#69 is so annoying it gets its own post

The 69th most annoying thing about the holidays, that is - get your mind out of the gutter!!!

DAMN TO HELL the sadistic people who designed the packaging on Fisher Price/Playskool toys. Seriously, these $19.99 toys are more secure than the Hope diamond. Fisher Price has this line of toys called "Little People" -- I'm not sure how the PC Patrol lets them get away with that one, considering that kids will grow up thinking that anyone who is referred to as a "little person" is a 2-inch plastic molded thing with its legs fused together and a big hole in its bottom.

But anyway, there are all kinds of Little People playsets - circus, zoo train, airport, school, playground, maximum security prison compound, etc. etc. We got Molly a few more of these for Christmas, as they are currently her favorite toys in the world. As she opened up the Little People zoo train present, her eyes lit up and she immediately wanted it "opa. OPA!!!" (not Greek flaming cheese, but "open" in Molly-ese). So, Mommy rips open the outer box to find...another box. A box to which every single piece of the 14 piece set is securely anchored by way of titanium-reinforced steel twist-ties, which are then scotch-taped over just in case the 45 twists in each steel tie come undone. Yes, apparently scotch tape is the end-all product in security.

The zoo train is secured to the packaging in multiple locations. The train wheels are separately secured to each other so they don't spin. The little animals on the train are separately SEPARATELY secured, with twist ties around their bodies and I am not kidding you, I think even through their eye sockets.

What, exactly, are the engineering gods at the toy company trying to prevent here? Individual pieces somehow jumping out of the plastic-encased packaging? Thieves who only want to steal the random toy giraffe here and there? Wow, gee, I guess now they'd steal THE WHOLE PACKAGE, because it's easier to diffuse a bomb than get any pieces out of this toy set. Apparently, also, no one at the toy company has children or they would understand the severe danger created for parents who are incapable of ripping through the steel twist-ties and protective plastic, cardboard and omnipresent scotch tape fast enough for the satisfaction of a very impatient toddler who wants to start jamming those cute little animals in her mouth and running the doggy over with the train NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#79 and counting...

Yes, my Scrooginess continues. Here we go...

#79. GETTING REAR ENDED IN YOUR OWN SUBDIVISION because the DAMN HOMEOWNER'S ASSOCIATION that you pay $100 A YEAR to for NO CONCEIVABLE REASON other than to PLANT SOME DAMN TULIPS can't come up with the funds to hire someone to CLEAR THE DAMN STREETS which contain 3 INCHES OF SOLID ICE!!!!!!!!
#78. Shopping with a 19 month old. Anywhere. Anytime. But especially in stores so overpacked with merchandise that the aisles are .00001 micrometers wider than the sides of your shopping cart, and said 19 month old is capable of pulling down breakable items with both arms simultaneously
#77. Creepy friends-of-friends-of-friends at holiday parties
#76. Spending 5x more per person on everyone in your department at work than they spent on you
#75. Waiting to get your annual review at work (today) which will dictate whether #76 is really an issue, or whether you no longer care because you have a nice bonus in your pocket
#74. RADIO STATIONS THAT INSIST ON PLAYING "MY FAVORITE THINGS" FROM "THE SOUND OF MUSIC" AND TRYING TO PASS IT OFF AS A CHRISTMAS SONG. IT'S NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yes it mentions snowflakes and packages but it also mentions dog bites, attacking bees, depression, rain, and SCHNITZEL WITH NOODLES. NOT CHRISTMAS!!!!!
#73. Any Christmas songs sung by Celine Dion, Mariah Carey, any female pop star from 1985-present (please leave Christmas song singing to Karen Carpenter and good ol' boys like Burl Ives and Johnny I-still-can't-accept-that-he's-gay-Mathis)
#72. The silver candy ball thingies that people use to decorate Christmas cookies. I don't trust 'em. God didn't intend for us to eat silver balls. Interpret that as you wish, perverts.
#71. Eggnog. Bleggh.
#70. Shutting your scarf end in the car door and not realizing it til you start walking awayyyyaggggkkkkkk.

More things I hate about winter

Where did I leave off? #89?

#89. HELLACIOUS Christmas decoration displays -- newsflash to my neighbors, there was no giant inflatable holy penguin at the manger. The three wise men did NOT bring white twig-made light up reindeer along. Mickey Mouse and friends did not ride the Xmas train into Bethlehem to pay their respects. And BABY JESUS SHOULD NOT PLUG IN TO AN EXTENSION CORD FOR BETTER NIGHTTIME VIEWING!!!!!!!!!!!!
#88. People who mix big Christmas light bulbs with small ones (DAN), or people who mix the twinkly motion lights with still ones
#87. You know those white-light "net" decorations that are supposed to be thrown over a bush for easy installation? THE BUSH SHOULD NOT BE 14 TIMES THE SIZE OF THE LIGHT NET, giving the impression that the shrubbery has a bad toupee
#86. Boring, trite, grammatically inept Christmas card letters that mention either surgical procedures, pets with infestations of any kind, or the progress of raising the next Einstein because your kid accidentally, once, put the square block through the square hole in the shape sorter instead of trying to shove it up his nose
#85. People who get offended because their kid is singing Christmas carols as part of the third grade holiday/winter pageant
#84. People who get offended because their kid ISN'T singing Christmas carols as part of the third grade holiday/winter pageant (hey, unless the kid is singing "God Bless the KKK" or "I'm Just a Jew at Christmas" from South Park, chances are they don't really care WHAT songs they're singing -- they're more interested in flinging boogers at their classmate on stage)
#83. Lingering illnesses that last from Labor Day til the spring thaw
#82. Trees that insist on standing at a 33 degree angle despite anchoring them to the tree stand, the wall and the floor joists
#81. Pumping gas while wearing gloves, which inevitably STINK for the next three days, although the alternative of getting frostbite while fueling your car makes smelly gloves a slightly better option
#80. Second-rate Christmas specials. Dear networks: please stick to the classics. We don't need to see "Charlie Brown's Adopted Cousin's Christmas Wish"

101 Things I Hate About Winter

I am not going to post all 101 here today. But I think I can come up with that many in the coming weeks.

#101. Trying to put mittens on a toddler who has the attention span of a short-wired eel
#100. SCARF SMELL - the nasty phenomenon that occurs from breathing in your own snot smell when having to wear a scarf over your nose and mouth lest #99 occur...
#99. Your drippy, runny nose instantly freezing into little snotsicles as soon as you set foot outside
#98. Having to get into a freezing cold car that warms up 1 mile before you reach your final destination
#97. MORON MICHIGAN DRIVERS who act like every flake of snow is the first damn one they've EVER seen
#96. Having to wipe up your hardwood and tile floors EVERY day because your husband is incapable of understanding that his size 46 gigundo shoes track in enough snow and slush for the dog to take a bath in
#95. Untangling Christmas lights that you tangled yourself last year because it was so damn cold when you took them down that all you wanted to do was throw them in the box and deal with them next year
#94. Pumping gas in any temperature below 55 degrees
#93. The fact that taking your car to a car wash is rendered pointless 4 seconds after you pull back onto the street and the salt/grime/slush spray re-cakes your vehicle instantaneously
#92. Going from being a very tan white girl to a very very VERY WHITE white girl whose sexy dark hair now looks very goth next to her very white dry flaky skin
#91. The inability to EVER have warm toes, especially in bed
#90. The 45 minutes it takes to get you and your child dressed to go the 10 feet from the front door to the car in the morning, especially when said child thinks that mittens, hats, coats and all other forms of protective, warm clothing are restrictive torture devices that should be removed, hurled or chewed on as promptly as possible

Please, feel free to send me ideas for 89 more things you hate about winter. To any of my readers in warm weather areas who wistfully say "gosh, I WISH it would snow here...snow is so pretty...blah blah blah" and all that other crap that Harry Connick-esque carols have drummed it your brains over the years -- I have one thing to say:

PLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLBLB :P

Say what?

Molly had a delightful time trick-or-treating last night and even managed to keep her bunny ears/hood thing on the whole time! (This photo is from our "Zoo Boo" excursion, which unfortunately came on the same day as our run-face-first-into-a-magazine-rack-excursion -- hence the lovely cut on her face. I have come to the conclusion that we are not going to get photos of this child without some kind of scratch, bruise, cut, welt or other evidence of self-inflicted injury until she graduates from college.)

We kept trying to get her to say "trick or treat" but more often than not the only thing she would say is "woooof! wooooof!" regardless of whether or not any actual woof woofs -- er, dogs -- were within 20 miles. Only a handful of people said "hey, what a handsome little guy" or other such gender-specific commentary, which is understandable since what little hair she has was covered up by said bunny ears/hood thingy.

She was (obviously) a bunny this year, and conveniently has added bunny -- "Buh." pause. pause. pause. Go-make-a-peanut-butter-sandwich, put-the-dog-out, fold-some-laundry, come back. pause. "NEEEEEE" to her vocabulary.

For those of you who have not had the pleasure of carrying on a conversation with a 17 month old who can only say about 15 things, I thought I'd give everyone a lesson in Moll-ese in case you find yourself in a babysitting situation without a translator.

Here are her words, quasi-words, animal sounds and whatnot as of today -- 17 months and a couple of days old:
- Mama, which has recently been replaced with:
- Mom-MEEEEEE
- Dada
- Daddy
- dog (DOHHHH!)
- duck
- HI. HI. HI. HIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHIHI. To anything, everything, everyone, anyone, and no one, 25 hours a day.
- bye and bye-bye
- no. No. NO. NONONONONONONONO
- busssssssss
- uh oh (this is a step up - her first words were uh oh, but for a long time it was just "UH.")
- Melmo (Elmo, the red little Muppet cretin)
- Ernie (ehhhhhh-neeeeee! AKA any Muppet who is not Elmo.)
- Grover (Roh-ruh)
- Bunny (see above)
- Mickey (mouse) -- Mih.....meeeeeeeee
- Baby (baaaaay-beeeeeeeee. NO WE ARE NOT HAVING ANOTHER ONE, SIMMER DOWN, SHE PLAYS WITH BABY DOLLS AT SCHOOL. Sheesh. When she starts saying "wretched morning sickness &^#%!@&#% then you people can start worrying.)
- MAAAAAAOOOOOOOOO! MAAAAAAAAOOOOOO! (this is what a kitty says, by the way. LOUDLY. OFTEN. EXCLAMATIONPOINTILY.
- thank you (dat doooooo)
- Bahavagasha rerrfnassssh babablllllldldldldldd maooo maoooo? HI!!! (translation: I am channeling the spirit of a Bangladeshi goat herder from the year 1634. I eat cats. Hi!)

