I Heart Sweatpants.

I cannot button any of my pants. My belly is so swollen. Actually all of me is swollen. I can't wear socks either. I can't even wear the pants that are two sizes too big that I still have in my closet. But I have the best mommy, and she is taking me to buy sweatpants. I never thought I would be so happy to buy sweatpants. Yippee!

Guilty Pleasure

One great thing has come out of this surgery. I have been stuck at home for days, so I took the time to catch up on a few Samantha Who episodes I had missed. When I finished with Samantha Who, I needed another form of entertainment. I searched through iTunes before settling on Gossip Girl. I downloaded the whole season, and like a silly high school girl, I am hooked. Love it. Can't get enough. Watched the whole season so far.

Pain Med = Sloppy Trish

Many of you know I had surgery yesterday. I consider it a small surgery, since I have been through much worse. However, surgery is still surgery, and I am now doped up on pain medicine and have the anesthesia hangover.

Basically I have had abdominal pain for months. Long story short, my ob was not taking me very seriously, so I found a new doc. He pinpointed the problem right away. I have a lot of problems with birth control, because of my migraines. I suffer from at least 4 a month. On birth control they increased to two to three a week. Not headaches, migraines. Much different. Anyway, my previous OB would not let me get my tubes tied, as she claimed I was much too young. (This is bullshit if you ask me. I already have to children, one with a very serious genetic condition. I do not want to risk having another child with the same disabilities. Nor do I think I could handle a third with the amount of time Emmi's care takes up. I have not wavered from this decision, so I in way think I am too young.) So my previous OB suggested an IUD. It was great for two years. But then it shifted, and tore through the wall of my uterus. Ouch! It also can cause cysts, which explains the seven that I have. Both of these things contributed to my pain.

So my new doc said the IUD needed to come out ASAP. It had to be surgically removed, because of the damage. Since I needed surgery anyway, I asked the new OB if I could get my tubes tied. He didn't even hesitate. He said if I was old enough to decide I wanted children, I was old enough to decide that I didn't want anymore. During surgery, he decided that some of the cysts would go away on their own, but some needed to be removed. So he did that, as well.

All said and done, I am feeling much better. The stabbing pain is gone already. My stomach is swollen, bruised, and sore, but nothing I can't handle. It all seems only skin deep now. My biggest problem is trying to think and see straight with all of the medication I am on!

Back to bed for me....

Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum

I finally got into the doctor to find out why I have been in pain for four months (and yes, I have an answer, but that is not what this story is about). After a string of incredibly horrible OB/GYNs, I finally found one that came highly recommended by my wonderful GP. The GP that I think the world of. So I figured this one had to be a good one. I was anxious about the appointment. Kenny sensed this, so when our errands ran longer than expected, he decided just to come with me. We sat in the waiting room for about thirty minutes. Thirty full minutes. The longest thirty minutes of my life. And also the best birth control ever.

The waiting room was small. Along one wall, directly across from Kenny and I, sat a husband, wife, and grandma. Wifey's blood pressure was quite high, and she was being induced early the next morning. Hubby had work to wrap up before baby appeared a month early, so Grandma was there to help out. Nice, sweet couple. I wished them 'Good Luck.' Along the other wall sat Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Fuckin' Dumbass Pregnant Girl.

They were ten. Or thereabouts. And giggly. And on their second child, although, as TFDPGirl announced, a little sooner than plan. Huh? Like your first one was planned? Seriously. But who am I to judge. I didn't exactly plan either of my children, but at least I made it past Jr. high first. TFDPGirl seemed happy about her pregnancy and, yes, impeding marriage. Guess after Tweedle Dee knocked her up a second time, Mommy and Pops decided they should get hitched.

"So Tweedle Dee, do we really have to wait till this baby pops out to get married?"

"Well, shit yeah, TFDPGirl. My mom said she would pay for us a cruise for our honeymoon, but I gotta wait until I am off probation first. I can't be leavin' the state till then."

"Oh." Giggle, giggle, tee hee. TFDPGirl ponders this a minute. "Well, if your dumbass didn't get arrested we could be goin' on a honeymoon." She thumps his hat off his head. In return he pokes her in her belly, making her giggle more.

"Tweedle Dee, STOP. I HAVE TO PEE. AND I AM PREGNANT, SO I MIGHT PEE MYSELF."

He tickles her more, causing her to knock the magazine rack over.

"I gonna makes you PISS YOURSELF. OHHHIE YOU GONNA PISS ALL OVERS YOURSELF."

Tweedle Dee soon tires of attempting to make TFDPGirl pee her pants, and pulls out his lighter. He depresses the button without igniting the lighter, pumping lighter fluid fumes out into a room full of pregnant women. TFDPGirl fusses at him. He tells her to 'shut the fuck up' as she is not the 'boss of him.' Beautiful. Really. I wish Kenny would talk to me that way. He plays with his lighter for a few more seconds, before the woman on his right grabs it from his hand and sets in on the table. She gives him a glare that says, "Touch that lighter and die." Being that he is ten, these looks apparently still work. He slouches down in his chair, and for a few brief seconds he shuts up. And then falls asleep. The waiting room silently cheers. Whoohooo! We don't have to listen to him anymore. I pray that I will be called before he wakes up.

But then, TFDPGirl doesn't know how to entertain herself for more than three minutes, so she nudges him awake. He snarls, repositions, and attempts to keep sleeping. TFDPGirl whacks him over the head.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU BITCH?!"

"Wake your ass up. I have to sit here pregnant, and you just have to sit here. Maybe if you weren't out till three in the morning drinking then you wouldn't be so damn tired."

"Maybe if you weren't such a bitch, I wouldn't stay out late."

"Well, maybe....ohhhh...the baby's kicking. Wanna feel." She grabs Tweedle Dee's hand and places it on her belly. A dumb grins fills his face.

"Ahhh Baby, that is the coolest shit. I love you," Tweedle Dee says. Then TFDPGirl licks him across the face, and dissolves into giggles.

Merry Christmas to ME!

We were supposed to just exchange stocking stuffers, as is our plan for the years that the girls are gone. I kind of went overboard, but really there were only so many cigars and lotto tickets I could buy. So I got some real presents for Kenny. Some things he really wanted. But then I got to my presents. And wow! He did great.

First he bought me the perfume I wanted. I have the lotion, but my brokeass can't afford the perfume. AND HE BOUGHT IT!!! Whoohooo!

Then I needed a new bra last month, so I drug him into Victoria's Secret. I eyed a few shirts in the Pink collection. But I was being a good girl and only buying presents for kids and family, not myself. But somehow Kenny, who never listens to a word I say, managed to remember exactly what I was looking at(and get it in my size!).

I am always moaning and complaining that I get slimy fingers on my cookbooks while I am cooking. I am anal. I hate dirty books. Of any kind. I blame my mother for this problem. She started it! So anyway, it has been a real problem. Kenny found a cookbook stand that holds the pages open, stores stray recipes, has all of the measurement conversions listed on it, and happens to gorgeously match my kitchen decor.

And my favorite gift. The best one. The part that definitely did not fit into my stocking was the shelves I have wanted for soooooo long. I have books everywhere. Piles of them. And no book shelves. Until now. Now I have two! And I love them. They are the matching set to our dining table, which also matches our entertainment center. And they look amazing in our house!

Not bad for someone who was expecting a box of her favorite chocolates and the expensive coffee beans I only buy for special occasions (which, by the way, he also bought!).

Just Looking.

We are opening presents tonight as Jill leaves tomorrow for her Dad's house. Whenever I mention this, I am met with the question, "How do you handle the girls being gone over Christmas?" How do I handle it? How? Well, let's see....I sleep past six am. Sometimes I take a nap in the middle of the day. I go to dinner, in big people restaurants. You know the kind without playlands. I read books. I watch shows that don't include Hannah Montanna or the cast of High School Musical. But I digress. Last night, Kenny and I wrapped the girls' presents. They had no idea, so it was quite a surprise this morning. When I turned the light on in the living room it elicited two loud, "WOW"s.

