My little exhibitionist in the making

Mommy, take a picture of me!

I used to be able to get away with using the pretend, invisible camera that I store up the sleeve of whichever shirt I happen to be wearing at the moment, but they've figure out that those pictures never turn out right.

Mommy, take a picture of my houses! That's my grandma's house, and that's the bank, and this is my house where I live.

She's not talking about our house. She's talking about her house. She's talking about an old white Victorian house about fifteen miles from here that we have never been inside. Every time we pass it, she says That's my house where I live with my doggy.

So would it be illegal if I leave her there sometime?

Next I had to take pictures of her lowercase Js.

You know how educational shows use personification to "connect" with kids? (Here's the link if you've been out of school so long that you don't remember what personification means.) The couch talks! The shoes sing songs! The toaster tapdances!

Well, I saw Alison's picture and thought, Here are the Js... juh-juh-jumping to their deaths. Weeee!

My kids don't stand a chance to be normal, do they?

In celebration of 200,000

I recently noticed that we finally (finally) hit 200,000. Yay, us!

I thought - to celebrate - I'd share with you a few of the things I watch while I'm not blogging. Enjoy, and have a great weekend! PS Watch them unless you hate laughing and amazing things.

DJ Steve Porter also has Press Hop.

This ain't no rollercoaster of love

I'm on a rollercoaster to hell.

Down: It all started yesterday when I was forced to park across the street from the girls' school like a freakin' pedophile. After mouthing Nice job to a parent who had backed in completely crooked, taking up two spots.

Is there a cocktail hour for parents somewhere that I'm not aware of? Because that might loosen me up a bit, and maybe I, too, can start parking like an 80-year-old blind woman.

Up: The girls didn't destroy anything yesterday (first day in the start of a trend?), and I experimented with a marinade similar to the Honey Rosemary Filets from Granite City. YUM. While Alison wasn't too sure about the "pine needles" on her steak, all three girls had two helpings.

Down: I went to bed last night thinking about the $2200 we need to pay off my surgery, a school loan, some miscellaneous expenses, our car registration and fine, and my business taxes. I woke up with a toothache from grinding them.

I'm not going to even get into the costs that Mike is projecting for "necessary equipment" on his RAGBRAI trip. Not. Going. To. Get. Into. It. Because I think my head might burst into flame.

Plus Mike's mancation, my girls' weekend, the trip to Milwaukee for my cousin's birthday, and our trip to San Francisco in the fall? Holy hell. Anyone want to buy some jewelry? Or a kidney?

Up: I found someone to take the two or three dozen wrapping paper rolls off my hands. The girls' teachers need some for their classroom. While I might not be Miss Congeniality in the parents' eyes, I'm working on Teacher's Pet.

I eagerly await today's ups and downs. Weeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'll end up in a t-shirt and jeans, just watch

I'm frustrated with my clothing situation. I'm trying to dig up a non-slutty, non-marmish outfit.

I shopped online. I ransacked my closet. (I even looked through Mike's closet... not sure what I was planning to find, though.) All in search of the perfect outfit to wear to my cousin's birthday party.

PS It's probably not the best time to be trying on clothes when you already feel bloated and 80 weeks pregnant.

I have nine days.

I found cute red dress after cute red dress after naughty school girl dress errr... I mean cute dress destroyed during a bear attack?

But everything is expensive plus the what-should-be-illegal ripoff shipping prices. One place wanted to charge thirty-two dollars to get it in less than three weeks. Are they handmaking it? Weaving the material? Shearing the sheep? Growing the sheep?

Then it dawned on me that I could make something.

As scary as that sounds, I can sew. I also have a ton of extra t-shirts and material lying around. Who am I kidding? I have about TEN tons of extra t-shirts lying around. We have totes full of them in the garage.

Plus I am so damned talented I crap art. (I'm being facetious. I know my crap isn't art. Not with that much fiber.)

Thank god I thought of this nine days before the party.

I can get it done, right? I'll just pull an all-nighter like I did for the girls' Halloween costumes last year.

Mike would tell me I should order something just in case. I'm thinking naughty school girl. Or I saw a sassy cop uniform in there somewhere...

Titillating Tuesday: Keep your arms and legs inside the recycle tote at all times

Instead of chastising Emma for wetting her pants today, Alison was disgusted with her for the pajama pants she wore afterward. Emma, your pants don't even match your shirt.

Whatever was I thinking? After all, we're trying to impress Babar the Elephant with our fashion sense.

---

Me: Mike, you really need to read Loving Frank. It's a book about sleeping with married women...

Mike: I don't need to. I practically wrote that book.

---

As I rummaged through our tiny hall closet tonight, I decided it was time to gut and reorganize. (That seems to be a common theme right now.)

I found Mike's old PS2 and a bunch of games, a stack of photographs including some from our honeymoon (they're not the types of pictures you leave lying around), and seven, count them, seven cribbage boards. Mike has an addiction.

It's a little adventure every time I crack open another tote or closet in this house. Tomorrow I'm going hunting under the bed. I'm hoping it's mostly books and Nintendo games. Please let it be books and Nintendo games.

---

With all this rummaging around, quite a bit of crap is taking its leave.

Mercilessly it's tossed - into recycle bins, garage sale totes, or the garbage. Tomorrow is garbage day, and I'm guessing the amount of cardboard I have slated for the curb will eclipse even my neighbor's mound of Al Gore's worst nightmare.

I hope those garbage boys eat their Wheaties tomorrow.

---

I'm giving my mother anxiety with all this talk about kids playing with scissors. Then again, she gets anxious when she sees knives on television commercials, so I need to take that with a grain of salt.

---

Is getting old like going through puberty? I'm tired, I'm zitty, my joints hurt like hell and I'm crabby. I want a refund.

In more exciting news, I almost threw my hip out while vacuuming tonight. It happens from time to time... old war wound. If by war you mean sex. I wish I was kidding.

It happens when I mow the lawn, too.

I'm gonna be the youngest 40-year-old to ever get a hip transplant... at age 29.

---

We have decided to have taco night once a week, and we're going to experiment with different meats and sauces.

Now if only we could establish a someone-other-than-Loren-cooks night. That I could really get into.

---

I took away the girls' mangey stuffed animals - a wornout frog, dog and cat.

Emma cried and had to say goodbye twice while holding her Daddy Frog, Alison hugged her dog and kissed him, and Kristin gave a Whassup wave at her cat from across the room. I even took a moment to tell her that the cat was going away. Pretty much forever.

She was like, Okay, bye kitty!

Sociopath? Hmmm...

---

Do you think animals could be reincarnated people?

Because I think Moochie is the reincarnation of Napolean. Love me or I will claw your leg. Adore me, feed me, or I will claw your leg. Now leave me be before I claw your leg.

It's called "small animal complex."

You're runty, my dear... keep that in mind next time you claw me because you are at foot level.

---

I have heard enough Ozzie for the next 500 lifetimes since the girls' all-time favorite song is No More Tears. So I did the unthinkable on the way to school and turned on the radio instead of my their CDs.

Just in time for - you guessed it - No More Tears.

Blast. Foiled again.

---

Alison has two projects to turn in tomorrow and Emma has one.

It took us 45 minutes to finish them.

God help us when we get to the real homework. Which is probably - what? - next year? I can only assume it starts soon after seeing the Kindergarteners' backpacks... unless they're required to bring their own midgets to class. Which is understandable because midgets make everything better.

