NothingSacred

Off the Rails

Another week stretches before me, and I know already that I won't accomplish half the goals I have. Sure, some of my "goals" include getting a book yet-unwritten published and hosting a studio night with a bunch of fun gals and a few bottles of wine, but still... even the small ones look monumental this week.

Probably something to do with last week, which can only be described as completely fucking grueling. I know, you are all aghast that a stay-at-home mom could possibly claim that word for her own, what with me not having a boss per-se, and all deadlines being self-appointed. But really, I don't know if you guys felt it last week, but the dooky hit the wind tunnel over the past few days.

Not one big thing, and nothing tragic, just the slow accumulation of many infinitesimal annoyances and one ridiculously huge thing that cannot be fixed in a day-- I'm fucking spent. I'm holing up in the studio this nap time, looking over my shoulder at all the other things I "should" be using these short 120 minutes for, but here I am, on the blog. I could be fixing my homemade light box so I could maybe get a decent pic of my newest craftiness to set up an Etsy account (and start selling something). I could be figuring out how to post as many ads on my blog as possible (hey, I need the money). I could be making some jewelry out of the cache of beads that beckon, whispering at me how much they've missed me and don't I want to look pretty? I could be working on that article I've been bandying about. Could be working on invites for that ladies-night studio time. At the very least I could be cleaning up a bit on the off chance I actually DO get some women over here to craft a little art-sicle or sew an ugly-doll. 

But I'm not. I'm trying to get my head around the ever-growing list of shit I'm avoiding. Seems everyday I think up one more thing I can add to my duties.  Like today, I realized I have to get better at paying the kids allowance so I can teach them the value of money. The trouble with that is I have to have a large supply of small bills at the ready every Sunday, which wouldn't be so much of a thing if I didn't have to pay my kids' lunch order every week in cash, exact change. That's $4.25 times two kids plus allowances. Which works out to 11 singles, two fives and two quarters. Every week. I hoard singles like a groomsman on his way to a bachelor party. And then when I finally do get flush with enough cash to cover both lunches and the money-hungry little monkeys I'm embarrassed to open my wallet as I look like I just got done entertaining at that bachelor party!

Aw fuck, at least I'm not Facebooking (which takes up more of my time than I'd like to admit). And now this Twitter thing? Yeah, I couldn't help it, I signed up. It's like mini-chunks of facebook, so maybe it'll take less time? Keep your fingers crossed on that.

So as for this past week's annoyances, I know you wanted to hear about my little slice of shit-pie, so here ya go (and these are just the ones that spring to mind).  

1) Exhaustion. Don't know why, except I've upped the workouts in anticipation for my birthday weigh-in this week. That and the damn full moon! It sent everything off the fucking rails around here (including and especially Ace!), and it actually had the nerve to WAKE me one night. I don't know if you've ever been woken by a moon so bright it could pull you from REM sleep, but it's not near as glorious as one would suppose! I swear, those fucking moon-rays blasted through my window directly into my eyes like a Gestapo flashlight! Through one of those little windows above a real window; those "just for looks" windows that one thinks when they agree to have them installed that they are just attractive and serve no real purpose and so why would you get shades for them? Yeah. One would be wrong. Excessively wrong. A blinding load of light can stream through those damn things! And I'm here to tell you, not just sunlight.

2) The moon. See above. Was there anyone out there NOT effected by that marathon five-day stretch of lunar lunacy? I have to believe it was at least partly to blame for Ace going completely shit-bird nuts all week. He made his teacher CRY this week. She's been teaching 35 years or something insane, she's seen it all. But Ace found the chink in her armor that he's been looking for all year this week. Long story, short: we're really lucky no one called the authorities. (But hey! There's always next week, mama!)

3) Strangers being way to up in my bidness.  This all happened Friday, when I was finally shaking through the week-long funk I'd been veiled in. First, when I dropped off the boys at school in the morning I left Trey in the car, as I always do, because I'm required to sign Deuce into pre-k. When I returned to my car a frantic mother ran up to me. "Oh! I've been looking everywhere for you! Your baby is in the car!"

    Uh. Yeah. I know. That's where I left him. Locked in the car. "Yes?" I asked her, daring her to go on with her clear butt-in-ski-ness. 

    "Well, there is no one in the parking lot! And the car is running!" 

    Mm-hm. And?

    "Well, I was just so concerned I couldn't leave! I was so afraid that someone would steal the car!"

   At this point I've apologized for inconveniencing her, smiled and tried to give her multiple times to slink off to her holier-than-thou cavern where she would undoubtedly call all her over-protective mommy-buddies and rant about my horrible parenting (if only she knew!).

    "Oh, well, it's locked." I tell her and smile a big, Christian smile and thank her and tell her not to worry, he's fine.

    "But it's running!" Now I'm confused. Yes. Of course it is running. Even though it is only 30 degrees out, I'm not so stupid as to leave my kid in a car with no environmental ambiance in effect (that is to say, neither the air nor the heat running as the weather dictates.).

   "I know, but I have the keys," I say, holding up my fob. 

   "Oh. You can lock it while it's running?" Seriously? Did she really just ask me that? Yeah, honey. This ain't new technology. Take that handy remote key fob off the same ring as your actual key and lo-and-behold, you have a perfectly-secure, environmentally-serene toddler container. Really? She's never heard of this? It's not like my four-year-old minivan is state-of-the-art or anything . (Particularly not with the perma-stench of rotten milk and spoiled bananas mashed into the carpet and the nav system that is so old it doesn't even show the road where I live.) 

    At this point I'm starting to get annoyed back at her. I get it. She's concerned. She's doing her part. And yes, I, too, may consider some super-mom-saves-the-day shit if I came upon a kid stuck alone in a car. But not one in the fire lane drop-off of the private parking lot of a tiny parochial school while the car is running! Sure, I'd break your windows out if I came upon a kid (or a dog, for that matter), at Wally World trapped in a car on a hot day or something. But for crying out loud, there's got to be some common sense here, lady! I'm willing to bet this woman has ONE child, and has no idea what it is like to lug a very-independent and curious two-year-old into the pre-k class that is FULL of toys everyday to sign in. And has no idea the sort of hell one spirals into trying to remove that child from said pre-k room every morning. Sure, I could get out the stroller and strap him in, park across the street, and push him through a building so old it's halls are so small they wouldn't meet ADA code. But then, you know what, sugar-tits? I have a fucking day, here! I've got stuff to do! Can I just lock my little lunatic into this climate-controlled prison where he will happily continue to watch Spongebob on the drop-down telly, suck back his "chocky-milk" and continue smearing his cereal bar into every crevice he can reach while I run these other kids in? Please? 

So fine. I get my chastising for horrible parenting and hold it all in. I am polite and gracious. I wave good-bye to her and blithely drive-away, hopefully leaving her with the impression that either A) She's a nosy, worry-wart that should stay our of other's business or B) I'm a blissfully vapid mommy that agrees with everyone and was really happy she pointed out my "mistake", or hopefully, both. 

I swear, there are a lot of women out there who for some reason think I'm dumb. Do I project this? I always thought I came off as the "smart-one", you know? I always thought I read as the "Sabrina" in my gang of Charlie's Angels. Evidently, that was only with the guys. To other women, just because I was ANY of the Angels I'm automatically stupid? Hmmm. Right. Sure, I care about what I wear and I like to wear make-up and I prefer for my hair to done (although more often than not it is usually pulled back in a pony). Yeah. I like to wear heels, even if they ARE impractical. So what? A skirt can do you wonders on the feeling-good-about-yourself-front, honey.

 I usually just feel sorry for women like that, but it is getting a tad annoying. Just on Tuesday one of the moms from swimming lessons jabbed at me  after I made some off-hand comment about my iPhone having the wrong weather forecast and thus I was totally caught unawares by a snowstorm. First of all, I was talking to a mutual friend, not her, but she leaned right in and snidely commented, "Oh. Did you think it was omniscient?" First of all, I think she thought her rude little cut was probably lost on my puny intellect. She probably thought she was being so razor sharp that I missed how rude she was, or, worse, she presumed I couldn't define the word she used (as if!). Secondly, I think she is crazy jealous of said iPhone as she has to sit there and watch her life drift meaninglessly away for 30 minutes while I get to facebook, shop, call, and basically get any answer to any question I want... well, except the correct weather, but still, she's totally jealous.

 That's the way I played it, anyway. I didn't take her bait, only because of late for me to take someone's bait... well, things quickly get real ugly and I can't take back those words once they are out. And really, I have to see this bitch every week as it is. Where she'll still be over-babying her whiny-ass, not-overly-attractive son whilst wearing  capri yoga pants that she has no idea make her ass look Wyoming-wide and a polar fleece vest with dog hair all over it and black ankle socks poking out from fur-lined Crocs that make her feet look six sizes bigger than they are. And no matter how I could verbally shred her, she'll still have to deal with that. Well, that PLUS her unfortunate Mommy haircut.  

I have digressed AGAIN from the other crazy-stranger affront from Friday. (Still blaming the moon)

So I get over the school incident and head to the grocery where I spend an hour getting back back-on-track, when I come out to find a note on my windshield. It's one of those asshole fake parking violations thing. But I didn't park fucked up. C'mon, it's a grocery parking lot, they are designed for women to park in. Angled. Huge. I did just fine, this time, thank you very much! I see there is writing on the back and flip it over to find this:

"McCain for president? What sort of alternate universe do you live in? HAHAHAHA!"

