...so I booted his ass into the ditch.

Connor has to run a trivia game in one of his classes tomorrow. I insisted that he take candy for the winners because how can a game that ends in candy be anything less than kickass? So I picked up some Jolly Ranchers for him, Nerds for me, on the way home from his hockey practice. By the way, convenience store? You're welcome for his stinky self not coming in with me.

I tossed them into his lap when I got into the car:

Me: I got a whole ton of them. Might as well give them to everyone... You can make it raiiinnn. *rainy fingers*

He: Should I stand up on top of one of the desks?

Me: Duck and cover, bitches!

He: You're gonna get a call from my teacher if I do that.

Me: I'll just tell him, "It was funny at the time!"

And then after we giggled over this conversation, he had the nerve to try to hold my Nerds hostage...

"The president is cock-blocking our vacation."

This is not a phrase I ever expected to utter, yet there I was, last Saturday on Bridge Street in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Little did we know, back in November when we started planning this trip, that, the day before we left, Obama'd be like, "Bar Harbor? I hear their lobstas and local brews are kick-ass! Count me in!"
"Uh, no, sorry, Barack. This is a family vacation," I said.
"No problemo!" he replied. "I'll bring the first-fam!"

Obviously this was not going to go well.

So we finally get to Desert Island (that's desert as in "we don't desert our soldiers!", not like, "damn, it's hot in this desert!")(okay, yeah, like "mmmm! brownies and ice cream for dessert!), and damned if Google Navigation didn't go, "Here's your hotel!... What?... What do you mean, this isn't even the right goddamn road?". So, fine, we have to just drive along the right road- there aren't exactly a lot... hmm. Detour. Off the road our hotel is on.
"Listen. Michelle, the kids, and I just need a little privacy."
"Oh, do you, Barack? You need an entire block? A block that spans a quarter mile?"
"It's not me, it's the Secret Service."
"Screw the Secret Service! This is Maine! The only thing that's going to come after you is a moose! And the Secret Service cannot protect you from a moose! Those things are vicious!"

Which, let me just interrupt myself here and say this, this situation right here is exactly why I am a map-kind-of-girl, and not a depend-on-any-stupid-gps-system-kind-of-girl. The island, in essence, has no cell reception. This is bad when you need directions, but the rest of the time? So great. You know that dude who is blocking the sidewalk, gabbing business on his cell? Not in Bar Harbor. Know that annoying middle-aged woman, yelling into her phone about the amazing view at the top of that peaceful mountain? Not in Bar Harbor, baby.

So, being our resourceful selves, we find our way to the hotel. Guess what the front desk clerk is yammering on about? Did you know that normally there are soooo many rooms available? But not now! Lots of Obama roadies! Not to mention the media! Blugh.

The next morning we head down to the Sand Bar. In Caps. This is what Bar Harbor is named for. It is a sandbar which, at low tide, is exposed, giving a path over to an island. The locals just call it Bridge Street because it is, indeed, a continuation of the road. Twice a day. At low tide. Low tide varies, obviously, but you're looking at about twelve and a quarter-ish hours between each. This means, oh, for example, 9:30 am and 10:50 pm on a particular day. This means that if you- for some reason- miss an opportunity to go, you have to wait until the next day, that is unless you want to get lost in the woods by moonlight.

We parked a block away at eight am, and walked down the road. As we got nearer to Bridge Street, I started slowing, looking at the several police cars parked in the road. We got to the corner across the street, where a local was standing with her dog.
"So... did they actually close down the entire sandbar?"
"They sure did."
"Wow."
"Yeah. It's too bad, it's his favorite walk." She indicated the dog.
"That... kinda stinks."
"Well, it's not every day you have the president come to your town!" True excitement in her voice, though I can almost guarantee she never caught a glimpse of him.
"Yeah, well, this isn't my town, lady, and this is some bullshit!" No, this is not what I said. What I actually said was a muttered "guess so", but it's sure as hell what I was thinking.

