we are bossy

The San Diego contingent of Bossy's Excellent Road Trip had a dress rehearsal of the Bloggy Bossy Love In tonight.





There was some of this.










And some of this.



(Clockwise from top: just jamie, Jenn, Cheri, moi, Aaryn (ohmygod I totally can't find yours, like me anyway! UPDATE: found it!) and Deb)

There was some of this.




























A lot of this.

We were only moms when we absolutely had to be.

And! There was a showing of the Bossy Bedroom which will be available for viewing on weekends and alternate Mondays year-round following Bossy's visit next week.

Bossy's. Visit. Next. Week.

Next! Week! People!

And also? The Girl turned EIGHT today. Today!

And she totally believed this was a party for her when she saw the I Am Bossy sign, because, people? She is bossy.

Totally bossy.

And the Adolescent Boy? Totally the staff photographer on this deal. He learned to use four different kinds of cameras. Even "an old-fashioned one". With film and stuff.

And MaryAnn, thanks for the chipboard letters!

i may have snorted derisively

My new best friend's name is Fabrizio. He's Italian. And a professional locksmith. And if you know me at all? You know why his profession makes me swoon. And let me assure you, it was only his profession that made me swoon, because Fabrizio? Was not as dreamy as his name would indicate. He was quite large-ish and hairy-ish. And he had a rather pronounced lisp (pronounthed lithp). Fabrit-thio. Awethome. I know, I'm totally going to hell.

Fabrizio arrived yesterday afternoon, to rescue me just in the nick of time. The Girl, the Kindergartener and I were sitting on the sidewalk in front on my house just finishing a rousing round of "I'm going on a picnic..." in which we brought a Marmite sandwich (eewww) for M, a galloping giraffe for G, a yawning yellow yak from Yakima for Y and lisping locksmith for L. Heh. And just as we got to a zebra from Zaire, Fabrizio strutted up my walk, tools in hand.

He turned to the door, played the lock a bit with his picks, hiking up his Levis occasionally to partially obscure the view of his gluteous crackimus and back hair, and then declared that we'd be in in no time. "Eathy-peathy." (He didn't really say easy-peasy, I made that up). I may have snorted derisively at that point, because, after all, this is me we're talking about. Easy-peasy? Doubtful.

After picking the lock and drilling the lock didn't work, Fabrizio turned around and said in his fantastic Italian accent "I've opened a lot of doorth. Thith never happenth." Heh. Of course. Because this is me we're talking about.

The Girl assured Fabrizio that it wasn't him, with a flick of her head in my direction, she said, "stuff like this happens to her all the time."

Turning back to the door, Fabrizio took out his vice grips and cut the doorknob clean off the door. Clunk, we heard the inside doorknob land on the carpet, and we could actually see into the house at that point, but still, the door wouldn't open. Fabrizio determinedly continued to work the door, with all manner of professional locksmith tools, saying, at intervals, things like, "I've never theen thith before" or "I've opened many doorth, it'th impothible that it'th thtill locked".

Eventually, after inserting a screwdriver into the lock and pounding it with a hammer, he got the door open, put a new knob and deadbolt on my door and gave me four copies of the key. And then asked if I thought I might need more than four copies. Smartass.

And then? Movie and dinner, a long walk in the rain to my car, to discover that I'd locked my keys in the car.

Yes way.

sibling revising

I found the following items when I organized my picture files on my hard drive. All were created by the Girl in Paint. They are shown in chronological order.














































































And the final draft:

your name would be edward

Dear Owen West,

You're not Six yet. I have a few more minutes of Five. You're 5 years, 11 months, 28 days, 10 hours, 55 minutes old. Two thousand one hundred ninety-one and a half (ish) days old.

Alternatively,

189,341,703 seconds, 3,155,695 minutes (rounded down), 52,594 hours (rounded down), or 313 weeks (rounded up).

A hundred and eighty-nine million seconds is not nearly enough of you. Frankly, a hundred and eighty-nine gabillion leap years would scarcely be enough of you, for me.

Unless we are at the grocery store, then a hundred and eighty-nine millionths of one second is plenty long enough.

Three million, one hundred and fifty thousand minutes with you? I'm not nearly done. Three million one hundred and fifty thousand to the three million one hundred and fifty thousanth power minutes of your freckly face might start to be sort of in the realm of enough minutes of you.

Unless you are in a time out, then 3.155695 nanoseconds is 2.1556995 nanoseconds too many.

You, my kindergartener, are clever and nimble and awful. You're impatient and impulsive and witty. You're brash and curious and terrible. You're smart and strong and freckly. And you can read Green Eggs and Ham. Irrisistable.

I love you, happy birthday, Dude.

Mama

PS Say thank you to your brother every year on your birthday, because had it not been for him? Your name would be Edward.

an early dividend paid on my benevolent spirit.