Seriously? A sore fucking WINNER? Just because I refuse to take off my bumper sticker and tacitly jump on the "Savior's" bandwagon I'm open to some ass clown's ridiculously trite rebuke? Really? 

I can't get over that some motherhumper took the time to go back to his car and dig out his embarrassing little pad of "parking violations" from under crumpled pro-union propaganda and the "dream" journal in his glovebox and then dig around in the center console, pushing aside old wadded Kleenex, healing crystals, that old god's eye he used to hang from the rearview and a half-eaten carob-chip cookie, to find a pen he stole from the doctor's office. Cannot believe that fartknocker had nothing better to do! And that he's still ANGRY enough about the election to take up his time to do it! Way to come together and follow Obama's "Bipartisan" rhetoric! 

You know, I can count on no hands the number of times I wrote nasty notes to people about their Kerry/Edwards stickers. Hey, your guy won! What's the big fucking deal? It's like the fucking thought-police are tracking me down for disagreeing with the vainglorious "majority". How dare I have an opinion contrary to yours, eh? Whatever happened to those stickers all those Bush-bashers were rocking BEFORE the election? "Dissent is Patriotic"? Yeah, I guess I'll take one of those now.

I half-wanted to go back in the store and demand to look at their security camera footage to see who had defaced my car with such horseshit, if for nothing else to find the guy and let him know that the word he was looking for was not "alternate" (meaning "vacillate") but instead "alternative" (meaning "surrogate"). I mean, if this shit-bird is going to leave bullying notes on people's cars, he should at least be informed of the proper vocabulary to do so! But then, like I said, I had a day, so I didn't have the time to spare. Which seems to be the story of my life. Well, that or "Oh heck, we may as well finish off the bottle!"

On top of those minor annoyances, my CPAs made a major fuck-up last year on my taxes and so we've had to atone for that sin. (Hey, there's a country to bail out! We gotta do our part!). Plus, next year's tuition, HOA dues, homeowner's insurance came due. It's been one hell of a financial good time over here! And it isn't even April 15th yet! Yippee!

But I am trying to get my optimism back. Refocus my intentions, if you will. And I just found out today that the old man is taking me away for my birthday next weekend (to which my immediate thought was, Oh, crap! I'll miss spinning and church!). But after he suggested I might like to pack my computer (!), I'm all about it. So, things are looking up, at least momentarily. No, I'm not back to my shopping-spree ways, and I haven't figured out a way to get a boob-job with no down-time, but still, things are looking up. If I can just keep Ace from hitting the principal's office this week, and also hopefully pull a less-than-20% body fat count with the trainer on Thursday, maybe turning 34 won't be so bad after all. 

Cookie Whores and Their Daughters

That's it. I've had enough.

I have drawn the proverbial line in the sand today.  Dare to cross it.

I absolutely forevermore refuse to buy Girl Scout Cookies that are sold not by a GIRL Scout, but by a Girl Scout Mommy. Period.

Today I exited my local Wally World and was once again accosted not by adorable twee little misses in patch-covered sashes and knee-socks, no, but instead by their twinset-sporting, jean-clad mothers.  What? You may ask, Moms selling Girl Scout Cookies? But where were the Scouts?  Oh, generally they are off to the side, playing quietly together, whispering to each other or quietly plotting the deaths of their interfering, overbearing mothers. On any account, they (the GIRLs of the Girl Scouts) now seem incidental extras to the whole sales conglomerate that is the Girl Scout Organization.  

And I'm not gonna take it anymore.  The moms manning the booths, stocking the shelves, pitching the wares, making the change.  What the fuck are their kids learning with this process exactly? Other than "rely on mommy to take care of everything"? There is a difference between encouraging and helping a child versus shoving the slow-poke to the side in order to maximize profits.

And let's just set one thing straight, the Girl Scout Organization is already treading on some real thin robber-baron ice.  What with the annual creation of a false scarcity of the infernal goodness of Thin Mints and (gasp, moan) Samoas, they should probably be investigated by some over-paid, red-tape-bound bureaucratic committee from DC already.

 I mean, they could just sell those fuckers in the grocery store and let the money pour in all year round. But no, they've decided to structure it so that they make us behave like ravenous baboons ready to tear the faces off our neighbors for the last box of Do-Si-Dos, ostensibly to allow the "teaching" aspect of the cookie sales to remain for the benefit of the scouts. That is, to let their little girl scouts get a taste of big business sales. Show them how to market and respectfully approach strangers with a great fucking product and maybe, just maybe, reinforce some math skills by counting money and making change (not too hard, we're not tacking on tax here or anything!).  But let's call a spade a spade.  I call bullshit on the whole fucking delicious empire!

These girls AREN'T doing any of this any more! All they do is dress up and dolefully follow their moms to where she's set up and then quietly step aside and let Mommie Dearest take care of real business. In fact, the last time I bought cookies (last year, when an actual GIRL approached me), her mother hawked her so closely, "helping", that I had to tell her to back off so the kid could count change to me! She (the mom) was so concerned that her daughter was taking too long and holding me up she was willing to sacrifice her daughter actually learning how to do something for herself.  It's ok, lady! If I'd wanted someone who could make fast change I'd buy my cookies in the store where I can use my debit card. I understand, implicitly, when I approach a folding card table that the transaction may take a little longer than what has become customary in today's Montezuma's Revenge-quick world.

One more quick aside-- these bitches set up everywhere now. Every grocery, every WalMart. Its like an infestation of locusts.  Rapid, yet ubiquitous. I wonder, how do they decide whose troupe gets the best corner? Does it go to the troupe most in need of funds? Or the prettiest? My bet is the prettiest, only because scouting has, by the looks of the moms, become the second-tier bastion of ex-sorority sisters. One step out of college, one step below the Junior League. 

Unite with me, ye of common sense. Insist that your cookies are genuine GIRL scout cookies, not Mom-of-Girl scout cookies. You'll be doing a whole generation of girls a favor.

Another Married Valentine's Day

Yes, I know Valentine's Day is technically still two days away (as I write this Thursday night), and yet The Old Man and I still celebrated our obligatory ritual dinner in honor of being successfully felled by that old fucker, Cupid, tonight. (Couldn't get babysitters for Friday or Saturday. I swear, it just isn't fair when your go-to babysitter gets her license AND a boyfriend!)

Is the weekend here yet? My god, it has been on of those weeks.  The ones that you wish would just end. That you envision the weekend like a distant mirage, the chance to sleep past 6 am (if even for only twenty minutes) shimmering in the horizon.  

First, Ace got called into the principal's office. Again.  I swear, that child tests every rule put in front of him. And not just once. Oh, no! He likes to check in day to day to see if the boundaries have moved at all.  This is a child that even after three months of intensive instruction on the ins and outs of proper sentence structure still must write 10 sentences for each period he forgets. On Tuesday that was 60 sentences. I keep trying to convince him that no matter what, the rules of English are NOT going to change and he should just accept them for what they are.  Of course I blame myself.  Well, and TOM, mostly, but I probably had a bit of a hand in it. I'm sure we were just too inconsistent.  But, Christ, am I too tired to bear that burden tonight!

And then there is Trey.  Upper respiratory infection and double ear infection.  I took him in before I left for the Girlfriends Take Manhattan weekend (which was not unlike the Muppet movie with a similar title, in retrospect).  Just one of those preemptive doctor strikes that moms across the country know is routine if you are about to leave a tiny one with even a whisper of a cough or the slightest run of snot at home alone for a few days with the OTHER parent.  Trey got a clean bill of health. That nasty hack was but a touch of the croup. No big deal.  I would miss the worst of it, and he'd be right as rain when I returned. Only, he wasn't.  

Cough much worse, now a fever.  You know the prayer.  "Holy Father, please, please, please, let him have an ear infection so I can get some real drugs this time. Heavenly Lord, please in your ultimate wisdom, afflict my child with something that is easily curable and does not involve hourly trips to a steamy bathroom and teaspoons of honey. Amen." 

Wish granted.  I got my (his) dose of antibiotics to take care of the ears. Unfortunately, those clear little lungs now have a wheeze.  But the doc knows I know the drill after rearing one with viral-induced asthma and another with a hospital-delight of RSV before his first birthday. I can nebulize like Florence Nightingale, my friends. That is, if she had had access to such modern wonderment. I can only guess she'd be really good at it, what with her legendary nursing skills. But I digress.

Sure, I know my way around an inhaler and a nebulizer, but was the doc going to say it? Was I going to hear those dreaded words after what happened last time?! Oh god, here it comes... "a quick round of steroids".  Yep. there it is.  Great. I forgot to add "Oh, and Lord? No steroids this time, ok?" to my prayer! Dammit!

Am I the only one around here who remembers what happened the LAST time we put Trey on a "quick round of steroids"?  Last summer, when he was still just barely mobile, just really getting the hang of walking we went through this.  To avoid having to do time-consuming neb treatments I opted for the magic bullet in liquid form. I was assured it would work faster and the strength would have him feeling much better in no time.

If, by "much better" they meant my then 16-month-old would be personally transformed into Little Brucie Banner, they were right on. Holy screaming fucking terror.  You have not lived until you've seen a baby 'roid rage! This child of mine lost all communication abilities, his nascent ambulatory powers, as well as his capabilities to both eat and sleep.  He spent the better part of two days crawling manically (when he wasn't flipped over on his back pushing himself across the floor with double donkey kicks-- little bastard is lucky he didn't start a static-electricity fire), howling, and smacking away my hands if I got near him. He basically temper tantrumed his way through every room of the house doing the infant equivilant of screaming "By the Power of Grey-skull, I HAVE THE POWER!" I really expected him to turn green and rip through his little purple pants at any moment.

