Tuesday is balloon day

The only reason I am coming back early from my internet hiatus is because Tuesdays suck, and yes, I read your comments and emails pleading with me.

I would like to note that if I was truly addicted to the internet, you people would be like my crack dealer, begging me to come back for one more hit. Thanks for all the support! (I love you, too.)

So... here we are again. I'll tell you more about my experiment later, but in the meantime...

TUESDAY PAJAMA BALLOON PARTY!

For no reason whatsoever.

We blew up four balloons yesterday. The girls played with them for hours, and Mike and I realized we were onto something good here.

This morning, the balloon party got a mind of its own. We couldn't stop ourselves.

Me: We need more red. We only have two red. And one yellow won't do, it needs yellow friends.

Mike: What kind of parents blow up a whole pack of balloons just for a random balloon party???

Then we both laughed hysterically and kept blowing them up. What made it funnier is that the girls were convinced it was their surprise birthday party.

Mike: We should make every Tuesday "balloon day" and everyone could act surprised...

Maybe the balloon party is a subconscious effort to make reparations to the kids - we've been traumatizing them in the pool every day. If there is a single bug in the pool, they lose it and bawl at the edge of the pool, which is when I become the cruel mother that stands by and scolds her crying children, We live in the country... you'd better get used to bugs!

I don't think I can do another summer of entomophobia. Last year it was the ants. Oh good god, it's an ANT!!!!! Run for your lives!

Otherwise, we've been having a blast. Last night, we took the girls outside in their pajamas to sit by the campfire. Then we got out the sparklers and tried to teach the girls how to draw objects in the air.

All of which, by the way, makes us those neighbors - the assholes who have campfire pajama parties with sparklers on a Monday night. And the pricks who blow up three dozen balloons on a Tuesday just for the hell of it. Yep, that's us!

As a bonus, I went on a frogitarian (like humanitarian but with frogs) mission last night. I found one of the croaky bastards living by our pool. They must be city frogs, since they like the chlorinated water just fine.

I grabbed him with my left hand and sauntered down the street a half block to a field. I didn't want to risk him squeezing out of my hand while I switched to my dominant throwing arm, so I just threw him like a girl. He may or may not have survived the bounce off the pavement. (Sorry, little buddy...)

When I hunted down his tiny friend with my kung-fu underwater moves, I at least threw him right-handed.

That's just some of the excitement you missed over the last four days.

And yes, I'm back for good this time.

The Experiment

Will the world really be less interesting, fun, or clever when we're gone?

On the flip-side of that self-indulgent coin, how would the world be changed if we were to engage it?

Let's find out, shall we? This should be fun, you just have to be a little patient...

Did you hear?

As I took my 53rd break from cleaning the house yesterday, I clicked over to one of my favorite news sources: The Superficial (because you're ugly). In actuality, it's just a gossip site from a chauvenist perspective, but whatever.

The headline read that Michael Jackson had gone into cardiac arrest. I was reading the article, waiting to find out it was just a pithy title for Michael going to jail, but alas, he was ill. During the two minutes I was reading, the headline switched over... Michael Jackson - DEAD.

Holy man. I was witnessing breaking news!

Now, there aren't many opportunities for a person like myself to stand around a water cooler and gossip, so I didn't waste a moment. I scurried over to Facebook and posted my new status proclaiming the news about the accused child molester / pop star / plastic surgery junkie / king.

And I texted two or three people. Just in case their day hinged on MJ's fate...

Then I waited.

And waited.

And there were rumors that MJ was still alive.

While I would never wish death on anyone, I was hoping he hadn't been resurrected. I didn't want to be wrong. I would have been angry, unless it was a publicity stunt, in which case I would have been in awe of the genius of it all.

As more and more news sources finally confirmed Michael had indeed passed away, I started to think that maybe, just maybe, it was time for me to look for daycare so I can get out of this fucking place. This isn't normal.

So... can you imagine how much I laughed when another stay-at-home mom, Michele, posted nearly the exact same thing?

Michele, we need a vacation from our Candyland lives!

I finally understand why people are afraid of retirement... it's only been five years and my brain has been permanently damaged. Must. do. something. intelligent...

Thursday tidbits

My dad is a text-messaging maniac! I wish I had a witness to recount the look on my face when my father - my 51-year-old father - sent me a text message today. Several, actually. He's already talking about getting a Blackberry. God help us all.

