UPDATED (already): I finally post a picture of one of my kids...

...and this is what you get.

Connor apparently "dropped" a stick on Ethan's face? The question mark- and also my confused nose wrinkling- is because, yeah, I don't get it, either.

Well, anyway, here's the result:

Yep, it starts just under his eye. And, yes, I did make him hold still while I went searching for the camera. One day, when he's scarred, this is the image he can use to burn some shame into Connor. Or, I don't know, give him credit. Scars are "manly" and men are strange creatures.

UPDATE: Here it is, less than two hours later:

You Can All Just Leave Your Keys Right Here in This Bottomless Pit

I know that anyone who reads my blog is too smart for this information. Perhaps, though, you could just send a link to the people in your life to whom you know this advice pertains.

And, for those of you who arrived at this post through a link in a friendly email or perhaps after following a url from a crumbled piece of paper shoved hurriedly into your hand by a well intentioned if not all too subtle relative... they didn't mean you needed to read this... yeah. They meant they were sure you knew someone who knew someone who should read this for their own good... right. Uh huh... maybe you could just take a quick skim-zy over it anyway?

So, let's say your driving along a highway. For simplicity, there are, on this highway, two lanes of traffic headed in the same direction, this is the direction you're headed, too! There are many, many signs along the road. They say something along the lines of "55 (or 65/75/80) STATE SPEED LIMIT". For starters, let me interpret "STATE SPEED LIMIT" for you. This means "I will make that little arm on my speedometer hit said number". I know it seems like what that sign is saying is "limit means no more than, so just make sure you do 55 or less", but that's not what it means. The "or less" must go. Holy hell, just hit the speed limit. If you can do fifty, you can do fifty-five. Why? Because I goddamned said so.

(For those of you who are now yelling at the screen, "Fifty-five? What do you mean fifty-five?! They should be doing over that!", okay, I get what you're saying. Shut up now. You're scaring your family with your incoherent screaming. A? I'm not advising anything illegal (regardless of what I do in my own life) because the hell if I'm gonna get sued because some moron can't identify a state trooper when they see one. And B. Isn't it enough that I'm just getting these assholes up to the limit? Plus, I'm about to give the more important advice, so settle down.)

Okay, class. Eyes over here. Back to the highway. You are now traveling at the speed limit. Of the two lanes, which one are you traveling in? The left lane? Wrong, Johnny, sit the hell back down. The right lane is for normal driving. The left lane is for PASSING. What's passing? That's what the rest of us are currently doing to you. Or would be, if some other idiot- and I'm not naming names, *cough*JOHNNY*cough*- wasn't in the left lane keeping pace with the right lane. Let me explain further. Have you ever wondered why there are so many other assholes out on the road? Why they all seem to come flying up from behind you, ride your ass for a minute, then veer out from behind you, into the right lane, get ahead of you, only to veer back into the left lane? That's because they aren't the assholes in this scenario. They're hoping you will suddenly come to your senses, then, within a minute, they've learned their lesson, and have to get around you by passing on the right. Get the eff out of the left lane! Are you passing someone? No. This is a highway, not a free-for-all. Move. Over. Now. The interesting thing about this part is this is not just common sense. It is not just basic decency. It is not just a regular courtesy, some made-up rule that the rest of us abide by because some how we are in sync with each other. In a ton of states, it's an actual law. And it's not even one of those pesky ones they never tell you about. The have signs. They post those signs- at regular intervals, even. Sometimes that sign seems to be more apparent than the speed limit signs I kindly pointed out earlier.

So let's say, now, class, that you are driving the speed limit, you are in the right lane. You are approaching a car in the lane ahead of you. They have not listened thus far in the lecture, and are traveling at a less than reasonable speed. What to do? Change lanes? Okay, that's right- and you'll move back to the right lane after you've passed the other car? Good, good. Now how are you going to change lanes? (You know what, Johnny? Don't even bother giving me whatever stupid answer was going to come tumbling from your pie hole. Just go stand in the corner.) The correct answer is, "I will not only signal my lane change and check my blind spot, I will make sure I'm not about to cut off a car that is already passing in the left lane, especially if that person has chosen to do so at a higher rate of speed than I." You can signal using these lights on the outside of your car that are wired to that little stick thingy that sits behind the steering wheel. They let the other drivers around you have the slightest bit of warning before you pull some jack-assed maneuver. Your blind spot is this little space just back and to the side of your car that you cannot see using your rear view mirror- you do use your mirrors, right?- so you must actually turn your head in order to see this area. I know, I know, actually using muscles within your body to do anything besides flip someone off seems like a lot more effort than it's worth. Give it a shot, though. It might save you something in insurance premiums.

