I'd Wish You a Merry Christmas if I Wasn't so Freakin' Tired

Holy cow!

I had no idea how exhausted my mother must have been during the holidays when I was a kid.

I have my three boys, the husband, my parents and brother in town. Not THAT many people, and I'm bushed.

My mom worked as an ER nurse when I was Santa-believing age. She regularly hosted twice as many people in a smaller house on a much smaller salary and never let us see her crack--not even once.

I am not worthy.

I'm 39 years old and it's taken me this many years to get all of my presents wrapped before Christmas Eve...to have a dinner prepared the night my parents arrive (what? I take them to restaurants with cloth napkins!).

Mom hasn't had to cook one thing so far this holiday (sure she just arrived this afternoon), I have all the groceries purchased for meals through Friday (even stuff for lunches) and I'm almost done with my cooking (yeah, so I'll be up REALLY late).

But I'm kinda proud of myself.

I also can't see straight let alone carry on a conversation with anyone.

So if you don't hear from me for a few days, it's not because I don't love you. I do. But the torch has been passed and I'm the "mom" of the family now, and pretending to be organized is EXHAUSTING.

Merry Christmas!!!

And Again

Most of you are just waking up.

I'm still wearing the same clothes I put on after my shower yesterday morning. I couldn't sleep last night.

A bunch of good friends came over last night. I had a little get together. I didn't stress about it. I didn't freak out about the way my house looked. I didn't even worry about the food. Everything came together just fine. People arrived. We laughed. We had great conversations. New friendships were formed. It was a fantastic evening.

I checked my Blackberry after everyone left. I like to look at my calendar for the next day before I go to bed--to make sure I didn't forget anything.

There were six missed calls on my phone.

I wasn't able to get back in touch with the callers. It was late. But, I was able to get a little information. The thing is my parents were already in bed.

The news could wait until morning.

My mom could have one more peaceful night's sleep before we start the whole routine all over again.

We've done this so many times before.

I'm just not used to my new role as the one who breaks the news.

And the fact that I'm not there to support them...I think that's even harder.

The Birth of the Peanut Butter Man

It was a pretty afternoon (every other hour it didn't rain today) and it started like this:


And as any parent might expect, it ended like this:

If They're Broke, You Can't Fix Them

My parents divorced when I was 10.

I hesitated on that first sentence for a few seconds, because I have a difficult time referring to my initial father figure as my "parent." I'm pretty sure he fed me and clothed me and loved me to the best of his ability, but his best just didn't hold up. As a matter of fact, he ran dry on parenthood after twelve years or so.

He probably should have just adopted a dog.

My mom and I often discussed her first marriage as I was growing up. She had moved home right after nursing school because she had no money. Without money, she was without a car--and therefore a job. Without a job, she couldn't afford a down payment for an apartment, so she married her high school sweetheart. She knew he wasn't the right guy, but she felt like it was her only option.

My mom's greatest wish for me was to grow up and gain the skills to be independent. She wanted me to fall in love, she wanted me to get married, she wanted me to have children, but not because I had no other choice.

The constant refrain when it came to dating or marriage was: Never commit to someone you want to change, because they never will.

When it comes to your children though things are different. You can't walk away when your child makes awful decisions. You must try, as you have from the time they were small, to teach them the skills to make good choices.

But what if they never learn?

My sister's battle with addiction began when she was an early teen. More than twenty years later, it's still a constant battle. My parents (my whole family) went through all the stages--some taking much longer than others--denial, embarrassment, guilt, enabling, anger, support, grief and begrudgingly after many years and much heartache--acceptance.

There was nothing we could do to change my sister.

We couldn't "fix" her no matter how badly we wanted to.

The choice to get better or let addiction claim her life was hers to make. All we could do was love her. We didn't have to like who she was when she was using, all we could do was love the girl behind the addict.

So how do I reconcile these two messages about relationships? Honestly, until I started writing this post, I had never thought about the ways they contradict each other. Don't love someone you want to change, yet you can still love someone even though you know you have no power to change them.

I guess I'm going to choose to focus on the central theme: love.

It would be tempting to ration the love I'm willing to share knowing how little control I have over the people I choose to give it to, but that's not me. I just have to remember to give it freely --never with any strings attached--because they may just drag me places I don't want to go.


This post was inspired by Julie's Hump Day Hmmm. Check them out.

Spring Fever

I know new posts have been pretty sparse around here, but springtime here in the wilds of Northern Virginia (and when I say wilds I mean the Target parking lot on Saturday morning) speeds by at breakneck pace (or that might be how I drive to work every morning).

So aside from my regular duties protecting poor little corporate America from mean ole lawmakers and their big bully constituents, I've been busy ensuring that America's youth understands that our national pastime is indeed a sport played outside and does not involve controllers and a big screen.






