Four Letter Word For "It Has 4 Walls And A Door", For $800 Please, Alex

Up until the age of one, Boy-Child#2 slept in his crib in his own room. "Slept" is a strong word. More like: took brief naps periodically throughout the hours of darkness. At some point after his first birthday, he became strongly opposed to his own room. Perhaps it was too dark. Or too many night lights. Or it had become the fiery pit of hell. Or just too much Classic Pooh. Whatever the reason; he would not sleep in it. Ever. At all. Not even a little bit. Nope. None. The "cry it out" technique was one he challenged. Like an Olympian. Gold medal winner that one. He would not cry for an hour or so and then fall blissfully asleep. No. He would cry ALL night. Not that I would know because I would totally do that never inflict that cruelty on a toddler. So, for the next 2 1/2 years he slept with Ma and Pa Farklepants in their bed. And I hardly slept, clinging to the side of the bed like Spiderman any good mother would. At the end of those 2 1/2 years, I was somewhere along the lines of 29 months and 740 days pregnant and dominating 95% of said bed. I needed my flipping and contortion space dammit! There was a whole strategy with the pillows that did not allow for an extra, albeit small person in the limited space provided. In other words: Boy-Child#2 got the boot from the bed. It was at this point that the ultimate test of a marriage home improvement decision was made to add an additional bedroom to our 3 bedroom home by turning the loft into a giant room the boys could share. Bunk beds were purchased and occupied in Boy-Child#1's room until at least the framing and enclosing was complete. Drywall was hung. There was taping and spackling. Boy-Child#1's old room was painted shades of salmon and soft pink and a white chair rail was hung. Meanwhile, back in the construction zone, the plastering and painting was done on the hallway side of things. An unfinished door was hung. The beds were moved into what could be considered a room. And friends? Four-ish plus years later, it remains so. It has become the infamous household phenomena referred too as "I Don't Even Notice It Anymore Until Something Reminds Me". Seriously. And on my honor; probably sometime around just before Boy-Child#1 leaves for college, a handy man will be hired to complete the job.

I just asked Mr. Farklepants to install some shelving for storage in this here office and am now very mad with myself for suggesting it.

And a Happy New Year's Eve to all y'alls! Enjoy and be safe. xoxo

Eight Is Enough Is An Understatement

8 is not enough. 8 is too many. What were these people thinking?

I've been tagged with an 8 Things Meme by JCK over at Motherscribe. I know many people aren't fond of these but I like 'em. Even though when I started to really think about it...isn't the person tagged "it" in the game of tag; the loser? So, without further ado, here is the 8 Things Meme about my loser self.

8 Things I'm passionate about:
1. My children, husband, and family (kinda goes without saying)
2. Helping those in need (I should do more)
3. My intense dislike for GW Bush (elevates my blood pressure)
4. Writing (is my release)
5. Equality (for EVERYONE)
6. Tolerance (can't we all just get along?)
7. Chocolate frosting (best when kept in the fridge)
8. Clothes (fashion is my passion)
8 Things I want to do before I die:
1. Go to Paris and EAT TREMENDOUS AMOUNTS OF FOOD (French food is my favorite)
2. Meet the Queen of England because I think she's classy and I'm impressed by her
3. Kiss George Clooney on the mouth - open if possible
4. Fly as a passenger in a private jet, preferably with the subject from #3
5. Own a home on a beach
6. Be a grandmother (just not right now)
7. Get published and/or optioned
8. Attend Fashion week in New York, London, Milan, or Paris...I'm not picky
8 Things I say often:
1. Totally (I was a teenager in the 80's in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles...it stuck)
2. Like (see above)
3. Oh my God (this is getting redundant)
4. Sorry (I'm always apologizing unnecessarily)
5. Holy Smokes (in an effort to curb profanity I've become Batman)
6. Good Grief (and Charlie Brown)
7. What (I should really get my hearing checked)
8. Stop (with 3 kids this needs no explanation)
8 books I've read recently:

1. Twas the Night Before Christmas
2. Twas the Night Before Christmas (I read it twice, different authors and illustrators so it counts)
3. Rebels on the Backlot by Sharon Waxman
4. On Acting by Sanford Meisner
5. Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx
6. Why I'm Still Married: Women Write Their Hearts Out on Love, Loss, Sex, and Who Does the Dishes by Karen Propp and Jean Trounstine
7. How Not To Write A Screenplay by Denny Martin Flinn
8. Various and countless magazines. I'm out of books I can remember, guys.
8 Songs I can listen to over and over:
1. Woman by John Lennon
2. Imagine by John Lennon
3. Fire by Jimmy Hendrix (best driving fast song ever!)
4. Beastie Boys entire Licensed to Ill album (totally cheating but I cannot choose)
5. Come On Eileen by Dexy's Midnight Runners
6. Strip by Adam Ant
7. Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees
8. Jesse's Girl by Rick Springfield (don't act like you don't. Everybody loves this song!)
8 things that attract me to my best friends:
1. Their scent (No. Not really. But I freaked you out for a second, didn't I?)
2. They make me laugh. A lot. Like Julia Roberts guffaw style.
3. Our history (We've all been close a couple of years shy of 2 decades)
4. Know how to have a good time
5. Laid back attitude
6. The ability to pick up where we left off when we last saw one another
7. Their intelligence
8. Their ability to take it to the grave or let it stay in Vegas (and "it" is none of your bidness)
8 People who should TOTALLY do this meme:
Okay. I'm totally breaking the chain and some horribleness may befall me, but I've tagged too many people with memes lately and I don't want to tick anyone off. So I'm tagging exactly zero people. If you'd like to partake, g'head! Let me know and I'll come read. Promise!

Random Fever Strikes Again

102 degrees to be exact. And 1 1/2 teaspoons of bubble gum flavored Motrin poured down Girl-Child's throat. I quit! You win illness! What with your RNA virus and your Orthomyxoviridae family and your genetic diversity binding yourselves to target cells. You WIN! OKAY? Your laughter in the face of her fatigued antibodies incurs my wrath. But, alas I'm so totally and obviously inadequately armed. So, I will be in the corner. Fetal position assumed. Rocking uncontrollably. And scratching in a rhythmic motion at imaginary things in my hair. Speaking in tongues.

Take Two Ecstasies And Call Me In The Morning

Man! I have got a severe case of the blahs. Or "post-Christmas letdown", as it were. I can't seem to locate my happy place. I came this close to getting in my car and driving to the Mattel factory just to punch the packaging department head in the face; or at the very least, have extremely harsh words laced with several expletives, with him. Or her. I don't care. I don't discriminate when it comes to justice. I think these people sit around and pull all night brainstorming sessions to come up with new and exciting ways to make parents lose their stuff all over the walls of their homes. Just when we were getting advanced degrees in wire twist-tie extraction; they've taken to sewing dolls clothes to the box. SEWING! Then there are the impenetrable plastic boxes that cannot be opened with anything other than a Ginsu serrated knife. You may lose a finger in the process and still be unable to remove the item from it's cocoon. Then you have to play the "I'm just a woman" card and hand it off to the husband. Who will also struggle. But somehow blame you for the impossibility of it all. And in a brief, flickering moment of insanity you consider running the bastard, test package over a dozen or so times with your car; but the fear of it puncturing a tire snuffs that idea right out. Then the parents are screaming and the kids are crying but you're still trying to convince everyone that WE ARE ALL VERY HAPPY! VERY, VERY HAPPY! IT'S CHRISTMAS AND EVERYTHING IS JUST HAPPY! And someone kicks the dog and we all feel guilty better. After you've exhausted every tool at your disposal; including but not limited too an industrial machine shop drill press, the item is released! And the kids play with it for a whole 5 minutes.

Then, later when a false sense of calm has washed over the family room, you discover that you are missing 2 of the 4 pieces needed to assemble the Hungry Hungry Hippos game. But never fear! You have a spare because there is a pile of duplicate purchases taking up valuable real estate on your dining room table that are awaiting their return/exchange at the local Target. That will take no less than 2 days of standing in line to do so.

And no one thought to buy me some Calgon?

Excuse Me Miss, Your Meme Is Showing

I've been tagged by Monica at Ya...About that.. with a "Seven Random Things About Me" meme! I'm quite grateful as it gives me something to blog about. There's nothing going on today; unless you'd rather hear about how I ate yet another brownie (why won't those things just be gone already?) and took a shower. The end. Funny stuff, eh? Now, coming up with 7 random things that are also interesting enough to read? Not so easy. Hopefully, you won't get a severe case of the nods while reading my random factiness (not a word). First, the obligatory posting of the meme rules:

Link to the person who tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 facts about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I fell asleep at a Judas Priest concert circa 1989. One would not think this possible, what with all the head banging going on. And the loudness. I think it had something to do with the tainted hot dog I consumed prior to taking my seat. It nearly killed me. And the being able to sleep through that racket was the first sign of impending doom.

