Sand, Surf, and All Out Brawling

We've reached that point in summer vacation where the kids are getting on each others' nerves. Where the mere sight of one another causes the other to SPEAK IN ALL CAPS at the injustice that they SHARE THE SAME DWELLING AND OHMYGOD WHY ARE YOU BREATHING SO LOUD!! Consequently, I've reached the point where I have to talk myself down from dealing out backhands across their heads like an old school Italian grandmother. In this house the eye-rolling, heavy sighing, and physical combat has reached a crisis. Where crisis equals mommy is going to lose her everloving mind. I've tried sending them to neutral corners, giving them chores and tasks to complete, and getting them out of the house with family fun adventures. The latter contradicts my responsible parenting belief: never reward negative behavior. Taking them to the beach when they were foaming at the mouth with each other just moments before loading up the car hardly gives them reason to behave properly. I mean, they get the golden ticket either way.

My goal isn't to encourage repeated negative behavior, but rather, to redirect their attention. You know, like with a TODDLER. Except in this case it lead to more fights and bickering with the lovely Pacific ocean as a backdrop. I've never experienced a less relaxing day at the beach. It's also hard to elicit some sympathy from your husband, who's been at work all that day, about your stress-filled day at the beach because, you know, at least YOU WERE AT THE BEACH!

If this keeps up I'll have to threaten them with back to school shopping. At least I'll be shopping.

Great Trip Despite Traveling Woes

During our one hour layover in Cleveland on our way to Richmond from Los Angeles [we flew back through Houston so get your map of the United States out now to pinpoint our hopscotch across this great nation] I texted my sister to sing the praises of Continental Airlines. Check in was a snap and we left on time. We each had our own television screens with Direct TV and at least fifty channels to choose from for only a six dollar swipe of the debit card per seat that made the four hour flight seem like two, I told her. Before I knew it, it was time to board our flight for the quick jaunt to Richmond. My brother and family were waiting for us and after a joyful and tearful reunion, we headed to baggage claim.

And there is where the feeling of dread washed over me. The baggage carriage was at a stand still. Beside it, a few token unclaimed suitcases; none of which were mine. And a uniformed airport official. In his southern drawl he informed me, if it ain't here it ain't makin' it tonight.

Well, damn. I've only had my luggage lost one prior occasion and that was my infamous trip from hell. Where hell equals Florida. It was the trip that whatever could go wrong, did. And at the tail end of that particular trip, I made it home to Los Angeles but my luggage went to Dallas.

Back to our current trip, only this time I'm not alone but with three children. And no luggage. Which apparently didn't make it on the plane back in Los Angeles. [Side note: Dear LAX, I was there two hours early, so, wtf? -end side note] Everything we needed was in our suitcases. The only thing we had in our possession was the backpack we brought on the plane and there wasn't anything in there that was going to help us unless we needed a box of crayons and some Nintendo DSs to brush our teeth with, or wear.

Fortunately, we were staying with family so it wasn't the biggest inconvenience ever. And Continental KNEW where my luggage was and was preparing to deliver it to us the following day. Except that I was wearing jeans. Big whoop, right? Here's the problem. It was about sixty degrees when I left Los Angeles at 7am. And I'm always chilled on the plane.

It was ninety degrees in Richmond, Virginia with about seventy percent humidity. So basically I was in a sauna. Wearing jeans. For two days. And me without my deodorant.

Our first flight back home on Monday was delayed nearly an hour due to thunderstorms in Houston, Texas. I understand that these things cannot be helped. When we finally landed, it was at exactly the precise moment that our connecting flight was to be leaving. Fortunately, the flight was being held, but none of us making that connecting flight to Los Angeles learned this until we'd pulled into the gate. And the gate where our plane awaited was at the furthest point possible from where we presently sat.

The looks from the seated passengers on our connecting flight that had to wait for us said that they were certain I'd flown the plane from Richmond to Houston myself and decided to stop for lunch along the way JUST TO RUIN THEIR DAY.

