There is No Title That Could Make This More Spectacularly Awesome.

My kids. They left cookies and beer for Santa.

Not the First Time I've Said It, Apparently

Going down to the basement, I find that Connor has, having claimed to have put some pottery pieces into storage properly, actually left them spread across the floor. This causes me to yell up the stairs, "I'm gonna kill your son!"

Ethan, without a second's hesitation responds, "Which one?!"

What do you mean, Jurassic Park isn't appropriate for first graders?

Remember Jurassic Park? Remember the little girl? They're sitting, waiting for the t-rex to emerge, attracted by the bleating of the goat. "What's going to happen to the goat? He's going to eat the goat???" The pansy, jerk lawyer makes a comment about her eating lamb chops. She responds, "I happen to be a vegetarian."

Ethan thinks on this a moment. "Maybe... the t-rex... is a vegetarian."

The Hospital Would Have Been Pleased with a Non-Turkey-Related Injury to Fix

Did you know (and this is going to be a really big revelation here, folks) that if you inflate the tires on a dolly, it actually works better? Sam, father-in-law, and brother-in-law found this out the... easy way? I dunno, what do you call it when someone decides to make his own life easier rather than harder? This, of course, was only after they moved the first 300 pound tree stump up the hill. With flat tires. And swearing. That qualifies as the hard way, I suppose. The easy way almost turned Thanksgiving Day into ER Day when Sam was practically run over when they started up with the second tree stump, envisioning the same resistance.

Also, I helped. You know, in that way you see the wife on the sitcom "helping", making the husband repeatedly move the sofa around the living room in search of the perfect arrangement. Only I did it at the top of my voice from the driveway. Plus sarcasm. And some snark. And maybe the bent over at the waist laughing my ass off didn't help the situation. But, hell, someone has to oversee these operations.

Now the zit is hiding in the folds of her clothing.

Emily had a shiny red rhinestone star stuck to the tip of your nose. "Oh, Emily," I sighed. "You've got a zit on your nose again."

Sam responded in the norm. "We'd better cut it off."

I, in vague response (because I was staring at a daddy blog). "If that happened every time we had a zit on our noses... well, I guess it'd just have been that one time each."

Emily looked back and forth between us, one eyebrow raised. "So... why do you still have noses?"

This type of crap is an everyday occurrence.

Deep growly voice, chanting: Eat a tur-key-LEG! Eat a tur-key-LEG! Eat a tur-key-LEG! Eat a tur-key-LEG!
Connor, stalking after Emily. I don't know why. But it's stuck on repeat in your head now, too. You're welcome.

Doesn't Matter That She Made Up the Name. Get It Right.

Emily and Ethan are playing, Emily holding her stuffed monkey Ookie (oo-key).

Ethan: Hi, Oakie!

Emily: I'm OOOHkie!

Ethan (because that kid's quick on his feet): I'm British!

It's Called a Play on Words

From Connor in the back seat of the car, reading a sign on a store: Make your own sundae... If I could make my own Sunday, it'd be longer than any other day of the week.

From Connor when we get home: Help! I can't get out! *banging on inside of his own door* It won't open! Getting out after I have ignored him and gotten out myself, he finishes: You'd be a lot more fun if you were gullible.

My kid can kick your kid's ass.

Television news anchor quoting someone online: always remember that no matter what obstacles stand in our way, nothing can stand in the way of the power of millions of voices...

Connor: Except the electoral college.

They Mark That Hundred Feet for a Reason

I was shocked by the utter disappointment I received from the kids when I announced last night that I was going to go vote after I dropped them at the bus.

"But you always take us!"

Dang. Okay. My cup runneth over with pride. Or something.

We arrive at the polling place, and there's no line. Be jealous. Of course, the genius behind the desk, after Sam spelled out the first three letters of our last name three times, declared that we were not listed. So I went ahead and flipped to the next page for her and pointed out our names. That little code at the bottom of the page, the one that shows "BRA-BRI", that can be confusing. I mean, shouldn't a "BRO" name fit in there?

So no line and two booths for our district meant that Sam and I got to vote at the same time. Connor went in with Sam, and Emily and Ethan with me.

"Okay, so this first thing is a referendum. It's kinda long, so I'll explain it to you in the car. We're voting 'yes'. That X? It shows me that I chose that one. Flipping this little thing reveals the X. The rest of these, the top shows what we're voting for, and then the choices are lined up underneath. This is for state congress, and this one (blah blah blah, this crap is even boring me, so skipping ahead) ...Now this very first one? That's for president. See? Obama, McCain, McCain, McCain, Obama, Obama, then a few other people that are running."

