Hey Dad: Make me the goddamned easel!*

* I feel it's my duty to say that my father built himself a massive two-story garage "barn" where he could store all his new tools and lumber. My sister is occasionally asking him to build things for her, but I've never had a need. I think we have a need! I've already offered to help build it...

My dad seem nonplussed when I asked him to build the girls a three-sided easel for Christmas. I got the no-eye-contact-half-grunt at the suggestion.

I have a twinkle in my eye just thinking about sending them off with markers and crayons to make beautiful art projects while I sit in the even more beautiful silence.

Just to prove my point...

Awww, don't they look adorable here?

They were all tuckered out from doing this:

I think Emma is going to be a mural painter someday. In the last week, she's colored her mirror, the refrigerator, her sister and now the bathtub. I know it was Emma because she's in her "Swirly-thingy-ma-bob Period."

And I know Alison helped because I caught her with the marker. And purple-handed.

She vehemently denied her involvement all the way to the end.

So, Dad, consider this a present not only to the grandchildren, but to your daughter's sanity.

Happy Holidays! And get building.

The Man Date

Mike is lazy.

I'm not being mean here; it's simply a personality trait we've both acknowledged and come to terms with. He exerts himself so hard at work that he leaves no energy for anything else: chores, sex, social life... even making himself food if he's starving.

It's my favorite and least favorite of his qualities.

I've been begging him to keep in touch with friends or to make new friends so he has something to do, someone to talk to (besides me), and something to look forward to.

I've gone so far as to set up "man dates" with his own friends. I have called and emailed our mutual friends and asked if it's okay if I send him to their house.

(And no, he's not usually aware of these calls... although he doesn't seem to care. The last one was to Timmy, the best man at our wedding. Mike was looking forward to stopping by with the kids, but he ended up going out to lunch with his dad instead. D'oh.)

So, imagine my surprise when an old friend from high school on-whom I happened-to-have-a-mad-crush-and-went-to-one-dance-and-hung-out-at-the-age-of-15-and-I'm-not-sure-if-that-qualifies-as-"dating"-and-could-very-well-be-reading-this-right-now-(hi) sent me a message on Facebook. We chatted for a while, mostly about our respective projects (his: house; mine: herd of children) and what Mike has been up to.

When it came out that Mike was a golfer, the "man date" happened all by itself.

He asked, He doesn't mind bogey golfers who occasionally have a beverage.

I laughed, Those are the only people he golfs with.

So how weird do you think that's gonna be?

Hey, Mike. Glad you could join us. Your wife totally had the hots for me 13 years ago... good luck on the course today!

It's his punishment for not finding his own goddamned friends.

It's 3 AM. You might be crazy.

I haven't gone to bed tonight yet. I've been cleaning in preparation for tomorrow, when I'll be making the entire kitchen area my bitch while cooking for Mike's dad.

But, I'm sure there are some of you who are waking up to make that insane Black Friday run. You are all crazy. I said it. No sale can drag me out of bed at that hour.

Oh, we did the Black Friday thing a couple years ago.

My sister convinced me we'd find all kinds of deals. We spent the night scavenging through fliers and pulling out coupons. I had absolutely no plan except getting one awesome deal.

We picked a GPS unit from Sears.

There we were, like total jackasses, standing outside the store for over an hour in the freezing cold Iowa November pre-dawn air. I have never shaken so hard in my life.

When the doors opened, we had no idea where the GPS thingies were even kept, but the people were flooding in and pushing and we had to keep moving. I pulled Stephie to me and gave her the wild eyes, You go that way, I'll go this way, and yell when you find them!!!

I found the section first and motioned for Stephie to continue on shopping. I was third in line, but a gentleman stepped in front of me. Oh hell no, I thought. I tapped him on the shoulder as more people lined up behind me. Excuse me, sir, but... the end of the line is actually back there.

Behind the other dozen people.

Good thing I spoke up.

They only had THREE of those stupid GPS things in stock. THREE. Of their "door buster special." I was the last person to get one, and I cradled that thing like it was the holy Christ child and I was being chased by King Herod himself. It was my little trophy for going through hell.

After all of our shopping, I made it home while it was still dark out.

I walked in the door and remember thinking something like, Maybe I can still get a few hours of sleeeee......

Happy Turkey Day, everyone!

If this holiday holds true to the last 28 years' worth of holidays, it should be interesting. I'll bring my camera and share all the gritty details.

In the meantime, thanks for reading for all this time... whining just isn't the same without someone to listen.

10 things I (sarcastically) love about the holidays

10) I finally get to see what color my carpeting is supposed to be once I'm forced to wash it.

9) I get to practice my honesty and math skills by making sure I spend the same amount on the people I don't like as the people I do.

8) I adopt awesome presents I've bought for others as my own, and then get to shop all over again. Yay.

7) The children can show off their new haircuts, and we get to explain a thousand times over that yes, we have hidden the scissors.

6) I get to show off my round-robin scheduling skills by balancing the many different families who leave picking a day and time for dinner to the last minute.

5) I can justify spending $70 in three dresses for the girls which will only be worn once and be covered in gravy at the end of the night.

4) We get to make a trip back to Target to return the "twinkling" lights that Mike mistakenly bought, which wouldn't matter anyway because I needed three strands, not two to decorate the tree. The tree, by the way, won't survive the month if the cat keeps climbing it at this rate.

3) I can choose between two great options: enduring the freezing weather, long lines and insanity on Black Friday, OR listening to my sister talk for an hour about all the great bargains on GPS systems I missed out on.

2) I finally have an excuse to remove the rotting pumpkin corpses off our patio.

and the number 1 thing I love about the holidays...

1) Christmas music in November.

Titillating Tuesday: What dreams may come

I'm a glutton for punishment, so I pulled all my fall decorations down and scrubbed the huge painted pumpkin scene off my patio window this evening. I never posted a picture of my handiwork, but after they hosed it down with Febreze, it looked more like someone got sick off of cheese pizza on my windows.

I did, however, grab this picture of my BOO.

Scary, right?

---

I wonder how much Mike appreciated me screwing that decorative scrollwork into the wall today while he was sleeping. That's retaliation for waking me up two days in a row - once to proofread a Facebook comment and the other by way of elephant-herd-itis. That's when he comes home with boots on and clomps around the kitchen at 6 AM.

---

Turns out the only thing that pisses my cat off more than pink My Little Ponies is having a giant fake tree in the livingroom.

