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.


At the mere mention urging from several commenter's, I'm starting a weekly advice column. Without further ado...

~Fashion and Beauty~

Q: Burgh Baby's Mom would like to know if "Matching mom and daughter pajamas. Supa-cute or supa-dork?"

A: I say, it depends. Same patterns and fabric are okay but I would go with different styles (i.e. cami and bottoms for Mom, footsies and long sleeves for baby). This only works if the child is under the age of 10. And if you're both adults just stop it. I would really hate to see you end up on a talk show where your children accuse you of not dressing your age. And this just has to be said; grown ups never wear princess themed anything. Unless you are an offical princess of a legitimate country and that themed thing is a crown.

Q: Burgh Baby's Mom would also like to know "What color eye shadow is best for blue eyes?"

A: Browns, taupes, and golds. Sometimes pinks but that's kinda risky. You could be mistaken for a 12 year old. And always black mascara. That goes for any eye color.

~Health and Fitness (file under: nutrition)~

This advice applies no matter who you are: Don't let this happen to you:


And Diet Pepsi is never a justification for what just happened there. I'm not saying it happened to me but I'm not saying it didn't either. Also? Someone needs to introduce her desperate grout to some needy, clingy bleach.

Bird Spelled Backwards is Drib

The bird. His name is Drib.

The nest. Wouldn't be my first choice but very "green", which is so in right now.

That bird that was trying to get in my bathroom window because, I believed, he wanted to eat me, slap flap me, do extreme bodily harm? Well, he lives here. Yeah. Rude huh? Didn't even ask. Doesn't even pay rent. And, between you and me, I don't think he went to college or has a decent paying job. Of course, I would be guessing. He's gone and fashioned himself herself? [for the sake of this post Drib will be referred to as a "he" because I have not done a genital check on the bird - oh, and get this: I totally caught some pigeon on pigeon action in my backyard. They were totally doing it. In the daylight.] a mud nest under the eaves of my roof just outside the bathroom window. Or as they say in the real estate world: Location, Location, LOCATION! Drib is an early riser and is quite noisy about it. Fortunately for him he hasn't thrown any wild late night parties yet, so he can stay. For now. I'm still trying to figure out what kind of bird he is. The possibilities are Nuthatch, Swallow, Finch, or Robin. I'm leaning heavily towards Robin. [Drib is blue as in "color" not as in "melancholy"] Eliminated possibilities: Crow, Buzzard, Duck, nor the Blue tailed or Longtailed Tit. It's not a Blue-Footed Boobie or any other kind of Boobie, for that matter. And definitely not a Penguin. I'm not so scared of him anymore and as a matter of fact he's quite friendly. He goes all "voyeur" during our morning rituals, and we're all like, "Hi Birdie!" and he answers with some quick head twists :left eye! right eye! left eye! right eye!: then he'll fly away to his other favorite spot; the wall at the edge of my yard to get those heart palpitations under control because the humans spoke to him. But quicker than you can say ROAST SQUAB! He's back. And we're all, "there's that crazy bird". And he darts left and right - I'm over here. Now I'm here. Now I'm there. I'm over here. Here. There. Here. There.- He's there all day. Bumping, knocking, and pecking. He's destroying my window. It's like Shitfest '08. So, I took a picture of him and totally crossed the line. He's not a picture taking kind of bird. He was not amused.

Open Letter to Very Important People

Dear Fellow Parents of the Morning Drop-off,

Good morning. How are you today? I know how you are. You are rushed. I understand how inconvenient it is to pull all the way forward through the car line to keep things moving in an orderly fashion. This organized procedure interferes with your need to make an illegal u-turn in the middle of the road. You are obviously kind of a big deal because following procedure would mean that you might have to wait for the crossing guard to get the children safely across the street, making the army of cars...gasp!...wait. And very important people like you do not have time to wait for things like children. I know that once your own children are safely inside the school the rest of us can go to hell. I also understand how embarrassing it is when the execution of your u-turn fails, resulting in a shameful 3 point turn. It's so frustrating using up those additional 6 seconds. So the tire screeching was completely warranted. That lady who honked at you doesn't know what she's talking about.

And then there is you, Mr. Zip Through the U-Shaped Drive Way and Cut in the Line at the First Sign of a Break. Please don't slow down even a little bit. It's obvious you have someplace to be right now. And don't let my SUV get in the way of your SUV. Your's is bigger; which is a phrase that I imagine you don't hear often, hence the need for such a ridiculously over sized vehicle.

And I'm not even kidding when I say to you, Mrs. Jaywalker, that walking to the corner to cross the street at a cross walk complete with a crossing guard is such a waste of time, when it is so obviously more time efficient to just cut between the cars in the middle of the street with all three of your children. And don't let your very urgent phone call distract you from the fact that the little girl in your charge has dropped her water bottle and is now in the middle of the road alone. I completely agree with your decision to take this opportunity to scold her. She should know that when jaywalking one does it quickly and swiftly. Clearly there is something wrong with her. How will you ever get her to learn?

Miss Lead Foot in the Mustang, remember the time you got tired of waiting and zipped around everyone into oncoming traffic? And you had to dart back in to avoid a head on collision? And that lady you cut in front of hit your right rear bumper with her Suburban? Remember how awesome it was when you got out and yelled at her and she had the nerve to smile? You were so angry. I never told you this because I didn't want to hurt your feelings, but we took her out for pancakes and tequila shots after. We might have given her a trophy; the memory is a little fuzzy. Details.

No, I haven't forgotten about you, Mr. and Mrs. Park Directly Under the No Parking Sign. I didn't realize that these traffic violations do not apply to you. I admit that I haven't parked there and taken the time to read the fine print at the bottom of the sign that excludes you from its ominous warning. That would be my bad. Don't even sweat it even a tiny bit that your parked cars now make a two way street an absolute impossibility. Please don't be bothered that we have to take turns pulling as far to the side as possible to let others pass. This is not your problem and we don't want to be a burden. I have to admit that I would only be guessing that there is an emergency somewhere with your name on it that makes your morning far more important and pressing than the rest of us. I sincerely hope that the sense of urgency that surrounds your day subsides.

