Blurbs from the Burbs by Chickysara

Overheard while driving: J: When I grow up I’m going to drive an AC Cobra. T: Why? J: Because it's fast. And I’m going to ride my girlfriend around in it. T: Can I ride around in it too? J: Nope. It’s a two-seater and there’s no room for you. T: Why J? I wanna ride with you. J: Well, you’ll have to ride in the trunk. And I'm going to throw my backpack and my lunchbox in there with you. T: That’s okay. I’ll put your backpack under my head. Like a pillow! J: Well, you’ll prob’ly smell my lunch because my lunchbox is inside my backpack. T: J, why won’t you ride me around in your AC Cobra? Anyways, you like boys more than you like girls. J: ...You’re right…okay...you can sit in the front. I’ll throw the girlfriend in the trunk.

I am engulfed in chaos. It is the onset of the pre-holiday madness that happens every year no matter how I hard I try to avoid it. This year, I confess, I did not try. There are many things going on over which I have no control so I have given up on trying and have decided to embrace the chaos. I’ve hung the decorations and put up a tree but I am not tending to details like baking or “correcting” Christmas light snafus. There is an entire bottom of a bush that is naked of Christmas lights. The Husband and I definitely don’t follow the same Christmas Light Hanging Code. He’s okay with tossing a few lights on a few random bushes, but I want to be able to see my house from space. I overheard him complaining to the neighbor that the only thing saving him from spending more than an hour hanging lights are the ones that won’t light up which he gleefully tosses. I wonder if he crushes those tiny bulbs between his fingers just so he can throw out the whole string (he wouldn't!--would he?)...

T has learned a new song in Kindergarten. It goes: “Hello neighbor, what do you say? It’s going to be a happy day. Greet your neighbor (shake hands with a friend here), boogie on down (do a downward shimmy here), give a bump (bump hips with a friend here), and turn around (turn around here, of course).” So he wanted me to sing with him so that we could shake hands and bump hips but then we got into an argument over the lyrics. I sang the song just as above and then he corrected me: T: It’s not “greet.” Me: It is! It’s: ”Greet your neighbor…right?” T: NO! It’s not! Me: Well then, what is it? T: It’s “greechor” Me: Greechor? T: Yeah! You know “ greechor neighbor…?” Me: What’s a “greechor?” T: It’s when you shake hands with someone! Later, we got into an argument when we were playing the Letter Game. T: I’m thinking about something that starts with a “C.” Me: Cat? Cabin? Carrot? T: No. No. No. Me: Hmmm...how 'bout a hint? T: Okay, it’s green and it has leaves! Me: And it starts with...

The phone rings: Me: Hello? Mom: Don’t ever go to Dr. Snob’s office again. (Every phone call with my mother starts this way. She doesn’t say hello or ask how things are going. She just gets straight to the heart of the matter). Me: Why? Mom: Because he’s a snob. He made me wait for an hour in this cold room. I was so cold! Don’t ever go there again. Me: Okay. Mom: He’s so arrogant and so is his staff. I could hear him right outside that cold room talking to a salesperson. I was cold and he just kept talking and made me wait and wait. Me: Okay. I won’t go there again. Mom: I just waited and waited. And he just kept talking and talking. And don’t put that cream on your face anymore. It will ruin your insides. Me: Okay. This conversation went on for about another twenty minutes and I agreed to everything she said. I didn’t say that Dr. Snob seemed perfectly fine to me and I went to him because she recommended him to me in the first place--after she pointed out that I needed to s...

Long ago, when my oldest son, Bert, who is now in college, was about six years old, he used to write in a journal. I once came across an entry titled “ my very bad horble day .” That was the day that Topher, who was four at the time, had to go to the hospital for stitches. According to the journal entry, Bert wrote: “I shot my baby bruthr out of a sleping bag like a kanon and he had to go to the hospitl and get stitchs.” That was a bad day. My very bad horrible day was last Monday. After a wretched, tedious day, the Husband and I had settled down on our disaster proof leather sofa where we were a half hour into the latest taped episode of Mad Men. Shortly after nine, J came downstairs crying about an upset stomach. Mother of the year that I am, I rubbed his belly and sent him to lie down in my bed where I usually send sickly kids to recover. A few minutes later I heard him bawling and I knew right away that he had gotten sick and it was going to be bad. Real bad . Mother’s have tha...