That's right, I did it.

I need to get moving early if I'm going to get cards out before New Years and present purchased before the 4th of July.

The cat thinks it's her personal playground, and those dangling shiny objects are prizes... if she can pry them from the branches. And I am pinching those bastards on as tight as I can get them. I only put a few on because I'm hoping she'll climb the bare tree and realize early on that the tree will defend itself via falling over.

---

Or we could tie it to the wall. Which, sad to say, would not be the first time.

When I was younger, we used real pine trees. The last Christmas we lived in Wisconsin, it was just my 17-year-old sister, my 14-year-old self, and my 35-year-old mother. (Holy hell, did I just say that???) My dad was in Iowa, leaving us to fend for ourselves against a wonky tree.

The base of the trunk wasn't what you'd call flat. It had a huge knot, and wanted to lean forward. We decorated it. It fell over. We picked up as many unbroken ornaments as we could find and decorated it again. It fell over. We threw on whatever shoes were readily available - my sister's high heels - and decorated it again. Except the last time we held the tree in place while Mom threw a little fishing line around it and screwed it to the wall. By the time we were done, we were laughing so hard from our high-heeled pajama outfits and all the broken glass on the floor that we didn't notice just how crooked our tree was until the next morning.

I think that was the same month I received the belated, half-burnt, half frosted (because why waste the frosting on the burnt parts?), Christmas tree cake for my birthday.

Lackluster year for holidays, that's for sure.

If you know our family, that shouldn't surprise you one bit.

---

I figured I should post a picture of my child's hack job. It's a hairdo only a blind mother could love.

Even Alison cried when she saw herself in a mirror.

Needless to say, she wore a hat to school.

I managed to fix Kristin's by thinning out the opposite side and shortening it all around. My mother's right... their hair is never going to grow back out!!!

---

Speaking of holidays, if you'd like a card and letter from our family, please email me using the Santa Hat link in the upper right hand column.

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There is a new post on Purple Politicker. The link is also in that same column to the right.

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Happy Tuesday!

Dear Santa: Please bring me less crazy people next year

I just finished writing our holiday letter, and I have never laughed and edited so much in my life. I'm pretty sure tomorrow I'll wake up and rewrite the entire thing.

(By the way, if you'd like a Christmas card from our house, please email me your name and address at sweetenedtaters@yahoo.com as soon as possible. I figure if you're already stalking me, you may as well get a little memento.)

But our holiday letter is not what I'd like to talk about tonight.

I want to talk about the "little-too-enthusiastic atta boy."

I was pulling two carts filled with children and groceries to the end of our Suburban in the dark Target parking lot when a woman slammed on her brakes next to us. (That sounds like the opening scene of a thriller.) This woman was desperately trying to find her window button, and I thought "oh boy, here we go." I turned and smiled and waited for her enlightening comment.

I am just in awe. I saw you pulling those carts... I struggle with one and you look so in control with three!

Smile. The trick is keeping them corralled.

Well, you're doing fantastic. Just fantastic. And as she drove off into the moonlight: It gets better... stick with it!

No, I think I'll give up now. Do you think I could auction the kids off at the next 4H fair?

Does this parking lot ambush happen to you other parents of multiples? Or is this because we're living where triplets are some kind of oddity?

If I didn't have three same-aged children, the police would think I'm a drug dealer or streetwalker with how many cars I have pulling up or their drivers yelling to me from moving vehicles. Maybe the police still do, even with the kids.

Hey, someone's gotta pay all these bills the girls are racking up.

Think I should add that to my holiday letter? Has a promising future in prostitution...

Sleep: it cures what ails you. Unless what ails you is children.

You know it's a bad day when the high point is being asleep.

Last night was the beginning of the shit hitting the fan.

I was on the phone with my mom, and the girls were playing in their room. How crazy was I to think they couldn't do any damage at that end of the house?!

About ten minutes later, I went to check on them.

Sign #1 that there was trouble: way too quiet.

Sign #2: they're crouched behind their bed.

Sign #3: chunks of hair on the bedroom floor.

Yep, you guessed it. Alison somehow found the only pair of scissors in our mother-freakin' house that I hadn't locked away (they were in the back of our bathroom cupboard) and proceeded to hand out hair cuts.

She apparently hated her bangs because they're no longer there.

She also thought Kristin needed a trim, so she hacked away half of the hair on one side. Salvageable, but she once again looks like a rabid squirrel.

I haven't spanked in a long time, but Alison found out very quickly that I hadn't lost the talent.

This morning, I was deluded and thought things might be better. I woke to the girls spraying my television and patio doors with every flavor of Febreze. My house now smells like pumpkin cinnamon/Mediterranean breeze vomit.

Remember way back when my kids were allergic to cinnamon? Wherever they had sprayed themselves or each other, their skin was streaked with raised red patches.

To top it off - and for reasons I don't feel like sharing right now - I haven't been getting much sleep. So the Febreze-induced headache was especially wonderful.

Luckily, Mike woke up early and let me take a two hour nap.

Oh, thank you thank you thankyouthankyouthankyou.

It's 11 PM, and I have only a few hours to turn this day around. I think this calls for a comedic intervention... or maybe a little chick flick action.

(And no, I don't mean New Moon because as much as the books kept my interest - and not just to find the grammatical errors - I was in physical pain watching the last movie. Mike likens the acting and plot line to a poorly directed porno. I think I agree. Teenage angst... it's what's for breakfast.)

I could always watch The Proposal for the tenth time this week. Mmmm... Ryan Reynolds. Yummy.

My night's already looking up.

Keep your clothes on!!!

I am so tired of doing laundry, and I'm only halfway through the mound of clothes in the basement. 3:30AM. That's when I went to bed this morning, under the assumption that Mike would - as has been the unspoken tradition - get up early with the kids on his first night back to work.

Not this morning.

I got the nudge at 7:30. The kids are up. And then he rolled back over and fell back asleep.

Wha?!? Noooooo!!!!!

Luckily, Mike was soon feeling well-rested and happy, and he relieved me of duty. But until that happened, I was cussing out those wretched piles of laundry.

Where does all of that clothes come from? (I ask as my kids are running through the house wearing last year's Halloween costumes instead of the clothes I put them in this morning.)

I'm going to put a laundry hamper in their room so at the very least their floor doesn't look like a clothing graveyard anymore. Ahem - look at the header picture - ahem. Because running around in underwear is way better than having socially acceptable amounts of skin coverage.

