Happy Halloween!

It's pretty sad that this little skeleton has better moves than me.

What do you do when you ain't got a clue?

Post some You Tube videos! Since I'm about as funny as a dead squirrel right now, here is a clip that even made me laugh. Thanks to Susan for jogging my memory!

Signs that Mild Post Partum Depression has set in:

1. Wearing the same pair of sweat pants and ratty T shirt for 60 hours straight
2. Not leaving the house for 4 days, with the exception of waiting at the school bus stop in your ratty sweat pants and T shirt
3. Obsessively playing solitaire on the computer while the baby naps instead of doing something productive
4. Not going to Target, running on the treadmill, or doing anything else on today's "To Do List"
5. Eating even more ice cream than usual

Well friends, it took a little longer than I expected, but you can check off numbers 1 through 5 for me, dammit. I was hoping that this time, I would escape the obligatory month of sweat pant wearing, mopey, couch potato fun that seems to ensnare me once my babies hit 4 months old. No such luck.

The worst was after Connor was born. I literally didn't leave our townhome for a solid month. I had groceries delivered and spent the entire day in my PJ's. I moped around crying for no reason, yelling at the dogs, and being generally an asshole. When I finally dragged myself and the babies into the car to go do SOMETHING, I got pulled over 2 miles from home and got a ticket for not having the Loudon County Sticker on my windshield. Nice.

So, this time around, I'm hoping that by embracing the crappiness and admitting it early on, it will go away faster and I can get back to my mascara wearing, vegetable eating, cute pair of jeans, kinda silly self.

More than an Instant

The air is filled with floating bubbles. Some of them drift along off in different directions, others swirl around each other for an instant, some linger, some merge - held together by tremulous soapy tendrils.

I was watching CNN this morning and the breaking news was that the police found the body of Jennifer Hudson's little nephew in a white SUV. I stopped in my tracks and a wave of sadness washed over me as Julia Hudson's desperate plea for her son's life on the news yesterday came to mind. Her grief is unimaginable to me. And yet while I feel genuine sympathy, today I will run on the treadmill, go to Target, fold laundry, wait for the school bus, and change poopy diapers. But the delicate bonds that hold my kids and I together will seem all the more fragile and fleeting when juxtaposed to such tragedy, and I will try to remember not to take them for granted.

As I thought about it further, I found it odd that we are a voyeur to this particular bit of her life and now she will be remembered in my mind as a Grief-Stricken Mom. This one moment will define her thoroughly from a stranger's vantage point. We are encapsulated into one or two binding words based on a momentary encounters.

When the Stylish mommy is walking through the mall with her kid following behind in designer jeans, face down, absorbed in a gameboy, and I think some evil thought that contains the words "lazy" and "shallow", it doesn't occur to me until later that I was only there for the briefest of instants in that mommy's life. Just passing by in the mall, does what I observe really sum her up or was she perhaps allowing her kid the gameboy as a reward for: doing all his chores, playing with his baby sister even though his friends think she's lame, getting all A's?

What about the Grouchy Scrooge in the cotton candy booth at the fair who refused to wet a napkin so we could wipe Connor's face. For all I know, she could have been served divorce papers that morning, or maybe she was just having a bad day.

I hope my entire being is not summed up by the middle finger I flashed at an elderly driver when she nearly mowed me down at the end of a very long afternoon jog years ago. Although I'd like to add that I didn't see she was elderly until the finger was at apex position, and then I felt pretty bad about it.

But my point is that today I will kiss my children more, hug them tighter, and really look at their faces before this bubble, drenched with the solemn colors of despair, floats away from my conscious thought. That little bubble is too heavy for me to carry around, but maybe, the sheen of the compassion I feel for Julia will stay with me and I will remember to apply it to the other strangers who drift through my life.

Tweestie Schmeetsie

Remember when I told you how much fun Ella had on the Tweetsie Railroad?

Keep the Crazy to a drip

I have never been much of a planner. I trust that eventually, most of the important things I need to do will get done, and the ones that slip through the cracks usually stay forgotten (at least by me). It doesn't matter to me if the grocery shopping gets done today or tomorrow, as long as we have food for tonight. Lennie is my polar opposite when it comes to this, however. He craves a plan. He starts forming mental to do lists the moment his eyes crack open in the morning, which he will then revise 4,000 times during the course of the day.