Yours Truly,

Tootsie Farklepants

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #5

Alternate title: All Of This So I Can Show You My Laundry

It's true. I do take my own pictures from time to time. I don't rely solely on my sister. Although, she is WAY more talented. There is a reason that I haven't been using any of my own. At least those that aren't already on my computer [I'll explain in a bit]. Saturday I was cleaning house and doing this little thing called laundry. I noticed that the upstairs of my house had become one giant laundry room. Anywhere a hanger could be hung to let clothes air-dry was occupied. This is what happens when 99% of your family's wardrobe comes from Old Navy. Their stuff shrinks. But only the girl stuff not the boy stuff. Yeah. I don't know why either. In Tootsie's next house, she wants an actual laundry ROOM and not a closet that houses her washer and dryer, amen. [Yes, these are the 'whites' and the 'pinks' and they're hung by color as well which makes zero sense once they've been through the wash. I have a bit of an OCD thing going on with laundry sorting and ohmygoodness don't get me started on delicates, temperatures, and Tide with bleach. I have issues] Does this happen to you? If you answered "yes" then we should totally go to rehab together for a two-fer.




Oh, right. About those pictures. A few months ago, before my laptop died (may she rest in peace), I was quite savvy when it came to uploading pictures after my little sister taught me. On the upstairs PC? Not so much. So I finally sucked it up and asked Mr. Farklepants to give me a brief tutorial. Just so you understand, this is the man who built this computer from scratch; not ordered it in its entirety and hooked it all together. I repeat, from scratch. This is like asking Tiger Woods to teach you how to tie your golf shoe (cleat? whatever.). Yeah, he's kind of a computer genius I will give him that much. Good student that I am; I took notes. "It would be a lot better if you just understood what it is that you're doing instead of referring to notes" he says. Let me explain: Mr. Farklepants and I are different kinds of "learners". I have to actually write it, and then when I put it into practice I can "see" my notes in my head. [Right now some of you are like, OHMAHGAWD! Me TOO! I totally would have failed biology if it weren't for that highly effective method! ] Mr. F just knows how to do stuff. [If you identify with the latter, then bully for you and MENSA.] I hate love that about him. "While we're at it, can you show me how to use the scanner?" I say while looking sideways at him. "You want to use the scanner?". "Yes". "That's going to...well...what do you want to scan?". "My notes". He's very puzzled. "Why?". "Because I'm totally blogging this".


Please excuse the very sloppy writing because he was talking really fast with surprisingly very little eye rolling and sucking of the breath through teeth at my incredible lameness.

Brief Oscar Timeline

Tootsie goes to watches the Oscars:

- Red carpet arrival. Tootsie mocks many frocks. She admires few.

- George Clooney arrives. Tootsie tells family to STFU.

- Awards officially start. Tootsie enjoys shrimp cocktail.

- During recaps of past Oscar ceremonies Tootsie spies Fred Astaire. Looks to her mother for confirmation and receives it in the form of inconsolable weeping. Definitely Fred Astaire.

- Marion Cotillard wins best actress. Tootsie notes that when if she ever wins she will not do it dressed as a mermaid.

- Hillary Swank announces In Memoriam segment and Tootsie is in tears before "memoriam" leaves her mouth. All women in room are sobbing.

- We are mocked by men in the room. Tootsie then feels bad for mocking the size of Hillary Swank's teeth.

- Tootsie notices that the bulk of Oscar winners speak with an accent.

- Tootsie doesn't understand what Javier Bardem said. But she thinks it was bueno.

- Tootsie also has difficulty understanding Irish accents.
- And French.
- And Austrian.

- Tootsie wants to hump Jon Stewart for letting Marketa Irglova return to the stage to give her acceptance speech for best song.

- Pizza arrives. Tootsie has a red velvet homemade cupcake in lieu of pizza.

- Tootsie helps herself to a chocolate cupcake as well.

- During recap of past Best Picture winners Tootsie notes that the 70's was THE decade for great movies.

- Tilda Swinton stuns Tootsie with Best Supporting Actress win.

- The Cohen brothers can't be beat.

The end.

It's Like We're All Having Our Period Together

Vintage Thirty reached a milestone on Friday. It was her first day with over a hundred visitors! This was so unexpected that I started trying to figure out where I'd been linked to garner such attention. But I'm still left scratching my head. Now I know there are some of you out there right now going, "Ahahaha...ahh yes. I remember my first 100 visit day. Isn't Tootsie cute? She's excited." And those same "you" would wonder if half of the world had fallen into a ditch if you'd only received 100 visits. You'd be all, "How did I not hear of this half of the world falling into a ditch thing? When? Where? What happened? I hope it didn't happen during rush hour because then it could have been much worse!" and you'd be frantically tuning in to CNN for an update from Wolf Blitzer [and just what the crap kind of name is that anyway? It sounds like Santa's reindeer that no one talks about; you know, like the 5th Beatle].

I LOVE to write. I've written screenplays and entered them in competitions. They didn't win but they did advance. I've written children's stories and started a novel. I've also written other blogs and journals. But until I get optioned or published. Hell, until I get PAID, writing is just a hobby. So I blog. And it's really helped me make with the words. I do most of my blog writing in the afternoon or at night and save it to post the following morning. Why? Well, first of all I like to put up something fresh for you very special peeps first thing in the morning. If you've taken the time out of your busy schedule to come over here and read what I have to say then I like to accommodate. I'm like the New York Times that way [I also sometimes sit on a story]. And also? I'm not that creative before I've had at least 2 cups of coffee and really all that does is get me through not killing part or all of my family before I deliver some kids to school. I'm considering therapy so stop looking at me like that. Yes you too. Another thing I do is check in on some of my favorite blogs late at night before I hit the sheets just to see if anything has been updated. You know what I often find? That one of you will have an entry with a similar theme to that of which I was planning on posting in the dawn hours [this excludes any memes]. So there I am in a bit of a pickle. Do I go ahead and post as planned? Or do I save it for a rainy day? And just so I don't leave you reeling from curiosity, I'll tell ya: I've done both. I find it fascinating that there is much we have in common. I know most of us are parents to human children and it's not such a stretch of the imagination to believe that we experience similar situations at nearly precisely the same moment, but it is interesting nonetheless. And I want to say THANK YOU! Thank you for visiting and making me feel special!

