Lady BlackHart's World

Picasso Has Nothing On Allie

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 17:47:00 +0000

I picked Allie up at preschool yesterday and Miss Karina took me aside for a little 'chat'. Earlier in the day, Allie had gone to her-crying about a 'bad thing' she had done- and Miss Karina figured that whatever it was, guilt had gotten the better of her....I'm not convinced this was case but, since I wasn't there, I'll go with the teacher's interpretation.

"Allie, what's wrong, sweetie? Miss Karina had asked, alarmed. (Allie doesn't dissolve into tears on a regular basis.)

"I did something not nice." Allie said, hanging her head.

"What did you do?" Miss Karina said and was, no doubt, busy scanning the classroom to see if any other children were crying. None were.

"When I was at home this morning...I drew a picture of Bryce."

"Oh. Did you bring it with you? Did you want to give it to Bryce?"

"No! It was a not-nice picture!"

"Why was it 'not nice'?" I'm sure Miss Karina was thinking she'd intentionally colored him green and turned him into a martian or a monster. Allie doesn't have a history of being particularly kind to little boys who tease her...(last year she had to make apologies to the bigger boys who ransacked her playhouse. She'd told them if they didn't get out she was going to kill them...I know which boys she was referring to and it was difficult to blame her but I understand we can't let her get into a habit of threatening to 'kill' anyone!)

"I drew Bryce wearing a dress." Allie said.

"Did you bring the picture to school?" Miss Karina asked.

"No."

"So Bryce hasn't seen the picture?"

"No. I think I should probably go tell him I'm sorry."

"Did you tell him about the picture?" Miss Karina asked.

"No."

"Well, then, I think it would be better if you didn't tell him about that."

"But it was mean."

At this point of Miss Karina's recollection, the wheels in my brain are beginning to turn. I imagine that as Allie is telling this story, her little clique of friends are deciding which one gets to nark on Allie for drawing the picture in the first place. I'm also guessing Allie was just looking for a laugh and thought it was a funny story... but then regretted her decision...because clique or no clique...preschoolers are notorious tattletales and she knew it was a matter of time before Lauren or Samantha or Tawny ratted her out.

I could spend all day wondering why Allie drew Bryce wearing a dress. Upon telling Kevin the story, he thought Allie had done it because she liked Bryce but, since boys are the equivalent of rabid dogs in Allie's world, she couldn't very well hang out with him unless she 'turned him into a girl'. Makes sense. If it had been Sophie who drew the picture, I'd agree with the logic. Allie, on the other hand, was most likely being a turkey because Bryce had made her mad at some point in the not-too-distant past. I'm almost positive that the picture stayed home ONLY because she'd forgotten it that morning and if it had made it into the classroom, she'd have given it to him.

Miss Karina, however, decided to give Allie the benefit of the doubt and she made a pact with her: Allie would go home and throw away 'Bryce In A Dress' and draw another picture of Bryce in his jeans. Miss Karina was hoping I could help Allie find a fresh sheet of paper and her crayons when we got home that day. While telling me the story, Karina was holding back laughter, struggling to look serious. I followed her lead and attempted to remain straightfaced (in case Allie was listening to the conversation( but everytime Karina and I looked at eachother we had to fight back waves of laughter.

Only my four-year-old could have figured out that drawing a boy in a dress was an insult and I think her 'tears' were her attempt at damage control-not shame. I'm all for 'girl power' but, suddenly, I have this weird feeling that Kindergarten is going to require me to spend a great deal of time in the principals office discussing Allie's behavior. Lucky me.

I still haven't found the picture but when I do, I'm uploading it. Stay tuned.

The Tooth Fairy Rides Again!!!!!!!!!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 07:01:00 +0000

Holy Bicuspid, Batman! "I'm Back in the saddle again! I'm Ba-ack! I'm Ba-ack!" (thanks, Steven Tyler and Aerosmith)

We were finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Our bank accounts (and Allie's piggy bank) had recovered from the national debt that was incurred when Sophie decided to shed teeth like our dog sheds fur in hot weather. I thought we might actually get to take a vacation, buy a new car...do something frivolous with our re-allocated funds...but NOOOO-OOOO.

No, Allie, aka My-Teeth-Make-Good-Can-Openers, decided if mom was on the phone she wasn't going to bother asking for help to open the new container of Play-Doh. Big girls don't need help with that stuff! This was a battle she was sure she could win...until the Play-Doh lid KO'd her tooth in Round One.

Everybody that knows me is well-aware of my ability to handle injuries and blood. I'm the one that will be crawling around the kitchen floor looking for your fingertip after a vegetable chopping accident while dodging the stream of blood spurting from your stump. Hell, I'll even baggy the sucker in ice and tote it to the hospital for you if you want. No problem. Just don't, and I repeat, DON'T, bring me your mouth wounds...wait...scratch that...go ahead and bring me YOUR mouth wounds, just don't bring me my CHILDREN'S mouth wounds. I get a little weak in the knees. I'm horrid, really, because I look at my two beautiful, wonderful, perfect girls and I don't want to find out they've knocked out a tooth they might need, risking their beautiful smiles. And, just so you know? Bleeding mouths totally freak me out.

So, I'm chatting away on the phone and Allie comes racing up the stairs (looking like the boogyman has dropped by for a visit or something) and begins to shake and she's white as a sheet so I bend down to ask her what's wrong and-- 'BLAGH!'-- she spits a mouthful of blood. I, being a pansy in this arena, give a little shriek, "OH!" and this scares the you-know-what out of Allie. If mom is freaked, it must be serious. Of course, I recover quickly and move to tell her she will be fine but its too late. The 'mommy-make-everything-better' ship has sailed and she's not buying it.

"Where's the tooth, honey?"
"I don't know!!!!!!!!!!" she wails.

I give her a paper towel to bite on and we go back down to the kitchen to have a look. Shouldn't be a problem, right? Well, it wouldn't have been if she'd lost the tooth before she opened the WHITE can of Play-Doh. (FYI: The magenta Play-Doh was the culprit in the tooth battle). In any case, there are teensy-tiny white bits all over the kitchen table and I can't find the tooth.

"Allie, did you accidently swallow the tooth?" I asked.
"NO! Why??? Am I going to die?" She says and starts to shake again.
"No, it just means I'm wasting my time looking in the Play-Doh."
"Well, what could happen if I did swallow it?"

Ah-ha! I suddenly know how to fix this situation. Mommy blew it by freaking out in the first place but as all observant children know, A mommy NEVER jokes when there is a serious injury at hand. So, I smile and pat her on the head.

"You might poop a tooth." I tell her, which is exactly the right words to say...because she opens her mouth and starts laughing, leaving me with an unobstructed view of the gaping hole between her bottom teeth. She's better, of course, but I'm suddenly sad. I don't want her to grow up so fast....and now she's having her very first visit from the tooth fairy. Where did my baby go???

The tooth fairy is really glad Allie feels better but she's sort of sad to realize how quickly her baby is growing up...I spot the tooth on the kitchen floor and grab it, which brings me to the next dilemma:

I have some one dollar bills and a five dollar bill. I also have a ton of coins. I'm leaning toward the dollar as Tooth Fairy payment but then remember the desperation of scraping together cash for Sophie's first tooth. She got twenty bucks as I recall...its all I had. It seems kind of chintzy to give Allie a buck after that...Kevin and I agree on the five.

Let's say it all together now...."This could get expensive!"

The forecast? Hot. Balmy. Melting Polar Ice Caps Kind Of Hot...

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 08:28:00 +0000

I just discovered I've been living under a rock. While the rest of the country is busy embracing environmentally friendly lifestyles, I've just discovered we have an actual recycling bin. I'm a little slow on the uptake so I didn't realize that saving the polar bears is actually a legitimate concern and who knew those funky Toyota Prius's actually serve a purpose...well aside from being the ugliest friggin' cars on the planet...low emissions. Good for the air. Good for the polar bears. Bad for the social lives of anyone under 50 who considers driving them. Unfortunately, this 'go green/ save the planet' stuff is starting to scare me...and not because I'm worried about the ozone layer's depletion....

One of my friends recently told me she'd come across environmentally friendly feminine hygiene products. Ewww. Seriously, though? I'd totally AGREE to drive a Prius if somebody told me I'd have to reuse my maxi pads if I didn't. Really, could there be anything worse than a reusable maxi pad? How bout an environmentally friendly reasuble maxi pad kit, complete with cloth pads, some kind of detergent and a special 'soaking pot' to clean the pads? I'll tell you what's worse...the cute little vinyl bag designed for storage of used/dirty pads You are forced to walk around with this little gift in your $400 Coach handbag. Ewww. Just. Ewww. Sick and wrong. Can you imagine having your purse snatched while toting one of these things? Robber opens purse and -SURPRISE! Want to bet the purse snatcher would totally be scared straight after that? Lends a whole new perspective to the phrase "on the rag" doesn't it? Don't believe me on this one? Google "environmentally friendly maxi pad". I'm still having nightmares.