If I hadn't been five times his size that little fucker would've broken my in two. And now, my friends, he is bigger, faster, stronger and smarter, and I have to really question whether I'm up to it.  Because I am tired.  BIG tired. Pulled a semi with my teeth tired.

And a on a completely different note (although possibly having something to do with my exhaustion and utterly broken spirit), here is a short re-cap of my early-Valentine's dinner for married folk.

On the way out the door tonight, TOM tells me the usual, "You look pretty, babe." To which I can't help but roll my eyes so hard it might have been audible. This time, instead of gently suggesting (as I have for the last nine mother-humpin' years) that I would love it if he'd look at me and say the word "beautiful" rather than "pretty", I simply go straight for the throat. I'm in no mood, you know? 

"No, honey, I look BEAUTIFUL." "Is there a difference?" he asks me. Oh. My. Gawd. 

Thirty minutes later as we roll into the parking lot of a nice dining establishment (no, not the Red Lobster, but I know that's what you were thinking), TOM surveys the cars. Let's just establish one thing first, my man is a car guy. He loves them. That's fine. I'm learning to come to terms with that.  But when he said the following to me I'm pretty sure I made a mental note to google divorce lawyers as soon as I got home.  So we pull into the only available spot in the parking lot (Hey, Mickey D's is happenin' on Thursdays!) and he purrs, "Ooooh! The new Mercedes S550! Isn't it so beautiful?!"

To his credit, as soon as the words were out he knew he'd fucked up. So you can't say he hasn't learned anything in the last nine years. Just evidently not the right things.  Happy Valentine's Day, you romantic saps! 

A Grudging Return

After ten blissful days enjoying sunshine and warmth near the equator, my return home has left me a bit... grouchy. Disappointed. Depressed. 

It doesn't help that upon our return winter finally decided to peek its ugly fucking head in on Colorado. I'm not kidding when I say that I want to curl up in the fetal position, under four blankets, IN the fireplace. It is crazy fucking cold. And nothing goes worse with my new tan than red cheeks, blue lips and skin that has dried to such a degree one might confuse my hands with those of an Andean ice mummy. 

Yes, the cruise was possibly the best family vacation we ever took, and more than a little peeved that my Indian manservant, John (I'm not sure that was his real name...), no longer brings me bloody mary's in the morning and fruity deliciousness in the afternoon and glasses of wine all through the night. I miss my little on-board trainer, Peter, with his upbeat lisp and ballerina thighs and Australian accent. 

Excuse me, my nose is running it is so fucking cold.

Defense of Santa, Exhibit II

It has come to my attention that I wasn't particularly clear with my original rant Defending Santa.  I am afraid I rushed through it, and forgot to include a couple thoughts that were floating around in my head, just didn't get included in the final draft. So, I won't feel right unless I cop to them now.

Primarily, I think I should clarify.  It seems there are two different types of parents who are down with the whole "Out Santa" movement.  Both types honestly do it with the best of intentions, but let's face it, that doesn't make it any less sad, or wrong.  First, there are the Evangelicals and other hard-core Christians, who hate to see the so-called "commercialization" and "secularization" of Christ's birth.  My friend, Marie, I think falls into this category.

  TOM, however, thinks Marie belongs to the second category, which is the New Order Parent who shares every last horrible little thing with their offspring in order to "prepare them" (and possibly scare the shit out of them about growing up, considering.).  Who knows, maybe Marie is both. At any rate, my rant primarily focused on that second group. And upon further reflection I find this group to be even more egregiously in need of a parental take down. You all think you are "preparing" your children for the big horrible world? You think you are giving them a leg-up by letting them in on the adult secrets?  That helping them to become "adult" faster will really be in their best self-interest? Refer to my earlier post for the berating you deserve, you fucking numbskulls. 

It seems to me that logic would lead you to do things like let your daughters wear make-up when they're six, or let your eighth grader start paying rent on his room or something.  I mean, what's the friggin' hurry?  Can't you let them be kids? Can't you trust that they will grow out of ALL their childhood innocence.  And it ain't gonna be all that long before it happens. 

 TOM put it to me this way: Figuring out about Santa is a rite of passage. It is something you EARN, and figure out yourselves.  It is solving a little mystery, and you're a better kid for it. To rob a kid of that is taking away a developmental learning experience-- and we all know how your ilk feels about making every fucking second of the day a goddamn learning experience.  To sum up: You are STILL shameful for raping your child's innocence like that.  That's right. You heard me.  Innocence and Magic Raper.

Ok, then there is that first group, the Hard-liners out there.  Which I prefer to think my friend, Marie, is a part of, and thus less willfully malicious in your shattering of the crystalline magical dreams of your little 'uns. But, I have an argument for you too, one I meant to expound upon more in my earlier post and just couldn't fit in right.  (You may want to smoke a doobie to fully appreciate this argument)   

Santa is a concept that children can grasp.  I know that you want your children to understand the true meaning of Christmas, but let's face it, everlasting life is a pretty heady idea. It takes some time to start really appreciating the intangibles of true Christian faith. One might argue it takes until adulthood, and one may further argue that perhaps it is child-rearing itself that is that mark of adulthood (or at the very least getting past the drunk-all-the-time stage of life), for a person to truly appreciate and be able to understand the larger, more complicated concepts behind faith.  But thankfully, it isn't that hard a lesson for most of us, because we felt that joy and magic and release to a higher power before, we'd already been down that road-- when WE were kids, waiting for Santa.  

Santa is simply a Play-Skool version, a dress rehearsal, for true faith later in life. But kids don't understand receiving joy and love from everlasting life. Hell, they think snack time is an eternity away. Life and death aren't real concepts to them. Nor should they be.

Little kids need concrete things. That's why we don't teach them shit like algebra and philosophy in grade school. They don't have the capability to think abstractly, and then, right around the time they make it through that rite of passage of their own discovery, their brains start to get it. They start to understand higher conceptual thought.  But it isn't that way for small kids. And c'mon folks, do you remember being seven? Four? It ain't that old.

For a child Santa is that representation of Christ's eternal love.  

St. Nick loves all, unconditionally- sure, he warns you not to be naughty, but who among us EVER got coal (the figurative "hell") in their stocking? No one. Because our parents loved us unconditionally and forgave us, just as we learn as adults to really appreciate in a savior and ask again of him right around this time of year. 

Santa brings a child a toy as a gift just as Jesus brings the gift of everlasting life in the kingdom of Heaven to adults. With the concrete display of the Santa Plan they (kiddos) can get it. And it primes them, educates them for later on.  It teaches them faith in something larger, grander, more magnificent.  It buries in their hearts a recognition of true abandon and joy.  Those are lessons that will come in handy when they are adults and are hit with that moment where they reach for faith and are ready again to surrender to something larger than themselves. The magic and belief in Santa will be a light to shine their way home.

But no matter how hard you try to explain or how much YOU believe in those higher concepts, your kids won't understand.  They'll nod and agree with you because they see that's what YOU want them to do and to them you ARE God (again, because those abstract concepts are pretty tricky early on). They only seek to please you, so they will happily say whatever you want to hear. But they'll know that the real kid reason, the reason you can touch and comprehend, to celebrate Christmas is because you get presents. 

 And it is not their fault!  They shouldn't be shamed or guilted for that-- that's just a kid's understanding.  It is a level of maturity issue-- which I suppose loops right back around to TOM's point of rite of passage. I love when thinking is circular. It is so much more whole, you know? Definitely more feminine.  I always feel there is a higher truth around when a concept can fold back over itself and continue.  Like truth itself is a spinning vortex, touching here, connecting to this other thing and expanding into this whole other thing you didn't think it ever would. Whoa. That 1991 acid is coming back on me a little bit. Sorry.  

Ok, it is with great love that I defend Santa, for my kids sake, this holiday season.  And it is with great happiness and depth of emotion that I praise and am grateful this Christmas to Jesus and God.  It has been a hard fucking couple months, and who knows if it will get better anytime soon.  There is a lot of need this year, a lot we can give of ourselves (since I know we're all fucking broke as hell!). But I think it will make it all the more meaningful and poignant this year as we give thanks for our families and our friends, no matter how far away they are or how long it has been since we've told them what they mean to us. And all of us partake, one more year, in the magic that is Christmas.  

And I know I rant and rave and spout off-- it is my nature. I trust that you all know me well enough to know my intentions are good. I love you all no matter what, and I still believe. 

In Defense of Santa

Awhile back The Old Man had the pleasure of hosting a friend of ours, Marie,  for a couple days.  She is super cool and smart, has three kids and was visiting us from TOM’s home state.  TOM and I were regaling her with our various ploys to “play Santa” around this time of year and asked what her Clausian strategies were.  In an authoritative tone she informed us that she told her kids the “truth” about Santa Claus (AND the Easter Bunny!) and has told them he doesn’t exist. Including her 7-year-old son (who's older sisters clearly could've kept him in the dark if they'd so chosen-- or been forced to). I should mention that we were eating breakfast at the time, and her pronouncement (sacrilege!) made me nearly choke on my eggs and TOM sputter through is coffee a , “WH-WH-WHAT?!! WHY?!?!” 

With a delicately arched eyebrow, Marie informed us that she and her husband, Dan, don’t bother with all that because they don’t “believe in lying to the kids”!  Uhh. WHAT?!?! Ok, so TOM and I rolled our eyes and gagged down our meals as we felt the world spin on axis and left it at that. She and her family live 1500 miles away so there was no way their kids would be able to spoil it for our troop. 

