Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

Homemade Holidays: To You From My Plumbing.

My friends who have more kids and kids who are much younger than mine and therefore should be far more frazzled and unmotivated are always whipping up crafts with their kids. They made their Christmas cards together this year and once when we came over: we spontaneously crafted. "Here....I've got paper and stickers and some fancy scissors....we'll make pictures frames!"

I exploded.

I decided to collect some holiday crafts you can do with your kids to give as gifts or keep in the house as decorations. I found some nice things and you can read about them.

"Just promise me you won't shove potpourri in them....try lavender buds and flax seed. Unless you're making these for my grandmother then you're going to want to find the most stifling scented potpourri you can find. No not that one, even stinkier. You need to smell like you own a potpourri shop and live there too."

When you stop punching yourself, it feels so so good.

The plumber came and plundered and as is not typical for us, charged us about 10% less than his original estimate. Writing a check for 10% less than I'd anticipated still sucked but when I thought about how much worse it could be I thought to myself, "Gee, it's like I just stopped punching myself in the face."

PS: The new renters next door are having a party! Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! I love sitting her listening to shrieks of hysterical laughter.

Lessons.

You know what's better than spending half your monthly salary on the plumbing in a house you just want out of?

Waiting for 7 hours for the plumber to show up to plunder your checkbook.

Maybe a delicious cookie will helped me pass the time. Or a liter of bourbon.  And I don't even like bourbon.

We all know what a whiner I am. How I enjoy torturing myself with the worst case scenarios.

You see the problem is, for the last 4 months I've been on edge knowing things could go wrong. Things could go wrong and all the hopes I have for the next year would crumble. I knew I could be sitting on the sofa debating a bourbon (I don't even like it!) at 2:22pm on a Tuesday while waiting for the proverbial plumber to come take our money. I knew that scenario would make me very unhappy and so it kept me awake because I didn't want it to happen.

And now it's happened and you'd think I may be thinking to myself: "Wow, I spent all that time worrying this would happen and now it has and I wasted all that energy worrying about it. Because did worrying about it stop it from happening? Did it prepare me for this? Did I make sure the bourbon was stocked in the house?"

No. Not at all.

Will this stop me from wasting time worrying about all these things in the future? No.

Because I never learn.

Besides, when the furnace dies I am absolutely certain there aren't enough baked goods and alcohol to carry me through. I better start worrying about it now.

Paint. Paint. Paint. Paint. Paint. Paint.

Ideally I would not post again until the house is on the market and sold and we've moved into our new place. Because I am physically only able to talk about real estate and honestly it's the only topic which holds any value to me at this time.

Talking about getting my house sell-able is about as interesting as watching the miles and miles of paint dry in my bathroom and Madison's room.

So I'll give you this quick story and then I have to go because I forgot to paint the closet door and the trim on the outside of the bathroom. It will never end. When I die from all of this painting, my tombstone will read: "She's painting all the clouds in heaven."

Logan put up the beadboard this weekend and had to take the sink off the wall. Logan doesn't believe in completing a job in one day, he likes to stretch it out over 3-100 days. Because of his beliefs he pulled the sink off the wall and then after reinstalling it, left it disconnected, he'll get to it tonight.

Which would be fine, except that last night at 11:30 the kitchen sink clogged and became unusable.

This morning as Maddie brushed her teeth, I told her to spit into the toilet and use the bathtub water to rinse her mouth out.

I failed to mention how she could use the bathtub to rinse her toothbrush out.

When she came out of the bathroom she said, "Was I supposed to rinse my toothbrush in the toilet too?"

"Uh...no."

"....."

My to do list for today is now as follows:

Fight kitchen drain.
Paint dresser.
Paint bookshelf.
Paint Trim.
Paint Max.
Paint doors.
Paint the cats.
Paint.
Paint.
Paint.
Buy new toothbrush for Maddie.

I'm really looking forward to being done with this chapter in our lives. I'm sure you are too.

The turkey was brined and by the end of the night, so was my liver.

My good friend Andrea invited us to her house for Thanksgiving with her and 14 other lucky people.