For example, we were out running errands the other afternoon, ahem, early voting was included *cough* OBAMA *cough*. Lennie started verbally hemorrhaging plans while we were in the car.

"OK, we could do the voting now, then we could do a quick grocery shopping, then pick up Connor, and be back in time for Sayde's bus. Then you can cook dinner and I'll talk her to Tae Kwon Do. Or, we could vote now, I'll drop you off to do the grocery shopping and I'll go get Connor by myself and meet you back at the store, and then we could go back, wait for the bus and go to the State Fair tonight. Or, we could do the State Fair tomorrow night because Sayde really needs to go to Tae Kwon Do one more time this week. Or, you could go get Connor, and I'll do the shopping. And you could take Sayde and I'll cook. What are we having?"

After the words, "OK," my eyes glaze over and I start to drool. Thankfully, he never notices that my head is lolling around on top of my neck as long as I occasionally mutter, "Whatever, doesn't matter to me."

I really think that this type of tuning out tolerance is a major key to a successful marriage. You've got to let your spouse get their crazy out bit by bit before it explodes all over the place. Kind of like when the phone rings and I'm closer to it but don't make any motions to pick it up. Lennie just rolls his eyes and answers it. A little drip of crazy is easier to mop up than the whole freaking vat dumped out at once.

This has nothing to do with my story, but Friday was a milestone for Sayde. It was the first time I ever heard her say she ever said, "Crap". I'm so proud. I told her to put her Tae Kwon Do uniform on inside the house rather than in the yard and she snapped, "Well that's a lot of crap." So we had the talk about what words are not OK to say (which is kind of funny coming from me, but someday when she goes to college, I'll tell her she's not allowed to toke up either so the hypocrisy will at least be consistent) Proudly, I made it until first grade before I told my mom that the "School lunch tasted like shit."

Mother Goose (gets plucked)

Connor had some gorgeous blonde curls.
Alas, strangers mistook them for girl's.
He might look cute with a little pink bow,
but with football and mud, it just wouldn't go.
So off to the barber we swiftly did flee,
to make a Man in his waning days of three.

"Not too short, please longer than most," I nervously said as I stood at my post, off to the side. Just along for the ride.

The scissors did not belong to me.

"I can deal with this," I thought, as the curls were lopped off and gently dropped to the ground.

Somewhere, under all the hair, a little boy was found.

I agreed it was fab, and we settled the tab.

But still, I can not deny, in the back of my mind,

an uneasy "Meh" you could find.

This was not the vision I had.

But it all turned out well,

when I brandished the gel, and pounced on my little guy.

He protested a bit, but he did then admit,

that now he looks pretty fly.

I love you Connor, quit growing up so fast.

I swear I didn't do it

Although I am kind of glad someone did. This, my friends, is all that remains of our Butler and her Hell Demon Spawn.

Don't hate me, animal lovers. For all my talk, I really am a big softy at heart. I'm the person who had a slight nervous breakdown after running over a squirrel, remember? The only living things I really get excited about killing are mosquitoes (and gnats....and flies...and fruit flies) mostly because it takes some luck to catch a mosquito red handed sucking on your arm, and I have mad skills with the dish towel vs fly scenario. Oh, and there was that time that the humongous Bumblebee flew inside the screened porch and I trapped it inside the plastic keg cup with full intentions of releasing it outside. But then I couldn't slip the newspaper over the opening of the cup quick enough because every time I tilted the cup, the giant Bumblebee was right there ready to attack me and buzzing really menacingly. And my panic was growing as I could feel the surprisingly heavy Bumblebee throwing itself against the cup like it was trying to burst through the plastic. And so I started screaming, "LENNIE HELP ME! GET THE RAID, GET THE RAID!" And Lennie came running out into the backyard with a can of Raid, aimed it directly into the cup, and right through the screen, sprayed the shit out of that Bumblebee. I was ecstatic. BOOYA, Humans win again! But that feeling was short-lived as the buzzing got weaker and weaker, and the Bumblebee didn't seem to be hurling itself at the cup anymore. Then, I just felt like a big human piece of crap stomping all over nature. Yet, I can sleep at night because it was either the Bumblebee or me, and that's how nature is. But, I digress.

