Sunday, November 30, 2008

happy blog-o-versary!

Today the dayton time is one year old. Now we can mostly walk, smear food all over ourselves, and drink from both a straw and a sippy cup. Unfortunately, we won't be 100% for pooping in the truly appropriate place for a long, long time yet. Alas.

Here's a little update on this year.
  1. Miss O has stopped asking me to do this.
  2. My love affair was fully supported and funded by my in-laws. I did conquer the learning curve, by the way. But then this happened.
  3. In January, I wrote my Very First Offensive Post, and received Hate Mail. Also, we Went To The Mattresses with the children.
  4. I went on a date.
  5. I began to dread Kindergarten.
  6. My very first Dayton Time Hater got the comments all fired up. Bastard. Also, I admit to being a kleptomaniac.
  7. I began the Cinco de Mayo Chronicles.
  8. I had my first guest blogger, a lovely girl named Miss O, who REALLYREALLYREALLY wants to be a flower girl. Really bad.
  9. I talked loudly about toilets in church.
  10. We found out about this happy result of a pleasant event. Also? I reached my limit.
  11. I wrote the best product review in the history of product reviews. I also wrote a letter for a friend who is applying to grad school.
  12. Everybody came out of the woodwork to comment on this post. Also? More hate mail. I wasn't even TRYING to be controversial.
  13. And finally, we have unpleasant neighbors, and I saw the weirdest thing ever in the Target parking lot.

I like this whole blogging thing. And I'm glad you're here. I hope you stick around.

Saturday, November 29, 2008

so close!

This is my twenty-ninth post in as many days. And yes, I do see the sign up there, the one that says 30 posts in 30 days. And tomorrow's post? It's done. Oh, yes it is.

I've been working on it, because tomorrow is my blogoversary. This little bit of html called the dayton time will have been floating around the interwebs, earning readers, followers, and, well, haters, too.

Thanks for sticking around for my daily blathering on, and chiming in to tell me I'm smart. Also thanks for when you have other opinions, too, because I appreciate a good debate.

I don't know what to tell you about what to expect, seeing as how I'm expecting myself. I will probably get a little more nutty, make sweeping generalizations about lots of mundane topics, and complain about my Round Ligaments.

It's likely I will cross the Information Line and mention things that are gross, for example: Leaking Body Parts, Poop, Barf, Children, and Politicians.

But really? You should expect that by now. Because the dayton time is honesty time.

And you, my dearest readers, can count on me.

Friday, November 28, 2008

this is my karate kid

And yes.
He is wearing a bwack wee-uh-tahd.
It's one step up from a bwack bewt.
So watch what you say,
or he'll bust out wif his mad chopdicks skillz.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

happy birthday, little surprise

It was one of the world's shortest pregnancies that resulted in a nine pound, twelve(ish) ounce baby. I was astonished to discover I was pregnant in June of 2006. It was a Monday, around 8:15 in the morning. I had been feeling sort of off-ish for a long time, and had decided the night before that I would call my doctor. But after thinking about How Things Actually Work at the doctor's office, and weighing all the information I had written down on my handy-dandy info card, it seemed clear to me that the first thing they would do upon my arrival would be to Collect A Sample.

You know, to see if I was knocked up.

I decided to save them the trouble of billing my insurance for the pee stick, and rummaged around in my medicine cabinet for an extra.

I unwrapped the thing, assumed the position, and EVEN BEFORE THE WET HIT THE STICK, the second line appeared. Just being in close proximity to my HGC-exuding vagina was enough to tip that stick off. I'm only slightly exaggerating here. Actually, the liquid had not traveled far enough up the stick to make it appear wettish when the second line appeared.

I went to the doctor on Tuesday.

Yep, she said, you're pregnant.

Huh, I said.

So, you're having a baby!
the cute ultrasound girl said on Wednesday.

Meh. I have a baby right now. He's not one yet.
I'm just hoping that this baby still looks like a bean.
Or an alien.

(Cute Ultrasound Girl squirts the goo on my belly,
then on the Magic Wand, then places the Wand on my belly.)

That's no alien. That is an enormous baby. Oh crap.
How much baby would you say that is?

That's a lot of baby.
Let's see...the machine pegs you at 17 weeks, 5 days,
so you'll be due around Thanksgiving.

Wow. That's like 23 weeks away. That is an enormous baby.

And he was.

Today, when he got up, I asked him what he wanted for breakfast.
A present, he said with a grin.

How old are you?
I five.

Send help, please.
My mama won't let go of me.

See how much cuter I am today than when I came out?
I am like a good cheese.
I'm a cheeseball.

And this? Is the best present ever.
From Wee Man, who was tired of beating
the snot out of HB for taking *his* horsey.
It was Wee Man's own idea.

Happy Birthday, Cutie Pie Dimple Head Baby Big Boy.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

this is serious, people. really.

First things first: I have been interviewed on a Very Important Blog called Pink Asparagus by my bloggy friend, Catherine. It is a Very Important Blog Event Catherine hosts called PenPals. And now that I'm Very Important, I am directing you over to her place to check her out.

Because she? Is totally checkoutable.

Second thing, umm, second. Have you gone to visit Elle? You know, Elle with the chocolates? Who I told you to go visit on Monday? In all the excitement about the CHOCOLATES and the CARAMELS and whatnot, I forgot to mention that adoption is near and dear to my heart because I, myself, am an adoptee. That means I was adopted, for those of you with suffix issues. So naturally, I must plug the adoption advocates. Like this:


And now on to the rest of the serious business.

I'm over halfway done baking this here baby in my belly. See me pointing? At my belly? That is what I mean by THIS and HERE.

And in a fairly short amount of time, this small person will come out and it is probably not right to refer to this new short person as Sweets for the rest of his or her life. And yes, I am saying his AND her. Because I'm just not telling you about information I don't have yet I don't want to share with you at the moment.

I found a website called Nancy's Baby Names, where you can ask Nancy, a semi-pro baby namer, what you should name your child. Fun, right? So I sent Nancy an email, and on Friday, she posted MY STORY!!!!! WOO HOO!!!! So now you and the whole rest of the internets can tell me what to name my as-of-right-now-gender-undetermined baby.

If you click here, on Nancy's Baby Names, you'll see the post where she discusses the names of the rest of my children. I know you are dying to know what their actual names are, and I swear to the Almighty I will delete you if you talk about them here. Leave Nancy a comment, too. Because comments are fun, that's why. Oh, and you may say things like I like the nice names you and the Mister have chosen for your children, and What the blazes were you thinking when you chose a name like Herkimer for the (current) baby? No wonder you call him HB!

But that is all.

Also, I may or may not be having the DETERMINING ULTRASOUND at 4 this afternoon. It is possible that I may (or may not) check back in later to let you know what flavour of bambino (or bambina) was spotted in the watery cradle that is my uterus.