Then yesterday I received this email from a friend of mine:

I'm lucky enough to live across the street from two boys similar in age to mine whose parents are of the "we don't want to lie to our kids so we told them there isn't really a Santa Claus when they were both 4 years old..." school.  Are you fucking kidding me?!?!?!?  And the little shites across the street tell anybody they know that "Santa isn't real!!!" whenever Christmas rolls around....

Let me just say that TOM and I go to great lengths to perpetuate the myth. We are the parents who fake muddy tracks on the carpet from the fireplace to the tree. We make sure we suck down every last cookie (with crumbs artfully arranged) and nibble purposefully from carrot sticks to imitate reindeer dentation. 

Of course we KNOW Santa is not the main deal about Christmas, which was Marie’s further point, that her kids attend public school and Christ has been sucked out of Christmas and so they reinforce that Christmas is NOT about Santa, and is about Christ’s birth and all that.  Fortunately, we send our kids to parochial school, so there is no way they don’t know that the big man’s b’day is upcoming. A further side-effect of their small Christian school seems to be a glut of very gullible children, so keeping the story going for Ace, my second-grader, hasn’t been as hard as I had thought. 

Then again, that kid, Ace, is a true believer, man. In general, all my kids seem to be pretty trusting and not naturally skeptical, which I will admit makes things easier for TOM and I. In fact, last night as Ace and Deuce hung ornaments on the “Santa Tree” (the tree that will be “delivered”-- of course you know that’s not Mama’s fancy pretty tree!), Ace reprimanded Deuce for hanging the Black Spiderman ornament too low.  “How is Santa gonna see Black Spiderman there?! Geez, Deuce! Think!!" he snapped, repositioning it higher and to the left. 

So there is that. My kids DO believe. And we like it that way. So I have a message for all you holier-than-thou spoil sports out there: Knock it off! You know the rest of us are in on it and yet you let your little brats run around running their mouths to ruin it for everyone else! 

Let me further say this: I call bullshit.  You don’t like to “lie” to your children? Horseshit! You are Grinches, plain and simple! Don’t think we believe for a second, as your parental peers, that you tell your kids the truth about EVERYTHING! Really?!

You don’t lie to your kids? Riiiight. You told them all about how you used to cheat off Billy Henderson’s algebra tests? About that time you “experimented” with coke (for four or five years)? How about how you used to shake your tits for money? Truthiness abounding about that time you “accidently” blew that sailor in Rosarito? Of course not! You DO LIE about some things.

Parents lie to their kids all the time.  I’ve come to find out it is part of the job. In fact, I never did lie 'til I had kids. And not all of them are BAD lies. There are some things that we shelter children from.  In fact the real irony of this is that it seems you “anti-Santa” fuckers are exactly the type of doofs who would suggest wrapping the hearth in faux-leather pads just to make sure the wee ones don’t bonk their little noggins, or even, God forbid, wear those fucking helmets!   You are the types to carry around socket-plugs in your pockets, "just in case". 

For the most part you douche-nozzles seem to be OVERLY-concerned with your kids well-being. I’m sure you’ve even been accused of being over-protective from time to time.  But apparently you have no interest in protecting your child’s precious innocence or belief in magic and endless possibilities.  Fostering a good imagination is not high on your list, eh? Well, at least they’ll be germ-aware since you can’t seem to keep your hands off the anti-bacterial goop you keep in a holster around your waist at all times, walking around looking like a massage therapist ready for an on-the-fly rubdown. 

Jesus! (Happy Birthday) Get over yourselves.

That’s what Christmas is all about. It’s about BELIEVING, its about FAITH, you morons! Faith in wonder and magic, in things greater than yourself, like Santa Claus...or, I don’t know... Jesus Christ?!! 

Santa is a symbol of that belief and hope.  Christ (again, feliz cumpleanos), you can believe in Obama and you can’t believe in Santa?! Whatever. At any rate, you DO NOT have the right to ruin it for the rest of us, you buzzkills.  

The very hope and inspiration that Santa brings us as small children is exactly the same sort of belief and faith that we will take with us as adults, in our love of freedom, our country, our God, or whatever the hell it is that makes us individually phosphoresce.  We can use that child-learned, Santa-inspired exuberance and zeal toward almost ANY end... maybe even being excited about creating a new clean energy source, or ending hunger, or curing cancer or AIDS, or finally creating a non-fat cheese that tastes good, or even just inventing the perfect non-nutritive cereal varnish- and actually BELIEVING it is possible. Believing anything is possible. It is exactly what helps us be hopeful people. 

You know those adults who are cynical, bitter and shitty? Yeah. I bet they had parents who were Grinches. So well done, you spoil sports. Way to watch out there. Way to create those totally rational, completely devoid of humor pills. The world, and your local cocktail party hostesses, thank you. 

And you know those people who still believe (not in Santa, but more like in the idea that ANYTHING is accomplishable)? Who walk around optimistic and happy and hopeful? I bet they were overdosing on Santa Claus and Disney’s version of America as youngsters. And today they are the ones you see the glass as half-full.  Oh, and as much as I curse and bitch on this blog, I’m sure you all know that I’m up to my eyeballs in optimism.  Thanks, Mom, for “lying” to me early on.  You made me a better person for it. And I am doing my part to pass it along to my kids.

One last word for all you fucking high'n'mighty Scrooges out there with your  "morality" vis a vis Xmas lies: You are being inconsiderate fucktards, the lot of you. Shame on you. Oh. And Merry Christmas!

The Wentz Wince

First things first, I need to admit my bias right up front.  I don’t like Pete Wentz. I never have. He needs his ass kicked. Hard. If you don’t know who he is, don’t worry, you aren’t missing much.  Then again, you need to get out more, because it is hard to miss his over-exposed, kohl-rimmed eyed, tight-jeaned self. He’s from this pseudo-punky pop band, Fall Out Boy .  From what I can tell he is the Gen Y equivalent to Prince, or the generation before mine’s David Bowie. Minus the talent. 

At any rate, as most of you know, I like my men a little more alpha and a little less prancy. Certainly less eye-lined. And I swear to god, Pete Wentz needs to be taken out behind the woodshed for the cultural abomination of making teen boys think they will get laid (and in some cases I’m sure it works-- barf) for wearing fucking girl jeans.  You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen the little fuckers at the mall, charging up the ‘rents credit cards, mincing about in their tapered, tight little denims,  affecting a sort of wanna-be pansy-punk emo pout that really begs for a butt-whoopin’.  When you see these little twerps, you can thank Pete Wentz.    Oh, and did I mention he’s practically a midget? And that alone keeps him on my gal Edna’s shit list (Eek! Midgets!). Basically he’s an Olsen twin with a bottle of black hair dye and testicles. Well, at least one. He's a breathing Bratz Doll, and now he has begat. God help us. 

It is for these reasons that I harbor a blood-lusty grudge against him and firmly believe he deserves a world-class ass-kickin. So imagine my happiness to hear that Jessica Simpson’s little sister, who used to be the ugly one ‘til a modern medical miracle landed squarely on her face, shat out a little Wentz for him last Thursday.  Let his ass-kicking commence! (He soooo doesn’t know what he’s in for! Gleeful excitement peppered with schadenfreude. )  

I’m sure you can imagine how quickly I clicked on the headline when I spied it on my iPhone thursday, and how hard it was to wait for the page to download so I could see the BIG news-- what did they name it?!!?

Bronx Mowgli Wentz.  A boy. 

Where, o where, do I begin?  How about here...

Nice try, you two.  But methinks you see yourself as a bit more than you are with this appellation, as evidenced by your clear mimicry of not one, but TWO  Hollywood “power couples”! Shame on you! This is the nomenclatural equivalent to yelling at a doorman, “Do you know who I am?!”  Bronx!  Are you kidding me? Desperate attempt to be super-original while clearly ripping off the ideas of others, this name screams “My parents were trying too hard”.  

 First off, The Beckhams named their first son Brooklyn, like NINE years ago.  The “named after a New York borough” meme? Soooo 2000.  Secondly, taking a tip from the Brangelinas by going with the masculine name ending in X, huh? Not cool. Not cool at all. Mr. and Mrs. Wentz should recognize that there are a finite number of such names available to the super-couple AND that the couple is clearly going to keep adopting and reproducing until their family resembles a large traveling band of gypsies. Thus, it is a real possibility that they’ll run out of names for their sons. Poaching one is soooo not ok.

Thirdly, just from a sound perspective, this name is horrible! Bronx Wentz? Ouch! Did these two monkeyfucks even bother saying it aloud before they condemned their firstborn with it? Aren’t they musicians? Shouldn’t they have chosen something at least a little lyrical? Something that rolls off the tongue rather than crashes off the teeth? Saying this name aloud sounds like a cross between a sneeze and a cat vomiting. A sound this gutteral is usually confused for a French-accented Yiddish curse. 

Fourthly. Wait, is that a word? Quarterly? (Whatever, you can see this ill-conceived choice’s folly goes on and on) Mowgli? Are you fucking joking? Don’t you think Pete’s parents had to leave the room to roll their eyes and snicker the first time they heard that? (God knows her pervy Dad was eye-ing up Ashlee's engorging mams and thinking dirty thoughts and thusly probably dumbly nodded upon hearing his new grandson's moniker, not listening, just jockeying for a better eyeful of swollen teat.) HAHAHA! When I first read it my mind immediately pictured Gremlins’ Gizmo swaddled tightly in hospital issue blankie, giant eyes just primed for daddy’s first lesson in  properly smudging “guy-liner” (I swear to god, that’s what he calls it. More reason to kick his ass).

