Mom Smells Like Vodka

Camping Trip. InapPoem #2

2011-06-26T19:11:00.000-07:00

Camping Trip.

By Lara

Sophia Johnson’s flying out to Fiji in two weeks.

She’s so excited she gets loud and spittles when she speaks.

For their vacation Nate and Jess are off to see their ‘gran.

And as their luck would have it, that old broad lives in Japan.

The neighbors packed and left and flew to Paris late last week.

But we got stuck with Nature Dad, a crazy outdoor-geek.

My friend Alyssa’s family is going to Orlando.

But I’ll be sitting in a tent with dad who’s gone commando.

Last trip, it took a hundred hours to drive the whole way there.

And when I stepped out of the car, a bird crapped in my hair

Dad couldn’t set the tent up right, and we got bugs inside.

And when it rained my bed got wet and smelled like something died.

Dad burnt all of our hot dogs and we had to eat just beans.

So I found out what “rustic camping bathrooms” really means.

We were “getting back to nature”, and were ‘sposed to be alone.

But I could hear dad swearing about “bars” and his “smart phone”.

My dad insisted that we take a swim around the lake.

And that was just an awful, slimy, nasty big mistake.

My brother wandered onto shore, refreshed after his dip,

And he had a giant blood-smeared leech affixed to his right hip.

We went back to the camp to eat some more of dad’s canned beans.

And all that I could think was: “Ben Monroe’s in New Orleans…”

The peaceful wilderness was pierced with screams of “holy Jesus!”

My sister had a tick-- they drink your blood and cause diseases.

I couldn’t sleep at night because the nature’s really loud.

Mosquitos swarmed around my ears in tiny, buzzing clouds.

My brother told ghost stories and he terrified me good,

claiming lots of Unabomber-types are living in the woods.

I woke up soaking, dad was “cooking”, but the wood was pretty wet.

So I got a runny egg, and dad said, “this is all you get”.

Then we heard my sister crying-- she was tired of it all.

A mosquito bit her eye and it was swollen like a ball.

A bee attacked me. Turns out dad is bad at pulling stingers.

I got a nasty splinter in the webbing of my fingers.

My sister missed and wet her pants when we were in the woods.

My brother stole my driest pants and kicked me in the goods.

The trip was awful, yet I see it’s on the list this summer.

I can’t discern a way to use our break time that is dumber.

I’d rather go to Mexico, heck, I’d go to Pakistan!

But this year “our vacation” means I’m sleeping in the van.

A long overdue post. Since I'm starting a project.

2011-06-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

So my job has been keeping me busy, but in the interest of doing some fun writing, I've decided to start a summer project. I'm working on a compilation I call "Inapproems", or inappropriate children's poems (intended for adults). I'm going to post some of them to keep me motivated. My goal is to do one at least every other day.

So here's the first one:

Tooth Fairy.
By Lara.

So that tooth that was wiggling inside of your jaw

busted loose from your face with a hem and a haw.

Now your mama has placed a beneath-pillow stash

with that tooth swaddled up, and she says you’ll get cash.

It’s the fairy, mom says, that arrives in the nights

to swap crisp dollar bills for enameled delights.

The fairy collects them, and saves them for luck.

Says your mom, with a grin and a spirited cluck.

But your dear mama told you a lie sweet as Splenda

‘cause mom has a secret, kid-fooling agenda.

Have you ever thought, “Why does she want my old tooth?”

Well, I’m here, little friend, to deliver the truth.

See the fairy was once a sweet, kindly young sprite.

Who practiced her magic skills all day and night.

She was honing her talent at fairy-kid school

so she’d float to the top of the hiring pool

But then came semester one, high school year three,

And a horrible nightmare the kids called “P.E.”

Our poor fairy was forced to wear thigh-hugging shorts

And to run back and forth across basketball courts.

She knew if she couldn’t do burpees and squats,

Little fairy would suffer- her g.p.a. shot.

Though she tried very hard, fairy just couldn’t master

the pickle ball cross-serve. It was a disaster.

And so at the end of her fairy-school days,

Fairy had some big “F’s” and a few less of “A’s”

With a record so blemished, no job was in sight.

And the fairy subsisted on ramen and Sprite.

‘Til an ad in the Fairy Times caught her wee eye:
“Fail P.E? Need a job? Come on in and apply!”

So she answered the call, but the job was so bad.

Still, she couldn’t move back in with her mom and dad.

With the rent overdue and her landlord a jerk,

She sighed and enlisted in horrible work.

She became a tooth fairy, the lowest of sprites.

Now she works long, long hours- she is always on nights.

She sneaks into our houses, to reach under our heads

While we sleep uber-deep in the soft of our beds.

With her breath on the cheek of your one-tooth-less face,

she slips thin dollar bills in the tooth-hiding place.

Then she scurries away, taking flight off your deck

to deliver the teeth and collect her paycheck.

Pearly-whites are brought in, in gigantic red buckets.

They use ground up old teeth to bread chicken mcnuggets.

It’s a sad life, a hard one for that poor Tooth Fairy.

So reach for those dollars, but don’t get too merry.

The Twelve Abominations of Christmas.

2009-12-02T13:04:00.001-08:00

Have you purchased your partridge in a pear tree, yet? No? Well good luck, because between Black Friday and Cyber Monday, you'll be lucky to find a crow in a cedar shrub.

The Twelve Days of Christmas is the ultimate holiday shopping song, full of gratuitous spending, overconsumption, and joyous gluttony. It's an apt representation of the Christmas season, a time when we come together to celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus and logs of Hickory Farms summer sausage large enough to beat a horse to death with.

In deviant fashion, I have compiled the following list, a mini retrospective of my own Twelve Abominations of Christmas. To be honest, I had a hard time stopping at twelve- the holidays really are a time of excess everything. Including snark.

Lara's The Twelve Abominations of Christmas

1. Tinsel.
What is it with holidays and obnoxious, messy, shredded crap? Tinsel is exactly like Easter grass, only metallic. It comes in packs of about 500,000 strands for a buck, and if you get one single, solitary piece wrapped in the brush of your vacuum cleaner, you can expect to invest half of the burgeoning new year trying to wrastle it out. No one has ever used tinsel effectively except Merv Griffin and he is dead. We should have buried tinsel with him.

2. Blinking icicle lights.
Driving home last week, I was stuck at an intersection directly opposite a house covered in a net of blinking icicle lights. I came about five seconds from having a seizure. I couldn't entirely look away, because I had to watch the traffic, but when I eventually turned my vehicle onto the road, I was extremely disoriented and totally could have run over a pedestrian. Every day thousands of people are confused by icicle lights, resulting in deadly car accidents that kill, foremost, young, attractive white women. That is a completely unfounded speculation, or as Fox News would call it "a fact".

3. Gift wrap.
There is nothing more maddening than attempting to swathe gifts of manifold size and shape in paper that inevitably rips or is too small for the object you just measured it to fit around. I don't know who invented this means of disguising items, but this year I am going with the towel-and-hot glue gift wrapping method, and I suggest you do as well.

4. Similarly, tape and scissors.
Another fascinating and enraging aspect of the gift wrapping process involves the fact that even if you have six pairs of scissors and a dozen rolls of tape arranged in a wide, circular perimeter around you, when you need to cut a piece of paper, or tape a querulously- folded edge, you will be utterly unable to locate either tool. It's part of the magic of X-Mas that the rules of science and physics bend at will to inconvenience you.

5. Giant Santa hats on phallic-looking trees.
This is a new one for me, but I was downright disturbed one day to drive past a yard with a tall, narrow arbor vitae tree topped by a long Santa hat that resembled a giant, festive condom. I'm not certain what the message is supposed to be with that, but it was disorienting in a different way than the icicle lights.

6. Carolers. You don't want the Jehovah's Witnesses at your house pushing a religious agenda, so what's so great about a bunch of Christmas carolers doing it? Because they're singing? Don't be easily fooled, fool! Put that wassail bowl away.

7. Mall Santas.
Not only do you have to wonder about their professional motivations, they're probably giant jolly bowls of H1N1. If you want to spend your holidays downing Tamiflu instead of eggnog, go for it. But don't say you weren't warned.

8. Christmas trees.
You can't win no matter what route you go with the traditional Christmas or Solstice tree. Plastic trees are tacky, probably don't biodegrade in a landfill, and

may require dusting. Real trees smell awesome and look cool, but pose the likelihood that at some point you and each member of your family will experience pine needle foot impalement. This will almost inevitably happen while you're trying to get everyone to sit-still-for-one-God-damn-second-and-smile for the family holiday card picture.

9. Window cling decorations.
Kids love them. They don't stick, they curl up, and they obstruct the view from your window, rendering you unable to determine if you need to dodge your crazy, perennially shirtless neighbor when you go out the door. Some people abuse them to the extent that they appear to be using them in lieu of curtains. That's even worse than Blues Clues bed sheets.

10. Old Men get more Old Spice.
Because there is nothing else the grandkids can think of to buy ol' gramps, and he's been a fan since long before his olfactories started to fail. It's the end of the year. He HAS to be running out, for how much he bathes in every day. Kids, for the love of baby Jesus, just draw grandpa some pictures this year and spare the general public another 12 months of old man smell.

11. Drunk uncles.
Everyone has one, and you know you're going to see him at Christmas. He could be intoxicated any of the other 364 days of the year, but he has to choose this one to get utterly bombed. Remove any mistletoe that's hanging at the family Christmas venue; it's a family Christmas, after all, but drunk uncle will forget what that implies.

12. The whole "virgin birth" scenario.
I'm surprised, frankly, that this excuse isn't used more often among teenage mothers. It worked once, to profound effect. Additionally, I don't see what the big deal is regarding the whole "born in a manger" situation. I had a baby at St. Cloud "hospital" and I seriously doubt a manger could have been worse. They tried to feed me hospital cauliflower that was so mushy you could practically spread it with a knife.

Sickos, Psychos, and Tentacle Ailments.

2009-11-23T11:38:00.000-08:00

I can't blame the hubby for being a little nervous- in about the space of a year he suffered a stroke and enjoyed two unrelated and unexpected surgeries. Ever since the ominous specter of his 28th year slid past, he's become paranoid about health-related issues. Every headache is an aneurysm; every chest cold, the onset of lung cancer; every gas pain in the chest region is a certain sign of heart attack. Yet somehow, he's still walking around, dropping clothes next to the hamper and failing to recycle his beverage cans.

Being his requisite shoulder, I tend to hear a lot about what ails my dear spouse. But the kids have ears, as well. And brains like sponges. And bottomless needs for attention. It's a recipe for a household of one-upping hypochondriacs.

We spent a bit of time at the doctor with Jack this last week as he's had some minor, albeit unpleasant, issues going on. Perhaps all the discussion of Jack's medical concerns piqued the interest of the older two, because in the course of the three-day weekend I just enjoyed with the kids, I was posed with an unrelenting and dramatic series of ailments, as indicated by Noel and Sophie.

Noel injured one of his "boys" on Friday (or as Sophie pronounced, his "right tentacle").
It was a subtle injury, the sore tentacle, which Noel initially thought was "gas pains in [my] leg", and later decided was the result of the position in which he had been sitting. We continued to hear about this issue non-stop for the remainder of the weekend-- through the Christmas City of the North Parade (during which he also shared the details with other of our adult friends), in the car, while making dinner, cleaning house, doing laundry, and pretty much any other instance in which Noel felt he had a captive audience. I believe that cumulatively, I heard the tentacle injury detailed for no less than 3-1/2 hours. Who knew there was so much to say about the trials and tribulations of one right tentacle?

Sophie had to work a little harder, as she had no obvious bruises, swellings, or imperfections, so she brought up the scratch Jack had given her when he inadvertently "sliced [her] wif' his toenail" earlier last week. Soph also related that she was suffering numerous forms of visual impairments. "If I stare a light and close my eyes, I can still see spotty lights," she whimpered, "and when I'm looking at something, if I stare at it, it looks like it's getting closer, even though it's not moving." Noel jumped in to describe his challenges with "floaters". Both kids simpered about the fact that I hadn't made their routine eye appointments for them, yet. These maladies paled in dramatic comparison, though, to the incident in which Sophie was suddenly struck by the realization that she was ill and it was almost certainly because she "[didn't] have enough blood sugar!"

When the flu hit the adults in our household a few weeks ago, every day was ushered in with choruses of "I think I have a fever, too!" and "It feels like my whole body hurts!", despite the fact that none of the kids ever actually seemed to get the flu. I try to find a mid-ground response between gushing hysterically and fawning over the wee ones at every complaint, and being one of those parents whose response to ailment or injury is to tell their kid to "suck it up" or "walk it off"-- two phrases that never made much literal sense to me.

So I got up for work this morning, put on my plum mini-dress, sleek black knee boots, and trendy chunky beads. I sat at the dining room table writing a note to Mr. Novak, Noel's gym teacher, and trying to find the most tactful and sophisticated way to say: "Please don't make Noel run, because his ball is swollen, and it really hurts when it smacks against his leg."

Tactful and sophisticated... I'm a writer, but I'm not a miracle worker.

The Good Wife's Guide: Revised.

2009-10-26T07:32:00.001-07:00

No one teaches you how to be a married person. I distinctly remember a unit in high school Resources for Living class that covered forms of birth control and their proper usage (which clearly, I failed to pay sufficient attention to.) While we learned how to balance a checkbook, we learned little about how to balance a life.

What we ladies need is an updated version of the 1950's Good Wife's Guide. A primer on how to treat your hubby well and have a happy and fulfilling marriage.

So yeah, I'm going to take a stab at it.

I bring to the table eleven solid years of marriage, none of which have involved police intervention, public shamings, or flaming piles of clothing on the lawn.

Check out this list of Good Wife guidelines, abridged for the modern, sassy woman of the 21st century.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have be thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they get home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Make sure to call him BEFORE he leaves work to ensure that he stops by the pizza place on his drive home. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. It's rude to send him back out to get dinner when he walks in the door. Don't neglect to remind him to pick up dipping sauce; it's a real bummer if he has to go back to the 'Hut again.
Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people.

