Back-ENDED Compliments

I've never really been one for fashion. (I know you're totally shocked, right? What with the men's jammie pants and argyle sock obsession... hey I'm not just a fashion queen, I'm a fashion GODDESS.../snicker)

When I do actually manage to get dressed it's usually in jeans and some kind of snarky tee shirt, most of which are rife with oddball things...ninjas...zombies...carnivorous bunnies...whatever. It's all good. Throw on a pair of converse sneakers in whatever color, and I'm done. You might say my look is rather casual. Some might say that I missed the fashion bus ages ago. It's probably safer to say that it ran me over and backed up a few times, but I digress...

I accepted my total lack of fashion sense years ago, but every now and then I do manage to get something right. Sometimes the earth turns, the planets align, the heavens smile down upon me, and I look pretty good, yo! Saturday night was just such an occasion. Dave and I were going to the adult-only session of Conference. I hadn't planned on what to wear- just grabbed something and threw it on. I ended up in a black knit fitted long-sleeved top, charcoal gray knee-length pencil skirt, fishnet stockings and 3 1/2 inch black come-hither heels. It was a complete and total accident, but with my curls cooperating and red lipstick in the mix, it was one happy accident. The look on Dave's jaw as it lay on the floor was enough to tell me I did good. I left the house with a little spring in my step and maybe a little more swing than necessary in my hips.

We left a little early so my Sugar Daddy could buy me the new Iphone 5. Walking into the Verizon store was fun. I even found a dollar in the parking lot. I felt like I'd gotten a tip when I bent down to pick it up. The store was jam packed with men; customers and employees both--and all eyes were instantly on little ole me. Usually that kind of thing freaks me out, but that night it felt pretty awesome...at first. Pregnancy changes you inside and out. I have 3 kids. It was nice to feel like I could still turn a head, but there does come a point when you're ready to be relegated back into the obscurity that somewhat chunky girls tend to live in. I'm generally pretty comfy there, and as good (for me) as I looked that night- a super model I am not, and this was getting downright weird.

It took a while as it always does, and I became more and more uncomfortable. After I finally got my sweet little phone all set up and paid for, we headed for the door, still the center of attention. I was halfway through it when a woman behind me finally decided to let me in on the big secret. The zipper in my new my skirt had broken, separated down the middle, and the whole universe could see everything. E-VER-Y-THING. And she proclaimed it loud enough for at at least 2/3rds of the country to hear. (Okay, probably not, but it sure felt that way.) I sorta stood there as realization hit. I could feel the burn as the blush traveled up my body from my sassy shoes to my stocking-ed knees.. up what remained of my skirt, shirt, past my cherry red lips down to the very ringlets of my hair. Then I turned my very exposed tail and virtually fled to Dave's car.

Needless to say we didn't make it to Conference. Getting in the house was fun too, as our neighbors never seem to go inside ever. I don't know if it was when I struggled to get out of his car in my heels or if it was when I bent to pick up that dollar, or if it was at some point in the store. What I do know is that pride goeth before the fall.

Touche, Thumb. Or should I say... tushie?

I gots me some bling, yo!

After much nagging whining cajoling sweet-talking, I very nervously posted my first entry in over a year. (Can we say rusty?) I wasn't sure how it would be received considering how incredibly long it's been since I've shared my thoughts in 1's and 0's. My dear faithful readers have been amazing, though. (Can't believe you came back. Suckers :)

I'd already had two wonderful days of encouragement, kind words, super sweet comments, and then low and behold I got the coolest thing ever. It's A Major Award, y'all! And while it isn't the groovy leg lamp that every blogger dreams of having on her page, it is very pretty and very sweet, and I'm very honored that a blogger I much admire nominated me for it. Go check her out. You won't be disappointed.

Of course, it does come with some stipulations. Here are da rulz...
1. Attach said award to your blog. It took me a few minutes and some choice words, but I finally figured out how to do that. (It's over there---------> Ta Daaaa!)
2. Tell folks 10 things about yourself that they may not know. Generally, I avoid meme-like stuff like the plague, but I will make an exception for this, because I have found a way to warp it to my liking (cuz that's the way I roll, yo.)So here ya go.
10 Embarassing things you probably didn't know about me (and will probably want to forget.)

If I could have any kind of pet in the world, it would be a prairie dog.

I love weird and warped things...zombies, carnivorous bunnies, clicky-top pens...

I have a method for eating everything. For example: the proper way to eat a Cadbury egg involves great concentration and precision with the back of a spoon.

When I was a kid, I had a massive crush on Eric Estrada. I would only watch C.H.I.P.S. when no one else was around for fear that it would show on my face how desperately I loved him.

I once got run over by a motorcycle.

When I was 13, my mom bought me a beautiful silver bathing suit...that turned completely transparent when wet. This fact was discovered by my brother while swimming at an over-crowded Olympic-sized Public pool.

I have a sick addiction to office supplies. Nothing makes me happier than walking through every single aisle of Staples.

In college, I had to sing an Italian aria in a performance class in front of a roomful of other vocal students whose sole purpose was to critique me. I forgot the words to the third verse, and in a panic just started making them up. I threw out every Italian-sounding word I could come up with...pizza, amore, palozza.. My professor was not exactly amused, but no one else was the wiser...until he made me tell them all what I'd done.

Labyrinth is my all-time favorite movie. I can say every line of it. (Forget the kid, I would've picked David Bowie.)

My mouth repeatedly gets me in tons of trouble. It spews idiocy at the drop of a hat. For example, I recently told a roomful of my husband's family that a Northern accent sounds like nails on glass to me. Every single one of them lives in Michigan.

And finally,
I once had to sing "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair" with 4 other girls while wearing a towel. On the last night of performance, the director made a last minute change to our entrance. I didn't get the notice and started singing two measures early. I was so startled I nearly washed myself right out my towel and then spent the rest of the song desperately trying to keep it from giving an encore.

See why I don't do memes?

The last rule is
3. Nominate 6 other bloggers for the award.
Here are (in no particular order) my nominations for the Kreativ Blogger Award .

1. I don't know this chika, Emily, from Not so Idle Hands, but I wish I did. She's my crafting hero. So cool. So creative.

2. Don't know this one either, but Hyperbole and a Half is one of the most hysterical things I've ever read. I believe she is a great favorite of The Cosmic Thumb (we're.../sniff...we're...THUMB SISTERS), and her illustrations are pure genius.

