Resolute

This was supposed to be the mandatory post about New Year's resolutions, but the truth is I don't really do them. I tried once and ended up with a husband. After that I pretty much decided to leave well enough alone.

The trouble is without resolutions I don't have much to talk about, you know, since that was the initial goal of this entry.

Because I am an innovative and lazy sort I decided to dig deep in to the dark catacombs of my brain and pull out this tasty morsel. In one of my earlier posts I promised to talk about things I hate, and today I would like to entertain with a condensed version of something I wrote a long time ago. It has been recycled for so many classes I've lost count. So, one more time with feeling, I bring you: Oh! How I Hate the Blueberry.

My mother has fed me the heart of a pig and the brain of some other animal. I ate both without question. I have willingly eaten a snail and the tentacles of a squid. Even though I have done all of this there is one food I have not eaten: The blueberry.

The reason for not eating them goes much deeper than not liking the taste because I have no idea what they taste like. I believe blueberries are evil.

My family is very passionate about food - to the extent that we have been known to base relationships on the types of foods others eat and despise others for what they do or don't eat.

I was always told to try a food before I decided I didn't like it. This makes it more confounding to know that I don't like blueberries without tasting one. I think it began with one childhood story and grew from there.

When I was younger my mom told me that her mom wouldn't eat blueberries in baked goods because she felt they were looking at her. This actually makes sense. Many people won't eat anything with it's head still attached for the same reason.

But blueberry muffins looking at you is only the beginning. I know those little buggers are evil, and I have proof. Or at least a very reasonable facsimile.

I have developed a theory that blueberries are the minions of Satan and are waiting to possess your soul. Sounds silly, but I have evidence to support my claim.

First, if you take the letters used to spell blueberries, scramble them up, take some out, add some in and throw in some blood of a virgin, it most definitely would spell Beelzebub. Coincidence? No.

Second, through years of scientific research I have discovered a few symptoms associated with demonic possession including bloating and abrupt changes in eye color. Armed with this information I racked my brain for something that exhibited these traits and the consumption of blueberries. And, poof, I had it.

In the Roald Dahl book, "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," there is the most outstanding example of blueberry possession documented. Violet eats the forbidden chewing gum and passes through each course unscathed until she comes to the blueberry pie. And oh my what happens to her? She bloats up and her eyes turn blue - like a blueberry. Possession!

So there you have it - a classic example of blueberry possession. I have never eaten one and never will. Violet did and was possessed. Had it not been a children's book I am sure Dahl would have gone into more detail and revealed Violet had shown some of the more evil signs of possession as well. If what happened to Violet is any indication of the evil that blueberries can cause then I hope you think twice before you decide to eat another one.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

When I moved from my childhood home into my husband's house I didn't bring everything with me. I meant to but the stuff I left behind wasn't as high on the priority list as say, stuffed llamas and tiny chenille chickens.

Over the years, my mom has worked hard to make sure those forgotten items have returned to me. Because after 6 years it is clear that these are things I can't live without.

One of her more recent contributions was a box of notes I had saved from junior high and high school. Most of them can easily be classified as ridiculous - pure and simple. I read through some of them and was amazed at a few things.

The one that stands out the most is that many of the letters from who was my best friend include thinly veiled death threats, epic battles between fanged bunnies and evil powers, and so much more.

It was an amusing little jaunt down memory lane and it was amusing to remember how ridiculous we were back then. On the other hand, if I hadn't read through them I may have been able to remember the past with a little more of a positive light.

Broken Promise and the Cleansing of Demons

If memory serves me correctly I may have made a promise about a new post each day for the rest of the year and pretty shortly after that promise I missed a post. OK, so it was the next day. Let me explain.

For the past month every member of my family has been sick with one thing or the other. There have been: Ear infections, vomiting, fevers, eye infections and pink eye, coughing, oozing, upper respiratory infections, more snot than you can shake a stick at, shivers, shakes, congestion and so on.

I have used two bottles of Lysol, washed my hands raw, avoided touching my eyes for two days, washed all the laundry in the house twice and am getting ready to do it again.

My house needs cleaning. We haven't done much in the last week, and the trash is piling up because we didn't get it to the curb last week. Trash day was in the middle of the vomiting fit. So, now I have a whole house to clean and no where to put the trash. Sigh.

When I am done with this post and have restocked my supplies I am going to start on a ritualistic cleansing of the house - kind of like when ghost hunters force a dark entity from a home - going room to room cleaning and disinfecting til it's done.

Anyway, when I made the everyday post promise I was clearly in a highly delusional state caused by being surrounded by sickness and not being able to escape. Now I can escape. I will still do my best to fulfill my oath. But we may just get to four posts for the rest of the year.

Not Just For Breakfast

In an effort to catch up on my blog posting before the year runs out on me I am going to attempt to barrage this with posts. I am looking to to do one a day for the rest of the year or a grand total of 4 whichever happens first... Since I am currently stuck in my house because of the contagious eye infection debacle of '09 I should have plenty of time to play catch up. And if I start messing up on spelling it is because my eyes crusted over and sealed themselves shut while I was typing and I am just not that great at typing without looking.

This post will revisit some thoughts from a past post. I don't know which one. I could link to it but than I would have to figure out how to link and time is of the essence. So, without any further hesitation I will bring you back to the world of Cheerios.

Cheerios serve a number of purposes to a toddler - one of which does not appear to be as use as a food source. Jack personally enjoys pouring them from one vessel to another. When he gets bored of simply switching their homes he finds joy in pouring them on the floor.

Once the Cheerios are neatly scattered around the living room Jack takes me by the hand and leads me to the vacuum and smiles as if to suggest that he knows I find no greater joy then to vacuum up Cheerios, and look at how convenient he has made this for me.

Of course I relent because there are Cheerios all over the floor and that's just asking for trouble because the last thing I need is to attract more toddlers to my house. For his part Jack grabs up his 'popper' push toy, drapes the vacuum cord around his neck (like mama) and rolls the popper over the pile which achieves three things: grounding them into the floor, scattering them out farther and blocking the real vacuum.

Now, I have also been privy to some information regarding another use for Cheerios. Apparently they come in handy during the course of potty-training little boys. Since we are still in the wee stages of potty-training we have yet to try this out.

