I know I've had too much to drink when TLC gets me in the feels.

I was watching Sister Wives on TLC, and these women were, to represent their relationship(s), physically positioning themselves in reference to their husband- and essentially only in reference to him, and it's all awkward and some of them don't know where they should be, and there's a moment where one woman uses herself to link their husband to another wife (which is more than telling in itself), and another ends up behind him, and they wonk themselves into place, both so to speak and literally...

And then the husband says something along the lines of, "Well, fine, but... this is a family. And how does this work if I were to die? Because this is about all of you in relation to each other."

And then I teared up because, seriously, what the hell, ladies? Don't you get that the goal is a cohesive family, not you all as satellites to this (supposedly) reluctant planet? And shouldn't you, as the polygamists, grasp this better than I, the one who is pretty sure to cut a bitch, given the right ratio of "skank-flirting-with-my-husband" to "level-of-my-drunkenness-plus-proper-girlfriend-who'd-have-my-back-depending-on-how-many-friends-skank-has"? Math is only sometimes my strong-suit, but I'm pretty sure it's sound, here.

Spellcheck does not recognize the word "epilator". It would prefer "depilatory", "ventilator", "dilatory", or "mutilator". All are oddly fitting.*

Today, ladies and gents, we are delving into the world of epilators. We begin with a brief explanation of just what an epilator is (I do have one or two male readers, I think). It is a hair-by-the-root removal device. Too brief? Let me elaborate.

This is a torture device, fit for baby rapists and puppy bakers. Only I could never do this to another human being, even if they were a baby rapist or puppy baker. It's inhumane. This is coming from me- a woman who would gladly slit your throat and watch you bleed through your grasping fingers if you were to ever touch one of my children. But I would not use an epilator on you. You're welcome.

It took me weeks to get through the first pass. I could only ever bring myself, when venturing from the knee up, to do the smallest area of skin at a time, and once I had finished a patch, I had to skip the next night. I could not mentally take the pain two days in a row.

There is all sorts of hell to be found between my knees.

I'm sort of proud of that sentence. I'll let it soak in.

The inside of the knee is just about as sensitive as it gets. I would hazard to say that it has more pain receptors than the inside of the elbow or even the philtrum. It's obviously not the most tender part of the body (gee, Sarah, glad to hear that), but it's by far the most sensitive place from which I will ever remove hair.

Truth be known, it's so much easier, months later. When epilating, I can feel it still, below the knee, but it only registers as a tiny pinch instead of "I'm pretty sure this thing is actively searing my skin off my body." (This is not an exaggeration, by the way, because there were times that I did stop, just to be sure that I really wasn't actually ripping skin off. I would tentatively move the epilator out of the way with "please god, let it still be skin and not raw flesh" chanting through my mind.) Above the knee, it's still not fun, but I no longer have the tourettesy outbursts that caused the paint to peel from the walls and the children to go running from the room, legs scrambling frantically through the air like Scooby-Doo characters trying to gain traction.

And the results? I like it muy mucho (Aladdin quote, anyone?). I'm even willing to wear skirts and shorts in public. Sam is so pleased that, whenever I venture into this realm, he brings me wine and painkillers. More wine? Can I refill your glass? The pain killers kicking in yet? He's also not so scared of snuggling with me at night- no cheese graters under the blanket to defend his own legs against.

All in all, a winning choice. I just had to wait for the blood-red haze to die away to see it.

*It is depilatory; you think you need a ventilator while using it because you are going to die; I was very dilatory in completing the job because ohmygod the agony; and, well, mutilator, no explanation needed there.

I admit that the song is catchy. At least, it's better than a lot of the other crap they play- also ad nauseum.

Scarlett Johansson was on Ellen today- singing. I didn't realize she was a singer. Sam's response was something along the lines of a muttered, "She fancies herself a singer like all the rest of the actresses, huh."

But apparently I did know she was singer because once she started the song I realized that it was, indeed, from a CD that my store plays ad nauseum (this is latin for "until I (yes, me, specifically) vomit"- appropriate because that's what I want to do the third time this song comes on in a single shift).

