I'm trapped in a closet in my home

Seriously.  I'm trapped in a closet in my home right now.  My husband is on his way home to rescue me.  But, I'm writing to you from inside a closet.

I'm working on a recording project for work and despite having an amazing microphone, the sound still sounds pretty shitty.  After doing some research I had the brilliant idea to try and record in the large closet off of our guest room.  I grabbed my laptop and the microphone, set up on the floor of the closet, closed the door and gave it a shot.  Nope, still shitty.  Oh well, I thought, I will use Bryan's computer tonight.  I reached for the door knob, gave it a twist and nothing.  Turned it the other way and tried again.  Nope, nothing.

So, I'm sitting on the floor of our closet.  We are under a heat advisory today.  Our closet's insulation is worse than throughout the rest of our nearly 100-year-old house.  So, I'm warmer than I'd like to be.  And I haven't eaten lunch.  And, yep, you guessed it., I have to pee.

Hope you all have excellent days.

How Thesaurus Day turned into an apology to my cousin thanks to Meatloaf

Today is Thesaurus Day.  Thanks to our local "play what we want" station I was treated to songs vaguely surrounding this theme as I dropped off child at daycare and husband at work.  Several musically unrelated songs played while several topically unrelated thoughts swirled through my head.  Should I buy a thesaurus or use the ones online?  What will I make for dinner tonight and when will I make dinner since I have to fit in a crowning at the dentist and then pick everyone back up again around 5pm?  Will we be able to make it to the library for story time tonight or should I just let it go?  Then a sound from my childhood stopped my random questioning.  Meatloaf.

Oh, Meatloaf.  I must confess my first thoughts were centered on your career.  Who thought you would be a marketable talent?   Your voice is interesting, but not really...well, good.  You mostly hit the notes you set out to sing.  And you aren't the most attractive man on the planet.  You aren't ugly, but I don't think there are many ladies out there who think, "I wanna get with that!" while reading your liner notes.  Is it because you are everything we don't expect - A large, not-really-attractive man with a mediocre voice, receding hairline and strange clothing choices instead of a teenage heart throb with shiny hair, a clear voice and a personal stylist?  Are you so different from what the world was experiencing when you hit the stage that you were welcomed with open arms for your normalness?  I don't know and I'm not planning on doing any research, but I am curious.

As "Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth" continued, I thought back to late middle school/early high school when I was introduced to Meatloaf.  One summer, I headed to Terre Haute, IN to visit family.  My cousin, Jeremy, and I had been super close when we were little.  We thought if we could just get married, we could play all the time wouldn't have to go home at the end of our visits.  When we realized that wasn't the best idea, we understood that we would have to cram more into our time together.  We laughed and played and toilet papered our grandmother's trees.  We took bike rides, ate ice cream cones at the Charbell and blinked in fascinated horror as our grandmother released a string of curse words one morning during breakfast at all five of her grandchildren.  Oh the memories.

But this visit was a bit different.  We were both on the edge of young adulthood.  We wanted to be buddies like we'd always been but now we weren't quite sure how.  We remembered how much fun we'd had but didn't know how to start it up again.  Luckily for us, Jeremy's church youth group came to our rescue. 

One evening we were informed we would be hanging out with some of the kids in youth group.  Seeing as we were bored and the idea of hanging out with older kids seemed pretty awesome, we agreed.  When the 2-door sedan stopped in front of my Aunt and Uncle's house, we squeezed into the backseat and tried to act cool enough to not be dropped off early.

On some dusty, country road one of the girls up front produced a cassette tape and announced that it was Meatloaf time.  Our ears perked up.  Did she say, "Meatloaf"?  Were we going to listen to songs about dinner-time specials?  Was this diner music?  Was this a children's album that the cool kids would make ironic and funny?  We didn't know it but our worlds were about to be rocked and rolled into a new dimension.

Hairbrushes were found and passed around, tape deck volume was adjusted and the song, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" came pouring out of the speakers.  Confused and slightly awed, Jeremy and I watched the rest of the people in the car dance in their seats to the music and pretend to sing the male and female parts of the song right into their hairbrush mics.  If you've never heard this song, please find it, listen to it and be changed.  Or if you are like my husband, be disgusted and angry that those five minutes are now permanently gone from your life and grumble whenever the song's title is mentioned.

As the tape was played and rewound, played and rewound, we slowly picked up the lyrics and were encouraged to join in.  And join in we did!  We thrashed around in time with the music, we crescendoed and decresendoed, we mimicked the words and imagined facial expressions of the teenagers stuck in the song's theme of high school horniness and the need for love and belonging, and most of all, we collapsed into a laughing pile each time the song was over while the tape was being rewound again.  Jeremy and I had found our friendship!  And then I ruined it.

After the 8th or 9th time we had performed Meatloaf's Opus to teenage hormones and angst, the subject of a local cemetery was raised.  This cemetery was a little different.  This cemetery was pretty old.  This cemetery was haunted.  And would we like to go there?  Um, yes, please!

As we drove through the dark country roads I was filled in on the most unique characteristic of our destination - its staircase.  The cemetery was situated at the top of a hill and the only way to reach the top was by using a steep staircase with 100 steps.  The scary part was that you would count 100 steps going up, but only 99 when you came back down to the road below.  We contemplated this strange phenomenon and just how very creepy it all was when Jeremy and I decided, or it was decided for us, that we would climb the steps.  We were brave, it wasn't that big of a deal, we would count the steps for everyone.

When we arrived, Jeremy and I crawled out of the car, took some deep nervous breaths and began to climb the crumbling concrete stairs.  Jeremy was braver and went ahead of me.  Slowly we climbed the stairs getting more and more scared as we ascended.  About halfway up I had the brilliant idea of abandoning him at the cemetery, not for long, but long enough to scare him.  As Jeremy climbed higher, I quietly backed down the stairs, ran to the waiting car, jumped in and yelled, "Go!  Go!  Go!".

As we drove off I saw Jeremy turn around, come flying back down to the road and begin yelling for us to stop.  And damn it, he looked scared.  Everyone in the car was laughing, even me.  But despite the laughter, I knew I had started the end of our night out and had damaged the emerging friendship that Jeremy and I had rekindled earlier that night.

We didn't leave him on the side of the road for long - maybe 15 more seconds.  He was royally pissed at me.  I don't think he spoke very much to me for the rest of the night and the rest of my visit was a little strained.  But all this happened over 20 years ago (crap, seriously?)  Jeremy and I grew up and are now friends again and when I get to spend time with him I wanna go find some Legos or the game of Cootie and sit down on the carpet and play awhile.  Jeremy is an interesting guy and fun to be around.  But today, when driving home and listening to Meatloaf on Thesaurus Day, I wanted to make a formal apology to my cousin. So, Jeremy, here it is.

