We're probably not going to take it, thank you anyway.

So no- I didn't write this, it is from The Onion- but I thought it was funny and might make up for how long it is taking me to do my meme and picture tag!

Twisted Sister was one of the first albums I owned. The cover with Dee Snyder gnawing on a bone just felt so dangerous and wrong that I know it had to be good! I recently downloaded loaded a few of their songs onto Lindsey's Ipod without asking her (and a bunch of Aerosmith, some Beastie Boyz & Joan Jett- you know- classics!)- cuz- she doesn't know what she likes yet... it's up to me to teach her- right? I had to do something to counterbalance the Jonas Brothers and High School Musical tracks.

Members Of Twisted Sister Now Willing To Take It

September 29, 2008 Issue 44•40

NEW YORK—In a stunning reversal of their long-stated reluctance to take it, members of heavy-metal band Twisted Sister announced Monday that, after 24 years of fervent refusal, they are now willing to take it. "I acknowledge that we promised not to take it anymore, but things change. The world is a different place today, and with that in mind, we would like to go on record as saying that, starting right now, we are going to take it," read a statement released by the band's lead singer, Dee Snider. "To clarify, we would still prefer not to take it, but as of now, taking it is an option that we would be open to. That is all." Bassist Mark "the Animal" Mendoza also stated that, in regards to what he wants to do with his life, he no longer solely wants to rock, but would instead prefer doing other things, such as raising a family and working as a claims adjuster in Rye, NY.

Smurf you!

Today, Lindsey made the mistake of tackling the remote away from Ricky and surfing through Hanna Montana and Wizards of Waverly Place while we boo'd and heckled her only to stop on some random program that was highlighting celebrity Smurf figurines. Oh, it was ON after that and she will live to rue the day... RUE it I tell you!!! (She already does BTW)

Ricky: "Give me back the Smurfin' remote before I Smurf you!"

Me: "Yeah, you Smurfing Smurfy Smurf!

Lindsey: "AAAhh, what the heck, you freaks!"

Me: "Don't you Smurf off to Papa Smurf like that... that's just Smurful and will not be Smurfed around here!"

Ricky: "Yeah, don't make me Smurf open a can of Smurf on your Smurf... you unSmurfull Smurfity Smurf-Smurf!"

Lindsey: "Stop... you're scaring me!"

Us: "You should have Smurfed of that before you Smurfed the Smurf and Smurfed the channel!"

Lindsey: Nothing- by this time, she is slowly walking to her room with her head in her hands to come to terms with the fact that she is stuck with us for 7 more years.

Us: (As we high five) "I guess we Smurfed her!"

Treybot 0300

It's Halloween time! If you know me, you l know I LUVS me some Halloween. First, I get all excited and buy candy the first week of October so I can be, you know, prepared. Then, oops, somehow it gets accidentally opened and devoured. Multiply this sequence of events by about 4 or 5 before the actual big night which then finds me running to WinCo to buy waaay too much of whatever candy is left because I DO NOT want to be that house that runs out of candy. No sirree- the only thing worse, is being the house that is handing out toothbrushes. What is up with those people? Spending the day after Halloween unwrapping TP off of their trees and bushes- that's what!

My parents were just not into Halloween. If we got a pumpkin, it was out of a bin in front of the grocery store the day before Halloween and let's just say, I dressed up like a hobo a lot. While my friends all had rockin costumes that their mothers had lovingly made, or purchased, I would end up grabbing one of my dad's flannel shirts and making "whiskers" on my face with mascara. Oh well, there are worse things in life, but don't let that resignation fool you into thinking that despite that, I don't ridiculously overcompensate with my own kids!

We go to a REAL pumpkin patch every year. And not those lame, pretend pumpkin patches that just truck pumpkins in and scatter them all over the ground with some straw... that's an abomination! I want to see the vine from which my gourd hath grown!

No last minute hobo costumes for my kids either. Because I LOVE my kids, you will find me up until 2am the night before Halloween (or the school party, whichever comes first) hot gluing, stitching, ironing and generally obsessing like a deranged person over the most sure to go unnoticed details of their costumes. Last year, Trey wanted to be a robot. You should have seen my unrestrained, sheer glee and merriment over this choice. I have ALWAYS wanted to make a robot costume. Remember those kids at school with the dryer vent arms and legs! Oh what rapture filled my bosom (that's for you steenky bee! )as I scoured the hardware store, goodwill and the used appliance parts store for supplies. I have made Dorothy, witch & Cinderella dresses, cow, bat and dalmation costumes and purchased with much excitement, all manner of costumes sparkly and plush, but THIS, this was to be my masterpiece (mwahahaha)!

So, in case you are wondering, yes, the robot costume ROCKED. His helmet had a light on top that really flashed. He had knobs that spun, dryer vent arms and legs, metallic spray painted shoes and a metal sign on the back that read, "EXIT ONLY", 'cuz I'm a spaz like that, AND he was the envy of 3rd grade boys far and near. Yes, the look of adoration and hugs of sincere gratitude from a very happy "Treybot 0300" made it all worth it.

The problem is, now, he seems to truly believe that I am the master of all costuming and is completely confident in my ability to create his alter ego for this year... An Ipod. Of course, I can't just phone it in now and slap some poster paint on a box- oh no. He's googled Ipod costumes and the one he wants his to look like was made by some kind of engineering/construction/tailoring genius.

Crap. Guess I'll be up until 3am this year. (You know I love it!)

Vintage Trey

When Trey was about 4, we had just passed a local landmark which is a 2 story rabbit, dressed in what looks like a Maytag repairman uniform. He is the mascot for Harvey's Marine. At Halloween, he holds a giant pumpkin in his hands, a tree at Christmas etc.

Anyway, I point it out to the kids, "Look, it's Harvey the rabbit!" "Why would a marine shop have a rabbit for a mascot?", they wonder. So, I go into the whole thing about how "there was this movie with the same guy from "It's a Wonderful Life", that was also a play, but I don't know which came first... but the guy in the movie had a best friend who was an invisible 10 foot rabbit." By this time, they have lost all interest and I just get a bored "oh" in response until several minutes later when Trey, confused look on his face, asks, "Mom? Did the rabbit also have 10 legs?"