Jill, of course, demanded to know the specifics. When can I open them? Exactly how many presents do I have? Does Emmi have more? How come I have small boxes and Emmi has a big box? Did you spend more on me, as I am the oldest child and demand that everything I have be more, bigger, better?

Emmi was more concerned with getting her paws on some of those presents. She latched on to one of Jill's. A small box, containing a charm for Jill's charm bracelet. I drag her away from the tree and find her two minutes later holding the small box, both hands wrapped tightly around it. I pry it from her fingers, put it back under the tree, and like magic it appears in her clutches again! After about nine rounds of this, I noticed the corner was pulled up on the wrapping paper.

"No Emmi. That is Jill's. We are not opening presents now. Wait." I sign "wait" for emphasis. She echoes me, also signing waiting, then scoots away from the tree. Considering, she just started talking and we are a bit unsure of her level of understanding (and she is defiant, and doesn't listen to a damn thing anyway), I am not sure she really gets what I am saying. I know she knows "wait." So I say it again. She gives me the look. The one that says, "I heard you, but as soon as you turn your back....."

Twenty seconds later, I find her on her belly, face propped in her hands, two inches from the tree, staring at the box.

"Emmi. Mommy said to stop touching those presents."

She turns and looks at me. "I just lookin'," she yells!

Wrapped around her little finger.

Jill has been begging me to call her friend for over an hour. I keep saying no. She keeps begging and begging and begging...and well, you get the picture.

I sat her down. I looked her in the eye. "Jill when has begging ever worked?"

She grins. "At Grammie's."

Ohnoshedidnt.

It is no secret that Jill's teacher and I don't see eye to eye. It all started way back when on Meet The Teacher Day. Spotting a potential problem, I pointed out that perhaps Jill should not sit next to her friend that lives on our street as Jill is quite the talker. Her teacher responded with, "I think I can handle my own classroom." Excuse me?! Oh no. Uh uh. Girl didn't go there. I inhaled sharply, ready to spew. Then I caught Kenny's eye, and he was giving me the "shut your trap" look. I clamped my mouth closed, trying hard to resist covering my mouth with my hand to keep the word vomit from exiting. I counted to ten, and walked away. Then, get this, a week later she sends a note home with Jill asking me to discuss Jill's behavior. Honey, you had your chance for my help, I think I will just let your "handle" your classroom all by yourself. Obviously, we are not the best of friends.

So when the homeroom mom approached me to help out with the Christmas party, I was a little hesitant. On top of that, Jill is not even going to be there that day, as she is flying to her dad's. But, I felt bad for the mom that was in charge, since she had no help. I agreed to do the centerpieces for the tables. Besides, I could use them for our house afterwards. And, well, let's face, I tend to get over involved in arts and crafts projects. A week later, the homeroom mom calls to tell me she has quit. Without getting into details the teacher pissed her off, and she quit. No more homeroom mom. Later that day, my neighbor asked me if I could take over. I already had the centerpieces. Really, how hard would it be to get some cookies? So I agreed to help, otherwise my neighbor (whose child is in another class!) would be doing it. Sigh. I mean really, it is for the kids, not the teacher. But ohhhhh that teacher.

I brought Jill lunch today. Her teacher stopped by the table to talk to me. I brought up the Christmas party. And what does she tell me?

"I already have help. I have three moms working on it. I have one mom coordinating. She found someone to do centerpieces, and another mom to put together a game. We won't need your help." She smirks, as if this hurts my feelings.

Yeah. Okay. No. Cause the coordinator quit, and ummm I am making the centerpieces. Or at least I was.

"Are you aware that the homeroom mom quit. She refuses to help?"

Jaw drops. Then she recovers.

"Well, we don't need your help. Besides, Jill won't even be there."

Yep, lady. You're right. Jill won't be there....and neither will my really cute centerpieces!

Not so funny....

Generally, I try to be funny. Not today. Actually today is a bit of bragging.

A little background history first. My youngest daughter has quite a few health problems. For awhile it was quite scary. Weeks in the hospital. Uncontrolled glucose levels that fell into the twenties for long periods of time. A diagnosis with a life expectancy of one year. But she grew stronger. She turned three, and now almost four. Although, there have been bumps in the road. She has a problem with her left kidney, that will more than likely cause half of the kidney to be removed. Her soft palate is too short and will be surgically corrected when she is bigger. She is extremely underweight, and clinically anorexic. Meaning her body signals for her to not eat for long periods. She goes days without solid food. She has a foot drag which doctors agree is a result of brain damage during one of the periods of low glucose. Her wobbly walk we all refer to as "The Drunk Baby Walk" is a result of missing reflexes, also potentially from brain damage. On top of that, she is profoundly deaf. Sometime around a year old, she lost her hearing. Over the course of the last year and a half Emmi received one, then a second cochlear implant (uses a digital signal to produce sound).

It was a long battle to get the second implant approved. Also, we are currently suing our prior insurance company for $190,000 in unpaid medical bills, that include the first implant. The insurance companies are a nightmare. Recently, a big shot CEO of one of the insurance companies publicly stated that cochlear implants do not improve the quality of life, and therefor are unnecessary. There has been extreme backlash to this.

How dare he say that my child would be better off never hearing. Sure, we would love and accept her if that were the case. I, unlike, many others still consider her deaf. Regardless of the implant. Turn it off, and she hears nothing. Deaf. Emmi sometimes enjoys this. The quietness. Her own world. She loves to sign and watch people sign. Since she was a tiny baby, she had the most amazing control of her hands. They fluttered and moved rhythmically, unlike anyone I have ever seen. It makes sense now. She was born to learn to sign. However, she also loves music. She is a good dancer. She likes to sing. She screams, "I LOVE YOU," while I am driving, until I yell back, "HUSH, I AM DRIVING." Then she laughs hysterically. She curls up in her sister's lap and listens to her read a story. It is perhaps the closest moment they share. The time they read together. She loves to watch Landscaper's Challenge on HGTV with Kenny on Saturday mornings. She likes the sound of her own voice. Especially when it is LOUD! She can play outside now, because I can yell for her to stop when a car is coming. She can play with the neighborhood children, who know no sign. She can hear a plane overhead, and glance up. She can hear the neighbor's dog bark, and run over to pet it through the fence. Most important, she can completely be a part of our world. She is left out of nothing. She knows the sound of her mother's voice. It most definitely changed the quality of her life. She would not have been less of a person without the implant, but now she is more.

I expressed my disgust about the comment to a few people on the implant team. They asked me to put together some video clips of Emmi, and my observations of her behavior over the past year. They now would like me to speak at the conference, and present the material I will be putting together. Me! Speaking out. I am thrilled. And terrified. But mostly proud of myself. Proud that I am the type of person that is asked to speak to a group of CEOs and doctors. Proud that I am recognized as a mother who fights for her child, and for her child's dignity.

I don't think homeboy knew who he was messin' with when he ran his mouth. Look out....here I come!

Santa can't talk about ho's and....

apparently needs to loose weight.

Yesterday, CNBC (or one of those news channels that Kenny watches.....really, what was wrong with MTV?!) aired a segment on Santa's image. Apparently, there is a big push for a "healthier" Santa image. As in slimmer. As in forget the damn cookies, leave Santa some carrots too. Seriously? First he can't say, "Ho, ho, ho," now he needs to loose weight?

Look people, I hate to tell you this, but it ain't Santa's fault that so many children are obese. Santa didn't pack their school lunch. Santa didn't choose their after school activities. Santa didn't make sure there were healthy snacks at home. So don't blame Santa.

And quite frankly, I don't think any kid walks around saying, "Man that Santa is one hot guy. I want to grow up, have a huge freakin' belly, and wear fur. Cause then I would be hot too."

Beat That!

Jill is having a Christmas party tomorrow. Eight six-year-olds decorating gingerbread houses. Doped up on sugar. Running through my house with sticky fingers.

I sent out the invites last week. I asked parents to RSVP, as I need to know how many houses to have ready. I had responses from all but one parent. Then she calls. Stepping out of the shower with an hour to blow my hair dry, get dressed, and make it to Emmi's appointment, my phone rings.

Momma thanks us for the invite, asks for directions to our neighborhood, gets the gate code. All in slurred speech. Oh hell. Momma is a drunk. Why? Why does Jill keep picking friends with loony parents? Oh but then Momma explains.

