Mr. Dabada?

Kickiest little tune I've heard in a while.

Score another one for the marketers. I don't need an intel core 2 duo, but thanks to another hip commercial jingle, I'll remember the name.

A letter to my two older children

Dear Boy and Girl:

I am writing you this letter for a number of reasons. Firstly, I want you to know how proud I feel when I watch you play soccer, even though you’re not the star of the team, the fastest runner, the most focused goalie or even much of an athlete at all. I’m happy just to watch you pick clover and wave to me as the ball rolls right by you.

Secondly, thank you for being so patient as we await the contractor’s estimate. I realize you’re both absolutely fed up with sharing a bedroom with one another and I don’t blame either of you. I’m not particularly good at sharing a bedroom either, in fact I often fantasize about sending Dad to sleep in your baby brother’s room just so I can hog the TV and fall asleep to family guy instead of that dork crap on the science channel. It’d be nice to not occasionally gag from the smell of his mentholated breath-right nose strip too. And I can only imagine how peaceful and relaxing it would feel to stretch my legs and not lose of chunk of my calf to his razor-sharp toenails. Anyway, this is about you and your patience, not me and my intolerance. When we get this remodeling gig underway, I promise you’ll both have bedrooms of your dreams.

And finally, I’d like to talk about what’s been happening in the kitchen lately. Last night, Mama had class. Do you know why I’m taking classes? So that someday I can become an award winning, prosperous and well renowned journalist. I’ll make so much money that Dad won’t have to work anymore and he can stay home all day building his remote controlled cars. This is what he tells me. He makes me laugh very much. When I leave for night class, I realize I’m handing over your evening feeding needs to your Dad. Although I could send myself into a tailspin of unease over the combination of foodstuffs he’d place in front of you, I try to push it out of my mind. I caught sight of what you were presented with last night, and I thought this would be a good time to ease my guilt talk about how much fun ravioli can be!

Did you know that if you place an empty chef boyardee can to your ear, you can almost hear the sounds of the tiny dwarves’ pickaxes as they dig in salt mines? Isn’t that fun? And despite what you’ve learned in health class, 950 mg of sodium isn’t so bad. Remember that time you snuck that jumbo bag of potato chips into your bedroom and ate the entire thing? Remember how your lips immediately burned and swelled like giant red water balloons? And remember how we just laughed and laughed? No, you didn’t laugh? Anyway, sodium can be fun, trust me.

The night before last, I asked you what you wanted for supper.

Oh, how you love your hot dogs ‘n beans! You both eat them with such gusto, it’s as if I served you m&m’s dipped in hot fudge sauce. And to be honest, you’ll never hear me complain when preparing that meal. You don’t know this, but it takes me all of 30 seconds to slice open a can of B&M beans and five minutes to sliver and fry hot dogs. I know I told you supper would be ready in 20 minutes, but someday you’ll understand the sheer joy cooking a meal in less than six minutes while still having 14 minutes of tranquility before the hungry masses storm the dining room.

And this meal?

The only explanation I can give is that your baby brother has developed a penchant for shrieking like a tortured orangutan at exactly 5:00 pm. His acute screams and thrashing about render me incapable of using both hands. This pretty much eliminates hot meals. I’m sorry I dropped that grape in your milk, but the exact moment I set the grapes on your plate was the exact moment I was fighting to keep my left eyeball in its socket and not in your baby brother’s hand.

Can I make up for these laughable excuses for meals by allowing you this dessert for the next week?
Love, Mama

Too many happy meal neo-pets lying around?

Looking for a new home for those three precious moments praying dolls you received at your baby shower? As you trip over seven teddy bears and nine disney princesses on your way to your daughter’s bedroom, do you often ask yourself why she has that many? Do you have beanie babies oozing out of your ears? If you answered yes to any of these questions, I have the perfect solution for you.

The following is an email from Edmay Mayers, a member of the U. S. Army Corps of Engineers who is currently stationed in Iraq.

