Here We Go Steelers...

Did I ever share with you my wedding vows?  They went something like this:

"Do you Licha, take Howie to be your lawful wedded husband?  Do you promise to love, honor and be faithful to him?  Will you love him in sickness and in health, in good times and bad?  Do you promise to wear yellow and gold on football Sundays and wave the terrible towel in jubilation of a touchdown?  Do you vow to from this day forward renounce all family and friends who are Ravens or Browns fans?  Do you promise to love the Steelers until death do you part?

"I do."

And with those two little words, I sealed my fate.  Because you see, I married into a family of die hard Steeler fans.  And the band of gold guaranteed me membership into a fraternity of loud, superstitious, crazy people.  They hazed me by making me repeat the word "Monongahela" until my tongue fell off.  And then they branded the Steeler logo on my ass.

So you can imagine the buzz that's been going on in our house since last Sunday!  Mamaw has not washed her jock strap since last week's game and she's starting to reek!

We're sort-of having a Superbowl party on Sunday.  And by sort-of, I mean that I told Howie to invite people and he hasn't because he's just not sure he will be able to concentrate with people around.  And he needs full concentration, you see.  Because if he loses focus for ONE nano second, the team will not know what to do and they will start running aimlessly around the field, running into each other.  Because the game depends solely on Howie's ability to KEEP HIS COOL! Everybody knows that!

I did manage to invite a few people and I plan on serving Pittsburgh food that will be sure to clot our arteries by the end of the second quarter.  Nothing shows more team spirit like a minor cardiac episode!

I still need to outfit the house with our Steeler decor.  You know, like the pendant and the miniature Three Rivers Stadium.  Stuff like the Steeler pillows, the neatly folded terrible towels and bobble head dolls.  Stuff that screams "classy and elegant."  

While the house will be decorated, we are not allowed to wear Steeler gear.  Because we weren't wearing any during the last two games, and they won.  Which means that we can't wear them on Superbowl Sunday because it would cause the universe to lean slightly to the left and then the whole house of cards this thing is riding on will fall to the ground into a million pieces.  And the guilt for letting his team down would haunt Howie forever and on his death bed when someone asks him what was his biggest regret in life he would say, "ruining Superbowl XLIII by wearing a non-sanctioned Steeler jersey!"  Yes he would.

I kid, but I have to admit that I am very excited! Today I accidentally cut my finger with a paring knife and I bled.  In black and gold!

Finally, here is a little something that you Steeler fans will enjoy, a little skit mocking the often mispronounced name of Troy Palomalu.  WARNING: Watching this video will mean that the song is stuck in your head FOR A WEEK STRAIGHT!  Watch at your own risk!

Forging Ahead

It's nothing new to me, but yesterday one of my friends wrote me a note on Facebook that said, "what is wrong with you, are you CRAZY?"

Like I said, nothing new.  Because those who know me best know that I am one reckless, impulsive decision away from a straight-jacket.

In this case, she was reacting to my news that Howie and I are proceeding with plans to adopt our fourth child.  Not the fourth child we've adopted, but the fourth child we will potentially add to our family of monkeys.

We've had opinions about this adoption thing that run the gamut.  It ranges from, "that's amazingly great, congratulations" to "what the fuck is wrong with you guys?"

In all honesty, both sets of opinions are legitimate.  And don't think that we don't feel the EXACT same way on any given day.  There are days that I think that this will be one of the greatest blessings of our lives and that we are doing the right thing.  And there are other days when I feel like we must be brutal masochists and it would be much cheaper and much less of a headache to string ourselves up by our nipples and pour boiling vegetable oil over each other.

We did finally tell Mamaw about our decision.  We did it the day that the Steelers won the AFC Championship because we knew that nothing could bring her down from her hallucinogenic high.  Even then, she surprised us by smiling and saying that adoption might not be such a bad idea.  I think she's been sipping too much slow gin!  But it helped that she was supportive because, like I said, we already feel like we're teetering on the edge of reason.

Around here, there are days filled with screaming and fit pitching and shoe throwing.  There is fighting and refusing to eat vegetables.  There are vomiting and rivers of snot flowing treacherously from east to west.  There are doctor's appointments and teacher's conferences and carpools.  There are days when I feel like I want to run away because I'm overwhelmed and feel like I just can't put one foot in front of the other.

But there are also more giggles around our dining table then should be legal.  There are mornings of the 5 of us snuggling under the covers and watching "The Adventures of Shark Boy and Lava Girl".  For the four millionth time.  There is feeling a tiny little body wrap around you as tight as they can clutch and knowing that you are the center of their happiness.  There's story time and tickling and watching them huddle for a hug and a bedtime kiss.  There is hearing them tell each other "I love you."  There are tooth brushing assembly lines and french braiding sessions and excuses to eat chicken nuggets for thirty days straight.

Our house may be sometimes filled with screaming and fighting but it's also filled with laughter and love. And I can't help but feeling that any hardships and challenges that come from adding to our clan will be balanced by the added fun and joy.  We're taking a huge leap of faith here and it's scary.  I can't say how this will turn out, or even if we will adopt in the end, but we are forging ahead.  Even if it does seem a little crazy.  

I feel 90% confident that it will all turn out just fine.  But you might as well keep that straight jacket handy, just in case!

Easy On The Slow Gin

Mamaw called this morning.  "I need some more slow gin." "Again, didn't I just buy you a bottle like a week ago?"  "It's gone already and you know I need it for my leg pain!"

A while back, Mamaw went to visit her sister in Pennsylvania and when she came home she told me about how her and Aunt Bev and a bunch of old people had a get-together where they complained about all of their ailments and gossiped about who had died and which ungrateful friends and neighbors hadn't come to their funerals.

This is totally off topic but if someone near and dear to you passes away, invite Mamaw.  She puts the "fun" in funeral.  The woman has emotions of steel.  I've never seen her cry, in fact...I believe that I once saw sand come out of her tear ducts.  At Papi's funeral she told jokes and at Uncle Post's funeral she peed her pants a little bit from all the laughing.  I have no idea how she does it.  Maybe she's just wise and knows how to focus on the celebration of people's lives rather than wallow in the sorrow of their loss.  Either that or she's just a freak of nature.

So anyway, back to the story where she's sitting around with a bunch of old people talking about what ails them and someone mentioned arthritis.  At the mention of this, they all moaned and grabbed their backs and legs.  "I have so much trouble moving in the morning."  "I just can't get up after I've been sitting for too long." "I once bent over and couldn't stand back up for a week!"

Then, a savior spoke up among them and offered them the miracle cure.  "I put raisins in a pot full of slow gin and let them soak.  Then I eat a handful everyday and it takes away all of my pain!"

A chorus of "oohs" and "aahs" followed as he regaled his testimonial about how he once was lost and now is found by the amazing grace of hard liquor.