I was distracted, all day today, by the perfection of my ponytail. Why was it perfect today? What had I done that resulted in the flawless coif? I spent minutes at a time, on several different occasions today, feeling it, moving it, swishing it and twirling it.

I ran my hand down the length of it, lifting it and feeling it fall back down, perfectly, to tuck under at the nape of my neck. I walked into the bathroom twice, just to admire it in the mirror. I turned my head from side to side throughout the day listening to it rustle and swirl. Really. There was a noise.

I've concluded that it must've been my reward for some magnanimous good I've done. My intermediate compensation for a life well-lived. An early dividend paid on my benevolent spirit.

Yeah huh. It might be. You don't know.

I got one day of ponytail perfection. For what? Maybe for two years of not eating animals, and for the momentary consideration of going all the way, becoming a *gasp* vegan. Maybe for pouring out all of the small bills and change from my wallet to the woebegone homeless at the intersection near my house, all while enduring the scoffing of the yuppie drivers and their buttoned-down passengers surrounding me. Maybe, just maybe, because I recycle, not only at home, but at work, and because I almost always remember to bring my canvas grocery bags to the store, and because I buy organic eggs from cage-free chickens.

Yeah huh. It might be. You don't know.

I have to go now. The hungry need feeding, the homeless need shelter, the world needs saving, and I need another good hair day.

like totally photoshopped

For those of you who wanted proof of Pierced Niece's unfounded, and frankly, untrue, claims that I was a *gasp* cheerleader? My horrible sister-in-law sent this "photograph".

This proves nothing other than the Mean Aunt's mad Photoshop skillz that she obviously employed to photoshop my teenage head onto some wretched cheerleader's body. It was a nice touch that she put my head onto someone's body who was wearing my high school crush's football jersey.

No. 55 *swoon* Man, he was cute.

And also? If I had been a cheerleader in high school, which I definitely was not, it would've been because all the actual *cheer*leaders graduated the year before me, and my band groupie friends and I thought it would be funny if a bunch of crimped hair, leather-wearing, hair band-following, algebra-ditching bad girls pretended to be cheerleaders and smoked at half time instead of leading pep rallies, while clearing up that nagging final PE credit we all needed to graduate.

And. If I had been a cheerleader in high school, which I definitely was not, it would not have been my idea to do our team photos in the tree pose. Like, gag me.

Whatevar. This is, like, totally bogus. But, like, ohmahgod, the slouchy purple socks, are, like, totally bitchin'.

miscalculation

I made a fairly significant Mom Miscalculation yesterday. And the Kindergartener was pissed. Seriously pissed. And also maybe traumatized.

Me: It'll be fun.
The Adolescent Boy: Super fun.
The Kindergartener: It's too scary.
Me: No, roller coasters are great! And you're finally big enough! Yay you!
The Kindergartener: I don't think so.
The Girl: It's fun, I promise. Just try.
Me: Come on, it's fun.
The Kindergartener: I'll wait with Gram.
Me: No. Come on, you'll be fine. It's fun.
The Kindergartener [dubiously]: Okay.

Wait in line for 20 minutes. Replay above conversation once every three minutes. Involve the people in front of and behind us in line for more assurances that roller coasters are great! Fun! Unmissable! Along with some "look at that little boy... he's way littler than you and he's going".

Me: You get to be in the very front with the Adolescent Boy! Lucky!
The Kindergartener: I don't want to go.
Me: No, it's fun. When we go down the big hill put your hands up in the air. Like this!
The Kindergartener: I'm not doing that.

Off we went. Up, up, up. Doooowwnnn!

And then? Complete abject terror. And screaming. But not in the good this-is-completely-awesome-let's-get-right-back-in-line way. More in the I'm-totally-going-to-die-and-my-mom-knew-it way.

The Kindergartener did not like the hurtling toward Earth at a gabillion miles an hour parts. Or the turns at Mach 7 parts or the getting drenched parts or the absolute surety that he was not going to live to see his sixth birthday in six days parts. And also? People can totally tell the difference between a face being wet from being splashed on a ride and being wet from crying in fear for one's life.

Good thing Grandma was with us, she always knows just what to say. In this case, she piled the crying, traumatized Kindergartener up in her lap and said, "Mommy's a dope."

Mom of the year for sure.

cow licks and chia heads

I take the Little People to get their hair cut about twice a year. Sometimes even less frequently, never, ever more frequently. I really, seriously dislike the whole haircutting system, and all the trauma surrounding the haircut.

I have a number of very good, reasonable reasons. Not the least of which is that if I wait long enough and let them look enough like little, free-thinking, bohemian, flower children, my dad will finally break down, offer them each a crisp twenty dollar bill to get their haircut and take them off my hands for an entire afternoon and take them out for haircuts (for which he, conveniently, would foot the bill). But now? We live 1000 miles from my dad.

