SING!

I just wanted to see if I could get anyone to faint by updating not once, but twice - in ONE WEEK!! That should give you some indication of how bored I am with the riveting world of housing industry public relations. Be still, my beating interest rate.

In true typecasting, I have been given the role of "Kristine," the dancer who can't sing to save her life, in the upcoming production of "A Chorus Line" with my new theater (or "theatre" if you're truly cultured. Or pretentious.) group, Destination Theatre. The downside of this role is that it is a pretty nice-sized role, with lots of dialogue, a whole song, and plenty of dancing -- thereby likely to land me in divorce court from a time commitment standpoint. The upside is that I will be doing the show with my bestest little short person mommy friend Rachel, all four-feet-ten-inches (oh, 11, fine) of her. Should be a blast! Kristine's signature piece is aptly titled "SING!" which, of course, she cannot do. I can at least sing (a little), but it will be a huge relief for me to actually squawk and shriek on stage with the goal of being as BAD as possible. I still have to dance well, unfortunately, which as I found out during auditions would be an easier feat if I wasn't Captain Carbs-a-lot, actually got some exercise other than toting the 23 lb screaming eel up and down the steps, could wear a leotard without looking like a sausage factory accident, and had any of the flexibility left that made me such a popular party trick in my earlier days (reference: bachelorette party photo of foot over head, wearing 3 inch heels and feeling no pain. Til the next day at least)

That's all the news for now. Molly is feeling better but has lately turned into a control freak on issues like diaper changes, eating, clothes changing, crayon picking, page turning...basically anything that occurs during waking moments. It's a blast. Why do we want to do this again??? DO we want to do this again?!?! EEK!

(NOTE: THIS IS IN NO WAY AN INDICATION OF A CHANGE IN CURRENT CHILD COUNT. WE WILL ISSUE AN ALL POINTS BULLETIN SHOULD THE CHILD QUANTITY EXCEED THE CURRENT LIMIT OF 'ONE' IN OUR HOUSEHOLD. PLEASE RESUME NORMAL BREATHING PATTERNS.)

Greetings from Snotsville USA

Yeah, I really have that boring of a life that my child's bodily excretions are worthy of their own blog entry. While it seems that the little monster had had some kind of snotty nose for about the last 3 years, including time in utero, she got cough-y and phlegm-y enough today that even DADDY agreed she needed to go to the doctor (something that usually requires "proof" of serious illness such as an amputated limb or second head sprouting). Turns out she has RSV and a double ear infection (sounds like something you would order at Starbucks -- "Make mine a half-caf RSV with a double E/I, please"). We are lucky this didn't happen last year -- RSV would likely have landed her in the hospital as an infant. It stands for Respiratory Syncitial Virus (look at me throwin' around all the medical terminology, now that I am considering nursing school!) and is a cousin of pneumonia that causes wheezing, coughing and all sorts of unpleasantness, including, apparently, the desire to take all solid foods and shove them up mommy's butt or somewhere equally far away from said child's mouth.

She has been surviving on Pediasure, chocolate milk, drinkable yogurt and daddy's homemade milkshakes. Yesterday, Daddy aka Captain Child Psychology aka I Worked In A Daycare Don't Question My Parenting WHERE IS MY SUPERSUIT, WOMAN?!?! decided that we needed to start boosting Molly's protein intake since her idea of well rounded nutrition is eating solely from the F group - French Fries, Frosty, Fingers (chicken), etc. Sooooo, daddy mixed up vanilla ice cream, nestle quik, bananas, and...A RAW EGG. Yes, because apparently Molly has unbeknowst to me become a champion weightlifter and will soon be trading in her cheerios for Creatine. BLEGGGGGGGGH. Needless to say I was none too amused with Daddy's efforts, as thoughtful as they were to get her to try to eat more. Sigh. He is home with her today and tomorrow while she rests up from the RSV, so I am secretly hoping that maybe a few nice rounds of less-than-well-formed poop might repay daddy for the raw egg favor.

I've Been Tagged So I Have to Stop Slacking

Thank God for Natalie, who tagged me with these questions, thus saving me from having to come up with an original idea. Original ideas have been in short supply 'round these parts so I will happily post some responses to her "four questions" and then pass them along to anyone who's left who hasn't already been tagged!

Four jobs that I have had:
1) game technician and merchandise rep at Sea World of Ohio, working in Shamu's Happy Harbor and perfecting my Skee-ball skills (college summers)
2) public relations coordinator for the Detroit Tigers for four years (experience: priceless. number of drinks paid for by gazillionaire athletes: priceless. salary, broken down per hour: priceless. I mean, LITERALLY priceless. As in too small to assign a price to.)
3) public relations human sacrifice, horrible Midwest calls-itself-luxury-but-really-overpriced-crap apartment management company (job stress = prime suspect for why I had a baby, 9 weeks early, while on a business trip 1000 miles from home)
4) dance teacher (high school)

Four movies that I can watch over and over again:
1) Major League (but NOT Major League II or III or however many unfortunate sequels now exist)
2) A League of Their Own (sensing a trend here?)
3) Rudy (naw, I really don't like sports. Really.)
4) Clueless (it's just damn funny)

Four places I have lived:
1) Pittsburgh, PA
2) Cleveland, OH
3) South Bend, IN
4) Detroit, MI
Yes, indeedy, all I need is Gary, IN and I will have hit all of the Midwest's finest armpit cities

Four TV shows I love to watch:
1) Lost
2) Anything and everything on Discovery Health Channel
3) West Wing
4) Jack's Big Music Show (regardless of whether or not Molly is home)
4a) American Idol
4b) Dancing with the Stars
4c) I 4-C needing to stop watching so much bad TV

Four websites I read daily (or I at least check on daily):
1) Detroit News (detnews.com)
2) Babycenter.com
3) Msnbc.com (I am a news junkie)
4) A private site I cannot name for fear that the other members will hunt me down and fling rabid wet rodents at me
4a) ESPN.com
4b) Dooce.com (hil-a-ri-ous blogger)


Four places I have been on vacation:
1) Spain
2) The Bahamas
3) Hawaii (Maui, Kauai, Oahu)
4) Duck, NC (always one of my favorites)


Four favorite foods:
1) my nachos
2) Don Pablo's anything
3) anything Italian that doesn't involve olives
4) Brown sugar cinnamon pop tarts

Four places I'd rather be:
1) in bed, asleep
2) with Molly, not at work :(
3) Hawaii, if I could get there without the whole airplane flight thing
4) in bed, asleep

Four people to tag:
Sheesh, who's left???
Did anyone tag Kiki?
How about Kafra?
Angel?
Everyone else I can think of has already been hit with this one!!

#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.