Interesting Question...

My Facebook friend Angela posed an interesting question as her status today. Which of the five senses would you voluntarily do without? It was interesting to read people's answers on her page, because someone answered every single sense and had decent reasoning behind it. I answered easily on Facebook and had a great theory behind it... but I don't want to sway anything here. I'll post my answer later today, but for now... what sense would you ditch, if you had to ditch one?

For those of you who flunked... uh... whatever grade you learned this... here's your options. And no, ESP is not one of them.

Hearing

Sight

Smell

Taste

Touch

Missing Missy

Today is a sad day in my household, surprisingly enough. MissyBellaYuki, the dog so nice we named her thrice, is leaving. It's not the dog hair, the mud tracking, the uber-drool that comes with everything she eats... no. She bit my baby.

Yesterday Jack Attack was crawling through the playroom and Missy was blocking the way. She is a 95 pound speed bump, and no matter who is coming through, that dog does not move. It's part of her charm. But, Jack barely touched her, if he even did, to get past yesterday and she lunged at him. I watched as her formerly statue-like head swung around and she barked/growled/bit my little man's head. Truly, she got him forehead to eyebrow to temple. Luckily, the skin wasn't broken, but I thank one teeny tiny layer of dermis for that because the temple gouge was as close to bleeding as any non-bleeding thing I have ever seen. Today it is just bruises where her teeth were, and I am grateful for that. But, Missy is out of here.

We sought a new dog because Bentley is so anti-child. That being said, he would never bite them. He just runs his fat beagle behind away, and that works for me. Missy, who could be mistaken for a polar bear rug, doesn't move... so I can't risk having a snapper who will not get out of the way mixed with a toddler who cannot control where he is falling half the time.

So, goodbye Big Dog. I will miss your sweet eyes as you would come lay your head on my lap for scratches. I will miss your formerly fantastic way with the kids, letting Jack sit on you and pet you in his not so gentle way. (In the interest of honesty, I will not miss the hair, the mud, the 4 pound poops, the drool encrusted dog bowl, and the panic filled nights of terror because there is a breeze). But, I will miss your fresh from the groomer beauty and that long and super soft hair. I will miss your size and your gentle giant look (before you ate Jack's head). If you read blogs, I want you to know that I wish you the best with your new family and no, you aren't heading to that "farm" in the sky. You're going back to the Great Pyrenees Rescue here in Indy, where they will find you a better home. One with a person who loves to vacuum so they'll love your shedding, and one where the people don't move much, so they'll embrace your speed bump qualities. And more, one that loves you for all your little quirks. Bye, Big Girl.

BlogHer '09

So, as many of you already know... BlogHer was this weekend in the lovely city of Chicago. There was swag, there was food and drink, there was the blogging elite (or bleet, as I am now calling them). But, you know what there wasn't. ME! That's right... let me tell you a little about my BlogHer weekend.

First, let's just put this out there... I never intended to go. I don't got no money for blogging conventions and I do got me some little kids that require my presence at the old homestead. So, my weekend comprised of watching Homa and her boyfriend get into a mega-fight over something even more stupid (or stupider as I typed first) than all the dumber than dumb fights Mark and I have gotten in to. (Seriously, and we once had a knock down, drag out over whether or not you choke or drown on water when it goes down the wrong pipe. Uh huh...almost cancelled the wedding over that one). Then Saturday we didn't do much until I went to my mom's to make an octopus (yeah, another day in the life of me) and after that I was home making a gag-tacular meatball casserole (and I hate me some casserole). Sunday, we managed to mooch lunch and dinner off my parents, so a banner day in my book, but not necessarily swaggy/drunken/blogger fabulous.

Now I am reading tons of my other blogs and getting their take on BlogHer, and I'll admit it. I am jealous. One person I read got to meet tons of other people I read, and I was sitting at home pouring Cream of Onion soup on frozen meatballs. I wish I met those people. I wish I got their swag. Most of all, I wish I was successful enough to warrant my appearance at said convention. The reality is that I don't just want to go to BlogHer... I want someone to want to meet me at BlogHer (insert requisite "oh we would have loved to have met you" pity comment here). I am no Moosh In Indy (although seriously considering changing name to Mooch In Indy and riding her coattails for awhile) and while I am pretty bossy, the reality is I am not BOSSY. So, if I did go to BlogHer, I would have wandered around alone saying (to myself, but not speaking aloud as to remain cool and mysterious but not schizo) "look, its Redneck Mommy" and walking away alone and ashamed that if I talked to Redneck Mommy she'd say "Domestic Who????" So, trips to ALDI and web cam chats with my brother is where I was instead.... but at least that ALDI checker knows my name. (And, my brother does, too). I guess it's time to resign myself to the fact that casserole is how I roll.