I am sorry I left you in a dark cemetery in the middle of the country when we were hanging out that summer.  It was very bitchy of me.  I'm sorry the rest of the week was not as much fun as it could have been because I acted selfishly and was so desperate to appear cool that I put your trust on the line.  I'm glad we put it behind us and are friends again.  And I'm glad I share a strange fascination for Meatloaf with you.

Creating Holiday Memories One Burnt Pork Tenderloin At ATime

I had the best plans for last night.  It was going to be all sweet and tender and full of memory making stuff -  Tree Decorating Night.  I imagined telling Hannah the stories about our ornaments, having a cookie or two, maybe making a cup of cocoa.  Nope.  Last night we created a new tradition - Burn dinner and run around like you have no idea what you're doing.  Yay!

I HATE cooking in oil - like "pour a tablespoon of oil in a skillet then place XXX into the hot oil" kind of cooking in oil.  I almost always burn stuff.  Well, last night I both burned and undercooked the same food item.

I love Aldi for many reasons.  They have a decent selection in the types of food they sell (not choices of brands) and they are happy on my grocery budget.  A few months ago I picked up a box of frozen breaded pork tenderloin.  I had heard wonderful things.  The first time I cooked them, one side was a little darker than I would have liked, but they tasted fine and we had a nice dinner.  Last night I burned one side of our dinner black and then turned them over to cook the other side.  That side was a beautiful golden brown.  When I took our dinner's temperature (I'm a bit scared of cooking pork) it was a good 50 degrees colder than my thermometer's safety guidelines suggested.  I set everything aside to cool and walked away from the kitchen.

After dinner had been ruined, Hannah and I decided to put the ornaments on the tree.  It was fulled with wonderful, loving phrases like, "AAAH!!!  That one is made of glass!  Put it down, put it down!"  and "I know you love Cookie Monster, but that's mommy's ornament from when she was your age.  Oh, please don't cry", and my favorites "Angus, get away from that!", and "Dammit!  Algernon, get out from under the tree!"  By the time we'd finished it was 7pm and I hadn't fed my kid dinner.  Because I'm awesome.

The rest of the night was a whirlwind of eggs, yogurt, Clifford, and bath time.  Still, I managed to get Hannah in bed almost on time and somehow convinced her to stay in her bed all night.  Our conversation went a little something like this:

Me:  "If you stay in your bed tonight you will get flat eggs for breakfast tomorrow morning and you will get to eat your Advent calendar chocolate."

Hannah:  "But I like to sleep in your bed.  It's one of my rules."

Me: "No, the rule is to sleep in your own bed."

Hannah:  "Okay.  But I don't want eggs anyway."

Me:  "You won't get chocolate.  There will be. no. candy."

Hannah:  "Oh.  Well, okay.  G'night Mommy."

I bribed her with chocolate at breakfast.  And I'm not ashamed.

The best part of the night was when I started walking downstairs and smelled the wonderful Chinese feast Bryan had brought home from Kin Lin.  We both agreed I should ruin dinner more often.  Perhaps we've started a new family tradition, just not the one we were expecting. 

The best moments are not always caught on film

Every once in a while there is a moment when I wish our camera was permanently attached to my body so I wouldn't miss out on some of the wonderful moments that happen around here.

Bedtime has become a bit of a struggle as Miss Sassy Pants wrestles with us for more control of how things are done round these here parts.  Will we get into jammies and then brush teeth or will we watch Clifford and read one book or will we read 4 books and sing 3 songs or will we go camping in her room?  But every once in a while there is a night when it all comes together.  She brushes her teeth and there is giggling.  She puts on her jammies and doesn't stall for 10 years because she has to do the buttons All By Herself.  She's had enough stories and doesn't try to con us into more.  Last night was a good night.

About 45 minutes after Bryan went upstairs to put her to bed, I tiptoed up there to wake him up.  I guess he thought he should lead by example?  When I opened the door, both daddy and daughter were asleep, side-by-side on the floor.  Holding hands.

It is so amazing to watch Bryan be Hannah's dad.  Does it sometimes drive me nuts that he's not doing something with quite as much care or precision as I might?  Yes.  Yes it does.  In no small way does it sometimes drive me up the freaking wall.  But then I see them holding hands, or conspiring about something together on the couch, or see his patience with her unending questions and stall techniques and those things that I do my way and he does his way don't bother me quite so much.

This picture was captured right before Hannah's blessing at our church in the Spring of 2008.  We didn't even know it existed until someone told me they loved the picture of Bryan and Hannah that was on the church's website.  I am forever grateful and happy to have this moment captured.

Catching up feels like admitting nothing really happens

I have not written a blog entry in a long time.  Since my last post a lot of things happened.

Naps.  There were several naps within the past few months.  Not mine.  I hate napping  But I do love it when the child takes a nap:

Perfecting pizza recipes  - well, not perfecting but improving upon.  I want to believe my best pizza ever made hasn't happened yet:

Attendance to Hot Air Balloon Festivals on hot-ass days when storms kept the balloons from flying.  But don't worry, really bad face painting was available:

Slamming of fingers in car doors right before photo sessions:

Witnessing the Kansas City Wizards (now Sporting Kansas City - Gah!  Horrible new name!) play and win against Manchester United:

The point is:  We did a lot of fun stuff.  We participated in multiple activities.  We had several difficulties.  We dealt with things and had basements waterproofed and recovered from tonsillectomies, etc.  So much time has passed since my last post that nothing feels important enough to highlight.

It's like that when I catch up with friends on the phone or via facebook or email or whatever.  I am so excited to chat and then I struggle to remember what has happened.  Or events are retold with such lack of detail or enthusiasm that I feel like an idiot who doesn't think things that happened in my own life are interesting enough to remember then why they hell do I think they are interesting enough to tell someone else and THEN I sound like I have the most boringest life ever.  Or my stories sound like the previous sentence - completely unstructured

So, I've been un-bloggerly for a long time.  I hope to change that.  Mainly because I need a lot of material to embarrass my kid with when she's older.  And how will I do this if I don't have a history of postings regaling us all with tales of potty training, pooping, fingernails that fall off, attitude and pre-school pissiness, and other wonderful and woeful topics?  I hope there are people out there who read this blog.  The bloggers (that would be the They they all refer to) say to blog for yourself.  Write for yourself.  Well, that's just boring and not what I really want.  I would like to provide a chuckle or smile to those who want or need one.  I would like to receive feedback and comments from people (friends & kind strangers both) who stumble over here.