~

Speaking of phones, this is my new one - Samsung Gloss. Plus we have a texting plan... finally. Boo- and a -Yah. I seriously hate Facebook, so this is a godsend! (If any non-stalkerish folk would like my number, please give me a holla.)

~

In less important news, the Depo is working and I have evaded those evil fertility gods for yet another month. Bwahahaha. Who needs periods anyway? (Don't worry, I'll take about a hundred more tests before the year is over. I refuse to ever become one of those girls who doesn't know she's pregnant until she poops a baby.)

~

Since we're on the subject, I had an awkwardly hilarious conversation with Mike. I do a lot of interesting things in my sleep and it's not just limited to sleepwalking (I think you get the drift). Apparently last night I seduced my husband, and at some point mumbled, "Wait... who are you?" followed up by my standard "Am I dreaming?"

Funny, right? Mike thought so. These are the things you come to expect from a chronic sleepwalker.

Side note: I went to bed thinking about Transformers 2, and it would have been even more awkward if I yelled out Megan Fox's name.

~

The girls and I went to Target tonight, and boy what a fun trip that was. At least I came away with some lovely parting gifts.

Like this gorgeous aluminum water bottle by Gaiam.

And no, I don't want to know if I'm gonna get cancer from it or some kind of flesh-eating bacteria. It's pretty and I can't stand plastic-flavored water. Plus I need incentive to work out again. Showing off my pretty new toy seems to be as good an excuse as any.

I also bought this shirt for $13. It screamed, "Geben Sie mir ein Bier, Wench." Since I'm about half German-ish (meaning German, Austrian, or any other nationality that spits when it says half its consonants) I figured it was appropriate.

And for all the stalkers out there, this post was lacking breasts. You gotta know your audience.

~

We went to Von Maur today, simply because I love to torture myself with looking at overpriced everything.

First stop was the sale shoe room - basically a big closet completely lined with shoes. Oh my lord, I forgot how much Alison loves footwear. She had a woman giggling so hard at how excited she'd yell "Momma! Momma! Just like your shoes but they're red!" And then I realized how much that girl is like me when I contemplated buying them. That thought process went a little something like this: I know I own the same pair in yellow, but these are RED. Think of the possibilities. Then I threw the sandal down and ran like hell.

~

To cap off the evening, I'd like to talk about what I am not hearing right now. And that's the sound of frogs - annoying, loud, ridiculous frogs - who had adopted our swimming pool as their egg-laying grounds.

Mike and I emptied the pool, filled it back up, and poured tons of chemicals in the water with the filter going full-speed. Either the frogs are toast, have moved on, or are sporting an extra couple of legs from swimming through chemical death. I honestly don't care. It's so nice to have peace and quiet.

~

Time for bed.

Foiled again!

Remember that exit sign that disappeared after Friday's storm? And was replaced with this temporary one?

Imagine the great pleasure it brought me to find out tonight's storm not only blasted out the few remaining signs throughout town but the temporary exit sign as well. Our town looks like hell. Who needs shingles and siding and landscaping anyway?

I wasn't home at the time. Again. I had packed up the kids - dressed in their gorgeous white dresses from Mexico - with every intention of having a special evening alone with them. I planned to take them to dinner, a trip to the cell phone store, and the grand finale? Target for cat food and litter.

If you think that's exciting, you should hear about "date nights."

Mother Nature had other plans for us this evening. As I left the cell phone store, with no new phone nor texting plan to speak of, I saw the wall of clouds barreling our way. The radio said "Tornado Warnings" and I didn't stop to find out which county. I drove to my parents' house where we were fed and entertained for no charge, and we could make fun of the talking heads getting excited over broken branches on saplings.

At least the girls were treated to a rainbow on the way home.

There's always tomorrow for chores and errands, as well as picking up chunks of house out of the yard.

Dear STALKER

Please stop buying my business cards. It's just plain weird.

(Unless you're doing your part to spread the word about my awesome site, then I might let it slide... just this once. Or if you're from some other country and don't know about customs like not collecting business cards with someone else's name on them.)

But if you're pretending to be me or using the business cards for some kind of crazy sweetened-tater-business-card-suit, stop it. Really. Just stop. And fuck off. If you have a problem with that, leave a comment so I can jack your ass a new crack. Believe it or not, I can find out who you are.

And for anyone coming to my site after getting a pink card with my name on it, please let me know. The person you met was not me.

Thanks so much for your time.

