If there is a hell....

If there is a hell, I am thoroughly convinced it is Chuck E. Cheese's.  Have you ever been there?  It's like Vegas for kids under the age of 12.  All flashy lights, no daylight anywhere, little tokens to put in games that spit out tickets that you win so you can redeem all 9000 of them for a pink eraser.  Vegas, man.

I waded through the massive crowds of people to find the birthday party for Brady's little buddy and I was in total awe.  Whoever dreamed up CEC was a genius.  And, if you don't already know, my definition of a genius is someone with a lot of smarts and no common sense.  I mean really, you invite people to bring their children into a dark and germ invested child version of an Indian Casino filled with slot machines and you have a two drink maximum?

My theory is they should give you a Xanax for every 25 tokens you buy your kids.  Although I suppose maybe CEC is the reason that flask technology has really improved over the years.  A flask is about the only thing you need to take with you, other than a credit card, to survive.  Oh, that and a shit load of hand sanitizer.

I have been VERY few places in my life where I felt that I needed a shower immediately upon exiting, this would top that list.  Oh.  My.  Goodness.

Towards the end of the adventure Chuck E. Cheese made a personal, and highly disturbing appearance.  The first sight I caught of the mascot mouse I thought to myself, "there's a nightmare waiting to happen" and sure as shit, there were several kids screaming and crying out for their mothers, myself included.

Can you pick a more creepy character?  It has a giant plastic head with a perma-grin and these two giant beaver-teeth looking set of chompers right under its pink, shiny nose.  I had an anxiety attack just thinking of what those two little teeth could do if he caught my arm.  Incidentally I left a voicemail for my therapist on the way home.

But the part that beats it all is when you feed your tickets into this little machine and it counts them for you.  It made the most skin-crawling "num num" noise every time you fed them in.  I kept looking around for It.  I shudder at the thought.

I can honestly say, that if there is a hell and I'm pretty sure I'm headed there, it's gotta be Chuck E. Cheese.

Notes from the teacher

So it's three weeks into school, we've only just completed the second full week and honestly the first one doesn't count for Brady because they went half a day the first day, then a full day and had a weekend.  Why bother?  Just sayin'.

I knew my little red headed devil was perhaps going to be a bit more of a challenge, behaviorally speaking, in school.  I did not, however, bargain for four separate incidents in two weeks' time.  Really kid?

Not to mention the fact that the kid is a magnet for dirt and chocolate milk stains.  Who, in their right mind, decided that a white freaking polo shirt was an appropriate uniform selection for boys under the age of 10? 

Honestly, it's like asking a pathological liar to just tell the truth once in awhile: newsflash, it's not gonna happen.  Much like my five year old keeping his white shirt white.  I hope to hell I don't get a note sent home saying his white shirt has turned gray and I need to get him more shirts.  I'll freaking lose it.

Speaking of notes being sent home, just thought I'd bring this crazy train back around to the original thought pattern that started this mess.  Here's what I've had sent home:

Mrs. Little:  Today Brady refused to sit quietly during story time and keep his hands to himself during story time, after REPEATED warnings.  (I am totally not shitting you on the all caps) 

Mrs. Little:  Today Brady was pushing and shoving kids during clean up time.

And this, the CLASSIC, the ULTIMATE, the BIG MAC OF ALL NOTES SENT HOME:

Mrs. Little:  Today Brady and student XYZ (name changed to protect the guilty) kept hitting each other in the privates.

On the plus side, at least he's getting it out of his system now before it really hurts, and thank GOD it was another boy, but then on the other hand what the hell was he thinking?  The privates?  Is he training for Bullying 101?  Is there an entrance exam for that program?  Sheesh, next thing you know he'll be practicing wedgies and learning how to steal lunch money.

Holy cow batman, I had no idea he would be such a devil.  The kindy teacher has been teaching for 25 years and I'm willing to bet the last few have been spent looking for a reason to retire.  And now, she has it.  My kid.  Never been more proud......

It's that time of the year again....

Yes folks, it's time for college football.  The one time of the year that Mark looks forward to more than his birthday, more than Christmas, more than a day off from work.  I sense that his excitement level is the same as an 18 year old on prom night whose date is a "sure thing".

It's a throwback to the good old days of anticipation, wondering, waiting, hoping, and pouncing on his Christmas presents with sheer, unadulterated joy.  Instead of asking his parents "how many days until Christmas" I hear "guess how many days until college football?" on a near daily basis.  Then, at the 24 hour mark, it's "guess how many hours until kick off!?"

I must confess, my enthusiasm for college football season is similar to that of going to the dentist:  I dread it just a little bit, but I know in the end it's good for me, and with any luck it passes by quickly and relatively painlessly.  I wish I shared his enthusiasm, I really do.  College football means the TV doesn't get a day off for nearly 5 months straight, the poor thing.

