a little bit of elliott all night long

Elliott has a new game. Or skill. And this is Big Fun, I tell you.

He goes to sleep (precious little lamb). He is a finger-sucker... his own, mercifully... and he holds the shiny blanket binding, and sighs, and sometimes he talks to himself a little. It's all very cute.

And then he wakes up.

And sits up. Because, duh, he can.

And then he cries. Hard. Dude howls, wails, carries on like it's his job. Why? BECAUSE HE CAN'T LIE DOWN. He gets stuck in the sitting position and he doesn't want to be awake, but he is, but he's so tired, but he can't go back to sleep because he just. can't. lie. down.

Oh, the crying. It puts the stress in me and my heart starts pounding in my brain and my breathing goes all wonky and the meds I'm on are not for this sort of stress, they're for the other stress that's similar but without all that crazy heart pounding and I've tried to just lie there in my bed and wait it out but then my brain starts making those ridiculous fizzy-pop noises that lead me to believe that if I wait for that sweet child to just PLEASE GO BACK TO SLEEP!!!! I will have an aneurysm and die right there in my bed and that would just be catastrophic because The Mister would probably not notice I was deceased when he got up at the butt-crack of dawn to go to work but Wee Man TOTALLY WOULD NOTICE I HAD KICKED THE BUCKET when he climbed into bed with me the next morning to tell me he was starving for food, but I would be dead, and so then Wee Man would starve to death and then there we'd be, the two of us, curled up dead in the bed.

HB would be fine, for sure, except he'd never take his night-time diaper off but that'd turn out okay because eventually it would slide down his left pant-leg and would just sit in a stinking pile on the floor because HELLO, HE'S THREE, and they're a little gross. Miss O, on the other hand, would be horrified that I was sleeping so soundly in my bed whilst the baby was crying and carrying on because by this time he'd be awake again if he'd even fallen asleep in the first place. Er, second place. So she'd fetch him and come all storm-clouding-it into my bedroom where Wee man and I are TOTALLY DEAD BY UNRELATED BIZARRE EVENTS and she'd drop the baby on my carcass and then she'd be all, umm, mama, the baby's, like, crying, and you are totally ignoring him, and that's all annoying, you know, first thing in the morning. Not because she really talks like that normally, or that any of us actually talk like that, except for the short people really like to get under my skin before coffee, and by lying there dead I have given away the valuable information that NO, I HAVE NOT YET HAD MY COFFEE, thankyouverymuch, and also? You should be WAY nicer to me because I totally won you like ninety-eleven bazillion KinzCash last night on your WebK.inz account.

And then she would feel totally horrible for sassing me when I was dead, especially because I hadn't had any coffee first, and it would be one of those magical cartoon moments when the big realization happens and the French Press Fairies come to give me a hot cup of mouth-to-mouth, and the Kettle Fairies come to monitor the stove usage, since the short people aren't allowed to use the stove without an adult, and then they would instruct my people on the finer points of BRINGING THEIR MOTHER COFFEE IN BED, and then they would bring me coffee in bed, just the way I like it with brown sugar and real cream, and I'd drink it even though the French Press Fairies just had their wicked way with me, and then someone would give Wee Man a half-spoonful of anything, or wave The Mister's iPod under his nose or something, and he'd be back to normal.

And we'd all live happily ever after.

The End.

scream it if you have to.

There has been quite a lot of Sheriff traffic on my little street lately. We had a theft, technically a Larceny over $3000 (way. over. meh.), and that whole debacle is still being dealt with.

And yes, I do know it is grammatically incorrect to end a sentence with 'with'. (See, I did it again.)

Also? Homeowner's insurance. Let me not hear those words again for at least a week. Or ninety.

Yesterday afternoon the Sheriff-mobile was across the street at our neighbor's house. No, not the Halloween neighbors. And not the Speedo-in-all-seasons neighbors. The red house, for those of you who are starting to freak because you're local and hi, the dayton time is real good for the local gossip, but not the red house where my in-laws live.

And now that we all know what we're talking about here.

There I go with the prepositions at the ends of sentences. Again.

