In Memoriam: Requiescat in Pace

Morning Readers,

     In little white piles, it lay like fluffy snow, covering my back yard. My first thought? Confusion. I hadn't been hand-making pillows on the deck lately, so why did my grass look as though someone had stuffed a Build A Bear with a pipe bomb and run off? I squinted through my kitchen blinds, and after a couple second's worth of scanning, I spotted it, the sad, now muted corpse of  one of my daughter's greatest friends. Violet the talking, stuffed dog, had been kidnapped and brutally killed right under our noses. Because of my lack of vigilance, yet another stuffed comrade has died at the hands of Flea. Here are my words of parting.

Modern Electric

Morning Readers,

     In the late 1960’s, when hippies roamed the Earth and Nancy Sinatra had just discovered her boots were made for walking and not for killing spiders , a team of builders got together and mapped out the plans for my home. Putting their shaggy heads together, they designed wonders such as “scary small bathroom”, “closet not big enough to store midget wardrobes”, and “strange hole in porch where the spigot is hiding and will never be found.” But before they slapped the big DONE stamp on my abode, they got together and left me one…yes, one….outlet, in my kitchen.

Saturday Nights Are Great For Watching Women Get Beaten

Morning Readers,

     Something funny happens when you get married. As Saturday night creeps up, you no longer find yourself running to the closet to pick out something cute to wear, spending hours in the bathroom getting your makeup just right, or flat ironing your hair within an inch of its life, lamenting over that one wavy spot by your ear that you can never just. get. straight. Instead, you plunge your hand deep into the utensil drawer,  concentrating feverishly on finding the corkscrew. In my case, my fingers wrapped around my corkscrew friend just in time to rip him out of the drawer, grab "the big glass" and slam down next husband, on the couch. Just in time to find out what he'd picked out for "Saturday night grown-up movie time." An hour later, this is what was happening.

Hide Your Glasses. Hide Your Pans.

Morning Readers,

    Wedding crystal. There are so many uses for it, it's impossible to count. For example, there's....  and um.... there's always.... Oh wait a minute. There are no uses for wedding crystal. Ok, ok there are those secret times that I dim the lights and try to make my Crystal Light feel special. But on a daily basis? Not so much. That's a good thing though. When the twins eventually pick the lock on the only cabinet with a lock, rip out the insides, and smash all my sparkly stemware to pieces....well, I guess I won't be able to hold it against them for too long. The kitchen's their domain now; I just microwave in it.

When I Grow Up

Morning Readers,

     Mmmm....smell that? No. It's not success. But we'll get to that. It's actually Black Silk; yet another concrete testament to Folgers and their magical ability to take ugly, little beans and crush them into bits of roasted heroine. Between the violent shakes of my hands, I'll try and keep typing. A good idea, if I want to get to where I'm going. Oh, where's that? I apologize, Readers. We're so close, I just assume you're privy to every little thought and/or epiphany I have, at any given moment. In short, I know what I want to be when I grow up. And it's not a Ninja Turtle.

Babies Don't Let You Play Dead

Morning Readers,

     I remember reading an article in Reader's Digest about bear attacks. Apparently, if a teeth-brandishing, two-ton Winnie the Pooh is about to rip your face off, you're supposed to drop to the ground, roll in a ball and and hope to the sweet Lord that it only takes a chunk out of your butt. I hope I never have to test that particular theory. Then again, I'm sure the sight of me peeing my pants would be sufficient to visually offend a bear into leaving me alone. And as much as I enjoy dwelling on stories of nature abruptly turning against mankind, the bear article popped into my head purely out of association. Being attacked, while in the fetal position, does wonders for the memory.

Where's the Hired Help When You Need It?

Morning Readers,

     Have you ever contemplated what's at the bottom of your toilet bowl? I haven't either, and I'd like to keep it that way. It doesn't change the fact that I have to look at it though. That's the type of thing poor people are forced to do....stare at the bottom of toilet bowls, while they simultaneously poke at it with a nasty bristle-brush, hoping against hope that once they extract their hand, bits of fecal matter, bird flu, Black plague, and other horrors, aren't stuck to it. This is why I need a staff. "Alfred?. Yes you. The toilets need to be cleaned today. Kindly sanitize them while I sunbathe, would you?....And bring me another Gin and Tonic."

Mmm, Guilt... It's What's For Dinner

     

Morning Readers,

     It’s still frozen…the corned beef, that is. A peek into my freezer, a brief exchange of words, and my potential dinner has re-assured me that it will not be available this evening. “Sorry”, it said. “Although you planned to have me for dinner daaaays ago, you forgot to thaw me out. Tough shamrocks.” Damn… I didn’t really need a crock-pot dweller letting me know I failed the whole “meal planning” thing, again. But, I have. And unfortunately, that means I’m also dropping the “I’m going to drench my kids in tradition” ball, as well. Someone pass me a Guinness so that I may wash the stench failure away.

Flea: An Update

Morning Readers,

     Occasionally, when I'm in the shower, I feel like I'm being watched. Actually, I know I am. It only takes a quick turn and a eye full of shampoo to observe the waterfall of jowl casually resting on the side of my tub. Apparently, something about naked sightseeing fascinates him. Right now, he's resting his boxer bones on my back step, soaking in the sunlight. And by the expression on his face, is channeling Thoreau, to the best of his ability, while contemplating the complexities of nature. Ok, probably giving him too much credit, but he's turned over a new leaf and is doing his best to avoid a one-way trip to a nice farm somewhere. Where Flea and I stand= I no eat hole in your wall....you no kill me.

