Tiff of Doom

It's finally happened; take cover while you still can...

2007-10-31T08:07:00.000-05:00

Deirdre: "Look, Mom! I eat Kalel's BRAINS!!!"

Oh, and just for shits and giggles...that shirt Kalel is wearing in the above picture, is a shirt I made for Deirdre, for Halloween, four years ago -

Deirdre does Goth, at 17mths old (Kalel is 20mths, above, for reference).

Horror + Elementary School = Brown Smells

2007-10-18T16:53:00.000-05:00

So, the 13th was the Fall Festival, at Deirdre's school. We'd been looking forward to this for a couple months, hoping to be able to contribute some really gnarly stuff, but the whole Missing Child Support debacle really hurt what we were able to do, costume-wise.
Every year, two of the kindergarten teachers and assorted volunteers put on a Haunted House tour, in the kindergarten rooms. It's a pretty decent little scare, especially considering the relatively small amount of extra hands and money involved.

Deirdre and friend Collin (parents in background), Ready for Mayhem

I was supposed to be taking tickets at the door, and Peyton had quickly been tagged to play the vampire, for reasons that need no explanation, if you know him. Deirdre's teacher knows we're both horror mavens, and probably figured we'd come up with something great.
Not so much.
My original plan was to use some of this month's child support to help with costume expenses, ordering latex facial appliances for both P and I. I'd picked out a great forehead prosthetic for him, as well as the required Scarecrow fangs, and for me, I'd found an AWESOMESAUCE gouged eyes prosthetic that would have left half my face covered in gore, and wet, dark sockets where my eyes should have been (and you can actually see, while wearing this, lol). I was also looking at a few mouth pieces - stapled/stitched mouths, insanely stretched grins, that sort of thing - in the hopes of being able to look pants-wetting scary, to give the kids who didn't have money for haunted tour tickets a little free show. I'd even thought ahead, to buying gag glasses, so I could keep the worst of the gore hidden, around the youngest children.
We were gonna ROCK, and at a pretty modest cost of about $60 for the works, being that I'd found incredible deals, online. Everything was in stock, and even if the child support was the usual few days late, there'd be no problem, so long as I got the stuff ordered in the first week of October.

Then my ex-husband decided not to pay his child support. Insert utter ruination of plans, here.

You can't even find most of the stuff we were looking at, around here, and with a budget deficit of a few hundred dollars, we couldn't afford it, anyway. We did manage to get Peyton's Scarecrow fangs, but I was out of luck - even the local Spirit Halloween Superstore didn't have anything remotely decent, aside from hugely overpriced masks.

Luckily, Peyton is a pretty scary looking guy, anyway, but my costume was pretty well shot, so I had to resort to just tossing together creepy-looking Goth wear and Seriously Unwell makeup. It actually looked pretty good, though you can't see anything very well in these pictures, but you know...nothing compares to gouged-out eyes. :(

We already had matching pairs of "Radiance" contacts, so we were able to pull off the nifty semi-metallic eyes. Neither of us intended to buy scary contacts, when we ordered them; we were aiming more for "pretty." But the silvery cast, while not totally artificial-looking, tends to get double-takes, when people get close enough to realize our eyes are shimmering. Or when a camera flash hits 'em, heh.

Thankfully, all the kids' costumes had been paid for with Ebay sales, ahead of time, though Lucien and Kalel were sitting this event out - Kalel would have just stared blankly, and Lucien was too young for games, and would have fallen into seizures, at a trip through the Haunted Tour.
But Deirdre was about 80% of the Awesome. She'd been with her father, that morning, and he brought her back nearly a half hour late, so her costuming/makeup had to be done fast and sloppy, but she's Five and Cute, so she still looked pretty great. This year, she's the Spider Queen, from The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy: Wrath of the Spider Queen. She doesn't exactly look like the Spider Queen, but she thinks she does, which is all that counts, lol.

The sweet smile on her face, in this picture, perfectly sums up just what sort of Evil our eldest daughter is.

Me, I say she looks more like Hell's version of a Robert Palmer Girl.
Josh was supposed to come to the Fall Festival and take Deirdre around, while Peyton and I were working, which would have given him a great time with his daughter, and us, peace of mind and a little money saved, from not having to buy all of her tickets. So of course, right as we were about to leave, he cancelled on her. Deirdre wasn't bothered in the least, as she was too distracted by the fun of being escorted by costumed parents, but we were PISSED.

Thank God I wasn't actually needed for ticket-taking, after all, though it left me feeling sort of lame and useless, all afternoon. I'd offered to fill in whenever needed, and the only open slot was right before the end; they ended up closing the haunted house early, so I wasn't needed at all. :(
Good news, as I was able to take Deirdre around to the games with no problem, but I was still sad, not to be able to help out, especially after the botched costume plans.
Peyton and I are already making a personal vow to go disgustingly overboard, next year, to make up for it.

Let's hope Collin will not always be so happy to have women hurt him.

So, we ended up racing in, mere minutes before the festival started, and skulking all-too-obviously by early arriving kids, as we tried to get Count Peyton into the haunted house, unnoticed.

Just another happy Harmon family moment, as Dad attempts to eat Mom's head.

In the picture to the right, we're actually in the Psycho Killer chamber - a family affair, for D's friend Collin and his parents. The Psycho Killer Chamber is also known as "the kindergarten coatroom."

Below, Peyton tries his best to terrorize a cruelly-unimpressed Sabrina, Mother of Collin, Adopted Auntie of Deirdre, and Daughter of D's Teacher/Haunted Tour Guide.

Also helping out were another kindergarten teacher (tortured mental patient), her two daughters (smaller tortured mental patients), and my old 8th grade science teacher, now teaching 6th grade (mad scientist) - it's a small but dedicated group, or at least, I think that's the polite term for grownups who enjoy dressing up and frightening small children.

To the right, is a no-flash shot taken in almost total darkness, as a group of faculty took the first trial run-through. The bright spot is the guide's flashlight beam, hitting Peyton's face as he came roaring out of his coffin.
I'd have loved more shots like this, but only the grown-ups are able to pass through without running for their lives and falling on the floor - movements that play havoc with my camera's low-light focus.

Okay, so maybe the adults do a little running and screaming, too. >D Especially when they run straight from the Psycho Killer room, right into my blinding flash (it was till pitch black, when this picture was taken). I don't think they ever knew what hit 'em; I'm guessing the sudden bright light seemed like part of the show.

Below, you can see what Peyton actually looked like, during the tour, sans terror and darkness -

(click for MUCH better images)

And Peyton has finally found a practical use for his ten years or so of live-action role-playing, much of that spent as the infamous "Erik Jannsen." Because really...how many dads can pull off that?

So, with Count Peyton settled in, Deirdre and I set off to see how much money we could waste on a little fun, and apx. 23 pieces of candy.

Peyton and I are big on giving the kids plenty of self-esteem, and it shows. Sometimes, a little too much. Deirdre, for instance, insisted on loudly proclaiming "Oh! I am GOOD at THAT!" as we stood in line for each game, despite the fact that she'd never played any of them. This led to a bit of panicked dismay, upon her discovery that she did not, in fact, possess the needed skills for each game. Like darts, where she managed to merely knock off two balloons, after hurling the darts in an amazing spinning pattern, sustaining no actual damage to any of the targets.

After that, we moved on to basketball, where Deirdre was sad to discover that, despite the size of her ego, her little body is actually quite short. Even with help from the teacher running the game, she still couldn't manage, and earned only another round of Pity Candy.

Despairing, she informed me in an embarrassed, desparate little voice that her stomach suddenly hurt, and she had no interest in games - she must go find something to drink, as that is the only cure for Pride-Saving Stomach Pains. She rejected my offer of a coke, and instead led me away to a semi-hidden water fountain, where I ooohed and ahhhed appropriately over her mastery of the drinking fountain, as she regained her sense of godlike powers.

Then we were off, to see the Bouncy Thing. At $1 of tickets per 4min. of play, this was one hell of a lucrative device; I'm tempted to buy my own roll of tickets, and set one up in our front yard.

Bouncy Thing has a similar effect to putting children in a dryer, on the gentle cool cycle, as you can see from Deirdre's dazed expression, in the picture to the right.
But your clothes dryer (usually) does not attempt to implode and eat it's contents; sadly, Bouncy Thing was not so polite.

This is the face of a child who has just crawled out of the lower intestine of a Bouncer.

Twice, just while we were hanging about, Bouncy Thing abruptly deflated, swallowing the children currently inside. The second time, Deirdre was in there, and though I expected to hear screams (she'd looked quite aghast, the first time she saw it collapse), she seemed quite cheerful, upon regurgitation.

Deirdre, back inside and rather dizzy; she actually came very close on Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey; hours of spinning in drunken circles at home pays off.

Ye Olde Bean-bag Clown.

Games, games and more games. Next year, I may just save money by filling MY pockets with candy, and dumping it in her bag every time her back is turned, before announcing "Wow, look! No more room for prizes!"

And face painting, which lasted approximately 6 minutes, or until Deirdre hit the Incredible Child-Eating Bouncy Castle, once more.

After having spent most of our money on tickets, I finally called an end to games, and since there was still a couple hours of festival left, offered Deirdre the choice of being dropped off back at home to gorge on candy...or go hang out in the Haunted Tour.
Yeah, that was a no-brainer.

By this point (actually, by about 10min. after opening), the lines for the tour were staggering; I half-expected the impatiently waiting children to revolt and swarm us, when we slipped past them, to get inside.

Part of the line, which stretched all the way down the side of the building.

Once inside, we headed back to the Psycho Killer Chamber, to join D's friend Collin's parents (the last we'd seen of Collin, he was half-mad on a candy high, spinning around the playground). Deirdre was quickly supplied with a small toy chainsaw and brought into the show, as I took a siesta in the World's Smallest Chair (nothing like kindergarten-sized furniture, to make you feel like a fatass).
To say Deirdre "took well" to the idea of scaring the bejeesus out of fellow children, would be a grievous understatement - she was a natural. It warmed out black little hearts, to see such enthusiasm for the Art of Horror, although, in Deirdre's case, it involved less "art," and more wild screaming, cackling and a disturbing sort of raspy hiss befitting a Komodo dragon.

Deirdre, sneaking a peek into the adjoining Mental Hospital Tourture Chamber.

The haunted tour was set up in four rooms; guests enter into the Vampire's Crypt, where the tour guide warns them of the sleeping Count, just before shining her light in his face and waking him, illiciting a roaring pursuit by Peyton. From there, they are led through a "storm," supplied by sprinklers and an air gun, into the Mental Hospital Torture Chamber. Inside the "mental hospital," the Mad Scientist (my old 8th grade science teacher, currently teaching sixth grade and well-suited to the role of Mad Scientist, if my own jr. high experiences are any indication) experiments on hapless patients, as another kindergarten teacher/patient cries out for help, from inside her cage. When guests pass her cage, the guide's light goes out, and the crazed victim leaps at the side of the cage, lit only by a strobe light. Much screaming, as the guests are led to the next room...where the family of Psycho Killers await them. As the KIllers terrorize guests with chainsaws, they run for the door, and straight back to a waiting vampire, at which point the tour turns into a blind, crazy rush for the door.
And as it turns out, funny things can happen, when you frighten the hell out of a bunch of children, in the dark.

Count Peyton breaks character to assist in the search for a little girl's missing shoe.

Even with small groups, it was mayhem. Kids were falling on the floor, thrashing about to get away, and more than one child lost a shoe in the process, requiring searches like the one to the right.
And in one unmentionable incident (which I, of course, will be THRILLED to mention), a child apparently became so frightened that he browned his trousers (cause you just know it had to be a little boy, heh). The mystery pooper was never identified by any of us, and hopefully never sniffed out by his friends, either, but the smell left no room for doubt - after one particularly crazy tour, the last room was suddenly filled with the...eh..."rich aroma of fear." Peyton likes to think he can at least partially take credit for that, as I believe he actually lept from a table, during that pursuit; Deirdre also is claiming credit, for the sheer joy brought by the idea of making someone Fear Poop.

Not even her friend Collin was spared from Deirdre's relentless chainsaw attacks. The picture to the left was taken with a flash, in total darkness, and I'm guessing his toy chainsaw sounded a lot more real, when it was coming at him in, in the dark. Amusingly enough, the person he's staring at in terror, is his own mother. >D

After about 40min of this, Deirdre began to grow bored, but agreed to hang in for the long haul, providing we all understood what a great sacrifice she was making, in the name of Horror. After that, it was time for my shift taking tickets at the door...at which point they decided to go ahead and start closing down, for the night. :( Useless, was I.

