The Diva Gave This to Me

Don Mills Diva has given my blog the Excellent Award! Thank you Diva!! I hope you know that I think you're excellent as well.



Today I'm passing this along to some of the blogs that are a bit newer to me and that I find pretty excellent:

The Jason Show
Undomestic Diva
Crash Test Mommy

Look! More Divas!

It's Why She Asks My Opinion

My phone call from Mr. Farklepants' sister yesterday went just like this:

Sister: I'm filling out this form for this thing and they want me to list 3 things that I think people would use to describe me

Me: Okay

Sister: I don't know what to say so I want you to do it

Me: Number one you have an awesome sense of humor. Not too many people can make me laugh the way you do and so often

Sister: Everyone always says that

Me: Then I guess it's true. Second, you are generous to a fault

Sister: To a fault?

Me: Yeah, I don't really know what that means either but I hear people say it and I think it's good. Just say super generous just in case.

Sister: Okay. So what else?

Me: You've got a great rack.

Sister: I'm totally using this.

This Picture? Kinda how I Feel About the Flu

Looks like somebody wants a turn on the Wii. Upon closer inspection of this photo I would say that Girl-Child is totally flipping off Boy-Child#1. Don't you love it when kids give you this kind of gold? This is one to show the grandchildren someday. I can be all, "Hey kids! Wanna hear about the time that your mom gave your uncle the bird?" and they'll be like, "No. Way." And then I'll whip this bastard out.

Murphy's Law moment of the week: Name the sound that woke Tootsie from a dead sleep...

1. A whistle
2. Car alarm
3. Dangerous belch that reverberated throughout the house and when asked by a local reporter to describe what she heard, Tootsie said "I hate to sound cliche but it sounded like a freight train running underneath the foundation of our home"
   

Not ones to miss out on any fun that is being had while the family is in town for a much awaited visit; fever and vomit have put their rude hats on and invited themselves into our lives and are attempting to thwart merriment. Specifically attacking Boy-Child#2 and Girl-Child. It's like the flu read my blog, got the 411 on my schedule and said, "Dude. We are so there". Note to flu: Go pound sand.


Before the plague was upon us, we went out for ice cream. Except I think Boy-Child#1 heard "math test".


Here is Boy-Child#2 just hours before he lost his nose to leprosy, clearly amped for cold tasty treats. On the right is my 16 year old sister which explains the texting. Even though she genuinely enjoys spending time with her family, in an attempt to appear to her friends like a normal 16 year old, her text message probably read: ZOMG! WAFNGMOOH! srsly.

No Underwear were Harmed in the Creation of this Post

Friday was the ceremony to honor volunteers at the boys elementary school. It was held on the playground to accommodate the ONE THOUSAND students who attend and their parents. The parents who volunteer their time in the classrooms, which, is a lot of damn parents. Of course I was there for the recognition for the one day a month that I volunteer because I'm all about LOOK AT ME! Out of the sea of small heads I managed to spot Boy-Child#2 and he and I made eye contact, confirmed by a wave of hands and kisses blown through the air. I spied Boy-Child#1 and his sixth grade class file in to their designated spot and threw my hands up in the air and shook them all about like an idiot but he didn't see me. In fact, he never saw me. As far as he knew, I wasn't there. At the end of the ceremony when the sixth graders presented the volunteers and/or their own parents with paper flowers they had made, all of those that I received were from someone else's kids. And when Boy-Child#1 found out later that I WAS there he felt a little like that something that you try to scrape off the bottom of your shoe. He was all kinds of sad and feeling guilty; so worried that he'd hurt my feelings. Which he didn't but I was unsuccessful in convincing him. Poor kiddo.

I mentioned that this ceremony was held outdoors. No shade. The hot California sun melting the left hand side of my body frying my ear its mission was to destroy me. I even removed my watch to avoid tan lines. But more importantly, silk was a poor choice for blouse fabric. It isn't exactly skilled in the art of concealing sweat stains. In fact, it enhances them. Silk can be a real jerk. Luckily I had my enormous paper flowers to hide the offensive boob sweat that was accumulating. I guess I should just be thankful that my pants were not the same material. Because who wants to look at ass-crack sweat? And don't act like that doesn't happen to you.

