more awesomeness. and then more, for actually really real.

So you may have noticed my (feeble) attempt at changing my header.

Which did not go as planned.

And then I tried to adjust things.

Also, not going as planned.

So we pretty much look awful today, and I hope to not look so pathetic tomorrow.

Blech.

***UPDATE***
It's five minutes after I originally posted this, and I think everything worked out alright. I know, it is all terribly exciting over here, and I really had you worried or shaking your heads there for less than a tenth of a second. Jolly good.

everybody wants the nuts.

"The time has come", the mama said,
"To talk of many things:
Of filth--Soap Nuts--and Laundry Tree--
Of all the things you'll clean--
Also who won my give-a-way
Let's keep our laundry green."

"But wait a bit, the entrants cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For none of us have heard from you
And we are sad of that!"
"You're Nuts!" said the Pamela.
They thanked her much for that.

"I must choose two," the Mama said,
"For two is what they gave:
Two starter kits do forty loads
That's very nice indeed--
One hundred gram bag of Soap Nuts
And now we can proceed."

Random Number Generator,
The Mama Googled you.
She typed in one and twenty-five
An easy thing to do!
And then two numbers popped right up.
Hey, this is fun to do!

"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The readership said nothing but
"Stop playing with the dice:
We wish you would just tell us now--
Don't make us ask you twice!"

"It seems a shame," the Mama said,
"To play them such a trick,
They've left comments all weekend long,
And none of them seem thick!
The readers sighed and rolled their eyes
"For Heaven's sake, be quick!"

So here they are, the two numbers,
The winners...is it you?
The first is number eighteen--Jill,
Twenty-four is Michelle.
Send me your mailing address, please,
I'll email Laundry Tree.
Then they'll send you a starter kit
Of Soap Nuts. Yes, it's FREE!

************************************

I hope you enjoyed my little rhyme. I got the idea from this wacky bit of poetry. Michelle K. and Jill, be sure to email me your addresses speedy quick, so you can enjoy your Soap Nuts as soon as possible.

Now we return to our regularly scheduled programming.

it all started with an innocent trip to the midwife, and also a LAUNDRY TREE GIVEAWAY

Got Miss O on the bus, MIL took Wee Man to preschool and the H-Bomb for a ride in the wagon. I hopped in the car to have my 12 week checkup.

It began badly. As you may know, all trips to the obstetrician/midwife start in the bathroom. Providing a sample. Yes, of pee. They stick things in your pee and determine a host of things, none of which I care to discuss right now. And so I got my handy-dandy pee cup, and went over to the toilet. And then I stopped, gagged with abandon, and ran out of the bathroom. Except for the part where I couldn't unlock the door, because my mind's eye was focusing on the ENORMOUS ITEM left in the toilet, so I couldn't actually see the lock.

If you are assuming that the enormous item looked remarkably like poop, you are assuming correctly.

Then the pleasant nurse dressed in BRIGHT YELLOW SCRUBS informed me that my midwife was delivering a baby, and I'd be seeing the OB, if that was alright with me. Absolutely, sistah! It is alright, because when I am having my baby, I'm going to be the girl with the midwife in the room, and all the other girls can wait their turns.

He came in eventually, he being the OB, and he is a very nice man, and an excellent doctor, and it was good. He told me I would have my next ultrasound at 18-ish weeks along (about 5.5 weeks from now). That reminded me that my midwife told me at my last appointment that I needed a follow-up to my previous ultrasound, because the ultrasound person noticed a little bleeding in my uterus. And that I lost the prescription for said follow-up ultrasound. OOPS! I asked him to write another one, which he was happy to do.

Fabulous.

When I got to my car, I called the scheduling people at the hospital to, ummm, schedule the ultrasound. I gave her my name, birthdate, address, bank account numbers, children's social security numbers, etc, to confirm who I was. She asked me to read her the info on my prescription, and I did.

Apparently, OB had written a supersecret code on the paper that led the Scheduling Lady to believe I was having an obstetric crisis of mammoth proportion.

I had no idea what the heck she was talking about.

YOU ARE HIGH RISK!!! YOU MUST COME IN TODAY!!!

Who's high risk? I'm not high risk. I am having a very normal, average, relatively uneventful pregnancy.

YOU ARE HIGH RISK!!! DR. OB SAID SO!!! THAT IS WHAT THE CODE MEANS!!!

Nobody said anything to me about being high risk.

WELL, IT SEEMS THAT YOU ARE.

Slowly, slowly, my brain got very twisty and confused. I got stress in me. I started to become edgy and unpleasant. And I was pretty pissed at Dr. OB. Because why is this random Scheduling Lady giving me MY OWN MEDICAL INFORMATION?!?!?!

?!?!?!?

I scrambled, and by scrambled, I mean my fingers scrambled across my keypad as I texted and phoned everyone I know to find a warm body to hang out with the boys while I got ultrasounded.

Finally, finally, my heroine of the day called me back and said she'd love to help out. In the meantime, I had caused stress in, well, everyone I know, trying to find a sitter.

I got to the appointment, and the Ultrasound Lady was very confused by me. She was expecting a crazy, weepy pregnant woman in the very throes of a miscarriage or some other pregnancy nightmare. All she got was me, tired and not sure of what was going on, or what the problem was.

It was just weird.

I am very thankful and happy to tell you that the one baby in my belly is alive and well, kicking and moving about like a happy little creature. And there is no bleeding. And no crisis.

And when I got home, I did call my midwife to tell her about the ridiculousness that was my day, because I don't think that everything went as it should have gone. And I did cry on the phone with her, out of frustration and relief and exhaustion.

I took a little nap, and then made some macaroni and cheese (elbow pasta, milk, butter, salt, white pepper, cheddar and ricotta cheeses). Because nothing says "I am sorry you had a bad day" better than some serious, cheesy comfort food.

Well, a Maker's Mark and coke would be pretty good, too, but I've had enough excitement for one day.