The staff of the haunted tour milled out onto the playground, harassing the kids and providing free scares, to those who hadn't been able to afford/brave the haunted tour. Peyton, of course, was an even bigger hit, up close.

Very strange shot of Peyton, hunkered down and terrorizing kids. If you click to see the larger view, you'll see his face is actually a blur of Creepy.

All he was doing, was singling out the random kid who made eye contact, and rushing them, fangs bared, but the kids went NUTS. Soon, he had a group of followers, trailing after him and begging to be chased. I wish to God I'd been able to get a picture of the Lord of the Night, being thronged by schoolchildren; it was an awesomely disturbing sight.

Even more disturbing, was the fact that many of the kids totally bought his act. The Scarecrow fangs were irritating his gums (P has very large, oddly-shaped teeth, and so comfort with a truely "custom" fit is impossible), so he took them off, finally...and was immediately harassed by kids. One little boy walked bravely up and demanded "Take those off; let us see your REAL teeth!" convinced that Peyton's natural teeth were the caps, and the vampire fangs must be hidden, underneath. I think it was that same boy, who first noticed Peyton's tongue ring, as well, which drew still more attention, as he was requested to give a demonstration of how a tongue ring actually worked. AMAZEMENT, from normally-jaded elementary kids, at seeing a man with a piece of metal shoved through his tongue - such is the advantage, of entertaining kids in a rural area: they may be hard to scare, but give 'em a little counterculture, and they freak right out.

Deirdre, with her friend Collin's dad, Andy, seen here as The Ghayest Psycho Killer, Evah.

Deirdre, of course, was THRILLED to run about, shaking her decapitated head at random kids. Deirdre is one of those disturbing little kids with SOMUCHYAY self esteem that they're naturally convinced the whole world can benefit from their OMGAMAZING gifts. This makes Peyton and I happy, and tells us we're doing a good job with her, buuut...we still snicker, behind her back. You kind of have to, with a kid like Deirdre.

Creepy kindergarten teacher extraordinaire, Angie, with daughter-ghouls in tow. Behind: Peyton and my old 8th grade science teacher. This man does not need any help, being scary for Halloween. When I was in his class, eons ago, he had such a fearsome reputation that I once nearly ruptured my bladder, rather than ask to go to the bathroom. He was having a rough year, and one pet peeve sure to set him off, was leaving his class, for any reason, so we'd all try to avoid asking for the bathroom pass, as it was sure to get a lecture. One fine day, I found myself trying to hold it until after class, and as my luck would have it, Mr. M had a visitor. As they stood talking (of course), my need grew much more insistant, until finally, I could take it no more. When I stood up, waves of black clouded my vision, and the room tilted, as I tried not to faint (yeah, I mean I HAD TO GO). I staggered over, begged his forgiveness for interrupting, and in a tiny voice, pleaded for a chance to go pee. His guest looked at me with obvious horror, probably wondering just what kind of hold this man had on his students, as Mr. M turned a little red and with much irritation, exclaimed "For crying out loud, GO TO THE BATHROOM, Tiffani! What is WRONG with you? Why would you wait until it becomes an EMERGENCY!" I just stared openmouthed, telling myself that answering "Because I was afraid you would kill me" would likely insure that I didn't pass the eighth grade, before squeaking "Ohthankyou" and shuffling off, still bent over from pain.
I tell you, for at least a semester or so of his life, that man was SCARY.

Angie and the ghouls, again, with Peyton (delighting in evil, for no apparent reason) and the principal.

And that's that, FINALLY. I've had so much trouble with this one, not only finding time to write the post, but buttloads of technical difficulties, as well (yes, actual buttloads).

I actually wasn't even planning on posting this on Blogger, yet, as I've wanted to find time to explain my absence over here, first, in a post of its own. However, I'd started this post one, and some demon in the Blogger html is preventing me from moving it anywhere else, so...I guess I'm going to have to get to that explanatory post, a little sooner than I thought. And boy, is it a doozy.

More on that, very soon. Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.

Potshots at the Elderly

2007-09-27T07:03:00.000-05:00

OMFG, I love Deirdre.

Yet another Actual Conversation -

While discussing Halloween, I asked Deirdre what she wanted to be. Since she's five, it's always iffy if she'll even remember what a specific holiday IS, much less be sure about a costume. But I couldn't resist showing her this Zombie Doctor costume, and asking if she liked it.
She stared for a moment, and I realized I might be screwing with the careful explanations of physical and spiritual aspects of death that we've given her, so I felt obliged to add
"This is like, a bad ghost that got inside a gross old dead person, who's been in the ground and had worms eating them."
Deirdre, being Deirdre immediately replied
"Yeah! Like Grandaddy!"

Bada-ba-bum.

Honestly, that child has been zinging her grandad, left and right, lately. I even asked her "Are you SURE that THIS looks like Grandaddy?" and she insisted "Yes! It looks like his face right there."

*facepalm*

I wonder if the liquor store delivers? or What Looks Like Hell, on a Wednesday Night (IS it Wednesday?)

2007-09-26T21:00:00.000-05:00

LOVE my ex; just love him.

Okay, so Saturday is currently his typical One Day of Fatherhood, a week. This past week, he'd wanted to switch that day to Sunday, as he said he had to go with his aunt to pick out a headstone for his recently-demised uncle, on Saturday.
Weird, but okie-dokie.

Sunday comes, and at 8am, the time he should be leaving his house to come pick her up, he calls, and in a voice that sounds every inch like he's been out all night, tells me he cannot come, because he has broken his glasses and cannot drive. He claims they were broken the night before, "in the car, when we wuz comin' back from Shreveport."
Shreveport. Infamous party city, two hours from his home, and not the place you'd be tombstone-shopping, late at night (IS there a place you'd be tombstone-shopping, late at night?).
He also claims that he has already tried to fix his glasses, to no avail, and that he's even taken them to Walmart's optical department, to be repaired, where they were declared unfixable. Amazing, that Walmart's Vision Center was miraculously open, sometime between Late At Night, and 8am The Next Morning.

Now, might be the interesting juncture at which to point out that, in the six years I was married to this man, he drove, and even worked, many, many times, without his glasses, as he is not severely nearsighted.

He wants to come see her, sometime during the week, and I tell him it just so happens that Monday is an off day, for her, as it's Parent-Teacher Conference day. He's THRILLED, and swears he will be here at 2pm, to pick her up for a few hours.

Okay, whatever. We explained to Deirdre that bio-dad was not coming, when she woke up, and she didn't seem to care - we had put new fish in her fishtank, and that was much more exciting. We did NOT tell her that he would be coming to get her the next day, as we are Well-Experienced in This Sort of Promise, coming from my ex.

Monday dawned, and after we came back from meeting with D's teacher, I gave him a call. No answer.
I tried calling him three more times, as the afternoon passed - no answer.
Yesterday - no answer.
Finally, late this afternoon, he answered his phone. And what was his reason, for standing his daughter up? He didn't get his glasses, 'til yesterday.
And what was his reason, for not picking up his phone, or responding to the message I left?
He's just been SO busy, with work.
Yeah. Because with three kids, we're NEVER busy. Peyton got up this morning (and by GOT up, I really mean, we never did make it to bed) to help me get Deirdre ready for school, and spend a little time with her - you know, like you do, with a child you love. He then dozed on the couch for half an hour, before leaping up to run a bunch of packages to the post office for me, and swing by the police station to arrange an appointment with the Chief, for later this afternoon. Came home, slept a few hours, and was up again, to make his 1:30 interview (P is currently being courted to go work for our local PD). Came home from that, played with his kids, greeted Deirdre when she got home from school, then rushed to get ready for work, at 4pm. When he gets home, assuming I've successfully chased all the kids to bed, he then has another pile of paperwork to fill out*, and then I do believe he's planning to cook us some sort of Special Romantic Meal.
*Peyton's current plan of Find A Better Job involves applying EVERYDAMNWHERE, and then picking the one that will give him the most Christmas Money to spend on his kids, heh.

And that is what a busy man looks like.
Me, I have a lazy, relaxing evening ahead of me. All I have to do, is go make the kids' dinner, which is late, but Idontcare because they don't seem to care. Dinner is especially fun, lately, as Deirdre must be given her veggies separately and first, or else she will choose to eat them last...and then when I look away, shove a finger down her throat and make herself vomit, to get out of eating, say...five baby carrots. Adding to THAT fun, is the fact that Deirdre recently brought home some sort of Death Bug, from school, and so every other Vomit or so, is now a Legitimate Vomit. All our kids have the immune system of Superman, so they rarely give any normal sign of illness - they just stop playing for a moment, to vomit on the floor/raise a fever hot enough to fry their brains, then go back to energetic playing, leaving me to wonder if I should call a doctor, or an exorcist.

Kalel, taking a brief siesta on the floor, like a fat, drunk whore. As soon as this picture was taken, she immediately rolled over to her brother and gave him a nice smack to the head.

Oh, and Kalel's sick, too, now, or at least she has joined the Occasional Random Vomit Club. She seems fine, but then did such a horrifying thing to her bedding, during a nap yesterday evening, that Peyton just stripped her, ran for the bathtub (while holding a naked baby at arms' length and screaming like a young girl), and left all her bedding/clothing in a garbage bag by the washer, after chittering at me "Sorry, baby; I really am, but I just CANNOT deal with...that." I, myself, am trying to repress the memory, but let's just say that WOW, she must have a huge stomach.

Where was I? Oh, yes...tonight. Yes, once dinner's out of the way, all I have to do is write a couple more Ebay auctions. Oh, and finish this blog, as it usually takes anywhere from 2-36hrs, to write a single blog. Then, there's really nothing left to do...well, except for getting a couple more packages ready, for the mail. And cleaning the dining room, I guess, as the entirity of our three children's fall/winter wardrobes for this year and last year are currently covering...well...the room.
There's a little laundry to be done, as well, I guess - just a bleach wash, so Deirdre has socks for school, tomorrow. And a dark wash, as the Pile is beginning to creep closer to me, when I walk down the hall - I haven't done a dark wash in a loooong time, like, since day before yesterday, so it's my own fault. But I think there's still a little laundry to be put up, as well - just last night's washes, which is only, like, two loads. Two loads, the size of our bed.

And I guess the kitchen should be cleaned; I've only cleaned it twice, today, so I'm really slacking off. And Deirdre still has her reading homework, once we can shove her brother off to Dreamland, or as I like to think of it - Those Blessed Hours When He Shuts Up and Stops Destroying Things.
But then I can relax, totally - just a lazy night, for me. Once I clean the kids' room, and put up a gazillion toys. Oh, and the den, before National Geographic chooses to come document what they believe must be a new Strange and Primitive Culture.

And remind Deirdre a hundred more times that she was seeing perfectly fine, before I told her she might need glasses, and that anyway, her SpongeBob sunglasses are not likely to correct her sight as much as she believes. And put Lucien's Superman cape on, another thousand times, because he's still too dumb to keep it on for more than two minutes at a stretch, and REALLY...how can he be expected to save the world, with no old, nasty, stained-up piece of velcroed-on nylon?

Hmmm...and then a bath, and some attempt to look more like the Girl my husband married, and less like Scary Old Bag Lady Whose Pants and Hair Bulge Out At Funny Angles. Oh, and must clean our bedroom, as well, as The Man has once again left a Trail of His Manliness (read: socks, underwear, change, receipts and candy wrappers) to mark our home as His Own.

What was I saying? Excuse me; I have to go feed these kids now, so they'll leave me alone.
Okay. Back.
And now, I can finally get a little peace and quiet...aside from Deirdre asking me, over and over, "What's how many carrots I eat?" assuming, each time, that she will get a different answer than "ALL. OF. THEM. THAT'S WHATSHOWMANYCARROTSYOUEAT."
I feel Fullfilled as a Woman, though, as I've now had the chance to pick up the floor a little. And remove one Silly Parts Elmo elephant ear...

