Just wait until you're old enough to be the designated drivers

I'm loving that we have friends with kids. Finally! (Can I say that? Thanks for breeding!)

It's not easy being 24 years old with three infants, especially when all our friends were still enjoying the single life or the married-without-spawn life.

I can't explain how much it sucks - and how different life becomes - being the only ones with kids, especially a herd of them. Try explaining to your friends for the thousandth time that you'd love to come to their football kegger but you have no one available as a sitter. It's like we became lame-asses. Well, more than we were...

Our friends invited us to the opening of their Bier Garten tonight, and since they had twin girls in December, all gatherings are now kid friendly! YESSSS!!!!

Of course I jumped all over that. Mike and the kids were stoked, too, except when they realized it was a 45-minute drive and Kristin complained every 30 seconds she had "shiny in her eyes."

(Thankfully Mike had a bazillion pairs of sunglasses in his car... including his Top Gun/Trooper glasses.)

When we walked in, I thought the girls were going to piddle out of nervousness and excitement when they were greeted by two very friendly dogs.

Teri was a little concerned about the kids' faces being at "bite level," but Nash and Charlie only wanted to lick them. The girls took turns squishing their faces against the glass, devastated that I wouldn't let them in the house to run with the dogs.

I'm not sure whose idea it was, but the girls spent most of the night collecting bark, flinging their animals through the air, and rolling down the hill. Alison pooped out early. I caught her "sleeping" on the hill, quietly asking someone to pick her up and give her a snack.

The girls had a blast. In fact, I'm pretty sure they had the most fun out of everyone. Alison was begging me to let them spend the night with the babies and the doggies.

I told her, unfortunately since I was her mother, she had to come home with me.

So my shy girls - the ones who used to never talk to anyone - systematically hugged every person at the party, willingly received or not. Then they yelled Goodbye!!! as we drove down the street... at 10 PM. I hope the neighbors enjoyed it.

I need to get my fence finish and have a Bier Garten party of my own.

Kid friendly, of course.

I'm being stalked by gainful employment

Can you guess what I'm planning next?

I ran out of boards for my fence pickets, and since I'll be at the lumberyard anyway... I figured What the hell? I can pick up a dozen or so extra boards and build myself a simple set of shelves for my office. Hint, hint.

Mike has agreed to give me until January to decide what I want to do - school, internship or gasp! gainful employment - so I'm scheming to get my business back up and running because I can't fathom waking up at a regimented hour OR the stress of meeting quotas if I don't have to.

I'm smarter now, understanding my physical and time constraints. (And I never realized how much I could grow to hate the more popular pieces... try making the same necklace 15 times in a row. It makes a person crazy and stifles creativity.) I'm going to only sell what's finished.

And I have almost $1400 in FINISHED jewelry inventory. Did you catch that? $1400 in FINISHED INVENTORY. I have many more pieces half-finished, just waiting on parts. I'm ready to rock-and-roll.

Well, almost. I have one order I'm waiting on parts for, and I have to pick up all my other jewelry from my aunt's shop 300 miles away, but once that's done... watch out.

You know I'm serious because I just invested a whopping $2.99 in this lovely black velvet neck:

(Ignore the necklace, but do pay attention to that lovely Gerbera daisy and planter I got from Micheala. She's such a sweetheart!)

I wonder if I'll make it to January 2011 before Mike starts telling me to "get a J-O-B." Hell, I wonder if I'll make it to August 2010. He's antsy for me to start bringing in the moo-lah so he can spend it on frivolous crap, like processed food and fuel injector cleaner.

My goal is to make enough money every month to cover my student loans ($200) and save up money for a new camera, because we can all see that's a desperate situation. I've got fabric and metal stamps and beads and imagination to expand to whatever I feel like making at any given moment.

Right now, all I feel like making is a beeline for bed, but maybe tomorrow will be more fruitful. After all, I have the other half of my new compost bed to build.

Never a dull moment.

Maybe I'll sew a quick apron for fun in my "free" time...

It turns out I never EVER shut up

Things came into focus when I read the note stuck to the computer screen:

I hope between you Alison and the campfire some-thing can be worked out. You all seemed like realy (sic) good friends

Was I sleeptalking again?

I took a moment and shut my eyes. I did remember seeing Mike laughing and shaking his head, leaning against the hallway wall across from where I was lying in bed. I remember feeling like I had something to tell him, but my words weren't coming out right, like someone who had suffered a stroke.

This is what I've gathered from my fractured memory of this morning's events and Mike's recollection:

Me: Mike, the tiny midget people can't be by the campfire. And I mean Alison. I've already talked to her about it. No, wait.... Wait. Stop laughing. I'm not kidding about this. It's important. Alison... no, wait... Crap. Mike? Mike!

Mike: What? Loren, I have to go to work. (still laughing)

Me: Whatever.... bye.

This is why I can't go to sleep before midnight. Things start getting strange.

Does it count if I call him a jackass while I'm sleeptalking? Because there's a possibility that happened, too....

The Boy Scouts had it right

I promised some people I would write this post... it's long but it might explain a little bit more about why I am the way I am.

I know most of you reading never knew me as a kid. I think I speak for everyone when I say I was a pain in the ass.

I have always been very independent and almost anti-social at times. In 8th grade-ish, I went through some kind of semi-goth, semi-skater phase. I wore black Vans and loved long-sleeved Girbaud shirts. I was really, really tomboyish. My mom had to beg me to buy colored shirts. In fact, I'm pretty sure until I started dating Mike seriously, they assumed I was a lesbian.

The thing was, I loved being one of the guys as a girl. It felt like I had found the secret key under the mat outside the boys' club. It felt easy to hang out with them. Still to this day, I feel that way.

Of course there would be a little teasing since I was a teenage girl, but nothing I couldn't handle. I would just throw the football that much harder at them or sucker punch them the next chance I could.

It wasn't until I became a legal adult that I had problems with my male relationships.