I don't know WHERE she gets this from

3 Recent conversations with Logan (6years old):

#1
Me: "Logey Pogey! It's time to get up!"
Logan: (from underneath the covers)"The person you are trying to reach is not available, please leave a message... Beeep!"

#2
Me: "I told you to pick these markers up off of the floor, blah, blah, blah!"
Logan: "Please stop talking to me!"
Me: "EXCUSE ME???"
Logan: "I SAID please."

#3
Logan: (as I am in her room gathering dirty laundry) "Uhm, can you go now, this is Logan time, NOT Mommy/Logan time."
Me: "Excuse ME, would you like to take this laundry downstairs youself?"
Logan: "Sorry ma'am, but you'll have to leave in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

Good thing she's so cute.

Peanut, peanut butter and Jelly!

Ever have one of those days? Ever know it is going to be one of those days within 5 minutes of getting out of bed? Erm… me neither (cough)…

Last week, alarm clock goes off, sleepy mom hits the snooze… again, and again and again. Oops, one too many “agains“. Holy crap on a crouton, the kids have to be at school in 20 minutes!!! Ordinarily, the kids eat breakfast at school, but since we were running so late, they needed to scarf something down at home and since I was overdue for a trip to the grocery store, once the big kids ate the last of the cereal- the only thing left for Logan was one single piece of bread for toast.

In between hounding the kids to tie their shoes and find their library books, I anxiously watched for the toast to pop up. “Why is it taking so fricking long? “ I muttered, so I decide that it is plenty toasty thank you very much and lift up on the lever to manually pop it up. Apparently, I used too much force because, wheeee, the toast flew up, out of the slot with a graceful arc and slid perfectly down the ½ inch gap between the fridge and the counter where it can neither be seen, nor retrieved.

So, being the problem solver that I am, she had peanut butter and jelly on a hot dog bun for breakfast. PB&J dog’s for breakfast? Kid tested, mother approved! You may now commence with my nominations for Mother of the Year… or the anonymous calls to child protective services… whichever.

A 3 hour tour...

So the other night, we’re out to dinner with the kids and Ricky and I begin reminiscing about TV shows from the good old days, when we were kids. First, there were the old skool kid shows, like; The Great Space Coaster (get on board), Land of the Lost (Sleestacks still give me nightmares) and Electric Company (Hey you guuuys!!!) that were staples of many a morning waiting for the bus to come. But then, there were the after school classics, which we watched religiously every day, right up until about 5 minutes before our parents got home from work so that we could tear around the house and get our chores done. We’re talking, I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched and the best of all… Gilligan’s Island.

The kid’s eyes widened… “what is this Gilligan’s Island you speak of…was it like LOST?” “Oh better“, I begin, as the kids lean in close to hear more. “There were these people who went on a boat tour“, “A THREE HOUR TOUR”, Ricky elaborates. “Yes”, I continue, ‘The weather started getting rough, and their tiny ship was tossed. If it weren’t for the spirit of the fearless crew… the Minnow would be lost.” “But the Minnow was lost”, Ricky reminds me. Tossing him a glare, I say, “Thank you Professor… anyway, they were stuck on this Island and all they had to eat were coconuts, bananas and pineapple, except for the one time when these radioactive seeds washed up on shore and they grew the vegetables and all got superhuman powers from eating them.”

The kids were beyond excited by this point as Ricky and I try to remember whether it was Maryanne who got long range eyesight from the radioactive carrots and Mrs. Howell who was running around like she was on meth from the beets or the other way around. Then, as we painstakingly described how the Professor once made a mind reading machine out of coconuts, we were abruptly stopped by Trey, who demanded to know why he would waste his time doing that instead of inventing a way for them to be rescued. How dare he question the Professor! Despite the potential gaps in the logic of the plot lines (something LOST never has), the kids have been bugging us ever since to watch it. As soon as I figure out why my computer won’t download Adobe Flash Player, I’m sure we’ll have many hours of family bonding over YouTube episodes.

I’m sure Trey will continue to demand explanations, but this is the same kid who, when asked what one thing he would bring with him on a deserted island replies, “Duh, an airplane!"

Poopy Paul

The bus ride to school when I was growing up was a good, long, hour. That is a looong time for a bunch of bored, car sick kids to be in such close quarters and be expected to not agitate the driver and each other to the point of justifiable homicide. Yes, the bus ride was a microcosm unto itself where dramas, arguments, humiliations, miniature Greek tragedies and love stories all unfolded before we even got to school.

Case in point: Poopy Paul

Oh Poopy Paul. Regularly, but more often on long hot days, when the ride seemed longer than ever, there would arise an unmistakable stench. Not the stench of car sickness that alerted all in the back of the bus to put their feet up on their seats to avoid the inevitable tide of barf that would slowly cover the length of the bus as it traveled the inclines of our route. Nope, I mean the stank of poo.

Now, somewhere along the way, although nobody really knows how or when, it had been determined through no means fair, logical or evidentiary, that Paul was the source of the smell. Paul was just an ordinary second grader, with probably no more skid marks in his underoos than any other boy on that bus, but nevertheless, he was christened a new name, “Poopy Paul”, and given the unsavory and humiliating credit for all odors great and small.

One day when the ride was longer, hotter and more boring than usual, a stank began to emerge. No ordinary stank, but one of gag reflex inducing proportions. Quickly, the children all began to wail and moan and gesture toward Poopy Paul with one hand while holding their noses with the other and creating
such a commotion, that the bus driver pulled over abruptly to see what was going on. The children, all eagerly pointed out with certainty, “Poopy Paul! He’s pooped his pants again!” (Bear in mind, that any previous pants poopings were all mere conjecture on our part).

What we saw next, will forever be etched in my mind. The bus driver, annoyed and concerned, lumbered back to where Paul was sitting, and leaned over him to loudly inquire as to the cleanliness of his pants, and as he shook his head furiously in denial, his face turning all shades of crimson, she stood him up and quickly pulled the back of his pants away from his body a few inches and took a peek inside for visual verification. There was no poop to be found. At least not on Paul.

