the big two-oh-oh

I've been thinking about this Two Hundredth Post. As if it's a big deal. And I'm thinking maybe it's not. There are lots of other Big Deal Things going on around here, and despite the great week it's been statistically here in blog-o-land, it doesn't fall into the Big Deal category.

So what's a big deal?

HB has a broken finger. Wee Man slammed it in Miss O's bedroom door (just havin' fun, mama, I sowwy Henny, no more cwyin'). The tip of his right hand middle finger was fractured, although babies heal so quickly the bone is probably completely mended by now. The nail on that finger... not so much. It was white like the freshly fallen snow. So gross. But then one day, after he had been splashing in a filthy puddle, I scrubbed him up with some wipes. And ripped the fingernail almost completely off. Because I can be an ass sometimes. I was overcome with guilt and waves of nausea. It was awful.

The upside? (As if there's really an upside when you have a broken baby, but I say take it where you can get it.) There's a new Nurse Practitioner at our doctor's office, and he is Pretty. Not pretty in a sort of mockery sort of way, but pretty as in, Can I schedule an appointment with A____ because, well, just because, that's why. Who's the patient? Well, there's five of us, so just pick one. Ummm, ma'am, is someone ill? Oh, never mind. I'll just look at the pictures on my cell phone.

I do not actually stalk the Nurse Practitioner. Or photograph without his permission. But I did consider bringing along my real camera and asking him if I could blog about him. And then I decided that he would call the police. And I've had enough of that for one year.

Note to self: Call the doc and congratulate her on her excellent choice in employees.

What else is a big deal? The Mister has a musical this week.

Translation: In addition to working 65 hour weeks for the Dictator Extraordinaire building pole barns, he will be working at least 40 hours on Jesus Christ Superstar. Or some other Lloyd Webber pukesterpiece. It's all Superstar to me, man. (Insert gavomit here.)

Additional translation: While we are still married, and pleased to be so, it will be as if we are two ships, who never actually dock in the same port at the same time, ever. The children will be zombies, running all over the house roaring, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY DADDY?!?!?!?, as if I have taken the liberty of hiding him under the sofa, or in the closet under the towels. It is going to be MAD FUN.

Let me think, what else is a big deal? Oh right. I've been kindasortareally pissed at God this week. There are a number of things on my Bucket List, also known as What He And I Are Going To Discuss When I Kick The Bucket, and some of them have been bugging me lately, but mostly I am annoyed by life in general. We had a sermon a few weeks ago, and our pastor talked all about how serving God brings awesome peace in your life. Maybe that wasn't what the WHOLE THING was about, but that line stuck in my head. And pissed me off.

And that same week, one of the worship tunes was one based on the Jeremiah scripture, "And I know the plans I have for you...good things, not bad things, nothing that will harm you..." (That is obviously paraphrased.) Really? There's a plan for me? Outside of this whole low-level functioning thing that's going on right now? Because I'm thinking you're pulling my leg.

Miss O. would say, You are doing the sarcasm, aren't you? But she would be SAYING. Not ASKING. Because she knows.

The Mister and I are working really hard to be good parents, and he works himself ragged for The Dictator Extraordinaire building barns, and we pay our bills on time, and love each other and our kids, and we are tapped out. We're so tired that sometimes we can't even have a conversation, some days it doesn't occur to me to ask him how his day was. And I'm not really finding the peace in this situation.

I do a lot of things for other people. I'm not shining my helper badge or anything, that's just something I do. Okay, I am a little bit compulsive about it, but I have been working on being selective and saying no, and blah, blah, blah. But I'm pretty much done with other people, because I just don't have anything to pour out. There's a season for everything under heaven, the Book says, and let me say this: IT IS THE SEASON FOR SOMEBODY OR EVERYBODY TO POUR INTO ME. Dammit.

So bring me your urns, full of loving, beer, pasta, chocolate, and other high-carb treats. Massage my feet and take my children to the playground because Lord knows I'm too tired to walk there, and the thought of buckling them all into their respective restraints is overwhelming. Fluff my pillows, heck, wash my sheets, that'd be great. Tuck me in bed for a week with my Jane Austen anthology, and pretend you think I'll read it instead of sleeping. Turn my phone off, or just hide it with my husband under the sofa. And if you wanted to clean my house, I promise I would let you.

i should have done this months ago

Sometimes I am an ass.

Here is a little story to confirm that for you.

Once upon a time, back on March 5, I got a ticket for having an expired inspection sticker on my minivan hotsy sports car. I also did not have my driver's license with me at the time I was pulled over. Thankfully, Officer PoPoPants overlooked that little detail and didn't include that on my ticket.

I put the ticket in averysafeplace.

I wrote brilliant haiku about the incident.

I had my car inspected theverynextday.

In my head, I had taken care of the incident, meaning Lack of Inspection Sticker, and took the liberty of moving on with my life.

