This sign made me laugh, then made me feel a little guilty for laughing. Poor little Virginia found out the hard way that there is, indeed, a Santa Claus.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Funny Sign Sunday
I'm deperately trying to get ready for the holidays, and failing miserably. It didn't stop me from scouring the internet for funny pictures today, though.
This sign made me laugh, then made me feel a little guilty for laughing. Poor little Virginia found out the hard way that there is, indeed, a Santa Claus.
This sign made me laugh, then made me feel a little guilty for laughing. Poor little Virginia found out the hard way that there is, indeed, a Santa Claus.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
I love my kid, but DAMN
Molly is in Pre-K now, and she really loves school. Her favorite thing is show and tell, which is supposed to be on Fridays. I say "supposed to be" because her teacher is very lenient, and if the kids show up toting a treasure, she always makes time for them to show the class.
Today, we left a little late for school. We were engrossed in an episode of Go Diego, Go and totally lost track of time. It's understandable if you've ever seen the show. To a couple of preschool girls, Diego is a hottie. I think it was Click the Camera that made us late, though. We all started singing the song, and... well, when you get my girls excited about something, it's hard to get them to refocus. The song is catchy. I'll share.
Anyway, I was scrambling to find shoes and get the girls out the door, so I wasn't paying a lot of attention when Molly said, "Can I bring my lamb to show my friends?" It's a beanie babie sized lamb, in a lovely shade of lavender.
"Yeah, sure, whatever, just put your shoes on the right feet and get in the car."
We pull into the school parking lot and I whip into a parking spot, screaming like a drill seargent. "Unbuckle your seatbelts! Put your shoes back on! Stop hitting your sister! Let's go, maggots, now now NOW!"
I walk them in and nudge Molly into her classroom, breathing a sigh of relief that we made it before we were interrupting "circle time," because when you're late, ALL the kids with prompt parents will tell you that you're late. I love when my weaknesses are pointed out to me by people under four feet tall, don't you?
The kids were just sitting down to circle time, so Molly joined the group. Her teacher, Miss Dawn, said, "Molly, did you bring something to show the class today?" I had a moment of panic, trying to remember if I was supposed to send something, when I remembered the lamb. With a smile of relief, I watched at the door for a moment while Molly held up her little stuffed animal proudly.
"This is my little baby lamb. See, it's a baby and has to wear a diaper. I changed his diaper, so he's not stinky."
Wait, what? Diaper? The lamb did not come with diapers. I stepped a little way into the classroom to see what she had diapered the lamb with when realization struck. It was like slow motion. The teacher looked at the lamb, then slowly turned to look at me. I lunged forward, with a slo-mo "Noooooooooooo," bursting from my lips. At that moment, Abigail piped in with her two cents.
"Oooooohhhh, Molly, that's Mommy's diapers. You's not suppose to pway with Mommy's diapers."
It was a panty liner. She had stuck a panty liner on the tail end of her lamb, straight through its legs, just like a diaper, then taken it to show all her friends.
Heaven help me.
Today, we left a little late for school. We were engrossed in an episode of Go Diego, Go and totally lost track of time. It's understandable if you've ever seen the show. To a couple of preschool girls, Diego is a hottie. I think it was Click the Camera that made us late, though. We all started singing the song, and... well, when you get my girls excited about something, it's hard to get them to refocus. The song is catchy. I'll share.
Anyway, I was scrambling to find shoes and get the girls out the door, so I wasn't paying a lot of attention when Molly said, "Can I bring my lamb to show my friends?" It's a beanie babie sized lamb, in a lovely shade of lavender.
"Yeah, sure, whatever, just put your shoes on the right feet and get in the car."
We pull into the school parking lot and I whip into a parking spot, screaming like a drill seargent. "Unbuckle your seatbelts! Put your shoes back on! Stop hitting your sister! Let's go, maggots, now now NOW!"
I walk them in and nudge Molly into her classroom, breathing a sigh of relief that we made it before we were interrupting "circle time," because when you're late, ALL the kids with prompt parents will tell you that you're late. I love when my weaknesses are pointed out to me by people under four feet tall, don't you?
