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!!!

In Honor Of Swimsuit Season.

While Beebie and I were trying on swimsuits last weekend, this song was on a constant loop in my head.



Really. Literally. What AM I gonna do wit all dat junk inside my trunk? What AM I gonna do with all dat ass inside my jeans? Sigh.


So then I remembered another version of the same song.
Alanis is a genius.



That reminds me, Kev - where the fuck are my Icies??



And this is a bonus, just because I love it.

Justice? Really? Ya think??

You are Justice

Equity, rightness, probity, executive; triumph of the observing side in law.

Justice is about cold, objective balance through reason or natural force. You can't keep smoking and drinking without consequences to your health. It is the card that advises cutting out waste and insists that you make adjustments, do whatever is necessary to bring things back into balance, physically, emotionally, socially, spiritually. It is a card of balance and harmony; if there is imbalance, the correction may
require recourse to the law.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Poetic Justice. Schadenfreude. Malfeasance for Malfeasance's sake.
These are a few of my favorite things.

So The Iffy Chicken Didn't Kill Me.

In case you were wondering.

I went to Knitorious to pick up my Stitch N' Pitch tickets shortly after I ate the funky chicken, and while a yarn shop would be the ideal place for Death to grab me in his cold, bony hand (just think how few lucky people get to die doing something they love), I survived to knit another day.

Thursday was Beeb and Pie's last day of school. Beeb's last day of elementary school and Pie's last day of Kindergarten. I'm melancholy about it. Plus I'm not looking forward to a summer of being awakened at 6:30 by one or more of the Apes asking me, "Mommy, where are we going to GO today??"

Grrrrrr. Nowhere. How's that sound?

Friday I took them to the Zoo. I even sprung for the 3-D motion simulator Dinosaur movie (my advice: save your money) AND lunch at McDonald's. Then, on the way home, Beeb asked me if we could go to the pool. They've come to expect constant entertainment. And I just don't have the energy.

In the next couple of weeks they'll go to Bible School at a Lutheran Church, then Summer PSR, and then another Bible School at a Presbyterian Church and maybe another, I haven't decided. They go back to school August 13th.

Saturday the forecast was for sunny skies and a high in the mid 70's. We had to take Pie to his Archery class 40 minutes away, and from there we were planning to go straight out to Chez Inlaw for the big Memorial Day par-tay.

The forecast was hella WRONG.

We were all wearing t-shirts and shorts, and it was pouring rain and maybe 60 degrees out. So we made a stop at a rural WalMart for some emergency jackets (I myself got a NASCAR shirt) so we wouldn't freeze our balls off because this big par-tay is outside, and it's for ALL the people who live out in their country club neighborhood. It's a big deal - free food, free beer, petting zoo, inflatables, free beer, and free beer.

But the weather was freaking me out and I was totally nervous that the shit would get cancelled and we'd get stuck at FIL's house all day. I brought my Urgent Care paperwork, just in case FIL brought up my devious plot to skip out on Mother's Day. But, as it turned out, the clouds parted and God smiled down on my Free-Beer-Lovin' Ass. I drank a LOT. Haven't been that drunk since 6th Street. And it was great.

My interaction with FIL was minimal, but at one point he pointed out the guy from the symphony that he's all tight with. The guy I told had perfect teeth, remember? He told me I should go talk to him because I've mentioned to MIL (in front of FIL) that I think the symphony dude is Dashing. Impossibly handsome and impeccably polished.

He's right over there, Sarah, you should go say hi to him!!

MIL was trying to get FIL to leave me alone - not sure if it was because she thought I was upset that he was fuckin with me or if she was more concerned that I would actually go over to Mr. Dashing and tell him right to his flawless face how totally beautiful he is. I was wasted enough, I probably would have.

I'm just trying to get her to go over to him and say hello!

