GIMME A W! GIMME A P! GIMME AN N!

Before we begin, I would just like to remind everyone that these are ACTUAL profile photos from an ACTUAL dating website. These are the photos that these women have consciously selected to be the world's first impression of them. Keep that in mind as I present...

THE WPN WEDNESDAY CHEERLEADERS!!
WOOOOOO HOOOOOO!!!!



WE GOT SPIRIT, YES WE DO!!!























WE GOT SPIRIT, HOW 'BOUT YOU???!



















OUR TEAM IS WHAT?
RED HOT!
OUR TEAM IS WHAT?
RED HOT!


















SPELL IT OUT NOW -
R-E-D, RED, H-O-T...

















RED HOT!
RED HOT!
RED HOT!!






Mercifully, I talked them out of doing a Pyramid. You're welcome.


Here's the JV squad:








Doesn't she look like she's saying "I'll give you kids a dollar to get offa my property!!" ?


















She says she's honest to a fault. Do ya think she's been honest with herself? This ensemble is obviously somebody's fault.

Can I be honest with you, Vicki? You look like an escaped mental patient in the Disney Characters T-shirt, as does anyone over the age of ten, in my anything-but-humble opinion.

I can't think of anything less sexy than Disney, except maybe Looney Toons, or worse, BABY Looney Toons. GIH!








Y'know, I always thought there was sexual tension between Agent Starling and Hannibal Lecter.

Have the lambs stopped screaming, Clariiiiice?

The Return of WPN Wednesdays!

It's been a while since last we Wooked, no? I'm going to try to ease back into it.

Today will be the first of a two-part Wookin Pa Nub Wednesday. Tomorrow will feature some lovely ladies who are totally amped up for their appearance on my almost famous blog! They're so excited, they can't even stand it. But they will have to wait, and so will you.


GOD, I had almost forgotten how much fun this shit is.





I'd be willing to bet that this guy's mom has busted him with his dog and a jar of peanut butter more than once.


ETA: Double click on the pic... what's that pink thing at the bottom?







"The local police department has issued a photo of the suspect, who is believed to be armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend this individual. Call 911, and gouge your eyes out immediately."









And here's a nice, normal looking guy with a kinda cute smile...







till we zoom out.






































How thoroughly disturbing.








As if this guy's pic wasn't enough to creep you out, get this... his user name is like2lickurkitty.

('Scuse me a second... BLEHHHWRFFMMMUWWAAH.
{gargling mouthwash}
Sorry.)

I almost wonder if he doesn't mean it in the literal sense, as in, he wants to lick an actual cat. He looks like he might be the sort.







Ok, enough warm-up.

Icky Naked Guys!




He lists tattoos and piercings among his turn-offs. Yeeeah, well, that pretty much eliminates me. Thank GOD.









I had to do a double-take. This guy looks like my neighbor.















And this guy looks like my assistant principal from high school.
















And he looks a lot like, well, whoooo could it be... hmmmmm... I dunno, maybe, Satan????

Didja like that? That was my Church Lady voice.












And, finally, what would a Wookin Pa Nub Icky Naked Guy post be without...

MAN BOOBS!!!



ETA: Check it out - one nipple!












I'm BAAAAAACK!! (insert opening riff of AC/DC's BACK IN BLACK)

Add a video to your site Webratsmusic.com

It's not Magic, it's Mommy!

Ever eat an Ice Cream Sandwich? Of course you have. You know, with the soft chocolate cookies on the outside and vanilla ice cream in the middle? Sooooo good. My kids have recently discovered Trader Joe's non-dairy alternative, Tofutti Cuties.

I have to say, I actually like them better than the regular kind. You certainly wouldn't guess by tasting one that they're any different from ice cream sandwiches. You even get the sticky chocolate cookie mess on your fingers when you eat them.

I'm going somewhere with this.

This morning, Tito woke up with the most rancid-smelling, greenish, watery diarrhea ever. He was on the potty every five minutes, which of course means that SOMEBODY had to get up and wipe him every five minutes. Somebodywho? Somebodyme.

I don't know how I didn't see it before, but after the fifth or sixth change of underpants this morning, I looked at the bathroom wall and saw a set of smeared brown fingerprints.

Seeing as how we were in the bathroom, and I'd been dealing with poop all morning, my first instinct was that the mess on the wall was somebody expressing their artistic vision through the medium of fecal matter. Hey, at my house, it's not beyond the realm of possibility.

Then I remembered that Pie had partaken of a Tofutti Cutie last night for dessert.

I called him into the bathroom.

Pie, did you wipe something on the wall?

Yes, he said, I had a Cutie and it got on my hands.

Ok, WHY would you wipe it on the wall??? Didn't you ever think of washing your hands?

But it's okay, Mommy. It goes away after a while.

WHAT???

Then I remembered that I had cleaned a similar mess on the wall some time ago, and at the time I didn't stop to ask what the hell it was, I just assumed the worst (as I usually do), took the bleach wipes and cleaned it.