I wonder where they get that whole inappropriately clothed thing from... hmmm.......

The joys of laundry don't end with sheer volume. Remember way back in July when I organized Mike's closet?

I handed Mike a stack of three shirts and a tank top last night... which he promptly tossed on a shelf and walked away.

Dear Jeebus, Please grant me the strength to realize I cannot change Mike, but that I can probably find a way to suffocate him in his sleep. Amen.

I totally "get" why women snap and torch their husbands' clothes on the front lawn. Totally.

Jim Gaffigan: Making laundry nights tolerable since 2009

I'm often asked how I can stay up until the wee hours of the morning.

There's the obvious response: It's my time without kids and husband, and I can't pull myself away from that bliss long enough to sleep.

And I really love my sleep, as compared to cleaning, which I love not as much. Like not at all.

So here's my secret to staying awake:

It's all about the ENTERTAINMENT.

Folding towels at 2 AM can become tedious unless you find something to keep you from falling over, comatose, in the middle of the livingroom. Tonight? Jim Gaffigan. Hilarious.

Jokes.com
Jim Gaffigan - Bowling
comedians.comedycentral.com
Joke of the Day Stand-Up Comedy Free Online Games

Unfortunately, nothing exciting is happening in our house today except laundry and more laundry and lots of laughing and then muffled laughter when I realize I'm going to wake everyone up.

I can't pull myself away.

If I fall asleep in the middle of the floor, do you think Mike would try to carry me to bed? or would he leave me lying in a heap on top of piles of his folded socks and underwear?

I sold my soul to the devil

Yesterday morning, Mike was a bit "friendly" when he woke me up.

(As we all know, I have some kind of weird sleep disorder that allows me to act out dreams, and it can lead to some funny and awkward situations.)

I told him: You should probably let me know who you are before you do that sort of thing.

Imagine some really cheesy Color Me Badd in the background... Hi, I'm Mike, your husband, and I wanna sex you up.

Which makes the line We can do it 'til we both wake up even funnier.

Imagine my dismay when I realized five minutes in that he was not my Puerto Rican pool boy OR my Swedish masseuse OR at the very least my hot ghost friend. To which Mike would like to point out I am not Charlotte from Sex and the City.

To cap off our day, we watched Star Trek while I made jewelry.

Vikings jewelry.

I can't believe I did it. I feel dirty. Making the Packers jewelry didn't make me feel any better, either.

Wake me up from this nightmare.

Dawn, I hope you like it!

The pony had it coming

I'm pretty sure my cat has committed a hate crime.

She hates My Little Ponies, especially this pink one with the lollipop on her ass.

That's what you get for having multi-colored hair and delicious snacks printed on your backside... now come here so I can throttle you and try to chew your face off.

Notice she keeps looking at me. She can't understand why I'm letting the vicious attack continue, but journalists are not supposed to interfere with their subjects.

My apologies to the pony.

Titillating Tuesday: Sex.* Don't act so surprised.

*and possibly some other stuff

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This weekend we went to PF Chang's for lunch, where I got this fortune:

If you have gone through puberty, you know that you always add "in bed" to the end of fortunes.

And what do you know... that crap really comes true! (For the record, Mike, I don't appreciate being awoken like that. E for Effort.)

Then again, the fortune could have been referring to all those really attractive guys in Express, shopping for skinny ties and trendy Ts. I have never seen so many metrosexuals in one place in my life!

---

Nothing's more special than reading to your children only to be interrupted no less than five times by one stupid telemarketer. Topping on the cake? It was a recording.

I didn't care, I told it to Fuck off.

It worked.

---

I think my ghost is gone. Either that or the crazy has subsided.

---

I found a few more things that I'd like for Christmas that I probably won't receive. But it's fun to make the list, right?

lettuce washer-spinner-thingy
something to put in my empty 3-D locket
off-white monogrammed stationery for all those letters I won't write
Kai serving bowls from Crate & Barrel (ahem, he he)
professional hair removal (have I mentioned that before?) and maybe some kind of foot creme

I will scrap that entire list for a good, solid nap.

---

I'm gonna put Smooth Criminal in the same category as Single Ladies, since I can no longer hear either song without envisioning my cousin's husband's dance skills. The spinning, the moonwalking... it's burned into my brain!!!

Hmmm. Erin, get him working on Thriller. Now that would be worth seeing.

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My sister is now living out in the country with her boyfriend-ish. Several weeks ago, he disconnected his phone line, leaving them with only cell phones. Unfortunately, he lives in a valley, so my sister's reception ends on the hill just before the house.

Stephie sometimes calls me on her way home from work and we end the conversation when she hits said hill. Well, tonight we were chatting away when she confessed that she was no longer driving. She was perched on the shoulder of the road overlooking their street.

I wanna see that in a cell phone commercial: Service so shitty you'll have to put yourself at risk for sexual assault or bear attack!

---

Alison: I'm gonna dial 9-1-1 and the fighter-fighter will come and help me dial 9-1-1.

Kristin: Fire fighters have a hose and they drink from the hose and put the fire out. And they're big.

Emma: I'm gonna sniff the smokers.

Okay, I don't know what they're teaching the kids in preschool, but I'm pretty confident it's not that.

---

On my way home from Milwaukee, Mike confessed that he was getting a few things done before I arrived. (You can go ahead and read that as "absolutely no cleaning was done for three days, save the few things that were required for personal hygiene and/or child safety." Fine with me! I was just happy I could get the hell out for a few days.)

I walked in to find that the house needed only slightly more work than when I left. Not too bad.

The only problem for Mike was that I noticed the kids were wearing the same shirts on Sunday that I had dressed them in on Thursday.

Busted.

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Have a great Tuesday, everyone!

Emma found out she is NOT a beaver and other news

Shopping has always been a kind of sport for me - a game of efficiency. How quickly can I get all the crap I need without ever breaking into a full run?

Get in, get out. Like a shopping one night stand.

I had a shopping playdate with my aunt and cousin this last weekend. I think I overestimated my shopping stamina, and underestimated my shopping partners'. They are animals!

After the second Best Buy and about the sixth or seventh hour, not to mention cocktail hour, I was contemplating sleeping in the car. My cousin and aunt were so happy and chatty and shopping away, and there I was plotting to knock an old lady off a motorized shopping cart and run away with it. I went to the bathroom just so I could sit down.

