Is That the Red or the White?

Today I opened up a can....of Progressive New England Clam Chowder for lunch. I fear it may kill me. I will be adding it to my list of "things that make me want to hurl by the mere mention of its name". In case you were wondering: Hot dogs top that list. It all stems from an unfortunate incident involving a tainted hot dog at a Judas Priest concert in the late eighties. I don't even like to talk about it. It was brutal. If you don't hear from me; I fell in.

Top Dawg, Yo

Our 100 pound lap dog. She thinks she's a lap dog. I know this because she routinely tries to sit in our laps. She is getting on in age. Her hearing is betraying her. She barks at imaginary visitors and imaginary doorbells. She tucks tail at electronic beeping sounds and compressed air. These things are the anti-Christ to her. She has an affinity for the cardboard center of toilet paper rolls. They are her one true love. She takes great care in burying them in various parts of the backyard and only digs them out and brings them in the house on special occasions. She will dump out her water bowl and carry it to the center of the lawn, but only when we have company. I think it's her way of saying "hey you! I'm over here! Pay attention to me.", like my kids do with all the tugging of my shirt and the demands for my attention when I'm on the phone. She is a food stealer. Food cannot be left unsupervised. It can't even be left in the cupboard. The cupboard must be barricaded before the humans leave the house or the humans will come home to all of the contents strewn about the floor. She will also hide food in the couch. She buries it behind the pillows to save it for later. She seems rather fond of conveniently packaged snacks that go in the kids lunch boxes. Sometimes she will volunteer her guilt by making an appearance in the room with said snack package clenched in her muzzle. As if to say, "In case you were uncertain? I made this mess." She will sleep on our beds when we aren't home. We have to keep our bedroom doors shut. She knows how to open childproof safety latches on the kitchen cabinets. Quite a talent for an animal without opposing thumbs. She catches moths and eats them; like a cat. She has a thing about shaking hands. She likes to do it all the time. It's the only trick we ever taught her and she's a showoff.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because I just realized how dog proofing the house before I leave has become such an ingrained part of my daily routine, that I don't even notice it anymore. Why don't I put her outside? Because she HATES it out there. She hates to leave the house, period. Once when we had to board her so we could go on vacation, and I was getting ready to leave her at THE PLACE, she stood on her hind legs and wrapped her front paws around my neck as if to say, "wanna tango?". Or, "if you leave me here I will eat your face. I have sharp, pointy teeth, bitch". And that's our dog.

Piso Mojado

Why do people bring their dogs shopping? And it's only the little dogs. The kind you can put in a sack and still get around without too much trouble. The only time you see larger dogs on leashes in a department store is when there is a blind person attached to them. So why? Is it because Paris Hilton does it and they think they're hot? It's not hot. It's disgusting. Want to know why it is disgusting? Because these little dogs piss themselves. That's why. And that is exactly what I saw today at the mall. A woman (who I think was in some very cute pajamas), carrying her chihuahua under her arm, and a soaking wet stream of dog piss running down the length of her body right into her Croc's. And I'm pretty sure when I thought "ew", I said it out loud. Leave the animals at home.

No shoes, no shirt, no service. And no dog piss.

Circa 1989

I went through the Herculean effort yesterday of wrestling out the boxes full of indoor Christmas decorations for the house and our newly purchased tree. And I have to say, I threw up a little bit when I had to pay for that tree. Good grief! No. It's not flocked in gold as one might think for such a price. I know. Getting an artificial tree would be more cost effective, but Tootsie is a tree purist. Must have real tree.Anyway, located at the bottom of all those boxes is the one that contains all of my yearbooks. So, of course, I spent about two hours flipping through a couple and reading every single message that my classmates and teachers wrote. Honestly, I don't even recognize half the names anymore. The notes from the teachers were the most amusing. This one is from my Algebra teacher: "You've been a bright spot in an otherwise dismal year. Teaching you was a pleasure. I wish you every success and hope your goals are achieved." I guess everyone else JUST SUCKED ASS. From my Creative Writing teacher: "Four or five years from now I'll be expecting an invitation to your college graduation and I'll go (wherever, whenever!!) You are so lovely, so bright, so creative. Please understand that, and do important things in your life. Remember the old man in room 22." And I do remember him. I think about him almost every time I write something. Someday, when I win the Oscar for best original screenplay, he will be the first person I thank. I heart him so much. From my senior adviser: "My dear young lady, I have been able to tell for a long time who is one of the luckiest people in the world - S******" (my high school sweetheart). "You are what I think the kind of girl I liked when I was in HS I hope and know your life will be happy, long, and healthy. Hope to see you in the future. Damn you're cute. Remember us." Uh, okay. That's just a little creepy. And finally, from the quarter back of the varsity team (not my boyfriend): "To the girl who should have gotten best looking and prom queen. It was great to have met you this year. You're such a fun person to talk too. Good luck in your future, party during the summer and always have a good time. Love, #10".... ahhh...#10. He was hot. And I did party during the summer. Enough nostalgia for now. Back to 2007. And to putting these boxes away. Party on Wayne. Party on Garth.