"I know I sound drugged or drunk. I don't want you to think I am."

Oh nooooo.....I wasn't thinking that....yes, I was. I really was.

"It's just that I have severe anemia. To the point that I can barely walk. There is an underlying problem. I was tested for......"

Drunk Momma perks up to share her thirty minute long story of doctors, testing, needles. Seriously? I liked you better when you were too sleepy to talk to me. I. NEED. TO. GET. DRESSED. She keeps going. I keep trying to interrupt. I pull my hair into a pony tail, wet hair hanging down my back.

"...and then the doctor said he could test me for......"

I uh-huh her, half paying attention, slap on what little makeup I can manage while balancing my phone on my shoulder.

"...and I didn't have that, so the did a colonoscopy....."

Grab Emmi. Buckle her in the car. It has now been forty five minutes. SHUT UP. I try to interrupt again. Momma is not having it. Not until I hear every nanosecond of her medical history. Then I get my in.

"..and I see so many doctors. It is hard to coordinate that. I feel like I spend my life in doctor's offices." She takes a breath, and I pounce.

"I completely understand," I say. "I spend many hours at doctor's offices each week. Countless hours."

"Really?" Momma sounds curious. And threatened. Uh-oh. What if I top her medical history story? What if mine is worse?

Then I do it. I throw it out there.

"Yeah, see Jill's sister, Emmi, she is a very sick child. She has a metabolic disorder. Duplicated collection system in her left kidney. Malformation of her soft palate. And. She. Is. DEAF!" There I did it. I win! I win!

And Momma shuts up. Unable to top that with her anemia.

Uh oh...

...Tricia taught herself html. Now I can randomly change my page as the mood strikes me!

Look for more updates soon!

It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.

Jill threw a fit. A big one. Really big. First I took away outside playtime. Then TV. Then a friend tomorrow after school. Then she picked up the chair in her room, poised to throw it at me.

"Ohhh don't you dare. You throw that chair at me, and I swear to you I will cancel your Christmas party on Sunday. Jiiiilllll. Don't you do it......"

She did it. Threw the chair. At me. And screamed.

Great. Now I told her she can't have the party. The one that eight six-year-old girls RSVPed to. The one that I already bought gingerbread and candy for. The one that I spent three hours making invitations for ten girls for. Why oh why did I open my mouth?

Think, Tricia. Think. How are you going to get yourself out of this? Lightbulb! Ding, ding, ding! Bells! Whistles! Streamers from the ceiling!

"Look, Jill. I can't cancel your party, because that would punish the girls we invited. That would not be fair. So instead, you can't go to Ethan's party on Saturday."

Tears. Big fat tears. "Noooooo Mommy. Nooooo. I am sorry."

"Consequences, Jill. Consequences."

Heehee. Maybe someone should tell her she wasn't going to that party anyway. I called his mom two days ago to let her know Jill would be at my parent's house, and couldn't make it. Hahahaha.

Ouch.

I like to outdo people. A lot. You do something. I will do it better. I like it that way. I am competitive.

My friend got a cyst on her ovary. I got SEVEN. The. Pain. Is. Unreal.

Pain pills do nothing. Except make me drool. And ask Kenny if I forgot to get dressed while sitting on the couch fully clothed.

Next time, I am not going to be so damn competitive.

Dear Santa...

Jill has been working on a letter to Santa. She cut pictures from catalogs, pasted them onto a piece of paper, and then wrote why she 'needed' each item. Inspired, I decided to write a letter to Santa, also. I left out the pictures, because I figured some would verge on pornography.

So here goes....

Dear Santa,

I've been an awful good girl. Okay, not really, but I always liked that line in the song. Anyway, the reason I am writing is that I have a few itty, bitty, teeny, tiny requests for Christmas. You see, I have spent countless days cleaning up after children, cooking for our family, grocery shopping, helping with homework, driving to gymnastics classes and doctor's appointments, cleaning up throw up, bandaging scrapes, dressing kids for school, packing lunches....the list goes on. I know I scream and yell sometimes. I know that I complain. I promise next year I will do better. But I think all of the work I did is worth something. And really, they aren't huge requests.

First, I would like boobies. Ones that end above my belly button. Perky would be nice. Not large. Just where God orginally intended them to be. I feel like I deserve boobies. I eat right. I excercise. I even lost ten pounds recently. Unfortunately, eight of those came from my boobs, making them hang lower than they did before. So Santa, could you please reinflate my boobies?

Next, I would like a white noise machine. One that drowns out the sound of screaming children and yet another Miley Cyrus song. As I am sure it would have to be a powerful machine, it could be quite large in size. Should you not be able to accommdate this in your sleigh, I will take earplugs. Either way.

Also, could I borrow one of your elves? I know that generally they are in the toy building business, but they seem like such good, obedient workers. Can they be trained to clean a house? One should be enough. Although, perhaps he might need a ladder, as well. Our cabinets are quite tall. I can't even reach beyond the second shelf. Which reminds me, I also need a stepstool. Kenny keeps putting things out of my reach. I think he does it for his own entertainment. But back to the elf. I just want a little help with the housework, which is why a little elf should be fine.

Another much needed item, is a speaker and a tape recording of several key phrases. If you could just pipe the phrases, "Absolutely not," "Because I said so," "You are not wearing that to school," and "We are no longer discussing it" over a PA through out the house, I think I might not have to talk all day. It would give my voice a much needed break, and solve many problems in our home.

Last, could you just get me one of those EASY buttons I keep seeing on TV?

Thanks, Santa. You are the best.

Sincerely,
Tricia

You, yeah, you.

So I have this friend. Let's call her "Laroo." Laroo and I have been friends for years. We have shared experiences that have bonded us beyond casual friends. We were pregnant together, complaining about morning sickness and gaining weight. We spent countless hours lamenting over our evil boss and even more evil supervisor. We fought. We exchanged hurtful words, but we always ended up right back where we were. Good friends. From early into our friendship, I could tell she was someone who would always be in my life.

Then we had a silly fight. Really it was stupid. But it made us both act in a way that we never should have. I was hurt and pissed. She was mad, possible embarrassed, but mostly I think she needed to break the tie between us to make a very hard decision. I think had our friendship been in tact, she would not have been happy with the choice her husband and her made to move out of state. She would have been resentful of him. I think it was easier to be mad at me, even over something stupid, than to have to say goodbye and be mad at her husband. I think perhaps that is why that fight got blown so out of proportion. At the time, I didn't get that. At the time, it made me say I would never forgive her.

Eventually, we had to talk again. We both long ago quit working for the evil man, let's call him "Ike," and were doing contract work for my aunt. I needed to confirm her work availibility. It took two emails before we were on the phone, apologizing for our mistakes and catching up on almost a year of missed friendship. However, I was still guarded with her. More and more over time, I found myself calling her to talk. Then I hit a rough day. I was crying, I needed a friend. Out of instict, I called her. Before she even answered, I realized that I had to make sure this friendship lasted. No matter what had happened.

The other thing I realized is that she has changed, a lot. I am not the same person I was a few years ago. It hit me around 25 that I truely needed to grow up. I think Laroo hit that point over this past year. Actaully, over the past few months. Not that she was immature or naive before, but suddenly she had a different outlook on life. She realized what really mattered, what really made a friend, how much her family meant to her. She learned to confront people (sort of!) and how to apologize. Deep down, she still has all of the things that make us good friends, but she also has more.

Recently, her family made the decision to move back home. And I am excited. I can't wait to have her back home. I know we had a big fight, said stupid things, and learned to distrust each other, but we are beyond that now. I am glad to have your friendship. Now, come the hell home!

What's that in your bag?

Last week, I took Jill and her friend to see Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium. I bought two small drinks, two itty bitty popcorns, and two boxes of candy. I spent $937.26. Or damn near that. I wised up before going to see Enchanted this weekend.

"Jill, we are going to stop at CVS and get candy there. You can still get a drink at the movie."

I explained carefully that technically we shouldn't bring outside candy to the theater. I tried to explain the difference between breaking this rule and other rules. Without flat out telling her to conceal the fact that we had the candy (I am not trying to teach her to lie!), I gave her some rules about when she could have the candy.