Of course, I've also been spreading beauty far and wide (What? My house is on the corner, I have to plant on two sides).


I've been sowing the seeds for a bountiful harvest (if you call a few salads and enough jalapeno peppers to start your own salsa company bountiful).

And well, the kids do need a rinsing off every once in a while.

How He Became Our Son, Part III

So there we were with all of our outlets properly protected.

We were living in a two-bedroom townhouse and our itty bitty guest room was taken up mostly by a queen-sized bed. That first week I would stand in the doorway after our new roommate had fallen asleep and my heart would clench at the sight of that tiny little guy in that huge bed.

I had so many mixed emotions. He was so little and so beautiful and he looked so damn adorable sleeping so soundly surrounded by that big mattress, and yet my heart would break that he was having to sleep in a bed that wasn't his.

And boy was I pissed at my sister.

How the hell could she put this amazing little boy in this position--ripped from his routine, living far away from home and with people who weren't his parents?!

He came to live with us in the middle of the NCAA basketball tournament. How do I remember? Because we took him to the bar with us to watch the games.

What?? That was our life then.

It was a local joint. We didn't drag him along to a club. It even had a restaurant attached. We set the kid up at the bar with a plate of chicken tenders and french fries and some orange juice to wash it down as we sipped our Miller Lites with the rest of the gang.

Chicken nuggets and orange juice were the staple of his diet at that point. Along with hotdogs and ham, he ate very little else. He was allergic to milk so that ruled out a number of foods. As a baby, he had been a picky eater never wanting to eat baby food from a jar. We had to mix it in with his formula to get vegetables in him. That combined with my sister's eating habits, he hadn't developed a very broad palette.

It was probably a good thing too. Just getting used to the responsibilty of having to have dinner ready for someone was tough.

The thing about kids is that they can't take care of things by themselves, so we were forced to start building a routine. I mean somone had to cook for him, someone had to give him a bath, someone had to read him a story, someone had to help him get his pajamas on and someone had to tuck him in. Or at least he had us convinced of this.

A week after he arrived I turned 30. The hubs had planned a big party--probably to rub in the fact that I was turning 30 before him (thirty-three whole days before him). The night before my party (my actual birthday) I got a call from my parents. I assumed they were calling to wish me many happy returns.

But it was just my dad on the phone. He was calling because he had news.

Mom wasn't there with him because she had dropped everything and flown up to be with my aunt--her only sister and my second mother. It had fallen to him to tell me that my aunt had been diagnosed with liver cancer.

I took the news with some tears, assured my dad that I wasn't upset that he had to tell my on my birthday, hung up the phone and the three of us went out to meet some friends for dinner.

These friends--K & P--would figure prominently in our ability to manage our plunge into parenthood. I told them calmly about my aunt's illness. They listened, probably not understanding how devastated I was because on the outside I appeared fine. They talked and played with our little guy at the table and patiently endured the cheesy restaurant where we met because I thought it would be kid friendly.

I went home that night and sobbed.

Sure our three year-old nephew had just moved in. Okay, I had just started a new job doing something completely different. So what I was turning 30. But the news of my aunt's cancer?

It was just enough to push me over the edge.

I can say now that the following months would mostly be a blur, and the parts I do remember? Let's just say I wish I didn't.

How He Became Our Son, Part II

If you missed the first installment, you can find it here.

"Your sister's in jail and you need to come get him."

I was at work--in my new office. I took a deep breath and thought for a moment.

I have to tell the hubs. He's NOT going to believe this. How could she be so stupid?I just started this job two weeks ago. How do I explain that I need
to take a day off already? How much do I share with my boss? How do I
explain that I'm going to be a parent?

My new firm was small. They appeared to be a family, but who ever really knows in those circumstances. I decided that laying it out there was my best approach. I knew there were going to be tons of adjustments and they needed to understand what was going on.

But were they going to be okay with this? I mean seriously
I just started this job.

Thankfully, my boss was amazing. Turns out he had a brother who was a bit of a "challenge" himself and he completely understood my situation.

Honestly, what happened next is a blur to this day. I don't remember packing or going to the airport or even the plane ride home. I just remember getting off the plane and seeing him.

He was so little. He was so adorable. He had no idea what was going on.

The hubs and I had started dating the same year he was born, so he knew us both well. I was his god mother and we spent all the time we could with him whenever we were at my parents. We knew he'd be okay with us, but how were we going to explain that he was getting on a plane and coming to live with us--for how long we had no idea.

With my sister's MS, my nephew was accustomed to her being hospitalized from time to time. We decided that the best approach for now was to tell him that she was sick and couldn't take care of him so he was coming to stay with us for a while.