The Answer To Her Question Is: No

So, I'm flipping though my Allure magazine and a reader writes in wanting to know if tinted moisturizer will provide enough coverage. The 'expert' answers that if it doesn't seem to then apply some concealer on the areas that need more coverage after applying the tinted moisturizer. And if this still isn't enough then play around with mixing a liquid foundation and facial moisturizer until the shade and coverage works for you and make enough to keep in a bottle. This sounds like an awful lot of work and I've got two words for the reader: buy foundation.

Movie Meme Madness

Shall we play a game? I'm totally stealing this Movie Meme from my sister's friend, Nicole. Her LiveJournal is private so there is no point in linking it. Also, since she is a young college woman with an online journal who has made it private shows that she is wise and I like that in a person. MUCH.

RULES:
1. Pick fifteen of your favorite movies.
2. Go to IMDB and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them here for everyone to guess (that would be YOU, Reader).
4. Fill in the film title once it's guessed. (I will also credit and link the first person to guess correctly)
This part is for the reader (i.e. YOU!)
5. No Googling or using IMDB search functions. (Don't be Cheaty McCheater-Face)
6. Leave your answer(s) in the comments.

Which movies made this sound:

1) "Well, I don't want Fop, goddamn it! I'm a Dapper Dan man!" Oh Brother Where Art Thou winner: The Madame Queen

2) "Son, you got a panty on your head." Raising Arizona winner: The Madame Queen

3) "Now you listen to me, you smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch. Let me lay it on the line for you and your boss, whoever he is: Johnny Fontane will never get that movie. I don't care how many dago guinea wop greaseball goombahs come out of the woodwork!" The Godfather winner: As You Wish

4) "Watch your mouth kid, or you're gonna find yourself floating home. We'll be safe enough once we make the jump to hyperspace. Besides, I know a few maneuvers. We'll lose em'!" Star Wars
winner: The Madame Queen

5) "No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how." Gone With The Wind winner: The Madame Queen

6) "Tell you what... truth is, sometimes I miss you so bad I can hardly stand it..." Brokeback Mountain winner: Jennifer at Thursday Drive

7) "You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? You've beaten my giant, which means you're exceptionally strong, so you could've put the poison in your own goblet, trusting on your strength to save you, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. But, you've also bested my Spaniard, which means you must have studied, and in studying you must have learned that man is mortal, so you would have put the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of me. " The Princess Bride winner: The Madame Queen

8) "So that was Mrs. Lundegaard on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And those three people in Brainerd. And for what? For a little bit of money. There's more to life than a little money, you know. Don't you know that? And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day. Well, I just don't understand it. " Fargo winner: The Madame Queen

9) "No! No! No! It's not supposed to happen this way! I'm supposed to go first. I've always been ready to go first! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I just wanna *hit* somebody 'til they feel as bad as I do! I just wanna *hit* something! I wanna *hit it hard*!" Steel Magnolias winner: The Madame Queen

10) "Yeah, we cool. Two things. Don't tell nobody about this. This shit is between me, you, and Mr. Soon-To-Be-Living-The-Rest-of-His-Short-Ass-Life-In-Agonizing-Pain Rapist here. It ain't nobody else's business. Two: you leave town tonight, right now. And when you're gone, you stay gone, or you be gone. You lost all your L.A. privileges. Deal?" Pulp Fiction winner: The Madame Queen

11) "When I was in China on the All-American Ping Pong team, I just loved playing ping-pong with my Flexolite ping pong paddle" Forrest Gump winner: The Madame Queen

12) "Woman... woe-man... whoooa-man. She was a thief, you gotta believe, she stole my heart and my cat. Betty, Judy, Josie and those hot Pussycats... they make me horny, Saturday morny... girls of cartoo-ins will leave me in ruins... I want to to be Betty's Barney. Hey Jane... get me off this crazy thing... called love." So I Married an Axe Murderer winner: Maremone at The Young Bostons

13) "I'm very sorry the government taxes their tips, that's fucked up. That ain't my fault. It would seem to me that waitresses are one of the many groups the government fucks in the ass on a regular basis. Look, if you ask me to sign something that says the government shouldn't do that, I'll sign it, put it to a vote, I'll vote for it, but what I won't do is play ball. And as for this non-college bullshit I got two words for that: learn to fuckin' type, 'cause if you're expecting me to help out with the rent you're in for a big fuckin' surprise." Reservoir Dogs winner: Ya..About That...

14) "You think you can catch Keyser Soze? You think a guy like that comes this close to getting caught, and sticks his head out? If he comes up for anything it'll be to get rid of me. After that... my guess is you'll never hear from him again." The Usual Suspects winner: The Madame Queen

15) "Janie, today I quit my job. And then I told my boss to go fuck himself, and then I blackmailed him for almost sixty thousand dollars. Pass the asparagus." American Beauty winner: The Madame Queen

You're welcome to tag your ownself with this meme! I warn you...it's a time suck. But a fun one!

My Weekend Has A First Name, It's O-S-C-A-R

It's almost time for the Academy Awards people. And if you're anything like me, this is kind of a big deal. Why? I. Don't. Know. It just is. So make your preparations: drinks, snacks in brightly covered packages, various appetizers, Vera Wang and Chanel. Gear up for the red carpet arrival and by all means turn the channel if that asshole Joan Rivers rears her plastic corpse head. And her stupid daughter too [if I were a celebrity I would totally snub her at all functions I don't know why anyone bothers saying boo to her I mean for the love of GOD!] And get in on an Oscar pool and make your predictions [more on that to follow]. But first? An announcement: Melissa at Hope for the Hopeless gave me this groovy Cool Cat Award! I'm totally a dog person but cool cats are a different breed! I mean, for real.

