Senseo. I'll Give You a Hint: It's not a Ninja

Mr. Farklepants was raving about the best darned cup of coffee he's ever tasted when he arrived home from work one day last week. I was skeptical and, knowing him as well as I do, believed that it was the novelty of the single serving feature of the contraption rather than the beverage itself that had him so enamored. He then proceeded to pitch the coffee maker to me, and I in my usual way, begged off any more gadgets that will clutter up my valuable counter space. It's what I do. This is our thing. Imagine my complete expectation surprise when this arrived via courier:


The Senseo. Or, as Mr. Farklepants described it, "It's Senseosional". Yes, he did. And us without our house orchestra to provide the rimshot. But I am the Ed McMahon to his Johnny Carson (and sometimes vice versa) the following real life commentary took place:

Me: I can't believe you're brewing a cup of coffee all by yourself.
Him: I don't know what's weirder. Me doing it or you taking pictures of it. To blog about it.
Me: That's a lot of machine for just one cup of coffee.
Him: That's what she said.
Me: Who gets the first cup?
Him: You. Here, it's extra frothy.
Me: (requisite questions) Did you spit in this?
Him: Not this time.
Me: Was your penis instrumental in the creation of the frothiness?
Him: (seemingly unfazed) Not this time. (my comments no longer hold any shock value where he's concerned)

We enjoy our individually brewed coffees. And resume conversation:

Me: So, where are we going to store this thing?
Him: You're never going to use it are you?
Me: I don't even know how.
Him: I just demonstrated it for you. Twice.
Me: Oh. I wasn't paying attention.

She had to Google the Proper Spelling of "Truancy"

Main Entry:

¹tru·ant

Pronunciation:

\ˈtrü-ənt\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

Middle English, vagabond, idler, from Anglo-French, of Celtic origin; akin to Old Irish trógán wretch, trúag wretched

Date:

14th century

: one who shirks duty; especially : one who stays out of school without permission

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To Whom it may Concern,

Please excuse Tootsie from abandoning her blog Tuesday, April 1st. She was absent due to the initial onset of cabin fever induced by Spring Break which began this week; causing her children to incite riots amongst each other, senseless bickering, and extreme boredom. As a veteran, she immediately recognized these symptoms. Monday afternoon, she felt it was in the best interest of her family's lives if she threw her children in the car, tossed some miscellaneous overnight gear willy-nilly into the back, and brought the motley crew and their chaos two hours north to her sister in law's house. Sister in law provides much needed comic relief for Tootsie. Plus wine. And empathy. Within 30 minutes of the Farklepants intrusion upon the extended family, this disruption occurred:

And Tootsie was instructed to please stop trying to tidy up. It was a futile act; which somewhere in the recesses of her mind [perhaps trapped in the Corpus Callosum or clinging to some basal ganglia ], Tootsie knew. So she begrudgingly obliged.

The spontaneous trip allowed Girl-Child and her 3 year old cousin to get their fix of one another. They are kindred spirits. BFF's. And are often jonesing for each other which is signaled by incessant whining from both parties. Sister in law and family live just far away enough that visiting if often postponed unnecessarily. Because, although it is far; it's not that far. This trip also gave Tootsie a chance to snuggle with her youngest niece, who was only 5 weeks old the last time she saw her. Now? She is 5 months and very munchable. Expect to see her featured in snappy packaging on your local toy store shelves this Christmas as the latest edition Cabbage Patch Doll. Because? Have you ever seen a baby that looked more like a Cabbage Patch Doll than this?...


I think not. It also gave Boy-Child#1 and his uncle the opportunity to converse via guitar riffs, although, with less Deliverance-ness; and Boy-Child#2 to demonstrate that he possesses the exact amount of energy as a shitzu puppy. He was not about to be one upped by that fluffy squeak toy.

So, please excuse Tootsie's neglect. She'd like to say with all sincerity that it won't happen again, but she won't because she would be lying. In fact, she reserves the right for future episodes in the next two weeks.