Uterus. It's fun to say. Try it about six times in a row, really fast. It sounds like a horse galloping quietly. But I don't really know anything about that, so don't take me too seriously.

I'm off to make some pies. Miss O has requested a pumpkin, an apple, and also a cheesecake, but not a cheesecake pie, just a plain, old cheesecake. All of them are super easy and don't take long, except for the whole peeling the apples part, which has been made a much happier experience since I purchased an apple peeler-corer-slicer from Pam the Pampered Chef Lady.

No, that's not me. I am not a Pam. Ever. If you require some Pam in your life go to the grocery store and pick some up (I hear Pam's pretty cheap) or watch The Office.

Anyway, before I go, I leave you a challenge:
Leave a comment with your bestest ideas evah regarding what we should name the baby. I am pretty fond of a couple of Nancy's suggestions, and you can feel free to incorporate any of her ideas. (One last thing...we aren't going to name the baby Naomi if it's a girl. That's one on Nancy's list, and we have a little Naomi in our life already, so even if you love it, we're not gonna do it.)

Give us some direction to our lives! Help us name the baby!

Oh, and if you peg the gender? I'll send you a gold star. Yes I will.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

a little tuesday morning encouragement to brighten your day.

The only consistent feature in all of your dissatisfying relationships is you.

Madness does not always howl.
Sometimes, it is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying,
"Hey, is there room in your head for one more?"

If a pretty poster and a cute saying are all it takes to motivate you,
you probably have a very easy job.
The kind robots will be doing soon.

When you wish upon a falling star, your dreams can come true.
Unless it's really a meteorite hurtling to the Earth which will destroy all life. Then you're pretty much hosed no matter what you wish for.
Unless it's death by meteor.

Monday, November 24, 2008

shameless plug monday: it's adpotion awareness month

I know, WAY TO INFORM YOU OF THE NEWS ALL AT ONCE, but I just found out about Elle, who is apparently awesome, and her Sweet Hope Truffles.

You can read Elle's story here, but I'm going to sum up because I know some people are too lazy to press their right forefinger on the link, and THIS IS IMPORTANT. Elle and her husband, Mr. Smartypants, adopted a son from Russia. As you may know, and I really hope you do know this, adopting a child is NOT CHEAP, no matter where you are adopting. Even here in the US, adoption is expensive. So Elle decided to make some stinking fabulous chocolate truffles and caramels, and she sold a bunch of them to help cover the cost of the adoption. The next year she decided to donate the money to another family adopting from Russia, and the year after that, and the year after that...

Anyway, Awesome Elle is STILL selling her chocolates. This time, her goal is to make a documentary about the older orphans and developmentally disabled orphans in Russia, children that nobody hears about.

I STRONGLY URGE YOU to go visit Elle, and to buy ten or twelve pounds of chocolate from her, because HELLO! FLAT-RATE SHIPPING!!!!! I am happy to email you my home address, should you have no idea who you should give these yummy bits of happiness and goodness. As you may know, I am becoming more and more exceedingly pregnant by the day. Also my midwife has denied my request to give me a chocolate IV drip.

Or, you could give the chocolates to your mother, or your sister, or your child's teacher, or yourself, or me, or your boyfriend's mom, or your old granny, or your librarian (they all usually like chocolate, too, I hear).

Click this button, right here. Yes, the one with the sweetiepie bumblebee on it. And see if you don't slobber all over your keyboard right then and there. Better yet, run and get a napkin first.


Sunday, November 23, 2008

just hanging out

We are having a quiet day at home today. We're blowing off church and staying home in our pajamas (with the exception of the Mister, who is leaving for a short time to preach at one of the churches our church is mentoring).

I got some bacon out of the freezer. It's the last pound from the pig we bought last year. I am a total bacon horder. Or bacon whore. Or both. If you have never had non-commercially produced bacon, you are missing out. Big time.

If you're a non-meat-eater, you're missing out, too. But I respect your choice, because it means more for me.

I'm knitting a wool soaker for HB. A soaker is a woolen diaper cover, for those of you non-cloth-diaperers out there. It is a pretty green (er, handsome). I am going to sit on the couch after we eat bacon and eggs and pumpkin bread toast, and I will drink coffee and knit until I am bored with that, or until I have to get up and make more coffee.

And the children will play.

And we will have potato soup for dinner.

The end.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

meme-a-licious, yes i am

I must be cheaper than junk at a garage sale, what with the number of times I've been tagged lately. Seriously.


And because Dory wants to get to know me better? Dory? Are you thinking clearly? I am a bit of a wack job sometimes, and I'm crazynutty pregnant which only exacerbates the situation.

See the rules? They're over there. On the right.

Here are my seven weird facts. They might be random, I'll leave it to you to decide.

Factoid Numero Uno: I wear long underwear from the end of October until late April, sometimes even early May. Because I'm ALWAYS COLD, that's why.

Factoid Numero Dos: I would like to live way out in the country, on a little farm, and be a hermit. The only thing standing in my way, besides, you know, loving where I live and stuff, is well water. I hate well water.

Factoid Numero Tres: I bite my nails when I am stressed. But I did manage to have super sweet nails for my wedding.

Factoid Numero Quatro: I stopped vomiting when I was four. I hate vomiting so much that I willed myself to never vomit again. Then? I went to college. The end.

Factoid Numero Cinco: I got glasses when I was in the second grade. They were GINORMOUS. I hated them. My mother made me get the biggest ones they made because if they're bigger, you see better out of them. She completely missed the part where the optician told her about there being one place, smaller then the size of a dime that is the part you can actually see the best. And then I wasn't allowed to get contacts until I was a junior in high school. Oh, but when I did? My life improved so drastically. And that is the truth.

Factoid Numero Seis: The smell of eggs and onions makes me gag. It might just be the pregnancy, but every Sunday, I have to go away whilst the Mister makes his lunch. I just can't deal with the odor.

Factoid Numero Siete: I aced high school Spanish, but I nearly failed Spanish Diction class in college, because the dialect they tought in college was Castilian, and instead of the S sounding like an S, it sounds like a TH. So Castilian = CaTHtilian. It darn near killed me.

Tag-ees: I'll pick a few NaBloPoMo peeps to help them out.
1. The Stiletto Mom
2. The Mister
3. Catherine at Pink Asparagus
4. Danae at Beauty in Distress (she just has a bloggity-block, that's all)
5. Jill at the Daniels Five
6. Joce at Tillaboro Orchard
7. Kara at The Simple Life

Go ye, and meme the world!

Friday, November 21, 2008

searching blogger

I KNOW that blogging about blogging is verboten, but hang in there for just another hour with me so I can get where I need to go here.

Looking at my stats is fun for me. For example, I wonder who is the person in Alden who reads me pretty much every day? Or how is it possible for there to be so many men who look to me for advice on how they ought to seduce their wives? Just because my husband and I had sex four times, okay, it was five, you got me there!, doesn't mean I know how men should seduce their wives already.