In the case of the Butler, I'm not even guilty by proxy. I didn't call the Pest Control guys, ask Lennie to call them, nor did I instruct them to squash the Butler once they got here. However, I admit that I now have a small crush on Dan from the Pest Control company for his bravery and the panache with which he wields his big long stick (insert big stick joke here).

And since Susan was sadistic thoughtful enough to provide a link to a website which gave me all sorts of useful information on our Butler (a Golden Garden spider, I now know), I will sleep easier knowing that the Hell Demon Spawn will not be growing in that egg sac all winter long and "dispersing" in the spring.

So, while I have mixed feelings about the actual squashing of the Butler, I can't deny it: I'm glad she's dead. And, I'm really glad her babies are dead. And, I'm really really glad it wasn't me.

Thumbs up to Shrimp Man

"Man nabbed with frozen shrimp bags in pants
When confronted, he took bags out and promised to return them

BRADENTON, Fla. - Authorities said a man tried to steal several bags of frozen shrimp from a supermarket by hiding them down his pants. The Manatee County Sheriff's Office reported that an off-duty detective was shopping at a Sweetbay supermarket Sunday when he noticed what appeared to be a man with groceries stuffed in his pants.
The detective approached the 32-year-old man and ordered him to stop. Authorities said the man then removed several bags of shrimp from his pants and promised to put them back.
When the man fled for the store's exit, the detective tackled and restrained him until patrol deputies arrived."


I think I used to date this guy. Except back then, he never used to bag his shrimp. I couldn't resist that one; there were just too many jokes that came to mind the second I started reading this story. But really, Shrimp Man? Couldn't you have devised a better plan? Those bags of shrimp must have been pretty bulky. Next time you plan a seafood heist, maybe try and go for a nice flat catfish fillet, or possibly some small salmon steaks to stuff in your pockets. Everyone knows pocket lint adds a nice crunch once it's all grilled up. Plus, pockets seem like a better place to keep food than, oh, down your pants. Did you really think offering to put the shrimp back after they've been curled around your ball sack was a good suggestion? I can never think of the words, cocktail sauce, in the same way again.

Also, Shrimp Man, why did you give up so fast when you were confronted by the off-duty cop? Were those several bags of frozen shrimp, oh what's the word I'm looking for here, ICE FUCKING COLD? At least when they strip search you, you can claim "shrinkage".
Next time, don't be such a freaking pansy. Go to jail like a man; with someone else's jumbo shrimp in your ass.

Please, do yourself a favor and check this story out. You'll feel so much better about yourself after you've read it.

Collar Stays at Home Bullshit

Allow me to set the scene for you: Lennie is standing at a display table in a men's clothing store. I am standing next to him, playing the role of "fashion consultant" while rocking the stroller back and forth to keep Ella calm. The sales clerk is trying to help him decide between 4 or 5 different dress shirts to go with the already agreed upon pair of trousers. Lennie prefers the white. I prefer the blue stripe. Lennie asks the clerk if they are both machine washable. The clerk is eager to help and says, "Oh yeah, they can both go in the wash. You just have to take out the stays."

Lennie, who has spent most of his adult life wearing free T-shirts and flip flops, asks, "What's a stay?"

The clerk demonstrates how to remove the little plastic stick from the collar, holds it up to show Lennie, and says, "The stay keeps the collar nice and stiff. You just have to remove it before doing the laundry or ironing it."

And then, at the exact moment that the clerk says "laundry", both Lennie and the clerk look directly at me.

"Are you taking notes on this, woman?" While they didn't actually say it verbally, the intent was clear.

After my eyebrows settle back down onto my forehead, I am amused. "Well, that was sexist." Nervous laughter from the clerk ensues. Lennie smirks.

Later that evening: I am standing at an ironing board removing collar stays and ironing the shirt.

Pop Quiz Time

I ironed the shirt because:
a. It's part of my job as a Stay at Home Mom/Wife

b. I'm just better at it

c. I have Stockholm Syndrome

d. Please God, none of the above.

Here's the kicker: I'm hoping for (d), but I can't discount a through c.