Oh, and no offense intended, but if this is the sacrifice I have to make to help curb global warming then I suggest you all go out and buy a freakin' air conditioner because things are gonna get downright tropical in the future...sorry Polar Bear...you're cute and all...but nothing's THAT cute.

Christmas Miracles

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 23:46:00 +0000

Having spent the majority of the holiday season knee-deep in shopping and wrapping, it seems as though the true meaning of Christmas has taken a backseat. I'm guessing this is true of most families. Its easy to become distracted by the commercialism and forget 'the reason for the season'.

I came across a news story that gave me a case of the warm-fuzzies. With all the talk of Obama's healthcare plans, continued trouble in the Middle East, flu updates, financial woes and how the retail industry is faring in our precarious economy, its rather refreshing to read a story like this: CLICK HERE

Now, you can say whatever you want about this story, make whatever excuses you want about how a woman clinically dead delivered a dead baby and returned to the land of the living but the bottom line is that even the doctors are stunned and that tells me modern medicine had less to do with the mother and baby being revived and more to do with the hand of God. This story reminds me of what Christmas is all about, a time of faith and hope and miracles.

And let me just add a little quote from the Book of Matthew:

"Jesus...said, "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible." Matthew 19:26

So there you have it. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

So, Where's MY New Car??

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 23:01:00 +0000

Watch a little television during the holiday season and you might walk away feeling just a little left out of all the good stuff. You might even wonder why your husband doesn't get a clue. For the record, I think holiday commercials are designed to make husbands everywhere look like the Grinch That Stole Christmas. The spirit of Christmas is lost on advertisers, apparently, and I wonder what EXACTLY they put under the tree for their own spouses every year...

It's Sunday, Christmas is less than a week away and the football game is on. Every commercial break is loaded with vignettes of happy couples, doting husbands, snowy evenings with fires burning in fireplaces, Christmas trees so perfectly decorated, I'm already feeling inadequate (ornaments on our tree seem to be falling off faster than we can get them back up and its impossible to determine where they were placed to begin with). My husband is not doting at this moment. No, he's too busy trying to watch the football game in the family room while simultaneously performing a raid in an online war game.

Eleven months out of the year, this is perfectly acceptable to me. Come December 1, it all goes out the window when these cozy commercial vignettes are broadcast into my home. Out comes The Perfect Husband and he's holding a tiny box. There can only be one of two things in the tiny box: sparkly jewelry or a set of keys to a new luxury vehicle....and if keys are in the box, then dear doting hubby has somehow managed to buy the brand new car and get it into the circular driveway, complete with big red bow (which is unaffected by the snow falling all around) without your kids giving away the surprise and without you discovering the car when you went to collect the mail, the newspaper or to let Fido out to relieve himself.

I've never met a man who could manage to pull this off. Not only does the t.v. husband manage to pull it off without a hitch, he apparently knows exactly what make, model and color his t.v. wife has been yearning for and she is so gloriously happy over her unexpected gift, he becomes husband of the year. The family stands on the (oddly) snowless front steps and oohs and ahhs over mom's new set of wheels.

In my world, the kids would be far too busy whining over why they have to wait for me to check out the car before they can open their own gifts. In my world, the four-year-old would follow me around the new car asking for something to eat. The ten-year-old would be complaining about how bored or cold she is and one of the dogs would slip out the front door somebody left open and go galloping around the neighborhood. My husband would inevitably take back the box of keys, curse the wayward dog, and go driving around in search of a lost animal with a bow stuck to the top of my new car. The first passenger to christen the car wouldn't be me, it would be Fido and his muddy paws.

Of course, in my world, the car wouldn't be sitting in the driveway to begin with. I've yet to meet the woman who woke up Christmas morning to a new a car in the driveway. I've asked around, believe me, and so far, I've come up empty-handed. The odds of the new car scenario happening to anyone I know are about as good that we'll catch Santa landing his sleigh on our roof. Actually, in this particular economy, the odds are more in favor of the Santa scenario.

So where does this leave the average American husband? In the doghouse. What could possibly measure up to this in our consumer-obsessed culture? A ring with a diamond large enough to ice-skate on, possibly (thanks to the Kay Jeweler ads), but I'd notice if a couple grand disappeared out of one of our bank accounts so the little box wouldn't be the surprise it appears to be when t.v. wifey is surprised with it in front of a roaring fire (kids are missing in this scene because on t.v. the kids actually get to bed and go directly to sleep on Christmas Eve with no fuss...bwaa-haa-haa!!!! That's downright funny.)

No, in my world, there is no brand new car in the driveway and I'm pretty bored by sparkly jewelry, truth be told. I'm not looking for a new car or diamonds. My gift doesn't need to break the bank to make me happy. It just needs to come from the heart or be proof that in between the football games and online war games, my husband has been paying attention to the things that interest me.....not that I'd say no to a brand new car, of course, and if anyone talks to him before he finishes his shopping I'm kind of partial to the Lexus LX 570 in Starfire Pearl with the Cashmere Leather interior and the medium brown walnut accents...you know, in case he asks or anything....

Happy Holidays!

'Evictions' Lasting More Than Four Hours.....

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 18:20:00 +0000

Monday Night Football is not to be missed if you live in my castle. Advertisers are very good at picking and choosing where the proper commercials should go, have you noticed? For example, when's the last time you saw Budweiser touting their beverages on the Disney Channel? Doesn't happen, and I've never see an ad for a Barbie Doll during a football game, either. So, maybe I should have taken this into consideration before allowing my children to be within audio range of the game a few weeks ago, seeing as how the commercials are tailored toward the average football-viewer (who just so happens to be an adult male.)

Not long after the game, Sophie casually asked me what it meant to 'seek immediate medical attention'. I thought it was an odd question, but 'seeking medical attention' is a pretty big topic lately, seeing as how both the girls are preoccupied with the swine flu and worried about the doctor actually receiving his supply of the vaccine, thus ensuring an injection neither of them want. I thought the phrasing sounded familiar but I honestly didn't think much more about it before I answered.

"It means you need to go find your doctor, pronto."

She seemed satisfied with that answer and went running upstairs where I heard her holler out to her sister, "It means you're sick and gotta go to the doctor, Allie!"

When I went upstairs to tuck Allie into bed she was worried about having to go to the doctor.

"Why, don't you feel good?"

"Yeah. I feel good. But, mom. If I get the eviction will you have to take me to the doctor?"

"The what?"

"The eviction. It said on t.v. if you have an eviction you have to go to the doctor."

I thought for a minute and suddenly got it...she'd actually been paying attention to the commercials during Monday Night Football...or at least the one for male enhancement drugs. If I could have been a fly on the wall during that little exchange of information between my daughters, I'd pay just about any amount of money.

"If you experience an erection lasting more than four hours, you should seek immediate medical attention."

"No Allie. You don't have to worry about that one."

"It doesn't make you sick?"

"Well, it won't make YOU sick."

"How do you know?"

"It's physically impossible."

"I don't want to get the eviction and have to go to the doctor."

"Allie. I promise you will not have to go to the doctor for an 'eviction'." (Seriously, who has to deal with this crap with a four-year-old? I couldn't make it up if I tried...and yeah, I'm not about to give her a detailed explanation on why this is a non-issue.)

"How do you know?"

"Because. Only boys get evictions."

"Do they get the flu? Or just girls?"

"Yeah, they get the flu, Allie."

"And girls get the flu, right mom?"

"Right, Allie."

"But girls don't get the eviction?" She asked.

"No. You have to be a boy to get the 'eviction'." (Good answer, dontcha think?)

"Good. Cuz, I don't want to go to the doctor."

(Yeah, shut up. Like you would have explained it any better than I did if it happened to be your four year old.! And by the way....I told her 'eviction' was not a good word to use at preschool. I also made a mental note to keep her otherwise occupied during future football games.)

I kissed her goodnight and left the room. The next morning, I was making breakfast when Sophie sat down at the table opposite her sister.

"Hey Sophie. Know what? You can't get the eviction. You gotta be a boy."

Yes, I did what all normal mothers would do....I immediately changed the subject (Hey look, guys! A spider!) and the conversation was dropped in the search for my made-up spider.

Top Ten Random Thoughts For The Week

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 17:43:00 +0000

1. The recent rain brought every earthworm in the neighborhood to our back patio. Allie observed that worms' heads really do 'look just like their rear-ends'...(thanks to the book "Diary Of A Worm").

2. A Christmas tree can have too many decorations and lights. When this happens, it no longer brings memories of Christmases past, it brings memories of wild nights on the Vegas strip....which is disturbing.

3. Handling ornaments covered in glitter serves to remind me that glitter really IS the herpes of craft supplies. Once you've been exposed, you can't get rid of it and you find it everywhere.