In reality, we had no idea what was going to happen. We didn't have a lot of details about her arrest, about the process of hearings, about sentencing. Honestly, we didn't have much experience with this, though enough that my parents had finally reached their breaking point and refused to post bail (and I was completely behind their decision). We just had no idea how long he'd be living with us. Three years? Five years? Her attorney thought it would be in that neighborhood.

The hubs had stayed behind to get things ready for our little guy's arrival. I didn't know what to tell him we'd need. My mom was getting his clothes and some favorite books and toys together. But what did we need at our house? I left it to my husband to figure it out.

When I came home Sunday evening I brought with me one huge bag and one little guy. What had the hubs gotten to get our house ready? A super-sized box of outlet covers.

Oh yeah, we were prepared.

How He Became Our Son, Part I

We had been married for nine months when we got the call.

We were going to have a kid--a three and a half year-old kid!

Wha?!

Parental responsibilities were to begin in forty-eight hours!

Holy shit on a cracker! In forty-eight hours?! What do I need? What do they eat? Where will he sleep? What does he do when we go to work? What about when we're at happy hour?

There had been those three days a month after our honeymoon when I thought I might be pregnant, but it was a false alarm. Even then, I would have had nine months to prepare for the arrival. But this? We weren't getting much notice.

Then I found out why.

Life with my sister has never been what you'd describe as predictable--life with a drug addict rarely is. I'd lived through screaming matches, visiting hours at rehab, sketchy friends, suicide attempts, rehab, dropping out of school, "your sister has run away," "well, I'm going to live with Dad," parents kicking her out, rehab, wrecked cars, the MS diagnosis, arrests for posession, rehab and then finally "I'm pregnant, can't work, not married, but I'm keeping the baby anyway."

Seriously, mom's Christmas cards were always the first ones opened I'm sure.

I was fully prepared to step in if the MS ever got too bad for her to care for my nephew. This had been made clear to the husband when he was still just the boyfriend. Luckily her disease had progressed slowly and my nephew's birth didn't cause her any loss of mobility (as we were warned it might). The possibility of taking on his care seemed a long way off.

But of course there I was on the phone getting the "your sister's in jail and you need to come get him now" call.

I know, hindsight is 20/20. I should have seen it coming, right? As stupid as it sounds though, I just didn't.

Why I Love St. Patrick's Day--It's Not What You Think

I have a fondness for this day we celebrate our collective Irish heritage--both real and imagined.

I don't necessarily imbibe in green beer, though I have, and I did enjoy corned beef and cabbage today (a first). I don't love St. Patrick's Day because I'm particularly fond of bagpipes or long lines at Irish Pubs.

I love St. Patrick's Day because I'm adopted.

I've always known I was adopted. I went straight from the hospital to my parents. I'm taller than both my parents, but I am a brunette like my mom. Like many modern families, my parents divorced and my mom remarried when I was 10, so I mainly grew up without anyone questioning if I was adopted because they knew the guy I called my dad was actually my step-father.

In my sister's case, the fact of her adoption was a little more obvious. My first real memories are of the events surrounding her adoption when I was 3 1/2. She actually went home with her biological family for a few months before coming to us and we know that she is of Puerto Rican descent.

My sister and I look nothing alike--but I tend to forget. As a matter of fact, when my nephew (now my eldest son--different story for a different day) was born he looked so much like my sister that I cried when I met him because I finally felt like I looked like someone I knew.

So what does this all have to do with St. Patrick's Day? I'm getting there.

In my twenties, I requested the non-identifying information about my adoption from the agency that handled it. Honestly, I wasn't looking for much information, though I did discover I had been given another first name at birth (my mom swears she told me this--I contend that's not something I would have forgotten) and that my birth parents weren't related by blood (Phew! Dodged that bullet! Shit I hadn't even contemplated the possibility.) I was interested in a totally different piece of information. There was only one thing I wanted to know--one little thing that has always bugged me.

I want to know my ethnic background.

As an adoptee, I've never been too interested in finding my biological parents, but I have wanted to feel some connection to those who have come before me. To be able to stake a claim to an ethnic "home country" feels like it would give me a sense of my place in the chain of human events.

So there I was, scanning through the documents I received from the agency, finding out that my name had been Emily for a few days and my birth parents were young and probably "made" me in the back of a Trans-Am with Led Zepplin blaring on the AM radio, when my eyes found the box containing the information I had been searching for.

Ethnic heritage: American

AMERICAN??!!

My blue eyes, dark hair and plethora of freckles suggest that this didn't mean Native American.

My physical characteristics suggest I'm Irish. I once dated a self-proclaimed "black Irish" guy and it was somewhat awkward to kiss in public, because people often thought we were siblings.

