I know some of you were expecting a tutorial on How To Make Chocolate Sculpture for cakes.  Except here's the thing:  my camera.  I may have mentioned earlier in the week that my lover is not working.  So you'll just have to wait until I get my act together and figure out what to do.  Believe me, there's no way you're sadder about this than me. 

But in the meantime, I have a Stupid Blogger Question.

I used to get comment notification emails at my non-dayton time email address, but now I get them at thedaytontime at gmail dot com.  And since I've switched, I'm having an awful time replying to comments...even the comments of people I've been emailing back for months with the other address.

Why is this happening?  Because I do try to reply to everyone much of the time.  It is really getting on my nerves.  

You'll be my hero if you can explain this to me.

random thoughts for a friday

First off, I would like to state that I made fish for dinner tonight...sticks for the short people, and sandwiches for the tall people.  I chose sandwiches for us because I thought I could put enough stuff in the bun with the fish to disguise the fish.  I was wrong.  I would also like to say that I really, really do not like fish.  Especially when I'm pregnant.  But, as fate would have it, everybody else was SO!!!!  CRAZY!!!!  THRILLED!!! about the fish, I suffered in silence.  Until now.  I just needed to say that I hate fish so that I get it out of my system.  (For the record, I will most likely eat a proper, grease-dipped fish fry during Lent and I will probably love it, but that is different than grocery store fish.)

After a colossal battle of truly epic proportions this morning, the sort of colossal battle in which nobody actually wins and everyone walks away with a bad case of bleeding on the brain, I packed the two shortest people in the minicoopervan, and sped away to cuddle my midwife. 

Until I got behind somebody's dead grandma, who had maxed out her supercool silver whateveritwas at 35 miles per hour.

Surprisingly enough? My blood pressure was still low when the nurse measured me. Also? I lost a pound in the last three weeks. Funny, because my pants are getting a little tight in the waist. Which they should be, after thirty plus weeks of being in the state of grace. Also funny? The maternity pants do not stay up. The normal pants, you know, the ones with a super fancy zipper and button? Fit just fine.

Yes. You heard me right. I AM THIRTY PLUS WEEKS PREGNANT AND I AM STILL WEARING NORMAL PEOPLE JEANS. SIZE 8. No matter what my daughter says.

If you hate me because of that? Well, go ahead and bite me, too. And then, the next time you're pregnant, make friends with a dietitian, and get yourknockedupself on an eating plan. Jackie D...worked for me!!!

Moving on.

HB has gross and itchy and dry patches on his skin.  I used up one tube of the Disney Eczema cream, and before you say it, no, I don't know why Disney makes eczema cream, no, I don't usually purchase Mouse-branded skin products, it came highly recommended from one of my cousins whose child had crazy bad skin, and I give it a one thumb up-one thumb down rating.  Today, I purchased a Doctor Burt's Body Butter, and rubbed it all over the kid after his bath. 

And for the first time in months, he smells pleasant.

Just kidding.  He's just smelled so gawdawful for the last three days, the time has dragged, and it's seemed like months.  And yes, we don't bathe him on purpose because of his skin issues.  Don't judge.

Anyway.  The Doctor Burt's was deemed NICEY NICEY FANCY FANCY by HB.  And that is the highest compliment one can receive from the little fellow.

In other not-so-nicey-nicey-fancy-fancy news,  I have been confounded by the smell of CAT that wafts around the computer room/sewing room/entrance to our home for years.  I have looked.  I have crawled around on the floor, sniffing like a bloodhound.  This smell is not a permanent fixture, it only rears its ugly head in the cold months of the year (October to May).  And it makes me crazy because I can't figure out where the deposit has been made.

Until today.

A few times over the last week, I've heard scritch-scratching around in the cold-air return in the floor.  Now this is not a proper vent, it's actually a grate in the floor that leads to the root cellar/fieldstone walls of the basement/crawlspace place.  It's dark and there are cobwebs.  I don't hang out there, I just know it exists.  Two days ago, I pulled up the vent thingy and looked down there and saw the one cat of our three that I like.  He just looked like he was chillin', possibly hunting something down all useful-like.

But today?  He was crapping.  All PLEASE KILL ME-LIKE.  Now, I didn't see him crapping.  But I know that's what he was doing.  And the guilty look on his stupid kitty face blew him in.  I said the mothereffer word to him (you know the one) and told him it was a good thing he was already under the floorboards or else I'd chop his mothereffing head off and use him for fertilizer.

Did I mention my dose of head meds got upped today?  Because that's what happens when you go batshitcrazy on a cat.  And no, that was not the only reason, and yes, it was only upped a teensytiny bit.

Also, I might get to go to DC to visit Uncle Josh and Auntie Teff and the Nephews in a few weeks.  No, not alone.  With the team, minus The Mister, because he has work and and more work and a musical.  Not just any musical, mind you, The Producers.  Which is Pee Your Pants Funny, even when you're seeing it on one of those day-long bus trips with your in-laws and a whole bunch of really old (read: also uptight) people from church who are, to your surprise, wetting their Depends because they are laughing so hard.

Not that I've ever had an experience like that.

So this run of The Producers is two weeks long, which in my life is like fifty years, and I can't really be in the same house with a guy who is whistling and/or singing Springtime For Hitler every minute of the day that I see him.  Even with a higher dose of happy flowing in my brains, I think it will be too much.  He did The Pirates of Penzance twice in the same year, and for the second occurance, I made a superclassy sign for the front door with a paper grocery bag and a sharpie that said THIS IS A NO MODERN MAJOR GENERAL ZONE AND YOU WILL RESPECT THAT.  I think that only made him want to sing it even more, but he was pleasant and played by the rules.  Good man.

And because you've made it this far, I have a special treat for you.

all this wondering. allow me to assist.

Except I won't assist Jen.  Because she wasn't wondering, that's why.

Kara was wondering how I made this yummy cake.  (Seriously, I will wait whilst you take a trip over to Joce's blogaritaville to admire my handiwork.  Go on.  I'll still be here when you come back.)

Kara was also wondering how I created the writing.  And I'll post all that on Saturday.  So y'all come back then for the best chocolate cake E.V.A.H.

Catherine is wondering why it is zero degrees where she is up in the mountains in Colorado.  Umm, I don't know, maybe because you're up in the mountains in Colorado?  And it's winter?  Just a thought.

Jill and ChurchPunkMom told me to enjoy my contractions because it makes for easy labour.  Okay, I can do that, but I have easy labours, and if they were any easier or shorter, I would need to sleep in a tent outside the hospital so I could make it there before the baby is born.  And since The Mister works there, I think that might make an awfully awkward work environment for him.  Dayton, that's your crazy wife sleeping outside the Admissions Entrance?  We have a spare gurney or two laying around this place.  You could tell her to come in... it is still snowing out there.  It would be weird.

They are also my two best friends for appreciating my cramping my style joke.  Even though Jill called it lame.  Oh, wait.... Kara had her hand raised, too.  She's my other best friend.

