Friday, October 31, 2008

halloween, or yes people, paintballing my house *does* piss me off

This is why I am still awake. Some little delinquent moron did a DRIVE BY to my poor little house with some sort of not-quite-jury-rigged-semi-automatic weaponry that, in its weakened state, managed to eek three orange paintball splats on my front porch windows. Bastard. Or Bastards.

And there are two smashed eggs, one on my sidewalk, and one on my grass. Ooooooohhhhh, children, look! The naughty big kids are COMPOSTING OUR LAWN FOR US. And also, lookey here: they were kind enough to only get paint on the windows! What a considerate bunch of gas holes they are.

Miss O coined the term Gas Hole today, and no, it's not because I was saying the curse word that RHYMES with Gas Hole. Because I wasn't. Really. There were a few certain children in my home this morning who were letting loose and feeling fine, and those verysame children were tired of the correct anatomical names (and humourous names) for keister, so they set out to create some of their own. Gas Hole was the clear winner.

Because? Farts are funny, and any body part that can be named after a fart, especially the one that does the farting? Is a winner.

I know this does not empower my children, exactly, but we just may run out of oil and we just may need to rely on the Gas Hole for the power to run our world.

I'm just saying.

It's still that stupid Halloween here, and The Mister is out prowling the yard for Gas Holes. Someday, I'll tell you about the spectacular entertainment we had last Halloween. It was nicey. I'm going to bed, because it's stupid o'clock and I have to get up to go to work at even stupider o'clock.

One final thought: It would be funny if the Gas Hole(s) came around again when the Under Porch Skunk was out and they got sprayed. Funny and convenient.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

change is not always good

This is not a political post.

This is a post about how I wanted to use a fun toy called CommentLuv that works brilliantly on Wordpress blogitas, but not so much on Blogger bloggys. And I changed to the other way, and then I changed my mind, and changed it back to the Blogger way, and now?

I lost all my pretty comments. They went away. And I think I remember what four of the questions for me are, but I'm not entirely sure, as you can't really count on my brain this time of the year, or when I'm knocked, or both.

Make sure you check out Open Book, Schmopen Book and leave me your pressing questions. And if I lost your first comment, please ask again.. I would hate for someone to be left out of the mad, mad fun.

open book schmopen book

It's a big day here at the dayton time. (drum roll, please.....)


(For the record? It's pronounced schmo-long O sound-pen. Just want you to keep up, that's all.)

What in the WORLD is Open Book, Schmopen Book? I know you want to know. The name itself is just plain fascinating. I'm an INTRIGUE MACHINE.

Open Book, Schmopen Book, or OBSB, is where you get to pick my brain about your Most Pressing Questions. Or, if you find yourself completely void of Pressing Questions, and just want to know, say, what color socks I'm wearing at noon on Thursday, you can ask me that. Maybe you would like to know my reaction, should the world as we know it cease to function and John McCain become the next POTUS.

Ask away.

I'll be checking the comments, and on Sunday, after church and a nap, I will answer your questions. Supposing there aren't, say, nintey gazillion. That'd make the answer session post a wee bit too long, don't you think? No? Well, I think it would, and it's my blog, and what I say is the truth. So neener-neener. Or nanu-nanu, if you're a Mork fan.

Or? nanu-neener. Because it's fun.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

wordless wednesday: i haz mor sickness

Poor baby. Poor mama. Poor Sis. It seems we have drawn the short end of the stick as far as non-life-threatening illnesses are concerned. Two weeks ago, it was the barfing flu. Now? Hand, Foot, and Mouth Disease. I do not have the HFMD, but my oldest and youngest do. And Wee Man? Well, he's just annoyed that he's not getting any of the yummy Motrin. And to that, I say, Whatever, dude.

The Mister took this picture Monday night around 11:30, after HB woke up crying for the umpteenth time. We were tired.

The doctor said we should keep the kiddos at home until the blisters aren't active. Blisters? Oh yes. You must not have clicked the link to the CDC website. It's all about the blisters, baby. And keeping them home? Means...

We might have to miss out on the trick-or-treating. And that? Would totally not ruin my day AT ALL. I would rather hit the grocery store for a few treats, stay home and watch a movie than trudge around in the snowy mud with a bunch of weirdos in costumes.

But that's just me.

And speaking of just me, would it be really, REALLY wrong to dress up as Bristol Palin for Halloween? I haven't been able to think of any other pregnant people. And I think I could pull it off.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

in which i am informed of issues i never even knew i have

There we were, sitting on the couch, watching Cloris Leachman shake her stale bon-bons (they've traveled so far from where they started). And then we watched the commercials.

Mostly, it's the commercials that make me have crazy eyes, because they are so ridiculously far-fetched. I can point out at least one, if not twelve, reasons a commercial is not believable.

The one that really got me was for kid-proof electronic thingys from Fisher-Price. (I have a reader or two who are actually employees of Fisher-Price...hiya, gals!) One of the scenarios was the three year-old girl with excessively long piggytails taking a picture of a goldfish in a bowl. A very nearly spherical bowl, with not a very large opening in the top of the bowl. And the girl? Well DUH!, she drops the camera into the fishbowl.

That would never happen like that.


Don't look at me like that! That kid would never be able to drop the camera face-first into the fishbowl. The hole isn't big enough for the camera to just slip in like that.


I have a problem.

What? You don't have any Samoa ice cream in that bowl?

Awesome. My lack of ice cream, instead of being viewed as a positive health choice for me and our baby, is now construed as a character flaw.


Well, don't just sit there, letting me languish in my flaws. Build me up, Buttercup!

????????? (While going to fetch some Edy's Girl Scout Mama Lovin' Samoa Cookie Ice Cream)

He came back with two bowls. One for him, one for me. Unfortunately? Not two for me. It's okay, though, I'm here all day. I can have ice cream whenever I want, even when he has to interrupt his lunch to heft around some dead people in big plastic bags. (What? Oh, hi, Babe. That's right! You *DO* read this! I love you a lot!)

