Put up our crappy pre-lit tree tonight with the kiddos while listening to A Charlie Brown Christmas and the Nutcracker Suite. Even though the initial construction of the tree is usually an exercise in frustration, this year it went smoothly and I enjoyed listening to my lovely children gently bicker back and forth. To wit:

S, age 8: "Hey, G, if you could have any super power what would it be?"
G, age 15: " *sigh* I'd have the super-ability to keep people from asking me stupid hypothetical questions."

G (who plays cello): "Man I love this song. I should learn to play this."
S: "On the cello?"
G (deadpan): "No. On the banjo."

They crack me up. S bears the brunt of G's sarcastic wit, but S exacts her revenge in the form of smaller annoyances, like hiding G's concealer or favorite shirt, or by chewing with her mouth open at dinner. I remember my sister doing similar things.

When I was about G's age I had a crush on a guy named Chip (I shit you not, that was his real name)and when I would talk to Chip on the phone my sis would frequently pick up another receiver and listen in. I could always tell when she did this, of course, and I'd yell at her to hang up. Chip thought it was hysterical and would pump her for information about me. One day, as I was shrieking for my mom to get my sister off the phone so I could talk in peace, she told Chip, "My sister's feet smell so bad she has to wash them with a special soap!" and then hung up quickly and barricaded herself in her room. Chip was laughing so hard that he couldn't hear me frantically explaining that my feet didn't really smell bad, and that the soap in question was regular Dial bar soap. If I had the super ability to murder people with malicious thoughts, I would be an only child today.

As seen on a late-night commercial: "LoveRub -- it's not just lube, it's love in a tube"

Ugh.

It's amazing how innocent little white grapes can be until someone crushes them, ferments them and pours their delicious juices into my glass. Then they become evil.

*hic*

On an semi-related note, I have the music from my son's "Yo Gabba Gabba" Talking Muno toy running on a continuous loop in my brain. This may be why I started drinking in the first place.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm a little confused by Republican logic. So let me
see if I have this straight....

If you grow up in Hawaii , raised by your grandparents, you're "exotic,
different." But grow up in Alaska eating moose burgers,
you're a quintessential American story.

If your name is Barack you're a radical, unpatriotic Muslim. Name your
kids Willow, Trig and Track, you're a maverick.

Graduate from Harvard law School and you are unstable. Attend 5
different small colleges before graduating, you're well grounded.

If you spend 3 years as a brilliant community
organizer, become the first black President of the Harvard
Law Review, create a voter registration drive that registers
150,000 new voters, spend 12 years as a Constitutional Law
professor, spend 8 years as a State Senator representing a
district with over 750,000 people, become chairman of the
state Senate's Health and Human Services committee,
spend 4 years in the United States Senate representing a
state of 13 million people while sponsoring 131 bills and
serving on the Foreign Affairs, Environment and Public Works
and Veteran's Affairs committees, you don't have any
real leadership experience. If your total resume is: local
weather girl, 4 years on the city council and 6 years as the
mayor of a town with less than 7,000 people, 20 months as
the governor of a state with only 650,000 people, then
you're qualified to become the country's second
highest ranking executive.

If you have been married to the
same woman for 19 years while raising 2 beautiful daughters,
all within Protestant churches, you're not a real
Christian. If you cheated on your first wife with a rich
heiress, and left your disfigured wife and married heiress
Cindy the next month, you're a Christian.

If you teach responsible, age appropriate sex education, including the
proper use of birth control, you are eroding the fiber of
society. If, while governor, you staunchly advocate
abstinence only, with no other option in sex education in
your state's school system while your unwed teen
daughter ends up pregnant, you're a very responsible
parent.

If your wife is a Harvard graduate lawyer who gave
up a position in a prestigious law firm to work for the
betterment of her inner city community, then gave that up to
raise a family, your family's values don't represent
America 's. If your husband is nicknamed "First
Dude", with at least one DWI conviction and no college
education, who didn't register to vote until age 25 and
once was a member of a group that advocated the secession of
Alaska from the USA, your family is extremely admirable.

I posted this on Craigslist last night:

"Need help assembling big-ass Ikea bookcase:

I am a harried mom of three with a teething infant, no construction skills and very little upper arm strength. I need at least 2 people who can read Ikea's practically incomprehensible directions to assemble a gigantic Ikea Expedit bookcase. My sister gave it to me and she estimates it took her and her husband less than 2 hours to assemble originally.

I cannot pay with cash, but I will buy you a case of beer (must show DL/State ID so I know you're over 21). Must be good with rubber mallet and must not case my home for future burglary. Serious inquiries only, please."

In retrospect, I should have foreseen the truly creepy and lewd responses I would get with an ad like this.  But really, what the hell?  Can't a gal ask for help nowadays without being asked for sex in return?  One guy said it sounded like I was hot (?!?) and asked me to email him a pic.  I sent him this:

http://chicago.craigslist.org/nwc/bab/840938147.html

Great idea for a kid's party, or, you know, a young girl's journey into womanhood.  Whatever.

"I will eat them reading the Torah,
I will eat them with a menorah,
I will eat them, Sam I Am,
Just please don't make me eat the ham."

I can't help but think it's sad that the closest thing to frivolity I've experienced over the past year is having a second glass of wine while watching Marie Antoinette.  See userpic for explanation.

One minute you're zipping up your little girl's toddler jammies and tucking her into bed, and the next you're picking her up from a football game and listening to her gush about how the cute boy in her science class asked her to Homecoming.  I want to laugh and cry at the same time.  It goes by so goddamned fast.

