The Ethiopia Diet, Day 1

"Today is the first day of the rest of your life."

Or if you're like me, today is the first day of your low-Cal, 9-day cleanse and lead-up to an arrest for cannibalising the mailman.

The Calories have been tallied.

2 Wheat Thins, 1 tortilla/egg/cheese/carrot/lettuce/hot sauce wrap, 1/4 cup green beans, and 1 (yes one) York Peppermint Patty "piece" later, and we've hit our limit of 434 Calories for the day. HALF OF THAT WAS THE TORTILLA.

Fuckmylife.

I'm fine if I can sleep. Just let me sleep forever and I would be one skinny muther.

'Cause it's when I wake up to the children asking for their 500th snack of the day by 10AM, I start to lose it. And I've discovered that I eat to cope with my children. Not kidding.

If I get anything out of this cleanse, it's going to be that knowledge.

They've been "down" for two naps today already - mostly for my sake and they didn't sleep either time - and outside for an hour playing in the mud. As Alison painted the house with a brown-tipped baseball bat, I smiled because I couldn't HEAR them.

Only 8 more days. Tuesday, their first day of school, cannot get here soon enough. Until then, I've been repeating my mantra every time I feel hungry.

Suck it up, ya fat cracka ass.

Mike swore that if I stuck to my cleanse, he'd give up his bugaboo... Daddy's Little Beer Belly Maker.

I told him I was fine. FINE. I can do this.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was a Girl Scout, dropping off the devil's finest in peanut butter and chocolate.

Bitch.

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I handed her a check and passed out the cookies. You can probably hear Mike's maniacal laughter...

Babies!

Just kidding.

Let's just throw this out there:

I have no idea what's happening here.

First off, it's Day 8. Still no sign of Mother Nature or her evil twin, PMS. But whatever. I'm trying not to care.

I'm trying to be like Mike.

When I told him I wanted to buy a test but knew as soon as I bought it, I'd get my answer the old fashioned way, he said without even looking up from his game: Then don't buy one. You'll find out eventually.

Like when? A month from now? TWO months from now?

No, when your stomach gets bigger with... A BABY.

(Like, duh.)

That wouldn't work anyway, because I've tripled my food intake in the last two days. If I don't have a real baby, I'm gonna give birth to a food baby.

By the way, I'm still sticking with: it's a fluke. Let's put some money on it.

I can say that if I was a man, I probably wouldn't care, either. And Mike's Mr. Sensitivity, fer sure. Just ask him to tell you one of his hundreds of fat, pregnant jokes. I think he's secretly rooting against me.

So I had a plan. Last Thursday, I'd gone to the local grocery store (a town away) for "noodles" and to scope out the medical section. Good thing they have plenty of supplies for periods and tooth whitening and if you get a little too much funk in your junk... but no pee sticks. And I know the gas stations don't carry them. I've looked.

On Friday, I went to the pharmacy ten minutes away. We sell odds 'n' ends here, but I don't think we sell tests.

Really? I shouldn't be surprised. There IS no such thing as an "unplanned pregnancy" in this neck of the woods. Because as soon as you get married, you should assume the birthing position until your parts shrivel up and turn to dust. This is the Bible belt... "Real America." We like our booze, our guns and keepin' our women with child.

Fuckers.

And I have more important things to worry about this week.

Like the girls' sixth birthday on Tuesday, and my dad's mini birthday party today.

I "get" that this could be a joke by some higher celestial power, but isn't that a little counter productive? Why would they want ANOTHER little me out there somewhere? It would be funnier if my uterus dropped out. Yeah, that would be a much worse punishment. Get on that, Jeebus.

Better than nine months from now, crapping out a kid.

I could really use a drink.

Titillating Tuesday: 'Tis the reason for holiday alcoholism

We wrote our Santa letters tonight - something we've never done before.

It's been an eye opener.

Emma would like "a frog and a rainbow umbrelu."

Alison wrote: Deer Sana, I have been a good girl this year. I would like a scootr anb a PIlloW PEt. Love. Alison.

(She capped it off with a picture of herself RIDING the scooter. Just in case "Sana" doesn't know what a scooter is or that she means business.)

Kristin wants "a skatbord." She didn't know how to spell Megamind, or I'm sure she would have stipulated that little detail. She's been making that part very clear to me for a few days now. Try Googling Megamind skateboard. No hits. I'm gonna be painting a freakin' blue alien over a Disney princess skateboard in the coming weeks, aren't I?

The girls insisted I write a letter to Santa, too. Funnily enough, I got to the asking portion of the letter and couldn't think of anything that the kids would understand. I went with "book" and "shirt." What I really wanted to ask for was a "NAP."

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I'm back, by the way. I stole my parents' laptop while waiting for a recovery disc to arrive for my Gateway LX6200.

It's out of warrantee with Best Buy so I took a little initiative and ordered a blank hard drive in my quest to be the master of EVERYTHING. Like everything else, I'm finding out it doesn't take a genius to install a new hard drive and remove the old one. Seriously. Have you seen some of the guys on the Geek Squad? They look like they're 15. If they can do this stuff, so can I.

Things were a little bumpy, but once I figured out how not to be a moron, I went to install the recovery discs.

And apparently recovery discs for this particular model are contraband. I only found 2 out of 3. (Oh, but I found every other disc to every other computer we've ever owned.)

I called Best Buy. They told me they don't carry them and I should call Gateway, unless I wanted to pay $248 for the Geek Squad to do something I could do for free if I had the 3rd fucking disc.

I called Gateway. They (as in: the automated beotch customer service lady) told me to GO TO THEIR WEBSITE and "thank you for calling." *Click* She hung up on me. Twice.

Have I mentioned that my computer is NOT WORKING. So good luck getting ON THE INTERNET. Thanks to my PS3, the ethernet cord dragged across my kitchen floor and the triangle-triangle, right-right-right-right-right-triangle-triangle combinations it took to painstakingly type out a single letter, I found I had to pay $40 for them to ship one effing disc.