Coordinating a meal for 19 people is no simple task, Andrea had the help of her lovely mother and mother in law, but still. I said I'd bring a vegetable tray with a couple of dips (yum and yum, fyi) and a spinach salad (yum again), a simple enough task. I left the house with pepper seeds in my hair and a kitchen which looked as though the entire thanksgiving meal was prepared there. Smooth entertaining is an art, an art I have not perfected.

Andrea and Mark and their parents put together a meal and atmosphere so calm and seemingly effortless it was as if they cook gourmet meals for 19 people every day.

I worried since we were the only non-family members at the table, we'd feel awkward and like a burden. I worried I'd feel guilty that I hadn't done more. Well, done more than shown up and drank my ever loving face off. Oops.

(I drank so much I got the hiccups. If you know me, you know I hate the hiccups. Hiccups send me into a homicidal rage.)

I didn't feel uncomfortable at all, at least until this morning when I realized I hadn't even said good bye at the end of the night.

We went around the table during dinner and talked about what we're thankful for this year. There were toasts to new jobs and new marriages (Andrea's mother is remarrying in January and her brother is marrying in June) and to family and friends.

It was maybe the very best Thanksgiving we've ever had, of course a lot of my Thanksgivings since I married Logan have ended with me crying in the bathroom on the phone with my mother and wishing for it to be over. Good times. Good times.

Cutting ties with my husband's family has been a very difficult decision. It's been four years now and one of the reasons I kept going back for more, even though it made me so repeatedly unhappy, was the fantasy of family holidays. I wanted that for my children so badly, I ended up hiding in a bedroom wishing for it to be over.

But since we cut ties, I've still missed the chaos of the holiday. We've tried to make our own traditions, we've made our own Thanksgiving feast, gone out to eat on Thanksgiving, bought and decorated our Christmas tree and gone to the Detroit Thanksgiving Day parade, but it's still just the four of us on a day I want to be about something bigger. Something outside of our family unit. I've wanted the kids to have some place to go with cousins to play with and aunts and uncles to see. Andrea's girls aren't my kid's cousins, but they couldn't love them more if they were (Max: "I don't want to marry Caroline, but she is so cute I want to hug her a lot."). Yesterday the kids ran around playing all day and they sat at their end of the table and ate and had their own conversations.

It was crowded and loud and happy and so full of life, I felt so lucky to have found the friends I have and to have those friends love me enough to welcome my family into the fold and feed us all turkey (it was brined!). It wasn't the family I once hoped I'd married into, but it was exactly what I always pictured Thanksgiving looking like. (All without having to divorce and remarry.)

I wanted to say all that with a toast at the table last night, but I couldn't because we all know what a water works I am when it comes to expressing my emotions out loud.

Here's to holidays looking exactly like you thought they always should and having loving friends who let you experience that.

Cheers.

Thank God he doesn't have acne.

Forget what I said about enjoying the posting every day thing.

I never realized how boring I am on a daily basis. Actually, maybe I realized it before but didn't need to write about it every day before.

I made the mistake of trying out Madison's Nintendo DS. She saved half the money to buy it for over a year and got it at the end of the school year. I've mainly ignored this tiny machine for 5 months. Until she got Super Mario Brothers for her birthday. I was overwhelmed by nostalgia and decided to just 'See what's changed' and pretty soon I couldn't put the stupid thing down, dazzling the children with my 'secret' knowledge of hidden tubes and invisible blocks to crack open.

Now we have Mario Kart (another birthday addition) and last night I went to bed with my husband next to me in his underwear driving Mario to his best lap ever. 

Being married to a teenage boy is pretty awesome.

Weddings are lovely.

Explain: I post right through strep throat and then when I'm healthy I wimp out?

Enh. Oh well.

Saturday night we went to a wedding and it was in the top 5 weddings we've ever been to. Not only was the atmosphere loving (a painting of squirrels in love? You'll forgive me but it just doesn't get more loving than that) and intimate, the bride was the tiniest bride I've ever seen with my own eyes. In fact, since the strep and antibiotics killed my appetite for the five days before the wedding, I sort of wanted to eat the bride. Really, if you saw her you might have been tempted to try just a taste.

In the tent, while we waited for dinner to be served, a few people gave toasts. One guy told the story of a friend who'd decided he wanted to marry his girlfriend. He asked the friend why he wanted to marry her, why this woman was the one. He said, "She's just the best person I know."