So then I went to schedule a flying-tour of the entire island, only to find out that the whole island had become a no-fly zone for the entirety of his stay.

*crickets*

Okay, that last paragraph was crap. Yes, the island was a no-fly zone, but the hell if we have the kind of money for a plane tour.

In honesty, we had such a great time at Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, and the president's visit actually impacted us very little, other than what I already mentioned. Lots of "Welcome Mr. Prez and Fam" signs everywhere. The mini-golf offered "free game if your dad is the president"*. Obama/Biden '08 signs. Just some "yay to you for coming" stuff.

*Barack Obama is my baby-daddy.

Blackhawks WIIIIIIIIIIIN!

Woohoo, bitches!

P.S. Not a single person had an answer on the braille band-aids? Mother hell. For shame.

And this is just the stuff I remember because I dug through my old chats with Cassie. Probably I should get a diary.

Most of the time, in this house, I am not involved in the better conversations. Sometimes, sometimes I am blessed enough to be a witness. Frankly, even when I'm part of the the conversation, I'm still usually just a witness.

Rule number one: Ethan is always a participant.
Rule number two: The conversation is always just two people.
Rule number three: Usually, the second party in the conversation has to be doing something completely unrelated to anything, especially whatever Ethan is doing at the time.
Rule number four: It must be quiet.
This is because these are the conditions in which the true Ethan emerges.

Connor is drawing a monster. Ethan is creating his own... whatever. Probably a diorama. That's how he rolls.
Ethan: Is it a man-eater?
Connor: Yes.
Ethan: Good. I'm a boy.

Sam, short on time and temper: Now you guys get out in this hallway and pick up your clean clothes and fold them and put them away!
Ethan: Good morning!
Sam: Good morning!
Ethan: Guten Tag!
Sam: Bonjour!

Ethan: Oh, Daddy, you're wearing your wedding ring!
Sam: Yep.
Ethan: Do you always wear your wedding ring?
Sam: Sometimes.
Ethan: You sometimes always wear your wedding ring? That doesn't make any sense.

Ethan: Mommy! While I was going to the bathroom, I figured out there are 22 letters in my name!

Emily: Pohtahto is just a stupid, fake way of saying potato.
Ethan: Nuh uh! The guy on Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares says it that way!

Sam: Hoohoo! Hoo hoo hoohoo!
Ethan: Raaawwwwrrrrr!
Sam: No! I'm making bird noises.
Ethan, deadpan: Tweet. Tweet. I tawt I taw a puddy-tat.

Ethan, eying a banana suspiciously: Bananas don't deserve to have stickers on them. ^rip^

Ethan: (Uncle) Jason asked me to get him a soda.
Me: Okay.
Ethan: And I did.
Me: That's good.
Ethan: Connor told me I should shake it.
Me: What'd you do?
Ethan: I didn't shake it.
Me: Good decision.
Ethan: Because it's not good to put soda on the ceiling. Or Jason's face.

Ethan: When is Father's Day?
Sam:Next weekend. But Father's Day isn't as important as Mother's Day.
Ethan: Why?
Sam: Moms are just more important.
Ethan: Well, you're special to me, Daddy!

From upstairs: BAM!
Me: What was that?!
Ethan: Nothing!
Me: Did you break some-
Ethan: NO!
Me: Whatnow?
Ethan: Why would you think I broke something?

Emily: I promise.
Ethan: Right hand to god with your left hand in front. And don't cross your toes. And don't cross your eyes and don't cross your arms and don't cross anything!

Ethan's playing with a batman colorform set. Connor comes over, peels one off, re-affixes it.
Ethan: What are you doing!?!?
Connor: Fixing it. He was upside down.
Ethan: I know! I put him upside down! He hit his head!

And this sampling doesn't even include times when he manages to debate an adult into a puddle or when a conversation is going on around him, him seemingly completely ignoring everything but what he's super-concentrating on, then suddenly pipes up with an opinion that he truly shouldn't have.

You want to know what really went down at any given time? Ask Ethan.

