I forgot where I was going with this….

I like to think outside the box. Give me a box and I’m going to try and figure out how to do something different than everyone else. I’m like that.

Curriculum dictates that tomorrow I am supposed to teach a first grade art lesson on the Mona Lisa. Dude. Have you ever seen a first grader try to draw a portrait? It ain’t pretty. Stick figures abound. In first grade it’s hard to even get them to draw all the components of a face: eyes, nose, mouth, so you can forget about some artful portrait. So me? Being the rebel that I am, I have decided that fine, we will do portraits tomorrow. We will even draw faces. BUT. We are doing snowman portraits. Because I like to draw outside the lines. I mock the Mona. The director of this program is going to hate me…. 

We have a friend who every year around his birthday, turns into a recluse and disappears into the wilderness for days on end. Once we asked him what he was doing out there and he replied “Visiting my limitations.” It’s an expression Steve and I have used ever since. I’m a limitation visitin’ kinda girl. I don’t know any other way. If I go to the gym, I don’t know how to have a light workout. I only know how to visit my limitations. Visiting your limitations is good for you. It builds character. It forces you to stretch. To grow as a human being. I now find that I seek out my limitations in many areas of life.

I’m going to meet Steve in Spain next week and for one week, we will be carefree and childless. We’re taking our first EVER vacation without the kids. Steve has to be there for two weeks, but I’m going during the middle of his trip so I’m flying there and back by myself. The thought alone of doing this is already visiting my limitations. Why you ask? If you go here (the last entry in the series) and scroll down to the bottom of that entry you will find the links to the entire hellish nightmare that was the last and only time I’ve ever been to Europe. Starting with London 1999. With a two year old. I shudder at the thought of going back.

So in preparation for my trip, I thought I’d read Harry Potter in spanish to brush up on my vocabulary. The friend that lent it to me told me I should have the English version on hand when I read it in case I need help. Psssshhhhawww. Me? Help? I don’t need no stinkin’ help. So I took the book with me to read while the boys are in Karate, with no dictionary, no english version. And? Oh. My. God. Hello? Nightmare? It’s me, Helen. Apparently I lack key vocabulary words in the world of wizards and magic. I sat there for an entire chapter not knowing exactly what a lechuza was. I knew it was nocturnal. I knew it flew. But did I know precisely what kind of flying nocturnal animal this was? Oh no I did not. See? Visiting my limitations again. And in case you were wondering, a lechuza is a freakin’ owl. So if anyone over there in Spain wants to chat with me about spells and owls, it is ON.

I find martial arts a way of visiting my limitations too. It doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to Steve and son #1. If the move is intuitive, I can do it. At the beginning level though, they teach you things that aren’t intuitive because they are setting you up for an attack later. But right now they’re teaching me how to escape rather that fight. And I’m constantly going “But? But? I’ve got my back turned/ I’m leavng myself open/ he could totally hit me like this!” And every time the instructor sighs and says “Are you sure you haven’t fought before? Here’s the other, advanced part of it that you’re not supposed to learn yet.” To which I always go “Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhh okay.” If I could stop thinking and just shut up and do what I’m told, it might be easier for me to learn this. Who wants to escape, anyway? I want to FIGHT!

So Dear Internet, I challenge you today to visit your limitations. What did you do today to visit them?

I’ve decided I’m going to have a contest. The winner will get a $25 gift certificate to Amazon. The idea came to me today when Ree was complaining that she pledged to blog for 30 days straight and had consequently gotten writer’s block. I then gave her 23 topics to blog on, cuz I’m helpful like that. The contest is called “No Mo’ Writer’s Block” and all you have to do is write an entry on one of the twenty three topics I gave Ree. The more topics you choose, the more chances you have of winning. Link back to me and write in the comments the topic you chose and where I can find your entry. First time commenters will be moderated so be patient for your comments to appear. Contest closes December 1. Steve and I will pick the top 10 best/funniest entries and let everyone vote on the best one. So without further ado, here are your topics:

Possums
Spleens
Feet
Public Bathrooms
Chocolate
Neighbors
Relatives
Dogs
Beets
Noses
At our house, we….
Wifely duties
That kid did WHAT?!
The weirdest food you ever ate
The one creature you’re most terrified of….
Things that crawl
Pet peeves
The things I found under the couch cushions…
Your most embarassing moment
A boy (or girl) you loved in school
It’s funny when people trip
What you wanted to be when you grew up
THAT outfit you wore (extra points for pictures)

Bonus Topic: I’m never eating that again….