Please, please, please – I know where you can give all the stuffed animals and toys away – I am presently stationed (deployed) in Iraq. The children here love the stuffed toys – I can hardly keep up with the cost of them – I am continuously ordering more and more from Oriental Trading Company and candy for the young ones too. If there is any way at all please have any and all sent to me at the address listed below and I will ensure that the children in Iraq receive all that is sent.

Address

Please spread the word.

My 100th blog entry

100 Things That Make Me Happy

1. hazelnut coffee with heavy cream
2. any beatle’s song
3. who wants to be a millionaire marathons on gsn
4. a french pedicure
5. a big bag of buttered movie popcorn with a large coke
6. the relief that follows a good cry
7. shadow the hedgehog
8. smelling the baby right after he’s had a bath
9. a really funny bumper sticker
10. drunken handstands
11. a slice of garden vegetable jack cheese on a sociable cracker
12. my hair, the day after I wash it
13. motherhood
14. a sexy, supportive bra
15. a sale at the gap
16. a vase of lilacs in every room
17. a full tank of gas
18. any book written by charles de lint
19. gay marriage
20. naps
21. a pb&j sandwich chased by a cold glass of milk
22. gossiping on the phone with my sister
23. fried cheese
24. tickling my husband as he orders at the drive-thru window
25. school pictures
26. still pretending santa claus exists
27. june sunsets at 9:00 pm
28. waking up to soledad o’brien
29. the lord of the rings trilogy
30. swinging really high
31. decorating for halloween
32. vacuuming the inside of my van
33. how it’s made on the discovery channel
34. writing letters to the editor
35. towel warmers
36. the mavora lakes region of new zealand
37. drinking wine on an airplane
38. footprints on the beach
39. a clean kitchen
40. being an auntie
41. personal space
42. bill clinton
43. dancing with my baby to cat stevens
44. laughing until mascara runs down my face
45. watching my husband and his brother just be brothers
46. aimless road trips
47. baklava
48. having money in the savings account
49. letters from faraway friends
50. my father’s consistent nature
51. flip-flops
52. the day my brother came home from iraq alive
53. dodgeball
54. digging in the dirt
55. high speed internet
56. new england in september
57. parent/teacher conferences
58. not caring that lonelygirl15 is fake
59. teaching my son algebra
60. having a friendship with my daughter’s father
61. sirius satellite
62. shepherd’s pie
63. not knowing what I’m getting for christmas
64. long, thought provoking phone conversations with my mother
65. listening to my grandmother talk to me in french
66. alphie and bidou jokes
67. rubbing my daughter’s back at bedtime
68. shoe shopping
69. birthdays
70. maya angelou
71. baby wipes
72. not missing the bus
73. teasing my kids
74. greenish bananas
75. band geeks
76. poland spring water
77. snowplows at 4:00 am
78. glendowie, auckland
79. having step-parents and step-siblings
80. lip liner
81. night class
82. eric clapton
83. having friendly neighbors
84. garage sales
85. trampolines
86. thinking back to my childhood
87. the wiggles
88. the barber shop
89. picking my kids up from school and hugging them
90. good health insurance
91. being a reassuring friend
92. boy shorts
93. hot air balloons
94. leaves crunching beneath my feet
95. solitaire
96. camping with my kids
97. eating carrots right out of the garden
98. liberalism
99. holding him in the dark and knowing I’ll grow old in his arms
100. anti-aging lotion

Lazy? Table for one?

Since giving birth to the Papoose, I’ve had moments of sheer energy and total motivation where I was certainly on a direct course to a toned gluteus maximus and fabulous upper arms. Those moments came upon me quickly and consumed my life. I was motivated by walking briskly for a few months. The results from walking didn’t appear in the form of bulging calves and toned abs, as I had envisioned. Instead it was more of an overall healthy feeling and a chance to breathe the sweet fresh air of the emerging spring weather. My enthusiasm was prematurely idled by the big black bear and her fuzzy wittle cubs. I made several attempts to walk again, despite my fear of becoming bear nibbles, but turns out I’m a big fat chicken. The bear made several more appearances during the summer, but I enjoyed her natural beauty from my living room window.