But no. That’s not a Mowgli... that’s a Mogwai... my mind reached... what the fuck... how do I know it... it is something cutesy and child-related... oh! That’s it! The Jungle Book! The little brat from the Jungle Book is named Mowgli. Really?  No. Really?? Did you learn nothing from those LopAnthony twins being named after cartoon characters?!?

A quick side note, Amy Poehler and Will Arnett recently had their first baby.  A boy. Named Archie. Which any other couple in the world would earn a foul rebuke from me if they’d done that to their kid, but really, for this knee-slappin' duo, this choice is gold. Archie Arnett. All he does is crap and cry and already he’s hilarious. Accolades and hand-flourishy bows are all I can offer on it... and can’t help but wonder if they named him after Bunker or Jughead’s pal, or both. Or maybe even John Cleese’s character in a Fish Called Wanda.  Either way. LOOOOOVE it.

Back to the tool chest. Pete and Ashlee... you poor, sad little twits. The only thing I can think is that Fall Out Boy is doing a cover of "I Wanna Be Like You" , and Pete wanted the song to have extra significance or something. Whatever. This baby name gets one star out of five, for failing on both originality AND aural loveliness.  Ick. 

Course, that hasn’t stopped me from wishing the baby well (and by that I mean sending positive vibes that he didn’t get mommy’s REAL nose) and fed-exing out a Baby’s First MAC eyeliner.  Now, little Bronx, get to work kickin’ your dad’s ass. He totally deserves it.

Nanny State Chronicles Part 1: The Whining of the Mommy

  Further evidence that a total nanny state is imminent and whining and crying over every little slight and injustice will now be rewarded national notoreity, I give you this, from a local woman:

Local blogger stops ad

Long story short (in case that link disappears, which is fairly common for my local paper's website): Mommy Blogger sees a web-ad for Motrin ( see it here), and decides she's so outrageously offended that she makes a huge cyber-stink and now Motrin feels compelled to take the ad down.  Bear in mind this Mommy Blogger's blog is called "Crunchy Domestic Goddess"-- which I will NOT link as such granola-centric crap will not be abided on nothingsacred.

Obviously from the name alone this is a woman who is FAAAR too sensitive and clearly has given up on little things like say, shaving her legs, wearing make-up, blowing her husband, etc... Basically, anything sexy ever again revolving around her vajayjay is now rendered impossible since she accomplished the task of squeezing offspring out of her 'gina.  Her poor husband. It is women such as these that inadvertantly encourage infidelity.  Women who take up the cause, nay, the NECESSITY, of bonding with their babies by physically strapping them to their chests, engorged teat in mouth, as so instrumental to their very existence that even what I consider to be a mild tease by a company is as sacriligious as denying global warming, generally have an ill-developed sense of humor. Especially of the self-deprecating variety, which happens to be my favorite. They are so fucking serious. All the time. To them, all of it is curing cancer, inventing the lightbulb, winning the world series. These are the women who wear thier children.  

Seriously, can we just take a step back? Do we really have to be so fucking sensitive that a little mild teasing can't be shaken off? When the fuck did everyone become so unable to take a joke? And I gotta say, I was expecting something much funnier, with a little more cut then the web-ad they put out. Somethin' with a little stank on it, you know? I personally think they kept the kid gloves on... I mean there really is SOOOO much more to crack on about those types of moms-- and you either know one or you ARE one (and we all roll our eyes and giggle about you behind your back anyway, Miss Holier-Than-Thou!).  I mean this ad wasn't even disrespectful! If the Crunchy Mom Brigade needs a good dissin' there are plenty of other places to get it. Namely, here. Just for Madame Humorless' hissy fit, I am going out today and buying myself a big bottle of Motrin. I'm clearly gonna need it since America has officially turned into a bunch of fucking pansies!

Oh! And this whining, over-protective mommy is just the type of gal to invest in this little rip-off:

 Yep.  That's right. It tests for alcohol in breast milk.  Just to be extra safe! Are you fucking kidding me, people?!?!

 Number 1: There's this little organ called the LIVER that all mommies come equipped with (and if yours ain't functioning properly, you got bigger fish to fry than getting loaded and breast-feeding)... it does this amazing job of cycling out impurities from what we ingest.  Seriously, I sometimes think that in the total self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing cocoon of "reality" new mommies live in they somehow think that there is a direct tube that drops whatever they put in their mouths, chew up and swallow directly to their nipples. Like the rest of their digestive system is suddenly rerouted and/or obsolete.  Course, we're brainwashed to think that by the La Leche Nazis who come pounding on the hospital door 17 minutes after you've caught your breath from all the pushing to add further anxiety to the crushing load of post-natal hormones bearing down on you, and then throw in your first taste of mommy-guilt to boot.  These women make you feel like if you don't get that baby on the teat in the first 10 minutes your chances of ever bonding with your brand-new sparkly clean little miracle is nil! And they practically tote in a white board and diagrams to chart out how everything you eat, breathe, look at or think about will immediately be transmitted to your baby through "proper latching-on technique". 

#2: Women who use products such as these are clearly overlooking the only added bonus of drinking whilst breast-feeding. If, on the off chance, even a drop of alcohol gets by your liver and other handy self-cleansing organs to be delivered to your little miracle, that is not necessarily a bad thing! Let's face it, after boozing it up like that you're gonna need your rest! A little nip for the little bundle just might be exactly what your kid needs! God knows if they are surviving on breast-milk alone they'll be up every 2 hours anyway! You are both gonna need your rest to deal with that hangover! 

(Now don't go gettin' your panties in a bunch you crunchy bitches-- I'm not really advocating binge-drinking and breast-feeding.  Not cuz I'm worried about the babies health, but really hangovers and wailing wee ones don't mix. I speak from experience. Again! Don't worry-- I was never able to breast feed for more than a couple months, so my drinking and lactating never overlapped.  Speaking of that... if you are at the point where you COULD be drinking that heavily, you may be over due to get the kid off the tit! If your kid is sass-moutihng you, you really need to pull the fucking cord already.)

#3 The type of mom who would actually BUY this product is probably the last mom on the planet who needs it. This is the mom that unstrapped her little angel from her sling for a quick two hour jaunt for drinks with the girlfriends who haven't heard from her since she squirted out the pup, and during those two hours she called home to check on her sex-starved husband four times and felt so guilty she only had half a glass of red wine anyway. I bet never in the history of "milkscreeen" has a CUSTOMER of theirs actually gotten a postivie result! Although surely the bovines they force fed malt liqour  for the clinical trials had to have gotten a positive result, right?? I mean, these tests would have to work if they are available for sale, right?

One more little thing.  I know I've covered this before, but the products available seem to be expanding, so clearly I need to reiterate myself, and this persnickety hippy mom reminded me of it.  Again, if I ever see one of your kids wearing  one of these, I will kick your ass!  You've been warned. Twice.

Take care, I love you all. Now lighten the fuck up out there, would ya?!? 

How My Stupid Fucking Insurance Cuts off Its Ugly Fucking Nose to Spite Its Grotesque Fucking Face

       We’re done. The Old Man and I are finished. No, no! Our marriage is fine, but we have decided to officially retire the baby-making equipment.  I’ve made peace with the fact that God saw fit to bless me only with male children and I surrender to His higher wisdom in that, perchance, I am best suited for that. Come to think of it, for awhile there in my formative years I only had male friends, so while I now enjoy all my girlfriends more than life itself and appreciate the sweet succor that only their friendship can provide me, it very well may be that I am just rightly attuned to the needs and demands a passle of boys will lay upon me.  At the very least, it has certainly opened my eyes to some hard truths of life that heretofore I had heartily ignored. For instance, boys just don’t think about the same shit girls do. End of story.  They are inherently different. No matter what. No matter how you try to “fix” them.  They’s jus’ diff’rnt. Period.

    That said, the Old Man and I have decided to no longer bless the world with our specific DNA cocktails (I hear your chorus of sad groans, and offer you our heartfelt apologies). We know, we know.  We do good work. They are a cute bunch. But lets face it, adding another (male) mouth at this point just extends the amount of time until the two of us can hightail it to Europe and Morocco and Iceland and wherever we want to go for our great travels after we ship the last one off to college. Not to mention the baby weight! Mama’s done stretching out the ol’ temple, if you know what I mean. From here on out we’re only fixin’ her up, rather than tearing her down (well, except the nastiness Father Time and that bitch Auntie Gravity decide to wreak upon me.).

     So we start looking around at more permanent or long-lasting fixes to the whole fertility thing (as it took us a grand total of 6 tries to conceive 3 children by my last count). Fertile Myrtle and Virile Victor have the concept of conception, well, covered. As it turns out, though, the Old Man is a little gun-shy about the whole snip, snip dealio, and actually had the nerve to suggest to me that I get the procedure.  When I reminded him that I was the one who actually gestated and birthed not one, not two, but three of his progeny, I believe that he got that that option was off the table.  Or else it was the quick slap upside the head that drove that point home.

     So as he hemmed and hawed, I continued the daily struggle to remember to take my birth control pills. Which, oddly, is both difficult to remember because these three kids keep me so darn busy, and yet contradictorily simple as I think, Holy Christ! These three kids are keeping me too busy! Better take your pill to avoid having anymore! Unfortunately, I’m usually in bed falling asleep when I get a minute to have a complete thought like that, and then I have to get up and walk across the darkened house and dig the pills out of purse where I carry them around with me so that in case I remember them at any given point in the day I will have them with me to take. Is it any wonder that I actually only log about 5 full hours of sleep a night?

