Take that, Jon and Kate!!!

I feel a little bit vindicated today. I feel a little bit like my snarky bitterness is actually a clever ruse disguising my excellent judge of character. Why? Because I have always disliked Jon and Kate and their 8. Ok, I don't dislike the children... but I have disliked/couldn't be paid to watch/would rather gouge my eyeballs out than have to partake in the TV show Jon and Kate Plus 8. My friends watch it (yeah I know... they have questionable taste). My friends raved about their marital bliss amongst their litter, and they stared in awe of their organizational ability and I bah humbugged it all. I said bah to their marriage. I said bah bah to their organization of 8 kids, and I said bah bah bah (yes, I turned into a sheep) when it came to exploiting their 8 kids on a TV show. And now the truth is out. Their marriage is a dung heap, their organizational skills are a farce and the poor kids are still exploited on TV. I'm doing the "na na na na boo boo" dance as we speak.

Suddenly its Jon and Kate Plus 8 Plus Hoochie Plus Smarmy Body Guard. I am not sure that will all fit onto my TV Guide, but it has a certain ring to it, I think. I find it interesting that only now that we learn that Jon isn't Mr. Mom incarnate and Kate isn't Wife of the Year, people are starting to wonder about the merits of having itsy bitsy children on a reality show. (Just wait Tori Spelling and your Hollywood shenanigans.... this blog will come after you, too, someday). Is it healthy? Uh... duh??!?! Fame for no reason has done wonders for the likes of Paris Hilton, Spencer and Bimbette Pratt and Anna Nicole Smith, so why not force 8 unsuspecting children into the limelight without their permission. Really? What could go wrong? Insert worst case scenarios here.

Suddenly, the media machine has decided that maybe reality shows made up of infants isn't such a good idea. Gee, ya think?!?!?! Maybe, just maybe... they should have normal lives with normal parents who aren't posing for the camera in their brand spanking new GI Jane inspired spiky hair cuts. Maybe Jon and Kate should spend more time raising their kids than mugging for cameras and ducking paparazzi with their lovers. And seriously, you organizational wonders you, when do you have time to have affairs with 8 kids? I have three kids and I haven't had time to take a bath in 3 years, let alone get it on with my fella on the side. Maybe they just let the cameras run and watch TLC from their love shacks? Its like Nanny Cam but better! I have a video monitor for Jack... maybe I should take that with me next time I am trolling the bars for some action. Then again, maybe I will just keep my unclean butt at home raising my kids... where I belong.

You might be a redneck if...

There is something about the Indy 500 that brings out the... tacky in people. I live in a suburb of Indy and even my humble town was infiltrated last weekend with the redneckiest, trailer park lovelies that usually are too busy spending the weekend at the track, surrounding themselves with beer can towers and "show us your boobs" signs to make it out to the burbs. Apparently, one couple got the wrong directions and their confederate flag painted pick up wound up in Avon... miles away from the track, wife beater t-shirts and urine filled streets that they are used to. So, in honor of Jeff Foxworthy... here is my example of "you might be a redneck if..." in honor of Billy Bob and Betty Sue (mullet and bleach blond hair included) at Meijer Monday afternoon.

If you and your man are looking for the nearest Meijer (think Target if there aren't Meijer's in your hood), and you are going to go in and shop, but you have to finish your beer and cigarette first.... you might be a redneck.

And... if you decide that rather than sitting in your comfy lawn chair in front of your mobile home at the Speedway, you would rather go ahead and drive to Meijer, exit your car and stand in front of the main entrance while savoring your last swig of PBR and the last drag on your Marlboro Red.... you might be a redneck.

And if you are standing in front of Meijer, drinking your beer and smoking your cig and you decide that you need to show your man that you are wearing your hot little swim suit with the side cutouts and the plunging neck down to your "I'm too old to have this but I don't seem to care" pierced navel, and so you lift your tank top up to show a little skin to him and the 10 year old leaving with his grandma and the stay home mom who happens to have a blog that you are going to appear on in the next week (that would be me), then.... you might be a redneck.

And, if you are showing your man (and the 5th grader and the grandmother and the stay home mom that despises your existence in her world) that you are wearing your "I can't believe that stripper sold me her costume for $2.00" swimsuit while standing in front of Meijer glugging away on your can and pulling a drag off your cigarette and your man mentions that you are nipping and your response is to rub your nipple and giggle that he is right.... you might need to get your trashy ass OUT OF MY TOWN!!! Oh yeah... and you might be a redneck.

It seemed like a good idea at the time...

