Of fortune-telling and being shot in the face

There's no way for me to top the husband's tenth-year anniversary post. He sums everything up so fluidly and eloquently, no? Exactly everything I feel is written right there. 311 and and Yahweh. Verbatim, baby.

I will say that yay! ten years! Amazing. And amazing that I still like him. A lot. He's funny. His eyes are a lovely shade of dark blue. He's scary smart. He makes cute babies. So here's to another ten and beating all the odds.


Happy anniversary.

Soooo...

I promise this will be the last time I speak of $35 next-day shipping. Last time. For this semester at least. Promise.

I ordered my psychology book online on a Monday afternoon. After forking over money to receive it really, really fast, it was delivered Friday. That's four days.

I had to reorder a book for my first year seminar class. (The dude at the brick and mortar bookstore handed me the wrong book. That's a completely different ranty post.) I ordered the book through the same online store on Saturday afternoon. I used regular ground shipping. Want to know when it came? THREE DAYS LATER. I opened the box, not really believing it would be the book, but it was the book, delivered faster and cheaper than next-day shipping, and then my head exploded.

So that's it. I'm done with the fucking textbook-shipping talk.

***

In other news, I was sitting at the computer this morning while the babies melted their brains with some TV. Boobers was dancing around, giggling, when he decided to throw his blankie over his head, which completely covered his eyes, and run straight into the side of the computer desk. He hit so hard that he fell backwards.

He's fine. He doesn't even have a bump. But do you have any idea how hard it was to have to bite my lip and not laugh? His noggin is fine, but I have bloody tooth marks on my lower lip.

Customer of the day

After my coworker had handed back a lady's change in drive-thru, I was standing next to the open window, counting said coworker's till. I noticed the lady had opened her car door, and while juggling the small dog on her lap and her huge drink, was fishing for something on the ground. I heard her mutter something, and I turned to her.

"That girl dropped my dime on the ground."

I blinked a couple of times, watching her fumble around for a bit. After it looked like she really wasn't giving up the good fight for the dime, I offered her another one from the till I was counting.

"Here. Take this."

She actually took it.

I've dropped change before at drive-thrus, and I'm here to admit that if it isn't actual paper money, it's gone. And I'm okay with that. There's no way in hell I'd try to retrieve ten cents. Honestly, if you are in so much trouble that you have to worry about every single dime you drop, I'm thinking you should probably stay at home with your annoying little dog.

At the very least, you definitely shouldn't be spending $4+ on a frou-frou coffee drink.

Random Monday thoughts

1. Man, this poor little blog. I've neglected her. But hey, my kids are mostly happy, the house is mostly clean, I'm mostly caught up on laundry, and I'm a week ahead in my homework. Soooo...

2. It really is the end of summer. I sent Big D to school in jeans for the first time, as opposed to shorts. I could just cry. I love fall, but the thought of battling winter that follows behind depresses me. The snow, the layers of coats, the cold temperatures. It just gets worse the older I get.

3. Also neglected? My TV shows. I'm three episodes behind in Project Runway, two behind in America's Next Top Model, two behind in that new series the husband wants me to watch, True Blood. And I'm sure it's only a couple of weeks before all my other favorites come back. Won't someone think of my television viewing?

4. K's birthday was August 27. We've still not gotten together to celebrate it. I adore her, but I'm still really bummed she moved so far away. I really, really hate being grown up sometimes.

5. The husband and I will celebrate our 10th anniversary this Friday. I have a three day weekend off of work too. I need to come up with something fun and different to do without it costing a whole lot of money. Honestly, just being alone, no kids, at a grown-up restaurant will probably be enough. We're easily amused at this house.

Listy McListerson

1. This blog, my friends, has finally come in handy. I compiled the posts of "How I met the husband" into one paper, tweaked it a little, and will be sending it in as my narrative rough draft for my English class. After it's peer-reviewed and tweaked some more, I'll send it in as my final draft. Score!

2. The husband dragged all three kids out to run errands so I could enjoy the peace and quiet and do some homework. I really do like him quite a bit. The dimples don't hurt either.

3. On a completely unrelated note, you really know it's time to shave when your fifteen-month-old starts petting your legs. Lovingly. Like they're, I don't know, a beloved dog.

4. Boobers has begun talking up a storm. His favorite thing to do is to point a chubby finger at anything and say, "Whadat?" When looking at pictures, it's, "Whodat?" I'm still not being called mama on a regular basis. His huge brown eyes framed with dark lashes is the only thing that saves him.

5. The husband just wandered through, saw that I was posting, and made some snide comment that I have three kids, work a part-time job, go to school, and yet still manage to post more to my blog than he does his. Like it's a contest or something. It's not. But if it were, I WOULD TOTALLY BE WINNING.

Inflicting psychological damage on our children

I'd love to regale you with tales of how annoyed I am with work, of how utterly lost and overwhelmed school makes me feel most of the time, of how tired I am, of how I'd like to just lock myself in a room and cry, and of how I feel like a crappy mom and sometimes wife because of all of that, but I won't. Because man, that would just be one big Debbie Downer.

Instead, let's imagine we're tripping on acid together while watching this video. I've never tried LSD and won't be any time soon, but from what I've heard, this video would probably be awesome while doing it:

You can thank me later when you realize you've been humming that tune all. day. long.

And the winner is...

It's here. The time where I announce the winner of a super fabulous $10 giftcard to Starbucks! I was happy to find out I'm not the only one that curses like a drunken sailor on occasion. I even learned some new curses to add to my repertoire.

Soooo, without further ado, I announce that:


Comment #5 is the winner which translates to Teri of wishes, hopes and dreams! Teri likes to keep it clean with an innocent "tartersauce!" I should probably adopt more of Teri's innocence, what with all the small mockingbird toddlers I have running around here.

Teri, email me at notinsaneperse@gmail.com so I can get your address and drive to your house all stalker-like unless you live really far away because gas is really too expensive for a road trip, so then I'll just resort maybe emailing you occasionally and sending spam send you your giftcard.

And in spirit of the contest, thanks a fucking lot to all of you who entered. It's been a fucking blast.

Fuckin' A.

100th post! And a contest!

FINALLY! The moment you've all been waiting for. This marks my 100th post. Woot!

It's been brought to my attention lately that maybe I curse too much in my posts. It made me nervous and a little paranoid, and I went back and reviewed some of the stuff I've written, and I've come to a conclusion.

Nuh uh.

I don't curse in every single post. And I really don't use the big, ugly curse words often. And it doesn't matter. This is my blog, dammit, and if I want to drop an F-bomb, I will. Feel free to mentally place ***'s in strategic places, or read some other blog that's all about rainbows and puppies, but here, in Per Se Land, the occasional "fuck" will be written. I can't help it. How else will I describe the frustration of paying $35 for expedited next-day shipping for my psychology book on Monday and then receiving it on FRIDAY?

So in honor of my potty-mouthed blog AND my 100th post AND to delurk some of you lurkers, I'm going to have a contest. All you need to do is leave a comment. But I thought I would spice it up a little. In your comment you can leave your most favorite curse word/phrase/saying. You don't HAVE to, I completely understand some of you don't curse. In that case, just say "hey" or "howdy" or "I WANT PRIZE." Post whatever you want, and feel free to comment as often as you want, because I'll be picking the winner at random. (By the way, the husband says he's going to enter, but he totally can't be the winner. I won't allow it. Once again, it's my blog!)

Okay, want to know what you can win? It's so exciting. It's fabulous! It's a $10 giftcard to Starbucks! Woohoo! I know it's not much, but if you choose wisely, you can get at least two mocha choca lotta ya yas out of it. (The husband brought up the fact that it should be a $100 giftcard. But then I had to remind him, yet again, of $35 shipping and the fact that my children like to eat once in a while. Damn kids and their "needs.")

So that's it. Post your favorite curse word or something else, as often as you want, and I'll pick the winner at random on Friday at 9:00 AM EST.

And just to get started, my favorite curse is "clusterfuck."

Ready? Go!

Dear Smella,

Today you turn three. I've been doing that thing all day where I go, "And this time three years ago, I was at my weekly doctor's appointment or driving to the hospital..." Right now, at this time three years ago, I was probably still in the process of answering all of those admittance questions, hanging out in my hospital gown, a bundle of nerves and excitement. You were born a little after 10 PM. An easy labor and delivery, all pink (and a little cheesy) and adorable.


