My plans are better than your plans!!!

Ok, so sit back and get ready to turn green with envy. I have the hottest plans for the New Year's since... well, some other hot plans. Ready? Curious, yet? Starting to wonder if my plans really beat yours? Oh wait... does the time show up when I post a blog, because if so, the observant few have totally figured me out. I AIN'T GOT NONE! I am blogging at 10:01p... not two sheets to the wind, with my last sheet coming on strong like the other living human beings on the planet. Oh no. I am not wearing couture, I am not mingling with the Indy elite, I am not at a par-tay. I am at home. Yep. Home. On the computer, because Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve with Ryan Seacrest (WHAT?) hasn't started yet. So here I am. Sitting here. Your night can't compare, right?

Before you pity me too much... we had plans. Really. I am not a big New Year's plan maker, either, so this year was kinda a banner year. I cannot even remember what took place last year, and the year before that is a blur. Most likely asleep by midnight, or in the case of a few years back when Mark rented Tomb Raider (otherwise known as Drool Over Angelina Jolie) I was asleep by 10p as that seemed like an activity better suited to him alone than a couple. This year, we were attending Lori's New Year at the Holiday Inn in lovely Lebanon, Indiana. Oh yes, let the envy begin. Its a Holi-Dome, in fact, so indoor pool, hot tub, and indoor playground. Yes, Lori has kids. Yes, I do too. This is the epitome of New Year's fabulousness for the under 5 crowd, let me tell you. After our hotel romp, Homa and her boyfriend were coming over for dinner and chatting. Laid back, perhaps. But they were plans. But, then.... Will struck. Or more importantly... the flu struck. And it struck his off white bedroom carpet, his crib (yes, he's still in one and I think it is great and he will remain there until he is 40 or moves out...whichever comes first), his sheets, his dust ruffle (what an emasculating name for a manly airplane patterned fabric) and his entire body. It was either the flu or a demonic possession. The jury is still out, I guess. His flu went through the night and into today, and while he has perked up, its not enough to carry on with our fancy schmancy New Year's plans. So, here I sit. Blogging. (Imagine sound of New Year's horn blowy thingy going off now).

I feel like I have to do something New Year's Evie, since I am hardly a participant in this holiday today, so I am going to throw in some resolutions for good measure. That way Dick Clark, the patron saint of December 31st, won't haunt me. Here goes:

1. I resolve to be a nicer person, even to stupid people (ahem... Sarah Palin). Shoot... broke it already, huh?

2. I resolve to lose weight... if Ben and Jerry's quit trying to put it on me with their Karmel Sutra and Coffee Heath Bar Crunch plotting against me.

3. I resolve to be a better mother. No joking. I may even try to do it by myself instead of being a kinda mom and calling my actual mom for advice every 15 minutes. And no, that time frame is not a joke either.

4. I resolve to quit doing crack. Ok, so truth be told I don't do crack (never have, which suprises people from time to time), but I thought I would put one in that I could actually accomplish so as to not feel like a failure for the next 365 days because I couldn't do numbers 1 - 3.

With those in mind, I bid you all a Happy New Year's and hope you are able to read this through the imbibing induced hangover that you will have tomorrow and I won't. Bet you'll be jealous of me then!

Mommy, Me Vet

So, I wake up this morning to Will saying "Mommy, me wet," although he says it with an unexplainable German accent so really it was "Mommy, me vet." I am not German. I don't know anyone German, but for some reason Will speaks like he just left Berlin. So, I start to get up when I realize that the sheet he is laying on is also "vet." That sheet being the sheet on my bed, so lucky me... me "vet" too. The comforter is "vet", his puppa (which he used to pronounce pup-a and has recently become poop-a... not sure if that his part of his German alter ego Adolf or just another fun filled Willism) is "vet" and his pajamas are... you guessed it... vet. Not the best start to my morning. Especially after being out with the girls last night and not wanting to wake up at 8:00a anyway, let alone waking up at 8:00a covered in Will's wee wee. I am pretty sure just about everything that is touching or has ever touched my bed is currently vet. Sorry Bentley, you are vet, too.

Needless to say, I was shocked by the wee tsunami that overcame my bedroom. Will sleeps in his own bed, but last night he had a leaky diaper around 3:00ish, cried and Mark brought him into our room changed his diape and jammies and let him go back to sleep with us. (Insert comments about how we are bad parents because he sleeps in our bed at times here... but keep in mind that a smart parent does what it takes to get back to sleep as quickly as possible so as to not be kept up all night by alternating screams from a 4 month old and 2 and a half year old. And if you still think we're wrong, give Super Nanny my number and I'd be happy to have her fix me). So, I was pretty surprised that in the time between 3:00a and 8:00a our entire room was knee deep in Will potty. The boy is a drinker/vetter but that was a lot. So, I bring him downstairs (to avoid waking Jack who was up at 6:00a thanks to Mark's UNGODLY LOUD ALARM THAT MAY RESULT IN OUR DIVORCE IF HE DOESN'T TURN THE VOLUME DOWN) and unzip his jammies and lo and behold... the reason for his tidal wave of wee. Mark put his diaper on INSIDE OUT. Ok, so not completely inside out, but correct on his butt, twisted between his legs and inside out in front. In case you were wondering, the exterior of Pampers Baby Dry is not terribly absorbent. Where is ShamWow when you need it??? And for all of my friends who tell me how lucky I am because Mark gets up with the kids sometimes at night and helps out... I leave you with the thought of wee covered sheets, down comforters, dogs, puppas, Wills and mes and say... not that lucky.

And then the phone rang...

So, I called my friend Lori today to let her know that we were on for a girls' night tonight. I got her voicemail, so I start one of my infamous rambling messages. It starts with "Hey, its me..." and leads into "yes, Homa and I will meet you at 8:00 at McGuilveries on 56th" and then moved into "Laura may not come because..." which turned into a fully detailed explanation of Laura's broken water pipe resulting in her lack of running water at home since before Christmas which led into the fact that Laura is staying with her mother and while that is right by McGuilveries, her mom is babysitting Laura's kids today and Laura felt bad then leaving them unattended at night, at which point I said that we weren't meeting til late and Laura could even put them to bed and then come over because we'll be meeting right by where her mother lives which morphed into a description of the poopy diaper I was changing because I was having problems focusing on the phone message since it was the largest poop Jack has ever taken in his entire life which randomly caused me to exclaim "what the hell" because I was bleeding, which I then described the cut on my finger and how in the world did I manage to cut myself and start bleeding while changing a poopy diaper, "I mean who does that???? Anyway, I will talk to you later. Bye." After a five minute message, I hang up the phone and go about my business.

An hour passes. And then the phone rang.

Me: Hello?

Random Caller: Hey, Me. How's the finger?

Me: What? (I say rudely, like he is encroaching on my personal life).

Random Caller: Well, I just wanted to check in and see how that diaper turned out.

Me: What? (I say more rudely, like how dare he take up 15 seconds of my precious time).

Random Caller: I wanted to let you know that I can meet you at 8:00 at McGuilveries, I just don't know where it is.

Me: (Looking at caller ID and realizing sheepishly that his number is one digit off from Lori's and clearly I wasted 5 minutes or more of his precious time describing broken pipes, poop and bloody fingers to this person that didn't know me or care about me or my problems.) Oops. Guess I had the wrong number.

Random Caller: I would assume so.

Me: Oops.