Jill also wanted to know how many bottles of hair dye to use on her hair.  Funny thing, I was reading about somebody who was actually standing in Target, on the phone with the hair dye experts at the 800- or 888- number on the back of the hair dye box.  Apparently those people are extremely useful and can tell you all sorts of clever information about combining dye colors and how long to leave it on, and how many boxes you'll need.  I'm filing that one away for the next time my shiny hairs start taking over.  But I'm liking the nearly black hair I have right now.  It makes my eyes look all blue and stuff.  

Moral of that story?  Call the number on the box of hair dye and the nice lady will help you.

Moving on.

Manda is wondering about the due date.  April fifth.  Although my not-a-voodoo-witch-doctor-lady says at least a couple of days earlier.  But then, the other three were painfully late.  So my answer?  Sometime in the month of April I will have a baby.  But the last week of March would be totally okay, too.  (That last comment was only for the benefit of the STILL UNNAMED CHILD whose behind is currently displacing two of my ribs.)

Manda also is wondering why her two year-old son refuses to eat anything but candy, cookies and ice cream.  Well, probably because you're not holding out long enough, and also because he knows where you keep such things, and has figured out how to get them.  That last part is just a guess based on my own two billy goats gruff who are about fifteen seconds away from having me remove all treats from the premises.  He will get hungry enough to eat food... and by food I mean meal-worthy actual food items.  And between now and the time he gets hungry enough to eat real food?  He won't die of starvation.  And nobody will call CPS on you for refusing your kid a diet based solely on dessert.  (However, should you feel the need to provide someone a diet based solely on dessert, I am considering an experiment in which I eat all sugar-based items I can place my hands on, and then go take my glucose test.  You know, for fun.)

And Kate is wondering about cake.  Truth be told, I often marvel at the wonder of cake, too.  Maybe we should start a club.  But then again, maybe not; that seems like it would be a lot of work.  Maybe we should just eat cake.  That's at least happy work.

wordless wednesday: fonctionne bien si nu

(Wee Man, 18 months old, February, 2007)

apparently potheads love my blog

The inbox is always exciting here at the dayton time.  Did you know you can email me?  You CAN!!!  I know, you're sitting there, not sipping your coffee, just in case I'm snarf-inducing funny, and this knowledge that you can just plain email me for fun has caused a certain peace to rest upon your weary soul.

Or not.  I'm totally making stuff up here.  Because it's my blog, and I can, that's why.

But really, I did get this email from one Mark Thompson the other day.  (Fun fact:  Thompson is the second most common surname in the US.  Or maybe it's Johnson.  Never mind.  I am about due for my monthly installment of Getting Something Wrong.  So now I'm set until February.  Awesome.)

Hello,

Recently I visited your website the dayton time;while visiting your site I noticed that you link to Heirloom Acres Seeds at this address: April Posts. As we are closely related to them, I would love to exchange links with your website, currently there are about 5,000 - 7,000 people per day that goto my site and search for information, Therefore I would to link to an excellent site like yours.

I have taken the liberty of adding your site to my home page: roll!tup.org to determine if it is of any benefit to you, if you have a stats program you can check it and let me know. By looking at my stats, it looks like today I have sent you 30 visitors but it may change by the time you receive this email.

Some website owners do not like when other sites link to them so I thought I might ask first. I think the information on your website could be useful to my visitors; and maybe you could receive some extra relevant traffic if you want. Please get back to me when you have a chance to let me know if its ok to link to your website like this.

Have a good week,

Mark Thompson

So I went to his website and checked it out, and sure enough, he had linked to me! Fabulous! Except Mark runs a mar!juana growers support website. And he is offering me relevant traffic.

How truly odd! Do I strike you all as a ganjajuana lover? Have I posted recently...or EVER!! about the sweet cheeb?

I replied to his email.

Dear Mark,
Seriously? You visited my blog? And you think I grow weed?
That is truly amazing to me.

Sincerely,
Pamela

P.S.
What stat tracker do you use? Because Sitemeter hasn't shown me any hits from your website. Maybe I need a better tracker.

Then I forwarded Mark's grammatically incorrect email to the Kirk Family, who run Heirloom Acres Seeds, and coincidentally do not sell the ganja. They do sell wonderful non-GMO seeds. We had an Heirloom Acres garden last summer. And we loved it. 

This is what Renate said:

Good morning. Thanks for the heads up; your right, no close relation or even knowledge of them. I will have by husband check out the info and take care of it.
Thanks again, Take care, 
Renate Kirk

And Mark? I never heard from him again. Also? No hits from his site.  Except I'm still linked.   Whatever.  Maybe they'll show up before the pickles giveaway ends.  I hear stoners like to eat.  

wondering

I'm wondering how I can put my camera, the love of my life, in my backpack, to take to the children's museum... And have an entire water bottle leak all over and inside it to make it stop working. (This event resulted in the non-photography of two amazing cakes, and one daughter's birthday. Mer.)

I'm wondering how I can tweeze that one hair from my chin face... And have it grow back instantaneously?

I'm wondering how I can have contractions for eight to twelve hours a day, every day... And not have a baby. Also? How long will this continue? Because it's really, ummm... cramping my style.

I'm wondering if any of you thought that was funny. Hands? Anyone? No?

Moving on.

And finally, I'm wondering how much cake I can actually eat without forcing myself into gestational diabetes.

Anybody else wondering about anything today? Maybe I can help. Or maybe Uncle Josh can. He knows things, and he likes to help. I can forward your questions on to him. I'm sure he'd appreciate that, and I haven't really been a pain in his keister for a while now, well, a month or so at least. And I did send him sweet cherry jam and jalapeno salsa, so maybe he won't mind.

Comment with your wonderings, and we'll get that all cleared up for you.

an unexpected cookbook

A friend sent me a link to this cookbook today.  Because she knows how much I like to cook.  Check it out.  

Consider yourself warned.

my last conversation with a daughter who's five

Wow.  Reading that title, it sounds like she died.  Well, she didn't, so don't go gettin' all freaked out on me.

However, she is turning 6 in 10 hours and 15 minutes from now.  Ach.  Someone tell me I'm not really old enough to have a six year-old short person.  Really, you're wanting to tell me, Way to make her birthday about you and how old you are.  And I'm all, Shut it.  It's my blog and I'll narcissit if I want to.  I will also create words like narcissit if I want to.  And for your information, it means I will sit on my narcissicistic booty and moan if I want to.

Did I even spell that right?

Ah, the digression.  If there's a list of things you should come to expect about the dayton time, digression should be on that list.

So.  The conversation.

Miss O, rubbing my baby belly eversogently:  That baby in there is making you fatter all the time.  He's making you ROUND.

Me:  Yup.  He sure is.
 
Miss O:  I mean, you are seriously getting fatter and fatter all the time.  And your boobies...

Me:  Yup.  That's how it goes.

