Suburban Bliss:: Birth Control Via The Written Word

Awkward Hugs: Too Comfortable!

Okay first of all.....Sweet Lord. Are we still under the impression that I'm going to stop being annoyed by the 24/7 job of taking care of the kids? If that's a make or break thing for you reading this website, I need you to know this up front.

I will always hate this aspect of parenting. I will always find it overwhelming and unpleasant. There will be times that I'm into it, where we have a great set of adventures together, but for the most part....I'm not going to like summer vacation with its endless hours to fill.

If you find my position enviable, by God I wish you all the luck (and stamina) in the world to make it happen for you.

In other less antagonistic news.....

I hit a new low on Friday night when we had friends over.

Usually when I get tired but don't want the party to end because I'm lame and need to go knit an afghan or something equally as old lady-ish, I just slip away to the "bathroom".

On the way out of the bathroom my bed says, "I love you....come over here...." and I don't know who can resist that pick up line.

I try to stay awake kind of late, like midnight. But we have friends who must have cocaine flowing through their veins because these people never want to go to bed. It seems futile for me to try and out last them, plus my bed really loves me and needs me.

I forgot to tell you about this one.

Right before Easter I was walking into the market to pick up a few items in order to make Easter dinner for my family. I only needed a couple of things because I called my favorite place, The Chop Shop, to have them make up the main part of our meal. I still highly recommend that place, even above other meal prep places, because everything is put together right there. Not sent from a franchise distribution factory.

I went to the market to round out the menu with rolls and a dessert. On my way into the store a person in a giant furry bunny suit was standing in front of the store handing out candy. I assumed this was something meant for children, children who still believe the Easter bunny is a giant anthropomorphic rabbit with a bow tie, corsage and a basket of candy in front of the grocery store.   

That day I wasn't with the kids and I just wasn't in the mood for candy from the Easter Bunny's basket. So I smiled, shook my hand in his direction and said, "No thanks!" and kept walking into the store.

But the bunny followed me into the store, tapping me on the shoulder and putting his arms up for a hug.

You should know I'm not anti-bunny or even anti-furry-fetish guy, I'm not anti-candy either. But I am pretty vehemently Anti-Hugging-Furry-Fetish-Bunny-Guy. So I said, "Ha ha ha! Aren't you funny! No thanks!"

And kept walking.

And the Furry-Fetish-Bunny-Guy followed me around the produce department trying to wear me down into giving him a hug. Walking next to me, trying to put his arm around my shoulder, holding his hands up in a prayer position and finally just standing by the potatoes holding his arms up in a silent last minute plea for just one chance to rub his furry suited body up against me in a fetish-y fury.

Here's something I've learned about myself in the last couple of months. Some people make it their mission to break down your personal boundaries, and I make it my goal to tell those people to go fuck themselves. (Though in a quieter way.)

The lesson here? I should have bought more side dishes from The Chop Shop so I didn't have to go to the market at all.

Note: I will always tell you if I've been given anything as a gift from a company I write about. The Chop Shop is wonderful and I love using them but we're on a strictly friends basis. However if they want to make out behind the bleachers. Fine!

*Update: Oh geez.....

Sight Reading

Last week we had an emergency girls night in because I am not handling my life very well right now. So we got together and talked and planned a trip to Florida in May so that I would have something to look forward to other than leaving The Best Block In All The World.

Aside from the amazing tale I had to tell about an old "girlfriend" of Logan's from 8th grade sending us one of the Cray-Ziest emails we've ever gotten in our lives (I used to write for an AOL blog...I know crazy emails), other people had good stories to share that night.

For example, a friend told us the story of her husband taking their 3 year old kid out to run errands. He decided to grab some lunch for them and pulled into Arby's. The kid, not being able to read, yelled out "Yay! Arby's!"

The dad was surprised because the kid couldn't read yet so he said, "Hey, how did you know this was Arby's?"

The kid said, "Because of the the giant penis on the sign ."

And now I can't watch an Arby's commercial without seeing a bunch of people walking around with floating penises over their heads.

A little of this and that.

Bring on the bran flakes.

It is 6:30 in the morning and I am awake. Not just awake, out of my bed and downstairs using my computer at this hour I don't usually see unless there is a very good reason. Like going to see Chris and Susan in Chicago. I like sleep. A lot.

I am usually dragged from my bed at exactly 8am each morning giving me exactly 40 minutes to feed the kids breakfast, make the lunches and sit in the front room with them for about 10 minutes hearing about alternately how heavy Maddie's violin is to carry, about how funny Nathan is, and how gym is sucking the life out of Maddie can't I see that? And then, before they leave for school.

But today I'm awake at 6:30. For no reason other than I wasn't sleeping so I decided to get up. This makes sense to a reasonable person, I'm married to a man who wakes up at 5am to get work done before he goes to work. (!) But for someone like me, a championship sleeper, this is unnatural. I can only think of one reason I'd be waking up at 6:30 in the morning. I'm becoming an old person. Pretty soon I'll be stopping by the Early Bird Dinner special and heading to bed by 7pm, but not before watching the Weather Channel for a couple hours.

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Finally, he has an awkward interaction.

Last night we attended the second concert for Maddie in the last three days. The first was a band and orchestra extravaganza where we were dazzled and maybe a little stunned at how loud a bunch of 10 years olds can sound while playing wind instruments. I'm thankful Maddie chose to play the violin, even in spite of the scratching cat in heat sounds it can sometimes make. I felt a little violated by the trumpets during the show.

The concert last night was a little less an assault on the ears.

Before the show we saw the parents of one of Maddie's friends. As the dad came walking by I said hello and to get Logan's attention, he tapped him on the shoulder. This was meant as a passing gesture to elicit a friendly wave and nothing more.

But Logan decided to make the interaction one of those colossally awkward moments usually attributed to me in this marriage. He kind of reached out to shake the guy's hand but used the wrong hand? And it was over his shoulder sort of. And the guy was walking by quickly not meaning to stop for a handshake, awkward or otherwise.

In the end the effect was they'd just had a brief hand holding moment.

Sarah's* dad walked away, Logan looked at me and said, "I think I just held hands with Sarah's dad."

That just stood in the air for a minute.

Next time I'll try to hug him.

*not her real name

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Other Places:

I spend a lot of my day shopping for the Mighty sites. And yet, I haven't started my Christmas shopping and I have no plans to start any time soon. Let's just file this bit of information under the heading: Ways Melissa Likes To Make Life Difficult For Herself. There are two problems I have with shopping.

I have a big problem with money in that I like to have it in my pocket.

My second problem is Madison's Christmas list that reads as follows:

1. A laptop
2. Clothes (see my drawings for the kinds)
3. A trip to Chicago, San Antonio and Paris
4. A cell phone
5. A puppy (I'll be happy with just the puppy)

So you see my dilemma. Here's my list, for comparison.

1. To keep all my money.

We've been going crazy with guides at the Mighties as a lot of people actually enjoy buying people thoughtful presents during this season. Here's what we have so far.

At Mighty Junior.

The Teacher's Gift Guide.

The Handmade Holiday Guide.

The (Accidentally) Very Red Luxury Gift Guide.

At Mighty Haus.

The Wreath Round Up

10 DIY Ideas For Neighbor Gifts

Gifts for Entertainers.

Christmas Ornament Round Up

Phew, no wonder I can't come up with anything to say here.

I always thought it looked like a book and a sandy beach.

I took the kids out to lunch on Friday because I'd been working all day and felt a little of the guilt. Not enough guilt that I took them to McDonald's and fed them absolute crap. Just enough guilt that we needed to do something out of the house, also the house was all because we were leaving town and I still had a bunch of crap to get done and lunch seemed like the easiest way to spend some quality time.

Quality time turned into tearing up tiny bits of napkins, rolling them into balls and blowing them at each other.

I'm not so much of a Fun Killer that I stopped this "game" at the beginning but after about five minutes I got a little bored and thought maybe we could engage in "conversation" at the table.

Maddie: "Mom, this is fun."

Me: "Really? You're blowing pieces of napkins at each other. It seems kind of boring to me."