A Full House Moment

I don't know if I am PMSing or just filled with the Christmas spirit (or filled with something else), but people these days just piss me off. Not all people (yes my readers... I still like you), but based on yesterday's diatribe on the Momunists and today's post in progress, I am a grumpy grumpy girl. Except really... these people completely deserve it. And for today's deserving group, I am taking aim at the Overly Sensitive Talkers. The mothers and fathers of the world who feel the compelling need to sit down and wax warm and fuzzies with their kids over every single teeny tiny eensy beensy little detail of life in general. Picture Danny Tanner sitting down on DJ's bed to explain why Bobby didn't ask her to the dance. Cue soft muzak in background, hug, single tear and.... end scene. Excuse me, but really? People, really? Did someone provide you a script full of more cheese than a Wisconsin dinner party or do you come up with that crap on your own?

Let me provide an example. Today Will had to have tubes put in each ear. My little man suffers from chronic infections, he had one set of tubes but they fell out and the problem persists so we have just received set number two. Minor surgery, lasts 5 minutes, in and out in a couple hours (most of which is waiting for your turn). He's currently playing with cars and watching Dora the Explorer and all is right with the world. While we were waiting for him to wake up from the anesthesia, my mom and I experienced the pleasure of overhearing someone's conversation. Don't you just love it? Its like taking a peek into the asylum on Super Crazy day. A couple was explaining to their son that his brother is going to hear some sounds for the first time today. It could be overwhelming for him and they all had to be sensitive to that. And, they instructed that everyone remember that when they speak to little Miracle Ear (I changed the name to protect this poor boy who will be ridiculed enough for his parents without my help) in anger, they need to remember that he has never heard that before and he will feel it now. Feel it. At first I was impressed. I thought that Mr. Will was getting ear tubes in the same facility as a child getting a cochlear implant or some other such miracle of modern medicine. Some child, some innocent little boy in that surgery center is going to be blessed with the gift of sound... angels will sing, harps will be played, the hand of God will touch this boy and hallelujah, he will hear his mother whisper her love for him. Talk about single tear. Medicine these days is just AMAZING! But wait, that is my doctor (who we shall call Dr. Pepper... not because its his name but because that is what Will calls him) heading over to the family. Dear Lord! My doctor, whose hands were just on Willabug, held the power to restore the sense of hearing to this boy. We were blessed to associate with such a fine physician. Then I hear Dr. Pepper speak. The waiting room din hushes, as we all wait to hear Dr. Pepper explain how the surgery went, what was this little boy's first sound that he heard? Did it work? OH GOD TELL US!!!! And Dr. Pepper said.... "The tubes went in just fine. Couple drops in his ears tonight, Tylenol around noon and you're good to go."

TUBES?!?!?!?!?! Wha? Huh? The same exact thing my kid got? Are you kidding me? Drama Queens, party of two? Your padded room is ready. I admit that Dr. Pepper told us when Will got tubes the first time that his hearing would improve. He said the liquid in his ears from the constant infections could make it hard to discern certain words. But, ladies and gents... he could still hear. Birds sang, I told him I loved him, Elmo's serial killer giggle penetrated those little ear drums and made it through just fine. Don't get me wrong, I love me some ear tubes, as we went six blissful months without ear infections last time. And, I look forward to even longer bliss this time, but Marlee Matlin doesn't need to sign up because they aren't going to help her. And for this family... give me a break. Before tubes, when Will decided to climb onto the television set, I spoke to him with anger... and trust me... he felt it.

Momunist Regime Attacks Cookie Party

Attention! Attention! This is a red alert. The Momunist Regime has entered Indiana and is taking over one Christmas Cookie exchange at a time!!! BEWARE! You've been warned!

My friend Laura (who loves to see her name in my posts) attended a cookie exchange last week. I wasn't there, so my account of said party is totally hearsay, but I am pretty sure I have the deets correct so I am going to run with it. Laura goes into the party with a group of homemakers (group name will be omitted as I can't remember it... otherwise you would find that group located under the closest bus via this blog entry). It is a cookie exchange, so Laura brings lovely chocolate dipped pretzels with colored candy melt drizzled atop for festivity. Lovely, yes? No, not in Stepford's Homemaker group! Apparently her cute and festive pretzels were not the bell of the ball. Instead she traded chocolate dipped mediocrity for ornate bites of heaven that would put Martha Stewart to shame. Truthfully, I have no recollection of what the cookies even were, as Laura was so detailed about the packaging I am not sure I even got to the cookies. Laura presented her pretzels in a clear baggie. Practical. Utilitarian. Easy. Amen, Laura. But no, the Momunist Regime that threw the cookie party wanted a little more than that. She was met with individual cloth bags laced shut with ribbon and recipe cards done in calligraphy and scrapbooked onto crafting paper with decorative scissors and pretty bows. This was not your humble author's cookie party, which sadly is what went through Laura's mind as she attended this garish display of "too much time on your hands." It does make me wonder though... who are these women and what planet do they hail from?

I consider myself a pretty good do-er. My mom is a step away from Martha Stewart (only because she works full time, otherwise she'd be Martha minus the prison record), and I inherited a wee bit of it. I can't decorate a cake like she can, but I want to learn. And, I can't sew and I don't want to learn.... but in a pinch, I think I can pull off some cuteness. However, I don't lace my own burlap cookie sacks and my calligraphy has been on hiatus since I hand wrote all of our wedding invitation envelopes back in the day. But really... (I bet you were wondering when the really was coming) who has time for that in their day to day life? If this is a homemaker club, then I assume they are stay home moms. And as one, I want to know what the Benadryl dosage is that they are feeding their children to provide them with any kind of time to put this chi chi crap together? And these moms are everywhere! So don't think you and your neighborhood are safe! I took a foray into the PTO last year at Tabbi's school and the Alpha moms were out in force. They not only looked lovely (picture pearls and last year's Anne Taylor collection), but they had well behaved toddlers on their hips, a day planner with their luncheons laid out for months of strategic planning, and a willingness to take on every detail of the school-wide sock hop. Who wants to sew 400 poodle skirts? PICK ME, PICK ME! Are they stealing their kids' Ritalin supply or what?

I firmly believe that these PTO moms and those Marthas attending the Cookie Gala (as mine scheduled for Friday is a party, surely this one deserves a fancier name) set out to make the rest of us look inadequate. And you know what? It works. I am inadequate. I sit here blogging in my jammies at 10:52a because I am not with it enough to shower any earlier (and these jammies are not a gown of silk and lace as I can only assume theirs are... but cotton pj bottoms and a white long sleeve t shirt... yes my uniform for day and night). My laundry is piled on the laundry room floor and the cookies I made for my cookie party are chilling in a clothes box in the garage. I don't have Tupperware it will fit in. And, while they are homemade they were about as intricate as purchasing a box of Oreos. My recipe card would be hand written on a Post It, or even better, typed here with a note on the cookies that says "You wanna know... read my blog." I don't own a planner, and I have two calenders (purse size and one on the wall, which means that nothing is ever written on both. So depending on where I check, I may or may not be free tomorrow). I will not sew 400 skirts today, in fact, I will accomplish very little today, as Will keeps giving me hugs and saying "I love you more" which prompts me to stop what I am doing and hug him back and play whatever he wants for as long as he'll pay attention to me because I know these days are going to be gone way too soon. And, I will clean nothing, and cook very little and my pearls will stay on the hook in my closet because they don't go with my current look.

