Ooh, piece o' candy!

I am lucky to have such easily persuadable children.

Emma was convinced she wanted to be a crocodile and Kristin a parrot for weeks until I ran out of energy and ingenuity to make the costumes, and we couldn't find them pre-made anywhere.

I discovered a kid is pretty much up the creek unless they want to be a witch/fairy/ladybug/pirate/dinosaur/princess or some variation of any of those. (The choices for women are even bleaker. We have: slutty pirate, slutty goddess, plain ole' slut, slutty police officer, slutty nursery rhyme character, slutty nurse, or haggish witch. Luckily, I found what I thought was a respectable and minimally slutty pirate costume - I totally high fived myself - and added all sorts of fun, non-slutty accessories like a $3 scarf from Target... score!)

Out of desperation, I took them to a costume store at noon today. Yes, on Halloween. Then I pretty much coerced Emma and Kristin into being a pirate and Indian, respectively.

We spent the first half of the evening handing out candy with Grandpa Al. And making fun of people without real costumes. And what are you supposed to be? Did you make that yourself? Giggle, giggle. Nice wig. I love the orange t-shirt. Snort.

As for us, we only went to five houses, but that was enough for the kids. They would be happy just to dress up.

I didn't implement our theme very well this year. I had to explain to everyone that their characters were from Peter Pan. Maybe it's because we were missing every essential character including Peter Pan. And Wendy. And Captain Hook. (And Tinkerbell is actually a "Garden Fairy" because mommy wasn't about to pay ten more dollars for Tink's plastic picture super-glued to the front of cheap fabric.)

Not only that, but my non-slutty pirate costume turned into a slutty gypsy costume halfway through the evening.

One of the neighbors was yelling to me from the street about how cute my gypsy costume looked and how I just needed the crystal ball to complete the look. As I laughed and said that I was a pirate, I overheard a guy (who was corralling several children under the age of five across my lawn) say, Woohoo, I know where I'm headed next! Oh yeah? Where's that? Hell? Thanks for embarrassing yourself. Next year I'm wearing sweats and going as Rocky.

At least the kids were still cuter than cute. (Look at my little Kristin in the middle. That smile makes me want to squeeze her!)

Notice how the piano has become the new official group picture taking spot (previously the couch).

Mommy, I'm an Indian!

Actually, Kristin, you're a "Native American," as is clearly labeled on the box.

And for some reason, it seemed very non-PC that the costume was sold at all. Not that I'm worried about offending people...

Emma the pirate.

And sadly, this is the best pirate face she could conjure. I'm thinking for next year she should be a disillusioned rapper from Brooklyn. Or the Hunchback from Notre Dame.

My little Tinkerbell... or as the girls called her: Tinkybell. She spent the evening pilfering candy.

Three Peter Pan movies, two pieces of candy and one very tired mommy later, the house is quiet.

Now begins the fun part. It's time to find a hiding spot for all this leftover candy... preferrably a place that does not involve my stomach. My goal is to delay the finding of the candy by one hour tomorrow morning.

I might get that extra hour of sleep from Daylight Savings yet!

To kill or not to kill...

Have you ever killed someone?

Mike's grandpa - grandpa troll; papa grande; 80-ish-year-old-who's-smoked-so-much-he-tanned-from-the-inside-out-and-looks-like-he's-98 grandpa - is in town on his way from his Minnesota home to his California home.

I love grandpa troll, but he doesn't take care of himself and has been in and out of the hospital for months with pneumonia and problems breathing. He'll be that guy who blows himself up because he's trying to smoke next to his oxygen tank.

Unfortunately for him, he's coming to visit tonight.

To our plague-infested germ castle.

This is where I want to say This is a really bad idea. Of course Mike would say Leave it alone because god forbid I suggest changing plans over being responsible for the death of my favorite in-law.

Then again, good judgment hasn't been rampant in these parts.

Plus, I'm not in the best mood for hosting. Just to give you an idea of how my day has started off...

Went to bed at 11. Was still awake at 1:30. Went to the couch so I could cough in peace. Was woken by Mike at 3 and told to go sleep in the bed. Fifteen minutes later, Mike woke me again to ask my help in filling out some paperwork. Went back to bed at 3:40.

Then I got a call at 8 on the home phone. It was my sister, but I didn't make it to the phone in time and decided to go back to sleep. The kids started making "waking sounds" but stayed in bed. Ten minutes later, my sister tried my cell phone (because we all know that there's a possibility that I would be anywhere besides crawling out of bed at 8 AM... NOT). The kids woke up for real that time.

At about 8:30, Mike called to chat (what the hell is wrong with you people?!) During my early morning wake up call with Mike, I had this conversation:

So, did you ever call your dad and figure out when you're gonna see grandpa troll?

No.

Well, you might want to hang up with me right now and call him.

You want me to call him, from work, to find out when he's coming to see you today? Why don't you just call?