4. Job hunting is really NOT fun. Also? It is guaranteed that you will NOT get a call-back from a prospective employer until you are physically incapable of answering the phone...like the moment you step into the shower.

5. Movie theater popcorn does not actually smell irresistable on its own. It is flavored with something called "Flavicol" that is meant to enhance the aroma of the popcorn and increase sales up to 25%. Its the biggest secret in the popcorn industry....we, the consumers, are having our smell receptors hi-jacked for profit.

6. I am helpless in the presence of 'Flavicol' and will suck down massive quantities of popcorn once exposed to it, reminding me of a drug-addict left alone in a pharmacy full of controlled substances.

7. I have a couple of relatives on my mom's side that I can't help but compare to glitter (see No. 3, above).

8. One of them refers to me as a bitch. Interesting choice of words...I prefer 'Diva' but there's no accounting for another's command of the English language.

9. I thank my lucky stars everyone tells me I'm more like my dad and my Grandma M., their genes must have been more dominant or something. I don't want to be glitter...unfortunately, I'm more like glue that can't shake all that glitter.

10. I don't know much about reincarnation but I'm thinking it wouldn't be a stretch for some of that glitter to come back as one of Allie's worms. As it stands, I can't tell their heads from their rear-ends either....

A Thousand Words Thursday (one day early)

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 17:21:00 +0000

I think we've established the ground rules around here, right? So, we all know that Betty Homemaker and I have virtually nothing in common and that's okay. The lack of a Betty Homemaker gene occasionally gives me odd sensations that a normal person might interpret as (dare I say it?) guilt. I assumed I was immune to this emotion, ten years into the parenting game having made me numb to...well...pretty much anything that could possibly be thrown at me.
For example, Sophie's six-month-old Girl Scout badges are still sitting in a drawer next to a needle and thread and not where they're supposed to be (on the back of Sophie's vest)? Oops. Moving on. Little or no guilt for me, here. She's the one who sewed the darn 'sit-upon' cushion in Brownies, not me. Clearly, she's got more experience in this arena than I do, so why can't she do it? Better yet, take it to grandma's house and see if she'll do it, I vaguely remember her sewing buttons back on a blouse when I was kid, so it should be a cakewalk. I'm not good with sharp objects.

Allie's walking around in shoes so small she can't feel her toes? No big deal. I figure if she's old enough to tell me what she does, and does not, like to wear, eat, watch, read or do, then she's perfectly capable of telling me about the blisters she's developed from wearing outgrown shoes. She narks on her sister for lesser offenses, after all. Tell me what the problem is and I'll fix it! I'll buy bigger shoes! Don't expect me to figure it out through osmosis. Just because she was walking funny for a week doesn't mean I'm going to assume her feet hurt. I thought she was playing 'pretend'. Wrong. Still, no guilt for me. (okay, maybe a teensy-tiny bit, a little flicker, because I don't want the kid to be in pain.)

I thought I had a heart of steel where mommy guilt was concerned until I came home one night, parked the car in the garage and came upon 'THE NOTE'. The message, written by my ten-year-old, had been Scotch-taped (at my eye level) to the door leading from the garage to the front hallway of our house. The message is clear. Concise. To the point. The question is how long had the kid been asking me for popcorn? How long had I been ignoring this request? How was it that she was so desperate for popcorn that she had to scribble a message on binder paper and tape it where I was sure to see it? The note reminded me of a white flag of surrender. She might as well have handed me the note and said, "Since you're going to ignore me, anyway, why waste my breath?" Hit me like a ton of bricks.

At our house, I've come to the conclusion that microwave popcorn smells like ass. The odor lingers like stale cigar smoke after an all-night poker game and it tastes like sytrofoam with salt. Popcorn should be cooked on the stove in a pot with some oil. Drizzle real butter on it, not some funky flavoring dreamed up by a chemist in India. Once my darling daughter got a taste of real popcorn, the microwave version just didn't measure up, which was fine by me, all things considered. Unfortunately, while Sophie is allowed to operate the microwave, the gas stove is off limits. Either I pop the corn or it isn't getting popped. Period. (Yes, her dad is allowed to use the stove, but he avoids it as much I'd like to. Asking him to pop it would be like asking him to squeeze water out of a rock.)

It's the little things that sneak up and kick you in that guilt center of your brain when you aren't expecting it. This may have been her point all along, of course, a little 'manipulation' to get mom motivated. Well, it worked. She had popcorn for dinner that night. A huge mixing bowl filled with salted, buttery popcorn....only now? I feel guilty about giving her popcorn for dinner....but just a little.

AThousand Word Thursday (One Day Late)

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sat, 28 Nov 2009 01:48:00 +0000

BlackHart and Daddy, Circa 1974.

The good ol' days. My grandmother gave me this photo a few years ago. On the back, she'd written "One of my favorites!" I'm reminded of a brief period in childhood where dad was living, still walking, and able to play with me. I remember this day, well. I'd been taking swimming lessons and he got into Aunt Isabelle's pool with me and made me show off my newfound swimming abilities. He was proud that his three-year-old could swim and I was happy to be object of his pride.

On this Thanksgiving, I am thankful to have had him, however briefly. His influence on my life, through nurture and a whole lot of nature, have made all the difference. I wouldn't trade our time together for all the money in the world. He may not have lived to see me grow, but he's been here in spirit every single step of the way. (I love you, dad.)

GERD Master and Sir Dookie Do The Midnight Run

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 20:31:00 +0000

You know how some days you wonder why you bothered to get out of bed at all? The car won't start, you lose your keys, the kids are cranky, husband looks like he's thinking of checking into a hotel just to get away from the chaos and then somebody makes a smarmy comment like, "Wow, somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed!" when you sound the slightest bit snippity. Occasionally, the reverse happens and I wonder why I bother to even get in bed. One of the kids needs water at 3:00 a.m. or claims to hear a 'monster' in the closet at midnight or I slammed that Diet Coke just a little too late and no amount of sheep counting is contributing to my much needed shut-eye....

Last night, it would have been better to avoid sleep, altogether. If I'd had an inkling of what was coming down the nocturnal pike, I never would have gotten into bed in the first place. Additionally, I'd sipped wine at Thanksgiving Dinner and the combination of alcohol, carbs and tryptophan from the turkey had nearly put me into a self-induced coma. I was unconscious within seconds of hitting the pillow. Then Kevin came to bed and it was game on...don't get any ideas, here....this blog is rated PG and I don't discuss my sex life, anyway.

The massive quantity of food consumed before bed rose up and rebelled in Kevin's digestive tract. He rolled and moaned and generally woke me up fifteen times. The last time, he jumped out of bed and grabbed his chest. I thought he was experiencing a heart attack, not acid reflux. He slipped back into his jeans and went to find the bottle of Tums while I wondered if I ought to call 9-1-1. Only, turns out, he wasn't the only one who'd had a little too much at dinner. Our dog, unable to get either of us to open the door, had relieved himself in front of it. First Kevin stepped, barefoot, into a steaming pile, then opened the door. The door swung open through another steaming pile, smearing feces in a wide arc across the carpeting, and Kevin began to swear.

The bathroom light was flipped on and he was pulling his clothes off as fast as he could, "Shower, must shower, disgusting. Oh, gross." Curious as to why my husband was still clutching his chest and standing naked in the shower in the middle of the night, I staggered out of bed. The smell hit me before anything else. The trail of smeared poo had been tracked through the bedroom and onto the bathroom floor. Kevin suggested dealing with it 'in the morning'. I don't know about you, but the thought of sleeping in a makeshift latrine was unbearable. Couldn't do it.

Since we were at the inlaws's gi-normous home, I had no flipping idea where to find carpet cleaner and I wasn't about to wake my mom-in-law to ask. Instead, I searched high and low until I found the Spot Shot and got to work scrubbing carpets. Kevin emerged from the shower and was assaulted by the stench, which sent him running right back to the bathroom. So, there I was, trying desperately to hold onto the contents of my own stomach while cleaning filth off the carpet and listening to Kevin's noisy attempts to turn his gut inside out into the commode.

By the time I figured out an effective way to clean dog dookie off the underside of the door, aired out the room, and scrubbed my hands raw, which had come in direct contact with said dookie, I was wide awake and my own tummy was rumbling in protest. I got back into bed just as light was peeking through the blinds in the window. I wound up playing Bejeweled Blitz on my iTouch until I dozed off....at which point Sophie tiptoed into the room, poked my arm and said she couldn't sleep anymore. Who needs sleep, anyway, right? Kind of overrated if you ask me.

Happy Thanksgiving...and all that shit.