3. This next nomination is my little sis, Lee Bay, author of The Bays, with Dirtyface Kids. I would link her, but her blog is private. You'll just have to take my word for it that you are missing out. Sorry. What I love about her is her willingness to absolutely speak her mind about everything. There's very little censoring. She is who she is and she will tell you all about it in a witty way that just comes naturally to her. She also has her blog made into a book every year, so her family will have a history of it all; the good, the bad, and the ugly too. How cool is that?

4. My dear husband, Dave, ought to get not one, but two of these (although I'm pretty sure he won't put it up.) He has two awesome blogs. The first is his technical blog. Who'd have thought he could make nerdinese so understandable and even.. /gulp.. interesting! Then there's his food blog. If you've ever had a dish he's made, then you know why I had to include it.

5. Next is Better Libations, co-written by my bro-in-law Dan, and my might-as-well-be-in-law, Jeremy. They have been on a quest for several years now to find and review healthier drinks and to persuade companies that people both want and need better choices. It's very cool and worth a look.

6. My last nomination goes to my big sis, Marianna. I'm so proud of her. She also writes two blogs, but this particular one is so very cool and helpful that it needs a nomination. She knows amazing things about herbs, natural medicine, and preparedness, and she shares her knowledge with the world. You simply must check it out.

Thanks again, dear readers, for your kindness. I have no doubt that more misfortune will find me this year. I resolve to be better about sharing it with you.

Until then...

Parmesan cheese smells like vomit

I've always wanted a clean house. No, NEEDED a clean house. (It's an OCD thing, yo. But hey, it could be worse.) I decided ages ago that when I had my own home it would always be clean and clutter-free. It would be light and bright and tastefully but minimally decorated to ensure proper rest space for the eyes. I would teach my kids to make their beds and to pick up after themselves. They would put away little shoes and hang little coats on cute little hooks upon entering our charming abode. The kitchen would never be caught with a dirty dish in the sink. Bedtime would find everyone cheerfully pitching in, tackling a rotating chore list. Everything has a place, and everything in it's place would absolutely be the case in our happy household. Every morning we'd all start a clean fresh day in a clean fresh house.

(If you're done laughing now I'd like to continue my rant. Thanks.)

You see, there are things they don't tell you about being a mom. When you make that choice (which is amazing and great and really a superb way to live the rest of your life) you are also choosing a life full of yuck and some of the most creative messes you could never have conceived of on your own.

How surprised were you after having kids? You were, weren't you? I was too, but really we all knew better. Its right in front of us everyday, and we totally pass judgment. (Yes you do!) You see things...unpleasant things...things you tell yourself you'd never do cuz that's just gross. Go to the park or a McDonalds. Take a good look around. I guarantee you'll see at least one mom spit wiping a kid's face while another shoves a dropped pacifier in her own mouth before giving it back to the baby. Moms share their cups and silverware, let nasty gooey fingers hand feed them previously chewed fruit and french fries. You'll see a mom shove a kid's diapered butt to her nose and take a good whiff. More than one will look directly down in there and take inventory. Yuck, right!

I attest that every mom is guilty. We say we won't do it, but we ALL DO. Why? Well can you blame us? We are messed up, yo! What we go through for sake of our young'uns-it can't help but mess with your MIND. (Yeah, I see you over there, twitching in the corner.) Mom's get drooled on, chewed on, pooped and peed on. We get bled on and coughed on, snotted and sneezed on. A day I don't get puked on I count as a very good day indeed! It's got to get to you after a while. (You'll know you're there when you reach out to pick that boogie off a kid's nose. Mark my words.)

So "How can I survive", you ask? "How do I cope"? "How can I possibly hope to stave off those nice men in their pretty white coats for just one more day" (sure you want too:)? Well you've come to right place. It's a little thing I like to call a making a reality adjustment.

Ok, let me try that again..ahem... Making a Reality Adjustment. Yes, looks way more impressive that way.

Let me explain. Since becoming a mother I've been introduced to levels of disaster I'd previously thought impossible, even UNREAL, because the messes I have to tackle on a pretty daily basis are so unbelievable that reality must have shifted. Therefore my idea of what it means to be clean must also shift. Right? Right.

Let me introduce you to my new definition of clean.

1. If a whole box of Cheerios does not dot a few hundred square feet of open floor, your house is probably pretty clean.

2. If you can close your dishwasher without having to remove 10 lbs of flour or sugar (or both from off it, your house is probably pretty clean.

3. If you did not find a spaghetti noodle sculpture made out of your 3 month supply of pasta, your house is probably pretty clean.

4. If when you come down the stairs you do not slip in a dozen raw broken eggs, your house is probably pretty clean.

5. If your kitchen has never resembled a murder scene (details coming soon to a blog near you), your house is probably pretty clean.

6. If water has never come pouring into your kitchen from the upstairs...

7. If you have more parmesan in your lasagna than your vacuum...

8. If you're walls have not suddenly attained the same dark brown color of a 2 year old's diaper, then let me assure you, one and all, YOUR HOUSE IS PRETTY FREAKIN CLEAN.

So the next time someone shows up unexpectedly at the door while you're sorting laundry on the couch, or you trip over a stuffed animal or step barefooted on a handful of microscopic legos--when crayon art is more prevalent on your walls than the 15 thousand family portraits, stop. Take a deep breath, and remember to make that reality adjustment. This too shall pass. You're doing just fine.

And sticky kisses always taste the sweetest.

The Invisible Girl

Believe it or not....

I was a shy child. Painfully shy, actually. I often cried when someone would ask me my name. I couldn't stand to even be looked at. For my kindergarten graduation ceremony, we were paired up to learn a square dance we then had to perform for our parents. I never missed a beat, but I danced with my partner one-armed. The other one covered my face for the entire number.

I avoided cameras like the plague (still do) and refused to smile if I lost the battle to escape this horrid fate. All my earliest pictures are of me frowning, scowling, or pouting. I spent a lot of time hiding behind my mom's legs hoping that I wouldn't be noticed. I wanted to disappear. I wanted nothing more than to become the invisible girl.

I spoke so seldom throughout school that even my closest friends couldn't recognize my voice without seeing me use it. I had been a late talker, of course, saying nearly nothing until I was about three. My mom used to sing a little song to me called "Little Red Caboose". It was my absolute favorite song, and I would ask her to sing it over and over and over again. She tried repeatedly to get me to sing it myself, but I stubbornly refused. I was lovingly obliged again and again until this one day. My mom went to investigate a strange small sound coming from the bedroom. It was a tiny voice she didn't recognize, and it was singing...

"Little red caboose chug chug chug
Little red caboose
Here comes the train train train train.
Smoke stack on its back back back back
Coming down the track track track track
Little red caboose chug chug chug chug. WOO WOO!

