BREAKING NEWS!

Seriously, this qualifies as Breaking News given that it took 3 months, two bottles of Motrin, 7 candlelit Calgon-style baths, and 3 37 made-up obscenities to get to this point.

But….I’m ridiculously thrilled to announce that You Cannot Be Serious is now (FINALLY!) available for download onto the iPad, iPod, iPhone, and all other “i” devices! Click here for details….

Moving on (’cause that’s what we do ’round here)…

A few weeks ago I had an appointment with a new gynecologist. (Don’t worry; this isn’t going to get graphic.)

As an aside, what is it about the gynecologist whereby, pre-children, it’s a dreaded appointment and post-children you almost want to go twice a year because you are asked to lie down and someone asks questions—albeit awfully personal ones—about how you are doing.

This being my first appointment with this new doctor, she understandably had a slew of questions for me.

Did I say “a slew?” It was more like an avalanche.

Let’s just say that I think I discussed all the kids’ births, but I may have added a kid, or forgotten one, or embellished one’s birth weight. By several pounds.

Anyway, the questions began innocently enough.

“Do you exercise?”

My response: “Please define exercise.”

“Ok. I’ll put ‘moderate.’ Do you smoke?”

“Never.”

“Do you drink?”

“I wish.”

“Any street drugs? Meth? Cocaine?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, WHAT?” I finally responded.

And, just as flatly as she asked the first time, she repeated, “Any street drugs? Meth? Cocaine?”

“NO! Good Lord, does anyone ever say ‘Yes?’” I inquired.

“You’d be surprised,” she revealed. “I had a woman a few weeks ago admit that she does meth on occasion so that she can stay up for several days at a time.”

“Wait,” I intervened, “Can you even do meth ‘on occasion?’”

“Well…” she attempted to answer.

“And, let me just ask,” I continued (because, hell, I’m paying for the appointment) “What do you even SAY to someone who says that? Do you say, ‘Have you ever heard of coffee’?”

“Yes, it’s awkward,” she stated.

I should say so.

So while I began that month concerned about my addiction to Pinterest, I was left feeling much better after this conversation, knowing that, indeed, it could be worse.

Lots worse.

Oy to the vey.

Once upon a time, there was this guy.

Which, by the way, is how the most awful of stories usually begin.

Anyway, there was this guy, this guy who I was just sure I was going to spend the rest of my days with. Because when you’re 18, you know everything. In fact, when you’re 12 you know everything. For real. Just ask my daughter.

So there was this guy, and there was also this girl. Not me. Another girl. A girl who, one afternoon during a particularly boring Earth Science class, dared me to get a tattoo of The Guy Who I Knew I’d Never Be Without.

Unable to say No to a dare (I can today, people, so don’t even try it), I did it. Yep. It was awesome. And by awesome I mean that my father STILL doesn’t know about it.

I remember when I showed it to my mother in our den just after it had been done (God forbid I tell her before, and I still don’t know what possessed me to tell her ever). It was still, shall we say, oozing. And she just said, “Oh! Oh my! Um, do not tell your father.” And that was that.

And that boy and I? We totally were together for the rest of…that month.

Seriously, my advice to today’s youth? If you ever want to permanently break up with someone, just get their name permanently inked on your body. That ought to firm up that “there is no way I can’t be with you forever” mentality for, oh, a few weeks at best.

Obviously, I could not keep this moniker on my hip forever. So back I went to the glorious tattoo studio (and by glorious I mean that I’m real lucky I didn’t walk out of there with anything in addition to a tattoo), and said, “You have to do something with this.”

To which the tattoo guy responded, “Uh, that will be difficult. All I can really do is make it a rose. And it will have to be blue.”

Because that makes sense. A blue rose. You see those everywhere. Clearly, this guy was creatively challenged.

So, a blue rose it became. It’s awful with a capital A.

However, I recently gleaned a glimpse of Bret Michaels’ Every Rose Has Its Thorn motorcycle, and as it turns out, the rose on that bike looks almost identical to the one on my hip. IT’S EVEN BLUE! So now I simply tell people that this whole thing worked out exactly as it was supposed to.

I’m sure Bret would not be at all freaked out.

But now I’m thinking of getting a tattoo that actually means something to me (beyond representing my very public love for Bret Michaels). So I’ve started a Pinterest tattoo board to keep track of what I like. And I don’t know that I’ll ever do it. But let me tell you, trying to narrow down the field to what one thing you’d ink permanently onto your person is a great way to learn a bit about yourself on a Monday afternoon.