Before I go further, you should understand one thing: I may be somewhat explicit on this site, but I haven't always been so confident or open. I'll explain that later, but keep in mind that I was just a normal, chatty, happy teenager when the shit started to hit the fan...

The first perverted asshole was Mark the Rapist*

*That's his real name. Well, not "the Rapist." That's the nickname Mike and I lovingly gave him.

I worked at Claire's for a good portion of my high school career with my friend Emily. We liked it because it was easy, we were pretty self-managed, and we got to see all our friends at the mall. We even made a few "new" friends. Mostly guys who hung around to flirt.

I wasn't shy, so I talked to pretty much everyone. I rarely wore makeup outside of lip gloss and powder; I never used hairspray or anything besides the occasional comb. I was far from the flirty, girly type.

It just so happened that Mark was one of our new friends. After "knowing" him for a few weeks, I gave him my phone number. I had told him I was seeing someone (Mike) and wasn't interested in anything more than friendship. I made it very clear.

He called me that day or the next... I don't remember. He said flat-out that he wasn't interested in a friendship. He wanted to date me, and stunned at his stupidity, I told him flat-out that I was. not. interested.

He persisted so I hung up.

A few days later, I was closing up shop at Claire's. I had one lady in the store after hours, so I pulled the gate down halfway as a sign to GET OUT. Stupid me, I didn't notice when she left.

I did, however, notice that Mark had made his way in. The mall was practically deserted, but I didn't worry about my safety. After all, he seemed harmless.

Mark sat on a bench along the wall and I told him he had one chance to get out of the store or I was calling security. I gave him "the look." (My mom used to tell me that my eyes were like tiny stabbing knives when I was pissed off at someone.)

I saw him shrug his shoulders and stand up to leave, so I headed into the tiny back room.

The creep followed.

Unfortunately for me, I had a nice black skirt on, and Mark the Rapist decided that that was his pass. Before he got much further than pushing it up and slamming my head into the wall, I spun around and clocked him in the fucking eye socket.

I don't remember what happened after that, but he left and I paged - ah, the 90s - Mike to come to the store. We told mall security, who then banned Mark from the mall for a whole 30 days. Woo! Watch out, now. (I believe they reviewed his case and decided he should be banned for 90. It made me feel so safe...) When we went to the cops, they told me they couldn't do much without any kind of proof, and since Claire's uses Barbie cameras, we had nuthin.

Mike and I saw Mark at a party on A Ave (for those of you familiar with CR) a few years later, and he came up to me - completely blitzed - and threw his arms around me, apologizing over and over. I scraped him off me like the pathetic loser he was.

The second perverted asshole was Old Man River*

*Probably not his real name... sad but I can't remember his actual name!!!

I decided I needed a break from the retail life and got a job at the Parks Department. The hours were horrendous for a night owl like myself. I think we had to be there around 5:30, if memory suits me.

Most days, I wouldn't even bother showering before work. I'd throw my hair up in a ponytail, put on the closest t-shirt and jeans I could and added my lovely white steel-toed tennies to the ensemble. No makeup. I was half asleep.

Super sexy, I know.

I spent that first week weed whacking or whipping or whatever the hell it's called. It was nice. I didn't have to talk to anyone except at the lunch table or before clocking in and getting our assignments for the day.

Of course, as the new kid, I got assigned to weekend duty that first Saturday. My job was to drag the ball diamonds with the machine I had just trained on.

I showed up and only one other employee was there. Ron. Or maybe it was Ray. Let's call him Shithead to make it easier.

So Shithead was there at the break table. We were both early, and because I am practically fucking comatose at that time of day, I gladly sat and ate my granola bar. Shithead started asking me questions.

Do you think you'll marry this Mike guy? Have you ever thought about open marriage? You need to be able to have sex with other men to fulfill your desires... don't waste your time being monogamous.

I did a lot of Ummm... okay, I think I should get to work. I was 19. And he was in his early 50s. I figured he was just weird, so when he finally let me pass by him to leave and end the 40-minute lecture, I decided I should tell my new buddy Tim - another coworker.

Turns out Tim didn't think too highly of Shithead anyway.

On Monday, it only took our boss a few hours to figure out this was a really really bad deal. After all, it was a city job, and sexual harassment is taken very seriously for obvious reasons. He pulled up to the ball diamond and explained that Tim had reported Shithead and I needed to either confirm or deny the story. I confirmed and explained everything.

Boss had the plan to pull him aside with the Parks Department Manager in tow, just to talk to him and review acceptible speech at work.

Shithead flipped out. I'm not sure what was said in that meeting, but they fired him on the spot.

It wasn't until later that week that things got really weird.

Everyone, including myself, my father-in-law, the Mayor, everyone on City Council, the City Attorney, everyone in the Parks Department (including coworkers)... EVERYONE received individually typed multi-page letters about ME.

Old Man River said I was a bitch who was afraid to love him the way he loved me. He quoted Shakespeare. He waxed poetic about my nipples. Ah, yes. That's exactly what I want the mayor to read about me.

He said I dressed sexy to taunt him. Ummm... I'm not sure what his definition of "sexy" is.

Some of those letters were over 20 pages long. Hand-typed. Can you see the crazy???

Then he drove past my house. A lot. And he threatened to sue me and anyone else who took my side. And he told me he loved me. Sca-ry.

I went to the cops again. They did nothing. Awesome.

At least I can die happy knowing there's a file in City Hall with my name on it, containing several hundred pages about my breasts.

---

I ended up following my sister's footsteps and became beer cart girl for a summer. I also ended up quitting because the guy in charge of the clubhouse was a damned pervert who would take checks from customers and shove them down my shirt, telling me to put them in the cash register. (I have a pretty good sense of humor, but that guy was a total assclown. I didn't want him anywhere near me.) So I went to the maintenance crew with a bunch of really laid-back and awesome guys.

I also spent a lot of time in Iowa City at the bars.

The third perverted asshole was After-Hours Party Guy Chris*

*I think we know the drill by now...