You've changed so much in the past year. You've perfected screaming. You've learned that by screaming, almost anyone will do anything you want to make you stop. You know how to count to eight. I no longer have to buy diapers for two babies. You finally had enough hair to cut! You know how to use those dimples and blue eyes to their full advantage.


You adore your brothers. Big D can make you giggle faster than anything, and Boobers is a constant source of practicing all your empathy and mothering skills. I know that if Boobers needs anything, you'll be first in line to help. As the only baby girl, you're equally adored, and will probably always be the go-between.


You had a blast at your party on Saturday. You reveled in the fact that everyone in the room was singing to you, and you had enough steam to blow out all three candles by yourself. You were so proud of yourself, and I was of you too.


I adore you. I love the conversations we have on a daily basis. Like, "You have to work today? But I don't want you to! I neeeeed you here!" I adore your screaminess, your fierce determination, your utter stubbornness, your dimples and your crazy blond curls. You're my only, my most wanted, my lovely baby girl. Happy birthday.

Love,

Mom

Listy McListerson

1. I ordered my psychology book on Monday with next day shipping. Next day after what, I don't know, because IT STILL ISN'T HERE.

2. Smella turns three on Monday. When I asked her what she wanted me to cook for her birthday dinner tomorrow, she first replied, "Chocolate cake!" I assured her there would be cake, but what about dinner? "Chicken nuggets!" So I'm making chili. I feel like it's a good compromise.

3. There was a huge store meeting at work last night. We were told that they would be cutting down on our ten minute breaks, and that we MUST start tucking in our polo shirts. a) Thanks for nothing, assholes; b) I can't believe we just had a store meeting over that stupid shit; c) Some humans should never, never tuck in their polos, especially humans with asses as large as mine.

4. Since Smella is finally three, I am SO buying her some Barbies. I'm going to try to get her one of those Kelly dolls, you know, Barbie's littlest sister. The husband maintains that Kelly is really Barbie's illegitimate daughter, a love child that everyone was so embarrassed about they had to come up with another story, but he doesn't really know.

5. My BFF, K, turned 29 on Wednesday. I talked to her Tuesday, we even talked about getting together for her birthday later. I completely spaced calling her ON her actual birthday. Totally forgot. And when I tried calling her several times yesterday to apologize for my blunder, she didn't answer. I spent most of the day sniffling around, thinking she was so mad at me she didn't ever want to talk to me again. Turns out she had just been really busy yesterday and wasn't avoiding my calls. Then she called me a big dork for thinking she'd give up on a fifteen year relationship because I'd forgotten to call. Then I called her a dork for not answering multiple phone calls and frantic text messages. We're all good again. Whew.

School's going great, thanks for asking

Soooo...this English composition class I'm taking? I have to write posts in the class blog. I was actually really pumped about it, because hey! Blog posts? I got 'em. But no, we're given a topic to blog about, which completely takes all the fun out of it.

So instead, I'll just be creative about it here. The first week's topic is, here we go, "If this class were a journey, what kind of journey do you want it to be?"

Sigh.

Complete cheesiness. And I had to write at least 250 words. It was HARD. I'll paraphrase what I actually wrote:

I like to write, blah, blah, but I kinda hate being confined to specific topics, blah, I wanna learn how to get through that, blah, blah, I love you guys, I'm gonna try real hard, BLAH.

Here's what I really wanted to write:

Um, this class? I'm taking it because I have to. I don't really want to. I think I write pretty well already, and from reading some of the other students' posts, I'm a damn genius. This isn't a journey, it's a damn prereq to classes I actually WANT to take. But I'll humor you, and if this class really were a journey, I'd hope it'd be the kind of journey that surprises me. Like, "Ooh, I think this trip might suck," but actually turn into, "Hey, that wasn't so bad. I guess. Whatever."

I'm not going to get this degree without offending several people, am I?

It's been a fun, fun day

But not really.

I started out this morning gathering up the babies for a trek to the campus bookstore. I claim temporary insanity. I circled and circled the parking lot, looking for a spot closer than sixteen blocks away to park in. Nothing. I wound up crying and calling the husband, prompting him to come home from work and meet me in the driveway when I got home, bookless.

I called my mom to come sit with the babies as the husband and I drove back to campus. The line to get into the store was wrapped around the building. Finally in the building, they only had two of my textbooks in stock. Thanks. I cried some more.

The husband and I drove to the next closest campus where we were informed that no, you can't buy books there for online courses, those have to be purchased online. NOT TRUE, DUMMY, but I scanned the shelves myself and determined that they didn't have the book either.

I wound up coming home and just ordering the damn book online. I paid $35 for expedited shipping.

Since I'm off work tonight, it's really my only time to get online and finish up what I can for the week. In the middle of posting my introduction for Psychology 101, the online format I'm using crashes and my access to everything is suddenly denied. ON THE FIRST DAY OF CLASSES. I cried a little bit more, slammed a few doors, shrieked at the husband profusely. He threw chocolate and soothing words at me.

I guess I should quit shrieking at the husband. He's been nothing but supportive in this adventure of mine. And I know for a fact he won't whine once if dinner's late, if he has to finish up a few loads of laundry for me, or if I need him to patiently explain integers one more time. He's a pretty terrific husband.

I'm going to finish up my chocolate, snuggle the husband for a minute, and try logging in to my classes one more time. If you hear cursing and general unpleasantness in the vicinity of Indianapolis, it means access was denied again, and my head is probably exploding. Duck.

Brazil nuts in your mocha? OH HELL YEAH!

This afternoon, a guy came in and ordered this drink: a large latte with one pump of chocolate, four pumps of sugar-free caramel syrup, nonfat milk steamed to 140 degrees, with light whipped cream and caramel drizzle. I handed him his finished drink and out of the corner of my eye watched him take the lid off. He stirred it, took a drink, and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag of finely chopped pecans. He sprinkled the top liberally with the nuts, replaced the lid, took another sip and walked off.

WTF?

At what point did he decide chunks of pecans would be a lovely accompaniment to a hot espresso drink? And he carries them around in his pocket? Who carries nuts in their pockets?

And how the hell do you SIP on pecans?

Listy McListerson

1. I have three children. I can't even tell you how many times I've held my baby for some nurse to poke with a needle. Today, when the otherwise very sweet nurse stabbed my fifteen-month-old's chubby, dimpled thigh two times, I wanted scream velociraptor-style and then rip her head off. SHE MADE MY BABY CRY. Apparently it never gets easier.

2. While Boobers completely recovered and is just fine now, I still used him as an excuse to get out of something I didn't want to go to tonight. If you're going to feed, clothe, and rip people's heads off for your kids, the least they can do is give you an out for something once in a while.

3. I officially start school on Monday. I'm taking seven credit hours. I already know that I'll have to do a research paper for the English class I'm taking. I'm already overwhelmed and nervous that this will cut into my blogging time. Fucking higher education.

4. Oh, and school? I don't have books yet because I'm taking online classes and the damn online classes don't show up online until the very first day of school. Look, I like procrastination as much as the next gal, but not when I've invested several thousands of dollars on something. Speaking of, WHERE IS MY STUDENT LOAN?

5. This post right here makes my 94th post. That's only six away from 100! (I did the math for those who have trouble with it, like, uh, me.) I'm thinking I'm going to have a little contest to celebrate and to make all you lurkers delurk. So keep an eye out for it, and prepare to be dazzled by fabulous prizes! (Okay, a prize, and it probably won't be SUPER fabulous. But still.)

Olympic Observations

I've enjoyed watching the Olympics this year, probably too much. I love the swimming, diving, gymnastics. My only complaint is that you have to watch during the day or very late at night to catch the coverage of the not so popular sports.

Women's 20K race walk. I didn't even know race walking was an Olympic event. It may very well be the oddest thing ever. The rules are simple: one foot must always be on the ground and your knee has to be straight unless the leg is behind you. This makes these women's strides look alien, like their legs are perhaps made of Jell-O. Jell-O going 60 miles an hour. The whole time I watched, I kept wondering, why don't they just go ahead and jog? Or you know, break out in a run? And how do they stop themselves from not?