During the follow-up interview, Johansson's partner in the duet album gave his reasons as to why he chose her to work with. This is when Connor piped up with, "It's just because she's hot!"

So later this evening, I was telling Sam about the fact that I knew the song, and I finished up with:

Me: Oh, and Connor thinks she's hot.
Connor: Am I not allowed my opinion?
Me: 'Course you are. I just find it funny that you find a woman older than your mother "hot".*
Sam: #snort#
Connor: Age is just a number, Mom.

*Okay, yes, now I realize that she is, in fact, five years younger than me. I think this undeniably qualifies as beside the point. Also, it ruins the story. And she looks older than me. Or at least more used. Whatever. Just shut up.

The Damn Dryer Was Giving Us Trouble Again

For some reason, the lint trap isn't very good at the "trapping" bit of the equation. This means that every once in a while, I boost Sam into the attic and he has to hot-foot it over to the vent, reach up into the roof-line, and pull a small quilt out of the little bird-blocker screen. The first time we did this, Sam discovered that the geniuses that had installed the vent hoses in the attic for the dryer and the two upstairs bathroom exhaust fans decided to be generous with said hosing, allowing them to coil on the "floor" of the attic. This led to those loops being full of water. And by full, I mean a gallon of water each. Yeah, not exactly useful in the "exhaust" department.

Anyway, we did the attic gig a few days ago, but the dryer has been more picky than usual, deciding periodically that, no, it was not ready to start at the moment, so bugger off and maybe it'll give it a shot later. So we figured that maybe it was time to take the thing apart and give it that cleaning that you're supposed to... every year? I dunno. We've done it once, ever, and the thing is eleven years old. And the only reason we did it that once was because the belt had to be replaced. It's one thing to never clean something you have to crack open, it's another thing to have to crack it open, look at the mess, and still decide to not clean it. So we pulled off the back, pulled out the start of the exhaust line, cleaned all that mess and scored thirty cents. Not bad!

Finally we pulled off the front to reveal approximately four thousand legos, a couple buttons, an enormous quilt, a poor poor motor with fur like a bear, and! Drum roll please! Another $7.59 in change!

Well worth the effort. Oh, and we got the dryer running again. But, hey, almost eight bucks! It was like Christmas.

No, seriously. I do not care about your opinion.

So! Recently, we've had a bout of H1N1 up in this hizouse. Or not. Who knows. What I do know was Emily got a big-ass but short-lived fever, a little bit of tired, and a slightly longer lasting cough. No belly pains, no lethargy, no dehydration. Several days later, Ethan followed suit. There and gone. From what I can tell, this either was or was not piggy-flu. So I am going with it was, and the rest of us developed the proper anti-bodies from the exposure. So, yay! All immune! Or not. Because it doesn't matter anyway. There is no vaccine to be had in our area, and even if it were, I'm not entirely sure I'd be willing to take it out of the noses hands of people who are at significantly greater risk than we. Also? I'm not looking for opinions here, so you just go ahead and marinate yours in your delightful noggin.

So what the hell is my point, you ask? Just this:

During Ethan's aforementioned illness, he was belly-down on the floor, playing a board game with Connor.

Sam: He's not getting this whole "sick in bed" thing.
Me: Yeah. We're gonna have to teach him, I guess.
Sam: We could cut off his legs. That'll keep him in bed.
Ethan: No, that'd keep me right here.

Because that's just how this family rolls.

I Like My Coffee Like I Like My...

Let me preface this by saying that Sam neither drinks coffee nor grew up with anyone who did.

Yesterday morning, Sam decided to make me coffee. This was the third time he attempted it. Through trial and error, watching me, listening to me describe the process, he pretty much had it figured out. Still... something was wrong.