Maddie: "Didn't your mother ever let you have fun when you were a kid."

Me: "No, never. Ever." (This is actually totally true. No, seriously.)

Maddie: "Well then, Mom? This is what fun looks like."

Study Finds Kids Don't Want Healthcare.

Shocking news!

Thanks Laura

My motto is: "Just keep swimming."

Maddie: "My friend has a motto, 'Live Fast, Die Hard'"

Me: "Wow, that's pretty intense for a nine-year-old."

Maddie: "Well, she's actually ten."

Last night, while I couldn't sleep.

I was thinking about how I can't control my face in front of cameras.

And how, although I think I look pretty much like this, in my mind's eye at least.

I usually end up looking almost exactly like this whenever a camera is pointed at me.

Gee, I can't wait to see what pictures come out of Blogher.

Feeling a lot older than I am.

We're hanging out, describing our visit to the 80's Night at a local club to a friend who wasn't there.

"There were all these creepy guys on the dance floor. They'd come up and rub up against you until you gave them a look."

"Yeah, and even worse the guys who lined up around the dance floor staring at everyone."

"Right! And as the night went on the girls were wearing barely any clothes. It was, ugh. Weird."

Pause.

"So wait, what you're saying is that you were at a club, where people dance and try to hook up with people?"

"Right.....and then? All these women were dancing suggestively and it's like everyone was there just to meet someone to have sex with. Or something. My God. What kind of place is that!?"

"Yeah, that's what the kids call a 'Club'."

"....Well, yes.....I sound a thousand years old don't I?"

"Pretty much."

It's all about the odds.

Lost, driving through Rutgers campus a few weeks ago before I fell deathly ill and tried to die in Alice's guest bedroom.

Susan: "Weren't a group of students from Rutgers on the Lockerbie plane?"

Me: "I'm dying."

Chris: "Hmm...I don't know. Actually I went to Africa in college and one of the girls on the plane had a sister who died on that flight. Her parents were terrified for her."

Susan: "Oh God, that would be so scary."

Me: "I'm dying."

Chris: "Sure, but I was really soothed by it, I wanted to sit right next to her. Because really what are the chances one family would lose two daughters in international plane wrecks? There was no way our plane was going down with her on board."

Susan: "It's true. I mean kind of sad, but true. Their loss, your gain."

Me: "I'm dying."

Women who do too much.

Sarah Brown mentioned before, her Gmail appears to be a portal to the lives of the other Sarah Brown.

My Gmail account appears to be doing the same thing, though we have not yet crossed paths in real life. Still, I think you might like to know what the other Melissa Summers' (I think I'm getting mail for three of them) of the world are doing.

Veronica would like her to pick up Alex for soccer practice tonight. Veronica says thanks, Paul will be on the field!

Mary would like to invite her to the first Social Justice Committee Meeting May 1st.

Is happily welcomed to the Jantz School Of Dance summer program!

The Jantz School of Dance would like to apologize, they had a computer glitch and everyone was sent the welcome to the summer program email. She should please refer to the list in the school lobby to be sure she is actually happily welcomed into the summer program.  *Ed Note: Way to go Jantz School. Dumb asses.

Should really know about the mess the driveway in the carpool lane is. Because something needs to be done. CHILDREN ARE GETTING COATED IN MUD. (Ed Note: Caps are Christine's.) *Christine is finding the situation very frustrating.

Really needs to do something about the dinner service situation because Jane and Caitlin made it work once again when other people "fell down on their responsibility". Jane and Caitlin pulled the meal together on the fly but this just can't keep happening. Caitlin really looked forward to this service project but has been very disappointed. cc'd Leslie Markoff who also needs to do something about this. I presume. (PS: Jane, Caitlin is trying to kill you with her eyes.)

Is a greeter at Sunday morning services on the following dates. 4/6 4/13 4/20 5/4 and 5/18. She needs to be on time and make sure the doughnuts are set up prior to the end of the service.

Is asked to consider greeting on these dates in June....(you get the idea). *Ed Note: This Melissa Summers is being pooched.

Needs to take care of the horse race fund raiser because there is a lot of confusion *As per Marie LaMonde.

Is being invited away for a BIG ALL GIRL SPRING TRIP before they all graduate! Sarah is NOT LETTING ANYONE SAY NO! WE [THEY] ARE DOING THIS! (Apparently Sarah isn't very popular because three people reply they are actually not going on the trip, even though they're not allowed to say no.)

To sum up: getting the email for several Melissa Summers is kind of stressful. Also, I think a few of the Melissa Summers in the world need to check out this book.  Maybe also this one.

Financial Swingers

At breakfast.

Me: "One of my best friends is really good with money and she's married to someone who's really good with money. Usually at least one person in the relationship is bad with money, you know? To balance it out?"

Scott: "Not us, we're both bad with money."

Me: "Oh GOD! Logan and I too! We always say we should swap spouses with them, just for the financial education."

Scott: "Wow. That is completely not sexy."

Me: "We're swingers, just until we learn how to budget!"

Alice: "Hot."

Getting ready for school.

Her: "I really like this outfit, I have to remember to wear it more often."

Me: "Yes, I think you need to have more fun with your clothes."

Her: [with fist in the air] "I need to be a Maggie Girl!"

I can just hear his Penthouse letter starting now...

What I'd like to say to the snow.

Yes, yes....you're beautiful! Stunning! Amazing! We think you're just breathtaking. But all this clinging to everything and having to be around all the time is making you seem really insecure.

Just think about it. Maybe it's time to give the grass a turn to show off?

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We took the kids to a place called The Great Wolf Lodge as a little end of vacation treat. I worried about wearing a bathing suit in public after this long, long winter. Surprisingly I did not need to worry because the midwest is a pretty fat place and by comparison I felt a little like a spritely gazelle prancing about the water park.

It was a nice little trip and though the kids didn't want to do anything even remotely fun, like ride on a water slide, Logan and I did. We made them wait for us at the end and take our pictures. I'm kidding, but only about the picture part.

The water was so chlorinated I would guess swimming in a pool of bleach would feel remarkably similar. I don't know what the general population has on their skin but I lost two layers of mine in the disinfecting solution of the pool. Ouch.

Of course the trip wouldn't be complete without me making an ass of myself. Water, bathing suit and a public place. The possibilities for disaster are literally endless.

Maddie wanted to spend sometime in the hot tub. There were two of these steaming pools of bleach and one was full of a crowd similar to the population of the state of Delaware. Okay, maybe Rhode Island.

A second hot tub was empty so we headed in. It was awfully private and I thought to myself, "Gee, if this wasn't the least romantic place in the world, this would be a nice place to hang out with your favorite person."

Right then a man and a woman came in and gave me a very dirty look. I realized then why no one was in the hot tub, because it was for adults only. I told Maddie in a tiny-bit-louder than normal voice, "Oops! This is the hot tub for grown ups. We should head out."

As I said this I started doing the side stroke toward the steps. Maddie didn't hear what I said so I tried to tell her as I swam.

This distraction from my stroke, coupled with an unfortunately placed jet stream in the tub resulted in me veering terribly off course. When I finally realized I wasn't swimming straight it was just as I gently glided in between the legs of the man in the hot tub. As if I was swimming up onto his lap. As his wife watched in horror.

Her look of horror was nothing when compared to Maddie's face as she watched me attempting to swim into the lap of a stranger.

Thanks for the memories Ohio!

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We tried a Martha Stewart project over the break, I wrote about it at The Buzz Off. I don't think it turned out like they thought but the kids were mostly happy.

If only he'd add me as a friend.

I always knew he had a special place for me in his heart.

"Barack Obama is your new bicycle."

So far he's saved me his dessert and folded my laundry. What a nice guy.

A Restful Night At Sterling Office Complex.

If you follow my flickr stream you may have noticed on Monday night I slept with a lot of wires sticking to my head and one single, incredibly annoying one sticking in my nose.

Surprisingly the wires did not make it difficult to make it sleep. The fact that the sleep clinic was tucked inside an office complex, where the heat goes down to 2 degrees overnight and the night cleaning crew runs vacuum cleaners for several hours in the night, made it remarkably difficult to sleep.

