Random Stuff

Merry has tagged me with an interesting meme where you have to sum up your life in 6 words, like that famous Hemingway story. "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

I came up with two:

Once I suffered, now I’m blessed.

and

Be careful! Watch out for crap.

And while the first one is actually quite a succinct write up of where I am now in life compared to where I was previously, I think I gotta go with that second one cause it has so many meanings. For example, this is like my most famous motto to the kids whenever we are walking in the park or in certain city streets famous for people unable to pick up after their dogs. Since I have already done a long blog post on my hatred of dog poop, I will restrain myself now. But an interesting perk from my irrational fear of stepping in dog poop is that I find quite alot of lost stuff on the ground. You see, I spend so much time with one eye on the ground that I hold the world's record for finding the most lost money. I have found wallets, purses, jewelry, and cash just about everywhere, from singles and twenties to once a fifty dollar bill. In my younger days, when I was broke and no one was around, I would keep the money. Nowadays, I give money found to the homeless or to the church cause honestly, found money is usually not lucky money. And you get better luck if you give it away or return it to the rightful owner (not always possible).

Just last week, I was walking out of my favorite restaurant with my friend V and our kids after a nice meal. I came out of the front door at the end of the whole group and as I stepped out, I immediately spied something shiny on the ground. It was a HUGE ASS diamond ring. It was at least two carats, platinum setting with additional diamond bagettes on both sides of the solitaire. The thing was not only huge, but it was a heavy ring. It was easily a $20,000 ring or more. (V, if you are reading this, chime in and back me up on the size of this ring!) And since I consider myself a diamond connoisseur, I can assure you that it was a good diamond (not best quality - but good enough in cut and color to be quite expensive). I could not believe someone could have dropped their diamond engagement ring on the ground like that. The first thought that popped into my head was of a hysterical woman freaking out when they found that they had lost their ring. So I immediately turned around and went back to the restaurant and handed it over to the owners, who I know pretty well, and told them that I was positive someone would return that night to claim it. Turns out I was right, an hour later a panicked woman returned, claimed her ring and ran out. Although she did thank the owners, they were miffed on my behalf that she didn't want to try and contact me to thank me for my honesty and reward me. Now honestly, I was not seeking any reward of any kind. I was just thinking about how horrible I would feel to lose a ring like that and did not want anyone else to suffer. But the owners were so indignant that they comped me a nice appetizer with my dinner, which was totally unexpected and sweet of them.

The other thing I like about my 6 word story is that it also applies to life and the drama that can come with it. I dislike drama intensely. I don't like being dragged into other people's crap. If it isn't my business, I like to keep it that way. Recently a friend of mine was telling me how she inadvertently got roped into a huge dispute between two other casual acquaintances. I told her to stay out of it, she didn't listen to me and what happened? Crap exploded all over her face and now neither of these two casual acquaintances will talk to her anymore.

"Ha, ha!" I laughed at her and said "I told you to stay out of it! They still talk to me but now they hate your guts."

"Screw you," my friend says. Oh yeah, I deserved that, I was rubbing her nose in the crap. But hey! I did warn her!

See, you can't win with other people's drama. Unless your family or best friends and you can't help but get dragged in, you have to watch out for and stay away from other people's crap, because it will stick to you and leave a nasty stinky mark all over you. And that's all I have to say about that.

So if you can come up with a six word story that sums up your life, please feel free to post it and let me know. I came up with some more just as I was typing this like:

Ha, Ha! I'm better than you.

No I did not eat it.

Please try to go potty again.

So sorry, did I do that?

I know something you don't know!

Help! The wolves are after me.

I was lost... and still am.

These aren't the droids you seek.

I really, really stink at this.

Random Monday Story

Lana has tagged me for another random facts about me meme. I was thinking that I didn't have anymore random facts but how can that be true? I am a walking enigma after all. But I am not going to come up with seven random facts, instead I am going to tell you a funny true story.

When my husband met my father for the first time, my dad gave him a nervous breakdown.

We had come up to NY for the weekend and were having lunch with my parents at a midtown restaurant. Da Man was so nervous his palms were soaking wet. Arriving at the table, my dad positioned Da Man right in front of him and proceeded to grill him like he was applying for a job with the title "Possible Husband Material."

The first question he asked was "What are you planning to do with your life?" Da Man started to babble inanely about his plans to attend law school and get a good job, etc. Halfway through his rambling answer, my father cut him off with a sharply raised hand almost in his face as he stated, "Enough! Next question, ..." Frankly, I don't remember the next series of questions, all I can remember is the sheer look of horror on Da Man's face as he sweated his way through a series of probing questions about his past, education, family background, ambitions, philosophy of life and the state of his health. I am sorry to say that my mom, my younger sister and I sat next to the showdown trying desperately not to laugh. With every stumbling answer, my father would cut him off, sooner and sooner, impatient with Da Man's awkward babble and anxious to ask all of his questions. Nearing the end, as all of us, except my soon-to-be husband, enjoyed our delicious lunches, my father asked the following question:

"What are Ellen's three worst qualities?"

I looked up with alarm to see my dad smiling a very enigmatic smile.

"Um, she doesn't have any," Da Man answered with a strained smile in my direction.

Before I could smile back, my father announced in a near shout, "Wrong answer!"

"Hey, Dad!" I was indignant.

"You shouldn't ask him such a question," I said with a reassuring pat on Da Man's arm. By this point, a nervous tic has appeared under his left eye.

"No, I'll tell him the right answer," my dad said bombastically. "First, bad temper!"

I looked at my dad in open-mouthed astonishment. By my side, Da Man nodded his head eagerly.

"Oh yes, I've witnessed it many times," he said, relieved to no longer be the focal point of my Dad's attention.

"Second, big spender," my dad continued as he paused to down his sake.

Da Man, rushed to refill my dad's sake cup, at the same time nodding his head so vigorously, he reminded me of one of those large headed bobble dolls. I began to fume.

"Third, too stubborn," my dad announced, extremely pleased with himself.

"DAD!" I said.

"It's ok honey," Da Man said soothingly. "I still love you."

And with that, my Dad and my soon-to-be husband shared a smile of perfect accord for the first time.

Random funny commercial!

FYI - I so want to get that ring tone!!!!!

Random Funny Things My Kids Say - Part 7

Although I hate shopping, I had to go to the mall this weekend to buy some presents. It was pretty packed, as the mall was having big President's Day Sales. We drove around and around with no luck. The only spot open was 1 of only 3 maternity parking spaces near the doors. Angus asked why we didn't park there and I explained it was because I wasn't pregnant and that the spots were specifically for pregnant women who would have a harder time walking into the mall from far away.

On our fourth go around, we finally spotted a space fairly close to the doors. All the kids were cheering when I pulled in and parked. As we walked towards the doors, we watched as a huge Hummer pulled into the one and only maternity spot left open. While waiting for a car to pass us, I got mad when I saw a short, tubby man jump down from the driver's side of the Hummer and walk ahead of us into the mall.

Oldest, who is the law enforcer of the house, immediately yells out in her high carrying voice,"Hey, he's not a pregnant lady! That's against the rules! He can't park there! What if a pregnant lady comes and there is nowhere to park?" Tubby man starts to walk faster. Ok - usually I hush the girls right up before they can say rude and impolite things to people, but here was someone who deserved it. So smiling evilly, I forced the girls to keep pace right behind him.

Youngest shouts out, "But he has a big fat tummy like a pregnant lady! Maybe he's pregnant too!"

This is too ridiculous for Oldest who then says, "Don't be silly, men can't get pregnant."

Angus yells, "I know! He's pregnant with too much food that he ated! And he has to go poo poo!"