Ok, GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Negotiations in our family are usually a game of poker. We were driving in the car the other day and Steve says “I want drinking chocolate when we get home.” I gave him a look of annoyance. Because “I want drinking chocolate” is synonymous with “I want you to make me hot chocolate.” So I said “Can’t you just throw some cocoa mix and milk in the microwave?” He whines “Noooooooooooooooo. I want it from scratch! The way you make it on the stove!” And he bats his eyes all cute and stuff. “Hurrrrummmpppphhh” I snorted and slouched in my seat. A few minutes later he says “Uh oh, you’re out of gas.” Bewildered, I said “Well stop and put some in!” He narrows his eyes at me “I’ll fill your car up if you make me hot chocolate.” I thought about it for a minute then said “I see your gas and raise you supervising baths and putting the boys in bed.” He thinks for a minute then says “I see your gas, baths, and bed, and raise you homemade cookies.” Oy. “Aww c’mon, cookies?! Do I get to choose what kind of cookies?” He said “Your choice.” I sighed “Fine. I call.”

Last night the kids had a harvest carnival at their school. These events are from hell. It’s hundreds of screaming children running amok, while the parents are just trying to keep track of their kids and not lose their mind. Someone claimed he had to work so I had to take the kids by myself. About an hour into the Harvest from Hell, I sent Steve a text message all in caps that said “YOU OWE ME BIG TIME!” I was in a foul, foul mood when we finally walked in the door last night. From the doorway I yelled “I see your WORKING and RAISE YOU KIDS IN BED AND CLEANING UP THE KITCHEN FROM THE ALL THE CUPCAKES I HAD TO MAKE FOR THE CARNIVAL.” When I walked in the room and Steve saw the look on my face, he sighed and said “Fine. I call.”

I’ve resigned myself to the fact that no matter what I do, I am a weirdo magnet. Doesn’t matter where I go, they find me. I seem to be a pervert magnet too. Doesn’t matter the sex, male or female, they find me too. If you’re weird or a pervert, I have no doubt, you’ll find me. (That was three comma splices in a row, but I’m on a rant here. So bite me. No no, not you, pervert! The grammer guy.)

Anyway, this month is our 14 year anniversary. We decided this year to do something special that we’ve never done before. We decided not to give each other gifts, and instead we went away to a spa for the weekend. Yeah. We did that. Never done it before, but I can tell ya, we’re doing it again. We left the kids OVERNIGHT with a babysitter. Yeah. Did that. Doing that again also.

So my sweet, darling husband made ALL of the arrangements. That’s right, by himself. I did NOTHING. Never done that before either. Doing that again too. Steve has never had a massage before. He was always afraid it would be awkward and weird or that he might pitch a tent on the table. I, however, am a massage junkie. Unfortunately due to the pervert and weirdo factor, massages don’t always go well for me.

I should have known not to let him make the massage appointment. Cuz ya’ll? The weirdo/pervert quotient goes disproportionately higher the less clothes I have on. That’s right, I’ve been molested by DOCTORS. Consequently: only female doctors for the naked, private parts. I also have that rule about massage therapists. Except Steve forgot to tell them that. So guess what? I get there and the massage therapist is a dude. That’s right. A dude. I uttered a few choice words under my breath and went into the locker room to change. Now in the past I have always left my underwear on if it was my first massage with someone (link to explanation why above.) But this time, I thought, “Eff it. This dude even comes close to my privates and I will Hapkido him so fast, he’ll have 15 broken bones before I yell “Help!” We had just learned a brutal technique that will break the wrist, elbow and shoulder in less than five seconds. Oh and it flips him onto the ground, so I would have the option of kicks to the head and ribs. See? 15 broken bones, easy.

