Wilbanese

I am pretty sure my kid is a genius. Obviously he comes from brilliant stock (clearly thanks to me), but his intelligence even outdoes my own sometimes. He is a very talented song writer... which means that he will sing a song he knows (Row, Row, Row Your Boat) but to the tune of his electric guitar (When the Saints Go Marching In) which apparently equates to him writing a whole new song. Hello, can we say future Grammy winner? He can also count higher than any other person on the planet (as long as screaming teen, teen, teen louder and louder means that you are still counting). And, most impressively, he has created his own language. Here, bask in the glory of my son's life's work (and by life I mean, today).

MooshyAgain: Michigan (where we are going this weekend for a little trip).

It Sunny Days: What a nice day!

A Digger: Answer to any "what do you want" question. For example: What do you want for lunch? A DIGGER!

Bent Wee: Our dog, Bentley.

Miss-B-Oookie: Our other dog, most often called MissyBellaYuki.

Dog Dog: Hot dog.

Its Good Morning time: Good morning.

I got my dress on: I am dressed (and no, he doesn't really wear dresses... this applies to any and all pieces of clothing he is wearing).

Spider Pie: Any pretend food he pretend gives you when he wakes up from a nap and for some reason hallucinates that his bunk bed is a grocery store that only sells spider pies.

Wanna have sleepover: I have no interest in sleeping in my own bed tonight, so scoot over Dad, I am coming in.

Wanna make with me: Can I help you cook dinner?

My tummy says rumble, rumble: I am hungry.

Tab-Ah: Tabbi, I am sick of calling your name and this time I mean it.

NNNNNOOOOOOOOOO: Response to anything that he has not decided to do on his own, as in going pee pee in the potty, taking a nap, going to bed, picking up toys, stop banging on the computer, stop hitting his brother, stop climbing into the fridge, stop dumping food out of the pantry, etc.

This concludes the first lesson on Wilbanese. The next lesson will cover such things as "Read me story: Tell me a story and make it good or I will make you do it 100 times" and "Squitoes: Any bug that comes anywhere near him and may or may not bite him with uber poisonous, radioactive toxins."

ER - Not the Series, but the Life Experience

So, Saturday night Mark and I spent some time at the Emergency Room with Fat Jack. I will just start off by saying that while this ER was extremely nice, there was no John Stamos or George Clooney in the bunch. I am pretty sure that medical dramas are ruining hospitals’ images because the world’s hottest men don’t really work there. No offense to Dr. S, our ER guy. He was moderately attractive, but no McSteamy, ok. He’d be more like McBuffy or something, because he had some muscles under that scrub shirt. In fact, he may be a pro wrestler on his off nights. But, I digress… this story isn’t really about our ER doc.

Jack had some sort of shaking incident on Saturday night. (This is not to be confused with Bentley’s shaky head incidents of the past caused by eating cat or goose poop. I am pretty sure Jack didn’t consume poop of any kind). I was holding Jack and suddenly his whole body started convulsing in these big violent movements. His eyelids parted and you could see his eyes had rolled back in his head. He wouldn’t hold his head up on his own and his tongue stuck out like it was too big for his mouth. It lasted about a minute, maybe a minute and a half, and then he was just as suddenly back asleep. Scared the crap out of me (figuratively, of course. Although, I did have to go number two before we went to the ER, so maybe it is literal).

All we know now is that they think that it was just a physical response to his sleep, like a nightmare or something. The doctor (McBuffy) said that a true seizure wouldn’t end like that, so we are in the clear (most likely). But, we are to go to the pediatrician tomorrow so they can determine if we need to run any tests.

But here is the moral of my story. I learned that nothing in the world is more frightening than having a child. I didn’t know that until then. It was my first trip to the ER with my baby. And when you are at the ER, it doesn’t matter if you’re with an infant or a 29 year old kid… it is still your baby. Jack (who is a baby anyway) was so small there. And he ain’t small. But the fears that run through your head… the what ifs… make him infinitely smaller and weaker than he was before the shaking started. While we sat there (a relatively short time in ER world), I wondered about the other people with their kids. Are they coming here for help, only to find out bad news? Were we? Was a normal day going to turn out to be the day we found out Jack had cancer, head trauma, disease, illness, insert every parent’s nightmare here. Is this the worst day of our lives? Or… is it for the parent in the next cubicle over? We were all total strangers unified in our panic over these little creatures that we choose to have, not knowing that the peaceful existence that we had carved out for ourselves is permanently over. Each parent in that hospital was interchangeable… each one praying silent prayers that they wouldn’t be the one that got the bad news that night.

In our case, we got the news we wanted. Nothing was wrong and we were the panicky parents that came to the ER for no reason. Thank you, God, I’ll take that title any day.

My Cousin's Infinite Wisdom

So, you may have noticed that I was pretty grouchy this week. I was not thrilled with life in general and had no real reason why. Nothing major happened this week... no one (that I know) lost their job, got sick, died, etc... but I still was in a funk of major proportion. Then, my cousin Heidi responded (via Facebook... its not a hallucination, I swear) and said the most accurate thing I have ever heard. "...someone will ALWAYS be skinner, prettier, have more, be funnier, be more organized, be more productive!! It is just the way life goes."

