K.C.'s Momilosophies

Dear Dr. King, would you mind if I expound on your dream?

2011-10-17T19:06:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to bed with the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. running a loop in my head.

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character."

Thank goodness for Benadryl or I probably wouldn't have slept at all -- that's how sad I was. Well am, actually. Hence the reason for this post.

Let me explain . . .
Remember a few weeks ago, before anyone occupied Wall Street and the media wasn't desperately trying to ignore that The 99% (otherwise known as "their viewing audience") were pissed off and shouting "enough"? Back when the biggest news was that Chaz Bono, once a female, now a male, would be on Dancing with the Stars?

That "Family and Christian groups" were shouting for a boycott of Dancing With the Stars lest their precious babies catch "The Gay"?

Campaign:

"OH MY GAAAAAAAWD!! Don't watch Dancing with the Stars or your babies will catch THE GAAAAAAY! RUN FOR THE HILLLLLZ! Chaz Bono wants to make our baby girls into BOYZ!!!! AGHHHHH WRITE YOUR CONGRESSMAAAAN!! BOYCOTT ABC!!!"

Reality:

Need I say more?

Campaign:

"So that man was once a woman? Hmmmm, yeah, that's what I totally want to be! 'MOM! When I grow up I want to be a man! Just like Chaz! And dance with the stars!'"

Reality:

"oooooh look at the pretty lady's sparkly dress! I want that dress! 'MOM! watch me dance! Can we get me a sparkly dwess? This dancing show is boring. Can we watch Nemo?'"

You can argue all you want, but I have four kids and I can guarantee that most of the stuff on television goes right over their heads. Details-schmetails! Reality in my home: "can we watch people falling off roofs on America's Funniest Videos? That's so funny! MAWWWWWWWM? Can we watch Toy Story for the 5,678,982 time? No! NEMO! NEMO! This dancing show is sooooooo boring . . ."

"Yes, I'm a natural blue"

. . . and then we, the collective audience, moved on. Cher had spoke out and told America to shut-up about her baby (you GO Cher, tell 'em lady!). There was bigger and better news to be reported on and even bigger news to be avoided. "Boycott the Chaz and his catchy-Gay" didn't seem to work. He's dancing anyway, right? Whatever. I mean, really, who cares? I don't even watch Dancing With the Stars! Not in boycott, but because even if I wanted to: the kids wouldn't allow it. The kids are right though, that show is pretty boring.

Sure, I see bits and clips in daytime television. I know that Nancy Grace slipped a nip (Lord, help us). Chaz isn't that great of a dancer, has injured his knee, but is hanging in there. Rikki Lake is doing well. That guy from All my Children is pwning the show. Blah. Blah. Blah.

So imagine my dismay when last night a friend of mine was doing a running commentary of DWTS on his facebook page. It was rather tongue-in-cheek. He was forced to watch it (with his wife and kids) because his local affiliate wasn't showing Monday Night Football. When it came time to comment on Chaz Bono he said "watching him dance to the Rocky theme was like watching a train wreck". Without personally assuming he meant anything other than an opinion on Chaz's dancing skills, just as he was opining on everyone's dancing, I was rather ~~surprised~~ ~~shocked~~ mortified by the comments (ahem, from our fellow Christians -- mind you) he received:

"How can u stand to watch that (She-He-It) person, I don't watch that show, but I would stare too."

and . . .

"I agree. We used to watch it, but are boycotting this season. I won't let my kids see that...that...thing."

and . . .

"Chaz Bono = PATHETIC!!!"

Wait, WHA?

Naturally, I commented:

"How sad. Not the Rocky bit, but people referring to a human being as "it" and "thing". (cries) As I recall Chaz has done nothing but try to encourage understanding and tolerance in this life. Meanwhile; Nancy Grace encourages jumping to conclusions and condemning anyone and everyone in the media that she can. I'm sorry but I just don't understand this at all."

The facebook post has since been removed. I don't blame my friend, he didn't mean to start the drama. He was really just commenting on the dancing. Trust me, I confirmed. I have un-friended the commenter protecting her children from "that. . . that . . . THING".

Yet, I still feel a deep sense of hurt and dismay that I am having trouble processing.

And I just keep thinking about Dr. King dreaming about people being judged on their character. So I am going to do what I do best when I am hurt. I am going to write. . .

Introducing some of the cast of Season 13 of Dancing With the Stars. People who at one time (and oh not so long ago . . .) would have been referred to in less-than-human terms.

Mr. Ron (oh Hai haaaaandsome!) Artest.

Is that a wad of money in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Fifty short years ago, Mr. Artest would not have been seen on American television. Certainly not on a dancing show. He wouldn't have been seen in movies unless he was playing a slave, a hired hand, or if he was lucky enough to be this guy:

"Oh hai Mr. Portier! Youz handsome too!"

(Also, please remember your history. A white woman saying a black man was handsome: 50 years ago? Such a scandal would end up . . . well . . . pretty ugly for everyone involved)

Definitely NOT an "it" or a "thing". A human being. A rather good looking one too! Rawr!

"It feels like high school again. I had a really good team, and I was a much better leader. When I got in college and the NBA, I became selfish. Now, I'm back to my high school days.” -- Ron Artest

BRAVO Mr. Artest! I am sure Dr. King is smiling down from Heaven that you are being judged not on the color of your skin, but your dancing skillz -- ON TELEVISION! GASP! We've come a long way, baby! Oh wait . . .

Mr. J.R. Martinez

Definitely not an "it", or a "thing". A true American Hero. Annnnnnd a successful television actor too!

After World Wars I & II, troops returning home from the trenches with serious facial injuries were often hidden away from society. They weren't deemed fit to be seen, and society didn't want them to scare their precious children. Thank God there was decent and caring people (scientists, doctors, nuns, nurses) who desperately tried to make their lives better. To give them some sembelance of dignity:

"Within the surgical and convalescent wards, it was grimly accepted that facial disfigurement was the most traumatic of the multitude of horrific damages the war inflicted. "Always look a man straight in the face," one resolute nun told her nurses. "Remember he's watching your face to see how you're going to react."

These men relied on masks to face their own families. In fact, Mr. J.R. Martinez has a lot to thank his predecessors of war, for. It was war, and the resulting massive burns and injuries that propelled advances in skin graphs and facial reconstruction. However, there is still a need for the facial "masks" of old: as any soldier that has received such intense injuries that their bone structure is destroyed; well if they want to wear glasses and don't have a nose . . . it's only practical.

Does it matter? No! How far have we come that injury such as this is not only survivable, but acceptable; boldly displayed as proof of heroism? Do you think 20 years ago Mr. Martinez would even be considered for a regular roll on a television show? Much less a dancing show? Mr. Portier? What do you say?

"Hellz no!"

(In the interest of fairness and honesty: Mr. Portier said nothing of the sort. He's so handsome though, I couldn't resist -- rawr!)

“I’m proud of these scars, I’m proud of my journey, and I’m proud of it because it led me to be right here with you,” J. R. Martinez to Karina Smirnoff on the season premiere of DWTS.

Our medical advances can't keep up with the technology of war. Thankfully, our society and how we view AND TREAT our fellow human beings can. Oh wait . . .

Mr. Carson Kressley

"I come in peace!"

If you missed "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" when it was on television, than you truly missed out on the fabulousness that is Carson Kressley. He was the show-stealer. He took THE GAY to a whole new level. Seriously, who doesn't like Carson? He came, he sashayed: HE REDECORATED!

I also suppose that Carson (and all gay men) who are free to be open about who they are on network television: have Billy Crystal, the producers, writers and directors of a little sitcom called SOAP, to thank. SOAP was the first show to have an openly-gay character. They knew they were pushing boundaries, so they had a straight man play a gay man. Billy Crystal, playing a gay man still had more masculinity in his little finger than these two had -- straight men, playing straight men -- combined, in Top Gun.

Can I get a witness?

Homosexual acceptability in media: a time line. . .

Late 1970's

Not gay, but plays gay on television.

Late 70's/Early 80's

Gay. And that's OK. Boy can SING!

Mid 80's

NOT GAY? You sure?

1990's

A WOMAN? With THE GAY? Uh uh, oh hellz no, off the air you go! AND that goes for you too, Melissa Ethridge and KD Lang.

2000's

Carson! You are off the chart, bro! But dang if you aren't entertaining! And you dahling, are not an "it" or a "thing" either -- but a human being, and a flashy and stylish one at that!

Today

"ZOMG did you see that last episode of Glee? Will they just kiss already??? Oh and Ellen? We were just joshin'! We lurve you!"

Le Sigh.

I can't help but wonder where Focus on the Family was when Carson Kressley was announced as a contestant on DWTS?

chirp, chirp, chirp

But what about when Carson said he wanted a male dance partner? What about your babies catching THE GAY???

Hmmm what? I'm just over here whistling a tune. Who's Carson?

"I am not much about rules, I like to break 'em and don't like to make 'em." -- Carson Kressley

Which leads us to the cause of all this unrest:

Mr. Chaz Bono

Hmmmmm, doesn't seem to be an "it" or a "that . . . thing". In fact, he looks rather human to me.

I've done a lot of thinking about Chaz today. Despite my anger/sadness at how easily he is dismissed as something less-than-human; an "it", a "that . . . thing" (much like Ron, J.R. and even Carson would have been referred to as -- not even 100 years ago) I have recognized that he is the first transgendered person to come on television as openly "transgendered". Wow, that takes balls (no pun intended). Yet. YET! He has consistently down-played the transgender business and just talked about dancing. Am I not paying attention? Or maybe, and quite probably: it's just me . . .

I know quite a few transgendered, transsexual, and gender-confused/undetermined/struggled-with: human beings. I'm not talking in a vanilla "I have a black friend, I'm not a racist!" kind-of-way. I'm talking in a "oh wow, I didn't realize that people consider my friends as it's/thing's" kind-of-way. Friends that have blessed me with a kind of understanding most people may not have. I get that. I understand.

Chaz Bono is blessed in that he has/had loving, supportive parents. A mommy that wants a more accepting world and can actually influence that with her celebrity. A daddy, whom if he were alive: would have been front and center at the DWTS stage supporting his CHILD. Just like he did his entire life -- back when we called Chaz a "she". Kudos to both Sonny and Cher. Kudos to Chaz.

In reality, most people I know that are transgendered/transsexual or downright gender-confused don't have supportive parents. Most (not all, but most) of them have been rejected. Abused. Beaten-down. Ignored.

DISOWNED.

Their oldest friends have backed out of their lives because a sex-change, or even confusion over sexual-identity is "just too much to deal with".

I have lost friends that were lost to their own sexual identity to drugs, over-dose, and suicide. I feel blessed I haven't lost one to murder. It happens all too often.

I have a friend whom, despite their own identity struggles, have taken in people struggling with the same problem. Rejected by their families, without a friend in the world. My friend gave them a place to live and tried to help. One of the people he helped committed suicide in his home. He has to live with this suicide, when this girl's own family wouldn't deal with her alive. There's that, and the fact he desperately wants to be a woman, and yet be a proper father to his son. I cannot even begin to imagine his struggles.

So yes, Chaz is lucky. Quite lucky. He has a mom who is fiercely protective and supportive. That's quite rare in the lives of "trannies".

But times are a'changin'. Hopefully for the continuous-better. For any person that has not felt comfortable in their own "sex". For any person who hasn't felt comfortable that somebody they love cannot live in the gender they were born with. Here's to less-suicide. Here's to more acceptance and understanding.

Here's to not referring to human beings in subjective terms, no matter what you can accept or what you simply can not. They're all "human beings"and "precious life" in-utero, right?

Here's to Dr. King, who spoke about "being judged on content of character, rather than . . ."

And most of all, here's to the words spoken some two-thousand years ago. Words that probably inspired Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. as he wrote his "I Have a Dream" speech. . .

THE EIGHT BEATITUDES OF JESUS

"Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they who mourn,
for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,
for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness,
for they shall be satisfied.

Blessed are the merciful,
for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure of heart,
for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they shall be called children of God.

Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

What happens when my text messages go to random strangers . . .

2011-09-07T15:28:00.000-07:00

If you know me, then you know I start conversations, text messages, and facebook posts with wildly inappropriate content. It's not as bad as it first appears: it's simply meant to get your attention. Once I have it, then I'll segue into what I am actually trying to say. I mean you could be selling a house, having a breast exam, or writing a doctrinal thesis -- annnnnd if I open with "I haven't had an O in months" -- I'm pretty sure I'll have your undivided attention.

Pity the poor fool who gets one of these openers by mistake. . . below is an actual text conversation I had today with some random kid who now has one of my oldest and dearest friend's old cell number. All I meant to do is discuss the fact that we have had family visiting since July, and I think Ian and I's lack of "alone time" is affecting my dreams. Dreams with back-story-content that has nothing to do with sex, but seriously, only my friend has a broad knowledge of. Plus, I make my friend Chad analyze my dreams all the time. It's like, his "friend-job" or something. I wont bore you. Just Chad. Anyway . . . let the texting fun commence!

*My side of the conversation in green, his in black, exactly as it looks on my iPhone.*

I haven't had an O in months.

Who is this

LOL are u serious?

Idk who this is

One of your oldest friends and I am not saved in your phone? You're a dick.

Who is this

Oh this could be fun . . .

Hint:

Married. No O for months.

If this is a dude im not gay. U might have the wrong numbet.

Not a dude.

Do u kno who this is?

Chad.

Wrong number. Quit hittin me up!

Lmao. I'm not hitting you up! I just texted one of my oldest BFF's with some seriously awesome random. You are saying I have the wrong number?

This shit just made my day! Lmao!

Yes i am not Chad. Send me a pic

You must be young. Instant gratification is my clue. You send me a pic!

Hell no. Cuz im smart and kno ur prolly a gay guy

If you were smart you would know how to spell "know". But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and just guess you are young.

Bitch i dont waste letters.

Although gay guys do like the Chad. He attracts them like crazy -- even though he isn't gay either.

Send me a pic

Here's a pic. It's a squirrel. That was electrocuted. I'd like to feel bad about it, but it blew out the power to my house, so meh.

Ur a sick fuck

It's been said before.

U won't prove to me a ur a women. Where do u live?

I'm going to make you google. Google is your friend. You'll have a general idea of my whereabouts. However; I don't know if that'll help as technically I think the women vs. men ratio is about 50/50. In most states. Except Alaska.

U from cali?

See! Google IS your friend!

Give the non-gay man a Teddy Bear! Ding ding ding!

I didnt use google

Yahoo?

Wait! Bing right? Bing is a totally straight search engine. Fer sur.

(with an orientation-questionable name)

Why the fuck r u talkin to mw

Just to see where the day takes us . . . I mean here we are: total strangers! Annnnnnnnd you can't decide if I am a gay man or quite possibly a hawt California gurl.

Yeh cuz ur fuckin wit me like some creep

Hey now! You didn't say what you wanted a picture of!

OK how about a full body shit wit u face. Since ur a hawt cali girl.

A whole body shit? Dood, srsly. No can do.

Jus send a pic of ur body and face

A whole body shot? With my face? I am guessing photo-shopping my face onto the squirrel body won't work?

Hell no. Fuckin creep

That'd be kinda cool though huh? I could use it as my facebook avatar!

*a few minutes pass*

Seriously though: does it matter what I look like now that I have creep'd ya? Furthermore: you obviously have my number. You could just call the phone and see if a woman answers. Not to be all Captain Obvious on ya, but DUH.

Call.

*I don't. A few more minutes pass and my phone rings. It says "Chad" but I know it's not . . . needless to say I am soon talking to some punk kid. He's asking my age, I ignore him. I ask how long he has had the number and he says 3 weeks. I tell him my phone is dying, gotta go, bye-bye.*

Now see? I told you I am a woman.

U dont sound hot.

Certainly not as hot as the squirrel was when the google-jolts of electricity hit him, that's fer sur.

Wut the hell does that even mean

Nvrmnd. At the end of the day: aren't you glad you aren't Chad? (OH! and for FYI: he might have changed his number due to girl-drama. What if it's some crazy woman is stalking him? This phone number should be lots of fun for you! Ta!)

Does ur husband kno ur a stalker.

Lmao. Not me, silly, other girls. Chad has rather questionable taste in women, just sayin'. Helllloooo I'm his best friend in the whole world including outer space. That should give ya a hint.

So no one will give u an orgasm?

Oh yeah, the orgasm thing was a lead-in to a joke someone of Chad's intelligence level (not to mention questionable taste in women) would get. I couldn't even begin to explain it to a youngin' who doesn't waste letters.

Hahahahahaha u could jus say inside joke.

I could -- but I waste letters like crazy, bitch.

I canaee

Can see*

I do find it adorable that you think I care whether or not you would find me attractive. That's just too cute! You're in high school huh?

Nope.

Oh noes!

Did you graduate high school?

Im in college

Hmmmmm, do college professors no longer care about sentences and proper spelling?

Not when its in a txt. Sounds more like ur the dumb one. I passed gen ed english with an A freshman and soph yr.

OBVIOUSLY!

10% now luv, got to go! It's been real fun!

Mi gatos, mi familia . . . (and no, this post is not written en espanol)

2011-08-22T08:02:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a cat move out? Just up and leave home one day without nary a tail switch in your direction? It's as if the cat is thinking "it's been nice knowing you, but I found a nicer home with a better view, so, yeah -- see ya".

It happened to us recently.

This is Mortimer Jones. He moved out. And here I thought we were doing so well! He is totally the most lovable, cuddle-cat in the world. He'd much rather sleep on a human than a couch. Who knows: maybe he was angry that we were forcing he and his brother to spend time outdoors?

The crazy thing is: he wants to move back.

Why is that crazy? Because his mother, Eden's cat "Misty" is PSYCHOTIC.

"Just go to sleep friends. . . just go to sleep."

We also have Mort's brother "Ginger" in residence. I didn't want three cats. We tried to give Ginger to our friend Nikki, but he caught on and decided that Nikki should have shredded patches of flesh were her hands used to be rather than go home with her. Or anyone, for that matter. So Ginger decided he liked our view just fine, and he's still here.

All the humans here love, love, love Mort. We're happy to see him. We welcome him back with open arms and warm laps. The other cats, Mort's brother and mother mind you, yeah: not so much. He's like the derelict son who wants to come back but his family just ain't having it. I suspect if animals had cops, my little cat family would be on FOX come Saturday.

Misty would be hysterical. Ginger would be under arrest for domestic violence. Mort would be crying about how he just wants to come home and he doesn't understand why everyone is SOOOOO MEAN to him.

"When will this episode be broadcast? I need to update my facebook status."

Oh and me? My face would be blurred out because I have made it my life's goal to never, ever end up on FOX, again.

Dopplegangers

2011-06-28T11:15:00.000-07:00

Ever since moving to America's toothbrush I have noticed a disproportionate amount of Dopplegangers when I go out. Dopplegangers of the people I know and love from back home. While the official definition of a Doppleganger is someone's evil twin, I am using the word to express how many random strangers look like people I know. People who may have never stepped into this state in their entire lives.

I could rationally deduce this to my subconscious trying to comfort me by making me think that random strangers in *The Walmart* really do look like some of my besties back home. Or even people I hardly knew back home. Like people who worked at our local panederia. Which blows my theory completely out of the water. Why would I waste precious brain energy thinking "don't I know you from somewhere? Oh yeah! You make some excellent cookies and tamales!"? Nope that's not it.

I'm sure it's just a coincidence.

Yesterday I somehow ended up on one of those funny Craigslist entries. You know the ones? That make you feel sorry for humanity . . . or laughingly wonder why someone would waste hours of their life instructing others on gym etiquette. Or that just make you laugh and feel grateful for people that come up with random hilarious shit to post on the internet.

Well one thing led to another (we are talking Craigslist ads here) and then I realized that while I am out recognizing people I don't know -- I may just be my own Doppleganger in the great state of Oklahoma. What if the real me is back home having a grand time? Cooking for her friends, sewing, painting, thrift-store shopping, dancing, enjoying the ocean because she can? THAT girl, the real ME, isn't here. So where else could she be?

She needs to get her ass on the next plane and join me in enjoying all that this state has to offer! Make some new friends and find new places. The me that currently lives here is really, really: BORING.

I haven't cooked fish tacos in over a year.

And that sucks.

Totally unlike the vacuums being offered for free on craigslist.

I'm like that lady . . . you know the one . . .

2011-04-05T08:59:00.000-07:00

from the 1-800-DENTIST commercials? She's all sarcastic and cynical about going to the dentist? Yeah that's me. I'm not afraid of the dentist. I'm not afraid of pain. I'll take pain, put it in a half-Nelson and crack it's ribs before I succumb! I'm afraid of the dental hygienist.

I hate to be nagged.

Things have changed at dentist offices nation-wide since I was a kid.

When I was little, I would go to the dentist and he would suggest, as he always did, that I have to floss more! Three times a day! "Put floss in your back-pack and floss after lunch". C'mon, get real! The only people flossing after lunch at school were put in half-Nelsons and getting their ribs-cracked daily. Its hard enough to establish yourself in adolescent society's pecking-order. NOBODY is adding public-flossing to the routine.

So he would nag, and I would agree and he would know I (and every other kid that came in to have their Sugar-Daddy cavities filled) was full of crap -- because kids have way more important things to do than floss! Like negotiate later bedtimes in order to watch the full hour of Dukes of Hazard. Or A-Team. Because there was no TiVo or DVR's. So we left the dentist with false promises of better dental care, and that was that. See ya in six months!

Blame it on the DVR, or dentists just tired of nagging only to be lied too -- but I think they have purposely set it up to make the hygienists nag. And nag HARD. To dig their perfectly flossed, clean and whitened teeth into the skin of their patients and shake their heads like a dog until the patient is crying and begging them to stop. "OK OK I'll floss! Even in public! Let me go!"

Then the dentist comes in like your savior, your buddy, pats you on the head and is all like "there, there it's ok. I'll take care of you! We'll get this taken care of. Now I am going to go take a look at your X-Rays and we'll get a treatment plan started with [insert generic hygienist name here]. We'll have you good as new in no time!"

As you sob "DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE WITH HER! PLEASE!"

Does he say anything about flossing? Nope.

And you are once again alone with threats of tooth decay and gum disease and dentures from this mouth:

Seriously though, last time I went, the hygenist not only nagged me about my teeth -- but my children as well. To the point of telling me I needed to wake Shane up ten minutes early to insure he flosses. So I point out she doesn't have four children, and if I woke him up ten minutes early, he would just find ten-minutes worth of screwing-around to do that did not involve dental floss. Or if it did, it would be to play with a cat, not used on his teeth.

Then she yelled at me: about not getting my cavities filled. Which is seriously the most uncomfortable place I have been with a stranger. Because I don't feel the need to explain that a military family on one income with crappy insurance can only afford so many fillings -- and that the kids come first. That the California economy made it impossible to save for my own dental care. That I was paying off a home-birth. Because that's my business, and I don't like being put on the spot, nor berated because I don't make $3,456,789 a year as a dental hygienist.

That was three years ago.

And I haven't been back.

Alas, it cannot wait. The pain is intense, even if it's in a half-Nelson. Top and bottom molars. I'm going to need a root-canal (or three)-- I know it.

I DO floss. When Shane hasn't used all the floss to play with the cats. So do the kids! When Pippi hasn't taken all the little kid flossers and mixed them with water and all my cinnamon that she stole from the spice cabinet. Just sayin'.

Do you think it would be rude to wear ear buds? Blast the iPod to the tune of "LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"?

(Note: I am writing this blog in an attempt to put-off calling the dentist)

Just some random nonsense . . .

2010-10-18T10:09:00.000-07:00

Happy Monday everyone! Hope this week finds you as chipper and annoyingly happy as I feel. I am finding just about everything amusing at this point, so bear with me . . .

Slim Jims, ciggs and Serotonin Inhibitors. Bring it Monday! I am ready, biyatch!

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Yesterday ~~the world's biggest drama queen~~ Eden accused her little brother Shane of being "mom's favorite". Oh Eden, you silly girl, obviously my favorite is subject to change.

Qualifications to be my favorite child:

1) You get up when I wake you up.

2) You get dressed without me nagging you.

3) Your hair and teeth are brushed, and damnit, the cap better be back on the toothpaste!

4) You not only have a pair of socks on, but you know where a matching pair of shoes are and have them on: the correct feet.

5) You have located your backpack, your homework, your library books, and everything is all together and strapped to your small little back.

All by 7:45AM on school day. You can be my favorite on the weekend if you just clean your room. Double-fav if you clean my kitchen. If you happen to know where the wipes are, I'll give you a cookie!

Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. See? Oh and by the way -- they are all my favorites today. Especially Pippi, who is going on her very first Field Trip! She was so excited she was up and rearing to go by 7:15. She even had on a pair of matching shoes -- on the correct feet. It's the little things . . .

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I haven't lifted a finger higher than my iMac's keyboard all weekend. Which of course means I have 5,912 loads of laundry to wash and 6-gazillion dishes to do. But writing (and killing Hoarde) is so much more fun! "What's that dishes? You want to be washed? HOLD ON! I think I'm being clever! And then Ima gunna kill things because Jason Torres turned me into some dorky gamer chick!"