Mamaw told us all about it and Howie and I looked at each other, rolled our eyes and then used our fingers to draw little air circles at our temples.

"Seriously Mamaw, slow gin and raisins are going to cure your arthritis?"

"It's a proven treatment."

"Proven by whom, Jim Bob from Perry County PA? (often rumered to be at the corner of bumfuck and "my you've got a purty mouth".)

"It works, I swear! It's the powerful combination of the raisins and the gin that when combined make the equivalent of a modern miracle cure for arthritis!"

"That's because you're drunk!  Nothing hurts when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk!" *burp*

"All I can say is that it's a good thing that you don't often operate heavy machinery!"

And so off I go to make the weekly liquor run for Mamaw.  Strange how she always seems to run out of liquor but very rarely asks me to buy more raisins!

A Volcano Of Crazy

I think that every couple reaches a point in their relationship where one day they look at each other,throw their arms in the air and say, "what the fuck is wrong with you?"

And the person who has a cactus up their ass (in this case me) will reply, "you.  You're what the fuck is wrong with me."

Such is the nature of a marriage.  No matter how much you love one other, no matter how much you get along, you will at one point annoy the snot out of the other person.  Living with someone is hard, compromise is hard, getting through the daily family mundanes is hard.

I try to live a happy, normal life (for the most part anyway) and put one foot in front of the other while trying to feel blessed.  Because make no mistake, I am blessed.  And I don't think I have much room to complain about anything.  In fact, I feel like I have ZERO room to complain.  After all, I have everything I want: a great husband, happy, healthy kids, a nice home.

So when things get hairy, I tend to tell myself to stop being a pansy ass and just deal with it.  I bottle it up because I think there is nothing more annoying than a constant nag.  I'll let things go and try my best to just walk away.  But then over time, things start to pile up inside of me, like an overflow of combustible liquid that is filling up my bottle.  There is only so much room and as the liquid gets to the top where it is narrow, the rate at which it fills is triple time.  

Before I know it, all it takes is a drop, a tiny little drop and a spark to send my bottle exploding in a Hiroshima like fashion.  I will have had enough, been driven to the edge, been at the end of my rope. 

Because when I break it down in layman's terms, on a daily basis I deal with a husband who has A.D.D. and I don't mean that in a humorous nature, I mean he really does suffer from it and I try to be understanding but sometimes, dealing with him is as frustrating as trying to lasso the wind. Plus, on the other end I have one child with A.D.D., one with low grade autism, a third in the throws of her terrible two's and a Mamaw who is always grumpy and hungry.  You combine all of those ingredients and it's like making crazy soup.  

I think that I do a pretty good job of keeping things afloat.  I try not to let things get to me and I have a pretty good system in place so that I don't get over-extended. And for someone who does have this much on her plate, I do exceedingly well.  It's not a front that I'm happy or that I'm grateful or that I have a pretty good routine going.  For the most part, I have this bitch beaten down.  

But every once in a while, when something happens like say...I get sick, or my parents die, or I have the audacity to need to poop and I can't give everyone what they need at the second they need it, things get out of control!

And I don't want to take it out on the kids.  And while I know that it isn't always Howie's fault, he usually bears the brunt of my wrath.  Because he's the most accessible and his shins are easy to find and kick.

I feel terrible about it.  Guilty for not being stronger.  Strong enough to be able to deal with my frustrations in a healthy way that doesn't include hiding his favorite popcorn behind a bottle of flax seed because I know he'd never think to look there.  You know, mature stuff like that.

All I can hope for is that today is better.  That the volcano of crazy that has been sporadically spewing out of me for the last day will start to subside and the natives can once again return to the mountain without fear of being hit with a lava ball!

Because It's The Easiest Way to Get Free Plastic Storage

I spent a better part of last evening helping Mamaw sort out her Tupperware order.  She had a party a couple of weeks ago and had a pretty good turn-out considering that the party was hosted by a blind woman and 99.9% of the people she invited are deaf.

Watching them try to have a conversation where one is signing and the other can't see and one is talking and the other can't hear, is very interesting to say the least.  I considered stepping in and speaking Spanish to everyone to add to the confusion. Luckily, one of my friends offered her tremendous signing ability and translated the show for everyone.  

So we sorted a ginormous box heaping with Tupperware.  And thanks to the fact that none of the packaged items matched the item numbers listed on the cheat sheet, I was as confused as a a cow on AstroTurf.  It may as well have been written in hieroglyphics for as easy as it was to decipher.

Now I'm all worried about the Tupperware party I'm supposed to host.  Yes, you heard me right.  I'm hosting a Tupperware party.  Because the consultant held me down and threatened to slit my wrists with an orange peeler.  I made the commitment before I swore off hosting forever.  Lets just hope it doesn't ice or snow and my guests have to dress in gear appropriate for hiking Mount Everest.  I'm going to highly encourage carpools!

I have conflicting feelings about hosting a Tupperware party. Because to me, it's such a stereotypically old woman thing to do.  When I was growing up, my mom and all her old lady friends would get so excited to get together for a Tupperware party.  They approached it with the same enthusiasm as a teenager at a keg party!  I couldn't understand how they could even consider an event where peddling plastic leftover containers would be considered a good time.  And I laughed at them.  

After all, I was young and knew what partying was all about.  Lots and lots of beer.  And playing tonsil hockey with a complete stranger behind a couch owned by someones sister's cousin's friend.

Then I grew up (mostly).  Of course now I'm a mom and a wife and blah, blah, blah but I still have a fierce party animal that lives within.  And I'm trying desperately not to embrace things that make me even more uncool than I already am.  Hell, I already caved to the mini-van, I live in the suburbs, play Bunco, drive carpools and go to bed at 8 pm.  I said there was a fierce party animal that lived within me but what I forgot to mention is that instead of a tiger or a barracuda, it's more like a slug.  But a fierce slug, nonetheless!

And I'm worried a Tupperware party will ruin my image?  I think that ship sailed years ago when I gave up the sexy under-wire bras that lifted and separated in favor of the sports bras that give me a uni-boob.

There's no point in fighting it anymore.  I am what I am, a 33 year old mom, wife and professional coupon shopper that attends obscene numbers of Pampered Chef, Tastefully Simple and Tupperware parties.  And not only do I attend them, I enjoy myself!  Partly because the opportunity to buy an apple corer/peeler at half price makes me giddy and partly because I'm out of the house, away from my wicked spawn and having actual adult conversation!  Old lady conversations.

I'm starting to accept it...begrudgingly.  I may as well just throw in the towel and start drinking in the afternoons and sleeping with the landscaper. Then, the whole suburban housewife transformation would be totally complete!

It's A Good Thing I'm Good Looking

One of my favorite televisions shows is House Hunters on HGTV.  It's about people in search of that perfect house or condo.  They take grand tours, room by room, of three different property choices and in the end you get to see which one they chose and how they've made it their own.  I love the show so much because it satiates my need to be nosey curious.  Because one of my all time favorite things to do is look at houses.

