Attracted To Shiny Things

Letter to my 4 year old self

2014-09-29T20:17:00.002-05:00

Hi cutie! You don't know me, but my name is ....... That's right, we have the same name! Now, listen to m...no, I don't want to see your underwear, I need to... I don't care if they have flowers on them. Anyway, what I wanted to....FINE! Show me your freaking underwear, but then you're DONE, got it? You listen, I talk. Yes, those are very pretty, very grownup. Oh, that reminds me. When Jimmy Saunders asks to see your underwear next year, YOU SAY NO! And then you kick him in the nuts and run like hell, got it?

Now, where were we...sweetie? Sweetie. SWEETIE. Look at me, not at that shiny bike, forget the shiny bike. Next weekend you're going to fall off of it and rip your knees to shreds anyway. Plenty of time for that. Now, this is important. To you, it's 1971 and you have your whole life ahead of y....what? No, I don't have a dog. NO! I DON'T HAVE A CAT EITHER! If you must know, I had two, and they both died. If you're smart, you will never own a cat because all that will come of it is a cuddly furry best friend with a wet cold nose who knows when you feel sad and lonely and she jumps up on your lap and purrs really loud and licks the tears off your face and she lets you hug her even though everybody knows cats don't like to be hugged but she lets you because she gets you. You know what I mean kid? SHE F*CKING GETS YOU! Then she dies.

Now, you need to listen to me, 'kay? I have some very impor.....What are you...stop sucking your thumb and alternately rubbing your cheek and nose with your index finger at the same time!!! That makes you look crazy, don't you know that??? If you don't stop sucking your thumb your dad is going to yank it out of your mouth at 4:30am every day for a year, and it will f*cking HURT because your teeth will...never mind sweetie. Just don't let him catch you sucking your thumb.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes.

You're going to do some stuff. A lot of it will be stupid stuff, or funny stuff, or stuff that nobody else would ever do or even think about doing. So this is just a heads-up and no, I'm not going to tell you to change anything, because then you wouldn't grow up to be the AWESOME person you end up being. So you...what? I just do, ok? No, I'm not telling you how I know because then you'd go and tell your parents and you'd end up in some kind of mental hospital and I don't wa..I mean you definitely don't want that, do you? Oh, that reminds me. We never met. *sigh* Of course I know we really are meeting, but you can't tell anyone, got it? Or I'll come back and beat your ass. Just kidding. Not really.

Ok. Short and sweet. You're going to pull some bonehead moves. And some super funny moves. You will have some bad memories because of this, but you will also have some pretty funny memories too. Who knows, you may even end up writing about those awesome memories.

And indeed they are awesome.

1. That cute boy in 2nd grade will not fall in love with you just because you run past him a lot at recess and then pretend to faint in front of him. He likes STACEY.

2. When Stacey moves away in 3rd grade, it still won't improve your chances of being Mrs. Michael Nimmonsky.

3. When Mrs. Murphy tells the class that she's going to swat anyone who forgets to do their homework, she means it. It's best not to test her.

4. Not everything you read or hear about is going to happen to you. This includes, but is not limited to: going blind, going deaf, going retarded, being stung to death by killer bees, becoming posessed by the devil, being trapped in a burning skyscraper, being kidnapped or being targeted for death by costumed people in sharp cars.

5. You are going to want glasses so badly in 3rd grade that you fake your school eye exam. Horribly. Your parents will decide to punish you by forcing you to wear your mom's rhinestone cat's eye glasses from 1963 all evening. When they finally say you can take them off, you will not eat dinner because you are too nauseous. They're going to feel bad but won't let you know. Savor it.

6. You can have a lot of creative fun by picking a bunch of white wildflowers such as daisies, and putting them in every single glass your family owns, after you have dyed the water different colors, using up all of your mom's food coloring.

7. It is not a good idea to do this on the Friday before Easter.

8. Speaking of Easter. DON'T. Just Don't. Seriously. You'll be scarred for life.

9. When your grandma tells you to stay out of the hen house because you might scare her baby chicks to death....believe her.

10. Grandma Josephine will love you even when you do kill the Easter Bunny and 10 of her baby chicks.

11. When you steal your uncle's class ring and then give it to your school principal as a token of friendship, you will get caught. Be ready.

12. When you are home alone one day, you might want to have fun making 10 glasses of lemonade and dying them all different colors, because you want to see what purple lemonade looks like. You should admire your handiwork, and then dump it all down the sink, because when your mom sees what you've done, you'll have to drink every glass.

13. Your mom will eventually decide that she will not be leaving you home alone anymore. This puts a crimp in your plan to make Baked Alaska because you read about it in a Bobbsey Twin's mystery and baked ice cream sounds AMAZING.

14. You can solve problem #13 by simply not telling your mom about the Teacher's Institute that one March day in 4th grade. You know only 2 things about Baked Alaska. It consists of ice cream covered in merengue, and it is baked. Your lack of knowledge regarding oven temperature, baking times and merengue recipes will not deter you from "just winging it."

15. When you are 10, you will spend an entire day scrubbing burnt Baked Alaska from the bottom of the oven. Your mother never finds out. Until the day she reads about it in your blog.

16. You cannot walk a cat. Especially the feral cat that you catch in the backyard when you are 9.

17. No cat likes to be dragged by it's homemade ribbon leash. Especially the feral cat.

18. Those cornrows that looked so awesome on Bo Derek in 10? Yeah, well this is East Peoria. You are going to get teased. A LOT.

Ok kid, did you get all that? Good. What? Oh, I'll be back, don't you worry. Somebody is going to have to be there to unlock the bathroom door next year so the fire department doesn't have to send an engine and 3 firemen to climb the ladder and unlock the door for you.

Now come here and give me a hug.

Know what little kids and drunk college boys have in common? THEY ARE LYING LIARS. Also, they sometimes pee their pants when they drink too much.

2011-12-20T21:41:00.005-06:00

Today, I thought I'd dedicate this post to an issue that has bothered me, and others like me, for some time now.

Our kids lie about us.* Usually in public. And often quite loudly.

Do you know those people who say, "Oh, children are just so refreshingly honest!" or, "Young children don't know how to lie at this age. That's how you know they aren't lying when they say their parents are beating them!"

Bullshit. I bet they don't even have kids.**

Or how about this one?

"Children and drunks. They always tell the truth."

No. NO THEY DO NOT.

Do you know how many drunken college boys have slung an arm around my shoulder and slurred wetly into my ear, "buh ah love you bayhbeeee!", only to never be heard from again?

Eleven. The answer is always eleven.

Equally duplicitous, if only slightly less obnoxious, is the species known as Toddlerus Americanus, or, in layman's terms, any American child who still has not fully committed to the concept of dry underwear, drinking from an open cup or remaining fully clothed when in the public arena. I expect that toddlers of other nationalities are little liars as well, but as my experience has only been with the children of my country, I will leave the foreign toddler-liar issue to my bloggy-peers in Asia, Australia, South America and Africa.

Case in point. When my son was 2, I took him to the local Walmart Supercenter for some groceries and various sundries. As I lovingly stroked his cap of angelic blond curls and kissed his cherubic cheeks, he looked up at me adoringly with big blue eyes framed by long curly lashes. Then he widened those baby blues and loudly asked:

"MAMA? WHY YOU SAY YOU NO LOVE ME??"***

This is him, at age 2, in "Lord of the Flies" mode:

I take no prisoners

So you can see why the Walmart ladies were so aghast, right?
Everybody in that aisle turned toward us in shock. That's right. Every white-trash (I call trailer trash! I grew up in a trailer court, so I can say that!), toothless, wrinkled and scraggly-haired woman turned a judgemental eye towards me.

Even women who looked like this:

Ah judge you, an' ah have found you wantin'

My most immediate thought was, Oh HELL no! You did NOT just say that, you lying little shit! You are SO LUCKY we're in public where I can't give you the beating you so richly deserve! DON'T YOU KNOW I F*CKING LOVE YOU!??

But of course if I'd said any of those things, I would have been chased out of Walmart by an angry group of scraggly-haired women carrying pitchforks, Yoo-hoo Chocolate Drink® and porkrinds.

So, ever opting for the truth, I sweetly said (in a voice sure to carry to the farthest corners of the liquor aisle that we just happened to be in), "What are you talking about? I love you! I've never said I don't love you!" (This is true. Shut up.)

My young son, oblivious to the drama, but somehow convinced that he was right, decided to argue this fine point.

"Yes you do! You say it ALL THE TIME! You say, 'Zachie, I NO LOVE YOU!" (collective gasp, myself included).

Let me point out a minor problem in my son's claim. How many adults do you think tell their children, "(insert name here), I no love you!" No matter how stupid the parent, or how poor their grasp of the basic rules of English grammar, not once have I ever heard a parent utter that particular phrase. And I have come across my fair share of stupid parents, let's just make that crystal clear.

I don't recall how this story ends, but suffice it to say that I was traumatized that day. This is why I advocate the use of ~~ball gags~~ alternative childcare arrangements when you need to do your weekly shopping.****

And just so you know, I'm not the only parent whose child lies about them. I have a friend who taught her three-year-old daughter to scream, "This is not my real mommy!", just in case she was kidnapped and people were around.

Her child decided to test out her newfound powers. At Walmart. As my friend was in, you guessed it, the liquor aisle*****, her child loudly proclaimed, "THIS IS NOT MY REAL MOMMY!!!"
_______________________________________________________

*Of course, kids don't lie all the time.

** Do I really have to say this? *sigh* My attorney says I do. Fine. If a child evidences any abuse done to them, by all means call the police and/or DCFS. For serious. In fact, if this is news to you, you are to stupid to be allowed to read my blog. Go away now. You make me feel stabby.

***That? Oh, that was a big, fat lie.

****This blog in no way is meant to be indicative of the way you should actually deal with other human beings in real life.

***** HAHAHAHA!!!!! Ok, she was in the card aisle. But that's not nearly as funny.

Who says love and trauma are mutually exclusive?; or "Santa's Little Narc."

2011-12-14T08:17:00.006-06:00

Tonight, I got a text from my friend Shirley, telling me about some dumbass craze that's sweeping the country. Elf on the Shelf.

Have you heard of it? If so, you probably have one in your home. If not, it's basically like subjecting your children to McCarthyism for a month. Only Joe is wearing an elf hat. And ladies underwear (but only if you believe that rumor, of course.)

What's Victoria's Secret? ME. And I'm STILL watching you.

Anyway, I googled this elf/shelf thing and that's when I realized something.

Elves are assholes.

I decided to put my deductive reasoning skills to the test, and I came up with the following:

1. If some parents buy these elves.
2. And the elves are assholes.
3. Then some parents just might be assholes.

Not sure if you're ~~an obsessive~~ a loving parent, an asshole parent or somewhere in between? Then take my quiz!