2. I get very angry at inanimate objects. When I hit myself in the head while blow drying my hair; it's the hairdryers fault for being so stupid. If the liquid from a tuna can squirts onto my shirt; the can opener will hear about it in a very LOUD VOICE. If I take out the door jam with my shoulder, it isn't because I'm terribly clumsy I am; it must be because it sensed I was coming into the room and moved over a 1/4 of an inch and it will be put on notice.

3. I enjoy doing laundry. Too much. I've been known to sniff the clothes during the folding process. I nearly had a nervous breakdown when my washing machine died in October. I could not wait the two weeks for Sears to send someone out to give me an estimate; who knows how long I'd have to wait for it to be repaired! No. We had to replace it immediately. And all was right with the world. I also like my laundry detergent to smell like soap and not a meadow or a beach. And I'm suspicious of those who do. What scent are they trying to disguise?

4. I love cereal. I mean I LOOOOVE cereal. Hot or cold. I will eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I will skip a for real dinner just to have cereal. I'm sure that whenever I go in for a check up, the doctor will be alarmed at my elevated levels of riboflavin. My mother cannot comprehend why I would order oatmeal in a restaurant. Are you kidding? Have you seen the portions? Oh lawdy!

5. I'm somewhat claustrophobic. And for this reason I will never learn to scuba dive or go spelunking. It sounds like hell. In my version of hell there is wind (why? because I really despise wind), snorkels, oxygen tanks, weight belts, and dark caves. And I will be there with mussed hair, a spec of debris in my eye, breathing through a mouthpiece, with the bends; in the dark.

6. I have this very bad habit of putting off the need to eat until my blood sugar drops to dangerous levels and causes extreme bitchiness. When I get hungry, I have to eat within a few minutes or everyone around me will pay. Possibly with their lives. Mr. Farklepants will tell you the importance of getting me some sustenance. I've come this close to eating one of our kids. A couple of times.

7. I do not like to be woken up in the middle of the night. If I'm asleep you better have a damn good reason for rousing me. I'm so not cool after midnight.

Now for the tagging. You can run but you cannot hide.
Madame Queen at Madame Queen
Karen at The Rocking Pony
ALF at I Shot A Man In Reno
Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor
Badness Jones

I know that's only 5 of you but I didn't want to tag people that I just recently tagged. I don't want to be that pest that people avoid when they see you coming.

Well The First Thing We're Going To Have To Do Is Remove This Stick From Your Ass

Cooties. The gift that keeps on giving. Of course, Boy-Child#1 is sick. I mean, we haven't had enough of that around here lately. One of his complaints is a sore throat. It started on Christmas eve but he was feeling particularly lousy yesterday. And since strep throat has been being passed around like glue sticks in his classroom; and he's had it twice since October, we took a trip to the walk in doctor's office. The mystery about the "no appointment needed" clinic is that it's a crap shoot as to which practitioner will be treating you. ALL of the doctors there are great. And terrific with kids. Some too much. They come in with lollipops falling out of their pockets and making wise cracks; and it gets to the point where you just want to say "Alright. Quit pulling rabbits out of your hat, diagnose and be done with it already, Dr. Carnac the Great". But today we got the Certified Nurse Practitioner With Something to Prove. Yeah. Her. The one that isn't quite a doctor and is going to make you pay for her shortcomings. You know the type that tells you how you're wasting her time in her round-about-want-to-smack-her kind of way. "He's negative for strep" she says. "oh, good!". "What makes you think he had strep?" Only I heard her say "Why the fuck are you too stupid to live?" while she stroked the 2x4 chip on her shoulder and gave me a challenging look. "Um, because he's had it twice since October", except I think she heard me say "Game on!" because this got her dander up and then ignored what I'd said completely. "Does he have allergies?". "He's allergic to some cats" I tell her. And before she can ask me anything else I say "My parents have a cat and we were there last night for dinner but this started the day before that". And she heard me say "I made him wear a ski mask made out of cats". "Okay, well it's probably just allergies or a virus then". Okay. Except that it's not an allergic reaction to cats unless that can happen just by anticipating being around one as long as 24 hours prior. "I don't want to put him on antibiotics for that" she declared. No duh. "Neither do I. I just wanted to make sure he didn't have strep" I assure her. I can take it from here thanks. "Because antibiotics won't do anything for allergies or a virus" she continued. Really? I had no idea. I'm so new to this mom thing. "I'm aware", I say. "Has he been running a fever?", she inquired. "No". "Allergies or a virus then". Okay. Thanks for the attitude taking the time to talk to me like I'm 5 years old see us.

We're home and he's running a fever. There is a part of me that wants to go back, pull a thermometer out of my son's ass and hand it to her. Just sayin'.

Gettin' Jiggly With It

Oh dear. Only nine days until we leave for our trip back east and guess what? The gluttony of Thanksgiving and Christmas have finally caught up. With a vengeance. I think it happened on Christmas eve when I ate my weight in cookie dough. Hey, Santa needed his cookies but he only needs so many, you know. And I prefer my cookies before they're baked, thankyouverymuch. All the day of Christmas eve I ate a consistent diet of frosting covered spoons. I licked brownie mix out of bowls and the grooves of the hand mixer. Then, of course, I had to perform quality control and test all of the baked goods that came out of the oven. Then there was dinner! Spaghetti. Only, it was more like: bread and butter and sauce. And lots of it. Then came Christmas day and more of the same only not spaghetti but a full on succulent ham dinner prepared by my sisters this year. Mmmm...ham. I only ate about eight slices before I finally stopped and declared that I needed to save room for dessert. Because there was pie. Mmmmm...pie. And fudge. Mmmmm...fudge.

So today, when you sense a disturbance in the force; it will just be me cursing a blue streak while stuffing myself into my pants. I may have to raid the garage for some hand tools for assistance. Don't act like you've never done that!

Merry Christmas!

Right at this moment from where I sit, I can hear Girl-Child's window blinds rustling. She's hearing things and the preciousness of that is making me smile. Like many parents around the world tomorrow morning; I will be neck deep in gift wrap and probably trying to locate the coffee cup I set down somewhere. So I wanted to take a moment to thank each and every one of you; new friends and old, who take the time out of their busy days to stop by and read what I have to say. Whenever I see that there are new comments, I'm quite literally like a kid on Christmas morning and cannot wait to see what you have to say!

Merry Christmas everyone!

She Still Has A Pulse

I finally took charge and called 1-800-4my-xbox because it was apparent that a certain couch potato in this house, who shall remain nameless Mr. Farklepants has lost his ability to pick up a phone and deal with technical matters. I am, shall we say, technically challenged. It is some kind of holy miracle that I'm even able to navigate the capabilities of my own blog. Thanks be to Jesus. Amen. So, I get Max from Xbox on the line - although I suspect his name is pronounced more like Rahim judging by his distinct East Indian accent, but, Max it is!- Max and I chatted. He asked me 98 questions. I answered most of them. We smoked a bowl and troubleshot via phone. It was all kinds of good. Max was rad. After he asked me to turn the system off, wait 10 seconds, and turn it back on; and yes, SURPRISE! The 3 blinking red lights were in fact, still there; he extrapolated and triangulated then diagnosed the problem is one with the hard drive. Really? Yes. No duh. Xbox360 Max will be sending a special box that will be used to ship the system back to the Wonka Factory for repairs; and sometime in March my boys will be able to play with their Christmas gifts. EXAGGERATE MUCH? Okay. Late January. Still has that certain "je ne sais quoi suck".

I did mention previously that I have to come up with something to stave off the Christmas morning disappointment. Giving a child a gift that they cannot use is just, cruel. So I summoned the "WTF Do I Do Now" Gods and they blessed me. Boy-Child#1 is getting one of these which was easy to run out and pick up in the off shopping hours Friday morning:

Unfortunately, inspiration for Boy-Child#2 didn't strike until late morning today. Saturday. Not your average Saturday. The last Saturday before Christmas in shopping hell, Saturday. THAT Saturday. The brilliant idea? DRUMROLL.....Heelys!

This required a trip to the local Sport Chalet. Not much trouble parking, surprisingly. I found a style of Heelys with a camouflage pattern on them. Big score. Would they have his size? What size would you like these in Ma'am? Size 3 please. Why, yes Ma'am we have those. Here they are. Oh thank you! Thank you! This was too easy. After I showed my great appreciation; I removed my tongue from the twenty-something's mouth, and went and stood in line. For 3 days. And me without my bottle of water. Bloating was starting to occur from the thermostat that was set at 180 degrees in the store. Dehydration was setting in and I could hear voices. Is that you, God? It's me Tootsie. Oh. Wait. No. It's the cashier. Next customer please. Finally. I paid and stumbled out of the store and gasped the fresh, brisk air. Get me home! I loathe crowds. It does funny things to me. Can you tell?

These gifts will be from Mom and Dad. The video games can be from St. Nick. Let Santa be the suck. Parents rule!