My friend Sara and I went out a LOT together. Most of the time we made the loooong drive to Iowa City, and because she was a midget version of Faith Hill, she got drunk off one shot and I ended up driving her car home. Which meant I spent a lot of time sober or getting sober while we were together. I also spent a lot of time watching out for her since the guys loved her.

One particular evening, I was sober and Sara had managed to pick up a bunch of men. We were goofy and taking pictures with every guy who came up to us. In hindsight, a very bad idea.

One of the guys was Chris. He was a nice enough jock-slash-geek. A couple of his friends and their girlfriends were heading up to an after party two blocks away in a loft apartment. It sounded fun and I had never been to an after hours party...

We got to the apartment and it was a pretty typical gathering. Lots of people standing around, talking in the livingroom, music playing, and then Chris said he wanted to talk to me about Sara and the guy she was getting pretty "cozy" with. I assumed it was because he like Sara.

I walked into the next room, and as he started talking, he shut the door behind us. I cocked my head to the side and said - politely but sternly - to open the door back up. He ignored me and sat on a bar stool a few feet in front of the door. There were no windows in the room, and when he turned off the light, there was a stream coming in through a ceiling vent to the livingroom.

I told him I was leaving and started to reach past him for the doorknob.

He had other plans. He grabbed my wrist. You aren't going anywhere.

He spun me back and that's when I yelled to Sara since I could hear her voice through the vent.

No answer, but I immediately went into pissed off mode. I twisted my arm to no avail, and when he laughed I twisted harder until he fumbled his grip, I opened the door and grabbed Sara by her bicep. I almost dragged her down the two flights of steps and Chris came running up behind us.

Luckily when he pushed Sara, we ended up wedged between the wall and two large black men who were kind enough to give Chris an ass-chewing (thank you, whoever you are!) and keep us from plummeting to what would have been a painful landing about 2 dozen steps later.

I have the a-hole's picture, too... In fact, I just found it tonight while I was looking for my copies of Old Man River's letter.

I'm pretty sure it was a year or two before I went back to Iowa City, and the next time I brought Mike with. Come to find out that Iowa City is a breeding ground for serial rapists and sexual deviants. Who knew?

---

Always be prepared. There are sick assholes everywhere, and if they want to get to you, they probably can find a way.

Since these incidents almost 8 or more years ago, I have been stalked (with my children) by old men with camera phones through stores, I have had strange men approach our Suburban. I have been touched inappropriately by friends and strangers alike, and I have told more than one of them I would break their hands if they did it again. I have stayed overnight at a friend's house to wake up with a mutual guy friend pretending I was his life-sized Barbie doll.

I also found out that one of the other guys at the clubhouse who laughed it up about my constant harassment is a convicted sex offender because he had sex with an under-aged girl (like 14 or 15 years old while he was in his early 40s). Another guy who took me on a motorcycle ride and was a friend of a friend - part of a group I spent some time with - is a convicted sex offender. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon his face on the registry web site...

Sick a-holes are everywhere.

I'm no prude. But I'm not some play thing for pervs with mommy issues.

Back to why I have become so open about my entire life... because FUCK THEM, that's why. I refuse to have a few creeps change the way I want to live. And if anyone tries to do anything to me or my family, I hope they at least give me one opening so I can make them bleed, even if I lose the fight.

Or as Brad Pitt says in my favorite quote: "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't fight... If it comes to that, someone will leave here missing an ear or not being able to fuck any more. One reason, now that you let me know what you think I'm made of."

Because I am the wrong person if someone's looking for a nice, quiet victim.

Damage control

I'm not sure who is under my feet more - the ninja cat or my midget ninja children.

I'll turn my back and a second later, there's a child behind me, usually asking for a snack. (I hate that friggin' word. It should be illegal and punishable by death or extreme amounts of tickling.)

When they're NOT under my feet, it usually means trouble. Tonight, I hadn't seen the kids in a few minutes so I figured it was probably a good time to hunt them down and put them in bed. The noise came from the bathroom, and as I turned the corner, I saw Alison gripping the sink top and crouching in a pee-prevention pose. I would have asked Kristin to hurry, since she was occupying the toilet, but Kristin cheerfully announced, I'm *ughhhh* pooping!

FaaaanTAStic.

In my fastest Mommy-to-the-Rescue move, I scooped Alison up and spun to carry her to the next available toilet.

Unfortunately, Emma the ninja had snuck up behind me, no doubt about to ask for a snack or a drink of some kind.

But I warded her off unwittingly... with my elbow.

As I spun, carrying my 40-pound, pee-weary child and knocking another to the floor, I tried to catch my balance. I stumbled over the top of the now injured and crying Emma. So of course, I managed to catch her ankle under my shoe. Crushed and twisted it. Twice.

Yep. Me = Awesome parent.

Then I had a choice to make: do I set the child down to pee her pants or tend to the injured child first.

In that split second, I figured I could close the gap to the toilet in less than 2 seconds and be back before Emma could let out her second round of wails.

I scooped poor crumpled Emma up and got to pretend to be a doctor for the 5,237th time in my parenting career.

No broken bones, thankfully. Just scraped skin and a tiny red patch on her cheek from where my elbow connected. We went through all sorts of calisthenics and pressure tests and giggle exercises before I was satisfied that she was okay.

(Her sisters were so worried they brought her an entire assortment of stuffed animals, one by one.)

Alison decided she'd had enough waiting and drama and asked Emma to come to bed for the evening.

Every night for the last five years, I've told the girls, Goodnight, I love you and will see you in the morning.

Tonight, for only the 10th time ever, my girls laughed and said, I love you, too, Mom.

So I guess the only psychologically damaged one after that whole ordeal was me.

Sigh...

Titillating Tuesday: Sweaty

Way back in March when Mike took the initiative to spray our house for spiders, I was all Yay, Mike! Thanks for being an awesome spider-killing machine and bestest husband EVER.*

*I shiver at the thought of those fat, white field spiders that - every year - cover our porch, deck, car, anything that sits still for 5 minutes.

