Coffee, I love you, so why do you hurt me so?

I love coffee. I love it hot, cold, iced, blended - just put a little cream and sugar in it and I am good to go.

I also need coffee. Yes, I have become one of those obnoxious people who can't get their day started without a cup of Joe. You know all the Someecards and Facebook photos out there with a droopy-eyed dog looking pathetic and the caption reading "Someone needs her third cup of coffee?" Well, that someone is me.

I like coffee, I need coffee ... coffee is a wonderful thing.

Except when it is scalding hot and burns your tongue after the first sip rendering your taste buds useless for the rest of the day. Then I get a little p-o ed at coffee.

I want to drink it. As I look my big Grand Valley State University mug (go Lakers!) full of coffee and watch the steam rise off the lovely black liquid - mixed with just enough Splenda and CoffeeMate to turn in a light chocolaty color - all want to do is take a big satisfying slurp. But alas, I must not sip too soon or I will surely be punished. So I wait impatiently as my eyelids struggle to stay open and I can physically feel the energy draining from my body. I probably should just pop an ice cube in there or something ....

A piece of ice is not much help to me however when I am getting my favorite Cafe Mocha at Tim Horton's or getting a quick pick-me-me at a gas station. That is where I most recently got burned (literally and figuratively).

I get it, people like hot coffee. I am one of them. But why does it have to be so bleepity, bleepin' hot the second it comes out pot? It's not like coffee instantly cools. It is not like you have to put the coffee in a cup straight out of the freezer. Coffee shops and gas stations provide STYROFOAM cups to help keep the heat IN. It's gonna stay hot for a few minutes people, trust me. Plus, the caffeine is still going to work whether the coffee is 200 degrees or 50 so why give our tongues second degree burns in the process. As it is I have to wait a good 10 to 15 minutes before I even dare take my first sip and even then it it with a very hesitate slurp.

Because it doesn't take very much hot liquid to burn your tongue. And man, I hate it when I have burnt taste buds. While they only are around about 10 days and usually the tongue heals much faster than that, I would still rather just avoid the possibility entirely. (Even right now as I am typing this, I can feel the swollen taste buds on my tongue from yesterday's white chocolate caramel fiasco from the Shell station near my son's preschool.)

So here is my plea to all coffee shops, restaurants, gas stations and any place else that sell coffee: Turn your pots down a few degrees will ya? It is tough to get repeat customers if all their tongues have burnt off. Or at the very least start offering ice cubes with each purchase.

I will probably take you up on it ...

If I see someone wearing a nightgown at Walmart, I just may lose it ...

There is a problem out there that has reached such epic proportions that I can not hold my tongue any longer. This epidemic is running wild in the streets and if something isn't done it may be the collapse of civilization as we know it.

People: stop wearing pajamas in public.

Look, I get it, pajamas are comfortable. I look forward to putting on my pjs every night and curling up on the couch. So wear pajamas - wear them all day if you want to. Just don't go out in public with them. It is just wrong.

For one, the clothes you are wearing are meant to be under your sheets and blankets, not wandering the aisles of Meijer or Walmart. (Or McDonald's, or the movie theater, or Applebees.) There is a reason why we change our clothes before we go to bed. For comfort yes, but we have been out in the world all day, coming in contact with goodness-knows what. Do we really want to bring all that in to bed with us? It gives me the willies just thinking about it. Gross!

Secondly these articles if clothing are not designed to be worn outside the home. Pants that have Homer Simpson plastered all over them or over sized chili peppers are not meant to be fashion statements. They are comical, playful, silly covers for your derriere that are supposed to be worn while you watch the Simpsons IN THE PRIVACY OF YOUR OWN HOME.

In my mind there are only a handful of reasons one should wear pajamas in public. They all are emergency related: going to the hospital, evacuating your house in the even of a fire or flood ... you know times when you have no time to change.

What happened to the days of presenting your best self when you went out? Women used to wear nice dresses and men suits and hats. We all so looked dapper and clean. I know I just romanticizing that time period, and while we may have come a long way since then in terms of equality and technology our fashion sense has taken a nose dive.

