continued giving him the evil eye, he didn't break eye contact and continued waving, as he gently put the family jewels back in their protective, Thomas the Tank Engine, holder.

I only have one bit of advice for new fathers everywhere: BEFORE you decide to teach your little boys that the world is their toilet, please consider the ramifications of your actions.

You just never know when your behavior will come back to haunt you.

AHEM. Mike.

*With the OTHER hand.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Going to the dogs

Doug and Tex have this ridiculous game they play every night. It's called "Run circles around the house without busting dutt"*.

They literally start in the kitchen and run through the family room, into the entryway, through the dining room and Mike's office and back to the kitchen. If they are particularly feisty, they run the circle again. And again. And again.

Problem is, they are running across slick tile and wood floors. Not much to "stick" to, so they are prone to hitting door jambs, cabinets, and chairs. Full-speed. If I could ever think to catch this on tape, we'd automatically go to the head of the line for the $100,000 prize on "America's Funniest/Stupidest Videos".

Lately, Tex has taken to stopping in the kitchen and standing on his hind legs, paws strategically on the counter, to "search" for Doug.

Problem is, he's too short to see over the counter and he always gets yelled at**, which gives him completely away. Yet, his natural lack of neuron-firing, intelligence-producing, brain-power causes him to do this over and over again.

Doug, for his part, stops when he realizes Tex has gone into super-spy mode and gets REALLY STILL. He figures "Tex is so dumb, if I don't make any noise I'll be invisible to him."

Problem is, Doug is the dummy on this one. Instead of remaining still, in a good hiding place, the minute Doug hears Tex's tags, he knows Tex has taken his paws off the counter and is back in circle mode. So Doug runs for the hills. So much for being "stealth dog".

Then the circle game starts all over again. At least until Momma gets sick of it and opens the back door and shoos them outside.

About ten minutes later the "Annoy Momma 'til she opens the door" game begins. That's the one where Tex repeatedly jumps on the door and scratches at the glass until he's let in.

And I voluntarily brought this into my life?

Ay, caramba.

*That's short for "dog butt".

**If you plan on dining at my house, please know that I clean the counters with semi-regularity.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

The Joy of Cereal

When you feed your kids cereal for the first time in a year, they think you are Mother Teresa.

You see, it's been since August '08 that my kids have partaken of a sugary-high from kiddie cereal. Last August was when the "doctor o' health" determined my kids were walking experiments in allergies gone haywire. We already knew about dairy problems for one of them, then discovered that actually two of my guys are prone to cow issues.

Gone were the cheese sandwiches, ice cream, milk, sour cream. Basically, anything worth eating, as far as my little guy was concerned.

Add issues with beef, chicken, sugar, and wheat and you reduce the list of cooking ingredients to something that could only be found in Hell.

So, we've been partaking of wheat-free breakfasts ever since.

Now, it's not like we've been eating cardboard boxes. I've actually figured out how to make pretty decent waffles, pancakes and blueberry muffins. Oatmeal and grits stayed on the menu, too.

But, until yesterday, not cereal.

One kid was BEGGING me to buy a box of the stuff. Every time I entered the cereal aisle, my blood ran cold and I began to sweat and shake.

I could basically write off anything that had the words "sugar", "frosted", "whole grain", or "puffy" in the title. That effectively wiped out 3/4 of the aisle, without me batting an eyelash.

I managed to find an old favorite, though: Rice Chex. Box one.

On to Whole Foods. They have an astounding selection of gluten (wheat) free products, among which is a peanut butter puff cereal. For the equivalent in pay of a day's work in the coal mines you, too, can try this stuff*.

After getting over the sticker shock, I found another box. Described as "puffs of cinnamon rice". But, I didn't care what they tasted like because there was a cute picture of a puffin on the cover and they were ON SALE**! Cha-ching!

Now the issue of liquid. Sweetened soy milk = too much sugar. Cow's milk = hyperactivity/throwing up. Almond milk = "Mom? Gross".

I settled on unsweetened rice milk and coconut milk***. Mission accomplished.