Here are the main hair-related issues for my lot:

The Adolescent Boy prefers the Goldilocks Jeff Spicoli, surfer look, so it's always problematic getting him to agree to a haircut. What's worse is that once I do finally browbeat cajole him into a trim, he sits in the stylist's chair and gazes into the mirror like he's watching his best friend's toenails being pulled out.

The Girl is another affair altogether. She doesn't care. She doesn't care what her hair looks like. I could dye it green and perm it and she'd just want a matching Chia Head (TM). The problem with the Girl's hair is that she needs to care, because she has the most unobliging, uncompromising cowlick known to humankind. And it is right! in the middle! of her forehead! But the Girl? She doesn't care.

The only real issue I face with getting the Kindergartener to get a haircut is only in convincing him not to have his whole head shaved bald. His hair philosophy is "how short can I cut it so that I don't have to sit still for seven entire minutes in a row again for at least two years?"

And all of them? IT ITCHES! AND THEY WILL TOTALLY DIE FROM THE ITCHING!

Last night, after having dinner out, I suggested we stop at a place that is one-quarter of a mile from our house, so that's a 30 second car ride from stylist's chair to the shower.

Me: You guys need haircuts.

Them: Nooooooo!

The Kindergartener: I don't have a shirt!

The Adolescent Boy: We didn't bring extra shirts!

The Girl: Can we go to Target first and buy new shirts?

Me: No, we'll be home within a minute of the haircut being done. You need haircuts.

Them: Noooooooo!

The Adolescent Boy: I didn't bring the picture!

Me: What picture?

The Adolescent Boy: The! Picture! The picture of how I want my hair! I can't get a haircut without the picture!

Me: You're kidding me, right?

The Adolescent Boy: No! I need the picture. She'll do my bangs wrong, she'll cut it too short, she'll make it look dorky.

The Kindergartener: I'M ITCHY!

Me: We haven't even gotten the haircut yet.

The Kindergartener: I don't care! I didn't bring a shirt and I'M ITCHY!

The Girl: I'm not getting a haircut, so it doesn't matter. I like it how it is. I'm beautiful even with a cow's lick.

Me: Cowlick. You are beautiful, but you look like you have no mother. You need a haircut.

The Girl: Mommy! I'm beautiful like this! I! Like! It!

Me: Of course you're beautiful like this, it's just that your hair is, um, not as much... um... beautiful... as.... No, I mean, you just need...um.... Frick! You're getting a haircut AND you're beautiful.

The Girl: No. I'm not getting a haircut.

The Adolescent Boy: You could just drive home first, I could run in really super fast and get the picture.

Me: No, it'll be fine. We can do this without visual aides.

The Kindergartener: I'M ITCHY!

And then, to the stylist, before the actual haircutting began, it went like this:

The Adolescent Boy: I just want it long still, but shorter. And sort of shorter in the front and still long. And when I move my head like this [little rock star sort of head flick] my bangs should end up on an angle sort of over this eyebrow. And when I look down it should fall in this sort of angle, right here and this part should still point to my cheekbone. And when I....

The Kindergartener: Shorter. I'M ITCHY! Really short. Just make it a lot shorter. I'M ITCHY! Pretty short, okay?

The Girl: I'm just going to sit here, while my brothers get haircuts, but I don't need one. My hair is fine. I'm beautiful. But I do need a pedicure.

And then my head exploded. The end.

clearly missing: tylenol and tampons

My purse.












Inside:


Paul Mitchell Super Skinny Serum
Coppertone Sport SPF 50
Empty makeup
Eyeliner
Jack Black lip stuff
Swirly lip gloss
Watermelon-y smelling lip gloss

And...Skippy John Jones and the Big Band Bones (*sorry, Smart Sister, it's new, which is why it was in my purse, but at least now I know how to get you to comment*)








Tax documents
Bills to pay
Paycheck
Receipts

And a refund check for $113 from August 2007.





The only copy of my birth certificate


Yeah huh.










A roll of film (I do not own a camera that takes film).
Dead batteries.
A jack splitter.
Gum.
Change.
Worst lip stuff ever made (by Aquafina).
Gum wrappers and a chewed up pen cap (I don't chew pen caps, so...ick).






Midland Shoe discount card (spend $1000 get $10 off). Bitchin', but Midland Shoe is in Colorado.
Cold Stone frequency card (which I always forget I have).
Triple A temporary membership card (it was a gift, thanks again).
$11
More receipts (mostly from '07 and '08)








Wallet













Checkbook
Islands surfboard magnets that the Kindergartener had to have.
Recently re-discovered Colorado driver's license.













Book for a friend to read to his kids.

















Different book, same friend.