J wants to change the alphabet. He wants to eliminate the letter “C” because we already have “K” and “S” and therefore, the letter “C” is redundant. He also wants to know why we don’t pronounce Christmas with a ch- sound as in chocolate. He thinks it should be spelled Krismus. I really can’t argue with that. He told me that when he grows up he wants to be president so he can make this happen. He asked The Husband why the president doesn’t do this now and The Husband explained that the president probably doesn’t know his ABC’s and is not in any position to make changes.

Tomorrow is J’s 7th Birthday. So we are celebrating his birthday yet again tomorrow. Last weekend, my in-laws came to celebrate, and then during the week we celebrated at Chuck E. Cheese with J’s best friends after school. Tomorrow we celebrate for the third time with my family. It will only be take-out pizza and store-bought cake, but it’s the best I can do at this moment. I am hoping the endless celebrating will compensate for the fact that I am not throwing a big party this year due to my overwhelmingly busy schedule. I had grand plans for organizing a party with all of J’s buddies from school as well as from preschool, soccer, and the other extracurricular activities, in which he’s made friends, complete with an elaborate scavenger hunt with treasures at the end of it, but I couldn’t get up the energy for it. I am smack dab in the midst of jump starting my career after almost seven years of being a stay-at-home mom. Actually, I have been sort of working for the past year but only...

There seems to be a definitive US AGAINST THEM mentality going on in the offices of the administration in both the school district office and the elementary school J attends. I can’t say much about the other school—the one that T will be going to—because I haven’t had any experience with them yet. I hope they are much nicer than the ones I’ve been dealing with so far. That may be the only benefit to T and J going to two separate schools (due to the illogical who-cares-if-siblings-attend-different-schools-attitude of the district office)—the possibility of dealing with kinder, more accommodating and compassionate people at the other school. I am doubtful but optimistic. It seems, though, that they may all be in it together—like in Rosemary’s Baby. I know for a fact that the administration in J’s school has a sick and twisted desire to torture the parents. They seem to take pride in having an overcrowded school and only four usable parking spaces in the entire parking lot. And th...

When summer vacation first starts I am ecstatic over not having to get up at the crack of dawn to get the kids off to school, following a schedule of drop-offs and pick-ups, the accompanying extracurricular activities and volunteer duties. But by the last few weeks of summer vacation, I am just counting the seconds until I can get them out of the house as early as possible so I can have some peace and quiet for a few hours. It’s not that I don’t love being with my kids twenty-four hours a day for almost three months but—no wait—that is it. I love my boys more than anything in this whole wide world, but let's face it, that much time with anyone will drive a person crazy. First of all, there is the constant fighting over every little thing. Like who’s first. “I was here first!” claims one kid. “Uh-uh I was here first” the other one will shout. I am wondering, “Who cares???” It’s not like there’s a race. There is NO prize for being first. But apparently, it is of some great import...

Yesterday I decided to let the boys drive the mini-golf cart/death machine to the park. The first thing the boys do as soon as they hop into the golf cart/death machine is hit the gas and head straight down the driveway into the middle of the street. Without looking both ways of course. While they are speeding into danger, I am running behind them yelling, "DON'T GO INTO THE STREET!!!" Luckily we live on a quiet street and our neighbors are always wary of errant children running rampant. Anyway, we head to the park which is 2 short blocks away, me trailing behind the golf cart, J behind the wheel and T in the passenger seat. They've loaded their golf clubs and plastic balls into the back. J has a miniature size iron and T has a blue plastic driver. This is going to be fun and relaxing I am thinking. Every mother knows that every single time you are thinking "this is going to be fun and relaxing," it never is. Never. So I get the boys settled on the grass w...