This morning, one kid got up 45 minutes early to dig into his bowl of heaven. The other followed, five minutes later, to discover his brother pouring his bowl. Apparently he was so excited that he decided to serve BOTH his brothers.

Their choice? The peanut butter puffs. A taste test after breakfast determined they like the puffin cereal best. I'll be wiping out the "on sale" supply at every Whole Foods within 30 miles today.

Most important, from this Mom's perspective, is the fact that I've regained at least 30 minutes of sleep by leaving the feeding to the cereal-makers of the world.

In my humble opinion, that is so much better than the prize at the bottom of the box of Frosted Flakes!

*Just don't come ask for a sample at our house. My kids are a little attached to their new found glory. They are liable to TAKE YOU DOWN if you get within 100 feet of the box.

**This box will cost the coal miner only half a day's wage!

***This isn't the stuff you're given on Oahu when some studly Samoan breaks open a coconut. Let's just say that manufacturers have made GREAT strides.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Bad Dog

I think my comment to Doug, the super bad dog, was appropriate today. However, I don't think it had the impact I was envisioning.

Here's what I said: "Doug, you bastard." This, after he decided to grab a perfectly good, wonderfully yummy, completely wrapped loaf of ciabatta bread from the grocery sack and destroy it.

He looked at me like "Yeah? Your point? My Mom WAS a bitch."

That encapsulates my day: foiled by a dog whose exhaustive use of proper English from the animal kingdom renders my insult null and void.


Thursday, October 8, 2009

What's China got to do with it?

Have you ever paused to consider the phrase "Finish your food. There are starving kids in China?"

I think this phrase must be really confusing for kids when they first encounter a Chinese restaurant. Face it, most menus of the Asian persuasion are LONG. Extensive. Exhaustive. Most servers ask you to give them a number, versus the name, of the dish.

Now, any sane, observant kid, enjoying dinner out with the folks, would think to himself "If these people know how to cook chicken and octopus 5,231 ways, why are their kids starving?"

And, with that thought, little Johnny will NEVER, EVER again eat his green peas. Because he knows, for sure, that Mommy is fudging the truth just a wee bit.

So, to preserve the integrity of Moms everywhere, I'm suggesting a change to the time-worn food-bribe phrase: "Please eat what your body needs. Be thankful for what you've been given. And don't forget to pray and provide for those who have less."

Of course, this does create a little dinner-table issue. What happens when there is stuff on the plate and Johnny wants dessert?

Try this one on for size: "Eat your cake. There are dentists in Egypt who need the work."

Here we go again.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009


Things it is a shame we stop being excited about at a "certain" age:

1. Pooing. Have you ever watched a four-year-old succeed in the bathroom? They are giddy. Forget how much it stinks or that they have to have help wiping, they've just accomplished a monumental task.

Me? I'd be giddy if there were a way for it all to just get absorbed back into our bodies. My glass half-empty mentality thinks that pooing is something we shouldn't have to waste* time on.

2. Half birthdays. Kids can't wait to be 7 and a half. They practically pronounce themselves halvesies the day after their actual birthday. If anybody over 15 asks them their age, they are all about throwing up fingers and adding a little more.

I promise on a stack of Bibles that I have been known to forget my age. This started about four years ago. I must look like a complete idiot, having to stop and figure out the difference between the current year and 1966. And NEVER in a million years, would I add a half to it. If I am 42 and 364 days, I'm still 42. Dammit.

3. Cupcakes. Have you ever really watched kids eating cupcakes? It usually starts with giddy excitement. Then they gingerly unwrap the cakes from their protective sleeves** and eyeball them. The thoughts running through their heads have nothing to do with calorie content or the neatest way to eat, they revolve around how to attack these wonderful things sitting before them.

My favorite kids in the world eat the cupcake north to south--attempting to get the entire, sugary-frosted top of the yumminess into their mouth in one bite. And then, they quit***.

Come to think of it, this is one delicacy for which my love hasn't diminished over the years. I dearly love a good cupcake. Apparently, I'm not the only one. My favorite restaurant**** puts them on the dessert menu on occasion. At $6.50 a pop, you know they've got to be de-lish.