Busy dissecting the commercial I was watching, I didn't pay any attention to the ice cream for about five minutes. Wha-at? I know. Commercials aren't that long, but the PICTURES!!!! WERE!!!! MOVING!!!! ON!!!! THE!!!! SCREEN!!!!

I picked up my spoon, and gazed lovingly down at my bowl of superyum. I was jolted to the reality of three teensytinynearlynonexistant pieces of ice cream.

Well, for somebody eager to point out my flaws, you're not really eager to help me overcome them, are you?

It's called Portion Control. And it's because I love you.

He said. When he finished rolling his eyes.

Monday, October 27, 2008

ahh, the humour of the brits

Childbirth Song

You've bags under your eyes
You've got boobs to your knees
Your hand's full of poo and your bra's full of cheese
Your stomach is bloated your clothes do not fit
He still wants sex while you feel like shit
He begs for this favour not long after labour
It's like eating a meal after you've just been sick

And the boys at the office tell him I should give him what he wants
To this I say that they're a bunch of lalalalalalala

You bastard you cocked up it's you got me knocked up
Just cos you want me to have bigger tits
You're pleading, you're pining
Oh please stop your whining
You're not getting sex 'til the kid's 26

You say you want another child, another pregnancy
When you can poo a watermelon I'll agree

I could have been someone if you just hadn't come (along)
If I hadn't been so drunk and I'd said maybe
We'd be going out and stuff, now there's foreceps up my chuff
Pulling the head of a screaming 10lb baby

And the mums on Hornby Island* say keep breast feeding 'til they're four
If I do I won't have nipples anymore

And all the doctors told me that I'd need a stitch or ten
I say sew me up so I can't do this again.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

there is an odor. and the odor is everywhere.

Friday night, whilst checking my blog stats email, I noticed a distinct, and particulary offensive odor in the air. I called The Mister in, because of his roles as Major Source of Offensive Odors and Head Person In Charge of Containment and Removal of Offensive Odors.

It smells.

I don't smell anything.

It smells like skunk.

I don't smell skunk.

You can't smell. I am telling you there is some sort of skunk issue going on here.

I don't smell anything that smells like an issue.


I thought maybe one of the stupid cats had decided to throw down with a skunk. Because, umm, STUPID! cats. I went to bed. The bedroom? Smelled like a skunk. The bathroom? Smelled like a skunk. For fun sometime? You should be pregnant with a proclivity for vomiting, and try to go in your bathroom to brush your teeth when it's gavomitous with skunk spray. That's right. I said gavomitous. Look it up if you need to know.

Yesterday, at work, I called The Mister to see if the children were still alive.


That's great.

It smells like skunk.

I know it smells like skunk. Have you looked into that?

Ummm, I think I may have left the back door open and the skunk might be in the basement.

Are you kidding me? I have asked you ninetyeleventwenty gazillion times to close the door because the stupid cats bring dead things in for me to admire and drag away, and now there is a &^c#!n% skunk in the basement. Brilliant.

(Have you forgotten about this incident? I HAVEN'T!)

Well, I have to pick up some toilet paper after work, so I'll call you later to see if I'm actually coming home or not. And babe? I HATE SKUNKS!

I'm supernice.

But I did go home.

And now? It stinks like skunk. STILL. The new hypothesis is that the skunk is under the front porch. Which is much better than in my home. But? IT STILL STINKS LIKE A FREAKING SKUNK. And me? I still hate skunks.

So The Mister decided to smoke the skunk out from under the front porch. At two in the afternoon. And now? It stinks like a skunk in a house fire. AWESOME!!! He just came in the house. His conclusion?

Skunks are nocturnal. It's asleep with its nose buried someplace, and it's not going anywhere.

That is great news, and why? Because neither is the skunk smell. We are just going to sit here and marinate in the odoriferous eminations of the stupid skunk.

Friday, October 24, 2008

did you know?

Serious, truly useful information first:

WOMEN!!! You must read this brilliant article on BlogHer about birthing babies. A very interesting study has been done on pregnancy and obstetric interventions. This is important information, especially if you are knocked up like me.

Now, fun stuff:

I won a contest over at Badass Geek's place. The kind of win where win = runner up in a photo contest. I submitted this photo, and people other than you liked it! What did I win? you ask inquisitively? A fancyschmancy blog design. By a true smarty pants. And you know how I feels about the smartypantses.

Also? I am a comedic goddess. Did you know? She also called me the comedy fairy, but I actually bear no resemblance to any fairy, real or imagined, so you are encouraged to just keep reading and not get hung up on the whole fairy thing, which I obviously am still scratching my head over. (See? It's causing me to use really bad prepositional grammar.)

Also? There are some presumably stupid teenage boys, possibly they are the infamous tweens (their voices are practically SHATTERING out there, way past cracking), who are playing remote control cars in the street.

What is the matter with the children of today? And by what is the matter with the children of today, I mean WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH PARENTS TODAY that their imbecile children are playing cars in the street. I live on the third most busy street in my village. THIRD MOST BUSY. Out of three streets.

Right. We have three streets. Four, if you count the one sort-of highway that is technically in the village, but only is counted in the village because there are two fire hydrants on that road, near where the village is supposed to be. So if you count THAT road, I live on the fourth most busyiest street in my village. FOURTH MOST BUSYIEST!

It's very serious over here, on The Least Likeliest Street For One's Child To Be Run Over, Whilst Playing Cars In The Street, in the whole village.

You never knew it was so very dangerous to live in a small town. But there's intrigue on every corner. All 8 of them.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

are you that gentleman?

Here is an intriguing email I received today. It seems I may not be the intended recipient, so I pass it on to you in hopes that you are the person she is looking for.

Hello, my gentleman

For to built a relationships we need monthes, for to brek up them it is enough of one word or action...I am not good in speeches and I don’t know what to say. I am looking for somebody with who I can walk, talk, watch movies, etc.