It isn't that I hate watching football either, I enjoy it, but would much rather do it in person.  Get it over with in an afternoon rather than an entire weekend, beginning sometimes on Thursday night!  Mostly I feel bad for Mark because I simply cannot bring myself to look forward to watching football.  At.  All. 

I would imagine that the way I feel about college football is strikingly similar to the level of anticipation he feels when he hears the words "Hey, let's take the kids shopping, they need some new clothes" or "Is it OK if I host a Pampered Chef Party at our house?" 

It's one of those things we'll probably never share an affinity for.  It's a sport I never played, barely understood, and one that I don't think I can ever truly love the same way Mark can.  I am sure he'd give anything for a wife that puts on his favorite team's jersey, brings him cold beers all day and provides and endless supply of potato chips and chili dip.

And, as I'm typing this, he's in the other room watching ESPN college football preview.  The ONLY thing that makes pregame worth watching is my fantasy boyfriend Herbie.  Thank you ESPN for hiring some eye candy in the form of Kirk Herbstreit so those of us college football widows have SOMETHING to look forward to. 

One for the books

We have some basic rules in our house.  Things like if Mom or Dad says no, the answer is no.  The kids aren't allowed to ride their bikes past a certain point around the corner because we can't see them.  Don't take food without asking a parent.  Keep food in the kitchen not on the brand new carpet, and don't give food to your friends without asking me first and them asking their parents first.  This rule is the most important because not only should parents always sign off on what their kids eat, we have a sweet little neighbor girl with a peanut allergy and you have to be careful and read labels.  And, um, Brady can't read labels.  YET.

However, I think Brady had an AWESOME day yesterday because he literally ignored all those rules and did whatever the hell he wanted to.  It started out when I found him trying to sneak back in the house with a bag of mini-marshmallows that he "shared" with a buddy in the backyard.  I kid you not, when he saw me, he said "Uh oh..." so yeah he knew he was totally busted.

Next I watched him ride around the corner and silly me I assumed he was stopped as far as he was allowed to go.  When he didn't come back right away I went looking for him and I didn't see him.  Panic set in.....I started yelling for him and prepared to go find him in the car, which sadly I've had to do before......

He finally pulled in the driveway, and luckily for him, his buddy sold him out and told me how far they rode their bikes.....I do hope it was worth it.

Then, throughout the day he asked probably a half dozen times if the same friend could go in the house.  At least a half dozen times I told him no, because we needed to keep the house clean for a visit by the Grandparents and for Pete's sake it's really nice outside you should be playing OUTSIDE!!!

And yet, after the final ask and final NO, I saw them go around to the back yard.  PHEW.  Well, the back door was unlocked, why wouldn't it be anyway, and by the time I figured out that they had gone inside not only had they totally destroyed the bonus room upstairs, but they were standing on the carpeted steps eating go-gurts!!!!!

Oh but the fun doesn't end there folks!  Let me just tally this up for you, just to be sure you're caught up:
1.  Ignored mom and let a friend in the house
2.  Gave friend mini-marshmallows which he didn't ask me about and KNOWS I would have said no! (and I'm pretty sure that friend didn't ask his mom first either!!!!)
3.  Rode his bike way too far, past the point he is allowed
4.  Ate food all over the new carpet

And THEN.........my daughter went into the fridge looking for a vanilla yogurt snack and Brady casually says, "we're all out of vanilla" which I said is impossible because I bought four containers just the day before.  Then, his eyes double in size, he slapped his little thieving hand over his mouth and whispered in the most deathly afraid voice "The yogurt!"  What about the yogurt says I?  The little monkey just ran outside and brought in FIVE containers of yogurt, two empty, one half eaten and two that were never opened.  Five yogurts for two little boys?

Yeah, so why were there five containers of yogurt outside?  Thoughtful little fella shared yogurt, go-gurt and mini-marshmallows with the same kid.  I must apologize to his mother, I'm pretty sure the poor kid didn't eat any dinner what with all the food my son so generously gave him! 

Words cannot begin to describe how mad I was last night.  And, I still am.  But since we have a LOT of cleaning to do today, I'll just put the little fella to work.  Hope he can run a vacuum.  And use a mop.  And scrub a toilet......

Is it right to say to a 6 year old "Are you freaking kidding me?"

I remember when I was little, I was not allowed to call on the phone, or physically go visit a friend until after 10am.  10am has always been my mental guideline for releasing the children into the wild.  Maybe 10am was our barometer simply because that was about the time that my mom finished her coffee, the newspaper and a shower and was thus ready for whatever it was we would dish out.