So, next time you see a kid, ask them how old they are, give them a cupcake, and find their parents for the resultant trip to the bathroom.

And, tell them you are ___ 1/2, that, "YES! I'd love to join you in eating cupcakes, frosting first", and then retire to your own porcelain throne.

Just don't call me. I don't wipe adult rears.

*Get it?

**Similar to how a parent delicately removes the blanket from a newborn when they smell something afoul. Except without all the odor.

***This is the one time parents don't give the "There are starving kids in Cambodia lecture." Why? Because we parents are SMART! We know their leftovers are our treat.

****Props to York Street. Best menus ever.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Lessons from Chickens

Here's an age-old question: does grounding a kid punish the kid or the parent?

At the moment, I'm in the midst of a parental pummeling. I have a kid in an extended time out. In this house, the offense is eerily familiar. And today's perp is not new to this particular faux pas.

I read somewhere that it takes nineteen instances of a particular action to equal understanding, knowledge, and memory. Yet, instinctively, I know that this is episode number 1,237 of this particular offense. For this ONE kid, not all three kids.

I guess he's an uber learner. He REALLY wants to grasp this lesson, to the CORE of his being. That is about the only rational explanation for the fact that he re-executes this particular infraction over and over and over again. With punishment each time he's caught and/or I'm not too tired to react.

Yet, we're STILL learning.

And I don't know how much longer I can stand time outs and groundings.

Which really gives me extreme empathy for God. I deal with three kids; he deals with billions. And, I'm one of his petulant little creations who has to learn lessons more than nineteen times to truly get it.

Oh dear. I can hear my Mother now: "Looks like the chickens came home to roost."

Well cock-a-doodle-frickin'-doo.

Monday, October 5, 2009


Yesterday, I became part of the first human Oreo.

I think the only thing that might have made this more uncomfortable would have been to be twisted apart, exposing my innards, and eaten, bite-by-bite, fully awake and alive. And, the presentation of a ginormous glass of milk into my nightmare of a plane flight.

I arrived at the airport more than an hour before my plane was to lift off* and tried to check in at the computer kiosk. This little piece o' work spit out a pseudo-boarding pass that indicated it couldn't do jack for me and that I'd have to go to the gate to get a REAL pass to get on the plane.

By the time I removed my shoes, unpacked all my bomb making equipment**, showed my license, took off my jacket, and practically showed the guards my panties, I was so far back in line that the desk attendant had to create a 27th letter to describe my position in the boarding queue.

When I finally set foot on the plane, the flight attendant was making cracks about those of us (losers) in the aisle who, if we saw an open seat, should consider it ours, because it was a completely full flight. Oh JOY!

Being the rebel I am, I decided to ignore the PA announcement and head as far back in the plane as humanly possible. I would have happily sat on the toilet if it had had a seatbelt, to avoid the middle seat. No dice. Toilet was occupied. Darn.

However, toward the back of the plane was one last middle seat. Between two business-looking men, both wearing suits. Thankfully, my seat even came with spare overhead storage. I plopped down, mission accomplished.

Then the wierdest thing happened. It seems that these two gentlemen where traveling together. And they were both Chatty-Cathy's. I guess I had become transparent, because they didn't even seem to realize I had sat down. They thought it would be cool to talk around the ghost-of-a-person between them: ME.

The entire time this is playing out I'm thinking "If you two would like to sit together, I'll gladly take the window seat. Really. Unless the two of you are afraid you might get COOTIES or be tagged GAY by sitting too close to each other."

Thankfully, brain was moving, mouth was not.

My new seat buddies were talking about updated accounting and tax laws. I don't think there is a yawn big enough to describe the insomnia-producing effect of such a conversation. I decided my best defense was to lie still, close my eyes, and pray they'd both be rendered dumb. It was my best possum defense.

Sadly, neither guy was rendered speechless.

Instead, the dude on my left, who unfolded and stood to his 6'7" height at the end of the flight, took my "sleep" position as a chance to splay his legs all up in my business. He also felt completely chivalrous and relaxed his right elbow on our shared arm rest, crowding my arm completely into my chair.