Try to remember to use your own toothbrush and deodorant, not his. Or at least put them back so he can't tell that you did use them. If your top is extremely dirty, turn it inside out before he sees you, and if he notes that you are wearing the same pants you slept in, feign profound insult until he comes to believe that you are, in fact, wearing different pants that merely look similar to your pj's. Lots of people own more than one pair of reindeer sleep pants.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. Run a dustcloth over the tables.

Stop scrapbooking and eating saltines in bed. It may be a practice that's tough to curtail, but if a die-cut scrap slices his retina for the third time, your husband will have some grounds for discontent. Try to stem your hoarding impulses. No one is more put-off by finding cat feces in his slippers than your prince. Especially if you don't own any cats.
During the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.

You can't compensate for the lack of a fireplace by placing your large metal popcorn bowl on the floor and burning stuff in it. It isn't romantic, and it isn't acceptable as a cost effective means of heating a small room. He will get mad.
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Encourage the children to be quiet.

Here's the genius angle on this one– if he doesn't have full hearing capabilities, he will never be disturbed or distracted by excessive or irritating noises, right? There are a number of ways to induce hearing loss. I will leave you to your own creative devices.
Be happy to see him.

Don't immediately say, "Did you eat ALL the rest of the frickin' mini Twix? Why are we paying for Lipitor?!" or "Hey! You know what I want for my birthday?" when he walks in the front door.
Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.

If you down a bottle of pinot before he gets home, you can smile at anyone. If he suggests that you're only happy to see him because you're drunk, reassure him that alcohol is the great truth-serum. Let the romance begin...
Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.

Stare in his general direction while he is talking, and nod your head rhythmically. After a while, it becomes automatic and you can continue the charade of interest while thinking about things you actually care about like the G4 summit, alternative fuel sources, and scrapbooking.
Don't greet him with complaints and problems.

Don't tell him that you horrendously plugged the toilet. He'll eventually figure that out all on his own. Why be the messenger?
Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or lie him down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him.

Make him comfortable before you tell him that you drove into the garage door again. If he's lying down, you can run out of the room before he lurches back into a seated position to address your misstep.
Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.

Don't bother to tell him that you rubbed the baby's butt on his pillow when he left this morning without helping you get the older kids on the bus. You may feel apprehensive about being mean, but rest assured, he still deserves it for something.
Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.

Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Carefully log all his indiscretions in a journal, including any photo or video evidence. The next time you want to do a girls' weekend in Vegas, he will heartily agree. Or else.
A good wife always knows her place.

You bet she does.

BumpinIt.

2009-08-24T08:12:00.001-07:00

I'll admit it. I'm a bit of a sucker for those as-seen-on-tv products. I wanted the Steam Shark, I wanted Debbie Meyer Green Bags, at one point I even lusted after the D.R. Field Trimmer Mower, despite the fact that I don't exactly have a field- just a 100-something by 50-something-foot lot in the middle of town. Most recently, I was captivated by the extreme-volume-inducing Bumpit for hair. I just couldn't rationalize dropping twenty bucks plus s&h on something that might make me look like a baby with a head recently squeezed through the birth canal. I wanted to try it, though...

Sophie decided that this was the year she wanted her ears pierced, so last weekend we shuttled off to the mall to get her tiny lobes punctured. She was a real trooper and now has some sparkly green studs in her ears that she twists fanatically, continually asking me, "Should I turn my earrings, mom? Do I need to clean my ears with that stuff again, mom?"

So I was wandering around Icing, the ear piercing shop, admiring various girly accessories, when I spotted them-- three rows of BUMPITS in different colors! They were ten dollars! I immediately grabbed the one designed for brown hair. I was more than a little bit excited.
My pulse was racing.

I'm known for many things, but my ability to exercise patience in the wearing of new clothing or accessories would probably not make the list. As such, I can easily change a full outfit in a car. I can switch out my tops while operating a motor vehicle. I figured that since my husband was driving, I could easily arrange my hair with the Bumpit while we drove to the next destination.

Bad idea.

I first noted that the Bumpit packaging and instructions seemed to neglect examples of curly-headed models, and I started to wonder if there was a reason. The Bumpit is basically a banana-shaped item with small teeth that bite into your hair. To use it, you make a part across your head, settle the Bumpit in against your scalp, and flip your hair back over it. Voila! Instant volume!

I've got curly hair. Long curly hair. I got to step one: make a part in your hair, and the trouble started. My hair wasn't really inclined to part "the wrong way" across my head. I couldn't even see the top of my head, because I was working with the aid of a very small visor mirror. I was tugging and it hurt, so I just sort of haphazardly bunched up some hair from the general top-area of my head and draped it forward.

Next: align the Bumpit. That part seemed easy. Once pressed against my scalp and wiggled a bit, the Bumpit really stuck. I looked in the mirror and realized I'd placed the apparatus way too far back. No problem- I'd just lift and re-adjust it. Except it was stuck. With a few yelps of pain, I had wrangled the Bumpit loose and resituated it.

My Bumpit now expertly positioned, I flopped the mass of hair I'd pulled forward, back over the plastic arc to create the signature "bump" of flowing hair. I then positioned the mirror and tipped my head to admire my lofty coif, which I assumed was now cascading like a waterfall of glossy curls.

*A critical aside: This is where I should probably mention that I've been cutting my own hair (including my layers) for the last year. I only trust about one person in the whole world to cut it. The last time I went in to the salon, my stylist yelled at me and told me to "stop trimming your own bangs and heat-styling your hair!" I felt a little dirty after the chastising, but subsequent to his warning, I not only continued trimming my own bangs and incessantly heat-styling my hair, I also stupidly decided to put in my own (abhorrent) highlights. I basically killed my hair. Now I am faced with an odd conundrum wherein I cannot go get my hair cut, because I so desperately need my hair cut, and I can't stomach the hellfire that will rain down when my stylist sees what I did to it.

So the Bumpit doesn't look so good if you slap it to a head of curly, self-cut wonky-layered hair. Even in the visor mirror I could see that. It had to come out before we reached Kohl's and I was forced to walk into the store looking like I had a nest of ratty hair giving birth to a banana clip.

Unfortunately, the Bumpit was in there pretty tight. Hair was lying under, over, and wrapped around it like a coccoon of tangled threads. I tried prying the hair away from the Bumpit, but I couldn't tell which direction would pull the clumps and strands loose, and tugging with any force HURT.

I felt my chest tighten and I became panicky. I shoved my head between the front seats and shouted for Noel, slouched in the backseat, to "get this thing out of my hair!" I abruptly felt violent yanking and hollered, "Ouch! Not like that! Stop!" Nathaniel shouted from the driver's seat, "It's not Noel- it's Jack!" I attempted to contort my body without moving my head, in order to wrest my hair from Jack's tiny, excited hands.

There I was, writhing backward in between the seats, howling and flailing my arms, my hair a ratty, tangled disaster. All three children in the backseat looked terrified and I realized that if I didn't calm down fast I was probably going to flail us right off the road. I gathered my wits, pulled my body back into the passenger seat, and spent the rest of the trip to Kohl's pulling strands of hair loose from the grasp of the Bumpit, while trying not to cry. By the time we got to the store, my scalp was stinging and sore, and the top layer of hair was an unkempt halo of tangle and frizz. It had a lot of volume, though; a lot of really ugly volume.

When we got home, Noel decided to give the Bumpit a try in his hair. It worked perfectly.
I'm going to go trim my ripped up hair. Shut up.

Meditations on the Grocery Store.

2009-07-15T09:10:00.000-07:00

There's a woman in front of me and I'm annoyed.

She's parked her largely empty cart in the middle of the canned fruit aisle, in front of the peaches and pears, and she's blocking the flow of traffic.

She's older, but not ancient. Her back is hunched a little and she's turning a can of Dole pineapple in her hands as if it's a piece of airblown glass that's thin as vellum. She's reading it and studying it. She's contemplating it, and near as I can tell, she's mystified by it. She's going to be standing in this place, marveling at this can for a very long time, I can tell.

I have one child hanging off my cart, another grudgingly trudging along behind it, and a third in the cart's seat-- his fragile temperament held in check only by the near-continuous movement of the cart through the store.
If I can't resume the motion of this metal vehicle in short order, I'll have a tiny brown-maned nightmare ripping items off shelves, unfastening his belt, and grasping for some form of destructive amusement. Guaranteed.

I raise my voice,

"Excuse me, please!" I announce loudly, but in polite and cheerful tones.

The pineapple connoisseur appears unmoved, unhearing. She's absorbed in her process.

A line of people has formed behind me. They're trying to navigate the aisle, but we're all held up.

She's the accident-gawker, the storm-felled tree spanning the avenue, the time-consuming-hypochondriac-patient-right-before-you at the doctor's office, and she has a profound decision to make: chunks or rings?

There's some dink at the deli counter. He's ordered the honey ham and decided that it isn't what he wants because

"I don't really want it if it's sweet."

What incarnation of honey ham would involve the absence of some degree of sweetness?
What incarnation of douchebag doesn't think about this before ordering a type of meat, the title of which begins with the word "honey"?

I'm walking past the Kodak photo printer. It's plastered with a giant white sign scrawled with large black letters that read: "Printer Does Not Work." A customer in floods and a camp shirt hollers to the god-forsaken employee behind the photo counter,

"Is the printer not working?"

I am tempted to swerve my cart into the shins beneath his unfortunate-length pants.

The woman ahead of me in the checkout line has four thousand coupons, and half of them are expired, but this fact is as shocking and inconceivable to her as the moment she found out JFK had been assassinated.

Out in the parking lot, a 20-something girl has just unloaded the contents of her cart into the backseat of her car, which is next to mine. She gives her empty shopping cart a little shove so that it's out of her royal way and she can pull her vehicle out of the parking spot unimpeded.

I'm about to return my cart to the old corral, so I walk between our vehicles, grab her cart, and pull it along with mine, but not before giving her the "real nice, you lazy little shit" look. She pulls out of her parking space abruptly and goes tearing off.

On my way out of the parking lot, I accidentally cut someone off. I'm reminded that I'm one of the grocery store assholes sometimes, too. It's a little bit crushing to my ego.

At least I'm decisive about my canned fruit.

The Gender Gap.

2009-07-03T13:20:00.000-07:00

Noel has packed for the over-nighter at Grandma and Grandpa's house

So has Sophie.

Karmic Retribution

2009-06-30T11:47:00.002-07:00

It's all just a big old circle, perhaps.

I think in a former life I must have done something really mean to birds, because they don't seem to like me now.

I went to New York City after graduating from high school, and in one afternoon, I was the only person in our group of half a dozen or so to be crapped on by a pigeon. Correction: I was crapped on TWICE by pigeons.

I can't wash the car without a bird abruptly stymying my efforts at vehicular cleanliness.

I'm glad we don't have vultures in Minnesota.

Truth be told, I don't think karma is a real thing, but I do try my darndest to honor the "do unto others" principle as best I can. It's hard sometimes. Really hard. Especially during PMS week.

I figure that it may not always pay to be nice, but it will eventually cost you if you are an asshole. People will see it, and you will be regarded accordingly.

I once stood in a parking lot, eyeing a truck with a bumper sticker that read something like "Learn to speak English or leave!". The occupants of the truck were exiting, pulling items from the cab and exclaiming about how they didn't "have nothing to eat 'cuz nobody got no groceries last night."

I'm sure the irony was lost on them.

I pass a particular car on the freeway with a fair degree of frequency. It boasts one of those intelligently crafted male icon + female icon = marriage bumper stickers.
The vehicle is always driven by a man that is about as physically attractive as a full-face canker sore.

In my perfect karmic afterlife, the Grammar Gang would spend eternity in English Comp., writing and re-writing research papers on the global water supply.
Mr. Homophobe would invest his other-worldly days drawing nude portraits of same-sex lovers entwined in passionate embraces.

Everybody else? They get a lifetime supply of cookie dough ice cream and a slip-n-slide amusement park in their backyard.

That's the way it oughtta be.

The Fear of Death vs. the Fear of Dying Embarrassingly.

2009-06-15T15:53:00.000-07:00

I will admit it. I'm maybe a little, eensy bit over-concerned about my physical self-maintenance. Yeah- that's basically a wordy way of evading the use of the term "vain".

The thought has crossed my mind more than once that while I may be wearing close-toed shoes, if I die and "they" have to put a tag on my toe, it would be really embarrassing if those corpse-toes were poorly manicured.

For real.

Death is a natural process. It's the end to all of our beginnings. It's inevitable.
Sometimes it's a long-awaited respite from suffering; other times it's a horrifically premature tragedy. While I'd rather not know how or when I'll die, I'd at least like to know that I won't die in a manner that makes people snort/chuckle and then slap their hand over their mouth.

I don't want to be remembered as The Woman Who Died Because She Fell Asleep on the Toilet, Tipped Over, and Hit Her Head on the Bathtub Spout (or something like that.)

I once suffered a concussion by passing out and hitting my head on a cash register.
I also suffered a concussion by hitting my head with a tree.
On more than one occasion, I have managed to slam my head in between a car door and the frame.

I cried the first time it happened. The second time I did it I just got very mad at myself.

I have fallen down every set of stairs in my house. That's five, including the outside ones. I've also fallen off the edge of my deck upon forgetting that there were no stairs there.

I either strained or sprained my left ankle by tripping over my big toe.
I had to have my foot X-rayed for broken bones after stabbing it with the end of a prop cane during a performance of "Appointment With Death" in high school. I would like to note that it was an excruciating blow, but I totally did not break character.

I'm pretty certain that I came perilously close to drowning when I tried to use a neti pot last week.

I was nearly strangled by an automatic seat belt in a Ford Tempo during a camping trip in junior high. For this reason, I no longer go camping.

I once lit the wrong end of a cigarette and took a huge drag off of it. It tasted like something that really should have killed me.