"Now, if you want the candy, you won't bug me for it before we sit down. You will wait until the movie starts, and I will get it out for you." Perfect. Dark theater, loud movie. No one would notice me sneaking the candy out of my purse. Let's face it, I am slightly scared of breaking rules, so I would be very embarrassed if anyone noticed!

Tickets and drinks in hand, we wait in the long line to enter the theater. We manage to get good seats. Jill happily sits down, gets comfy, and laughs at the previews. So far so good. We made it through the ticket line, past the concession stand, and around no less than seven ushers. No mention of the candy to anyone so far.

The previews come to an end. The beginning credits start. A man and his two children walk in looking for seats. An usher leads them over to seats a few rows behind us, asking a family of four to move over a few seats to make room. Everyone settles into their seats. The usher turns to walk back down. He is on the step behind us when the lights dim. Jill, who moments before was in a stupor staring at the screen, springs up. The movie has started, and that means one thing....

"MOMMY CAN I HAVE THAT CANDY NOW THAT YOU BOUGHT AT CVS AND HID IN YOUR PURSE?!"

Giggles. Loud giggles from everyone around us. The usher stops, glaring at me. I shrink into my seat. Damn.

Sugarplums, candy canes, and gingerbread men.

Candy Themed Tree!

I used to have a small tree in my apartment. Considering it is only four feet tall, it would look slightly silly in our living room. It was banished to the gameroom last year. It worked well. The girls were happy to have their own tree. A few weeks ago I just had to paint the gameroom. With a cupcake theme. Pink, green, brown, and white. Suddenly, the blue and silve ornaments would no longer do! Jill is obssessed with all that is pink, and I am obssessed with all that matches. It was time for a little tree redocoration. The perfect solution was a pink candy theme for the tree. Pink lights. Gumdrop garlands. Gingerbread men. Delicious.


Jill's Favorite Ornament

Hap-Hap-Hapiest Time of Year!

I absolutely love the holidays. While everyone is spending this weekend decorating for Christmas, I am sitting back and enjoying the decorations that have been up for over a week now. I just couldn't wait until this weekend. I was ready for eggnog and Christmas music. A little Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan singing 'Baby It's Cold Outside,' the smell of pine needles and cinnamon, twinkling lights. Love it all.

I tried to capture the feel of our home right in pictures, but they just don't do it justice. The space is warm with goldens and browns. It smells like gingerbread and pine. The music is palying throughout our home. The pictures are just dark...not to mentiont he dust that is showing, as Kenny pointed out! But here is my best attempt to show you my decorations. Really, you should just come over. I have eggnog and cookies.

Snowflakes and Reindeer

Ribbons and Garland

Chocolate Colored Ornaments

A Favorite

Another Favorite

My Much Loved Tree

Twinkling Lights

He makes me so proud.

It was finally time for the granite that has been occupying a third of our garage to go. Price didn't matter, as long as someone showed up and hauled it off. Kenny took pictures, placed an ad on craigslist, and we sat back and waiting for the emails to pour in. And oh did they pour in. One woman, let's just call her "Crazy," emailed Kenny first. And emailed. And emailed. And came up with excuse after excuse as to why she missed many meeting times and kept Kenny waiting here for her. Two days later, the granite was still in the garage. Fed up with Crazy, Kenny emails one of the many other people interested in the granite to let him know it was still available. Within an hour, a guy shows up, loads the granite, pays Kenny and finally takes the granite out of our garage. Victory! But oh, then Crazy starts calling. And emailing. Where oh where is her granite?! Kenny simply explained that he had waited for her several times, and she had failed to show up on several occasions. Since he needed the granite out of the garage quickly, he found the next willing person to take it. He told her he was sorry (although, quite frankly, we weren't!), and thought that was the end of it.

Then he gets this email.

Mr Kenny *****,

You should have told us that when you accepted our offer, and at least given us the opportunity before you allowed someone else to take it. I'm going to guess the real truth is you managed to get more money, after you accepted our honest offer.

This is very Bad karma, and extremely poor business practice.

Shame

My oh-so-polite-never-offend-anyone-because-you-never-know-when-you-will-cross-paths-again Kenny responds back with.....

FYI: I got less than you offered, it wasn't a money issue. If I wanted to auction it off, I would have put it on ebay.
I needed it moved ASAP to get some equipment in my garage, and you did not get here fast enough.
As far as my business practices go, I think taking less than someone else offered would be a pretty poor business practice. So you are right, mine suck. Eitherway, granite is not my business so I am not to concerned with that really.
Karma!!! Maybe I will check in my local fortune teller to see what my future has in store for me. Karma!

Shame on me.

Sorry if you got your feelings hurt, I think I am going to auction off a box of kleenex on ebay later to wipe the tears. Hurry, if you snooze you lose.

I have never loved him more! He makes me so proud.

Ho Ho Ho!

I found this article this morning.

Santas warned 'ho ho ho' offensive to women
Wed Nov 14, 11:04 PM ET
Santas in Australia's largest city have been told not to use Father Christmas's traditional "ho ho ho" greeting because it may be offensive to women, it was reported Thursday.
Sydney's Santa Clauses have instead been instructed to say "ha ha ha" instead, the Daily Telegraph reported.

Seriously? You have to be kidding me. Anyone who would find Santa saying 'Ho, ho, ho' offensive has some serious issues. Why the hell would you assume that a fat man in a red suit yelling 'ho' is referring to you, unless you are actually a ho. Although, if you are a whore, it is reasonable to assume that Santa does know about your bad behavior. Afterall, he sees you when you are sleeping.....or whatever it is you are doing in your bed. In which case, he probably was referring to you when he yelled 'ho.' Not his fault you made it on the naughty list.

Weeeeeeeee!

There are two groups at the bus stop. The twenty plus school age children, and the six preschoolers. Three girls, three boys. Two of the boys are three. And hysterical. Typically they wear matching superman pajamas and fly around screaming. One of the boys is the child of the woman who is famous for getting drunk and harassing Kenny and I right after we moved to the neighborhood. I like her. She makes me laugh. The other boy is the brother of Jill's good friend, Faith.

This morning, was crazy. As the bus pulls up, one mother realizes that they forgot lunches at home. They live on the end of the street. Another mother is parked at the bus stop, and offers to drive her to her house and back to get the lunches. This sends her first grader into hysterics, because she can not hug her mother goodbye. The younger children are running crazy. No one is really paying attention to them. Surprisingly, Jill is already on the bus, sitting down. She is looking out the window at Emmi and waving. Suddenly, she jumps up and runs to the front of the bus.

"MOOOOMMMMYYY! MOOOOMMMMMY! LOOK!"

Oh no. What has Emmi done now?

"LOOK AT RYAN AND HUNTER!"

Laughter. A whole bus full of laughter. The parents turn in unison. Two butts. Pants around ankles. Two little boys PEEING on the neighbor's house.

Emmi stands off to the side yelling, "MO. MO WAY. MIME OUT. THAT'S BAD."

I am so glad I have girls.

She is so not my child.

Translation:

Jill Nov 5, 2007

If I am the President, I

would clean the earth and I

not eat candy because it

is not good for you. My

mom still eat candy. I do

not know why the president is

good. I like the president.

Now what I want to know is who the hell told her the president is good and why the hell does she like him? Does she listen to anything I say. I told her to tell her teacher that we don't listen to his bullshit. Okay, so maybe I didn't exactly say that, but I really wanted to.

The Limited, Express, Botox Shop, Build-A-Bear.

There is a store in the mall that sells botox injections.

Enough said.

Fifteen freakin' items or less.