And now I'm passing this on to some very cool people even though at least one of these cool cats has a very stinky dog: Burgh Baby's Mom, Melanie at Beanpaste, The Madame Queen, The Mom Bomb, and Suburbancorrespondent. This is far from the only cool cats, it's just that Tootsie can only do so much linking for one day.

On to other matters: The following are my Academy Awards winner predictions, and by predictions I mean fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants guesses because I've only seen one of the movies nominated for anything worth winning, and I predict that that one particular movie Michael Clayton will win exactly zero awards. I'm only doing the "big" categories because, I mean come on, WHO has seen any of the nominations for Live Action or Animated Short? Not me, that's who. And if you plan on using my predictions to help in your own pool? Let me just go on record as saying that's probably not a wise choice. I predict the following will have acceptance speeches prepared even if they claim the contrary:

Best Movie: No Country For Old Men
Best Actor: Daniel Day-Lewis
Best Actress: Marion Cotillard
Best Supporting Actress: Saoirse Ronan
Best Supporting Actor: Javier Bardem
Best Director: “No Country for Old Men” Joel Coen and Ethan Coen

I'd also like to go on record as saying that I'd like to be this lucky woman in the worst possible way on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday Sunday:

Loose Ends Tied

Look over there to your right. Scroll down a little. That's it! I've finally updated my blogroll with the places I visit daily and those who come by here. If you find yourself suspiciously absent and would like to be added, please leave a comment or (if you're the shy type) email me through my profile.

**edited to add: If I've listed you and you want a change to be made, let me know.

Pride In The Name Of Love

Boy-Child#1's guitar skillz are most excellent. His instructor is so impressed that he's given Boy-Child#1 his first solo to learn. How did you know it is Stairway to Heaven? Wow. You blow me away! Digress with me. Right this way...watch that step. Boy-Child#1 is one of my favorite people. I know, I know. He's my son and one's children are their favorite people. He just consistently amazes me. He's creative on an artistic level beyond his years that even I can't grasp. [Like in the movie Defending Your Life and Albert Brooks character says "Where were you? I'm just curious." and Rip Torn says "I'd tell you, but you wouldn't understand." then Albert Brooks says "Don't treat me like a moron. Try me." so Rip Torn says "I was trapped near the inner circle of thought." to which Brooks replies "I don't understand."...it's like that] He's wise like someone who's been around the block a few times and yet incredibly innocent all at once. He has hopes for the future and real ideas to better that future; where I've become so jaded and cynical. I recall learning in my psychology 101 class that adolescents have difficulty grasping the abstract. He is the exception to that rule. He's made abstract his bitch. He's socially aware. He's politically correct - and frankly, I don't feel it is because he's been taught that - I think he was born that way. He roots for the underdog. He's environmentally conscious. He's incredibly caring, sweet, kind, and nice. He has an old soul. He's a born liberal. He voted for Obama. Well, in his class mock election he did. He asked countless questions about every political ad that ran during the primaries. He watches the news, y'all. He loathes war and senseless violence. [Except when it's against his own brother. All is fair in sibling rivalry] His love of animals runs deep. His sense of fairness is firmly in place. He doesn't see good and evil; he considers both sides of the coin. And I predict that he will grow up to be....Bono.

Rated PG-13 - For Some Mild Crude Humor

For those of you familiar with softball ratings, this brief tutorial will be unnecessary: Softball ratings are used to determine each individual child's skill and ability which allows for players to be evenly distributed among teams. This is so that all of the best players don't end up on one team and all of the...well, you get the idea. It's softball roundup season and Boy-Child#2 (along with every other boy in the valley) was in attendance. They were scheduled from 5-6:30pm and we arrived just about 5pm on the nose. The line was long but not awful. It was, however, moving at a snail's pace. No matter! I had the foresight to bundle us up because it was on the cold side, breezy, and foggy. WTF was with the fog? I'd made sure that everyone used the bathroom before we left so we were good to go. Or wait. Whatever. At 6:30 we finally reached the head of the line and retrieved Boy-Child#2's number and pinned it to his back. "Will he be playing with his jacket on?". "No" I answered. We'll have no inhibiting of the skills, thanks. "Then he'll have to remove it so that I can pin this to his shirt". So we do that and we're told to "go over there and they'll call your name". Oh. They mean over there with a million people huddled in a disorganized fashion. Sweet. We found some friendly faces to chat with and wait. And wait. And wait. And....wait for it...wait some more. You know when you wait too long for something and then you start to doubt that you're actually doing what you're supposed to be doing because it's taking too long for it to be the right thing to do? We did that. So I took one for the team and approached another group of friendlies and asked if we were supposed to have the boys in some designated place or where we supposed to just hang back. "Have they been put in a group yet?". "Group? I don't think so". "They'll put them in a group." "Oh." So I go back to the sign up table and ask about this "group" thing that everyone else seems to be hip too and they tell me to just wait and his name will be called. So I came back to our little area bringing exactly zero useful information. They took a vote and ruled that I was stupid then demoted me to team mascot. It was right around this time that Boy-Child#2 mentioned that he might have to use the bathroom. And then there you are on the heels of a dilemma. You know the one I'm talking about. We've been standing there waiting f-o-r-e-v-e-r and you know the second you leave to make use of the facilities is when they'll call your name. And you're absent. So I suggest we wait a bit on that - just in case. Of course, now you can guess that we did some more of that waiting thing. By now it's almost 7pm and with the cold, the fog, the crowds, the wind, and the kid who needs to pee; I'm thinking that if you threw in some rain and a tunnel I could declare it Hell. They FINALLY call his name! And put him in a group! And then they waited. And waited. Boy-Child#2 did the pee-pee dance. And he really can't go now because he's next. Someday. Eventually. And I'm feeling like the worst mother in the world for making him hold it. The guilt is setting in and I'm fretting that he won't perform well because of the whole having to pee thing (and I was worrying about his jacket being a factor?). Then the kid behind him decides that he's going to play keep away with Boy-Child#2's glove. So I march over there and say "I think you should give that back to him, like right now". I said it much meaner than I'd meant too and I'm now hoping that he won't be on our team. I also open my mouth with the intent to ask my son if he wants to just go to the bathroom; and then closed my mouth quickly. You can't just go ask a boy in front of all those other boys if he has to go pee-pee! For the love of GOD woman! I came this close to opening up a giant can of humiliation on my boy. So now I'm just standing there. And I'm all awkward because I'm trying to send messages telepathically and he's not receiving. He finally had his moment and did quite well despite his obvious (and I do mean obvious) handicap. He hit, pitched, caught, and threw all without pissing himself. Next year? I'm planning on showing up at 7pm. I mean. For real.