I was outed, yet in spite of much cajoling and encouragement, my mother didn't hear me sing again until I was 14 years old. Not that it didn't happen. It did, but I was the invisible girl. No one listens for an invisible girl. I was okay with this for years. Most of my life, actually, and in all aspects of my life too. Until I suddenly wasn't.

It was bound to happen. I mean, look at what I've dedicated my life to! Over the years, I've performed as a singer, a pianist, a dancer, an actor. If this isn't in your face work, well I don't what is. Being ignored when your life is artistry-- what an epic fail. I even spill my heart out on the big bad scary interwebs from time to time. If a blogger blogs in the woods will anyone read it?

These most recent few years I've explored more of the mentoring side of my abilities-- teaching, directing, nurturing others attempting to coax out the courage and gifts of talented people. Watching people "get it" and become successful artists...I think that was when I started realizing I actually have things to offer, that I know what I'm talking about--I am actually very good at what I do, dang it, and I am enormously tired of being ignored.

Recently, I've tried to step out. I've tried to get a handle on things and stand up for myself. Problem is, I've been that way for way too long. I've trained the world to stand on my face. No one really sees me now, and it's all my fault. I've been too complacent, too accommodating, too self-abasing. I can yell and scream and dance and wave my arms, but you can't see invisible. You won't hear what you don't listen for. You miss what's right in front of you.

Guess what--there's a LOT in front of you. After 35 long years, y'all, I am finally done. Let this be a lesson to you. And a warning. Let your light so shine, peoples. Oh, and you might wanna get out your sunglasses.

One of us is about to blind.

SOS (Save Our Show Sanity)

It's a new theatre season, and once again I am in over my head. Surprised? Of course not. To be fair, I really tried this time. I really really tried. At first I said "no way, never again!" Then I said "maybe I'll think it over if you're real nice!" Then I said "well under certain conditions I might could." Then I just said "fine. Whatever." I know I know, I'm a pushover. Try not to spill the beans.

So here I am at the start of this new season and I have suddenly found myself with the hardest musical score I have ever in my life seen, a 6 foot pianist curled up in the fetal position, and 15-20 different instrumental parts to get covered for a show we haven't even cast yet, but will open late-September. Can you say freaked out? Mama needs a Valium...or a boot to the head...whatever I'm not picky.

How DO I manage to get myself into these things, and how in the WORLD am I going to pull it off? At least I don't have to write the music this time. Nope. It's all there for me, written out for every musician known to man.

Which brings me to my point. If you are an instrumentalist...I NEED YOU! PULLLLLEEEEEASE!!!!!! You a drummer? Grab those sticks! Guitar? Bass guitar? Bring the groove. Reed player of any sort? Brass? Flutey-toot? Lend your lips! People, there's even a banjo and tuba solo. I have parts for an astounding number of instruments, but I can get away with just a few if I can just get SOMEBODY to help me in my hour of need.

Should you even know of anyone who might lend their talent to a jazzy ragtime combo for a nonprofit community production of A Year With Frog and Toad please pass along my contact info or send me theirs. I'd be glad to fill in the blanks (ie. rehearsal schedule, show times, etc.)

Seriously, though. This is a great show with some amazing music. Don't let an opportunity slip by. I complain, but I love it. It brings me joy, and I've witnessed the theatre bug bite many an unsuspecting person and they are happier for it. Come help a sista out, yo. I guarantee it'll be worth your while to do it. You might even learn a thing or two. Who knows? I've barely started this production, and I've learned already. Here's my new mantra. It's been running through my brain for about a week now.

I'm an idiot, and I never learn...
I'm an idiot, and I never learn...
I'm an idiot, and I never learn...

Let's hope it sinks in.

I'm an idiot, and I never learn...
I'm an idiot, and I never learn...
I'm an idiot, and I never learn...
I'm an idiot, and I never learn...

Cosmic Thumb 2010

I knew I was in for it today. Sometimes you just know, ya know?

Not sure what clued me in. Maybe it was the 3 measly hours of sleep I managed to get last night. Maybe it was toe that I slammed into the door-jamb, jamming the joint and shattering the nail when I stumbled blearily out of bed. Maybe it was the mangled pizza I found in the carpet behind the futon, on the stairs, and in virtually every corner of every room of my house as I made my way downstairs to cook a breakfast no one would eat. Maybe it was the broken Beatles Rock Band disc. (I hearted you, Beatles Rock Band. I hearted you sooo much.../sob.) I don't know, but this might have been a hint of things to come.

Or it could have been the broken air conditioning in sweltering weather making the downstairs a sauna while the upstairs system tried to compensate by constantly blowing despite the arctic conditions and ensuring an astronomical electric bill next month. Who'd have thunk you could have two such completely different climates in one house?

Perhaps it was the lawn mower that pulled my shoulders to pieces, rubbed blisters on top of more blisters on my thumbs, and strained my back while nearly giving me heatstroke trying to maneuver the beast round and round a yard pitted with mole hills and treacherous tunnels. (Husband-dear went out of town without cutting it. Leaving it for his return would insure the grass-police would pay us a visit and ticket us to death.) Come to think of it, it really could have been the smart-alec kid following me around commenting on each and every missed blade of grass.

It just had to be the poo-filled garden tub. Definitely the poo-filled garden tub a certain bitty boy decided to use as a rather large toilet last night during his bath. (I still can't believe that I forgot it had happened even amidst the chaos of getting 3 wired children settled down for bedtime by myself. How in the world? I mean poo...in my TUB.) It was just a lovely mess to try and clean up with my throbbing hands and quivering muscles.

The Cosmic Thumb had a real hey day today. At least until my lovely niece sent the sweetest text allowing me to find my missing phone and cheering me in the process. And my challenge of a boy tried so hard to let me have a small nap but couldn't resist climbing in next to me to cuddle. And my so very helpful daughter played nicely with my bitty boy allowing me 30 whole minutes to play a stupid facebook game. And my precious bitty boy who wrapped his arms around my neck and cooed "Mom" in my ear.

Yep, sometimes you just know.

April Fool's Day Ended My Son

Who came up with April Fool's Day anyhow? How many stupid and annoying pranks do people try (and usually fail) to pull on you on April 1st? Every year someone inevitably tries to get me. Never ever has it worked before. How can you expect to fool someone on the day officially set apart for fooling someone? Like I'm gonna believe anything you say to me until the 2nd. Really.

