Sunday, August 30, 2009

ask, and the bloggess will answer. honestly. she will.

I am guessing since it's Sunday, that you probably have nothing else to do whilst waiting for the pot roast to finish cooking. Or whatever it is that you people eat on Sunday.

(Today, we're eating grilled turkey tenderloin kabobs with sun gold tomatoes, peppers, onion, mushrooms and summer squash, with a healthy side of corn on the cob. Followed up with the most amazing chocolate cake EVAH, and you can take that to the bank, also homemade coffee ice cream. It's a big old party 'round these parts. Of the birthday variety. And no, I don't quite cook like this every single day, but all of those food items were requested by the birthday person. Who is not someone I actually blog about. So don't ask.)


Jenny the Bloggess. She has this column called Ask The Bloggess, where (duh) people ask her questions and (double duh) she answers them. Well, way back when Ask The Bloggess kicked off, sometime in April, I sent her a question.

And don't'cha know, The Bloggess came through and answered my question.

So unless you are a sibling of mine with XY going on in your DNA, you should totally click over and check it out. Unless you are easily offended by humorous wrongness, then maybe you should skip it. But if you *are* easily offended by humorous wrongness, maybe you SHOULD click over, you know, stretch your boundaries, grow as a person and whatnot.

Just a suggestion. Gosh, you're easily offended. Back off already.

Friday, August 28, 2009

let's lighten things up with a giveaway!

So here's the thing. Sometimes you get an offer you can't refuse. And let me tell you people, this is the case. and Digital Room are teaming up with bloggers to give away 250 custom greeting cards. All free and stuff. Well, you pay postage, and that's a small price to pay for a gazillion cards. Or 250. Either way.


I know some of you are thinking What could I possibly do with that many custom greeting cards or custom postcards? Well friends, I'm glad you asked. Because I've cooked up a fantastic list of how to use 250 custom greeting cards.

  • Send a card to each of your three college roommates. Ask them how they are doing. (3)
  • Send thank you notes for your wedding; start writing now, so that you can have them mailed by the time your 8th anniversary rolls around. (100/103)
  • Make one of those funky collages using the same picture again and again, all tiled and stuff. Put it in a frame and you will have some serious art for your walls. So what if you don't have pictures of your 3rd and 4th children up on your walls? (16/119)
  • Begin a letter-writing campaign to the USPS to reduce the price of stamps...write one letter a day for two months, address them for your neighbors, too. Neighbors appreciate when you do nice things for them. (60/179)
  • Write a letter to your bestest friend who kept you from completely losing your shit at the Museum of Play on Wednesday when your 2.5 yo ran away. And hid. And security had to locate him. Tell her she's great, and also? Thanks for the chocolate and fresh raspberry thingy she bought you at Stever's Chocolates. (1/180)
  • Write a letter to your other bestest friend who listened to your sob story about almost completely losing your shit at the Museum of Play on Wednesday. And who told you it was okay to pack the shorties up and go home. And that it was also necessary to go to the chocolate store before driving home. Tell her she's great, and also? Thanks for the visit today and bringing the tomatoes over so we could eat yummy tomato soup. (1/181)
  • Write the letter to the school district telling them you're homeschooling; another to Kindergarten teacher to let her know the decision to pull Miss O had nothing to do with her. (2/183)
  • Write a note to the ten people you admire most. I did this last Christmas. People were flattered. (10/193)
  • Mail a card anonymously. Don't put any ridiculous stuff in it like bomb threats, or powdery white stuff. Unless you're mailing it to somebody you really hate, in which case you should really consider how you feel about, you know, JAIL. (1/194)
  • Send a birthday card to one person a month for a year. You'll be doing way better than me, actually. I pretty much always forget people's birthdays unless a) I pushed them out of my body; b) I sleep with them; c) they are my sibling, or a sibling of someone I sleep with; d) they are a grandparent to someone I pushed out of my body; e) they have the same birthday as me. (12/206)
  • Have another baby and send birth announcements to, oh, say, 44 people. (44/250)
Well, looky there. Using my eleven step plan, you, too, can use up your 250 free greeting cards.