She Didn't Inherit Her Mother's Adrenaline Junkie Gene, That is for Certain

Over the winter break we took a family trip to Six Flags Magic Mountain. What with it being a stones throw from our house and about a third of the total cost as that of Disneyland, it is fun and affordable way to spend an adrenaline filled day with the family. [Editor's note and cost saving tip: If you don't already have a season pass which is only $54.99 dollars or don't plan to go often enough for that to pay for itself, buy your admission tickets online for only $29.99 instead of the $54.99 that they would charge at the park. Also? Disneyland doesn't offer an online deal for single park-one day passes NOR do they offer an option to buy one PERIOD online. You would have to wait in line at the park to purchase your tickets].

While our boys love the rush that roller coasters can bring; Girl-Child is not much for the things that create the illusion of danger. Or one for speed. Or for anything that moves, really, for that matter. She was at least five years old before she would let me put a quarter in one of those little wonky rides at the mall. And even then she would grip the contraption for dear life with an expression of total fear plastered across her face. It wasn't until she was six before she went anywhere near the merry-go-round. So imagine our surprise when we were able to talk her into riding The Gold Rusher [one of the more seemingly harmless rides and an excellent choice for one's first roller coaster] with Mr. Farklepants. And it wasn't until it was our turn to board the train that she worked up the courage to take a ride with dad. Would you like to see how that went? A girl's first roller coaster ride: A pictorial:

"I can do this! I'm here with my daddy...he said it doesn't go really fast. I trust my daddy. My daddy will save me!"

"Wait a minute...WTF?!?"

"Daddy, YOU lied to me"

This is more her speed.

Clearly, nothing like her mother (an oldie but a goodie from last summer):



**photos from Mr. Farklepants and his bitchen mistress, the Canon 5D Mark II

LAX is not Even Kidding About Being There Two Hours Before Your Flight

The airport. I almost always try to fly out of Burbank airport whenever possible [side note: I know it's Bob Hope Airport, or "Burbank-Glendale-Pasadena Airport" but no one ever EVER calls it that...just "Burbank", because? It's in Burbank]. I do this because it is small, and quaint, and you kind of don't mind being there. I mean, there's only one baggage claim! You can't get lost. You don't get tired walking from your car to the building. Or from the ticket counter to your gate. You get what I'm saying. But! Airfare being what it is (or was), my recent trip to visit family back east meant if I could afford to fly, I was flying out of LAX. And I hate just about everything there is to hate about LAX.

Exhibit A) American Airlines is located in the international terminal and I couldn't believe my luck when I found a parking spot at the mouth of the bridge that would take me exactly where I needed to be! Except that it wasn't until I reached the other side that I learned the ticket counters and baggage check were DOWNSTAIRS. The only elevator in sight was equipped with a keyhole and not a single button. There were escalators! Except I had to go down a mid sized flight of stairs to reach them. With my very heavy and equally awkward suitcase.

Exhibit B) At the ticket counter there is First Class check in, Priority, some special "I paid too much for my ticket" club, and self-check. The self-checkers make up about 90% of the travelers and not all of them can operate a credit card swipey machine at the grocery store let alone a "print your own ticket" kiosk. So this involves a lot of patience and waiting, and wanting to rip their itinerary out of their hands and JUST DO IT FOR THEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET ME OUT OF HERE AND TO THE SECURITY CHECK POINT.

Exhibit C) It is the international terminal so I understand that in many cases there is going to be a language barrier. But I imagine that a line looks like a line in just about every country and if you see one that you are pretty sure you need to be in? You go to the end. Not wander to the front and try to be next....I'm looking at you little old Asian woman. And if you weren't about one hundred and twelve years old and look as if you might turn into dust right on the spot from the wind streaming from my lungs as I spoke to you, I might have said something. And because I'd been standing in line for a half an hour and only moved fifteen feet, I was cranky and anxious with nothing but time to think of reasons why you don't recognize a line when you see it and I decided that you use your age an frailty to your advantage and you're just a manipulative old lady. And I don't want to think like that...SEE WHAT LAX DOES TO PEOPLE?

Exhibit D) Finding your gate. Mine was gate 47A. I follow the sign for gates 40 through 49. And I'm walking....Gate 40. And walking...Gate 41...42...43. And walking...Gate 44...45. And walking...Gate 46...and then? Gate 49. W. T. F? Which stopped me dead in my tracks. How could I have fucked this up? Oh. I didn't. There was 47A, tucked away in the far right of the cul de sac at the end of the terminal...like an afterthought.

Exhibit E) People who insist on standing in line to board the plane even if their group number hasn't been called. They stand at the ready. In the line. Except they don't move. Waiting for their number to be announced. And it's a full flight.

