lesson of the week: new york is not all city

Take a deep breath, people, because this might be a tough one. Very nearly every person I meet who a) is not a New York State resident, or b) has ever been to New York City but nowheres else in the state, says,

You're from New York? You don't seem like a city girl.

Or

You're from New York? And you have a yard?

Or

What do you mean you're 10 miles from a grocery store? You're from New York! There's one on every corner!

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears. And eyes.

Exhibit A: Niagara Falls.

This is in New York State, but not the City, and is pretty much the farthest point in the state away from the City.

Exhibit B: Adirondack Park.

You're pretty much not allowed to have a city here. Or you'll go to jail. The Indians should have thought that one over years ago. Just think how nice Long Island could be. Alas.

Exhibit C: Letchworth State Park.

Made the list of Top 100 Places to Camp in the Whole of America. Also known as The Grand Canyon of The East. Super sweet. And you can actually take a ride in a hot air balloon over the Gorge. If you're into That Sort Of Thing. And also, not in The City.

Exhibit D: The New York State Thruway.

If you need to go to the city, you can hop on this road. And drive east until you die. Because that's how long it takes to get to New York City from Where I Live. Especially if you are driving with any number of children that is greater than one (1) infant.

The Dayton Time. I make you suffer through the steep, upward slope that is my Photoshop learning curve. That should say, It is the World's Longest Toll Road. New York State: We make you pay. And the letters? That is what every option in my last eye exam looked like.

Exhibit E: The Farmland is the Best On The Planet.

This is a documented truth, but you can go verify it for yourveryownself if you are That Sort Of Person. Or you could just trust me on this one. I am batting my eyes very believeableish right now, people.

Exhibit F: The Finger Lakes Region.

It's lovely. There is a winery on every corner.

And that is why Upstate New York is better than The City.

The End.

apparently i need a day off

I don't want you to be bored, or sad, or feeling like I don't love you any more. But I happened to notice on The Mister's little blog-a-doo that I have issues and I? Must. Go. To. Target.

Seeyabye.

Oh wait, I got all distracted thinking about Target and forgot to tell you to read about my issues.

Okay Tarzhay. Seeyabye.

et cetera, and the line

Item 1-Regarding yesterday's brief post: The backhoe, and by backhoe, I mean The Best Birthday Present Ever Effing Backhoe is not put together. The scoop part is attached to the body. But thanks to a certain three year-old, who happens to LOVE to work and to help, a part found itself missing. After looking for the part for two hours, and enlisting the help of The Mister's Parents, we came to the conclusion that we had lost two hours of our lives that we will never get back. That's SIX HOURS of lifetime wasted. And one plastic part that walks free. Bastard part.

But the best/worst part of the Bastard Part Story? The Mister came home, read the wordless directions (and please don't even get me started on the whole Wordless Directions Thing), and determined that the Six Hours Of Wasted Lifetime Bastard Part was? Cosmetic. Only. Not. Necessary.

Pardon me for a minute whilst I go bash my head on the nearest wall...

That's better, thankyouverymuch.

I possibly will maybe put the rest of the Thing together this afternoon. Possibly maybe not.

Item 2-Regarding the Alcohol In My Life and On My Blog: There is more alcohol on my blog than in my life. My first pregnancy pretty much ruined alcohol for me, and since I've been knocked and/or nursing continuously since September, 2004, I joke about drinking. Let's pause whilst I do the math to inform you of the number of years, days, and months since my body has been The Mister's my own.

Three years and ten months.

Forty-six months.

Two hundred seven weeks.

One thousand, three hundred eighty days.

Thirty-three thousand, one hundred twenty hours.

One million, nine hundred eighty-seven thousand, two hundred minutes.

Approximately. Because who's counting?

Aaaaaaaanyway.

When I drink (infrequently), I enjoy Guinness, Yuengling Porter, or Maker's Mark Whiskey. In small quantities, and not consumed with the intention of cultivating a buzz or being drunk. There is a family history of alcoholism on both sides of my family, and while I am adopted, the environmental factors of growing up with alcoholics make just as much of an impact as the genetic factors. I am too smart for that. Now. I am too smart for that now.

