The most AWESOME halloween costume EVER still belongs to me in 1983.

It seems that our discussion of slutty toddler costumes has struck a chord with many of you.  In keeping with that theme, I have dug through my archives to find this photo, from my very own youth, which I mentioned in Sunday's post. 

I did not actually find this picture.  But I did find the 9 pregnancy tests I took when we were expecting G.  My mom actually had to dig this little gem up, scan it and email it to me--such was my desperation to show you what true Halloween perfection looks like. 

May I present, the Smurfette costume of '83. 

I know, right.

It is WICKED awesome.   Perfect in all the details of a smurf, and yet...collectively....so very AWKWARD. 

Mostly because of  the blue.  body.  paint.  Ohmygod.  I really wish my parents could have matched the body paint to the turquoise leotard color, because that would have made it 14 shades funnier. 

Note:  The darker the body paint, the GREATER the funny.  Excluding the color black.  That is HIGHLY inappropriate.  More inappropriate than that sexy leprechaun costume you've been eyeing for your 4 year old. 

You NEED this picture.  Badly.  Because there is a 40-year birthday cake and a future spouse just WAITING to present this image a-glow with candles. 

Parents, if you can't sell your kid on a smurf costume, try re-branding it as a Naavi (of Avatar fame).  Adding a gi-normous monster tail, and *possibly* some stilts, could only make this more amazing.  But the Smurfs are coming out as a major motion picture, and with a few subtle hints, I have all the faith that 2011 will be my year. 

Welcome to October, friends. 

   

#15.

Soccer season has begun.  And there is NOTHING cuter than the twins in their uniforms.  They wear the same number (on different teams), which is awesome when I am sifting through a week's worth of dirty laundry on Saturday morning, looking for jerseys. 

Yes, L's jersey does touch her toes.  Practically.  For a closer look at her height deficit, refer to photo #2, in which her munchkin status is proven. 

For half of last week's game in the middle-of-nowhere, Missouri, L played goalie.  She was scored upon once, and this is mainly because in Mike's role as goalie coach, he decided it was a good idea to sneak her a mid-game Cheese-it snack.  Unfortunately, this snack was ill-timed near the ONLY moment when her team would allow the ball to travel near (and into) their goal.  

Lesson learned.  No more half-blind, cheese-it eating goalies. 

Three sure signs that the Apocolypse is near.

Everybody have a good weekend?  Me too.  Fall is here and we are having the kind of days that make being outside tolerable again.  Two of my four kids have learned to ride a two- wheel bike, and Mike is fairly confident that L's speed and spotty riding skills will earn her a trip to the ER sometime soon.  But right now, it's just fun to see her little-midget, half-blind self tearing it up on the hill right next to our driveway!

But enough about me.  Let's talk about people who are REALLY crazy. 

Steven Tyler on American Idol:

Really.  Really?  Is he sober enough for this?  Who am I kidding, Idol was at its most enjoyable when Paula was tossing herself a big ol' salad of pain killers.  Touche, producers.  I see what you are doing here and I like it.  And if Steve-O can throw in a few "wa-ba-do-bee-ya-ya-ya's" then that can only be awesome.  Right?  Right. 

And I'm pretty sure that Jennifer Lopez has some sort of clause in her contract that allows her to drain all  of Steven Tyler's blood, for the purposes of feeding it to her vampire-husband, Marc Anthony.  Just a feeling, because that dude just don't seem right.  Or tan enough, for being Puerto Rican.  Ya know. 

Children's Halloween Costumes:

Dear people who make trampy kid's costumes--STOP it.  Stop it, RIGHT now.  I am so disturbed by the image of 5 year olds in knee-high black boots and fishnets and skanky fairy tale costumes that I might lobby Congress about it.  Pedophilia is a LEGITIMATE problem, let's not perpetuate it.  I'm talking to you, BRATZ.  Or people who make Bratz dolls (probably the DEVIL).  Goldilocks did not wear a pair of Daisy Dukes with the word "Juicy" appliqued on her arse. 

Dear Parents who buy trampy kid's costumes--STOP it.  Stop it right now.  Do what any sane and hilarious parent does, drink some *hot cider* and dress your kid up as a Smurf, complete with blue face paint (this was my ACTUAL costume when I was 7, and it was SCARY-crazy awesome).  Make sure it's a costume that is SO HIDEOUS it will make their skin crawl as a teenager (translation:  blackmail material). Take A LOT of pictures and use them liberally in your child's wedding slide show.  No one wants to see your kid's arse, it makes us uncomfortable.  But laughing at their expense, at a formal dinner hosted years later in their adulthood?  Priceless.

You know, while we're at it, I have a small bone to pick with the people who make WOMEN's costumes--Not all of us want to live out some childhood fantasy of becoming a stripper.  I do not have a body that fits the *dimensions* most fitting of someone who can circle a metal pole with only her toes.  Also, I live in the Midwest, and if I even think about exposing my stomach skin near November, then it will potentially see it's shadow and crawl back in it's deep, dark hole (Yeah!) where it will attempt to eat Spring. 

Dress Barn:

I've talked to several of you about this offense to women and clothing and livestock, and I just don't get it.  I don't get who in their RIGHT MIND would name a store after a place that sounds like it outfits cattle.  Dresses made for cows?  Or dresses made for women who look like cows?  Shaped like cows?  What the hell.  But then I watched the VMA's and it ALL made sense.   

I had no idea you could actually kill your dress in the store and WEAR it home.  Gross.  But certainly, your name now makes sense, and it is a very *unique* business model.   However.  If you make a pair of underwear out of bacon to satisfy the tastes of one very odd Gaga, then I will vomit.  In your store.  For reals. 