I am so not overreacting.

As a good parent, you're supposed to monitor your children's computer activities. This is what "they" say, right?

Well, anyway, part of the new protection software that Sam installed for all our computers was monitoring software. Which we don't hide. In fact, the first thing we told the children upon them getting computering privileges was that we were monitoring every single thing they did- every single keystroke! Which was a total lie- by the way, free parenting tip- lie to your children. Seriously that "never lie" stuff is bullshit. There are some times that lying is not only the "easy" choice, it's the right one.

Where were we?

Spying. Right.

So he installed this software, and I figured it would be limited to monitoring their internet use. No. Apparently it informs on everything. And I'm not really sure how I feel about that. I mean, I do know how I feel. The only thing I really need to know about is whether they're giving out personal information or talking to strangers on the internet. Guaranteed? These kids are going to be doing things that I do not like. On and off the computer. Guaranteed? I absolutely did things that my mother did not approve off. But it didn't harm me. I am alive and healthy today. I swear.

So, yes, I want to know what they're doing online. Out of pure curiosity, I of course want to know what else they're doing. Who here wouldn't want to see every iota of what their spouse does? And then kill them for it. So it's probably a bad idea. Same thing goes with kids. I know Connor swears (yes. he has me for a mother. you can all just shut up.). But he's smart enough not to do it in front of me. And I'm okay with that. Because- and here's that defining line- it is not going to harm him.

And this is not denial. It's not "out of sight, out of mind". It is the fact that they are separate-and-apart-from-me human beings. And as much as I want to be up in their business at every possible moment, growth requires space and freedom.

Thus! I take that step back.

Most of the time. I'm also nosy as hell.

So I scanned Connor's internet use when Sam first presented this new ability to me. And it's searches for cheats (for video games, people!), searches for online games, nothing surprising...

And then.

"Well this just pisses me off." I stabbed my poor laptop monitor with a finger. "Oh... no...", Sam said, peering at my screen. There, glaring up at me from a list of benign search terms like "poptropica" and "hulu", was the offense.

"how do you get the peanut butter crackers on big nate island in poptropica"

What. The. FRIGGIDY.

Anyone remember this? My own child! How could he!

There will be blood. There WILL be blood.

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.

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:

*My friend Cassie thinks it has something to do with the amount of swearing in-front-of/at my mother that I do. The crap here is me censored, people.

This is my blog. Welcome! It's not terribly popular, which is fine because then I'd feel some obligation to write something of quality and also on a regular basis. And, honestly, maybe I do have time for that, but I'm far too lazy. It would definitely cut into my lazy time.

That does not mean I don't pay attention to what's going on with it, though. I see how many times it was visited in a day, I see what people are reading, I see where they're reading it from (both physically and how they found me). Mo Diva- obsessed with food, this girl, but totally dedicated to thoroughness on said subject- sends a lot of traffic (the good kind) my way. Also, I pay attention to who is following me- I do check your sites, just in case you don't use the stalker software I do. (By the way, Andy? For clarity, your "hoo haw" and my "hoo haw"? We're totally referring to different things (assuming I ever mention my hoo haw). Let's not get these things confused, okay?)

I'm related to close to half of my over a dozen followers, so it doesn't take a whole lot of "paying attention", but I noticed a while ago a new picture appeared, but the number hadn't changed. Eh. People change their image. No big deal.

I looked closer today. Y'all? My mother unfollowed me. This? Will be a rift bigger than that between Candi and Tori Spelling! How dare you unfollow me! (Shut up, Cassie, it's not a "technical issue".) I'm not sure what I did*, lady, but you are never seeing my children again! Also? I'm taking all my sisters with me! (They're totally going to take my side on this completely rational issue.) You will be stuck with just Dad to talk to! How do you like that, huh?

Ahem. Sorry about that... to Dad! You can come, too, except you never read this blog (which is a good thing because he might make me take down the bat video) so you won't know about this trouble... Wait... You never read this blog! You get to stay with Mom! Is a little loyalty too much to ask from family? (Don't answer that, Cate.)