Does it make sense now why I love St. Patrick's Day?

It's the one day a year I get to have a nationality--even if I don't have proof.

Remember When TVs Had One Power Switch and Two Dials?

Yeah, so I got to drool over a giant Daniel Craig last night, so I was feeling good about the new TV "system."

This afternoon, a friend was over watching the FSU/VT game with the hubs and after one look at the screen I determined that I've been ruined. "Why does that picture look all fuzzy and washed out?" I asked. "Cause it's only being shown on regular network TV" they replied. A silence fell over the room.

Will I ever view TV the same way?? Tonight it didn't look like it.

Still high from my Casino Royale experience last night, I hopped on over to Blockbuster this evening (yes I'm still living in the dark ages and haven't subscribed to Netflix yet) on a quest to begin making up for lost time on the movie front. I sauntered in the house with Little Miss Sunshine, The Good Shepard and the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie (told you I haven't seen a movie in ages) and some yummy greek food only to find strung out husband furiously punching buttons on the new remote and no picture on my precious new hunk viewing machine.

It was clear from the tilt of his baseball hat and the hair sticking straight out from the sides of his head that he had been working on this problem for some time. The edge in his voice when I inquired about the black screen told me he was once again ready to issue an edict that no one under the age of 37 was allowed to touch anything related to this new system. That's right, the TV connected to the PS3 in the family room where the boys play. Nope he doesn't want them to touch it.

Buttons continue to be pressed, the doors to the components cabinet (the only thing I picked out--cause it's furniture ya know) are opened, components are inspected and then he begins to follow the wires up from the back of the TV into the ceiling--still muttering under his breath almost as a mantra that no one (read children) should be touching "things."

I'd like to pause here to mention that NONE of my children are tall enough to reach the back of the television.

So I'm standing at the edge of the room watching husband become more maniacal with every minute that he can't solve the problem. Hotties like Johnny Depp and Matt Damon are in little boxes in my hand waiting to be drooled over, and from the couch comes this little voice as one more time I ask what happened. "I think the ghost did it." "I think the monster broke the TV."

I began to think that I would have to go back to watching my boyfriends on my little computer screen, and if we ever were able to fix the TV that I'd have to get up every time a child wanted to watch a show or play a game. And that's when I thought, is it better to have loved and lost then never to have loved at all?

Sometimes You Just Have to Laugh

Sometimes you're going along surviving French III, making headway with your parents to extend your curfew and next thing you know life is raining on your perfectly, poufy, hot-rolled hair. That's how it seemed to me, at 16, when my sister's life started spinning out of control toppling the rest of my family over with her.

Drug addiction is an ugly thing.

Screaming, emergency room visits, rehab, changing schools, yelling, rehab, calls from the police, running away, rehab, padlocks on bedroom doors, counseling, rehab... A joke developed around the house.

Me: Mom I can't find the camera.
Mom: We used to have one.
Together: But it wasn't nailed to the counter. {explosion of laughter}

An addict will pawn anything to get money for drugs, whether it belongs to them or not.

You might think we sound heartless having enjoyed a laugh while my sister was obviously suffering in such a profound way, but we had too. Daily life was too hard. We all spent so many days, months--shoot years--walking on egg shells, not knowing what would happen next, worrying that we knew what would, that we needed a little levity just to cope.

Humor is a tactic my family's employed a number of times over the years to avoid drowning in the buckets of shit that have been poured over our heads. I think it's why one of my favorite movie scenes is the one in Steel Magnolia's when Sally Field is cursing the world over her daughter's coffin and Olympia Dukakis offers up Shirly MacLaine's face for a smack. The relief of laughter after heaving sobs is like a cleansing shower.

Life sucks at times and we all need a way to figure out how to keep going. And this is all a very long way of explaining why I nominated Kris from I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino for the October Perfect Post award. The woman understands the importance of a good laugh.

The Man is Obviously Worried About Retirement

Dad's at it again.

Hi there Son,

I am forwarding to you an Email with an article from the NY Times on MADONNA, who is reported to be leaving Warner Brothers for Live Nation, the concert promoter--if it goes through she gets $100 mil, with the first $50 mil to be paid up front. Now this is not as good as the $500 mil that comes with Rachel, but it'll be OK, it'll keep the corporate jet manned and in fuel, and you probably will be able to quit your day job.

You have to admit Madonna is a whole different scene from properly prepared pasta, and you may not have enough energy to accompany her on ALL concert tours, but the benefits would seem enough to grit your teeth and bear it. She is, admittedly, a little old (turns 50 next year), but I would suspect you wouldn't notice it with those intense lights and loud music all the time.