That statement has been hanging around in my brain since I read it, and you know what... that is so true. I could sit here and compare myself to my friends, relatives, neighbors, other bloggers, and people I don't even know and you know what... in some category or another I will always fall short. I don't have the great job that Homa has and I don't have the great pool that Lori and Jo have and I don't have the fantastic baby chicks that Laura has. I am not an uber popular blogger like Moosh in Indy or the other bloggers that I follow. But, there are people that have less than me, too. Moosh in Indy's writer is desperate to have another child but struggling, and in that realm, she could envy me. I got pregnant with Jack when I was ON BIRTH CONTROL. There is no doubt that I could have a gaggle if I wanted to. (How many is that, so I know if I get there?) But, her blog will always be better than mine.

So, I sat there and wrote out all the things that I fall short on, but I bet there are things that I am good at, too. I would guess I am better at some stuff than other people are (and when I come up with something, I will let you know). So, a little perspective and suddenly life seems a whole lot easier. Or, I could follow her other gem of wisdom, "surround yourselves with losers to make yourself feel better." Actually, that might be the better plan after all!!!!

Picking Up Chicks with Will

So, yesterday I spent the afternoon picking up chicks with my son. Is that wrong? Well, if you and your non-chick owning friends are producing city kids... it might be. Take a look.

I believe Will and the chick both have the exact same thought going through their minds... "WHAT THE HECK IS THAT THING????" (And yes, that barnyard animal is standing on my kitchen table. Is that wrong?)

Then it became some sort of ET-esque moment that works much better when the other creature has a finger to point back to you . (And ignore the hair and dirty finger, please. Its just the polite thing to do).

At least my kid didn't use a baby chick to fulfill some sort of pirate fantasy!

Don't be too impressed... just because it has feathers like a parrot and will sit on a shoulder like a parrot, doesn't mean this chick talked like a parrot. If it did, it would be screaming "GET ME OFF THIS SHOULDER OR WE'RE GOING TO HAVE A CHICKEN DOWN SITUATION!!!!"

In the end, Will and the chickens became fast friends. Insert "awwwws" here.

And, in case the Will + Chick = Love picture didn't get enough awwws, let's just throw a picture of fat Jack in there for good measure.

No chicks were involved with this picture, or baby Jack in general in fear that he would eat them. And not in a "toddlers put everything in their mouth" kinda way, but in a "look at the size of this kid... he could eat a horse, let alone a walking chicken nugget" kinda way.

Is it just me or do you have the overwhelming need to sigh and say "Awwwwwwww?"

Grouchy, party of one...

I am not in a good mood today. I went to sleep fine. Woke up at midnight crabby. Woke up at 1:48a crabbier. Woke up at 5:56a crabbiest. Woke up at 6:15a crabbiest-er. I guess you get the point. I don't know if its PMS or L-I-F-E, but I am just not feeling it today. I have no reason to feel so crap-a-rific. I read other blogs. I know other people have way more challenges than I do, but today, I don't care. I am in the dumps and even a cuddle from Will hasn't pulled me out yet. So, I am doing a top 10 things that make me crabby today.

1. I am wearing my least favorite jamas (still and its 9:41a). The shirt is not as baggy/comfy as I would like (clearly it has shrunk... it can't be that I have grown) and the glaring florescent pink color is just about enough to make me puke.

2. Seriously, Will. I realize that I told you last Friday that Laura is coming on Wednesday and bringing her baby chicks (they aren't hers biologically, FYI, just from her hens). I know that was a mistake to tell a toddler that something is happening in the future...but come on. It is possible to go 30 seconds without asking "Is Waura coming over?" NOT UNTIL TOMORROW!!!!

3. Jack... king of poop. I know that poopy diaper is worse on you than it is on me... but let's try and go an hour without one? Ok? I have gotten to the point that all I smell is poop. 24/7. Baby poop. (And for the record, I am spellchecking this at 9:59a and you are poopy... AGAIN!!!)

4. MissyBellaYuki. You're a lovely dog. Calm. Independent. Loving. But, my God in Heaven. THAT HAIR! I cannot stand how my chocolate brown couch is turned to white chocolate every morning! I keep thinking you'll be bald soon, but the hair just keeps coming out!

5. Airtron. Really? You can't narrow down my service call by just a little? It really takes you a five hour window to show up? How 'bout this? I will pay your bill sometime between today and five months from now. You just wait on me, ok?

6. Tabbi. That is all I am going to say about that one. When I think about yesterday's debacle, the four letter words spring up a little too freely, and this is a family blog. Ok, I wouldn't really let children read it, but I still will just move on to number 7.

7. My fridge is packed. My pantry is packed. My stand up freezer in the garage is packed. But... I have nothing to eat. Yes... I am an adult version of that kid. Pounds of food and nothing to eat.

8. Mirrors are my nemesis. I look in them and want to do a jack knife into an empty pool. Ugh! Did I say pool, because my neighbor opens hers soon and that means swimsuits and I look like a beached whale. A gray one, because my hair dye that I bought about a month ago is still on the top of the fridge instead of in my hair covering my premature gray that used to be a streak and is now more giant chunk than streak. See numbers two through six for explanation on how that happened!!! And did I mention that I am fat? Yeah, I tend to forget too, until I look in those damn mirrors.