Wii? Oui.

Our boys have been jonesing for a Wii for about, ohhhh, forever. Since they already have just about every other game system on the planet (except for the PS3 because, FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS!) I we decided that they would have to buy the Wii for themselves. They've been saving and combining their collective Christmas and birthday monies and finally had enough cash. Then there we were, months after Christmas and the Wii still just as hard to come by. Fast forward to Friday evening when Mr. Farklepants arrived home early from work. After my initial, "What the hell are you doing here?" loving wife that I am response, he presented the boys with the Wii system! And Super Smash Brothers! He then announced that Mario Cart would be here on Monday. I was all, "How'd you score Mario Cart". And he was like, "There's this little thing called the Internet and Amazon.com, maybe you've heard of it? You can buy stuff there". And I was all, "bite me".

And when Mr. Farklepants enthusiastically asks, "Who's the best dad EVER?!"; Michael Jordan is not the answer he's looking for. Who knew?

Tootsie's Broham is Totally Boss

My brother and his family are here visiting from Virginia. They are in my house right now. Here. Downstairs. Every time one of us travels to visit the other, we spend the months in between talking about when we'll see each other again. My brother? The most awesomest brother ever to have lived in the history of siblings. My brother? The funniest person I know. He's also? My bestest buddy. That, of course, was not always the case. Except that it was but not. There was a time when I beat him on a daily basis which also included some pinning down and threatening him with dangling spit because that's what big sisters do. And sometimes they follow through on that threat. I would occasionally fart on him. Or just up and outright belch in his face and blow for emphasis. I also had him convinced that Mom loved me more. Sometimes, big sisters are assholes. But, even though there was all of that, I also had his back. I was his protector from bullies and demonstrated that through physical combat with his enemies. We had each other's back when it came to keeping out of trouble with the mom. Then when puberty hit for him he turned into kind of a douche and we hardly spoke until I moved from home. That simple act was the catalyst that changed our relationship forever. One full of love, respect, and friendship.



When he graduated from high school he broke my heart joined the navy and moved three thousand miles away. I was the only family member to attend his boot camp graduation in Florida [an aside: if you ever have the chance to visit a military base, I highly recommend it what with all of the MEN IN UNIFORM swarming the premises. It helps if you're 21 and single to boot]. Then he was transfered up to Virginia where during the course of his service he met the woman who would become his wife one of my best friends. Wasn't that thoughtful of him? He warned her that I'd never once liked any girl he'd ever introduced me too and he wasn't lying even a little bit. He had this poor girl scared shitless to meet me face to face. Then one day, while on leave, he came home to visit and flew his new girlfriend across the country to meet the family. And then I showed up [cue a little diddy called "The Imperial March" and picture Darth Vader if that helps you hear the music]. And it was one of those rare experiences where you meet someone for the first time but also can't imagine having never known them. [Now imagine "The Imperial March" coming to a screeching halt] I loved her from the start.

After his time was served they moved out to California. For the next seven years we spent several days and/or nights a week at each other's homes. Did I mention his wife is also a kick-ass hairdresser? She's a master stylist at a swanky salon and if you have a few hundred dollars lying around to drop on your hair then she's the girl for you because even she admits she can't afford to see her own self. When she was living in California, and before she leased her own suite in a salon in Studio City, she worked for a man called Allen Edwards. You may remember him as the man who originated that unfamiliar 70's hair cut named FARRAH FAWCETT. And while she was working there I would get discounts on my hair needs and totally free when she had her own place. Then my brother and his wife decided they wanted to buy a home. You may not know this about California but in order to buy a home you have to have something banks like to call HALF A MILLION DOLLARS OR MORE. So, after seven years here on the west coast, they packed it up and moved back to Virginia where they bought a beautiful home for half of the aforementioned California requirement.



And now they're here. And I'm going to do my level best not to think about Saturday morning when they'll be leaving. I'm going to enjoy every minute that they are here and hug and snurffle my nephew as much as he will allow. I will still post but they may be light. Which, from what I gather with all you Google Reader peeps out there, may be a little bit of a blessing.

Pffft!! That's Nothin'

Back story: Boy-Child#1 is graduating from sixth grade in two weeks. Aaand now you're pretty much caught up.