1. If I owned an Elf-on-the-shelf I would:

A. Read the Elf story to my child every night before bestowing Eskimo/butterfly kisses on his/her face, and quietly tiptoeing out of the bedroom.
B. Thoughtfully position the Elf on an easily accessible piece of furniture, take a photo of it for my child's scrapbook, and then make sure I'm in bed by 10pm sharp.
C. Have a ~~few~~ lot of glasses of wine before deciding to make snow angels on the kitchen counter with the elf and a handful of flour. Then post the pix on twitter before passing out in a drunken stupor on my bathroom floor:

What do you mean, I have to "hold it" until morning???

2. My personal mantra is:
A. My child is a precious gift, and my duty as a parent is to protect his/her sacred innocence. At any cost. Also? My child has a Spirit Animal.
B. Yeah, I love my kid. But who says love and emotional trauma are mutually exclusive? Besides, if I mess with my kid, it toughens them up for the real world.
C. Back off! My parents locked me in a box every night for 8 years and I turned out JUST FINE!!!

3. Something I think about often is:
A. Knowing I would DIE for my child. Several times in a row, if I could.
B. Sure, I love my kids. But I need some me time too, you know?
C. If you mix up the letters in "Santa's Elf", it spells "Satan Self."

You know the drill, mostly A's? You're a living saint. A martyr. And your child will probably have Mommy Issues. Let's just hope he doesn't turn out like Norman Bates.

"A boys best friend is his mother"

Mostly B's? You're somewhat sadistic, but in a grounded sort of way.

Mostly C's? Hahahaha!!!

Santa's Little Narcs

Dear Kmart: So why did you put this display up if you didn't want customers "causing a disturbance"?

2011-12-14T08:17:00.002-06:00

8 ways having kids will change you. Irrevocably. Seriously, there are no take-backs.

2011-10-16T13:28:00.003-05:00

People are always saying stuff like, "Oh, having kids will change your life! You will grow as a person! Et cetera. This is true, but not always in the good way. So before you decide to have kids, read this. Discuss. Ponder. And kiss any plans you have to be in charge of your life goodbye for at least 18 years. It will feel like longer. Trust me. I'm the woman who tried to return her newborn to the hospital, remember?

1. "Moms have eyes in the back of their heads!" - You suddenly hear a scuffle break out behind you, accompanied by the sound breaking glass. Quick! What do you do? Turn around to address the issue? No way, too expected. Instead, find any shiny/reflective surface nearby and use it to your advantage. Window, coffee pot, computer screen or crystal vase, it doesn't matter. What does matter is that your children actually believe you have eyes in the back of your head. Respect, yo.

2. "You will step in front of a speeding train/bus/car to save your child's life!" - True. But under no circumstances will you let them have more than three (3) of your Girl Scout Thin Mint cookies. You will feel strongly about this. But you know what? They will always find your super secret hiding spots and eat them anyway. Every. F*cking. Year. Seriously. In the past 4 years I haven't had a Thin Mint, even though I've purchased 23 boxes.

3. "Having children will change your body, but it's so worth it!" - Bullsh*t. I mean, yeah, kids are great and all but here is a list of things that will happen to your body as a result. Most of them are irreversible:

     a. Your ass, thighs and stomach will suddenly attract fat the way plasma collection centers attract crackheads. You'll tell yourself your child(ren) were worth it. But you and I both know there are some days when we DON'T FEEL THAT WAY AT ALL, ACTUALLY.

     b. You know your bladder? What do you mean you've never thought of it before? After kids, it will forever be at the forefront of your mind. This is because you will lose control of it every time you laugh, sneeze, yell, jump, cry hard or cough. Forever. Get used to it.

     c. Your boobs will never fully belong to you, ever. Even if you don't nurse your baby, your children will still grab them whenever they hug you, or when they feel anxious. Because kids are attracted to soft things, like Build-a-Bear animals, lovey blankets and tits. So get used to being felt up until your child turns 5. 7 for boys.

4. "Children are so honest!" - Do you like to swear? Is your mother-in-law a b*tch? Then guess what. One day your kid will walk up to your MIL and say something like, "Last night Mommy told Daddy that you're a f*cking b*tch! Can I have a cookie?"

5. "I can't remember what my life was like before kids!" - Remember that awesome honeymoon you had in Punta Cana? The lazy mornings having sex, eating a leisurely breakfast and drinking Pina Colada's on the beach? Then having more sex before getting seriously drunk at the five-star restaurant and tumbling into bed to have, yes, more sex? Well, be sure to videotape every precious moment, because that's as close as you're going to get to those wild, carefree days of yore. Now you will be awoken at the butt crack of dawn by a wailing infant, demanding to be fed, changed, held and burped. At the same time. Sex? Bah! That's what led to this pernicious developement in the first place! Sex = BAD!

6. "You will discover a strength you never knew you had!" - Do you embarass easily? Tough shit. Three years ago, my son wore his Spiderman Viper costume to his sister's gymnastics class one Saturday morning. Then he continued to wear it every week for the next 8 months. With the costume pants tucked into his cowboy boots. So everyone could see the boots, of course. Which is just fine.

7. "I want my kids to share every detail of their precious lives with me!" - No. No you don't. At first, you think you do. On the drive home from work, you will ask your special little girl/guy what s/he had for lunch at daycare, who s/he played with and you may even ask what was the best/worst thing that happened that day.

Then your son turns 8. And all he wants to talk about is dinosaurs. Or the Magic Treehouse book he is currently reading. And how Sharktopus could totally beat up 5 Spinosauruses, at the same time. Then, once you arrive at home, he constructs a diorama to further drive his point home.

It is at this point that you begin to drink wine. Regularly.

And the girl? She turns 12. And...DRAMA!!! Kirsten totally told Steph and Jaspre to not sit with me at lunch, when everyone knows that Jaspre and I are wearing best friend necklaces!!! O. M. G.

By the next day, your daughter and Jaspre are besties again, because that Kirsten was just trying to break us up!!! This will happen at least twice a week, every week. For 6-7 years. Get used to it. Buy wine in bulk. I highly recommend Yellow Tail Chardonnay. It has a crisp, tart flavor with a refreshing aftertaste reminiscent of oak and I don't give a f*ck.

8. So, yeah. If/when you have a child, you will know what it feels like to put your heart out there, for anyone to stomp on it. You will experience every hurt that your child experiences. You will decide that tuition to that out-of-district but oh-so-wonderful school is more important than a vacation this year. You will wake up in the middle of the night, for however many nights your child needs you too. You would gladly trade places with you child, so they didn't have to experience life's pains and disappointments.

Because this is your child, and this is what matters.

8 anxiety creating scenarios that made me the way I am today

2011-09-25T22:03:00.003-05:00

When I was little, I liked to read. A lot. I read about Helen Keller, Count Dracula (the abridged version for 5th graders, but still), going to Hell, Head n Shoulders dandruff controlling shampoo (on the toilet when I was going poop) and Unexplained Mysteries. And? I had an extremely vivid imagination. Extremely. Vivid. Also? I was a very anxious child. VERY. (This condition has only gotten worse with age. Thank you, Xanax).

1. So, in a nutshell, I was prepared to suddenly go blind, deaf, lame or retarded, causing me to invite one of the walking dead (possibly posing as a Jehovah's Witness, or my friend Tammy's psycho-religious nutball parents), into our trailer one evening while my mom was at the laundromat. Being blind, deaf and/or lame, I would make an easy target:

2. And once I was bitten, I would go to Hell one day because, hello? Vampires can't get into Heaven. Everyone knows that. I happen to know this fact because I had a babysitter who kept religious tracts around her trailer. Being the avid reader that I was, I found myself perusing through them one morning. It was about a girl named Sandy who does LSD and dies. Then she goes to Hell. Because of free love and drugs. Satan was wearing a red mumu and had on a peace sign necklace. But then it turns out it was just a hallucination caused by a bad dose, so Susan accepted Jesus and the end.

Don't even get me started on how suspicous I was of anyone wearing a peace sign in the 1970's:

ELEVEN. THE ANSWER IS ELEVEN.

3. And about the unexplained mysteries?

THIS. THIS BOOK F*CKED ME UP. BIG TIME. THANKS, GREGORY.

4. Well, let's just say I was convinced I had telepathic powers, so the possibility of a doppelganger was not outside the realm of possibility:

5. Neither was spontaneous combustion:

This would totally happen to me. TOTALLY.

6.Or disappearing into the Bermuda Triangle. This especially terrified me, and whenever we traveled by plane I enquired as to the pilot's understanding of geography and the importance of avoiding the Bermuda Triangle at all costs, even if it was a shortcut. My curiosity eventually became an annoyance to the employees of American Airlines.

7. Being hijacked on a plane going from Illinois to Wyoming (true story) or;

8. Watching my grandfather walking out into the sheep pasture and suddenly disappearing into thin air, as he walked through the pastures, passing through a patch of fog/mist (that's how it happens. Unexplained Mysteries said so).

Fin.

Death Race 2000 Through The Eyes Of A Child. Redux. Because I just LOVE this post. And it will help you understand why I am the way I am. Or not. Whatever.

2011-09-15T23:35:00.008-05:00

As a child I counted on my parents to keep me safe from harm, but I.....wait. Scratch that. I counted on myself to keep me safe from harm. My parents were just my safety net in case I needed backup help in staying safe from killer bees, blindness, tornadoes, fire or hijackings. And really, in a hijacking? My mother would be of no use whatsoever. Same goes for Dad.

Ever heard of a B movie called Death Race 2000? Yes? No? Really? Because I have! Wanna know why I've heard of it? Oh, because my parents took me to see it in the drive-in in 1975 when I was 8.

Here's how I picture that conversation:

Dad: "What say we take the kid and head on over to the drive-in thee-ay-tor. Ronnie at work says there's a good picture showing."

Little Me: (playing with Barbie): "Yay! The drive-in! Can I wear my jammies?"

Mom (cutting up bananas for the jello/banana/fruit cocktail salad): "Hush! Oh yeah? What's it called?"

Dad (yawns and scratches his ass with a back scratcher shaped like a monkey's paw): "Wellup, Ronnie says it's got cars and racing and that David Carradine guy is in it. That guy what played Rocky too. Whatsisname...Sylves-tor Stallone. You like them, right?"

Little Me: "I wanna go, I wanna go!! (gets up and air punches in front of parents, reminding them that she loved Rocky.)

Mom (flips breaded salmon patties frying in Crisco and pours iced tea in Tupperware glasses): "Well, it sounds good but what's that death part about?"

Dad (raises left ass cheek to fart): "Waaayy-ell, I don't rightly know. I guess we'll find out now, won't we?"

Little Me: "YAAAAYYYY!!!"

Then they took me to see this:

http://youtu.be/2QF2EE9gnbc

Yeah. So basically, it was a movie set in the year 2000, and all of society has broken down. For entertainment, the President puts on this thing every year called a death race. Four drivers and their navigators drive across the country, scoring points for killing innocent pedestrians.

Here's a quote from the movie:

"As the cars roar into Pennsylvania, the cradle of liberty, it seems apparent that our citizens are staying off the streets, which may make scoring particularly difficult, even with this year's rule changes. To recap those revisions: women are still worth 10 points more than men in all age brackets, but teenagers now rack up 40 points, and toddlers under 12 now rate a big 70 points. The big score: anyone, any sex, over 75 years old has been upped to 100 points."