I'd just gotten off the phone with the latest failed prank attempt (Sorry Mama. I'll believe you've won the lottery when you move Daddy into his own house in the back yard) April Fool's was fresh on my mind, the last thing on my lips when my son came in from the bus with the gravest most worried expression I've seen on him for a while. He immediately gained my attention when he said to me, "Mom, /big sigh I have a note from my teacher she said I have to give it you as soon as I got home." He very slowly pulled out this official document from the school, took a step back and started studying his shoes.

I knew something was up. I knew I wasn't going to like it. I was right. It was the discipline form they send out when children do something horrible at school. The kids in this class have a colored card system. They stay on green if nothing goes awry. They pull them generally one at a time for behavior problems. Pulling a green is basically a small reprimand. Yellow means they lose significant privileges. Pulling a red is quite serious, and generally the principal and sometimes even higher authorities must get involved. The letters are mostly generic. The kid's name is filled in, and the disobedient kid must fill in the blank in their own writing what they did wrong. The form went something like this. "Today, your child, Samuel Purdon pulled a red card for...slapping Sophie in the face (written by Sam).

My heart began to pound. My hands began to sweat. My stomach lurched in my gut. My boy took another step back. I just knew this day would come when he finally showed the world his defiant side, the one nobody believes that angelic face capable of. But never did I expect something so horrible. As I looked him in the eye, I saw very real terror cross his face when he got a look at mine. That child looked at me and saw his death on my face, and believe you me. It was there. He ripped that letter out of my hand as fast as he could shrieking April Fool's April Fool's over and over at me as he ripped the top page off with shaking little hands to show an additional page- a silly little picture they'd taken of him in Groucho glasses with April Fool's written all over it.

It took me hours to shake it. That gut-wrenching feeling and utter bewilderment. I felt so dumb. I was so totally snowed. In my 35 years of life, no one has ever gotten me. Until now. My 6-year boy.

I hate April Fool's Day.

If I die of embarrassment, I'm taking a kid with me!

(Written back in April, but finally edited today. Sorry for the wait.)

So I'm back.

The show is over. It was great.

Life moves on. My life has moved on.

Don't think that the last few months weren't rife with unfortunate events for me (Oh they so were, but I won't go into those) but this show for a .../gasp ...children's cast (I know, right?) had no real score. That means no vocal parts, no accompaniment, no bass, no drums... no playoffs, no Entr'actes...no really everything that makes a musical..well...MUSICAL) It also means that all I've done until the wee hours of the morning noon and night is write music, beat I mean teach children, practice the piano, attend rehearsals, and direct a band. This is on top of 2 kid birthdays, recitals, competitions, and life in general. When you're fighting bronchitis and pneumonia on top of all this, other things start to fall through the cracks.

Like blogging.

And housework.

And showering.

And housework.

I'm generally a pretty neat person. I hate for things to be in disarray. I'm actually a somewhat recovered obsessive-compulsive about it. I work really hard to keep things as nice as I can regardless of the 3 rug rats whose goal in life is to undo everything I've done as I do it. Needless to say, after this show I've struggled more than usual to catch back up.

Sigh... Here we go. It's late afternoon, the kids are home from school and I've already had about enough of everything. Still tired. Still sick. Still completely unmotivated to even run a comb through my hair, much less put on a bra. The show is barely over, and the home recovery has been.. .well... let's just say it hasn't. I mean, I haven't done a THING to this place.

On this particular day I found myself sprawled in a chair in the office we have set up in the sitting room in my master-suite bedroom, staring at a facebook game and half-heartedly watching out the window at the myriad neighborhood children that have chosen my driveway (for reasons completely unknown to me) as THE place-to-be. As I lounge around in a most becoming and ladylike fashion (not) and totally stuffing my face on mountains of unhealthy junk food, I hear yet again the front door being thrown open, little feet stomping across the hardwood, tearing through the house, stomping up the stairs, through the TV room, down the hall, across my bedroom, and into the office, mouths going 90 miles a minute at an ear-piercing decibel. I turned in great irritation, crumbs on my face, Cheetos-stained fingers pointing and blasting my children with a stern "no running in the house you know better why are you in my room anyway were you raised in a barn how many times have I told you" kinda lecture going full force.

That's when I noticed the extra kid. The one that didn't belong to me. The nice one (of course) from the house in the corner. She was staring at me like I had a second head. A second head that hasn't been shampooed lately. I took stock of myself and kinda understood the odd look she was sporting, though I was more embarrassed that she'd heard my parental outburst. That was until she noticed the room. Then I was utterly mortified as my eyes were suddenly opened and I finally saw how bad I had let things get. Now, my house gets messy from time to time. Everyone's does. No one is perfect, but this?

There was laundry everywhere. Adam had tipped over my trashcan, destroyed a tissue box and torn up each one into bits. There were wrappers and crumbs from my total slug-fest all over me and all over my desk. There was mail. A couple of glasses, cans, a spoon. Oh the mess. I can't even tell you... /sniff... I'm just too fragile. And here I was... eye-twitching, Cheeto munching, someone-hose-her-down total bag-lady hollering like a banshee sprawled right in the middle of it.

I literally ran them out the door red-cheeked and wishing for the floor to swallow me whole (I should say red-faced. For once, I actually had some clothes on. I guess that's a plus.) I took stock of how many things I had to step over in the hallway as we went. Toys and books and shoes, oh my! Another laundry basket had been overturned in front of the stairs, not to mention the makeshift gate to keep the baby in. (It's an overturned dresser. We were desperate.) I won't tell you what Adam had thrown down the stairs. I just can't bear for anyone else to know. I thought I would absolutely die of shame when I saw the things that were out in the open that this poor child witnessed and then had to step around.

Then I remembered the child of mine that had led her in, past the mess, over the hurtles, deep into the bowels of this house that was my shame.

May she rest in peace.

Just one more fix

Those of you who don't blog or tweet or (insert your favorite public method of lettin-it-all-hang-out-on-the-scary-interwebs<---here) on a regular basis don't realize the tremendous power you hold over those of us who do. You, dear reader, are the one in control of this little relationship. Really. No kidding. You are IT, baby! The Real Deal. You DA MAN, muchacho. The Big Cheese. The Head Honcho. The Big Kahuna even."What's this awesoma powa" you ask, and "how can I harness it in my quest to finally TAKE OVER THE WORLD! AH HAHAHA HA!! All shall bow to my..."

ahem.