...and one small orange pencil, from deep within the bowels of its Mirror Pound-a-Ball hell. Kalel enjoys putting small objects in here, because she's EVIL and enjoys seeing her mother cry.
And then, finding the Great and Terrible Toy Cabinets in a state of horrifying chaos, I took a moment to wish my husband hemorrhoids, as he is INCAPABLE of making the kids put their toys up in the right places, when he's on KidWatch, or of doing so, himself.
It's really not fair for me to be angry at him, though - he has...a handicap. You see, although he gives every impression of being a truly brilliant man, is possessing of an astronomical I.Q., and can accomplish virtually any task he's ever handed...he's...well, special. From what he's explained to me, in limited detail but with great emotion, there are some things he just CANNOT do.
Remembering where toys go, is one, but it gets much worse than that - would you believe he's partially blind? It's true; he cannot see certain objects, including but not limited to:

* dirty diapers he leaves on the floor, after changing a child
* any trash, at all, be it discarded drawings from the children, or bags of garbage in the kitchen *

* dirty dishes

* dirty laundry, including his own, which he has just dropped on the floor

* his towel (he can only see mine, and so is naturally forced to use it, instead of his own)

* dirty children, unless they actually vomit on him

*EDIT*
Actual quote, from my husband, upon reading the above list -
"Cow! I just took the trash out, last night!"
True, but as I explained to him, I also recall being So Utterly Shocked by his taking it out, unbadgered, that I was left standing in the kitchen with my mouth open, for a good ten seconds.
And then this - "And I JUST took the trash out of our bedroom, too, HO-BAG!"
Also true, and he is to be commended. However, as I have also seen him flatten against the wall like a ninja, in order to squeeze past three bags of garbage blocking the doorway into the kitchen, without the slightest thought of taking them out to the cans...OBVIOUSLY, he is still suffering some sort of sporadic malfunction in either his mind, vision, or sense of smell. His ninja skills, however, remain razor-sharp.

Now that I think about it, I'm starting to see a connection, here - the man is literally blind to dirt. God...isn't that just awful?

The mental thing is even worse, though. His inability to understand which Little People go to which set, remember the normal household chores that need doing, or even that drawers must be closed after opening, is staggering. I want him to get tested, make it official, and get some sort of Idiot-Savant disability check from the government, but I think he must still be shy, about his handicap, because he just gets mad, when I suggest that "functionally retarded" is not the stigma it used to be. Oh, well.

Where was I, again? Oh, yes - my fullfillment as a woman, via my choice of a traditional domestic role.
Umm...it's working out great. The baby hasn't vomited yet, Deirdre has eaten four carrots (and in just an HOUR!), and soon, very soon, I get to ~~get rid of~~ put my lovely son to bed, after his deeply nourishing meal of carrots, a piece of cheese, and one noodle, before throwing the rest at his older sister.

I do not like my children. Especially The Boy. And I STILL say, we're being punished, for conceiving him, out of wedlock. Speaking of - the answer to that most recent poll, was actually "Be quiet, or I'll put the blanket over your face again," so congratulations to the Anonymous Nine of you who guessed correctly.
Do not question our methods, until you have experienced The Horror That is Lucien. Besides, he likes that blanket; always has. We suspect he may be into bondage.

Anyway, the point of this story, is that I truly pity my ex-husband, for the busy, busy life he must lead - the rest of us can only imagine the kind of fast-paced, frentic life led by a single man trying to squeeze a daunting half-day of parenting, or even a five-minute phone call, into his Deeply Important Existence.

Now, you must excuse me - I have to go remove my eldest daughter's small, very fashionable purse from its new location, where it seems to be consuming my youngest daughter's head.

Big Pimpin' and Introducing a New Ho'

2007-09-26T07:51:00.000-05:00

Okay, here's where I sell you guys something you're REALLY gonna like -

Since this is my first truly public-public blog, I am, of course, taking up the sport of Extreme Blog Pimping. For those of you who love me, and want to help out, you can go favorite this blog on Technorati, or give it the thumbs up with your StumbleUpon toolbar, just to name a couple of examples. You can also link to it, email it to friends, or tattoo the url on your ass - all are Good and Appreciated Friendly Things To Do. Although...if you do chose the tattoo option, I'd really like some photographic proof.

So...I'm straight pimpin'. And along the way, I found another service, Reviewback.com. The point of which, is to trade off blog reviews. Now, I've seen a lot of people who do this, and make it just damned annoying - they spend so much time reviewing strangers that any idea of content falls right by the wayside. I saw a lot of this, when I started flipping through blogs, looking for someone I'd actually like to review. People tend to be lame, and thus, people who tend to blog, tend to be just as lame, so I sifted through HEAPS of crap, feeling ever more discouraged, as I passed by blogs full of ads, blogs on blogging, blogs on blogs on blogging, and one lady who was WAY too excited about Jesus.
I was just about to give up, and feeling pretty good about the fact that I don't suck half as bad as much of the blogging universe, when I found one last blog...

Crabby's Cowpie Field

And BY GOD, I am thrilled to review this woman.
ALL OF YOU MUST READ HER NOW. I cannot stress this enough - your life will be forever less fullfilling, if you do not. If you like me, I guarantee you will love her.

So there I was, surfing hopelessly through piles of crap. And then there was this crazy redhaired lady, or, as she so eloquently put it: a "56 year old woman in menopause serving no particular purpose in life." That got a chuckle. But it was when I scrolled down, and saw she actually had a journal tag for "butt hair," that I became truly Intrigued.
The more I read, the more I realized "This woman is ME, only with fewer diapers and more hot flashes." And I have to admit, I like that idea. And the hair; she's giving me terrible urges to dye mine, again.

Right: Crabby, spying on and happily blogging her sister's attempt to pee, during a recent hospital stay. Because what good is the pain of others, if it does not provide entertainment value?

Down to brass tacks -
It's a great read, and pretty consistent, with that Greatness. Crabby is one hell of a funny lady, and one you'll wish you knew in person, if for no other reason than just to see her live, in action.
Aesthetically, her blog is delightfully tacky, and one is left feeling unsure if she actually likes cows, or is just overly fond of bullshit. The only real gripe I can make, is that I still can't find a subscribe link, anywhere, and so I have to count on my ever-faultier memory, to guide me back.
Most importantly, I would not be recommending this blog, if I didn't love it. You're gonna love it, too, so go take a stroll in the Cowpie Field.

Hey! Teachers! Leave Them Kids Alone...

2007-09-25T14:41:00.000-05:00

I've been meaning to do a Deirdre/school related post for a while, and now that today's mail has brought me something to bitch about, this seems as good a time, as any.

Today, a poorly-sealed envelope from the local school board office brings me news that Deirdre may have a vision problem, and a request that we have her tested, professionally. Which does make me wonder why they bother giving specific results of their own testing, to begin with, if theirs is not "professional."

At any rate, from the messily filled out form enclosed, it would appear that she scored as having 20/40 myopic vision, or, the vision needed to pass a driver's test, just a hair below normal for adults, and a common result for distracted kindergarteners being given eye tests by school officials. Luckily for me, I possess both the skills to read chicken scratch, and the experience to understand vision testing...God knows how upset the average parent would be, reading such vagaries as supplied by this notice.

We'll get her checked out; that's no problem. Mildly disappointing, as I had hoped that fully breastfeeding her might give her the normal vision I never had, but as her father and I both are nearsighted - he, mildly, and myself, GRANDLY - it's no big surprise, if she has vision troubles, as well. She's never shown any sign of a problem, at home, and has, in fact, shown just the opposite - Deirdre can spot a gnat on the ceiling, and tell you what he's wearing - but who knows? I, myself, was cross-eyed and in bifocals, at her age, so she's still beating the pants off me.

What DOES piss me off, is that this little form also tells me her vision has been checked, twice (a week ago), and her hearing, as well (over a week ago). And of course...we never heard a word about it, until now. This, coming just a day after finding out that she is no longer being considered in need of speech therapy, not from the school, but from her teacher, and I'm beginning to take offense.
What the HELL? We live within walking distance of the school. They have our address, our phone number, our cell phone number, and my email address. I'm an active, involved parent.
Let me know what's going on with my kid, numbnuts.

Yeah, I know; it's no big deal. But it rubs me all the wrong way, that the school can't be bothered sending home a simple notice, to let me know when they will be testing my child. What if she's sick (and she is, actually)? What if she has a big plug of wax in her ear, we're trying to get out? What if her brother sprayed hairspray in her eyes, the day before (he didn't, but it's just the sort of thing he WOULD do)? It just strikes me as retarded, this sneak-attack testing. More grievously, in my book, it strikes me as Rude As All Hell.

The speech therapy bit really did piss us off. Right after she started school, we heard second-hand, that she was being considered for speech therapy. That was fine; Deirdre does talk funny, and though it's a minor problem that we suspected more peer exposure would correct, we were all for speech therapy. I myself had visions of perfectly enunciated speech, and was eager for her to get started. So, we waited to hear some *official* notice.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, weeks later, we received a letter telling us that yes, she had been recommended for speech therapy. Actually, it was not so much a "letter." It was a copy of a recommendation form that her teacher had turned in - our names were not even on it. Shoved in an envelope and sent to us, with no explanation. Again...glad we're bright people, because I cannot imagine how confused and worried an undereducated parent might feel, receiving something like that.

So, believing she would surely soon start this needed tutoring, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.

Yesterday was the end of the first six weeks, and Parent-Teacher Conference day, so at the meeting with her teacher, I asked about it. I think I detected a little embarrassment, on her part, when she told us that actually, Deirdre's speech issues had been reconsidered and pronounced "age-appropriate," some time ago, so she would not be receiving therapy. Which, obviously, no one had felt the need to tell us.

Deirdre has a GREAT teacher, and I'm so grateful that she's hung around long enough to teach at least one of my kids (just TWO more years, and you get LUCIEN!). And really, the school isn't too bad, but still...I'm starting to get more than a taste of the kind of problems we're going to have.
Obviously, I'm going to have to step up Deirdre's reconnaissance training, so we'll have a Spy on the Inside, to take the place of normal communication.

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

On the brighter side, school seems to be going well, from D's point of view. Here's her proof:

We took her with us, to talk to her teacher and pick up her report card, as it reinforces that special concept of "Mommy and Daddy talk to your teacher; Mommy and Daddy KNOW all, SEE all, HEAR all." And establishing paranoia is fundamental, in parenting.
Also, taking her with us was an excuse to totally piss on the school dress code. Hey...I have a legacy, where that sort of thing is concerned, and that must not be taken lightly. When school's in session, the best I can do is refuse to let Deirdre wear gold (and really...WHY would ANYONE wear gold?), and eagerly await winter, when I can send her off in her Pimp Coat (a fabulous rock star-worthy rainbow-colored velvet patchwork thing, complete with shaggy black fur).
Because Fashion is Fundamental, and Dress Codes are for Loserz.

But look...there are Brains in there, too! Observe:

This one is HUGE, so if you click on it, you can see her actual grades. She still isn't clear on what a report card is, but was thrilled, nonetheless, when I told her "S"s are a good thing.
Better than I did, in kindergarten. I started school already knowing how to read, and having begun making my way through both the Encyclopedia Brittanica, a bit of Shakespeare, and Bram Stoker's Dracula. I had counting down, as well as simple addition and subtraction. My vocabulary was massive, and I was learning to write in cursive.
And I was a NIGHTMARE. I wish to God I'd kept this - while I was in kindergarten, my parents received a letter informing them that I may need special counseling, as "Tiffani seems unable to tell the difference between right and wrong; she does not understand normal social or moral boundaries." Awesome! I would totally frame that, had my parents kept up with it. As it was, I just got yelled at for not having a conscience, and my teacher gave up trying, heh.
I squirted ketchup into the carefully done up hair of a little black girl, my first day of school, and made her cry. I refused to color the "right" way. I stammered when spoken to, and lied compulsively. I hung out with much older boys on the playground, and encouraged my friends to do the same. I cut off my best friend's pigtails. I ran around the playground, screaming like a panther and chasing other kids. I stole crayons, and never slept at naptime. I began an interracial romance, when I started spooning during naps with a little black boy, and then convinced him to show me his penis (and then ratted him out, when the teacher walked in, heh). I joined an all-black girl gang, who found my bifocals and incredibly pale skin mesmerizing. I made my teacher hold her head and sigh a lot; I was Bad, Bad, Bad and Still More Bad.

Yeah. I did not get quite so many "S"s.

But for now, at least, I am the blessed parent of a child who is Mostly Good, and Occasionally Amusingly Bad. Deirdre has finally learned to sleep, at naptime, and so her biggest problem remains being Overtly Bouncy. She is speaking more clearly, and if she does need glasses, we can probably trust her to keep up with them. And she's even begun remembering to say "yes, Ma'am." HA. For all the criticism I've gotten from family, over the years, the score now reads Their Parenting: zero; My Parenting: eleventy-million.