---

I realize it's not quite 11 PM, but I just laid my head on the desk for what felt like a second then jolted upright when I realized I'd fallen asleep.

Time for me to curl up next to my space heater husband and nod off for the night.

---

Happy Tuesday!

Sometimes I feel like I'm raising soul-less terrorists

I threw in the "nice mommy" towel last night.

Up until three or four in the afternoon, yesterday was just delightful.

We read books, played games, drew pictures of butterflies and kittens, sang songs, played with legos, and because I thought I finally had everything under control, I allowed them to have computer time while I read my book.

Wrong.

It started when I took a peek in their room and saw shiny red locks of hair on the bed.

Emma decided poor little Ariel needed a haircut. And Belle. And Cinderella. (In her defense, auntie Stephie and I speculated how long it would take them to give their dolls real haircuts after she bought them a pretend hair dressing set. Four weeks, Steph. Record time!)

I wondered where and how she got a pair of scissors, since it would have required a stool and a lot of commotion.

As my ninja thief Alison confessed to getting the scissors for Emma, I saw something out of the corner of my eye: the lamp cord was in two pieces.

Yep, Emma chopped the electrical cord in half.

Something inside me snapped.

I called them terrorists. Do you not feel sad when you do stuff like this? When you ruin your toys and I have to throw them away? Do you like making me angry?

Nothing but glazed-over expressions from Emma and Kristin, but Alison cried so hard she fell asleep.

Then Mike came home, and he just had to look at Emma before she started bawling. Of course then he picked her up and fed her dill pickle chips from his secret stash, but daddies are allowed to break those rules.

The last straw of the evening came when Mike went looking for his smoked gouda cheese... all 1-1/2 pounds of it.

I quietly went downstairs and saw what I suspected. The girls had stolen and broken the cheese into tiny bits in a pretend skillet, along with an entire pack of uncooked bacon. (Can anyone say botulism?) Alison said, We were making breakfast.

I decided I'd had enough. I went for mean. Scary, traumatic mean. I put on "that face" - the flames shooting out of my eyeballs mommy face - and grilled them over and over about eating food at the table. I told them I was so angry with them for ruining all their nice things. I told Emma her dollies were angry, too, and she would be lucky if they didn't bite her toes in her sleep. (Yep, I went there.) I gave them a little staredown before the tears came.

And I think it worked.

This morning I got a knock on my door.

We only eat food at the table. We're gonna be good girls today.

I hope so because I don't know how many more days of destruction I can handle.

The button jar

What will you remember about me when I'm gone?

(Don't worry, you don't need to confiscate my shoelaces.)

I guess this came up because I started my very own button jar. It's got a measley five buttons in it, but I'm excited every time I find a new addition.

My grandmother had a button jar. Actually a button tin. She kept every button she found, and I would spend hours digging my hands through there, looking for treasures. I bet she still has it, and I bet my younger cousins are now taking to the task of finding their own treasures.

I can't look at my new button jar without thinking about her.

Coincidentally, I showed my sister my button jar with excitement yesterday (that sounds bad... why does everything sound dirty?) and she said she'd started one on almost exactly the same day - completely out of the blue.

And recently, my mom called and told me we're going to make seed roosters. My great-grandmother had two in her kitchen that I was hoping to ask for when she passed away, but someone else gutted the house before we got to them.

Something so simple, but I'll always remember her shaky smile and mottled Austrian/English accent when I see them. I think we'll use this little guy as my template:

(For those of you who didn't know Maria, one of her most endearing traits was her pronunciation of things like "shoosting" and "whackooming," and how she always served us - even as kids - the amazing invention of American cheese slices with a glass of wine. She was also known for being almost completely deaf when she turned her hearing aids off. We'd have to bang on her door and call her phone repeatedly from her porch to let us in while her cat looked coolly at us through the bay window like we were lunatics. Que sera, sera... miss you.)

I will probably remember my mom for her obscenely stuffed recipe boxes and anything related to plants - don't worry mom, I'm not foreshadowing anything - and my dad for tube socks, amputated fingers and all-caps penmanship. (PS Dad, quit smoking, or I am gonna foreshadow something.)

So I looked around at my house and took stock of what people might remember me by.

I have an addiction to books. Or as I like to say: I'm a book collector who occasionally reads them. And sheet music. Tons of it. Wrapping paper. Overflowing from my hall closet. Black underpants. Let's not even get started.

Or maybe I'll be remembered for being one of the biggest narcissists on the 'net. Or maybe not.

Maybe I need more time to hone in on one quirky trait.

Until then, I'll be keeping my eyes open for buttons to put in my little button jar.

Loose ends

Didn't these t-shirts turn out cute? Aunty Hooty-Judy sent them to us, but the iron-on decals were really faded on the darker shirts. I bought some 3D metallic fabric paint and outlined them. Voila!

The girls are so excited to wear them. And the fact that it's almost 2 weeks past their birthday won't stop them from wearing them over and over. After all, today they're running around the house in Kristin's clothing choice of the day: orange and black kitty/owl/striped shirts.

You might be wondering how or why my children are dressed in real clothes at all, and clearly we have no plans today.

To explain, we had visitors last night. Stephie drove up and bought us broasted chicken and potatoes, as well as a 6-pack of Mike's Hard Spiced Apple, five of which I so humbly took off her hands. Elliott was slightly skeptical of the sleepover (whoa with the alliteration) but he woke up wanting to stay another night.

That's probably good since I'll be kidnapping him for three days next week while his parents head to Vegas.

Bwahahaha.

I promised him lots of fingerpainting and snacks and oh my god tranquilize me now.

I love this job. I also love sarcasm.

It’s like living in your office with your coworkers.

It’s like being able to leave whenever you like, but you have to take the three drunk guys from Accounting with you. You spend the entire trip saying, Shhhh, quit yelling! and We don’t call people fat, and on the ride back to the office you wonder why you ever tried to leave in the first place. It’s then you realize that one of them has pocketed a Sharpie from the grocery store and written all over the leather seats.

It’s like sleeping in an uncomfortable cot under your desk, on edge, waiting for some emergency to happen. And when it does - at 3AM - you are the one obligated to roll out of bed and deal with it.

It’s like having your coworker yell from the bathroom that he refuses to come out until you help him wipe his ass. When you decide you can’t persuade him any differently, you find he’s gone but has left a giant mound of toilet paper in the bowl.

It’s like taking phone calls from clients while the drunk guys from Accounting set up a limbo pole next to you using the curtain rods they’ve ripped from the wall. You give them “the look” just as they strip off their clothes and streak through the office, but they know you can’t do anything for at least 45 more seconds.

It's like deciding you'd rather walk through the office all day in your pajamas, with greasy hair, and smelling like BigFoot's armpit than to risk taking a shower while anyone is still awake and potentially causing trouble.

It’s like making dinner for everyone only to find that the office microwave has been crusted with a layer of cheesy gordita and tuna sandwich. By the time you scrub the foul mess and feed everyone, you realize there is no food left for you. You scrounge up a 2-year-old pack of peanuts from a desk drawer and eat them quickly in the corner before your boss tells you to clean up the water running down the hall that is a suspicious yellow color.