Just Saying.

This was one of those life-changing moments. Because this is a kid who, not all that long ago (at about the same she was on year 8 of “I’m going to be a professional waitress when I grow up”) worshiped the path that Dora traveled every goddamn day on her way to find the Map or her Backpack or a bunch of monkeys perilously stuck in a tree.

“Do tell,” I responded.

“Because,” continued Grace, “she’ll be like, “Where’s the mountain?” and she’ll ask over and over. And it’s RIGHT BEHIND HER!

“And when she’s on her 4th inquiry (*note: she did use the word ‘inquiry’), I just want to scream, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, IT’S RIGHT THERE!”

I see her point.

“And then,” she went on, “Boots and Dora are trying to get to Rainbow Rock, and the Map is all, ‘Dora’s over here and Boots is over here and Boots needs to know how to get to Rainbow Rock.’ And I know how to get to Rainbow Rock!

“And I’m all, ‘Well just get on with it, then!”

Suddenly, I’m realizing precisely why I’ve never invented anything as successful as Dora: it’s too predictable.

“Do you realize,” she asked, “that 25 minutes of the 30 minutes of the show is filled with WHEEEERRRRRE’S the mountain? And the other 5 minutes are filled with ‘Come on, Vamanos! Everybody let’s go!’ It’s absolutely ridiculous.”

I wonder if she’ll ever feel this way about iCarly, Shake It Up and Victorious?

David’s full of insight lately, let me tell you.

If you haven’t been won over yet by his theories, be sure to check out his thoughts on what makes a news story go viral.

Next up: the most dangerous section of your grocery store.

First, I’d like to note that Dr. Oz has a most informative article on his site about the Supermarket Secrets that Can Make You Sick, and while he does address the bagel bin (don’t even get me started on what is often found at the bottom of the bagel bin), he did not address the bulk section. So David feels it’s incumbent upon him (meaning me) to let you in on this.

“Old people in the bulk section at Sprouts are more dangerous than unattended children,” he declared as he hoisted 4 bulging recycled grocery bags onto the kitchen counter.

I kind of tuned him out. Because I thought that was just kind of a mean thing to say. Right?

But, apparently, I misunderstood.

“You don’t understand,” he clarified. “They eat right out of the bins, and they push carts through the store simply so that they can have the handle bar to rest their teeny tiny cup of complimentary coffee on, so the carts take up the entire aisle while they test stuff and then put what they don’t like back in the bin.”

I suppose the silence had him concerned that I wasn’t listening. But I was listening. Just unable to respond. Because I was trying to process the fact that my days enjoying the bulk section were over.

“Do you realize,” he continued, clearly taking advantage of the fact that I was indeed listening, “that I had to forgo purchasing my almond clusters because I looked in that bin and thought, ‘What if that one was touched?’ or ‘What if THAT one made it to someone’s MOUTH and then they decided they didn’t like it and put it BACK?’

“And then, I thought, ‘Well, I could do what Liz does, and grab the item from the back or, in this case, the bottom. But what if the person before me did that and so now what was on the bottom is now on the top and vice versa and I’m just unknowingly contaminating myself?’”

“It matters not,” I flatly stated. “We are done with the bulk section. At least, we are done with clusters, nuts and trail mix. And if you ever see anyone eating almond flour or sea salt out of their hand, we’re done with that too.”

This whole situation has kind of ruined us. But I’ll look on the bright side: after 13 years of marriage (I think it’s been 13), it’s comforting to know that we still have that one germaphobic thing very much in common.

And by “interesting,” I mean “terrifying and violating.”

Long story short, I uploaded a picture up that I thought was hilarious, and that was receiving hilarious comments on other people’s timelines, and for the first 18 minutes, the comments I received were not only plentiful, they were—as I expected—hilarious.

And then it got frightening.

Because people I didn’t know began posting some rather, shall we say, lewd responses. And they were coming in so fast that I was simultaneously thinking, “Why can’t I get this level of participation when I have a jewelry sale?” and “OHMIGOD CLOSE THE CURTAINS LOCK THE DOORS BUY A BURQA (ONLINE BECAUSE I’M NEVER AGAIN LEAVING THIS HOUSE) AND GO BACK TO RELATIVE ANONYMITY RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND DELETE DELETE DELETE!”

Right about then, David asked how things were going with the post, and when I told him that the post was no more and why, he suddenly got pretty knowledgeable on me. And by “knowledgeable,” I mean that he became a surprisingly right-on know-it-all.