"Ill, ill, ill! You are so nasty!" The other two scream and laugh as Mr. Tubby begins to speed walk/trot away as fast as he can. Hopefully a lesson has been learned, but I doubt it. I slow down, now that Mr. Tubby is too far away and I turn to my middle child.

"Angus, why is everything about pooping with you?" I ask.

"Because poop is funny!" she replies.

Pictures of Me

My department has requested that all faculty provide a picture to be placed on the department website. Problem is, I hate pictures. Hate taking them and am never happy with any that have ever been taken. Even on my wedding day, my photographer, a typical rude Korean man, announced that here was a wedding where the groom outshone the bride. But since he was gay, I put it down to jealousy until I actually received the wedding albums and realized the little fucker was right. Da man outshone me in every shot except for the one of me throwing the bouquet, and only because he wasn't in that shot. Even now, whenever a guest wanders over and looks at a wedding picture, Da man will shoot on over to point out how much better he looked than me. It was August, I was in a twenty pound silk dress sweating my ass off in a New York City park. He, on the otherhand, drank alcohol of every kind at every moment of the day into the night so that by the time we got in front of the officiant, Da man was actually swaying like a slighty inebriated sailor causing me to giggle furiously.

But I digress. I am not keen on the idea of taking a picture for the website. Why do they need a picture? What does plastering my face on a website do to further their academic experience? Think of the harm a disgruntled student could do with my picture? In law school, there was a nasty little bugger who lived in the apartment below me and my roommates. He had pretty much asked us all out in a row and after summarily being rejected by all five of us, he proceeded to cut out our facebook pictures and place them onto the bodies of animals and hung them up on the school student bulletin board. Apparently I was a donkey. We told everyone he had a small penis and wet the bed. He never bothered us again.

So what to do about this picture thing. I thought maybe I could draw a picture of myself instead.





Hmmmmm, this one was a little too cutesy. Too girly.









OK - I tried to add breasts and instead they look like I'm wearing one of those donut life preservers under my armpits. But I'm a pretty realistic artist as one breast is slightly larger than the other and apparently when not restrained they both point away from each other.









This one was better. I'm not really a dress girl. I live in pants. But it was still too happy.











Here we go, that's more like it. Wait, WTF? Is that a gun or a hair dryer in my hand? What the hell did I draw that for? I'm either going to kill you or give you a stunning hairdo. And why the hell am I dressed like a pirate?






Who am I kidding? I am no artist. I have a better idea. Why don't I just post this instead:
What's that? You don't like your grade? Come shake my hand...

Random Funny Things My Kids Say - Part 6

My husband goes to the gym to lift weights and comes home all pumped up. He walks into the bathroom where I am emptying the laundry hamper and whips off his shirt to stand and admire himself in front of our large mirrors.

“Check this out!” he says as he flexes and poses, showing off all his muscles.

“Very nice dear,” I say, hardly glancing at him as I continue sorting laundry. I get this alot.

“You’re not even watching! Look!” he insists as he begins to add sound effects to his poses.

"Grrrrrrrr, GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! UNH, UNH, UNH, GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"

Youngest happens to walk in and stares at her crazy father as he continues to grunt, grimace and pose. Noticing her standing next to him, he makes one last grimace (mean face) and grunts right at her while lifting his arms up and flexing his biceps in the classic bodybuilder pose a la Arnold.

“Daddy,” youngest asks very seriously. “Do you have to poo poo?”

“No,” he responds, quite insulted.

Youngest shrugs and walks out, leaving me hanging onto the side of the bathtub laughing my ass off.

He gives me a dirty look and says, “That’s YOUR daughter," and slinks off sullenly.

Oh yes, that's my girl!

Random funny pictures

A close friend of mine came back from Atlanta, Georgia where she was visiting her sister and told me about this funny sign in her sister's neighborhood. I howled when I heard about it and demanded that she make her sister, who I am friends with also, take a picture for my blog.

Apparently the neighborhood had put up the sign in order to remind motorists to slow down and watch out for the kids. I'm not sure if this is exactly what they had in mind:

The morale of the story, when paying by the letter, don't be cheap, or it will change the entire meaning of your sign.


Which reminds me of another classic writing blunder which is pictured below:


Ha Ha!
Underneath that
I love funny writing blunders!

Time of Chaos

I'm having a hard time keeping up, sorry everyone! Excuse me while the blog goes cold for a few days. School started this week for me and chaos has ensued! The last few weeks have been hard as I was trying to prepare for two new classes with new syllabi and new textbooks to read. Academic books are a nightmare to read. I get two lines in and my mind is wandering off to when the new season of Top Chef begins. Listen normal people don't talk like this so why should we read like this. And for all those academics that actually do talk like this, please understand that this and the huge metal rod up your collective asses is why you can't get laid.

But I am off tangent again. See what a problem I have. Yes, I was a bad girl and procrastinated a little too much. So this week I am paying for my sins. Please forgive my absence from here and blog world as I subject myself to academic self-flagellation of the most torturous kind as I try to pull a miracle out of my butt and hope to con my students into believing I know what I am talking about. I am sure to be back with much funny business about uptight students and assinine academics but until then, I shall leave you with an old but classic funny.

Random Funny Things My Kids Say - Part 5

Lately Angus has been asking for a skinnier winter coat. She inherited a very nice warm Land’s End winter coat from Oldest, but it is very puffy and she complains that it makes her look like a blue snowman. Oldest now has a long less puffy black winter coat which Angus covets. It is not as warm but Angus just doesn’t care about that. At six she has already decided that it is better “too look good then to feel good, dahling!” However, she has a perfectly good coat and I have told her a million times now that she is not getting a new coat this winter.

So we were driving in the car when Angus announces that she wants to tell me a story. Sure I say, go ahead.

“Once upon a time there was a big, huge, ugly monster with blue hair and green skin and long needles for fingers and sharp knives for teeth and he was really really strong and he ate children and he lived in a big snowy cave. One day a group of children were sledding on the hill when their sled fell into a hole in the middle of the ground and dropped them down into the monster’s cave. The children saw the big monster running to get them and they were screaming and running and finally they saw a small little hole in the middle of a wall that was the only exit in the entire cave.”

“Wait a minute, back up. How come there is a hole in the middle of a hill like that? Didn’t someone see it and report it? Wouldn’t they fix it? Wouldn’t the police have found the hole and captured the monster?” oldest asks.

“Be quiet, this is my story,” Angus says. “And so the children all squeeze out of the little hole except for one little girl who has a big puffy coat. Her coat is sooooo puffy, she can’t get out and the monster catches her and eats her up.”

“Did he eat her coat and her boots too?” Youngest asks.

“Yes!”

“Yucky!” Youngest cries. (Apparently eating a coat and boots are yuckier to her than eating a child.)

“And the other children got out safely because they all wore skinny coats and then they cried and cried about their friend cause they missed her lots,” Angus says.

“Why didn’t the little girl just take off her coat?” Oldest asks.

“Because there wasn’t enough time,” Angus says.

“Maybe it wasn’t the coat, maybe the little girl was too fat,” the skeptic says.

“NO SHE WASN’T FAT! HER COAT MADE HER FAT, THAT’S ALL!” Angus shouts. “If her mother had bought her a skinnier coat, she would have made it out of the cave safely and she wouldn't have been eaten.”

“But why doesn’t the monster just break through the hole and eat all the other children too?” Oldest asks.

“Because he doesn’t fit in the small hole!”

"But you said he's really strong..."

"He is really strong!"

“So how does he eat if he can’t get out of the cave?” Oldest asks.

“He eats whatever falls in from the top of the cave like squirrels and mice and rabbits…”

“And children!” shrieks youngest.

“Well he can’t be such a strong monster if he can’t get out of the cave,” Oldest says.

