it was supposed to be date night here.

Because I am a lah-dee-dah/fiddle-dee-dee sort, and amazingly talented, I was in the lah-dee-dah/fiddle-dee-dee choir in college.

Yes, I went to college.

And graduated.

With a degree.

That verysame college still has that verysame choir, with the not-so-much verysame members, and the fancy choir came to Buffalo to put on a concert for alumni and potential recruits. Miss O and I decided to attend, and yes, that does mean Sweets was coming along, too.

Except this morning, Wee Man and HB decided that there was nothing in the world that could possibly satisfy them or make them grow up to be Useful Members Of Society, as attending this concert would.

I don't even know if that last sentence makes any sense, mostly because I got no sleep last night.

So I called The Mister at lunch and told him it was his lucky day and we were all going to drive for hours to watch a choral concert, and let me tell you, he was jumping up and down, squeeing like a girly-ass blogger. OR NOT.

And then, after dinner, we all piled into the vehicle and drove and drove, and the kids made weird noises and caused the baby to scream with delight and The Mister was so ecstatic he was practically doing a jig right there in the passenger seat. OR NOT.

We walked into the venue, and the first person we saw was my work-study boss from the Admission Office, because I was *that*girl in college, and the second person we saw was my former fiance's wife. And apparently she's still in high school, because when my former boss introduced us Wifey stopped being Lil Mrs. Friendly Pants and turned into Scowl-Eyes McGee. Because clearly we needed to be introduced, Hi! I used to screw your husband... you know, before he was your husband... but you already knew that... this isn't awkward AT ALL!!!! Is it really true that he gave you the same ring he gave me? I've always heard that, but I thought he had a little more sense than that.

The trip was going just. freaking. awesome.

During the first song, I was in the bathroom with all three boys.

During the second song, Wee Man and HB were standing on the little Catholic kneeling thing. And talking. In the ear of the guy in front of us who was videotaping his daughter's concert.

After the second song, The Mister took the big boys outside.

After the third song, Miss O burst into tears and cried to go home.

What was I thinking.

lord help the next person who brings polyester into my house

I hate stuffed animals.

There's really no other way to say it. I don't dislike stuffed animals. I don't sigh with disapproval at stuffed animals. I really, truly, seriously, honestly bloody hate them.

They aren't really toys, they're not really decor. They are things you trip on, vile, dirty things with tiny styrofoam beady things inside them and creepy glas-tic eyes and totally not cuddly fur. And I swear to God, those things screw and bear forth the fruits of their polyester loins IN MY CHILDREN'S PRESENCE.

Don't tell me they don't because I know they do.

One of my children's uncles, who shall remain nameless, but if you call me I could be persuaded to rat him out, brings my short people stuffed animals. Often. It's really nice that he thinks of them, and yeah, that whole GIFT HORSE and MOUTH thing, but I have reached my limit of Larger Than Most Of The Humans In My House Stuffed Fakeys thing.

Seven. Years. We have been asking him to stop. bringing. the. stuffed. animals. for. seven. flipping. years. We have been casual and indirect. We have said, Thanks for bringing them presents, but they play with crayons and markers way more than stuffed toys. We have even been direct and blunt, and have said, PLEASE STOP BRINGING THEM STUFFED TOYS!!!! and NO MORE STUFFED ANIMALS!!!! and THE STUFFED ANIMALS ARE TAKING OVER THE HOUSE!!!! and I CAN'T HAVE ANY MORE OF THESE THINGS IN MY HOUSE!!!!

But no. Sadly, the animals? They keeps on a-comin'. This weekend, he had two GARBAGE BAGS FULL. And the one for Elliott? Was TWICE THE SIZE OF MAH BABEH.

I said, NO MORE STUFFED ANIMALS. REALLY. DON'T BRING ANY MORE TO THEM.

He said, Well, you know.

I said, NO. MORE.

Five bucks says that within two months he brings more.

tap, tap

Is this thing on? Because from my TRULY AMAZING AND WONDERFUL POSTS OF LATE you might think it, ummmm, wasn't.

So for everyone out there wondering what in God's name I've been up to, here's a little list.

1. baking bread
2. schooling mah shorties
3. directing a play
4. barfing
5. cleaning up barf (x6)
6. laundry
7. diapers
8. ear infections (x9 ears)
9. making 300 meatballs last Saturday
10. church stuff
11. knitting two pairs of socks
12. filling orders from my Etsy shop
13. not mailing orders from my Etsy shop
14. watching the Olympics
15. playing ninety-eleven games of Uno with Wee Man
16. watching Wee Man throw a temper tantrum for the half of the ninety-eleven games of Uno he didn't win
17. feeding chickens
18. feeding children
19. tweeting about dirty snowboarding with the Steenk
20. nursing the baby during the day
21. nursing the baby during the night
22. being a human teether
23. not reading blogs
24. eating scrambled eggs, sausage and salsa wrapped in tortillas
25. holding baby with RSV

Yeah. It's been awesome. But it'll be better. It had better be better.

semi-wordless wednesday: violence unsilenced

Today marks the first anniversary of Violence Unsilenced.

For those of you who are all what the heck is Violence UnSilenced?, it's a forum for victims of domestic violence and abuse to tell their stories. I shared my story last May.