Me: You didn't do it right.
He: Yes I did!
Me: Thank you, it's really nice of you. But you didn't do it right!
He: You know, I'm tired of this! I did it exactly the right way! I put the water halfway between min and six on the "water" side! I put four scoops into the filter, I hit the "on" and "1-4 cups" buttons! I did it exactly how you told me to!
Me: Okay, I hear you. But it's not right! It's too dark and there's not enough! If you had put in that amount of water, it would be filled to here. I've done this a million times and it doesn't look like this when I'm done.
He: I did it the right way! The only thing I didn't do was change the filter. Do you do that everyday?

At that point, my eyes got wide, I put my hand over my mouth, and I'm sure my face paled. This was my fault. Out of sheer laziness (time honored tradition of mine, well documented in this blog), I never replace the filter in the coffee maker until the next morning when I'm making the next pot. But, really, I think of "replace dirty wet paper filter full of yesterday's coffee grounds" as an instruction the same as "close fridge door when finished putting milk in". A necessary, but completely obvious, step. I pulled myself together.

Me: Um, yeah. I change out the filter everyday.
He: Oh, okay. I didn't know that. That explains why it looks different.
Me: Thank god I just made coffee yesterday and not three days ago.
He: I think I would have noticed mold in there.
Me: Yeah, I'm not really sure you would.

Also, it's not safe to climb the basement stairs slowly in the dark. You have to run. Or the ghosts will get you. Not that our house was built on...*

So, let me preface this by saying that I cannot sleep at night with my feet uncovered because gremlins will grab my ankles. That's right- gremlins. Not that I believe in them, but it's still true.

Last night: I am awoken by something slithering up my nightstand. Here, right at moment one, is where Sam's and my accounts differ. I say, upon seeing something move in the dark, I yell, "Oh, shit!" and launch myself over Sam to his side of the bed with him yelling and acting like somehow I'm overreacting. He's saying, "Just turn on my light, okay?" and I'm saying, "Are you kidding?! I'm not reaching over the side of the bed! Your side isn't any safer than my side! Do it your damn self!" Sam says I am fast asleep, sit bolt upright in bed, then proceed to crawl down to the end of the bed, around his feet, up his other side, then curl up in the fetal position, refusing to tell him what was wrong nor responding in any manner whatsoever.

Who are you going to believe?

I finally gather up my courage and take control of the situation and turn on his light because jeez, what a wuss, he couldn't even turn on his own light? There, blowing back and forth in the breeze from the ceiling fan, is one page from the magazine sitting on my nightstand. I plop a novel onto it to hold it still, triumphant.

"Ooh, honey. Your puzzle book is going to get you."

"Whatever. Something was gonna eat my face and you did nothing about it."

"Your... magazine? Was going to eat your face?"

"You didn't know."

*...an ancient cemetery or anything. It was farmland. So maybe it's cow-ghosts. Whatever. Is being trampled by ghost-bovine-hooves any better? No. Not that I believe in them, but it's still true.

Oh my god in heaven, before the man loses his everloving marbles...

Remember? Back a loooong time ago? When I said my husband used the term "meditatiate"?

For clarity to all two dozen people who read said post, he did not make up the term "meditatiate". The woman who was babbling on television had used some form of the word meditate so many times that she fell over her own stupid tongue and used the term, herself. He's losing his mind thinking all my millions of readers thinks he, like I, make up words. He takes no issue, however, with how the rest of the post portrayed him.

M'k, honey? I luvesy-wuvesy-dovesy your crazy ass.

I am, in Fact, Typing This From the Roof

A few weeks ago, Sam and I noticed some damage to the ground all around the downspout of the front gutter. It goes directly into a drainage pipe that runs underground for... well, for the sake of brevity, let's just say forever and all distance. Point being, if it's clogged up under there, and the water is backing up and damaging the ground like that, our front yard is screwed. And so are we. Because we'll be digging up the entire distance from our house to the road. Or maybe we'd have to shove some kind of scope or rooter or something down there. Except that it's sealed up, downspout to drainage pipe, where they meet. So we'd have to ruin that, first. Or something. I have no idea. It just all seemed like it was going to be horrible.