“Yes he is! But the cave is made out of metal and he can’t get out.."

"Caves aren't made from metal! You don't know what you are talking about!"

"I don't want to talk to you anymore, you’re giving me a headache!” Angus is angry.

Oldest rolls her eyes. “Just because your story doesn’t make a lot of sense…”

“MOMMY! She’s being mean to me!”

“AM NOT! And the only reason you told that story was cause you want Mom to feel guilty and buy a new coat for you even after she told you a hundred times that you can’t have a new coat so who is being mean now?”

“THAT’S NOT WHY I TOLD THE STORY!”

“IS TOO!”

“IS NOT!”

“IS TOO!”

“YOU’RE A MONKEY FACE!”

“AND YOU SMELL!”

“EVERYONE BE QUIET THIS INSTANCE!” I shout out as I see Youngest grinning in her seat with her hands over her ears.

All is quiet in the car for a few minutes when I see Angus (who sits right behind me) lean forward as far as she can and whisper something to me.

“Um, so Mommy, do you think you could please please PLEASE buy me a skinny coat?” she whispers.

“HA! I KNEW IT!” shouts Oldest from the very back row.

I think I need a drink.

Please curb your dog

I hate sh*t. Oh is this some kind of surprise? Listen, just because I like to tell a good fart story once in awhile does not mean I like the brown stuff. Gas will pass, but crap always leaves a mark.

So I just got back from spending the weekend in New York City. My folks moved from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side. Yes, I always found it ironic that my parents waited til the kids were grown to move into the city, but there you have it. They are now living the high life on 70th Street and Riverside Drive. And let me tell you, it is really nice where they live. Overlooking the 72nd Street Pier with a stunning view of the Hudson and the GW Bridge. It would be perfect but for all the piles of dog poop all over the sidewalk. No kidding. Usually there is no poop anywhere near the entrances of the luxury apartments, but because there is a park leading from Riverside down towards the pier, every dog owner in a ten block radius seems to come and walk their dog here. Trouble is, not everyone picks up after their dog. It is a veritable mine field of dog poop piles, and steaming rivers of dog piss. I feel like a military commando ordering my kids around danger zones. The whole time we were walking to a nearby park I'm screaming "Freeze!" "Hang left!" "Jump!" "Don't move!" "Watch it!" I became a demented woman wanting to kick any dog that passed me by. Scratch that, I wanted to kick any dog owner that passed me. Dog owners that don't pick up after their dog are a special kind of asshole.

Hey it ain't the dogs fault that it's owner is too stupid to think of bringing an extra bag just in case the dog has to take a double dump. I mean think of all the pressure to perform the poor dog is under! All he wants to do is take his time, sniff around and take a nice long leisurely dump. But instead their master stands right in front of them, constantly staring at their butthole as if expecting spun gold to shoot out of it. Who can poop under that kind of pressure? Some people can't even go in a public restroom for fear that someone will hear them. Any dog has gotta be thinking that this just sucks. No privacy, no respect. So they barely pinch one out before everything closes up, just to make master happy. And on their way home, they take a moment while master is busy talking on the phone or picking his nose to squeeze out another one. "Crap!" says clueless master. "I don't have another bag so I'm just going to pretend that I didn't see Fifi drop a turd in the middle of Broadway even though there are like a 100 witnesses around." And off they go, leaving the lovely offering in the middle of the sidewalk for some poor unsuspecting slob to step in.

Now don't get me wrong, I love dogs. I really do. But I hate dog owners who don't curb their dog and also who think the public park is a public toilet just for dogs. When my kids go running in the park and come back with dog crap all over their shoes, I want to take the fecal matter to the FBI crime lab, analyze the crap for it's DNA, dog breed, sex and approximate age. Then match it to the offending dog and slowly torture the dog owner to death by burying them alive in 200 tons of elephant poop. There was a lady in our neighborhood who would walk her dog and let the thing poop on any neighbor's front lawn that it felt like. The day I found two little dog turds on my front lawn, I tried to hire a poodle hit man to take it out, but my husband found out and put a stop to my madness. Luckily for the dog, someone let it slip that there was a large reward out on Precious's head, dead or deader. I guess they went into doggie witness protection cause I haven't seen that tiny turd around for a long time.

But how to handle the problem of dog poop? It is clearly not enough that there is the possibility of a fine if you get caught because who in reality is going to enforce this law? And usually the worst offenders are young kids who can barely wipe their own asses let alone remember to grab a plastic baggie and pick up a hot steaming pile of doggy poo. So you know, having a bag on you is just not an excuse anymore. If my kid comes to your house and craps on your floor, I'm sure you are not going to let me walk away from it claiming that I forgot to bring a diaper or some such nonsense. My old boss was training his golden retriever and had gone out with only one bag for waste management. As luck would have it, the dog pooped twice. My old boss had nothing to pick up the second poop with so he scooped it up with his bare hands and dropped it in the garbage. Now that is being a good citizen! But while I applauded his quick thinking, I made it a policy from that point on never to shake his hand again.

The Washington DC Metro Area

Larramie has tagged me with a "7 Local Knowledge Meme" which is where I get to tell you something interesting about where I live. I thought this would be a fun one to do since I live in a place, similar to NY, that is considered a tri-state area. Growing up in NY, the tri-state area was NY, New Jersey and Connecticut, although I think I went to Connecticut only once in my entire life. I'm not crying over it. But here in the metropolitan DC area, I live in Maryland and have worked in Washington, DC and Virginia. It is virtually impossible to live here and not cross over all the borders. So here are seven interesting facts about this diverse area:

1. "Inside the Beltway" - This phrase is a peculiar one specific to the DC metro area and typically is a reference to the American political system. It refers to the Capital Beltway (Interstate 495), a fully enclosed looped highway that encircles Washington, D.C., and refers to all the power and importance of the offices of the Federal government, its contractors, lobbyists, and the media which cover them which all tend to reside within the beltway. I use the phrase solely to indicate where I live because I live inside the beltway in a suburb of Maryland that is literally ten minutes from the DC boundary. The beltway itself is a nightmarish traffic congested monster that you try your damndest to avoid but which you inevitably find yourself trapped on at any given time during your commute, unless you take metro and then you have your own set of headaches. Only on the Beltway have I found the sunshine phenomenon. Apparently metro area drivers who drive the beltway every single day of their working lives, do not understand the concept of a visor or sunglasses to overcome this local phenomenon of the sun rising or setting over parts of their commute. So you find yourself driving around a bend and slamming on your brakes because the idiots before you have stopped or are driving at a crawl because the sun is in their eyes. Hey Dumbass, put your visor down, take your foot off the brake and drive. It never fails that the idiotic behavior of one always causes a major traffic snafu. Unfortunately the rain or snow phenomenon is apparently more than these drivers can handle.

There is an intense rivalry between Virginia, Maryland and DC drivers, all who point fingers at the others as the worse drivers in the area. As a native New Yorker, and not to be immodest, but New Yorkers tend to be good drivers, I can say quite impassionately that they all suck. Seriously. I've been here ten years and here are somethings I have noticed. While there are good drivers in all three areas, the overwhelming selfish driving of the many tends to stick to your memory the longest. For example, Marylanders have a tendency to forget to use their blinkers and do not really understand the concept of merging and yielding. I swear if you get a bad Maryland driver in your car and you put on your blinker to turn, they would ask you "What's that clicking noise?" Virginians, on the otherhand, will use their blinker but cut you off so close that the blinker almost feels like an afterthought. They also have a tendency to speed like crazy, cut you off and slam on their brakes. And DC drivers tend to drive like they are the only drivers on the road. They never seem to turn their heads before making any lane changes or turns but on the otherhand, if you are in their way, they tend to use their car horns most frequently. I can usually tell just by their moving car violations who is driving the car. If you see a car cut across four lanes of traffic to make an exit that they should have just missed, it's usually a Marylander. If you are trying to merge onto the beltway on a high speed merge and the car way behind you in the left lane speeds up like a maniac and cuts you off just so you are not in front of them, that's a Virginian. If you are in the right lane and someone comes behind you, tailing you real close and starts honking their horn and giving you the finger, it's a Washingtonian.