9. Facebook. I need to stop. I check it. All. The. Time. I get sad when I have no new friends, comments or messages... like someone's Facebook page is the barometer of their self worth. I have 55 friends on Facebook. That is probably 50 more than I have in the real world, but some of my friends have like hundreds of friends. So clearly, I am a Facebook loser. Then, I read on my opening page what my friends are saying to other friends and that opens a whole new can of worms. Why are they doing something without me? Why are their "what I'm doing nows" always funnier than mine? Why is Facebook an extension of high school and I am the kid with lipstick on her teeth, standing in the corner picking my nose and wondering why the popular kids won't hang with me.

10. I have a case of the "I wants" and I can't seem to get over it. I want a patio out back that is bigger than a bread box. I want a new computer. I want to be a popular blogger like some that I read. I want a vacation (but I hate to travel, go figure). I want to go take a shower. I want to paint my house. I want new furniture. I want a bigger house. I want new shoes. I want a summer wardrobe that fits, makes me look thinner, and I don't want to go shopping to get it. I want Will to just do what he's told. I want Tabbi to do what she's told. I want the economic crisis to be over so we don't have to worry about people losing jobs and insurance and homes. I want my minivan to fit in the garage and I don't want to have to clean the garage to do it. And my guess is that the only thing on this list that I will get is the shower. And even that is iffy!

How do you know you know?

I read a fair amount and sometimes an article descends from the publication Gods right when I need it most. If Will has ear infections, by some miracle Family Circle will magi-pear an article all about kids and ear infections. When Tabbi and Mark were going to Six Flags, Good Housekeeping had a divinely inspired article about theme park safety. This time the article was "Should We Have One More" in Parents magazine. And, it has come right at the time Mark and I are having this same debate. And by Mark and I, I mean me talking at Mark while he plugs his ears and hums loudly.

I don't know if its biological or emotional, but recently I have been feeling the desire to have one more kid (and by have one more I mean get pregnant in two years and guarantee that its a girl). I know, everyone who knows me is like "WHOA? DO YOU NOT READ YOUR BLOG?!?!?!" but mental breakdowns aside, I feel the yearning for a little girl. I have my beautiful (and by beautiful I mean bouncing off the walls) boys, but I see little girls on TV and little girl clothes and hear about little girl activities and I want that. And, I have Tabbi, but its just not the same. (Insert snide comment about how that is my fault here.) I didn't have her at birth and she doesn't do the little girly activities that I long for. Plus, we just don't get along most of the time. And I can't help but feel like inheriting her (which was mostly my idea and I still know was the right thing to do) has taken my option of one more out of the equation without my permission. So, as far as I can tell, my options are to try for a little girl or completely confuse one of my boys by forcing them into a gender identity crisis. I want my little baby girl and a room that looks like the Pepto Bismol plant exploded in it.

Then I think to the newborn phase. I hate being up all night. I hate feedings and inconsolable crying. And I think about my current life and how most days I am barely hanging onto sanity by a thread and oh my God, how could I handle another one? But, pink sometimes beats out sleeplessness. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I yearn for the time in life when the kids are more independent. Will is going to start preschool in the fall, which means Jack isn't really that far behind. And when both boys are in school, I can decide what I want to be when I grow up (as if there is more to life than spit up and blogging). I could have a career again, and high heel shoes. Sometimes the idea of an adult life wins out. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the idea of a little Olivia Eleanor or Katheryn Lily does.

So, I read this article devouring the words, waiting for the epiphany at the end to tell me if I really want another or not. Let me share with you the gem of wisdom this article had for me. "How do you know? You know. " Wha huh? You just know? What a load of crap? What if you know this minute while I am typing contentedly on the computer, but then you know something else a minute later when Jack is screaming his fool head off because he doesn't want a nap and Will is shrieking like a mad man because he tripped over Big Red, his stupid, always under foot truck. Then the article said this profound comment "If you don't know... well... that means you're not done." Really? Is this the logic that got Octomom where she is? If you think about having a kid, you better get knocked up ASAP before you use the sense God gave you and decide that is not the best idea.

So, I read my divinely sent article, and I am still lost. The good news is that I don't have to decide today. Mirena commercials say that I can have it removed at any time and still pop out those little poopers. The other thing to consider is that reading this blog entry will undoubtedly give Mark a stroke, which means that I can't have another kid because I am going to run through his life insurance way too quickly as it is... I'd never be able to afford another one.

Report to Child Protective Services

There is a brother and sister that I am really concerned about. They seem to have almost no parental supervision whatsoever. In fact, I've been watching them for months and have never seen their parents at all. I am unsure of their ages, but I know the sister, who is clearly older, mentioned a seven and a half year old in her class as being very mature, so I assume she is around 7ish. Her brother must be a year or so younger, maybe more. They look healthy and well kempt, but I am not sure the parents worry enough about their personal safety... if they worry at all... since they are never there. Even on the little boy's birthday, they weren't present.

The older sister takes on the lion's share of raising her brother. I have seen them board a bus and go to the mall to buy the little boy clothes. I have seen her bathe him, put him to bed, make him lunch, and clean his room. Seven is way too young to have to care for her brother in that manner. And the brother once went in to town with his little red wagon several times completely alone. He went to the grocery store under his sister's instructions, and did seem capable of getting the items requested and he did report straight home... but come on. Going to a store alone at what must be 6 years old? Just not right.