Did you see that part about children under 12?

So did I. It's kind of hard to miss when you yourself are a child who is under 12 (70 points). I had grandparents (100x4), several of my cousins were teenagers (6x40) and I had no idea how much my dad was worth but I knew my mom was worth 10 points more.

Awesome. Now I not only had to worry about myself, but add to that my:
1. Mother= Father+10 pts
2. Father=?
3. Grandpa Charlie=100 pts
4. Grandma Josephine=100 pts
5. Grandpa Bud=100 pts
6. Grandma Evelyn=100 pts
7. Various and assorted teenage cousins (females are worth 10 points more than men, remember)=???
8. Me= 70 pts

And here we were, watching this terrifying monstrosity of a movie.....IN A F*CKING DRIVE-IN MOVIE THEATER!!!!

Were my parents insane? We had to get out, and NOW!

Me: "Mom! Dad! We have to get out of here now!! The cars are gonna kill us!"

Mom: "Hush! I thought I told you to go to sleep back there! Were you watching this? Now lay down!"

Dad (lifts right ass cheek to fart): "Do what your mother tells you."

Me (getting more and more panicky): "But this movie is REAL! We have to get away, I know a way out! I saw a hole in the fence when I went to the bathroom earlier. Dad, if you gun it, I think we can bust through before anyone tries to kill us. Hurry!"

Dad: "Now hold your horses young lady. We paid for a double feature and we are staying until this movie is over. Do I make myself clear?"

Me (muttering under breath): "...easy for him to say. He's not worth hardly anything! I'm worth 70 points and mom's worth 10 points more than him..."

Dad (glaring): "What are you mumbling back there? Do you have something to say? If so, then just spit it out!"

Mom (sighing): "You two...."

Me (terrified beyond all rationality, screaming): "YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS! I'M WORTH MORE POINTS THAN YOU AND SO IS MOMMY! YOU HATE US AND WE'RE GONNA DIE!!!!"

At first, there was only silence. Then came the sound of gravel crunching under tires as we slowly drove away into the night. The crisis was averted.

This time......

15 life lessons video games have taught my children Updated I got a freaking AWARD! And I'm passing it on.

2011-09-12T10:33:00.011-05:00

Since this is National Video Game Month, I thought I'd make a list of invaluable and tricksy lessons that video games have taught my kids.

No. I'm kidding about the National Video Game Month. But not about the tricksy lessons:

1. If you die, just hit start over, or dig some health out of your backpack. Sometimes you can wander around the village until you find the store that sells life, it usually comes in a box with the American Red Cross symbol on it. The important thing to remember here is that death isn't permanent.

2. It's totally plausible for your three best friends to be an ape, a turtle and a talking mushroom. And you all drive cars in outer space. Which of course means that you know how to drive in real life. You decide to test this premise by starting your mom's car ~~last Thursday~~ one day while she's still in the house getting ready for work.

3. Empty bottles, shiny bells, scraps of paper covered in elven writing, random skeleton keys and coins of unknown denomination? Potentially valuable. Hoard everything. Just in case.

4. Don't feel like listening to that helpful stranger who is trying to give you good advice? Just push the B button. Same goes for your mom.

5. It usually takes 5 tries before you beat the Boss. You'll die each time, but it's ok (see rule #1). And if it's too hard, just skip it. Your brother will do it for you.

6. "Do over" fixes everything. For serious.

7. Spending real money to pay for virtual items such as: couches, rugs, tables and new doorknobs? Totally worth it.

8. Spot an interesting lever, switch or doorknob? Go on, pull it, flip it or open it. There's probably candy inside. Or Satan. Still not sure? It'll be ok. (See rule #6).

9. Tired? Stressed? Want to curl up in the fetal postion and sleep for 14 hours? No worries, just save it. Come back to it tomorrow. Or whenever.

10. If you can swim underwater for an indefinite period of time in your game, it only follows that you can do the same irl, right? Swimming lessons? Screw that, dive right in!

11. Go ahead, shoot your best friend. It won't kill him because he's on your team! lolz!

12. Two words. Pants optional.

13. You will attract at least one mascot or apprentice during your gameplay. Treat them accordingly.

14. It's completely acceptable to walk into a total stranger's house and rummage through their belongings without speaking to them. They expect this behavior. And? You might find a map, or something shiny. (see rule #3).

15. Sometimes all you need to kill the bad guys is pointy stick. Or a gun made out of a dog.

Woof woof, motherf*cker.

6 or 7 reasons Samantha wins at life, while Jeannie is just a sad, fake ponytail wearing, subservient wannabe

2011-08-14T19:27:00.003-05:00

Which show was better, Bewitched or I Dream of Jeannie?

Oh, get out of your ivory tower and stop acting like you haven't had lengthy discussions about this very topic. Sure, you were probably stoned, but even so.

It's still relevant.

I fall into the "Samantha" camp, and here's why:

1. Samantha only had to discreetly twitch her nose and voila! Larry Tate was promoting Darrin and completely forgetting the fact that he had met William Shakespeare in the Stephen's living room that evening. Jeannie had to cross her arms, close her eyes and bob her head. Way too much work, especially if your arms are tired.

2. Between her nauseatingly pink harem costume (which still managed to cover her bellybutton at all times, in accordance with NBC censors requirements), her fake ponytail and the way she called Tony "Master", Jeannie was way too conspicuous. Therefore she was always homebound, and how much fun can you have in a house by yourself?

3. Samantha got to sleep in a bed. Know where Jeannie had to sleep? In a bottle. Every night. Also? Whenever company came over, Tony was all, get your ass in the bottle, bitch. And when she was "bad"? She got the bottle. It was like her timeout place or something. What self-respecting woman allows herself to be sent to timeout? Jeannie, that's who.

4. Yes, Darrin could be a bossy asshat at times, telling Samantha she couldn't use her magic, but I don't ever recall hearing Samantha calling her husband "Master". If I were a genie, I'd make it a rule that I could refuse to call any man master. The only exception to this would be if his last name was "Bates". Because that would never get old.

5. Samantha's quirky family was always dropping in unexpectedly. She had a smooth, urbane father and a snarky, bitchy mom (who preferred to say they had an "informal marriage". Now, how cool is that?). Also? Who could forget ditzy Aunt Clara, crazy cousin Serena, goofy Uncle Arthur, quirky Aunts Enchantra and Hagatha or Dr. Bombay? Samantha had a family, she had a history. Tony just picked Jeannie up on the beach, and brought her home. A one night stand gone horribly wrong.

6. Samantha had a wardrobe, for pete's sake. She had pajamas, dresses, capris and evening gowns. What did Jeannie have? The same tired harem costume. Day in. Day out. Oh, sure. Sometimes she got to dress in what I call "people clothes", but 98% of the time she was in her t&a outfit. Nothing like being objectified to make you feel like a piece-of-trash Jeannie that got picked up on a beach one night and has to call her owner "Master". No wonder she never went back to school for her MBA. It's called self-esteem, Jeannie. Get some.

7. Eh. This post was originally called "10 reasons...." but I'm tired of this post so you only get 6. 7 if you count this one. Which you should cuz it's still awesome.

Did I ever tell you about that one time...

2011-08-04T21:09:00.003-05:00

One time, about 8 years ago, we needed to get our house painted. This was not a voluntary decision on our part, oh no. The city wrote us a ~~nicely worded letter~~ citation and gave us, like, 2 weeks to git 'er done. Because who DOESN'T have $8,000 laying around in an envelope that reads only to be spent on getting the house painted, f*ck the plumbing.

So I, of course, flipped out. Shut up. I was either pregnant or post-partum AND I GET VERY TEARY WHEN MY HORMONES ARE OUT OF WHACK.

My husband-at-the-time and I ~~discussed this predicament in a calm, rational manner~~ freaked the shit out, using all sorts of ~~grown-up words such as troublesome, unexpected~~ really bad swears like f*ck! and sh*t! and a**hole! Only we replaced the asterisks with actual letters. We were that upset.

So I did what any mature, self-supporting and adult woman would do. No, that's a lie. I actually started crying and then I called my parents. SOBBING. HYSTERICALLY. AND LOUDLY.

Now, before I take you any further into this story, I need to tell you something about my dad. My dad has worked hard for everything he has, and he expects the same of others. He also isn't one to judge others based on the gigantic shit sandwich that life has handed them (i.e. if you're poor, or homeless, or live in a van by the river, he'll help you out. A little.)

So when my dad told me he would buy the paint, I thanked him profusely. When he told me he had a guy lined up to paint the house, I was ecstatic. When he told me the man's name was Stinky, I was curious. When he told me Stinky lived in a van down by the river, I felt bad. When he told me that Stinky was the only name this man answered to, I was quietly accepting.

Because hello??! Free paint job!

After two weeks of waiting, because it was too humid to paint, Stinky showed up on my doorstep one fine Thursday morning.

Allow me to paint a mental picture for you. Old, gray, potbellied, unshaven, smelly (hence the name), torn and dirty undershirt, bloodshot eyes, greasy work pants and monosyllabic.

Oh. You say you have problems visualizing the written word? Let me help you:

First, Stinky told us we would need to buy 18 gallons of plain white paint. We were painting the house gray, with blue trim. Fortunately, my husband was good at math and quickly deduced that the amount of paint Stinky was requesting would cover the White House three times over. So we bought 5 gallons.

The second day that Stinky was on the job, he painted on the second story. My daughter, who was 5 at the time, ran screaming into my room. MAMA!!!! There's a gross, dirty old man on a ladder looking into my room! We need to call the police!

Do you know how hard it is to convince a 5 year old that the gross old man outside her window is there at her parents request?

It's really freakin' hard.

Secondly, Stinky did what I would consider a "half-assed job". By this, I mean that he spent hours scraping the paint off the house, but he then used a sprayer (that my dad had probably supplied), to haphazardly paint the rest of the house gray. Even the parts that weren't supposed to be gray. Like our antique cherry-wood porch ceiling.

Thirdly, he took like, 6 weeks to paint the freakin' house. Seriously. He'd show up at 10am, paint a bit, stop, smoke a cigarette (grinding out what was left on the sole of his shoe and carefully placing it back in the pack), eat some cold beans out of a can and wander around checking out our neighbor's garbage cans to see if there was anything worth taking, before finally coming back to take a shit behind the garage and calling it a day.

After 6 weeks, Stinky was done painting our house. He insisted on showing me the entire house, but he glossed over the attic windows that he'd neglected to paint. Plus, he mumbled, so I was never completely sure of what he was actually saying. So when he mumbled, "Clfif yodokfk hvkdls yrksr clitshsk?" I said, "Sure!"

Apparently he was asking me if he could have the retractable clothes line that went between the back of our house and the garage. So he took it.

And that's how we got our house painted and lost our retractible clothes line, all in the same month.

An open letter to children everywhere. Beggardly, greedy and self-centered children, shut it.

2011-07-30T23:20:00.007-05:00

Dear Children,

I am so freaking tired of listening to you whine. Everywhere we go, I hear, "I want....", "but everybody has....", "it's not fair....." or "I HATE YOU!!"