Um, no... I want you to call like I've been asking you to for the last week and find out when you're gonna see your grandpa, possibly for the last time, especially after I infect him with the plague.

I don't understand why he doesn't want to call from work. It's not like he's busy. Hell, he was calling me just to breathe at me this morning. He can surely call his dad and breathe at him a little.

Oh, yeah, and Happy freakin' Halloween.

I don't have the costumes finished. And I don't care. I just want to go back to sleep forever...

It's all fun and games until someone loses an organ

So we stole the piano today.

There should be a warning on the back: Heavy lifting may cause loss of body parts due to extreme clenching. I was pushing so hard I think I lost my colon. Then it became a competition as to who lost the most important organ. (Mike claims to have dropped a testicle, but I replied that my colon trumps his testicle because I actually use it.)

At the very least, I know this: my parents' front steps must be littered with body parts.

Against all odds, the piano legs survived and no one ended up in the emergency room.

That's the same piano I've been playing for nearly two decades. My parents decided, since I'm the only one who ever used it, that I should get to keep it. I think they just hate to see all those painful years of listening to scales and Chopsticks and The Frog Jumps Over the Lily Pad be for naught.

Technically, the piano was free, but we paid and fed two of Mike's friends to heave that bad boy down a flight of concrete steps. In a torrential downpour.

(I hope we never have to move it again... after only sliding the piano through one room, one of our helpers suggested we forget the piano and buy an electronic keyboard. I doubt he'll fall for the "we'll feed you lunch" line a second time. Although it was damn good chicken...)

Once at home, Mike gave me ten minutes of playing time before closing the piano and asking for a nap.

I gave him three hours to nap before waking him up to Jump.

I love my torture device piano!

I am the Parent / Tekkie of the YEAR

I have failed on many levels in the last 48 hours.

Did you know that our parent-teacher conferences were scheduled for yesterday morning?

Me, either!

I knew, but I didn't know. Because I'd completely erased that portion of my brain to make room for remembering things - important things - like not coughing up that lung that I supposedly need. (Shyeah. That's why we've got two... like kidneys. One for me, and one for that sick relative when I want in on their will.)

I dropped the girls off for school yesterday afternoon, picked them up, nonchalantly chatted with the teachers, and got home to see a nice little note in Kristin's binder:

I missed you at conferences today.

That's when everything went to super slo-mo.

Ohhhhh nooooooo......

I had been looking forward to hearing about the girls' progress for over a month, and instead, I pissed off the teachers. Awesome.

And here I was worried about not sending Kristin's art project on time.

D'oh.

So to ease my frustrations become completely pissed off at something more than myself, I tried to reinstall all the drivers and software we need on our new hard drive.

And the entire time I was fighting with glitches and software patches and missing files, someone was checking in on me with sighs that it was taking way too long to return him to his internet search for the perfect flashlight and whatever the hell else he looks for. Oh, and don't forget his imaginary Facebook fish were waiting to be fed.

I'm not angry.

I just wish that the other unnamed adult in our house, we'll call him Ike, understood it's not fun for me to watch the progress bar for the umteenth time only to find out that, can you imagine, that printer driver doesn't work. Or writing yet another email to Napster to recover our downloads. Or how about finding our one monitor disc in a stack of 5,000 discs dating back to our first computer originating in 20 B.C. (It's a Dell.)

So really, I could kill someone.

Or maybe just beat up a printer.

PC Load Letter... PC Load Letter.

Titillating Tuesday: Cookies and not dying

Four years, nine months and sixteen days: Age when kids start remembering in the morning the promises you've made to them at night. Specifically related to cookies for breakfast.

---

Yes, I am sick, and no, I am not dying. And I am not going to the doctor. Not unless I get a death rattle, and even then, I'm bringing someone with me to kick the doctor's ass if they send me away without a prescription, even if it's only for Metamucil. I don't care, just give me something that makes it seem like you went to medical school!

---

Mike likes to tell me when he eats something interesting. Like this morning:

I had a ham and cheese hand sandwich. I took a piece of ham, put cheese in the middle, folded it over and ate it out of my hand.

---

I am such a good mom. Kristin had homework for yesterday, and we finished it way back on Thursday.

Unfortunately, I put it in Emma's backpack.

So now I have to write the completely humiliating "I'm sorry Mrs. Teacher Lady" letter. Is this when I get to whip out the triplet card?

---

On the news, they reported that out of all the people to contract the H1N1 virus, only 1 in 5 will show symptoms. Well, we have five people in our household. Can you guess which of us will get sick?

My future's looking bleak.

---

Mike showed me what he wants to buy for my birthday... an electronic piano sheet music display. For $600. To which I responded, I actually like paper music. Gasp, gasp, gasp. I think I'm gonna have a panic attack.

Maybe it's a good thing he only buys me presents once a decade.

Twenty to forty dollars, honey.

---

I was lying on the couch this morning when Mike walked in the room.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod.