A month later, I regained my motivation with the help of pilates, a purple rubber stretchy band and a cute pair of yoga pants. Perhaps I was a smidge over confident when I made my debut as a pilates kitten with Ana Cabàn’s intermediate level work-out. I contorted my body into awkward poses and I curled up like a hot salty pretzel and rolled back and forth while grabbing my ankles. I wheezed like a buffalo trying to poop out a watermelon. My entire body trembled and quaked as I struggled to use the stomach muscles that had been sliced in two a year prior. Sometimes I’d catch my Husband’s eyes wandering from his laptop toward me and my peculiar calisthenics. I knew he was secretly trying to decide if I looked sexy or just plain gross. I stuck with it for about a month. The results came quickly, and I started getting muscle-y bumps in formerly jello-y places, but damn if that wasn’t a lot of work. And to make matters more challenging, I usually had a toddling baby grabbing my purple rubber stretchy band or sitting on my head. Quite simply, pilates required more daily effort than I was willing to put forth.

As a result of this extended breastfeeding thing, I continue to burn a nice chunk of calories without really straining myself. Unless, of course, you consider reaching to the top shelf for the package of pringles straining. I had a sweaty and puffy pregnancy. Of all the disappointing things that happened during the course of those nine months, I suppose I regret my sordid love affair with freihofer’s super softee donuts the most. It wasn’t until I gained the recommended 25-30 pounds by week 15 that I realized I might have gotten myself into a predicament of plump proportions. I expanded quicker than that blue haze of smoke that rose above my head at the Sublime concert in ’94. Before long, all of me started looking like a super softee donut. For better or for worse, I plowed through the gestation of my beautiful boy human while hauling a 60 pound surplus of an ass.

Eight pounds to go. I need to revive that elusive motivation with some kind of exercise that involves eating gooey pastries, watching old Cary Grant movies and gossiping on the phone. No she did not say that! Girl, hold on, I got a call coming in.

Or I could just settle for wrangling a toddler and traipsing up and down stairs with loaded laundry baskets? Heck, I can rationalize anything.

I'm not a brainless twit,

I just play one on TV. It was the Sunday morning routine as usual, mopping, dusting, vacuuming and nudging away at the infinite heap of laundry. Just smartening up the house in preparation for another week of anarchy and chaos. Besides we’ve had non-stop rain, and we all know what that means: mud, dirt and leaves stuck to the bottoms of shoes and deposited on the tile flooring. Bracing myself for half the lawn to be on my floor, I scrubbed it to a suspicious shine. I know I LOVE it when I clean things in order for them to get dirty. It’s what I live for. I finally understand why my mother could often be found dazedly walking in circles muttering what sounded like she-devil incantations. I’m with ya now Mom.

But I sincerely enjoy what my vacuum does for me. By the time I’ve made a pass through just one room, I’m giddy. Giddy I tell you! I get to be the tyrannical god of the feeble dust world with my giant whirring sucking machine, and nothing will get in my way! Not even a lego. "I’m sorry honey; I have no idea what happened to Polly Pocket’s ¼ inch pink strappy sandals. Or your entire set of marbles." If only they could see the horror that is their mother as she fiendishly wrings her hands and cackles in the depths of her bedroom closet. Like Gollum purring while fondling a Dyson, you can find me there after I’ve just vacuumed.

My husband wanted to buy this, and I fervently disagreed with his claim that it would somehow make my life easier. "No you fool; getting minuscule shards of revenge by sucking up their toys makes my life very easy. And no, I haven’t seen your ipod ear piece anywhere."

Here’s where the brainless twit bit comes into play. My beloved vacuum wasn’t sucking today as well as I normally expected it to. Small insignificant objects that were normally sent flying up the tube of revenge were holding fast to the carpet. Hmmm..three passes over a dead fly and it’s still there? Must investigate. What I did next can only be rationalized in two ways: either a) I’m masochistic or b) I’m masochistic. What else could explain the act of sticking one’s foot under the spinning brushes of the carpet attachment to test the sucking intensity? Son of a *****! Just as the skin of the first three toes on my left foot started ripping itself free with a burning pain I can only compare to ruptured hemorrhoids, I yanked my bright red foot away and chucked the vacuum handle across the room.