But then came the good-news-bad-news situation. During the next heavy rain, we looked outside and discovered that the water wasn't backing up. It wasn't going through the downspout at all. It was pouring like mad over the edge of the gutter. So, yay! No damage to the underground drain! But, crap. It's blocked up at the roof. So we've got to go on the roof. Which we've never done. In the almost four years we've lived here. Because we have no way of getting up there.

Have I mentioned the bit where Sam's afraid of heights, and I'm terrified of falling?

We purchased an extension ladder for this express purpose, and this is where we discovered the downfall of living on a double-directionally-sloping lot. It was near impossible to get the ladder positioned with any stability to reach the proper spot of the gutter on the back side of the house (we did, though, and Sam discovered all was clear upon mounting the ladder- woohoo!), and was quite literally impossible to do so in front of the house.

Flash to the argument scene. Sam throws the ladder up, gives it a shake. I yell and show it lean precariously to one side with a single foot placed on the bottom rung. Sam shoves a rock under one leg of the ladder. I yell some more. Sam repositions repeatedly. I yell again. Sam gives it a shake, gets both feet on the bottom rung, I threaten to not hold the ladder in any way because I am not participating in this sham of safety and there's no way he's not going to fall anyway so I might as well not be under him when he does.

Anyway, we figured out that there's no way in hell to get to the bad-pain-in-the-ass-trouble-making-gonna-have-to-kick-it-repeatedly-if-only-I-can-get-to-it part of the gutter without actually climbing on the roof, so we might as well go to the flattest part of the ground and climb from there. This was okay because, in an interesting bit of team work, Sam was willing to work from the ladder but not climb on the actual roof, whereas I could not work from the ladder but could happily walk all over the roof like a mountain goat on acid.

Envisioning the absolute nastiness of a clog that a full waterfall from the gutter would entail, I demanded a glove and something pointy, which, to Sam's mortification, I promptly shoved into the waistband of my pants. I could see him imagining me gutting myself on it. Then he'd be a widower with three children. It was his turn to yell. But, really? There was going to be yucky stuff. And possibly bugs. The pointy thing was going up the ladder with me, one way or another.

I climbed the ladder, staring straight ahead. I got to the roof line, staring straight ahead. I contemplated how I was going to hoist my ass over the top of the ladder and onto the roof. It took a bit, but I managed to get on the roof. Oh! And safety stuff. I was totally safe about it all. Harnesses and ropes and... stuff... Don't yell at me, Mom and Dad.

I climbed over the peak of the roof, down the other side, got close to the edge, peered into the gutter. Nothing. Not a single leaf. The entire length was spotless. Huh. I moved right to the corner of the roof. The hell? There, settled right into the mouth of the downspout, perfectly wedged in, was a tennis ball. ("Oh," said Connor, later. "I wondered why that never came back down.") It was damn good on my part that I didn't leave my pointy thing behind because I needed it to lever the ball out. Then, because I'm me, I threw the ball at Sam.

After one or two more bits of maintenance things on the roof, I sat down, top of the ladder before me. Crap. After the trouble getting from ladder to roof, I had no idea how I was going to get roof to ladder.

"Coming?" Sam asked.

"Don't rush me!"

Jubilation!... Right?

Emily was in desperate want of a CD player, and I promised that the next time we went somewhere that sold them, I'd get her one. Steel trap, her mind is when it comes to promises. She had one within two days.

Grasping it to her chest like gold, she and I caught up with the boys at a music/movie store.

Sam, looking suspiciously at the obvious money expenditure: What's that?
Emily: Mommy bought me a CD player!
Sarah: Traitor.
Sam: What for? Does she even have any CD's?
Sarah: She has some audio books.
Sam: Well get her some Simon and Garfunkel so I don't have to play it in the car for her anymore.

I found her a greatest hits set, used, for twenty bucks. She proceeded to learn every song.

Fast forward to a few days ago in the car. Emily is singing random non-word nonsense.