2. "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers." Another interesting fact about the metro DC area is that it is swimming in lawyers. In most jurisdictions, being a lawyer automatically excuses you from jury duty. But in the DC metro area, there are simply too many attorneys to do that. Saying you know an attorney is not a threat you can use on anyone around here, cause most people have 3 or more in their family. Teachers have to send notes out reminding the parents that then only need one or two lawyers to come in for career day. Between all the politicians and the lawyers, this is why there are so many assholes in Washington.

3. Chinatown Friendship Arch - Photo credit to Washington DC Convention and Tourism Corporation. The Chinese Friendship gate is the largest single span Chinese gate in the world. It would indicate the beginnings of a large and wonderful Chinatown in the nation's capital. But that would be a huge lie. Chinatown in DC is all of one block long. Ok, maybe I exaggerate. All of two blocks long. There may be about 20 restaurants in this 2 block stretch, but you'd be hard pressed to find standouts here. While Full Kee in Chinatown does get regularly good reviews, some of the best Chinese food you will get in the area is out in Rockville, Maryland in little hole in the walls like A&J and Joe's Noodle shop. Now I used to go to Tony Cheng's Mongolian barbecue for lunch but I stopped going years ago, not because of the food, which was still good at the time, but because of the people. At lunch, Tony Cheng's had an all you can eat that you can stuff into one large bowl policy. They had a large buffet style area where you could pile up fresh vegetables, tofu and all kinds of meat. Now I love meat, but I do believe there is only so much meat a human being should ingest in one sitting. And for me, the best part was piling the bean sprouts high with just a little meat, cause the bean sprouts always cooked down. Then you let the very good chefs take over and put together a delicious sauce for you that they stir fry on their Mongolion flat stove. You would eat this with rice or with a delicious sesame bread pastry that opened and you could stuff with your stir fry. It was awesome. But it woud bother me to see people with 5 pounds of meat into their bowls, piling it up like some crazy meat tower only to see the same people waste more than half their meat later on. The restaurant did not let you take leftovers home, you cooked what you could eat and you were asked to try not to waste. And yet you would still see massive quantities of food being thrown away. This bothered me so much, I just couldn't go back anymore. I don't have any problem with people acting like pigs and eating most of their food (although I do find it disgusting even for a little piggie like me), but the sheer greed and waste part of the equation truly drove me crazy.

4. The Washington DC monuments at night - Photo by Scott Ableman. If you ever come to the DC area, you must take a drive around the monuments at night. First off, it's usually easier to find parking. Secondly, the view is incredibe. Most of the monuments are lit up so they look simply spectacular. In March or April, when the Cherry Blossom Festival occurs and the trees are in bloom at the Tidal Basin near the Thomas Jefferson memorial, take a stroll as the sun sets and watch the shimmering rays glint off the tranquil waters and breathe ethereal light to the fragrant blooms.

5. Museums - There are 19 Smithsonian museums in the area. 19!!! You've got the classic ones that everyone goes to like the Air and Space Museum and the Natural History Museum as well as the Gallery of Art. But then you also have the new National Museum of the American Indian which is now a must see. But the Smithsonians are not the only museums in town. The most popular museum by far these days is the International Spy Museum, the world's first museum dedicated to international espionage. Here you will find the wreckage of the 9/11 planes. A chilling reminder of the times we live in.

6. College town - Surprising to think of DC as a college town, but it has many all located in the DC metro area. Georgetown, George Washington, American, Catholic, Howard, University of Maryland and George Mason University are the big ones in the area. There's also Trunity, UDC, Strayer, etc. Lots of education to be had in this political town.

7. Food - Last but not least, eating in DC has gotten better and better over the years. There is definitely more variety in terms of ethnic cuisine as well as top chefs opening up amazing restaurants. For diversity, it has become relatively easy to find good Thai, Vietnamese, Middle Eastern, Korean, and Indian food around the area. There is little Vietnam in Arlington and Koreatown in Annandale and pockets of other local places where diversity in cuisine reigns supreme. And you have got the great established restaurants like Citronella for french or Galileo for Italian as well as a large variety of young hot chefs who have opened up their own restaurants for some amazing eating experiences. DC is not boring when it comes to food. Instead of providing a huge list of good restaurants, I would say one of the best guides to eating well in the Washington area is the Washingtonian magazine. It provides lists and write ups on all the restaurants around town. From cheap eats to luxury dining, they cover them all. It is a great resource for anyone who loves their food and finds themselves in Washington.

So these are my local facts. I hope they gave you a taste of the DC area and why you should come for a visit. And I would love to see if anyone else would post their local facts. If you are willing to do so, please leave me a comment so I can come and learn more about where you live.

My name is Angus

Before I tell you all about the whole Angus business, I just wanted to say a few things about comments. I have not been good about commenting and for that I apologize. It is not because I don't have anything to say. In fact, part of the problem is that when I am reading the comments off of my email account (and I read all of them) I usually respond to the comments either in my head or out loud as if you were sitting in front of me talking to me. And so when I return to my blog, in my mind, I have already commented to all of you about all your comments. Yes, I do realize how perfectly demented that may sound to you all, but it seems quite normal to me. I can't help it that you don't have the telepathic ability to hear me reacting to your comments. That's really not my fault, you know. But to give you an idea of the usual reactions I have to the comments I receive, I shall provide you with the following list of things that come out of my mouth after reading your comments:

Uh huh, you know that's right.
HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! Gag, choke on saliva. Cough. Cough. Wheeze.
Oh My God, he/she is crazier than I am!
Say what?
Damn! I wish Conduit had told me about that funny video earlier so I could have actually used it on my post!
Oh yes, High 5! Well? Don't leave me hanging!
Aw, that's so sweet of them to say. What does he/she want from me?
Hey, that's funnier than my post!
I'm hungry.
Is he/she stalking me?
Hee hee heeeeeeeee! Squeal like a little piggie.

So at any given time, some variation of the above will occur to any comments I receive. Sometimes I will actually write a response down, especially if I am asked a question. But usually I just completely forget to respond to all my wonderful comments because I am a lazy, crazy demented fool that can barely get her posts out. So please know that I think the world about all your comments and I always respond, even though usually it's all in my head.

So on to My Name is Angus:

My middle child likes to change her names at times. Last year, she went for a whole month insisting that her name was Peep and would not respond to anything but that name. To which she would then peep like a baby chick. A few months ago she insisted that we all call her Baby and she would reply in baby talk, but luckily that didn't last too long.

Last night my middle child came home and announced that from now on she would answer only to the name "Angus." Why Angus, I asked.

"Don't question Angus, no one can know why Angus does what Angus does!"

"Angus?!" My oldest laughed. "That's a boy's name."

"Angus is a boy," Angus replied in her husky little voice.

"Well that means you can't wear your pretty dresses and shoes anymore if you are a boy!" oldest said.

Angus paused and then announced, "Angus is a boy who likes to wear dresses."

"You can't do that!" Oldest said.

"Angus can do whatever Angus wants!"

"It's bath time," I cut in.

"Angus does not take baths!" she proclaimed.

"And why is that?"

"Angus is a boy and boys do not take baths!" she said.

"Ummm, who said that?"

"Angus says that because all boys are dirty and stinky!"