Occasionally their grandmother stops by, but even that is weird. They seem to work for her, almost. They serve her tea, they put on shows for her. There has to be some sort of child labor law violation here. The grandmother does bring them treats once in awhile, but still. They typically have to provide things for her.

Several of you must know these kids as well, so I just wanted to voice my concern and see if anyone else shares it. If you see them around, keep an eye out. Its pretty clear the parents aren't.

Breaking Up is Hard To Do

Music by Neil Sedaka
Lyrics by Bristol Palin

Don’t take your ring away from me
Mommy said we have to marry
If you go then I’m in doo doo
'Cause telling her no is hard to do!

Remember when we made love

And you said you didn’t need a glove

Think of all that we coulda skipped

Like namin’ our poor baby Tripp

Mommy said that we’ll be hitched

But the country vetoed the witch

So now you've got the balls to say no

But like the mob, when you're in we never let you go!

I dare you, just try to run

Mama’s governor and she’s got a gun.

Come on Levi, you know you’re trapped

'Cause breaking up with me is crap!

In Memory of Brian O'Neill

I don't know the man that died on March 17th, but I feel like I do. I have read about Angie and Brian for some time now and the honesty with which Angie writes is heartbreakingly beautiful. Brian struggled with cancer for 11 years and lost the battle yesterday. Please visit Angie's blog Keep Believing for a beautiful and unbelievably inspirational account of their struggle at http://aboneill.blogspot.com/2009/03/1245-am-on-march-17-2009-brian-oneill.html.

In honor of him and his family, I am not going to post the silly post I had planned for today. I am, instead, going to be silent in honor of the O'Neill family, who I don't know at all, but touched my heart.

Is that the best you've got????

I am not sure if you know this or not, but a lot of the time men seem to think women are less intelligent. I know!!! Shocking, right? They assume that we flit around with our hair and worry about belts matching purses matching car interior and that there isn't room in our teeny tiny little minds for anything of any significance. Now, we know they are wrong. We know that women have the ability and the intelligence to ponder world events, but for some reason those folks with the third legs seem to think the only thoughts running through our minds is "do these jeans make me look fat?" Why do they think that this is the only worry in our wee little brains? I will tell you, because giant morons like Anne Coulter and Laura Ingraham feel the need to throw weight, age and looks into political discussion and solidify that women are somehow less intelligent than men. Bravo, ladies. Let's take away the right to vote and mandate barefoot pregnancy in the kitchen from now on, while you're at it. Am I wrong or did I miss the part where Barack Obama said McCain couldn't be president because his thighs were too large. And I am pretty sure no one sat there and said "well I may be liberal, but I am still cuter!"

So, why is it that we women always reduce our discussions and disagreements to the looks factor? Anne Coulter (who I am pretty sure is Satan's love slave) said that she loved going on The View because she never felt younger or prettier than when she was surrounded by those ladies. Well, Anne... its too bad you couldn't say that you never felt more firm in your political beliefs or more sure of your strategic plans for the country. Couldn't you say something like debating the democrats on The View made you feel smart, correct and confident in your opinions. No, apparently you are incapable of debating politics and winning the argument, so let's take a slam at their ages and looks. And seriously Anne, if you are going to go there.... I don't think so.

Anne:

Cuter Version:

And Laura Ingraham... I am sorry, who are you? Apparently you are such a force to be reckoned with in the political world that you're disagreements with Meghan McCain amounted to "na na na na boo boo" as a comeback. Laura's remark was something along the lines of why should we listen to a woman who could be a plus size model on America's Top Model? I don't know? Why not? Meghan McCain and I don't share political views and if I were to discuss my disagreements, I am pretty sure I wouldn't resort to "Oh yeah? You're republican... well, I say you're fat." And no one pays to listen to my rantings on the radio. Shouldn't we expect a little more from this person who speaks to maybe 10s of people (who clearly aren't very discerning or just happen to be sitting too far away from the dial to turn her off) during her show? Talk about what you disagree with and why, Genius. Are we women really that pathetic that when we disagree the only thing we can do is call each other out on looks?

I sit here and wonder if and when a woman really could be elected president. It won't happen any time soon if we are going to perpetuate the stereotypes that women only care about looks. Let's go ahead and pretend, just for a little while, that two women could disagree and not have to throw poundage into it. Let's act like we could talk about our ideas and their flaws without throwing in arguments about who is uglier. Let's for once in our lives band together and fight the real way... like a man! And before you comment and disagree with me, let me just say this... I am fat and I bet you are cuter than I am. So ha! Took your comments away from you, huh???

Dear Bob Evans Staff:

I think I owe you, Mr. Evans, and your staff an apology for last night. I am a huge fan of yours, and really enjoy my trips down on the farm. I hope that last night's actions in no way jeopardizes my ability to return to your country goodness in the future, though I realize we will probably both have to let some time pass before that happens. Please know that while I may IHOP until then, I will be thinking of you and wishing that I could be in your pancakes instead.

