Titillating Tuesday: It's a trap!

As Mike logged his third consecutive hour carousing the internet last night, looking for guns and chef's coats (which, I might add, he is now claiming he should have followed through on purchasing), I realized a horrible truth: I would soon be fighting him for computer time in order to do my homework.

Oh, the terror!

I devised a system in my head in my typical OCD fashion, mostly involving a stoplight system according to how urgently I needed to kick him off.

He must've been feeling a telepathic twinge in his brain because he immediately asked how much money we had.

Go buy a laptop tomorrow. You need it for school.

Do I need it for school? or did you realize that your computer time would be drastically reduced and you're now panicking?

No matter the reasoning behind his sudden turnaround on buying non-gun things, I'm feeling like this is a trap.

And scheming up my next move.

---

On top of all the computer speculation, I talked Mike into buying some blocks for edging out my gardens. Actually, I didn't do much asking. I hijacked my dad's truck and ran off to Menard's for block, and Mike decided to come along for the ride and criticize my life choices (aka: having too many projects) the entire way.

You see, everywhere I went the past two months, it seems as though I was always coming home with free or nearly free flowers.

Work for Stephie? Free flowers.

Sit at the greenhouse and drink with Stephie? Cheap flowers with a side of free flowers.

And two nights ago, we visited my parents after their return from a long camping trip at the Lake of the Ozarks. A couple hours in, Mom turned to me suddenly, Do you need some flowers? I've got some flowers, but we've got to sneak them out the back of the garage!

She explained that the neighbor had given her some extra irises and Mom didn't realize until later that she already had them in her gardens. And Mom apparently has some kind of bizarro Flower World kind of Affirmative Action going on when it comes to plant percentages.

I hummed the Mission Impossible theme song as Mike, Mom and I tip-toed around the back of her garage, through another neighbor's lawn and bushes, and into the back of our Suburban with a couple boxes of what looks like tall grass.

People probably think we're nutjobs already, so I can only imagine what they thought of us "stealing off" with a box of grass.

Mike pointed out: I think we already grow this stuff in our lawn. I chopped it down with the lawn mower two days ago.

Touche'.

So the moral of this story is that I have a shitload of flowers. I didn't want them to die, which is why I've moved onto this Summer's project #482: Build gardens.

---

When Mike and I got to Menard's, I noticed something amazing! The block was 15c off! (Amazing, right? Well, amazing when you have to buy 400 of them...)

I started thinking...

and thinking...

and thinking...

I'd always wanted to run brick along the edge of our driveway, ever since I saw every single fancy house had it. And no one in our neighborhood did. (I like being different. Can you tell? I bet I'm the only 30-year-old you know with chin acne...)

Anyway, we filled up my dad's truck with mulch and block and headed home.

I immediately regretted not getting more block.

On comes Summer project #483: Edge the driveway.

---

I called Menard's the next day, and - even with my sister rooting against me - they agreed to give me the sale price even though it had expired.

Haha, SUCK IT.

We drove back and filled up with $100 more in block with great aspirations of having a beautiful driveway.

Two days later, we have THIS:

A half-finished garden and a quarter-finished driveway edge.

My favorite moment of the week was when the elderly gentleman drove past me, huffing and puffing and stomping on the shovel. He said, Hittin' rock there? This was the empty lot they used to dump the rock and dirt on during construction.

Seriously??? OHMYGODKILL.

We have every manner of sharp-edged tool on our driveway so we can have various methods of hackage to mix things up. Hammers. Ice-picks. Trowels. Shovels. Post hole diggers.

Summer project #484: Get a foot massage.

---

As I was sweating and no doubt sporting some lovely pimplage on my dirty brow, a lovely young girl from Estonia (Google it) ran up in a pair of short shorts and Russian-esque accent.

She was selling Southwestern books. I told her four times I was NOT interested, but was nice and chatted with her for a minute so I could get a break from kneeling on gravel.

As she ran away, I told Mike, That's your dream job, isn't it? Running from door to door in your short shorts, talking to housewives? I'm thinking you could make a career of it.

He's planning on growing his hair out until Christmas now, so I'm thinking he could pass for a really, really ugly German woman. And before any of you Germans protest, I AM that really hairy, ugly German woman.

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone! It's back to work for me...

People without children, AKA: Politeness*

Regardless of how this post might be taken by people trying to conceive, this was NOT meant to bash my children or gloss over the fact that I love them and realize every day how lucky we are to have them.

That said...

Every. single. bloody. day I have revelations about the odd predicaments Mike and I get in because we have small people in our house.

Here we go.

People without children:

• might wonder Where did that stain come from? on their favorite blouse, carpet, wall... But I never do. I know where it came from.


• might actually own a blouse. That still fits. And isn't just a hopeful reminder of how agreeable your boobs used to be.


• might plant a garden to eat food. Not me. I plant a garden so I have a place to send my children when they ask Can I have a SNACK? the 1000th time that day.


• enroll in college to get an education or get a promotion. I enroll in college so I have an excuse to lock myself away in a quiet room while napping perusing Failbook doing "homework."


• never have to wonder: What's getting destroyed in the house right now? as they mow their lawn.


• rarely have to keep tabs on where bathrooms are at all times. Unless you're 80. Or have eaten questionable burritos in the last 12 hours.


• probably haven't imagined yelling Will everyone just shut the f*** up and pay attention! while playing a board game.


• can poop in peace.


• don't keep a stockpile of ear plugs, Advil and alcohol as "emergency supplies."


• have never turned to your spouse and said: That one's yours.


• don't set bowls of dry cereal out the night before and pre-set the TV to the cartoon channel so they can sleep in until 8 on the weekends.


• have never told someone that blood is just paint and to nevermind that movie why aren't you playing in your room?


• have never analyzed why Caillou doesn't have hair or why Max & Ruby don't have parents.


• don't spend 20 minutes before making supper convincing people that they might like eggplant if they'd just TRY it.


• rarely find turd submarines in their toilets, and certainly not several times a day.


• don't flip out at the sound of water running for more than 20 seconds.


• might ask: Who's Sandra Boynton?


• think Leapsters and other handheld games are contributing to the demise of society.


• never sort their laundry according to which items most likely have fecal residue on them.