This is probably good for the test, wouldn't have been terrible if I slept like a pretty pretty princess all night and the doctor had to tell me, "I'd suggest you get an office job and sleep there. Why don't you go work with your husband at his office."

No, no, I'm kidding. Logan doesn't sleep at his office. He plays ping pong.

I'm glad I didn't sleep like a baby, but I would have liked the test to more accurately mimic my real sleep pattern. My regular sleep pattern involves me waking up several times in the night but almost never taking more than one minute to fall back asleep.

In the morning, five in the morning, they woke me up. I spontaneously lactated because that was the only reason my body could imagine we'd be up that early. "Must be a starving baby and no bottles! Let's lactate."

The nurse made it clear I was up for the day, she said it several times and I was terrified of falling back asleep I watched the local morning news just to keep myself awake and annoyed. "Let's go to Ann Marie with traffic."

"We're having a smooth ride this morning. No accidents and it's smooth sailing."

Of course the roads are clear, everyone's asleep except you and me. Oh and breastfeeding mothers.

The nurse also mentioned the next nine hours of my day would consist of a "...series of naps".

The base of my brain had it's own private orgasm with those words. A day of naps! I won the nap lottery!

At 7am I finally got my first nap, but I was so hyped up from the morning news and the 2 degree temperature in my room I could not fall asleep for almost the entire 20 minute period. With the second nap I fell asleep immediately because I'd been dozing in and out since the last nap (but trying to hide it from the camera on the wall across from my bed). It was the best sleep I'd gotten all night. The best sleep I'd had in a couple of weeks. It was perfect.

Except it was only 20 minutes.

Someone should outlaw 20 minute naps. There's no excuse for them, they're ridiculous, they're unsatisfying. They have no redeeming qualities at all. In fact I think one of McCain's campaign promises is to ban their existence. I'd be willing to vote for him if that were actually true.

For the rest of the day my nurse came and told me it was time for another nap and then, just as I'd float off to sleep she'd wake me up. Like, on purpose, like she was enjoying my torture.

On the bright side I burned an entire day of Midwinter Break without doing anything but reading and napping. The day before we burned the daylight like this.

It will take two weeks to get the results of my test. Let's just hope he doesn't prescribe 20 minute naps.

Testicular Valentine's

I often do this thing when I'm trying to be funny where I might pretend to speak for an inanimate object or a cat or perhaps my husband wondering where his testicle went.

Last night Logan organized a surprise valentine's day outing with a few of our friends. He got all the guys to organize sitters and we met everyone at a place in town for drinks. Each new arrival wondering if they were crashing a romantic date.

Talk turned to missing testicles, specifically the missing testicle of a friend's son. Talk continued to cryptorchidism and then Logan mentioned how when it's really cold his testicles huddle inside for warmth.

This is where I added my brand of humor to the conversation.

"It's like, "Oh man, it's so cold I think my testicle is in my mouth at this point.'"

Not surprisingly, after reading what I said out loud in a public place, the table kind of stopped. Eyebrows raised and body language reeled away from the table.

In an effort to fix what I'd just said I jumped in with, "Oh! No....ha ha ha.....I don't mean *my* testicle. Ha ha ha. I meant Logan's testicle."

Which didn't actually help because I told a group of people at a Valentine's Day gathering that my husband's testicle was in my mouth.

See also: "Talking With Your Hands Can Be Detrimental."

Why isn't 14 hours of sleep enough?

A couple years ago I went to my doctor wondering why I could sleep 12 hours and still be ready for bed at 5pm the very same day. We wondered if it was my thyroid or depression or an iron deficiency.

It was none of those things so my doctor suggested I see a sleep specialist. I didn't actually go because I didn't want to find out I needed to wear that big awful machine every night to bed.

But still three years later, I'm stress free and still exhausted all the time. It's 7:30, and I'm in bed counting down the minutes before I can turn out the lights and go to sleep.

We checked my iron and my thyroid again and still there's nothing wrong with me besides the fact that I can barely drag myself from bed every morning. Although we did find I had a vitamin D deficiency, which makes sense since I haven't seen the sun in twelve weeks or so.

I finally saw a sleep specialist last week and I'm going to the sleep clinic to spend the night in February.

The sleep specialist gave me this helpful brochure about sleep problems. It kind of offended me.

I guess it's not enough that I'm exhausted all the time. My sleep doctor wants me to know I look like a beached whale while I sleep. You see, there's me in the red pajamas sleeping like shit while my spouse (Logan in a nightie) is kept awake.

I keep the booklet on my nightstand though because I like to make the long suffering spouse talk to Logan before we go to bed at night. She looks so absolutely disgusted by her snoring spouse doesn't she?

It looks like she's debating suffocating him or perhaps she's contemplating the value of remaining a virgin until marriage.

Maybe her thoughts are simpler: "I hate you."

Or maybe she's thinking, "Happy Valentine's Day, Asshole."

This passes for tenderness.

On the train to New York on our last day on "vacation" (bitter), I wasn't in the mood for any bull shit from New York or New Jersey for that matter. Our hotel was in New Jersey in a mysterious place where not a single train goes. We had to spend $25 on a faux limousine "cab" to get to the Secaucus train station.

By the time we got to the Secaucus station on Monday morning you can imagine I wasn't in a very jovial mood. I was busy thinking about the rug we could have bought with the money we'd spent or the week long family vacation in Chicago we could have taken. I was ready for New Jersey to bring it.

When we got on the train into the city I knew it was just one stop to Penn Station so I didn't sit down, I decided to do as I'd seen many times that weekend and stand in between the trains in that little vestibule.

This was fine until the conductor came by and gave me an odd sideways glance. I said, in my earnest Midwest way, the way that annoys the hell out of New York, "Am I not allowed to be standing here?"

The conductor gave me another look, took my ticket and said sternly, "No. No you're not."

He didn't tell me to move and so I didn't move.

He came back by a minute later paused, gave me another stern look saying nothing and left.

Right before we pulled into the station he stood in the vestibule with me, looking out the window opposite me.

He said, still looking out the window, "I hate it when we go through this tunnel slowly. I hate seeing how badly they're crumbling. It's like eating shellfish, if you think too hard about it, you really don't want to eat it."

I chuckled, politely.

Surprisingly, this was the most tender interaction I had with anyone working in or around the city the entire weekend.

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Today I spent $115 taking Gary the cat to the vet because he was growling at us and walking funny. A few x rays, special food and one hundred fifteen dollars later and we know my cat....is constipated. I would have paid $215 to skip over what happened next.

Gary the cat peed in his carrier on the drive home. Which then spilled onto the seat of Logan's car. Which also covered my cat's fur in urine. Which then covered me in urine. Which then made me wish I was dead.

It's been a while since I had a week where I just wanted to stay in bed. I was due.

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I wrote elsewhere this week, about fall crafts here and about some meatballs here. I'm also finding great things for you every day at Mighty Junior like these Argentine Friendship Rings. 

This post is censored.

This is probably the first time I've ever said this to anyone, ever. Especially the Internet.

I wish I could show you my butt right now.

After the Halloween party Saturday I was perhaps a teeny tiny bit tipsy. Just ever so slightly. Just a little bit.

I thought my tipsiness was integral to this story but Sunday night Logan nearly did the same thing (so similarly I thought he was making fun of me) and tonight Max did something as ridiculous. Neither party had been drinking at this time.

Max has never had a drink, Logan has had a couple drinks in his lifetime.

Saturday night I came home from the party, went to bed and decided I was very hungry. Still in my socks, I decided to head downstairs for some leftover pizza. Once I stepped off the second step I fell.

I fell very hard.

And this is why I truly wish I could should you my butt.

The bruise is so glorious, so brilliant, it looks like a 'Censored' bar on my right cheek. (There is a similar bruise on my elbow, but it takes away from the amazing-ness of the bruise on my arse so I'm not sharing a picture of the elbow).