I am not quite sure how it happen either. It must have been some celebrity (Michael Jackson) worn pajamas out in public ONE time and and suddenly that made it ok for everyone to do it. Well, it is not ok.

Clothing manufacturers seem to have given up too. They don't even label them pajama pants anymore. It is like they know that they aren't going to be worn solely for sleeping so way market them as such. I was looking for fun pajama bottoms for my husband for Christmas the other day and what I ended up buying were not even pajama bottoms. They were "lounge pants." I guess if you can't beat 'em, join 'em right?

Now I realize there are many degrees of elastic pants. There are exercise pants, yoga pants, jogging pants, pants with a giant words across the backside ... And I can't in good conscience say that all pants with an elastic waist band should only be worn inside the home, because I would be a giant hypocrite. So while I realize it is a slippery slope from yoga pants to pajamas in public let's all try to have some self control and take some pride in ourselves. You are all attractive, smart, hard-working members of society. At least change out of the pants covered with Stewie Griffin's face and put on pair of yoga pants or jogging pants before you head out the door. 

I (and society as a whole) thank you in advance. I am sure your sheets thank you too ...

I'd be the black sheep in Martha Stewart's family

I am not a crafty person. Well, not in a Martha Stewart, Pintrest post-worthy kind of way. Maybe in the rubbing her hands together maniacally laughing kind of way. But glue-gun savvy I am not.

However, this is the time of year where lots of people get their craft on in a serious way. I will also be getting my "craft" on, though only maybe only in a friendly way. See, crafting and I are friends, sure. We hang out occasionally, have a few laughs, sometimes alcohol is involved, but my desire for crafting is not enough to say we are in any kind of serious relationship. A flirtatious friendship is about all we will ever have.

Maybe it's because I kind of suck at it. I think I am missing the crafting gene or something. Other members of my family have it. My older sister is awesome at it. She makes all kind of things and creates cool cakes for her kids on their birthdays. She even makes her own Christmas cards. Crafty she is (only in the the Martha Stewart way, I promise). My younger sister is a pastry wizard and can make all kinds of beautiful cakes and cookies and the like. They are beautiful, they are delicious and so is she! My brother, well to be honest, I don't know how crafty he is. I know his wife is quite the craft wizard and they make some kick-ass Halloween costumes every year, so there is a good chance he acquired the craft gene as well.

Then there is me. The missing link. The one who DIDN'T get the craft gene (along with the gene that allows you to roll your tongue like a taco shell. (And now, how many of you who CAN do that little trick, just did it?? Show off!)

Don't get me wrong, I like to craft. And I always go into a crafting project with high hopes. I can see the end result in my mind and the steps to get there and it all seems very straight forward and simple. Then, somewhere between my brain and the materials I am using, it goes sideways. Maybe it's my hands, maybe it's my lack of patience, but when it is all said and done my little project either looks like it got hit by a Mack truck or a third grader did it (no offence to third graders out there, I am sure many of you could still do a better job than me.)

My only saving grace is my husband, who is very, very handy. Which, as it turns out, makes him a bit crafty. I don't know if men are supposed to be labeled as crafty, but sorry hun, you kind of are. And I am forever grateful for it! He has saved many a failing crafty project from catastrophe and me from having a nervous break down, with his keen art eye and proper use of a glue gun.

I was first rescued by my crafting knight more than 10 years ago when I decided I wanted to make my own veil for our wedding. The price of tulle, some trim and a comb seems outrageous to me and I thought "I can do that." Yea ... that was my first mistake -I thought. Fast forward two hours later to me cursing at myself in a blubbery mess with a glue gun in my hand. Not a good combo. My soon-to-be hubby charged to me side on his great white steed and soon I was no longer able to say that I made my own veil. We'll just say in was a team effort ...

Little did my husband know that that crafting bail out would be just one of many over the next 10 years and I can say with certainty that there is no end in sight. Because I am going to keep on crafting damn it and one of these days it will turn out just as I imagined it.