So, I'm going to try to blog more often for myself like they tell me to because if I do I have a better chance of achieving those smile-giving goals.  And maybe I'll become rich and famous, too.  'Cause that's really what I'm hoping for.

Our poor waitress...

After posting about my calendar misunderstanding, Bryan reminded me of something I'd done in undergrad, years before I'd met him. This story was shared with him a couple of days before our wedding. And he still went through with it. That's commitment. Now he is committed.

In Kalamazoo during the time I was in undergrad, there were few eating establishments that were open late enough to work with both our theatre schedules and our underage status. You had your choice of Sweetwater Donuts, Steak and Shake (oh my word do I love me a Frisco Melt Platter with fries and beans), a truck stop, and Big Boy. Big Boy was only minutes from campus and served actual food. This is the place we normally headed to for late night dinners. If you've never experienced a Big Boy, think Denny's with a much smaller menu , fewer high school students and more senior citizens. Their Big Boy Burger is a burger with thousand island dressing. This is their menu's highlighted item. Oh, and the double-decker grilled cheese. Not the best place in town for foodies, but a nice place to catch up after rehearsal.

One night when several friends and I had gathered to rehash our day, my roommate decided he wanted a milkshake. OOOOOO! Like a herd of sheep who knew how to read and had opposable (ha! spell checker thinks this should be imposable) thumbs, we all whipped our menus back open to actively contemplate our milkshake options. Yes, the choice between chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla was the most important decision at that moment.

Our waitress, most likely a college student herself, stopped by to take our order. We all told her our what'll you haves and then my roommate, such a trend setter, changed his mind. He didn't think he'd have a shake. He thought he'd enjoy a malt. Please.

Up until this point in my life, I'd never encountered anyone who had ordered a malt in my presence. I did not understand what this delicacy was. How was this different than the lowly milkshake? And so, I asked.

J replied, "It's like a shake, but it tastes like a Whopper."

I stared at him, squinting my eyes and hoping this would make his answer clear to me.

Then I replied, "Why the hell would anyone want a milkshake that tastes like a hamburger from Burger King?"

Professionalism

I worked at a bookstore for a few years on a part-time basis. For the most part, it was a great place to work. I worked with some great people, had fun while I worked, and got to interact with some very nice customers. One of the skills we were encouraged to develop was non-reaction. Our job was to help the customers, not judge them.

In early January 2008, a male customer, probably in his late 40's/early 50's approached my register with a specific calendar question. "Miss," (he called me Miss which was kinda nice because the Ma'ams had started coming more frequently since the birth of my daughter), "do you have any penis calendars?" Without blinking an eye or a change in facial expression I replied, "Well sir, I'm not quite sure if I've seen any of those on the shelves, but let's head over to the calendars and see what we can find." I was pretty sure we didn't carry penis calendars but was thinking we might find something in the "One-A-Day" calendars that might work. Maybe a cartoon or something.

We searched throughout the section without any luck. As most of the calendar stock was sold prior to the holidays, the available styles had dwindled down to the more unpopular subjects - golf jokes, country cottages, the highly confusing "Busy Mom's Home Organizer", pigs in tutus, etc. I apologized to the customer and told him if he'd like to order one to please let me know and I'd be happy to help. He thanked me for my assistance and went to another part of the store to shop and I went back to my register.

About a half hour later, the man approached my register and asked if we could try to order the calendar. I pulled up the appropriate screen on my computer and asked, "Now, you were looking for a penis calendar, right?" There was no response. I looked up to a very red-faced man who began to stutter, "No, no, no, no. No. I said Peanuts calendar. Like, Snoopy." And without blinking an eye or a change in facial expression I replied, "Well, that's a very different calendar. Peanuts, let's see what we have. I think we may have a few of those left on the shelves."

I do what they do!

Superbowl Sunday, 2010. Buffalo Chicken dip is baking away for the party we will be attending, good friends have stopped by to say hello, and Hannah is upstairs in her room for "quiet time" which so far, has been less than quiet. The pitter patter of little feet coming down the stairs are heard. Hannah is calling for V & S. As she rounds the corner on the landing, we see she is completely, 100% nekkid. After hugs hello, I take her upstairs to get re-dressed.

We enter her room, clean before quiet time, but now a jumble of blankets, babies, books, and puzzle pieces. Hannah's pajamas and pull-up are nowhere to be found. I ask my child, "Hannah, where are your clothes? Will you please get them for mommy?" Hannah scampers out of her room and into the hallway, seemingly on her way to the bathroom. However, she does not hang a left into our smallish, unheated bathroom. Instead, she drops down onto her (nekkid) belly and crawls under the baby gate we keep about a foot off the floor in the door jam of our guest room. This room, when not inhabited by guests, is the cats' room. Their litter boxes and food are kept in this Angus-proofed space. The baby gate is up off the floor to accommodate our older, slightly less than limber cat, Buddy, who prefers to go under things instead of jumping over them.

Hannah walks over to the litter boxes, bends down and is slightly hidden by the bed. She comes back to the doorway with her pj's and pull-up, drops to the floor and crawls back to the hallway. I sternly ask, "Hannah, why were your clothes by the litter boxes? Were you playing in them again? I've told you that they are not toys, they are yucky. They are the cats' bathroom." Hannah shrugs and tells me, "I don't know."

Fast forward two hours when we are celebrating the Superbowl with food, drink, and more conversation than the die-hard football fans appreciate. Hannah runs to me and announces, "I have to potty!"

Being the good mom I am, I immediately set down my plate of goodness and carbs, take a quick drink of my Bells Coffee Stout, grab her hand and we race off to the bathroom. Hannah does her business and as I'm praising her for peeing in the pot, I am also helping her wipe. While I'm ensuring her tush dryness, I notice some strange looking dirt in her butt crack. I look a bit closer. Yes, it's kinda gross, but it's my job. My job, along with feeding, clothing, loving, supplying fruit snacks, and reading bedtime stories to her also includes hygiene of the nether regions. Until she can care for her own business, it's just part of my job description.

Anyways, I'm looking closer at the dirt in her crack and notice, it looks a lot like cat litter. And it all comes together. I begin to laugh. And laugh. And laugh. I can barely speak, but do manage to ask, "Hannah? Did you go potty in the cats' litter boxes?" And my sweet child replies, "Yes! Yes, Mommy! I did! I did! I do what they do!"

Adventures in Potty Training

There are many things I didn't think about very much while my oven was baking up a Hannah-shaped bun. Potty training was one of these things. In my mind, I sort of glossed over this section of training and went straight from diapers to pull-ups to panties. And voila! The child would be doing her business with little help from good ole' mom and dad.