Sarah: If you're going to sing, make it something real.
Emily, singing: Cecelia! You're breaking my heart! / You're shaking my confidence daily! / Oh Cecelia! I'm down on my knees! / I'm begging you please, to come home!

As she continues singing, Sam suddenly grips my thigh. In my mind, I begin to fast-forward through the lyrics. Unfortunately, Emily beats me to the problematic bit.

Emily, singing: Making love in the afternoon with Cecelia / Up in my bedroom! Making love! / I got up to wash my face / When I come back to bed / Someone's taken my place!
Sarah, screeching: PARSLEY, SAGE, ROSEMARY, AND THYME!
Emily: That's not in this song!
Sarah: Well, sing this other one instead.

Yes, I am aware of how much trouble I'm in for in the future.

Not a Six Word Saturday- also, Holy Crap, Y'all, I'm Back!

However, this post is inspired by Cate, nonetheless.

We built our house several years ago. It, therefore, did not have any landscaping. This leads to a lot more discussion for us about trees than I imagine the average couple has. Of this, much discussion falls to evergreens. For the most part, I don't like them- some, yes, I do like, and I even see how they are the best choice in certain situations. But, honestly, frickin' evergreens are frickin' everywhere. Sam can identify a hundred different trees, half of which are evergreens. (And Sam's world depends on things having the correct labels- things need to be the "right" way.) Partly because I can't be bothered, partly to annoy Sam, I refer to them all as "pines". So, yes, even when I know better, every evergreen is called a pine. And he wants to kill me when I say it. And that's completely the point.

I worked a lot of hours this week, about double my normal schedule. I had almost no free time- hadn't even turned my computer on. Finally getting a night off, Sam and I ended up at the mall on Friday. As we're walking through, Sam made some comment about the "Things Remembered" kiosk. Which I did not understand. So he talked a bit more. And I did not understand. He finally got exasperated, "Haven't you read Cate's blog?" To which I replied, "Are you effing kidding me? When?!?! When could I have done that?!?" He finally explained that bit, then went on to demand that I get on and comment on the fact that Cate said bugs slithered. Bugs don't slither, you see. They have legs. They can't slither. Legs! When I pointed out the he, himself, could have commented to that affect, he said he had indeed done so.

Me: And? What did she say?
Sam, annoyed: She said something about "in her world" they do.
Me: So? Then what am I supposed to do?
Sam: So you need to tell her!
Me: Tell her what? It's her world, her blog.
Sam: But that's not right! Bugs don't slither!
Me: Look, honey! Pine trees!
Sam: Son of a bitch!
Me: You know I have to blog about this now, right?

My Poor Husband

I have a slight obsession with underwear. That is a really weird sentence to type. And, no, I don't mean in a fetishy kind of way. Get your mind out of the gutter. See, I hate clothes shopping. No really. I do! And, yes, I am female. And listen, ladies- jewelry and shoe shopping does not count as clothes shopping. Clothes shopping is where you go into a store, have to find articles that might fit you, take them into a dressing room and- get ready for it- try them on. Shoes and jewelry fit everyone, okay? It doesn't count. Sure, they might be out of your size in that particular shoe, and maybe your foot is too wide for it, or maybe you're not into toe cleavage (for real? toe cleavage? what has our society become?). But unless your mortal soul gets crushed by the experience, it's not clothes shopping.

Where was I? Right, the underwear. When I do garner the strength to torture myself- read or see The Da Vinci Code, by the way? I'm not sure what I did wrong, but shopping for clothes should count for as much penance as what that albino did to himself. Right, right, sorry, back on topic. When I am ready to torture myself, I go whole-hog. This trip to the mall will take a long time, and I will not talk to you in the process. Really, either find my size in the thing I'm looking for- no, thanks, I don't want your suggestions- or get the hell out of my way.

