And Then She Peed on My Side of the Bed

Don't ask me what I did last Wednesday but I have an exceptional memory for recalling events from my youth. I impressed the hell out of my mother when I once described, as an adult, the exact floor plan of the duplex we lived in for the first couple of years of my life. Not only that but I remember precise details such as furniture arrangement and those cute little doors where the top portion opened independently of the bottom half and that my dresser drawers were built into my bedroom wall. That was the 1970's and it wasn't like it is now with digital cameras and unlimited photographs to piece together such recollections. There are precious few photos from that era. I just remember. I also remember when I was four years old my parents brought me along to the drive in to see a charming little movie called Bug were these cute little woodland creatures called mutant cockroaches were released from the Earth and started these adorable little things called fires. Like that one particularly cheeky roach that crawled in that lady's hair? Remember that one? And caught her on fire? Precious. Oh, I can joke about it now but for years I lived in fear that every bug that I ever encountered or imagined was going TO KILL ME.

I don't know how popular June Bugs are in your neighborhood but for those who aren't familiar, I'll explain: June Beetles, or Phyllophaga crinita [for you fancy Latin types and sexy Rhodes Scholars] are smallish, flying beetles that still exhibit prehistoric attributes such as their hard candy shell and dimwittedness. Their purpose in life seems to revolve solely around the attractiveness of a porch light, landing upside down; and after a series of convulsions, dying. What a fabulous and necessary creature! Ahem. So it wasn't long after seeing that movie that a screenless window was left open in the bedroom that my baby brother and I shared. I opened the door to find hundreds of these critters swarming the light fixture and I've been pretty much scarred ever since when it comes to all things bug.

When I was eleven I saw The Exorcist at a friend's house. I slept with my mother for two weeks and made her promise to wait until I fell asleep in my own bed for two weeks following that. Yes. I was eleven and sleeping with my mommy. It was The Exorcist. I don't really feel the need to justify anything, I think you'll agree?

Almost two weeks ago, the kids and I sat down one afternoon on one of those 114 degree days, and watched Beetle Juice. For the next week Girl-Child slept in our bed. And for the week following that has been an exercise in patience on our parts and SO MANY TEARS and FEARS on hers to sleep in her own bed because, she says "I don't like being with myself and the ghosts in my head". Translation: She doesn't like being alone and she's seeing ghosts. And I wonder if she'll remember just as vividly the first movie that scared the CRAP out of her. Because it certainly wasn't any of the other movies she's seen like Beowulf or any of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, or Harry Potter movies, or any of the Lord of the Rings trilogy - which, HELLO! Grendel? Captain Barbosa and his ghostly crew? Lord Voldemort? Smigel? Its scares meee's. - Damn you Tim Burton and your nightmares!

So Saturday night, naturally, I decided it would be alright if I took Boy-Child#1 along with me to see The Happening. Figuring if I was his age when I saw The Exorcist (EXORCIST!) then this? Not. Even. Close. Could I get "You couldn't have been more wrong" for $500, Alex? Sigh. Good grief. You all know that there's something wrong with me, right? Parenting: Trial and error. Lots of ERRORing going on HERE.

She's Posting Twice in One Day! Someone Stop Her!

Colleen of Wine Please presented me with the I Love You This Much award! Please go and check her out! She's funny as heck and lives in Virginia, which is where my brother lives, so that practically makes us sisters. Or state-inlaws. Or something. Whatever, she's a hoot! This award is timely too because there's some bad blog juju going around this weekend. If you're interested you can read about it here and also addressed here. That is all I'm going to allude to say about that because it makes me sad.


So, without further ado, I'm going to spread some much needed love to fellow Mommybloggers and/or Women Who Blog.

Holly at June Cleaver Nirvana because I'd really like to see this award in her fruit bowl.

Burgh Baby's Mom because I'm in love with her daughter, Alexis. And my daughter is in love with Alexis and would like to play with her if only she didn't live 2500 miles away. Makes for a difficult play date.

OHMommy over at Classy Chaos because, aside from the fact that I adore her and her blog, she was also the victim of some blog abuse this weekend. Go show her some love!

We should be fostering a community of INCLUSION and not exclusion. Grown ups shouldn't have a problem sharing the sandbox.

**updated to add the link to Classy Chaos because it's easier to visit that way**

We Pause for this Moment of Awwwww...

There is a six year and nine month age difference between Boy-Child#1 and Girl-Child. They rarely bicker. They will never attend the same school. They will never share the same friends [except all those crushes she will have on all the hot guys he'll bring home one day]. He is kind, patient, helpful, giving, protective, ...fill in positive attribute here... with his little sister. In return, she worships the ground he walks on. Not only does she think that he's the greatest thing that ever lived; she also thinks he's very comfortable. Big brothers make the best pillows.

Santa Barbara Revisited

"Boy-Child#2 didn't like the maraschino cherry from his drink AT ALL. Can you tell?" ~ Dorothy Z.

Not only am I snatching pics from my sister that she took of our trip to Santa Barbara, but I'm also stealing her quotes. I love this picture. Boy-Child#2 is a ham and is always mugging for the camera [I've seriously considered getting him into television and movies because he's a natural. He just doesn't take direction very well but maybe that's just from me]; but this photo catches him when no one is looking and the genuine expression on his face sent me straight to the floor laughing. It's like he just ate something that tasted like feet. Which, coincidentally, is the same face he made when he took his first bite of sushi.

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.