It’s like having a coworker who is always calling in sick right before projects are due, so you have to do all of your work and his. When you go to make copies, you have to wipe off the surprisingly sticky ass print left on the copy machine by one of the drunk guys from Accounting. And clean up the poop he left in the fichus plant.

It’s like fantasizing about ways to hook up and pull the office espresso machine behind you.

It’s like being complimented by the office pervert for having a giant rack and thinking that’s the nicest thing that’s happened to you that morning.

It’s like having your boss pull you into her office every day to tell you that you “don’t really work anyway,” and that a non-English-speaking ten-year-old could do what you do. When you ask why she doesn’t just hire a child immigrant and let you go, she says she won’t let you out of your contract. And she informs you that the job pays nothing except the “benefit” of not having to find another job.

It’s like having this day repeat itself, weekdays and weekends. No sick days. No holiday time. Every day exactly the same.

It’s a little like that.

Clean sweep

I'm not sure what to say today except that we have way too much stuff in this house. We have become the vault where everything goes to A) be shredded by 5-year-olds, or 2) live in our junk cupboard.

Did no one hear me say I wanted drywall for Christmas and birthday last year?

Mike is (smartly) staying far away from me as I de-crap our house. I think he's afraid he might end up on the wrong side of a tote alongside the other things I haven't used in years. (This is what happens when you don't put out, Mike.)

If we lived a little further into podunk, I could have a bonfire and burn it all instead of packing it neatly into totes to be delivered to Goodwill or stored for this Spring's garage sales. Ingrate? Yes. I don't care. I spend every day in the hunched position scooping things off the floor only to find them in another spot on the floor minutes later.

Our kids have too many books, too much clothes, too much PLASTIC EVERYTHING.

I don't know if I can wait until Spring to get rid of it. I might have to hold a sale inside my house.

If it moves independently, like the cat or kids, you can't have it. Anything else is fair game.

PS - I'm running on a bad night's sleep after yet another fun dream... if a child ends up in a tote, it was purely accidental. I swear.

Anyone want some shlock?

We're playing a new game in our house. It's called Put your crap away before I start the house on fire.

It's fun and keeps you on the edge of your seat.

I think Mike's really enjoying it. Especially when I yell from the kitchen (where I've found a brand new pile of pocket vomit - receipts, change, etc - after spending the previous four hours cleaning and picking up mini messes), Are you serious?!? And Mike hesitates, Did I do something?

To which I respond with silence because I'm pretty sure I would have been speaking in some thousand-year-old language with lasers shooting out my eyeballs.

That's love. Or brewing homicidal rage. I may be a bit redundant here.

Just to get this year kicked off right, and in an attempt to clear the house of ANYTHING that could possibly have to be cleaned up in the future, I'm filling garage sale totes. Most of it is dormroom-esque crap that's been lying around untouched. Buh-bye, painted picture frames. Buh-bye, trendy shower hooks. Buh-bye, miniature Buddha.

Buh-bye, anything that gets in my way or looks at me funny. That includes you, Mike. And your evil clawed minion cat.

This stuff needs to go away. FOREVER.

What's even worse is that the girls suddenly have so much clothes that I'm filling garage sale bins with stuff that still fits them. How the hell did that happen?!? Just a few months ago, we were scrambling to piece together a week's worth of outfits.

Oh wait... I know what happened.

I've become a clearance hoarder. Suddenly we're dealing with this:

That's only 2/3 of what was left after I gutted anything that wasn't 5T.

(You're not seeing all their dresses, capris, shorts, skirts, and accessories.)

Oh dear god help me.

Anyone want the whole lot? Let's start the bidding at $20.

Conversations that may have made me stupider

There has been a lot of chatter online about the Massachusetts race for Senator.

I find it ironic that a Republican woman - while saying a misspelling that the Democratic campaign made in MA makes the candidate uneducated - misspelled "misspelled." Is there anything more ironic? If so, please share. I had to bite my tongue not to say, You just proved my point.

"Missed spelled."

Seriously.

---

Alison: Look what I made!

Me: What letter is that?

A: G.

Me: What sound does it make?

A: Geraldine.

Me: Ummm... I guess.

---

Kristin: (whining) Mom, I want Emma to stick it!

---

I've been receiving calls from one phone number, several times a day, every day of the week. I finally picked up yesterday to see who the hell it was and where I could send their ass-beating.

It was brutal. I felt like I was trying to converse with a deaf-blind Frenchman. Nothing was getting through to him. Except maybe he was picking up on my pissed-off vibes...

Teleman: Hi, Loren, I'm calling to verify your address is 1234 Like I'm Really Gonna Post My Real Street in Podunk F#ckhole, Iowa*?

*this is not my real address

Me: Why are you asking?

T: We have a package to deliver and we need to verify this is your address.

We went back and forth as I tried to get him to tell me what they were sending me, and finally he said: Your card has already been charged for it, we're just trying to get it delivered to you. (And this is where the talking gets faster) We'llsendyouafreeWalmart$25giftcardalongwithfree trialoffersforamonthandthey'reallyourseven ifyoudecidetocancelatanytime,ifnotyourcard willbechargedthelowfeeof$16.95 amonth, thankyouforyour...

I told him I didn't want his free trial anything or his gift card to WhiteTrash-Mart. I said no. NO.

Teleman: You don't have to make a decision over the phone, you have...

Me: I WANT to make a decision over the phone. NO. No no no no no, I don't want it. And that package you originally called about? If I get it, I'm sending it back and I'm gonna be pissed. Oh, and another thing... stop calling! You people call here several times a day and my husband is asleep. Take me off your call list, immediately.

T: You should be receiving your welcome package within...

Me: If you send it I'm gonna hunt you down and gut you like a fish!!!

Okay, that last part didn't happen, I just hung up on him. I'm anticipating my package just because I want to start it on fire. I would have threatened him, but I figure it could potentially land me in jail. Not as fun.

Titillating Tuesday: Twelve inches edition

I went to visit my plucky uterus-free mother today, and she mentioned in passing a website called Twelve Inches of Books... or something along those lines. She saw it in a family magazine while waiting at a doctor's office and thought it was an excellent deal.

Well I tried googling it. Nothing.

I tried every combination of words: inches of books, twelve inches of books, twelve inches...

I won't discuss what that last one brought up for search results.

My mother tricked me into looking at porn. Damn her.

If anyone has heard of this site, please let me know so I can stop looking at pictures of gigantic oh nevermind take your time.

---

I left for home at about 9 tonight, in the midst of probably the worst fog I've ever driven through.

My paranoia of deer and oncoming traffic was at an all-time high. Car. Scan. Road. Deer? Nope. Car? Another car? Deer. Nope. Deer. Scan. Why is that car parked on the side of the road? Oh shit, it's a cop. Oh shit, I'm speeding. Oh shit, I'm reeeeallly speeding.

I considered pulling over and waiting for him to get me. Because he was sooooo coming to get me.

I love cops (holla!) so I didn't give him any trouble when he pulled me over. Plus he had a gun. And handcuffs, but I can't think about that because he was looking good in his uniform. Rawrrr.

I'm so naughty I was speeding with expired plates. In my defense, I vividly remembered paying for the registration... of Mike's car. D'oh. *Slaps forehead*

Deputy Louis was so sweet and told me how to rectify - yes, that word just happened - the situation if I find proof I'd paid, but I said, No tags and not in the system? It's not looking so good for me, is it? Then I laughed because, well, what the hell else do you do at that point but sign, smile and take your $100 ticket?