Ok, so Mr. Will turned the big 3 on Sunday. Oh yes... my little hell raiser is a three year old!!! In some ways, it seems like he should be 13, not three, because I can't remember a time when he wasn't around. In other ways, it feels like 3 months because the years just FLEW by (taking my sanity with them). Anyway, we held his birthday party with friends on Saturday and then had a little family party on Sunday and it was a blast. BUT... there were a few gifts given that I am starting to rethink. But, as the title says... it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Gift 1: A Monster sized fire truck. Laura's son Jacob had a Tonka Fire Truck that was the truck of Will's dreams. Its huge, it moves, the ladder is long enough to lift Will onto the roof of our house. She asked if Will would want it, and I said heck yes. Now, Monster Fire Truck lives here. Its SONIC siren lives here. Its incessant clicking as it moves lives here. And, its grinding engine lives here too. Getting Will's dream truck seemed like a good idea at the time. Now, I am deaf.

Gift 2: The Drum Set. We saw a kid sized drum set in a store and thought that would be a perfect gift for Will. He loves to drum on anything, and he loves music (American Idol, here he comes). Will received an even bigger, better drum set from Grandpa Ed and Grandma Diane. Will drums. A lot! There's a cymbal. He cymbals. A lot. It. Is. Loud. It lives in my house. Loudly. And... I discovered today that Will decided drumsticks make a great weapon to use against Jack. The drum set seemed like a perfect gift and a good idea at the time. Now, I am deafer and Jack has bruised knuckles.

Gift 3: The Toy Chainsaw. I didn't think about this one ahead of time. I didn't give the AOK like I did for the other two. I didn't know that toy chainsaws exist. They do. When he received it, though, I thought fantastic! Will loves tools. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now... Will chases people like he's a midget version of Leatherface. I am having nightmares.

Gift 4: The Front End Loader. Have I mentioned before that Will loves trucks? He loves construction trucks the most. Front loaders happen to be his favorite. Lori gave him one. It moves. It talks. IT'S LOUD. I was thrilled when he opened it, because it makes all his other front loaders look like... well, toy front loaders. But, really. Its loud. It seemed like a good idea when I saw him open it. But now, Marlee Matlin is translating for me.

Gift 5: The Trampoline. I bought this. Me. I am completely responsible for this contraption entering my home. I thought that it would be great for Will. He's a jumper, you know. It has a handle bar. For safety. Safety first, I always say (although after this, I am changing my mantra to "silent first"). The handle has a bunch of buttons. You press them. Specifically, Will presses them. When he does, they make noise. They count his jumps, they play funny sounds. IT IS LOUD. It seemed like a good idea at the time.... now, uh.... just forget about it.

In closing, I would like to give a hearty shout out to Uncle Mike and his silent Star Wars guys and to my parents for the bike that is both silent and lives in the garage. Happy Birthday to me!!!

A Day in the Life of Bentley

I realized today, after having a long conversation with my Beagle, that I want to be a dog in my next life. Actually, Homa is the one who brought me to this conclusion. She called me today because she was on a local hotel's website and she was looking at room accommodations. She called to tell me that this particular hotel has a menu of 70some pillows to choose from. It has a down comforter that they say is 12 inches thick. You can have a personal butler. Heaven, yes? Then I realized something.... for the bargain price of $300 a night, you can be my dog. And he gets this treatment for free.

Bentley gets his choice of any pillow or bed in the house. Maybe not 70 choices, but if you do a size ratio, I am quite sure the one oversize dog bed, four human beds complete with pillows and comforters of various sizes and fabrics, two couches, one oversize chair and one side chair are close enough to 70 in dog counting. Or does dog counting go the other way and we need to multiply the 70 by 7? Well, I can't do that math, so we'll just pretend that the size ratio is where its at. Plus, let's just go ahead and say it... I am totally his personal butler and I haven't gotten a tip in years. He rings a bell (literally) and I jump to let him out. He scratches at a door, and I jump to let him in. He looks at me and whines, and I get him fresh water (usually because Jack dumped the old water onto the floor and played in his homemade kiddie pool for awhile). We even retrieve his poop and dispose of it. I don't think the hotel butler has to do that much. Maybe fetch a soda now and then, but that's it. We even have to scratch and pet the dog on demand. I know the hotel butler doesn't do that, or they'd have to change his job title to hotel gigolo.

So, I decided to sit down and have a talk with Bentley to make sure he understands how lucky he is. It went like this.

Me: Bentley, do you realize how much I do for you?

Bentley: Oh... shiny thing. What is that? Must go see.

Me: Bentley... come here. Bent... come back. Bent! Ok, seriously, do you know what a good life you have?