Dear Lady With Forty Eight Groceries Who Cut in Front of Me in the Fifteen Items or Less Line,

I know it is not your fault that I drove an hour and half to the doctor, valet parked my car (otherwise you hoof it from five blocks away and save two dollars), spent three whole minutes with the doctor, paid $11 damn dollars to get my car back, then drove another 45 minutes to get home and was pretty pissed off before I walked in the store. It is also not yur fault that it took my daughter 3.5 seconds to load 27 lipsticks, 6 eyeliners, and 5 toothbrushes into my cart, and then proceeded to throw herself on the floor when I put it all back. By the time I walked toward the line, I was exhausted and much more pissed off. However, ramming your basket into my three-year-old while racing to beat me to the line was completely uncalled for. True, it probably did not warrant my exclaimation of "Watch it, Bitch," but I was grumpy, and you knocked my kid, like, three feet. Also, when I told you that your actions set "my poor, disabled child back at least a few months," I might have been exaggerating. I also flat out lied when I told you that you caused her implant to malfunction, as it was now blinking. Actually, the batteries were just low. I am very sorry.

I do, however, appreciate your desire to follow grocery store rules, although, etiquette rules seem to have escaped you. It was very kind of you to have the checker ring you up in THREE seperate purchases, so that you did not violate the 15 items or less rule. I also thank you for being the one person on Earth who has hung on to their checkbook and blown off the way too convenient debit card. I too agree that us Americans expect too much instant gratification. And what better way to hold your ground against instant gratification than by taking nine hours to write a check, in which you detail in the memo what exactly you are buying. Also, what a good thing you were recorded your exact purchase in the memo of your third check, because how else would you have know that your forgot breadcrumbs? Although, this did pose quite a dilema. Do you break the fifteen item or less rule or have this one rang up seperately. I appreciate your effort to include the checker in this debate. I am very sorry that she did not give a fuck, and the expression on her face told you so. I know it hurt your feelings to the point of needing to inform the manager. I am so very sorry that your insistance on contacting the manager delayed your ability to locate the breadcrumbs. While I was gracious enough to offer to go get your "fucking breadcrumbs" for you, I do understand that my tone was not quite neccessary. I also appreciate your desire to discuss my behavior with my mother. Although, I am quite sure, she does not give a crap how I behave, as I am no longer her repsonsibility. It so refreshing to see someone take such an interest in my behavior, though. Thank you ever so much.

While we are taking such an interest in other people's behavior, I would like to offer some suggestions to you. The whole "using checks to battle instant gratification thing" earns you points for creativity, but it is, perhaps, not the most logical method. I would suggest cutting out the nineteen tv dinners you are purchasing. Nothing scream instant gratifcation more than a complete meal ready in three minutes. Also, when the checker looks completely mortified and irritated at your three check out process, it might be because she knows that she will now have to deal with the next fourteen people in line who are pissed because they stood in line behind you. Please have patience with her and be thankful that she has not beaten you, yet. Also, while completely impressive, your mad dash sprint across the store to race me to the checkout line, does not constitute excercise. If you would like, I can offer some suggestions for excercise that do not include mauling three year olds in line 1. As for your suggestion to speak to my mother about my behavior, I suggest you give me your mother's phone number. Before I call, does your mother get offended by the word "fuck?"

Again, it was wonderful meeting you. No really, when I screamed that as you walked off, I was not being sarcastic. No way. Completeley serious. I truely enjoy spending thirty minutes in the checkout line for four items.

Sincerely,
The Incredibly Pissed Off Woman In Line Behind You

The Doodlebops....Oh Yeaaah.

Last night, my toothache turned into a sinus infection. Eh. Who knew? I am not doctor. How should I know that it wasn't really my tooth that was hurting? Shortly after I figured out that it wasn't my tooth, my fever went sky high causing me to enter a state of delirium. Adding to this I took Sudafed (The good shit that you have to get from the pharmacist and sign the paper that says you won't go home and start up a meth lab with your four precious sudafed pills.). I become more delirious. The congestion clears, however.

Then the cough starts. I tried to hold off taking anything more, as I was already holding my hands in front of my face in wonder. Woooowww....I have ten fingers. Wheeeeeee. Look at them wiggle. I cough some more. I cave and take my cough medicine. Also very good shit. Prescribed by my favorite doctor of all time. The lovely, sweet doctor that was nice enough to give me codene-laced cough syrup. Within twenty minutes, I am in a complete stupor. For the record, I was the only one in the room who heard the dog talk.

I was sure the medicine would wear off by the morning. I was wrong. I ship both kids off to school, and park it on the couch. Thirty minutes later, I am still sitting on the couch, watching tv giggling at the show. The medicine begins to wear off with food and coffee. My head starts to clear. I no longer find my fingers fascinating. I blink, shake my head, and settle in on the couch to finish watching my show. Confused, I squint at the TV. No. Surely I have not been watching this the whole time? Maybe I accidently pushed the return button on the remote? I look around for the remote. It is on top of the entertainment center. Hmmm. I think back. What exactly was I watching? Then I realize I am singing to myself.

"We're the Doodlebops, the Doodlebops, Oh yeaaah."

Damn codene. I just spent thrity full minutes bopping along to the Doodlebops. Ohhhh yeeeaah.

Tricks and Treats. But Mostly Tricks.

I think she did it on purpose. Ashley is sneaky like that. She is probably sitting at home laughing her ass off. Why you ask? Because she tricked me.

"Are you going to the Halloween Carnival this weekend," Ashley asked during the girl's gymnastics class on Wednesday.

"No. Are you?"

"Well, yeah. You should come, because we are. And bring Kenny, because I am making James come."

"Alright. I'll work on that."

Sunday afternoon, I shove two kids decked out in full Halloween regalia into the car. One angel, lip stuck out, pouting that her halo is not 'haloish enough.' One devil laughing hysterically at passing cars. Posted outside of the gym is Scooby Doo formerly known as Jill's gymnastics instructor.

"Are you on the list," Scooby asks.

"What list? I didn't know there was any list. I thought we just showed up with kids and costumes, and you let us in the door."

"Well, if you have already paid, you are on the list. Otherwise, I need you to pay." Scooby's head boobles as she talks.

Pay? What the fuck. Four flyers came home this month, and not one of them mentioned pay. I pull out a ten dollar bill, assuming it would cover the cost.

"Oh, I am sorry. It is ten per child."

What the hell are you handing out in there? Crack laced candy bars? Tweny dollars?! Scooby, you are crazy. I contemplate dragging both children back into the car, but I fear the consequences. I part with my twenty dollars, open the doors of the gym, and step into hell.

Screaming children coked out on Halloween candy, cookies, and juice streak across the room. Parents run after, video camera in hand. Infants crawl across the mats while older children use them as props in leap frog. A golfer, a princess, a sunflower, and Batman similtaneously swing from the bars. Cinderella and Tinkerbell loudly argue over who was in line first for ring toss. An angel and devil take off running in different directions. In seconds, I have lost them both.

I scan the room for Ashley or James or any of her three children. Nope. None. I check the time. It is still early. Ten minutes pass. I watch the door. Nope. Twenty minutes pass. I find Emmi and Jill scarfing down cookies and juice. No Niamh, no Rosy, no Kitty. No Ashley. No James. Fifteen more minutes pass. Still no Ashley.

Kenny and I begin pleading with the kids to leave. We offer pumpkin carving, bike riding, money. Hell, at this point I would give Jill my car, if she would just leave. My ears are aching from all the screaming. I have sticky, candy slime on my leg. I want to go home.

Finally, Jill relents. Or they ran out of candy to pass out. Whatever. I claim victory. We are in sight of the door. Both kids, hand in hand, bellies full of candy and cookies, happily head out. Then....

"WHO WANTS FACE PAINTING?!" Children swarm a large penguin carrying brushes and face paint.

Jill turns. Emmi turns. "Oh no you don't. We are going home to carve pumpkins RIGHT NOW. I CAN"T TAKE IT ANYMORE." I break. Tears stream down my face. I begin to shake.

Ashley sits at home laughing. Trick or fucking treat.

Come Up for Air.

Jillian possesses the uncanny ability to talk for three hours straight WITHOUT TAKING ONE BREATH. The word assault I must endure daily would drive anyone crazy. In compensation, I have the uncanny ability to look like I am listening, respond to you, and never actually hear a word you say. My talent, however, is not as great as Jill's. Sometimes, she outdoes me. I have to run. Run far, far away. Or go to the corner, cover my ears, and cry.