The kids were just sitting down to circle time, so Molly joined the group. Her teacher, Miss Dawn, said, "Molly, did you bring something to show the class today?" I had a moment of panic, trying to remember if I was supposed to send something, when I remembered the lamb. With a smile of relief, I watched at the door for a moment while Molly held up her little stuffed animal proudly.
"This is my little baby lamb. See, it's a baby and has to wear a diaper. I changed his diaper, so he's not stinky."
Wait, what? Diaper? The lamb did not come with diapers. I stepped a little way into the classroom to see what she had diapered the lamb with when realization struck. It was like slow motion. The teacher looked at the lamb, then slowly turned to look at me. I lunged forward, with a slo-mo "Noooooooooooo," bursting from my lips. At that moment, Abigail piped in with her two cents.
"Oooooohhhh, Molly, that's Mommy's diapers. You's not suppose to pway with Mommy's diapers."
It was a panty liner. She had stuck a panty liner on the tail end of her lamb, straight through its legs, just like a diaper, then taken it to show all her friends.
Heaven help me.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Don't faint
So I was just reading someone else's blog, and it reminded me that it has been a long time since I've been here. I've been oddly busy lately, not as much of a loser as usual. It's been kind of nice. Today I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of buffalo, so I've been hanging out online catching up here and there.
I keep aiming high in my holiday preparations, but somehow I keep falling flat. I've done all kinds of ambitious things, but not the things that I should be doing. I've been making homemade ornaments for the Christmas tree with the girls, but I don't have the tree up yet. I've bought a cupboard full of baking supplies, but done no baking. I did, however, make chocolate covered cherries. Who knew you could make those yourself?
My friend Denise gave me a recipe, so I did it. I'm pretty damn proud of myself, too. I had to rearrange the fridge and hide them behind 47 jars of pickles (how does that happen?) to keep my family from eating them before they liquefy, and I'm hoping there will still be a few at Christmas.
That's all I've done. I have done no shopping, no baking, no decorating. It's 18 days (447 hours, 26783 minutes, or 1606938 seconds) until Christmas. Remember a few minutes ago when I said I haven't been loserish? Yeah, I take it back. We might have a Whoville Christmas this year - we'll just sing a song while holding hands on Christmas morning and call it a year. Think the kids will buy it?
Yeah, me either.
I keep aiming high in my holiday preparations, but somehow I keep falling flat. I've done all kinds of ambitious things, but not the things that I should be doing. I've been making homemade ornaments for the Christmas tree with the girls, but I don't have the tree up yet. I've bought a cupboard full of baking supplies, but done no baking. I did, however, make chocolate covered cherries. Who knew you could make those yourself?
My friend Denise gave me a recipe, so I did it. I'm pretty damn proud of myself, too. I had to rearrange the fridge and hide them behind 47 jars of pickles (how does that happen?) to keep my family from eating them before they liquefy, and I'm hoping there will still be a few at Christmas.
That's all I've done. I have done no shopping, no baking, no decorating. It's 18 days (447 hours, 26783 minutes, or 1606938 seconds) until Christmas. Remember a few minutes ago when I said I haven't been loserish? Yeah, I take it back. We might have a Whoville Christmas this year - we'll just sing a song while holding hands on Christmas morning and call it a year. Think the kids will buy it?
Yeah, me either.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
I'm such a slacker
I haven't written anything here in over a month. My friend Mary asked me if my fingers are broken. I was tempted to say yes, but... well, she knows better. I think she's tired of looking at Timmy the Turd. Understandable.
I could say that the winner inside me took over for a month or so, but that's laughable, too. It is true, that the start of school brought much activity to my world. Bryan started high school this year, and Molly started Pre-K. I feel like I spend my life in the car. I figured it out the other day, what I was paying per month for the use of my car. Even given the fact that it's paid off, with gas and insurance, the cost to square footage ratio makes it an extremely expensive living space. Unfortunately, it's a necessary evil. Public transportation where I live sucks, and there are a lot of rural areas.