There's no place like home

The best start to a vacation is this phone call, mere hours into the drive:

Mom: Are you okay???

Me (slightly nervous): Um, yeah? Why?

Mom: Have you talked to Mike or anyone this morning?

Me (starting to get really concerned): No... why?

Mom: I just got news that a really bad storm blew through your town an hour ago and took out the neighbor's camper. Flipped it on its side. And there's damage all over town.

Me: Really??? Suh-weet... I must've just missed it. Thank god I left when I did. How's our house?

Mom: I'm not sure. You might want to call Mike at our place and make sure they're okay.

Me: Sure thing.

Mom: What about Moochie?

Me: She's fine, I'm sure. If anything she's hanging from the curtains with excitement.

Our house ended up being okay, with only our garage door for a fatality. Everything else was understandably a mess but fixable.

Throughout town, there were signs of the storm in unusual places. Like this busted out bank sign:

Or an exit sign that went AWOL:

That's how the vacation started. I felt like Dorothy... a tornado hit my house and I was off to a strange and magical land. The land of Milwaukee. Strange and magical indeed.

To start the weekend, my cousin and I went to see her husband's band play. (Behind the Curve... so much fun!) Unfortunately for me and my lofty goals of staying until bar close, I only had one hour of sleep that morning. The band took a short break and that was enough for me. By 1:00 I was sloshing back down the street in my conquered Vera Wang heels.

As a reward, we watched a drunk kid try and fail to put dollar bills into the parking meter. We mercilessly laughed at him until it looked as though he was going to fold the dollar up and leave it there, at which point I rolled down the window and told the drenched fella he didn't need to plug the meter at all. Good times.

The following day, I must've said "This is so nice to not have to think Where are my kids and what are they doing every five seconds" at least three dozen times. At least. I don't even remember what we did all Saturday. Something about rearranging furniture? I think my brain is protecting me by blocking out pleasant, child-free memories. Sigh.

*I've been informed that we took a scenic drive down to Lake Michigan, went on a paddle boat ride, walked to a renovated ex-pumping-house coffee shop, went out for dinner and drinks, picked up ice cream, sang three-part harmonies to Journey in the car, and watched a movie until we all fell asleep. See? Delightful! Which is why my brain must've blocked it out.*

Sunday was Ryan's big 30th birthday party. We ran around like crazy to get it set up, but it was worth what little contribution I could make. I met Ryan's family (Again, except this time I was sober.... yeah, yeah, I know. The last time I met them my cousin was marrying Ryan and it was the first time I was out since the girls were born. Hello, trolley. Hello, Brent's cliche brown bag o' whiskey.)

Everyone remembered me - and apparently I hadn't thoroughly repulsed any of them yet since some of them hugged me and told me it was great to see me - so I was on my best behavior for the afternoon. My mantra? Play nice. Lay off the swears. Play nice. Lay off the swears. Watch the cleavage.

I played the good little mommy and talked about my kids. I also showed pictures when asked. Note to self: they're 4-1/2, not 2-1/2. Time to update the pics.

I even chatted it up with an 80-something-year-old couple about everything from the drive that morning to their bird-watching hobby. People (ahem, Erin) teased me about it, but I said When I'm 80 goddamn years old, I expect some young'uns to listen to my stories of birds and medical concerns and landscaping projects. I think that's why old people crap themselves - revenge. No one's paying attention to me? I'm gonna make them wipe my wrinkled old ass. Maybe while they're down there I can tell them about the new bird feeder I bought...

I spent my last evening relaxing. It was incredible. Sigh, again.

I was so relaxed I went to bed by 10:30. As proof that I cannot go to bed that early, I had nightmares and woke up at one o'clock with a busted up toenail and a ton of anxiety. Lord knows what I was doing in their basement. I only remember feeling like someone was standing directly over me.

Even with the damaged toe and rough night of sleep, you can imagine how difficult it was to leave. I eventually gathered my strength this morning and said goodbye to peace and quiet.

Back in Iowa, I picked up my rugrats. They were at my sister's house playing in the 95 degree heat, running through the sprinkler.

Knowing how enthusiastically my children would greet me - sarcasm - I filmed it as proof. They saw me. Nothing. I asked them to give me a hug. Nothing. They wanted to play in the sand and water instead.

I completely understand. By ignoring me, they believe they might escape the dreaded words: time to go home.

Then I brought out the DQ Dilly Bars and I was loved once more.

When I finally saw Mike this evening, I asked him a question with only one right answer.