Emily and Ethan, in stereo and loud, "Barack Obama!"

Holy crap, we're going to get arrested.

Also? I Hate the Word "Panties".

I decided to try something new for dinner, so I took a big girl pill (or, as my sister says, pulled on some big girl panties), and tried a recipe that I found online (on a site that looks totally reputable, and also funny). The big girl pill was not trying a new recipe, but trying a recipe that leaves my comfort zone of cayenne, cumin, and smoked paprika, and into the land of warm fruity main dishes. In fact, this site called in a "bowl full of fall".

Okay, I tried. I really did. I'm sure someone (lots of someones) somewhere (lots of somewheres) would like it. None of those people live in my house. In my house, it was a bowl full of disaster. The level of food-fiasco was directly proportional to the amount of it left in the bowl. And it was made perfectly. I am just not a fruity-sweety-main-dish kinda girl. Apparently neither are the rest of them. (Especially not the boys, I guess. They're not even fruity-sweety-main-dish kinda boys.)

So now my beloved Alton wants me to eat the healthy snack alternative, edamame. And I want me to eat the healthy snack alternative. What's more, I want to introduce my kids to the healthy snack alternative. After all, if you teach them to like something when they're young, they don't have to overcome that hurtle when they're older and less flexy in their likes and dislikes. But, damn, I just can't seem to find those big girl panties anywhere.

It's Like Yoplait With Those Damn Yogurt Lids

So a certain company is offering what they consider a great, generous donation. "1 coupon* = 1 meal". Huh? Oh! For every coupon I use (from the generous company) they donate a meal to the worthy charity! Wait. What's that asterisk? Let's read further. For every coupon I use from a specific flyer, I "actively help GC donate a meal through WC". What's "actively help"? Where the hell is that asterisk?

scroll scroll scroll

* Coupon value to WC equals $.0625.

How the hell do you feed a person on that???

God, We Work Well Together

It's the kind of thing that only happens when you're already running late. I dash out the door to the garage, only to come up short because Sam's car was still in its space, Sam sitting behind the wheel. Just as I'm trying to figure out why he is still home when I had thought he had left ten minutes before, I notice the neighbor dog in the driveway.

"Oh crap!" I yell, and jump back into the house, slamming the door shut. It's not that I don't like the dog. He's kinda cool, always friendly. Frankly, he can't hold himself together. He gets too excited and jumps all over me and himself, falling and whimpering because he's so excited. This means his doggy smell ends up on my pants and hands and blouse and hair, so I go around smelling like mutt for the rest of the day. Not what I intend for work.

So I crack the door back open, and start yelling at Sam. I'm not entirely sure whether he can hear me (yes I am), but I figure my loud voice and frantic waving will highlight the gravity of the situation.

"Get the damn dog!" I scream, pointing behind his car. Sam starts the car. Big Puppy tilts his head, curious. "No! That didn't work! He's still there! Get the damn dog!" Sam taps the horn once. Big Puppy wags his tail. "No! Still there! Geez, I need to go to work! I'm late. Get. the. damn. DOG! And why are you still here?" I take a step out the door, and Big Puppy takes notice. Crap. I duck back in.

"I need to go to work, too!" comes Sam's response.

"Yeah!" I say. "Great reason to get the damn dog!"

"He accosted me at the mailbox. I've been petting him for ten minutes." It's a little muffled by the glass, but I know this is what he has just confessed.

"So this is your fault? Screw you! Get the dog! I'm late!"

He finally gets out of his car and goes to the dog. When I see Big Puppy move away from Sam's open garage door, I swing the door open wide, and make a run for my own car, not daring to open my spot's garage door until I've made it safely inside. I get my car door open, and Sam says "He's behind your car now." He's way too calm for his own good.

"Well, get him the hell out of the way! C'mon!" I get the garage door open and my car started. Sam gives me the okay absolutely no signal, and I start backing out, praying to not run over this dog. Sam has still given me no indication as to where this dog is, and I hope my first is not a thump-thump. So slow slow slow I go. I finally get the car pointed in the right direction, and there is Big Puppy, standing thirty feet away.

I'll kill Sam when I get home. I'm running late, right now.

Adventures in Soccer Attendance

As we were standing at the counter at a snack bar, the man next to us, searching for the English term for "hot chocolate" from his native Spanish, asked for "a choc-oh-laht", a decent compromise of "chock-lit" and "chock-oh-lah-tay".