And really, caffeine is my Legal Addictive Stimulant of choice. I foshizzle do not need any depressants in my life. Moving on.

Item 3-Regarding The Line, and My Distance From It: There are days. We all have had them, when we wake up and the world feels more like a golf ball than a big ol' planet, and there's not enought space and not enough patience and not enough room to breathe or think or step back from The Line. And nobody can say the right thing. Nobody behaves properly. Nobody listens. And maybe there's a book that Somebody left sitting on the kitchen table, for the 657,984,321,897th time, and maybe the book gets picked up and thrown at the wall. And maybe the dishes don't fit real nice-like in the dishwasher, and the little bowl-separator thingy that can be moved for convenience's sake will not stay in place, and maybe instead of acting like a sane person, the bowls get slammed around in the dishwasher whilst the bowl-slammer shouts made-up curse words at nobody in particular. And maybe Somebody left a half-eaten apple sitting on the purple velvet sofa, and refused to put said half-eaten apple in the compost bin, or the filthy shirt in the washer. And maybe Somebody else refuses to clean up theirveryown mess, or put theirveryown laundry away, or won't stop. Won't stop doing what? It doesn't matter. They just won't stop.

And instead of The Line appearing in its normal state, a four-foot wide banner of red, with STOP!!! painted in humongo black letters, again and again down the length of it, The Line is a tightrope. It is the tightrope on which I am riding a unicycle, with my children and my husband wrestling together on my head, whilst I juggle lit sticks of dynamite thrown to me by clowns.

And that, people, is really bad news, because I couldn't ride a unicycle on the ground. And if my family were actually standing on my head, my neck would be broken instantly. And juggling? ANY juggling? Forget about it. And don't get me started on clowns, either.

I have not been observing The Line today. I called a couple people to come over, help me pull it together, and I think they thought I was kidding. So I'm here, in my house, with my sweet children. Sweet, possibly frightened children who are pretty much convinced their mommy's a nutjob.

And I feel like shit about it. I know how to be the better parent. I know how to act like an adult. I am not making excuses for myself; I was not able to do those things today. Physically, mentally, completely unable.

I love my home, my husband, my kids, but it's all so messy, and the mess is making me nuts. I am crap at organizing, and everyone in my house refuses to get rid of anything, and we still have stuff that belonged to The Mister's Grandparents that was here when we moved in. Stuff that hasn't been touched in years.

I really hate it here sometimes. Really, really. There is chaos everywhere I look. I folded and put away laundry for two hours today, and you'd never know by the way it looks. I can't even take care of the laundry, let alone the bag of LoopLoops HB spilled on the living room rug.

I don't have a good closing for this, a happy ending, or any ending for that matter. I'm going outside. To sit in my garden, where there is no chaos. And I am not going to listen to the team of voices on The Other Side Of The Line, urging me to fail again.

oh dear, i'm about to lose my mind

This came today:

Except it doesn't look like this, and thankfully, the Boy In Orange is not attached to it.

It looks like the Boy In Orange took a screwdriver and dismantled the whole blasted thing.

The Dayton Time needs a hero.

I. AM. THAT. HERO!!!!

Look out, pile of parts. I am going to undismantle you. Or throw you across the yard whilst cursing your very existence. Either way, I'm getting a beer now. Just so's I'm ready for what's about to happen.

happy birthday, wee man!

Happy third birthday, bud.

I remember the night before you were born. I tucked Miss O in her bed, read her stories, and as soon as I walked out her bedroom door I burst into tears. You see, that was the last time it was going to be just the three of us. I was sad because I'd never have the chance again to sit with her as long as she wanted me to, because there'd be another person to care for.

What was I ever worried about?

You are such a wonderful, happy child. You are the wise soul who can find fun in almost any situation. You are the silly soul who can reduce others to tears...of laughter...at the drop of a hat.

You are the master of physical comedy.