I think it would be great if everyone who ever got married could say that about their spouse for their entire lives together.

Please don't hit me, Rain.

When I went to Amsterdam last winter, I purchased a tiny umbrella at Target for the trip.

It's a teeny little umbrella and it fits in every handbag I have.

The first time I popped it up, Alice looked at me and said, "That is the most pathetic umbrella I've ever seen."

I indignantly defended my tiny umbrella.

She went on, "Oh, just look at you, you've got a napkin on your head."

And now, just under a year later, every time I pull out that tiny umbrella I laugh as I picture myself putting a napkin over my head to protect me from the rain.

I probably should have missed a day really

This posting every day thing is starting to make me a little defensive. I decided last night, I wasn't going to post and if anyone complained I would say, "Oh but I did post! Just not here!"

Then I realized I didn't miss a day.

But, then I have a wedding to go to tomorrow (no, not that one, bigger) and even though I've been looking at dresses and skirts for over a month, I still haven't bought anything. So I'm calling this a post. Pray I find something to wear today. Logan will kill me if I'm sitting in our bedroom tomorrow night at 4pm sobbing about how I can't find anything to wear and I don't want to go and wah wah wah.

Eight is great.

As a child, everything that ailed you could be soothed with a salt water gargle.

"Mom! I tore my arm off!"

"Gargle with a little salt water."

As a child I also suffered through thousands of sore throats. At the time, the doctors had gone all 'natural' and decided that if the tonsils are there, there's a reason for them being there. And now, that I'm an adult and it's clear my tonsils are nefarious, it's "too risky" to remove them without a clear reason. (I have a reason: "They're trying to kill me.")

Every time I complained about my throat, my mother would reply, "Gargle with a little salt water!"

And I wanted to kill her every single time, because it didn't work when I tore my arm off and it never worked when I had a sore throat.

Just so you know, every time you write or comment telling me to "Gargle with a little salt water," my mother snuggles back into her sofa and feels just a little more smug than ever before.

And I can't stand for that.

No gargle. No work.

I am feeling much better. The first two doses have been almost as good as an anti-depressant. Except, not at all like an anti-depressant. At least I can swallow my own saliva now, not being able to was actually pretty depressing.

This evening in a mad dash, I was also able to make cupcakes for a certain little girl who is turning eight today.

God willing I can make her birthday memorable. If not, let's just tell her about the shards of glass in my throat that ruined her birthday.

I think eight is going to be the best year yet.

I need titanium tonsils...that sounds like a bad porn name.

Yesterday when I woke up with a face morphed into a pelican*, I began to cry. I cried because I have a hard time managing my life when I feel about 95% well. When I feel unwell? My management skills drop to about a 10 percent.

The thought of getting up to get the kids to school made my tonsils sucker punch me. The thought of trying to get all the girls invited out to dinner on Thursday for Madison's birthday made me whimper. Oh and there was that concert Maddie needed 'something patriotic' to wear, and before you get smart I think the music teacher was thinking red, white and blue wear. Oh and it's Max's week to be superstar student which means I needed to help him make a poster about himself.

I often forget how much I do, because I make deliberate choices on a daily basis to be not busy. I don't like how busy people are always grinding their gears and feeling overwhelmed and like they never get anything done and sometimes it just seems like all the things we need to do and all the things we like to do are just controlling us and making us unhappy. I'm unhappy all on my own! Well, that wasn't my original point but, okay.

I'm not even a busy person and still, when my tonsils* grow 20 sizes overnight, the house sort of falls apart. Logan took Maddie to school and helped Max with his Superstar Student poster and then came home so I could go to the doctor and went to the store on the way home and found something patriotic for Maddie to wear. And made all the birthday invitation calls. You know, you can't even win with robots because you start to complain and then you realize they do a bunch of stuff and you're not really being very grateful.

But yesterday morning while I cried, my robotic husband could not compute the data coming at him. Because robots do not get sick. They do not have tonsils which continually betray them. Not only do robots never get sick, they also have no application available to them allowing them to be empathetic in the face of another's pelican-faced suffering*.

For example, as I sat on the bed yesterday morning crying and holding my pelican face*, he said, "So you're okay right?"

And then he tapped my back.