I suddenly realized the deeper meaning of what he had just said. If you leave a mess alone for long enough, eventually it gets cleaned up. By someone else. What is he, a teenager? Thinking I was gonna nip that slacker-ass attitude in the bud, I lifted his chin to look in his eyes and I spoke in my Very Serious Voice.

Pie, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret.
I CLEANED THE WALL.
It's not MAGIC... it's MOMMY.

I think that's going to be the title of my autobiography.


Other than that, I had a very nice weekend. On Friday, we went shopping for a new sofa. We've been married for almost ten years, and we had not one piece of furniture that we had purchased new. Everything is either a hand-me-down from some older sibling who got something nicer or an estate sale/thrift store find.

We chose one, applied for (and got) financing, and our sofa was to be delivered between noon and 3pm on Sunday. This would have been fine, but Tito had to be at a birthday party at 1pm and I had my knitting class (which I'm really enjoying) at 2:30.

Both boys have had that yucky croupy cough and runny noses recently. I kept them home from school on Friday and I thought about keeping him home from the birthday party, but here's why I didn't:

A) I thought he was pretty much better,

B) Who's gonna tell a 4-year-old that he can't go to the party he's been looking forward to all week, which just happens to be at his very favorite place?

C) The birthday party was for the same little boy whose mom called me at the last minute before Tito's party to tell me her son had a cough and he wouldn't be coming. I didn't want her to think I was some passive-aggressive-vindictive bitch (although that phrase kinda sums me up pretty well, doesn't it?) and since she stiffed me, I was gonna stiff her. It's not that I'm above it, it's just that I don't need her to know I'm that childish.

Ironic Update: When I called the school this morning to report my children's absences (I kept Pie home because I'm too lazy to get up and get dressed to drop only one of them off and pick them up three hours later), the woman who answered has a son who was also at the party yesterday.

I explained that Tito had some funky green rank-smellin' butt faucet action going on (only I used more clinical terms, like icky diarrhea), and she told me that her son had that on Saturday. Hmmmm... it seems my son wasn't the only Outbreak monkey at the party.

So Tito and I went to the birthday party at 1pm. And my cool friend Anti-Stella was there, thank God, so I could laugh instead of dying of embarrassment when Tito walked around the room with both hands down the back of his pants, up to his wrists. I took him into the bathroom and we had a discussion about what's good manners and what's not, and I washed his hands and took him back to the party where the gift-opening was already underway.

He shoves his hands right back down his pants again, and when I called his name angrily in a stage whisper, he turned around and I saw that he had a giant rope of green snot hanging from his right nostril. If only I'd brought my camera.

I told Anti-Stella about my blog yesterday and I remembered that she's in it, so I had to explain what Stella Dallas means to me in order that I could then explain how she embodies the total opposite of the bitches who make me feel like Stella Dallas.

Here's why I dig Anti-Stella. She makes me feel almost normal while I still maintain my quirky flyin-by-the-seat-of-my-power-panties parental style. She even laughs when I say "gaaaahdammit" under my breath, as other mothers probably would not. Hell, I crack myself up when I say it. If I can figure out how, I'll record an audioclip for you and post it. R probably knows how.

Anyway, so the plan was that R, Pie and Beeb would come pick Tito up at the party as soon as the sofa arrived, and then I would go to my class. I'm getting a lot out of this class, and I'm glad I signed up. We learned increases and decreases, AND I was complimented by the teacher on the work I'd done on my project.

Meanwhile, the sofa arrived at Chez Karma and I couldn't be happier. Plus, Sunday morning R went to Best Buy and scored us an Insignia™-27" Flat-Tube Standard-Definition Digital TV for $266.65. R even had a gift card for $150, so it was a great buy. I'm quite pleased with it.

The layout of the house was not really designed with entertaining in mind, but I'm finally not mortified to let someone see our living room. Just as long as they don't look down the hall into the kitchen.

Check my style out!

I can NOT get enough of this clip.

Dontcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me??

DONTCHA????

Yes, the word on my shirt is EVIL.

Gee, your hair smells like nail polish!

Yesterday I briefly mentioned my sensational new haircut. Don't you love it when you find a stylist that consistently makes you look fabulous? It's the BEST.

And there we were, my stylist Kelly and me, chatting away while she put the finishing touch on my hair with what she calls the "Edward Scissorhands Treatment", where she puts little bitty razors on her fingers and runs them through my hair to texturize it. Does your hair have texture? Oh, you've GOT to have texture. You don't know what you're missing.

Then she stopped suddenly and said, "AW, DAMMIT!!!!"

Just in case you've never experienced this yourself, it's a bit unsettling to hear the person whose current raison d'etre is making you gorgeous swear in frustration. Take my word for it.

What precluded this outburst, you ask?

She had accidentally sliced the tip of her pointer finger - fingernail and all - down to the nail bed.