Then comes along the awesome 90-something-degree hot and humid ass-kicking the sun has sent upon us. Could someone tell Al Gore I say "uncle"?

So we don't have any spiders. Instead, we have a shit ton of mosquitoes and may flies. Yay for losing the second round of Man v. Nature.

We have one very very busy spider clinging to our house. He must be genetically immune to the death chemicals, which is way awesome for him since I'm pretty sure he also hit the arachnid jackpot tonight. Nyom, nyom, nyom...

I snuck out through the cloud of buzzing itchiness to get a picture of my fence non-progress for my aunt in Wisconsin.

Which means that by the time I snuck back into the house, I had let in several flocks of bugs. Our cat has now become a permanent fixture under our lamp. Kill those fuckers, Moochie... earn your keep. Plus, we're kinda outta cat food, so make sure to get your fill!

I don't know how much more of this heat we can take in MAY. This is AUGUST crap.

Thankfully we don't live in a hot climate all year round because the girls would whither away... they were outside for 20 minutes before Alison begged to "go inside and take a nap."

I, personally, wish it was milder weather so I could open my windows. There is nothing I enjoy more than having my dog-walking neighbors hear me yelling to my girls to make sure to scrub the clinkers out of their butt cracks. You know, since I don't want to have the "stinky kids" in class.

Yep, I love summer.

PS: Any thoughts on if we've skipped the tornado stage this year? I know I'm tempting The Fates by even saying that, but I'm curious what this year will be like.

At least with that plugged nostril I can hear her coming for me

I used to call my mom back when the girls were infants and joke that Kristin was a reincarnated psychopath.

I had to laugh about it because she really scared the shart outta me.

You see I spend a good deal of my nights alone with the girls, and when they were babies, Kristin would smile at me. It was a "special" kind of smile. An unblinking, smirking, knowing, quasi-evil, need an exorcism kind of smile. A smile that, when you're alone in the house with that person - infant or not - makes you kind of want to lock your bedroom door.

I love that girl with all my heart, but there were times I'd have to walk out of the room just to get out of that creepy gaze. *shudder*

Last night, Kristin came down with a cough... most likely from allergies, but she coughed herself hoarse. She cried and cried and came to sleep in bed next to me.

All was fine today. I wasn't sure if it was a fluke, so I hoped for the best tonight. (I gave her a bit of Ibuprofen just to be on the safe side.)

The coughing started up sometime around 11PM, so I took her a cup of water.

The girl sat up in bed, blinking, moving, but no response to communication. I asked if she wanted water. A nod. So I tried to put the cup to her hands. No luck. I put the cup to her mouth. She didn't budge. I asked her what her name was.

She said, Puppy. (As she was looking right at Alison's dog, Barkers.)

A normal person would be saying, Awwwww.... but Kristin then turned to me and gave me the most blood-curdling, I-would-end-you-if-I-had-a-weapon stare.

I said, It's okay, honey, I'll bring the water in later. You just go ahead back to sleep, as I backed calmly out of the room and down the hall.*

Five minutes later, I took the cup into her room and my normal, un-crazy Kristin was there to drink from it.

*Before you think she really is a psychopath, I should note that I used to scare the crap out of my sister on a regular basis as kids with my sleepwalking and long stares. I haven't killed anyone yet.

Then again, I might lock my bedroom door tonight...

God only rested on Sunday because his Saturdays were kick ass

I knew yesterday was coming all week - the day when all the poopcicles hit the fan.

Mike went on his (what ended up being) 67-mile bike ride to "practice" for RAGBRAI. If you know Mike, he doesn't need "practice." He's so competitive, or maybe just proud and high-strung that he could ride all 7 days across the state without a single day of training.

I told him he could ride 19 miles to the trail head and the girls and I would pick him up afterward. I was a little late. 30 minutes. Oops.

Since we were at Squaw Creek Park already, we figured we'd all take a walk with Mike's dad. About 20 steps in, I heard a faint MIKE! MIIIIKE! and looked up to see one of the groomsmen from our wedding. He lived about an hour from there, but his sister was having her graduation party.

So we crashed it, along with the cupcake stand.

"Ed" - as I call him - and his wife Teri just had twins in December and they are adorable and chubby, just like babies should be. I was so jealous... I think Alison had one roll for a day before they grew another foot and it disappeared.

Next, we headed to Target where I made the mistake of letting my kids pick out toys for my friend's 1-year-old. I sure hope Kenzie gets lots of use out of that Skip-It! (I should add that my friend also has a 4-year-old daughter, so I figured the toys would get used.)

Next we drove 5,000 miles to a crawfish boil out in the country.

At least this year the girls didn't cry and scream and make Mike cover his alien sea monsters on his plate.

I tried to sneak up on them while Emma was doing her icky floppy-hand dance.

I think I heard about 100 Ewww... GROSSes before Kristin finally asked to take one home as a pet.

Next on our agenda: We drove an hour to the boonies where my friend Emily's parents live.

We drove through a tiny town and out the back of it. Then we kept driving onto a gravel road for about 8 minutes, passing about 10 houses. THEN we turned onto practically a one-laned gravel road along a mossy creek basin. I will never claim to live in BFE again.

When we climbed the 1/2-mile drive and saw the huge shop/garage, Mike asked, Nice! Where's the house,* though?

*That's a trick question. The garage IS the house. Emily's parents are hilarious... you just have to know them! Off to one end of the garage there's a TV, couches, a kitchen bar, a bathroom, and upstairs they have a couple bedrooms.

We celebrated Kenzie's 1st birthday, reminisced about how Emily and Mike are lucky they graduated high school, and planned a Hillbilly Bar Hop in June. (Is that what it's called? I forget things...)

Then we drove the hour back to our house and passed out in bed.

So on the final day we're relaxing. Because nothing says "relaxation" like spending 90 minutes mowing in 82 degree weather and the rest of the day working on the fence.