My mother-in-law has fed me a number of stories and one of them she really enjoys has to do with Cheerios, my husband and what my future could hold if Jack follows too closely in his father's shadow.

Apparently my husband was a bit of a Cheerio hoarder in his youth. He would store them everywhere most likely in case he grew up and lived in a world where Cheerios were no longer available, probably a lot like The Matrix movies.

I guess the story ends up with Cheerios being discovered flowing from his Little People farm and some choice air vents around the house.

Fast-forward 28 years and I have found Jack depositing some of his stray Cheerios in a niche in the back of the vacuum. My only hope is he thinks he is helping them get into the vacuum and not squirreling them away for later.

Unfortunately Cheerios are my favorite breakfast cereal so there's no hope of them leaving the house. I have personally grown accustomed to keeping a very close eye on Jack while Cheerios are around. As for when my husband's in charge...well, let's just say the electronics should be very cautious.

Ten

As I drove home from what seems like the millionth doctor's appointment for little Jack in a two-week period a number of random thoughts ran through my mind. I thought I would rush home and share them with my attention-starved readers - you know, give them a little holiday morsel to chew on. The first one, which was obviously the best, escaped me as soon as the others started flittering in.

Some of the random thoughts I had were:

How much do I have to disinfect my kitchen before I can feel safe making Christmas cookies?

If the normal cat sleeps 18+ hours a day and my cats sleep 22+ what does that make them?

Would more people read my blog if I posted more pictures (not of my cats) and less words?

Where did that penguin's foot go?

And of course the list continues. And of course none of those were thoughts as much as they were questions.

I think what is most important is the original thought, the thought that spurred this entire entry is lost. Just a vague shadow of a memory floating in my brain. The world may never know what greatness it could have produced - and trust me it would have produced greatness! Exclamation point even.

The excitement is palpable. ooo and aah

It's Time For a Celebration!

I know there were doubts early on about whether this blog would live to see this momentous day, but here we are: Happy 25th post!

Wow, 25 posts. When I think of 25 I think of a lot of really good things. I like numbers that are multiples of, divisible by and just have the number 5 in them, so 25 is pretty awesome on that count. Also, I have been turning 25 for 5 years now so that's pretty sweet also.

While I'm saving the photo montage/recap for my 50th post, I think the 25th post is a good time to thank my loyal reader(s). Hi, mom! If she knew how to make a comment I'm pretty sure she would. I would also like to say thank you to Brian because he does make comments and not in a stalker-y way at all.

I know that none of this would have been possible if it weren't for my cats, hatred of flowers, and the wondrous Jack. So Huzzah to you.

Here's looking towards the future and another 25 musings so we can get the Happy 50th post photo montage/blog recap!

Could it Be?

Hedwig, the cat I have had for around 9 years, has a number of different quirks. Because her knee caps are misplaced she runs/hops/walks/??? like a opossum. Her tongue is, most likely, approximately a half inch too big for her mouth judging by how it always sticks out. She is a master of the cat philosophy of "I will be loved when it suits me, and you will love me when and only when I allow it."

But perhaps the quirk I like the most is she tends to be the most un-photogenic cat I have ever known.

These are a few examples of my dear Hedwig. There are more, but I am saving those for the day when I may have to blackmail her for her precious cat money.

So, the question remains: How does Hedwig feel about this? Well...
Yep. Pretty much the way she feels about everything else.

There it is. I have presented my evidence, belittled my cat, but hopefully I have swayed some into thinking that Hedwig is indeed the most un-photogenic cat...In The World!

The Butterfly Effect

Since my life currently revolves around the whims of someone whose idea of a good time is running around a foot stool for five minutes just to run head first into a recliner it is easy for me to understand why some of my posts have to do with Jack, the easily amused 22-month old.

This one is no exception, but there is a little bit more to it than waxing fondly about Jack. So here it goes:

I won't lie and tell you that the notion of potty-training has just come into my world. It was one of the first things I thought of when I found out I was pregnant. That is one of the reasons why I decided to have a boy - because I thought I could pawn the training onto my husband.

Well, unfortunately I am the one who is home with the itty-bitty and any attempts at training fall to me.

Jack shows interest in the idea of the potty, but for me it is a terrifying aspect. Now, I haven't immersed myself in baby-raising books, and I haven't sought outside help on the subject because my go-to source who is my mom, who had five children, has proven downright useless when it comes to remembering anything she did when raising any of her kids.

Basically what I have is snippets of things I've heard or imagined about how potty training has to be executed just right, at the right time, in the right altitude, and not on a full moon or the consequences are dire.

Plus, past job experiences have taught me that I am a horrible trainer. My training sessions have gone: instruct the trainee on how task should be done; stand back and watch; wait a minute or until the thought crosses my mind that I can do this faster on my own and they are getting in my way; and gently push them out of the way and do it myself.

I am not too sure how well that will work for the whole potty training thing.

Add the fact that I am pretty much convinced that everything I do while potty training will result in some type of butterfly effect and the amount of terror weighing down on me becomes more evident. If I do 'this' there will be an earthquake in Antarctica and all the penguins will capsize. If I do 'that' he will grow up to be a six-legged bunny monster who feeds on the souls of lost children.

Crappy Artist's Rendering of future improperly potty trained Jack. And he was such a cute kid. Harumph.

I can't handle the pressure. I'm considering putting it off until he's, I don't know, 14. I mean I don't really want to be responsible for turning their child into a monster and all indications point to them turning into one on their own accord around that age... right?

This Post May Contain Strong Language

My little almost 2-year old boy has become quite the little chatterbox. We go on walks around the block and he identifies as much as he possibly can. He recognizes houses, trash cans, pumpkins, cats, dogs, planes, trees, people, cars and on and on.

I have taken it upon myself to teach him the difference between cars and trucks - mostly because I think there are some people around this town that will get offended when anyone, even a 2-year old, calls their truck a car.

So, every time we go past a truck and Jack says car I correct him. And then I cringe.

I've heard the stories of countless families whose toddlers voice unfortunate mispronunciations of words like truck and fork. While there are those who would take advantage of the situation I am pretty against children cussing... even if it is unintentional.

Don't get me wrong. I cuss. A lot. And I don't mind if other people cuss around me. Perhaps I am of the opinion that there is a proper way of cussing.