Through the searing pain of my raging tonsils* I wanted to infect him in that moment. But you can't infect a robot with strep* you can only give him a virus which makes him send out thousands of emails titled, "Check out this funny attachment" and my mother is the only one who opens them because she really wants to know what's so funny in this email from the robot.

I haven't eaten in 72 hours now (except one desperate peanut butter and jelly sandwich I choked down Monday, it was a bad idea) and I thought to myself, "Gee, since food is just now starting to sound delicious and your tonsils* are still beating the crap out of your ability to swallow, let's read a bunch of food blogs so we're all clear on what food you are not going to be eating for the next 2 days."

*Strep! That's what I have! I've never gotten strep in my entire life! I am incredulous! And tired and still swollen. Strep!!!!

Pelican Brief.

If I weren't so vain I would show you a picture of my face. I look like a pelican.

I went to bed at 6pm with the dose of Nyquil I'd been dreaming of all day. It put me to sleep until 9pm...when I woke up with hellish throat pain.

I then spent the rest of the night alternately snoring and choking myself awake.

I have a doctor's appointment at 11:50 and it's 8:45 now and I don't think I can make it.

Add to that, this is the worst week for me to be sick and you have one crabby pelican.

I've been suffocated by my tonsils.

I didn't post yesterday and it's not looking good for today either. If you saw my tonsils you'd understand why.

It feels as though someone came into my house in the middle of the night, jammed open my mouth and proceeded to punch me in the tonsils over and over and over.

As riveting as that is you don't really want to hear about this.

Instead here are some shots from our first Christmas card photo attempt. As you can see it's going exactly like it goes every year.

Here Max channels Zoolander.

She gives in.

Maybe I'll just send our cards out with pictures of my tonsils. They're a little more photogenic than the kids.

Pizza is bad for you too when you really think about it.

Last night at family pizza night with beer and pizza and children all at once. We ate the pizza away from the children because we didn't want them to see us consuming so much cheese at one sitting.

Me: "I thought it was good. She talked pretty fairly about what's good about it and what the risks can be."

Her: "Yeah. Plus she never mentioned the beer bong and body shots. Phew."

This is a good place to apologize to people who use AOL, because after my time at Blogging Baby I started to think that AOLers were a little light-brained. Mostly because every time there was a Britney story on the site and AOL picked it up the comments would be along the lines of "BRITNEY IS A HORE!!!!!" or "Stop picking on Britney ur all stopid!!"

From that sampling, I thought AOLers weren't the smartest bulbs in the pack. Or maybe they were smart, but just didn't like to think beyond the caps key.

Given that assumption of mine, you can imagine how I cringed when the kids and I got back home yesterday afternoon and there were 32 emails from AOL users in my inbox. I started reading and the reaction was overwhelmingly positive and even the ones writing to tell me how very wrong I am were gentle enough and well thought out that, although I still disagree with their basic premise, they gave me pause to consider why I dismiss their basic premise.

I had an epiphany while reading all the email I've been getting. Someone wrote me about how she just couldn't set a good example for her teenaged son if she drank at all and she warned me it would be the same for me.

So I replied, "Thanks for sharing your story. I'm glad you found what works for you and your family. Good luck!"

And that's really all that needs to be said.

The hair is the best, that's all that matters. Right?

First of all: Here's what happens when you think Cocktail Playgroups are a good idea.

Oh My God you Guys I would totally write this now but I'm totally SHIT FACED!!!!! And the kids are staring at me while I do it! Look at this example I'm setting for them! I had three beers in three hours and now? I'm SO WASTED!!

Woops! Sorry honey, mommy just fell down! Can you help mommy up!? Where's my drinks honey? What do you mean this is the toy fridge? Madison, be a dear and fix mommy another Momtini?

Zzzz....no...nooo...honey Mommy's just resting her eyes.

Yes the New York Times revealed today that sometimes 'Mommies' are also 'Grown Ups' and they may share an adult beverage or two. Sometimes RIGHT IN FRONT OF CHILDREN!!! But please don't worry, they only drink beer, wine or cocktails after they shoot up in front of the children because we need the children's help to keep the needle steady.

No no no. I think Stacy Lu handled the topic with balance. She shared the risks of drinking, drinking in general has the same risks actually and also shared the idea that perhaps mothers having a cocktail together is just another example of mothers just being people.

