So I have been away....

Between the one thousand birthday parties, costume prep, and general family madness, it's been quite the week.

 

Did I mention the teeny earthquake?

 

Woo-Hoo!  I got mad at the Honey last night for movng the table while I was trying to sew, then realized he was nowhere near the table!!  We looked at each other and realized it at the same time.  It was a very wierd sensation.  He called his mom to make sure she was fine, I called the little old landlady (she uses a walker), and we made the kids sit under the table for a few minutes in case things got crazy.  I've lived all my life in California, but that was the first time I've ever felt that rolling motion. 

 

I will post pics later, just didn't want y'all to think I had been eaten by wolves... 

YAY!

My best Jen sent me the latest Sookie Stackhouse!

 

Not.gonna.crack.it.until.Little.O.has.a.completed.costume.

 

Maybe just a little on my lunch hour....

Lovin the Dove...

I stole this from Faking Good Breeding. I haven't seen this on TV, but we don't have cable.

Have you noticed that I have been stealing things since I moved? I...I... I got (ahem) a slightly faster internet connection. I can finally watch things that MOVE, without waiting for a three day download. I'm tasting honey, people.

The Honey is, I think, underwhelmed that cable did not get ordered simultaneously.

Oops.

Happy Birthday, Little O

 

 

Scary Stuff

Not ooooo spooky halloween stuff, either.

The commentor, Michael M is an asshat of the highest order.

But I have gone out on a girl's night out, and if you ever have, you should read THIS.

Sunday Quizfest

NameThatDisease.com - The disease test

That one was cheerfully stolen from Trauma Queen.


Which Horrible Affliction are you?
A Rum and Monkey disease.

Rabies? That one is on me.

A lovely feature has popped up that the fonts on my computer are frequently microscopic, so I couldn't READ any of the quizzes on blogthings to take one, so I guess it's just two today. Mert, I know you can tell me how to fix this...

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On a totally unrelated note, while investigating the annoying noises made by the toity, I have learned a terrible fact. They say that the lovely bleach based drop in products used to cut down on actual scrubbing, will eventually destroy the innards of your toilet. Which makes sense, but--but--I am torn between the reduction of work NOW and the gradual replacement of all those PARTS in the toilet tank. Can't.stand.the.dripping. No more drop ins for me (Sob!)

hmmm.... I may need a life.

POP!!! POP POP POP

The sheer volume of little nitnoid things that I want to make this house mine is overwhelming.

 

Okay, I have some big ticket items on the list, as well.  

 

I want I want I want.

 

I'm poor I'm poor I'm poor.

 

whine whine whine.

 

Little O and I went to a birthday party last week, and I genuinely liked the mom.  She was warm and friendly, seemed bright, and NORMAL.  Which is good, as she's a new professor at the local university.  It gives me hope. 

 

However.

 

Her daughter, whom my girl adores, was RUUUDE and NASTY to her own mother, and everyone laughed and acted charmed, as if she were just a spunky girl.  That's not spunk, people!  I can see where some of my issues with Little O have come from lately.  This is a newly six year old girl--Telling the single mom who is throwing her a kick ass birthday party to shut up and stop talking. 

 

It was the pop rocks all over again...

 

 

 

 

 

Where were YOU in 1976?

The long weeks at the MIL's are worth it if you guys can see these kids.

Hey, it was 1976. I understand that. But during the moving process, I found my first grade year book from 1976, and we did NOT look like this. The Honey's younger sister is one of the only normal looking kids in this photo, so I feel no guilt in posting this kick ass seventies class picture. I love the super thick glasses kid and the intense looking blonde boy, both in the middle row. Diggin' the seventies hair all around. I could have kissed my MIL when she handed me this one.

If Greg is dead and Chuck is gone, where will I get my Profanity?

CHUUUUUUUUUCK!

Don't leave me, Chuck!

I swear I'll curse more!

CHUUUUUUCK!

FUCKING don't leave me here, Chuck!!!!!!

hmmm... now sounding very needy.

(sob!)

Kim is obviously going to have to post more often.

I need my fix. The mother of a preschooler and a twelve year old doesn't get to use her (ahem) more extended vocabulary very often... brace yourselves, my friends.

Call the Pope!

Friends, I performed a miracle last night...

 

It saved a twelve year old's life.

 

 

Last night at Nine o'clock, as I was prepping everyone for the next day, Big O announced that the index cards he had assured me were taken care of, were, in fact, NOT in his school supplies.  Could I go get him some immediately, as he needed them for the next day.

 

It was the strangest sensation.  My brain cells were bursting like I had Pop Rocks in my head!  

 

Rather than begin beating him, I stalked to the nearest moving box and resumed my unpacking.  Moved the (never used) fondue pot, lifted up the markers, and there they were....  Obnoxious pastel index cards left over from my dippy ex-husband's college years--that's thirteen years ago, people.

 

I am so calling the Vatican. 

Where's a voodoo priestess when we need her?

I don't re-post things gleaned from emails very often, but I liked this one--particularly the step-sibs.  Common Sense joins Darwin...