Thatmeans that I am looking for someone special, who will be close to me, something serious. I hope there is somebody for me. Maybe it’s you...Take a look at me

Svetlan K

UPDATE!!! the russian passion link is not a real link. the real link was for russian pron, and i can't actually promote the whole p0rnography industry. even if they're russian. and hot.

it all started with spiders

Being a stay-at-home mama with a handy dandy grandma two doors down affords me the opportunity to go to my daughter's classroom to Help With Centers.

For those of you who don't know what Centers are, Centers is a time of the day in Kindergarten when the class splits up into groups and does fun little activities on a rotating basis. Today, the theme was SPIDERS!!!! Ooooohhhhh, yuck, scary, slimy, gross, Ihatespiders, spiderseatyou, et cetera.

I? Happen to like spiders. They eat the bugs that bite us. I find that to be useful. Not so useful is when the spiders bite us, and then I kill them. That's just my policy.

I read each group a little nonfiction work about spiders, and we all learned a lot of useful information. For example, spiders have eight eyes that don't work well. Also, they hear through holes in their legs. For realz. I can't make this stuff up. There was also some information about tasting with their hairy legs, and that is way weird, because I pretty much can't do anything with my hairy legs, and that includes wearing pants. Because it just feels weird, that's why, and also, have you ever seen hairy legs under stockings? EEEEEEEEWWWWWWWW.

Or maybe they taste and hear with their hair? And smell through holes in their legs? Spiders are terribly confusing. That's in the book, too.

Also eeewww? Spiders the size of dinner plates. That is a little bit of yuck. There is no need for me to love HUGE-ASS PLATE-SIZED SPIDERS, because I have no huge-ass insects. Not even a huge-abdomen insect. I just need the spiders to eat the mosquitos and gnats and black flies. More eeewww? The picture of the wolf spider that carries her babies, all ninety gazillion of them, on her back. I didn't need to see that before I had my coffee, thankyouverymuch. The teacher could have warned me I'd be seeing graphic images and would need to be properly caffeinated in order to deal. Alas and alack.

After we had become learned, we constructed some little spiders out of styrofoam that had been conveniently pre-spray-painted black. There was lots of poking, and skewering with toothpicks, and insertion of pipe cleaners (real classy folk call them chenille stems, and by real classy, I mean, If you're in JoAnn Fabrics, and can't find the pipe cleaners, ask for chenille stems. They'll point you in the right direction when you speak their language.)

At one point, during the second group, I had to get on up, out of my mini-chair, to fetch something essential to spider-making. I walked around the mini-table, and was completely shocked to feel (and hear, mind you) A MINI-HAND REACH OUT AND SLAP MY BUTT. THE MINI-HAND ALSO GAVE A SQUEEZE.

I spun around faster than a tornado (to my credit, I did manage to stop at 180 degrees), caught my own eyes as they popped out of my head, and returned them to their original place. Little Mr. A was smiling at me.

I touched your butt, he said, rather pleased with himself.

This caused my bug-eyes to narrow into the evil, I-Could-Cause-Permanent-Harm-To-You look. Leaning over just enough to appear as threatening as possible, I said, And you will never, EVER touch my butt again. You will not touch ANYBODY'S butt. It is ALWAYS THE WRONG THING to touch other people like that.

I think I terrified him. I hope so. Little handsy boys can turn into big handsy men. And it's a good thing he didn't put his littly handsies on my daughter.

After school, we were up the street at Miss O's BFF's house. BFF had promised O that if she came over to play at BFF's house, they would sit in front of the fireplace and drink hot chocolate with marshmallows because it had snowed. Too bad BFF's mommy didn't know about that...Miss O said some less-than-choice words to her BFF about making promises she couldn't keep, and forecasted the long-term outlook on their relationship if BFF continued to lure her in that way.

We were all talking about our day, The Mister, me, BFF's mom and dad, so I thought I'd share the story of Little Mr. A playing grabass with me.

I need to go over to his house? The Mister asked in his Big Man Voice.

Dude. It's Little Mr. A. His house burned down three weeks ago. He has no house.

Yeah. Right. I need to go over to his grandma's house?

(Here is where I just looked at him, contemplating all of the things I could say that would make the situation even better blog fodder than it already was.) I am TOTALLY blogging this conversation.

Yeah? Well, I had to stop fixing things at the hospital today to move a dead guy before lunch.

SERIOUSLY? BFF's mama chimed in. I have a cousin who used to retrieve dead people. One time he had to go pick up a guy who had donated his bones to science. Only the bones. So he had to go pick up EVERYTHING ELSE. It was in a bag.

So that, my friends, was my day. I learned about spiders, had my pooper grabbed by a five year-old, and got to talk about dead people parts in big ziplock baggies.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

you know it, baby

Which Gilmore Girls Character Are You?

You are Lorelai. You are energetic, perky, and witty, but sometimes your unique sense of humor can confuse people. You are well-liked by all, but you have trouble with commitment.

Find Your Character @

Except I am totally fine with commitment. I have been married for a while now, and I have the same friends as always, mostly, and well, I'm not afraid of commitment.

Who are you?

wordless wednesday

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

thank the Lord for pink asparagus because otherwise i'd have nothing

Clever, wonderful, supersharing Catherine from Pink Asparagus tagged me today, and seeing as how I have not a blessed thing to blog about, I am happy to be meme'd. But I'm not tagging anybody. If you'd like to play along, leave a comment and let me know you did. I'll hop over faster than THE SNOW IS HITTING THE GROUND HERE, IN UPSTATE NEW YORK, ON THE 21ST DAY OF OCTOBER!!!!! (You must remember there is no whiskey-as-coping-skill any more over here. Hence the yelling.)