Fa lalala laaa... Merry Christmas! There goes my Pillow Pet money.

When I got to the customer service survey, I was disappointed that the lowest rating was Poor.

I was looking more for something along the lines of: Customer service so great it makes me want to stab myself in the head with an ice pick to let the anger out.

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Have you ever had something majorly change in your children and you were too busy to notice?

While I was rescuing my computer from the (second) crashed (shitty) Seagate hard drive (in as many years), my child's tooth STRAIGHTENED ITSELF OUT. Her top one had been bent behind her bottom one ever since it came in, and now it's in FRONT.

It's not loose. Although I wonder if the grown-up tooth behind ol' wonkytooth got my Christmas wish list and is granting them early. Item #528 is Please save me from the impending doom of orthodontist hell.

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I've been collecting bottles of vodka and wine and leaving them - unopened - in a neat little collection.

Intuition, perhaps.

After all this excitement, I'm thinking a Christmas cocktail is in order.

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So glad to be back! Happy Tuesday, everyone.

My hard drive took a big ol’ dump forcing me to blog titles via PS3, but my neighbor’s house went up in flames yesterday so I’m still thankful.

The culture of dumb

Who here watches Jersey Shore?

Fess up.

The most I've seen of that show are the paparazzi pictures of Snooki the Miniature Wookie getting loaded and flashing her underbits to the world.

WHY is that show so popular?

As most people know, I turn 30 this year. Which makes me an expert on everything. Just ask me.

And the thing that scares me the most about the future of our nation is the level of stupidity that we champion.

It very much affects our prosperity when it trickles down to politics.

We (as in "not me") cheer folksy Palin but ignore the very capable and intelligent Condoleeza.

They're both women in the GOP. They were both in the spotlight in recent years. But they are far from the same.

One - I'll let you guess who - served under two presidents as diplomat and political theorist to solve the problems with democracy in the Middle East, served as Provost during her tenure as PoliSci professor at Stanford, is an accomplished pianist, and used to be a Democrat who changed her position because she disagreed with Carter's foreign policy.

The other was a 3rd place contestant in a Miss Alaska pageant, fulfilled her lifelong goal of becoming a TV sports news anchor, dabbled in book censorship, was chairman of an energy committee until she quit a year later, blamed the "gotcha liberal media" for her low poll numbers at every turn, was Governor of the least densely populated state in the Union (600K) until she quit three years into her term, and jumped on the Tea Party bandwagon because she felt attacked by the GOP.

They are clearly not equals, and if you think they are, you need to set down the flask and/or shotgun and go back to the swamp.

How does this happen? I want an explanation.

We have a culture of immediate gratification over intellectual stimulation.

People watch news politicos on the TV - entertainers at best - rather than read a newspaper.

Droves of people cheer when a preacher condemns homosexuality as a sin and burns a Quran to prove his patriotism, but are quick to walk away when that same preacher is caught with his pants down in the company of a young Muslim teenager.

We need to watch who we idolize because our kids are watching, too.

And there's NO WAY I want my girls to think that playing dumb and angry is the way to get ahead in life.

I can't imagine that Snooki's mom is out there, beaming with pride...

You can't unshoot the shot

First the phone calls.

Then the official letter.

Immunizations.

Two years ago, the CDC decided (and I am NOT making this up) that they didn't think the current immunization schedule was working as well as it should for keeping adults immune. They were finding that 1/3 of the adult population* had lost its effective immunity to some or all of what they'd been vaccinated against as kids.

*This was not a study done by the CDC but they're using its findings to justify the added shots.

Their solution?

Slap another shot on. Any child born after 2003 would have to get another round of vaccinations on the big guys: MMR, IPV, DTap and a bonus Varicella. (Which, to tell you the truth, doesn't make me feel very warm and fuzzy since the FIRST four rounds of shots didn't do the trick to begin with. But this fifth round? Like magic and unicorns... it'll make all our vaccination dreams come true.)

So of course I was pissed. I'd read enough to be relieved that our "shot days" were behind us, and now this? Our school nurse was sending us letters saying If your child is not in compliance, he/she will not be able to come to school beginning Thursday, Oct 21.

Because apparently my children are only in danger AFTER October 21st.

Well yippee yahoo. So I called today for an appointment and the nurses could get us in this afternoon. No need to miss school, which is essential. At least if you ask my 5-year-olds.

I was met with the girls' usual questions when I picked them up from class. Where are we going? What are we gonna do? Can we have a snack?

I told them we were going to McDonald's for a snack (mommy needed a smoothie fix) and then off to the doctor's office for shots and a sticker. Afterwards I promised them dinner at a restaurant.

Emma looked nervous, I don't need a shot... I already have a sticker. And she pointed to the nametag her substitute teacher had given her. (She worked that angle over the next hour, nonstop. Even as the thing was bent at the corners and failing to stick to her shirt.)

So of course we get to the doctor's office and have new nurses - lovely gals, but they were all set to give us the FLU shot. No, the school shots. Not the flu. MMR, stuff like that.

She seated us in a room and came back in with our immunization charts. She looked confused and apologetic. They're going to need FOUR shots today. FOUR. I asked her to point out which ones. She pointed out the ones I expected, along with an added Hep B shot.

It looks like your girls received the second and third one too close together, so they'll need a fourth one of those.

I gave her a look and said, I'm really not comfortable...

Unless you'd like to just skip that one.

I think that would be best.

Hep B? Seriously. All because the peds office didn't realize we'd already had the first shot when the girls were NICU newbies. Gah. I guess I'll have to keep my kids away from needles and sexpots.

For whatever reason, it took 20 minutes to round up 9 needles and another nurse. The girls were singing Fifty stars on a field of blue, stripes of red and white... over and over. (You're welcome, other patients.)

Emma was the first to get her shots. She sat there quietly and I held her hands as the nurses jabbed simultaneously into both legs. Then she stared down at her legs in astonishment. It was fine until the nurse stuck the third needle into her leg.