Here's what to do:
  1. Leave me a comment telling me one way you would use some free, custom greeting cards. This entry is mandatory. If you do not do this, nothing else matters. Kind of like Metallica.
  2. Follow my blog via Google Friend Connect.
  3. Send me dark chocolate. Really good dark chocolate. Bad dark chocolate will be fed to the neighbor's dog. Chocolate must be received by September 3rd in order to count as an entry.
  4. Babysit my kids for an evening for 15 extra entries. What? Me and The Mister need to have sex a date.
There will be TWO WINNERS!!! Each winner will receive an email coupon code for the following:
  • 250 5"x7" Half-Fold Greeting Cards, 10 pt cover in matte or glossy finish
  • Full color outside, blank inside
The winners must be from the good ol' USofA, and the winner must pay the postage. You know I'm a bleeding heart liberal and I'd love, love, love to give all kinds of free things to people of every nationality, but that's just not how this contest, or the world, works.

Comments close September 3, 2009, at 9 pm, and a winner will be chosen at 9:01 pm, or when I get around to it. Please include your email address in your comment so that I can congratulate you.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

fairy tale

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She wasn't that little really, about 15 years old... old enough to know better, young enough to do it anyway. You know the age.

She was lovely, I imagine. It is a fairy tale, right? I can imagine. Blue eyes, brown hair, a good Catholic girl.

A good Catholic girl with a secret. I know that's not very fairy tale-ish, to have a Catholic girl with a secret, but it's my fairy tale, damn it, and I'll tell it how I please.

The secret was buried deep inside her, planted there, and just like anything else, the pressure from a secret grows and grows, and eventually everybody knows that there's a secret and eventually-eventually everybody figures out what the secret is. And that is just what happened to the little girl. She kept her secret, but the heavy burden that it was built up inside her, and just as she felt she was ready to explode from the weight and stress and the general gravity of the situation...

Can you even imagine what the little girl did?

She got a little help. She found out that everything was going to be okay, at least they promised her that eventually she would be okay, she would get over it. Something behind the smile, hidden away in the eyes of the kind angel who assured her caused the little girl to wonder if this was the truth. She hoped the angel's words were more true than the look in the angel's eyes.

The secret was revealed to all who knew the little girl under bright, harsh lights, in a cold and sterile room. Absolutely everything was revealed.

The little girl thought she would stop feeling guilty. The former secret was whisked away, the traces of it folded up and discarded, everything was scrubbed and sanitized. No tangible trace of the secret remained.

More kind faces assured the little girl that everything had worked out in the best possible way, and something behind their smiles, hidden away deep in their eyes caused the painful throbbing in the girl's chest to echo throughout her entire self.

Time passed, and the little girl grew. Her secret faded away for some, but never for her.

And she remained nameless.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

growing up is hard to do. oooh. part deux: dear anonymous commentor

Dear Anonymous,

In the comments of growing up is hard to do. oooh. you said this:

Plenty of my friends have ignored my weaknesses, but my best friends have called me on them to my face. Maybe it takes a true friend to speak truth, even if its not what we want to hear. A fair-weather friend would just walk away, not confront.

I hear what you're saying, and I appreciate you bringing up these points. I have people in my life who ignore my many weaknesses, and I have a couple really good friends who sit me down and tell me what for when I need to be told what for.

I don't always like to hear about it when I suck, because most of the time I am aware I suck and have been struggling with it already. But I do my best to digest what I've been told, and to consider the other person's opinion.

And in this case? I did just that. I was so utterly shocked and surprised to hear the things that were being said to me, about me, that I had no idea how to respond. So I thought and mulled and pondered and considered and punctuated all of those activities with prayers. I had a conversation with two people who I know will tell me the truth under any circumstance, confidantes who I use as a bit of a compass when I'm having a tough time. I asked these two to please confirm or deny the statements the person had made to me, and both were in agreement that that I'm not who the person said I was.

I agree that a fair-weather friend would walk away and not confront. But at the same time, I believe that it is a waste of time to plead the case of my truthfulness to a jury that already believes I'm dishonest.

I'm not a liar, see? I told you I'm not a liar, using the same mouth from which I allegedly lie. Do you believe me now?

What's the point in that? Why would the person want to be friends with me if she thinks I'm dishonest? Why would I want to be friends with a person who thinks I'm dishonest? How is that ever going to be a healthy relationship?

I'm the kind of girl who can really beat a dead horse. Just ask The Mister. (No, he does not play the dead horse in any scenario, he just knows me.) One of my life lessons has been learning to stop beating the horse once it has died. And here? I'm pretty sure the horse is dead.

Is it being fair-weather to walk away? Is it self-preservation? Sometimes walking away is just that, walking away.

If you would like to discuss this further, leave a comment, or email me at thedaytontime (at) gmail (dot) com. Or give me a call...I say that because most of the time my anonymous comment-leavers know how to get me on the phone.