I have spent a lot of time thinking about this subject lately. I didn't start cussing until I was in 7th or 8th grade. No reason really but I do recall feeling icky when my friends or older brothers did.

When I was in Sunday school my teacher had a wonderful discussion about swearing and cussing. She was of the opinion that the words that many find offensive aren't really that bad if they're used in the right context. What I took from the discussion was that it was OK to use them in general because they were just words, but when you used them in anger then they became bad.

So does Shit by any other name sound more sweet? I am fairly good at turning it on or off, so when I knocked some clothes off the table the other day at a garage sale I was hosting I exclaimed, "Oh goodness," rather than "Shit" like I normally would have.

So technically goodness was shit, but a socially acceptable shit - but why? Fiddlesticks, shoot, frig, arse, dang, etc. are all ways to cuss without cussing. Why are the words offensive when they can easily be replaced with something else? For me it goes back to the feeling that is being conveyed.

Perhaps because of that one Sunday school class I remember, I rarely cuss to express anger. For me swear words are nothing more than my regular vocabulary only sassy! Or something. I know when I take a cue from Ghost Hunters and say 'What the frig?' my brain is saying something else.

Still, I am not encouraging little Jack to cuss and I control my sassy vocabulary around him. However, I dread the day he decides to point out a dump truck to someone or asks for a fork at a restaurant.

Run Along Little Wooly

As I was driving home from the vet this morning I saw something I have not had the fortune of seeing before: a fuzzy caterpillar on a mission. Clearly it was on a mission because it was crossing the street and most caterpillars I have come across are fairly happy staying put as in the case of Dr. David Watson's eyebrows*.

I saw this caterpillar booking it across the street as fast as his numerous tiny leg stumps would carry him. It brought a smile to my face and a tear to my eye because he was both amusing and a cause of worry as I feared for his safety.

As I watched him in my rear view mirror, I imagined what was running though his cute little brain, and I came up with two very likely scenarios.

Scenario one: "I'm bad. I'm crossing the street. They said I couldn't because I was too small. I'll show them. I'm strutting with the wind in my hair. Check it, Cindy is so digging me right now."

Scenario two: "'No, I don't want this leaf, I want the leaf over there.' Why does she have to be so picky? This is f-ing dangerous, and here I am risking my life for a frickin' leaf just to make her happy. Jesus! What was that? It was huge and loud and the windy! Go fetal! Go fetal! Curl up tight! It'll go away! Mommy?"

I just love thinking like a caterpillar.

*A long time ago in Springfield there was a minister/pastor/what-not named Dr. David Watson. Of the many things he was known for one of them was his morning show with a message of faith aired on KY3 and, among my family, his magnificent fuzzy eyebrows which were clearly big, fuzzy strategically placed caterpillars.

So Where Do They Hide the Yeti?

After two trips to Marionville I had begun to wonder if the white squirrels the town is famous for really existed. I had gone once for business and once on a squirrel seeking mission but both trips left me empty handed and with nothing to brag about. Heck, the Joplin Spooklight had been easier to spot.

Today, Sept. 23, my ma and I took another trip out that way. It had started out as an apple seeking mission as we went to Murphy's Orchard right outside of Marionville to buy some apples and cider. Since I was driving I decided to venture right past the city limit sign and take another stab at spotting the cute little oddities that had so often eluded me.

With nothing else to do and no where else to be we had time to drive around and look. We started our search in the business district. Our reasoning was if these are unique to the town they are probably employed here and should be at work. We saw plenty of gray squirrels, but no white squirrels.

I started yelling at my mom with a desperation only found in people who have spent their life hunting the impossible.

"How can they possibly call themselves the home of the white squirrel when I've never seen one? We might as well call Springfield the land of the yeti if we don't actually have to have any."

Like I said I had been reaching the end of my already short rope. I so desperately wanted to see one.

She tried to make me feel better by siding with me and telling me the least the town could do was store some in a cage in front of city hall.

Then my mom pointed out her window and said, "There's a unicorn," which caused me to start in on another tirade.

"Oh so it's easier to find a frickin' unicorn than something this town is famous for?!?!"

Notice the excessive use of question marks and exclamation points - that truly illustrates how crazy I was getting.

But it was during the unicorn rant that I stopped my car in the middle of the road and stared into some person's yard. There it was:

Marionville White Squirrel in its natural habitat
preparing for an unusually harsh winter by storing
nuts in its adorable cheeks.

A Marionville white squirrel. As we drove on we saw another and then three and then one. It really was all I had ever hoped for. Tears welled up in my eyes as I stopped my car in the middle of the street time and time again to take pictures. This is why you should always carry a camera: because if you find your yeti people need proof, and the recollections of a crazy person hardly count.

See dreams do come true.

Now Entering Hell: population 2

Over the last couple of months I have put a lot of thought into planning a small vacation for my husband and myself - just some time without the midget. So far I have eliminated all prospects except Branson, Mo.

Now, I'm not planning on leaving right away or even anytime in the near future. I am being very unlike myself and planning well in advance. I'm weighing all the pros and the cons and some day, in a few years or so, we may take a break.

Well, that is if we weren't going to die.

This brings me back to Branson. Growing up in Springfield I have traveled to Branson close to a million times. I have one of those little clicker counters which is why I can be so certain on the number. I am comfortable with the drive and getting around and, well, I feel safe there on my own.

Now, it should be noted that I have thought of other possible destinations: Hawaii, Las Vegas, Kansas City, St. Louis, Sedona, Florida... And so on. Unfortunately my childhood has made all of these locations suspect and a little bit dangerous.

It wasn't until I had turned 30 and I was trying to plan a trip with just the two of us that it had all caught up to me. Every place I had thought of all that was running through my mind was 'Who's driving? What's nearby? Are we all going to die? Can my husband be trusted to not let us all die?'

I wondered to myself why I would have these types of thoughts. Vacations are supposed to be fun. It's not like I had ever had one that ranked with the Griswold's attempts. So, what could it be?

Oh, wait I know. Everytime we went on vacation we would inevitably take a wrong turn and my dad, the driver, would yell at my mom, the navigator, something along the lines of, 'Where are you taking us? We're all going to die!'