*I know this isn't my usual tone, and it's probably not funny, and that is okay with me. It was a craptastic day, and sometimes the best I can do is craptastic.

And in honor of my craptastic day, I have teamed up with the folks from Laundry Tree and am giving away some supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Soap Nuts over the weekend. Laundry Tree loves the dayton time, and is giving two lucky commenters the entire Soap Nuts Starter Kit, with enough Soap Nuts to do 40 loads of laundry, your choice of essential oil, an extra wash bag, and a sample bag to share with a friend.

I'll accept entries for the giveaway until 12:01 a.m. Tuesday, September 30, and will determine the TWO winners sometime during the day Tuesday. To enter? Leave me a comment here, in this post. About what? you ask? Whatever you want. Tell me anything, and you'll be entered. The two winners will be chosen at random. Randomly. By a random method. Listen to the meaning there, not the actual words I used. That'dbesuperthanks.

In the meantime, I am going to take the weekend off. The fabulous Auntie Teff is coming to town, and we are going to do some serious organizational work on my house. I will see you all again on Tuesday, when I announce the lucky winners.

Try not to miss me.

dear senator clinton

Dear Mrs. Clinton,

I am opposed to the federal government bailing out the financial institutions that have failed recently. I am especially concerned about this portion of the plan:

Sec. 8. Review.
Decisions by the Secretary pursuant to the authority of this Act are non-reviewable and committed to agency discretion, and may not be reviewed by any court of law or any administrative agency.

Our entire governmental system is founded on Checks and Balances. Any fourth grader should be able to tell you that. And this passage makes it illegal for any person or institution to question the Secretary's judgment! Horrifying. Unconstitutional.

Do not support this plan. You must fight against this bail-out. It is wrong, and it does not support the Constitution of our Nation. It is bad enough that the President of the United States has stepped boldly out of line, violating the Constitution with this proposal. Do not let the Senate follow him blindly.

Sincerely,
Pamela Dayton
boss of things
the dayton time

wordless wednesday: perfect form

How?

That is what I'd like to know.

it seems that the friendly skies don't like the boobies. how is that even possible?

I know that pretty much every time I've ever mentioned Canada in previous posts, it has been in a sort of poking fun way. Not poking fun at Canada, because why would I do that? Seriously. I only poke fun when there's fun to be poked at.

Most of my mentions of Canada are me telling you that Miss O has threatened to move there.

Today I am going to tell you about The World's Suckiest Airline Company Ever, WestJet.

Once upon a time, or a little more than a week ago, a mama boarded a plane with her wee bairn. It was time for the wee bairn to have a snack, so his mama nursed him. Discreetly. Without Baring The Goods, and I think you know what I mean.

All of the sudden, an airline hostess appeared, holding a blanket. The hostess bent way, way over, presumably because she was trying to be as annoying as possible, and suggested that Nursing Mama Who Was TOTALLY Not Baring The Goods put a heavy, heavy blanket over her already warm and toasty bairn's head.

And then she wouldn't go away. Did she want a taste of the wholesome milky goodness? The world may never know. But The Hostess Who Was NOT The Mostess stayed. And behaved unprofessionally. And inappropriately. AND SHE MADE THE MAMA CRY. And that? Is not good, people.

Eventually, the plane landed, and the Mama went home. And blogged about the whole thing, of course, because that's what we do, and also contacted the company. And the company? Has not even bothered to give her the time of day. That makes them BASTARDS. So the Mama blogged about it again, and let her dogs off the leash. And now the company is getting slammed with emails from angry mamas.

The most ridiculous thing of all? In Ontario, Canada, it is perfectly legal for women to be topless. So what is the big effing deal? If she was walking around Toronto, all nude from the waist up, she'd have been ogled, for sure, but she'd have been left alone about it.

But she wasn't walking around in the northern nude. The Mama was being 'decent'. She was covered. There was no nipple-age going on, no softy boobies hanging out all over the place. Because we can totally nurse our babies like that when the babies are cooperating. And actually, most of us, if not ALL of us, would prefer to not have our Working Girls strutted out like hookers on a corner. Because our Working Girls? Are not Whores. They are lovely, softy parts of our bodies that were created for the sole purpose of nourishing our babies. That they are fun playthings for the boys is just a bonus. Nursing is not sexual in nature. It is not always, or sometimes ever, a pleasant thing to do. But it is the scientifically proven best possible option for our children so we plod on.

I'm linking to my Unfortunate Breastfeeding Incident. Here is Part the First. Here is Part the Second. I know how awful it is to be scorned in the name of decency. And nobody, I mean NOBODY deserves that.

So Her Bad Mother? Stick it to the man.

soap nuts will save your life

Now that I have your attention, I must ask: Have you heard about Soap Nuts?

What? No? Oh dear. Sit down, sister, have I got a story for you.

Once upon a time, there was a nice mama called Pamela. Or Mama, for short. Pamela sometimes plays blogger spends lots of quality time with her children. One day, whilst Pamela was reading blogs and surfing the internet without a care in the world spending lots of quality time with her children, she saw something shocking.

GASP!

It was an advertisement for Soap Nuts. Little dried berries from trees found in darkest jungle places that environmentally savvy mamas, the kind of mama Pamela aspires to be, use to Launder Their Garments.

Being the free sample whore environmentally savvy mama she is, Pamela sent an email to Laundry Tree, the company that peddles these happy berries.

And this is what it said, Blah blah blah BLOG. Blah blahblah dirty laundry in my house blah piled to the roof, blahblahblah promise to blog about your product, blah, send me free stuff because blahblah blah blah sometimes people read my blog. Blah? Blahblah.

Five whole seconds later, Laundry Tree sent me Pamela a reply. Sure! We'd love to send you a free sample!

Pamela was sure this had nothing whatsoever to do with the blog she writes, but mostly the pathetic begging for Free Stuff.

Ten minutes later, Pamela went to the Post Office to get the mail. Because it's not actually delivered on her street, that's why. And much to her surprise, THERE WAS A PACKAGE FROM LAUNDRY TREE!!!! Okay, it wasn't 10 minutes, but it was less than a week. Those people are speedy.