So I lay down on the table and he comes in and he puts his hands on me and moans. Not “Oh Crap another massage, my arms are sore” but “Oh yeah, touch me right there, baby.” My eyes went wide and face adopted a WTF expression through the little peephole in the table. And my first thought was “Oh no he di’nt!” Sigh. He did. While he was making sweet love to my back, I must have tensed my right arm in preparation for throwing a ‘bow to his groin. Because he stopped moaning and quickly moved to my right shoulder. Moaning temporarily ceased until he moved down to my right leg and was on the right side of the table. That f*cker must have known I couldn’t kick him while he was holding onto my leg because not only did he start moaning again, but I swear to you, he was dry humping the damn table. Seriously. I wish I was making this up.

So then– wait, you know about my feet issues right? Part of my feet issues is that I HATE things between my toes. Steve sometimes will grab my feet and stick his fingers between my toes just to mess with me while I kick and scream and try to get his fingers out from between my toes. I can not stand to have something between my toes. It’s like the worst feeling EVER. EV-ER. So Humper takes out rocks and starts rubbing fiery hot rocks all over me. (I had specifically requested NOT to be burned by rocks, but I guess no one was listening.) ANYWAY, as I’m receiving third degree burns all over my back and legs with the rocks, he suddenly grabs my foot and PUTS ROCKS BETWEEN MY TOES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I let out a yelp then stifled a scream. Cuz ya’ll? Worst. Thing. EVER. EV-ER. Rocks. Between. My. Toes. I made subtle little kicking motions trying to flick them out but they were stubbornly shoved in there. Like a cat with scotch tape on it’s feet.

There I am. Rocks between my effing toes, Humper, moaning and humping, and I am wondering who is going to die today for this. If Humper hadn’t gotten smart about the moaning and humping, I could have totally thrown a ‘bow to the crotch. But he had gotten wise to the whole thing. It’s like he knew. Oh wait. Yeah, I made sure to mention all that tension in my back was from Martial Arts. Hey, that might have been when he moved out of striking range.

So I turn over and he starts on my neck. And Dude? How about a Tic Tac? No? Well don’t breathe near me cuz your breath is STANK. As I’m gagging on his breath, he walks over and gets a giant metal bowl. Of course I’m thinking, “Um, what do you think you are doing with that?” And he tells me it’s a Tibetan singing bowl. WTF? Like the Sorting Hat from Harry Potter? Honestly! So he puts this on my stomach and gets one of those thingies that you bang gongs with and says he has to bang it from all the different directions. It makes a gong sound, then feels very much like lying in an enormous gong. It feels that unpleasant. And my mind starts to wander. “Dude, I’m gonna throw this effin’ thing at you, so take your rocks, and your moaning and your humping and get this bowl off of me. I’m glad you didn’t try to touch me inappropriately, I’m very thankful for that, you know? But the dry humping the table? That was almost as bad. And totally uncalled for. I didn’t even invite you in for coffee.” And then, as fast as he came into my life, Weirdy McHumperson takes his bowl and leaves me.

Because I. Am. A. Weirdo. Magnet.

Every now and then a post requires it’s own theme music. This would be one of the posts. So before you read further, play the video. If you choose to watch the whole video before reading on, again, I must tell you that you need to hit play again because this post is all the more better with theme music.

In fact, I have to play it just to write.

As some of you may remember, son #1 broke his hip in February. In June, his physical therapist said he needed to do Shudokan Karate to fully rehabilitate his hip. So off we went to the dojo. And here is where son #1 found his passion. There is nothing in his young life that he has ever had a greater passion for. It didn’t happen over time. The first day I knew something was going to be different about this activity. He came home every day and would practice. At any given time, I will find him with fists raised, practicing kicks, strikes, and punches. He moves with a grace I have never seen in him.