Now, as your father, I would far prefer Rachel, because I can hardly muster the energy to get through a whole Madonna set, whereas my appreciation for Italian food has no discernible limits. I would however stifle myself and my reservations if you and Madonna were hitting it off and having fun--fathers often have to make such major concessions for their children.

It does seem that your status as a rocket scientist would make you very attractive to Madonna, since she and her group may be fairly high much of the time. So ask her out--if she accuses you of only being after her money say no, that's my father--then she will respect you as a hottie and my interest as something she intuitively and favorably relates to, part of a business deal (she needn't know how expensive Jean and I can be....). OK, so this is to show again that we have always your best interests at heart,

Lotsa love, Dad

Of course I had to be the one to break it to Dad that she's married and totally into the whole healthy living thing. Poor man. He just wants one ridiculously wealthy child--even if he needs to pimp his one and only son out to get one.

The Bidding is Open

You may not come with millions. You may not need 30 minutes to make a meal.

But, the family has taken a vote and it was unanimous.*

For those of you who haven't been following along (what? you don't stop by her five times a day?), it started yesterday with an email from dear old dad.

Then came the grateful response:

Thank you family for all the love and support and guidance and advertising and marketing and, and, and… holy cr@p!!!

The testimony from a friend (see anonymous).

And of course the vote (have you ever tried to get four sisters to agree on anything?).

We have decided it might be time.

So...

My brother is now officially on the auction block.

If you're interested, we'd be willing to entertain your offers for a date with my brother.

Despite the suggestion on the earlier post that we might be able to let him go sight-unseen, we felt we'd get a much better price if you could see the quality of the goods (not those goods--ewww he's my brother).

Here are the stats:

• Lives in Houston, TX
• Has a PhD in something science related--it's too complicated for me to understand
• He's a young 40
• Owns his own home--and it doesn't have wheels
• He's gainfully employed--it was a nail-biter there for a while
• Remembers birthdays (he sent me flowers this year!!)
• Has been on the vomit comet
• He has four fabulously gorgeous sisters
• He doesn't live near any of them
• Not a butter face

• Skilled in the way of the ninjas

• Not claustrophobic
  
• Has incredible muscle control

Oh, and he's willing to make an ass of himself for fun.

The bidding will open at a long weekend of babysitting for his three "spirited" nephews.

*Dad was going to object but we just stuffed a chocolate chip cookie in his mouth.
**Serious inquiries only please.

Brother for Sale

From the same guy who brought us this, I submit the email my brother received today (and which we as his sisters were carbon copied).

Hi there Son,

I was in the grocery store line yesterday looking over the magazines for gossip, and there in that inimitable publication "The National Enquirer" was the news that Rachel Ray is getting divorced--is she a great prospect, or WHAT!!

Her husband--soon to be ex--is asking for the modest sum of $500 million for settlement, so you can detect that she can easily absorb the cost of a wedding. So CALL HER UP, and ASK HER OUT--I suspect it's been some time since she dated a rocket scientist*, so she should be receptive, even enthusiastic.

An aside, in case you don't know about Rachel, she is a young (?30-35) woman who has at least one (perhaps two) TV cooking shows, has written books on Italian cooking, travels the world doing feature shows on cooking in different countries and is very attractive, personable, and engaging. Her only possible weakness is that I have never seen her demonstrate compelling cookie cooking skills, an imperative--nay, mandatory--cooking strength. (This is not important since we can all help her with the cookies if she becomes part of the family--Hee-Hee.)

After all, sons-in-law are terrific, but really all they do is work and get fed and grumble that it's time to go. What we need in the Hurst family is a prospective daughter-in-law immersed in a long (but formal) engagement to keep her alert as to how best to please her aging prospective father-in-law. The occasional dutiful hug and kiss is fine, but we're talking ITALIAN COOKING here, and LOTSA dough for pasta AND travel expenses.

In addition to your status as a rocket scientist, I think you could also truly capture her interest if you told her your spaghetti sauce is better than hers--and then if neither of you are impressed after the first few dates you could at least get some wonderful recipes... While I have not consulted everyone, I am certain the remainder of the family joins me in this recommendation with the same unbridled enthusiasm.

Lotsa love, your old Dad

So then I asked dear old Dad if I could post his letter on my blog and here was his response:

Amie, glad you liked it, I think we all have to join to keep steady gentle pressure on such a timid family member. Of course you can post it on your blog, and I don't care about the whether you use my name or not--however, perhaps you should use your brother's name AND Email, since with such a blog as you manage he might turn up a whole HOST of prospects--all of us know that NOTHING gets the attention of Moms more than a stray single male... Lotsa love, Dad

I'm thinking he might want my brother to settle down. Any funny, cool, athletic, nice, women in the greater Houston, TX area want a date with a handsome 40 year-old NASA scientist??