Let me reiterate this slowly, for maximum effect and to keep me from wretching.

SHE
CUT
HER
FINGERNAIL
OFF...

ON
MY
HEAD.



I didn't have my glasses on, I didn't see it happen, I didn't see her pluck a fingernail out of my hair or off of the floor, and I didn't ask any questions. I really didn't want to know if she bled in my hair or not. It happened really quick, so I don't think so, and my best guess is that it was cut but still attached.

Have we ever discussed how easily I am grossed out??? I mean seriously, it's up there with pube fries. I'm still shuddering at the thought of it. If my hair didn't look so awesome, I'd never go there again.

My hair looks amazing. It's the best haircut I've had in years. I even woke up the next morning and it looked amazing, straight out of bed.

I think I'm destined to have icky flashbacks for a while, but here's the thing - my hair looks incredible. Stunning. I love it. What's a girl to do?

I mean, on the one hand, UUUUUUHHNNN!!!! , obviously, but on the other hand, the possiblity of having a gruesome flashback every time I sit in her chair seems a small price to pay for hair that looks this good. And the woman did put herself in harm's way, risking painful and extremely icky injury, all for the sake of my beauty. Bonus points for devotion!

Y'know what would have been funny, though? If I had said, "Keep the tip!" when I paid her afterwards. (Since she'd just cut off the tip of her finger... yeah. I came up with that just now.)


Also on my mind today is the fact that I have to register Pie for Kindergarten soon. A few weeks ago I was bringing the boys home from preschool and Pie asked me why they don't go to school every day. I said, well, Pie, next year you WILL go every day.

Tito, of course, asked if he would go every day too. No, I told him, next year you'll go Monday, Wednesday and Friday, just like now. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays we'll have Mommy-Tito Day, just like we did last year, when Pie went to school and you stayed home.

Side note: If there's one thing I've learned from having the boys, it's that you can't tell one of them that they get to do something cool without telling the other one that what they get to do, no matter what it is, is equally cool. For example, if one of them gets invited to a Chuck E Cheese birthday party, I have to make "You get to go to the grocery store and the library with me!! WOO HOO!!" sound almost as good. Anyway...

Pie started to cry.

What's the matter, Pie?

I've never had a Mommy Day.

Talk about a knife in the heart.

So my plan for next fall is that I'll take Tito to his school MWF 9-noon, and then I'll keep Pie home for Mommy-Pie Mornings. Then after we pick Tito up, we'll head over to Pie's school and drop him off for PM Kindergarten, and he'll come home on the bus with Beebie so Tito and I can have Mommy-Tito Afternoons.

Hopefully they won't figure out the slight inequity in the one-on-one time totals, as Pie will really only have 3 mornings a week with just me, and Tito will really have 5 afternoons a week. Pie's pretty smart, though. He'll probably figure it out and years from now he'll be on a therapist's couch explaining how he always felt that I loved Tito more, as evidenced by the amount of time I spent with each of them back when he was in Kindergarten. I can just see it.

For the entire school year, I will never be alone. But I figured, it was my last chance to spend this time with them before they're all in school, and in the long run I will be glad I sacrificed what little personal freedom I have to spend the time with them individually.


And get this - today at about 2:30, my doorbell rang while I was waxing my eyebrows and by the time I got myself presentable, I walked to the front door and saw the Maintenance Man's trademark blue truck with a big ladder in the bed, backing out of my driveway. That's weird, I thought. I didn't call about anything, and I KNOW they're not the "proactive" sort. And then it came to me.

Maintenance Man was dropping by, unannounced, to cut down the branch I called about. TEN DAYS AGO. They'd never even returned my call, so I gave up. I ended up calling the electric company instead and they took care of it in about 10 hours. I also emailed the landlords saying that the problem had been taken care of. I hate them.

I haven't even mentioned my knitting class! I actually really liked it and I got over the "buy your own yarn" part. Choosing the yarn was kinda part of the process. I get it. But I wound up buying something close to something I already had. Whatever, it's fine. I'll take a picture of my WIP when it gets to the point where I'm proud to show it. Don't hold your breath.

I don't even know where to begin.

So I'm just gonna start. Grab a cuppa and sit down.


A decision has been made, and it was not an easy one.

I'm back on the meds. Day Four.

Remember how happy I was to be off of them? Yeah. Well. You regular readers know it's been a long time comin'. Let me share some highlights of the days leading up to this decision.

Thursday night I went to the library with the Apes for a Thomas the Tank Engine story event. While I was there, I thought I recognized one of the dads on the other side of the room. Back in college I had this boyfriend Rick, and Rick and I used to hang out with some of his fraternity brothers (one of whom was the guy I saw) and their girlfriends.