So, here I am, scrunched from the left by Andre the Giant, while his sidekick, Mr. CPA, yaks in my right ear, all while I fake sleep. And continue to pray. To no avail.

That's when I realized I was a human Oreo. The best part of the cookie. I was such a sliver of a person, crowded into my seat, arms plastered to my side, legs straight ahead, that I even resembled the frosting middle.

I guess it could have been worse.

I'm just not sure how.

*Since I rarely travel alone these days, I COULD point fingers at others who like to arrive five minutes before flights then get into verbal punching matches about getting on the plane. Not the way I care to start a va-ca, but whatever floats your boat....

**Liquid foundation, perfume, and hairspray, when mixed together, might make a hell of a molotov cocktail. I just have no clue how to actually make this happen.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Conversations with Kindergarteners

On the flag football sidelines last week, a sweet kindergartener began a never-ending conversation with me. Truly, she is a doll. She could just talk the ears off a billy goat. And, if she rendered one deaf, she'd look for the next goat in the pen and start again.

I'm positive her teacher has thought of creative ways to use duct tape to shut her the heck up. And, if she hasn't, she's a first year teacher FOR SURE.

She was prattling on about something or other and stopped mid-sentence, looked at me very seriously, and said "How old are you?"

Now, I'm not one of those people whose neurons fire quickly enough to spit out pithy comebacks in the blink of an eye. I'm in the catagory of people who, five minutes later, over a glass of tea, verbally take that sucker DOWN. Not quite the same effect.

So, instead of deflecting the question, I just said "43." She didn't blink.

Maybe she thought I was young? It was probably the new exfoliating gel I was using on my face, I reasoned. Yes, 43 IS the new 33! Man, that's awesome--I'm TIMELESS!

Rather quickly, she pointed to Mike and said, "How old is he?"

Never one to worry that a man cares about his age, I belted out "39."

And my darling, intelligent, conversationally long-winded, five-year-old friend said "He's OLD!" Complete with a face scrunch.

Dang. Foiled by a munchkin.

When I relayed this precious story to her Mom, she observed that her daughter probably didn't know much about counting into the 40's. But, the 30's, well, they had COVERED those.

I guess 43 is the new 46.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

The Dream Police

I'm one of those folks who dreams vividly. There are times the images are so real that, after waking up, I try my hardest to go back to sleep to continue dreaming. It seems, if I'm woken, I can never re-enter La-La Land where I am back on a beach, weighing 125 pounds, with a perfect tan and the cutest little bathing suit.

Anyhoo, the other night, I was in full-on REM mode. I had a dream that was so real I woke up in a panic. I couldn't believe this could happen to ME.

You see, I was fired from my job.

Now, as most of you know, I am Mom, head chef, taxi driver, bill payer, maid, errand girl and wife*. Some of these things I do with ninja precision. Others I suck at.

So I got to thinking: When you are paid NO MONEY for your job, can you really be fired from it? Last time I checked, zero minus zero is still a big goose egg.

Then I realized that, in and of itself, being paid nothing is a huge red flag that reads "POTENTIALLY BEING TAKEN ADVANTAGE OF". Kind of like when you volunteer to teach Vacation Bible School when your kids are two and, seventeen years later, you are still being suckered into volunteering. Even though your kids are long since gone, you refuse to sing "Kumbaya" anymore, and you wear a bigger version of the same diapers you are changing on the kids in your room.

That's when it hit me. Oh.My.Goodness. I've taken a job I can't possibly escape. Because nobody can fired me from it and nobody wants it!

Now, should I go all female John Gosselin and take off with a dude who's about 19, Mike will never be able to remarry. Just try to control this allergy-prone, three-school-pick-ups, four-sport-playing, two-dog-owning, crazy zoo of a family.

I could see Mike personally contacting the guy from "America's Most Wanted", begging him to put out an APB on my sorry butt, after cooking a gluten-free meal for the first time. Or realizing THAT'S what Doug's anal glands secrete**.

Thankfully, for my sweet man, I've fallen into a comfortable groove with all of it. I can whoop a dog's rear-end for climbing on the table at the same time I correct math homework and cook up a tasty meal.