And apparently, my dad would also prefer it if you were a good cook.

*in the spirit of semi-disclosure, my dear brother is involved in space medicine.

The Day My Music Died

The radio was on in the car as we drove down the driveway, on our way to where I don't remember anymore. I was in the front passenger seat unable to see over the dashboard of our maroon, two-door Ford LTD. I probably wasn't wearing a seatbelt not because my mom didn't care about me but because it was 1977.

My mom brought the car to a stop at the bottom of the driveway before she pulled out to make a left hand turn. That I remember.

The radio was tuned to an AM station, most likely AM1240 out of Waterbury, CT. I remember because we had to change our phone number not long before because it ended in those same four numbers--1-2-4-0. We were forever answering calls for song requests. After a weeks of apologizing to the callers and letting them know they had the wrong number, we just said we'd get the song right on and hang up the phone.

As she nudged the car forward to see beyond the hedges that lined our front lawn, the announcement came through the speakers.

"Elvis Presley is dead."

Her foot went back on the brake.

"Elvis Pretzel is dead Mom?" I never could get his name right.

"Yeah," she said, and we were both quiet for a moment--both of us processing the information in our own way. Me contemplating the finality of death; wrapping my seven year-old mind around such a horrific thought; worried that if he could die so too could the person I loved most in the world--the woman sitting next to me. And suddenly I was afraid. He couldn't be dead! He couldn't be gone!

"Isn't there something someone can do?! Can't they turn back the clock?" I asked. "No," she said as she explained that if he was dead it was already too late. She was a nurse, and my mother, so I took her at her word letting the information sink in.

I wonder now what she was thinking when she heard the news. Elvis was the icon she grew up with. She had watched him on the Ed Sullivan Show with her family--my grandparents not understanding the draw. The cameras focused in on just his upper body. She watched over the years as he aged. She saw how he had become bloated. She saw too his comeback. But now he was gone.

Was part of her childhood gone too on that day?

Once again she inched the car forward and then turned left down the road. To where, I don't remember.

It was just a moment in the car, at the end of the driveway, on a warm August day in 1977, but it has stayed with me for thirty years.

Tales of Gail and Toothpaste

What do Gail and toothpaste have in common? Not much that I know of though I'm willing to bet that Gail uses it regularly. She's clean that way. But I need to talk about both of these things today.

First Gail.

A big thanks to everyone who has said hi. I'm sorry if I confused anyone. Gail doesn't have a blog (yet), but I'm trying to get her to start one. It would be filled with LOTS of juicy gossip I promise you. She just sent me some good stuff about my highschool friemesis. Heh.

Requests were made for a good Gail story. Unfortunately I don't have specific story to tell, but rather an effect to report. First you must understand that Mamma's Mamma is a bit of a goodie-goodie. She never smoked cigarettes, she never did drugs--except that one time she says my aunt made "marijuana cookies" and "you know how I just can't resist cookies. But I don't see what all the hype is. I just felt sleepy." Yep. That's my mom. She does enjoy her one martini a day, but she's not a big drinker either.

Unless she's out with Gail.

Mom, Gail and their two friends have labeled themselves the Fab Four. They get together once a month or so for a girl's night out (I'm sure this was Gail's idea). Now you see I have Gail to thank for loosening my Mamma up.

I called down to say hi during their annual girl's weekend and what did I find? My mamma giggling her ass off. Apparently the girls had been drinking for quite some time and Gail had just whipped out the cigars (and Gail if it wasn't you--don't burst my bubble now). My mamma (remember goodie-goodie girl?) started smoking a CIGAR!

So how can I not love a woman who can get the goodie-goodie girl to be bad? Ah, a true mentor!

As for the toothpaste...

There are many uses for toothpaste. There's, well, cleaning your teeth. And yet, there is so much more. According to the folks over at ThriftyFun.com you can use it for fixing DVDs, cleaning your jewelry and clearing up acne. It also works well as spackle and for hanging posters.

There is one thing though I'm pretty sure toothpaste should not be used near, and that my friends is your clitoris. Yep, I said it.

I'm not sure, poor Google searcher, how the terms "clitoris and toothpaste" led you to me, but if you want my opinion on the matter here it is.

Don't come near my nethers with toothpaste!

I understand that you may be looking for a cheap way to accomplish this, but please listen to Gloria Brame (and she's a sex therapist, you know) "I HATED IT- burn, burn, burn."

That is all I have to say about that.

These Are The People in MY Neighborhood

Well crap, I broke my streak. Oh well, the sleep was worth it.