My aunt laughed at me and said 7 hours is nothing. Oh. my. god.

I hope since I wasn't a very good shopping partner that I was at least somewhat entertaining. They had fun picking on me because I can strike up a conversation with just about anyone. It's probably residual rapport training from the jewelry store, mixed with my mother's desire to tell everyone anything that pops in her head. Unlike my mother, though, I draw the line at about thirty seconds.

I didn't really buy very much, although I had fun window shopping and getting ideas. (I try not to buy too much until closer to the holidays just because of the Sock Monkey Slipper phenomenon. I bought these slippers for someone else and fell in love with them... even though I don't really wear slippers. I don't like having really warm feet.)

We stopped at Hot Topic and had a tiny taste of drama.

I was waiting in the horrendously long line, waiting to exchange an item. The woman next to me chatted nervously: I can't believe my daughter made me wait in this line for a bottle of $3 nail polish. I've never been in here before, and to tell you the truth, it kind of freaks me out.

She must have thought I looked like the only non-freak in the room because she relaxed when I joked about her daughter throwing her "to the wolves," and said, If the worst thing my kids do is dye their hair, we're in good shape. Then again, my girls are 4, so get back to me in 9 years or so. She laughed and nodded.

That was when I whipped out the neon pink and black skull bra and told the clerk I'd like to exchange it for nipple rings.

The woman's mouth clamped shut and her eyes got big, and she turned to the woman behind her in line, Maybe I'm getting too old.

After all that excitement, my relatives and I were standing at the entrance to the store when a young boy - probably no older than 2-1/2 - came shuffling past us while crying hysterically. He went so fast he snuck into the store before I realized his parents were nowhere to be seen.

I went into Hot Topic, grabbed his hand and took him back to the hallway. I wiped his nose, asked him if he was with his mommy or daddy, and he just paused before bawling again. (In the meantime, a young girl went to grab a security guard.) No one seemed to pay any attention to the crying toddler.

After the guard scooped him up and radioed for help, we stood there for a few minutes, scanning the crowd for a frantic mother or father.

Nothing.

It was as if he'd been dropped out of the sky. I'm considering calling the mall to ask if the parents were located, just to ease my mind. Could you imagine if a pedophile found him wandering around instead of us? We could have just picked him up and walked out.

Speaking of responsible parenting... Wanna know how to make your wife feel guilty for leaving you with the kids for a weekend?

That's the inside half of Emma's baby tooth.

Apparently Mike heard goofing off in the livingroom but didn't break it up until Emma's teeth made contact with the coffee table. This is now her second half-busted tooth.

I'm thinking we should plan another shopping trip soon, but this time with a lot less shopping and a little more drinking, and maybe we could babyproof my house before I leave.

And we are definitely scheduling a post-shopping nap.

Hey, I'm not as young as I used to be.

Now where'd I park that cart...

This is the moment I wish I knew nothing of mythology

Me: Hey, Sweetie. I missed you. Did you have fun with daddy this weekend?

Alison: Yeah.

Me: Who did you see?

Alison: Um... Daddy.

Me (laughing): No, I mean: who came to visit this weekend?

Alison: Um... Azrael.

Me (not laughing anymore): WHO?!?

Alison: Azrael.

Hmmm... I hope she's talking about this Azrael

and not this Azrael.

And on and on the weird shit goes.

This day is way too long already, so I'll write an equally long post about it

Last night, the girls refused to sleep in their room because the "dark was coming." This is how I found them at about 11 o'clock.

Since my children still do not grasp the extra hour concept from two weeks ago, I decided I would sleep on the couch with Kristin so I would - theoretically speaking - WAKE UP when they did. (By the way, that was about as comfortable as being folded up and packed in a suitcase.)

I got at least enough rest to be chipper when I volunteered at the girls' school this afternoon. They had Child Check services going on - hearing, development and vision screenings - and they needed parents to help escort and babysit groups of children. I was the only mom to show up, so I ended up with about a dozen 4-5 year olds surrounding me for most of the day.

It was okay, though, because I was cool.

It turns out I'm pretty good at funny faces, and I had inadvertantly worn a t-shirt they liked.

Kids kept approaching me and high-fiving me for my outfit. Even as I walked through the lunch room in front of several dozen kindergarteners, one boy stood up, pointed and yelled that he loved my shirt. I waved to all of them like a princess on a parade float.

Then a very talkative 5-year-old boy came up to me out of nowhere, professing his love for Transformers while petting my t-shirt. Specifically the emblem. Which was over my tatas. Petting away and telling me how awesome Transformers are and how he wants to be one for Halloween next year. I was nodding my head and pretending to be interested, but my thoughts were going a little something like this:

You've gotta get this kid to stop petting your breasts! Why hasn't he stopped? Back away from the underage boy before you get arrested.

I'm hoping telling the cops assuming the boy just didn't understand boundaries. I stepped back as nonchalantly as I could.

The rest of my duties went pretty smoothly. I got the crabby overworked employees to laugh, I was able to not only keep a rotating group of children quiet and happy but by the end of the day was shuffling kids to stations and teachers like a pro. And I've decided that Kristin's teacher would be really fun to go out drinking with.

(Sigh) I miss having a real job and coworkers some days.

Interesting thing happened... one of Emma's classmates told me, Emma doesn't talk to anyone. She doesn't talk to any of us.

I know she's shy in public, and I know that girl knows how to get wild and chatty at home, but that kind of bothered me.

As a bonus, the town is doing some kind of shitter pond reconstruction, and the girls are fascinated by all the digging. I think it's fascinating, too, except for when it makes my house shake and it sounds like the machines from Terminator 2 are coming through my livingroom.

They wouldn't move from the front lawn after class.

I finally bribed the kids to come inside using ranch oyster crackers when I realized was really late in getting my Depo shot. I'll save the details....

I called the clinic and they told me if I came in right away they could do it. Then I told her I lived 30 minutes away. She hesitated and told me to hustle and they'd wait for me. They were only open for 35 more minutes.

The kids fell asleep in the truck on the way there, so here's me, a grown woman dragging three half-asleep denim-clad midgets through the clinic parking lot, rushing to get my anti-baby serum. I thought, No problem. Just like last time, they'll yank down my pants and stick me with a needle. It'll take thirty seconds.

The nurse handed me a cup. You've gotta fill it so we can make sure you're not pregnant.