My family, it seemed, was always on the verge of entering East St. Louis, or any number of notoriously dangerous spots. There has always been the story of going to Joplin to see the Spook Light. We had pulled onto the lonely country road that silly ball of light inhabits and were apparently greeted by a group of Klan members or some other yahoos with torches. Either way you look at it a family of small children and yahoos with torches really shouldn't mix.

So maybe we were always on the verge of death or perhaps my dad was over-reacting. The point is I trusted him to get the family out of danger, probably because he recognized death was right around the corner.

My husband on the other hand is too relaxed about it. He reminds me of Brad Majors in The Rocky Horror Picture Show simply saying, "I'm here. There's nothing to worry about." He doesn't seem to accept that every bridge leads to East St. Louis and around every corner is another danger lurking.

So, as far as I'm concerned, my husband and I will travel to Branson. Everything I need is located pretty much on one major road, and Dolly Parton is there to protect me. The only fear I have is Baldknobbers, and if Silver Dollar City and the best-ride-ever Fire in the Hole have taught me anything, it is the only thing Baldknobbers want is your pants.

I May Not Have Made Myself Clear

I don't like the finer points of being outdoors. I don't mind going outside and can appreciate the beauty of nature, but everything that goes along with it, well for lack of a better word - blech.

I hate bugs though they seem to love me. I don't much care for water. I'm not overly keen on trees and flowers can bugger off.

But what I really want to talk about right now is the flower part. For some reason as a pseudo-homeowner I feel it is my right to have a flower garden. A few years back I took it upon myself to scalp a patch of my lawn and convert it into one. I like pansies fine. And pink tulips. And I'm fond of mums.

I hate leafy, bushy flowers. So, naturally I filled my flower garden with the leafiest, bushiest flowering bastards I could find. Some of them I chose like the idiot calla lilies and the pink tulips. Others appeared there like the other lily and the irises.

Of course, the flower bed is partly run by my husband and he likes the stupid bushy, leafy idiot plants. However, when it comes to tending the flower bed it all comes to me.

Fact: no matter how harmless something seems outside of the flower bed once it goes past the stone border it becomes 10-times more terrifying.

In general I love slugs. I like to pet their backs and poke their eye stalks. I am fairly sure they don't mind. Well, that or they absolutely hate it. One can never be too sure with slugs.

However, the instant a slug enters the garden it is a cursed creature who can't be touched, looked at or even admired - perhaps even slightly disgusting to look at and in no way approachable.

Towards the end of summer I get fed up with the overgrown bushy monstrosity in front of my house and grab a pair of kitchen shears (I don't actually own anything to use in the flower bed) and hack everything down. I think there are certain rules and regulations to follow for cutting back plants, but my personal motto is "make it gone." See, gardening turns me into some Larry the Cable Guy kind of crazy person.

Just a few days ago I was happily pulling up mint when I ran into a slug. The horror! But I persevered. I was happily hacking away at the calla lilies and each one of those leaves was filled with dirt and grubs! How friggin' gross.

My taking back of the garden was put on hold until I could come up with gloves. Apparently they don't make gloves that go all the way up the arms. Why? Long sleeves aren't the same. They're not approved or gardening like gardening gloves are. Things can get through the fabric; I'm pretty sure of that.

Why do I insist on keeping up on the garden? I ask myself that all the time. The answer comes in multiple parts. Partially a lot of the plants in the garden come back year after year whether I want them to or not, so I am forced into doing something. If I didn't have the persistent plants I would cave from time to time and dig plots for the mums and pansies and their ilk so I could watch them die.

Perhaps my best bet is to kiss the real flowers good-bye and buy plastic flowers for the flower bed and adhere a fake background to my house kind of like the finer fish tanks have. That way I can enjoy nature the way it was meant to be enjoyed - in a completely artificial way and as always from the safety of my own home.

Good 'Til The last Drop

It has been two days since I ventured outside. In hindsight the funny thing is I went outside to spray bug repellent. My house had been looking a little too welcoming for spiders and I was a tired of walking through their webs to get to the front door.

I really only spent 30 minutes outside. It wasn't long. I laughed. I sprayed bug spray. The little one played in water. Sure I saw one, two mosquitoes biting me. One on my arm and one on my leg. I squashed them and they obediently exploded coating me in my own blood they had so kindly liberated from me.

It has been two days and here I sit covered in no less than 18 bug bites. I suppose I have never been one of the lucky ones. I remember long ago visiting Illinois with a friend of mine. We stopped to see the Mississippi River. At dusk. We were there a short time because we were naturally afraid of sea monsters. I suppose we should've been more worried about the wall of mosquitoes. Luckily for the others the little blood suckers bypassed them and left me with no less than 30 bites on my back alone.

Always looking for a way to dissuade the little bastards from feasting on my blood I will try suggestions. I went to a barbecue once and the cool thing was to use this lotion that worked wonders at keeping mosquitoes away. Well, for everyone else it appeared. After watching everyone else put it on I gave it a shot.

I might as well have slathered myself in gravy and put on a neon sign that read 'all you can eat.' Again I was covered in bug bites while everyone else got off scott free.

Since this is a reoccurring theme in my life I have put some thought into what could cause this. Now, I would like to say that I am not one to go in for conspiracy theories, but since I came up with this one on my own I feel like I don't really have a choice.

The reason mosquitoes are so fond of me is because blood banks have trained them to go after me.

See, I am not keen on donating blood. I have, but I am not happy about it. The first time I donated I screamed when they swabbed me with the alcohol, but I trudged through because I got out of algebra.

Unfortunately, my blood type came back as O+. Since that is a popular type and I am not a willing donor the blood banks have taken matters into their own hands with these trained collection mosquitoes.

So, here I sit fighting the urge to itch and cursing the day the blood banks learned I was O+. Oh, Caladryl! Take me away!

I'm Pining for the Fjords

I suppose it could be considered a type of seasonal depression, and the long, stupid summer months always make it worse.

To put it simply: once again I am done with summer and ready for autumn. To be honest I have been done with summer for about 2 months now.

I have always had a problem with the seasons. There seems to be a bit of a discrepancy in how long they want to last and how long I want them to last. I have always thought that maybe 8 seasons would suit me better.

It wasn't until one of my recent 'I'm ready for fall' rants that I realized how little I cared for summer - and it's not the heat or the humidity. Those are two things that I actually like about the stupid season.