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I filed my taxes on Friday. I know right? Finally! Thanks to the help my friend Nikki provided me on Thursday. She totes did the Obama-first-time-home-buyers-credit-now-open-to-multiple-home-buyers-credit-thanks-for-the-free-money-dood! For some reason I have shrunk-away from that damn tax paper all year. I think it was fear of the "unknown". Which is kinda dumb, because it was $8000 hanging from the fingers of the IRS: "all you have to do is fill out this one little paper and prove you bought a house". The 1040 I can handle. I have conquered the 1040, the additional child tax credit, earned income credit and even capital gains tax! That one scared me though. So I pretty much tossed it at Nikki and said "pleeeeeease do this for me! I can't handle iiiiiiiiit!". Kinda like I do to Ian when Dash has a poopy-diaper. When he complains and tries to put his foot down and make me change him -- all I have to do is say: "FINE. Then you do the taxes! Go on, I DARE you!".

Ian: "where's the wipes?".

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Had a touch of facebook drama over the weekend. It was simultaneously funny and irritating. I did get to use the term "shut your pie hole" -- a personal favorite. I also had this dropped on my page as a result:

"Howdy! Thanks for the add-- your Title Belt with the blinged out "CHAMP" on the buckle is in the mail!"

Ding, ding, ding!
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Speaking of my gift of procrastination . . . I have to make a dentist appointment today. And an OB/GYN appointment. I can't decide which one to dread more. Both involve sharp instruments in sensitive orifices. Neither one is something to look forward to. It really makes me feel foolish for putting-off a free $8000 from President Obama, if you catch my drift?
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So this morning I was watching Ellen, well because I like her AND Russell Brand was on. Anyway, the chick from the workout series "The S Factor" was on. What does the "S" stand for anyway? Sex? Stripper? Slut? WHAT?

OK well I start doing the warm-up moves along with what's-her-face and Ellen. I must have been bustin' some proper moves because my kitten Mort was all rubbing against me and purring. I kept waiting for a big burly guy to jump out and yell at Mort to not "touch the lady!" but it never happened. I decided I should stop all inappropriate gyrations when he took his little kitten paw and tried to shove a dollar bill into the waist of my work-out pants though. Because that is just wrong. So no stripper pole in my house anytime soon.
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And on a final note (I know! Shut up already!) I have to give a big whopping shout-out to SafeAuto Insurance for terrifying my once innocent of all things scary about clowns: 2 year old. . .

"Mommy! Why is that clown mad at me? Why is he going to come kill me? Why is he going to try an' hurt me? Mommy! MOMMMMY! He's scary! He's mad! He gonna kill me!"

"He's not mad at you Dash, he won't hurt you. He's just pretending to be mad."

"Mommy why is that CLOWN so MAD at the world? He s-s-s-CARY!"

On that, if you have ever wondered why clowns scare the crap out of us . . . even without being on billboards for auto insurance . . . check out my friend Tim Weinberg's book: Phobias, the Way of the Worrier.

Tim is a bona fied wuss when it comes to clowns. Word. He'll probably need a drink just looking at the picture I posted. It'll make him feel a lot better if you buy his book though . . . just sayin'.

Gather around and let me tell you a story . . .

2010-10-16T17:30:00.000-07:00

a very special story.

No, I am just kidding . . . it's not special. Well, maybe to Blakey and I: it's special. I guess he gets my Friday shout-out. I hope I can make the rest of you giggle, at the least.

It's no big news-flash that I am a p-rock kid of the 80's -- morphing into the p-rock mommy of the 21st century you know today.

Like all cool kids in the 80's: I went to rehab. I wasn't even addicted to drugs! That point is moot, because I was still there.

So anyway, somehow, in our inter-twined-rehab-related world I became friends with Blake.

Blake maintained his own Blaki-ness by being some kind of "punk-rock-hippy-upper-class-from-New York-living-in-Santa Monica-just-wants-to-get-through-teen-years-without-arrest-but-with-as-much-entertainment-as-possible-and-still-a-huge-football-fan-GO!-JETS!"

Why were we friends?

I had a dirty little secret.

One that most of my friends could not even comprehend.

Nor understand.

I was shit-balls crazy for the Denver Broncos.

and I LOVED football.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

I KNOW! RIGHHHHHHT?

Truth be known: I used to go to Raider games with my mom and her friends just to root against the Raiders. All uber-Gothed out. Big black hat, white makeup, 50-gallons of sunscreen and a whole bunch of scarey. Maybe Raiders fans thought I was on their "team" -- being in all black. Not the ones around me though. I sure loved my John Elway. Oh and it chaffs my hide that my cousin Brian thought it was a crush -- because God Forbid a girl likes the way a man plays a game! Without being attracted to him? I wasn't. I just thought he was: The. Shit. I am sure anyone from Denver would agree. Yes, I cried when they FINALLY won the Super Bowl.

(Yes Brian, I seriously only liked his game -- so your Mr. Ed jokes did not hurt. You know what made me love you forever and ever though? The year you bought me his Tide Turner trading card for Christmas. Word. Oh and the Niners suck. Word. )

Love you maaaaan!

But Blakey got it. Blakey got a lot about me. We worked well together. But we never dated. Nor kissed. Ewwwwwww.

One day the hippy in Blake heard that The Dead were playing a free concert in San Francisco's Golden Gate Park. We were 16 or 17 years old. I had a car, but we didn't have the "capital"to get there. I wouldn't have paid to go to a Dead concert anyway. However, I would have done anything to push the limits of my existence back then.

How so?

Hitch hike.

And we did.

I wore black jeans. Blake wore something typically hippyish and his damned leather hat. That he wore everywhere. Not like a gay S&M leather hat. No, his was like an Indiana Jones brown leather hat. I tucked my trusty "super stabber screwdriver" into my Doc Martins. Since we were never one to miss a detail (like yardage gained in a turn-over) we planned out seating arrangements and how I would most effectively kill any serial killer/rapist who picked us up. By stabbing them in the throat. With my super-stabby.

Outside of the glam-girls from Fresno who took the wrong freeway for our purposes and left me a freaking-out heap on a farm road somewhere North of the Grapevine, the scariest of our entire encounters on the trip up was a college kid who drove his parents mini-van to San Diego for an Oingo Boingo concert. Who only had Oingo Boingo tapes in his car. I wasn't raped, Blakey wasn't murdered. However, I have not listened to Oingo Boingo. Again. Ever. Since.

Yep, I'll throw a party when your MUSIC is dead!

I still want to punch Blakey when I think about my near hysterics on that farm road and how we were going to DIE out there with no ride, ever . . . and he was all trying to blow sunshine up my butt telling me not to stress.

From Los Angeles to San Francis---kay we never made it into the city. Why? Because when we arrived we learned the Dead concert was over. From the hippies at the BART station Oingo Boingo boy dropped us at.

Shit.

What now?

I called my dad.

Who lives in the Bay Area.

He fed us.

He then set up the bed in his guest room and ushered both of our road-weary-hitch-hiking-Oingo-Boingoe'd-out-for-a-lifetime-asses in there together.

We tried to protest!

Both of us!

"We're not dating! DAAAAAD, no really!!" Because I can tell you that nothing has ever grossed me out than the thought of my dad saying I could get on with the nasty. Under his roof. When he was home. Ick. I need a shower just writing that.

Blakey though, he was thinking clearly because he pointed out neither of us wanted to sleep on a floor or a couch. So I twitchingly shared said guest-bed with Blakey, uber grossed out by my father.

The next day we decided we had nothing to do in Northern California, so back to L.A. we went.

And Blakey took a turn of freaking-out and sobbing on a freeway on-ramp. Where we surely were going to DIE! Because we will never get a ride! So I payed him back by blowing sunshine up his butt in the same exact tone and words he used the day before. I don't think I have ever seen Blakey so close to violence that didn't involve a Jets game. Super-stabby might get used after all!

Just as we were about to cause major physical violence on each other's persons: a cool guy with an old Jeep picked us up. He took us all the way home to Santa Monica. To Blakey's front door. Again it was dark. Again we were exhausted. Blakey's mom fed us. We went upstairs. I placed my super-stabby-screwdriver on Blakey's nightstand and promptly fell asleep. Right next to Blakey. In his mom's house.

And I slept well. Because I can sleep right through double-standards. That and Voodoo Glow Skull shows. On their stage.

Who sleeps through this? Me. See bored-looking girl in background? Not me. I was never "bored" at a VGS show. Sorry guys, I totes love you. I was just tired. If it helps, Jonny VerPlank just bitched me out about that sleeping-on-your-stage incident.

The next day we shut off the ringer and watched football. All day. Because it was Sunday.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

(Note: I am writing this 9 days before Blakey and I are going to our first live football game: together! NY Giants at Dallas Cowboys. In Dallas! We don't care about either team, but it's going to be all-kinds of awesome. Oh and his poor wife, the stories she is going to have to endure! Lulz.)

Is your child being bullied? Here's what you can do.

2010-10-05T12:17:00.000-07:00

This post is in response to Single Dad Laughing's heartfelt post about bullies.

My Shane is a very sweet guy. An imaginative and playful kid. Even though he's growing older he has no qualms about hugging and kissing his mom hello or goodbye. Every morning when I drop him off at school he reminds me to "have a good day mom!". He still cuddles. At nine years old he is still in size 7 clothing. He hasn't even passed the 50lb mark yet. So you can imagine how tiny he was in first grade.

Shane started first grade in a new town. It took approximately 3 weeks for the bullying to begin. Oh I had been to parent-principal meetings -- and those were all about the schools test scores, funding, and money, money, money. None of the parents were told that the school didn't have enough yard-monitors. Or that teachers were not obligated to watch children during recess. Or that if bullying happened to your child -- tough shit.

But they hadn't met me yet.

My son came home with bruises one Friday. A third grader was calling him "gringo fag", "sissy" -- you name it -- while beating him up on the playground. I went directly to the principal and reported it.

On Monday he had a knot on his head, from being punched by more 3rd and 2nd graders, including the original bully. I went to the principal's office and reported it -- and demanded something be done -- although the principal was at a "testing and budget meeting". I was so furious I had to fight back tears. I demanded to know WHY this kept happening. I was told there just wasn't enough yard staff.

That day I taught my son how to grab a punch and side-step while pulling. We taught self-defense in the backyard. We had a sit down with the kids, where I informed my then-fourth grade child it was now her job to keep an eye on him.

Tuesday my Shane had scratches on his legs and grass stains on his clothes from being thrown down. My daughter was livid that she and her friends had stepped in, surrounded Shane to protect him, took him to the yard-monitor, and she did NOTHING about it. Back to the office I went. Hmmmm, curious, the principal was still "in meetings".

Wednesday, while I was home calling the office repeatedly, my daughter once again came to Shane's rescue. This time she and her friends got into physical altercations with the bullies. Still nobody did a thing. FINALLY the principal called and informed me that the boys were being punished; and that she had a "solution". When I picked the kids up, Shane informed me that he had to take a "buddy" with him everywhere he went. Great! Two first graders against a gang of vicious second and third graders? What a solution! Why didn't I think of that? Feel the sarcasm folks. In my next call I put my foot down and explained I found her response, and the schools response: to be highly inadequate. She blew me off.

Thursday, I reached out to my community of fellow mothers and my church. Between attempts to get him in a prestigious Charter School, and conversations with the Catholic School about scholarships -- I knew change would be needed soon. I picked Shane up from school. He was crying. He had bitten through his tongue while being punched in the back by the original bully: in the bathroom. Where his "buddy" was hiding so as to not be beat either. I once more walked into the office to show the principal how well her "solution" had fared for my son. She was too busy to see me. Oh really?

Instead of driving home I went straight to the local police station. I informed them that I would be filing a police report against the school and the principal. They called the police officer assigned to that school and he actually tried to talk me out of it. Suggesting I wait until "next time" my son was hurt. I laughed in the face of that suggestion. I made him document ALL the bruises, cuts, scratches and bite marks on my son's body. I wondered how long it would be before the principal would find out?

I went to the school district office and filed a complaint there too.

Later that evening I shed a small tear of pride when I asked my son what he did as the bully taunted him and called him a baby who needs a body guard: "I punched him in the peeper! He dropped.". There ya go. I promised I would move heaven and earth to get him out of that school.

I went back to the Catholic School (begging in tears) and was so relieved that they had found space for my kids and the funding to keep them there.

The next morning as I dropped my kids off at school, the principal was outside. Funny how having a personal police report will get someone to acknowledge the parents of a bullied-child. She angrily rapped on my passenger window. When I lowered it she began to shout at me, suggesting that since there is no problem with anyone else: this is Shane's fault. I started to laugh in her face. "Are you blaming my son, a six year old??". It was then that I informed her that this day would be my child's last day in this school, and that if he has just one more mark on him, I will file another police report.

I picked him up without incidence that day. On Monday he started in a new school. He was never again bullied, and had not one behavioral issue. He's again in a new school (being a Navy family, we do move every three years) and has not had any problems.

So here's a quick check-list of things you can --and should-- do if your child is being bullied.

Document EVERYTHING. Get a notebook binder, a composition book, whatever is handy and write down dates and times, and names of bullying incidents. People you have spoken to. What those conversations entailed. Every attempted or completed phone call. Take photos of your child's injuries, and hold a newspaper up next to the injury showing the date. EVERYTHING. You don't have to be emotional, keep it just to the facts.
Reach out for help. Community. Other mothers and fathers. Private schools. Charter schools. The school district. Ask for advice and alternatives.
Demand action. From the very first incident, demand ACTION. Go straight to the principal. Sometimes older children wont say anything because they don't want to be viewed as a "narc". But you'll know when they are down-and-out, and it's our job to boost them back up -- not the school's.
Teach them how to fight back and that they should fight back -- or at the very least: defend themselves physically (unless you are diabolically opposed of course). However, please remember: bullies get the high out of hurting children who can get hurt, who don't fight back. If your child fights back, other bullies will take notice and will leave them alone.
When all is said and done, if your child is still being bullied and you feel you have no recourse: remember the police. You can and should file a police report if the people responsible for your child those 7 hours a day while at school do NOTHING to protect them. If that doesn't help, go to the press.

If I can help just one parent out there to protect their child from bullies, I feel it's all been worth-while. And again, thanks to Single Dad Laughing for bringing the spotlight to this sad, but existent, fact of life.

Shiny.

2010-10-05T10:17:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile. A lot has happened. The good news seems to be that my stalker found some other shiny thing to distract her. Or maybe not. *shrug* I don't care.

A lot has happened. My grandma died on August 31st. My grandma whom I was close to my whole life. I can't fathom not being able to pick up the phone to talk to her. She's gone. I simply can't believe it. I can't delete her name and number from my contacts on my phone. I'm not ready to.

The funeral home made her look really nice. Really like her normal self. My cousin Brad made a DVD of pictures of her throughout her life. He played it at the funeral. I held her lifeless hand for a long time and was overcome with the memories those hands brought. Her hands were always cold, so it didn't feel that different after a while. I closed my eyes. I cried. I realized that I probably held that woman's hand more than anyone else in my life. When I was little she held my hand to guide me safely across a street. When I was older it was I who held her hand and safely guided her on her painful, painful feet.

My cousin Cindy sang Amazing Grace at the funeral. It was beautiful. It was difficult.

My cousin Brian handled everything, including her dying in his home. I don't have enough words in my vocabulary to thank him for that.

My eldest came to California with me, as she and "Mimi" were quite tight. Poor Edes, it was tough for her to say goodbye. Really tough.

The family is moving on. Without Mimi. The difference in family dynamics with her gone is perceptible. Curious.

I was able to visit with my good friend Lo, and my sister Dee in California. The laughter they provided was beautiful and timely.

But this isn't all about Mimi. A lot is changing in my life too. Hopefully I can share it with you. Maybe I can, maybe I can't. Introspection is the name of the game.

I need a better schedule.

I absolutely LOVE mornings where I can get everyone out of the house with no shouting and everyone knows where their shoes are. Today is a good day.

Ian and I debate a move back to Washington. I sure would love to be back with all the things I love: Shalomey-my-homey and rain forests and fishing and Orcas and Indian Bingo.

In the meantime I am still the woman who showers while her two year old throws toothpicks at her. The same woman who mortifies her older children by wearing a fake mustache in public. The same woman who holds their hands and guides them safely across parking lots.

And my Grandma is gone.

What the heck St. Paul? What is UP with these Christians nowadays?

2010-07-23T12:18:00.000-07:00

I'm actually writing a religious post on my blog (as the Catholic followers are like "it's about darn time! Let us sink our teeth into this one NOM NOM NOM"). Which makes sense since the blog is about being a Catholic, tattooed mom-to-many.

From peen-cake to St. Paul: that's the way I roll.

I spend a lot of time at Yahoo!Answers, Religion & Spirituality (warning: highly addictive and subject to piss you the hell-off) section. I've been a member for years now. Between consistently defending my faith, and enjoying many an avatar game with fellow Catholics, pagans and atheists . . . I do a lot of arguing with Protestant Christians. Not the mainstream Protestants (such as Baptist or Methodist or Lutheran) but the off-shoots of off-shoots whose churches might be prosperity gospel, or whatever. Just whatever. I've learned a lot, I've argued a lot, and mostly I have laughed a lot. Either way, this is me and how I like to spend my time. It's just another way I roll.

So what's my point? Oh yeah: St. Paul. I have an open letter for St. Paul, and I hope you all enjoy it. Or get pissed off. Or point out how I might be wrong. It's all good. . .weigh in.

Dear St. Paul,

Dude, I have some issues with you. OK, OK, not YOU per se', but the you that some Christians seem to think ranks higher than Jesus Christ himself. The you whom some believe has personally handed them the license to be GOD in order to judge and condemn other humans. Have you heard of them? The ones sending others to an eternity in a burning lake of fire with their words? You probably have. You're probably up there in Heaven face-palming right now.

St. Paul, do you know that in response to the aforementioned Christians, there is an off-shoot of Jesusonian Christians, yet another cult, who reject everything you taught? You've been down-graded from "Inspired Word of God" to "full of crap-olla". They reject your letters. They adhere only to Scripture that contains Jesus' life on Earth. What next? A Bible that only has direct quotes from Jesus?

Christianity is a hot mess right now!

I know that 2000 years ago you were trying to tell the Romans to quit making eunuchs out of young boys and using them as personal sex slaves. I know that you were saying "hey buddy, you want to eat some of that tasty bacon and be a Christian? By all means! Go for it! Lobster? NOM NOM NOM" (personally, I love steamed clams in wine and herbs -- so thanks for that). I also know that you were very much trying to drive home the point that mutilating the penis is unnecessary to being a Christian. Many a man thanks you, dude (that's not disrespectful right?). Anyway, look I gotta give you props -- you spread Christianity quicker and wider than anyone. The Christian world owes you for that. Your letters ARE divinely inspired, and I do consider them the Word of God, and an important part of Sacred Scripture. Now that we have cleared that up. . .

What are we going to do with these Christians that use your words to judge and condemn others St. Paul?

I have to confess something to you. I actually went through a phase of not liking you so much. I was angry at you for the Letters you wrote 2000 years ago. I even blamed you a little bit for that condemning statement most often used against homosexuals "hate the sin, love the sinner" because people usually follow that up with your Scripture -- and that's not really your fault. You can almost hear the "I really don't 'love' you, it just sounds good and Christian-like" in the sarcastic tone in which it's delivered. That drives me NUTS St. Paul, and I suspect it might drive you nuts too! I can just picture you up there saying "Oi VAY! That's NOT what I meant!". It seemed to me that people were more interested in that which you condemned rather than what Jesus called beautiful in His Beatitudes.

Strangely enough, it was an ex-Southern Baptist Minister who helped me through the anger I had for you, a man who himself is guilty of the same crime: using your words to condemn, and inspire others to condemn. We went on an internet crusade to remind Christians of the Beatitudes. I don't know if we made a difference. I'd like to hope so. I guess all that really matters is that we made a difference in ourselves. Because now I understand that it isn't you that is to blame, but man himself. To be deciding what you meant when you were addressing people in cultures so very different than our own current culture; aka "deciding what the Bible means according to their own plans or gains." That isn't what the Bible really means, does it St. Paul? The Bible isn't condemnation. It's about love and acceptance and charity.

I realize that you did not mean for this to happen. That you are there, hanging out with God, and offering your prayers for humanity. I think that after all of this: it is you that I will address and ask for prayers for those who condemn, who judge, and who place themselves above God the Father in their words & hearts as they damn others to hell.

On that, St. Paul, is it too much to ask for your prayers for unity in Christianity? I know I am asking A LOT -- especially in this day and age. Can you also pray for all those Jesus mentioned in the Beatitudes? Especially the persecuted: the gay men and women who take the undeserved wrath of "Christians" everywhere? Finally, can you pray for me and my patience? Some wisdom to really drive home the point that no Christian should call any person "ugly" that God has already called "beautiful"?

Thanks for your time St. Paul, please send my love to St. Therese, and the Blessed Virgin -- and please: pass on my prayers to Jesus,

Yours in prayer,

K.C.

P.S. I don't know why, but for some reason I always picture you as having the voice of the Blue Aardvark from the Pink Panther cartoons. Crazy huh?

Blessings to all who follow this blog! XOXOXO

My review of Eclipse -- the movie. AKA: "why do I keep watching these movies while tripping in plot holes?"

2010-07-19T17:11:00.000-07:00

As most of you know, I went to see Eclipse on it's opening night with the bestie Claire. It was also my birthday. So I think it's only fair I give a review of my birthday first: FANTASTIC! We went out for dinner and drinks. We went back to Claire's and drank some more. Sean & Claire made me a sparkly peen cake (with apple balls) in honor of my love of Edward and Twismut: it was one of the best birthdays evah!

"MMMMMmmmmmmm, Sparkly!"

Later that evening, Sean drove a soused-up wife & friend to the theater in Moore. It was hella-crowded. We were hella-drunk.

I don't remember much of the movie, I must confess. I mean, I know what's going to happen as I have read Eclipse (twice). Most of what I noticed was Carlisle's new British accent, Summit finally put money into the "wig budget" (which is really important when you are sitting next to Claire because she has this "wig-phobia" and she'll freak-the-fuck-out if the wigs are obvious), the new Victoris SUCKS, and Jasper has more speaking-parts.

"With a bottle of this in my purse I could care less. I'll just sit here ogling Edward, never-mind me."

Enough about my birthday and blank movie-spots-thanks-to-Jamesons -- let's get to the nitty-gritty of my review, shall we? I've since seen Eclipse sober. I'm really irritated. Not at the movie, because over-all the movie is good -- especially in the wig-department -- but the story is so full of freakin' plot-holes I can't take it. It just gets worse with every movie, like an old Chevy pick-up truck driving back and forth 100 times a day making those plot holes deeper and deeper.

"Hey Jake, do you think if we hit a plot-hole hard enough, these damn wigs will fall off?"

Maybe it's my love of reading and my ability to catch things in books and say "wait a damn second!". Maybe it's because I had hoped, seriously, that a director might try and take artistic license and patch some holes up for Stephanie Meyer. Maybe it's because I am 36 and can't understand why the hell I love this series despite the uber-bad writing. Maybe it's the fact that the huge plot-holes got past an editor in the first place: but this shit drives me nuts!

I hope you forgive me, but in order to point out the plot-holes, I have to bring Twilight and New Moon into the fold (so the blog remains plot-hole free). I'll go by the characters, in order of plot-hole-deepness. You ready? Here we go:

This is the Cullen Family. They are "vegetarian vampires" (they drink the blood of animals, not humans). The two on the right are the latest to join the Cullen Family. Their names are Alice and Jasper.

This is Jasper Cullen (note the constipated look on his face, and the bad wig). He is the Cullen's "newest vegetarian" and therefor has a difficult time resisting human blood.

This is Bella in Twilight, with James, the bad, bad vampire. Shortly after this scene, Bella is thrown into broken mirrors where she starts bleeding from her femoral artery. Jasper and a few other Cullen's rush to her rescue and tear James apart. Jasper doesn't even notice that she's bleeding . . . hmmmmmm.

This is Jasper in the first few minutes of New Moon (note: even worse wig). Why is he all crazy? I'm getting there . . .

This is Jasper in Eclipse (note: wig improvement). In Eclipse we get Jasper's "back-story" about his first years, and how with his creator, he made "armies of vampires" to fight for control of cities in Texas and Mexico. So Jasper is the "newborn vampire expert", even going so far as to teach the werewolves how to fight the newborn army coming for Bella (Gawd -- she is SUCH a nuisance). He explains to us that the first YEAR as a vampire is a difficult time to control the "blood-lust" and will eat any human that crosses their path -- and there isn't much other vampires can do about it because newborns are super-duper strong or some shit. The Volturi (I'll get to that plot-hole in a second, it's up the street) got wind of these newborn vampires and was gonna swoop down in order to bring their justice. So Jasper leaves his creator Maria, meets Alice (as she predicted, oh and that plot hole is right after the Volturi's) in the 1950's. They join the Cullens in order to be "vegetarians" and live a peaceful life amongst us tasty humans.

Let's recap the Jasper plot-hole shall we?

1) Jasper tears apart bad, bad James in Twilight, running right past a bleeding-out Bella and does not stop for even a sip of her tasty human blood.

2) Bella gets a tiny little paper cut in New Moon and Jasper is gonna eat her NOM NOM NOM. It takes all the Cullen men to hold him back from the paper-cut blood lust. Edward even leaves Bella because Jasper is so unstable in his "newest vegetarian state" and he doesn't want to put her in danger. It's all Jasper's fault, yet nobody blames him -- he's just unable to resist Bella's blood -- NOM NOM NOM. At the end of New Moon Jasper votes to make Bella a vampire because, in his words "it would be nice not to want to kill you all the time".