Thank God it's Friday. And it is. I just checked. Monday I thought it was Tuesday. Tuesday I thought it was Wednesday, and Wednesday I thought it was...nope! Not Thursday. Friday. So basically, I'm just lost. Because it's summer vacation and with the kids home I honestly wasn't sure what day of the week it was. And the date? All I can say is you should be glad that I use my debit card for everything and you aren't stuck in line behind me while I'm trying to fill out a check.


Ann from Velvet Lava sent a lovely email seeking my opinion on matching undergarments.

************************

Hi Tootsie -

Hope all is wonderful and whoopie cushions in your neck of woods, darlin'! I so love visiting your blog every darn day - it brightens my morning. Well, not that it needs much more brightenin' - what with the scorching Phoenix sun over here. Anywho! I have a question for your advice column! Woot! Here ya go:

Okay Toots, I have a friend who insists that all women should wear matching bras and panties every stinkin' solitary day! Who the Farkle has time for that and am I the only one who doesn't DO this? Or is Miss Matchypants in need of medication here? A bitch slap? WHAT?

That is all!

Air kisses,
Ann

***********************

It may rock my readers to their very core to learn, especially after my admission of dashboard adornments and last weeks marital advice; that when it comes to my bras and panties I'm more fashion practical that I am concerned with weather or not they match. For instance, if I'm wearing a white skirt and a black top, I choose my undergarments accordingly (nude undies and a black bra). In my opinion, it is more important that your unmentionables are virtually undetectable to passerby than the aesthetic pleasantness of color and fabric coordination. ALL THAT BEING SAID - It's a personal choice. While I do have time to do all that matching [and I DO make time especially in those situations where I know they'll be seen and in a heap on the floor in about .08 seconds] this becomes a costly practice. And it's not like I walk around looking like a schlub underneath. I keep things cute. Never underestimate the power of Lacy Little Nothings. Wear those and I dare you to ask him the color of your eyes AND your bra. He'll be all, You HAVE eyes? And what's a B-R-A?

I also have a friend that not only adheres to the same belief as your own friend; on special occasions she insists that her mani-pedi also coordinate with her underthings. And I've yet to meet one single male who notices or cares if your nails match your g-string and lace demi-cups. Although, my wedding anniversary is coming up. Perhaps a scientific study is in order. With graphs and copious photo evidence.

I should also note that if it simply makes you feel good to know that you're rockin' the Casbah underneath that business suit, then by all means, rock on.

There's Some Clogging in There. Get the Drano

I think I might have writer's block. Well, maybe not. I'm writing so it can't be that. I have creative writing block. There's just really nothing going on. Which is making it hard to post something and it's screwing up the way things run around here... and as a tutorial: How I Run My Blog in 3 Easy Steps:

1. Write as few as 2 to as many as 3 or 4 posts in one day and publish as needed.
2. Posts are either about witty observations, narration of events, or informative -sometimes all three.
3. Live a more interesting life in order to fulfill numbers one and two.

Generally, I'm struck with an idea, or topic, if you will; and I mull that over a bit, chew on it...see if it has any legs. If I can construct a few sentences with just that one thing then I know I've got a publishable blog entry. If I can't do anything with it other, than for example: "I like Glad Force Flex trash bags but not the scented ones because who finds their trash masked in what smells like dryer sheets, appealing? That is all.", then I know that it's no good and more of a Twitterable entry than blog material. And when I've got a few written entries in my queue, it saves me from days like today. When I've got. nothing. I could list all of what I've accomplished this morning but then I would have to add this important bullet point: "Need to dig graves for all the readers who died from boredom after reading this list". Because reading: -Purchased 4 pound carton of strawberries from Smart & Final even though Tootsie is the only one in the house who even likes strawberries will she break out in hives from SO MANY strawberries? we'll have to wait and see- will kill you. Dead.

Enlightenment on a Spring!

For a change of pace, the kids, my sisters, and I hopped in the car yesterday morning and drove a little over an hour up the coast to Santa Barbara. Their beaches are less crowded, less polluted than the Los Angeles area coastline (albeit, not by much according to the 2006-07 California beach report), and the tourists speak with European accents -now that's just fancy. We encountered a pterodactyl pelican that was rather tame and looked at Girl-Child as if to say, "I'm capable of scooping you up into my distinctive pouch but your mother seems to be watching very closely".

We considered renting a double surrey (pictured above) until I started imagining cars crashing into us and our lifeless bodies strewn about while we made our way down Cabrillo Boulevard. I have a motto that I live by when on outings: Everyone returns home in one piece and alive, without the need for an iron lung, and with a face. Live it. It's a good one. Boy-Child#1 must have sensed my moment of sheer terror and chose a dashboard Jesus as his souvenir. I mean, can you think of anything that screams SANTA BARBARA more than that? Perhaps if plastic Jesus were firmly attached to a surf board.



So we headed to the sand and surf so that the kids could play in the waves, and some of us could work on our tans -and some of us ended up with unsightly sunburns because some of us didn't wear sunscreen or keep their cover ups on and hint: It wasn't the one who's concerned about wrinkles, skin cancer, and concealing stretch marks. And has this happened to you? You're just sitting there on the beach, minding your own business and your sister checks your phone for messages and says:

Sister: You have a text message from your hubby.
Me: What's he want?
Sister: "[The Boss] wants to know if you are you interested in a 3 month temp job here in customer service, 23ish"?
Me: 23ish, what? An hour?
Sister: I guess.
Me: Where? Which facility?
Sister: Doesn't say.
Me: Ugh. And commute?
Sister: I guess.
Me: What are the hours?
Sister: Doesn't say.
Me: (considering the fact that I'm sitting on a beach and not at a desk) No. Not really. Tell him I'll talk to him about it when he gets home. And tell him you guys want the job.
Sister: Totally! Wait, he sent another message.
Me: What's it say?
Sister: It's been filled.
Me: Sheesh! Whatever. [Note to self: FICKLE MUCH?!?]