• have never had a conversation to reassure someone that they're not bleeding to death, and that tampons are just like "toilet paper for mommies" now get out of the bathroom!


• don't have to share their popcorn lest someone cries.


• can have a phone conversation without locking yourself in a bathroom/bedroom/basement.


• can make it through the grocery store without having a dozen conversations with strangers about your plans to have/not have more children and how they feel about the issue. Okay, that one might be just for multiples.


• - speaking of sex - will never have that horrifying moment after Nighttime Activities when you open the door to see two silent silhouettes of blanket-covered children, posting guard just outside your door because they're afraid of "funderstorms."


• won't giggle the accompanying conversation with your spouse: "I wonder how long they were standing there." "At least they were polite enough to wait."

People without BLOGS have also never had their spouse say after such an incident: Politeness, the topic of today's blog post...

And since he *named the post, I'm taking that as permission.

Warning

We're heading to Wisconsin in a short while for Grandpa Reuben's funeral.

Take note, stalkers and would-be underwear sniffers: I've formed a posse of neighbors who may or may not be armed and drinking. I've given them permission to shoot first, bury the body in my garden later.

April Fool's Day... aka Expulsion Day

I'm waiting for a call from the girls' school this morning.

Yesterday, we took the girls to the local bar for "chicken on a stick" (broiled chicken legs) and french fries. Of course, I enjoyed a lovely glass of ice water.

The entire time, the slightly intoxicated but sweethearted locals drunk-whispered about our girls.

Mike: Emma, can you lick your elbow?

Emma (trying): No...

Mike (laughing) : Keep trying.

Alison leaned forward and licked Emma's elbow for her.

Then - because we were already laughing and probably had quite the audience - Mike told the girls to try touching their elbows to their noses.

It was five minutes of pure entertainment. Afterward, an older woman brought over two quarters for each girls to get treats from the candy machine.

Mike decided it was so much fun messing with the kids, that he convinced them to switch classrooms this morning for April Fool's Day.

They dressed in each other's clothes, ate each other's favorite breakfast food, and carried each other's backpacks into school. Oh boy.

It's 9:30 and I haven't heard anything... yet.

I was hoping to get some yardwork done today, but it's awefully gloomy. Plus the dirt pile looks a lot smaller until you're shoveling it by the scoopful into a wheelbarrow.

At least I finished painting the garden yesterday and started laying down the newspapers. I also covered up the carcass of a rabbit that was butchered there, hopefully by a cat pleasenotasnakepleasenotasnake.

Maybe I should stay inside and do some laundry?

NOT.

April Fool's!

When did Thursday become the new Saturday?

I certainly can't keep track of my days of the week when the girls aren't in school, but I was pretty damn sure before I left the house yesterday that it wasn't a SATURDAY.

But you couldn't have guessed that from the level of crazy at Target.

My favorite was the guy in the cookie aisle. He looked "rough" (aka: "homeless") and was pulling Fig Newtons off the shelf in bunches of four. Then he'd carefully eye them from every angle, pick the best two to put into his cart, then put the other two back. Grab four. Inspect. Put two back. Rinse. Repeat. He was stocking up like the Apocalypse was coming and Fig Newtons have the antidote.

Also unusual for a Thursday? (That's what it was yesterday, right? All my calendars are already on January.)

The amount of comments.

I don't mind them so much since they give me an opportunity to build my creative sarcasm vocabulary.

As a token of generosity, I allowed the children to walk instead of ride in the cart. And before I get any hate mail, I should point out that they PREFER to ride in the cart. And who wouldn't? There are days that I want to hook them up to the back of one of the Target go-carts and cruise around instead of hoofing it.

The girls like to pretend they're baby ducklings and follow me around in a line. I usually check back to make sure they're still there...

We passed a middle-aged couple in the toy section where the wife nudged her husband then commented to us: "You have some adorable girls! That is SO CUTE."

I looked behind me. "Oh, those! I don't know WHOSE kids they are, but they've been following me for a while."

The lady paused for a second to take in what she'd heard... and then burst out laughing.

She yelled a few quick remarks of her own after us and we both had a laugh.

In the produce aisle, the employee handing out samples was a twin.

A few yards away, a mother trekked over with her cart and two kids just to say she thought my girls were "adorable."

In the cat food aisle, the elderly sales floor gentleman patted Alison on the head and told the girls that they were just "beautiful... and so neat." Then he warned me that I would be in trouble when our girls got older. (Newsflash: I'm already in trouble.)

The lady in the checkout aisle told us, "You have the most well-behaved girls... I was just telling my friend here that I would take triplets if I knew they'd be so good!"

I told her to give it a minute.

It was actually three minutes later when Alison started crying because I wouldn't let her play with her drumset and Kristin had nudged her foot, then Emma was mad that part of her hat was covering her eye. Every thirty seconds, Emma reminded me, "Mom, I'm STILL HUNGRY." As a bonus, a bottle of Mountain Dew had come unsealed and was leaking all over our groceries. The lady laughed, "You must be exhausted every day!" Think she changed her mind about wanting triplets?

Having multiples is kinda like being a rockstar. You get a lot of attention. You can't just "slip into the crowd" in a pair of pajamas and grab a few items... the gawkers will find you and make you regret your clothing choices-slash-inability to cover that pre-pubescent zit you have on your chin. But as a recompense, you get a "pass" for a lot of unusual behaviors.

Example: Swearing in front of children is unacceptable, right? Hypothetically speaking, of course? In the Target parking lot, I muttered some not-so-kind words (okay, I called the guy an asshole) when a man driving a Cadillac slowed and then tore through a stop sign as we were getting ready to cross. Instead of looking on in shock, the other patrons applauded me.

Or when I joke with strangers that my girls are only well-behaved because they're "just thrilled to finally be let out of the closet," they laugh and pat me on the back.

I bet if I'd stood in the cookie aisle for ten minutes, examining Fig Newtons in batches of four, people would point and say, "Just look at how responsible that mom is with those triplets over there."

I'm so glad I had multiples.

It allows me to be a smartass, every. single. day.

Holiday shopping, aka Punishment for procrastination

Only six more days until CHRISTMAS!!! AHHHH!!!!

