I don't quite know what to say.

So, I have this thingamabob at the bottom of my home page that tracks the comings and goings for this site. Most of the time, I don't know for sure who exactly is visiting me, but I can make educated guesses. And I am very educated, as you all know. But now I feel sort of censored. And I also think I might be getting a touch of Laughinginchurchaphobia. You know, when you're in church (or, for others, like Jason, temple) and it's really quiet and there's that Holy Echo of the pastor/minister/rabbi followed by excruciating silence going on and you feel that giggle start to bubble up in your chest? And you just know that if you let forth even the tiniest bit of air, or even allow your pursed lips to separate ever so slightly, you will completely lose all self control and start cackling hysterically and make a total ass out of yourself? Well, that's sort of like how I feel right now. The only things I can think of to say other than, "Today is really hot! Really. Hot! And humid! And I had Cheerios for breakfast!" are these...Other Things...that are bubbling up in my chest and my fingers are twitching over my keyboard in evil anticipation.

But no. No! I won't. (deep breath)

Alrighty, then! So, does anyone do the Colgate Trick for zits? You know, where you put a dab of toothpaste at the first sign of a zit -- when you first get that little tingly, itchy spot and telltale bump? (I call it the Colgate Trick, because that is my brand of choice, but truthfully it could be any brand of toothpaste -- but it must be PASTE, not GEL, or it won't work. Trust me.) Anyway, today I noticed The Tingle and subsequently did The Trick. And then I felt The Burn (because you must feel The Burn, or else you did something terribly wrong), and the bump is slowly disappearing. Hurray!

However. It should be noted that one should not answer the door whilst in the midst of the Colgate Trick. Particularly if the area which is being treated is directly underneath your nose. Because that's kind of a gross area for just about anything to be. Unless it's a mustache. And you're a man.

I am SO embarrassed. You would think the minty-fresh smell beneath my nose would've reminded me, but no! No, it did not. And here I was thinking that the UPS man was staring closely at my face because he was mesmerized by my beauty. What can brown do for me? Well, brown obviously cannot tell me to go wash your face, you coke addict FREAK. It would rather stare and then laugh at me after I shut the door. Presumably.

Anyway!

This brings back memories of when I was nursing Jason. Because that's when I REALLY became addicted to coke. (Kidding! Hi, Mom!) Jason would nurse enthusiastically for about ten seconds, and then the eyes would begin to droop and the sucking would become slower and slower and slower...and then he'd be asleep. And I'd be shaking him stroking his arms and rubbing his feet gently to wake him up so we could continue our feeding, and he'd wake up periodically to feed for, oh, about ten more seconds before taking another snooze. So, you know how you're supposed to nurse every two hours? And you're supposed to count from the beginning of one feeding to the beginning of the next? Well, that would leave me with, like, 25 minutes between feedings. Just enough time to hide in the bathroom for a good, long cry followed by a row of Oreos.

Needless to say, I pretty much became a fixture on my living room couch and spent most of my time jostling him about following the directions of the La Leche League Nazi advisor who came to my house to help me -- such as, removing his clothes so that the frigid air would keep him awake. The problem was, Jason seemed to really like being cold. He would snuggle down even more deeply in my arms and, honestly, is there anything more precious than listening to a newborn snore? I mean, really! I would often be heard cursing like a sailor cooing things like, "Will you WAAAAKKKKE UUUUUUUUUP?!?!" "C'mon, my sweet little baby boy! Time for num-nums!"

But where was I going with this again? Oh, yes, my experience today reminded me of when I spent so much time with my shirt unbuttoned that I lived in dread fear of forgetting to button up before answering the door. Because then the UPS guy might've given me a Joey ("How YOU doin'?).

(Can you tell I do most of my shopping online, by the way?)

So, yeah, that's about it. Just a little funny I wanted to share about my embarrassing experience. With the UPS guy. And the face spot. And my fear of unintentional flashing. And...