Horrified wailing.

I hugged Emma and scooted her off to the chair. She was hysterical. Then I looked back to see a wide-eyed and crying Kristin. As I tried to pick her up for her shots, Kristin slapped my hands away - slap, smacksmacksmack slap - and shook uncontrollably, sobbing and screaming at me.

Just imagine how much she cried after her shots. Hug. Set aside. Last child. They had NEVER been this upset about shots before.

By now, all three were wailing and Emma was covering her ears because she was convinced I was coming for those next (we'd had an ear piercing talk earlier).

Alison got her shot, then as the girls huddled around me in one screaming, shaking hug on the floor, the nurses exited, leaving behind the paperwork without bothering to say goodbye. After 20 seconds of crying, I clapped my hands and said Okay, that's enough. And they stopped crying. Just like some kind of weird Pavlovian experiment.

(My sister said, Boy, have you got THEM trained! when I told her the story later.)

We got our stickers - along with a bunch of stuff that our usual nurse threw at them as we were leaving because she loves us - and went to dinner at Olive Garden. You have never seen such a sad and sorry bunch of girls eating calamari and pasta in your life.

I had planned on grocery shopping, but it was clear from the saddle-sore way the girls were walking that it wasn't going to happen. We went to Target to pick up Bedknobs and Broomsticks along with a few essentials like ICE CREAM (who says you can't buy love?) and jelly bracelets.

Then we snuggled on the livingroom floor where I realized that B&B is a lot scarier than I remembered it! Halfway through, Alison gave me her ice cream and said she wanted to go to bed.

I should have realized then that she wasn't quite right.

I laid them down in bed, and about an hour later heard talking and soft crying. It was Alison. She was burning up and talking in her sleep. When I woke her to give her Tylenol, her arm was shaking so hard she couldn't hold the cup.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

After WEEKS of fighting with myself to just give them the stupid vaccines, and now my child is sobbing in bed because she feels aweful.

And unfortunately, you can't unshoot the shot. You've gotta just ride it out and hope that her immune system does whatever it's supposed to do and keep my child safe... from the vaccines. I've been waking her up every hour to take temps, check her body for rashes and check her motor skills. (Kristin has also been waking up hourly to ask if the bed has "turned magic" yet and where we'll be flying to.)

I hope the school nurse appreciates the little addendum to our immunization charts where I tell her that my child needs to be watched for more signs of vaccine reaction.

Should I mention that I was up until almost 5 AM watching my child to make sure she doesn't start wheezing or swelling up?

Football

I've often wondered how long it would take for the neighbors to burn my house down give me a good razzing if I hung a Wisconsin Badgers or Packers flag outside my house.

Most of my neighbors are - obviously - Iowa Hawkeye fans. I've never really been a huge fan of college football in general, specifically Iowa, but I won't let that stop me from watching the game and pretending to care when they score points.

Wow, is this about to make me feel old.

I used to drive down to the Iowa City bars to drink when I was 16. (Shocking.)

The bars would allow anyone into them as long as you had a college ID. Well, guess what? I went to college a few hours every week at the beginning of my Junior year of high school. Jackpot! College ID.

All it took at that point was some skeezy old guy or desperate college kid to buy us beer or shots.

Is there any wonder the new Iowa City laws banning underage kids are working to keep the peace? The young scoundrels are staying in Cedar Rapids where they're from.

Over the next several years of hanging out in just about every bar in the Iowa City ped mall, I encountered more than my share of bravado from rough-and-tough college guys.

And here's where we gain relevance this week... a lot of that annoying push and shove, let's go kick some random guy's ass crap came from the Iowa City football players.

In fact, I would have to say I had NEVER seen a bar fight that hadn't involved a gigantic football player taking out his 'roid rage on some unsuspecting, probably not even local, kid.

That's part of the reason I never really caught "the Iowa bug."

Hell, I'm a Packer fan, but I wouldn't kick anyone's ass over it. (Note: I married a Cowboy fan, for godssakes. And while there have been times I've wanted to smack Mike in the head, it was never about football.)

So as we approach football season once again, please be a good fan. And don't act a fool over something so silly.

After all, it's just college football. Real football doesn't start for another eight days.

Bring my Packer torch and pitchfork... time to hunt us some Bears fans.

Titillating Tuesday: End of days

This morning I woke up to Mike walking in the door: You have to see this! Come out here and look at these birds... they're freaking out.

I begrudgingly climbed out of bed at quarter after 6 to see what looked like a scene from an Alfred Hitchcock film.

Bird, birds, everywhere, as far as the eye could see.

Swallows, to be precise.

We've gone a record more-than-an-hour without rain (what are we? Seattle?) so the Mayflies are swarming. These birds were just out getting their breakfast.

And performing acrobatic stunts. (Check out the bird in the circle flying upside down.)

There's something a little creepy about dodging your way through a bunch of birds just to get to the car. I would still send my kids to school in the middle of the plague.

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Speaking of plagues, we have an infestation of those big green Japanese beetles. They're eating my plants and I swear to god if I had the time or ambition, I would pick every one of the fuckers off my apple trees and burn them with a lighter.

I don't have a green thumb to begin with, and now these shiny green menaces are eating what I've managed not to kill myself.

I read that they especially enjoy raspberry bushes... maybe it's a good thing Mike accidentally chopped our raspberry seedlings off with the lawn mower. What bushes? I didn't see any bushes?

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As much as I don't really want to work (who does?) it's times like this morning - while unraveling a tangled mess with my insurance and the local medical center - that I can't help but think:

I CAN DO YOUR JOB BETTER THAN YOU.

It's possible that I have spoken with some of the world's most profound mental midgets.

Remember that whole mess when Mike's insurance dropped us until we could prove we were dependents - that was fun - and I had to go to the doctor in the meantime? And then the insurance company said Whoops! We screwed up and put us back on Mike's insurance retroactively? And then the medical center kept telling me they were resubmitting it to my insurance? But then it went to COLLECTIONS? For a YEAR? Yeah, I'm not happy.