Son #2 loves karate too. By September, we were spending 4-5 days a week at the dojo. They couldn’t get enough of it. And here’s where our lives have forever changed. One Saturday morning we were waiting for the kids to finish and Steve says “Let’s do Karate too.” I made a face. “Uh, it’s not really my thing, but you can.” One of the Senseis in the dojo was nearby and told us we should watch the show Human Weapon. We started recording it for the kids to watch. I’ve never been interested in the martial arts, but I began watching the show and I was hooked.

Steve and I have played sports together, like hockey and softball, and the one thing I discovered is that when someone is a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, it’s just damn near impossible to get the upper hand. In hockey I have to resort to tripping and checking or he sends me flying with a flick of his arm. But with this martial arts thing….I learned that skill, not size matters. After watching one particular episode of Human Weapon, I was able to flip Steve. That’s right, I threw my 6′5″ husband like he was a rag doll. And suddenly, I was just devastated that I had not been introduced to martial arts sooner. This was FUN!

Steve started turning up the pressure to join the dojo. I kept insisting that the Shudokan style was not me. I was more interested in Judo or Jujitsu. “I want to throw people!” I kept saying, and still he kept up his quiet persistence. Then a month ago we were waiting for the kids to finish and there were two women practicing in the lobby for their third degree black belts. They were throwing real punches and kicks, their Gis (uniforms) were popping with the contact and I turned to Steve with an ear to ear grin and said “I want to do THAT!” I waited until they were finished and went up to one of them and said “I want to do what you’re doing but I don’t want to learn the Katas.” She grinned and said “Then combat Hapkido is for you and we have a great program here.” It was done. I was hooked and I signed up for Hapkido and Steve signed up for Karate that day.

With the four of us in Martial Arts, we are no longer a normal family. Last Monday, I was getting ready for class and I came out of the bedroom in my Gi (uniform). As soon as Steve saw me, he went into a Karate down block, fist poised. I went into a Hapkido fighting stance, both fists raised. We eyed each other warily. I said “Is this how we’re greeting each other now?” he replied “I guess so.” We feigned a few punches and kicks before I went downstairs to leave. It’s like the movie Mr. and Mrs. Smith. Or Kato from Pink Panther. At any given moment you must be ready for punches, kicks and strikes. And since I’m learning a totally different style, it makes for some interesting tussles. This song you’re hearing, Kung Fu fighting has become our family’s theme song. You can hear “Mom! You totally left yourself open for a kidney punch!” and  ”No strikes to the temple, Son, it can kill someone.” or “HA! That kick totally missed my head!” coming from the kitchen. The kids’ favorite activity now is to go throw each other in the living room. Son #1 and I were sparring in the driveway the other day.

It could get ugly. It almost did two weeks ago over chocolate. I had just come home from Hapkido and flopped into a chair. I have a sacred bar of chocolate. The damn thing costs me $8 a bar at Whole Foods so I eat it in small pieces over the course of a couple of weeks. It’s my favorite. So Steve says “I’m going to eat your last piece of chocolate.” I threatened ”Don’t you dare.” and he said “Oh I’m eating it.” I had learned to triple punch that night: an elbow to the solar plexus, followed closely by a fist to the face and groin. “Don’t make me get up and triple punch you. If I have to get up, I’m triple punching you.” I hear wrapper crinkling and he’s standing there with the chocolate in his hand, grinning. I jump up out the chair and run across the room. I start to throw the elbow and he jumps and drops the chocolate. (He will claim I knocked the chocolate out his hand, but I never touched him. ) We both stare in horror at the chocolate on the floor, look at each other, crack up laughing, then the smile fades and he says with dead seriousness ”Oh it’s on now!”