Miss O:  But really, your belly is getting really superfat.

Me:  Well, I guess I should just be glad he's not making my butt get really superfat, too.

Miss O:  Ummm....  Uh.... Well.... I guess it's not as big....  as.... a.... mammoth? butt?

Me:  A mammoth butt?

Miss O:  Well, a person's butt can't really get that big.  So I guess you're.... safe?

open book, schmopen book: january 2009 edition

I put out the call for some new open book, schmopen book questions last week, it wasn't a loud call, so don't worry if you missed it. Because ChurchPunkMom from Embellished Truth and Polite Fiction and Julia from In Java, Literally, came through like rays of sunshine after a rainstorm. I don't really know what that means, but those lovely ladies (smell them in the air...think I'll put my anchor in the harbour over there....sorry, not appropriate, I know. But name that musical anyway.)

Where was I? Right. Those gals each sent me a very interesting set of questions to answer. And answer, I have!

First, from ChurchPunkMom...alphabetical order and all...

1. What's your favorite and least favorite things about where you live?
I lovelovelove the seasons. Sure, this winter has been a little long, dark and snowy for my taste, but I would sure miss it if the temperature was warm all the time. And the least favorite? The village we live in sends the water bills out on a postcard, and I always lose the postcard, and end up paying the late fee. Every.quarter. Mer. I wish they sent it in an envelope like normal people. Even if I had to pay for the paper, envelope and stamp, it would still be cheaper than the late fee.

2. What is your proudest parenting moment?
I am proudest of my children when they think of other people's feelings, when they are kind, generous, and sensitive. I imagine fancying the time they cease pounding each other in the face, but I can't be quite sure, as it hasn't happened yet.

3. Who were you in your previous life? aka, what did you do before you had kids? Do you miss it?
By certification, I was a music teacher. I also taught Real Subjects at a local Catholic school the year I moved back to New York because it was the only teaching gig I could get, as there were no music ed positions available in all of Western New York State. Do I miss it? Not for a second. Teaching was the absolute wrong choice of profession. (Thanks, Mr. Rahn! That was a great bit of advice you gave me! So glad you retired!!!)

4. What is your goal for your blog.. what is your objective?
I want blogging to be fun for me, to give me a way to connect with other adults on a day to day basis, to give me a chance to use the part of my brain that isn't involved in butt-wiping and laundry. Of course I would like to be one of the cool kids on the bloggity block, get a bazillion comments and have my feed reader and follower list explode...who doesn't want an ego feeder like that? But really? I blog because I enjoy it. And I'll pull the plug if it ever becomes anything other than fun.

5. What do you appreciate/admire most about The Mister?
His ability to...oh wait. My brothers read this. I like watching him have fun with the short people. I like watching him cuddle the short people. I appreciate that he works hard so that we can have our home and eat, and have a comfortable life. I appreciate that he likes me so darn much. I appreciate that he is useful and not dumb. And he appreciates that about me, too, except for when I'm pregnant sometimes I'm dumb, but he gives me a free pass for being dumb when I'm pregnant. I also appreciate that. Oh, here's another one...I appreciate that there is no drama. And no (ahem) stepping out (cough). There's really a lot of things I admire and appreciate about that guy.

6. When your shampoo bottle is nearly empty, do you then store it upside down in the shower?
Ha! I actually store my shampoo bottles upside down all of the time. I like the stuff to come right out of the bottle instantly, and I do not like the sound the bottles make when the stuff doesn't come right out.

And Julia, not to be mistaken for Julia Goolia, by the way.

1. What's one language you'd like to learn, why?
I would like to learn French because it sounds supercool and supersexy to talk in French. Also, my MIL teaches my children French (not sexy when they talk in French, for the record, it's just cute), and I have to scramble to keep up with the vocabulary. If I could speak French, we'd speak French half the time and English the other half of the time, and I'd have supersmart bilingual babies and that would rock.

2. What year changed your entire life?
Probably 2001. My parents' marriage went down the crapper, he moved to the southwest with a Person of Questionable History (read: convicted felon), and everything in general went off the deep end. I started hanging out with The (Not Yet) Mister as a coping mechanism, then I moved to New York State (back in with my mother after six years away), then I got engaged and then I got married. I also went overseas for the first time.

The understatement of 2001: I experienced some transition.

3. What are you proud of?
I am proud of the way we live our lives. I am proud that we are raising our children to be confident, competent, considerate adults.

4. Why do you live where you live?
We live in the village where we grew up. Our house has been in the family since the early 1940's, when The Mister's granddad was the principal, then superintendent of schools for the district. His granddad and grandma bought the house from the school district, and we bought it from The Mister's dad after his granddad passed away. We are not moving. Ever.

5. What is a your favorite hobby, and why?
I like to cook and bake. It's very relaxing. I cook dinner pretty much every night, and it's fulfilling to be able to provide my people with tasty, nutritious food (Miss O might disagree). The whole Food for the Soul thing applies. I think it's the one thing I can consistently do right for my family. I might not always be the nicest person to be around, I might not have a clean bathroom, and I definitely cannot keep up with the laundry, but I can pretty much always put something really great on the table.

So there you go, eleven little peeks into life with the Boss of Things, here at the dayton time. Next open book, schmopen book after the baby is born. I'm sure y'all'll have tons of good questions then.

a public service announcement

I may have mentioned that my body up and went all pregnant on me.

No, really. I wasn't really feeling all that pregnant. Sure, the expanding belly and the neverending kickboxing tournament (or is it a 24/7 disco in there?) were clues, but pregnant hit me last Friday. It actually kicked me in the pelvis a few times, then spun me around and kicked my lower back for a while, and then it jabbed a sharp something-or-other in my keister and gave me....

(cringes)

a hemorrhoid.

(still cringing)

actually?

a family of hemorrhoids. and they are very angry and hard to get along with.

I tried everything. No, really, everything. The ointments. The creams. The wipes. The sitting in the extremely hot water.

So what's a girl to do when she can't actually even stand up straight because of the H Family? Ask The Googles How To Exterminate Them. That is what a girl should do. Because The Googles Know.

The Googles told me about an aromatherapy option. It is very easy, and smells loverly. In a hot, shallow bath, put 20 drops each of essential oil of lavender and juniper berry. Then insert sad, sad keister, and have a good soak.

And let me tell you, people, it was fabulous.

Now, understand me, I'm not really the sort of person to discuss this sort of thing in public, but I know that there are a few pregnant people reading me, and there are a few people with husbands who have Such Visitors...not that any of you would actually ever get Such Visitors or Talk About Them.

And if this hadn't been such a VERY GOOD OPTION? I wouldn't have told you about it.

Love, kisses, and happy asses,
Pamela

wordless wednesday: standing on top...of the hay

wordless wednesday: joce's cooler is comfy

one world, one heart giveaway

Thank you to everyone who entered!  It was lovely to meet you all, and quite a job to visit all those wonderful blogs.  The winner will be announced soon.