So I called them and found out, GUESS WHAT? They neither made a note that I'd called and straightened the insurance out nor resubmitted it and it's well past the 6-month submission period.

I CAN DO YOUR JOB BETTER THAN YOU.

I have to call my insurance and figure out how to get this bill paid.

And in this whole mess, the receptionist sent me to a different extension and/or business every. single. time I asked for Mary in Billing. Please hold for collections. Please hold for payment services. Please hold for the cashier. Do you have ANY clue what you're doing? Just hang up the phone.

I CAN DO YOUR JOB BETTER THAN YOU.

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Yesterday was Mike's and my 7th wedding anniversary. I spent it with people I love.

Meaning I went out to lunch with Malea and then hung out at the grocery store sans children.

Oh, I saw Mike for about 15 minutes between waking him up and walking out the door to pick the kids up from school. Just enough time to give him a present - a thin metal spatula. Don't knock it... he asked for one.

Then he offered - as his gift to me - to lie down and let me have his way with him.

I passed on the offer. Thanks anyway, honey.

I have a sneaking suspicion he didn't spend much time trying to think of a gift. Then again, I never asked him what the spatula was for...

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Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Titillating Tuesday: Be pissed off and I will love you for it

I'm not sure what happened when, but we're most certainly dealing with reincarnated psychopaths on some level here.

Emma: I cut off all their heads!

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Speaking of psychopaths, remember that story I told you regarding Office Depot and how it seems that their ad company ripped off my friend Helene's husband and his copyrighted $6 haircut story?

First, the ad company said they changed the story just enough to not have to pay Jeff. Oh, oops... I meant to say the ad company didn't use Jeff's story (according to them) but came up with a frighteningly similar story to Jeff's and the minor details (color of the banners, etc) were different enough that there was no copyright infringement.

Do you smell something? It's the smell of bullshit.

Before I give you the newest update, here are the videos. Judge for yourselves. (Keep in mind that Jeff has been telling this story as a key point of his lectures and has been well known for it over the last 2-1/2 DECADES... he can no longer use it because people would think he had stolen it from Office Depot.)

There are so many things wrong with Office Depot using this story besides the fact that it is nearly identical to Jeff's speeches.

1) Office Depot is NOT "the little guy" being undercut in price by the big evil corporations. It is the big corporation.

2) The point of the story is Quality over Price, and Office Depot sells itself as being the cheap priced office supplier.

3) By using Jeff's material, Office Depot managed to screw the little guy hard and is using its lawyers to make sure Jeff doesn't see a dime.

So onto the update:

Office Depot is currently measuring how pissed off people are about this whole mess before deciding whether or not to retroactively credit Jeff for the story. Apparently there has been enough uproar to show up on their radar, except they're hoping it'll all go away and they can quietly get rid of Jeff and his family.

I would LOVE if you could share their story on your blog, on Twitter, on any internet medium you use. Every time someone writes something about their business, the Office Depot Public Relations department gets notified. Feel free to "steal" my words or link to my post if it does some good.

I promise I won't sue...

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Onto other news.

I have offered myself up to the Kindergarten gods as a slave. In a letter on Friday, I asked the teachers if they would like some help.

The letter I received back was full of smiley faces and bubbly gushing over how much they'd love to have me help out. (Mike asked if she dotted her Is with hearts.)

So now I'm suspicious. If they're that excited for "helpers," how horrific IS Kindergarten, exactly? Is it too late to retract my offer?

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I just noticed my keyboard has 12 keys with the letters worn off, which must be really interesting for Mike since he still uses the "hunt and peck" typing method.

Now if I could only figure out which one is that elusive M...

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We took the girls to a minor league baseball game last night. The tickets were picked up and paid for by Mike's work.

It's times like that, Mike said, when he realizes how privileged we really are.

I have to agree. I think that every single day, one of the reasons I consider myself a social liberal.

Which is why I'm going on a manhunt for more crappola to donate. And by "crappola," I mean: books and electronics and clothing and toys that I'm sick of looking at. I have dreams of being able to park at least ONE vehicle in our garage. *sigh*

Mike had better hope I never get sick of looking at him, or he'll end up in the tote with the rest of the donations. Luckily for him, he took initiative to clean the house while I worked outside yesterday, so I'll give him a free pass for at least the rest of the week.

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Mike: Dakota Fanning! (yelled from 4 rooms away)

Me: Umm... huh?

Dakota. Fanning.

What about her?

She was in that movie.

(...long pause...) You mean what we were talking about last week?

Yeah. Thought you'd like to know the name.

Being married to you is like living in a pop quiz.

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Happy Tuesday, everyone!!!

Titillating Tuesday: The one where I get im'Palin'ed

My favorite political prankster is up to his old tricks!

Remember that farmer I told you about who put up those really funny anti-Obama signs on his property line? The ones that read: OBummer, Obama bin $pendin', and SCAM?

Here's the latest...

Oops!

*Snort!* I get so excited when they change that I call Mike on my phone to announce it.

I really don't share his political views (the man had also proposed we vote for Palin in 2012 - yeah, maybe vote her off the island), but I can certainly find the humor in his disdain. The signs make me giggle.

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Speaking of Miss Wasilla 2012, I was recently accused of loving Sarah Palin on another blog during a heated discussion about Indian surrogacy practices.

Pah! Bahahahaha!!!!

First off, I enjoy grammatically correct sentences and logical debate.

That should be the first indicator...

Secondly, the only thing I love about Palin being introduced to America is the backlash that rose up from women saying NO, we are NOT interchangeable at will. Sarah Palin does not = Hillary Clinton or Condoleeza Rice or Margaret Thatcher just because she has the preferred anatomy.

I remember when her candidacy was announced... I turned to Mike and said, Wow, that was really smart politically. Let's see if it works.