Did you miss me? He flopped down on the bed. Mmmhmm. I think that's when he started snoring.

For some people, distance makes the heart grow fonder.

For others, reunions mean not having ICEE pops and squeeze cheese for supper every night.

The last day

Is this really happening???

Someone pinch me!

I'm leaving tomorrow, not on a jet plane, and I know when I'll be back again, but I'm feeling emotions people have written songs about.

Freedom!

I can almost smell it. Even over the residual peppermint stench from yesterday's powder incident.

If you pay attention to details - which I do not, which is also why I'm pointing it out to everyone - I'm writing this at 6:45 in the morning. If you've been around here for any length of time, say, a week, you know I don't intentionally wake up this early.

Me and mornings don't mix well. It's like the chicken and Peter on Family Guy. Yeah, it's ugly.

But a deal's a deal, and I promised Mike the house would be spotless before I left. And I'm only halfway.

I'm gonna tip back another Pepsi Max and hope my heart doesn't explode. Have I ever mentioned I'm not supposed to ever have caffeine? Hahaha, yeah. Doctor's orders. But that was years ago, surely that doesn't apply post-triplets. That's just crazy talk!

I'll take my chances.

Because if I don't get out of here?

I shudder at the thought.

Two more days

As if I needed any more reasons to want to get away...

I stayed up until 2:30 cleaning this morning. When Mike came home, he must've left his work bag out because the girls decorated themselves and the livingroom with Gold Bond foot powder. I was in the next room and got a sudden whiff of peppermint. It didn't take a genius to know there was trouble.

What is it, Lassie? Huh, girl? Trouble? Over by the rocking chair?

The livingroom looks like the inside of a snow globe and smells like Nicorette?

Thanks, girl!

As I spend the next few hours scrubbing white powder out of my red furniture, I'll be thinking:

Two more days.

Two more days.

You can do this.

Just two more days.

All by myself... I wanna be, all by myself

Ah, the strange and wonderful phenomenon that is the "alone vacation." This Friday marks the first day of my last weekend by myself for probably a long time.

It's possible the car ride is the best part. Is there anything more sweet to the ear than silence or the soft hum of the tires? Or more invigorating than cranking the tunes up and singing until your voice goes hoarse?

Some people judge the fact that Mike and I have been taking some time apart this summer to do the things we enjoy with friends. They ask: How is it possible to spend a few days apart having fun and still feel like a family?

I say: How can you afford not to take time away from your family?

I didn't believe how amazing it was to spend time alone until Mike took the girls out of the house for an afternoon. Then a friend suggested taking an "alone vacation." I laughed and thought that would never happen.

As luck would have it, I ended up getting a weekend to myself and had a blast. (It was part of an agreement when Mike took his own "alone vacation" that I would get to do the same.... I worked it into the contract.)

I came from a family where everything was done as a group. We did almost everything with our extended family. The concept of doing anything alone would have been considered selfish. I'm starting to see where that logic is flawed.

Married couples see each other every day. They spend weekends and vacations together, camping and traveling, and sometimes just spending the evenings doing chores or sitting in front of the TV. There is never a day apart. Nothing new to talk about except "What did you do at work," "So-and-so is still an asshole," "Oh yeah, that's fascinating, you'll never believe which child peed on the couch today."

Every single day.

Now add the dynamic of being a stay-at-home parent. Kids become appendages that cry and giggle and pull in a million directions.

Remember the days of dating when it was fun to listen each other's adventures, and every day it seemed like something new and amazing was learned? And this fascinating person agrees to marry you, and then suddenly they seem much less exotic?

Wanna know why? Because you know almost every damn thing there is to know about each other!

I know everything from how Mike makes his sandwiches to what he'll say when he walks in the door from work. Occasionally I'll get a curveball like finding out he doesn't like gummy bears, and it feels like I've just uncovered the Rosetta Stone once more. Wow! No gummies? Really?

I need alone time. I crave it. Independence has always been ingrained in me so much so that I would get angry as a child when I thought it was slipping away. (I give my mother as a reference. She said I was so independent it was hard to get close to me. I would have to agree and sympathize.) I often fantasize about being in the car and just driving.

This vacation will rejuvenate me.

In exchange for all this free time, I'm definitely putting in some time. Mike has gone golfing and out with friends and is taking his "alone vacation" money to get a tattoo. This isn't a freebie by any means!