Meanwhile, she's still enjoying school immensely, and adapting better than any kid I've seen. We never did preschool, and she only played with other kids her age occasionally, so over the years, I've gotten an earful of assurances that Deirdre would surely be stunted, anti-social and possibly retarded - much of that from my father. It's heartening, now, to see a little girl overjoyed at learning, and eager to make new friends.
From what I am told, her best friend is and has been "Libya," which I think is not actually the North African country, but rather, a little blonde girl named "Olivia." Olivia is, apparently, a wonderful little girl, less outgoing than our own child, who does not get in trouble, knows how to color, has very attractive stuffed animals, and allows Deirdre to boss her around. Except of course, for her Ultimate Betrayal, a week or so ago, when Libya refused to play on the jungle gym, and wanted to instead play on the swings with The Boy Who Always Cries. Deirdre was heartbroken, pronounced her "mean," and informed me she was now friends with a girl who had pretty black hair and brown skin. Being that Deirdre and Libya are the only white girls in their class, that does not narrow it down much, so the identity of Girl With Pretty Black Hair And Brown Skin remains a mystery. But at any rate, after I advised her that perhaps a single Betrayal was not grounds for Excommunication, Deirdre cheerfully forgave Libya her sins, a day or two later.

As for The Boy Who Always Cries, his name is known (by us, at least, if not our child), but will be kept secret, to protect his privacy. He has been a continual source of Amazement, for Deirdre, as he apparently cries, every day, at least once a day. Peyton and I saw him, early on, when we were still taking Deirdre to and from school, and I immediately started nudging Deirdre to be his friend, especially since I know his mother, and thus, am quite certain he is not Defective, and will likely get over the profound amount of tears. Deirdre's first stab at friendship was not all that successful, as it was my child's Fine Idea to approach Boy of Tears and tell him "Don't cry; boys do not be crying. Only babies CRY."
*winces*
I suggested to her that perhaps that was not the best way to make him feel safe and happy at school, and once she changed her tactic to "Don't cry; it's okay. School is FUN and I will be your friend," she now claims that he's a nice boy, and a good friend...except when he sides with Libya and refuses to play on the jungle gym. Gotta love those Kindergarten Politics.

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

We were surprised, recently, to discover that this school actually has a program to encourage parental involvement. Notice how I did not say "PTA." According to the national and state PTA websites, no school in our parish has a PTA program (and WAY TO GO, SCHOOLS!), so I never expected ours to have one.
I should note here, for those who've never read previous posts on this subject - Deirdre's school has a LEGACY of suck. It wasn't great, when I went there, and got much, much worse, as the years went by, until hitting rock bottom, not too long ago. Since then, there's been impressive effort from faculty and administration, to get back on track, and the school has now risen to a rating of "Exemplerary Academic Growth," from the state. So, still with the crappy test scores, but decidedly less crappy, and moving up.

So, needless to say, I didn't expect much, in the way of parent programs. But as it turns out, they do have something - a Parent Teacher Student Organization, or PTSO. We were thrilled when they announced the first meeting, as not only would we sincerely like to be involved, but HEY...SOMETHING TO SNICKER AT! What can I say? We're Bad People.

The meeting was a couple weeks ago, and BOY, did it ever surpass our expectations!
On the serious side: we were happy to see ANYTHING being done, by the school; every little effort counts. And there were a surprising number of parents there - tired, bored looking parents, but at least they came. One of the teachers has been coordinating the group, and is obviously putting a lot of work into it, despite her unfortunate predilection for speaking to adults of any age, as if they were fourth graders. And a couple of parents who were very much Not Me, Not a Chance volunteered as President and Vice-President, which was totally awesome, as I had promised myself I'd give in and volunteer, only if no one else would.

On the non-serious side...
OMFG, Peyton is now the official Drunk Parent of the PTSO. He'd been dealing with an awesome sinus infection(?) that day, and the pressure and swelling seemed to be trashing some nerve in his face, as he was in MONSTER pain. He'd taken some ibuprofen and a decongestant, which didn't help at all, but was still determined to show up for the meeting. So there he was, near crazy from pain, and having real trouble staying upright. While we were all sitting down, it wasn't so bad - he looked drowsy and out of it, and would occasionally make a pained grimace and hold his head, or just bury his face in his hands, but it wasn't too noticeable.
Until the meeting ended, and we were all milling around. I tried to get him out of there fast; I really did, but we needed to go sign up and pay our dues (a big $1, each) for the PTSO, as well as pick up the raffle tickets we were all supposed to hawk, and check with the aforementioned teacher/sponsor, to find out about volunteering for next month's Fall Festival. So, we COULDN'T just leave.
This meant that, as I hurried about, taking care of business, Peyton was left to wander around the room, staggering and banging into walls, tables and anything that crossed his path, while randomly staring sadly at his keys or wallet, as if they held the answer to his plight. He looked for all the world like Dad, the Pitiful Yet Admirably Involved Drunk, and, Horrible Person that I am, it was all I could do not to encourage this impression, by walking over and loudly saying "Okay, let's get you some coffee; what have I told you about going out in public like this?"
For some reason, Peyton does not find this story half as amusing, as I do.

Out of it as he may have been, that did not stop Peyton from staring pointedly at me and calling altogether too much attention to us, when nominations for officers began, which pretty much signed his death warrant, as far as I'm concerned. I'm happy to help out, but leading up an organization that's barely in its infancy, is beyond what I have time for, right now. Next year, sure. But THIS year? No way. And there's nothing like being That Mouthy Girl who is currently trying to duck down and remain unnoticed during a call for volunteers, while her husband insists on STARING AT HER WITH THE BIG "AHEM" EYES AND KICKING HER UNDER THE TABLE, then snickering when she tries to employ the Marital Death Glare, to make his big fat stupid head explode, to make one feel like a Hypocrite.
Dood. Just 'cause I have Opinions, that does not mean I have Time.

At least the teachers certainly seemed Involved, especially when it came time to earn prizes for having lassoed the most parents into the meeting. Deirdre's teacher was temporarily crippled, so she was forced to restrain herself, but another kindergarten teacher actually lept up and ran outside, to retrieve a missing Dad who'd wandered off, while others argued over who would get to claim the hapless parents from a class whose teacher had failed to show up.
It does make one wonder, just what was in those little gift bags. I'm going to guess "an eight-ball of cocaine," because that's a much more fun idea than say, "pencils." And really, don't teachers deserve a little help, with all they do?

So, we totally bailed, on the PTSO, aside from taking home raffle tickets that will likely only be sold to ourselves, Deirdre's bio-father, and Peyton's dad, and paying our whopping total of $2 in dues (these people obviously have no idea what a real PTA charges). BUT, we have volunteered for the Fall Festival or, as I like to think of it, the "Pretend This Isn't a Halloween Carnival" carnival. Or more specifically, the Haunted House portion of the event, run by of all people, the kindergarten teachers.
Peyton will be taking a turn as Dracula, which should amuse those of you who know him, to no end, and I am trying to rustle him up "proper" accoutrements, in the form of custom fangs and prosthetic pieces - I can GUARANTEE that this particular haunted house will have never seen a Dracula, like Peyton's Dracula.
Me, I'll be working the door, and am still a Mystery, though I will say, I am looking at some very interesting latex appliances, for myself.
While we are totally the RIGHT people to do something like this, as we live for Horror and Grossness, I am not sure the administration will see it the same way. Deirdre's teacher has assured me that "anything goes" and we shouldn't worry about limits, but I'm still thinking of bringing some googley-eye glasses or something, to cover up some of the Horrible, around the very youngest of guests.

What I REALLY want to do, is get pictures and names of the whole kindergarten, and greet each child by name, swearing that I am what lives in their closet, and knows where they sleep. But I am reminded by my dear husband that this sort of behavior is generally considered psychological assault, and frowned upon.

I think that's all I'm allowed to say, about the Haunted House, upon threat of flogging by our daughter's teacher, but trust me - you local guys will want to swing by, on October 13th; I guarantee a good show, for kids and immature grown-ups, alike.

Meanwhile, we're also planning on donating quite a bit of candy, and anything else I can dig up, as last year's carnival was just sad - by the time we got there (which wasn't even very late), they had totally run out of candy. Bad enough that there was nothing free to do (especially in a low-income area like ours), but if you're going to charge multiple tickets to play lame little games, the least you can do is provide decent prizes - apparently, last year, they had been passing out candy as the "prizes," until running out of even that. Lame-O.

So, there's your Educational Update, for anyone who's made it this far. Oh, and I would be remiss if I did not now embarrass Deirdre's teacher -

She may well freak out and yell at me, when she sees I've posted this, as I did not announce "Hey, I'm gonna post you on tha Intarwebs!" when I asked her to pose for a picture with Deirdre. But then again, I would think it goes without saying, that when you see me with a camera, you are probably About To Be Blogged.
And anyway...the woman has totally stopped aging (likely some pact with Satan), and is one of the hottest grandmas I know (not counting my friend April, who has managed to become a Default Grandma at the ridiculous age of 27 , and should rightly be shunned as the Cheating Heretic she is), so she has nothing to complain about.

At any rate...this is the woman responsible for our daughter becoming Teddy Bear Obsessed, learning to take naps, and falling under the thrall of Rampant, Shameless Sticker Bribery.

Ooh, ooh! And here's this:

Three Shades of Goober.

I'm not thrilled with 'em, but it could have been a LOT worse. Please remember, this was taken on the day when I ruined my daughter's hair. All the same, though you may not be able to tell from the scanned version (click to enlarge), the color is sort of off, in the standard color proof, leaving the poor child looking just a tiny bit cyanotic, and the lighting's pretty shit. So this will serve as my total Non-Endorsement of LifeTouch School Portraits, being that even I can do better than this, with a $300 camera and no training.

And that, folks, ends yer Rant O' the Day.

Reason #4,382 Why I Hate the Post Office

2007-09-24T14:23:00.000-05:00

Actual email I received from an Ebay customer, today:

"Hi, I received the package today but I had to pay an extra 4.05 to get it because it was mailed in a flat rate box. To ship in a flat rate box it was 8.95. There was 4.90 in postage on there so they made me pay 4.05 to get it."

Now, I sent her package in a Priority Mail flat-rate box, with EVERY occurance of the words "Flat-Rate" carefully magic-markered out, so that it looked just like any other Priority Mail box, and a scannable prepaid label for standard Priority postage.
And WHY did I have to use a flat-rate box, in the first place? Just read my reply...

"I'm so sorry; I'll refund the extra postage, asap!
Our local post office is so incompetant it's ridiculous...I had to use the flat-rate boxes for some of my shipments, because that was all I had left at the house, and our PO keeps NOTHING in stock. They didn't have any Priority Mail supplies, at all, and (after rolling their eyes and giving me a lot of attitude, of course) finally promised they'd get some supplies in, in a couple of days.
And of course, they did not. >@ So, I ended up just using some of the flat-rate boxes, and marking out the words "flat-rate," in the assumption that would suffice.

I hate our post office, and have now ordered apx. one GAZILLION of every Priority Mail box or bag available, to keep on hand, as our PO seems to think it's just CRAZY for customers to expect to be able to use the normal services other post offices provide.

Anyway, now that I've ranted at you, lol - please let me know what email address I should use, to refund the $4.05, and I'll get it sent right out.
Do you suppose it's considered terrorism, to egg a government building? I'd better set aside bail money, just in case."

That was actually a lie - nobody at the Post Office rolled their eyes or gave me attitude. They rolled their eyes and gave Peyton attitude, just like they do, most every time I send him up there with a request. On the rare, magical occasions when they actually DO have the needed Priority Mail supplies in stock, he invariably gets the "Now, we have other customers, and it's not fair for you to take all the supplies" lecture - like when he makes the CRAZY request for a few Priority labels, or something of that sort. And all I can ever think, is "NO, NO YOU OBVIOUSLY DON'T HAVE OTHER CUSTOMERS, OR YOU WOULD KEEP MORE THAN A DOZEN LABELS IN STOCK. STOP PRETENDING THE STANDARD SUPPLIES PROVIDED FOR FREE BY EVERY OTHER POST OFFICE ARE A HOT NEW ITEM YOU HAVE TO HOARD LIKE RATION COUPONS. YOU ARE NOT DOING US A FAVOR, WHEN YOU GIVE US THE REQUIRED SUPPLIES WITH WHICH TO USE A SERVICE WE HAVE ALREADY PAID FOR; THAT IS CALLED DOING YOUR JOB.