Because god forbid we don't try to put our mother over the edge with our constant fighting.

Ethan: Yeah, well you can't do that, Connor. (Because god forbid something comes to pass without our making a comment.)

Connor: Ethan! MYOB! (Because god forbid we speak nicely.)

Ethan: What does that mean?

Me: Mind your own business.

Ethan: But I wanna to know!

Car: Beeeeeeeeeep! (Because I just face-planted into the horn.)

Okay, technically it was only 1:56 am.

Emily got invited to her first sleepover. The party was Friday. Now, while she has no problem asking for help from me or Sam or any of the assorted grandparents, she hates inconveniencing other people. She'll just suffer in near silence, having her feelings and soul crushed. (She puts up with heinous behavior from other little girls- name calling, yelling, that general make-you-feel-bad-to-make-me-feel-better crap that girls do from the age of six until... how old are some of the bitches I deal with again?) For that specific reason, I kinda drilled it into her to go and talk to the mom if there was a problem and that she could call me whenever she needed, even if it was two in the morning.

I dropped her off and gave the mother of the birthday girl my home and cell numbers, for that just-in-case. Also? I wanted to puke. Hand to God, I'm not a clingy mom. There are times when the kids are visiting with their grandparents that it doesn't even occur to me to call them for a couple of days. But I just had images of Emily dealing with some of those satan-girls (for the record, not the birthday girl. Emily loves the birthday girl and several of the others. It's simply that there's only about seven girls in her whole class so they are constantly grouped together, plus there's an odd number of them, plus, for real, some of those girls are nasty.) and them being cruel and then cruel and then cruel some more.

To make it worse, I blame myself for her being this way because what are you supposed to teach your children? We are nice to everyone. We don't call names. If someone is being mean, ignore them. If there is a real problem, tell an adult, and they'll take care of it. Which is all complete BS. It's not how we handled bullies when we were kids and it's not how kids successfully handle bullies now. Words hurt, people can be jerks.

I don't want to turn her into a bitch. I don't want her to get in trouble for lashing out when someone is mean. At the same time, if I were her, I'd want to grind my fist into someone's face if they talked to me the way I've heard girls talk to each other. There's this fine line between standing up for one's self and becoming vicious. If it's hard for me to see, how can I expect an eight-year-old to walk it?

So I stop myself from giving her a list of names she can use when another girl is being mean. I stop myself from calling other little girls names that I want to call them. I stop myself from teaching her to lift her tiny little middle finger. I tell her that girls will be nasty her whole life (because it is true). I tell her that true friends don't make you feel bad (because it is true). I tell her that she doesn't have to be friends with someone who is mean, just to be friends with someone (because it is true). I tell her that putting up with someone being mean just encourages them to treat you like crap more- because, and this is the part I hate most, it is true. Yeah, honey, that lesson that I taught you at three? The bit where I said "be nice to everyone, even if they're not to you, because maybe they'll learn to be nice back"? Totally a lie. When your teacher tells you you're supposed to help others be good, encourage them to be quiet when they're supposed to be quiet, encourage them to put their stuff away at the right time because "we're all responsible for each other"- when your teacher tells you that, she's lying. You're not the police force of your class. She is. "Helping" others like that, it's not going to help you. You can't make other people be good enough for the whole class to get an ice cream treat. So long as you are good in class, baby, I'll give you that ice cream. You don't have to worry about being in charge of other kids. (And, folks, this is just the tip of the iceberg in what I see as problems with her teacher. But that's another rant.)

But, right, back to the party. I should never have said the "even at two in the morning" thing. I made my own bed with that one. That's when I was stumbling around, trying to find clothes to go pick up my baby that hadn't yet slept. To my odd relief, it wasn't because people had been mean (they had, but she was a trooper). Sleeping birthday girl had rolled over and was in Emily's space. And the television was on. She simply could not sleep in those conditions. (And she was scared and the only one awake and not in her own house.) Isn't that how most first sleepovers end?