It has been a long, long time since the last giveaway here, the superfun and sorta naughty but actually very clean everybody wants the nuts! Was it really September? Goodness. Time flies when you're knocked and have diminished brain capacity.

(Note to first-timers here at the dayton time: by knocked, I mean pregnant. And I am very happy to be pregnant, it's just getting to be That Time of Things where being pregnant seems interminable. Please do not take offense.)

The idea of One World, One Heart is that giving things away makes people happy. Seeing as how I am totally in favour of being happy, I jumped on board.

The OWOH giveaway package from the dayton time features home-canned, organic veggies, garlic, onions and herbs from myveryown garden. And also vinegar, salt and sugar, which I did not actually grow in my garden.

Here is Pamela's Pickle Package of Love. In order from left to right, there is jalapeno salsa, bread and butter pickles, dill pickles, and zucchini relish. I apologize for the quality of the picture, my camera chose that very moment to decide its battery was kaput.

To enter, all you have to do is leave me a comment on this post by February 12th. I'll even give you another entry if you link to this post on your own blog. Be sure you include an email address so that I can contact you when you are the big winner.

Because, believe me, you do not want to miss out on the pickles. We had friends over for a soup and bread and pickle lunch last week, and the wife of the pair said the bread and butter pickles were better than average sex, and only slightly less good than amazing sex. I'm just saying.

the pitter patter of little feet

It was Sunday afternoon.

There is really only one thing that Sunday afternoons are good for. And if you say FOOTBALL or NASCAR, I will probably smack you. Because those are totally the wrong answers.

All the smart, wonderful, intelligent, educated, and extremely cool kids take naps on Sunday afternoon. (All of the OCD-ish-tendency mamas do laundry and vacuum up the peanuts and make dinner and don't sit down all afternoon, but that's another post entirely.)

At the Maison Dayton, this is the routine for a Sunday afternoon: scurry home from church, make some scrambled eggs, put the boys to bed, and curl up on the couch to sleep.

HB is compliant with the napping. Because by the time he's played like crazy with all the other short peeps in the church nursery, and eaten his weight in Goldfish crackers, he's pretty much spent. The walk home and the eggs just put him over the edge. Pop a binky in that guy and he's out.

I appreciate sleepiness in a child. I really do.

Wee Man? Not so much with the compliance at sleeping time. He's walking the line with naps, sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't, and it is really messing with me. It's possible he knows it's messing with me and is holding out on purpose, because we have that going on here sometimes, but it's possible he's just about to be done napping.

Excuse me while I take a moment to weep.















And (hic) I'm (sniffle) back.

The Mister made him a nest in our bed, that Sunday afternoon which was crying out for napping. Nests involve pillows and stacking and cave-like creations that cause children to sweat themselves to sleep. It's very tricky and employs strategery. Wee Man was very excited about this most excellent nest.

I came downstairs, fluffed a couch pillow, got my favorite quilt, unfolded it, and...

THUNK THUNK SHUFFLE SHUFFLE THUNK SHUFFLE THUNK... Guess who.

Go. tobed.

Mama. You're not...you have... you must... I have a good nap.

It hasn't been five minutes. Go.

But I'm havin' a short nap today.

Bed.

You're... kid... you aren't... you shouldn't...

Go back upstairs and get in bed now.

You are kidding me. You have to be kidding me.

Wee man! I am not kidding. Go. NOW.

You're totawwy kidding me.

Go.

THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP...in the style of one three year-old who is pretending to walk up the stairs.

Seriously. Go upstairs.

Nah, I think I wiww stay downstairs.

BED. NOW!

You are stiww kidding me.

Dude.

PATPATPATPATPATPATPATPAT...in the style of an obedient child.

Except? PATPATPATPATPATPATPAT back down the stairs.

I want Daddy.

Daddy's at a gig.

But I want to cuddwe.

I can't cuddle you down here. Go upstairs.

But I want...

To sleep. You want to sleep. If you go upstairs, I will cuddle you. If you stay down here, well, then no TV for the rest of the day.

And that boy ran away, lickety-split, faster than lightening. No kidding.

The end.

old fashioned child beating humour

So wifemommaniac stopped by for a visit the other day, and left me a comment (thanks! I loves me some comments!). I swung by her place this morning to say hello, and found this classic gem of a joke in a post from this week. So I am linking up, because I think you really need to go read the joke.

It is really funny.

And wrong.

If you don't like wrong jokes? Don't leave a comment.

It is really funny.

what's a girl to do?

When it's absolute zero degrees outside? What would Pamela do?

She would park her pregnant self on the couch with her blankets and supersoftie pillow and The Mister and some hot tea and some knitting, and Pamela would watch Pride and Prejudice.

The one produced by the BBC.

The one where Mr. Darcy is played by Pamela's boyfriend Colin Firth.

Pamela's other boyfriend, The Miraculous Corn Bag of Warmth and Healing? Is also called Colin Firth. Because having more than one boyfriend is confusing enough without them adding to the problem by having different names. Seriously.

*****Updated, Saturday morning*****

I am so pathetic I couldn't even stay awake through the ball at Netherfield. We'll be trying again tonight.

nonfiction

She is dying. Everyone knows it; those who disagree are simply in denial.

It's a tragedy, really, her story is. And it comes with the requisite events that are everpresent in so many of today's tragedies: crazy, mixed up parental situation during the teen years; abuse; eating disorder; assault resulting in parenthood; a bad marriage and subsequent divorce; another bad marriage, full of more abuse... it's all there.

Two years ago she said she wanted help. She said she wanted to be healthy, to live, to parent her daughter. And not just parent her, but to be the hero in that little girl's life, to model health and self-worth and confidence, all traits she herself possessed once upon a time.

We coached, we encouraged, we took her to the emergency room of a hospital that could provide the care and nutrition she needed so desperately. Her husband had nothing to do with the efforts to save her life; he never has, and he never will. He told her we were terrible women to be taking care of her, it's his job to care for his wife she doesn't love God enough for God to make her better it's her own fault she's the way she is what do those bitches know anyway...

There must have been enough hope in what we were saying, enough love, enough something, that she came with us. And eventually she went to the rehab program and eventually she started to think a little differently and she would eat and gain weight and her body stopped digesting her.

But she went back to him and the unhealthy lifestyle and the abuse and the lies and the infidelity and the lies about the infidelity and him blaming her for forcing him to be unfaithful. Because why wouldn't you want to be intimate with your husband after he's screwed an untold number of faceless women?

What would the Proverbs 31 wife do? What would a good Christian wife do? She asked me again and again and again. LEAVE. GET OUT. SAVE YOUR LIFE. YOU DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS KIND OF MARRIAGE. HIS BEHAVIOUR IS A DEAL-BREAKER. REAL HUSBANDS DON'T DO/SAY/ACT THESE THINGS. YOU CAN'T CHANGE HIM, YOU CAN ONLY CHANGE THINGS FOR YOU. I said the same thing every time. I did not hem and haw. I did not seem indecisive. I called it abuse. I called the lies exactly what they are.