That is IT, for me. 99% of the time, when I receive something I've purchased on Ebay and paid First Class or Parcel Post shipping on, it comes in a Priority Mail box or bag, turned inside-out - sellers do this, so that they can use the free shipping supplies, without having to charge Priority Mail prices. Technically, this is in violation of federal law, but obviously the government is not cracking down on it.
So. I'm announcing my stand, right here in front of God and everybody (because, as we all know, God is a Constant Reader of my blogs): I will never pay for First Class or Parcel packaging, again. As of today, I join the ranks of those unlawful citizens who turn their Priority boxes inside out, damn it. And good luck to the postman, who will be stuck delivering the even more monstrous order of Priority supplies I'm about to go order, from the website.
SCREW YOU, USPS!

And I'm serious, about those eggs. When you least expect it, Arcadia Post Office, I am coming.

*please note* this blog is intended for entertainment purposes only, and should not be construed as a legal confession of guilt in any past, present or future illegal acts against the United States Postal Service. I didn't do it, nobody saw me do it, you can't prove I did it, and those were not my eggs. So bite me.

Random Fun with a Five-Year Old

2007-09-20T06:48:00.000-05:00

And Deirdre wins Quote of the Day, before 7am -

So, after grocery shopping last night, I removed a Rubbermaid container of Highly Questionable Leftovers, from the fridge, to make room for more food. I sat it on the counter, and kind of forgot to dump it out and put it in the sink to let it soak and think about what it had done

This morning...

Deirdre: "Momma, what's these?" (lifting the lid)
Me: "Baby DON'T open that! It's nasty!
Deirdre: "But what IS it? Lemme see!"
Me: "I think it used to be black-eyed peas, but it was in the fridge too long, and now it's just Nasty."
Deirdre: "I wanna see!"
Me: *opens the container a bit, to let her have a look* *huge amount of OMGWHATISTHATSMELL comes wafting out*
Deirdre: "Oh, UGGGHH!" (holding her nose) "It's stink! Peas are PUUEEEY! Like Kalel's poopy diaper; peas is POO!"
Me: "No, peas are good. Peas with bacon that have been sitting in the fridge for two or three weeks are Poo. Food just gets nasty when it gets too old."
Deirdre: "Like grandaddy! Grandaddy is OLD!"
Me: "NO, Deirdre; grandaddy is old, but he is not....well, I guess you may have a point, there."

And now, more Fun With Deirdre...

Just some of the Random Weirdness that's been flowing from her direction, as of late:

The night of The Cake Incident, lying on our coffee table because she is "at the doctor" (and wearing her brother's hat, thus making her pulsing five-year old brains look freakishly large). Let me tell you...if Kalel is the "doctor," we're going to need a helluva lot of malpractice insurance.

This is a little something I like to call "6am, on a School Day" -

And this, is the result of letting a too-creative-for-her-own-good child watch Watership Down:

That would be Peyton, giving her the Weird Eye.

Oh, and here's the inside look at that Cake O'the Doom:

See? Told ya it was edible.

Deirdre is currently setting the dining table with her huge blanket as a tablecloth, and miscellaneous unmatching bowls and cups. I suspect I am about to be the victim of a birthday party, but hey...maybe she'll finally let me unwrap that Chicken Little dvd, before we have to return it to the library.
More weirdness to come, I'm sure.

Cake or Death, or Why I Love My Daughter

2007-09-18T23:26:00.000-05:00

Recently, I've noticed that my blogs have been focused much more on Kalel and Lucien. It makes sense, with Deirdre being in school all day, but I did feel a little bad about it. Just yesterday, I kind of had it in the back of my mind to do a post on all the various little bizarre anecdotes from her new life as a Girl in Pursuit of Education - it was on the old mental to-do list.

I needn't have bothered pondering What to Write About Deirdre. Girl Wonder never lets us down, for long, and WOWZER, has she been on a roll, in the past 36hrs.

So, before I even start...thank you, my eldest, weirdest daughter, for doing the work, for me. Thank you, for reminding me that no matter how dumb your brother, or how wicked your sister, you have been and always will be my Most Bloggable Child.

It all started, yesterday evening. After we went over her homework together, Deirdre settled down to draw a hieroglyphic letter, for one of her friends (whom she actually has only met once, three years ago, but you know...she's 5; everyone she sees is her "bestfriend"). I left her in the dining room, with the much-coveted Mommy's Markers, and came back into the den, in hopes of finally getting a little respite from the usual Crazy.
Not too long after, Deirdre came in here to ask "how many days" 'til my next birthday, having been vaguely aware that her mother had aged yet again, last month. I told her it was a long-long-time, nearly a year, and when she then informed me that she was going to make me a cake, ALL BY HERSELF, I just nodded, said that was nice, and didn't give it a second thought. Naturally, I assumed the five year old who cannot reach anything and has never so much as used the microwave, was about to go draw me a cake - "make" and draw often mean the same, to her. And anyway, Deirdre is always full of shit; she's constantly making nutty proclamations like "I am Moses" or "I'm going to go see my friend and have her party and give her presents and we'll love each other forever, in ONE days," or even "I'm going to freeze that monster with how I shoot ice like this - shhhhhhhh! - an then I'll EAT HIM like a popsicle."

You get the picture. Five year olds are crazy and pathological liars and not to be believed.

So, I approved this idea, patted her head, and fully expected to be interrupted in ten minutes or so, with an invisible cake, or a picture of cake (I've been given lots), or maybe even plastic blocks in the shape of a cake. When she did not reappear in the next 10-15min, I wondered, but still didn't give it much thought; I just went to look for her, to remind her that the dinner hour was approaching, and make sure she wasn't eating her newly-finished homework, or some such nonsense.

I found her in the kitchen. Standing on a chair that she'd taken from the dining room. Stirring with a spoon she'd found in a drawer (and that I'd actually never even seen before). Stirring something that she'd put in my God-Almighty-Huge casserole dish - the one I pull out, when I have a need to feed a small army...or Peyton, twice. She'd carried that heavy glass casserole over to the counter, and up a chair.
There was no mess - or at least, no mess that she had made. There was just a tiny girl, calmly and cheerfully making her mother a cake, as if she had done it a hundred times, before. But when I saw what was in the casserole dish, I spun around on one heel, took off after my camera, and immediately began Blogging It In My Head.

I asked her to show me what she had put in my "birthday cake," one ingredient at a time:

Froot Loops, in a nod to the stereotypical KidFood (Deirdre rarely eats them)

And eggs? "Oh, Deirdre...you did not put EGGS in there!" Deirdre has never handled, much less cracked, a raw egg, so I found this difficult to believe.

By this point, Lucien had appeared, playing the role of Secondary Pointer. Here, Deirdre is telling me that she also used strawberry yogurt and Cool-Whip. Again, foods she does not eat, which made them seem unlikely candidates for her recipe.

But checking the garbage...I'll be damned. She DID use yogurt and an egg. I go back for a more Serious Look at that "cake." Meanwhile, Deirdre is far from done, and I am THRILLED to let her run with this, sensing a Legendary Tale, in the making.

And here, is your first good look at The Horror in the Casserole.

Daddy's Heath toffee syrup, because she thinks it's chocolate. I intervene, briefly, when she next suggests using the last of Daddy's Vanilla Chai Spice Coffeemate, then return to my position of Gawker and Non-Authority Figure.

But what else do we need, for a really GREAT cake?

Why, PEPPERONI, of course! In Deirdre's world, it goes with everything.

Now, more eggs, and would you look at her? Perfectly cracking, without a scrap of shell - she, herself, could not explain how she had learned this skill.

But something's missing....

Nutella! The chocolatey hazelnut spread is PERFECT with a pepperoni/frootloop/toffee/coolwhip-laced egg and yogurt base!

Add a dash of salt, and she's done! Or at least, add a dash of salt, and then insist that it needs to be "bigger," at which point, your mother begins lying her ass off. I reassured her that it was the Magic of Baking that made cakes "bigger," and that this was GREAT, just the way it was - too many flavors would just overwhelm the delicate balance she had already attained.

All the while, my mind is racing, wondering "How the hell do I get out of THIS ONE? Shall I "save it for when Daddy gets home," then hope to distract her until after bedtime, at which point we can claim we ate it while she slept? And then...

Eureka.

We proceeded on to Baking, in an oven specifically adjusted for such a culinary masterpiece, which translates to "Preheat, at 100 degrees." Also known as "a great temperature in which to grow bacteria."

Random Glum Face - she was actually still quite thrilled over her mastery of cooking.

I began Project Lie, and reminded her that cakes take a LOOONG time, to bake - many, many hours, and sometimes even all night. This lie found fertile ground, as I prompted her to recall how many times she'd seen me up very late at night, making birthday cakes. She doesn't know the difference between "up all night baking" and "up all night making apx. 738 different shades of custom-tinted frosting," so it made sense, to her.

I also made sure she understood that "Cakes look different when they finally, finally get done. All the colors of stuff you put in melt and blend together, and the cake gets MUCH bigger; it even tastes different."

Remember: I are a genius, and just as Deirdre uses her gifts in Strange and Terrible Creative Ways, I, too, have a Special Way of using my own gifts. It's called Lying.
Forced to wait for her cake to cook, she turned her attention to my birthday gift, or rather, its wrapping, which seemed the only important part (like mother, like daughter).

This child never picked up a pair of scissors, until she started school, last month, and she has certainly never touched real *adult* scissors. Yet here she is, without a moment's hesitation.

And now glue, as Scotch tape proved too annoying for her. Later, she moved on to my heavy clear packing tape. Looks like there's something in that paper, doesn't it? Nope; still just wrapping air.

Though she seemed to be doing well, for a time, eventually, the Green Paper of Doom thwarted her best efforts, and she switched to Stripey Masculine Paper of Slightly Less Doom.
This was taken this morning, right before the bus came - Success!

THIS time, there really IS something in there. Although I have been told that it is NOT my birthday, and that Deirdre will tell me when it's my birthday, I cheated as soon as she got on the bus, and looked inside an opening in her wrapping paper-envelope.
OMG! I GOT CHICKEN LITTLE! THE EXTRA-HAWT BIENVILLE PARISH PUBLIC LIBRARY DVD VERSION THAT PEYTON CHECKED OUT YESTERDAY! SCREW YOU, LIBRARY; IT IS MINE, NOW!
Don't worry; I'll still act surprised. ;D

"But What About the CAKE??!" you may be asking. Indeed...what about it?

It looks fine, to me.
After a nice night of baking, it turned out just as I predicted - evenly colored, much bigger, and totally Cake-like. Deirdre was thrilled to see how well it had turned out, and assured me I would love it. Actually, I think she said "Loves it," considering the fact that she asked me "Do you love it?" quite a few times, the night before, while making the cake - apparently she's groovin' on some kind of Paris Hilton/Nicole Richie vibe.

What?

Ohhhhh...I get it; I know what you want to hear.
Okay, so here's the deal: Once Deirdre was finally distracted with dinner, I sent Peyton a text, asking him to swing by and pick up a few things from Walmart, on his way home. Meanwhile, Deirdre's cake was still in the oven, when she went to bed, as I'd promised her that we'd take it out for her, when it was "done."
I had already asked her what this cake was going to taste like, and she assured me that the yogurt and Nutella would make it taste like strawberries and chocolate - that sounded like a plan, to me! Once she was down for the count, I sprung into action, scraping out that Abomination Casserole into the trash, and making Peyton take the evidence out to the garbage cans.
But first, of course, I took a picture:

Mmmm. Who says you have to choose, between Cake or Death?

Once the Official Food of the Church of Satan was out of the way, I whipped up a fast swirly mix of strawberry and chocolate cake batter, in the same (sanitized and prayed over) casserole dish, then sprinkled in some chocolate chips, for a chunkier effect. It actually looked pretty gnarly, as I'd spiked the strawberry batter with a hint of pink paste food color, so it was bright pink and brown swirled. Once it cooled, I melted chocolate frosting and sealed it in a thin layer (cause of course, that's the Nutella!).

I did worry, for a moment, that she might not buy the switch - she's a REALLY bright kid, and observant as hell. However, her self-esteem is such that it actually does make sense to her that whatever she throws in a pan will just naturally turn into a perfect cake - this is a child who is almost completely without insecurity, fear, or self-doubt.
She bought it hook, line, and sinker. ;D

So here I am, Bad Mommy Extraordinaire, having pulled off a Grand Lie that has boosted my child's already unnaturally high self-esteem, and brought Wonder and Joy into her little life.
Know what I call that? CASH IN THE BANK. Yessirree, I have just bought myself one helluva lot of Good Mommy Karma, which means I can totally read her diary, when she's older, and not go to Hell, even a little bit.