This Post Fueled Entirely by Random

At approximately 12:07pm yesterday afternoon our internet went out. It had been sketchy the night before and throughout the morning. And when I say sketchy, I mean: bitch. The frustrating part about it, other than you know the lack of service, was that all the lights on the modem and the wireless box thingy receiver indicating that all systems were go, were in working order. So in order to know if it was up and running again, I logged on approximately 973 twenty separate times and rebooted everything just as many. I also kicked the dog, screamed at the children, slammed one or two doors and bit the UPS man. Not really. But I did discover something a tad unpleasant about myself. I have an addiction. It's one thing to have other plans and leave the computer and all of her seductive powers of your own accord...like when you're shopping, attending graduations, or at the beach. But if you're sitting around with a whole bunch of nothing to do AND your plan was to catch up on some of the blogs that got pushed aside for other pressing issues in the last couple of weeks, well, the result was double bagger ugly.

I contacted Mr. Farklepants at work, where internet access exists, and have him update my sisters on our impromptu trip to Santa Barbara today. The answer to their questions were: 1) Be at my house at 9:30am, 2) Wear your bathing suits under your clothes, and 3) That is all. There is no "3". What? Yes, I know I could have called them. Shut up. Being without internet access is kind of like, well, it's like:

1. Up shit's creek without a paddle (but with less negative outcomes)
2. 10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife
3. On a sinking ship and no raft
4. Only having a flat head when you need a Phillip's head screw driver
5. Or being stuck on the side of the road without cellular phone service...

...Only with air conditioning. Indoor plumbing. And a couch. And television. And snacks.

Check internet access.

And...HEY LOOK! BROWNIEEEES!! We have to make these RIGHT NOW!

And naps. And UNO.

Check internet access.

Know this: Scrabble with a four year old is very trrrryyyyying. She won. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

Wait for the husband to get home to fix this. Because I was at the point where I stopped blaming any outside source and was admitting that it must be me. The little woman.

Check internet access.

Go outside and BUBBLES!!!!

Listen to husband on hold with Earthlink for 3 days. Verdict? Internet will be back in 2-3 hours. That would put us around midnight or 1am.

Watch 300 because computer generated abs get me hawt. And make me wish we'd named our first born Leonidas. And make me walk around the house shouting SPARTA!! Only with less bravado and more Tourette's Syndrome.

The end.

EDITOR'S NOTE: It has been brought to my attention that I have at least two readers whose children have Tourette's Syndrome. Please know that I did not intend to offend anyone. I apologize for my comment.

If They can Invent Boner Pills Why Not "Meal Pills"?

While our children may not have inherited Mr. Farklepants' blue eyes, they most decidedly own his taste buds. Preparing a meal that everyone will eat in this house is a finely orchestrated spectacle. Most casseroles, stews, and soups are forbidden for the simple rule that items from separate sections of the food pyramid cannot be touching one another; and more importantly, in most cases, nothing can be "wet". Exceptions to this rule are buttered noodles, spaghetti, and mac & cheese. Last night I made my "white chili", or "chicken bean soup" as it's called in our house. Because I often name our recipes based on the precise ingredients so that everyone knows where we stand when dinner hits the table since if there's any question it will be met with resistance. The problem with my "chicken bean soup" is that only two people in this house will eat it and those are the same two people that are old enough to walk into any bar in Las Vegas, order a jello shot, and lick it off the nearest six pack or navel. -Jello is not part of the food pyramid although I follow the old school grid because it is what I was taught, much like how I learned that there was once a dinosaur named "brontosaurus" and a planet known as "Pluto" old dog new tricks you understand- That means the kids had hot dogs. Again.

Saturday night we finally introduced them to sushi because we were feeling brave and frankly, we wanted it and were comfortable with them going hungry if they weren't willing to try. Boy-Child#1 actually liked it, although not as much as his tempura and teiryaki chicken. Boy-Child#2 at least tried it and begrudgingly even though his eyes said "I can't believe I just put that in my mouth" ate his tempura shrimp and teriyaki chicken because he'd already seen what was for dessert so he worried it down. Girl-Child was all, "yeah, uh, I don't think so are you high?". There were questions about the miso soup, such as "what are those white chunks" and "why don't I have a spoon" -in my opinion, both valid. Other observations: 1) Chopsticks cannot be mastered in one sitting. It also explains why the Japanese are thin compared to their American counterparts who eat a Denny's super sized meal using a shovel. 2) Grabbing a plate of tuna sushi from the revolving assembly line is risky and considered an extreme sport. Ask either of the two bathrooms that Mr. Farklepants visited yesterday. 3) Edamame is overrated. Good for you and fun, but eh. And 4) There is always one child who is more interested in the restaurant bathroom than what's for dinner.

Next time we'll start them off with some sake. Which is made from rice and part of the food pyramid so please hold off on calling CPS just yet.