I appreciate everyone's comments and kind words, as one of the functions of this little corner of West Blogoslovakifornia is to help me work out my stuff.


this is how it is over here

my house is spotless, except when it's not picked up
my bathrooms sparkle, except after boys use it
I make a nutritious meal every night, except when we eat out
my children are not loud, except when they raise their voices
my laundry is always done, except when we wear clothes
my children obey the first time, except when they don't listen
the dishes are always clean, except when we use them
my toddler is potty trained, except when he wears a diaper
my spelling and grammar is perfect, except when I don't double check it
my children don't eat sugar, except when we have treats
we always use cloth diapers, except when we use disposables
my children cloths always match, except when they don't
my children always go to bed on time, except when they stay up late
we don't watch TV, except when we watch a movie
my children don't break dishes, except when they drop them
my children put their toys away, except when they leave them out
we read a bible story everyday, except when I forget
I never say anything wrong, except when I misspeak
I am never late, except when we're running behind
I am never stressed, except when I have too much to do
my marriage is perfect, except when I don't make it a priority
my children never act out in public, except when they are being unruly
there is no chaos in our house, except when we are home
I am put together everyday, except when I don't take a shower
my hair looks perfect, except when I have a bad hair day
my babies sleep through the night, except when they wake up to eat
my windows are clean, except when little fingers touch them
I always finish my to-do list each day, except when I don't get it done
I am not selfish, except when I put myself first

I live my life for Jesus
I love my family
I am a sinner
I am not perfect
I am a regular mama
I can not do it all on my own
I am learning everyday
I do not know everything
I am just like you
I am Pamela.

~Thanks for this bit of brilliance, Brittany!~

Friday, August 21, 2009

growing up is hard to do.oooh.

It's funny to me to realize that even as an adult, I'm still growing up.

Not funny-ha-ha, but more... never mind. You get this, I'm sure, and if you don't? Grow up. She says kindly.

I never really thought about growing up much after I went to college, because OBVIOUSLY I was grown up in college, and I had the hangover to prove it. Among other things--moving on. And I haven't really thought about how I've changed since getting married, or since I've become a mama... but of course I have.

I'm way more likely to look at myself with The Critical Glasses on, and to furrow up my brow at myself, shake my index finger at me, and point out the ninetyelevenBAZILLION ways I'm exactly the same as I was at age 6, 13, 15, 20... how I still say what I think without giving much consideration to the delivery, how I criticize easily (not just myself), the whole sarcasm element which has been highly refined and developed, but not lessened in any way.

I didn't realize that it would be so easy to grow apart from friends, and that is silly, really it is, because I've watched it happen more than once. Grow up = grow apart. Who knew?

And this is where I find myself, having grown apart from a person I was very good friends with...stop yourself right there, please, I'm not talking about The Mister. Thanks for worrying but it's not him....

We have been friends for a number of years, I considered her one of my two best friends. I'm not going to say much else about our relationship, because people I actually see on a day-to-day basis read this, and while I need to sort this out, y'all don't need to know who I'm talking about.

We made time to talk recently, as things have achieved such a level of discomfort. The first thing she said was that she didn't know why things were so weird between us; the second thing she said was that I'm two-faced.

It's been weeks, and I still can't reconcile those two statements. She told me that she couldn't figure out how I could describe someone as effing stupid to her, and then be nice to that person when I found myself face to face with them...him? her? I'm not being purposefully ambiguous here, to keep the identity of the allegedly effing stupid person a secret, it's just that the identity of the allegedly effing stupid person is a secret from me, too.

I will admit that calling someone effing stupid is not the right thing to do. But being nice to a person you find to be effing stupid? That is TOTALLY the right thing to do. That's part of being a proper adult, no?


I see her places, and I just can't even fake being glad to see her. I have never been called a liar before, well, except for in the sixth grade when I was on a lying tear, and totally worked all possible future lying out of my system.

There have been a couple instances where a person in my life has caused injury to my spirit, and this is one of them.

That one comment has prompted me to look back at our relationship and consider whether or not she actually ever knew me. On levels that are not really that important, I think maybe she did, but on deeper levels, I think she doesn't know me at all.

When I told her The Mister and I decided to have a fourth baby, she said, Why would you do that? You don't seem to like the ones you already have.

Hello, I'm Pamela.

I love my babies.

I don't lie.