Screams of laughter echoed though the bus as the driver, turning her own special shade of crimson, hurried back to her helm to get us all home and the heck off of her bus as quickly as possible. The fact that Paul had indeed NOT been poopy after all, was of little consequence. He continued to hold the moniker and be the subject of whispers, points and giggles. The only "good" thing to come out of this situation, if one were to insist on finding one, is that he always had a seat to himself, since nobody would sit by him. I imagine he would have gladly traded the extra leg room for a new nickname and a few friends.

As for Poopy Paul, I can only imagine how that day must forever remain gashed into his psyche. Soon after, his family moved to Switzerland, where hopefully, henceforth and forever he was known simply as “Paul.” Sorry Paul.

The Ghost of Sophronia Hodgett

Once upon a time, a family of City Slickers (OK, my family... play along), moved to an ancient farmhouse, far, far away. This house stood tall and brave amidst a swirling sea of wheat, yet small and timid at the feet of the blue mountains that it was nestled against.

While the City Slickers realized that they had not technically moved into the middle of nowhere, they definitely were somewhere on the outskirts of nowhere, and aside from the thrill of watching the combine steadily pace back and forth across the fields like a worried parent, it soon became obvious that entertaining themselves would require some creativity.

Propping itself up awkwardly in an unsure manner, was a chicken coop in the brambly pasture adjacent to the house. City Slicker Mom, having no interest whatsoever in the foul business of... foul, helped City Slicker Kids, instead, outfit the structure with a disco ball, a rickety wagon wheel table & chairs found abandoned in the garage and a karaoke machine. City Slicker Mom is pretty sure she saw Combine Guy shaking his head, weary with disgust.

Keeping a watchful eye on City Slicker family from the hill just above ancient farmhouse, was the town cemetery. City Slicker family had just barely recovered from the excitement of driving 10 miles to watch a grass fire smolder (I told you they had to be creative) when they decided to make their way up to this cemetery and check it out.

Approaching the entrance, City Slicker Family was immediately intrigued by the look and feel of the place. Grave markers and obelisks jutted up from the ground at all angles like crooked teeth and melancholy angel statues gazed lovingly down as they stood watch over the dearly departed. As the kids flitted from one faded, crumbling marker to another, trying to find the oldest among them (1878 BTW), the Mom couldn't help but fixate on a section fenced off with ornate, black wrought iron, where 6 children lie buried together having died within weeks of each other, over 90 years ago and try to imagine how this came to be, and how a mother could muster the strength to go on after such tragedy.

While the mom solemnly and intently walked up and down the rows, giving each marker it's due respect, the kids excitedly scrambled from one to another, often calling out to the others, "look at this one, he died in 1895", or "look at this one, it is so pretty", and eldest City Slicker Girl sadly noted one child, who died on her own birthday decades earlier.

Suddenly... as City Slicker Baby(4years old) brushed past a dark, imposing obelisk, City Slicker Mom heard a scream and turned to see the crumbling masonry fall from it's pedestal toward her youngest child. Fortunately, the angels standing guard that day, were in no mood for another charge and the monument merely bruised and scraped City Slicker Baby on it's way down where it landed with a resounding thud against the moist grass.

As the mother quickly scooped up her child and willed her own heart to resume beating, she noticed the inscription on the stone and read it out loud, "Sophronia Hodgett, 1842-1897." City Slicker Boy, now certain that they were all cursed and therefore also doomed (DOOMED, I tell you... DOOMED!)frantically motioned toward the car, exclaiming, "I vote we leave, NOW!!" "Curse you Sophronia Hodgett... Curse You!" Proclaimed Eldest City Slicker Girl with a defiantly upraised fist, which she shook in the general direction of the fallen marker as City Slicker Family scampered quickly back to their car and peeled out of the parking lot back to their ancient farmhouse.

For the entire year that City Slicker Family resided amongst the swirling wheat field, nestled against the blue mountains under the watchful eye of the cemetary, they were aware that they were never alone... amongst the angels and sentinals on the hill above them, was Sophronia Hodgett, patiently biding her time...

New age pet-ownership

Logan is working on her "Beary Special Person" poster for first grade and under the category "pets", the poor thing, not wanting to appear the ONLY pet less child in her school (she pretty much is), wrote; squirrels and birds. We actually do have numerous squirrels and birds in the back yard and we even feed them from time to time. That technically makes them our "pets", right? Everyone else has a hamster or dog or a chinchilla, but not us. Because I am a mean mom. That and because we have managed to kill off every other pet that we have had, aside from the Border Collie that we gave away when we moved back to the burbs from the farm, although, truth be told, I wanted to kill it too on numerous occasions.

The goldfish never made it past the first water change, the hermit crabs (supposedly hard to kill... I like a challenge)stopped coming out of their shells, and Lindsey's classroom pet hamster that we were charges with for the weekend... did not live to see Sunday. The dog? Pepper had a voracious appetite for shoes (brand NEW shoes) full cases of TP from Costco, full cases of ramen, toys and pretty much anything not nailed down. If we left anything out for even a minute- he ate it. I grew weary of this game quickly. That and the poop. Oh the poop. Don't get me started.

When we moved back to the burbs, we found a kindly old farmer to adopt Pepper and train him to be a cow dog. Really, this is a Border Collie's dream come true, but try telling my kids this. Oh well, the money I save on replacing shredded shoes, I suppose I'll spend later on therapy trying to repair the emotional damage sustained by the kids by not bringing him with us.

The weird thing is, I grew up with a crazy menagerie of animals. Besides a plethora of dogs and cats, there was the hawk (for realz!), the fox, the skunk, Sweetpea (for realzz!!), pigs, chickens, a cockatoo that would call for the dog and make him crazy, the gigantic, miniature, lop eared rabbit with a temper, the guinea hen, the rat... you get the idea. You would think I'd be all over having animals. Not so much.

Our house always smelled like poo because my parents never house trained anyone (us kids excepted). I remember getting up in the morning and having to clean it up off the carpet. Nasty. Thanks but no thanks, I have 3 kids and therefore plenty of poo in my life. I remember animals dying, having to be put down, being butchered (not all were PETS, some were food), running off and, oh yeah... pooping everywhere.