Winter holds the promise of cute snow flakes. Spring brings with it the blossoms. Autumn has the changing of leaves and apples and all the great things associated with fall. And then there's summer.

Summer doesn't actually do anything. It just kind of maintains what spring started and setting up fall. It forces people to run air conditioning and make me cold. Stupid summer.

So here I am, working on putting together a calendar of events and reading about all these wonderful things coming up, in the fall and winter, and I can feel myself choking up and remembering great fall seasons of the past and, generally pining away for the next great season.

Sure, I know that 2 weeks into fall I'll be ready for winter and so the curse continues. That is why I move that we institute an 8 season year and make my life just a little easier.

But Honey, What About the Beard?

I must admit that I am somewhat of a facial hair aficionado. Eyebrows are the clear winners by far, but I am more than willing to give beards and mustaches their props.

Props to you beards and mustaches.

Now, that being said, don't let my husband know. Though his job requires he keep his face as smooth and hairless as possible, he would much rather include himself in the ranks of people like this.

Again, props to you.

Like I said, I appreciate and admire facial hair but for some reason I don't want it that close to me. Perhaps I have seen the Skittles commercial too many times. Creepy, in my humble opinion.

Maybe I should institute a four-foot rule where a beard is not allowed to get any closer than four feet to me at any given time. A sort of look but don't touch policy. And God help it if it reaches across a table to touch my face. That is not what beards are for. Purely aesthetic.

So to reiterate: I like facial hair. It is good to look at. Hell will break loose if it tries to communicate with me. Yay eyebrows.

If You Don't Stand For Something You'll Fall For Anything

For longer than I can remember there has been one thing I have believed with all my heart. It seems so fundamentally simple that I am truly shocked not everyone feels the same way on this one matter.

I, with every fiber of my being, believe if you don't know what something is you do not pick it up.

If you have the need for someone to help you identify what this something is you should ask the person to come to the unidentified object - not pick up the object and bring it to the person on the other end of the house.

Example one: When my sister and I were younger, say I was 9 and my sister was 5, her cat was pregnant. No one knew because she was black and black is a very slimming color. Anyway, the moment of the blessed event came and I was doing something somewhere when my little sister came to me.

In a shaky voice she put her hand up to me and said, "What is this?"

Being the logical person I am and half awake/half asleep and seeing something not readily identifiable to my bleary eyes I shout, "Oh my God, drop it!"

Because you don't pick up things if you don't know what they are.

My eyes focused and I realized that my sister had panicked when I shouted at her and dropped the kitten. The kitten survived and went on to become a lawyer and raise a lovely family of kittens that never picked up things they couldn't identify.

Example two: This next example is gross and thoroughly illustrates that I have a long way to go on my road to domestic goddess status, but get over it - it was an oversight and it hasn't happened again.

My cat throws up. This one time I was busy and didn't clean it up right away. So, I did what any right-minded person would do and covered it with a bowl so I didn't step in it and no one else mucked around in it or something.

Then we left for Tennessee.

Then we came home 3 or 4 days later and my dear, sweet husband was straightening up.

He comes to me and put his hand up to me and said, "What is this?"

"Oh my God, put that down!" I immediately shouted as everything came back to me and my amnesia was cured.

"What? Why? What is it?"

"It's cat vomit," I explained as he freaked out.

Yes, I know. Gross. But it was one time. And more importantly, he shouldn't have picked it up if he didn't know what it was, which would have kept me from having to include it in this post.

And so on and so forth as it were.

The thing is that my belief not only saves you from grossness but it saves you from disaster too. Trojan horse anyone?

All I Really Want is Squirrels

I love squirrels. First they fall into the category of jelly-bean shaped animals which I am so fond of. Second, that fluffy tail, yeah the one that separates them from rats... it really does make a difference.

I was talking to my mom the other day about how I wanted to be a squirrel. I made sure to clarify that it had to be on the best day ever for a squirrel. I wanted to be one on the day she gets a promotion at work and finds all the nuts she had stored and wins the lottery - the day that all the good things that could happen to a squirrel happened.

Seriously, it would suck to get to be a squirrel and become just another statistic of "This just in: Squirrel maimed in hit-and-run accident. Squirrel authorities have no leads but said the vehicle must have been large because there is almost nothing left of Ed."

This leads me to the, "If there were one thing I would change about them it would be..." part of this entry. If there would be one thing I would change about them it would be their indecisiveness.

Squirrels are notoriously squirrely especially when it comes to crossing the roads. They need to be trained to stay the course and keep charging ahead. I really think if they didn't practice so much of the whole "I'm crossing the street now... Oh did I shut the garage door?... Yes, I see it now... Damn, I forgot my... No, I have it here... What is that noise... It's getting louder... Best stay put... AARRRggh..." mentality they would have a much higher survival rate when it came to crossing the road.

Unfortunately, I have been on the driving side of the hit and (attempted) run. This is my story:

One day as I was driving to work, my car was attacked by a squirrel. I realize that being broad-sided by a squirrel doesn't compare with a deer, but the event was traumatic nonetheless.

I was listening to the radio when from the corner of my eye I noticed a small gray squirrel with a bright, bushy tail and small shifty eyes. I looked deep into the squirrel's beady eyes and noticed a look that could only be described as crazed. It was then that I knew there was going to be trouble.

I tried to go into stealth mode, but I drive a Ford, not a Stealth Bomber, so this attempt was thwarted. I then decided to drive as quietly as possible in hopes that the squirrel would not notice me. Since I haven't mastered the art of driving quietly this was also unsuccessful.

I decided to take my chances and drove past the squirrel while avoiding eye contact, under the pretense that if I can't see you, you can't see me, of course.

Next thing I knew, an irate squirrel was charging my car. I tried to stop. I tried to swerve, but all attempts were futile. What lasted a minute will weigh on my conscience for a lifetime.

That squirrel was dead set on hitting my car though. Even though I had never met that squirrel before, he had a score to settle. Hurling itself at full force towards my car the kamikaze squirrel ran into my tire.

As I continued driving with the hope that what had happened hadn't happened I looked into my rear view mirror. All I saw was the squirrel lying on his side with his tail straight up in the air; the white side facing me as if to say, "I surrender; you win." Then, slowly, its tail fell to the ground.