I wish Emma was making that face because she realized how much work goes into this holiday and how little time we have left.

Alas, it was just Mike and her being mental and making "shocked" faces at each other until Emma was in hysterics. But I thought the face was fitting.

Have you dared to wander out in public this weekend yet?

It is insane. I finally understand why they're making Collins Rd (the main shopping thoroughfare) into 10-billion lanes... the project that I've been bitching about all through the summer construction season.

Thankfully, I took the tank Suburban last night on our way to dinner or I never would have made it around some bozo who had caused a tangleturd of cars at a series of parking lot stop signs. (If you're familiar with CR, I'm talking about the intersection between Ginsberg's and Red Robin. Worst. Parking Lot Design. EVA.) Heft! Here we go... OVER the curb, across the snow, and back down the other side...

It was worth it.

We ended up finding only one of the four gifts I needed to buy last night and - because I was apparently on some kind of spending kick - three more gifts for the kids that we hadn't planned for. But who doesn't need a dragon pirate ship and matching castle??? I dare you to answer me THAT.

We were out shopping which meant everyone and their mothers were out shopping, too. In fact, we SAW my mother (and father) at Target. I yelled at them as I shuffled out the doors to the truck to drop off my secret dragon spending spree, Mike's in the toy section with the girls, so avoid going THAT way!

When the three of us caught up with Mike and the kids, Alison was moping with her nose three inches from a Thomas the Train boxed set.

I have never seen such sadness in a child.

Mom leaned over Emma's shoulder to surprise her. It freaked Emma out so badly that even when she turned around she didn't recognize her own grandma. What Mom doesn't know is that we have a lot of strangers who do that exact same thing to our kids when we're in public - part of the reason they hate crowds.

I can only imagine how she feels, since I can't stand most of these strangers and none of them are trying to hug/talk to/groom me. If they tried to pet my head, I'd turn around and BARK at them.

WOOF!

I don't hate everyone, just the stupid people. Thought I should throw that little disclaimer out there.

My favorite people to run into are the couples expecting babies. There is nothing funnier than watching a man nudge his pregnant wife and point at our kids...

with a "shocked" face of his own.

Totally non-denominational Christmas Winter Recital thing

We had the girls' "Winter Recital" today. Which was all nice and politically correct... until they started singing Christmas carols. I got a kick out of that one. (Our school embraces a bunch of different traditions; I saw today that one class was making dreidels in art and another classroom was putting together a Christmas tree.)

The girls were only on stage for a total of eight minutes, but they had fun. Even from across a crowded gymnasium, I could tell Emma was singing really emphatically and making intense facial expressions.

I didn't realize Snowmen Marching was such a "thriller"!

Kristin was chosen to be a snowman and melt onstage. (She's third from the left, wearing a tie.)

Alison was all the way to the right in the front row, along with the half of her class that isn't dying of fever. She and Emma were picked to play bells for one of their songs.

I went in for my mandatory volunteer time this morning and saw that Alison's class was missing 1/3 of the kids to what the teachers have seen as a mystifying and long-lasting fever. Most kids are up to 105* and sick for at least five days.

One kid tested positive for strep but the antibiotics aren't helping. I assume this is the start of Plague Season?

Alison has been a little bit feverish in the evenings but completely fine by morning, then she completes the cycle again later that day. Since Saturday.

Have I told you all how much I love my girls' teachers? Because I do. They are hard-working and earn every penny and then some.

As I was last-minute re-checking the girls' backpacks this morning, I saw a note with Emma's "Star of the Week" papers that I must have missed earlier: You may invite a guest to dine with you at lunch today.

Aw, crap. I had hoped to get in and get out of Volunteerland today so I could clean the house in preparation of Mike getting home from Louisiana.

Instead, I ended up pulling Kristin from her class, eating lunch with all three kids (and a random little girl who sat with us and told us repeatedly that she "had the flu"), and then leaving two hours later after losing all hope of accomplishing anything at home and figuring I would be more useful working on the teachers' projects.

So I was completely sideswiped when Emma's teacher pulled me aside tonight at the recital and handed me a plate filled with cookies and a wood and canvas picture frame as thanks for helping out every week.

I don't help out to get recognition as much as help out so they don't have to scrap fun projects with the kids, but it really made me feel good.

Well, that, and having all the Kindergarteners yell Hi, Mrs. V! as they walked past toward the stage. And running into random kids in the grocery store and feeling a little tug on my coat sleeve when they try to get my attention to say hello (along with the parents' awkward hellos when they're trying to figure out why their kid is talking to some random lady).

I've said it before and will say it again: You should try to volunteer even if it's for one day. It's fun and the kids love it! At least at this age... get back to me in three years when my kids are mortified to know me.

So after all that fun, we took the kids out to Olive Garden, their favorite restaurant.

And of course we behaved ourselves... kind of.

You know you have too many kids when the hostess seats you in a party cove and automatically adds gratuity to your bill.

I hope this place never goes out of business because we - even the girls - love their calamari. Mmmm.... delicious!

By the end of the night, Emma was getting so giddy she could hardly stand up while laughing about what I can only assume was a barrage of fart jokes whispered between the kids, and the snow was really coming down. We high-tailed it home where everyone passed out.

Correction: Most everyone passed out in the car. Alison shamed Mike by showing him what real snoring sounds like.

The things we do for love. And to avoid weird people in public places.

It's just like the good ol' college days.

I'm hunched over a laptop in the middle of my livingroom floor with cables and cords running across the beat-down carpeting to phone and power outlets in other rooms.

I miss my computer.

But this must happen. I must shop online.

I can't handle taking the girls in the stores when it's this busy. And all the crazy people come out.

At Target two days ago, an odd woman zipped around the corner and immediately started petting Alison's head as she told me this little ditty: There was a girl in here a few days ago with long hair like this and she was just smart as a whip, here's a coupon for spaghetti sauce, just smart as a whip! and walked away.

(Wasn't it this time last year when the crazy chick in the bathroom ripped a butterfly applique from her K-mart purse because she thought my kids needed it? By the way, they had it for about two months before they lost interest.)

God knows my kids need more crap.