Please know that there was no malice behind our trip to your establishment last night. After Tabbi's big basketball win, I thought we could all use some dessert, and quite honestly, dessert restaurants are at a minimum around here. So, pie it was. I realized that you closed within 45 minutes of our arrival and you were mostly cleaned up by the time we got there, but I truly felt that we would be quick and easy. Pie is basically defined as quick and easy, right? We're not talking chocolate souffles or anything.

It went well, at first. We sat, we chatted. Table for 6 plus a highchair. Nothing difficult. Pies were ordered (cobbler for me) and we had some wholesome family fun waiting for our food to arrive. Who knew that the demons from hell were about to be unleashed? When the food was placed on our decorative paper place mats, I thought "life couldn't be better than smiley face sundaes and lemon pie." Then, Will leaned over and puked his entire lifetime's worth of food onto the table. Yep, that was fruit cocktail. We had it for lunch. Then he reared back and hit his sundae and lap with go number two. By the third lurch, I was ready and caught the majority in my hands, but then... where do you go from there if not into your virtually untouched cobbler bowl? Suffice it to say, it looked much more appetizing prior to Will's addition.

I took him into the bathroom at that point, and while it may look like round four happened there, that really was just the drippings from our clothing from rounds one through three. I tried to wipe it with a paper towel, but that was just an exercise in futility. That floor was freshly mopped right before we walked in, huh? Check out my post on Murphy's Laws sucking from earlier in the week. I feel your pain.

So, Bob and staff, I guess we left our mark. (Not my husband Mark... Will's puke as a mark). And, I think I better give a shout out to those other customers. I apologize if my son's stomach pyrotechnics somehow adversely affected your appetites. It didn't do a ton for ours either. Well, I guess that is it. Now, can we get our desserts to go? Preferably a fresh one?

Thanks!
Lynn

Tips for Successful Job Interviews

I've been reading a lot of blogs and articles about people having to rejoin the workforce and/or find new jobs in this crap ass economy (I believe crap ass is the technical term for recession). I spent my career (before I chucked it for a much harder and less appreciated job of MOM) in the Human Resources field, specifically on the employment end... so I feel I have something to offer these folks in terms of advice for a successful job interview. After interviewing countless folks over the years, I have perfected the art of the interview. I've never interviewed for a job I wasn't offered, and its not because I am some stellar human being (you read my blog, you know that), its because I can fake it. So, in the interest of spreading the wealth... here are some key things to avoid when sitting down for a job interview.

1. If the person sitting at the table looks significantly younger than you, go ahead and assume its the person you are interviewing with. Let's just set the scene so you understand where I am going. Say you are a highly qualified manufacturing plant manager. You are going in for a job interview and at the conference table is a burly, bearded 50 year old male, and a perky, well dressed (ah... the good old days) young woman. Best not to say "Oh, is it take your daughter to work day?" That's going to offend the young woman, who graduated college and worked hard to get to that level so young... and its probably going to offend Mr. Bearded Guy too. Let's face it, he doesn't want to be reminded that he could be his coworker's daddy. Plus, what you might not know is that the young girl liked to remind Mr. Bearded Guy that the year he started working for that organization was the year she was born. He just doesn't want to hear it from you, too.

2. If your brother shot your daddy the day before, go ahead and call to reschedule. Again, let's just say, hypothetically, you really want this job, but you had a personal issue the day before. Typically, I would say buck up and go to the interview. Go ahead and put on a strong face and to quote Tim Gunn, "make it work." But, if you had a family tragedy as big as your brother shooting your father with a shot gun and you are borderline hysterical still... go ahead and pick up that phone and cancel. Your interviewer will understand. What she won't understand is the attempt to go over your culinary training through your blubbering and wailing over your dead father and soon to be imprisoned (once the manhunt is over) brother.

3. Lastly, if you realize that your interviewer might be having an off day, why don't you just pretend not to notice. Just for kicks, let's say that you are interviewing for a manufacturing job and the Plant Manager, Production Supervisor and the HR Employment and Benefits Supervisor are in the room, and its the last interview of the day (after what felt like 5,000) and things have just gotten a little slap happy... just ignore it. Like if the Plant Manager says he is going to give a brief introduction to the operation and it lasts 45 minutes of the hour block of time you've been scheduled for... just let it go. Don't point it out and say "is this an interview or a speech?" And then, when he finally finishes and the HR lady opens her Diet Coke bottle to take a drink before she starts speaking and it explodes everywhere and then she dissolves into fits of giggles because she sprayed the whole room down fireman style (including you), just shake it off and say its ok. Don't ask where you can send your dry cleaning bill. We both know you don't dry clean that polo and jeans combo you wore to the interview. And when you're leaving after we all know you aren't getting the job and quite possibly the three interviewers are losing theirs, don't say "well, this was a waste of time." Trust me, it was way worse for us.

4. This is just a specific tip if you are looking for a job in one the of the fine correctional institutions in this country. Don't walk out onto the yard during your tour when you are surrounded by 100 inmates and ask at the top of your lungs "now, none of these men are violent criminals, right?" You just aren't going to be able to hear the answer through the guffaws coming from the murderers, abusers, and assaulters in the crowd.

5. Lastly, another quick tidbit. When coming into the interview, don't ask "now you don't drug test, right?" when you sit down. Chances are, you're going to be excused right then and there.

Hopefully if any of my readers are looking for jobs now or in the near future, these little tidbits will help!