Exhibit F) There is always that one person on the plane...or in my case: that one couple. Their seats were not together and none of y'all will mind IF WE JUST SHOUT TO EACH OTHER DO YOU? UNTIL ONE OF Y'ALL CAN'T STAND IT AND GIVE US SOME SEATS TOGETHER? Obnoxious and obvious and the wife even louder than her thundering yeehaw husband. He was enormous and she was a twig. A twig with a beak like nose and exactly zero lips. And dressed in red jeans and a turtle neck, long sleeve t-shirt covered in a pattern of little reindeer. And I would bet my very last dollar that an identical outfit exists in the girls department in a size 6x.

At Least They Built a Tram to Get You There

I love the lackadaisical days of summer. I'm not one to put my kids into summer camps or sign them up for activities that require keeping a schedule. We're a fly by the seat of our pants summertime family. We kick it at the beach, lounge by my parents the pool, see a movie, hit an amusement park, and even get some exercise cultured at the museum.

Have you ever been to the Getty? It is an enormous structure situated at the top of the mountain off the 405 freeway and overlooks the all of Los Angeles and on a clear day the ocean is visible. When the conceptual designs were drawn and mock ups made; I envision it being something like the Kohler commercial. Where that uber dirty stinking rich couple walks into a design firm and the wife whips out a bathroom sink faucet from her designer bag - the kind that only she and Oprah can obtain - and says to the architect, "design our house around this". And the architect puts his palms together and rests his chin in a thoughtful pose atop his fingertips and is like, it will be minimalist and fierce because I'm so fabulous. He didn't have to say it out loud - I read it in his eyes.

Only in the case of the Getty, the chairman in charge of building stuff whipped out a flight of stairs and said, give the people something to climb, pull a hamstring, and that puts them closer to God.

Just getting started

It was either go down these stairs or walk my kids past a wall of full frontal nudity photos and I wasn't in the mood to explain excessive bush growth to my 5 year old, you understand.

Weren't we already here? I think we're going in circles.

Not to feel left out -even the garden features boast steps.

We pause on this bench to rest and strike a pose.

And hydrate and giggle.

*photos by Dorothy Z.

When the Picture is Worth More than Bloggy Words

The title of this book? Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank

Frankly? I can't top that.

*photo by Dorothy Z. taken at the Fountain Bookstore in Richmond, Va

If I'd Stayed an Extra Week I Might Have Come Home to Hardwood Floors Too

The kids and I spent the week leading up to and including Easter, in Virginia visiting the most awesomest brother ever to have lived in the history of siblings. This left Mr. Farklepants to his own devices - where own devices equals spoiling Tootsie like the pretty pampered princess that she is. When many women describe romance they use words like: flowers, candlelit dinners, strolls on the beach at sunset, jewelry, and spooning. Meh, say I. One word that sums up the true meaning of romance for me is: consideration. So when Mr. Farklepants, in my absence, took it upon himself to replace the tires, windshield (that met the business end of a sandstorm on the drive home from out of town one sunny afternoon and was left with a severe pocking), floor mats, complete detailing inside and out, and any scuffs, dings, and scratches magically removed from my car; well, is it any wonder why I had the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind and want to strip nekkid and roll around on him right there in the Bob Hope airport parking lot? You understand what I'm saying. My car was all: sheeeeen sparkle sparkle!

But wait. There's more. David Copperfield Mr. Farklepants had another trick to pull out of his magic hat. He reached in elbow deep and pulled out one of these:



As many of you may remember, our dog and loving family member for thirteen years, Baby passed away on January 19th. It was many weeks before we were even able to discuss the possibility of adopting another and we finally decided that we would resume the conversation after our vacation, because there was no sense in bringing home a new puppy only to leave her for a week. Did you catch that? Resume conversation. Converse. Talk. Discuss. So imagine our surprise upon returning home to find that little ball of fluff, tumble, and cute sitting in the middle of the living room floor!

It turns out that Mr. Farklepants' coworker knows a guy, who knows this guy, who has an ex-wife, who has this daughter, whose daughter has this grandmother who has this dog that had a litter of black lab puppies. And this daughter of this grandmother happened to be passing through our neighborhood while we were out of town and brought the two remaining puppies with her. And Mr. Farklepants swooped up that bundle of perfection to surprise his family.

