Psychology. History. High School.

I should write a book. Seriously.

This Reverse Psychology Parenting thing R and I have going is working brilliantly.

Remember how I had Blink 182 going in the Odyssexy on the way to Bible School? Beebie was reading the liner notes on an upcoming song (which had not played yet, thankfully, and please note that I was NOT going to play it with the kids in the van) and she asked me what a cock was. It helps, at this point, to know that the song she was talking about is called Happy Holidays, You Bastard:

It's Christmas Eve and I've only wrapped two fuckin' presents
It's Christmas Eve and I've only wrapped two fuckin' presents
And I hate, hate, hate your guts,
I hate, hate, hate your guts,
And I'll never talk to you again,
unless your dad will suck me off
I'll never talk to you again
unless your mom will touch my cock
I'll never talk to you again
ejaculate into a sock
I'll never talk to you again,
I'll never talk to you again

It's Labor day and my grandpa just ate seven fuckin' hotdogs
It's Labor day and my grandpa just ate seven fuckin' hotdogs
and he shit shit shit his pants.
He's always fuckin' shittin' his pants
And I'll never talk to you again
unless your dad will suck me off
I'll never talk to you again
unless your mom will touch my cock
I'll never talk to you again
ejaculate into a sock
I'll never talk to you again,
I'll never talk to you again


Should I be relieved or alarmed that she didn't ask about the phrases "suck me off" or "ejaculate into a sock?" I'm sticking with relieved, for now.

It's a great song to listen to when you're feeling particularly angsty. Not as good as Methods of Mayhem, which I prefer for extended angst, but if you need a quick little release and you only have about a minute, go with Happy Holidays, You Bastard. Trust me, you'll feel better. An anti-angst "quickie", if you will. And now you have the words, so you can sing along.

Anyway, when I discreetly told Beebs that a cock was a wiener, she said, "Well, then, Mom - I don't think the next song is going to be very, um . . . appropriate."

Yeah, I let my kids listen to things they probably shouldn't, but I figure as long as they KNOW they probably shouldn't be watching it, it's probably all right. At least I've confirmed that she knows which words are bad. She certainly wouldn't know from hanging out with me. I use "shit" and "stuff" interchangably, usually.

Observe a few of our recent conversations. We've been talking about her upcoming birthday:

Me: Hey, Beeb, when you turn 16, I'll take ya to get your nipples pierced.

Beeb: Eeeeew! Gross!

R: Or you can get a tattoo if you want.

Beeb: No way!!


This one takes place almost nightly:

Me: Hey, Beeb, fetch me a beer. And don't go sneakin' any sips, either!

Beeb: Whatever! Like I'd even!

See? Works like a charm. We've already got her terrified of sex, too, thanks to the power of Naps. Hee hee!!!


Oh, hey - the beer thing reminds me of my new role at Chez Inlaw. Forgot to tell you guys what MIL said to me at lunch on FIL's Day. We had brats and hot dogs, and I'm a bit of a brat connoisseur, so I asked where the brats were from. They have a butcher shop they like and they've gotten great meats there in the past.

My favorite brats are the ones from G&W Meats; they're the ones they serve at Grant's Farm. G&W Meats is brilliant. They give you a beer when you come in - no shit, it could be 9am and they'll offer you a beer when you walk in the door - of course, it's a Busch Light in a can, but hey, when have I ever complained about free beer?

Anyway, I asked MIL about the brats because they were pretty good (and because I wanted to make polite conversation before FIL started talking about whatever he was going to talk about). She said they were the Johnsonville Beer Brats.

We figured you'd like 'em, Sarah...they have beer in them.

So apparently I've established myself as the lush of the family, and I'm really quite okay with it. I like it, in fact. I just hope it doesn't take away any of the magic when I show up drunk in a red sequinned dress at FIL's wake.


I need to wrap up Summer PSR for you. I must admit, I got far more fiendish amusement for my money than I expected to. Anakin vs. ObiWan on the cross thing was fucking hysterical (see the last post for a pic, if you missed it), and there were other funny things too, but nowhere NEAR no $360 worth of entertainment value. Tell ya what, though - you be the judge.

Here's the Church Nazi in her extremely intimidating frog green polyester pants.

See the yellowish hexagon-shape at the bottom of the pic? That's the A-B symbol on my Grant's Farm parking sticker.


Here's a necklace Tito made for me.


Is Pope Benedict aware that this parish is handing out rainbow crosses to children? Perhaps I'll wear it to the Pride Parade this weekend.