I tried to convince her it would be a Christmas miracle if I was pregnant, but she insisted. Nothing like peeing on demand. And on a tight schedule. Thank goodness I drank all that Pepsi Crack earlier today...

So now I'm set for another few months with no babies, no bleeding, no hormonal crap.

And of course Mike took the opportunity to swing a skillet, hitting me in the exact same spot I'd just gotten my shot.

Before I head to bed, one last note on our ghost friend. I had forgotten all about him and was going about my business, playing piano after 11-ish (that seems to be the magic number). I was halfway through Desperado when I glanced to my right to see the reflection in the patio window.

There was a man in white standing right behind me, peering over my shoulder.

Uh yeah.

It's possible I'm tired and seeing things, but I'm still glad I'm leaving town tomorrow.

I'm a freakin' Ghost Whisperer

If you've known me for any length of time, you know that weird stuff kinda just happens to me. (Don't make me whip out the "identical triplets" card.)

The kind of weird that I'm talking about now, though, is the paranormal kind. The crap that happens in movies. Or shows like Medium.

The other evening, Mike was in the livingroom watching TV and I was in the kitchen doing dishes. The girls were asleep and I was enjoying the silence and daydreaming, probably about my Puerto Rican pool boy Raul. I reached down to grab yet another plate out of the dishwasher and saw a man crossing through the hallway.

I knew it wasn't Mike because he evaporated before hitting the bathroom door, and that's one party trick I'm preeeetty sure he can't do. I'm also pretty sure I didn't have the normal reaction.

Jeezus Christ! Seriously?!? Give me a break.

I'm so used to "weird" that I was more surprised than afraid. Plus I assumed it was my imagination.

I called Mike in to tell him what I saw, and that I must be losing my mind. We had a laugh at my expense. I so crazy. I didn't tell him that the man was wearing a white shirt and jeans. (That may be important...)

About five minutes later, I was preoccupied again, probably thinking about my Swedish massage boy Sven. I glanced down the hallway and saw the same man, walking across the same spot in the hallway, vanishing into the same spot at the bathroom. I started getting really irritated.

(Expletives.) Really?!? That's just awesome. I just saw him again, Mike.

I live in a brand new house, not some ancient haunted house where people died of Malaria or West Nile, but I've had this weird feeling over the last few weeks that someone's in the house with me at night. I've gone to the basement more than once with flashlight in hand, my cat in tow, trying to figure out why I hear someone down there messing around. Remember me yelling to my so-called "intruder" that I had herpes? Yep.

But I still thought I was crazy/hallucinating/dehydrated.

Until I took the girls to school today.

Out of the blue, Emma started up a conversation. Mommy, there's a man in our house.

Me, startled: Who? Do you mean Daddy?

Emma: No, a man. (Which, hilarious, by the way... Daddy's not a "man" - he's just "Daddy.")

Me: Where was the man?

Emma: In our house.

Me: Um... what was he wearing?

Emma sat and pondered it for a moment when Alison piped up: He had a white shirt.

Okay, is anyone else thinking this is a little too coincidental and random?

I feel like I should let the ghost know I'm not gonna talk to his long-lost relatives or make out with his butch wife and create pottery.

And that reminds me... I should probably stop walking around the house in my skivvies...

Titillating Tuesday: The night before Crapsmas and more

I like functional things. I'm pretty excited about getting anything for the holidays. I'm not one of "those" women - the cliche' women in the commercials making their husbands sleep on the couch for buying a blender. What I don't want is a bunch of crap. Yes, everything's nice, blah blah blah, but really? How many coffee cups do I need if we don't drink coffee?

I want a bread maker. I want a bin to put all my recycleables in. I would love to get a couple panels of drywall. Make my life easier!!! I was excited the other day when I bought myself a carrot/potato peeler. (I'd been using a knife for years. You know how much easier it is to use that $5 peeler? Oh. my. god. I think we're gonna have potatoes every night for the next month.)

So I hate hate hate hate when people ask me for lists. I know we have to do it for my grandma - the infamous $20 list - but I usually draw a big blank. Everything I can think of is way out of the price range or not "flashy" enough for the gift giver. I think I've copped out every year and asked for ceramic cookware. I could make a million quiches and not run out of dishes.

This is what I've got so far (pay attention, rich stalkers):

A new couch
A huge glass casserole dish to feed my army
Something to store my piano music in
A gift certificate to have all my body hair removed
Someone to come to my house and cook all our meals for a day
A nap
A tree and a fence
A fireplace
A nap by a fireplace
A new garage door
A one-way ticket for my pool boy to visit

Yeah, I think you're better off deviating from that list, Grandma. I think I'm going to ask her to find something I'm going to inherit and just wrap that baby up. I can't think of anything that'll top that carrot peeler at this point.

---

Have you ever heard your kids saying something that made you go, D'oh!!! I hope you haven't said that in front of anyone else with ears. Note: I have never left the kids alone in the car.

Emma, playing with dolls: Now you stay here in the car and I'm gonna run in to get some snacks. I'll be right back.

How long before I get a call from the teacher? It's all part of the girls' diabolical plan to destroy me and rule the world.

---

Oh, I almost forgot! I might have broken my foot tonight.

It's a bit puffy, and I've already broken it there about 6 years ago. Except last time, Mike was chasing me through the house (I don't like being chased) in a fun game of tag that was bound to end with Mike landing on top of me. I didn't let him get to that point. I went ahead and kicked a wicker chair with my pinky toe, hitting it hard enough that I busted the bone down the side of my foot.

Tonight, I tried to relive that event. I was way too happy coming in from the garage and hooked my foot in my sweats while bounding up the stairs. Yes, bounding. As a reflex, I jerked my foot out hard and fast, only to ram it into the wall.

I had to do a few hobbly "holy shit ow ow ow" laps around the livingroom.

Luckily I've been through this before. And I'm now really looking forward to this weekend of shopping and walking through bustling Milwaukee! Maybe I can play up the injury and rent one of those cool shopping scooters...

---

I told Mike about my lovely injury when he came home. He gave me his condolences then asked if he could take a nap on the couch while I cooked supper... while limping around with a broken foot. I don't think he caught the look I shot him. Probably because before I could answer he was tipped over on the couch drooling.

So I ate his chicken breast in retaliation.

---

I possibly have insurance again. Possibly. Which is good news considering that last doctor appointment - remember? the one you all insisted I go to and all I got was that stupid flier on diarrhea? - is going to cost me over $300. And she did almost nothing. The nurse weighed me and that was about 80% of the effort.