Oh My Darling, Jason Mesnick!

(Sung to the tune of Oh My Darling, Clementine)

In New Zealand, in a mansion,

Enjoyin’ newfound fame

Dwelt a cryin’ single daddy,

A playin’ his lovin’ game

Oh my darling, oh my darling,

Oh my darling, Bachelor!

Thou art hated by Amer’ca

Dreadful sorry, Bachelor!

She was perky, a cheerleader,

And she made out mighty fine,

Locking lips and playin’ mommy

Melissa seemed to really shine.

Oh my darling, oh my darling,

Oh my darling, Bachelor!

Thou art hated by Amer’ca

Dreadful sorry, Bachelor!

Put a diamond on her finger

Lots of carats… what a find!

But the love sure didn’t last long,

Cuz that Bachelor changed his mind.

Oh my darling, oh my darling,

Oh my darling, Bachelor!

Thou art hated by Amer’ca

Dreadful sorry, Bachelor!

That Jason’s mighty fickle,

An’ decided Molly’s the one,

So he went on TV again,

And told Mel that they were done.

Oh my darling, oh my darling,

Oh my darling, Bachelor!

Thou art hated by Amer’ca

Dreadful sorry, Bachelor!

Now we’re watchin’ and we’re waitin’

To see who you pick out next,

Cuz we’re pretty sure you’re a loser,

And you’re really out for sex.

Oh my darling, oh my darling,

Oh my darling, Bachelor!

Thou art hated by Amer’ca

Dreadful sorry, Bachelor!

Murphy, about those laws...

Dear Murphy,

I am writing to you to let you know that I think your laws suck. I am not sure how you came to be in charge, but I am pretty sure you don't deserve it. You’re no Charles, now are you? But seriously…I don’t remember voting for you. I’ve never heard about the vetting process that put you in power. Have you paid all of your taxes? Really, who appointed your butt???

Specifically, I have the following complaints:

1. When I sweep the floors, it is really necessary for my dogs to track in mud??? I don’t mean ever… obviously floors get dirty. But the second I put the dust pan away, in comes MissyBellaYuki with those HUGE feet and all that black mud. Really? Does it have to be that soon???

2. Maybe just one time, if Jack sleeps unexpectedly late, could Will possibly do the same? I am not sure why one has to wake up at the butt crack of dawn EVERY DAY! Or worse, they both (by the grace of God) sleep in, but I have to be somewhere, so I have to get up and shower instead of bask in the glory of 6 hours of sleep instead of 4.5.

3. This is a big one, Murph. Can I call ya, Murph? Anyway… I never walk around naked. I am a no naked kind of gal. I even leave the room to change clothes when Mark is around. And, unfortunately for him, we have two kids, so I am pretty sure he’s seen it before. But, I am a modest chick. So, why… the one time I run downstairs sans pants (thanks Jack for crying right at that moment.. clearly you and Murphy are conspiring against me) is the one time Mr. TruGreen ChemLawn Hose Jockey is standing right at my front door? I am pretty sure he thinks I am the rudest person on Earth, because I think my cellulite dimpled lily white butt was hidden by the decorative glass (writing thank you note to house builder for putting that door in next), but I know he saw me standing there, so he must still be wondering (hours later) why I didn’t answer the door when he rang the bell, and knocked, and rang the bell, and knocked one more time.

In light of this and all other laws that you have inflicted upon us (please see Alanis Morissette’s Ironic for a full listing), please make like a Hell’s Kitchen chef and piss off.

Sincerely,
Me

WWYD?

Saturday night, a friend asked if I would get involved if I knew someone in the Rihanna/Chris Brown scenario. My first thought is, duh? Do you not know me by now? I get involved in just about any scenario. What? You're fighting about who should do the dishes? Let me tell you the my opinion. What? You need to know how to raise your kids? I have all the Super Nanny infused knowledge to lead you down the right path. Just take me with you when you go! What? You need a letter written to your orthodontist threatening to sue? I am on it! I may not be able to see clearly in my own life, but by God I have the insight and the 20/20 vision on everyone else's!!! I am nothing if not involved, so don't get me started on the Chris Brown/Rihanna thing. I got 'er covered!

The situation between Chris and Rihanna is so totally vague that I hate to even speculate (yeah right, I love me some speculation) on what happened. I would guess that they both got violent, and if I had a friend in that situation, I would make it pretty clear that is unacceptable. If you are a chick and you're with a dude that makes you mad enough to abandon all communication skills and resort to violence... the dude ain't your Mister Right. Likewise, if your dude lays a hand on you, provoked or not... dude ain't the man for you. This seems pretty cut and dry to me. There is such a thing as a "deal breaker" in my world, and violence on either person's part has to be it. And if I found out that any of my friends, male or female, was resorting to violence and/or the victim of it... I would get involved.

After our conversation, it got me wondering. What would you do? Am I rare in the fact that I would be involved? I wouldn't head in guns blazing and invite the batterer to take a swing at me... I have three kids to take care of. God knows I can't damn them to a life of delivery pizza and video games if Mark was a widowed dad. But, I would certainly pull up to the curb at 4am, to drive my friend away while the a**hole slept. And, until my friend was ready for that, I would be that bug in your ear every single day until you left saying, "You're too good for this. Don't stay. Go! Go! Go!" I am not sure I would sound as cheerleadery as that looks when typed out, but I'd risk it and say it anyway. So, I pose this question to the masses.... if you had a friend in that situation, would you get involved? Or would you wait til they figured it out themselves?