---

While waiting for the cop to get to my window, Kristin was crying and begging, Please don't leave me here alone! At which point I asked her nicely to stop before she gets mommy investigated.

---

My dad handed over my bounty tonight... 13 litres of pop for a mere $5.39. I would like to point out that only 12 of those litres have caffeine.

Aren't they beautiful?

---

I talk to myself.

Like a crazy person.

I'm home alone so many hours of the day that I suspect it's loneliness with a side of boredom. Is this what happens to those luney kids locked in attics for years at a time? Because I have a newfound respect for them.

Tonight I found myself playfully arguing with Mike in the kitchen. One problem. He's at work.

Then I told myself - out loud - to stop talking to myself.

Then I told myself I just did it again.

---

I'm kind of hesitating to say this, but it is what it is and I can't change it and it's the truth so here goes...

On the morning of January 10th, I had a very terrifying dream. Typically, I don't remember my dreams, and when I do, it's usually not a good thing.

This dream in particular was about destruction. My sister was big into nuclear nightmares - just ask her about the time I peed on her through the bunkbed and she dreamed about being bombed - but I never have been, so it shook me. It shook me enough that I sat Mike down and told him about it that morning.

In the dream, I'm alone, and I'm suddenly trying to find shelter. I'm horrified - not knowing what's happening - and end up hiding under a truck. When I crawl out, I see nothing but concrete rubble. I walk and walk until I came to a store with a working phone. I call someone, looking for Mike, and they tell me he was presumed dead, along with my father.

He says he can only "presume" them to be dead because of where they were known to be last, and - like many who died - we would never find their bodies. They had been incinerated. I walk the streets looking for them. And then I wake up.

I told Mike I wondered if it was about a nuclear bomb, but why was only part of the city destroyed? I was completely confused.

Two days later, Haiti happened.

How does a person deal with that? And what is the point of having that dream? It is such crap.

It's not like I can do anything with it, since the pieces only fit days later and it's always so random. I'm frustrated, and I want to go to bed without worrying.

---

I called US Cellular about my curious bill from Sprint for just under $5.

The lady at US Cellular was completely confused. It devolved to me saying, Me get Sprint bill. Me have US Cellular. Me not understanding why me have to pay Sprint.

Once she understood, she put me on hold to confirm with a manager that this bill is complete bullshit. I'm calling Sprint tomorrow with the delightful news that their $5 bill was not well-received. Let's hope I don't have to speak caveman unless it involves Me contact FCC.

---

My aunt Judy has been patiently waiting (I haven't forgotten about you!) for me to show off my girls' cute birthday presents - three new Birthday Girl shirts and a whole bunch of tiny dolls that I think are Polly Pockets but the girls ripped them out of the packs so fast to get down to playing that I didn't have a chance to process what they were.

BUT... I have a surprise that I want to do first before I post them, so I'll keep poor auntie Hootie-Judy in suspense for another day or two.

---

I'm giving my first piano lesson today. I'm nervous, only because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. We'll see how this goes. I figure we'll set the bar really low. Like... if she's not crying at the end of the half hour, we'll call that a WIN.

---

I bought Mike Where the Wild Things Are for Christmas from the kids because he'd never read it before. Cute = Mike hiding it from the kids alongside his big boy books.

---

Did you watch The Bachelor tonight?

Because I didn't.

I think I'll throw a party when that series is retired. Do they no longer screen applicants for shows? Hi, I'm pregnant with another man's baby, and that girl is sleeping with a show staffer, and the blonde passed out on the couch is hooked on heroin. See anything you like?

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Call me. I dare you.

"There's no more... there's, uh... there's no better time than now."

If you're gonna lay that lame-assed close on me, at least don't stutter through it. No means no. Don't make me spray you with mace.

I don't want a home warrantee. Now stop calling my house.

I erased THIRTY-TWO messages from my answering machine yesterday. (P.S... If you want to get ahold of me, don't call my home phone. It's my telemarketer bait.)

THIRTY. TWO.

We had a guy calling our house repeatedly for months trying to get Mike to take a survey. I went Chuck Norris on his ass.

Guy: It will take just a few minutes to complete and after the survey, we'll send him special offers in the mail.

Me: I'm looking at him right now - he's sitting a few feet from me - and he's shaking his head 'no.' Stop calling. He's never going to take your survey. STOP. CALLING. Take us off your call list. *click*

This is my week to kick some telemarketer ass. Every person who calls my house is gonna talk to me. It is not going to be pleasant. For them.

On top of all that, I got a bill from Sprint for just over $4. (High roller!) We haven't had cell phones in our own names for a few years. I'm going to give them a little ring-a-ling and tell them what I think of that.

Oh, goody! I've always wanted to report someone to the FCC.

I know why men created garages... to avoid housework

What do you do when you have a ton of cleaning to finish?

You rip apart your kitchen cabinets, of course!

These cabinets, until about noon today, had doors on them.

This was our "junk cabinet." I don't know how it happened, but over the last five years, weird things made their way into it... and never left.

Fluorescent lightbulbs.

Extra cabinet handles.

WD40. (Because who doesn't need WD40 in the kitchen?)

Extension cords.

Spider spray.

It was a toxic collection of crap.

During the realty shows this morning, I noticed a set of open shelves in a gorgeous kitchen. So I grabbed one of the ten philips head screwdrivers hiding in the cabinet and took the doors off. Then I filled a basket with crap to go in the basement, and another pile of crap to get thrown away.

In the mix, I found a yellow pad of novelty parking tickets. I reminded Mike about my Mommy Feud at the school parking lot before reciting the fake ticket:

You are an inconsiderate person. This is not a real ticket, but it should be. Because of your rude and lame attempt at parking you have taken enough room for an army and a circus. You have received this ticket in hopes that you will learn to think of others before parking in the future.

I wonder what would happen if one of these should "wander" onto that woman's Suburban...

I also wonder what other treasures I'll find once I drink a few more Pepsis - thanks to Mike for refilling my supply - and head down to the basement to gut the storage totes.

I'm not worried about my everyday chores... I'm sure the cleaning fairy will stop by soon. Right, Mike?

Small update...

The complaints are giving my newfound "big picture" attitude a run for its money. The girls dumped about a gallon of water down the vent in their bathroom, sending water gushing out the basement ceiling onto the floor.

Goosfraba.

Goooooosfraba.

Death trumps my can opener complaints

Today was one of those days when my body felt hot in a not-so-pleasant way. It was the frustration boiling my skin off.

I guess you could say I have complaints.

I'm like the person who collects pennies until they add up to thousands of dollars, except instead of collecting pennies, I inherit the one or two seconds of work required to put away the can opener or to throw away a crumb-filled, folded up napkin sitting on the coffee table. I want to yell, This wasn't part of the job description!

This morning, Alison pulled all of her folded pants and shirts out of her closet and made a giant fortress of clothing. It took all morning to unstack and refold and restack and put away and get back to square one for the day.

I laughed as I told Mike about my closet troubles in "that tone" - the tone that says I'm laughing now but we're lucky someone didn't die here today - and Mike was smiling and nodding his head.

He thinks he gets it. (Mwahahahaha... funny.) But it's not just the kids. Oh yes, Mikey, you are so guilty.