My Last Nerve Just Kicked Its Own Ass

Because I don't have enough to do...Mr. Farklepants dropped Girl-Child off at preschool today. She was all set carrying her bag that contained the gifts for her teachers and special candy canes (i.e. they had curled ribbon on them) for her classmates and she was so excited. So, imagine my bewilderment when I picked her up, one of her teachers says "Girl-Child was a little upset today during the gift exchange".
Me: "What gift exchange and why was she upset"?
Teacher: "The children were supposed to each bring in a wrapped toy to donate to the school for the gift exchange"
And she said it kinda snotty-ish. I look at my daughter and I see no signs of the supposed upsetness (apparently so not a word). I think this teacher just wanted me to know that we were naughty and didn't donate a gift. In other words, I had just been served. She assured me that they gave my daughter a present to open, but that's not even what gets me. There are a couple of things here that are chapping my hide and at the same time confusing me. So perhaps I ought to put off the chaffing until the confusion is sorted out.

First of all, Girl-Child was absent a couple of days in the last two weeks because she's been sick. Gift exchange? I did not get this memo.

Second, when I picked my daughter up on Wednesday I specifically asked if there was anything special I needed to be doing for Friday and is there anything special going on? No. Just the kids exchanging gifts. <---this did not register anything other than the little trinkets and goodie bags kids tend to exchange in classrooms on holidays. So I did not ask for clarification because I was not aware I was unclear.

Third, WTF kind of gift exchange is it that 3 and 4 year olds get to open presents and NOT keep them? What kind of grotesque holiday torture is being practiced here?

And fourthly, the one that really just sends that stick up my ass is; we just had the winter festival this past Saturday for this school. That was their FUNDRAISER! So my question is, why in bloody FECK are we now donating toys to the school? Aside from the fact that I pay tuition here; for the fundraiser I did the following:
1) Buy 8 admission/raffle tickets at $5 a pop
2) Donate themed gift basket for silent auction $21.79
3) Bake and donate 24 cupcakes $10
4) Buy red leotard for performance $12
5) Buy flesh toned tights for performance $7
6) Bought various snacks from bake sale $10
7) Spend one hour as a parent volunteer at the arts and crafts table

And the teacher's appreciation for this effort? = none. For everything else, there's MasterCard.

Tootsie - Coming To A Theater Near You!

Okay. So for those of you who are new to Tootsie and don't already know this; I occasionally talk about myself in the third person I've done a bit of background acting when I'm not fully immersed in my full-time mommy gig. Here I am on the set of Charlie Wilson's War:

And because I'm a sharer and a showoff giver, cut and paste this link into your browser to see me in the theatrical trailer (I tried to link it for you but the Internets were being total bitches about it - Humph!):
http://movies.yahoo.com/movie/1809774261/video/5573390

I can be seen about one minute into the clip, seated in a chair near the staircase. Enjoy!

And a special shout out to konilambchop for most awesomely alerting me to the clip via email. I don't know who you are but that was highly cool of you!
**UPDATE: It turns out that konilambchop is the owner of the Greyhound dogs in the clip. She is now on my "list of extremely sweet people". MWAH!

Only 247 Things Left To Do Before Tomorrow

Just when you think you're done with the Christmas get ready. Sniggly little loose ends are cropping up left and right and in my email; and not all at once. I forgot the preschool teachers. There are 4 of them. I forgot Mrs. Sixth Grade. I remembered Mrs. Second Grade due to a highly organized room mom who was all over that shit weeks ago. You know what? I'm not going to list it all because it would bore you to death. To DEATH!

But I did have to pick up a book for Boy-Child#1's class gift exchange. Simple enough. Enter Barnes and Noble and be back in the car in ten minutes depending on the crowd inside. Easy. The book had to be 6th grade reading level or higher. And due to the fact that my oldest son is at that age where he is highly sensitive to what his peers think about him; his taste in literature cannot appear too feminine, too flaming, or worse, too young. It couldn't be girly. It couldn't have chicks on it (no, not the feathery or downy kind -hey, you know what? It couldn't have those on it either), no pink, nothing girl-themed. No horseys, no ponies. No cuteness and on the other end of the spectrum; no morbidity. It also couldn't be Harry Potter anything because that has been done to death. It couldn't be Star Wars related either because apparently that is passe.
[and I just died a little bit inside relaying that info -Han Solo was my first true love]
I had to either already know the story myself or be able to decipher from the jacket its contents because if there turned out to be any kind of sex or anything inappropriate in this book, I didn't want some mom stalking me with all her questions pertaining to "WTF"?! Which is also why, when I picked up a book that caught my eye and I thought would do until I saw etched in the bottom right corner "From the Author of The Golden Compass"; the controversy surrounding the mere mention of the title started to burn the flesh from my hands, I threw it as far away from my person as possible. In other words. I totally over thought this thing. Forty-five minutes later I walk out with: Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightening Thief. I was pleased with my choice.

This morning, after dropping the boys off at school; the book nicely wrapped for the gift exchange and tucked in Boy-Child#1's backpack, it occurs to me that in the picture depicted on the cover of said book: is a boy standing in the ocean armed with a sword and appears to be heading to Manhattan. I scold myself: "Have you just completely lost all sense? Did you really just send your own son to school with that book and here we are in a post 9-11 world?! A sword wielding child on his way to ground zero? What the hell is wrong with you, you loopy bitch?" (sometimes I'm extremely harsh with myself) Then I told myself to sit by the phone and wait for a call from the principal. Or the FBI. Because as you can see; I'm over thinking this again.

Ding-Dang Y'All!

...And when it was announced and confirmed that Jamie-Lynn Spears is indeed pregnant at sixteen; thousands of gossip columnists and stalkerazzi simultaneously... CREAMED THEIR PANTS.

Dip..Bend..Stretch...Tug...Ready To Go!

I don't have many chances for dressing up, being a full time mom and all. Dressing up means I go with the velour track suit to wear to the market and maybe some sparkly flip flops. Which, when you get right down to it, are sweatpants and thongs. So when I read "casual chic" on the holiday office party invitation Mr. Farklepants brought home last week; my mind saw this: casual "chic". On Friday evening, I was definitely the most overdressed person in attendance. I also didn't take into account that nearly all of the other guests were coming straight from work and were wearing their finest office attire. I, however, wore a black sheath adorned with silvery jeweled embellishment around the boat neck area. The jewelry I chose was a silver bangle bracelet and large silver hoop earrings to make it more modern and less Jackie Kennedy. Needless to say, I skipped the pill box hat. Just in case you were picturing that. And with the three inch black suede pumps, I was the tallest woman (and in some cases, person) in the room. I did not blend in. I was obvious. I took delicate care in choosing this outfit. I considered the party's location - Very Swankyville in the heart of Uber-Upper-Class where movie stars and studio executives live side by side. I accounted for the guest list - very importportportant people that determine how far up the food chain Mr. Farklepants can climb. He's up there and we'd like him to go further, thanks. My mission that I chose to accept Friday evening was to make the finest first impression. Which is why, I changed my pair of tights before leaving the house. I bought three pair because I'm all about options when it comes to fashion. I really hate to find myself in a situation with no where to go but with an unfortunate choice. In no particular order they consisted of: basic black, basic black with a pattern, and a silver pair because I don't know what I was thinking. They worked in the image I had in my head but at home I just couldn't bring myself to waste my time putting them on. I started with the patterned black because they were fun. After making my entrance into my living room and judging the expression on my sister's face and her "Weeelllll...", it was determined that they were not fun. They were wrong. Mr. Farklepants remarked that they were a little too "Playboy" and it just wasn't that kind of party. At all. Maybe they were fun; just not right now. This scared me straight into conservative and I went basic black. No. The only thing casual about my ensemble was the fabric: a comfortable matt jersey. And perhaps the practical flesh tone seamless thong underwear that are just orthopedic lingerie for your ass. Not sexy no matter how hard you stretch your imagination. The end.

All in all a lovely evening. I adjusted to being around grown ups and acted accordingly. I didn't cut anyone's steak for them. I did hold up three fingers once or twice when asked how many children we have; just in case they had trouble with the spoken word and needed illustration to understand. I have this many. I was friendly and positive. I held my own in conversation. I was not a wallflower nor was I a guffawing idiot that lacks a social filter and spews inappropriateness. I did not catch any part of myself on fire - which really is a miracle in itself considering my genetic clumsiness, hundreds of tealight candles on the floors and tables, and flammable fabric on my body. I enjoyed delectible Argentinian food that was prepared on an outdoor wood burning fireplace barbecue. The first appetizer I ate was a sausage sandwich. Stop it. I know your mind just went there. I know this because mine did when I commented to Mr. Farklepants that "this is the best sausage sandwich I've ever eaten". And I said it without being crude. Even though I really wanted too.

Wonka, How Much Do You Want for the Golden Goose?