My existence on this earth will not serve to make anyone else feel inadequate and you know what? That's ok. I may never be the PTO Alpha mom in charge of the sock hop (and I personally believe a sock hop for our children is a pretty silly idea anyway since they have no clue what a sock hop is and their parents were too young to attend one, too) and no one will question how my burlap sack was perfectly constructed to house my delicate cranberry persimmon tartlet meringue ginger encrusted bow bon bons... but I will do my own thing today and I will have fun today. And I'll do that again tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. So, beat that Momunists!

The Days Our House Stood Still

As you all know, I have been sick. In fact, I am not sure sick is a strong enough word. More like infected with the bubonic plague. Or, death warmed up. Something like that. I am pretty sure Night of the Living Dead zombies look better than I do right now, and I look a whole lot better today than the past few days. I was suffering from strep throat, a sinus infection and an ear infection. What can I say... when I get sick I do it right. I am on the mend though, so that's good news. Not just for me (I've spent the last few days writing out my last will and testament just in case I caught a few more infections), but for my family. Who knew that when mom got sick, the entire house came to a grinding halt?!?!?!

I give Mark credit (before you all start bitching and moaning about how I pick on him) for stepping up and taking on kid duty 100 percent. Will was already on antibiotics, so I wasn't too afraid of him getting sick, but I was scared to death of giving a 4 month old the trifecta of misery that I had. So, Mark went on Jack duty and has yet to come off of it. Likewise, my mom babysat the kids on Wednesday and as always, she was a Godsend. She did the boys' laundry and took care of a super crabby Jack and semi crabby Will all day while I wallowed in bed. So, they really helped and I will forever appreciate it since you can't just call in sick to motherhood (which sucks by the way... I have serious questions about the benefits of my current employment).

But.... holy cow! Today, I am about three quarters alive and I see the state our home is in and man... its a sad state indeed. There is no food in this house at all. Ok, so there's ice cream cake from the birthday party I had last Saturday and a Tupperware of grapes in the fridge that are working on becoming raisins as we speak. But, as far as milk... juice... sustenance of any substance... no. Nada. Zilch. And laundry? The boys are good, because my mom kept them in pjs and clean jeans, but, I am going to have to go commando if I don't get a load or two done before I take Jack to the doc this afternoon. And sick during the holiday season? No good. We are done Christmas shopping (insert curses, expletives and hateful remarks toward me here) so that is not the problem, but yesterday I came downstairs to a tower of boxes taller than me just chilling in the entryway of our house. Not put away, not opened... just stacking. A wall was being erected to quarantine me upstairs, I think. But I escaped before the stairs could be fully blocked off. The sad part is (as all of us online shoppers know) the 4 foot by 6 foot box only has a toy 6 inches tall in it, and the rest is stuffed with those air pillow things so that the matchbox car won't get tossed around the refrigerator box they shipped it in. So, I unpacked the boxes and managed to fit all contents into just one box, and we can get to the front door now! Hallelujah! A Christmas miracle.

I previously had no idea how important one person could be to the general running of the household... but now I know. And now I feel awful for any time my mom or any other mom ever wanted to crawl under the covers and hide for a few days, because let me tell you... it just can't happen. I know people who think that they can't call in sick to their jobs because they are JUST. TOO. VALUABLE. That company could not run without their presence. Life would fall apart. Stock markets would crash (oh wait, that's already happened). The human race would die out slowly and be replaced by machines a la The Terminator. But, I was never that person. I had no problem calling in sick (and if my old boss is reading this, I am sure she is nodding her head in agreement). If I was sick, I was sick at home. No trooper "go to work and be a hero" mentality here. I was good at my job, but totally replaceable and everyone would survive without me (although their lives would be a little less amusing, I like to think). But, for the first time I really feel like I have a place in the universe where I cannot be replaced. Life would stop if I disappeared from here... or at least laundry would. And without laundry, who could survive?

Sweet Brown Dog

Once upon a time, roughly seven years ago, I decided to get my mom a dog for Mother's Day. Our Chow Chow had died about 6 months earlier and much to my father's dismay, my mom was thinking about getting another dog. So, I decided (in my infinite wisdom and love of dogs) that I would make it my mission to find one. Instead of big, high maintenance and mean, she wanted a change... something small easy and lovable. And what fit the bill? Of course... Beagles. Who wouldn't want one? My family and I are pretty anti-breeder, so I combed Petfinder.com and other sites until I found what I thought would be the perfect dog for her. Bentley. He was at a Beagle rescue in northern Indiana and his picture what the cutest thing I've ever seen. His ears were the length of his entire body standing. And he had these deep brown eyes... the Grinch's heart would melt if he saw them. So, I called the rescue and arranged a meeting. But, lo and behold... two beagles showed up at our destination. Turns out the night before our meeting, they had a second dog turned over to them. This one was a beagle mix, and while he wasn't the same Beagle perfection as Bentley, he had a much sweeter demeanor. Bentley was wild and rambunctious and house breaking took 6 months. The other dog was a cuddler right from the start. His picture should have been in the dictionary under "LAP DOG." Before he was named, I called him Sweet Brown Dog, because that was exactly what he was. Later, he became KC, after Kansas City where I spent my high school and college years. We adopted them both and as my mom said, KC was an old soul so he went to her house and Bentley the nutball came to mine.

We used to say that Bentley was all looks, but KC had the brains. My mom would joke that KC's eyes bulged out, his legs were too skinny and his body too fat. He looked like a dog put together out of Beagle and Pointer spare parts. But, he was smart. He and Bentley were basically raised as siblings they were together so much, and boy did they act like it. When KC wanted something Bentley had, he would go get another toy or chew stick and play with it until it peeked Bentley's interest. Then as soon as Bent would go to the new object, KC would steal the sought after item and never look back. Poor Bentley never did catch on. And, when then 4 year old Tabbi needed a dog to put in a skirt and bonnet, KC would let her do it, knowing that any attention was good attention. He was a stand by your person kind of dog and would be by your side at all times. Even when you were in bed and kind of wished he was more of a sleep on the floor kind of guy.

This post isn't funny and there are no mice involved, so I am sure you have already jumped to the correct conclusion. KC died yesterday. In my family, dogs are people too so it is no small loss for any of us. His death was sudden and unexpected and even though he was a barker and would snatch food from Will nearly taking off his hand in the process... my sweet brown dog will be missed. And now I am crying and can't see the screen, so I am just going to put up some KC pictures, as dogs don't get obituaries in the paper... this will be his.

Sweet Brown Dog

KC and Will when Will was 5 months old.

KC and Bentley basking in the sun.

Will laying on KC

KC in his favorite chair.

Bye Sweet Brown Dog, KC Basey, Cakers...... rest in peace.

Time Out

We interrupt this regularly scheduled post to let you know that I am sick. Its either Ebola, the plague or Mad Cow Disease - the jury is still out. I am pretty sure I have been fighting a bad case of mono since middle school, so it could be a mono flare up. Then again, I diagnosed myself with a brain tumor in high school, so that could be back too. Or, some would say that its the common cold. Similar to that which my two boys and father have been fighting since last week. But because I am pretty sure I am sicker than them combined, I have to go with something a little more serious. Will watch Grey's Anatomy or ER to find true illness. Small Pox, with hidden pox perhaps? Or, I commented on the blog Jennsylvania yesterday... do you think I caught Jen's disease? Is that what they mean by computer virus?