Hahahahaha! I was dumb. I am dumb no longer. I did not realize the amount of emotional involvement potty training would entail. We go through the throws of anticipation, fear, terror, embarrassment, frustration, joy, and hope on a daily basis. I didn't take Hannah's opinions into account when planning our potty training action plan and crafting our "dry pants are happy pants" mission statement. I also misjudged my daughter's ability to manipulate her parents.

Do you know the fear that causes you to leap from your bed in the middle of the night? That heart leaping into your throat feeling? We experience this nightly. About 5am, we hear our cherub's lovely little girl voice float through the baby monitor and into our ears where it teases our sleep-induced brains with these words, "Mommy, I pee peed." "Daddy, I pooped." "Mommy, I peed." "Daddy, I poop." By the time our ears and brains are communicating and we've both stopped playing the, "If I pretend to be asleep maybe he/she will get up and take care of this one" game, both of us are in a slight panic. You see, we've heard the stories of relatives and children of friends who woke in the middle of the night and turned into miniature Picassos using their bedroom walls as canvas and their dirty diapers as paint. And no matter who winds up running to Hannah's room, the results are the same. She's fine. Her pull-up is intact. Her jammies are dry. She has been calling Wolf, or rather she has been calling Pee Pee. Hannah's ultimate goal in the mornings is to go downstairs and watch cartoons. She realizes we are easier to manipulate when we are tired. Our child is ruthless in her efforts and we fall right into her trap every time.

Another part of potty training I gave no consideration to was the matter of my husband, a man, participating in the process. I never thought he wouldn't participate but would in fact play a large part in her success. But I didn't think about the differences between men and women peeing in the toilet. Maybe it's because I've heard the manly rule of, "If you shake it more than three times, you're playing with yourself," enough times when my male friends and husband have educated me on Men's Room Etiquette that I just assumed Bryan was privy to the details of female urination and I wouldn't have to over-think this as I am prone to do on nearly every other subject. Wrong.

The other night, Hannah sat herself down on the potty seat, did her business and called, "Daddy, I pee peed! Daddy, I pee peed!" Bryan did what he normally does and headed back to the bathroom to help her empty the tray that catches what she lets go and to help her get dressed again. Sometimes the pants don't quite make it up over her butt when she pulls them back up. Funny, but it is winter and we have an old, drafty house.

I was in the kitchen finishing up dinner and heard their exchange. Bryan, "Okay, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "No Daddy, I need paper." Bryan, "Come on, pull your pants back up." Hannah, "Daddy, no!" And it dawned on me. When Bryan aided in her peeing process, there was no wiping involved. What!? What!? What!?

And then I stuck my head into the potty chair room and said, "Um, honey? You know she has to be wiped every single time she goes to the bathroom, no matter if it's pee or poop? That's what girls do. Have you been wiping her?" I never got an answer, but if diaper rash is seen less frequently around these parts, I won't be too surprised.

The most recent potty training episode involves a pull-up, Hannah's dirty clothes hamper, my clothes washer, and most likely, an exhausted parent (probably Bryan, but there is no proof at this time).

As we get closer and closer to the time when we'll say good bye to pull-ups forever (at least during the day), we tend to get a tad sloppy with anything other than underwears. This was the root cause of the mess I just tended to. Just to interject, I wanted to call her underwear 'panties'. I thought it was cute, girlie, and perfect for Hannah. Hannah decided she wanted to call them 'underwears'. The 'S' is NOT silent. And if you skip the 'S', she will let you know. Loudly.

Anyways, being unemployed stinks. But there are benefits, too. One of them is I can get all of our laundry done during the day so I'm not tied to the washing machine on Saturday or Sunday when I'd rather be hanging out with the family and friends. And, as we have a child who is potty training, I am never without dirty laundry. Oh, and here's a laundry tip for you: If washing urine soaked clothing, slippers, sheets, rugs, couch covers, etc. in cold water in an effort to A) save energy or B) save the clothing, splurge and buy Tide Coldwater detergent. In a 2 product test that was performed in my basement by the Pee Pee Washers Association, Tide Coldwater eliminated that pesky urine smell much better than Arm & Hammer Fresh Waterfall by the Beach on a Beautiful Summer's Day Scent was able to.

Anyways, take II. Today, on the coldest day I have experienced outside of Kalamazoo, MI, I decided to tackle the dirty clothes in order to keep our long underwear, sweats, footie jammies, and other warm items in rotation. Armed with my latest full basket of dirty clothes, I braved our very cold basement. Now, I knew I had washed a load the other day and had yet to transfer the items to the dryer. I jauntily swung the lid open and stuck my hand into the washer full of cold, wet, clean clothes to transfer them for their tumble dry. Without looking I tossed handfulls of clothes into the dryer. And then I felt something. Something strange. Something wet, squishy, cold, and silicone-y.

A pull-up had been washed. A pull-up that uses a moisture absorbing gel to trap and keep moisture away from baby's delicate skin. A pull-up that had absorbed as much water as was possible before exploding onto a load of washing laundry. A load of mostly dark and black clothes. Our vigilance in making sure dirty pull-ups make it into the diaper pail and not into the dirty clothes hamper had failed. And I am now dealing with the consequences of our laissez-faire approach to diaper disposal.

The clean up is on-ongoing and extensive. It involved vigorous shaking of each item that was in the washer, two separate sweeping-up episodes, a hot wash of an empty machine to clear the remaining gel stuff, and will, hopefully, conclude with a third washing of the clothing.

I tell you all of this not just to make you laugh at my foibles and follies in the land of potty training, but to give you pause to think. What items in life have you glossed over only to be kicked in the tushie when faced with reality? What advice can you provide for those forgotten or ignored life tests that others may soon encounter?

Please, leave comments. It's too cold to leave the house, most of my rooms are cleaned and organized and I need human interaction. Help keep me sane. No work and no play makes Stacy a crazy lady.

Dear Mr. Springsteen

Dear Mr. Springsteen,

Tonight I watched you being honored at the Kennedy Center. I listened to Jon Stewart recount his experience to your music. I laughed at his love child theory. I watched you watch John Mellencamp perform your music. Then I heard “I’m On Fire”. And I thought about my story.

When I was 7 years old, I received a boom box for my birthday. My parents didn’t have a lot of money, and when they bought the stereo they didn’t have money for any new albums. Luckily, my friends’ parents were wise to my parents’ gift and purchased a couple tapes for me. I was so excited to receive Billy Joel’s Innocent Man and Michael Jackson’s Thriller. But my dad, trying his hardest to keep me up to date with the music the kids were listening to, borrowed Born in the USA from one of his friend’s sons.