The truth will set you free. Only if you believe the truth.

And the pacing started. The incessant. walking. moving. can't. stop. must. smoke. all. the. time. walk. walk. walk. walk. around. in. circles. walk. around. in. circles. need. a. light. another. smoke.
The eating dwindled, as did her weight.

She is physically very ill, she is losing the ability to care for her own child. Thank God there are loving relatives who are taking responsibility for this confused girl.

The thing that really gets me, as if a terrified little girl and her dying mama aren't enough, is what this story could have been. It could have been a story of reconciliation, of strength, of rising above. Her parents have reconciled, have made amends, have totally gotten their lives together as individuals and as a married team. The child born to her is a beautiful, intelligent, creative and funny person, someone we love to have in our home. And she? A truly loving person with a heart for the wounded, the needy, the sick, she could have been a light in the lives of the people around her. She is the kind of person who has incredible potential to influence.

And influence? She will, I am sure of it. Except instead of eagerly anticipating that influence, I brace myself for something devastating. And there is nothing to be done about it.

wordless wednesday: because one's not enough...and neither is three, apparently

wordless wednesday: before and after

the story of my day

I awoke in an enormous puddle of pee. And it wasn't even mine, you know, the sort of embarrassing Oops, I had a crazy pregnancy dream and leaked a little in my sleep. It was the kind where you wake up ridiculously damp, and even looking over at the soft-cheeked cherub whose elbows are up your nose, and who has wet through an entire overnight diaper and managed to be soaked in his own pee from head to toe...well, cute didn't help.

So we got up. And stripped the bed and the people who slept there and bathed and were clean amen.

Then the bickering began. And by bickering, I mean where the children go forehead to forehead, ala the sport of sumo wrestling, and try to maneuver each other out of the way, inevitably causing themselves to have a sweaty brow, inevitably causing themselves to bash noses/teeth/eyes, inevitably causing horrific crying. Big fun.

And then, I wound ninetyelevenbazillion yards of white yarn around a Pringles can (empty, of course!) to create a snowman looking thing for my daughter, so that when she returned to school today after a week-long absence, she could play with her friends instead of catching up on her missed work during playtime. Also? I did not send to school the incomplete portion of her homework, just to be sure she had playtime. I can be subversive and manipulative to get my own way when I want to be.

Then it was time for breakfast.

After breakfast, I went upstairs to use the bathroom (for the first time all day shut up Hanna). I lifted the lid, and noticed that someone had forgotten to flush, promptly flushed and turned around to brush my teeth. Except when someone forgets to flush an enormous offering to the porcelain god, and three-quarters of a roll of toilet paper, the toilet overflows. The poop water ranneth overeth. Have I mentioned how not good I am with the poop? Especially when I'm knocked up? So instead of vomiting, I said Many Bad Words. Really. I said a lot.of.bad.words. All the ones that I know, repeatedly, and also matafinga. Because I think that's the baddest word of all.

Fortunately, the pee sheets and clothing were all done washing, so I could commence with the poopwater towels and clothing. Because the water had run into the hallway, onto/into the pile of clothes that didn't get washed last week when I was sick. At least I had something to sop up the wet. That is how I am Finding Good In A Bleak Situation.

The day continued in this fashion, meaning I washed piles and piles of crappy filth, and listened to my children pound on one another. Mer.

I was so looking forward to dinner, a yummylicious beef stew, full of yummylicious veggies from our CSA. And then the stew boiled all over my stove.

And I wept.

And then The Mister called to tell me he had to work indefinitely, but hung up suddenly on the first try, and that was sad to be hung up upon, but he did call back. Lucky for him, I tell you.

And then he texted me to tell me he'd be home soon, and he wasn't, and I texted him something along the lines of "WEEPING AND GNASHING OF TEETH". And then he miraculously appeared. And the children went to bed.

The end.

P.S. There was consumption of coldish coffee, too. Also mer. And meh.

tagged!

My pal ChurchPunkMom, who will be guest posting for me when I'm chillin' after the babe arrives (right, M? you totally agreed to that, no?) tagged me like junk at a sale. And since I haven't done the last memey activity she sent me, I thought I'd get right on this one.

the rulers:
1. go to your documents
2. go to your 6th file.
3. go to your 6th picture.
4. blog about it.
5. tag 6 friends to do the same.



This is Wee Man, when he was about one year old. A little more, actually, because sunflowers do not bloom until a month or so after his birthday where we live. This was right before his hair got curly.

There were some other really lovely pictures taken that day.







Blogger is being crappy, or is being friendly to you, depending on whether or not you care to view more pictures of my cute babes and my whitewhitewhite upper arms. Either way, we're on to the tagging portion.

1. twentysomething
2. kara
3. joce
4. danae
5. uncle benna
6. karen

Happy Monday!

jason interviews the blogosphere...hey, that's me!

Jason, Hisveryownself, from The Jason Show, is conducting interviews. Why me? I hear you asking, I really do. Well, I volunteered. And as a rule, that is how I tend to get myself into trouble. By volunteering.

So here goes nothing.

Er, or here goes me, getting into trouble?

Questions:
1. What is the stupidest thing you've ever done?

Once, in college, on a Thursday night, because we only ever went out on Thursday nights after orchestra rehearsal, and also because of ten cent wings, we went to 'our' bar, The Oriole. I had quite a lot of Miller Genuine Draft (two or three...pitchers...) and drove home. My dorm was practically around the corner, not that proximity prevents accidents, or that I'm trying to justify in any way, because I'm not. More accurately, I'm thankful that it was only a short way and that nobody is dead. But driving drunk is really stupid.

2. What is your biggest accomplishment?

You had to ask. Mer. Meh. Blech. I am not really so good with telling about how I do so very much rock. But I guess I could say that my children are really lovely beings, and they care about each other a lot, despite the recent poundings they've been generously handing out to each other. They are thoughtful and considerate, and usually polite, and I would like to believe that I have had a hand in that. Not a literal hand. But a nice, loving, mama hand.

3. Would you rather walk naked through the grocery or store or lick all the meat at the butcher counter?

I would WAY WAY WAY WAY WAY rather lick all the meat at the butcher counter than walk naked through the grocery store. Even though I shop at Aldi, and walking through the store takes, like, 29 seconds, I would not do it naked. Especially if the short people are with me, not that they've never seen me naked, heck, all of them have spent lots of quality time with naked ol' me. But if they were walking through the store with me, it would take about 90 years, and I'd freeze my naked keister off by then. Also? I'd be dead. Ninety years is a long time.

4. Would you rather be a cashier at a convenience store or a lumberjack?

It depends on if the job is a one day experience, or a lifelong career. For one day, I'd rather be a cashier at the Kwik Mart. But for a career, I'd probably do better as a lumberjack. Then I'd be all tough and muscular and in shape, and maybe the baby house (you know, where the babies all lived for 10 months plus) would go away.