What's wrong with you? What feels sick?

My gut.

He reached down to feel my toes which were twirling around in circles like they do when I'm in physical pain or trying not to vomit.

Help. I know you can't, but please help.

(Thoughtful pause) Do you think it could be gas?

Whenever I'm sick, Mike tells me he thinks it's gas. And he's usually serious.

---

I love people.

The bank manager called me yesterday to discuss refunding fees they'd charged. (They did.)

It started when I asked if an old client of mine still worked at her branch. She eventually asked why I no longer worked at the jewelry store.

Which is when I pause. I always pause and think how much time I have to talk. But because I was in the car and had nothing else to do, I launched the bomb.

I quit my job when I had triplets.

Oh my god, you would have thought I just handed this woman a winning lottery ticket. She was so excited and insists that I bring the girls in to visit sometime.

I had never met this woman in my life. By the end of the conversation, she had told me about her extended family, about her recent struggle with swine flu, and about all the jewelry her husband had bought for her.

People wonder why I have no filters anymore? This is why. My life encourages people to be nosy and on the flip-side, to share their life stories. It's not only women, either. (I can see that some of you don't believe me, but try walking past an elderly man without being told about his Great Aunt Sally who once had triplets.)

And every single time I hang up the phone or walk away from some stranger at the mall, I have to laugh a little.

---

I was lying on the couch, coughing my left lung up when I asked Mike, How much would I have to pay you to pick the kids up from school?

To my surprise, he looked at the clock and said, Give me a few minutes.

Seriously??? Awesome. I mean, really really awesome. Thank you.

But then I felt guilty after he left so I crawled out from under my blanket and cleaned the kitchen and livingroom.

You know what sucks worse than cleaning? Cleaning when you're dying of the plague.

---

Oh wait, I mean, I'm not dying. Psych.

Suicide: When "thinking of you" just doesn't cut it

Since having the girls, I've gone through three stages in dealing with "the public":

1) Back away from the stroller or I'm gonna have to cut a bitch.

2) Head down. No eye contact. Nod your head and keep walking for godssakes don't stop whatever you do.

3) Yes, they're triplets and sure I'll let you pay for lunch out of your Social Security money.

(I should add that these only apply to me because Mike seems to have only one stage: "awwww... look at the daddy with the three kids, let's follow him and stare at his backside.")

We aren't hassled very much anymore when we go out in public. I've trained our herd to move so quickly I am well past gawkers before I hear the "oh look, triplets" or the "oh my god, can you imagine?"

We are such a well-oiled machine, half the time I hold doors open for other people and can pull/push two grocery carts as if I was an Olympic contender.

But there is the rare occasion that I can tell, just tell, that someone is itching to make some asenine remark to me, and they're going to get right in my face to say it. It was never what was said that irritated me, it was always the inconvenience of talking to an idiot.

Are they natural? Do twins run in your family? Did you have help? I bet your husband cries himself to sleep. Are you done? Did you know you were having triplets?

I'm a smartass, so you can imagine the fun I have with these people.

No, there's nothing natural about triplets. Multiples don't run in our family, but paranoid schizophrenia does. My husband helped a little. I'm surprised Mike stops crying long enough to sleep at all. I'm pregnant right now, why do you ask? It was a three-fer deal at the NICU the day we had them.

Another common theme is the suicide condolence. This is when a perfect stranger walks up to us with the "bless you" eyes and says, Triplets? Oh my, I'd kill myself.

This last Friday, I braved the public and took the girls out to celebrate. Celebrate what, you ask?

THIS:

Yep, that's my wedding ring, squeezed onto my poor finger for the first time in over 4 years.

I figured it deserved, at the very least, a trip to Target for groceries. I would like to note that Target loves us and we love Target. I found 9 shirts and 3 pairs of jeans for under $120, which is pretty awesome, but on top of that, everyone there treats us like royalty.

Which is why I forget there is a big, crazy world out there that isn't quite as nice. And it's easy to forget how much of it the kids are absorbing.

We went to Genghis Grill for supper, the girls' favorite. The elderly woman behind me suddenly lurched over the seat, something I've gotten used to, and asked a barrage of questions. Turns out she had twins. The woman was nice enough, and before we left, she carried on about how well the girls behaved and how lucky I was.

She ended with, You are truly blessed.

Such a nice sentiment.

Before I had a chance to thank her, Emma looked her in the eye and said:

But now we have to kill ourselves.

Emma continued zipping her jacket nonchalantly, while I picked my jaw up off the floor and excused myself.

This is clearly the beginning of a new stage.

4) Please, oh please, don't say anything idiotic that my child will repeat.

Oh well, we shook that one off and kept on pluggin away. Next we went to the mall to get my rings cleaned at the jewelry store. They had glitter thrown down on the carpet, mesmerizing my children.