You charm the pants off everyone you meet. (I sortakinda hope you grow out of this one, it could be a problem later on in life. And I know you don't know what I mean right now, but one day you will.)

You peed your pants whilst sitting in this crate of gourds.
We totally pretended we didn't know.

You are an awesome helper. You love to work. You live to work. The best part is, you work and help with a cheery disposition. Are you the new PollyAnna? You know, except for the whole boy thing?

You mug like a professional.

Again, with the mugging.

And riding the trike? You rock.

I hope you like your presents, and the dinner you chose: steak, steak sauce (it is its own item), carrots, broccoli, olives, and white rice. Also ice cream sandwiches, sweeties, and cake.

The best present ever.

listen to the funny lady

Someone actually said this, about me, in my presence, to a child today. Out loud and everything. No sotto voce for him. Then he lied and said I was on Saturday Night Live. As if. They can't afford me. But I would totally boost ratings.

And the children listened. And obeyed. And The Funny Lady regaled them with stories of Knocking Down Walls With Sledgehammers, and Not Being Allowed To Actually Ever Touch An Actual Hammer, and How To Get Grownups To Give Money, and How You Should Never, Ever Turn Down Free Doughnuts. You know, Life Lessons.

I had forgotten how much children between the ages of five and ten LOVE the word toilet. LOVELOVELOVELOVELOVELOVE toilet. I can't even think of a way to describe how much joy and pleasure is brought to that demographic by saying the simple word toilet.

But first, I must back up and explain how I came to be discussing toilets with children to whom I did not birth myveryownself, in a church, at Vacation Bible School. It's all very natural, I swear. They invited me. I was the guest speaker. So, obviously I talked about toilets. Because what else do you talk about with other people's children, in church, at Vacation Bible School? Exactly. TOILETS!!!!

All of the VBS's I know about have a time during the experience devoted to missions. This community wisely chose Habitat for Humanity of Genesee County. Clever folks. My directions were this:

The focus of the talk is to be a brief overview of Habitat in Genesee County with some personal reflection on why volunteering with Habitat is so important to the speaker. The faith aspect of the organization is certainly appropriate to discuss. The goal of the week is to give the kids a sense of the breadth of volunteer opportunities as well as the personal satisfaction and strengthening of faith that comes from volunteering.

How we got to toilets: I was explaining how we rehab houses. We smash it all out and throw it in a dumpster, and then we put it all in brand new. Well, I didn't have them hooked. The boys were all sledgehammers, whatever, and the girls were all, eeeewwww, dirty, and I knew I had to reel 'em in real fast, or they'd swim away and I'd never get to eat them...oh wait, wrong story. Anyway. So I said, But we put the old nasty toilets back in the houses.

That got them.

After they were done being grossed out by themselves for peeing their drawers due to excessive laughter by my obviously false statement, they were like dancing monkeys in the palm of my hand. Except for that I would never, ever have any sort of nasty monkey in my hand. Especially dancing.

So I used TOILETS to keep their attention for the rest of the time, and talked about volunteering with a cheerful attitude and a happy heart in terms of TOILETS. They had a blast, and appreciated my natural flair for TOILET humour. And using TOILETS to educate the masses.

And, I will let it be known that the adult chaperones were? LAUGHING TOO.

Because?

TOILETS ARE FUNNY.

you must go now

So The Mister has a new blog that is his Daddy Blog.

And I feel that I owe it to him in light of this post and this post, to point you in his general direction so that you can ogle his fabulousness read his last two posts that proclaim his general fabulousness.

Be sure to let him know what a darling he is (read: leave the man a sweet comment about his sweetness).

Then come back here, and tell me all about how lovely my husband is, and how I totally hooked a good one, and for heaven's sake, why did I play such games with him?

what i've been up to lately

It has been a long weekend. And now it's Tuesday. Blech. How is it that it's Tuesday? Here's the short version.

Friday: The Mister's birthday, trip to the pub. And gardening, but that was in the morning.

Saturday: Stupid eye appointment, recovering from trip to the pub. And also, some gardening.