I like to see how other people's houses are laid out or how they are decorated.  Like I said, nosey curious. I could spend an entire afternoon going to open houses, just to walk through and look around.  It's the thrill of not knowing what I'll find around the corner!  I would rather you beat me with a brick than have to go clothes shopping but take me house browsing and I'm happy as a clam.  In butter sauce.

One thing that is always a selling point to the house hunters on the show is "entertaining".  They all want to "entertain".  And they say this less like they will be having people over for pizza and football and more like they plan on holding grandiose royal balls.  They need parking in order for the horse-drawn chariots to circle around.  They need ample space so that their guests can form a line at the end of which they will curtsy and bow their heads to their host, who will be sitting majestically upon a large gold encrusted chair.  They need a dining room large enough to seat a small villiage.

Let me just say, that Howie and I never considered "entertaining" when we bought our house.  And it shows.  Last night I hosted a game night and it is very clear that I should bow out of the entertaining business altogether.   

Lets start with our driveway.  A curvy, steep, longer-than-the-wall-of-China nightmare.  If we invite more than one person over, we are in for some festivities because unless everyone plans to arrive and depart at the same time, it's a logistical nightmare.  And in this frigid cold, people would be crazy to park at the bottom of the drive-way and walk up.  Last night, the first person to arrive was also the first person to leave and so 6 people ran outside in the cold to move their cars, all driving backwards. Down hill. In the cold. In the dark.   Did I mention that it was cold?  So cold that even all of the vodka didn't ease the pain and suffering.

The house is also divided up in a strange way that works well for our family, but isn't great for entertaining.  The kitchen is on a different level than our family room and while there is plenty of space, it's divided in a way that doesn't make it super accessible.  For example, you can't be in the formal living room and be able to see the people in the kitchen.  Or be in the kitchen and be able to see people in the family room.

Plus, I don't think I'm the greatest hostess.  Martha Stuart I am not.  I don't have the best etiquette and am ruled by the moment which means that I am unpredictable.  Last night Bubba came downstairs and said he had to poop.  I was concerned because first of all, he never comes downstairs and second, he was crying.  So I took him to the bathroom and worried over him and instead of saying, "yo guys, go on without me, I'll be back in 10 minutes", I didn't say anything and wandered around the house worrying with a puss on my face and making my guests worry that they were imposing.  That wasn't the case at all, I wanted nothing more than to go back to playing and would have but by the time I had the boy situated they had all decided to leave.  Because they were concerned and wanted to be respectful.

I appreciated it.  But it just shined a huge and bright spotlight on just how bad a hostess I really am.  A few girls did stay and we played rummy until this morning.  And I was glad because I didn't want the night to be a complete bust.

It's sad when you try to host a nice party and the highlight is the dip brought by one of your guests.  Seriously, that dip was a pure slice of heaven and if she had left it, I would have taken it upstairs, kicked Howie out of bed and placed it on the pillow beside me where I would have proceeded to tongue it.  

Oh well, you can't be perfect at everything.  And clearly it's a good thing that I'm so freaking good looking because entertaining is just not my forte!

Coin Slot

For some reason, Bear insists on pulling her pants down and exposing her back side.  If she's going to be showing me her plumber butt, maybe I should ask her to take a look at the leaky guest-bathroom shower!  That is, if she can lean over the tub with her beer belly.

This pic reminds me of an old Saturday Night Live skit. Check it out, I think it's hysterical.  

And the fact that I think it's so funny is yet more proof that I have the maturity of a 13 year old boy!

Why I Lose So Much Sleep

Have you ever had something to do, a chore perhaps, a little something that needed to be done.  But you put it off for one day thinking, "aww, I'll take care of that tomorrow."

And before you know it, it's been 2 weeks and that tiny little chore has become a thorn in your side and you toss and turn at night about it but don't do anything about it because by this point it has become too scary to face.

This happens to me every 2 weeks when "that time of the month" arrives.  And by "that time of the month" I mean the crampy, bloaty, moody fiesta that is BILL TIME.  I give myself plenty of time and money to accomplish my task but then one day goes by and then two and by that point I get freaked out that I've let too much time go by and I fear that when I open up my computer banking profile it will say, "You're flat broke, you stupid ass, why didn't you pay your bills 3 days ago instead of buying frivolous things like milk and eggs!"

So I put it off a little longer and go sit in a quiet corner where I rock back and forth and sing to myself.

But then it's been three days and the collection people start to call and I know it's them and I SHOULD just do the bills already but I JUST CAN'T FACE IT.  So I avoid the phone calls and pretend that I'm not home.  Then, when I've finally reached my worry boiling point, I pull out the car bill only to realize that I've paid the bill 2 months in advance THAT is why we were $500 short this month. And those scary "collections" calls were really my finance company trying to sell me an accidental death and dismemberment policy.

It also happens with the laundry.  I will postpone a small batch of laundry thinking that I'll do it "tomorrow" but then I never get to it.  So then a load becomes fourteen loads and then I start avoiding my closet completely and seriously considering a drive to the dollar store for a quick purchase of some clean underwear in lieu of actually doing the laundry. Because I just don't know where to start.

My most recent thorn as become the email for our moms club.  I'm supposed to check it often but I keep forgetting and every time I'm sitting in traffic or walking on the treadmill I think, "shit, I really need to check that email because there could be a potential member lurking in the inbox." But then I realized that I haven't checked it in at least a month and what if someone emailed me a month ago and I never responded and now they hate me and have daydreamed about dry shaving my legs with an old razor and splashing freshly squeezed lemon juice all over my bleeding flesh wounds.

And I sit in front of the computer, thinking that yes, I need to do this, but then I'd have to face the music and the inevitable consequences of being such a lazy procrastinator!  Okay, you know what?  Since I'm thinking about it right now, I'm going to go check it.  I will take a deep breath, gird my loins (who even says that anymore) and prepare for the worst.

*Jeopardy Theme Music*

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----

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*fifteen minutes later* (It took me 14 minutes to gather up the courage)

I'm in luck!! The only email in there was from 3 days ago so I can respond in a relatively timely fashion and quite convincingly carry on the charade that I have a handle on things.  

Now, if only I can remember to call the accountant and make our tax appointment!

Leaping Beta Fish!

I had put it off long enough, but it had to be done.  It was time to clean the fish tank.  I don't know if you could really call it a "tank" per se.  It should more appropriately be called "a small plastic fish container with four colored rocks strewn across the bottom".

We have two fish.  They are betas named Rainbow and Billy and belong to Bubba and Birdie.  I had intended to only buy one fish but when we tried to leave Wal-mart with only one fish in tow, Bubba threw himself on the floor and started having a spasm.  And since I had one small child in my arms and one blind grandma by the other while I was trying to chase down a five year old and scrape a three year old from the floor, I was in no position to negotiate.  I had to reserve as much patience as possible for when I'd wrangle all of them through the check-out line while trying to keep Birdie and Bubba from shaking the water-filled bags until the fish went to that special fish tank in the sky.