Last year I had a glimmer of hope that the crafting tables had turned when I decided to make not one, but TWO Pintrest crafts for our home, plus one more for grandparents. I knew I was a bit greedy with this endeavor, and I must have been hopped up on craft paint and tacky glue because I forged ahead like a soldier into battle. I had a few wounds to show for my efforts, only a few curse words were uttered and in the end, ONE of the projects turned out semi decent. Enough for me to post on Facebook and brag about it a little. The other, well, the other succumbed to typical "Sarah-ness" crafting-wise and I had to be saved by my husband. I mean I could have gotten by without his help, but then whoever looked at it would have wondered how much wine I had while making it. With a little fixing by Jeff it looks like I only had about two glasses, not four. (You'll never know how many I really had though, I'll never tell ... Not unless you get a couple glasses of wine in me ...)

And now back to the 2013 craft-a-ganza. Not quite sure what I am going to make this year. Something for the grandparents I am sure. I will probably bring the kids in to help on it this year. They are old enough, and if there are any imperfection (and trust me there will be), I can just pin it on the kids. (There's an A+ parenting move if I ever saw it.) Cause if it a kid makes a messy craft project it's always cute.

But if a 34-year-old does, it's just sad ...

Mother Nature's got a case of the Mondays ...

Ahh November ... the grayest month of the year. Not that I am against gray or anything ... I actually really love gray. And one tall, dark-rimmed, handsome Gray and three adorable, demanding, spunky little Grays in particular.

No, gray I have no problem with. But cold gray - well, cold gray and I are not friends. Like today for example. Today it is very cold and very gray. The sky is gray, the ground is cold and hard, everything is just kind of blah. (That is a technical term by the way. It is ok to be impressed by my vast vocabulary. Don't be intimidated.)

Days like today makes me think that Mother Nature has a "case of the Mondays." I know, I know, it's not TECHNICALLY Monday, but a blah day like today (watch out, I'm using my "technical" terms again) make me feel like it really IS Monday and I just want to crawl under a big warm blanket and watch romantic comedies or repeats of 30 Rock until the sun shines once more.

Blast you November! I do love Thanksgiving and all - if we can still find it among the obnoxiousness of pre-Christmas- but why does your weather have to suck so bad? I know people who actually like this kind of weather and more than like it, they prefer it. These people are know as nut jobs (another technically term) and should be studied.

I can understand people who are generally upbeat and happy making the best of dreary day like today and remaining upbeat. But actually becoming happy when you look out the window and see a vast sea of gray clouds, a sharp wind blowing and stark, barren, life-less trees - well, that is just loony.

It is almost like a pessimist's mood come to life. Maybe those people who do like these kind of days are pessimists and it makes them happy to have to rest of us see how they feel. Maybe I am just thinking too much about this. Although it is not like to me to over think or over dramatize something .... (Is my tall, dark-rimmed, handsome Gray rolling his eyes yet?)

It would be one thing if it were sunny and cold. I could at least think "well, at least there is no snow yet." Or if it were warm and overcast I could think "at least it's not cold." And if there was snow on the ground I could say - you know what, I'd probably be cursing if there was snow on the ground. I am not ready for that white stuff yet, and will not be for at least a couple more weeks.

By now you must be thinking, geesh lady, you sure are picky (and you talk to yourself a lot, you may need to talk to a professional about that. And by professional we mean A PERSON, not just another voice in your head you call Dr. Peabody.) And you're right ... I just like my weather a certain way ok? I'll take the cold, but the sun needs to be shining with it. I can take the gray, but it also needs to be above 50 degrees. What can I say, weather really affects my mood. (Did I use the right word there? I never know if it is affect or effect. I kinda know the rule, but not enough that if I was on a game show I would win any money giving the definition or anything. I mean, does ANYONE besides English teachers really know the correct usage. Well, if you do, you are much smarter than I am. But then again, you knew THAT already.)

