This Will Have to Do

Starry Night Storytime. Girl-Child with her classmates acting out The Enormous Potato. Note that I obviously skimmed the invite and didn't catch the part about wearing pajamas. Note improper placement of Girl-Child's hands. Note that THAT is all I have to say because it is hotter than the center of hell today.

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Words Uttered:

Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child playing kickball in the back yard. Ball one and ball two are now in the neighbors yard. Boy-Child#2 asks what to do...

Me: Go next door and ask them to give you your balls back.

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen

Tootsie's weekly advice column. She's no expert, although she's not really sure what constitutes "expert". If it involves school, she attended the school of Very Strong Opinions. Questions are welcomed. Answers may borderline ridiculous.


Sometimes I need to listen to my inner voice. I'm told it's wisdom. It could also be common sense. In this case, however, it's vanity and advice to myself. And vanity is cranky.

Dear Tootsie,

So, it's like this: It was foolish of you to make promises that you shouldn't be required to keep. Your hairdresser? The one on maternity leave? The one you vowed you'd wait for? Yes, her. Did she give you any indication as to when she may return? You know, a solid, in stone, written in blood pinkie swear FIRM date? You do realize that she's got that sweet angelic infant nestled at her bosom as I write this and there is a very good chance she may NEVER come back. For what? YOUR hair? Who the hell do you think YOU are, anyway? It's been six weeks since her daughter's birth. It's been since mid-February that your hair received any professional attention, and it totally shows, I might add. It's been four weeks since the incident involving a box containing some hair color. We won't speak of it. Except to say that the hue has evolved into a ghastly shade of BRASSY. With roots. And highlight bleed through. It's not good. So stop wallowing in your guilt about contacting your girlfriend for the phone number to her hairdresser. What else were you to do? Wait infinity? Because I don't think you realize just how long that is. Think immeasurability times pi, squared. Not even close. It's okay that you made an appointment with someone else. You're allowed to do that. Your friend even told you to tell New Hairdresser that you are a friend of hers and New Hairdresser will hook you up. And I think it was outstanding that you figured you'd be more well received if you told her you were Friend's lovahhhh. It shows you have a sense of humor and she might like that in a client. Don't take it personally that they couldn't fit you in until Friday, May 2nd. Friend may not be as well connected as she seems to believe. And New Hairdresser is unaware of the dire situation that has become your hair. I'm sorry I just laughed, I didn't mean too but it's so funny. Have you seen it? She doesn't know that it is a color that cannot be found in nature. She's completely ignorant of the fact that if you inhale deeply enough, your bangs will go right up your nose. She may even shriek when she witnesses the grays sprouting around your hairline like, well, like an old lady there I said it. And I'm not even sorry.

You've got important things coming up in the next few weeks. Family coming into town, meetings about the upcoming 6th grade graduation, and have you forgotten high tea at the Bel Air Hotel for so-n-so's birthday? My GAWD woman you will not be allowed in looking like THAT! They have very fancy standards, you know. Are you kidding me? Did you really think you could pull that off? You need to quit fearing change, Tootsie. Change can be good. Embrace it, and it's... and GODDAMMIT STOP CRYING you big baby! Aherm...

Yours Very Truly,
Tootsie's Inner Voice That Belongs to Vanity and is Fed Up
xoxo

Then it Dropped and Gave Me Twenty

Yesterday was another day volunteering in Boy-Child#2's second grade class. Being the day before Open House I anticipated a heavy work load. Mrs. Second Grade did not disappoint. I had to trot myself over to the work room, located adjacent to the teacher's lounge, in the main building and manufacture 150 circles of red, yellow, and orange construction paper using the capital letter "O" on the die cast mechanism. She only needed the center of the "O" and not the "O" itself. I know, I know. You're wondering how I was able to manage this and me without my advanced degree. Remarkable. A couple of things that took place while I was busy being Queen of the "O" (that's right):

1. Eavesdropped on yard duty politics. Apparently there is a pecking order (who knew?) and someone was on a power trip wearing her rude hat. Simmer down now, lady. It's yard duty.
2. Another parent, also on construction paper detail, asked about Boy-Child#1's sixth grade teacher, "who does he have?", "do you like her?". I went on to gush about her because she's all that. A minute later, Mrs. Sixth Grade poked her head into the room and said, "I thought I heard my name!". I didn't even have to run down a mental check list to make sure I hadn't said anything that would require a giant glass of water to wash down my foot because I genuinely ADORE her and couldn't possibly have said anything bad. Had this been last year and the 5th grade teacher this would have gone in a completely different direction.