Beware the Mutant Birds

Afternoon Readers,

     The next time you're in a restaurant, when your waiter or waitress asks you if you need anything else, call up the most serious face you can muster, and reply, "No. Not unless you have a cage I can put my children in, while I eat." As the bleach-blond waitress stares back at you, mouth and eyes as wide as the plates she's carrying, you can't begin to imagine the satisfaction you've just purchased, in exchange for the dignity sacrificed by trying to dine with your children in public. Priceless. And after yesterday's less than pleasant lunch experience,  husband and I needed to blow off a little steam. So instead of heading home, we embarked on a sanity drive. We just didn't know we were going to run into seagulls.

Parenting Tip # 55: Beware of Flying Beer Bottles

Morning Readers,

     While I wait for, yet another, round of tea for my ailing throat and head, I thought I'd take a second and put up another month-marker for the twins; yesterday being the big ten-month celebration of their success on this planet. Funny thing is, as much as it's my job to further this success, I feel, lately, that I'm doing my best to make sure they have brain damage. Now Readers, put down that phone; A call to social services is completely uncalled for. No need to frighten  poor social workers with my sad combination of striped nightgown and giraffe-spotted pajama pants this early in the morning. "Mrs. Kellerman, based upon those hideous pants, and the emotional stress you've caused giraffes, worldwide, we now relieve you of your child-rearing duties."

Share and Share Alike

Morning Readers,

     I can't help but wondering; If Romeo and Juliet hadn't offed themselves, and moved into a cute, little split-level in the suburbs, would they've lived in a monogrammed towel, matching, terrycloth robe-sharing bliss? Oooooor, would five years later, have found Juliette ready to strangle Romeo because he used her razor again? I'll leave the Shakespearean scholars to hash that one out. Not to be terribly tragic today, but the crappy cold I'm nursing, has left me to contemplate "sharing" and the gigantic role it plays in marriage. Let's flash back to last night.

When You Grow Hair, I'll Put Flowers In It

Hey Readers,

     I'm thinking of buying stock in laminate cleaner. The way that stuff cleans food off of floors, moves me to tears every time I haul out the bottle and start spraying like a mad woman. The only thing sadder than how excited I get, to play "Swiffer curling", is why I have to do it so much, in the first place. It's pretty simple; I feed my children like a dirty, little group of hippies. I teach "free squash" rather than "free love", but either or, it's starting to get out of hand, and the children are this close to seeing running through a field, naked, as a viable way of life. Ruh Roh Shaggy.

Pardon My Baby's Hand in Your Purse

Morning Readers,

     Talking to God is a good thing. Sometimes I like to close my eyes and quietly go through the things I could be doing better. I unload my burdens, center myself and listen to the sound of old ladies being slapped in the back of the head....er...maybe not. But, as our Sundays have taken an odd turn, and deposited us abruptly, in the middle of "Church Circus", I'm glad there's so many passages in the Bible that talk about God loving children. He must. Otherwise, during mass, they'd be banned to the parking lot, fat faces and sticky fingers pressed to the stained glass. Can't take yourself to the bathroom? No admittance.

Moms Swimming: Enter At Your Own Risk

Hey Readers,

     Random fact: oatmeal, when flavored with maple syrup, actually tastes ok. That's not what I wanna talk about today, but it could be helpful if you're ever stranded with a bland bowl of oats staring back at you. Unfortunately, oatmeal isn't able to help me with what I'm trying to accomplish this morning. Like good ol' Cappy Ahab, I'm scouring the world wide web for my very own white whale. Or rather, some type of stretchy, water-resistant garment, to cover a great, white whale when it decides to flop its way to a water source and partake in social swimming activities. Unlike youthful years past, this season, I'm having to take into account everyone else's sensibilities, while choosing my bathing costume.

Eight Shots?..You Better Be Talking About Tequila, Lady

Morning Readers,

   Can any of you confirm whether Kilimanjaro really does rise like Olympus above the Serengeti? No matter; I'll probably end up Googling it anyway. Unfortunately, that's all you get when you listen to Toto..obscure questions. But that's what I was doing yesterday, blasting "Africa", in my car, trying desperately to ignore the throbbing in my temple and suppressing the flood of tears that always seems to threaten me, every time I step out of my kid's doctor's office. It was "shot day" (then again, when is it not?), and although this wasn't anything new for me, I was forced to subject my poor brother and sister to the trauma, as well. I like to build memories we'll cherish forever.

When the Amish Tell You To Do Something..You Do It

Hey Readers,

     Eat it? Throw it away? Eat it? Throw it away? I apologize for my indecisiveness, but I'm trying to figure out what to do with the last piece of my latest forage into the culinary arts. Husband and I experienced some..eh em....internal discomfort, the other night. And as we're still not sure of the cause, I'm trying to decide between a butter-covered slab of wonderfulness, or a possible three hour stint on my bathroom floor. Butter or Bathroom imprisonment? (Why do I always get saddled with the hard questions in life?) I wouldn't even have this problem if I'd just followed the stupid directions. Apparently, when you make a loaf of their bread, the Amish aren't joking around....you know, the other thing they're famous for.