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?

I've Escaped My Fate, Yet Again!

Alternate title: Jesus Loves Me, This I Know, for my Children Don't Curse Like Pirates

Ethan comes down the stairs while getting ready for school, half dressed.

Ethan: Mommy? Emily said a bad word.

Balancing my desire to not have them tattle-tale and my need to handle the children, Me: Okay. What word did she say?

After a pause, Ethan: The S-H word. The one you told Connor he couldn't say.

In my head, Me: Oh dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Suddenly, Ding! Outloud, Me: Shutup?

Ethan: Yeah! To me!

Me: Oh, I'm sorry. She shouldn't have said that.

Walking away, Ethan: Yeah.

Ethan Had to Bring Home a Note

April 1, 2009

Dear mom and dad,

I am sorry. I cald out. I was not following
directions. I was being rude.
I got detention. I climbd up the slide
I was throwing toys. I copyd a kid.
I got a card in my pocket. Love Ethan......

But it didn't end there. Side two:

Re: Re: Yesterday's Post AKA The Hissy Fit

Hopefully this blog does not suddenly become popular in my hometown. I'm about to talk about someone else's kid. No names, but probably I'd still be pissed if someone did about mine. Screw it, though. This is blog-worthy.

I mentioned how Connor's team lost their first game. This kid on his team, let's call him Abe (because no one is named "Abe" anymore). So Abe, to show his chagrin whenever a goal was scored against his team, would kick the bench side of the boards with fervor (after all, what is the point in having an emotion if you're not going to get attention for it?). Now, I'm not sure at which goal his coach finally lost his patience. It would have been goal one if it were me. But from across the ice, I could hear him yell, "If you do that ONE MORE TIME-" at which point the crowd was noisy enough that I couldn't hear what the consequence would be.

Luckily, Connor was coming off the ice right at that exact moment, and had to wait while Abe responded to the coach. (I say luckily because Connor was well positioned to be my little gossip-fairy... er... gossip-ogre?... whatever, something masculine.) From my point of view, Abe tossed his arms up in the air in what looked like a shrug and tilted his head to one side. Apology accepted?

I stopped paying attention at that point until about five minutes later when Abe- during a pause in play, to his credit- skated across the ice into the opposite corner. What the crap? Six men on the ice? And then the door slammed... he had left the ice.

This DOES NOT HAPPEN. Even if you are thrown out of the game, you stay on the bench. Or, at the very least, the ref signals why you've been expelled.

So I accosted grilled questioned talked to Connor after the game. The bits I didn't hear from the bench:

Coach: If you do that ONE MORE TIME, you are sitting on the bench for the rest of the game!
Abe: Ha! I'm first line! SHUT UP!
Coach: I am your coach! You cannot talk to me like that! That's it! You're done!

At this point, Abe threw himself into the corner of the benches away from the coach and proceeded, according to Connor, to call his whole team a bunch of "effing a-holes", which, by the way, is Connor's censoring and not Abe's. He then expelled himself from the game. Like I said, emotion without getting attention is totally pointless.

Re: Yesterday's Post

So! Connor had a hockey tournament this weekend. The short of it: they played well, they were way outclassed, they did not make it to the playoffs. The long of it: Last weekend, we discovered that the goalie on Connor's team seemed to play better when he was ill. My brilliant idea was that his parents should keep him mildly food poisoned for every game- sorry, kid. So long as you play like a rockstar and don't lose your food, you're a-okay in my book. This weekend, he had been saying he wasn't feeling well. The first game, they lost. They lost something awful. Six to one, in fact.

Hang on, hang on, let me explain how this whole thing worked. [Editor's note: I just deleted this whole paragraph. I bored myself, even.]

Gah. So they lose the first game... next time I'll tell you about one of the hissy fits. The second game, however, was as good as any NHL game. It ended two to one, our team scoring their second goal with five seconds left in the third period. Holy hell. (For those of you who don't know, there are only three periods. See why that was so exciting now?)