This morning, however, as I was pouring my first cup of coffee, that sweet, blessed nectar of the Gods, I heard that little door knocker thingy on our front door.  Tap.  Tap tap tap.  Tap tap.  TAP!  Seriously, give a woman more than 10 seconds to get to the door for Pete's sake. 

Mind you, I've been up since 6 when my five year old crawled into bed with his icy-cold toes attached to my thigh because he was "cold" in his own bed, and I managed to amble out of bed at 7, but my hair looks like a bristle brush and I haven't brushed my teeth.  The LAST thing I'm interested in, is answering the door.  Thank GOD I was wearing a sweater to cover my boobs, I"m still in my PJs!!!!!!!!

I cracked the door open, and this sweet little 6 year old neighbor boy face says "Can Kaylee and Brady play?"  DAMN, before I could say no and shut the door my kids came running over to see who it was.  ALLEGEDLY we're going to church today, but if Mr. Sleeps-a-lot doesn't get up we won't make it in time.  So I told the kids no and sent them back to watch Thomas the Tank Engine.  They didn't complain TOO much, but I bet if they saw the scooter race in progess on our street they would be singing a different tune.

But honestly, 8am?  If his mother knew he came down here I KNOW she would be absolutely mortified!  Just like I would be.  And am, because I'm pretty sure that sweet little neighbor heard me say, as I bolted the door, "Are you freaking kidding me?"

WHY?!

If you are my facebook friend you know I've been bitching about getting sick.  Honestly this is the worst I've been sick in a long time, and I'm just chalking it up to getting old.  I'm staring down the last lap and a half of my 30's and have noticed some stuff that's changed.

For one thing, I don't remember being THIS miserable before.  When I say miserable, I mean the sinus tingling, sore throat causing, headache inducing plague that has turned my head into a booger manufacturing facility. 

I would like to note here that I'm not sure HOW I can generate so many boogers or where all this crap comes from, but when people suggest that God made us perfect, he did NOT, I repeat DID NOT think of having us burn fat to create mucus.  Just sayin'.  That would make this experience a bit more palatable.

I also noticed that in the past, in my sleep, when not able to breathe through my nose, the worst side effect might be a bit of a split lip from dryness of the old mouth, but now I'm getting these awesome, albeit adorable little pimples that retrace the steps of the drool that runs out when I'm in REM.  Super cool.

And if that isn't enough, the pimples are enhanced by the redness that surrounds my outer nostrils from the constant nose-blowing and at a certain point even the soft-lotion infused tissues are NOT going to cut it.  SO really, I'm just a vision of loveliness, how Mark can keep his hands to himself is a mystery I'll never understand.

But lastly, but not leastly, the most obvious sign that I am aging is that now when I'm sick there's this trifecta of awesomeness:  when I sneeze I also cough and AT THE SAME TIME, yes you guessed it, I pee a little.  What the hell happened to bladder control?  Kegel exercises my ass, and for the record I had two c-sections, never once did I have to force something the size of a bedroll through something the size of a Gopher hole opening.  WHY?!

Should I put a bird on it and call it art?

Today is the last day of school for the kiddos, and while cause for celebration, it also gives me the chills.  After the amount of wine I consumed last summer staying home with the kids.  Alone.  Daily.  I am hopeful that this summer will be better.  I get to work part time so the children will still have the opportunity to miss each other part of the week, which ensures about 20 minutes of solid wrestling-match free playtime a day.

But as usual I'm a bit off-topic.  What I really want to discuss is the danger of leaving your iPhone, iPad, and/or iTouch in reach of any child in your household (that includes the husband who may thing his porn surfing will remain untraceable which I can assure you, it does NOT).

I try to take photos of the kids on their first and last day of school each year so I can see how much they have grown which in turn drives me to drink and drown my sorrows in my favorite coping mechanism: red wine.  Granted, driving me to drink is a fairly short trip, but still, having your children grow up only means one thing:  you better grow up too! 

Before you know it they'll be hormonal beasts, all heads spinning and split pea soup barfing, angry, loving, funny, angry, happy, sad, and angry again, all of this in about a minutes' time.  Begging for their freedom, yet at every given opportunity breaking the rules so they aren't even allowed to pee without permission.  As you can imagine by reading this, when I realized I would someday have two teenagers in my house at once, the thought of three of them tipped the scales in favor of the old "procedure" for Mark (see previous post on the subject for more entertainment).

Wow, am I off-topic for the day.  Sheesh!  So anyhoozer, the reason I am bringing this all up is that AFTER I downloaded the last day of school photos from my iTouch (in my drunken stupor Friday night I left my good camera at a friend's house after saying "my talent is making a bottle of wine disappear" which I did.  All.  By. Myself.) I discovered an entire suite of self-portraits taken by my daughter, Monday when she was home with a fever. 