I've had moments in my life where things seemed unbearably bad.
I walked through days feeling as though my chest was a fist, clenched so tightly that one-more-bad-thing would cause it to crush itself and crumble.

In a place like that, it feels like you'll die. But you don't. You just to learn to laugh at everything you can, because it loosens the fist.

So maybe if I die from inhaling and choking on a green water balloon, it'll make people laugh when they're terribly sad. That might not be so awful.

If I do pass in such a manner, some distant day, please make certain that my obituary reads: "Lara died in her home. She had impeccably manicured toes."

Five Minutes of a Glorious Afternoon.

2009-05-07T14:50:00.000-07:00

It was a hot one. A relative scorcher for early May in Minnesota. The sun beat down turning car interiors into saunas and baking the spring sog out of turning lawns.

Jack was reveling in the day. He stood before the spouting stream, took a sip, and stepped back. He moved in again, testing his cold water chops a bit longer before abruptly darting outward. One more venture forth, and he tipped his whole chest into the sparkling, babbling water. The front of his black tee shirt soaked, he ripped it off and flung it to the heavens. He threw his six-year-old body to the ground, reveling in his own half-naked abandon.

The other patients sitting in nearby chairs at the dermatologist’s office looked a mixture of amused and perplexed.

We hadn’t even managed to register yet, and the drinking fountain had already prompted this much trouble. It didn’t improve considerably from that point on- particularly when he burst into another patient's exam room during their consultation, before the nurse or I could catch him...

The Epic Fail Annals: Lara Grills.

2009-05-06T17:25:00.000-07:00

I have a picture I'd like to share with you. It's on my phone. It's a picture of my grill all fabulously aflame. You probably won't see it because I can't figure out how to get the image from my phone to my computer. I don't have great technical skills. I don't have great skills where grilling is concerned either.

Some backstory: we have a gas grill that Nathaniel uses with regularity. He's pretty good at whipping up steaks for himself and the kids, and my requisite portion of white meat chicken. I once attempted to "get the grill ready" for Nathaniel while he was en route to the house. I even had his phone presence to guide me through the process. My efforts resulted in a disaster that left Nathaniel with temporary facial alopecia. I swore I would never use the gas grill again. He did not argue against my pronouncement.

Fast-forward to today. I wanted to grill. Nathaniel had to work late. I figured I'd be ambitious and haul out the old weber grill. I was pretty certain I'd used it successfully some years ago, and it was safer than that gas-powered bastard.

I was making hot dogs. I had Match Lite charcoal and a lighter. It seemed a relatively foolproof endeavor. Ha. Ha. HAAA.

I pulled the grill a safe distance from the house. I opened the bag of charcoal and stacked
the briquettes in an admirably delicate pyramid. I realized, smartly, that I probably shouldn't directly light the charcoal with the cigarette lighter I had as a catalyst for flame, so I looked around for something dry and brittle to use as tinder.

I found a stick. It wouldn't light. It would burn, but it wouldn't flame. I tried another. Same thing. I found some paper in the yard. It melted. It did not light. I tried a crispy leaf. I burnt my hand, but my grill remained virginally cool. A husky stem from one of last year's mammoth cosmos. No. Nothing. Complete failure. I began to wonder how anyone even started a forest fire in the first place. Ten minutes elapsed and I had failed to light the freaking Match Light charcoal.
I angrily announced to the kids:

"If you are ever lost in the woods with me, we will ALL DIE!"

Noel snickered.

Finally, the grill was lit. I admired the tall, lapping flames. It should be smoothing sailing from there on out, I thought.

Something didn't look right.

There was nowhere to put the food.

After a moment of puzzlement, I realized I had piled and lit the charcoal on the top grate.
I figured I could just pull the grate out quickly, like the old tablecloth trick, without even disturbing the pyramid.

No.

I pulled the grate away, sparks and ash plumed upward, and the entire pile of briquettes tumbled to one side of the bottom grate.

"Okay, I thought, I just need to grab my tongs and tidy the pile."

The tongs weren't long enough to evade the tall flames still dancing up from their ashy pillows.
I looked around, wondering what I could use, and spotted my large garden shovel. I picked it up and proceeded to rearrange the coals, while Noel shouted that I was NOT "supposed to do that with Dad's shovel!"

The coal situation under control, I proceeded to attempt to replace the top grate and accompanying hot dogs. As I lifted the grate, the dogs began to swing from one end of their querulous platform to another, as if executing some sort of cruel, taunting log roll. One fell onto the ground and I cursed it audibly. I replaced the grill cover and went into the house to let the remaining Hebrew Nationals cook.

Ten-or-so minutes later, I returned to check on the hot dogs. They were not even REMOTELY done. Somehow the opening on the grill cover had gotten knocked closed and the whole apparatus had subsequently cooled down. I pushed the hot dogs around rapidly as though that would somehow help the not-really-cooking process along, loudly dropped some derivation of the F-bomb, looked up to realize an elderly pedestrian was staring at me, and then darted into the house.

I did eventually manage to heat them to an acceptable temperature, but the hot dogs did not develop crispy skins or juicy middles, and by the time they were "done", Noel had begun asking if we could just have beans for dinner.

Long story short: Lara can't grill, but she can screw up the process like no one else. It's good to be exceptional.

The Top Ten Reasons I will Never Be a "Hipster"...

2009-04-30T14:13:00.000-07:00

....for better or worse.

10. I get far too excited over coupons. I recently responded to a snail mail consumer survey which promised some particularly exceptional ones in return for my efforts and opinions. I eventually received a coupon for a large sum of change off the purchase of a box of Dulcolax. As I hadn't indicated any issues with constipation, I'm uncertain why I was targeted for this particular offer of savings. Or maybe that's the jig...

9. I don't eat sushi, but I do eat fruit roll-ups. Apparently this isn't a parallel distinction of sophistication. Whatever. The strawberry ones are still as good now as they were when I was seven. Not many things in life are like that.

8. I don't have any skinny jeans and I've an insufficient store of angst. I might be able to consume a significant quantity of wine and work myself into a frenzy over U.S.-Cuba relations, air pollution, and my lack of spirituality, in order to simulate some degree of existentialist drama.

7. The only country outside the U.S. that I've visited is Canada, and my cultural exposure there was limited to my experiences with other patrons of the Thunder Bay Mall and the guests and staff at my hotel.

6. I do not play or have knowledge of a trendy instrument. I can perform a vague rendition of "Little Drummer Boy" on a keyboard or "Smells Like Teen Spirit" on a viola, but that is about the extent of my musical aptitude. I should note that I am above average at whistling.

5. I don't own any ironic t-shirts. Since the Republicans are predominantly out of office, I don't even own any politically offensive ones anymore. I really should work out a Bachmann tee, but she's almost so easy to mock that it takes some of the fun out of it. If I did make one, it would be screen-printed with a houndstooth pattern.

4. I am woefully ill-informed on a broad range of "underground" bands. I had time to keep up with this type of info when I was a teenager and divided my efforts between learning stuff, working at the drug store, and smoking, but now I have to sleep and work and clean up children's puke all the time. Sorry uber-cool punk bands- I'd love to know ya'.

3. I have begun to talk at length about my and others' present or previous health afflictions. I thought you weren't supposed to be inclined to do that until at least your mid-forties.
"Thirty is the new twenty", my ass.*

2. During the recent salmonella scare, I did not run to whole foods and buy organic peanut butter. That not only makes me insufficient material for hipster-dom, but a horrible human being in general. If you don't have to stir your peanut butter, you are probably trying to kill everyone in your household. Even Michelle Bachmann knows that.

1. I have not posted an anti-mass media diatribe anywhere on the internet in at least two months. I have, however, mocked several television news personalities in the presence of some acquaintances. Some (possibly most) of the mocking had to do with "Stupid Al Roker and his Smuckers jam," so it wasn't necessarily legitimate, hard-core criticism, but I think it should count for something.

*Get off my lawn.

He won't call me mama, but he sniffs my hair.

2009-04-21T19:36:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the realizations of Jack's innermost thoughts and feelings are manifest in ways that require some really creative translation.

He missed me today and I could tell, because the first thing he did after body slamming me when he got off the bus was to grab a tangled wad of my curls, press it against his face, and inhale deeply. I suppose comfort smells like Pantene to him.

Sophie told me I'm a very "'telligent Mom", and Noel didn't entirely roll his eyes at the comment, so I'll take that as a double compliment.

Were it not for the fact that I fell off the deck trying to step onto a folding chair, absent-mindedly put on a shirt that had deodorant marks all over the sides, went outside in it, and did yardwork for half an hour, and am pretty certain the neighbors saw me riding my seven-year-old's very small "princess" bike up the alley because I was too lazy to walk it back to the garage, I could almost feel like a real winner...

Another Forty-Five Minutes of My Life I'll Never Get Back...

2009-04-16T12:16:00.000-07:00

It's pretty much self-explanatory.

Be intimidated, local Dems and Lefties...

2009-03-31T07:19:00.000-07:00

...by the Carlton County Conservatives who can't spell the name of our local community college correctly:

I would GLADLY give all the toes from one of my feet to anyone who could develop a "safe" cigarette.

2009-03-03T09:09:00.001-08:00

I don't know why he/she would want my toes, but I am deadly serious.
I would do it.

I quit smoking in approximately July or August of 2006. I couldn't do it cold turkey, so I used nicotine gum.

I got addicted to the gum, and chewed it for the next 2+ years. I couldn't get off of it, so I went on the nicotine patch.

I used the nicotine patch and regular gum to wrest myself from the seductive grasp of my beloved "Equate" gum, and stopped using the patch when time was up.

I STILL WANT TO SMOKE.

Not just occasionally- every. damn. day.

I freely admit it; while other non-smokers swagger backward and frown when the wind sweeps a Marlboro cloud in their direction, I take a nice, deep breath in. I know it's poisonous second-hand exposure, but it's the only "bad" I can be, anymore.

Listen up, kids. As sexy as you might think it looks to slide a Camel between your long, outstretched fingers, draw it up to your lips, and take a long, salaciously sweet drag, before you know it, the outcome is this:

You're a thirty-one-year old woman at the park with your kids, trying to covertly position yourself downwind from a dirty-looking old man in a Miller Lite hat so you can suck some second-hand from his steadily burning GPC.

Just don't even start.

Jobs! Jobs! Jobs! It's almost impossible to be unemployed right now!

2009-02-17T10:45:00.000-08:00

I recently made the transition from impending college graduate to unemployed college graduate/loser.

Truth be told, I am a bit selective in my choices of positions for which I will apply. Nevertheless, there is a veritable foaming sea of potential jobs surging and swelling at my well-qualified feet.

For my fellow unemployed cohorts, I offer the following list of gems, culled from the treasure chest of local jobs I like to call:

"JOBS IN THE DULUTH AND THE SURROUNDING AREA"
(The aforementioned title as posted on a reputable job bank site. Who needs writers and editors? Really?)

1. ASSEMBLY
Required skills include: good manual dexterity, the ability to sit for 8-10 hours per day, ability to see small parts, and a good/positive attitude.
-I don't know about you, but I have an excellent attitude about my ability to see small parts. That's fifty percent of the requirements right there. This could be golden.

2. CAGE CASHIER
It's not just regular cashiering, it's cashiering in a cage!
According to the posting, "Cage cashiers must at all times conduct themselves in a manner, which absolutely avoids even the appearance of wrongdoing."
-Yeah. If I look over at Cage Cashier #2, and she's wearing camel-toe pants, and I have a mocking thought, I'm going to realize that I'm thinking mean things, and I'm going to look guilty about that. I don't want to get locked in the cage overnight for looking guilty. I don't know about this one. It sounds dangerous.

3. DENTAL HYGIENIST
Education required: *blank* Experience required: "None."
-So I guess it might be a good idea to find out which clinic is hiring for the aforementioned position, so that you could NOT go there. Also, I'm surprised, frankly, that "must floss as though attempting to commit homicide by means of causing hemorrhagic gums" isn't a standard qualification.

4. "LAWN APPLICATOR"
Of note: this job requires passing an exam, and offers a clothing/uniform allowance.
-The position of "lawn applicator", presumably, involves the application of lawns onto other surfaces. I want a lawn on top of my regular lawn, so that when one gets dried out in the summer, I can just peel it back to expose the under-lawn.

5. SEWING MACHINE OPERATOR
Requirements: Must be able to measure using a standard ruler.
-Apparently, none but math majors need apply.

6. "MECHAIC"
Requirements: "mechanical experinece in small engine and light equipment. must know how to weld also... must be albe to lift 75 lbs."
-I have no experinece with being a mechaic, but I am TOTALLY albe to lift 74 pounds!
Jackpot!

7. MERCHANDISE BUYER-- DENIM
-I think this is what I already am. In fact, I am the merchandise buyer of a good many items, and have broad experience in buying merchandise. Yesterday I bought some expensive cheese, and it was not good, so I would not pursue a position as "Merchandise Buyer -- Cheese," but I think I could handle denim.

Isn't this just a fancy way of saying "shopper"?
Some people would be very mad that I said that.

8. "COMPUTER"
-If you are a computer, someone in Esko wants to hire you. This is a hedgy option. You never know if it's a request from someone who wants to word process on you, or look at clown porn. At the end of the day, you need to be able to respect yourself.

That's it. Good luck job hunting, or staking your fortunes on the outcomes of lottery ticket purchases. The odds of finding a winner in either pursuit appear to be roughly similar.

I walked outside this morning

2008-11-05T06:04:00.000-08:00

and the world was different.

The cosmos in my garden were still brown and wilting. My neighbor's cars were lined up in the usual order in their driveway: silver car, red car, old blue truck pockmarked with rust. The streets were quiet. Lights were on in homes where people sluggishly readied themselves for another day of work. It was all as it always is, yet nothing felt the same.

Last night I witnessed an occurrence of such magnitude that it defies explanation or description. It didn't come in the form of some spectacular supernova, but on my television screen, in a steady sequence of small red and blue explosions. It happened as numbers ticked by and fate become increasingly apparent. It happened while my children watched and while the greater world held its collective breath.