I have no idea where I was going with that train of thought, so I'll sum it up this way:
Booooo gas prices. *two thumbs down*
I vow to be a better blogger. If I don't, I'll let Mary break my fingers. Seriously. (Think that would get me out of doing dishes for a while?)
I could say that the winner inside me took over for a month or so, but that's laughable, too. It is true, that the start of school brought much activity to my world. Bryan started high school this year, and Molly started Pre-K. I feel like I spend my life in the car. I figured it out the other day, what I was paying per month for the use of my car. Even given the fact that it's paid off, with gas and insurance, the cost to square footage ratio makes it an extremely expensive living space. Unfortunately, it's a necessary evil. Public transportation where I live sucks, and there are a lot of rural areas.
I have no idea where I was going with that train of thought, so I'll sum it up this way:
Booooo gas prices. *two thumbs down*
I vow to be a better blogger. If I don't, I'll let Mary break my fingers. Seriously. (Think that would get me out of doing dishes for a while?)
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Timmy the Turd
Today is Molly's 4th birthday (Happy Birthday, Molly!). I googled "funny birthday," hoping to find a cute picture or something to post here in honor of her special day. I was browsing the first page of image hits, when I happened upon the following.
I'll take some cute pictures later. She's getting a bike. Shhhh... don't tell. You either, Timmy.
I'll take some cute pictures later. She's getting a bike. Shhhh... don't tell. You either, Timmy.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
No ice cream for you
My husband wants to buy an ice cream truck. When I say that he wants to buy one, I don't mean he mentioned it in passing. I mean that he's been looking on Craigslist and eBay at ice cream trucks for sale. He stopped the ice cream lady that comes through our neighborhood to ask her questions about where to get inventory. He even found one for rent and called the owner to find out how much and what the terms were.
He's serious about wanting an ice cream truck.
It occurred to me that he works a full time job during daylight hours, when most ice cream truck business would be taking place. The next time he called me over to look at a "really cool one" on the computer, I cornered him.
"So, sweetie, are you planning on quitting your job or what?"
"Why would I quit my job?"
"To drive the ice cream truck that you are so set on buying."
That was met with a moment of silence. With my husband, silence means one of two things - either I've stunned him and he's speechless, or he's taking a moment to try and figure out how to tell me something. In this case, it was the latter.
"Well, honeysweetiepumpkin, I thought maybe you would like to drive it. Look, it's pink."
Of course. Why didn't I think of that myself? It's always been my dream to drive in circles for hours on end, selling ice cream to sweaty kids with handfuls of pennies.
"What in the name of Blue Bunny would make you think I want to drive an ice cream truck?"
He looked thoughtful. "Ice cream trucks are cool. They play fun music."
Oh, no. I hadn't considered the music. You think It's a Small World is bad twice in a row, try hanging out near the ice cream truck for an hour. There's one that used to drive through a neighboring town that had a unique soundtrack. It played "La Cucaracha" loudly, over and over. In case you're not fluent in ice-cream-truckish, that means "the cockroach." Appetizing, eh?
I told him I would make a terrible ice cream lady, and it's true. Every kid that came up and asked "how much," then turned away with a sad face after looking at a sweaty quarter would get free ice cream from me. I'm a sucker for kids. I also told him that until gas prices fall below "WTF" level, that it's just not economically smart to drive in circles all day to try to sell $1.50 ice cream bars. My final argument was that we couldn't afford the Xanax prescription that I would need to not go bonkers listening to a tinkling version of "How Much is That Doggy in the Window" all damn day.
He's still shopping around for an ice cream truck. He can keep right on looking. When he finds one and buys it, I'll load the kids up in it, paint a tiny mustache on my upper lip, and make myself a nametag that says, "The Ice Cream Nazi," then I'll terrorize the neighborhood. It'll be fun.
He's serious about wanting an ice cream truck.
It occurred to me that he works a full time job during daylight hours, when most ice cream truck business would be taking place. The next time he called me over to look at a "really cool one" on the computer, I cornered him.
"So, sweetie, are you planning on quitting your job or what?"
"Why would I quit my job?"
"To drive the ice cream truck that you are so set on buying."