So my drunk ass comes back with, in not just my Out Loud Voice, but my Drunk-Off-My-Ass Out Loud Voice (which only surfaces on special occasions):

But, FIL, I think it would be WAAAAAAY more fun if you went over with me, don't you? Then he can be extra special sure to remember how he knows me. I'M FIL KARMA'S CRAZY DAUGHTER IN LAW.

And that was the end of it. Don't fuck with Drunk Girl in NASCAR Wear. Seriously, don't.

Sunday was Ren Faire. And I don't know if it was because of the rain or the fact that the second time around the novelty factor was kinda not really there. Once you've seen a dude dressed as an elf, it loses shock value. And I didn't get to gnaw on a greasy, dripping turkey leg after all because they were 8 bucks!
Hell to the no.

I did, however, eat my last Cannonball - those awesome deep fried Oreos they sell there. Why my last, you ask? Because, like a dumbass, I had to ask if they fry the Oreos in the same vat of grease that they fry the Fried Pickles in.

THEY DO.

Sure, I concede that I couldn't taste the pickle in the deep fried Oreo, but it's just the principle of the thing. Pickles and Oreos just shouldn't live that close together. And they sure as hell shouldn't be swimmin in the same grease. UGH!

In case I chicken out.

I'm eating some leftover chicken I'm not sure about. I can't remember when I cooked it. At least a week ago, maybe longer.

It didn't smell funny, and it doesn't taste funny, so it's probably ok, right?

Right?

Probably?

At least if I die from eating rancid chicken I won't have to go out to the Inlaws on Saturday. R should probably count on dragging my corpse out there anyway, though. Wouldn't want FIL to think I was elaborately faking my own death. If only he knew how many times it's actually occurred to me. If I could come up with something I thought might possibly work, I'd have done it already.


Anyway, just in case this is my last post, I love you all, and thanks for the mammaries. :)


- PK

More Quizzes!

And what do we take, apart from quizzes? MORE QUIZZES!!!!!


Apparently, Woody Allen will be directing the epic film based on my life story and Tom Petty will do the soundtrack. Hopefully I'll get to play the part of myself, as I've become quite adept at being inappropriately seductive while resisting my Antihero urges to crush the weak.

The Recipe For Sarah

3 parts Uniqueness 2 parts Energy 1 part Fascination Splash of Drive Limit yourself to one serving. This cocktail is strong!

What's the Recipe for Your Personality?

What Sarah Means

You are the total package - suave, sexy, smart, and strong. You have the whole world under your spell, and you can influence almost everyone you know. You don't always resist your urges to crush the weak. Just remember, they don't have as much going for them as you do. You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. You have the classic "Type A" personality. You are wild, crazy, and a huge rebel. You're always up to something. You have a ton of energy, and most people can't handle you. You're very intense. You definitely are a handful, and you're likely to get in trouble. But your kind of trouble is a lot of fun. You are truly an original person. You have amazing ideas, and the power to carry them out. Success comes rather easily for you... especially in business and academia. Some people find you to be selfish and a bit overbearing. You're a strong person.

What's Your Name's Hidden Meaning?

How You Are In Love

You take a while to fall in love with someone. Trust takes time. You give and take equally in relationships. You need your space and privacy. You don't like to be smothered. You love your partner unconditionally and don't try to make them change. You stay in love for a long time, even if you aren't loved back. When you fall, you fall hard.

How Are You In Love?

You May Be a Bit Histrionic...

Dramatic and over the top, you crave attention. And you'll do anything it takes to get noticed. You love to be seductive, even when it's inappropriate. If you're ignored, you're easily hurt ... and act out even more!

What Personality Disorder Are You?

Your Score: The Anti-Hero

You scored 4 idealist points, 10 detective points, 2 kick-in-the-door points, and 0 help points!

You are the anti-hero, the near reverse of the ideal superhero. You walk a dangerous line between good and evil, more so than any other type of "hero," and in fact you can barely be called a hero at all. You get the bad guys using bad guy rules. Many other superheroes see you as a criminal, and may try to take you down. But that doesn't stop you from taking the law into your own hands. Examples: Punisher, Wolverine, Deadpool, Spawn.