Bloglets

I have no real topic today so I thought I'd treat you all (all 4 of you still checking this, although I seem to have fallen into a once-a-week-or-less rut) to some random little bloglets....


* Boo hiss on the outcome of the World Series. I was pulling hard for the Astros. Now we enter the black hole of my life, the time between the end of the World Series and the start of Spring Training (yes, on my planet, Spring Training is important enough to deserve capitalization). Once college football ends I REALLY have issues. You know those two days a year - before and after the baseball All Star Game, the only two days where there are NO professional sports played whatsoever??? Worst two days of my year. It's like tomboy PMS.

* Molly's new phrase this week is "dat doo," which for those who do not speak babble-ease, means "thank you" -- I know this because she says it after you hand her something (or she gives you something -- whatever, we'll get the etiquette logistics worked out later). Apparently at daycare this week she has been talking up a storm -- she said "snack" yesterday -- great, now maybe sometime she will want to EAT food rather than just talk about it.

* Molly has been on an eating strike lately, and when you only weigh 22 lbs, "you've lost weight!" is NOT a positive comment. She has a bizarre affinity for pizza and garlic bread though, and has been wolfing down Ensure shakes every morning to add calories. So far her caloric intake each day is about 800 calories, and her output is about 167, 453. NEVER. SITS. STILL. Unless Melmo is on TV.

* Halloween is quickly approaching, and we have a very uncooperative little bunny on our hands who does NOT want to wear her cute bunny ear hood/headpiece thing under any circumstances. We took her to Zoo Boo last weekend to go trick or treating at the Detroit Zoo, and she spent much of the time waddling around like an overstuffed marshmallow since 1) she did NOT want that hood on and 2) she did NOT want ride in the wagon we lugged down 5 flights of parking lot stairs -- she wanted to WALK, thank you, and also did NOT want to hold our hands. None of the scenarios we presented to her were met with much enthusiasm (i.e., be carried, ride in the wagon, or hold our hand - ewww, responsible parenting sucks!!!) so we'll see how we do with the rest of our trick or treat adventures. And to those parents who think that taking young children out for trick or treating is a devious, underhanded way for parents to eat candy while exploiting their children --

Yup. Sure is. Payback time from our own childhoods. I think my dad convinced me that I HATED Snickers bars as a kid, solely so he could swipe them out of my pumpkin pail. If anyone talks to Molly, pass along that she can't STAND peanut butter cups and M&Ms. Please reiterate that dislike early and often so it's stuck in her head for all eternity, and I am 13,000 calories richer because of it this weekend.

I told you I had nothing interesting to write about, so I'll sign off. Went to the doctor yesterday and yes, I am still certifiably crazy -- nope, they haven't developed a cure for irrational emotional nutcakiness yet. Damn.

Banned Books

I am stealing this post directly and shamelessly from my friend Heather's blog -- the 100 most banned and challenged books from 1990 through 2000.

The ones in bold are the ones I've read. Some of the things people ban or challenge are just incredible. I mean seriously. "How to Eat Fried Worms"????? Who does this offend?!?! Are fried worms too tempting for those on Atkins that we should remove all traces of them from our kids' bookshelves in an attempt to cure childhood obesity? Would "How to Eat Zero-Trans-Fat Worms" be more acceptable?!?

"Anastasia Krupnik"??? Seriously???? I have no problem banning Howard Stern's "Private Parts," only because he is a moron and no one should have to be subjected to reading anything about him. But anyway, I hope this encourages others to steal this list and evaluate their reading history as well...Sadly, for an English major, there are many I should read/should have read already -- kind of pathetic that half of the banned books I've read on this list are courtesy of Stephen King or Judy Blume.


1. Scary Stories (Series) by Alvin Schwartz
2. Daddy’s Roommate by Michael Willhoite
3. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou
4. The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier
5. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
6. Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
7. Harry Potter (Series) by J.K. Rowling
8. Forever by Judy Blume
9. Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Paterson
10. Alice (Series) by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor
11. Heather Has Two Mommies by Leslea Newman
12. My Brother Sam is Dead by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier
13. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
14. The Giver by Lois Lowry
15. It’s Perfectly Normal by Robie Harris
16. Goosebumps (Series) by R.L. Stine
17. A Day No Pigs Would Die by Robert Newton Peck
18. The Color Purple by Alice Walker
19. Sex by Madonna
20. Earth’s Children (Series) by Jean M. Auel
21. The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Paterson
22. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle
23. Go Ask Alice by Anonymous
24. Fallen Angels by Walter Dean Myers
25. In the Night Kitchen by Maurice Sendak
26. The Stupids (Series) by Harry Allard
27. The Witches by Roald Dahl
28. The New Joy of Gay Sex by Charles Silverstein
29. Anastasia Krupnik (Series) by Lois Lowry
30. The Goats by Brock Cole
31. Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane
32. Blubber by Judy Blume
33. Killing Mr. Griffin by Lois Duncan
34. Halloween ABC by Eve Merriam
35. We All Fall Down by Robert Cormier
36. Final Exit by Derek Humphry
37. The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood (Mel's note: this is FANTASTIC)
38. Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George
39. The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
40. What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Girls: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Daughters by Lynda Madaras
41.To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
42. Beloved by Toni Morrison
43. The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton
44. The Pigman by Paul Zindel
45. Bumps in the Night by Harry Allard
46. Deenie by Judy Blume
47. Flowers for Algernon by Daniel Keyes
48. Annie on my Mind by Nancy Garden
49. The Boy Who Lost His Face by Louis Sachar
50. Cross Your Fingers, Spit in Your Hat by Alvin Schwartz
51. A Light in the Attic by Shel Silverstein
52. Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
53. Sleeping Beauty Trilogy by A.N. Roquelaure (Anne Rice)
54. Asking About Sex and Growing Up by Joanna Cole
55. Cujo by Stephen King
56. James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl
57. The Anarchist Cookbook by William Powell
58. Boys and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
59. Ordinary People by Judith Guest
60. American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis
61. What’s Happening to my Body? Book for Boys: A Growing-Up Guide for Parents & Sons by Lynda Madaras
62. Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume
63. Crazy Lady by Jane Conly
64. Athletic Shorts by Chris Crutcher
65. Fade by Robert Cormier
66. Guess What? by Mem Fox
67. The House of Spirits by Isabel Allende
68. The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline Cooney
69. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
70. Lord of the Flies by William Golding
71. Native Son by Richard Wright
72. Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed Women’s Fantasies by Nancy Friday
73. Curses, Hexes and Spells by Daniel Cohen
74. Jack by A.M. Homes
75. Bless Me, Ultima by Rudolfo A. Anaya
76. Where Did I Come From? by Peter Mayle
77. Carrie by Stephen King
78. Tiger Eyes by Judy Blume
79. On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer
80. Arizona Kid by Ron Koertge
81. Family Secrets by Norma Klein
82. Mommy Laid An Egg by Babette Cole
83. The Dead Zone by Stephen King
84. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
85. Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
86. Always Running by Luis Rodriguez
87. Private Parts by Howard Stern
88. Where’s Waldo? by Martin Hanford
89. Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene
90. Little Black Sambo by Helen Bannerman
91. Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett
92. Running Loose by Chris Crutcher
93. Sex Education by Jenny Davis
94. The Drowning of Stephen Jones by Bette Greene
95. Girls and Sex by Wardell Pomeroy
96. How to Eat Fried Worms by Thomas Rockwell
97. View from the Cherry Tree by Willo Davis Roberts
98. The Headless Cupid by Zilpha Keatley Snyder
99. The Terrorist by Caroline Cooney
100. Jump Ship to Freedom by James Lincoln Collier and Christopher Collier

Experts Announce New, Highly-Effective Method of Birth Control!!

It's called "stay at home with your sick child." I guarantee it'll knock the potential future reproductive vibes right outta your procreation tool of choice (it is effective for both male AND female users).

Molly has been sick since, roughly, the 4th of July -- just had a sinus infection and a week later ended up with a nasty virus of some sort that decided to manifest itself in her lower eyelid. What? You didn't know this was possible? Oh, indeedy. You learn all kinds of wonderful medical mysteries when your child is ill.

The other night she woke up crying, and when I touched her, the mommy-hand-thermometer instantly registered in the "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON!!!" range. I took her temp using the handy dandy ear thermometer, which at any other time she likes to chew on - we knew she was legitimately sick when she didn't try to gnaw on the probe or club one of us to death with it.

104.3, which is too close to the end of the radio dial for my comfort. We knew we had a dreaded task ahead of us, one that would require all of our colletive fortitude, strength and cunning.

We had to use the rectal thermometer.

For those of you who don't have kids (and therefore probably still harbor a desire to have sex again, at some point), ear thermometers are accurate, but rectal thermometers apparently are the pinnacle of precision. Children who still chew on crib slats like a deranged beaver cannot be trusted to hold a poison-filled glass mercury stick in their mouths, so to get the most accurate reading and see if that 104.3 is really HIGHER than you think, thus necessitating a trip to the ER or at least a panicked phone call to Grandma, you have to resort to the ol' butt stick method.

The "What to Expect: The Toddler Years" mush-covered lovey version of how to do this is like: "Gently insert one inch (ONE INCH!?!?! The kid is 33 inches tall!!! You are not sticking something 1/33 of the way into ME via that particular orifice!!!!) of the thermometer into the rectum, using a generous amount of lubricant (yes, because that makes the baby MUCH less likely to want to disintegrate you with its laser baby death ray eyes)...hold for TWO MINUTES, applying gentle pressure to the buttocks to keep the thermometer in place."

TWO MINUTES?!?!?!!? This is a child who will not stand still and watch (M)Elmo for more than 11 seconds at a time. And you want me to shove a cold stick of glass covered in Vaseline a fair amount of space into her butt, knowing WHAT COMES OUT OF SAID BUTT at any point in time, and HOLD IT THERE for TWO MINUTES?!?!?!?!?! The book suggests singing to the child, or rubbing its back.