I turned around and drove back by the little guy, maybe I was hoping he had trotted off back to his family or maybe I thought I was going to give him CPR. I can't be sure; I was too shaken.

To help myself sleep at night I have convinced myself I didn't kill that squirrel. Sure it was fool-hardy for the squirrel to take on my car, but it is my belief that is what he did. He was defending the millions of squirrels taken out by cars each year by taking a stand against my car. So I have come to the conclusion that it wasn't me. The squirrel clearly had a heart attack upon running up to my car to attack. His poor little jelly bean shaped rodent heart couldn't handle what his brain was making him do.

I mean he must have been really worked up.

The point is I don't want to be a squirrel on a day like that.

Infestation

My house has been infested. I should point out it is nothing new; I just sort of realized how big of a problem it is.

The realization dawned as me as I watched the 18-month old wonder-child pouring his breakfast Cheerios (as opposed to his lunch and dinner Cheerios) onto the floor and into a new bowl. He then picked select Cheerios up and put them carefully into an oven mitt.

Now, I can''t be 100 percent sure, but I can be as close to that as possible, that if he is doing these things while I am watching he is doing this when I am not watching. Well, that is when he's not too busy climbing to the top of a bookcase, petting the animals with his face, and throwing everything I hold dear away with his diapers.

I have heard time and time again a story about my husband putting his Cheerios in the hay loft of a Little People barn and down in the air conditioning vents. So, this leads me to believe one thing and that is: these innocuous little 'O' shaped finger foods have been infesting people's houses for generations.

So, I know there are Cheerios in oven mitts and twice a day (Hehe) I vacuum them up off the floor, but the infestation begins past that point. I don't even know where to begin looking for stashes of Cheerios. They could be anywhere. I'm growing wary of putting on closed-toe shoes, looking too carefully into my way-too-often open dresser drawers and so on, but I know if I don't the infestation will get worse. Way worse. A worse I don't even want to thing about.

I have one saving grace on my war against the infestation of Cheerios and that is my cat that likes to eat anything that ends with 'O' - Frito's, Doritos, and, thankfully, Cheerios.

Based on a True Story

Today I was cleaning out my home office and happened across some notes I took in the middle of the night.

The Background: While my husband was in business classes at school it was a common practice for teachers to instruct the students to subscribe to the Wall Street Journal. Some used the threat of assignments gleaned from the pages from the Journal and others just left it at subscribe or else. So, my husband did what many other people did in those circumstances and subscribed to the Wall Street Journal. He neglected to open them or read them. He want so far as to never let them in the house. At the end of my driveway was a pile of Wall Street Journals.

In case you're wondering why I didn't pick them up - I like to see how far things will go.

The Story: This all takes place in the course of one night and is based of off notes I took on the night in question.

1:34 a.m. There was a car light streaming in the window. I complained. My husband said it was coming from a parked car. I looked out the window. It was coming from my driveway.

They stole the Wall Street Journals.

1:39 a.m. I decided to keep a diary.

1:42 a.m. I decided whether or not to call the police. I didn't.

1:45 a.m. I changed my mind.

1:47 a.m They laughed.

1:52 a.m. I went for a donut.

1:58 a.m. I started looking for the van.

2:04 a.m. I stumbled across a lit up lodge. I went inside.

2:09 a.m. I found a huge pile of Wall Street Journals.

2:10 a.m. I was barraged and knocked unconscious.

3:42 a.m. I regained consciousness to find I was tied to a chair and the Journals had beaten me up.

3:46 a.m. The van showed up and a guy hopped out. He apologized.

4:00 a.m. The guy from the van dropped me off at home. He left four Wall Street Journals.

The Closing Statements: If there is any lesson that can be gleaned from the events that unfolded, whether real or imaginary, it is this: have your pet spayed or neutered, because once you stop making sense there is nowhere to go from there.

Shucks and Ahhhh

I wouldn't necessarily call it disappointment and I'm not really amazed either, but it is something I have been a little obsessed with lately.

First, it would be appropriate to say that I, like a generation of people who support thumb torture, am an avid texter. I'm nowhere near the thousand levels, but I can easily hit the upper 40s in a day (which is only impressive because I only know two people). But it's not a problem and I can quit anytime I swear.

Now as a texter I have regrettably participated in behaviors I do not approve of nor condone. I'm talking about ... wl u no.

Seeing inappropriate abbreviations and purposely misspelled words makes me cringe. Sure, I'm not perfect but ... grr.

As a by-product I am also fairly good at finding meaning in statements like, "4got 2 ask when i tt c and p."

Which brings me to my current obsessive thought. In my line of work I take lots of notes. Taking these notes by hand is bad because I have spent years training myself to write in an elaborate manner and, while pleasing to the eye, swooshes and swirls do not make for quick writing.

Since I have learned in the past three years to type without looking at a keyboard my typing is a bit quicker, but it is still not really good.

So, with my ability to hop in and out of absurd abbreviations why can I not do it when taking notes. I have my old stand-bys, but when it comes to something unexpected my head goes blank and I fall behind.

That's about it. For the past two weeks all I've done is sit and think about why I can't make up abbreviations on the fly. It's kept me up at night a few times.

The Key to Happiness

As I was washing my face the other day I dragged my fingers across what meager eyebrows I have been graced with. As the water that had pooled in my brows trickled down my face I was amused. For some reason the squeegee type action draining droplets of water amuses me.

I am no stranger to musicals so naturally this not only brought to mind 'Sound of Music' and the classic A Few of My Favorite Things, but also other things that, while they may not all be my favorite things, they do amuse me.

My favorite color is orange. My theory behind it is:Orange reminds me of clowns and though clowns don't necessarily make me happy they make some people happy so orange must be a happy color.

I like big, fat, bushy eyebrows. I prefer straight and serious eyebrows. Some are too animated. That is unnecessary. They should be content to sit on their owner's face and if the moment is right, maybe one can arch up for emphasis.

I like woolly caterpillars. That's pretty self-explanatory... They remind me of bushy eyebrows.

I like animals shaped like jelly beans. Animals that exhibit this fortunate shape tend to be exponentially cuter than their un-jelly bean shaped counterparts. Example... guinea pigs v. rats.

The theme song from Flash Gordon by Queen. Best Song Ever.