Sunday: Trip to visit Uncle Benna and Sarah. Weeded their garden.

Monday: Returned from Uncle Benna's...well, technically it was Monday... Recovered from trip to Uncle Benna's. Weeded my garden. I thinned the carrots, and got two big bunches like this:

And I dug up some lovely potatoes, picked five quart baskets of beans, and accidentally pulled three onions. They are in bed with the carrots, it sounds dirty, I know, and if you look at the carrots and potatoes, you'll see how very dirty they really are. I also picked a market basket of pickling cucumbers and some happy sugar snap peas. They weren't happy for long, though, because I ate them. Then I was happy.

Tuesday: Errands. Blech. Except for the Putting Money In The Bank Errand, and the Farmers' Market Errand, and the Watching The Short People Run Their Legs Off At The Playground Errand. I should have photographed the two oldest short people at the Farmers' Market. They were wearing riding helmets, Miss O was trotting around on her Unicorn Head On A Stick, and the Wee Man was taking out old ladies left and right with Penny, the Horse Head On A Stick. Despite the carnage, everyone thought they were adorable. And deadly. But mostly adorable.

Oh, and the Joke of the Day: Why did the skunk cross the road? Because that's where his dinner was!!!!! Bwahahahahaha!!!! Mommy, was that a funny joke? I think it was!!! The Parenting Question of the Day followed immediately behind the Joke of the Day: Does it make me a Good Mother to tell her it's funny? Or does it make me a Bad Mother? Because really, people, Jokes By Five Year-Olds pretty much aren't ever funny. Ever. Just believe me if you haven't experienced it yourself. Moving on.

The Locavores struck again at dinner tonight. We feasted on pork chops from the pig we (paid to have) raised (for us), potatoes from ourveryown backyard, heirloom green beans from the same ourveryown backyard, and corn grown by a farmer with whom I am on a first name basis. Hey, Paul! Thanks for the info hookup! He even advised me about some of my pathetic tomato plants. Because he's cool like that. We also enjoyed peach cobbler made from, of course, fresh, local peaches. So good.

I didn't get a picture, but during Happy Hour I made three batches of blueberry jam, and a double batch of bread and butter pickles. I like vinegar, but man, the stuff has a special odor.

There is vinegar in pickles. Just in case you were wondering where the Vinegar Train was going.

And finally, it was time to trim the hair of the Dayton Males. Allow me to introduce you to the Dayton Hawk Club. Mohawk, that is.

What's cuter than one boy in a mohawk? Why TWO boys in mohawks, of course!

lesson of the week: how to prepare for an eye exam

Because I'm a responsible adult, and have grown to love all the responsibility on my plate, I allowed the optometrist's office schedule me an eye exam. And because j'aime l'optométriste, I tried to cancel my appointment. But because l'optométriste m'aime, they made me come in anyway. Jerks.

It's the little air pouf in the eye that ruins it for me.

So I went in, and sat down in the Big Chair, and a tiny little man that looks just like Jerry Seinfeld's dad on the tv show came in to see me. He made the magic letters appear on the wall, and asked if I could read them. Not so much.

He waved a little blue envelope in front of my right eye. How's that? he asked.

Umm, can't read the letters.

Mmm. Hmmm... How's that? Now he was holding the envelope in front of my left eye.

Well, I can see that there are letters, but I can't tell you what they are.

Mmmm....Hmmmm.....You have an astigmatism. Let's go into the other room.

At this point, I was ready to leave. Because seriously, how in the bloody EFF can he tell I have an astigmatism from WAVING A TINY BLUE ENVELOPE IN FRONT OF MY EYES? And really, you used to be an actor on a show about Nothing. How? Are you even a doctor?

The deal continued. ORdeal, that is. He kept trying to figure out (using Dayton Time approved vision measuring apparatus-es, apparati, moving on) what was the magic number to make my left eye read the magic letters on the wall.

And it was impossible.