I guess I am old and uptight, but I DO NOT enjoy being slobbered on (again, 3 kids, got that covered), shedded on (2 of them are girls, check), being prodded in my privates (husband, check), so a dog, which the kids desperately want, is not in my plans. We discovered last year that Logan is allergic to cats, so (yay) no cat.. which is fine, who needs that kind of rejection from a beast you feed and care for (middle schooler, check).

We live in the burbs, so city code prohibits most of my aforementioned childhood pets. So... what's left? Furby's or Tamogatchi's you say? Tried those- wanted to hurl them into oncoming traffic. You know, I am starting to grow attached to those squirrels and birds anyway. They're so, natural, and, cute, and NOT IN MY HOUSE and they hide their poop well (the squirrels anyway- when's the last time you stepped in squirrel poo?) Oh, and I'm pretty sure they're environmentally friendly... yeah, that's the ticket. Yes, maybe we'll edit the "Beary Special" poster to proclaim that we are the proud stewards to many, free range, organic and environmentally friendly squirrels and birds.

YES, THAT"S IT! Maybe I'm not such a meanie after all... MAYBE, I'm an ecofriendly, non-owner, of several, displaced, otherwise homeless, not-oppressed-by-captivity, suburban refugees- displaced by loggers and... beavers...

Future husband of the year

So have you met my son, Trey? Let me introduce you, he is the one over there at the school book fair , holding his little sisters hand (without coercion)and reading her a story to cheer her up because some meanie (me) wouldn't buy her a $4 pointy finger on a stick instead of a book.

Future husband of the year? Highly likely. Brother of the year? Most certainly.

Yesterday at Target while perusing the Halloween costumes, Logan (6yo little sister) announces that she no longer wants to dress up as an Ipod shuffle (good- cuz, they don't sell those costumes at Target, and now I won't be up until 4am Oct 31st with hot glue gun scars up and down my arms...), but rather, a witch. I asked her whether she wanted to be a beautiful or a scary witch. She answered, "Beautiful", to which Trey immediately replied, "No, be a scary witch, you're always beautiful!" Wow. Another mother in the aisle, hearing this exchange, picked her jaw up off the floor, wiped away a tear and said, "did he really just say that?". He sure did, and you know what? It is par for the course. I kid you not.

Even when he was littler, whenever he hurt himself and I would say, "I'm so sorry", he would reply, "It's not your fault!" Or now, whenever he hears me yelp from stubbing my toe on a Nerf gun, or stepping barefoot on a lego, he immediately drops what he is doing to see if I am OK. If there's a problem, YO, he'll solve it. He is helpful, loving and dang cute. What can I say? I don't just love this kid because I'm his mom... I like him- a lot.

So, yes, this is also the same brother who hid a remote control whoopie cushion under Lindsey's (11yo older sister) drum set so that it would loudly erupt just as she sat down with her kinda cute, college age drum teacher and the same brother who routinely terrorizes said same sister and best friend with showers of Nerf darts, but on the whole, especially when it comes to Logan, it is a wonder to behold.

So, future, potential daughters-in-law, I will have my eye on you... I'm not letting this little dude go so easily, even though, he'll be a big dude by then and I'll have no say what-so-ever... still.

When's your baby due?

I have very big feet. Size 10 or 11 depending upon the shoe, and through the course of my life, they have ended up in my even bigger mouth on numerous occasions. As I have matured (quit laughing, those of you who know me) over the years, I have tried to be more careful and am quite good at avoiding the mother of all unintended insults... the "when is your baby due?" to a person who is NOT pregnant. Too bad for me- others have not.

I am what you might describe as "gently rounded" or, "full figured". I have come to grips with this reality over the years, and while I always aspire to be healthier and have more energy and would love to be in better shape, I don't obsess about it or actually give it a whole lot of though at all anymore for that matter. I am pretty happy in my skin and my husband still finds me attractive. I spent the bulk of my adolescent trying to change myself and killing myself to be thinner through a variety of methods that I do not recommend (I was SKINNY back then BTW, and just didn't realize it!).

So there I was, the other day, out to lunch with some women from church that I don't know very well and as we were leaving, one of them said, "So, are you pregnant or something?" Without skipping a beat, I replied, "nope, just fat!" She was so embarrassed, she forgot to apologize. A while back, someone else asked me the same thing when she congratulated me while gesturing toward my midsection. The time before that, (yes, it has happend 5 different time, but who's counting?) I guess I was less offended because I had JUST given birth a couple of days before, and I WAS still wearing maternity clothes and buying NURSING BRAS. The fact is though, my baby weight is now 6 years old. I'm holding onto it for sentimental reasons... yeah, that's it!

So, OK, I get it, it wouldn't kill me to take the stairs now and then... but really people, let's be more careful. I have learned how to avoid doing this to others and I shall now share these methods with you all. I can handle the assumption regarding my Rubenesque curves because I am so over it... but I know a lot of other women who would be shattered and sent straight into the arms of some ill-advised dieting scam as a result of such a thoughtless comment.

Method #1 (for the woman who has no children yet):
"So, do you think you might have kids some day?" If she's preggers, she will be so flattered that you couldn't tell, and it not, it's a great way to get to know whomever, better.

Method #2 (for those who already have kiddos):
"Little Frankie is so adorable. Do you ever think about having another." Again, if she is in the family way... flattered... if not, no harm, no foul.

So my friends, now you have the tools to be nosy without sending your possibly pregnant, probably just "fluffy" friends away in tears!

BTW, has anyone else ever had this happen? If so, how did you respond? (Besides crying all the way home and eating a salad for dinner?)

Uuum- OK?

Something that makes me crazy(er)

Allowing the noisy (and possibly nonexistent) few, to run the show.

I am not talking big time politics or anything that lofty at all. Just the day to day stuff. For example: one mother's claim at a PTO meeting last year, that "people" are upset, because the kindergartners get more $ per person for their classroom parties than the older kids, so we need to slash their budget. "People"?? Really? As I sit with my jaw resting on my shoes, the PTO folds to this menacing and overwhelming crowd of "people" represented by in fact ONE lady who seems to be the only one fielding these complaints. To the PTO's credit, they realized the scam and unfolded on this issue.