The rules are to answer the following questions in one word and then pass it on to seven others...or not:

Where is your cell phone? hiding
Where is your significant other? hospital (...hold on to your panties, he works there. this is very normal. )
Your hair color? brown
Your mother? nope
Your father? R-U-N-N-O-F-T
Your favorite thing? warm
Your dream last night? interesting
Your dream/goal? betterment
The room you’re in? mine
Your hobby? cooking
Your fear? badness
Where do you want to be in 6 years? home
Where were you last night? home
What you’re not? perfect
One of your wish-list items? gadgets
Where you grew up? hometown
The last thing you did? blog
What are you wearing? shoes
Your TV? off
Your pet? outside
Your computer? on
Your mood? chill
Missing someone? no
Your car? red
Something you’re not wearing? socks
Favorite store? Target
Your summer? snowless
Love someone? yes
Your favorite color? pink.
When is the last time you laughed? clueless
Last time you cried? clueless

Seven others? let's pretend i just forgot to do this.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

responding to a comment

This may not be the comment you expected me to answer. But that one? About China? And the mind-reading? There's not really anything to say about that, now is there?

But this one? Solomon said:

Why the fascination with something as mundane as breastfeeding? Does Angelina's left breast really warrant being on the cover of a magazine?

Soapnuts are great.

Yes, sir, Soap Nuts are great. Weird looking and a little sticky, but those suckers work.

And speaking of suckers. (Ba-dum-bah)

I find it fabulous that you would use the word mundane to describe breastfeeding. I wish more Americans found it to be mundane, rather than scandalous. And the rest of you? Please don't make me go there regarding my position on breastfeeding. My babes? All breastfed until they decided to wean. HB? Just finished recently, as in, hasn't nursed in a week now. I AM ON YOUR TEAM.

Feel free to take a minute to unbunch your undergarments. Please.

Breastfeeding is a protected right of women in New York State and across our nation. Unfortunately, breastfeeding moms are often scorned and treated as if they are doing something wrong and sexual, when really, they are providing the highest-quality nourishment to their babies.

And it's not just men who are uncomfortable with the breastfeeding. It's women, too. Women who are built with the same plumbing and the same natural lactation talents as the one doing the feeding.

It's people whose sense of modesty and propriety have somehow become skewed, who are offended by breastfeeding.

It's people who have bought into the over-sexualization of America.

It's people who have been taught that stigma is an acceptable part of life.

It's people who choose to believe that women breastfeed for their own personal edification. Or that women breastfeed because breastfeeding is allowed by law. Or that breastfeeding has anything whatsoever to do with the mother.

Commonplace. That is what breastfeeding is. It's ordinary. It's not scintillating. It's what women have been doing for decades and centuries and, well, forever. Women have been using their breasts for this purpose since the world began.

So thank you, Solomon, for describing breastfeeding more accurately than I ever thought possible. I am sure there are many who would argue that both of Angelina's breasts warrant significantly more exposure than they actually received on the cover of the magazine, but we'll let them have that conversation on their own time.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

blah, blah, blah

I know, I'm such an upper! You are so excited to be here!

It's raining. It's Tuesday. I'm hungry. Everything outside is grey, except for the brilliant, changing leaves. I'd like to muse a little on the beauty of the leaves, but I'm still hungry. And it's still raining, and also? Not Wednesday yet.

Also? I'm tired. Really, really tired down into my bones. I know I ought to be tired, I just had this conversation with my MIL. No curse words in sight, thankyouverymuch, as I was not dumping gross things all over myself.

Her take? OF COURSE you are tired, you should be tired, you make me tired looking at you.

My take? Yeah, but I feel like I'm tireder than I should be. Way more tireder. And my hair is falling out in the shower, not that I actually shower all that frequently, but when I do? Man, those guys are outtathere like the Yankees.

Heh. The Yankees didn't purchase their way to the top of the heap this year. Nanna-nanna-boo-boo. Did they even make it *to* the heap? And while I'm here, I cannot even SAY how happy I am that Manny Ramirez is no longer a Red Sox. Red Sock. Glad. Me. Me glad. Not as cheery as I am about knowing that the Yankees are sitting on their couches, itching their, umm, selves, where I can't see them during the playoffs and the Series.

I? Am still hungry. And yet? Too tired to make a sandwich. But not too tired to whine about it. Just like the children. They are often too tired for life itself, but somehow they manage to spend energy into a deficit that rivals the one our country continues to foster.

It makes me tired just to think about how a person can operate so loudly and quickly on an absence of energy. How do they do it? Those odd little people baffle me.

I am going to forage for a bologna sandwich in my kitchen. And then I will throw some chicken, barbeque sauce, and honey in a pan, and some cabbage in another pan, and some potatoes and carrots in the oven to roast.

That is my Big Plan.

And I will not forget to be outside to get Miss O off the bus.

The End.

WAIT..... I just want you to know that I, ummm, well, never mind. I can't remember.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

housekeeping saturday

Ach, two weeks in a row. I apologize.

It's not entirely housekeeping items, just a general what-the-heck-style mishmash of the things that have been running around my funkified brain this week.

Item 1: The Debate That Was Not.

So that happened. Or didn't. I told you I was going to review this, but really? Naahtgaahnahdoeht. That is me saying "Not gonna do it" just like George H.W. Bush. In case you didn't catch it. And why am I naahtgaahnahdoeht? Because it makes me tired, that's why, and I'm all worn out already from, well, the earlier part of the week.

However. One of my most favoritest bloggers, The Lovely Ms. Jennifer Mattern, Boss of Things at Breed 'Em and Weep, guest posted at Alpha Mom about a playdate at her house. If you found yourself poking your own eyes out with sharp kitchen implements, or hurling beer cans at the TV (heh, heh, all you Joe Six-Packs ooot thar), or just plain turning off the telly in disgust, I believe you will find true enjoyment in her post. Personally? I laughed loudly and obnoxiously... and ran to the bathroom twice. To pee, if you must know. I'm done with the barfing. Your life will only be enhanced by clicking over and reading what Ms. Mattern has to say.