And then she opened her mouth.

The only reason we should continue to give this woman air time is to remind ourselves (and men) that some tits come with brains and some don't, just like some men grow a pair of balls and some only have a dangling flap of skin where their balls should be.

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As far as the subject of Indian surrogacy is concerned, there are far too much that goes on behind closed doors in patriarchal societies for me to be "okay" with the fairy tale that most of those women are boarded together to breed not out of familial coersion nor impoverished or other monetary necessity but to "empower" themselves as was explained to me by one of the soon-to-be customers fathers.

It's possible. I admit that.

Maybe someone FROM India can pipe up here and tell me if they have heard or seen differently.

When I heard about Edward's story, I thought it was fantastic. He was a married gay man starting a family using surrogacy. How far this country has come and how amazing to think of what can be accomplished in the next decade in civil and human rights!

But when fellow blogger Michele started digging around in Indian surrogacy, she saw that it wasn't all sunshine and roses. When she opened the floor to discussion, Edward took it as a personal attack and spoke about how empowering it was for Indian women to give birth for profit? I still can't quite wrap my head around it.

Maybe he was suggesting that women can give birth, making us powerful... I can see how a man who cannot give birth might view that while dealing with infertility or whatever PC term people call it that two guys do not a baby make. I get THAT. Maybe.

But what most of us were saying was it's only empowering if her husband didn't scoot her out the door to earn the family an extra buck. Plus does it sound like fun to be housed all together under watch of a physician? Fuck no.

I want to know: In REALITY, how much power do the wives have to protest or disagree if they don't really want to go through with the surrogacy or don't want to be holed up on cots with other pregnant women and away from friends and family?

After all... what's the harm in a pregnancy or two for profit? The husbands aren't using the womb. Let's rent it out!

Because in some societies, women really are "interchangeable." But not here... here, we respect women.

I guess Edward's references to CUNTS and TWATS on his blog isn't the least bit misogynistic.

I hope his babies come home safely and healthy. I hope the surrogates are able to take enough money away from it that they never are put in that situation again unless they CHOOSE to, not for money but for the benefit of other families, especially those like Edward's when surrogacy is the only option. I also hope that once he's done with his transaction, he takes time to follow up with the women who gave them three huge gifts to see exactly how empowered those women feel...

Maybe he's right and I hope so.

I guess being concerned for the welfare of my fellow womankind makes me a narrowminded bitch.

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I'd like to apologize for falling off the face of the planet lately.

Mike and I managed to go out for a date last night. We went for sushi (and tried something called a Golden Dragon with eel sauce... mmm. Eel sauce) and saw The Other Guys. Not the funniest movie ever, but it was worth it.

I've been spending most of my online time fixing my printer/scanner/crap-master.

And the rest of my computer time has been taken up by Mike's obsession with bicycle gear stuff. He didn't get the memo that RAGBRAI is over.

Besides that, I've just been sprawled out on the floor under our ceiling fan, trying not to die from the humidity. I love the meteorologists: "On the 'Muggy Meter,' it's going to be OPPRESSIVE." Is that a technical term?

Turns out it means: Sweat running down your ass crack.

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I'm back! Happy Tuesday to you all.

Mom, interrupted

People keep asking me what I'm going to do once the kids are in school.

That's 19 days from now.

My answers: Survive? Try not to lose my sanity over figuring out school lunches? Clean my house without someone chasing me, undoing everything I just cleaned? Sleep on the couch with Maury on in the background?

Hows abouts we GET to school and THEN I'll figure out what I'm going to do?

I'm pretty sure they expect something more along the lines of "go back to school" or "get a job." Which WILL happen. But probably not until I can slow down for a minute to finish all the crap I've been working on for half a decade without being interrupted every ten minutes by my heathen hoard.

Let's face it - Mike makes a great living. The people at the mill have been constantly giving him crap that I - like their wives/ex-wives - will NEVER get a job because we've learned to survive on his income alone.

That once a woman is "unemployed" for that long, she's too lazy to work again. Because when I think back over the last five-and-a-half years, the first thing that comes to mind is: VACATION! Or maybe: JACKPOT! Or: THERE IS NOTHING MORE RELAXING THAN LISTENING TO CHILDREN SCREAM/BEG FOR SNACKS ALL DAY.

Really???

Getting a job would be a FUCKING HOLIDAY.

The thought of those smug assholes ripping into Mike pisses me off and makes me want to get a job at the local gas station just to prove them wrong. (I realize this could all be an elaborate plot by Mike, and then I realize we're talking about MIKE.)

Of course I was pondering my life less than a month from now while spending "Mike's" money on clearanced shoes at Target.

$3+ for velcro tennies. $4+ for men's white tennies. $17 for women's Converse tennies. $1 (yes, one dollar) for girls' shorts.

Not only that, but I've been getting deliveries every other day with my online clearance purchases for the girls' early Christmas presents. A $60 Black & Decker kids' workbench for less than $30, now hiding under our bed:

Everything from Mr. Potato Head kits ($18 $4) to Zhu Zhu 3-packs ($38 $17) hiding in our game closet:

Gee, it's so much fun spending Mike's money! You know - ON MYSELF. I've always WANTED a pink soccer ball.

You know what's even BETTER than spending Mike's money? Spending Mike's money while dragging two carts full of children with me. And answering the cashier's questions about the girls even though I've been through her aisle a hundred times. Why, yes! I would love to talk to you about my c-section in front of 30 other Target patrons.

Is it any wonder I enjoy working outside, by myself, in the heat? It's better than the alternative of having to talk to someone or being talked to.

In fact, I think I'll head out there right now... get a few more boards stained before I head to visit Mike on RAGBRAI.

Like living in the lap of pampered luxury...

I'm making a citizen's arrest for stupidity

I'm starting to have my doubts in Darwin's theory of evolution.

---

A few weeks ago, I was waiting for a light to turn green when a crappy, rusted-out sedan pulled up next to me. I glanced over and saw two small children - no older than 4 - gripping the top of the opened window and peering back.