Bentley: Uhmg fllumpf gglllumpfff. (Its hard to talk when licking yourself....uh.... you know where).

Me: Bentley, quit. Its hard to talk to you when you're doing that. Bentley... I want you to know that not all dogs have a life like yours. Some live on the streets, some starve, some aren't even allowed on the furniture, and believe me, Wonder Mutt.... not all dogs get the "rinse" the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, if you know that I mean. Especially after that lick show you just put on.

Bentley: I know and I want you to know that I am so grateful.... OH.... CHEERIOS ON THE FLOOR!!!! RUN!!!!!

Conversation over.

Living The Dream...

The moment Will was born, I decided that I was going to be a stay home mom. I couldn't fathom leaving him at day care to return to the daily grind. Oh no... I saw myself as Mother Earth incarnate. I would gracefully flow through my day, filling it with home cooked meals, play dates, arts and crafts and other defining motherly activities. YEAH RIGHT! I should have read the job description a little more clearly. I believe the number one responsibility is laundry bitch.

Exhibit A: My prized possessions. No, its not a play area, its not even a flat screen tv to watch soaps on and eat bon bons in front of. Its these... because they are my tools. The things I do the most.

Exhibit B : Now, my laundry life is not without its conveniences. Like, the laundry shoot. Sure, some people call them stairs. But, I like to call it my own personal laundry shoot. Notice Will working as laundry herder. See, we bond. Some bloggers herd cattle with their children, others... laundry. Consider me a city slicker version of Pioneer Woman.

Exhibit C: On an average Monday, when I didn't do laundry over the weekend, and Will happened to vomit in bed and therefore require that I wash his bedding... the pile of laundry is taller than Will is. And people... Will is tall. Wait! I do fun stuff with Will afterall! He's mountain climbing! How many stay home moms take their kids to do that?

And, in case you were wondering why I leave my laundry in the downstairs guest bath, let me just tell you! The geniuses who built this house made that the laundry room, too!!! Then again, I guess I am the genius who bought the house!

So, in closing, let this be a warning to you, my friends. If you choose to be a stay home mom, specifically of a family of five... don't think you're leaving the laundry room for play dates any time soon. And, if you are planning to visit a family of five and may have to use the restroom.... go before you come over, because there's no reaching the toilet or sink in this house!

I feel like this is a Lynn version of Where's Waldo. Can you see me, or do I just blend into the laundry piles? If I had photo shop, I would have put a little voice bubble coming from me (in the green shirt there) saying "help me!" But, I don't, so I will just write it here. HELP ME! When can I go back to work???

The Bloggerati

So last week, I received an email from BOSSY. Oh yeah, that Bossy. Bossy of Iambossy.com. Bossy of "I get nominated and win humor blog awards".com. Ok, so that dot com may not be accurate, but she's all "I am a professional blogger who is funny and witty all the time." And... she emailed me. I feel almost famous. Ok, my famousness really isn't fame at all, but in my little home office, on my old school desk top archaic computer, in my red snowflake pjs, I feel a little bit special. Just a little.

I feel special whenever the people that I consider "uberbloggers" stop by. You know the ones... the people where someone actually reads their blog and wants to advertise on it. The ones who even may have multiple blogs because they are just that good. You know... the opposite of my. Jessica Bern of bernthis.com is possibly the funniest person on the entire planet and yet she takes time out of her clever and witty life schedule to drop a note on my Wayne's World "we're not worthy... we're not worthy" little blog. OHMommy of ClassyChaos.com classes up the joint on occasion and she gets, I don't know, gazillions of comments on every single classy post on her blog. I even had a mouthy housewife stop by and say hi before I knew who those mouths belonged to. The professionals stop by and suddenly, I feel a little bit better about my cyber existence. Its the equivalent of finding that perfect black shirt that hides your love handles. The big guys stop by and suddenly, my handles vanish. All 400 pounds of them.

Then again, it doesn't even take the paid bloggers to get me there. Its anyone who isn't my family member, spouse or friend. Those three categories are somewhat obligated to stop by and read... and really, its for their own good since almost every story I tell them starts with "Well, I am sure you read my blog today...." blah blah blah. It doesn't even have to relate. My post could be about saggy boobs and I will say "I am sure you read my blog today about my saggy boobs, but I am going grocery shopping because we're out of barley." So, they save themselves time if they just admit to having read it (which I can totally verify on my stat counter, so don't think they can lie about it). But you who do not know me and will not be subjected to my blog propaganda outside of clicking this site.... you read me. And you come back (some of you, anyway). Others run away screaming like I am Freddy Kruger and they just nodded off to sleep. But some of you are gluttons for my punishment, and I love it! I am pretty sure that is my favorite deadly sin.