As I was saying, we bloggers and tweeps, myspacers, facebookers and texters are all total comment junkies. We say it's for you but let's get real. It ain't. Not really. Nope. We want to know what you think-good or bad. It's the high, man. The buzz, Cuz. We like the twitterpation, natio--I'll stop now. Sorry. We'll write and write and edit and edit until we get it juuuuust right- hit the publish button, and then we wait........

and then go look at it.....

and wonder.....

and wait some more.....

and then look again....

and then we start to stress about it.....

and obsess over it......

and get TICKED at it....

and start to delete it....

and swear it off for EVER this time until....

Finally one of you lurkers gets your nerve up to comment on it. We then breathe a big sigh of relief as all is finally right with our world and go on our merry way. Until the next time.

Here's the point, yo. My last post was not my greatest I'll admit. I debated posting it at all, not knowing whether or not any of you would really get the joke or think it was funny if you did. I thought I had my answer when no one said anything except one quite talented blogger I often read who wanted to tell me how adorable my children are. (They are). Not another peep. Then I got this comment.

Anonymous said...
"I just voted for your blog as best kept secret for the Bloggies this year. All of your other fans should go vote for you too. I love your blog! :-) http://2010.bloggies.com/"

Can I just say wow. And homana homana. And wow.

Since this the motherload of all comments I've ever received was posted on my site, people have flocked to it in droves. So many of you have taken a moment to send me a little note saying you agree with Anonymous and have also gone and voted for me. I can't tell you how honored I am and how much it means to me that y'all like what I write. My goal is always to bring a smile to your faces. Thanks so much for the perma-grin you've etched into mine.

I promise to let you know if I win.

Just today...

This darling child successfully drove every person at the dentist's office absolutely mad with his glass breaking, eardrum bursting, fingernails-on-chalkboard grating hoot.


Just today...

This darling child lost a very expensive game system he's had for three days. Three. Whole. Days.


Just today...

This darling child glued press-on nails, gems, and glitter all over herself, not to mention her bedroom.


Just today...

Three darling children harassed me to the point that hoards of zombies totally overran me and ate my brains.


And that is the reason I spent all day in town like this without ever realizing it.

Shhhhh! That is too the reason.

For a good time click...

I've heard yammering for a new post, but of course there hasn't been much to laugh about in our home for a while. (Dave's doing much better now, thanks everyone.) I am not feeling particularly funny myself, but because I love y'all soooo much I did a little research. I came across a site that is so hysterical that I literally have tears streaming out of my eyes and my sides are killing me. You've got to check out my new favorite blogger (notice the new link love under People Cooler Than Me).

She's a funny lady, so be sure you actually read it. Don't just look at the pictures. Also, notice that she includes links to her favorite charities at the bottom of each post for those feeling generous. How cool is that? Funny and philanthropic.

Enjoy!

Most Embarassing Post. Ever.

This post proves that I am in serious need of mental help and or heavy prescription drugs. When they come and take me away, you will all know why. Enjoy.

On the second Tuesday of every other month this ludicrously annoying fellow my kids have dubbed "the bug man" comes to collect yet another $75 thus reminding me of my complete gullibility and total suckerness. Each time this blessed day rolls around I watch as Jamie inspects every inch of every room of my home, yard and garage included, for any sign of whatever pest he happens to be "into today." What this means to you, faithful reader, is that every second Monday of every other month I break my neck in the attempt to scrub, sanitize, and de-junk this pit in the hopes of fooling an obnoxious man I can not stand at all into thinking we aren't the completely disgusting neanderthals I rediscover we really are every single time. It also means that should you ever decide to pop in on me unannounced, this Tuesday is the day to do it as my house will be clean and I will have actually showered and put on something other than my over-sized men's pajama pants.

I started pretty early this morning, and I must say I was doing quite well despite the laryngitis and uncomfortable drug side effects I've been so lucky to enjoy as of late. I de-cluttered, rearranged, scrubbed, cleaned out the sofa cushions, and actually moved furniture around to vacuum. By 1pm I'd made such a significant dent in what I needed to accomplish to shut the voices up...feel comfortable with a stranger poking around all my secret hidey places...have a reasonably clean home, that I started to get excited.

Now, this never ends well for me. You think I'd learn. When I bite off more than I can chew this happens. And sometimes this. And even... sigh... this. Unfortunately, today was no exception.

I have been looking at my hardwood floors for months now trying to figure out what went so horribly wrong. Being as this is the first part of my house you see upon entering, I try pretty hard to keep them up. Not that you can tell. I have mopped and polished them religiously for 3 years now, yet they still look dingy and gray and covered in a cloudy film. After some time on the Internet, I discovered my problem (OrangeGlo sucks)and it's ridiculously strenuous solution (saturating the wood in ammonia and water and then scrubbing with all your might one teeny square inch at a time). The crazy in me thought it was a splendid idea to work barefoot, no gloves, no mask, closed windows, face first in ammonia scrubbing with all my might. I scoured every inch, moved every single thing on the floor to be sure I didn't skimp anywhere. I even moved our massive Christmas tree, skirt, and all the gifts I had managed to wrap earlier today.

After 4 straight hours, my wood floors were literally gleaming, smooth, beautiful. I stood there for a couple minutes admiring my handiwork. Then it hit me. I was soaking wet, drenched in ammonia from head to toe. My throat was on fire. My hands, arms, back and neck were screaming in agony. I noticed layers of skin missing from my knees and elbows. I stood there in awe of my utter stupidity contemplating what sort of mess I would make if I walked through the house dripping ammonia and how long it would take me to clean it all up. It dawned on me that no one was around. No kids anywhere to be seen. Dave was conspicuously missing. After the work I'd done today why should I trudge up stairs throughout the whole house and back down again. I could just shuck my clothes right into the washer and then run up the stairs to my shower before anyone was the wiser.

I should just stop here. You all know what's coming.

I stripped completely and scooped up all the dirty linens I'd used on the floor to put in the washer. I stood there completely naked as I watched the washer fill and added the soap. I walked completely naked through the kitchen, the living room and was stopped completely naked in front of the picture window admiring my pretty floors one last time when a very shocked Dave standing at the bottom of the stairs said... "um.. you know the pizza guy just pulled into the driveway, right"? Wait. He ordered pizza? I was literally a deer in headlights for a minute. A very naked deer. They were shining straight in my face. I hadn't even noticed for the beautimous gleam of my shiny wood floors.

I stood there for a minute not knowing where to go. Couldn't go upstairs, I'd have to pass in front of the door. Couldn't go through the kitchen to the laundry room. I'd have to pass the picture windows again. Certainly couldn't stay there. I finally bolted back behind the love seat covering...well...not very much.. with my hands. To add insult to injury, as I was cowering (desperately trying to convince myself that the chuckling pizza guy didn't really see anything, my dear son shows up out of nowhere and hollers "Hey Mom, why are you nekkid back there" insuring the pizza guy had one more grin at my expense. There was nothing I could do. There was nowhere I could go, so I stood there dripping on the floor all red knees, elbows

and cheeks.