3) Jasper explains in Eclipse it's the first year of the newborn that's the most difficult to control, and the blood-lust is insatiable. So why then, 60 YEARS LATER, is he still having a hard time as a vampire, controlling his blood lust? He was turned during the Civil War -- which makes him OLDER than Edward, who was turned during WWI. Surely he couldn't control newborns while he was young -- if he couldn't even control himself -- hell he can't control himself 60 years after eating nothing but animals.

Could someone throw me a rope? This plot-hole is really deep.

Moving on down the road in our old Chevy truck . . .

"Hellz no biiiiiyatch, I'm bailing on the Volturi. C-ya!"

This is the Volturi. They are the "closest thing to Vampire royalty" and they enforce "the rules". The rules are simple: "don't let humans know we exist: no killing people -- or sparkling -- in crowds". Also "no making vampire armies". Let's not forget "no turning children into vampires no matter how much you ever wanted to have a baby". Oh and one more thing -- this is important -- pay attention: they don't give "second chances".

1) We are introduced to the Volturi in New Moon by Edward. He is explaining to Bella that if she ever died he would go to the Volturi and sparkle in front of humans so that they would kill him. This conversation prompted by Edward's jealousy that Romeo can kill himself. He then goes onto to recite the "inamic pentameter" of Romeo & Juliet for the High School English class (why do I watch this shit? Srsly). I suspect "the point" is to make us cream our panties over Edward saying lines from Romeo & Juliet. It didn't work for me, but the gaysian Eric Yorkie was weeping -- so whatever. Shortly after this we have the paper-cut/Jasper scene and Edward leaves Bella. Insert a whole bunch of werewolf shit, and then Alice rushes back to Forks to help out Charlie, Bella's dad, because Bella is supposedly dead -- having jumped off a cliff. But our nuisance Bella is still alive! Ohs Nos! Rosalie tells Edward that Bella died (because Rosalie's a bitch) and Edward rushes to Italy to sparkle in the sun. Following me? Yep, he wants the Volturi to kill him. Which is really alright with me because we got this scene:

and without the Volturi we would not have the HIPBOOOOOOOOOONES!!!! This scene right here makes the whole series worth-while. Honestly.

The very-much-alive Bella rushes to save the almost-sparkly-then-torn-apart-by-the-Volturi: Edward.

Meh

We're introduced to Aro (leader of said vampire royalty), his creepy little laugh and creepy "Oh goodie, Bella's aliiiive!" comment. Not to mention his gift of seeing every thought or memory you have by touching you. But his powers don't work on Bella -- 'course not -- she's a nuisance.

(photo courtesy of fanpop.com)

Neither do Jane's powers. OF COURSE NOT.

So once they discover Bella is immune to Vampire-Super-Powers, plus she's human and knows they exist: what do the Volturi do? Kill her? Of course not! This is Twilight! Alice lets creepy Aro touch her saying she had a preminition that Bella will be one of them. "Oh well in that case, begone!"

"Thanks for the hospitality! We'll be going home to Forks now, Bella will totes be a vampire soon! TRUST US! 'Kay, bye bye now."

So what happens in Eclipse when Victoria makes an "army of vampires" (see above rules)? Do the Volturi swoop in and kill all the newborns? Hellllllz no! They're just gonna watch and see what the army is being built for. Sadly, this is better than the book where the Volturi arrive late for the battle. Hmph! Some Vampire Royalty they are.

This is Bree Tanner, one of the newborn vampires (whoa -- word of advice -- don't google "Bree" on it's own) and the one who got her own book even though we all know she dies -- so what's the freakin' point of reading it?

In Eclipse she gives herself up to the Cullens -- she didn't want to fight -- she just wants to survive. The Volturi guard show up and even after some begging from Carlisle Cullen, they decide to kill her anyway. Why? Because they "don't give second chances". Meanwhile, there stands Bella, still human and as annoying as ever.

So make that not even one chance for Bree, and the second chance for Bella. Vampire dies, human nuisance lives. Still following?

"Baby let me take the wheel, I'll avoid the plot-holes. Eh never-mind, I think I just ran-over Alice."

Everybody loves Alice. Cute little pixie-like, future-seeing-vampire that she is. They keep telling us that "Alice's visions can change, depending on the decisions people make". OK, ok, we GET IT. Care to explain how in New Moon she can't see past Jacob's werewolfness, however in a field SURROUNDED by werewolves she can see the Volutri coming in Eclipse?

Better yet, explain to me how she can't see Victoria's plans to create a newborn vampire army? "It's because Victoria isn't making the choice". Right, the newborn Riley just guessed that's what Victoria wanted to do! How come all of a sudden Alice's visions are limited to people she knows or have met? Do tell. Please.

"WAIT! I had a vision! None of this story makes any sense to a person with an IQ over 55! Oh no! Another vision! Breaking Dawn is even worse!"

Hop in the truck kids: it's Edward's turn!

While Edward's character doesn't necessarily have plot-holes, his character goes above-and-beyond suspension of belief.

1) Let's suspend reality -- even in a vampire story -- and pretend that a 17 year-old-boy-turned-vampire has really not had sex for 109 years because he was saving himself for someone special. Then he meets our strawberry-and-freesia scented nuisance and falls head-over-heels-in-love. She's jumping on him every chance she gets (not that I blame her). Grabbing that sexy copper hair and NOM NOM NOM'ing, right? What does Edward do? Tells her to stop. Repeatedly.

Exhibit One, Twilight:

See the hip grab? Pretty HAWT! We are given the explaination that Edward doesn't want to hurt her with his super vampire strength -- which is actually believable if a 17-year-old boy is trapped in a 136 year old vampire body.

Nothing really worth showing you from New Moon.

Exhibit Two, Eclipse:

Leg Hitch! Leg Hitch! Eclipse WIN!

This scene is in Edward's bedroom. On the bed he bought for Bella. Things get hot and heavy and legs get hitched up, and then we STOP. Again. Because Edward has to do this the right way and marry her I can't even think of a canonized Catholic Saint who could resist all this alone time in bedrooms with girls in undies who keep attacking them and their 17-year-old hormones. I'm sure there is one . . . but I can't think of him. All I can think is that this has been roaming around for 109 years as a virgin. . .

Yeah right.

2) Edward's whole job through Eclipse is to "love and protect" his little human Bella. There's a great scene where he and Jacob are about to get all super-natural on each other because Jacob kissed Bella. All the wolves bitch about the vampires stinking. The vampires bitch about the werewolves stinking. Later, Bella makes out with Jacob of her own volition while Edward stands by doing NOTHING. Then she goes and cuddles into Edwards arms saying "sorry 'bout that, but I pick you 'kay?". Does he complain that his fiance' was just macking on a werewolf? No. Does he even so much as complain about the smell? Nope. What. The. HELL?

Which leads us to the source of all our troubles: Bella.

"Everybody loves me. It makes no sense. Deal with it."

Let's wrap this up shall we? We met Bella and her beat up old truck in Twilight. She falls in love with a vampire -- who won't have sex with her. She stutters and spits and promises to be with him forever. One movie later, she gets a paper-cut and her vampire-boyfriend's adopted brother tries to kill her. So her boyfriend leaves her for her own good. She sits and looks out a window for four months. She takes advantage of the crush a werewolf has on her to make herself feel better about her vampire leaving. She jumps off a cliff and the werewolf rescues her. The vampire (and his sisters) think she's dead so he heads to Italy to kill himself. She goes to Italy to stop him from sparkling in the sun. She succeeds. Everyone promises vampire royalty that Bella will also be a vampire. She wants her vampire boyfriend to be the one to change her. He says she has to marry him for that to happen. They promise each other true love forever and ever and they can't survive without each other, blah blah blah.

I didn't actually count how many times he asked her to marry him, but my guesstimate is about six times in Eclipse before she finally freakin' says yes.

Yes, folks that's right. True love forever and ever with a freakin' vampire that she's begging to not only have sex with her, but make her immortal. A werewolf who is in love with her and is consistently causing problems even though he is a really nice kid and happens to be gorgeous. A vampire that tries to kill her in Phoenix, and his mate who has now chased her through three movies and built an army of vampires to kill her. A trip to Italy and facing the not-so-scary Vampire Royalty. Nearly being killed by her boyfriend's brother over a paper-cut. And her biggest problem?

Marriage.

Naturally. Makes total sense.

*sigh*

"That DOES it! Get me the hell out of this ridiculous series NOW!"

VROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM - SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL

(Biggest Eclipse fail: the replacing of Rachel LeFevre as Victoria)

The end.

"Nookie Nookie Nookie, Sweeter Than a Cookie"

2010-07-17T10:24:00.000-07:00

"Wait, WHA?"

That was me at about 8:00AM this morning. Dash woke up at 7:30, and I had given him free reign of YouTube's "Wiggles" playlists. Naturally he clicks around until he finds "I'm a Gummi Bear" which any parent with a child under the age of ten probably knows by now. It's been translated into every language possible.

"Let me introduce myself: I'm a Gummi Bear. Try and erase my little ditty from your brain. I DARE you."

I was completely engrossed in what I was reading on my iPhone (OK, fine, I admit it, I was reading Twismut) that when I heard "Nookie, Nookie, Sweeter Than a Cookie" in the same techno-driven beat and the same annoying voice as the Gummie Bear song -- my head snapped up and I was thinking "OME! Did someone make some sick Gummi Bear porno and Dash found it?". I squint at the computer screen from my perch on the couch. What the hell? When I can't see what's going on I run over to the computer ready to block the darn screen with my whole body if I have to. Kinda like this:

"Make no mistake you perverted Gummies! We will protect Dashiell from you! You never mind what we are doing on the iPhone, Gummi. We are wondering what YOU are doing on Youtube, you gelatinous annoyance!"

Trying to get my smut-filled head out of the story I was reading (about the people pictured above -- especially the one on the left: NOM NOM NOM) and into focusing on Gummi porn and how the hell I let this happen (curse you fan fiction!) I realize . . . they are talking about a Nuki. A nuki . . .

Harmless little Nuki

Wheeeeeeeeeew . . .

Thank goodness.

However, make no mistake about it, I learned my lesson: no more YouTube for toddlers while I am *ahem* predisposed. Furthermore, I am not so sure about the "harmless little nuki" because that song seems mighty suggestive to me. Or it could be that everything is suggestive with my mind in the gutter hanging out with pervy Edward and Bella? And Alice and Jaspaaaah. AND Rose and Emmett.

You decide.

Oh and if you are wondering, the fanfic is called "Love in My Box" (not THAT kind of box, an email in-box you pervs!) by cosmoandmarvar.

Things I ponder while I behave rather anti-socially.

2010-07-06T09:56:00.000-07:00

It's not you, it's me. I have PMDD, so I thought I would spare everybody my undeserved rath, scorn, and paranoia (well almost everybody). Ask Claire. I can sound vicious. I may say the simplest things, like: "can I have a glass of water?" and it comes out sounding like "can I bite the head off of your first-born?". I'm cool like that. So the last week of my month, I try to hide. Because I like people. You don't deserve me other than funny-and-embarrassing-you, in a good way. Not in the "can you please not try to have the waitress fired" kind of way.

I've been playing a lot of World of Warcrack with the eldest two. Level 27 Night Elf Priest baby! Which loosely translates to "Level 27 Master of Dorkiness in Wasting Precious Time". So while I am out there slaying undead and black widow hatchlings, or catching up on laundry and doing dishes: I ponder things. I've made a list. You ready?

Do people who buy Collie puppies still have the urge to name their dogs "Lassie"? How many "Lassies" do you think exist out there? Furthermore, why do people feel compelled to tell you, when introduced, that they had a pet with your name? "Your name is KC? I had a dog named Casey -- it was the dumbest dog ever." Uhm, thaaaaaaaaaanks.
Do all the children of people who work at CPS act as obnoxious as the two I know? Why do you suppose that is? Their children are the least likely to be taken away! Eden's friend threatens to beat her parents up if she doesn't get her way. Tell you what, if that were my child I would take professional priority and put her in foster care. I'd wield the ability to do so like a mighty sword of threat: "Oh you won't pick up your laundry off the bathroom floor? To foster care you go!". Oh man -- it would be awesome.
Why can't cats count? Our cat had kittens. We occasionally take out all the kittens from under Eden's bed and hold them. Naturally the cat freaks out and wants to take them all back under the bed. We let her. Then she stalks around looking for more kittens. Dude, you've already taken them all -- chill. Can't you count? I don't expect her to do algebra -- but these are her off-spring. C'mon!
Why do some of us have the urge to pee in our backyards when we move into new homes? I know I'm not alone. My sister Dee's husband whipped it out in front of Ian in the backyard of their new house. I asked my friend Chris Jones when he moved recently if he had peed in the backyard yet. His answer: "naturally". Is this some kind of premordial-evolution-animalistic-instinct or what? It's not just men. I have peed in the backyard of every house I have moved to in my life since I was 12 or so. Some of you have dedicated entire pages to me and my numerous addresses -- I have moved that often. That is a lot of backyards being peed in. Just sayin'.
Why, exactly, do I find Professor Snape attractive?
Why can't I keep fish alive? I feel like James Dean's car: cursed.
Pippi will be five tomorrow. I wonder when she'll be able to wipe her own butt properly? Is this karma for the child who smelled like poo in Oxnard irritating me? Why does everything have to do with poop when you have kids? I feel like James Dean's car: cursed.
Finally -- what is with kids on the other side of locked doors from their parents? It's ridiculous. My sister Jenny warned me when I was about 17 that having a baby means never bathing or pooping in peace. All people should have a sister like Jenny. She'll tell you the truth. This morning I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and Dash, like every toddler out there: wasn't having THAT. So he stood there banging on the door yelling: "MOMMMMM! Open UP! YOU NEED ME MOM! MOM YOU NEEEEEEEEED MEEEEEE!"

No, Dash, what I need to do is go potty in relative peace while maybe playing a little Brain Fu on the iPhone.

Geesh.

Let's get this over with, shall we?

2010-06-28T17:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Friends and Family and Readers of my Blog,

I have a confession to make: tomorrow I will be thirty-six years old. I am not at all "stoked" about this reality. In fact, I am rather depressed. I have no idea why I place importance on "milestone birthdays". You are probably wondering why 36 is worse than 35, or maybe you're not, but for continuity's sake . . . "let's" pretend. I suspect it's the same reason "29" was worse than "30". Well maybe, maybe not.

My 29th nearly did me in. Not because I was on the horizon of "30" but because I had this crushing feeling I hadn't done everything in my 20's I should have. I had this odd feeling all day that I had to finish everything I hadn't yet. I had just moved to an island in the Puget Sound. I had no idea where life was going. Yet the feeling persisted -- so my neighbors got us all silly-drunk on Lord-knows-what, and I spent the rest of the night next to my toilet, passed out, dress half-on (my mom loves that photo by the way, which the neighbor came in to take with Ian's permission -- thanks babe -- and mom found while we were moving). At 29 it was really quite silly for me to feel that way. Considering I had -- at that point -- done more than most people have done in a lifetime. I'm not going to list everything lest I sound like a braggart. Let's just say the list is sufficient. I have had an interesting life. For that I am grateful. Not simply because I have done a lot, but because it enables me to see so many sides in people, in situations, and especially in opinions. Quite frankly, it's been great for the most-part. I have few regrets -- and for someone like me: regrets are a bit bigger than a frown given in after-thought.

Why is 36 so bad? Well, I realized today it has a lot to do with that magical number that obstetrics deign as "advanced maternal age". There are no plans for more children, but it's been such a "focus" my entire child-rearing years: it stuck. I have had a lot of miscarriages. One tubal. I oft hear: "she is only 20/30-something years old -- below 'advanced maternal age'." It's like 35 is the death-sentence for the uterus.

If only it was.

But Nooooooooooooooooooooo, they warn you time and again you are all decrepit and will produce children with chromosome difficulties and blah blah blah.

Once upon a time (actually two years ago) I read the Islamic version of the Kama Sutra. Funny thing is, this message has been given to women time-immortal. Apparently screwing an older woman means your pecker will fall off. What the hell?

So here I am: 36 tomorrow. Not only am I "advanced maternal age" practically guaranteed to have non-perfect-to-doctors-human-babies, but my husband's pecker might fall off if he has sex with me again.

Thank goodness I get to be piss-drunk with my friend, have our husband's drive us around, and see Eclipse at midnight. Otherwise, my world might implode.

Yeah, I said Eclipse. At midnight. I'll be snookered, as will Claire. I might even wear my Forks High School t-shirt. So what? I'm only celebrating the 20th Anniversary of my Sweet 16 once in this lifetime. ;-)

AN: Claire has planned the most awesome birthday for me. It'll be the best in a long time! Hopefully I blog it appropriately tomorrow. Not a play-by-play of our night, just fun.

I am my mom. I am also your mom. I am our mom's moms. The horror!

2010-06-17T05:51:00.000-07:00

I've made it a bit of a joke the last few months that if I had a dollar for every time I have said "where's the wipes?" I'd be a rich woman. I said it a good six times yesterday.

If I'm not griping about lost wipes or lost shoes, I'm snarking at the kids about rinsing their cereal bowls out. There is nothing more annoying then scrubbing rice crispies cemented to the sides of bowls.

Eden has taken to telling -- well actually -- screaming at me not to use that tone with her. You know the tone. The one that when you were a kid: other people's mothers using said tone could make you run screaming with your hands over your ears. I can still hear a specific "TriiiiiiCIAAAAA" from Kittie's mom in my head. It makes me cringe. I haven't heard her say it in 18 years -- and still -- cringe. Dude, that women out-toned my mom -- and that's saying something.

My mom, to this day, uses that tone with me. Like fingernails on chalkboard, I hear that "KaaaaaaayCeeeeeee" and my eyes water and I get all adolescent and screech back "WHAAAAAT? GAWD don't say my name like that! PLEASE!". I get all a-mutter, cussing under my breath "shit, shut up, damn". Eden stands there rolling her eyes and pointing at me accusatory like "see? SEE?".

So sometimes, in order to get things done, I pop out with an "Eeeeeedaaaan" and then she is screeching. Her neck cords are sticking out, vein in her forehead pops -- and I'm like "dude I am sorry -- listen just put your folded clothes away". She starts muttering under her breath and I totally know what she's saying but I can't get mad. I do it too. Still.

Shane is a bit more patient, but when I pop out with a "ShaAAAne" (he's so lucky he has only a one-syllable name as it's far less annoying and I can't rip into that tone cadence of a two syllable-er) and he huffs and puffs. Or he just says "what!?! Come ON!" but yeah, he goes easy on me and I on him. Typically he'll do what I ask. Under threat of video game loss.

Pippi and Dashiell aren't so lucky, because those two -- let me tell you. Just let me tell you. Between Pippi stealing everything she can get her hot little hands on (more on that little thief later) to make her "potions" and Dash assisting her, oh man, I am toning all over the place. I think Pippi's going to get the brunt of that tone in this life time. Seriously though, yesterday she stole some Brussels sprouts from the fridge, and Dash stole some ginger-ale, then Pippi went and got the (already confiscated from her the day before) ground cinnamon and I kid you not -- they made a cinnamon-sprout-ginger-ale soup. In her bedroom. They spilled, of course. So I have crusty cinnamon ginger-ale mixture on the carpet. Here I am: "PiiiiiiiiPIIIIIEEEEE! What in the world? Quit stealing things!". The soup was nothing compared to last month's pilfering of nail polish. Which she spilled onto Eden's skateboard. Then she got to trimming Barbie hair to make some 3-D art with the polish. It was fan-tas-tic!

Then we have Dashiell and his climbing and knocking things over -- oh man that boy is busy. "Is that a chair standing right side up? Ha ha! Not anymore! Over you go chair!".

"DASH-ELLLLLL! Knock. It. OFF."

However, outside of the tone, is the content. I have caught myself, since the heat really kicked up around here saying, and I kid you not:

"Shut the DOOR! I am not going to air-condition the entire state of Oklahoma! SHUT THE DAMN DOOR!"

That folks, is how I became my mom, and your mom and everyone else's mom. Time immortal. Picture it: "TUT-AN-KHAAAMMMMMMEN, I don't care if you are KING OF EGYPT -- I am not air-conditioning the slaves building your DAMN TOMB --- shut the DAMN PALACE DOOR!"

*cringe*

How to deal with identity theft -- K.C.'s way.

2010-06-15T16:52:00.000-07:00

I know, right? Two blogs in one day?

This one is for Michelle . . . constant supporter and friend since Junior High. She just learned her identity was stolen and that the effer's who stole her identity bought a trailer home in Huntsville, AL.

Here is how I would handle Michelle's particular identity "theft":

I would grab my expired passport, my Social Security card, my birth certificate and marriage license. I would grab my childrens' birth certificates, and their Social Security cards. I would grab the last 6 years tax returns. I would hop in my car with my insurance papers and registration in the glove box. I would take my Junior High and High School yearbooks. I would grab all the paperwork I have about me owning this new fabu home in a trailer park in Alabama. I'd drive to Huntsville . . . to my "new" address.

I'd sit in front of my new "home", and call the police to report a "breaking and entering" crime. I already have all the proof in the world I am who I am. The burglars inside don't. They can't even claim "squatter rights" because they are obviously "breaking and entering" on my property.

When the police arrived, I would have the "burglars" arrested. I'd take all the shit that they had, go through all the things they have stolen from others, and help people get their lives back. By calling the owners of the proper social security numbers, or even with the help of the F.B.I.

"Wait, what? Yeah my name is Candy, what's it to you? Oh wait, no really, my name is Michelle"

I would do it with a shit-eating-grin on my face. The burglars would be grateful for the police "protection" they were currently under . . . so that they weren't ripped to shreds by my own hands. I'd find out who their parents are and knock on doors in their family's neighborhoods and let everyone know what those "crazy kids" have been up to. I would then list my "new home" on the market and earn back more than "I" bought it for.

Good luck Michelle -- need a road-dog for your trip?

I'm your girl.

Let's shred.

At times, introspection isn't so great

2010-06-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I totally suck at my job.

It's alright, I can admit it.

I wish housewives had weekends off. Or just one weekend a month. Or that Obama -- with all his spending -- decided that all American mothers deserved a nanny and sent them flying in holding umbrellas acting pretentious and snooty. I need Mary Poppins: stat. I don't even care if Dick Van Dyke comes along with his horrible attempt at a Cockney accent. I have an iPod. I have ear buds. I'll deal.

It's days like these that I just really, truly suck at being a mother.

A day where I wake up to Dashiell shouting in my face that he needs a peanut butter and jelly.

A day where Shane throws a tantrum because Pippi ate the last bagel.

A day where I am begging everyone to help me out and clean because the plumber is coming.

A day where I walk into the living room and the freakin' Taj Mahal of forts has been built in my already messy living room. (Which is kinda cool really, so I didn't say anything, I just ignored it)

A day where Eden's ear hurts and she's really clingy and tells me she misses me if I don't see her for five minutes.

A day where Pippi and Dash decide to make cracker-crumb art all over the dining room. After painting themselves with water color and getting into the $25 MAC primer cream. Then take off into the backyard and play in all the residual rainwater in the pool -- in their pajamas.

Sounds like any other day right? Yeah well, it's not. Because I'm not "me" today.

I am sitting in my own melancholy. Over the last two days I have been so introspective I realize that my whole entire life has come down to a choice I made when I was a few months into my 18th year. Every choice I have made after that one fateful day has made me who I am today. That's pretty heavy. Sure, sure, I know we all have made choices that have residual affects in our lives -- humanity. It's that I didn't realize just how much that one choice affected not only me, but others too. Again, heavy.

My brain today.

I can't really stop thinking about it because I need to work this out and reconcile and accept. I have to ponder future choices. This melancholy causes me to listen to the same songs over and over while simultaneously coming up with plot-points for a novel that I've been putting off writing for two years (I must have a muse hanging around because the idea is constantly popping into my head. Poke, poke, poke). I want to write an outline. I want to write a letter to someone who deserves it, and to whom it's long over-due. I have to clean. Gah!

I don't want to be whined at. I just want to be clever and introspective without interruption. I'm not sad, I'm not bad, I'm just not really here. Oh don't think my little darlins' haven't noticed. They have. They are kicking it up a notch.

"It" being the whining, the naughtiness, the inter-fighting, the shenanigans. It's kinda like when they all freak out when I'm on the phone. But I'm not. I'm just a glassy-eyed, vacant woman with an ingrained instinct to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Thank God for that.

There is something wrong in my Momiverse (warning, this post is disgusting)

2010-06-04T11:16:00.000-07:00

Like a disruption in the force. Not caused by Darth Maul or even Darth Vader. This comes straight from Darth Gag-a-lot from the planet: Weak Constitution.

Correct me if I am wrong here folks, but shouldn't my tolerance of all things poop, puke and various other disgusting fluids that come out of my children's adorable little bodies be more tolerable to me as time goes by? After 12 years of motherhood: countless diapers, diaper-blow-outs, potty training, flu's and other various "weepy-seepy" illnesses -- you would think I'd be like "oh you just pooped your pants? No sweat honey, let's clean you up." That's not me.

This is me. Well it would be me if I had short hair, bushy eyebrows and no boobs:

Photo courtesy of Pukeplanet.com. I know! An entire website dedicated to photos of people vomiting. Isn't the internet grand? Seriously, this is the least disgusting photo I could find there, but I had a point to make. I also learned that looking at pictures of puke is not nearly as disturbing as children puking anywhere near me.