"Well in this house, no one is allowed to be dirty and stinky, even boys," I said.

"But Angus is not even dirty and stinky yet!"

"Angus better get her butt upstairs and in the water before she loses some privileges," I responded.

"Angus is not amused!"

"Mommy is not amused either, now go upstairs."

"But first, Angus will leave you with a parting present," Angus says just as she sticks her little butt out and farts pretty much in my face.

"ARGH! That is really disgusting!" I shouted. Angus smiles and says "I told you Angus was a boy."

Queen of Farts

***WARNING - VULGAR AND CRASS POSTING AHEAD***

So I have been analyzing my visitor stats lately and have found that at least twice a day, some one always happens on to my blog after searching for "Farts." If you google "funny things about farts" you will find my blog comes up third. If you google "sneezing and farting at the same time" my middle child is second to someone claiming to be a "Bad American." The number one key words for how people find my blog are 'farting' and 'funny.' All this makes me wonder if I should change my blog title to Random Acts of Farting.

This all reminds me of a woman I used to work with years ago. I had just moved back down to Washington, DC after working in New York for a few years. One of the legal secretaries, who worked for a major partner, was affectionately nicknamed the Queen of Farts. And you would never know it from looking at her. She was an older woman with dark blonde hair she styled in a short very fashionable cut and a lovely patrician face. She was the picture of gentility. You would never picture her for the public farting type, but there you have it, looks are completely deceiving. She would announce to everyone that she was lactose intolerant but had to have alot of milk with all the coffee she consumed. This was in lieu of any sort of apology for the cacophony of sound and odor that would later assault all our senses. Whenever she got up from her desk to walk to the bathroom after one of her many cups of coffee, she would sneak a squeek with every step she took. It sounded like an angry goose honking down our hallway. One day I was stuck in a bathroom stall next to her when she apparently decided to play Beethoven's Fifth Symphony into the toilet. Let me tell you, the acoustics in the bathroom were quite impressive. I ran out of the bathroom and laughed my ass off outside the women's room door where I could still her loud and clear. I do believe that she sustained one fart note in A# for at least 30 seconds.

One thing I loved about the Queen of Farts was how matter of fact she was about her gasiness and how she never seemed embarassed by it. I could never be so free and casual about farting in public. I have farting stage fright around other people. When someone is around, I can't make a sound. This gas won't pass my ass, alas. However, I will belch louder than a drunken frat boy. I have burped in public unintentionally many a time. In fact, during one corporate meeting at my first firm, I sat at the end of a very long conference table with 50 other attorneys. Having stupidly grabbed a diet coke to sip during the meeting, there was no controlling the bubble that began to creep up my throat. Unfortunately right after the Corporate Head Partner had ranted at our group about our poor hours and right when the room had turned completely silent in sullen resentment, the bubble flew out of my throat sounding like a seal's bark. I remember every head turning in my direction like something out of a movie. I myself turned my head as if to stare disapprovingly at the person sitting next to me. Only thing was that I was the last person seated at the conference table. I have never lived down that particular shame.

The only person who grossed us out more than the Queen of Farts was the Boogerman. He was a corporate partner who had graduated from Harvard and Yale Law school, who was very nice and very smart but had a terrible habit of picking his nose and wiping his boogers on any nearby available surface. I will never forget the day I went to pick up a contract I had drafted and that he was supposed to provide comments on. His secretary had it waiting for me and her face said it all. She handed me the document and I immediately noticed three small piles of grey gunk stuck to the front sheet. She said, "I took the liberty of circling some additional changes I feel you should probably make." It was then I noticed that she had circled the boogers with a big red marker. I had to stuff my fist in my hand to keep from shrieking in laughter and disgust. I still can't really remember how I got through redrafting that contract with those nasty boogers smeared all over the front page. And it really grossed me out to even touch any of the pages. I was always a little OCD, but you can see how instances like this made me more OCD. And as much as I desperately wanted to return the document as is, I remember throwing away the first page as I didn't want to return the document with his boogers circled like an accusation of improper hygiene. After all, he was the boss. And no boss likes looking a fool in front of his subordinates.

Now the only farts and boogers I have to deal with are delivered lovingly by my three beautiful girls and Da Man. Farts still make me laugh and boogers still gross me out. But I can still out belch everyone around me.

The Real You

Hey, are you looking at me?

Do I know you?

You look very familiar to me, where have I seen you before? Oh yeah! At the supermarket yesterday, you were on line, a little in front of me. It was the express lane. You know, the one that says ten items or less. How could I forget you? You pushed in a huge cart filled with stuff and when the cashier asked you to go to another lane because you were clearly in the wrong lane, you completely ignored her and continued to unload all your items. And when she insisted that this was the express lane for ten items or less only, you told her to ring your groceries up separately so the poor woman was forced to ring you up five separate times. I watched the professional way you condescended the poor cashier, reminding her that you were the customer and she had no right telling you what to do. You have a talent for making people feel small. The regular lanes were moving faster than the express lane was. And when the woman behind you complained, I remember now how you called her a nasty word and told her to do something terrible to herself.

Yes, yes, I remember you. When I finally got my three items rung up, I saw you unloading your fifty bags of groceries into your huge black Mercedes M-class SUV. After you slammed your door closed, you just shoved the shopping cart away from your SUV so that it rolled and crashed into the front bumper of a nearby minivan. I followed you out of the parking lot and watched you make a phone call while pulling out of the lot into oncoming traffic very slowly, causing the oncoming traffic to slam their brakes and cause immediate gridlock. I saw you cross three lanes of traffic without using your signal or turning your head. Out of curiousity, I followed you and saw you pull into another nearby shopping strip mall where you then proceeded to drive right through crosswalks where people, whith children, had to jump back, even though they had the right of way, as you continued down your demented way, still blithely talking on the phone. I saw you pull into a spot and park your car very badly, encroaching into the next spot so that only a motorcycle would be able to park next to you. You got out of your car with your expensive prada bag and your tight short mini skirt, about 25 years too young for you. Your dyed blonde hair in sexy waves around a face that was more a tight mask of sharp discontent. You walked into the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Salon, the black roots on your head a clear indication of your intent.

I hope you enjoyed your pampering. But know this, karma is a bitch and one day all that you send out into the world will return to you tenfold. And while you look in the mirror and believe that you see this:


In reality, what the rest of us see is the real you. And the real you looks like this:

My sister is my facebook pimp

So I got tricked onto facebook a little while ago by an old friend who kept emailing me about seeing his great pictures on facebook. The only thing was I had to actually open a facebook account to see his pics. Now you should all know by now that I love pictures. Pictures, photographs, art, I just love it all. I especially love looking at other people's pictures, you learn alot from them. But the idea of joining facebook was sort of revolting. Not really what I was interested in. But after 4 email prompts, I succumbed and joined. Now I could see my friend's pictures. Unfortunately, I had been tricked. Bastard had only posted that one picture I had already seen which had teased me into joining. So now here I was, on facebook with only one friend in the world. I was such a loser. I looked at my friends wall, he had 14 friends. Hmmmm, I thought. He tricked me onto facebook just to have more friends on his profile page. Bastard. So having only one friend in the world, I thought, well let me see who else I know on facebook. Then I remembered my niece and nephew, who are both in high school, are on facebook. So I poked them and they very goodnaturedly added their loser aunt to their friends network. Now I got to see their profile page. Talk about facebook envy! They both had something like 400 friends and had all these fun things like hatching eggs, growing plants, shaking snowglobes, fun quizzes, video clips, etc. I looked back at my facebook page. So boringly plain and white with only one pathetic post on my wall. Such a loser.