Word for word, here is this morning's word vomit.
"Mommy, mommy. Watch what I am doing. Look, look see. I have my foot on here, and I am like 'whoa, whoa, WHOAAAA.' Then I take my foot down, and I play PE by running around the kitchen. Watch Mommy. Watch me run around the kitchen. Now I am doing sit-ups. One. Two. Three. Okay I am bored of sit-ups. I am going to have a party now. I am making cupcakes. Want one? Try one. They are good. They are bluebunnybubbleberry. Mmmmmm. Smell. I am going to put all the dolls in my room at the table. They are going to eat my.... Mommy what kind of cupcakes did I make? I can't remember what I said. Oh well. I can read that book right there. Want to hear? I know all of the words in there. My cousin, Vincent, is allergic to dust and pollen. Can I have a duster to clean all the dust out of my room, so Vincent can come over? Where is my Halloween costume? I want to look at it. The three main characters in High School Musical are Sharpay, Troy, and Gabriella. Want me to sing a song from the movie? Can I have a jelly bar? I am hungry. I don't think Sharpay knows how to swim. I know how to swim. I can hold my breath under water for a REALLY long time. Longer than anyone I know. Can we heat up the pool? I want to swim today. I have eight bathing suits. That is a lot. Good thing you like to shop Mommy. Do you know how horses drink water? Watch me drink like a horse. Neeeiiiigghhhh. I am a horse. Do horses smell funny? My favorite song from High School Musical is the one that Sharpay sings. Momma look, I can spins with my arms out. What time is it? Can I go outside? I like to ride my bike. It is hard to ride a bike in a skirt. I don't like to wear jeans. They hurt my bottom. I like skirts. They twirl. Watch me twirl. Whhhheeee. I am going to put on a skirt, so I can twirl better. One time Emmi painted the dog blue. It was funny. She fed her treats and made her sit. Then she put blue paint on her. It wasn't all over her. My friend, Allie, is going to be a cheetah for Halloween. I am a horse again. Neeeiiiggghh. Can I have straw, so I don't have to drink like a horse? Mommy. Mommy? Are you listening to me Mommy? Should I talk LOUDER, MOMMY? Mommy? Where are you going, Mommy. No Mommy, don't run away Mommy. MOOOOOMMMMY!!!"

I is never going to CVS again.

Glitter glue. Jill needed glitter glue, "RIGHT NOW. OH MY GOD OR HER PUMPKIN WOULD NOT BE SPARKLY ENOUGH." I should have shoved another cupcake in her mouth and shut her up. Instead I went to CVS. To get glitter glue. Right now. This very minute.

CVS is in walking distance of the roughest set of apartments in the area. Now by rough, I mean suburban-I-wish-I-was-a-gansta-but-I-am-not-cause-I-am-a-white-boy-from-an-upper-middle-class-neighborhood kind of rough. Word. Ghetto G and Thug Boy (aka Cadence and Jackson or some other equally upper middle classish names) are in line behind me, and, Dawg, they is goin' to a fly Halloween party.

"Hey Homegirl. I got to ax you, which mask you think is scarier." Okay, so he didn't really call me homegirl, but shiiiiitttt he might as well have.

"Uhhh. The one you have one."

"Hahaha. You is funny." He has no mask on.

"Yes. I IS funny. I IS real funny. Sure IS." I turn back around. To most people this would signal the end of the conversation.

"Whatcho doin tonight baby?" Ghetto G purrs with a nod of his head.

"Look. Seriously? It is not cool to be ghetto. Pull up your damn pants. Talk like the white boy you are. Get a fucking clue. You in no way impress me. I don't want to be your babymama. I don't want to 'roll' with you."

Thug Boy collapses in hysterics. "Shit foo', she told you, you is stupid."

"ARE. ARE. ARE. ARRRRRREEEEE."

Thug Boy and Ghetto G exchange looks of extreme confusion. They now think I am a pirate.

"I don't get it," Thug Boy says.

"Look, I don't think you is stupid," I say with a smirk. Ghetto G looks relieved momentarily. "I think you ARE stupid." Ghetto G's face falls. Thug Boy doubles over laughing again.

"What the hell are you laughing at? You IS stupid too," I say then grab my glitter glue and stomp out.

Dontcha

Kenny promised the girls donuts if they let us sleep in a little this morning. Teaching Jill time was an excellent idea. At precisely 8am, I hear them running full steam down the stairs. Uggghh donut time. By 8:05 we are in the car. Between large gulps of coffee, I turn on the radio, only to find three stations of morning show repeats and one playing "Dontcha."

Immediately Jill begins to giggle.

"What is so funny back there," I demand, sure that she has tied up her sister or something equally as naughty.

"Hey Mommy. Remember this song?"

Uhhh, yes. The question is why the hell does my six-year-old remember this song?

"Remember the man in the coffee shop."

Oh hell.

Rewind two and a half years. Little blonde with goldilocks curls, big blue eyes, sweet little smile, big blue Cinderella dress with matching Cinderella shoes hanging from my legs in the coffee shop comands the attention of the man in line behind us. He smiles, she laughs. He waves, she waves. He says, "Hello," she sings......

"Dontcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?!"

Man runs out of the coffee shop, horrified, probably on his way to call CPS to report me.

Wut I lurned at the licker stor.

Kenny wanted a cigar. Seeing as how there are probably not a whole lot of high class cigar shops in Bastrop, the small town my parents moved to a few months ago, we found a liqour store. Now I should have known when there are three pickups in the parking lot, none of them from this century or with all matching parts, that this was going to be interesting.

This is what transpires.

Four college students who were on the way home from some event also happened to stop in the same liqour store. Being that they are broke college students, they spend twenty minutes at the counter deciding who can pay for what. Boy #1, pays for the Yager. No ID checked. Girls #1 and #2 split cigarettes and beer. Again, no ID. Boy #2 puts the Red Bull on the counter.

LouAnn, who obviously has been smoking since she was two and only has three teeth is currently dipping. Between spits she demands, "Can I see your ID?"

"Ma'am, Red Bull doesn't have any alcohol in it."

"Son, you is in a licker stor. You got to be 21. ID." She holds out her hand.

"But ma'am. There is NO ALCOHOL in Red Bull."

"ID," she snarls.

Reluctantly, the boy hands over his ID. He is three days shy of 21. LouAnn snatches the Red Bull, and stashes it under the counter. All four college students make a run for it. Apparently, none are 21. Oh well. They already got their Yager and beer. Way to go LouAnn. Way to get that Red Bull from them!

Kenny puts his cigar on the counter. "Do you have any cigar cutters? I didn't bring mine with me." LouAnn wanders off to find a cutter.

In walks Darrell. He yells across the store to the guy behind the counter. "Hey ya Clint."

"Hey Darrell."

"Hey Clint, I hurd you gots married last week. You stuck for good now."

"Yup," says Clint with a slow nod of his head.

"So Clint, you hear my old girl is knocked up again. Yep, baby number two." Darrell holds up three fingers.

"Shooot that's nuthing. You shuld see how big my girl gettin'? Man she gonna pop any day now. Din't know if she was gonna make it down the isle she so big."

"Well hell. Whatch you guys doin' tonight?" Darrell says as he drags his two 18 packs of Natty Light to the counter. "Why dunt y'all stop by and have sum beers when you get off work?"

"Hell man. That sounds like fun. Let me see if ole girl feels like gettin' out."

Excellent the two pregant girls are gonna go get drunk on Natty Light and pop out little Darrell in Clint clones anyday now.

Finally, LouAnns returns without finding a cigar cutter.

"We ain't got no cutters left."

Oh hell. Well, shooot.

Bus Stop Strip Tease

Almost every morning Jill argues about her clothing. I have screamed. I have yelled. I have let her go school in her pajama top. I have changed her socks twelve times in one morning. I have refused to help her get dressed. I have grounded her from friends. I have locked her in a cage and headed out to the bar at 8am.....oh, wait, no. That part was just a glorious fantasy. In any case, every morning without fail, she finds something wrong with her clothes.

We struck a deal last week. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Just fix whatever is the problem. I will not make her change. I will not worry if she goes to school looking like Orphan Annie on crack. I will cringe, pop a happy pill, and smile as if nothing is wrong.