But today? I had a most unusual search turn up. Someone searched blogger for "birthday spanks images".

Classy. Real. Real. Classy.

I was looking at the Referrals part of my stat tracker, and clicked over to the corresponding number on the Details part of the stat tracker. And Details told me that the server my visitor came from was Yes, that is the real website.

Turns out is a toy wholesaler out of Brooklyn, NY. A lovely, child-related product company. And these are the guys whose pictures are on their website.

This is James.

This is Charles.

This is Richie.

Presumably, one of these gentlemen came across my blog, looking for pictures of Birthday Spanks, and found a picture of my daughter. It was not her birthday. And also? No spanking.

So there you go, Presumably Dirty Old Men From Brooklyn. Go eff yourselves. And not to a picture of my daughter. And should you come back here? You should feel comfort knowing that I am on the other side of the state. Warm, cozy comfort.

And supposing I am wrong about this? Apologies all around.

But even so, you ought to know better than to go snooping around a blog looking for Birthday Spanks.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

how to ruin target

Step 1: Take the children.

Step 2, as if Step The First is, in and of itself, not completely effective: Go to Target at lunchtime, or nap time, or even worse...go between lunch and nap when you haven't actually fed the children.

Step 3: Forget your list.

Step 4: Allow the 3 year-old to walk. As you will notice, this is NOT my first mistake in this scenario, and ****SPOILER ALERT**** I will tell you in advance that apparently I did not actually learn my lesson here. Because I'm super smart, that's why. Did you have to ask? Right. I know you didn't, but you ENJOY asking me questions, and having me tell you why.

Step 5: Give too many warnings. When you tell the three year-old that you will walk out of the store without items A, B, and C, (even though you really, really, reallyreallyreally need baby wipes), you need to leave the store and walk out. Before you pay. Even without the lifesaving latte. I know this.

Step 6: Engage in discussion with a preschool aged child, who believes Buzz Witenear calls him on the phone. And yes, if that is ruining our child's life, then we are PROUD OFFSPRING LIFE RUINERS.

Step 7: Answer the phone whilst in the store with a completely obnoxious child. Yes, Jocelyn, I know how you feel about the Satanic Cell Phone. And often I do feel this verysame way about the phone, however my BFF from college has been having a real sonofatime of it lately, and I do my best to answer the phone whenever she calls because that's the only way I have of loving her and supporting her because she is far, far away. But not Far And Away. That's a whole 'nother conversation, one that won't take very long at all. Except for the part where I mention that one of the supporting cast is a certain Colm Meany, who I saw perform the role of The Phantom in, no, not the Phantom Tollbooth The Cinematic Experience, but yes, in The Phantom of The Opera in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. A whole 'nother country. And that guy? CAN SING.

And except for the part where I just asked the googles about Colm Meany, and they told me I'm an ass, and I really am trying to discuss Colm Wilkinson, because Colm MEANY actually played Miles O'Brien on Star Trek Deep Space Nine, for which we all should love him and be grateful. But Colm Wilkinson? THAT GUY is apparently the one who can sing.

See what I mean about the singing? Sorry to confuse you. And this is Colm 'The Singah' Wilkinson playing Valjean in Les Miserables.

Do you see why I have the troubles I have? How did I even get here?

Step 8: Forget your Obnoxious Child has run down the toothpaste aisle, laughing like a crazy.

Step 9: Shout His Name, his entire, full, complete, three word long name, eighteen times until a security detail (or three bored, yet helpful, teenagers) comes to assist you. Triangulate around Child Who Wishes A Public Flogging, catch him up under your left arm, thank the Teenage Security Detail who has been SO helpful by corralling Child Who Wishes A Public Flogging (the trickery!!! ha-HA!)

I would just like to add that the entire time all of this nonsense was going on, I had hung up the phone. Also, Cutie Pie Dimple Head said, broken-record style, I sittin' right here. I sittin' in the cart. I bein' good.

Because he knows who butters his bread, yes he does.

Step 10: Completely in compliance with Step 5, pay for the items you've chosen, and possibly say, out loud to Child Who Wishes A Public Flogging, IF YOU DO NOT KNOCK IT OFF RIGHT NOW, I WILL SPANK YOU RIGHT HERE IN THIS STORE, AND I DON'T CARE WHO THEY CALL ON ME. Because, at that very moment, you don't care. You want to drink, and that is all.

Step 11: Load the children and the four things in the car. Unintentionally glance over at the adjacent vehicle and COMPLETELY STARE AT A WOMAN SHAVING HER CHIN. In the car. In the parking lot of the Target.

And, voila! Easy as pie, your trip to Target is RUINED.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

wordless wednesday: toothless edition

Yes, that's me.
Yes, they came out naturally.
No, I did not choose the wallpaper.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

makin' the dough and eating it too.

I have tried and tried at different points in my life to make bread. And in the spirit of being bitterly honest, it was awful. Every. Last. Dry. Bit. Horrible, I tell you!

But I have been reading more and more about food additives, preservatives, and colors, and those things, my dearies, are worse than my bread. And the ingredient I am currently hating the most: corn syrup. I also am not a fan of partially hydrogenated ANYTHING! but I have been working to eliminate the corn syrup-filled ingredients from our diet. Please note: We eat marshmallows. We lo-uh-uh-uh-ove marshmallows. And there is just no way we will be removing s’mores from our diet, corn syrup or not.

And people, I have read the labels. Every last one at the tiny grocery store in town, and many labels in the bigger town (they do call it a city) to the north of us, and I have found one bread that does not have corn syrup. ONE! It was a Pepperidge Farms whole grain bread, and a few of the breads in that line also had no corn syrup.

So in the spirit of winning The Battle of the Corn Syrup, I ventured into making bread for the Dayton Five. I experimented with the Williams-Sonoma Essentials of Baking book, which yielded some lovely results. But those recipes didn’t utilize whole-wheat as much as I wanted, and they felt labour-intensive. So while they were good, that one place did not provide what I was looking for.

Other nutty-whole-grain friends of ours have been making bread for years, so I called for their recipe.

And that was the answer to the deep and penetrating question of bread.

The best thing about this recipe is that it is flexible. Add oats, don’t add oats. All white flour, all wheat flour, a comibination…whatever you want will work. Half a cup of sweetener, a whole cup, it’s all good. Butter, olive oil, vegetable oil…what you have in your kitchen will be just fine.

That said, I use rolled oats. Actually, I use a seven-grain rolled mix that provides a wonderful nutty flavour. For sweetener, I use a half cup of honey, and I use olive oil. The eggs are optional, but I always use them. Not sure why, exactly, but I do. And finally, I use instant yeast that I purchase from my Bulk Food Store. It costs $2.99 for a pound. That is an amazing deal. (I did recently learn that you can get the same instant yeast from BJ's, two pounds for the same price, but then you'd have to go to BJ's, and that's not always a good idea. The packets cost about a dollar, if I am remembering correctly, and who wants to spend an extra dollar per batch of bread? Not me. So look for instant yeast in big packages.