 That's all I've got folks.  Love  ya.

More of this, please.

On Thursday mornings, G starts school a whole hour later than her siblings.  This gives us time to take the little kids to school, and get back home with 20-25 minutes to spare, before her carpool picks her up.

Usually, I take this precious time with my daughter to:  clean the dishes, study (or inflict torture via) her spelling words, check my email, put a load of laundry in, pick up toys, etc.  You know, IMPORTANT stuff. 

But yesterday, I decided to enjoy her.  I ACTUALLY asked her what she wanted to do. 

Draw stuffed animals.  Of course. 

I happen to think my rendering of a Beagle is brilliant.  And that my daughter is one of the kindest, most gentle souls out there. 

Happy Weekend, everyone.

The girl scouts have brought me to a social crossroads that are sure to determine L's overall value to society.

Holy son of a motherless goat, blog world. Let's just go ahead and smack this whole girl scout fiasco over the head with a tire iron and then bury it in a big muddy hole out back. If we plant organic vegetables on it, we could probably earn some kind of patch.

So last night, I got an email from one of the mom's that is heading up the kindergarten daisy troop. Crazy girl scout lady called her, gave her my name and told her I was interested in joining.

??????.

???????????????????????????????!

There are a couple of things that shocked me like an unexpected enema: that she remembered my NAME (I was sure that had gotten lost in the fury I inspired) and that she took a few moments to pass it along. I was under the impression that our 2 minute conversation, in which I simply asked if it was too late to join the girl scouts?, was so socially unacceptable that I should NOT show up at the school without slaying 10 fat pigs as penance.

The troop leader, who was NOT the woman I talked to, said she would love to have L in the troop and gave me the info. If I could accurately describe the tone of the email, I would say it was upbeat and that this gal was probably wearing pink.  She was KIND, to let us join, AT THE ABSOLUTE, LAST FREAKIN MINUTE. Let's be clear--I am WAY late. But I was never asking for an exception, I was just curious.

Because here's the deal: I have four kids, in three different schools. They are collectively on three separate sporting teams that meet and play games at 7 different times and locations every week. One child has a substantial amount of homework and is learning to read (translation:  HUGE time suck).  I am still required to feed them, and baths are somewhat necessary as the temperature REFUSES to drop below 90 degrees.  I drive in a carpool anywhere from 2-5 times a week.  I KNOW that is how the rest of the world functions, but this is our first year to the party, people. And for someone who is a walking, talking, organizational disaster...well, this is like my Kilimanjaro. I can get myself a calendar. I can color-code it. I can laminate it and give it ruffles. I can clearly see how the schedule works, and yet, when I see 3,613 different events in a week, with PAPERWORK to match, well, my body does that thing where it shuts down blood flow to the brain, in order to spare my pancreas, or some shiz-nit like that. I literally, can only handle one thing at a time. One conversation. One event. One job. One piece of paper. And it makes mothering very inefficient for me.

Trust me, I OWN this fault. What crazy girl scout lady said to me was the absolute truth.

Also.

I love my kids. LOVE. But these two little kindergartners of mine? Well, I pull extra hard for them, because we all know the battle these two started with. I CANNOT rest in the fact that they are okay. Healthy. Happy. Smart enough to be a classroom menace (I am, of course, only talking about L in this situation). You know, I want to give them every advantage, and this being their first year in a new, big school, I am TRYING my hardest to help them make friends. To surround them with their peers. To make the time to get to know other moms. If I haven't already established this point, scheduling play dates and extra curriculars (on top of everything else) makes me want (and need) to take a sedative, BUT, my kids need me to make an effort.

And don't get me wrong. I LOVE meeting other moms. Every single one in J & L's class is wonderful. But I FEAR mom's like crazy girl scout lady, like I fear being mauled by a badger who is going to sell my flesh as organic meat in a badger market. What if I'm not *cool* enough, or funny enough, or I say something awkward (good chance). Sometimes, it feels much easier to not put yourself out there, ya know?

Except that L doesn't know how to use the phone yet, and she talks so darn soft, you probably wouldn't be able to hear her, so she is incapable of handling the social calendar. Yes, I KNOW she is only 5, and you may feel there isn't a need for a social calendar? I, sort of, humbly disagree. I feel it's important for me to know the parents of my kids friends. I HOPE we'll actually be friends, what with our kids in school together from now until eternity.  I think it's important for me to be involved in their school, and their activities. I like to see how they interact with others, I like to be able to help shape the kind of friend that they become. You see A LOT by standing on the sidelines, while someone else is in charge of your little darling/baby devil. What do all the extracurriculars teach parents? What kids are good at, what they like, what they simply tolerate, where their comfort zones are, how they treat others, how they listen to others, what they are BAD at, where they need help, what kinds of kids they are drawn to, etc.

I'm not advocating 5 activities, but I do think that once kids reach kindergarten, they should be allowed one activity. Currently, for Big J & L, that activity is soccer...but that season will end and open the door for something.

So, the choices, as they now stand, are to put on my big girl undies and sign L up for girl scouts. And make some new friends and not even care two shiz-nits about the crazy girl scout lady and everyone else who thinks I am ridiculous.  It is sort of my job to go outside of MY comfort zones, and teach my kids to embrace the world without fear, right?  I mean, I did stretch my abdominal skin 4 miles past it's legal limit, JUST to birth these hooligans.  That should have been my first clue that motherhood was not *comfortable*, and that at times in this career choice, people are going to point and laugh.   