It was a cute little package, see? The cute little card? Is a hand-written note. Who does that any more? Apparently Laundry Tree, re-inventers of awesome customer service, that's who! And for extra beauty, they even sent along a bottle of their favorite essential oil, Energy.

Pamela wanted to try the Soap Nuts on her baby's cloth poopslings diapers. Because it takes a special kind of something to make those suckers fresh and nicey. Except Pamela was having an enormous problem: Morning Sickness. That lasted every waking minute of the day. She was sick, sick, sick, and any extra gross was WAY to much to deal with. And her nicey husband was working The Hours Of The Insane, and she felt bad asking him to deal with the poopslings diapers. So she put off washing the poopslings diapers.

And a couple of days later, she put off washing the yucky poopslings diapers again.

And a week later, she put off washing the yucky vile poopslings diapers again.

And eventually, she stopped using cloth diapers, and just started using disposables. For a while.

Those terrible yucky vile poopslings diapers sat in that dirty diaper sack for a LONG. STINKING. TIME. And we are not kidding about the stink.

One afternoon, after she waited three weeks she decided to put on her grown-up pants and wrap her head in four scarves in the hopes that the smell wouldn't cause her to flood her kitchen with vomit.

Only, too bad for her, because four scarves weren't enough.

Pamela managed to get the terrible horrible yucky vile poopslings diapers and the soap nuts into the washer before rushing off to the bathroom, which is fortunately located right next to the washer and dryer.

Oh? And Soap Nuts are kinda cute.

The washer went to work.

Now, we should tell you that under normal circumstances, Pamela washes the nasty nappys about every fourth day. Or so. Never has there been more than seven days between washings. And usually, Pamela runs the diapers through TWO wash cycles. First, on cold water, with detergent, borax, lavendar oil and tea tree oil. Second, on hot, with detergent, borax, lavendar oil and tea tree oil. The oils kill the germs and leave a light, pleasant scent.

But after three weeks? Pamela was anticipating purchasing new diapers, and had lost all hope that she would even be able to use the nasty nappys as cleaning rags.

Let me repeat: PAMELA HAD LOST EVERY LAST SHRED OF HOPE. AND WAS COMPLETELY EMBARASSED BY THE THREE WEEK NON-WASHING PERIOD. For the record.

After the first wash (hot water, because she follows directions) was finished, Pamela gingerly opened the washer. And smelled NOTHING. Seriously. NO. SCENT. WHATSOEVER.

Pamela reached in and removed a diaper. It was shiny. Well, not really shiny, but if cotton could be shiny, it would look like thatverysame diaper. She pressed the diaper to her face and smelled? Nothing. It smelled like clean fabric, only with no nasty fakey chemical smell. She pulled each diaper out of the washer. Each one was nearly as white as, well, they were all clean and white and lovely.

If we wanted to be Exceedingly Gross, we could tell you that there was one poop diaper in the bag that hadn't been shaken, stirred, or rinsed. It contained at the time of being put in the washer. And Pamela couldn't even figure out which diaper that was. Because they were all shiny, each and every one.

So Soap Nuts? TOTALLY WORK.

End storytime.

We here at the dayton time cannot imagine that you would have any clothing situation more disgusting than the one Pamela had brewed up for three weeks before introducing the Amazing Soap Nuts into the concoction. We are sure it is highly improbable that you could have anything more vile than that sack of...poopslings. (If this weren't a product review, I *so* would have gone there. With a line through the potty mouth word, and something a little less potty in its place.)

Let's sum up:

1. Soap Nuts are actually a dried berry, making this a super all-natural product.
2. Soap Nuts are harvested in a sustainable manner, and the native workers are paid a fair, living wage. This is VERY IMPORTANT to the Boss of Things here at the dayton time.
3. Soap Nuts are versatile, and can be used to clean virtually every surface in your home. Also, Soap Nuts are great for cleaning one's hair and even cleaning your houseplants and keeping pests away.
4. Soap Nuts are in the same price range as most high-efficiency, brand-name laundry detergents. But unlike regular detergents, there are neither chemicals nor scents in Soap Nuts, and Soap Nuts are gentle to super sensitive skin. And believe me, we know about sensitive skin in our house.
5. Soap Nuts can and should be used multiple times.

So head over to Laundry Tree, and see what they have to say for themselves. I think you will be impressed. And if I wasn't such a cheapypants I'd have thrown away my "regular" detergent and be using Soap Nuts right now. Because you know I never run out of laundry at my house.

weekend report

I totally filched that title, you know it and I know it, so there you go.

This is my report:

The Mister went away, far, far away, to work.

The boys played in the car. I asked them nicely to get out, used the word unsafe. They got in the car again, and I yanked them out by their nostrils, pushed the lock button and slammed the door. And then stood there, like an idiot, gazing at what? Both. Sets. Of keys. YesI'mAwesome. And wait, it gets better....I was canning peaches like a fool, and had ordered pizza for dinner, and yes, I guess that makes me a walking paradox or something, and then needed to call the pizza place to cancel my pizza because I couldn't drive my car, and nobody around here delivers pizza, except that one really crappy place around the corner, and I'm not giving them $3 to drive up the street. Also awesome? Deciding against renewing our AAA membership.

Enter SUPER FATHER IN LAW, and his AMAZING AAA CARD to SAVE THE DAY!!!! Have I mentioned I really like that guy?

Dragged my pregnant self to the opening of my dear friend's art exhibit. She's been working on this FOR EVAH, and I wasn't going to miss it, despite all attempts made by my vanity to persuade me not to actually wear maternity clothing so early. Yes, I got over myself, and put on my big-belly dress. And the art was fabulous. I love photography.

Came home, blah, blah, blah, packed and went to Keuka Lake for the rest of the weekend.