When we returned to pick up my rings, the girls couldn't stop talking about the sparkly floor. Ooh, the sparkles! Mommy the ground is so pretty! I turned to talk to an ex-coworker for a full second. Bad decision. I caught a scene out of the corner of my eye that made me stop midsentence and say, Gahhh, ohhhh! Noooo!

My children were lying down on the jewelry store floor, making angels in the glitter.

The mall was packed, and the people walking by were laughing, as were all of us in the store. I was reminded once again how much fun these kids are, even when they're "causing trouble."

It made me think: the next time someone tells me my life is shitty enough that they would have killed themselves not to live it, I might tell them, Don't let me stop you.

One less idiot in the world.

Forgive me Father, it's been 15 years since my last confession

There is no amount of Darwinism or MSNBC that can completely rid a person of Catholicism if they've been raised in it.*

*Not saying Catholicism is a terrible thing. (Hate mail alert!) I'd just like to find some kind of bleach I can soak my brain in so I can start from scratch, ignoring all those cool and frightening stories about "end times" and people who spoke to animals and heard voices in flaming bushes or however that one goes. Because that's more likely than a a fish growing legs. Since we've clearly established that I'm agnostic, we'll move on to my point...

There are certain parts of Catholicism that become involuntary personality traits.

Right now we'll stick with the most popular one: guilt. I have major guilt, and never about the things I should feel guilty about. It's always over the weird things, and it probably reflects my mother's influence over me.

For instance, I throw away aluminum cans if I don't want to clean them out. Namely tomato paste. Guilt.

How about this: I was too lazy to change my bra tonight, even after it was rubbing me raw, so I unhooked the back and kept it that way for most of the night. Trash factor was high on that one, but I had no one to impress except my four-year-old girls, one of whom tells me on a daily basis what big hands and breasts I have, compared to her littler ones. Probably because I'm still cutting corners by having them shower with me. Guilt guilt guilt.

Or how about the fact that I cheated and used microwave lasagna tonight for supper. Guilt. I blame Catholicism and my mother for that one.

(Uh oh. Am I becoming my mother? Where was that chapter in "end times"?)

Continuing on...

I have been leaving about a dozen chat boxes open on my Facebook page to avoid people when I see that they've come online. Evil friend guilt. My favorite color changes depending on my mood, so if I told you it was red, green, blue or black, I wasn't necessarily lying. Indecision guilt. I usually only shave my legs to the knees. Poor hygiene guilt. I have an obsession with buying books but rarely have the time and motivation to read them. Hoarding guilt. I complain about not having sex but turned Mike down the one time he made a move. Sex guilt.

The sex guilt is something that's really popular in Catholicism. I was so paranoid about sex as a kid that I still think I'm pregnant every time someone looks at me the wrong way. And as Billy Joel says, us Catholic girls start much too late, but we sure make up for it in the long run. I'll-let-you-use-your-imagination guilt.

The Catholic Church should send me a thank you for defecting... they'd need to assign a priest to tend to my neverending and sometimes undeserved guilt.

But mostly deserved.

Titillating Tuesday*: Why did no one tell me it's Thursday already? and more news

* Yeah, yeah. It's Thursday. So shoot me. Just don't stab me. Apparently I have a fear of being stabbed to death... according to my latest nightmare.

---

I freaked out yesterday when our checking balance was missing $500. That is, until I realized I had an uncashed $500 check in my wallet... from July. Reason #1,274 that the world should celebrate that I never got my accounting degree.

---

Awesome: Pulling on a pair of jeans and realizing at the top that they were buttoned the whole time.

Not as awesome: Not being able to find a belt so your ass isn't hanging out of the top of your jeans like you belong in a boy band.

---

I'm beginning to find that "favorites" - those websites so near and dear to your heart that you put their links on your sidebar - are just as much of a pain in the ass to lose as your speed dial numbers. Like I can really remember my bank's site address or to check my email without their links staring me in the face.

So yeah, sorry about not answering any emails for the last month. I'm sure, since I'm a stay-at-home mom in such high demand, that they were really urgent emails and your lives are on hold waiting for my replies. I'll get right on it.

In the meantime, No, I will probably not attend your shlock party because I will either be sick or I will inevitably forget, and Yes, I would love to have a bigger penis. I'll get back to you as soon as I hit the jackpot with this Nigerian guy who's sending me $70,000 to cash his $200 check. Sucka!

---

I think not having sex for almost two months is finally getting to Mike. He brushed up behind me in the kitchen yesterday. Progress!

---

Mike and I are trying to compile Christmas lists. Considering I haven't gotten a Christmas, Anniversary, Mother's Day or Birthday gift from anyone but my parents and occasionally my sister for the last century, I'm having a hard time coming up with good ideas.

Mike's list? A $10 flashlight, Wolfenstein for the PS3, and probably some kind of knife. Please see reference to knife-stabbing-death dream above.

My list so far: The piano from my parents' house which they're giving us for free.

I bet Mike's glad I'm so cheap. And I bet he wishes I'd get a job. We can't have everything we want, Mikey.