I'm gonna withdraw and stash away money every time I have to pick up Mike's dirty boxers off the bathroom floor. If you have the energy to prance around the house wrapped in your towel for an hour, you have the energy to pick up your own ass-smelling underwear. Or the socks off the floor next to the bed when there's an open hamper five feet away. Is this why guys put the basketball hoop over garbage cans and such? Do you need a little more incentive? A little he shoots he scores action?

One big one is the toilet paper. Putting the toilet paper roll on top of the dispenser is not the same thing as changing it. No points will be rewarded for the half-assed effort. Bringing a folded stack of t-shirts into the bedroom and setting them down two feet from their "home" is not the same thing as putting them away. Leaving food on the stove overnight does not help me and just wastes the food we're going to need since the girls are eating me out of house and home this week.

It's all these little tasks (and sometimes not so little tasks) that drive me absolutely fucking crazy.

CUH-RA-ZY.

I could walk around the house with a garbage bag and throw away anything that's where it doesn't belong, but if I did that, we'd have nothing left.

So this is the mood I was in this afternoon when my mom called me. She asked how my day was, and I laughed when Mom said she hoped my day got better. My day.

You see, Mom's home from having a hysterectomy a few days ago. The surgery was a success... only in the way that she's still alive and no longer has a uterus. So I would say there were a few complications. Anytime they're frantically pushing a pint of blood into your veins to keep your blood pressure up and your heart beating, I would say there were complications.

They're going to biopsy her 14-week-pregnantesque uterus for cancer.

Then mom tells me my grandfather's long-dormant cancer has suddenly spread to his hip bones and he has masses on his kidneys and rib.

And my great-aunt who fell in her home a few weeks ago and broke her neck is going to be confined to a wheel chair and in a nursing home for the rest of her life.

And another relative's daughter-in-law was found dead in her bathroom two days ago.

My mom says she doesn't know if she can handle any more "good news." I should have told her to quit answering her phone. That's what I do. (Unless it's my dad... he called today all excited about 2 litres on sale for 77 cents. I had him pick up seven. Yes, seven. Don't judge me. The limit was ten...)

So now my laundry and can opener and toilet paper problems seem kind of minimal, don'tcha think?

Butt boulders

Over the last few weeks, there had been rumors circulating regarding Target's semi-annual unadvertised clearance event... entire sections of the store are 75% off.

This morning, the alarm sounded. By "alarm" I mean a group of women online announced that their East coast stores had the big markdowns out.

Mike and I threw the kids together and headed out. We wandered and wandered, spending $90 on clothes (mostly kids' stuff - $3 jeans, $1 shirts, $10 winter coats) that originally would have cost almost 300 DOLLARS. It was better than Christmas. Or I should say: better than how awesome Christmas should be because my Christmas really kinda sucked ass this year.

We were only halfway done with our shopping when the girls announced they needed to use the restroom. No big deal, right?

Oh. My. Hell.

Kristin was constipated. Like seriously gonna need some help getting this freakin' turd boulder outta my butt constipated. I know a little trick that helps (which I will now keep to myself because it's weird and disgusting and if you're that desperate to know you can email me!) which I immediately put to use once it reached a stage where she was bawling. It was horrible.

But that girl is a trouper.

Once done, she wiped off her tears and perked right back up, walking out of the bathroom and telling the first elderly lady she saw, I pooped a rock... a BIG rock. I'm gonna get a treat now!

I wasn't gonna let a little poop humiliation disrupt my shopping, ohhhh, no. We kept going, and I swear out of all the people swirling through the store this morning, we ran into that woman at least five more times. And each time she looked incredibly uncomfortable.

Maybe she needed to poop a rock. It happens to the best of us.

I'm a problem solver

First problem: My livingroom normally looks like this (which, understandably is disappointing, but the ugly couch cover has to stay until we can afford to buy a never-been-peed-on couch):

but after school it looks like this:

Their classroom practically vomits on my house.

My solution? So far I've been drinking two Pepsi Cracks and running around the house throwing crap into backpacks until I break a sweat. The new plan is to beat the children into doing it themselves. Or probably just threaten them, since I don't really hit the kids. Although I certainly dream about it sometimes. Like last night when they used $2-worth of my brand new bottle of face cleanser to "wash" their plastic jewelry. Sigh...

Problem 2: The hair situation has gotten out of control in this house. Mike is growing his hair out until April 1st. He looks like a wildebeest/Q-tip/stoner.

He fluffed it up just for you.

Solution? I told him he won't see me naked until he cuts it. Poor, sad, lonely, hairy Mikey.

Problem 2B: Then there's my hair. I went out to dinner again last night, this time with a friend who has 6-ish-week-old twin girls. I tried to fix my hair and go for the straight look instead of my usual curly-bedhead-until-it-irritates-me-and-it-goes-into-a-ponytail.

Solution? I'm gonna say the evil words I swore I'd never say: I NEED A BUMP-IT.

And according to this picture: nose-and-chin-reduction surgery. Yowza.

While I was out with Teri, I hopefully solved one of her problems... I told her my trick of feeding two babies at a time. (Prop your left arm up with a baby in it and put a baby on your legs in front of you - putting something under your feet until your lap is angled enough. Then hold the leg-baby's bottle with your left hand and feed the other baby with your free hand. Make sense? It saved my sanity for months.) If anyone has any other twin-specific suggestions for a new mommy, feel free to chime in!

Problem #3: My husband is a pain in the ass, and he needs hobbies (yes, he needs hobbies... besides trying to break the Guinness record for most consecutive hours asleep).

Solution? Send him on RAGBRAI - the seven day bike ride across hell Iowa. I've done it twice and oh my hell it's more of a punishment than a vacation, so I'm totally fine with packing his ass up and sending him off. Hills in Iowa? Yessir. Enjoy that, Mike!

4th problem: The girls have been waking up and terrorizing the house every morning anywhere from 4-7 AM. Normally, 7 AM would be a good wake-up time for a child... if they went to bed anytime BEFORE 11PM or took a nap. I'd say they were definitely my children for staying up so late every night, but there is no way in hell - even as a child - that I have ever seen a sunrise on purpose.

Solution? We use the microwave timer for all things precious - anything that needs turn-taking. It is the children's mini god. I used it this morning and told the girls they weren't allowed out of their room until it beeped. Voila! Two children fell back asleep with hardly a word and the third came out at the buzzer to hang with me and watch a movie.

Problem 5: I'm really cheap and the kids need more clothes. Okay, they don't, but I'd like to get rid of some of the questionably small shirts I'm clinging to.

Solution? I'm taking the kids on a roadtrip to Target to see if they've marked even more stuff down to 75% off during their Super Secret Get Rid of Crap That Didn't Sell During Christmas Sale. Catchy, right?

Too bad my problem-solving skills are limited to really lame parenting / marriage / hair problems. Otherwise I'd be rockin' my skills in some place like Haiti. Because any country that makes Pat Robertson look even more like an idiot is alright with me. (Seriously, though... I hope they're able to rescue the trapped and injured before it's too late.)

Hobbies? Who needs hobbies?

There are some who tell me I need hobbies. You know who you are...

Wanna know what my day is like?