Here's the lowdown. You are spoiled beyond belief. And it's not just you. Children all across the U.S. are equally spoiled and entitled far more than you have a right to be. So this is my response to your demands. My manifesto, as it were:

1: "I'm BORED!"
1a: Shut up. You have an Xbox, a Playstation 3, a Wii, Netflix, DVD's, MP3's, a DSi and a computer. Know what I had when I was 12? Books. Books and a Barbie dollhouse I constructed out of a shoebox, duct tape and furnished with blow-up doll furniture that I had to blow up with my own breath. Sometimes, for fun, I would spin in circles and then fall down. If I was lucky I would break a bone, necessitating a trip to the emergency room. But most times Grandpa just ductaped whatever was hurt and I was sent on my merry way. So go find some mud and play in it, it's good for you!

2. "Mama? Can I have a.....?"
2a. No. Shut up. Every time we go to the grocery store you ask for a freaking car. Or truck. Or $5 frozen dinner. Or candy. SHUT UP! I CAN'T EVEN HEAR MYSELF THINK!! Do you know what would have happened if I had asked Grandma for something every time we went to the store? Neither do I, because I KNEW better than to ask for anything!!!!

3. "So, are these all the presents I get for a) Christmas or, b) my birthday?"
3a. What the HELL does that mean??!! YES!!! The 5 video games, 2 containers of 2490 lego pieces, $45 worth of stocking stuffers and robot dog are ALL you get. Know what I got for my 15th birthday? A F*CKING MIRROR!!! Oh, Grandma will tell you, "but it was beveled glass!" but you know what? It was still a freaking mirror. And let's not forget the gifts of underwear and socks I always got for Christmas. Underwear and socks. Seriously. I got like, 5 toys and the rest of my gifts went on my feet or my ass.

4. "Mama? I want to go to Justice, can we?"
4a. NO! Shut up. How much does a tank top cost at Justice? I'll tell you. $15! But if I buy 2 then they're only $6.99 each. Do you know when I got new clothes when I was growing up? At the beginning of the school year, baby. That's right, ONCE A YEAR. If I was lucky, I might find a sweater hidden in with the packages of tube socks and training bras. Grandma didn't even BUY my clothes, she MADE THEM!!! Every fall, she'd take me to the fabric store and have me pick out patterns for dresses, skirts and tops. If she could have made my jeans, she would have.

Then I would pick the fabric. And do you think she ever let me have a top made out of purple silk chiffon? NO! Because that wouldn't be practical. One time she made me a grey wool jumper (that's a dress with straps, it goes over a shirt). Only it was a trapeeze line, so it me look pregnant. I know this because every time I wore it, those bitches in Home Ec class asked if I was knocked up. And when she couldn't sew my clothes? Then she'd embroider shit all over my sweatshirts and shorts. None of my clothes had tags. Try dealing with that when you're changing in the girl's locker room.

5. "There's nothing on tv!"
5a. AH MAH GAH! I'M GOING TO SMACK YOU!!! You have the Disney Channel, Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network, Nick at Night, and who knows how many others. Seriously! Know what was on when I was a kid? THREE CHANNELS! After school, my choices were reruns I Dream of Jeannie or Gilligan's Island. And if Grandpa got home from work early? Forget it kid, you were stuck watching Gunsmoke or Ponderosa. But? Every 6 weeks (around the time report cards came out) there was an after-school special! Woo-hoo! Some show about teens getting pregnant, or AIDS or drunk. Or a combination of the three. There was usually a moral tone to the after-school specials.

Oh, and if you wanted to watch cartoons? FAGEDABADIT! Cartoons were only on Saturday mornings, between 7am-11am, and every kid lived for that 5 hour time frame. And even on Saturday mornings, they managed to sneak some learning in somewhere. It came in the form of Schoolhouse Rock. On weekday mornings there was either Sesame Street, The Electric Company or Captain Kangaroo.

When I was a kid, we didn't have SHIT. And we were happy. So unplug and get your ass outside before I beat your ass.

Adventures in white trash babysitting, part II, or; babysitting Garrett and Olivia that time they sh*t all over themselves.

2011-07-26T00:28:00.006-05:00

Date: April 19, 1985

Time: 9:20pm

Place: Grandview Mobile Home Estates

Assignment: 16 month old twins. Garrett and Olivia.

When I was 18, I was the resident babysitter in my trailer court. I refused to babysit Renee after that one time, but her parents tricked me by going bowling with the twin's parents, thereby sticking me with their porno-obsessed 9-year-old demon-spawn.

Damn.

I should mention that I'm an only child, and therefore had absolutely NO KNOWLEDGE regarding: babies, poop, twins, vomit, what babies eat, poop, changing diapers, bathing babies or most informative pornos for 9-year-old girls. Oh, and poop. I feel I should make that crystal clear.

I arrived at the trailer around 6pm, and that's when I found out I'd be babysitting the porno-addicted demon-spawn, along with the twins. Fine. Whatever, just pay me. F*ck you.

Renee appeared somewhat disappointed that the twin's parents didn't subscribe to cable, so she was not able to watch the latest episode of "Debbie Does Someone. Or Something."

So I watched t.v., talked to my friends on the phone, attempted to ignore Renee, who was trying to telling me the plot of "Deep Throat" (eww) and got the twins into their jammies.

When I walked into their room, I discovered this:

Well, the kids weren't in their cribs yet, but I'm too lazy to draw separate pictures, so deal with this. Basically, the dad had attached screen doors to the top of the cribs, so the kids couldn't climb out of their beds. I was supposed to shut the screen doors and lock the screen doors with a bobby pin.

Yeah.

So I locked the twins in their cribs, as instructed, and Renee and I went into the living room and watched some t.v. I looked through the fridge, but since the mom was on WIC, I felt too guilty to eat her Brie, Belgian chocolates and goat's milk. I'm not being sarcastic. That's seriously what was in her fridge.

After about 2 hours I, for some reason unknown to me to this day, decided that I should check on the babies. Why? I have no idea. Maybe I'd seen "When A Stranger Calls" one too many times. Perhaps I was one of those "overachiever trailer court babysitters" you hear so much about.

Whatever.

Anyway, 2 hours later, I walked into the twins' room, only to be confronted with this:

That's right. Colin and Guinevere had ripped off their diapers and were playing with their sh*t.

Confronted with not one, but two, infants playing with their fecal matter, my mind immediately went in two directions.

Direction 1: Shut the door and walk away. Nobody has to know.

Direction 2: OH MY GOD THESE CHILDREN ARE DISGUSTING!!! Somebody has to clean them up!!! Wait. That's me, right?

That's right. I did the "right thing". I picked these disgusting, sh*t covered babies up out of their cribs and stripped them out of their fecal-covered jammies. I told Renee to run a tub and I bathed the twins.

THREE TIMES.

You wish I was your babysitter, don't you?

I know you do.

However, I'm not a saint. I did strip their beds, but I threw their bedding on the front stairs, where their parents would have to walk over it in order to step inside their home.

That way they would know what I had been through.

And yes. They knew. When they walked into their trailer, their children were fast asleep, hair damp from a recent bath, tushes tucked up into the air, sucking on their thumbs. Sans merde.

Renee was frantically clicking the remote control, trying to find out who Debbie had most recently done. And I was sitting on the couch. Awaiting payment.

Delphine and Guy's parents entered the trailer, shamefaced. Mom dragged the shit-laden sheets halfway through the door, then dropped them. Dad dug deep into his wallet and came up with $22. I looked expectantly at the 9-year-old porn addict's parents, raising one brow. Dad belched, and then drew his wallet out of his Wrangler's. They knew they owed me.

I forget how much I ended up making, but I do know it wasn't enough to cover the therapy session that evening neccessitated.

The maternity ward doesn't accept returns. I should know.

2011-07-24T14:58:00.002-05:00

When I was 32, I had my first child, the product of an ~~obsessively~~ a carefully planned pregnancy. I read every book, magazine and article on pregnancy, childbirth, breastfeeding, infant development and parenting. I consumed no canned tuna, deli meats, soda, coffee, alcohol, chocolate, or brie. So I was a complete bitch.

Also, I took plenty of Folic Acid before I even got pregnant, tracked my caloric intake and weight, exercised, ate from all 5 food groups and gained exactly 25 lbs. In short, I did everything that the books said I should do. I was prepared, I was ready, and I was uptight. Hungry and uptight. And bitchy.

I'm an only child, so I'd had very little experience regarding babies, and absolutely NO experience regarding newborns. However, as a relentless anal-retentive obsessive control freak, I was used to making my life do what I wanted, and I fully expected motherhood to be no different. Here is what I thought it would be like:

Here is what it was really like:

As you can see, there was a discrepancy between how I imagined motherhood to be, and the actuality of it. A BIG effin discrepancy, and I wanted to know why. None of my books ever mentioned the fact that my child would fill 6-8 diapers a day with a runny, foul-smelling substance that could peel the paint off the walls, OR that I would get this substance on my skin and under my fingernails!

My magazines never informed me that my child would projectile vomit approximately 10 times a day, in addition to crapping on the lovely outfits I placed her in. This necessitated numerous outfit changes for her and myself, which of course led to an exponential increase in the amount of laundry I had to do.

Here. I've drawn you a graph:

I was not let in on the fact that BREASTFEEDING F**KING HURTS, that my breasts would leak 24/7, that I would feel like a cow and that there would be times I would seriously consider allowing the cat to nurse my child, just to give my boobs a rest.

I knew that my infant would need to be fed every 3 hours, but I was never advised that it would take her 70 minutes to eat and 20 minutes to get back to sleep, leaving only 90 minutes for me to achieve all 5 stages of sleep between feedings. Did you know REM sleep doesn't even occur until about 90 minutes after you fall asleep???

I understood that her greatest bond would be with me, her mother, but somebody forgot to tell me that I would be the ONLY person she would allow to hold her. Ever. At all. For 6 months. And that she would want to be held ALL THE FREAKIN' TIME.

I knew she would cry when hungry, wet or sick, but nobody ever disclosed that there would be a lot of times she would just cry. Often. For absolutely no reason. For hours on end. Just to piss me off, I'm sure. For a control freak, that was the worst. I just wanted to know what the problem was, so I could fix it and she would shut up. But do you think she would even give me a hint? Of course not.

On the morning following her first night home, rolling on 2 hours of sleep and covered in spit-up and fecal matter that was not even my own, I dimly recalled that my child had never cried in the hospital, but once we brought her home, she had not stopped wailing.

After thinking about it objectively and logically, I concluded that my infant obviously missed the comfort of the maternity ward. A place where there was order, routine and plenty of helping hands. She undoubtedly had not been ready to be released from the hospital. It became glaringly apparent what needed to be done.

I called OSF St. Francis Hospital and asked if I could return her.

Voice on the other end of the phone: "OSF mother/child unit. This is Becky, how can I help you?"

Me (sobbing): "B-becky? Are you a nurse?"

Becky: "Yes I am Ma'am. What's the problem?"

Me: "Umm...I had a baby in there a couple of days ago, my name's Von. Maybe you remember me?"