Anyway, I am sick and as such, my brain is on hiatus. I cannot think nor type (I should post this before clicking spell check so you can see what I mean). I will be back tomorrow, unless I don't make it through the night, or feel I need another day to wallow in my bed. Must get laptop. Then even illness wouldn't keep me away. Although, I lack the strength in my fingers to type, so even that wouldn't help. Down comforter calling... buh bye!

The Midlife Crisis

I hope to God this isn't really my midlife crisis, or I am going to only live to be 60. So, really I hope its a third life crisis. Then I am good til 90 which sounds much better to me. I have my equivalent of donning a toupee and driving a corvette. Since I am a woman and far too poor for the car, I am rocking some pink hair extensions. OH YES! I have them and they are in a word - FABULOUS!

I think this must be how 50 year old men feel when they walk into a room with a 21 year old on their arm! Really, the confidence boost is amazing. I know some people (yes, Nicole and Homa, you two came to mind) would be totally humiliated to have such a color adorning your head, but I look in the mirror and say, "I've still got it." I am a mother of three, stay home mom, dinner cooking, house picking upping, cheesy Christmas Cookie Exchange hosting, boring t shirt and jeans wearing woman in practical footwear who officially now has some killer hair that screams "I AM MORE THAN THIS!"

Being this is pretty good, mind you, and 100 percent my choice. I chose to leave my career and stay home with kids, and because of that, the rest of the list followed. You can't wear the $119 jeans and expensive blouses and heels when you have a 4 month old puking on you every two hours. You have to cook dinner because its too expensive and totally embarrassing to take a family of five (which includes Will the restaurant industries' worst nightmare) out in public. I pick up the house because I can only trip over Dora the Explorer so many times before I want to let her explore the inside of our garbage can, thus resulting in major breakdown of said two year old. I host the cheesy Cookie Exchange in order to lure my former coworkers out to the 'burbs to hang out with me since I never see them any other time. Its all a vicious cycle. And while I love my kids and my new life (most of the time), I miss the old me. The one with the disposable income that went straight to designer jeans and impossibly high heels that killed my feet but they looked great during the torture.

Now I feel like some part of that existence is back. I am sure the PTO will mock me ruthlessly (behind my back of course... in true Momunist dictatorship fashion) and Tabbi's friends' parents may think twice before they let their daughters hang here anymore... but oh well. Sacrifices must be made for me to stay a little bit me. And for those of you just waiting to click the comment box and ask for pictures, they are coming. I will post again when Cari the wonder stylist emails me the pics.

My Top Ten Most Fascinating People

Barbara Walters had her 10 Most Fascinating People tv special on last night and it got me thinking. I felt like the majority of her fascinating folks were less than interesting... let alone fascinating. Miley Cyrus, Will Smith, Tom Cruise? Come on... how much did they pay to be featured when they oh so coincidentally have a movie coming out now? Insert any other movie actor in their interview slots and change the movie title, and you'd still have the exact same interview. And, I love me some Barack Obama... but fascinating? Not really. Don't we already know all there is to know about him? Wasn't he properly vetted (gratuitous use of current "it" word) during the election process? Love him, but been there done that. So, in honor of Barbara's lack of fascinating folks... I have created my own list. Enjoy.

10. Sarah Palin. Ok, so she was on Barbara's list too, but seriously? Barbara didn't even hit the tip of the iceberg with her reasons why. Sure, we had never heard of her before she became a VP nominee, and sure (I wish you could hear me say sure, just like Sarah... I am pretty good) she is pretty interesting what with her 400 kids and whatnot, but I am interested in so much more. I cannot get enough of this lady. How does one condone shooting wolves from a helicopter? What kind of sport is that? And why exactly does she think she should get to choose the books housed in a PUBLIC library? And really Sarah? Rape victims charged for their own rape kits? There are all of 30 women in Alaska. You can't have the government foot the bill for the humiliating procedure used after their horrific ordeal? Really? I mean, really? And most importantly... how do you get that hair tumor so high? Is it natural or is Aqua Net still a big seller in the Arctic?

9. Eliot Spitzer's wife, Silda. First, where did the name Silda come from? And secondly, and most importantly... what is this stand by your man crap, Silda? I can understand couples who can work through an affair. I really can. I am not sure I could do it, but there can be circumstances where both people are at fault and you work through it. But Eliot took the last train to Skanksville and paid for sex repeatedly. Did he stop at train station gift shop for a little chlamydia on his way home, by chance? I could not stand there by my hubby's side while he humiliated me and my family on a national scale. Uh no thanks. Instead, I would have my divorce attorney by his side waiting to serve him with papers and oh by the way, that alimony would be big. HUGE! Bigger than the prostitute's need for a father figure, even.

8 & 7. This is a two-fer so I am going to assign it two numbers. I would go ahead and call them "The Biggest Losers - The View Edition" and I don't mean for their weight loss. Bitter, party of two. Rosie O'Donnell and Star Jones. Both are former View co-hosts and even though both have left the show at least a year ago, they still spend a whole lot of time bashing it. Nothing better to do? Really? I realize that since leaving The View, they have both gone on to illustrious careers doing... well.. nothing, but still. What about The View made them both so bitter? Inquiring minds want to know. And seriously, Star? Hosting a reunion show of The Bad Girls Club? I am pretty sure washing my hair would be more stimulating than that. (Especially when I get my pink extensions!)

6. Elisabeth Hasselbeck, also of The View. Can you tell I love that show? Where else can you watch five women scream at once? Oh yeah, any girls' night in the country. Anyway, I love Elisabeth. Although she is a Sarah Palin fan, I can look past it. I do for my friend Laura, so I am willing to look past it in Elisabeth, too. Despite being horrible judge of character, I am so intrigued with her, and I mean this legitimately. Who else goes to a job every day and faces four against one odds? I do not share her opinions, but I have more respect for her than any other commentator on tv. I cannot imagine being out-bitched by Whoopi, Shari, Barbara and JOY (the biggest bitch of them all) every single day. And, if interviewing her for my tv special, I would ignore the "but we really love each other" crap and hear what it is that motivates her to report to work every day knowing that she is always going to be in the minority. That impresses me... even if she's always wrong.

5. This is another group one, but there are so many people, I am still keeping it at one number on my countdown (otherwise it would exceed a Top 10). I would like to sit this group down and ask what price Elmo Live (it talks, it dances, it may even do your laundry) was selling for that warranted trampling a man to death. I like me a good bargain, but I am pretty sure that I would stop and help a man up, not step on his face just to get a Wii Fit or Hannah Montana video. I hope to God and heaven above that every single person who set foot in that store at that time (whether or not your foot hit that man) is grossly ashamed. These people bargain hunted like a bunch of crackheads in an unguarded pharmacy. I am not a crack of dawn shopper, because I don't get out of bed unless totally necessary, and no sale on any product has changed my mind. But, when you hear about a 34 year old man dying just trying to unlock a WalMart door makes me wonder about those die hard bargain shoppers. I think the point is for you to die hard, not for you to kill others.