The Sheriff-mobile was there, and also other vehicles, and men in suits, and a deputy, and they were all going in and out, and out and in. I watched them for a moment, walking, walking, walking. And I knew why they were there.

He didn't go to work. He missed an appointment. He didn't answer the phone. Because he couldn't. Instead of going to work, the appointment, talking to someone, he fixed it so that he would never do any of those things, ever again.

I didn't know because I had seen, or heard, or suspected anything at all. I just knew. For the record.

He was quiet, middle-aged, took great care of his property, didn't leave beer bottles in my yard or anyone else's at Halloween or any other time. He kept to himself.

He didn't tell anyone.

Please, please, please, darlings. Please don't kill yourself. There is help, but nobody can give it to you if they don't know. Please tell someone. I know you're tired. I know it is just so. much. work. People do care. They really do.

National Suicide Hotlines, USA

1.800.784.2433

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1.800.273.8255

Kristin Brooks Hope Center

The Trevor Project

serving gay, lesbian, transgender, bisexual and questioning youth

A State-by-State Listing of Suicide Hotlines

seven on twenty-five. and also two on twenty-five.

At seven:seventeen, seven years ago, Miss O poked her head out of my...

No. Do-over.

At seven:seventeen, seven years ago, Miss O came flying out of my...

Probably not that, either.

She's seven today, and sweet Lord in Heaven, that makes me the kind of giddy that starts out awesome and then makes my stomach turn a little bit queasy with the knowledge that YES, SHE'S THAT OLD, AND SO AM I.

She made a very simple, yet completely specific request for her birthday, and that is how we are spending today. Maybe tomorrow I'll post the picture of her Birthday Dessert.

bossy's (no) book tour

We, as in MOI and LE MONSIEUR, are playing hostess and host to the one and only BOSSY as she traipses around and across the country all willy-nilly and whatnot.

We'll be descending on The Anchor Bar at a date and time to be determined by HRH BOSSY's schedule.

Y'all are invited, whether or not you have a blog. Just leave me a comment with your email address to let me know you want in. :cough:Director Lynda:cough:

Or, if you're a stalker, you may email me. Or talk to me at Brownies. :ahem:MK and company:ahem:

hello, there, eyebrows.

I saw this post on Twitter, and found myself clicking through without giving it another thought. First, because we are not cutesy private part naming people over here, and secondly, because it is BIG FUN to laugh about (read: at) people who do actually call their vagina a COOCHIE-SNORCHER or HAMBURGER.

Oh, yes, my friends, they're out there.

I watched the video. But something was distracting me. I wasn't listening to the yammerings of the Big Cheese Bloggers.

It was the BLACK CATERPILLARS OF DEATH that were hanging over Dooce's eyes. They reminded me of the Death Eaters in Harry Potter.

So I give you: Dooce's Boy Haircut and The Black Caterpillars of Death. And also funny and stupid names for a vagina.


Private Parts: Do You Have Cutesy Names for Them?

What do you call your parts? And do not even tell me you call it your Black Caterpillar of Death or I will come to your house and barf on you.

sort of pleased and disgusted at the same time

I just read a tweet that a local church raised $10,000 to help aid the Haitian relief efforts. That's really generous, especially considering that was in less than a week, and the less-than-ideal economic climate.

As a bleeding-heart-type, I totally get that.

And also I don't.

Where are these people when their neighbors are hungry? Where are they when the food pantry is empty and when they see small children running about in the ten degree weather with no hats, no mittens, and no snow boots? How is the kindness so much harder to find when over 60% of children in local schools get free breakfast and lunch (or pay 25 cents for it).

Are these the people who suck their teeth and roll their eyes when mamas use WIC coupons in the grocery line? Or swipe their State Benefit Cards? Or are they the people who quickly hand over the $4.82 that will let the person ahead of them in line get all their groceries that week.

Don't get me wrong, the devastation in Haiti is beyond horrific, and keeps getting worse. I'm not going all Pat Robertson on their sad asses. I just wonder what people are thinking when they consider loving their neighbors.

The one whose face is stained with grief.
The one who has it all together.
The one who works two full-time jobs to feed her babies.
The one from the other side of the globe.
The one you think is lazy.
The one who disagrees with your politics.
The one who offends you.
The one in need.