There were several of us established couples who'd been together a long time, and of our group of friends, only Rick and I and one other couple did not end up getting married. Suffice it to say that I spent a lot of time with him at his fraternity house, which was a smaller fraternity compared to say, the Betas or Sig Eps or Pikes or whatever, and everyone knew everyone. It was a great close knit group.

Anyway, seeing this former member of the group I hung out with every day for three years made me a little nostalgic. It wasn't that I missed my former boyfriend (I hate using the term "ex" when it was such an amicable parting), or even the people because I know it probably would be really weird to hang out with them now, but I missed that time in my life, and I hadn't thought about it for a really long time.

I missed wondering what my life would be like at 30-something (I used to watch 30-Something!) and of course at that time I believed it would be with Rick, but life is what it is and we both ended up very suitably matched with different people, and I am extremely happy that he and I have remained good friends. He reads this blog, in fact. Hi Rick!

So that was Thursday.

Friday I was still feeling just bleh. I tried to do some things, thinking that I could psych myself out of it. Maybe I just felt like shit because I felt like I looked like shit, so I'd make myself less physically gross. I'll do myself up pretty and shave and put makeup on and maybe even put product in my hair. Nope, that didn't work. I even tried cleaning, thinking maybe I just feel like shit because my house looked like shit. Somebody shoot me if I ever get that idea again.

Fast forward to Saturday.

Beeb has just gotten glasses. She looks soooo cute in them, and she loves them. When they came in, she couldn't wait to get them, so I went and picked them up Wednesday while she was at school, thinking that it would be good for her to have them right away, and if she needed them adjusted we could pop in for 30 seconds on Saturday morning and that'd be fine.

We arrived at about 9:25 and signed in. I even wrote "just needs an adjustment" on the sign-in sheet next to Beeb's name thinking it might speed things along. Nope. Meanwhile, the kids are climbing the walls of this office, running in circles, bickering with each other and whining about how long it was taking.

Oh, and I forgot - pointing and staring at the people with patches on their eyes and asking me why that person has no eye and, when I tried to ignore them to save myself from embarassment, fighting over the potential explanations ("Maybe her eye fell out!" "No, STUPID, your eye can't fall out!" "Yes, it can! I saw it on Ren and Stimpy, right, Mom?" "Is that TRUE, Mom??").

Great. Now everyone knows I let my kids watch Ren and Stimpy. Fortunately, judging by the predominant representation of octogenarians in the waiting room, they probably have no idea what Ren and Stimpy is or why a normal mother might object to it.

Sometimes the office people take pity on the mother with three unruly children and they try to get us out of there as quickly as possible. It works all the time at the pediatrician's. But apparently not here, not today.

Just then, the classic Simon and Garfunkel song "I Am A Rock" came on the Generic Doctor's Office Muzak station. And for some reason, the song just really got to me. Yeah, I'm an island all right. I'm like the one in Lord of the Flies with little boys running around filthy and fighting each other and chasing wild boars and fashioning weapons out of twigs and rocks.

And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.

That's called foreshadowing, kids. Stay with me.

The elderly couple ahead of us FINALLY understood what their insurance would cover (of course, after listening to the tech spend 30 minutes explaining it, I'm sure Pie could probably break it down for them too), and Beeb got her glasses fixed. We had to take the elevator to get back to the car, so we were standing by the buttons and I told Pie he could push the down button.

Now, how it works with my boys is that one of them pushes the button outside the elevator and the other pushes the number of the floor inside the elevator (I came up with that all by myself - feel free to use it with your kids). So that would mean that once we were inside the elevator, everyone would know it would be Tito's turn to push the button.

Except Beeb. Beeb decided that it was unfair to her and so SHE pushed the button for the ground floor. Tito SHRIEKED the most ear piercing indescribable shriek (like a Zamboni running over a tricycle and dragging it, or some kind of metal scraaaaaaaaaaping on more metal is the closest I can get to what it sounded like) and I effing LOST it.

"HOW OLD ARE YOU, BEEB???!! SERIOUSLY!!!! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?? I SWEAR TO GOD YOU GUYS CAN NOT GIVE ME 30 SECONDS' WORTH OF FREAKIN PEACE ON AN ELEVATOR RIDE DOWN THREE FREAKIN FLOORS!!!!!!!"

Nobody said a word the entire way home, and when we got back it was 10:30. I told the Apes, You guys know where the food is. I'm going to go lie down in my room. Don't bother me unless there's blood or fire. I wanted to be a Simon and Garfunkel Rock where I touch no one and no one touches me.
And I laid there the entire day. Literally.

Now, I don't throw the word "literally" around (and people that do really bother me, but they don't literally "bug the crap outta me", because that's just gross. See?), but in this instance, the word "literally" is appropriate.

I felt the physical feelings that one would associate with a fever or flu, and yet I knew I wasn't sick. It was exactly like that commercial for some pharmaceutical that says "Where does depression hurt? Everywhere." while showing a woman walking away from a bed where a man is lying awake, staring sadly.