 

 

 

 OBITUARY - Common Sense

	My parents told me about Mr. Common Sense early in my life and told me I would do well to call on him when making decisions. It seems he was always around in my early years but less and less as time passed by.  Today I read his obituary. Please join me in a moment of silence in remembrance, for Common Sense had served us all so well for so many generations. Obituary Common Sense Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape.  He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as knowing when to come in out of the rain, why the early bird gets the worm, life isn't always fair, and maybe it was my fault. Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don't spend more than you earn) and reliable parenting strategies (adults, not children are in charge). His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a six-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition. Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job they themselves failed to do in disciplining their unruly children. It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer Aspirin, sun lotion or a sticky plaster to a student, but could not inform the parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion. Common Sense lost the will to live as the Ten Commandments became contraband; churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims. Common Sense took a beating when you couldn't defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar can sue you for assault. Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot.  She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement. Common Sense was preceded in death by his parents, Truth and Trust; his wife, Discretion; his daughter, Responsibility; and his son, Reason. He is survived by three stepbrothers; I Know my Rights, Someone Else is to Blame, and I'm a Victim. Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone. If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, join the m aj ority and do nothing. Author unknown

That Old Black Magic...

Car rides are the most fun thing EVER in my world right now.

 

Little O has discovered ten.

 

She has learned to add, and thinks it is a giggly magic trick each and every time you can give her an addition problem that she can figure out.  This presupposes that you are adding numbers no larger than five.  I forget occasionally and give her something like eight plus two.  There's a pause as she begins counting, she can even get the eight on two hands, but then she is stymied because she is out of hands.  I get the scold, but it's so funny.

 

How do I keep this magic alive?  Math is magic and fun, and I don't want her to lose that.  My mother loves math--the elegance and the straightforward answers.  She wanted to be a math teacher, but my grandmother laughed and told her she would never earn a decent living as a teacher, she would be a nurse, like her mother.  The math gene skipped a genereation--I am my father's daughter, and words are my enchantment.  Numbers are little sharp toothed gremlins, nipping at my heels. 

 

If Little O can have both Math and the Written Word, how glorious.  It's all stretched out in front of her.     

I wuz robbed.

So it's Customer Service Week!

 

We've had silly contests all week to qualify for daily prize drawings.

 

I was disqualified on Wednesday because of the rhyming answer to this question:

 

Someone who steals diapers.

 

Okay, if you want to be common and simple, you could say it's a diaper swiper. 

 

I thought  "Crap Napper" was a brilliant answer. 

 

They tell me it does not rhyme.

 

I know CRSE has my back on this one.  I didn't think we could USE the word diaper in the answer. 

 

I gave the air mattress back to Bre today to FORCE the Honey out of his mother's house and into ours.

 

 

Not.another.night.

bitchin'

I loooved the Del Rey Discover series, where they highlighted upcoming authors in sci-fi/fantasy.  I subscribe to the Del Rey online newsletter, and can I just say that I UNDERSTAND that Terry Brooks is a big cash cow for Random House.  I get that.

 

How lovely it must be for Mr. Brooks to never need a colonoscopy, because Random House is eternally vigilant and seems permanently lodged firmly between his butt cheeks.  If there's trouble, some hapless Random House minion will be the first to spot it. 

 

Maybe I just never caught the Shanarra bug.  Maybe if I had, I would be thrilled that he is in every single newsletter.  I just don't care.  

 

 

Bring on the new stuff! No, NEW-new, not recycled into a new title.  Fresh.   

 

Jonesin' for sci-fi.  That's me.

 

Naomi Novick's new book is out and I have no money.  or time.

 

I miss the bookstore. 

 

Crazy customer and I keep taking turns hanging up on each other. 

 

I Love trash.

Everything Dirty or Dingy or Dusty

Everything Ragged, or Rotten or Rusty

blah blah blah 

I am very grouch-ish today.

 

Wednesday Heroes will return once I have internet access.

 

In the meantime, howzabout a WTF Wednesday?

 

WHO builds these tiny showers that you can only stand up straight in?

 

Seriously, I MIGHT like to bend my knees, especially since the shower head is aimed somewhere between my shoulder blades...

 

I am not THAT big, and I am not THAT tall, people.

 

Thankfully, this is my MIL's shower, not mine.

 

Because she is very sweet and muy amable, I am not going to WTF the Honey's cousin for showing up at 7:15 a.m. for the second time in two weeks.  Okay, maybe that was a passive-agressive WTF.  At least last time it was on a Saturday, not a Wednesday, when I am trying to get ready.

 

Click your heels together three times fast...

I love him. I hate him. I love him.

The Honey took a look at the walls in the harsh light of day, turned to me, and said,

 

"We'll probably be happy if we don't, but I KNOW we'll be happy if we paint."

 

The man suggesting more work to make the house prettier and more livable, using MY kind of logic to get there?

 

It would have been Steak and BJ day redux, but...but...

craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap.

 

I am sleeping on an air mattress in the middle of my mother-in-law's living room, he leaves before me, and I  have to clean out the living room each morning, WHILE getting Little O up and ready, not to mention myself, drive accross town to drop her off, and get to work on time.  I haven't had Big O for more than two weeks.

 

I will be living in MY OWN HOUSE this weekend. 

 

I don't care if we're high as kites from the paint fumes.  It'll be a bonding experience, right?  Look at the pretty colors, kids...