Mom, I Think Your Purse is Ringing

I'm one of those rare people that actually uses their cell phone when the need to speak with someone cannot wait until I can get home and email them (because my fingers can say in ten words what my mouth isn't capable of conveying in a hundred). As a result of my lack of cell phone use, I have not mastered the fine art of talking and simultaneously doing something else. Like driving a car or navigating a shopping cart. In either case, I need to pull the vehicle over; or push it over, as it were. So yesterday while marketing, my Boy-Child#1 alerted me to my ringing purse. Which, of course, I couldn't wrestle out in time to retrieve. Which led to pushing buttons to find out who called. My husband. Which led to me trying to call him back. And he was trying to call me back. And my battery was on it's last life. And it became this whole thing. So when I finally get him on the phone, I was all frustrated, and at the same time trying to locate the broccoli in the frozen food section (how can a store run out of broccoli? Where is the broccoli, dammit?) and I was all stuck there because I cannot fathom walking, talking, pushing a cart, and wrangling three children all at the same time. It MAKES MY LAST NERVE COMMIT SUICIDE BY CATCHING ITSELF ON FIRE. And my husband wants to know "where the Christmas lights to trim the outside of the house are?" And I'm all, "wherever you put them after you took them down last year. How should I know?" And he was all "what's your problem?" And I was like, "I can't see our garage from here. Cuz there are too many streets and houses blocking my view, Dude" And then he went, "okay. whatever. I'll look. Bye." "Bye."

So then I got home and he was like, "I couldn't find them. Did we throw them away last year?". And I was all, "I don't remember. Are you sure you looked?". Cuz when I look, I actually move items around and, you know, LOOK. And he says, "yeah". And I doubted him. So I go out there and in the first storage door I opened, guess what I found? The lights. Clearly the only way he was going to find them by "looking" for them is if he opened the garage door to find it completely empty and the strands of Christmas lights sitting dead center with a giant red bow on top. Plugged in and blinking.

When Proofreading is Beneficial

Flipping through a local magazine, I came across an announcement for The Gentle Barn; an animal rescue, who are having a "Winter holiday wonderland and fundraiser". One of the activities scheduled is:

**Decorate stockings for our 60 rescued animals and stuff them with treats**

I'm pretty sure the message they've sent isn't exactly what they had in mind.

Forecast: Slightly Damp With a Chance of Spontaneous Combustion

Sigh...I had planned on doing some Christmas shopping yesterday morning. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are my only mornings that are child-free; and subsequently, it is my valued "me-time". But I didn't venture out. Wanna know why? Because there was water coming out of the sky and wet stuff on the ground. It's an unusual sight to see here in Southern California but I think I've heard it referred to as "rain". I don't know if you know this about native Southern Californians, but unless it involves soap or a bathing suit; we don't like to get wet. And just an FYI, we don't appreciate being splashed unexpectedly nor do we like having a hose turned on us. We believe that it causes us to melt, or worse(?), large chunks of flesh to fall off our bodies. We won't leave the house unless we can get from point A to point B and remain dry as a bone. We can never find our umbrellas because they are so seldom used that we forget where we stored them. And plus? It's not raining hard enough to clean the dirt off my car. It will just cause spotting. My car is white and dirty polka-dots is an unfortunate look.

We can appreciate rain and you will often hear us acknowledge how much we need it. But we like to watch it through a window. And if it lasts longer than a day we will complain endlessly about it. And can also be accurately diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder; like those folks in Alaska and all their days of darkness, using artificial light therapy.

And another also, contrary to popular belief; native Southern Californians can drive in the rain. It is the transplants from rural parts of the country (and unless you come from a city with a population just under 10 million, you come from a rural location) who become unsure and nervous when they find themselves navigating traffic on the 405, in the rain. Just sayin'...

Amazon.com: I'm Putting You On Notice!

When it comes to giving my children gifts, I strive to keep said gifts a surprise. "Do not open until Christmas", is my motto. When I order something online, I expect it to be delivered in a plain brown, non-distinguishable package; for a couple of reasons. For one, if I happen to be absent from my home when the package is delivered and left on my doorstep, I do not want the world to know what is inside the box. It might be something they'd like to have, and lets face it; that's all some people need to justify taking it (Hey! They aren't home. I want it. Must be for me! Thanks sucker.) And secondly, what else I don't want to happen, is exactly what did happen today. The doorbell rang and I, along with my Girl-Child whose self imposed job it is to answer the door (and this is the most fun thing ever for her to find out who is on the other side of the door. Honest. She doesn't need gifts. She just needs someone to go outside every once in a while and ring the bell. Her own personal heaven.) find our friendly neighborhood UPS man on the other side, grinning. On the ground directly in front of him is the doll cradle I'd ordered for the Girl-Child presently at my side. How did I know it was the cradle? Because it is in its original packaging; no effort to hide it whatsoever. A giant picture of it is slapped on the front of the box. Hard to miss. This prompted me to open my palm, place it on my daughter's face, shove her thustly and slam the door. "Thanks", I called to Mr. UPS. "Just leave it there"! I looked down at my Girl-Child for any indication that she'd actually seen the box. But all she did was look back at me with an expression that can only be described as "WTF, Mom? What's with all the face pushing?". Or, "Are you high? Don't make me open up a can".