But then my gmail account had an item where it looked for friends for me via my contacts book. This is how I found Stephen Parrish's facebook page. And he wrote a blog about it right here . I also found out my best friend was on facebook, but never told me about it! So she had no choice but to friend me too. So now I had like 5 friends but still no fun stuff on my wall. I checked back at my bastard friend's wall, he was now up to 40 friends. Bastard. So I graffiti'd his wall and told him he should stop friending all the convicts just to pump up his numbers. But still my wall was hopelessly lame. And then I did it. I griped about facebook to my sister and that's when it happened. I became a facebook ho and my sister was my pimp.

My younger sister is very different from me. She is a social butterfly and I am the loner sitting comfortably in the back grunting in response to any question posed to me and nursing my drink. So she friended me and then she started asking her friends to friend me too. Suddenly I was up to 9 friends and was getting gifts and hugs and other such interesting things. Hmmmm, my little sister felt so sorry for me she had to have her friends friend me on facebook. There is something very sad and pathetic about this, huh?

But before I could get too bothered by this, I found another blogging friend on facebook. Precie then invited me to play Scrabulous!!!! What's that you ask? Scrabble on facebook! I was SO there. Problem is, you can't cheat. And if you get bad tiles, you're screwed. But hey, at least I was playing against someone with a phd in English so at least if I lost, I could say, hey, she has a phd in English, how could I win? And if I win, then I do the little WOO HOO, I'M BAD, SO BAD, UH HUH dance and become really obnoxious, but not to Precie because I'd want her to play with me again.

So now I know the real joy of facebook, playing scrabble with friends on the internet and superpoking them. Doesn't that sound like fun? You can also poke people, send them hugs, throw snowballs and sheep. Now throwing a sheep intrigued me so much that I threw one at myself just to see what happens. Apparently all that happens is that my wall now says "Ellen has thrown a sheep at herself." No picture of a sheep going splat on a cartoon person. No sheep guts splayed across the wall. Just those silly words. Where's the joy in this? So apparently I have now been poked, hugged and had cheesecake thrown at me - all in words that appear on my wall. Hmmmm, I'm not really getting this. I may have to sucker punch myself just for the joy of seeing the words "Ellen has now sucker punched herself." At least this is mildly amusing to me.

But now my facebook page actually looks less loseresque. I have a hatching egg which will develop into something disgustingly cute that will make me Aw and gag all at the same time. I also have been sent a growing plant. The only kind of plant I can't kill. Seriously, I have the black thumb of death. People have bought me many plants and told me not to worry, I can't kill it. And yet I ALWAYS kill them. I don't mean to. I want to be able to grow things. Both my parents have such green thumbs they could grow poppies out of their asses if they wanted to. But not me. My friend bought me a little cute cactus. Such a cute little thing. Only had to water it once a month. Still managed to kill it. Turned it into a smushed moldy crater instead of the cute little spiky pickle it once was. So I have high hopes for this virtual plant. It should stay green and pretty forever. Shoot maybe there is something to this facebook stuff.

But I'm gonna have to draw the line at the pimpage. No more pimping friends for me, sis, thank you very kindly. Don't cry for me, Pimpina. I don't need 40 friends on facebook. The ones I have are fine with me. You don't have to worry about me. It's not a sin to look like a loser. As long as I don't care that I look like a loser, that's all that matters. So tell your friends to stop friending me. I like your friends, they are very nice. But I'd rather be a facebook loser than a facebook ho.

Food...

Hungry again. Always hungry.

I'm trying to be so good. 300 calorie Lean cuisine frozen entree for lunch and baked chicken with a little corn and a little pasta for dinner. And yet I am still so hungry. There are doritos, chips, cupcakes and all sorts of munchable badness in the pantry. I must resist.

My small muffin top has grown into the oversized blueberry muffin top that I crave at the bakery but which is nowhere near as appealing bulging over my jeans. It hasn't helped that I haven't been able to do any sort of exercising in the past three weeks between illness and sheer exhaustion. I am a slug.

Part of me wonders why I shouldn't indulge in the chocolate cupcakes sitting so patiently in my pantry. Why not have a small bag of doritos? What's the harm? But that's pretty much what I have said every single day of December. One more day of munching won't kill me. One more day of eating whatever I want can't be so bad. But all of those days have added up to the bulging muffing top that adorns my jeans. Aack! Why can't I be one of those people who eat to live instead of living to eat? I can't because I just adore food too much. A life without delicious food is a life not worth living. Aw, screw it, where the hell is that chocolate cupcake?

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

If we are to do anything at all this year, let's do it with a big bang!

Sometimes I cheat at scrabble

I really can't help myself. It's true. A terrible affliction. I hate to lose. I am a terrible, horrible, no good, sore loserpants. But it is only at Scrabble that I cheat. I never cheat at any other game. In fact, I won't even cheat to lose on purpose for my kids as I believe learning to gracefully lose is an important learning lesson. One that I apparently never learned well myself.

For some reason, the idea of losing at Scrabble is unacceptable to me. The little devil pops up at my ear and whispers "He is beating you and the last word he placed on the board was 'fun?' You call yourself a writer? A voracious reader? A brilliant legal mind? He barely reads! The last thing he read for fun was a fishing magazine at Barnes and Nobles which he was too cheap to even purchase. He refuses to see foreign movies because he doesn't like reading subtitles. You are going to let HIM beat you at scrabble?" I argue back, "Listen, I can't help it that all I have are a series of 'I's and 'E's. What the heck am I supposed to do with that? Even Dickens couldn't come with a word worth more than 4 points with the crap I keep getting!" But even the little angel on the otherside of me shakes his head and says, "Listen, you need to step up your game before I smack you silly. Now I need to take a little break, but when I get back, I better not hear you've lost again..."

At this point, it's not like I have a choice anymore, I must cheat, and cheat I will. Strategically holding the bag so the light hits the letters just right, I spy a Z and slyly pick it up along with a few 'O's and 'S's and a very fortunate blank. Utilizing a carelessly opened triple word score box, I crow elatedly over a well placed "Zooms" adding an 'S' to the end of his "fun." As I gloat openly and outrageously at my triple word score, HE coughs carefully and asks me, "Did you cheat?" I look him in the eye ready to angrily deny it and then deflate like a flattened whoopie cushion. I cannot lie to him. He knows me too well. Not because I can't lie, although I do not consider what I do lying, more of a strategic manipulation of certain facts and truths to my benefit, but never outright lies. It is part of the aresenal of a good lawyer. You admit only certain facts, omit others and speak vaguely on all other points. Is this lying? Perhaps that is a topic for another post. For now, I sullenly nod and cross off all my illgotten points. I am losing again. Oh and funs is apparently not a word, which he so graciously pointed out to me. I was not having funs.

Forced to return my purloined tiles, I instead exchange my original crappy tiles for even shittier ones. Now along with all my 'I's, I have only 'U's and 'O's. Apparently for this round of Scrabble, I am to be the Queen of Loose Vowels. As I lose the game 98 to 50 points, I throw a little temper tantrum and kick the board over as I blame everything on the crappy tiles I received. He looks over at the sulky angry brat I've become and asks me if I want a rematch. And I sulk a little longer but then finally agree but ask to go first. He graciously concedes. Viciously shaking the little grey bag, I reach in (without cheating) for my first seven tiles. 'I's. Why did it have to be 'I's? I may have to cheat again. But this time, I hope he doesn't catch me.

Still not completely back...