Badminton. Best sport ever, really. My partner and I were number one in our 10th grade PE class tournament. It was the first and only time I was number one at anything regarding PE. I'm sure we were a site to behold: a short, chubby girl and her tall, chubby, gay male partner. BUT WE KICKED ASS. And if I had only known at the time that badminton was an Olympic event, I may have tried even harder in gym.

Table tennis. I knew this was in the Olympics, but the other day they were showing the ping pong players as they "trained." They kind of jogged around the ping pong tables and did little arm rotations. And yes, I giggle, but I'm fully aware of the fact that even the worst table tennis player could whoop my ass into a grease stain.

Rhythmic gymnastics. That's the one where they twirl ribbons and throw balls in the air, flip and turn, and then catch them. I adore the sport even though the husband insists it was made up for the people who couldn't cut the real gymnastics. I haven't caught any coverage of it yet, but I think I'll DVR it and force the husband to watch all of it.

So what's your favorite lesser-known Olympic event? Your answer has to be one of those sports that's only shown at 3 AM. Everyone adores Michael Phelps and little Shawn Johnson. I want to know about your crush on Olga Kaniskina, the awesome Jell-O legged race walker.

Free to good home

While sitting on the couch, Boobers and Smella snuggling in my lap, Smella declares that she likes her baby brother.

"You do?"

"Uh huh. And he likes me!"

"I think he does too. Do you think we should keep him?"

"Yep."

"Should we throw him in the trash?"

"No!" Complete with horrified expression.

"Okay, no trash. Should we give him to C (a close friend of mine that Smella adores)?"

"Yes!"

"But I thought we were keeping him! Why do you want to give him to C?"

"C likes him too! We could share!"

Okay, okay. I guess maybe Barney isn't all that bad. Just look at the lessons she's learned already!

And I come running when you want me here*

On Friday, I bought tickets to see Ben Folds in October. He's playing with a philharmonic orchestra, and it should be fairly mind-blowing. It will be about the sixth or seventh time I'll have seen him live, and I can't wait.

But did I ever tell you about the time I kinda sorta met him? No? That may be because it barely really happened. Hell, I was there and almost missed it.

A few years ago, he was doing a tour at small colleges. I happened to hear a blurb one day on the radio, and tickets were only $10, so the husband and I decided to go. Tickets were general admission, so we got to De Pauw early to walk around and then eventually get in line to wait for hours for the best possible seat. On our way to the end of the snaking line, walking down the sidewalk towards us, was a shortish guy, camera slung around his neck, a stretchie cap pulled down low. The closer he got to us, we realized it was HIM.

Just as I had decided that yes, by god, that was Ben Folds, he looked up and made eye contact and smiled. Are you ready for this? I said,

"Hi."

I think he replied hi back, grinned at our stunned faces, and kept walking.

No autograph. No handshake. No "Ohmigawd, I adore you, you're talented, I will have your babies RIGHT NOW." Just "hi."

I don't have many regrets in life. But that whole scenario has to be number two or three on my list.

So on a Friday evening in October, I will be hanging around the venue, keeping an eye out. Because next time I meet Ben Folds on a sidewalk, I will totally offer to bear his children. Or at least formally introduce myself.

*If you know where that's from without benefit of Mr. Google, we can be BFFs. Seriously. 4-ever.

I blame my age on that damn Michael Phelps

"So you know that watching the Olympics means we're old, right?"

"But I've watched the Olympics for several years now!"

"Yeah, me too. But this year? This year I've actually been excited that the Olympics are on."

"Oh, well, yeah, that can't be a good sign."

FAIL

It's happened. One of those "my kids will NEVER..." happened. See, I always took pride in the fact that MY kids only watch kids shows that I could tolerate. My children's baby-sitter was going to be high quality. That meant no fucking Barney.

Big D was born in 2001, right at the height of Barneydom. The few kids I had baby-sat for before Big D were completely and utterly addicted to Barney, so by the time I had Big D, I knew I had to keep him as far away from the dinosaur as I could. And it worked. Big D was hooked on a lot of other less migraine-inducing shows, like Blues Clues and Dora. Those I could handle. The cheesy, singing purple guy? No.

Sometime late last year, a good friend of mine sent me some of her daughter's outgrown clothes for Smella. Some of them were a bit too big still, so I tucked them away while we waited for a growth spurt. A couple of weeks ago, I dragged that box out, hoping to find some pj's for Smella. There was a Barney t-shirt. Barney and his good chums BJ and Baby Bop. I tried to quickly hide the evidence, but it was too late. "Mommy! Who is THAT?"

She has bugged me ever since that day to watch Barney. I have no idea how she knows Barney is a show. No one let it slip over here. So this morning, as Smella wore her t-shirt, she insisted I put Barney on right.this.minute.

In a moment of weakness, I did.

Not only did Smella thoroughly enjoy the show, her baby brother busted several moves to the chirpy, syrupy songs.

It only took one hit off the crack pipe that is Barney, and they're already scrambling to sell toys to get their next fix.

I'm not even sure they make new episodes, but On Demand has some.

They've watched two of them already.

I'm looking into DVRing some reruns that are on later this afternoon.

I should've torched that damn t-shirt.

He could totally get a job in Times Square

Purell, Post-its, and Kleenex, oh my

I tried to keep my excitement to a minimum, but I probably grinned way too big as I waved Big D off to second grade this morning. It helps that he was so ready to go back; hanging around the house with your little sister and brother is only so entertaining.

Do you see that backpack? It was stuffed with folders, crayons, and scissors. But that wasn't all. Big D also had to carry a separate bag filled with Other School Supplies that Annoy Kelly. OSSAK, as we will refer to them, include hand sanitizer, facial tissues, Post-its, baby wipes, and Ziploc bags.

Let's review. I pay taxes. People who don't even have children pay taxes. I pay $100 for "book rental." And on top of that, I have to send in freaking Kleenex.

Okay, fine. Kids are messy. I'm sure baby wipes come in handy at times. Come flu and cold season, I'll be grateful they're passing around the Purell. But Post-its? I was asked to send three packages of Post-its. Let's say there are 25 kids in Big D's class. That's 75 packages of Post-its. And there are usually three to four pads in a package. So that's...AN INORDINATE AMOUNT OF POST-ITS. While I try my best never to sound like a bitter old woman, I went to school for thirteen years and not only managed, but thrived without Post-its.

I'll hush, be glad I can afford it, and send in the OSSAK. But if I don't see some terrific project made entirely out of yellow sticky sheets of paper by the time this school year is over, I'm raising all sorts of hell.

Listy McListerson

1. I went and had my hair dyed last night. I've never had my hair professionally colored, but I sprung for some highlights. It is so freaking cute.

2. The husband would never blog about it, but he has a cold. A little head cold. The whining that has taken place in this house has been deafening.

3. This is the last weekend before Big D heads to second grade. I'm excited and sad all at once. Mostly excited. But it also means homework, deadlines, bedtimes, et cetera, et cetera. And it means fall is around the corner and then fucking winter with its ice and snow and holidays.

4. Boobers has learned to climb up on furniture all by himself. While it's kind of neat and very cute to watch him sit on a couch and feel SO proud of himself, I spend most of the day saying, "Sit down. Boobers, sit down. Sit. Sit, Boobers. SIT DOWN!" so that he doesn't fall head first onto the floor. I don't think he grasps that whole concept of gravity yet.

5. Last night, every time I wandered into the pantry to look for something to graze on, I kept smelling this...smell. Like someone had perhaps shoved a dead body in there. And then let it mold. AND NO ONE LET ME KNOW. So I spent a couple hours emptying it and wiping down walls and throwing away boxes that had three noodles left in them. The culprit? A bag with three potatoes that had been sitting on a shelf for, oh, nine years? Okay, not nine years, but I can't tell you when I bought those potatoes. I also had no idea innocent little potatoes could ever smell that bad. I'm also more than a little ashamed I don't clean out that pantry more often.

What I've been reading this summer

My mom, who shares my obsession with pouring over cookbooks, bought me the holy grail of cookbooking:

There are things I've always wanted to try to make but didn't want to just randomly pick some recipe from the Internet, I don't care how many good reviews it had:

I *heart* mac and cheese and adore trying new versions of it.