      So, I started investigating alternative methods and after careful consideration (ok, talking to a couple friends and figuring out it is pretty much the ONLY reliable alternative available), I decide on the IUD. I gotta tell you, the name alone is a little off-putting as it so reminds me of “IED”, which of course makes me think of little tiny shrapnel-laden bombs in Iraq. Which then makes me envision the first time the Old Man and I get down to business after implantation and well, you know, a good strong thrust into my newly buried landmine and, BOOM!!! Anyway, I finally make the appointment, thinking that will buy the Old Man a couple (okay, FIVE) years to get used to the idea of getting his junk fixed.

     Let me start out by telling you that my doctor’s office used to have two Obs, one male, one female. They were sorta like Momma Bear and Poppa Bear, except that Poppa was super-sensitive and gentle and sweet, and Momma much more brusque and masculine and a skosh intolerant (not to mention, she was the absolute embodiment of Seinfeld’s “Man Hands”—which is something altogether memorable in a “lady doctor” if you get my drift). But, Momma has recently left to start her own office, which ended up sort of being like a divorce in the office, and has left all the patients to have to choose: Mom or Dad?!?! Additionally it has left the original office (Dad’s) to be staffed by pretty much an entire new crop of ladies. So I don’t recognize anyone when I go in, and unfortunately for them, they don’t recognize me either. [If they had worked in the Ob’s office for my last two pregnancies, they would have known better than to approach me in such a stupid fucking manner and try a bit more diplomacy.]

      As I reach into my wallet to pull out my $30 office visit copay the new little twit behind the little sliding-glass window tells me that will be $650.  WHAT?!?!? “Oh, didn’t you know that? Let me go find out why that is.” Yeah. You do that. Little Twit leaves to find New Big Twit.

     New Big Twit towers over me. “Yes. Well it looks like we talked to your insurance and you have what, a 70/30? Well, you have a thousand dollar deductible and you haven’t used any of it this year so they want to put all this toward it and it looks as though someone called you on the 8^th of May. So it will be $650.” She raises her eyebrow at me.  As if.

     Clearly, New Big Twit does NOT want to negotiate or work this out with me. “Did anyone leave a message on the 8^th of May? Because if you call my house and no one answers, and you don’t leave a message, that’s not exactly communicating with me, is it?” It is sort of like a tree falling in the woods, isn’t it, you stupid fucking cow?

      I turn on my heel and leave the office, head spinning at the twin incompetence of New Big Twit AND Great-West Insurance Company. Let me get this straight? I know why I get to pay full price up front for New Big Twit: because I WILL pay. That OB office marches an insufferable amount of uninsured teenage moms and clearly illegal immigrants through its doors. Sitting in the office with them all during my last pregnancy reinforced that I was getting to pay full-price for my pregnancy services so that all these other bitches could keep squeezing out pups on everyone else’s dime! Everyone in town knows it (Momma and Poppa had a very big business… they know half this town’s lady parts)! I have a strong suspicion that this issue is what led to Momma’s divorce from Poppa in the first place! (Momma doesn’t put up with guff like working the system. Poppa, on the other hand, his poor little heart bleeds). And it looks like I will be taking my business, my lady business, over to Mama’s from now on, as Daddy OB was still clearly tolerating the free-loaders and expecting me to pay full-price for it!

       As for my stupid fucking insurance company.  What sort of absolute short-sighted mental retardation are the policy-makers at Great-West Insurance clearly suffering under??  You mean to tell me that it makes MORE financial sense to you dimwits to not pony-up for a FIVE-YEAR method of birth control with an efficacy rate greater than 99% in favor of trusting the three-child-addled-brain of mine to remember to take my pill every single day and hope I don’t get knocked up??? REALLY!?!?! Because paying for FIVE YEARS of generic birth control pills is roughly equal to one Mirena IUD, except you don’t run the risk of, oh I don’t know, me popping out another kid or two!

       There’s no way you can convince me that giving me an IUD is not cheaper in the long-term than covering pre-natal visits, sonograms, blood-tests, birth, and then an additional child’s wellness visits, shots, broken bones, occasional sniffles, etc, etc.  You fucking morons!  And you know that if my insurance had chosen to pay for it, they would have gotten the “negotiated” rate, which is sure as shit less than $650, I’m willing to bet!

      Just for this, Great-West, I may have another two kids in the next five years just out of spite! Let those scum-suckers suck up that cost! Fucking insurance bastards! I curse them with anal warts and burning halitosis!

Hollywood Birthin'

Ok, so a story about Brangelina popping out those twins erroneously hit today—and sparked me to write this little diatribe (Point of fact, Angelina DID NOT give birth today, so any details about said birth in this post are wrong! And also-- I'm soooo not going to believe anything on Perezhilton again!):

So Angelina just popped out those twins. Girls. I'm sure it was via C-section with a side order of tummy tuck. I just know that's Hollywood's dirty little secret on "trimming up" after births, no matter how scant evidence I can find to support that theory (and don't think I haven't tried!). Plus, it explains why they ALL want C-sections!

I'm just not buying the "convenience of scheduling around our busy lives" bullshit or even that they want to choose their birth days for some sort of cosmic astrological reasons-- not all of them are THAT into astrology! I mean, really? None of them can schedule time off for birth? Really?! They didn't see that oh, sometime, around 9 or 10 months from now, I'm going to have to clear my calendar for a couple weeks?  Really?! Somehow the rest of us regualr folks can recognize that AROUND this date, give or take a couple weeks, I'm gonna be busy shittin' out a critter! REALLY!?!? Nope, evidently Hollywood moms (even ones not shooting films because they are, oh I don't know, VISIBLY pregnant) can't figure out how to hold out a couple weeks on their calendars for the blessed event without scheduling iron-clad, contract-bound appearances. Really?? We're supposed to believe that?!!?

There's just no way they aren 't getting some sort of extra little snip, suction and lift while they are birthing up these little creachlings.  (Added bonus: no torpedo heads, black eyes and bruiser punums on their kids so they are born camera ready!)  Yes, I'll give you that C-section rates continue to climb, but these women are SELECTING to do it with their first kids, MONTHS in advance! SUre, their publicists will tell you they were "emergencies", but c'mon! The C-section rate for stars has to be pushing 95%! I mean there are just TOO MANY for it to be anywhere near the regular rate.  A-listers Angelina, Xtina, Madge, Posh, Gwen, Gwynnie, Kates (Holmes and Hudson), Brit Brit-- they've all had them. B-,C-, and D-listers, too! Claudia Schiffer, Elizabeth Hurley, Denise Richards, Tori Spelling. The list goes on and on. In fact, it was harder to find a recent birth that WASN'T via C-Section! (Nicole Richie, oddly enough!)

It is Weird with a capital W.  It just is. And it sets off my extreme paranoia, making my bullshit detector beep like a reversing dumptruck! Listen folks, I'm a Pisces-- we do not ignore what we intuit! There is something else going on here, and I'm guessing it has something to do with looking good in bikinis in an extremely short amount of time post-partum!  Don't get me wrong, here, I definitely asked my doc this last time if I could schedule up one of these Hollywood deliveries and get me a little dose of plastic surgery to go with-- its nothing short of genius! (She ignored the request.)

Calling All Cars...

Current mood: astonished

Its just been one of those days. One of those days where every little thing seems to annoy.  And annoy. And annoy.

I got a message from the Geek Squad today telling me to call to set up my in-home appointment for my computer fix. At least, I think that's what she said. Her Indian accent was so thick and she spoke so quickly I had to listen to the message FOUR times to get the phone number and case number and all. Really, she totally put me in mortal danger with her Benglish as I was trying to decode her twisted tongue and jot down the numbers while driving hastily around town ferrying kids to and fro. Yeah, sure, I could have pulled over, but what's the use of modern conveniences if they aren't both convenient AND add a little bit of James Bondish-devil-may-care joie de vivre?  Yeah. I don't know either, girlfriends.

So anyway, I call them back to let them know that A) I already HAD an in-home visit by a geek who fixed my (myspace) broken shit last week and B) hiring a call center in India may not be the best route for customer communications-- especially considering how funnily sarcastic their computerized phone system is! Seriously, if you have to talk to a computer, talk to theirs, it is SUCH a wiseass! Well, my little public service to them was not as well-received as I had hoped.  The first guy hung up on me. The second guy tried to remain noncommital at my suggestion to let the friggin' Indians fix the computers while the Americans make the telephone calls. Whatever. I thought every company liked a little customer feedback. I mean, a lot of companies solicit my feedback!

And then on to this in the afternoon...

After picking up my little Challenger after yet another three-card-pulled day (that's not good, to you and me), I tried to slip through my neighborhood Starbucks for a little pick-me-up.  Oy fucking vay.

First off, the girl who took my order, Becky (of COURSE), was FAR too perky, even for Starbucks. She sounded like a cracked out chipmunk over the intercom, and I could tell she was inwardly laughing at my outward scowl that I directed pointedly at the drive-thru camera (did you know all Starbucks drive-thrus have cameras? Its true). So I whip around the drive-thru, still all pissed at my little rule-breaker, Ian. Voice all hoarse from lecturing, hands shaking in futile rage, and now face all flushed at Becky's evil goodness.  And there it is. Proof that there is indeed an entire sub-species of human, and they are DUMB.

[Only you girls around here will recognize the name I'm about to throw at you, but I can guarantee you that wherever you live, you have the exact same person there, working for your local Fox affiliate. So just insert whatever your local girls' name is in the applicable area.]