Wow, I feel so "relaxed" just thinking about it!

Other people's messes

Just yesterday, one of my relatives asked me if the cleaning ever ends at our house.

A few weeks ago, my own mother - who likes a tidy home - asked why I clean so much.

Have you ever heard maniacal laughter?

This evening, I brought out the carpet cleaner in the hopes of making our couch less toxic and our floors less sticky. And I'm convinced our house smells a little like pee, even though I have sniffed the carpet with no obvious urine contamination.

Mom: You should use a black light.

Me: Why? Are we trying to contact Mars?

Before beginning on my cleaning expedition, I told the girls: And don't be afraid to clean your room a little.

They cleaned.

By emptying the entire contents of their room into the hallway.

But technically their room WAS clean. It took me 45 minutes to get to this point:

At least I had some entertaining conversation to eavesdrop on.

Alison: Who wants to put their hands in Alison's nose???

Emma: Froggy doesn't feel good. He feels sick. He's on fire.

Kristin: Mwah! Heeheehee... Mwah! Sweetie! Mwah! Uh oh, Socky Monkey made a poop! Pppbllltpbltb...

It was only an hour of my life, right?

Grad-grad-graduation day is finally here...

Cherish the memories, girls, because I could have painted better pictures than my camera took.

I recognize that chin!

There it is again! Cherish that magical moment, chin girl, er... Kristin.

Aha! Caught her. Here's Kristin getting her diploma from her awesome teacher, Mrs L. Notice the tiny white arrow pointing to Emma on the other side of the stage, absolutely not giving a rat's ass about her sister's shining moment. Now that's love, folks.

Emma getting her own diploma from Mrs M... equally great teacher.

Here's some lady's big fat head that kept popping in my way. POP! Trying to take a picture? POP!

Alison getting her diploma from the last of three wonderful ladies, Mrs S.

Jen (lady at the podium) is my neighbor, so of course she had to throw out the Kristin V, one of three, daughter of Mike and Loren V... as my girls walked across. It gave my mom a laugh. Keeping in mind preschool is not mandatory, our girls graduated with about 100+ 5-year-olds, none of them multiples. What is that all about???

After the ceremony, we tortured ourselves with Chuck E Cheese. We'd only been there once before, and in small doses it's not too bad.

First, a handful of severely undersupervised toddlers plugged tokens into the Skeeball and began overhand throwing them at the machines. Then we ran out of tokens, so I tried to convince the girls they didn't want to play those games... they wanted to run in the climbing equipment.

Things wound down and I made my way to the Ticket Muncher or whatever they call it. It would be the best invention EVER, if 99% of all kids didn't feel the need to tear their tickets into individual nubs.

I had to stand by with my long, flowing strands of tickets as parents handed their very young children 200+ tickets, one at a time, to thread into the machine. One girl ended up with over 700 tickets.

I'm not sure what happened during the HOUR that I was in line, but by the time I got back, my parents were both beyond ready to get out of that place. (Mom said it stems back to a trip to Showbiz Pizza when we were little and they hadn't been to one of those kinds of places since.)

Mom: But did anyone get a picture of all the kids? Where can we take a picture of them?

Dad: How about out in traffic?

My thoughts exactly.

Holy crap

I walk through every day in total disbelief.

It could be from things my children say or do...

Holy crap, my child stole someone else's artwork from school and tried to tell me it was hers (sorry, Keaton).

It could be from the simple fact that I have managed not to kill myself...

Holy crap, I was digging here with a shovel. Nevermind the phone and power lines coming into the house two feet away from me. Maybe I'll rip the rest of the sod out with my nails.

Or my never-ending To Do list...

Holy crap, how many months have I been working on this farkin' fence and it's not done yet???

And

Holy crap, how is it possible that my children cannot play outside for ten minutes without crying or fighting or doing something extremely dangerous while I'm trying to finish this godforsaken thing?

HOlY cRAp.

HOLY CRAP.

Ho-ly CRAP!

Every single day.

And tonight is the girls' preschool graduation.

Holy crap, I forgot they don't fit in their nice shoes anymore. Looks like I'll be packing up the 4 kids and going shopping.

And this Saturday, Mike is going on a 40+ mile bike ride in the morning, we have a crawfish boil to attend sometime after noon, and then we're driving 5 gajillion miles to my friend Emily's house in the evening for a birthday party (my mileage may be off by a mile or two). We can do it, right?

HOLY. CRAP.

To add to the fun, my night terrors returned last night. I woke up thinking that someone with a face like Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight was staring at me through the front door. I woke myself up with my own sleeptalking. That takes talent.

Because seeing that face, staring and smirking at me?

Holy crap.

Titillating Tuesday: Back with Crack

One of my neighbors walks past my house several times a day with his girlfriend's dog.

Heh. I'd been thinking how strange it is that he takes the dog out so often, but it literally just dawned on me it's because of his beautifully and painstakingly manicured lawn. He's taking the dog out to piss and shit on other people's grass! Ha!!! I should thank him for all doggy land mines I have to dodge as I mow by parking them on his driveway.

Anyway, really nice guy. Minus the dog poo. He compliments my fence and yesterday, he walked past as I spent yet another 4 hours screwing away (boards, thank you) and said Mike should get you an award for Wife of the Year. I agree.

In fact, I've already picked out my prize.

I think it just SCREAMS Wife of the Year, don't you?

---

With my new early wake up time of 6AM, the last few weeks have been, well, harrowing.

The new midgety addition to our house for 20 hours each week and the fence and the constant yardwork? It might put me in my grave.

Mike spent his first (and probably last) full morning while having 4 5-year-olds tagging along. I think that's why he picked up - completely on his own ambition - two CUBES of Pepsi Crack plus twelve tall bottles. Some quick math... that's 864 ounces of pure, heart attack inducing life force.

It really perked me up.

In fact, here's a picture of me with the cat.