Item 2, Oh Yes, Yes She Did:

I don't care what anybody has to say about this, I think it's swell that Angelina Jolie is breastfeeding on the cover of a swanky magazine. (I did not say "SWANK" magazine. That is a whole 'nother matter entirely. I'm not even going to link it. Hear that? It's the Googles finding me again!)

I will say? I wish I looked that hot whilst breastfeeding. Even if it only lasted long enough to get the shot. Actually, I'd take looking that relaxed and pleasant any day. I think the rest of the Dayton clan would take it, too.

Item The Third, It Seems She Did, Too, But She's Getting in Trouble For It:

I have said before that the only people who wink are liars and men who want to get laid. I would just like to extend my deepest thanks and appreciation to Alaska Governor Sarah Palin for proving me... CORRECT!

And you can read about the Troopergate Scandal here, here, here, here,....and pretty much anywhere else you look. You're all clearly quite intelligent, and I'm sure you can choose the news outlet that caters to your political leaning.

But one deep, probing question remains: Is she a liar? Or is she a man who wants to get laid? It seems the Committee is still out on that one. My personal opinion? She is a liar who works for a man who wants to get laid. Because statistically? He probably needs a little help in that department, if you know what I mean. Especially considering he's statistically dead.

Oh, and that photo? Belongs to the Associated Press. But everybody's using it, so I am, too.

Item The Fourth, Laundry Tree Loving, and This Is NOT Me Being A Paid Endorser, Just A *Thanked* Endorser:

Lisa, Supercool Lisa from Laundry Tree, sent me a fabulous thank you package in the mail, with tons and tons of soap nuts, and some nice oil, and extra baggies to hold my nuts (ooh, now you're jealous, with the mention of extra baggies for nut-holding). Those peeps over there are fantastic, and they think I'm terribly funny.

Happy Saturday. Have some pancakes.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

and now, i've got it. or, it's mine, all mine

I thought I was getting it Tuesday. But that was just a tease.

All day Wednesday, I felt a little off-ish.

Wednesday night, I attended a class in East Aurora, home of Fisher-Price. The class had nothing to do with Fisher-Price, I just thought I throw it in there to show you what a glamorous life I lead. At the class, I became seriously concerned about being able to drive home. It was a long drive, and the roads are not lit, and there are lots of creatures running amok.

There was the churning. And the burning. It was not happy.

Fortunately, there was a woman in the class who was going my way, so she agreed to follow me home. Which was excellent, apart from my erratic driving, and my MiniCooper van not wanting to go above 45 mph. And the part where I was pulled over about two miles from home, and asked if I had been drinking.

No, I said. I'm fourteen weeks pregnant, and my children have been vomiting like cartoon characters all week. I just feel really sick, and I'm exhausted. Please let me go home.

I arrived home, and was hit with, well, it. And now, it's mine, mine, mine.

I called my midwife's office at three this afternoon, to see if she thought it was okay that I hadn't eaten or had anything to drink in about 24 hours. Turns out, that's bad. The office phoned in a prescription for some sort of anti-barfing-your-brains-out/anti-pooping-your-brains-out meds. They were being super considerate, because instead of prescribing the ORAL medication, they? Prescribed suppositories.

Thank you, thankyouverymuch.

And don'tcha know? I feel considerably worse now that I've slipped one of those bad boys in. But also, remarkably sleepy. The package said that would probably happen.

Also, one quick question for you all: When you are sick, or your children are sick, does your spouse come down with an acute case of Sympathy Illness?

I'm going to cuddle with my Gatorade and compazine.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

it's not like anything i've ever seen before

HB isn't feeling well today. I figured that out when he vomited a cruise missile in my supersweet Mini-Cooper minivan today. And then? He reminded me, thoughtfully, as he baptised his bedroom, and me with another blast. And again, another subtle reminder when he barfed his binky across the living room. By across, I mean completely across. The nasty thing landed about twelve feet away.

I don't think I need to remind you of how spectacular I am NOT with the barfing. I'm glad I planned ahead a little, for the third time, anyway, and spread sheets all over the living room floor. That was smart. Because as I was heavering into a couch pillow, I could fold the sheets over the barf so it was not AS VISIBLE nor AS SMELLY. Eeew.

Poor babe is sleeping now. And me? I have a very unpleasant churning going on in my stomach. And by stomach, I don't mean to imply that it's anything uterus-related. No, it feels like the Barf Mill, working away, coupled with an icy feeling in my spine and chills that run down my arms every few minutes.

I'm sure glad I got something easy to prepare out of the freezer for dinner. I think I'll pop some rice in the oven and dip into a jar of applesauce. The Mister can grill some chicken, and it'll be bland night at Maison Dayton tonight.

I'm going to put my pj's on and curl up in a blanket.

Monday, October 6, 2008

it was going to happen sooner or later

The children had eaten breakfast. The meal which, thanks to Miss O's earlier years, will be forever pronounced BREH-FIXT in my head. They had eaten their seven grain rolled cereal (looks like oatmeal, tastes considerably better) with yogurt and dried fruit, and had clambored up the stairs to brush their teeth.

It's not that they actually care about dental hygiene. It's that we instituted this Chore Chart when Auntie Teff came to throw all of our crap away organize our house, and they get one penny for every chore on the chart that is completed, and if they do every chore every day? They get upgraded to a WHOLE DOLLAR!!!! They are all shooting for that dollar. It's an almost fifty percent increase in the amount they would receive for completing ten tasks, seven days a week. They don't understand percent, per se, but they do have a grasp on MORE.

And everyone's suddenly much more useful.

But I digress.

They were upstairs, I was in the kitchen, scrambling to start the sponge for my bread. I keep my yeast in the refrigerator, because I like when it works, and I was moving other rotten foods jars of pickles and jam to the side to reach it. A jar of canned plums fell off the shelf, pouring its sticky, purple syrup all over me.

And I said THE bad word. Pretty much loudly. I am confident that you are familiar with the word of which I speak. Even if you, personally, do not use it.

And my mother-in-law said, So what are the kids doing?