Yes, those are the scenarios that get me, the anonymous and impossible to quantify "people", or "parents" who complain about something, and therefore the world must stop what it is doing, validate the complaint, without checking as to it's legitimacy, or EVER naming a complainant, and automatically accommodate the demands.

Claiming that "People" and "Parents" are concerned, or complaining about something is such a brilliant and cowardly way to inflate the urgency and seriousness of an issue without having to address it head on. The reality is, it is an attempt to make it sound like a large group of people has spoken out about a concern, when the reality might be that ONE or TWO people may or may not have complained, and even then, that anonymous one or two, might be the very people who are reporting and acting on the complaints as if they came from the angry mob, and not them, because they don't have the guts to just say what is on their mind and they prefer to pretend that they are only doing what "people" are demanding... whether or not the demand holds any credibility strangely, rarely seems to matter.

That is all.

I've been unfaithful

I kept going back, like a woman keeps returning to an abusive lover. I think,"this time it will be different", "they can't all be bad", or "THIS one is in a swanky neighborhood, how bad can it be?". Where in the name of Mike do I mean? Well, it's a place who's name I shall keep on the down low to protect the innocent, but it rhymes with Great Clips.(stolen Bossy device there)

One of the major flaws in their system is that you do not get to pick the stylist, you get whoever is available when your name comes up. Years ago, I was picked by some old guy. I hesitated, but figured, he's probably got a lot of experience??? I optimistically sat down and described in detail what I wanted done. It was not long before I realized that this cut was going very, very wrong. Only then did I notice the small sign at his station that read, "Please speak up, I am hearing impaired." Crap. I left and went straight to another stylist to try to mitigate the damage. Changing stylists isn't an issue with these places, cuz each cut is basically a follicular one night stand.

6 years ago though, I found her. We were set up through a mutual friend, so I thought I'd take a stab. The place was pretty cheesy with black, white and red 80's hair model prints on the walls and dusty silk plants and the name was no better... Classy Lady. In my experience, most things that are self-described as "classy" are, um, not. But she, SHE was the Cambodian mother I always wished I had! Kindly, honest, a little pushy, but in a good way and YES- good at styling hair! Oh, did I mention cheap? And CHEAP!

So, for 6 years now, I have faithfully gone to her time and again and brought my children to their new Cambodian grandmother for reasonably priced cuts, free advice, and yes, all the lollipops my kids can eat. While we wait, my kids take turns sweeping the hair and painting each others nails in her manicure booth. I have confidently sent many friends her way, she is too great to not share!

Then, last spring... my eye began to wander and I asked a woman at church,"who cuts YOUR hair?" This woman I am speaking of always looks AWESOME. I have admired her hair for years but... I was in a committed relationship. It turns out, her daughter is a stylists AND coincidentally, her daughter had donated a haircut certificate to a fundraising auction at church and guess who won? Where "won", means stand up, blocking every one's view and waving my paddle furiously at the auctioneer. ME!

At first, it was just one cut. When I pulled in to Classy Lady after that for my daughter's appointment, I suddenly panicked, because Kim is going to notice that I got my hair cut and she will know that SHE didn't do it! I pulled up my collar as though guiltily covering up a hickey from my parents and went in, mumbling something about a free haircut from someone at church. But, I could see it in her eyes.. she knew there was someone else.

Well, the girl from church just lives down the street and cuts in her kitchen. So, next thing I know, I am taking my daughters there (see pic of 11yo new stylish do)because it is so convenient and also CHEAP aaand, as much as I love Kim, my new hair crush is young and more up to date in her techniques and knowledge of current styles. And so it goes...until one day, I turned over Kim's business card that I keep in my wallet because I couldn't look at that black and red embossed 80's hair model embossed at the top without cringing with guilt at having strayed.

But, really, she has tons of clients... she isn't going to miss me or notice I haven't come around... it's not like we were exclusive.. right? Uh, wrong. I checked my voicemail the other day and my Cambodian mother had left me a message in her broken English. "Margie, I no see you and the kids this summer... school starting, they need cut...I miss you." I literally teared up. She MISSES me. I feel genuinely guilty. I am a haircut whore, I follicle philanderer, a stylist slut. The truth is, I miss her too, but not enough to go back. What do I do?

Yesterday was the LAST DAY OF SUMMER vacation. I seriously blinked, and those long, sunny, lazy days at the pool, driving the kids back and forth to camp and genuine giddiness of not having to be anywhere at any particular time- were gone.

I wanted that last day to last forever. We went to the state fair for the whole day. We rode overpriced rides, ate really greasy food, touched a Llama, saw a cow getting milked, stepped in some poo, ran into some good friends there and had a great day. Before I knew it, it was already 8pm... dang it! So, we all piled onto the ferris wheel, the kind where you sit in a big, round gondola and watched the sparkling lights and thinning crowd as we went around too few times on a ride that seemed so short... not unlike our summer. On the way out, kettle corn and cotton candy to sustain us on the ride home.

Sooo, if my kids have circles under their eyes today and nod off in class- I suppose I am to blame. But here I am after dropping everbody off, feeling very old and missing my kids and looking at the crumpled, half eaten bags of kettle corn and cotton candy on the table, wanting to rush back to the schools to collect them because- look!... we weren't done yet!

Karma, baby

When I was in the 6th grade, our beloved Home-Ec teacher went on an extended maternity leave during which the school found a perfectly lovely substitute teacher to fill in. Little did Mrs. Tipton know, she was about to enter a lions den populated by gossipy, snarky, hormonal and to be honest, MEAN 11 and 12 year old lionesses with sarcastic attitides, eyes rolling, and back-handed compliment claws sharpened and ready to rip her to shreds. Poor lady, she never had a chance.

Act 1: A classroom full of noisy middle schoolers sitting on top of their desks, throwing balls of pie crust across the room, cussing and generally ignoring the frazzled teacher who is desperately trying to begin class.