Boy-Child#1: Hey, Mom wanna hear the song we're singing for graduation?

Me: Of course!

Boy-Child#1: Go to YouTube and enter R. Kelly the world's greatest.

Me: Alright.
.
.
.
.
.
Boy-Child#1: Mom? Hey, Mom are you crying?

Me: I can't help it. I also can't talk

Boy-Child#1: Why are you crying?

Me: Oh, please this is nothing. Wait until your graduation. This would probably be a good time to start thinking about asking me to stay home.

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.


Since I had nary a submitted question to answer, I revert to everyone's favorite brand of advice: Unsolicited. The following pictures are from the first 30 or so pages of my recent issue of Allure Magazine. It would appear as though the marketing directors got together and had a little meeting about what is so hot right now. And the memo said: Green.

Totally want this shirt from H&M even if just to wear around the house.

I prefer the Matrix Sleek Look line but then it doesn't come in green.

I totally thought that Zeno wanted to be an iPod when it grew up but upon closer inspection it would appear that I was completely off with regards to its purpose; unless iPods are used for pimple treatments (note to self: consult teenager and conduct study. Seek grant). The photo opposite the zit zapper thingy is an ad for O.P.I. nail polish. Which every time I see makes me want to hang out in Mayberry with little Ronnie Howard, eating Aunt Bea's pies, and congregating with town drunks in a cozy jail cell I mean who doesn't.

Be delicious? Who is this supposed to appeal to? People who want to be consumed? By what? Circus bears? The SNL land shark? Oh wait, other humans. I think I'll pass on being delicious and just demand that DKNY promise that their perfume will make me be that model.

(Not really in the magazine):

My eyes!! OHMYEFFINGGOD My bleeding eyes! Make this stop! The color! The length! The fabric! What are they supposed to be? Shorts? Pants? Knickers? Completely and utterly hideously unattractive? Because they totally nailed that last option. JC Penny? Your white sales will not make up for this. Please knock it off.

Green...blah...blah... St. Ives...green... nature.

Pure & Natural...blah...blahh...green...pure....green....natural.

Burts Bees...blahh...blahhhh....take a bath in a creek...blahh...green.

Biore...blahhhh....blahhhhh...triple action...with a green bow....

What is happening here is a subtle case of desensitization of the masses. Overuse of the message to "go green" in scenarios that it doesn't apply distracts from those whose message serves a real purpose. Conserve energy. Be water wise. Recycle. Don't be a litter bug. Clean air. Elevated methane levels brought on by the need to fuel our mass burger consumption. ETCETERA.

Subliminal "go green" messages in ads for nail polish, acne cream, and perfume? You are guilty of coat tail riding and are doing a disservice to the cause. So please stop it.

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Speaking of green sort of: Last night my neighbor arrived home to find me beating his tree with an extremely long paint roller handle extender pole [there's got to be a shorter name for that we'll call it a stick], like it was 11:59pm on Cinco de Mayo and it was the last piñata in a 50 mile radius.

Me: (sheepish) uhhh...hi.
Him: ....... (slow smile)
Me: I've got a rocket** stuck in your tree. that's what she said
Him: Need some help? smooth
Me: How you doin' Sure! sultry approach
Him: It's really stuck in there.
Me: ....
Him: Let me hit it from another angle
Me: Say my name! I did manage to get the shoe down.
Him: I think I got it!
Me: a little to the left One more should do it!
Him: I got it!

Then he ducked when my rocket fell towards his face. I will leave you with that image.

**Boy-Child#2 has one of those Air Hog rockets which got stuck in the highest branches of the tree. Along with his shoe that he threw at it. All very innocent yet awkward.

They Done Gone Tampered With the Snacks

I was watching some grocery shopping guru on some morning show not too long ago (could I be more vague?) and she was instructing us that we should be stocking up on the so-called (to paraphrase) "items that the store needs to get off the shelf", if it is something that your family will use; and to use our club cards. She also mentioned something about buying store brands as opposed to name brands but only if the quantity is the same or more. Or something like that. Honestly? I wasn't really paying all that much attention. But I did hear her say "instead of buying individual apples, buy the already bagged ones". And to make a list. I always make a list, and I looked for the pre-bagged apples which apparently my store doesn't carry. I also didn't wander the aisles aimlessly, nor was I hungry, and I had the list. I was rocking that advice that I was only sort of listening to. Milk in my store? $4.59 for a gallon of 2 percent. Outrageous, no? But with the club card it is 2 for $5.39. Better. And because during these warm longer days, our refrigerator in the garage has a revolving door and we're personally hydrating all of the children on the cul-de-sac with Gatorade and Capri Sun and beer, which was 2 for $6 for the former and $2.79 a box for the latter.