I hobbled into the living room, defeated and disgraced. I tripped over a pile of Barbie accessories on my way out. I think they laughed and pointed at me.

There is no moral to this shameful tale of revenge and agony, only three throbbing toes and a dirty carpet.

You know you're raising a liberal when

she thumbs through your Northern Sun magazine and laughs out loud as she reads a “Bush: Texas’ Homegrown Dope” t-shirt and thinks dope means stupid dumb-dumb head and not puff-puff-pass. And when she insists you slap a “Jon Stewart For President ‘08” bumper sticker on your van, your heart swells to bursting.

So I noticed

the carnage of poisoned houseflies on the back porch and decided it was time to sweep them up. I also remembered my husband’s full ashtray sitting on the back porch too, resembling a slightly mutated chia-pet in dire need of dumping. I needed a bag to deposit the above mentioned nasties in, and thought I’d kill two birds with one stone by emptying the bathroom garbage and using that bag. When I walked into the bathroom I noticed toothpaste smudges on the mirror and damp towels slouching over the side of the tub. I wiped the bathroom counters to a sparkly shine and tossed the towels into the dirty laundry hamper, only to spot the overly stuffed hamper begging to be emptied. I lugged the hamper to the basement and flung the contents on the floor beside the washer. And because I like to be an efficient water consumer, I prefer to wash a few big loads instead of many smaller ones. Quel chance! The laundry I added to the pile completed a full load of whites! I love it when that happens. After filling the washer, I brought the hamper back upstairs and retrieved the bathroom garbage bag. I slipped on my fleece jacket and reached into the kitchen closet to grab the broom, which was leaning against the swiffer wet jet. Strangely enough, as my brain registered the sight of the wet jet, my toe registered the sensation of something gummy beneath it. Raspberry jam. My eyes darted around, frantically searching for other sticky offenders. In front of the sink, a glob of ketchup. Next to the dishwasher, milk. Behind the garbage, toast crumbs. Well, why not slide some swiffery goodness over the tile real quick-like and give it time to dry while I’m sweeping up the back porch? Only makes sense. With a clean wet floor behind me and a bag of bathroom garbage in my hand, I stepped outside.

Those of you who know me, know that this is how I operate. I’m incapable of just completing one cleaning mission; I am compelled to multitask until I’ve forgotten my original objective. It’s a sickness, really.

I realize this may qualify as the lamest blog entry in history, but my laundry is washing, my bathroom is clean, my floors are washed, and oh yeah, the flies are swept.

An afternoon in pictures.

September, refreshing is thy name! With a warm ray of sunshine on my face and a fresh breeze on my shoulders, you persuade the sweatshirt on and off, on and off. Mazes of soft gluey worms still blanket the driveway, although the morning rain ended hours ago. Small critters peek their cautious eyes out from under blades of grass only to be snatched up by nimble fingers.

The brilliant colors of autumn draw a distinct border between the land and horizon.

The late blooming sunflowers flaunt their exquisite hues and boast their ability to blossom heartily in such brisk temperatures. They taunt desperate bumblebees with eleventh-hour pollen and mask the rotting smells of harvest with a passing perfume.














To swing! To swing among the pines without a care of homework, brushing teeth, bedtimes or a bus schedule; that is childhood.














My three tender children dip their soft feet in puddles and leave prints, serving as reminders that life doesn’t pause for me to selfishly keep them as they are. They grow and change as do the seasons. Time and time again.