So we have two.  And they have to be separated by a blue partition because they are very aggressive fish and the mere sight of each other would send them into a maniacal frenzy that would surely end in an ugly way.  Truth be told, I think they would prefer not to even see us on the other side of the plastic container.  Every time I walk by, they give me the stink eye.  And I swear that I can read their lips and they are trying to say, "you're ugly, I don't like you and I'm going to kill you in your sleep when you least expect it."

But they are very hearty and very low maintenance.  They can survive on one granule of food per day but Birdie insists on feeding them the world eating championship equivalent of a wheel barrow full of hot dogs.  So you can imagine how quickly their "tank" can get mucky.

I carefully removed each fish from their respective sides and placed them gently into plastic bowls which I then covered with paper towels.  Then I scrubbed the container very well and replaced the partition and blue rocks.  I filled that baby with room temperature distilled water and I was in business!

I poured the contents of one of the bowls into my green mesh net and just as I was going to plop Rainbow into his freshly scrubbed tank, he jumped out of the net and landed in the sink where he started flopping around like a...like a...well, like a wet fish. 

I can only assume that he had watched "Finding Nemo" one too many times and wrongfully believed that "every drain leads to the ocean".  What he didn't count on was that our drain has a garbage disposal.  One with very sharp and shiny pointy blades that can quickly sashimi his slimy little ass!

So I grabbed him with my hands *shivers*.  He didn't' like that one bit so he jumped out and fell right at my feet where he continued to flop around and gasp for water.  Now I'm talking to him like he's one of my children.  "What the heck do you think you're doing?  Do you want to die? Is that what you want?  Come here.  Come here.  Are you listening to me you little booger?  Stop MOVING ALREADY!"  I screamed this while sweat was dripping down my face and I was half hyperventilating.

I finally managed to scoop him up and chuck him into the tank.  And instead of being thankful for saving his life and offering me his first born child he stared at me angrily and told me to suck his dick.  Perhaps because I foiled his suicide plans.

Billy did not resist.  He went immediately into his side of the tank without a hint of a fuss. Because apparently he had witnessed what had just transpired with his tank-mate and learned not to screw with me.

I just KNEW that Rainbow wouldn't make it through the night, at least without maximum brain damage!  After all, he had been without oxygen for at least a minute and had fallen the human equivalent of a 4 story building!  He seems fine today, still swimming around with that smug look on his face.  

I cannot, with any certainty, confirm that he hasn't suffered significant brain damage.

Unidentified Eating Objects

I was just reading a post by Maniacal Mommy and she made a comment about a spork.  She actually said something about working in a juvenile detention center and walking around with the constant fear of "being sporked."

When I read that I laughed so freaking hard that I shot boiled carrots out of my nose and I think a little piece of carrot is still lodged in my nasal cavity.

The reason I laughed so hard was because I so rarely hear people who talk about sporks let alone even know what the hell a spork is.  In fact, I don't think I've met a Connecticut person yet who knew what I was talking about when I mentioned a spork.

Well, it's not like I'm walking around surveying random people about their utensil trivia but I have had occasion to use the word "spork" in a sentence only to have them squint their eyes at me and say, "what the hell are you talking about?"

I remember sporks being nearly a daily part of my life when I was growing up in Oklahoma.  We used them in our school lunchroom.  But I mostly associate them with Sunday dinners at Kentucky Fried Chicken.  Their food was not only finger licking good, it was spork licking good!  They handed out packages of sporks with every order of coleslaw!

I never knew that sporks were so uncommon.  So when my local women's club was planning an event where food would be served that included everything from pasta salad to fruit and pudding, I suggested using sporks.  You know, to save money.  And to make sure the event stayed as classy as possible.

The room went silent and they were like, "huh?".  "You know, a spork.  Those utensils that are half spoon half fork."  *dead silence*

It was as if I had suggested that instead offering pony rides, we should instead consider unicorn rides.  Because clearly what I was suggesting was nothing short of mythological.  And I clearly must have had this idea implanted in my brain when the aliens abducted me and did experiments on my body.

I told Howie about it and he was like, "there's no such thing as a spork."  Mamaw agreed.  No matter how much I tried to convince them that they are real, they resisted.  And even laughed at me!

The next time we were in the supermarket I was determined to prove to them that they really do exist, so I made a beeline for the paper products aisle only to find spoons and forks in segregated boxes.  No sporks.  "THEY'RE REAL, I SWEAR", I protested, stomping my feet and clutching my head.  They didn't believe me.  They still don't believe me.

Because they've never seen one and around here a sighting of one is about as common as spotting a Sasquatch!

They can shake their heads at me all they want but I know they exist.  I've seen them with my own two eyes.  And someday I'll prove it!

P.S.  I just did a spell check on this blog and the spellchecker highlighted all of the "spork" words.  Because apparently it's not even a word and is a total figment of my imagination!

A Bad Case Of The Blahs

I had a pretty good plan for yesterday.  I was going to put Birdie and Bubba on the bus and then head to the Y where I would proceed to have a complete sweat fest.

But things never go as planned around these parts.  It's virtually impossible to plan anything more than ten minutes ahead and even then - we're pushing it because at any second someone could trip down the stairs and rupture their spleen or set the house on fire.  It's always something and all of those somethings together have me completely exhausted and suffering from a bad case of the blahs.

Yesterday it was Mamaw.  She called about 9 in the morning, notifying me that she had just sprung another leak and was en route to the emergency room.  This meant that all of my morning plans, including a much-needed visit to the locker room showers, must be postponed.  Indefinitely.

I lost touch with her since the EMTs did not allow her to take her cell phone or even her coat, but I did put the pieces together and tracked her down at the E.R.  Poor Mamaw was wheeled out of her apartment building wearing nothing but a worn-out house coat with her boobies hanging out of the missed buttons.  She had been getting dressed and must have grazed her varicose vein enough for it to explode.  It wasn't the same vein as a week and a half ago.    It reminds me of that scene in National Lampoon's Vegas Vacation where they are walking through the tunnels of the Hoover Dam and Chevy Chase blocks a leak with a wad of bubble gum and almost immediately another leak sprouts out except this one is bigger.  So then he tries to stop that leak with his hand only to have four more leaks pop up.

I totally expected them to put pressure on Mamaw's leg only to have four more veins explode and start spraying everywhere.  She did need stitches and she earned herself a nice referral to a vascular surgeon.  Thank God they convinced her because when we suggested it to her she scoffed and told us to go fuck ourselves.  Hopefully they can recommend something because it freaks me out that she might spring a leak during the night and since there is no pain she wouldn't feel it and end up bleeding to death!