Watch the video here, or click through to watch it at Violence UnSilenced.

the promise of things to come

dear lady karma, part deux

Dear Lady Karma,

Listen you horse-toothed slut, I freaking apologized, snd what do I get? AN ENTIRE HOUSEFUL OF BARFING PEOPLE, including myself. This is not cool.

So here's my new bottom line:

Bring it, bitch.

Take that,
Pamela

an open letter to her ladyship, karma

Dear Lady Karma,

First of all, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize in public for calling you a bitch. You remember that, right? Yeah, me too. It was wrong of me to call you that, even though everybody else calls you a bitch. And no, for the record, if everyone else was jumping off a bridge I wouldn't jump too.

I'm sorry. Honest I am.

But. Just for a minute, can we talk? You know, all woman-to-woman and stuff? Excellent. I really do appreciate you taking some time out of your busy schedule of paying people back to chat with me.

I can see how it might be just a teensy bit funny to you to play that little Mind Eraser Game with me, and help me to forget that I needs mah pillz and how, because yes, I did enjoy two and a half months of free pills (so did everybody around me).

But what did I do to deserve the flood of barf? Huh? Because seriously, if that was you, bitch, I will cut. you. with. mah. Wustoff. Because even without the ooooomlaut, that sucker is mean.

(For those of you who think I'm talking about my chef's knife? You're right. Everyone else, think I'm talking about my chef's knife.)

First, it was the effing cat. PROJECTILE. FELINE. VOMIT. On my superfab stripey SkipHop diaper bag. Yes, it's possible that is was *JUST* a hairball, but when liquid shit shoots from the mouth of an animal, I think I get a free pass to just go ahead and call it vomit.

Then? Karma? My HB. Barfing at somebody else's house. Which really, is fine with me, because the less barf at my house, the better. But it was in front of all the friends, and on the playroom rug, and their house still smells like HB Barf. And that seems a little unfair to everyone.

Also? Karma? My Wee Man. Barfing at the SAME SOMEBODY ELSE'S HOUSE. That was just not funny. Can you see why I'm leaning a little toward wondering if this was you, Karma? Can you see why I'm thinking you had a hand in this?

And to ice our already-vomit-encrusted cake? NINE HOURS OF BARF AT TEN MINUTE INTERVALS FROM HALF OF OUR CHILDREN. Nine hours. Was that really necessary? Really?

How and why other people call you "bitch" is becoming more and more clear to me. Not that I'm judging, Lady Karma, I'm not. But I would be interested in walking a mile in your shoes, and having a chance to spread a little of that Hot Lady Karma love around.

I'm doing my best here. And I'd really appreciate it if you could maybe get yourself a little Lex.a.pro and chill out.

Love and kisses,
Pamela

dis is de time on schprokets ven ve goes de crazies.

I'm on drugs. Did I ever tell you that? Maybe I didn't. But yes, they're legal in this country and this state, and yes, I *really* need them. Except I'm not on them right now, and by THEM, I mean the ONE anti-crazy pill I'm supposed to be taking daily so that I don't have a replay of this.

The last time I got a prescription filled was right around HB's birthday, at the end of November. Yes, I know it's now February, but the pharmacy screwed up and gave me a whopping 100 pills instead of the 30 that my insurance covered. I probably should have returned them, but it was almost a month before I realized what had happened, and they'd probably have just thrown them out if I brought them back.

Karma's a bitch, though, and I'm getting mine. I ran out about four days ago. And I just didn't think about refilling. Because I'm superclever, that's why.

My brain is fuzzy. My heart is pounding in my throat and I have stress in me, so much stress in me that I feel like I'm a ziplock baggie full of stress. My shoulders are tight, my patience is thin, I am a twitchy mess. But for extra special fun, my brain fuzzy comes in waves, and just about the time my heart finds its place down in my chest cavity, in front of my lungs and behind my ribs, everything amps up again and the breathing and the heart and the brain and the dizzy and the crazy just start flying around like the birds in that Hitchcock film. You know, the one with all the flying birds. *That* one.

Yesterday I thought it was a combination of running around after Cat 2 and cleaning up his projectile vomit, and not having time for a meal before we left the house, and maybe too much caffeine. But even then? Those sorts of things don't usually reduce me to a shaking pile of crybaby.

I called the pharmacy. The phone-answerer said my insurance wasn't going to cover my meds. I couldn't decide whether to cry or throw up or pay cash. Also, I couldn't breathe, and fortunately it was just one of those Silly Little Health Insurance Things, but even so this steel body cast of bad body chemistry is keeping my brain and my lungs from playing ball on the same team.

And of course this would be the Tired-est Week of The Year for my short people, the week in which every request from a Tall Person would result in ear-splitting shrieking diatribes from any Short Person in the room, and for the record, there are FOUR of them, which adds up so quickly it's actually one of those exponential equations, but I'm not going to lay it all out for you because remember the fuzzy brain thing?

Yeah. About that.

I'm making some hot tea, putting on my pajamas, and watching a movie with The Mister, who says it's alright with him if they drug me for the rest of our life together.

back in the day, when it wasn't less than zero degrees outside