Seriously, there's something wrong with me. I am truly becoming the world's biggest pukey-wuss about it. Especially poop. Just before beginning this blog I realized Dash had just a spot of dried POOP on his face. As I used a wipe (that I was seriously considering dipping in bleach or spraying with lyesol) to clean off his adorable face it hit me just how wrong things are. Let me explain. . .

This morning I was chatting away with the bestie Claire on the phone about all things Eclipse (26 days left SQUUUUUUEEEEE!), which is what we do when we aren't sitting around eating bon-bons and surfing the web all day (yeah right, anyway . . .) when I casually say "Hmmmm wonder what Pip and Dash are up to?" and start walking towards the back of the house. Cruising past the bathroom the unmistakable scent of poop hits me. I stop. I wearily push open the bathroom door. Oh no biggie, Pippi and Dash just decided to throw a Poop-A-Palooza in the bathroom. AWESOME! Not. Pippi looks at me and says excitedly "Hey look, Dash went poop in his potty!" There he stands, poop smeared down his leg, on his belly, all over his adorable little bottom. He starts climbing into the tub for the obvious next step of cleaning him up. I notice there is a golf-ball size turd right in front of me, poop smeared on the floor, on the tub, on the toilet and that there is poop all over Pippi's discarded panties. Lovely! It's a two-fer!

All things Eclipse & RPattz are going to have to wait as I try to sort out how to clean this up without losing the three cups of coffee I just downed. Trying to explain what has happened to Claire nearly makes me blow. She has the sense to start appropriately cussing for me on her end of the line although I am picturing her thanking the universe it's not happening to her! Last I heard from her is "what the HELL -- WHYYYYY?" and that folks, is why she's a bestie. So I hang up. I like her enough to not make her listen to me puke.

Picture this: I grab a plastic grocery bag. I order Dash to stay in the tub, and Pippi to get in there too while not smearing any more poop ANYWHERE. I grab the golf ball turd that's closest to the door and ZOME I have to make a run for it. I am going to lose that coffee. I go running and gagging into the backyard while every five seconds I realize that I am holding a turd in a bag and I start gagging all over again. Just what I want is to clean up my puke too -- as you can imagine. I make it to the trash can outside. Ditch the poop bag and hyperventilate my way back to the house just horrified about cleaning up the rest.

So what do I do? Call Ian and beg him to come home and handle it? I can't do that, can't make the kids wait that long with poop on them. Crap -- literally. Then it hits me! I call to my little knight in shining-armor-stomach: Shane, to come out to the backyard.

"Shane, I know this is a lot to ask, but Pippi and Dash had a major poop-blow-out in the bathroom (gag, gurgle, gulp) and I need you to start the bath and wash Dash off. After that (gag, gurgle, heave) I need you to take the bathroom cleaner, the wipes, and wipe everything (gasp, gulp, gag) down. When you are done, I need you to dump Dash's (heave, heave, gasp) potty into the toilet. Please dude, I'll pay you."

Shane is quite the opportunist -- so he says "sure mom! No problem!" Which is a big deal considering he was playing World of War-Crack.

Oh God Bless your little soul!! Well, awesome I don't have to guilt him about the time when he was three, Ian was deployed, I was in my first trimester with Pippi and he had diarrhea that he just couldn't make into the toilet on time with. The day we all recall that I blew chunks so hard -- as I cleaned one bathroom and puked in the other, running back and forth, which is a comical vision if it's happening to someone else -- that I blew-out blood vessels in both eyes. The day that I puked more than that time I got food poisoning from the powdered Gatorade my mom bought at Pic-n-Save. The day that Eden, at five years old, cleaned her brother off in the bath because I couldn't stop throwing up. The day that when I finally stopped dry heaving for five minutes, I went downstairs and noticed that Shane had cracked a dozen eggs all over the counter and floor -- because everyone knows pregnant chicks can't handle the smell of raw eggs without tossing their cookies -- and the whole dry-heave process started all over again. Awwww, yes the day we remember when I sat on the steps and sobbed for a good hour.

I seriously believed that since that fateful day I had trained the kids to do their disgusting business only in the evenings and on weekends. Or anytime they are with Ian and not me. That is until about two weeks ago when Pippi pooped her bed. I was like: "Pippi, this isn't cool. It's Wednesday. You know to do this sort of thing on Saturdays! What the heck girlfriend? I thought we had an understanding here?"

In the meantime I tell Eden to get Pippi's poop-panties into the backyard for a hose-down. She complied immediately. Of course she caught wind that Shane is getting paid for the dirtiest job in Oklahoma. However, Eden has her limits, and that limit is apparently hosing off panties and asking for $2.

So have I grossed-you-out enough, my faithful readers? Or are you all just rolling your eyes about my weak stomach and stupid intolerance for my own kids' bodily solids? I'll tell you how serious I am: I have delayed potty-training Dash because I can't dump those little potties that sit on the floor and catch their yuck. I wouldn't have to if Ian bought one of those potty rings that fit on the toilet instead of the cute little frog potty Dash wanted. I can handle those WAY BETTER, and I wont even consider another kind of potty four kids later. Goodnight -- what was Ian thinking? Probably that I potty-trained Pippi while he was off work for a few weeks, and I just might pull that ~~incredibly clever idea~~ stunt again with Dash. Yep, he knows me well.

Dash totally deserves accolades today for basically potty-training himself. Not the reality of his mother bent over in the backyard trying her damnedest not to puke. So here's what I am going to tell him later today in Target:

"I think we'll celebrate with one of those potty-rings with the race cars on them! What do ya think? Do you want one? You can go potty on the big potty like a big-boy-race-car-driving-Super-Iron-Man! WooooHooooo! Go Dash!!! Just don't poop in the frog again unless dad is home -- kay? Is it a deal? Dude, I'll even pay you."

My New Year's Resolution

2010-05-22T12:06:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah: it's May. I know. I am an infamous procrastinator.

While I was rinsing this fabu navy blue dye out of my hair this morning; it finally occurred to me what I should resolve to give up for 2010. Well most of 2010 anyway. . .

Underwear.

I'm not hitting on you. I'm just sayin'.

I have a habit of not buying underwear often enough. It's like buying laundry soap or paper towels for me. I just don't care unless I really, really need them. Or unless I find a really cool pair with spiders or skulls on them that I simply musthaverightnow. That is when I get excited. But overall: not so much.

Or these. I would be all over these. I would wear these on the outside of my clothes.

(Photo: Twitarded)

There's also the issue that all we ever seem to do is laundry and cannot catch up. Even more curious is that the laundry monster is not only stealing toddler socks, he's also taking my underwear. I know it's true because I am down to like three or four pair. I'm fairly certain Ian's not wearing them.

Then there's the fact that it looks really stupid when the top of my undies hang out of my low rider jeans. I realize that going commando I will run the risk of sometimes being told to "spackle my crack" in said low-riders -- but I can live with that.

I have been unwittingly commando for a while now. I have decided to just embrace the breeze and become a full-time non-underwear-wearing ~~h00r~~ mom to four. Sure I'll wear them occasionally. When I have to: short dresses, windy days, church (because that would be just wrong) etc.

On that: underwear, you can kick rocks.

Your underwear can kick rocks too, bb.

(Photo: TheHollywoodGossip.com)

Gypsys, Tramps, and a bottle of rum . . .

2010-05-15T16:04:00.000-07:00

Ian brought home a bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum a couple weeks ago on the recommendation of our friend Sean -- but we hadn't opened it. Today in Target, Ian decided to seize on my bartender knowledge and ask what would be a good mixer. Tropical anything. Especially pineapple. Suddenly I felt myself rather enchanted with the idea of a fruity drink, even though I am not typically a rum drinker, or a drinker of hard alcohol. An occasional Jamesons, perhaps.

Yeah, not me.

So it's cocktail hour and I am ready for some fruity goodness! I ask the man to hand me the rum. As soon as I saw it, a little story from my sordid past came back to me and I nearly doubled over with laughter.

Back when I was cocky and care-free (who am I kidding? I'm still cocky). Care-free meaning: I didn't have a single child to tend to, much-less four of 'em, I was visiting my mom and grandma in Livermore, CA. Ever heard of it? Probably not. It's a one-horse town on your way to San Francisco from the I-5. There is absolutely nothing to do there. Sure, there's a bar or two, but back then it was all about the mullet-brigade. No thanks. My mom and grandma were tired or suffering some malady or another and everyone went to bed at like 7PM. Bored out of my gourd I decide to raid mom's liquor cabinet.

Oh! What is this? A nearly full bottle of rum? A 12-pack of coke in the fridge? Are those fresh limes? Let's rock this joint! Cuba Libre BABY!

So I pour myself a drink, settle in front of the TV and start sipping.

And sipping.

And sipping.

Each drink containing more and more rum.

Yammers (my gran) would occasionally walk by to fix her drink of White Zinfandel mixed with 7-UP (srsly) and give me the stink eye while mumbling about the sheer amount of rum I was consuming. I'd give her the dismissal wave. She'd grumble things like "it's your hangover". Yeah, yeah, whatever.

I quit bothering with the lime.

I don't even remember what I was watching . . .

Until the bottle was nearly done and of all things: A&E's Biography came on.

A Biography of Cher. Mother-effing CHER.

Somehow, in my alternate-universe of rum and cow-towns: I was completely enthralled with Cher. I started channeling my mom and aunt and began talking back to the TV. "YOU ROCK CHER!!! WOOOOOHOOOOO!!!" I had convinced myself that Cher was the coolest thing to ever live on this planet. EVER. I was going to write her a letter and be her new best friend. Me: Miss Rockabilly in a Bestey Johnson dress, was going ga-ga over Cher. By the time the show was over I was fist-pumping the air and was like "oh maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, she's so cooooooooooool!!!!!!" You realize I was verbalizing all of this, and most-likely really, really loudly right? I'm surprised the police weren't at the door to break apart my party of one. I was so high on Cher's awesomeness (and a nearly-full bottle of rum) I barely made it to the couch. Where I passed out with a smile on my face. All for my new home-girl -- my buddy -- my Cher.

(Photo: Cher Extravaganza)

I can kinda see my own point here.

I was shocked to being shaken awake by my Yammers sometime around 4:00AM. She was livid. LIVID. What the hell Yamms?

"Get UP! Kace, You've wet on the couch! (Huh? At this point I think I was drunker then when I passed out) Get UP! Oh you should not have drank all that rum! Get up! I have to clean this up!"

Shit. I'm as bad as *Voldermort. Oh man. Not good.

I clean myself up as best as I can, climb into my mom's bed and fall back asleep.

This is what I wake up to the next day: my mom, laying there facing me, stern set to her mouth. First things first, because she's not one to delay a thought coming straight out of her mouth . . .

"You drank an entire bottle of rum?"

Me: (Oh shit, she's gonna rip into me. Oh please no. Headache! Headache!) "I believe I did, yes."

Mom: "What in the hell were you celebrating?"

Me: "Uhm, Cher actually."

Mom: "Oh well . . . wait? WHAAAAAAAAAT? You don't even LIKE Cher!"

Me: "Oh man, you shoulda been there, I was even talking back to the TV like you and Aunt Sandra do when you drink!"

Mom (starting to laugh her ass off): "CHER? Like what? A movie with her in it?"

Me: "No, her Biography on A&E. It was freakin' ridiculous. I believed I would write her a letter today -- you know when I could hold a pen and write coherently. I decided I was going to be her new best friend. But, I think I'll put that plan on hold."

Mom: "Good idea. She'd probably slap a restraining order on you."

Me: "Thank goodness I was here and not out and about, can you imagine the trouble I could have gotten into?"

Drinking pina colada's with her perhaps? Wondering where my shoes were the next day? Waking up in Vegas? Who knows? Really? You can believe me when I tell you stranger things have happened. To me. Because of me.

Whatev.

Mom: "Oh and I heard about you peeing on my couch. Who do you think you are? Voldermort?"

Me: "I'm sorry about that, really."

Mom (dripping with sarcasm): "Yeah, well thanks a lot, I really appreciate it."

Me: "Don't thank me, thank Cher."

Mom: "You and Cher owe me a bottle of rum."

*"Voldermort" is the name my bestie Claire came up with to label my ex-best-friend-whom-I-will-never-condescend-to-speak-to-again. Claire was probably fed up with me calling her by that long name -- or just wanted to help me out -- which is actually more like Claire. The nick-name stuck. Voldermort = "she who cannot be named". Get it? Anyway, my own personal Voldermort had a serious peeing problem. She peed all the time when she was sober. I can't even begin to tell you what would happen when she was drunk. She would barge into the bathroom while you were on the toilet and proceed to pee in the sink. She would pee in her clothes. She would pull down her pants and pee on the sidewalk of a busy street with no thought to it. I have no idea how she wasn't arrested for indecent exposure. She peed on my aunt's brand new white micro fiber couch. Voldermort's house reeked like pee. Oh man: the shit (wait, I should say "pee") I have put up with! And that's not even the reason she's dismissed! Anyway, her crazy peeing issues are legendary for everyone, including my parents.

Let me count the ways . . .

2010-05-07T13:42:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I have done one of these. As you know I have been emerging from my funk, and occasionally falling back in -- but I am getting there. It's not that I don't love anyone, it's just that I haven't been inspired to write about my love. Well a few times I have but the words seemed inadequate. If I am going to write about you -- you deserve the best I can offer.

Well it's Friday (blog shout-out day), and Ian and I have been ~~pulling our hair out~~ stressing about money this last week. We were even pondering the idea that we would have to go on a ramen diet until the 15th. So, due to our money-woes: it's not surprising that we got our "money from heaven". Again.

So my shout-out today is to my Aunt Barbara, God bless her soul, may she rest in peace. However, I suspect she is just fine.

My Aunt Barbara is my dad's sister. They share a birthday, but not twins, just a year or two separate them. She was the only girl between brothers who have never really got along. The "peacemaker" if you will.

She taught me how to make kissy faces at the ceiling in order to lose my neck fat when I was a chubby child of eleven.

She often had a man friend who would come around in the afternoons to my grandparent's home when we visited, politely leaving before dinner. But Barbara would arrive bright and early, stay all day and then quite late into the night. She could play pinochle for hours. They all could. I would cuddle into my dad's chest and eventually fall asleep to the sound of shuffling cards. She was the non-smoker in a house full of chain-smokers.

Lung cancer shouldn't have been a surprise -- yet, it was. My paternal family are not cancer-prone. It turned out to be mesothelioma. She had been married many years to a man who worked in the ship-yards. He brought home a daily dose of death. He died quite young.

She beat the cancer, and that was not a surprise at all. I come from some cancer-resistant stock. Thank God.

She asked me about school and grades and my mom. She was one of the few who would ask about her, always wishing my mom well.

She wore 50's-style cat-eye glasses right on the through the millennium. As a small child I felt sorry for her out-of-date stubbornness. As an adult I realize I should have asked her for a pair or two.

Like this. With more rhinestones.

She was just like the rest of us and could go years without speaking to a member of her family. Upon seeing, speaking to, or writing -- she would love them just as much as if she had seen them yesterday.

She gave me a savings bond when I was born. It turned out to be worth thousands about six years ago when we were really financially hurting.

I do not know why she didn't have children.

I know very little else about her, and for that I am regretful . . .and that is one emotion I am not often afflicted with.

Five-or-so years ago, while we were still in Washington, and while Ian was deployed: my aunt wrote me a letter. She had said that she was quite sure I would be shocked not just to hear from her, but to receive such a large amount of money from her. I was. She explained that her doctors had found another lump -- this time in her arm -- and that her body could no longer receive chemotherapy or radiation. She used up her reserves on the first round battling the mesothelioma. She was preparing to die, and had sold off most of her property, cashed in her investments, and in turn: sent all of her nieces and her nephew a piece of her wealth. I wept. Not for the money, but for the time and relationship I had missed. Outside of myself and my siblings, she was the only one in her family unit who was religious. She said that she was prepared for death, hoped it would not be painful, and that she loved me.

That money happened to come at a time when I wasn't sure I could afford groceries.

Three days later as I sat to write her a thank you/condolence note my phone rang. It was my sister; Laura. She had called to tell me that Aunt Barbara had died in the nighttime. That her best friend and brother, my Uncle Jerry, had found her in the morning. The coroner had determined that it was either a massive heart-attack or a stroke that hit her in the middle of the night. Either way, how she died -- suddenly and hopefully painlessly -- didn't matter. A current ran through my family of pure relief that she would not suffer through a final, and surely deadly, round of cancer.

A few days later my phone rang again. This time it was Uncle Jerry. He informed me that I had been included in the estate. I would receive an initial check, and possibly more to follow as the numerous class-action mesothelioma lawsuits settled into her estate. He explained the break-down of the inheritance and was -- shockingly -- nervous and apologetic about my percentage. I told him to relax. I was simply happy that she thought of me at all. We weren't close. Even if we had been I would not judge or bemoan such a gift from anyone: what they do with their money -- even posthumously -- is their business. I felt honored. I am not greedy. Nor jealous. Or insulted. I simply felt grateful and loved.

And so it began . . . money from heaven . . .

Since my Aunt Barbara has died we have received checks. Substantial checks. At least a thousand dollars at a time.

The strangest thing is: it's always when we are the MOST desperate for money.

One Christmas Eve in Oxnard, with my dad and his lady visiting I knew we were exhausting our account -- between food and gifts. That it would be rough to get through to the 1st after dad and Peggy left. I had been grocery shopping, and upon leaving the parking lot there was a broken and beaten man begging for money. As it was Christmas Eve, I grabbed the last few dollars in my wallet and handed it to him -- not caring what he spent the money on -- just wanting to give. I came home to find a check for about two-thousand dollars from my Aunt Barbara's estate in my mailbox.

So it rolls. It's simply astonishing that over the years -- when we are at the end of our rope -- the checks come to us. I've been calling it "money from heaven" for a few years now.

Today Ian suggested my Uncle Jerry has some kind of government connection that lets him see our bank account. I had to laugh! He doesn't just "send money" out of the kindness of his heart -- Aunt Barbara does: from heaven. The timing is seriously uncanny.

So here is a great big "THANK YOU!!!!" to my lovely Aunt Barbara in her cat-eye glasses and cheerful demeanor. Please tell St. Therese I said hello and thank her for me. I hope you two are playing pinochle up there. We love you.

And again . . .

Thank you, so much.

Take my daughter to her first concert. Harm her for life . . .

2010-04-25T20:29:00.001-07:00

Check it: we've been planning to go to this music festival for a while, specifically to see the Electric Six. They are a fun, eclectic band with a drummer from Oklahoma. Known for such fun hits as "Danger! High Voltage".

This is Eden's first concert, and she being ten: I am sure you are all surprised I didn't take her to a more mild-mannered show like Taylor Swift (would rather choke on a chicken bone), or The Jonas Brothers (gouge out my own ear drums and become a cutter). Nope, Electric Six it is. They're here, the show is free, it's ON.

The crowd is majority college kids (duh). The patchouli scent is over-whelming (WTH people?). Everyone is smoking, including the wacky-tobaccy. Appreciating how Eden and I are both short we work our way through the crowd in order to see the screen. Moving every time a tall guy blocks us, or when frat boys out-shout the music. She's thrilled that beach balls are being launched about the crowd and gets in on the action. Big brown eyes wide and absorbing everything. Everything. Absolutely EVERYTHING.

Including the hit "Gay Bar" (the crowd goes wild) and it's resulting consequences . . .

Go ahead. I'll wait.

I quickly glance around because some lady is howling and dancing, drink in hand -- as are a lot of people. No biggie. Until . . .

Thunk.

Grind.

WTF???

Yep, I am getting dry-humped from behind by a drunk lady in jean shorts. She's quite a bit taller than me so she's grinding her crotch into my tail bone. Nearly taking off my skin through my thin cotton dress with her denim. I suddenly have a new appreciation for Bareback Mountain. I need to get this happy cowgirl off my ass before my daughter sees this. Uh . . . too late . . . I think.

Did she see it? Shit.

Just as a hand is coming around front for an attempted boob-grab, my rough-rider is all of a sudden gone. Dashing away through the crowd. Whew.

Oh but wait, this tale is going to get better, promise. . .

So Eden looks at me and says excitedly: "Hey mom did you see that lady? The one right down there? She's a student-teacher for my class".

"The one who was just ~~freaking my ass~~ dancing behind me?"

"Uh . . . I don't know. (nervous laughter)"

Yep, she saw it. Craptastic.

"Her? (pointing)"

"Yeah!"

So that's why the boob grab didn't happen. She saw Eden too. Thank God.

"Oh Edes, tomorrow at school you should ask her why she was humping on your mom at the Electric Six concert. Guaranteed A's and you'll probably get McDonald's every day for lunch."

"Maaaaaawwwwwm! (giggles)"

Edited to add because OME! NO WAYYYYY!

Of Mice and Men

2010-04-13T06:19:00.000-07:00

Picture this: 6:00AM, I'm sound asleep, the house is dark, all is quiet except for Ian, who is leaning over me, frantically whispering . . .

Ian: "Hey! I think there's a mouse in your tampon bag!"

Me: "Huh? What? Mouse? Where?"

Ian: "In your tampon bag"

Me: "What? Tampon BAG? I don't have a tampon bag Ian, can't be mine. I don't even know what a tampon bag is."

Ian: "Tampons, pads, whatever, your period-shit, it's in your bathroom. In that cabinet."

Me: "Oh my gosh Ian, you are such a WUSS when it comes to things with bald tails."

"I'm coming to bite you, Ian. Sneak-attack. From a bag of maxi-pads. You won't even know what hit you."

(Photo: National Geographic)

Ian: "Just come look."

So here we are, creeping down the hall, me blind from the brightness of the bathroom light, when I hear a crinkling.

Me: "OH MY GOSH IAN, you're right, there's something in there!"

So we both start squealing and acting all goosey-like. I am realizing that the cabinet in question is way too high for a mouse to reach -- even if it won Gold in the summer Olympics for high-jump (now I'm picturing a mouse using a pole to vault into my package of maxi pads). I creep up, touch the maxi pad bag and something moves, but nothing substantial like a mouse. Nothing jumps out either, and I know mice are jumpy-little-'effers. None-the-less, I am totally freaked out. It's too early for rodent-drama. I tell Ian to go grab a plastic bag and I'll just bag the thing and toss the whole package out, pads, mice, the little turds those bastards leave everywhere -- everything. He's standing at the threshold of the bathroom, not daring to walk in less the little mousey gets him. He actually makes me come to him to get the bags (he brought two, to make sure I don't get bit when the vicious beast rips through the single bag and bites my toe or something. Isn't he sweet?). So I grab the maxi-pad package, throw it in the plastic bags and peak in to see if a mouse is running around.

What do I see?

A moth.

You DORK Ian. You woke me up for a MOTH?

Scariest thing. Ev-ah. Fear me bitch!

He looks a bit sheepish. He doesn't say anything. Just skulks off to get ready for work.

After an epic eye-roll and a loud sigh, I went back to bed.

Freakin' Ian.

My mom: nuttier than a fruitcake. At least she lets us laugh at her.

2010-04-08T08:46:00.000-07:00

I got this "conversation" in email from mom this morning. My mom has been sick for the last month with pneumonia, and considering she has PPD and asthma: she's been on oxygen and steroids to treat it. As with anyone: steroids makes her a bit irrational. Or down right scary-call-the-white-coats: crazy. Either way, she decided in the middle of the night to order flowers for my grandma's 87th birthday. She couldn't get her mind around the idea that the text box for the message only gives you a certain amount of characters before it just stops letting you type. So she decided to connect with 1-800-Flowers Help-Center to fix her "issue". The following is her chat-conversation with them, enjoy!

Thank you for choosing 1-800-flowers.com. A representative
will be with you shortly.

You are now chatting with Trina.

You: I did something wrong when writing the message - I can just go
so far and then it won't let me type anymore letters. Help!!!!!!!!!! It's
late here and I'm tired!!!!

Trina: Hello! How can I help you with your order today?

You: are you still there?

You: I need to finish this asap

You: and, I've ordered from you before - do I get a coupon?

You: problem again - I did something wrong - I think I hit enter and I
can't type anything more - I am not through with my message

You: trina - are you there hello hello

Trina is experiencing technical difficulties [or just hung up on you, Mom]. Please wait while
we route your chat to the next available representative.

Thank you for your patience.
You are now chatting with Sadara.

Sadara: Hello! How can I help you with your order today?

You: can you see what I wrote to trina??? So I don't have to retype

You: hello hello hello

Sadara: Yes, I have read the notes.

You: and????????????????????????

Sadara: What is the error message that you are getting?

Sadara: Okay, it sounds like you have exceeded the number of
characters allowed in the card message.

You: no error mesaage - just can't get past a certain point - I believe
I hit the "evil" enter command!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sadara: Try removing the last sentence and see if it will let you type
again.'

You: I was watching and never indicated that happened - I only typed
two sentences

You: so what's the "legal" limit on characters

You: need to get these flowers to my Mom - she's dying of bone
marrow cancer and this will probably be her "last birthday" Means a lot
to me and I know it will to her also

Sadara: I am so sorry to hear that! will keep her in my prayers.

You: thank you

You: should I start over??????????????? cancel this one and I will be
more than happy to enter the info again.

Sadara: Please type the message you would like and I will enter it
into your order after you have placed it.

You: just let me get this done tonight - help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sadara: No need to cancel.