“Go look at the comment thread on any ‘Top story of the day,’ and you find the exact same thing,” postulated my media-phobic, Facebook-avoiding, procrastination-friendly life partner.

What followed had me laughing so hard that my abs are seriously done until 2013.

“Please. Share,” I sarcastically responded.

“Forget the article itself,” he suggested. “Scroll right to the comment thread. The first comment is almost always racist or otherwise hateful.”

“Really?” I asked, “because I — ”

“Then, comments 2-10 are undoubtedly a bunch of idiots trying to politically correctly reason with the first commenter by saying things like, ‘Oh, sir, I don’t think you really understood ARyan420′s comment…’ or politically incorrectly disagreeing with the first commenter using at least one gasp-inducing word that will undoubtedly compel Commenter #3 to comment as though anyone gives a shit.”

By this point, I was bent in half, holding the rectus abdominis region of my abs.

“The next 22 comments involve statements such as, ‘Shut up you idiot’ or ‘Go back into your hole’ followed by the pound sign and PeaceLoveDove’ or something.”

“Um, that’s called a hashtag,” I corrected, now holding my external obliques. “And — ”

“And frankly,” he continued, “by that point, I’m trying to decide what’s more offensive: the fact that someone took the time to write those things or that I’m taking the time to read them!”

I think he’s seriously on to something. Take the comments on this clip from People.com about Heidi Klum and Seal‘s breakup.

First comment

“Who cares how you told them. Poor kids! In 2 weeks People Magazine will run an issue showing both of them with other people and they’re dating again.”

Second comment

“Ouch, come on People, Fat Bankers Hate Messages should not be accepted. I’m all for free speech but that’s hate!!”

It’s so yuck. So instead of spending any time wondering what makes a product, story, or headline go viral, I’m simply going to go back into my own hole and be glad no one’s talking about me in People this week.

Brace yourself.

George (who is 7) takes tumbling. Which is the perfect extracurricular activity for him since he’s been cartwheeling his way through this house for the better part of 8 months.

He’s one of only 2 boys in a sea of girls in there, but he holds his own pretty well. I mean, as long as Ross shows up.

Tonight as they were stretching, they went into the splits. The gymnastics coach commented that the girls should all be embarrassed since George (who has rubber bands for limbs) can get all the way into a split, and most of the girls cannot.

So on the way home, David informed George that when they got here, George should tell Grace that he had mastered his splits.

(Grace shares George’s enthusiasm for all things gymnastics but she’s 5′ 3″ and counting, and having her doing cartwheels throughout this house is flat-out dangerous, so she just lives vicariously through him.)

To this suggestion, George responded, “I can’t do it again tonight. I’ll break my nuts.”

“George, you can’t say that,” informed David.

“What do you mean?” asked George.

“Well, you can’t say ‘nuts’ in that context. It’s not really appropriate. Just so you know.”

“Well, I just mean my penis!” clarified George.

“Um, okay, but…” stated David.

“And plus, this is confusing,” continued George. “I mean, if I can’t say ‘nuts,’ what if I’m at a baseball game and I want to buy some nuts because I’m hungry and I like nuts. Can I not order nuts?”

“George,” said David, feeling a bit manipulated, “Of course you can order nuts at a baseball game. Those are two different uses of the word ‘nuts.’ Like, take the word ‘dam.’ If I say, ‘I want to drive over and look at the dam,’ that’s fine, but I can’t say, ‘Damn, this traffic is terrible!”

“OH, I GET IT!” exclaimed George. “I’ll go home, show Grace how I do the splits, and then say, ‘I just broke my damn nuts!”

We have a long way to go here folks.

I mean, hey, there are only so many options when you have 5 kids. And without going into too much detail, on a dark, dreary, starless night 3 1/2 years ago, standing in the parking lot of a car dealership in Central Phoenix, I looked up toward where the stars twinkle 364 nights of the year in Phoenix, and asked, “Why? WHY has no one designed a minivan that has racing stripes and a fully retractable roof (and is not called a minivan)?”

On so many levels, the minivan just didn’t work for me—conceptually, anyway. I simply didn’t deal well with what it implied. If my personality were to be encapsulated by a vehicle, it would be a combination of a Mercedes, Range Rover, and Prius: sleek and adventurous with a conscience.

Sidenote: David says that translates to expensive, reckless, and blunt.

Whatever.