No my comments are in response to the first round of comments at Blogging Baby, where I have a history with the Righteous Indignation of middle America.

The last comment I read was actually a decently provocative one, where someone suggested that drinking wasn't the problem but teaching kids that alcohol is a way to relax might be. I take that to heart and so I'm having a masseuse come to my house every day before I crack open any alcohol.

No, but really I do take that comment to heart because I think that's something to be mindful of as a parent. (This was not sarcasm.) (No really.) (See everytime I say it's not sarcasm you think, 'See? She's being sarcastic!') (But I am not being sarcastic. I think there is the risk that you send your kids the message that drinking = relaxing no matter if you drink with other moms or with your husband each night. It's something I think about.)

This as opposed to Tina before that comment, who said, [I added caps so I can imagine Tina SCREAMING AT HER COMPUTER]

"HAVE YOU PEOPLE LOST YOUR MINDS? WAKE UP! KIDS DO WHAT THEY SEE. THEY LEARN BY EXAMPLE. KEEP DRINKING DURING PLAYDATES...THEN MAYBE YOU CAN ALL GET TOGETHER IN THE ER A FEW YEARS FROM NOW WHEN ONE OF THEM WRAPS THEIR CAR AROUND A TREE IN A DRUNKEN STUPOR....LIKE THEIR MOM TAUGHT THEM TO DO."

I'm always teaching my kids to wrap their cars around trees in a drunken stupor because everyone knows having a drink or two as an adult of legal drinking age in moderation means we're all totally shit-faced and then driving our cars around trees.

When our kids do that we'll have to look at each other and say, "Wow, we taught our kids to do that. We should be very very proud of us....Want to have a drink?"

But imagine this? I'm not sure I mind if my kids model my behavior. When they're adults, if they would like to enjoy a drink with friends, I hope they model my behavior and do just that. I hope they don't drink to the point of being drunk and I hope they're responsible drinkers when they're old enough to partake. That's what we're modelling really. We're modelling that with less wrapping of cars around trees and trips to the ER.

Right after I was interviewed for that piece, I asked my girlfriends if they wanted to be photographed for the piece at a cocktail playgroup. One of my friends brought up her concerns that the public would judge us (check out Flogging Baby for that) and that maybe the Times wouldn't portray us the way we'd like. At first I bristled with irritation ('Screw everyone!' I thought) but then, when I had to promise everyone, "It won't happen that way." I found I couldn't really promise that.

We all remember the Mommyblogging piece? The one Alice called "Vaguely damning". The thought of putting my friends in a picture where the Flogging Baby people could judge them left me uneasy and the thought of a picture of one of my friend's kids peering at an ominous wine glass in a national paper makes me want to throw up so I told Sandra we weren't interested. I almost changed my mind a couple of times but really? I just couldn't do that to them, I didn't want that over my head.

Not long after that interview, Logan and I went up to the Clarkston Union for Oktoberfest. While there we saw a crowd of mostly parents having a beer or two while their kids jumped in the moonwalk, or danced to the band or waited for face painting.

(Funny aside, the band that day was  Strum Diggity who does not have a website. It's a kid's band led by a very nice lady who recognized Logan from this site and introduced herself after she was done singing. And then? It turns out she was the college roomate of Xiobahn. The world is very small unless you want to floss all the teeth in the world.)

And I wondered, what the hell is the difference here? Parents, responsibly imbibing. No one is stumbling or vomiting. We're just being people at a little festival...and we have kids.

Given that we're talking about drinking in moderation, like real right grown ups. Let's say we're talking about the generally accepted guideline of about one drink an hour. I'm just not sure it's something worth getting worked up about.

I love that site I just linked and how it points out all the hip slang for being drunk!

"Other words for being intoxicated include getting pissed, loaded, smashed, hammered, buzzed, sloshed, wasted, wrecked, ripped and just plain drunk"

I predict a night before the end of the year where I end up saying to Logan, "You know what!? I am Jush Plain Drunk." (Never fear! I will not be 'Pissed' in front of the children. Imagine what would happen then.)

I think what I'm realizing is how when discussing mothers sharing a few drinks, people's personal beliefs and experiences with alcohol come into play.