We've made a family decision to buy slippers for each other for Christmas. Because socks make the stairs really slippery and while the bruise on my ass is brilliant, a bruise like this on one of my children would make me want to shoot myself.

She'd kill me if I revealed her identity.

At breakfast, while potential neighbors looked at the house up for sale next door.

Her: "Is she attractive?"

Me: "Uh....I don't know. She seems pretty plain."

Her: "I don't want someone hot living next door. I'll have to start giving blow jobs if that happens. I'm a good southern girl."

Logan: "Right because you're from the northern most point of Oakland county."

Her: "Yes. Right."

Some people call it The Prom and you know, I never went to prom.

I've mentioned before how my husband works with pre-pubescent boys. A few weeks ago Logan went to a "design team" bar-b-que. Around midnight I tried to return a call from him earlier in the evening but his voice mail picked up right away. Logan turning off his phone while he's out is one of my personal pet peeves, even more annoying than the fact that summer "vacation" lasts 3 entire months.

In the morning I mentioned how much I hate it when he turns off his phone while he's out. He said, "I didn't turn it off...."

I interrupted, "Let me guess, the 13 year olds threw you in the lake!"

"Yes! They did!"

At first I thought, 'Right...." but then I remembered my husband is the Peter Pan of his place of employment and also that the iPhone was unveiled the night before this supposed water incident. Either way, yes, it made sense.

(There was also a marshmallow fight involved in this party.) (They were all jacked up on Mountain Dew.)

The day after we move into our new place, WHERE ICE COMES OUT OF THE FREEZER DOOR WHENEVER YOU WANT, his company is hosting a little party. Last year the party was quite elaborate according to reports, which makes sense since if you're not buying drinks for your employees (not of age!) you can splurge on Hawaiian Punch fountains and pizza chefs.

I asked Logan what I should wear, thinking a nice summer dress would be perfect. He replied they'd gotten a visual guide regarding the party clothes.

It turns out I have to lose 30 pounds, 40 if we're looking at Lohan, 15 years and all sense of myself by next week in order to attend this party.

Can't I just start a marshmallow fight or something?

When I say I'm not great with small talk, this is what I'm talking about.

At Max's T-Ball game this morning.

Other Mom: "And which one is yours?"
Me: "That little boy over there, number 13."
Other Mom: "And how old is he?"

Me: "He's 6 and he'll be 7....well, in a year...."

Other Mom: "Well that's how it usually works!"

Happy Birthday Damien!

It's been busy here this weekend. We've been painting and cleaning and sanding and cleaning and painting and installing new lights and so on and so forth.

This morning I made cookies for Max's birthday party. They're the favor with a coupon for a free ice cream cone (Thank you Buzz Off!) He wanted dog bones to go with the dog plates and napkins at his party.

I coated myself in icing trying to ice the god damn cookies. Then I started to put the red 6 (he's turning 6) on the cookies and realized my icing was a little thin. So that the 6 became an apostrophe.

I've got 1.5 hours until the party so I decided, "I'll just add a couple more 6's to make it look like it's just a 'design'."

Only two more sixs would fit on my cookies.

Do you see where this is going? Really? Because I'm such a brainiac I didn't realize until I was staring at a pile of satanic cookies what I'd done.

Genius!

Thank God Max doesn't go to the Presbyterian Preschool anymore.

I know it's technically her labia.

What happened to Wednesday? At playgroup yesterday, (Snow Day!) where I did not drink. (Just thought I should let you know when I did or did not drink any alcohol so you don't get the impression that all I ever do is drink because it SAYS SO ON THE INTERNET.) Yesterday at playgroup I said, "Why isn't it Thursday yet?"

And voila it is Thursday and I don't even remember Wednesday. I'm like a toddler learning about object permanence.

The last time I wrote I told you that I'd put something new up at The Buzz Off, about 1 minute before I missed my 'Tuesday' deadline. Today I am seven hours earlier! This is progress. Sad and pathetic progress but still. The Buzz Off is about keeping your kids entertained while you eat out. Which is something I enjoy doing with my children because, as you may have noticed, cooking for my family sucks huge amounts of ass. I love them I really do. But my God how can people live in a world where nothing has any flavor?

But then I didn't just want to be rude..."Hello! Go away!"

So I'll tell you this odd little conversation I heard at the airport on my way to New York.

Two older men, 60's and 70's-ish, sit across from me waiting for their flight. They appear to be discussing some health issues one has recently dealt with and the other has dealt with in the past.

Man One: "Well yes so they did a different procedure. They went in through an incision at his hip."

Man Afraid Of His Anatomy: "You mean they didn't go in through his pee-pee?"

I know teaching kids the anatomical words for their sexual organs is a little awkward sometimes. Like, when your three-year-old daughter announces to her uncle that the way he's carrying her on his hip is making his belt "hurt my vagina" causing your brother to burst into flames immediately. Or, say, when your son is in a public restroom with his dad and announces loudly, "I see your hairy PEEEE-NIS!"

I know it's a little embarassing.

But probably not as embarassing as being a 70 year old grown man calling your penis a "pee-pee'.

My dreams continue to put me to sleep.

Last night I dreamt I was, get this, on the Today Show! I wasn't even naked or fumbling. I showed up on set and had some coffee with Alice and then went on air. Which is pretty much exactly what's going to happen, for God's sake Subconcious.

Then, I was at Ann Taylor where they were selling lycra bike shorts to wear with cashmere and even the size two had huge hips and tiny barrels for leg openings. That's right Subconcious, I don't like bike shorts. Or skinny jeans. Can we dream about that tonight! Put me in a pair and watch the rage unfold! How creative!

Then, I was at the doctor with Max to have his ear infection rechecked. And it was all cleared up! Guess what I'm doing today at 3pm? Taking Max to the doctor to have his ear infection rechecked. My Subconcious is really pushing my boundaries!

I've developed a slight cough with chest congestion. So, I bet you can't guess what the last dream I had was about? No, not that I'd inhaled a snake and was trying to cough it up. I called the doctor to ask what I could do about this cough because I'm supposed to be on TV on Friday. WOW! I really out did myself.

Since I just wrote about jeans at The Buzz Off I'm surprised I didn't dream about showing up in New York wearing Mom Jeans. But no, that's too creative for my Subconcious. If I dreamed about jeans and the Today Show I would have dreamt about finding out what Ann Curry's favorite denim is. I'm guessing she likes a dark wash, low rise.

"I have a 'Prominent' butt according to JCPenny. This makes my butt sound like it's talking to stockholders and having long lunches with investors. My butt is currently forming a Presidential Exploratory Committee, it's that prominent a public figure."

Three subjects sort of related.

I worked in Max's class yesterday afternoon. I enjoy watching Max do his thing at school and I like the reassurance that I made the correct decision to drop out of the early childhood education department. Most of the kids in his class are good kids, but he's in the afternoon session where a lot of the kids have working parents, so by the time they get to class to 'learn' they've already used up a lot of their 'good energy' in latch key.

Sometimes when I'm in that class and kids are running wild and the teacher can't seem to keep them quiet enough to concentrate. When she gave them 'free time' yesterday, I could not believe the chaos that took over. Like a room full of puppies on speed reenacting a scene from Lord Of The Flies. The teacher said to me as the children ran around like maniacs, "I just think they need more downtime than we give them. Do we really need to shove the curriculum down their throats all the time? I think we need kindergarten to build a love of learning." Then a child hurled himself onto the floor screaming "WOOOO!"

I agree with the principle she's attempting to run her classroom by actually. I appreciate her sense of fun and the silliness she often uses to engage the kids. It's just that preschool was a lot of fun for Max and there was no screaming, no overwhelming sense of mayhem and chaos whenever there was 'free play'.

I'm not a teacher, so I don't know if it's even possible to keep control of a room full of 5 year olds (some of them overtired I suspect). I'm only going by what I observed in my daughter's kindergarten class and their preschool classes. The kids sure could talk, but kids weren't shrieking or hurling themselves through space.

When thinking about this, I have to put my therapist in my head to remind me that one year of school doesn't make or break a kid. So he has an insane classroom this year and maybe he's not capitalizing on his reading skills, it will all even out.