If only we could all realize that loving our neighbors is a full-time endeavour.
If only.

****updated****
Someone from the Effbook read this post and thought I was writing about the church that raised the money. I was not. I do admit that hearing about a donation of that size in that short amount of time cause me to think of the eleventy bazillion dollars that have been raised worldwide to help the cause in Haiti. It made me think about the staggering number of people who die each day due to malnutrition and lack of available clean water. I thought about how sad it is that we know that there is starvation and filth and poverty and war and abuse of power and a thousand other diseases of the mind and body. And it occurred to me the difference we could make if only we could all realize that loving our neighbors is a full-time endeavour.

did you ever...

CRINGE?

Mama, you wear *enormous* underpants.

WANT TO BURY YOUR HEAD IN THE SAND?

Doctor, you have a fat. butt.

WANT TO RUN AWAY?

Sometimes I breastfeed my Barbie doll with my nipples. And sometimes I breastfeed her with my penis.

strep of consciousness

So this is what I've become... a blogger who writes her posts longhand on a $1 magnetic list pad with a fancy artist's pen stolen from The Mister.

Hello, Dark Ages.

I was trying to use my actual computer, as opposed to the current archaic method, but Elliott missed the Bedtime Memo and is at That Age Where Pounding On The Keyboard Seems Like A Truly Magnificent Idea.

So I am cross, because he's really not that cute. At the moment, anyway. Even as he is contemplating an O-shaped piece of cereal that is stuck to his fingertip, furrowed brow and handsfuls of cheeks... well, he's sort of cute.

Also, I feel rather dung-ish - do you like how I refrained from saying CRAP just there? It's a little evidence that I'm growing as a person my vocabulary.

(Aside: It seems we are very nearly out of O-shaped oat cereal. Not Cheeri-o-s, mind you, because we are cheap shop at Aldi.)

I have the Streptosomething throat and it is unpleasant. And I also probably have at least two ear infections and fifty-nine glands in my neck are swollen so I pretty much look like I have the mumps. That, in combination with my current state of questionable personal hygiene and yesterday's sweatshirt-turned-baby-barf-catcher make me one. hot. mama. yeah.

Since I'm sharing all my woes, allow me to tell you how very badly I wish to attend BlissDom. BAD. That's how. My supercool, personal-hygiene-issue-free pal The Stiletto Mom is going. And she has her very own catwalk panel where she will teach people how to properly strut The Choo about blogging. Or something. And also? This guy you've probably never ever heard of whose name rhymes with Barry Bonnick Junior is giving a concert. At the bloggy event.

(Aside: I just realized I am drinking the very last cup of Stash Lemon Blossom Tea in my house. Today officially sucks.)

Anne Shirley would say that Harry and I are destined to be bosom friends. Not that he'd like my bosom, because he has Jill Goodacre's to cuddle, and mine's sporting a big sign that says OCCUPIED right now. I could tell you all of the reasons why...blahblahblahmusicblahblahblahfoodblah... but I'll just pick one.

We both love us some Habitat for Humanity. Sure, he's involved in a very large and public way, and I am just little old me out here in BFE Western New York. But back in the day, before I had four short people running around shouting at me, I ran the HFH affiliate in my county. It's a small operation, but lovely, I assure you, and we build about a house a year. If you seem interested :cough:COMMENTS:cough: I can tell you more later.

One of the most awesomesaucest things we did was to participate in HFHI's House In a Box program. Pretty much we framed up a house in a parking lot, then numbered every. last. board. Then dismantled the whole thing, packed it in a shipping box and sent it to Biloxi, Mississippi, where volunteers built the rest of the house for a family that had been displaced by Hurricane Katrina. Everyone who worked on the house on our end signed the 2x4's with messages of love and encouragement.

I worked really hard to get my affiliate included in the House In a Box program, and on everything else we did for six years. It was amazing.

So yeah, BlissDom, Harry Connick, Jr., Habitat for Humanity and strep throat... I want to go, I want to hear, I love, and I'm *so* over.

Happy Tuesday.

****If you want the longhand copy of this post, email me your address.****

to sum up...

Last week, The Mister worked approximately 100 hours.

This week, Miss O and I have strep throat.