---

People ask us all the time why our cat still has claws when we have kids in the house. I tell them it's because we have kids that she has her claws... she needs to defend herself.

Case in point: Kristin decided that Moochie was going to be her new pillow, regardless of how long she had to chase the cat down. I thought the cat was going to have a panic attack.

---

Mike says I'm not allowed to have caffeine while I'm sick. Which is why I'm going to spend the next two child-free hours on the couch, comatose-like.

Hopefully I dream about something pleasant this time.

Preferrably sans cutting utensils.

Interactive dreams

Mike heard a loud thud last night and came running to the bedroom where I was supposed to have been sleeping.

He walked in to see me struggling to throw the blankets back onto the bed. I appeared slightly pissed off and said, It's nothing... I had another one of those interactive dreams.

Which I guess is my sleep-talking word for sleep-walking. Or more accurately: sleep-doing-weird-shit-like-frantically-throwing-all-the-blankets-on-the-floor-and-then-trying-to-remake-the-bed-in-a-stupor.

This is why I can't go to sleep before 11 o'clock. Or, at the very least, I need to be supervised. By "supervised" I mean having someone in bed next to me to tell me to knock it off.

Because I won't remember a damned thing in the morning. I vaguely remember being irritated at myself last night. That's about it.

Once Mike helped me back into bed, I told him that I was burning up. He felt my forehead, laughed and said I was freezing cold, to which I replied okay and rolled over to go back to sleep.

In my book, that's a pretty tame sleepwalking night, considering I was on medication. Meds usually mean extra trouble. Like trying to cook in my sleep. Oh yeah, that's a fun one to wake up to. So far I haven't gotten past taking out food and dishes before waking up and yelling goddamnit at myself.

Can't wait to see what tonight has in store for us.

Blech

I'm sick again.

Is anyone surprised by this news?

Mike left me alone with the kids to go golfing yesterday morning. What started off as a nice, quiet day ended with me becoming CaveMommy after the loss of my voice. I resorted to communicating via grunts, claps and stomps. Oh, and don't forget the wild hand gestures, such as the get-over-here-now-before-my-head-blows-up arm flail.

I woke up last night as Mike checked my stomach to see if I was breathing. Evidently I was ice cold and mumbled to him that I was burning up.

So now I get a day off.

I'm not sure whether that should go in the win column or not.

I'm here!

Thanks for all the well-wishes and crazed suicide threats. I love you, too.

So much has happened over the last two weeks, but I can't remember much of it. It's like blurrrr... visitors... blurrr... PackerGame... blurrrrrrr... headcoldfromhell.... blurrr.

This is why I have to blog. When people ask me what I've done over the last few years, instead of giving them a glazed stare with a string of drool, I can come here. Kind of like my own external hard drive. I'm so bad without my computer that I had to ask someone what day of the week it was this past weekend. She hit me with her purse. Hard. I've learned over the years that that usually means Saturday.

It's nice to know that someone missed me. As opposed to my husband, who thinks it's a holiday when I leave. I left Mike with the kids for a bit this weekend, and when I returned he asked the girls, Who's here? I'll give you a hint... she looks like Chewbacca. To which Alison immediately yelled, Momma!!! (That's really not fair, considering I just waxed my beard and arms.)

He's so nice to me. It's not love if you can't secretly wish death on each other.

So I'm back.

To the people who really care.

Loren is alive...but her computer is not!!!!

Greetings followers of Loren. I should introduce myself...I am Erin, Loren's awesome cousin, and frequent poster to her site. I should forewarn you that I am not as clever or eloquent but she appointed me to inform all of you of her recent strife. I know you are all going crazy due to the loss of her whitty banter that so elegantly appears across our computer screens daily. I am here to tell you that she is in fact alive, but currently without the second love of her life...her computer. I tell you with great certainty that she misses all of you, and the wait for the infamous "geek squad" of Best Buy to call her and giver her her life back, has been utter torture. (but thank God for warranties). Her dear Mikey however has commented that the house has never been cleaner, so hopefully there is an upside to this debacle. She hopes you will keep her in her prayers to Jeebus to end her misery as soon as possible. Her return should be emminent in a few days...so hang in there until then.

Erin

(In lew of flowers and well wishes, please send donations to "the geek squad" at the Best Buy in Cedar Rapids, IA. )

Is that athletic cup* skewer-proof?

*I finally remembered what they're called! I still prefer nut cup, but I feel better knowing, don't you?

Remember way back in July when I came home from Target with Pepsi, pickles, Swiffer refills, lingerie with matching shoes and a pregnancy test (among other things...)? And I thought I had found the strangest collection of crap a person could buy on a whim?

As of this morning, Mike has me beat.

His treasure? A chest protector for me (so you read my site after all... huh, Mikey?), a 6-pack of Leinie's, a pack of corn skewers, three miniature pumpkins and a nut cup with accompanying brief.