Then it was off to lunch in the cafeteria with Boy-Child#2. Since I was joining him for lunch I purchased trays for the two of us, instead of his traditional packed lunch. Apperently the students have to give the cashier their "number" in order to buy lunch. Since my son always brings his lunch he had no clue what his "number" was. She had to look it up on her computer and seemed rather put off by it. She also seemed to have trouble understanding that I was buying lunch for the both of us. Ah well. Boy-Child#2 enjoyed a microwaved hamburger (in a plastic bag?) and I worried down a cold slice of pepperoni pizza. And tater tots. With copious amounts of ketchup.

Something I discovered while sharing a table with several 8 year old boys: They talk more than girls. In rapid succession. At the same time. They're all trying to get their word in edge wise before someone else speaks but it is a futile attempt. No one hears anything the other is saying. Very amusing. And they move around. A lot. It was like trying to eat lunch on Amtrak. Very bouncy. I don't know how they ever meet up on the playground to play whatever game has been decided.

My water bottle was one of those new eco-friendly designs and I discovered a flaw. Because they use 30% less plastic (kudos!) it creates a design flaw (minor). The narrow part of the bottle is located too far south which causes bending because the top area is too heavy. So my bottle was very katywompus. Which the boys found hilarious. "Look at my bottle", I said. "LOOK AT IT!". So of course I gave my bottle a voice and entertained the troops: "What is your major malfunction, Private!", "I'm leaning, Sir!", "Why are you leaning, Private!", "I have a design flaw, Sir!". I know that two years from now this would humiliate my son to no end. But yesterday I was a rock star.

Heightened "Scents" of Nostalgia

There are certain scents that take me back to a time and place. It's so powerful and evokes very specific memories.

Infant cereal: Whenever I smell this I can recall my baby brother sitting in his highchair in our kitchen. It's as if I'm right there while my mother spoon feeds him and gets his Playtex bottle ready for an after feeding snack. Baby brother is now 34 and 6'3" tall. And takes his Corona in a Playtex bottle. Not really.

Old paper: You might think "library" but no. My mother worked in a pharmacy pretty much my whole life up until adolescence. She was a single mom and would utilize daycare sparingly. Sometimes my brother and I would spend summers or school vacations hanging out in the stock room of the pharmacy. We'd bring activities to keep us occupied but mostly we played office. Adding machines were a big thing. When I got a little older I would do some data entry on a dinosaur they called a computer. By eleven years old I was queen of the ten key. Today's youth and their texting capabilities had nothing on my right hand. On special days, I got to answer the phone. I also did quite a bit of filing. Looking back I think they may have been violating several child labor laws. Does paying me in Big Hunk candy bars and strawberry Pop Rocks count?

Vanilla candles: No matter where I am when I encounter this scent, I'm immediately flooded with memories of spending time at my Cousin K's house, as a child in the 1970's. She's really my mother's cousin and has always been more of an "aunt" to me, but I've always called her "Cousin K" [there's more to her name than "K" but, you know, anonymity being what it is]. There are the copper bracelets she wore, the white four poster bed that I eventually inherited, the little Russian wooden dolls that opened to reveal a smaller doll and so on until the tiniest carved version emerged, the step down den, the fruit trees in the backyard, and the crazy jigsaw coffee table that I could crawl around in like a maze. You know how you can look back on your childhood and there was that ONE adult that stood above the rest? Yeah, it was like that. And, K, if you're reading this please will your copper bracelets to me. If they're still around. I promise to cherish them.