My sisters have the goofiest-looking kids! (Hi, Lynn and Janice!) And I hope no one from Kentucky comes to Michigan in October because people from Kentucky have really dumb accents and they smell really bad! (Hi, Suzanne!) And the administrator of the Febbie Moms board is stoopid! (Hi, Andrea!) And I would love to track mud across a Certain Someone's gleaming floors just to piss her off! (Hi, Hollie!) And it's no wonder Bush comes from Texas because all Texans are losers! (Hi, Elyse!) And I think Some People cheat at Weboggle! (Hi, Jenn!) Not to mention the Daily Quiz! (Hello, Sharen!) And, just in case she decides to drop by, MY BOSS IS A JERK! (Hi, Kim!)

Oh, and anyone from the Flamingo board is...a poopyhead. (Hi, girls!)

Ahhh. That's better.

Wait. One more thing: All you people who are visiting this board from Germany? And Japan? And the Isle of Zurupka? You are welcome to drop by anytime! Please, don't be turned off by the fact that my blog is written in English. And I do love to return the favor by visiting your blogs, which are highly entertaining! Oh, and Shunichi? Your last post? I know EXACTLY what you're saying! Jisou doraibu touhou toppyoushimonai mata! All the time!

Appliances gone wild! And other curious tales.

Everything in my house is falling apart.

First, my mini food processor -- which I practically use daily except on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and every other Saturday when we get takeout -- fell out of a cabinet and the power button got jammed. Completely unfixable. Back to jarred minced garlic we go.

Then, my good friend Roomba betrayed me. When I hit "power," instead of darting forward to enthusiastically clean the floors of my house, it gave a weird "boo-boop!...pfffttt..." And then nothing. Dead.

And THEN, my treasured Bissell Perfect Sweep floor sweeper bit the dust (har, har).

And LAST NIGHT, Paul decided he wanted to try making a new blended pineapple/rum beverage that he saw Jacques Pepin making on t.v. (he's a metrosexual, I tell you!), and the blender starts oozing liquid all over the counter during the blending process. So after hurriedly pouring the beverage into glasses, Paul discovers that a rubber piece that goes around the blades in the blender seems to be missing...somewhat. There's still a little piece left to it, and he's all like, "Weird! Wonder what happened to the rest of it?" and proceeds to taste his creation. "Mmmmm! It's very refreshing!" he says. So I give it a taste, while still wondering "But where did that other piece of rubber go?" and WOW! The Pineapple Burnt Rubber Colada was quite refreshing! But Paul disagreed about the rubber flavor. He said it was just power of suggestion. That is, until I poured the contents of my glass into the sink and we watched chunks of rubber go down the drain. Yum!

As if I want to deal with all of this after cleaning the shizzle outta ma bathrizzle. (For those who aren't as jive-tastic as I am, that's THE SHIT OUT OF MY BATHROOM.)

So, I went for the cheapest appliance replacement first: I went to Target to replace my Bissell. Pizzle Swizzle. (Stop it!) Because the floors in this house are getting really gross. And today I'm sitting here enjoying the peace and quiet that is my household. Paul is playing softball, and the agreement is: If he wants to spend four hours every Sunday during the summer playing softball, he must find someone to watch the children. Thankfully, my in-laws are good like that. And I definitely need the break after my loooooonnnnng week of single motherhood.

Because yesterday? You know, the First Day Paul Was Home With His Family? While he was using every excuse in the book to leave me alone with the kids mowing the lawn and running errands, I attempted to take a "break" by splitting the kids up. Because they do not do well being in the same room together for more than, oh, THREE MINUTES.

"Mine, mine, mine!!! I had it first!"
"Jason, STOP TALKIIIIINNNNGGGGG!!!"
"Mommy, Drew kicked me in the ear with his foot!!!"

So, I drag bring Jason upstairs to play in Drew's room, using some positive reinforcement: "Jay, you play so nicely by yourself. How about you do some puzzles in here for a little while? There you go! Look at you, playing so nicely!" (Jason smiles proudly.)

I go downstairs to see Drew quietly sitting in a chair drawing on his Magnadoodle.

Ahhhh. I can feel the muscles relax throughout my body, and I decide to have a nice glass of iced tea and who knows? Maybe read a magazine! So I walk over to the -

"MOMMY!!! CAN DREW COME UP AND PLAY WITH ME?"

Shizzle.

I go upstairs and say, "Jay, how about you play by yourself for a little bit longer? You do such a good job playing by yourself!"

Jay: "But I want Drew to come play with me because I'm all done playing by myself because...because...because the puzzles are boooorrrriiinnng!"