And the most important thing: USE A SIFTER!!!! Why? Because in a 1 cup measuring, umm, cup, you can get nearly two cups worth of sifted flour. Flour is one of those things you measure by weight, not volume, and it’s not meant to be packed like brown sugar. So go buy a sifter and thank me later.

what you use:
2 cups rolled oats (or not)
6-7 cups warm water
2 eggs (or 4, whatever you want)
1/2 - 1 cup sweetener (sugar, honey, maple syrup)
2 Tablespoons yeast
1 cup wheat bran (or not)
7-9 cups flour
1/2 - 1 cup butter or oil
2 Tablespoons salt (less if you use sugar)
6-8 cups flour

what you do:
In an ENORMOUS bowl, combine oats, sweetener, and bran with 6 cups warm water. Let sit for 5 minutes. Or until you remember that you had started to make bread a while ago. (If the latter is the case, stick your finger in the mixture. If it’s mostly warm, you should be good to go. If it’s room temperature, boil 2 cups of water and add it to the mixture. Stir well and proceed.)

Add yeast, and 7-9 cups of flour. At this stage, it should be really easy to stir with a wooden spoon.

Let sit for at least an hour. This is the sponge stage of the bread. It’s where the yeast makes out with the sweetener and the natural sugars in the wheat. It gets all bubbly and full of itself, like a couple of naughty teens.

Stir in all of the rest of the ingredients. This is where I abandon the use of a utensil to mix the bread. Because, really, I come with two handy (har, har) ones on the end of my arms, and they work way better. And, hey, less dishes.

Knead the bread. I have such an enormous bowl that I just knead right in the bowl. (Yes, also I don’t like to clean my counters, it’s just way easier this way. Purist I am not.) Knead until the bread is elastic and springy, and you are tired of kneading. About 10 minutes. Or so. Don’t be a wimp. You might need to add flour if things are getting sticky. Sticky = bad in breadland. Another way to tell that you're done kneading is that the dough doesn't stick to your hands in a gloppy mess.

Put the bread back into your enormous bowl. Cover it, if you like. Or don’t. This bread is not a fussy guy. Let it sit for about an hour. It will grow to twice its original size. Like seamonkeys. But better. Much, much better.

Punch the dough. This is not so much about thrashing your bread as it is about letting some of the fermenting gasses out. If you are a lover and not a fighter, you could gently poke the air out of your bread. Do what you need to do, but get the air out of the bread.

Let it sit for about an hour. Yes, again. Patience, people. Use this quality time to oil your bread pans. Gently oil your bread pans. Bread does not need to bathe in oil as it is baking. That is called fried dough, and you find it at carnivals and amusement parks.

Cut the dough into four equally-sized blobs. Flatten each blob, one at a time, into a square that is slightly longer than your bread pan by slightly longer than your bread pan. Roll up the dough, nice and tight. Fold the ends down toward the seam (that is where you ran out of dough to roll up), and place the loaf in the pan. Gently apply a little oil to the top of your loaves. That makes it purty.

Let the loaves sit for about half an hour. This is a good time to not forget you are making bread. Otherwise, your bread will rise too darn much and then it will be a disaster. And I can’t help you with that. Sorry. Turn your oven to 350 degrees. Or 375. Whichever.

Bake bread at 350 degrees for 40-45 minutes, and 375 degrees for 30-35 minutes. To find out if it’s done, tap or knock on the top of the loaf. If it sounds hollow, it is done. If it sounds full, it is not.

Turn out of pans onto a cooling rack. Cool completely before cutting, or you will have a serious mess to clean up. That is, unless you plan to eat the entire loaf at once. Then go ahead and dig in.

There are a lot of steps involved in this recipe, but I think that the hands-on time is 30 minutes or less. There’s just a lot of waiting time, which could be used to drink coffee, read, or paint your toenails. I mostly do laundry when I’m baking bread. Actually, I just mostly do laundry, bread or not.

Bread is not scary. Try it. Just remember to use a sifter.

Monday, November 17, 2008

thank you for the meme, that's just one less post i have to think about for NaBloPoMo

Rules: Pass it on to five other bloggers, and tell them to open the nearest book to page 56. Write out the fifth sentence on that page, and also the next two to five sentences. The CLOSEST BOOK, NOT YOUR FAVORITE, OR MOST INTELLECTUAL!

So, the closest book to me is...Still Life With Crows, by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child.

The thing about that book? Well, it's the Mister's library book. The Cover is a little bit red, and has a shadowy field with crows (go figure) flying all over the place. Thank the Lord we do not live at Hogwarts, where these birds would actually be flying on the cover of the book. Because that? would be freaking creepy.

She popped the clutch and peeled out of the parking lot, leaving behind a pall of oilsmoke and a nice ten-inch pair of tire marks on the sheriff's asphalt. As she careened out of the alley and slewed (slewed? seriously, that's a word?) onto the street, she was gratified to see the stumpy little sheriff tumble angrily out the door and start to shout something just as her black contrail obliterated him from view.

Well. Ain't she a little hussy. According to the little description on the cover, this is Corrie Swanson, the eighteen year-old misfit. Who, as the authors would have it, takes up, in one fashion or another, with an older FBI agent.

Whatever. She's legal, right?

There are so many things wrong with this book already.

Sunday, November 16, 2008

sometimes things just work out.

I don't really ever talk about money things, because I'm not the kind of person who a) cares about money, b) has any quantity of money to care about, or c) desires to discuss finances. We are We make enough money to keep our house, feed our children, and buy toilet paper.

Sure, I like to be "green" as much as possible. We purchase the environmentally-friendly items we can afford, and don't stress about what is out of our control. Do what you can. That's our motto.

We do buy organic vegetables from our CSA, but only because it is less than $15 a week for 22 weeks out of the year, and I can't feed my family appropriate amounts of vegetables from the grocery store for $15 a week. I don't think I could buy enough of the cheapest, off-brand frozen bags of vegetables to provide 50 servings for $15. (I am just speculating there, but I would bet I'm estimating correctly.)

We purchase our meat from local people who raise the critters and butcher them, but we do that because we get amazing, pasture-fed, Black Angus beef (roasts, steaks, and ground) for $2.40 a pound. I'm picking up our pig tomorrow, about 200 pounds butchered, at about $2.00 a pound.

It works better for us to plan ahead, and know what we will eat over the next year (within reason, of course, there's no way to actually know specifics), and buy in bulk, finding deals when we can.

The trouble with this is the VERY OLD, COMPLETELY ANCIENT freezer that is in our house. Last year, we (read: I) had frozen tons of fruit and vegetables when they were in season, and our VOCAfreezer was packed full. So when it came time to fetch the pig, we had to purchase a small chest freezer to preserve our porcine investment.