Yours Truly,
Tootsie's Blog Conscience

There are No Small Positions Only Short Players

The Los Angeles Dodgers celebrated their 50th anniversary of their move west by holding an exhibition game in the LA Coliseum, with over 100,000 in attendance. Luckily, I did not attend this game because the sheer volume of the crowd would make me want to provoke the nearest gang member, probably by saying something derogatory about his mother, in hopes that he would shoot me dead on the spot, just to escape the madness. Instead, the Farklepants family cheered on Boy-Child#2 and his Dodgers in their pre-season opener against their hometown rivals, the Angels. The Angels kicked our ass. We were spanked. Boy-Child#2 did well, despite striking out. Twice. And flubbing a play at third base. He handled all three scenarios with grace and dignity by embracing his inner poor sport. He inherits his borderline unhealthy competitive streak from Yours Truly. Post-game we pulled him aside and took the opportunity to discuss sportsmanship and learning from our mistakes. And sucking it up. And/or shaking it off. And not to beat the ground into submission with your $70 bat. And that there's no pouting in baseball softball.

The coach was moderately successful in keeping the boys in line and delivered inspirational pep talks. Until this guy showed up:


The umpire [who will be played by Bernie Mac with a smattering of James Earl Jones] whipped the rascals into submission because that was about all the lip he was gonna have. And? Because, DARTH VADAR. But way funnier. The boys are still working on their ability to grasp subtle humor that is delivered particularly dry served with a dash of Sahara. They weren't able to determine if BernieMacJamesEarlJones was serious or not, so they erred on the side of extreme caution. But dudes? Totally hilarious. YOU? Should have been there.

We return now to the world of Major League Baseball: The word of the evening was "Knuckleballer", which Vin Scully said approximately just shy of a million times. At first we were titillated at the prospect of a new drinking game. One shot for every knuckleballer. But quickly realized that one of us would probably end up in an alcohol induced coma and neither of us wants to be in the rather difficult position of pulling each other's life support plug. Vin Scully pontificated that DeWitt might be in over his head when it comes to batting major league pitches, and that he was batting a 208; which in my estimation means - well I'm not exactly sure what it means- but his tone suggested that it wasn't good.

The MLB Dodgers, not to be outdone by the local parks and rec's Dodgers, also took a sound beating. Because in the end, just like the local parks and rec's Angles, the MLB Red Sox just wanted it more.

A Well Seasoned Handbag but is it Worth the Salt?

The contents of women's purses are being displayed across the blogosphere. OHmommy over at Classy Chaos has tagged me with a meme and specifically wants to know what is inside a mother of three's bag. Since I just recently published a similar post about this very thing, I submit a repeat picture:


My children are eleven, eight, and four. At this stage of mommyhood, I no longer require a diaper bag or relatively large tote with handy pockets and dividers to hold all of the necessary items for diaper changing, feedings, or optional clothing needs. When you're a mother to older children, your purse becomes a receptacle for whatever they have tired of holding onto themselves. You know that item that you told them before you left the house that if they wished to bring it with them, they were responsible for its means of getting around? Fortunately, also at this stage, I often carry a moderately smallish purse which often cannot accommodate their larger items. This prevents any possible way to shove said item in my purse and forcing them the inhumanity of hanging onto their own crap and bitching about the injustice of it all. And gives me the opportunity to say "I told you so". Which? I say a lot.

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Unrelated Episode:

During dinner last evening, Girl-Child's wheat roll had mysteriously disappeared from her plate. You should also know that her Sky Wishes My Little Pony (she has named Melissa) had joined her for dinner. When pressed on the whereabouts of her bread, the following happened:

Me: Where's your bread?
Girl-Child: (hem and haw) ...well... Melissa ...she climbed over the table ...and
Me: (considers this remote possibility) She did?
Girl-Child: Uhuh. And she got on my plate. And. And. And she spilled it on the floor.
Me: (totally unconvinced) Uhuuuuuh.
Girl-Child: And the doggy ate it.
Me: (my hands are now on my hips in traditional mommy form plus stern face) Is that what really happened?
Girl-Child: (BURSTS into inconsolable crying) Nu..Nu...Nooooooooooooooooooo... I.. I....I'm sorry I fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiibbbed.