Me: "Okay, in five minutes (translation: half an hour) Drew will come up to play with you."

Jay: "Okay, Mommy! It's a deal! How many minutes is five minutes?"

Me: "Um, five. Just count to 500 fifty times and it will be five minutes. Okay?"

Jay: "Um, okay."

I go back downstairs, get a glass, and begin making my iced tea, and just as I put in the ice cubes -

"MOMMY, I'M ALL DONE COUNTING! IS IT TIME FOR DREW TO COME UP?"

Fine.

I bring Drew upstairs and tell them both to promise me that they won't pull the curtains down or tear the sheets off the bed or take turns jumping off the top of the three-tiered bookcase. Because these are the pathetic things I need to say to my kids. "Okay, Mommy!" they say. "Mommy, can I give you a big Jay Kiss before you go downstairs?" says Jay. And Drew: "Me, too! A big DREW Kiss!" And they are both SO CUTE I just want to EAT them! (See? This is how God keeps mothers from killing their children. If they looked like trolls they wouldn't make it to the age of three.)

I go downstairs, get my iced tea and my (new! August issue!) Cooking Light magazine and sit down in ma rizzle chizzle (stop it! ROCKING CHAIR) and -

"MOMMY! WAIT TIL YOU SEE WHAT DREW DID TO THE WINDOW!"

Dear God.

I go BACK upstairs (what is this, the 238th time now?) and see that Drew has pulled the curtain rod off the wall and it is laying on the floor in two pieces. But wait! There's more! As I walk over to kill him with my bare hands scold him, I see a toy dump truck that seems to have a glistening sort of...wetness...in the back of it. I look closer and realize that IT IS PEE. I say, "What is this?!?"

Jay: "Drew did it!"
Drew: "Jay did it!"

I calmly (because that is how I am when I become so enraged that I fear if I open my mouth a vile, pea-soup-like substance will spew forth and my head will begin to spin around a la Linda Blair) dump the contents of the dump truck into the toilet and place it in the bathroom sink.

I hear Paul come in from outside and cheerfully ask, "Everything okay, honey?"

I go downstairs, give him a brief description of the State of the Household and a quick rundown of Why I Need to Leave Before I Go All Psycho On His Ass, grab my pocketbook, put tha pizzle ta tha mizzle, and bought me a new Bissell.

I have to stop looking things up on Gizoogle.

Gag me with a cashew

Because I happen to be eating cashews. And I am watching America's Got Talent. And guess what? America is pretty much not talented. At all.

Every night during this time of the year known as Grey's Anatomy and Lost Are Not On For Three Months, I seem to be stuck watching stupid shows because there's NOTHING ON. But this show takes the cake. A man with horns strategically placed on various parts of his body, tooting them to the tune of America the Beautiful. A man pulling birds (apparently dipped in fluorescent green food dye) out of his coat, shirt, and, seemingly, his ass. A 72-year-old "rapping granny" who couldn't have won a karaoke competition at the senior center, yet the judges commented that "Rapping Granny really knows how to wow the crowd! And she can really RAP!" Are they shitting me? They would give a million dollars to this woman and proclaim her a "Superstar"? Is someone really going to give her a record deal? SHE WAS WEARING A HOUSEDRESS. AND ORTHOPEDIC SHOES.

Okay, now a man is juggling candelabras (candelabrae?) -- WHILE LIT -- to the tune of "Tequila." I can only assume the song is a reference to what was coursing through his veins while dreaming up this idiotic act. A judge's comment: "You know what? That wasn't bad!" Well, I've made a so-so meatloaf and spot-cleaned my floor, and I don't see anyone offering me a million dollars for pulling it off. Candelabra Guy's plea to the audience at home: "Hey, everyone! I didn't drop anything, so vote for me!" while clasping his hands in prayer. I mean, does this guy think he's going to be performing in Vegas if he wins?

Oh. My. God. Is it September yet? I need me some Grey's Anatomy. And Lost. And The Office. I like to look forward to sitting my butt down at night for hours at a time and watching some quality t.v. Because that's what one does when one has nothing exciting going on in one's life.

Oh, wait. Now there are transvestites doing a dance routine on stilts. Gotta run.