So! When it comes to bras and underwear (See? We found our way back.), I don't futz around with store to store blah blah blah. There's the one store that I bother with. You know the one- they apparently think they're some sort of fragrance boutique, followed up by what they assume college girls wear to bed, and then, after wading through that crap, you get to the underwear. And they have a credit card. And you don't have to carry the credit card, just for your information. All you need is your social security number and your driver's license. This is probably a bad thing. But, whatever. And the reason they have credit cards is because their products are so damn expensive.

And we've made it to my point! I spent way more than I should have- not going to say how much, but will say that I bought ten items at once- and used the credit card! Which is fine because Sam, thank god, is really good about paying them off before any interest accumulates. Except he paid it off immediately. Like, before any bill came. Which means I lost that money out of my little play-money account long before it was absolutely necessary. Total suckage.

But this is where we get to the title of this post. Sam decided that, in fairness, my expenditure should not wholly come out of my mad money because his underwear purchases never come out of his mad money. This should get him some praise. I understand that. And I know, logically, that he is being really cool about it. After all, his underwear comes five to a package for, I dunno, twelve bucks or something. Whereas mine is more a "dining out in an expensive restaurant" price. So, I get a huge chunk of money for me to go spend on complete crap that's just for me, when I thought I had already spent it? Way cool. Do I go that way? Of course I don't.

Sam: I just figured since I don't spend my play money on my underwear, it's unreasonable for you to have to spend all of yours on yours.

(Did I mention where I spent all of my money on underwear and a couple pairs of jeans that day? Because I did. Like I said, whole-hog.)

Me, after a pause: But... none of your clothes purchases come out of your account.
Sam: Sure they do.
Me: No. I buy all your clothes. You've gotten every single new item as gifts recently. So, really...
Sam: As GIFTS! For my birthday and Christmas! Are you serious? You're going to make this an issue?
Me, in my head: Shut the eff up, Sarah. Shut up. Shut up. And get that nasty look off your dumb face. Be a grown up. He's being generous and you know it.
Me, outloud, mustering all my strength: I am not going to make an issue out of this... Thank you...... but you still don't spend any of your play money on clothes.

Hey, I did my best.

Graffiti That Teaches

This happened in December, so it's not very timely, but is still amusing. Bear with me.

All over our village, someone has decorated the stop signs. They've added "war" under the "stop". Now, this is a message I can get behind, but really? Every frickin' sign?

So we're driving through town, and I point this out to Sam. "We'll see what the next president and congress do," he says.

Ethan pipes up from the back seat. "I hope they don't draw on our signs because I'll be like, 'What???'"

...which explains why we're down to ten ornaments.

Our Christmas tree stayed up for a long time. A long time. And not because it was pretty or I'm religious. Just lazy. And then Sam said something about "fire hazard" and pulled the ornaments off and threw the tree out the door. (Fifteen minutes later, Connor came back in from shoveling the sidewalk bearing an ornament. Being the me that everyone loves and adores, I had to mock Sam and then he pointed out that I've likely thrown ornaments out every year myself. I've seen no proof.)

The stupid happy-birthday-Jesus tree left forty thousand needles all over the carpet (I know, I counted), and Sam decided to try to murder my vacuum with them. So I grabbed the broom and dustpan. So Sam wanted to trump me with the shopvac. Only, our shopvac is also a leaf blower- aka a blow-the-melted-snow-out-of-the-garage-er. This had been its most recent occupation. So the triumphant slamming down of the shopvac next to the pile of needles that I was constructing was mildly less triumphanty, due to the fact that the shopvac was, indeed, missing the motor. Anyway, by the time he made it back in the house, toting the leaf blower (which was still its current composition) I had already scooped the majority of the needles into the garbage bag held by the ever useful Ethan.

Needing a reason to have brought in the leaf blower, it became a way of drying Ethan's already dry hair and clothes. Which was fine with me. But then he turned it on me. Which was decidedly not fine with me. So then I decided to shake the excess needles off the broom. Over Sam's head. Because I'm that kind of bitch mature. The entire scene was melodically accompanied with Ethan's cries of, "Battle! It's a battle!", while he jumped up and down, cheering.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."