4. Apparently, I should be calling this my snarkiest countdown, because here's my next group. Its the group of people who set the law that declared Thomas Beatie (the supposedly pregnant man) a man. Now, can they define the Easter Bunny as real and show me the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, because I think those two things are just as logical. By my definition and I don't know... anatomy's definition the dude's a girl. He is no more a pregnant man that Arnold Schwarzenegger in Junior. I think if you have real working girl parts down under, you are pretty much a chick. And I am fine with her living as a man and being a father, but don't go out and get millions of dollars (not to mention scarring for life footage that your lucky kids will get to live the rest of their lives surrounded by) pretending that you are a pregnant man. I can grow a pretty good mustache without my lovely wax jobs, so does that make me a man? Or, Christina Applegate who had a double mastectomy. Is she now a guy, because their anatomy is the same as Mr. (I mean Ms.) Beatie's. I refuse to list Mr. Beatie as a fascinating person, because really he or she is just pathetically in search of money and fame and that doesn't interest me so much as make me sad, but I would like to hear from the State where the lawmakers decided to make gender such an easy thing to pick. And just for the record, I waxed my lip a few weeks ago so I will go ahead and keep myself labeled a woman.

3. I don't find Tom Cruise the least bit interesting, and Katie Holmes is just about as fascinating as watching paint dry (although really that can be interesting because sometimes it dries a deeper, darker color and you are pleasantly surprised or totally bummed by the actual hue so really she's way more dull than that). But, some day I would like to talk to Suri, the WASP with the Middle Eastern name, and find out just what living with those two is like. Who were the nanny and chef that fed, clothed and took care of her on a regular basis? Because the actual parents like to go on talk shows and give interviews about how they dote on their precious baby, and I would like a no holds barred interview with the kid to find out just how involved these movie making, Broadway play doing, practicing alien-based religion parents are.

2. OJ Simpson. I don't really want to talk to him, but I would like to just pretend like he was going to get interviewed and then get in his face and say, "15 years, huh? HA HA HA HA HA HA! Buh bye!"

1. This is a group, too, but I would like to have a little convo with them. It would be the Big 3 US automakers' CEOs and each and every CEO on Wall Street that has begged the government for a bail out. I just want to talk to them for a second. You see, I have this dream of becoming a business owner. The business itself changes quite a bit... its been everything from a paint your own pottery studio to a cupcake bakery (I even named it The Cupcakery). So, should I ever follow through with the plan (whatever it is at the moment), I want to sit down with them and learn how to do what they did. I think if I had step by step instructions of just how to run a business into the ground while maintaining my salary and eventually getting money from the government so I could run it into the ground a second time while still making millions, I wouldn't be so nervous about starting my own company. You think?

An American President Moment

Ok, so I have to admit something. My name is Lynn, and I like a romantic comedy. Typically, I am not a huge fan of these types of movies. I like me a good Pretty Woman here and there, but I can't do Kate and Leopold or A Walk to Remember or any of that gooey ickiness. But, there is one romantic comedy that I like above all others and that is The American President. I love the cast, I love the story line, I think the writing is great and witty, and I love it. Love, love, mushy love it. So, imagine my surprise and glee (oh yes people, I experienced some glee) when Barack Obama had a moment taken straight from one of my fave movies.

For those of you who don't know... in The American President, President Andrew Shepard is a widower and calls a lobbyist Sydney Ellen Wade (love that name) for a date. When he calls, she thinks its someone else and hangs up on him. Twice. When she finds out it really is the Leader of the Free World, imagine her humiliation (I am thinking its on par with hot policeman coming to my house when I am in Pepto Bismol inspired jammies)! Well, imagine Ileana Ros-Lehtinen's!!!

Florida's Republican congresswoman Ros-Lehtinen received a call from a staffer asking her to hold for President Elect Obama. While most of us would trip over our tongues, I would expect a politician to stay semi professional and take the call. Not Ileana (her last name is far too long to keep typing so we're going on a first name basis). She says "I'm sorry but I think this is a joke from one of the South Florida radio stations known for these pranks," (according to a Yahoo news article). Wow, you South Florida hooligans, you! You have turned an otherwise sane woman (I am assuming) into a paranoid nutter butter! So then, future Chief of Staff elect (what do you call this guy before his job starts) Rahm Emanuel (another great name) gives her a call and a heads up that hey, maybe she ought to take Barack O'Head of the Most Powerful Nation in the World's call. She does what? Oh yeah... HANGS UP AGAIN! I am laughing as I type it. Seriously, South Florida radio stations... leave this woman alone! She is clearly on the verge of a radio DJ induced breakdown! This time she said that she "didn't believe the call was legitimate." Does anyone think this woman needs a little self-esteem boost or is it just me? Finally she receives a call from Representative Howard Berman (D-Calif.), the chairman of the Foreign Affairs Committee, and apparently Howie is a little more believable because he is able to convince her that she just hung up on President Elect Obama. TWICE. Bwah ha ha ha! Still laughing.

I give Ileana Long Name credit for recovering well, as she reportedly said to Barack (when she finally decided to take his call), "Saturday Night Live could use a good Obama impersonator like you." So, Tina Fey, be careful! Obama may replace you as the best impersonator on Saturday Night Live... although does it count if you are impersonating yourself? And to all you other political yahoos out there... if you get a call and they said its Barack Obama, why don't you go out on a limb and go ahead and take that call. I am not sure what looks worse... getting pranked by a radio station or missing out on being named Post Master General because you hung up!

9-1-WHAT????

I had an encounter with THE MAN today. The fuzz, big 50 (I don't even know where those nicknames came from), a man in blue (although he wore black), the Po Po. Yes... I had an encounter with the police. Why, you ask? Is everything ok? Am I blogging from a Wi Fi prison cell right now? Well, yes, I answer (to the second question, no to the third). All is well except for the small fact that I have a habit of humiliating myself, like I did this morning.

As those of you who know me know, I have a mom calling habit. I talk to my mom easily three or four times a day (its been twice today and its 9:35a). This would be ok except her phone number is 917-number number number number (I am not giving you her full phone number... if she is busy talking to you, who I am going to talk to 4,000 times in the next hour?). My crappy cordless stuck and instead of dialing 917, I dialed 911. I hung up immediately. Called the correct number, began my diatribe in my mom's ear when "BEEP"... call waiting. I click over and its a lovely 911 operator making sure everything is ok. Nice response. I suppose if Charles Manson's younger Hoosier brother was here ready to slice off my head, I would appreciate the follow up. So, I explain to Ms. 911 Operator that all is fine, I tried to call mom, but called metro police instead. Oops. Laugh. Hang up. I then continue to talk my mom's ear off, ranting about life in general when I wander up the entryway and see.... a POLICE CRUISER parked outside my house. GAH! And a very authoritative and extremely attractive policeman exiting said cruiser and walking up my drive. DOUBLE GAH! What do I do? I really thought about running and hiding, but felt that could cause SWAT to be summoned or something. So, I humbly opened the door and explained to Officer Hotness that everything was fine, I dialed incorrectly... please come in and search the joint (or me... wink wink) so you know Chucky Manson isn't here. He stepped in, did a wide sweep with his gorgeous brown eyes (no doubt taking in my blindingly hot pink pj top, flannel plaid bottoms, unkempt hair from the lack of shower, and saggy boobs on the floor from the lack of bra) and decided all was right with the world... or at least with my household. No Lynn search necessary.

I have to give the police department props for their response. If I was about to be murdered, dialed 911 and had the phone ripped from my hands by my assailant, I would be thrilled with their concern and their two follow ups thus preventing my grisly death. But, seeing as how I just mis-dialed, am still in obnoxious pjs and no bra... I will just die of embarrassment instead. And do you want to know the worst part? While this scene happened as told this morning... its happened before. TWICE.