With their dirty noses pressed against the screen

of the kitchen door, they pathetically beg for supper. “Please Mama, we’re starving.” I shoo them from the porch and tell them just another ten minutes. They linger eagerly on the front steps, talking in whispers about the good smells wafting from the kitchen, and I silently wonder if my children see me in the same light that I saw my own mother many years ago. I remember running to the supper table and noshing down a comforting meal of traditional family favorites like mashed potatoes, pan-fried sirloin steaks and corn on the cob. I remember the hunger pangs growling in my belly as I played in the late afternoon sun on my bike or in my treehouse, and I just knew Mom was cooking something delicious in the kitchen. She was always standing over the old Home Clarion, stoking the fire by removing the hotplates and adding small pieces of hardwood. Yes, my mother cooked and baked all our food on a wood burning stove. When I actually think of what a triumph it was to maintain a steady temperature on such an antiquated kitchen appliance, I am dumbfounded. When I manage to not burn food on my modern flat-top range, I’m all WOOT! Do my children see me as I saw her? As only the constant provider of warm meals, clean sheets and bedtime stories? Do they know of the dreams and aspirations I contemplate as I stir the hamburger helper? I develop short stories, decipher my algebra homework and dream of the career that awaits me in ten years. I wonder what my life would have brought me had I waited a few more years to have babies. I wonder if my writing would be regularly read in a parenting magazine or if I would have landed an impressive career as an editor. What did my mother think about? Was the 200 acre farm and her middling marriage her dream come true? Did she wish she had back-packed throughout Europe before settling down with babies? Was she at peace with herself and her choice to stay home with us? Did she think about her girlfriends with successful careers of their own and worry that life had passed her by? I never asked her. I only pressed my dirty nose against the screen of the kitchen door and begged for mashed potatoes.

Mother of pearl!

Fire on the poop deck! (okay, maybe I stole that one from Spongebob Squarepants.) Today is international Talk Like a Pirate Day, so fittingly, I will talk like one. Ahoy ye scurvy scallywags, ye best haul yer filthy bung holes up t’ the deck and start rowing, before I make ye scoundrels walk t’ plank! Arrr! Don’t be goin’ all land lubber on me now ye foul buncha bilge rats! Arrr! Erg! Aye! Avast, my little lass, why dontcha follow me below deck so I can show ya me hornpipe! Beauty mate!

None of that made much sense to me either.

In which I ponder play-dates.

I don’t often attend social situations typically labeled “play-dates” because my head falls short of exploding after hearing super mom Jenny force her precious Timmy to recite the alphabet in Spanish within earshot of everybody else nine times. Or when the mommies huddle together with their non-fat double lattes and discuss the reasons why attachment parenting and extended breast-feeding have produced the next virtuoso violinist or advanced algebra prodigy. Watching them parade themselves and their children around out of, what I can only conclude to be, boredom and a lack of self-confidence, makes me want to snatch up my dirty-faced toddler and my styrofoam cup of primo dunkin’ donuts coffee and bolt home. Yes your child is beautiful and smart, and yes you are a good parent. Get over it already, let your child play in the mud puddle and sit on the park benches gabbing about the size of your ass like normal mothers.

Glad I got that off my chest.

Recently, I thought I had found a diamond in the rough, an odd duck like me, another mother who doesn’t mind that her child would rather get dirty on the play equipment than stand at her heels regurgitating the Pythagorean Theorem. We’ve hung out a few times and let our kids run ahead on the nature trail as we hung back, talking about our tattoos and our favorite music. Southern rock? Me too! ::squeal:: A black panther on your ankle? How cool, I know somebody who could draw that for you. The play “dates” were always fun and, ironically, her son and my daughter were boyfriend/girlfriend in kindergarten. Awwww…. Our kids get a long, we jive and I’m digging this whole play-date thing after all.

I reckon I tripped over a bright red flag this afternoon as we were walking out of the woods back into the park. We were yakking on about little boys and how they learn best when in motion when suddenly, she picked up a stick, whipped me square on the ass and winked at me. I yelped at first because, shit, it stung. I don’t remember the last time I got whipped. Wait, yes I do, but that wasn’t my fault because I didn’t realize the punch was spiked and I thought it was SKIPPING contest. I digress. I wanted to ask her why the hell she just assaulted my butt with such obvious lust, but she kept on talking about the kids without skipping a beat. I bit my lip the entire walk, directed my children to the van and made a bee-line for my husband. “Honey, I think my new best mommy friend wants to make me her bitch.” I absentmindedly told him. He smirked.