So, I guess my post today is a pointless post to say thanks. Thanks for coming into my weird little world and taking a seat. Thanks for coming back the next day. I'll save that seat for you, tomorrow. And, I just wanted to mention... I got an email from Bossy. :::: Glowing. ::::

If you sell it, they will come...

I keep hearing "Flight of the Bumblebees" going through my head as I look out the windows today. Not only that, but I hear MissyBellaYuki barking her fool head off. No, it is not killer bee season in Indiana.... its worse. Its the community garage sale. Dum dum dum.

Minivans, pick ups and sedans have flooded our neighborhood unleashing hordes of junk purchasers. I can see them walking back to their cars with their 50 cent treasures, cradling the broken lamps or used baby paraphernalia in their arms as if they just won a Macy's shopping spree. Who knew that you could get the ShamWow for $1.00! Sure, its used... but throw it in the washer and its good as new (right... that's not blood stains is it???). And over there... they've got Diaper Genie! Used to be white, now its kind of dingy beige... but we'll call it "ecru" so that people still think its worth buying for $2.25! Wait... don't stop yet... at this house, you can get VHS tapes for a dime a piece. No VCR? Don't fret, across the yard is another house selling a VCR for $5.00. You've hit the mother load, my friend! There is more crap than you could shake a stick at... and if you buy the whole box, they'll throw the stick in for free!

I am typing with a thick layer of sarcasm, because I just don't get it. One man's trash is another man's treasure? Not on my pirate ship! If you're getting rid of it, its junk. If you didn't need it in the last four years, neither do I. And while I am sure that matchbox car set has plenty of miles left on it (despite the fact that the road is clogged with dried jello and the car wheels are missing), I just would rather save my quarters for... I dunno... anything else on the planet that I don't have to clean, fix, and fumigate before using.

Don't get me wrong. I am not opposed to a bargain. My entire baby room furniture set came from a garage sale, and I love it. I registered for $900 worth of crib/dresser/rocker goodness from Babies R Us (where the R stands for rip off), but when a similar looking, decent quality crib set appeared at a garage sale my friend was trolling, we rushed out and bought it. $300 rather than $900 sounded good to me. But come on. You, lady in the green sweatshirt with the teddy bear on it, do you really need that angel statue with one wing broken off? You are proudly loading it into your Chevy Cavalier as we speak and I ask you... what are you going to do with that broken angel? And you, sir, who is walking around with a used pooper scooper and Diaper Genie mentioned above. You do know that they are not used together, right? And honey, those shoes may have been a bargain, but that doesn't mean those suckers should be seen in the light of day. What a Thai hooker can pull off doesn't necessarily work for a soccer mom, ok.

I have had garage sales before (don't let me forget to tell you about the one my mom had when she had no front teeth! When in Rome, right???), and I have been to garage sales before (always with all my teeth). But, the last venture out (our community sale last year) solidified the fact that if you want to throw it out, so do I. And earning $50 in two days from sitting in my garage surrounded by my own junk just isn't worth it. I'm a Goodwill/AmVets girl and proud of it.

Action Jackson (Hold the Action)

I just heard an overly perky dude on Good Morning, America tell a story about some ducks. Or maybe flamingos? Or owls? Doesn't matter. Type of fowl not required to tell the story. Here's the gist... Four (insert bird types here) are sitting on a log. One decides to fly away.... how many are left? Duh... even Tabbi could do that math, right? Three. But no. The fourth bird decided to fly away... that doesn't mean that it did. Mr. Perky Pants's point was that we spend an awful lot of time in our lives deciding to do things, and very little time actually doing them. And you know what? That's me. I am a decider and not a do-er.

I decided to start a blog roughly 7 months before I actually did it. I have decided to start a diet in 2001 that I have yet to actually do. I decided that I would start cleaning my house and thank God the Merry Maids folks just pulled up because that sure isn't happening either. I have decided to put Mark and myself onto a budget that has yet to be enforced. My to do list includes deciding to clean out the front hall closet and my drawers upstairs and its been in existence for over a month now, but that list doesn't have a single check. I decided to help my friend's chiropractic office out with their paperwork and I have not inputted a single thing. I am a really great decision maker, but seriously poor at implementation.

Here's the kicker... Mr. Perky didn't say a word about how to get the decisions turned into actions. Thanks, dude. Way to point out my flaws without offering any suggestions. Although, what is there to say, except get off your lazy rear and actually do something you've decided to do. What a concept. But, let's all guess how much crap actually gets done today?!??!?!