Beef stew: This would be my grandparent's house. We went there every Sunday for dinner while I grew up and on our birthdays we were allowed to request the menu. Both my mother and I would ask for beef stew and dumplings. And a 6 layer lemon and coconut cake because, COCONUT! My grandma made a mean beef stew. It was NEVER bland. You could smell it pulling into the driveway. It, by all counts, rocked hard. Other scents of Grandma's house: Prell shampoo, Lysterine, and tonic. As in vodka and tonic. Grandma was my kind of gal. Both have long since passed away and I still dream when I sleep, about being at their house.

Sarma: Reminds me of living at home. What is Sarma, you ask? It's a tasty little treat you may know as "stuffed cabbage". Whenever my step grandparents from Belgrade were visiting (and those people don't even kid around with vacation. They're all about the two months) we were treated to Sarma. The cabbage needed to um, pickle sour spoil age in a bucket that was kept in the garage. In the summer. In southern California. Did I mention it was in the garage? Not pleasant. However, it did make the yummiest dinner ever which would usually be followed by Palacinke which is basically a crepe. Sometimes there would be a torte or biadera (I don't even know how to spell it) which can be compared to our version of fudge, only with more nuts and less sweet. They were an animated bunch. Very boisterous. Lots of singing and guitar playing. And even though I could manage to understand and speak few words, we managed to communicate. They're both passed on now and I miss them.

I have no living grandparents. How much do you want to hug me right now? And what about you? What scents generate memories for you?

It's Got the HOA Up in the Proverbial Arms

Reading news articles is sometimes like catching glimpses of your own memoirs. Take for instance, Prince William and his recent experience in his helicopter:

Prince William landed a Royal Air Force helicopter in the garden of his girlfriend Kate Middleton's family home but the Defence Ministry defended his actions, saying he achieved essential training objectives.

Aviation analyst and RAF-trained pilot Jon Lake told the weekly paper the April 3 flight was "ridiculous and inappropriate," but the ministry said the two-hour training mission was fully authorized as part of William's four-month RAF attachment.

Ahhh amore. See, when Mr. Farklepants lands his helicopter in my garden, our homeowners association complains that it's "ridiculous and inappropriate" as well. Please feel free to search dirty parts of your mind for double entendres [that is SO a word spell check!], metaphors, and Dr. Freud.

The Power of Blogging Suggestion

Girl-Child and I ran some random errands yesterday, one being a trip to the bank. I needed to make a deposit, old school style. For some reason she loves the bank. She likes to run inside and claim one of the chairs in the smallish waiting area. Some kids want ponies; give her a chair at the bank go figure. Although, I'm sure if there were a pony inside the bank, she'd want that. Anyway, she got comfy in her seat while I tried to remember our account number filled out a deposit slip [who does that anymore?!]. I told her to stay right there because I didn't want her getting up and running back and forth from the chair to me (it's as if I've experienced that before or something) and she gave me the quiet signal; finger to lips (i.e. "use your library voice, Mom"). When finished with that tiresome item on the list of things one does at a bank, she and I took our place in line; right behind Random Man Who Resembles Elliot Gould.

RMWREG: I've never seen a child so happy to be at the bank!
Me: I know. I don't get it either. It's her thing.
RMWREG: I'm surprised she didn't head straight for the toy area.
Me: Did you just say that out loud? STFU Elliot Gould! I don't think she knows about it. I never showed her.

(editor's note: yes there is a child's corner with toys in our bank)

At this point, Girl-Child wanted to be picked up, because she wanted a BIG hug. So I obliged.

Girl-Child: I love you. *kiss kiss on my face*
Me: I love you too!
Girl-Child: You're my best mommy.
Me: You're my best girl!

There was more kissing and hugging and it was all very gooey sweet. I did not train her to do this. OBVIOUSLY she's very advanced for a four year old and read yesterday's blog post.

RMWREG: I have a 13 year old.
Me: Oh?
RMWREG: Cherish this. Remember it.
Me: Oh, I will.
RMWREG: Before they tell you they hate you.
Girl-Child: I want down.
Me: Well, I do have an eleven year old. So what you're saying is I've got two more years?
Girl-Child: PUT ME DOOOOOOWWWNN!!!
Me: Maybe not.