That was met with a moment of silence. With my husband, silence means one of two things - either I've stunned him and he's speechless, or he's taking a moment to try and figure out how to tell me something. In this case, it was the latter.
"Well, honeysweetiepumpkin, I thought maybe you would like to drive it. Look, it's pink."
Of course. Why didn't I think of that myself? It's always been my dream to drive in circles for hours on end, selling ice cream to sweaty kids with handfuls of pennies.
"What in the name of Blue Bunny would make you think I want to drive an ice cream truck?"
He looked thoughtful. "Ice cream trucks are cool. They play fun music."
Oh, no. I hadn't considered the music. You think It's a Small World is bad twice in a row, try hanging out near the ice cream truck for an hour. There's one that used to drive through a neighboring town that had a unique soundtrack. It played "La Cucaracha" loudly, over and over. In case you're not fluent in ice-cream-truckish, that means "the cockroach." Appetizing, eh?
I told him I would make a terrible ice cream lady, and it's true. Every kid that came up and asked "how much," then turned away with a sad face after looking at a sweaty quarter would get free ice cream from me. I'm a sucker for kids. I also told him that until gas prices fall below "WTF" level, that it's just not economically smart to drive in circles all day to try to sell $1.50 ice cream bars. My final argument was that we couldn't afford the Xanax prescription that I would need to not go bonkers listening to a tinkling version of "How Much is That Doggy in the Window" all damn day.
He's still shopping around for an ice cream truck. He can keep right on looking. When he finds one and buys it, I'll load the kids up in it, paint a tiny mustache on my upper lip, and make myself a nametag that says, "The Ice Cream Nazi," then I'll terrorize the neighborhood. It'll be fun.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Mommy Stay-Puff
Kids say the darnedest things.
Last night I was holding the girls in my lap, reading The Runaway Bunny. They were snuggled under a blanket, captivated by the story... or so I thought. Something in the book made Molly think of food. It might have been the big bunny cloud, blowing the bunny sailboat home. Whatever it was, she decided she was hungry, and it wasn't for hasenpfeffer.
"Mommy, I wish you were made of marshmallow so I could take a bite of you."
Say what? While I was still trying to figure out where in the world she got that idea from, she bit me. She chomped my arm like a dog tearing into a t-bone.
"OWWWW!"
She smacked her lips a little, made a face, then said, "You don't taste like marshmallow."
Sunday, August 3, 2008
It's funny sign Sunday!
I'm designating Sundays "Funny Sign Day" from this point on. Hey, at least you're getting something out of me on a weekend day.
Here's one I found the other day. I have no idea why this is so funny to me, but it cracks me up. I picture Caillou running around stealing wallets every time I see it.
Here's one I found the other day. I have no idea why this is so funny to me, but it cracks me up. I picture Caillou running around stealing wallets every time I see it.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
They're coming to take me away, hee hee ho ho
For all my friends and loved ones who are reading this, be forewarned: don't be surprised if I am suddenly MIA for a week or two. No, I'm not going on vacation. Well, I suppose it could be viewed as a vacation of sorts, depending on one's mental state.
I'm considering checking myself into the loony bin. I'm not crazy. I just really need a break from my kids. I mean... they think it's fun to play with poop. Seriously, what did I do in my childhood to deserve this kind of torture? I think I need to explore my inner person a little, and I need to do it as an inpatient.
I've put a great deal of thought into this. I considered doing something illegal, like stealing a car, and just getting myself arrested. Jail seemed like as good a place as any to escape to (oh, the irony), but after further contemplation I decided this might not be a good idea. I made a list comparing jail to the mental hospital. Following are my thoughts on the various aspects of my stay in either place.
1. Written record of my stay. Jail records are public. Anyone can go online and find out exactly how many times a person has been in legal trouble. That might come back to bite me in the butt later in life. My shrink would be sworn to silence. The verdict: mental hospital.
2. The menu. It's my understanding that the county jail in these parts does not employ a gourmet chef. I hear talk of beans... lots and lots of beans. Beans make me fart, so I'm not cool with that. I have to think that the food choices will be better in the nuthouse. Nobody wants to give people in unbalanced mental states bad food - the idea is to make the residents there happy, not gassy. I'll pass on the magical fruit. The verdict: mental hospital.