You: Too much work for this late at night

You: I just renewed my license plate with the state on line and that
only took 60 seconds

Sadara: Please continue with placing the order. I can enter the
message after you are done. Please post your order confirmation
here.

You: this is taking wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy to long to order
flowers

Sadara: I apologize for the inconvenience.

You: well, apology accepted - now lets get this done

You: I'm just about to exit and go to another site if this isn't fixed

Sadara: Great, please post the card message you want.

You: where???????????????????????

You: On lined or un-lined paper

Sadara: Here in the chat box.

You: and then you will magically make it appear on my
order???????????????

Sadara: Also post your order number after you have placed your
order. I will also discount your order 10% for the inconvenience.

You: where is my order number???

You: it's not on this check out page

Sadara: Thank you for waiting. I'll be with you in just a moment.

Sadara: I'll be right with you.

Sadara: You will receive your order number after the Review &
Payment screen.

You: my mother doesn't have a computer therefore no email address
- I can't get by that one either

You: hello again - can we please go on

You: I'm losing it fast!

You: I just want to order some flowers not make a peace treaty with
Iran! !!!!!!!!!!!!

You: remember I said - she does not have a computer -thus no
email address -

Sadara: You do not have to enter an email address.

You: She's almost90 years old for goodness sake

Sadara: It should allow you to bypass that

You: well - it won't let me go any further without this info

You: gotta - I've already tried and tried again

You: just get me to the last page so I can go to bed

Sadara: Try entering your email address just to get pass it.

You: yeah for you - it worked - Eureka!!!!!!!!!!!!

You: okay - what's the promotion code?

You: my membership number?

You: my gift care, savings pass, etc

Sadara: I will credit back the 10% on your order while I am adding
your card message.

Sadara: You can leave all of those boxes blank.

You: Okay - I finished with all the info, payment info etc. Now are we
almost done?

Sadara: What did you want your card message to say?

You: 10% or $1O?

Sadara: The credit back will be 10%.

You: well that will be better than nothing - maybe I can go to
Starbucks tomorrow morning for one cup of coffee!!!!

You: I'll need it!!!!!!!!!!!!! Maybe I'll take miss scooby with -she's my
mom's and my sassy little doggy

You: she does prefer latte!

You: but she knows we're on a tight budget!!!!

You: maybe a pup-a-roni!!!!!!!!!!

You: Help I need sleep = I'm starting to sound like a crazy woman
and I promise you I'm not! [uh, mom . . .you realize you started this chat "crazy" right?]

Sadara: I am sorry for the delay.

You: good company answer - go ahead - share it with your co-
workers - maybe they can have a good laugh!

Sadara: I'm sorry for the delay. I'll be right with you.

Sadara: Your new total is $53.8l.

You: do we still need to chat??? Not that you are not being polite and
doing everything you can do to help this crazy woman in Vegas. I do
appreciate you very much. Send me your boss's name and I will be
very happy to send them a "pat on the back" for putting up with me!"

Trina is experiencing technical difficulties [or just hung up on you too, Mom]. Please wait while
we route your chat to the next available representative.

Thank you for your patience.
You are now chatting with Holly.

Holly: Hello! How can I help you with your order today?
[At this point they explain her order has been received and they are asking her to close the chat window . . .the following is what she wrote to me]

"KC, here's the last transmission that no one got - they all told me to use the close button.
Because I didn't, they did.

Here's what I wrote to I thought Sadara:

I'm not surprised you wanted me to press the "close button". I'm sure you've had a
rough night especially after listening to me go on and on about my Mom and Miss
Scooby. Just be happy I didn't get into my medical condition!!! My chair caster was on
top of my oxygen line - no wonder I wasn't thinking clearly - not enough oxygen to the
brain!! !! !! !

But my daughter can attest that being a "normal" condition for me."

[My apologies to Trina, Sadara and Holly of 1-800-Flowers. Thank you for your patience with my mom. I hope you saved this chat and are passing it around the office! I sure would be.]

The Infamous Ass-Punch

2010-04-05T18:04:00.000-07:00

I have been promising this blog for so long, I know, I know.

Anyway . . . let's get to ass-punching, shall we? I've got 150mg of serotonin-neopheblahblahblah dual-uptake inhibitors coursing through my brain. I am READY (albeit, probably not stable).

The Infamous ASS-PUNCH . . .

History: I did some research on the history of the ass-punch. Which basically means I asked Ian where in the hell it comes from. I know, right? Back-breaking, hair-pulling research right there. Result? It's a Navy thing. Yep, they are all sitting there in Maintenance Control on an aircraft carrier, carefully procuring every bit of info they can on the Navy jets that are flying on and off the flight deck and how to make sure they don't. ever. crash. Downtime away from flight deck? Shit-talking. So much shit-talking they end up punching each other so hard in the ass-cheek it's difficult to sit. For hours, and possibly: days, at a time.

Etymology: "Ass-punch" essentially dictates that anytime you are clowned, for anything, you should punch someone in the butt-cheek. Because people in the Navy do it. It's a way of life.

Practical Application: Come home from a long deployment, and then when your wife calls you out on something-or-another, tell her she's getting an ass-punch. Then do it. However, that long deployment must have rendered you unable to readily recall correctly that it's K.C. you are married to. She ass-punches you right back. She even starts to threaten random strangers with one. . .

. . . you only wish she would have been on the USS NotGonnaTellYou because she could teach people a thing or two about the "stealthy-ass-punch", the "pretend-to-hug-you-and-get-in-the-ass-punch", the "I-just-wanna-go-to-bed-ass-punch", and the ever-popular "did-you-just-ass-punch-me-in-public"?

Enough talking in third-person. I took to the ass-punch like a big sister would take to a new way to torture her brother. While that might sound creepy -- I should establish Ian and I are not delving into "domestic abuse" but are rather acting like a couple of hi-jinking, shit-talking, high school kids. That occasionally punch each other in the butt cheek. Mostly lightly.

Sometimes.

It's been a few years, and a lot of non-ass-punching time, but occasionally we go "there". It has to be something totally over-the-top. Something totally deserving of an ass-punch. For instance:

De, Ian, and Jay -- OBG Night, Hermosa Beach, CA.

This is NOT an ass-punch deserving picture, even though he's going to be pissed I posted a pic where he looks like a half-crazed rabbit squinching up his eyes and ready to bite.

This, however, will get an ass-punch:

Ian. Watching Twilight.

Alright, OK, to be fair, he was sitting there just to mock the shit out of Twilight. In this exact moment he was prepping to shovel the shit over sparkly-vampires. He was waiting. He went there. It was funny and great. However . . .

I posted a pic of Ian watching Twilight on the web!!!

Hilarious.

I am so getting an ass-punch.

Depression is a . . .

2010-04-05T07:34:00.000-07:00

Bitch.

I would venture to say it's a bitch from hell.

I have been so down and out I have nothing clever, funny or inspiring to write.

Even if I had something funny or clever to write I can't exactly do it from my computer, as Eden left a bowl of cereal next to my new keyboard and Pippi spilled it. So my D and E keys don't work, and neither do my threats, demands and nagging to not eat anywhere but the dining room. *sigh*

However, there is good news on the horizon. As of 11:30AM I will be medicated with a dual-uptake serotonin - neophablahblahblah inhibitor. Which is a good thing. I think. I can't help but have this nagging suspicion that the outside stresses of my life won't become less pleasant, just my ability to deal with them will improve. Or diminish. However you want to look at it.

I have this philosophy that our society is seriously self-centered and over-medicated. The rest of the world doesn't need anti-depressants to go about their lives. I can't see people who work from dawn to dusk for a few measly cents a day whining about their need for Effexor just to get on with life. Because they don't. They DEAL with it. They have no choice. I hate thinking about that, but I am resigned to be an American. Geographically speaking.

Then I think about my kids, and how they deserve me to be me, and not barely functioning. I think about my house, and how it deserves my attention. I think about my body and how badly it wants to be in shape and out of pain.

File another one away in the "shit that KC knows" file: did you know that chronic pain drains your serotonin and causes chemical depression? That no matter if you were showered in roses, farting rainbows, and dating Alexander Skaarsgard: if you are in pain--you'd still be depressed? Three years I have been off of Effexor due to my pregnancy and breastfeeding of Dash. It's been 8 years since the car accident that nearly broke my neck, and cost me a cervical disc, and left me with titanium hardware holding my neck together. Twenty years since I have had a 48-degree curve in my thoracic spine, and 43-degree curve in my lumbar spine.

I don't tell many people (not that a lot of people don't know, it's just not a typical topic of conversation. I hate to whine, in real life or on the internet) about that wicked back because somehow or another I have been blessed that you can't really tell by looking at me. It's the way I carry myself I suppose. But dude, it hurts.

So off I go to see my cool new doctor and his secretary that called me "little one", again. I'm gonna let that go and assume she calls everyone that. I am grateful I have the strength to admit I need to do this, and a positive look to the future as a medicated American.

Let's just hope I get some funny back. In about two weeks. I think.

Let me count the ways . . . 3

2010-03-19T13:42:00.000-07:00

I realize I am a bit late, but Blogger is pretty cool in that it lets you reset the date. So I am going to make this one appear to be from Friday and we'll just keep it between us that it was posted on Tuesday. 'Kay?

I must confess that I wasn't all that "inspired" by anyone last week. Hence no silly musings on life or laundry at the ole' blog. As a matter of fact I spent the majority of last week quite pissed-off. On Monday I wanted to go see Nathen play with Flogging Molly. Both Jacob and Shane ditched me for friends. On Wednesday, Jacob didn't come home on time to babysit, so Ian and I missed our show. He decided he wouldn't come home at all after Ian yelled at him. On Thursday we learned said-teen has a couple of arrest warrants here in town, one of which was "Failure to Appear". Sweet. Now if he would have been honest, we could have helped him out, but noooooo (Catrina, don't you dare feel guilty -- not YOUR fault). On Friday I very nearly broke my foot. Then on Saturday night I went and broke my brain -- sanity edition. Yeah, I'll be alright, I am on the mend -- with Ian's help. Robert's too -- but he already got the shout out -- and Ian's "shout-out" needs to be EPIC. He doesn't deserve my 'tude this week.

So I got to thinking that time was marching on and I had to give a shout-out to someone. Who? I was in such a foul mood I couldn't think inspiring thoughts -- and it hit me: I should get the shout out. I know that sounds arrogant and obnoxious, but I could use my own little pep-talk . . . and I promise not to be a cow about it. Promise.

I am good at things. A lot of various things, but . . .

I am NOT good at dealing with stress. That is fine, it's alright, I need to accept that. One can only handle just so much stress before they jump in their bed , cover their head, read TwiSmut on their iPhone, and not come out for a couple of days.

What I looked like most of last week. Minus iPhone.

Not minus this:

"Sorry to hear you are stressed, darlin'. May I offer a massage?"

So yep, I got to be a terrible, over-stressed, freakin'-out mother last week. Pile on the guilt!

Wait Wait Wait . . .back to my own little pep-talk: I am a good-enough mother. Sometimes I am a stellar mother. One week here-or-there and my children are not going to be permanently damaged. You know? Lighten up!

I am also a good wife, a good friend, and a good kind-of-crazy. I don't even make under-handed facebook posts. I have a great husband, great friends, and I find good times just about everywhere I go. Oh and people pay for photographs of my gams!

A little obnoxious. I admit. Just giving myself an outer-bits pep-talk.

Photo by Lauren Deardorff

I have been many places, and have done many things. (I would show you a pic of Ian and I drinking "cobra liquor" from Vietnam -- but my butt-waffle brother hasn't sent them to me.) I know lots of quirky little facts which makes me a great little party favor. For instance, do you know if you so much as talk to someone of the opposite sex that you don't know, or are not related to in Northern England: it means you are willing to take them home and shag them? I learned THAT one the hard way. I also can do a mean impression of Nancy from Sid and Nancy. I can probably drink you under the table. It's in the genes.

So here's to me and the things I am good at, the stress I am not good at, the weird shit I know, and life as it comes. Everything will be just fine.

(And for those of you who do like fan-fic, I stumbled across the most amazing story -- and it's still in progress. It's written from the point in Midnight Sun where Edward is trying to figure out how to bite Bella. He actually kidnaps her. It's a really interesting twist on Twilight -- and it's not very smutty -- just good. Called Hide and Bite. Enjoy!)

My house is trying to kill me, honestly.

2010-03-16T08:54:00.000-07:00

Despite that, I've been having a good time.

Eden & Pippi's doorway to their bedroom has a really long strike-plate.

This thing -- so you don't have to Google it. You're welcome.

Like an inch of overhang. I have no idea why except it's placement is meant to cause injury for anyone who comes in and out of that room. Last week I was tearing out of there because I don't like to even see that mess [yes, my girls are total slobs -- I admit it], and the damn thing jumped out and caught my belt loop on my most favorite maternity jeans (yes I said maternity jeans, and no, I am not pregnant. They aren't the big ugly panel-in-the-front kind. They are those early-in-the-pregnancy jeans that have buttons near the hips and elastic so you can adjust the pants to go in when you actually lose an inch from cleaning your daughters' nasty bedroom, or let them out after an hour at the all-you-can-eat Indian buffet up the street) and ripped them. Last night I was wearing different jeans (that I so could use the opportunity to "let out" at the waist but alas they are men's jeans and those jeans give me muffin-top) and the effer caught me again. This time I went flying in a side-ways ricochet into the hallway walls, jammed my hand, twisted my ankle, and landed on my right knee. Hard. It's all swollen and bruised. Poor me.

Then Pippi, my most sweetest little one woke up sick. She's got the glassy eyes and hundred-yard-stare going on. She's also FREAKING out because the DVR'd Yo Gabba Gabba I play to entertain Dash so I can clean things advertises Little Bear coming on next. She just cannot accept Little Bear isn't coming on next. Does not compute. So she cries. And I'm like "Pippi, calm down, it's coming on at 12:30 I promise." She's like "NOoooooOOOOoooooOOOOoooo". As I type this I have to admit my youngest set probably watch way too much TV if I know what time freakin' Little Bear comes on. Wait, I actually DVR Yo Gabba Gabba. Dude. But you don't understand the Dash-man. He gets into everything. Except when Yo Gabba Gabba is on. He just sits there and doesn't move. At all. Transfixed. It's great when I need to go big potty or shower or something.

Toddler Crack

So I had a really eventful weekend. I went with my buddy Claire to see Remember Me on Friday. The new RPattz movie if you aren't a Twi-geek. We actually went to see the Eclipse trailer (DORKS!) but we got totally rick-rolled because we thought we were going to see an entire 2.5 minutes of Eclipse, but it was the same 1.5 minute that's already on freakin' YouTube. Oh and the "Hollywood Theaters Please Turn of Your Cell Phone" image was permanently fixed on the screen but they took it off JUST before the Eclipse trailer which is really good because we might have had to injure the projectionist and make him "rewind". Remember Me was an alright movie. Claire and I both yelled out "Martha Plimpton!" because it was really good to see her; considering that we haven't since like 92' or sumpin'. But right before that, less than a minute into the movie Claire ruined it for me with the ultimate spoiler. Totally gave away the ending. She already spoiled the movie by telling me -- nevermind -- I wouldn't want to spoil it for anyone else (is that SO hard Claire?). So note: don't go to movies with Claire because that duck-knuckle is the spoiler queen. Unless you've already read the book. So I can see Eclipse with you Claire, because I've already read that book. Twice. Ha!

Claire, I swear if you are on the interwebs reading this script you just KEEP IT TO YOURSELF. Even if I kinda-know the story, I don't want to know the ending of the movie. Dude.

So anyway the sound went out in the movie for about four minutes -- right at an important plot-point. Never ones to disappoint our audience, we decided to fill in the dialogue ourselves. JUST as I was about to make Pierce Bronson order a corndog (I actually met him at Hot Dog on a Stick in Santa Monica -- true story) Claire caused me a hernia by making RPattz address me as being much hotter than "that blonde bag". Good times, and two free movie tickets later, we went out to dinner.

Note to self: you are in Oklahoma. Joking about people who think scientists planted dinosaur bones to hurt Jesus' feelings or something is not a wise thing to do in public. Because there are a lot of those people around. And they will give you the stink eye when you are just trying to eat your mushroom ravioli (MLIT SQUEEEEE!), even IF you have Jesus tattooed on your arm. Word.

Then we went shopping.

The next night we were invited out to Shawnee for a rockabilly birthday party. Good times. Ian didn't want to go because of his cough-gag-thing that's lasted for weeks, so I brought Jacob. We headed through the rip-roaring towns of Slaughterville (I thought Claire was being facetious when she said that name, but I saw it for myself, it's real) and Pink. Yep, Pink OK. I wonder who lives in Pink? Just sayin'. Yeah great times. I met a lot of really cool people & listened to some really great music. There was even a fireworks show there at the end. We are invited to a St. Patrick's day show here in Norman that I am really looking forward to. I think I have been to more shows here in three months than I went to in three years in Southern California. I like it here.

GREAT, now the furnace is broken. I only noticed because I am sitting here shivering while typing. It's freezing. Damn it. I told you this house is trying to kill me.

Let me count the ways . . . 2

2010-03-12T07:48:00.000-08:00

It's Friday. Newsflash right? I think I might get thematic if you all don't mind . . . make Friday my "shout-out" day to someone I love or simply: like. A lot. These won't be in priority-order in my life or in my heart -- but if I am thinking about someone, they get the shout-out.

Sound good? Cool, because I am going to do it anyway.

So today's shout-out is kind of apropos. Later I'll be going out with Claire to see the new Robert Pattinson movie Remember Me, and yes, we are actually going to the movie in order to see the trailer for Eclipse. Well, that and two hours of RPattz. *Sigh*

So today my shout-out is to my dear friend Robert Silvey. Known as "Uncle Robert" around here.

My Robert, who has been with me through thick and thin, crazy and sane, drama and calm, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle. Strip clubs, Irish Pubs, breakfasts with my grandma, and dinners with his parents.

MY Robert.

There is so much to say I don't even know where to begin. Maybe the beginning . . .

I met Robert back in 94 or 95. He worked at Video Archives -- thee Video Archives -- of Quentin Tarantino fame. I worked across the street at Restyle Too. I knew the minute I met him we would be BFF's.

My South Redondo Beach apartment would fill up at night, with UCLB art students, public-access TV producers, musicians, punk rockers, goths, rockabillies, tattoo artists, ravers, and of course: Robert. You could cut the pot-smoke with a knife. We had 90210 night, and X-Files night. People painted and created comic books. I wrote [bad] poetry and Robert wrote short stories. We were practically sweating creativity, and of course: stoned out of our gourds. Except for the typically-sober Robert. He brought awesome movies in every genre, and gave us all lessons in how to be proper cinephiles. We watched Foxes over and over and over.

Robert was the kind of guy who called me to let me know the rockabilly who left me high and dry came into his shop -- with his girlfriend -- and gave me her name and phone number. He was the guy who slept on my couch for weeks with a baseball bat after I busted said-rockabilly-slime to his girlfriend for the cheater he was: and she warned me he might take revenge.

My Robert.

When I started dating Ian, Robert was the only man Ian wasn't jealous of. Not because Robert wasn't competition. It's because Robert is so cool.

When Video Archives closed Robert was working in art production on Albino Alligator with Matt Dillon. He would ransack my apartment for props. So if you've seen that movie: that's my stuff.

As the movie wrapped things changed: Robert went crazy. Not crazy like "I've turned 21 and I am sowing my wild oats" crazy. I mean crazy-crazy. Up for days. Getting lost in the desert while driving. Showing up at people's homes at odd hours. Selling all of his things, or giving them away. It was hard-core. It was SCARY. But I stuck by him. Naturally -- after-all -- he's MY Robert. Even when I couldn't talk to him because he made zero-sense, or I couldn't find him for weeks, I was steadfast and I was loyal. I would call his mom and dad to keep an eye on the situation. I even called them from England to check on Robert's status. When they called to tell me he had been arrested I breathed a huge sigh of relief. It was his arrest that forced him into treatment and onto meds. And slowly I got MY Robert back, grateful I had not lost him forever.

I stepped off a plane into the bright sunshine of Los Angeles in the Spring of 2006. There, on the other side of the customs barrier stood MY Robert. I had nowhere to go, no place to live. His parents put me up for a while -- and I set to making Robert enjoy life again -- because I typically do, and I am nothing if not infectious. He had been so depressed after the whole crazy came to conclusion. Robert lost a lot of friends after crazy and of course they weren't really his friends to begin with -- ditching him like that -- and that used to piss me off. Not anymore. People like that don't deserve Robert. So it was me and "The Danny's" hanging in there, and that's alright. Anyway, he didn't work. He slept until two or three. I wasn't having any of that. I would drag his 6'5" body right out of his bed. Before you know it, and with a ton of nagging, Robert was up and out. He started working. He went back to school. And we went back to our typical Los Angeles shenanigans. But with less drugs and more tequila and champagne. Oh the champagne.

He let me cry on his shoulder when Ian was being a jerk, and even though Ian broke up with his girlfriend when I came home, we couldn't make it work. Robert pressed for Ian and I threw my arms up in frustration! "GAWD quit taking his side!" Robert would patiently explain that Ian was the one for me. He was right. He typically is.

So here's to you Robert and all of your awesomeness:

For singing "That's Life" at the top of your lungs while driving 100mph on the way to Vegas for my 21st birthday.

For being able to recite every single line of Twin Peaks Fire Walk With Me in a to-and-fro that only we find entertaining.

For constantly pushing me towards Ian, through all the losers and jerks and sometimes even cool guys, that I dated. You were right.

For bringing Ian to me in Northern California, and being there in that brew-house when Ian proposed -- shouting "THAT'S IT -- THIS IS THE LAST TIME I AM ASKING! KC WILL YOU MARRY ME?". And you calmly saying "well Ian is so quiet the rest of the time, it's appropriate he shout the important things." You being there made that moment much more special -- plus I have a witness that Ian shouted it.

For singing B-52's songs in Grunge styling, and Sinatra songs just like Fred from the B-52's -- making me laugh so hard I peed on your car seat.

For lifting me out of your car and dropping me in the guest room when I drank too much.

For always being the designated driver.

For staying in the girl's room during my wedding. Stinking the whole place up two hours before we had to be at the chapel -- thanks dude -- but seriously: you were the best bridesmate EV-AH.

For coming to see me wherever I went in the world.

For making each place we would go: funny.

For being the most gentle spirit in the world.

For coming to see me each time I have a baby.

For playing karaoke with me on the PS2 -- all. day. long. Damn brother, you can hit some notes.

For taking me out on date nights once a week when Ian deployed to the war.

For putting your arm around me when I cried during sad movies, like The Pianist.

For being the kind of guy my husband doesn't mind taking his wife out to movies & dinner while he's deployed.

For the year you gave everyone Corey & Corey films for Christmas. I wonder if you are bummed about Corey Haim dying? For that one year you gave everyone romance novels with Fabio on the cover.

For making me laugh. All. The. Time.

For giving me every movie Antonio Banderas has been in.

For ordering a flaming Strawberry Margarita and two cheese enchiladas every. single. time. we go to El Compadre.

For playing with our kids. Gentle giant that you are.

For not talking badly about anyone, at any time. . . except . . .

For finally admitting that my-ex-best-friend-whom-I-will-never-condescend-to-speak-to-again is a skank for trying to seduce my husband, and a big fat LIAR for trying to deny it.

For being my bestie for so many years. Through my mood swings, tantrums, my own crazy and my dramas. For loving me no matter what I do.

I love you Robert. We all do. We miss you terribly. And I know you are probably pissed there is a picture of Robert Pattinson on a blog about YOU -- but I still owe you an ass-punch for that time I was on acid and you said "Awesome! The Shining is on!" which made me hide in my walk-in closet for eight hours. Consider us even.

K.C. & Robert, Seattle 2006.

I want to work out. I really do. But . . .

2010-03-11T06:45:00.000-08:00

Here's the thing: I am overweight. My arms are fat (we've covered this). My face is fat. Oh hell, everything is fat. I've joined a gym with good intentions. I've bought the ugly work-out shoes. I own too many pairs of yoga-pants. But . . .

I am an old Goth. From Los Angeles.

What does this mean? It means that I can't work out in front of other people. Certainly NOT in a gym. No. Can. Do.

I went to my gym the other day with my good intentions. Pulling into the parking lot I notice it's full. I was actually relived that I wouldn't have to go in and work-out. Just then someone pulls out right in front. Shit. I have to now. I was just-on-time for a body sculpt class. I go to the aerobics room and it is full to the max. A lady who has the primo spot in the back next to the door says there is one spot left: right up front. Internal debate starts:

"Grab weights? Grab a step? Where are they? OME, I don't know? How do I know what to get? OME! I can't go up front! Not with all these people!"

"Just do it. You'll be so proud of yourself."

"No, I can't. Too many people."

"JUST GO!"

"No. idea. what. to. get. OME! People will see me! I can't do this!"

So I slowly back out of the room hoping nobody will notice. Two other ladies are pondering joining while looking cautious themselves. I help them out with their own internal debate and tell them the class is waaaay full. Aren't I a fantastic enabler? Dude, I rock.

Breaking into my own thoughts of making a run for the door, I decide I am just going to go to the weights and circuit room. Just to check out the computer-trainer that's part of my membership. So. Many. People. Pretending I am not there by turning my back to the room and willing myself invisible I do the whole computer program and get my workout plan from the printer. I turn and face the room. . .