A little story about a boy and his donuts...

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Will. He asked for Dunkin Donuts for breakfast and what Will wants, Will gets. So, we return to our house, donut box in hand and Will decides he wants to carry the box. Sad part is, I already know that this is a bad idea. I am on the phone with my friend Nicole and as I hand Will the box and say to Nicole "Will is carrying the donut box, wanna make bets on whether or not they make it into the house?" Lo and behold... they don't. Box goes down on the nasty, filthy, dirty, grass and rock encrusted floor mat right before you go through the door into the house. Donuts are toast. (Although when I said that Will pointed out that the donuts can't be toast because they are not made of bread).


I had my hands full of cell phone and a sleeping Jack, so I headed upstairs to put Jack in his crib and was returning to get the donuts. I come back and realize Will is back in the garage picking up donuts. With the garage door wide open. With the door from the house to the garage wide open. With a fat beagle scarfing donuts as fast as his floppy jowls will let him. With the big white dog gone. Clearly, upon encountering this situation MissyBellaYuki's little dog mind channeled Braveheart and she yelled "FREEDOM!" Bentley channeled... uh... me and yelled "DONUTS!"

Jack was upstairs sleeping, so I pulled Will into the yard yelling for the dog with three names. We'd run a couple houses away, then run home and listen for Jack. Then we'd run a couple more houses, then come home and listen for Jack. Luckily, after about 150 laps like this (in 20 minutes) we heard MissyBellaYuki barking. We followed the sounds and found the dog.

Lessons learned:

• Close the garage door (even if you know you have to turn around and make a second trip to the car right after you put Jack down).
• If the giant dog takes off... let her go because she is going to shed 4,000 pounds worth of hair and pant out 14 gallons of drool the second her giant self gets back in the house.
• And lastly, put Bentley on some sort of "Biggest Loser" dog edition, because his pudgy butt needs it.

Seriously, I couldn't make this stuff up...

Will (3) wakes up screaming at 3:00am last night and yells for "Moooooooommmmmyyy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mooooooooommmmmmmmmmmyyyyy." I walk in and say "hey, buddy, why are you crying?" He gets out of bed and says "I'm not crying, Mommy. I just had a moment."

Sophie (4 now) was in her harness car seat and tells her dad that she has to go potty. Perfect Jeff tells her to "hold it." She says, "I can't dad.... the seat belt is in the way."

Jacob (8 or maybe 9 but looks 12) is going to Disney World in October and is looking at the Epcot stuff. He proceeds to tell his mom that he does not want to go to Japan because he is still upset that they bombed us on that nice Sunday morning.

I take Will into the bathroom to go potty, help him get his pants down and he sits on the seat and says "Mommy, I need some privacy." Nice... I haven't peed alone in over three years... but you have some privacy little man, right up til you need me to wipe your butt!

I am laying in bed with Will one night doing our bedtime routine and I tell him that its time for me to leave, so no screaming or getting out of bed because he would wake up Jack. And Will says "and then he'd cry like a little girl?"

I was watching a youtube video of a horrifically, insanely ignorant religious group who changed the words to "We Are the World" to "God Hates the World" and sang about how much God hated gay people. Will walks over and says "I love those people, Mama. Do you love them?" I say no and explain that they just make me really sad because they hate people for no reason at all. Will says, "I am going to love them anyway because maybe that will make them better." Maybe, Buddy. Maybe.

Tween Checklist

Tabbi is 10... and she's good at it. She has grasped all the subtle nuances of the pre-teen age. Its like she woke up and realized that she must complete the following on a daily basis:

1. Must freak out because new hair cut didn't lay right. (Be sure to ignore any and all suggestions from parental unit as they clearly have no idea what it is like to have a bad hair day).

2. Must freak out because self-chosen outfit doesn't match and therefore you own NOTHING in your 50,000 item wardrobe worth wearing.