I'm convinced that there are Gremlins living in the XBOX 360. And you know what? They hate Christmas with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. Last year, on Christmas day, both of our boys received the games that were at the top of their lists. Santa ruled! After a minor scuffle on who would play their game first, a compromise was made and they went the two-player route. I don't remember whose game was chosen first because it does not matter. The disc was inserted into the newfangled machine and was met with three blinking red lights. Oh, this is so not good. A quick and frantic Google search informed us that this piece of crap needed to be sent in for super-secret Microsoft repair by Oompah-Loompahs in some video game system horror factory. It was two weeks before the boys could enjoy their favorite Christmas presents. This year, the XBOX 360 could sense the holiday spirit in the air. I don't know if it communicates with the Christmas tree lights that share the same electric current that flows through the Farklepants home, but if one inserts a game disc, one is met with three flashing lights. I'll give you one guess as to what Santa is bringing the boys this year. You're correct! Video games for the XBOX 360 that they once again aren't going to be able to play! Now I have to come up with something great to shower them with Christmas morning to stave off the disappointment. I wonder if I fire off an angry letter to Bill Gates himself about how he's ruined two Christmas's in a row for our boys; he'll send us a new one...and a spare?

I Gave Him Just One Task

Christmas. So much careful planning. Delegate one thing and watch it unravel. I have long since finished my shopping. Completed the majority of the wrapping. And like many families around the world; certain members are quite impossible to buy for. In my little world that consists of my husband, my father, and my brother in law. All men who don't need another thing and all are impossible, impossible, and impossible. Between my brother and I, we've supplied our father's entire wardrobe. Mr. Farklepants and I are not exchanging gifts this year; so that is taken care of. And my sister in law provided a list for hubby's bro! A list! He's actually going to get something he wants and needs this Christmas! I can hardly contain myself. Seriously. Here is where I miscalculated in my delegating skillz. I asked Mr. Farklepants to peruse the list, decide the gift, and make the purchase. This task met all of the criteria for someone like my husband to shop.
1. Does not need to remove himself from couch
2. Use laptop that he is never without
3. Look at shit for cars
Laziness. A computer. And macho. I'm not entirely sure how I screwed this up, but it is exactly one week before Christmas and exactly zero gifts have been purchased thus far. Which means that today, I did the perusing and the ordering. Unfortunately there is no physically possible way that the item will make it to my home, get wrapped, and sent to Bro-In-Law in time to be opened Christmas day. Which also? Means I have to call my sister in law to let her know that we are sending him NOTHING when she so thoughtfully provided gift ideas with sufficient time to buy.

I also loathe having anything to do with anything having to do with cars. I can buy exactly what is spelled out in black and white; completely idiot proof, and I will somehow screw it up. Not really. But I'll still be scolded about: "How could you buy item #XBGO-098-34? It should have been #XBGO-098-35! Why are you so incredibly LAME?!?". "I dunno dear. Maybe picking up all of your slack was clouding my judgment." Or something. URGH!!!

This Just Says It All

He doesn't seem to be at all bothered by any of the hoopla that surrounded attempts to celebrate his birthday. What a sport! It looks like he's singing in this photo but I would put money on him being in the middle of a coughing fit.

The new skateboard. He totally flipped that shit. And stayed on.

Somehow, I don't think he wished for good health.

**updated to add more pictures. Photos by Dorothy Z.**

I Picked The Wrong Week To Stop Sniffing Glue

Boy-Child#2 and I took a trip over to the clinic this morning to clear up this madness with the sickness once and for all. The diagnosis is a sinus infection which is believed to have brought on the eye infection(s) (yes plural. both eyes) and ear infection(s) (again with the plural). Boy-Child#2 never complained about his ears, but I don't have one of those handy light thingys -technical term- that the doctor uses to look in various orifices in the head-neck area to determine such things. So, what do I know? Nothing. Dr. Doctor prescribed eye drops for the, um, eyes; and the foulest tasting liquid antibiotic known to children. After the first two of the three doses of eye drops he's finally become okay with it, and realizes that it isn't my way of trying to melt his corneas. However, I'm afraid that he'll never become accustomed to the taste of the teaspoon of pure evil that he must endure twice daily. For the next ten days.

I was given my own prescription for the infection that has claimed my left eye. It's really just irritating, itchy, and nasty, than it is hurt-y. What is bothersome to my vanity is that the swelling has reduced the size of my eye significantly than my healthy eye. So, at first glance of my face it looks as if something went horribly wrong in utero. Then, of course, one realizes that this lady has got pink eye which makes anyone stand up and say "ew". So my vanity is all kinds of defeated.

And in the spirit of the giving season; I believe we may have passed this on to my sister who has informed me that she's feeling rather "wrong". I informed her that I wasn't surprised considering my house is a petri dish. From hell.

Because I'm Stoopid

I do not know what is wrong with me sometimes. I literally get excited about something and just don't think it through. Girl-Child had her dance recital/preschool winter festival yesterday. It is also their biggest fundraiser. One of my contributions - and there were many- was a themed gift basket for the silent auction. I don't know if I've mentioned this before (editor's note: I have) but I'm the least crafty person you'll ever meet. BUT! I had a great idea and I went with it. I took a microwavable popcorn bucket (the corn is in the bottom and ya throw the whole shebang in the microwave), filled it with movie theater sized boxes of various candy, and a gift card for the video store. The theme was "A Night 'In' At The Movies". Cute, huh? I thought so. I tried to go with traditional theater candy: Red Vines, Junior Mints, Snowcaps, Raisinets, and chocolate covered PEANUTS(!?!?). I KNOW, as well as any other mother to small children KNOWS, that in this day and age peanut allergies are running rampant. My daughter's school is a PEANUT FREE ZONE! Aw Crikey! This I KNOW. I also know that there are children in her class that my raffle basket would KILL. It didn't even occur to me as I bought them. Or as I wrapped it all up. Not even when I typed my tag that listed the items included. It hit me, like a thoughtless ton of bricks, as I was sitting in attendance and was greeted by one of the mothers whose daughter I'm trying to KILL with my silent auction raffle basket of DOOM! She and I have had several conversations about the horrors of trick or treating and birthday parties that is her daughter's life. I was sitting there silently hoping that she had not perused the gift basket tables and was aware that the Farklepants family had generously donated this lethal item. Seriously, I might as well have put a pack of cigarettes in the thing, with a lighter, and lit one up as a visual aid for the kiddies, blowing smoke rings in their cherub faces. This is what I get for trying to be cute and crafty. When I do this; I fail. But one of my other contributions was making cupcakes for the bake sale. Which probably made someone break out in a rash. On their face. Because that is just me.

And on a totally unrelated note: We were supposed to go to the amusement park today to celebrate Boy-Child#2's birthday in a right proper way; but because this is the birthday that is not meant to be celebrated in any appropriate fashion whatsoever - the anti-birthday fairies hath dealt him a fever and an infection in both eyes (who am I kidding? It's pink eye). And just to make absolutely sure that I don't go getting any wacky ideas like dragging him out there sick as a dog; they tossed some of the eye dust in my left. Just for good measure.

Who Dat?

I get quite a few compliments and/or comments on my blog name (or at least it's what inspires someone to stop by...hi!) so I thought I'd share its source. It's just a random combination of words taken from one of those "name game" extravaganzas that were sweeping through everyone's email at one time. You know where each letter of the alphabet represents a particular word (i.e. 'a'= 'snickle', 'b'=doombah', etcetera) and then you use the third letter of your first name to find your new first name. Then there is a whole new corresponding list for your second, and then last name. It's like a chart. Well. It is exactly a chart. Then you get a new name like: Liver Giggle-Sniffer. Tootsie Farkle-Pants is not an accurate representation of my true (new fake) name. It is a combination of the words that appealed to my ear. No. The true result was something like: Boobie Fricken-Lips. Which doesn't exactly roll off one's tongue. Although, way funnier. So that's how Tootsie Farklepants was born. What's your pseudonym and how come?

And in This Corner: Weighing in at 7 Pounds 13 Ounces and 19 Inches Long!

His due date was December 20th, but on this day in 1999, Boy-Child#2 was born. He did not arrive early by accident. This was totally planned. Because I am all about putting my proverbial ducks in the proverbial row. I wanted him born as far away from Christmas as was possible; and considering Boy-Child#1 was just so darn comfortable in my womb and decided to stay in there a week past his due date, I did not take any chances. I begged asked my doctor if it was possible to slap some hurry up on the delivery of Child#2 (not knowing if it was a boy or girl residing in my body at the time). After determining that conditions were "ripe" (i.e. sticking the entire length of her arm into my vagina...so totally not a good time... and poking my cervix with ALL of her fingers, some newfangled Braille... so not a great party game) she gave me two thumbs up (after the removal of her arm, obviously, otherwise how would I know?). At 6am the following morning, I was in my labor and delivery room, Pitocin flowing generously into my iv, and feeling a little anxious. After all, Boy-Child#1 was a 12 hour ordeal that started at 5 centimeters dilated and after 6 hours of unrelenting contractions and begging for an epidural, I found myself at: 5 centimeters dilated. Oh the frustration of labor. Boy-Child#1 also required 2 hours of pushing and was finally removed by vacuum extraction. It was then that we realized how enormous that child was (9lbs. 7oz.). No wonder he was stuck in the walls, as it were. But, bless his big fat head, he cleared the way for future siblings because he is so considerate like that.