I love it there. We walked down the stairs leading to the cottage, and HB said, Beaudiful Lake. The lake has a capital L because it was so clearly pronounced. We picked bushels of apples, and grapes, because it is grape season, people. And if you have never breathed in air that is thick with the scent of Concord grapes, you have never lived. I am sorry if I am the one to have to break it to you, but YOU HAVE NEVER LIVED. You must believe me. And come to New York, where the grapes are the best no matter what those snobs from Calif.... Sorry, where was I headed? Right. Come to New York and LIVE.

I picked fifty pounds of grapes for ten dollars. And that? Is a smoking deal. I should be making jam and pies and things and stuff right now, but here's the rest of my weekend update:

I have a cold and it is making me fuzzy. And where is Tom Hanks (or anybody, I'm not that picky, really) with my daisies? They are a happy flower. And the only thing I'm allowed to take that helps even a little is Benadryl. So I'm REALLY fuzzy, and not making jam. I am going to bed. Because I feel awful. And the sneezing? Well, I'm about twenty-two seconds from this.

And this is not the post I mentioned last time. I am too fuzzy to finish that, and when I'm finished being fuzzy, and have made enough grape jam to bathe a pig, you know, so it's clean enough to be lipsticked, I will return.

blogger, i am mad at you

It seems Blogger has other plans for me tonight. All I wanted to do was upload a few pictures so I could finish my second most fascinating post EVER.

Upload this, Blogger.

And I can't even deal with the not-so-helpful-desk/FAQ section of life right now. Some other time, I will tell you what FAQ really stands for.

Now I am crabby and I'm going to bed.

And let me just tell you, Mr. Not Working BloggerPants, you had better get your kinky ironing all done whilst I sleep, because I will be back in the morning.

So quit screwing with me. And my second most fascinating post ever.

holy gestation batman

Wee Man had a baby today. He had more than one baby, truth be told. Actually, he had the same baby about eighteen different times today. And the statistical oddity, aside from the fact that Wee Man having a baby defies all statistics (exception: this guy), is that the baby was born breech and naturally all eighteen times.

Don't hurt yourself trying to figure that out.

Wee Man sticks the baby, called Sweets or Fewicity, depending on the direction the wind is blowing and whether or not he's been to the potty recently, I am totally making this up...

He sticks the baby up his shirt, head-first, and then bends and crams the poor thing until the entire babe is covered by shirt. Sometimes a leg sticks out, sometimes the head pops out the neck hole I can totally relate to what that must feel like. Miss O rode so high when I was pregnant with her I was afraid to burp. Except I can't actually burp. Probably should have included that little tidbit in my six quirks. I absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, belch. I can't even FAKE BURP.

The Mister says it's because I'm that much a lady.

I am confident he is mocking me.

Go ahead, ask him. He'll tell you he is. We aren't afraid to mock. With Love. We mock with love. You know you do it, too. You just probably don't call it mocking.

Anyway. Where was I? Right. Wee Man's gestating like mad.

As I tucked him into bed tonight, he was snuggled down with Beloved, his blanket-lovey, and Sweets. Or maybe it was Fewicity. I can't keep it, er, her name straight.

Wait, Mama. I have to put my baby in my bewwy.

Ummm, buddy, is that going to be comfy to sleep with a baby in your tummy?

Yes. It is. Ach, the indignance of it all.

Okay, well, sleep tight.

Twenty minutes later, cue Wee Man crying.

What's wrong?

Dis baby in my belly. It's in da way of my sweeping. (That's sleeping for all of you who don't have a three year-old.)

Maybe the baby is ready to come out of your belly?

Yeah, she is. Her name is Fewicity, and Sis is going to be her mom. And I going to be the dad.

And we? Are an American Family. Or something.

punkins.

it's a crisis, apparently

So today I canned tomatoes. I canned a lot of tomatoes, one point five bushels, if you must know. And unless I really think about it, canning tomatoes is not that much work. But now that I'm thinking about it, I am exhausted.

First there's the blanching. And the coring. And the peeling. And the cutting of the tomato into halves or quarters. THEY say you can can them whole. I guess those Ball Blue Book of Canning and Preserving people have never seen the two pound beauties I had my hands on today. And these guys? Were so big.

And then you have to make sure your jars are clean and hot. And that there is very hot water in the canner. And that the rings and lids are hot.

I went about my day, check, check, check, checking items off my list.

And you have to have lemon juice to put in your jars of tomatoes if you are not using a pressure canner, which I do not have. But I do have lemon juice.

Just, not enough lemon juice.

I ran down to my MIL's house. And to my surprise, she didn't have enough lemon juice either. Her house is maison préparée. Unlike my house, which is la maison généralement non préparée, mais nous essayent d'être préparés. We try.

So I went to the grocery store. Because the grocery store won't fail me on lemon juice. The stuff never even goes on sale.

Mmmmmkay. Except for THIS grocery store. Had one. Eight-ounce bottle. And nothing more.

So I asked the nice man, Would you be so kind and check the stockroom to see if there's any more lemon juice?

He shook his balding, bespectacled noggin. I'm sorry ma'am, it seems there's a lemon juice shortage.

My face got all scrunchy, and unpleasant looking, the way it does when I believe someone is feeding me a line. I'm sorry, what did you say?

There's a lemon juice shortage. Be thankful you got as much as you did.

Then my eyes got all big and wide, the way they do when I can't really comprehend the nonsense I'm hearing. There's a lemon juice shortage?

Yes, ma'am. A lemon juice shortage.

Huh.

Sorry, ma'am.

And it seems he's right. My FIL was going to a different chain store in another town this afternoon, so he agreed to get me some lemon juice. Get a lot, I said, because there's a lemon juice shortage. And I have a lot of tomatoes to can. Stock up!

That store was out, too. Whatthe?

I'm just trying to help you out here, people.

Go buy lemon juice. Before it's too late.

oh good lord. i've been meme'd

I was hit twice in the same week with the same meme. Can I just say? Thanks for thinking of me. You are SO KIND! I APPRECIATE YOU!!!

Who has done this silly deed? Jill, from The Daniels 5, and ThatGirl, from Hey You, Remember Me?