And this is why:

1. When preparing for a vision exam, do not study by consuming great quantities of Fine Irish Brew less than 8 hours before said exam. Cramming does not help in this situation.
2. Also: No Benadryl. Apparantly Benadryl soothes the savage Hay Allergy, but makes some muscles in your body act all wonky-like. The eyes would be in the Made Wonky-Like By Benadryl Category.
3. No Benadryl + Alcohol cocktails.

My Visual Arts and Skills Report Card for the day: F _ _ _ E D

The E and D are just for extra emphasis on how bad it was.

So the Dayton Time lesson of the week is this: No depressants or antihistamines when preparing to take an eye exam.

Class dismissed.

another brilliant way to seduce your wife

1. Have a birthday.
2. Work super hard all day long, and let your wife throw you a little beer-fest at the local pub.
3. Allow everyone you know to ply you with Guinness, and toss in a shot or two of Maker's Mark. Because you can.
4. Trip to the car. After 1 a.m.
5. Say, I am SO getting birthday sex. Take off your shirt while you drive home.

big hubbub

The New Yorker hit it big this week with The Controversial Cover, which I'm sure you know (unless you are living under some sort of rock or something) features Senator and Mrs. Obama, the former dressed in Islamic garb and the latter decked out in her finest terrorist garb (them's some hot pants there, Michelle!), giving the It's Hip To Be A Democrat Fist Bump.

I can understand how both campaigns are rising up, aghast. Because tsk, tsk, it's not nice to depict someone as a terrorist. And time out for you, it's not pleasant to have a cartoon of prejudice slapping us in the face. It's sad to be reminded that for many people in this country, The New Yorker illustration is not satire, it's reality...which makes it satire. Get it?

And that is why David Remnick, the editor of The New Yorker, ran the cover. Because that illustration speaks about our country. He said, What I think it does is hold up a mirror to the prejudice and dark imaginings about Barack Obama’s — both Obamas’ — past, and their politics.

Kristin from Well Read Hostess wrote about this whole kerfuffle the other day, and I think you should read it, because frankly, people, the woman is very clever. She is the Very Clever and Well Read Hostess, and there is an education to be had on her not-a-blog.

People find the cover horrifying. They think it's shocking. And they should. Because it is. But it's shocking in the same way one is startled with the realization that one's hair is entirely grey first thing in the morning. The same way one is horrified to notice how very horrible one's ass looks in a favorite pair of jeans.

No matter how true the truth, it flat-out sucks to hear bad news. And the bad news here is that no matter how civic-minded we applaud ourselves for being, no matter how tolerant we claim to be, we aren't. We are afraid of what we don't know and understand, and unfortunately many of us are okay with that. Apathy is easier. There's a bumper sticker for you.

The issue swirling around The Cover is not Barack Obama's politics, wife, or the life he has lived. It's about narrowminded judgement, and resting comfortably on our prejudiced haunches. Shame on us.

cinco de mayo, part 3

To catch up on the back story, read this, and then this.

There we were, outside of the pub, on Cinco de Mayo, manymany years ago. I was completely sober, because somebody had to be, and The Mister was CLEARLY not that somebody. He was plastered, on purpose, so that he could tolerate the clipping he was about to receive.

Now really, if I were in his shoes, not that they'd fit or anything, I would not choose alcohol and a set of clippers. The buzzing and the buzz and the buzzing and the buzz...I'd have barfed, that's all I'm saying. But it's all hair on the floor now...

I drove his sloppy self back to his parents' house, where he stumbled out of the car, clomped up the stairs to the front door, and made his not-quiet way through the house to where the clippers were stored. Then he made his equally not-quiet way back to the kitchen.

My in-laws must sleep like the dead. I say this with the greatest awe and respect, because a) I respect them deeply, and b) I aspire to sleep like that when I'm all grown-up.

He plugged the darn thing into the wall, and handed me the tool to bring about the demise of his Beloved Facial Hair.

I said to me, Oh shit. He's really serious. I am totally going to have to put his mouth where my mouth is. Why didn't he chicken out? Jerk. I don't even know how to use these things. What happens if I cut his lip off? That will totally suck, and I am not kissing any bloody mouth stump!