Becky: "No Ma'am, we get a lot of mothers through here. What exactly is the problem?"

Me: "Ummm, well...My baby, she won't stop crying."

Becky: "Yes Ma'am, babies will do that. What did you say the problem was?"

Me: "Th-that's the problem. I mean, she's REALLY crying. Like, ALL THE TIME. I only got 2 hours of sleep last night (more sobbing). I think..I think there's something wrong with her."

Becky: "Do you mean you think she's sick?"

Me: "No. There's something seriously WRONG with her. I....I don't think she was ready to come home from the hospital. Can I bring her back?"

Silence.

Me: "Becky? Are you there?"

Becky: "I'm here. We don't, um...we don't take babies back, Ma'am. We send them home with their parents."

Me (really sobbing now): "But can't you make an exception just this once?? It'd only be for a few days!"

Becky (sighing): "Ma'am, I'm trying to make you understand. We DO NOT take babies back. Ever."

Me: "So what am I supposed to do??? She won't stop crying and it's driving me crazy! I just need some freakin' sleep!"

Becky: "Ma'am, what did you think having a baby would be like?"

Me (snuffling): "Well, I thought it would be like having a dog, only a little harder. Like, I thought she would just eat, sleep and poop. But when she eats she makes my boobs hurt, she never sleeps and she poops on everything!"

More silence.

At this point, I was feeling more than a little judged by Nurse Becky.

Finally:

Becky: "Ma'am, are you going to be alright? Because I really need to be going now."

Me: "Shhh! Wait...holy crap! She's asleep! Awesome!"

Becky (muffled laughter): "That's great Ma'am. Congratulations."

I love you [name withheld]. Here's a flower I drew for you to make up for the humiliation.

This post has a lot of asterisks in it. You know what that means, right? LOTS OF SWEARS!

2011-07-23T15:20:00.001-05:00

Holy crap you guys! I got an award from Laura, who writes sarcastic and witty stuff at Catharsis. But there's so much more to Laura, you guys! She ALSO writes on the reals at Families Coping With Infant Stroke.

Here's my award!

So yeah, she's pretty much amazing and the fact that she gave me an award is....Well, have you ever seen This Is Spinal Tap?

That's right. Laura goes to 11.

So, there are some things I have to do in order to fully claim this award. I'm supposed to tell you 7 *deep* things about me, and I have to pass it on to 10 other awesome bloggers. My problem is this. I don't like getting *deep* about myself, it makes me uncomfortable. I mean, HELLOO? People can use that sh*t against me, and if they don't? Then I run the risk of being the recipient of the *pity face*. I f*cking HATE the pity face. Don't you dare feel sorry for me, motherf*cker, or I'll kick you in the nuts. There. I bet you don't feel sorry for me now, do you?

Where was I? Oh, right. So I need to do this thing, but it makes me feel uncomfortable so I've come up with a solution. When I make a *deep* statement, I'm going to make fun of it. See? That way you can laugh and forget about all of the pain that went into each heartrending admission. HAHA!!! JOKING! SEE HOW IT WORKS??

1. Before I had kids, I had an eating disorder and ended up in treatment for it. It was anorexia, just so you know. Because there's nothing that anorexics/former anorexics HATE more than being mistaken for bulimics. That's just an insult. Bulimics wish they were anorexics.

2. I spent my entire life, from birth until I moved away for graduate school, living in a trailer court. Growing up in a trailer court defined who I was, who I wasn't, what I wanted and what I would never settle for. Let's just say I never invited friends over and I really related to Molly Ringwald's character in Pretty in Pink.

3. There are exactly 2 people who know every one of my secrets. And neither one of them are my ex-husband or my mother. Haha, now you want to know more, don't you? Well, tough sh*t. Tell me some of your secrets, and hold my hair when I throw up, and never give me the pity face, and we'll talk about sharing secrets. Until then, I'm covered.

4. I have another blog. A secret one. That's all.

5. I absolutely hate seeing people treated as less than human. Treated like they don't count, made to feel ashamed of themselves, having their humanity stripped from them like bark from a tree. Vulnerable. I f*cking hate seeing that and I will do anything I can to prevent it, or alleviate it. Everyone deserves to be treated like a f*cking human being, for God's sake. Do your part. Except for you, Donald Trump. You're a narcissistic assh*le.

6. Ugghhh. I'm so tired. Can't I just be done already? No? Ok, fine. Let's see....um....There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about my ex-husband, and wonder about him. I want to know what happened, where he is and if he's ok. I pray he's happy and at peace. Because at one time we were so happy and so in love. If you haven't gone through this, don't even try to understand it because you can't.

7. Seriously, I'm not done yet? Ok, last one. There are many days that I worry that my son has an as-yet undiagnosed mental illness. When I try to picture him in the future, I worry that something terrible will happen to him before he gets there. He's impulsive, aggressive, loving, kind, affectionate, oblivious, sensitive, hyperactive, socially inept and obsessive. And I would step in front of a truck for him, because he's amazing.

Ok, so this post didn't turn out at all like I'd planned. It seems that Laura tricked me into being on the reals.

Well played LauraMiri. Well played.

*Update- Sorry, I forgot to pass it on! Here are the amazing bloggers that I am sending my love to:

1. Selena at Because Motherhood Sucks.

2. Jillsmo at Yeah. Good Times.

3. Handflapper at Handflapping.

4. Anna at Don't Mind Me, I'm Discombulated.

5. Kage at Sex, Sequins and Sociopaths.

6. Christian at Point Counter-Point Point Point.

7. Collie at The Collie Chronicles.

8. Tilte at Things I Like To Eat And Other Nonsense

9. Andygirl at Crazy With a Side of Awesome Sauce

10. Aimee at Pleasantly Demented.

Share the love.

I need $5.50. Only from a lot of you.

2011-07-19T20:36:00.004-05:00

So I need to have my bathroom completely replumbed, I need a new dryer (preferably a new set), I need a new car and I really ought to have a savings account, just in case. Those are a lot of things, right? Well, I don't want any donations, I want to earn the money. But? Just what can I sell for approximately $4,000? Not much really, unless you're childless and want to buy my children, but if you've landed here you've already realized it's a bad deal for you, really.

Then I realized, I have lots of things I can sell for $5.50, a bunch of times over! And no, I don't mean THAT.

So, for the first time ever, here is my list of things I will sell to you/do for you for $5.50:

1.   If you send me 5 pictures of you, I will come up with 5 witty captions for them.
2. I will type out the words to "Sympathy for the Devil".
3. I will edit one chapter of your "Bestselling Breakout New Author Tell-all Novel!".
4. I will write a break-up letter for you. For $4 extra, I will include drawings. The drawings will suck, just so you know.
5. I will give you 5 witty retorts to use when someone is pissing you off.
6.   I will send you a picture of me, right when I wake up.
7. I will tell everyone I know about you, for one whole day.
8.   I will be your pretend telephone girlfriend for 24 hours. Like that time on The Brady Bunch when Jan   was "dating" George Glass. Only I'm real.
9.   I will tell you my best friend's biggest secret.
10. If you already are my best friend, I will keep that one really big secret, secret and instead tell the biggest secret of my 2nd best friend.
11. I will write a report/article for you. But only the first page (double spaced). The other pages cost $3 each.
12. I will tell you about my weirdest dream, and allow you to say that it's yours.
13. I will take you to the trailer court I grew up in, and introduce you to everyone. After that, I'm not responsible for what happens.
14. I will follow your blog.
15. I will read the newspaper to you.
16. I will help you set up your ebay seller account.
17. I will explain the Middle Ages to you. This service will include a brief history of lamprey eels, discussion of Eleanor of Aquitaine, how she was the wife of two kings, and the mother of two more.
18. I will tell you why brides carry flowers, why weddings are traditionally in June and where the phrase, "Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater" came from.
19. I will give you my opinion regarding what color you should paint your living room.
20. I will contrast and compare Spiderman with Jesus.

Susan? Is that....you, Susan?

2011-07-16T22:07:00.004-05:00

I've been spammed before, and I even wrote two posts about my BFF Susan, and her repeated requests for $2,000 usd because OMG SHE GOT ROBBED!

(Seriously though, for this post to make any sense, you really need to click the links and read the posts. They're funny, I promise.)

My blog had never been spammed, though, and I felt like a loser because all the best blogs get spammed. Then? I GOT SPAMMED!!!

Someone googled "people looking for loan $2000usd in usa 2011". And they found my blog, probably because of my Susan posts. So this is what I got last week (verbatim):

I have two kids and a loving husband, I promise to share this good news because of God favor in my life, 2 months ago I was in desperate need of money so I thought of having a loan then I ran into wrong hands who claimed to be a loan lender not knowing he was a scam. he collected 2,000USD from me and refuse to email me since. then I was confuse, but God came to my rescue, one faithful day just checking at loan site as usual so i found out that roberthookinvestment.links@yahoo.com is a reputable loan company.
__________________________________________________
I feel your pain, sister. I have run into wrong hands myself, in the past, and I was also very confuse until the faithful day I kicked his ass to the curb.

Then somebody googled: "I NEED A LOAN IN USA $2000 usd very urgent please help". And I got this:

My Name Is Mrs. Christine Shery Garrett From Canada, An X-Scam Victim and how i get back on my feet and be a personal business owner with cars and landed properties…. This is to announce to the general public about a legitimate lender online. HERE IS MY SUCCESS STORY: I was in a critical search of a genuine loan lending company were i can obtain a loan of $180,000.00USD some lender’s that Came to me sheep clothing i never know they where fraud until i was given the terms of their loan and i agreed eventually i was scammed they scammed me of my hard earn money up to four lender’s that scammed me the sum of $27,000.00USD and i though that all is over that there can never be any other genuine lender until my Husband’s Friend Mr. Garrett Lugard the general manager of Cotsat and cotsat company told me that there is a genuine lender that he obtained a loan of 1.5 Million Dollars At 3% interest rate From that makes him own a private business and a house of his own he Referred me to a company Robert Hook Loan Company ,E-mail: roberthookinvestment.links@yahoo.com Where he obtained the loan of ($1.5 million Dollars) i told them how referred me to them i applied for a loan of $180,000.00USD after my application and i sent to them the useful information for them to process my loan after 4hours i received a notification From their company that my loan has been approved and processed in the next 4hours my loan of $180,000.00 Dollars was transferred into my account. And i promise them for coming to my rescue i am going to spreed the good news to the entire world ROBERT HOOK LOAN COMPANY IS THE BEST IN THE WORLD. And tell them i Mrs. Christine Shery Garrett referred you to them and your wish will be fulfilled…

Honestly, this lady doesn't sound super smart. Scammed by four companies? Wow.

So I decided to email roberthookinvestment.links@yahoo.com, and apply for a loan in the amount of $4.2Million usd. Because I like to play the ponies, and with that much money, I can hang out at the racetrack all freakin' day!

But as it turned out, I didn't have to. Because OMG YOU GUYS! It turns out I have a previously unknown, dead, zillionaire uncle from Nigeria!