He dubbed a copy on a high quality, blank cassette, popped out the tabs, photocopied the liner notes, and cut them down so they would fit into the cassette case. He was so proud of that. My dad couldn’t afford to get me a new cassette, but made the best copy he could possibly make.

Mr. Springsteen, I’m sure this was a fine album. In fact, I know it was and is a fine album. I listened to the entire album, sides 1 and 2 during my slumber party. And then I listened to it again, alone, and got to “I’m on Fire” and never listened to it again.

You scared the crap out of me. The movie that played in my head as I listened to this song showed a man, literally on fire, showing up to a house of a little girl, perhaps a girl the age of 7, and asking her, “Hey little girl is your daddy home? Did he go and leave you all alone? I got a bad desire. Oooooo, I’m on fire.” I didn’t understand the desire line, but I did think that some girl who was clearly not old enough to be left home alone encountered a man who had been set ablaze. Imagine opening your front door, which you shouldn't be doing in the first place as you were prematurely left home alone, and there's a man on fire! I mean, holy crap!

I never got rid of this cassette. Even as a little girl I recognized my father’s efforts to enhance my birthday gift. So, Mr. Springsteen, even though you provided night after night of nightmare fodder, I have to smile when I think of your work. Thank you for creating an album that would encourage a father to recreate something he was unable to purchase for his daughter, and then for unknowingly frightening her tender, little mind. I salute you.

A Girl and her Potty...

We have been working on potty training. We have both the potty and the potty seat insert that fits on a "big girl potty". We have stickers and mini M&Ms as bribes. We have special books and toys that are only for potty time. We have Elmo and Tinkerbelle panties. We have Princess pull-ups. We have books to encourage and teach, videos for instruction, and have asked, "Do you have to potty?" about 20 times in an hour only to be told, "No," until she says, "Yes," and then it's off to the races. We are ready. Hannah is interested and has peed in the potty numerous times. (And, I have promised her a pony, her choice of Shetland or Miniature, if she poops on the potty). But, there isn't consistency in our lives when it comes to the potty. But I think I've figured out the problem. This is what I found one evening when I stepped out of the kitchen while preparing dinner.

Now I know our strategy has been wrong. We should have been reading to the potty all along. Perhaps a chapter of Winnie the Pooh at bedtime? Or an emotive rendition of Once Upon a Potty at naptime? And there's always a soulful oration of Everybody Poops first thing in the morning. Because you know the old saying, "A Girl and her potty should be well read."? What, you've never heard that one?

Gullible you say? Nay. I am merely trustworthy.

My desire to believe the best in people comes and goes. Sometimes I am so into peace, love, and understanding I want to puke. And sometimes, I think everyone is just out to get me and the world is full of no-gooodnicks. But when I choose to believe that people are essentially good and deserve the benefit of the doubt, humor ensues. I offer you two cases in point. Please, laugh along with me, or at me, or next to me. Please don't laugh behind me, though. That's hurtful and let's face it, pretty tacky.

During the month of August, something happened that hasn't happened since I was in college. I saw two concerts in the same number of weeks. I was fortunate enough to see both The English Beat and Green Day. Both shows were awesome and I'm still feeling the high. Granted, The English Beat ended early due to a highly pyrotechnic storm that breezed in just as the band took the stage, but the few songs they did were amazing.

During the 2nd song, the sweet smell of wacky tobackey came wafting through the crowd. My friends and I looked at each other and laughed. There were some people in the audience who were really enjoying themselves. In between songs, the lead singer said something along the lines of, "I don't want to alarm anyone, but it appears that a small skunk has been wandering through the audience."

I am terrified of skunks. I loathe skunks. Some little kids had monsters in their closets, I had skunks in mine. If I see one, I freak out. Plain and simple freak out. So, after the small skunk announcement had been made, I almost climbed my husband's leg to get away from the small, woodland creature that had joined our happy crowd. And then it dawned on me, mostly because Bryan told me, that skunk meant weed. Haha. I'm a silly, silly person.

Fast forward a week or so to our evening with Green Day. Amazing, wonderful, life-affirming show. And we had floor tickets. We were in the crowd. You could feel the excitement like static electricity during a thunderstorm.

Before the show, I noticed a girl in the crowd. She was standing just to the left of Bryan and me. She also seemed to be dancing to the beat of her own, special drummer. Her outfit was inventive. She had a hot pink, leopard-print, tunic-style top on over red and black, zebra-print leggings. It went lovely with her bright, carrot-colored, long, slightly feathered hair.

Franz Ferdinand took the stage and were great. I admittedly don't know much about this group, but they were a great appetizer to the main course. I again noticed our brightly dressed co-audience member grooving to a beat that was most decidedly not in time with the drummer, guitar, keyboardist, or lead singer who were performing. It was at this moment that something in my head came to the conclusion that this girl must be a little special. (Please note it was not the clothing or the dancing that drove me to this conclusion. It was the total package this girl presented.)

I started looking around for the friends or family members who must have accompanied her to the show. She looked alone. I began to get a little upset. Who would bring a special needs person to a live show and abandon her in the middle of a hyped-up crowd? But then, then my friends, I started to feel triumphant for this girl. She must have come to the show on her own. I was proud of her decision to not let her disabilities keep her from the show she wanted to see. I imagined her catching the bus, or taking a taxi all on her own and was so happy for this girl. I began to feel a sense of righteousness, justice, and equality. I felt a quiet thrill for those who had been kept on the sidelines because of their disabilities or handicaps. I was soaring for this girl!

And then I discovered she was high.

Sweet Hour of Prayer

Just over one year ago, my father had his first stroke. It was the morning before Bryan's and my 7th Wedding Anniversary. We had spent the night before playing mini-golf and eating hot wings (well, I ate hot wings, Bryan had chicken with "Hello Kitty" sauce because Bryan is a wuss). When the phone rang in the middle of the night several hours after we'd returned home and had gone to bed, I knew it wouldn't be good. Because the phone doesn't ring that early in the morning with good news. It just doesn't.