I only strayed twice from my meticulous list. Once for the -excuse me while I see your impulse item and raise you 2 hula hoops because that was an impulse item that I was all, "Hellz ya!", and once for the ice cream. Now, I know the economy is not performing at its level best right now and the government is having to bail out people whose homes are being foreclosed on because that same government made those same people unable to file for bankruptcy, but what the hell were these people thinking buying homes outside of their means and then treating the equity in their property like an ATM, making that hole they're digging go all the way to China. And I mean that literally. It was a recipe for disaster. And it now costs $80 to fill up a 20 gallon tank with gas and people can't afford to commute to their jobs but ohmygod what have they done with the ice cream! When I approached the freezer case I noticed that Dreyers had changed the packaging on their regular brand of ice cream. I had to scrutinize it to make sure it wasn't some fat-free crap that I was getting suckered into. I hate when that happens! Mr. Farklepants is very particular about his Mint Chip ice cream even though he doesn't eat it anymore but the kids do and I like to be prepared in case he changes his mind. So while I'm suspiciously eying this new packaging, I note that it seems as if the container is smaller. As if they'd shaved an inch off the bottom.



Goddammit I was right. However, they did not shave an inch off the price! It is still $6.49 and on sale for $4.99 with the club card just like the last time I purchased the larger pre-screw-the-consumer container. Those shifty ice cream stealing BASTARDS!! It's like they were all, "just make it fancy and those idiots won't even notice because they'll be too busy keeping their toddler from knocking over the display of canned creamed corn". What's next? One scoop of raisins in my Raisin Bran?

Also? In a "go Me!" moment, I saved $75.71 resulting in a $202 grocery bill, using my club card. SEVENTY-FIVE!! My personal best. Excuse me while I get to 2nd base with myself.

Someone Needs to Sit Down and Have a Talk With Her About Boundaries

I've already mentioned how much Girl-Child enjoys our trips to the bank. It does not rival her SKQUEEEEEE!! of the grocery store. Free cookie from the bakery aside, at the grocery store there are two cashiers; one called "Friend" and the other is "Tong". These are not their real names, however, it is how Girl-Child addresses them. Friend will spend our whole transaction conversing with Girl-Child; asking her if she'd gone to school that morning, how it was, what did they do, what did they have for snack, and ask the names of whichever doll or stuffed toy has joined us. Sometimes, if she has them, Friend will give Girl-Child a sticker. The two just click. She is not the only checker to ever speak with Girl-Child but she is the one whose line we will wait in at Girl-Child's request, no matter how long, so that she can see her Friend. That is... (dramatic pause indicated by ellipses)...

....Unless Tong is there. Tong is the love of her life. She doesn't care that he's in his twenties and that her love is forbidden. Because her kind of love is wrapped up in the funny voices he uses to speak to her, how he chases her, steals her toys and gives them voices, plays hide and seek, tickles her, and generally acts a damn fool. When she squeals from behind her hands, "Tong is SO silly!" she's basically telling him, "Look dude, you're awesome, okay? Please come over and play My Little Ponies with me. BFFs?". She recognizes his car in the parking lot and is ready for the check out lane before our shopping has even begun. "Can we go see Tong now?" "Not yet." "Done Mommy?". "Nope". And God help us if he's running the 15 items or less lane and we're there on BIG shopping day. Holy hell.

She is not the only child who feels this way about Tong. His line is full of mothers with small children. When another check stand opens to relieve the congestion, we mothers are falling all over our manners and turn into a bunch of Emily Posts with our "Oh no, after you". "No. Please, go right ahead". "You were here first, I wouldn't dream of it". Because none of us are leaving that line. And we all know it. And the person who does eventually move to the next available checker is one that is sans child. If he's relieved for his break before we've all been through the line, he will make sure to greet each child individually and knows each one by name. I'm not even kidding when I say that every day is like Christmas and he's Santa Claus. Only younger. And shorter. And looks more like Flea from Red Hot Chilli Peppers with less surf punk and more Howdy Doody. I wonder if Tong babysits?