Eerie.... Very eerie

Compare these photos...


1. Will in his Baby Einstein Gym circa June 2006.

2. Jack in his Baby Einstein Gym (because the second kid never gets anything new) October 2008.

Will was a lot skinnier, and the lighting clearly better in Jack's pic (not to mention you can't get between Jack and his Calvin's)... but really? Looks like we are breeding clones... or carnivores. Why do they both look like they are licking their chops at the sight of a captive bird or frog? I bet they learned that from the dog.

Plotting Against Me...

I think that Jack is plotting against me. Despite his very sweet, very fat cheeks... he is really a sinister mastermind plotting to take over the world, one set of parents at a time. I am telling you... don't let the cherubic thing fool you... he's a plotter.

My little angel survived the 7 hour car trip to Osage Beach, MO both there and back like a champ. He barely made a peep, clearly trying to lull us into a false sense of security. But, once night fell in our lovely three bedroom condo serenely situated overlooking the lake, the real Jack emerged. This Jack would cry and cry until he drifted off to sleep... or so we thought. Then once he was in his pack and play, he would bide his time until the adult caring for him would drift off on a lovely trip to dreamland and then WHAM. Or more accurately WAH. The crying would start again. At the time, I chalked it up, not to evil debauchery, but to vacation stress. Babies like their routines and Jack is nothing if not a baby. Despite his 9 month attire, he is not yet 4 months old, so clearly, he was just following baby protocol. Right? RIIIIIIIIGHT. Or so he would like us to believe.

Last night he was laid to rest in his own crib (not in an RIP kind of way, but in a REM kind of way). He was cozy, warm and dressed in his favorite doggy feet pajamas. Ok, so he probably doesn't have a favorite, but they're Mark's favorite pajamas. I think if they made them for someone 6'3" with size 13 feet, Mark would wear them too and amuse himself for hours looking at the puppy heads where his feet should be. But, back to Jack. The little bugger went fast asleep at his regular hour and what? 10:35? Crying? Can't be. But yes... Jack was up. I fed him, watched a little Tivoed Desperate Housewives and he was off to sleep. I think it was the bottle, not the show that lulled him. Then Mark and I retired to our room for a blissful sleep after a little Tivoed Top Chef (despite our extreme fatigue from lack of sleep since Wednesday... we had to watch it. Its a food addiction neither Jenny Craig nor Weight Watchers can correct). And for the record, Goodbye, Richard... pack your knives and tissues and go. And just so you know, I totally thought it should be the blond guy offed, not the lovable gay, but Padma didn't ask me to judge so there you go. Anyhoo, back to Jack. I was about to hit my REM cycle when Jack was up at 12:35am. Totally Mark's turn. 3:00am: my turn. 5:17a: Mark's turn. 7:12am: my turn. No vacation bed or cold room to blame. No foreign location or central time zone to throw him off. What is he... suddenly a newborn again? This is ridiculous.

There is clearly only one reason for his behavior. He is using sleep deprivation as a form of torture (thanks, CIA, for teaching him that one). Just wait til he can turn on a faucet for some Chinese water torture (after he learns to sit up, crawl, walk and turn a handle... we've got awhile before this one becomes an issue). But he doesn't even have to resort to that, knowing that at some point I will go completely batty (like I am not already there) due to the lack of sleep and that is when he will make his move for worldwide domination. Just remember... you've been warned.

A Thanksgiving Wish

Ok, so I am not going to be in town for Turkey Day, so I thought even though I am a few days early, I would leave my Thanksgiving wish for all of you. In honor of my Grandpa, who died a little over three years ago, I am going to do so in the form of what is called a "Turkey Note." Grandpa Ash used to write one every year for each member of the family, and they were great. My first one was when I was playing soccer in elementary school and I still have it. It is:

Lynn's a soccer player.

And a good one it may seem.

She can even score a goal

for the other team.

Obviously, my attempt will never measure up to his, but I am going to give it a go.


First, to my parents who read my blog:

You sent me away to college

to work toward a career

and now you get to read my thoughts

nowhere else but here.

I bet you'd like your money back

cuz my degree just ain't needed

to sit at home and birth my kids...

Man, I bet you're feeling cheated!!!

And to my brother who reads my blog:

The first blogger in the family,

you definitely do it right.

Your blog revolves around

God and all his might.

You make a lot of valid points

and speak with dignity and power

after all, you have a better topic

than what Will does while I shower.

And to my husband who reads my blog:

Sometimes I like to write about you

And throw you under the bus,

but I only do it figuratively

which is a good achievement for us.

The good thing is it's all in love

or at least in toleration,

which again is how I express myself

with the utmost moderation.

And to my friends that read my blog:

I really do love each of you

in our own special way,

which means that I will mock you

each and every day.

But if you ever need anything

like bail, babysitting or booze

just call on me and I'll be there

any day you choose.

And lastly, to those of you who read my blog, but I don't yet know you well:

Thank you for being there

to read my rants each day.

It really touches me

in a totally non-pervy way.

I didn't think that people would

care what I have to say

and the fact that you keep coming back

makes this the best Thanksgiving Day.

Happy Thanksgiving All!!!!

Switched at birth

I learned today that Will is not really my son. Ok, so I don't know that for sure, but the seed of doubt has been planted and someone with a greener thumb than mine is caring for it. I have always known that he doesn't look like me at all. He doesn't really act like me either, although he acts more like the Tasmanian Devil in Warner Brothers cartoons than anything else, so I am not sure that is indicative of anything. He loves to read, so that is kinda like me... but our taste in books is totally different. I am reading Jen Lancaster's Such a Pretty Fat and he is reading Little People A Trip to the Zoo. It has way too many doors to open for my taste, while Lancaster's dry sense of humor doesn't keep his interest. Nor does he care about her dieting problems, because let's be honest... he's never dieted a day in his life. How could he relate? But, those differences aside... his behavior this morning was the clincher. He woke up at 6:00a this morning like Mr. Perk Perky Perkerton and has yet to blink or yawn.

Picture Angelina Jolie screaming "That's not my son." That was me this morning although slightly less 1930's glamour and slightly more poundage. But, my plaid pajama bottoms and smudged mascara (both of which I am still wearing 3 hours later) just don't evoke the same image, so picture her instead. To say I am not a morning person is not even a strong enough statement. If I had my druthers, I wouldn't bat an eye until close to 10a. Ok, if I really had my druthers, I would not be even semiconscious until closer to noon. But, I have Will... and Jack... and Tabbi... and no druthers. If someone sees my druthers, please let me know. And can someone call Murphy and ask him to for a vote to change his laws? Because today, the day that Will decided to awaken earlier than roosters (well, I don't know that for sure, but I am willing to call Laura and ask), Jack was sound asleep until 7:30a. Not. Fair. At. All. If it weren't for Will's need to rise before the sun, I could have been asleep til 7:30a. I find it morally repugnant to be aroused prior to Good Morning America and today I was totally Good Morning Indiana. Sick and wrong.