The end.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

most bizarre child injury story of the week, right here on the dayton time

Miss O and Wee Man are playing soccer this summer. They are learning to dribble the ball, how to run without falling down, how to kick the little sphere-ish thing and not the other people... It's great. Really.

And turns out, it's also free, because our health insurance reimburses us for town sports teams. Thanks, health insurance people!

Anywhoo, the short people are having lots of fun running in a herd chasing balls playing soccer.

The Mister is on a show this week, so I'm spending my week running the short people here and there, mostly to tire them out so bedtime isn't a royal pain in my ass, and also to distract them from the fact that Big Pappy is out of town.

We don't actually call him Big Pappy. I was just trying it out. Unfortunately, it is weird to type the words Big Pappy, mostly it's weird to type Pappy. The official decision is to not go with the Big Pappy thing, or any other moniker with the word Pappy in it.

That's settled, then.

All that to say, I took all four babehs to the soccer practices at the same time by myself, and The Mister's mama met us there***THANKGOD***.

Because after the practice ended, and none of the short people (there are about 80 4-6 year olds playing) hurt any other short people, an odd, really out-of-place screaming happened. And the screaming continued, getting louder and louder.

Some little lamby-pie was screaming for his/her mama. Poor thing.

Wow. Look at that girl with the red face and stream of blood pouring out of her mouth. I wonder what...


Blood. From. The. Mouth. Pouring. On. Shirt. Spewing. Blood.

Have I ever mentioned that in every single nightmare I've ever had, I have bashed my face on a bathroom sink whilst brushing my teeth and all my teeth get knocked out and blood. from. the. mouth. pouring. on. shirt. spewing. blood.

I know, way to make this about me.

Last thing about me: my friend K from up the street came over, looked at Miss O, looked at me and said, Now is not a good time to pass out. Thanks. I was thinking that very thought myself, in between choking and gagging.

Did she get hit in the face with a ball? No.

Did she get kicked in the face with a foot? No.

Did she take a sip of water from her very average and not-at-all dangerous water bottle? Yes.

My kid. The one who knocked out her own tooth with a water bottle.

wordless wednesday: floating

Thursday, August 13, 2009

open book, schmopen book: the august edition

Jen (or jen, if you're jen) said, i'm dying to know the outcome of the goat-chicken crusade ... really. it may sound weird (and possibly pregnancy induced) but i layed/lied/lain ... stayed awake thinking about it the other night. in other words ... dying to know is not an understatement.

Well, Jenjen, she never called me back. And after consulting with my college pal Steve, who, for the record, was totally surprised I called the lady in the first place, and by the way, Steve-O, YES, I AM SORRY ABOUT THE DINGS IN YOUR TUBA, I know I haven't said so in seven or so years, but I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

Where was I? Right. The goat-chicken crusade. We are getting chickens, and waiting until next year to get a goat. The Mister knows a guy from work who is getting rid of his young (?) good layers (?). Sounds dirty, I know, but a) we're talking about chickens, and b) I like it.

k8mc said I would like to know how you came to the decision to start homeschooling.

Ah, yes, the homeschooling. Here's the short version: If anybody should have been a raging success at Kindergarten, it was Miss O. She had an amazing teacher, her BFF was in the class, she loves schoolish things. But she used up every ounce of good at school and was miserable from the time she got home until the time she got to school the next day. She is a brilliant child who deserves so much more than to be stressed out and exhausted all the time. So we pulled her out.

And for all of you homeschool haters out there, who want to know how I'm qualified to provide my child with an education, here's this: I'M A CERTIFIED TEACHER. SO SHUT IT.

Hanna said, I would like to know if ma vajaja will ever heal after that hellish episode in which my son made his exit? Cause at the moment I feel like I am going to be broken FOR-EV-RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!! Thanks.

Ummm, yeah, Hanna? You've done this twice before. Your girly places are pretty much elastic, even if they have nylon thread holding them together. Put on your big girl pants and do some Kegels, everything will be just fine. And them there Kegel exercises might be more exciting than you think.

Anonymous, aka Vanessa, said, is the dayton baby making factory going to be operating in the future or have has the shut down and lay offs happened? And then she said, i ask because you are just my favorite mom and you have the cutest kids...besides it is great seeing the Mister in his father role!

Anonynessa is a lovely lady, and not in the Les Miserables sense, who was friends with The Mister before I was around. And at one time, she wanted to knock my bitchass down. But now she likes me, because if she thought I needed knocking down, she'd'a done it by now.