5. What is your best memory?

My wedding was pretty sweet. Having my babies was good, too. I think my life is really made up of good memories. Lately HB has been turning down affection from everyone and saying, I want to hug my mom. And he really does. And that is awesome.

So there you go, Jasonyourveryownself. Thanks for the probing interview.

If anybody has any further questions, leave them in the comments. We'll have the first installment of Open Book, Schmopen Book 2009 next week.

Good night and good luck.

a very boring post about the longest week ever, part MCMXLVII

For one and a half hours today my ears weren't ringing. But now they are. It was supremely quiet without the ringing.

I sat down to check my email, and heard an alarming scritch-scritch in the floor vent next to the computer. Then my ears started ringing, and I have resolved to not worry about what is causing the scritch-scritch. Not that the felines would actually do anything about it, should it be not a cat.

Miss O is still home. Yesterday was a snow day, although there was really not that much snow to warrant a whole entire day off, so possibly it was just a general Ah, The Weather's Sort Of Crappy And The Superintendent Is Out Of Coffee At The Office Day Off, Who Wants To Go To School Anyway? One may never know. I'd have kept her home, regardless of the weather, because she has one of THOSE coughs. Hacking, abrasive, exhausting... general badness, if you ask me. And that is why she's home today.

For the record, she is VERY ANGRY AND MOVING TO GRANDMA'S BECAUSE GRANDMA WOULD LET ME GO TO SCHOOL.

Alrighty then.

I could tell you how much prescription medicine I'm on, and how much over-the-counter drugitos I'm on, but you'd just nod your heads and say, Hmmm. Well, that's what happens when you catch the death. And I'd say, Yep, you're right. And that's not much fun, now, is it?

I would like you to know that I did actually have something to say when I sat down to post, and now it's all gone.

My head is fuzzy. (name that movie)

Oh, wait.... I've started receiving solicitations from clever folks who are interested in guest posting during the Great April Hiatus of Birth. Let me know if you'd like to join Jen as an esteemed guest poster.

I need to sedate the children and take a nap.

i swear this will be shorter than the last few

We? Are still unwell. We have added various mung conditions that involve boogers and coughing and serious ear pain to the pink eye. Meh.

Also? It has occurred to the short people that the bedroom doors lock. And this is unfortunate, because I'm not really good with doors, and these locks are the supersweet kind that unlock when you poke something thin and sharp through the tiny hole and I can't even unlock a regular door with a regular key on a normal day, let alone one when my head is so clogged with the vile boogers that I have wicked vertigo.

And this, my friends, mah shares (I know the Frenchish language), is where I have found myself for the past two days. The Mister wrote about it yesterday, and I will recap.

I fell asleep on the couch whilst the shorties watched Sid the Annoying Laughter Science Kid and His Annoying Friends Who Also Have Annoying Laughs And So Do His Parents And Grandma. Miss O was being helpful and put HB to nap. Even changed the diaper, that's how crazy helpful she was trying to be and trying is the operative word there. She and Wee Man told HB goodnight, and locked and closed the door. HB can do many things, but open a closed door is not one of his mad skillz. Eventually he fell asleep.

I worked for half an hour to get the door open. I decided to poke my own pink eyes out with the knitting needle I was using, and go back to napping.

And, as it happens, HB woke up. With a blazing ear condition and fever. And I could not unlock the door and he was distraught, and no amount of happy meds were helping me not have stress in me because my baby was locked in a room and the only coordinated person in the house was at work and my baby was screaming, and reaching his little fingers under the door and touching my toes and calling MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA I WANT TO HUG MY MAMAMAMAMAMA.

I put the older children in time out until HB was out of his room. They were crying. It was an ugly scene.

Also? I learned that hinges go on the inside of a room, not the hall side. Just file that one away in case you need it one day.

Eventually, I was able to unlock the door, and the poor fella cried for another hour or so until I was clever enough to offer him a popscicle. That fixed him.

And today?

The little jerks locked and closed the door again. This time, nobody was inside the bedroom. Only all the diapers and wipes. And HB had completely filled his drawers, the diaper drawers, not the furniture, with quite the wretched load.

Blahblahblah, door opened, butt wiped, returned sick self to sofa.

The end.

P.S. Is it February yet?

hopefully this is the most ridiculous thing to happen all week. if not, i'm in trouble.

Miss O was supposed to go back to school today, after having very nearly two weeks off, plus two snow days, a weekend, and another random half day of school...all off for Christmas and New Year's.

Except....

WE

ALL

HAVE

CONJUNCTIVITIS!!!!

That means pink eye, for all you lucky mooks who have never had pink eye, or have never had three children all crabby with pink eye.

Damned pink eye.

Also? Colds.

The oozing and the goozing and the crust in our house right now is at an all time high. High level. It's actually a low. Very, very low.

We went to the doctor today. He looked in HB's eyes. Ummm, yeah. Gross. That is his actual, technical, doctor's professional opinion. He looked in Wee Man's eyes. Also gross. He looked in Miss O's eyes. Yeah, also also gross. He's a funny one, that guy. He looked in my eyes. Yep, you're gross, too. I had him check out my ears for fun, because they are totally feeling like they are trying to secede from my head. And, lucky me, my eardrums are bulging out. Who knew that one's ear drums could bulge so, without exploding, or actually being infected? Not me, that's who!

The Mister was at work, but I wrangled him a prescription for eye drops because I'm smart and if we are 4-for-5 with the pink eye, statistically we will go 5-for-5. Because we rock, that's why.

The next stop was the grocery store, to pick up some juice and some salty snacks. I really am a slob for salty snacks, and when I have a cold, there is nothing, besides orange juice, that I want more than fifteen bags a handful of chips bathed in french onion dip. The nice lady at the bakery/deli counter offered the children a cookie (one each, she was being nice), and after the kids touched every last cookie in the container before making their respective selections, I told her they were dangerously infected with THE PINK EYES and she should really throw the box away, wash thoroughly, and bake some more. And then, as she rolled her disgusted eyes at me and turned to go follow directions, I asked her to please come back, because if she was going to pitch the cookies, I would be happy to eat one. You know, waste not, want not. She didn't waste a cookie, and I didn't want one after that. That's what we call a win-win.

And really? Please don't talk to me about taking three sick children and my sick self to the grocery store. People who live in glass houses and all.

At the pharmacy, Wee Man and HB turned into dervishes and ran all over the store, until I stealthily grabbed them by their jackets and shot-put-ed them into a cart. The nice old man at the pharmacy saw them crying and offered them a lollypop. Didn't pony one up for the nice girl standing quietly by the cart, though. I told the nice man he should keep his suckers for boys who are behaving nicely. But then I grabbed one for the nice girl standing quietly by the cart. The nice old man thought the boys were crying before that happened. They showed him! He was so clearly moved by their heartwrenching performance that he bagged up some sort of stuffed creatures, put them by my purchase and said, conspiratorially, These are for your discretion. Because it was him and me against the kids, apparently. He could have given me some ear plugs or oxycontin or something. I'd have used those at my discretion.