Saturday was the regular soccer routine. We got up early and scrambled around in search of various uniform parts—shin guards, cleats, clean soccer shorts, etc. It’s like I know exactly where all of these things are until the actual game day. Then they all suddenly go missing. After we dressed the boys in mismatched soccer garb, we loaded all of the soccer game paraphernalia into the mini-van—lawn chairs water bottles, soccer balls, etc. and drove to the soccer field. First, we watched J’s team play. Surprisingly, he played his best game ever. He ran and kept his on-field socializing and his usual distracted moseying to a minimum. His team did well in spite of the mini-Beckham on the other team who looked like he had been playing for at least eight years--which would have been impossible because he could only be six at the most. Then we settled in at the next field to watch T’s team play. T is very clearly the smallest and youngest on his team and it’s obvious that he is overwhelmed by ...

From: Claire Subject: How are you? To: chickysara Date: Saturday, July 12, 2008, 12:20 PM I've had a really bad cold the last few days, I didn't want to get out of bed. I don't even know how my kids got fed. They probably scrounged in the secret potato chip/candy basket. I woke up one day and they were wearing their swimsuits, they led me to their almost spotlessly clean bathroom, which they had cleaned themselves (very suspicious). Disregarding the new red lipstick stains on the cream colored carpet, I just patted their heads and said "Good job". Who knows what else they were doing. I won't even ask what the BBQ tongs were doing next to the toilet. My neighbor called me last night and spent 2 hours telling me what a genius her child is, how the school system is failing her "genius", and went over all the different curriculums used in the schools. You've got to be kidding! I had taken cold medicine and hour before and had spent the last hour star...

The kids have been going to Bible Camp for the past few days. We’re not church-goers but the kids have a great time and they’re out of the house for two-and-a-half hours. The teachers are loving and kind and they get to see their friends. The Husband is worried that they’ll become become holy-rollers. I think it’s fine all things considered. In my opinion, learning about other people’s beliefs is not necessarily a bad thing even if it doesn’t coincide with your own. I mean it’s just information. Our job as parents is to help the kids process information and then force them to believe whatever we want them to. Anyway, it’s clear that T is still a bit young to fully understand the concept of God and church. He's definitely at Bible Camp for the snacks and, most importantly, the prizes that are raffled off at the end of the day. However, J managed to come away with some new information. Me: So what did you guys learn in Bible Camp today? J: Well, we learned about Jesus Crisis. Me: You...

Contents of purse: 1 green bristle block (in case of emergency according to T) 1 red felt tip pen (again for T’s emergency purposes) 1 fuzzy white bird feather (T’s) 1 small jar Vick’s Vapor Rub (emergency purposes--mine) 1 travel size body lotion from the Wynn in Las Vegas 1 sticky quarter 1 checkbook containing no checks 1 purple hard candy, crushed 1 half empty tube L’Oreal Rouge Pulp 1 tube Clinique Almost Lipstick in Blackberry 1 hair clip, broken 1 Leapster hand-held electronic game with Sonic Cartridge 3 Ticket Stubs to Kung Fu Panda Assorted receipts from Target, downtown parking garages, and Sweet Tomatoes Also gum wrappers, two non-working ball point pens, granola bar crumbs, and wallet purchased in the 1990’s containing no money but additional assorted receipts and a yellow business card for Good Luck Pigs .

I can hear the ocean outside the window. We are on a family getaway to celebrate summer and the fact that the boys and I do not have to get up at the crack of dawn for almost three months. WOOHOO!!!! We are staying in a quiet beach town on the central coast for a few days. So far the boys have been to the beach every single day which is just around the corner from our hotel and down a wooden stairway. The beach access closest to our hotel is sequestered in a quiet residential neighborhood so we've been able to get this part of the beach to ourselves. We spread out the big beach mat and plunk down beach toys and snacks of graham crackers, Wheat Thins, root beers and orange sodas on the corners of the mat to keep it from blowing itself shut. So far the boys have built a sand fort, climbed rocks, and chased waves. Today the Husband took J boogie boarding for the first time. We've walked up and down the sidewalks of the entire town peeking into antique stores, eating fish n' ch...