Holiday Travel: The Highway To Hell

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 18:09:00 +0000

The only thing worse than traveling by car on a holiday weekend? Traveling by car on a holiday weekend with a couple of kids. The very idea of hurtling down the road at 70 mph for 3+ hours in a metal capsule smaller than most elevators is enough to strike fear into the hearts of parents and children, alike. Worse? Once the destination has been reached so has the point of no return. Unless you intend to leave your car at the inlaws house and travel by train or plane, you have three more hours of torture ahead of you just to get home (at which point said children will have accumulated five bags of laundry, a voracious appetite and melted every single crayon in the box into your automobile's interior, making for more work).

What's the problem with today's children? When I was a kid, we played License Plate I-Spy, read a book or slept (in between teasing one another and whining about the need for a bathroom and terminal boredom). In theory, my kids have virtually nothing to complain about (so long as they use the potty before we leave the house). For our recent holiday road trip I packed the interior of the car with enough garbage to keep them entertained for three weeks, not just the three measly hours to Grandma's house. Included in the loot were the following:

1. Nintendo DS and corresponding games
2. One Leapster (also with corresponding games)
3. One iPod (loaded with every Miley Cyrus and Taylor Swift song my dear husband could find on iTunes)
4. Mommy's iTouch (yeah, like I let the little varmints use it...I'm still hooked on Bejeweled Blitz, darnit)
5. One DVD player with two sets of headphones
6. Movies: Spongebob Squarepants, High School Musical I, II and III, Ratatoullie, Robots...and a couple of others I've spaced on.
7. Two barbies and corresponding hairbrushes and ensembles
8. Ten year old's library book
9. Four year old's Doodle Magic Magnetic Writer
10. One twenty pound living and breathing mutt to cuddle with
11. Ten year old's pink laptop (alas, no WiFi available on Interstate 5 so essentially useless)

Despite our toy store on wheels, after twenty minutes of driving the complaints began. "She's touching me." "Mom, make her stop touching me." "She won't let me play Barbies with her." "My headphones won't work." "Why do we have to watch this?" "Tell her to stop breathing on me." "Hello? Mom, PLEASE tell her to stop breathing on me." And let us not forget the famous last words of every child's traveling arsenal, "Are we there, YET?"

After an hour I wanted to jump out my skin and scream, "No, we are not there, yet, and if you ask again your Nintendo DS will spend Thanksgiving on the side of I-5 because I'm going to toss it out a window if I hear another word." My husband will studiously ignore the bickering and complaints as long as possible, but I can guage his irritation level like I'm reading a thermometer. His neck will turn pink. Then his ears will turn pink. Finally, at the point that his face is flushing the color of a tomato and I'm beginning to wonder if he's going to stroke out, he'll explode.

"Do I need to turn this car around?!" He'll holler. "If I have to pull this car over, you'll both be grounded!"
I'm suddenly transported back to the early 1980s, and am having flashbacks of my mother's hand waving wildly between the seats, attempting to blindly strike whichever kid happened to be acting like the proverbial horse's rear, all while simultaneously keeping up with the flow of traffic. Amazing, isn't it? That any of us reached adulthood without perishing in a spanking-related accident is the stuff of miracles. (Not to mention we didn't have airbags.)

Bottom line: While you worry that someday you'll turn into your mother, in actuality, you should be more worried that you have given birth to an exact replica of yourself and your bratty siblings. The fact is, karma really is a b*&%...and there isn't a movie or video game on the planet that will change that fact. The good news? Just wait until they grow up and have kids of their own....

Happy Thanksgiving.

And The Winner Of The "Mommy Dearest" Award Goes To...

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 18:10:00 +0000

(Confucius Say Man Who Stand On Toilet High On Pot......seriously, is that not the funniest thing you've heard in ages? It kept me in stitches last night. Actually, there were more, but this is the cleanest one I could come up with. I think I need to get out more, I'm far too easily amused.) Now, on to the story....

'Cop Tasers Ten Year Old' <---click the link.

Remember that incident in Alabama where the lady got busted on video dragging her toddler at warp speed by a leash and later said the kid 'liked' to be dragged across the floor by his neck in the middle of a cell phone store? I thought that lady deserved an award but this one takes the cake. This one just blows my mind.

I have a ten year old. She can be stubborn as a mule when she sets her mind on something. If I ask her to take a shower and she refuses to do so, in my mind I have three choices: 1. Let it go and move on; 2. Physically pick her up and put her in the tub; or 3. Remove her computer, Nintendo, Wii, cell phone, television, iPod (or whatever else she can't live without) until she complies with my instructions...at which point she's still going to be busted for misbehaving in the first place. However, some part of me would also take into consideration that there might be a deeper issue involved and that would concern me. I most certainly wouldn't start threatening her with the cops.

Hey, I admit it, there are days when my kids are moving at a snail's pace and we're in a hurry and it would be kind of nice to have a child-sized cattle prod to get them motivated...but it's not like I'm going to run out and find one. I also tell my children if they don't behave I'm going to 'hit the ceiling'. I don't actually do this, however. One thing I never do, ever, is threaten my kids with the cops. That's just so wrong it leaves me speechless.

Mommy Dearest must have been pretty dead-set on getting the little princess into the shower to start threatening her with a call to 9-1-1. By the way? I'd really like to hear that call...don't they record them? What 9-1-1 operator would have wasted the time of a law enforcement officer for this? What law enforcement officer with a brain in his head would walk into a home and confront a child prostrate on the floor having a tantrum? Let's take stock of this situation:

1. Child is loud and possibly stinky but otherwise unharmed.
2. Child is within the confines of her home so is not disturbing the peace.
3. Child has not physically harmed anyone in the house, including herself.
4. Mom suggests cop use taser if he needs to.
5. Cop threatens to take child to jail.

I don't know about you, but if I were ten and throwing a fit and the cops arrived at my house, I'd be scared shitless. If my mom suggested the use of electric shock devices by said cop, I'd be hysterical. If the cop threatened to take me to jail then physically put his hands on me to move me to another room, I'd be completely out-of-control and thinking I was going to the Big House. My first reaction would be to fight like mad. (This wouldn't be my current method of handling the situation but at ten years old its the standard method for most kids.) By the way, am I the only one who sees the cop's actions here as intentionally intimidating to the child? Hello???? Note to idiot cop....YOU'RE AN IDIOT...oh, wait. I already said that.

The Keystone Kop wound up with a foot to the family jewels, courtesy of hysterical child flailing madly, as he attempted to move her. Don't think for a second he truly believed tasering the kid was going to be helpful. No, he'd been kicked in the balls and he was mad as hell. So what is any self-respecting police officer to do? Oh! I know! Pull out the taser, turn off the audio device on his lapel, turn off the video component on the taser and calmly pull the trigger to shock the kid into submission. Standard Operating Procedure, right? Please tell me this cop is childless. Please. I fear for the lives of any future offspring.

Also? Can you imagine the relationship between mother and daughter after that one? The mom probably won the shower argument but at the end of the day, the kid is going to spend the rest of her life remembering the time mom called the cops to come electrocute her. In the mother's defense (not that she really has one at this point) I'm betting when she told the cop to feel free to use his taser she was saying it to get the kid's attention, not to actually give the idiot cop permission to shock her. Apparently, said cop wasn't too quick on the uptake and took her, literally, at her word (which tells me he is not fit to be carrying around a loaded weapon of any kind, at any time).

Update: Kid is in a children's shelter, cop is on suspension (not for using the taser on a child, by the way) but for intenionally turning off the monitoring devices before he actually zapped the kid...which leads me to believe he knew tasering the child was not the proper course of action and that he was doing it for his own personal satisfaction. I'm thinking if someone could please pull that guy's badge, I'd be ever so grateful. He and Mommy Dearest can share the award. Idiots...

Pennies From Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 05:58:00 +0000

I was looking through Sophie's homework assignments this evening (she was busy emptying her piggy bank --which I assumed was because she's only $8 away from the Nintendo DSi she wants and she's hoping her savings have multiplied while she was at school) and I came across an assignment requesting that she bring pennies to school. More specifically, these pennies have be stamped with '1983' or earlier. Did you know that in '83 the composition of the penny changed from Copper to Zinc? Who knew? Did you know if you drop a Copper penny on a hard surface (like formica) it will make a distinctly different sound than a penny comprised of Zinc when it hits the ground? I'm not entirely certain about this whole penny business, but Sophie wasn't counting money, she was searching for 'old' pennies to take to school.

Of course, Allie had to get in on it, as well, and she whipped out a Ziploc bag with 16 pennies in it. She allowed us to inspect their dates, but insisted that they be replaced in the bag and when we were done, she recounted them to make sure we hadn't pocketed one...she's four years old, for cryin' out loud. I'm just glad she gets the concept of counting to 16! She thinks 16 pennies is a whole lot of money...not that she's about to share it...but she still thinks she's rolling in dough.