And speaking of blood.  Holy Jesus, there was so much blood in her apartment!  Her bathroom looked like a chainsaw massacre had occured there.  There were puddles the size of Lake Erie and the spatter went from the ground, all the way up to the walls and near the ceiling.  It covered the floor, the tub and toilet.  There were handprints everywhere.  She had soaked through her bathroom rug that dripped as I bagged it up.  And the sad thing is that it was much better this time around.  At least the bleeding was confined to two rooms instead of the whole apartment!

I cleaned up and then scrubbed myself with clorox.  Blah.  I did go to the Y and jogged for about 40 minutes.  It didn't make me feel any better.  I was still badly blah.

I had to rush to get Mamaw and Bear home for lunch before I was due at the school to give Bubba his medication.  Plus, I was scheduled to work at the school library which I did...still in my pajamas and sporting a bad case of bed head.  I didn't care.  Blah.

I picked the kids up after school since I was already there and brought them home while I cleaned and did as much homework as possible and got Birdie ready for dance class.  Thank God it wasn't my carpool night.  Blah.

I fizzled out around 5 and begged Howie to pick up fast food dinner on his way home.  I still had a ton of dishes and no energy to cook because...yep, you guessed it...blah.

I would have traded my left arm for the chance to stay home and relax a little bit but there is no rest for the wicked.  I had child watch training at the Y from 6:30-8:30.  Plus, I had to run Mamaw home.  I wasn't much fun at the meeting.  The highlight was the mini Reeses cups strewn on the tables.    I didn't learn much aside from the fact that I am so blessed to be working with Amy and Karen on Mondays.  They are the shiznit.  I got to meet some of the other woman and while most were nice enough there were a few that I think are a few sandwiches short of a picnic.  If I had to work with them every week I would lose my mind!  Maybe it wasn't them, maybe it was that I couldn't see straight through all the blah.

Anyway, the good news is that today I can indulge a little bit more of my blahs.  I do have a moms club meeting this morning here at the house.  It's supposed to start in less than an hour and I haven't cleaned or even taken a bath.  You know, so that the stench of blah will overwhelm the other moms when they come over.  Nothing like a good whiff of blah in the morning!

I've had many cancellations so maybe nobody will show up.  Then I can wrap myself in a blah-nket and call it a day.  I don't plan on going anywhere or doing anything.  Because I'm a highly motivated and energetic individual, can you tell?  

I even told Howie to go out with the boys tonight.  "Go...have some beers, shoot some pool, check out some chicks with big boobs."  He thinks I'm the nicest wife ever, sending him out on a night of debauchery when really it's totally selfish.  You see, with him out of the house tonight, I can put the kids to bed and take a long warm bubble bath that will hopefully soak away the rest of the blahs.

A Big Decision

Howie and I are in the midst of making a huge decision.  It's something we've been mulling over for the past, oh...eleven years.  

Last night we took the first step in what might prove to be a long and difficult process.  We met with a social worker for the Connecticut Department of Children and Families.  Because we are seriously considering adoption.

We still haven't made a concrete decision but we've started the ball in motion.  We filled out the paperwork at the open house and will meet with an adoption specialist very soon.  Our background checks are in progress and we will attend a ten week course in the spring.

Maybe it will happen and maybe it won't.  We just want to put ourselves out there so that if the opportunity arises, we will be ready to add a new child to our family.

Part of me is super excited.  And the other part of me is scared shit-less.  Yesterday when I had three whiny, gooey, drippy kids en route to the pediatrician's office I thought to myself, "seriously Licha, you want to add a fourth to this madness?"

But there is an ache in our hearts and we just can't shake the feeling that our family is not complete.  We are going to be very careful.  And choosy.  And patient.  It could take us as long as 3 years to find a suitable match, but I just feel good knowing that we're available.  We've put ourselves out there and if the right situation happens, we could be there to change a child's life.

We haven't told Mamaw.  Because when we informed her of each of our pregnancies she went into 9 months of depression.  She rolled her eyes when we told her about Birdie.  She took a deep breath and gave us the cold shoulder when we told her about Bubba.  And when it came to Bear, well she pretty much told us that we were idiots for having three kids.  Then she refused to talk to us and wrote us out of her will.

The other day the kids let the "cat" out of the bag so to speak, when they told her that we will be getting a new kitten in February.  She asked me to confirm and the tone with which she inquired made me want to take a leak in my pants.  "Are you serious?  Like you need yet another little creature running around your already over-populated house?" *Sigh.  Head shake.  Eye rolls.*

And that was over a cat.  A cat that she will probably never even know is around.  That's when I decided we won't be telling her if we adopt.  Ever.  Do you think we could hide a kid until he/she graduates from high school?  Maybe we can convince her that she's hearing voices if she notices there is another kid screaming through the house.  I shouldn't be worried about her anyway.  I've got bigger problems.  Like how we're going to afford to send four kids to college.  I wonder how much a kidney goes for on the black market these days?

Well, we'll see what happens.  If it's meant to be, it will happen.  I just can't help but think that right now at this second, there is a child out there that is destined to be ours.  A heartbreaking set of circumstances is probably already set in motion that will cause his/her life to fall apart.  

The good news is that we will be there to lift them up.

Cough, Sniff, Sneeze

Birdie drooped off of the bus yesterday after school with snot dripping from her eyes.  That's right, you heard me right, from HER EYES!

Her face was red, she was sneezing and coughing and then there was the matter of the eye boogers.  It was just a matter of time.  Bear had it and then Bubba had it.

They share each other's everything.  Need I say more?

I kept everyone home from school today and made a trip to the pediatrician's office.  They dripped, they sneezed, they coughed and looked very pathetic.  My pediatrician said that she had never in her many years of pediatricianing (I know that's not a real word but it works for me) seen a trio of siblings so badly covered with snot.  At the end of the year when they present the mommy awards, I will stand humbly when I accept my trophy for "mother who cleaned the most snot."  And I'll display my golden tissue proudly!

They all three have colds and double ear infections.  Birdie has pink eye.

The doctor prescribed a gallon of antibiotics.  You know how when your kid has an ear infection and they give you that little white bottle with amoxicillin?  Yeah, well they had to give us a barrel full.  The pharmacist had to mix it up in a huge vat in the back of the pharmacy and it took four men to dump the mixture into the barrel.  Then they used a fork lift to put it into the back of my mini-van.  

The kids are chugging it from beer mugs.  

I asked the doctor how long I should keep them out of school and she told me to send them to school tomorrow.  I think she's been standing a little too close to the x-ray machines.  I can't imagine sending them to school with that mess but I'll see how they feel (and look) in the morning.    

Not that I don't want to get rid of them.  They've been driving me c to the r to the a-z-y.   You just wait and see...I'm going to get them all well and healthy and then we'll get a snow storm that will drop a thousand inches of snow and they will have to stay home for even more days.  