No seat belts. No child seats. And there was an infant carrier sitting sideways in the front seat.

Before I could shut my mouth, the mother pulled her car through the busy intersection and went on her way. I'm not usually one to judge poor parenting decisions, but the mom was too busy smoking to realize her child's body was 1/3 outside the vehicle.

---

I've seen such stupidity before.

When I was 18, I was the proud owner of Bessie... my parents' old Buick Somerset.

Oh, Beautiful Bessie!

The last time I drove Bessie, I was parked at an intersection, getting ready for the light change so I could drive past my ex-boyfriend's place of employment and flip him the bird properly. Hey, I'm honest. (I had just met a cute guy named Mike and felt it would be a fitting day to give my ex a "farewell.")

The light turned green so I pulled forward. That's when I saw the giant grandma car coming toward me at 40 mph. She nailed my car dead center, sending me flying into the oncoming traffic.

(Another fun fact: the same lady then backed her car up and nailed the truck that had stopped behind her.)

Even with my seatbelt on, my head hit the door. When I got out, I went over to their car to make sure they were okay. The driver was an older lady, her middle-aged daughter was in the passenger seat, and her granddaughter of no more than 5 years was sitting between them on top of a laundry basket.

I kept asking how they were, and all the driver could mutter was My light was green? Wasn't it? It was green!

(The guy whose car was totalled in the oncoming lane came to my defense and seconded that her light was indeed red.)

Regardless...

How about worrying over the small crying child next to you?

I saw that lady, driving that same car with that same daughter a few months later. And that granddaughter was sitting on that same laundry basket. I wonder how bad the injuries would've had to have been so they'd make her ride in the back seat - at the very least.

---

Last week, I walked through the parking lot to Barnes & Noble. In the very first parking space was a Chevy Blazer with the back window popped open.

What I saw inside just blew my mind.

The owner had removed or folded down the back seat, and there were no less than six little kids crammed in that little rectangle. They were aged infant to pre-teen.

---

So I've started paying attention.

And these idiots are everywhere!

I'm not talking about on some back country road, or on your farm, or whatnot. I'm talking in-city driving where half the people act like they'd never taken the road test at the DOT.

---

It makes me wonder how these people have survived to this point.

And why they haven't been arrested.

Last time I checked, it's not legal to drive down a busy city road with a block party of children in your trunk.

---

Which brings me to my main point: Are humans devolving as a species?

Brick wall? Meet forehead.

I need a "containment cap" over my ears before the steam starts shooting out.

Alison: Mom, can you clean my room? I don't want to clean this mess.

Yes, child, because there's nothing in this world I desire more than to hunt for tiny rubber Polly Pocket shoes ground into the carpet.

Heh. Yeah, right.

All three of them avoid cleaning like it's poisonous.

Even when I promised them we could go visit my aunt and uncle - they drove down from Wisconsin yesterday - and they were excited and squealing and my only stipulation was that they put their dollies in the bucket and make their bed?

And even when my mom told them over speakerphone to clean up and listen to mommy?

And even when there's three of them cleaning one little pile of toys?

Yep. They sat sadly on their floor like I'd asked them to kill a kitten.

Finally I snapped and grabbed Alison by the wrists and scolded her: All you have to do is make the bed. Just MAKE it! And then it's done! And when the bed is made, you don't have to clean anymore. Do you understand?!?

She nodded and started to cry. I felt bad but MY GAWD they don't listen. Two hours just to get five minutes of work out of them.

And now I'm sweating from being pissed off and pushing it way, way, way down in my gut so hopefully the only hint of it is the red gleam in my eye.

After all that, my child runs up to me, tugs on my shirt and says: The bed is made! Can you come see? I did it!

I walk in to see her bed is finished... with every stuffed animal they own tucked securely under the sheets - just their heads peeking out.

I have to laugh. Another reminder that they're kids.

I have no idea what to expect from a 5-year-old, I guess.

Too bad we have breasts AND brains

Look what my uterus built all by itself!

It had help from a few other body parts, but my point is: I wasn't hindered by my lack of penis.

I'm far from bragging, though, since I still have FOUR sections left plus ONE gate. And things aren't looking so hot since this gate took me three hours to finish this afternoon after I sent Mike off on a jet plane.

I have planted gardens, built retaining walls, run wiring, knocked down walls, BUILT FENCES (or at least ONE fence), and done things most men consider their territory. I never saw it as a gender-redefining moment. I figured that crap needed to get done and Mike is always at work. So I put on my big girl panties and did what I had to.

I guess I'd thought we were past the age of "Women Can't Do Man Stuff."

A few weeks ago, I had several middle-aged men looking at me funny as I carried a couple 2x4s out of Lowe's. (Did I have TP hanging off my shoe? Did I have a booger? Oh wait... I had TITS. That's supposed to handicap me somehow in the Home Improvement department.)

There is nothing that makes me more angry than male egotism.

Or the Get-Your-Ass-in-the-Kitchen-and-Bake-Me-A-Pie Syndrome.

Men "think" women are better at cooking because cooking is hard for them. Guess what, a-hole... it was HARD for me, too, until I got off my lazy ass and taught myself how to do it.

Do you think I enjoy standing in that freakin' sauna of a kitchen cooking food that I'll be so sick of smelling after 90 minutes of hovering over it I won't want to eat it by the time it's finished?

Yeah, I think not.

Do you think I enjoy staying up all night to feed three infants or that it's easy for me because I lack testicles? Or maybe I looove folding laundry and doing dishes until I break a sweat.

I'll let ya think that one out.

Mike and I had a "breakthrough" a while back. I think it was when he wasn't sure how to do laundry. He innocently figured I should just do it since I already knew how.

Mmm. Hmmm.

I told him I learned how to do my laundry when I was 11, and while I'm pretty smart, I'm sure if an 11-year-old girl can figure out how to dump in detergent, a grown man should be able to.