Kinda Looking Forward to Menopause and Rejecting Hormone Therapy. Family Beware.

I was watching The Simpsons with the family the other night. It was the episode in which Marge is pushed to her limits as a mother and wife by feeling under appreciated and the things she does taken for granted. The final straw was when Maggie spilled her bottle of milk all over the inside of the car and Marge snaps; bringing the car to a complete stop on the bridge and turning off the engine. When a bus driver approaches her car window, she growls at him; spittle flying. And I thought, "This is based on a true story. Mine". Because that is how I sometimes feel. I keep this house and family functioning like a well oiled machine. Trying to stay two steps ahead, making sure there isn't a break down in the system, is a lot of work. I know I'm preaching to the choir but there are kids to be fed and bathed. Clothes to be washed or replaced. Keeping tabs on toilet paper restocking, pantry preparedness, food preparation, food cooking, cleaner upper after meals, lunch packing, shampoo supply, school supplies, dry cleaning coordination, birthday parties, birthday gifts, kisser of boo-boos, keeping with the kids schedules, safety monitor and referee, coordinating drop off and pick up, clean sports uniforms, beds to be made, floors to be washed, toilets to be scrubbed, eradicating ring around the tub, dog hair removal, small toy corralling, finder of lost things, social calender keeper, master of the itinerary, suitcase packing, suitcase supply gatherer, haircut appointment maker (hell, ALL appointments), immunization shot tab keeper, thwarter of trash raiding dog, miscellaneous pet needs, copious document filler outer-er, vomit handler... And that is the incomplete list. And if I don't keep up with it, things come unraveled. Running out of toilet paper when one is mid-wipe will ruin your day. Finding you don't have all the ingredients to prepare the dinner you've already started to cook will make for an interesting menu. Dog eats your underpants.And so forth. The catastrophes are endless.

I try not to complain about it because this is the life I've chosen, It IS fulfilling, and my husband provides a comfortable life for us (which I should probably thank him for more often *literally people* get your minds out of the gutter and if he's reading this: THANKS HONEY!). Every once in a while it would be nice to hear "thank you" without any "buts" attached (i.e. "thanks for packing a lovely lunch, Mom, but I don't really like the way the honey soaks into the PB and honey sandwich by lunchtime what are the other options for someone like me who won't eat anything else?" OR "I couldn't check out a new book in the school library because you didn't put the old book in my backpack, MOM"). I'd like to think that my services and actions are appreciated rather than simply expected. Marge from The Simpsons ended up taking a spa weekend away, while the family attempted to soldier on without her. Every time I contemplate taking a weekend away just for myself, I start to tally all of the extra work I'll have to do upon my return and resolve that it just may not be worth it. While searching Youtube for a clip of the aforementioned Simpsons episode, I came across this and I was all, Dude that's it! (it's 3 minutes long but worth it):



And I'm not even kidding, while I was composing this entry yesterday afternoon, Boy-Child#1 appeared in the office. I asked him if he needed the computer and he said, "no, just wondering when you're going to make lunch". And at that precise moment, my daughter announced that her ass needed wiping because it "was a messy one". Then I snorted a can of Ajax. Verdict: bleachy.

*And a shout out to moms and/or dads who do all of the above and hold down a job too*

The Weekends are Made for Peace, Link, and Love

Apparently it's awards season here in the blogosphere! Stephanie from over at Bad Mom sent this award, that I've been coveting, my way because who doesn't appreciate a lady who can rivet a piece of wartime transportation and look like she's ready for a USO tour? Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy anyone?

Thanks Stephanie! Now I'm going to pass this on to some lovely ladies that could use a little girl power this week. Go take a peek at their blogs to read some brutal honesty! OHMommy shows us the not often seen side of her over at Classy Chaos. Katydidnot IS going to be alright. And work is taking its toll on Stay at Home Mom Going Quickly Insane. Go show them some love and girl power!