Sure, I could continue, but seeing as how I don't have a birthday coming up in the near future there is no reason to construct a complete wish list. Stay tuned for the upcoming post: Lilly's Least Favorite Things or How Evil Is The Blueberry.

Priorities

My family has never been able to maintain a spotless spic and span house. I don't believe we're filthy and I have already admitted a tendency towards packratism, so I am currently choosing to explain it as grossly organized. My mom always had a sign hanging up over her desk at work that read something like "If you don't understand the mess you don't understand the situation." Well, she had it until her papers stacked up high enough to cover it.

The latest in a seemingly never ending list of examples comes from a text message my mom sent to me today.

"My garage looks funny," it read.

I replied with the obligatory "Why?"

"Because there is a car in it."

I turned to my co-worker and told him, "'How did the car get in the garage?' shouldn't be a question I am afraid to ask."

The garage at my mom's house is full. There are tables, recliners, boxes, tools, bikes with flats, bikes without flats (no tires), cinder blocks, Christmas decorations, a freezer, a fridge, and spiders - lots of conniving spiders. But most definitely no cars - let alone room for cars, hence my apprehension.

I did ask and she explained. Her new car was afraid of the impending softball size hail and ran for cover. Later that day I stopped by and I must say I was a tad impressed to see how well it fit. I don't think she had to dislodge too many things. But she was right, it did look weird.

So, to sum up this entry = My family: not organized and tidy. Cars: look unnatural in the garage at my mom's house.

Ode to Mother's Day

As a mother, daughter, part-time impromptu party planner I understand it is difficult to meet the expectations set forth by any manufactured holiday. That is why I have put together this entry for Mother's Day.

Nothing opens the gates of hell quicker than the old-fashioned combination of bell, book, candle. For Mother's Day the surefire way to melt your mother's heart is just as simple. Just follow the lead of card, flowers, brunch and watch your mother's tears flow... and it doesn't have to cost you a fortune.

Mom's are simple people. All they really want is to be recognized. Once you actually put forth the effort to remember Mother's Day the rest is just more icing on an already tasty cake.

Take the card. A greeting card is nothing more than a picture and a cheesy sentiment. Professional card companies don't have a secret formula, just a glossy sheen.

Go outside and take a picture of something your mom likes - a breed of dog, a flower garden, a pitcher of margarita - then run home to your computer, plug in the picture and print it out. With any luck there will be room to write a message.

As far as messages go here are a few ideas: "Thinking of you on Mother's Day," or "Mom, I know I haven't always been sober, but I am now and I really want to say - Holy Sh!$, is that a pink elephant? What the frig?! Well anyway, Happy Mother's Day!" Of course there are a number of options for the message, but the most important thing is to make sure it reads happy Mother's Day, but after that think about your mom and what she would like to hear.

Pretty cheap so far; on to the flowers. What are flowers really but a bunch of weeds with a better marketing team. And guess what - weeds are everywhere. Another option is to go ahead and pick something overgrown in your yard and singe the top a bit. More on that later so look for it.

On to brunch. It's common knowledge that mother's like to eat but are sick and tired of cooking. Good news! Your mom probably already has all the stuff needed to make her brunch. Bad news! You're going to have to get over yourself and cook. Good news! If you do it right your mom will love you AND never let you cook for her again.

The keyword is burn. Everything. Leave nothing unsinged. A small towel catching fire may be in order.

Here's the plan: Inform your mom you want to cook her brunch in bed. Inform her under no circumstances should she get out of bed - you've got this under control.

Now pick a menu - anything. It doesn't matter; she won't eat it.

Heat up a pan and get to burning. Blackened bacon, eggs, toast, avocadoes, cat food... Make sure there are some audible screams of panic. If you hear dear ol' mom ask if you need help, in a panic say you're fine and she never trusts you or something.

When all is said and done bring your offering to mom with the burnt flower stems ( I said I'd get back to those) and your sweet card. Bring up a swell of your best "I really tried mom" tears and go with it.

If your mom is human (and if she's not that's another story) she will forgive the debacle, but firmly insist you never cook for her again, and appreciate the effort if not the result - and of course the most important thing is you remembered Mother's Day.

The Brain, Mouth, Hand Conundrum

Believe it or not, but I do not have what some refer to as the gift of gab. I can't wax poetically. I will never be the person helping others pick up dates by feeding them perfect lines. Unfortunately, I really like to talk. A lot.

My mom and I have discussed my speaking deficiencies at length, and we have come to two different explanation- one as likely as the next.

The first explanation is: When I keep my mouth shut for extended periods of time the words, which form on a continuous cycle, get stored up in my mouth. Then, inevitably, someone will direct a question my way.

I am forced to open my mouth where these words have been stored all kinds of willy-nilly and poof!

This is what we refer to as puppy mouth syndrome. I open my mouth and the words come spilling out like excited little puppies. Some holding on to tails, some running around in circles, some trying to scratch with stumpy, stubby little legs, and not one of them making much sense. Lucky for me after I release the hounds, as it were, I am a little better equipped for forming coherent thought.

Unfortunately this is where the second explanation comes into play. My brain and my mouth do not communicate well with each other. In fact on more than one occasion my brain has seen my mouth open and said to itself - oh dear god- or some other phrase as it buries its imaginary head in its imaginary hands.

My brain also spends a lot of time watching my mouth and thinking 'well, let's see where it's going this time.' I don't think my brain hates my mouth, I just think it has washed its imaginary hands clean of it and no longer takes responsibility for the words, phrases etc that come out of my mouth.

So, I write, and by no means do I think I am any better at writing than speaking, but at least I have the opportunity to go back through and read something before it goes out there. My mouth doesn't give me that chance. It sees my brain slacking and takes the chance to let the puppy dog-esque words come spilling out. Generally that just leaves me with a sheepish mouth, an exasperated brain and me caught in the middle.

Yep, I prefer writing because it comes with deleting, editing, proofing and the ilk. Sure, there are still mistakes, but at least for now, my hands and my brain get along well.

So I have PEEPS... Now what?

I have a lot of collections. Most I understand. Bears. Penguins. Laser-guided guard dogs. Then there are the Peeps. I don't really like to collect food. However, that being said, I have packages of Peeps loitering all around my house.