Suck it, Dick

A little song composed by Nancy Sinatra and myself... and dedicated (at least by me) to the lovely and talented.... Dick Cheney. Sung to the tune of "These Boots Were Made for Walkin'"....

You keep sayin’ you ran the gov’ment right
But war, healthcare, economy’s all a mess.
Now you’re talkin’ when you ought to be a shuttin’
Cuz your eight years did not pass the test.

You just keep on talking, going on about what to do
But one of these days Obama’s gonna shut your mouth for you!

You keep lying, when you oughta be truthin'
and you keep losin' when you oughta not bet.
You keep samin' when you oughta be changin'.
Now what's right is right, but you ain't been right yet.

You just keep on talking, going on about what to do
But one of these days Obama’s gonna shut your mouth for you!

You keep sayin’ what you shouldn’t be sayin’
And you keep actin’ like you just can’t learn
Ha!
We voted in a brand new heavy weight champion
And a bitch slap’s comin’ so hard your head will turn

You just keep on talking, going on about what to do
But one of these days Obama’s gonna shut your mouth for you!

Are you ready, Cheney? Keep talkin’!

Mothers Day Post - a day late and many dollars short

Pregnancy books don't tell you all you need to know about pregnancy. They leave out things like the shakes that I got after Will was born. I didn't know that I would come out of the operating room shaking so hard I couldn't hold my own son. Its normal, they all said ("they" being doctors), but then why wasn't it in What to Expect When You're Expecting or The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy. Surely someone should have mentioned that I would have sudden onset (but luckily temporary) Parkinson's.

Other friends don't tell you everything you need to know about motherhood either. I didn't know that the second Will was born, I would cease to exist anymore. No one told me that every single goal and life plan that I had prior to his birth would disappear at the sight of him... only to be replaced with new goals and plans that revolve solely around him. Worse, no one told me that I might not feel the same about Jack right away. I didn't know that it could take time to bond with a baby. I didn't know that I was not Satan's spawn because my entire Will-focused world didn't implode at the sight of Jack.

I also didn't know that after I did bond with Jack, my heart would become large enough to hold Will and Jack in it equally. When I was pregnant, I wondered if I could love my second kid anywhere near as much as I did Will. It didn't seem possible. But, now I know that I do and it is scary to think these little creatures (one of whom just tried to eat yellow chalk) can control your every emotion. They have the power to make you cry, terrified, angry, loving, frustrated and nurturing all within a minute and a half. I didn't know that.

I didn't know that someone's well being would become so much more important than my own. My own physical pain will take a back burner to their needs. I didn't know that at all.

I didn't know that the inability to potty train my almost three year old could make me feel like such a monumental failure.

I didn't know that I could hold my breath for an entire 30 minutes waiting to find out if Jack's EEG looked normal.

I didn't know that poop could be that color.... and I don't want to know how it got that way.

I didn't know that I could go all day without eating, just because holding my newborn filled me up better than food.

I didn't know that a skinned knee could break your heart.

I didn't know that they would like Mark better than me. And I don't know why.

I didn't know that the second one wasn't going to sleep through the night. EVER.

I didn't know that there are times when the first sleeps in his own bed, that I would sit in my bed and wish he would wake up so I could bring him in and cuddle with him.

I didn't know that staying at home with them all day every day could drive me so nuts.

I didn't know that I wouldn't be able to leave them.

I didn't know that Catholic guilt would have nothing on motherhood guilt.

I didn't know that it would become possible, and in fact likely, that I would go through an entire day with stains on my ratty t shirt.... and not bother to change it.

Most of all, I didn't know that all of those cheesy cliches about motherhood being the best thing I will ever do were right. Those Hallmark people... they know what they're talking about!

Dear Mr. Sexually Harassing Texter Guy:

This morning, I received a text message. It was beautiful... poetic... romantic. I have never before heard (or read in this case) that kind of love and affection. Clearly, it was not meant for me. Mr. Romance said, "I had to look at that booty first thing this morning. Hope my peek didn't wake you." Well, Mr. 614 Area Code (which I Googled and is Columbus, OH), let me just respond to your little love text.

First of all, while my booty may be large enough to be seen from Ohio, you better be glad that you weren't sneaking at peek at my behind while I was trying to sleep. I am pretty sure "Smack My Bitch Up" by Prodigy would have started playing and the hand you used to pull back the covers, along with the eyes you were attempting to see with would not have made the trip back.