There's just sooo many tears!

And, oh, the wailing!

I hug her and simultaneously stifle laughter turn my head to see rest of family hiding their faces to stifle own laughter at her grossly disproportionate reaction to getting caught in a fiiiiiiibbb.

You Can Gauge the Way the Day Will Go When it Starts Like This

There can only be one explanation for this type of trash ransacking:

A certain, and fortunately very cute, dog with an affinity for the cardboard center of a toilet paper roll. One humans trash is a canines coveted treasure. I'm not even angry with her because all I can say is "Thanks be to Jesus that it's not my underwear"...again.

Oh shut up. You're so busted.

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.


The doctor is being seduced with bribes gifts from the pharmaceutical representative while you are forced to wait for your scheduled appointment. Please enjoy the fifteen year old subscriptions of National Geographic or, preferably, the following advice:

Q: Burgh Baby's Mom has a toddler footwear related question: "where can I find toddler shoes that aren't more hussy than the ones I wear? I refuse to be out-hussied by a two-year old."

A: My first impulse is to tell you to throw some Crocs on her because there isn't any possible way for that affront to fashion to be in any way construed as "hussy". But I cannot, in good faith, advise anyone to ever wear that offensive footwear. How those things ever attained their popularity makes me want to weep for feet nationwide. Diligent researcher that I am, I found these, that appear to be designed specifically to make your head explode for your Burgh Baby. Don't say I never did anything for you. You're welcome.

Q: Holly from Anglophile Football Fanatic is giving my advice a second chance and writes in via email to know: "How frumpy is it to give up highlighting my hair? It's expensive. It grows out too quickly. I always feel like I look trashy at the end of month 3....any advice?"

A: Before I start doling out the sarcasm advice I'd like to note that Holly is being very big in asking me what I think about anything. Considering the Jon-Jon episode where I unwittingly insulted her, wholesale, and in doing so; nearly put the kibosh on a faux commitment ceremony between her and Burgh Baby's Mom. Even though between the two of you there were probably a few distant relatives that were relieved by the news of the break up, and reassured once again in the power of prayer; I did not want to see that [break up] happen. Now on to your hair. Blonde highlights are expensive. I spend in one month on my hair the equivilent to a car payment for a moderately sized economy vehicle. That is very cringeworthy. Blonde is high maintenance. Here are some options:

1. Alternate your highlights between a partial and a full weave every other salon visit. A partial is usually significantly less expensive.
2. I notice that you wear your hair very straight. Once it gets to the obvious, "there's a trailer in tornado alley with my name on it" roots faze, abandon your flat iron and wear it fuller. Straight hair and a straight part emphasize the roots. You want to lift the roots so that they're hidden (i.e. some curls with a big barrel 1 1/2" iron and a little teasing at the crown but don't get too 1985). And don't wear it pulled back off of your face at this point because it will look like you have a ring around your head.
3. If you insist on ditching highlights altogether, I suggest going with an all over shade that closely matches your natural hue and the grow out will be considerably less noticeable. Just don't do it yourself like me someone we all know and love.
   

Hello Old Friend, May I Have a Word With You?

Dear Old Navy,

We go way back, you and I. I've been very good to you what with all of the buckets of cash I dump in your lap on a consistent basis. In return, you've provided my family and myself with affordable, attractive clothing; plus, yeah, COMFY. You've also been there for me when I find myself in a pinch looking for last minute gifts or when I'm in immediate need of an outfit for a sudden engagement. You've got that covered. I've even snagged some Christmas ornaments; what will you think of next? You usually have a wide selection of various styles that appeal to people of all ages. You are the poor man's GAP. However, I'm bothered by your current inventory and I think you know what I'm talking about. Two words: tube tops. Ninety percent of the clothing options that fall in the "shirts" category for women, are tube tops, right now. If this were twelve years ago you and I would not be having this conversation. Because twelve years ago my breasts weren't located so far south. Perhaps you aren't aware of what this type of garment does to the breasts of a woman my age. I won't go into graphic details but let's just say things get pushed farther (further?) down. This garment also forces me to wear a strapless bra which, because of the severe discomfort, makes me all kinds of bitch. If I have to go through the day distracted by my undergarments, people suffer. It's just the way it is.