Run Forrest Run

Considering I spent a large amount of my childhood on a sports field listening to my Dad shout, "Take the safe off your back, you'll run faster!", I'm a little apprehensive about anything having to do with being "Tagged". I actually got tagged twice, first by Eudia-Mamia and then by The Nice One. Is there a possibility that this is a game of freeze tag, and I can just stand here not moving for a long long time? Standing and not moving was always my strongest contribution to 'tag'. But hell, apparently I'm "it" now so I'd better just get to it.

Here are 7 random things about me you may not (and probably don't want) to know:

1. I have delivered babies. No, not hamsters , or puppies or even hell demon spawns, but real human babies. I used to be a labor and delivery nurse (actually thinking about it now, if you read my bio, you'd know this. But what the hell, finding 7 interesting things about me is a stretch). I liked the babies who delivered themselves the best. You know, the kind where it's Mom's 4th or 5th kid and all she does is sneeze and the baby pops out. Then, I swoop in and take all the credit.

2. I have a phone-phobia. I freaking HATE talking on the phone. You can consider yourself one of the special 'chosen' ones if you've ever had more than a 4 second phone conversation with me. I will go to great lengths to avoid picking up the phone or making phone calls. This has given Lennie much grief over the years, especially when he has called 7 times and I don't answer and he is starting to wonder if I'm in the trunk of someone's car. But, he loves me anyway.

3. I have cankles. God knows I hate them. No matter what my weight is (it bounces around in a 25 lb range depending on how much I'm running, how old my latest baby is, and how much chocolate ice cream I'm in close proximity to) the fucking cankles endure. I ran 15 miles last year, that's a ONE in front of a FIVE, and still had two rectangles for legs. I'm Gumbi, dammit.

4. I have a college softball national championship ring. Granted it was division III. Granted, I wasn't a starter. In point of fact, I was the bullpen catcher (those cankles are good for something). But somehow, I lucked out enough to land on the right team at the right time. And did you know I'm a paradox? I played college softball and yet I maintained a relationship with a man. You know those softball girls can be a pretty, uh, close knit group.

5. I know the words to all the top 10 Billboard hits from every year from 1950-1960. I spent the other half of my childhood playing Nintendo with my friend Sue-Lyn and listening to her Dad's oldies but goodies.

6.cat sayde mommy ella connor dad jake friedman
Sometimes when I am running low on ideas, I let Sayde write my blog for me. She likes to keep it simple and has a thing for cats.

7. I prefer the toilet paper to hang in the front. Sleep under the sheet, that's what it's there for (I'm talking to you, Lennie). The cheese goes on the top of the cracker. I put the milk back in the fridge even if there's only a teaspoon left. And, I refuse to make a sandwich with the beginning and end pieces of a loaf of bread. I save those for Connor because he doesn't care (yet).

I'll spare you the pressure of being tagged, but if you want to consider yourself, "it", I'd love to hear some random crap about you in my comment section. Any preferences about the toilet paper in your house?

Yarrrr!

The butler has gone pirate.

I hate you, Hell Demon

While walking around the neighborhood last week, Lennie snapped a picture of this hell demon living in our neighbors' yard. He came home and said he saw a spider that "Looks like a cartoon drawing of a spider. Like someone drew a spider to look as pissed and scary as possible." He said it was big too, like the size of my palm big. And now the fucker is living in close proximity to our property. One more reason to convert to from mild to severe Agoraphobia and never leave my house again.


And just for fun, here's a little photo I shot of our butler. She lives above our front door and greets all our guests. Shit, judging by the size of her, she may be able to take your coat and fix you a drink - Bloody Mary I would guess.

.

The photo is blurry because there is no way in hell I would ever get close enough to get a good picture. But, do you notice anything? Our butler looks eerily like the hell demon from next door. And let's zoom out for a moment and look at the whole picture, shall we? This is how I know our butler is a "she".



Fuck. That egg sac is the size of a golf ball. Time to fill Connor's water gun with bleach. Although then I run a real risk of my butler turning on me, jumping down and doing this to me:

So, let us review our options.

(a) try and squirt bleach at the butler and her hell demon spawn and risk being attacked, biten, poisoned, paralyzed, mummified, hung upsidedown and immobile, and then slowly eaten alive.

(b) do nothing and then live in a house swarming with baby hell demons

(c) move. Considering the risks, I think moving is the only viable option.