There have been no permanent measures taken. And the only shut down happens when we are just too freaking tired to even roll over. I KNOW!!!! We *are* boring.

Or else I'm just totally lying to you all through my knocked-up pregnant lady teeth. You'll never know.

Finally, @evyready dm'ed me this message on Twitter: Can you tell me if there is still a company in Mansfield called Lube Depot? Just curious thanks.

I have consulted The Googles, Great and Powerful Knowers of Things and Stuffs, and from results 1-10 out of about 887,000, it would seem that there is no Lube Depot in Mansfield.

Really, I have no idea what this has to do with me at all. I would love to tell a witty story about that one time at band camp in Mansfield, but I'm tired, and I can't make crap like that up at this hour of the day. Also, The Mister needs to do some audio editing on this computer, and I told him I was only going to look up how to deal with diapers that are repelling, and here I am finishing my post. I suck.

Monday, August 10, 2009

out in the wilderness

Lately, I have been feeling like my life is really quite a lot to deal with. So much, in fact, that it has severely impacted my ability to not end a sentence with a preposition.

I'm here, doing what I do, all of the ninetyelevenmillionbazillion things I do, and it's like the autopilot has taken over and even though I'm kneading the bread, I don't really feel the dough. I nurse the baby, and don't quite soak up his milky grins.

I don't know how to slow down, how to even locate the pause button to freeze-frame a moment, how to plug myself in more than I already am so that I feel my life a little bit more.

Detached. I'm detached.

I have a protective, colorful candy shell, and it does its job by keeping me from melting all over everybody's hands, which is great and all, and it keeps everybody from melting all over me, which has its benefits, believe me, but I'm still in a shell. And really, there's nothing remotely edible about a 32 year-old candy shell.

Not that I want you to eat my shell. Don't be weird.

I went to the Women of Faith conference in June, and while most of it was a colossal shiny commercial for the BOOKS!!! and CDs!!! and OTHER CRAP!!! that was for sale, I was struck by one of the speakers' talks. She mentioned how, due to an unusual childhood, she had constructed for herself a shell, and she just did not relate to others the way most people related to one another.

My therapist told me it was because I'm a really high functioner, and that I built my shell out of a need to be able to be. And he was right. I am a high functioner, I can do a lot of things at once, and for a long time, and not choke.

Except I'm finding this shell thing to be debilitating. I don't really like it, but I need it; most of the time I don't need much at all, others? Well, I need a whole. freaking. lot. of shell.

I need to do some sorting, but there's always actual work to be done. The whole pile of stuff from being a mama and wife and the general Boss of Things around here. I struggle to keep my house semi-presentable, my short people clean(ish) and fed, other commitments fulfilled.

But I want to be the one who is fulfilled. I really think that my life is fulfilling, but I want to feel fulfilled. I want to be satisfied at the end of the day and I just never am. I always see the missteps, the unfinished, the lost temper, the unreasonable. I want so badly to feel something other than tired and alone and believe me, I'm know that I'm really not alone, because how could I possibly ever be alone with five other people in the house with me all freaking day long every day of the year?

There's no good, coherent ending for this post. Oh, how I wish there was! And ending where the unknown fulfillment reveals himself to the cute girl at the end of the movie and it turns out she always had the fulfillment in her life, she just didn't realize what it felt like to hold the fulfillment and make out with it in the park while fulfillment's dog jumped up on them.

I hope feeling fulfilled has nothing to do with having a dog.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

i'm so tired i forgot to title this post the first time i published it. but my sofa doesn't smell like pee, so i'm calling it a draw.

I have recently found myself in a number of situations in which my wine glass is continually being filled. This is all well and good, and especially enjoyable when the wine has a lovely bouquet, and fills my nostrils and soft palate with the scent of fruits and berries and things that do not stink of an oaken barrel. Because too much oak = eeeewwww.

You can feel free to make a case for oak barrels, but I will just tell you up front, I am having none of it.

Last night I walked Neighbor Kid home, and got flagged down by another neighbor (neither of said neighbors is Halloween Shenanigans Neighbor), and invited in to chat. And also to enjoy an apparently bottomless vat of wine.

Big fun.

Until my punishment was doled out this morning, beginning around 5:17. Yes, the 5:17 that I never, ever, ever experience. I woke up with Fuzzy Mouth, so I got up, brushed the teeth, drank some water, applied peppermint oil to my angry temples, and went back to bed. I laid there, wide awake, for an hour.