So, I am putting a call in to St. Vincent Women's Hospital to find my real kid. He will be the one still sleeping soundly this morning. I will return the one that has spilled croutons all over the kitchen table, ripped a Styrofoam ball to bits and scattered styrodust all over the playroom floor, dumped Tabbi's cereal milk into the fish tank to feed the fish (don't worry, the last fish died over the weekend so he's not a murder), emptied the cleaning closet of all brooms, mops and vacuums, is playing an extremely loud electric sounding guitar and decided that diapers are for sissies (not yet potty trained) all by 9:12a. "I WANT MY SON BACK!" Sorry, channeling Angelina again.

It takes two...

So last night, I asked Mark to change Will's poopy diaper, and you would have thought I said to do it with his tongue or something. It was pretty clear that he didn't want any part of it. Now, its pretty clear that I don't want any part of it either, duh... who does? But I am up to my elbows in poop Monday through Friday, so it seemed only fair that he take one for the team last night. He, later, didn't disagree... but he didn't agree either. It appears that we might have differing opinions of what our "jobs" are. For the record, before Mark leaves a pissed off comment, he is very good at helping out and blah blah blah, so this isn't meant to be a blast Mark blog post. I save those for when they're really deserved (like the Uverse/fish post). But, it does warrant looking in to... what are the expectations of a stay home mom... when Dad is at home, too?A certain someone I know (cough... Homa's boyfriend...end cough) has said that if he is the one earning the money, he expects to not have to do anything at home. I kind of get that. In our house, Mark brings home the bacon (or chicken breasts, or ground sirloin... depending) and I cook it. I take care of the laundry, day to day keeping alive of children, Tabbi homework, etc. Sometimes he cleans the kitchen after we eat, and does the dishes, other times I do it. I don't clean, because we have a cleaning service (thank God and Mark's parents) and he tidies up at the end of the night. Its a pretty good system. But, on the weekends, its a different story.

I left with Tabbi for the morning on Saturday and came home hours later to the exact same thing I left. Dishes strewn about, children undressed, husband in all his greasy unshowered splendor. I walked in and you would think that I was Ed WhatHisName with a check from Publisher's Clearinghouse. I am not Ed Anyone and I ain't got no money. But, the two boys and no mommy supervision was almost more than Mark could take. He breathlessly said "I don't know how you do it" the second I walked into the room. He's never been so happy to see me in our lives. Then, we had the diaper incident on Sunday and I just didn't get it. Isn't he equally responsible for their care as I am? Or, shouldn't he be?

Saturday and Sunday, I believe that we should share responsibilities. I didn't make these three kids on my own, and I had no part at all in one of them. So, I expect that Mark will load a dishwasher with Jack's bottles and change Will's diaper. I realize he works 40 hours a week and enjoys his days off, but I am pretty sure my hours are longer and I don't get any days off. I am still waiting for my vacation leave to kick in, I guess. The interesting thing is that I don't think Mark is opposed to helping out. He seems to take orders pretty well, if poop or lawn mowing is not involved. It just doesn't occur to him to do any of it on his own. But, I want it to. Its a little something called "female insanity" because I fully expect him to know to do everything and resent it when he doesn't or when he does it differently from the way I want it done. But, I don't want to have to tell him to do it, either. And since I didn't thrust this children upon him... and they've been around for awhile, I don't think that is uncalled for in this instance. Figure out the chores and responsibilities of keeping the house running, read my mind to make sure it gets done the way I want it to, and do it. That's not unfair, right?

Pretty in Pink

I am conducting a survey. As I may have mentioned (once or 2,000 times) I am turning 30 soon. By soon I mean next Thursday. The big 3-0. This entry is not about the age, though. That mental breakdown may come next week. Instead, I am posing a question to you... my readers, my friends... my brutally honest commenters (even those of you that save the brutal honesty for emails after the fact... right, Laura).

Am I too old for pink extensions in my hair?

For those of you who don't know me outside of Cyberland, I have a history of... uh... unique hair. I spent college and the first half of my professional life experimenting from bleach blond (not a highlight) to bright blue (really fun) to blond with pink tips (love it, but it didn't photograph well) to jet black (very goth). And just about every hue in between in every configuration you can imagine. I loved it. But, then I got a job at a national staffing firm, and well... professionalism was required. I hate that. And after, I thought that since I was a mom... I better look the part. Well, call it a midlife crisis (if that happens at 30... God help me at 40 or 50), or just a desire to mix things up, but for my birthday I have booked an appointment with Cari of Rumors Salon to get an all over dark brown color and another appointment to add hot pink extensions. They won't elongate my hair, because I can't afford that (although I would LOVE to do it, Cari, if you ever read this and want to give me a discount to advertise on my blog... hint hint). But, it will thicken it and most importantly, add some serious hot pink. LOVE IT. But, alas, Homa said that pink hair isn't cute and seems to think that its a poor choice. So, I pose it to you, my loyal friends and confidants. Are you with me or against me? A Homa or a Lynn? Bring it on. I can take it.

Is there such a thing as being too old for pink hair?

Domestic Goddesshood...

So, yesterday I had the world conquered. I had a to-do list and I got it to-done. As a stay home mom, it just doesn't get better than that.

I started the day with a strict agenda. Tabbi had a girl scout meeting last night, and I had to have things ready. She needed a family tree and a dish that represented her heritage for their non-traditional Thanksgiving dinner. I needed to finish the laundry and clean the fish tank. And, I needed to prepare the meal that I had scheduled for my family's dinner. Sounds like a piece of cake, right? Well, in my case, the piece of cake is usually too dry and crumbles to bits... but not yesterday. In addition to feeding and caring for Will and Jack, I accomplished all assigned missions. I made two full meals, I did the laundry, I cleaned the fish tank (and flushed the two corpses that were at the top... for anyone counting we are down to only two fish now...) and I made Will Spaghettios for lunch (his first time eating those oddly fluorescent orange noodle-like treats... single tear). When all was done and the boys were still napping, I even had time to sit down and organize a get together with the ladies. I am good. Oh. So. Talented. I was one frilly apron and a string of pearls away from Donna Reed and proud of it.

Then, we sat down to dinner. The All in One Meal Meatloaf that looked so promising in the magazine was barftastic. The meatloaf didn't actually cook, and I am pretty sure meatloaf tar tar is a poor choice. The thinly sliced potato layer, that I spent forever on as I had to peel the potatoes (who does that????), were strangely fiery hot and yet completely hard and uncooked at the same time. All in all, my All in One was a colossal failure. In addition to my culinary failure, I managed to dry a white long sleeve t-shirt (my uniform) and set in a a stain that I was previously determined to get out through 400 washings if need be. But, no... I was in a hurry to get back to my All Full of Crap Meatloaf, that I didn't bother to check it and spray, wash, repeat. And, I am pretty sure our surviving fish (Chubbers One and Two) are on their way to the fish tank in the sky, because they are both hanging in the "race car" and not moving. I am pretty sure if it were a convertible, they'd be at the top o' the tank, belly up.

So, good thing Betty Crocker didn't show up to issue me my a-line 1950s dress, heels and red lipstick to fit in with the other Domestic Goddesses, because I have fallen from grace. I rescind all bragging and boastfulness from yesterday (to those I bragged and boasted to) and vow to leave all potatoes up to Ore-Ida and their culinary genius aka frozen tater tots.

Eight Year Old Murderer???

Am I the only one confused by the way the world is going right now? I am not talking politics or economy or Barack Obama... but what is going on with people today? How do you go from attending your third grade classes to shooting two adults with a .22? I just don't get it.