Surprisingly enough...

we are NOT the most annoying people at church. Nope, apparently we're just amateurs. There's a whole slue of things we've never even considered before. Who knew? Just in case you aspire to become the single most annoying family ever on the face of the earth, I've written a guide for you. I call it 12 Steps to Hell (cuz that's where everyone else will either think they are or will wish to be when you show up.)



1. Come in late making sure to slam your chair back into the knees of the person behind you.

2. Sit in the middle of the row and then get up a million times in less than 15 minutes.

3. Read your books out loud drowning out the speakers.

4. Sing the hymns in an obnoxious mocking voice but not on the lyrics. It's more fun to make up your own.

5. Take a big handful of the sacrament bread.

6. Make a piercing siren sound. Do it over and over.

7. Repeatedly knock items from the hands of others. Don't apologize or help them retrieve them.

8. Feed each other grapes out of the mouths of toys. Not just any toys, mind you. They must be little gross-looking monster toys that also roar, bite people, and make out with one another. Use loud smacky sounds.

9. Smear string cheese all over the place. I mean ALL over the place. Make sure to smear it on the people sitting near you.

10. Have a tickle fight with your small children. Give them plenty of zerbies so they'll scream.

11. Rub the legs of women you've never met. Be sure you laugh about how funny that is. It isn't creepy enough unless you do that.

12. Pull down each others' pants so we can all see who it is that needs a diaper change. Wait a good long time before you decide to actually change it.

So there you have it, folks. Stick to my guidelines, and I can guarantee you'll always have a pew to yourself.

Re-write of my lost formerly funny, but now just a shadow of it's former entertaining self and actually so bad you should just skip it post.

This is all past tense now, and fuzzy around the edges. I did promise to tell it again though, so here it is as well as I can do. If I've learned anything, it's always save your work in another program. The rewrite is never as good as the original.

While my husband is otherwise distracted I am going to complain a bit. Know that I wouldn't do this if he wasn't enjoying a week away from the family all expense paid... in SAN FRANCISCO no less, city of my heart, where I long to be young and free living with wild abandon eating sushi and listening to free-form jazz.... /sigh...

I love my husband dearly. We're a great match. I can talk to him, and he listens. He has been known to actually talk back as well and tries hard not to "fix" my problems. He's ridiculously smart. And cute. And funny. And he does all the cooking. And he helps put the kids to bed. And he hates sports as much if not more than I do. And he doesn't complain when I get computer viruses that he has to fix. And he fixes all the viruses my family gets (which is a lot guys, seriously. What DO you look at?) And he buys the expensive chocolates. And he has cute non-bending thumbs. And he doesn't complain when I wreck the car. Or laugh at me for it...much.

How lucky am I? I know, I know. Hate on.

He does all these things and more, but there is one thing he struggles with- one thing he hates so much there are no words. He'd rather walk on hot coals, rip out his fingernails, go to a.../gulp...chick flick than do any form of yard work.

Dave hates outside chores with the fiery passion of a thousand white-hot suns. He gets absolutely no enjoyment or satisfaction from it at all. There's no sense of accomplishment. No pride in a job well done. In fact, I don't think he'd do it at all if we didn't live in an area where they come measure your grass and fine you if it breaks code. We'd be the scary house on the block. All the little kids would dare each other to knock on the door. Hmmm. There's a thought.

Anyway, it doesn't matter what type of work it is whether it be mowing, weeding, edging...etc. He's an equal opportunity hater. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem. We usually pay someone to take care of this for him, (I mean when would he have time to ever make me this if he was outside mowing down grass all the time? A girl guy must have priorities,right)? but we had to fire our lawn guy and hire someone else. When the replacement (his dear brother) said mow yer own lawn, dude changed his line of work, Dave and I had to pick up the slack.

Of course this means that weeks will go by and nothing will get done. At all. When it gets to the point where I'm starting to feel menaced by the neighbor's weed whacker I will inevitably break down, pull out the ole flowered gloves and prepare to get dirty. Why not, right? Someone's gotta do it.

There was a ton to do. There always is since the ex-lawn guy decided to seed all our beds with grass. More of it grows in the flower beds than in our actual lawn now, and it's a constant battle. This time around was especially difficult for me, and after hours of back-breaking, hoe-breaking, trimmer-breaking not to mention fingernail-breaking work in the blazing hot sun, I did what I never ever ever do. I cheated and took the easier way out. I raked up all the mess into a pile and carted it to the back of our property line to toss into the woods (rather than bagging it all nicely) all the while reminding myself of the above list of said husband's attributes through gritted teeth.

You'd think the story was over, right? Where's the crazy in a little yard work, you say? Well, as I was finishing up with the last load I noticed that some of the weeds I'd tossed into the woods had hung in a couple of bushes and some had fallen into big lumpy piles on the ground. How unsightly! Well we can't have that, can we? Heavens no. What would Martha think? Madame Brilliant here decides to shove her arms right into the mess to make sure everything was nicely distributed. I even remember thinking to myself as I felt my arms brush up against a massive bush how horrible it would be if it was poisonous, and maybe I should go wash off just to be sure. They say if you wash it off quickly you'll be okay. Did I listen to my own voice of reason? Do you read my blog? I chose to wait not 1 minute, not 5 or ten, but 45 minutes after having first suspected I'd touched the stuff.

It was a couple of days later before I first noticed the itch. Just a small spot really on the underside of my forearm. I thought it was a couple of mosquito bites at first, that is until it began to get bigger. And bigger. And itchier and itchier until there was poison covering the whole of my under forearm from the wrist to the elbow. I also managed to get it on my bicep, down my right side, on my hip and into the corner of my right eye. Ever wanted to jab your own eye out? Never thought I would either.

I set out on a mission to find relief. I tried everything from swallowing herbal supplements and tons of Benadryl to covering myself in oatmeal, Calamine, rubbing alcohol, and peroxide. I used a whole tube of really expensive local remedy. I stood in the tub and dumped half a bottle of bleach on myself. You don't even want to know about the screwdriver. Suffice it to say NOTHING WORKS. Before church on Sunday I covered myself in bandages so no one would freak out when they saw the mess. There were so many that the kid collecting fast offerings saw it and asked me how I had broken my arm. I've done that. Trust me poison ivy is worse. Folks, I have descended into the depths of hell. I can't begin to tell you the extent of my suffering. It doesn't end. Every day there is yet another new spot of torment and I try yet another pointless method.