Okay, that's it for today. Next time, we will discuss how allowing someone to merge in ahead of you in traffic does not make you less of a man, why it's impolite to keep your brights on when you're behind someone, what to do on the highway when there are three lanes of traffic (god help us all), and why you do not always have to lead the pack. 'Til then, turn in your licenses and stay the hell off the road. Thanks in advance.

If I Offended You with the Jesus Face in the Pepper, Don't Read This One.

While cleaning off the black hole downstairs desk, I had to sort through the kids' school papers from the last two years (shut up). In doing so, I came across another gem from Emily from first grade. You don't read First Grader, you say? No problem, I'll translate.

My Gerbil Gerby by Emily	My Gerbil Gerby begs a lot. He makes tunnels a lot, too.

Sometimes he drinks and eats a lot, too.	But I like him. He is good to me.

Uhm... I mean... at least i think I got that last bit of translation right. Maybe he really is God to her. (Er, was. Germy Gerby has gone- to heaven, bitches!- now.) She did capitalize the "Hem", after all.

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.

Six Word Saturday

See Cate run.

Due to circumstances beyond our control...

This is Another Post About Accents

Every year, the local kids' soccer association hires a couple of soccer "professionals"- the quotes are because, honestly, I don't know what makes them professionals or if they really are or what professional what they are- to come in for several days and give all the kids some really good coaching before the season begins.

The really nice part about it? They're always young British men. Yay for accents! Yay for soccer bodies! Okay, football bodies, since I assume they were developed in England. Interestingly- but not surprisingly- one of them told me that coaching American fifteen year olds was the equivalent of coaching 8 year olds in England. This was one of the coaches from last year- a beautiful man, oh so lovely- fun to listen to and to look at!

This year, the guy is not so beautiful. Okay, if I'm being honest mean fair, I wouldn't even notice him in a crowd. But he has the accent, and damned if he doesn't also have the soccer calves. (Football calves?) And as a supportive mom, it's my duty to sit through practices- until the Brits leave, anyway.

Yay for soccer!

Hey, yankees? Y'all have annoying accents, too.

I spent a good chunk of my childhood in the south. As a navy brat, moving around a lot has given me an odd accent. Now, by "odd", I don't mean you hear me and think "this bitch is nuts!"... okay, you might think that, but not because of my accent. It's simply of indeterminate origins. That being said, my father retired and we moved up north and I was teased from moment one for my southern accent. So I fixed it. I scraped every bit of south out of my voice- all except "y'all". There is no good northern substitution.

The second exception to my "no twang" rule is when I get really angry. When I have lost all semblance of a temper- really, really pissed, which seems to happen less and less as I mellow with age (yes, this is me mellow)- Ah will poke mah fingah in youah chest as I screahm in youah face. (And, honestly, my accent is not nearly as genteel as I just represented.) This results in Sam grasping his sides and rolling on the floor with laughter. This leads to him grasping his sides and rolling on the floor with pain from my kicks to his ribs.

Exception number three! When I listen to a southerner, whoops! The accent pops right back out if I'm not paying enough attention. It's not heavy, but it is sometimes noticeable. This is seen as patronizing, unfortunately, when I am speaking to someone who doesn't know me. (There is the occasional customer who maybe gets a little insulted.) Two of my sisters have maintained a slight drawl, and when I talk to either of them, Sam instantly knows. "You just get off the phone with Christine? Your southern is showing."

This all leads to the reason Connor is now grounded for the rest of his existence. I was watching Ruby today. "Come on, Connor!" I whined. "If we just pick things up instead of leaving them lying around, this clean house would be easy to maintain!" Maintain, however, came out mahyntahyn. Little brat jumped on that quick.

"Mahhyyntahhyyn? Mahhhyyyntahhhhyyyn? Right, Mom, let's mahhhhyyyyntahhhhyyyyn the house."

"Run. Before I kill you. Quick like a bunny! Go hide!"