Here I go. I know you're holding your breath in anxious anticipation of the TMI that awaits you.

The Rules:
1) Rattle off 6 quirks (you know things about yourself that others might find odd in some way)
2) Then tag 6 more blogs leaving links to their blogs
3) Leave comments on their blogs to let them know that you intend for them to follow suit! (follow me?)

My six quirks:
1) I get completely stressed out in new situations. For example, meeting people, going someplace I've never been before, any situation that involves small talk...it all causes me to hyperventilate. Unless I am speaking in front of a group. Then I am fine. I am clever and witty and self-assured. But put me in the crowd, and I become an overcooked vegetable.

2) I would rather stay home and eat food I've cooked than eat food prepared by other people. Because I know I will like what I make. That is why I make it. And restaurants? I'm not really into restaurants at all.

3) I am, according to The Mister, delightfully neurotic. But then I think Am I? Or is he just saying that to make me chill out and think he really does like me despite being the teensiest bit nutso?

4) Teeth noises make me crazy. This is different from Delightfully Neurotic. It may stem from Delightfully Neurotic, but it is another animal entirely. Teeth noises make me sick to my stomach. They make my teeth hurt. It is hurting me to think about it now.

5) I say terrible things to people when I am pregnant and I have no idea I have said anything terrible. The words I hear in my head are different than the ones that come out of my mouth. FOR EXAMPLE: Whilst prego with Miss O, The Mister, my mother and I were sitting across the picnic table from our pastor and his wife at the annual church day in the park. My mother's dad was in hospice care at a house for the terminally ill that was about an hour from where we live. My mother asked me if I wanted to ride down with her that afternoon to visit my Granddad. The casual answer I heard in my head was, No thanks, it's pretty hot out today. I am tired and want to stay home. (I had been visiting pretty much every other day for months by that time). What I actually said was, WHY WON'T HE DIE? And I couldn't understand why The Mister grabbed my plate out from under my fork, took me by the ear and led me off to the car. I cried all the way home, I didn't say that! Why are you taking me home? What is the matter with you? Turns out, I did say that.

6) I have lots of bags. The Mister says this is a quirk of mine, but I think he just doesn't really hang around with lots of women. I really do have many, many bags. One of my favorites is a wine colored fabric, with a big pocket on the front, with an applique of black fabric and burlap-like stuff. I got it at the local Alternative Christmas Fair, an event at a church where not-for-profit organizations peddle their wares. There was a table full of these bags, each one unique despite the common fabrics. I inquired about them and learned that the bags were made by women who had been bought out of prostitution in India or some such place, and the women were now earning money by making these supercute bags instead of bagging johns. I said to the woman behind the table, What a fantastic program! It is such a safe and sanitary way of employing a prostitute, and you don't even have to worry about those pesky STD's. I'll take this one.*

My tag-ees:

1) Danae
2) Melody
3) Stephanie
4) Jocelyn
5) Catherine
6) Ree

*I wasn't pregnant. I just couldn't help myself.

graduate school admission letter

A friend of mine is applying to graduate school. Because in order to be a teacher in New York, one must be in possession of a Master's degree. We aim high, that's why. I'm going to hop out on a limb and guess that she doesn't actually have a burning desire to go to graduate school, even though she will probably do it in her jammies while drinking coffee and wiping dirty poopers watching Barney, which in my head is preferable to actually leaving the house. Because? I'm not so much fond of going places when I have to go places.

She was musing the other day about writing her admission essay, topic: why I want to go to grad school.

Here is a suggestion:

Dear Graduate School Admission Staff:

I find myself in an interesting predicament. This is why I am applying for a Master's Degree in How To Kick A Ball. It's not that I especially need to Master the skill (get it? MASTER?) It's that there are so many children out there today who have lost touch with their feet. Seriously, Admission Staffers, you would be surprised how many children in the Great State of New York no longer use their feet, due to excessive amounts of watching that ridiculous show Arthur, playing interminable sessions of Webkinz, and that little bill that went through the House and the Senate a few years ago called No Child Left Behind. Well, that's not the actual name of the bill, but I'm sure you know of what I speak.

I digress. This is not my predicament.

This is my predicament: I got knocked up. And then I got knocked up again. And again. Can you believe it? You shouldn't be that shocked, you Catholic school Republicans, and don't worry, because I am totally married and the guy I married is the one who Did The Deed. We won't be doing THAT again any time soon...no, not THAT that, we won't be getting knocked up again soon. And as it happens, when you have more than one child, things get expensive. Would you believe that those little heathens precious babes drink almost $20 of milk a week? And the little one uses up more baby formula than a meth lab. Ummm, not that I would actually know... forget I mentioned it. We HAVE to eat meat, because seriously, if we turned to beans and rice as our primary source of protein, we'd asphyxiate in our own rankness by morning. What? You're a vegan? Ooh, sorry. You're probably gavomiting right now, and I apologize for that. What? Meat is murder? Mmmmmkay, I guess you're right, we murder so we can eat the meat. It's totally worth it in my book. Let's move on, shall we?

I need to go back to work. So we don't fart ourselves to death, and run out of milk for our sippy cups. (I actually prefer a whiskey milkshake, but don't go spreading that around.)

As it happens, I have a perfectly lovely Bachelor's degree in Gross Motor Skills. But I can't even use that thing here in New York, well, I could if it were, say, six years ago, then I'd be golden. I have to get a Master's degree so that we can buy meat and milk. Ach, sorry about the meat mention again. But I love that stuff, I really, really do. And so do my precious little carnivores children. Would you like to see a picture? They are adorable, and they would REALLY like to be in daycare. No? Moving on again.

I need to get a Master's degree. I don't really have the energy, or the ability to spell, or even enough time between poopy diapers to catch my breath, but I have to go back to school. And right now, you are pretty much my only option.