What's the moral of the story, boys and girls? There isn't one really. Just know, Dave. You have to come home one day. Until then, dear, I'll be waiting.

Afterword--I have permanent scarring on my arm. It's a constant reminder to me of my idiocy.

Blog Angst

A couple of weeks ago I spent a lot of time writing out a post for you, and it was funny, man. I was so proud of it. I've had a rash of hilarity happen to me lately, and I thought that this particular post would start it all off just right. I had been working it up for about a week, and on Sunday it was all nice and shiny and ready to publish. Because it strongly featured me poking great fun at my husband, I left it up him to choose whether or not it was published. Upon getting his ok (he's a great sport), I hit save and publish. Only it didn't. Well, what actually published was the first paragraph only. Everything else magically disappeared. No save either. It was gone. 45 minutes of me frantically trying to find this work was for nothing. Several hours of my brilliant husband's brilliant computer expertise was also for nothing. I have since been too irritated over it to write up my other ideas. Sorry about that. When it stops chapping my hide I'll attempt a rewrite and y'all can resume laughing at my misfortunes. In the meantime, beware. The Cosmic Thumb strikes through blogger.

Who knew?

Ever get a tune stuck in your head? I recommend extreme violence.

Summer is almost over now, and soon to follow it is the ever-beloved ice cream man. As much as I hate being hot and sweaty (well, of course y'all know a Southern girl doesn't actually sweat... we glisten, but bear with me here I'm telling a story) there's just nothing like that tinny out of tune warble that only comes at this time of year to get your heart pumping and your mouth watering especially on those smothering wet blanket no breeze make you want to smack the devil dog days of summer.

I loathe the ice cream man. Blasted evil ice cream man; harbinger of summer, bearer of all that yummy cold creaminess, pied piper to all things child-like and fun. I would wring his neck with the cord to his crappy music box if he'd only stay still long enough. There I said it. When you can pick your jaw up off the floor, feel free to read ahead. I'll tell you why.

It started when we lived in Murfreesboro. It was the first time my children really conceived of what that weird truck they kept seeing was, when the correct synapses snapped together and the lights went on in their tiny heads. A man driving around in a brightly colored truck blasting kid music and giving out ice cream? Oh life is good when you're a kid. The only problem after that epiphany was keeping enough cash available for just in case said miracle man were to come driving by our home. Well, that and the waiting.....and waiting......and waiting..........

I'll never forget that last spring we lived out there. My kids heard the music coming often. We lived in a popular area and heard it daily, but we kept missing it. This one particular day the truck was so close but not quite up to our street. Seeing their chance, my little chickens ran inside to plead with me please mama please mama oh please he's almost here. I hurriedly grabbed the wallet and we ran out to wait. It was such a sweet time watching them debate over all the things they might find in that truck and what they might choose for themselves. They romped around in anticipatory bliss. I relished that enthusiasm and found myself starting to muse along with them.

Then there he was in all his glory, coming up at the corner, wailing canned joy out of the speakers on the rooftop while my ecstatic children whooped and cheered. The moment of truth had finally arrived. A month of waiting was about to pay off... that is until he turned the opposite direction driving away from my broken-hearted children and out of the neighborhood. Words can't describe the sorrow of that day.

This was the beginning.

For the next two years, my kids hoped for the elusive ice cream man. They ran out often.. sat in the grass watching day after day. After moving here where there are many more children I thought for sure this dream of theirs would finally be fulfilled. For a time he would just appear out of nowhere every few days...right in the middle of dinner. We'd be halfway through the mashed potatoes when that little tinkle would sound. I would have let them out regardless (I'm not totally heartless) but he always drove by so fast we had no prayer of ever getting out there in time. We know the back of that truck by heart now. Weeks of this ensued. I thought since no one else on our street ever let their kids out during dinner that the guy would get a clue and switch it up. He did finally. Yep. Changed it to lunch time instead. Then he just stopped coming altogether.

I'd thought my kids had mostly moved on from this unrequited desire until just recently. We were standing in the doorway when that old familiar tune that we hear even in our sleep(Frere Jacques) that we've heard so many times before showed up out of nowhere. (Seriously, Clara and I both hear that song even when it's not there, especially during dinner.) We all just knew it was meant to be. For once I had cash to give them. It was exactly our family's designated snack time. It was the last day of summer before school. The stars were aligned. My kids whooped with joy in the front yard listening as that music drew ever closer... and closer...and closer and passed our street by with nary a glance. Twice. If I could have conceivably caught up with him, I'd have gotten the baby up, thrown them all in the car, hunted him down with my Mama Bear SUV and run his sorry butt over. Instead I watched my faithful kids sit in the sweltering sun grasping their tattered bills for hours for hours hoping he'd come back before finally giving up and coming in for dinner. My son Sam said the blessing that night. I thought my heart would never recover when I heard him so sweetly pray for the ice cream man to safely come to our house. Then, and almost every prayer since.

Every day thereafter as my kids have sat on that porch just waiting; I have searched the Internet, the phone books, and every resource I can find on where to find a phone number or store front or some way of getting one to drive out here at a designated time to no avail. I have also spent more time on my knees by myself praying for the ice cream man to come and then just begging for a little boy's prayer to be answered.

Today it was. Sam never doubted. And let me tell you all is right with the world.

It’s a bird... it’s a plane...

Those of you who know my family well know what a struggle I've had with my now 5-year-old son, Sam. I mean this kid really puts me through the ringer. I could dedicate a whole site just to him and his exploits and document the daily struggle I face to refrain from throwing him out the window teach him to be a productive member of society. This summer has been particularly difficult. I have found myself really having to focus on remembering what a real treasure he really and truly is. (I had to look especially hard today.)

Thus we come to today's post.

This was one I wrote on my prior blog a couple of years ago. Sam was 3 at the time. Those of you who've read it will live through it again I'm sure. For those of you who haven't, here you go...another reason why I love my ridiculously difficult son.

It's a bird... it's a plane...
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2007

So my little boy Sam (a.k.a Destructo Boy, the Human Cyclone, Terror-of-the-Southern-Lands-and-all-things-Poultry) has turned over a new leaf. Seemingly. I'm not sure I truly believe it yet. Those of you familiar with the Era-of-the-Eggs can understand my reservations, I'm sure.

We've survived the Egg Era, Pirate Hell, and the "Call me Pablo, Tyrone" phase. Oompa loompas have stopped screeching parenting insults my way, and Lightning McQueen has stopped racing across my pretty leather furniture. No more noodle towers, Cheerio explosions, blackberry tracks, bleach stains, flour showers, and surprisingly, 12-packs of toilet paper last more than an hour.