That sticker that indicates I purchased it at the Evil Empire? Misleading. I got it somewhere else. For free. I think.














3 business cards.












An earring.
A bobby pin with a pearl.
Two bracelets.
One necklace.
















Sunglasses.












This guy. A cookie cutter, because you just never know when you might need a cowboy cookie.

Yeah huh.
















A yogurt.
With a fork.

No spoon. That would be silly.











Christmas lights Noise cancelling earbuds.












Two Netflix movies and a dragon and rhino.












The Kingergartener's Heely wheels.
An unsharpened Pirates of the Caribbean pencil.
My Nordstrom card.











But the best part? I put it all back in after I took the photos. All of it. Even the gum wrappers and chewed pen cap.

Yeah huh.

It wasn't my birthday today.






























But it felt like it.











There was even cake at one point.

fatigue mcsleepy

Apparently, I'm tired. *yawn* Like seriously sleepy.

My mom arrived yesterday at noon. And I can't wake up. I've take two naps in two days, and I went to bed last night at 10. Seriously. And? I slept last night. Like slept slept. Like slept where you don't wake up 400 times between midnight and six a.m.

I feel like I've just come off a looooonnnng graveyard shift. I'm tired, people. My body knows that my mom is here, and it has decided, um...something. Just give me one minute to think of what I was going to saaaay...zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

stop saying numbers

The setting: The car on the way to school, 7:10 am.


The Kindergartener: Mama, how do you say one-oh-seven-four-six?
Me: Hmmm?
The Kindergartener: One-oh-seven-four-six.
Me: Ummm. What's the context?
The Girl: Ten thousand seven hundred and forty-six.
The Adolescent Boy: No and. Right, Mama?
Me: Hmmm?
The Adolescent Boy: No and. Ten thousand seven hundred forty-six. Not and forty-six. They taught us that in third grade. You don't say and.
Me: Um...
The Kindergartener: How do you say one-two-four-oh-four?
Me: Twelve thousand four hundred and four. Why are you asking me these things?
The Adolescent Boy: No and.
Me: Good grief.
The Adolescent Boy: I'm just saying...no and. [and to the Kindergartener] It's an address, you say one-two-four-oh-four, not twelve thousand four hundred and four.
Me: No and.
The Kindergartener: Mama, I made this up. 2... 4... 6... 8... 10... 20... 30... 40 ... 50... 60... 70... 80... 90... 100.
Me: Uh huh.
The Kindergartener: And this, 2... 4... 6... 8... 10... 15... 20... 25... 30... 35...
The Adolescent Boy: 14... 64... 8... 10... 2... 54...
The Kindergartener: 40... 45... 14... 15... STOP DOING THAT! DON'T SAY NUMBERS! YOU'RE JUST TRYING TO MESS ME UP.
Me [quietly to the Adolescent Boy]: Don't poke the bear, Dude.
The Kindergartener: Mama, know what I can do?
Me: Mmmmm. No.
The Kindergartener: 5...10...15...20...25...30...35...40...45...50...55...60...75...80...
The Girl: YOU FORGOT 65, 70! Ha-ha-ha ha-haaaa-ha.
The Kindergartener: NO I DIDN'T!
The Girl: You went 60... 75... 80... Didn't he, Mama? He said 60... 75... 80...
The Kindergartener: 5...10...15...20...
The Adolescent Boy [simultaneously and cleverly]: I read TEN pages last night, so now I'm on chapter SEVEN. You'll pick me up at TWO? THIRTEEN days until the Kindergartener's birthday, when he'll be SIX. And EIGHTEEN days until....
The Kindergartener: STOP SAYING NUMBERS!
The Adolescent Boy: I'm just talking to Mama.
The Kindergartener: YOU ARE NOT! STOP SAYING NUMBERS!
The Adolescent Boy: hehehehehehe.


And then my head exploded. The end.

i totally was not a cheerleader. ever.

Pierced Niece is guest hosting for me tonight. *Telling lies about me.* So tomorrow, I will tell you all why her new blog is called sock problems. After you read her here. Go read her there. Go! AND! She's a redhead. Who dyes her hair blond. She's beautiful though either way. Isn't she?

Katy cannot come up with a post tonight, so she has burdened entrusted her loyal and steadfast sidekick Pierced Niece.

Just a side note, I have removed my lip ring and my nose ring, so I am not so "pierced" anymore (other than my heart that was pierced with a hot dagger when Aunt Katydidnot informed me she was moving half way around the world to California). Just so you know, Aunt Katydidnot lived with me and my parents when I was a baby, and yes, still loves me after all the ripped silk shirts and broken wine glasses, so when she moved, my world spontaneously combusted into a pile of ashes.

Disclaimer: I'm not so sure I believe in memes... they feel much like vitamins and all of that other voo doo shit but here is one to keep you all entertained for a few minutes.