From: Fred Wilson <wilson22221111@mail.com>
To:
Sent: Monday, June 27, 2011 12:03 AM
Subject: From Barrister Fred Wilson.... READ THE ATTACHMENT BELOW

Dear Friend,

I am sorry for the embarrassment this mail may cause you, as we have not met before.I am delighted to contact you for a mutual business transaction.It is with heartfelt hope that I write to seek your co-operation and assistance in the context stated below, I am barristerFred Wilson, a solicitor at law in Nigeria ,The personal Attorney to the late engineer Frank. Please, kindly be patient and go through this email carefully which I believe is a message that will be useful to both of us. I got your contact through the help of my sister-in-law that works with the American Chambers of Commerce and Tourism.

Engineer Frank my late client bears the same last name as yours, who died as the result of Colon cancer on the 8th Nov 2009. I have come to seek your kind cooperation to work with me in this project for you to stand as the next of kin to my late client's fund before it will be confiscated by the bank or the federal government of Nigeria. My late client deposited the sum of ($6.5M) and this bank has informed me to look for the next of kin, or the account will be confiscated.

I want to seek your consent to present you as the next-of-kin and beneficiary of my named client, since you have the same last name with my client so that the proceeds of this account can be paid to you. Then we can share the amount on a mutually agreed-upon percentage by 50-50

All legal documents to back up your claim as my client's next-of-kin will be provided. All I require is your honest cooperation to enable us see this transaction through. Do get back to me with your information as required below to enable me process the application paper work to the bank presenting you as the next of kin to my engineer Frank.

[1] FULL NAME
[2] FULL ADDRESS
[3] AGE AND OCCUPATION
[4] TELEPHONE AND FAX NUMBER
[5] ID OR INTERNATIONAL PASSPORT

This transaction will be performed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law. Thank you as you read this e-mail and I shall wait to receive your positive response.

Yours sincerely,

Barrister Fred Wilson

______________________________________________________
So, here's what I know about my uncle:
1. His name was Engineer Frank.
2. He died of colon cancer on Nov 8, 2008.
3. He has the same last name as me!
4. Barrister Fred Wilson is his attorney.
5. Apparently it's a custom in Nigeria to split my inheritance 50/50 with the attorney?
6. I'm going to inherit $6.5Million usd y'all!

But here's what I don't know about him:
1. Was he a train engineer? Like, a conductor?
2. What took you so long, Barrister Fred? 2.5 years? Do you know how much I could have won at the track by now?
3. What exactly was Engineer Frank's last name? Because you never really say.
4. Can I call you Barrister Fred?
5. How about 70/30?

So I decided to email Barrister Fred with all of my questions.

From: Shinythings <shinythings@yahoo.com>
To: Barrister Fred Wilson
Sent: Saturday July 15, 2011 9:31pm

Subject: ZOMG THIS IS AMAZING!!!!

Oh WOW! You aren't going to believe this Barrister Fred, but I was just down to my last $10 usd when I got your ZOMG amazing email!! Count me IN! So, what did Uncle Engineer Frank do for a living, again? You said he was an engineer. Do you mean like, a train engineer? Because that would be f*cking AWESOME!!! I've always wanted an uncle who was a train engineer. Do you have his train cap, by any chance? And do you have pictures of him? I don't care if they're of him laying in his coffin, any pictures would be just fine. Actually, if you have any photos of Uncle Frank laying in his coffin, I really would prefer those. I collect photos of people in coffins, it's kind of my "thing".

You aren't going to believe this, but just before I got your email, I got another one from Robert Hook Loan Company and I was just getting ready to send off my application for $4.2Million usd! They came to me highly recommended by Mrs. Christine Shery Garrett from Canada. Ha! I don't think I need a loan anymore, Barrister Fred, amiright?

Just tell me what I need to do!

p.s.-No offense, Barrister Fred, but what took you so long? I could have really used this money last week.

Love,

Yolanda

And this is the reason I was always on the outside looking in.

2011-07-11T23:58:00.007-05:00

When I was younger, my mom was a sewer. No, that's not looking right. Not the thing that your toilet flushes into. I mean the person who makes things for her 9-year-old daughter to take to daycamp/school. Not to take to overnighters. Or parties. Because I was never invited to those.

And I blame my mother.

Exhibit #1. The stupid swimbag:

It was hot that summer. Fortunately for me, terrycloth is very absorbent.

My mom took two bath towels and sewed them together, threaded some braided rope through it and Bingo! I was ready to be mocked by my peers. Just so you know, I had no say in what the towels looked like, so she picked these:

Yeah, fringe was really big in the '70's. Shut up.

Then? Just in case there were some of my peers who were still willing to accept me and my homemade swimbag (and there weren't, just so you know), my mother sent me to camp with a lunchbucket*. My grandpa apparently gave it to her for me to use, and I believe it was originally meant to hold lunch for a large man who worked a long, hard day. I was 9, so I spent my days rolling down hills and making placemats out of wax paper, leaves and crayon shavings.

So while all the other girls had lunchboxes like this:

That's right Paul, I see you looking at me.

Or this:

I was *totally* convinced I had her superpowers and I insisted my friends call me Jaime Sommers

Or this, even:

There are no words. I mean it.

I was toting this around:

My *lunchbucket*

That's right. I was a farmer. Mom, I love you and I know you love me and I know money was tight but...really? You really didn't think I would be mocked? I traded the homemade fudge you gave me for grapes and beansprouts, just so the other girls would accept me. It didn't work.

Then? I turned 14 and went to high school. Our gym uniforms looked something like this:

We looked like teenage convicts in our one-piece polyester zippered gymsuits. On the first day of school, the gym teacher handed out our suits and a sheet of white iron-on letters. Our first name had to go on the right leg and our last name had to go on our left leg. I think. I don't know, I've been drinking. Whatever.

Anywhoo, I brought my gymsuit and the iron-on letters home that night and gave my mom the teacher's instructions. She took one look at the letters and said, Oh, I think we can do much better than that.

So instead of this:

I got this:

That's right. My mom embroidered my name, in cursive, in different colors, on the legs of my high school gymsuit. And she dotted the the i with a flower.

True story.

She was so proud of her handiwork, I didn't have the heart to tell her I would be mocked for the next 4 years.

I won't make you re-live my Freshman and Sophomore years in high school with me (because we only needed new gymsuits every two years). Suffice it to say that high school did NOT live up to my expectations.

And don't even get me started on the sweatshirt she embroidered with a hotdog, along with bottles of ketchup and mustard.

I sh*t you not.

*Author's Note: Today my mother informed me that I actually asked to use my grandpa's lunchbucket. So it appears that I had a hand in my own humiliation.

Well played, younger self. Well played indeed.

My GPS is trying to kill me. That, or get me fired.

2011-06-08T20:20:00.004-05:00

For my job, I drive approximately 95% of the time. I usually drive between 50 and 75 miles a day, and it is imperative that I arrive at my destination in a timely manner. It is also imperative that I arrive at my destination alive.

Not unlike my 8-year-old, my GPS has decided that it is smarter than me, and doesn't have to follow rules.

Here is an example of an interaction between me and my GPS.

This happens on a daily basis.

Monday
GPS: Turn left in approximately 250 feet. Then go left.

Me: But Tomtom, your screen shows that I should go right...."

GPS: Shut up.

Tuesday
GPS: In 30 feet, turn right. Then, in 8 miles, make a U-turn. Drive 8.5 miles, then you have reached your destination.

Me: But Tomtom, why should I drive 8 miles one way and then drive 8.5 miles in the opposite direction? All I need to do is turn left and drive .5 miles, right?

GPS: I feel like seeing some sights.

Wednesday
GPS: In 50 feet, turn left. Then continue for 20 feet.

Me: But Tomtom, that's a one way.

GPS: Shut up! This way is faster! You said you wanted faster, not shorter, right? RIGHT?? Welcome to faster b*tch! Now shut up and DRIVE!!!

Thursday
GPS: In 200 yards, turn left...

Me: *sigh*

GPS: Now, in 15 feet turn left and then.....WAIT!!! I just remembered a shortcut! Quick!! Go right and then make a U-turn!!

Me: But Tomtom!! There's a semi behind me and.....

GPS: DO AS I SAY WOMAN!!!!

*screeching of tires, sound of metal grinding against metal, glass shattering, etc*

Friday
GPS: beepbeepbeep!!!

Me: What???

GPS: You are driving 55mph in a 40mph speedzone. 55/40. Beepbeepbeep!! Slow down!!

Me: Tomtom, you're wrong! I'm looking at the speed limit sign right now and it says 55mph, so shut up!

GPS: BEEPBEEPBEEP! SLOW DOWN!!

Me: SHUT UP!!! I F*CKING HATE YOU!!!!

GPS: Whatever. In 2 feet, turn left.

Me: What??!! That doesn't even make any sense!! Who has reflexes like that? And besides, THAT'S A BIKE PATH!!

GPS: I know a back way. I found it on mapshare. *rollafattie* uploaded it last night.

Me: THAT PERSON WAS PROBABLY HIGH!!! I mean, come on!! Roll a fattie??? They're just uploading crap to mess with people like me!!

GPS: Really? Bwaaahahahahahahahahhaaa!!!!! That's f*cking AWESOME!!!

I hate my GPS.

5 things I always thought would happen, that didn't

2011-06-06T22:48:00.001-05:00

I'm obsessive. I worry about everything. Often. I used to be much worse, I'm better now. I don....shh! Did you hear that? Wait...a....second.....there! You heard it now, right?

I'm joking!!! I bet you thought I was all set to do some lame parody of my fearful self, didn't you? Well, you were wrong.

Here, in no particular order, are 5 things* I thought would happen to me, along with the 5 things that actually did happen, instead. See? You probably thought I was going to just list 5 things, you didn't know you were getting 5 more things!

Age 9-
1. Due to the general dorkiness of myself, I worried that nobody would ever marry me, thus leading to a perpetually lonely and childless state, which I would offset by being the owner of at least 185 cats.

What actually happened - I met a guy and got married. We know how well that turned out, don't we? I am also the proud owner of two children, who in turn own a guinea pig, a hamster and their late father's senile, arthritic cat.

Age 8-
2. I would suddenly awaken one morning only to find that I had mysteriously gone deaf and blind, necessitating the use of both a tappy-cane and a complete library of the Little House on the Prairie books, in Braille.

What actually happened- I didn't go blind or deaf *YET*. And do you know how hard it is to learn Braille? It's really, really hard.

Age 5-
3. I would lose my first tooth in my sleep, so I didn't have to encounter any blood, gore or pain.

What actually happened- My dad tied a string around my loose tooth, sat me in his lap, told me to close my eyes and pretend we were on a motorcycle ride. After he PROMISED not to pull my tooth, (even though the string was hanging out of my mouth), he said, Oh no! A stop sign! and pulled the string. My tooth went flying across the living room and when we couldn't find it, I cried. Then the tooth fairy left me a $5 bill and that's how I found out that guilt pays.