This morning I went and had breakfast with my cousin, Neena, who also happens to be one of my best friends. We are eerily alike. This morning she bought me pancakes and came with me to the plastic surgeon’s office. We are both thinking about getting some WORK done so we are doing some research. We both want to look like we have never given birth to children. One thing about having kids is that your body is never ever ever ever the same as it once was pre-pregnancy. For sure there are women out there who look fabulous even after kids, but I am suspicious of them. Like Kate Hudson, whom I saw in one of Deeva’s trash mags, wearing a skimpy bikini. Not a single stretch mark or an ounce of flab. Surely, she has gone under the knife. Also, Posh Spice who is actually really too skinny. I am pretty sure she has had WORK done. One thing for sure she doesn’t eat. Ever. But then there’s my sister, Bee, who's had one baby and I know, for sure, hasn’t had any WORK done but can still fit in th...

I'm addicted to the smell of Vick's Vapor Rub. I literally can not sleep without it. The Husband says he feels like he's sleeping with an old lady from the rest home but then I told him that Deeva loves it too so he stopped saying that. Deeva is very young and fashionable so if it's okay with her then it must be okay to smell like an old lady. The Husband says that coroners dab it under their noses so they won't be able to smell the corpses. That is an employee perk if you ask me. I just love the smell of Vick's Vapor Rub. I really wished I'd had it the other day when I went to the spa to get a massage. The minute I put my face in that little hole on the massage table, I got a whiff of something stinky. I really could not put my finger on it at first. But as the mother of two grown boys it became strikingly familiar. It was the stench of stinky socks. Hard to believe that the tiny masseuse could pack a shoe-full of that extremely Big Bad smell. Of course, I...

As the school year draws to a close, there have been many activities and goings-on at J’s school. The other day all of the Kindergartners had a big beach party so he got to wear his bathing suit to school and all of the kids got to play water games. To help celebrate I brought ice-cream sandwiches for J’s class so I thought his day would be pretty close to perfect, but this afternoon during lunch J pointed out to me that I had embarrassed him in front of his schoolmates. J: “Mom, you know, you packed a pink towel for me on beach day.” Me: “Oh, I didn’t realize that you cared which towel you used. I just grabbed the first towel in the cabinet” J: “Well, you should’ve grabbed the second towel because everybody laughed at me when I was laying on it.” Me: “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have brought the blue one with the flag. Did it hurt your feelings when they laughed?” J: “Sort of. But I told them it’s a Hawaiian towel and anything from Hawaii can be for boys or girls. Like Grandp...

I think I know why all polygamists are men. It’s the dirty socks. Every single day of my life I am picking up…dirty socks. And the boys, being little micro-clones of their father, follow his lead and take off their dirty socks and drop them... everywhere . With the three of them firing off sock bombs all over the place, that’s a lot of sock fetching for yours truly. There are socks under the coffee table, in the hallway, on the stairs, in the couch cushions, beside the beds, under the beds, and fleetingly close to the laundry hamper. As if someone had actually attempted to toss his dirty socks, or more often than not, sock , where it belongs. So today, I was picking up one roly-poly balled up sock after another when I made the connection. Oho! So that’s why it’s the men who need multiple wives. They need a whole army of women to pick up their discarded socks. Conversely, women don’t want more than one husband because they don’t want to pick up any more dirty socks than they have to. I...

Sunday was Mother’s Day so I slept in until 9:30. When I came down the stairs there was a huge banner hung across the wall that said “Happy Mother’s Day!” with lots of colorful pictures of stick people with long hair which I knew right away were supposed to be me. It was very cute. Then we got the boys dressed and went to a country club to meet my parents and Deeva and Ceci and her hubby and Baby Pickle for brunch. Afterwards, we all went back home and Bert and Topher came and The Husband barbecued and we watched movies. I love when all of my boys are together in one place and I’m surrounded by my family. I am immensely lucky. The only thing was Baby and her two boys couldn't make it because she didn't have enough gas money. I don't know if that is a testament to the ridiculous gas prices or Baby's money management issues--probably both. At the end of the day, Pickle, who will be two years old in two weeks talked up a storm and chased Kitty around the house before succu...