We made the drive to Michigan one day later, on our anniversary. When we got to the hospital the Tuesday after his stroke, I took one look at my dad and wanted to run away. He looked horrible. Here was my dad. The man who encouraged me, who made me laugh, who made me so angry I could spit, who grounded me, who neglected to tell me I no longer had a curfew, who performed our wedding ceremony and made everyone with a pulse cry or at least mist up, and who was one of my staunchest supporters. He looked horrible, and weak, and miserable. He was scared. For him, yes, but mainly for my mother. Her health is not so great, to say it mildly. What would happen to Susan? How would he continue to take care of her? I didn't know that there were worries that had existed in him for years, job and family related, that most likely caused the stroke that would eventually take him from us, from being Hannah's Grampa (this was my dad's preferred spelling of his grandfatherly title), from being my dad. He never told me. I never knew the struggles he was going through. I never knew how absolutely frustrated he was with the way things were. I had an inkling things weren't great, I'm not completely self-centered (in the words of a blogger I adore, Shut Up!). But, in the way that parents do, he shielded me from the worst of it. He also knew I have a temper and it will flare and burn and I will set things on fire with my words. Perhaps he held back for that reason, too.

Over the next two months, he had multiple surgeries, laid on his back in a hospital bed and thought and worried, wore a funny helmet because they'd removed a large section of his skull (I'm still a little irked I never got to decorate it with cool stickers), missed and begged for sips of Diet Coke, and in his way comforted people. I've heard several stories about him from during this time, and all of them have an aspect of him putting others at ease, not that others went to him for help, but my dad's very nature was soothing (except when I was a bratty teenager), comforting, and companionable. Oh, and he managed to get after me one last time while he was at it.

He spent the last three weeks of his life in a nursing home. While there, he developed bed sores. Bed sores that come from an understaffed nursing home. Bed sores that come from too much work, too many patients, and a patient's paralysis. I am in no way saying that the staff at the nursing home weren't caring. They were, but the bed sores still happened. A breakdown of the flesh that occurs from too much time spent in one position where the bone forces its way through to the other side or when a patient is not moved 100% perfectly. And they are painful. And they get infected. And my dad had them.

During our last visit with my dad, we all trooped into his room to look at our feet for a while and to feel uncomfortable and sad and to not discuss the things that needed discussing. Bryan was wheeling my mom in the home's borrowed wheelchair, I had Hannah, and a couple bags worth of stuff. When we got into his room, I wanted to put everything down so I could get over and kiss my dad hello. My mom wanted to be wheeled closer. I asked her to wait a moment so I could get everything down and out of the way. My dad told me, "Don't make your mother wait." As much as I wanted to roar, "She can wait for a minute and it won't kill her! I have stuff and things I need and want to do, too!" I refrained, and dutifully got my mom closer.

I slowly burnt for a long time. I had been taking care of my mother as best I could all week. I had been dealing with her health issues and her depression issues and her fears and her frustrations all week. I had gone to the lawyer's offices. I had gone to the doctor's offices. I had driven her here and there. I had done the shopping. I had been a wife to Bryan and a mother to Hannah and a co-worker and an employee (who was literally hours from being laid off) all week. I had worked all week. I was DONE. I was done being nice. I was done being patient. I was done being a good daughter. But, then I wasn't. And these days, whenever I feel myself getting overwhelmed with what needs to be done, I hear my father's slurred and weakened voice tell me, "Don't make your mother wait." and I find my patience seeping back and my attitude shifting back into place and I do what needs to be done.

My dad died on November 1, 2008. He was 59 years old.

That Saturday morning started out pretty well. My friend was coming over for breakfast, Halloween had been successful and Hannah had a pretty good pile of candy that we would be stealing from, the weather was chilly, but still pretty nice considering it was November, and we were going to have a relaxing day. And then the phone rang at 7:30 am. And I knew it wouldn't be good. Because the phone doesn't ring that early in the morning with good news. It just doesn't.

I can laugh about this now, and in fact I could laugh about this while it was happening. The nurse who called had a speech impediment when she encountered stressful situations (I don't laugh at people with speech impediments, that's just rude and mean. Just getting that out there lest you think I'm a rude, insensitive beeyatch who laughs at the difficulties of others). And she stuttered on the letter "P". And she told me that my father, "had been discovered with no pulse and no blood pressure". And then a bit later she called back to tell me that my father had, "passed away". I remember thinking, "This is going to be really funny someday." And you know what, it is. A bit bittersweet, but it does make me chuckle.

The next two weeks (and more) were hell. Not hell on wheels, which might have been kinda neato, but stuck in crap and mud hell. And there were so many lovely, thoughtful, loving people who were there and that are still there. And I still owe most of them a thank you note. Some of those notes have been written and not sent. Some have not been written at all but exist in my head. The thanks is in my heart and it will always be there, but getting this thanks down on paper is the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Thank you for sending lovely flowers to my father's funeral. Thank you for arranging for food right after my father's death. Thank you for watching my little girl while we eulogized her Grampa. Thank you for helping me clear out 37 + years of junk and memories from the first house my parents had ever bought. Thank you for cleaning this house before we arrived so my baby wouldn't accidentally find and eat a lost pill that slid into a corner of the kitchen after my mom tried to kill herself. Thank you for the beers, the food, the time out when I wanted to crawl under a rock and cry but had to keep on keeping on. Thank you for helping me because all I wanted to do was walk away from all of it, including my mother. Thank you for supporting me, loving my family, and just....just Thank you.

The title of this post has very little to do with what I've written. I started this thinking I would go one way, but I've ended here and not there. And, that's okay. I've been working through a lot over the past year and I'm not through. I have many things to start thinking about and many things to wrap up. I have rage in me that I still can't let go of, but manage to only dwell on when alone or with that friend who ate the chocolate chip pancakes I made the morning I found out my dad had died. And of course there's Bryan. Amazing, wonderful, non-hot wing-eating Bryan. But you see, he loved my dad, too. Not in the same way I did, because Bryan's dad is still very much alive and an important part of our lives. And is even more important to me now than he used to be. And I haven't told him that and I don't know if I will ever speak those words to him, but when I see him, I want to cry and have my daddy-by-marriage hug me. And that's probably not fair to him, but it is what it is.

But Bryan, he hurts, too. And he's a bit angry by what happened, too. And he knows the truth, well our side of the truth, about what my dad was dealing with, too. And he knows the crap my dad was up against and kept inside, too. And Bryan can feel the heat of my anger and probably knows it's not best to discuss it. Even though he has been, can be, and will be the wall I fling my hurt, sorrow, frustration, and fury at. Even though he knows it's not aimed at him and we're on the same team. Friendly fire can hurt and kill. So, we limit how far we will discuss the bad, and we remember the good together, as much as my rawness will allow.

And eventually, someday, somehow, at some point in the future, I hope that all I will think of when I think of my dad is the love, the silliness, the support, the fun, the lessons, and the care he gave to me, to Bryan, to Hannah, and to almost everyone he encountered.