Wow and all of this was only to show you the paperwork I cut out yesterday while volunteering. There were a bunch of pictures each having a different beginning sound. So, in one pile there was a 'cat', a 'can', a 'cord' and so on. In the F pile there were 'Families'. (Pardon the shitty pictures, I used my spy camera.)

First a nice, straight family.

Then I saw this and had to look at it three times.

I live in Michigan. I know Michigan isn't Utah or Kentucky but it certainly isn't California.

Everyone gets one card from each letter so I quickly created the sets before anyone noticed.

I'm kind of hoping one child in particular gets the 'Two Dads' card in his set, because his mother is a little vocally high strung (I'm internally high strung you see)(less irritating unless you're Logan or you read my website). At the beginning of the month she came to school with a pizza coupon (a reward for the kids turning in a reading log) in her hand, walked up to me incredulously, like I would be a partner in her outrage.

"Did you see this pizza coupon?"

"Uh. Yes?"

"Well....take a look!" [Points to expiration date on coupon.] "This expired six months ago."

"Oh, well I'll bet they'll still honor it since it's for the reading program."

"Well I'll be talking to the teacher about it. I mean! I couldn't believe it when I looked it over and saw this. Why are they giving out expired coupons?"

On the one hand I wanted to punch her in the face because that's a really annoying thing to be irritated about. It's a $2 coupon, so let's just say Pizza Hut didn't honor it, if $2 makes or breaks your pizza purchase, I'd like to think you've got bigger things to worry about than the pizza coupon, like the fact that you're homeless.

On the other hand I wanted to punch her in the face because I'm jealous. I'm jealous that's the biggest thing she has to tie her stomach in knots over. Not that what I tie my stomach in knots over is so much more important or worthwhile but damn if I could spend an evening thinking about a pizza coupon expiration date rather than say the fact that my house is never going to sell. I'd still be annoying, but probably a lot less upset.

So I want her to get the Two Dads Family card sent home with her little boy so I can watch her come to school the next day frothing at the mouth with the card in hand. "Did you see this!?"

If the pizza coupon gave her the head shakes, imagine what a non-traditional family will do. This should be good.

*HOT BUTTON TOPIC EDIT: I clarified in the comments below but my inbox has filled with incredulous people angry that I've implied that kids from working families are less well behaved than those whose parents do not work.

The non academic morning session is made up of kids who's parents happen to work (all 11 of the kids have working parents) and need the extra 4 hours of kindergarten as childcare, so I've inadvertantly implied they are somehow 'difficult kids' because their parents work. However, it's not the fact that their parents work that make them a little hyper when they arrive at their class.

It's the fact that the program is not set up ideally, so that when the children arrive at kindergarten, they've already had to follow the rules for 4 hours. At that point they're tired of sitting still and paying attention and being quiet and doing work. I theorize that's part of the problem in the classroom because when my daughter was in kindergarten the extra non-academic session was after the academic portion and the class was never that crazy.

If Max had to sit still, listen and pay attention for an additional 4 hours, I'm sure he'd have a much more difficult time sitting still and listening at kindergarten. That's hard for any 5-6 year old, working parents or not.

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.

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."

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.

Neck pain.

A few months ago one of our neighbors, one of the lesbians who raised their multi-ethnic grandchildren (or, the only house of diversity on our street), came home with a neck brace. This neck brace showed up a couple of days after we'd seen them heading out for a tropcial themed event of some sort with hawaiian print shirts.

Logan saw her from the kitchen window, and said, "Wow, looks like some sort of 'limbo accident'."

And I, having no thought for my karma, suggested, "Maybe it was a horrific cunnilingus accident."

I'll admit we laughed a lot, but really only because that's a really stupid thing to say.

Fast forward to this week Tuesday, when I went to sleep a normal functioning member of society and woke up as a woman with so much neck pain all I want to do is put a neck brace on me and let the lesbians next door joke that I had a 'fellatio accident'.

I know I deserve the teasing, I earned it with my inappropriate ribbing of my neighbors, but it really hurts and I'm tired of it hurting now.

Still Bershon after all these years...

About a couple years ago Sarah Brown wrote about Bershon, which you've heard about at this point because Heather's hair demonstrated Bershon earlier this week. Sarah started a Bershon pool at Flickr and I resisted looking for pictures to contribute because it seems every time I venture into our attic I end up really sad.

This is because even though there are pictures from my childhood in the attic which would lead you to believe my life was pretty normal, I know better.

You think, look at that cute smiling baby! And I think, "She has no idea how totally screwed over by life she's going to be."

You think, 'Look at that little girl with her dad, how sweet.' And I think, "I think he's drunk here."

We both look at this picture and want to pinch my little cheeks. But then I want to grab this little girl and save her from what's coming.

Which is pretty much a totally depressing way to look at your history and not just because you become your very own Debbie Downer. It's also depressing because it would be nice to look back with a little more happiness in your heart.

I looked though because I remembered this one picture of my friend Molly and I, who is also pictured above, when we were 12 and 13-ish. Her parents invited me on a trip down the east coast and her father was really annoying. Not really but it seemed that way.

He seemed so annoying that I actually secretly flipped him off while he took my picture. And in my book, there's nothing more Bershon than that. Also, if you were wondering what Madison will look like when she's all Bershon at 13, here you go:

At the same time, some of the pictures in my attic make me really happy.

Mammoth Barbie

My parents could not buy me a barbie doll.

For four years I asked for a Barbie, just a regular Barbie, not even a special edition, just plain old "Crush-Your-Self-Esteem-With-Impossible-Bodily-Proportions-Barbie". For four years at all gift giving occasions I'd open some freakishly wrong Barbie which caused me grief when trying to play with my friends and their 'normal' Barbies.

The first barbie wasn't a barbie at all but Mabel from the dollar store. Mabel was fine but her head was shaped like a pumpkin and she just didn't fit in and as a child I was mostly about fitting in.

The next attempt was a real Barbie brand Barbie, but this Barbie was nearly three times as big as a normal Barbie and became Barb-Zilla in our games and would ruin Barbie bar-b-ques and Ken was helpless to stop it. When I opened that Barbie at my birthday party, my friend Molly said quietly, "It's okay, you can just keep using my Malibu Barbie."

On my birthday, my parents tried again and gave me a Barbie and it was normal sized and I thought they'd finally pulled their heads from their asses and given me a plain, simple, normal Barbie. I was wrong though, this was 'Model Barbie' and she came with a fake camera and a model walk. Each time her legs moved her head went side to side. Just like a model, I guess. This was fine until you tried to sit her down and her head spun around to face backwards.

My father worked for Michigan Bell for all his life. One year he attended a Michigan Bell conference in Columbus, Ohio. As an aside this is the one and only time my father travelled for work and it was a small taste of what life would be without him. What it would be was: "Awesome!" From that moment on I prayed for my parent's divorce. It only took six years of praying.

After the conference my father came home with a new Barbie doll for me! Only this one was a Lesbian Michigan Bell Repair Woman Barbie. She wore all denim and a tool belt and a hard hat and was also twice as big as a normal Barbie. The normal Barbie I'd been asking for for 3+ years.

It's clear to me as a 32 year old, my parents were mentally challenged and could not find their way to the fucking Mattel aisle of the toy store.

So, I thanked my father for my Michigan Bell Lesbian Mammoth Barbie (and silently prayed my mother enjoyed his time away as much as I did so she'd leave him finally) and promptly put it on a shelf in my room where it stayed for months without being played with.

One weekend after my father had been drinking all day he came to my room and noticed Michigan Bell Lesbian Mammoth Barbie sitting on my shelf. He stumbled over to it, picked it up and threw it across my bedroom at my head.

Michigan Bell Lesbian Mammoth Barbie happened to be African American as well as an oversized butch lesbian.

After he threw the doll at me he called me a racist because I was too God damned good for a black doll. Who did I think I was? Maybe I'll just give all your toys to someone who isn't a God Damned Racist.

It's funny though, I didn't care that the doll was black. I didn't play with it because, as a 9-year-old, I clearly had a problem with oversized lesbian phone repair workers.