Okay, honestly, I've never tried Saag Paneer. But I want to. And I want to try my own hand at it. I love that I now have a trustworthy recipe for it.

And then some recipes are really, really interesting to read, but I'm pretty sure my local Kroger doesn't carry some of the ingredients:

Ostriches will totally peck your eyes out if you get close enough.

I'm thinking several dinner parties are in my near future. Because it's no fun cooking if you don't have an audience. Much like blogging! And then I can totally turn around and blog about cooking.

I'll be sure to thank the mom for the multiple gifts.

Charlotte has taken up residence

Big D's always been a bit of a sleepwalker. Several months ago, after he'd been in bed for a couple of hours, we heard him banging around in his room. When we opened the door to check on him, he had dropped trou and was standing at his nightstand, peeing on it. He never really woke up, and so we steered him back to bed and cleaned up the mess.

It looks like Big D will be keeping us on our toes at night. Sometime around 2 AM this morning, we were woken up by Big D saying, "Uh, there's a spider in my room?" The husband jumped up, and as he grabbed a wad of tissue to kill said spider (Seriously. I already knew Big D was full of shit, but the husband, he's gullible), Big D says, "Yeah, he built a web on my bed!"

The way all this was said, dreamy and quiet, I knew Big D wasn't fully awake. I followed the husband into Big D's room to find...nothing. Just a slept-in bed scattered with a couple of Matchbox cars. We told him that hey, looks like the spider's gone, big guy, how 'bout we go back to sleep? And in his sleepy haze, Big D agreed and climbed back into bed.

The husband and I giggled all the way back to our bed. As long as no one's hurt or really upset, Big D's middle-of-the-night escapades are hilarious. If for nothing else, just so we can ask Big D, "How'd YOU sleep last night?"

I think they grow overnight

As the husband mentioned so eloquently in his last post, my mom kept the kids overnight for us on Friday. We haven't spent a night alone together since Thanksgiving, when we begged my mom to keep them so we could head out at four in the morning to shop on Black Friday. Let this be a lesson for those who want multiple children: it makes finding free childcare difficult.

We had more fun than two parents of three in their 30's and almost 30 should have. There was eating a restaurant that little people aren't even allowed into. There was Velveeta cheese dip with tuna (I gagged while typing that) and lots of laughing until someone (okay, me) almost peed her pants. And when we finally were done, spent, so tired we could barely walk, we dragged ourselves home and into bed and fell asleep. There was no staticky baby monitor in the background, no tip-toeing, just crawling into bed and crashing. It was lovely.

We slept in. With no one to feed breakfast to, no diapers, just sleep. Until 9:30. Yeah. It was all the sleeping in we could muster. We're so used to getting up early, that even being up until 3:00 AM the night before couldn't make us sleep until noon. Who needs more than six hours of sleep? THE WEAK, THAT'S WHO.

After we ate a leisurely breakfast together, we went to fetch our babies. They were glowing happiness, having been spoiled rotten by grandma and grandpa. We listened as my mom told us how sweet and behaved they were and how much fun she had had with them in the eighteen hours we were gone.

I watched them playing in the front yard, chasing and laughing, still on a grandparent's house high, feeling refreshed and calmer than I had in a long time. So when Big D ran up to me, pink-cheeked and grinning, and asked, "Did you miss us? Did you?" I could honestly say that yes, I had.

Customer of the Day

It's been a SUPER FUN week at work, what with all the dumb dumbs having trouble navigating the drive-through and such. And last night was no exception! Rudeness and stupidity abounds!

See, most public places open at a certain time, and then in turn, close at a certain time. Oh, I know there are plenty of place that never close, but I don't work for one of those places. The place I work for closes every night. At the same time. For those who don't know what time that is, it's posted on the door. The door you open to come in.

Last night, nearly ten minutes after our scheduled close time (because people love coming to an establishment three minutes before close, therefore delaying close), I was walking to the door, keys in hand, to lock it. At the same time, a younger couple was walking up. I met them at the door, apologetic, but READY TO GO HOME. I told them, sorry, we closed at 11, and smiled to hide my annoyance.

*BIG SIGH* I can't even get a tea?

Oh, sorry, we already dumped the tea for the day.

As she turned to walk away, I told her we had another location a few minutes away that was open 24 hours. She sneered back that she didn't want to drive all the way there for a stupid tea.

Well then, I guess she didn't want that tea very damn bad after all. But my biggest question is, who the hell did she think she was? Why should I keep a store open just for her? We're a coffee shop. We sell a luxury, not a necessity. (Oh SHUSH now. I don't care what anyone says, you won't die without coffee.) It's not like we sell live-sustaining medication or toilet paper even. Just frou-frou luxury beverages. GET OVER IT. You can get a tea tomorrow. Like, when we're actually open.

That saying? The one that goes "you get more flies with honey than vinegar"? It's SO TRUE. If she hadn't been such an entitled snot, I may have relented. But with the *BIG SIGH* and the sneer at the end, I wouldn't have doused her with tea had she been on fire.

Lesson of the day? Other than the cliche saying? People mostly suck. Thanks, drive on through please.

A little Wednesday night entertainment

Last night, driving home from work, I saw firetrucks pull into our neighborhood before me. Something about the sight of firetrucks always makes a knot in my stomach, and especially when they're headed to where I reside. I turned down a different street instead of following them, but when I made the turn to drive to my house at the end of a cul-de-sac, I saw the firetrucks had beaten me and were blocking the whole street. I pulled into a neighbor's empty driveway and phoned the husband to tell him I couldn't get home.

I sat and watched the action. Firemen milled around in their gear, unhurried, and the knot loosened a little. And in reality, it must've been a false alarm, because not soon after I decided to leave my parked car and walk home past the rumbling firetrucks and firemen giving me quizzical looks, they hopped in the trucks and left.

But I did notice while sitting in that driveway, ten or so houses from mine, that my neighbors are weird. A woman nearby had walked out of her house to chat with a fireman. She had a guitar from what appeared to be Guitar Hero strapped to her chest. I guess she didn't have time to be interrupted in the middle of rocking out.

A man in a Jeep Liberty who lives near the front of the neighborhood, several streets away, circled the block several times. Like, Guitar Hero lady couldn't be interrupted, but Jeep Liberty man had all the time in the world to drive around aimlessly, nosing around at midnight.

And then later, after the trucks had left and all was quiet, and I walked back down to retrieve my car and park it in our driveway, there was a golf cart bumping down our street, followed shortly by the Jeep Liberty guy again. A GOLF CART. What better way to find out what's going on in the world than a leisurely ride in a golf cart around the 'hood?

I'm thinking next time there's a disturbance, cop cars, or lawd forbid a fire on our street, I'm setting up a wienie cart and selling refreshments. Hell, depending on the viewpoint, I might even rent out lawn chairs. I COULD BE RICH.

A phone call

What've you been up to?

Oh, I'm trying to clean the house.

I thought you cleaned the house yesterday.

Nooo...

But it was clean when I came home!

Oh, hell, man! It was straightened up! I meant clean...like scrub toilets, hose down a shower, mop...that kind of thing.

Gah! You should just speak English!

A lesson in navigating a drive-through

In most drive-throughs, you drive up to a speaker where some underpaid peon wearing a crappy headset takes your order. Did you know that you can't drive up to one at a 90 degree angle? You can't pull up into a drive-through and have your windshield face the speaker. It doesn't trip the sensor if you do. I KNOW! SENSOR! Like, the sensor that "dings!" in our headset, letting us know there's a slack-jawed cretin who'd like to order a mocha choco latte ya ya. Contrary to popular belief, there isn't a small, green elf who sits on the outside menu, waiting for a car to pull up to the general vicinity of the speaker, and then runs inside to let us know someone else can't figure out how to trip a drive-through sensor.

Okay. So if you don't trip the sensor, we don't know you're there, waiting, for like, ohmigawd, ten minutes. What do you think your next plan of action should be? ABSOLUTELY you should pull up to the window and honk. But I'm going to tell you right now, that because it's THREE MINUTES UNTIL CLOSE, all the little peons inside the store are busting ass trying to get everything clean and ready for open the next morning, so it's possible, slightly possible, that someone is not standing directly in front of the window waiting for your honk. I know. It's sheer craziness. And since in this cleaning/readying process it may be noisy in the store, with vacuuming, mopping, and the screaming that takes place because WOOT! we only have three minutes!, we may not hear your honk either.