This stuck in my brain (of course), and, as we were walking to the car, I started singing a song from Dora (because I'm cool like that), which consisted of "Baté (bah-tay), baté, chocolaté. Baté, baté, chocolaté. Mix the chocolate, chocolaté...". I ignored the what-a-dork sneers my kids shot me.

We climbed into the car and everyone started securing their seat belts. I start the engine, and Ethan pipes up, "Wait! I'm not buckled! Buck-oh-lah-tay!"

Upon coming home from another soccer game, I said to Sam, "Connor took a ball in the junk."

"Yeah? Was he wearing a cup?" He turned and looked to Connor.

"No. Noone wears a cup. My junk is fine now."

"Yeah?" Sam said. "Well, you might not always be lucky. One day you might want to have children."

Ethan, across the room, scoffs. "He couldn't have children anyway! He's a boy!"

Thank You, Honey. That's Just What I Wanted Immortalized.

Connor, to Sam, who just stuck the frayed end of the lace of Connor's hockey skate in his mouth in order to moisten it, thereby aiding him in maneuvering it through the eyelet: You shouldn't do that. You don't know where it's been.

Sam, with his nose wrinkled: Now I do.

I am (not to be confused with "have") a little behind.

Also? Connor should totally be an architectural engineer, yo.

Can You Imagine What Happens When I Lose a Receipt?

Sam is at the computer, dealing with finances (read: harassing me about receipts from four months ago because he doesn't know whether the purchase from quikcheck should qualify as "groceries" or "eating out" or maybe a little bit of both, and, if so, how much of each and this is really important and could I please do a better job at keeping track of these things? Can't I just remember what I purchased in May?)

I am lying in bed, reading myself to sleep.

Sam is staring at a transaction from the bookstore. "Okay, you said it was two books."

"Two books. One is mine, one was a gift. They were the same price." It feels like we've had this conversation before. Twice.

"That's doesn't make sense. If that's true, then each book cost $12.20."

I look up curiously from my book. "That's not right. Books end in point-nine-nine or point-nine-five. Sometimes kids' books end in point-four-nine. Your math is wrong."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, yes it is. Is that without tax and with our discount?"

He gives me the stink-eye. "Yes, twenty percent off."

"We got thirty percent off." I return the stink-eye.

"Oh." clickity clickity clickity "Nope. Still wrong. They could not have each been the same price. Because then they would have been $13.94, and you just said that wasn't possible."

I get out of bed in search of the damn receipt. "I'm going to kill you. In your sleep. Don't fall asleep first tonight."

It's Called the Tub, Dummy.

Ever catch your finger nails in the little holes that are on the inside of the washing machine when you're unloading it? Hurts like hell, right?

No?

Just me then?

*sigh*

I suck.

Umm, At Least Ethan Knew It Was A Living Green Thing?

Sarah: And don't wrinkle them up! I just ironed them!

Connor: Okey-dokie, artichoke-y!

Ethan: She's not an artichoke-y!

Connor: Yes she is. She's an artichoke dressed up as a grown up.

Ethan: No, she's not! An artichoke is a frog!

Connor: *scoff* No, it's not! It's a fish!

Not That Tony Shalhoub Isn't Hot

Sam and I sat watching the preview for the upcoming season finale of Monk last night. It featured the latest guest star.

Sam: Who hasn't been on Monk?

Me, after short contemplation: I haven't.

Sam, after his own contemplation, with a slight look of disgust: That was unnecessary.

Damn. I must be losing my touch. I hadn't even tried for the double entendre.

Way to breeze over the concert you're going to in a couple weeks.

I have no life. Yeah, yeah. Loving husband, great kids. Check and check. I am wife and mother. Also, I'm kinda cool, and kinda funny, kinda sometimes. And, also? I'm even better with alcohol. Of course, my husband is the only one who gets to enjoy this side of me. This is because, while my schedule if filled (which is particularly surprising because only a dozen of those hours are currently of the paying variety), it ain't with anything fun for me.

Coming up? We've got soccer. And pictures for soccer. And hockey. Oh, and more hockey. There are those nights at PTA! Doctors appointments- which we will come to, by the way.

Oh, wait! There are those couple nights a week where I close the place down, baby! And by close the place down, I mean I clock out at midnight, and my boss sets the alarm as we walk out the door.