Vintage Thirty will pause for this moment of awwwwwwwwwwwe...

Now, put five people together in a room to name one puppy and oh. mah. gah. I'll spare the tales of bloodshed and woe.

You've been introduced to Phoebe Farklepants. AKA, blogfodder for years to come.

It's a Small Cramped World After All

When my mother in law inquired about gifts to get the kids and I for Christmas I was all: Disneyland! She's the type of person who likes to give THE gift and since the cost of admission for a family equals one arm and a couple of legs; this was something I knew she'd be on board with. That woman came though. With "park hoppers". For those of you who don't live in California or aren't familiar with this term, it means the tickets can be used for Disneyland and its next door neighbor, Disney California Adventure.

So yesterday I threw the kids into the car then swung by my parents house and grabbed my sisters...


(Everyone say hi to Tootsie's sisters)

...by their cute, stylish hair and shoved them in; and off we went to the most crowded happiest place on Earth. Living in southern California, I've been to Disneyland countless times. And I know I've been when it ISN'T jammed with huddled masses. I also have learned the best kept secret to avoid this and I'll share it with you: go on Super Bowl Sunday. But I rarely listen to myself. And yesterday was not February 1st, 2009. Yesterday was apparently the day everyone on the planet went to Disneyland. And two-thirds of those people brought a stroller [and a quarter of them decided to skip deodorant altogether]. Seriously, there should be some kind of park restriction regarding the number of strollers allowed. If I were in charge of Disneyland that rule would be as follows:

• Only strollers provided by the park are permitted
• Keep the number of strollers on the low side
• Once they've been allocated that's all there is
• The end.

Utilizing a stroller does not necessarily signify that the person actually has an infant or child to fit the need of having such. It often means that they just have a lot of crap they like to wheel around and keep handy. And muck up the traffic flow.

Did I mention everyone in the world was at Disneyland yesterday?

We had a brief reprieve when half the park lined Main Street for the parade. We took advantage and ate dinner in peace [Editor's note: Mr. Farklepants drove out and bought an admission ticket just to have dinner with us at Disneyland. That's right. You heard me. What you've just witnessed here, people, is a Christmas miracle] But then the parade ended and it was like someone opened another dimention - filled with people - that arrived wearing more people surrounded by walls of people and apparently held mating seminars producing more strollers people.

We spent the majority of our time waiting in line. [for you East coasters: waiting ON line] In line for:

• The tram from the parking garage to the park
• The security checkpoint
• To buy tickets for my sisters because I currently hold the title of Dumbest Person Ever because I didn't buy them online
• To enter the park
• To eat breakfast
• 40 minutes for Pirates of the Caribbean
• For snacks and drinks
  
• 40-60 minutes, respectively, for Peter Pan, Big Thunder Mountain, Alice in Wonderland, Matterhorn, and something else I forget
• To eat dinner
• For ice cream
• 75 minutes for Space Mountain that was abruptly aborted about an hour in because, tired.
• To catch the tram back to the car

Fun fact: Disneyland has a first aid center that will happily dole out aspirin if you walk in and ask for it. They will inquire if you have a headache and you will have to exercise restraint and refrain from saying, no, I was just wondering.

Know this: Tuesday, December 30th 2008 was the last time Tootsie would ever ride the Teacups. Holy Queasy Batman!

• Know this sub-category: If you are in Tomorrowland during the Main Street Parade you are stuck there until it ends.
  

Not seen: Any of the Disney Princesses. They were probably crushed to death smothered by all those strollers people.

What this post doesn't tell you: A great time was had by all despite the strollers carbon based herd. Because Disneyland equals: Magic.

P.S. We're going back next week for stroller wars Disneyland California Adventure.

Vacation. Like National Lampoon's Only With 99% Less Chevy Chase

While many of you are NaBloPoMo-ing, I'm considering taking a vacation from blogging for the rest of the month. Sort of a NaBloVaMo-ing if you will. It's Thanksgiving and things are a little slow... [unless I just keep talking about cleaning my house in preparation for guests and really, why in God's name is my house so dirty? It certainly proves that I've been doing just enough to give the illusion of clean around here] ... Of course, now that I've said that, a pocket full of blog fodder gold will fall into my lap and I'll post anyway. Even though I said I was taking a vacation. And then you'd be all, why is she in my reader? Tootsie is a liar. So I guess what I'm saying is you just never know. I might post. I might not. But if I went a few days without posting and also not mentioning that I wouldn't be doing so; I was afraid the worried and concerned comments and emails would start filtering in and I didn't want there to be any drama. Where'd she go? I dunno. I saw her comment on a blog so I know she's alive. Oh, thanksbetogod for that.