And while most of them are self-portraits (now I know why she was so freaking quiet that morning) there are some other artful selections of her stuffed toys, blanket, booger-infested tissues and a go-gurt wrapper.  Really Kaylee?  You left photographic evidence of you pigginess for all the world to see!  No denying it now sister!

In a way her stuff is pretty edgy.  I wonder if I change it all to sepia tone and put a bird here and there, if I could enter them in a contest and call it art? 

To view the work of our budding photographer, please clink the link below:

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.2142055953015.130871.1294683160&l=6194646924

 

This morning...

This morning I asked my husband to remind me why we had children. Really, I did. Because I did not sign up for a 6am wake-up call from a very cranky 5 year old whose sole mission in the morning is to worm his way into going downstairs to play Angry Birds Rio Edition without permission on my work-issued iTouch.

No, I did request a dramatic interpretation of (insert any coming of age sit-com here) by my 7 year old daughter for any morning task she’s been assigned, including but not limited to properly brushing her teeth.

I never, ever, ever recall volunteering to referee a WWE match between my children, while still in their pajamas, fighting over something they were never allowed to be doing in the first place.

The “So You Think You Want to Parent?” brochure NEVER mentioned a thing about a child’s god-given talent to eat the same breakfast for a week straight and suddenly without warning declare that they feel like gagging at the very sight and smell of maple brown sugar oatmeal.

These little hoodlums did not, I repeat emphatically, DID NOT come with any warning labels telling me that the simple act of getting oneself dressed in under 20 minutes in an outfit comprised of simply fresh undies, socks, shorts and a shirt is a mission impossible.

I was unaware that even shoes with Velcro can pose a serious challenge at any given moment, in particular when the child in question has decided that dragging their feet is a better option than getting their damn shoes on. Their ability to tune out even the most persistent parent is nothing short of a gift from God. Sometimes I wish I still had the same ability, but apparently the moment a zygote formed itself in my body I lost every coping mechanism I need to survive the insanity that is THE MORNING RITUAL.

And I don’t want to hear that we should be doing the same routine day after day because then, and only then, do children learn what they need to be doing and when. Because we DO. Have. A. Freaking. Routine. But all children have the uncanny ability to come completely uncorked at the most critical juncture. They are like that copy machine in the office that senses your stress and need for immediate copies and then breaks down at that very moment.

And yet, even as I asked my husband the question “Why did we ever have children?” I knew the answer: we wanted them. Really we did, and though I often ask myself “what were we thinking” I can honestly say that I do love my fussy 5 year old at 6 am who, when asked if he needed a hug, simply put his arms up to me. That’s was all he needed, and all I needed too. A nice, long hug with little baby pat-pats from him on my back. Kissing his sweet little fuzzy head and taking him downstairs with me so he could push the on button on the coffee machine for me while I checked my facebook status.

Why I won't go to my 20 year high school reunion

WARNING:  Read at your own risk.  This post is not intended to be funny, nor is it meant to piss anyone off.  If you laugh, or get mad, you're probably one of the reasons I'm not going.

I've been debating, for months, whether or not to attend my 20 year high school reunion.  Surprisingly, it was a tough decision, but once I made it I thought "why the hell was that so hard?" and the following diatribe will enlighten you as to why. 

If we went to high school together, and especially if you are going to the reunion, please don't be offended, and don't think I'm looking for sympathy.  I'm not.  I just need to be honest, for myself, for my two children, who will be in high school someday, and for all the high schoolers I work with and see on a daily basis.

I went to school with the same group of kids from Kindergarten until graduation.  It's not like I had a hard life.  I had a pretty charmed life, actually.  I had two parents who loved me, an older brother who was mean to me, a dog and a cat, a swimming pool around the corner and we never went without food, shelter, or clothing.  Thank God, because if I would have had to put up with all the shit I went through in school, on top of no clothes or a house, well I don't think I'd be where I am today.

It really hit home for me when I started to see all the yearbook photos posted on facebook, and then I dusted mine off and looked through them for the hell of it.  I thought back on school, all 13 painfully excrutiating and embarassing years and honestly, my best memories aren't reflected in those yearbooks.  Those belong to someone else.  Those belong to the kids who belonged.  Who had the parties, went to the dances, ruled the school, that kind of thing.  Not me.  My best memories are outside those four walls of school, with the few friends I have kept, and with my family.

High school was painful, as was junior high, and to an extent so was elementary school.  What I remember most from elementary school was being tormented for being tall and gangly.  Being called Rover and barked at on a daily basis.  Yes, I've been to therapy (not for this) and NO I don't need to go back.  I'm glad those things happened to me because they shaped the woman I am.