Come to think about it, I'm pretty-stinkin' OK at this here job. I might even upgrade myself to GOOD on some days.

So, faceless dream-induced man who fired me, stick that in your pipe and smoke it!

Now, if you happen in on me, while sleeping, and I have a big smile on my face and seem really contented, turn off the alarm and back away.

If you don't? I'll tie you to a chair and recreate my beach dream in present day.

You REALLY don't want to go there.

*We won't play the Sesame Street game "Which of these things doesn't belong", because if you've known me long enough, you know my strengths. And know better than to bring up my weaknesses.

And, if the previous statement made you laugh because you can't count my weaknesses on one hand, I reserve the right to bake you brownies made with Ex-Lax. Then we'll see who's weak.

**There are no words. Just lots of thanks that we have a vet who will take care of this little issue for us. I'd pay a million big ones to never have to do that again.

Friday, October 2, 2009

A Little Ditty about Joe

For some strange reason, hymns are stuck in my head these days. While enjoying my piping hot cupajoe this a.m., my brain shot this out, to the tune "Battle Hymn of the Republic", by Julia Howe*.

If you can't sing this with gusto, you don't have enough coffee in ya. Drink up!

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the brewing of the pot.
My nose has smelled the scent of java recently brewed hot.
My cup has overflowed with the steaming, yummy lot.
The truth is I'm in love.

Glory, glory, roasted coffee bean
Glory, glory, roasted coffee bean
Glory, glory, roasted coffee bean
Your goodness marches on.

From the hills of California to the Florida state line.
This country's full of people who prefer their beans to grind.
Creamer plus two sugars will make my cup most divine.
The truth is I am hooked.

Glory, glory, java junkies
Glory, glory, java junkies
Glory, glory, java junkies
Thank goodness coffee's no crime.

In the morning when we rise to dessert after dark.
From golden beaches on the shores to New York's Central Park.
Regardless of your politics, for this we can all hark:
Coffee rules my world!

Slurping, slurping, javalujah.
Slurping, slurping, javalujah.
Slurping, slurping, javalujah.
I'm glad God made the bean!!!

*My apologies, fair lady, that this rendition is, no doubt, making you turn over in your grave.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Goobertown needs you.....

This coming week I'll be staying in a town so poorly named that I had to wonder "What's up with that?"

I'm going to Effingham. As in "Do you have any effing idea how wierd the name of your city is?"

I'm sure the founding fathers must have hit Illinois, with Winter blowing in, and said something like "We're in the middle of effing nowhere and it is mighty cold. Time to hitch our horses up to this here tree and call it a town."

Their distant relatives went a little further, into California, and established Dunmovin. Guess they got tired of being on the road.

Speaking of tired, how about No Name. I think these people were ultra-lazy. I figure their kids have names like "one", "two", and "three". Guess that's convenient, but it creates a REAL problem in the local elemenary school come role call.

But No Name beats the pants off Roachtown. Really? People live there? And thought this would appeal to tourists or future residents? I just imagine that the people of Hygiene look down their noses when you proudly announce you are from the great Roachtown High. Go fighting Cocks*!

If you are single, you should live between Ubet Imalone, at least until you get married, when you need to move your Big Ugly Smiley HooHoo to the Comfort of Happy.

If you are a Hooker, there are lots of places to land in this country. Lovely Ladies can enjoy Intercourse and Climax in several states. If it won't Embarrass them to Spread Eagle, they can also Bumpass Due West of Satans Kingdom.

Foodies of the world can unite in Greasy Corner to enjoy Burnt Corn, Chicken, Avocado, Honeydew, Rice, Mayo, Buttermilk, Hot Coffee, Bacon, Oatmeal, and/or Fries. If those culinary delights sound Boring, tickle your palate with a Weiner, Strawberry, Orange, Peanut, or a Clam. Just be sure to bring your Three Forks and Tin Cup or you might be Cut-Off.

Nowthen, I could go Onward, but that's Enough Useful information for your Flippin Life and mine.

Besides, I have to answer this burning question: Do the people of Wanderoos wear Underoos?


*What am I, 16? That should have ceased being funny 27 years ago but, somehow, I'm still giggling.....