But then you should definitely come into the store. Yes. Even though you have your pj's on. Even though you only have six teeth to your name. Definitely come in, now two minutes until close, and order five drinks. And make sure to bitch wildly about the fact that you were waiting! for ten minutes! (Seriously? I'd have waited four minutes, tops.) and you honked! but no one came! honked and WAVED!

We'll still make your drinks, smiling through gritted teeth. But listen. You're not getting free drinks, even though I'm well aware that you were hinting at that. You'll get an apology and a quick lesson in navigation like, "Maybe you didn't trip the sensor. That happens sometimes." And I am SO blogging about your dumb, toothless, pj-wearing ass so that others can learn from your stupidity mistake.

Who has a case of the Mondays?

1. I have lots of little things to blog about, but nothing major. So I'm doing a list again, which annoys me because my last post was a list. But dammit, nothing's happened that deserves a big, long post.

2. See? I just used #1 to explain this whole post. And look what I'm using #2 for!

3. I'm immensely tired of my job. Like, SO TIRED. I want to just walk in, do my job, and then leave. But there always has to be drama. And I think I may be rolling my eyes too much, because I was asked the other day if I was okay. "You know, I know you're really sarcastic, I know, but really...is everything okay with you?" SIGH. Here's a newsflash: I'm not always ecstatic about work. I know, right? Sometimes, like I said before, I just want to go in and WORK. Not build relationships, not pay anybody any mind, just work. It's a foreign concept to these people.

4. Also TIRED of my stupid house. I feel like I'm in a damn hamster wheel, spinning and spinning and never getting anywhere. Why bother picking anything up and cleaning anything? It'll be just like it was in ten minutes.

5. TIRED of not having extra money. So the hamster wheel kind of fits in with working too.

6. To date, this may be the lamest post I've ever done. I'm still hitting "publish" because I have nothing better.

7. It is quite possible I have PMS. Because a) I hate everyone right now, b) I feel like simultaneously screaming in rage and crying, and c) I NEED A CANDY BAR, STAT.

Listy McListerson

1. Our new pillow-top, smooshy, comfy mattress was delivered yesterday. It's a lot taller than our old set, which will take some getting used to. Because lord help anyone who falls out of it.

2. You know what pisses me off? When you set out to bake a batch of cookies only to find that you have about a cup of flour and your damn recipe calls for 1 1/3 cups. NO BLACK AND WHITE COOKIES FOR YOU.

3. Also annoying, the fact that Smella loudly protests every day about taking a nap and then promptly falls asleep within five minutes. If it weren't so wildly inappropriate, I'd love to go in and wake her up just to tell her See? You were tired. I was right. AGAIN.

4. Big D goes back to school in nineteen days. You know what that means? One less scream-inducing kid during the day and SCHOOL SUPPLIES. If you see a woman in Target drooling over the notebooks and markers, it's probably me. Come say hi.

5. School starting also means book rental. From what I've gathered, book rental is an uncommon occurrence in the US. Apparently other states take these things called taxes and they cover your children's book/desk/paperclip usage at school. Huh. Neato. I much prefer shelling out $100. I'm sure that means Indiana kids' books are way better quality.

De-Mulleted

Because I like tormenting myself at least once a week, I finally decided to have Boober's hair cut. It was time, the husband liked to remind me, because people were asking, "Oh. Um, sooo cute. Is that a boy or a girl?" Never mind the head to toe blue and various manly vehicular appliques that Boober's clothing is adorned with, his hair was past his ears. What the hell gender is that there kid?

But I acquiesced. And the only reason I did is because Boobers was sporting one hell of a mullet. To no fault of anyone, his hair had failed to grow a lot on top, but it was ALL party in the back. A slightly curly, stringy party. I don't mind longer hair on boys, but there will be no mullets in this house.

So without further ado, the before. Before pictures are easy because Boobers is always running away from the camera.

And the afters. Look at those damn eyelashes. Jealous?

On a related note, I now have three envelopes of varying shades of baby hair. Um, EW. And the only reason I have these envelopes is because the hair people MAKE me. Don't even think you're trying to walk out of a barber shop/salon without them. Look. I love my babies. I love every single hair on their little heads. But I don't feel it necessary to hang on to those dead, wispy strands. In fact, it makes me slightly gaggy. But I'll keep them, because that's JUST WHAT YOU DO apparently.

Up next, I'll show you how to incorporate your baby's dried umbilical cord stump in a lovely scrap booking layout.

Overheard

This morning, while I fixed Boober's breakfast and the older two sat and ate:

Boobers: Mmmm! Numnumnum!

Smella to Big D: I think he wants a bite.

Big D: Well, I'm not giving him a bite!

Smella: Well, I'm not giving him a bite either!

Boobers: Numnumnum! *whine*

Smella: I fink he's hungry.

Big D: You should give him a bite.

Smella: NO! You give him a bite!

***

At the Little Rock Zoo, standing in front of the grizzly bear exhibit, watching a huge bear sniffing the air for baby snacks.

Me: Look, Smella! See the bear? Isn't that cool?

Smella: Uh huh. Can I wide him?

***

Upon entering Smella's bedroom in the morning, wearing a pair of plaid pj pants I dug out of hiding in my dresser.

Me: Hi, baby!

Smella: Mommy! Are those new pants? Those pants are BEAUTIFUL, mommy! I love them! Did you buy them at the store? They are so pretty! Are they blue? I love blue!

Me: Uhhh...thank you?

There have to be rules

Things I try not to eat in public:

Spaghetti. I still haven't mastered the art of slurping/biting noodles so that they don't spray myself and nearby diners.

Ribs. You just can't use a damn fork.

Ice cream cones. Really. Drippy obtuseness. And I inevitably get a cone that leaks.

Chicken wings. Once again, no fork. Red, sticky sauce all over fingers and mouth. And cheeks. Sometimes in hair. Never a wet wipe to be found.

Things I will eat in public, onlookers be damned:

Huge corned beef with mustard on rye sandwiches from this restaurant.

Anything from a fair or festival, including but not limited to: smoked turkey legs, elephant ears, funnel cakes. (The Indiana State Fair starts in three weeks. Woot!)

Anything from this restaurant. Including tiny bundles of fried squid legs, crusty bread dipped into warm, gooey goat cheese, and multiple types of meatballs. Mmmm, meatballs.

Stolen bites from the husband's plate of seared beef tongue from this restaurant. Followed up with beet ice cream.


I may have food issues. Okay, I definitely have multiple food issues. I could probably devote a whole blog to them. SO?

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go grab a snack now.

The one where I toot my own horn. Get it? Toot!

While visiting the husband's parents, they gave him his snare drum from high school to take home. We are now the proud owners of one roughed-up, loud snare drum. The kids adore it. I have no earthly idea where I'll keep it. Thanks, in-laws!

But it did manage to make me wistful about my junior high band career. I was actually pretty good, a first-chair player. I loved playing, and the only reason I stopped is because once in high school, they forced you to be in marching band. I didn't want to march, I wanted to play music, which marching band is so NOT about, and especially for clarinets, my instrument.

So I quit. It hurt me at the time, and it still bugs me. Apparently my love for the instrument didn't outweigh the hours of outdoor practice during Indiana summer. Or the fact that I'd have to wear a huge woolen purple costume while I marched and tried to play memorized music. I quit band cold turkey, much to the dismay of my band teacher.

I toyed with my clarinet a few times after that, playing what I could remember for the husband when we got together. Mostly it sat by its lonesome in a closet, forgotten about.

Until that Christmas I lived with the husband in Arkansas. We were scrimping and saving enough money to be able to drive home and spend the holiday with my family. Being broke and in desperate need of gas money, I rifled through the closet and found my clarinet. I think the husband tried to talk me out of it, and I had a few moments of doubt, but I hawked it. My beloved clarinet my parents made payments on. (Don't bring this up with my mom. She still threatens to smack me for doing it.)

Would you like to know how much I hawked it for? C'mon. Guess.

Fifty dollars.

Yeah.