Or. I can just let it go all together and focus on being my own girl scout leader. Which is really just a fun job title for being a mom.  And rest in having one less commitment.  Sounds nice.  But part of me will secretly fret that I am RUINING L's life by not giving her this opportunity.  Yup, that's my inner Psy-cho. 

I can't decide.  And in the process, I am sure to miss my extended sign-up deadline.  And then I shall officially incur the wrath of the girl scouts (that's for you, Jen).  It's a vicious, vicious cycle.   

This is what happens when Patrick Swayze gives the camp nerd dance lessons.

Oh yeah, Girl Scouts? Well I just formed my own troop, and we just had our first meeting and we made sugar cookies. Nah-nah-ni-boo-boo. It is very true that I can push my own sinfulness off on my children, I don't need a crazy girl scout lady to do it for me.

You know I speak in jest, right? Let's just be sure. I mean, don't get me wrong, that gal was a b-on-wheels for NO good reason, but I'm guessing she was having a bad day, or she is socially unaware of herself. And well, who doesn't know the pain of having a family pet murdered and roasted over an open spit by Jehovah's Witnesses? Or thinking your being SARCASTIC on your blog, while giving a company ammunition to fire someone?

That is me, folks. B-on-wheels AND socially unaware. And kick-ass, wanna-be girl scout leader. Polka-dot FREAK. Clueless that my daughter had strep throat for a week. Psycho when my kid spills milk. Mathematically challenged.

I am every woman.

Anyhoo. I'm not even going to pretend that yesterday's emotional beating and castration (I can no longer father children) didn't push me to be extra awesome today. Like, the kind of awesome that let's my kids decorate with sprinkles, while not even screaming ONE SINGLE TIME when they spilled them all over the floor. It was like that time I let 15 kindergartners use puffy paint.


I, of course, prefer more order in my cookie decorating. Boundaries. Color differentiation. To each her own, I teach that here in my girl scout troop. Along with all the lyrics to Bon Jovi songs written and performed between 1987--2000, AND of course, the ever popular "Bend-and Snap" (think Legally Blonde).

Anyway. Today I am mostly kidding (5% residual bitterness), and just trying to be a fun mom. I mean, that's what happens when you put Baby in a corner--she goes and takes some dance lessons and then she pachenkos the shiz-net out of the other girl scouts.

Consider this the time of my freakin life.

Where I explain how I became MORALLY opposed to my daughter becoming a girl scout.

Dear Crazy Girl Scout Lady,

I am writing to tell you how very, very sorry I am that the Jehovah's Witnesses accidentally killed your cat. On your birthday, no less. Right in front of all 12 of your children. At least, I assume this is what happened, and I know it had to be an UNBELIEVABLE tragedy of poorest timing, to warrant the response I got to one. simple. question.

Let me tell you, it makes me all kinds of uncomfortable when total strangers do me any favors. You may have guessed this, by the way I apologized for calling at the last minute AND outwardly admitting that I missed the boat on Daisy Troop sign ups.

Thank you, for pointing out how late I am to inquire about the troop. As a general rule/character trait, I am pretty much late on everything. True, I did happen to mention that I missed Back-to-School night, and that may have sounded like I was making excuses. Your pointing out that girl scout announcements were made in the last 3 Monday Memos was absolutely necessary for me to feel like I am the worst kind of a-hole, and you can single-handedly take credit for killing any self-confidence I had about trying to get involved at our new school.

You *kindly* mentioned how your 5th grade troop has already met 4 times since the start of the school year, and how, if it was your decision, you ABSOLUTELY wouldn't let any other girls in at this point because it is inconvenient and disruptive. I apologize, it slipped my mind that the girl scout motto is based upon strict deadlines, convenience and exclusivity. I would never want my daughter to learn to accept a new friend or be flexible for the purposes of including others. That would be AWFUL.

You probably think I am the kind of meth-addict that likes to drop her kids off at a supervised event, so that I can go and cook up some crystals in my Honda Odyssey. I gather this, because you had also mentioned that all the "other parents"had already signed up to volunteer and be present in the troop--and it was somewhat implied that it would be a HUGE no-no for my daughter to participate, if I wasn't, in some way sacrificing some of my free time. You must think my drug habit is RAGING, if you think I can't tear myself away from it for 1 hour. I assure you, it is under control and I pledge never to bring a dirty needle into a meeting. If you have reached these conclusions about me because you have ACTUALLY seen my car, then let me assure you that those huge dents/scrapes/scratches are not the result of drug use, just REALLY bad driving. Which, I am guessing, takes me out of the running for transporting the girls to any troop field trips. I know, I am USELESS.

If I *might* add something, we are rather new to the school (4 weeks in!), and so you probably don't know this, but I have a tendency to volunteer for everything, because I lack the ability to say No! I am somewhat of a Girl Scout Troop Leader's dream, when it comes to parent involvement. Making a crown out of fall leaves? Sign me up! All About Me posters? Yes indeedy! Do you need rice krispie treats dipped in candy coating? In two-hours? It would be my PLEASURE.

When I apologized for inconveniencing you, on what appears to the the worst-most-terrible-no-good-day of your life, I will note that you mentioned I should just SHOW UP at the Daisy meeting today, and see if the troop's leaders would let me join on the spot. You said it was their call, and that you would "definitely give it a shot" because chances are they wouldn't say no. Probably because they feel sorry for my poor daughter who has such a LOSER for a mom. I can't decide which sounds better--being judged worthy/unworthy on the spot (in front of 20 other kindergartners and their responsible, mature mothers) or having someone roll their eyes and agree to let my daughter be a girl scout out of some sense of obligation.