I should preface this by saying that a couple days earlier this week I awoke to our local Fox 31 newscast covering their normal ration of normal shit. Weather. Traffic. Home and garden show at the Convention Center. An update on crippity-crap-crap. Just a little something to start your day.

It looked like the biggest concern was whether or not it would actually possibly snow anytime in the next couple of weeks, but even that was a half-hearted report. Let's face it, after 9/11 there's not too much that grabs one's attention in the morning, and I think the local affiliates like it that way. After all, if something major does happen, they have to cut straight away to a "real" news channel, and then they don't get as much "face time". So I think easy-breezy morning suits them all just fine.  No reason to waste that much hair product if we're just gonna cut to Brit Hume!

So anyway, I just happened to pass by the tv for a second while trying to find the match to my sock pair when they mention for not more than 5 seconds a little story...  Just a little, inconsequential story, not even worthy of video footage.  "And new this morning Cuban dictator Fidel Castro announces his resignation.   And now out to Dan Daru at the local Big Ass Bagels as he covers Prep Sports! How are you Dan?!"

Needless to say, the minute amount of coverage given to this story, whose historical significance cannot be understated, was a little more than disheartening for me. Is it any wonder, I muse, that the rest of the world thinks we are an insulated, self-centered, arrogant bunch? 

For Heaven's Sake, that NIGHT (a whole sixteen hours later-- plenty of time for them to get some info on the breaking story of Fidel and his bro, Raul) the lead story was five minutes about some stupid CU freshmen pledges who trashed a motel room in Estes.  Five minute fucking story, reporter literally on the ground (and I gotta say, this motel looked like a shithole even BEFORE those drunken brats had their way with it), going on and on, like this is a real, significant story. Like this will matter in even a week, let alone a month or a year. Or a generation. This is a little more like journaljizm than journalism.

So that said, my ire has been stoked by this station already this week. I shouldn't have been surprised then when I pulled forward to get my fucking skinny latte (Only 90 calories! Almost enough to mitigate the embarrasment of ordering one!) from fucking Becky and her satanic bean-induced ecstasy. And then it happened. The little door opened and there, standing in the little Starbucks window was Libby Fucking Weaver (that's her full legal name), the local Fox Affiliate anchorwoman.  Smiling ear to ear, just as fucking chipper as Becky. Of course.

I could feel the lasers shooting out of eyes as I remembered just how beat down I looked.  Still in my workout clothes that I had sweated completely through SIX hours before.  Hair still in the pony. No make-up. Eyes full of popped blood vessels from Ian's seconds-prior ass-chewing. I can truly say that at that moment, I hated Libby Weaver. And everything she stood for. 

And then Chip piped up.  He reached out for my money, his eyes glazed in glee, head rolling like a deranged bobble-head.  "That's Libby Weaver! Oh, my! Do you recoginize her?!" What gave it away, Chip? My arched eyebrow and pointed glare? My lip curled into a sneer? My hardly-disguised look of disgust for you and all your ilk?

He was practically panting with joy and I could see Libby just behind him, surrounded by no fewer than 3 Starbucks-apron-wrapped ladies, all of them swooning and twittering like a little nest of sparrows.  Libby just kept popping her head over Chip's shoulder looking at me and randomly crying out, "Hi!" like a demented cheerleader.  God, was she happy to be there.

"Sorry!" Chip continued as he handed my my change. "Fox 31 News is here doing a story on all the different jobs at Starbucks and we're just a little crazy in here right now!" he gushed at me.  "That's Libby Weaver!" he reminded me.

I couldn't help my next comment. I really couldn't.

"Yeah. Great. Could you ask her to hurry up with my coffee?" I'm sorry. I just wasn't in the fucking mood for it.

"Oh, she's not making the drinks! Don't worry about that!" Chip assured me and then quickly shut the little glass window.

Well, now why wouldn't she be making my coffee, I wondered. I mean, she's there doing this hard-hitting investigative journalism piece on all the challenging and varied aspects of being a barista, after all! Shouldn't she be trying her hand at it, to REALLY get into the minds of her subjects?!! How will she ever be able to accurately portray the harrowing existence of a coffee-brewer-with-a-dental-plan if she doesn't, I wonder!?!

Chip doesn't say much as he hands me my stupid over-priced skinny latte, and I'm pretty sure that's cuz he spiked my drink with 2% after my snide comment and he isn't man enough to follow up a jab with a left hook.

Or maybe he just doesn't want to give me enough time to scream through the window at Libby Fucking Weaver, the anchor of our local news station that, oh I don't know.... FIDEL CASTRO RESIGNED TWO DAYS AGO!!!   

SERBIA

IS DISENEGRATING INTO CIVIL WAR AS WE SPEAK!!! (Yeah, the

US

embassy was actually burning as I drove through Starbucks) THE NEW YORK TIMES JUST PRINTED A PATENTLY FALSE FRAME-JOB ON ONE OF OUR PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATES!

Yeah, maybe Chip was worried I'd remind her of those things as she covered the all-important

Longmont

coffee beat and she wouldn't be able to give him, his coffee-yellowed teeth and the plight of the barista the attention he so clearly thinks they deserve.

Ugh. Maybe all the coffee is just contributing to my obvious anger issues... but I just can't bring myself to switch to chai tea lattes.   

Back from the dead... and useless as the T in often

May 16, 2008 - Friday

Back from the dead... and useless as the F in often Current mood: frisky Hey Guys! Sorry I've been out of touch. Things got a little crazy after the Old Man's wreck, and then the A/C repairmen set off the fire-suppression system upstairs (that's a sprinkler full of anti-freeze for those of you lucky enough to live in a county that doesn't require them) and THEN early this week our dog, Lola, decided to stay out ALL NIGHT right when a big spring storm rolled through. Needless to say, I've been a bit... harried and scattered the past  couple weeks. I'm trying my best to get it back under control.  And then I got so far behind with things I felt guilty even checking in here at MySpace without a blog to post. I have been writing down ideas and have some stuff in the pipeline (One of which is a REALLY big project I'm hoping will be ready for posting next Monday-- sorry to make you wait Cathy, but trust me, it is crazy worth it!).  That said, I DID find something while shopping online today at my new favorite site, delight.com, that qualifies as THE top-shelf-dumb-assedness-supreme new product. Anyone who wastes $18.95 (plus $7.95 shipping) on this deserves a swift ass-kicking! Drum roll please... The GAYEST product on the web: I give you, ONION GLASSES!! Yep, these beauties promise that  "Gone are the days of ruining your eye make up before a dinner party, or skipping the ingredient all together because you can't see when you're chopping." Really?  This is such a debilitating problem for people that we need this moronic waste of plastic? And is a busy mom really expected to be able to FIND these fuckers as she hurriedly attempts to get a nutritious, yet savory meal on the table for her loving, hungry family? REALLY? I can tell you if this nonsense was in my kitchen utensil drawer it would be buried so far under all the other crap that never sees the light of day that I'd spend 45 minutes searching for them, run out of time to get dinner on the table and end up just running out for Happy Meals. If you ask me, these stupid fucking things could lead to some real marital discord! Ok, I will do my best to get back on track here now that the Old Man has put his cane away... if I can't get it together soon, let's all agree to blame Nicole H.-- as she's moving and I've made it my personal mission to help her do so in an immaculately-Martha way. Yeah, I'm on my way to buy her a labeler right f'in now!

Another End-of-Times Sign from Hollywood

April 16, 2008 - Wednesday

Current mood: annoyed Today at Blockbuster while renting Lars and the Real Girl (can't f'in WAIT to watch it!) I look over the list of "Coming Soons" and see the most appalling, retarded thing Hollywood has done in a while… and, clearly, with that bunch, that is a bold claim.  There it is in front of me, in black and white, plain as day, as blatant as any cliché you can think of: How She Move.  Yeah. That's the name of a movie coming out. How She Move. Not How She Moves . Nope, an entirely self-aware grammatical abomination.          It is embarrassing for me to even READ, let alone say aloud. I can't imagine asking one of my friends, "Have you checked out How She Move yet?" or "I just don't understand why How She Move hasn't gotten any Oscar nominations."         "Why don't they just add a "Yo!" at the end, I couldn't help but archly inquire of the young-ish girl working the till. She shrugged. "Yeah, I don't know what that movie is even about," she apologized to me.  See? Its even embarrassing the help.                Yeah, I'll give you one guess what it's about, Sugartits.  It has something to do with dancing, and is quite, to use the current euphemism, "urban". Ugh. Ebonics are all fine and dandy when you're in da 'hood, D'Shawn, but shiz, fool, when ebonics is printed by Blockbuster Corporate it has undoubtedly jumped the fucking shark.         The most annoying aspect of this is that our young sons and daughters, Hollister-loving, Iphone-toting, materialistic little bastards that they are, will now have this little gem of a grammatical atrocity in their lexicons.  As if hearing their cloying techy shorthand ("C U L8R!") isn't barf-inducing enough.  My god!         I thought our biggest challenge would be to show this new generation how to use punctuation, but I see now the task is much, much larger as they wholeheartedly eschew ALL conventions of grammar and spelling (thank you, Linkin Park, you fuckwits.). I understand we all try to rebel against the generation before, I get it! And it makes me eternally grateful to Nirvana—you annoyed A LOT Of older folks for us. Thanks. But I absolutely must say that I find Generation Miscellania's (my term for those born 1980-1995) own personal Alamo of anti-passable-English particularly vapid, empty and fustian. And now that I've publicly complained of this I have officially crossed over into the crotchety old lady set, the "get-off-the-lawn-you-mangy-kids" crowd. That's fine. I'll happily play the Gen X Maxine if I have to—-someone's gotta tell these little twerps that nothing compares to the penultimate dance movie: Footloose. Where kids can't dance not cuz their white, but because dancing is BANNED and you hav eot go to city council to ask permission. Those kids knew trials and tribulations! those are real dance rebels, folks. How She Move? Not even close! Or, maybe they can get it now: uapita, gro^.