Why can’t I find any normal mothers to play with?

I understand he was raised by women.

And I completely realize this was a key factor in his character development, really I do. But does that somehow render him unable to deposit his dirty socks into the hamper? Because he seems quite capable of standing in the middle of the living room while letting them drop irreverently to the floor. Did his mother and two older sisters impede the growth of the specific gene responsible for the proper handling of soiled clothing? And cooking? Did having twin sisters five years his senior prevent him from learning the basic kitchen skill set? Like boiling water or peeling carrots or pan-frying a grilled cheese sandwich or loading dirty dishes into the empty DISHWASHER instead of just arbitrarily dropping them into the sink. I wonder.

I give you exhibit A:

Notice the position of the socks and t-shirt as they were, once again, carelessly tossed onto the living room floor. Nothing more than crumpled, twisted and mangled reminders of the endless and cyclical chore of laundry. Nothing more than an inadvertent insult hurled by an unassuming Husband.

Although I wholly subscribe to the notion that boys who are raised by devoted mothers and have good relationships with their sisters grow up to be extraordinary husbands, I do think a measure of laundry hamper autonomy is in order here.

Darling, if you’re reading this, it would behoove you to start picking up after yourself lest I start scenting your clothes with lavender sachets until your co-workers start questioning your sexuality.

What's the word I'm looking for?

Encouraging? Inspiring? Refreshing?

Potty mouth!

Inevitably, my children hear swear words at school. They hear naughty little phrases and learn off-color hand games. The Boy taught me a handshake about a farmer, toilet paper and wiping your butt on your hand. I have to admit, I snickered. I’d like nothing more than to shield them from the more foul aspects of our language, but that’s completely unrealistic. So, in an effort to give them a head’s up, I’m the one who introduced them to the more popular cuss words. “Well, honey, it rhymes with duck except it starts with F.” I told my Girl a while back. “Fuck?” She pondered on that one without hesitation. Eeep! I felt my insides tremble as I re-thought my initial intentions. “I know. Silly isn’t it? If you want to say them to yourself, fine, but don’t say them at school because you’ll get in heaps of trouble.” Although my inner puritan was shrieking No! No! No! Don’t you dare say those horrible words my precious innocent! Dear God, what have I done?! In the days shortly following, they tested the limits of bad words. They talked about them, pronounced them loudly just to reassure me I had taught them correctly and put them to practice in a few appropriate situations. I didn’t react; instead I chose selective hearing over a furrowed brow and hoped the phase would pass. It did.

And then there’s sex. All kinds of sex that needs addressing. Because if I didn’t do it, they were sure to get the skewed playground trash talk from their friends, and their wholesome assessment on conception and physical affection might be tainted. So there was that talk. I’m thankful they’re young enough to not be overly embarrassed, yet old enough to grasp enough basic sexual concepts. We’ve been able to fill in the necessary gaps during stolen moments. Hopefully it feels more unplanned than rigid, because there’s nothing as awkward as when your mother sits you down and makes you listen to her big sex talk. Don’t do it mom! Susie already taught me about humping!

So everyday I send them off to a big place filled with other kids who know things they don’t. Or maybe know things differently. And I silently pray as I pace back and forth that they’ll come home the same unsullied little cherubs I kissed good-bye to. Or something like that.

I can’t help but worry. I’m an agonizingly overprotective parent who refuses to remove the blindfold that screens my eyes from the glaring fact that they are indeed growing up. You’ll grow up when I say you can mister! What? A bra? Drop you off at the mall? A Mighty Kids Meal? Let’s all just calm down and watch some Blue’s Clues. Would you like a graham cracker and a juice box?