I'm so tired today that I feel as though I'm still lingering in a dream. The last time I had a hand in electing a Democrat to the presidency, I was an eighteen-year old college kid. Now, I'm a mother with three children born into a world that has become increasingly ugly, due in no small part to the leadership that has served throughout most of their lives. I want them to see America and Americans as I saw it/them when things seemed sane and decent. Maybe now they'll have that chance.

When I watched the towers fall on 9/11, I was five months pregnant. I imagined the violence that would follow in response. I wondered what kind of a world I was bringing my child into. Last night I got a glimpse of what may define my country in the next years, and it was profoundly beautiful, in contrast.

The very same country who elected an inarticulate right-wing war monger four and eight years ago just swept in a brilliant young black man from Chicago. What a change, indeed.

It's supposed to snow this weekend. I've been generally sick of the white stuff, but today I don't even care. There's a bright sliver of sun slicing through the relentless gloom that has hung over this corner of the world like a stifling wet wool blanket.

I'll get a shovel, brace my back, and be ready to work. I expect no less from our president-elect, Barack Obama.

The Palin Pick.

2008-08-29T08:04:00.001-07:00

The announcement of John McCain's VP pick has barely been circulated, and already the 'net is abuzz; Alaska's Republican governor Sarah Palin will grace the ticket.

Palin has five children, the youngest of whom has Down Syndrome. I find it disturbing that some members of the Democratic camp are seizing on the opportunity to point out a perceived contradiction in values, wherein Palin is slated to spend the next two months campaigning while she has an infant with special needs at home. I think on the issue of her values, this is the wrong approach to take.

Every child with Down Syndrome is different; their "special" needs are broad and varied. As the mother of a child with Down's, I realized in my son's infancy that caring for him was not terribly unlike caring for my other children. I was no martyr, I was not his desperate servant. I was his Mom.

If, as a party, we want to highlight any contradiction in "values" inherent in Palin's circumstances and convictions, we ought to focus on the fact that the Governor's party undermines the causes that are of most concern to the Down Syndrome and disabled communities. American health care, education, and equal opportunities for those with disabilities all suffer under Republican leadership. Parents struggle to pay medical bills for specialists, fight to obtain services their children need for successful mainstreaming in the classroom, and desire most profoundly that their children be embraced by society, rather than tolerated by it.

Anti-choice values hold that all life is precious, but here again we see the Pro-Life Republican modus operandi of revering life inside, but not beyond, the womb. Palin's party sees an individual life as a flower that must be allowed to take root and bloom. Democrats realize that for this flower to bloom, we must nurture it from a seedling, prune it as it ages, and expend the energy it takes to water, feed, and care for it. Some plants require special soil. Some demand particular nutrients. Some must be supported and trained to climb toward the sun. None that exist can be neglected, and no blanket solution will enable every plant to thrive.

In truth, no person or political figure can justly be called "compassionate" or "pro-life" while seeking to further policies that are antithetical to the idea that:

"The moral test of government is how that government treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the elderly; and those who are in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped. "

(Hubert H. Humphrey)

John, John, John, tsk, tsk.

2008-08-11T14:39:00.000-07:00

So John Edwards had an affair. He might have fathered a child outside of his marriage. It's disappointing for anyone who supported him, but is it shocking in a political context? Probably not. Politicians of every stripe seem compelled to bask in the "dark" privileges that entice those who grasp the brittle reigns of power. What I'm really disappointed about is the lack of creativity in his deviance.

Christianity holds that adultery is a sin. Our leaders are supposed to be upstanding, exceptional individuals, yet so many fall prey to the simple, albeit destructive lure of the flesh.

If John Edwards had to pose sin, I wish he could have picked a more interesting one.

I have examined a list ( http://www.saintaquinas.com/mortal_sin.html) of purported grave and/or mortal sins and culled from such an assemblage of sins that I endorse as "way more interesting than banging a political aide."

Divination, magic and sorcery— "A grave sin which includes attempting to command the powers of the occult, control or speak to demons or spirits (especially Satan), attempting to divine the future, and the use of magic charms."

If a political candidate were found to be stuffing his pockets with "magic charms" and trying to contact spirits or demons, I would probably be MORE inclined to vote for him.

Deliberate failure of the Sunday obligation— "Involves one's failure to praise God and give him thanks..."

I would love it if some political figure spent every Sunday morning at Denny's eating breakfast, then blowing down neighborhood sidewalks on a juiced-up Segway.

Lukewarmness—"Lukewarmness is negligence in response to God’s charity. It can also mean the refusal to give oneself to the prompting of charity."

I would totally back up any political officer who refused to donate money to that snotty boy who comes to my door every year to collect money for Camp Miller. I'm fine with his cause, but he just stands there holding out the box as though he can't talk, and I've heard him talk, because he dropped the f-bomb at another kid while riding his bike past my house last summer.

Theft— To "violate a person’s right to property by theft is a grave sin, especially if the loss of the property will severely hurt the victim The gravity of theft is determined by the harm it does to the victim. "

How funny was it when Winona Ryder got busted for shoplifting? How funny would it be if rather than cheating on his wife, Edwards had gotten arrested for eating grapes out of a produce bin at a Boise Super Wal-mart?

Come on, candidates; let's make this whole "sin and political corruption" business a little more interesting for the viewers at home. It's pretty much your patriotic duty.

Epic News and the Small-Town Paper.

2008-07-18T15:58:00.000-07:00

I had a letter-to-the-editor printed in this week's edition of our local newspaper. This isn't a particularly notable honor, as pretty much any idiot who writes in can get published. The paper is, itself, a source of endless amusement for me. Just this week I found a number of chuckle-worthy examples. I will commence to share them:

The date. I'm often a little bit off, but I'm pretty certain of the month. It's July. And it's not the 28th, either.

There is a pie social upcoming at BethlehAm Church. The name of this church hearkens to a small town outside of Bethlehem. They had a burgeoning pork industry there, but still wanted to capitalize on the whole Jesus bit.

Some timely and newsworthy info. from the contributor who writes the news section pertaining to some of the smaller outlying towns.

The ONLY personal ad in the paper. It runs every single week. Jesus appears to be striking out in the "love" department.

Oh. My. God.
It's only the biggest thing to happen in our town since we got rid of the pony express service;
it's the fiftieth anniversary of the construction of our tourist mecca: THE GAS STATION!

This one just cracks me up because Rick's advertising endeavor employs a minimalist approach and manages to be reasonably grammatical and at least somewhat professional until he gets to the end and offers his finely honed skills of "hauling stuff away".

Sorry, local old people. We wanted to serve you sauerkraut, but we had all this surplus "sauerdraut" we have to use up first.

ALERT! ALERT! Kids are "on the prowl" in Scanlon! Kids NEVER used to do this in the old days!

Anyone who is smart will jump all over this! You can not find quality ceramic rabbits, colorfully dressed, carrying carrots or flowers, for this price! GO! NOW!

Some insights from Sophie.

2008-06-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

Sophie took a break this morning to sit down with me for a conversation. We discussed pressing matters of global concern, as well as trivial fodder. The highlights:

There is no such thing as a dragon. There were once dinosaurs on Earth, but they "dried up".
The fiercest among them was the "Trap-asaurus". He stood 250 feet high, with "a little bit of colors on him, huge claws, and that's about it."

Global warming is "when it's very, very warm, and that's bad. If it happens, the global will burn up. If you touch it, it will burn your fingers."

George Bush is "a very bad president and he should go to jail and they should feed him raw horse meat."

It would be nice to travel to France, because they speak "bonjour" there.

There should be a new law so people can not "go over gates, especially the shaky, silver kind that say 'no going over the gate.' If people do that, they should have to go talk to a lawyer with their parents."

"Fashion is good, except for orange clothes. Orange should just be for lipstick."

There's no such thing as Jesus or God. Some people think Jesus is going to fall out of the clouds, and that's ridiculous. Jesus would not be fat enough to fall out of clouds.

Noel would like to throw in a joke that he made up. He's very proud of himself.

Q: What kind of bees make milk?
A: Boo-Bees.

Ohhhh BAMA! Watch out for McCain!

2008-06-04T07:28:00.000-07:00

It seems we FINALLY have a presumed nominee for the Democratic candidacy. Now that the "magic number" has been met by Barack Obama, we can look forward to a lively and spirited campaign for the presidency.

Obama faces a unique challenger in his opponent. In order to get a better feel for what John McCain is all about, I have culled together an "exerview" with the Republican powerhouse, comprised of actual responses from McCain (to other people's questions).

Why are you running for president, Mr. McCain?

"Why am I running for president? Well, my wife, Cindy, says it is because I sustained several severe blows to the head in prison camp."

The war in Iraq is a prominent issue in this campaign season. How many years do you envision our forces continuing hold a presence in Iraq? Two? Four? Ten?

"Make it a hundred...That would be fine with me."

And what do you feel are the pressing domestic social issues that need to be addressed by our next leader?

"It's not social issues I care about."

Okay, well, how about the economy? What do you bring to the table, in terms of a plan for improving the state of the U.S. economy?

"The issue of economics is not something I've understood as well as I should."

Ohhkay... On the subject of health care- we have an aging population of baby boomers in the impending years. What kind of dialogue would you like to create with the public on the issue?

‘The nice thing about Alzheimer’s is you get to hide your own Easter eggs.’”

What are the most fundamental tenets of your platform in this election?

" Leonardo DiCaprio is an androgynous wimp...[and] gambling on amateur athletics is wrong."

It's certainly been noted that you are a much older and more seasoned politician than Mr. Obama. Do you have any words of wisdom that you'd like to share with your opponent, going into the campaign?

“Never get into a wrestling match with a pig. You both get dirty, and the pig likes it.”

Thanks for your time, Mr. McCain.

"Do you know why Chelsea Clinton is so ugly? Because Janet Reno is her father."

Okay, that's just nasty and unnecessary...

"F**k you! I know more about this than anyone else in the room."

Okay, thank you for your answers, sir.

“Thanks for the question, you little jerk."

Our Tooth Fairy Sucks.

2008-04-29T15:06:00.000-07:00

I don't know if there is, in fact, one Tooth Fairy, or a squadron of them assigned to different regions. It must be the latter, because while a lot of children seem to have their recently liberated chompers expeditiously collected, Sophie has recently found that our Tooth Fairy is rather inept at remembering to visit our house.

After the third (wince) failure of the grand TF, we decided we'd have to take measures to make sure poor Sophie was compensated for her lost teeth. We decided to get legal on the Tooth Fairy's Ass.

Here is Sophie's "Petition for Compensation of Tooth Forfeiture." I hope you have good eyesight.

My Fine Dining Foray With the Kids.

2008-04-26T18:58:00.000-07:00

Nathaniel is in Wisconsin for a golf tournament this weekend, so I planned to hang with the kids and promised them we'd go out for a special dinner tonight. I told them they could choose the restaurant. I said, "We can go to Southgate [pizzeria], or Mexico Lindo, or the Chinese place- wherever you want to go."

We ended up at Taco John's.

It started out poorly. Sophie wanted fries with her taco. They only sold "potato oles". Jack ran away while I was ordering and sat down in a booth with a strange couple and their child.

Once we got our food, things seemed alright until Jack realized there were cheese shreds in his burrito that were insufficiently melted. He tried to reach over the back of our booth and hand a fistful of sucked-on cheese to the man in the booth behind us.

Then Jack decided that his booster seat was was more comfortable to sit on upside-down, but he kept sliding off and falling under the table. After a while I just gave up and let him eat his food under the table.

After what seemed to be about three-hundred and-eighty-minutes, everyone finished eating and I tried to usher us toward the door, but Jack passionately wanted to use the door on the opposite side of the restaurant. I had to fling him over my shoulder and carry him out of the building.

I put Jack down next to the car and opened the driver's-side door to throw his wrapped-up burrito remnants on the passenger seat. In the three seconds it took me to do so, I realized, Jack had climbed up a curb, hopped the bumper, jumped onto the hood of the car, and was climbing up the windshield, trying to get onto the roof of the car.

On the way home, Sophie said, "Maybe we can go to Dairy Queen tomorrow!"

Yeah. Maybe if DQ offers a kid-sized "horse tranquilizer" blizzard.

Snow? I don't see any snow. It's SPRING!

2008-04-26T10:24:00.000-07:00

Spring in Minnesota: Brought to you by three inches of snow, one spray bottle, eight ounces of water and an entire bottle of green food coloring. And a really sore trigger-finger.

Happy 30th Birthday to Mike!

2008-03-22T08:50:00.001-07:00

Have a great day! Try to get Nathaniel to dance.

2008-03-18T08:15:00.000-07:00

I have a lot of opinions- opinions about matters of discernable importance and tangible consequence, and other matters of less gravity, such as the fact that the maker of Oreo cookies has the appropriate cookie-to-cream filling ratio entirely backwards.

I decided to take a few days, observe my own insights about products that I encountered, and generously share them with their respective corporate entities.

Thus, I give you: Lara's E-Mail Harrassment of Corporate America and their predominantly humorless responses.

#1: Jelly Belly Candy Company

Dear Jelly Belly,

I would like to tell you that I admire your beans and their delightful flavors greatly, with the exception of the "buttered popcorn" flavor, which weirds me out.

I am wondering if you have considered making beans in the flavors of salsa, cucumber/melon, or margarine. It might also be mildly amusing if you had a "bile"-flavored bean, but called it "mojito", just to mess with people.

Thanks!

The Response:

Thanks for sending me your suggestion. It’s nice when people care enough to take the time to write to us about our products and programs.

We’re always looking into new ideas, and have looked at literally thousands of them in the past, including the one you sent. So far, we haven’t found the right way to make it good enough to be a Jelly Belly bean, but we’re working on it!

Currently Buttered Popcorn is our #2 most popular flavor. It was #1 for a few years but Very Cherry has now taken over the number one ranking.

Thanks for writing. We really appreciate hearing from you.