Junior high wasn't much better.  I discovered a talent for playing music in the band, and yeah, I liked it.  LOTS.  It sure as hell beat anything else I could have done.  I was never good at sports, even if I tried.  I wasn't EVER going to be a cheerleader even though I desperately wanted to fit in that crowd.  Nope, I was a band geek through and through and some folks never let me forget it.  But you know what?  If I had to do it again, I wouldn't do a damn thing differently.

What I remember most from junior high are all the dances I went to and none of the boys asked me to dance, I remember trying out for cheearleader (what the hell was I thinking?  all legs and elbows and absolutely NO SKILLS) and never making the squad, and I remember Craig Woods (yeah some of you are going to be named!) telling me one day by my locker that I was a pirate's dream.  I didn't understand (I was SO NAIVE) and he said "duh, you have a sunken chest." 

Well excuse me for being a LATE LATE LATE LATE LATE  LATE bloomer (I didn't really get boobs until I was about 25!).  Am I mad at Craig Woods?  Hell no, I bet I couldn't pick the guy out of a line up today, but back then he was a cool kid, and I was just the opposite.  And you know what?  Maybe he was being a little asshole because he was only tall enough to see my boobs (or where they should have been) and he wished he'd been taller and had more choices in chicks.  Who the hell knows.  And I don't give a shit anyway.  I just remember that it hurt.

I remember the last day of ninth grade and thanking God that junior high was over.  And on that last day I went to a party after school at someone's house, I honestly think her mom made her invite everyone, but I only remember feeling awkward and out of place because I didn't fit in with the "in" crowd.  I left early, walked home, and prayed to God that high school would be better.  It wasn't.

The highlight of my high school career was meeting Becky Hipp Hodgen, who to this day is still my friend.  And honestly, it's only because she has never given up on me.  We have been through lots together, but the funny thing is, we didn't even have the same classes at school.  My BEST memories of high school are hanging with Becky and not one of them is at CV.  We usually hung out on the weekends and had a hell of a time.  We were always thankful to survive the week and compare notes about the misery we endured.  She was painfully shy, which folks mistook for being "stuck up" and I was, well, just me.  And guess what?  Becky is the best woman I know, and lots of people missed out on what a rock star she is.

As for me, once again I was a just a band geek who paid her dues and rose to the most supreme level of band geekdom as a junior by becoming one of three drum majors for our marching band.  That was a HUGE accomplishment for me, and an experience I'll never forget.  It really was awesome.  I went to Canada at least three times traveling with the band, all over Washington and Idaho and it was the only place I ever felt like I succeeded.  And where I sort of fit in.

And while being in the band was a blast, it surely wrecked any dreams I had of being "popular" and invited to parties, having a boyfriend and going to school dances.  And you know what?  I wouldn't do a damn thing differently.  Not one.  Damn.  Thing.  Even though at the time I felt like I was missing out.

Then I made a bad decision as a junior to try out to be our school mascot.  After one more failed attempt at being a sophomore cheerleader I had given up on the dream.  I was totally OK with the band and my small circle of friends.  And yet, something possessed me to become a giant fuzzy bear that acted like an idiot in front of hundreds of people for an entire school year.  I was pretty happy about my choice, after all wearing a costume and being a goofball was a nice metaphor for my life. 

I remember after the "winners" were announced (it really wasn't a contest anyway because no one really wanted to be a cheerleader or the mascot that year so it wasn't like I beat anyone out of the job) one of the girls I had known since junior high said to me, "Well I guess since you couldn't be a cheerleader you took the next best thing."  I will never forget that.  Hadn't even crossed my mind that I'd found another way onto the squad, I really just want to make an ass out of myself for laughs, something that I'd learned to do pretty early on in my life.  Making people laugh to cover up how miserable you really are is a wonderful escape mechanism.  And I use it even today.

See, this is the kind of thing I remember about high school, boys that didn't like me, parties I never got invited to, dates I never went on, dances no one asked me to and people that never wanted to be my friend.  I remember feeling like an outcast every day I stepped foot on that campus. 

High school was just a day to get through, every day, so I could go home and not feel so exposed.  When I look at my yearbook I realize that high school wasn't for me.  Those weren't the best years of my life.  No, those started the day I left Spokane and went to college, and they've never stopped.

High school was the most painful experience of my life, up until last July when my Dad died unexpectedly.  I didn't get to say goodbye or tell him I loved him or thank him for everything he ever did for me.  I am still paying for that today.  Unfortunately my reunion weekend falls on that one year anniversary and I cannot relive two if the worst times in my life in three days.

I really don't want people to feel sorry for me, or think I want them to feel sorry for me, or think I want them to think I want them to feel sorry for me.  I'm just telling it like it is, another characteristic I picked up as a young teenager.  These are the reasons I don't want to go. 