Except Not So Much, says the Great State of New York.

Last week I received correspondence in my PO Box from The Great State of New York that said this: You are a complete moron, you lousy Failure-To-Show-Up-To-Court-Or-Answer-Your-Ticket Law Evader. Hear this, O, Irresponsible One, we are going to SUSPEND YOUR LICENSE ON AUGUST 16, 2008, if you do not go to court IMMEDIATELY!!!!!

Naturally I was flabbergasted. Right. I got a ticket. Six months ago. Probably should not have put it in averysafeplace. That ticket is safer than Fort Knox. Because people know where Fort Knox is.

So I called the court, and was placed on the schedule, and even actually arrived on time to court. Then I sat and waited for two hours whilst District Attorney Day happened. District Attorney Day is (duh) when the DA visits the local courts and prosecutes the snot out of people who do REALLY stupid things. As opposed to mildly stupid things like having an outdated inspection sticker on your minivan hotsy sports car. For four months. And then forgetting you got a ticket. For six months.

Aaaaaanyway.

I was feeling like a complete and utter ass. Until Rodney Randall Redneck (not his real name) stepped up to the plate. The DA was finished, all the attorneys cleared the room, and Rodney Randall Redneck was called to stand before the judge.

Rodney Randall Redneck was charged with aggravated unlicensed operation and having non-transparent windows. The aggravated unlicensed operation charge is a misdemeanor, and if he plead guilty, it would be on his driving record forever, or until he died, whichever happens first. His license was suspended for not answering tickets in three, count 'em, THREE other municipalities. (Good work, Rodney!) The judge suggested to Rodney that he go to the other three towns and get those outstanding tickets cleared up and come back later to answer these latest charges. Because then he could plead the new charges to smaller charges, that would not be on his record until he died.

Rodney declined the judge's benevolent offer, saying he didn't have time because he had to go to family court the next day so he could be awarded full custody of his daughter.

At this point, I realized my mouth was exceedingly dry. Because it had been hanging open for such a long time, that's why.

The kindly, must-be-used-to-this judge rephrased the offer. Clever Rodney turned her down again.

Let's take this moment to stand and applaud Wyoming County Family Court for awarding sole custody of a child to a clever, responsible person like Rodney Randall Redneck. Good job!

He paid his fines ($475, including court surcharges), and went his merry way.

Feeling better about myself as I walked up to the Naughty Table, I pled guilty, was fined and threatened with a civil case against me, and left. This morning I went back to see the judge with a small handful of cash, and finished the whole business once and for all.

That is, unless the DMV forgets to process the paperwork that says I've been a good girl, and I get arrested the next time I get pulled over. That'd be awesome.

(untitled)

The Wee Man has been climbing into bed with me at stupid o'clock in the morning, and by stupid o'clock, I mean an hour that has a single number in its name.

Oh stop. Be real. You know a one-numbered A.M. hour is one that should involve sleeping. Seriously.

Today he crawled in, lifted up the covers and let in all the cold air, got snuggled down, all the while clutching Beloved (THE blanket) and sucking his thumb furiously.

This meant, praise God from Whom all blessings flow, that he was going to go back to sleep.

He slid his head across the pillow until we were forehead to bleary forehead. (That'd be me, the bleary one, at stupid o'clock in the morning.)

Mama, why are we so close together?

After contemplating numerous reasons that included torture, Murphy's Law, wanting me to never sleep soundly again, I put my Grown Up Pants on and said, Because we love each other.

And that sweet boy fell asleep instantly, with the happiest grin a furious thumb-sucker could muster.

good news, people

The New York Times published a wonderful article in this morning's paper extolling the virtues of my Most Favored Legal Addictive Stimulant.

Read it. No, wait, make yourself a cuppacoffee, and then read it. Your body will thank you.

(bump) kissing and telling

You know me and my legal addictive stimulants...I couldn't pass this contest up over at Scribbit. Because FREE COFFEE, PEOPLE!!! Thanks for letting me recycle. I'm such a girl for coffee.

It has slowly come upon us, the way darkness creeps up on the day. Like the way you notice, five minutes after the baby comes into the room, that he has filled his pants. The way a blonde gets a joke.

Miss O has discovered... GASP!!!! ... boys.

I know that kids these days are getting older sooner. All you mathematical geniuses out there can keep your mathematical factoids to yourself here, I'm SOOOOO not talking numbers. But for Pete's sake and crying out loud, the child is five. And almost a half. She would have you know that, because it's Important Information.

It started in the three year-old preschool class with Jack C. He is the nicest boy. True. He is __________ (standard four year-old person's compliment to another four year-old, you fill in the blank). Also probably true. And for the record, that kid has the awesomest hair evah. I'm going to marry Jack C.

HELL'S to the NO, BATGIRL!