This morning thirty minutes before the bus, Jill is dressed in a green polo, white jean skirt (complete with white shorts underneath to hide her panties), white tennis shoes, hair up in white bow. Perfect. No complaints. I think we might make it one day without an argument. I am delusional. Clearly.

At precisely 7:30, we head to the bus stop.

"These shorts under my skirt are itching me."

"Lalalalalalaaaa. I don't want to hear it." I plug my fingers in my ears.

"Mommy. Really. They are itchy. I want to take them off."

"Jill they are cotton with no tags. They can't possibly be itchy. And I don't care. Don't tell me. You should have solved this problem earlier."

She closes her mouth, and walks to the bus stop. Victory? Did that really just work? Maybe my lesson in solving her own problems is finally sinking in! Maybe she has realized that she should have solved this earlier herself. Maybe for once she is not going to argue with me. I join the mommies with a proud, goofy grin on my face. I am the best mommy around. I should win some award.

Then the snickering starts. First one mommy, then all of the mommies. I turn around, slowly. Jill shimmies out of her shorts, without managing to hike up her skirt. She kicks the shorts off her left leg, catching the shorts mid flight. Spinning in a circle, and twirling the shorts over her head, she expertly flings the shorts at me.

"Solved it," she says with a smirk on her face.

Damn Democrats.

I sent my mother an important email. An hour later I still have not heard back from her. Odd. In fact, I haven't talked to her all day. Even more strange. I call my parents' house.

"Hey Dad, can I talk to Mom?"

"Uhhh she's not here."

"Okay...where's she at?"

"Uhhh Austin, I think."

"Oh Okay, so she went to Laura's house?"

"Nooo...I think she is with your Aunt."

"Oh yeah, what are they doing?"

"Uhhh going to a show, I think."

A show? He thinks? This conversation is going nowhere fast.

"Well, Dad, does she have her cell phone on her?"

"Uhhh I don't know."

He sounds confused. Or like he is lying. I get concerned. He has either buried my mother in the backyard and is buying time or has gone bonkers. I call my sister.

"Hey Laura, you talk to Mom today?"

"Yep, she is with Aunt Susan going to see Al Gore present An Inconvenient Truth. It started at 7 or 7:30, so she should be there for awhile longer. Dad didn't want to go because, well, it's Al Gore."

Ding, ding, ding. Now I get it. He wasn't confused. He didn't bury my mother in the backyard. In fact, he knew EXACTLY where she was. He just couldn't bring himself to say the words, "Al Gore." He is probably at this moment stalking through the house counting out on his fingers the reasons he hates democrats and muttering under his breath.

Forget my "I love Kinky" and "Kinky for Gov" shirts, I am showing up there tomorrow with "Al Gore Rocks."

Boogies.

The waiting room was quiet when we arrived. One sweet little grandpa in the chair by the train table. One mother and teenage daughter by the magazines. Immediately, Emmi monopolizes the attention in the room. She smiles. They smile. She throws trains and laughs. They laugh. I frown. She hides under a chair. Laughing.

Grandpa leans forward. "Aren't you just the cutest little thing," he says while reaching toward her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You could loose a hand."

Grandpa's jaw drops. He stammers. "Ahhh she is just a cute little girl."

"Yeah, Buddy. Looks can be deceiving. Seriously, she growled at me a few minutes ago. Ask my dad. He heard her. GROWLED, I tell you."

Grandpa giggles, obviously not understanding the danger in this situation. "Come here you sweet little Goldilocks. I can get the ladies to give you a lollipop. Let's get them to give you a lollipop."

"No really. She is good under the chair. Don't lure her out." I am loosing patience with Grandpa.

Grandpa stands, walks to the counter, grabs a lollipop, and turns toward Emmi. "Here you go Sweety. You want the candy?"

Slowly Emmi crawls out from under the chair. Grinning. Poor Grandpa. I told him not to. I told him to leave her under the chair. Skippity, skippity, skip. Emmi scampers over to Grandpa. She reaches for the lollipop, then quickly draws back her hand before grabbing it. She wrinkles her nose. Scratches, then goes in for the kill. Glee. It is the largest boogie she has ever scored. She grins at the boogie. She turns a slow circle. She eyes the tissue box. Then she turns back to Grandpa, sweet unsuspecting Grandpa. In one swift moment, she wipes the boogie on Grandpa's arm and grabs the lollipop.

Told ya' Gramps. I told ya'.

Chinese Fire Drill. Minus the Chinese.

My day started off horribly yesterday. It ended pretty badly too. In fact, no single part of it was good. At the time, I cried. This morning it seems pretty funny.

Long story short, Emmi was missing an immunization that was overlooked, so her surgery was postponed. The next available date is two weeks away, and the shot has to be given at least two weeks prior. Meaning she had to have it yesterday to even qualify. Kenny and I ran out the door at 10:30 am, picked Emmi up early from school, and rushed off. The throbbing in my head escalated, and I demanded that Kenny pull over to get me a drink so I could take my happy pills.

Pulling out of the gas station, Kenny says "The brakes feel funny. Did they feel funny the last time you drove it?"

"They always feel funny to me. Switching between this big 'ole car and my little car, I am always.....IS THAT SMOKE?!"

Sitting at the light, smoke begins to pour from under the hood of the car. Being on a major road, we need to at least get to where we can pull over. Panic begins to set in. "Unbuckle Emmi, so you can grab her as soon as I turn the corner."

Light changes, Kenny turns the corner, brakes lock up. Both Emmi and I fly across the car. Smoke billows from under the car. Kenny and I jump from the car, pulling Emmi out.

"Our computers are in there, GRAB THEM. And my PURSE, GRAB MY PURSE. RUN EMMI, RUN!"

We cross the grass over to the church on the corner, and turn to watch what we are sure is our car about to explode. Cars screetch to halt. People yell out if they can help and if all of our children our out of the car.

I cover Emmi's eyes, and shield her from the now approaching blast.

Nothing. The smoke clears. The engine ticks as it cools. We take a few cautious steps forward. Nothing. Few more steps. Nothing. We tentatively approach the car. Still nothing.

"YOU GOD DAMN, MOTHER FUCKING, PIECE OF SHIT CAR. I FUCKING HATE YOU."

Two hours, one tow truck, one body shop, and sixty dollars later, we sit and wait to be picked up off of the side of Buffalo Speedway.

Emmi laughs hysterically.

Babies Love Porn

The gameroom is a huge mess. AGAIN. Emmi came home from school in a sour mood, so I plopped her in front of the TV while I went upstairs to clean. All was fine for the first few minutes. Then I hear the channel change. No problem. Sounds like she is watching the news. It changes again. This time to MTV. Oh well, a few minutes of TRL won't hurt her. Then the TV goes quiet. She must have found the volume button. Even better. Now she can't hear what the songs on MTV say. I leave well enough alone, because, afterall, the gameroom MUST be cleaned. I am just happy to have a few minutes in which I can get it done.

Then I hear something strange from the TV. What is she watching now? Huh? I should probably check on that. I leave toys scattered across the floor and head to the stairs. Volume goes up. WAY up. And then I hear it.

"Oh yeah. Baby do me harder."

What the fuck? I run down the stairs.

I can't work the goddamn remote, but Emmi can figure out how to order porn on Pay-Per-View! After I recover, I calmly look at Emmi.

"No ma'am. No more ordering porn on pay-per-view. Now tell me, Emmi, how do I block the ppv channels."

"Hummanamaananaumham."

I think she just said, "I just cost you $29.50."

The Crazy Folk

We all have our crazy relative stories. Ask any member of my family, and hands down we all pick the same person as "The Crazy" in the family. While spending our 90th hour in the hospital waiting room with a flood of Kenny's relatives, I was introduced to Kenny's crazy folk. She, my friends, takes the cake on nuttiest relative. While her behavior at the hospital was quite strange, it is the story of three Christmases ago that moved her into first place.