Anyway...It will give me a chance to catch up on others' blogs and visit some of my newer readers too! Of course if I keep writing daily then that throws the aforementioned theory out the window. Basically I'm not telling you anything at all here, am I?

Someone is being mighty noncommittal.

In any event, I'd like to wish you all a happy and safe Thanksgiving. I hope you get to spend it with the ones you love. And that no in-laws are injured during the consumption of any meals.

This is last year's turkey:

TA-DA!

And we think that the secret to its savory juicy goodness was inadvertently turning the oven off for 45 minutes while it was roasting when we removed the stuffed mushrooms.


Or that it cooked for precisely the right amount of time. Since I'm unsure I think I'll turn the oven off again this year. Just. In. Case.

*photos by DorothyZ.

Little Known Facts About Independence Day (Like How to Spell Independence)

This past Friday we celebrated, collectively as a nation, our country's independence. At one point or another in all of our lives as American citizens, we've been introduced to the Declaration of Independence and more than likely were given memorizing the preamble as a school assignment. The Declaration of Independence, drafted by Thomas Jefferson, was really just a "Dear John" letter, written in fancy old school English, letting Britain know that we wanted to break up with them. Not so much in an "it's not you it's me" way as it was "irreconcilable differences". It really all came down to how we were all, "your taxes blow, we don't have appropriate representation in parliament, so bite me". Because of improper early preservation techniques, there is an often overlooked faded subtext on the original copy. Here is what you've been missing:

Proper Celebratory Methods for all Future Independence Day Commemorations ... So Sayeth Yea Founding Fathers

1. A body of water shall be involved in some capacity, whether it be pool, ocean, river, lake, or slip n' slide.
2. The outside temperature must be one hundred degrees or more.
3. Those who've chosen the "river" or "lake" option shall encounter hoards of people who've neither bathed nor located a hair brush for several days in a row.
4. Fireworks are mandatory. Preferably a legal display put on by a local company with permission to do so. Idiots Everyone else will ignore the several posted warnings that the conditions for fire in the local parks and mountains are EXTREME. Those people are all, feh.
5. Barbecued tri-tip is the preferred meat. Hamburgers and hot dogs are an acceptable substitute.
   
6. Bathing suits are NOT optional when near the aforementioned body of water if small children are present. Also unacceptable is the offensive anterior boob cleavage. For those not in the know or who weren't near the company of lake or river dwellers, that would be the cleavage sneaking out of the bottom of your bikini top. It would behoove these offenders to occasionally set down the bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and do a wardrobe check.
7. Make at LEAST a three day weekend out of the celebration no matter which day of the week the holiday is being observed.
8. Purchasing a new mattress or vehicle from a kick-ass 4th of July sale? Optional.
   
9. And finally, when seeking accommodations, be steadfast in your search for one that boasts a properly functioning clothes dryer. Settling for one that seems to reach "still mostly damp" as its highest setting when you're trying to tidy up before leaving after a long weekend, will make you a tad cranky and everyone around you shall suffer.

I know what you're thinking. You were not aware of this astounding bit of historical trivia! It may not have been written exactly as above. Like the Constitution that followed it, the faded and little known subtext in the Preamble of the Declaration of Independence was intentionally written in ambiguous language so that it would accommodate societies in the future. My list is an example of a loosely translated historical document.

**No Declaration of Independence was actually used in the creation of this post

Tootsie and Little Sis Thumb Their Noses at Life

We spent today at Six Flags Magic Mountain. Bored with conventional roller coasters, Dorothy Z and I paid the extra twenty bucks for some extreme Dive Devil(ing). Listen for the calls for "mommy" from Boy-Child numbers one and two. If you can hear them over all of that SCREAMING! Enjoy!

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.

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?!?]