Sweet Regards,

Mr. Jelly Belly

...I kind of have a small crush on "Mr. Jelly Belly now; he was really rather sweet....

#2: Kellogg's.

Dear Kelloggs,

Your Cracklin' Oat Bran cereal is like a disappointing lover.

In previous years, I had come to think of this crunchy, sturdy product as a personal favorite. Having lapsed in my consumption of your breakfast delight (due to the cost-prohibitive nature of said cereal), I recently decided to revisit the tantalizing experience of consuming a bowl, and subsequently purchased a box.

You put some cinnamon or other crap in there, and now it tastes different.

Eating my Cracklin' Oat Bran was disappointing, unsatisfying, and mildly disorienting.

I would like to know why you tampered with perfection. Please remove the cinnamon-or-crap-flavor from your cereal so that it might be enjoyed in its original, preferable form.

The Response: (partial)

"...We value the comments you have shared with us and will report them to our Quality Assurance team for follow-up. The information that you provided will help ensure that our products and services continue to meet the highest quality standards...The cereal has always had cinnamon but if it taste too much that is definitely a quality error."

Note: They are sending me a coupon for a free box of the cereal. I don't know- I'm not certain I can weather much more disappointment...

#3: Capital One (inspired by their obnoxious 'card lab' commercial)

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to posit a question regarding the option wherein I may use my own “personalized image” on a new Capital One card, through the “Card Lab” feature.

I would like to know if I may use a photo of my naked posterior as the image on my card.

Thanks for your attention

The Response:

"...we'll need you to call us to discuss this matter. Please call our Customer Relations Department at 1-800...."

I think *someone* is trying to snag a date....

#4:Akavar
(A diet product with obnoxious commercial that involves repeated chants of "Eat all you want, and still lose weight! Eat ALL you WANT and STILL lose WEIGHT!" reminiscent of the Head-On commercials.)

To whom it may concern,

With regard to your product: can I eat all I want and still lose weight?

Do I have to rub Akavar on my forehead?

Thank you

The Response:

Akavar would not allow me to reproduce the information contained in their email. I will say, however, that I got a very enthusiastic response not unlike that which I might expect to be exhibited if Richard Simmons had written it. They also didn't answer my initial question.

#5: Hormel Foods

Dear Hormel,

Please resolve a dispute between myself and my best friend.

I recently purchased a can of your Mary Kitchen Corned Beef Hash. Upon cooking the product, I noted that the consistency was remarkably similar to that of Fancy Feast's "Chicken Feast with Gravy" flavor.

Is "Mary Kitchen Corned Beef Hash," in fact, repurposed cat food?

Thank you.

The Response:

Regrettably, Hormel has declined response to this pressing question, so it remains anyone's guess whether or not Mary Kitchen Corned Beef Hash enjoys dual identities.

#6:General Mills

Some time ago, I emailed the cereal company in regard to my jubilation at the fact that they had reverted from fruity-shaped cereal pieces, back to their original "ball-y shaped" Trix.

The Response:

Thank you for contacting General Mills regarding Trix cereal. It was kind of you to share your thoughts, and you have brightened our day.

In 1992, Trix round pieces changed to fruit shaped pieces. These fruit shapes came is 5 distinct shapes - red raspberry cluster, yellow lemon wedge, purple grape cluster, green lime ball and orange ball. All colors were the same fruit flavor.

There is a great deal of time and effort involved in developing our various products. We are glad that you like the change back to the original shapes. We will be sure to share your thoughts with the appropriate individuals.

#7- My Local Super One Grocery Store Re: When Cart Corrals were invented.

This is an oldie; I don't have a copy of my original e-mail, but I had contacted the store to settle an inane dispute between Nathaniel and I regarding when cart corrals had first been used in parking lots. I was *that* intent on proving myself correct.

The (impressively thorough) Response:

Thanks for taking the time to e-mail. I actually worked in the first grocery store owned by Miners' Inc in Cloquet. I don't believe the first store, which was located on Avenue F and 14th St. (1977-1982) did not have any cart corrals in the parking lot. That first store was a real "no frills" operation; they probably wouldn't have been included in the equipment budget. The cart corrals probably first started appearing at the company's second location which was at the Lumberjack Mall in 1982. Unfortunately, the company wouldn't have any purchase records for these anymore. The early 1980's would be my best guess. I hope this has been of some help to you.

Have a great day!

#8: McKee Foods Corp.

I am writing to inquire whether or not your "Little Debbie Nutty Bars" in fact contain crack, as my son recently consumed an excessive quantity of the product to the point of near-vomiting and then professed that he "still want[ed] to eat more of them, even though [I] feel like throwing up."

Thank you.

The Response:

The makers of Little Debbie products ALSO neglected to respond to my query. Well... silence is consent, isn't it? Or agreement? No more Nutty Bars for Noel.

Nothing will ever top the blistering email response I received from a big-name pasta company, upon JOKINGLY suggesting that they were being subsidized by the ricotta cheese industry, after I encountered a recipe for lasagna on one of their boxes that called for a ridiculous FIVE cups of cheese. FYI: don't fuck with the green-box lasagna people. They have NO sense of humor!

FYI- I'm working on something...

2008-03-11T18:24:00.001-07:00

Update in the next week or so....

Now Nathaniel has no appendix OR gallbladder!

2008-01-29T19:24:00.000-08:00

Tuesday, January 28th was a big, big day for us.
Nathaniel had surgery to remove his gallbladder.
He'd been sick for a few months and tests revealed that he had significant thickening of the walls of that pesky organ, so we saved the date and he went under the knife. Again.

I felt like a marginal asshat after the appendix surgery, when I asked with gentle articulateness if I might keep the organ and the conversation went something like this:

Dr. Surgeon: well, that about covers all the information about the surgery; do you have any other questions or concerns?

Lara: Can I have it?!

Dr. Surgeon: What?

Nathaniel: She wants to know if she can have my appendix.

(insert long pause and a room full of blank-faced medical staff.)

Dr. Surgeon: No.

Lara: Can you at least take a picture of it for me? I brought my camera!

Dr. Surgeon: Ohhhkay...

This time I employed more hospital room etiquette and went straight into a request for pictures.

Nathaniel is presently sore, but doing well. His gallbladder looked like a giant slug. No wonder he felt sick.

Iowa! New Hampshire! Iowa! New Hampshire!

2008-01-04T16:33:00.000-08:00

A person barely need flip beyond the radiant blip that is CNN to ascertain that the news out of Ohio today has brought the upcoming presidential election into sharp focus.

Emerging as victors in Iowa, Huckabee and Obama still face an arduous tug-of war against the opposing candidates for their respective party nominations.

I spent a portion of the day viewing political news and analysis, along with *BREAKING!!!!!* news tidbits from CNN. As a result, I have determined that both Huckabee and Obama's ongoing campaigns fail to address issues of compelling concern to the general American public. Based on my observations of what comprises "newsworthy" subjects (via CNN,) I submit that in order to address the REAL concerns of the public, the winning candidate must develop plans to address:

1. The need to properly secure tigers in their cages at zoos to prevent the animals' escape and ensuing massacre of innocent civilian zoo-goers.

2. Britney Spear's myriad chemical and mental health issues. Clearly, her every action has apocalyptic impact on the welfare of our greater nation. I could not eat my lunch today due to the fact that there was Britney-drama ongoing. I was immensely distraught and became light-headed and nauseous due to my overwhelming distress.

3. Speculation. There is not enough speculating going on in this country. We need more people to do more speculating. About everything. Speculating solves problems.

4. The weather. The weather is REALLY shitty in a number of locations, nationwide. The effective presidential candidate will develop a plan to fix it. It would be particularly advisable (hint, hint, Obama...) if they could promise to make it rain apricot nectar and snow colors.

5. Someone needs to dissect the window-washer who fell approximately 300 stories and survived. I find it thoroughly difficult to comprehend how not a SINGLE presidential candidate has noted the likelihood that this man has bionic technology inside his body and should be taken apart to acquire the technology for military purposes.

6. Amy Fisher's sex tape. There are some people who should simply not be circulating sex tapes involving themselves. I think Amy Fisher qualifies. Also, Dustin Diamond. We need legislation banning Fisher and Diamond from circulating any nude images of themselves.

7. Jamie Lynn Spears' pregnancy. Since she's famous and makes about 150 times more money than an average adult, her condition counts as 150 teen pregnancies. That's really gross. Candidates need to develop a plan for preventing fornication among Nickelodeon tween-stars.

That' s a start, anyway. I'm not being paid as a campaign strategist, so if any candidates would like further advice on how to topple the opposition this November, they'll have to contact me directly to make arrangements.
I will add, though, (as a little bonus) that Huckabee needs to change his name. It's waaay too easy to mock. It's so easy it's not even fun.

I will tell you what being 30 is about: It is about throwing up.

2007-12-18T11:43:00.000-08:00

I have been thirty years old for approximately two days now. Of those two days, fifty percent of my time has been consumed by the stomach flu from hell.

No one tells you that once you turn thirty, half your life will be spent embracing the toilet bowl as though it were a cold porcelain mother that never hugs you back. Well, for those of you still under the age, I offer you TRUTHS that those over thirty NEVER warn you of. Based on my own personal assessments, I have gleaned that when you reach the age of thirty, you will experience:

One chapped lip. Not two, just one. The top one.

Profuse stomach cramps and vomiting (or an urgent, frustrating, unrequited need to puke.)

A profound dislike of birthday cake (unrelated to the flu, most likely related to having eaten half your body weight in cake on the day of celebration.)

Uncontrollable urges to tell other people (in their twenties) that they will understand "when they are thirty."

A frequent need to locate at least two mirrors in your house, in order to ascertain if you have suddenly acquired a "mom butt."

Your tailbone will hurt. This may be due to the fact that you have propped a video rocker on the seat of your desk chair to achieve the height necessary to reach your keyboard, rather than buy an adjustable desk chair. Or it's just because you're thirty. Probably the latter.

You will start thinking things like, "I should probably start doing kegels," and "I wonder how long I will keep all my original teeth?" This is just creepy.

You will face the painful realization that you weren't a teenager "a few years ago," but rather "half your life ago". On the upside, this places more psychological distance between the you of now, and the you with bad eighties bangs.

Your kids will remind you that thirty is REALLY OLD! Then, you will necessarily remind them that you may be old, but they still can't outrun you, and you know where the haircutting paraphernalia is.

I Have Been Science-ing and Have Made Profound Discoveries.

2007-12-01T16:50:00.000-08:00

I have always considered science to be an area in which I am less than prone to brilliance. I am turning thirty in couple of weeks, and have been examining myself in all sorts of existential, aesthetic, and aromatic regards.

I have determined that one of the foremost efforts I would like to make in bettering myself concerns my well-roundedness. Not my boobs, tyvm, but my overall knowledge and versatility as a human being.

As such, I spent a length of time today (approximately an hour and a half) engaged in lofty scientific thought and hypothesis and have realized that it is really not that difficult to unearth novel and startling assertions of the nature of scientific stuff.

Thus, I present to you:

LARA'S LIST OF STUNNING SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERATIONS

1. Tryptophan causes strep throat.

Evidence: Last week, I ate a lot of turkey. Turkey has tryptophan in it. I have strep throat.
Formulaicly: T(tryptophan) + E (eating of it) = ST[cr] (strep throat and possibly crying)

2. Microwave popcorn manufacturers are financially backed by prosthetic arm manufacturers.

Evidence: I was making some popcorn. I opened the bag. Steam poured out and burned my arm, causing me to swing the viciously stinging appendage in a haphazard manner, slamming it into the side of the microwave off of which a large bowl fell, shattering into large, dagger-sharp pieces which could have severed my arm. I would have needed a prosthetic arm, had mine been severed and impossible to reattach. Prosthetic arms are expensive.

Formulaicly: Mp(microwave popcorn) + C (cooking it) + SoAwBfoM (slicing off arm with bowl that fell off microwave) = P (prosthetic arm)

3. George Bush stole the turn signal from my minivan.

Evidence: Someone stole the turn signal off my minivan while it was parked in our driveway. I have seen no reference to Bush's whereabouts at the time my blinker light was stolen. Bush's car seems to have a turn signal. Bush likes to steal things like oil and our children's legacy.

Formulaicly: Mt (missing turn signal) + Nba (no Bush alibi) + Bt (Bush has a turn signal) + Bs (Bush is a stealer) = BsT (Bush stole my turn signal.)

4. I could totally take Condoleeza Rice.

Evidence: I am a lot taller than Condoleeza Rice. I am a lot younger than Condoleeza Rice. I have much cheaper clothing and shoes than Condoleeza Rice, and would not care if they were damaged in a scrap with her.

Formulaicly: T(taller than CR) + Y (younger than CR) Cc (cheaper duds than CR) = Tt (I could totally take Condoleeza Rice.)

5. Changing diapers is a man's job.

Evidence: Diapers, like men, are prone to horrific odors. Diaper changing involves spatial skills (which are typically a male-oriented strength) due to the necessity of proper orientation of the diaper and tabs. Men typically have better arm strength- a necessity for baby butt lifting at the wiping stage of a diaper change.

Formulaicly: O(parallel incidence of male/diaper odors) + S (male spatial skills) + As (superior male arm strength) = Md (men are better designed for the task of changing diapers)

There you have it- scientific delineations of a profound nature from a new, more well-rounded Lara. Tomorrow, I may tackle the intricacies of mathematic principles, using many large numbers and symbols including +, %, /, and my personal favorite, these things: [ ]

It's almost that season; time for gift lists!

2007-11-14T12:10:00.000-08:00

Every year, family members request I supply lists of items my spawn would appreciate receiving during holiday gift exchanges. I understand their logic; providing some guidelines for what the kids are presently "in to" or in need of is a helpful way to streamline shopping and assure that purchases are aptly selected.

Nevertheless, every year the kids accumulate a daunting amount of toys, clothes, and other goodies, and ultimately end up favoring items I'd never have expected them to.