It all sounds great, but I think I have to pass.

Oh! And as for your last suggestion, that I should jump on things like this much quicker the next time, I can pretty much guarantee that I will never, in all of my life, attempt to sign-up for a girl scout troop at our new (friendly!) school, ever again. Thanks for making that decision REAL easy, I do have a tendency to over-commit to activities.

Once again, my deepest condolences on your cat.

Sincerely,
Sara Denckhoff

Just some stuff I did.

Our vacation to Hilton Head two weeks ago gave us the chance to meet our newest nephew, Everett Michael. Whose middle name honors the uncle that will SURELY teach him to shoot bottle rockets and clean an entire bathroom with a used pair of underwear (I am, of course, talking about my husband).

As long as we are giving monogrammed gifts, well, my little nieces need something embroidered in a circular pattern, no?

I also have an almost 8-year-old nephew, born just three weeks after G...they are the best of cousins, which is 100% awesome as he is ALL boy, and she is ALL fru-fru girl. However, Mike made me sign a contract in blood that I would NOT, under ANY circumstances, embroider a gift (in a circular pattern, or otherwise) for our dear nephew.

Yes, Michael. Even I am aware that a 2-liter of diet coke and a roll of Mentos is the most-awesome-totally-kick-ass-gift you could ever give a 7 year old boy. And if you don't know what that means, then google it--you can thank me later for giving you an awesome $3 Christmas gift idea for all the young men in your life.

I wasn't even aware that bionic baby arms were illegal.

So this morning I woke up and I was like, "Wha?"

Reggie Bush gave his Heisman trophy back and they didn't even, like, mention it on "Keeping up with the Kardashians?" And he did it because he received money in college? Wha? Frickin A, for that kind of punishment I would think that he kept baby fetuses in jars and somehow managed to grow bionic arms on them.

Now where's the guy that's giving Reggie Bush a few hundy thousand in paybacks? Find him, and you find the bionic arm babies.

Mike agrees that Reggie Bush should not be given the death penalty.

I *think* Mike is not taking me seriously.

Mike does not think that babies can grow arms that would proportionately fit the shoulder sockets of Reggie Bush.

But they are BIONIC, I tell him. Duh.

He thinks I am 12 shades of ape crazy. He reminds me that I do not watch or follow college football. EVER.

Um, just because I slept through 4 years of high school history, it doesn't mean I was "okay" with slavery. Hello, I can have an opinion. On an athlete. Who was dating a Kardashian (see, I even made it relevant).

And then I had my diet coke, and was properly prepared to try the Chinese water torture on Lindsey Lohan, to discover the location of the baby fetuses that are growing her cocaine.

I am ALL over it.

A work in progress.

Alrighty, friends. Tonight you get a piece of something I've been working on for a LONG time. But let me warn you that it is rough, and I am all kinds of conflicted and terribly non-confident about it.

Let me back up a second and let me tell you where it came from.

MONTHS ago, I had this idea to write a bedtime story for my kids (not for publishing, just for them). Every night at bedtime, my husband reads from the Jesus Storybook Bible, by Sally Lloyd-Jones. It is HANDS DOWN the greatest bible written for children because every story relates to Jesus. And the writing is beautiful.

So we've read it, cover to cover, like 93 times. And I'd love to find something else to feed their young minds with, but nothing even compares. Which is where I got to thinking.

One of the biggest areas where I feel children's ministry is lacking, is in the way it's curriculums are set up. Granted, I am NO EXPERT on teaching the bible to children, but, I have generally found that younger curriculum's teach biblical stories that relate in some way to character traits. Being kind. Forgiveness. Faith. Protection. They teach us who Jesus was, back when mules were considered a hot ride. But they usually fall a little short of relating to who Jesus is today, and why he's important, and how a Savior on a donkey could even compare to the Bat mobile or Lightning McQueen. Ya know?

I think I have spent a better part of my life believing that I ended up, by some accident, on God's green earth. And now I have to live by his rules. And yes, I trust with all my heart that he is God and that his son died on the cross, but I feel like I came late to the party. And what if I'm just not doing this all "right". And have I really claimed him? Like, really REALLY? And what if I REALLY don't want to pick up my bible right now? And what if, I REALLY don't want to pick up my bible AND choose to drink 4 glasses of wine instead?

You get it, right.

I want my kids to understand God, and how incredibly and painfully intentional he was in creating each of them. He HAD TO HAVE THEM. They didn't just wind up here, he placed them with exact precision. I do not want them to be held back by doubt, over who they are. They are HIS. And every single thing they do has been ordained and known by HIM since the creation of time.

What I am trying (painfully, Slooooooooooowly trying) to write for them is the story that begins where The Jesus Storybook Bible ends. The story of God in the lives of Grace, John, Libby and Joshua. Here's the start....

**************************

Your world began with a great big God. So big, in fact, that the entire universe lived in his great big heart.

Until.

He created the very first light to ever shine in the darkness. A light that exploded into stars and sky and a brilliant sun that lit a tiny planet. A planet that seemed so small amid the backdrop of an enormously endless galaxy.

But from the wisdom and deepest desire of that enormous heart, God created his earth to tell a perfect story, of what love looks like when it is formed like clay in a careful pattern of land and oceans . And given to the people who were created, simply, to know HIM.

And when he thinks about this very world, he sees everyday of its ENTIRE story, beginning and end, all at the exact same time.

Every day.

Every country.