If I may, I'd now like to discuss your stocking procedure. It is severely lacking and quite the suck. You are located in an area where everyone loves you. All of these women have families. We are a very family based valley. I believe it is a requirement to have at least two kids to even buy a house here because there are that many of us. I'm sure you're also aware that every public school in this district is at capacity? And that there are one thousand students attending my children's elementary school, alone? That's just the one school. There are several. I also know that everyone shops with you because we're all wearing the same outfits. At first we were all embarrassed but we've learned to accept it. Although we still have trouble distinguishing our own children from others at the park. So, when you run out of popular items, would you be so kind as to replenish them? Think white tank tops in a size small and white flip flops, size 10. Thanks. You're a peach. Because when you force me to have to order things online that should be in your store, you cause the vein in my husbands head to bulge and then we have a fight. Lord knows that he has no place talking to me about wasting money because of that whole ugly ticket thing. But, the statute of limitations will only last so long on my leverage with that; and there will come a time in the near future where I won't be able to hold that over his head any longer. So, don't cause fights between us. I could thank you for the make up sex but I'm not about to go into the intimate details of our marriage.

One more thing before I go; your sundresses? Are over priced. Thirty to forty dollars for a dress that you and I both know will be on sale by the months end, is in poor taste. And the joke will be on me because by the time that sale rolls around, you'll no longer carry my size. I've so been through this with you before.

Cordially yours,

Tootsie Farklepants

P.S. I'll probably be there tomorrow to replace some of the kids wardrobe from last summer, so I hope there's no hard feelings between us. That would be awkward.

You'll Take Advantage of the Nearest Mode of Transportation to Either High Five Me or Leave a Flaming Bag of Dog Pooh on my Front Porch

A proposal, AB 1940, that would allow handicapped parking spaces for all pregnant women was shot down in CA state assembly. I agree with their decision because of the classification that "all women in their third trimester - and up to two months after delivering their baby - [are] as "temporarily disabled.". I take issue with that and fall on the side of offended. I may not have been able to sleep during that time frame, and I may have had to abruptly halt trying to maneuver into an average bathroom stall and surrender to the larger stall designated for wheelchair use and extreme girth, but I could certainly walk. Well, waddle would be more accurate. In case the author of this bill isn't aware, the female body is designed to accommodate pregnancy. Albeit, uncomfortably, but designed nonetheless. Not like, lets say, an amputee. Limbs are not designed for removal. That's a disability that warrants convenient parking. I also understand that there are pregnant women who have medical issues that might necessitate such a need. I'm not talking about them. [Like, if you're pregnant with sextuplets. The female body was not engineered to carry a litter of fetuses. That was not nature, that happened in a doctors office and they all took. And now your body is saying "The hell?"] Although, I imagine those with serious medical conditions that are a result of their pregnancy are most likely on some kind of doctor ordered bed rest; and unless their mattress is located in their car, they shouldn't be driving themselves anywhere, anyway.

Also, in this modern era, you can have just about anything you need delivered to your house: prescriptions, dry cleaning, movies, dinner, and groceries just to name a few. It's what makes the Internets so sexy. That and easy access to porn. [I used the home delivery grocery service in the past. Not because I was restricted to my bed. I just thought it was kinda cool in a 1950's Lucille Ball housewife kind of way. Until they substituted my thin-sliced boneless chicken breasts with regular (higher priced) boneless chicken breasts one too many times. The kind that my children describe as "too chickeny". Once you tamper with my poultry selection because your employees are search impaired, then you relinquish your delivery fee and force me to step foot in your retail establishment]. If your pregnancy limits your ability to walk from the parking lot to the mall, then you have more serious issues than needing to pick up a few things. It is also rumored that walking may help move labor along. So strap on those Reeboks ladies. If your girth prevents you from entering or exiting your vehicle in an average sized parking spot; lay off the Taco Bell Nacho Bell Grande's. And if you park your SUV pregnant self in a compact spot, then you're just creating your own chaos. Really. Did you think that was going to be successful?