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #4

I LOVED giving birth! I loved it so much that "love" is pronounced LUUUURVE. I LURVED giving birth! And that's not the epidural talking because I did the last two without that bastard. Once was enough and never again shall a needle meet between the disks in my spine. Amen. I enjoyed everything about labor and delivery. I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon. I mean, you get a baby at the end! And you get to keep it! When the nurse showed me the pain scale chart that starts with the happy face and ends with a terrible grimace face and asked me where I fell in that range, I was all, "Where are the rainbows and lollipops because that's where I'm at sister!". And she was like, "There is something wrong with you. For serious." I had easy birthing experiences. "Piece of cake" is an accurate description. I'm sorry. You can hate me. My sister in law broke her fucking tail bone during delivery and she still refers to me as "Bitch", so I can take it. What I didn't love, or even like much for that matter, was being pregnant. And it wasn't really because of all the sundry discomforts listed in the picture above [which is admittedly grossly incomplete...can I get a hemorrhoid up in here? Insomnia? Where for art thou crippling sciatic nerve pain?]. I didn't appreciate the changes in my body. I loathed the weight gain. Mostly, I resented the nine month restriction on things I enjoy. It seemed I was pregnant for everything. Bridesmaid in two weddings? Pregnant. Buy bigger dresses. Have them altered. Swollen feet and no drink for you! High school reunion? You look so HUGE! Swollen feet. Tired. No drink. Go home. Vacation with friends? No jacuzzi. Heartburn. Hike to the waterfalls? Go without me. Mai Tai? Screw you. Weekend at the lake jet skiing? I get to watch. Coffee? In moderation. Christmas party. Dance? Are you kidding? Have you seen my girth? I'd wipe out half the floor before passing out from exhaustion. "Tootise, remember when we went to that place and did that stuff with the thing?" "uh-huh" - "Oh that's right. You were pregnant for that weren't you?". "Yes". "It seemed like you were always pregnant!". "Yes, yes it did.". IT JUST SUCKED. And the clothes weren't even cute then. I hate it when my wardrobe selection is curtailed. It makes me cranky.

First Annual President's Day Guitar Hero Face-Off

Nothing says President's Day like ZZ Top's La Grange.

First up: Brother v. Brother

They were fierce, y'all. But Boy-Child#1 proved victorious and frankly, unbeatable.

Next up: Sister v. Sister

Younger sister is bored? concentrating very hard. Also note that the Guitar Hero controller provides generous support for ample bosom. Please try this at home. In other observations: yes that is a real guitar and amps in the background. The Farklepants home is also known as Phi Beta Sigma. Absent? The beer bong.

Also absent? The wedding ring. It interferes with the rock star image. Speaking of rock star image:

The groupie effect took hold. I don't even want to discuss what is going on between the My Little Pony and the pink doll on the table. I mean, get a room people. Think of the children! Things just got a little out of control.

*all photos by Dorothy Z. or at the very least, from her camera*

I Spy With My Little Eye

Girl-Child made an observation yesterday that I really wished she'd kept to herself. We stood in line at the grocery store behind a woman who, I would guess, was close to fifty. Or, she just spent a way too much time sun worshiping in her lifetime. [note to self: remain out of the sun. You're doin' great! Keep it up! That could be YOU!] Her wardrobe selection, however, was hardly pushing twenty. She wore skin tight skinny jeans with jewel embellished rear pockets. These were tucked into her furry knee high boots. A jeweled gold belt slung around her waist. A peppermint pink long sleeved shirt worn with a somewhat busy vest. Then there was, of course, the hat. It was sort of newsboyish. But not. I also would like to go on record as saying that any one of these items are fine. When worn on their own. It was all just too-much too much. I'm not even going to discuss the hair and makeup. It just doesn't matter. Girl-Child pipes up with, "That lady looks like Hannah Montana". I'm rendered totally speechless. She said it quite audibly and the woman definitely heard. [It wasn't like last week when she whispered in a voice only dogs could hear, asking me if the very flamboyant gentleman who rang up my purchases in the beauty supply store was a 'girl' or a 'boy'.] So I'm standing there trying to figure out how to answer my daughter. And my hesitation only prompted her to repeat herself. "Mommy? Did you hear me? THAT LADY LOOKS LIKE HANNAH MONTANA!". To Girl-Child, this is a compliment. To a fifty year old woman who may not have been striving for that look, it's probably not. I answered the only way one can in that situation. A faint and disinterested "mmmhmmm..."

Auction Ends Monday at 3:30pm

Real life conversation from the Farklepants marital bedroom:

Upon noticing the unmade bed...
Mr. Farklepants: You didn't make the bed today.
Tootsie: I don't know why you keep me around, really.
Mr. Farklepants: I'm just waiting for the bidding to end on eBay.
Tootsie: Is your description of me accurate?
Mr. Farklepants: Yes.
Tootsie: Tall, blonde who occasionally shaves her legs and sometimes makes the bed?
Mr. Farklepants: Too honest?
Tootsie: It could explain the lack of takers.

One Flung Poo

You're all: "What's with that title?". And I'm all: "Why the confusion, young Grasshopper?". And then you're like: "Now you're talking like a Kung Fu master! You're being totally weird!". And I'm like: "Woof!". And you're all: "That's so random!".