So here's what I'm proposing: You let me in to your online classes, and you will never have to talk to me again. I will take my classes, and I will get mostly A's, and then I will get a job teaching the short people of America how to get in touch with their furthest extremeties. Just think: not only will I be part of the whole Get Fit, America, health kick we're pretending we're on, I could save a generation of Upstate New Yorkers from frostbite. You know it's a pressing issue here from September until May, every single year.

Also: I will not discuss meat YOUKNOWWHAT with you again. Or my family's farts.

So what do you say? Am I in?

regarding the pudding club

I asked the great and powerful googles about euphemisms for pregnancy, and 'in the pudding club' was the most ridiculous one. *Clarification: the most ridiculous one in my humble yet insane pregnant opinion.* The term travels far and wide to Back In The Day, when folks found themselves eating puddings that were far from Royal, made from things like brains and whatnot, and baking them in the oven. Lalala, in the oven, lalala, bun in the oven, lalala in the pudding club.
Are we all together now? Here? And on this page?

Super.

I haven't really mentioned it lately, because a number of other bothersome events have arisen, but the whole pudding club membership is going much better. The Perpetual Desire For Barfing And Dying has been replaced with a Lesser Desire For Barfing And Not Dying Anymore. And only between the hours of 6 p.m. and midnight, which is a significant improvement from Hours Of The Day In Which I Find Myself Breathing. It's lovely, I tell you.

And I've discovered a few happy protein items that are Total Barf Preventatives: South Beach (yes, that South Beach) Protein Bars, peanut butter flavour; and hummus. That's only two, not a few, but I'm trying not to barf on the keyboard here, so we're just going to move on. I have always known about hummus, and it only recently occurred to me that I should, umm, you know, make some.

An aside: Wee Man just about gave himself a medical issue when he found out I was making Yummy Tummus today. I was all, Dude, it's just some beans and stuff, and he was all WOOHOOWOOHOOWOOHOO!!!!! and jumping and crashing into the cupboards, and I was all, Go away, I will never be able to explain it to your father if you hurt yourself celebrating hummus. So he woohooed himself into the living room, right onto his backside and cracked his head on the arm of the sofa and the hardwood floor. That's right, Wee Man, rock your celebration!

Anyway. I spent today making out with my hummus and a bag of tortilla chips. And tomorrow I will make pita bread, and slather it with hummus whilst it is still warm, no matter what people say about eating bread straight from the oven being bad for you.

Additional pudding related info: Sweets is approximately 1.25 inches long, and weighs 0.25 ounces. My face is approximately the same size and shape as it was two months ago. Except for the raging acne that makes me seriously consider the-pillowcase-on-the-head as a viable option, and the 25 percent of my life in which I think I ought to be barfing, we're all good up in here.

war is wrong. no exceptions.

hat tip: momocrats

And for an added bonus: this column from the Times examines the Republican Vice-Presidential candidate and the interesting method of choosing her. (No FBI background check, no reading up of any Alaskan newspapers regarding her executive experience...lots of interesting tidbits for the Right and the Left!!!!)

wordless wednesday: dew-ty messy

It's chocolate pudding, I swear.

And is anyone else wondering how his teeth can be that clean?

in case you were wondering.

It is a big deal.

It is a major deal when a person lies. MAJOR.

It is an even MAJOR-ER deal when a person has been caught in a lie, or seventeen, and CONTINUES TO LIE.

People lie for a lot of reasons. In this case, the lying is TO KEEP YOU COMING BACK FOR MORE. More what, you ask? To keep you coming back until the person who is lying has gotten what he wants.

He is using you.

And you are allowing it. Again. And again. And again.

And it makes me sick to the very core of my being to watch you being treated like that. But you don't listen to me. That makes me sad and aggravated, to be honest. Because I have never lied to you; I have only ever wanted what is best for you, and for you to be happy. And because I know you, or at least I think I do, I am pretty sure that you don't really want to be treated like this.

I love you.

I have never lied to you.

And you are choosing to continue down this path. Yes, I said CHOOSING. You are choosing to be treated like a worthless person; you are choosing to allow a terrible excuse of a human being insult you and lie to you.

You say it's no big deal.

You are wrong.

thanks, the effbook team

I joined Effbook.

I didn't want to do it.

It's just that I read this blog, and he wrote a post about going to his Effbook page because he had this other post there, and I couldn't read the message because I wasn't a member of Effbook, and that just made me cranky and annoyed, because there's not much I dislike more than being told I can't do something regardless of the something's actual importance.

For example, when I was little, and by little I mean when I was a child, not when I was skinny, my parents were remodeling our kitchen. I must have been five-ish. The line-o in the kitchen was stripped off, and we were just chilling, getting slivers from the subflooring. It was awesome. Anyway, there was this hole in the subfloor, right at the end of the cupboards. I was sitting there, getting slivers in my keister, and also coloring with my black crayon. And yes, the black crayon part is important. The little hole was a little larger than my black crayon, and I wondered what would happen if I put my black crayon into the hole. So I asked my mom.

What will happen if I drop my crayon in this hole?

You'll lose it. The hole's not big enough to get the crayon out.

I won't lose it. You'll get it for me.

No, if you put it down that hole, it will be there forever.

Oh. So you mean even though I really want to have my black crayon and put it in the hole at the same time, I am going to screw myself out of having a black crayon forever and ever?

And I won't buy you a new black crayon.

Done deal, mama. I am dropping that sucker in. And then I did. And that black crayon is STILL UNDER THE SUBFLOORING IN MY MOM'S HOUSE.

The end of the black crayon story.

So I joined Effbook. And I had NO FRIENDS. I had to go out and FIND FRIENDS. I'm starting to have a pitterpattery heart just thinking about it. Thank the Lord Effbook wants me to have friends, and began a list of people I may know, so that I could maybe be friends with them IF THEY ACCEPTED ME. Oh my word. I even had to ASK MY BROTHERS if they'd be friends with me. HOW MUCH MORE AWKWARD CAN YOU PEOPLE BE?

This much more.