At at time like this, when you are trying not to lose your grip on the little glass stick of death and accidentally ram it far enough in to cause another belly button protrusion, you are NOT thinking "hmmm, I wonder what that 4th verse of 'If You're Happy And You Know It' is??" I can tell you it is NOT "If you're happy and you know it, stick a thermometer up your ass and THAT'LL wipe the smile off your damn face!!!!" Although it should be.

Molly was sick enough that honestly, she really didn't put up that much of a fight during this ordeal. Dan and I were more traumatized than she was. Over the next 3 days she developed an eye infection and coughed up half a lung (which I'm sure she subsequently fed to the dog, as regurgitated Molly food is one of his favorites), and was forced to stay home from daycare for three whole days.

That's three whole days of Mommy and/or Daddy watching endless amounts of "Franklin" and "Little Bear" and "Regular Bear" and a whole lot of other bears, and Sesame Street, and Disney movies, and so on and so on. None of that sounds like a particularly bad gig in and of itself, but throw in a snot-covered, temper-tantrum-throwing, pick-me-up-no-put-me-DOWN, food throwing, Mommy-slapping little firecracker whose sleep schedule is off and who just feels YUCKY, DAMMIT, and Mommy's magic wand can't fix the problem -- well, it's not a good time.

This morning when Daddy and Mommy AND Molly left the house, on our way back to work and daycare as usual, I am certain that Murphy breathed a huge sigh of relief to have the house back to himself and no one chasing him around trying to wipe their drippy nose on his tail. Molly wasn't very nice to him, either.

Finding Melmo

Sheesh, the pressure! I'm starting to feel like Marlin the clownfish in "Finding Nemo" -- "Hey, you're a clownfish? Say something funny!!"

Write something funny, WRITE SOMETHING, DAMMIT!!!! I didn't realize how many of my friends and loyal readers (all three of them) depend on this blog to entertain themselves during horrendously boring meetings and conference calls. Alright alright, I'll try to do better.

HALLELUJAH, we finally found something else Molly will eat for dinner besides chicken nuggets EVERY DAMN DAY OF THE WEEK PLEASE GOD MAKE THEM STOP HAUNTING MY DREAMS!!!!!!

Last night we had Noodles and Company for dinner because, well, it being a day that ends in "y" meant that I was not going to cook anything. I had my usual healthy staple, buttered noodles with parmesan and chicken, extra cheese thank you very much. Molly finally decided that pasta might not be such a bad thing (phew - I was starting to doubt she was mine. Thank God for the mother-daughter resemblance or people would REALLY wonder) and took a tentative bite of my greasy, butterific noodles.

And another.

And another.

Did I mention that in addition to signing for "more," she can now SAY "more"?? In the span of 15 minutes she ate half my bowl of noodles and yelled "more" so many times she sounded like a broken record of "Oliver."

Except that in "Oliver," the cute little urchin says very politely, "Please, sir, may I have some mohhhhr?" in a very proper British accent; and my cute little urchin says "MAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!" and points at the object of desire with more precision than a champion German shorthair on a duck hunt.

Her vocabulary has been growing by leaps and ba's lately, which is dangerous considering she is getting much more adept at parroting what people say and she does, unfortunately, live in a home where her two parents have spectacular linguistic range when watching sports -- none of it suitable for children under 25.

My friend Kathy could tell you all about this danger, as her little miss A was the delight of many a party as she was learning to talk, and her daddy yelled at a Michigan football player named McClintock who screwed up some play or another (as Michigan players are increasingly wont to do) -- "Way to go, McClinCOCK!!!!"

Miss A gleefully piped in, "Cock. COCK!!" and repeated this ad nauseum (fueled, no doubt, by the rest of the grownups who kept asking her to say it -- none of us parents yet at this point, so none of us realizing this behavior would one day come back to bite us in the ass. Butt. Heinie. See, I am incapable of censoring.)

Much to the dismay of several probably-much-better-at-this-than-me mommies I know and love, Molly loves to watch TV (specifically Sesame Street), and LOVES the Sesame Street characters. Of course, making Mommy want to put her head in a nutcracker and smash it to bits, her favorite Muppet is Elmo. Mommy wonders how she made it through her own entire childhood without this annoying pronounically challenged interloper popping up all over Sesame Street, but alas, he is now a regular fixture and, alas even more, (alasier?) he is firmly ingrained in Molly's limited vocabulary.

"Melmo. MELMO? MELMO!!!!!"

Sigh.

She is also a big fan of Ernie ("Heinie!") and Grover ("roh-rov?" not sure about that one yet), and -- gasp, horror or horrors, her favorite thing to play with at daycare? DOLLS. WHO IS THIS KID AND SERIOUSLY, HOW DID SHE COME FROM MY DNA?!?!?! Of course, every doll regardless of age or gender is "Baby."

To those who scoff at the notion of kids learning from TV, yesterday, while watching Sesame Street, the letter of the day was "B" and there was a segment where a big yellow schoolbus drove across the screen. Molly looked up at me and said "busssssss." Kind of in a tone like "God, you big dummy, see that thing?? It's a BUS. Catch up, mommy."

I thought maybe I was high from the chicken finger fumes so I ran to get her plastic school bus, sat it in front of her, and said "Molly, what's this?"

"BUSSSSSSS."

Well, thank God we can watch Jerome Bettis now and she'll know what to say.

I'm off -- I have to go find Melmo. Elmo. Nemo. My sanity. Whatever.

Addendum from yesterday....

I remembered some more songs that I routinely butcher.

Bobby Brown's "My Prerogative" -- "Don't get me wrong, I'm really not sick. Eagle chips is not my thing."

Well hell, they wouldn't be my thing either. I much prefer vulture chips. Eagle chips DO tend to make you a little nauseous.

Rage Against the Machine, AKA Rage Against Anything Intelligible -- "Bulls On Parade" -- "Rarry rarry rarry, with a pocket full of shells. Ra-rarry ra-ra-rarry, with a pocket full of shells." Sounds like Scooby Doo trying to sing about Sargeant Larry.

Pearl Jam -- "Can't Find the Velamints"

Bon Jovi -- "Livin' on a Prayer" -- for many years I sang "Gina wants to die of old age..." and -- frighteningly, I JUST LOOKED THIS UP -- did you know the lyrics are actually "working for her man, She brings home her pay for love...for love." ???? Well slap me upside the head with a deaf rubber chicken. Until 14 seconds ago I thought it was "Workin' for 'the man,' she's free to work back for love...for love" Hey, who knows? "The Man" can be very demanding!! And here all this time I thought he was pimpin' Gina, and Tommy just let him get away with it. Phew. So good to know the truth.

There Goes My Hero...Sergeant Larry

For someone whose entire education and subsequent career have focused on language and communication, I have a frightening lack of comprehension when it comes to hearing and repeating song lyrics. Frightening, also, because of the sheer volume of song lyrics I KNOW - ranging from early broadway to whatever Kanye West is muttering through his latest jaw operation. If you could actually clear out the portion of my brain that contains obscure song titles, artists and lyrics from 1980-1990, I might actually be able to comprehend and store other useful knowledge -- like, math. Or logic.

But as it is, there is no room for such triviality in a mind cluttered with idiotic and usually completely inaccurate song lyrics. And while I can freely admit those songs whose lyrics escape me, I still sing them anyway -- loudly and proudly and wrongly and lots of other adverbs.

Hearing a Foo Fighters song in the car today reminded me of this affliction -- the song is "There Goes My Hero" -- and the line right after that in the chorus is "He's ordinary." Or so my husband says. But as we all know, enunciation is not cool when you are an alt-punk-quasi-mainstream-band-with-a-nonsensical name, so I firmly believe that what I am hearing are the correct words -- "There goes my he-rooooh, Sergeant Larry."

And then we have Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart," which for the last 20-odd years has contained the lyrics (at least in my head) "livin' in a pony keg and giving up sparks." All I can think of is a little electrified, short-circuited troll swimming around inside a shrunken beer container.

Abba's "Take a Chance On Me" -- why the hell would they be singing "Honey I'm still free?" I was like 5 when I first heard this song, so from there on out it has been "Ollie Oxen Free" and the song was, clearly, written about hide and seek.

Britney Spears' "Toxic" (yes, I own more than one Britney Spears album) -- "it's the taste of a poison paragraph"

There are some songs I can't hear without laughing -- Alanis Morrisette's "You Oughta Know," in which I DO know what she's saying, but it's far more amusing to think about "the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me" than the "cross I bear." Picturing a deformed carnival prize here.

From "Live and Let Die," the line "this ever changing world in which we live IN" makes my English major sensibilities want to ball up into the fetal position.

I'm sure there are a zillion more but for now, I need to go see if there's already a fan club started for sergeant Larry.

Closet Tag

ARRRRRRRGH!!!!!! I had this whole post typed out and then did some funky computer illiterate thing to it and lost it. So now I have to START OVER with only the first 3-4 paragraphs able to be recovered. If this gets unfunny FAST, it's because I already used up my allotment of wit on the first draft. RASSIN FRASSIN!!!!!


Let me start off by saying yes, I realize I have become an immense slacker on this blog -- I guess I feel that if ya don't have anything funny/witty/sarcastic/brilliant to say, don't say anything at all -- so you can guess how exciting I have been for the last week or so. I believe I am still in the throes of "post-show letdown," the bleggggh feeling we all get immediately after the last cast party wraps up whenever we do a theater production and realize that yes, indeed, our real lives DID wait for us, and so did our laundry, dishes, child who has learned to throw a 95 MPH fastball/fastblock/fastjuicecup, spouse, job, etc. Rats.

So anyway, as I was contemplating which aspect of my run of the mill life to tackle as I ease back into trying to make my friends expel carbonated beverages out of their nasal passages at least once a day (or, if you're Rachel, far more often than that), I was informed by one of my imaginary online friends (I have a whole posse of them. They are scary) that I had been blog-tagged or something along those lines -- kind of like those "fill out this survey and tell us about yourself, then copy and paste it and send to your friends" things that everyone bitches about getting but everyone does anyway.

The purpose of this "blog tag" is to share information that will probably interest -- well, no one -- about your closet (your real, physical one -- not the psychological one that several people I know are stuck between the bifold doors of -- "Am I in? Out? Drunk? All of the above?")


