statistically dead guy with pet barracuda

So Senator McCain has chosen Governor Sarah Palin to be his running mate.

Of course he chose a woman. And I'm not saying that to dog Governor Palin or any other woman running for office, but what an obvious bit of strategery there, Mr. McCain. Choose a woman to entice the (now-satisfied, thanks to the Pageantry of Denver) female population to throw their votes your way in November. A woman who has won her reputation as Sarah Barracuda by fighting with members of her own party? By forcing other public servants to resign their positions? This is me, totally not surprised at all.

Governor Palin is being painted by the media as being the tip of the right wing. She's a card-carrying lifetime member of the NRA. The right to bear arms is very important, but it's equally important to keep the big guns off the streets, and out of the hands of career criminals. One of her goals is to overturn Roe v. Wade. I'm not a fan of abortion, but I'm way less of a fan of the back-alley-use-of-a-coat-hanger procedures that would run rampant in this country if abortion was once again illegal. I think abstinence is a good idea, and I have learned the effects of not practicing abstinence. Is abstinence-only education the way to go? Does trying to make sex taboo to a bunch of horny teenagers really work? Does making anything taboo to any sort of teenager really serve as a deterrent? Underage drinking...sex...drugs...hmmmm. Maybe not.

The thing about Governor Palin that makes it really difficult to understand how she came to be the Vice-presidential candidate is her lack of experience. All Senator McCain has been saying about Senator Obama is, "Who has the experience to lead?" Respectfully, Senator McCain, you're pretty old. A study in the American Journal of Preventative Medicine released data on occupations and mortality rates for white men in the United States. Physicians were the oldest, with an average age of 73.0 years, lawyers were 72.3, all examined professionals had an average age of 70.9 years, and all men had an average age of 70.3 at the time of their deaths. Really, sir, you have already exceeded your life expectancy. To top that, you want us to vote for you, knowing that statistically you died two years ago, so that your running mate, whose longest held political office was mayor of a town, population 8,000, can be the Actual President? When you actually die? Is there any point in examining Governor Palin's experience with, say, foreign policy? Or did she and the mayor of the neighboring towns get together one summer and plan their fireworks display? That's foreign for a mayor, no?

On behalf of the part of the country that is not located on the tip of the right wing, I would like to extend my most sincere gratitude to Senator McCain for making it even easier to decide which way to cast my ballot. Statistically dead guy with an aspersion-casting barracuda? Not for me, thanks.

encyclopedia o-tannica

Miss O on Politics.

Guess WHAT!?!?!?! Hillary Dickens is...Hillary...what is her name? Hillary Clinton is back in the races! We don't want her to win. If she winds, she will tell lies to everybody, right? Because she is the biggest, fattest liar in the world, right?

I don't know about that, exactly. A person would be a pretty big liar to have that title. And it's not nice to call names. How do you know she's back in the races?

It said on Grandpa's TV. Hey, my Duck for President book! I haven't seen that in a long time!

Do you want to tell me anything else about Hillary Clinton?

Ummm, I don't have any other information.

Do you know who else is in the races?

Barack Obama and the other guy.

Do you know anything about those guys?

No.

Who do you want to win?

Barack Obama.

Why do you want Barack Obama to win?

Because.

Do you have any other political views you would like to share with us?

Uh-uh.

and sometimes, things are just nice

Sometimes the children sleep past 8 o'clock. Miss O has done well with her brand new alarm clock for the past few days, and gets up without any sort of hassle or whining or general blech.

Sometimes Wee Man will run downstairs to get the big container of pretzels so that I can have something in my belly before I sit up. You know, so it goes well when I do sit up.

Some days, the morning diaper isn't that stinky, and the poop doesn't cause copious amounts of vomit. Probably thanks to the pretzels. Thanks, pretzels! Thanks, Wee Man!

Sometimes the children are more like scrambled eggs than oil and water. And they speak kindly and play nicely and don't bludgeon each other to death like filthy neanderthals. And that's super.

Sometimes plans go according to, uh, well, plan. And despite the nintey millionbillion interruptions and questions and needs more juice and potty breaks and oops the baby tried to eat a jingle bell (sorry, H, didn't tell you that, I promise I'll clean up better next time), you can just sit (stand) and talk (make bread) all stinky day long and even make yummy soup for lunch and have a fun time for six hours, the longest time without yelling at the kids at all, while actually being awake, in the history of the world.

And sometimes, when it's time for a nap, they just lay down and go to sleep like normal people. And it is quiet and nice, and the smell of Hot. Bread. Now. invades your whole body like a happy, high-carb drug. And even if you can't decide to snooze or eat warm bread, everything is still nice. Because sometimes, it just is.

encyclopedia o-tannica

Mongolia.