Loosen up my buttons, baby

As I've told Certain People, I had absolutely no idea who posted about the whoopie pies on my blog. MY blog. How dare they! Does Blogger allow this?! I actually had to read the entire first paragraph before beginning to piece it all together. "Hmmm. And they're even pumpkin ones. And the person who made them is named Paul...? Ohhhh, wait a minute. Did I write this?" Perhaps one of the reasons I had a little trouble figuring out what was going on was because this Person confessed to eating only three whoopie pies and I knew that I ate FOUR of those bad boys. So you can understand my confusion. Apparently when I'm half in the bag I still have the presence of mind to lie about what I eat. Anyway. Needless to say, I'm wearing stretchy pants today, and I probably will continue to do so for the rest of the week.

Enough about my alcohol-induced dementia.

Let's talk about how Paul needs to move to Toronto. That's where he is now, at some training thing through work for some computer-related thing that he needs to know for his job as a...computer guy. Honestly, and I am not kidding: I do not know what his job title is. All I know is he gets paid every two weeks and the money is directly deposited into the checking account. I've asked him several times over the past ten years what his job title is and every time I hear this: "sjdjodio of diouifldj CMX123897." Sometimes the poor guy comes home and is all hyped about something that happened at work and wants to talk about it. This makes my brain ouchy. When he begins to talk about the trials and tribulations of working in the dkjfoeksfxmc department as a sjrkojejri, it feels sort of like someone is trying to pick my eyeballs out with chopsticks. Usually the gist of the conversation is something like he did some computer thing that some other computer guy helped him with and someone in the dkjroeris department complained about something computer-related and that resulted in some sort of computer malfunction and he's therefore concerned about...something about computers. So I try to be supportive and ask appropriate questions at appropriate intervals, like "Wha...?" Eventually, he thankfully runs out of steam gets it all off his chest, and the conversation comes to a close. After a brief silence, I usually ask, "Is it this Thursday you get paid or next?"

So, tell me, do other men have an easier time understanding social cues than Paul does, or is it one of those Guy Things? I mean, how can one not know that when one's audience is rolling their eyes, picking at their cuticles, and foaming at the mouth, there is a strong possibility that they might not be interested in the topic of choice? I will admit that when there's wine involved in our little chat, I have a very difficult time trying to hide my impatience and I've been known to say things like, "You know what? I have no freaking idea what you're talking about. How is this helping you?"

Ah, well. Where was I going with this? Oh, yes. Paul needs to move to Toronto.

Because my house is cleaner. And my kids are calmer. And I don't have to cook dinner. Well, I suppose I should say I don't have to THINK ABOUT cooking dinner. Because often that's what I do. I think about it. And then I suggest we order takeout. But you know what I had for dinner tonight? Watermelon and cheese. And twelve green beans. From a can. And I feel so much calmer today! And when I'm calmer, my kids are calmer. And when my kids are calmer, my house is cleaner. So clearly Paul has to move to another country. So I can stop the dinner thinking and we can all be calm. And clean.

I'm sure my relaxed state has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that my mother came by to give the kids a bath and clean the kitchen and fold the laundry. It's definitely dinner-thinking related.

Besides, if Paul moves to Canada, I'm pretty sure we can still do the direct deposit thing.

Whoopie Pies

Who thought up this concoction which consists of two cookie-type pieces of cake with a sweet cream filling sandwiched between? Whoever it is should be shot. First the ginger Joe-Joe's; now the pumpkin whoopie pies. Which Paul makes. What kind of man makes pumpkin whoopie pies? Well, my husband does. He also is good at buying clothes for himself as well as for me. He doesn't like the term "metrosexual," but I would have to say it fits him.

Anyway.

My neighbor had a cookout tonight, and here I sit, feeling a bit loopy from a huge glass of white wine followed by a Diet Coke with vanilla Absolut (because, of course, I am still dieting). And because of the calories I've saved with my alcoholic beverages, I have eaten THREE pumpkin whoopie pies (am I even spelling whoopie right? thank goodness for the backspace button because otherwise they would be spelled like this: whopeoieee piesol). They are so delicious, but they are like swallowing a pumpkin-flavored bomb. In my case, three bombs.

I need some sleep.