It makes me wonder... if I was bleeding profusely from the rectum, what would a person have to do to actually get a rise out of the doctor? Bleeding from the eyes? Bleeding from the nipples? Maybe I've gotta snap a limb off to actually have them go, Hmmm... this looks like it might take more than a WebMD response.

---

What are you getting for your kids for Christmas? I have Christmas AND birthdays coming up, and I'm completely lost. Our kids aren't spoiled (by us, at least) so I could buy them a cupcake and they'd think it was the best day of their lives.

So hows'bouts you tell me what you're getting and I can steal all your great ideas???

Riding the gossip train through crazy town

I know I've neglected you this weekend, sweet tender blog readers.

So here are my blog posts from this weekend, all wrapped into one.

---

I was reading a recent post about doing the walk of shame as a married woman who "grows broccoli." It brought back memories.

I did the walk of shame... the morning after my wedding.

(This story still makes me laugh.)

I had been spending an insane amount of time at my parents' house 3 days pre-wedding. I was doing all the crap that makes you completely grateful once the whole thing is over. (In my state of crazed panic, I wore the same pair of my mom's ugly stretchy jean capris for three days. THREE DAYS. Horrifying.)

Also horrifying: I remembered everything for the "big day"... except underwear. Yes, I ended up wearing a pair of my mother's underwear on my wedding day. They were both borrowed and blue.

So by the time the wedding arrived at 4:30PM, August 30, I was exhausted and stressed and Mike was 1/3 in the bag. We made it all the way until 11 o'clock when I realized that Mike and I needed to act on our wedding pact. You know what I'm talkin' about... wink wink.

We made it to the suite, and I spent about three minutes getting out of my dress and struggling with my corset. I went back to the bed to find Mike - passed out cold, face down on the bed. Screw it, I thought, and rather than try to get my dress back on and make my way to the now-hopping wedding party, I passed out next to him.

The next morning, as we pulled our hungover wedded bodies off the hotel comforter, I realized the wedding day underwear weren't the only things I'd forgotten.

We didn't pack any post-wedding clothing.

We did the next best thing. We redressed in our wedding clothes - dress, tux, veil, with smudged makeup, wiley bobby-pinned hair and all - and made our way through the dining room and lobby...

...in front of about 100 wide-eyed people having a very fancy, very expensive Sunday brunch.

Holla!

---

Way back in 2002-ish, Mike and I would receive sporadic phone calls from my sister at unusual (read: late) hours, always after a rare night on the town. That girl cannot hold her liquor...

So it wasn't a complete surprise to get one particular phone call at 4AM. What surprised me was that it was a collect call... from Mexico City.

Turns out my sister was on someone else's (canceled) honeymoon and the girls had been stranded at the Mexico City airport since about 7PM. The airport closed all the restaurants, so the only thing they had to pass the time was to sit at the bar.

Let's just say that I win the prize for most bizarre drunk dialed call as well as the most expensive. You wanna know how expensive it is to get a 12 minute collect phone call from Mexico City all the way in Iowa?

I've already found out and subsequently repressed the memory. I believe it was around $5-7 / minute. You do the math.

After that, we limited her travel to within the continental United States.

---

Today was my mother-in-law's 60th birthday.

Yesterday, we went to the mall and I asked Mike if we could look for a card and a gift. Sure, he said, so enthusiastically. That there is sarcasm. Let's just say that our relationship with Mike's mom has been very turbulent.

We picked out a card, went to the local Younkers, and Mike decided he would escape with the girls to what was most likely the 'tweens section to pick up some high school girls. In the meantime, I was left to pick out a gift. I trust your judgment. Mmhmm. I bet.

I probably didn't start that shopping trip with the thoughtful, caring spirit that Santa's elves preach. Just a hunch.

I thought clothes might be a good thing. It's so hard to clothes shop for someone who rarely leaves the house with "appropriate hardware"... if you get my drift. Which I can totally understand, as a woman who occasionally first puts a bra on when it's time to take the kids to school at noon.

So I started picking through some pretty nice sweaters. That's when the inner dialogue started getting cheap and nasty.

DKNY... hmmm. That's probably out of my price range. $60. Um, yeah.

Calvin Klein. $129! Holy sheeeit! No way. I wouldn't spend that on myself.

Hmmm... How do I tell that snooty-looking sales lady that I love all this stuff but I need something like it for less cashola, without telling her it's because I've only witnessed M in anything besides sweat pants once in three years prior, and I'm trying not to confuse generosity with delusion.

Seriously, I think my inner voices are going to hell.*

And I'm pretty sure I just figured out why people go to therapy. They get to tell everything to the therapist and then they pay them hush money not to tell anyone else how evil they really are.

*I might need a bigger handbasket. I've got a whole lot of naughty thinkin' voices in there.

Killing and cleaning gone wrong

We are having some major communication problems in our house.

First off, two of the girls came running down the hallway this afternoon, frantic about a spider in the livingroom. I figured it had to be a pretty damned big one to get that kind of reaction.

Mike and I ran to investigate and the girls were pointing to a spider no bigger than 3/8" in diameter. I smugly thought mommy to the rescue and snuck up to it with my sandal. It bobbed and weaved on the carpeting.

Wham! Wham wham! Wham!!!

As I delivered the fifth and final death blow with satisfaction, the girls looked stunned.

Kristin was the first to speak. But I liked him... You killed the baby spider!

We definitely need to work on deciphering "I'm excited we have a spider pet" from "Kill it!"

My apologies, girls. You're scarred for life.

This evening I was doing some shopping online while the girls were reading books and cleaning their room. Yes, cleaning. I'm as shocked as you are.

I asked Alison if she wanted to be in charge of putting away everything off the floor... mostly hangers. I could hear her in the next room messing around in the closet, singing a little song. Awesome, I thought. They finally understand what "cleaning" means.

I lost track of time and noticed it was way past their bedtime. Like 10:30 past their bedtime. And I realized there was an aweful lot of commotion going on... happy commotion, but it made me nervous.

I should have been.

It seems the girls were bored with cleaning, so they gutted everything off shelves and closet racks and threw it on their floor. Then Alison followed orders to clean the floor and mounded all that crap onto their bed.

They told me it was their "castle."

Which is why I'm still awake at 2 AM. Alison was so proud that the floor was spotless... I couldn't break the news to her that she'd just caused a blood vessel in my brain to burst, giving me a massive headache.