"My flow, my show brought me the dough"

50 Cent reads my blog.*

If we were to buy the house one of my best friends would live just a few houses away. Also living a few houses away would be other nice families, as I've mentioned before. A lot of times. One of these houses is the home of a sound/production/studio (???) person for Eminem.

This person, who could be my neighbor if the Gods align themselves behind my massive vision (I have furniture laid out in each of the rooms and am choosing paint colors), was called to the studio to work late the other night with 50 Cent. 50 Cent, which I say, "Fifty Cent" or "Mr. Cent" and Logan says, "Please, it's Fitty." and I say, "I'm white, I can't do that." I think Mr Cent would understand and appreciate my thoughtfulness. We can't all be Gucci wearing muthafukahs. (I just gave myself a hernia.)

So, during some downtime at the studio my neighbor (positive thinking!) pulled up my website (perhaps checking to see if my family would be bringing down property values in his neighborhood).

Mr. Cent came up, looked over his shoulder and asked what he was reading.

Then he said, "You know, I can't really read this. This woman curses a lot and everyone knows only the uncreative swear so much. Small minds, man. Small minds. I mean right here where she writes, 'fucking', why not 'flipping' or 'freaking'? See? Way more creative. Plus it's totally uncool to be talking trash about the Presbyterians. Hoes and Niggas, fine but leave the Presbyterians out of it."**

To sum up, Alice might have Arianna Huffington in love with her clever use of puncuation. But I have 50 Cent offended by my use of foul language.(See: ** )

*By 'reads' I mean he looked over the shoulder of someone who was reading my website and said, "What are you reading, brutha'?" (Damn writing that makes me feel extraordinarily white.)

**He didn't say any of this, but I wish he did.

P.S. The kids went to a playdate off 8 Mile yesterday. We're gritty people.

This makes me laugh.

...also choke on my tongue.

"Keeping Talent "Happy"....A Primer"

In my day

The other morning Max came into my bedroom and took advantage of the ungodly hour they both wake up these days and the fact that I was barely concious to ask if he could have a bottle of Gatorade. So I said, 'Ungh....drrrrr.....fine....keep it on the coffee table so you don't spill.'

Which, roughly translated to Max-lish, is: "Here you go do whatever you want with this bottle of red staining liquid."

And so he did. All over our ottoman and the rug. I tried to be kind but there's nothing like running from your bed to clean a red disaster.

Since I was awake I decided to have a glass of Gatorade myself. I ask you, who can't use a few extra electrolytes early in the morning? Moments later I knocked my own glass of red staining liquid all over the rug, (end) table, floor and one of Max's baby books.

Max said, "Awwww...you're supposed to keep Gatorade on the coffee table. Just like you said."

I swear things like this never happened to my parents.

Logan came home and saw the ottoman slip cover in the wash and he said, "What happened?"

I told him about the Gatorade and Max and his loose understanding of 'Keep it on the coffee table'. He then noticed the beautiful silk bound Molly West baby book (Oh please, I didn't pay full price. $19.99 + free shipping!) stained in red gatorade on the counter and said, "Oh man, he got the baby book too?"

And I replied, "Yes. He did. They never listen to me."

Unfortunate Description.

Getting suits on for some 4th fun with friends.

Max: "When I get in the pool? I get a chubby!"

Me: [Eyeballs explode.] [Tongue. Lodged. In. Throat.] "What's that?"

Max: "Like, in the front of my swim shorts. It gets chubby when I get in the pool."

Me: "You mean, your shorts fill with air when you get in the pool and it makes you look chubby?"

Max: "Yeah!"

It's times like these I'm so glad Max is headed to public school in the fall. I love the Presbyterians as much as anyone can love a group of people who eat babies in the moonlight. But sometimes, it stressed me out thinking of the things Max might say to his private school teachers.

At public school though? It's a free for all.

And you thought I was an awkward hugger.

About six years ago Logan worked on some design and marketing materials for a Pilates studio. I remember having a conversation where I said, "Pee-lah-tees" several times ignoring Logan's cringing, because I had no clue how you pronounced it. 

Today I pronounce it, "Holy Shit This Is Killing Me".

Each week I gather with my friends at Chrissy's house for an ass-kicking/pilates session. We do this because we like abuse and also because Chrissy's neighbor teaches Pilates and needs the extra sessions for her training. Also she likes to torture people.

If I were you, Internet, I'd be really upset. I'd be upset because I obviously don't care about you at all because if I cared about your enjoyment I would show you pictures from pilates class.

I wish I could, but I really like my friends and if I did that they wouldn't be my friends anymore.

Sometimes, though, when I'm standing on my hands, or when I'm doing a back bend across the back of the instructor, I think to myself, "God damn it, if this isn't content I don't know what is."

There was one day while I did some sort of ass kicking move, the instructor looked at my face and said, horrified, "Please, relax your face."

I like to imagine what the hell my face looked like when she said that, I picture Ernest Borgnine. I make that face a lot and I can't help it. You try to keep your legs up at a 90 degree angle while squeezing a large ball between your ankles and at the same time doing 100 tiny crunches and not look like Ernest Borgnine.

It's physically impossible.

It's difficult for me to do things like, oh I don't know put my legs up in a V while reaching between my legs to hold hands with my friend who is in a similar v-shaped position, without laughing. Our pilates teacher isn't all that interested in laughing during pilates.

I think she doesn't understand what's so funny about looking at your girlfriend as you perform some bastardized lamaze move.

I think she might be dead inside. Healthy and strong in body, but dead.

I seem to talk a lot while doing pilates. Things besides, "Holy Shit this is killing me."

Our teacher says things like, "No, you absolutely can do this totally impossible thing most human beings can't do, you just don't think you can."

So I find myself saying things like, "I can lift that exercise ball with my brain power...I just don't think I can."

Because that is funny and I never get tired of that joke.

I think my pilates teacher adores me.

One of the things I say a lot during pilates is, "Gee, and I thought hugs were awkward."

Hugs aren't really awkward when compared to propelling yourself through the air to perform a handstand while your girlfriends watch you being pummeled about the face by your own breasts which are not used to this direction of gravity.

Unless you give someone a hug while you do that. That's an awkward hug.

Hey, Happy Valentines Day

Logan and I aren't particularly romantic. I mean he is but I'm not.

Last night we were talking about what to do for dinner on Valentine's Day and he said he wanted to grill a steak.

He also said, 'Do not buy anything for Valentine's Day. We need that money for your trip."

I said, 'Hey it could be Steak and Blow Job Day early."

Then at bedtime Logan was in the bathroom and when he couldn't lift the soap dish off the sink because it was stuck there because I haven't cleaned the bathroom in...forever. He said, "Do you think you could clean the bathroom tomorrow?"

I said, "It's either a blow job or a clean bathroom."

He chose the clean bathroom.

I've never felt older or less blonde.

If you would like to feel especially old, go out on the night before Thanksgiving.

On Wednesday night, long known as the Biggest Bar Night of the Year, we asked our friends to come with us to Swanksgiving at the Clarkston Union. We love that place and there was to be a Johnny Cash impersonator, what could be better?

Nothing.

It's a bit of a trot to get up there and with urban sprawl, it's horrific at rush hour. But we're cool people and cool people don't care about things like a drive! Except that the weather didn't cooperate. It turned snowy and icy and in our first move as old people we decided it was too far to go for a night out.

So instead we went to Dick O' Dows in Birmingham. Where we were offered an AARP discount at entry. Not really. At first we looked normal, like the other people at the bar at least. Then around 8pm the crowd began to change.

We first realized things were taking an ugly turn when behind us there was nothing but a sea of blonde squealing girls. They all looked the same. Like robots.

I was wearing my very practical Land's End down coat because it was so cold in the bar. But behind me were girls in their underwear. Or camisoles I guess the young people call them.

It got worse though when one of the scantily clad young blonde robots asked Tom if there was room for her to sit on the same bench seat he was sitting on. He said sure, and then had to move his walker out of the way. That was embarrassing.