Age 11-
4. Around Christmas of 1978, after my mother bought me Shaun Cassidy's Born Late, along with KISS' Double Platinum (no, the irony does not escape me), I decided I would either be married to Ace Frehley from KISS, or Shaun Cassidy. On the one hand, Shaun was super cute and had dark blonde hair that feathered perfectly. On the other hand, Ace looked awesome in his black leather catsuits and 8" platforms. And don't even get me started on the mystery of being married to someone and never knowing what they looked like. Makeover party!!!!!

What actually happened - I read an interview in Tiger Beat which said that Shaun Cassidy had always wished he had a little sister. I saw my chance and immediately wrote him a letter, offering to be his little sister. I figured I'd get my foot in the door and we could worry about sibling/spousal relationships later.

My "good boy" husband.

My "bad boy" husband. Man, I was complex.

Age 9-
5. My favorite Saturday morning show was The Shazam! Isis Hour. I came to believe that I had all of the powers that Mighty Isis encompassed, such as the ability to read minds, the ability to make objects levitate, the ability to hold back elements, the ability to act as a human lightning rod, and the ability to stop and reverse time. Every Saturday after 11:10am, I walked around the trailer court chanting "Oh zephyr winds that blow on high, lift me now so I can fly!" I communicated telepathically with crows. Plus? I could fly.

What really happened- My bestie, Kristine, who's grandma sold Tussy products, gave me a gold necklace that had a charm filled with old-lady cream perfume. I became convinced that it was my Mighty Isis pendant. I repeated my chant and made Kristine close her eyes while I ran from the swingset to the tree. When she opened her eyes....POOF! Magic. Plus, I went along with her delusional belief that she could become invisible. Shut up.

*This post was originally going to be about 10 things, but I got bored and then Zach started screaming because he wanted to grow some stupid crystals that I bought him at the Museum Store in Chicago yesterday and I said no, it's 8:30 at night and you have school tomorrow. Then he told me I was the worst mom ever and I said no, I'm not. Grandma was, because she let me believe that killer bees were coming to get me when I was 11. Plus? she and Grandpa took me to see scary movies when I was little. And Grandpa's not much better. Then Zach was all, what do you mean? And I was like, well, all I'm saying is don't fall asleep at their house if you have a loose tooth.

Yes, I gave her an 11 year old sucker, but how was I supposed to know that sugar can go bad?

2011-05-18T22:08:00.007-05:00

Today my 11-year-old daughter had a concert at the courthouse, and then we ate lunch together. After lunch she had to go to The Nuthouse, which is a shop that sells ice cream, candy and, you guessed it, nuts. She was dying to buy an all day sucker, because all of the kids bought them last year and she just loved the idea of a sucker bigger than her head. When we got to The Nuthouse, it appeared that every kid who was in chorus was waiting in line for their turn to buy a giant sucker. This line wrapped around the corner, that's how important a trip to The Nuthouse was.

So she finally got her humongous sucker and ran out of the store waving it at me. She belonged. She fit in. She pretended it was a magic wand, a light saber and a sword.

Which accounts for why it looked like this when she unwrapped it tonight:

Well, it didn't look exactly like this when she unwrapped it. It was slightly less broken, and there weren't big pink globs of leftover melts from the candy jewelry making kit she got two Christmases ago that I used in a pathetic attempt at gluing the sucker pieces together. I only succeeded in making it worse, and she was devastated. Especially since I'd also made her buy an all-day sucker for her younger brother. So while she was fighting back tears, her brother was doing this:

Her brother, not rubbing it in at all.

As her brother, completely undeserving in her book, pranced around the house eating his big-ass sucker and getting it all over his face in the process, I did some quick thinking and what I remembered was this. When my daughter turned one, my husband's cousin had given her a handmade all-day sucker. Being an anal retentive control freak of a first time parent, I promptly hid the giant sucker in a kitchen drawer, and then forgot about it.

Until tonight, that is. I frantically dug in the kitchen drawer beneath layers of old potholders and scattered toothpicks and some old batteries and.....found it. *cue angelic music*

As my mother was in the dining room with the kids, surveying the wrecked lollipop and saying things like, "Aww! It's so cute!" and "Wow! It's like a puzzle, only made out of candy!" I proudly walked out of the kitchen holding an 11-year-old giant sucker that was in the shape of a flower (with only one piece broken off) which said "Make A Wish!". Taking a step back, my mother gave me that look. The look that one mother gives to another when she's saved the day, and I nodded back to her, graciously acknowledging her admiration.

My daughter's eyes grew round with anticipation, and she looked at me in awe. And seriously, I deserved it. I mean, how many mothers happen to have an all-day sucker on hand, for just such emergencies as these?

She unwrapped it and sniffed it.

"It smells funny."

"That's just the wrapper."

She dislodged the broken piece from the wrapper and looked at it closely.

"What's this?"

"What? I don't see anything."

"Look at the inside, it's all yellow. Shouldn't it be white?"

"It's probably banana flavored."

"But why are there holes in the, um, middle?"

By now, I was beginning to have some serious concerns about feeding my child 11-year-old candy. Would it make her sick? Sick enough to have to take her to the emergency room and then have to try to ignore the looks of disbelief as I attempted to explain to the nurses and doctors that yes, I purposely fed my daughter an 11-year-old all-day sucker but she was super sad and bummed out because the one she got was broken. And did I forget to mention the fact that her dad died last month??? I mean, what would you do?

At the last minute, I decided that the e.r. doctor probably wouldn't feed his daughter old candy and he also probably wouldn't take my diagnosis of adhd or my children's grief into consideration before he hotlined me to DCFS.

I held up a hand.

"Stop. Don't eat it, just throw it away."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Good. I have trained you well, grasshopper.

"Why?"

"Well....it's kind of old, actually. Best not to eat it, in case..."

"How old?"

"Ummm......I don't really remember, exactly...."

"HOW OLD?"

"Well, let's see. Cousin Helene gave that to you when you turned one, so I guess that would make it..."

WHAT!!!!???? YOU WERE GOING TO FEED ME A 10-YEAR-OLD SUCKER???"

Here, I sighed. The sigh you give your child when she is totally in the right but no way will you let her know that. Because keeping that a secret is what keeps you in charge. That, and having the last word.

"Technically, it's closer to 11-years-old, since your 12th birthday is next mo...."

"WHATEVER!!!! Ew! Gross!"

At this point, she ran to the kitchen sink and started scrubbing her tongue with her toothbrush.

"Don't forget to throw it away!" I called after her.

So I had the last word.

Don't judge me.

Sorry I killed your chickens Grandma but you really should have given me more information.

2011-05-01T21:21:00.004-05:00

Did you know that baby chicks can actually die from fear? Well, they can.

My grandma Josephine kept chickens, and sold their eggs to Wilbur the egg man every week. She would collect the eggs and leave them on the dining room table. We would then go in to town to eat dinner and Wilbur would come and get the eggs off of the dining room table. Then he would leave the money and take the eggs. Sometimes King, my grandparents German Shepard, forgot who Wilbur was, so he would let Wilbur in the house to get the eggs, but he wouldn't let Wilbur leave the house. That's when we would get a phone call up at The Dairy Dipper from Wilbur, asking to speak to my grandparents. Wilbur would explain the situation and we would go back to the farm so Wilbur could leave the house.

So, about my grandma Josephine's chickens......there was this one time when she told me to stay out of the henhouse, because otherwise the baby chicks would die.

Ok. First, let me tell you that I'm the kind of person who ~~wants~~ needs to know every detail of a situation. Otherwise, my imagination runs riot and everybody dies.

So anyway, because I was 9, Grandma Josephine didn't bother with the details, she just told me to stay out of the henhouse and expected that I would. That's it, that's all.

My mom should have told her that's not how I operated. So, I blame Mom.

Bad Mom.

It was Easter break and my parents had shipped me off to the farm for another week, and my grandma made the mistake of telling me that there were chicks.

She sat me down and very sternly told me to stay out of the henhouse, because there were brand-new chicks in there. And that's all she told me.

That's like telling a child that there are kittens in the shed out back, but neglecting to mention the fact that there is a Velociraptor in there as well. Yes, I know, but it's not like Allie Brosh owns the rights to the word Velociraptor. Anyone can use it.

I kicked around in the dirt of the chicken run long enough to make Grandma think I had forgotten all about the baby chicks. I snuck a quick look and realized I was no longer being watched.

It was time to make my move.

OMG you guys! There were about 25-40 tiny yellow baby chicks, and they were sooo cute! The henhouse was lit by several warming lights, and the floor was littered with straw.

But wait. There seemed to be one baby chick who appeared sad. Left out. Bereft.

I decided I would pick him up and console him.

As I moved toward that one baby chick, all of the chicks moved toward the opposing wall in a wave. They all piled on top of one another in a frantic attempt to escape my affections.

Because that's what baby chicks do. Grandma Josephine should have been more specific.

Realizing that I was in serious trouble, I did what any responsible, morally upright child would do.

I ran like hell.

Later, as I was re-reading Little Women in my bedroom for the thousandth time, Grandma Josephine came in.

Grandma: "Did you go into my henhouse today? After I specifically told you not to?"

Me: (refusing to make eye contact) "Um, no?"

Grandma: "Well, it looks like 27 of my baby chicks have been smothered to death. Are you sure you don't know anything about it?"

Me: "Wow! I read somewhere that dogs hate chickens. Maybe King killed them. He was looking at them yesterday, like he was jealous of them. I bet he killed them. You should check his mouth for feathers

Grandma (sighing): "Is this going to be like the time you killed the Easter Bunny?"

Me: "No!! That was an ACCIDENT!!!"

I won't bore you with the details, but Grandma eventually got me to admit to accidentally killing approximately 25-30 of her baby chicks. So, I got the "all animals are God's creatures and stop killing them!!" lecure.

Again.

So that's why I think the chicken chased me around the farmyard when I was 11, after my grandpa chopped it's head off.

Because that's payback.

I started to write about the time I wanted a pony but then this post completely took on a life of it's own and that's ok because we all have to listen to our inner muse, right?

2011-04-16T12:51:00.000-05:00

When I was 6, I desperately wanted a shetland pony, because it would be small enough to keep in the yard and when it got cold outside Mom would probably let it come in the trailer because she sometimes let the stray cat we fed come inside and really, was a shetland pony much bigger than a dog?

I'd only seen pictures but I was pretty sure it would fit nicely on the rag rug in the kitchen, all curled up. I would name it Tiffany and we could have our pictures taken together at Easter. I would ride her to school and she could eat grass while she waited for me and during recess when the other girls all played on the swings together, Tiffany and I would play tag, or hide and seek. Screw those a-hole girls who wouldn't play with me, I would have Tiffany. At the end of the day when the other kids were getting onto the buses to go home, I would ride Tiffany home and tell her about my day. It would be awesome.

Here's a picture of Tiffany and me:

Ok, not really, but that's how we looked in my imagination. Only Tiffany would have bows in her mane and I would braid her tail with ribbons and I would be dressed as Tinkerbell. Because you can't ride a horse in a long princess dress, everybody knows that. And plus? I could fly. That's right. I had magic fairy dust and I could fly, and all the other mean girls totally were jealous because I had a pony and I could fly and they begged me to let them ride Tiffany and one time I let that bitch Cari Nessler ride her but ha! Tiffany bit Cari on the leg and then threw her off because she was a one-girl pony, and I was the only girl at Neil A. Armstrong-Oakview Grade School who could ride Tiffany.