Every animal.

Every tree.

Every person.

Every piece is purposeful, and meaningful and necessary. Because that is how our perfect God saw it, in his heart, when he breathed life into his picture of love and beauty and infinite grace. He sees the big picture and the littlest, tiniest details, at every given moment.

And from the same heart that formed the earth, God also saw a perfect picture of you-- Grace, John, Libby and Joshua. He saw you, his beautiful, teeny, tiny babies and everyday of your lives to follow, even as he was forming the very world you live in. And at EXACTLY the right time, he shaped every inch of you and placed you here.

You are a perfect piece, at the perfect time, to his PERFECT story.

There are absolutely no surprises to the God of the universe, who already knows every joy or every struggle you will ever face. You will not always make right choices or willingly choose to listen to him, and he has known that too, from the VERY moment his story began. He has known all of your days, from the very start—because they are his days, every single one. All of them made to show you unconditional grace and the deepest, purest love of his heart. He doesn’t love you because you earn it with good behavior, or because you act obediently, or because you will never make mistakes.

Instead, his love CREATED you. Because when he thought of what would make him happiest, in the moment he formed the world, he saw you there in his heart. Without you, his plan isn’t complete, and he is PERFECT in every detail of what his story of unconditional love and amazing grace look like. And from that great big heart of his, he also gave you a free heart and mind. To search for him. To see him. To know the world he created just for you. And to make the mistakes that allow him to pick you up and hold you tight and fill you with the absolute truth that he is the one and only God of the universe.

Your very hearts were made to lean upon him, every second of your lives. He created you, simply for his joy, that he might pour perfect, unending love upon you—and next to that kind of treasure, NOTHING can compare. There isn’t a toy I can buy you, or a word that I can speak that could ever fill your heart with the kind of happiness that God had in mind, when he saw you for the first time, in his very heart, at the start of his perfect, beautiful story.

The end. For now.

I am a Jedi knight, specializing in blood pressure.

My blood pressure runs pretty low, on a regular basis. I know this, because when I was on hospital bedrest with Little J, the medicine that I took to stop my contractions was actually a blood pressure medication. Every 4 hours, a nurse would come in, take my blood pressure, ask if I felt faint, and tell me I had to get up and walk around before my uterus could have it's anti-anxiety meds.

It was this fun little dance we did, which was more of an emotionally abusive experience at 3:00 a.m.

Anyhoo.

Many of you might recall that my BFF Becky had some big complications with her most recent pregnancy, one of which was high blood pressure. Breathe easy, she is doing great, her baby Sadie is doing great, and her entire family was along for the ride in Hilton Head. This is our 4th year vacationing together with our entire families, so you know I LOVES her.

Especially because she brought a new, fun toy for us to play with this year!! Hello, blood pressure machine! Woot-woot!!

Anytime we did ANYTHING, we documented it with blood pressue. And being able to mentally raise and lower your numbers on command was the ultimate game in this year's Hilton Head Olympics.

I don't want to brag, but I conducted a few little experiments of my own that might just ROCK the medical world. Becky's blood pressure remained fairly constant, but I was able to pull a Jedi-mind trick on my ol' ticker a few times throughout the week. If I was a Duggar, I might look out: I was able to jump my numbers a full 20 points (?) simply by running in place for 2 minutes, while wearing a long, tiered skirt.

The consumption of wine and ribs seem to have little to no effect on my pressures.

Becky's husband, however, was curiously near death during his reading one night. We all found this hi-larious. Oh, RELAX. His numbers were normal-ish by the next day. And we were definitely responsible *enough* to dose him up with an I.V. drip of chardonnay.

In an interesting twist, the presence of the children was enough to jump all blood pressures up a few points. Particularly if said children were crowd-surfing in the bed of a moving truck. Weird. Ever since that month of pre-term labor with Little J, my body just craves a Procardia in his presence, because the *ute* is a crazy mo-fo that just doesn't forget, apparently.

Also, yelling at said children to stop shoving french fries up their nose earned a respectable spike, and what might be interpreted as a momentary, mini-stroke that is also COMPLETELY treatable with wine. Or muscle relaxants, because I would have to believe they would serve the same purpose.

Seriously, next time there is a heart issue, just call me. I'm totally an expert.

Where our priorities are revealed in ODD choices.

It appears that all these months of electro-shock therapy are working. As proof, I submit the photo above, of my children at the outlet mall outside of Hilton Head. Dressed in pajamas. No matchey-matchey.

Also worth noting: Big J's PJ bottoms are size 18-24 months. And L is wearing pants because I DO believe it's improper for an almost 6 year old to walk around a mall in her undies. But also, there was an unfortunate mac and cheese eating debacle earlier in the day, and if there is anything more inappropriate than a kindergartner wearing undies as an outer-garment, it's a kindergartner wearing mac and cheese stained undies as an outer-garment.



What? Haven't you ever seen a small Asian eating cheesy noodle products in a moving vehicle??? Also, this is the picture that kind of shows you how we got to the undie-wearing-toddler-sized-pajama party we spontaneously threw at the outlet mall.

I will have you know that around the time that Big J turned 3 (and had already worn these pjs 18 months past their expiration date), we decided that pajama sets were a big, fat waste of cash. Particularly since every sporting event, extra-curricular activity, store promotion, school and farming competition gives away free (hideous) t-shirts.

On the very first night that we pulled the horrendously-evil-jammie-switcheroo, Big J BAWLED for 40 minutes.

I WWWWWWWant PPPPPPPPPPantssssssssss. Sob, sob, sob. Paaaaaaaaaants!