Seven Weird or Random Things About Aunt Katydidnot:

*After all, who knows us better than family?*

1. She has a sick obsession with raisin colored lip gloss. So obsessed, in fact, that once, we spent approximately seventeen minutes in the makeup aisle looking for it. Needless to say we didn't find it.

2. She used to eat meat. A lot of it, and then one day, about this time of year, decided to give it up for lent. And then proceeded to never eat it again. *She actually tricks her kids into eating tofu because of it.*

3. She used to be a cheerleader. A real, live cheerleader. In a real public high school. You think I'm kidding. I have proof.

4. After graduating college with a bachelor's in economics, she lived in a bunk house with another person. A bunkhouse being a small peanut sized cabin originally built for a pint sized cowboy. I'm moving into it, and it's small. Believe me.

5. She likes her toes unpainted better than with polish. I do not know anyone else that prefers unpainted toenails.

6. She absolutely despises video games and all associated with them. My little brother gave her kids his old Nintendo 64 and she later proceeded to tell even me that the dog had chewed up the wire. I think she chewed it up herself, in a fit of rage one afternoon when the Kindergartner was making the "ooooAaaa" sound.

7. She really does put makeup on while she was driving. I almost bought a bumper sticker for her once that cautioned other drivers about the application of makeup.

jesus, mary and joseph, i knew it was there.

Good news, people!

Remember how I lost my driver’s license the week after I moved to California?

Remember how to have a driver’s license replaced you need to either:

1. Be in the state where the license was issued (and spend four months at the DMV)

2. Send away for your driving record (and spend nine weeks waiting for it) and take the written exam in the new state (and spend 14 hours at the DMV waiting to take the test), or

3. Take both the written and behind-the-wheel tests and provide seventeen forms of identification (and spend 19 x the distance-to-the-moon years waiting at the DMV)

Do you remember that?

On Sunday, I vacuumed my car, and found my lost Colorado driver’s license. You know what’s even better? It was exactly and precisely where I thought it was. That little effing crevice between the driver’s seat and the console, where it had fallen when I’d shoved it into the back pocket of some pair of my jeans. It was in that space into which I’d spent hours and days peering. That space into which I’d shoved steak knives and rulers and hangers trying to dislodge the missing license that I just knew was there. I couldn‘t see it, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I knew it was there.

But wait. Do you know what’s even better than that?

This is the exact same scenario I have gone through before. On occasion. Specifically, with this effing crevice: a lost American Express card, a lost debit card, a lost set of client’s keys and a lost paycheck. All from the back pocket of jeans (I think).

So you know what I’m going to do?

What? Stop shoving things in my back pockets? Nonsense.

I’m going to caulk the effing crevice. I’m going to Home Depot right now to purchase as many tubes of caulk as it takes, and I’m going seal that black hole with bathroom caulk. That’s reasonable, isn't it?

All of that said…my Colorado driver’s license picture really sucked. My California one? Not so much in the sucking. See?

WINNER UPDATE: men in speedos and my tongue

This is the most fun I can imagine involving men in speedos. Well, except for that.

And help me, football people, with 46 Down.

And finally...in the comments, a caption for this
























The winner:

"The piercing will either go here or on my cl****is. I can't decide which."

Mary Ann! Sandalous! Yay you! Take your katy (or stu) home with you when you go.

and her brothers are not

I'm exhausted. I woke up at 3am with the Girl peeling back my eyelids to tell me she was going to throw up.

I'm awake!

After the heart-wrenching, gut-wrenching barf-a-thon unpleasantness, she pulled her bad self up into my bed and went to sleep.

And here's what that was like:

Jesus, her thumbsucking is the exact same noise the baby on the Simpsons makes. How does she sleep through that? Is she snoring? When did she start snoring? Holy God, the Kindergartener is grinding his teeth. Oh for Chirst's sake, what's he got to be stressed about? What if she can't go to school tomorrow? I have meetings at 7:30 and 11. Who can I get to watch her? STOP GRINDING YOUR TEETH! I bet they can hear this teeth grinding in San Clemente. Where is San Clemente? I can postpne my 7:30 until Monday. Should I worry about her teeth being crooked from the thumb sucking? I sucked my thumb and I'm okay. What about that Thumbsucker Whisperer lady I read about? What did they say? Frick! How does he make that noise with his teeth? What if the Adolescent Boy and the Kindergartner get sick? Maybe I should make them all drink out of the same glass in the morning so that if they're going to get to sick, they all get sick this weekend. Yeah. Get it over with. I think San Clemente is, like, near Orange County. I can probably have someone else cover the 11 o'clock meeting. We're out of Tylenol. And chicken soup. I should buck the hell up and go to Costco. I hate Costco. STOP GRINDING YOUR TEETH! I need to sleep. If I fall asleep right now, I can still get two hours. Okay, fall asleep. Go! San Clemente...San Clemente...must be near Orange County.