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

Tootsie's Broham is Totally Boss

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



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

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



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

The Post That Serves as a Warning to Those Who Live in Her House

Here's the thing. Tootsie has family coming in from out of town next Saturday. And Tootsie is beside herself excited that her brother, her sister in law [who's also one of Tootsie's bestest friends], and her nephew will be spending the week with her and her family! And when she says beside herself she means there is one of her right here and then another one immediately to the left of her. She also wishes that one to the left of her would get off her lazy posterior and help knock some things off of that to-do list that Tootsie keeps mentioning ohmygod she's a nag! I mean, c'mon! Look at this thing:

1. Organize office so that company can use it to store their emotional baggage.
2. Also clean the office and don't forget to dust because someone is drawing pictures in the layer that occupies the desk.
3. Find out who is doing the drawing and ask them to cut it out.
4. Buy borrow a portable crib from a friend who is still in possession of an infant so that family doesn't have to lug their's cross country.
5. Re-baby proof the electrical outlets.
6. Wrap new couch and coffee table in several layers of Saran Wrap
7. Replace patio furniture cushions that birds destroyed
8. Replace patio umbrella that wind destroyed.
9. Replace shower curtain liner that is learning a thing or two about mildew
   
10. Invest in new mattress pad for pull out couch and throw some new pillows in there while you're at it
    
11. Plan more elaborate meals that don't include hot dogs or mac & cheese
    
12. Wash guest towels & sheets
    
13. Clean, vacuum, dust, and pay extra attention to detail in the bathrooms like you usually do only mo' betta.
14. Clean out and restock refrigerator & pantry with delicious snacks
    
15. See doctor for Prozac
    
16. Get windows cleaned nevermind they can't come until after the family leaves and kind of defeats the purpose
17. Find out which one of the boys is peeing with the toilet seat down and demand that it be stopped effective immediately
18. Build a dungeon
19. Throw out clean the oven
    
20. Relocate husband and children to a safe house to shield them from the level five hurricane bitch Tootsie will become while trying to accomplish all of the above and also how she prohibits anyone from walking on the freshly vacuumed carpet - which is so much fun.
    

Who wants to volunteer to remind Tootsie that it is her brother that is visiting and not her inlaws and her brother doesn't give a rat's fig about the state of anything in her house except maybe a dungeon? I feel it only fair to warn you that she bites when she's under a tremendous amount of self inflicted pressure, and also that she goes for the jugular when told she's being unreasonable, so please keep this in mind when raising your hand. It's much the same way she behaves when PMSing only with less feminine hygiene products and cramps.

She would also like to remind you that today is the last day to get in on the giveaway of super delicious candy! So go there and leave your comment to throw your name in the hat! The winner will be announced tomorrow! And that's a lot of exclamation marks!

She had to Google the Proper Spelling of "Truancy"

Main Entry:

¹tru·ant

Pronunciation:

\ˈtrü-ənt\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

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

Date:

14th century

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

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To Whom it may Concern,

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

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

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


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

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

Yours Truly,
Tootsie's Blog Conscience

What Do You See?

You're probably thinking to yourself, "it's a tunnel, stupid!". But you'd be totally right wrong. This, my friends, is my version of hell. It may be a tunnel if "tunnel" were pronounced like DEATHTRAP. It is a stretch of fear that runs UNDERNEATH a large body of water called the Chesapeake Bay. It is completely lacking in oxygen and contains 100% carbon dioxide. It is narrow and confined. Let me, for a moment, draw your attention to the narrow crevice between the large truck and the roof in the photo above in order for you to UNDERSTAND? There is no natural light. There is no escape. Did I mention it is under water? It is the Grim Reaper's playground. If there were a fiery accident or the walls gave way; you would be FECKED! If you are driving through here this is not the time to be rummaging through your purse trying to answer your phone, or applying makeup, nor is it the time to threaten your children that "you'll come back there" if they don't stop. Because sometimes there are people like me who have to visit their place of tremendous courage just to make it out alive on the other side.

*photo by Dorothy Z*

Yo! Starbucks! It Can Be Done!

In other words "Please keep your children from running amok, bothering other customers, and generally being a real pain in the ass. They can act-a-fool, they just can't do it here".

Shockoe Coffee in VA. My new favorite-ist place. Any coffee house that can tell its customers to, you know, supervise their own children? And do so with with subtle, witty sarcasm?...well...that's just tits.