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Scenes From the Mall:

(1) Woman in spandex bottoms and too small top with spillage in the middle. Resembles broken can of biscuits.
(4) Individual toddler meltdowns.
(1) Sale on bathing suits at Macys. And a line full of very brave women.
(3) Random acts of chivalry. Men still occasionally hold doors open for women and let them go first in line. Thanks, Gents. Your Mamma done brought you up right.
(2) Bonafide mowhawks. Not faux-hawks. I repeat: not faux-hawks.
(1) Mowhawk riding the carousel. Well done, sir.
(8) Separate sightings of small children riding on fathers' shoulders. EIGHT. Walking is for chumps.
(Infinity) Teenagers. That used to be me only with bigger hair and more eyeliner.

Dinner Consumed With 99% Less Bone

Last night was the first time since Tuesday, April 24th 2007 that I prepared pork chops for dinner. I know you're all, "umm...okay. Whatever. Congratulations?" but oh, the drama that unfolded with Boy-Child#2 on that fateful other white meat day. Wanna hear it? Here it go:

That evening I prepared pork chops for my family and 20 minutes after dinner, my youngest son began gagging and heaving as if he were sick to his stomach. This went on periodically throughout the night and into the morning. We assumed he had some kind of stomach virus since the rest of us were fine. It wasn't until morning that he informed us that it felt like something was stuck in his throat. Immediately alarmed and considering that perhaps he had a fragment of a pork chop bone lodged in his throat, but knowing it wasn't an "emergency" situation since he could breath and swallow, I took him to the walk in doctor's office to investigate. They were wonderful and patient and did what they could... two hours later xrays didn't reveal any bone fragments, it could just be a scratch, however, it could be such a small bone fragment that it wouldn't show up in xrays and they suggested that I take him to the emergency room where they had a greater variety of instruments to use to detect the problem.

I brought him home and waited until dinner time, figuring it would be a less hectic hour for the emergency room. The waiting room wasn't terribly crowded and they brought us in to a curtained bed area within 45 minutes. After a brief consultation with the doctor, he ordered a barium xray. While we waited in the large, open "fast track" area, consisting of several occupied beds separated by curtains, I couldn't help but hear the conversations amongst the staff. One nurse had a burrito she was willing to share with her co-worker. How sweet. One nurse had consistent complaints ranging from something (didn't hear what) that she agreed "just ain't right" with another co-worker, to some closet being improperly stocked...apparently "it didn't have shit". This same nurse was the go-to gal for the xray technician who came to collect my son. I can tell by the bemused expressions on their faces (how does one "hear" a bemused expression you ask? By the tone of their voice silly!) that because my son can breath and swallow, I'm just a overreactive mother wasting their precious time. The sound of their eyes rolling and their smirking mouths was deafening. Nevermind that I was at the emergency room on a doctor's suggestion; let's not let facts get in the way.

The tech was lacking in any smiles, impatient, and I think he figured it might have killed him to try even just a little bit to put my scared son's fears at ease. He was short and quick to threaten my son that if he didn't drink the barium properly that he was just going to have to do it all over again. Finally satisfied that he had the films he needed we were sent back to our curtained bed. An hour or so later, my son in a deep sleep, it was time to clear out the "fast track" area because at a certain time in the evening the staff is reduced and they put all of the patients in one area. I listened from our little corner of the room, patients being informed of their move and beds being wheeled off to somewhere unknown by me. I waited. And waited. Waited some more. I waited nearly 30 minutes. Long gone were voices, rustlings, or the sound of soft soled shoes on the floor. No beeping machines...not even a cough to clear one's throat. Zip. Dead silence. Fearing we'd somehow been forgotten (I mean, that couldn't be!), but hesitant to leave my sleeping son, worried that he might wake up alone in one wing of the hospital, I finally took a few steps out to investigate. We were, in fact, alone. I took one more look at my son and decided to try to find someone as quickly as possible. This forced me to leave the room entirely, through another room, and finally into an area that had some staff.