And the most shocking thing of all? I'm totally satisfied. (Holy crap, did you know it was possible that a mom could be satisfied? Without prescription drugs? Totally true.) The thing that bothers me about my lack of social life in the extreme is that it doesn't bother me.

Probably a sign of deep depression.

That I will blame on my husband.

Because that's the kind of bitch I am.

Lego Should be Capitalized. It's a Registered Trademark.

Ethan played his cute card. He went all Bambie-eyes on Sam, and convinced him to build a lego star wars ship for him. Unfortunately, this is never an easy prospect in this house- other than that first time it comes out of the box. And that, of course, is assuming the box hasn't been open for more than five minutes.

So I got roped into digging through containers and containers (and containers) of legos. We need a piece that looks like this, but it has to be gray. No, light gray. No, not that light gray, this light gray.

Two hours later, I buried my head in the container on my lap. Sam patted me on the back. “I have hate,” I muttered. “That seems like a bad thing to have,” he said back. “You made this hate!” I pretended to be working under the impression that he would not be able to hear me unless I yelled. “I don't think that's possible,” he said absently. I pulled my head out of the box, lego stuck to my forehead, and glared at him. “Or, maybe it is,” he responded to my look.

I looked around at the tens of thousands of bricks that surrounded us. “I can go now?” I asked. “Well, no, we're not done. I still need your help.” I put my glare back on. “I can go now?” After a short pause as he analyzed my mood- “Yes, ma'am.”

Aftr that I went in sid. but ladron I sall a deeyr but i didint no that I was goonu see deeyr.

Kids, at least in our area, are encouraged to write organically. That is to say without pesticides. Or maybe it means that they write out words as they think they should be spelled, concentrating on getting their ideas on paper rather than worrying about spelling and sentence structure. (Those requirements happen, just at a time when it won't squash the creativity.) It certainly leads to interesting reading, and, if nothing else, trains you to read lolcats.

An excerpt from Emily's past writing:

Rabits look for food wen its trneyn n to wintr. rabts breng thet food in to ther borows. You fiynd them sumtiyms. Rabits are sumtiyms hormlis krechrs but rabits arret owes hormlis krechrs. Rabits are fiyn if you be kerfol. Duks. Duks fliy sawth for the wintr thay riley dount like the cold thay hayt the cold it is bad for them.

A question then presents itself. Exactly what must one avoid doing to keep those damn rabbits from going on a rampage?

And I Just Can't Live Without You

Emily and I were in the kitchen the other day. As sometimes happens when a song is running repeatedly through my head, out of nowhere I sang "Baby come back!" Emily immediately responded with, "You can blame it all on me!"

I was, as any mother should be, immediately delighted that my daughter would know even a single line from what to her would be an obscure song. That was until today, when I was watching television. Seen the latest advertising campaign from Swiffer?

Cows Taste Better

Sam goes to the grocery store. He brings back, among other things, a can of sardines, a can of tiny shrimp, and packs of tuna. This is probably in part due to the fact that I do not buy canned meat of any sort, so our diet is lacking in what is apparently haute cuisine.

The kids are trying the sardines. I'm proud and disgusted at the same time. Ethan is excited and pleased by the little fish. Connor enjoys them, too. Emily is not impressed, but eats her sardine without complaint. Connor and Ethan ask for more. And more. They move on to eating them on crackers.

Ethan holds one of the sardines between his fingers. He's actually holding half a sardine. He flicks the tail with his finger. “Look! A fin!” “That's right. That's its tail,” Sam tells him. “And you can eat it!” Ethan responds, before sucking it into his mouth.

Emily decides it's time to convince everyone that the sardines are bad. “But you're killing them!” “They're already dead,” Sam tells her. “Yeah, but don't you feel bad about killing them?” “You eat steak!” I respond to Emily. “Isn't it better to kill fish than a cow?” Sam asks her. “Uh uh,” she replies. “Cows taste better.”

Sam pulls out a pack of tuna. Ethan is excited, but the other two have never been fans of canned tuna. When Sam first mentions the tuna, Connor asks if it is fresh, and Sam says no. Connor and Emily at first refuse to try it. Sam, of course, says they must try. They do, and they are all pleased- so much so that they finish the rest of the pack on crackers as well.

They move onto the dip made from cream cheese, tiny shrimp, and cocktail sauce. Ethan is not happy with the cocktail sauce, but the other two enjoy it. They've never liked it before.

The session ends when all the pre-packed, pre-cooked seafood has been slapped on a cracker and devoured. I learn my lesson. Screw cooking.