I went away on an overnight trip a few weeks ago and I while I was doing some serious window shopping in an overpriced boutique my cell phone rang. It was J. He was all excited and blabbing at about a million words per second and I could only make out a few words. J: ...blah blah blah garage!...blah blah cage!...blah blah blah blah dead mice in our ‘frigerator!!!!... Me: Dead WHAT? Let me speak to your father! But instead T got on the phone: Yeah! And the dead mice don’t even have hair!... Then The Husband got on the phone: Hi Honey, are you having fun? Me: What’s this about dead mice in our fridge!? I absolutely can not ever come home if there are rodents in our fridge. I do not want to open a packet of foil expecting to see leftover spaghetti and find hairless rodents instead! Then The Husband said: Hahahahaha (that’s him laughing). No no no no no! The dead mice are gone. The snake already ate them. Me: WHAT SNAKE? (that’s me yelling). The Husband: Well, we found this snake in the ga...

I am still amped up on the Starbucks Grande Caffé Mocha I drank this morning. I will definitely have to swallow a Restoril before I go to bed tonight. I told my shrink last week that I’ve been waking up every night at three in the morning because I need a haircut, but I’ve been so busy with work and the kids and the house that I haven’t had time to get one. That seems so stupid, but my hair is super ugly right now. Of course, I should just get a haircut instead of taking a sedative, but then I would wake up because I’m not sure where J’s shin guards are. So the best thing to do is take a pill and get some sleep. So now it’s out. Now people will know that I am a mother who goes to a shrink--never mind the meds. That’s my dirty little secret. No one in the suburbs can know or I’ll be blacklisted from the Home and School Club. And my poor kids, being the children of a medicated wacko who has to see a therapist, won’t be invited to any more play-dates and birthday parties. But at least it...

I was at Target this morning standing behind this little old lady and I overheard a conversation between her and the cashier, another elderly woman. The lady said to the cashier that she was in town to baby-sit her grandsons and she was buying a pile of goodies for them—Spiderman t-shirts, pretzels, puzzles. Then they got to talking about being grandmothers and how much they enjoyed their grandkids and how very different they are from how their own grandparents once were. They both said their own grandmothers were mean and spiteful. The first Grandma said: “Oh, my grandmother was not nice at all. She never thought of us grandchildren at all—didn’t even say “Boo” to us when we came around.” Then second one said: “I had the meanest step-grandmother when I was a girl. And she knew it. When she was dying she went saying, “Oh, I’m so scared. Help me, help me! She knew where she was headed all right. Oooh and I’ll bet the Devil was sorry when he got her .” Then the first Grandma said: “Well...

One thing about living in the suburbs is that sooner or later you will be invited to participate in something called Bunco. Bunco is like poker for chicks. I have never figured out the rules. I just know that there are a bunch of tables set out all over the house and there are dice and, I think, an egg timer involved. Depending on how many points you get or don’t get, you move to a different table. You win a prize if you get stuck holding a stuffed animal and also if you win or lose. Yes, I believe that losers win something—maybe a can of liverwurst or some other loser prize. If you win, you get a “good” prize. The first time I played I thought I might get some cash out of it. But then I learned that instead of winning money, the prizes were gift baskets filled with soap and a loofah—very nice, but nothing says “I WON!” like cold hard cash. Anyway, the prizes aren’t really what Bunco is really about. In fact, Bunco isn’t what Bunco is really about. Bunco is really about “socializing”...

Ugh. I am just coming off the most horrid week. Last week was hideous. It's like I was coasting along and all was fairly smooth and clear when I suddenly veered off onto the pot-hole-riddled Hard Times Expressway, bumping along while intermittently smashing into brick walls. That’s what last week was like. I'll be the first to admit that I am horrible in the face of adversity. I don't know how to handle difficult situations in a calm and logical manner. I tend to cry and go off into full panic mode, sobbing and running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Worst and foremost, it all started with a teeny tiny notice that J brought home from Kindergarten announcing orientation for kinders entering school in the upcoming year. I attended the orientation with T and discovered that enrollment for next year’s class had come and gone without my ever noticing. Most people would think “Oh well, it’s only April. Enroll now and it will be just fine.” But no. Not in our ridiculou...