That is all.

so that happened.

Mama. I sneezed a piece of apple out my nose.

Mama. I did. It came out of my nose.

I sneezed a piece. A piece of apple. OUT OF MY NOSE, mama.

I did this (scrunches nose, purses lips, blows air out of nose)...

And apple came out. It did.

Out my nose.

emmet otter's jug band christmas, or, eighty-five times was enough, thanks.

This is going to be a really short story.

Once upon a time, The Mister got Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas from his parents for Christmas. He watched it once or twice and then it sat quietly, innocuously, lying in wait, in the bottom drawer of the cabinet in the living room.

Then it was discovered by the short people, and ever since I have been subjected to the River Bottom Nightmare.

You can get it for $8 on Amazon. It's well-worth the money if you get your crazy meds for free, or if you need some time alone to do things like shower. Or stab yourself in the eyes.



Disclosure: This isn't actually a review. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

all the news that's fit to print. or something.

It's cold. Sometimes the Hateful Thermometer says things like 7 or 2, which are perfectly good numbers when strung TOGETHER, but alone? Before the wind chill is factored in?

Not. So. Much.

Also, we have the snow. Let's not pretend we're surprised by the snow. I know it's January. I'm quite aware of where I live. I just need taller boots.

By the way, if you have a tall and warm boot recommendation for me, please leave it in the comments. Bonus points for tall and warm and cute, but really I just need my toes to stay on my feet. They're threatening to hop off and move away. Extra bonus points for under $100.

Have I told you before how the tall people wear long underwear from October to April? It helps, that's why. We don't keep our house that warm. Two years ago, I was gagging on the price of natural gas whilst my children were running around the house practically na.ked. So we turned down the thermostat a couple of degrees a day, until the children stopped cavorting like jungle natives.

61 degrees. That's where the little arrow sits.

Now do you understand the long underwear situation Jason from California who gloats on his blog about his superb choice in location???

My long underwear is old, and the elastic is a little shot, and for a reason unbeknownst to me, the ass of pretty much every pair of undertrousers is completely enormous. Huge. Gigantic.

So I'm wearing a Bella Band to keep my undertrou in the up position. What's a Bella Band? you ask.



That stretchy white thing on those pregnant women is a Bella Band. I love things that multi-task. Also? It keeps my belly covered when I'm breastfeeding Sweets. Two thumbs up and back fat in check. And by "in check" I mean Closer To My Body Thereby Keeping Me Warmer.

At least that is what I'm telling myself.

And that is the news from Lake Daytonbegone, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.

teaser.

I was super psyched when CSN Stores contacted me about doing a review. Because have you even checked them out? They sell everything you could ever want to buy: kitchen gadgets, rugs, dining room furniture... it's all there.

I'll give you a hint about what I'm reviewing:

It starts with FRENCH. And rhymes with MESS. And it's RED.

The second thing starts with, and rhymes with Brugo Executive Dusk Thermodynamic Travel Mug. What a coincidence.

Disclosure: CSN Stores is sending me two items to review when I publish this post. Then I'm going to review them.

resolute.

At the risk of sounding like a heartless so-and-so, I must admit that I don't actually care that it's turned 2010. I just don't.

Honestly, I care more at this very instant that HB is removing the diapers from the drying rack and throwing them on the floor so that he can play guitar. Yes, the drying rack is a guitar. Also he is throwing a screaming fit... because he's three... but I don't care about that.

I'm so over the whole resolution thing. Not that I'm unilaterally opposed to self-improvement, I just find the making-of-the-impossible-dream-list to be stressful and NOT RIGHT NOW, HB, IT'S MY TURN ON THE COMPUTER. To which he screams back GO GET THE BABY!!!!!

It might boil down to the not-wanting-to-fail-myself thing, or the what-if-I-find-something-better-to-do thing, or the I-have-four-small-children thing.

But. Because I know you're just DYING for me to make a small list, so here are three things about which I will be resolute.

I will strive to not forget the wet laundry in the washing machine.

I will strive to use my indoor voice unless it is absosmurfly necessary that I use the Bad Dog Voice.

I will eat more popcorn.

So there. Happy Same Life, Different Number.