Imagine the look on her face when Kevin whipped out a shoe box filled with pennies for Sophie to examine. Allie looked like she'd hit the motherlode. Those baby blues were gleaming like she'd found buried treasure. She ooh'ed and aah'ed ran back and forth from the box to her Ziploc bag. She'd grab a handful of pennies, lay them down and count them one by one. Then she'd add them to her Ziploc bag while announcing to all of us that she is 'saving for a Dora doll'. Sophie started to explain the value of a penny but I stopped her. I didn't want discourage Allie from 'saving', even if it did meaning stealing money from her dad.

I figured, what's the difference between Allie stealing pennies from her dad (who has a bunch of them he isn't using) and socialist governments taking money from the rich and giving to the poor? If its good enough for Obama, I suppose it must be good enough for my four (almost five) year old. And hey, if she gets really good at counting all that change, wait till we tell her how many pennies equal our current national debt! She better get crackin if she wants to count all those pennies!

In any event, after a few minutes of examining pennies, Sophie's hands were black and mine smelled terrible, and she'd filled her own Ziploc bag with a handful of old pennies when it suddenly occured to me that maybe there's a reason the teacher wants the pennies brought to class in the first place. I Googled 'pennies' and 'coin collecting' and bing-bang-bam! I had my answer. The old pennies were worth more than the new ones! Granted, California's public education system is virtually bankrupt, and teachers make about one-tenth of what they deserve so I wondered if the plan might have been for the teacher to swap out those old pennies with nice, shiny new ones.I'm guessing this could be a side-business for Sophie's teach. Even better, she can get the kids to sort out all of the change for her. I like her logic. I love her method...

Dang...I wish I'd thought of it first!

DIY PART 3: I'm The Goddess Of Home Decorating. No,Seriously....

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 18:44:00 +0000

The furniture was scheduled to arrive the Saturday afternoon (Sophie's birthday party was scheduled for Sunday) so by Friday, we'd managed to get her over to my mom's house with the intention of having her stay there until Sunday...we wanted the element of surprise and, as usual, Kevin morphed into Superman and somehow managed to get Sophie's room taped, primed and fully painted in the hour it took me to get Sophie situated at grandma's house).

Just to remind you all of what Sophie's room looked like before I rocked the decorating scene:

Here's a photo of the half-way point.....

And the finished project!!!

View ONE......

View TWO....

View THREE....

Really? What more can I say? Well, except that the chandelier Kevin painted black and I decorated with beads and feathers is still NOT hanging from the ceiling...for the simple fact that I'm having nightmares of the wrought-iron chain breaking and Sophie being impaled by it. So, technically, we're not totally done. But still...I made the wall decorations over the bed and the matching message board over the desk. So, it still rocks....if you ask me.

DIY Part 2: A Brush With The Supernatural?

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 20:22:00 +0000

I finally found furniture I thought might work. I'd wanted black furniture but wasn't about to pay the $2,000 to get what I wanted (not to mention bearing the responsibility of the stroke my husband would have if I'd done so). I settled on a simple white bedroom set. (Settled might be a bit of an overstatement.)

Basically, my furniture purchase went something like this:

My mom: I like it. I think Sophie will like it.

Me: I'm not comfortable spending the money.

My mom: Its good-quality. I don't think you'll find it cheaper anywhere else.

Me: I know. I just don't think I can do it.

My mom: Meredith! She's outgrowing her bed. You're running out of time, here. This set is a bargain.

Me: I need to think about it. I can't rush into anything.

My mom: (sighs, rolls eyes): Fine. Lets look around some more.

Thirty minutes later...

Sales lady: "Can I help you with something?"

Me: I don't know.

My mom: YES. The white set in the corner.

Sales lady: Oh, good choice.

Me: If I bought all six pieces, what would my total be with tax?

Saleslady: (punches number into her calculator) That will be $4 Trillion and 75 cents. (Not really but it's equivalent to what I actually heard.)

Me: Can't do it.

Saleslady: I'll throw in a free temperpedic mattress and foundation.

Me: Nope.

My mom: For God's sake, make a decision!!!!

Saleslady: Let me go make sure we have everything in stock. (Makes a quick exit.)

Me: I really do like the way the store decorated this area. Kind of retro.

My mom: Yeah.

Me: I wonder if they'd sell that movie poster over the bed.

My mom: How funny. I hadn't noticed that.

Me: The poster?

My mom: Yeah, Endless Summer was your dad's favorite movie.

I had a vague recollection of this, but my dad's been gone for nearly thirty years, and I'd forgotten until she reminded me. Odd. Twenty other bedroom collections in the place and I chose the one with Endless Summer prominently displayed over the bed.

Me: I love this furniture. I just don't think it would be prudent to drop so much money.

My mom: If you want cheaper you'll have to buy pieces made of pressed wood. It will fall apart before she hits junior high and you'll be right back where you started.

Me: True, I just don't know.

(Funky folk song began playing on the store's sound system. I recognized it. Haven't heard it in years but I totally remembered it.)

My mom: Haven't heard this song in a while. (she starts to hum along.)

Me: We used to sing this when I was little. Me and dad.

My mom: He loved this song. It was one of his favorites.

Okay, I'm not superstitious, but lets face it. I was standing in a furniture store that had been piping in top 40 hits from the current decade for the full hour I'd been there. The overriding decor throughout the store had fluctuated between elegant and homey. Yet, there I stood, listening to a forty year old folk song and staring at the retro poster over the only bed I actually liked. What were the chances? Maybe my dad was trying to tell me something. Maybe I'm a freak. In either case, I wasn't about to ignore a potential sign from beyond the grave.

The saleslady returned.

Saleslady: All the pieces are in stock. I also confirmed that I'm able to throw in those mattresses if you'd like them.

Me: I'll take it. All of it. Where do I sign? (In my head: Point taken, dad. your grandkid is getting the furniture. You're kind of freakin' me out here, though.)

Someday, I'll tell Sophie about the time her dead grandfather picked out her 10th birthday present. She'll think I'm nuts. That's okay, though. My dad tends to make his presence known every once in a while and I'm not the only one who's noticed. Then again, even in life, he was no shrinking violet, so this whole thing shouldn't be a surprise.

And the DIY adventure continued....

DIY Part 1: Head-First Into Home Decorating

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 17:30:00 +0000

My oldest child was about to have her tenth birthday and I'd been mulling over the idea of re-decorating her bedroom to mark her debut into 'double digits'. She was still sleeping in a bed more suited to a five-year-old. She needed a desk, as well. I wanted more than furniture, though. I wanted the opportunity to knock the kid's socks off.

My adventure started six months before Sophie's birthday and consisted of a whole lot of window shopping. I visited every furniture store within fifty miles, questioned my daughter relentlessly about her favorite colors, trolled Craigslist on a daily basis (it's amazing what people will try to sell. Anybody interested in a custom couch made from old truck parts? It only costs $4,000, afterall.)

I finally settled on a color scheme of pink, white and black, but didn't have any idea how to incorporate my chosen palette into the room. Instead of making a decision, I continued to window shop. I woke up three weeks before her birthday and fell into a panic. The deadline was looming and I'd not committed to a single piece of furniture or bit of decor. (My original goal had been to follow a very strict budget...this went out the window as I ran out of time.) Even Kevin, usually my calm voice of reason, was starting to get jumpy. It was now or never. I grabbed my mother and some cash and we went furniture shopping...that's when things got a little spooky.

Spock Rocks Swine Flu?

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 00:01:00 +0000

Have you ever seen that episode from the original Star Trek series, where Spock puts his hands on something (don't remember what it was, some kind of glowing orb or maybe a dead body or something) but he's clearly in agony and yelling (eyes still closed) "The Pain!" "Oh, The Pain!" "The Terrible Pain!" and you (the viewer) are just like, "Dude, knock it off and let go of that thing, you drama queen."

Yeah, I totally get it now. Last night, I was feeling all achy and feverish. It just came out of nowhere. I was convinced it was Swine Flu and that I'd inadvertantly pass it to Kev or the kids, so I wasn't letting any of them within five feet of me. I 'mentally' kissed them goodnight and went to bed, where I writhed and moaned and generally sounded like Spock. Only I couldn't get away from my pain. It was everywhere. Mostly in my back, but still, it was everywhere. In a perfect world, I coulda just radioed the ship, "Beam me up, Scottie." Instead, I started snacking on Advil. Then a couple of Tylenol. And suddenly, whoo-hoo people! I was a brand-new (almost) woman. Except for the part where I got chills. And my skin was so hot it felt like it was burning. And where, despite all my agony, I was craving a flipping cheeseburger. (So, not a common experience with the flu...which should have been a clue, right?)