Second, while I am sure the Mensa candidate you were peeking at this morning may pretend like she is flattered by your need to stare at her derriere, she really wants you to go the hell away so she can keep sleeping. Unless she is a Hooters gal running around in boy shorts with her cheeks hanging out all day and night, she would rather keep that feather comforter pulled up to her chin and snooze than have you drooling over the goodies. In fact, even if she is Miss Hooters USA, unless you are leaving a tip, back away from the butt cheeks. Really, we females would rather sleep than have you anywhere near us.... so back off, 614.

Thirdly, I just thought I would mention that sneaking a peek at someone's "booty" while they are sleeping, is just a little bit creepy. Ok, its a lot creepy. If you wanna compliment your honey's buns... why not wait til she is awake? Standing up. And has the option as to whether or not she wants to slap your face for making a comment about her rear. I mean, come on... do you not watch Law & Order: SVU? Don't make me go Detective Stabler on YOUR ass... because I will.

And lastly, dear Mr. 614. If you are going to sexually harass your girlfriend or wife (or I guess boyfriend...) and then text her about it later... get the friggin' number right!!!

Love,
317

Ahhh.... Peaceful Slumber

Last night I was pretty tired. The boys and I are suffering from the plague (which has hit our household about 16 times this winter), and it has wiped me out. Last night I could not wait to crawl into my comfy cozer (Wilbanese) bed and go seepy seeps (Wilbanese again). Let's just say... I am still waiting.

11:00p - Mark returns from CVS where he was picking up my prescription. The door slams a little too loudly. Will begins to scream as if someone is strangling the life from him. We wait a few minutes until it appears that Will's screams for mercy are waking up Jack. We get Will and bring him into our bed. Will decides to take my spot, and stick me in the middle.

11:10p - We decide to watch Grey's Anatomy on Tivo. Yes, when kids sleep you are supposed to sleep, but then when would you watch TV???

12:00a - Turn off TV and go to sleep.

12:15a - Mark's phone starts beeping some sort of emergency beacon loud enough to wake the dead, Jimmy Hoffa, and the tri-state area... Not to mention vibrating strong enough to rival the big one that is going to break California off into the ocean... Not to mention sending a spotlight-bright beam of light onto the ceiling making me wonder for an instant when we moved onto the Boyz in the Hood movie set. It was a notification from Facebook that my brother wished Mark a happy belated birthday. Uh... thanks, Mike. Thanks, Facebook and thanks, Verizon for feeling like that was so important to know right at the moment my brother sent it.

12:15a - Upon hearing the sonic beeping, Jack woke up crying.

12:17a - Mark takes Jack downstairs and fiddles with his phone to change the beeping. Will is woken up by "brrrrriiing bring bring" "beep bop boop boop" "riiiiiiiing riiiiiiiiing ring ring ring" until I yell down the stairs "QUIT PLAYING WITH YOUR FREAKIN' PHONE!!!"

1:15a - Mark tries to put Jack back to sleep after giving him a bottle. Jack decides that he is willing to sleep in Mark's arms... but not in his crib. Much crying ensues.

1:20a - I ask Mark to rock him some more and try again to put him down. Jack decides that he is still willing to sleep in Mark's arms... but not in his crib. Much more crying ensues.

1:45a - Mark picks Jack up and heads downstairs to sleep with him in the big brown chair.

3:00a - Mark climbs back into bed after putting Jack down in his crib successfully, thus shoving Will into the middle and part way onto me.

3:15a - Will, Mark and I are awakened by an 85 pound snow dog flying onto the bed because its raining. With great effort, I pull her off.

3:23a - Will, Mark and I are awakened by an 85 pound snow dog flying onto the bed because it thundered. With greater effort, I pull her off and shove her out of our bedroom and close the door.

3:45a - I am awakened by what must be burglars rummaging through our home. It is really the 85 pound snow dog attempting to dig her way behind the toilet in the upstairs bathroom. Because. Its. Raining. Harder.

4:00a - I am awakened by the 85 pound snow beast trying to claw her way into our bedroom through the door. Because it thundered again. I open it and let her in. She goes to the closet.

4:15a - Will, Mark and I are awakened by an 85 pound snow dog flying onto the bed because it thundered and/or rained again. Repeat several times until roughly 4:45-ish.

5:00a - Jack wakes up crying thanks to the thunder or because he managed to sleep for a few hours and must therefore wake up and inflict pain upon the rest of us. Mark takes him downstairs to sleep in the chair some more.

7:10a - Jack wakes up in his crib and decides it is "Good Morning Time" (Wilbanese again).

Is it wrong to want a nap at 8:11 in the morning???

A Poem by Lynn

I had to memorize a poem in elementary school, and I picked one by Shel Silverstein. I don't know what book it comes from, and I don't even know for sure that I remember it the right way. I think its goes like this:

My beard grows to my toes

I never wears no clothes.