Because once upon a time my mother must have mentioned that she wanted corn skewers, and Mike felt the time had come. Or he saw them and thought, Hey! Corn skewers. I'm hungry!

I wonder what kind of kinky games the cashier thought Mike was into.

Lucky for me, Mike surprised me with his package. Literally.

He put that cup on and stuck it practically in my ear. I asked him why it was so bulbous (the cup, people...) and he said, I don't know. I probably could have gone with the youth size. As he stuck his hips out. Oh my god! Sometimes he just kills me. That says nothing about the "gear" underneath... the cup is big enough you could wear it for a hat.

But on the upside, the briefs are anti-fungal. So there's that...

Unfortunately for the corn skewers and chest protector, Mike wasn't aware that I was in bill paying mode this week and spent most of our cash. Whoops! So they'll have to go back. We're keeping the cup, the beer and the pumpkins, of course.

Besides, I couldn't even begin to guess how cramming my upper body into that flat vest would be more comfortable than getting several consecutive purple nerples.

I'll take my chances.

Ow.

It's been a long day. (This may be an understatement.)

Thankfully I don't have these often - the days when I call my mother and ask, How did you NOT hang yourself when we were kids? Or is that why people start drinking as a hobby?

The girls weren't that bad today, either. I just had a horrible headache.

Okay, that doesn't do it justice.

It was such a bad headache, I thought my brain was swelling with every sound, causing spinal fluid to leak out my right ear. It really was that painful.

So what's the best thing to do when you're in massive amounts of pain?

Arts and crafts, of course!

Now, not only is my head throbbing, but I'm most likely high from tempera paint and Sharpie markers.

But at least we have these fun little ghosties made and hung in our house...

So scary!

They're made from pillow batting, rubber bands, marker, string, and the girls' old crib sheets.

Feel free to ignore the pee stains.

While I was perched precariously on a stool, ramming coffee hooks into the ceiling, the girls were in their room fighting and biting each other. Imagine me, one foot on the arm of the couch yelling Stop screaming!!! at the top of my lungs. Hypocrisy noted. I'm sure the neighbors were impressed with my parenting technique.

Let's hope I can not grind my teeth in my sleep tonight and keep this headache to a one-day maximum.

Titillating Tuesday* - Football, jewelry, spiders and stuff

*Because I refuse to be the only blogger without an alliterative weekly feature. Think it'll catch on?

Before you ask, yes, something is wrong with me.

---

Last night, to give you any idea how angry the Packer game was making him, my father (1) threatened to finish watching the game in the garage, (2) yelled at me out-of-the-blue for texting too damn much, and (3) cranked the volume to drown out whispering or giggling. Cuh-rabby!

I was feeling pretty much the same way: anxious and frustrated. Besides having this alien baby kicking my innards 24 hours a day, my nerves had my stomach doing flipflops. I chomped on Tums throughout the game.

Someone needs to have a nice talk with the Packers' coaching staff about time management, hitting the check down receivers, and getting some goddamned protection up front. But what do I know? I'm just a little ole girl.

---

My mom took all 50-some pieces of jewelry to work, and she was whispering to me on the phone this morning, I sold one, two, three... six? No, seven pieces already and I haven't even told people I have your jewelry out. The word is spreading like wild fire. So at least I'll make a few people happy out of this deal. Thanks, mom. I should give her a commission. Or clean her house for her.

---

I was really excited about going paintballing this weekend, but then I invited Jeff. He started talking about his gun and how it's a semi-automatic. Ratatatatatatat, in his words. Holy hell. And then Mike was talking about buying a nut cup (I don't know the PC term for that one, sorry) and I started wondering, What about my nipples? I need to weld a real wonder bra with steel plates. Seriously, if I lose a nipple, I'm gonna be pissed.

And now I'm nervous.

---

My cat Moochie is a spider hunter. I'm constantly finding dead spiders on my livingroom floor that she has captured from somewhere (I'm hoping assuming they're coming from the basement and not our upstairs rooms) and has brought to my feet. I'd rather have a dead bird, thank you.

---

Along with hate mail, I'm now getting offers for paid reviews on my site. I think I prefer the hate mail.

---

In a moment of genius last night, I was using my eye creme and thought, If this stuff softens my skin and prevents wrinkles, why can't I use it to soften my lips? So I went for it.

My lips feel awesome. Unfortunately, that creme costs about $20 for a tiny tube. And the last time Mike kissed me on the lips, I was about a decade younger and had no need for lip balm. So, I'm weighing the pros and cons, but I'll use it for the week and let you know the verdict.

---

I'm trying to convince Mike to go somewhere fun by himself for a few days. (Anyone want to take Mikey out to play? He's really fun, just keep him away from the liquormahol.)

Partly because he needs it. And partly because I want to get lost for a day or two before the weather turns ugly for six months and then I'll be stuck in my winter cave with three ornery midgets.