The The Madame Queen, A Mom Two Boys, and JCK from Motherscribe had me jumping around the internets collecting this award...

And I hope that they know that the feeling is mutual. Kumbaya y'all. Kumbaya. Once again I am passing this on to anyone who comes to visit Vintage Thirty because you all make my day! Take one!

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen

Tootsie's weekly advice column. She's no expert, although she's not really sure what constitutes "expert". If it involves school, she attended the school of Very Strong Opinions. Questions are welcomed. Answers may borderline ridiculous.


Q: Holly from Anglophilefootballfanatic kicks it up a notch this week with three THREE questions: 1. How many licks does it take to get to the center of the tootsie roll lollipop? 2. You hear about getting 3 staples in your wardrobe each season. What 3 do you suggest for this season? 3. And, what would you recommend taking on a trip to Disney that doesn't scream "I'm a Mom?"

A: Holly? Didn't that fricken owl answer your first question when you were like 5 years old? It's not Wuuhuuun. Nor Twoo-whooo. It's Thhhuuhreee! Three. And how pompous was that owl anyway? Looking down his beak at that kid. What a dick. On to question #2; when you say "season" I'm assuming spring? Because it was like 90 degrees at my house yesterday which just screams "SUMMER!!". My recommendations are 1) 3/4 sleeve cardigan, and don't tell your husband, but go with cashmere. Because? YUMMY! 2) These pants are in my closet and look amazing on, in a very Katie Holmes kind of way. She may have questionable taste in men but when it comes to fashion she's at the top of her game. Pair it with a simple white tank top and a bright chunky necklace! Which brings us to 3) Shoes. Think wedge. The answer to your third question is so obvious: Johnny Depp.

And now for everyone's favorite brand of advice: UNSOLICITED

In a recent article, obstetrician Michel Odent (you'll note that I don't refer to him as "Dr. Michel Odent" because no where in the article is he referenced as such. It's a British paper and I have no idea about its legitimacy or if it's their version of The Enquirer) describes "why he believes that when a woman goes into labour, her partner should stay well away". And his opinion is this:

"That there is little good to come for either sex from having a man at the birth of a child. For her, his presence is a hindrance, and a significant factor in why labours are longer, more painful and more likely to result in intervention than ever. As for the effect on a man - well, was I surprised to hear a friend of mine state that watching his wife giving birth had started a chain of events that led to the couple's divorce? Or another lady describing how the day after her husband had watched her deliver their child, he had fled to his hometown of Rome, and never returned again? For many men, the emotional fallout of watching their partner have their baby can never be overcome."

Uh-huh. I see. The poor tender dears. Childbirth is messy and not nearly as sexy as conception. I understand. What's that? Oh you were going to tell us how you came to this scientific conclusion? Go ooonnnnn...

"When I was first involved in obstetrics in the Fifties, it was unheard of for a man to be present as their child was born."

Oh! I get it! You're old-school. Emphasis on the old. I'm sure you're also aware that in the fifties it was common practice to knock a woman out cold and hand her an infant when she came too. Oh, I'm sorry. You weren't finished:

"Childbirth was predominately a woman's business - usually carried out at home - and while a man may be in the vicinity at the time of labour, he would usually be found in the kitchen, boiling copious amounts of water, and therefore would miss the actual event."

You may have skipped a chapter or two in all of your fancy book learnin', but childbirth is STILL predominately a woman's business. And in the past he was more likely to be found smoking cigarettes and tossing back some bourbon. Keep going:

"However, by 1970, a handful of women started to ask for their husbands to be present at the birth, a shift that began to occur in many Western countries at about the same time."

GASP! Those crafty, globally organized bitches!

"There are a variety of reasons for this, including the fact that birth was being increasingly concentrated in hospitals rather than at home, and the rise of the smaller nuclear family meant women increasingly turned to their husbands for support in all areas of their life, rather than relying on their mothers or aunts."

My own mother does not have the capacity to withstand witnessing her own child in moderate to severe discomfort. However, I could rely on my mother in law to keep me updated on the strength of my contractions according to the monitor and that there weren't enough chairs in the delivery room to her liking. My husband was the calm in the brewing storm. So what is your professional opinion about the husband being present for the delivery and its effect on the laboring mother?