I have been tagged by my cyber pal Tess -- http://archwords.blogspot.com. For the record, I don't know how to make it so you click on the name and it links to their site -- I will work on that later. One thing at a time, folks. Here we go:

Three Random Facts About My Closet:
1) The sliding mirrored doors are covered from ground level to 32 inches above ground level in a delightful blend of fingerprints, dog slobber and baby snot
2) There are four sections of closet in our bedroom -- three of them are mine, as are the two separate closets in the extra room
3) I hate the mirrored doors

Three Items I've Never Worn But Still Haven't Tossed:
1) A DKNY wool suit that is unlined and ITCHY
2) A black corduroy skirt from Arden B. that collects too much lint to be useful
3) A tighter-than-it-looks-on-the-hanger black skirt from Express that I try on every few months in the feeble hope that my ass and thighs will have STOPPED looking like Snausages being held against their will. No luck so far.

Three Items I'll Never Get Rid Of, No Matter How Ugly They Get:
1) The Notre Dame sweatshirt I got during my first visit to campus when I was a junior in high school, despite having more holes than the theory of intelligent design
2) My stretched out obnoxious orange Tigers sweatshirt
3) My Jay Bell/Pittsburgh Pirates authentic jersey circa 1991

Three Items People Wouldn't Expect To Find In My Closet:
1) Sensible shoes. I DO own some, I just don't choose to wear them
2) A Michigan cheerleading outfit
3) A fuzzy fleece mom-looking robe

Three items that made me go, "Oh Lord, what was I thinking?":
1) A tight wool-blend sweater from Ann Taylor -- makes a mockery of my non-cleavage AND IT'S WOOL, which I hate. Not sure why, at the time, I was convinced that particular blend of wool would be the first ever to not annoy the crap out of me. It wasn't.
2) Anything with a plunging neckline
3) A red mini-skirt suit from the Limited that would work on "Ally McBeal" but not in any real corporate setting unless I was the paid all-male happy hour entertainment

Three things that I have a surprising number of:
1) Suits -- 25 or 30? Despite the fact that I have not had a job that required wearing a suit every day since -- well -- ever. Guess I am prepared for a string of 25 interviews or funerals in a row.
2) Scarves, considering I only wear them during theater shows onstage
3) Shoes, although it doesn't surprise anyone to hear that. Probably 50-60 pairs.

Three dominant colors in my wardrobe:
1) Orange. Lots of it.
2) Black
3) Notre Dame

Three items that never fail to put me in a good mood whenever I wear them:
1) Great fitting jeans
2) One of my favorite sweaters on a 50 degree fall day
3) Suck-it-in brief thingies, which, along with a water bra, make all outfits look better and are the answer to "how can you EAT like that and still be that size???"

Three people I will tag:
1)

Heather

because she needs a kick in the blogging booty
2)

Aerin

although she has much better things to be doing right now -- like, having a child -- than blogging about her closets
3)

Kara

-- because she is funny and probably has some weird skeletons in there

Giving Summer the Boot

Here in Michigan, the seasons of the year are 1) nasty DAMN cold sloppy winter 2) nasty cold sloppy spring 3) 400% humidity summer and 4) road construction. I was lamenting the passing of summer this morning as I experienced a creepy sensation -- you know, kind of like when your hands keep buzzing after you push a lawnmower around for an hour or you have no feeling around a big scar -- I was forced to put actual whole-foot-covering footwear on for the first time in five months.

Given that I own, without exaggeration, probably 40 pairs of sandals, and also that I have very, VERY weird toe-constricting issues (one wonders how I did ballet en pointe for years), I look forward to the ability to feel the wind and rain and dog slobber on my naked podiatric digits from May til whenever-it-gets-really-really-crappy-in-Michigan.

I was disheartened this morning to have to put on BOOTS since 1) it was raining and 2) I would be spending the morning walking around in the dirt (aka mud) at a construction site. I cringed as I pulled up a pair of Dan's socks -- I despise trouser socks for women and all of my boots come up to my knees so I routinely steal Dan's nice Calvin Klein socks to wear under dress pants and leave him having to fend for his black loafers with a pair of grass-stained sweat socks. Sorry honey. Feel free to do the laundry if you want clean socks more frequently.

It took me a few minutes to retrieve a complete pair of matching non-sandals this morning, as one of the only ways for us to keep Molly occupied in the morning while we get ready is to let her empty my shoe closet -- thus most of my shoes live in single pieces with the mate somewhere lost under the bed, behind the toilet or shoved in a trash can. She is also obsessed with emptying my underwear drawer, but we won't go there.

I morosely jammed my feet into one of my 4 pairs of black knee high boots (yes, DAN, they are all different and yes I DO NEED THEM ALL.) and when I started to walk out of the room, my feet were gripped with a horrible claustrophobic feeling akin to walking around in casts. I had to check about 40 times during the day to make sure my boots were indeed on the correct feet -- it felt THAT WEIRD to be wearing actual foot-covering shoes. My beautiful (well, beautiful is a stretch. Tolerable.) polished toes were screaming in constrained agony beneath a vacuum seal of black leather.

It really truly feels ICKY to be wearing boots, and it's equally icky to know that summer is being booted out the door. Sigh. The only way to combat (oh, ouch. combat. boots. ha, ha, de ha ha ha) this malaise is, of course, to go buy some more shoes. Better stock up on sandals for next year - God knows how many more Molly will manage to lose before next season.

Those pages of the manual must be missing

There are so many things they don't tell you about parenthood in the nifty "How to Be a Great Parent or at Least Keep Child Protective Services One Step Behind You" manual that all new parents get.

If they told you the truth about pregnancy, labor and/or birth, no one would have sex. Ever. I seriously do not understand how people have more than one child -- did you FORGET the hemorrhoids?? Puking? Heartburn? Having your innards ripped out on a steel table so the doctors can get to the little slime-covered pasty squirming alien that has taken residence between your bladder and your bowels for nine (err, seven) months???

We experienced one of those great moments of parenthood this morning which is only amusing to other parents, when Molly ran over to our full-length closet door mirrors to give herself "kisses" which she loves to do, imparting slobber 32 inches off the ground across a full wall of glass -- only this time, she ran up to it and sneezed and thus covered a two-foot-square swatch of mirror with bright green snot and boogers. Then proceeded to finger paint with it, all while laughing hysterically and alternately licking her hand and running it through her hair.

Oh, the joy.

Among the other items I must have missed when speed reading that manual:

- Yes, a being that small REALLY CAN produce that much poop despite eating only breast milk and the occasional bug. And it really can smell THAT BAD.

- Sticking your finger in your child's mouth to assess their teething progress should only be attempted while wearing one of those chain-link gloves worn by shark documentary makers

- The more disgusting the dog toy, the more appealing it will be as a food item for your child

- Baby carrots do NOT come out of clothing, whether spilled, barfed or pooped

- Believe it or not, grown ups without children do NOT enjoy hearing about the consistency of anything that comes out of your child's body

- Enjoy that carrier car seat while you can. The second they outgrow it you have one of those "well NOW what??" moments when you realize you cannot neatly transfer them from car to store or house or whatever without unstrapping them, rooting through your backseat for whatever toy or piece of lint they were chewing on and then threw on the floor and now CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT, finding the left shoe they managed to take off and throw at your dashboard while you're driving, cleaning pretzel pieces off of every surface in the car because pretzels are for THROWING, not eating, silly Mommy...

- Anyone who says their kid is "great, an angel" in restaurants either 1) only takes them in to pick something up from the to-go counter or 2) is on crack. There is NO SUCH THING as a great kid in a restaurant, unless it's asleep in its carrier car seat; again, see above for the logic of why you should only eat at home, on a large plastic mat, naked, once they are big enough to get out of the car carrier.

- You will never get your old body back 100% without surgery or photo retouching. Sorry. You might weigh less, but you will acquire hips or lumps or squooshiness in areas you previously were OK with showing in a bikini

There are many more items I seem to have overlooked in the parenting manual, several of which I'm sure are still to come. Please remind me of all these things should I ever entertain the notion of doing this AGAIN.

Kathy - you must have lost the whole book ;)

Random observations from the weekend

This was a crazy-busy weekend, one in which I traveled about 300 miles between home and Ann Arbor (much of it on foot, wearing insensible footwear -- the only kind I own). I attended a bachelorette party, the Notre Dame-Michigan football game, a theater gala, and dress rehearsal for "West Side Story," while Molly basked in the undiluted attention of her Ohio grandparents (following whose departure this child never fails to be completely off her sleep schedule or get sick, both of which promptly occurred this time. I think my mother dopes her milk so that the child will be a mess when she leaves, thus ensuring that Grandma MUST return as soon as possible so as to right all the wrongs that Daddy and I surely impart on a daily basis).

I'll start with Friday night, in which I drove from work to home (15 miles), from home to Ann Arbor and back (60 miles round trip) and walked the length of Ann Arbor and back in 3 inch heeled strappy sandals so that our gang of skimpily-clad primarily over-30 primarily mothers of infants and toddlers (and one fetus in progress) could escort someone wearing a circa 1985 wedding veil plus a veil adorned with plastic penises (penii?) to a gay bar.

Observation #1: There is no higher compliment than an extremely gay man wearing a pink plastic lei telling you "you are FABulous," especially when he does so inside a coed bathroom whose surfaces are not even safe for the bottom of your shoe to touch without fear of instant disintegration. It was the best compliment I have received in MONTHS.

Observation #2: A gay bar is an ingenious place for a group of women wearing various iterations of hoochie black tank tops and sassy pants coupled with nursing bras and an unborn child to tear up the dance floor with absolutely NO reaction from the people around you and no need to feel self conscious. We were like man repellent -- and even the lesbians didn't give us a second look.

Observation #3: Even after two beers and a shot of who knows what, there is no logical explanation for Tiffany's musical career.

Observation #4: Don't attempt to dance on a stripper pole or a stair railing unless you've properly warmed up.

Observation #5: Despite your best efforts, you (straight white girl in the tank top and black pants -- i.e., me and everyone I was with) are NOT "THE" Dancing Queen in a gay bar, no matter how violently you dance to the song. The lovely man wearing a blue beehive and a plaid dress has you beat on all counts.


We left the club at 12:30 or so Friday night and returned home, only to find a child who despite being perfectly healthy when we left her in her Grandma's care (read above about my theory), had now come down with a hearty cold and woke up several times screaming her snot-caked little lungs out before Mommy hauled her into bed at 1 am. She proceeded to wake up mewling like a wounded kitten at least 27 times between 1 and 6 am, at which time I took her into her room and tried rocking her as a last resort. This apparently was great fun -- she wanted NOTHING to do with going back to sleep, but was content to smile at me and lay peacefully on my lap -- peacefully, with the exception of continually poking me in the eye and saying "dada." Fun times.

