S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y hey!

My 11 year old son misspelled "anvil".

It certainly wasn't one of the words we practiced. We skipped the five letter words and went right to the biggies. He could blaze through words like pasteurize, and orthodontia, and theocracy. Five letter words were below us.

But nerves and not even knowing what an anvil was had him out the first round of the county spelling bee.

The thrill of out-spelling every fifth grader in his school had been replaced with the realities of defeat. Alec let go when we got back to the van. He'd always done so well at anything he'd tried to do and to mess up so early into the bee was heart wrenching.

I held him while he sobbed.

Then, to get him to grin, asked him why none of the words offered for spelling referred to any words that you'd more than likely find written on an elementary school bathroom wall.

You know, nothing shockingly profane, just those words that'll make any 11 year old in his right mind giggle.

Like bum. Spell bum. Over-emphasize B-U-M. Bum.

Or poop. Not pewp. Poop. Pronunciation is important.

Pewp did it. My happy boy, my sweet son, knew that we were in no way disappointed with him. He'd done his best. Next year he'd compete and do better.

My son also knew that you could add all manner of prefixes and suffixes to the word "poop" and all in all be in spelling heaven.

Pooptacular.

Poopariffic.

Poopitude.

Poopilation.

Prepoopilation.

Dyspoopia.

Poopendectomy.

Poopify.

Poopitations!


See...you smiled too...didn't you? You were having a crappy day and yet you were trying to add to my list in your head. I is the poop-meister.

We made up poop words all day and strengthening our family and our entries into the dork hall of fame.

What cemented our entries was putting four dollars in quarters into a sticker vending machine trying to get the sticker displayed on the front of the facebook logo misspelled as "facepoop" before we had to drive home. Didn't get one dammit. Got one that said "Taco Hell". Bleh.

Best coincidence ever though.

Anvil my ass.

Puppy Dog Tails

My middle boy...the least Jan Brady of any of my three boys...is eleven years old today.

He is not my baby anymore. None of them are. None of them are going to need me as much as they did yesterday or the day before.

That's OK.

But please God, let me keep my 11 year old a kid for at least the next year. Don't let this go too fast.

I'm still enjoying it.

Ring...pause...hello? Hello?

If my phone rings once more with another one of them damned computer automated messages, I'm going to start sending slightly terse e-mails to the offenders IN ALL CAPS.

(That's instead of throwing my phone out into the snow or spray painting the word "poophead" on any of their facilities in neon orange.)

My child's school has called no less than three times today with an automated message of some sort or another. I cannot blame schools for using this service. If a note pinned to your child's chest won't make it home a phone call might make it to a listener who is interested. When technology catches up to fantasy, someday a hologram of a school administrator is going to beam right into my living room and tell me that my child owes lunch money.

Sure, call for lunches, but I am NOT interested in joining my local parent/teacher organization or association. Tonight, when I go to bed, I'll be supporting a teacher in the most personal of ways, in ways that may or may not be the definition of my first name on urbandictionary.com. Any other support of any other teacher is rendered cheap past that. The teachers know I love them.

Check out what computer automated invites to your child's parent/teacher conference has compelled one parent to do:



Don't attempt that at home.

I also do not need computerized invites to GOP meetings. So far the Democrats have invited me and my husband with a real unpaid volunteer on the other end of the line. My Republican friends have droned over Memorex. I'm not attending either meetings.

Here is what computer automated invites compell senators to do:



The dentist's computer called me with a reminder that it's yet again time to look at his hairline.



I'm wearing my offensive Mom jeans, see if I don't.

You didn't watch any of my YouTubes did you? You're still laughing over the definition of my name on Urban Dictionary aren't you?

Fine.

May the automated computer calling gods smite you by spray painting "poophead" on your domiciles.

No one supports a teacher as well as I do dammit.

Crunchy little snacks...

I spent parts of my morning doing housework.

Surprise surprise there. A housewife doing housework. Did you watch Dr. Pheel too Mrs. Butterworth, did you?

Well yes, he's on, it's background noise. I'm not really watching. That's beyond the point. The point is that I spent some time washing my walls. It's about time too. Three boys means I have Van Gogh's forming about four feet high down the hall.

Would Van Gogh be offended by my comparison when I admit that my son's medium of choice is snot?

Boogers. My kids wipe their boogers on the walls.

What the hell?

I explicitly remember that these children of mine were not born in barns.

Hold that thought. I've got to turn off Dr. Pheel's train wreck, it's getting whiny, and turn on Dr. Oz's guilt trip. I had raw food for lunch and now I'm gassy, you hear that Dr. Oz? Gassy. You have pointy ears.

Boogers...right. Why in the world am I the one washing dried snot off my walls? I didn't put the snot there. I am not the lazy one that can't move my body three more steps into the hall bathroom to wipe a booger off my finger the proper way. In my thirty five years on the planet I have learned to not place my boogers any place considered eye level.

Here's irony. Dr. Oz is doing a segment on frostbite. A cold person might find that their extremities freeze off and then booger picking and wiping is a difficult procedure.

I'm gonna chop by kids fingers off if I'm forced to chisel nose monuments off the walls again. Yup. Chop chop.

Then, wouldn't you know it, the kids would just wipe their noses directly onto the wall just to spite me.

Noses get frostbitten too don't they?

Chop chop has a limit. Meh. Less mess just to clean the walls I suppose.

Drive Thru Voting, I want fries with that.

Twat.

Ahhhh. I haven't typed that word for so long. Feels good.