Ur in Me Commentz Makin' Me LOLz

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I Feel so Strongly About it that Operation ALL CAPS has Been Instituted

I'm not a "home party" person. You know, the Tupperware, Cookie Lee jewelry, Longaberger baskets, Pampered Chef, fill in the blank.I get that it's an excuse for socializing but so is going to Starbucks. I don't appreciate it when friends and/or acquaintances invite me to their home so that they can get a discount on stuff for themselves and the more I spend the bigger their savings. Why can't I just come over for dinner? I will bring a nice wine and perhaps a tasty fruit tart -you just never know I may surprise you. Once upon a time when I was seventeen young and only made $6.50 an hour didn't know better I was invited to my first ever candle party. Where I spent a quarter of my modest paycheck on some beach scented candles. A scent that I could have reproduced by opening up a bottle of Coppertone suntan oil. Not long after that I attended a Pampered Chef party where I post dated a check for a paring knife because after watching the YOU WON'T BELIEVE THIS! demonstration of an apple being cored RIGHT BEFORE YOUR VERY EYES AND BAKED INTO A COBBLER! *PIZAZZ* *ASTOUND*, I felt pressured to leave with something. Number of times paring knife has been used? Answer: what's paring? And don't even get Mr. Farklepants started on my sixty dollar Longaberger basket tissue box [lid at additional cost] and OHMYWORD the mocking is still in practice for my seventeen dollar Tupperware ice cream scooper that is coated in a space age material designed to MELT THE ICE CREAM AS YOU SCOOP to make for easier scoopage, as it were. Did you hear that just now? He totally rolled his eyes at me and my cute attribute called - gullible. It's not that I'm a sucker [except for the scooper I have to admit I fell for it] it's that I feel a tremendous amount of pressure to PURCHASE SOMETHING because everyone else is. You know WHY they're all doing it? Because NO ONE wants to be the ONLY one in the room NOT buying something and then be THAT person.


One day I pulled myself aside and had a solemn chat with dupable and a verbal contract was made that I would no longer attend a home party. Period. I don't care what is being sold. That's right Ms. Good Friend of Eighteen Years, I will not choose my bedding from inside your home. If I cannot find it in Bed Bath and Beyond, what makes you think I'll find what I'm looking for in your living room? It may also come as a surprise to you readers that I will refuse an adult toy home party as well. I'm an old fashioned girl. I do my adult toy shopping at the Pleasure Chest in West Hollywood, like any self respecting adult. If I'm going to be naughty then I'm going to immerse myself totally in the culture. And buy the biggest WANG that comes equipped with a suction cup and adhere it to the dashboard in my car while driving down Santa Monica Boulevard. True story. That's how I roll.

Smash Bros and no Wii in Sight

There are parents who take a very strong stance against children playing video games all day. During the school year our kids are not allowed to play them on school nights. Well, it's summer break [and five million degrees outside] here and we've been enjoying Wii Fit and Wii Sports as a family for hours at a time. I can already tell that I'm going to be doing a free fall onto the toilet after all the squatting from Wii ski jump, and do not be surprised if I eventually develop a case of Wii tennis elbow or sprain a hip from Wii hula hoop. I welcome the camaraderie the video games present. Because Tuesday afternoon I switched off the games and ordered my children to enjoy the warm summer evening outside. It wasn't long before I heard a suspicious fracas, and found my boys on the front lawn literally beating the shit out of each other. My neighbor's son, home from college for the summer and washing his car; stood there mouth agape looking as if he wasn't sure he should intervene and I'm thinking to myself, "You're washing your car turn the hose on them, Bucko!". Boy-Child#2's nose was bloodied and it was in his mouth (the blood not his nose) and I feared he'd lost some teeth as well. And people question why I don't let them walk home from school together on minimum days. This. This is why. They can go from being the best of friends to fisticuffs in a hot second. Boy-Child#1 is usually a pretty mellow fella. Even when he's happy and excited it's kinda hard to tell. He inherited much of the cool Fin from Mr. Farklepants' side of the family. But Boy-Child#2 inherited all of the feisty Irish from yours truly. His quick temper is always brewing just below the surface. I'm sure yesterday's mêlée had more to do with Boy-Child#2 trying to hold his own in front of the older neighborhood kids. Or just maybe it was our trip to the movies earlier in the day to see Kung Fu Panda (in a theater that had recently been vomited in judging by the lingering scent) that had them demonstrating their unfathomable terror fury and crouching tiger smoking bear defense and other imaginary Kung Fu moves. I know after seeing GI Jane years ago, I had my moment where I wanted to join the Navy SEALS, shave my head BALD, and kick some major ass.

Who was it that was just complaining about parents who keep their kids busy in day camps all summer? Who has egg on her face now? And who was the genius who grounded them from video games for this infraction? -because you can't let ass whoopin' go unpunished- That would be me. Upon further thought, post punishment smack down, I realized that if they were in the house playing video games they'd at least be within eye sight rather than outside and within ear shot. I hate it when my mouth beats my brain to the punch. The end.

Pop quiz: How many synonyms for "fight" were used in the creation of this post? Answer: too many

My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the Yard

My younger sister wore a darling strapless dress to Girl-Child's preschool graduation and I lamented to Mr. Farklepants how I wished I were able to wear the same. He didn't understand why I couldn't so I explained that that style dress pushes the girls too far south on a woman my age. Not enough perk to keep things where they should be. "Can't you just wear a strapless bra with it?" he asked. After a good natured laugh at his expense because, I mean, he doesn't know.I explained some more about how no woman wears one of those unless they are forced to because it is the most uncomfortable article of clothing ever invented [that is still in use since nothing will ever beat the corset/girdle EVER which is now referred to as SPANX]. Strapless come in three sizes: Those that slip, those that strangle, and those that do both. To him I said, "It's clear you've never had to wear one of those torture devices".