On Naming,

   It has come to my attention that there is a recent celebrity baby naming incident that must be addressed. Let me first start by saying the subject of baby naming is just one of MANY things that I have definite (and vocal) opinions on—as if ya’ll don’t know that about me already!

   I should clarify that I LOOOVE names and naming. I always have. I am absolutely fascinated with all sorts of aspects of names—origins, popularity, meanings. Blame it on my mom for deliberately misspelling my name. I blame everything else on her anyway.

   As a child I fancied myself a budding author and would spend hours poring through name books to come up with characters names (hey, I was an only child after all, I had a lot of lonely time on my hands!). My characters tended to be just a little one-dimensional (they ended up having names only) and the plotlines… well, they were nonexistent. Yeah, I can’t say I ever actually finished a story, per se, but I did come up with some definite ideas on baby naming!

   I even created one of my pet peeves from all this: dissonant sibling names.  You know, names that just don’t go together. Like if you have a Gabrielle, her sister could logically be named Juliette cuz it sticks with the fancy French theme, but name her sister Fern and, well, that’s just mean. Why’d you do that, anyway? Or, if you have a Jonah, his brother could reasonably be named Elijah because of the matching ending, but a brother named Randy? Not as nice. Now I’m not talking you need to name all siblings with rhyming names or they all start with the same letter, in fact I heartily discourage that. I’m just saying if you’ve got a Madison, don’t name her sister Eleanor.

  It can be assured that I got some pretty crazy looks from the clerks at the Waldenbooks when I bought piles of baby name books as a sixth-grader. But I was well-informed on baby naming trends even back then. Sure, developing all these opinions and specific rules about naming at such a young age was rather facile and shallow since my actual naming experience was limited to my toys and pets. Little did I know the true anguish of choosing a life-long moniker for a screaming, crying, red-faced little being; a being that could demand therapy-bill reimbursement later on. Time (and three children) has taught me that it truly is a nerve-racking experience to name your baby.

   Let me also clarify my feelings on celebrity baby names—I am crazy fascinated by them! I look at every issue of Us Weekly for announcements of celebrity births. Not because I care who just got a new nanny for their baby’s daddy to diddle, or who is scheduling her tummy tuck, or who is hysterically crying in a hormone-induced rage, but because I’ve just got to know whether or not said celebrity has come up with a really cool, fucking balls-out name. And isn’t that what we demand from them? Shouldn’t we be able to expect that?? I mean, god bless Frank Zappa for bestowing the world with a Moon Unit and Dweezil. And Demi and Bruce, thank you! Rumer and Scout! For girls!! Sure, you lost your nerve a little with Tallulah, but two out of three ain’t bad—and really, if us plebs are going to steal one off of you, it will be the milder Tallulah anyway! Oh, and dear, sweet Shannyn Sossamon! Your career may fade away into indie obscurity, but the legacy of little baby Audio Science is something the world can treasure forever!

   Now I’ll give you things have been a little slow on the baby-naming front since the heyday of the summer of 2006 when we got little Suri and Shiloh, Kingston and Grier. And sure, we all turned our noses up when we first heard them, "Suri? What, like with a fringe on top?" "Kingston. Huh." but now… not that crazy. Some even sound pretty good.  And that is one of the jobs of celebrities (along with not eating, getting facial dermabrasion, and inventing crazy political causes that forget a minor thing called "eco-nom-ics"). One of my own brood was even influenced by celebrity baby naming, for Heaven’s sake!

   You see, I wanted to name Boy Child 3 Oliver to keep with a vowel theme. That idiot I married claimed that Oliver was a pansy name. I told him Oliver Hudson (Kate’s brother) sure was hot, and totally not a pansy. Which led to, "Hey! Hudson is a cool name". But then the old man took it one further and started tripping over Kate’s son’s name. And so after a screaming, cursing, red-faced birth to a screaming, would-be-cursing-if-he-could, red-faced son I left the naming up to the king of the castle.  He decided that Trey sounded a little tougher than Hudson, and since this little one showed up bellowing his lungs out and peeing on anyone in a three foot radius we’d go with Trey. It seems if he’d arrived shyly batting his eyelashes, and politely requesting a quick wipe-down and swaddling to take the chill off, we would have a little Hudson. {Author’s note: Accidents do happen! And while I’m officially DONE birthing, it is clear this lady only throws boys so I retain dibs on Hudson for any future miscalculations!}

   Ok, so on to the issue at hand. It has come to my attention from someone in my wide network of hilarity-seeking spies that there has been a recent celebrity naming that needs to be looked at. And how! Now let me just say, it has been a rather boring year so far with the exception of Nicole Richie who actually did a pretty good job with little Harlow. The name is fancy and classy and glamorous and all the things that Mommy isn’t but would like to be—and for that, I say Brava!

   Christina Aguilera, on the other hand… a little disappointed over here.  Max?  Seriously? Have you no friends with kids that could have tipped you off on just how over-exposed this name has become? Yeah, maybe ten years ago Max would cut it, but in 2008? For a celebrity’s baby?!? C’mon! Its so popular it has officially become a DOG name, for Pete’s sake! [From the Sixth Rule of Naming: Any name so prevalent on playgrounds that it causes mass confusion when yelled aloud shall be henceforth relegated to use by every fourth domesticated furball until such time that it falls out of favor]. Trust me on this, I have a dog-godson named Maxwell Vega.

   So now we find ourselves facing what may be the worst celebrity naming incident in recent history. It seems that JLo and Marc Anthony have named their spawn Max and Emme. (I still can’t tell if that rhymes with Emma or Emmy, but no matter, its all the same name anyhow!) Yeah. You heard me. Max and Emme. Not ONLY did JLo use the SAME name as Christina Aguilera, [which there ain’t NO excuse for that, sister! I don’t’ care what block you from! Once Xtina shat out that lil Jordan Bratman mess and called him Max, the jig was up! Even if you had dibs on the name Max way back from 2^nd grade, I’m sorry, she beat you to the delivery, the name is hers! (That said, I realize now that my earlier stance on Hudson is rather precarious, and ok, fine, if you do squeeze out a boy before I do and you want it, have at it. I KNOW how hard it is to think up good boys names that aren’t already overplayed, playa!)], but it doesn’t stop there with this naming mess! Get this: her twins have the same names as the little chumps from that gayhole cartoon DRAGON TALES!

..

   I KNOOOOW! I can’t believe it either! Clearly, JLo isn’t hip to children’s programming like the rest of us or else she would’ve known that she was not only naming her kids after cartoon kids but also that they are the WORST kind of shoot-yourself-in-the-head-it-sucks-so-bad cartoon kids! (Unlike, say, "Yo Gabba Gabba" which is amazingly, oddly cool, a little bit entrancing and might even pass for adult entertainment – not that kind, perv — after some doobage and a highball.)

   So yeah, coming from a woman so into naming she created a second name for HERSELF and her miniature little husband who cribbed his name from one of Western Civilizations great historical figures comes something so yawningly boring as Max and Emme and it turns out it is ripped off! Which perhaps shouldn’t be such a surprise considering Marc’s name, which, frankly, I’ll never forgive him for. Its not fair to get famous using an already famous name! That’s like guys showing up at American Idol and being like, "Hey! Call me Napoleon Bonaparte!" or "What up? You can just call me Mahatma Gandhi, yo!" Just adding a "h" doesn’t make us forget that we already KNOW that name, cheesedick!

   There is a conspiracy theory afoot that this may have something to do with the shared heritage of both the Dragon Tales doofuses (doofii?) and the LopAnthony Twins… yep. They are all Puerto Rican.  Coincidence? You decide. At any rate just at first blush I can think up two reasonable alternatives for them that get the same general feeling they are after but aren’t so frickin’ mainstream. Instead of Emme and Max, why not Esme and Rex? Huh?

    But here’s the bottom line, the cut to the quick, the inner of this outer that really matters to you and me (or, really, to Dena and me):

   Obviously we see that celebrities are major forerunners of baby names, and we KNOW that Miz JLo is quite the trendsetter herself. I think the writing is on the wall here, folks. It couldn’t be any plainer. Dammit, Dena! Take the donkey by the tail (I’m so sick of the abuse of bulls and their horns! Let’s give the poor beasts a rest!)!! This is yet ANOTHER sign… a sign that screams you MUST adopt two little black boys! And you MUST name them Willis and Arnold! You’ll be at the front of the trend! Get on it now!!! Both black adoption (thanks, Angie and Madge!) and TV character naming (holla, Jen and Marc!)!!! Welcome home, Willis and Arnold Drummond Vega. Welcome Home.

PS- Dena, I’m sorry if this is not all you hoped it could be, or if it prattled on and on too long. I hope you are not disappointed, but I take baby naming very seriously and that would be like me joke-blogging about Affirmative Action or something. There’s just some shiz that can’t be taken to lightly! ;-} Also, since the original On Naming Post was lost and I had to recreate an ENTIRE new one, I hope I have proved to you how very, very much I love you. Now you can have the brain back. I’m spent.