She finally went to sleep around 7, which left me a whole hour to sleep in before we were due to get up and get ready to drive BACK to Ann Arbor, allegedly at 9 am, to get to the game in plenty of time to tailgate prior to the should-not-be-allowed-to-do-this-to-sports-fans 12 noon start time.

Ha.

We left the house around 10:15, much to the chagrin of my houseguests (my best friend from ND and her husband, who is also my friend, and was before they even started dating, but I know it pisses him off to be described as my friend's husband. nyah) who are well accustomed to my timeframe which generally means I leave or arrive at least an hour later than I ever intend to. My last timely entrance to anything was my own birth in 1975.

We finally walked into the game about 2 hours later. Some observations on the ND-Michigan game:
Observation #1): Wearing shirts that say "RUDY SUCKS!" is NOT an insult to ND people. If they said "NO SHIT, SHERLOCK" on the back, we'd probably sell them at the student center on our own campus.

Observation #2): Whatever academic ranking Michigan boasts should be lowered by about 17 notches given that the two best anti-opponent chants they can come up with as a student body are "F*** THE IRISH!" (clap clap clapclapclap) and this particularly witty one, chanted to a weird funeral dirge type thing played by the band:
YOOOOOU. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUCK. YOU-OO-OO SUUUUUUUUCK, YOOOOOU, SUUUUUCK. SUCK!!!"

Wowee, that last one REALLY drives the nail into the coffin.

Observation #3): GOD is it great to be a woman at sporting events, the only time you can walk past the men's room line and LAUGH

Observation #4): Dan and I may as well have been wearing spit-up stained shirts and holding dirty diapers, given how obvious our parenthood was as we stood in the student section -- at one point, something on the field made us simultaneously yell something in the voice of Elmo speaking to Mr. Noodle, and worse yet, we both found it hysterical.

Observation #5): Get over the "maize" people -- 90% of you wear fluorescent yellow or something closer to what you'd find on a paint chip labeled "buttercream."


From the game, we drove back home (another 30 miles), arrived at 6:15 pm, and by 6:45 were back out the door to attend a theater gala another 30 miles away. Did I mention how swell it is that both of us drive gas-guzzling trucks??

I believe the purpose of this gala was to showcase the different performing groups that appear during the year at this gorgeous new theater complex -- one of which is a new theatre company that I am involved in. By the way, yes, it's "theatre" when it's the troupe you're talking about -- "theater" is the building. Either that or we just like to spell things the pretentious British way, which makes every word look more sophisticated. Glamour. Colour. Booubies. Just stick a "u" in there and voila, instant status upgrade.

Anyway, we mercifully left after intermission, having done our duty in supporting our own little theatre company which looked positively Broadway-bound amidst the other acts that were showcased. We left with very full stomachs, a contraband wine glass (good job, honey) and an appreciation for how talented our regular theatre group really is. Oh, and the knowledge that even the worst performances can be forgiven with an open bar and an unlimited Don Pablo's buffet.

I spent my EARLY Sunday morning watching Noggin and trying to sprint to Molly's nose with a wad of Kleenex before she even finished sneezing, since she has displayed record speed in going from sneezing to running snot-covered hands through her hair in about .3 seconds.

Her new word this week is "uh-oh!" which she gleefully exclaims about 400 times a day. At first she would actually WAIT for something to occur which would elicit an "uh-oh" -- for example, a spoon falling on the floor or a toy slipping off a table -- but now, she more or less warns us so that "UH-OH!" has become code for "I AM ABOUT TO HURL SOMETHING, MOST LIKELY SOMETHING THAT WILL STAIN, AT EITHER YOUR HEAD, CLOTHES OR CARPET!! HA HA!!!" The dog leaves the immediate area so quickly when she rears back to toss something that you can almost see the three cartoon speed lines and a puff of smoke trailing him. He's learned that it's safer to snuffle around for food after she has left the area instead of lurking next to her and getting yet another SpongeBob Squarepants animal cracker lodged in his eye.

Sunday evening I returned to Ann Arbor AGAIN as we started dress rehearsals for "West Side Story." Back home at 11:15 pm (60 miles round trip) so that I can start the whole mess again tomorrow. I'm off to go put another $180 worth of gas in my car that will be gone by this evening...

GO IRISH!!

Molly + Sailboat = ARRRGGGGGH

I am not good with math in general (as in, I cannot make change from a dollar for something that costs 50 cents), but I am CERTAIN that my math in the title of this entry is RIGHT ON THE MONEY.

I have nothing and everything to write about today, so humor me because if I continue to write about the atrocities that have happened and continue to unfold in the wake of Katrina, I will be forced to take all the pills in my possession and believe me that is a LOT of drugs.

We spent this past weekend "up north" with Dan's family at their "cottage" on a "lake." First of all, EVERYONE in Michigan goes "up north," even if that only entails driving 20 minutes sort of in a north-east-westerly direction from your house. Technically I go "up north" when I drive to work every day. We did not have this phenomenon in Cleveland when I was growing up, as "up north" meant "Lake Erie" which meant "cesspool of hypodermic needles." But in Michigan, you ain't nobody til you got a place "up north," as I quickly learned.

I first went to the "cottage" with my then-boyfriend-now-thank-god-no-longer-sick-and-driving-me-to-the-edge-of-sanity-really-REALLY-needs-a-haircut-please-note-this-does-NOT-mean-shave-your-head-you-dumbnut-husband about six weeks after we started dating in the winter of 1999-2000. I had a boyfriend in Cleveland whose family had a cottage in New Hampshire where his family and I would vacation every summer -- it was about 200 square feet, wood, with a toilet that ran on battery flushing and a shower that delivered about a half-cup of water per hour. It was great though, and in the wilderness, and on a beautiful inland lake, so of course this is what I was prepared to see when Dan invited me to go "up north" to his family's "cottage."

The "cottage" is about 2000 square feet, with a master suite bigger than my entire first floor, room to sleep about 72 people of varying sizes (although I believe the fire marshall would only approve about 40, those other 30-or-so -- see, I'm not actually going to figure out the number -- pile in strictly for the waffles), a never ending supply of beer and froofy drinks, a ginormous yard that, when we eventually got Murphy and started bringing him up, was about the closest thing to Doggy Nirvana he could possibly imagine, jet skis, a private beach (now that it has been dug out of 29 feet of sludge caused by weird coastal erosion, it is much more conducive to laying out without feeling like you are succumbing to the La Brea tar pits), etc.

This cottage is inexplicably called the Blue Goose, which is super because the entire building is pink. I'm sure it made sense at some point. Anyway, this is the "big" cottage -- they also own a rental cottage that is still 5 times the size of what I was expecting, albeit more cottage-esque in its circa 1974 decor. We still get booted to the rental cottage when there is an influx of actual grown ups staying at the big cottage, although having a baby is a great trump card since Grandma and Grandpa adore her. I should say, if they had their way, they would boot Dan and I out and just keep Molly, and frankly, there are many mornings at 6 am where this is a very welcome suggestion.

Anyway, Dan's family is from all over the surrounding "up north" area, including Bad Axe, MI which my San Francisco-native boss still snickers at everytime I say it. I believe he is starting an official petition to the governor to have it renamed "Bad Ass." Hey, we already have Climax and Hell, MI -- why not Bad Ass?

So this past weekend, as is common for all major sun-worthy holidays, hordes of Hearsches descended on the "big cottage" to, in this order, 1) slobber over our child 2) buy our child toys 3) buy our child clothes 4) drag our child around to "be seen" 5) eat. a lot. 6) drink 7) play about 900 rounds of Tripoly, a card/gambling type game that this family has managed to turn into tribal warfare 8) yell at the TV during various sporting events 9) yell at each other because this is the loudest family on earth 10) sleep

Somewhere during the course of all that, Grandma and Grandpa and I decided it would be precious to take Molly out for her first sailboat ride. Now that she can walk like a pro, and likes being outside, and likes the beach and the sun and all that good stuff, we figured this would be a groovy little outing.

Har.

Considering this child does not want to be touched by so much as your FINGER when she is walking, and god forbid you should try to cuddle, hug, kiss or get within 3 feet of her without wearing body armor, I don't know why we thought she was going to be keen on wearing her very cute, very orange, very CONSTRICTING baby lifejacket. We lumbered onto the boat, got settled, and attempted to strap this 21 pound ball of fire into a restraining device.

I look like I was fighting with a mountain lion, and I wasn't even the one strapping her in. Then, because it was 85 degrees and sunny, we had to put a sun hat on little miss baldy pants, which was about as successful as the Tigers' recent offense (for you non sport types, that means it SUCKED). So as Grandpa is motoring the boat out past the breakwall and onto the lake -- oh, did I mention this is LAKE HURON?? As in, really really really BIG LAKE with waves and everything -- I am trying to hold onto a very, VERY disgruntled orange flotilla with flailing appendages who is trying to alternately claw my eyes out of their sockets and crawl back into the womb to escape the rocking motion of the below-deck cabin.

About 10 minutes into our trip, the cabin below had reached a temperature somewhere between 85 degrees and pottery kiln, and the rocking motion was doing GREAT things to mommy, queen of the claustrophobes. I do NOT get seasick, never have in my life. But trying to calm her down while swaying and lurching was not going well with the 9000 calories worth of breakfast sloshing around in my stomach.

In short, it wasn't a very long sail. We did finally get her up on deck, and she stopped crying long enough to eat some animal crackers and try to ingest the filthiest, non-baby-proofiest items she could find on board.

After that, I went back to the big cottage, took a big pill with a big drink and took a damn big nap on the beach while Daddy, who was smart enough to point out that he HATES sailing, would be going nowhere near this excursion, and wouldn't be surprised if his boat-aversion got passed along to his child, helped Molly play with the in-house slot machine.

There is no doubt where the gambling gene came from. It's the only time I can stand numbers.

Katrina and the Unfortunately Named Oceanic Phenomenae

Anyone else think that "Katrina and the Waves" are collectively walking around with bags over their heads right now?? Yowch. Don't think they will be doing a reunion tour of the south anytime soon.