There will be no MARRYING! There will be no BOYS!!! WHAT THE HECK are you thinking? That you will be GROWING UP or something?

Good God Almighty, why isn't this child still fourteen months old? HOW DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN, MISTER GOD?

But I digress.

We recently made a stop at the home of a Lovely Lady I know, so that The Mister could give Manly Advice About Fixing Up The Home. Naturally we sent the children out to the back yard for a nice game of Run Like Crazies and Scream Yourself Hoarse.

Blah, blah, blah...men talking about things like solder (which is pronounced sodder, fyi, I know, The Dayton Time is also known as Handy Information Time), and plaster and lath, and copper plumbing... YAWN.

The Mister eventually tore himself away from all this terribly exciting, umm, yawning, and called for the team to get in the car. I know it seems like I am changing the subject here, but just stick with me.

Miss O came dancing down the driveway, blushing like a Georgia Peach, and whispered into her Daddy's ear, I just kissed a boy.

The Mister's eyes got big and he grinned like, well, I'm not really sure like what, I've never actually seen that exact expression on his face before. He finally recovered enough to help buckle the team into their restraints (it sounds so much more serious than car seats, doesn't it?), and we got the heck out of Dodge.

We like Dodge, we swear, but sometimes when your fourteen month old five year-old is on a kissing spree, you just need to run away fast.

Miss O, which boy did you kiss?

A nice one. He's twelve.

(Oh Lord. Please don't make me have the Easy conversation with my five year-old daughter. Thankyouverymuch and amen. By the way, the weather's been awesome and my garden is doing great, so thanks for that too. You rock.)

Miss O, it is really important for you to only kiss boys who are very special to you. You can't be running around kissing just anybody. You need to at least know his name (so we can beat him later, ha!)

His name is Mike.

Awesome. Can I just say I have kissed on a Mike and it did not go all that well? I mean, the kissing was fine, but he just wanted to Get In My Pants and he was cute and all but you just can't have boys In Your Pants At Sixteen, OR FIVE POINT FIVE. And I'll give that Mike some credit, because he kissed me A FREAKING LOT in order to Get In My Pants, and for the record his efforts produced nothing but blueberries, and he was only three years older (at that time) than the Dirty Twelve Year-Old Mike that my baby was kissing on.

*deep breath*

That is not to say there was The Getting In Of Pants, or any sort of Making Out Nonsense, but OH DEAR LORD, THERE WILL BE!!!!

*deep breath*

*deep breath*

*deep breath*

That whole breathing deeply thing is for the birds. Well, look at the clock, it's time for booze. Because what else can you do when your baby is kissing boys?

the family farm

This is almost how it began. Raised beds.
Planted, covered with straw, not hay.

Hay = bad.

The sides of each bed were planted with Red Clover seed.

It's nitrogen-fixing and stuff.

Nitrogen-fixing = good.

This isn't actually IN the garden.

But, just so you know, we have grapevines.

But not enough to make enough wine.

Drat.

The Swiss Chard.
Is.
Yummy and pretty.

Autumn Beauty Sunflowers.

One of the onions grew a flower.
Neato.

The corn.
It's Silver Queen, if that means anything to you.
It means Super Yum to me.

This is not in the garden, either.
Well, it's in my Front Yard Garden.
If you want to be picky and stuff.

Not ripe tomatoes.

Ripe tomato.

Notice the lack of the plural form.

Almost a zinnia.

Actually a zinnia.

Mammoth Dill.
It's getting to be mammoth.
Almost as mammoth as moi.

Cabbage.
As if we don't have enough gas without it.
In this time of inflation, we can all appreciate cheap, clean gas.
It's all about economy, baby.
Or yummy cabbage fried in butter.
You decide.

Beets, oh beets.

How I do love thee.

Peas.

Right. That'd be more peas.
Because you can't really have enough of those guys.

Howden pumpkin flower.

Howden Pumpkin.

Not an actual dead animal.
However, every time I almost step on it, I throw up a little.
Because usually when I almost step on something,
it's actually a dead animal.
Thanks, kitties.

The End.

fun giveaway...

The gals over at The Secret is in the Sauce are sharing the secret... and giving away a SWEET Apple 4G silver iPod Nano. And all I have to do to win is tell y'all here on myveryown blog.

And then the next thing I have to do is be chosen by the Random Number Generator... whatever, no big deal, I totally know this guy in Vegas who has those sorts of things all figured out. Just last week, he and a few friends figured out a way to get the security codes of a few casinos owned by the guy who is dating his ex-wife, and then he figured out a way to break in to the casinos' shared vault, and even made some tiny explosion happen that tripped the power for the whole city just long enough to get the whole caper carried off. It was awesome. Then he and his pals just WALKED OUT OF THE CASINO with the money, bazillions of dollars, really, in giant black duffel bags.

So Random Number Generator? Whatever. I am totally the winner.