I made a list of all the kids' presents and they are getting WAY too much stuff. Okay, I admit that some of it is clothes and books, but they're also getting *GASP* Pillow Pets. Ugh.

I have to do it. I've interrogated Alison several times a day and she says the only things she wants are a scooter and a "pony" Pillow Pet. And my Grandma is getting her the scooter.

Game. Set. Match. You win, Alison.

And this is one of those times that I think - in fairness - they ALL have to get Pillow Pets. It's not a triplet thing as much as a mutually-shared-obsession thing. Because they would be CRUSHED if they got something lame like a cardigan while Alison had her precious purple pony pillow. (I feel the need to point out how ridiculously "not girly" these kids are that they don't even recognize a unicorn.)

Much like when my sister and I were younger, there are going to be a lot of shared gifts. So far, they have only three toys each that are going to be just their own, including The Pillows That Shall Not Be Named. Everything else will be public property - books, the Wizard of Oz movie, the Mr. Potato heads and Black and Decker workbench (clearance, baby!)

Unlike back in our childhood, though, we're going to tell them that most of the presents are from us and save the special, individual ones "from Santa." This is mostly because we aren't sure what Alison has already uncovered. I'm not naming names, but someone let the girls play under the bed as they slept... the bed that is in the baby-locked bedroom and they can only get in there when someone lets them in. Ahem.

I was frantically searching online for a cheap computer, too. The girls love their Fisher Price Keyboard from two years ago, but Mike never wants to cough up the main computer. Yeah, I went there, Mister Googlemeister.

Then it dawned on me. I turned to Mike today in a moment of sheer genius: We have our old computer in the basement!

But it doesn't work, said Ye of Little Faith.

Yeah, but a hard drive is cheaper than a whole computer... get where I'm going with this? I'll buy a hard drive that has the same specs as the one we just got and use the recovery discs on it when they arrive in the mail!

I am so impressed with myself sometimes...

*basking in it*

Okay, I'm over it.

Doesn't that sound like fun? Because what is life without mind-numbingly painful projects? And I'm also MAKING one of my sister's presents (thank you to Helene for posting something on your blog a while back and no I can't tell you what it is since she reads this) as well as my nephew's apron and chef's hat. He is a budding culinary artist with his Easy Bake Oven.

I might not be able to leave the house this month.

Well, except for my birthday lunch date with Malea... no hair-removal involved, I hope.

Titillating Tuesday: I'm a total martyr and stuff

I am a book whore.

I would live at Barnes & Noble if they would let me. Or wouldn't notice me asleep in one of those comfy leather chairs.

I can't control myself... in fact I just bought four more books that I don't need.

My "books in waiting" were getting lonely, so I did it for them.

It's not like it's going to take me all year to get through these. After all, only three of them are over 1,000 pages.

---

Yesterday, through the what-I-now-know-is-not-a-stroke brain issues, I was a busy busy girl. Which is interesting because I'm wondering WHEN I would work a J.O.B into my schedule??? I don't know how you people do it.

(And I'm curious: Does anyone else's house get completely and irretrievably TRASHED on the weekends? Reason #392 to love school...)

I started with a little staining on The Fence That Shall Not Be Finished. I'm on track to getting it done sometime during the season of Colder Than Shit, which comes directly after Freeze Your Totties Off and directly before Wind Chill? Is That Why My Face Is Bleeding?

Then I ran errands, including an hour-long trip to the Post Office. A woman in line quipped, If any other person ran their business like this, they'd be in trouble. At least she'd thought ahead to bring a book. I had to read through their selection of "last ditch anniversary" and "thinking of you" cards for sale as some old broad spent 10 minutes deciding she didn't want a whole roll of 100 but 80 once she found out she could buy any specific number she wanted.

Then to Target where I bought a 70 cent pirate costume for the girls, a birthday card for Mike's mom, a couple books for Mike and I (book whore), and a tube of mascara to replace mine from 2008 that has finally begun to smell so bad I refuse to put it near my face.

On to Mike's Mom's house. For whatever reason, I was designated by two name-less people to be the birthday card/gift dropper offer.

Next was a trip to Auto Zone. My Suburban's bumper is about to rust off so I'm going to mask the problem with a good sanding down and homemade paint job. (I called the car dealership where they told me it "must be from rock chips." On the BACK bumper. With rust bubbling up from underneath the paint. Over 1/2 of the surface area. Good thing I have them to tell me - the hapless woman - that it's NOT a manufacturing defect. White Chevy Z71s must have a magical ability to attract rocks to the back bumpers, since we've seen dozens with the same exact problem. A-holes.)

Then home to clean up this weekend's mess for two solid hours.

When Mike got home from work, he gave me a hard time for not having supper done and not remembering a random conversation a week-and-a-half earlier where he mentioned in passing about getting pictures of our girls to his mom.

What ever could I have been thinking?

Obviously I hate eating, so that would explain supper, but the picture conversation... I must flagellate myself for this immediately.

Turd...

---

This is why I cannot wear socks to bed.

Every. Damned. Time.

(Mike calls it a Case of the Twittle Foot.)

---

The guy who drives the short bus waves to me twice every morning (we have opposite routes) and twice every afternoon.

I wonder if he thinks he knows me.

Which in turn makes me wonder if he's friends with drunken hobos since I drive a little like Cruella DeVil with spittle on my lip and wild hair at that time of morning.

---

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Kisses and disses

So...

You may have heard that there was this little thing called an "election" yesterday.

When I retrieved the girls from school, I told them we were going to vote.

In stride with our rhyming exercises, the girls convinced themselves over the 10 minute drive that we were on our way to buy a goat.

They were sorely disappointed when all they saw at the Community Center-slash-Farmers Market-slash-City Office were a bunch of octogenarians trying to remember what their phone numbers were and what county we live in.

I am amazed that these people could figure out the ballot. The test is the offspring of a standardized ITED and a VCR instruction manual... in microscopically small print. Kudos to all the elderly who get out and vote, even the lady who tried to ram her plastic folder into the ballot reader along with her vote.

Of course we had a lot of looks and awwws and even a few Aren't they a little young to be coming to these things? You're starting them a little early.

To which I answered: This is their third election plus we brought them with to caucus in 2008.

So suck it.