Which leads me to this...I need new bras. And, God help me, how I hate shopping for them. Victoria's Secret used to make the perfect bra for me. I didn't even have to try them on after the initial first time we met and totally did it in the changing room. I could just order them online when the time came to replace them. But, just as with anything that works and is popular, and that I like they were discontinued. And I've yet to find a suitable replacement. I just make due. I'm a grown woman. I know what I like. And, contrary to what that saleslady wielding the boobie tape measure believes, I know my bra size. I'm a 34C. She insists that I'm a 32D. I insist that she is mistaken. Because TWICE I have buckled under the strain of an overzealous sales clerk and bought the 32D [apparently the cup sizes are equivilent in this scenario so don't be impressed]. Both times I ended up returning them. One of those was a Wacoal from Macys which I bought from a very large, boisterous woman who spoke with a thick Russian accent that I was too much of a wuss to disagree with. She was scary. She was like the Italian grandmother who insisted you were too thin and kept piling linguine on your plate and kept a close eye on you as you forced it down. - only this time there was nudity from the waist up and moderate humiliation- When I told this woman -who stood outside my dressing room and demanded to see it once it was on- that it seemed a bit snug; she persisted that was how it was supposed to fit. Then there I was, one day and sixty dollars later [a bra that expensive should come with its own set of tits, by the way] out running errands, my breasts trapped in my new bra, and going home as soon as possible because I COULDN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT MY BRA AND MY DISCOMFORT -I'm pretty sure it had teeth and was eating my flesh. If you're that aware of your undergarments then they don't fit. Period. I couldn't breath. In a sitting position my ribs and internal organs were being crushed. I was probably bleeding out. I was being strangled and when I removed it I could see the outline of it. It was like I was still wearing some kind of Wonder Woman invisible bra.

My current daily bras have become exhausted what with all of the stretching and worn outed-ness. They've exceeded their shelf life. I'm adamant about my support. I even wear them to bed because I just hate it when a renegade boob gets stuck in my armpit. I mean, who doesn't? And if you don't? Do not be jealous. Because girls like me? Getting cleavage wrinkles. Should we discuss how very sexy that is? I didn't think so. Keep your perky chest to yourselves. - And I need to find a couple of hours to myself to run out and do the bra shopping. My boys are too old to come with me [and there would be all of that scarring and therapy] and Girl-Child risks blunt head trauma when I start throwing haymakers after the 750th discarded garment. It also couldn't hurt to get a little drunk first. And follow Suburbancorrespondent's advice.

Warning: Contains College Humor

Items accomplished when children are on summer break and have taken over the computer:

1. House vacuumed and dusted
2. Two bathrooms cleaned
3. Floors mopped
4. Laundry done
5. Blog post, what?
6. Promise readers that there will be something more substantial tomorrow.




BUT WAIT! There's more!

Like Last Thursday Only With Shorter People

Is she STILL talking about graduation? Yes. Yes, she is. This time the milestone was achieved by Girl-Child. She made it through preschool, folks! And she has the diploma to hang on the wall of her future office of pediatric dentistry -Whaaaa??? Those suckers make bank, yo- inevitably along with that little slip of paper from Harvard. I'm going to ignore the cynical layer of myself that lurks just below my upper epidermis; the part of me that acknowledges the ridiculousness event that is preschool graduation, and embrace its adorableness. Because really? How cute -can you stand it?


And while the nursery rhyme type version of Pomp and Circumstance does not have the same huevos, or eggs if you will, as does the original; it still gives a stealthy kung-fu kick to the ol' heart strings.

A three hour pizza and pajama party for the grads followed the event at the school. When I arrived to pick Girl-Child up at 9pm something suddenly became very clear to her. The ceremony? The party? The hugging, kissing, and goodbyes? Girl-Child had her Oprah "aha" moment. The little girl who's been eagerly anticipating her entry into kindergarten. The child who has talked about little else with such consistency and enthusiasm in the last year and a half; in an instant realized that this. was. it. She would not be returning to this school. To her friends. To her teachers. And Girl-Child lost. her. shit. To say she freaked out would just insult the whole spectacle. A level seven meltdown was in progress and it took myself and two teachers to regain some semblance of control. She didn't want to go. She wanted to move in. She wasn't coming home. And kindergarten could kiss. her. ass.

Yesterday morning, in a full scale effort to coax some enthusiasm back into her life, I did what any respectable mother would: I took her shopping for new school clothes that are special just for kindergarten. We buried ourselves in dresses, skorts, tanks, shorts, and tees. We'll call it productive retail therapy. And now she's all, "Preschool, who?". So what if she just wants to wear the new outfits; sometimes that's my only motivation to get out of bed in the morning. Am I right?

Sunday Evening Meme

I've been tagged by Merlot Mom with a book meme. It's quite simple which is good because I'm pressed for time. It's Father's Day. There are brownies cooling. And the Lakers are just TRYING to give this game away and I'm no longer speaking to them.

The rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

"...I just can't understand why I'm finding it so difficult. Some people make hundreds of these things every week, without any effort. Mrs. S. of Ruislip even takes her family on a cruise every year on her earnings."

Contrary to what you might believe, "Confessions of a Shopaholic" is not my autobiography. But I can totally relate to the tagline "Going broke was never this much fun". I borrowed this book from my sister about two years ago and made it as far as page 31. There's nothing wrong with the book. There's something wrong with me.

I'm tagging the following:

A Girl Named Timi
Bad Mom
Doves Today
LaskiGal
Motherscribe

You're it!

Tootsie Talks ~ Some People Listen Saturday Edition

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.


Today's question is brought to you by Jessie from Jason Loves Jessie and it's GULP relationship advice Tootsie runs screaming from her computer screen.