I asked the nurse sitting at the desk if we were also being moved. Luckily, I didn't blink when I asked her this question because I would have surely missed the extremely brief look of shock that flashed across her face when I told her where my son was. She resorted to her pat answer and informed me that they were getting a bed ready for him and someone would be there shortly.

We never did move. The doctor finally came in to discuss the results of the barium xray with me. The diagnosis? No obstruction shows up in the xray and my son can swallow. Gee...thanks. I already knew he could swallow which is probably why I said as much during my initial consultation with the doctor. What I want to know is, what is causing my son to gag and heave when he DOES swallow? "It could be a scratch on his cartledge or it could be a bone fragment so small that it doesn't show up in the xray"... well, here we are back to square one. This I already know, I tell him. He recommends an ear, nose, and throat specialist and gives me the number of a doctor to call because they have a fiber optic camera they can snake down his throat. Henry Mayo doesn't have one of those in the entire facility? Couldn't they have done that while we were there? Well, I guess they've done all they're gonna do.

After a combined total of 7 hours in medical facilities, I still don't know what is going on in my son's throat and it doesn't seem to concern any of the medical professionals, so why should I be worried? Because I'm a mother and I can tell you right now that there is something wrong with my son. I'm not a nervous overreative mother. Aside from being born this was the first time my 7 year old son had ever even seen the inside of a hospital, let alone an emergency room. And they should take a lesson in bedside manner. It would serve them well not to treat scared worried parents and patients with belittling condescension. Give us the benefit of the doubt that we aren't there to waste your time...we're there because something just ain't right.

Last night's dinner consisted of BONELESS pork chops and was met with fear from Boy-Child#2. I considered telling him it was chicken but he's on to my lies. To this day he will not eat quickly. He will chew whatever it is he's eating until it becomes a fine, pasty liquid. And it is all kinds of nasty.

*The above story is a repeat from one of my old blogs*

It's Official: She's a Chick

On Friday evening Mr. Farklepants and the boys headed out to his brother's house for a weekend of blow your mind guitar jamming [insert devils horn hand gesture here and bang your head]. He lives in a more rural area that allows for atom splitting decibels. They're going to Christen the new amp [and probably utilize some wah-wah pedals]. Far away from my ears. And our neighbors ears. And the ears trapped in the folds of 17,000 pages of our homeowners association manual [Stepford isn't even kidding about RULES]. At some point in our harried good-byes, Girl-Child realizes that their trip requires a suitcase. And that she isn't going. While she hugged her oldest brother good bye, somewhere deep in her posterior lobe of the pituitary, a surge of oxytocin - the bonding hormone - was released. And with it? An ass-load of tears. As she held him in a kung-fu death grip, she managed to sob "I'm going toooo miiiiiiiiisssss yooooouuuu". See, it wasn't so much that she wasn't going with them that had her all acting like a girl; it was that they weren't going to be with HER. This reaction was so unlike her. Sure she's a little more sensitive than our boys and easier to upset, especially if she's in trouble, but she's just not terribly emotional. Because I have witnessed other little girls her age and I'm like, "Are you serious with this? Oh my stinkin' heck, get over yourselves already. DRAMATIC much?" -see how empathetic I am? Who's looking for a nanny? So it was completely uncharacteristic and bizarre that she just didn't know what she was gonna dooooo without "her guys". And all of my suggestions about what we can do over the weekend as just us girls was not filling the void. It took a solid 30 minutes to talk her down and by that time I'd convinced myself that she was PMSing and going to start her period in three days. Right around the time I was wondering if they made Midol for children under the age of five and thinking that they should -and if not, then what was the proper dosage of the adult version to administer which was forcing me to do math- Dora the Explorer came on and Boots started singing about how he "speaks Spanish and English too, I like them both; how about yoooouuu?" - There may be times where I want to tell Dora: Put that in your star pocket, sister! But this time she made things all better. And then when I told Girl-Child that her auntie was going to spend the afternoon with her while Mommy spent that time with friends, she spent the remaining hours asking me when I was going to just leave, already. Whatevs. Mood swings.

p.s. My past and present tense is all over the place in here. Thank goodness I'm not turning it in for a grade.