And do you know why? Cause right in the grand midst of holiday hectic frenziness, the entire family got sick. Like dominoes, one after the other. First the 8 year old, then the 6 year old followed closely by the 3 year old who just turned 4 and then the big baby got sick and that just about killed me. Why is it that when men get sick they revert to the infant stage? My husband pretty much curled up into a fetal position and remained in bed for four days. I AM NOT KIDDING. I get sick and it doesn't matter how sick I get, I could never lie in bed for four days. There is just too much to do and too many things to take care of. Plus my parents were in town and honestly, I don't have the type of parents that come in and help out. Oh no. I have the type of parents that come in and need to be catered to. And because I hate shopping so much, I still had Christmas shopping to do up until Christmas eve, as well as cooking and cleaning and laundry and wrapping and entertaining. All with at least a minimum of 2 or 3 rotating sick people in the house.

So I ask you, why is it that men are such wimps when they get sick? This is an age old question for women. To the ABC News article titled "Are Men Wimps About Getting Colds?" I would answer with a resounding DUH! According to a study by Benenden Healthcare, "Male workers are more likely to call in sick with "the flu," while women tend to go to work and carry about their business when they feel an illness coming on." Is this really news for anyone out there? In fact, there is even a phenomenon called "Man Flu." It even has it's own Wikipedia page . So what is Man Flu? Apparently it is a phenomenon by which men and women suffer the same illness but by which men piss and moan and take 3 times longer to recover than the average woman. I'm sure all my women readers are nodding their heads in sage understanding. Apparently a man will take 3 days to recover where a woman would take a day or a day and a half at most. So why is this? Do women get sick less? Actually, no, in fact, women are more likely to get sick more often because they have more contact with children. Are they stronger? Hard to answer because we would have to consider physical, emotional, pschyological, etc., and how do you analyze all that? Perhaps it is a matter of pain tolerance. After all, the old joke is that if human existence depended on men being pregnant and delivering our babies, then mankind would go extinct faster than you could say "Ice Age."

When I was pregnant for the second and third time, I had very bad pre-term labor. In order to keep from going into early labor, the doctor put me on a terbutaline pump that injected terbutaline into my system every four hours. The problem was I had to insert the needle which would provide the medicine into my system, into my leg and then change sites every few days. Well it was pretty hard to stab a large needle into my own leg. It was NOT like a thin insulin needle, this was bigger, it had the plastic tubing around the needle, and you had to stab it hard past the outer muscle in order to insert it properly. I asked my husband to do it. The first time he nearly passed out and left the needle partly in, partly out, with me screaming at him and him screaming at me that he couldn't do it. I finally slammed the needle in with my palm. But changing it was so bad that I would wait too long to change it and get an infection in my leg before being forced to change the injection site. I finally got my husband to get consistently good at it, but his hands would curl up into claws and he would wince and moan as if he were the one getting the needle. On top of all of this, I also had gestational diabetes and had to inject myself with insulin three times a day. This I did by myself with no hesitation. But if the roles were reversed, I doubt my husband would have been able to go through all that I went through.

In a recent article in Men's Health magazine on Why Men Are Babies the author discusses two types of men, the whimpering crybabies and the stoic silent types that never say a word until they are dead. There are good reasons for both. Men still feel that they are the stronger sex and that they shouldn't get sick and if they do get sick, well then, it must be a horrible illness that is thoroughly incapacitating and everyone around them should coddle and nurse them until they are better. But when weird things happen to their bodies, they are less likely than a woman to go to a doctor and check it out. They will more likely ignore it. This is why men don't catch testicular cancer or prostate cancer soon enough. Because even their doctors will admit that men are babies. (Now I say this because I do think more men need to be more concious about taking better care of themselves.)

OK - I just want to amend my post to also say that my hubby is only sick once a year and is only incapacitated with the flu. So he is that crazy mix of stoic suffering through all other ills and then turning into a baby when incapacitated by the flu. So I shouldn't really complain, it is just hard because usually he is not sick alone - I have a full house of sick people. He is a wonderful hubby and I am just so happy he is better.

So with that rant over, I shall leave you with one last funny ad which cracked me up in my sick bed. Thos Brits have a sick sense of humor.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Here's wishing you all a wonderful, holiday season!

Random Funny Things My Kids Say - Part 4

Whoopee Cushion

A friend of mine brought her son and daughter over to play with the girls. Her son is 5 and her daughter is 8 and they both play really well with my three. The boy brought over his whoopee cushion and proceeded to show the girls how to sit and make loud and embarrassing sounds of extreme flatulence. Giggling madly, the girls began to argue who would get to sit on it next.

Shrieks of “it’s my turn,” “No my turn,” “let go,” “No, you let go” started to get louder and louder until finally I had had enough.

“That’s enough!” I shouted up to them. “No one plays with it anymore. Please put it away.”

There was a few minutes of absolute silence followed by whispers and giggles and then a loud farting sound exploded in the air as the kids began shrieking in laughter again.

“Didn’t I tell you to put that whoopee cushion away?” I shouted. To which my oldest girl responded, “Apparently we didn't actually need it.”

Evil Temptations

A neighbor brought by homemade brownies she had made for us the other day. After the polite thank yous, I sent the plate of brownies up with the girls while I stood chatting with my neighbor. After several minutes of chit chat, I headed up to snag a brownie for myself only to find that the girls had demolished all the brownies, leaving none for me.

“I can’t believe you didn’t save me even one brownie!” I cried out, quite miffed.

The older two had the grace to look a little guilty but the youngest, who is not yet 4, replied, “But Mom, you said chocolate is an evil tentashion for you, so we was helping you by getting rid of it!”

The other two brightened up and eagerly agreed, the middle child even going so far as to say, "Yeah Mom, we don't want you to get fat!"

I bet they were high fiving each other when I left.

Vurp

While driving in the car with the girls, my middle child lets out a massive burp. My youngest who sits right next to her cracks up and says “do it again!” My middle child burps again, not as loud. “Again!” says the youngest. Another burp, another "again."

“That’s enough,” I chime in. But they don’t listen to me as burps and "agains" keep coming and my middle child is starting to wheeze from the effort.

“Stop it!” I say just as the last burp turns into a vurp – vomit burp with a little spillage, and the middle child starts crying. The youngest stops laughing and says "ill, don’t do that again.”

Randomness

My Summer Friend Danette tagged me for a Random things meme. Since I've already blogged about a lot of random things and my blog has the term "random" in it, it seems only natural to continue the randomness.

1. I love tabasco. When I went to New Orleans, one of the best parts of the trip was being able to buy a gallon size of tabasco sauce. I put it on everything except sweets, but not for lack of trying. The world is a better place because of tabasco. In fact, I have even composed an Ode to Tabasco.

Ode to Tabasco
Oh glorious red marvel of hot treasure
How I adore thee all the time!
Boring foods now have become a pleasure,
although you burns me behind.

2. I am not good at poetry. See number 1.

3. I hate surprises. My husband knows better than to ever throw me a surprise party cause that would piss me off so bad. I've been known to turn to the end of a book I was reading, just to make sure who ever I was liking or hating, lived or died by the end. Of course I would never do this anywhere near Josephine Damian who has promised to smack me upside my head if she ever caught me doing it. Now I've found themoviespoiler.com which is like my new best friend now! I can know exactly what happens before I go see a movie! Ha, my husband hates this! If I ever even inadvertently give away some small inconsequential plot detail of some movie he wants to see, he refuses to see it claiming I have ruined the experience for him. Talk about overly dramatic. I mean just because I told him Bruce Willis was dead in Sixth Sense. Sheesh. ;o)

4. I don't believe in the line "it's the thought that counts." Cause it doesn't. It's not just the thought that counts but how you execute it. Seriously. I would rather receive no present than have a crappy insincere one. For example, I was once friends with a woman who, when she had her first baby, I sent her a lovely baby present. When I had my second child, this woman sent me a present also. I wish she hadn't. It was a baby blanket that no longer had any labels on it so I had a sneaking suspicion it had been used once before. Plus, it smelled of cat piss. I swear to you all. Cat Piss. I would much rather have never received anything from her, or just a card congratulating me would have been much preferable to a nasty stinky baby blanket that some miserable cat pissed on.