Tootsie,

Your blog has become my daily dose of humor as well as smart advice. Really, I think you are fantastic. Mostly I admire the great relationship you seem to have with your husband, which leads me to my question. How do I get my husband to pay attention to me and stop neglecting me for video games? Also, how do I get him to value my opinion and feel like my needs matter?

Thank you kindly,

Jessie

First of all, thank you for the wonderful compliments! I'm not even kidding when I say that you have no idea how an email like this absolutely makes my day! Now, on to the advice:

I generally avoid giving relationship advice, even to my closest friends, because no one is in a position to judge save for the two people in said relationship. Instead I will offer some general points of interest that I have learned along the way, navigating my way through the minefield we call marriage (12 years next month!):

• Communicate!!! But do it when you're both engaged in the conversation (i.e. not while video games are being played) otherwise one or both of you will end up unnecessarily frustrated. (For instance, I don't talk to Mr. Farklepants during "How It's Made").
  
• People don't change unless they want to. In other words: "Don't try to teach a pig to sing. It just frustrates you and annoys the pig"
• Make sure you each know what the other's needs are. (Falls under the "Communicate" category. I'm often amazed at how people just assume their mate can read their minds I'm looking at you women of the world)
• Have sex often.
  
• It's not you it's me. Seriously? Sometimes we they just need some "me" time and it has nothing to do whatsoever with the relationship. (File under the "Needs" category)
• Find a common interest/hobby that you can enjoy together. It will allow you to spend time together having fun -which is way better than fighting about not having fun- and will also give you something to talk about (i.e. there's that communication thing again) (another i.e.? Learn to play video games. Just don't kick his ass at it all the time they like to win)
• If you fart in the car roll the window down. That's just good sense.
  
• Don't sweat the small stuff (seriously, whomever coined that is a genius)
  
• Randomly blow him when he's not expecting it. And do it well.
  
• Let them handle the problems with YOUR inlaws.
  
• Just because the honeymoon phase ends doesn't mean the marriage is over. It's just evolved. And if you end it too soon you miss the part where the honeymoon phase reemerges and oh lawdy-hallelujah! (i.e. appreciate and patience)
• Have more sex.
• A hand job every now and then doesn't hurt either.
  
• Sometimes he's just in a bad mood and kind of an ass. Sometimes I am too. Don't take it personally.
  
• Every once in a while pull the car over on the side of the road and inappropriately grope one another.
• Learn to recognize their behavior. (If he comes home quiet and sullen from work now is not a good time to discuss those things that need to be repaired around the house not that I learned this the hard way or anything).
• Be friends. Enjoy each other's company. This comes in handy when you're doing stuff like spending the rest of your lives together.
• Opposites can attract but make sure you have the same goals. It makes for disappointment otherwise.
  

I hope this helps you! Now that I've crossed "saving marriages" off my list of things to do, next up? World peace.

We Pause to Bring You This Moment We Like to Call Mighty Proud

*In keeping with the inconsistent theme currently in practice, today's regularly scheduled advice column will be posted tomorrow, Saturday. We thank you for your forced patience.*

This I have learned: There are two scores in the history of music that will cause one to cry on cue; The first is "The Wedding March" and the other is "Pomp and Circumstance".

Guess who has a junior high schooler living in her house?

I know I keep mentioning Boy-Child#1's sixth grade graduation in posts here and there but I'm so effing proud it's kind of a big deal around our house. And kind of the major thing going on right now. There were 133 graduating students. Each gave a 15 second speech when their name was called. All thanked their parents, some included teachers and friends, and 8 out of 10 thanked God. Except for that one girl who raised the bar and out of left field, thanked Jesus. We were all, "way to change it up, Homeslice"! We all noted how it was as if they'd all just won the super bowl what with all of the God thanking; well, we didn't note it out loud but we were all thinking it.


Afterwards we went out to breakfast. You know who else did? EVERYBODY! -another thing I learned; when people graduate people are hungry and people don't cook wearing their fancy come to meetin' clothes- We were not the only local school partaking in the graduation hoopla yesterday. There are only a handful of restaurants in our area that serve breakfast, so space was hard to come by. There were nine in our group waiting to be seated. You know who was seated before us? EVERYBODY! I wish I were kidding. The throng of people waiting for their tables was cleared out until we stood alone. In fact, some of those same people ate and left while we still sat. [Note to self: next time put your order for eggs benedict in when you give your party's name to the hostess at 10:30am since they stop serving eggs benedict at noon] Apparently there is only ONE table in that entire restaurant that can accommodate a party of nine. [Note to self: cross this restaurant off your list because in addition to their poor coordination skills they got rid of that salad that you really liked so screw 'em]


But back to the ceremony: I washed and blew out my hair the previous evening so that yesterday morning all I had to do was run a flat iron through it. Then we went outside where my hair shook hands with the morning fog and I didn't bother with more than two seconds of thought about how much of a waste of time all of that was. I was grateful for the fog because it kept the temps on the cooler side. Since we were sitting in the sun. I was fine though, dressed in a white linen wrap dress and sweat free. I can't say the same for some people who wore jeans and layered shirts [I'm looking at you my two sisters]. Quick aside: I went shopping intending to buy the skirt and top voted on here but they no longer had that skirt with that pattern and all the others they had were, um, ugly. Then I fell into the GAP and spied the white linen wrap dress on the clearance rack in my size and I was all, "helloooo Lovaaahhhh". You understand.
It was a lovely ceremony and noticeably obvious that the staff, teachers, and students rehearsed their asses off. The one and only glitch during the entire event was when one of the microphones cut out for about 30 seconds. No child flubbed their speech. No one tripped. Even the parents remembered ALL of the Pledge of Allegiance.