Here is my rant for the day: people who, despite three days of warnings from everyone from the President (well, OK, to be fair, I try to tune him out too) to the governors of several states to the nerds who study weather disasters with every second of their geek-laden lives to the National Guard to Miss Cleo the psychic, refuse to believe that "MANDATORY IMMEDIATE EVACUATION" applies to their ignorant asses DESERVE TO GET SWEPT OFF THEIR ROOF IN A 20-FOOT WALL OF SEWAGE-SOAKED WATER.

Kudos to the, oh, MILLION other people who were smart enough to get out of harm's way; but there are inevitably those who retort with the "rassin' frassin', I lived through the great storm of nineteen-ought-whoozawhatzit and dadgummit I kain't leave thems chickens here all alone" mentality and then, sure enough, are the ones jamming up 911 at the peak of the hurricane's strike pleading for emergency personnel to come by in a magic kayak and rescue them despite 150 mile an hour winds.

Chalk it up to Darwinism in my book -- these people deserve whatever they get. It infuriates me that emergency workers will inevitably lose THEIR lives at some point rescuing these morons from the roofs of the 2-room tin-panel covered shacks that their owners were SURE were going to withstand winds going three times the speed of cars on their street.

I can understand that some natural disasters don't give you time to prepare - tornado, meteor strike, alien attack, etc. -- but they've been tracking this hurricane since it was making windsocks flutter off the coast of Africa two weeks ago!!! When terms like "catastrophic loss of life," "toxic cesspool" and "30-foot storm surges" get bandied about for three days in advance of said disaster, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD LISTEN.

I will now descend from my soapbox and go back to hoping that the hurricane at least does some good, like knocking down the Britney Spears museum in White Trashton, LA or wherever it is she hails from.

Men-ingitis

Here's a riddle: What's worse than a sick man?
A: A sick man you are married to.

What's worse than a sick man you are married to?
A: ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING!!!

(By the way, my lubbly hubband who has da cowd said id wad OK for me to wride dis)

Why is it that men who are perfectly unfazed when they take a large divot of flesh out of their leg when using a garage-sale-find weedwacker that has been souped up for maximum efficiency with a rusty piece of coat hanger (true story in my house) are completely unable to function when they sneeze more than three times in a day? They will willingly play idiotic, harmful and certain-to-end-in-someone's-scrotum-being-the-focal-point-of-the-ER-visit sports like rugby (aka "drunk men trying to kill each other" -- in cleats!) , yet are reduced to whining, simpering, snot-leaking sacks of patheticness when they get a cold.

Dan harps on me for giving Molly children's Tylenol (he seriously thinks this could lead to an addiction problem. Of what??? Red liquids?? Like she'll rob a 7-11 someday because she has a primal need for an extra-watery Slushee because I gave her too many red suspended liquids as a child??!) anyway...dammit...hold on...(looking under my desk)...oh, OK, there's my point.

The kid is cutting fangs that are six thousand times worse than any puppy teeth I've even been gnawed by, which, Oh, I don't know, probably HURTS. We don't want to overmedicate. Unless daddy is sick.

He'll first walk around the house morosely opening and closing cabinet and refrigerator doors, sighing heavily, in that "pleeeeeeeease ask me what's wrong" tone, shoulders slumped.

When I don't pay attention (usually because I am watching "The West Wing" or "Lost" or something that seriously requires thought) he'll ask in a veryverysad little voice "wherrrrrre is the tylenol?"

"Why, do you have a headache?" I'll ask.

"My (fill in the blank, anything that is not actually his head) hurts/is clogged/is itchy."

"Well then you don't need Tylenol. You need allergy medicine."

"Ok. Wherrrrre is the allergy medicine?"

"Probably in the medicine cabinet. What an immensely silly name for such a holding device."

He'll go upstairs and I can hear him banging around in both bathrooms and usually the computer room as well. He'll come down five minutes later and collapse into a chair.

"Did you find it?"

"No. I found some cough medicine and some advil and some benadryl."

"So what did you take?"

"All of it."

Dan's idea of dosage for cough medicine is this: put bottle to lips, chug, count to some arbitrary number, like 17, and stop. He has no idea a) why we run out of cough medicine after a day and a half of illness and b) why he falls asleep for 20 hours at a time. Whatever the dosage is for anything, it clearly wasn't intended for such a unique physical specimen and I'm sure no doctors or technicians tested the doses on, like, full grown adults. So he doubles, or triples, the dose, and more often or not makes some kind of tossed salad type creation with whatever drugs he can find and washes them all down with a beer.

Right now he is suffering from allergies, although he of COURSE won't go to a doctor, or take medication that, you know, is intended to address ALLERGIES. He is also seemingly incapable of understanding what facial tissue was invented for, and instead opts to blow his nose IN THE SINK, WITH HIS HANDS. It is one of those sounds, like nails on a chalkboard or "Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States, George W. Bush" that make me want to rip whatever-colored hair I am sporting this week out of my head.

I am hoping to God that he feels better soon -- not because of a great concern for his welfare, but becaus I already have one child to take care of who at least can't fight me when I wipe her snotty nose with a Kleenex. Although...how does Dan know what I do to his snotty nose when he's passed out in a chair looped out of his mind on a Robitussin high??? Hmmm....

**Editor's note -- I am the ruling party/matriarch/CEO of Medicationland myself, so I realize I have no room to talk when it comes to pill popping, sleeping for ungodly amounts of time while the other spouse is left to tend to explosive diapers and a newfound affection for finger painting with one's food, whining, craving illness sympathy or a myriad of other things that I rip on my husband for. It's just funnier when it involves a man. Nyah.

Beware My "People"

"Oh. My. God. Your people are INSANE," my husband told me on Saturday. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and we were just getting back to our car after my company's family picnic at an excellent area game/arcade/go-kart/batting cage/money-wasting type place made all the more excellent by the fact that we didn't have to waste any of our own money, and go-karts are much more fun when preceeded and post-ceeded by free beer.

By my "people," he was not referring to others of short stature or uncategorizable hair color or uncertain Slovakiaustohungarian descent.

"My people" are fellow ND alums. Domers. Irish. And we are a scary, scary lot.

The incident that prompted my husband's most recent incredulous commentary (one of about 100 he has uttered since we first met) involved a note we discovered stuck under one of the wipers of my car. As we walked up to the vehicle I first thought the paper flapping on the windshield was an ad for some strip club or a protest notice that the 17-year-old employees of the entertainment establishment we'd been enjoying were striking to obtain better 401Ks and domestic partner benefits or something.

Then when I saw that it was handwritten, I began to panic -- "Holy crap, I must have cut some lunatic off on the go-kart track and he's stalking my family! Did I hit someone's cat on the drive here and they followed the trail of fur and blood??"

Fully expecting the note to read something like "You stoopid moron, you banged my car with your door! I am sueing you!" (we were not in an area that would lead me to high expectations for grammar and spelling on windshield hate notes), I gingerly slid the paper from beneath the wiper blade and held it like one might hold an anthrax-soaked death threat.

I needn't have worried.

"GO IRISH!" it proclaimed in all caps. "Go Charlie Weis!" (the ND football coach, for the majority of my readers who are female and are not pre-wired with the ESPN addiction I have developed over the years). "My son Tom (last name) and wife Meghan (last name) are Class of '97!" He also listed their home phone number, and signed his name -- and added "Class of '65"

Aaaah yes. The ND Network strikes again.

How, you ask, did this gentleman deduce my allegiance to Notre Dame? My "97 ND" license plate might have been a good starting point. Please realize that I live in southeast Michigan, home to rabid Michigan and Michigan State fans, a few of whom even attended and graduated from those respective schools (note -- the latter is not a prerequisite for being a loudmouth, boorish, haughty aficionado). Driving around with that license plate, especially when I spend so much time in Ann Arbor, home to the University of Michigan (South Bend, please note -- this is what a college town is actually supposed to resemble. You, as a town, suck. A lot.), is akin to driving around the GM headquarters parking lot tooting a horn that plays "Turning Japanese." My supporters are few and far between, and trust me, they do NOT reside in my home or share my last name.

Yet wherever we go, whether I am wearing a Notre Dame hat, shirt, jacket, or toting around one of five zillion other items of paraphernalia, "my people" always seem to track me down and vice versa.

Waiting in the bathroom line at the back of the plane during a flight to who knows where on a recent business trip, a gent in his late 20's saw my Notre Dame baseball t-shirt, asked me if I went there, and within 30 seconds we had raced through the "3 degrees of Notre Dame" game and pinpointed which professors, favorite dining hall foods and footpaths containing the least amount rabid squirrels en route to class we shared in common. This is a lot like the game "6 degrees of Kevin Bacon" or whatnot, except Notre Dame people are so weird that we need far fewer steps to find things in common.

If you are a University of Michigan alum, and you run into another University of Michigan alum, chances are you will know where the same buildings are, have drunk beer at the same establishments and maybe know a friend of a friend who graduated in the same year as the person you have just met. If you are a Notre Dame alum, chances are high that somewhere along the lines, your parents were in the wedding party of this person's parent's roommate; your own former roommate's sibling is currently dating this person's brother's best friend; you have both sneaked booze past the same usher named Lou near section 33 of Notre Dame stadium; or, in the case of Mr. Class of '65 who felt compelled to give me a good ol' ND shout out on the windshield of my car, your daughter in law was good friends with the college ex of the person you know nothing more about than the fact that they have a pompous license plate.

Which, in fact, his daughter in law...was. Is. Yikes. I knew her name immediately. She lives in Cleveland now and I have not talked to her since our senior year but our paths crossed thanks to the irrepressible Domer-ness of her father-in-law, who like most of us who wear their heinously overpriced class ring every single day, simply could not walk past the "97 ND" beckoning from my license plate without sharing some of the ND love.

I received an email a week or so ago by a fellow alum who had read my blog and realized that we both had children born in the same month and year. "What class year were you?" she wrote innocently enough. Turns out we were, of course, both class of '97, and lo and behold, she remains best of friends with a group who are also good friends with one of my ND roommates. I shared the news of my roommate's current pregnancy; she shared news of weddings and random run-ins with other classmates I would know; we made plans to tailgate this season and introduce our little Class of...err...2026 Domerettes to each other.