Two words for those who ship: Brown Wrapper.

Taking Things Literally

I must blog this quick exchange between my oldest son and myself from this morning. While watching the local news, a blurb about Toys For Tots was covered; and my oldest son was horrified.

Boy-Child#1: (all color drained from his face) Is that for real?
Tootsie: (confused) Uh, yeah, why?
Boy-Child#1: Really? You can do that?
Tootsie: Of course. Do you want too?
Boy-Child#1: NO! You wouldn't do that, would you?
Tootsie: Is there some kind of misunderstanding here?
Boy-Child#1: That just doesn't seem right. You give them a child and they give you a toy?
Tootsie: (breaks into hysterical laughter) No Honey, see....

A Boy and His Hair

My oldest son has long hair (see proof here ) and is ready for a change. Not short, but a new style. He's very excited (as excited as an eleven year old boy can be about hair) about this:

Joe Jonas (center) has the look my boy wants to imitate. I'm on the fence about it and trying not to fall off. Is it just me, or is it a piece-y mullet? A party in the front and simultaneous party in the back kinda mullet? I'm all for risky hair, especially when you're a kid. Since once one becomes an adult it is often difficult to pull it off if you've got a job that says; conservative, please. But a mullet? I have this fear that he'll hate it once the deed is done. And I'll try to keep the rain of hair from sticking to his tears as I shave it all off onto the kitchen floor.

This Will Hurt Me More Than it Hurts You

I thought that random acts of violence were on the way out here in the Farklepants household. Fighting amongst siblings still takes place but actual physical combat hasn't been a problem since the summertime cabin fever episode. I attributed the newfound lack of fisticuffs to my oldest son becoming a bit more mature and the younger starting to develop similar interests. I hate punishing my kids. I always feel like a giant cup of crap soup immediately after. Sure I feel justified at the moment punishment is called for, but when I see tears well up in their eyes or I know that their current grounding will keep them from doing something they've really had their heart set on...I dunno. It's one of those situations that makes it to the "hard part about being a parent" side of the pro/con list. But, punishment is necessary sometimes; like, oh, say when the oldest son kicks the youngest son in the stomach. And that's not a "what if" scenario. That just happened. Twenty minutes ago. And that kind of thing demands appropriate sentencing. And, less importantly, what a lame ass thing to do with Christmas less than a month away.

Even though I know that Boy-Child#1 is more upset because he's been punished rather than remorseful for the kung-fu move he dealt Boy-Child#2; I still wanna hug him when all is said and done. And I have to apply stealth-like ninja moves on myself to keep from doing so.

**this entry was written last evening and posted this morning. This did not happen before breakfast today. Boy-Child#1 isn't that awful to kick his younger brother's ass before younger brother has had his Fruit Loops**

Show and Tell

I remember when I was in elementary school. Yes I do, shut up. And there were a small number of events where your parents actually came to your classroom and/or school; aside from arrival and dismissal. Those functions included but were not limited too and in no particular order: Open House, Back to School Night, and The Christmas Program. That was it. Parents? In the classroom? Volunteering? What? Grandparents Day? Huh? Mother's Day, Father's Day, Sweetheart Dance, Talent Show, Father/Son Movie Night, Fall Carnival Fund raiser, Spring Carnival Fund raiser...and....? It seems that our generation of offspring have unleashed some kind of mass-parent-involvement trend. I'm not complaining. It's fun and I enjoy it. There is always something going on. Did I say always? Always. I get to be a PTA kind of mom without actually being an active member of the PTA. So, where am I going with this? My youngest son is VIP of his classroom this week. Everyday the teacher and his classmates take a few moments to make him feel speschuuul. Monday he shared his family scrapbook. Tuesday was show and tell about an item he brought from home. Today he (I) brought in a special treat for his class (Milano cookies because I rule). Tomorrow he gets to bring and read his favorite story. So tonight, I guess, he needs to figure out what that story is! But Friday. Oh, Friday. Friday I get to come to his class and interview him with my trusty list of scripted questions provided by Mrs. Second-Grade. She's also instructed me to "be prepared to share a story about your VIP".

So, not only am I (a parent) attending a school related function, but I'm also expected to perform. Oy. The pressure. Telling a story about my child should be easy, right? I mean, how hard can that be? I've got so many to choose from. Except that the stories that are fondly remembered by me, Mom, would probably humiliate my son to no end IN FRONT OF HIS ENTIRE CLASS. And kids can be mean and relentless, so the last thing I want to do is arm them with an arsenal of embarrassing anecdotes to torment my son with for the remainder of his academic career.

I'm also expected to describe what makes my son special to me. That's easy. Um. He's my son. And he's special to me because he came out of my vagina. All the people who've passed through my vagina are very special to me. What I want to ask his teacher is, "what makes him so special to you"? Do you think that might make my son just drop dead on the spot if I actually said that? Probably. Better come up with something else.