I know this because sometimes the universe just likes to bend over and fart right in my face.  I'm used to it.

Is It Cheating?

Sometimes I think that my Tivo knows me better than I know myself.  It has an uncanny knack at recording shows that I never knew that I always wanted to watch.  Somewhere along the line it must have figured out that I have REALLY bad taste in television and started recording nothing but trash.  And I love it!

The other night it happened to record an old re-run of "The King of Queens."  I love Kevin James and think he's hysterical.  Anyway, the show was about him finding out that his best friend, Deacon, was seeing another woman.  He was wining and dining her and enjoying her company but nothing sexual had occurred.  When Doug found out the details of Deacon's new relationship, he claimed to his wife, Carrie, that Deacon was not having an affair...that having a secret relationship with someone is not "cheating."  Of course, they disagreed on that point and laughter ensued.

It got me to thinking.  What exactly defines "cheating"?  Is it just sex?  Is it talking intimately to someone of the opposite sex? And what qualifies as "intimate".  Or is it about lying or keeping a secret?  Can you cheat on someone while being completely honest with them?  

As Doug and Carrie found out, you might be assuming that your partner views cheating in the same way as you, only to find out that their definition is quite different.

A lot of people feel that having any kind of relationship, even friendship, with a person of the opposite sex is cheating.  Personally, I don't feel that way, most likely because I have a lot of male friends.  That's probably because I appreciate things like the art of farting.  

Anyway, I do have some guy friends and I don't have qualms about calling them up and being like, "dude, did you read this month's playboy?"  I don't flirt with my guy friends and I don't have intimate conversations with them but they know me well and I feel close to them.  I also don't lie about my friendships to Howie.  He knows who I talk to and when I talk to them.  

But where exactly is the line drawn?  If I were to talk to a friend and not tell Howie about it would that be considered cheating?  I wouldn't think twice about going out to lunch with a friend or co-worker but is that inappropriate?  Because the rules are different if you have a friend of the opposite sex.  There are inherently more restrictions.  

Personally, I think the cheating begins when you start being deceitful.  If you are sneaking around or lying or scheming, it's cheating.  Your intentions are also important.  If you feel like you shouldn't be doing something, you probably should be. Even if you haven't so much as breathed on the other person.

The problem is that the definition of cheating is very subjective.  For example, if Howie were to go out to lunch with a colleague, I don't consider that cheating.  But there are women out there who would go batshit.  It doesn't bother me that Howie has a subscription to Playboy...hell, I bought it for him.  But to many women, viewing porn would be cheating.  And what about masturbation.  Again, Howie could have all the shower delights he wants.  I could care less.  But yet again, some women would object.  

And what if your definition of cheating doesn't match your partners?   Is it cheating if you really don't think you've done anything wrong but your partner swears that you were being unfaithful because you smiled at the opposite sex in line at the bank?

I did talk to Howie about it and luckily, we are on the same page.  And once we talked about it we realized why couples don't always bring it up.  Because it sounds kind of suspicious to say, "so I was thinking...what exactly are your guidelines on cheating?"  We all assume that we are on the same page with our partners but the reality is that this is a subject that should be thoroughly discussed.  Because people can get worked up when their expectations are not met.

So let me ask you.  What do you think qualifies as cheating?  Have you ever had a real heart-to-heart about it?  Do you and your partner agree?

A Busy Weekend

Busy weekends are nice.  Fun.  But they also fly by so fast that you wonder whether you were conscience through it all.

My weekend started Friday night when I went out with some girls.  We technically didn't go "out" anywhere but at least I was "out" of the house.  We drank pomegranate martinis and chatted and then we challenged each other to various wii games and foosball.  

I may suck at wii bowling but challenge me to foosball only if you want to get your ass handed to you on a silver platter!  I am now trying to convince Howie that we should get a wii.  We currently have an xbox 360 and he's quite smitten even though the thing recently started flashing it's red ring of death.  I might have to throw myself at his feet and kiss his hairy toes in order to get the wii, but something tells me I'ma gonna get what I want.

Birdie started Judo this weekend.  She was gung-ho about it.  When we parked at the Y she bounded from the car saying something about "getting this party started."   Unfortunately, her enthusiasm wore thin after about 40 minutes.  They were teaching too much technique and not enough throwing your partner to the ground and elbowing them in the chest.  She whined and said she didn't want to do it again.  I told her something about how we don't quit and we finish what we've started and if she doesn't like it after the 8 week session she can take swimming lessons.  What I really wanted to say was, "tough shit, you're gonna get my $18.00 worth!"

After lunch, we took the kids to Disney On Ice.  They skated to snippets of movies like "The Lion King", "The Little Mermaid", "Lilo and Stitch" and "Peter Pan."  It was nice but damn, that place is a money pit.  They were charging eighteen bucks for one of those glowy sticks that the kids will rip apart in half an hour.  A jug full of flavored ice was TWELVE DOLLARS!  And of course that shit was everywhere so every few seconds we heard a chorus of "can we have that?"  We spent $30.00 for a program and snacks and that was about as much as our wad would allow.

Not only was it a money pit, it was a germ-fest.  I think the little kid behind me must have sneezed 100 hundred times.  I wanted to come home and dip everyone in a clorox bath!  Course, our kids are sick too so it's not like we weren't contributing to the petri  dish!  We left just in time to catch the snow storm and barely made it up our drive-way.  For those of you that don't know us, our drive-way is about 385 feet curved UPHILL!  A nightmare for my front wheel drive mommy mobile.

Today is all about cleaning up (inside and out).  Howie was bemoaning the snow blowing when like an angel from God, Luis (a guy who does some work around the house for us) showed up and offered to do the drive-way.  Howie is a lucky bastard. I wish someone would show up at the door and be all, "Licha...would you like me to do the laundry for you?  How bout the floors?"  Ahhh...one can dream!  

Tonight we have some friends coming over for pizza and football.  The Steelers are playing San Diego and Howie is required to watch it.  If he doesn't watch it with the right colored shirt and his hat twisted to the side and without having shaved or cut his hair, they are sure to lose.  And it would all be Howie's fault!

While the boys watch football, another pack of my girlfriends and I are going to see "Twilight" again.  I know, I know.  It's a terrible sickness with which I am afflicted.  I just can't help myself!!

I Was Just Thinking...

Have you noticed that all of the detergents these days come in small containers? It's the company's attempt to "be green". Supposedly, a cap-full of their 3X the strength industrial super detergent can do the same amount of laundry as 1 heaping cap of the past. Less detergent=smaller containers=less waste. In theory.

Psh.

Thing is, I'm used to using a cap-full (or two) to wash my clothes. That's because I presume us to be filthy. Like the recommended amount of detergent for most normal people just wouldn't cut it because we are just that funky.

I still almost always end up over-detergenting. Is it really possible that they can squeeze that much cleansing power into an eighth of a cup of detergent? I'm taking a huge leap of faith by trusting that my laundry will be clean with that tiny amount of soap.