I said to him, I bet you scare your mother in the morning.

Not the cleverest things come out of my mouth at 1 a.m., but I'm okay with that. And besides, it didn't much matter, because OBVIOUSLY this boy was playing hardball, and didn't much care what I had to say at that point, because he was plowed, and he just wanted to be kissing on me.

And he wanted to cry. The single tear of mourning shed for his soon-to-depart natty mess gave it away. I am so kidding about that. The Mister didn't actually cry. But he thought about it.

So I buzzered off his beard. And Lip Covering. And let me tell you, people, I am not very good with the clippers. And he wasn't sitting very still. And I was nervous. And not good with the clippers...

But it all turned out alright in the end, you see.

I honestly do not remember what he said after I turned off the clippers. I just remember the kiss. It was a lovely event. I'm not going to say much else, as I'm fairly confident Uncle Benna just plain can't handle it.

If you haven't been kissed in such a way that makes the rest of your life melt into nothing, and that makes you melt into a puddle of goo, and causes fireworks, the bigbigbig ones, to erupt around you, and makes your heart stop beating long enough to shut your brain off... If you haven't been kissed like that then you are kissing the wrong people.

I can say that, because I kissed plenty of the wrong kind of person. And let me tell you, I was not looking back.

I will also tell you that me not looking back was a good thing, because unbeknownst to me, The Mister had taken my left-hand ring finger measurement that evening whilst I visited the loo.

how to seduce your wife

I've been really tired lately. Like, can't sign my name correctly on checks. Will fall over if the slightest breeze kicks up. Completely unable to prepare meals. Misplacing the short people.

The Mister has noticed. And that guy is concerned. In fact, as I was coming down the stairs today, he met me at the bottom landing and wrapped his arms around me.

Big. Comfy. Hug.

And just as I was dozing off, he whispered in my ear, Are you okay?

I nodded.

Just tired? he asked lovingly.

Yeah. Exhausted. On a cellular level. Seriously, even my mitrochondria are tired.

He kissed me softly, and said, Maybe you should let me screw you royal so you sleep real good.

some things to think about, part deux

1. Once upon a time, The Mister, Uncle Benna and I were standing in our driveway having a normal conversation. We were seriously disrupting the natural order of things, apparantly, and we were on the very last nerve of a squirrel up in the maple tree that shades said driveway. The squirrel threw a corn cob out of the tree and hit Uncle Benna squarely in the head.


2. I have an abnormal hatred of blue jays. I really, truly hate those birds. Every day during what should have been Blue Jay Season when I was growing up, an effing blue jay would sit in the tree outside my bedroom window and scream until my head exploded. Every. Stinking. Day. I was recently reminded of my undelightful feelings, as that verysame blue jay has discovered where I live. And it sits. On. The. Garage. Roof. Flipping me off. Every day. And screaming. And I hate that damn bird. Even more than this bird.




3. The annual Town Carnival would have been this weekend, except it seems that the fire department has taken to shunning the carnies. Why the discrimination? A gang of carnies nearly slit the throat of our good friend, Brother Snipes, a few years ago, and WE don't hate the carnies. Brother Snipes and his Cousin Benny (not to be confused with Uncle Benna) thought it would be fun to get the carnies all riled up. So Brother Snipes bodyslammed one of their trailers, a little thing the size of a pop-up camper. As it happened, there were 654311687135796873 carnies sleeping in the trailer, and they were a) slightly rankled at the wake-up call, and b) drunk. So, naturally, they wanted to kill Brother Snipes and Cousin Benny have a strained but pleasant conversation detailing the proper etiquette for waking refined gentlemen such as themselves. Insults, punches, knives, blah, blah, blah. All I'm saying is that we don't hate the carnies. (Oh, and Mama of Brother Snipes, I reallyreallyreally hope this isn't the first time you heard that story.)