I need to learn how to communicate with these heathens. Or self medicate.

Stay-at-home dads: A rare treasure

I'm off my game.

It's taken me nearly three months to realize I have a stay-at-home dad in my midst.

Most people send their preschoolers on the bus every day, and, even though I live in the next town over, I choose to drive them. Call me a control freak, I don't care. My kids would definitely be the ones to trip and fall down in front of a bus tire.

There are only three (or four) other people at drop-off every day. (I think there's a fourth, but they're always late.)

One, I can only assume by her age, is an older sibling to a preschooler. Dear Lord, please let it be an older sibling.

The other is a lady with a "No Lot Lizards"* sticker on her truck. I still don't know what that means, but I plan to immediately Google it. She wears the same hat that my 4-year-olds do... the one with the dangly poofballs by the ears.

(*I just Googled it... a lot lizard is a prostitute who hangs out at truck stops. The sticker is supposed to discourage solicitation. Which makes me ask all kinds of new questions, since 1) she's a woman, and b) the sticker is on her Suburban.)

And the last, the most important, is the 30-something-year-old father to a girl in Alison's class.

He's there early, waiting for the clock to change over to that magical 12:20, the earliest we can leave our spawn with the teachers. Just like me.

He gets out, quietly heaves his daughter out of the SUV as if the act of dropping off his child is the biggest relief in the world. Just like me.

Then he smiles, says goodbye and waves. He drives away without looking back. Just like me.

I realized something today... he lives in that next town over. Just like me. In fact, he lives four streets away from us.

I saw him today as he pulled into his man-decorated driveway, so I waved and smiled.

I'm planning something, and he doesn't know it yet.

I'm adopting the stay-at-home dad as my new buddy.

You see, I know he's normal. He has all sorts of man props hanging in his garage, and his house is really nice, so obviously he's married and still finds time for man-hobbies. And his wife is cool enough to let him hang that crap on her pretty house. And he's polite and friendly. And there's no sign of a church outing in our friendly future. Seriously, how hard is it to find a NORMAL non-Christian-recruiting, fun, stay-at-home parent in small-town Iowa?

Pretty damn hard.

(On a side note, my friend who will remain anonymous just announced via email that she's leaving her job with no future job plans yet... I might have another buddy on the way - yay!!!)

My diabolical plan started with a wave, and it's going to end with conversations over football and beer and snack trays and how much it sucks to go bald - because I can't possibly keep losing hair at this rate, can I? - and how awesome it is to have three hours without children pulling at every limb. That's way better than what I normally do. Which is: come home, sit at the computer, and debate whether to sit in silence or clean something.

Mwahahaha...

Next stop: really loud, out-of-tune singing!

When the girls were babies, I could do anything - literally anything - in the house and they would sleep through it. Vacuuming, singing at the top of my lungs, clanking the dishes around, wild and crazy, um, bed-making....

Didn't matter.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...........

Now that they've gotten older, they don't sleep as often. I try to avoid loud activities just to maximize the amount of sleep I can squeeze out of those angry midgets.

I was hesitant to play the piano at night, but I don't have much time to practice some days with Mike's crazy schedule. And I've got a lot of practicing to do.

Just tonight I was testing the waters. I played for over an hour, getting louder and louder until my fingers hurt. I started with Desperado, moved over to Always a Woman, bumped it up to Cat's in the Cradle, and ended with a bang... Great Balls of Fire.

In case you've been living in a cave and don't know this... Great Balls of Fire is pretty much 90 seconds of percussive banging on the piano keys. And I'm not talking about my social life.

It was a great success. Nothing but snores from their room.

I think I just found my new nighttime hobby. My last hobby was cleaning, so this is a huge step up for me. And probably a huge step down for the cleanliness of the house.

I just hope the neighbors don't mind the piano music and occasional swear word coming from my house after midnight.

I quit you, Tuesday.

Humpday officially begins in less than 8 minutes.

It couldn't get here soon enough.

I don't know what my problem is - maybe coming down off a Red Hot high, playing too many sad love songs on the piano, or too much quiet in the house (oh good god, I never thought I'd say that) - but I had some serious emotional wreckage about half an hour ago. It was ugly.

I felt a little tired and lonely all day, not to mention sore and sick. Yes. I'm fine. I sound like a freakin' seal, but it'll pass.

Then for whatever reason, I was overwhelmed by an unpleasant feeling tonight. Take homesickness, brokenheartedness, loneliness, every bad feeling you've ever felt... pick one. Or maybe two. I was so sad.

I bawled, and I bawled. After a few minutes, it was over, and I felt so much better.

I'm guessing it's a hormone crash.

Or a mid-mid-life crisis.

Either way, I can't wait for this day to end.

Digital Underground lyrics

Digital Underground - Humpty Dance Video - Digital Underground Music Videos

Music Videos by VideoCure

Titillating Tuesday Part II: Hairy legs and kidney damage

My cousin Erin - you know, the one who posted on here for me (my only guest blogger ever) - had outpatient surgery today, and she's resting at home. She called a short while ago and said she was bored, and I figured I had enough crap in my brain to fill an entire extra edition of Titillating Tuesday.

Enjoy, Erin, and get better soon.

---

The end of the world is near. During the Packer game, my 51-year-old father made a texting gesture and quipped, They should let me have tweet-to-helmet communication with Rodgers... "A receiver was open on the far side." Then we laughed. He laughed because he made a funny, and I laughed because my father knows what a "tweet" is.

I should probably start packing my handbasket now, huh?

---

Something funny from comedian Mitch Hedberg.

I was downtown in Boise, Idaho, and I saw a duck. And I knew the duck was lost, 'cause ducks ain't supposed to be downtown, there's nothing for 'em there. So I went to a Subway sandwich shop, I said, "let me have a bun." But she wouldn't sell me just the bun, she said I had to have something on it. She told me it's against regulations for Subway to sell just the bun. I guess the two halves ain't supposed to touch. So I said, "alright, well put some lettuce on it." They said "that'll be $1.75." I said, "It's for a duck." They said "Alright, well then it's free." See, I did not know that. Ducks eat for free at Subway! Had I known that, I would have ordered a much larger sandwich. "Let me have the steak fajita sub, but don't bother ringing it up - it's for a duck! There are six ducks out there, and they all want Sun Chips!"

I figure next time I go to Subway, I might try that. Except why even bother pretending there are ducks outside. I can quack with the best of 'em.