This year, I'm reflecting on what my kids REALLY like to do and which things they actually find use for, and I'm basing my lists off these insights. Mom, dad, grandparents, I humbly submit:

"THE KIDS' CHRISTMAS LISTS. '07 EDITION."

NOEL
Clothing:
-Jeans with rips in the knees and draggy-pieces hanging off the ankles.
-T-shirts that are too small and have extremely ugly dragons on them.
-Socks that have enough elasticity in the ankles to be employed as slingshots, aimed at Sophie's head.
-A jacket without a hood that is entirely insufficient for our winter climate, the use of which will probably result in his sustaining frostbite, frostnip, or some kind of weather-related rash.
Toys:
-Balls of lint to add to the growing collection under his bed.
-Electrical cords. It doesn't matter what they attach to, he just really likes to have a lot of loose cords laying around his room.
-Any book focused on bodily functions/excrement/flatulence, etc.
-America's Funniest Home Videos on DVD. Somehow the unfunniest show on television NEVER gets old, where he's concerned.
SOPHIE
Clothing:
-Tights sufficient to clothe a small dance troupe.
-Underwear that is one size too small.
-Jeans that are about two inches too short. (If they fit appropriately, she will insist they are "too big.")
-Formal gowns (for daily wear).
Toys:
-My make-up
-My bras
-My scarves, gloves, and hats.
-Naked Barbies
-Glass cleaning wipes.
-Whatever toilet paper is most likely to clog up our plumbing.
JACK
Clothing:
-Shoes that can easily be removed and tossed during grocery shopping trips.
-Hats with tassles that can be chewed to a crusty nub.
-Shirts with collars that can be chewed to crusty nubs.
Toys:
-Pan lids.
-A toilet.
-A box of crackers that can accommodate the size of Jack's head.
-A clothes hamper for throwing garbage in.
-A garbage for throwing clothes in.
-The mailman.
-Grasshoppers.

I hope this helps! I wish you the best of luck in your shopping endeavors.

How well do you know Minnesota law?

2007-11-13T09:27:00.000-08:00

Laws :the delineation of rules that serve to protect and better us as a society and as individuals.

Without them, chaos would ensue like a game of first-grade dodgeball gone horribly awry. Or like the early-bird sale at Wal-Mart on Black Friday, if the amassed psychotic shoppers were further agitated by meth-laced sugar cookies and promises of dollar-off coupons for Aqua Dots.

How well do you know the laws with which you must comply? In the state of Minnesota, we have many compelling obligations as citizens. I accept, among my responsibilities, the duty to enlighten you, with regard to a few of the most pressing and affecting laws on the books.

In the land of 10,00 lakes:

It is illegal to stand around any building without a good reason to be there.
(People do this ALL the time. Look at their faces; they know they're guilty. They WANT to be helped.)

It is illegal to sleep naked.
(I'm not entirely opposed to this idea applying to the likes of Norm Coleman.)

Citizens may not enter Wisconsin with a chicken on their head.
(This has been a real problem. It is also why I have (unsuccessfully) lobbied for a border patrol presence on the Blatnik and Bong bridges.)

Red cars may not drive down Lake Street. (Minneapolis)
(Maroon is fine, but NOT red. Obviously. Only brazen, garish sorts of people would do this, anyway.)

Driving a truck with dirty tires is considered a public nuisance. (Minnetonka)
(This might be the crowning centerpiece of Michelle Bachmann's legislative efforts.)

Hamburgers may not be eaten on Sundays. (St. Cloud)
(Beef, in general, is an affront to the baby Jesus. Patties are, as well. Put them together and you have HERESY!)

Texas, however offers some equally stringent and important instances of legal prowess:

In the Lonestar state:

It is illegal to sell one's eye.
(Because then someone else could see all your thoughts.)

A program has been created in the state that attempts to control the weather.
(I don't know why this is a "law"; regardless, Texas would like it to rain orange Hi-C, and efforts are underway to make it so.)

Up to a felony charge can be levied for promoting the use of, or owning more than six dildos.
(Five is Godly. Six is just whorish.)

The entire Encyclopedia Britannica is banned in Texas because it contains a formula for making beer at home.
(Also, because it suggests that weather is an uncontrollable phenomenon. Liars!)

It is illegal to dust any public building with a feather duster. (Clarendon)
(This is actually an evil plot between the city of Clarendon and the manufacturer of the Swiffer line of products, to take over the world.)

A recently passed anti-crime law requires criminals to give their victims 24 hours notice, either orally or in writing, and to explain the nature of the crime to be committed.
(It's only polite, really, y'all.)

While some citizens mockingly disregard these legal covenants, that doesn't mean we have to allow the further perpetuation of such egregious behavior, watching helplessly as anarchy commences to overtake our communities. The next time you see someone driving a truck with dirty tires in Minnetonka, do the responsible thing; run them off the road and make a citizen's arrest.

The world can be a better place when we all step up to assure our laws are being respected.

Link to my article in Exceptional Parent Magazine:

2007-11-11T09:54:00.000-08:00

I wrote an article for the magazine which was published in the November online edition.
It's not humorous, but a depiction of my experiences as the mom of a child with Downs, from diagnosis to the present. From the link, click on "read more," under "top story".

You can cut and paste the following to access the article:

http://www.eparent.com/main_channels_family_community/
Extra_Chromosome.asp

Happy Halloween!

2007-10-31T11:33:00.000-07:00

1:30 p.m: Sugar consumption has barely commenced and already, a tearful Sophie has come pleading and sobbing to me with the request that I help her find the detachable cat tail for her costume. Apparently, she was using it to flog Jack, and now it's gone missing. I told her it was karmic retribution. She looked at me funny and said, "no! It's my pink. cat. tail!"

Jack has succeeded in urinating on the collar of his monkey suit. I cleaned it up, despite my inkling that it might actually lend more authenticity to the overall costume effect.

The kids brought small bags of candy home from school; thank goodness, because if they hadn't loaded up on crap at school (although Sophie DID score one pencil,) we wouldn't have enough Laffy Taffy to re-grout the upstairs bathroom floor.

There is a family in my town that routinely hands out religious literature to trick-or-treaters on Halloween. I would really like to counter their persuasive methods by handing out condoms and mini ouija boards, but I didn't have the time to fashion enough boards, this year.

For some time I've been of the opinion that the worst aspect of Halloween is brats running amok in the wee hours of the night, stealing and smashing pumpkins. One year when I was about ten, I hid in my parent's car in their driveway in an attempt to bust the perps. I brought our Casio keyboard with me, and had rehearsed a series of notes that I felt sufficiently simulated the sound of a police siren. I lay in wait, ensconced in the shadows of the upholstered seats, adrenaline pumping, quivering with vengeful anticipation, for about twenty minutes. Then I got bored with the whole idea and went in the house.

Well, I'm off to fornicate with dwarves and castrate baby deer, or whatever we heathens are supposed to do in honor of the "dark forces" of Halloween. (Actually, I was leaning toward cooking some frozen ravioli and finding my "nice butt" pants, but we'll see what the afternoon brings.)

Happy Halloween!

There's Paw-lenty to talk about!

2007-10-30T07:52:00.000-07:00

In light of his recent shift in stance on state support for the much anticipated Essar steel mill, "some people" are discussing the possibility that our sterling governor is posturing for a spot as a Veep nominee. His forceful, masculine assertions condemning Essar's purported ties to Iran represent the kind of characteristics we Americans want in a Vice President: an aggressive, idiotic, warmongering fascist chest-thumper. Apparently we seek much the same in a president, as well.

I'm going to go out on a proverbial limb here and suggest a Republican Superteam for the right: Thompson/ Pawlenty.

Thompson is reknowned for his frankenstein-ish poise and ability to speak without actually SAYING anything. Pawlenty is well-versed on the art of renaming things and portraying them as being COMPLETELY different from what their synonyms suggest (ie: "taxes" and "fees".)

I feel these gentlemen could get a lot done. Or more likely, get very little done but give the impression that they ARE getting things done, and in fact are straining SO hard to get things done that they may burst a vein or develop a mental hernia, at any moment.

In my opinion, the only thing that could stop a Superteam like Thompson/Pawlenty would be another unfortunate instance of parking lot deer intimidation. On the up-side for us progressives, if we need to stop Pawlenty from breaking a critical tie in the senate, all we'd have to do is usher in a doe, and he'd run for the hills.

I'm thinking about it, and I think it's a good idea. Thompson/Pawlenty. Let's make it happen.

24 hours, two wet floors, one wet ceiling, and a diaper pin...

2007-10-26T07:28:00.000-07:00

Apparently, one of the characteristics of Down syndrome that medical literature fails to acknowledge is the ability to execute extensive and almost inconceivable amounts of mischievous wrongdoing.

Yesterday I left Jack upstairs at the computer, happily playing Elmo's "Keyboard-O-Rama" while I made a phone call downstairs. When I hung up the phone, I heard the ominous hissing of water running through the upstairs pipes. I ran upstairs and found Jack in the bathroom. He had turned the water to the sink on full blast, plugged the sink, and flooded the entire bathroom floor.
About an hour, two rugs, eight bath towels, and half a roll of paper towels later, I realized my bedroom ceiling was dripping. I wonder if there is a supplement to home owner's insurance that protects against unnatural acts of preschoolers...

Later in the evening, I heard Noel shrieking in the kitchen. Jack had somehow managed to explode a plastic gallon of milk that was almost entirely full, all over the kitchen floor.

I heaved a massive sigh of relief upon turning Jack in for bed. We slipped on his footy-pajamas and fastened a safety pin at the zipper (necessitated by the fact that Jack had been stripping himself and decorating his room with the contents of his diapers, in weeks past.) I went in to give the little monster a quick check sometime later, and found him asleep buck naked. He had removed the diaper pin, flung it up on top of his dresser, and removed all his clothing again. How a boy who cannot pull up his own pants or get a shoe on by himself can perform the intricate fine motor skills involved in unfastening a diaper pin is beyond my comprehension.

On a side note, Nathaniel informed me that while he could not remember the specifics of the conversation, Sophie had accurately employed the phrase, "touche, Dad" in a recent discussion with him. Yesterday she came home from school decrying the unjustness of the fact that on her "D" worksheet, the teacher made her write the letter D in pencil, then trace over it with marker.
She felt that tracing over the letters a second time was overkill and "was a waste of my time!" Clearly, public school kindergarten teachers are not aware of the time constraints and pressing matters plaguing five-year-old girls.

Noel continues to amaze me. Last night he offered to do bathroom duty with Jack, which entailed him sitting on the edge of the tub for a considerable length of time and entertaining his little brother, while waiting to see if he would pee (which most often, he doesn't.) He also used his own money to buy Sophie a toy from the school store, helped her clean her room, and expounded at length upon how "cute and adorable" his teacher's preschool-age daughter is and how much he wants to "just hug her!" I don't know how he's become such a good human being, but I hope it's an enduring trait. If his predominant accomplishment in life is his own profound sense of humanity, I will be infinitely proud of him.

And so the thermostat war begins...

2007-10-12T17:49:00.000-07:00

In his ongoing efforts to bring about my premature demise, Nathaniel is already circumventing my attempts to maintain an indoor temperature that is not conducive to bouts of shivering that resemble minor seizures.

At one point some winters ago, he actually installed a second thermostat in our basement, hooked the furnace up to it, and didn't tell me. I went moderately crazy trying to figure out why I had the temperature upstairs set at 72 and it wouldn't go above 65. Eventually, I called my Dad and he hooked the upstairs thermostat back up (being rather perplexed at why we had a second thermostat hidden in the basement rafters.) When my husband walked in the front door as my Dad was leaving, Dad suddenly stopped, looked at my husband and said, "ohhh.... shit... sorry," (or something to that effect) as the whole situation suddenly made sense.

I have threatened to bust out my electric blanket, hoping that the prospect of its abhorrent radiant heat would provide me a sufficient degree of leverage in our temperature-control negotiations. If that fails, I may have to resort to the pitiful "oops. forget to wash any of your underwear. again." tactic.

I know that there is no God, because if there were, he/she/it would have seen to it that people like my husband maintain a low-grade fever through the winter in order to offset their ridiculous temperature preferences and spare their spouses the cruel and inhuman suffering of frigid limbs and clammy long-underwear back sweat.

On another note, I have been giving some amount of thought to the upcoming election year, specifically regarding the logistics of campaign yard signs. At our former residence, my self-described "Republican" husband and I could easily divide the front yard, since a walkway ran straight up the middle. At our new location, however, we are situated in such a manner that there is no clear division of yard space, and not all areas are equally visible.

I'm thinking about calling dibs on the front yard space and allocating him the area behind the six-foot hedge. It would be a lot less embarrassing. Last time around, he got the side of the yard next to the driveway. That was *unfortunate*, because I'm just so darn bad about pulling into the driveway and "accidentally" running over signs.

I wonder if I could come up with a satisfactory explanation for "accidentally" driving up a four or five foot embankment and taking out a sign?

Well, stranger things have happened.

The horse sense of Sophie.

2007-10-01T11:10:00.000-07:00

With Jack and Noel gone all day at school, I had the distinct privilege of engaging at length in conversation with my favorite five-year-old gal. Driving home from the store having procured juice and frozen waffles, the following conversation occurred:

Sophie: On Drake and Josh, Drake finally found out that his girlfriend likes to eat horse meat.
Me: Hmmm.
Sophie: I don't know why somebody eats horse meat; that's not my thing.
Me: It's not my thing, either. I don't even know where you could buy horse meat.
Sophie: Maybe you could buy it at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe emperors eat it, or people who live in RV's because they don't have a house.
Me: People who live in RV's eat horse meat?
Sophie: Sometimes they do.

Later on, Sophie gave me some insight on her own personal journey.

"You know when I knew I was strong? When I thought I could lift a chair, and I COULD. That's when I knew I was a strong girl."

and some insight on geography and culture:

"Chinese is really far away. They eat with chalksticks there. I ate with chalksticks, once. They should just make spoons, in Chinese. They could eat lots more."