Those girls pushed their luck though when they suggested we might feel more comfortable someplace quieter. Like Bill Knapps!

At 8 o'clock we packed up and went to bed. But first we stopped at the store because Logan had a craving for prunes.

Suburban Bliss: Serving Soap Opera Fanatics!

While searching Google for something on this site which subtly explains the situation with my in laws, for something I'm writing for Flogging Baby, I came across this quote from a message board.

Someone had asked what exactly blogs were and this woman replied:

Don't have one but avidly read 2. Dooce.com and suburbanbliss.net

The second one is a friend of mine's sister in law who they are estranged from. She used to write mean things about her inlaws (including my friend) but stopped when she was outed by my friend. So it is like my online soap opera. I have since started to secretly like this woman and find her blog enjoyable. Just don't tell my friend.

The first one I found as a link on the second one. She is like the most famous blog out there I think. Last month she was on ABC nightly news, The New York Times and Day to Day on NPR. She is cool.

Other reports from the weekend coming soon. Including how I nearly died from urine poison on the ride back from Ann Arbor. Logan laughed. A man with the world's tiniest bladder, should never laugh as one suffers from a painfully full bladder. We met an astronaut! We were overwhelmed by the incredible mass of people in UofM's stadium. We went to a tailgate unlike any I'd ever been to before. I went to bed at 8pm!

Pictures and story coming soon.

Updated: I guess I'm not even allowed to share what other people say about my in law situation. The rules are so difficult to keep up with!

Who knew this was PARTY WEEK!

I'm going to make a suggestion, even though you didn't ask for my advice. And well you're probably not as stupid as me. After Monday night's dinner where I drunkenly posted (it took me an awe inspiring amount of time to write that because I had to concentrate very very hard), we had our Tuesday Playgroup.

Tuesday Playgroup was going so well, we decided to go to Leslie's house afterwards since her husband is out of town, leaving the children in the capable hands of their fathers. We had such a great time all the sudden it was 2am.

TWO O'CLOCK in the morning. In the hours between my 8pm-ish arrival and my 2am-ish departure I drank quite a few beverages.

My suggestion to you is to think clearly and try to remember that Wednesday is going to be a long day on just 5 hours of sleep. And it's going to be an unpleasant day when you wake up and have to shave your tongue.

Also it's going to be terribly LOUD at the God Damn Circus later that evening.

Hair of the dog? Just lots more water? A frontal lobe lobotomy? I just don't know all feel about the same at this time.

Was it worth it? Well yes but try telling my throbbing head that.

¡Son madre de los rodillos del pelo del velcro!

I had a dream last night where I was moved to nearly homicidal rage because my mother kept referring to my velcro rollers as "Mexican Rollers".

The odd thing is that 14 hours later I still kind of want to call my mom and scream into the phone, "They're VELCRO MOTHER!!!!"

Today Max has a playdate with a very sweet and nice little boy and I have an Awkward Parental Playdate with his mother, you can read about it at Flogging Baby if you'd like. Someone suggested I bring a cooking project over for us to do together. I'd like to just bring a good book and read silently while our kids play quite honestly.

I'd like to add here in the safety of my own web space: she is very religious and you may have picked up on this website that I have a cold dead place in my heart where  organized religion (before you send me email or comment, please note I did not say "where God and Jesus) would normally go. Please don't let her witness me.

Please. Please. Please. Also, please don't let her read this website.

PS. Thank you SO MUCH for all your donations. Logan decided to run for MS in the last two weeks and set his goal at a small $100. He upped it to $500 after getting a good response from his co workers and you all have helped him up his goal to $1000 and I'm sure he'll be able to get there.

Thank you.

Pillow Talk

My stomach gurgles while we're laying in bed.

Him: "Hey, is your stomach talking?"

Me: "No, it's my liver I think."

Him: "If it was your liver it would be slurring it's words."

Me: "Hmm. Maybe."

Him: "And begging for mercy from your abuse."

Me: "Right. Wearing a lampshade on it's head?"

Him: "Yes, and probably all the other organs would be saying, 'Oh God, it's The Liver, don't make eye contact. Oh my God, he's totally wasted again."

Me: "Well, maybe, but I have a feeling I know what your penis would be saying if it could talk."

Him: "Yes, I know too."

Me: "Enh....right."

Ban, extra dry.

I've been in a banning mood lately. If you give me unasked for advice. Ban! If you call me ugly. Ban! If you tell me I'm an idiot. Ban! If you tell me to get a life. Ban! I haven't banned a lot of people since I started this website, and if you take out all the in law IP's I've banned, I haven't banned very many people who are not related to me by marriage at all. The other night I got a comment, and honestly I don't even remember all of what it said but Logan read it and said, "Ban that!"

He then took a look at my list of banned IP's and said, "You have got to publish these." So here they are a sampling of some of my most annoying comments from the last 2.5 years. Feel the love!

xxx.xxx.xxx: Reality: "Count Your Glorious Blessings!" Jack Ass.

xxx.xxx.xxx: "My house is fancy! Love me!"

xx.xx.xxx: Fucker at Fucker dot com!

xx.xxx.xx: "Lighten Up Francis"

xxx.xx.xxx: Bitch@Bitch.com

xx.xxx.xx: "Freak, get a life and move on!" uh....what?*

xxx.xxx.xx: L was obviously never breastfed.

xxx.xx.xxx: "Get a real degree!"

xxx.xxx.xx: Chrissy might want to calm herself down.

xxx.xx.xxx: "Get off your ass and get a job!"

xxx.xxx.xx: "Yur kidz are ugly skanky ho!"

xx.xxx.x: "I need the naked pictures of the bliss or others!"

(*This could be in law related or preschool related so I counted it.)

Learning Is Fun

We're always trying to find ways to make learning fun in this house. Like, for example, while in the throes of 'Lice Fest 2004' we created story problems out of the event.

"How many lice does it take to make your mother completely insane?" Then we'd count them and pretty much the first one made me insane so that probably wasn't a great example at all.

We're always thinking up ways to make our interactions into a game. Since Madison has learned to write, she has taken to writing notes to us to express her negative emotions. The notes read, "You are a big fat meanie. I hate you. But I still love you." (Seriously.)

Last weekend Logan told me something which wasn't appropriate for young ears, I don't remember what it was (come up with something raunchy) and Madison was very displeased we wouldn't share.

She wrote up a note which read. "Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Or else I'll punch you."

Logan wrote back, "No No No I am the boss!"

She wrote back, "Bla bla bla bla bla bla."

He wrote back, "Fee Fi Fo Fum."

She wrote back, "Poop poop poop poop poop.

He wrote back, "I'll cover your head in snow pinky!"

She wrote back, "You're going down mister."

He Wrote back, "Get ready for a chocolate pudding bath pinky."

She wrote back, "Awhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Baby Logan. Goo goo goo."

He wrote back, "Time for a potato chip treehouse monkeypants."

She wrote back, "Time for a poo poo bath."

She's a really good writer isn't she.

Popcorn Body...Yeah!

When Logan and I first started dating, he'd just moved back to Michigan from Houston. For a few months he was living with his parents and so our sexual relationship was somewhat stifled since I was living with my parents as well.

Eventually he subleased an apartment from a friend and things really got hot!

Not really but they at least got a bit more adult. The problem was, at the time I was 20 years old and I still felt about 14-ish. So the first night I stayed over at his new apartment Logan decided to make the night 'special' by lighting candles in his room. Which is a very nice thing to do. Except I was still 14 and we have never been a particularly romantic kind of couple. Actually Logan is romantic, but I am pretty much an asshole.

So I laughed like an asshole and to this day Logan has never again lit a single candle in our bedroom.

As time went on we experimented with more things of a sexual nature and this one night we were, I don't know why, doing it in the kitchen. And for some reason it seemed like a good idea to get all oiled up.

This was before the internet for us and before I knew about Flea and the Honeysuckle Shop and latex vaginas and more appropriate forms of body oil apparently.

Logan pulled out a bottle of vegetable oil and (wow, this is surprisingly embarrassing to recall with anyone but Logan) well you know. We were in the dining room and trying to, you know, and all the sudden I blurted out:

"It smells like popcorn in here."