Except for when The Mister's alarms were beeping and squawking loudly. Then I was dozing. I was dozing and he was hitting the snooze buttons on whichever devices are now my mortal enemies. Freaking technology beeping thingys.

The Mister got up for work and HB climbed into bed. His opening comment was, Mama, I told you the other day I do not like those underwears you have on. For the record, I do not wear my underwears multiple days. The kid just doesn't appreciate a good paisley pattern.

We were up for the day, watching TOY STORY (before coffee, y'all) at 6:23.

Wee Man was up just after seven. His opening comment? I want a new mommy. As it happens, the child actually wants TWO mommies, and was really disappointed when I said that some kids have two mommies, but he just gets a mama and a daddy.

SOMETIMES LIFE JUST SUCKS, KID. LEARN THE LESSON EARLY. But by early, I didn't really mean seven in the morning.

I know I shouldn't complain about watching the sun come up, but really, people, I am NOT a morning person. I dream about sleeping in. I salivate at the very thought of sleeping overnight in my own bed with no children in the house. Really, I'm wiping my chin right now.

Hours and hours later, Neighbor Kid and her whole famdamily came over for the long awaited Lemonade Stand. I made a sign for the end of our street. It said CUTE KIDS. LEMONADE. There was also an arrow pointing to our house. I am a marketing genius.

As it happens, Lemonade Stands, even when operated by very clever cute kids, are a high maintenance sort of situation. Beware the Lemonade Stand.

And if six children screaming BUY LEMONADE wasn't enough to make me spike the contents of my red plastic cup, Team Kirby showed up, wanting to deep clean my carpets.

Hi, Team Kirby, meet my friend HARDWOOD FLOOR.

The enthusiastic salesman offered to clean my sofa and a chair.

Hello, Mr. Enthusiasm. Meet my two sofas, and notice that I don't actually have a chair.

He offered to clean my two sofas.

I asked if he could get the pee out of the sofas, as the sofa is the second most favorite place to pee. The maple tree in our front yard, right by the road, trousers dropped, cheeks to the road, is the number one most favored place to go.

Mr. Enthusiasm himself didn't actually clean my sofas. Mr. Sweaty Ghetto Talker cleaned them, and wanted to show me all the pretty and shiny things.

After shutting down the pitch four or five times, I said, Please listen to me. There is absolutely no way I am going to purchase anything from you. I'm only in this for the free sofa cleaning. I'm having people over for dinner, and my baby is screaming because he's starving, and my kids are dumping lemonade on each other. I cannot and will not talk about your pretty vacuum cleaner.

A half-hour later, he packed up his things and left. He didn't even say goodbye. But I have two REALLY clean couches to remember him by.

And I will enjoy those things for the next five minutes. Because that is how long they will remain clean.

wordless wednesday: so long, bandanna

Monday, August 3, 2009

well, great. and also more open book, schmopen book.

I am hungry. I know you were dying to know that, which is why I told you. I think I'm hungry for macaroni and cheese, but the good, homemade kind, not the orange fake cheese kind from a box.

This next little story is difficult to tell, because there is a bit of explanation involved. Hang in there. You can do it.

I read Jenny, The Bloggess. She is hilarious, but not in a G-rated, wow-let's-read-this-with-our-parents way. In a wrong, twisted, possibly cracked-out sort of way. So don't go there if you know your undies get bunched when you read things that are possibly crack-induced.

Every day, Jenny chooses the most wacky, cracked-out comment as the comment of the day. She posts the comment of the day at the bottom of the post, and links up with whoever had their superclever crack pants on.

Well, people, on Saint Patty's Day? I had my superclever crack pants on. And just yesterday I noticed that I had written the comment of the day.

The point here: Please know that I do not pour acid on my husband.

I'm a little short on material lately, being a BlogHer Non-attendee, and I'm okay with that. We're taking a little, er, wee trip to the Highland Games in the near future, and you know that drunk men in skirts are blog fodder. Fo sho. And extraspecially if it happens to be your own personal buzzy Mister?

I feel like I need to learn how to blog from my phone.

Please do not leave instructions in the comments. Really. Thank you.


Please DO leave me your deepest most probing questions in the comments, for Open Book, Schmopen Book: The August Edition.

If you're new here, Open Book, Schmopen Book is where I answer your deepest most probing questions about everything here in Daytonia. Or wherever it is that I live. And good news, people, I answer every question if I want to!

And more good news, people!!!! Usually I want to!!!

So ask questions.
The end.