Midmorning update:

My astute bloggy friend, Karen, noticed that the butler is fucking smiling at me.

Holy Shit, Karen, you're right. I did a little tooling around with my picture of the butler so you can all see what Karen saw. Now, I hate that little fucker even more (the butler, not Karen - she's cool). I'm foreseeing the high pitched shriek of a mother and her hell demon babies squealing in the bleach bath they're about to get. Nobody smiles at me and gets away with it.

I do weddings and Bar Mitzvahs too

This weekend, we were up in New Jersey to visit family for a few days. We also made a little trip into Manhattan so Lennie could get his shoulder checked out by the doctor. We took little Ella Beans with us and I swore I would get a picture of her first trip to NYC. Unfortunately, I didn't remember to take any pictures until exactly 2 seconds before we headed into the Lincoln Tunnel to go back to New Jersey.

Here is a fabulous picture of the sign that says "Lincoln Tun" as seen from the passenger's window of the minivan.

A parting shot of the city as we head into the tunnel with a bonus view of the side of the minivan. And, just inside that open window is...

what happens when you reach back from the front seat to take a picture of a baby in a rear-facing carseat. This is the awesome picture I have of Ella's first trip to New York City, although technically we were somewhere underneath the Hudson River when I took it.

Blahgity Blah

We decided to drive up to New Jersey yesterday to spend some time with the family. The usual 8 hour trip was more like 11 1/2. Thanks a lot, Columbus. First you bring small pox, and now massive amounts of traffic on the outer loop of Washington DC.

By the time we got to my parents house it was close to midnight and then my Dad suprised me by asking me to wake up early and run a 5K (my first ever). So, by now I have one foot in the grave and am too tired to blog anything even close to being interesting. So here is a picture to fill in the void from the death of my brain.

Tweetsie

Hmmm, that's an odd title for a post. It's also an odd title for an amusement park in the Blue Ridge Mountains, but it exists nonetheless. Tweetsie is "famous" (famous as in I've never heard of it before this weekend) for the Tweetsie Railroad. It's a 3 mile train ride through the mountains on this old timey coal burning train, complete with Cowboys and Indians . It was the only ride Ella got to do the whole time we were there, and she took advantage of this opportunity by being scared shitless every time the Tweetsie whistle blew. It blew quite often, unfortunately. I got pretty quick on the draw at cupping my hands over her ears to block out the LOUDEST FUCKING WHISTLE EVER, but alas, it didn't seem to help. She spent the 45 minutes of train riding fun alternating between being startled into red faced wild eyed screaming, and then panting her way back to being just calm enough for the whistle to blow again. Of course, we were right in the very front of the first train car because Sayde has a superiority complex. If I had a matchbox car in my purse, as I usually do, I would have whipped it at this grouchy lady who was giving me the stink eye as I bounced Ella as fast as my knees could go. Instead, I just smiled at her, and to my delight that really seemed to piss her off.
I'll have to post the pictures later because Lennie brought his old film camera as a backup.

It wasn't all bad though. We enjoyed Dr. Peppercorn, a teenage magician with 6 daily shows at Tweetsie's. He pulled a couple of kids from the audience to be his assistants for his various card tricks. Connor frantically waved his hand every time Dr. Peppercorn needed a volunteer. At one point, he turned to me in desperation and pleaded, "Mommy, when is it going to be my turn?" The chances of him getting a turn weren't very good since he's only 3 (well, almost 4), so I just said, "Let's see", which is Momish for "No f'ing way". But, Dr. Peppercorn must have descended from Heaven that day because he did pick Connor on the very next trick. Connor scrambled up to the stage, told everyone that his name was Connor and that he was from North Carolina, and then held his card on the table just like he was instructed to do. Then, my proudest Mommy moment ever occurred. Dr. Peppercorn asked Connor what the magic word is, and Connor said Please. I could have died right there. I wish the bitch from the train was there to see that.
Connor, you make a Mommy proud. Ella....oh Ella. You're good for kissing, but not for train riding.