In Mongolia, they don't have cars. Because they're kind of like Indians. They don't live in teepees, except it's like a teepee but it's not very pointy. It's only up to here (points to my elbow). They're not actually teepees and it's in China. And they kill animals and they put their blood on them when they fight. Yuck, right?!?!? They do a dance called the Mongolian Bowl Dance and they wear glass bowls on their heads. Can you even beLIEVE that? Oh. And they ride horses. That is the highlight.

overheard. way overheard.

We were in Target today, to pick up a few items including, but not limited to cleaning products for the bath area, and found ourselves wandering past the ladies' undergarment area.

Wee Man: Mommy, are you going to buy some of those today?

Mama, completely not paying attention to impressionable youth currently ogling the selection: What do you mean by 'those', Wee Man? What is the name of 'those'?

I really can't be blamed for asking What is the name of 'those'?, because every stinkin' day the child refers to 96% of the nouns in his life with words like this, that, and those.

Wee Man, SPEAKING VERY CLEARLY AND AT AN EXTREMELY LOUD VOLUME: DOSE BWAS!!!! Are you going to get some of DOSE BWAS today?

CutiePieDimpleHead, who, for the life of him, cannot resist contributing to the fray: BWA HA HA HA HA HA!!!! BWA HA HA HA!!!!

Miss O, rolling eyes dramatically, pretends to not actually be there.

Wee Man: ARE YOU GETTING A BWA? I LIKE DA OWANGE ONE. IT IS BERRY PWETTY.

Mama: No, Wee Man, I'm not going to get a bwa today.

Miss O: It's bRa.

CPDH: BWA HA HA HA HA!!!! BWA HA HA HA HA!!!! NURSEY!!!

Miss O: These are WAY prettier than yours. Yours are just big old brown ones.

Mama, silently: And isn't that the story of mamas everywhere.

CPDH: NURSEY! BWA! NURSEY!

Wee Man: WOOK! DERE'S A PURPLE ONE! DERE'S A PINK ONE!!! WOOK, MAMA. ARE YOU WOOKING?!?!?!

CPDH: NURSEY! BWA! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA (ad nauseum)!!!!!

Mama: Yes, Wee Man, I see them. But I am not buying a bra today.

Miss O: Too bad for you, mom.

Yes. That's right. Too bad for me.

oh blessed beverage who taketh away the nausea of the mama. blessed be your merciful gingerness.

saying goodnight

After laying CutiePieDimpleHead in his cribby, because that's what the child calls it, people, I refuse to add the diminuitive -y ending to a diminuitive bed, I tucked Wee Man into the top bunk.

Give me a kiss goodnight, Wee Man.

No.

Well, may I give you a kiss?

No.

Why not?

My teeth are shiny.

Alright, then. See you tomorrow.

quatre.

Vier. τέσσερα. Quattro. Quatro. Cuatro. 四.

Anticipated arrival: April 7, 2009.

Planned. Really.

Only sick between the hours of 12 p.m. and 12 a.m.

encyclopedia o-tannica

Wee Man, from his car seat: Wook, Sis. The sun is dwiving awong with us.

Miss O: No, Wee Man, that's not it at all. You see, the sun is very far away. We are really driving past the sun, because the sun doesn't move, but because the sun is so big and so far away, and we are so tiny, it looks like the sun is moving with us. But it doesn't. It's not even actually moving. Do you understand now? It's called science. And girls can totally be spectacular at science. Just like boys, but better.

the (mis)adventures of wee man

So there I was, sleeping minding my own business whilst the boys were napping yesterday, blissfully comfortable in myveryown bed under all of myveryown blankets, face down in the mattress. I love to nap. I have loved napping since I discovered napping at the ripe old age of fourteen minutes. I aspire to nap daily. I think about naps. I often am resigned to living vicariously through my childrens' naps, which is a beautiful time of day. Especially if I happen to be napping, too.

Aaaaaahhhhhh, the nap.

Back to minding my own business. I was jarred out of my blissful business-minding by some Wee Man Whining. It has it's own distinct timbre which causes the actual words being uttered during whining to become completely garbled. Very easy to identify. Not so much easy to block out.

I pulled the covers up over my head even farther than before. The whining escalated. Faster than a Ferrari goes from zero to sixty, Wee Man hit Total Flip Out.

It was at that moment I realized the location of the child. He was Totally Flipping Out in the bathroom. And that, people, is NOT GOOD.

So I put on my Grown Up Pants, peeled back the layers of comfort and joy, and plodded to the bathroom. I plodded on purpose. Because Wee Man had started this whole bit by whining, and I was fairly confident that he was not, say, drinking the toilet bowl cleaner. I imagine that one does not exactly whine whilst drinking the toilet bowl cleaner, so naturally he was not in grave danger. Hence the plodding.