And then I said THE bad word again, only silently and without moving my mouth. Nineteen times, because, oh my word, when did she come in my house? I didn't even hear her! Unfortunately, I can't guarantee she didn't hear me.

Here's the thing about the potty mouth. I reserve the potty mouth for when I do things like try to bathe in stupid canned plum juice. And the time I cut the tip of my finger almost off with my Henckels knife. Or when I grabbed the oven rack in the preheated oven with my hand.

Okay, I do say crap. A lot.

But the potty mouth is one area in which I am experiencing huge personal growth. I used to practice a dialect that could bring crusty old truck drivers and, you know, pirates and guys like that, to their knees, weeping for their mommies to help change their panties.

And now? I can't even get my kid to lie on the floor to allow me to change his wet pants if I bribe him with cookies and meat. Cutie Pie Dimple Head really likes the meat, and will do anything to get some except get his pants changed.

That last sentence is going to score me some street cred with the googles, I just know it.

I'm not sure what kind of cred F-Bombing in front of my MIL is going to score me.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

ask, and you shall receive

My new hero: The Mister! Well, if you must know, he was my *old* hero, too, so we'll just drop the adjectives and call him The Mister Hero.

And now that I have a Major Award button, I am going to award said Major Award. Awardawardawardawardawardawardaward. Yes. I am finished.

But first, The Rules. Don't look at me like that, you had to expect there would be rules for the Major Award.

Rule 1. The Major Award should be given to someone who totally deserves a Major Award.
Rule 2. Link back to this post so that we all can glory in our Major Award, all together.

And that about covers it.

The first ever winners of the Major Award are...

That Girl at Hey You! Remember Me?
Why? Because she deserves a Major Award.
This is not to say she does not
appreciate the soft glow of electric sex.

The Hotfessional
Why? Because she appreciates the
soft glow of electric sex shining on her.

Maggie at Okay, Fine, Dammit
Why? Because she gave her dad the
soft glow of electric sex for Christmas.
So ladies, please pass the Major Award to whomever you deem worthy. And the Major Award is fair game to anybody else who knows of a blogger worthy and appreciative of the soft glow of electric sex.

Just don't come looking for me to actually provide any of you with the soft glow of electric sex. Because you will come away disappointed, as I do not actually provide electric sex. That is not why I am here.

*Please note: This award does not actually have anything to do with sex.
*I will keep you updated about the interesting searches The Googles send me. It's sure to be good.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

housekeeping saturday

I've won a Major Award. Actually, before I tell you how much I enjoys me some steenkybee, I would like to offer a Major Award to the person with the mad photoshop skillz who can create me a button that says Major Award with the Leg Lamp on it. Please, do not ask me to explain Leg Lamp and Major Award to you. And if you are able to read the word FRAGILE as it is actually pronounced, in English and without sniggering, please do not try to make me the button I seek.

I enjoys me some steenkybee. And my Major Award? The Most Disgusting Picture I’ve Ever Seen Until I Realized What It Was Award. And yes, for the record, it was a picture of the now infamous Soap Nuts you all covet.

It's hard to be as awesome as me, I know. And it's okay. Nobody really expects or wants you to display this picture in your home (or homes, if you are a certain Senator from Arizona who may own lots of real estate? but doesn't quite know).

The Hotfessional is having a very special event called Save The Boobies, Part 2. Now, you people all know how all of us here at the dayton time have a special appreciation for the boobies, some of us are exceedingly attached to them. She is raising money for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. For every comment left at THIS POST HERE CLICK NOW AND JUST TELL HER PAMELA SENT YOU THAT'S ALL YOU HAVE TO DO Hotfessional will donate $1. And some computer geek over at CommentLuv is matching her donation. So for the thirty seconds it will take you, they'll be giving free money to fight Breast Cancer. Or don't tell her I sent you. Whatever. Just do something nice for your fellow boobie wearers.

I've been tagged by my college roommate, Julia over at Java, Literally. We totally graduated college, like, umm, thirteen weeks ago, right? And we aren't old. However, we are TERRIBLY INTERESTING. So interesting, that I have seven points to illustrate exactly how interesting I am.

Here goes:
1. I am so interesting I have to ask my husband what it is, exactly, that makes me so stinkin' interesting.

2. I am a classically trained vocalist. Also, a classically trained double bassist and pianist. My children want no part of my mad skillz. I am pretty much forbidden to sing and play in my own home. However, I WIN! Because since Wee Man trashed my car's CD player, we only listen to Member Supported Public Radio.

3. I likes me some noisy music, too. Family Force Five, Fat Boy Slim, Cake, The Offspring, The Aquabats, The Pietasters, Beastie Boys. I also think that Eminem would be truly amazing if he used his powers for good.

Anything else that's interesting about me?
Are you doing a meme?
How about your love of whiskey?

4. I love whiskey. It's a wonderfully versatile beverage. You can drink it all by itself, with ice, with coke, with diet coke, with coke/diet coke and ice, with ginger ale, in the kitchen, in the living room, outside, in the bathroom; you can drink it with beef, with chicken, with seafood, with see food, with chips, with salads.

Are you tired of helping me?
No, you need another one?
Give me a minute.

Ummm, how about your dislike of music despite your extensive and expensive training?

5. I dislike lots and lots of music due to my extensive and expensive training.

That's a good one. Very random, makes me sound like a snob. Is that the extent of my interestingness?
I'm just having trouble because my brain's kind of in park today. Your love of awful paintings?

6. I like awful paintings. The last one I purchased was by a NYS artist from the Syracuse area, I think, and it was enormous. It is framed in yellow, made-to-look-old, some-kind-of material. The scene is a sort of impressionistic hillside, all springy greens and yellows. It's actually kind of pretty. But then, at the top of the hill, are a bunch of stick figure kids, holding hands. Except for one of them isn't holding hands with the rest of the group. That child is holding a BRIGHT RED BALLOON. It is bizarre.