Happy Late Birthday, to me.

Sh-Boom, Sh-Boom

2007-09-17T12:28:00.000-05:00

Begun yesterday, finished today; still sadly lacking the creamy filling of sanity...

Fun day, thus far.

Perhaps I can sneak a few minutes of Sane Time, now that I've completed The Great Clifford Hunt. Lucien, who has the attention span and energy levels of a hummingbird on crack, was intent on finding "A CLIIIFFFORRD!" despite the fact that we do not even own a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog. There's no explaining concepts like "DO NOT HAVE" to a crazed toddler, of course, and so I finally consented to go see if perhaps the desired stuffed toy had fallen out of the air, or been left here by some Clifford-loving aliens.
Thus began ten minutes of searching high and low for an item we do not possess. Lucien's first stop was (naturally) his sister's potty, where he lifted the lid and leaned down towards the bowl, inquiring "Clifford in here?" I don't know if I'm more disturbed by the fact that he actually believed a toy he has never seen in our home might appear in a potty...or that he thought Clifford might actually answer him, from inside the potty.
I'm quite sure if he were in there, we would have heard him screaming. God knows I would scream.

In the past hour, Lucien has:

Watched apx. 20min. of Clifford cartoons
Watched apx. 12min. of Cars
Watched apx. 15min. of The Wild
Asked to watch a Justice League dvd
Wept, at not being allowed to sample his fourth movie in an hour
Screamed because we have no Clifford toys
Screamed because Kalel came too close to his food
Screamed because Kalel saw him lying on the floor, took advantage, and sat on his head (my kingdom, to have gotten a picture of that)
Screamed because I would not get him a "hurrrnngglllhh" (your guess is as good as mine)
Loudly announced that he is watching (insert dvd title here) apx. 87 times
Run about the room on all fours, barking and mooing (continuous). I have no idea, regarding the mooing

In the past hour, Kalel has:

Stolen everything her brother has been holding, looking at, or thinking about
Bellowed a war cry fit for a Spartan, then smashed her snack bowl across the room and into the floor, sending unacceptable food all over the den
Screeched in rage because I would not let her throw a book out the window
Screeched in rage because she had thrown her own cup across the room, and was now displeased with this decision
Screeched in rage because she did not want to watch The Wild
Built a small house out of blocks
Yelled "AH-DEE-YA-YA-DEH-DEH" apx. 214 times
Hurled a number of small plastic balls against the opposite wall, narrowly missing my head, as I foolishly crossed her path
Shoved the entire front of her dress into her mouth and shuffled around the room, yelling a garbled "UUURRRRGGG!!!" through a mouthful of skirt
Sat on her weenie brother's head, making him cry - which I fully condone, and would like to try, myself

And still, Boy continues to pester me. He never gives up; no amount of Gentle or Forceful "no"s will do the trick, and as for reasoning...pffft...I'd have better luck reasoning with a stale Cheesy Poof. The more I "reason," the more he jumps up and down like an agitated gorilla, waving his arms and becoming increasingly loud.
What DOES work, I've found, is hitting him. No, bear with me, here - Lucien is, of late, obsessed with "ows." He LOVES an excuse to say "OW!" This child actually invents imaginary injuries, just so he can claim pain and get a kiss for it; he's like a neurotic little dog whose foot was stepped on once, and is still limping, years later, often forgetting which paw is supposed to be injured.
Sooo...if he won't stop, after about the twentieth "NO," I just smack that little waving hand. Immediately it's "OWWW! HUUURRRRT!" And he'll go away and leave me alone, for the price of a kiss - the kiss means he's gotten something he wants, and he completely forgets that the kiss wasn't what he originally wanted. Awesome. I'm convinced that God made little kids dumb, for precisely this purpose.

Time for me to add, here - I started this blog THIS MORNING, and it is now 5pm. Welcome to Motherhood.

It's been a pretty crappy day, or at least, it should have been. I don't even REMEMBER this morning - that should tell you how *chipper* I was, upon waking. Later, after Deirdre left for school, Peyton discovered (apx. 20min before he was due to go to work, of course) that he had no earthly idea where his wallet had meandered off to. How this even happens to a person, is beyond me. I lose MANY things - some of them quite important - but losing a wallet baffles me. Worse yet, as usual, he was convinced he knew just where it was, an idea which never, ever proves to be true.

If it's just like a man, to lose his wallet, then it's doubly Just Like A Man, to be in complete denial of the shoddy memory that has resulted in that loss.
And my own dear husband is King of the "But I Remember Exactly..." Tribe. Sadly, my love for him precludes me mocking him any further, over this incident, as I promised him I wouldn't.
I said "this incident." I am, however, perfectly free to mock him over pretty much everything else in the world. Fine print is everything, in a marriage, you know. ;D

At any rate, wallet was eventually found, but (of course) not before we'd had a nice little fight over it, or more specifically, Peyton's insistance that he knew just where it was. Add to that the fact that, with all the kid-interruptions, it took me literally half a day to list half a dozen items on Ebay. Those same kid-interruptions also distracted me enough to miss out on bidding on a few items I'd hoped to win - fall clothes for them, as usual - and as that happens frequently, I'm always tempted to start yelling "Alright; that's it! No clothes for you; you will all have to run around naked this winter! Noooo...it's too late to be sorry - those were THE LAST CLOTHES IN THE WORLD, and now you're just STUCK, aren't you?" There's just such a short window of time during which you can get away with that sort of lying, and it seems a shame not to take advantage of it.
On top of that sort of thing, and the usual badbadbadbadohwhatiswrongwithmykids, I somehow managed to ram my right thigh into...you know, I don't even remember, now...ram it into something, at any rate; something that left a bruise bearing a remarkable resemblance to a hickey. On my thigh. So now, I look like a slut, but with none of the fun benefits.

So, as I said, it should have been a bad day. But I did get most of those auctions up, and I also snagged a brand new silk coat and pants set, for Kalel, that I remember seeing selling for around $30, earlier this year (on Ebay; God knows how much it was, new), for the ridiculous sum of less-than-$10-including-shipping. And look! I'm blogging, even if it took all day, to do so.
More importantly, I've had "Sh-Boom (Life Could Be a Dream)", by The Crew Cuts, playing at downright Zany volume in my head, all day.
And it's just damned hard to stay dour, with "Hey nonny ding dong, alang alang alang...Boom BA-doh, ba-doo ba-doodle-AY...Oh, life could be a dreeeam, SH-BOOM!" toodling along as a soundtrack to your day.

And now, since this post is moving into it's second day of not-being-posted, I'm cutting this sucker off, right here. Tune in Next Time, which will assuredly come much sooner than This Time did. Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.

Oh, and you guys REALLY need to go click this link, to see a perfect example of just what Bad Parenting is all about.

Badness, Fatness, Weirdness, and Happiness - a Photo Essay

2007-09-15T10:51:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe twenty-one people, thus far, are convinced that I sit around blogging with no pants on - what kind of woman do you think I am??!
Not that I'm actually going to deny it. But still...I'm certain I should feel indignant.

You know, it's amazing what subtracting one perpetually busy-bodied little five-year old can do, for a household's peace and harmony. What's even more amazing, is that it hasn't helped - since Deirdre started kindergarten, Lucien and Kalel have proved themselves able and VERY willing to pick up the slack.

Lucien & Kalel, in full-on Badness Mode, getting a lecture from Peyton

Lucien, whose vocabulary previously consisted of about a dozen words and 364 distinct forms of whining, has now erupted into loquaciousness (and that, kids, is your Word of the Day - use it as often and as incorrectly as possible, and be amused at how few people are familiar with its meaning - try "I thought it was just poison ivy, but my doc said it was actually a symptom of loquaciousness...so anyway, now I have to put a cream on my naughty bits, three times a day").

The result of this vocabulary expansion, is that I now know more of what goes on in a not-quite-three year old boy's mind than can possibly be healthy. Being that - in the case of our model, anyway - what goes on in a three year old boy's mind is made mostly of marshmallows and stupid.

Kalel, meanwhile, having finally decided to give walking a try, at the belated age of 18mths, now spends much of her time, shuffling from one side of the den to the other, Sowing the Seeds of Discord. If you are missing something, chances are, Kalel has hidden it - I turned my back on a library book for a few minutes, yesterday, and it was later discovered inside a basket of toys, in Kalel's Secret Lair - or what used to be known as our den cabinets.
Another favorite new hobby of hers, is making her brother cry, and let me tell you - there are few things as pathetic as watching your son collapse on the floor in tears, after being outwitted/overpowered yet again, by his baby sister.

In his defense, the girl really is Alarmingly Clever; we are beginning to suspect that she may be not only our brightest child, but more cunning at 18mths than either of her siblings are, presently. Certainly, she has already displayed more Resourceful Evil than Lucien, and seems now to have designs on Deirdre's reign as Queen of Everything.

Kalel, making ready to lob a bottle at any would-be challenger to her throne.

Meanwhile, we're still baffled by her recent ascension to Sumo Baby. I'm an expert at condensing babies, and with all three kids, have had the distinct pleasure of owning the kind of trial-size infants that cause strangers to gasp and exclaim"WHY WON'T YOU FEED THAT BABY??!" Kalel was my largest newborn, at a whopping 7lbs, 11oz, and Deirdre was my smallest, at 6lbs, 10oz. Each child appeared, however, to weigh about as much as a wet kitten, and could be packaged into remarkably tiny forms.

Behold, the Wee that was Deirdre. Yes, her wretched mother really did have a need to see if her firstborn could fit in a tiny decorative baby gift basket.

And now my 18mth old is stretching out her 18mth clothes, grunting when she moves, and has developed around-the-back-boob-fat. And boobs, for that matter. All the more disturbing, because she has taken to the habit of gently cupping and squeezing one boob, while deep in thought, or just chillin'. Could be worse, I suppose - Lucien used to massage his own ass, for comfort (why can't I have normal kids?).

It's that Awful Time of Year, again - time to start moving out the kids' fall/winter wardrobes onto Ebay, and Lucien's turn came up, yesterday. As I sorted through last year's clothes, I realized just how much Boy has shrunk - at 2yrs, he was fitting into most 2T clothes just fine. A year later...and he's still fitting into most 2T clothes, just fine. And then it hit me...somehow, some way, Kalel is stealing her brother's fat.

Exhibit A: Lucien, at Kalel's age, literally too fat to walk, and certainly too fat for this bouncy seat, which was the only place Fatness would sleep.

Now, Lucien EARNED that fat, by hoovering up anything that would sit still long enough to be eaten, including but not limited to:

paper
garbage (literal garbage, straight from the can)
bugs
toys
his food
his sister's food
your food
items in any accessible shopping cart
dvds
books
members of his own family
basically, anything Amazon might sell, the CDC might label a public health risk, or a dog would likely refuse to eat.

So, although it shamed and worried us, we understood why Lucien would be gigantinormous. And slowly, he consented to try walking, which began to shave off those pounds and reveal his ankles, once more. Today, he's a supremely active child who would rather hold food in his mouth and salivate uncontrollably, than chew and swallow it - thus, he is also turning into quite a slim young lad.
But lately, even as his eating habits improve a bit, he's getting even smaller. Watching my children more closely, and seeing that yes, Kalel certainly is a Jealous God, I'm starting to see a disturbing pattern - as Lucien eats more, and Kalel eats less, the wrong child is getting larger.
That little beast is stealing her own brother's life force! On the positive side, she'll likely be big enough to steal his clothes, as well, in another couple months.

All fat-stealing conspiracies aside, the kids are just getting nuttier, and Deirdre being gone at school each day seems to only inspire her siblings on to newer and better forms of Weirdness, in the unending competition to see Who Can Make Mommy's Hair Turn Gray, First? The grand prize, as usual, goes to whichever kid pushes me just far enough to snap, with bonus points if I can be distracted into forgetting that the den windows are open. Nothing beats the humiliation of realizing I've just lost my cool and started yelling at the kids, right in front of an open window that looks out onto the street - invariably I will be in a robe, screaming like a lunatic "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT? WHY ARE YOU ACTING SO STUPID?" And with my usual luck, there will even be neat sound effects, like my chair scraping across the floor loudly as I leap up from the computer, where I have been begging and bribing them with snacks to let me work - on a really stellar day, this Screamy Fit will be accompanied by Crazy Hair, and my robe falling open, right as I stand in front of a window. Great. Very young children should really be employed by the military, as interrogation specialists; give my kids ONE HOUR with a terrorist, and I assure you, he will break.
I'm always tempted to try and redeem my neighborhood reputation by screaming out the window "I LOVE YOU; YOU ARE SPECIAL, WONDERFUL CHILDREN AND WILL GO FAR IN LIFE!"
I try to reassure myself that the occasional freak-out is an effective way of establishing limits and reinforcing cause-and-effect relationships, like "If Mommy ends up in a padded cell, then who will make you cookies?" but I'm still developing a nervous tick from the strain.