5. My embarassing karaoke story. Back when I was a wild young thang, we all went out drinking at some bar that was having a karaoke night. I got drunk enough to be persuaded to sing Like a Virgin on the bar's stage. I was so toasted I couldn't remember the lyrics and couldn't read the words on the screen so I just kept singing "touched for the very first time" and "like a virgin" over and over again and throwing in alot of "Whoas!" All I can remember is that there were alot of military guys out that night who were trying to convince me that I was the next Madonna and trying to persuade me to sing it again but luckily for me, my girlfriends were wise enough to drag me home. The moral of the story is never go out without a good group of girlfriends to save you from yourself.

So I dare anyone else to share an embarrassing story with me! Come on, let's hear it.

Holiday shopping fun

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE IN THE MALLS?!!!!! Let me start by saying I am not a shopper. The gene for shopping somehow did not get passed down to me. I abhor shopping. Loathe it. I would rather watch grass grow. I would rather smell my husband's feet. Anything but shopping. So if I am at the mall, I am there out of absolute necessity. My sox have too many holes in it, my kids clothes look two sizes too small, my shoes talk when the walk, etc. (Exception is for books and music. I don't consider that shopping since they are more like necessities of my life.) So I really don't understand the frenzy that attack people whenever SALE signs are posted. And shopping during the holidays is the worst time of the year.

I was at the Gap, looking for a pair of pants for my oldest daughter since it is now too cold for her to wear pants with her ankles exposed. (This is not my fault since it seems that my daughter sprouted over night!) There I was at the sales rack. (Cause who wants to pay full price for anything? I mean I may hate shopping, but I'm not stupid.) As I placed my hands on a particularly cute pair of jeans that had just been marked down, a woman snatched it out of my handS and loudly proclaimed, "I saw that first!" And then scurried away like a rat. I was literally too surprised to say a word - literally stood there with my mouth open and my hands still in a clutching position outstretched before me. (The only other time I ever had anything snatched out of my hands was at Filene's basement in Boston, and not to be mean to anyone from Boston because I love Boston, but sometimes the term Masshole can be quite accurate.) I suddenly realized that the store had filled up and that crazed women were systematically snatching items off of racks and tables with the frenzy of sharks at a fresh kill. Apparently I had arrived right before a big one day clearance sale day was scheduled. Me and the one other man who was not a store clerk stared at each other with open mouthed horror.

A table we stood near had shirts and pants marked up to 50% off. Nimbly and with his long arms, I watched the man lean over a bunch of women (who were clawing through the once nicely folded piles) and snatch up a bunch of shirts and pants. I started to back away in horror but the thought of my poor kid's naked ankles strengthened my resolve and I muscled in and grabbed up a few pair of pants. As I was pulling my arm back, one of the price tags caught a woman in the mouth, bringing her head around as if I had fish-hooked her and was reeling her in. Spitting the tag out of her mouth, she shrieked "Watch it bitch!" I began to apologize profusely but realized she had already forgotten about me as she continued to frantically paw through the diminishing piles of clothing, even as the pile in her arms was growing to ginormous proportions!!

Hurrying away, I looked at the pants and shirts I had managed to grab up. None were in the right size for my oldest, but the prices made me blink. $4.99 shirts and $9.99 pants, Holy Corduroys! No wonder the women were like piranhas attacking a capabera. Determined, I trudged back to the table, determined to get a pair of pants that would fit my 8 year old. Alas, I was too late, in the space of ten minutes, the table had been decimated. The remaining pile of clothes compiled of size 14s and 2s in shades of green that looked like they came from a herbivores dungpile - none of them usable by any of my girls. As I stood forlornly by the table, a sales clerk came by to fold up the unwanted ones.

"Look at those women," the clerk snorted, correctly judging me as a shopping rookie. "They walk out with armloads of stuff that I'll just have to restock when they come back to return them after the holidays."

"And all I needed was a pair of pants," I sighed.

The clerk gave me a sympathetic look and said, "Honey, you are just not aggressive enough."

No kidding! Those women scare the crap out of me.

Wednesday Pick Me Up

A beautiful picture and a beautiful poem to uplift us on a dreary day. I may not be able to write good poetry, but I know it when I see it.

Copyright by Frances A. Wiley

Lord, the air smells good...
by Rumi

Lord, the air smells good today,
straight from the mysteries
within the inner courts of God.
A grace like new clothes thrown
across the garden, free medicine for everybody.
The trees in their prayer, the birds in praise,
the first blue violets kneeling.
Whatever came from Being is caught up in being, drunkenly
forgetting the way back.

The Girls and Holiday Spirit

The girls were helping me decorate the Christmas Tree when oldest says "Let's all sing Christmas songs!" They immediately begin singing Jingle Bells and Santa Claus is Coming to Town. When they are done, the oldest asks "What should we sing next?"

Middle child shrieks, "Oh I know! My favorite song!" And proceeds to sing this:

O dreydl, dreydl, dreydl, I made it out of clay
And when it’s dry and ready, o dreydl I shall play, Hey!

I start cracking up and oldest says: "That is most definitely NOT a Christmas song! It is a Hannukah song and you can't sing it for Christmas!"

"Well I don't care cause I like it!" middle child responds.

"You're not being in the Christmas spirit!" oldest says.

"I'm being in the holiday spirit and since that includes Christmas and Hannukah I can sing what I want!" middle child replies very smartly.

Intervening in what looks like a Christmas/Hannukah fight between the girls, I interject and say, "That's right sweetie, it is very nice of you to sing all holiday songs!"

"See! I told you!" middle child replies and sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry at her.

"Now that's not being in the holiday spirit. Remember, Santa's always watching," I chided her.

"Don't worry he didn't see me cause I was crossing my fingers!" she replied with a big smile.

The Vienna Vegetable Orchestra

So this was so bizarre I had to post it. An orchestra made entirely of vegetable instruments. How very phallic! Although I must say that my favorite was the person playing the head of cabbage. That cracked me up!

My middle name is

Dear Larramie at Seize a Daisy has tagged me for a middle name meme. Something about listing one fact that is somehow relevant to your life for each letter of your middle name. If you don't have a middle name, just make one up...or use the one you would have liked to have had.

So my middle name is like 13 letters long and I just don't have that many interesting facts about myself to make this an interesting post. Well, I was feeling weird so I decided to write up the facts and make up a middle name depending upon what I got so here goes:

O - is for OCD. During the winter my hands turn into little alligator clutches cause I wash my hands so much you can actually see the dried up diamond shape markings of my skin. And I would rather pee my pants than use a port-o-potty.

S - is for sarcastic. Try to understand that I'm not trying to hurt your feelings, I really am smarter and better looking than you.

S - is for serious. No seriously, I am smarter and better looking than you.

H - is for happy. Truly I am, especially after I punched that last moron who told me to turn my frown upside down.

E - is for eating. My new avatar is a pig. Need I say more?

L - is for laughter. Hey, if I can't laugh at you, then who will?

A - is for anal. It comes with having OCD. I don't like when people touch my stuff. They'll put it out of order. I don't like lending people my books because I hate it when they bend my spine. I don't like naked dolls. If I see a naked doll, even if it is at someone else's house, I must dress it. This is non-negotiable. While in the Barbados, I got into a little fight with my friend's 3 year old who insisted that her Barbies needed to swim naked in the pool and began screaming at me when I kept trying to sneak clothes on their naked bodies behind her back.

So OSSHELA is now my middle name. But I didn't like the sound of that so I started playing with the letters and switching them until I realized that my real middle name is actually "ASSHOLE." Ain't that a bitch?