I mean it's not like there are riots just outside the doors. We're not Ohio circa 2000. The only danger is that my children will start their lives off valuing civic duties.

But what my girls ARE too young for are boys.

And Emma has a cuh-RUSH.

She talks about Christian every day and today, she picked him to be her painting partner. They also sat next to each other and made eyeballs at each other the whole time I was volunteering to journal with the class - a non-job, one half-day a week that makes me wish I had vacation time.

I just realized I kissed a boy for the first time when I was six. God help us and God help the boy who falls victim to the girls' first smooch, since Mike doesn't look too kindly on that sort of thing.

I'd rather buy a goat than deal with that mess.

Titillating Monday: People are evil, and I am a people

I'm feeling particularly feisty this morning. How do you feel about 13 over the speed limit? Fast enough?

Do you think maybe that would be fast enough that some cell-phone talking chicky wouldn't try to hook onto my hitch on a 2-lane back country road?

Apparently not.

This morning has started off with a bang. As a women veered around behind me and frustratedly made gestures at me to pass the semi already, I found myself shouting back to her that I had three kids in the car and I'm going fast enough and even though I didn't have my makeup on, I could make HER look like a mess if she stepped out of her car. Like she could hear me. Ah, Road Rage.

And when I passed the semi truck then slammed on my brakes so she could pass, she either waved or gave me the Screw You Salute, but regardless I made sure to plainly give her the "Have a Fine Day" Finger.

Then I realized this woman probably lives in my town - my town of 500 or so people. Howdy, neighbor!

---

Yesterday, I had my parents, sister and nephew over for the Packer game. It was the first time in NINE MONTHS that the parents had come to visit. Wow!

I was in charge of picking up pizzas from the gas station (turns out they're afraid of my cooking and would opt for some grubby stranger touching their food over risking their lives on mine) and when we got there, my truck started to ding. Low Fuel Level.

What the hell? I had just had 1/4 tank when I parked it the night before, and now it was on E. I filled up, but I started to question in my head every questionable person that I'd seen around the neighborhood.

Which one of you bastards cyphoned off my gas???

And after two hours of stewing about it, Mike informed me that he'd used my truck that morning to run errands.

My apologies to Tuesday Dumpster Diver Man... I'd had you pegged as the culprit.

---

Emma has been such a little turd lately. All she wants to do is goof off and make faces with and snuggle Mike.

She's making up for lost time perhaps, since she never really paid much attention to him as a baby.

Mike is just happy to have a snuggle buddy back. Cat excluded.

---

We went to the Ron-Da-Voo this weekend with the girls. It's a hole-in-the-wall bar, and it makes me wonder if the people who named it were trying to be cute or really couldn't spell rendezvous.

The trip opened my eyes. I'd forgotten how much attention the girls bring when we go to small towns (not only that, but I really need to invest in three completely different jackets... think that would help?)

I whispered to Mike in a giggling hush: I just don't have the energy to deal with all the questions today. And then HE shushed ME.

Seconds later, the cook came out from her grease-covered perch to "get a look" at the girls. I didn't dare laugh, even though the ridiculousness of it all was pretty funny. She asked us a bunch of questions and never took her eyes off the girls like they might attack her if she did.

I know people (especially other moms of multiples) think I'm weird or oversensitive for not liking the "special status" that this whole situation affords us. My egg got crazy weird and split twice (or as Mike likes to think: his sperm was all kachow! pow! and blasted my egg into pieces). So what? I don't look at my kids every day and think: You are so much more special because you shared a uterus.

I love my girls, but I want to be normal again. Well, as normal as I can be. I want to walk into a restaurant and not have to pay the Triplet Toll:

How many kids' menus do we need? Oh wow, are those... triplets?

Yeah.

Cool... are they identical???

Yep.

I bet that's pretty rare. Did you know you were having triplets? or Do triplets run in your family? or Do they have different personalities? all while my girls are getting antsy because they're hungry and Mommy's getting the third degree.

Then we're seated. Then two minutes later, the hostess is pointing to us and whispering to her coworker. Rinse and repeat with the server. And add a dash of stares and whispers from other patrons.

Sometime, I'd love to be able to go to a grocery store in my sweats and no makeup and just blend in with all the other people you don't notice when you're buying your bulk beverages and frozen meats.

Because I've done it. I've left the kids at home a few times and gone out on errands and it is weird. The difference is astounding. No one says hi to me, no one points at me, no one stops me in the tampon aisle to ask if my children are clones or individuals.

It's kinda niiiiice.....

---

Later that same evening, we took the girls to a work-sponsored bonfire. I think it was an excuse to play with matches under the guise of getting rid of wood pallets from the mill.

There was only two other little kids about the girls' age there... one of whom was named Spencer.

And Spencer was desperately trying to attach himself to the gaggle of kids. He was excited to have so many friends to choose from. He told his mom (when she asked what he thought of the girls): Mom, there's THREE of them!

Then he showed my girls how to put sand down the slide and plow through it with their butts.

Now THAT'S more normal.

---

Happy Monday!

Snob-nobbing with Mexicans

Okay, so call me a snob, but I think there's a definite line between dressing casual for a day and looking like a homeless person.

(I would also like to add that there is a difference between those who cannot AFFORD to bathe and those who choose not to simply because they don't care how much their bodies smell like rotten foot jelly.)

My parents took me and the girls out to Country Kitchen for breakfast this past Saturday so I wouldn't complain when they forced me into painting slavery later that day.

It's always an eye opener to get out and among The People. Country Kitchens by us are like IHOPs after 3AM. You wouldn't want to be caught alone in a dark alley with most of the other patrons.

In fact, as we drove up, I pointed at a guy walking with a guitar case down the street and into the restaurant parking lot. I said, Oh, that's sad... homeless guy. Mom asked how I knew he was homeless. I explained it's because he was walking down the street with a guitar case. I could be wrong, though...

But Mom and Dad didn't seem to notice that their favorite breakfast destination was home to more than its fair share of dirty, angry, sometimes toothless men. There my parents were - Mom, dressed up in jewelry and a cute white cotton button-up with her hair all curled and pinned back, and Dad with his collared shirt.

I asked Mom why she got so dressed up.

Because I dressed nice for going out to breakfast.