Deirdre, smiling as she relishes her brother's outraged screams that she has stolen his car.

Still, I must be doing something right - the other day, Deirdre brought me home a present of candy that she'd bought at the school canteen, made ever more delicious by having been carried around in a pocket all afternoon. And who says motherhood is unrewarding?

Oh yeah...last night, we discovered one of Kalel's primary objectives in her constant Cabinet Spelunking. Last night (when I actually started this post), I turned to check on the little thumps I was hearing, from the cabinets, to find Kalel carefully emptying one section of its contents - that would be the now-infamous paint-containing cabinet. Deep inside that cabinet, nearly forgotten, lay The Greatest Toy Ever. I'd originally bought it for Deirdre, who passed it to Lucien, who never shares anything and will likely go feral when he sees his baby sister playing with it.
I just wish I'd been able to grab a shot of Kalel still in the cabinets, holding aloft her Amazing Find, with an expression of pure "MINE!" Unfortunately for her, she wasn't ingenious enough to turn the thing around so that it would fit through the cabinet door, so I hurried over to lend a hand before Fatzilla had a chance to frenzy and start trying to smash her way out of the cabinets with it.
For the next few minutes straight, Kalel nearly made my ears bleed with her patented Happy Shriek, as she followed me around while I found batteries for it and tried to clean off the I-don't-want-to-know that the kids had smeared across it, god-knows-when ago. Little finger-sized streaks of paint here and there, from the Paint Incident a few weeks back told me that yes, this particular Search and Rescue Cabinet Mission had been attempted, before.

And what is this miraculous toy? This...

Kalel, in full-on head-shaking, Happy Shriek joy.

Eventually, we'll have to explain to her that this is not an appropriate way to express her gratitude.

Ebayz, Cars, and Predatory Response

2007-09-11T12:53:00.000-05:00

Do you suppose sanity actually makes a sound, when it cracks? What about just a little seizure?
Doesn't really matter; it's not like I could hear it, if it did.

I hate Disney's Cars. Hate it so very much. And if you had a not-quite-three year old who had been screeching "CAAAAAARRRRRS!" for the past hour, you'd hate it, too.

But onwards, to the point of this post -

Look, I have made Ebayz!
The fact that I have auctions listed on Ebay, is nothing new, if you know me. The interesting fact, is that I got absolutely no sleep, this past Friday night, and in that state, decided to update my About Me page.
Here, go have a look.
I was just restless, a little bored, and taking a break from writing Ebay listings. But reading it apparently made my husband weep with laughter, when he found it, and he's been after me to post a link, ever since.

Some of the auctions are fun, too, though you'd never know from the titles (as everyone knows, Ebay is Serious Internet Business, or at least, it is when you have kids to dress on a VERY limited budget), and better yet...the clothes are The Pretty. So go have a look, for a quick laugh, and go have a bid, if you know a little girl between 6-12mths, with a need to look Straight Pimpin'.

I wish I had coffee. Sadly, I am too afraid to get up and go to the kitchen, because I have not been bothered for FIVE ENTIRE MINUTES, and any large movements will certainly break that spell. The same rules that apply to wild dogs, apply to small children as well, you know - do not make eye contact, do not let them sense your fear, and if you remain very, very still, they often lose interest and go away.
Oh, wait...their backs are turned - now's my chance!

Elder Evil Genius Strikes Again

2007-09-10T11:41:00.000-05:00

I've been meaning to post this for days, now, but I did want Deirdre to color it first. She keeps rolling her eyes and ignoring my requests, so FINE...I colored it, myself, with one of my photo editors.

Anyway, about a week ago, after finishing her homework, she got to work on THIS:
Everything in black marker, is Deirdre. All crazy-looking color, which to control the weather. We provided by Yours Truly.
This is exactly what it (kind of) looks like - plans to build a machine with suspected as much, but asked her, just the same, and SWEAR TO GOD, with no prompting, she informed us it was, indeed, a machine to control the weather. As of right now, she is only claiming to want to keep it from raining on our house, so as to protect our perpetually leaky roof. Then again, she's only five - who knows how long it will be, until she has the foresight to realize how many OTHER interesting and profitable things she could do with it?

Super Sekrit Fortress plans are already in the works, obviously.

Bad Grandaddy Redux

2007-09-10T09:05:00.000-05:00

Another Older Post...

The Tale of Kalel's Birthday Gift -

On my birthday, we had to run out to the library, the gas station, and Walmart. The plan was, to sneak off quickly, while Deirdre was at school, leaving Kalel and Lucien here with Dad. We weren't going to be gone long, and I had already set up Kalel's bed for her, with all her books and blankets and music, in case Dad wanted to put her down for a nap, before we got back. Snacks and drinks were laid out for both kids, and the den was fairly neat.

So...Dad had the job of watching two kids play happily in the floor together (as Lucien and Kalel are now Partners in Crime), and assuring they did not find any sort of Injurous Mischief, for a period of about 2 1/2 hours. And, should he find that too daunting, he had the option of putting Kalel in her bed, thus reducing his KidLoad by half.

What do YOU think happened?

A little after 3pm, Peyton called Dad, to let him know that we were on our way home, but might not get there before Deirdre did.
No answer - we may as well not even HAVE a phone, when Dad's the only one there to answer it.

Dad called back, a few minutes later. He had no idea we had ever called, but was worried over when Deirdre would get home, as he'd seen the Head Start bus dropping off the neighbor kids, and could not remember if she belonged on that one. I assured him that she would be home soon, on a different bus, and that we would be home very soon, as well - advising him to just keep an eye out for the bus, so he could open the door for her. I noticed he sounded a bit agitated, but then...Dad always kind of sounds agitated.

We arrived home, soon after, to find Deirdre already there, and Ready to Tattle. Peyton opened the door of the den, and she rushed out, wide-eyed, to explain.

The floor was covered in a long swath of the paint we'd used when we repainted the den. Lucien was following right behind Deirdre, equally wide-eyed, and full of alarmed babbling. Kalel sat smirking, on the floor, and waved cheerfully in our direction. And Dad was on his hands and knees, with a bowl of water, a rag, a putty knife, and his unanswered prayers that he could somehow fix this before we got home.

Deirdre said "LOOK WHAT THEY DID!"
Lucien said "KAH-WELL! LOOKIT!! KAH-WEELLL!"
Dad said he had no idea what happened, but it must be Lucien's fault.
Kalel said "Hi-HI!" and waved cheerfully, before darting out into the hall, towards Freedom and Interesting Bags of Groceries.

Now...that paint. It was interior satin latex, thank God, rather than something more durable, and it was in a wide path, curving around one side of the den. Plus little dabs, here and there, swipes on the coffee table, and two faint Lucien-sized handprints, on the couch. Oh, and little panicky Lucien-sized footprints, all around the den.

Dad has quite the reputation for letting the kids do Absolutely Whatever, to the den, when he's "watching" them. But this...this was so far beyond dumping all the dvds on the floor or throwing toys out the window that I just knew it MUST have happened while Dad was dutifully outside, waiting for Deirdre's bus.

Again...what do YOU think happened?

I'll tell you what happened.
Dad was sitting at the computer, playing checkers online, and ignoring the kids, as usual.
But here's the twist: Lucien, as it turned out, was actually innocent. He made that quite clear, in the most precise (and desperate) display of language skills of his young life, as he pleaded with his Daddy to PLEASE understand.

Lucien: "KAH-WELL." *points at the cabinet, obviously distraught* "Kah-WELL. I say NO. I try..." *makes motions with his hands to attest that he tried to stop her* "I can't! NO, Kah-WELL! I's SCARED! I CRY! Ummm...." *overwrought, and reduced to little choked noises of worry* "I say NO KAH-WELL!!!"
Translation: "Father! I endeavored to stop her, but she overcame me! My foul wretch of a sister took the paint out and painted all over the floor! I warned her, but she did not heed my words! I offer myself up to you, a failure, and placing my fate in your hands."

Lucien's claim was backed up, not only by his obvious terror and worry, but by those panicky little footprints all over the den - and what looked like drag marks, possibly from trying to drag his sister away from the paint.

The Real Story, as pieced together from Confessions and Logic:
Dad was staring at checkers, forgetting he even had grandchildren. Kalel and Lucien were playing, which, as usual, involved Kalel burrowing through the toy cabinets like a rat.
Those of you who've been here, or seen pictures, may recall that we have an entire wall covered in bookshelves and floor-level cabinets. One cabinet section, usually blocked by an armchair, contains some of Dad's tools and two cans of extra housepaint. The other three cabinet sections are ALL TOYS. One for board games and a few larger items; one with a laundry basket full of toys, and various storage containers organizing blocks and itty-bitty toys; one cabinet filled with The Little People World - a small zoo, a larger Learning Zoo, a Schoolhouse, a Dollhouse, a Noah's Ark, and a few random odds and ends.

Kalel worships these cabinets; they are her Valhalla. She can open them all, herself, and so spends any free time climbing into them and Burrowing. She will happily curl up in the toy basket, sit on storage boxes, or travel from one cabinet to the next, tunneling like a mole.

On this particular day, she was unsupervised enough to clear out the entire third cabinet, right beside the fourth cabinet, which is the one full of no-nos. This allowed her access to the paint. Still unsupervised, she was then able to lift a half-full gallon of paint out of the cabinet, onto the floor, for further inspection. She managed to get the lid off, and start repainting our floor with the contents. While Lucien is FREAKING THE HELL OUT, completely unnoticed by Dad.
Feeling celebratory, she began to express her artistic soul...by turning her body into a paint roller; coating her mostly naked self with paint and rolling a stripe around the den.
She painted her hands, she painted her face. She painted her thighs, her belly, and happily filled her little inverted nipples with paint. Apparently, all while Lucien ran around the den in alarm (and assuredly, at high volume), pulling and dragging at her as she swatted him away (Kalel is quite capable of kicking her big brother's ass).

Eventually, Dad noticed Somthing Was Amiss. When asked, later, just what his reaction had been, he offered "I didn't do ANYTHING, Peyton; I just stared. It's called Shock. What I was thinking, was 'Oh, SHIT.'"
Dad does not always appear to be the brightest crayon in the box, but he clearly sensed his own doom. This was in a whole other league from allowing Lucien to stomp crackers in the floor, or tear up important papers. This was BIG.
As fast as he could, he ran out of the room for cleaning supplies, dropped to his knees, and began a frenzied attempt to Hide the Evidence, as Lucien continued to run about in a panicked premonition of his own impending punishment. Dad naturally assumed his most-doted-on little buttsmear of a grandson was responsible, and Lucien, slowly gaining sapience as he approaches the ripe old age of Three, was POSITIVE that he would be the one to take the fall, for this one.

'Round about that time, Deirdre's bus delivered her home. To an empty yard, with no one waiting to greet her. Being a sensible, mostly fearless girl, she calmly walked to the door and rang the "dingbell." Receiving no response, she stood pounding on the door, until Dad at last stopped to wonder what that noise was, and discovered her on the porch. This was a few minutes before we arrived.

Peyton did not say anything when he opened the door; he just stood there, taking it all in. I came over to take a look at what had frozen my husband, and was greeted by Deirdre and Kalel. I just said hi to Deirdre, and invited her to follow me to the kitchen, as Peyton went back to the car, twitching, for the rest of the bags. Kalel made a beeline for the open front door, and Deirdre (God bless the self-sufficient child) grabbed her, dragging her towards the kitchen and handing her a bag to plunder.

Our den is a light, soft mocha, and that color, when wet, is only a shade darker than Kalel's skin tone. Therefore, Peyton and I were sighing in relief, at Kalel's apparent lack of bodypaint - there seemed to be just a bit, in her hair.Until Peyton took her into the bath, and discovered most of her body and her entire face was now a light, creamy beige...right before her "skin" began sloughing off, with the rag. And extra paint tucked away, in those little inverted nipples.