And if they can make the normal detergent three times the strength, why couldn't they just make it TEN TIMES the strength? And then our detergent would come in bottles the size of Visine and one drop would wash 5 loads of laundry.

Hey, if they're trying to be green, they may as well go all the way!

Crying Wolf

I'm in such a predicament.  Birdie has been complaining of a stomach ache now for a couple of weeks.  It comes and goes and usually occurs right before she eats and suspiciously if she doesn't think she's had enough to eat.

We recently modified her diet to eliminate sugar, red dye and as much processed foods as possible.  Since then, she's been complaining that she's starving.  She's just STAAAAAArving. Because apparently only cheezits and oreos can fill the void within her.

She still has a hearty appetite, she doesn't have diarrhea or vomiting.  She's not constipated.  It just doesn't make any sense.  And it doesn't help that she completely contradicts herself and lies about it.  She claims it hurts non-stop even though she spends her days chasing her brother through the house and begging for fruit snacks.  One minute she clutches her belly, doubling over in pain and the next second she swears that her stomach (as she points to her leg) is just killing her!

I don't know if I'm coming or going.  I want to believe her, to wrap my arms around her and rush her to the doctor's office but I also know that this is the same child who when I begin to comb her hair, screams that the pain is unbearable BEFORE I even touch her head!  The same child who swears that she is having a heart attack if her pulse rises above 60 bpm.  If her bath water is more than luke warm she says it's too hot and her skin is boiling and will soon start to peel off of her body.  When she coughs, she does so in a way that makes you think that you can expect one of her lungs to come shooting out of her mouth  at any second and land on the floor in front of her.  Once she tripped down a step, falling on her back.  She claimed that her spine had split in half and she would never walk again.  Then there was the splinter she recently got that necessitated countless bandage replacements and a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  So, you'll understand when I have to consider that she might be over-reacting a tad bit about her stomach.

Could she be doing it for attention?  To guilt us into giving her more food? To avoid going to school and cleaning her room?  YES!

But she could also be really sick.  I would feel like the hugest asshole if I didn't listen to her and it turned out to be something real, serious.  I can't take that chance so I called the doctor and made an appointment.

Part of me feels like this is going to be exactly like that one time that we rushed her to the emergency room because she was writhing in pain only to find out that she was just in a very bad mood.  But as annoying as that would be, I really hope that's exactly what happens.  That she's totally fine and that the agonizing, bloodcurdling, throw-the-back-of-your-hand-on-your-forehead theatrics are just because she can't tell the difference between death and having to fart really bad.

Randomly Wednesday

It's another snow day.  Or shall I say, "ice day".  Either way, the children are home and I'm gritting my teeth.  I'm doing that because I've vowed that I won't raise my voice to them this year.  Mainly because the other day Bubba yelled at Bear something about, "how many times do I have to tell you guys" and it sounded way too familiar.  I don't want to pass on bad habits (aside from all the drinking and porn watching).

I'm feeling better today.  The sumo wrestler that was sitting on my chest has since gotten hungry and decided to finally move his fat ass.  I took a deep breath this morning for the first time in nearly a week.  I had hoped to go to the gym but alas it was a no-go.  I've haven't been there in 2 days because either the kids have had a snow/ice delay or one of them (or me) has been sick.  I've been having to resort to my "Walk Away The Pounds" video.  And it's getting old.

Just so you know, there have been some updates to this blog.  There are weekly pictures of the kids, me and Howie (and sometimes Mamaw and Minor) with bloggy captions.  There is also a "I want to show you" section where I share something I share with all my friends. There is a recommended reading section for both adult and children's books. There is a joke of the week at the very bottom of the blog.  There is a music player with 5  new songs every week.  Also, I was inspired by one of my readers, Sandra, to partake in something called Project 365.  It's where you document your life by taking one photograph a day of random things in your life.  Because I'm a week late, mine will be Project 358.  It will be challenging.  I'm not the best picture taker in the world.  It's not my forte unlike some people (Maureen).  But I'll give it my best shot.  I don't know if I'm going to post them daily (I'll try) or weekly (most likely) or monthly (will happen).  I don't know if I want to do a theme or random things. My goal is to document my life in such a way that  the photos will speak for themselves.  But I can't guarantee anything.  The point of all my ramblings is that there is a lot more to offer around these parts.  So stay a while, take a look around. :-)

I went to watch "Twilight" last night for the second time.  I went with a group of 5 of my friends, two of which were wearing t-shirts declaring their love for Edward Cullen.  We were like a pack of teenage girls swooning at the likes of the Jonas Brothers.

We giggled, we laughed, we breathed hard and then held our breaths.  We clutched the arm rests of the sticky theatre seats every time there was a close-up of Edward.  We considered committing a series of felonies by hiding in the theatre to catch a double feature of the movie without paying for it.  Were it not for the snow, we would have totally done it.  Because under the disheveled stay-at-home-mom exteriors, there lurks the hearts of hardened criminals.  At least when it has anything to do with "Twilight".

Howie bought me a new phone *jumps up and down*!  My last phone died.  Or more truthfully, it was murdered.  I took it outside with me when I was mowing the lawn and put it in my pocket set to vibrate (very pleasurable) and then forget it was there.  Then I did my laundry and washed the poor thing.  Sometimes I can be a real idiot, what can I say.  It was my favorite phone, a slide phone (red) with lots of cool features.  I've missed it.  Last night, Howie surprised me with a new phone exactly like my old one and my friend Kim is sending me a ton of crazy ring tones.  So if you ever hear a phone "ringing" with the song "Hotel California", you know I'm in the general vicinity.

Happy Wednesday.

A Momentous Anniversary

It's hard to even remember Howie this way, but at one time he used to smoke nearly two packs of cigarettes a day.  He couldn't eat, sleep, poop, drink, watch tv or have sex without his accompanied cancer stick.  He used to stand outside in minus 10 degree weather (in shorts no less) in order to get his fix and we spent nearly $150.00 a month on cigarettes!

He smoked for 20 years, a vice he picked up in his teens, much to the chagrin of Mamaw.

It never bothered me, in fact there were times that I thought he looked pretty damn cool.  He had a way of holding his cigarette and taking a deep inhale that made him look so sexy. *licks lips*  But I could have lived without his ash breath, that was less than appealing.

After we got married and started a family, I started to worry about him.  I would think hard about how life would be without him and I started to pester him about quitting. 

At first I asked nicely.  "Hey babe...would you mind cutting down by a couple of cigs a day?" Nothing.

Then I got factual.  "You know, lung cancer is one of the deadliest killers." Nope.

After that came the whining. "Pleeeeeeeese, won't you quit.  I'm getting worrrrrried about you.  I don't want you to get siiiiiiick." Nada.