And it did. And it ruined the mood and we realized what a stupid fucking idea it was to put vegetable oil on one's body in an attempt to be "wild" sexually.

So we took a shower and called it a night.

Except the next morning, on the dining room wall, we found a vegetable oil butt print. Which remained for the year Logan lived in that apartment and reminded us how we were doomed to have nothing but quiet, standard, missionary sex for the rest of our lives.

Except not really. But now we use Olive Oil!

When Logan moved out I hope they primed that wall before they decided to paint it. Actually I hope they didn't and as they attempted to paint over the butt print the paint inexplicably wouldn't stick and they were all dumbfounded by the mark on the wall which looked remarkably like a butt.

Hamway IS the way.

Logan was a draftsman for a local builder while in high school and college. Some of us worked at Meijer and were attacked by rabid customers. Others of us modeled without clothes on for Life Drawing classes. Some of us even sold our plasma to finance our way through college.

Logan was Mr Brady at his drafting table.

When some of us were asking, 'Do you want fries with that?', Logan was saying 'Do you want a cathedral ceiling on that?'

One day when we were newly married, an old work friend of Logan's from his drafting days called and asked us to dinner to discuss a "business" she was starting. We were excited to see her and her new husband (even though their wedding invitation had a couple on a Harley Davidson and actually said TLA in the text. I just gagged), and anxious to hear about this "business".

The dinner is a swirl of drawings and flow charts and vague references to "The Business". I was a student at the time and my goodness! Students are great at this "business" and Logan? You're a graphic designer? Excellent because you'll be great at this "business" too! Amazing isn't it! It almost seemed like everyone could be good at this "business".

When the charts of McDonald's and the questions about my "Hopes and Dreams" started I realized AND blurted out, "THIS IS AMWAY ISN'T IT!!!!???"

Ashen.

Ashen is the color our new "business" partner's face turned.

"You've heard of it?"

Uh....yes from my brother who was really pissed he'd wasted an afternoon being pitched not even a month ago.

A few days after this I related the story of the "business" proposal to friends and someone said, "Wouldn't it have been perfect if he'd answered, 'No, not Amway, THIS is Hamway."

We went on to spray beer all over the table and delight in "The Hamway Way Of Life!"

"Ham, it's the way! Hamway!"

"I realize you can't actually eat ham," we'd say to the kosher Jew. "Hamway transcends ham! Hamway is the way!"

"You don't like ham? People who hate ham are perfect for Hamway!"

"Look, the thing you have to ask yourself is, do I want to surround myself in all white meat? Or do I want to grab life by the horns and get into ham? This is where Hamway comes in. Hamway can make your dreams come true."

Yes, well we were drunk and it was funny at the time.

I hope I've given you enough background to see why it is that when I went to Fed Ex the plans for Logan's parent's dream home I had to heartily laugh and resist the urge to pitch my cashier on the life fullfillment that only Hamway can offer, when I saw the name of the builder.

"Hamway, we build dream houses....with Ham!"

Delightfully Lost.

While in San Antonio I had planned to go running around the lovely neighborhood I was staying in. I love looking at houses and gated houses are especially intriguing to me. Did I mention that Tommy Lee Jones lives a few blocks away? Not on Lazy Lane, however, has he been in any movies lately?

I planned to run and Logan laughed. I mentioned my plan to run and Jean laughed. Oh I'll run, I thought to myself. I'll show them.

Little known fact about Texas: It's hot even in early May. It's also often humid. And the thing that makes this little sprawling neighborhood especially delightful are hills. Delightful rolling hills. Delightful humidity. Delightfully beating sun. I may have run early in the morning but I had my previous itinerary to think of: Sleep.

Instead I thought I'd take the puppy, Sophie, for a few walks. We went for long walks through the neighborhood in the evening and I spied inside gated estates and took pictures of things that reminded me of Logan. The walks were wonderful until Sunday night when I decided to take a quick walk before dinner.

Five hours later I was in Austin asking anyone! PLEASE anyone! WHERE IS RIDGEMONT!?

No really I ended up walking for an hour. I was so lost I began crying and begging the dog to 'Show me the way Girl, Show me!' But she didn't know the way because she'd been too busy looking for piles of dog crap to sniff at along our route.

The thing about delightful neighborhoods with gated entrances is that not a lot of people are actually outside and there's something about a gated entrance to a home that doesn't scream, "Howdy Y'all! Come on up here and ask for directions you idiot! Never mind that doberman, she's an absolute baby!"

Finally I came across a father and son playing basketball in the front yard and I walked up to their gate, wild eyed and sweaty. "Can you help me?" I screamed through the bars and the man told his son to go inside, she looks wild. And I was wild. I was wild with the desire to be home now.

When I told him where I was trying to get to, he raised his eyebrows and said, "You really thought this was the way to get there?"

Yes, yes I did. Actually no I wasn't sure. I saw a street sign I'd heard mentioned around the house and thought, 'This has to lead somewhere familiar.' Which is a wise thing to do when you've been in town for just 4 days and have spent over 3/4ths of that time sleeping. It's funny isn't it that I thought something would be familiar, when all I was really familiar with were my pedicured toes, the tv remote, the pool and my bed. (Oh Bed....one day we'll be reunited.)

Oddly, nothing looked at all like my bed, or the pool or even like my toes so I was lost. Badly.

The nice gentleman on the other side of the gate, which was there to protect Texans from midwestern women with sweaty brows and crazy looks in their eyes, which was wise since I really may have just moved in there when faced with walking back the way I came. About 10 or 15 blocks he said and I bit my lip to fight back the tears. Sophie looked up at me with a look that said, "You are one stupid fuck."

And off we went to find our way home. I stopped every jogger I saw and they became my cheerleaders. "Excuse me! Is this really the way to Ridgemont?"

Yes! They'd answer....just 10 more blocks! And Sophie would look up, but now she wouldn't even say anything to me, that's how disgusted she was.

I started talking to the dog publically, which I know dog lovers do, but I do not talk to animals in public. Except Logan, I do talk to him in public.

"I'm so sorry Sophie. I know I should have brought my cellphone. You can stop bringing it up now. No one is sorrier than me."

But I knew she was probably sorrier since she has four legs to walk on and that must take a lot of extra energy.

About 5 blocks from our destination Jean drove up and saved me. I never thought she'd be able to find us, because I'd started to believe in my humidity induced delirium, that I was actually not even in San Antonio. I started to believe I was in another dimension. A dimension where everyone lives in climate controlled gated estates and they don't like lost midwestern lunatics.

The thing which makes the ordeal even more annoying is the fact that on Saturday afternoon I drove all the way to New Braunfels to meet my friend Jill for lunch at the Gristmill and didn't get lost even once. However, put me on a sidewalk for a leisurely stroll around the block and all hell breaks loose. And believe me, Sophie is never going to let me forget it.

Mayonnaise Betrayal.

One of my resolutions for 2005 involved using up all that mayonnaise I bought during Lice Fest '04.

It's amazing how fast one can use mayonnaise when one puts her mind to it. It's true I can't seem to stop our financial ship from sinking, but God Damn It! I can use mayonnaise!

I've made parmesan artichoke dip, several tuna salad sandwiches as well as a few egg salad sandwiches. Logan, as I've mentioned, HATES MAYONNAISE! and he means it.

But guess what? Sunday night for dinner I slathered our chicken breasts in mayo! And parmesan cheese and italian breadcrumbs and it was so delicious. I hid all the mayo evidence and when Logan ate it he asked, "Where's all the oil coming from?" and I lied. I looked him in the eye and said, "It's just a little olive oil and some parmesan cheese."

After dinner I asked him if he liked the chicken and what kind of huge bitch am I? Because I didn't even tell him about the mayonnaise. I didn't tell him because I wanted him to read about it here when he gets in to work tomorrow and loads up my website to see if I wrote anything new.

There it will be, the ultimate betrayal. Because not only did he eat the mayo, he liked the mayo!

Next stop! Pickles!