This has all been replaced, we think. And with what? Cue the trumpet fanfare...now the drum roll...cap it with a cymbal clash... it's SUPERSAM TO THE RESCUE!!! Can it be? Is it true? Has my little deviant finally decided to renounce his terroristic tendencies in favor of....gulp.....the GOOD OF MANKIND?

Yes, ladies and gents. I wake every morning to find he's already up and dressed in his super suit. He zooms around the house righting wrongs, protecting the innocent. His muscles flex as he lifts heavy fallen objects. He leaps tall pillows in a single bound, all the while his theme music is playing over and over on the DVD player.

What, ladies and gentleman, would I do without this little man of steel? Why just today I was moping around after a long restless night nursing bruised feelings, when in flies Super Sam. He takes a long look at me, rips off his secret identity (it's his favorite firetruck shirt and some glasses with the lenses poked out. He won't let me wash it right now...) and while kissing me on the cheek whispers " but I love you, Mom."

What can I say... my hero.

Lesson of the day

Now class pay attention. This may be on the final. Now repeat after me.

Gorilla glue is not the same as crazy glue.

Gorilla glue will bond anything to anything else.

Permanently.

As in forever.

Should you not heed this lesson, be forewarned.

Ice will not freeze it off. Peanut butter will only make a mess. Even exacto knives will do nothing but cause you pain.

No, boys and girls, gorilla glue is forever.

Your only hope is that a kind loving husband will stifle his laughter long enough to tear apart the bottle rather than ripping the flesh from the bone. If not, you could always follow your son's suggestion to burn it off or just hack off the whole finger with a sword.

Pay absolutely no attention to the full inch of missing skin.

Class dismissed.

Need a good laugh?

Yesterday I learned a very valuable lesson. Here it is.




Heavy narcotic pain killers and trips to the salon DO NOT MIX.

Now check this out.


Notice the resemblance?


Next time I shall listen to my husband and just cancel the appointment.

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

Today I met the future me. Or at least where I fear I might be headed.

Maybe not. Currently, I'm a girl. But if the future me could be a slightly crazy vacuum cleaner repairman then I definitely met the future me. It was so weird, y'all. Like looking in a mirror. A really really crotchety old crazy mirror.

It started with my sis-in-law's cleaning routine. We're hosting a Family Reunion between us in July, and after hearing the lengths she's going to prepare her home for our company I was shamed into doing a bit more than I might have. (Not by her, y'all she's a peach. I impose this on myself.) Now I am a pretty decent housekeeper for the most part, but this chick is insane amazing. Seriously, I don't know how she does it. I would have to sandblast my walls......

hmm....I may have to consider...

Anyhow, this led me to finally get at steaming the kid remnants out of my carpets. Been meaning to for a while (this baby is quite the spitter) but I kept finding more important interesting things to do instead. As I was dragging that thing across yet another bitty-boy yuck stain, I heard this really unhealthy sound issuing from the steamer. I have learned (finally) not to ignore weird sounds in my house (i.e. crunching in the disposal, gurgling in the wash, the splatting of raw eggs from the 2nd floor...) so I turned it off and quite handily unscrewed every screw I could find. Amidst all the vacuum guts I found the culprit... one teeny partially ripped belt thingy. I figured I could handle that one little problem without resorting to calling the Man to come fix it. So I packed up the punks, and off we went in search of parts.

Apparently my steamer is a popular variety, because I found it in every single place I looked today. However, not a one of those places carried this particular belt. They carried all the belts for every other stupid machine on the planet but not mine oh no not mine of course they wouldn't have mine because I chose mine and Cosmic Thumb forbid I get one that will live for at least one whole stinkin year before it breaks just one whole stinkin year before I have to bust it apart, do major surgery and then search high and low for hours on end in the hopes of getting that freakin carpet looking more like carpet and less like the Manson family came to dinner but I digress.

(Bring Mommy her happy pills, please dear. No the little pink ones...thank you.)

Ahem.

As I was saying, it was proving a more difficult challenge than I at first believed, so I did the only other thing I could think of. I called my mommy. We can thank her now for finding my future male self, the man of my heart to which I will aspire NOT to emulate from this day forward.

He was in this little smelly vacuum repair shop. (Smelly yes, but with surprisingly clean carpet I must say.) I drug my exhausted, hot, starving, obnoxious little kids in the door and explained my dilemma to him. He knew exactly which model I had, what I had broken, and how I should fix it. He had the part in hand moments later with advice on making it work better, and I gratefully pulled out my debit card to pay him and start the long drive back home.

Here's where it starts to get weird. He got this look on his face and denied my card. Wouldn't even look at it. Mumbled something under his breath about what kind of people use a card for less than $10, but about jumped across the counter at me when he saw my checkbook. I thought he was gonna hit me at first, but instead he practically begged me to write him one. I took another step back and proceeded to do so. He just stared at it for a minute. When I asked if he needed my license he said (and I quote) "No thanks, I just bought mine. They say it's good for 5 whole years". Startled, I replied "well it's probably a better picture than this one is anyway." I'm sure it is, he says.

This should have been a clue about how the next 45 minutes of my life were about to proceed. Add to it the constant whining sound issuing from the mouth of my particular 5-yr-old brat and you can see how I might start to resemble this guy way sooner than I like to consider.

After taking my check, he gets close to my face and says "I'm in a 5-year lawsuit with a woman who wrote me a bad check for $497.53. I assured him I could swing $8.95 plus tax, but he wasn't satisfied until I'd heard all about the case and what all he'd like to do to the judge in the meantime. Sounds normal, right? Cautious, right? That's because you didn't have to hear what he wanted to do to that judge.

This was only the beginning of my time with him. I soon found myself regaled with tales of women who couldn't work their vacuums. Women who tried to vacuum stupid things... one who repeatedly returned her vacuum, sure it was always broken because the bags were soooo small, and she wanted her money back. They were filling up way too fast. (I thought to reassure him by mentioning it must have been an excellent-working machine. His reply to her was "you must have a really filthy house".)

Long story short.

It got a whole lot worse. So much so, that I can't begin to put it into words, but crazy was leaking out all over the place. I began to inch myself backwards to the door grabbing my kids by the arms when he mentioned that I had 3 kids and that it was enough, because he already had 4.

There just comes a point that even I can recognize some people just ain't right. Be warned, fair readers (at least those of you who actually comment once in a while instead of just.../gulp.. lurk).

Mirrors never lie.