It could get worse. My sparring partner in class has been taking Hapkido for about 2 months. Her husband has been doing it for about a year. She says to me last week “I tried to get Stuart with a leg sweep last night. I went in for the kick and next thing I knew I was on my ass.” Very serious I asked “Did you surprise him with it? Cuz if he knows it’s coming he’s gonna take you out first.” Puzzled she says “Yeah, I came up behind him. He had no idea it was coming.” We both stood there scratching our heads then decided we needed to practice some more. Surprise leg sweeps needed to be practiced. They’re an all-martial arts family too.

On Friday son #1 went to a board breaking class. Steve went to pick him up and he walked in the door carrying this:

He had a look of pure rapture on his face. That’s right, he broke an inch-thick board with his hands. This kid has found his calling!

Steve and I are still waiting for our sparring gear to arrive. When it does, you can be certain you’ll find all four of us out on the lawn Kung Fu Fighting.

For instannnnnnnnnce. There’s that. The whole not being light on the keeeeeeeeeeyysss. Then there’s the problem of not caring that you’ve been a leeeeetttttlllllleeee heavy on the keyboard. You know? Pedal to the metal! Ricky Bobby! Shake and bake! Oh and then I leaned over to rest and started drooling on the keys. My “three/pound” key is floating now and doesn’t work. I hope to God I don’t have to send someone a phone number. Also, I would REALLY appreciate it if you kept the screen still while I’m trying to write this. This moving it all over the place is starting to annoyyyyy me. Mmmmmkay?

I’m also thinking of laying on the floor. It looks cool and comfy there. Oh and only 3.5 hours until I’m supposed to spar in my combat hapkido class. I am going to get my ass KICKED if my reflexes don’t speed up. But strangely, I’m feeling incredibly confident. I am going to kick ass and take names. Just mop the floor with people ‘n shit. Or maybe I’ll just lay there and rest in a puddle of my own drool awhile….

So I suppose you’re wondering how I ended up in this condition. I had to have an MRI today. And today Steve tried to make me face my fear. He wanted me to recognize that I have an irrational fear of being shoved into a tomb tube where I could become trapped and die. Thousands of people die of MRI related deaths every year. No one wants to talk about it though.

Anyway, my much more rational doctor prescribed me some goooooodddddd drugs so that I wouldn’t care if I was going to die an MRI related death today. Except when I picked them up from the pharmacy, the pharmacist said I couldn’t drive. I contemplated whether he should die an MRI-related death today too. Lucky for him the panic attack distracted me from killing him. Because. I. had. to. drive. myself. By the time I got to the car I was completely soaked in sweat and shaking. I may have also been suffocating, it’s hard to say. Then I started crying. Might as well start now. I’d faced childbirth without an epidural but could I face the MRI of DEATH without medication? Last time 2 ativan and a valium still had me screaming bloody murder. So um, unlikely this was going to go well. I debated whether I could try yoga or meditation. Then I remembered how effective it was in childbirth WITH NO EPIDURAL. It went as well as you’d think. But no one died that day. They were smart enough to stay just out of swinging range and strangely birthing rooms are not equipped with weapons, much to my disappointment. I could not find a single sword or mace in the joint! Not even a damn baseball bat. Damn you Stanford Labor and Delivery!

I managed to gain control of myself on the drive over. I thought I could try birth breathing. But the second I walked into the office I decided to go for it. That’s right, I chewed up half an ativan. Chewed it. All stuck in my teeth and bitter. Because I had waited too long. I made the instant decision that I would freaking stay at the hospital all night before I would be sent into my tomb tube sans any pharmaceutical enhancements. Turned out that was a really good call on my part. Cuz um? Yea. I can’t even talk about it. And I’m still high. High as a freakin’ kite. Ironically the bulk of the highness kicked in AFTER I got home. HELLO?! I coulda used this earlier. But I had waited too long. They threw horse blinders on my eyes so I couldn’t see, threw ear phones over my head so I couldn’t hear, or think. and STRAPPED ME DOWN! OMFG! I think they were worried I’d come out swinging. I was totally working my left hand loose in case I need to throw a punch though. They strapped down my right arm though. I woulda had to use some serious Kung Fu to get loose.