I got a fabulous job with the Tigers several years ago simply because the then-president of the team was a Notre Dame grad. He didn't know me from a hole in the wall and to this day, probably sometimes wishes I had kept it that way. But on a whim, I thought I'd see if what "they" say was true about the power of ND...I wrote him a business letter explaining my desire to work in professional sports -- what path should I pursue? Get an MBA? Switch careers out of PR? Start in the minor leagues??

If you were a graduate of, well, almost anywhere else in the world and you wrote such a letter to the president of any major corporation, you would get a lovely canned response back, written by a bored secretary with a laser-printed signature of Mr. Alum, saying "Thank you for your interest. However, it is our experience that English majors are not good for much aside from being able to recite the first 30 lines of 'Canterbury Tales' in middle English dialect (which, by the way, I can do). Thank you for writing and in the event that a job becomes available that matches your qualifications, we will all be very, very frightened and will run for cover to flee the approaching apocalypse."

Not so at Notre Dame. He responded with a handwritten note inviting me out for coffee and spent an hour and a half getting to know me, my skills, my interests, and of course, swapping ND stories. He didn't call back the next day with a job offer -- he called two days later with an interview offer. Hey, these things take time. That interview eventually led to an entry level job. I stayed for four years and worked up through the PR department thanks solely to the crazy phenomenon of the ND factor.

While my husband rolls his eyes when things like the dashboard note or random people striking up conversations with me at the vet's office or during childbirth happen, he also admits, with what I adamantly maintain is a wee bit of jealousy, that he has never seen anything like the connection between ND people, regardless of class year, gender, major or which coach they had either the misfortune or bragging rights to associate with (I will always pledge allegiance to Lou Holtz).

My people are a scary, scary group. And we love it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go call someone in Cleveland.

Lo, How the Mighty Have Fallen

I admit it -- I used to be a mega-store elitist snob. I scoffed at people who shopped at "Tar-zhay" and swore that someday, I would exercise my right to NEVER register there in the event of wedding or childbirth. Kohl's? Bah. Meijer? Only if I need something at 2 a.m. Wal-Mart? Spawn of the devil.

Oh, how times have changed. Well, mostly. I still run screaming from Wal-Mart and think I have actually only purchased something there in the case of a dire swimsuit and sunscreen emergency on a business trip. Just walking through the store makes me feel icky. Blegh.

However, I have completely succumbed to the black hole of irresponsible, throw-away shopping that is TARGET. In conducting a recent very scientific poll of exactly 3 of my friends, I have determined that it is physically impossible for a woman to go into Target and emerge with only the item or items she originally entered the store to buy.

I went to Target last night with the intention of buying plates, napkins and a gift for an upcoming shower I am hosting (by the way, how did ANYONE get married or have children before the Target gift registry?!? I adore the friend I am hosting the shower for in part because she actually registered for all of "The Simpsons" seasons on DVD -- and where else can you get "The Simpsons," picture frames, trash cans, cookware and hemorrhoid medication all in one place?? Genius). I somehow walked out holding an $85 receipt.

What the hell jumped in my cart?!? I had Molly with me and by the end, she was no longer feeling the love for Tar-zhay (and no one in the store was feeling the love for her ear-piercing howls and goldfish cracker hurling) so maybe in my efforts to speed through the store I didn't notice that she pulled extra items into my cart.

I have no idea how this happens but it happens all the time. I stride purposefully over to the greeting card section and do my best to shield my wandering eyes as I hurry back to the checkout counter with my ONE SINGLE $2.29 ITEM IN HAND when all of a sudd...OOOOO! SHINY THINGS!!!!

Ok, I'll just buy this one funky photo frame. I mean, I could always give it as a gift for Christm...OOOOO! STRIPEY FABRIC THINGS!!!!

Well hey, I've been meaning to replace some of my bath towels. And these are ON SALE so I mean really, I'm saving money! Wait...now the shower curtain won't match. I better go check out the bath aisl...OOOOO! PINK FUZZY WALLETS!!!!

I mean, it goes on and on. It's a vortex from which no woman with a functioning credit card can hope to escape. So should you be the person on my Christmas list who gets a lime green Hello Kitty change purse and a pair of Isaac Mizrahi maternity pants...well, just know I had no choice. They jumped into my cart.

Daycare Diva

We sunk yet another rung lower on the ladder of utopian parenting yesterday. For ther record, rungs we have passed on the way down include:

• allowing our child to drink chocolate milk solely so Mommy can eat spoonfuls of raw, undiluted, orgasmic Nestle Quik straight out of the box;
• failing to read to her on a daily basis, largely due to the fact that she likes to either eat the books or use them as projectile weapons -- the exception being "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?" which has been read soooooo many times that the only thing Mommy now sees when that book gets toted out is an oncoming migraine;
• not teaching her baby sign language, although somehow without our prodding she has perfected a very snooty, dismissive, Queen-of-England-esque wave that makes you feel like you should immediately remove yourself from her regal presence, you annoying piece of filth;
• allowing the TV to be on, all the time, because frankly, a Daddy sans-Simpsons or Mommy sans-SportsCenter is not someone you want to associate with-- and besides, she learns some colorful new words when Mommy is watching the Tigers;
• encouraging her to follow Mommy's diet plan of carbs, carbs with a side of carbs, washed down by a carb-shake (hey -- she likes carbs. They mostly don't end up on the floor, or on/in/under the dog. Whatever works at this point);
• and sometimes, God forbid, not bathing her every day unless there was a REALLY angry poop involved, or Daddy fed her.

Yesterday, however, we topped all of that as we began the ritual of abandoning our child with strangers 9 hours a day. Very, very, VERY expensive strangers. Molly started daycare yesterday, after spending the previous year in the blissfully ignorant dreamworld of one or the other of her Grandmas, wherein she developed the theory that yes, indeed, the world DOES SO revolve around Molly.

Yesterday was a rude awakening. Many of my friends were more concerned about how I was going to react to the new daycare situation. I suppose if Molly were to have cried, sobbed, clung to my leg like a...a...leg-clinging...thing...I would have felt more remorse. As it happened, we set her down in her new classroom and she took one look around at the toys toys toys toys MANY MANY TOYS, WHY THE HELL DID MY IDIOT PARENTS NOT BUY ME ALL OF THESE TOYS ALREADY?!?!??!?! and she was off. She got her grubby little clutches (they were only grubby because Daddy fed her breakfast, and apparently Murphy didn't do a very thorough job of licking them, the preferred method of Daddy post-meal hygiene) around a plastic croissant and a plastic pear, and weren't nothin' or nobody gonna take those away from her.

Some innocent little boy wandered over to see who this new hot blond chick was and what toys she might have and she promptly let him know that these were HER FAKE CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST ITEMS THANKYOUVERYMUCH and the reign of Molly the Magnificent had begun.

When I picked her up yesterday, she briefly turned and looked at me, scowled, gave me the "piss off, peon" wave and went back to trying to beat another hapless little boy (what kind of wuss boys are in this place??) over the head with a school bus toy because HE WAS HOLDING THE XYLOPHONE, and apparently did not get the memo that all toys, everywhere within eyesight, in any situation, are clearly meant for Molly ALONE. Damn interloper, messing with her domain!!

Her teacher sing-songingly reminded her, "Now Molly, we need to sha-are!"

I laughed the smug laugh of an only child and shook my head at this poor teacher. Whatever they are paying these teachers, it's not enough if they are going to have to be the poor saps who teach this child that one, there are actually other children in the world and two, some of the toys on earth do, in fact, belong to them. Good luck with that.

In case you're wondering, I did fine. The daycare folks called me twice to let me know that she was having a great day, and more importantly, that she hadn't yet lodged plastic pastries into other children in such a manner that surgical extraction methods were necessary. Still waiting to hear how today is going, but hoping that in the words of my media idol, the great Gary Gnu of "The Great Space Coaster," "No gnu-s is good gnu-s."

ESPN-D haters

Oh. My. God. ESPN has actually published something that is not entirely critical of, misinformed about, biased toward, hateful at or derisive upon (I am running out of prepositions to stick after words here) my alma mater.

It occured to me that nowhere in this blog or in my profile thus far have I touted my undying devotion to Notre Dame, which, in my life of married-to-double-Michigan-grad, daughter of Penn State grad, in-law to Michigan State grad and friends with people-who-went-to-Div.-6-schools-with-T-ball-teams-instead-of-football-teams-who-still-find-it-their-right-to-hop-on-the-ND-bashing-bandwagon-yes-Timo-I-am-talking-about-YOU...causes a lot of non-speaking spells from September through January 1 (or 4, or 6, or 27th -- whenever that last bowl game finally gets played and I can promptly start counting the days to Spring Training).

I not only bleed Blue and Gold - I also blow it into my tissues and clean it out of my ears. There's just that much of it in me. I was a 1st generation "Domer" -- and if you think it's coincidental that I named my child "Molly Catherine" instead of something distinctly UN-Irish, well...I am also considering sticking an O' in front of our last name when it's time to do college apps.

Anyway, back to ESPN. Being the sports junkie that I am, I am pretty partial to the station/magazine/ESPN empire as a whole (with the exception of Lee Corso, who needs to run off with Terry Bowden and go make little sniveling troll babies somewhere). However, ESPN in general is one of the more anti-ND establishments on earth (save for Digger Phelps, and even he can't pretend that we have something resembling a basketball team most of the season).

So when I read this recent article about new Irish coach Charlie Weis, I was pretty pleased to see that at least for the time being, someone other than the Notredame Broadcasting Channel had good things to say. Enjoy the read (don't worry, they still bash on the Ty Willingham fiasco and it includes lots of gratuitous references to the actual "Rudy," the world's biggest tool even in my opinion, so there's plenty to hate if you are any of the above-mentioned people in my life), and expect to be overrun with Notre Dameness in the coming months. Training camp started this week and I will be visiting South Bend this weekend to, among other things, get a refill on my blue and gold platelets.

Weis embraces intangibles only ND can offer
By Pat Forde
ESPN.com

Notre Dame players reported for the 2005 football season Sunday. After checking into their dorms, the first order of business was a team meeting in the theater of the posh new Guglielmino Center.

The purpose of the meeting? Charlie Weis had his team watch "Rudy."

Only natural, right? Notre Dame players watching the stirring story of the little walk-on who would not be denied his chance to suit up for the Irish?

But when the movie was over, Weis took the motivational ploy over the top. And in the process he showed that when it comes to grasping his unique new job, he simply gets it. Gets it better than any Notre Dame coach has gotten it in a long time.