I haven't talked to 99% of our graduating class since our all night senior party, and honestly I don't really remember much about that night or if I did in fact talk to anybody because my mom made me go, against my wishes, so I bribed my older brother into buying me booze so I could go drunk.  I figured that would make it survivable.  However, I hadn't really been drunk before so I didn't quite get that you really need to keep drinking to keep the buzz going.  Something you can't do at a well-chaperoned all night party.

I don't really give much of this a lot of thought to be honest.  I'm married, I have two kids, an awesome husband, and a great life.  High school was simply 3 years out of my nearly 39 year life and not the best three years as it is anyway.  I've always heard it said, "the best is yet to come."  So true, the best has been every day since. 

My children are addicts

For the holidays Mark's employer was kind enough to "gift" him an iPad.  Yes, you are not seeing things, you read it correctly: A FREAKING IPAD.  Even though I think it was one more way to ensure that he'd be "accessible" no matter where he is and what time of day.  Watching him get all twitchy when he can't raed his email at bedtime is a bit amusing, albeit disturbing at the same time.

The fact that HE got the iPad is kind of hilarious if you know Mark and I-could-care-less attitude about advancements in technology.  The man wasn't even a participant in the texting revolution until last summer for Pete's sake.

I estimated it would be about three days before he gave up and it became mine, and rightfully so I must say.  After all, I'm the gadget geek in the house.  I'm the one who practically has a big O anytime I can figure something out that a condescending tech support person would normally take three days, two heavy sighs and a "I can't believe you're so stupid" dirty look to do.

But I'm off topic, shocking I know.  When Mark finally got the thing up & running the only thing he could get it to do was play "Angry Birds" a highly addicting game/app/life sucker that was preinstalled.  I believe he said "The kids will sure like this!" FAMOUS last words.

We've gone from Fruit Ninja and Angry Birds to twenty different apps and GIANT meltdowns, with moments of bargaining, whenever I cut the kids off.  I mean honestly, Brady begs, BEGS me, "can't I just look for some updates mom?"  He's standing there, scratching himself, breathing heavily, looking around like there's a cop hiding in the dark corners of the house.  "Just one game mom, I promise.  Just one more."  Yeah right ya little monster.

So I thought I would give them ten minutes each morning, and that would be it.  And yet, ALL DAY LONG they beg, please, BARGAIN for just "one more game" and that's it, they swear, it will be their last.  But I don't give in.  No sirree, it's for their own good.  The iPad is mine, MINE.......

Mark and I discussed this morning that we need to detox them.  How do you detox children from Angry Birds, Pac Man, Chicktionary and Knocking Down Cans?  I"ll let you know how it goes.  And I may be starting my own support group FIPUA (former iPad users anonymous) and my kids will be charter members.  Damn you Apple, damn you and your amazingly wonderful touch screen technology....

I was wrong to accuse you...

Dear Activia,

I was wrong to falsely accuse you of making me a giant, bloated gas machine.  It made sense at the time, I has just purchased Activia yogurt (only because it was cheaper since I had a COUPON, Mom would be so proud!) and suddenly I noticed that I was just farty & hellaciously fragrant and I blamed it on you.

Once my complete 24 pack of Activia was gone (you just CAN'T let that yogurt go to waste you know!) I moved on to Chobani.  It wasn't cheaper but I figured it wouldn't make me gassier than a full helium tank so I continued with my assumption that it was you all along Activia.  Shame.

Oddly enough I continued to find myself repelling my husband and cutting a hole in the ozone layer with my stench.  I was left with one conclusion: I MUST be lactose intolerant.  So not only have I thrown Activia under the bus, but really dairy products as a whole.  And let me tell you, trying to walk through Costco and avoiding samples covered with cheese is nearly impossible.  That leaves me with dry crackers or muscle milk.

Ah, sweet relief.  As much as I missed cheese and yogurt, I didn't miss feeling like a tight rope around my colon, squeezing the air trapped in its most dark and dangerous crevasses.  We thought there was a slight chance that indeed, my fart syndrome was caused by edamame, which was quickly put to rest.  With regret in my heart I said goodbye to dairy and hello to a bunch of other crap that I didn't really like.

Four long and excruciatingly difficult days went by.  I tried all kinds of things to replace my lunch and snacks with non-dairy options, including eating Kashi Go Lean Crunch, dry, no milk, no yogurt mixed in, as I had been eating it for weeks.

The kids also decided, along with Mark, that Kashi Go Lean was tasty no matter how its eaten: milk, no milk, yogurt, no yogurt, and we all started consuming it with reckless abandon.  The first evening as we sat down to dinner we all felt a bit uncomfortable, slightly bloated and in general just a little gassy.  Then, without warning, we had a virtual SYMPHONY of farts.