If you believe a drink = being shit faced. Then yes, you're going to have a huge problem with moms having drinks. If you grew up with a rageful alcoholic, you might tie alcohol to those behaviors and so all drinking might be 'bad' to you. Keeping those things in mind as I face the judgements of the internet kind of helps.

So much of what the internet thinks about you is how they perceive you through the filters of their own experiences.

Now that we've gotten the alcohol aspect out of the way, I also want to talk about another thing I said during that interview (which was ON THE PHONE! New readers: I don't like the phone. Or hugs.).

"It might just be a way of weeding out the mothers who are righteously indignant about what other people do. I know I don’t need more mothering guilt or mothering judgment in my life.”

You don't need to have a cocktail to do that, in my group of girlfriends it just cut through a lot of bull shit. If you think women who have a beer in front of their kids are irresponsible asses, you and I aren't going to be able to be friends. (FYI: If you're a baby eating Presbyterian, we're not going to be friends either.)

Not because I need you to love beer (or wine or cocktails) but because if a beer freaks you out then you're probably not going to like the fact that I am depressed and am on and off medication. You're also not going to like the fact that sometimes? I don't like my kids and I think they're being whiney brats and I want to put them to bed at 3pm or sell them on Ebay.

Last year we were standing outside the preschool and a woman was standing with my group of friends. We were talking about our weekend, the weekend where Logan as a shriner (in fairness to the anti-drinkers...that was a night it was actually good there were no children around. Whoa.) had gotten his fair share of Halloween. He left the first party we were at to go to a second party with one of my friends, I went home because I can't go that long. At parties. 

My friend mentioned the ugly hangover she'd had the next day and the ride home they'd had to get from the party's (sober) hostess. We laughed about it, because in our world, everyone cuts loose sometimes.

The look of disgust on the other mother's face was so distinct I wondered if someone hadn't farted.

She didn't even attempt to hide her feelings saying, "You went to a party with her husband?"

Because going to a party together means you are having an affair. That's all it can mean.

And then, after she was done judging us for our open marriage, she said, "Wow, drinking? I guess you just kind of outgrow that kind of partying at some point. I mean, I just don't see the point."

It's true, I don't drink like I used to. We don't party like we used to. But we do drink and we do go to parties. And in that one brief conversation I knew this woman and I would never, ever be friends. Not because she chooses not to drink or go to parties anymore now that she's married with children.

We kind of couldn't be friends because it seemed, from her incredulous comments, that she didn't understand how people could incorporate versions of their former selves into their current life as mothers and wives.

Her life included tea and cookies at playgroups and quiet nights at home with her husband marvelling at the fruit of their loins and anything outside of that? Is Not. Normal. As I said, I've got enough guilt and angst in regards to my life as a wife and mother, I don't need help adding to it.

I don't want people like that in my life and if serving cocktails gets rid of those people faster? I'm happier because of it.

Let's have a cocktail.

Also? I got my hair cut and I just can't say enough nice things about it. I am in awe of what a razor can do to eliminate the mushroom. As my new hairdresser cut my hair, he said, wiping a drip of sweat from his brow (with the effort of it all), "Wow, has anyone ever told that for fine hair you sure have a lot of it."

I replied, "No...no one's ever told me that but...I think I love you."

Alex of Alex Emilio salon (new website: now) on Main street south of Fourth cuts the hair of many mothers I know. If you live in the Royal Oak area, I'm going to strongly urge you to call him.

Today while he cut my hair he asked what I do for a living. I said, "Well I write for a couple of websites. You've heard of blogs?"

And he replied, "Wow. That's great."

So he wasn't listening to me and still I don't care because this cut is amazing.

Hair cut of doom.

I don't like cutting my hair. I also don't like having my hair. I don't like to look at it. I don't like what it does when I attempt to style it. I wish I could rise above my hair and live as a totally self actualized woman without any hair at all. But that will never happen.

This afternoon I am going to get my hair cut. I am going to a new place. All my pretty (and thin) friends go to this man. I would like it if he could make my hair as long and luscious as my friend's (or at least make my ass as thin and lean) but he will be unable to do either of those things.

Instead I've decided I want to crop my hair short. I'm tired of the bob and the inadvertant mushroom-ish triangle it keeps morphing into even though every morning I say, "Today, Hair, today we are not going to become a mushroom. We are going to be normal. We're going to channel a Tea Leoni style bob and we are going to work together."