Full blown PANIC. All these people who don't even notice me but I am convinced they do because I am standing there in all my non-Goth glory are: "OME looking at me!!" (No they're not, they're looking forward and I happen to be "forward".)

What the hell is the matter with me? The matter is that I have this little goth girl in my brain that says (dang it Claire! Why did you have to send me the new Eclipse trailer while I am writing my blog? I've lost my train of thought! I am all goose-pimply and a-Edward-flutter! Wait! Look at how skinny Bella's waist is! Back to task . . .)

uhm . . .

Oh yeah: "I am too cool to work out in front of these people!"

But I don't look like this:

Me. 16 years ago.

Look at those skinny arms!

I look like a 35-year-old woman who has given birth four times. Chunky face and fat arms and all. Nobody cares. But me. DORK.

Here's the issue: L.A. is a completely shallow, body-image-is-EVERYTHING sort of town. The gym culture of Los Angeles is exactly that: it's own sub-culture. Goths, even old ones: do NOT go to gyms. Because we don't like gym people and gym people don't like us. Period. So here is this huge mental block that is about as grown up as Twilight itself, and it's stopping me from having Sarah Jessica Parker's arms and K-Stew's waist. Even though I know full-well I am in Oklahoma and people here are nice and typically not shallow or judgmental.

I am trying to make Ian go with me but he's still sick with his cough-gag illness and not feeling like doing anything but tea-drinking and book-reading. I'm even hesitant to work-out with him because once he saw me do Power 90 without a sports bra and made some devilish comments about dangerous boobs-a-flying. I had to stop to yell: "DUDE! SHUT UP IAN!" Then there was that time I was doing The Firm and he was laughing his skinny-ass-off. So I challenged him to do it and he couldn't and the laugh was on him. I still bring that up. But yeah. I gotta work out. The work-out-at-home idea is not an option with Dash. No can do. I HAVE to go to a gym if I want to work-out.

I know! I'll make Jacob come with me. It has got to be just as embarrassing for him to work out with his chunky 35-year-old step-mother as it is for my little inner-goth-girl to work out in front of others. We can be awkward, weight-lifting, cycling, tread-milling, dorks: together. Then we can come home and watch New Moon and I'll dream of having K-Stew's waist and skinny face for my very own, and he'll be planning on having a better body than Taylor Lautner.

It's a date. I just have to tell him. Once we are at the gym and he can't escape.

My friend: facebook.

2010-03-10T15:28:00.000-08:00

Today I have been pondering facebook. Well not the site itself, although it's wackiness today has me a bit perplexed: where the heck are my posts going to and then reappearing from? Does the facebook moderator think that he's some kind of magician?

"Hey Rocky! Watch me pull an irrelevant update on somebody's life out of my hat!"
"A-gain???"

I was pondering my life on facebook. Well, more precisely: my contacts and how they view my life because of facebook.

We have 140 facebook friends. No more, no less. Most of my facebook friends have at one point, been my in-real-life friend, or my husband's, and we've collected a couple of our ex's along the way -- because it's facebook -- and they happen to be cool ex's. We are one of those cutsie-couples who share a facebook. It was at Ian's request: "anyone who knows me also knows that I am married to you (his emphasis -- truly). If they are trying to contact me on the sly or behind your back then they don't need to contact me AT ALL." Aren't I the luckiest? Totally. Just so you know: Ian does not do facebook, or any social networking. I tell him the relevant info or message and he tells me what to write back. I think he's been on twice. Myspace was a disaster. Whoa! Sidetracked on history. Let's get back to my point:

So out of these 140 friends: most are people we know. Except: there was this whole Catholic Answers Forums mass-banning which landed me a large contingent of fellow Catholic internet friends at facebook (whom I think perplexes our old punk-rock, real-life friends, and vice-versa). I also gathered a few from Yahoo!Answers. Then there is a few "expecting club" message board members. I added Brittany the Barefoot Foodie because she makes me laugh so hard I cry. From Brittany's facebook I snagged Emily (because she's totally hot and tattooed and lives in England). Emily has an awesome food blog -- and we get all foodie with each other which kinda sucks since we have to use measurement converters. Since, you know, England is on the totally logical metric system. Unlike the USA. And Burma. And Liberia. (Go us three!) Well now that I list just how many of our facebook friends are internet-based I am tempted to do the facebook-math. But these are not the people who make me ponder my facebook life today . . .

Out of those 140 only twenty-or-so are consistently posting to my posts. About 40 people randomly hit the comment button when I am being especially silly, or profound (yeah right). That leaves 100 people. Who are they and why are they so quiet?

Do they read my nonsense and scratch their heads in puzzlement? Do they laugh?

Our priest is on our page, and sometimes I cringe when I think about all the creative cussing I have done on facebook. Rather, I cringe thinking about his cringing.

"Whoa! K.C.! Stop with the 'butt waffle' already!"

What I do realize is that I have family on my page -- not my sisters or brother because they already know I am whack. I am talking: extended family. Extended family of family. Which should make our next mandatory family-gathering pretty interesting:

"Your arms aren't that fat"

"What's with the doll you carry around and take pictures with?"

"Why do you and your friends talk about books with rock and cacti, do you read books about rocks and cacti?"

"Why is it high-time for a dual-intake-whatdidyoucallit?"

"What is an 'Oklahoma Blow Dry'?"

"What's a butt waffle?"

So here's to you oh-silent-folks at facebook. I hope to maybe, or maybe-not (listen up Father Mike) discuss my facebook randomness with you in the future! Like my fat arms. And my willingness to give one of those fat arms up for a nap.

I know you all can give me one thing, silent or not: I might be random, and kinda crazy -- but I am not trying to dress-to-impress (or God-forbid take a gazillion self-portraits). I don't quote Sartre to appear interesting. My crazy is really me. And those fat arms? That's really me too.

Got Milk? No? I do!

2010-03-04T17:06:00.000-08:00

I am one of those women. You know the ones. I call it "lactivist", but let's be honest: I am one of those women who will tell you to go eat your cheeseburger in a bathroom stall if you don't like my breastfeeding in public. I have said, in church: "what do you think Jesus ate? Similac? In an Avent bottle? Was it carried in Mary's Coach purse?".

I strongly encourage others to do the same. I have sewn a custom-made "boobie-hider" for my most-voluptuous friend just because her husband would get all uppity when people on planes stared at the biggest boobs ev-ah as they fed a baby (the shock! the horror!). Not even Samuel Jackson would comment. Just sayin'.

"Ma'am, is that boobs on a plane? Oh sorry, I didn't notice you were feeding a precious human baby. Carry on."

Yep one of those.

I am also one of those who will help you with any breastfeeding issue you have. Support you when you are frustrated. Hold you, or just listen while you cry -- because the first time you breastfeed is typically hard, and people need to quit lying about THAT. People should quit telling you that you ARE DOING IT WRONG: without offering help on how to get it right -- or simply accepting your boobs are chapped, or split, or bleeding because let's face it: nobody has put that much suction on your precious virgin nipple for 20-hours-a-day before. I'll just tell you to stick with it -- for 6 weeks -- and bite on a pencil at latch if it gets you through. Because lady, that's it, just a few weeks, it'll be fine after that. I promise. I'll send you fenugreek seeds in the mail if your supply is low. I'll link you to any support article I can find. I am, in that way: a true "lactivist".

I also have a few friends who haven't breastfed (the most heartbreaking are those who had babies in the NICU -- because I KNOW how impossible it is to pump while stressed, much less with lack of sleep and a million trips to said NICU) for a variety of reasons. I'm cool with that. It's not like I am a boob-juice-Nazi. I can roll with it. I will also give you all my formula-company-coupons because those bastards are constantly trying to undermine my breastfeeding.

For perspective: I have been breastfeeding for nearly 11 years on-and-off. I just recently weaned my 2-year-old. You should know that two-years-straight is the longest I have breastfed one child. On my road of lactation I have learned a few things:

*Breastmilk is awesome (duh)

*Breastmilk cures pink-eye/conjunctivitis. In fact, breastmilk is the bomb-diggity of pink-eye medication. A few drops of human milk in the eye will knock out conjunctivitis in a few hours. As opposed to days with topical medication.

*Breastmilk heals diaper rashes, excema, acne, colds, flu, psoriasis, etc.

You know what? Name it. Breastmilk ROCKS in the oddest of ways.

If I had to go somewhere, like God-forbid, the hospital for a week: I would be totally fine with someone else breastfeeding my child. I know many women might not harken to this idea, but yeah -- I'd be down. To me human milk would be a far-superior choice. I wish my sister could have breastfed in interim so I could go to a movie or something -- but we keep missing each other by a year or four.

So naturally my laissez-faire attitude to human milk plus my cheerleader-type-glee towards the awesomeness of breastmilk sometimes puts me in an odd predicament with my non-breastfeeding friends.

Especially when one of those friends has a baby with CONJUNCTIVITIS.

So Claire tells me that Piper has one of the WORSE cases of pink-eye she has ever seen, and certainly has never experienced. "Oh really?" I begin my campaign about how awesome breastmilk is. STOP. SHIT. You don't breastfeed.

So like a 16-year-old borrowing his dad's car for a first date while trying to get the girl to go to first base: I start trying to convince Claire, carefully and awkwardly, how MUCH a few drops of my breastmilk would help clear Piper's pink-eye up. In one day. Promise. And aren't you the LUCKY lady? I just happen to still be lactating!

"You wont have to watch. I know it's weird to you, it must be, but I promise it'll work. It's FREE -- and girlfriend, y'all don't have insurance."

She laments that it's so bad that she is willing to try anything.

"See ya in the morning!'

I forgot her hubby doesn't start work until noon. Talk about AKWARD. I wasn't even wearing a bra (I'm not small chested)! "Oh never-mind me, I am just here to squirt boob-juice in your daughter's eyes." Sean is SO awesome though, he just let me know he was cool and left with the joke: "just avoid the electronics, we're all good".

So Piper and I hit her big sister's room so her poor mommy didn't have to witness -- uh -- this. Piper didn't fuss as much as I expected, you know seeing that she isn't used to boobs being used as anything but pillows. So I gave her some milk in her eyes and I am not kidding: within ten minutes her eyes were clearing up and her tears were glassy -- not gooey.

Today I heard fantastic news! She was ALL-GOOD by bed time. Woke up with not-a-thing in her eyes this morning! I hear that Claire's mom is even singing the milk-praises!!

I am just grateful I have a friend who would trust me and say "you know what -- go for it -- it can't hurt". Then eventually: "Thank you! That shit ROCKS!"

Love ya Claire & Sean! Thanks for letting me to be the ultimate Lactivist. Thanks for being even cooler parents.

Busy . . .

2010-03-02T17:35:00.000-08:00

My body moved to Oklahoma but my heart and soul moved to Forks, WA. Home to seven sparkly vampires, a gang of teenage werewolves, and 3121 insignificant humans. One particularly insignificant human is a teenage girl named Bella. For some unknown reason: everyone is absolutely smitten with her. If there was a troll living under the bridge in Forks, I am sure he would be in love with her too . . .

Yep, that's right, I am absolutely, irrefutably, obsessed with the Twilight series.

Yeah me.

How does the woman who reads Papal Encyclicals for entertainment become a Twitard you ask? I don't know. (The world's longest run-on sentence incoming) I think the most accurate description of this phenomena -- how a badly-written, Mormon-morals-dripping-meaning-zero-sex-involved, sparkly[!?]-fucking-vampires-who never sleep-not-even-in-the-day, teenage angst ridden, nightmare-of-a-series with the worst ending of ALL TIME can ensnare ~~mature~~ adult women -- is simply this: I don't know.

At this point I am ready to call in the Destination Truth team to figure it out.

I can tell you how it happened to me: I have tore through the Sookie Stackhouse (basis for the HBO series True Blood) books -- twice -- and am on hold until the next one releases in May. So I get to itching for another vampire tale and realize Eden's Twilight book is just sitting there, ignored.

My only previous experience in the Twilight phenomena is tweeny girls screaming "Team Jacob" or "Team Edward" around the house loudly and obnoxiously enough to make even Eden swear-off the series. That and the "paparazzi obsession" with Rob and Kristen -- I try not to feed that demon -- so I avoid buying most pap-driven mags. But I needed something to read, right now, something light and silly. However this is pushing the boundary of acceptable-silly, so I call my friend Claire and whisper conspiratorially into the phone: "I'm thinking of reading Twilight." She hasty-quick responds "I am SOOO glad you said that, because I am too!" YOU ARE??

"Alrighty, listen up, I'll read Twilight, and then I'll bring it to you." She says "make sure you wear a floppy hat and big sunglasses and just drop it off in a paper bag on my porch, quick-like, feel free to keep to the shadows."

Three hours later and 200 pages in Ian interrupts: "what's the name of the next book?".

"Huh? Sorry, were you speaking? Sorry, I'm in Forks, WA. Vampires sparkle. Don't even start."

"Next book?"

"Why?"

"Well I'm heading to Target, and by the looks of it, you'll need the next one in the series in an about an hour or so."

"Wait! Wha? Honestly? YOU would buy a book in the Twilight series for me? Oh honey! That is so awesome! How endearing! And loving! But what about your manhood?"

"No biggie, I'll just take Eden with me, nobody will be any wiser."

An hour later I had New Moon in my hot-little-hands. Good thing too, because I tore through it that night. The next morning Ian ran to Target for Eclipse. I took a begrudging break from the series to deliver Twilight and New Moon to Claire, in disguise, of course. It was alright though -- because I would need Breaking Dawn by evening, so I made a side-trip to the bookstore.

Which of course led me to watch True Blood Season 2 on the internet because those are actually geared towards ~~mature~~ adults and contain a whole bunch of *vampire sex* (PURRRRRRR)! I actually tell myself I am keeping a healthy balance by throwing True Blood into my sparkly vampire obsession, and that I'll always be hotter for Alexander Skaarsgard than Robward. Because he's older. And finer. And far less hairy.

Wait. I think I need to print this.

Then Claire starts my day off with stuff like this, and well, "hairy" is pretty alright with me: *Sigh* See what I mean?

I did mention these books are dripping with sexual(non)-tension right? I was absolutely convinced it's because Stephenie Meyer has *never, ever* had sex so she doesn't quite know how to describe it, her sons are adopted, her husband is chaste. Then I ~~woke-up~~ ~~realized~~ reminded myself that these books are actually written for the tween set and I would just have to use my imagination and keep subjecting my poor, abused, over-stimulated, husband to *vampire sex*. That is until I discovered that since I am only one of a million or so ~~mature~~ adult women out there going crazy over Twilight; that someone, somewhere would write Twismut. Yes, it exists, and some of it is really, really ~~dripping-hot~~ good. (Another good one -- make sure you read part two, not that you have a choice after getting down to the end of part one -- just stopping isn't an option.) This is insanity!

I think the strangest part of this experience, I mean besides my heart speeding up and audibly sighing when I see anything of Robward when out and about: is the really extreme emotions this book brought out of me. For a couple days there, when I first read Twilight itself I was no longer 35 -- I was 17 again. Melancholy and all. Thankfully I have a patient and understanding husband (whom I could NOT confess to what was happening to me, but he was patient with my moodiness and intensity just the same). That was horrible, those few days -- but I wouldn't trade it for the world -- because it felt so good to FEEL emotions that aren't par for the spousal-or-parenting course. Ian is so amazing (and hot!) -- but he is beside himself with what to do with me.

We actually got into an argument when I listed vampires in hotness-seniority -- because he couldn't believe Edward out-ranked Vampire Bill. When I told him I blamed Charlaine Harris for causing all this disruption in my life he said "oh good, when I see that bitch I'll punch her twice".

It takes quite a lot of discipline not to talk about Twilight all. the. time. But I have to: Ian is starting to twitch when I bring it up (he still doesn't mind all that hot *vampire sex* though). In fact I think he might prefer this to my outbursts over fundies from Y!A Religion & Spirituality. However, he's trying to bring me out of it -- really, truly trying.

Ian hosted a movie-marathon when we were iced/snowed in, and he went for every guy I have ever thought was hot at any point in my life since I was 20. Desperado (which physically hurts because Banderas is SO hot -- and which Ian USED to refuse to watch with me because of all the uncontrollable sighing and moaning that comes out of me -- and please note: Banderas was UBER hot as the Vampire Armand in Interview With a Vampire), Lord of the Rings (Orlando Bloom is only hot as the elf in "K.C.'s" world -- but when he's the elf, he's really, really sizzling -- more sighing), some terrible Viggo Mortenson movie (yet he was naked and therefor it's forgivable), Hairspray because I have a thing for the guy who typically plays Elvis in many movies. He desperately searched for Cry Baby and Wild at Heart to no avail. I watched them all, and I loved him for his effort . . .

Ending this Robward obsession will not be that easy Ian! No matter how much non-vampire hotness you throw at me. You'll just have to remain embarrassed by me cutting people off to ogle the Robward calender in Target. (The one my mom bought for me the other day -- shhhhhhhhhh) Deal.

On that note, I gotta go -- Claire keeps sending me Robward Youtube videos. It's time for the daily fix. Word.

(Please note this was written some time ago, and I have edited and changed a bit, but this is IT. This is "BUSY". I am still irrefutably in love with Twilight, even if the vampires sparkle).

cough-cough-Ian-is-a-fuhreak-cough cough

2010-03-02T05:15:00.000-08:00

It was the middle of the night and the house was dark and quiet. I was awoken to this:

"cough. cough. cough. cough. cough. cough. cough"

A series of coughs that one might do in church or in a movie theater, but because they came from a man: they were still loud enough to wake me. On and on it went. So I say to my darling Ian:

"Oh just go ahead and really cough already, get it OVER with."

"SHUT UP!!"

"But don't cough with your stomach. Or you will puke."

"OH MY GAWD SHUT UUUUUP!" COUGH-GAG-Gurgle-COUGH!

Ian coughing.

What? I know that's what you are thinking: what do you mean "don't cough with your stomach??". My husband coughs with his stomach. It's as if somewhere in his childhood he never got the connect between using your lungs and diaphragm along with your throat to clear you air passages. He enlisted his stomach to help and so he gags and gurgles and 80% of the time he PUKES when he has a large coughing fit. Knowing me and my absolute fear & loathing of anything involving bodily-solids, this means I have to run and hide when he starts to cough. It also means that we actually fight about this.

Ian doesn't understand that the way he coughs is simply not normal. I've begged, I've pleaded, I've nicely asked him to listen to other people cough. They don't gag and gurgle! "Listen to me cough Ian! Listen! I've popped a rib and have pulled muscles in my back during particularly nasty runs of bronchitis -- but I have never puked!" But I didn't say anything more last night because when I tell him not to use his tummy, he gets really, really, pissed.

So he's coughing and gagging and making moves to quickly get to the bathroom: to puke.

*sigh*

So here I laid, listening to a week's worth of Indian food from the all-you-can-eat buffet hit the toilet in all it's disgusting splendor while trying not to cry or run screaming into the street. I was also shaking my head because he SO doesn't have to puke just from coughing.

Oh and feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments because he might read this and finally get I am not just trying to screw with him because, honestly, people do not use their tummies to cough IAN-- it's a recipe for disaster! Stumm den Kopf.

Let me count the ways . . .

2010-02-26T08:33:00.000-08:00

I freakin' LOVE two-year-olds. Of all the ages a child can and will be: it's two that melts my heart and makes me just so dang happy to be a momma.

You can audibly hear my heart breaking a little when I realize, and I do so daily, that Dash will probably be my last two year old (please note that I don't say "I'm done having children" because every time I do I end up pregnant. Sure as the sun rises. I chalk it up to me telling everyone my plans, and God telling me his. That and the fact Ian and I are total horn-dogs who are also really, really fertile). So I eat up every day of his two year old world, and his two year old jabberings, and his two year old eyes that look at me with the most intense love and trust and joy.

Let me count the ways:

My heart absolutely melts whenever he says in his sweet, little repetitive voice: "Thank you momma. Thank you daddy." Or "Love you mom!" Oh that one is the BEST.

I love all the names he has for his brothers and sisters. Jacob is "Jaba" as in Jaba the Hut. Eden is "E-na". Shane is always "Shaney". And poor little Pippi is typically called "Poopy" as in "come ON Poopy let's go!" His excitement upon seeing them when they get home from school and how he yells their names on sight. Preempted with a heartfelt "HI!" "HI E-NA! HI SHANEY! HI POOPY!"

I love it when he trips and then announces "I'm OK, I'm good!" and just keeps on trucking.

I love it when he says "'kateboard" over and over and over and Ian gets all irritated and begs him to stop saying it, so I walk up and say "whatcha got there Dash?" and he says "my 'kateboard!" and Ian rolls his eyes and looks like he wants to smack me and I just laugh and laugh.

I love it when I discover he knows things I haven't taught him and I get all gushy and gooey over how smart he is. Like knowing his colors. Or when he counts "4-5-6".

I love when he starts to sing random songs he knows. Like "where you at, where you at, there ya go, there ya go" from Peanut Butter Jelly Time.

I love that he makes me rewind the Baskin and Robbins Ice Cream and Cake commercial like 30 times, and I am happy to do it because it brings him so much joy.

I love his wild and deep laughter that comes from the very core of his being. When I tickle him he'll shout "owie owie" amidst that laughter and when I stop he demands "agin! agin!".

I love that his little shenanigans make all of his siblings laugh. I love how much HE is loved.

I love his questions and I don't get tired of them even when he asks me the same thing twenty times in a row.

I love how he has a "robot voice" and a "dinosaur voice" and how he can link two ideas together, like putting on his cowboy hat prompts "I'm a cowboy, giddy up horsey, giddy up! Yee HAW!"

I love that he knows how much I can't stand poop so he grabs a diaper and wipes and heads straight for Ian when he's home.

I love it when I yell at another kid he stands right behind me and yells too. Take THAT!

I love his wonder at the world and how he just drinks everything up and I can see the little wheels in his head turning as he processes all this new information. Going on a walk with him is an exercise in humility -- we take so much for granted -- whereas he does not.

Most of all I love exchanges like the one we had with him this morning. . .

Dash crawled into our bed at 6AM. I cuddled him and gave him kisses. He in turn was practicing his puckering and was kissing my face. I said "thank you Dash" and he said "Bore wecome Momma" (heart-melting goodness right there). Just then he heard Ian getting ready for work in the bathroom next to our bedroom. He gets quiet and cautious and says "oh no, momma, it's a scary monster."

"No, Dash it's just daddy getting ready to go to work."

"It's a monster."

"No, honey it's not, it's just daddy -- I promise."

"It's not a scary monster?"

"Nope, just daddy. No monsters in this house."

"It's daddy? Not a monster?"

"Not a monster Dash. Just a daddy."

Just then Ian walks in the room and Dash sits up and points at him:

"You a SCARY MONSTER daddy!"

"No I'm not Dash. I'm not a monster."

"YOU A MONSTER DADDY!"

"I'm not a monster Dash!"

"Yes, you a monster daddy!"

and on it went through Ian putting on his combat boots and donning his Navy-issue wool sweater. I just laughed at the exchange and didn't mind being awake at the un-Godly hour of six because I got to witness this moment of two-year-old awesomeness and Ian being called a monster. Ian kissed Dash good bye, told him he loved him, told him it's too early to be awake and he should cuddle with mommy and sleep more. And once again tried to convince him he wasn't a monster. By then Dash had moved on to climbing out of bed, wondering aloud where Poopy is, and heading for the kitchen. Ian walked out the door, so I fixed him "mik and cerea" and just looked forward to another day of enjoying Dashiell in all his two-year-old glory.

Except his poopy diapers. Those I do not love.

I'm bringing sexy back

2010-02-25T11:18:00.001-08:00

So today I am sitting here thinking about sending Ian a sexy text message. I have nothing. Not a single sexy thought that I can put into clever and enticing words. I started thinking about St. Philomena and whether or not St. Bridgette is still on the rolls. NUN THOUGHTS! Not sexy thoughts: nun thoughts. I know it's Lent, but come on!

I throw it out to my facebook friends hoping for suggestions, and one dear friend suggests I text something about what I am or am not wearing. I point out that yoga pants and a Sex Pistols T-shirt is hardly sexy. She goes on to suggest I text that I am not wearing granny-pants or a nursing bra, or maternity clothes. Fine, I'll text "I'm not wearing any panties!" but leave out the details of toddler-snot-stains and honey-nut-O's stuck to my yoga pants. Totally not sexy.

I don't know what I was expecting -- but it wasn't this. I kid you not, this is the exchange between Ian and I:

KC: I'm not wearing any panties.

Ian: Sweet!

KC: Oh thank God, I was worried you
might lament the state of the laundry.

Ian: I'm wearing two pairs.

KC: Well, we'll have to remedy that later . . .
wait, why in the hell are you wearing two pairs?

Ian: To compensate for your lack
of panties. If u don't go through
the right amount of panties in a
day the laundry gods get angry
and set fourth their vicious dryer
of doom to randomly eat your
socks. But never an even pair.
Just one here. One there.

So much for bringing sexy back.

What Happens When Parents Drunk Dial . . .

2010-02-23T10:36:00.000-08:00

Now, now, I am not talking about my comrades who, like me, are still in the world of peanut butter sandwiches for breakfast, lunch & dinner, Pre-K and still-have-one-in-diapers. We people deserve the occasional indulgence of alcohol and a bitch-a-thon on the phone with our friends (thanks, friends, for all the buzzed-calls you have taken from me. Word.). This is a cautionary tale, and some advice for parents who drunk-dial their own children.