Weis walked to the podium and told the team, "I could tell you what 'Rudy' was all about. But why don't I have the real Rudy tell you?"

With that, 5-foot-6 Daniel "Rudy" Ruettiger popped out of his seat in the theater. Invited from his home in Henderson, Nev., to South Bend, Ind., by Weis for this special screening, he'd snuck in near the end and had been sitting anonymously among the players.

"We were just like, 'wow!' " said linebacker and defensive captain Brandon Hoyte.

"I felt kind of bad," said quarterback and offensive captain Brady Quinn. "He was only a row or two behind me, and I was laughing when he was getting knocked on his butt."

Rudy didn't mind. It was the getting up off his butt that made his story movie material.

By the time Ruettiger got to the stage, the players got over their shock and got on their feet. They gave Rudy a standing O.

"They were like little kids," Ruettiger said. "Eyes wide open, clapping and cheering."

Ruettiger, who now makes his living as a motivational speaker, gave the players 15 minutes of Grade A Notre Dame rah-rah.

"You cannot ever quit on yourself," Rudy told them. "That's when you lose it. If you're going to quit now, you're going to quit a lot more important things later on. ... Your belief system must be this university. That's why you're here."

It should be noted that this was the first time Ruettiger had spoken to the team at his alma mater. The movie that made him famous is more than 10 years old and has been used as motivational material for Florida State, Alabama, Wisconsin and other college teams -- but not at the school where it was filmed.

That all changed when Ruettiger picked up the phone one day this summer.

"Charlie Weis here."

"Charlie Weis?" Rudy responded. "You gotta be kidding."

Ruettiger said that Weis wanted to make sure Rudy knew he was welcome to come back, and asked him if he'd speak to the team. You had me at hello was the gist of Ruettiger's reply.

The plan for this August appearance was hatched, and the favorite Fighting Irish underdog officially became a big Charlie Weis fan.

"If you don't understand the movie, you don't understand Notre Dame," Ruettiger said. "Charlie understands Notre Dame."

And he understands motivating young people. This beats castrating a bull, doesn't it?

When it comes to winning the hearts and minds of his players and Notre Dame Nation, Charlie Weis is doing all the right things. We'll see whether he has enough hands and feet to do winning work on the field, but Weis has done a brilliant job of tapping into the intangibles of the Golden Dome.

First it was the tireless tour of the Notre Dame dorms, meeting with students to talk football and reinforce the best student body-athletics bond in the country. Then it was the play to bring back Irish icons Joe Montana, Joe Theismann, Tim Brown and Chris Zorich as honorary spring game captains/story tellers/legacy educators. Now he's got Rudy welcoming the players in for fall camp.

What does Weis pull out on the eve of the Sept. 3 opener against Pittsburgh? A séance to bring back the Four Horsemen?

I detested the way Notre Dame dealt with Tyrone Willingham, firing him with unprecedented haste. But that doesn't mean I was convinced that Willingham was the best coach for the school over the long haul.
Among the problems: He was a dispassionate man at a passionate school.

Charlie Weis doesn't have that problem. His offense might be coldly analytical, but he's not -- not when it comes to Notre Dame. Weis is willing to plant a wet one on the school's spirit and see if he can't make that spirit do some work for him.

The Notre Dame grad is a real-life Rudy -- went to school in South Bend as a regular student, returns as its head football coach -- with a graduate's feel for the myth and lore of the place.

Of course, it should be noted that Gerry Faust had a limitless love of the ND intangibles, as well, and look where it got him. Whistling the fight song on your way to work doesn't necessarily make the work easier. But Weis is bringing an NFL mind and a fistful of Super Bowl rings to campus, not the Moeller High School playbook.

And it's nice to see that a career NFL man can connect with the rah-rah stuff that still makes college football one of America's coolest enterprises. It's been known to work.

Pete Carroll won't hesitate to play cheerleader with his guys at USC. Urban Meyer is a solid bet to sing the Florida fight song with the band and students after every victory, just as he did at Utah. And Charlie Weis isn't afraid to tap into his inner leprechaun.

Pat Forde is a senior writer at ESPN.com. He can be reached at ESPN4D@aol.com.

Well Isn't That Just Rich

HOW cool (and yes I mean to yell) is this website??

http://www.globalrichlist.com

You go to it, enter your annual income in dollars or euros or pesos or chickens or Lucky Charms or whatever it is you use for currency, and it tells you where you rank among the rest of the world.

Now, like online IQ tests (which my husband was rather disgusted to find out last night that I one, had taken, and two, had not scored the near-genius levels he himself would score on such a thing --- if he were to lower himself to such a petty and stupid exercise -- which he WOULDN'T, of course....he's just saying...) I question the validity of the rich list website -- interesting concept, but I'm questioning their ability to pinpoint EXACTLY where I fall among the world's inhabitants. Do conjoined twins count as one person or two? How DID they find the time to survey approximately six billion people about their earning potential? Did they consider child labor?

I know that the point of the website is to show everyone who makes a comfortable living that they are, allegedly, clearly sooooo uber-wealthy compared to the rest of the world that they should donate money (in my case, they suggest just one hour's salary, approx $48.61) to some cause du jour to ease the unconscionable burden we are obligated to feel because we are able to Super Size our Mickey D's meals.

Dammit, I don't want social causes mixed in with my "hey, cool, try this out!" websites!!! Did the people on the Make-Your-Own-South-Park site ask you to give money to support all those homosexual teachers who wear mini-bearded-"Where's Waldo" type puppets on their hand?? No, they did not.

I have no real point today. I know we live a comfortable life; that I am a shopaholic; that I do not grasp the concept of yard sales and auctions and estate sales and would rather have one verrrrry overpriced thingy from Pottery Barn than six verrrry similar looking items from an auction place simply because I want to say that I have nice grown up things from Pottery Barn. I also understand that this makes no fiscal sense, and some night I am going to wake up buried in the back yard locked inside my verrrry overpriced Pottery Barn thingy while my husband cackles softly as he carries the shovel back to the garage and rejoices that he never has to deal with my neuroses, listen to the "Wicked" soundtrack or watch "Sense and Sensibility" or "Emma" one more time, EVER.

Wow did I get off topic. Anyway, if you are dying to know, I am the 46,777,565th richest person in the world. Many of those 46,777,564 other people are the professional athletes I used to work with, who often made about a gazillion-point-three dollars per at bat and whose job qualifications were to hit a ball 30 percent of the time (often less, given the ones I worked with) and the rest of the time, readjust their jock straps, spit, and think of interesting ways to either hit on or insult women in various languages. I know how much one of said former players whom I actually still like makes per year, so I entered that, and got this lovely derisive message:

You are in the top 0.001% richest people in the world.

You don't need to know any more than that (and besides our calculator can't do sums that big).

Please consider donating just a small amount of your enormous wealth to help some of the poorest people in the world. Many of their lives could be improved dramatically or even saved if you donate just one hour's salary (approx $2083.33)

-- And he's not even GOOD! I entered the amount of money I made per year when I was working in professional sports, and lo and behold, I was now the 601,655,887th richest person in the world, making about $17 an hour. I compared that to the $2000 an hour for someone doing a crappy job at playing a GAME, and eventually decided to sell my soul to corporate America for a reasonable price.

For the record, my husband and his family are slowly succeeding in making me see the value of auctions and not EVERYTHING we own is from Pottery Barn. Some of it is also from Crate & Barrel. All of it is covered in dog hair and salsa drippings. Having a baby actually contributed very little to our overall mess quotient.

Travel Trials and Tribulations, Part Two

Tuesday, August 9, 2005

Something o’clock PM – my computer says 7:15 EST although I am somewhere over Kansas or Minnesota or something, so what I do know?

Well, I am currently at 37,000 feet on my way back from Denver. I am slightly less substance-ically enhanced than on the way out, although not much – still slammed the Klonopin (half a pill on the Avis shuttle bus as I was freaking out and sweating bullets for no conceivable reason) and a whole pill as soon as I was seated in beautiful aisle seat 3C, thank you Northwest for yet another upgrade.

First class is so amusing to me, because nine times out of ten, or, you know, approximately 75% of the time, I am the only woman seated here. I am also generally the only person under 35. I am typing this in a word doc right now only because it seems that out of the 15 other all-male all-middle aged passengers around me, I was the only one doing something so clearly uncorporate and un-first-class-deserving as reading People magazine. I at least should be reading BusinessWeek or Wired or something, just for appearances’ sake.

Although on the way down, I got into a great conversation with a gentleman who was at least 60 years old about the newest Harry Potter, which he was toting around in all its purple-hardcover glory along with his laptop. I refrained from expounding on my snogging theories and no, I did not ruin the ending for him.

So I figured I better bust out the laptop and at least pretend to be doing something useful, although I have the little animated Word “assistant” enabled as the puppy dog so every time I use spell check or hit save, the little puppy barks at me. I am DEFINITELY surrounded by those whose Word assistant would be the innocuous, boring paper clip thingy. That is just the kind of world that first class is.

I had a delightful and kind of frightening Mommy moment as I was seated waiting for my ohmygodweareabouttotaxiandImightdie panic to ensue and the poor schlubs in coach class were still boarding. A rather frazzled looking mom (like there’s any other kind, especially when traveling with kids) carrying a toddler with wonderfully unruly boinging, bouncing curls paused next to my seat as the morons in front of her in line tried their best to cram their grand piano-sized carry-on bags into spaces that would barely fit a pair of rolled up socks. Anyway, I waved at this little girl as I am inexplicably now drawn to doing – for the record, I was NOT an awwww, cute baby!!-waver in the past. I still don’t wave at ugly babies.

This little girl giggled and her mom prodded her with, “say ‘hi,’ sweetie” – and the little girl pointed right at me and said, loudly and proudly, “MOMMY!”

Considering Molly’s only discernible words are DADA which she yells with joyful abandon every 5 seconds when Dan is in the room (and every 10 seconds when he’s not) and something that resembles dog – more like “daaaaaaawg” – yes, we are raising a little gangsta in training – I almost burst into tears to hear something of the child-like variety refer to me as Mommy. Her own mom laughed and said “yep, I bet she is a mommy” as they kept walking.

Wow. I have actually become a recognizable Mommy, even if it’s just a vibe that little kiddos pick up on. Who knows. But it was darn cool and the best pick up line I’ve heard in a long time.