Labor with Boy-Child#2 did not require an epidural. Why? Because I wasn't in any pain. I know. Just hate me and deal. I watched tv. I chatted with a room full of friends and relatives. I could hear other women laboring and was feeling really bad for them. And was glad it wasn't me. Every few minutes my abdomen would harden and squeeze; and according to the monitor I was having a doozy of a contraction. Thank goodness for my mother in law standing by to inform me that "That was a big one!" because honestly, I was like "whatever". Forty-five minutes before he was born the pain realized it was late to the party, showed up with an entourage and some groupies to say howdy. The lovely nurse offered to spike my iv with some Demoral and I was all "yes please!". She advised that she'd give me half of the dose just to make sure it wouldn't make me ill (i.e. vomit all over myself). It took about 4.8 seconds before I felt like I'd consumed an entire bottle of cheap wine and asked her to hook me up with the rest of the magic crack. She tells me "I already did". Bitch. I was really excited about what the rest might do to me. But I didn't have time to think to hard on it because right around this time I went from 7 centimeters to 10 in like 5 minutes and it suddenly felt like there was a basketball between my inner thighs. The crowning moment. There was a flurry of activity in the room. Shit was being draped. I was being flipped on my side and told to keep my knees together and blow because this child was comin' and the doctor was en route. So I would blow. Hooo...hoooo...hooo...(and then) Hoooo...hooommmm...hmmmm.... hmmmmmmm. "You're pushing!" "No I'm not" Hmmmmmmm....hmmmmm.... "yes you are!" "I CAN'T HELP IT!!!". It felt so good to push. And I really had no control over it. My body was completely independent of my brain at this point. I mean, I wasn't even sure if we'd ever met. Who are you and what the hell are you doing down there? Doctor arrives. Doctor snips (oh the joys of an apesiotomy). Husband comments that it sounds like she just cut a piece of leather. About 15 minutes and a handful of pushes later: It's a boy! I sob. Husband sobs happy sobs. I say "That's it?". Baby cries. Baby is healthy. Husband cuts the cord. Me: I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN!!! Husband learns that I am bat shit crazy. This was too easy. Not really feeling like I earned my stripes. Friends and family come in to give us our props. Sister in law observes that I didn't break a sweat and look like I'm ready to go out to dinner. Hair and makeup still in tact. That is my kind of delivery...one that does not muss.

Happy Birthday to my little man.

He Was A Skater Boy She Said See Ya Later Boy

As previously mentioned, Boy-Child#2's birthday is tomorrow and we're celebrating with ice-cream cake and dinner (Kentucky Fried Chicken...oh gag of gags... burp... ew... at his request) tonight, because we're bad, naughty parents and will be absent Friday due to holiday (hiccup) partying. I have gone against my better judgment and bought the skateboard that Boy-Child#2 desperately wants. "Oh, please, please, PLEASE, can I have it?!" You know, the one he's been jonesing for since our trip to the X-Games this past summer. Because we Farklepants' are total posers so extreme! But I figured, where is the joy in being a mother to a son without a few trips to the emergency room and some random broken bones? I'm going to stave it off by having him dress in the appropriate skater safety gear...this:

Plus a helmet. So if the skateboard doesn't send him to the hospital, the neighborhood kids that kick his ass because of this ensemble, should fill that void. (An aside: Totally searched the internets looking for a picture of Randy Parker from A Christmas Story and this, plus a doll action figure is the only image I could find. Who knew?)

The School Nurse is So Boss

In keeping with the theme of sick kids... Because I just wanna talk about it, okay?! Last Friday I sent Boy-Child#2 off to school with a cold. Probably the one that is currently torturing Girl-Child; but the snot factor wasn't as severe. He mainly had an extremely irritating hacking cough. It started out as a stealthy sniffly nose on Tuesday of last week. Which meant by Friday he'd already exposed his entire class and whoever the heck it is he plays handball with on the playground (kid has mad skillz with the handball game); and whoever he happened to just randomly lick. No. He doesn't do that. Anymore. Not since he was like two. So, come Friday morning, one hour after slowing my car to a crawl and forcing my son out of the slow moving vehicle and shouting "tuck and roll baby!" dropping him off; I get a call from the school nurse to come and get him. Are you shitting me?? "Oh, heeellll no" she informs me. Because once the teacher has sent the child to the office with a note to get them as far away from the classroom as possible the nurse is required to summon the parents. Okay. Fine. Once I get there Mrs. Nurse is all ready to dish. She leaned in close and kinda sideways towards me. A signal, in woman's terms, that things are about to get a bit catty. She instantly garners my respect for being, you know, a normal person and not some uptight bourgeois elementary school bureaucrat. She thinks it's a tad ridiculous that the teacher wants him sent home for just a cough. She thinks the teacher was just bothered by the ruckus he was creating. He's not running a fever, she notes. "It's just a cough" "Yep, just a cough", I agree. "Could last for 2 weeks, ya know?" "Totally", I agree some more. She leans in closer. I shiver and am a little bit in love with her. "You know, I had a mother once tell me that she didn't want her son coming to my office for any reason because of, you know, other kids germs" GASP! "No way", I say. "Yeah. I wanted to tell her that there are more germs in the classrooms than there are in here". And here is where I high-fived her because ever since the start of school in the fall, Boy-Child#1's sixth grade class has been unable to stop the spread of Strep-Throat. About once every two or three weeks, a note is sent home to inform the parents that it has taken another victim and "oh, by the way, in case you don't remember this from the last 18 notices sent home; here are the signs to look for". Boy-Child#1 has had it TWICE in two months. And I'm all giving Mrs. Nurse the kudos because an actual TEAM is coming in to disinfect the streptococcus ridden classroom. TEAM! I imagine they're doing it when the room is empty but I say it's high time to throw some bleach on those kids! Mrs. Nurse could be my newest BFF. Our conversation was cut short by her ringing phone. She gave it a dirty look. And I grabbed her boob bid her adieu.

Super-Mom-Radical-Pants

Still waiting for the coffee to kick in.

I'm volunteering in Boy-Child#2's 2nd grade classroom today. At least I'm supposed too. Girl-Child is still enjoying Snot-Fest 2007. I'm grappling with the dilemma of sending her off to her morning preschool class; even with the coughing up of both lungs and the constant stream of mucus located between her nose and upper lip. Other children and their parent's scorn be damned! Bite me! Because it is preferable than Boy-Child#2's certain disappointment if I cancel because of her. This is a repeat scenario from a couple of months ago and it sent him into the proverbial dither. I don't want to go all de-ja-vu on his ass. He is just a beaming ray of pride when his Mommy is in attendance. "That's my mommy grading papers!" "That's my mommy tying your shoe!" "That's my mommy stapling shit to the wall!". I also admit that I relish the ego strokes from the hugs and the "Hey! It's Mrs. Farklepants! Woo!" from people of the four foot tall persuasion. I do not discriminate where my ego is concerned. I takes what I can gets. So I hope the preschoolers immune systems brought their game faces today...because I'm totally bringin' it. I usually try my best to be considerate. Sometimes I'm just an asshole.

So, You Randy Brits...What Brings You Here?

Melanie over at BeanPaste inspired me to check my referral log on Site Meter to see what it is that people are looking for when they stumble across my blog. After wading through (because I have NOTHING better to do) page after redundant page; my mouse-clicking finger was starting to fatigue, I was starting to yawn and then just as I was about to declare outright boredom, the UK made a showing, stepped up to the plate and offered this gift to me. Because it is the holidays. And those Brits are so polite. From Google.co.uk I unveil...."shaving a womans bits". Yes. If you type this into Google, my site is the second listing. Just under "How to Shave Your Pubic Hair - a Womans Guide". I'm. So. Completely humiliated. Proud.

Fireside Chats From the Farklepants Family Room

Mr. Farklepants: (seated on comfy soon to be replaced shambles of a couch) "It's cold in here".
Tootsie: "No it's not".
Mr. Farklepants: "I'm cold".
Tootsie: "No you're not".
Mr. Farklepants: "Yes I am! It's freezing in here!" (it went from "cold" to "freezing" clearly the storm system moving through our living room is coming from the north)
Tootsie: "The thermostat reads 70 degrees and if you close your eyes you can hear the waves crashing against the Christmas tree. I think I heard a seagull. I just whiffed some salty air".
Mr. Farklepants: (sheepishly) "Can you get me a long sleeved shirt"?
Tootsie: "There's a sweatshirt on the table in the other room".
Mr. Farklepants: "That's too thick".
Tootsie: "That's too bad".
Girl-Child arrives with pink throw blanket that she has determined her father needs to prevent hypothermia from taking hold.
Mr. Farklepants: "See? She loves me".
Tootsie: "Yes".
Mr. Farklepants: "You don't".
Tootsie: "Yes I do".
Mr. Farklepants: "She loves me more".
Tootsie: "Probably".