Scene 1: (A hand shoots up) "Uh, Mrs. Tipton?", "Yes, Kristen" she unwittingly answers... "when is your baby due?"(a quartet of muffled giggles erupt) The decidedly NOT pregnant Mrs. Tipton goes home that night, eats a salad for dinner and cries herself to sleep.

Scene 2: Next Day (Another hand shoots up) "Uh, Mrs. Tipton?", "Yes, Lisa" she cautiously replies, "I looove your eyeliner, maybe you can show us how to put ours on like that!" (a choir of convulsive snickering ensues). Mrs. Tipton goes home that night, washes off what's left of her eyeliner after sobbing all the way home and cries herself to sleep after eating another salad for dinner.

Scene 3: Maybe 2 weeks later: (Yet another hand shoots up) "Oh, Mrs. Tipton", "Yes, Jennifer" she grudgingly answers. "How many grand kids do you have?".(full on symphony of riotous laughter fills the room) Mrs. Tipton, who is maybe 35, goes home that night, eats a salad for dinner, washes her face, slathers on anti-age cream, cries herself to sleep and then calls in sick forever the next morning.

THE END

The moral to the story: I am now coaching a cheerleading squad consisting of 17, 6th and 7th grade girls. Can you say Cosmic payback boys and girls?

P.S. My cheerleaders do not even come close to this, THANK GOODNESS! In fact they are pretty great, but Lindsey gearing up to start middle school next week has got me reminiscing...good times? OH CRAP, maybe I should home school her!

Growing up too fast

I was reading one of my favorite blogs yesterday(iambossy.com)she is great BTW, be sure to check her out and she has a section labeled "favorite things". Her most recent favorite thing had to do with the stage her daughter is in right now, perched precariously between little girl and teen.

Lindsey is so in this exact same place right now, hovering between those two worlds. She is getting ready to start middle school in a few weeks and watching her slowly emerge from and retreat back into the cocoon of childhood in the the wide world of adolescence is something. She carries a purse now, but it is mostly filled with Pokemon cards and candy- gotta love that. As I watched her teetering off and tripping in her new, grown-up wedge heeled sandals to chase her brother up a tree after church, it seemed to be such a clear illustration of the threshold she is on. The other day, she played Polly Pockets in her room for half the day. Maybe she too, is aware of the changes coming all too soon and was stealing a few moments while she can, to hold on to the little girl she is about to leave behind.

I hope more than anything that she never let's go of those little girl qualities I admire so much in her like, optimism, trust, confidence, honesty. The transition can be hard as I recall. I know it was a painful one for me as I vividly remember being thrust into a world where my peers and myself were all of a sudden self-conscious for the first time, trying to fit in, more concerned about appearing "cool" than anything else and suddenly and unexpectedly feeling pressured to shed any traces of our little girl selves.

I think she will thrive. I know she will. She has always been sure of her self and unafraid of being different and setting her own course. As she teeters off to adolescence in her grown up shoes, I pray with all my might that she always has candy in her purse to help sweeten the inevitable sour notes that will accompany her from time to time on her journey. I will of course, be ready and willing to scoop her up and kiss her boo-boos if she will let me. Oh man do I hope she lets me.

Promises

So, it finally happened. My son, the one who still loves for me to lie down in bed with him, the one who gives me unsolicited hugs and kisses and still snuggles with me on the couch while we watch "Deadliest Catch"... refused to kiss OR hug me in front of the other kids when we were dropping him off for camp. This wasn't just day camp either, this was a 10 day overnighter 5 hours away from home and I needed me some Treybie luvins and I got the side-hug, brush-off. I guess I wasn't realistically surprised, I knew this day would probably come eventually, but it was heartbreaking all the same.

When he was 3, he promised me he would remain 3. Again at 4, the same promise. Yet, here he is, 9 1/2. Little liar. That's OK. He promised the other night that when he grows up, he will get married and move in right next door to us and come visit me from "12-4 every day." His wife is just going to LOVE me.

A handful

Things I hate:

People who do not know how to "keep to the right". Please stop making me do that awkward dance with you and try to be polite as you weave side to side, faking me out each way as we try to pass each other getting on/off an elevator, traveling a crowded hallway, mall etc.

People who throw gum on the ground/floor: There should be a special place in hell for people who do this, I decided a couple of summers ago as I walked barefoot at a community fountain onto a melted glob of someone else's saliva soaked, melted hubba bubba. It is bad enough when it ends up on the bottom a shoe and then you make that sickly, clicking sound with every step you take until you get a chance to scrape it off, only by that time, the gum has attracted a giant scab of dirt, pine needles and sundry other unsavory cling-ons. This was worse. Throw it away! If there is not garbage can, put it in a piece of paper and into your pocket- or swallow it for crying out loud! Choke on it for all I care, but don't, under any circumstances, spit it onto the ground!

Napkin withholding: You know who you are, Subway and KFC... seriously- two of the messiest places in the universe to eat and they keep the napkins behind the counter and dispense them grudgingly 1 or 2 at a time! Is the secret to their fiscal success... they money they save on napkins? That's OK Subway, I'll get my revenge by sneaking FREE refills on my soda (see next thing that I hate).

No free soda refills: Come on already! The only two places left in the world that don't just let you drink your weight in complimentary soda refills are; 1) Subway, 2) The Sea Hag in Lincoln City Oregon (stay away- star FAR away unless you like hair in your Gorton's, being passed off as fresh, fish & chips). Trust me Subway, you do not want to have your good name encrusted in barnacles by being the Sea Hag's partner in soda withholding stinginess...until you change your policy, I will be forced to continue my life of crime, one bogarted Diet Coke refill at a time.

When people say to me, regarding my kids, "Wow, it looks like you have your hands full...". Nothing nice is ever truly meant by this. It is in the same obnoxious comment genre as the ever popular, "you look tired..."

Please do not attempt to commiserate with me about my OWN kids! This is like saying, "I am sorry your kids are brats, how hard it must be for you." The reason I know this is true, is because nobody ever says it when your kids are sitting nicely at a restaurant, or, say, helping an old lady across the street. No, it is snooty salespeople, nervously glancing over at my kids, who are probably poking each other, and flinching every time they touch something, or old ladies standing in line behind us at McDonald's while my starving, cranky children behave like... starving cranky children.