I think I have Mike turned on to the idea of going alone and visiting his grandpa up by La Crosse, and while that doesn't seem like a lot of fun to anyone else on Earth, his grandpa is the most adorable man I've ever met. He looks a little like a troll that should be living under a bridge, and he passes out mid-conversation because he smokes too much and runs out of oxygen, but he is a hoot. By far my favorite of Mike's relatives (there, I said it). In fact, my whole family lovingly calls him Grandpa Troll. But he'll always be Papa Grande to me, and I'll always be his Rojo Grande.

So while I'm jealous that Mike might go see him over the next couple weeks before Papa Grande makes his yearly trip to his La Mesa home, I'm glad Mike will get some much-needed alone time.

And maybe, just maybe, that'll mean another trip for me...

---

As much as I make fun of people who are driven crazy by children's music, I knew I'd eat my words one day. I lost my mind for a moment when the kids asked to hear "Take My Picture" by Filter for the umteen-gazillionth time this morning. Also known in our circle as the airplane song.

---

That does it for today. I need to prepare for tonight's activity: turning white crib sheets into flying ghosts.

Have a Titillating Tuesday, everyone!

And if you haven't already, stop by my mom's desk. You'll be funding a very important mental health vacation.

Cheap shlock... get your cheap shlock here!

It must have been divine intervention Friday night (or should I say Saturday morning) when I ran out of clasps, putting an end to my all-night jewelry-making marathon.

Anyone want to guess - out of more than 50 pieces and $1300 worth of jewelry - how much I sold at the Anamosa Pumpkin Fest?

...

Nothing.

Not a single piece.

I couldn't have made less of a profit unless one of those sneaky teenagers walked off with a necklace. I'd count everything, but I left it all at my mom's house. I can't bring myself to care right now.

The weather didn't cooperate, sending freezing mist down on us and only a few people braved the cold to window shop. On top of that, we had to compete with people like this stand:

selling shlock for $1-5. This was our neighbor's sign, and can you imagine how much the apostrophes bothered me? They sold balloon ribbon tied to cheap garland like a crown for $3 a pop.

The cheaper and crappier the product, the more they sold. It was insane. The guy who sold the Spongebob balloons on sticks was the hottest stand of the festival. (Yes, I'm bitter. We stood out there for so long I couldn't take my jacket off for about three hours after we got home. Literally bone-chilling cold. I woke up the next morning with every muscle aching from shivering so much.)

The sun did make a 2-minute appearance during the parade. Aunt Stephie brought all sorts of hats, mittens and scarves, if you're wondering why the array.

Alison decided she didn't want to wave at the passing fire trucks and floats. She'd just hold both handles of her candy bag and stretch her arms out under the rope. Surprisingly, it worked.

At least one of us got what we wanted.

Thankfully, my mom offered to take all my jewelry to work. Feel free to visit her desk and buy lots of stuff. I don't want any of it back.

Next year, I'm using the cheapest plastic beads I can find.

Someone's gotta support the economy.

Of China.

I am insatiable!

First off, you're all perverts. I'm talking about jewelry.

I ran out of clasps about twenty minutes ago, throwing the brakes on my runaway jewelry-making train. I see this:

and think, I need more!!! MOOOORRRE!!!!!

Thirty-two necklaces and 20 bracelets... that doesn't seem like very much.

Especially since some of them - like the BamBam dagger necklace - probably won't sell. I made it, and I can say with all confidence that it's ugly as shit. Which is why I laughed when Mike's dad said it was "neat." Guess what he's getting for Christmas...

This sudden shortage in findings might be a blessing, considering it's almost 1 AM and I have yet to tag and price all 52 pieces before bed. Speaking of pricing, if you'd like to throw money at me in a completely legal and non-sexual way, meet me in Anamosa for the Pumpkin Fest tomorrow. Today, I mean.

I'm tempted to bring my garage sale sign:

Do not ask for a discount, unless you do not value your life. Only exception: Bring me a 7 and 7 and we'll talk.

By tomorrow afternoon, I'll either be rich or intoxicated. Win-win.

The arrogance is contagious

Forget English. I'm defecting from the United States and making sarcasm my official language. Finding creative ways to tell people they're rude is an art.

The last few days have shed some light on the attitudes of people in their 20s. Arrogant assholism. I understand why old people sigh in disgust at our generation. I will soon be one of the sighing disgusted if things keep progressing this way.

Before I begin, you should know that while I'm crass and brutal on this site, I'm always polite and give people a chance to do the right thing before I even consider copping an attitude. Most of the time, I just let it go because Mike gets pissed off enough for both of us in the course of a day. I'm a beacon of calm and happiness. Not lately, though. I'm torn up physically and emotionally and not in any mood to deal with extra stress.

As Mike would say, sometimes you've gotta whip out the pimp hand.