I regretted it immediately. As we walked out of the damn door of the music shop, I regretted it. And it still makes me sick to my stomach to think about it. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. Okay, I do, and at the time nothing meant more than going home to be with my family for Christmas, but damn.

I've been scanning craigslist and eBay lately, thinking maybe I'll buy another one. It won't be the same one, and it probably won't even be as good a quality as my first, but at least I'll have a clarinet in my possession. I'm hoping the fingerings and music-reading comes back to me.

And if all else fails, I have three kids. There's a good chance one of them will be a clarinet-playing band geek, right? If it happens, and they quit band, guess who's keeping a hold of their instrument?

Back to the grindstone

I spent yesterday cleaning my car, vacuuming up remnants of mulch we had left while hauling some home a couple of months ago. I even scrubbed all the bug guts off the grill and gave it a waxing.

I grocery shopped.

I actually cooked dinner.

The kids are back to tormenting each other to see who screams the loudest. (Smella always wins.)

I did piles and piles of laundry. (Did you know it breeds and multiplies like rabbits when you leave the house?)

I head back to work tonight, while the husband headed off this morning.

Someone needs to clean a toilet around here.

I miss vacation.

Listy McListerson (Vacation Edition)

1. Always call and check ahead at your hotel. They may only have shower stalls instead of bathtubs, and so you may have to a) shower with a slippery, screamy one-year-old or b) bathe a slippery, screamy one-year-old in the tiny sink. Neither is very fun.

2. It is motherfucking HOT as a motherfucker in Arkansas. I lost five pounds by sweating profusely.

3. At a gas station in Marion, Arkansas, there were a half-dozen redneck men, gassing up their huge trucks for a huntin' or fishin' trip. They were smoking. As they pumped gas. It was some awe-inspiring brilliance.

4. Despite all the warnings that it would be a suck-ass experience, Little Rock Zoo was pretty damn neat. And we were there early enough that we didn't melt as we walked around, and all the animals were out to greet us. Also? Camel rides.




5. Even after eleven or so years, Blackwood's Gyros and Grill is still delicious. The husband recommends The Blackwood, while I'll go ahead and vouch for anything that isn't nailed down. Yum.

6. We got to hang out with my 15-year-old niece and 11-year-old nephew. They're really tall now and make me feel really old.

7. The in-laws managed to not make us too crazy. They were actually very hospitable and friendly, and I wasn't called any names. The mother-in-law also loaded us up with bags and bags of cack. Like toothbrushes from dentist visits, an animated Santa, and bibles. We never visit them and leave with fewer than four bibles. Is she trying to tell me something?

8. Speaking of the godless heathen that I am, would you like to see the biggest, holiest cross this side of the Mississippi?

It makes you feel like screaming amen. Or snickering wildly. Whatever. And huh, there's a freaking website about it.

9. All in all, we had fun. The kids got to see gorillas and where the husband grew up. I got to feel completely out of place with my very northern accent. The husband got to visit with his parents, siblings, and friends he hasn't seen in a few years. The kids mostly behaved, but I don't plan on driving more than 20 minutes with them any time soon. And ohmigawd, people, I MISSED MY BED.

10. One last one. Perhaps the most unfortunate place on Earth to live.


(Many apologies to the fine folks of Cooter, Missouri. I'm sure I'll be able to pass by one day without guffawing immaturely.)

And we're off

I hope to make it back in one, sane piece to regale everyone with tales of the in-laws. Because hoo-boy, there are always good tales after a visit with them. Yup.

Happy 4th and all that jazz too.

First hair cut

After two years, ten months of growing, I took Smella to have her hair cut. It took a long time for her to have any hair; she was still almost bald at her first birthday. But now, it seems she has an inordinate amount of curly, baby-fine hair, wispy and soft. And constantly in her eyes. When asked, "Who has crazy hair?" she would sigh and say, "I do."

So it was time. She was so excited. And aside from the fact that she spoke not one word the whole entire time, she had fun. I could tell. The stylist gushed over her white blond curls, saying over and over how beautiful it was. Smella wouldn't respond, but I could see her eyes twinkle with happiness.

When all was said and done, she looked so much older. She no longer had the long, uneven tendrils of baby hair, but an actual cut. Where she had lopped off a section in the front a few months ago, there were perfectly neat bangs. She grinned and reached her arms for me to help her down off her boostered chair.

In that moment, I saw my baby girl's future in those big blue eyes. Her Kindergarten school picture. Her first grade school picture without those little baby teeth she's sporting now. Her first boyfriend. Her first dance. Broken heart. Wedding. Baby. I sucked back tears and lowered her to the floor.

As I paid for her cut, I watched her out of the corner of my eye as she twirled and danced on the smooth hardwood floor, innocently and unabashedly. She took my hand, and as soon as we stepped out of the door, she broke her shy silence and chattered constantly the whole way home.

I'm really hoping she doesn't need her hair trimmed any time soon. I'm not sure my heart can take it.

Ready, set, shop!

I loaded the kids up and headed to Target this afternoon. I needed a few last-minute things for AR. And new shoes for Big D. And a new shirt for myself. And they make travel-size packages of Clorox wipes! I can clean a whole hotel room with a Clorox wipe! Oooh, and three new board books for Boobers for the car ride!

So I can't leave a Target for less than $50. I'VE TRIED.

What's really impressive is that I took all three kids with me shopping, something I try never, never to do. But I'm an expert Targeter (I've been training for years) and can manage to rack up $50 in under ten minutes. I could kick ASS at one of those five-minute shopping sprees.

Because my children? Not so much into shopping. Okay, Boobers doesn't mind, but give him a few months, and he'll be just as irritating. Unfortunately, Big D is too long-legged to shove into a cart, so he bounces and runs around like he's JUST smoked crack in the backseat of the car. Smella rides in the basket, continuously whining that's she's thirsty. Or she wants that hat. Or ohmigawd, I know you just didn't put something in this shopping cart where I'm trying to lay back and get my whine on.

Boobers sits quietly in the front of the cart. He occasionally points at something that catches his eye and grunts. I try to interact with him, but between reigning in Big D and loudly whispering to Smella to SHUT IT, I tend to forget about him. He's fine with that, because it gives him ample opportunity to suck on the disease-infested cart handle, his favorite shopping past time. And when he's gotten his fill of Target germs and virus, he likes to dig through my purse, eating stray morsels he finds and dialing Cambodia on my cell phone.

A shopping excursion usually ends with a couple of kids crying, a white-knuckled drive home with lots of deep breathing, and nap time as soon as we hit the front door.

But in theory, taking the kids with me saves money. Do you know what kind of damage I could do by myself in an hour? Whoo. I think I just heard the husband pass out.

Preparing to vacate

I have a list a mile long of shit to do before we leave for Arkansas on Friday. I know I'm going to forget something. I keep referring to my five or six lists, but I still feel panicky. And the funniest part of the whole thing? The kids are most excited about the fact that the hotel we're staying at has a pool.

I've reminded the husband several times of the money would could save if we just stayed in an Indianapolis Super 8 or something. We wouldn't even use that much gas! No ten-hour car rides! I could afford the digital SLR I've always wanted! And the best part? His parents wouldn't be there!

He isn't amused.

Customer of the Day

A middle-aged couple stopped in last night, one of the busiest nights I've witnessed since around the holidays. I took their orders, and as I handed their finished drinks to them, the man said, "There are a bunch of kids sitting outside, talking on their cell phones."

"Oookay," I replied, waiting for the big revelation like, ...and they're being loud or ...and they're throwing spitballs or ...and they're humping like crazed rabbits on the tabletops.

I stared at them dully, clearly not understanding what the problem was. The woman stepped up and whispered, "They're like, loitering." And her husband gave me a knowing, solemn nod.

I somehow refrained from screaming and foaming at the mouth at them.

HELLO? It's a coffee shop, people. It's the whole purpose of a damn coffee shop. To get a coffee and then loiter about. There isn't a time limit, and as long as the kids are being polite and orderly, I can't make them leave! It was a lovely night, and I'm sure you wanted to sit outside and enjoy your mocha choco latta ya ya while you talked stocks and bonds and played old people footsie with each other, but seats are a first-come, first serve basis here. You know, how like most places in the fucking free world are.

No, I didn't scream that. I wanted to. What I really did was blink a couple of times and say, "Oh. Oookay. I see."