---

The girls have their graduation ceremony from preschool this Thursday.

Preschool.

My mom was upset that Mike was even considering not taking vacation time to attend. You know, so he could go to his job. The job that gives us electricity and keeps my kids from becoming panhandlers.

Honestly, I wasn't planning to make a big deal out of it. It's not as if they'll never have another one. Like in Kindergarten. And after Elementary School. Culminating in their ACTUAL, REAL graduation.

Does anyone else think they go a little overboard with these ceremonies? Celebrating mediocrity, indeed.

Congrats on showing up more than 80% of all school days, which is really the only requirement for passing preschool.

Well, that and not biting off other kids' body parts, but really, they'd probably still let that slide.

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Garden paradise... coming in 2016

I don't even know what to say, except that I'm so sore I am going to curl up in the fetal position in about 10 minutes and stay there until morning.

Five down.

Only 14 more sections to go (and 2 gates).

The neighbor stopped over to compliment my work (just as it started to rain, of course) and I told her when it's all done, I'm going to have a garden party. Everyone's invited. I don't care if it ends up being me and a boombox, I'm gonna sit back there and drink.

I don't think you even understand how much work is going into this.

There are so many things we could have done to make this project go more quickly, but they didn't work out. But I'm not even going to go down that path right now.

I also could have gotten shnockered up today while doing all this work. I didn't, but I could have. And I'm not quite sure why I didn't. Oh yeah, power tools. And working with fractions.

I needed some reprieve. My fun project yesterday was trying to put in one of my Mother's Day stones. I can't get it to sink down. It just needs to rain, which is ironic since it's rained practically all week and now we're supposed to be dry this whole next week.

(I would have run a hose to it, but that just reminds me too much of how - after bodies are buried in the cemetary - the grounds keeper sticks a hose in the corner of the plot and pumps water around the burial vault to make it sink. Reason #372 why I want to be cremated.)

Instead, we'll wait patiently.

I figured Kristin's stepping stone should be the first one in, since she always ends up last. I want to see that crooked little thumb imprint first thing when I open the gate to my eventual garden paradise.

Very eventual.

I'm not a mummy... these are burn wraps

Yesterday, I realized the importance of sunscreen when - 20 minutes into cutting pickets - my skin got to that pink, sticky stage where you start to think: Hmmm, maybe some sunscreen would be good right about now before my skin jumps ship.

So of course I did the smart thing and sprayed myself with SPF 50.

They tell you not to spray it on your face, but I figured if I shut my face holes real tight-like I would be okay. Instead everything tasted like hairspray for the next hour. I had sunscreen dripping down my arms and my armhair and my face and my, well... I might need to wax.

Then I waited.

And went back outside.

And got even more sunburned. Seriously? SPF 50??? Am I supposed to cut eye holes in a bed sheet and drape it over my body? I am considering writing Coppertone and asking if SPF stands for: Suck Pain, Fucktard.

And did you know that sawdust is magnetically attracted to sunscreened/sunburned body parts? I'm practically sand paper.

It's amazing that my kids were outside all weekend with no sunscreen on and they look exactly the same. I swear to you they got Mike's pasty green skin that doesn't burn. (It must have to do with the jaundice the 4 of them had at birth.)

But the fence looks fucking adorable. And no I don't have pictures yet. But I will later today. And you will be impressed, my minions. Impressed.

On a totally unrelated note, did you know the average adult gets diarrhea twice a year? Just in case you wanted to know.

Not that I spent the night wishing I had a toilet at my bedside or anything...

The parents still have the kids at the campground, and they called this morning to tell me to work on my fence and pick them up later tonight. I'm disappointed, only because I was looking forward to the traditional pack-up day breakfast of powdered sugar donuts. Mmmmm.

Donuts.

My feet are less important than Mike's feet

I vaguely remembered Mike waking me up at 4 AM this morning to tell me yada-yada-the-mower-blade-is-fixed-yada-yada-might-be-permanently-broken-yada-be-careful. (This is how I remember all conversations before noon.)

So I called the control room at the mill to get a translation. The guy laughed. Can I take a message? Mike's shockingly busy.

Yeah, I just need to know if the lawn mower's fixed or if it's going to kill me.

When Mike answered Yes, I heard the other guy's muffled response over the radio: You mean you fixed it after your wife bent it up on that huge rock?

Thanks, Mike. Is this retaliation for all the times I talk about your bowel movements on my blog? By the way, the bedroom still smells like a rotten egg crawled out of your ass. You're welcome.

That blade was bent. It was bent so badly, I could hear the metal dragging as I rolled, defeated, back up the driveway.

Then I get a phone call: Um, make sure to call me after you try to start it.

That's reeeeally reassuring.

It started, for the record. And my feet are still intact. I just love how he took the time to fix it this morning then left it up to me to test his handiwork.

Apparently Mike needs a little liquid courage before doing his own stunts, like the time he tried to fix a NOT BROKEN garbage disposal by sticking his hand inside of it while completely loopy on Coors Light.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, right Mikey?

Good times, good times...

If I go broke, blame the purses

I love today.

If today was a hot sweaty man, I would totally have touched it inappropriately.

It started with no drama on the homefront with the new minion. We painted fingernails, fixed hair, watched movies, and kept it together when I refused to call her mom. (Apparently telling a child flat-out No, we can't call your mommy. She's busy, and if you want her to come get you early like she promised, we should let her finish her work, actually works!!!)

Jackpot. All smiles the rest of the day.

Mike called and asked me out to lunch. We ended up at Zeppelin's.

Awesome food.

Now what? Mike asked. I shrugged. We could always go to TJ Maxx to look at purses. I could feel the excitement pouring off of him. Come to find out he just wanted to ditch me three minutes in to go to Barnes & Noble for Star Wars books.

His loss.

I found this gem, stuffed WAY in the back of the TJ Maxx Clearance section. I recognized it almost immediately.

Jesselli. Couture. Oh. My. God.