Jennifer H at Thursday Drive and Anna at Honeywine are both curious to know 7 random or weird things about me and tagged me with the following meme. I'm not adding them together and doing 14. No. It is the proverbial two birds, one stone thingamabob. First the rules and then the random weirdness:

The rules are as follows:
# Link to the person who tagged you
# Post the rules on your blog.
# Share seven random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog.
# Tag seven random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
# Leave a comment on their blogs so that they know they have been tagged.

1. *Disclaimer: If you're a man and reading this you may want to avert your eyes to prevent bleeding eye wounds - you were warned* I get my period on holidays. Nine times out of ten my special friend wants to celebrate with me. Fourth of July, Valentine's Day (yeah, hi! That's right), Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Flag Day. You name it. And either Christmas or New Years but only because they're a week apart so it's never both. But definitely one of the two.

2. A comment that I left on a Glamour Magazine blog was published in last months edition (with Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey on the cover). I discovered this while reading the issue on the plane during our trip back east. They used my TOOTSIEFARKLEPANTS handle and it was in regards to cleavage in the workplace. And for the record: I'm against it. There's a time and a place for it people. If you want to be taken seriously in business, keep the girls in the shirt.

3. At my 6th grade graduation I was presented with the Friendship Award. The entire 6th grade voted and one boy and one girl were selected. This award was akin to being most popular and I was certain my best friend Wendy would get it. So was she. And it pretty much ended our friendship. Somewhere in my mother's photo albums lurks a picture of my acceptance at the podium and Wendy glaring at me from the risers. Sour grapes = find new best friend in junior high school.

4. I had the chicken pox when I was 13 years old. Why yes, it was pure hell, thanks for asking. I lived in an apartment building and was the resident babysitter so I was exposed to all the infants, tots, and small children who were little petri dishes of infection. My mother was mostly sure that I had already had it when I was two. She was mistaken. I've never, to this day, been as sick as I was then. I missed 3 weeks of school, lost 20 pounds, and became addicted to Benadryl. I also looked like a monster. There was not one centimeter on my body that didn't have a blister. When I say it was everywhere, please, feel free to use your imagination.

5. I've only broken one bone my whole life. My right pinkie finger. Twice. There's not even a good story behind it. I'm so ashamed. The first episode happened while walking home from elementary school when I tripped and fell. In my attempt to hang on to my belongings, I landed on my pinkie. The second time I was doing a cartwheel. In my friend's living room. Obviously, I did it wrong.

6. For one of my teen birthdays I received a set of satin sheets. I also received a pair of satin pajamas. Let's just say that the two together prevent you from getting into bed. I discovered this when eagerly jumping into bed that night...and sliding out the other side.

7. I've moved a total of 18 times in my entire life. Sometimes from one unit to another in the same apartment building. All within a 50 mile radius of my birthplace. My current home is the longest I've ever lived in one place.

Next on the Random It List -and noticing that I really need to update my blogroll:

The Mom Bomb
Bad Mom
Hope for the Hopeless
A Mom Two Boys
Never A Dull Moment
Don Mills Diva
As You Wish

She Will Self Destruct In 3, 2, 1...

Why is it when your child has a project due in the morning that he put off until the last minute unbeknownst to me that your computer takes this exact moment to...how do I put this delicately...take a giant shit? "Mom? The computer is acting weird" are very bad words to be strung together like that. So you send him downstairs to complete his other homework assignments while you spend the time you were supposed to be using to clean up the dinner dishes, put the laundry away, and give the other children baths fix dinner for the husband who got home late; doing assisting your son with the typing portion of his project? And he's right. The computer is acting weird. It's being suspiciously slow. And the project that was due in the morning? The teacher doesn't collect? GAWD! It's like she knew.

With one weeks notice to obtain a biography about a hero - in this case, Abraham Lincoln- for Boy-Child's 2nd grade class project; why am I at Barnes and Noble at 7pm the night before it's due? I'm clearly not cut out for well planned assignments. Procrastination be thy name.

When a certain sixth grader who shall remain nameless decides at the last minute that "Yeah, I guess I'll pass out valentines in class, whatever", his options are Shrek, Spiderman, and Strawberry Shortcake. All of which are decidedly not cool when you're eleven. And also a boy. He gets sports themed tattoo cards. It's the best I could do. Next year? Nipple piercings.

Why do children get ear infections on the weekend? And why - when you put off the trip to the urgent care because you fear a long wait on said weekend - when you go on the weekday morning...there is a 3 HOUR WAIT? Which prompts you to go to another facility on the opposite side of town that doesn't accept your insurance but you're willing to shell out the cash to save your sanity, but not before you suppress the urge to holler out to the room full of people that "half of you have colds the other half of you have the flu, neither of which a doctor can do anything about so go home and suck it up ya big bunch of babies!". *It helps too if you say that in a John Wayne voice*

Why does my youngest son have a hole or the beginnings of one in each pair of his jeans? All of them purchased in December? And I can own one pair of jeans for 3 years and experience nothing more than slight shrinking fading? I'm only somewhat comforted by the fact that mine cost three times as much as his. Only somewhat.

Love Is In The Air

Karen at The Rocking Pony was feeling a little sweet on me my blog and slipped this valentine in my locker after school. I knew it was from her. I could tell by the writing. And I could smell her perfume.

And because it's Valentines Day Eve, I brought enough for the whole class. So if you're reading this, go ahead and take one for yourself and post it on your blog. Compliments of Tootsie Farklepants at Vintage Thirty! Spreader of Love. Happy Valentines Day!