To Dad's credit, we feel he has learned his lesson. The sheer terror in his eyes was the first sign; the next, was when I offered to help him clean, and he shook his head vigorously, still making little confused, worried grunts of dismay.
To Lucien's credit, he has learned to adequately tattle on his Wicked Evil Little Sister.
To Deirdre's credit, she has proven, yet again, that she is the most responsible adult in the house, after Peyton and I.
To Kalel's credit, she has, once again, proven to be Gifted. At evil.
And to our credit, both Kalel and Dad are still alive and unscathed. We didn't even beat them.

I'd very sad to say, no one thought to take any pictures of this, so the following will have to suffice. I now give you, Kalel and Lucien, Busy in the Cabinets (from the day after The Paint Incident):

Lucien cannot make a Happy Face, without looking at least mildly retarded.

Lucien, looking a bit less retarded, and Kalel, looking in the direction of the paint cans.
Me, I'm looking at that Nilla Wafer hidden under the edge of the cabinet, and wondering why it is such a Perpetual Mystery to the children, when ants come into the house to bite them.

Bad Mommy Redux

2007-09-10T08:29:00.000-05:00

An Older Post, brought over from another blog, to get us started-

As mentioned yesterday, today is School Picture Day. And I, am one Wretched Mommy. I cringe, to imagine what those pictures will look like.
You see...*deep breath*...I CANNOT do hair. Not to save my life. Or my daughter's dignity, it would appear.

Maybe it's not even my fault; I think I know how to do hair. And yet, through either Ignorance or just some Genetic Hair Curse, any 'do I lay hands on, immediately turns into a Don't.And that is why Deirdre just got on the school bus looking like a retard.

We got her up at FIVE, man. And as soon as she finished her breakfast, I grabbed the curling iron and started in. On my side, I had a $40 curling iron that claims to use Nano-technology, and John Frieda's best curling spray. What I was facing, was what may be the only head of hair in the world worse than my own.
I managed one perfect curl. The rest went downhill, from there.
By the end, I was desperately curling the same piece of hair, over and over - one of those right-by-the-face-sections that HAS to look right. Not only did it not look "right;" it completely REFUSED to curl, whatsoever, choosing instead to just bow out in at a strange angle, making my child look as if she'd just received a blow to the head.
God.
It was like a nightmare - the school bus was coming any minute, and there was my trusting child, completely unware that through Idiocy, Genetics or Both, her mother had given her Retard Hair. Finally, I just made a desperate little "scree!" sound, and tucked it behind her ears, staring into her eyes, and making her swear to tuck her hair behind her ears for all she was worth, before her picture was taken.

What is WRONG with me? What is wrong with my genes?
I'm now flashing back to yet another Permanently Scarring Adolescent Moment, from about ninth grade. Hell, I think it was actually a Picture Day.
My mother was never any help, in the Pretty Department - she was pretty, but had never updated her own look, and had zero interest in helping me with mine. I had no sisters, and the closest I'd ever come to getting help in that area, was from my brother Kerby's Serious Southern Debutante first wife, who had divorced him, early in my teen years.
But I had a Plan. I got a lot of these Plans - Big Ideas that would surely change my life, transforming me into a girl of grace and beauty, and finally securing me the desperately-wished-for goal of Having A Boy of My Own.
This latest Plan involved my having stared at all the cute older girls I knew, and deciding to revamp my image to look Just Like Them. This was back when EVERY GIRL had that wonderful, glorious, soft curly hair - the long, flowing curls, in that just-barely-brushed-out look, with fluffy, side-swept bangs and perfectly face-framing curves, swooping off the temples.
You local guys? I am talking about Thelma Johnson Hair. Sure, there were lots of girls with hair like that, but Thelma was their Queen, in my book - her hair was exactly, perfectly the same, every single day. I still believe it was actually a wig that she had sent out for styling, every night.

So there was my goal. I had my mom's old nasty curling iron. The kind with decades of burnt hairspray and sacrificed hair forming molten layers of stink, on it's barrel. The kind with no plastic finger protector over the metal, so you opened its jaws at your own risk. The kind too old and cheap to have an off switch, much less temperature control - you just plugged it in, and took your chances. I also had about five different kinds of assorted flammable hairsprays, each bottle having approximately 1/2in. of fluid left in it, and a roller brush that was likely older than me.
I was ready.
I got up that morning, at apx. Ungodly-O'Clock, and got to work. Got my inspirational music jammin' (you know it had to be Color Me Badd, or something like that), laid out my weapons of war, and plugged in the world's most hazardous curling iron.
Over two hours later, I was done. My masterpiece was done. My hair wasn't as long as Thelma Johnson's, but even at shoulder-length, it was MAGNIFICANT. I still remember my pride and excitement, realizing that FINALLY, it was MY DAY! This was it, the day I would finally be PRETTY! SQUEEEE!

And then there was Gym Class. I had gym early in the day, that year - maybe second period - and our class was mixed with some older girls. It was a cold, wet, nasty day, and so we were all just sort of standing around outside, doing mostly nothing (again...crappy public school). Thankfully, I do not have a complete, detailed memory of this day, because the mind tries to destroy those memories that may drive one screaming off a rooftop. So, I don't know who all the older girls were; I only remember this...

Older Girl 1: "OMG, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR HAIR??!!!"
Me: Stares blankly, likely with that stupid nervous smile that says "Please don't hurt me; I'm special."
Older Girl 1: approaches slowly, as if my hair is an injured animal that may bite her. Touches it, in open-mouthed disbelief. Yells "WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU???" eyes wide with horror and the sort of irritation most often experienced by cool, pretty girls, upon being forced to witness Social Reject Behavior.
Older Girl 2: steps in, trying to stop Older Girl 1. "No...I think...I think she did that on purpose; I think she meant for it to look that way."
Older Girl 1: "No way! DID YOU MEAN FOR YOUR HAIR TO LOOK THIS WAY? OMG, DID YOU THINK IT WAS PRETTY??!!!"
Me: *dies a thousand deaths* "Umm...No! What? No...I don't know what you're talking about. My hair's just...it's really humid, so it's all stupid."
Older Girl 1: "SHE HAS HAIRSPRAY IN IT! SHE DID THIS TO HER OWN HAIR!"
Me: "No I didn't." *rolls eyes, in desperate attempt to pretend everyone else is stupid, not me* "I just, uh...I had it pulled up, and sprayed, and then I just let it down..."
Older Girl 1: "WELL YOU NEED TO PUT IT BACK UP!"
Older Girl 2: realizes just how pathetic I really am. "Aw, leave her alone; she doesn't know what her hair looks like." (to me, speaking slowly, as if I may be retarded) "WHY DON'T YOU GO TO THE BATHROOM AND FIX YOUR HAIR; I bet you didn't mean it to look like that."
Older Girl 1: "Oh yes she did."

Have I mentioned all the screaming, cackling laughter? You should insert lots of loud hyena laughter, here.

I rolled my eyes, slumped my shoulders, and did my best impression of a girl far too busy with More Important Things to care about whatever silly, harmless, NOT-ON-PURPOSE thing my hair had done, and casually went off to the bathroom.
Omfg. The lovely, soft curls I had left the house with had immediately betrayed me, the second my back was turned. Now my hair was in sticky, bedraggled chunks, sticking out at random unnatural angles and flipping up on their pointy little ends. I did not only look retarded; I looked like a retarded girl whose hair had been attacked by a pack of wild dogs. Wild, Aqua-Net wielding dogs who hated me.

After ten minutes of desperate brushing, my hair was a pile of static and despair, and I hid in the bathroom until it was almost time for the bell, as I could not think of any remotely realistic way to pretend I did not care that my hair was retarded.

To this day, I SWEAR, learning to blow my hair out straight is, to a large degree, what saved my high school career. My perma-cow-licked, wild hair eats curls for breakfast, preferring to substitute its own psychotic, crunchy naps - the only thing that can defeat it, is a solid hour with a hair dryer and a HUGE brush, which I gladly put in, every morning, during my last couple years of high school.
So, for everyone who Knew Me When, and was ever jealous of my long, smooth hair...now I can reveal the truth. I got up every morning at 5:30am, and blow-dried, sweated and PRAYED over that *natural* looking hair.

In other news, I think Deirdre's bus driver is just screwing with us, now. That, or she needs her horn and brakes replaced. This morning, as I repeated our new mantra of "TUCK YOUR HAIR BEHIND YOUR EARS AND EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT," I heard the faintest sort of whining noise, from outside, and only realized that soft sound was a bus horn, when I looked out the window and saw it. It was still moving, and had not even come to a stop, yet, as we raced for the door.
Throwing open the door, I see that the bus is STILL moving, and its driver did not seem to have any plans on actually stopping - she'd just semi-paused, and was now ready to pick up speed again, as Deirdre and I fell out of the door in a panic.
God.
I swear I saw Angie grinning as she waved, and I'm sure I can guess why. Usually, Peyton takes Deirdre out to the bus, since I rarely have pants on, at 7:20am. But today, he'd already left for work, so the job fell to me.
Me, who was wearing tiny gray gym shorts, a pale blue men's Oxford dress shirt...and pearls and full makeup, because I was too lazy to take either off, when I went to bed.

Picture that.
Yep. I sent my daughter off to the bus, tugging at my too-short underwear-looking shorts (so that the children would SEE the shorts, and not assume Deirdre's mom was standing on the porch with no pants), wearing a man's shirt, pearls, and way too much makeup for the crack of dawn...looking like a Fancy Hooker who didn't have time to find her own clothes.

My kids are gonna need so much therapy.

Introductions & Cast of Characters

2007-09-10T07:46:00.000-05:00

My name is Tiff. I live in a small southern town; the same one I grew up in, and the kind where EVERYONE knows your business.
I'm a southern stereotype: Lots of Unused Potential; Twisted Family Background; a Nasty 1st Marriage When I Was But a Girl; Nasty Divorce in which My Husband Ran Off With an 18-year old; More Kids than I Planned On; the standard Beautiful Old House Which is Perpetually Falling Down Around Us, and I even Married My Childhood Best Friend (that would be Husband #2, also known as The Good One That I Plan on Keeping). We have three kids, never enough money, and a completely unreliable slacker of a car. We also have an Old Man (my husband's father, also known as Dad) who lives with us - a fact that fills us with random combinations of Joy, Annoyance and more half-finished, tinfoil-covered cans of Mystery Food than any refrigerator should ever possess.

I'm a huge geek, perpetual dork, and trying my damndest to only screw my children up in interesting, character-improving sort of ways. Or at least make it funny, when I fail at that.

A few of the Characters you may encounter, in these blogs:

Peyton: My 2nd husband of three years, best friend of twenty-some-odd years, and Eternal Nemesis. He's my biggest fan (likely because he knows what side HIS bread is buttered on), and the Nicest (and weirdest) Boy I Ever Knew.
You know how in "Pretty in Pink," you wanted to scream at Molly Ringwald for not just staying at the prom with Duckie? Well, that was us. Except I was actually popular in high school. And you'd need to add in failed marriages for Andie and Duckie. And babies. But you get the point.
Dad: Afore-mentioned 70-year old man who regularly consumes more groceries than a horde of starved rats, and is a constant source of one-liner gems like "Well, how was I supposed to know the children aren't allowed to have a tea party with your dvd collection?"
Deirdre: 5-year old daughter/Authority on Everything. Deirdre likes drawing, building, tattling and anything reptilian.
Lucien: Not-quite-three year old son/Agent of Destruction. Lucien likes the word "Poopies," Superman, and Whatever His Sisters Are Playing With.
Kalel: 18mth old Evil Genius. Kalel enjoys Bending Humankind to Her Will, sucking her fingers, and the funny noises people make when she causes them pain.
Josh: The Ex-Husband/Source of Most Annoyance in the Universe. Josh is technically the father of Deirdre, although neither party seems to be aware of this, which is probably for the best. Josh usually makes his appearance in such themes as: "WHERE is the child support?" "What is WRONG with him?" and "Ten Bucks says you can't guess what my Ex just did."

This is my life, and people tend to find it hilarious. If it makes you laugh, then hopefully it will earn me good karma so I can win the lottery. If it makes you laugh so hard you need new underwear, or your concerned coworkers/spouse/children rush over to see if you require emergency aid...then you should really be sending me money for this.
Laughter extends the life, you know. Keeps you healthy. That means I JUST SAVED YOUR LIFE; YOU OWE ME.