Did I mention he's not good with change?

Fine. Toddler pants it is. Almost 3 years later. Our theory was that his circulatory system would speak some sense into him when it threatened to cut off blood flow to his testicles. We are still waiting for this type of organic intervention to occur.

Now you're wondering why he was in these teeny-tiny pajamas at an OUTLET MALL at 3 p.m.?
Blog-world, you are quick.

Well, you might recall that we were fleeing from a roach brothel, that was also, coincidentally, a human brothel where airplanes *might* land. Selecting appropriate clothing was somewhat of a luxury, similar to the ability to consume spam if I were to ever be a guest in a vegan commune. Anyhoo. It was Labor Day weekend, and we received word that there were good sales a-happening at the outlet malls. Which we decided to hit, after nearly 13 hours in the car. Before hitting our final Hilton Head destination.

Because I LOVE me some 40% off at the Gap. And shall rearrange all timing, priorities and sensical thinking for a $7 t-shirt made by people that resemble my L.

Thirty minutes and 4,121 blank stares later, we were back in the car. I assume people thought I didn't speak English and paper thin cotton was our native dress. Kind of like that movie "300", you know, where the Spartan boys have to kill a werewolf with a PEZ dispenser to become real "men"? Well, I guess Big J needs to dominate a cotton field and weave some pants with his bare hands before his baby pj's eat his testies. Or something whack like that. Though my scenario sounds AMAZINGLY less masculine than the Gerard Butler crazy-abs version.

But wait. Before getting to the house, we had one. more. stop.

It required a substantial rearranging of our car and packed items and was almost a logistical disaster, but for the fact that Mike and I are seasoned professionals who know how to stuff a car with multiple cow products, some poultry and the two major beverage groups (wine and diet coke). And bread, apparently. Lots, and LOTS of bread. Don't worry, Little J fit nicely in the turtle top, when we strapped the tequila into his booster seat.




Just to recap the order of events from the time we left St. Louis, until our arrival at the Hilton Head house:

• Bug-infested, adult fun-house on the Nashville airport runway
• Llama/cow/emu feeding. Duh.
• Outlet malls
• Sam's Club
• Liquor Store

And that, folks, is how you begin a vacation.

The modern, sluttier version of the Bates Motel.

Helloooooooooooooooooooo, Blogworld!!!!

It's me! I'm back! I'm not dead, much as my husband tried his darndest to kill me, by making me sleep next to the runway at the Nashville International Airport. Amidst rampant prostitution, and what I can only imagine to be the target demographic for drug sales.

But seriously. None of that freaked me the hell out like the thought of bed bugs. Thank you, book club, for putting that idea into my head just one short week before I checked into the insect version of an all-inclusive Sandals resort.

It still kind of makes me vomit a little in my mouth.

In any case, I have been on vacation in Hilton Head. I wanted to mention this sooner, but I kind of feel like that is an advertisement for robbers to come and break into my house. Though, I was playing it *real sly* and all by failing to post for 5 days straight. You can blame the wine for that. Oh, and stupid Blogger and it's INSISTENCE on turning my font size into microscopic type every time I try to pre-post.



Anyway. Let me tell you about Night #1 of our vacation. Or, as it is now affectionately refer to as the-night-my-husband-thought-it-was-worth-$38-to-sleep-his-family-beneath-landing-jets-and-amongst-the-company-of-less-than-law-abiding-citizens.

That's right. I said $38. For which he tried to haggle with the front desk lady.

And that's how we discovered the *rest* of the story.

We decided to make the 13 hour trip to Hilton Head a two-day affair, which is very unlike us. However, we take this vacation every year with two other couples (and their families), and we like to get to Mike's parent's house a little early to prepare and get our bearings. Anyway, we figured we would stop outside of Nashville. On the tarmac, to be precise.

In Mike's defense, we kind of figured that a hotel near an airport would offer lots of choices. We passed an exit with all kinds of LUXURIOUS options, along the lines of a Holiday Inn. We thought about turning around, but then Mike spotted this little gem, and well, anything with the word THRIFTY in it's name is an instant hit with my hubby. For me, it's more like a red flag signaling anything from head lice to shower stabbings. $38 for a night confirmed MY suspicions.

Mike goes into the lobby and says he's going to "check it out". I should have known right there that I was screwed, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured he would NEVER sleep his children in this place.

Wrong.

I couldn't sleep. At all. Mostly because I was so mentally paranoid that I scratched my skin raw out of fear of what was eating my flesh on a microscopic level. But also because every 6.5 minutes, I would dream that Osama Bin Laden was executing a plan to send jumbo jets into flea-ridden motels. Oh wait. That was just the airport landing pattern. And also, I was somewhat paranoid that L would be stolen in the middle of the night and sold as a small Asian baby on the black market.

So the next morning, Mike wakes me up and decides to tell me the *whole* story. How he tried to bargain with the lady at the front desk by telling her that we were going to go and check out the rates at the hotel across the street. The picture (above) doesn't show it, but there was a sign up that advertised some kind of all you can eat meat buffet? Which makes the story more awesome and random and frightening and vomit inducing.

"Good Luck," she says, "that place was shut down by the po-lice."

RED FLAG, MIKE!!! RED FRICKIN FLAG!!

"How long ago?" he asks.

"Bout a month. Too much prostitution."

"But that kind of thing doesn't happen over here, does it?" He asks. When I envision this story, I picture Michael LAUGHING. Because he finds it humorous when me head shoots clear off my body.

"Naw. Not here."