So unless you know what it's like to never be alone, ever, not even in the car, every single day, and your husband doesn't remember what it's like to miss you, don't judge when this momma wants to get the hell outta Dodge for some alone time.

Because I'm going. Soon.

When I get back, I'll have a hoarse voice and a hundred things I can't wait to tell my husband. And maybe, just maybe, he'll be excited to see me, too.

Your friends don't hold your hair back like they used to (NOW with PICTURES!)

Due to popular demand, with pictures. You'll see in a second why I didn't post them. This is why drunk people should never be given cameras.

Above pic, left to right: Alan, Kara, Erika, Doug, the upper 1/10th of Tim's head, my beautiful mug. Alan and Tim were in our wedding, and Doug was good friends with all of us. (Erika is Doug's wife, and Kara is a friend from high school.)

Bottom pic, left to right: Erika, Doug, the top half of Tim's face, and my beautiful mug, once again.

I was too busy drinking to get any other pictures.

-----

It's possible I just took several years off my life.

I'm not complaining... in fact, if my future includes many afternoons like today, it might be an act of compassion to be struck dead.

On top of having an unhealthy love/crave relationship with Pepsi Crack, I just spent the last hour, nine minutes and possibly 14 seconds (give or take) mowing our 527 million acres of clover lawn while supervising my three 4-year-old, devil-possessed children.

Wonder how I know the exact time? Mowing took me all the way from Ain't No Rest for the Wicked to Promiscuous. I like to call it "Lowen's Mowin' Mix, 2009."

My only breaks were to tell the girls to quit throwing toys in the pool, to tell the girls to quit whacking our only big tree with the hockey sticks, and finally, to (sorta lightly) whack Emma with the hockey stick to show her how much the tree loves it when she does the same.

Did I mention I was suffering from a slight hangover? Yeah, there's that.

My ten-year reunion was last night, and while it was fun and ass-grabby, I realized that few things had changed. My friends and I are still the crazy, fun ones (yay, us). My ex is still hot (how you doin'?), the smart kids did make something of themselves, and the a-hole jocks are still a-hole jocks but they now have alcoholism under their belts (congrats).

Other realizations: My memory of high school lacks certain events which may or may not have actually happened and may or may not have involved ridiculously small amounts of bribery due to a serious lack of girls in our circle of friends.

Also, even wearing jeans and a perfectly harmless top*, I still manage to attract the drunkest (okay, second-drunkest; the drunkest was barfing on the bartender) guy in the room to grab my ass even though I never once made eye contact all night. You know who you are.

That's really not fair, though, since Grabby McGrabbyfingers molested my guy friend's backside as well. At which point, Alan took his violated butt and escorted the drunk-puking guy to a cab while cursing drunk-puking guy's "friends." They sat back and watched everything, even as the bartender yelled out "Um, can someone help me here?!?" Did I mention they're a-holes? And alcoholics? (again: congrats!)

*Last night's outfit was truly harmless, not only when compared to the not-so-harmless top worn to the baby shower. Next time I go to a drinking function, I'm wearing my smelliest sweats with a picture attached of the girls covered in poop as toddlers with the caption: "Yes, they're my little shits. Be warned. I'm ovulating." I have a theory on what I'm doing wrong, but that's for a later date.

Everyone had fun. Read: the keg beer was gone within two hours.

Side note: The internet is an amazing thing. It connects people and creates horribly uncomfortable moments. Like finding out most of the people in the room read my blog and Facebook updates. Or when several people announce that I am hilarious (again: yay, me!) and start drunkenly misquoting things that I've written and barely remember. Two thoughts passed through my head: Wow I'm a loser if my biggest accomplishment is my online contribution to this world and I need another beer.

So after a night like that, I forced myself to do yardwork as penance.

I think I may have done enough penance in the last three hours, I've earned some sort of sin credit.

Gotta save those up for our 15-year reunion.

Pavlovian parenting

Pavlov was the weirdo genius who found out dogs drool at the ringing of a bell. Of course, this was after ringing said bell every time he fed them for way too many dingdongs. He trained them to recognize the meaning of the bell.

What does this have to do with parenting?

Parents, from a kid's perspective, must seem like gods. We always know when the kids are causing trouble, like an omniscient presence in their tiny trouble-making lives. (Parents also smite down the kids when they are naughty, another nice godlike feature, but that's for another day.)

As parents, we know the truth.