Remember back when I said the goalie wasn't feeling well? And that, so long as the food stayed down, no worries? Well, he puked all over the hallway in front of the locker room twenty minutes before the game. His mother way overdid it on the food poisoning thing. One of the other boys jumped in and played goal, keeping it scoreless for a period and a half. This was against a team that had won their last two games 7-0 and 6-1. So the kid, having never played goalie... it was frickin' amazing. Yeah, then they scored five goals. *sigh* No playoff round here.

Connor was great, though. He's far from top on the team, this being his first year playing competitive on ice. His coaches, though, call him an "animal" and say he "has heart". He falls on his ass a lot, but he never gives up, and to hell with the fact that the kid he is opposing outweighs him by half again. He'll take him into the boards anyway. This, his father taught him. He also leaves the game on the ice. There are no hissy fits, no pouting when he loses and no pomposity when he wins. This, his mother taught him. And this paragraph? This is why I'm so proud.

I didn't even get a cupcake!

Last week was the birthday of one of my managers (I have a ton of managers). Someone, a better friend to her than I, made cupcakes for her and decorated them, one letter per cupcake. Before I left work, she offered cupcakes to my kids. I stood there, staring down at the cupcakes. I needed three that were identical. Eye-Den-Tih-Cul. Finally, I found three "A" cupcakes. Score.

I present the cupcakes after dinner.

Connor: I got an A.

Emily: I got an A.

Ethan: I got an A!

Yes! Avoiding the annoyance. Now, let me be clear, had I not been able to find matching cupcakes, I'd have told them to just deal. That or they could all lose the cupcakes. Whatever. I don't deal with that crap. But! Why have to even tell them to deal if I can avoid it? So! Thirty seconds later:

Connor: I have a V! (Listen, I'm not going to explain how this happened. You can figure this out and I will not belittle you.)

Emily AND Ethan: What??? I have an A! How did you get a V? I want a V! (What??? You want a V? What the hell for? WHY?!?!) Can I have a V instead? Why does he get a V and we both have A's?

Connor sat there and snickered. I glared at them. I told them I was not explaining it to them, either. If they couldn't figure it out, they deserved the A's.

Wii Hissy Fit

So. The Wii Fit. The... video game. Yeah. Video games should not hand your ass to you, much less your sore ass. And thighs. And also, it's rude! The board- the board- made some jab about me tripping while just walking. This was after it gave me crap for my BMI- said it was fair and then trashed me anyway, frickin' thing. That was after it weighed me and blew up my mii, just expanded it on the screen- not a lot, grant you, but really, does any woman want to see a representation of her balloon even a little? Frankly, if it's going to be attacking me from the get-go... I just don't need that kind of pressure.

This thing has games. And by "games" I mean "one to two minute trials that make me feel fat, lazy, and somewhat whale-like". I admit, some of them are fun- right up until the end of the round where it actually says "uncoordinated" on the screen. The hell? Screw you, meanie bully video game.

And then there's also this whole test where you have to hit a soccer ball with your head, which supposedly has something to do with balance, but I don't know what getting hit in the head with cleats and panda heads (panda heads!) has to do with me showing that I have the ability to stand on my two feet.

There's also breathing. A section on breathing. There is a timed, scored section on breathing. Did you know it's okay to breathe out through your mouth but you really should breathe out through your nose? So they say, but you don't get a higher score for it, as they haven't made a controller small enough to fit up your nostril. Yet. So, really, if they're not going to give me more points, then I see no reason to do it their way.

But! It's not a waste! There are bonuses! (Other than the supposed health benefits and weight loss. We'll see, cruel exercise board.) There's a "bank". That bank keeps track of my minutes. And when I have collected enough minutes, I get a prize! (More workouts. For God's sake. Kill me.) No matter the prize suck-mastery, I'm still a winner!

From now on, anything that needs to be hauled up from or down to the basement will be packaged in boxes light enough to be carried by six year olds.

'Nuf said.

...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.

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!"