So anyway, I forgot where I was going with this. Not that it doesn’t happen normally, but um, today I don’t even remember going. I think blogging high is not for everyone….. focus is an issue and all. And if this makes not a whit of sense to you, you should partake in some pharmacueticals, because it makes PERFECT sense to me. I uh, just forgot where I was going with this….

I staggered out of bed this morning, 8:08 am, like a drunk on a week long bender, and staggered into the kitchen where Steve and son #1 were having breakfast and said “Son #2 is really sick. I’ve been up all night.” Son #1 says “Uh, Mom? Are you sick too? You don’t look so good.” Um yeahhhh. That’s cuz this was my night:

10:30 pm: Drift off to sleep blissfully unaware of the coming hell….
11:22 pm: Steve is snoring. Strong poke to the ribs gets him to roll over. Fall asleep.
12:03 am: Hear man’s voice over baby monitor. Fly out of bed and am running before my eyes are open. Get to kids’ room only to find sleeping children and no strange man. Silently curse teenage neighbor who is probably on his cell phone outside my window.
12:31 am: Blissfully asleep again, and monitor goes haywire. Shoot out of bed again, dizzy, stumbling toward kids’ rooms. Give neighbor the finger and return to bed.
12: 52 am: Monitor goes off again, I roll over and flip off neighbor again. Except I have to pee. So I stop by kids’ room again. No strange man. Son #2 is very cold so I throw an extra blanket on him.
1:06 am Monitor goes off again, I plot neighbor’s demise.
1:25 am: Wake up with mouth soooooo dry. Need water. Reach over to nightstand for water and knock everything off nightstand. Curse isn’t silent this time. Get up, search for water bottle and can’t find it. Find it rolled under bed. More curse words and back to sleep.
1:58 am: Son #2 appears at side of bed, saying blanket made him too hot and he can’t breathe. Suspicious, I open one eye. He’s not sweaty. Hand to forehead indicates a likely fever. Sent him back to bed to see if he cools off.
1:58-2:02 am: Spent talking myself into getting up, searching for the thermometer, motrin and a flashlight.
2:02-2:14 am: Fumbled around in dark, taking temperature, pouring meds and tending to son #2. Oh and peeing again. WTF did I drink last night?!
2:14-2:55 am: Was not able to perform night nursing without waking up. Now I’m awake. Can’t go back to sleep. Finally drift off…
3:07 am: Steve is snoring again. Punch to the arm and sharp poke in the ribs fixes that. Drift back off to sleep.
3:23 am: Son #2 appears back at bedside. Still burning up with fever and asking if he can get in bed.
3:24-4:34 am: Son #2 tossing and turning and miserable. I can’t sleep either. Eventually we both drift off.
4:51 am: Monitor goes off again, I yank plug out and throw monitor.
5:14 am: Dreaming I’m swallowing my tongue, wake up to mouth so dry, I’m sure that I might have swallowed it. Knocked the water over again. Cursed again. Son #2 still burning up with fever.
5:51 am: Steve snoring again. Have to sit up to reach over son #2 to stab him in the ribs. He rolls over and silence is golden.
6:15 am: Steve’s alarm goes off. You’ve got to be kidding me! I. Have. Not. Slept!!
6:32 am: Steve is banging around with a marching band in the bathroom. Damn him!
6:50 am: My alarm goes off. I consider throwing it through the window. But then it would get cold.
6:58 am: Steve and his marching band come out the bathroom and I say quite truthfully “I have been up all night with son #2, can you get son #1 off to school?” He agrees, I fall back asleep.
7:18 am: Son #1 gets up with his marching band. I fall back asleep.
7:42 am: Son #1 and a herd of elephants are running up and down the stairs. Drawers were slammed, curses were muttered by me. I fall back asleep.
8:08 am: Son #2 gets up, which means….I have to get up.