I think I am finally recovered from Easter. We had brunch at my house with my family. There are probably more than twenty of us with all the kids. Me, The Husband, our little boys, J and T, my big boys, Bert and Topher, my parents, sisters, aunt, and uncle, cousins, nephews, and nieces. It was so lovely to see everyone and the day was perfect. Except-- Except, The Husband and I got into a squabble about the ham. What happened was The Husband smoked the ham for six hours in his antiquated Weber, and then I wanted brown sugar on it which is how my mom used to buy it from the fancy Ham Store when I was growing up. For some reason he balked at a sugared ham and when I pressed for it, he threw up his hands and said, “Then do whatever you want to it.” Then he stood and watched me--the bad cook in the marriage--try to make a crust of brown sugar on the ham by slapping big handfuls of sugar onto it and trying (unsuccessfully) to make it stick. When I was getting ready to put it in the oven, he...

Sam Le Roy is J’s dog. He is not a real dog. The Husband says we can’t have a real dog or anything else that poops. We have a cat and The Husband is on cat-poop detail because after the kids were born, I thought it was only fair that he had to clean someone else’s poop too. J asked for a dog and his request was duly rejected even after he promised to clean up any dog poop (yeah right). So J sort of kidnapped Sam Le Roy. Sam Le Roy actually belonged to my sister, Deeva, and his name was not really Sam Le Roy. I think it was Harold, after the semi-professional basketball player she was dating at the time who, by the way, gave her Sam Le Roy (then Harold) as a gift. That is why he wears a basketball jersey and sneakers, and if you squeeze his right paw he says “Woof Woof! (pant pant pant pant) Woof Woof!” and if you squeeze his left paw he says in a very deep voice: “Why you just sittin’ there lookin’ at me? Pet me. Squeeze me. Love me. Do somethin’ Girl!” So, one afternoon, t...

I talked The Husband into taking me and the kids to the mall the other weekend. He hates the mall but because he loves me and I’m a bully, he went. To make it worth his while we had lunch at the food court. I think he understands now that lunch at the food court with the kids is not the party he might have thought it was. It's not fun when one kid will only eat Orange Chicken from Panda Express, or as J calls it "Panic Express," and the other one will only eat food that isn't touching any other food, which is exactly the opposite of everything at "Panic Express." So after lunch, I went to get a makeover at the Macy's counter. This young guy who looked like Joan Jett basically spent 40 minutes fixing my face. He started off with something called a "primer." This must be something like the stuff you put on a car before you paint it. I'm not sure why, but I guess to cover up dings and dents and scratches? Then he applied two kinds of creme ba...

Claire came over to visit today. Since she moved out of state, I don't see her much at all and it's horrible because by all counts we should be living next door to each other. But when we do get together it's always like we just saw each other yesterday. Claire and I have been best friends since we were five years old, and she has always been my best and most solid friends for years and years and years and will be foreverandever amen. If I haven't scared her off by now, I can't see how it will end. Claire is one of those selfless people who is so good she really should be sainted. When we were little she would always let me play with her Ballerina Barbie --no questions asked--which was the Barbie at the time. I had Beach Tan Barbie which was definitely not the Barbie because, being a beach bum, she lacked the glamour and pizazz that show biz had bestowed upon Ballerina Barbie. Beach Tan had straight, stringy, bleached locks and a red tank suit that rode right up he...

That's what T was saying while he was pee-ing in the toilet this morning. The Husband and I overheard, looked at each other and started cracking up. I am elated that T got up to pee in the potty and did not laze around and go in his pull-up. He even put the seat down and washed his hands without being nagged. I think some of my bitching is paying off. Cool.

Sometimes I like to entertain. One of my favorite books on entertaining is “I Like You: Hospitality Under the Influence” by Amy Sedaris. She is no Martha Stewart and I like that. As far as I can tell Martha Stewart is the devil. Anybody who makes her own stationery should be locked away forever. So, the other night the girls came over to hang out. We sat around the table doing decoupage, painting our nails and eating, drinking and talking and talking and talking until the wee hours. Here is the recipe for the Fruit Booze (a variation of the Sangria in Amy’s book) I served along with the finger foods. No measuring is involved. Just eyeball the ingredients. In a large pitcher: Add a few cubes of frozen tropical fruit, melons, and/or berries and sliced fresh oranges Add about ¼ can of fruit juice concentrate (I used orange-passion fruit) Fill pitcher with white wine (Chardonnay) until it’s about 2/3 full Add some club soda or 7-up (about ½ can) A couple of splashes of Contreau A couple o...