These things sell for $394, and I got it for an astoundingly low price of one hundresnaggleflabble mipbipgartle dollars.

Give or take a few pennies.

Of course when I bragged to my sister - since she's the one who's been telling me to go there for months - that I'd found such a good deal hidden away, she responded: It's probably the one that I had stashed there you beotch!!!

Mwah. I sure hope so!

It's so big I could fit my other purse inside of it. Talk about looking like a shoplifter when I walked into B&N to find Mike. I'd tracked him down just as I was preparing to text him: Look for the gigantic purse accessorized by your wife.

God, I love Thursdays.

Send help.

My computer was abducted by 4 5-year-olds yesterday after my newest minion showed my girls NickJr.com. After hearing about Ni Hao Kai Lan WhateverTheHellHerNameIs jumping into puddles and making flowers for the 10,000th time, I rammed a hanger in my ears.

(Even as I sit here, I'm typing quietly so they don't know the computer is turned on. I told them a monster came and ate the computer's internal wiring, so it no longer runs. If they figure out my game, I'm gonna be in big trouble.)

On top of that, I have suddenly become the most popular person on the planet. With three playmates, who would've thought Micheala would follow me around, asking me to play with her, color with her, singwithher, drawwithher playpianowithher sitwithher....

While I don't mind the flattery, I don't want to be one of those moms who tries to be more fun than her kids, so I'm hiding from the girls from time to time. Okay, that's not why I'm hiding. It's because I can only stand to sing Stinky, Stinky Diaper Change so many times, and I don't need any more reasons to want to drink before noon.

Speaking of which, I noticed this morning that our alcoholic/caffeinated beverages and condiments outnumber actual food items. It makes me a bit nostalgic for high school and college... the days before children. Thankfully this lack of food gives me a reason to get out of the house since it has rained every day this week. Shopping should be simple enough since this girl only eats five or six foods, most of which my kids won't eat. Is God punishing me for not liking onions as a child?

So if I've been absent, it isn't because I've been working around the house or building my fence... it's because it takes several hours of preparation to carve out a little computer "me" time.

As a huge bonus, Mike was supposed to be off yesterday through tomorrow, but he has meetings or outages EVERY SINGLE MORNING. I asked him if he's avoiding helping me with the kids.

He laughed.

I'm not sure if that's a yes or a no.

Please send help. (I'll be hiding in the vacuum closet.)

The Wal-Mart Trifecta

Remember Wal-Mart Parts I and II?

Well, hitch up your pants and knock down a bottle of Boone's Farm, cuz we're taking this blog off-road and into Wal-Mart, Part III.

It started when I pulled into a parking space and said to Mike, What the heck is that van's back window made of? A garage door panel? He went on to analyze how they attached it to the door with plant hooks, Tyvek tape and screws. Mike said it was worthy of a picture for the blog, but alas, my camera was safely tucked away at home.

You don't see something like that every day. Unless you shop at Wal-Mart. Then you see all sorts of stuff, especially in the lot. Let's see, we've had a van full of marijuana plants, a stripped down police vehicle with the cherries still on top, and too many Geo Metros riding on doughnuts to count.

There are only a few reasons I dare to shop the aisles of Wally World. It's the only place I can find my popcorn flavorings, they have cheap sidewalk chalk, and their kids' shoes are $8/pair. But even then I can only handle so much Wal-Mart before I suffer from exposure to inbreeding.

Mike and I split up after entering the store, and the first half of the trip was disappointingly uneventful.

It wasn't until the clothing section that an entire wall of rubber boots fell on me and I was yelled at by an Indian woman in her native language. (I must have done something really wrong. Like make fun of her garage door minivan.)

Then I was followed by what I would wager was an elderly homeless man, or someone's grandfather who was ditched there and told that Wal-Mart has free BINGO so he spent 10 minutes following the only person in sight that looked like they'd showered in the last 3 days. I wish this was an exaggeration.

As a bonus, I witnessed a woman who was clearly holding back from beating her child in the produce section. I had to park next to her, so I interrupted her screaming session by loudly and cheerfully asking Emma which bananas looked the best.

It was two days before Mother's Day, and the Wal-Mart jewelry section was teeming with anxious people. Over the intercom, I heard, Assistance needed at the jewelry counter, and immediately I thought someone's gonna get shot up in hizzah!

I hate that store.

I told Mike I understood how much he loves going there - so much variety to look at - but I needed to get the hell outta there.

Without even greeting us, the cashier started barking at the girls... loudly. "RUFF! Ruh ruh RUFF!!! RUFF! RUFF!!!" I turned to see if the girls were horrified because it scared the crap out of me and I'm a grown woman. I realized this was probably only their 3rd or 4th encounter with a black man, and he was very large and very black, and also barking very loudly with one eye so red he looked like the Terminator. They looked at me like How do I respond to this, Mom? and I smiled and laughed to let them know I was pretty sure the guy wasn't going to bite them.

But Jesus, it's Wal-Mart... you never know.

(I want to add that the cashier was actually very, very nice. Once the girls got over the shock, he had them laughing so hard Emma was practically in tears.)

When we left, the cops were breaking up an altercation because one guy wouldn't move his car to let another out of a parking space.

Ah, Wal-Mart. It's almost worthy of its own blog...

Cashing in on popping out kids

We presented Grandma with her stepping boulders stones today.

(Good luck moving those frickin' things, Dad. Try to lift with your legs and call me if you poop out your lung.)

And then came the picture session my mom requested.

And another picture.*

We aren't too familiar with the dress concept, and Alison was freaking out that we "forgot jeans." But I need pants! We forgot pants, Mom! It wasn't long, though, before she was twirling and twirling and twirling in her flowery frock.

I didn't plan to spend all afternoon at their house, but they have a way of sucking me in. Dad offered to grill me a steak for Mother's Day. And I am weak-willed when it comes to not having to cook.