And my hair tells me to go fuck myself and then I walk out of the bathroom with a mushroom on my head.

Why, you ask, why do I need your help? What you need, you're thinking, is the help of a mental health professional. And I do, and I am getting that. But what I also need is an image to show my hair dresser of what I want my hair to look like.

I can't seem to find a good image of what I'm looking for, maybe you can help me. (My appointment is at 1pm EST.)

First, what I need is a television with that Woolite stain thingie commercial playing to show my hairdresser the haircut I want. You know the one where that lady has a bunch of morons over for cocktails and appetizers and they keep throwing all their food and drink on the floor? Over and over and over and the hostess is on some really good medication because she never says, "Jesus Fuck! What is wrong with you morons? If you drop one more glass of God Damn Merlot on my rug we are absolutely not wife-swapping tonight."

Because that's what I'd say...if we could entertain in this construction zone (I stubbed my toe on an air compressor in the dark tonight)....or if we wife-swapped.

(I'm sure there's a more 'Swinger Savvy' term for wife swapping anyway, isn't there?)

I like the hair on the charmingly sedated hostess in that commercial. I would describe it, if you've seen the commercial tell me if this sounds accurate, as cropped in the back with longer-ish pieces on the top. Not as short as a true over all crop (a'la Jamie Lee Curtis), but not as long as a bob and definitely not some sort of inverted bob either (blech).

So short in the back, cropped up but with longer pieces on the top. Not bob-ish but not pixie-ish either.

Does that make sense? Do you have any pictures to share?

Logan's counting on you. The man has weathered at least 18 hair traumas over the last 14 years. Ask him about the Hair Trauma of 1999 sometime. Almost no one made it out alive after that one.

Finally, after you're done looking for my haircut there are a couple new posts up at The Buzz Off.

"Dear Madison, please stop saying, "One Minute!" every time your parents as you to do something. It's annoying. Love, Santa!" Or "Hey Max. I know you love your parents a lot but 4 am isn't the optimal time for a cuddle puddle. Love, Santa."

It turns out Blog readers are excellent Amway resellers....

How much do I like posting every day? Here's my scantron answer (in honor of election day):

I didn't want to say I'd be posting every day, but it's already day 8 and I've posted every day, even the weekends! Even the weekends! Yes I know these posts are not going to win me any chocolate but since when has blogging given me any chocolate?

Today I volunteered at the kid's school in the position of "Person Who Asks, "Are you here to vote?" And Then Points Toward The Stairs."

I was a little bit excited about volunteering at school on election day. I expected everyone to be happy about voting.

"Hi! Are you here to vote?"

"Yes I am!"

"Let's share in this awesome privilege we have! Democracy! WOOO!"

Instead it was more like this:

"Why isn't that side door opened?"

"Uh...we have to be able to monitor who's coming into the school."

"I don't care about that. It's raining!"

These are some lazy voters. School shootings be damned, these people can't walk 20 extra steps!

Another interaction:

"Hi! Are you here to vote?"

Unpleasant Voter: "Oh, are you here to direct people to the polls?"

"Yes I am!" [Smile.]

Unpleasant Voter: "What they really need is someone directing people to the entrance of the building because it's hard to find."

"Ha! That's so funny!" [But thinking: "Are you fucking kidding me? You can't find the fucking entrance of a building? The big stone facade didn't tip you off? The big sign saying, "Vote Here" with an arrow pointing toward the door didn't tip you off? You're going to vote right now? Seriously?"]

PS: It looks like the Amway pitch worked on Michigan about as well as it worked on Logan and I 10 years ago. Yes, we were pitched.

Have you been pitched? From what I understand [your job/non-job] makes you an excellent candidate for this business opportunity.

Would-Be Fan.

Logan has had an affinity for Lance Armstrong for many years and the beginning of his affinity for Lance coincided with the time when my husband lost 30 pounds and dabbled with what may have been an eating disorder but was definitely an asshole disorder.

I've sort of tied Lance together with that unpleasant time between Logan and I and because of that I'm not a big Lance fan.

If, after running the marathon Lance Armstrong hadn't just said he "...thought the marathon would be easier."  But had instead come out of the marathon saying, "What kind of asshole runs like this for fun?"