I looked around. Well, half the employees here are wearing sweat pants.

Nevertheless, the food was delicious. My parents' favorite waitress was so busy waiting on several tables of Mexican soccer players who didn't speak English that she finally came over toward the end just to apologize for not saying hello sooner.

I couldn't help but wonder what a whole team of Mexican soccer players were doing in Iowa. Maybe they were on their way to Canada or some other place that actually plays soccer? And I found myself staring. (Seriously, some of those young'uns were keeeyute. And it's ironic how people - incorrectly - try to portray all Mexicans as dirty and worthless, and those boys were the best dressed and most well-mannered at that restaurant. Suck THAT, Jan Brewer.)

About halfway through our meal, a handful of them wandered over to a hall next to our booth. They paced and whispered. I noticed they were staring at our table. A few minutes later, all but one went back to their group.

The last remaining boy wiggled a phone toward us and pointed to our girls: ¿Trillizas? Triplets? May I?

I nodded and laughed, and as he snapped a few pictures with his friend's phone, Kristin shoved a huge wad of scrambled eggs in her mouth and gave him a look like Really? At breakfast? I'm not smiling for you....

It reminded me a little of our trip to Mexico a decade ago. We were followed everywhere through a small village by a 3-legged dog and a pack of children selling handkerchiefs. (You can't make this stuff up.) Finally, I offered them money if we could just get a picture with them.

The 2-dozen children lined up with looks of annoyance on their face.

The same look that Kristin gave this poor boy.

Back in Mexico, I'd waved to them and persuaded ¡Con sonrisas, por favor! After I gave them what amounted to fifty pesos ($5) they ran off shouting and skipping.

Here in America, I just nudged my girls and scolded them to smile and quit shoving food in their faces.

While everyone in the restaurant had been staring at that table full of adorable tourists, they had been chattering about our girls. How funny was that?

I just hope those boys realize that most Americans shower at least once a day. Or week. Or ever. I'm not sure that restaurant put our best image forward.

Unless they like sweat pants.

Titillating Tuesday: Trash talk

I made a huuuge mistake in watching my first Hoarders episode last night online.

After watching the second episode (and having to hunt down other episodes online to fulfill my need for seeing other people's filth - mostly I was fascinated that none of these people saw it as a "problem" even when their sinks no longer functioned and their kids could no longer sleep in their beds) I decided I'd do something constructive with that time and at least paint my nails while being a trash voyeur.

I went to bed* feeling the need to take out the trash.

*I was up until 1AM. I had to stop once I watched the family who couldn't regain custody of their two children because the mom refused to give up 4,000 boxes of crap in her garage. That was AFTER the crew cleaned everything off her property and boxed stuff up.

I hope that Big Gulp cup that she couldn't let go of keeps her company at night while her children live with Grandma and Grandpa...

---

Last night I was lying in bed, completely uneasy.

I wanted to run out to the garage and throw away anything that wasn't nailed down. For the record, I think that only entails bikes, lumber, tools and a grill. But still. Scrubbing the Hoarder visuals off my eyeballs...

I told Mike, I'm the OPPOSITE of a hoarder. I lack the sentimental gene. If I had my choice, I'd throw everything away or donate it.

So we compromised. I settled for chucking the half-working griddle that I'd asked Mike to take to work (several weeks ago). It felt great. Buh-bye!

---

This past Saturday, I finally dragged our old grill to the curb with a FREE sign on it. It was during our garage sale days, but nonetheless (and even though I'd written Yes, It works! on the side) we had no takers.

It was still sitting there last night at bedtime.

When I left to pick the girls up from school today, I noticed that the grill had disappeared... Yay! I thought back to this morning and realized it had been gone before I'd even woken up.

And then I remembered...

Just a few weeks ago on an early Tuesday morning, I'd seen a man in a pickup with boards around the back, stopped and inspecting the larger garbage items at a house three blocks down.

DUMPSTER DIVERS!

Would it be wrong of me to strategically place things on the curb on Monday nights that work but we no longer want and don't want to take to the dump? And now I want to know if he's needy or hoarding. I'd hate to be an enabler!

I guess I could nonchalantly ask him if he owns a cat. Or several dozen cats.

---

Tomorrow I'm going to write about how the girls have been doing in school, and yesterday's post about identity had pretty good timing from what Alison told me today.

Have a good Tuesday, everyone!

The T-word

This is for my mother.

I sure hope you at least put pigtails in their hair and make them look nice for school!

No, I prefer to smear food over their heads, and force them to wear the same socks for 2 weeks until they smell like old cheese, and... well... I don't know, I can't think of anything that lives up to her vision of how I send my kids off - that my children look like they've crawled from the gutter every morning.

This morning is pretty typical for us, minus the matchy-matchy outfits, but you'll have to forgive the breaking of at least 4 of my clothing rules since we're a little low in the Packer apparel department. (And I see they desperately need their bangs cut, which might explain why I had a nightmare about Alison giving herself a butch-'do last night.)

I know I'm a little weird about not liking identical outfits, but you have to understand that I SEE things regularly that freak me out.

Like today. I Googled "monster triplets," looking for a silly picture to use as an illustration.

Oh my hell. I have never seen so many penises in my life. And pictures of the Dahm triplets.

I worry immensely about our girls being treated like some kind of mission when they're older... the I hooked up with triplets mission. Being objectified not ONLY because they're women, but because they happen to be identical triplets. There is so much CRAP to deal with in middle school and friendships and relationships and college... add "unwittingly being used as a trophy" to the list.

Do you understand how sick that makes me feel?

So I do everything I can to make the girls feel like individuals, and to encourage others to do the same. The word "triplet" does NOT make me feel special (and I know there are some people who use it to identify us, which is absolutely fine in moderation, but there are others who say it like they're doing us some kind of favor).

When friends and strangers alike only know you as "the triplets," how do you think that makes them feel? Weird? Like they don't have names? Because my girls have NO IDEA what a "triplet" is... I'm not joking. They know they ARE one, but they don't know why. They just know it makes people act strangely around us.

I recently had a revelation about the unique struggles the girls will go through their entire lives.