My parents aren't young (well duh) but to put this into perspective: they were 37 and 27, respectively, when I was born. I'm 35. To spare you the math: that makes my dad 73 and my mom 63. They are both retired. It seems that the older they get: the earlier in the day they start drinking. So my mom holds off until 3 or so 'til she starts sipping some white wine and gets busy knitting. By six she's talking back to the TV news and yet: still knitting. (Beautiful stuff at that. I have to admire her because if you have seen the results of my drinking & sewing . . .)

My dad: beer-and-pancakes baby!

I was raised with a certain ethos, which has nothing to do with drunk-dialing, or stoned-dialing for-that-matter because I absolutely cannot be near a phone when stoned, just ask Mrs. Silvey who received a stoned-call from me like 16 years ago and is [probably] still trying to recover. I haven't been stoned in dog's years but this whole dialing-while-slightly-inebriated-on-anything reminded me of that fateful night. Anyway, this ethos has not a lot to do with the story -- but with my point. I'll get there. For now grab some popcorn and make yourself comfortable.

Ethos from dad: "Do not say 'ever,' 'never,' or 'always' in an argument because you are automatically lying by using absolutes and you LOSE said-argument." How much has this ethos stuck with me? The kids owe me a quarter if they use one of these adverbs, and Ian's forehead vein throbs when I tell him he loses his argument for using one or all of them. As in "You NEVER make my lunch!". He's right. It's been a while, but it's not "never". Follow me? [Let me give you another cautionary tale: do not argue absolutes or truth of the preceding adverbs with a lawyer -- even if they are your friend or relative. Trust me.]

Because dad is always [he he] the "ever, never, always Nazi" (he's also the Yahtzee Nazi, but that's another post) and is so strict with everyone, including random strangers -- I can make a point if I use them ON him. But it has to be rare, and to THE POINT. Last year:

"Dad, I am sick of talking to you because every time I do, you always put me down, and never take my side." Then I hung up on him. I called him the next day and he sounded like a wounded child: "you (gasp) used, (gasp) ever, never AND (GASP!) always!"

"Yep, makin' my point."

He's behaved since then. See what I mean?

So last week my daddy-dear drunk dials me and reams me a new one for stupidity in the case of The Death. (See previous post, and take note this is how I am going to have to refer to the situation at hand henceforth: "The Death". It's a big ole elephant in the living room of my soul, so you'll probably hear more about it) I point out I am not entirely to blame and that a certain detective in a certain town is a complete ignoramous who pretty much created my personal, unfortunate situation. He DEMANDS I need an attorney: NOW. He says he's going to pay for it, just have them call for the retainer. I argue that he doesn't have to because it was my dumb-ass move, and he's all drunk-cool saying "yeah I do, you're my kid, so I get to pay for your dumb-ass moves, and you've had so few dumb-ass moves, it's the least I can do." Ahhh isn't that sweet? Butterflies and puffy hearts float around me and the next day I call a really great attorney I happen to know and whom I have not argued absolutes with [yet] . . .

Did I mention my dad is 73? He probably hasn't hired an attorney for 20 years or so and hasn't factored in inflation. The attorney wants $5K in a retainer. WHOA! Guess what? That's not the worse part: dad was drunk-enough during our call -- he FORGOT not only his offer, but that he told me to call an attorney in the first place!! My attorney was like "uh, just got off the phone with your dad -- he's going to call you. I'm not sure he's on board." Huh?

Embarrassing. Like I could ~~die~~ cry I am so embarrassed. [No more death jokes from me. Including "I am going to kill Ian/Jacob/Eden/Shane/Pippi/Dash/Nigel/Zoey/Misty/my mom/my dad." or "Ian is going to kill me!" Nope. Out of the every-day vocabulary right along with never, ever and always. Because that "die/kill" shit has a whole new meaning in my world.]

I call my mom (before 3 mind-you) and explain what's happened and bless her soul: she is going to help me out. (Mom: listen, you don't need to be drunk-dialing me and venting about family drama over grandma either, kay? I love you and appreciate you helping out -- but when you are tempted to call me in a huff: just write yourself a post-it note and call me in the morning.)

Mom, Dad: THIS is who you are drunk-dialing.

So the next day dad decides he's going to give me 15 minutes of sober-but-bad legal advice and then admit he just doesn't have that kind of cash laying around. Guhreat. The attorney is cool and dropped his retainer significantly. I'm scrambling for money back here in Oklahoma, including looking for part-time evening work. At least until I take care of my business in this mess. Meanwhile, on this blog I am getting to my point:

Dad, you are probably not going to read this (although you might since I bought you a computer and you are going to that "internet for old-people" class at the senior center, or because my sister Jenny is going to read this and ream YOU a new one) but just in case:

Do NOT ever, never, ever, never, ever, never, drunk-dial me, demand I do something, offer to pay for it and then leave me hanging!

Seriously.

I barely dodged the bullet . . .

2010-02-23T06:18:00.001-08:00

that would have sent Ian's career to the 7th layer of hell.

If you know me in real life, (and few of you who read this actually do) you know that I have a little issue people call "KC's Nurse Drama".

Kinda like this, but the nurses usually start it.

My MIL once gave me a get-well card featuring nurses throwing things and they all have little speech-bubbles over their heads saying "Go on! Get outta here" "Don't come back!" "You have no idea how happy we are that you are well". Yes, I am that notorious. Here's my issue: if you are an RN it does not make you God. So save your condescending bullshit for the stupid people. I don't get the math on this either, because my sister is a big ole bad-ass RN, BSN and she's not condescending. She has pointed out that nurses have to deal with people who are sick and in pain and it gets a bit tiresome. I have pointed out that I am very nice to nurses -- I just am totally unlucky in the draw. So what IS the deal? For some reason -- 9 times out of 10 I get the know-it-all, or the pissy, or the slow, or the unconcerned, or the stupid (I think it's some kind of reaping-and-sowing but I can't figure out what I did in the past to deserve 20 years of shitty people who happen to be nurses). The kind that will call Dashiell's name 20 different ways than how it's pronounced and no matter how many times I correct her: she'll still say "Dash-I-ell", or "Dash-eel", prompting me to throw up my arms and accuse her of not having a library card. (I think she was an LVN though, just sayin')

But the worse, the very worse RN personality to me is the "condescender." I had one at my new doctor's office the other day who called me "little one". Really? Little One? I just stood there with mouth hanging open trying not to pop off on her: I am older than you, I am obviously FATTER than you, what the hell are you thinking? But I liked the Doctor, a lot, so I spared her my fury and hell-fire.

Enter Ash Wednesday. (I had been fasting all day and the ONLY reason I am bringing it up is because if I had eaten I probably wouldn't have been so spacey and no, I am not bragging or complaining.) I had to take all four young ones to the Health Department for some vaccines they needed for school. We ended up -- all five of us, and one condescending nurse -- in a walk-in-closet for an HOUR. Small people + shots = DRAMA. Meanwhile the nurse decides I am the world's biggest idiot because I don't have the shot records with me -- even though I am trying to explain I DO have them, but they are in a box somewhere in my unpacked house. Truly. I have them. There is a disconnect with shot records and military records and Shane's medical records are just lost -- forever. She assumed they are not transferred (they are) nor do I know how to get them (I do), and I need to trust her because she knows, and I just have to go to this one room in this one building and get these yellow cards (Ian already got them) on the base and I had BETTER listen to her because "trust me I'm military" blah blah blah. I am growing angrier by the second because she's getting more condescending by the second and the tension is rising and something is going to blow or break. Her lips are pursed, her eyes are squinting, the wrinkles in her forehead are pronounced: she seems to be more frustrated than anything, like she's talking to an empty clam shell. Just as I am about to blow a gasket and am begging myself not to because it's Lent . . . OME she sees the look on my face and just stops.

Then she gets a bit nicey-nice.

Then kindly asks what squadron my hubby is in. For some reason I start sputtering and stammering like Bella at the end of Twilight because I am trying to put my anger in reverse (shoulda double-pumped the clutch or something) and I eventually spit it out. . .

"Uh uh uh, what? What? What are you saying? Oh uh, VP, no wait VQ number-something."

To which she says:

"Oh my husband is the LIEUTENANT COMMANDER of that squadron!"

If you don't speak military, and trust me -- I barely do -- that's the big muckety-muck, the big cheese, the large-and-in-charge, the all-kinds of ribbons on his fancy-uniform wearing the big hat, the guy who can make or break Ian's career: COMMANDING OFFICER.

"Petty Officer, your wife fucked with the wrong nurse, prepare to be screwed for the next three years!"
I promise though, this isn't the guy. Well I hope not because that would be some crazy irony huh?

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeew close one. Oh man, Ian woulda ~~killed~~, no wait, uhm not-spoke to me for like a month. He looks like he wants to ~~kill~~ slap me when I argue with nurses anyway -- but this is like a whole 'nother level.

So I got to thinking about nurses the other day. I got to thinking about nurses who work at county health centers or in county hospitals, or free clinics. I started to feel bad, because the ratio of stoopid-to-smart people must be insane for them. They are so used to speaking slowly and deliberately and being frustrated when people can't get basic concepts like: "it's really unhealthy to put Mountain Dew in your baby's bottle." Plus they deal with bodily solids like poop and puke that's not even their OWN! I know, right? So I think I am going to change my attitude a little bit. The next time I have to deal with cranky, stressed-out, irritated nurses I'll just act like I got their backs, and "yes, dear, there are a LOT of really stupid people in this world. I promise I am not one of them, even if I sometimes look entirely devoid of any thought. That's having five kids, not stupidity, I promise." We'll be all good then. All good. But get this shit straight right now: it's DASHIELL.

Pity Party of 1, your table is ready!

2010-02-19T10:48:00.000-08:00

I promised I would post the reason I was busy, but I am just not ready to. Oh it's sitting there in my drafts nearly ready to be published -- but not yet. In the meantime life came up and kicked me in the balls -- well, it would have -- if I had balls. Hard.

First of all, the teenager has plum lost his mind. He had one of those teeny-angsty-mood-swing-thingies. He lost his mind for a couple days there. Without revealing everything and embarrassing him until he's in therapy at 29: I'll just sum it up for you. In a broad sense. Teenagers ~~think~~ believe they are soooooo clever and sneaky. They're not. Ours seems to think he's living with June and Ward Cleaver and that we aren't old-school punk rockers who have already been up to every kind of hijinks he could ever come up with -- maybe except for sexting, but cell phones were only owned by the president, doctors and drug-dealers back then. Ian was kicked out of school for refusing to shave his mohawk. I was told I couldn't come to school with my nose ring -- in the 8th grade. Don't even get me started on underage tattoos, piercings, drinking, smoking, drugs and debauchery. Don't. Get. Me. Started. We're just trying to convince him he doesn't have to lie to us. Ever. But he still wants to try -- and he does -- and it's SO insulting. But I like his new friend because that kid buckles under "tell the truth!" pressure like non-other. No matter how many dirty and warning glances our son throws him. It's hil-a-rious.

Onto . . .

Lent has started. Ian and I gave up both alcohol and red meat. I told Ian that my caveat on the red meat was bison. His response was "I'll have to skip the bison, it's kinda like a gateway-drug". I guess that yummy bison steak recipe in Cooking Light is going to have to wait for forty days. Meanwhile, I like to add to my life as much as I take away for Lent. So, I have a reading list, joined the YMCA and am praying a Novena to St. Thomas More (the Patron Saint of lawyers and court cases -- this is significant and you'll see why in a paragraph or two) with a bunch of my uber-supportive-on-line Catholic friends. Here at home . . . the Judas Shuffle is a popular dance . . .

I don't know about your Parish, but in this new Parish of mine the "Judas Shuffle" reigns supreme. Even before the Creasters (that's Christmas-Easter Catholics: those who show up only during Holy Seasons) came for Ash Wednesday, half the church would shuffle out of church after receiving the Eucharist. This church needs a Father Benson to remind everyone, exuberantly, that Mass doesn't officially end until the priest has left the building. They could also use his tongue-lashing for cell phone ringing: "that better be God calling!". Love that guy. He also reminds everyone not to act pissy when babies cry because those babies are the future of the church. Like I said: love that guy.

Sadly, it's been revealed my Grandma has bone-marrow-leukemia. They are not going to treat her with chemo because she just couldn't take it -- chemo would probably kill her. So she's receiving blood transfusions every couple of weeks because her body is no longer making red blood cells. It's been a bit tough on the family, and of course that results in DRAMA that I refuse to partake in, and I don't want to hear it. I just like talking to Yammers and entertaining her with stories of my kid's antics. Like the fart story:

Dash joined Ian and I in the middle of the night. Laying down between us, he was trying to get settled. I let one go, and I have to say: it was a doozer.

Dash at the top of his lungs: "Mommy you FART!"

Me: "Yes, Dash I did, excuse me."

Dash: "It SO LOUD!"

Me: "Yes, it was. Go to sleep Dash."

[5 second pause]

Dash -- a little quieter: "Did it hurt?"

Me: [uproarious laughter]

Yammers laughed so hard she had to get off the phone. She doesn't need no stinkin' drama, she needs fart stories. Hang in there Yammers.

To top it all off: my friend killed someone. Not in an act of murder, not an accident either. I can't really discuss it because I am too close to the "case" but let me just surmise to say: there is no experience in my life, nor any one I have known, to prepare me for this experience (not just the death itself, but resulting legal issues). None of my friends can understand or sympathize, because none of my friends have been through this either. Thank God I do have some wonderful friends and family who are supporting me anyway, and being honest about their inability to actually have words for this. They listen to me talk it out, and just back me up and give me strength. (I shouldn't really blub about it because my friend's life is the one hanging in the balance.) So people, there you go -- the reason I, once again, went MIA: kicked in my proverbial nuts.

I will post about "busy" soon, I promise.

Ok-La-HOM-AAAA (including a review of fried pickles)

2010-02-03T14:15:00.000-08:00

OK (I need to stop saying "OK" all the time because I live in "OK" now and that just seems totally stupid) yeah, yeah: I know. I know. I get it. It's been ages and all 9 of you who follow this blog are like "where is she?". But, no, you aren't, not really: because you follow those who keep up with their blogs and are exceptionally more interesting than I. Or you're on my facebook and already have a basic day-to-day grasp of what I am up to.

I have been busy. By "busy" I mean I have had the most insignificant little thing take over my life. Completely. But I am not talking about it on this post because busy requires it's own post. Busy has nothing to do with being an awesome mom or housekeeper either -- because that all went to pot: thanks to busy. So give me a day. No really, I promise. (It'll even be news to you facebook friends because I have kept this like all under the radar and shit.)

So yeah, back to the topic at hand:

Ok-la-HOM-AAAA (sing it!) has a very special guest sleeping over, for a week: Extreme Home Makeover. While I am currently in the planning stage of jamming squished-up Twinkies, like hundreds of them down Ty's bullhorn -- and realizing it won't make a bit of difference because he's so fekkin' loud anyway -- I am considering taking the kids there to see the big "MOVE THAT BUS" reveal on Sunday. Why? Because it's Oklahoma. The most exciting thing going on in this state is the weather, and my friend Claire (but that's just me). So yeah, I might not like Ty (I really, really don't like him even though I used to on Trading Spaces, and I hate that the show sucks me in and makes me cry -- but it's totally nice all that they do for people who are less-than-fortunate, and I remember in the old days how they actually worked with what they had but then it got all big and corporate and Sears throws like everything at them -- and then I get to thinking "how are they ever going to sell that house with a freaking dungeon/castle moat in a bedroom? Or lava rocks glued to the wall -- no way! How in the hell are they going to get that half-an-airplane out of that kid's room?!" and that's often intermixed with me feeling sorry for the lady of the house because she has like 5,000,000 more square feet to keep clean now, and why the hell don't they give free maid service when they are handing out scholarships and handing over deeds to these 5,000,000 square feet homes? And do you think their neighbors hate them for driving their property tax up with McMansion in the neighborhood?) but my kids really love that show, and Ty. Which is kind of amazing in itself -- because if you haven't figured it out, you shouldn't watch Extreme Home Makeover with me. How they like the show through all my crying, sighing, eye-rolling-at-Ty, and rambling questions is beyond me. So, maybe I can ask Ty, the bullhorn-screamer himself, all these questions on Sunday. He'll probably kick me off the set. Totally. That would be so rad. Like one of those drinking with the girls' stories: "Hey remember that time Ty Pennington kicked me off the set of Extreme Home Makeover??? Bwaaah haaaa haaaaa!!"

So there's that.

Then there's this:

Fried Pickles.

I posted this on Facebook last night:

I haven't had a "fried pickle". I've heard about 'em, but I thought it was the thing of urban legend and pregnant-fantasies. They DO exist! I am still a bit -- no wait -- major afraid to try one. Who in the flipping-frack thought to deep-fry a PICKLE? (That's a "gherkin" UK friends. Imagine THAT. Now carry-on bad-mouthing Yanks & our eating habits, and we'll keep talking about the state of your teeth.) Oh and Californians: gag me on a fried pickle! Srsly.

I kid you not, this was in the comments:

"Dude- fried pickles are the Holy Grail of fried goodness. Well, actually that honor might go to deep fried reeses cups... anyway- stop being a pansy and try them!"

So I accepted her dare:

"I love a beyatch that will actually call me a pansy -- because that took some nerve and (non)balls of steel. I take that as double-dog-dare, and tomorrow: I will report. On fried (gag) pickles."

Alright Kristen, I have had your deep fried pickles and Oh. . . uhm . . .

NEVER AGAIN!!

That was the most disgusting thing ever, and the plain ones are worse than the cajun -- and yes I ordered both because I had to taste the full-spectrum of fried pickles. So I got all NOM NOM NOM on the cajun and then I realized I was not liking the pickle part, I was likin' the cajun in the breading. Now this is a cajun I like:

You know I taste better than fried pickle.

Now my guts hurt, I have this horrid fekkin' fried pickle taste in my mouth with no trace of anything cajun, and just YUCK. I am considering a purge. On purpose. And you KNOW how much I dislike barfing, it's next to poop on my priority list of things I cannot deal with. I am going to try and gargle with Ian's cheap whiskey and if I can't loosen fried-pickle-hell from my taste buds and have to vomit, I am so getting you back Kristen! "Holy Grail of fried-whatever" my ass. I like pickles cold and wet. Like my vampires. Disclaimer: I am aware that Stephen Moyer is in fact British, and with nice teeth to boot! But let's just allow KC to have her fantasies and not disturb them ok? Maaaaan, I did it again! Alright?

I was about to say I might be down for a deep-fried Reeses, but I realize I'm not down for one. In all fairness: I can't eat much fried food. At all. I get all grossed out. Unless it's a corndog, because oh man -- I love me some corndogs. I can probably eat my weight in corndogs. Especially the ones at any fair in any State in any of the 50 . NOM NOM NOM

Because I am a dorkfish, gonna get me a corndog.

Good Morning from Oklahoma!

2009-12-05T08:50:00.000-08:00

That's right, the family is officially Oklahoman's now!

We closed escrow on our awesome 1956 time-capsule ranch on Monday, November 1st. We are finally "grown-ups"! Yeah! I am about to start a new blog on our adventures of bringing this place back to it's 1950's splendor. After I finish unpacking the kitchen, of course.

The kids are all enrolled in the local public school (right around the corner!), even our four year old Pippi. She loves her pre-K class! However, that does not stop Eden from acting like she has the worse case of "cabin fever" I've ever seen. That girl needs to make some friends: stat.

I'm off to unpack, and hope you all have a splendid weekend.

Gather around parents, K.C. is about to give you some advice.

2009-11-13T21:15:00.000-08:00

Let me begin with a disclaimer: while this situation is certainly "rant-worthy" I will do my best to make this truly advice, although I doubt it'll have much humor. Apologies.

Do yourself, your children, and your children's friends (and parents) a favor: do NOT, and I don't care how close in age your children are, do NOT make your older child take their younger sibling(s) with them everywhere they go. On occasion it's fine, and fun for the younger ones -- but not EVERY single time. Furthermore: do NOT threaten to punish said-child if s/he asks, just once, to hang out with their friend's without their sib.

Eden has a friend who lives up the street from us. She's nine, a year younger than Eden, but a mature, calm and kind girl. She's a pleasure to have around and has proven a great playmate to our Edes. However, she has a little sister, seven years old, that absolutely MUST come with each time she wants to come to our house. Each time. If she does manage to get out of the house without Seven, and Seven ends up crying: Nine is grounded by mom. Mom has even let it be known that Seven will be attending Eden's farewell slumber party -- up until 7:00PM. Really now? Well mom doesn't know Eden all that well, because Eden scheduled the party for 6:30 upon hearing this news. (Ohps! I found humor!) She had other plans boiling, I heard her conspiring with Kira in the back of the van to keep Seven out entirely -- so I squashed any further conspiracy and reminded her that she might get her friend Nine grounded from the party.

Well as you can imagine Eden is not only irritated by this situation, she can hardly comprehend "why". Shane will tag-along to friend's houses or events maybe a couple times a year. So Eden asks her friend Nine "why" it has to be with this way. Nine tells Eden that "Seven has anger issues, cries if I leave, is mean, can't control herself, and it has to be this way or I'm grounded." Mom does not strike me as lazy. In-fact, she's quite strict and scheduled. So it's hard for me to understand. What isn't hard for me to understand is this (in no particular order):

It's extremely rude to assume your child's friend's parents would welcome two of your children. Much less assume they'll entertain the younger sib who is naturally going to be "left-out" when the two friends play. Not just assume, but expect. Let the other parents invite your younger child. They will! Birthday parties, special occasions, etc.
It's completely unfair to your older child to make them responsible for the younger sib at all times. Occasionally, fine. All the time? NO.
It's also unfair to tell a child they cannot have alone-time with their friends, away from their sibs. Socialization is an important factor in growth. It's hard to comfortably socialize when you can't "let your hair down" away from your family. Especially if you happen to lose your nine-year-old temper and are tattled-on, then grounded.
It's not fair to your child's friend to have to put-up with the younger sib. They don't like it, they don't want it, they don't welcome it. They end up resentful and will eventually stop hanging-out. So therefor you have effectively made your own child friendless. It's YOU your child will resent, not the friends who are tired of the tag-a-long.
You will create a monster in your younger child. Think about this. If all they have to do is cry and carry-on to get infinite tag-a-long status, you've taught them an important lesson on how to be a horrible person in order to get what you want.
On that note: when you punish a sibling for your younger child's manipulative crying, you have now given that child a ton of power and absolutely no social or familial responsibility.

At the end of the day, should you not heed my advice: you'll have just about everyone around you irritated with and resentful of you. Yes, even the child you are "indulging". Because when they are incapable of making their own friends after a short life of manipulation and hanging-on, they can't comprehend the natural flow of give-and-take that is friendship. They won't know how to give -- just to take, expect and demand -- and cry when they don't get their way. We all know these kind of people in adulthood. How do we handle them? Avoidance.

Don't do this to your kids. That's my advice.

I'm busy, so I'm not blogging. We're buying a house!

2009-11-05T10:21:00.001-08:00

That's right, we are buying a house. In Norman, OK. A beautiful Ranch-style 1956 charmer with most of it's original bells and whistles! This is just so exciting! Currently in escrow, and hope to be over by November 30th, so we can take advantage of that fat $8000 Mr. President wants to give us.

Meanwhile, back here in Oxnard, we have discovered just what a scrooge our property manager is. He literally asked us to "cancel our orders" to Oklahoma so that we may continue to rent here. No. No way. We HATE this house, and we despise him. So he informs me he'll be "showing" the house to potential renters RIGHT AWAY. I need a week. At least. We argued. I think I got my way. Meanwhile, let the purging begin! One thing I will not miss when I move from this horrid house is it's property manager. He's a bully. He's not even sane -- show a house that needs new carpets and some paint? He can't rent it in this condition, and I don't know what he is thinking.

Anyway, the house is calling, and I need to answer!

You know how I said all the Missions have letterboxes? Well . . .

2009-10-23T09:40:00.000-07:00

I should have been more specific: at one point in time all of the Missions had letterboxes. Now many are missing. That was admittedly disappointing for my children when we couldn't find one. That's the way letterboxing goes though: you just roll with the punches, or uhm, boxes.

So, as my family prepares to PCS to Tinker Air Force base in Oklahoma (boxing all the way!) I got to thinking about all of the missing Mission boxes. I went to atlasquest.com and asked my fellow Californians if we couldn't collectively plant boxes at all the Missions so they are active again. I created a master list with the status of the current boxes and asked people to adopt Missions. The response has been overwhelmingly positive! Letterboxers are really neat people! There is one lady in another state offering to carve (she is going to work on Mission Santa Clara) and yet another in Sacramento who is too far from a Mission to adopt. People who take drives around California visiting family, etc. are offering to plant. I suggested it just two days ago, and as of this morning there are only 6 Missions left that need boxes!

This is just awesome.

Here's to the Letterboxers! Cheers!

New Family Letterboxing Stamps! (As well as a brief explanation of our Letterboxing name)

2009-10-20T20:41:00.000-07:00

I took a few hours to myself today. Alright, I admit it, after yesterday's 8-hour road-trip and letterboxing adventure, I took most of the day to myself. Only going out to buy stamp-carving tools and more pads. Gotta love Nana being around to help out with kids -- which she was glad to do since I carved not only her stamp, but a "mini".