I wrap my hairs around my bares

and down the road I goes.

So, in honor of all things beautiful and poetic, I am rewriting this wonder to make it match my world (since my hairs are waxed).

The twins sag to my toes

why so low, nobody knows.

I stuff the girls into tight whirls

and into the bra they goes.

The end.

Four Years Ago... Sniff Sniff

I got married in March of 2005. It was a lovely ceremony, truly beautiful (I am the snow beast in white, in case you couldn't pick me out). I get compliments on the event pretty frequently, even though it was years ago. We had the ceremony at the state capitol building, which rivals the most ornate churches with its intricate woodwork, marble floors and stained glass, and then the reception was at The Children's Museum. Fun, unique, different. It was perfect. And, as you know, Mark and I are still married, so all in all, it was a success. Contrary to all of that... I don't have fond memories of my wedding day like you are supposed to. Usually, it just makes me sad.

I danced with four men at my wedding. I danced with Mark, my dad, my grandpa and one of my closest friends. In May of 2005, that list was cut in half. My grandpa and my dear friend died within weeks of each other. And when I think of my wedding day, no matter what regard its mentioned in, I think of those two men that I no longer have with me, and it makes me sad. I cherish the fact that I have such profoundly beautiful memories of them from that day, but it has colored that day in a different hue than any of us pictured.
The anniversary of their deaths is this month and amazingly, my grandpa's passed without me even knowing it. It wasn't until today that I realized he died four years ago. In fact, the funeral was four years ago yesterday. Isn't that amazing how a day that seems burned into your memory can just pass four years later without a thought at all? I think about my grandpa frequently. I use his quotes ("I could fix insert anything here if I just had the tools and knew how" or "this is a two dumb outfit" used for anything that two people can't manage to get done, or my personal favorite as a kid "I don't see why not" used for absolutely anything you asked of any adult). He was the kind of man that could do anything. Fix anything. He was a man's man... a fisherman, he worked a crane at a cement plant (if only my Will knew him then... wow would he be impressed). But, he cried til the day he died when he spoke of his son Norman who died before I was born. He was sensitive. He didn't like cursing, and when telling a story of how he and my grandma broke up once before they were married, he got so upset he couldn't talk about it. That was after 50 plus years of marriage and the idea of losing her for that short time was too much for him to take. We danced to "Butterfly Kisses," a song I cannot stand, but will forever remember because it was the last time I really spent with him. A man that I will always consider as close to perfection as God made them.

My good friend, Bill Tatum, died on May 21st. He and I had only known each other since 2001, but we had a connection. And it was strange. Bill was 50 when he died, and I was 26. We met when I went to work at the State of Indiana. He was the Operations Manager and the opposite of me in every way. He was middle aged and I was fresh out of college. He was gruff and resembled Grizzly Adams. I was clean cut (or sometimes punk) and dressed to the hilt. He was country and I was city. But, he was one of my best friends. For whatever reason we bonded right off the bat. I remember sitting in a meeting one day, me the lowly Office Manager temp taking meeting minutes and him, a second in command booming out opinions and orders to others. He looked at my blond hair with pink tips and said "your hair is two different colors." I didn't miss a beat and fired right back at his gray and brown mop "Gosh, Bill... so's yours!" From that moment on... we were hooked. He called himself my "work dad" because we went to interview a potential employee and the candidate asked if it was "take your daughter to work day." He called me Princess (as everyone at that job did) and said it in his gruff country accent that rivaled a Texan on their best day. I can still hear it in my mind. I forced him to try hummus, and he forced me to try riding on his Harley... the one and only time I've been on a motorcycle. He died of a heart attack while building a new addition onto his house. It was sudden, unexpected. I remember when his daughter, only slightly younger than me, called to tell me that Saturday he died and I just kept asking "what? How?" over and over because I couldn't wrap my brain around him being gone. I still can't. We were polar opposites, and yet told each other everything. We danced to Etta James's eternally beautiful "At Last" and I still can't listen to that song without crying. We were polar opposites, but for some reason that hillbilly, as I called him, is stuck in my heart forever.

I named my first son after these two men. Will for Wilfred Ash and Alexander for William Alexander Tatum. He will never know them, as they were both gone before Will was a twinkle in my eye or a thought in my head. But, so far, I can see that for some reason he already has the very best parts of them. Not just in name, but in spirit. And there are no men better for him to be like than them.