"First, a labouring woman needs to be protected against any stimulation of the thinking part of her brain - the neocortex - for labour to proceed with any degree of ease. This part of the brain needs to take a back seat and allow the primal "unthinking" part of the brain connected to basic vital functions to take over. A woman in labour needs to be in a private world where she doesn't have to think or talk. Yet, motivated by a desire to "share the experience", the man asks questions and offers words of reassurance and advice. In doing so, he denies his partner the quiet mind that she needs. The second reason is that the father's release of the stress hormone adrenaline as he watches his partner labour causes her anxiety, and prevents her from relaxing. No matter how much he tries to smile and appear relaxed, he cannot help but feel anxious. And the release of adrenaline is contagious.

It has been proven that it is physically impossible to be in a complete state of relaxation if there is an individual standing next to you who is tense and full of adrenaline. The effect of this is that, with a man present, a woman cannot be as relaxed as she needs to be during labour, and hence the process becomes longer and more difficult."

So your professional opinion is that in order for a laboring woman to "be in that part of her brain where she doesn't need to think or talk", is to stick her in a room full of women (i.e. mothers/aunts)? This is your solution? Have you actually met the chatty female species? This doesn't explain how it is any different with a man than it does with "mothers and aunts" in the room, now does it? Rhetorical, sir. Because distraction is distraction is distraction. And what say you about the stubborn placenta?

"Physically, in order to deliver the placenta with ease, her levels of oxytocin - the hormone of love - need to peak. This happens if she has a moment in which she can forget everything about the world, save for her baby, and if she has time in which she can look into the baby's eyes, make contact with its skin and take in its smell without any distractions. Often, as soon as a baby is born, men cannot help but say something or try to touch the baby. Their interference at this key moment is more often than not the main cause for a difficult delivery of the placenta, too."

Your professional opinion is, that with my husband in the room, I don't love my newborn child enough? Let me say this to you, Michel Odent: You may have been "involved in childbirth for 50 years", and "been in charge of 15,000 births", but you sir, have never actually given birth. You can never know the immediate unconditional love that is born right along with that child and might I add, without actually having YET seen the child. You will never feel that mother to child emotion. You will never completely understand it. Which is obvious by your opinions. Because that is all it is; your opinion. Not a scientific study but your own observations as an obstetrician about a couple of guys who fled at the sight of a human being emerging from a vagina and women whose labor took a little too long for your taste.

So here is my advice to you, Michel Odent: RETIRE!

I Don't Think I Said "Comment" Nearly Enough

Let's discuss comments for a moment. And I'm going to say "comments" about six hundred times in this entry. I love receiving comments. I read every comment. I love opening my email and seeing comments waiting to be read! And up until a few weeks ago I was able to manage addressing each one with my own comments in the comments section. Now, comment production on Vintage Thirty has increased by leaps and bounds, of which I am awfully grateful! But it has made it difficult, time wise, for individual acknowledgment AND also be able to visit the author's blog as well. So, if I haven't addressed your comment in the comments section it doesn't mean I haven't read your comment. It means I've visited your blog and most likely left a comment there. And if I didn't, it just means that I meant to get back to visiting your blog when I had ample time to read, and then forgot. Which may have happened once or twice but not much more. So in honor of COMMENT APPRECIATION, every weekend I will pick comments from the previous week that either had questions that needed follow up, were poignant, or caused me to piss myself laughing. Because some of them do that. The comments.

So leave a comment! In the comment section! Comment?

"Learn Yoga" was Just One of the Suggestions

It's turn off the tv week at the boys school. And, excuse me, but who the hell is the school to tell me to turn off my tv? Who are they to determine that television viewing isn't considered quality family time? Mr. Farklepants and the boys watch sports together and discuss strategies, rules, and fantasy league scores stats. And gives him an opportunity to discuss erectile dysfunction and the reason for Cialis; scarring my children for life now that they're aware of what that knowing look the middle aged couple with his malfunctioning penis in the commercial exchange means when those unexpected guests show up at their house. They know that it means "sweet Jesus don't do anything that will trigger this unless you want to meet me in the bathroom in five minutes otherwise I'll end up with a boner lasting longer than four hours and how awkward would it be to call an ambulance and explain that to our guests?".