So tonight's post is all about this photo (note: close this screen now if you embarrassed by naked humans).

I received this photo initially from my boss with the subject line "Maybe I Should Try This Stuff Afterall." As you can tell, we don't adhere to strict PC rules in our office.

Well, I thought it was funny and sent it on to my parents who I thought would get a chuckle at it.

Mom's response? "Hilarious...and enviable!"

Dad's response?

"Hi, I and your Mom are outraged with that picture--when we were photographed some years ago when Pfizer was trying to develop the drug, we had a legal commitment from them that they would NEVER release it. CURSES!!! Ask your boss not to send it anywhere else, with the possible exception of the White House, and then it should be titled "Democrats at play"..... love, Dad"

It's hard to be the funny one in my family.

Days posting in a row: 40
Number of posts ever: 100

Mood: Feeling pretty darn proud of myself

Harry's seranading me with Christmas tunes, the smell of fresh pine is in the air, I'm sipping egg nog and the tree is decorated!!! To top it all off, this is the 100th post I've put up on my blog. Who would have thunk it?!

Way back in June when this all started I never knew how long I'd keep it up. I had no idea if anyone would be interested in my take on life. I had no idea how anyone would ever find this little piece of real estate, but that was before I got to know some of my favorite bloggers and couldn't resist adding a comment or two. Of course, that was also before anyone had ever heard of NaBloPoMo which is responsible for nearly half of the posts on this here blog. What fun! What fun!

Back to Christmas.

With the help of two small elves, one medium elf who got bored and one large one the tree's up, the lights are on and it's mostly decorated. I've been waiting for the elves to go to bed to finish up. The clumping of ornaments on the bottom third of the tree only gave me visions for what the tinsel might look like. I had no idea you could actually get that many ornaments on one branch. Mrs. Claus must go around after everyone is asleep and spread them out a bit.

I love seeing people's holiday decorations. From the choice of the outdoor lights (colored v. white, steady v. flashing, strands v. figures) to the tree (real v. artificial, white v. colored lights, theme v. a collection of ornaments, tinsel v. no tinsel, garland, v. none, angel v. star on top) you can tell a lot about a person by their decorations. Think about it. Have you ever really driven up to a friend's house at the holidays and been surprised by how their house was decorated (or not)?

If you grew up in a real tree family, you probably can't imagine having an artificial one. If you grew up with artificial, you probably can't imagine why anyone would go through the hassle of buying a real one. Shakey and I are enjoying a marriage of these two backgrounds. They all said it would never work, but I think we've done a great job of adapting our traditions. We have a real tree every year--just like I had growing up.

Actually the tree isn't the only difference in our background. Yeah, people used to walk on the other side of the street when they saw us coming. You could hear them whisper, "I can't believe THEY are together. Such a shame!" You see, his family opens their presents on Christmas Eve--mine on Christmas morning. I know, it's shocking! But America is just going to have to learn to accept diversity in all its forms.

Frankly, our children are growing up living the best of both worlds. Christmas actually begins for them at 4:00 p.m. on Christmas Eve when we sit down to our dinner at my in-laws, then to church (yeah, my family--not so much) and then back to their house to begin the present fest. We then all open presents at the EXACT SAME TIME, bundle them back up, clean up the wrapping and bows and head home to get in bed and await Santa's visit. The next morning they start all over again. First to see what Santa delivered, then to open their stockings, then a little breakfast strudel and over to the tree for present fest v.2. In this version however we all take turns opening gifts so we can see what everyone received (I told you, Shakey and I came from very different backgrounds). Somewhere around noon we clean up the paper and bows and then get ready to stuff our faces once again. Whereas my husband was all done by Christmas morning and I had nothing to do until Christmas morning, our brood gets to enjoy both.

Who says inter-Christmas marriages don't work?

Come In Rampart

Day 32
Mood: relaxed

Just got back from spending five hours in the ER. Isn't that so EXACTLY how you like to spend your Saturday? Oh yeah, me too. We're all fine at Mamma's house. Just a few blood stains and some stitches to show for our afternoon.

I was chasing after Mr. 2 this afternoon trying to defuse the temper tantrum he had kicked up when Shakey busted in through the door, shoved a plastic bag at me and hunched over in pain. My initial thought was that he had been kicked in the groin the way he was all bent over, but then he took off his hat to reveal a rather large blood stain setting in.

Got Shakey to sit down and apply pressure to his head, got Mr. 2 changed, lined up care for Misters 4 & 2 and had notes drafted for both the back and front door directing Mr. 10 to a neighbor's. In no time, we were in the ER and I even had a book, a drink and a salad (the contents of the bag Shakey handed me before the pain set in)--ready to wait for HOURS.