(I'm happy to report Mike is now a laundry PRO.)

So yeah. This sort of knowledge doesn't come automatically with the uterus. EVERYONE, tits or no, has to learn it. But I think our culture has so ingrained that women are better at this stuff genetically, when all it is is our moms pulling us aside for 10 minutes as kids and showing us how to pour in the Downy. You know, to prepare us for marriage and womanhood and domestic bliss.

I'm so tired of the men who complain that they're not wired to step up and help out. I wasn't "wired" for it, either. I was about as tomboy as they came. But because I am a GROWN UP, I worked on it.

Not only can I build fences, I can cook a mean fucking stirfry.

Sad to say, I have yet to conquer an ironing board.

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.

The importance of good customer service

I bought a couple trees tonight. It was a swell experience.

First I called the nursery where we'd purchased our last two trees. They sent my call to (tree lady)'s voicemail. I left her a message, asking for a quick response if possible.

No call. I called back. I asked if (tree lady) was in today or if she was just busy. (Receptionist lady) pretty much told me to shove off and continue to wait for (tree lady)'s call. She ended the call before I had a chance to ask: DO YOU HAVE FRUIT-BEARING TREES? Do you think that's something that a specialized (tree lady) needs to answer? Hmmm...

So I hung up waiting for (tree lady)'s call. No call.

I picked the kids up from school.

I drove a total of 40 minutes to the nursery in question.

I got the kids out of the car.

My phone rang.

Me: You have got to be f*cking kidding me.

I told (tree lady) I was in the parking lot, but she may as well tell me over the phone if they had any fruit-bearing trees in stock. Can you guess the answer? As a bonus, she gave me her best patronizing voice: You're still waaay early for planting those. Yeah? Well, guess what: Not for bare-root trees, which is what I'm looking for. You're supposed to plant those before the buds open. But thanks for your time.

I wonder if she could feel that spank from all the way outside in the parking lot.

I hung up and packed the kids back in the car. Shortest shopping trip in history.

Of course I went to my parents to commiserate and hang with my mom. Read: feed all their food to my ravenous children.

As we wrapped up for the evening, I figured I'd call around on pricing. Some had trees but they weren't ready to sell. Others had to order them. I was defeated.

We headed home, and just for giggles, I swung through a local Earl May nursery. It looked closed, even though the neon sign was lit, so I pulled up to the front and started scoping out their tree tags in the near-dark.

Apple tree.

Apple tree.

Apple, cherry, peach, apple, apple, apple......

Oh. My. God. I was in apple tree heaven. And they were all straight and looked healthy. I jotted down the names, and when I wasn't paying attention, a cute high school kid ran out and asked me if I needed help. He was so nice.

I told him I could come back since they were closed. He laughed: Well, we're open for at least five more minutes.

Gasp! Seriously? Good customer service???

I jumped on it. You want to make the fastest apple tree sale in your life? He laughed and waited outside with my trees while I took my kids inside to pay, then he loaded both of them up and threw a couple red tags on the end so the cops wouldn't pull me over.

I tied the trees together ghetto-fabulously with my jumper cables and drove all the way home on the back roads, just in case.

I'm so excited. Hopefully this fall we'll have Honeycrisp

and McIntosh apples.

I worked in sales for years, and even while writing this, I am moved by how awesome that team was tonight. Every one of them. The guy who loaded my trees to the girl who searched her books to make sure my trees would cross-pollinate, and the guy who was chit-chatting with me at the register and ran off to find my tree spikes I'd been searching for.

I am so writing the manager a letter of thanks. Hopefully it'll get someone a raise or at the very least let them know how much I appreciated the change in attitude from the first nursery.

Tomorrow's world-changing feat?

Deciding on a mid-height fence design to build. And then buying the lumber.

Thoughts?

The ugly side of cancer

Oh hell, I don't even know where to start tonight.

I was struggling all day with this. What I wanted to do was write a scathing open letter to everyone who has made my mother feel like she owes them something because she has cancer. Because this isn't about anyone except my mother and maybe my father.

It's been an interesting week filled with lovely reactions to say the least.

I think we were prepared for the pity. And a lot of people have been exceptionally nice, but treating mom like she was given a death sentence (even though that couldn't be further from the truth), making her more scared than she needs to be.

What I wasn't prepared for was all the self-righteousness.

My mother has been in tears for the last two days, partly because people have sent her from one extreme to the next: thinking she's gonna die to dealing with people's anger over getting a phone call/not or finding out late... since mom found out a week ago that she has cancer. (Which is ludicrous... I found out on Day 2, they told Stephie on Day 4 or 5, and she called her parents last night.) Mom won't talk about it, but dad's upset, rightfully so.

Of course I'm feeling a little protective of her right now, so the entire family went to their house for a visit tonight.

And we had a lot of laughs, mostly about vaginas. I've been told vaginas are funny anyhow, so I'll excuse the crassness.

Mike had by far the best suggestions of the night, everything from flying an informative banner across the sky: Colleen has cancer, to his "fix" in case mom has to have her vagina sewn shut (seriously). He said: Maybe they could slide a manhole cover over it.

I don't think I've laughed that hard all week.

We talked about swapping kidneys in case they nick mom's one and only (she had donated one to grandma years ago). She said we could work up some kind of swap-an-organ program and exchange them as we need them. I offered her Mike's vagina if there ever came a need, although he said he'd have to get the sand out of it first.

This is what mom needs... she needs humor and love and support. I assume people are just upset because they care about her. I get that. But if it comes from some other, darker place, the attitude needs to be checked immediately.

Mom's about to go into surgery next Wednesday to have a few more cancer-loving breeding spots removed, just in case. The surgeon is also going to search for and destroy any suspicious growths. He said it will take 4 to 8 hours, and we'll all be down at the hospital to spend time with dad and wait for mom to be finished.