Look beyond the male pattern baldness and grab a tissue or three...


Special thanks to my sis for getting the video uploaded so promptly when I was all, "can I get this, you know, fast?" and for the pic of Boy-Child#1 and I all unedited and whatnot which I think caused you to experience a seizure. You rock, Dorth. For serious.

It's a Wonder I Have Any Hair Left What With All of the Pulling

Before I go further, I feel it is my duty that you know this: Neutrogena Grapefruit-Nectarine scented self tanner smells like grapefruit-nectarine scented self tanner. It is not the "delicious fresh scent" that they are claiming. Why am I even telling you this seemingly unrelated fact of the day? Because as I sit here writing this entry I'm dying from the odor wafting up from m'legs. Now you know a little more about me. And Neutrogena.

Back to our regularly scheduled observation.

Ripped from the pages of the marital handbook under the section titled: Stuff that Drives Your Wife Crazy but What the Hell is Her Problem She Should Know Better After Eleven Years and Eleven Months, Anyway.

Conversation from yesterday evening...

Me: Did you call your dad and wish him a happy birthday today?
Mr. Farklepants: Today's his birthday? I don't recall getting any reminders.
Me: I told you last night.
Mr. Farklepants: And you expect me to remember TODAY?
Me: So call him now.
Mr. Farklepants: Aren't we going to see him tomorrow anyway at Boy-Child#1's graduation?
Me: Yes.
Mr. Farklepants: So I'll just tell him then.
Me: Okay. But he'll say "thanks but it was yesterday"
Mr. Farklepants: So? I think that sort of thing bothers you more than it does me.

Well he's got me there.

Several minutes later...

Me: Boy-Child#2 had his school play tonight!
Mr. Farklepants: Oh! So that's where you were when I got home. I wondered what happened to you guys.
Me: I told you this morning.
Mr. Farklepants: And you expect me to remember all the way to tonight?
Me: I told you THIS MORNING! Should I call and remind you all day because that wouldn't bother you at all.
Mr. Farklepants: I don't know why you seem surprised that I don't remember no matter how many times I'm reminded.

So why does he bother stating that he doesn't remember getting any reminders if he isn't going to remember the reminders anyway? Someone hand me the white flag. Or some sturdy piano wire. And someone remind me to choke him with it.

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.


Titus Livius wrote "Potius sero quam numquam". Translation "Better late than never". So I bring you Friday's advice column five days past its due date. Titus Livius also wrote "Sic deinde, quicumque alius transiliet moenia mea!" Translation: "And so be damned, whomever shall jump over my walls!". So consider your visit today one of those "at your own risk" deal-e-ohs.

Q: The Madame Queen has lack of tanning needs: "I have a problem when I'm out in the sun. For some reason, my legs (particularly my shins and calves) never seem to tan at the same rate as the rest of my body. I've tried all kinds of positions (get your mind out of the gutter!) to maximize sun exposure and nothing seems to work. Self tanners are out b/c once I start to get real sun the fake stuff just looks, well, fake. Help me, Tootsie. Any advice?"

A: Well, since I can't willingly suggest sunbathing or tanning beds because melanoma is the anti-sexy and rumored to be...what's the word I'm looking for?....oh yeah deadly; I suggest getting a spray tan from your local spa. I have never tried this myself but I do have a friend who has a similar issue as you with the whole "my legs won't tan" thing. And the spray tan looks great on her. Not orangey like you'd picture it. It can be pricey though, so perhaps save this technique for special occasions. And my mind was not in the gutter. It was trapped in the pages of the Kamasutra, thankyouverymuch.

Q: Anglophilefootballfanatic is a very patient woman: "You never answered my ?s from two weeks ago. Just sayin'."

A: I cannot find them in my inbox. They are not in my box of rocks. I'd love to answer them for you, Ma'am. Please resubmit, AnglophilefootballFAN.

Q: Standing Still seeks toe shade advice: "Favorite nail color for toes for this summer? And, please, nothing green, or blue, or black. I am older than that trend can handle. Merci!"

A: Okay, I'll answer but only because you said "please" in French. Green, blue, or black should not be on anyone's nails and I don't care what the runways are sporting this season. Hey, if I was a high fashion model and regularly skipped meals resulting in impaired judgment then I'd probably be willing to give it a try. But I'm not. I am a tried and true go with what looks good on you kinda gal. And my favorite colors on me are pinks in neutral tones. I don't really do bright colors. And, in my book, the same rule applies to makeup. Fads can be dangerous. Look how many people suffered with the thong leotard and leg warmers.

Q: Cheri is curious about the men on my street in my life: "Is the neighbor hawt (because he's helpful)? Is Mr. Farklepants hawt (because his comment makes me think he's funny and plays nicely with others)? I already know Tootsie is hawt and she has good taste in clothes."

A: No. The neighbor is not hawt. Nor is he hot, or hott. Nice, yes, but he's not any kind of hot. Yes, Mr. Farklepants is hawt. My opinion may be biased, however. It's not really his appearance that gets me all to wanting to make the sexy time with him, though. It's his sense of humor and his brain. The man is ridiculously smart. He and I have an agreement that his picture is not to be posted on my blog. But he pretty much is a dead ringer for Hugh Grant, but only when Hugh Grant is smiling.

(This is Hugh Grant and not Mr. Farklepants just to be clear)

Q: The Stay at Home Mom Going Quickly Insane seeks blog traffic advice: "I remember when I first started reading your blog, I would go through and read several entries & comment and I would be the only commenter. However you have a meteoric rise to Internet Power and now approximately a fulfillion commenters on each & every entry. Any advice for someone who would like to experience same? And please do not say read more blogs and comment on more blogs. If I read any more blogs my husband is going to feature me on the back of a milk carton. Please tell me there is a magic pill or cream that can give me the same results and that if I call now to order I can get twice as much for the same price only paying for the extra shipping and handling."