They looked slightly annoyed with the whole situation, but they grabbed their drinks and left, walking past the thugs sitting out on the patio, who were probably texting Satan himself while guzzling white mochas.

Fuckin' kids.

Listy McListerson

1. I took my mini-SUV to the Suzuki dealership to have a wheel bearing replaced yesterday. They couldn't finish it but assured me it would be done today. Supposedly it's covered under warranty, so I shouldn't owe anything. I'll still be bringing Astroglide though, because you just know a screwing will probably happen.

2. C turned 29 yesterday, and then proceeded to bitch and whine about just how old it was. And I was all, ahem, I've been 29 for six months and everything is just fine and I'll be 30 this year, and MAN am I excited about it so PLEASE shut up.

3. The husband loves to make fun of this little state we live in. And for the most part, I agree with him, but there's still this fierce need to protect this dumb state. I can't explain it. I think it may stem from the fact that he's from ARKANSAS. Has it been so long that he's forgotten? Forgotten that people have fewer teeth there and call shopping carts "buggies"? That their unofficial mascot is a hairy warthog of a pig with fangs? That they like to yell "SOOWEE!" to each other? How the hell do you forget that?

4. I think in order to distract me from the fact that he talks mad smack about Hoosierville, the husband bought me Wolf Parade's first album. It's so good that I mostly forgive him. Mostly.

5. I got nothin' for 5. So how about one of my most favorite pictures of all time? Boobers really embodied the whole clown spirit.

Customer of the Day

On Sunday nights, a church youth group comes to visit our store. I like to lovingly refer to them as The GodSquad. There's usually anywhere from four to ten of them, and they're just the most wholesome kids you'd ever want to meet. They sweetly order hot chocolates and teas, and then sit out in the lobby and braid friendship bracelets. No lie. Isn't that just so syrupy sweet you could gag a little?

However, child of the big G or not, it's never cute to order a "mocha choca lotta ya ya" at a coffee shop. I do not think it's funny. In fact, it may annoy me so much that I can't even crack a smile when I reply that we JUST ran out of mocha choca lotta ya ya. No, I might looked pained and slightly irritated. Which in turn makes the remaining members of the GodSquad feel embarrassed and awkward for you, and how are they supposed to braid bracelets with that kind of vibe?

Freakin' Usher

I've had this song in my head ALL. DAY. LONG. The dumbest song in creation, but dammit, it's catchy.



My favorite part, and perhaps the most beautiful lyrics ever written:

Let's both get undressed right here

Keep it up girl I swear

Imma give it to you non stop

And I don't care who's watchin, watchin, watchin

As for Usher, that man has the WEIRDEST hairline ever and sticky-outy ears. He's just not very cute at all. For the record, I would not make love to him in a club. On the bar or floor. Definitely not in a bathroom. Okay, maybe in a bathroom. But he'd so have to wear a bag over his big ear/weird hairline head. Because Usher from the neck down? Deliciousness.

I'm in love with a city

The husband surprised me with a trip to New York for our sixth wedding anniversary about four years ago. It was the best surprise anyone's ever given me, and I'm sure I'll never be able to trump it.

It also was the best vacation of my life, and I'm also pretty sure it will never be trumped either.

We were there only about four days, and we tried to pack in as much as we could. The Empire State Building at night, the Staten Island Ferry to pass by the Statue of Liberty, the Museum of Natural History. It was all breathtaking and inspiring. We walked miles and miles through that city, occasionally hopping on the subway. But while the subway was entertaining and quick, you missed so much by not treading the streets.

By the time we left, I was in love. Madly, deeply in love with a truly alive city. If it weren't for the fact that we had left my Big D back home, I would've stayed. I could've pitched a tent in the middle of Times Square and lived harmoniously with the Naked Cowboy and been completely happy. As the plane touched down back home in Indy, I was literally homesick for a city I'd only visited for a handful of days.

As I plan and research this upcoming trip we're taking, I can't help but veer my searches to New York occasionally, browsing flights and hotels, just counting down the days until we can go back sometime. I miss the honking and then the "no honking" signs on 5th Avenue, central park, the hotdog carts, the little lapdogs in Saks. I yearn for all of it.

I know we'll go back sometime, and I know Arkansas in a few weeks will be fun for us and the kids, but I wish my chest wouldn't tighten and my eyes get teary every time I think of it.

It's probably none of my business

I think it's finally been long enough that I can say what the most common phrase people Google to get to my blog. The same thing has been searched for by different people several times now, and boy, is it interesting. Are you ready?

nude coworker

Okay, so a couple of things here. One, you're probably highly disappointed when you do click on my link, because um, I'm not really about nude coworkers here, and there are definitely no pictures. Sorry. And two, whose nude coworker? Mine? Yours? Just some random weirdo's coworker? WHY? I don't know about your place of employment, but I don't want to see any of the people I work with sans clothing.

Most of the other things people search are mundane, normal things. However, there was one search a few days ago that was, I don't know, noteworthy? Scary? Really, really disturbing?

asshole pump

I've heard of pumping things up. Tires come to mind. Lips, okay. But why in the hell would you ever need that part of your anatomy pumped? I just...can't even fathom. And how sad were you when you found that I was just talking about pumps of vanilla syrup?

So all freaks take note: I'm making an effort from here on out to write about puppies, flowers, and rainbows.

I highly recommend torture to overcome your fears

Ever have one of those "What the fuckity fuck was I thinking?" moments? Oh, come now, everyone's had them. I think my very first one with regards to the kids was the first Chuck E. Cheese birthday party. As Big D clung to my leg in sheer terror from the large, slightly musty-smelling rat that came to wish him birthday cheer, as the token-sucking game machines chirped and whistled, as the hundred or so children shrieked and screamed and ran around the restaurant, I thought to myself, "What the fuckity FUCK?"

Another one of my favorite moments was some time last summer. Boobers was only a few weeks old, and even though I was as sleep deprived as I've ever been in my life, I needed to clean the house. So when the Boobers went down for his nap, I dragged out my vacuum. Big D wasn't a fan of the vacuum from about birth up until age three. Smella never really seemed to mind it, and I don't know if it was just a phase or having a new baby brother that upset her little world, but she was acting scared every time I ran it. So as she sat on the couch, clutching her blankie, whimpering, I had my brilliant idea.

"Look, Smella! It's okay! It's just the vacuum. Look!" And I proceeded to take the hose attachment and vacuum my shirt a little. "See how funny? Here! Let's try it on you!"

SERIOUSLY? No, I can't believe the awe-inspiring stupidity either, people.

Smella screamed and then began sobbing hysterically. In a last ditch effort to salvage any trust she ever had in me, I turned to Big D.

"No, sweetie! It's fun! Look, Big D likes it!" As I turned to Big D, he ran in circles as I tried to catch him and just, you know, suck up his shirt a little in the vacuum. "No, Big D! C'mon, let me try it on you!"

My plan didn't work so well. It's lucky Boobers was asleep, or else I would have probably tried it on him. I was that desperate to prove the Smella the vacuum wasn't this scary loud device of torment. No, it was just a little Hoover looking for a good time. It cleans up crumbs and is great for parties!

Luckily, I don't think I scarred my baby girl for life. Smella's mostly over her hatred of the Hoover.

Although she still eyes me warily when I whip out the hose attachment.

Tips on how not to be an asshole. Again.

Unless you're having some major kind of crisis, like you have a major head wound or are being chased by rabid monkeys, don't walk into a coffee shop one minute before the store closes. And then order four hand-crafted beverages. (Yeah, I said "hand-crafted." WHAT?)

And then, as I make your drinks, don't eye the pastry case longingly for a donut. Because those donuts are already wrapped up, ready for the next morning. The light is off in the case, the glass is all clean and sparkly. Get a clue.

And DEFINITELY don't say, "Awww, we caught you right at closing time." Because then I might have to grit my teeth and smile and nod pleasantly when I really want to jab you in the eye. EVERYTHING WAS CLEAN, dumbass. Because we were closing in ONE MINUTE.

This is why restaurant workers spit in other people's food.* Because for the lovagawd, that's rude.

*I wouldn't do this. I've never done this. BUT I'M JUST SAYING.