We only know the kids are causing trouble because we are trained, day in and day out, to understand the signs of trouble. Like the ringing of the bell to dogs, we have silence and muted giggling to tell us to get our butts to the scene of the childhood crime.

Time and time again, when I come around the corner to a quiet room holding three four-year-olds, I will find trouble. Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. Ringaling-ding. Smell perfume? Dingdingding. The kids are smearing themselves with it. Smells and sounds and lack of sounds... it all means something to a parent.

Pavlovian parenting, in a nutshell.

Pepsi Max - the new "coke"

My favorite part of meeting new people in public is when they ask for advice. (Because we all know the 28-year-old dragging three children through the parking lot has a wealth of parenting knowledge that can be summed up in three or four words.)

Until recently, I could sum up my knowledge in four words.

If you like having stamina and a peppy attitude, do not have children.

I repeat: DO NOT have CHILDREN.

If you're willing to part with those two vital ingredients to a happy life, then by all means, have a brood of kids. Of course there's always some exceptions to the rule. Like if you're rich and can afford a nanny, or ten. Or if you plan to keep your kids in a closet. But if either one of those is the case, get a hamster and save yourself the stretch marks.

I'm pretty sure that's not the advice they were looking for.

I used to fantasize that some chemist genius would discover a methamphetamine that didn't make you scrub your bathtub with a toothbrush and lose all your teeth because I would have been the first in line for that little gem.

About a month ago and in one amazing 12-pack, Mike opened my eyes to a whole new world.

Pepsi Max. Zero Calories. All the caffeine goodness. Fer reals.

Downside is that, like everything with zero Calories, in large doses it'll probably give you cancer. Right now it's between two demises... cancer versus falling asleep at the wheel doing 80 down the interstate.

Bonus is the weight loss factor, since you lose any appetite whatsoever. Sounds incredibly healthy, right?

This is liquid crack without the illegal-ness and prison term. It almost makes this whole parenting thing doable. Too bad I didn't know about this back in the infant days. In fact, it makes me feel so ambitious, I could probably have another litter of kids. Okay, maybe not. It's good, but it's not that good.

A word of caution: don't run out.

Withdrawal isn't pretty.

Getting struck by lightning is probably less painful than other methods of dying

Loren: Why are the kids making so much noise?

Mike: Oh, they're freaked out because of all the lightning outside.

Loren: So I should probably get out of the shower, huh?

Mike: No... you should be fine.

(He was serious.)

This was outside at 5:45 PM:

And this was exactly an hour later at 6:45 PM:

The sun set 2-1/2 hours after this picture was taken. That's dark.

Thanks, honey. I love you, too.

So it begins

Looks like we might have an hour or so before the bad stuff hits... time to gather our tornado gear and make a little shelter in the basement. Bring it on.

My kids are rockstars

Really.

This is Kristin, rockin' to Fall Out Boy.

Keep in mind the girl is tone deaf, so we're hoping for an instrument, perhaps.

Or maybe some kickass dance skillz.

A-Team

What's the next best thing to a bachelor party? I happen to know the answer to that: 30+ mill guys taking out their coworker for one last hurrah before he changes teams.

Mike officially had his last night on B-Team, and as of tomorrow is on A-Team. I could lie and say the letters mean some sort of promotion, but they don't. Although it is much more fun to say Mike is on the A-Team. Do we need to buy a cool van or something now?

Acknowledging that there would be lots of beer involved, I gave Mike my whole-hearted blessing to go out and have fun. There was one condition: he had to leave his car and get dropped off by a responsible party. I was pleasantly surprised when he walked in and told me he did just that. (Yay, Mikey!)

Mike was so happy when he came home. He chatted with the cat while he took off his boots and explained that he had had quite a few beers, and the cat just sat there and pawed at him for pets.

Then the most adorably dysfunctional thing happened. Mike fell asleep on the floor in between talking and reading to the girls, and they pulled up blankets and toys and pillows and crashed around him. Alison snuck her little arm in the crook of his, too.

I have never seen such a conglomeration of humans and toys in my life.

It goes to show that children love their parents unconditionally, even if it means snuggling up to you when your whole body feels and smells like a sweaty armpit.

Letting yourself go

I'm so tired.

I just can't keep up anymore. At least a dozen people in my life have lied to me in convincing me that exercise will increase my energy.

That's crap. Anyone here thinking of working out for that reason, don't. Work out so you don't have a "front butt" or work out to look at eye candy or work out for the free daycare. But don't workout for more energy.

That's as logical as drinking another bottle of wine to get less drunk.