And while we are on the topic of violence, let me just throw this out there. There is a new blog called Violence Unsilenced at http://violenceunsilenced.com/. This is a forum for victims of domestic violence or other abuse to get their stories out. Victim or not, any reader will be touched by the bravery of these women and applaud the strength that it took to say "I will not be a victim anymore." Just last week a woman posted that she is living with an abusive boyfriend and was trying to get out. Total strangers offered either a place to say, financial assistance, loving support and it is that community-wide action that will make women feel empowered to leave. I highly recommend visiting this site, if for no other reason than just to say that the violence that one in four women suffers should not go silent anymore! We, as a people, are mad as hell and we're not going to take it anymore! See, told you I'd get involved!!!

The R Word *Updated*

I say a horrible word, and I say it all the time. I don't even mean it in the way that is offensive... but it still is and I am totally ashamed when it leaves my lips. I am admitting it here. I say the word retard. My excuse, though totally invalid, is that I don't even associate that word with people with developmental issues. I don't think of special needs people when I say it... I think of complete idiots. But, the world associates that word with special needs folks, and when I associate it with complete idiots... even if I am not meaning them... I dishonor them. I can see that now.

The amazing thing is that I NEVER use other slanderous and hurtful words. I would never utter the "n" word, or any other racial slur. Even when I am quoting someone, I don't use it. It makes me feel dirty, wrong and ashamed. I never call people a homo or a queer. I don't say something is gay, and mean that in a negative light. Gay isn't an insult and it shouldn't be used as one. I use the word queer, but only as its true definition... weird. And I don't consider that to be an insult because I would never call a homosexual queer. But, I call Mark a retard when he does something stupid. And we all know associating a whole group with Mark is just unfair. Ok, I take that back. This isn't a blog post to be funny, its very serious to me. I have been wrong and I can see that now.

John C. McGinley, Dr. Cox from Scrubs, has a son that has Down Syndrome. He appeared on The Bonnie Hunt Show on Monday and spoke about a group of special needs kids that went after Bill O'Reilly for calling someone a retard on his show. O'Reilly issued an apology and vowed to never use that word again. If he can do it, so SHOULD I. I can see that now.

The National Down Syndrome Society (ndss.org) is now working toward eradicating the use of that word, and I am declaring here and now that I am on board. This blog now represents the last time I will use that word. If I slip, point it out, because I will never again disrespect the special needs community and their families by casually tossing around a word that can cause so much pain. This is my apology to that community, and my attempt to spread the word that the R word is not ok. I can see that now, and I hope that you can too.

After rereading this post, I wanted to make specific apologies to two people. Number one is my dear friend Jounice. Jounice has two beautiful twin boys that have special needs, and she's been my friend for years. I can only imagine what she thinks when I use this word in her presence. I have never meant the word as a slam against her wonderful boys, but I am quite sure it hurt nonetheless, and made me a little bit smaller in her eyes every time I used it. For that I am sorry. And, to a reader Karen, who blogs at The Rocking Pony http://therockingpony.blogspot.com/. I read her blog daily, and gobble up the stories of her family, including her son Micah, who in her words is her "gift of Down syndrome." He is a gorgeous boy and I feel so bad that I use a word that he could hear some day and feel hurt by. I don't know him or Karen and more than likely will never meet, but I am sorry for disrespecting Micah when I've used this word. Intentionally or not, it is still disrespectful and a general apology to the world was not enough.

I am a bad parent

So, serious question for the mamas (and maybe papas, but only if they stay home with their children for extended periods… otherwise keep the hell out). Is it normal to want to lock yourself in your bedroom and hide from your children? And I don’t mean in a “count and come find me” sort of way, but in a “if I am really quiet, eventually they will just go away and hopefully not juggle steak knives while I sit here in the fetal position and cry” sort of way. Is that something all of the SAHMs (stay at home moms) go through or is it just me?

Hello?

Is this thing on?

I had a day yesterday. And I know, we all have days every day, but I am talking about a day. A DAY, PEOPLE!!! I was up at 7:15, which was late in the scheme of things for me (not as late as I want to sleep, but later than I typically get to), but at 7:45 the Tabbi started. When the Tabbi went to school, the Will took over. And when they say “when there’s a will, there’s a way” I think they meant to say “when there’s a Will, there’s a way to drive you absolutely freakin’ batty.” Love him, mean it… but really. REALLY! His fanny hit the naughty step about 9 times today. Nine times. I said no… he said yes. I said sit down, he stood up. I said don’t shut yourself in the fridge; he said… well, it was muffled by the closed door.

Sometimes, I sit here on days like this and wonder what I am doing wrong. Actually, I don’t wonder. I know. Everything. EVERYTHING! I can’t potty train him… I can’t school and human being train Tabbi. Really… I can’t do any of it. I want to go to bed and wake up when they’re both adults. And don’t even get me started on Jack. The update is that he has stopped crying… but he won’t nap in his crib and he is basically this adorably fat little blank slate that I will undoubtedly turn into the disaster that is the other two. Am I alone in this feeling or can I get an amen? Do we all have days when we sit here and wonder why we had kids and what we are going to do to make sure they aren’t mega failures? Am I destined to be that parent on Super Nanny that the world collectively tsks because she has totally screwed up her kids? Or, am I being too hard on myself (yes, please) because having kids is rough and we all have “those days?”