Wake up. Feed kids. Dress kids. Fill backpacks. Drive kids to school. Clean house. Eat lunch consisting of Pepsi and some form of a sandwich while fucking around online. Clean some more. Watch ten minutes of Judge Judy/Maury/whatever trash is on TV. Realize I'm running out of free time and hurriedly finish my cleaning.

Pick kids up from school. Try not to run over inconsiderate bitches with my Suburban. Force the kids to stay outside for at least five minutes to play. Go through the kids' backpacks. Read about 100 children's books before sending the kids off to watch a movie. Start supper. 60-90 minutes later, eat supper. Tell Mike to get off the floor and go to bed before I stab him in the head with a fork. Play trains/camping/Littlest Pet Shop with the kids. Send them to bed at 9PM.

THEN my real day starts.

Blog. Facebook. Make jewelry. Tag jewelry. Fill out inventory sheets. Cuss at the computer until it prints said inventory sheets. Sort laundry. Wash laundry. Fold laundry. Clean the girls' room while they sleep. Vacuum the livingroom. Do the dishes. Scrub the kitchen floor. Pay bills. Update my calendar with all my fun adult playdates (woohoo!) and why does that sound dirty. Read one of the thirty books I've started. Fall asleep around 2AM and hope I don't do anything crazy.

Rinse and repeat.

On extra special days, I like to add in trips to Target or some random restaurant like Red Robin or Genghis Grill. Because the fun never ends 'round here!

Does this sound like a day that isn't full? I think not... And then Mike wonders why I look at him with the "crazy eyes" when he asks me what I do all day or suggests I'm the "L" word (Ooh, yeah, the "L" word... that's a death sentence which usually causes me to say under my breath, I will END you).

It's also why I can polish off a case of Pepsi Crack in less than two days.

I need a vacation! (Don't I always???)

Well, time to go clean the kids' room then gather my $1300-worth of jewelry that I'm mailing out just before I pick up the kids. Sigh...

Titillating Tuesday: Late breaking nudes

Since I'm on track to winning parent of the year...

Rather than cutting pieces from each cake, we handed the kids a fork and put their cakes in front of them. Have at it!

My kids do not have a sweet tooth. They each ate about 5 bites, and only after I forced Alison to sit back down and eat a little more.

Mean mommy!

---

I went out to dinner with a group of friends to Olive Garden. Immediately the conversation focused on body parts and became a little bit of a spectacle for our waiter. I have a feeling he either enjoyed it or went back to the waiter station and said a little prayer for our souls.

---

A long time ago, I watched some special on 20/20 or Babwa Wawa talking about wildlife getting their necks stuck in the plastic carrying rings from 6-packs. Ever since then, I've been dutifully cutting my plastic circles.

Today, Mike staged a little reenactment using Mr. Quackers...

He is evil.

---

I almost killed a lady with my car yesterday.

Okay, that is an exaggeration.

There is one repeat offender at the horrifically cramped school parking lot who backs her huge Suburban into the parking spaces, parking her beast right over the yellow line. There is no way anyone can use the space next to her because she is a drunkard whore. (She backs into the space because - God forbid - she might have to wait for cars to let her back out.)

Yesterday, the only space available was next to this bitch. Yes, bitch. Inconsiderate bitch.

I parked next to her. I literally had 3" next to my door and a foot on the other side. I could have made it work, but this woman came waltzing up with an astounded look on her face. So, I was good and backed out.

On the way out, I had to fold down my mirror, meaning I had to open my window. That's when she told me that two Suburbans can't park next to each other.

I rolled my window up, and against my better judgment which normally might have told me to wait to cuss her out until she was more than a foot away from my window and couldn't hear me/read my lips, I told her, They could if you only used one fucking parking space at a time.

Whoops.

I made Mike pick the kids up today.

---

Kristin is the first of our children to ask "why."

Kristin pointed to our Planet Earth movies and said: Those are Erin and Ryan's.

Mike laughed and she asked to watch them. He said, We can't watch them in your room... they're special discs.

Kristin: Why are they special?

I just about fainted. My kids just turned 5, and this is the first time one of them has asked "why."

Exciting, no?

---

I bought Mike a present today - a washbasket.

Think he'll get the hint?

---

Happy Belated Tuesday, everyone!

Birthday cakes are in the hizzouse

At 5:30 AM today, my three hellraising monkeys turned 5 years old.

So far so good. Maybe this is our year. Then again, we're only nine hours in, so we'll have to wait and see.

I could post pictures and talk about how five years ago today I was panicking. You see, I didn't realize until after I was pregnant (like, really realize) that any babies I put in my stomach would eventually have to come out. I could also talk about how the epidural hurt like hell (all seven, eight, nine, ten times), or how fast they pulled the babies out and how I didn't see any of them...

or how the girls were so small their bodies could fit along your palm, or how funny it was that the cartilage wasn't formed in their ears so we could roll them up like Fruit Roll-Ups and they would stay, or how we couldn't figure out what didn't look right on their bodies until Mike exclaimed, They have no nipples!

I could also post pictures of Mike's nipple because they don't get enough mileage on this site. Hey there, 3-week-old Kristin! I could mention that when I first saw the girls with their see-through red skin and black hair, I looked at Mike and asked him why they looked Mexican. (They really did! It was hysterical. And Mike said he should be asking me that question, not the other way around.)

Instead of doing any of that, I thought we'd talk about their birthday this year.

It started out yesterday with a trip to Target for groceries and then a visit with Mike's dad where they got some awesome trains for their Thomas train tracks.

(Everyone make a funny face for the camera! Or just mommy, that works, too...)

We bought the girls one present. Just one. Yes, I know. Bad parents. The girls have SO MUCH CRAP already, so we got them sock monkeys.

They were ecstatic when they saw that Grandma has one, too. Except our monkeys have tail envy...

While watching the Packers lose (here comes the vomit again) my parents gave the girls their presents: three bikes! My dad seems to grasp, now, how difficult buying in threes can be. I had to hear about the bike saga of returning bikes and going to other stores and paying $10 extra... I'm glad my internal dialogue is internal because it was laughing maniacally.

After spending hours riding through my parents' house, giving the dog an anxiety attack, and opening even more presents from Auntie Stephie and Elliott, they snuggled in for a movie.

We were all tired.

They woke up this morning with no hesitation: I'm FIVE years old!

I would have nodded, but I didn't even have time for facial expressions. I had to make cupcakes for three classrooms. Here are some of them:

With the leftover cake batters, I made them three separate (little!) cakes. (Thanks for the idea!!!)

Can I drop over dead now?

Happy Birthday, girls!

Raccoons

Every morning the kids wake up before 6.

Every freaking morning.

Then I go into the livingroom, shut off the blaring television, turn off the overhead lights, and glare at the children until they head back to their room where they sleep until 8:30.

I'm not sure why this is happening. (Anyone??? I have horrible sleepwalking issues, so I wasn't sure if there's some kind of connection.) They just giggle and hide under their blankets on the couch or run around in the basement until I catch them.

This morning I went through the motions at 5:30.

Mike came to me at 9:00 with a tiny tupperware container filled with frosting. He laughed and asked how much frosting had been in it before the kids got their paws on it.

I told him I hadn't seen that container before, but that there had been a full icing container in the fridge.

His face was no longer showing surprise at the kids' cuteness... it was twitching with fear.

He pulled Emma aside and interrogated her. Where's the frosting? What else did you eat? Why is there shredded cheese on the livingroom carpeting?