I have to say, the neighbors are a freaking riot. Most of the people there were police officers, and I would love to know who's driving them home seeing as they were all doing the multi-fisted beer-drinking thing. At one point, one of them put on a Superman suit (I kid you not), and dove into the pool. I am so tired of laughing. My face hurts. It was nice to have a night of being silly, though. Next week Paul will be away on a business trip from Monday through Friday. That should make for some interesting stories.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow because Paul has a softball game, which means he will drop the boys off at his parents' house while he plays, and I will have some quiet time. Maybe I can actually clear off the dining room table and clean the microwave, which contains spattered chicken bits from three weeks ago. Yuck-O.

Okay, tomorrow is going to be a low-carb day. We HAVE to get these whoopie pies out of the house. I am nauseous just thinking about them.

Yeah, I know this is a boring post so shut up, Jana. I am more amusing when I'm on the brink of a nervous breakdown, so I guess that's what everyone should wish for if they want anything funny to read. Give me 12 hours with my kids. Alone. That's usually all it takes to bring me from lighthearted laughter to screaming psychopath.

Nothing like a cheeseburger with a Valium chaser.

That was my dinner. And rightfully so.

I have had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. I remember when I used to live for summer. Now summer only means stress, stress, and stress. Followed by a little more stress. I thought this summer would be easier to get through because my oldest son is in a summer school program, and my youngest is going to summer camp three days a week. Three full days. Well, let me tell you something. If anything, things are even crazier this summer. And that's saying a lot because last one was a doozy.

From the moment Jason gets home from camp, the chaos ensues. Who's running around naked while the other one is pulling things out of the cabinets and the phone is ringing while the naked one is pulling all the cushions off the couch and the one with the clothes is thinking about removing his clothing because it looks so freeing and uninhibited to streak around the living room just like his brother! I can't take it when they're doing the streaking thing, because then all kinds of things are bound to happen, like "Drew, I have to pee! Do you have to pee? Let's go pee together! Mommy, we're going to make X's in the toilet!"

So, I thought maybe sending the little guy to camp would help matters. After some searching, I discovered a wonderful, religious camp. A Jewish Community Camp. Which is perfect for Jason because he was baptized and everything. He even made a friend right away on his first day, which he told me very excitedly when I picked him up. Me: "That's great! What's your friend's name?" Jason, with a huge smile on his dirt-streaked face: "Shalom!"

Oy vey.

But in all seriousness, it is a wonderful camp that welcomes children of all faiths, and the people there are sincerely nice and caring. And they have professed their undying love for my son. To my face. And what mother doesn't instantly bond with anyone who ooh's and aah's over her child? Besides, Jason said they teach him lots of things, like swimming, sports, and art crap. I could only assume he meant "arts and crafts," but I wasn't sure, so I asked, "What's art crap?" He said, "Mommy, it's when you stick things on paper and glue sparkly things on and make designs with stuff! Look, Drew made some art crap, too! (pointing to a paper that Drew had decorated)" I decided that was just too cute to correct, so I let it be. But I guess the camp counselors tried to correct him the next day, because when he came home he said he had a good time in “ARTS AND crap,” with exaggerated facial expressions while enunciating the “arts and.” This didn't strike me as much of an improvement over art crap. But by the end of the first week, he was all about the “ARTS AND CRAFFFSSSS,” with much emphasis on the saliva projection on the “FFFSSSS.” “By Jonah, I think he’s got it!” I thought, as I wiped my face with a tissue.

So, although camp wasn't the answer to quieting the summer craziness, it has at least provided me with some laughs. And Jason is sure having a challah-va time.

So here I am.

Blogging. I'm a blogger.

I really need to get a life.

Well, I do have a life. But it's a crazy one. It consists of four people: my husband, Paul; my six-year-old son, Drew; and my four-year-old son, Jason. Oh, and me. That makes four, right? Ahem. So what makes life so crazy, you ask? Well, let me tell you. My kids. Make me crazy. A lot. They are adorable, mind you. Although I might be a tad biased.




But they are so different in pictures. Look at them, sitting there, all...quiet! And so neat and clean! And smiling! It's hard to imagine them drawing on lampshades, peeing in plants, and trying to push the t.v. over just for fun, isn't it? Well, looks can be deceiving, my friend. Oh, the stories I can tell you about my darling boys.

But that will have to wait because right now I need to go duct-tape them to their beds.