In honor of Bush's declaration of the demise of Nelson Mandela,

2007-09-27T09:15:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1KGwQ1O88Y
(cut and paste this- it's SO worth it!)

I propose that myself and other interested parties seek to establish a fund for research aimed at developing medication or therapies to cure "stupid".

Clearly, it's a condition plaguing humans on all levels of society.
Maybe we can have a bake sale to get things going.

Let's scrap all the primary candidates and start over.

2007-09-27T08:33:00.001-07:00

I'm less than thrilled with the pool of democratic candidates for office- specifically those receiving the most intense levels of support. I propose beginning anew with a fresh batch of faces. Naturally, I have a few compelling characters in mind:

Steve Buscemi. I have always respected his versatility as an actor. Additionally, he has a weird face that I feel confident he could contort in such a way as to be intimidating to potentially aggressive entities. I think it would be a definite upgrade to go from a president who truly IS crazy to one who merely looks it.

Gary Coleman. We elected Norm Coleman; I don't see how Gary could be any worse.

Michelle Bachmann. She could hastily bring on the Rapture and I REALLY need a new minivan.

Abraham Lincoln. This is Sophie's suggestion. Apparently she doesn't understand the concept of "dead." Also, she refers to him as "Abraham Lincoln Hamilton".

Samus from Metroid Prime. This is Noel's suggestion.

Ewan MacGregor. With the stipulation that he must wear a kilt for all official events. Who wouldn't mind staring at his pretty face for four years?

Janet Reno. Admittedly, I endorse her solely because I miss seeing Will Ferrell do Reno sketches on SNL. SNL requires a mandate for change and I think electing Reno might be just the catalyst required.

The cousin of the girl who sat behind me in Tuesday night class last semester. I was told he was a chronic meth addict and alcoholic, but was "SO smart about politics and stuff." On second thought, that sounds a bit too much like Bush. With the exception of being smart.

Mari Winsor. She's flexible- that's an important trait in a leader, essential to nurturing compromise between disparate entities.

The girl who invented that microwave bacon apparatus. She's obviously a freaking genius. The government could use a genius.

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Lutkevich. She kept peace in a classroom of seven-year-old children and instilled a sense of motivation and pride in us. She taught me that helping others was rewarding, math could be fun, and hiding on top of file cabinets and making the classroom dolls hump each other was not behaviorally sound.

Clinton, schminton. Let's broaden our prospective pool of candidates and contemplate some REAL contenders, this election year.

Mark your calendars RIGHT NOW!

2007-09-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

We all know Halloween is coming up, then Thanksgiving, then Christmas, but there are IMPORTANT observances that many of us woefully fail to recognize.

The following is a poignant reminder of some of the most influential observances we should all try a little harder to acknowledge:

January:
National Soup Month: This month, no one is supposed to eat anything but soup. I think some lousy people do not respect this directive. Well, Campbells will have their traitor asses, one day.

February:
(12-17) National Condom Week. EVERYONE but you is wearing a condom. All week. 24/7. Get with it!

March:
(5-7) National Sleep Awareness Week. Be aware of your sleep! It's dreaming about doing really icky things with David Caruso. What's wrong with his head?

April:
Sports Eye Safety Month. Every day, nineteen thousand people's eyes are poked out by medicine balls. You might think that a person almost has to be TRYING, to have this happen.
You think this way because you are IGNORANT about matters of sports eye safety. Educate yourself.

May:
People get really bored this month; that is why it is both Creative Romance Month AND An Affair to Remember Month. Remember, it isn't cheating if it's a semi-officially sanctioned national observance event!

June:
National Turkey Lovers Month: I thought that was November, but apparently, HARD CORE turkey lovers know that it is June. Baste away.

July:
National Anti-Boredom month: Everyone is required to download a copy of Tetris and consume copious quantities of uppers.
*it should be noted that July 2nd is National "I Forgot" Day, so if you lose July 2nd, that's because it was ordained that you would do so by powers beyond your control. It's all good.

August:
National Admit You're Happy Month: You know you are, so just stop lying already. At least for August. If you're really not happy, lie and enthusiastically assert that you are; you might start to believe yourself. Or you might suffer an existential breakdown in the middle of Costco, next to a display of Diamond brand walnuts that seem to be mocking you for the shallow substance that comprises the utter sham of a life that you have constructed for yourself. Walnuts are assholes.

September:
National Preparedness Month: You must be prepared. For things. The government says so. Buy many cans of tuna and stockpile them under your bed.

October:
"Talk About Prescriptions" Month:
This is a month for old people. They love it. When an elderly person standing in line behind you at the grocery store starts a conversation with you about how Detrol has NOT reduced their urge to urinate, AND it's causing painful gas and skin flaking, you are morally obligated to listen politely and not grimace.

November:
(4th) Waiting For the Barbarians day. You may be waiting in vain, but it's only ONE day, so I think you can suck it up. If this day disappoints, remember that November 28th is "Make Your Own Head Day." Apparently, those of us who are displeased with our current heads are encouraged to make new ones on this day. THAT is time well spent!

December:
It's not National SweetBabyJesusDiedForOurSins Month. It's Bingo month. Bust out your dobber and your Virginia Slims ultra-lights, and prepare for some INSANE bingo action.

National "Months!" or "Weeks!" or "Days!"
Observe them or you hate America!

Freedom isn't Free! It's $3 an hour per 4 y/o boy!

2007-09-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

I have been waiting. No, I have been WAAAAIIIITING for the start of the new school year.

For me, the resumption of school means two-hundred-and-ten minutes per morning with NO kids at home; three -and-a-half unbroken hours in which I can frolic with unbridled joy, reveling in the solitude that September finally affords me. I can enjoy wild, unabashed, trivial pursuits like bathing and doing my own homework.

My anticipation of free time has proved painfully slow to be realized.

Noel started school last Tuesday. Sophie started Kindergarten on Thursday. I THOUGHT Jack started preschool on Tuesday, but found out he did not start until today.

This morning was hectic and frustrating. Jack screamed and flailed madly when I tried to brush his teeth. Noel lost his shoes. Sophie told me she left her jacket at school. It was about forty degrees, and no one wanted to wear pants.

In the back of my mind a small voice whispered, "it's okay- they're ALL going to school today. You will have your peace. Just shove them in the van and GO!"

And so I did. And as I approached the elementary school, intent on unloading the first two of my three spawn, I wondered why people were walking AWAY from the building. It didn't matter, though. All that mattered was that I was unloading those little suckers and then I was going home ALONE!

And then I saw the sign: "POWER OUTAGE. NO SCHOOL TODAY!"

I shuddered.

The school nurse was standing on the lawn. I rolled down my window.

"Nooooooo!" I hollered, "You HAVE to take them! I brought them here! I will go get candles!"

That earned me little more than guffaws and a friendly wave from the nurse.

And so we went home. And I didn't get my quiet time. Or my shower. And I do believe the leisure time gods are crapping on me from above and laughing.

Fun With Plagues of the Bible Day '07

2007-08-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

received rave reviews from my kids.

We missed the county fair (I'm a little choked up at the missed opportunity for deep fried cheese curds,) so I hosted a private "Fun With Plagues of the Bible" day in our backyard.

We had games, prizes, and ice cream. Noel can now relate seven of the ten plagues. He asserts that the "lake of blood" plague is his favorite.

The merriment consisted of the following games of divine inspiration:

"Lake of blood game": I filled the kids' pool with water, red jello, "dead" fish, and hid coins in the bottom. They had to dig through the "lake" to retrieve the coins, in exchange for prizes. Noel and Sophie did well. Jack sat in the lake.

"Destroy the crops" game: using water balloon "hail," the kids attempted to knock "crops" (carrots from my garden) from a board with holes, in which the carrots sat. It turned out to be harder than expected, in part because Jack kept running away with the water balloons and calling them "babies."

"Pin-the-boil-on-the-plague-victim" game: operated basically like your run-of-the-mill donkey version, but utilized festering boils instead of a tail. Jack rocked at that one. He also stole the boils at the end of the game and stuck them to our deck. I don't know whether that warrants a call to the CDC or a carpenter.

"Frogs and gnats descend" game: used balloon frogs and gnats. I dumped them on the kids from the deck, and they had to dig through the balloons to find a few that I marked, to get a prize.

"Locust hunt": since we have our own little biblical plague of grasshoppers in the yard, this game was begging to be played. I gave the kids nets and told them to catch three grasshoppers. Noel caught a couple and Sophie cried. Jack just poked the grasshoppers and squealed maniacally. That game was a little disappointing.

All in all, it was a good day. The kids loved it, and hopefully they'll remember a few bits of biblical info.

Now I'm on to planning "Getting Crazy With the Qu'ran Day."

Atheists do religion SO much better than the faithful!

An interview with Noel and Sophie

2007-08-22T10:07:00.000-07:00

I spend all day, every day with my kids, but sometimes between chores and other time-sucking activities, I feel as though I don't always get to connect with them. I sat down with my two verbal children and they were enthusiastic participants in my interview session. The following is excerpted from that interview:

Lara: Hi, Sophie. It's great to be with you today. (Sophie looks confused) What do you feel is your "job"?
Sophie: Cleaning the house.
L: Do you find that job fulfilling?
S: Huh?
L: Noel, What is YOUR job?
N: sitting on the couch.
L: Is that fulfilling?
N: Yes.
L: What are your favorite foods?
S: Cheese broccoli.
N: Steak.
L: If you could change each others' names, what would you change them to?
S: Noel is "Michael," and Jack is "John."
N: Sophie could be "Bob," and Jack could be "Betsy."
S: NOOOO!
L: What do you want to be when you grow up?
S: A doctor or a firefighter.
N: A bounty hunter or a tattoo artist.
L: What do you think your siblings should be when they grow up?
N: Sophie should be a fireman and Jack should be a tattoo artist, because he likes to color.
S: Jack can be a cashier at Super One, and Noel can be a gas worker.
L: What does a "gas worker" do?
S: He puts air in your tires.
L: What job should I take when I finish college?
N: A teacher.
S: You should scrub the floor.
L: How do you feel about President Bush's Iraq policy?
N: I don't agree with him.
S: Huh? We should have an enormous rainbow and people can slide up and down on it.
L: What was the most significant news story this year, in your opinion?
N: the bridge collapse.
S: something about candy.
L: If you could go on vacation anywhere in the world, where would you go?
S: Paris. I NEED a vacation, and they have lots of good food there.
N: Mexico. They have tacos for breakfast, there.
L: If you could be any superhero, who would you be?
N: I don't know. Superman and Spiderman are nerdy. I'd just be a regular one.
S: None. Tights get wrinkly in my butt.
L: What should we have for dinner?
S: Cheese broccoli and pork chops. Do I like pork chops?
N: Salmon and potatoes. With gravy. And asparagus. And bread.
L: What do you think each other smells like?
S: Noel smells like turd.
N: Sophie smells like dog butt.
S: No I Dooooon't!
L: Thanks guys, I appreciate you taking the time for the interview. Go eat your macaroni and cheese.

Congrats to Isaiah and Patty! Wedding Highlights!

2007-08-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

My brother-in-law and his fiancee were married this weekend. The ceremony was beautiful, the music was great, the reception was awesome. They were a gorgeous couple and we're thrilled for them!

Here are my highlights from the big event, in no particular order:

T-minus one hour from ceremony: Jack begins to make chewing and gagging sounds. I spin him around just in time to position him so that he can hork on Patty's parents front lawn.

Jack goes home to sit with grandma, where he reportedly pukes and dry-heaves his way through the evening.

Sophie attempts to taste the bird food meant to be tossed on the bride and groom during the recessional.

Sophie (flower girl #3,) visibly scratches her butt repeatedly during the ceremony, and then frowns when she sees me looking, as though I have somehow interrupted a private moment.

Dressed immaculately in a sleeveless ensemble, I spend the evening milling around in heels, my gown, and Noel's red Adidas hoody, because it's FREEZING outside.

My sister-in-law and I (but mostly I) plot to keep people from sitting at our reception table, so that we don't have to share our bottle of champagne. People sit there, anyway.

I eat too many spring rolls, then steal a soggy mini corn dog from the kids' table. It's not good, but I eat it anyway, because it's vaguely warm and I'm even more freezing, now.

I leave early, since Jack is at home sick and I don't want to leave him with my mom all night. En route to our house, some (presumably drunk or crazy) asshole tries to run us off the road, for no apparent reason. I can't get his plates down in time to report him to the police. If for some reason the aforementioned asshole happens, by some twist of fate, to be reading this, YOU SUCK, Jerkface! May karma grant you all the side effects of that "Alli" stuff they're marketing. Including the "seepage"issue.

Big congratulations to Patty and Isaiah! Wishing you thousands of happy years together... or at least dozens!

Mary Lou Retton had a mouth large enough to accomodate a globe.

2007-08-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

I used to take those glitter-filled flexible bracelets, put them in my mouth so they'd stretch my lips back exposing my teeth, and tell my parents I was Mary Lou. That's what I remember about the 1984 Olympics.

My seventh grade math teacher had fat elbows that, when her arm was extended, resembled the face of a Cabbage Patch Kid. That's what I remember about pre-algebra.

My grandparents' house smells of cabbage and Muriel Air Tip cigars, and their linoleum looks like head cheese. That's what I think of when I imagine their home.

I remember the taste of blood and grape popsicle mingling in my mouth, after I stuck my tongue to the monkey bar pole in winter, at the park near my house in Silver Bay.

I recall the way the "Sweet Pickles" books from the library used to smell. The pages were glossy and I wanted to lick them.

I remember gazing at the gowns on princesses in fairy tale stories, and reveling in the beautiful colors and intricacies of their designs. They were so alluring and visually decadent that they almost confused my senses to the point that they seemed to possess flavors.

Every city I lived in had a scent. I can remember them, although I'd be hard-pressed to recall my former addresses. I certainly don't remember my old phone numbers.

I've been told I have a head for useless, inane detail, and not much capacity for recalling tangible, useful information.