Spent the afternoon at the skating rink making a fool of myself. I haven’t been on roller skates in about 25 years. I am waaaaay too old to be slipping around out there. But I had to because T wanted to skate for the very first time and I had to hold his hand. It was a classic case of the blind leading the blind. On my way to the concession stand to get the boys a Gatorade, I totally wiped out and landed On. My. Ass. It was pretty humiliating considering I was carrying a purse. I don’t know why, but I think if I would have fallen without the purse it would have been much more dignified. It was pretty dazzling as falls go. I saw both my feet fly straight up in front of me right before I landed on my well padded derriere. It still hurts. As the wise and very purple Prince crooned, "Act your age not your shoe size..." Very good advice indeed. Anyway, J got the hang of it pretty good. He would do this thing where he would run instead of roll along. He looked kinda like the bion...

She Said: (written by The Wife) Dearest Husband: Are you saying that your seconds are more important than my seconds? If I had any seconds to spare, I can think of about 10 things that I could do with my extra time than fiddling around with that darn toilet seat, including, (but not limited to): Chewing my food Shaving my left leg. Shaving my right leg. Lathering, rinsing, and repeating. Moisturizing. Combing my hair. Flossing. Clipping the raggedy nail on my right index finger Plucking stray eyebrow hairs sprouting in random patches across my forehead; and Finishing the third paragraph of a book I started in October... 2006. Lucky for you it’s not 1850. You are not out hunting and milking cows and farming for our food. I am at Safeway gathering all this stuff while the kids are trying to kill each other in the produce aisle. You make it sound like you’re out chopping wood and building a barn while I merely press buttons all day to get things done. Dirty underwear doesn’t just walk ...

He said: (written by The Husband) “The toilet seat is up! Ugghh!” How many times have I heard that? What is with toilet seats and women? Why so offended? When the toilet seat is down, I lift it up. It takes me….one second. This is a common occurrence because we have two sons – ages four and six, whom, thankfully, I can always blame. Now if I had to sit on that seat as often as she does, in a house with two young boys, I would have a sense of relief seeing the seat up. But not my wife. “It’s so inconsiderate” Have you seen the show on TV where a family has to live like they did in 1850? The wife gets up at 4 AM and spends the next 4 hours making bread, then 3 hours doing laundry. You have to build a fire to heat the oven. They have my sympathy. We have every power appliance known to man including robots that vacuum and wash the floor. And still, my stay at home wife insists on maid service. “I just don’t have the time” she says. No doubt each second lost on that toil...

Just had the best time the other day. The Husband and I actually got some alone time. Deeva took the boys for a train ride and an afternoon at the museum. Of course, once we delivered them all to the train stop, we had no idea what to do with ourselves. What do people do on a date? After careful consideration, we ended up having lunch and then walking around a cute downtown. Then The Husband did the most romantic thing. I was admiring a handbag in a shop window and he took me into the store and flat out bought it for me. This was such an extravagant gesture of romance on his part because if you know my husband, you would know how it goes completely against his very senses to drop that kind of mint on a PURSE. He is in marketing and it his conviction that most people are suckers for fancy packaging and slick advertising. And he is married to me. The worst sucker of all. I love love love fancy packaging and slick ads. When I fall in love with prettily packaged and shamefully overprice...