4. The Town Carnival people cancelled the carnival, but kept the beer tent and the bad entertainment, and The Tractor Pull. Because that's where the money is. Tractor. Pull. It's a bunch of tractors pulling a bunch of heavy stuff to see whose tractor can pull the farthest. Furthest. Whatever. Let's pause a moment and guess which set of chromosomes thought that up...Right. XY.



5. The local Lions Club or some public-service oriented organization puts up flags for all the Flag Holidays. I like to fancy myself an intelligent, well-educated, well-read, classy lady, but I found myself scratching my head today, when I noticed that the flags were up. So of course I googled it. And as it turns out, today is Different Colored Eyes Day. It is also the day that the United States invaded Canada at Windsor, Ontario, during the War of 1812. Umm, yeah, in 1812. I thought maybe, just maybe, we were rubbing Canada's nose in it, you know, all Your dollar might be worth the same as ours, but we totally invaded you 196 years ago and didn't kick your crown-loving asses all over North America. But on second thought, maybe not. I salute you, people with two differently colored eyes! And so does my town.



6. And finally, have you met my new boyfriend? Mister Yuengling Porter? If you haven't, do not fear or dismay. There will be an interview with him tomorrow. I would say Hands off, sister, but we are totally cool like that.

i'm huge in colorado springs?

Not that I'm all into blowing people in for things, but a certain someone who may or may not actually reside in Colorado Springs mentioned that word of The Dayton Time has spread like wildfire. Or the chicken pox. Memory's a little fuzzy today.

And that certain someone also told me that some of you CS Stalkers, and I use that term with lotsandlotsandlots of affection, it's like you're my pretend friends, and I like you, I really do, and I'm so psyched that you are reading me. You like me, you really, really do! (name that totally unscripted moment in cinematic history).

Wow. The grammar in the preceding paragraph is atrocious, and I ask y'alls's forgiveness.

Anyway, this person may have said some of you think I may have concocted the stories I share with you.

Dearest of all possible stalkers, I want to assure you that whilst I am able to retell a story with flair and panache and zinging sarcasm, I am completely not clever enough to make this stuff up. SweartoGod,nothopingtodie,sticknoneedlesinmyeyes.

If there's anything else you'd like to ask me, feel free. I will tell you anything you want to know. Well, almost.

P.S. If you'd like to check out somebody who routinely assists his stories with a healthy dose of fun, check out Black Hockey Jesus.

an affirmation

HB was sitting on my lap today, having some morning nursings. He paused, leaned back a little, and stared at my right breast.

HB: Mook.

Mama: You like the milk?

HB: Yee-aaahhhw.

HB gives Righty a poke.

Mama: Not for fingers.

HB, glaring, samples Lefty. Still glaring, but with a wicked glint of naughty, pokes Lefty.

Mama: Dude. Seriously. Nurse or get off me.

HB, pointing at Righty: Broken.

Mama: What!?!?!?!?

HB: Broken. (Points at Lefty.) Broken. Ahdone. (Climbs off my lap and runs away laughing.)

Nice. The child is barely over the 18 month mark and is telling me my girls are broken. With perfect enunciation and pronounciation and speeching skills. Well let me tell you something. And I know you are experiencing a full-on cringe here, from your forehead down to your toes, because you sense that I am about to Cross The Line, and to be honest, I am, too. So I will just skip to the punchline and say: THEY AREN'T BLOODY BROKEN, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. So there.

Mook.

one more for the resume'

I lived with a blessing for two weeks. It wasn't a surprise blessing, it was eagerly anticipated. I had something I wanted, and it was just starting to sink in, the whole bliss of getting that which I was hoping for.

And now it's gone.

Therein lies the surprise. It's not often that things go awry for me; you know I have ranted and raved about the ridiculous daily events that are my life, and there are certainly portions of this life that could go better. I have reason to believe that if something in my life is going a certain way, it will continue down that path until fruition or completion, and I'll achieve the desired outcome.

I am used to that, the whole Achieving The Desired Outcome thing.