Today, I got an email from Effbook, and it said this:

Jon said on Effbook that you two are married. We need you to confirm that you are, in fact, married to Jon. To confirm this relationship request, follow the link below: www.clickmenow.effbook.com

Thanks,The Effbook Team

Right. My husband had to apply for confirmation through Effbook to be married to me. Even though...whatever. I'm sure you get it.

And I can't completely complain about Effbook. I reconnected with a few people from college, one in particular who is still very near and dear to my heart after years of not speaking. Not pissy not speaking, just losing track not speaking.

The Mister blogged about Effbook today, and how much he loves it. I am not entirely sure what I think about Effbook. The networking is nice, but umm, poking? and gifting? and all of the other totally ridiculous (read: useless) features? Somebody said something about throwing cows? That is just not right, people. Tipping cows, yes, throwing... that's a great big N-O, good buddy.

I have 42 friends. Which is a weird bit of information to have. Who does that anyway, counting their friends? And who needs to have 42, or 79, or 39,865 friends? Who can keep up with that many people and still actually have friends in real life?

Thanks, Effbook, for tweaking that one last nerve ending. You know, the one that goes straight to the Am I Good Enough, Am I Popular Enough, Am I ______ Enough part of my brain. I was doing alright, feeling okay about myself. And thanks to you, I'm just about reduced to the mental workings of an insignificant-feeling twelve year-old. It's awesome, and I truly appreciate how you're bringing people together, one friend application at a time. So now? I hit your site only when somebody wants to be MY friend. It's fantastic. I get an email, I click the link, I have more friends. But I don't hang out. And I don't reach out to others, really. Kind of like in real life. By the way, is there a group for agorophobes? Or for people who just really prefer to have a few really close friends? You know, a tight, close social circle? Well, maybe you don't. That's okay with me. I'll just wait for more people to discover how awesome I am.

i r a slacker

Miss O has homework.

Yes, you heard me right, the child who has only been in kindergarten for a whopping three days, a total of twenty point five hours, has homework.

And we haven't even looked at said homework. Okay, technically I looked at it. You know, with my eyes and stuff. But not so much with the brain. The homework is a large yellow sheet of construction paper with a big ol' star drawn on it. I have not a clue, not the slightest idea of what I am supposed to do with that freaking star.

Yes, you heard me right, I said WHAT I AM SUPPOSED TO DO. Because really, assigning homework to a kindergarten with marginal (on a good day) reading and writing skills is actually assigning homework to said kindergartener's MOM.

Seriously, people, I completed my homework nine years ago. I have both the diploma, and the loan payment booklet to prove it.

I know, there is an alarming number of parents who probably need to do homework with their kindergartener. There most likely is an alarming number of parents who need to be informed that their child attends kindergarten. We? The Mister and Moi? Don't actually have a pressing need to do homework with our kindergartener. EVER.

Because homework is built into the fabric of our lives. Does that make you want to sing? The fa-bric of our li-hi-hives.

We read, out loud, on a daily basis to each of our children. Sometimes they read to us. Even Wee HB. His favorite is Cookie's Week, a story that features a kitten named Cookie, who, well, behaves like a kitten. And it is funny because none of our stupid cats are currently kittens. Praise Jesus. HB likes to shout TWOI-WET! TWOI-WET! and also DIRT, DIRT, MESSY, MESSY and also GAH-BIJ! GAH-BIJ! He doesn't have the rest of the tome memorized just yet, but we cut him some slack because he's not two yet.

How's about somebody cutting US ALL some slack? Or at least taking a couple of minutes to divide the class up, you know, Reading Group style. The 'top group' would never have to do homework with their kindergartener. The 'middle group' would have homework once a week, and the 'last group' would have homework all the time, so the school would know whether or not the parents are neglecting their children.

Brilliant? I know!

Then give each group a super cool name, so that the lowest-common-denominator group doesn't feel like they have inferior parenting skills. To which the other two groups snigger rudely, because EVERYBODY KNOWS ABOUT THE LOWEST READING GROUP.

I totally know that The Mister and I could pull it together and win us a place in the coveted top group. And that would really help me, because honestly, I don't have enough energy/ brain power/ desire to get my regular work done on a daily basis, let alone complete my five year-old's homework.

But until then, I'm off to find my crayons and my pencils.

a little fashion commentary

Any ideas how much the ensembles in this photo are worth?

$317,000.

Three hundred seventeen thousand dollars.

Laura Bush's outfit, jewels included, cost about $4000.

Cindy McCain's outfit, jewels included, $313,000.

Now, I'm not saying that if you're filthy rich you shouldn't have nice things. Or hundreds of thousands of dollars in the blingety-bling draped around your wrists and neck, and dangling from your lobes.

I'm just going to say that the Habitat for Humanity affiliate in my county could have built almost seven houses with $317,000. For that crazy(?) amount of money, seven working families could own their own home, and be working themselves out of poverty instead of riding the spiral downward.

$317,000 could purchase 63 Gift Arks from Heifer International. What's a Gift Ark? One Gift Ark provides two cows, two sheep, two oxen, two camels, and two water buffalos to five families across the globe. Each of those families share the offspring of these pairs with neighbors in their villages, helping one family at a time become self-sufficient. 63 Gift Arks would provide 126 of each of the five animals, a total of 630 animals helping 315 families.

Let me just offer an advance warning to the old, big-spending, do-nothing, me-first, country-second crowd: change is coming. ~Senator John McCain, the Republican presidential nominee.

Is it, Senator McCain? Really? Because something tells me that when you spend like that, you know, all big-spending, me-first, country-second style, I think you just may not be in touch with what's going on around you. We like to call that REALITY over here at the dayton time, and I cordially invite you to get yourself a big old helping of it.

sort-of-wordless wednesday, or and away she went.

Don't you forget that this going to Kindergarten business is all about me. It wasn't awful. I only sniffled a little bit. Except for the part where Miss O got on the bus, and Wee Man said, Bye, Sis. I never see you again. And then I sniffled a lot and swallowed hard. And I didn't crush/smother/cause embarrasment when she climbed off the bus. I actually sent her back for her backpack. Pragmatic. And she will go back tomorrow. I bought a new pair of big girl pants, I just need to remember to put them on when I get up in the morning.