Then I could have been a Lance fan.

Death by house remodel.

Our bathroom is trying to kill me.

The whole house. Is trying to kill me.

It won't let us go without killing us first.

Please ignore the beautiful trim, it deceives. It's homicidal. It's trying to kill us.

Really useful advice.

The other night, on Halloween, after Dutch and Wood had to leave to get their small panda to bed the other three couples sat down in Andrea's living room. Since Andrea's house is laid out exactly like The Dream House let's call it The Dream Living Room.

The six of us sat down and tried to have a conversation. Between the six of us we've had sex at least nine times and all nine of those times were represented by children. Some of them quite small and in need of things. Often in need of things every 1.3 seconds and when you have nine children in need of things every 1.3 seconds you've got someone asking for something pretty much continuously.

Andrea has 3 girls five and under and Leslie has four kids 5 and under. At one point Leslie had two of her four kids hanging on her while she tried to talk and Andrea had one of her three kids hanging on her as well. But Logan and I were completely free of children hanging on us.

Logan says, "You know, I've got to recommend having your youngest child be five. I mean we've found that works out really well for us when socializing. So if you can make that happen, I'd try to do that."

All I'm saying.

Thank God Anne Lamott 'exploited' her son and wrote about her first year as his mother.

I'm not sure I'd have made it out of my first year with two kids without that book.

That I took something from reading about her experience and that she made many dollars off that story must be purely evil and Ms. Lamott should have known better.

(There are a thousand places to have this mommy-blog debate if you would like. I'm not opening comments for it to happen here. I don't want to hear why you agree with me or why you disagree with me because I have a pretty good grasp of the discussion already from both sides.)

[Edit: Oops. I left comments open when I set this post to publish. Now comments are off. Sorry.]

Haunted. Still.

If buying canned salmon (which, before you turn your nose up, is generally wild rather than farm raised, which is better for you) you're going to want to make sure it's boneless and skinless.

I accidentally got the boney skin-full kind almost three weeks ago and what I saw in that can has haunted me since.

On the can it says you can eat the bones and skin because they're rich in omega acids. I'll keep that in mind if I'm ever interested in eating a spine.

Lobsters and sushi and airplanes.

Your halloween pictures are up at The Buzz Off. Well they're yours if you're one of the people who sent them into me.

Great costumes and lots of inspiration for next year. Which you know will come around way too fast.

Because it always does and then you're standing at Target realizing this costume you're about to buy cost about .82 cents to make and costs $25 because Target knows they've got you were it counts and you're not making anything at this point so just cough up the cash.

It doesn't happen to me this way. Of course.

Best Halloween Ever.

Halloween was eventful for the Summers family.

We were invited to hang out at my friend's house in The Dream Neighborhood. And it was...dreamy. Full candy bars, lots of kids and people handing out beers.

The Junipers also came out to The Suburbs to partake in the trick or treating with their adorable baby panda.

Last year we tried to take the kids trick-or-treating in our neighborhood and made it to three houses before the children had a total meltdown. They were afraid and uncomfortable and we went home in tears.

I was relieved it went so well but also a little forlorn because well, I may have mentioned this before? But I, uh, really hate my neighborhood and am dying to move? And we have to unload the house before we can move? And we can't really afford the neighborhood I want?

Look how talented I am! I just took a positive and flipped it into a negative. My therapist loves me.

But you don't want to hear about that. You want some pickle action!

Yes! Logan ate the pickle and he moaned and whined and complained the entire time. You would think he was being forced to eat a barrel of hissing cockroaches. The man can run 26.2 miles, but the pickle. The pickle nearly killed him.

I taped the 4 minute ordeal, where you can hear Logan's claim that it's just like Fear Factor. Then you can hear Dutch say, "Fear Factor for the biggest wimp on earth."

So I didn't get any pictures, but as you can see in the video, there are plenty of flashbulbs going off during the ordeal. Here's one of Dutch's pictures.

You should go watch the video and I'm going to go back to trying to conquer my massive 'get the house on the market right this minute' to-do list. The list includes "Throw hands up and wonder how it is anyone ever moves."

Thank you again to everyone who sponsered Logan's marathon via the MS Society. $2500. Internet, you amaze me.