3. Must freak out because two previous freak outs have made you run late and therefore you are forced to take a quick breakfast of a yogurt and cheese stick in the car. (Be sure and make it clear that while you typically enjoy yogurt and cheese sticks, today you hate them more than if parental unit were to suggest eating dog poo and dirt).

4. Must reach quota of 5,000 separate complaints per day, ranging from weather and natural phenomena that no one can possibly do anything about to specific complaints regarding being signed up for volleyball camp even though you previously begged to sign up for volleyball camp.

5. All other conversational periods not filled with either complaints or freak outs must be filled with sullen sulking and/or looks of extreme boredom.

6. Any and all suggestions of cures for boredom or blues must be met with eye roll and shoulder shrugs. No suggestions can be entertained if coming from parental unit.

7. Should you decide to request anything (i.e. food, activity, etc) when the parental unit says it's ok, you must dismiss said activity or food with a shrug, ensuring that said parental unit knows they are not doing you any favors.

8. At least once a day, a request must be completely outlandish and insane (ex. getting a tattoo or shaving the dog), but when parental unit declines the request, World War III-inducing freak out must follow.

9. Reduce all conversation and comments (excluding, of course, freak outs) to the volume of a mumbled whisper so parental unit has to ask "what" thirteen times before understanding what you say. And, reserve the right to get super irritated when parents do not hear you, but lower voice exponentially as your irritation rises so that they definitely can't hear you while you freak out because they aren't listening.

10. Insert drugs and sex into mix to become full fledged teenager.

MASH

Remember that game from elementary school called MASH? It stood for Mansion, Apartment, Shack and House. You listed off things like three guys, three jobs, three cities, and three numbers and count. When your gamer says stop, the number that you've gotten to is the way you eliminate your options until you are left with a fortune that tells your future. I am pretty sure I was going to marry Chuck Mowder (my 4th grade boyfriend), live in a house in Chicago, work as a vet and have 2 kids. Is it just me, or would you kill for such a easy way to tell you what to do with your life? Hmmm... who do I marry? I know... MASH will tell me and then its a done deal.

This comes up because I went out with my girls last night. Homa, Sandra (yes, the one that was my friend, then wasn't my friend is back in the group...yay), Laura, Lori and Homa's sister Zain hit the local neighborhood joint and got into a discussion about Homa's love life. Without getting into details, the gist is that she is with a dude that her family may not approve of. He's not Mr. Perfect (who is???) and they are at the point where its... uh... poop or get off the pot. But, how do you know it's time to poop or time to get off the pot?

We all had our theories. Laura wanted Homa to know that marriage sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks. She's been married for 20 years (happily-ish) and its hard. Hard. Hard. Hard. So you have to have a serious foundation of extreme love in order to make it work. So, her theory was that Homa better be pretty darn sure that love foundation is there because otherwise, when her marriage crumbles around her, they won't be able to pick up the peices. Have I ever told you that Laura is our nicest and typically more upbeat friend? Hmmm. Lori is big on Homa understanding that you can't change your man (not that Lori would ever need to. If anything we sit there and say... poor Jeff. Poor, poor, poor Jeff). Homa's dude is who he is, and you have to accept him as he is today. If he improves himself in the future, great... but if he stays exactly the same as he is today... you have to be ready to spend the rest of your life with that version of your guy. Sandra said to ignore the pressure. She, too, has felt marital pressure before and it is easy to get sucked into doing things that you know in your heart of hearts isn't right... but you feel like you've passed the point of no return. Zain just said no. But, I sit and wonder... how do we know? Plenty of relationships (mine included) look completely nutty to the outside world, but that doesn't mean the two involved don't get it? But then again, how can you see everything you need to see when you are the ones directly involved?

Homa asked me once how I knew Mark was the one. I cannot articulate an answer. I didn't doodle his name in my notebook and I sure didn't get my future from a paper game. But, I just knew (although I question it on a regular basis). How do you pick between a family that you've had forever and a man that you love, but is so new in comparison? Do you take that leap of faith? And if you do, how do you know that Mr. Right wasn't shopping at the sushi counter of your neighborhood grocery store, but you weren't there because you were wedding dress shopping because Mr. Right Now proposed and the possibility of being alone forever outweighed whether or not this guy is right for you? How do you know that just because he is your polar opposite in every way doesn't mean that his opposite traits were meant to strengthen you in the same way your qualities were meant to strengthen him? I guess the question is... how do you know?