My only-eat-food-at-the-table speech mustn't have had an impact because Emma took him to their secret stash in the basement:

Mike brought it upstairs and was cracking up. Look at the futile stabbing attempts they made to get into this package of sprinkles. (laughing) They dumped a whole bag of shredded cheese into this bowl! At least one frosting container survived... they couldn't break through the seal.

I told him I was going to leave food on the table at night like people do for raccoons at campgrounds.

Then I grabbed the remaining frosting from him and tore off the silver foil.

He looked surprised.

I told him, Everyone else had frosting for breakfast...

I did something I haven't done in over a decade - I took a knife and devoured the delicious sugary wonderful.

Working 9 to 5? Shyeah, I wish

In case you're wondering where I've been (no I haven't run off to one of my fantasy vacation destinations) I've been a busy, busy girl.

First, I got a call that my aunt needed jewelry for her store in Wisconsin.

Tags and jewelry and caffeine, oh my!

God, that really does not look like a lot of jewelry. I have to keep reminding myself (to stifle depression) that it takes 60-90 minutes to make each piece.

Why do I have a sudden urge to vomit?

Besides that, I want to make a few cute aprons to send up to her.

And since I love making websites... obviously... I offered to make their store website. I was such a techie nerd (redundant?) this weekend.

Mike, come check this out! I found the code to increase the margins and now the text is 1/4" down from where it used to be! And I also added a third column and messed it up but fixed it again. Ooh, ooh! AND I figured out how to make the center column a different color!!! At which point Mike rolled his eyes and left the room.

It only took me 2 hours!

So, let's see... jewelry, and websites, and... oh yeah! I was doing it with little to no help from my super-duper helper buddy Mike.

This was how my day went yesterday:

Me: Mike, could I have your help in watching the kids and keeping the house cleaned so I can make and tag jewelry during the day?

Mike: Sure. (Proceeds to play PS3 for a few hours and then gets a call from a friend who needed him to round up stray calves. Seriously. One more reason to love podunk Iowa.)

Needless to say, when I woke up with the kids this morning at 8:30 and Mike slept until - no lie - after 1 PM regardless of my wake-up attempts, I did quite a bit of "angry cleaning." Mike says he knows he's in trouble when I've scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom. Well, the bathroom was scrubbed, the floors were scrubbed, the dishes were done and the cupboards were scrubbed...

He finally came out of the bedroom and I just smiled. He didn't say anything.

I think he was scared.

He should be.

The residual anger is baking as a loaf of Italian Herb bread for the neighbors.

Get me OUTTA HERE!

Since we all know that this week has sucked for weather, it should be no shock that Iowa is under some kind of winter weather death notice once again. The girls' school is cancelled, there is a tow ban on the interstates, and the snow is still coming down.

So goes my plan to hit the Von Maur shoe sale room today...

Of course this gives me some time to think about my fantasy vacations. Where would I go if I could teleport myself anywhere in, let's say... the continental US?

10. Niagara Falls

To be honest, I'm not really sure about that one. Which is why it's #10. Cold and wet? Ehhhh... but I heard the town and the falls are gorgeous, so maybe I should go there at least once in this lifetime. Plus I like smocks.

9. Rocky Mountains

Mike and I were once given an amazing ski trip out to Winter Park in Colorado. We took AmTrak there and back (neat to see the Midwestern cities lit up at night) and stayed by ourselves in the top half of a cozy cabin, fireplace and all. I'm scared to death of plunging off a cliff and breaking my ass/neck/legs, so it was pretty exhilirating to hurl my body ski from the top of the bowl to the base all by myself. I would definitely do it again, maybe this time to hike during the warm months.

8. New York City

I have never been to New York. I have never been anywhere in the Northeast. Growing up, I always had a fantasy of becoming a successful career woman, living out of a studio apartment in a big city. I guess that's the draw New York has for me.

7. Grungetown Seattle

I am a huge alt rock dork. Self-loathing complaint rock? Oh yeah. Soundgarden is one of my absolute favorites. I like rain. I like melancholy weather and snuggling under a blanket all day. I like coffee. Seattle is my town. I want to go to a few hole-in-the-wall bars and listen to some no-name bands, then walk the town at night. Ah, bliss.

6. California

This goes against everything my body has ever told me. Stay out of the heat! You're gonna fry like a lobster. Don't make me vomit!!!

I don't do well with lots of sun and heat.

BUT I've never been to California. After all the times I've traveled out West, I've never quite made it to the coast. And I love the ocean. And painted ladies. Hopefully - if things go as planned - there may be a trip to San Francisco and possibly to the wine country this fall with my cousins. I'll have to pack a ton of sunscreen.

5. Savannah

Nothing fascinates me more than unusual traditions and strange accents, and Savannah has a lot of both. Voodoo, big hats, interesting drink concoctions... yes, please! (Have you ever seen Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil? Mike wants to know if people actually walk around with "travelers" - cups of alcohol.) I would love to wander and stare at all the beautiful big houses and learn the stories they hold. Ooh, ghost stories!!!

4. Pennsylvania - Fallingwater

Just recently there was a rumor that Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater would be rented out at a cost of $1200/night. I'm giving myself away here, but I love residential architecture. Love love love it. I have my own drafting table and drawing supplies, and would sit for hours in my room as a teenager, sketching. (Most girls planned their dream wedding, I drew my dream floor plans.)

So the thought of staying in an architectural masterpiece really gets the blood pumpin'. Wow, I'm a nerd.

3. Boston

I like beans.

Actually, the real reason I'd like to go to Boston is to walk the Freedom Trail. Because not only am I an architecture nerd, I'm a political history dork, too.

And the climate is much more agreeable.

And I really like beans.

2. Chicago

I've been to downtown Chicago a few times, and my favorite moment was sitting quietly in the bay window - way above the city - peering out over the lights below. It was gorgeous. Plus we ended up staying until Monday afternoon, giving us time to wander the city when the businesspeople outnumbered the tourists and homeless beggers, making it much more relaxing and enjoyable.

Ooh, and Chicago's the only place I've been able to order a chicken-broccoli-mushroom pizza without being looked at like I'm outta my gourd. (Just don't ask for Blue UV at a bar... hey! how was I supposed to know that's cheap vodka?)

I want to go back. Mainly for all the reasons I mentioned, but also if I see that bartender again, I can punch him in the weiner.

1. ???

Some days I'm just glad to be able to stay home with the rugrats. No packing or unpacking required for a vacation like that.

Today's one of those days... the perfect day to forget about cleaning and build a blanket fort. Maybe we'll watch some movies. And eat popcorn for lunch. Ahhh, relaxing.

Wake up call

I hate mornings. HATE.

(I feel like we've been here before.)

LOATHE.

I imagine hell to be a continuous loop of falling asleep only to be awoken at 5 AM.

Am I crazy to think I can start waking up at 6 (on purpose) just to exercise? I figure I could combine the two things I hate most and get them out-of-the-way.

The only problem is that I have an incredibly stubborn alter-ego in the morning. It's the personality who shuts off the alarm clock instead of hitting snooze and pours cereal in the kids' bowls at 7:30 before crawling back into bed. I have no control over her... and she is quite the rascal! She even lies to people who call to make sure she's awake.