Almost there! I only have to tell them one more interesting thing.
Okay, you keep thinking, too.
I don't think I'm all that interesting.
You're terribly interesting.
He says, in a completely convincing tone, without taking his eyes off the television. It seems that IRON WORKERS ARE MORE INTERESTING THAN ME. Maybe I should take my clothes off. You know, to REGAIN HIS ATTENTION. If I ever had it. We don't even have cable. I am less interesting than Saturday night PBS. And you all had such high hopes for me.

I'm trying. Are you even trying?
I am. I just don't really know what is interesting about me.
How about See Food games with your mom?

7. I am the world's greatest See Food player. I get my mother EVERY single time we eat together. I'm sure she expects it by now, but sometimes I really gross her out. And it is highly entertaining. The best part? Nobody around me, with the exception of my mother and The Mister, even knows. They all think I have spectacular table manners.

Friday, October 3, 2008

the dayton time on the vice presidential debate, or, where i systematically refrain from snark and snit

There's a few things that stuck out in my mind from last night's debate.

First, the whole War Issue.

It would be a travesty if we quit now in Iraq. Because the thousands of dead Americans, dead sons, daughters, mothers, husbands, aunties, uncles, cousins? Isn't a travesty? The countless, literally countless number of dead Iraqis, military and civilian? Isn't a travesty? The veterans who are coming home with minds more broken than anyone's body could handle. Not a travesty? This, coming from a person who loudly proclaims the dignity of life? I'm not mocking here, really I'm not. I am just wondering: does it seem to anyone else that the Life Meter appears to operate ambiguously at times? Is the life of an unborn child/fetus/whatever title you wish to assign, more valuable than an Iraqi child living in a mine-infested war zone? Because honestly, I'm not God enough to be able to step up and make that determination. And as much as I seek God, I don't think I know Him well enough to know what God would say about that.

Your plan (the Obama-Biden planned withdrawal of troops) is a white flag of surrender in Iraq.

Because I know you all will not take the time to click over, here is the part of the plan you won't hear the McCain-Palin ticket mention:

Under the Obama-Biden plan, a residual force will remain in Iraq and in the region to conduct targeted counter-terrorism missions against al Qaeda in Iraq and to protect American diplomatic and civilian personnel. They will not build permanent bases in Iraq, but will continue efforts to train and support the Iraqi security forces as long as Iraqi leaders move toward political reconciliation and away from sectarianism.

The role of the Vice-president? Her take on the flexible nature of our Constitution.

The Constitution:
Article 1, Section 3 (you will need to scroll down a little to get to section 3)

The Vice President of the United States shall be President of the Senate, but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided.

The Senate shall chuse their other Officers, and also a President pro tempore, in the absence of the Vice President, or when he shall exercise the Office of President of the United States.

That is the only mention of the role of the Vice President in the Legislative job description section of the Constitution. How that is flexible? I truly have no idea. It plainly states that the only time the Vice President becomes involved in actual lawmaking is when there is a tie vote. And really, people, the odds of that happening are very, very slim.

Sarah Palin was interviewed by Fox News' Carl Cameron today, and she reiterated her position on the flexibility of the role of Vice President as President of the Senate.

CAMERON: One of the things you talked about last night was the flexibility of the vice presidency (INAUDIBLE)


CAMERON: What do you mean by that?

PALIN: That thankfully, our founders were wise enough to say, we have this (INAUDIBLE) and it's Constitutional. Vice presidents will be able to be not only the position flexible, but it's going to be sort of this other duty as assigned by the president. It's a simple thing. I don't think that was a gaff at all in stating what the truth is.

And that is we've got flexibility in the position. The president will be directing in a lot of (INAUDIBLE) with the vice president does. The vice president, of course, is not a member -- or a part of the legislative branch, except to oversee the Senate. That alone provides a tremendous amount of flexibility and authority if that vice president so chose to use it.

HOW, PEOPLE? HOW IS THERE FLEXIBILITY IN THE ROLE OF VICE PRESIDENT IN REGARDS TO THE SENATE? WHERE? WHERE IS THIS FLEXIBILITY GIVEN??? It's true, the founding fathers were thinking. They were thinking ahead to unruly mavericks like Dick Cheney and, now, Sarah Palin, who are usurping authority and power from wherever they think they can.

And this quintessential Palin quote, not taken out of context AT ALL, as I have provided both the transcript and the link to the official Fox News transcript of the interview, for your pleasure. Do these words even go together? Is this really a coherent sentence? Vice presidents will be able to be not only the position flexible, but it's going to be sort of this other duty as assigned by the president. It's a simple thing.

It's a simple thing? If you're a simpleton, and have no concept of the whole subject-verb-predicate idea they (used to) pound into the brains of school children across America.

And then there's this:

It is my experience that grandpa wanna-be's, men looking to get laid, and liars wink. Normal people do not wink. The more I see of the winking, the less I will be surprised on the day she leans over the podium, uses her elbows to squish her gals together, and calls a reporter "Big Boy". Seriously.

I do not want a Vice President who is trying to be sexy. I reallyreallyreally do not want a Vice President who is trying to be cute. Puppies? Cute. Babies? Cute. Heads of State? NOT CUTE.

I want a bad ass head of state, not one who flirts with opposing heads of state from a country that boasts of its dominant religion killing men and women due to illicit behavior towards one another. That Guy from Pakistan? The President? HAS A FATWA ON HIS HEAD RIGHT NOW. That means that the leader of his mosque vehemently opposed the way he hit on Sarah Palin, telling her "You're gorgeous" at their meeting at the United Nations. No. I want a Vice President who is not calling attention to the USA because she's hot, I want a Vice President who will be able to go to another nation on a diplomatic mission, and be able to accomplish DIPLOMACY. Not getting the other guy murdered because he stared at her knees too long.