Mountain Cabin

I have to preface this post by saying that I am a suburbanite through and through. I was raised in the suburbs of New York City, and have been living in suburbs ever since. This lifestyle has prepared me for one thing and one thing only: living in suburbs. So, I had to laugh at Lennie when he began packing things like compasses, pocket knives, a year's supply of food, a crank radio (just in case there is a nuclear war, he says. Right, because if all the TV stations get blown up, I'm suuure the radio stations will still be on air). My log cabin essentials? An ipod, smores ingredients, and a bottle of wine; and my only regret about this weekend is that I only brought one bottle of wine.

So, this soft suburbanite didn't start her trip off on a very good note when the minivan crushed a squirrel as we were pulling out of our subdivision. :( This is the first animal I've ever hit with a car (I don't count suicidal toads). This squirrel obviously was not suicidal because it was carrying an acorn during it's ill-fated road crossing. Searching for food=desire to live. I flinched as I looked in the rear view mirror and saw the acorn rolling across the street and the poor squirrel flopping around.
Me: "IT'S STILL ALIVE! IT'S SUFFERING"
Lennie: "Hit it again! You have to put it out of it's misery!"
Me, bursting into tears: "I can't."

So I climbed out of the car and stood on the side of the road while Lennie backed the minivan over the dying squirrel, twice.

When I got back in, Sayde was frantic. "What did we hit?" She demanded to know. "Daddy says it was a rock, but I KNOW it was an animal. Why is Mommy crying?"
"It was a rock," I mumbled.
"YOU'RE LYING!" She screamed.

I handled that well, don't you think? And so our vacation began.
We later parlayed this little experience into a lesson with the moral being: see what happens when you don't look both ways before you cross the street?


After a few hours in the car, we arrived in Blowing Rock, NC. "Beautiful" is the best word to describe it. It is a gorgeous little mountain town with a great Main Street. There was a huge public park with a playground for the kids to burn off some energy, and lots of cute coffee shops for Lennie and I to get some energy. We had a really peaceful afternoon exploring the shops and galleries.

As evening begin to set it, we figured we'd better start heading to the cabin so we'd have plenty of time to find it while there was still daylight. We punched the address into the trusty navigator and headed off. As we drove further and further from Blowing Rock, the sun sank lower in the sky, and my anxiety crept up. "How far away is this cabin?" I wondered. We spent a good amount of time slowing winding our way up a mountain on narrow roads with no guard rails, and then even higher up the mountain, on dirt roads. At the top of the mountain our navigation system said in her honey sweet voice, "Turn Right." Only there was no right turn to be found. "Where the fuck are we?" I asked politely.
"Don't get ridiculous." Lennie said. You would think after 7 seven years of marriage, that Lennie would know that this statement only increases my ridiculousness tenfold. We whipped out the printed version of the directions that the leasing company gave us, and it turns out we were on the wrong fucking mountain. So, I eased the minivan back down the mountain, now in complete darkness, and that utterly biting silence that comes after you and your spouse both realize at the same time that the other one is a total moron.

A half an hour later, on top of a different mountain, and through more white-knuckle dirt roads, we pulled into the gravel driveway. Lennie went in first to make sure there were no bears, squatters, or mental patients with hook for hands waiting inside to eat us, and then the kids and I followed. We walked in and I was very relieved to see this:







A quaint and cozy cabin in the woods. Although, the kids were pretty pissed off about the deer head above the fireplace, the turkey tail next to the fireplace, the quail-type bird on the other side of the fireplace, and the trout over the door. "Mean people live here" I think was the quote. I was so happy to be in a house, there could have been a baby seal mounted on the wall and I would have thought, "How cute."

The next morning, we woke up and walked out onto the deck to see this:






Completely gorgeous. We decided to explore and went for a walk up the dirt road, when several large dogs began barking and running towards us. So we high-tailed our asses back down the dirt road and went for a drive instead. Crossing over one of the dirt roads, was a large black animal which I at first glance thought was a bear, and then it turned and I realized by it's tail and the way it moved, that it was a very very large cat. Are mountain lions black? I have no fucking clue, but I remember telling Lennie that instead of a compass and a radio, he should have brought a gun.




We ended up having a really fun couple of days and the best part is we're still alive.

These are the wildflowers Lennie gathered on his morning walk. Awwww.

I need more beer and wings

I am one of those people who occasionally laughs so hard that strangers wonder if I am having a fit. I cry almost every time I laugh, and every now and then I totally lose it and weep until dehydration and exhaustion set in.