Sun Chips! Quack!

---

As I'm typing this, my children are running and jumping in the livingroom, singing at the top of their lungs to the Family Guy theme song. Yep.

---

Emma's teacher pulled me aside at pickup today and asked if I could volunteer my time next week on Wednesday and Thursday. Well, definitely Wednesday, and maybe Thursday.

I said sure, what the heck? I'm nosey and want to see how the kids are doing, plus I need to make up for totally skipping out on the parent-teacher conferences.

And as the teacher walked away, she said:

Would you like me to send home a reminder note next week?

A normal, well-functioning parent might be offended by that, but I took a second to reflect on my life and answered, Yes, I would. Thank you!

I am no normal, well-functioning parent, after all.

---

The Schwan's man's wares are my one true weakness. I can't say no. Tonight's treasure? Mint chocolate chip ice cream.

Drooooooool.

I went to open it up and steal a bite, but I think he had his truck's temperature set to "cryogenic freeze mode." Mint chocolate ICE, anyone?

---

Do not put the kangaroo in the toilet.

Yes, I said that. And I meant it.

---

I was watching the Today Show or whichever one has Kathy Lee and that chick with the weird name Hoda or something. They said that new studies show drinking 2 or more diet sodas every day can damage the kidney. I knew Pepsi Crack wasn't good for me, but it was kind of eye-opening and worrisome to hear that only two can cause damage.

Which brought me to my next resolution...

to never watch morning TV again.

I don't need that kind of bad news at the beginning of my day. It'd ruin my Pepsi buzz.

---

I had horrible insomnia last night, which means I had a really hard time waking up this morning.

When I finally rolled out of bed at 7:45, I saw that the girls had helped themselves to a breakfast of bologna, cheese slices, raisins and jelly beans.

Mmmmm... I think my days of cooking breakfast are finally over!

---

Alison pulled the wood blinds out of the brackets in the front window.

She tried to explain that it was an accident.

She wasn't trying to pull down the blinds... she was trying to launch herself from the arm of the couch onto the kitty tower and missed, taking the whole set of blinds down with her.

Because that makes it okay.

---

Dear Mike: I'm beginning to think you're some kind of Sasquatch/man mutant. The only time you are remotely attracted to me is when a) we're camping in the woods, or 2) I haven't shaved above the knee for three days. You're lucky that winter's coming. I'll have full wool leggings in about a month. Love, Your Hairy Wife.

---

Time to break up the brawl in the livingroom.* Have a good Tuesday night, everyone!

---

*Edited to add: The girls were fighting over a pumpkin which they had stabbed with half of a clothespin.

Titillating Tuesday: Packer parties and pictures from the past

There's a pretty strong tradition in our family.

We watch Packer games together whenever we can. There's something about cursing at the television as a family that bonds people. And it's the only time you can jump off the couch yelling Go, you cracker! and not get told by dad to "pipe down."

This last weekend was made even more interesting by the fact that Brett Favre was playing the Packers at Lambeau while wearing a Vikings jersey. There's something so sinister about that sentence.

And lately, my dad's been flipping back and forth between games so he can monitor how well Favre is playing. Because he's angry. He thinks Favre should have been fought for.

Mom's just pissed that she has to watch any more of that "traitor" than she wants to. Which is not at all.

There have been some close calls between those two... I fear if Brett doesn't retire soon, they may need separate rooms to watch the game from.

So as the teams were playing last Sunday, I would occasionally leave the room to finish supper and could tell how well things were going by the volume of my mother's screams. Gogogogogo, first down, YES! Run, go go go!!!

The Packers started out playing horribly, so I took a little detour to their upstairs computer room. I started flipping through books, and pulled out a stack of pictures from nearly a decade ago.

I nearly crapped myself.

This is me in 9th grade. That would be something like 1995 or '96.

And a sign my parents should have at least taken note of. This is us in Universal Studios way back in 1998. I was 17. Our parents decided The Studios were a great place to spend an entire day... after they found out the park allows alcohol. We visited every one of those damned "countries."

My graduation party. I love this picture, I'm not sure why. Unfortunately it's really blurry.

Yeah, I had to include this one. With my hard hat, tool belt, life vest (???) and pogo stick-slash-jackhammer. I've been weird my whole life, as is becoming more and more apparent.

This is me in 2001, explaining to my sister just how low gravity will take my breasts someday. And then she shared that she will one day be a spinster with 40 cats, and we'll spend our afternoons rocking on her front porch drinking spritzers.

Did he ever turn into a prince, Stephie?

My date has been cropped out of this picture to protect the innocent. To tell you just how much I cared about dating in high school, I went to two dances with this guy and I barely knew him. He was my best friend's neighbor.

And the grand finale. I was laughing and laughing so hard at the dozens of old pictures until I came across this one. It was taken almost exactly 9 years ago today.

Look at that freakishly skinny waist.

Turns out I had more to cry about last weekend than the Packer game.

Alison is the Dick Cheney of the candy universe

Did you take the candy, doggy? Where did you hide it? You need to give it back, doggy.

The interrogation went on for at least twenty minutes. That poor dog. Alison was on her way to using barely legal interrogation tactics when I intervened.

I told her the doggy didn't have the candy. Alison then accused Daddy, and since he wasn't home at the time to defend himself, I kinda rolled with it. (Daddy's pretty much immune around here... the kids would worship him even if he took all their toys away and burned their stuffed animals at the stake. Or so I've convinced myself.)

What I didn't tell Alison is that I took the candy and hid it in my bedroom. After all, it's the only room in the house that has a childproof handle.

When Mike got home there was no mention of the candy, and since Mike was tired from work and the beer he fueled his sleep engine with, he fell asleep on the livingroom floor surrounded by snuggly little girls. I left the four of them alone for over an hour.

I sent the girls to bed and walked in the livingroom to find that the girls had been playing acupuncturist with my sewing pins. Pins were everywhere. Note to anyone who walks through my house over the next year: DO NOT shuffle your feet. Just in case...

I finished picking them up when it dawned on me to check Mike's sleeping body for pins.

Luckily the children hadn't exacted their candy revenge.

But the fact it even crossed my mind as a possibility makes me believe I probably shouldn't blame things on Daddy anymore. We'll have to find another scapegoat. I'm pretty sure this is how the Devil was created...

I don't know who stole your candy, Alison... could it be, SATAN?!?

Or Danny Devito...