What kind of....

Monday night, my friend Homa came over for a visit. I had some errands to run, so she and I hopped in the car and brought Will along for a good time. I ran into CVS while Homa and Will waited in the car. Below is a reproduction of the conversation that took place. Bare in mind, I wasn't there and don't have the car bugged, so this is a loose recreation based on Homa's reiteration upon my return to the car.

Will: What is this, Homa? (Holding travel coffee mug).

Homa: Its a coffee cup.

Will: What kind coffee cup?

Homa: A travel coffee cup.

Will: What kind of travel coffee cup?

Homa: The kind that holds coffee.

Will: What kind coffee?

Homa: Hazelnut.

Will: What kind of hazelnut?

And with that, a toddler had the power to silence yet another biological clock.

Dear Jason

Dear Jason,

I am writing because I love you. You have made me the happiest person on the planet and I really think that we are meant to be together forever. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

Love,

Lynn

Dear Jason,

Turns out... that didn't work as well as I'd hoped. I really like you...and I loved you when I wrote that message above, but things change. Its been 13 minutes (I had to go get Will out of bed and that took awhile) and during that time things just changed. I think I am going to go ahead and check out that first runner up. You know the drill... if you cannot fulfill your duties then the runner up shall take your place. Hand over the tiara (or diamond ring in this case) because its go time. Thanks anyway!

Sorry!

Lynn

Dear Jason,

I know this is Lynn's blog, but I hijacked it so I could write to you. I know I chose Jessie, but he cheated on me and so now I know that I picked the wrong person. If he hadn't cheated, I am pretty sure he and I would still be together and I wouldn't be writing you right now... but that doesn't matter. The point is... I am willing to take you as my runner up. That counts, right?

Love,

DeAnna

Dear Jason,

If DeAnna can do it, so can I. Betcha didn't know so many famous people read this blog?!?!?! Anyways, I am writing because I watched the Oscars back on Tivo... and I didn't look so hot. I mean, I looked hot. I always look hot... but you're divorced. You, like, know the pressure I am under to look good when the ex is around... and don't get me started on looking good in front of Brad when he has Angelina on his arm! And I took John Mayer? He dumps me on a regular basis and didn't even bother to wash his hair that day. There's no way I came out looking like I've got it all together with him as my date. So, if you don't mind... let's go ahead and let you take John's place. I know you can't sing (neither can he, really) but come on... you look almost as good as Brad, right? Right??? Ok, hold on a bit. Lemme see what Hugh Jackman's up to and I will let you know!

Love,

Jennifer

Dear Jason,

I am following in DeAnna and Jennifer's footsteps a little bit. Since this seems to be a forum to ask for second chances, I thought I better follow suit. I like to call myself a maverick, so following people might not be my first choice, but if Lynn can change her mind and DeAnna can change hers and Jennifer can flip flop hers (and just look at what you did to Melissa on national television last night), I guess its my turn. Remember how I picked that lady Sarah Palin for my running mate? (You think you screwed up with Melissa... don't get me started on this one!!!) I'd like a re-do, Bachelor style. Give me my rose back, Sarah! I think you should be my man, Jason. Let's face it... after what you did to an innocent former cheerleader/wannabe elementary school teacher last night, you can take on the Axis of Evil no problem! If you don't mind the whole runner up/hindsight being 20/20 thing... let's get together! I think you are the right choice for my campaign. But if not, we'll just break up at the follow-up show!

Love,

John McCain

PS... America? You, out there? I know you elected Mr. Obama... but if I could just get a second chance with you, too? It Runner Up day, after all! Gimme a call! Seriously... call me! Really!

Minivan Cometh

Ok, so I am getting a minivan and it makes me a little bit nauseous to admit, but with a family of five humans and two fur people... there is really no choice. I have resigned myself to this fact... now all I have to do is prepare. Here is my top 10 things to do to get ready for my minivan.

1. Purchase Celine Dion and Marie Osmond's greatest hits CDs.

2. Start DVRing the reruns of Touched By An Angel on the Hallmark channel.
3. Trade in my choppy layers for the standard mom bob.
4. Make weekly dinner menus comprised of meatloaf, Salisbury steak and other meat and potatoes combinations.
5. Practice taking the phone off the hook at noon so I can "watch my stories."

6. Get the words "sweetie," "darling" and "honey" incorporated into my vocabulary (and direct them toward my husband and kids).

7. Order set of holiday sweaters with sequins and bead work in a color scheme that will match my new van's paint job.

8. Stop meeting at bar for girls' night out, and instead meet at school for PTO functions.

9. Erase all sarcasm from conversation and attitude, and replace with smiles, sunshine and light.

10. Exchange high heel shoe and boot collection for practical Keds.

Check those suckers off the list and I will be minivan ready. Actually does anyone know where to get those family stick figures for my back window? I think I have to show proof of purchase before the dealership will hand over the keys!