My husband says he eats them. I have seen no proof. A couple of weeks ago, I threw away a package of black cat Peeps that had to be 10 years old. I know some people treasure a Peep aged to perfection, but at my house they just gather dust bunnies.

I don't eat Peeps.

I know I currently have a set of yellow Peep bunnies in my living room, a package of pumpkins and ghosts in a cabinet, and somewhere in my house lurks the most heinous of all food items: the blue Peep. Well, the Peep isn't so much heinous but the blue... just picture a shudder of revulsion.

Sure I love a good marketing campaign. I'm all for all the cute Peep novelty trinketry. I own some and enjoy it as well. But I'm OK with being a fair-weather fan. I'm content enjoying the fruits with out all of that labor stuff. I can support the makers of Peeps without having sugar-coated marshmallow animals in my house.

Now is when you cue the picture of a blow-torch wielding Peep exterminator. See, that's how horrible I am. I have all the ammo to jump on the Peep photo scenario band wagon and I can't even bring myself to release the sticky critters from their cellophane confines.

Every year I know I will get new Peeps around Easter and Halloween. And I know each year I will set them aside to join the ranks of others waiting in nervous anticipation for my husband to consume them. Maybe they would rest a little easier if they knew there was no fear of that.

when I grow up

I know that many a child has been confronted with the question "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I am no exception. When I was younger I imagined myself in any number of jobs. I considered myself a Barbie of sorts - put on a new outfit and 'poof' I was qualified for a new and amazing job.

Well, here I am grown up. And what has changed? Well, a lot. I have realized that instead of being asked what I wanted to be I should've been asked what I have no business being. For me, that would have eliminated any number of poor career choices I could've made.

Just recently I have arrived back home from a short stint in Europe. During the trip home I added another job to the list of don't even bother. Yep, I will never be a flight attendant.

On the way home we hit a bit of turbulence. One bump really, but it scared the bejeezus out of me. I was on the verge of tears and hyperventilating a bit. Instead of letting my life play out before my eyes I thought about what type of person willingly seeks out a job that puts them 36,000 feet above the earth with no safety net.

Personally, I find the act of flying unnatural, so when I am trying to determine what is acceptable behavior on the part of the plane and what is not I am at a loss. How much shaking is normal? If something were out of the ordinary would the pilot let me know? If the wing fell off who would know first - me or the pilot?

These are just a few questions that went through my head as I imagined myself working on the airplane. Then there was the constant thought of me yelling at the passengers they were all going to die because of some routine turbulence.

I would be lying if I said I didn't admire the people crazy enough to want to work on a plane. They are able to keep their cool in situations where I can't even get out of my seat for fear of death - and this is with the plane functioning "normally."

I guess the bottom line is I make a horrible passenger let alone a cool, calm and collected employee on board a flying plane. I will now add flight attendant and pilot to my list of jobs to avoid alongside: any type of outdoors-person, politician, Au Pair, ballerina, professional house painter, and, well the list goes on...

The Secret Life of Soup

I've been having a heyday with casseroles lately. I completely fall in line with the idea that throwing everything in the fridge together and calling it dinner. But even more than believing that, I am testing out a theory that everything is better with mushroom soup on it. Or in it. So long as the mushroom soup isn't on its own.

I learned a long time ago that I didn't care for prepared cream of mushroom soup. No scratch that. After many failed attempts I realized I absolutely despised mushroom soup. But why? It is good in green bean casserole. It is frickin' awesome on top of hamburgers. It tastes good on any number of dishes, just so long as it isn't on its own.

Unfortunately I can't justify attempting to prepare cream of mushroom soup using hamburger grease instead of milk. I guess in some ways it wouldn't be any different from making a pie crust with lard, but for some reason it seems icky.

I suppose the good news is as long as soups, stuffings and other assorted food items keep coming up with casserole recipes I don't have to worry about actually eating mushroom soup as it was intended, but I can continue eating it as it should be. Success!

Everything's better with a song.

Renovate good times, come on! It's a renovation! I have come to realize I will not be happy in a house that I haven't personally demolished, redecorated and, as they say, put my personal touch on.

Years ago, I had a friend explain my decorating style in terms closely related to chaos decorating. I believe it's somewhere in the vicinity of lived-in meets chock full of trinkets. On numerous occasions I have had people tell me every time they would come into my room they would find something new.

Those days are long gone of course. But only just. My poor little cluttered, yet amazingly organized, room is long gone. It may seem sad, but things change. I now have a whole house dedicated to the shrine of cute. Unfortunately, as I have aged I have also realized new things about collecting. While it is nice to have one of something to show off, I have found the more the merrier is usually much more accurate.

Example: one Super Mario mushroom candy container is cute. Seventy-six of them adorning the house would be frickin' adorable. Excessive? Perhaps. Pleasing to the eye? You betcha! Same thing goes with the lawn ornament bunnies. Displaying one bunny in my failed attempt at a flower garden says, "Look here, I failed at growing plants." Thirteen smiling bunny statues says, "Screw plants, I have thirteen bunnies in my garden. What do you have?"

I know I probably have border-line hoarder personality disorder. And I'm sure if I didn't have my husband watching everything I bring into the house it would probably be worse...

But I have gone way off topic. Back to the beginning. Renovation. I am looking forward to completely overhauling my master bedroom. There will be painting (Yay!) There will be reflooring (Yay!) There will be new furniture (Yay!) And after all is said and done and I have updated my bedroom to resemble a respectable grown-up bedroom, I know the truth is my trinkets will find their way in.

There is no escape from them, and I don't really think I want to. I mean, come to think of it, shouldn't everyone have 16 Madagascar penguin weeble-wobble party favors decorate their abode?

The First

It shouldn't be hard. It's what I do all the time. Just jot down random thoughts. But, I guess that's where the whole thing starts too. Jotting down the random thoughts is one thing. Making them available to others is another. But here they are in all of their glory, the thoughts of another nameless internet personality. That being said, let's get on with things. Today was a remarkably unexceptional day. Nothing happened out of the ordinary. My cats did nothing. My kid did nothing. I did nothing except read on the internet. I read about a woman who had a fecal transplant and another woman who called 911 about a McDonald's running out of the chicken mcnugget. I'm sure as I get more comfortable with this I will write more. I chose a rather dull day to begin this thing. Stick with me...it'll get better.