Impractical as it might be, I'm content to live in my own brain, haphazard as my thoughts generally are. Would I rather remember where I left my kids' immunization records, or how the crook of their tiny necks smelled when they were infants?

Easy. I can always get new records.

The tooth fairy is a negligent whore.

2007-08-04T21:17:00.000-07:00

This morning, I awoke to a tearful Sophie who had lost a tooth yesterday, placed it in an envelope under her pillow, and dutifully drifted off to sleep, awaiting a visit from the tooth fairy.

The tooth fairy stayed up too late watching bad cable tv, and forgot ALL about the tooth.

I tried to comfort Sophie, explaining in my half sleep-intoxicated state that Friday is a busy night for the tooth fairy, and since our last name begins with a "W," she was probably low on the list and the fairy just didn't have time to get to her. I assured her that the fairy would come get her tooth tonight.

She looked at me with what appeared to be a marginal degree of belief, and I proceeded to attempt to distract her with the promises of fruit roll-ups for breakfast and a manicure.

Four years ago I was late to pick up Noel from Kindergarten. He still brings it up.

Parents, don't neglect your tooth fairy duties, or you'll pay for your oversight in spades. Or a heinous shade of purple nail polish.

It's too damn hot, and the house smells like "catholic,"

2007-08-04T12:10:00.000-07:00

or so Sophie asserts.
I don't know what that means any more than you do.

Sophie's been sleeping in her thermal underwear, despite inside-temps in the mid-80's at night. She claims that she doesn't mind her own profuse sweating, because it makes her hair exceptionally pretty and curly.

Noel has chosen to combat the taxing heat by instigating assinine fights and arguments with his siblings. This morning, there was an all-out scrap in the dining room over who picked all the yogurt-covered Froot Loops out of the box, leaving only "regular" Froot Loops.

Jack seems to be unaware of the fact that it is uncomfortably hot. He is, however, pleased with the prospect of being able to run around in only a diaper, and has spent a length of time rubbing his belly, saying "ahhhhh," and signing that his skin is very, very soft.

The humidity associated with our high temperatures is what really drives me nuts. The entire house develops phantom odors, and it has been my mission this week to obliviate them. I hauled out my carpet steamer and cleaned the rugs and carpets in the downstairs. I set up fans to dry the residual moisture, and thought myself quite productive and clever, until I found Jack had decided to expedite the drying process by lying on the floor and sucking on the rugs.

I took the kids over to my parents' house last night to pick raspberries. Noel was quite fanatical about hurrying the process, as he *needed* to be home by 7:00, to catch the "Drake and Josh Movie" on Nickelodeon. Sophie and I picked quickly, but Noel kept exclaiming, "God!" and complained that bugs were trying to "eat [his] face," and that bees were coming after him. I don't think he will ever embrace the "mountain man" lifestyle. Last week after soccer practice, he became irate over the fact that I had filled his water bottle with tap, rather than filtered water, and he was appalled.

If I ever doubted the dignity of my role as a stay-at-home mom, my position has been confirmed this week by the length of time I've spent picking dead bugs out of the inflatable pool, shaking an incomprehensible amount of sand out of undergarments, and packing ice on the shiner NoelMN somehow acquired using the garden hose.

Ahhhh... summer...

Alpha Moms creep me out.

2007-07-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

I lived next door to a mom, once, who had a couple little boys and a house that was always way too clean.
She was impeccably pulled together, a fabulous cook, and enviably well-organized. She was incredibly ambitious, and the consummate "Type-A" breed of mother.

I think in the two years I knew her, I could count the number of times I saw her kids smile, on one hand.

Perhaps some moms actually enjoy that kind of lifestyle. Maybe it really is what works best for them. Kudos to those moms. I couldn't possibly stomach it or achieve the requisite standards.

I like to cook for company. I prefer my house to look as though it's not an industrial crap factory. I take care of myself physically, and I try to set high standards for my kids. I refuse, however, to freak out because Noel flunked his swimming class last week, or Sophie peed in her princess trash can.

Last week we arrived at the grocery store, and I realized Jack had spaghetti sauce mashed into the back of his hair. I figured as long as it wasn't dripping off him, we were pretty much good.

Once, I went out in public and realized I had two different (completely unmatching) shoes on.
I didn't go home and change them. I just walked around that way. For a long time.

I took Noel to the supermarket and let him wear a full-body spiderman suit and mask. I only took issue with him when he tried to "web" other customers.

Sophie went through a phase in which she drew male genitalia on all of her pictures of people.
I have a very sweet picture somewhere, portraying me with a tremendously disproportionate "unit". It was scribbled with love, so I'll cherish it.

I don't want to know what is under Noel's bed, but it's stuffed so full that items are starting to peek out the sides. Most likely, I will insist that he at least clean up the junk around the periphery of the base. I think if there's no odor emanating from the pile of junk under there, it's probably best that I don't even look any further.

Being a mother is a "job," for certain, but it's much more than that. I can't imagine injecting our lives with the pseudo- corporate mindset that seems characteristic of the "Alpha Mom" role. I enjoy having a measure of spontaneity in our days, and being able to brush off the little aggravations, recognizing that they just don't really matter. It might be the antithesis of the Type-A motto, but I won't strive for perfection; I think it's a whole lot wiser to choose my battles.

Mother Nature really effed up the evolutionary process.

2007-07-19T12:56:00.000-07:00

We began as amoebas. Or ectoplasm. Or something very small and slimy.
We progressed to our present state, complete with the capacity for higher-level thought processes, profound human empathy, and an innate penchant for cute, strappy sandals.

Why then, after the unfathomable metamorphosis and stunning developmental leaps of the human species, are my children incapable of holding the contents of their bladder, the minute we enter a mall?

Because Mother Nature hosed it ALL UP.

My foremost issues with her "evolutionary accomplishments" are as follows:

*Children have ten times more energy than their parents. I believe the wisdom is that their shorter legs should allow us the ability to speedily intervene when they run in the wrong direction. By late afternoon, I am demonstrating the property of inertia. If my kids REALLY want to chase the rabbit in the yard that has foam seeping out of its mouth, there's about a 40/60 chance I'm going to do more than yell, "stop chasing the rabbit with foam seeping out of it's mouth!"

*There would have been nothing wrong with giving us webbed feet. Flip-flop sandals would be moot, but I think that would've been a fair trade-off.

*We should have had marsupial pouches. If we did, I would not have to carry my monster purse everywhere I go AND my post-baby belly would be sleekly camouflaged. Seems like a no-brainer. I guess not.

*Babies should be born with the ability to hold their own heads up. It's just creepy that they can't. There's something wrong with the design of a creature who could DIE if you absent-mindedly pull your hand away from their neck, in order to scratch your nose. Well, maybe not die, but flip their head back in an extremely off-putting manner, anyway.

*We should be voluntarily able to redistribute our own body fat. I don't know many women who have not expressed this desire. I'm sure that I'm not the only person who would like to try out having a third boob.

*Hormones and other biochemical components in our bodies should be readily controlled by pressing designated freckles or moles. This would allow us to restrain our own behavior and emotions, and lend a useful purpose to otherwise annoying and difficult-to-conceal skin aberrations.

*Individuals beset by the plague of Christian fundamentalism should smell differently than the rest of our species. It would make life infinitely more amusing if we knew who to make pseudo-homosexual advances toward, at the gas station.

As a request, I'd ask Mother Nature to toss us a bone. Allow us some small evolutionary convenience. I don't think it's asking too much for her to evolve our taste buds so that Splenda doesn't taste like crap. If she's feeling generous, maybe she could give us retractable lobster claws. I could use them to scrape the gum off my family room carpet.

The Keyboard Confessional: My Maternal Shame

2007-07-12T19:31:00.000-07:00

I was once, for a period of time, addicted to playing Sonic the Hedgehog. We bought the game for Noel, but I was playing it, y'know, to bond with him, and was utterly sucked in by its escapist wiles. This also happened with "Spongebob Squarepants, Battle for Bikini Bottom." On one occasion, I made Noel go to bed so that I could jump in and win the golden spatula before he beat me to it.

Tonight, Jack dropped a bagel on the bathroom floor. I'm not really certain when I washed the floor last, but I let him eat the bagel, anyway.

When Noel was little, I let him watch the X-files on a semi-regular basis.

I used up the majority of the ink in Sophie's markers, coloring a five-foot tall tagboard Tower of London, featuring a morose-faced Peter Wentworth at the top (long story.) Then I threw them away, forgot to buy her new ones, and when pressed for the location of her markers, claimed that one of the other kids must have lost them.

I let Sophie eat an entire bag of prunes in one 24-hour period.

I (accidentally) taught Jack the sign for "poop" in place of the sign for "hurt."

I killed the kids' tadpoles. One had just sprouted legs. I changed their water without letting it warm up to room temperature, and within two hours they were dead. That was a couple days ago. The kids haven't noticed, yet...

Whew! My soul feels unburdened! Catch ya' later. Noel has half a kit-kat left on his dresser. It sure would be a shame if some kind of animal crawled in his window and ate it while he was sleeping...

Disney movies: you think Kubrik made some warped films?

2007-07-11T12:04:00.000-07:00

Sophie loves Disney princess movies. She watches alot of them. That means that I, at a minimum, overhear alot of them. Overwhelmingly, the characters involved are a bit... dysfunctional.

Cinderella: Allows abusive stepmother and stepsiblings to walk all over her. Gets a makeover and flits off into marriage with a wealthy, studly dude, having fallen in love after dancing with him. once.

What REALLY happens after the glistening pumpkin carriage rolls away with the happy couple? After a brief period of honeymoon bliss, Prince Charming starts spending his free time fox hunting, imbibing excessively from the royal chalice, and investing an inordinate amount of time "helping" the maidstaff "learn to dust properly."

Snow White: Again, allows abusive parent-figure to mistreat her. Runs into the woods after discerning that her stepmom wants to CARVE OUT HER HEART, and takes up residence with seven men. REPEATEDLY falls for stepmother's poorly disguised attempts to KILL her. Marries the first dude who will suck her (presumably dead) face.

Soooo... she hooked up with a guy who's into necrophilia. Not a good start. I'd suggest she keep a close eye on any animal cadavers left unattended in the castle kitchen.

The Little Mermaid: Undergoes the magical equivalent of cosmetic surgery, sacrificing her ability to SPEAK in the process, so she can get in with some dude she's never even MET while he's conscious.

Her husband digs chicks who can't speak or communicate. Perhaps he's listened to a bit too much Dr. Laura. It doesn't bode well. I see wife-beater tees and naked, filthy children running amok, in her future.

I'm not even going to touch the whole "dead mother" phenomenon in Disney movies. I've heard Walt himself wasn't exactly keen on women, which might explain a bit.

Disney: the animated legacy that Bibbity-bobbity-blows.

Euthanizing Mrs. Butterworth.

2007-07-10T16:55:00.001-07:00

Jack won't eat anything except toaster waffles.

He has speech delays and can't verbally ask me, so when he wants one, he brings me the bottle of Mrs. Butterworth syrup. He's hoisted that smug plastic hussy into my lap no less than five times, today. What's even worse is that I have to pack him a lunch for preschool, starting tomorrow.

How do I pack a frozen waffle and syrup in a brown paper bag? What will his teachers think if I attempt to make a waffle-and-syrup sandwich? How will they grapple with the apocalyptic hellfire that will rain down if his lunch bag is opened, revealing some abhorrence like a peanut butter sandwich?

On one occasion, I hid Jack's fructose-bellied mistress, in the hopes that he would forget about her and stop demanding waffles constantly. He was so bereaved by her absence that he became borderline manic, and started bringing me random items like hot sauce and selzer from the fridge, seemingly hoping that any bottle vaguely resembling the feminine form would contain syrup.

She might look unassuming and harmless, but Mrs. Butterworth hides a seedy, treacherous secret beneath that plumed plastic skirt. She's as addictive as heroin, with face-sticking properties comparable to cyanoacrylate. She's also non-recyclable in many areas. I think she's trying to populate the world with Mrs. Butterworth bottles. I don't know about you, but that's not the kind of world I want to live in. I think I'm gonna burn Butterworth.

What goes on in those little melons?

2007-07-10T12:03:00.000-07:00

Children are full of an amazing amount of knowledge and wisdom about the world. Sophie informed me this afternoon that ramen noodles are made from cows. Noel once suggested that God might be an elf (which in my opinion is every bit as likely as him being some omnipotent, all-seeing entity.) I believe Jack said that I am a "cracker," yesterday. On one occasion, I discerned that Noel believed that firemen went to people's houses to START fires.

I think children must be the bravest people on Earth. Faced with such ideas as people being employed in the business of burning down houses, and, as Sophie once believed, the potential for having a limb sucked down the bathtub drain, they must perceive danger at every turn.

Dealing with the everyday stresses of childcare, mortgage payments, and proper role-modeling seems to pale in comparison to living with the belief that if you touch a caterpillar and rub your eyes, you will instantly go blind.

Sophie has been concerned about her blood sugar being low. She also occasionally decries intermittent back pain when asked to clean her room. Some weeks ago, she had a headache and sadly informed me that it was due to cancer.

The "real world" might be a scary place, but the one in which a child's mind exists seems every bit as intimidating. Still, kids get to climb around in the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese's without getting weird looks. I think it's a trade-off.

Why mama needs a martini.

2007-07-09T20:00:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between intervening in my nine and five-year-olds' attempts to taste my garden mulch, and my four-year-old's fervent desire to consume copious quantities of bathroom tissue, I decided to start a blog.

Why?

Because I find myself possessed of a need to expound upon the plethora of inane, confounding, frustrating, often amusing tidbits of my daily experience as a woman and a mother.

Also, my friends and family are getting sick of talking to me.

If nothing else, perhaps this blog will provide me a salient bit of evidence which I might wield as blackmail over my children's heads, as they enter their teenage years.

Note to future self: today Noel plugged the upstairs toilet and lied about it. He also spent more time grooming his hair than I did mine. And that's a pretty profound feat.