Sigh. Um yeah. I look that bad.

Ah yes. It’s happened again. Last night I found myself saying something (once again) that I’d never thought I’d have to say as a parent. It started with the turnips.

For dinner last night I made a stew from a wide variety of vegetables and root vegetables: carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, beets, delicata squash, mushrooms and turnips. I remembered not liking turnips when I was a kid but I thought I’d give them a shot, given that I’m all growed up now. The stew was DE-LISH. Except the effin’ turnips. Yep, I still don’t like them. They’re bitter and yucky.

Son #2 was inhaling his food making all kinds of approving noises when suddenly he froze, made a face and said “Ewwww! I just got something yucky and bitter.” “That would be the turnips.” I said, voice dripping with bitter disappointment that I didn’t like them either. Son #1 proudly announced that he had not gotten a bite of turnip. About a minute later I look over at son #2 who is bent over his food praying. “Okkkaaaaayyyy.” I thought. A little late for saying grace, but hey, he’s saying it. He opened his eyes and said “Mom, I accidentally stopped the clock at school today because I prayed for it to stop.” Oh, so sweet, Mama’s little Ghandi. I had nothing constructive to say to that except “Really?” Suddenly son #1 made a hacking, screeching sound and yelled “AGGGH! I got a turnip!!!!” Son #2 clapped his hands in delight, cracked up and said “Again my prayer came true!” Next thing I know BOTH of them have their heads bent over their plates asking God to give their brother a turnip. With God being the obliging fellow that he is, suddenly all our plates were full of turnips and the kids were taking turns alternating between hysterical laughter and praying. “ENOUGH!” I shouted “WE DO NOT PRAY FOR OUR BROTHER TO GET A TURNIP!!!!!” They both looked shocked, and then bent their heads back over their plates. “WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?!” I demanded. And in unison they said “Praying for Daddy to get a turnip when he gets home.”

And if you were curious, the two Ghandis prayers came true when Steve was eating his dinner later and said “EW! Got a turnip. Uck. Bitter.”

Yesterday I was teaching fifth grade art. I try to look hip when I go into the fifth grade. I do cover up the cleavage, but go for the conservative hip look.  It starts to become important to the kids that their mom is not the dork in the high water granny pants. I also put my hair in a ponytail, because I’ve discovered that if I don’t, the kids will paint, glue and/or cut my hair. I need to protect the merchandise.

So I’m teaching the lesson and I said “Turn your projects over and write your names on the back so I can read it. That means write it in a color I can see and write clearly and legibly. My eyes are old.” And three kids yelled out “You’re not old!” (Not one of those three were my son, thankyouverymuch.)

God, I love those kids. Cuz you know, at that age, they don’t say stuff to be nice. They call ‘em as they see ‘em. Which means, I. am. not. old. yet.

Ok so remember I said there are words that I have trouble saying? Last night Steve alternated between utter bewilderment and laughing his ass off because I couldn’t say HORRIBLE. It started while we were laying in bed. We both usually unwind for a few minutes by playing games on our phones.

<click, click click>
Me: Oh that was horrible!!!!!
Steve: Horrible.
Me: Horrible?
Steve: No. Horrible.
<click click click of video game playing>
Me: Ok.
<more clicking of keypads>
Me: Horrible? (still checking)
Steve: NO A! H-O-R-R-I-B-L-E! It’s an OOO sound!!!
<click click click>
Me: Horrible?
Steve: NO!!!!!!! Horrible!
Me: Really? Because I thought I had it that time.
Steve: <Giggle. Sigh.>
<click click click click click>
Me: (hopeful) Horrible?
Steve: BWAA HA HA HA NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Horrible! Why is that so hard for you?!?!
Me: Damn. I thought I had it that time.
<click click click click click click>
Me: Horrbile.
<silence>
Steve: Sigh. Noooo.
<click click click>
Me: Damn. I was feeling really smug that time. I thought I had it.
Steve: Really? You thought you had it.
Me: yes. Sigh. Horrible?
Steve: NO! Were you feeling smug?
Me: um yeah. You Californians talk weird.
<click click click click click>
Me: Horrible? This time I know I’ve got it!
Steve: Uh. No. You don’t. Horrible.
Me: Horrible?
Steve: HORRIBLE.
Me: Horrible?
Steve: YES!!!!!!! Finally!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
<click click click click>
Steve: It’s not going to stick, is it?
Me: Sigh. Probably not.