When the Adolescent Boy or the Kindergartener stay home sick from school, it's easy peasy. Plunk them in my bed, hand them the remote, toss them a popsicle, a Gatorade and a Tylenol every hour or so and lay myself out with a good book, some Dr. Phil and some online trivia. But with the Girl? Not so much.




Here's what that was like:

Mama, my pig is jet-skiing, she won a blue ribbon and now she's jet-skiing. Mama, this is her house, and her dad is taking care of her becuase she's home sick from school and her brothers are not. And her mom is laying on the couch watching Dr. Phil.

And then, Mama, I don't feel well.

And some more barf-a-thon unpleasantness.















And this is their dog, but he has to live outside because their pig is allergic to him, so he lives outside over here. With her brothers.










And Mama? These are her sisters and they're going to bed over here, so be quiet and make sure when the Kindergartener comes home he DOESN'T TOUCH THEM OR WAKE THEM UP OR MOVE THEM OR STEAL THEM!

Mama? I don't feel well.







And then there was ten entire minutes of this.



Followed by a half hour barf-a-thon.









And Mama? Will you play dollies with me. This baby is going to sleep. She's home sick, and her brothers are not.

And she gets popsicles.















And Mama? These are your babies, and you have twins and they're home sick too, because everyone is sick, but their brothers are not.


Mama, I don't feel well.

And then there was some of this. And some of that one underneath. And some of the one underneath that one.


Followed by twenty minutes of barfing and Mama-I-don't-feel-wells.
















And then there was Goofy Mad Libs.
























And Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad Mad Libs.
























And Sooper Dooper Mad Libs.












And Cool Mad Libs.

Because that's just the way we roll.

And then there was.... Mama? I found the hot glue gun (wait...I own a hot glue gun?) and can I glue all the Pez guys back on? They're falling off and I found the hot glue gun. And Mama? Can I have a popsicle?

And then, Mama, I don't feel well and a ten minute barf-a-thon.















Followed by twenty blissful minutes of this.










And then everyone went to yoga class. Or school. Or a blogging conference. Or something. Something without their brothers because they are home sick from school and their brothers are not.

















And Mama? Grandma taught me how to make dreamcatchers out of pipecleaners. I only need 47 pipecleaners. And Grandma showed me how one day last year when I was home sick from school and my brothers were not.

And then we read the Kindergartener's favorite books and some of the Adolescent Boy's favorite books because we were home sick from school and the brothers are not.

And then the Girl read some books to the yoga class.

And then the brothers came home from school.

The End.

no cake for dave *or* hey! it's the watermelon lady!

It surprises me how often I've heard, from the other end of a tech support line, from the mechanic under the hood of my car or from my insurance agents, a conversation that sounds like this:

Expert 1: Huh...I've never seen this before. Huh. I just don't think I've ever seen anything like this happen. Hey, [insert name of more experienced colleague] come have a look at this! I've never seen anything like this before.
Expert 2: Well...huh. I don't think I've ever seen anything like this before.

or

Insurance Agent: Huh...I've never heard anything like this before. A black bear tore the door handle off your car and dented the roof? A bear? Like a bear bear? Trying to get...what? A leftover burrito?

[a month later]

Insurance Agent: A what? A watermelon? Smashed into the front of your car on the freeway? Like a watermelon watermelon?

[another month later]

Insurance Agent: Oh! Hello there! Hold on! Don't tell me yet, they never believe me, let me just put you on speakerphone. [To the office] Hey! It's the watermelon lady!

So, after I'd pressed 0 sixty-eleven times skillfully navigated the Verizon Wireless call disconnecting routing system, and sexy voice guy John logged into my VZW web syncing account, I have to admit I wasn't surprised when I heard him say, "Huh...well. I don't think I've ever.... Just give me a... while I try to figure...this...thing...out.... Well, huh."

I told sexy voice guy John to go get himself a strong cup of tequila coffee before we got started. And after spending the entire first quarter of 2008 morning on the phone...good news people! My phone and Outlook are working again.

*knock wood, jinx, kiss my elbow, turn a circle, knock wood*


Figure A. Outlook tasks down from a high of 17 gabillion thousandteen to a more realistic eighty-two.

Figure B. My calendar is back to normal(ish). I know where(ish) I'm supposed to be and when(ish) I'm supposed to be there. And everything is properly color-coded. Yellow is strategy. Lilac is Development Committee. Blue is general + miscellaneous. Teal is personal recurring. Olive is personal. Green is grants. Red is I'm a total slacker.