Link: The Superhero Archetype Test written by rhombusoval on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test View My Profile(rhombusoval)

Your Score: Tom Petty

57 Humble, 23 Excessive, and 68 Worldly

Your score lands you somewhere in the neighborhood of Tom Petty. Still breaking hearts after all these years, Petty may not be as prominent as he was in the 80's - but he remains one of the true rock 'n' roll gods.

It's tough to peg Petty on the humility scale. As one of the last true rockers alive, he embodies the stomp and swagger that people usually associate with a rock and roll frontman - and he certainly knows his place in the pantheon. Even so, Petty avoids the self-aggrandizement that plagues other aging rock icons and instead prefers to speak from the sidelines as a still, small voice of reason. He approaches himself and his music with a self-deprecating sense of humor, and appears open and easy to talk to. He may be an icon, but he's one that most people wouldn't mind sharing a beer with. Your high humility scale suggests that you, like Petty, won't let your godhood go to your head.

As with his swagger, the vast majority of Petty's excess comes on stage - and even then it's almost entirely an excess of rock. He is a musician's musician, a songwriter's songwriter. You don't picture Petty on silk sheets surrounded by hundreds of groupies (although that might be true, for all I know) - nor do you imagine him riding in the back of a Hummer limo. He is a simple man. Your low excess score suggests that you, too, retain a down-to-earth style even though you could afford to purchase half of the boutique stores in Los Angeles.

If there's anything that Petty's lyrics overall encourage you to do, it's to think. He's not immune to having pure rocker moments in his music, but he has a lot of subjects he's very passionate about and that he's willing to approach through his art. Your high worldliness score suggests that you, like Petty, want your audiences not only to rock, but also to rock the vote. And their school board. And their town hall. And anything else where they can provoke positive change in the world.

Link: The Rock Star Persona Test written by AlterVista on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test View My Profile(AlterVista)

Your Score: Woody Allen

Your film will be 64% romantic, 42% comedy, 30% complex plot, and a $ 27 million budget.

Be prepared to have your life story shot entirely in New York City -- though lately Woody's been loving shooting in London. Also, your music soundtrack is all jazz from before 1949. Filmography: Annie Hall, Manhattan, Stardust Memories, Everyone Says I Love You, Match Point, Scoop, etc. Woody has released one film per year consistently for the past 35 years. For the past 15 years he's been trying to make films like his older, funnier ones, just like characters in his Stardust Memories film suggest throughout. Regardless of his personal life, his films are American classics.

Link: The Director Who Films Your Life Test written by bingomosquito on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test View My Profile(bingomosquito)

I'm better, mostly. ** MORE PICS ADDED **

EDIT: I love the convenience of having a camera with me at all times, but sometimes I take a ton of pics and forget what pics I took, and then I scroll back through them and realize I'd meant to post them. So here ya go.

I'm so sick of yogurt. EDITED TO ADD: Seriously, does this even look appetizing?? This is supposed to be Caramel Delight. Looks like poo.



I've been on antibiotics for about a month now, with the bronchitis and the strep. EDITED TO ADD: Check out the size of these fuckers.



When I originally picked up my prescription the pharmacist - a man - reminded me to eat a lot of yogurt while I was on the antibiotics because, as he put it,

"Ya don't wanna get a yeast infection..."

I even made him say it out loud again because I couldn't believe a GUY was trying to tell ME I didn't want to get a yeast infection. HELLO!??!! Of course I don't want to get a yeast infection.

Has HE ever had one? He doesn't even KNOW how much I don't want to get a yeast infection. He might have learned that in Pharmacy School, but I learned that shit in Girl School.

Plus, in Girl School graduation requirement Advanced Itchy Crotch 101 they taught us about the benefits of Cranberry Juice. Betcha didn't know that, dude.