I carved our new "team" stamp, and a "mini" for us. The "mini" is Father Junipero Serra, founder of many of California's Missions. You see, when we started our letterboxing adventure, we were also starting a summer-tour of California's Missions. We knew Eden would be building one that year, so I thought I would combine the two -- fun and history. How delighted was I that all of the Missions had Letterboxes? Completely! So after reading books to the kids on the missions, and the history of California, I explained letterboxing. I asked them what they thought our trail name should be. It was Shane, our then 7-year-old, who came up with it.

Back to the stamps: they aren't perfect, and I am still a novice when it comes to carving, but I am quite happy with the results.

What do you think?

Letterboxing Adventures October 19, 2009

2009-10-19T21:52:00.000-07:00

We haven't been Letterboxing in ages. Really, it's been a long time. I keep our stamps and logbook in the van "just in case" but with four kids I often forget to look up clues before heading out. Now that I have an iPhone, I can call up clues any time I feel like it!

Yesterday we were driving home from Northern Ca. I was craving In-and-Out and held out for lunch at Kettleman City. I remembered I had promised Tara, a fellow letterboxer, that I would try and rescue her I-5 In-and-Out box. There seemed to be pending construction near it's hiding place when I found it. Sure enough, they had bulldozed the hiding place and all I could find was the empty box. No stamp. I dug through dirt and trash, but no luck. Why didn't I just re-hide it initially? My apologies to Tara.

I also recalled that Don and Gwen had planted a box at the Tule Elk Reserve near Buttonwillow. I have driven up and down I-5 since I was 5 years old. I have seen that sign my whole life and we never stopped. I was so glad we did! Not only did we see some majestic elk, but we easily found Don and Gwen's letterbox. However, Eden brought to my attention that she had last seen our logbook in the house. So we stamped some paper, and hey, that still works. Great stamp!

Using my handy-dandy iPhone I searched for boxes in the Grapevine. I found one placed by the ZooFamily in McGill Campground near Frazier Park. So off the 5 we went. ZooFamily suggested it was a "couple miles" from Frazier Park. A couple miles turned into about 20, and most of those miles were straight up. When we reached the campground it was closed for the season. Not only was it a brisk 40F or so, we were so high up it was difficult to breathe (I'm guessing well over 8000 feet)! Eden and I left Nana with the little ones and went off in search of the letterbox. Nana shouts out "keep a look out for bears!" Great. Now we are paranoid. Anyway we find the box, and it has been flooded, full of water, and has some strange fungus type things growing in it. ICK! Now usually I would leave a box and let the placer know the box needs first-aid, or for that matter: fix it ourselves. In this case though, I knew we had to take it. I didn't have the supplies to fix the box. It'll soon snow, and freeze all the water in the box, essentially crumbling the stamp come spring-thaw. I have contacted ZooFamily and let them know I have the box and will mail back the stamp.

Meanwhile a truck full of mountain bikers showed up for a ride. Really? It was so cold and we couldn't breath! Hats off to them and their dedication.

It was then decided we would take the back route through Los Padres National Forest to Ojai and reach home that way. Love that iPhone and the "maps" GPS system. What a crazy drive! Poor Pippi even threw-up at one point as the curvy roads just proved too much for her tummy. One delightful moment was coming upon "Organic Valley Farm" -- producer of the organic milk we buy in our local grocery. They had a huge, lush field of grass, and the healthiest looking, free-ranging cows I have seen. I will happily pay more for their milk now! It took a bit longer to get home, but the views and the experience was worth it.

I have replanted Pirates of the Channel Islands here in Oxnard. Ventura's Marina Park is just too busy a place for a decent hide. I posted it to Atlas Quest and Letterboxing.org this morning. Also, Our Lady of the Butterflies has gone missing. Funny story: I was headed to church when I saw three women who did not look like parishioners coming around the corner of the church. I then noticed the font on the paper they were looking at . . . so I say in a loud whisper "Hey! That's my letterbox!". They asked if it was active and I confessed I hadn't checked. They emailed me later to tell me it was nowhere to be found. Even I have to admit I needed a better hiding place. So off to carve a new one I go.

Finally, my mom has caught letterboxing fever, and she and Eden have made a new team: "The Flower Girls". Another stamp to carve. Yeah!

(Oh and by the way -- the fish was dead by the next morning)

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! New family rule! Everybody listen up!

2009-06-06T16:48:00.000-07:00

(I didn't even have to sit and ponder a good topic. Eden and her dad provided one just as soon as I hit "post blog" on the last entry)

New Family Rule:

NOBODY IS ALLOWED TO BUY A PET, FIND A PET, RECEIVE A PET FOR FREE, OFFER TO PET-SIT, OR EVEN SUGGEST A PET WITHOUT BOTH PARENTS EXPRESSED PERMISSION. PERIOD.

I answer a knock at the door to find my Eden, smiling broadly, holding a bag with a little black fish in it.

Guh-reat.

*sigh*

Now, here's a fact most people don't know about me: I have an amazing handicap when it comes to keeping both plants and fish alive. Birds too, apparently, but that's another story for another day.

Picture this: Whidbey Island, Spring 2003 and Eden finds a baby garter snake. I agree to keep said garter snake, but the problem lies in not knowing what garter snakes of the Pacific Northwest eat. What do you know? They eat fish. Teeny goldfish for tiny snakes. You can deduce that meant we not only had to buy a terrarium for "Rosie" the snake, but an aquarium for her food. OK well, in perspective, first we bought a bowl, but that proved disastrous. Not only would it be filthy in one day, if we bought three or four fish, they would be dead by the next morning. Our neighbor kept goldfish, and they had a nice clean aquarium that was rarely scrubbed-out: probably once a month, so what were we doing wrong? On their suggestion we broke down and bought one of those all-inclusive mini-tank do-dabs with the filter and such. Do you think it made a difference? Nope, I can attest it did not -- for in the morning three out of four fish would be dead, and the thing had to be cleaned every couple of days. The fourth fish would be dead by sunset. You can't say we weren't persistent. Throughout the summer we (read: I) did what we (read again as: I) could to try and keep fish alive so Rosie could eat them that way. It was a huge hassle, a constant battle of fish and filth and life. I gave up, and it came down to buying a fish on the day Rosie had to eat and feeding her immediately. What a PAIN! By the fall, despite the heat in the terrarium she wanted to hibernate and quit eating anything. I guess I saw that as a blessing and convinced Eden to release her to the wild in order for her to survive. As Rosie wiggled off into the tall grass and her own destiny, I washed my hands of ever having to deal with another fish again.

(Let's not even go there on the hamsters. Or the aforementioned birds.)

Until today.

So yes, the site of a fish, a bowl, some gravel, a net and a little decorative castle has put me in a foul mood. Eden desperately wants me to like her fish. I was almost OK with it when I thought it was a Beta, because let's face it -- those things live in the heel-prints of Chinese rice-farmers. They are content with filthy, little bowls. Like the petulant child I have dug my feet in and proclaimed I am NOT cleaning a fish bowl. Poor Eden, she is in her new-pet heaven and proudly exclaims she will. Did I mention her very low "yuck-tolerance-level"? I know my husband won't. No really, I know he won't. When I expressed my anger over this new addition to the family, and pointed out the historical record we have with fish he exclaimed he had a "black more" as a kid and it lived for YEARS. "Uh huh, yeah right, I bet your mom cleaned the bowl!" So, in reality the poor fish will probably be floating in filth as it kicks the bucket before sunrise.

Despite my negativity, I do pray I am wrong. For Eden's sake anyways.

Dang fish.

Oh my! How time does fly!

2009-06-06T15:26:00.000-07:00

A friend and follower of the blog mentioned I hadn't posted in a while. This is true. When I signed in today I could not believe my last post was February 9! For shame, for shame. Apologies all around.

Sure, I have had plenty to write about, and plenty of funny stuff from the kids, I just haven't made the time to write it. . .

Where was I and what was I doing? I was completely sucked into the vortex that is the Religion & Spirituality section of Yahoo! Answers. I spent months there, racking up enough points to achieve level five. I also achieved cynicism, aloofness, impatience, and sarcasm. Meanwhile I lost a big chunk of grace and charity. So that is that. Overall, the experience left a funny taste in my mouth, and not necessarily a pleasant one. But this blog? It makes me laugh. To write it, to read it, so I think I'll focus on the positive.

I found a hilarious blog in the meantime, and I think this is what reminded me to get back here and post. My fellow Catholics will probably enjoy it:

http://asksistermarymartha.blogspot.com/2007/10/there-but-by-grace-of-god.html

There is nothing better than a nun with a sense of humor.

So, besides constant debate over religion, I have been working on my mom's ministry with the church. That brings about it's own debates, both internally and externally. God Bless us all on that one.

This is just a quick update, I'll try and think of something clever to post in a bit, and come back to do so.

Letterboxing -- The Pirates of the Channel Islands Box.

2009-02-09T09:21:00.000-08:00

Last spring I carved a really cool stamp. A pirate's flag/Jolly Roger type thing. Eden and I placed it at Marina Park in Ventura after much scanning and searching for a safe place. It was one of our first plants, and we royally screwed up. We didn't take into account just how many people fish off the rocks there. We placed a hitchhiker in the box that Eden had designed and placed it "securely" under rocks, pretty close to the water.

I got an email shortly after the plant that it had been found, stamped, and Eden's hitchhiker was on the move. She was excited about that.

I got another email a week after that and was told that our letterbox was gone. The seeker had found the lid, and some papers fluttering about, but the stamp was gone. Bummer. So I carved a new one, hardly as nice as the first -- I guess I was a bit downtrodden over the vagrancy of my letterbox in the first place. I have been back to Marina Park twice trying to plant it and I can see absolutely NO safe place in which to hide it. In the summer that park is so over-run with people there would be no way for seekers to find it discreetly. It's not happening. I have sat on this letterbox for months and months.

Last week I took Pip and Dash to a nice park in Oxnard I only recently learned about. It too has a pirate theme. It is hardly crowded, and I realize that might change come summer, but still it's huge compared to Marina Park. There are TONS of bushes, hiding places, etc. It also has a nice view of the Channel Islands.

Once this rain let's up, I am going to go place it and re-write my clue with the box's new location at www.atlasquest.com.

I just wish Sugarskull would plant something new! (hint hint) You really should see this lady's stamps, they are something else. You can view her stamps via her blog, which I follow.

There is a sucker born every minute. Eden and the internet scam.

2009-02-09T08:43:00.000-08:00

I had a doctor's appointment early on Saturday morning. Yeah Saturday -- talk about convenient.

I came in about 9:30AM and all was calm. I could hear Eden stomping towards the downstairs. Ian looks at me, lets loose an audible sigh and says "OH that one, just wait 'till you hear this."

"Mom! Mom! Mom! Guess what! Mom! Mom! Mom!"

"Hi Eden, what's up?"

"I took this little slip of paper we got from a happy meal and I went to go adopt a dog online at happy meal.com. This page popped up and said I was the 9999,999,99,9 visitor and that I won $1000!!!"

Oh brother. This is going to be tough to explain to her.

"Really? At McDonalds actual website? What did the box look like?"

"Well I put the address in google and then clicked on the link. The box was about this big. It says it! I won $1000!! Shane says he gets half, but I think he should only get $300."

(stifling laughter)

"Eden, I hate to break this to you, but those are typically scams to get your email address, your residence address and your phone number. It's nearly impossible to get whatever prize they are offering."

"No MOM, it says I won. I was the 999999999 visitor."

"OK Edes, listen, this is a big lesson in life. Remember it OK? If something sounds TOO good to be true, it probably is."

"That's what dad said."

"Dad's a wise man."

"Will you at least come look?"

So I do, and it is exactly what I thought. I opened the privacy policy and the terms of redeeming your gift. Have to buy magazine subscriptions, whatever else their sponsor's are selling, and agree to let telemarketers call you. I show her this. She still doesn't trust me. I open a new window and head back to the same page -- same message. I do it again -- same message. Shane is standing there looking wholly disappointed, but not end of the world like it is for Eden. In comes the bargaining:

"Well how about this, you order the magazine and I'll pay for it with my $1000?"

"No really, dude, listen, it's not just magazines, it's going to be tons of things -- and if I miss just one you'll be disqualified. They make it really hard to get, including being hard to stay in contact with. You don't understand, but Eden -- it's a SCAM. There is no $1000."

She actually started to cry. I can't help but feel for her -- here she was with $1000 dollars on her little door step and her mom won't open the door. Poor kid.

The Laundry Wars, and the Momilosophy for Today.

2009-01-27T18:58:00.000-08:00

If I had started this blog long ago you would have already heard all about it. I am sure it would have been two kids ago.

What I have learned: most families have these laundry wars. Many families do their laundry up to the folded-in-the-basket stage, after that -- well, you're on your own. I know ONE person who does her one daily load of laundry, has it folded and put away by 9:00AM. (Shout out to Holly!) Just one. The rest of us -- well -- here's the breakdown. . .

IF you do your one load a day, you get it through the cycles, maybe fold it and leave it for your significant other to fold it or to "put it away." However, your SO doesn't really "feel like it" so there it sits. Anyone who needs something from said load goes in and grabs it. There is even a laundry hierarchy on who even wants to fold said loads. Here's the breakdown on laundry favoritism and what will get folded and actually put away, according to moi':

1) Diapers. Folded and put away immediately. I know this doesn't apply to all families as all families don't cloth diaper. For those that do, it is certainly the easiest and most enjoyable load to do. Who knew poop-catchers could be so fun?

2) Linens: towels and sheets. Man these are a breeze. Although, must admit my husband does not like to actually put them away, but to leave them on the dryer folded. Totally inconvenient when you are about to hop in the shower.

3) Jeans. In a family as large as ours: jeans get their own load. C'mon, pants are not only easy to fold, but easy to put away too. They carry well, they load well into drawers, you can't lose.

4) Darks. Why? Because darks in this family are typically belonging to adults. We are big fans of black, we're talking old punk rockers here just so ya know. Bigger clothes = easier to fold. Although Ian and I are famous for waiting on the other to put the darks away.

5) Mediums. The fact is we can fit tons of mediums into the washer and dryer. Why? Because they belong to the small people. The really small people. Mediums are next to the biggest load we have. Folding them is mundane. Tedious. Since we moved the two youngest kid's dressers downstairs they are really easy to put away -- for the most part. But they stink to fold.

6) Whites. Oh my, the dreaded whites. This is the load most often grabbed out of basket for the week. Not only do we both loathe folding them, we also loathe putting them away. Seriously folks, baby socks disappear at the rate of being disposable. Not only that but finding whites to wash in the first place is a task. I have found socks in the backyard, the van, under beds, under bathroom sinks, in cabinets, in my bed, on my dining room table, in the bookshelves -- shall I go on? I've yet to find one in the fridge, but there is always next week. Separating socks for six people just sucks. So whoever washes it will leave it out for the other to fold. Funny how 9 times outta 10 I fold it -- but hey, I can't stand the load just sitting there. Folding a load of whites can take an hour easy. Funny how the moment I put the socks away someone is saying "I have no socks!"

What is the point? I'll tell ya, with back-story:

Last week we had that fifty foot pile of laundry due to me working on other things. Like THE Mission. We were also going out of town. So I pile two weeks worth of laundry into three days. I probably did 15 loads. BIG LOADS. Friday morning I did the mother of all white loads. I went around to all the aforementioned places, dug under beds, etc. It literally took an hour to fold all of the whites. Not to mention the three other loads I had done already and folded. I had packing to do.

Ian comes home Friday afternoon with new WHITE socks and new WHITE undershirts. GREAT, so I folded fifty pairs of socks (just his) and twenty undershirts (just his, not mentioning everyone else's) for WHAT exactly? Oh man was I cheesed. He says "well my socks are dingy, I need new ones if we're going to our Vietnamese family's house, I don't want them to see my dingy!" (we take our shoes off upon entering since they are Buddhists) Thanks dude.

So it breaks down to this: I fold all these clothes. I pack what we need. There is no time to put it all away so I NICELY stack them in a huge laundry basket. Ian doesn't put away his darks or jeans so I stack those on the couch, nicely, but with some 'tude since I am irritated he didn't put away his nicely folded big clothes. The bin is sorted by person, with Ian's monster load of whites on the bottom, etc. I also needed this off my floor since my friend Kim would be coming to dog-sit. Kim not only dog-sat but she actually CLEANED my bathroom, my kitchen counters, behind my couch (dude! behind my COUCH!), straightened the toy area, cleaned the floor after the dogs played, etc. Today Kim comes over with her Peanut (see post Mission Project 7) and the girls play while we discuss theology.

Meanwhile the laundry has not been put away. My back prevents me from carrying it upstairs and Ian is simply doing his part in the laundry war: leaving it for me. Excuses, excuses.

But what do I find when I go to walk Kim out? When the girls have been playing in the living room area?

The entire basket of clothes on the floor. Plus the clothes from the couch. AND a nice little arrangement of stuffed animals on top.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

It breaks down to my break down upon seeing this mess. It breaks down to denial on the part of both girls. It breaks down to lessons on obedience and lying for said girls.

BUT what it really broke down to was a BIG FAT lesson for me:

PUT YOUR CLOTHES AWAY ONCE THEY ARE FOLDED.

Word.

She's Going for the Gold!

2009-01-27T08:50:00.000-08:00

If I died suddenly this week, you know what my last words would be? No? OK I'll tell you:

"PENELOPE -- Get your HAND out of your CROTCH!"

I am telling you, if crotch-grabbing was an olympic sport that girl would take gold.

"Hey Bob, who's that in the lead, with 20 crotch-grabs in ten seconds?"

"Well Stephanie, that is Penelope Grace of the United States, she sure is something isn't she?"

"I think we have a winner Bob, I am sure her parents are proud. The judge's results are in, Penelope TAKES GOLD!!" (insert roaring crowds and waving flags)

(also insert an eye-roll)

Picture this:

I am walking through a store. Penelope strolling along behind me, Dash in stroller pushed by me. Someone crosses my path. They say, oh they always say it:

"Does she have to go to the bathroom?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

I don't even have to look anymore. I just say "Penelope take your hand out of your crotch."

The other day I did turn around to see her with her hand where it usually is, but she was wearing a dress. She had decided to LIFT the dress for better access. NICE. I was so proud! Here she is walking through the grocery store, dress hiked up, panties showing, hand firmly in the crotch-grab position. "PENELOPE!!! GET your HAND out of THERE!!"

My absolute favorite is when she does it at church.

Some kids suck their thumbs when they feel insecure. Some hold onto a blanky. Why can't I have one of those kids?

It all started with potty-training. It's normal for the little ones to grab their peepers when they are getting used to the sensation of the urge to go, and how that relates to going on the potty. That's totally NORMAL. Pippi though -- she somehow transformed it into a security blanket well past the point of knowing she has to go. She grabs when she has to go, she grabs when she doesn't, she grabs ALL THE TIME.

If it's any indication my exasperation to the issue I started out with "Pippi, honey, don't grab your peeper, it's not polite." I have graduated to a stern voice and slight irritation with "Penelope GET your HAND out of your CROTCH!"

It's embarrassing. It really is. She is so stinkin' cute too, it's hard to get mad at her. But really, she must stop, it's driving me insane.

I have no idea how to stop it. Electric fence panties? Magnetic system powerful enough to repel her hands when they get close? Chastity belt shaped like a cone-collar dogs wear after getting snipped?

I suspect my only weapon is time and maybe consistent nagging.

For now I will have to limit her time in public. . .

Or just make her dad take her out.

Dashiell the One Sock Wonder

2009-01-26T11:10:00.000-08:00

I have no idea what is up with this kid. He has an aversion to wearing two socks, or two shoes. Just one, thanks. Not that he wants to be barefooted, he just wants ONE sock or one shoe on. My mother in law says Ian was the same as a child. It's probably her one memory of Ian's childhood, all else she claims amnesia on! When he was old enough to answer she had asked what was up with the one sock thing. His response:

"Temperature Control."

Alrighty then. Dash is controlling his temperature I guess. That or he just has some weird genes.

So this video is about a month old. It was taken Dec 23rd, 2008 when Dashiell took his first steps. In one sock. Excuse my bubbly, over excited blabber in the background. Hey I'm a MOM what do you want??

This is the only video I possess of a "first" for Dash. It's true, the more kids you have the less time you have for camera action. Great. I'm sure I'll hear all about that in the future too.

Enjoy.

Mission Project Part 9

2009-01-23T16:46:00.000-08:00

It's Done! It's Over! Finished!

WOOOOOHOOOOOO!!!!!

Last night we had a pretty mellow go of it. Not a biggie. Why it had to rain on the one day I needed to spray paint it to keep the plaster on was annoying, but I grabbed the sun when it came and got that puppy sprayed!

Eden only had one melt-down. Over trees. I helped, that ended.

She blurted out a few "It's MY mission!" but they weren't done with any snark or force, so we let those fly. Besides, she's right.

We argued about her finishing the graveyard before going crazy on the garden, but even that was a slight argument. So she was finished by 8PM and in bed by nine.

This morning she was so excited to bring the mission to school she could hardly contain herself. She held it protectively on her lap for the drive to school. I had to park by the front doors, along with the other fourth grade parents -- in order to get the mission safely inside. I am holding the mission while she gets out and was going to walk to the doors and pass it off to her. Not having any of that, no way, SHE wanted to carry HER mission in. OK fine, geesh.

So I open the door of the school, help her in, and head back to the van. Parked in front of me is another parent whose daughter claimed she hadn't even started the day before (according to Eden.) What does dad pull out of his truck?

THE FREAKIN' TAJ MAHAL OF MISSIONS!

I believe it was Mission Santa Barbara. You should have seen this thing. I automatically gave a thumbs up, and good old dad thumbed-up me right back. My mouth was hanging open. It sure was a sight to behold. It had beautiful rounded bell towers. It was painted the exact color of Mission Santa Barbara. It was HUGE. It was gorgeous. It was perfect.

I hope the kid doesn't get in trouble for that. If it appears as though the kid had no hand in the building and the parent builds a monster, it's trouble with a capital "T." That is according to parents whose children have already gone through the fourth grade at the school. One kid had a mission with a working fountain. Another had one with working lights. This mission project can be serious for some: the "competitive some," the "perfectionist some," etc. (I bet their homes are always spotless too. Darn.) Yesterday I was chatting with my friend Lillia after school and she was bemoaning the perfectionist in herself and how it applies to her son's mission. I just started to laugh -- girl, you don't even have to tell ME about it. Somehow I doubt Lillia's perfection will even come close to the Taj Mahal though. (Her house is about as messy as mine. I like her priorities.) I wonder if he bought that thing? Or if he's an architect? Or if you can buy kits that help you build the world's most perfect mission? If it were OUR projects and not our kids I would totally fail in comparison, that thing is awesome. I'll try and snap a photo on Monday. I sure hope she isn't going to be marked down for it though.

I am excited to go in on Monday and see all the kids efforts. It really should be something else.

As of press time I hear from Eden that she is the only child to have actually constructed a roof on her own. That ought to help her grade. So the straws were worth it after all. Yeah for her! I suspect Mission Project part 10 will be the announcement of her grade. Then I'll be done talking about missions for another two years.

Yeah for YOU!

K.C.'s Momilosophies

Dear Dr. King, would you mind if I expound on your dream?

What happens when my text messages go to random strangers . . .

Mi gatos, mi familia . . . (and no, this post is not written en espanol)

Dopplegangers

I'm like that lady . . . you know the one . . .

Just some random nonsense . . .

Gather around and let me tell you a story . . .

Is your child being bullied? Here's what you can do.

Shiny.

What the heck St. Paul? What is UP with these Christians nowadays?

My review of Eclipse -- the movie. AKA: "why do I keep watching these movies while tripping in plot holes?"

"Nookie Nookie Nookie, Sweeter Than a Cookie"

Things I ponder while I behave rather anti-socially.

Let's get this over with, shall we?

I am my mom. I am also your mom. I am our mom's moms. The horror!

How to deal with identity theft -- K.C.'s way.

At times, introspection isn't so great

There is something wrong in my Momiverse (warning, this post is disgusting)

My New Year's Resolution

Gypsys, Tramps, and a bottle of rum . . .

Let me count the ways . . .

Take my daughter to her first concert. Harm her for life . . .

Of Mice and Men

My mom: nuttier than a fruitcake. At least she lets us laugh at her.

The Infamous Ass-Punch

Depression is a . . .

Let me count the ways . . . 3

My house is trying to kill me, honestly.

Let me count the ways . . . 2

I want to work out. I really do. But . . .

My friend: facebook.

Got Milk? No? I do!

Busy . . .

*cough-cough-Ian-is-a-fuhreak-cough cough*

Let me count the ways . . .

I'm bringing sexy back

What Happens When Parents Drunk Dial . . .

I barely dodged the bullet . . .

Pity Party of 1, your table is ready!

Ok-La-HOM-AAAA (including a review of fried pickles)

Good Morning from Oklahoma!

Gather around parents, K.C. is about to give you some advice.

I'm busy, so I'm not blogging. We're buying a house!

You know how I said all the Missions have letterboxes? Well . . .

New Family Letterboxing Stamps! (As well as a brief explanation of our Letterboxing name)

Letterboxing Adventures October 19, 2009

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! New family rule! Everybody listen up!

Oh my! How time does fly!

Letterboxing -- The Pirates of the Channel Islands Box.

There is a sucker born every minute. Eden and the internet scam.

The Laundry Wars, and the Momilosophy for Today.

She's Going for the Gold!

Dashiell the One Sock Wonder

Mission Project Part 9

cough-cough-Ian-is-a-fuhreak-cough cough