Figure C. Bad news for Dave, though. Yesterday, we were celebrating his birthday 24.78654683 x Pi times every November 26th. Now? Not so much. No cake for Dave.

let me walk you, step by step, through my nightmare

Outlook, the thing by which I manage my life? Is totally fucking with me. At some point yesterday, I did...um...something which changed...um...something, which in turn, spun me into an alternate dimension. At least this is the official word from the tech people who get paid good money to fix shit. Awesome.

Let me walk you, step by step, through my nightmare, because you care. Yeah, you do.

Figure A. Apparently, in my new life, I have nothing to do, ever, except celebrate birthdays. Here you see that I will be celebrating Dave's birthday a number of times on Nov. 26, 2009, 14 incidents of Dave's birthday are showing here, but it is actually listed 24 times that day and every Nov. 26 from now until the end of time. Sort of the opposite of a leap year birthday, huh?

Also of note, is the reminder screen. It says "97 Reminders" and it is reminding me of Dave's 24 birthdays (and everyone else's 24 birthdays), which are due, it tells me, in...92 weeks. From today.

In total, I received 14,564,000 birthday reminders today. You can be sure yours was one of them.

Figure B. Email Inbox with 14 copies of the same email, all received at exactly 10:41 am. And that's only the 14 copies you can see in one view. There were ten more not viewable here.

Figure C (1). My January calendar stayed normal. It's pretty, no?

Figure C (2). Then in February, apparently I wasn't very effective, because I had to do everything three times. At least for the first two weeks. But the last half of the month? Apparently, I did nothing. Nothing.

Still pretty, but less aesthetically pleasing, overall.

Figure C (3). Behold, March! I have, apparently nothing to do, ever, except every Monday. Which is cool, except that yesterday morning at about 9, March looked very much the same as January. So I'm thinking that all over San Diego, throughout the month of March, maybe even right now...people are saying, "where the hell is she?"

It's all shaping up nicely, don't you think?

in which the kindergartener breaks up with aunt smartsister

This summer, my 21-year-old cousin will be living with me and the Little People. She wrote to ask if she could stay with me this summer and take care of them while I work. (Yes, she has met the Kindergartener, and still wants to come, and so we'll call her Cousin Courageous.) At any rate, I welcomed Cousin Courageous's offer of summer babysitting, and immediately did a grateful dance, knocked wood, kissed my elbow, turned in a circle and thanked the Lord above, and said, um...yes...duh, of course you can come and live with me. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Can you be here tomorrow? No? How about next Tuesday?

But. Pierced Niece felt that she was being usurped. She was worried that I would love Cousin Courageous more than I love her. But Pierced Niece? There is a place in my heart that is the exact shape of you. No one else fits there.

Here's why (via Yahoo IM)

katydidnot: the girl's doing math, with her tongue sticking out
pierced niece: hehe
katydidnot: and the kindergartener just said to aunt *smartsister* on the phone "i'm breaking up with you" he meant "you're breaking up"
pierced niece: haha

katydidnot: i'm totally annoyed
katydidnot: with everything and everyone
katydidnot: i feel all snarky and bitchy and discombobulated
pierced niece: uh oh
katydidnot: i want to kick some ass
pierced niece: oh just one of those days
katydidnot: idk
katydidnot: bleh
pierced niece: yuck
pierced niece: sorry i'll try to be not annoying
katydidnot: good luck
katydidnot: frick outlook quadruplicated my life today
pierced niece: i think you are just aggravated
pierced niece: and are making things up
katydidnot: bleh
pierced niece: DEAL OR NO DEAL
katydidnot: NO DEAL! EVER!

*and now we're playing trivia online because we have no lives*

pierced niece: I HATE SURVIVORGURL
pierced niece: SPELL YOUR STUPID NAME RIGHT SURVIVORGIRL
katydidnot: WHY ARE WE YELLING AT ONE ANOTHER?? NOT THAT I MIND, I'VE BEEN DESPERATE TO YELL AT SOMEONE FOR HOURS AND DAYS!
pierced niece: GOOD LET'S DO THIS
katydidnot: YES LET'S YELL AND YELL, AND KICK SOME SHIT

*a lot of censored things here*

katydidnot: OK, WE'RE GIVING ME A HEADACHE
pierced niece: haha ok
pierced niece: did you look for tickets for me to fly out there yet
katydidnot: no, hi there. i'm a slacker, fuck
pierced niece: it's ok
pierced niece: i can find them if you want me too
pierced niece: you said fuck to me
katydidnot: peter piper picked a pepper, i sure did

katydidnot: the kindergartener just jumped onto the elephant chair and knocked it, and himself, over backward, and i did not yell, may i have a doughnut or something for that?
pierced niece: yes
pierced niece: you may
katydidnot: thank you, when will you be arriving with said doughnut?
pierced niece: when you order my plane tickets
katydidnot: blargh
pierced niece: gotcha

pierced niece: some guy dealed for 107,000 and had the million in the case
katydidnot: is that english?
katydidnot: idk what that means
pierced niece: oh nm
pierced niece: survivorgurl knew a question about table tennis
pierced niece: she is such a loser
pierced niece: we are like those mean girls in that movie
katydidnot: WHY AREN'T WE STILL YELLING?