I remember this time on spring break (it's not a girls gone wild story. Sorry, pervs) when my friend and I ended up in this dive biker bar. We were the youngest ones there by a good 15 years and possibly the only ones with a full set of teeth. (No, we did not take spring break in West Virginia that year.) We were sitting at a table enjoying our 10 cent wings, pitcher of cheap beer and minding our own damn business when one of the finest patrons at the establishment stumbled over to us. He clearly had to lean on the table to keep from falling down and was rocking the tee-shirt with the sleeves cut off so that we could all enjoy his shoulder and arm-pit hair. He leaned in ultra close to my friend. So close that I would have been reclining backwards at a 45 degree angle and sliding under the table, but my friend, unlike me, is the queen of cool. She sat there, pleasant and totally calm while Mr. I Don't Own Dental Floss asked her to dance. She looked really disappointed and said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I can't. I have prosthetic limbs."

At this point, I accidentally inhaled a mouthful of beer directly into my lungs, snorted, coughed, and then dissolved into a laugh seizure. I was doing the 'silent shake' laugh, trying my best to maintain composure until the the guy left (don't feel too bad for him, I really don't think he: {A} got it or {B} remembers it). And once he said, "Bummer" and stumbled off, the tears began to flow. I don't know how I managed to stay in my chair with all the convulsions and I'm actually kind of pissed nobody called 911. If we were judging by appearances, I could have been dying.

Man, I am due for one of those.

On a totally unrelated topic, I will be MIA for a couple days. We are heading to the mountains of NC for log cabin fun. According to Lennie, we are staying "Off the beaten path." If you don't hear from me by Monday night, send search and rescue. If I do die this weekend, I hope it's because I had a fit of laughter and fell off a cliff, and not because an escaped mental patient with a hook for a hand finds our cabin in the woods.

Creative Travels

Last night I was sitting on the couch, perusing a travel magazine and drooling over the places I'll probably never go. I am not exactly the best vacation planner. In the last 7 years, I've managed Orlando (twice) and one 7 day cruise.

The cruise was about 4 years ago, and we left Sayde with her grandparents. She was only around 13 months old at the time and it was so hard to be apart from her. The whole time on the ship, all we talked about was "the baby" and my arms felt empty and useless without her in them. Don't get me wrong, we still got hammered in Key West, climbed ancient ruins in Belize, and snorkeled in Cozumel, but we missed our little princess. When we got back to the airport, we could see off in the distance that my parents were waiting with Sayde. I couldn't wait to see her overflow with joy that Mommy and Daddy were home! As we ran over with all our luggage and crappy gifts, Sayde looked up at us from her stroller and said "Who in the fucking hell are these two clowns?". Ok, it was more like a blank stare, but it was completely obvious she had no clue who we were and the last 13 months of 24/7 parenting had been wiped clean. There's a quick chop to the kneecaps for you. Nothing will humble you faster than your own kid not knowing who the fuck you are. After a few hours, she warmed back up and forgave us for abandoning her. Perhaps that's why we've only been able to manage Orlando (again, twice) since then. If we take you to Disney, then we are entrenched in your memory forever; a vague parental figure somehow connected to the Dumbo ride and meeting Tigger.

Anyway, back to my original point. So I'm reading this travel magazine, and this Danube River cruise catches my eye.
"Hey Len, listen to this: a river cruise from Budapest, Bratislava, Vienna, Salzburg, Durnstein, and Passau. That sounds awesome, not something for the kids, but someday just for us. What do you think?"
Meanwhile, Lennie is staring at the computer and only barely listening to me.
"So, you want to go to France?"
"What the fuck? BUDAPEST is not in France."
"Oh, sorry."

Orlando it is.

I've been working on the Railroad?

"Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, Someone's in a chicken I gooooo, Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, sunny and a ol' I go!"
Hey, Sayde. I like it better your way.

It's not quite as perverted as when someone I married know mistook the words for Meatloaf's, 'Like a Bat Out of Hell'. When good old Meatloaf sings, "I can see myself, tearing at the road, faster than any other boy has ever gone," that someone belted out, "I can see myself, tearing at the hole, faster than any other boy has ever gone." Granted, he was a teenager at the time, but hormones are no excuse.

I would do anything for love, but I won't do that.