On a positive note, I discovered I have working muscles under all this skin. I'm not fat, I'm just thick-skinned.

After working out and using up every ounce of energy and patience, I took the girls to Target. My hyper, chatty, noisy, whiny, crying kids. Even if they were good for 98% of the trip, the 2% is what I'll remember, simply because I didn't have the ENERGY and PATIENCE.

I was so tired and giddy by the time I got to the checkout counter that I giggled outloud at a magazine with glaring red letters... a Cosmo. I used to read those back in 7th grade, and I found extreme humor in the fact that they still do the same old headlines.

Best. Sex. Ever.

Right.

(I still bought the magazine, purely for research.)

I already know what the key to good sex is:

Not caring if you're "thick-skinned" and doing things you pray your husband doesn't talk about with his friends.

So go on, women. Let yourself go. Be fun and wild and crazy and forget for those 10, 15, 40 minutes how you feel about your body.

Problem solved.

On to world peace...

Oh, baby!

As you probably have heard, my last job before becoming a stay-at-home mom was working at a jewelry store. We had what I like to refer as the "Dream Team." We broke sales records constantly and had clients who would come to the store just to hang out with us. We were crazy fun and probably unprofessional at times (yeah, I said it...).

Like all good things, it came to an end.

I'd planned on having one baby and got three, then left work to stay home with my three 28-weekers. Our manager was promoted to a store out-of-state. My friend Malea eventually got a job at a 9-to-5 office, had a 24-week preemie, and became a stay-at-home mom herself. Others like Hannah, Tiger (rawr), Mark and Helen either quit to pursue other interests or moved to another store.

Behind the desk was another story. Our office nazi manager, Sara, was unlike anyone I'd ever met. To look at her, you'd think she just walked out of a Beverly Hills boutique. And she had rules that could not be broken. But when she opened her mouth, she was just as pervy and silly as the rest of us. Thank goodness, or we would have voted her off the island. Believe it or not, it was her smart ass I missed the most.

Well, a few months ago we had a reunion of sorts. Hannah, Sara, Malea and I got together for lunch where we got the news: Miss Sara is having a baby!

Yesterday was her baby shower, which Malea organized and Hannah made the invites. To do my part, I became the impromptu photographer. And apparently the entertainment, but I'll get to that later. Here are a few pics:

(This is me trying to get a decent self-portrait since I have absolutely no nice pictures of myself. I asked Mike but all he wanted to do was take pictures of my cleavage. This was the best one, sad but true.)

Sara, me and Malea.

Jeremy, dutifully eating wings while his wife avoided opening presents. Thanks, Jeremy, for at least sitting up there to get the ball rolling! Even if you did point in my direction and say, "I'm just glad I'm not you!" In reference to my hoard of children, of course. Some days, I wish I wasn't me, either.

Malea modeling for me to make sure I had a good camera angle. (Sure, sure, that's what it was.) Work it, baby!

Malea and Sara pointing and making fun of my boobs. Because that's what friends are for, right?

The two ladies scheming about something, probably cupcakes.

Malea and Scott, her husband. Aren't they adorable?

Congrats, Sara and Jeremy! And thank you, Malea, for going to all that work... I had fun, even if it was at my expense...

Okay, on to the elephant in the room: my breasts.

My coworkers from the jewelry store and I have an unhealthy obsession with my girls. In fact there were certain clients which were always turned over to me, whether or not I wanted to deal with them (ahem, Ryan M).

It was nice to know that little had changed. At the baby shower, Malea was introducing me to everyone as "This is Loren, and these are the twins." I would nod and say, "Well, between 'the twins' and the triplets, I brought my favorite kids with me." Keep in mind, Sara works as a paralegal and the party consisted of her friends, family and coworkers. Regardless, Malea and I couldn't stop snickering amongst ourselves. Like schoolgirls, I tell you! I figure if they worked with Sara, they had to be pretty laid back on the whole sexual harassment thing.

In my defense that was the first time, and perhaps the last, that I have ever worn that shirt. Especially to a baby shower.

To add to the excitement, my kids had run off with their card, so I was in a bind trying to think of what to do. Buy a new card and be late? Or later than I already was? Well, because everything about me screams "class," I cut Sara and Jeremy a check at the end of the night.

Note to family and friends: if I ever have a shower of any kind or party that creates the desire to buy me a gift, cash money is completely acceptable, as well as checks. I also take PayPal.