So I caved in and subsequently took what I believe was a 3-hour nap. A nap. (Don't tell anyone, but I woke up after an hour and decided to go back to sleep. And I confess that I napped while under a Snuggie, although I never went as far as putting my arms through the sleeves.)

Free food. Mid-day sleep. There are few things I could have enjoyed more today.

Well, that don't involve a sweaty Puerto Rican...

Happy Mother's Day!

*I refuse to post the pictures of my sister, mom and I. I probably should have done a wardrobe check before leaving the house... my stupid zip-up top kept bunching up, making me look even more humptydumpty-ish than I normally do. Especially when standing next to my I'm-a-size-2-and-think-I'm-fat sister and my I-just-had-half-my-bodyweight-in-organs-removed mother. Plus all three of us were squinting with "ish" faces on. Just how I want to remember today.

The joys of Mother's Day

Part of being a mother is waking up on Mother's Day and altering two new kids' dresses for my scrawny children, sewing up a popped Knufflebunny seam, folding a couple loads of laundry and making breakfast, all before 8AM.

Then there are the times having kids allows me to see some pretty strange things like a child with boxing glove "shoes."

And waking up to realize that my husband has gone to the store at 6AM to buy me three balloons (from the girls) and flowers.

My sister would say that being a mother also gives you mini-strokes when a miscommunication causes an uncle to shave her son's head. I should point out this uncle is not Mike.

(Mom and Dad, right about now you can turn the computer off or leave the site before you ruin your surprise.)

While working on my mom's Mother's Day gift at my sister's friend Julie's house (follow all that?), I looked out the window and saw a cop, a mail carrier, and construction workers. That's when I burst into song: Who are the people in your neighborhood, in your neighborhood, in your neigh-bor-hood-oh who are the people in your neighborhood.....

Jeff was pouring Julie's sidewalk, and he told us we could use any leftover concrete for our own devices.

We set up forms and built 14" stepping stones for our parents (more like stepping boulders... they're 3-1/2" deep). We dyed them and imprinted the kids' names and hands. I'm so sad to report that we had waaay too much concrete... it looks like we'll each get a set of garden stepping stones. Boo-hoo-hoo!!! (Mine are the terra cotta ones.)

Free concrete and leftover lumber... Thank goodness I hid a few boards from the old men at my garage sale!

Happy Mother's Day to all you mommies and soon-to-be mommies out there! Try not to freeze off your tookus.

I'm gettin' somethin' for Mom's Day

Mike woke me up a couple nights ago (not sure when... I tend to lose track of what day of the week it is) to tell me he found those 2" galvanized nails I'd been searching for. Except they were online. And $50 for one box.

And would I like him to order me a box of fence nails for Mother's Day.

Um. No thanks?

It was also Mike's birthday yesterday. He's all of 29 years old. The girls spent about 2 hours cutting, pasting and drawing "cards." I use that term loosely since Kristin's was mostly chunks of paper with the letters D, A, and D on them. Emma managed to write: HAPPY BIRHTDAY.

He didn't get a present. Before you criticize, need I remind you that he is going to be gone for 8 days in late July, riding the very expensive, very accessorized road bike we purchased just for this trip.

My parents bought him his dream present of a 12-gallon ShopVac. No sarcasm here. He obsessed about them every time we went into a hardware store. The night he brought it home from my parents' house, he made me lock the truck for the first time in months because his precious vacuum cargo was in the back.

Hey Mike? You can test it out in the Suburban if you feel the need to suck.

It's been a really busy week here. It doesn't feel very "special," I'm sure for either of us. I've been cleaning almost non-stop (my mom asked, Why do you have to clean so much? ha!) and finishing my to do list. That includes moving the 3rd and final bookshelf into the livingroom:

and painting my chair blue:

Told you I wasn't kidding.

Mike's been hard at work, too.

I was about ready to kick his arse two nights ago for staying up and sleeping until noon for the 4th consecutive day, but then I realized he'd done laundry during the night including SHOES! My shoes. My grass-stained, concrete-crusted Nike shoes that I had just been telling him needed to get washed.

Ass-kicking avoided.

Then he surprised me. This afternoon, he nonchalantly said, I'm gonna buy your Mother's Day present on Tuesday.

Really? A present? For moi?

Really!

He found coasters for our livingroom. The first ones he picked out were $20, but I talked him into another set that costs all of $9.

I know that should be a disappointment, and I should be weeping in a corner about how my husband only loves me $9-worth, but I love useful gifts, especially useful gifts that are inexpensive when it's our money being spent.

I told him he could use the other $11 to pick himself out something nice for his birthday.

My mom has a cabana boy (among less exciting news)

Here are my quads.* Aren't they adorable?

*By "quads" I mean: my triplets plus someone else's kid that my kids have adopted.

That girl gave me a heart attack today. Her parents have the threshold (for her blood glucose) set to between 80 and 250. So when I tested Michaela before lunch today and it beeped WARNING: Glucose over 600, I just about crapped my pants. (It was a misread.)

I thought for sure she had found Mike's birthday cake and snuck a piece or ten.

---

Here's that sign I've talked about occasionally:

At first it started out as a McCain/Palin sign. After the election was over, it became: Obummer. Palin 2012.

His last one read: Obama bin $pendin', but after someone catapulted a sturdy object through it a storm wrecked his handywork, he changed it to the current sign. Oh, the uses for colored duct tape...

He REALLY didn't want Obama to win. I'll give him this much... I think he's done campaigning for Miss Alaska 2012.

---

Mike and I ditched the rugrats at school yesterday and headed to my parents' house. (We were stealing high-powered nail guns.)

As we pulled in, I told Mike we should scare my mom because she said she was lying out back, sunbathing. Mike's response: Maybe she'll be naked.

Of COURSE that's what he'd say.

Then we saw this next door:

Topless sunbathing of the male variety.

I told mom, but she already knew. She said that guy came home EVERY lunch break to sit on the lawn, shirtless: We usually lie out together, but I figured it was inappropriate since you were coming over.

My mother has a cabana boy. Who knew?