This is not what it looks like.

This really isn't what it looks like. Well, I guess that's only true if this looks like anything other than a pig's tongue to you. Icky, right? We went to a BBQ at a freind's house a couple of weeks ago, and they roasted an entire pig. When it was done, they hacked it up into a lot of pieces, some of which looked edible, and some of which did not. I would classify a pig's tongue somewhere in the middle. It's one of those things that you could eat, but why in the name of all things holy would you?


We've eaten with these friends before. They're amused by the odd things my girls will eat. They've watched both of my little angels suck down raw oysters like candy and gnaw on hunks of meat of unknown origin. In spite of that, I really don't think they expected a positive reaction when they offered them the pig's tongue.



The girls got excited about eating a tongue. They bounced around and made up a song.

We're gonna eat the tongue
We're gonna eat the tongue
We're gonna eat the tonnnnngueeee

Songwriters, they are not. I thought they'd both wimp out when they actually had the nasty little piece of meat in their hands. Abby did.



Molly did not wimp out. She tore into that thing like a hyena on a dead zebra. Honestly, I'd rather watch a hyena rip the guts out of a zebra than watch my little girl with a pig tongue in her mouth. I gagged a little that day.

She took a few bites off the cut end, then held it between her teeth and ran around the yard sticking it out at people, laughing in hysterics at the horrified gasps from all the ladies in attendance. I probably should have made her stop, but I was too busy laughing. She's a plucky little thing. Thank goodness nobody offered her the brain.

Even God likes weenies

I was sitting on the couch with Abigail this morning, enjoying a little snuggle time, when she asked me a question.

"Mommy, how many weenies would fit in a jar?"

I just looked at her for a minute, trying to decide what she was really asking me. Did she say 'weenie?' I've never heard her use that word, so I had to question her. "Weenies? What do you mean, 'weenies?'"

She rolled her eyes dramatically and sighed. I know she thinks I'm an idiot. "WEENIES. Like the food."

"Well, I don't know. I guess it would depend on the size of the jar."

"What if the jar was really, really big and long, all the way up to heaven?" This was accompanied by violent hand motions toward the ceiling, chubby little fingers pointing as high as they could reach.

"That would be a big jar. How many weenies do you think it would take to fill it?"

She looked thoughful. "Prob'ly like sixteen. Sixteen is a lot of weenies."

I have to wonder what kind of weenies she's thinking of. Even the quarter pound footlong weenies aren't that big. I asked her, "Do you think, since the jar goes all the way to heaven, that God would eat one of the weenies?"

"Of course he would."

She said it with so matter of factly that it surprised me a little, so I asked her, "You really think God likes weenies?"

The eye roll was almost audible. "Moooommmmmm, everyone likes weenies, because they're hot dogs."

You heard it here first, folks. God likes weenies, with extra mustard.

Funny Sign Sunday

If I knew where this sign was located, I'd be sorely tempted to take my children there.

Login information may be my undoing

I can't believe it's been nearly a year since I made an entry here. It's most definitely not because my life has regained any sense of normalcy. That won't happen for another fifteen years or so. The reason I haven't blogged in a year is simple - I forgot my login information. In the midst of moving some furniture and cleaning around my desk the other day, I found it scribbled on a receipt. Thank goodness for my awesome organizational skills.

This is a frightening sight to me. Any time I'm required to log in to a website, I have a moment of panic. There are too many variables. I have several email addresses and a couple of different user ID's that I use, and a couple of different passwords I use, depending on the requirements.

Some websites just want at least four characters in a password. Others want twelve characters, with at least one capital letter, one lower case letter, four numbers, two symbols, the name of your first born child and an exclamation point all tucked in there just for fun.

Given the number of email addresses, user names and the number of possible passwords I may have used, every login attempt has at least *pause to figure mathematical equations* about ten million possibilites.

I'm hopeless. It's a wonder I can get dressed in the morning without help.

It's friggin' hot again. It is one week until Christmas, and it's 80 degrees outside today. Seriously, Mother Nature?

When I was a kid, every year I asked Santa for two things: a pony, and snow. Every. Year. Christmas morning brought all kinds of goodies to my house, but never the two things I asked for. The Barbie Townhouse I got one year almost made up for the lack of snow and large animal, but the longing was still there.

I got to an age where I "understood" about Santa, so I started praying for snow. God, if you'll just let it snow this Christmas, I promise to be good for the rest of my life. I guess He knew he'd get the short end of the stick in that deal, because I never had my white Christmas.

I know, you're thinking that you'd love to be where snow shoveling and ice scraping are just things you see on TV. I love it most of the time, too - just not this week. Running the air conditioner on Christmas to keep from breaking a sweat opening gifts is just wrong. Having to crank the AC down to 50 so it feels like winter is wrong too, but we do it every year.

About two Christmases ago (yes, seriously), I finally came to terms with the fact that I'd never see snow on Christmas morning in Florida. This morning, Molly came to me and said, "Mommy, I really want snow for Christmas. Can you send Santa another email?" I told her it doesn't snow here. She drew a picture of snow and asked me to mail it to Santa.

Another tradition continues.

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.

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.

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.

Funny Sign Sunday

I'm not sure if I should be terrified or tempted by this offer.

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?)