We are all about the romance.

It's Cold in Here...Just Ask My Nipples!

Somewhere in the halls of science, a team of researchers gathered and after much consideration determined that the optimum temperature to keep a chain restaurant establishment is...3 degrees. This way, if the customers are hungry enough, they will brave the cold front, order, and eat as quickly as possible to make room for the next round of those willing to risk pneumonia and/or possibly losing a toe or three to frostbite. The only folks crazy enough to stay for dessert are the Eskimos. And possibly a penguin. Or polar bear. Or those who were wise to bring a parka. And snow shoes. "Would you like a margarita with your lunch?" "Why yes, that'd be greeeeeat. Please just use the ice that's formed on the table and save yourself the trip back to the bar". "Okay, can I get you anything else?" "Yeah, ski mask? And a straw?"

And the Cat's in the Cradle and the Silver Spoon

The company holiday party. It will be held on the most inconvenient day of the month. You could have only one important event happening in the whole month of December which means you can be absolutely certain that the holiday party will land smack on that day. Set your watch. Yes. Cue Boy-Child#2's birthday and mass juggling for its celebration. His birthday is on Friday. And because we're such stellar parents, we won't be here. That would be because Mr. Farklepants's company party is scheduled for that evening. He began to explain to his immediate supervisor that this put him in a bit of a pickle, but as Mr. Farkelpants began to stammer "Um, ah, well you see...", the supervisor peered into Mr. Farklepants's soul to facilitate the importance of his being at the party, "at 7:30pm sharp and bring your lovely wife. And wear something casual chic. Merry Christmas!" Mr. Farklepants points out that this scenario is like a sitcom where the husband has a work related event that falls on their child's birthday and the father chooses work. Only in this case, hilarity will not ensue and the moral of the story will not be wrapped up neatly in 30 minutes. Explain the situation to your child; he will understand, you are thinking. Are you kidding? Boy-Child#2 still has difficulty comprehending the birthday party celebration on a weekend when the actual birthday is on a weekday..."But my birthday is on Friday not on Saturday." "I know Honey, but no one would be able to come to your party on Friday so we're having it on Saturday." "But that's not my birthday. No one is coming to my birthday?" "Yes they are Sweetie. At your party on Saturday." "But my birthday is on Friday." "I know Honey. Now excuse me while I go beat my head against this wall for a sec."

The silver lining? New clothes. I have to run out and pick up something "casual chic" so that we will look totally boss. I will drown my angst in retail therapy. It's what I do. Thankyouverymuch.

I've Got a Little Christmas Meme on My Face

I've been tagged by Madame Queen with a Christmas meme! (I wonder if they make a salve for that) As you can imagine; I'm very excited about it. It is my very first ever meme tagging. Madame Queen has done gone and made me a woman. So as not to let her down, I will list my favorite Christmas gift that I received from my childhood, my favorite from my adulthood, and a gift I would like to receive in the future. And then I will tag three of you by leaving you a comment on your blog. Probably something clever like "you're it".

The Gift I Wish I Still Had From My Childhood: A black velvet party dress (I was about 8ish years old) that I had seen in some hoity-toity specialty shop in some fancy-shmancy part of town that we had no business being in; because we could not afford anything in the store. We were poor. I mean, "eat Spam sandwiches for dinner every night" kind of poor. But while my grandmother and mother window shopped I stood by the marvelous dress. I stroked the soft velvet fabric. I fluffed the white crinoline that filled the underneath. I fingered (and I just giggled) the black satin sash with tiny red roses, the poufy white sleeves, and the ruffled collar. It was very poufy. Like 1950's "Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus" poufy. I don't know if my mother stole it; or what couch she found two nickels in to rub together. But beg, borrow, or steal this dress was under our tree come Christmas morning. And I wore it every chance I got. Even if that was just to sit on the couch to watch "Charlie's Angels" after school. And I'm pretty sure I looked like one of the Von Trapp kids in it. But I loved it more than anything EVER! I wore out Google on the Internets trying to find some resemblance of this dress. It is NOT TO BE FOUND.

Most Awesomest Gift from Adulthood: This was hard. Because at first I thought "Oh that's easy! That would be the Lexus GX470 that Mr. Farkelpants gave to me in 2004; in a very 'Lexus December to Remember commercial' kind of way!" Except that it was February and it had nothing whatsoever to do with Christmas. But I'm going to brag on him anyway because this IS the most splendiferous gift I've received in my adulthood! I needed a new car. We test drove several. We decided on the Toyota Sequoia. We test drove the Lexus because we get our kicks by wasting car salesmen's time. We are sick like that. We had also refinanced our mortgage at a jaw dropping lower rate at this time. Because we are smart like that. So we went out to dinner to celebrate and afterwards the valet brought my shiny new Lexus around **sheen...sparkle...sparkle***. SURPRISE! And I had what a doctor would describe as an extremely mild myocardial infarction. Which is just a fancy word for "wannabe heart attack". Mr. Farklepants rarely does surprise gifts; but when he does, he does not feck around.

What I'd Like to See Under My Tree in the Future: I would like two tickets to paradise, please. Tahiti to be precise. Since Mr. Farkelpants and I married over 11 years ago, we have never taken a vacation. Together. That didn't involve a family commitment. Or without kids. Unless joining him at a convention in Las Vegas constitutes a "vacation for the two of us". Which, I will tell you right now. It does not.

So now for the hard part. Choosing three people to tag. I mean, I don't wanna hurt anyone's feelings. I admire all of you but I can only choose three. Those is the rules. So I'm choosing these people for the following reasons:
JCK at Motherscribe : She told me that she thought I was funny then went and linked me on her site. All you have to do is tell me I'm funny or pretty and you can very well have your way with me. I'm so easy. And, she has an affinity for lists!
Melanie at BeanPaste :Because her children are reading their "My First French Book" and that totally kicks that proudful mother's ass in the Hooked on Phonics commercial.
1blueshi1 The Stay at Home Mom Going Quickly Insane : This woman has her holiday party outfit all planned out and ordered a back up outfit just in case she doesn't pull off the first quite the way she'd imagined she would. Any woman who puts that much consideration into clothes is a kindred spirit o'mine.

And to the tagged, as Madame Queen said (and I quote) "Feel free to use the gorgeous "Christmas Past, Present, Future" button that Burgh Baby's Mom created. And then tag three more people."

Getter done!

I Rock So Hard...Yeah!

My favorite commercial. I'm easily amused.

They'll Make a Shoe out of Anything

I am predicting mass mutilation of shoes all across America this holiday season. What child can resist fishing a ball out of the bottom of their sneaker? This possible choking hazard comes complete with Built-in Zectron™ SuperBall® technology! In case you were wondering, that is 13 super balls, per foot mind you; for a paltry $65 dollars plus tax!

15 Holiday Cards w/ Envelopes $10.95

One of my favorite holiday activities is Christmas card preparation. I've been doing it ever since I had my first apartment and mailed my own cards independent of my parents. I love making my list (my sister just read this and peed a little bit...we have a little obsession about list making and hers is kinda out of control, we may plan an intervention), addressing them, stuffing them with pictures of the kids, and writing inspirational, personalized messages like "We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Very Happy New Year". And as boring as that is, we really mean it. And there's getting the kids pictures ready to put in the card. Ya have to cut them out and then write their names on the back, etcetera. I'm not a Martha Stewart type and this is as crafty as I get and the only time of year that I do it, folks. So let me have my moment.

You know what I have noticed over the years though? The boxes of cards are getting smaller; as in less of them than there were before. I have about 40 people on my list and I used to be able to buy 2 boxes of 20 cards each and be done with it. Somewhere along the way Hallmark got wise to this, how should I say? Convenience? That's just nonsense! We aren't allowed convenience! "Let's put 18 in the box and charge the same! And, they'll have to buy an extra box to make up the difference and they can use the leftover 8 cards as kindling! BRILLIANT!" ..."But wait! If the card is extra special fancy, let's only put 15 in the box! And charge the same! Ohh! OOOOOHHHH!!! And the fancier they get, the less and less we put in the box! Here! This one is really super-duper expensive looking fancy. Let's put 8 in this box. Do you think someone will buy it?" "Oh yeah. And, dude, they'll have to buy like 5 boxes". "And we'll charge the same!!!".