A: I wish I knew! I'm consistently amazed and flattered that people take the time out of their busy day to traipse over here and read my silly words. And I DO keep it silly because real life can totally NOT be. It also helps that I have a husband who spends just as much time on his computer as I do mine so he doesn't even realize I'm absent he's not allowed to whine. And I will not say what you asked me not to say. I will let Mrs. G do it because she DID it and very well at that.

*Hugh Grant photo lifted from Google Images

Dance Dance Evolution

Once upon a time, an ultra sound technician informed the Farklepants' that the fetus Tootsie was carrying came equipped with a vagina. The Farklepants', already proud parents to two fine sons, rejoiced and wept openly right there on the cold slab with what appeared to be KY jelly slathered all over Tootsie's belly. They were not embarrassed by their emotional outburst. In fact, they held hands and were kinda cute. Truth be told, this announcement probably saved the Farklepants marriage because Tootsie would have wanted to keep having children until all of that sex produced a daughter.

As soon as Girl-Child reached the age requirement for dance classes, her mother stuffed her chubby haunches into some tights and a leotard [She knows how it appears but she assures you that no shoe horns were needed to accomplish this] and sent her off to her first lesson where she was read a book about dancing. Baby steps. And the Farklepants boys were just glad that they had a sister because they knew that if they didn't, their mother would have lost all sense grabbing the first tutu she came into contact with, and would have thrown them into ballet and tap. [not that there's anything wrong with that]


It wasn't long before the first of many dance recitals was upon us. And a pink tutu.

And Girl-Child hopped right up on that massive stage and demonstrated her tremendous ability to bite her nails. There was very little dancing, in fact, there was none.


Then came the winter festival and Girl-Child became a snowflake.


This time actual dancing was involved. (note: toe tapping second from the right)

Another recital and more pink tutus! And dancing to the tune of, you guessed it, ABBA's Dancing Queen. [Who put that giant baby on the stage? Note to growth: Slow down]

And HERE is where a picture of last year's winter festival should be. But it isn't because her mother forgot to charge the battery in her camera and doesn't have one single photograph to document Girl-Child dressed as Santa's little helper. You'll just have to trust her when she says that there was a great deal of red and green and little bells. Her mother is ashamed of this faux pas.

And this past Saturday was the most recent recital.


And Girl-Child dragged her fatigued body that had been ravaged by projectile vomit and explosive diarrhea for the days leading up to the event; and in true professional form went on with the show. About three pounds lighter.


The girls tapped their way through Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy with pizazz! [and guidance from their instructor stage right she says in her best Snagglepuss]

The big finish! Complicated choreography for their age range but these girls pulled it off. They're now ready for the USO tour.

[Editor's note: No jazz hands were harmed in the grand finale.]

I Put My Appearance in Your Hands

Before I begin today's post I just want to acknowledge that I know I still owe you an advice column from last Friday. It was a whirlwind of activity around here what with the last couple of days of my brother's visit and my sick children including the event where my daughter vomited an actual lake on my kitchen floor get the raft. The entry is mostly composed and just needs some last minute editing. I shall post it soon.

Speaking of shopping, which we weren't but now we are so look how I pulled a transition out of thin air. Yesterday Boy-Child#1 and I ventured out to GAP Kids and bought an outfit for him to wear to his sixth grade graduation coming up this Thursday. He needed some slacks [no jeans] and a dress shirt [no t-shirts]. When I asked the sales lady to point me in the direction of the belts she said, "That's right. I was looking for the belts for you" which is odd because I hadn't previously inquired. So I thought, "Look who's so omniscient"! Then when I was waiting in line to pay she said, "I'll be right with you" as if I had somehow indicated that I was in a hurry. Which I wasn't. It was the first time I'd been out of the house in days and I was quite happy to stand there all day. Why she was picking up on some imagined impatient vibe is beyond me. So I was like, "No worries". And she looked skeptical. Tres weird. Anyway, I made my purchases that also included a dress for Girl-Child to wear to the graduation and to use for her own that is being held this Saturday. Then it occurred to me that I needed something for myself.

I love to shop. It's what I do. Mr. Farklepants can attest to my addiction hobby propensity to put a hurt on the bank account and clutter up our closet with STUFF! And he will argue that right now I probably have a perfectly acceptable ensemble in the closet that may or may not still have the price tags on them. I can shop the hell out of a mall. Except when I'm looking for an outfit for a particular event. Then I become overwhelmed when I walk into the store. I swear on any given day I can find a million things that I'd love to own and wear but if I'm looking for one specific thing I can't find a darn thing and end up with the first outfit that fits well and will do. Send me back to that same mall the day after that event and I will find a dozen things that I'd rather have worn. HONK if I'm preaching to the choir.

So, here is where I ask you all for help. Out of the following selection, which do you think I should wear? I do not currently own any of these items and I will go and make my purchases based on your opinions. Keep in mind that the ceremony is being held outdoors [read: center of the Earth hot] and also that it is at an elementary school so the length should be appropriate and cleavage should be kept to a minimum. There's a time and a place for flashing the stems and the girls and this is not one of them. A little less 'vava' and hardly any 'voom' :

(A) Simple sheath

(B) Classic wrap dress

(C) Basic sundress

(D) Skirt and basic tee

Vote in the comments!

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.