He just wishes

The husband has decided to start his very own blog. I think he's witty enough, but I won't blogroll him until he proves himself to me. That means regular, funny, insightful updates, buddy. And despite what he says, there won't be any "sick competition" between us.

That's because you can't compete with me at all, suckah!

Ahem.

So yeah, okay, there may be a little competition. It's why I got married: so I could compete with someone worthwhile on a regular basis. Oh, that and the insurance savings. You know, whatever.

We know how to party hard

While standing in line last night at Target with K and C, giggling like mad loons because we were free, free, FREE of children and husbands, the cashier says, "Looks like a girls night out."

K says, "Yep, that's exactly right."

Cashier smiles. "Everyone needs one of those now and then."

C, completely dry and stone-faced, "We do this every day."

We erupted into another fit of giggles while the cashier looked at us like we had been snorting lines of coke in the shoe aisle.

(We hadn't. We had been trying on all the highest heels we could find though and then testing out our "model walks." Dangerous shit, man.)

I suh-WEAR

If it doesn't stop raining on the poor Indianapolisians (and southern Indianans. And maybe the northern and eastern ones too) that someone is going to have to build a damn ark and paddle us to the Sahara so we can all dry out.

As I drove home from work tonight, the lightning was actually distracting. And a little blinding. And just slightly scary, dammit.

Planning

In about a month, the husband, my three kids, and I will embark on a little roadtrip. We're heading down south to Arkansas to visit the husband's family. It's about a ten-hour trip, and I've already developed an eye-twitch every time I think about it. Ten hours. In one vehicle. Three children. Woooo, there it goes again.

I've already begun making lists. I've never packed for this many people for as long as we'll be gone. Five people, five days, a newly potty trained Smella, a one-year-old. It's quite possible I'll need a u-Haul.

And there's another issue. I drive a Suzuki XL-7. That thing adores gas like a drunken frat girl adores a kegger. We're estimating $400 in gas for the trip. (I try not to remember back when the husband and I were first dating and gas was only 99¢ a gallon.) We've considered renting a smaller (but still big enough to squish two car seats and a seven-year-old in the backseat) car. It looks like with a higher mpg plus the cost of rental, it'd be about the same.

So I'm stressing. Adding things to my four or five lists and stressing. I'm looking forward to the vacation, but I swear the work it takes to get ready for one is unbelievable. I need a vacation from planning the vacation.

Anyone have any tips or advice? Any good ideas on keeping the kids occupied? Anyone have a script for an anti-anxiety med they'd like to share? I could use alllll the help I can get.

Customer of the Day

I haven't tested it before, but I'm almost positive that most restaurants frown upon patrons leaving the store and then coming back in four or five times a day for a drink refill. So it should be no surprise to you, Miss But-That-Other-Location-Said-I-Could!, that we don't allow it either. You can get your drink, hang out in the cafe, and then come get a refill before you head back out to your car, but that's the extent of refill time.

And really. Do you think we'll bend the rules for you if curse at us? Really? Your "I can't believe this shit!" is not going to warm the cockles of our hearts and change our policy. In fact, it'll probably cause us to bitch about you incessantly and try to get you banned from the whole damn store, stupid. And then where will you get your large iced tea with four Splendas? Hmm?

Top secret blog and oh yeah, the husband's a butthead

So I think this blogging thing is going okay. I mean, I'm having fun most of the time. It's gotten tedious once or twice, where I've sat down at the computer, completely overwhelmed with OMG! WTF do I write about?! I think I even have a regular reader or two (hi you guys!). The husband also reads daily and LOVES pointing out spelling or grammar errors. Helpful, that guy.

But he's it as far as friends and family goes. I haven't told anyone about this blog. And from reading others' blogs, that seems a common theme. I don't know why I don't want to tell them. I don't really write anything bad about anyone (save for that co-worker or two, but even that hasn't been awful). The thought just squicks me out a little. I guess eventually I'll spill it, but I'm not quite ready to just yet. There will be a time when it's right, and I'll want to, I'm sure. Or not. And they can just stumble upon it themselves. Whatever.

The husband is fully aware that I don't want to share this little blog yet. We've talked about it. But since he's 32 going on, I don't know, TWELVE, he likes to drop little references to past posts around my parents. The best one? We were hanging out at with my mom the other day while Big D and Smella shared a package of fruit snacks. My mom pointed out how they do loooove some fruit snacks. The husband agreed, saying, "Yeah, it's like kid crack, huh? Ice cream is my crack."

YEAH, I CAUGHT THAT, THE HUSBAND.

It didn't even register on my mom's radar. I refused to make eye-contact with the husband, so I'm not even sure if the jerkface was smirking or not.

All I know is that I know a whole lot about the husband. Like, those kinds of secrets only whispered to each other in the dark while lying in bed together. And we're going next month to Arkansas to visit his parents. I'd hate to have some non-sequitur tidbits slip out of my mouth around his mama. I mean I'd really, really hate for that to happen.

How I met the husband, The Finale

Part I here.
Part II here.
Part III here.
Part IV here.
Part V here.

After leaving my parents house again after Christmas, I probably didn't stop crying until Missouri. When they came to visit us in Arkansas the following March, I was a weepy mess for weeks. And on one of the nights that the husband was consoling me while I sobbed into my pillow from the homesickness, he mentioned the idea of us both moving back to Indiana. Permanently.

Here's where I gush. This man, whom I had known for a little over a year at this point, was willing to give up his family, his state, his comfort. For me. This is why I agreed to marry him.

We wound up moving back in July. I had stayed in Arkansas for a whole year. The husband's parents were crushed, and I'm pretty sure his mom was more than a little irked at me for stealing her baby boy away, but I didn't force the boy at gunpoint. It was his idea, dammit.

We moved in with my parents. I got the job I had before I moved, and the husband found work shortly after. We saved up enough money to buy a used car in September.

And here's where I admit we kind of decided to get married when we did so that we could save on car insurance.

When I called to get quotes, the agent admitted that there would be an obscene amount of money saved if we were married. This still makes no sense to me. Do people become suddenly become awesome, responsible drivers as soon as the marriage license is signed? I'm here to tell you Internet and Allstate that it's not true in the husband's case. Woo boy. Still a crazy driver.

Since the husband and I weren't (and still aren't) very religious and had no want for spending ungodly amounts of our or our parents' money on a huge wedding, we decided to head down to the city county building to visit a justice of the peace. We got the marriage license on Monday, and on Saturday September 19, 1998, we were married. My parents, sister, K and her fiance were there. It was quick and simple, but I meant every word of those vows I said. Despite being urged a little at the thought of saving on insurance, it was the exact right time. I still don't regret it.

The husband and I moved out a few weeks later. My mother-in-law was tickled pink that we were A-OK in the eyes of the Lawd and were no longer living in sin. She was still a whackadoodle, but at least she wasn't calling every so often spouting bible verses.

The husband and I will celebrate ten years this year. We've had ups and downs, of course, but I don't think there's anyone else in the world I could be married to. In a lot of ways, the husband is my exact opposite. He's the quiet one. I'm not. He's great at math. Um, I struggle with that. He tends to be easy-going, and I enjoy a good freak-out from time to time. How we met and ultimately got married was perfect.

And really, could a story be any better to blog about and tell our grandchildren? I think not.

Can't you just smell the cow poo?

C and I made it back from our trip to K's new house on Friday. The drive is as every bit as awful as I expected. There will be no more drop-ins to K's house with an hour and ten minute drive. C and I helped paint K's son's room, and hey, I hate painting. It was the first time I'd actually painted a wall, and I think it pretty much sucks. So there. I've learned something new about myself.


I also ruined a perfectly good shirt because I'm a total dumbass who paints in nice shirts. I really thought, "Painting doesn't have to be messy! I'll just make sure I'm careful." I'm still picking off tiny blue specks of paint from random spots on my body. Duh.

K's neighbors? Really real Amish peoples. Horse and buggy, no electricity Amish. I felt like a total whore sitting on her porch what with my v-neck shirt and Diet Coke, but they were friendly enough to just wave and not smite thee.

I will say that why I'd never pick to live out in the middle of NOWHERE, it is gorgeous and open. Neighbors aren't piled up on one another. It's quieter. Complete strangers wave at you when you drive past. It's quaint and charming. I just really, really, really like Target.