I just want to say one more thing: PLEASE GIVE HER TIME AND SPACE. Mom has said she doesn't mind talking about what's going on, and she plans to call everyone, but it's draining. Every phone call takes over an hour. Every person wants to rehash all the details. She needs to be saving her energy and preparing for surgery, not worrying that she hasn't fulfilled her "duties" as a cancer patient.

I hope everyone understands.

Because I know mom loves all of her friends and family, and thinking that people are upset with her during this time hurts her worse than the ugly cancer they dug out of her gut.

Please excuse me while I get angry and swear a little...

This is such bullshit.

Poor Kristin is coming down with viral pneumonia, I'm sure of it. And while I'd love to get her to the doctor quickly, I refuse to take her to the germhole hell known as the ER unless the situation becomes desperate.

I have good reasoning, I swear.

Kristin had a horrible case of strep and a double ear infection 2-1/2 weeks ago.

And now H1N1. For a second goddamned time. And don't tell me you can't get it twice because we did. Because we're some kind of medical fucking phenomena.

So this pneumonia? Can you imagine adding anything else to her immunological plate? Me, either.

Hopefully, as is the case with most viral pneumonias, this will be slow-moving and we'll have plenty of time to get her in tomorrow. She's still pink and active with relatively clear breathing. It's just this horrendous fuckiferous dry cough, quickened breathing and relentless fever that tells me she'll need treatment.

Not to mention that she woke up whimpering tonight saying, I don't like it. "It" being the coughing. I tried rocking her, but she just wanted to be by her sisters.

I'm going to call and leave a message at the ped's office tonight begging asking them to call me ASAP in the morning to get in. As a bonus, maybe I should explain that three of us are still feverish and contagious with Swine Flu.

In the meantime, I'm gonna be nervous and pissed off and get absolutely no sleep.

At what point can I sign up to become a doctor? I've seen just about everything.

Oh, and while I'm on a roll, it's one week since I found out my mother has cancer. It's one of those really special kinds of cancer that you cut out of your body and wait until it grows back. Because it almost always grows back.

(I should add that if you know my mother and are just now hearing about this, please don't pester her. I'm not worried about the Big C as much as the tests and surgeries and stress.)

And since we're airing everyone's medical grievances tonight, my dad's getting his own special blood test next month. But I won't tell you what they're testing for, just that it rhymes with pukemia. Because hell... what's one more thing?

So yeah, this month has pretty much sucked shit.

Titillating Tuesday: Mr Ghost Man says hello

What do you do when a friendly neighbor drives by, smiles and waves?

Throw snow at them! Duh.

As soon as I saw Casey coming down the street, I knew Alison was going to give him her standard greeting of chucking fistfuls of snow at his car. (He always laughs and keeps driving.)

He thinks it's funny now, but wait until Spring when there are rocks readily available.

Yeah... we're gonna be dealing with this while it's still harmless snow.

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Speaking of snow, we had a snow day today!

We'll probably have school tomorrow in the middle of the blizzard because Iowans only drive like morons at the first onset of snow, or sometimes just the thought of snow.

Snow??? Wha?!? Starting in four hours? I'd better drive 40 miles an hour down the interstate, half on the shoulder... just in case the snow flies early. Give 'em a day and they'll be doing 90 down a slush-and-snow-covered highway.

Hey, Wisconsin people (all ten dozen of you - my most loyal following, I love ya), this Scheiße's coming your way. Enjoy!

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I might check in from time-to-time on Twitter again if Craig Ferguson takes it up. Because it's lost its luster since NPH quit posting hilarious pictures of himself.

Craig Ferguson can be my baby's daddy anyday.

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Dear Mike: Lying down in the vicinity of the laundry pile does not get you bonus points toward getting the clothes folded, although you earned points for dumping the noodles into the boiling water. Let's call it a wash. (But I will warn you that if I find you've stolen my pillow again, you will not only be negative in the points department, but most likely have a pair of dirty socks crammed under your nose in the morning.)

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I've been thinking about going to a movie while the girls are in school... if anything interesting is playing. Unfortunately, nothing qualifies.

When I was younger, my friends and I wanted to see mainstream movies because they were geared toward adults. They were truly badass. We would sneak into PG-13 and R movies. Now, the mainstream movies are geared toward 13-year-old girls and the adults are clamouring to see them.

Am I the only grown woman who could do without the Zac Efrons in the world? I feel like I'm at a perpetual roller-rink party where they play only Avril Lavigne and Taylor Swift songs, and everyone's dressed like emo-posers, talking about how they've contemplated swallowing a bottle of pain pills because their iPhone isn't compatible with the latest T-Pain app. It's my own personal hell.

Bring me something other than Disney, made-for-TV after school specials. I'm not a teenager anymore, so let's skip the forced teenage angst.

Time to step off the soapbox...

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For a change of pace, my ghost friend made another appearance tonight - about 30 seconds ago when I got up to check on a coughing child.

Nothing like seeing the upper-half of a man gliding across the hallway to give your heart a jumpstart.

(He's still in that same white shirt. Maybe I should offer to wash it for him. I'm doing laundry right now, after all, it's only polite. Mmmm... shirtless ghost man. It's almost too much too handle.)

Maybe I should ask him to put a bell around his neck like I do with the cat so he can't sneak up on me.

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It was an exhausting day... in a good way.

We drew pictures, ate snacks, watched movies, read books, sang songs, played with toys together, and when I couldn't stand them anymore, I threw them outside in the blizzard to play.

Have fun, girls! Give a holler if you get stuck or lose feeling in your extremities.

Emma spent ten minutes packing her red bucket full of snow. I watched her turn it over and look at it triumphantly as she unveiled the "snow castle" underneath.

She smiled at it for a second... just before she karate chopped it into oblivion.

My little mini-Chuck-Norris-me makes me so proud.

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Have a lovely Tuesday!

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.

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Alison: Look what I made!

Me: What letter is that?

A: G.

Me: What sound does it make?

A: Geraldine.

Me: Ummm... I guess.

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

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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.