Fortunately (I suppose), I've had too much going on to be sidelined by Feminine Itching. Last week was insane. R had taken several days off for various reasons. He took Monday off because that's the one day of the week that I am kid-free for a few hours in the morning, and it would be our last chance to spend a little time alone together for a while. And of course I was still sick that day, and not a whole lot of fun to be around.

Tuesday R worked and I was better enough to get through a typical Tuesday, hanging out with the boys in the morning and then getting Pie to school in the afternoon and then hanging out with Tito until everybody else gets home.

Wednesday I had agreed to help out at Beeb's Junior Achievement BizTown field trip. I got to work in the Print Shop EDITED TO ADD: with the woman (yes, woman) sporting the sexy denim suit in this picture, taken at another event.


She was totally checkin' me out. And so was this punkass kid:



But I honestly couldn't blame them. I'm smokin' hot.



Our stellar group made $97.55! Beeb was the CFO at Build-A-Bear Workshop, and it was a bit disturbing to see her lack of money management skills.

R took this day off so he could watch the boys while I was gone most of the day. And he spent four hours playing Star Wars Legos: The Complete Saga on Wii, at the request of Tito and Pie. Wednesday evening R and I went to pick up a Freecycled bunk bed for the boys. They LOVED it, and R was the hero of the day.

Thursday we didn't do a whole lot of anything except R went to Lowe's 3 times to pick up materials to build a kickass ladder for the aforementioned bunk bed and I went to lunch with KOFA Kevin. Later at home, the phone rang and it was my new best friend - the counselor from Beeb's school.

I didn't get a lot of the details, but apparently Beebie tried to strangle herself on the playground by tying her jacket around her neck on the swings after one of Beeb's friends dissed her for a boy. School policy is that if your kid tries to kill herself at school, you have to come and pick her up immediately, for her safety.

All I know is that the emotion behind it was her steadfast belief that EVERY girl in the fifth grade has a boyfriend except for her. Even just speaking mathematically, that's impossible. There are way more fifth grade girls than there are boys. And anyway, what are 10-year-olds doing with boyfriends? They can't drive. I'm not driving her and some boy to the mall and dropping her off for an hour or anything. Does she honestly think I'd even LET her have a boyfriend?

My initial reaction? As horrible as it is to say, I was pissed off. Insulted, even. Have I not done my job? I don't have the time or the energy or the financial resources to put into fixing her right now. And I really thought she was above all that - secure in herself and mature beyond her years. Seriously, after all that text messaging bullshit?

I had no idea what to do. I didn't want to say the wrong thing, I knew I couldn't be angry with her, so I asked the school counselor to refer me to someone Beeb could talk to. And guess what name the counselor give me? THERAPENNY. My therapist. What are the chances? Unbelievable.

Beebie, like every other 5th grade girl, believes that the reason why she doesn't have a boyfriend is because of her physical appearance. She wants me to let her shave her legs. I don't care, shave 'em, I said. But A) it's a total pain in the ass and once you start you can't ever stop and B) if think that once you shave your legs the boys are going to flock to you all of a sudden, you're going to be severely disappointed. But whatever, Beeb, if it makes you feel better about yourself, then be my guest. Shave your legs. Knock yourself out.

Thursday night was also the DARE (Say No To Drugs and whatnot) graduation where Beebie read her award-winning essay, which was on, of all things, rising above Peer Pressure. Poetic.

Friday night Beeb's Special Chorus sang the National Anthem at the Cardinals' game. Our seats were literally one row from the sky.

But the view was really quite spectacular, as long as you don't mind not being able to read the names on the players' jerseys.


I think it's funny to argue balls and strikes from the Upper Upper Deck.

The Cardinals lost, but we had a good time. There was this dude in the row in front of us eating rolled-up slices of salami, talking to himself with his hand over his ear (like he was the radio announcer giving the play-by-play), and cheering wildly and incessantly, even when there was no action on the field. He was seriously weird.