I have heard the news accounts and read the Arizona Republic article on this child, and I just don't know what to think. Did he do it? Was he coerced into admitting it because the two adult interrogators put the pressure on? He never really admitted to doing it, he just said he thinks he did because the men were suffering from wounds inflicted by an unknown attacker. My words, not his. Obviously, he would have told the story in eight year old verbiage, which I think makes the whole thing that much more sad. At one point he said, "... I went upstairs and I saw him. And there was blood all over his face. And I think I touched him. I just kind of checked to see if he was a little bit alive." Can someone who says "a little bit alive" really be a cold blooded killer? And more importantly, if this little boy whose life should be Ninja Turtles, soccer and the Diamondbacks became a killer, the key question is why?

He owned the .22 because he was a hunter. It was given to him by his father. So that begs the question, should we be training little children to hunt? I know hunting was prevalent among all ages in the past and blah blah blah, but in the past you hunted for food, not sport. Even the kid's story of "they were suffering so I was putting them out of their misery" is a hunting idea. Wound the deer, track the deer, shoot the deer to kill it. But then again, lots of kids hunt and don't kill their parents. Is it video games, violence on tv, a lack of parenting and teaching right from wrong? Did his dad not give him enough attention, did someone give him the wrong attention? I'm not asking to find someone to blame for this little boy alone. I don't want to point to Uncle Greg and say, "Oh, so its your fault," glad that settled. In truth, this kind of thing is happening more and more, so if Uncle Greg is to blame for this little boy, who do we blame for all the others? Really... how does this happen?

This little boy is not the only one. You have that Florida woman who allegedly killed her daughter, but then staged it as a kidnapping. Obviously, she was a grown adult and not a child, but that doesn't change the insanity that is taking over. What is happening in your psyche to decide that its time to murder your child. Andrea Yates, are you reading this, because I just don't get it. I don't even know the details of this Florida case, but I know its weird and obviously sick and wrong. What makes a person just decide to murder their daughter that day? Is there no regard for consequences? Does she not know right from wrong or just not care? If you are not cut out for parenthood, can't you find a better solution than that? Did she just not have a support structure to turn to for help or was she so far gone she didn't even recognize that she needed help until it was too late?

I don't know. I want answers, though, and I am not sure who can give them to me. How 'bout a show on this Dr. Phil? You seem to know exactly what to do about people brainwashed by religious cults, serial shoplifters and binge eaters. Let's turn your "expert" eye onto something just a wee bit more important. I am not an expert on anything and I realize this blog entry is not very clear, and I further realize I have no profound commentary that will open our eyes and say... hey, that's the answer. But I really think this is a question that needs to be out there. How does this happen and what are we going to do to make it stop?

Property Laws of a Toddler

Mark's Grandmother, Eleanor, sent us the cutest little snippet about toddlers. I have no clue where it came from, so I can't give credit, but it made me laugh out loud so I am going to copy it here.

• If I like it, it's mine.


• If it's in my hand, it's mine.


• If I can take it from you, it's mine.


• If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.


• If it's mine, it must never appear to be yours in any way.


• If it looks like mine, it's mine.


• If I saw it first, it's mine.


• If you are playing with something and you put it down, it automatically becomes mine.


• If it's broken, it's yours.

As the mother of a toddler, who mastered the "mine" concept promptly upon his 2nd birthday, I have a few more to add.

• If I see it on tv, it had better be mine stat.


• If it used to be my dinner but now it's in my diaper, it's yours and you better clean it up fast because I am going to squirm and kick until my mess is shared with the whole ottoman.


• If I stopped wanting it a few minutes ago, but Tabbi looked in it's direction, it's mine again.


• If it's sharp, pointy, hot or dangerous in any other way, shape or form, it's totally mine.


• If it's medicine (other than the pink stuff), ear drops, or a Kleenex, it's yours and you better keep it away from me.


• If it belongs to someone else, fits in my hand, mouth, or the couch cracks, it's mine and you will never see it again.


• If it makes loud noises, it's mine the second Jack drifts off to sleep.


• If it will cause my parents any embarrassment, it's mine and I will exercise my right to use it at the most inopportune times.

Now that we've got that settled... parenting a toddler will be much easier to figure out.

Let's get political... litical...

The title is meant to be sung to the tune of "Let's get physical." That Olivia Newton-John knows her stuff. Anyway, lots of the blogs I read have done their thing with Prop 8 in California, and even though the vote happened awhile back, I guess its my turn. In true Lynn fashion... I am just going to rip the band-aid off. No counting to ten and slow peel for me. So, here goes...

Dear California,

You're wrong.

Love,
Lynn

Ok, I am going to have to expand a little. I took a quiz yesterday that was supposed to be one word answers and I couldn't do it. So, I can't just write that note and let it go.

I am saddened by the outcome of the Prop 8 vote, and I personally think that mankind (and womankind and dogkind and kidkind and all other kinds) should all be sad, too. Basically the outcome is that one group of people gets to continue to be persecuted and labeled as "less than us." Everyone is free to have their own opinions (especially if they match mine) and you don't even have to be pro gay marriage or a friend to the homosexual community. You can still think its a sin and believe they are wrong for doing it. But, Keith Obermann said it best.... how is gay marriage hurting you? The consensus is that they can get all the same legal rights as a hetero couple, but they can't use the word marriage. Why? If Ellen and Portia tie the knot, does that somehow affect your marriage? Should your marriage somehow be viewed as less sacred now that two people of the same gender got married? That's crazy. Because if your hetero next door neighbors has a marriage that ends in divorce, did that somehow invalidate yours? And really, for all of those "sanctity of marriage" people, give me a break! Like there are no hetero couples that violate the sanctity you so believe in? If you cheat on your spouse, and it leads to divorce, no one is saying you can't legally marry again. And, am I wrong, or do you then have a history of violating the sanctity of marriage? And what about people who marry for money, green cards, or the drunks that hit the chapels of Vegas? They are legally allowed to vow to stay with someone until death (not sobriety) do they part, but love and commitment have nothing to do with it. With the divorce rate what it is, us heterosexual folks aren't doing a bang up job protecting that sanctity on our own.

I live in a state that is so right-wing conservative that gay marriage will never be allowed. The majority of Hoosiers' heads would explode before they would consider voting yes on something like gay marriage. (Unless you're reading this, Governor Daniels, and want to prove me wrong. Let me know, because I would be happy to help you leave a legacy of love, tolerance and acceptance in this state, if you're game). California is so progressive in comparison that I had high hopes when I heard about this hitting the ballots. I thought that the people lucky enough to live in a state where they had a say in promoting equal rights would end up saying the right thing. I guess I was wrong, and that just makes me sad.

Pillow Talk

My feet are freezing, so I stick them under Mark's legs in bed.

Mark: Your feet are icicles!

Lynn: Not ice, technically, as they are not made out of water. Lynn-cicles.

Mark: Ok, fine. Your feet are little Lynn-cicles.

Lynn: But, they're not little. Really they are big Lynn-cicles. More like icebergs. They are Lynn-bergs. But not in the "Charles" sense.

Mark: So you're not going to fly over the ocean.

Lynn: No, but I may sink some ships.

Romantic, yes?

My Readers, My Friends

You gotta love a group of people that loves Diet Coke as much as me. The beverage poll ended with more people loving Diet Coke than other beverages. So, to you fellow addicts, I leave you with this:One word... ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!