After the whole everyone buy everyone a gift thing was getting way out of control, it was decided that the family would do a gift exchange. Wrap it, throw it in a pile, and take turns picking and then stealing gifts. We have all played this game, and I am going to say, the neighborhood ornament exchange last year got quite brutal. I almost lost a hand, but that is another story. Kenny's sister received the first gift from Crazy. She unwrapps the box to discover Glow In The Dark Sex Lotion! Now, I must explain, Crazy works at a Cindie's. If you don't know what that is, go look it up. Perhaps, if she weren't sitting next to her fiance this might not be quite as embarassing. Or perhaps if she were at a lingerie party this would be appropriate. But this isn't even the best part of the story.

Kenny's grandpa is this sweet little man. Poor unsuspecting Grandpa gets the next gift. Wrapping paper slowly peels back. Confused look crossing Grandpa's face. He turns the box over in his hands. Then holds it up for all to see. Grandpa is now the proud owner of...uhhumm..a VIBRATOR!

Monkey Business

Blame it on the number of times I watched Poltergeist as a kid, but I have always kind of believed that toys get up and walk around when no one is watching. After cleaning the gameroom this evening, I am totally convinced it is true. I am also convinced that Prince Charming is one sick fuck.

Meow. Ehem. Me-ouch.

I know this happened awhile back, but I thought some of you might enjoy.

Kenny pulls into the driveway with a car full of boxes and a grin. "Hey Baby, guess what I found?" Uhh. Boxes? "No. Boxes FULL of Arden B and Bebe clothing in your size from one of the condos I manage." Apparently the tenants moved out and left me a present. We'll call it compensation for all of the crap they caused during their lease. Kenny drags the boxes out of the car and into the garage. "The neighborhood garage sell is this weekend, so whatever you don't want, we'll sell." I make two piles and begin sorting through my goodies. Score. Score. Score. Garage sell. Score. Kenny is definitely on my good side now. I rip into box three.

"Uhh, Kenny, did you open this one."

"No. Why?"

"What did you say she did for a living?"

My guess. A stripper. I mean no one has that many see through tops and rip away skirts. Except maybe Sheri. I kid. Sort of. I pull out a feather trimmed, see-through robe to unearth, that's right, a full-body leopard print catsuit. Oh hell. After a good laugh, we toss it into the garage sell pile. The Mexican ladies who show up at the end of the sell and offer you $20 for all of the rest of your belongings will definitely get off as soon as they see that.

But then a glass of wine later, and I formulate a plan. Hehee. I am funny. While Kenny goes out to water the grass, I sneak out to the garage and grab the leopard suit. I am giggling so hard I can barely pull the thing on. It is about as far from attractive as you can imagine. Bright orange spots stretched tight against a two-time, child producing belly. Hell. Even better. I find the tackiest black shoes I can find, and to top it off, head up the stairs to steal a feather boa out of the kids' dress up box.

I open the bedroom door a crack to make sure Kenny is still outside. I don't want to spoil the effect before I find the feather boa. I call his name. I listen. Nothing. I open the door a bit more. And then I hear the growling. "Shut up, Sadie," I hiss. The dog starts barking. Then Macy the Lazy Dog jumps off the couch. Grrrrrr. "Shut up." Macy lunges at me. The damn dog tried to bit me!

I run. In heels. And a leopard catsuit. Across the wood floor that I am trying not to scratch with my black heels. Kenny hears the commotion. He opens the door just as Macy bites me on the ass.

Meow.

Overbaked babies.

Jill is going to have another little sister soon. Octoberish. Oh, wipe that shocked look off your face. It isn't me. It is her dad. Well, technically it is Andrea, as I am pretty sure him being pregant is physically impossible.

Jill says, "Maybe the baby will be born on my birthday."

"No, Sweety, that is impossible."

"Why not, Mommy."

"Because then the baby would be overbaked."

"What happens when you overbake a baby?"

"Well, Jill, what happens when you overbake a cookie?"

I lean back against the wall, take a sip of my drink, and watch her ponder this for a minute. The last time I burned cookies, they had marshmallows in them. They poofed up way too big. I am sure she is remembering this.

"I know, Mommy...... They turn brown!"

Stinky Shoes.

Kenny laughed when I told him the first day of school would go smoothly. "You remember last year," he says. I scrunch my face up into the look that can only say, "Uhhh God gave me 'Mommy Amnesia' which thankfully means I can't remember." Then a thought comes to me. Yes, yes. There was screaming. Something else. Something. Oh, yes. The shoes. The shoes never fit. And the shirts were always itchy. It is coming back to me. "No, no, no Kenny. It will be different this year. She picked out all of her own clothes. She has tried it on today to make sure it all feels good. I planned ahead." More laughing, this time followed by the shaking of the head as Kenny walks out of the room.

By 7am, I am smug. Ha. She already has her dress on and her hair done. I do a little dance. "I am right. I am right. La la la la la." I take a picture of the moment. I dance some more. She sits down to put on her shoes.

"THEY DON'T FIT. THEY HURT. THESE SHOES ARE STINKY. I AM NOT WEARING THEM!" Shoes fly across the room. I duck. Kenny smirks. "Told you."

And then.

I have been fighting for a year to get Emmi approved for bilateral implantation. It is everything I have worked for. I have taken psychological exams, taken Emmi for multiple tests, and spent hours with therapists. All of this in preparation for a second implant. It has been depending on insurance for months. We keep getting surgery dates, then getting denied coverage.

And then, the coordinator calls me tonight to tell me that we have been approved. They are trying to squeeze Emmi into an opening on Wednesday. In TWO days. Now that it is here, I am not sure I want to do it. How can I explain to her that the hair she loves has to be shaved off and that she will be in pain, but it will be for her own good? I will be putting her through this for what? For my own satisfaction? So I can say I did textbook mothering? That I was perfect and persistent? I am worrying that maybe it isn't best for her. Sure the therapists all say there is a huge difference between one implant and two, but it won't improve her speech. Her palate will still be too short. I am scared now. I know I should sleep on it. I know I might feel different tomorrow, but right now I just want to call and cancel.

Weekend at the River.

After weeks of what felt like blow after blow with Emmi's health, I really needed a break. I was stressed and distracted. My patience was worn thin. I needed to decompress. In a rare bit of good luck, Kenny and I were invited to the river with Cody and Susan on a weekend when we didn't have kiddos. It was Emmi's weekend with her dad, and Jill was spending the weekend with her cousins at my parent's house. So off to the river we went.

We left Friday afternoon, and made it to Cody's family's house before dinnertime. It is a gorgeous home sitting right on the river. The view is amazing. Susan made us dinner. We ate then headed out to one of the fine establishments out near Gruene. Careful, the door is tricky to find! But once inside, the cold beer, young children in the bar, and one-armed pool player will make you feel right at home. (That is probably not at all funny unless you were there.) We stayed up super late....I am thinking aroung 11pm. Then I slept in the following morning, you know, until 8:30am.

Saturday, after a short trip to the outlet mall, we spent the day sunning by the river. It was the most wonderful thing to have no agenda all day. The guys did what guys do, and Susan and I read magazines and sat in the sun. The river was extrememely high, so tubing was out. However, after sitting in the sun the water started to call to us. We spent the rest of the afternoon swinging from the neighbor's rope swing and crafting a tube raft tied to a tree! It was the most relaxing, fun afternoon I have had in a long time.

I could not have asked for a better weekend. I am so glad that we were able to go. Thanks, Susan!! You don't know how much I needed this weekend.

Now look what you have done.....

After seeing Sheri jump on the blog bandwagon and then consequently become addicted to reading several blogs a day, I have decided to submit. It should be a good relationship between myself and this blog, after all, I love to hear myself talk.

You would think between my random rantings on myspace and the website I keep for Emmi, I would get it out of my system. However, Emmi's site is more about relaying facts than about expressing my thoughts. At times, I do use her site to release my frustrations, but I am just not 100% comfortable with doing that. I feel like I should keep it about Emmi. As for myspace, I feel like people are just looking for a lighthearted waste of time. My little essays tend to verge beyond that. Sometimes I feel like being silly and funny, and other times I have serious issues I feel the need to get off of my chest. A blog should be a good resolution. You are forewarned. I may have absolutely nothing to say or I may delve into my innermost thoughts, concerns, and worries.

All in all, I have nothing to declare but my genius! (Oscar Wilde....look it up, people. That should be funny.)