So now that The Desired Outcome is no longer The Actual Outcome, I am not sure. What to think about this whole deal, how to wrap my brain around it, what I feel about The Desired Outcome vs. The Actual Outcome. I want to pull the cotton balls out of my brain so the big fuzzy goes away, so that I can think, and it's just not happening. (Just another example of Not Achieving The Desired Outcome.)

Surrealism is not my thing. I'm way better with the black and white, the clear-cut, the rational, the obvious. And it's just plain bizarre that in a situation that is so very black and white, clear-cut and obvious, I can't get past the surreal feeling that has invaded me.

It will fade, I hope. I'd like to say I'm sure that I will be able to see my way clear of the surreal, but maybe this is just one of those things that is going to be weird forever.

Weird forever. How's that for a promising tagline? I could put it on my business cards, supposing I ever find myself in a situation where I would be using the things.

Pamela, Boss of Things Over Here. Permanent Case of Weird Due To One Time When The Actual Outcome Was A Major Disappointment. Call any time.

click here

Because in all honesty, I don't see myself actually posting today. I have nothing for you.

But Black Hockey Jesus does.

And you will read it.

And you will like it.

Thankyouverymuch.

The. End.

lesson of the week: shut up.

Despite my feelings for the POTUS, and as embarrassing as I have found many of the statements and policies he has made, I was disgusted by a speech he gave on the Fourth of July. Not by what he said, mind you; I was disgusted by the heckler(s) in the audience.

President Bush was speaking at Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson, at a ceremony for immigrants who were taking part in the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services Naturalization Ceremony. And some assholes people decided to exercise their right to free speech, which, to his credit, the President was fairly pleasant about at the beginning of the ceremony.

Seriously, you mocking people should be ashamed of yourselves. And for the record, I couldn't even understand you on the video. But even if I could, I wouldn't discuss what you said with my readers, RUDE BASTARDS, YOU!!! It would be a colossal waste of my time to attempt to explain how mocking the president in that situation was really mocking America, and mocking the immigrants, people who have worked really hard and must truly believe in this country to want to be official citizens. Here's another little tidbit for you to chew on: he's been the president for 8 years now, he's not going to go away or do things differently because you opened your big, moronic yap on national television. But thanks for playing.

So, in honour, or in retribution for, your enormous stupidity and flagrant rudeness and for ruining the first day as an American, I give my readers the first Dayton Time Lesson of the Week.

Shut up. SHUT. UP.

Good luck, young Jedi.

it's july 5th

And I'm headed outside to watch the neighbors' fireworks dislpay. It sounds like a good one.

That's all I've got today.

Happy not a holiday.

oh, beautiful

Happy birthday, land that I love.

puddles.

There is something completely irresistable about a puddle.



Especially for short people.



Especially before breakfast.



And in their pajamas. With suitable footwear, of course.



H.B. was a little bit soaked, so he decided on a stroll? To dry off? Or warm up?

oops...not funny

We joke about putting the short people up for auction when they're getting to be a bit much.

Seems the Germans don't think that is a good idea after all.

We would totally ask for more than $1.59, though. And we'd score tons of bids. Heck, you've seen our short people. They are totally worth $2.50 a piece, easily.

oh my.

A great big Dayton Time WTF goes out to the person who thought this up.

Seriously. The Maple Syrup Cleanse? Are you for real? Forget maple syrup and do as the Daytons do. Because really, who has the time to sit on the can for weeks on end? Heh, heh...on end. The Maker's Mark Upper and Middle Gastrointestinal Cleanse. It's fairly easy, even from the start. And this is how it works: Drink Maker's Mark until you are cleansed. It doesn't take weeks, just one night of being dedicated to imbibing as much Maker's Mark as you possibly can. It's so easy that there's even a sign, practically neon actually, that will tell you when you are finished. You will barf. That's the sign. The MMUaMGIC can take as little as an hour, and up to, well, it kinda depends on what you had for dinner, and if Chinese food is what's for dinner, it might take you a little longer to complete the MMUaMGIC due to the, er, MSG. Right, the MSG.

Just think about it, if you find yourself interested in wasting some time.