Two days of feverish agony ("Oh The Pain") and come to find out, I'm not morphing into Wilbur, I won't be oinking in the near future (well, I went to the doctor's office, so my money is on the fact that if I didn't have the damn H1N1 going in, I carried it out the door with me. So consider the 'near future' less than 24 hours.) Anyway, this is a good thing, right? Bummer of it is, had it been the actual H1N1, I wouldn't still be waiting for the elusive vaccine, and all that pain would have meant I was building an immunity to the virus. Instead, I discovered this....kidney infections really suck. A lot.

And as you can see, I'm currently procrastinating on my nanowrimo work....but I'm supposed to be resting (doctor's orders). May the force be with you....you might need it. Oink.

I Got Outta Bed For This???

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 02:43:00 +0000

Technically, my bad day started yesterday. That was when I drove 45 minutes to my doctor's office to 'discuss' some test results and wound up having a biopsy (no antisthetic, btw) to go with it. Not totally pleasurable, as I'm sure you can imagine. No, I'm also not going into my medical issues so don't ask me what was biopsied...just suffice to say that only the good die young. I'm pretty much safe, just so you know....

Anyway, by the time I made it home, I realized I still needed to go to the grocery store before I picked up the kids from school or nobody was getting dinner that night (or the next) so I pit-stopped at SaveMart (dizziness and pain, be damned) and FINALLY managed to get home and go to sleep. That should have been the end of that. Not quite.

The next morning I woke up late. Like an hour and ten minutes late. Like Sophie had 25 minutes to get up, dressed, fed and packed before the bell rang kind of late. We made it to school...with a lot of arguing, not my favorite way to start the day. I took her to school in my pajamas and when I got home, there stood Mr. Fixit, waiting to replace the motherboard in my laptop.

We didn't have an appointment with Mr. Fixit. He'd indicated that he would call to schedule a time for repairs once he received the new motherboard. I hadn't even brushed my teeth, for cryin' out loud. He agreed to come back later, but he wasn't happy about it. When he did, he spent two hours on my computer before telling me the power adapter (which I've replaced twice in a year) was bad but he didn't have time to stand around ordering a new one for me because he had another appointment. So much for warranty repairs. Jerk.

No sooner had he pulled out of the driveway, I discovered I had no internet access. Kevin, ten feet away in his office, was still happily emailing away, so I knew it wasn't our internet service. He sat down to try and fix the problem and I went to boil the chicken I'd bought the day before, intending to put it in a casserole for dinner. (Which would have been a darn good casserole, too...had the chicken-once cooked-not fallen out of the fridge-bowl and all-leaving dinner in a heap of broken glass. )

Then I picked up Sophie, who immediately fell apart over something having to do with a school Christmas play, which made no sense to me, seeing as how we haven't even made it to Halloween yet. Apparently, I missed the point. She went to her room in floods of tears. Then Allie got a blister on her foot from the 'bad shoes' I'd bought her and she fell apart, too. I should have gone to bed right then. I didn't. I sat down with my laptop and nearly burned my thigh.

Okay....when I let Mr. Fixit have his way with my computer, it wasn't overheating. Now, I could boil water on the keyboard. I called tech support, who indicated that my battery, which I replaced 15 months ago, was bad. Great. Oh yeah, and the extended warranty I'd paid $500 for? It didn't cover the battery. Which was another $135 (plus tax and shipping!)

Then I missed a parent's meeting at the district office, but not before I forgot to make dinner. No kidding. I FORGOT to make dinner. What mother FORGETS to make dinner? The same one who forgets to remind her kid to finish her homework so that at eight o'clock that night she's busily stirring mac and cheese while doing a math worksheet with said child, while sewing patches on a girl scout vest AND baking cookies since she'd forgotten them at the grocery store the day before.

I feel like Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. As Alexander says in the book, "My mom says, some days are just like that." Of course, he also says he wants to move to Australia.....maybe I'll hitch a ride with him...but right now, I'm going back to bed.

Texting in the Twilight Zone

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 02:33:00 +0000

The last few weeks have felt a bit like a walk through the Twilight Zone. I don’t know if its a lack of sleep, too much stress or the natural process of aging. I’m not old, by the way. If forty is the new thirty (as I’ve heard) then I’m still using training wheels in the world of adulthood. Yet, there is a whole generation bearing down on me with life experiences I can’t even fathom. Gen X, we aren’t even on the radar anymore. Generation Y is nipping at our heels with their text messages and smart phones and all the other technological advances we missed. (I mean, we thought pagers were cool. We passed handwritten notes in class....and NO...nobody walked to school barefoot in the snow, that’s another story).

I used to see myself as kind of worldly, with just the right dash of sophistication thrown in. I rocked half-shirts and teeny-tiny skirts and knew the difference between a Kamikaze and a Buttery Nipple. Now? Not so much, actually. I’m finding myself acting as weird as my folks used to. You know, the kind of weird where your sixteen year old self would shake her head in embarrassment and demand to be dropped off a block from school to avoid the sheer humiliation of being associated with her dorky parents?

Last Friday, I got a text message on my phone from a number I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t in a huge hurry to check it because for the most part, I don’t text. I don’t like trying to have an ongoing conversation with anyone where I’m stuck reading whole sentences filled with abbreviations. (LOL). If you need to say something to me, call me or send me an email. Better yet, find me on Facebook, as I’ll probably be there at some point tending one of my farms, cafes or amusement parks, and I’ll see your message.

In any case, when I finally got down to actually reading this text, I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. I had an idea but, truthfully, I’ve been out of the loop so long, that slang is equivalent to Greek. Add in a bunch of abbreviations and it’s like reading a Calculus problem in a foreign language (while standing on your head). The text went something like this:

“Yo Dawg. I got me some killa Cali Gold and be lookin’ 2 hook u up wid some phat green. Waitin 4 u to call.”

See what I mean? My first thought was that I was reading rap lyrics. My second thought was that ‘Cali Gold’ must be a bit like ‘Texas Tea’. (you know, like the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies?) My third thought was probably the most accurate. I determined that either A. Somebody was yanking my chain, or, B. Some drug dealer had mistakenly texted me with his daily special.

I could have texted back and let the little thug know I was a married mother of two and didn’t find his line of work particularly ethical and that I was turning his number over to the local authorities. Unfortunately, I’m just not that great a citizen. I opted to take a photo of the text for amusement purposes. It is, without a doubt, the most interesting message I’ve ever received on my cell phone. Although, I’m still troubled by the term ‘phat’. In my world, calling anything or anyone ‘phat’ (however you choose to spell it) is an insult.

Oh well, as soon as I find my camera I’ll upload a photo of the text message to share its amusement value (as well as to provide the world wide web the phone number of a drug dealer. I hope his mother recognizes the number and let’s him have it!) Wouldn’t that be ‘phat’?????

Peace Out!!!!!

Hot Off the Press: Barbie's Cankles

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 17:35:00 +0000

Newsflash: Barbie has CANKLES. Cankles? Young people are dying in Afghanistan and Iraq, the economy is about as fragile as the bones of an 80 year old woman with osteoperosis (oh, yeah...and she won't be seeing a 'cost of living' increase in her social security checks this year) but HLN is hashing out the circumference of Barbie's ankles.

You want cankles? I had elephantitis of the ankles at nine months pregnant...we're talking ankles so big I could wear turtleneck sweaters as leg warmers, people. Barbie's ankles were something to be envied- not criticized. Wait a minute....my youngest child is now four years old and I still don't have Barbie-like ankles...neither does my four year old and her ankles are teeny!

What is it with this preoccupation with the size of a woman's body? Jessica Simpson gets hassled for her weight on a regular basis and the chick is lucky to see a size 7 on her worst day. Granted, her fashion sense is questionable (her 'mom' jeans made mothers everywhere cringe in horror. Not because they were so darn bad-they were-but because most of us wouldn't have looked half as good in those jeans after a tummy tuck and some Spanx.)

I banned Bratz dolls at our house. Mostly, because they look like streetwalkers but have you ever really looked at a Bratz doll? Is it a coincidence that their heads are five times too large for their bodies? Kind of like your average runway model? They look like bobble heads and my daughters think they are beautiful. Um, they wear black lipliner with pale pink lipstick, which is just so many kinds of wrong that it gives me a headache to think about.

Back to my original point. Headline News actually addressed the size of Barbie's ankles. What a pathetic waste of broadcast time. What is this country coming to if Headline News thought the American public would appreciate this tidbit of information? Now what? Do I wear mom jeans to disguise my ankles? Maybe I'll call Jessica, I hear she's over the search for her lost dog and she finally figured out what Chicken of the Sea is, so maybe she'll have time to chat....

Can We Muzzle The Kid At Table Five?

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 17:10:00 +0000

Kevin and I recently drove to Visalia to do a couple of errands. My folks were watching the kids, it was a Saturday afternoon, so we stopped for a bite to eat at a nearby Olive Garden before heading home. We try to get a little 'together' time when we can, and it was the perfect opportunity to eat a meal I didn't have to cook or clean up after, without being rushed by 'bored' kids, or making multiple trips to the restaurant's restroom because my child 'didn't have to go when we left home, mom'.