As many of my readers and other hangers on recall, I was more than open about my opinion of our previous president being a twat. I had several reasons why I came to that conclusion based on the man himself. None of those reasons included his political affilliation. I didn't think Reagan was a twat. I didn't think George senior was a twat. Mondale was sort of a twat. Maybe he isn't anymore. I'm unsure.

In other words, I don't think Republicans are twats simply because they are Republicans. I don't think Democrats are non-twats simply because they are Democrats. Each party includes their fair share of twats generally acting in a way where there is no question that they've earned the title.

If I'm reading political commentary, and you address one party or the other
in an inflammatory way to shore up what you're blabbering on about, I'm done listening to your point of view. It's not worth reading because we've just lost logic and reasoning. Why to call our enemies in war by derrogatory slurs? Because it makes it easier to dehumanize them to kill them. No room for that in a democratic culture. Individuals are twats based on their unique merits and ideas.

Polarizing...it's whats for dinners.

Now, here we are, the day of the State of the Union address with a new shiny president and I haven't named a new twat to replace the outgone twat and I haven't decided on a new annual address menu. The old menu, in honor of Bush Jr., consisted of any dish made up of a majority of beans. Chili. Burritos. Refried. Delicious and ultimately noisy.

New twat? I'm still pondering. Glenn Beck is up there and it's not because he's a Republican. Plenty of reasons to catapult him to twathood. Mentholatum, yup yup.

New menu? I'm thinking anything covered in cheese. Loads of gooey constipating cheese. Yes we can...grunt...can.

Pizza, enchiladas, nachos, mac and cheese, lasagna. I dunno. We had spaghetti for dinner last night.

Or we could just gnaw on a hunk of government cheese. Delicious.

Votes for new twat are being accepted. List at least one reason. List twenty if you like. Look over those attending the state of the union for inspiration while you suck back cheese.

Parentstrual Cramps

I'm watching women give birth on Discovery Health.

Makes a person's uterus clenchy.

Now the Duggars are on.

Again, makes a person's uterus clenchy.

As they name off all of their progeny I wonder how different all of them are. If you aren't paying attention closely you could assume they are little clones of their parents. Of course that wouldn't be the case. Every single one of them has a unique personality with unique talents and unique moods. One of them J names is going to go Sex Pistols, I know it.

My own kids are so damned different from one another. While they all look like they were issued from my clenchy uterus they don't look similar to each other necessarily. They act differently. They whine differently.

Needless to say this has my sixteen years old next month son in a whirl of confusion and frustration on top of the Hoover Dam of hormones. Me too. Why is it that I can do everything so perfectly and so humbly and yet my kids aren't like ME?

This teenaged son of mine struggles so, with direction, with motivation, with identity, with self worth. He's always struggled. My ten year old son, in deep and stark comparison, does not. Thoughts and talents come easily to him. The four year old has asked for soda or candy for breakfast every morning for half his life and has been told no every morning for half his life.

Naturally my first born thinks I favor the second born or the third. Sigh. It's difficult.

It wasn't exactly my dream for my 16 year old to go Sex Pistol. He's not wearing black eyeliner yet but it's only a matter of time. He wears his disgruntled attitude like a wetsuit though. Tight. Smells like pee.

Next month my boy gets a job. Gainful and meaningful employment. Yet another life lesson to to sink or swim with. It won't be long and it really will be sink or swim when it comes to his own life and his own choices.

I wished I'd clenched my uterus just a little harder and kept him a child for just a little while longer. This inoculation is going to be sore for a while.

Ripping off the Looney Toons bandage is going to sting.

And I'm sterile. Woot!

It's gonna happen in Vegas and stay with me forever.

I don't recall if I mentioned one of the more awkward features of the school district sponsored trip to Vegas my husband and I took last June. Gimme a minute and let me see if I threw this interesting detail in there.

Oooh I didn't. Good. I mentioned Liberace quite a bit. There wasn't any awkwardness at the Liberace Museum. There was only spasming joy.

Awkward came in the form of a large mirror placed directly over the bed in our tower suite at Caesar's.

No, there are no photos. Jeezum crow. We barely withstood the shock of looking at such things ourselves. I honestly don't know why you think you need a peek of our turkey cold cuts.

The idea of a mirror over the bed is much more compelling than the reality of it. Eventually a married couple, parents to three kids, has to swallow their pride, turn off the lamps and close the neon blocking drapes.

That's why the next time we make our way to Vegas we'll skip the room with the visual enhancements.

The next time we go to Vegas we have other sights that take priority.

Priority #1.  Go to that Pawn Stars pawn shop with one goal. Screw buying anything.  Screw the mirror, I want to cuddle with Chumlee.

He's just so...so...squeezable!

Like that grape jelly in a tube.  White bread.  Toasted.  Love.  Turkey cold cuts not necessary.

The idea of cuddling with Chumlee better not be more compelling than the reality of it. A prospective Chumlee cuddle has been keeping me warm.  Priority #2 in Vegas...grab a giant plastic tube of weak margarita to cool me off.  Drink the margarita first to keep things from being too awkward.

Oh Austin "Chumlee" Russell, you gold coin gnawing bowhunk! Why am I so inexplicably drawn? Oh, that's right, I want to see exactly where you have that Tennessee Tuxedo character tattoo.  And I want to dress you like Liberace.  Both could be accomplished at once.  Spasming joy.

Don't want to see the tattoo or the sequins in a ceiling mirror though.