This month J’s Kindergarten class is learning about the presidents of the United States. When I picked him up from school the other day, he was chock-a-block full of interesting “facts” about Abe Lincoln. “Mommy, do you know how Abraham Lincoln got to be president?” “Ohhh! Tell me!” I am always very excited when J talks to me about anything but Star Wars which he can discuss at length--as in his and my every waking moment. My brain is literally so jam-packed with Star Wars facts that I can not squeeze another iota of information having to do with the Skywalker clan and its exhaustive list of intergalactic allies, foes, and ensuing battles into my poor head... “Well, a bunch of these old men ran in a presi-dental race like on your marks, get set, go! And the first one who crossed the finish line got to be the president.” “Wow!” (I have a visual flash of Abraham Lincoln crossing a finish line clad in nylon running shorts, Nike’s, and a stovepipe hat with a bunch of old bearded guys in s...

----- Original Message ---- From: Claire To: Vicki ; Teresa ; Maritza ; Chicky ; Christine Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2008 8:50:32 PM Subject: Crayon Stain Mommy Friends: I am so surprised that this has never happened to us before this. Lily had a purple crayon in her pocket, I washed the clothes and put them in the dryer. The end result is hundreds of purple streaks on light colored coats and cardigans. Cannot discern if crayon was regular or washable. Does anyone know a way to get out the stains that doesn't involve WD40, a toothbrush and 7 hours of my time? Thanks for your help, Claire -----Original Message----- From: Chicky Sent: Thursday, January 31, 2008 8:50 AM To: Claire Subject: Re: Crayon Stain Hmmm...don't know. Purple streaks are quite lovely though. Sounds like everyone has a new spring wardrobe! Or if purple is not a favorite (especially in Hubby’s case), how about bleaching everything and having white-ish clothes instead of purple? Otherwise, I highly recommen...

I am very preoccupied today with monumental to-do list including more washing—dishes, clothes, floors and countertops. I made a horrifying discovery yesterday when I opened the washing machine. All of the clothes were covered in miniscule cottony-white lint puffs and gelatinous tapioca-like balls. Turns out T left one of his pull-ups in a pair of pants which I unwittingly threw in the washing machine. The thing must have exploded once it got going in the washer--much like a pee-soaked synthetic underwear bomb. Needless to say, I’ve had to re-wash that load causing further back-up in the laundry queue. I am trying to figure out how to get T to stop wearing pull ups and get along in just underwear for a whole day. Right now he is clad in two sweatshirts and a pair of too-short tuxedo pants from two years ago. He is going through his pants like an addict on crack. And now with the laundry debacle, he is down to the tuxedo pants or J’s old shorts from last summer. It seems he has opted for...

It's just sitting there. The pile. Whites, darks, and brights. I will shove them all in the same load. I don't care if his socks turn pink. I hate laundry.

My husband is a self-proclaimed genius. At some point, he wanted proof so he took an I.Q. test he found on the Internet at annoying-smartass.com and discovered that he is able to correctly answer stupid questions such as: If a doughnut was a house and had two doors to the outside and three doors to the inner courtyard, then is it possible to end up back at your starting place by walking through all five doors of the house without ever walking through the same door twice? And: There are five snack mixes on the table. Peanuts and cashews are never mixed together. The first and last mixes contain sunflower seeds. Any mix with cashews or sunflower seeds also has raisins. How many of the mixes contain peanuts? It's a good thing my husband knows how to figure out the answers to these all-important questions. I can see how knowing these things might be helpful to us in the real world. Here's what I think: If a doughnut was a house, I would never have to go through any door twice beca...

Aaack…. A gray hair. Not lurking behind other hairs at the back of my head. It’s right in front for all the world to see. I tried to pull it out but it’s one of those elusive slippery ones. I’ve accidentally pulled out a bunch of non-gray hairs in the process. And I need those. My mother says not to pull out the gray ones because ten more will come to replace it. She says I need to go to her salon and start getting colored. I can’t I can’t I can’t. That will begin the unstoppable cycle of hiding my roots at $100 a pop. I know this because I’ve already started the cycle at home by coloring my own hair at the bargain price of $8.50 a pop and now half of my hair is a lustrous chestnut brown and the other half is a dull poopy brown with, apparently, gray highlights. Crap. I am getting old. Me (wailing): “I’m getting old!” T: “Mommy?” Me: “Yes, T?” T: “Are you going to die.” Me: “No, not right now. Why?” T: “Because people die when they get old.” Me: “Well, I’m not that old.” T: “Well, yo...