If I really wanted peace and quiet and a little romantic table for two, it would have been wise to pick a restaurant who's motto isn't "When you're here, you're family" and provides childrens' menus and color crayons for the younger set. However, with a limited time-frame and a budget to adhere to, Olive Garden was our best bet.

(BTW: I'm not opposed to children in restaurants. Quite the opposite, in fact. If you don't dine out with your child, the child doesn't learn to dine out. In other words, if you do take-out until Junior is six, expect him to behave like a hooligan the first time you plant him in a chair at the Macaroni Grill. It's your own fault. You earned it. And for cryin' out loud, do NOT put a caffeinated sugar-laden soda in front of the kid. Its sabotage. You want him to sit still and behave in public? Avoid letting him suck down the equivalent of juvenile crack-cocaine. Stick to milk.)

Just before our meal arrived, Chuckie (like the horror movie?) decided to detonate two tables down. At first, we ignored it, because, really? Who lets their child go from zero to sixty in a public space without attempting to stop it? Apparently, Chuckie's parents. If, at first, the wails were annoying, after five minutes of being ignored, Chuckie pulled out the big guns and began to shriek like he was being attacked by a swarm of killer bees. I was sure his mother would now jump out of her chair and whisk the little demon out of the restaurant...but, noo-ooo. You'd have thought we were standing in the middle of WalMart on payday, instead of a restaurant.

The couple at the table next to us looked distressed. The woman bowed her head and pressed her fingertips to her temples as though her brain might explode. The waitress arrived at our table to deliver our meals. We'd been listening to psycho boy flip out for ten minutes and his mother still hadn't gotten the memo that it was time to remove the little darling from the restaurant. (I can understand wanting to get the point across that bad behavior won't be a child's ticket out of a boring situation, but how 'bout teaching that lesson somewhere other than the middle of a crowded restaurant? At the very least, would it have killed the mother to pick him up and take him to the restroom until he calmed down? When I was a kid, the understanding was pretty clear: You acted like a jackass and you got a trip to the restroom. Period. The End.)

"Oh my goodness. That is just sooo loud." I said. (Yeah, right. It went more like, "Would somebody shut that little $%@ up.")

"You know," my husband said to the waitress (in his loudest voice) "I think we're going to have to just get this to go. That noise is just unacceptable."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Let me get you some take-out containers." She suggested.

WHAT????!!!!!??? You mean in Olive Garden Employee Training they didn't teach these servers to handle rude families? They'd rather lose all the courteous diners so as not to offend psycho-boy's parents? Honestly?

Apparently, Kevin's ultra-loud suggestion reached Chuckie's table. At that point, his father stood up and carried the little nightmare out of the dining room. The exploding headed diner closest to us, looked up, her fingers still pressed to her head and mouthed gratefully in our direction, "Thank YOU." The waitress just stood there with her mouth hanging open.

Can I just say, I'm terribly glad that I've never worked as a waitress because if I'd been in our server's position, I wouldn't be writing this...I'd be punching out license plates in prison issue rubber shoes because I'd have taken my cute little tray and whacked Chuckie's parents across the head with it. Of course, I'd have raked in the tips that day from all the other diners, but whatever.

The Wally World Experience

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 21:30:00 +0000

I'd never spent a great deal of time at the local "Wally-World" before I had kids. I saw the commercials and equated it to some kind of warehouse store. After I had kids, and we moved into our current town, "Wally-World" seemed like a bit of a blessing. Instead of driving to four separate locations around town, I was able to get the tires rotated on my car, buy dog food and cleaning supplies, pick up chicken and veggies for dinner, even buy art supplies for my kids, without ever leaving the building. What could be more convenient? In theory, it IS convenient. In practice....not so much!

I'm not bashing the store. I don't know what the stores in other communities are like, so I can only refer to the one in my own. That being said, my first warning that this place was going to be a ginormous headache was driving into the parking lot. Is it just me or do people intentionally cross from the store to the parking lot in droves while moving in slow-motion and without ever looking to see if they are about to be mowed down by a passing car? If I didn't know any better, I'd think these people WANT to be hit. If they do happen to look in the direction of the car, they glare at the car's driver...as if to say "It's MY right-of-way." Technically, this is true. However, a shoving match between a car and a pedestrian is kind of a no-brainer....the car wins EVERY time. The pedestrian may be right...but he could wind up right AND dead. What's the point?

You get this great welcome from the 'greeter' at Walmart. I'm surprised Nordstrom hasn't gotten in on this (without the funky blue smock, of course). These greeters are so happy they could call suicidal people down from ledges. Human Prozac. So sunny you need sunglasses. Of course, in our local store, this is the last bit of positive human interaction you are likely to see, so you might as well suck it up like a sponge.

I'm not a snob. I simply believe ambiance plays a huge part in the shopping experience. Ambiance is achieved through cleanliness, proper lighting and attractive presentation. Also? It helps to provide shopping carts that are in operable condition with a minimum of rust. These things are in short supply at our Wally-World. Sticky floors, clutter and squeaky wheeled carts are not. I was tired of waiting until my youngest child was in preschool before shopping, because I was afraid she'd contract ringworm or lice if I put her in the little seat on the cart.

Our Wally's has a grocery store with the cheapest prices in town. I can easily save $100-$200 a month shopping there so, ambiance be damned, I vowed to buy my food there. It lasted for...the longest bloody six months of my entire life, at which point I fell off the Wally-World Wagon so hard I had road rash. I told my husband I'd rather starve and let our children go hungry than go back into that store. He nodded in sympathy, he'd been avoiding it for the better part of two years and couldn't understand why I put myself through it.

I kid you not, we once stood in Wally World with $800 to spend on outdoor play equipment and could not find a single salesperson to help us. After twenty-minutes of searching I found an employee who looked at me like I'd asked him to sell me a dead body. He looked around, shrugged and pointed across the store. "You could try aisle 5. Its not my department." Oo-kay. I'm not expecting a personal shopper, here, but a little assistance would be nice.

Forty minutes after arriving in the store, I had staked out the 'employee's only' swinging door, hoping to pounce on the first sales associate that emerged. Meanwhile, my husband was on his cell phone arguing with the Wally-World phone operator over how best to get an actual, real-live, sales person to meet him in Sporting Goods. Two hours later, we had finally obtained a swing set for our children. It would have been less work to build the sucker from scratch.

I'm not certain, but I have a sneaking suspicion that our particular store has some sort of 'fast-track' service (or additional discounts) for people who fall into specific categories. Those categories are as follows:

1. People who bathe less than once a week. (Would it kill 'em to try a little soap and water prior to entering the building? Are they allergic to cleanliness?)

2. Dental-ly challenged. (Maybe gap-toothed, rotting grills are all the rage now and I'm just out of the loop.)

3. Those with personal space issues. (The only person I want breathing down my neck in the soup aisle is my husband. No offense...and if you are going to 'reach' past me, make sure the deodorant is working, pal.)

4. Bad Mood Bears. (If you want to play bumper cars with your cart, cut me off, beat your children in the frozen food aisle, curse at me under your breath if you think I'm moving too slow, just do it on your time. I don't really see the point of treating the store like roller derby. I just don't. Also? I'm not going to react to your barbs, insults or bad behavior.)

5. Non-readers: Illiteracy and lack of basic math skills are almost a requirement to walk through the door...and hello! "Don't you got no more of those juice boxes?" is so wrong I don't even know where to begin. Oh, yes I do. DOUBLE NEGATIVE. Figure it out!

Okay, I'm done. Except to say this....I recently had a friend suggest that the reason Wally-World keeps the cigarettes at the front of the store is because by the time you emerge, even non-smokers need to light up just to calm down...makes sense if you think about it.....

Edited to add this: Apparently, I really am out of the loop. I just discovered this....Wally World <---click

Ungrateful Bank! Don't Look A Gift Horse In The Mouth!

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 15:53:00 +0000

According to CNN, Federal Reserve Chairman, Ben Bernanke, thinks our recession has reached it's end (not that I agree, seeing as how we'll have to hold onto our current home until retirement in hopes of actually breaking even when we sell it!) Apparently, my car loan company wasn't paying attention when Bernanke was speaking.

(oh wait, not to change the subject or anything but I must seriously be getting old. I actually KNOW the name of the Federal Reserve chairman. When the hell did that happen?)

Kevin took over bill-paying recently (for which I am forever grateful, I hate bill-paying) and he set up some of our payments to be automatically deducted from our checking account on a recurring basis every month. He forgot to check the bank's "recurring payment" box when he got to my car loan in the online bill-pay center. So, all the bills went out and he received an email confirming our bills had been paid and figures everything has been taken care of. The next time he logs onto our bank account, he sees that my car payment was missed. No big deal, he thinks. The payment is one day late, he'll just click the "pay" button and manually send off the payment. Worst case scenario, we get a late fee. We've never been late on a car payment, after all.