I felt like my arms and legs were made of cement and I couldn't move them. I was completely immobilized. Nothing sounded good, nothing sounded fun, I couldn't create a happy thought in my brain without instantly creating some form of polar opposite negativity simultaneously. My head sounded like it was trying to tune into an AM radio station and all I could get was static and the sounds of the different stations trying to compete with each other for ownership of that particular airwave.

My parents called and I opened up to them about how I was feeling, and they were, as always, more understanding than I thought they would be. I told them that I was thinking about going back on the meds but how I really didn't want to go back on them for exactly the same reasons that some people who clearly need them don't want to take them either - I didn't want to NEED them.

R came home from work and I told him about the day and, y'all, I just love that man. He gets it. He tagged in, made dinner and put the kids to bed. I know that I am probably not an easy person to love. I do think I'm a terrific person to know. I'm hilarious. I would be friends with me. I should love hanging out with myself.

But it's really only recently that I've started talking to people (my vast readership included) about what I call The Sad Me. But I don't want you to confuse The Sad Me with My Dark Side, cuz I actually kinda like that part of me, my Inner BadAss. She's a hoot.

So that night I decided that I would start meds the next day. And I did.

And I even went to my new knitting class and enjoyed it. Learned several things, in fact. And I'm not the greenest knitter in the class, which is comforting.

Sunday night, however, I didn't sleep at all, and I'll use this word again - LITERALLY.

At about 3:30am, after I'd watched informercials for The Magic Bullet on two different channels (these are the times when I wish I had cable), I just started to sob uncontrollably. I didn't want to wake R up. He needed to sleep. I laid there wishing I had a Middle of the Night Friend that I could call, but I don't. I think I'm a few other people's Middle of the Night Friend, and I am happy to be that for other people, but I just was overcome by the sense that I had absolutely no one I could call and cry to at that moment who would understand. The thought did enter my head to call my parents, but what parent doesn't instantly panic when they get a phone call from their daughter at 3:30am? I didn't want to do that to them.

If there had been a 24-hour inpatient facility I could think of anywhere within driving distance (and if I could have somehow arranged child care), I would have packed a bag, driven however many miles, and checked myself in.

It was THAT BAD.

Monday, I called my therapist, whose name, coincidentally, is Penny. I haven't been to talk to her since I started blogging. Blogging is waaaay cheaper. (Now don't you feel used? Sorry.)

And I wanted to blog during this whole time, but none of the things I normally like to do sounded like fun to me. I tried to work on my knitting project for my class and I kept knitting my stitches really tight so I quit. I knew I was still in the middle of a dark cloud and I thought I could write about it better when I was on the other side of it.

Y'know what helps when your therapist can't fit you in until four weeks from now? Get a great haircut, and watch Dr. Katz. I love that show.

So here we are, Day Four back on Wellbutrin XL. I'll probably never sleep again, but I did manage to give up caffeine with the exception of the occasional cup of hot tea, so I'm hoping that this side effect will subside eventually. And it's not like I was sleeping much before anyway.

If you've made it through to the end of this post, you may now apply to be my Middle of the Night Friend. There will be a talent competition, an interview, and a written essay which must contain appropriate usage of the word "literally".

And, in the event of a tie, the winner will be selected by either a swimsuit competition or a shoot-out. Perhaps I'll toss a coin.

Or perhaps a shoot-out in swimsuits. Yes. That's it.

AMERICAN IDOL BEGINS!

I'm so excited for the premiere of American Idol, I just want to sit back with a Vicodin/Percoset/Xanax cocktail and... HEY!!

Dammit, Paula! Leave some for the rest of us!

The curse continues - kinda.

Ok, it's not the level of drama associated with a kidney infection ER visit, but waking up Saturday morning to no electricity certainly meets my definition of suckiness. The good news was that being unable to shower meant that I was still wearing my Power Panties from the day before, when we went out to Chez Inlaw for an unusually uneventful dinner.

The most interesting thing that happened all weekend didn't happen to me. You might have heard about what they're calling the "Miracle in Missouri", the incredible rescue of two kidnapped boys in my hometown of Kirkwood - one who had been missing for four days, the other for over four years. I couldn't believe it.

In a creepy Six-Degrees-Of Separation thing, I used to live with a guy whose best friend's parents owned the funeral home where the kidnapper worked. The kidnapper also worked at a pizza place just around the corner from the Kirkwood Police Station for 25 years, going to work every day and leaving the boy alone at his apartment. It's amazing how many people came into contact with Shawn during the time he was missing. Shawn even said he'd seen posters of himself when he and his friends went to the grocery store.

I think of myself as a reasonably optimistic person, but I don't know if I could have held on to hope for as long as Shawn's parents did. They established a foundation and helped the parents of other missing kids, and they never gave up. It was wonderful to see such an amazing happy ending to a story that certainly had potential to end badly.