My favorite photo op was today at the Family Mass. I was in the back of the church, near the baptismal font, which is the circle on the floor in this picture.

And I did a double-take.


THE CHILD IS IN A SWIMSUIT.

Ok, she's like, not even 2, and she didn't actually get in the pool, but she sure looked like she was going to. Thank God the Nazi didn't see her.

The other funnies were stories that I don't have pictures of. Pie's teacher told him he should be a priest. R and I weren't sure exactly what to make of that. Apparently, the lesson was about how Jesus was a servant and he washed the disciples' feet, and my boy piped in, "Hey, didn't some lady wash Jesus' feet and dry them with her hair?"

Yeah. My kid whipped out Mary freakin Magdalene.

And the very next day, after the kids found the Odyssexy in my assigned parking spot, piled in, and waited for the Nazi to blow her whistle so that we can all get back to our Hedonistic lives in an orderly fashion, I asked the kids what they learned that day.

Tito said they watched Veggie Tales videos. I bit my tongue and seethed silently - I'm paying for that?

Pie said, "Well, today we played a game. We were the Israelite slaves, and the teachers were the mean Egyptians who made us do really hard work. And to get away from the Egyptians, we were supposed to say Hail Mary."

It took me a second to figure out why that was beyond weird.

I could totally the voice of Linda Richman saying, "Hail Mary? Who the hell is Mary? Never heard of her. I'll say a Hail Barbra instead, no big whoop. Talk amongst yourselves..."

Old Testament Jews doing Hail Mary? What the FUCK are they teaching my kid??

That doesn't even make any sense.
ON ANY FUCKING LEVEL.

R thought I was kidding. Like I could make that shit up? I told him if they're gonna mess up my kids' historical perspective timeline, I want my fuckin money back. I ain't playin'.

But the kids all got good report cards - YES, THEY GIVE REPORT CARDS. Oh, and inside the envelope, each child got what looked like a Patron Saint trading card. But, alas, no bubble gum. Sigh. Ran out of money, I guess.

Tito's report card said that he did wonderful on his prayers and that he was "fast." I kinda didn't know what that really meant.

It sounded like a non-pliment, the intentionally vauge compliment that's not really a compliment; it's just something to say when you're supposed to say something nice or nothing at all and you can't exactly say nothing - which totally reminded me of the time we were at Chez Inlaw and The Aldis glowingly told us all how Aldigirl's dance teacher had told them that "Some kids sing really well, and some kids dance really well, but nobody sings and dances quite like Aldigirl..." They apparently didn't see it as the non-pilment that we did. The teacher didn't necessarily include Aldigirl among those who sing and/or dance really well.

Tito's fast? What is he, a playah? He did tell me he was one of only two boys in his class. And Tito does like the ladies. Guess I can be proud of that.

Beebie "always had thoughtful comments to contribute to the class discussions." And she got a 94% on, get this - HER FINAL EXAM. Yeah.

And Pie "has a real zest for learning." Which we knew. Anyway, so we've met our obligation for the year, and now we can decide if we want to change churches. This is a huge ongoing conflict at Chez Karma, kids. Stay tuned.

In other news, last night I took the kids to see High School Musical at The Muny. We were literally 10 rows from the stage. Didn't even zoom in for this pic. I could have thrown a rock and hit Gabriella. And don't think I didn't want to.


The words Sugar Coma pretty much sum it up.

The best part of the evening, other than my total Rock Star parking spot, was when we were pulling into said Rock Star parking spot, Beebie started screaming in the back of the Odyssexy, "MOM!!! ANTI-STELLA!! ANTI-STELLA!!!!!!" And of course, I'm thinking, oh there's no WAY her preggo ass is here, it's 94 degrees out. I still remember being pregnant with Beebie in late June and not voluntarily leaving the air-conditioning for fuckin ANYTHING. Except ice cream.

But I will say publicly that Anti-Stella is a far stronger woman than I am, friends, because damned if it wasn't Anti-Stella's 7-months-along ass, along with her oldest boy, SuperDuperCooper, walking right in front of the Muny. Awesome.

So today, weather permitting, we're going to hang out with the Anti-Stellas for the parade that goes right in front of our old house. Beyond that, my only plans are to rub two rocks together and hope they'll both turn to gold. Why?

Turns out Tito's ear tubes weren't paid at Network Level, and they're sticking us with a bill for $2000. I intend to complain. I didn't even tell you the drama I went through with that place because I would just as soon forget it, but maybe I'll dump that shit on y'all too.