The hymn Sweet Hour of Prayer was what my dad was listening to on his CD player just a couple of days before he died. It was on repeat and my father listened and listened and listened to this song. And I thank Richard for being there to witness that last Wednesday's sunset with my dad, and for sharing his memories about a man he is so very similar to, and for his words on the Sunday morning after my father died.

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
That calls me from a world of care,
And bids me at my Father’s throne
Make all my wants and wishes known.
In seasons of distress and grief,
My soul has often found relief,
And oft escaped the tempter’s snare,
By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
The joys I feel, the bliss I share,
Of those whose anxious spirits burn
With strong desires for thy return!
With such I hasten to the place
Where God my Savior shows His face,
And gladly take my station there,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
Thy wings shall my petition bear
To Him whose truth and faithfulness
Engage the waiting soul to bless.
And since He bids me seek His face,
Believe His Word and trust His grace,
I’ll cast on Him my every care,
And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!
May I thy consolation share,
Till, from Mount Pisgah’s lofty height,
I view my home and take my flight.
This robe of flesh I’ll drop, and rise
To seize the everlasting prize,
And shout, while passing through the air,
“Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer!”

Nothing New to Report

I have nothing new going on these days. I feel like there's a rut I keep falling into. Going along, happy as a clam, doing what I do, and then BLAMO! I'm bored and slightly blue. It happens at this time every year. The sun sets earlier, the weather turns cooler, the leaves start to change, and I lose some happiness.

I keep wondering what I can do to change this feeling. What is it? A new job? A new wardrobe? Better reading material? Exercise (Haha!)? A hair style? Who knows. All I know is that I'm tired of feeling this way.

I have a lot of daydreams of what I think my perfect life would look like. It changes or is altered depending on my mood or what's going on in our world. And just as I think I've figured it out, set things in a way that I can identify my heart's desire, I get annoyed with my visions and start a whole new daydream. Or reality sets in and I realize that I'm too old and settled to be a rock star archaeologist in a French-speaking location who designs her own lights but doesn't have to climb ladders. And I really don't want to go back to school...or do I?

I apply for jobs I think I would love. I've even gotten an interview or two out of my efforts. I interview, I feel good, and then, nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. And then I get discouraged and settle back into my dissatisfying routine once again.

Why can't I just be happy with what I have? Why can't I just be secure in what I am and what I do? Why do I feel so restless and frustrated? Will I ever stop feeling like I need to be defined by what I do for a living? Will I ever discover the Holy Grail formula for cover letter writing? And why won't someone, anyone see that even though my Master's is in Theatrical Lighting Design, it's still a Master's Degree and THAT IS WORTH SOMETHING.

So, as Fall quickly approaches, I feel my mood plummet and dissatisfaction begin to set in. Something's gotta change, and maybe it's just my attitude.

Cedar Street Memories part 1

This isn't my story. Technically, I wasn't even there when it all went down. But, I was asleep on the couch in my old apartment that is right next door to where this story took place. So, I was at least nearby, right? Doesn't really matter because I'm going to tell you anyway. It's just too funny to keep to myself.

In the summer of 1998, I visited my old roommate in Kalamazoo, MI for the weekend at our old apartment. It was a bit of a crap hole, but it was a really fun place to live (more Cedar Street memories later as I've been in a remembering kind of mood lately) and I had the bestest roommate, Jeremy, and two amazing next door neighbors, Shana and Jessie.

During this summer, Nichole was subletting for Jessie and Chris had taken over my half of the lease. Anyways....I was asleep on the couch on Saturday morning, around 7:30, when Jeremy gently woke me up and told me he was headed over to help Nichole with a problem she'd had. I sort of noticed he had a mop, but in my sleepy state, it didn't seem too strange. I would later hear the entire story in all its glorious detail, but not for a couple more hours.

Nichole was rudely awoken that morning by the sound of a horrible crash outside her bedroom door that seemed to come from the kitchen. She jumped out of bed, rushed to the door and flung it open to reveal that the ceiling was now on the floor. Water was everywhere and continued to pour from the hole in the ceiling. The hole revealed glimpses of the apartment above. Nichole called Jeremy for help and then called the landlord for a plumber.

It appeared that a water pipe had burst in between the ground and top floors right over Shana and Nichole's kitchen. The mess was vast and the clean up would be arduous (I've always wanted to use that word, I'm so proud of me). And poor, poor Nichole. She was just subletting and the clean up duties fell to her as Shana was out of town that weekend.

After the plumber had arrived and Jeremy and Nichole did what they could, the two non-plumbers stepped outside for some fresh air and to give the plumber some room. They'd been outside for a few minutes when the plumber came to join them carrying a pretty annoyed cat. He handed the cat to Nichole and said, "Here's your cat." Nichole replied, confused, and holding the cat, "But, we don't have a cat."

But the upstairs neighbors did.

Speak up, I'm kinda stupid

Everyday I mishear something. Not misunderstand, mishear. It's gotten to the point that when people inquire, "What do you think I said?" it's asked with some glee because they know it's gonna be a good one. And sometimes, it is. I'm not sure why this happens to me. Is it because I'm not really paying attention? Because I probably have the beginnings of an ear infection? Or is it because I hear what I want to hear, and sometimes I want to hear the bizarre?

Here is the most classic example of one of my mishearings. In 1997, I was asked by a guy I liked, "If I were to pass you a note in theatre history that asked if you'd go out with me, would you check Yes, No, or Maybe?" I replied, "I guess I'd choose Monkey?" Because that is what I heard him say. I heard him ask me if I'd choose "Yes, No, or Monkey". IN MY DEFENSE, I was in a lift, about 20 feet in the air attempting to repair a lighting instrument that wasn't behaving properly. But why, oh why, oh why would I have thought Monkey would have ever been an option? (By the way, we did eventually go and get some coffee. It wasn't a love match, but I remember having a nice time.)

The result of my mishearing was a lot of laughter from those present at the time and a story that I still hear from time to time. Or I hear someone just randomly tell me, "I'd choose Monkey." And it makes me laugh.

Do other people do this, too? Please share your best example of mishearing and you'd better make it funny! I'm in a bleh mood and need some cheering.