Let me tell you there's nothing like the sweet sound of children and parents, tooting in concert, bouncing off the hard wood chairs, making it echo in the vault of our ceiling.  A concert.  Of farts.  At dinner.  Ya gotta love it.

So once again I want to extend my sincerest apologies to Activia and all dairy products.  And give you fair warning about Kashi Go Lean Crunch.  The stuff is so tasty and so full of fiber that you'll have the cleanest colon on the block, but you will be living alone.

Parking Patrol

Recently upon returning from a lovely morning at the Portland Children's Museum I found a ticket for $24 because my tires were slightly over one of the two lines to my right in my miniscule parking space at the Sunset Transit Center.  This is for the jackhole that I saw lurking in the parking patrol car about 10 spaces away from me:


I was actually puzzled why you would ticket me, asshole, because you watched me park my minivan as you sat there in your car salivating over the 50% commission you'll no doubt receive for ticketing vehicles in the parking garage.

Could you not have wandered over and said something like, oh I don't know, "Did you know, miss, that if you park over the line I can write you a ticket for $24?" Instead you sat there watching me, no doubt with a giant hard-on, waiting for me to leave so you could take a picture of my car and write the ticket.

And it was highly interesting that you, in your official vehicle, were blocking the way so you could ticket all 10 cars that were there at 9:45 am. There were about five cars parked on the main level leaving plenty of open space, including the two on either side of MY car, that you could have parked your vehicle in.

But then again, you were in an SUV, and you must know how freaking impossible it is to park in those miniscule spaces that are designed to hold only a Toyota Prius or a Mini Cooper. So instead you sat in the car with your pants down watching me take my two small children to the train, just waiting for the opportunity to test our your fancy new digital camera to get proof of my infraction with the Mission Impossible music playing in your head.

And to be honest, it never occurred to me to check to make sure I wasn't over the line because I run out of fingers counting the number of times I have driven to the Sunset Park & Ride and not been able to park in the dozen or so empty spaces left because several other people with cars that are normal sized can't park in those little tiny spaces thus rendering it impossible for us to park either of our two vehicles.

Oddly enough I don't remember EVER seeing tickets on the windshields of THOSE vehicles no doubt because you'd get writers cramp on those days, assuming again that your hand has been busy doing other things to yourself while you wait for them all to leave, as I believe you were doing today.

If you really want to raise revenue for public transportation try actually CHECKING on people to ensure that they have paid their fare or have their pass. I've ridden the train dozens of time, and paid my fare EVERY TIME. I cannot say that for other folks. I've probably paid for that one ticket several times over. OR you should go write tickets on a thursday at 11am when the lot is FULL, or ANY OTHER day other than Sunday.

So perhaps maybe I'll just pollute the atmosphere and clog our congested roads for the next 6 times I plan to use the train instead, you know, so I can cover the cost of this ridiculous ticket.

Peace out.

The Activia Challenge

Day 1:  Wow, tasty yogurt!
Day 2:  Tasty yogurt.  I'm kind of gassy though.  Can't be the Activia, though!
Day 3:  Wow, yogurt.  I am really gassy.  My husband won't even get within five feet of me.  What could I have eaten?
Day 4:  Yogurt.  SOOO gassy.  When am I gonna poop?
Day 5:  Damn yogurt.  Bloated from the gas.  How much longer before the damn bursts?
Day 6:  Goddamn yogurt.  At least the damn burst tongiht, but I might have to call the plumber.  And my husband STILL won't come near me.
Day 7:  Freaking yogurt.  Still bloated.  Still gassy.  STILL POOPING.  On my to-do list:  buy toilet paper, a plunger and some air fragrance.
Day 8:  On the plus side:  At least now I have a morning crapper.  Minus:  So damn gassy at night.  Husband thinking of sleeping outside to get away from the stench.
Day 9:  When they say "regulate" your digestive system does it really mean farting for 4 hours at night, followed by extreme crapping, jet propulsion edition?  NOTE TO SELF:  Buy stock in Charmin.
Day 10:  Still eating that vile gas producing husband repelling colon cleanse in a container.  Fucking yogurt.  Sorry, gotta go, time to make a deposit in the excrement bank. 
Day 11:  No more of that shit.  Still gassy.
Day 12:  Took a big crapper this morning.  How long will it take to cycle out of my system for god's sake?
Day 13:  Still farting, no husband within 100 feet and now I'm constipated as hell.
Day 14:  Activia, you win.  Regular in 14 days.  As in regularly gassy, bitchy and smelly.  Hey, who needs yogurt for that?

Top 10 things I want to tell the high school students I work with but I can’t or I might be fired:

1. Please resist the urge to suck the uvula out of your boyfriend/girlfriend’s mouth. You are only going to be separated for about 90 minutes, tops, and the sounds you make are extremely unappealing.