I can't believe I've only posted 3 times all month.


By the way, I added an extra pic to the last post.
Scroll down and enjoy.

You haven't missed anything, really.

Shit, didn't realize it had been so long since my last update. Sorry.

So I'm shopping for some new Power Panties (in a smaller size, I'm proud to report) and my cell phone rings. It's Call Notes, meaning that someone has left me a message on my home phone. Weird, since R is at home. Why didn't he pick it up? Did something happen? So I press 1 to hear the message, thinking maybe it's the hospital or the police notifying Next of Kin.

Hey, Sarah, it's me, Camille's mom (I don't know why she constantly reminds me who she is), and Camille was wondering if Pie would like to... y'know... get together... maybe the pool...

SWAMP THING. I wouldn't have picked up, either. Nice one, R.

GIH. Now I gotta worry about running into her at the neighborhood pool. I already can't go to the Kohl's by me because she works there.

She gave me the window of time where she would be available to answer the phone when I called back. That window wasn't going to work for me. So I haven't called her back and I Just. Don't. Care.

This week and next are Summer PSR. I've been enjoying pulling into my assigned parking place playing some obnoxiously distasteful music. The church parking lot has excellent acoustics. I've played Nashville Pussy and NWA, for example. I played Blink 182 a couple of days but then Beeb asked me what a Cock was. And yes, I told her.

Yesterday I played Aerosmith in the van all day. I can't WAIT for Guitar Hero Aerosmith to come out. KOFA just got himself a Wii and I'm as giddy about it as he is. Factoring somewhat (he admits) into his decision of which system to purchase was the fact that he figured if he went with the Wii, he'd have access to my Wii game library. I'm sure a head-to-head Guitar Hero battle is imminent. Bring it, dude. Yer goin' down.

Meanwhile, I've had a lot of fun hearing about the kids' experiences in their PSR classes. They're making rosaries, which my sons will most certainly turn into weapons within a minute or two. My favorite thing by far has been Tito's art project. I don't know if they were supposed to draw Jesus or what, but here's what Tito brought home a couple of days ago:


It's Anakin vs. ObiWan. On the cross.
I nearly wet myself laughing.

And I finally (reluctantly and begrudgingly) paid my $360 for Summer PSR. After I gave the Nazi the check, I thought it would have been funny if I had paid in pennies. Or in a big wad of $1 bills that smell like smoke, stale beer and sweaty buttcrack. But of course I didn't think about that until a couple of days later. Sigh. I'm so much more brilliant after the fact, sometimes. I hate that.

The next funny thing, I'm going to give you an opportunity to click away if you're offended by the concept of, erm . . . sex toys.



Last chance.




Still here? Awesome. Well, on with the toy talk. I have what you could call a small arsenal. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I think I might have mentioned El Diablo on here, and if I haven't, well, I'll give ya the specs. Basically, you could club a baby seal to death with this thing. It's 9 1/2 inches in length, 6 inches around in girth. Hot pink. And the best part - GLITTER.

So I've been home alone for 4 hours every day this week, and, yeah, it's been a bit lonely. So yes, kids, I confess that two days ago I dug in my Fun Drawer for El Diablo. I had to move some stuff around, and apparently, I left out another of my toys on my dresser.

And Beeb found it.

Thank God it's not too phallic-looking, but you'd definitely know its function if you saw it.



She asked me what it was, and while I vehemently oppose the use of semantics to cloud the truth from someone, I told her it was a Massager. Cuz it is.

She wants to borrow it. Y'know, for her shoulders.


Oh, and you probably want to hear about Father's Day, dontcha? I almost forgot. It was really quite boring. I took out an ice cream pie because I didn't have time to mold four sticks of butter into something tasty and artery-clogging.

The night before, I'd been out to the Arch Rival Roller Girls bout with my friend Mysty. I'm tempted to skip the fireworks at the inlaws on July 5th so I can go to the next bout. It was so fun my good mood carried over into the next day, and FIL hardly worked my nerves at all. Plus, I came up with the most kickass roller derby name for myself. Not telling yet.

Here's your f*ckin update. Now shut up.

I'm sick. And I'm tired. And cranky. Bleh!

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I really hate summer. The last few weeks have been rainy too, and that sucks just slightly more than the blistering heat. My kids have come to expect constant entertainment, and as a result, my online time is limited. I try to keep mental notes of all the faaaaaabulous things the Apes and I have been doing so that when I get a few minutes to myself, I can blog them for whatever readers have stuck around. Here's what I can remember. Enjoy.