Rinse and Spit

Finding out we were having a girl was something of a shock. Hannah started out as one of two. The other infant/baby/embyo/zygote/WHATEVER didn't make it past 7 weeks. Bryan's family history had male twins, so we naturally thought we were having a boy. Then we found out (fine, Bryan found out. I had to be shown in great, zoomed-in detail the "lack of winkie" and even then I had a hard time seeing what wasn't there) we were having a girl. I have to admit, I was pretty freaked out. Bryan was, too, but quickly got over it (what can I say, he's a much more relaxed person than his delightful wife). But having lived through the teenage years, I had something of an inkling the crap this child 'o mine would be going through. I worried how I would help her. I began to plan all the things I would teach this little body snatcher who insisted on kicking my ribs and hiccuping through the night. I thought about how I would teach her to become a caring young woman who accepted everyone, no matter what their race, religion, physicality, mental capacity, sexual preference, gender, or social status happened to be. I thought about how I might share my love of books and reading, how to plan, budget, and prepare a meal, and how to do her hair, if she perchance inherited my curly locks. I would teach her to stick up for the underdog and to befriend the friendless. I planned to do my best to help her become whatever it is she decides to be. What I did not anticipate are all the small things I would teach her on a day-to-day basis.

I did not think about how to explain that there are two legs in a pair of pants, not one that you cram both of your legs through. I did not think about the stickers I would reward her for peeing on the potty. I did not think that I, too, would receive stickers when I pee on the potty in her presence. I imagined fun bathtime and mom/daughter bonding over hair bows and pretty barrettes. I did not think that bathtime and hair brushing would be fought on a battlefield in our too-small bathroom. And, I did not think that I would be teaching her how to spit her toothpaste into the sink and not all over her clean clothes, or her naked belly, or onto the bathroom floor.

The big things are still on my mind. I think and worry about the school system in KCMO, how we will afford college (and that it might not be so bad if she pays for it on her own), if she's getting enough vegetables, and that someday, she might meet someone, fall in love, and start her own family. I imagine family vacations that go off without a hitch, of family meals where we laugh and enjoy our food instead of begging Hannah to just try one bite, giving up, and making her a piece of toast. I dream of movies we'll both enjoy watching together and not just gritting my teeth and watching Nemo for the one millionth time (I swear, we've watched it that many times, no exaggeration, not even a little bit). But, tonight as I watched a big mouthful of spitty toothpaste run down Hannah's chin and onto her (thankfully nako) chest, I laughed and noticed one of the things I never thought I'd think about.

Football Season is Icky

I hate football season. Football season means Autumn, and Autumn means Winter and Winter is stupid.

Oh, but Stacy, you say you can always find the silver lining. Where's the silver lining in this? I say, "Shut Up."

Autumn feels like a Sunday night when your homework isn't done and you have a big test on Monday. It gets dark earlier, you have to wear a jacket or a sweater, you have to turn the heat on. I like the air conditioning. I like sandals and t-shirts. I like sitting on the porch and not freezing my butt off.

"But, you can eat soup, and chili, and cuddle on the couch! You can take long walks and crunch through the leaves! It's romantic!" I hear you exclaim. I eat soup and chili when I want to, and if you turn the air up enough, you can cuddle in any weather. I don't like brown, dead leaves, and it's not romantic. It's icky.

"So move," I hear you say. I say, "No. I hate moving more than I hate Winter." And, yes, I have an answer for everything.

Why am I on this subject, seeing as it's still early days in August? It's pre-season football time. It's the sign that Summer is on the way out and Autumn is on the way in. And so these early pre-season games depress me and put me in a not-so-sunny mood. I feel my little black rain cloud gathering.

Great Expectations

"What cute things did Hannah do today?"
"Any Hannah stories?"
"How was Hannah's morning?"

These are the questions I often encounter when I speak with my mother. I can't really blame her for wanting the details on her only grandchild, but talk about pressure! Some mornings there are cute-at-the-moment moments that I forget about as soon as they've happened. Some mornings there are over-the-top cute/funny things to report. But not everyday. Some days, nothing cute happens at all. Some days we have just a normal, boring, everyone got out the door on time morning. And I'm so okay with this. But my mom, well, my mom wants daily cuteness alerts and I'm struggling.

I'm inviting you all to help me create some cute/funny things I can tell my mom that will amuse her and get her to understand that I CAN'T TAKE THE PRESSURE of a daily cuteness update. Because today, I'm gonna fail in answering her questions. I'm too tired and too achy from having had my face rocked off at last night's Green Day concert. So, a little help from my friends would be, um, helpful.

Here are a couple ideas to get you started.

1) Hannah was so cute this morning. She wanted to know if she should start Handel's Messiah piano or forte. I told her to give them both a shot and she decided that starting quietly and building up to an amazing crescendo would best showcase her operatic skills. (No critiques on if this is correct or not, people. I haven't performed this since high school and can't remember how it starts. Or ends. Or how it sounds in the middle.)

2) Hannah was so cute this morning. She was cooking us breakfast and threw an all out toddler-style hissy fit because her souffle fell when Angus barked at a squirrel. We've tried to warn her that souffles are difficult in this house, but that girl, she's just gotta figure it out for herself.

3) Hannah is so funny. She reversed the 52nd and 53rd decimal places of Pi this morning. Hahaha! That girl cracks me up.

And here's one from my friend, Vanessa.

Hannah just showed me her fully proofed mathematical equations to prove the imaginary number "I" exists!

Okay, your turn.

Flatulence

"I fart. Mommy! Mommy? I FART!"
And we both giggled.
And then I remembered to be a mommy. "You tooted?"
"No, I fart."
"Okay, well, when you do that, you need to say, 'Excuse me, I tooted.'"
"'Cuse Me! I Fart!"
And we both giggled.

When did it stop being okay to fart in the presence of others? I'm not talking about on an elevator with a group of acquaintances or strangers, that's rude. I'm talking out in the open, amongst family and friends. I'm also not talking about locking the windows, launching an air biscuit in the car while traveling down the highway (thanks, Donny! That was always so much fun) and laughing maniacally. But, I have to admit, it made me laugh, too, as soon as I was able to get the window down again.

Here's something that I think everyone, young and old, thinks but never admits. Farts are funny. They are slightly forbidden and they sound funny. They make me laugh. Because sometimes, I'm still 12-years old.

Unless they happen in public in front of strangers. Then I will blush for you. I can't take it when others are embarrassed, which is why I cannot watch the American Idol auditions or listen to most poetry. It hurts my soul. So, if you let a fart slip in public, I promise to continue to accept you and will even speak with you after, you pariah, you.

But farting in private settings is a-okay with me. If you are my friend, I trust you will announce your intentions, let 'er rip, and giggle with me. I don't want my friends to be uncomfortable around me, and trapped gas will end a good evening of conversation and camaraderie faster than you can light a match. Just don't expect me to go first. You already know my feelings on the subject, but it's up to you to make the first move.

So, come on over, grab a porch chair, and if ya gotta, ya gotta, just warn a girl.