I plodded into the bathroom and found Wee Man standing on the Able To Reach The Toilet Stool. With the potty seat around his neck.

That's what I said.

The potty seat was around his neck.

Ours is the fancy Walmart style with the light blue base, complete with handles for those times when things aren't so easy. And a very bland white vinyl padded ring for tiny heinys. When you purchase the potty seat, the blue part and the white part are attached.

The blue part was resting comfortably on Wee Man's shoulders. The white part was wrapped around his face.

And do you know what my first thought was? It was not, How did he actually DO that? It was not, How am I going to get that off him? It wasn't even, Gosh, I hope he's alright.

It was, Camera! Camera! Must. Get. Camera.

My second thought was, I would be such a bad mother if I left him standing there screaming to go get my camera.

Then I paused for a half a moment to try to remember where my camera actually was. It was down a flight of stairs, across the living room, through the play room, out the front door, onto the porch, out the porch door, down the sidewalk, across the driveway, locked in the car, back up the sidewalk, in the porch door, onto the porch, in the front door, grabbed the keys, out the front door, onto the porch, out the porch door, back down the sidewalk, across the driveway, unlock the car, grab the camera off the front seat, close car door, across the driveway, up the sidewalk, in the porch door, onto the porch, in the front door, through the play room, across the living room, back up the flight of stairs, into the bathroom.

Reluctantly I yanked the seat off his head without a visual preservation of the moment.

Buddy, why was the potty seat on your head?

I was twying to fix it.

houston, we have a problem

Miss O is going to start kindergarten in, oh, what's today?, I don't know, but it's soon. It seems, according to the 984,571,084,428,750 page Kindergarten Handbook (oh yes, it's a serious document), that there are a few RULES in Kindergarten.

She is totally used to rules, because, well, I am her mother, and I am the Type-A-Bet-Your-Ass-There's-Rules-So-Quit-Whining sort of loving mommy. She is a lovely and cooperative child, especially when we remember to feed her and put her to bed at a decent hour.

But there is one thing that stands between Miss O and Success In Kindergarten.

Sneakers.

The child simply will not wear them. Ev.ah.

We went school shopping, and she picked out these, which look a gazillion times better in real life. I actually want a pair for me, but thanks to the short people, my feet are elephantine.

She tried them on in the store, and ran around like a happy-footed lunatic, shouting, I LOVE THESE SHOES!!!! THEY ARE SO COMFORTABLE!!!! I WILL WEAR THEM IN MY SLEEP!!!!!!

Great. Quit acting like a nut in the brand new Target for the love of all that is good and pure.

But now, she will not put the shoes on. She says she will not wear them at school. I say, Well, dearest, you have to wear them if you want to play in the gym with the other kids who are wearing their sneakers.

NO.

The rules also say that you have to wear sneakers to play on the playground.

NO!!!! I will just sit there.

Okay, if that's what you choose to do, you will have to deal with the consequences.

FINE. I'M NOT WEARING THEM! (insert emphatic stomp here)

So there they sit, lonely superfun shoes, on the back of the sofa, because that's where everything in my house lives at one time or another.

I'm not going to bribe her, or try to reason with her. There's no point in trying to convince her to wear the sneakers. She'll either change her mind once she gets there, or she won't.

What happens if you fail gym in Kindergarten?

kiss a$$, kick a$$, whatever

My new girlfriend, That Girl, from Hey, You, Remember Me? kissed me square on the booty today, and I liked it. She gave me this:


And now I have to turn around and kiss some other people square on the booty. So here goes:

Jen from Breed 'Em and Weep. This mama has been having a crappy time of it, and that is a total understatement. She's getting a divorce, and she writes about it with such grace and love and dignity. And the writing, people, the writing this woman does is powerful. So if you can't get off the interwebs for 25 minutes a day to read real books, at least go over and read the literature that pours from her fingertips.

Cat, from Pink Asparagus. Because man, let me tell you, that girl has flair. And she likes pink and Tarzhay and accessories. And I heart her haiku.

Next up, The Well-Read Hostess. Because I said so. Her commentary on, heck, anything under the sun is worth reading.

Fourth is one of my favorite smart-asses, The Hotfessional. She's just funny, that's all, and she stalks her across the street neighbors and flips people off during teleconferences, and stalks her neigh... oh, right, I mentioned that. Hotfessional also has alopecia areata and talks about that sometimes, but not in a whiny pissant sort of way. She's brave and awesome.

I'm supposed to give this award to five bloggers, but since That Girl was tagged, and she already tagged Black Hockey Jesus, Maggie, Dammit, and The Mister, I'm going to just stop at four. So there.

And I'm also supposed to say that the Kick Ass Blogger Award comes from mamadawg. So now you know.

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.