Stitch N' Pitch, and The Ish.

I got to go to Stitch N' Pitch again this year! Last year I went with the lovely Shannon. This year I met a lovely crocheter whom I'll call Maeby in one of my many online hangouts and we kinda set up a blind date. I even made her a corsage, because I'm such an awesome date.

Did YOUR date make YOU a corsage? Shoulda gone with ME.



Seriously, I'm the funnest date ever. I'm such a great date that it's like my gift to the world. Sucks that I'm kinda off the market.

The plan was that I would pick Maeby up at her work, and as I usually do with the people I meet, I established myself early on as what I call An Ish Person. Know what that means? That means if I say I'll meet you at 5, that means 5-Ish. Not everyone is an Ish person, and I really do try to respect the people who aren't, and that's why I try to lay it out in the beginning; so we can determine our Ish compatability. R, for example, is most emphatically NOT Ishy (and I really wasn't either, until I had kids). But I am now, and I tend to prefer the company of other Ishers.

Sometimes it might be necessary to calibrate your Ish when determining Ish compatability, but generally the Ish refers to the common socially acceptable window of time that you can still count as close enough to the agreed-upon time without pissing the other person off. To me, 10 - 15 minutes is the Ish. It allows for traffic and unforseeable circumstances like uncooperative kids and whatnot. At any time within the Ish, if I can see that I'm going to arrive outside the Ish, I'll always call. I'm not that big a jackass that I'd show up half an hour late without explanation or apology. See? Ideal date.

Anyway, the SNP seats were WAY better this year, the Cardinals won, it was a beautiful night, Maeby was totally cool and we each won a prize in the door prize drawing. She won yarn and I won the Vogue Knitting book Stitchionary - righteous!! We drank $8 margaritas - which I will say, were not worth $8 - and after the game we accidentally took the Metrolink to the wrong side of the river, but it was hilarious and quickly rectified. A good time was had by all.


Tito's Ears.

The next momentous event in my life was taking my baby to get the tubes put in his ears. There's something deeply unsettling about seeing your kid under anesthesia. But the worst is knowing they trust you so inherently, when you know what's going to happen to them and they don't. That just makes ya feel like the worst parent in the world.

When they opened the door to let me know he was done, I could hear him screaming all the way down the hall. He wasn't even all the way awake yet. He was soooo pitiful. I held him until my arm fell asleep. And of course I took pictures, mostly for R because I knew he'd be there if he could and he knew how hard it would be for me. But I can share them with you too.

He started out playful and almost giddy.


Checkin the place out.


His little panties were funny, peekin out the back of his dress.


Here's when I started to cry. Ooooh! The wagon! Fun!!!
No, not really... they're about to cut into your HEAD.


This part was really heartbreaking too.


Beebie and Pie were jealous that Tito got to have a popsicle and Sprite for breakfast.


Time to go!


He screamed the ENTIRE way home. I stopped at Walgreens to get him some Tylenol and he didn't want to get out of the van. It occurred to me to leave him in the van and run in real quick like a bunny, but the way he was screaming I just knew someone would think he was screaming because his crack whore mother left him in the van while she went and got some pseudoephedrine for her meth lab and I'd get arrested. So I toted his 50-pound ass into Walgreens on my hip while he screamed in my ear.

I'm a mom. It's my job.


Sick of being sick.

Remember the Strep I had on Mother's Day? R has the Strep now. He missed two days of work, and, dutiful wife, I took care of him. Which means, of course, now I'll get it - for the second time in a month - and he'll have to go back to work and I'll have to do everything I normally do and nobody will take care of MY ass. It's nobody's fault, I know R'd take care of me if he could, but he can't, and it just sucks. It makes me more sad than angry.

R wants me to get better, of course. Why? So I won't have to skip out on Father's Day like I did Mother's Day. Y'know, since it was such a cake walk to be home alone in bed with a fever and sore throat and a giant vat of yogurt (for my blazing cooter, don't forget). Yeah. LOVED that. No, R doesn't want to have to deal with any FIL drama that might be associated with my absence, regardless of the reason for it. Jesus, I wish I could reach down my throat, pull out my own spleen and beat FIL into a fuckin coma with it.


Other Random Shit.

I spent the weekend watching Season 3 of Weeds. I love that show. I would totally do Conrad. Yeah, I said it.

Oh, and KOFA has a kilt. He doesn't like me referring to my son's undergarments as "panties", but he'll wear a manskirt. Without panties. I mean, I'm assuming. I didn't check.

Rock on!!!