When I Grow Up

I am reading a magazine article about five women who radically changed their lives when their kids were old enough to go to school. One pursued a higher education, one became a skydiver. Three others did three other things, and it made me wonder. What about me? Will is going to start preschool in the Fall and even though it doesn't seem like it right now as Jack does his broken crawl around the playroom, he will follow behind soon. And then, they will both leave me for full day school. One part of me can't wait. Only in my dreams have I had 8 uninterrupted hours of productivity. But, what will I do with them?

I know I will volunteer at the school and be "that mom" for awhile. The one who is all PTOed and teacher's helper. I won't wear jumpers and be Perky Perkerton, so I will never be a momunist... but I will be all schoolie schoolie. But, what is going to take up my other 37.5 hours a week that the kids are gone?

I have always wanted to open a bakery, but I can't bake and I don't have that kind of time. I would like to work, but I don't want to be in charge, exceed the hours I feel like working, feel any stress at all, and bring any work home with me. I am pretty sure that isn't that tall of an order, is it? It does rule out any and all HR positions, so I think I am going to start over. But, from where?

Do you remember the game of Life, where all you had to do was roll the dice and you got kids, married and paintings from Uncle Richard that you sold for $100,000. Is there some real world version of that I can look into? I thought about doing something medical because I loved ER and think that I could really be a female Dr. Doug Ross (albeit far less attractive and definitely not as smart), but I am tough and would totally punch a dad for hitting his kid. Or, I thought about beauty school because I like to play with hair, but they work a lot of hours and I wouldn't want to cut it the way people wanted. I would want to cut it the way I thought it would look cutest, and therefore would have very few clients. I hate retail. I hate food service (unless its my own bakery called The Cupcakery where we would have cute cupcakes and coffee... all of which delicious and therefore not made by me).

Jack goes to school in four years and three months-ish, so that leaves me that long to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I read Pioneer Woman and cattle rancher looks pretty good... and I would love to breed dogs, but I am pretty sure my homeowners association won't let me do either. Then again, this whole blogging thing could take off by then and I could spend my days sipping lattes and inspiring the world to not call their kids turds. Ahhhh.... the possibilities.

Reason Number 6

Once upon a time in land far far away... ok, my house.... a woman started a blog. She decided that one of her favorite topics of blogging was her children, and more often than not, it was stories where the overwhelming theme is that she shouldn't be allowed to have children. This entry... is one of those. So, I am calling it my 6th reason why I shouldn't have children.

The other day I was on the phone talking to a friend. Will and Jack were totally off schedule and even though it was 9:30pm, they were ready and raring to go. Hyper doesn't begin to describe it. So, I was attempting my conversation with an adult other than Mark, and Will was nuts with a capital C-A-S-H-E-W. I talk away tuning him out but over time his antics were beyond my ability to ignore. I mutter under my breath "he is such a little turd." Will then bolts in from the playroom and says in his proudest voice "no, mama. Me big turd!"

You're right, Buddy. You are a big turd. Or, maybe that was the water in the wine glass talking.

Top 10 Reasons Why I am Sick of the Rain

Ok, so a chick I know on Facebook had a really good comment today. She said that if she wanted to move to Seattle, she would have. Having to endure their weather while still living in Indianapolis....well... sucks. So, that inspired me to wax poetic on why I am sick of the goll darn rain.

10. I can no longer see my dog through the grass and weeds in the yard. No, not the beagle... the BIG one.

9. My Chi hair straightener is dusty, as there is no point to taming my mane if I am just going to channel Diana Ross through my follicles the second I step outside.

8. My family will succumb to the dangers of vitamin D deficiency far quicker than we get the Pig Flu.

7. My cleaning service came yesterday and my floor is already caked with mud in various footprint patterns... none of which are of the "Jesus is carrying you" persuasion.

6. You have to pair your cute new summer shorts and capris with hip waders to get through the puddles in one piece.

5. Love to all the Canadians out there... but your geese. Your GEESE! They are strutting through my neighborhood like they just won the war against the humans for our subdivision. I think the whole world feels like a lake these days and they are on their way to total domination.

4. The local meteorologists have nothing to say since the forecast is for clouds and rain, followed by rain and clouds, followed by clouds and rain. Pretty soon they will be reduced to pulling the daily lotto numbers for lack of anything better to do.

3. My utilities will be cut off and my home foreclosed on because any mail (including bills) disintegrates into mush the second you open the mailbox and even a Jamaican-speed sprint back to the house is fruitless.

2. Will and Jack have become nocturnal because day doesn't look any different from night, so how are they supposed to know when to sleep and when to be awake?

1. I can't even get outside to work on the ark because its too damn rainy for construction work.

All of this makes me wonder... if April showers bring May flowers... why in God's name is it still raining??????? Happy friggin' May Day!