"I see you have a gate to get into the guest parking, do I need a code?" he asks.

"That things been broken for years. Just don't leave anything valuable in there," she says. Um, lady. We are traveling with EVERY POSSESSION we need to survive with 4 kids for an entire week. Unpacking is not really an option.

We explain this. And she then proceeds to tell us that it would be fine. No theft ever happens around there.

Uh huh.

When Mike retold this story to me, he made sure to add that Jesus was a friend to prostitutes and deviants. Whatever. He was the SON OF GOD. He carried the threat of eternal damnation. And also, the bible makes no mention of dying for our sins via bed bugs or poorly executed airline landings. So Jesus had that going for him.

All this to say, I survived night #1. And I did, in fact, pick a winner for our little giveaway with Hello, Good Gravy!! To be more precise, L picked a number from a bowl, and I counted down to the 11th comment. What do you know, my sister-in-law, who is my MOST consistent commenter, happened to be the lucky winner! Congrats, Carol...I will email you and put you in touch with Lelan!!

More tales from vacation week to come...until then, it's GREAT to be back! Thanks for sticking with me in my LONG absence, but I am back now and I am ready to P-A-R-T-Y.

Saddle up, friends.

Well worth 25 pounds and a colonoscopy.

Let me tell you about my dinner last night. It involved a pork/beef product in a tube (hot dog), that was then wrapped in another pork product (bacon) and grilled with a brushing of
barbecue sauce.

Step one, complete.

From there, our resident wiener experts added (in this order):

MORE barbecue sauce
mustard
baked beans
pico de gallo
french fried onions

Your end result should look something like this:

I was leery of the pico de gallo. It seemed a tad-bit too healthy, being that it is essentially a vegetable that was not deep fried. Oh, friends. Oh.

Every ingredient is NECESSARY. And if you see fit to add cheese products or other items of a high fat content, well that's your business.

This is heaven on a bun. And I shoved it down my pie hole until I was pretty sure that I had entire hot dog links stuffing my innards, end on end. As if, in true magician style, I could have grabbed the end of a dog from my throat, and pulled a string of 35 of them out whole. One after another. And if they would have been multi-colored and followed by doves, well, let's just not even pretend that's not a whole lotta awesome. People pay BIG bucks to see those kind of party tricks.

**Listen up, blog world. Tomorrow is your LAST day to try to win those fun goodies from Lelan at Hello, Good Gravy!, so visit yesterdays? Monday's? post and leave a comment, otherwise tough doodie with a side of 35 regurgitated hot dogs.

Hello, Good Gravy!!

{Edited to note: This giveaway is CLOSED and a winner has been selected! However, please jump on over to Hello, Good Gravy for a look at all of Lelan's amazing goodies!!}

I have a REALLY great story for why I didn't post on Friday, even though I had all my pictures loaded and ready to go. I even had a PLAN to blog last night, as you will recall my big, gigantic tease *suggesting* a giveaway.



However.



My excuse involves a lot of shadiness that may or may not include prostitution, airplanes a woman with no teeth and possible drug use. NO JOKE, but I am not at liberty to divulge any details. At the moment.




If you haven't yet figured it out, these photos are the little surprises that appeared on my doorstep last week, courtesy of Lelan at Hello, Good Gravy! A few weeks back, Lelan saw the laminated tags I made for our kids teachers, and decided she needed to get herself a laminator.

Sidenote: We all know of my LOVE of polka dots and monograms and scalloped circles. But perhaps you didn't know that if you take these things and encase them (forever!) in a thin layer of melted plastic, well, I would consider that about an inch away from heaven on earth. Should the good Lord ever ask my opinion on what I consider to be his greatest creation, it would be a one-word answer: lamination.

When I was growing up, people in Hawaii put one of these tags on every single bag and piece of luggage, thought, there were usually cartoon characters and paint pens involved. It was a small obsession. Some might say, it still is. But luggage tags, they hold a special place in my heart. Right next to Spam. And Raps Hawaii.

And if you know what Raps Hawaii is, I already know I LOVE you. Like really love you. My husband thinks it's the DUMBEST THING EVER and he can't understand half the words.

So Lelan ran with the idea of laminated tags, and came up with some of the prettiest and most unique designs I have ever seen. And she sent them to me, and I almost died of excitement.

But also included were a couple of sets of her notecards...oh, her notecards. They make me want to catch up on the 4,378 thank you notes I should have sent over the past 34 years. Or just send small words of encouragement, because nobody does that anymore.

And will you take a looksy at that label. A scalloped circle. and I see dots. She has taken my favorite design elements and COMBINED THEM for a logo. Everything about her work is so pretty it makes me want to put make-up on my robo hamsters.

Is that weird? Okay then.

I talked her up last week, but really people, you need to jump on over to her shop and take a looksy. Because today, there is something in it for you! Lelan has graciously offered to giveaway two of the laminated tags she created (and has YET to offer in her shop), PLUS a set of 10 flat notecards! The winner can select their choice of tag design (fun-time flags or robots) and notecards from her shop, just leave a comment and let me know what your favorites are! A winner will be selected at random on Thursday, September 9th, so you have until then to enter!

To link to her shop and blog, click HERE--I highly suggest visiting both, because while I LOVE her products, I also LOVE her blog, her pictures and the projects she takes on!

Thanks, Lelan!! And good luck to all of you out there in blog world!!

How crafting has made me unidentifiable by the law.

Okay, friends. Let's get crafty.

And NOTHING says crafty, like a chunky-substance with the power to burn your skin right off. Big round of applause for...Glass-Etching Cream!!