Since that time, VOCAfreezer has been running non-stop. All hours of the day, that thing is cranking away. We have newish appliances, including a super-efficient washer and dryer, I dried clothes on the clothesline from March to October, and barely used the dryer, all our lightbulbs are compact fluorescent, the TV is off most of the time, the computer...well, ignore the computer... What I'm getting to is the fact that my electric usage has not decreased at all despite all the good choices we are making.

VOCAfreezer has to go.

We purchase our appliances from the family-owned store around the corner from us, because those guys provide the most amazing service. I went to visit them yesterday, to price a new freezer. The one I chose didn't cost as much as I had been bracing myself for, but still? It is a big purchase.

I came home to crunch numbers, and decided I was just going to have to wait until next year, all the while praying over VOCAfreezer that it would not die and ruin all my loverly pork. Because that would ruin the food budget for sure.

This morning, I was fishing in the plastic 4x6 file that I keep my extra checks in, and lo and behold, there was a packet of savings bonds my parents had purchased for me quite some time ago. I checked them out on the savings bond calculator on the interwebs, and the savings bonds are worth $7.62 MORE than the cost of the freezer.

I don't know what you call it when things like this happen, but I like to thank God for blessings. While God didn't put those savings bonds in that little box miraculously, maybe He was the little urging my parents had years and years ago to purchase those for me, because He knew I'd have a freezer that was about to crap out on me.

So tomorrow, I'm cashing those bad boys in, and paying cash for my brand-new, energy-efficient freezer. Hooray!

Saturday, November 15, 2008

ooh, ooh, *DO* go there

Motherhood is the very condition of sexy. Remember that the next time you see some bedraggled woman with Play-Doh in her hair, dragging a toddler around the grocery store: THAT WOMAN HAD SEX. THAT WOMAN MAY HAVE SEX AGAIN.

*Caution: gratuitous, grammatically correct use of the eff word. I'm just saying, because I don't want you coming back here and telling me I'm corrupting you by pointing you down The Path. Use of the eff word is not to be vulgar, but to make a point. I am pretty sure I don't have to explain this, but I just want to be sure.

Friday, November 14, 2008

it's madness, i tell you

Well, maybe not true, unadulterated madness, in its greatest possible scope, but it's late as I'm typing this, and pretty much everything is madness at this time of day.

The Mister is participating in NaBloBlahBlah, just like me, and was out of stuff to say. Just like a man, I tell you.

What? Oh, hi, babe. I was just saying how much I love you, and how we like to help each other out, and how you ate a lot of meat and didn't feel quite up to posting, and how I TOTALLY HAVE YOUR BACK.

So go, read me over there. And leave him lots of nice comments about his nice blog. And have a good laugh at my expense. Or somebody's. Just make sure you have a good laugh. That's what Fridays are for.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

just doing my part to make a difference in the life of a poor, helpless bunny. that's all i'm doing here.

And if, by making a difference in the life of a poor, helpless bunny, you think I am somehow suggesting that I stand between my cats and the nests of baby rabbits they hunt down and methodically slaughter each and every summer, chasing the larger babies around and around the yard until they leap into our window screens SQUEEING and SQUEEING and SQUEEING their tiny brains into a stroke only to have their bodies devoured and their little, furry noggins left on my welcome mat...

Well, you'd be wrong.

Because who am I to interrupt the food chain? She asks, licking the hot sauce from the best chicken finger sub evah off her fingers and general face area.

I'm saving that bunny, the one down there, trapped in the badge. Megan at Velveteen Mind is totally effing with NaBloBlahBlah this month by twisting arms enticing guest bloggers with tales of fame and fortune. Or traffic. And really? We don't all aim that high, so I'm completely settling for the traffic.

GoBloMeMoFo 2008

So go check me out.

I'm totally check-out-able.

Or don't.

You should go. Now.

But first, tell me how much you love me.

Then, go read my post, and tell me how much you love me over there.

Then, come back here, and tell me how much more you love me now that you've been over there.

That'd be great, thanks.

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

tribute to a local veteran

Just in case you think I've lost faith in people because of the Specimens that live behind us, check out this video. People I know made this happen.

Monday, November 10, 2008

it's good to have goals.

I want to get another piercing.

Another? you ask, all shocked and stuff. Why, how many piercings do you actually have? And... are you... you know... tattooed?

No, I do not have any tattoos. Yet. I would like to get a tattoo, but I haven't been able to figure out a tattoo that would be completely unique to me. Unique, and also small. We aren't talking armband or backpiece here, people, also I will not be getting my plumber's crack tattooed. Because? Eeeeeewwwww.

And piercings? They are of the most standard and boring variety, in my ears. There are seven of them, and really, that's not excessive. Usually I wear earrings in three or four of them, today it's three, for the record, and I officially abandoned my left ear cartilage piercing when Miss O was about six months old, because? OW!

But I reallyreallyreallyreallyreally want to get my nose pierced. Nothing humongo or crazy, no bull-ring between my nostrils, just a teensytiny little diamond on the left side. Also? It does not have to be a diamond, just as long as it doesn't look dinge-y, like I slept wrong and got boogers all over where the shiny part should be.

This isn't a silly, Oh, dear, I'm IN MY THIRTIES!!!! sort of issue. I've been thinking about this for YEARS. Like, maybe, thirteen years. That is very nearly half my life, people, in case you didn't get to the point where you considered doing the math.

And speaking of doing the math? At my last appointment with my midwife, I donated to the pee cup, and then got on the scale. I guessed I had gained maybe 4 pounds, because there's only three parts of me that are bigger, and one is my belly. The other two are getting to the point where they can rest and relax on my belly (really, don't covet, and don't think you want that in your life, because you DO NOT!). Well, I did not gain just 4 pounds. The nurse told me what I actually weighed, as if I did not know how to read the scale, thanks! And then she told me what I weighed last month. AND THEN SHE TOLD ME HOW MUCH WEIGHT I'D GAINED, AND IT WAS A.LOT.YUCK. I said, Really. I hope they pay you a lot of money for those speedy math skills. Also? I have speedy math skills, accurate, too, and I do not want you to EVER do the math for me again. Because it sounds AW.FUL. coming from you. And not that bad in my head. Thanks.*

It was not good.

But I really do want to get my nose pierced. Someday. Maybe I'll wait until I can buy a little diamond for the pretty. Who knows?

What I do know is that it is a good thing to have goals. So today, I share with you my goal of getting my nose pierced. I hope you have very detailed and specific goals for your future, too.

*and I didn't actually say it like that. But I did tell her that informing pregnant women about how fat they're getting isn't a good way to make friends with them.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

i got nothin'


I have one sad story to share, but it would get me in CRAZY amounts of trouble. Email me if you care to hear it. I might just take it over to Her Bad Mother's Basement. That's how sad it is.