Surprisingly—and I can admit this—on a few levels, Lulu did work for me. Like, the auto-open doors. Those were great. Except when the kids didn’t close them—like they were born in a barn or something—and the paging system in TJ Maxx announced over and over again, “Paging the owner of the blue Chrysler Town & Country with 19 Starbucks cups, 37 pounds of popcorn, and 29 snack wrappers falling out of it: your side door is ajar.”

As though anyone would steal anything out of there. It was practically a biohazard.

The double entertainment system with the satellite TV was nice, too. Until we’d had it for 27 minutes and it became a requirement for really long drives, like, say, to the grocery store half a mile away. And the kids fought for the entire 3.7 minutes over whether they were watching Nick Jr and the Disney Channel or Nick Jr and the Cartoon Network or OH MY GOD WHAT DID ANYONE DO BEFORE THEY COULD WATCH TV ON THE WAY TO THE GROCERY STORE!

But I have great news to share with those of you who feel the same way about your minivan.

The minivans of the world know when their time is up. They know when they’ve done their job, and when you’re ready to move on from them. They know even if you don’t. And they let you know in a few subtle glaringly obvious ways.

Lulu let me know in no uncertain terms that I no longer needed her. Here are 5 of the messages she sent me just last week:

1. The TV flat-out stopped working (which I was, of course, blamed for but I patted Lulu’s hood that afternoon and said, “Thank You Sweet Jesus.”)

2. The radio flat-out stopped working (which I was not thankful for, and I think I may have slipped in the language department when it happened; the words Holy and Hell may have been used in succession).

3. The automatic door would re-open just before it latched shut, prompting Henry to be certain there was a ghost in the car. If you know Henry, you know this caused serious problems for us at 3:00am.

4. We were told the brakes were shot—for the 4th time this year.

5. When I shut the car off (or stopped long enough to notice), a smell vaguely resembling burning oil mixed with chlorine emanated from the tailpipe. Seriously, it was bad. So bad that, more than once, the baristas at Starbucks almost wouldn’t let me leave the drive-thru for fear that I may not make it back the next morning.

So, as mentioned in my post on Advent traditions, we went to buy a new car the other night. And oh, how I love her. Or “Miss Stella,” as Nina refers to her.

“Do not touch the seat with your feet!” I snapped during our first ride. “Stella doesn’t like that.”

“Who the heck is Stella?” asked George.

I pulled over and instructed the kids that there was no gum chewing, eating, drinking, feet on the backs of seats, spitting, use of unkind language of any kind, or breathing with one’s mouth open whilst riding in Stella.

To which Henry (who is notorious for believing that the most appropriate repository for over-chewed gum is the space between his seat and the side of the car) replied, “Why would we do that? That thing’s a sweet ride!”

She really is. And I fully accept every single solitary TV-less, auto-open-door-less, trash-less inch of her.

But nowadays, all the kids know that an Advent calendar isn’t cool unless each window reveals a piece of chocolate. Or an iPad2.

Two of my kids can’t have chocolate, and even if they could, dividing it between all 5 of them would be asinine (not that I’m above asinine. I’m not), I had to come up with an alternative. Which I did. 3 years ago.

I strung 24 envelopes, each for one day in December, from the mantle. We alternated who got to open one each day, and each announced a surprise activity. The kids would learn that we were going to get our Christmas tree that day, or fill boxes for Operation Christmas Child, or clean the leaves out of our neighbor’s front yard, or play a new game hidden somewhere in the house that they had to find by solving a series of riddles.

It was awesome.

And by awesome, I mean completely and utterly exhausting.

To proactively take responsibility for my 3% of the problem, I did make one critical error of note: in my haste to come up with 24 cool things to do, I forgot to do two things: 1) write them down for my personal reference and 2) consider the day of the week on which each activity fell.

The Wednesday that I woke up having slept for about 7 minutes the night before, and the kids opened the envelope to reveal that we were going bowling that night? Yeah. I almost killed myself.

Or the day the card said, “Look under the thing you constantly clog with toothpaste to find a new game,” and I was like, “OH MY GOD I DIDN’T PUT THE GAME UNDER THE SINK. ALSO, I FORGOT TO BUY THE GAME!” Yeah. That didn’t go well either.

So this year, after I was, in effect, told that Christmas isn’t Christmas without Mom’s Advent Calendar of Giving and Receiving, I reluctantly went to JoAnn’s and bought this:

Because I know that the kids will peek, I put only the current and next day’s cards in their respective pockets. This approach also allows me to strategically decide what makes sense to do on a given day, and prevents the aforementioned bowling debacle.

Tonight’s card says, “Go buy Mom a new car.”