*censored things about boys*

*censored censored censored*

*and here I answer a trivia question about condoms*

pierced niece: why did you know that about condoms
katydidnot: i know some things about sex
pierced niece: that's wierd
pierced niece: lalalalala
pierced niece: i'm not listening
pierced niece: i think i am getting hives
pierced niece: i know some things too
katydidnot: blargh , you do not

*censored only for boringness*

katydidnot: i'm very vampy and irriestible online
pierced niece: you are not answering my questions
katydidnot: i was not reading them

*censored, boring some more*

katydidnot: can i post this conversation as my post today? because i have nothing
pierced niece: yeah sure
pierced niece: wait, uh oh, my dad reads your blog
katydidnot: he doesn't [but he should]
pierced niece: yes he does
katydidnot: no he doesn't
pierced niece: so does my mom
katydidnot: i know your mom does
pierced niece: umm....
pierced niece: you said fuck and i said sex
katydidnot: and so?
pierced niece: and soooo
katydidnot: sooo?
katydidnot: your mom has seen me disintegrate into an actual puddle of sobbing messiness, on the very worst day of my life more than once. she pretty much knows i say fuck
pierced niece: yeah but she doesn't know i know about sex
katydidnot: even though you live with your boyfriend?
pierced niece: yes i think so

*censored*

pierced niece: goodnight
katydidnot: night
katydidnot: can i?
pierced niece: yes
katydidnot: love you, ok
pierced niece: love you too
pierced niece: bye
katydidnot: bye

to hell with the effing planet

A few days ago, as I once again tried to cajole the Little People into helping clear the table after dinner, I stumbled upon a fantastic new parenting technique, one that shows promise as being able to effectively put those Love and Logic people out of business.

As my frustration grew with their sheer inability to see the peas on the floor or the giant gallon of milk on the table, Inside-Voiced, That’s-Not-Okay-With-Me Mom was about to give way to Raving-Lunatic, Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph! If-It-Was-A-Snake-It-Would-Have-Bit-You Mom. I watched, fascinated, as they looked at the table full of dirty dishes and said “Okay, it’s done!”. I slowly shook my head and muttered under my breath, “to hell with the effing planet, paper plates from now on.”

“Noooo!” They all yelled in unison and went about clearing the table, scraping plates and loading the dishwasher, while I stood there, mouth agape, trying to figure out what had just transpired to make plates movable and peas and milk, once again, visible. And honestly? I didn’t figure it out right away, I just stood back, folded my arms in a specific way and tried blinking my eyes again. You know, like Jeannie. I thought that it had maybe, finally, worked.

Yesterday morning, at the grocery store, the Little People started their bi-weekly tirade about the injustice of living in a TV dinner-free environment, and it hit me…global warming. If, somehow, I could tie TV dinners to global warming, I might, single-handedly, quash the quest for TV dinners. And for the first time in my life, I stalled in the grocery store, meandering up and down every aisle, racking my brain for something plausible, until I could stall no longer, and we were entering frozen foods.

The Kindergartener: Can we get TV dinners?
The Girl: Yeah, can we? You said we could.
Me: No. I didn’t. No, we can’t get TV dinners.
The Kindergartener: Mama, puh-leeaaasssee-uh!
Me: No, they’re bad for the environment, they cause global warming, I think.

*crickets*

The Adolescent Boy: They do?
Me: Yeah. They're really bad. I think you can’t even buy them in Europe anymore.
The Girl: Why not?
Me: Um…well.
The Kindergartener: Why not, Mama?
Me: Because of all the packaging, all that plastic and the box? That all goes into the landfill. Think about it, all that packaging for that little bit of food.
The Girl: Yeah.

*chirping*

Me: And global warming!
The Kindergartener: Global warming?
Me: Yeah, all that plastic in the microwave. That can’t be good, can it?

The Little People, together, in hushed, reverent tones: Nooooo.

Suckahs.

stuff to do on saturday + SUNDAY

Because I'm not posting on the weekends and because the Kindergartener hasn't done anything nearly this good today, go read this. Then go do this, and let me know what you get for 47 across. Update: 47 across was junkfax. I know. Like that's even a thing.

Andohbytheway, the clues and answers are all the same on regular and master level, regular level just allows for, um...cheating. I always play Saturday and Sunday at regular level. If I'm feeling brave sometimes I'll do a Monday or Tuesday on master level.

And now, for me, it's time for Sunday! For you, it's time to go read this.