This year, I have 32 people on my list. I bought 2 boxes of 15 cards each. So I'm scratching 2 people off my list. The relationships I have with these two people is strictly that of the Christmas card exchange. We do not go into detail about our lives through the exchange. We have not called each other in years. I do not know anything about them except that they live at the same address as they did the previous year. And that they used to like to go to happy hour after work; ten years ago. I will not buy the extra box. Please note (in the photo above) the button used to dot the "i" and the felt "r". Mine are only moderately fancy.

Woman Turns Into Teen - Smites Bullies: News at 10

I wish I had a magic lamp that would grant me just one wish. Today I wish I were a 13 year old boy. I know. Out of all the things to wish for this seems kinda a waste of time; but when your pre-teen son comes home from school and informs you that some kids have been picking on him and "oh, by the way, it's been happening for quite sometime but now I'm telling you, because Mom, I don't want to go to school ever again. PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME!", well I don't need to tell other moms what this does to you. But I will. It makes you lose all maturity and you silently become an advocate for violence. It causes you to want to do murder. Wholesale smoting. Of course, you can't, because it's just wrong. And there is the whole jail thing. But if I were a 13 year old boy I could at least get away with dealing a right good ass kicking. It's just the right age. Not too old so that the fight is unfair, but just old enough to possibly scare some decency back into the soulless little feckwits. That's right. I've resorted to name-calling.

And the worst part about this, as a parent? There is nothing I can do. Calling the police just seems a tad alarmist, if you ask me. If you involve the teacher you just make it worse. If you involve the parents, you just make it even that much worse. I guess that would be "worser". If bullies find out you are a tattletale, and especially if they get in any trouble for it, they don't just suddenly become fine upstanding citizens; they will JUST TRY HARDER TO TORMENT YOUR CHILD. And if they find out that their behavior is bothering your child even a tiny bit, then their life suddenly has meaning. I know this because in 8th grade I had my own bully. We'll just call her C.L. Because, honestly? I'm a little afraid if I type her full name she'll Google and see this admission. And seek me out, show up at my door, force me to meet her at the flagpole after school, and punch me in the face. She was that mean. She hated ALL OF MY GUTS. I know what my son is going through. It's not so much what the bully does or says that causes the anguish. It's the humiliation in front of your peers that makes it the complete nightmare that it is.

So if I were a thirteen year old boy I could have his back on the playground. And I totally would straight up mollywop those bastards. Mollywop is totally a word. From the Urban Dictionary: 1. (I'm not even going to say what #1 is), 2. To be hit with an open hand or closed fist extremely hard. The person hitting you has to follow through and come down with it so that you feel the true force. 3. (Verb)To punch someone directly in the side of the head with a roundhouse. Numbers 2 and 3 are sufficient.

Is That the Red or the White?

Today I opened up a can....of Progressive New England Clam Chowder for lunch. I fear it may kill me. I will be adding it to my list of "things that make me want to hurl by the mere mention of its name". In case you were wondering: Hot dogs top that list. It all stems from an unfortunate incident involving a tainted hot dog at a Judas Priest concert in the late eighties. I don't even like to talk about it. It was brutal. If you don't hear from me; I fell in.

Top Dawg, Yo

Our 100 pound lap dog. She thinks she's a lap dog. I know this because she routinely tries to sit in our laps. She is getting on in age. Her hearing is betraying her. She barks at imaginary visitors and imaginary doorbells. She tucks tail at electronic beeping sounds and compressed air. These things are the anti-Christ to her. She has an affinity for the cardboard center of toilet paper rolls. They are her one true love. She takes great care in burying them in various parts of the backyard and only digs them out and brings them in the house on special occasions. She will dump out her water bowl and carry it to the center of the lawn, but only when we have company. I think it's her way of saying "hey you! I'm over here! Pay attention to me.", like my kids do with all the tugging of my shirt and the demands for my attention when I'm on the phone. She is a food stealer. Food cannot be left unsupervised. It can't even be left in the cupboard. The cupboard must be barricaded before the humans leave the house or the humans will come home to all of the contents strewn about the floor. She will also hide food in the couch. She buries it behind the pillows to save it for later. She seems rather fond of conveniently packaged snacks that go in the kids lunch boxes. Sometimes she will volunteer her guilt by making an appearance in the room with said snack package clenched in her muzzle. As if to say, "In case you were uncertain? I made this mess." She will sleep on our beds when we aren't home. We have to keep our bedroom doors shut. She knows how to open childproof safety latches on the kitchen cabinets. Quite a talent for an animal without opposing thumbs. She catches moths and eats them; like a cat. She has a thing about shaking hands. She likes to do it all the time. It's the only trick we ever taught her and she's a showoff.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because I just realized how dog proofing the house before I leave has become such an ingrained part of my daily routine, that I don't even notice it anymore. Why don't I put her outside? Because she HATES it out there. She hates to leave the house, period. Once when we had to board her so we could go on vacation, and I was getting ready to leave her at THE PLACE, she stood on her hind legs and wrapped her front paws around my neck as if to say, "wanna tango?". Or, "if you leave me here I will eat your face. I have sharp, pointy teeth, bitch". And that's our dog.

Piso Mojado

Why do people bring their dogs shopping? And it's only the little dogs. The kind you can put in a sack and still get around without too much trouble. The only time you see larger dogs on leashes in a department store is when there is a blind person attached to them. So why? Is it because Paris Hilton does it and they think they're hot? It's not hot. It's disgusting. Want to know why it is disgusting? Because these little dogs piss themselves. That's why. And that is exactly what I saw today at the mall. A woman (who I think was in some very cute pajamas), carrying her chihuahua under her arm, and a soaking wet stream of dog piss running down the length of her body right into her Croc's. And I'm pretty sure when I thought "ew", I said it out loud. Leave the animals at home.

No shoes, no shirt, no service. And no dog piss.

Circa 1989

I went through the Herculean effort yesterday of wrestling out the boxes full of indoor Christmas decorations for the house and our newly purchased tree. And I have to say, I threw up a little bit when I had to pay for that tree. Good grief! No. It's not flocked in gold as one might think for such a price. I know. Getting an artificial tree would be more cost effective, but Tootsie is a tree purist. Must have real tree.Anyway, located at the bottom of all those boxes is the one that contains all of my yearbooks. So, of course, I spent about two hours flipping through a couple and reading every single message that my classmates and teachers wrote. Honestly, I don't even recognize half the names anymore. The notes from the teachers were the most amusing. This one is from my Algebra teacher: "You've been a bright spot in an otherwise dismal year. Teaching you was a pleasure. I wish you every success and hope your goals are achieved." I guess everyone else JUST SUCKED ASS. From my Creative Writing teacher: "Four or five years from now I'll be expecting an invitation to your college graduation and I'll go (wherever, whenever!!) You are so lovely, so bright, so creative. Please understand that, and do important things in your life. Remember the old man in room 22." And I do remember him. I think about him almost every time I write something. Someday, when I win the Oscar for best original screenplay, he will be the first person I thank. I heart him so much. From my senior adviser: "My dear young lady, I have been able to tell for a long time who is one of the luckiest people in the world - S******" (my high school sweetheart). "You are what I think the kind of girl I liked when I was in HS I hope and know your life will be happy, long, and healthy. Hope to see you in the future. Damn you're cute. Remember us." Uh, okay. That's just a little creepy. And finally, from the quarter back of the varsity team (not my boyfriend): "To the girl who should have gotten best looking and prom queen. It was great to have met you this year. You're such a fun person to talk too. Good luck in your future, party during the summer and always have a good time. Love, #10".... ahhh...#10. He was hot. And I did party during the summer. Enough nostalgia for now. Back to 2007. And to putting these boxes away. Party on Wayne. Party on Garth.

Mom, I Think Your Purse is Ringing

I'm one of those rare people that actually uses their cell phone when the need to speak with someone cannot wait until I can get home and email them (because my fingers can say in ten words what my mouth isn't capable of conveying in a hundred). As a result of my lack of cell phone use, I have not mastered the fine art of talking and simultaneously doing something else. Like driving a car or navigating a shopping cart. In either case, I need to pull the vehicle over; or push it over, as it were. So yesterday while marketing, my Boy-Child#1 alerted me to my ringing purse. Which, of course, I couldn't wrestle out in time to retrieve. Which led to pushing buttons to find out who called. My husband. Which led to me trying to call him back. And he was trying to call me back. And my battery was on it's last life. And it became this whole thing. So when I finally get him on the phone, I was all frustrated, and at the same time trying to locate the broccoli in the frozen food section (how can a store run out of broccoli? Where is the broccoli, dammit?) and I was all stuck there because I cannot fathom walking, talking, pushing a cart, and wrangling three children all at the same time. It MAKES MY LAST NERVE COMMIT SUICIDE BY CATCHING ITSELF ON FIRE. And my husband wants to know "where the Christmas lights to trim the outside of the house are?" And I'm all, "wherever you put them after you took them down last year. How should I know?" And he was all "what's your problem?" And I was like, "I can't see our garage from here. Cuz there are too many streets and houses blocking my view, Dude" And then he went, "okay. whatever. I'll look. Bye." "Bye."