I took the girls over to the neighbor's house to play, and everyone referred to them as "the triplets" or "the girls" (a note: I prefer the latter but neither one is going to make me homicidal... I know there are friends reading this going "Oh sh*t! Whoops" and please don't; it's not something that I thought about until we had the girls).

Soon started the guessing games of who-is-who.

While it was kind of funny to see the men try to figure the girls' names out, it dawned on me that NONE of the other children in the neighborhood deal with that particular problem. Everyone knows who they are. If one of them is walking down the street, I'll say "Hi, C!" or "Hey S, are you liking school this year?" But our girls will always just be "one of the triplets." Isn't that just weird to think about - not just abstractly, but actually being anonymous to friends and some family???

It's hard to put into words... I realize how difficult it is to tell them apart. But it doesn't change the fact that my children are nameless to people we've known for years. It's not laziness at all. I don't want people to get that impression. Most of these people seem to feel terrible that they don't know their names, and it makes me feel bad all around. I want this to be easy, damnit!

I'm seriously considering buying nametags, not to be a smartass, but to put them on the girls' backs so people can CHEAT. And even better than asking me for their names, ask the girls, Are you Emma? They love that. Because if you're wrong, they think you're just screwing with them and laugh, No, I'm KRISTIN!

Now does it make sense why I push to separate the girls in school? Could you imagine having to start every day with "I'm so-and-so, Mrs. O"? God, I cringe at the thought.

I want our girls to feel important and like they belong here, not like some kind of interchangeable oddity or cosmic joke.

All of this ties together, believe it or not...

In the back of my mind I worry about what this will do to their self esteem. I don't want our girls to be so fed up with their "tripletness" or whatever you call it, that they decide one day to cash in on it and drop trou for a paycheck. I want our girls to be individuals and I want to raise at least ONE child who might say Hey, I'm not really comfortable with this! before becoming the next Dahm triplets.

I don't want them to think that being "triplets" is WHO THEY ARE.

Hopefully it just takes time... or different haircuts... or tattoos on their heads. We'll get this figured out eventually.

I hope.

Titillating Tuesday: I can't believe it

Our girls start full-time, 5-day-a-week school tomorrow.

HO-LY CRAP. We MADE it. This is what we've always talked about... the moment our lives were going to become more normal (and possibly more financially sound). And I can tell you - the moms and dads of small triplets - it is GOOOOD. You can do it!

---

We met our girls' teachers today. Of course, today would be the day it took forever just to get everyone clean, dressed and out the door.

They picked their outfits. If it was up to me, it would have been t-shirts and sandals.

Is this what every morning is going to be like?!? Ohmygod shootmenow.

But the teachers were great!

Emma with Miss O'R.

Alison with Mrs. S, trying hard not to smile through the frenzy.

And Kristin with Mrs. O... not sure what that weird look on her face is. I think she's eyeing up her desk since she didn't seem to grasp (or was in denial) that school DOES NOT START TODAY. Boy was she sad.

I have never seen three children more thrilled about starting school.

Then again, their mother was kind of nerdy in that way, too. It was harder to fall asleep the night before school than the night before Christmas...

---

Best part of Meet-N-Greet? Realizing after leaving that I'd completely forgotten to address the list of questions I'd carefully thought out this morning and was sure would make me look like the inept new mom about to get hit by a bus.

Also awesome? Forgetting to drop off the paperwork I'd printed, filled out, stapled, and paperclipped together.

Turns out it wasn't the questions that would make me seem inept after all.

---

Have you ever noticed someone missing a body part and couldn't stop staring at it?

The very nice lady in the school office is missing 1/3 of her pointer finger... and I couldn't stop glancing at the damned thing as she waved it around.

I don't know what was wrong with me! Tired, maybe? Yep, let's blame it on tired.

I thought if she caught me staring I could explain that my father has buzzed off his finger twice. Or maybe not. Would it be obvious if I brought her some mittens?

---

After ditching backpacks FULL of supplies at the school and filling out even MORE forms with my contact info on it (hello? don't you keep this crap on file and why are you not just printing the info out for teachers?) we sprinted to Target for a marathon shopping session.

$333 later, we had the rest of our school supplies and enough food to last us maybe ten minutes.

I suddenly had the urge to photograph my fridge. Maybe it's because I know it won't last.

---

As I pulled the girls out of the Suburban in the Target parking lot, a gentleman backed out of his stall in his rusted out pickup. Imagine bumper stickers that read Say NO to B.O. plastered over his back window and miscellaneous decals that made me wonder if his gun rack was in the shop.

I waited for him to continue past us (we couldn't have walked forward without stepping in front of his truck) and as he backed up, his window slowly cranked down.

I seen 'em there, dontchoo worry. I seen 'em!

Then he laughed hysterically, cranked his window back up and drove off.

It's then I realized that even crazy rednecks are beginning to leave Wal-Mart. Is nothing sacred?

---

I sent this text message today:

We have found Ponds and Purrsley. I repeat: animals have been located in a basket under a stash of no-match socks! The kids are ECSTATIC.

Sad that our children's favorite stuffed animals can get LOST for SEVERAL WEEKS simply because we have an inordinate amount of single socks, stuffed into a laundry bin waiting for their mates to show up (I'm beginning to wonder if they ever will).

---

I need to get to bed. All this early bedtime crap has me dreaming of spiders and beating imaginary spider webs off the wall with my pillow. Really.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

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...

Get lost

It only took one day, but I'm back to being excited Mike is gone for a week.

All five of us woke up somewhere between 4 AM and the buttcrack of dawn on Saturday. We drove Mike to his RAGBRAI bus and wished him good luck on his "big bike ride."

(The girls are so jealous. It's hard to explain to a 5-year-old that - sometimes - riding a bicycle can suck hairy dog testicle. Specifically when Mike's dad's headlight falls off his handlebars and under Mike's tire, causing him to get road rash up his right side... you know, like today. Al should watch out for some kind of retaliation. And probably shouldn't fall asleep within a nautical mile of a permanent marker.)

We waved, said our goodbyes and drove into the sunrise. Out of self-loathing, we then spent the morning at my parents' house, helping attach soffet-work on the garage and playing with the giant Barbie house. I'll let you figure out who did what.

By the time we left, the kids had burned through all their energy, even the popcicles my mom force fed them.