But then? The pharmacist told me that the pink eye ointment prescribed by the doc for each of the three children, because you MUST have one prescription per person because God forbid they share the pink eyes with each other (hear that smack? it's my hand on my forehead. that other smack? for the prescription drug companies' and the government's affairs with each other) and each copay? FORTY DOLLARS. For goo. Hell, my kids' eyes were already gooey. I don't need to pay $120 for eye goo. I would totally bottle or tube that crap up and sell it to them for $120. Probably even for $100, because I'm flexible like that.

Five and a half hours later, we had four of the five prescriptions filled. Because it took that long for the doctor's office and the pharmacy to decide what to do about the whole over-copay situation. And even after they had decided, the pharmacy didn't have the courtesy to call me to inform me they did not have enough medicine to fight all of the pink eyes in our house.

God help them in a time of true pink eyes epidemic. Three counties would be overrun with eye goo.

There is more, much more to the story of this day, but I'm going to get drunk make some nice lemony tea with gobs of eye goo honey and go to bed.

the boy who says 'no', or, i *will* be there at the finish line

It is a hypothesis of mine that the person who came up with the phrase Terrible Twos had no actual experience with two year-old children, and was actually mistaking three year-olds for two year-olds. I would also wager a five-spot that said person was, in fact, a man.

Parenting a three year-old is like running a marathon every day for 364.25 consecutive days. I have not ever actually run an actual marathon, however I did use to run some sort of long distance races when I was on the track team in high school, for the ONE!!! WHOLE!!! SEASON!!! in which I endured that God-awful experience of running around. In circles. On purpose. Fifteen years later, I wonder how that wasn't funny to all of the parents watching the meets. Super cool teenagers, all grown-up and stuff, not doing things like little kids anymore...running around in circles. On purpose. Again. I, for one, plan to make a strong cup of coffee or a stiff drink, and laugh my ass off if my kids ever grow up and choose to run around in circles. Unless they are the fastest, in which case I will probably be forced to stand up and jump around while shouting completely embarassing things.

I have the (unique? interesting? unfortunate?) experience of parenting a two and a three at the same time. The boys are 16 months apart in age, but light years apart in Brands of Naughty. HB, age two, is learning that he is a separate person from his mama. He says 'no' quite a bit, no matter what it is he wants. My reaction? Whatever, dude, I can totally deal with 'no'.

Wee Man? At three, he has discovered reasoning. Not Aristotle-level reasoning, mind you, but Cave-Man reasoning. I don't want to do what mama says, therefore I will not do what mama says. And he actually means it when he says no, and wields the word like a Sawz-all. And when we are really lucky, he uses his hands and feet as weapons of mass bruising.

For example, yesterday afternoon Wee Man wanted a cup of juice. The acceptable way of asking for something in our house is to say, May I please have a cup of juice? Followed by the classic response, Thank you. From the get-go, he was not playing along.

JUICE! he demanded, I WANT SOME APPLE JUICE!

May I please have some apple juice?

I WANT JUICE!

Did you just mean to say, 'May I please have some apple juice?'

I WANT JUICE!

(silence from the mama)

MAMA!!!!!! JUICE!!!!

(silence and the I'm Just Waiting For YOU look from the mama)

PWEASE MAY I HAVE SOME JUICE!!!!!

Sure, Wee Man, you may have some juice.

My friend Hanna (you know, the one who reminds me to take potty breaks in my comments) was over, and since I was folding laundry, she offered to pour Wee Man's juice. We rock it cocktail style here, 1/2 juice, 1/2 water, because happy hour's fun and juice is the devil.

I DON'T WANT WATER IN MY JUICE!!!! This charming exclamation was punctuated by the pleasant child dumping the juice in the sink and also all over my floor. And that was when the whole interaction went all Paul Simon on me. You know, slip slidin' away.

Screaming. More screaming. Mostly about juice. And then? More screaming. A little later? Screaming and sitting on the floor next to me whilst grabbing me around the knees and wrapping his stubby little legs around my ankles. Followed by the inevitable Pulling Down of The Mama's Comfy Fleece Pants. Because that always happens when they wrap themselves around my legs. Followed by the Pulling UP of The Mama's Comfy Fleece Pants. Followed by punching and screaming and kicking and throwing things and falling down and bumping head and punching and kicking and throwing screams and falling kicks and bumping down and kicking shins and screaming head and...

You get the idea. And if you've had short people of your own, I feel confident that this is ringing a bell. Or two.

And let me tell you. I was like the Goddess of Zen with that child. I did not punch him back. I did not kick his naughty little shins all the way to Tulsa, or even across the room for that matter. I did not shout. I did not throw things back at him. Sometimes, I surprise even myself.

And I did not give that little sheister any.damn.juice.so.there.

I put his little lost-it self on the couch no less than thirty times. Again. And again. And again. And then? Again some more.

The whole thing was totally exhausting. If he was any bigger, he would have really hurt me. As it was, I have a couple of discs in my back that were out of place all week long, and yesterday was the first day I actually stood up and did anything around my house. The action of hauling his 35 pound carcass back to the sofa ninetyeleventyseventy times did not help matters.

But what was the option? Condone that ridiculousness by pouring him more juice? Laugh it off when he hit me? Heck no, batman.

Parenting is often a really shitty (figuratively and literally), thankless job. Getting one's ass handed back by a three year-old is unpleasant. Re-throwing-out my back? Also unpleasant.

Fortunately, The Mister and I defined the finish line before our short people even got here. And when our short people have become tall people, and are kind, loving, generous, well-adjusted people who do not kick other people in the shins, they will have crossed the finish line. We'll just be the broken-down old folks next to the finish line, waving banners with their names and cheering them on.

Until then, we are the hard-nosed jerks that have drawn a line in the sand. We're the referees who blow the whistle on the unkind; the clowns who keep the angry bulls from hurting themselves and each other, no matter what.

Not because it's fun. Or because we need to achieve anything, vicariously or otherwise, from our short people. But because we owe it to the people we made and brought to this earth, and the other people who were already here...it's our responsibility to work through the terrible threes and the terrible teens and the terrible case of stupid all parents seem to inherit from their children.

There are a lot of actions individuals can take to make the world a better place. Parents are limited to one: raise up the child to be a proper adult. That is our finish line. And we WILL cross it.

(I have entered this post in the January Write-Away contest over at Scribbit. The topic this month is "The Finish Line". And the winner gets a crate of clementines from Spain. Sweet!)

i forgot to tell you about choking cats. (that sounds so terrible)

Before I even start, do not even ask me if I actually choke cats. Because I might come over there and choke you. Not really. I am totally not into choking anything. Or choking ON things, for that matter. So don't go and choke your keister on your panties before you hear my story.