So then I got home and he was like, "I couldn't find them. Did we throw them away last year?". And I was all, "I don't remember. Are you sure you looked?". Cuz when I look, I actually move items around and, you know, LOOK. And he says, "yeah". And I doubted him. So I go out there and in the first storage door I opened, guess what I found? The lights. Clearly the only way he was going to find them by "looking" for them is if he opened the garage door to find it completely empty and the strands of Christmas lights sitting dead center with a giant red bow on top. Plugged in and blinking.

When Proofreading is Beneficial

Flipping through a local magazine, I came across an announcement for The Gentle Barn; an animal rescue, who are having a "Winter holiday wonderland and fundraiser". One of the activities scheduled is:

**Decorate stockings for our 60 rescued animals and stuff them with treats**

I'm pretty sure the message they've sent isn't exactly what they had in mind.

Forecast: Slightly Damp With a Chance of Spontaneous Combustion

Sigh...I had planned on doing some Christmas shopping yesterday morning. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are my only mornings that are child-free; and subsequently, it is my valued "me-time". But I didn't venture out. Wanna know why? Because there was water coming out of the sky and wet stuff on the ground. It's an unusual sight to see here in Southern California but I think I've heard it referred to as "rain". I don't know if you know this about native Southern Californians, but unless it involves soap or a bathing suit; we don't like to get wet. And just an FYI, we don't appreciate being splashed unexpectedly nor do we like having a hose turned on us. We believe that it causes us to melt, or worse(?), large chunks of flesh to fall off our bodies. We won't leave the house unless we can get from point A to point B and remain dry as a bone. We can never find our umbrellas because they are so seldom used that we forget where we stored them. And plus? It's not raining hard enough to clean the dirt off my car. It will just cause spotting. My car is white and dirty polka-dots is an unfortunate look.

We can appreciate rain and you will often hear us acknowledge how much we need it. But we like to watch it through a window. And if it lasts longer than a day we will complain endlessly about it. And can also be accurately diagnosed with Seasonal Affective Disorder; like those folks in Alaska and all their days of darkness, using artificial light therapy.

And another also, contrary to popular belief; native Southern Californians can drive in the rain. It is the transplants from rural parts of the country (and unless you come from a city with a population just under 10 million, you come from a rural location) who become unsure and nervous when they find themselves navigating traffic on the 405, in the rain. Just sayin'...

Amazon.com: I'm Putting You On Notice!

When it comes to giving my children gifts, I strive to keep said gifts a surprise. "Do not open until Christmas", is my motto. When I order something online, I expect it to be delivered in a plain brown, non-distinguishable package; for a couple of reasons. For one, if I happen to be absent from my home when the package is delivered and left on my doorstep, I do not want the world to know what is inside the box. It might be something they'd like to have, and lets face it; that's all some people need to justify taking it (Hey! They aren't home. I want it. Must be for me! Thanks sucker.) And secondly, what else I don't want to happen, is exactly what did happen today. The doorbell rang and I, along with my Girl-Child whose self imposed job it is to answer the door (and this is the most fun thing ever for her to find out who is on the other side of the door. Honest. She doesn't need gifts. She just needs someone to go outside every once in a while and ring the bell. Her own personal heaven.) find our friendly neighborhood UPS man on the other side, grinning. On the ground directly in front of him is the doll cradle I'd ordered for the Girl-Child presently at my side. How did I know it was the cradle? Because it is in its original packaging; no effort to hide it whatsoever. A giant picture of it is slapped on the front of the box. Hard to miss. This prompted me to open my palm, place it on my daughter's face, shove her thustly and slam the door. "Thanks", I called to Mr. UPS. "Just leave it there"! I looked down at my Girl-Child for any indication that she'd actually seen the box. But all she did was look back at me with an expression that can only be described as "WTF, Mom? What's with all the face pushing?". Or, "Are you high? Don't make me open up a can".

Two words for those who ship: Brown Wrapper.

Taking Things Literally

I must blog this quick exchange between my oldest son and myself from this morning. While watching the local news, a blurb about Toys For Tots was covered; and my oldest son was horrified.

Boy-Child#1: (all color drained from his face) Is that for real?
Tootsie: (confused) Uh, yeah, why?
Boy-Child#1: Really? You can do that?
Tootsie: Of course. Do you want too?
Boy-Child#1: NO! You wouldn't do that, would you?
Tootsie: Is there some kind of misunderstanding here?
Boy-Child#1: That just doesn't seem right. You give them a child and they give you a toy?
Tootsie: (breaks into hysterical laughter) No Honey, see....

A Boy and His Hair

My oldest son has long hair (see proof here ) and is ready for a change. Not short, but a new style. He's very excited (as excited as an eleven year old boy can be about hair) about this:

Joe Jonas (center) has the look my boy wants to imitate. I'm on the fence about it and trying not to fall off. Is it just me, or is it a piece-y mullet? A party in the front and simultaneous party in the back kinda mullet? I'm all for risky hair, especially when you're a kid. Since once one becomes an adult it is often difficult to pull it off if you've got a job that says; conservative, please. But a mullet? I have this fear that he'll hate it once the deed is done. And I'll try to keep the rain of hair from sticking to his tears as I shave it all off onto the kitchen floor.

This Will Hurt Me More Than it Hurts You

I thought that random acts of violence were on the way out here in the Farklepants household. Fighting amongst siblings still takes place but actual physical combat hasn't been a problem since the summertime cabin fever episode. I attributed the newfound lack of fisticuffs to my oldest son becoming a bit more mature and the younger starting to develop similar interests. I hate punishing my kids. I always feel like a giant cup of crap soup immediately after. Sure I feel justified at the moment punishment is called for, but when I see tears well up in their eyes or I know that their current grounding will keep them from doing something they've really had their heart set on...I dunno. It's one of those situations that makes it to the "hard part about being a parent" side of the pro/con list. But, punishment is necessary sometimes; like, oh, say when the oldest son kicks the youngest son in the stomach. And that's not a "what if" scenario. That just happened. Twenty minutes ago. And that kind of thing demands appropriate sentencing. And, less importantly, what a lame ass thing to do with Christmas less than a month away.

Even though I know that Boy-Child#1 is more upset because he's been punished rather than remorseful for the kung-fu move he dealt Boy-Child#2; I still wanna hug him when all is said and done. And I have to apply stealth-like ninja moves on myself to keep from doing so.

**this entry was written last evening and posted this morning. This did not happen before breakfast today. Boy-Child#1 isn't that awful to kick his younger brother's ass before younger brother has had his Fruit Loops**

Show and Tell

I remember when I was in elementary school. Yes I do, shut up. And there were a small number of events where your parents actually came to your classroom and/or school; aside from arrival and dismissal. Those functions included but were not limited too and in no particular order: Open House, Back to School Night, and The Christmas Program. That was it. Parents? In the classroom? Volunteering? What? Grandparents Day? Huh? Mother's Day, Father's Day, Sweetheart Dance, Talent Show, Father/Son Movie Night, Fall Carnival Fund raiser, Spring Carnival Fund raiser...and....? It seems that our generation of offspring have unleashed some kind of mass-parent-involvement trend. I'm not complaining. It's fun and I enjoy it. There is always something going on. Did I say always? Always. I get to be a PTA kind of mom without actually being an active member of the PTA. So, where am I going with this? My youngest son is VIP of his classroom this week. Everyday the teacher and his classmates take a few moments to make him feel speschuuul. Monday he shared his family scrapbook. Tuesday was show and tell about an item he brought from home. Today he (I) brought in a special treat for his class (Milano cookies because I rule). Tomorrow he gets to bring and read his favorite story. So tonight, I guess, he needs to figure out what that story is! But Friday. Oh, Friday. Friday I get to come to his class and interview him with my trusty list of scripted questions provided by Mrs. Second-Grade. She's also instructed me to "be prepared to share a story about your VIP".

So, not only am I (a parent) attending a school related function, but I'm also expected to perform. Oy. The pressure. Telling a story about my child should be easy, right? I mean, how hard can that be? I've got so many to choose from. Except that the stories that are fondly remembered by me, Mom, would probably humiliate my son to no end IN FRONT OF HIS ENTIRE CLASS. And kids can be mean and relentless, so the last thing I want to do is arm them with an arsenal of embarrassing anecdotes to torment my son with for the remainder of his academic career.

I'm also expected to describe what makes my son special to me. That's easy. Um. He's my son. And he's special to me because he came out of my vagina. All the people who've passed through my vagina are very special to me. What I want to ask his teacher is, "what makes him so special to you"? Do you think that might make my son just drop dead on the spot if I actually said that? Probably. Better come up with something else.