I'm thinking I need a really persuasive daily wake-up call. And Mike won't cut it because my alter-ego would humor him for the first five minutes until he got all serious about waking up. Then she would tell him to get bent.

And I'd catch hell for it. How fair is THAT???

Anyone up for it? I haven't made any decisions one way or another, but I need to know I have backup in case I do this.

(I'd ask my pool boy or Swedish masseuse, but I keep them busy enough without their stimulating conversation, heh, heh...)

Titillating Tuesday: It's a real squirrel downpour out there, etc...

Here are my little chipmunks sleeping at my Aunt Judy's house over the holidays. They are almost always snuggled in like this.

I guess no matter how many times they hit/yell at/fight with each other during the day, it all goes away once it's time for bed.

---

Here are two more pictures showing off the girls' ultra-expensive dresses which I (gasp) put on a store credit card.

If they keep growing at this rate, I may be able to recoup my costs and make the girls wear the dresses to prom.

---

Over the last two days I've been joking that I need to go to the doctor for a "yeast obsession." Maybe I do. A head doctor. I'm not sure why, but I feel this urge to bake bread with my new bread machine.

I'm baking my sixth 2-pound loaf in less than 48 hours.

We've had country white and french countryside and two Italian herb (because, please excuse the swears, it was fucking phenomenal) and whole wheat and now honey grain.

What's amazing is that I feel as though I've lost inches off my pooch pot, and all I've eaten is homemade bread and Pepsi Crack. Is this a honeymoon period? Or have I found a new miracle diet?

---

It was my dad's 52nd-ish birthday today (Monday). We celebrated on Sunday but I forgot to call him again today. D'oh. Sorry, Dad! Love ya.

Please leave me in the will.

---

Before heading to my parents' house on Sunday, I called Mom to ask if I could buy Dad his fancy shmancy knife sharpener that he wanted so badly.

With about 90 minutes left before the Packer game, she sent Mike and I (and the midgets, of course) to one store. They didn't have the right one. I called Mom back.

Oh... she said. Well, we actually saw it at a different store, but they were out-of-stock there so I thought they might have it at this other store.

Off to store number two. No such luck. I listed off every store that might have something similar.

Mike said sarcastically, I wonder how much of the football game we're gonna miss because of this.

So I snagged a gift card as I speed-walked past the checkout counters with three small children shuffle-running behind me. I pulled an asshole maneuver and went to the jewelry counter to pay for it, bypassing the four-person-deep lines at the main registers.

I wasn't pulling a triplet card. I was pulling a we're-late-for-the-football-game card.

Mike was pleased.

---

I'm putting my bets in...

Kristin will be the serial killer of the family.

She was telling me about her pet monkey and that someone was gonna hit it and get blood in the snow.

Yay.

I would normally be worried to hear something like that coming out of a 5-year-old's mouth, but she is the same child who says to me, Mommy, please take me with you. Please don't leave me here by myself, when I have never left her alone anywhere. ANYWHERE. Hell, the kids are practically appendages five-through-seven. I don't know where she comes up with this stuff, but it's gonna get me in trouble someday, I can feel it.

---

Speaking of killing animals...

I had a dream the other day that a scared fluffy kitten was on the hood of the Suburban while I was driving. I woke up feeling totally anxious, trying to figure out what Freudian sex message my mind was sending me.

I dropped the kids off at school today and was pulling away from a stop sign when three squirrels - fighting or mating or just being jackasses - chased a fourth squirrel onto a powerline crossing the road.

Tha-bump.

That furry little turd got knocked off and fell at least five feet, bouncing onto the hood of my truck and rolling off. He ran away as if nothing had just happened.

While it sounds completely shocking, I wasn't too surprised. There are so many squirrels on that 4-block stretch of road, there's always freshly squished road squirrel. It was bound to happen sometime!

Of course the Weather Girls were running through my mind for the rest of the ride home.

It's raining squirrel, Hallelujah, it's raining squirrel...

---

As I said, the girls went back to school for the first day after winter break.

Which would explain why there's a bit of a hop in my step that wasn't there before. I'm already dreading summer break. Just a little.

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Emma has picked up a new skill - writing her name backwards. (Just for fun.) Which is one more reason to name your children anything with less than five letters.

Alison is still working on getting rid of the third and fourth curves in her racetrack Ss.

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We got the kids' class pictures back today, and it's reassuring to see our kids aren't the only children making faces similar to those in an "after" stroke picture. I'm not being mean. You should see all the one-sided, droopy smiles and squinty, awkward gazes.

And I just realized that the principal is really cute, but I have a suspicious feeling that he doesn't like boobies, if you catch my drift.

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Have a great Tuesday, everyone!

I'd better get to bed so I can wake up in time to get the trash out... if I fail to do so, we may just start a homeless person cardboard colony in our garage.

Poop and birthday party shenanigans*

*I do not claim credit for choosing this title. When I said it aloud, the person on the other end of the phone call suggested it. And since shenanigans became one of my top ten favorite words after seeing Super Troopers once a day for 400 consecutive days, I couldn't resist. So really, this post has nothing to do with poop and only slightly to do with a birthday party.

Mike and I stood with the girls in the cake aisle on Saturday. What kind of cake would you like for your birthday? You can each pick your own.

I gave him a look that said, We're really doing this, huh? THREE CAKES. Oh my god. Why do I do this to myself?

We went through the selections and ended up with some combination of chocolate-butter-pink-white-green-white-chocolate-pink-white in frostings and cakes and icings. Not in that order.

Anyone want to hop over here in a week or so to grow your ass eat some cake?

I'm going to be doing some hardcore workout sessions just to burn off all the homemade bread I've eaten in the last 24 hours. I call it the Anti-Atkins. I baked four 2-pound loaves, and we ate about half that.

Gurgle.

My stomach is happy but my thighs are pissed. Just imagine when I add some cake to that mix.

I've even gone so far in preparation as to repair my exercise ball that had been steadily deflating over the last few weeks. (Turns out Mike had been chucking the giant ball in the direction of the cat - not hitting her, but scaring her - and she took her revenge on it. My suspicions were confirmed when I found the leak. It was a claw-sized puncture.)

I need to wire my jaw shut. And lock up my bread machine.

Right after I finish baking this loaf...

An open letter to Chuck Norris

Dear Chuck,

I know I've teased you a lot about your supposed powers, such as your ability to count to infinity twice, but I would like if you could ease up on the nightly ass kicking.

At first I thought I was having sleepwalking episodes similar to the times I woke having to remake the bed or put the dishes back in the cupboard, or more recently, clean potpourri off the carpeting. I assumed my mysterious rib injury - which is still inflamed and painful weeks later - came from falling out of bed or thrashing to fight off an imaginary enemy, but I'm no longer sure that's the case.

Since that time, I've woken with a scratch down my left leg, bruises on my arm and my left hip on the verge of coming out-of-socket. In case you haven't noticed, it's been a stressful month for me (can't you see my hair has at least a dozen inch-long spots of white poking through? white! not even gray) and with getting my ass beat by you, Chuck Norris, every night, I've been so exhausted I've needed to go to bed before midnight.

So I'm asking you for a truce. For the love of all that is holy.

And if the injuries continue, I will assume the midget ninjas I birthed are the ones trying to kill me.

After all, Kristin drew a family portrait yesterday, and I was suspiciously absent...

Thank you for your time,

Loren