When this happens, I usually turn to my husband and say something like, "we are NEVER babysitting these kids again!" When what I should really say is, "really, you look like you need your teeth kicked in by my gum covered shoe, because your oh so astute observation about the fact that my kids are out numbering me right now, is not helpful, kind or, let's be honest, well intentioned.. oh and by the way, you look tired." Then I would push past her (on the right) to run and refill my Diet Coke and then discreetly stuff a 2 inch stack of napkins into my purse just in case of future emergencies, like, say, lunch at KFC?

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's Supermom? (Nope, just me)

I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam. (Yams are loaded with vitamin C you know).

I remember the days leading up to the birth of my first child, Lindsey. I was nesting with a vengeance. I had not only cleaned the house top to bottom, I had sewn coordinating bedding and window treatments for Lindsey's room, ironed and organized by color the cloth napkins, lovingly stained a rocking chair for her room (OK- Ricky might have done that one)and purchased every parenting/baby advice manual book written in the English language.

I can be a bit of an overachiever and usually excel in those things that interest me. As far as I was concerned, I was getting ready to begin AP Parenting, and had every intention of acing it WITH extra credit. I had graduated from NW Nannies Institute and been a professional child care provider for several years... this was going to be my crowning achievement.

Fast forward to the 8 months later when she stuck her hand in the baseboard heater which I hadn't thought to baby proof. Then to the time I spaced the Valentine party at our Mommy n Me preschool, or the time I forgot to send a pillow with her to the overnight at Girl Scout Camp. Suffice it to say, she is 11 1/2 now, and between her and Trey and Logan, I have plenty of red circles and X's written all over my AP Parenting exam. We eat way too many meals at places that serve french fries as the main side dish, watch too much TV and don't always pick up our dirty socks... but I am far from failing.

I don't believe that I have lowered my standards, but rather reorganized my priorities. I am great at some things (My kids have rocking' birthday parties)and not so great at others (do potato chips count as a vegetable?). Our house could be cleaner and our car could be newer, BUT, we pray every night, we eat dinner together every night, we laugh like crazy together and my kids are amazing people that do well in school and excel in things I never had the chance to do when I was their age. They know without a doubt that I have their back and still snuggle with me...(nirvana).

While I joke around about the state of our house or yard or other elements of our three ring circus, it is not out of shame and embarrassment. It is out of the confidence that I have come to feel in myself as a great parent regardless of what the Jones are doing. I no longer feel the need to have extra credit in every area.

When a mom at school asked me how I do it all (work on a gillion committees and take care of the kids etc) I quickly told her, "Easy, I don't do it all... I have a pile of dirty dishes and another of dirty laundry!" I volunteer a lot at school, church and with organizations my kids are involved in... so to the casual observer, it could look like I have it way more together than I do and although it's tempting to let people believe that, I have seen first hand how our era of mommies can feel the need to compete and I hate it and don't want to be a catalyst for that. I'd rather be honest. This Super mom's cape is plenty full of holes and in need of a good washing.

Looking back on my childhood, I recall a home that was perfectly picked up at all times. I also remember that my mother never played with or read to me or took me to the playground. I remember feeling like an imposition. My goal is that when my kids are grown they will look back on their childhoods with fondness, remembering that their Tooth Fairy, Santa and Easter Bunny kicked a**,tickle fights, magical birthdays, hugs, and that their mother prized them above all things.

So yes, I yam what I yam... I am an imperfect lady who doesn't always get the dishes done and sometimes (often) sticks her foot in her mouth, but loves her kids to the moon and back and is definitely getting an "A" if for nothing else than for effort.

The Flamingo Incident

As you drive down our street, you will notice nice, tidy, little house after house, with well-groomed lawns and clean cars parked in the driveway. And then you approach our house. Yes, ours is that house... the one in almost every neighborhood with the garbage cans out in PLAIN VIEW from the street, the lawn that consists of approximately 3% actual grass, 95% dandelions and 2% toys and the 15 yo minivan in the driveway badly in need of washing and body work. Sorry neighbors! We really are nice people, I promise!

So far, the neighbors have tolerated us. When asked if we were willing to advertise for a fundraiser for a local youth cheerleading club by having 25 or so orange flamingos planted in our front yard- I figured, why not? Maybe they'll distract from the duct tape on my side view mirror, camouflage the weeds in the grass, or better yet, come to life in the middle of the night and eat them! No such luck. The truth is, my colorful little brood, was an eyesore. An adorable, community minded eyesore- but hey- I have more important things to worry about, like how to remove floam from couch cushions and hoping the sun won't melt the adhesive on the duct tape causing my side view mirror to fly off while I am driving!

Horror of horrors, I woke up this morning to find my little flock gone! Gone! Each and every one of their blessed wire legs, and paint chipped beaks had disappeared! This was no lone prankster, this was an organized flamingo-napping. There were 25 of them! No one, baggy pants, sideways baseball cap wearing juvenile could have pulled this off alone... it was a conspiracy!

My friends are convinced that is was a pack of skateboard riding hooligans, but I am not so sure. I think it very well may have been a conspiracy hatched by a pack of BMW driving, lawn edging, dockers- wearing just to wash the car, suburban status quo vigilantes at the latest HOA meeting. I can hear them now as they plotted against me... old guy with a sweater tied around his shoulders says," Isn't it bad enough that they leave their trash cans on the curb well past evening on trash day." "Yes," says the woman who keeps her spices in alphabetical order, "I also hear they only clean their house if they know someone is coming over!" "We have been more than tolerant", says sweater guy,"these flamingos are more than we should be asked to bear, think of our property values!"

Battle won, self conscious neighbors... but be warned, I have a lawn gnome laying in wait in my garage and I am not afraid to use him! Or, in case my theory is off base... come back here with my flamingos you pesky teenagers!!! (yes, I am shaking a cane right now).