Update: (Yesterday, Four Days After The Manual Payment)

Phone rings at 8:25 a.m. and I answer...

Me: Hello?

Caller: (automated message) Good Morning. Please hold for an important message regarding your ABCD Auto Loan. Please hold......................Please hold..................Please hold................please hold. Our next customer service representative will be with you, shortly. (sure)

I nearly hang up. How rude is it to call someone and then keep them on hold? Finally, I get a living, breathing human being...one who (in my opinion) has potentially the worst job on the planet at the moment.

Rep: Mrs. Black?

Me: Yes.

Rep: Hello, ma'am. My name is Garvin Redahl with ABCD Bank. I see that you recently made your car payment. Is that correct?

Me: Um. I don't know. My husband took over the bills, recently. Probably.

Rep: Well, we at ABCD Bank would like to thank you for making that payment.

(what the hell? People are defaulting on loans across the continent, and this guy is busy thanking people for making payments instead of looking for the people who didn't? What gives? Is it supposed to be some reverse-psychology for the consumer? If you pay your bill the company will give you a brownie button for being a good consumer? Do I get to be the line leader at lunchtime, too? How 'bout a special bumper sticker that says, "My Rep says I'm Consumer Of The Month at ABCD Bank.")

Me: Oh. Okay.

Rep: Now, ma-am. It appears that your payment was late. We have received it, of course, but have noted that it was late.

Me: But you did get it, right? Is there a problem with the payment?

Rep: It was late.

Me: Oh. Late? Did we miss one? Do you need me to bring the account current or something? I'll get my checkbook. Can I make payment by phone?

Rep: No. You didn't miss a payment. Your payment was received after the September 12 deadline. Can you give me some idea of why you were late?

Me: Its the 16th.

Rep: Yes, ma-am.

Me: The payment cleared, correct?

Rep: Yes, ma-am.

Me: So I'm not late, now, correct?

Rep: Correct.

Me: You are calling to harrass me because I MADE a payment?

Rep: I need to know why you were late.

Me: Not a clue. My husband pays the bills.

Rep: So you have no access to the household finances?

Me: What? Yes, of course I do.

Rep: Oh. Well, are you aware that your next payment is due October 13th?

Me: Next month's payment is due next month? Imagine that.

Rep: Excuse me?

Me: Nothing. Look, what do you need from me, exactly?

Rep: I need to enter your reason for the late payment into my system and let you know that late payments will, in the future, result in a $35 late fee.

Me: I don't have a reason for being late.

Rep: Are you currently employed? Perhaps we could discuss other payment options for you?

Me: Look! You got the payment. We were a little late. THAT'S IT. My employment status has not changed.

Rep: Okay, ma'am. Before ending this call, I would like to confirm your contact information.

Me: Okay.

Rep: Could you please tell me your current mailing address and phone number?

Me: No.

Rep: No? You can't tell me what your address is?

Me: NO. I do not give out personal information over the phone. You just called my phone number so clearly you have a current phone number and my address hasn't changed recently so you should have that information. If you would like to tell me what address you have in your computer, I'll let you know if it's correct.

Rep: You do not want ABCD Bank to have your current address on file?

Me: YOU HAVE IT. Period. Next, you'll want my account number.

Rep: No ma'am. I don't need your account number. Is there anything else I can do before we end the call?

Me: How 'bout if you call somebody who hasn't paid you? Wouldn't that be a better use of your time? Maybe justify to your superiors that your presence in their organization is actually MAKING them money? Just a though, you know.

Rep: Yes, ma'am. Thank you for your time.

I have now discovered the real reason the American economy is going to Hell in a handbasket, basic human stupidity.

The Internet: A 4th Grader's perspective

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 01:02:00 +0000

Sophie got a pretty, pink Dell laptop for Christmas last year.(Considering what her daddy does for a living, the idea of her not being tech savvy is a little shameful, really). When it arrived, Kevin overhauled the darn thing, installing parental controls and additional security measures to keep her safe. Frankly, it was almost more of a hassle to Google "Nocturnal Amphibians" for a book report than it was to just drive the three bloody miles to the library and open up an encyclopedia. Fort Knox probably has less security.

In any event, over time, we've had to loosen up some of the controls to make the computer usable...assuming we ever wanted her to be able to visit anything other than the Disney site or Build-A-Bear site...we had no choice. As a result, she's been left traumatized by a million things I hadn't considered. Here's our current list....(I say current because its still in progress and, yes, she is totally monitored on the computer by her father and I, not to worry!):

1. Chupacabra: I'd never heard of this thing. Its some kind vampiric, hairless dog-like kangaroo that runs around killing farm animals. According to a Yahoo article, one of them had been caught in Texas, or so Sophie had heard. I told her it didn't exist and not to worry about it. She spouted off a few details about sightings, locations and descriptions of the Chupacabra. I asked her if it was really logical to believe this animal had migrated across continents and stolen into farmhouses across the globe and to date not a single scientist had identified it as a species. Kind of like the Loc Ness Monster or Big Foot. (I should never mentioned this. Now Sophie is really freaked).

2. 2012: This one started at school. Some kid decided it would be great fun to scare the crap out everyone under ten years of age. This idiot boy announced to everyone within hearing distance that the world would come to an end in the year 2012. Even the first graders had discovered how close we are to 2012. Sophie was freaked. I explained that throughout the history of mankind, quite a few people had discovered their "gift of sight" and then predicted an end date that never took place. She assumed I was placating her. "Trust me, Soph." I said. "If the world was going to fall apart during 2012, why would I bother to send you to school? There'd be no point in educating you. Frankly, we'd stop going to the doctor for checkups, too. We'd just sit around and eat bon-bons all day waiting for the end."

3. Tornados: I have to keep reminding myself that Sophie is still a kid. She doesn't yet completely grasp the idea of "distance". A category 5 tornado in Oklahoma is just as scary as one developing in our backyard. She's convinced it will get us if we don't dig a storm cellar. No amount of pleading with her makes a difference. Unfortunately, we live in a dusty town. When a breeze blows through it invariably leaves a spinning funnel cloud in it's wake (I call 'em dust devils). Sophie tends to look slightly green whenever she sees one and I can see her brain working. She's afraid its going to morph into a giant tornado.

I suppose we could drop a double-wide mobile home in our backyard to molify her. That's what my Oklahoma-based father-in-law did. He called it his 'nader-bait. The theory was that the tornado would be magnetically drawn away from his home and would suck up the double-wide, sparing the brick and mortar abode with the fixed foundation.

In the meantime, the list goes on...

Into Thin Air?

noreply@blogger.com (Lady Blackhart) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 02:32:00 +0000

It was a dilemma. A big one. Do I watch the evening news with my kids in the room? I mean, the talking heads are dissecting the Jaycee Dugard abduction, discussing a little girl snatched on her way to the bus stop one morning. I didn't want to scare the hell out of them, after all. I remember being a kid, hearing about Jaycee Dugard and Michaela Garrecht. I hadn't slept for days after Michaela went missing. It wasn't as if she'd gone off to play and just disappeared. That would have been horrific enough. Snatching a child in broad daylight in a public place and driving off with virtually no regard for who might be watching? That was bold. That added a whole new dimension to the child predator scenario. Did I want my children to worry about kidnappers? Have them constantly look over their shoulders? Afraid to be alone?

It could happen to anyone. Anytime. The world became a whole lot scarier when I discovered that bad things actually did happen to kids, even if they followed the rules. The question, of course, was that I now have a four year old and an (almost) ten year old. I didn't want to keep them up at night worrying about elusive 'kidnappers'. What's a mom to do? I'll tell you what I did. I let them watch it. Every second of it. I hope it sunk in. I hope they walked away from the news program with a better respect for the world outside our front door. Because? Really? I'd rather have to eventually pay for their psychotherapy than pay private investigators to find them, or worse, pay for a funeral. No thanks. I totally understand why my mom always found it useful to instill a little fear in us.

As kids we'd been taught about stranger danger and not talking to people we didn't know. Never take candy from a stranger, don't go with a stranger even if he says he needs help finding his dog. Even if he tells you your mother is sick and he'll take you to the hospital to get her, don't go. Stay in groups. Always take a buddy. Guess what? None of that seemed to apply in Michaela Garrecht's case. Jaycee Dugard's either. They never got the opportunity to employ any of those warnings. All the rules that were supposed to keep us safe, rules we trusted to keep us safe, were out the window.

My kids may suddenly become afraid of the dark or afraid to play alone outside in our backyard after watching that news program...and you know what? I can totally deal with that. Its my job to keep them safe. Even if I turn them into nervous wrecks in the meantime. It really is just too bad any of us have to consider it as an option.

The whole thing is heart-breaking. What else is there to say?