But...I am playing nicely with others and will be a guest squatter over at the Velveteen Mind sometime this month. I'll keep you posted. If you want to know.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

the plot is thick

You may have noticed the lack of witty commentary about my children lately. If you are cheering this development, I'm sorry to inform you that this is yet another post in the riding herd category. If no kid posts has been causing you to scratch your head and wonder why, YOU ARE IN LUCK!!!

It has been a couple of relatively unpleasant months, kid-wise, over here at Maison Dayton. Miss O started Kindergarten, and is a complete doll in school. This is not a complaint, because I'm glad she's awesome in school. Really. We're just not having so much of the awesome at home. And I'm not going to give you examples and jokes about them, because I'm just not up to the joking, and also? Everything's not your business.

Then why mention it?

Yeah. Why? Huh? HUH?

Because I just can't sort it out in my head. The Mister and I have exhausted our arsenal of What To Do When Your Kid Can't Take It Anymore.

Last year, the same sort of thing was happening with preschool. She pitched fits. She screamed and cried about not wanting to go (she rarely says she doesn't want to go to Kindergarten). It was miserable, but only at home. The preschool teacher looked at me, every day, with surprised eyes, and acted as if my child was the only child to ever be amazing in school and miserable at home. Give me a freaking break already. I was a teacher, and I know that there are two versions of every child. The Home-Game Child and The Away-Game Child.

This year? It's a sort of highly refined, much more technical version, flavoured with more tannin than I know how to handle.

She seems stressed, and has shown us visible proof that she feels that way. This morning I felt like I was suffocating as she was getting ready for school. I picked the wrong cereal bowl, she likes the clear glass, not the white glass. Wee Man spoke up for the one pottery bowl that remains in tact, she wanted that one. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't tell me what she wanted to eat for lunch. Wouldn't brush teeth. Wouldn't speak nicely. Wouldn't. Wouldn't. WOULDN'T!!!!!

And when she leaps off the high dive platform, Wee Man and HB are right on her heels. It took them over an hour to chill out after she got on the bus today.

We have a pretty structured household. The children know how we expect them to behave, they know the consequences if they do not behave, and they know that there are awards for having stellar behavior. But at the same time, they have quite a bit of freedom, you know, as far as the Five and Under Set is concerned. They wear whatever they want. They make choices about what to have for dinners. They can (mostly) help themselves to snacks.

I'm tired of stressing about the stress and being yelled at by short people, and CONSTANTLY DISCIPLINING PEOPLE. When is it my turn in time out? When do I get a spanking? (Er, umm, sorry, that's a-whole-nother post for a-whole-nother day.) When do I get to yell at someone for DOING SOMETHING THAT PRODUCES THE EXACT RESULT I WANT EVEN THOUGH IT IS NOT THE WAY I THOUGHT I WANTED IT DONE?

But mostly? What the bloody hell is going on here? What are we missing? And why can't I make the right kind of cookies?

Thursday, November 6, 2008

they left and they didn't even say goodbye.

My people walked out the door about forty minutes ago (with The Mister, otherwise, why would I be here?), and they haven't come back. I am going to a class in 10 minutes, and the babysitter is coming, and I will not see any of them until tomorrow.
The Mister walks in, announces his intention to eat and return to work. Tonight's work is different from today's work. There's a show on in town, and another at the high school, and he's the sound engineer, so he's He spent more time rinsing out the nasty poop diaper than talking to me, which I am not complaining about at all, really, because I'd have spent more time throwing up than doing anything else I've done all day if *I* had been the one to rinse that thing out.
I have dealt with a considerable quantity of poop today.
I left for my class. The sun had set; it was dark, dark, dark. Not even the streetlights could part the curtain that had been hung by 5:28 tonight.
Dark. Quiet. I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for my ride.
It's getting dark and quiet in my head, and in my soul, like 5:29 has arrived, and is not planning to move on any time soon. My motivation is waning, and despite all efforts to the contrary, it continues to escape down the drain I have become.
I am really tired today.
It happens this week, every year. I can't really explain it, but if I had more energy or brain power, or more Doritos or another glass of water (yes, water), maybe it would come to me.
Swiss cheese.
I didn't forget, but I just.can't.remember.anything.
And they walked out the front door, that I know for certain. He walked out the front door. I walked out the front door. But none of us together, and still I'm alone here, and nobody said goodbye.
It is a weight on my soul, hard to breathe around it, through it. I am very sad. Alone.
Alone and lonely, even though almost all of us have come back through the front door. But alone and lonely still.

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

and the race...

It isn't over yet, but supposing Barack Obama takes California, and that is a very safe supposition, and that he takes Colorado, which it seems likely, he will have the 270 electoral votes needed to be the next President of the United States. And that is based on supposing I did good math right there.

Consequently, I am going to bed. I'll consult the Googles first thing in the morning to find out if I'm thrilled or not.

Never mind all that. I'm still going to bed, but I'm going to bed happy. Barack Obama cleaned up on the West Coast. He's the President-Elect.

it's 8:15 a.m. do you know where your toddler has gone?

To the voting booth, of course!

Miss O was very excited, and for the first time in the history of the world, we were downstairs, eating breakfast at 7:25. Usually? People are still milling about, in their sleep-stinky pajamas, rubbing their eyes and whining.

But not today. They couldn't wait to go vote. They entertained the other people waiting in line... I was very surprised there was a line. My town is very small, about 2000 in the whole thing, including the village, and there were ten people waiting to sign the register and get busy in the booth. And naturally, everyone there was very pleasant, because people in my town are generally pleasant.

This does not include the bastards who vandalized my home last Friday. They are NOT NICE and I DO NOT LIKE THEM. Just to clarify.

Here's Wee Man, showing off *his* I VOTED TODAY! sticker.

And finally, I would like to talk about brand recognition for just a minute. We had returned home from voting (big trip that it was, as our polling place is two doors up the street from our house), and were outside playing in the leaves. Where playing = shorties jumping in the pile as Mama raked.

The Mister's Mom walked up the street, and HB ran to give her a hug.

Show Grandma your sticker, I said.

HB pointed. MY TICKER!!! MY TICKER!!!

Oh, you can't take him to vote with that sticker on. Yours either.

I was confused for a minute, and then I realized that the stickers look just like the pin I wear on my jacket. From a distance of six or eight feet, it was not obvious AT ALL that we were wearing the I VOTED TODAY! stickers. It looked like we were stumping.

I think this suggests a conspiracy. The I VOTED TODAY! sticker makers are clearly Democrats, and they made the stickers to trip the Barack Obama wire in people's subconscious...ON PURPOSE.
The sticker? Is a circle. Just like Obama's logo.

The top of the sticker? Red. Just like Obama's logo.

The bottom of the sticker? Blue. Just like Obama's logo.

The center of the sticker? White. Shocking, I know.

The font? A strikingly similar serif. (How do you like my alliteration?)

I don't know what to tell you other than to politely decline the sticker if you are a Republican. Also? Be sure to go to Starbucks after you vote, because they are giving away free coffee to all voters. (No voter registration cards or government-issue identification necessary.)