Anyway, we saw that story unfolding on the news while we were at Chez Inlaw. The next day we woke up to the sounds of howling winds and cracking tree limbs. And then *poof*, electricity gone. It turned out to be a good thing we were awake early because, since it was a Saturday, R had to go to work. He drove all the way there, braving the elements, and was told that because the office had no power, he could go home.

In the mail came a check from my parents (which went straight into the bank so my rent check could clear) and the birthday present I bought for myself - that little pink "goKnit" pouch from KnitPicks. Of course, in buying it I caused a check to bounce, so it's going to end up costing me more than $19.99 simply because I'm a big fat idiot. Well, so what. I like it. It's in my purse right now with about 4' of I-cord on it which will become a strap for a purse I'm making out of a felted sweater.

We went to lunch at Red Robin (we had received a gift card for Christmas) and then we came home and the power came back on a little while later, so while the power outage was inconvenient, it was nowhere near the disaster it was the last time. However, we were precariously close to a similar disaster as you can see from the following photos:



Ice storms can be really pretty.


Or not.














You might recall the reason why I was nervous to see a tree limb dangling so close to my power line, but if you don't, here's what happened to us after a huge storm back in March.






A tree fell on the line, pulling the conduit completely off of the house and causing a miserable 5-day power outage. It would have only been a 3-day power outage, but the property owners were unwilling to pay to have the house brought up to code. Thanks, assholes.

So this morning I saw a truck from the power company who came and promptly removed the errant branch, allowing us to narrowly escape certain doom.

Lemme think, what else can I tell you... um... Oh!

Here's a pic from Tito's birthday party.



By the way, Tito has learned how to pee "The Pocket Way", meaning that he can go standing up, without dropping his pants all the way to his ankles now. I'm so proud. Sometimes he even puts his hands on his hips, which is quite hilarious. And yes, he's still very creative with the poops.

Also, I was recently vexed about knitting class etiquette and mentioned it on the Knittyboard. For the benefit of the non-knitters, I'll summarize the situation. I signed up to take a knitting class. Here is the actual class description.


Intermediate Knitting
Made a lot of scarves, and ready for the next step? This is the class for you. We will make a simple shell, designed with the yarn of your choice and styled for you. Students will learn the basics of pattern reading, sweater construction, and finishing details.
Skill requirements: Must be able to Knit and Purl for this class.
Class limit-8 students
Sundays, January 14, 21, 28, and February 4 from 2:30-4:00 p.m.
Materials and homework list provided with registration.
Class Fee: $35 per student

I asked about the materials list at the time that I signed up, and they said they would email it to me. A few days later, I hadn't gotten it, so I emailed the store. A few days after that I still hadn't heard back, so I called. I said that I was taking this class and I hadn't received a materials list. I was told to bring a variety of needle sizes, and that we would be choosing our yarn at the first class. I replied that I was hoping to be able to use something from my enormous stash (surely I'd have enough of something to make a shell), and she repeated, no, you'll choose your yarn in the class.

This kinda bothered me a bit. It should have read $35, plus materials. If I wanted to get into semantics, the sentence does technically read that Materials (and a Homework list) would be provided, does it not?

Now, I'm not so foolish as to believe that the yarn would be included in the cost of the class. But, if it hadn't specifically said that a materials list would be provided, implying that I would have ample time to either peruse the yarn that I already own (quite likely purchased at that particular shop anyway) for something appropriate or to go buy something that I could work into my budget, I probably wouldn't have signed up for it in the first place. Nothing against the shop, I'm just poor. Sigh. Lesson learned.

As it turns out, the first class was cancelled due to a power outage anyway, so I'll actually have money to buy yarn at the first class. Still, part of me wants to show up with a grocery bag full of cheapass dishcloth cotton, just for the sake of principle.

I want to thank my Knittyhead friends who wished me a happy birthday! My own kids didn't even say Happy Birthday to me until I reminded them at 8:30pm that it was, in fact, someone's birthday today. My best friend didn't call (which worries me somewhat), and neither did Maddie (which surprised me, since I sent her a card on her birthday). R only said, when the power flashed off, "Wow, this is a great way to start off your birthday."

Not quite the same as actually saying "Happy Birthday," is it?

No. No, it's not.

Weird.

Guess who I just heard from?

That freak who thinks I'm a beer heiress.

Edit:

Remember this?

And this?



Here's our latest conversation.

john_blair04: hello Molly, Happy new year, what´going on?
penny_karma: So did your friend get the documents and the cheque I sent?

Pause.

penny_karma: Oh, I'm sorry - there's been a mistake. My lawyer told me to ask you not to contact me again.



Yeah, I was tempted to yank his chain a little more, but I'd rather just be rid of him. He bores me.

The Yin and Yang of my life.

Bad: I not only started my period but also sprouted a big ugly cold sore on the day of my son's 4th birthday party. Oh, I'm feeling GORRRRRRRRRRRGEOUS.