3. The neighbors. This one has no clear slant. I sure as hell don't want to be the bitch of some scary woman with tattoos on her face that's imprisoned for killing her boyfriend. I also am not sure I want to exchange personal info with someone who has a collection of voices in their head - the pressure to make sure they all like me might be too much to deal with. The verdict: undecided.
4. The accommodations. I feel pretty sure that my chances at a comfortable bed and a houseplant are better in the mental ward. Like I said, the idea is to make the people living there happy, not to punish them. The verdict: mental hospital.
5. The wardrobe. This one's a no-brainer. I don't look good in orange. The verdict: mental hospital.
6. Recreation. In jail you get to walk around outside for a short time every day. Sunshine is good, but drugs are better. In the loony bin they give you drugs and tell you that weaving baskets is great fun. I've always wanted to know how to make a basket. I'll stock up for Christmas. The verdict: mental hospital.
7. The release process. At some point I'm going to want to come home. Clearly, I'm not walking out of jail when I'm "done." I could try, but I'm going to need someone to send me a cake with a file in it. The verdict: mental hospital.
Looks like the mental hospital is my best bet. Now that it's clear what the better choice is, I just need to figure out how to get them to let me in. Maybe I'll just make a copy of this post and let them read it. Anybody who would write all this out and weigh "jail vs. nuthouse" is probably in need of a few days alone in a padded room and a double dose of Prozac.
I'll start packing.
I'm considering checking myself into the loony bin. I'm not crazy. I just really need a break from my kids. I mean... they think it's fun to play with poop. Seriously, what did I do in my childhood to deserve this kind of torture? I think I need to explore my inner person a little, and I need to do it as an inpatient.
I've put a great deal of thought into this. I considered doing something illegal, like stealing a car, and just getting myself arrested. Jail seemed like as good a place as any to escape to (oh, the irony), but after further contemplation I decided this might not be a good idea. I made a list comparing jail to the mental hospital. Following are my thoughts on the various aspects of my stay in either place.
1. Written record of my stay. Jail records are public. Anyone can go online and find out exactly how many times a person has been in legal trouble. That might come back to bite me in the butt later in life. My shrink would be sworn to silence. The verdict: mental hospital.
2. The menu. It's my understanding that the county jail in these parts does not employ a gourmet chef. I hear talk of beans... lots and lots of beans. Beans make me fart, so I'm not cool with that. I have to think that the food choices will be better in the nuthouse. Nobody wants to give people in unbalanced mental states bad food - the idea is to make the residents there happy, not gassy. I'll pass on the magical fruit. The verdict: mental hospital.
3. The neighbors. This one has no clear slant. I sure as hell don't want to be the bitch of some scary woman with tattoos on her face that's imprisoned for killing her boyfriend. I also am not sure I want to exchange personal info with someone who has a collection of voices in their head - the pressure to make sure they all like me might be too much to deal with. The verdict: undecided.
4. The accommodations. I feel pretty sure that my chances at a comfortable bed and a houseplant are better in the mental ward. Like I said, the idea is to make the people living there happy, not to punish them. The verdict: mental hospital.
5. The wardrobe. This one's a no-brainer. I don't look good in orange. The verdict: mental hospital.
6. Recreation. In jail you get to walk around outside for a short time every day. Sunshine is good, but drugs are better. In the loony bin they give you drugs and tell you that weaving baskets is great fun. I've always wanted to know how to make a basket. I'll stock up for Christmas. The verdict: mental hospital.
7. The release process. At some point I'm going to want to come home. Clearly, I'm not walking out of jail when I'm "done." I could try, but I'm going to need someone to send me a cake with a file in it. The verdict: mental hospital.
Looks like the mental hospital is my best bet. Now that it's clear what the better choice is, I just need to figure out how to get them to let me in. Maybe I'll just make a copy of this post and let them read it. Anybody who would write all this out and weigh "jail vs. nuthouse" is probably in need of a few days alone in a padded room and a double dose of Prozac.
I'll start packing.
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