At one point I had to pee reeeeeally bad, but I was afraid to get up because if anyone walked past him, he'd hold his hand up for a high five. I know it's ironic - I'll flash anyone driving down Highway DD, but I just will not high-five a stranger. Especially one I'd observed eating salami and licking his fingers for the last two hours. Gih. No, thanks.



You can see him in the background of this pic, about to give a high-five to some random person in the stands.



Saturday R had to work, Pie had a party to go to, and it was a magnificent day outside, so the kids and I met KOFA Kev and his absolutely adorable little girl at the park for a little while. Nice time. And Kev got some seriously sharp-lookin new glasses. Yowza.

Sunday we took the kiddos to Grant's Farm for beers number 3 and 4. I tried the Bud Light Lime. Gotta say, I'm not a fan.



Seriously, how cute am I? EDITED TO ADD: Even the Clydesdales were turned on. Check it.






Later that afternoon, after much discussion, R and I reluctantly decided we'd go to Chez Inlaw next Saturday for their big Memorial Day shindig. I was hoping R would have to work and we'd be able to get out of it, but no such luck.

Anyway, we felt that our attendance would be a good move, politically. I hate that we have to think politically when it comes to the Inlaws, but whatever. I'm still pissed that FIL doesn't think I was sick. Perhaps more Germ Warfare Muffins soaked in rancid butter are in order.

Oh, and get this - I found out that when R and the kids were out there on Mother's Day, Beeb sent me a text message from R's phone, and FIL caught R checking it. He asked, "What, are you doing, sending Sarah a message???" Like, what the fuck business of yours anyway is it if my HUSBAND wants to send me a message to ask me how I'm feeling when I'm SICK AT HOME BY MYSELF WHILE MY HUSBAND AND KIDS ARE OUT THERE KISSING YOUR MISERABLE ASS ON MOTHER'S DAY, YOU FUCKING DOUCHE?

And R very, VERY foolishly brought up the fact that in the text message, Beeb had asked me to wax her eyebrow. She has the hereditary monobrow that I lived with until college because my mom never offered to wax it. FIL pounced on this instantly and got in Beeb's face, looking for the place Beeb wanted me to wax. "C'mere, lemme see... Do people even GET this close to you??" he asked her - totally all up in her grill. She was on the verge of tears, according to her. Last time we were out there, if you recall, he gave her a completely inappropriate amount of shit about her weight. No wonder the poor kid has such a fuckin complex about her appearance. Thanks a LOT, dick.

Mrs. Aldi had her back, in her signature completely half-assed manner... "Oh, it's a difficult age for girls..." And MIL, God love 'er, brought up Brooke Shields.

I was beyond FURIOUS at R, and I made him apologize to Beebie. R saw that this was really his fault for even bringing it up, and thank Christ I wasn't there, or I would have Torn. Shit. Up. Nobody will mess with my kid, or I will go into Mama Bear mode. Y'all have seen it. It ain't pretty.

Wanna know what I told Beeb to do if FIL ever hurts her feelings EVER, EVER again? I said, Beeb, he has NO idea how to deal with people's emotions. So if you tell him something he said or did hurt your feelings, he won't know what to do. He would be completely and utterly disarmed. He's clueless. So if he ever upsets you, just tell him that what he really hurt your feelings. And guess what? His brain would explode.

I almost hope he does something just so I can witness this.

Playing the sick card one more day.

I'm bored.

Not really. I'm just unmotivated.

And unapologetic, too. Nyah!

MIL called yesterday to see how I was feeling. And I'm actually feeling much better. I can't decide if I believe she called of her own volition because she actually cares, or if it was at the behest of FIL, calling to see if I sounded sick enough for him to buy my bogus tale. I suppose both could actually be true.

FIL would probably give Satan tips on how to run shit more efficiently down there.

Sigh.