Because: NO CATS WERE HARMED, BEFORE, DURING OR AFTER THE WRITING OF THIS POST.

Maybe the title should have been: The Tournament of Roses Parade: Who Knew It Would Rouse The Social Justice Gene In My Offspring?

And to keep putting off the main point of my blatherings, I would just like to say that as cool and fascinating as it is to see trailers plastered in organic material operating under the guise of art, I am so disgusted by things like the ToR Parade. The stupid blonde commentator actually said as part of her script: The cost of putting this float together would feed a family of four for over a year.

Someone at NBC told her to say that.

My guess is that more than one of the thousands of hungry families in this country and around the world heard her say that. And yet? A bazillion floats, each using more flowers than one large-scale florist would use in a year, each costing more than my household budget for a year.

Obscene.

And don't even say they were helping the economy.

So we were watching, which really means Miss O was watching, I was knitting and sort of watching, The Mister was asleep on the couch, and the boys were hitting each other with train tracks or something. It was all very uneventful except for the occasional exclamation of HORSES!!!! from Miss O, until the ASPCA commercial came on.

And that is when my daughter's fragile heart burst into ninetyelevenbazillion pieces. Thanks, ASPCA!

Those (kind, yes) people found the most pathetic-looking animals on the face of the earth, put them in cages, and went on and on about how animals are abused every 10 seconds in this country.

I'm not unsympathetic to the cause, really I'm not. All three of our cats were adopted from animal shelters, and I do believe that there is a special place in hell reserved for people who torture animals. I would guess that place is close in proximity to the place reserved for people who hurt children...but I have no plans to actually find out.

Miss O lost it. For the rest of the day.

I could give you all kinds of dramatic details, but I would hate for it to sound like I was making fun of the situation, and I am SO NOT making fun. That 60 second commercial ruined my kid's day.

And truth be told? I'm torn about that. Of course I do not want my precious babe to be upset and dismayed. But on the other hand, I'm pretty proud of her. Because after she cried and cried (which she did, for about an hour), we talked about the situation, and about how we couldn't go to the shelter and get that one kitty from the commercial, and about how she could do something to help.

The kid is totally motivated.

We are going to go to the local shelter to find out what an almost 6 year-old can do to help with the kitties. And she is going to make some supercute pompon guys to peddle at church one Sunday to raise money for the shelter. And it was all her idea.

Pretty stinking sweet.

And you were worried I was going to confess to choking little fuzzy creatures.

why, yes! it is 3:18 a.m. and also? yes! i am wide awake.

Since I'm sitting here all by myveryownself, also with one seriously-wanting-me-to-choke-it cat (more on choking cats later...if I can remember that long), and I'm the one who is pathologically or epidemically or academickly (no, that's really not it).... never mind.

I'm the one sitting here, blogging, in the middle of the stupid night because I am awake like a moron or a crazy person or a drunk or... umm... a pregnant woman.

M.E.H.

And really? I have been awake for HOURS.
OOOOOOOWWWW-EEEEEERRRRRSSSSS.
Yes, yes I have. Not tossing and turning, mind you, because the disc between my fourth and fifth cervical ...maybe it's my lumbars, I can't actually remember... decided to go visiting my lungs or something, and it is nearly impossible to roll over. I'm not even to the Beached Whale Stage of my pregnancy yet, and I can't sit up, roll over, put my socks on, or fetch. And I'm not begging...yet...but if there are still dirty dishes tomorrow at this time, I might start begging.

I needed help putting on my snow boots yesterday so I could gimp down the street to the in-laws' house for New Years' Day brunch. Sans socks, for the record. Also? I had to STOP EATING DINNER at my mother's house, because I couldn't sit up any more.

And let me tell you, people, that it is a real son of a bitch to be six months pregnant, be starving because you're, well, six months pregnant, and NOT BE ABLE TO FINISH YOUR PASTA.

It was good pasta, too. I put lots and lots of sauce on it, and there were meatballs and little pieces of pork. And I made bread (I know this doesn't probably make a ton of sense, but the Mister did the kneading, and aside from the kneading, making bread is about waiting and not doing anything)...and the bread was amazing, and the bread dipped in the sauce was amazing, and the inability to sit up was? Not. Amazing. At. All.

I love pasta. Actually, I love the sauce. The pasta is just a vehicle for the sauce.

We came home from my mom's house, and put the short people to bed (much better luck than last night, thankyouverymuch), and I was cuddling with my warm and cozy corn bag*, which I have named Colin Firth**, in my warm and comfy bed.

And I knitted for a little bit, and I took my happy pill, because the whole if-Mama's-not-happy-ain't-nobody-happy-thing? Let's just say it's true. More true to say If Mama's Got Anxiety Real Bad She's Impossible To Live With.

And then I went to sleep. Because I am exhausted.

And then I woke up.

And now it's too late to go to the bar.

The End.***

*A corn bag is a fabric pouch filled with dried corn. Not popcorn. That would be scratchy, not cozy. It's like a bean bag that you heat in the microwave, and it puts nice, warm, damp heat on your hurt place. Or wherever you're needing a little warm. You should get one. They're amazing.

**Colin Firth would be nice to cuddle with, possibly. It's just a guess.

***Not really, truly, the end. Because if it were the end of Awake Time, I'd be asleep. And not so angry at the cats. Even though it's not their stupid faults I'm awake. They're just annoying.

we are terribly exciting party animals

The short people were in bed, asleep, by 9:12 P.M. They were utterly worn out from a combination of the following activities:

• explosively crapping pants
• bathing
• screaming loudly, imitating nonmedicated amputees
• drinking one half gallon of water
• lying in bed, sans pull-up, and urinating all over self
• bathing some more
• continued excessive screaming

Because they bring the party to you. Oh yeah, baby, that's what they do.

In keeping with the pace the short people set for us, here is a detailed list of our New Year's Eve activities.

The Mister:

1. Sat down on the couch.
2. Fell asleep.

The Mama:

1. Sat on the couch.
2. Finished knitting super cute hat for Miss O.
3. Finished the cuffs on the third woolen soaker.
4. Ripped one cuff off the third woolen soaker.
5. Took some acetominaphen and the happy meds.
6. Changed header. (Like it?)
7. Visited the Tarzhay website to enter into the $5K gift card drawing for people who answer the survey.
8. Posted.
9. Did a load of bodily expulsion laundry. This is the first thing I did, actually, before I sat on the sofa.

Please note the excessive use of booze, and also the quantity of fun party foods we've consumed this evening... NONE!!!! ZERO!!!! ZILCH!!!! NADA!!!! NIET!!!!

Actually, I don't know what the blazes niet means. I just like how it sounds.

I hope you all are behaving responsibly this year, and that none of you are so stupid as to get plastered and sleep with the guy you met at the bar tonight. Because I would be really disappointed if I heard about that. Not as disappointed as if you got plastered and got behind the wheel of your vehicle, though.

Be safe so that we can rock it the right way this year.