Remembering Ricknauth Jaggernauth

I’ve never met him. I don’t know anything more about him than what I’ve been able to find online. I don’t know if Ricknauth and I would have been friends, if we would have shared a laugh, shared a beer, shared an elevator or found a common ground on which to base a friendship. None of that matters to me however. On September 11th, 2001, Ricknauth Jaggernauth’s life was tragically taken by the horrific attacks of heinous terrorism as he worked to renovate offices on the 104th floor of the first World Trade Center tower.

I learned that he made his home in Brooklyn, NY, and made his livelihood as a construction worker in New York, NY. He was a husband, a father to five children and a grandfather to three children. He was remembered as a happy, loving, giving man.

If Ricknauth Jaggernauth’s body is ever recovered, his family plans to hold a traditional Hindu funeral for him, because that’s what he did for his own mother.

He has kind eyes.

Since receiving his name as my tribute, I’ve found his name and questions about his life popping in and out of my head on a daily basis. Curious how I can feel so personally involved with somebody I’ve never met and most likely wouldn’t have known about had I not signed up for the 2996 tribute.

I’m sincerely sorry for his death. I’m sure his family’s hearts are broken and re-broken every day when they tune in to the constant white noise of terrorism, needless wars, human suffering and tragedy.

May you rest in peace Mr. Jaggernauth. I remember you today and everyday following.

Staggering Irony

The death toll of the American troops fighting in Iraq has surpassed the death toll of the September 11th victims.

There isn't much more I can say.

Stealing a moment.

Oh man, this whole blogging thing is really not fitting into my already cramped lifestyle. I’ve got this fancy notebook that I keep lying around so I can capture what I like to call “random creative thoughts” as they strike me. It works well when I’ve got a pen handy and I happen to be standing near the notebook, but like yesterday, I was sitting in the back of the tractor cart with the tree three monkeys as my husband drove us around potato fields in an attempt at Family Fun Time, and I started forming this hilarious post in my head. This was some seriously funny shit, but by the time we reached home, I piled everybody out, washed and put away the stolen free potatoes, I had forgotten it. This happens all the time. It drives me bonkers. I’ll crack myself up with a peculiar anecdote or incident that I’m sure my 25 loyal readers would just love to hear about, but before I’ve got time to jot down the brain vomit, somebody’s pooped their pants and I forget about it. I’m trying to get better at this writing thing, seeing how this is what I want to be when I grow up. I really need to start devoting actual time and energy to it.

But the good news is I finished a book today. Yeah, I actually had time to read an entire big girl book, and it didn’t have any pictures in it. The damned thing’s been on loan to me from my sister for, oh, a year and she’s probably wondering when the hell she’s getting her book back. Sis, I finished The Bitch In The House, so after I engross myself in evaluating my own marriage and level of personal happiness, I’ll bring it back!

My first-born daughter, the one who taught me to be completely unselfish, turns eight today. Eight years old on September 8. That’s your Birthday of a Lifetime you know. I recall turning seven on the 7th. We were poor. Dirt poor. But somewhere between hand-me-down corduroys and free hot lunches, my mother managed to make that birthday very special. I hunted all over the house for my presents because she cleverly hid them while leaving clues to help me along. The cake was homemade and grand, and the second-hand board game of chutes and ladders was the coolest thing I’d ever been given. Funny how we remember childhood events through adult eyes. I wonder how my own daughter will remember today. Did she feel special? Did she get everything she wanted? Were the cupcakes just how she liked them? There will be roughly 25 energized children in my house tomorrow to help her celebrate, and despite my leaning towards being in a drunken stupor throughout the entire thing, I think it will be fun. I mean c’mon, how much fun is it to grab a broom stick and whack a hanging box stuffed with candy? Is eight too old for pin the tail on the donkey? Maybe I should get creative and design my own pin a brain on George W. Bush game. I’ll send those darling children home with a political rant that’ll spin their bible thumping parents’ heads clean off. No, honey, we can’t go back to your friend’s house, the devil worshipping liberal lives there, remember? It’s no wonder we haven’t any friends around here.

This is all the prattling on I could fit in the last ten minutes of Papoose’s nap. I gotta find that notebook.