Sad, but true

Had the loveliest dinner out on the deck this evening. The weather has been so great, we have eaten out there almost every night this week. OK- the truth is, the dining room table is more cluttered that the recipe for a church potluck salad, with game boy cartridges, sunscreen, handouts from VBS, markers, hair pretties, and probably even crushed up ramen noodles, just like the real thing, and I am so wiped out from having recently gone back to work, that rather than clean it off so we can eat in the dining room, we've been dining AL fresco instead.

OK- so it is true that I recently returned to work, but the other truth is that the condition of my dining room table and countless other areas of my house is like this regardless of my schedule, unless of course I realize someone is coming over, in which case this ordinarily laid back mama suddenly begins freaking out, barking orders at every able bodied family member to pick up their socks, Polly pockets, chess pieces, fruit roll-up wrappers etc off of the living room floor so I can vacuum. Then, I have the audacity to react with surprised annoyance when the kids ask me who is coming over, as if that is the only time we clean (it pretty much is).

Survivor, Hollister

OK- so my eldest daughter is going into middle school this fall and while she will still try to leave the house wearing a turtleneck and shorts, or muddy tennis shoes with a dress, I can see the future clothes horse/fashionista in her slowly beginning to emerge. She wouldn't be caught dead in the precious, stripey, Hanna Andersson dresses I used to buy her (fortunately, my 6YO loves the hand-me-downs!) and refused to even set foot in Gymboree when we were looking for a swimsuit- they carry her size... "we can at least look!" Not a chance!

SO, I have recently begun venturing into Hollister. I have been informed by various teens and pre-teens who are cooler than me, that it is one of the only acceptable places to shop. The truth is, I still carry the scars of being the only girl in the 6th grade who did not have an alligator, polo shirt or a pair of Lawman jeans. Not because our family couldn't afford it, but because my mother would only shop at the Emporium. For those of you not familiar, it is a NW department store, now out of business, I believe, that was essentially a backward JC Penney that carried a dizzying array of embellished sweatshirts with collars sewn into them, dickies, Levi "Bendover" slacks (poly stretch- Mom's fave) and "comfortable" shoes. Basically, it was an old lady store with a Juniors department. Aaanyway, I ended up with a "blouse" that, while it did have a polo shirt collar, it also had a stretchy, elastic waistband.

Fast forward 25 years and I am now willing to do whatever I must to spare my daughter the unnecessary anguish of going to middle school dressed like a dork. I mean, isn't being that age in this day and time hard enough without your mother dressing you funny? SO- back to Hollister. I am no marketing or retail guru, but, wouldn't it help the customers to make their selections if the FRICKIN LIGHTS WERE ON IN THIS PLACE!!! Also, assuming you can make your way past the giant, fake palm trees that are blocking virtually every aisle to ask one of the "too cool to actually make eye contact with you" sales people a question, they would never be able to hear you because the MUSIC IS TURNED UP SO FRICKIN LOUD YOU CAN"T HEAR YOURSELF wondering out loud if it is the bad lighting, or are they really asking $30 for a paper thin tank top! This is ridiculous, I mutter to myself as I make my way to the clearance section, which, to their credit, has some pretty great deals. From what I can tell, in all of my hipness, the clearance items look exactly like the recently released items at the front of the store, only at about half price- although I suspect the discerning middle schooler can spot last month's tank top from all the way across the cafeteria.

Finally, I must make my purchases, not so much because I am done looking, but because a 36 yo woman can only take so much shopping in the pitch black, listening to blaring music and trying to breathe the "Hollister" fragrance that they mercilessly pump into the air. I secretly believe that cologne is formulated to keep us uncool old people out... sort of a bug spray for parents. As I swipe my debit card, the "too cool to make eye contact" sales person casually asks if I would like to sample their cologne... evil little...

Finally- purchases in hand, I am ready to escape Hollister, and as I am blinded by the mall lights after emerging from the "mood lighting" in the store, the alarm sounds. I am told that they accidentlally left a security tag on one of the shirts, but I secretly suspect that this "alarm" is really more of an "uncool" detector that is designed to go off anytime someone over the age of 18, or wearing anything purchased at Target walks through the door.

The things I do for my kids!

The miming accident

So, the other day, we are at Jack in the Box eating our free tacos (promo where you bring in your gas receipt and get two, withered, soggy, mostly lettuce filled tacos) and Trey wants to have an annoying song sing-off. What else is new. He has a giant head start and was clearly going to win as the the kid three booths away plugged his ears and the cashier, clearly fatigued to the point of exhaustion by making free tacos all day, glared at us. I recently began teaching Gymboree play classes, so I thought I might have a chance to take him this time... Trey takes a pause from singing the "doomie song" from "Gir" (don't ask) to inform me that there is no way I will win because he has the advantage of having "lost his dignity" already. "Oh really", I hesitantly query. "And just how did you lose your dignity?" (I was pretty sure mine had just taken a sabbatical, since I was sitting at Jack in the Box eating FREE TACOS!!!). "Oh", he immediately chirps, "I lost it in a miming accident." As I choked on my free taco, I realize that, yes, now that I think of it, miming accidents must surely be one of the leading causes of dignity loss, especially in France... You just never think it will happen to someone you love...

Post #2, only 5 months in the making

Hello Boys and Girls. Can you say, "procrastinate"?

OK- so my ambitions to become one of you cool blogging people haven't exactly taken off. I have a life you know! Unfortunately, it doesn't make very interesting reading!

What's new-ish:

1. Science Fair... Trey made a hover craft for the science fair and is now the rock star of the 3rd grade-
2. Talent Show... Soon to be rock star Lindsey will be singing, "We Will Rock You" by Queen... we've been working on a sufficiently righteous outfit so she can rock on with her bad self in style!
3. Cheerleading... I got sucked into being the cheer coordinator for Beaverton Youth Cheer. Loving it! Trying not to be too obvious and refrain from trying to relive the glory days and embarrasing Lindsey beyond repair- but I did dig out all my old competition tapes from the 80's so I could admire the toe-touch I used to be able to do and the freakishly large bangs that I secretly still kinda think look cool!

Can't think of anything else right now. Logan is upstairs being suspiciously quiet- must go investigate...