---

I think I found the most incompetent customer service agent ever at US Cellular. Lucky for me, I was then transferred to a cocky little jerk in financial services who couldn't understand why I wouldn't pay a bill that I was contesting. And he wouldn't tell me our disconnect date until I set up a payment. What sent me over the edge was when he laughed, Why am I even talking to you then?

(thoughtful pause)

I thanked him for all his help. I'm sure he could feel my gratitude through the phone.

Then when I went in today to speak to an agent in person, I was told that we have the oldest cell phone plan from Biblical times when people still paid for incoming phone calls. When I looked her square in the eye and told her that wasn't right, she said with smug certainty that my dad must have been informed of his choices to upgrade and turned it down anyway. She said this three times. Because she's suddenly omniscient.

Come to find out, the "new" upgraded plan would give us everything we have plus free incoming calls... for the same (expletive) price we're paying now. Yeah, that sounds like a real ripoff.

(thoughtful pause)

I had to focus on something to channel my anger, so I watched as she drummed her stubby little fingernails covered with chipped maroon polish. I made sure to smile on my way out. It kept me from sending a small child at her like a fleshy shuriken.

---

Even though I knew the doctor's office was closed today, I called the lab in hopes of finding out the results of my tests from Tuesday. This was my favorite by far...

Me: Hi, I was hoping to get my lab results today if at all possible.

Receptionist: Has someone called you with your lab results?

(thoughtful pause)

Me: No. That would be why I'm calling to get them.

To top it off, they tested me for three things: two specific bacteria that are commonly found in drinking water (negative result) and a common parasite (to be determined). So... no one got the memo that this was a possible case of food poisoning? Riiiiight.

And the symptoms just keep getting better and less bloggable.

---

While I certainly enjoy the deafening buzz that's radiated from our home phone for the last few months, I decided to call the phone company and find out why they've never come out to fix it.

Telephone lady: We don't show that anyone's even called us to report trouble.

Me: I called about three weeks after it started. But I guess that explains why no one's showed up.

Telephone lady: You should have called us back. What do you mean "it's not working"?

Me: It makes a horrible buzzing sound when it's turned on. We had to unplug all our phones since the answering machine broadcasts the sound through our house. Is this something that happens occasionally?

Telephone lady: Well, your phone really should work.

(thoughtful pause)

Telephone lady: We tried to call your phone yesterday with a question and no one answered... it just rang and rang.

(thoughtful pause)

Me: Yeah.... That would be because it's unplugged.

The phone tech needed about thirty seconds outside our house to get everything working again. All that trouble for a lousy loose connection.

---

It's days like this that make me want to get a really crappy job in customer service again and just be awesome at it. For the principle of the thing.

Not really all that poop-related, I swear

I am so tired of writing about my health.

For those who want one last update: I woke up with a slightly bloated abdomen, felt okay through the day, and am going to bed looking like one of those Ethiopian kids in a UNICEF commercial and feeling like I swallowed a tribe of fire ants. Talking about it isn't making me any healthier, so I'm going to stop.

But I'll make you a deal. I'll let you know what the doctor says when the office decides to call me back. (By the way, did I mention they're closed tomorrow? Yeah, just found that out. Not from the clinic. From my mother. Apparently they didn't call her back either when she was getting tested for cervical cancer.)

And surely someone will take the time to let you know if I croak. I'll appoint my cousin to that task. That'll give her something to do while waiting for her own poo samples to arrive. (You're welcome, my dear.)

Until either one of those scenarios happen, I'm done. Sorry to disappoint. The daily toilet diaries are ending.

On to more important things: making a small fortune.

I'm selling my jewelry at the Anamosa Pumpkin Fest (stalkers take note) this Saturday. Which means I've been working like crazy to amass at least fifty pieces. Here are the 13 pieces I made today:

I would have had more, but Mike volunteered to take the kids into town for a few hours so I could clean... pfffttt!!! The least I could do (sarcasm) was organize the rest of the kids' toys. You know, since he was making the sacrifice (sarcasm again) to go shopping with three happy midgets. On another note, my theory is going strong: my children are chick magnets.

This is one of my favorites of the evening. It's absolutely gorgeous with tourmaline, jade and a few ceramic beads. Here? Barf tones. I don't get it. These pictures prove only two things: my lighting is terrible, and my children have completely destroyed my Pier 1 coffee table:

Just finished this one (still stretching out the leather) and I love it. It reminds me of my mom in the 70s. Because we were totally BFFs back then. Again, the colors suck in this picture:

I have a lot more to make in two days and whole buckets full of stuff with which to make them.

Mike decided against golfing tomorrow, so I'm going to talk him into sacrificing an afternoon with me (sarcasm... or did you guess that already?) to spend more time with the girls... away from me.

Think I can swing that? Of course I can. If there was a business that sold only awesomeness and persuasion, I'd be the CEO.

Well, (yawn) I should probably head to bed before I give birth to this alien growing in my spleen.

Hmmm... I guess that would be the third scenario of things worth mentioning.