2. Blue hair is for puppets, not people.

3. If you think you’re being an individual by piercing things, look around. EVERYONE expresses their individuality by piercing things. Maybe try NOT piercing things, and then you’ll be unique.

4. No one wants to see your boxers/briefs so pull your damn pants up. That is why they call it UNDERWEAR. You wear it UNDER your clothes. Only superheroes are allowed to wear their briefs over their clothes. You are NOT a superhero.

5. That tattoo you have and/or want to get will turn to a giant blob of unrecognizable ink someday. Resist the temptation.

6. Lunch is NOT a subject in school. You cannot say your favorite subject is lunch. You don’t get graded on how quickly you can pound down an 800-calorie burrito and a soda.

7. Bikini strap tank tops are not an acceptable form of clothing for school, they are meant to be worn UNDER something, not as a separate clothing item. If you wear one, you are sending the message that you are a sexual animal and an easy target for horny high school boys desperate to get laid. If you don’t want them staring at your boobs, cover them up. If you do, well cover them up during school hours for the love of GOD. Boys don’t need more distractions at school.

8. School is for learning and preparing for your future. Put your phone away and wait until lunch to text your friends. Once again, I repeat, lunch is NOT a subject so that is a better time than during Algebra, something you need to pass in order to graduate.

9. Adults can absolutely read body language. If you think you are being sly with your friends by rolling your eyes, I assure you we CAN see you and we don’t really care that you roll your eyes. We have a job to do, so get over it.

10. “Hey sexy” is not an acceptable greeting for every one of the opposite sex whose uvula you’d like to suck out. They aren’t all sexy and lying isn’t nice.

Squirrels UNITE!

I haven't been posting lately, mostly because of the holidays and the fact that I was without technology (aka unplugged) for about 10 days, and then I went back to work.  Seeing as how I'm home sick with a bad bad bad cold I've got a little more time on my hands.  Which brings me to Facebook.  Need I say more?

YESTERDAY I received the following invitation:  Squirrel Appreciation Day
Time Friday, January 21 · 12:00am - 11:55pm

Location The Whole Wide World
Created By If this group gets 1,000,000 people, It will have 1,000,000 people.

TODAY I received the following message from a certain Sheldon K Burns:

It has come to my attention that this event has been taken over by members of Alpha Gamma Delta. The aforementioned party has managed to run off some guests from this event, which is designed for the holiday of National Squirrel Appreciation Day. Just in case the definition of squirrel is a little hazy, here it is: any of numerous arboreal, adorable, cutesy, heart-warming, bushy-tailed rodents of the genus Sciurus, of the family Sciuridae.



So, sorority girls, young and old, I ask, no, demand you to stop running off the good people trying to appreciate the bushy tailed mammal that we all love. We value your attendance in this event and please feel free to invite all your sorority sisters. I only ask for you to please not run off the non-Greek lovers of all thing squirrel.


Everyone, please invite all your friends!


Thank you


Sheldon Burns, President

"If this group gets 1,000,000 people, It will have 1,000,000 people"

Sponsor of "National Squirrel Appreciation Day"

Let's dissect this shall we?

First of all, I didn't know anyone was REALLY named Sheldon, other than that guy on the Big Bang Theory.  By the power of reasoning I can only assume that anyone with that same name is probably as much of a lonely virgin as Sheldon on BBT. 

Furthermore, if your name is Sheldon and you create an event for the appreciation of squirrels and you know their actual scientific name & classification, I think you have a little more to worry about than a few old sorority girls.  ATTENTION SQUIRRELS:  HIDE on January 21, as I am not sure exactly what an adult male would mean by National Squirrel Appreciation Day.  Just sayin'.

And another thought, the event is public, so why can't we be including ourselves?  If you really wanted non-greek squirrel appreciating friends, you should have kept it private and invited the only three friends you have that you play online video games with.  Duh.

And it isn't a REAL event, it's an all day squirrel love fest for the Whole Wide World.  Again, squirrels take note of the above advice.

It also occurs to me that you mention that we're scaring off non-greek lovers.  Seriously?  Sheldon, by your photo it appears that you are an adult.  When are you going to grow up?  I am a 38 year old woman (by the way I never responded to the invite in case you're wondering) and the vast majority of the ladies you are telling to NOT pay attention to your little event more than likely finished college before you were even a zygote for shit's sake. 

I also would like to point out that if you really want a million followers you probably DON'T want to piss off the 90% of the population out there who really give a rat's ass about squirrels.

And dearest Sheldon, please don't send those kinds of messages without thinking about who you are sending them to.  It's rude.  You'd be MUCH better off posting something to a public blog like I am.  Oh, and by the way, personalities are on sale at Macy's.  I suggest you go buy one.