I'm so baffled by the "two month post-delivery disability" that I'm almost at a loss for words. Almost. What is the "disability" here? That it's a pain in the ass to wrestle a stroller out of your trunk and drop an infant into it? I realize that it takes a couple of outings to establish a routine. I understand. I've been that. But disabled? What about those of us whose kids are past the need for a stroller but still too young to understand that they need to keep a close eye on cars that might be backing out in a crowded parking lot? At least with a stroller the adult is in full control. The infant isn't going to suddenly dart from his five-point harness. And if he does? Start the enrollment process for MIT, right now.

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #9

Don't let my new coffee table distract you from the real purpose of this post.

And that is, that my hairdresser is currently on materinity leave. Yes, we're all very excited**... new baby... ooohhh, ahhhh... it's a girl!! But enough about the miracle of birth; let's talk about me. More specifically, my hair. I have been cursed? blessed with quick growing hair. I'm ready every four weeks for some maintenance [which includes foils containing highlights, two separate colors for lowlights, and an all over semi-permanent color; i.e. a hell of a lot of work]. Six weeks is stretching it. After that? I deserve a recurring role on My Name is Earl. I'm very loyal to my hairdressers. I've only had three my entire adult life, and the first two relationships ended for reasons beyond my control. I made a vow to my current one that I wouldn't allow anyone else to touch my head until she got her sea legs back. But I didn't say that I wouldn't totally fuck up my hair all by myself! Which brings me to this frightening turn of events:




You'll be happy to learn that the roots took really well. The highlights did not. Apparently chemistry 101 and I have not been formally introduced. However, the part of my brain where my rudimentary knowledge is stored, was vaguely aware and flat out ignored this information. Why dark blonde, you wonder, when I wear it so obviously very blonde? Because, there was that one time? About ten years ago, when hairdresser #1 and I were cruelly separated? And in my desperation I consulted a box of very light blonde? And the final results produced very yellow hair. Fool me once, shame on Miss Clairol; fool me twice, that's my bad. That's the first reason. The second reason is that for the last year I've been showing a picture of Gisele Bundchen to my hairdresser and asking her to please make me look like that. And she thinks to herself, "that would require some very pricey plastic surgery and a strict diet, oh, and other genes". Or, she thinks Gisele Bundchen is Heather Locklear. Because I usually come out resembling the latter. On my own, I've achieved nothing more than spotty coloring. In six weeks my hairdresser will be actively slitting my throat.

**I really am excited for her!! Don't let my snarkiness fool you.

Updated to add requested pictures. You know what's hard? Taking your own picture. They are very MySpace-like. Wanna know what else, else? Taking your own picture produces unattractive extreme close ups. This was the best I could do and unfortunately, it isn't capturing the true color and actually look kinda good. Think: drab.

We'll Set Aside Some Special Time Next Tuesday. We Require 24 Hours Notice For Canellation or Your Credit Card Will be Charged

As I was passing yet another note scribbled with my contact information on it to another mother so that a play date could be scheduled between our respective kids; it triggered a thought: How did my generation get to be so damned structured? What happened to the days of just going outside to play? And if your friend didn't live close enough to walk then you picked up the phone and said "hey, can I come over and play and oh by the way I need a ride can your mom get me?". And nine times out of ten they did. Or they just came to your house. Just so we're clear, I'm kind of anti-play date. Scheduling play time days or weeks in advance just seems a tad ridiculous. And what of the "exclusive" play date? What do I mean? As a for instance: Let's just say that your next door neighbor has kids that are your kids age and they play together a lot. And your child knocks on their door to see if little Johnny can play, only to be told that little Johnny can't play right now because he's having a play date. Apparently little Johnny is not a multi-play-tasker. Adding one more child to the equation is just too much and would somehow unleash something very damned scary; like an Earth sucking black hole abyss.