And while we're on the topic of diplomacy and foreign policy, this will be the very last thing, I swear, I am just going to say this:

It makes more sense to me to sit down with adversaries to discuss a volatile situation, hopefully figuring out a possible resolution, than to make jokes and sing songs about annihilating other countries. Bomb, bomb, bomb... that is not the way to get the credibility of our nation out of the toilet. The Republican nominees are not in favor of responsible, planned acts of diplomacy. There's no place for mavericks of any sort when nuclear weapons are stockpiled.

There is a place for careful use of the English language, free of easy to misunderstand, folksy colloquialisms. There is a place for polite interaction and using restraint. There's a place for kid gloves.

And to quote Sarah Palin, in the gaffe of the evening, John McCain? He's the man we need to leave.

Amen, sister.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

holy field day, batman

There is just so much fabulous material to be had from tonight's VP debate.

I have taken spectacular notes.

I will only address issues, not use of grammar, bizarre pronounciations, and misuse of the English language in general. Tomorrow.

To tide you over, I will give you what could be the Energy Recommendation of the Year:

"I don't wanna argue about the cause of climate change... We need to positively affect the impacts of climate change... We need to focus on conserving our hydrocarbons." *

Dadgonnit, that's a heckuva idea. Let's tell the government to get off our kitchen tables, fight noocoolar weapons, fix our in-fuh-structure. And to every regular old American that you might find at your kid's soccer game, all you Joe-Six-Packs out there, I wantcha tah knooow that ever-thing? Issss gonnah be oo-kay. You betcha.

Now that *THAT'S* out of my system, I'll do a much better job dissecting the debate tomorrow. Apologies toooo ever-buddy that's got thar oondies een a boonch. Really.

*Oh, yes. Yes she did.


It has been a truly amazing day. And it's only 2 p.m.

Superness started last night, when I became addicted to playing Webkinz.

I multi-tasked in the bathroom before bed, removing my contacts while sitting on the toilet. Let's just say that today I am wearing a brand-new left contact. Because once you accidentally drop a contact on your underwear, the next place it goes is IN THE GARBAGE. Or the toilet, if that's where you happen to be at that exact moment.


And then she ran into the bathroom and worshipped the porcelain throne. But not *ACTUAL* worshipping. Just the imitation kind, where is sounds like actual porcelain throne worship but nothing, umm, materializes.

Have I ever mentioned HOW MUCH I CAN'T DEAL WITH VOMIT, REAL OR TRYING, WHEN I'M PREGNANT? Or not pregnant, for that matter?

Moving on.

So Miss O happily crawled back into bed to read some books.

Cue: Wee Man.


After sitting on Wee Man to a) clothe him, b) shoe him, and c) put his jacket on him, all the while being a) punched in the eyes, b) kicked in the, well, everywhere, and c) bit... I KNOW?!?!? WHO BITES THESE DAYS!?!?! I carried him down the street to school. Don't tell my midwife, or that crazy scheduling lady who is a semi-pro high-risk pregnancy diagnoser.

We stopped at my in-laws house to sit on the porch, or wrestle sitting down for a minute, which is a more accurate description. Eventually Wee Man was at school, and after a series of lies and half-truths, I went home. Alone.

Please note: HB and Miss O were home with their ever-loving, ever-helpful Grandma. They were not alone, so don't even get your shaking fingers out today. Because I just can't deal.

Miss O was begging for food, doing all kinds of super tricks, standing on her head and doing ballet when I returned. Turns out, there's a BIG OL' school assembly today, and the music teacher has been teaching the kids a song that everyone will sing with the guitar guy who is coming. She had Miss O all freaked out about performing in a BIG OL' CONCERT, when in reality, the kids are probably sitting in the auditorium in the comfy seats, sing-a-long style.

Also, there's a New Kid in her class. It seems that New Kid has some serious issues that lead him to be completely disruptive, screaming and yelling and throwing himself on the floor of the classroom two-year-old style. Er, three-year-old style, if you're in my house. New Kid has been there for, well, this is the fourth day, and he's already being shadowed by the principal. The principal has been spending the entire week in this kindergarten class, trying to help with the 'behavior issue'. Miss O has had entirely enough of the disruption, and has been taking it out on all of us. Teacher, who is about the perkiest person to walk the earth, she's the kindergarten teacher poster grown-up, looks a little ragged.

Miss O and I chatted about things, and she decided she wanted to go to school.

Grandma picked Wee Man up, now totally happy and having a blast. Until I came in the door from dropping off Miss O.

Then it was Round Two. Poor HB was sitting at the table, eating his soup, when I hauled Wee Man upstairs. I sat on Wee Man again, until he stopped trying to kick my ass.

Which took 40 minutes.

Then he passed out, and I ran downstairs to fetch the now-crying HB, who was out of soup and chocolate milk, and was also sitting in a very messy diaper.

And now it's happy hour. It's a good thing that I only need to move my fingers right now, because every muscle in my body is exhausted.

Oh--and The Mister is working overtime. Of course.

umm, michelle k, i'm waiting

Alrighty then, Michelle K., great and lucky winner of Soap Nuts. I made the mistake of deleting your comment (I deleted you all, actually) from my inbox, and now I can't reach you.

DUDE! If you want your Soap Nuts, contact, email, carrier pigeon, Friday or I'm picking somebody else. I want you to have them, really I do, but I'm not a brain-wave-reader, and I just really need you to help me out here.

Lots of love,

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

come, join the circus

Open invitation to those of you who actually know where my house is:

The Mister and I are having a WATCH THE (MEDIA) CIRCUS PARTY Thursday night at 8:30. Feel free to wear your red rubber nose, oversized shoes, and striped MC Hammer pants. Wigs and jester hats? Optional.*

We will be watching (read: laughing at, commenting on) the Vice-Presidential Debate, which is likely to be extremely entertaining. People of all political persuasions are welcome, as it will add to the fun. People who have no specific political persuasion are even more welcome.

So come, join us! We'll make popcorn and some sort of sweet item. Bring a snack, dessert, or beverage to share.

*Wear your pajamas if you want, we really don't care. Costumes of any kind are optional. Just in case you were actually taking me seriously.