Emma made it five feet in the door before falling victim to exhaustion.

I have never seen such angry children as when I attempted to wake them for the neighborhood block party. Rarrrr. When we got there, they disappeared off to the swingset and I didn't see them but for their hourly snack request.

Some teenagers arrived to the party and my children wandered off with them to watch Star Wars Episode V, and all the way home they talked about how it was the best movie EVER. Is it possible they inherited Mike's dork gene?

We all slept like babies that night.

Today wasn't nearly as much fun (barring the visit up to the neighbors' birthday party where Emma proclaimed "I got cake and a tattoo!" ... sounds a lot like my 18th birthday).

I am convinced if Mike stayed away for a month, I could have this house in pristine condition.

Day 1 and I am almost done with the f*#cking fence. I need six more boards and that glorious bastard will be FINISHED.

While working on the gate, a couple walked by. I waved. They waved. The husband yelled, That fence looks nice... (sigh) really nice. It was like my fence made him sad. (This project has gotten some WEIRD reactions from people, and I'm almost sad it's coming to an end. Ah, what the hell am I saying? No I'm not.)

I did a bunch of other crap today, but just thinking about it makes me tired.

And yes, this picture was taken in the dark because that's how long I was outside today. I'm so glad I wore work gloves because nothing's sexier than pasty white hands and hairy red gorilla arms.

The kids are asleep and I'm lining up tomorrow's exciting agenda.

A trip to Menard's?

Maybe I could buy some paint for the kitchen?

Oh, and the shrubs need a trim.

That reminds me... I should probably trim up my "shrubs" AKA facial hair. And arm hair. Can I get a full body dip?

Mike will think he arrived to the wrong house and family at the end of the week.

It'll blow over someday

I committed a Cardinal Sin of Identical Triplet Parenthood tonight. Well, possibly several, but only one that I'll document here.

I dressed my children in identical outfits. (imagine dramatic music playing)

Let that news settle in for a moment...

Of course, I'm just teasing (and know quite a few people who like their kids to match), but when we're chased through Target by stalkers with camera phones going *ka-chink* *ka-chink* on a regular basis, I started to hate dressing them alike.

So how did this happen? My cheapness overcame my anti-identical-clothingness because these shirts went for something like $1.80 each.

*Ka-chink* in my PIGGY BANK.

The only people who get to witness these matchy-matchy days are my neighbors when I send the kids outside to play in the mud, and possibly the dump truck driver stranded across the street for 5 hours with a flat tire who seemed quite amused once he realized there was a whole herd of children dressed alike running through the yard shooting each other with Nerf guns.

Occasionally, I'll make an impromptu shopping trip to Target, and if I forget that I've dressed the kids too similarly, I'm quickly reminded by all the stares and waves and chatter before I even hit the doors. That's usually when I mutter something to Mike or myself about my stupidity and stuff one of the children down into the bucket of the shopping cart, Please don't talk honey... here are some cookies and an apple juice if you pretend to be a couple bags of bread and a sweatshirt.

Tonight, the girls were alike down to their purple-painted toes and fingernails that I cut and polished today, leaving my hands smelling sunshiney, toe-jammy fresh. Mmmm... nothing like cutting 60 kids' nails to make you smell FRESH.

Let's see, what else is happening tonight?

The cat is bugging me for tuna, since Mike's been throwing some of that stinky freakin' crap in her dish every time he makes a sandwich. As I'm typing, she's zig-zagging between my ankles, rubbing her ass on me. Which makes sense, since that's what I do to Mike when I want something from him... Honey, could you get me a glass of water? (rub my butt on his foot)

Other than that, I'm just awaitin' for these thunderstorms to roll through. We're playing a game called How Long Will These Plastic $1 Kids' Lawn Chairs Stay In Our Yard? (Please see tomorrow's follow-up game of How Many Blocks Away And Wedged Into What Kind of Shrubbery Will We Find The Lawn Chairs?)

Well, I think my toe-jammy fingers are all typed out for the night. I want to spend a little time reading the Percy Jackson "novels" (?) our 14-ish-year-old neighbor boy loaned to us because, and I quote: They are really really good. And apparently I'm not an asshole, so I need to get off the computer and get reading.

All that, plus I need to prepare for this storm...

Just a little wind storm, right?

Kill or be killed

I woke up this morning with my neck in knots. I have been sleeping terribly since Mike went back on nights.

Mostly I had nightmares about the Mr. Magoo look-alike who followed the girls and I conspicuously through the Target produce section last night.

(I had to pull a switcheroo in direction to finally ditch him. People without multiples have no idea what it's like being stalked through the grocery store by complete strangers. We-ird.)

I needed my rest, too. As always, I have way too much to do this week.

Like work on my fence.

Or perhaps not.

I busted butt outside to at least put in one of my gardens before the severe weather hits. I threw together this 12x12 monstrosity right over the top of the circular weed patch where our swimming-slash-cess pool sat last year.

I could potentially have vegetables planted there within the next week or so. Huzzah!

It's always nice to have new plants to try to kill. I've moved on from trying to kill my irises and roses, since they pretty much thrive on neglect.

Yay, me.

Busy, busy, busy.

As I was standing in my yard a few hours ago, mouth agape and my brain stumbling to figure out where the other garden should go, the dog-walking neighbor approached and yelled, You should have a reality show: The Wife Who Does Everything.

That could have a double meaning. Ahem.

I packed up the crying kids - it was too hot outside to have fun, according to them - and my tools and headed inside and away from my freshly mowed, newly fenced yard to await the 80% chance of severe thunderstorms.

And wait.

And wait.

It's been 3 hours.

When is this crap gonna hit?

Hopefully it's right in the middle of the night because nothing says "rest and relaxation" like having three children run scared down the hallway with blankets over their heads in Mother Theresa fashion yelling, I want to sleep in the basement!!!

Our unfinished, concrete-floored basement.

Yep.

That sounds way more fun than nightmares about Mr. Magoo.

*I feel the need to add that Mike said there have been a lot of earthquakes lately. It's really rare for me to wake up once I fall asleep, so when I mentioned to Mike I've been waking up all night long, he checked the news and sure enough... earthquakes. What is the deal???

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.