Have *YOU* voted?

Monday, November 3, 2008

nabloblahblah, day three: in which i link up to link back to myself

There is this thing called the Perfect Post Award. There are these bloggers, Kimberly from Petroville, and Lindsay from Suburban Turmoil (best blog header EVAH!, by the way, and I also have to say this: that woman is hawt!), who started this whole monthly shindig a while ago. Each of them choose a post they have read from the previous month that really moved them. As time went on, more bloggers joined in the fun. Because the only thing better than comments? Is being stroked all lovey-style by the interwebs.

And this month? Ree picked me.

Which post? you ask as if you are actually interested in re-reading old postage.

This one. And yes, the comments are still open. So if there's anything you haven't gotten off your collective chests, go ahead and let it rip. Again.

You can go over there to read all the nice things she said about me, if you like. I will tell you a teensy little secret: I've had kind of a rough day, so I just have her page open, and keep refreshing the comments because it is making me feel better. It's all about honesty over here. Kind of like I'm descended from George Washington or something. Or was it Lincoln?

Doesn't matter...because now I'm distracted by All Things Presidential.

Which brings me to my final point:


It's supposed to be 71 degrees and sunny in Western New York tomorrow, so y'all don't have any weather-related blizzardistic excuses to keep you from getting cozy in a booth. I'm getting cozy with Miss O in my voting booth. I choose the lever, she gets to pull it down. I get to open the curtain, she gets the "I VOTED" sticker. It's all planned.

And there will be minimal follow-up commentary, so as not to a) rub it in; or b) sound like a sore loser. (As if.) (But you never can tell...I'm looking at you, Florida!)

Anyway, just vote. And let The Hotfessional preach to my choir.

Sunday, November 2, 2008

open book schmopen book: this one gets its own post

Question: Can you be a Muslim with a crazy Christian minister?

I had to consult the Googles to help me decide about this question. There was a Christian minister who became a Muslim, but there wasn't any talk of crazy around him. I suppose that if you were a dissatisfied, disenfranchised Muslim, it would be possible for you to attend a Christian church to see what that's all about. And to be honest, there's no shortage of crazy Christian ministers, so statistically, I would say that it is entirely possible to be a Muslim with a crazy Christian minister. It's just as possible to be a Muslim with a crazy imam, or a Jew with a crazy rabbi. Actually, there seems to be an abundance of crazy going around lately, so who knows? Maybe everyone's just plain nuts.

So my answer? A resounding HECK YEAH, BATMAN! er, SARDINEMAMA!

Except, for the sakes of both honesty and fairness, full-disclosure and whatnot, I need to tell you that I took the question out of context. Don't you love me more than all the politicians combined? SardineMama asked this question, but prefaced it with this statement (and she is in yellow because it makes her happy, for the record):
Here in Texas it is estimated that 25% of the people think Obama is a Muslim. The same 25% are also whining about his minister being crazy. Whaa??? Can you be a Muslim with a crazy Christian minister?

Mmmmyeah. I took it out of context on purpose, but I've since reconsidered, because I want none of that nonsense in my comments. DO YOU HEAR ME, PEOPLE? Do not go and make statements to the affirmative that Senator Obama is a Muslim. Because it is not true. The man is a Christian. John McCain says he's one, too, and because he's white, and his middle name isn't from The Middle East Baby Naming Book, nobody argues with him.

For argument's sake, let's say that Barack Obama is vanilla. Or, you know what? I'll go there, and say he's chocolate. Because it's an analogy, and it's my blog, so get over it. You know you like chocolate, anyway. Enjoy thinking about chocolate for a minute.

There are lots of different kinds of chocolate. There is unsweetened, bittersweet, semi-sweet, milk chocolate, and even white chocolate, which I am not entirely sure actually is chocolate, but it's just one more kind to make the point. And for every kind of chocolate there is, there are a bunch of brands and flavour variations. For example, I prefer bittersweet chocolate to any other flavour. And of the possible brands of bittersweet, I prefer Wilbur's Bittersweet Baking Chocolate that is sold at the Bulk Food Store around the corner from my house. (The Ghiradelli brand is not bad, either.)

I'm a Christian. I have found a church that I enjoy, and it happens to be a United Methodist church. I did not choose the church based upon how the United Methodists do business, I have all sorts of opinions on that topic that I will not be talking about here. The United Methodist doctrine is different from the Baptist doctrine, is different from the Presbyterian doctrine, is different from the Catholic doctrine, is different from the Free Methodist doctrine, is different from the Assemblies of God doctrine, is different from the Episcopalian doctrine...but they're all Christian churches. Each is just as Christian as the next. And even within disciplines, each United Methodist church is different from the next. Each Baptist church is different from other Baptist churches.

What a ridiculous thing it would be to drive by a Korean United Methodist church, and say, Oh, man, look at all those Asian people walking in to that church. IT MUST BE A BUDDHIST TEMPLE.

It is just as ridiculous to say, Oh, that Barack Obama. His names are Barack, Hussein, and Obama. HE MUST BE A MUSLIM.

That, my friends, is bias. That is racism. That is wrong. Nobody looked at the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., and said, Woah, that guy's black. He must practice some crazy form of African voodoo.

To determine the status of a person's faith, a person who IS NOT YOU? Is foolish. Faith is between the person who has the faith, and the Divine Being with whom the faith is placed. My faith is between me and my God. It is not too often that I discuss my faith, because, well, it's mine and I don't need to talk about it. Your faith is between you and your God, or not, if you don't believe. And that's your business. But what is not your business is to assign a faith status to someone based on how they look, or who their daddy is.

I could give you a great number of reasons why I believe Senator Obama is a Christian. But really, what I believe about Senator Obama's faith is of no consequence. What you think about his faith? Also doesn't matter.

I only eat bittersweet chocolate. Raise your hand if you care.

open book schmopen book: the answers

(There are a few questions I missed due to the whole Comment Format Incident of October. I made the mistake of deleting a bunch of comment-related emails, and then changed the format, and didn't realize the interwebs would eat my comments for lunch, and so some of you will just have to refresh my memory. Sorry 'bout that. But it will give me a whole 'nother post fo NaBloPoMo, so that's cool.)

Question 1: How did I come to be homeopathically oriented?
Oh, you didn't know I'm one of those Herbly Awesome Weirdos who Doesn't Actually Vaccinate Any More? Well, now you do.

Jocelyn asked this question, and that's because me and that girl (no, not that girl) hang sometimes off the interwebs. And we talk about things like what herbs can you give your baby when he's got a wicked head cold? and digestive enzymes and raw milk, straight from the source, and, well, stuff like that.

I have had migraine headaches since I was fifteen. I just sort of picked the age of fifteen recently, when I realized I have no idea when I started having miserable headaches. I have always felt awful my entire life. My mother has told me a number of times, It is like you're a 90 year-old person trapped in the body of a _____ year-old (fill in the blank with any age, up to 31). No matter how many times I went to the doctor, nobody ever figured out why I felt crappy. Until I was 28, and went to a chiropractor who thought my random symptoms might add up to an autoimmune disorder, and recommended I stop eating wheat and dairy for a while to see if a food allergy was contributing to my issues.