Totally joking, but my bottle does put the fear of God in you, as far as skin-contact goes. And if you get it in your eyes I think you actually die, like, 15 times. And then you're reincarnated as a Teletubbie. Good thing I read those directions *after* I washed the stuff off with my bare hands. That's how real men do it (plus, I don't own gloves).

Anyway.

My AWESOME friend Lelan from Hello, Good Gravy! had a glass-etching example posted last week. I've seen glass etching projects out there on the Internet, but they didn't do anything for me, I was all way-to-cool-and-kind-of-meh about it. Then Lelan went ahead and created this whole little scalloped circle cuteness. OH NO SHE DI'ANT?

Yup, she did.

I read that post of hers while I was out of town this past weekend, and ACTUALLY tried to find etching cream in Ozarkville, Missouri. Um, no-go. But I did haul-ass to Hobby Lobby first thing on Monday with my 40% off coupon. Score! And it turns out I also happen to own a scalloped-circle paper cutter! Double-SCORE! Jinx! Buy me a Coke!

All this to say that I have made some fun sippy cups for a few of my friends. And by sippy cups, I mean wine goblets. Though, I do need to make a baby gift for my new nephew and I have all kinds of glass etching ideas spinning. Mike thinks it's wickedly smart of me to give glass to a baby.

Anyway, HERE is the link to Lelan's blog post (click HERE if you missed the first one). Head over there, ASAP. She is a design GENIUS. If there is a look and a style that I favor, it is hers, hands down. You will need to click over to her Etsy shop to really see how talented she is, but her blog is a pretty great indicator that her designer *eye* overflows into everything she does.

And I am loudly singing her praises, because tomorrow I will reveal what arrived on my doorstep today. Hint: It was NOT a flaming bag of poop. Hint-hint: It contained a scalloped circle.

And maybe, just maybe, there will be something in it for you, too!

{edited to note: Blogger is KILLING me with this teeny-tiny print. It seems I can't pre-post or else it becomes elf writing. Sorry, folks.}

If peanut butter had a personality, I think it would be kind of naggy and all up in my business.

So I am in a super-sucky-kids-lunch-routine. Which means that if I have to spread peanut butter one more time, I might just die. DIE, I tell you. For no other reason than I am just BORED with it. Coincidentally, this is how a lot of my problems begin.

G's school makes the most amazing lunches. Don't believe me? Here's a sampling: Lemon-pepper baked tilapia with pesto pasta and asparagus. Or, Southwest barbecue chicken chopped salad with honey cornbread. Prepared fresh and daily, none of that fatty meat with floaty carrots in a pre-sealed bag. Ick. Bleh.

The problem? Yeah, G won't touch any of that with a 10-foot pole made out of chocolate. In kindergarten? I signed her up for EVERYTHING, besides the stuff that I knew would be an all-out disaster (like the fish sandwich, which, coincidentally, she likes). After MULTIPLE calls from teachers who sit with her at lunch, it appears G was eating next to nothing. And as she is RAIL skinny to begin with, I just couldn't have her playing the part of anorexic model at school. The other moms would talk. And really, you need a drinking problem and some hard core street drugs to really do it convincingly.

So instead, I have packed 1,843 sandwiches. Or so it seems. And I am so BORED with this little routine, which seems to be the food equivalent of wearing the same pleated khakis everyday. Me thinks it's time for a skinny jean sandwich.

A Strawberry-Cream Cheese sandwich. To be exact.

Can't take credit...we had something similar at the American Girl store last fall, and when I googled a recipe, it came up with a zillion links. I mean, I don't know how hard it was for me to figure out how to spread cream cheese on bread and add strawberries. But whatever.

As a side note: I tried these on my three youngest today, and they were all eaten. Though in all fairness, I will tell you that one of my children eats EVERYTHING in sight, and the other two consume food under my watchful eye, with the threat of no dessert. So, I pretty much have mind control down, which, in my humble opinion, is WAY cooler and more impressive than any sort of cooking skill.

The recipe, for anyone interested:

Strawberry-Cream Cheese Sandwiches (via Disney Family.com, link HERE)

Ingredients:

1 Tbsp. cream cheese (I used full-fat, but it calls for low-fat)
1/4 tsp. honey
1/8 tsp. freshly grated orange zest
Wheat Bread
Strawberries (sliced, flat-like)

Combine the cream cheese, honey and orange zest. Spread on to bread, and add strawberries. Eat.

I will tell you, I think the orange zest is kind of unnecessary. I thought it would add an interesting flavor, and it didn't do much, for the effort. I also probably added more honey to sweeten it up, and I cut the crusts off the bread to make it extra FANCY.

Also, last note: I'm all for feeding my kids healthy-schmelthy and all, but one of my biggest problems is that healthy stuff is low-cal. My kids need fat, a lot of fat. G is still wearing a 4T bikini. None of them have EVER been switched off of whole milk (at the request of our pediatrician...and anyone with eyes, that can see their ribs from space, practically). They are little people. And if fat was an organ that could be donated, well, sign me up. No? They don't do that? Someone should create a method that makes liposuction a humanitarian effort to aid skinny kids. And if Bon Jovi headlined a MEGA concert with all proceeds going to fund this whole *philanthropy*? Well, I consider that a win-win.



I think that is, like, the 45th idea I have shared on this blog that could one day win me a Nobel prize for Awesomeness.

Now. All of you out there...what do you make for your kid's lunch? I need ideas, because, I have only ONE. And peanut butter, the bi-atch, is acting all self-righteous and in my face. And I just can't take it anymore.