Finally, I had to pull out the big guns and take him on a long trip to Guiltville (Population 1).  "Pst, hey Birdie....go tell your dad that you really want him to live long enough to walk you down the aisle when you get married.  And do it while you're crying.  What? You can't cry on command?  Come here and let me enlighten you to the joys of an indian burn."  That one finally got his attention.

It also didn't hurt that he watched his step-father gasp for his last breaths of life after having succumb to lung cancer himself.  

He decided to quit and while Howie can be really hard to persuade, once he makes up his mind, you can bet on him succeeding.  He saw his doctor who prescribed him the Chantix pill.  It worked!

This month marks his one year anniversary of being completely smoke free and I couldn't be prouder!  Today, I can't even imagine him smoking.  It's so in the past and I have a lot of confidence that he will stick with it.  He WILL be around to walk Birdie down the aisle someday.  And the kids will never know him as a smoker.  

Someday, I'll show the kids a picture of their dad from when he was 25 and I'll say, "can you believe your daddy used to smoke?"  And they'll be like, "more than we can believe he used to have hair!"

A Bloody Mamaw

I got a frantic call from Mamaw today.  "I knicked a vein and it's gushing", she said.  I knew exactly what she meant.  Howie rushed over to her place and found himself in the middle of a very bloody scene.

This isn't the first time this has happened.  A few years back we got the same frantic phone call after she shaved her legs in the shower while getting ready for work.  You see, Mamaw has varicose veins and if she shaves over a particularly bulgy one, it can be a problem.  Since she's  blind she can't see to avoid them. And they don't just bleed, they gush geyser style.

The first time it happened was BAD.  She was already wet from the shower so she didn't feel the spewing from her leg.  It wasn't until she felt the stickiness that she realized she was bleeding.  And this of course happened after she had walked all through the house, spraying blood on every wall, floor, piece of furniture and kitchen appliance in her path.

Luckily, it wasn't life threatening.  Just messy.  Very messy.

For Christmas, I went out and bought her one of those Schick Intuition razors because it has a large gripper area and is surrounded by a soap bar so that she doesn't need to bother with shaving cream.  Also, it prevents the razor from getting too close to the skin which would theoretically cut down on nicks. It was safe and perfect, or so I thought.

Well, today she decided to use her new razor.  Except for some crazy reason, she thought she would do it without wetting her legs.  We all know how dangerous it can be to shave your legs dry! Ouch!  Sure, the razor has a soapy outer ring but it isn't going to do much good if you don't lather it up!  Or soften your legs with warm water! *rolls eyes*

So she razored over her legs and hacked into another vein.  This time she knew something was up right away but that didn't stop her from spewing blood everywhere.  On the carpets, on the walls, pretty much every solid surface. 

Howie just called me, "how do I get blood out of carpet?".   Because apparently when it comes to hiding blood evidence, I am the person to call.

I think it's time Mamaw starts going au naturale. 

The Price Is Wrong

I'm sick.  It snuck up on me.  Unlike a normal cold that starts in your nose or throat, this beast started in my chest and I'm wheezing and coughing.

I'm not drippy or sneezy, just mega congested.  It feels like a  sumo wrestler is sitting on my ribs.

I did manage to get some cleaning done but mostly I did what I love to do when I'm sick: watch The Price Is Right.  And I noticed a few things:

1.  Drew Carey - as much as I love him - doesn't have the flair of Bob Barker.  Bob Barker was the bomb. And don't forget to spay and neuter your pets.

2.  People are stupid.  On today's show they were bidding on a ring and one girl bid $10,000.  The little neon sign doesn't even register that many numbers!  *snort*  She amazingly made it to the showcase showdown and when her showcase featured a car and a jukebox she bid $75,000!!!  I'm not even kidding...she really was that stupid.

3.  My taste in prizes has dramatically changed.  

When I was younger I was all about the cars and motorcycles and soda fountains.  Bring on the camping equipment or years supply of Godiva chocolate.  Now, I'm like..."that car doesn't have enough room for three car seats.  And what about the taxes and insurance.  Oy! A motorcycle?  Are you kidding me? Do you know how many injuries result every year from motorcycles?  No. Thank. You.   What the hell would I do with a freaking soda fountain in my house? Who even makes their own soda anymore?  Where would I put it?  Chocolate?  Like my butt needs to be any wider.  Camping equipment huh?  But then I'd have to leave my orthopedic bed at home!"

Now I swoon at the 6 piece dining room set and if they throw in some carpet I start to hyperventilate.  Brand new washer and dryer?  Well, hot dog!  Add on a grandfather clock, platinum dinnerware and a trip to Cabo San Lucas and I just might have a heart attack!

Give me a few more years and my granny panties will get all bunched up over a ten month's supply of Metamucil! 

And Then Blood Spewed Everywhere

Birdie had a catastrophe.  Something so dangerous, so bloody and gory, so painful that we had to hold her down and sedate her in order to tend to the wound.

She cried for nearly an hour and whined for half a day about it.  It necessitated four bandage changes, a dose of children's Motrin and lots of reassuring hugs.

What was this catastrophic emergency you ask?  A paper cut.  *GASP*

I wrapped it in gauze and taped it with medical tape.  I know what you're thinking.  Why didn't I call 911 and have them drive her to the emergency room with sirens blaring?  Because I'm a bad parent.  Go ahead and report me to children's services.

Christmas Cards

I spent a good chunk of yesterday cleaning up our kitchen Christmas debris:

1.  Snowman dish towel (dirty).  Check.

2.  Nutcrackers from 2006.  Check.

3.  Christmas tree cookie jar.  Check.

4.  Twinkle light garlands.  Check.

5.  Dead poinsettia.  Check.

6.  Decorative frog that ribbits "Jingle bells."  Check.

There was so much crap.   When I originally put out the crap on Thanksgiving, the house looked festive and beautiful.  

But then something happens the day after Christmas.  It's like the Christmas beer goggles come off and I started to see the house for what it really was...cluttered.  And if you know me, you know that I like clutter about as much as I like getting stabbed under my fingernails with a santoku knife.

I also had a gazillion Christmas cards to contend with.  They filled my snowman card displayer and spilled over onto the wall and arch between our formal dining room and eat-in-kichen.  They added to the ambiance of the holiday but they had over-stayed their welcome and it was time for demolition.

But I never know what to do with all of those cards.  I mean, people spent time dressing up and coiffing and posing for those pictures.  They paid hard earned money for them and took the time to address the envelope, lick, stamp and mail it.  I don't have the heart to throw them out.

This happens to me every year.  The clutterphobe in me screams for me to throw them away but the gentle, more compassionate side of me takes over.  This is why I have like 5 years worth of old Christmas cards stuffed in a basement storage box.

I guess today I will tackle the big kahuna: the familyroom.  If I can find all the ornaments that the kids have strewn through the place.  I'm guessing that Howie and I will have to lift the couch and shake it out in order to find them all.