I watch very little television. The Office is the only weekly show that I tune in to see, regularly. I watch Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune almost nightly but I do watch it with the kids and we play together as a family. Even if my two youngest shout out answers like "Who is George Washington" for every category related to presidents. And vice presidents. It at least gives us a platform for discussing such facty truths like "George Washington was never a vice president". See? Our children is learning. The school also included a handy list of alternate activities (I will spare you all 30 suggestions and my commentary is in red):

1. Tell your child about the day they were born ( yes, and I'll include how I took a crap on the delivery table and also the intimate details of an episiotomy we'll call this birth control)
2. Have a family car wash (I haven't washed my own car in over a decade why start now? Unless I could just get the kids to do it, but then that would trigger my OCD and I'd be all "you're doing it wrong!" and I'd have to finish it myself. And pissed be about it. How fun is that!)
3. Go to the museum (on a school night? Maybe if you cancel homework)
4. Go roller blading or ice skating (and the school district can pay my hospital bill)
5. Play hide and seek outdoors (and the school district can pay my bail when I'm arrested for hiding in the neighbors hedges)
6. Fly a kite (provide wind)
7. Plan a slumber party (provide Prozac)
   
8. Etcetera...

So, thank you school district, for taking an interest in bringing my family closer together. As a unit [because I really just wanted to say "unit", yeah, hi, I'm 12]. I assure you that with the homework, softball practices, softball games, guitar lessons, dance lessons, flash cards, dinner, and baths, we have precious little time for television watching and ample opportunity for togetherness.

It should really be "turn off your blog week". Mom.

In Which She did Absolutely Nothing Whatsoever Except Maybe Some of That

When I lovingly packed Mr. Farklepants' suitcase yesterday morning and sent him off with a resentful kiss to Las Vegas for an overnight business trip (use your own air quotes, I'll not provide them for you); I did so, while plotting my agenda for my evening alone after the kids go to bed. A classic movie, perhaps with tap dancing and crooning was a possible activity. Maybe twice. Ice cream for dinner. Skip the leg shaving. Not on the list was wine because I don't drink when I'm home alone with the kids. Knowing my luck that would be the precise moment that they would need rushing to the hospital and one of my kidneys. "We can't use this ma'am". "Why? What's wrong with my kidney?". "It's drunk". So I settled for the thought of brewing a pot of coffee and it was at that time, 8:30pm, that I realized we were out of milk. And how fun is it to trot out the gang to the grocery store at that hour? Not as fun as Vegas, I wager. But does have its own version of sensory overload. You may argue that I could have waited until daylight but then you don't have to meet the business end of my morning attitude that hasn't seen a cup of coffee. With milk and sugar. So anyway. Big plans. And then I spent the better part of the 4 hours online. Contributing to my Computer Vision Syndrome. Also a contributing factor? Researching Computer Vision Syndrome by using a computer. Not exactly what the doctor ordered but let me be the bearer of what he does suggest:

"We should be blinking somewhere between 10 to 20 times a minute," said Dr. Yee.

People should also try warm compresses daily to help unblock oil glands in the eyelids and use artificial tears every 30 minutes.

"That seems frequent, but again if you're staring and not blinking, the tears that you naturally make don't spread across and there's going to be dry spots on your cornea," explains Dr. Yee.

Dr. Yee has also designed special and unique glasses that help protect against detrimental agents. For the low low price of $225. Which look suspiciously like goggles:

That you can pick up for about nine dollars. You're welcome. Now I'm off to adopt some children from a country thats name is pronounced: COUNTRY WHOSE NAME I CANNOT PRONOUNCE. Before the entire next generation, in every corner of the world, are named Jolie-Pitt. Then? I hear the Pontiff is stateside. He may want to kiss my ring.