Good: Hobby Lobby has my favorite cheap yarn on sale. Frosting. $1.99/skein. I love that shit. I can make two scarves from one skein, and when I give them to Beeb's friends and other non-crafty folks, well, they think I'm a damn genius.

Bad: Updated the bank balance for the first time since November 15th. It took a whole afternoon and left me curled up and twitching on my bed for over an hour.

Good: At least I'm aware of how little money I have, and it's actually strangely comforting. A sense of that would have been helpful earlier - perhaps I wouldn't have bought the $1.99 Frosting.

Nah, I still would have. Let's not kid ourselves.

I can't believe I forgot to tell you -

Recently, I was waiting in line at Target with Pie and Tito, my two four-year-old boys who are not twins. Pie was growing impatient, so I wearily suggested that he look at the magazine rack to see if he could find any words he knew.

No, he didn't see the Rachael I-get-my-wisdom-teeth-pulled-daily-to-maintain-my-cheeky-cuteness Ray magazine and read the words "Cooking is Fun". He didn't see Martha Stewart Living and read the words "Christmas Magic". He went straight to some Glamour/Cosmo/Vogue hybrid.

"It says, 'Special... Tricks. What... Your... Man... Wants... You... To... Do... In... Bed!' I read it, Mom!!"

Oh, SHIT.

"And that one says 'Wild Sexy... what does P-A-N-T-I-E-S spell??"

Panties.

"WHAT???"

Panties, I repeat a little louder. Y'know, since it's hard for him to hear me over the chorus of other shoppers' snickering.

"'Wild Sexy Panties!' S-E-X-Y spells SEXY, Mommy!!"

Yeah, I KNOW it does.

"Are you gonna buy that magazine, Mommy?"

NO.

"Why not?"

Because I already know special tricks.

"Will you get it for me, then? I want to learn Special Tricks too, so I can be like Harry Potter."

If I were Harry Potter, you can bet your ass that my Special Trick at that moment would have been to whip out my invisibility cloak as quickly as effin possible.

One's naming turds, one's reading Cosmo. But I'll focus on the positive.

At least the Turd-namer is creative.
And at least the Cosmo-reader is reading.

I swear to God I'm bipolar or something.

Yesterday we took down the Christmas Tree and R set up a 10' long Giant Thomas Train Set tracks in its place. I think it helped me with the feelings of Seasonal Craptasticness.

Several things have made me happy this week.

First and foremost, the outpouring of encouragement from all of you. Thank you. I still can't believe anybody reads this thing.

Tito's been doing great with the potty. He even stands up to pee which cracks me up to no end. And, when he poops, for some reason he counts the number of turds in the bowl and assigns each of them an identity.

For example, if he poops two little poops, he'll say the poops are him and Pie. If he poops a whole bunch of little rabbit pellet poops, he'll say he pooped a family. He's done this ever since he started pooping on the potty.

Recently he produced one of my favorites. There was a big poop and a teeny little pebble right beside it. He said, "Mommy, that big poop is you, and the little poop is me. Look! I'm cuddling you!"

If it weren't so effin disturbing, it'd be sweet.

Right now, both of my sons are four years old. This is the six weeks out of every year where I dread anyone asking me how old they are. My usual response is, "Well, the little one just turned four, and the older one will be five in a few weeks." I can just hear the other person thinking, "God, what a nympho-slut!" Y'know, since I'm able to read other people's thoughts. Well, maybe it's more like assuming other people's thoughts.

Tito's birthday party is on Sunday. His birthday was actually over Winter Break (the same day as Bezzie's Bezziversary). We've invited all of the boys in his class to Build-A-Dino, a slightly more masculine off-shoot of Build-a-Bear Workshop. I also invited my friend Anti-Stella. Should be a good time.

Pie and Tito have been getting along really well, now that Beeb's gone back to school. Yesterday they were playing and they made up new identities for themselves. I'm not sure what the context or the ongoing scenario is, but their names are Popcorn and Poopy. And you'd think Tito would be Poopy, but he's not. Tito is Popcorn, and Pie is Poopy. Suffice it to say, I've overheard some mighty amusing conversations.

A lot of the Knittyboarders are posting 2006 Finished Object galleries on their blogs. I was going to gather my FO's and then I realized that pretty much everything I finished, I gave away. That was nice of me.

The only thing I can think of that I finished and kept for myself was the Lucy bag that I screwed up the handle on. I have several Unfinished projects going at the moment. I haven't felt like knitting lately, but I do start my class next Sunday, so hopefully that will inspire me.

I also got the Glamorama knitting book from one of my favorite sites, Paperbackswap.com (and if you haven't joined yet, you should - there's a link in my sidebar). The patterns in it are funny, if you want to knit a chocolate layer cake or a ham sandwich. The fried egg earmuffs just might be funny enough for me to give crochet another shot.