Nothing Says 'Romance' Quite Like Flannel

In honor of Valentine's Day I have to put a stop to something that is attempting to make its name synonymous with romance just like the Vermont Teddy Bear. I don't know a single grown woman that wants a teddy bear. Period. Unless that bear is wearing diamond earrings DON'T BOTHER! This new horror that says "THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT": The Pajama Gram. In case you aren't familiar, it's pajamas (as the name indicates) and it comes in a hatbox along with a lavender sachet and a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. This is from their Sexy & Flirty line:

Are you serious? I'd wear this in front of my kids on Christmas morning. This is not sexy and flirty. This is comfy. I mentioned that it comes with the hatbox and sachet - who needs a hatbox and what about a hatbox says 'be mine'? It isn't like it's the 1950's and a woman might have a real need for such storage. What woman is sitting around praying that her husband or significant other will come home Thursday night bearing a hatbox? And what is the purpose of the 'do not disturb' sign? Who is that message for? The maid service that may come down your hallway, at home? The kids, so that you have to explain it to them? Or if they already know what it means then it just gave them another topic for their next therapy session? Ghosts? What is risque about an adult hanging that sign from their own bedroom doorknob? If this Pajama Gram shows up at my door it better be delivered by a totally hot divorce lawyer.

I Must Confess...It's Tuesday #3

~The goggles and the helmet are so fetching, no?

When I was 23, and childless, I went skydiving. Why yes. Once upon a time I was stupid extreme! I was much more willing to engage in risky behavior pre-motherhood. That has since changed. I only went the once and that was quite enough, thanks. I did it just so I could say that I did. Now that I've said it, I guess it's paid off? And no, I did not yell "Geronimo" whilst exiting the plane. Unless "Geronimo" is pronounced: ohshitohshitohshitohshit! Which, I don't think it is. And that is what I said. Anyway, a funny thing happens when you're hurdling towards Earth from 12,500 feet at 100mph (or something. physics doth confuse me): The all encompassing fear that A) you could quite possibly be falling to your death and you're almost sure of it, and B) that the only thing that's going to keep you alive is a piece of nylon [probably made in China] and an instructor [who may or may not have been made in China] strapped to your back and you're still not really convinced that it will; this fear prevents you from realizing one crucial element in your skydiving experience. And that is you have no control over what happens to your flight suit once that ripcord is pulled. When the chute releases, the force nestles your suit firmly against your uterus. And you get this image captured for posterity:
(Yeah right! Like I'm going to put THAT picture on my blog! No. My fear is that it would become one of those Internet phenomena that sweeps through message boards and inboxes with captions like "Worlds Most Invasive Camel Toe" or "Where On Earth Has Her Zipper Gone?" or "Atomic Wedgie Gone Seriously Wrong" or simply, "Ouch", and while I'm all for some notoriety; "The woman whose fully clothed vagina can be accurately described in GREAT DETAIL!" isn't exactly the kind I would actively seek. I mean, I want ya all to know me I just don't want you to KNOW me, if you know what I mean.)

So, friends, if you're contemplating skydiving, remember: This catastrophe could be you. And consider this your only warning. Do not come back to me crying about your injured cervix; and that at a very tender and inopportune moment you discovered that your vagina has malfunctioned. And if you're a man? My condolences. All I can say is...RIP.

Excellent Shit

HRH at June Cleaver Nirvana thinks my blog is EXCELLENT and a "daily must read"! The proof is in the award, dude. I'm passing this bit of blog bling on to the following Bad Mama Jamas that I think are most excellent: Melanie at Beanpaste for her most excellent pictures and funny shit she writes. All Adither because she makes homemade donuts and battles height issues that make mine seem rather insignificant. Bossy because the world is just funnier with Bossy in it. Lulu at Lulu's Laundry because no one writes as humorously about shit they find in their attic. And last but certainly not least The Mom Bomb because she's considering hiring someone to pick up her dog shit and that's just fancy.

~~and for those keeping score that is (4) uses of the word "shit" in one pseudo paragraph. Thank you. Thank you very much~~

No Actual Cheerleaders Were Harmed In The Creation Of This Post

There's always that one child in the class. This one happens to be in Girl-Child's dance class. She's the child that doesn't actually take part in what is expected. She spends most of the hour spinning, doing combat maneuvers across the floor on her belly, drawing pictures in her hot breath on the mirror. Whatever. She's not my child and It's not my money being so obviously wasted. The problem is that it can be somewhat distracting to the other girls when the teacher has to redirect her; and to her credit she's pretty well trained at keeping the other girls on task while corralling the disinterested dancer. And MY daughter is bored? At the end of the class they get to do free dance with props (wands, tiara, hoola hoop, pom-pom) for the duration of one song. This time it was pom-poms. And this child is walking around whacking the other girls in the face with it. And it was fun for her, only. And she was no ametuer. She would wait until the teacher's back was turned and then BAM! Her mother's response? "She plays battle at home with her dad". Seriously. That's it. Not, "I'm sorry" or "I apologize", or "I'm so sorry". Just an excuse. If that were my child, not only would I be apologizing profusely to the other parents and children, but I would be removing said child from the classroom and taking this very perfect opportunity to teach her that you don't hit. Lord knows I shouldn't be talking about anyone's parenting skills because we all have our shortcomings. And sometimes kids are just gonna do what they're gonna do regardless of how many gold stars you have on your lapel; but this just screamed DIRECT CORRELATION! And this lack of ownership from the mother unleashed a rather unexpected, yet humorous reaction from the other parents: politeness. When one mother of a victim noticed her own little Suzy* throw up her arms in defense of the onslaught of purple and white making a beeline for her face, she says "Suzy* is just kinda funny about people touching her" [and she couldn't have said it in a nicer voice and I was stunned]. A father [who heretofore had been bragging in great detail about the vacation they'll be taking and the type of flooring they'll be laying down and "do you know we have some money? It's made out of money from the money trees in a little unknown country called Money, so it's very rare money, you know" - making me want to throw up in Girl-Child's dance bag] pipes up and says "oh, yeah. We play battle at home too." [Oh gosh! Ain't that precious? They play battle. He understands]. Me? I KNOCKED ON THE WINDOW TO GET GIRL-CHILD'S ATTENTION AND SAID IN A CLEAR VOICE, WITH PERFECT ENUNCIATION "JUST GET AWAY FROM HER!". Politeness can go suck it. That's my baby. And the mother who had reacted politely? Laughed. Let's face it. She wished she'd done the same.

*fake names to protect the very innocent survivors of the pom-pom onslaught.