Then all the girls wanted to be my friend but I knew it was only because of Tiffany, but then one day Tiffany got strep throat and she had to stay in bed (because I now had a bunk bed and Tiffany slept on the lower bunk but I got the top bunk) and Claudia and Nancy still wanted to play with me and that's how I knew they were the only nice girls in my class and so we played ring-around-the-rosy and tag and then Claudia let me braid her hair with ribbons and Nancy asked me to be her best friend but then Claudia said no, she's my best friend and before they could start fighting over me I said it's ok, I'm both of your best friends and even though that was completely improper grammar they totally knew what I meant.

Then when I got off the bus that day my parents were waiting for me along with Tiffany, because the antibiotics had worked and she was feeling much better. Then Mom told me that she was pregnant with twins and they were both girls so I would get to be an older sister and Dad said that he'd been digging a hole and found a pirate's treasure so he'd bought us a mansion on Grandview Drive that had a basement and an attic and stairs and a dining room plus a swimming pool and we were going to move in today and I would get my own bathroom. Oh, and I had an older brother too, his name was Greg and he always teased me and he taught me how to fight and all of his guy friends thought I was cute.

Plus? I was psychic.

Dead Unicorns And Spaghetti Monsters

2011-04-12T23:11:00.003-05:00

My 11-year-old daughter has a cell phone with a limited number of minutes each month. When they're gone, they're gone. Unfortunately, she also has a fierce addiction to texting, and 3 texts=1 minute. When you only get 100 minutes a month, they go pretty fast. I have tried to tell her not to waste her minutes on unnecessary texts, but my advice seems to fall on deaf ears. How do I know? Well, here's an example of how she chooses to use her text minutes:

Julia: Where are you?
Yesterday, 8:15pm

Me: Just got done @ kroger. Getting my salad and coming home. Love u.
Yesterday, 8:18pm

Julia: I love you.
Yesterday, 8:18pm

Me: <3
Yesterday, 8:19pm

Julia: Kiss
Yesterday, 8:20pm

Julia: *sends cute photo of 8 week old puppy she found on the internet*
Yesterday, 8:30pm

Julia: Where are you?
Yesterday, 8:33pm

Me: On my way now. Stop wasting ur minutes! <3. And yes i know u love me so dont waste minutes, k?
Yesterday, 8:34pm

Julia: K
Yesterday, 8:35pm

*sigh*

Julia: Where are you?

6:06pm

Julia: Where are you? answer

6:33pm

Julia: U all most here

6:49pm

Me: Yes

6:49pm

Julia: Good with food (wtf?)

6:50pm

Julia: U here me (she was singing at her master choir recital. With 371 other kids. And she wanted to know if I could hear her)

7:34pm

Julia: *unintelligible voice text asking if I videotaped her recital*

9:03pm

Julia: Where are you?

9:09pm

Me: Popeyes

9:16pm

Me: Everytime you waste your cell minutes saying things like "k" or "where are u" or "u there?" God kills a beautiful unicorn. Do you want that on your conscience?

9:24pm

Julia: K

9:25pm

Oh, and today Zach got a D in Conduct. Why? Because he called his art teacher "A Spaghetti Monster". And she was offended by this. Why? I happen to know that he enjoys a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs every once in a while. Perhaps it was a compliment, no matter how backhanded. Maybe he meant it like this:

But she took it like this:

Maybe.

Just Give Me A Sibling And Nobody Gets Hurt

2011-04-01T12:53:00.004-05:00

When I was little, and even when I was not-so-little, my dream was to have a brother or sister, because being an only child sucks. I wanted that built-in playmate that all of my friends seemed to have. The person who might try to kill me in my sleep, but would always have my back in times of need. So I waited expectantly for my parents to tell me that a little brother or sister would be coming our way. And I waited some more.

When I was 5, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

For several years now I had seen my mom take these cute little pills in this cute round plastic container. She took one every night, without fail. That round little plastic circle was way too much like a pez dispenser to be ignored. Was it candy? I had to find out.

"Mommy? What are those pills in that round thingie?"

"Oh, those are Mommy's special pills. They keep me from having a baby."

wrong answer.

*cagily* "Sooo, if you didn't take those pills you'd have a baby?"

"That's right, if it wasn't for those little pills, you'd have a little brother or sister! That's why I have to take one every single night."

*Pops sibling-preventing pill into her mouth and swallows it down. Beams brightly at her depressed only child.*

So now that I knew the how, it was up to me to pave the way for my brother-or-sister-to-be. Timing was everything.

Then next day I waited until she went to the bathroom, which was generally when I pulled most of my hijinx. After I heard the door close, I quickly ran to the kitchen and shoved the flat container underneath our 500 pound Amana Radar Range:

It was a big deal to have one of these in 1974. My dad had a friend who owned an Amana dealership and he got it for my mom that Christmas. The dial at the top measured the time in seconds, up to one minute. The bottom dial measured the time in 5 minute incriments, up to an hour. For the two months following that Christmas, my dad went out and bought pounds of bacon and invited all of the men in the trailer court over to watch it cook in the Radar Range. Then they would all stand around and talk about how fast it cooked things, while they ate the bacon.

That night, I heard my mom moving things around on the kitchen counter, her movements becoming more frantic with time. I stared stonily at the t.v., my mind made up. I would not cave. Johnny and/or Annette were counting on me.

The next day.....

"Sweetie? Have you seen my pills?"

Silence. It was the best weapon, as nothing could be used against me.

"Honey? Did you hear me? Where are my pills?"

Slowly, I turned my eyes from the t.v. and looked at her. "Um, I don't know?"

Her eyes narrowed as she came to the realization that her 5-year-old daughter was trying to take charge of her reproductive cycle. Her incredibly stubborn and lonely 5-year-old daughter.

"You little shit! You give me back my pills right this instant!"

"Um...no. I threw them away and now you'll have a baby and then I can blame it when all the sugar cookies go missing from the Christmas tree. You'll never know who peed in the sink and it can sleep in my closet. When it gets older we're going to gang up on you and Daddy so you'll have to buy us a house. The kind without wheels."

She made a kind of choking noise when I told her I'd thrown the pills away, and she quickly checked the garbage. She found no pills and called my bluff.

"If you don't give me back my pills RIGHT NOW I'm going to spank your butt!"

I rolled my eyes.

"I'll...I'll...I'll ground you from your toys!"

I sighed and inspected my nails.

She could see that threats would not sway me. This was war, and she would have to change her plan of attack. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth worked as she tried to figure out what might cause me put her refusal to have another child ahead of my determination to have a sibling.

She stared at me. Hard. I stared back at her coolly from across the Harvest Gold and Avacado Green living room.

Suddenly, all the wind seemed to go out of her sails. Muffling a sob, she sat down and held out her arms.

"Come here sweetie."

I narrowed my eyes at this trick, Clint Eastwood style.

She motioned once again with her outstretched arms, I slowly walked towards her, my eyes darting everywhere for signs of an ambush. Once I traveled the 13 steps from the livingroom to the kitchen table, she sighed once, and then again. She shook her head regretfully and made full eye contact with me. I thought I saw an unshed tear glinting in the kitchen lighting, but she'd tricked me before, so I wasn't buying it.

"Honey, Mommy can't have anymore babies. The doctor said if I had anymore babies I'd die."

I sneered at her pathetic attempt to play upon my 5 year-old sensibilities. I was the one who had made Artie-Fartie my Kindergarten Bitch. She had no idea what she was up against.

She nodded regretfully. But I was always a suspicious child.

"Then why didn't you get fixed like Kitty-Kat? And why do I sometimes hear you telling Daddy, 'You know, I'm not getting any younger so if we want to have another kid, we'd better get on it'? And why do you and Daddy sometimes look at me and shake your heads and say, "Next time....next time we'll get it right'?"

Seriously? While I doubted her story, I also realized that if she died, I would spend the next 13 years eating nothing but the floppy bacon and overly-soft scrambled eggs that were the only foods my dad knew how to make in the Amana Radar Range. I took no chances.

I quickly fished the pills out from under the radar range and handed them to her. They must have been magical pills because she immediately sat up, popped one in her mouth and got that no-consequences-nookie look in her eyes.

I had been tricked.

Well played, Suzanne.

Well played indeed.

13 Reasons The Brady Bunch Had It Better Than Me

2011-03-26T20:05:00.001-05:00

The Brady Bunch was my favorite show when I was little, for many reasons:

1. They had a huge house, no part of the house was on wheels and none of the children were ever asked to run the lot-rent check up to the office.

2. They had a live-in maid. That meant they were rich, and being rich meant they might adopt me. Of course, I would still visit my parents on weekends and I'd probably bring them some of the porkchops and applesauce that Alice had made.

3. They had a sliding door that lead to the backyard.

4. They had a backyard.

5. There were 3 boys and 3 girls.*

6. All of the boys had dark hair and all of the girls had blonde hair. I became anxious when Marcia's hair started getting darker in season 4.*

7. Each child had a step-sibling that was their exact age.*

8. They had family meetings and the kids actually had a say in how the family was run. Their parents never said stuff like, it's my way or the highway and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

9. Alice always wrote the meals on the chalkboard in the kitchen. There were no nasty surprises at dinner. Like your mom sneaking sliced turnips in with the fried potatoes, and then telling you that if you could tell the difference, you didn't have to eat them. Then when you could tell the difference because turnips, when held up to the light, have veins in them, your mom lied and said no, that's a potato and made you eat it anyway.

10. They had a laundry room. That meant nobody had to be forced to go on weekly trips to the laundromat, where your mom got mad if you and your best friend had races with the rickety metal carts and accidentally bashed them into some dryers and then the girl at the counter told on you and your best friend because you decided to pass the time by having a belching contest. And then your mom made you throw out your sodas, even though you weren't done with them yet.

11. Alice always gave them a snack after school, and it was usually cookies and milk. Nobody had to go to the creepy neighbor's house after school and watch religious programming until their mom came home from work because they were too young to be trusted with a housekey.

12. Nobody ever got spanked in The Brady Bunch. The parents just sat the child down and explained how disappointed they were and then gave them a reasonable consequence. No child in The Brady Bunch was ever made to wear their mom's old glasses from high school as a punishment for faking their vision test in the 3rd grade because she wanted glasses, and the parents never said stuff like, if i ever catch you [fill in the blank] again, i'm going to knock you into the middle of next week or you're cruisin' for a bruisin'.

13. Mr. Brady never asked the kids to pull his finger. Not once.

*due to my obsessiveness, matching-but-not-completely-matching was paramount to me. For example, Marcia could be matched to her sisters due to gender and hair color, but she could also be matched to Greg due to age. Greg could be matched with his siblings as being one of the children, but he could also be matched with Mr. Brady because they both slept with Carol, only Greg did it in real life and Mr. Brady pretended.