After school, when we were kids, we'd drag our friend over to our parent's waiting car and pointedly ask "Can so-n-so come over RIGHT NOW!?" and totally put our parents on the spot. And then run over and check with their mom at their waiting car and let them know, which they were usually fine with and only had one follow up question that was "Will you be eating dinner there, or what?" taking a long drag on her Virginia Slim. That was that. It's how we rolled.

Today, it seems like you have to pass muster in order for someone else's child to be allowed in your home. How many of you have invited one of your child's friends over and were instantly met with the "look" from the other parent. The parent who doesn't know you very well except in passing. The "look" that finally evolves into the uttered phrase "weeeelllll...howz about he/she comes to OUR house?!" and at first you're like "great!" because you're thinking of all the things you can do with your free time while your kids are with someone else until it smacks you in the head that you've just been judged and summarily dismissed. So then you might say something like "Weeellll...that's probably best because now I can tackle cleaning up the meth lab it's getting a little funky".

What was it that brought us to this? Is it the media? Were too many of us latch-key kids? Was it all of those Saturday morning cartoons? Too many Looney Tunes with the smoking, alcohol, ether, and cross dressing that frightened us into over protectiveness and this obsession with schedules? That somehow everything and all things must be planned to the inth degree or else we just can't function? We Gen-Xers are lacking in spontaneity. I'm so bored with me.

Nothing Says Resurrection Like Eggs

May all of your stains be removed:

And may all of your eggs be found.

Happy Easter!

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Unexpected words I heard today:

"Mom, Andy* down the street just spray painted my elbow black"

My immediate thought:

"He didn't get my car did he?!"

*Real name [that belongs to the four year old little boy down the street who apparently got a hold of a can of spray paint from his garage, considered armed and dangerous] withheld.

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.


This weeks column is brought to you by Folgers and Excedrin. Not really.

Q: Karen at The Rocking Pony has a follow up to last weeks question: "You can't imagine how much I appreciate such words of wisdom (and the nod to go ahead and wring the neck) but I fear she won't live to change the attitude. So my question now would be, how do I stop myself before actually killing her?"

A: Karen, I'm going to tell you what my own mother told me, and presumably what my grandmother told her. Which, as you will quickly realize when you read the following pearls of wisdom, was probably handed down in every home in the world that ever had a child in it. And that is: Tell her to her face and often that someday SHE WILL HAVE A SON AND/OR DAUGHTER JUST LIKE HER. Call it a curse, hex, voodoo, whatever; it WORKS. And no live chickens need to be sacrificed in order for it to stick. You will take comfort in knowing her fate. And that alone will prevent you from killing her because this is something you will want to witness in the future.

Q: Allie at As You Wish would like to know: "How do you get rid of bags under your eyes? I have had them now for years and they won't go away (not that I've tried anything, but still). Besides covering them in makeup do you have any tips?"

A: I'm going to go out on a limb here but I would say that you should probably try something. And what you try depends on the source of the puffiness. If it is insufficient sleep and/or dehydration I'd advise some nap time and additional water. In light of recent news I recommend TAP. I hear it has traces of pharmaceuticals in it and who knows? It may contain a remedy for what ails you! Steer clear of the Viagra water, however. You're looking for a decrease in swelling.

The following is unsolicited advice to any retail establishment Target that sells, or shoe manufacturer Exhilaration that creates HIGH HEELS for CHILDREN. Stop it! Cease and desist! In my quest to purchase some spring sandals for my daughter, I was met with an impressive inventory of heels. Three of which are pictured below. I thought long and hard and I will tell you what; I cannot come up with any conceivable reason that a four year old would need such an item. I admit she has some large feet since she's a freakishly tall girl who can rock a size 12, but that doesn't explain the size 6, 7, 8, and so on. Don't you think that toddlers have a hard enough time in flats? My daughter is not a Bratz Doll and I don't intend to start dressing her like one. Not until she's at least twelve.