My Life In Google Images

Lulu has one of those "tag your ownself" meme's going on over at her place. It was fun so I did! Tag myself that is. The rules for this meme are (and to quote Lulu herself): "to answer the questions below using only pictures found online (only the first page of results). So here goes…"

1. The age you will be on your next birthday. Dressed as an infant?

2. A place you’d like to visit. Just not anytime soon.

3. Your favorite place. My house. Although this is not my house. I wish it were.

4. Your favorite object. I spend so much time on it that it MUST be!

5. Your favorite food. I am fancy.

6. Your favorite animal. You should fear the llama's mad skilz.

7. Your favorite color. Also my favorite planet.

8. The city in which you were born. Apparently on a studio lot. Am I just a prop?

9. The town in which you live. I live in Postcard.

10. The name of your pet. No, no, not fetus. You're getting warmer!

11. The first name of your love. I'm horrified that this is one of my picture choices.

12. Your nickname/screen name. You can just call me Drag Queen, since we're close.

13. Your middle name. I don't give a damn 'bout my bad reputation.

14. Your last name. My last name is: Delicious.

15. A bad habit of yours. This needs no *$&#! commentary.

16. Your first job. Sucked large amounts of poop.

17. Your dream job. *sigh*

18. Your current job. I think that says it all.

19. A picture you find hilarious. I'm laughing now!

20. A picture that inspires you. In so many ways.

*all photos from Google images*

Riiiing! This is your 10:30am Freak-Out Call

When the phone rings and a recorded message from the principal of the elementary school informs you that: "Um? So, yeah. There are robbery suspects nearby? And the sheriff department has ordered a lock down on the school? For the safety of your children? And the vice principal and I are keeping a vigilant eye on the situation? We'll keep you informed? So, yeah, have a great day... we would like to thank Realty Executives for their generosity in making these recorded messages possible", it has a way of making you feel slightly unsettled. So you immediately lock your doors take a step outside to assess. There is a helicopter. Check. It is near the freeway. Check. The exact opposite direction of and nowhere near the school. Check. This is just a precautionary procedure and I can go take my shower. Check. Half and hour later, the call: "So, yeah, the sheriff has lifted the lock down? Your children are safe? We'd like to thank the sheriff department for their efforts in working with the school to protect our children? So, you can stop freaking out now? Sorry for ruining your morning... we would like to thank Realty Executives for their generosity in making these recorded messages possible". Did they by any chance mention that the suspects have been caught? Am I going to be ambushed when I leave my house? For some reason I was more unnerved by the second call.

Consistency: Key To Parenting - We're Failing Miserably

fod·der
n.
1. Feed for livestock, especially coarsely chopped hay or straw.
2. Raw material, as for artistic creation.
3. A consumable, often inferior item or resource that is in demand and usually abundant supply: romantic novels intended as fodder for the pulp fiction market.

It's true that anything can be used as material for my blog. Mr. Farklepants was home for all of 20 minutes when I retired to the computer upstairs and left him in charge of our minions. The following is what was heard from down below:

BANG! BANG! KERPLUK! BANG! BOUNCE!
Mr. Farklepants: (straight to yelling do not pass go do not collect $200) WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?
In unison:
Girl-Child: (enthusiastically!) Playing handball!!
Boy-Child#2: (assessing the situation) Playing handball?
Mr. Farklepants: (incredulous) WTH?! Stop it! You don't play handball in the house!

Tootsie: (upstairs and muttering to herself) No. No you don't play handball in the house. He's right on that. Never mind that you [Mr. Farklepants] were playing football in the house with them just days ago. I can't understand where'd they get an idea that indoors is good enough for any kind of ball.

Maybe They're With Those Missing Socks?

For the most part, I enjoy using Blogger. It is idiot user friendly and I am one that needs just such an attribute when it comes to technical things. I also realize that Blogger is considered somewhat amateur. Someday when I grow more capable up I will acquire and require a more mature host. In the meantime, I would really appreciate it if Blogger would stop sucking my pictures into some abyss. Often I will go back to a post for one reason or another and find a box where a picture once was. I know Blogger probably doesn't give a rat's fig about this. However, I do put a great deal of time and effort into uploading appropriate images to accompany my commentary. First there is the picture selection that takes forever time. Followed by the uploading and subsequent cutting and pasting into the appropriate line of the entry so that it all makes sense! Particularly when the blog post is ABOUT THE PICTURE! So, Blogger, if you stop doing this I will supress the urge to punch you in your stupid head. Thanks. Love, Tootsie.

Mean Girls Suck

Yesterday was once again that time of month. No. Not that time. Sheesh! It was my scheduled day to volunteer in Boy-Child#2's second grade class. GAWSH! Okay?! The major highlight of this event is that we get to spend lunch together. While Boy-Child#2 and I ate our lunches; one packed from home with all of his favorites and my $3 spread of a giant chicken nugget "burger", rubbery french fries, and questionable warm milk purchased from the school cafeteria, I could hear a situation escalating a couple of tables away. It was your typical "girl trying to establish her alpha status" routine. Where she, along with another girl (because it's always in pairs or packs) were grilling their lunch mate who clearly wasn't living up to their low standards. They fired a series of questions at her and no matter how she answered, they'd manipulate it until she answered correctly only to then ask about her contradiction. Since I'm not employed by the school and was only there to eat with my son after having volunteered in his class; I wasn't sure how to handle the situation. Do I get involved? Do I intervene? Do I contact Tina Fey? Because I'm not trained to do so and I will NOT handle it with diplomacy. I would lay the smack down on those bullies. So I alerted the lunch aide with the signal: stick hand in air wave it vigorously and point in the general direction of drama. It's a universal language. So she went to the table to handle the problem but not before I watched the victim, this little girl flee from the cafeteria, crocodile tears streaming behind the lunch box she used to shield her humiliation. My heart broke for her. Her day was ruined. And she probably woke up this morning with that feeling of dread washing over her when she suddenly realized she has to go to school. The kicker? They are first graders. It was like watching some after school special that was grossly miscast. The players were too small and the pain and angst too premature.