Bacon and eggs, breakfast of champions.

I can't define that expression.

But that girl was holding on tight to Wee Man.

Note the species in her native surroundings.

Here she is dancing the "I See The Bus" dance.

She didn't even turn around to wave to me us.

See, Wee Man, they brought her back.

The bus had NO AIR CONDITION!!!
That is a real kick in the butt!

All in all, it was a good day.
And in all her life, I have never known this child to eat so much for dinner.
Or, should I say, dinners.
She would make Michael Phelps proud with her caloric intake today.

And she wore these.

wait. what? where'd it go?

You're right. The story of The Benevolent Captain Asshat is no longer here. And that is because the story is no longer fit for print. Apologies to the fans.

so tell me

What do you think of the pink on black? I use explorer because, well, I just do, and it reads pretty well.

And does anybody know why I can't get my header picture to fit inside the pretty box? I told it to 'shrink to fit' and the blogger formatting powers are not cooperating. Stinky non-cooperative thing.

Can anybody help?

Please disregard all questions regarding the resization of any header picture. Unless you can tell me where I can view the code that is the picture. (Umm, Catherine? This is me looking at you.)

he's not there

At work. The Mister is not at his job. Because it's not his job any more. He decided that more than enough was actually enough. Thank the Lord. I knew I was stressed by the situation, but I didn't realize exactly how stressed I really was until he told me he was done. Really really done.

The past 24 hours have been practically blissful.

Do you like how I've turned The Mister's miserable situation into another All About Me? I'm good like that.

I do admit that I am a teensy bit concerned that there might be a little hot-head action at my place tomorrow morning. But I am confident in my ability to a) stand up to Captain Asshat, and b) dial 911. Because I am not going to deal with crap from that wee man (he's actually enormous), no siree.

We have a happy last day of summer planned, filled with strudel/peaches/sausage eating, and puffy paint buying, and playground playing. After nap, we'll play in the back yard, and maybe have a picnic. And it will be lovely.

too much to be a comment

As much as I enjoy people telling me I'm brilliant, and clever and funny, I does enjoy me a good discussion. Shelly was the lone ranger who disagreed with my point of view... in the comments... that post was mentioned to me by people I actually know off the interwebs, and they disagreed, too. I started to respond in the comments, but it was more of a post than a comment, so I brought it up front and center.

You all should know that I really enjoy Shelly's blog, her writing, her tone and perspective. And her children? Are adorable. Especially Shelly, because I don't want you to think I'm trying to embarrass you. You raised some great rebuttal/comments/questions, and it's a rare opportunity for people to hear two differing opinions, presented kindly and at the same time.

I think my (staunchly conservative) brother will be cheering for you, Shelly. He would probably have been the first to disagree if he weren't vacationing in a beach house in North Carolina this week.

"statistically dead guy OR man with tons of experience, he defended our country and was a POW for crying out loud" Yes, Senator McCain has years and years of experience. I do not begrudge him that. However, I find it completely odd that given the opportunity to speak of his actual public service, what he has contributed to the US as a member of the legislative body, and most importantly, where he stands on specific issues, Senator McCain brings up his military service instead of answering questions. We all know he was a POW. I haven't heard anybody disrespecting that, and I certainly was not. I didn't even bring it up.

Senator McCain is marginalizing himself by telling us again and again about being a POW. He is not enhancing his image as a statesman by making his time as a POW his major/only talking point.

abortion? you know that mc cain is ok with abortion, right? McCain's stance on abortion is fairly unclear. He is standing up as a Republican, which lends to the idea that he is anti-abortion/pro-life, and sometimes he makes anti-abortion/pro-life-ish statements. Other times he hints at an opinion that is completely the opposite. I have read him speaking on both sides of the argument, and even if he has made a definitive comment, I don't think I would believe it. Governor Palin has firmly stated that it is a priority to make abortion illegal even in cases of incest and rape.

I was adopted as an infant, and trust me, the issue of abortion hits hard. The effect of abortion is not just limited to the unborn child. (See me use the word child? Not fetus, embryo or zygote?) I believe that life begins at conception. Shelly wrote a compelling argument regarding birth control, and the information she outlined are the reasons we do not use prescriptive birth control methods. I wish and pray that people would stop using abortion as a method of birth control. It makes me sad to hear people speaking casually of such a serious situation.

But I have never been there. That place where killing the child is the best option. I can't even imagine it, and I have an imagination. I know that God would not have us kill unborn babies, just as He would have us not kill people who hurt babies. Killing is killing, right? I know without a doubt it is not what God would have ME do.

Abortions will continue regardless of legality. Legal just means safer medically. Legality does not determine ethics or morality.

Palin is the only one...that has held ANY executive office in our country--if you're going to hold youth against someone, you have to hold it against obama as well. The age point is this: For months, all Senator McCain has said about Senator Obama is that Obama is too inexperienced, too young. And then McCain chooses a person to be his VP candidate who was mayor of a town smaller than the county seat of my county? Sure, Governor Palin has accrued two years experience, but how is that remotely adequate preparation to be the President of the United States? Because really, the VP could become the President without a moment's notice. Having no experience with government on a Federal level, and the opportunity to be the Leader of the Free World more quickly than a finger snap doesn't really sit well with me. Yes, I'm being a little picky, but the Senators Obama and Biden have experience on the Federal level.

guns? seriously? i highly doubt that just b/c Palin is a card carrying member of the NRA that she wants to throw guns off the back of a bus in an effort to put them into the hands of those who shouldn't have them--ridiculous--NO ONE wants more crime and "big guns in the hands of career criminals" I don't anticipate that happening. See? We sort of agree! Kinda? Maybe?

And now? It's Open Season at the discussion table. Join in, if you like. But be forewarned, do not be mean, like the anonymous person who asked if I ignore my grandparents because they are statistically dead. And for the record, they are dead, actually and statistically.