In other crafty news, I am so sick of failed shopping missions trying to find pants for Beebie, I've decided to dust off my sewing machine. I found what looks like an easy pattern for drawstring pants so I can make them big enough for the junk in her trunk (curse you, heredity!) and short enough for her petite legs (curse heredity again!).

I haven't sewed anything in many years. I bought the sewing machine right before Beeb was born almost ten years ago and I think I made maybe four things on it, all of which sucked. So it should be interesting. Perhaps I'll Bedazzle the suckiness out of them.

And finally, Reality TV is starting up again! I love the show Beauty and the Geek. My favorite guys are Nate (from the Star Wars tribute band) and Mario (who owns 25,000 comics and has a tattoo of a Nintendo controller). Mark my words, Nate is gonna look smokin' hot after the Makeover episode.


UPDATE: My credit report is officially cleaned up!

Year-End Reflections

Today is the kids' last day of Winter Break. It's always kind of a bittersweet day for me. On the one hand, I will be SO happy to not have to entertain the three of them all day. That was really wearing me out. But, I will miss having them around to be goofy with.

Of course Christmas, T's birthday and New Year's all carried the usual stresses, but Beeb and I watched all three of the Anne Of Green Gables movies over a four-day period. I'd been reminded of how wonderfully inspiring they are recently in a discussion on the Knittyboard with OldLadyPenPal and Raeknits!

And another highlight of the last two weeks was seeing Borat with Aunties Yettie and Tayo. Funny movie, definitely not for the squeamish.

Still, I'm depressed.

It's a combination of post-Christmas letdown, and a general sense of having failed miserably in the past year and the high probability that I will fail again in 2007, the fact that I weigh twenty pounds more than I did at this time last year, and my impending birthday.

I have come to dread my birthday in recent years. I'm still trying to forget my last three birthdays in which I've enjoyed a HUGE (ie. the words "GET OUT" were shouted) fight with R, a kidney infection, and a -$600 bank balance.

I know it's seasonal and situational, but I'm still fighting the urge to go back on the meds that I managed to kick this past year (one of my prouder accomplishments of 2006, if I could separate it in my head from the weight gain that came along with it). I know it wouldn't be a big deal if I went back on, but part of me would feel like I'd failed at yet another thing.

Another thing that's on my mind - remember how desperately I wanted to get out of this house and into one of our own and how hard I was working on having this be our last year as Elite's prisoners? Well, this won't be the year. I'm heartbroken, but I agree with the logic that we should stay another year.

I feel like it's entirely my fault. I haven't managed the money well. I've tried, honestly. And I've actually made significant progress in cleaning up our credit. But I really, REALLY wanted to get out of here, and at that goal, I have failed. I know I shouldn't be upset and I should be glad that we have a place to live, but I've lost sleep over this.

R is also suffering from insomnia, currently. It's putting a strain on everyone.

So I thought that to make myself feel better I'd do a few things:

A) Read back over the last year of my silly little blog to remind myself of something good that I did over the last year.

B) Set a goal for myself for next year that I can actually accomplish.

C) Look through personal ads and allow the desperation of ugly people who can't spell to remind me that I am indeed a goddess among mortals.



And here's what I came up with as my 2006 highlights.



Hosted an online Oscar Party with Red Carpet Snark.

Flashed my Stash.

Survived for five days without electricity and endured the ongoing ineptitude of my property managers.

Began the Fuggablog.

Sprayed hairspray in my cooch and lived to tell about it.

Explained Lesbians to Beebie.

Explained Boobs to Pie.

Removed a potty seat from Tito's head.

Found a toffee recipe that uses two sticks of butter.

Overcame my fear of ordering at Starbux.

Knitted a crown.

Met Fellow Knittyheads Rachele and Rachelknits at Knitorious.

Hosted an online Emmy Awards Party.

Received 96 bottles of Simple Green.

Bashed Celebrity Duets.

Began Wookin Pa Nub Wednesdays.

Celebrated one year of Blogging.

Saw The Yarn Harlot.

Attended The Pirate Festival.

Pottytrained both of my sons.

Met Mr. McFeeley.

Went to HaHaTonka.

Revealed to the world that I have Power Panties.

Made Tito a James costume.

Took a trip to Texas with the kiddos and met BEZZIE and Chunky.

Visited Amylovie at Yarntopia (and met Sheryl too).

And, finally, Twelve Days of Wookin.


Not such a bad year when I limit myself to the positive stuff.


And so, here is my goal: I will knit a sweater this year.

And I'll make some socks. I swear I will. I can't believe how much sock yarn I have and not one sock to show for it. YET.

I have actually taken a step in the direction of meeting the sweater goal already! I signed up for an Intermediate Knitting class at Kirkwood Knittery, wherein I will learn to knit a basic shell.

It's my birthday present to myself.

Maybe I'll make my shell out of FunFur, just to be funny.

And furry.

Ya Say Ya Want a Resolution...

In the year 2007 I resolve to: Slap stupid people in the head. Get your resolution here.