Shakey had quite a nasty gash in his head. He made the vain attempt to suggest that he didn't need stitches--a determination he arrived at by the fact that he wasn't gushing blood any more--but I insisted. I know, I'm a real killjoy. If he ever goes bald later in life, maybe he'll thank me for the lack of a giant worm-like scar on his noggin (though if he had one he could get it tattooed to look like a worm with eyes and stuff and freak out the grandkids--darn maybe the stitches were a hasty decision).

So I've gotten this far regaling you with the story of my afternoon without sharing the cause of the wound. And here's where the whole "how much do you share in your blog?" thing really comes into play. Some women--who I respect immensely--protect their husband's foibles, never tease them or tell embarrassing stories about them to their friends. Unfortunately for Shakey, I am not one of those women.

You know how he cut his head? By closing the back gate of our SUV on it. Yes, my husband is SO STRONG that he managed to close the door so hard that it split open his head through a wool baseball hat. (I had to put that strong thing in there so he wouldn't feel bad about me telling you that he hit himself in the head with a door that he was closing).

Aren't you just cringing with embarrassment for him now? I am too. Really I am. But HOW could I not blog about it?!

I am so not getting those diamond earrings for Christmas now.

Penos Envy

Day 28
Mood: Disheartened (should never try on clothes at the end of a long day)

I live with three small boys and one big boy. I am surrounded by penises.

This is not how I grew up. There were mostly girls in my house. Frankly, penises were always a bit intimidating until I had children of my own and saw how small they really start out. ANYWAY, let's just say that in a house with four boys there's a lot of attention paid to male genitalia. And here I am just a lone Mamma in the midst of it all.

First there's Shakey and his "super sperm"--or so he's named it since he can't sneeze in my direction without getting me pregnant. When his mom teasingly raised her eyebrows by how quickly I got pregnant for the third time, the man actually uttered these words TO HIS OWN MOTHER (imagine Shakey standing tall with hands on hips like Superman) "I'm the Sniper. Don't mess with my super sperm." Now I figure he said it to his own mom, so it's fair game for blogging.

Next we have Mr. 2. Mr. 2 does not yet show much interest in using the potty, however he does think it's quite funny in between diapers to chase his brothers around, hold out his penis and yell "I gonna pee on you" and then make a hissing noise. I'm happy to report, so far, that he hasn't actually gone through with the threat, but I'm betting that's just a matter of time.

I reported earlier in the fall that we have a plethora of acorns in our yard and apparently all the rounds of the Let's Pick Up the Acorns game we play with the boys to keep them from spreading out the raked leaves has left an impression on Mr. 2. As I was changing his diaper the other day, he reached down to grab his penis (is that genetic?) and while holding it looked down and then said to me, "Woolk Mommy woolk, it woolks like a acorn." He was right. It sort of did.

Not to be outdone by his younger brother, we have Mr. 10. Mr. 10 was five and half when our middle son was born. I expected the questions all along. Surprisingly, his first concern was how the baby was going to get out (believe it or not he was relieved when I told him how--that's because it wasn't happening to him), but sure enough about a month before I was due he skipped into my room one day and asked how that baby got in there anyway. So I started at the beginning... I told him every baby begins with a sperm and an egg. I explained that mommies have the egg and the daddies have the sperm. At this point he stopped me.

Mr. 10: "Wait daddies have sperm?"

Me: "Yep, all men have sperm."

Mr. 10: "ALL men have sperm?!"

Me: "Yep"

Mr. 10: "Do I have sperm?"

Me: "You will."

Mr. 10: "Where?!"

Me: "Well you know your testicles there underneath your penis?"

Mr. 10: interrupting me, pulling down his pants and stretching his penis up (I swear) over his shoulder "I HAVE SPERM RIGHT HERE?!"

It was like Christmas in April! He never asked how the sperm and egg got together. He was just so psyched to find out he was going to have sperm.

Finally there's Mr. 4. Mr. 4 is my golden retriever--all full of love and extra smart. He's the detail guy. Mr. 4 spoke the earliest too. He could name all of his body parts but for some reason pronounced penis like peenos--like his was greek.

One day in the shower Mr. 4 was telling me once again that I did not have a penos. And as had become the habit, I nodded my head and agreed. Then he proceeded to tick off a list of everyone he knew and whether or not they indeed had a penos. "P has a penos, M doesn't have a penos, Uncle C has a penos, Grandma doesn't have a penos." And on and on this went until he thought he categorized everyone he knew. But he had forgotten one person. So I asked him, "what about Daddy? Does Daddy have a penos (I had to say it that way, how could I resist?)?" Very quickly he replied with large eyes, "Oh yeah, Daddy has a BIIIG penos."

Ahh, life with four penoses boys!