I had just laid down for a long winter’s nap when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter. And what to my wondering ears should appear? The sound of the phone and eight tiny reindeer. Ok, no reindeer but it needed to rhyme.

Neighbor: There’s a racoon on my lawn! In the yard!
Me: <sleepily> Huh? A raccoon?
Neighbor: YES! (There was a request somewhere in there, but my brain was fuzzy. ooooohhhhhhhh)
Me: So you want me to shoot it?
Neighbor: Well….. the dog!
Me: Is it a big one or a baby? Because if it’s cute, I can’t shoot it.
Neighbor: It’s a baby.
Me: <relieved> Oh then I can’t shoot it. You know, cuteness and all….
Neighbor: IT IS NOTTTTTTTTT CUTE!!!!!!!!!!
Me: Don’t get close to it. Raccoons are mean. Hey, what’s it doing out in broad daylight? (still slow on the uptake)
Neighbor: THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: <helpfully> It’s probably rabid. Put the dog inside. <coming to senses. isn’t shooting a raccoon illegal?>
Neighbor: I did! But it’s OUT THERE!
Me: <yeah. shooting it has got to be illegal. and if it’s rabid? shudder.> Ok call Animal Services.
Neighbor: <skeptical and disappointed I didn’t come charging out the front door armed> Animal services? What will they do?
Me: They’ll trap it. Tell them it’s rabid. They’ll come.

I hung up and drifted back off to sleep. When I woke up, I went “HEY! She called me like I’m the neighborhood assasin.”

Dear Ovaries,

I am writing this letter to you in response to your recent actions. Your continuing escalation of the current circumstances is only serving to create ill will. I find your behavior completely unacceptable and order you to cease and desist all current activities. I’ve had it, bitches.

It has been decided by a panel of doctors that you are prematurely failing me. You need to make up your mind. Either don’t fail or FAIL DAMMIT! This half- assed performance is going to stop OR I WILL HAVE YOU REMOVED!! I can do that, you know! I am so sick of “Oh we’re the ovaries, this month we’re going to cycle. We like PMS. We order you to bleed like you’ve been shot. We generate migraines for recreational activities!” And then your schizo behavior the next month with “We are SO OUT OF HERE! WE COMMAND HOT FLASHES! BLOAT LIKE THE HINDENBURG! BLEED EVERY THREE WEEKS!” I AM OVER YOU, OVARIES!

Also the hot flashes? Uncool, Ovaries. Uncool. Having to strip naked and lie on the cold floor til it passes is cruel, Ovaries. I hate you with the white hot brilliance of a thousand suns. Your tyranny knows no bounds. Your heavy handed tactics and dictatorial style is reminiscent of other hated leaders: Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin. They were snuffed out, Ovaries! Don’t make me come over there and take you out!

I’m thisclose to mounting an offensive campaign, Ovaries! You will be dealt with harshly if you do not change your ways! Just pick one: FAIL OR DON’T FAIL! I will not continue to enable you to drag us both through perimenopausal hell. I don’t care if you already know you’re going to hell. I’m not going with you!

And the acne? Chemical warfare is barred under the Geneva Conventions. You could stand trial for this, Ovaries! Nothing like a good squishing to get your attention, eh Ovaries? Don’t make me come in there!

Oh it’s on, bitches. Game on.

Signed,

The rest of the body