I thought he was crazy, but I tried it, because my head was KILLING ME! One week later, I stopped getting headaches. I can count on one hand the number of headaches I've had in the past two years. I couldn't count on one hand the number of debilitating headaches I had in a week before that. And by debilitating? I mean rendering me completely useless.

I started thinking about health differently, as I watched my body heal itself, and started learning, a little bit at a time, about how chemistry is not the only way to heal.

And the vaccine thing? There are truly horrific ingredients in vaccines, including aborted fetal tissue (I wouldn't inject any dead person tissue in my body on purpose, thankyouverymuch, it creeps me out), animal tissue and blood, and heavy metals. One hundred percent of the population does not need to be vaccinated to maintain herd immunity (that's the term, I can't make this stuff up) as the Food and Drug Administration would have you believe. And personally, I think that the FDA would be shockingly less biased toward the use of prescription drugs if the pharmaceutical industry would step off.

Moving on.

Question 2: Which came first, the dayton time or The Mister?
I got The Mister before we got busy building the team. We both had gotten our fair share before we not-dated and subsequently got together, and it was really only about 16 minutes between when we technically started dating, got engaged and got married, so we thought we'd wait. Because really, there's no actual stress reliever good enough when planning a wedding, so why not throw a little Frustration in the midst? Thanks for bringing that up, Ree.

Question 3: Would I consider doing some sort of Dear Abby Dealio?
Sure. But y'all may not like what I have to say. So don't complain if you ask and you don't enjoy the answer.

Question 4: What's my bread recipe?
My bread recipe is crazy easy. And also? It makes four loaves at a time, which pretty much eliminates needing to make it more than once a week (unless you happen to be bartering bread for cash, not that I know anybody who does that).

I have pictures, and directions and stuff, so I'm going to post the whole shebang later in the week. Don't worry...I won't forget.

Question 5: Do we know the gender of Sweets? If not, are we going to find out? Also, do we have a list of names?
Ah, the gender question. At the moment, we do not know the gender. If I were predicting today, randomly, I would have to go boy. But that's just because you're all up in my stuff forcing me to pick rightthisveryminute. Honestly, I have no idea. Everybody would reallyreallyreallyreallyreallyreally like a girl. It would be nice to have another daughter, but I would prefer all the parts in the appointed places working properly. This includes the sciatic nerve-related pain in my left butt part which is caused by a herniated disc in my fifth lumbar. How do I know this? Well, the distinctive pinching that is going on all the time, and my impaired ability to stand up straight, combined with the fact that my fifth lumbar is ALWAYS either herniated or just about to be herniated. That's how I know.

Where was I? Names. That's right. I have compiled a small list of names I sort of like, however, we used up the three names we really liked. This presents a bit of a quandry, so until we know what flavour baby we are having, we are busy playing What We Will NOT Name The Baby. It is tons of fun. If you have a name we should NOT name the baby, please leave it in the comments so that we can all enjoy a good laugh.

Question 6: What was I doing at 25?
This question is from Katie. I turned 25 on a lovely Monday in May. How do I know it was lovely when I can't remember if I ate lunch? It's always nice on my birthday, except for that one time when I turned 8 or 9 or something, and it snowed six or eight inches. The Mister and I were married six months and twelve days earlier, and he had gone on tour with a band for three or four months that seemed like NINETEEN YEARS and NO, YOU SHOULDN'T ASK ABOUT IT, because high blood pressure is bad for those of us who are knocked up.

I had a little more than a month left of my Catholic school teaching gig, and was planning to go back to work there the next September. I was pregnant with Miss O, but I didn't know it yet. I was just about to get on the board of directors for my county's Habitat for Humanity affiliate. I got a job in August as a long-term substitute in a suburban school outside of Buffalo. That was an interesting experience. And by interesting? I mean Caused My Head To Explode On A Daily Basis. The Mister told me I could keep teaching or keep being married. So I quit teaching.

Miss O was born in January of 2003. I spent the next five months, until I turned 26, figuring the whole parenting thing out (I should note I haven't figured it all out yet), trying to be married and a parent at the same time (still working on that, too), and trying to remember important information (mmmmyeah...haven't mastered that, either).

That's the short version.

Thanks to everybody who contributed a question. If I missed your question, let me know, unless you are SardineMama, and you'll get yours tomorrow, I promise. And that's not a threat...honest. It's just that her question made me dig out my soapbox. And dust it off. And stand on it. Get ready.

And if you asked a question, and I didn't link you, it's not because I don't love you, it's probably the stupid comment incident that took the questions from me. Let me know and I'll fix it, pronto.

Y'all are fun.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

because i have nothing else to do

Thirty in thirty? Sure. No big whoop. Because really, on Wednesdays, I just post a picture. That takes me down to 25 posts. Because this here post is post number one. This Monday, I'll remind you to vote on Tuesday. On Tuesday, I'll remind you to vote again. On Wednesday, I'll either a) throw a party, complete with funfetti cupcakes, or b) piss and moan. That takes me down to twenty-two posts.

Tomorrow I will answer the first set of questions for the Intriguingly Titled Open Book Schmopen Book. I have a handful of pressing items that must be answered. (21 posts left)

You can be sure that someone in my life, or some other random person, will be exceedingly stupid or annoying, and cause me to climb the stairs to my soapbox at least once a week. Because it seems that is how things are going lately. (17 posts left)

Somewhere between the middle of the month and the end of the month, we will be having THE ULTRASOUND, and if Sweets is a forthcoming little hussy, we will quite possibly know Sweets' gender. Or is it Sweets's? I can never remember. (16 posts left)

Family Thanksgiving will be good for at least a post. (15 posts left)

Cutie Pie Dimple Head turns two, and that kid is blog fodder if there ever *was* blog fodder to be had. And I haven't told you about trick-or-treating, so that's at least two about that kid. (13 posts left)

Miss O has a loose tooth, and I have Teeth Issues, so that whole scenario is probably good for at least two. (11 posts)

Operation Christmas Child. Supercool way to teach the shorties about giving. (10 posts)

I'll be in Miss O's classroom doing centers two or three times, and with the way that went last time? You should plan on one. (9 posts)

All those exciting non-events, and only nine posts left to think about for the whole rest of the month. Without breaking it down like this, I was thinking this whole NaBloPoMo was a little crazidiculous. But really? Not so much.

If you want to know who's ACTUALLY crazy? Check out my girl ChurchPunkMom. She's.Just.Nuts. But in a good way. Delightfully nuts in the way The Mister calls me Delightfully Neurotic... well, that's only when I'm not pregnant. I think I am not quite as delightful when I am pregnant. Just glowier.