After speaking with some Cubs fans over the weekend, I am both relieved and slightly embarassed to find that Fukudome is indeed a Japanese baseball player.  Not being a sports fan of any kind, I was unaware of Fukudome but am sooooo relieved that nine year-olds are not telling me to "do" them.  Whew.

I would just like to let David Duchovny know that I am here to help him overcome his sex addiction.  That is all.

Martin, naked and in the sink.  It looks like you could just pick the kid up by those big ole ears, doesn't it?  You can't tell from this pic, but his hair is really fine and sticks straight out from his head. 

I took Martin to the doc yesterday as he caught some godawful virus (which he then passed to his sisters and I, bless his snotty little nose) and while I was waiting I saw a relatively normal-looking mom with her three kids in the waiting room.  They were middle-class looking, with up-to-date hairstyles and clothing, and when I heard the mom speak (which is always a dead giveaway), she sounded articulate, cultured and educated.  I was at a loss, then, to explain why her elementary school aged son was wearing a sports jersey with the word "Fukudome" on the back. 

Surely the mom was hip to what that really meant...unless she is like me, who thought at first that "Fukudome" was the name of some new Japanese athlete I hadn't yet heard of.  "Fuck you do me"?!  What is this world coming to when parents think it's okay to let kids walk around like this?  This isn't a grand statement of personality, nor is it an expression of one's heartfelt personal beliefs.  It's just offensive, especially on a child.   I'm not a prude, and I have certainly seen my fair share of colorful t-shirts (like an ex-client of mine who went to her kids' immunization appointment at our local health department wearing a t-shirt that read, "Cock : It's What's For Dinner"), but there's just something about letting a little kid wear a shirt that says "Fukudome" in public that makes me want to pack up my children and move to Iceland.

Michael Phelps eats 12,000 calories per day

By Chris Chase

After he retires from swimming, Michael Phelps might want to try his hand at competitive eating. The Olympic star recently said he consumes 12,000 calories per day, or 9,500 more than the FDA recommends for an active, young male. 

Phelps has to keep his intake up in order to compensate for all the calories he burns during the 30-hours per week he spends in training. He told NBC that an average day might have the following menu:

Breakfast: 3 fried egg sandwiches, 2 cups coffee, 5-egg omlette, bowl of grits, 3 pieces of french toast, 3 chocolate chip pancakes

Lunch: 1 pound pasta, 2 ham and cheese sandwiches, energy drink (1,000 calorie)

Dinner: 1 pound pasta, 1 large pizza, energy drink (1,000 calorie)

Three years ago, Phelps told an interviewer:

I eat pretty much whatever I want. I don't have a strict diet. It's all about cramming in as many calories into my system as I possibly can. To be honest with you, I have a tough time keeping weight on.  

                   *********************************************************

Yeah, that's pretty much my problem, too.  Except I skip the energy drink and the calories I consume fly straight to my ass.

G would kill me if she knew I was posting this, as she'll be 15 in December, but she still enjoys playing house with her little sister (and now, her little brother).  Day before yesterday she suggested that she take the baby while I relaxed for awhile (this is one of those things that makes a 14 year spacing between kids totally worthwhile).  I finished nursing him, handed him over to his sis and proceeded to soak my feet and read a magazine.  I drank a cup of coffee before it got cold for once.  I sloughed all of the yucky callouses off my feet and rubbed them with lotion.  I painted my nails.  I ate chocolate chip cookies.  Basically, I relaxed and pampered myself for an hour.

Eventually I figured I'd better check on the kids to make sure that they were all behaving themselves.  I found them all in G's room, dressed like Italian peasants and playing house (or casa, to be exact).  S had a ratty shirt and apron over what appeared to be a gigantic bosom (in reality, it was two wadded up tee shirts) and she had a large mole on her face, courtesy of what was probably my good eyeliner.  Her hair was back in a kerchief and she introduced herself as Flavia, mother to Francesca (G) and Enzo (M).  "Baby Enzo" was contentedly chewing on one of his toys, just happy to be part of the action.  G was throwing around Italian phrases she'd picked up the previous day from her new library book, Italian For Dummies.  I bid them arrividerci and went back to the kitchen, giggling to myself and thinking that I must be doing something right.  My kids are awesome.

'Extreme Makeover' house faces foreclosure

We have mice.

I was casually sitting on my sofa, as I am wont to do most evenings, when I became aware of a scurrying and squeaking coming from somewhere behind me -- specifically, right behind my head on the back support of my couch.  I am not afraid of mice, and I don't even really dislike them, but there is something disturbing about realizing that a living thing is scuttling around by your head while you're trying to watch a rerun of "Frasier."  After fighting the urge to jump straightaway into the shower, I called N to let him know that the mice (who heretofore had been spotted in the garage after I left a bag of birdseed on the floor) have taken up residence in, well, our residence.  He feels that the time has come for the good old decapitating traps, rather than the humane ones I'd set out in the garage a few days ago.  The ones I'd seen in the garage are really cute (big eyes, short brown fur, really clean-looking) but fucked if I want them in my family room.  After talking with N for a few minutes I Googled "how to get rid of mice," and each entry I clicked on mentioned the Hanta virus as a possible complication of a mouse infestation.  Now I hear (or think I hear) scratching in every damned room I go into...I think I'll sleep in sweats and gloves tonight.

Anyone have any suggestions?  If not, I'm calling Terminix.  For all I know the little bastards could be nesting in my sofa.