And now, on top of the gray, it's getting dark. Not that is really all that different, but I used to be able to see my keyboard fairly clearly from the gray light coming in through the window, and now I need to turn on a light. Time to go curl under a blanket and wait for sun ....

I think I saw that Bridget Jones' Diary was going to be on - that just may do the trick ... Oh bullocks ...

Oreo's are a delicacy ... aren't they??

I have to wonder if I am doing some sort of grave injustice to Julia Child by reading her book "My Life in France" while eating Oreo's. (Or my other snack of choice, Cap'n Crunch right out of the box.)

The thought occurred to me earlier today while I was munching on said Oreo's and reading about all the fabulous meals Mrs. Child and her husband Paul had while living in France. 

I don't think my choice of cuisine would make her roll over in her grave as I am am sure much worse has been eaten while reading great works about food and culinary experiences. Nor do I think that I would be an important enough of a reader to cause her that much trouble. And yet, if she were alive, and she knew that "America's Favorite Cookie" was being eaten while reading about all her lovely sauces and wines she would surely at least make a sour face.

While reading her book I feel like I should be sitting in an outdoor cafe sipping red wine and eating a wonderful assortment of cheeses or a a lovely piece of fish in a rich sauce, no doubt chiefly made of butter. 

Somehow lying on my couch while munching the famous sandwich cookie (delicious as it may be) just seems a little disrespectful to one of the culinary greats of the 20th century.

But alas, that is where the book is being read.

It is a very good read, if any of you are interested in reading it, but I feel I must warn you. If you think this book is going to be very similar to the "Julia" portion of the movie Julie & Julia (as I kind of thought) you are wrong. Hollywood took some GENEROUS liberties when making that movie, and while parts of the book are in the movie they are very much different and some are grossly incorrect. I am not sure Julia Child would not have liked the movie at all had she been alive to see it. She probably wouldn't have even have given her permission to make it. (Although I will say that I do like the movie and in particular the parts where Meryl Streep plays Julia Child. I did not care much for the Amy Adams/Julie Powell part but that may be because I did not really care for the Julie Powell character. No disrespect to Ms. Adams.)

I guess  it's really true that you can't believe what you see in the movies - even if is supposed to be about true events. I mean, I know ... I DID already know THAT. I know that there are no such things are Smurfs - even if I do see Neil Patrick Harris talking to one and Shia LeBeouf is not friends with a robotic car named Optimus Prime. (And how bad was his acting in that movie - seriously, just AWFUL!) 

And now you are questioning my taste in movies ...

But the very naive part of me wants to believe that biographical movies like Argo or Miracle or Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2 are mostly if not all true. (Ok, I know that last one isn't a biographical movie - I least I hope it isn't!) I guess if I really want to know, I should read a book about it and then compare it to the movie. 

You know, I don't even have to do that - I know a movie like Argo was all Hollywooded up. I'm sure it was intense, but probably not THAT intense. Still a good movie though.

And now, Julia, back to you. Currently she and husband has moved to Marsielle (I am only half way through and less than a week until book club, yikes!). I am sure within sentences she will have my mouth watering with her cheerful tone and deliciously descriptive dishes. 

Bon appetit!

Cause I'm a woooman ... W-O-M-A-N

I love being a woman. I really do. There is not one single ounce of me that wishes I could be a man (sorry fellas, but it's true). I have always loved my gender and being my gender and am in my opinion I am a bit of feminist. I am sure I am not to the degree that some woman are, but I believe I do fall somewhere on the feminist spectrum.

I am of the mindset that anything a man can do, I can do. Except of course for those few anatomical things that it is about impossible to do. (I said, about impossible, so don't revoke my feminist card just yet. If we put our minds to it we may just accomplish those things yet. Gotta go for the brass ring, right ladies!)

Not that always enjoy doing all those manly type things. I really dislike killing bugs, or taking out the garbage or snow blowing the driveway, but I can do it and I will do it because I think it is important.

All that being said there are some things that I truly love about being a woman. No, it is not being able to carry a human being inside me and give birth etc. etc. That is all well and good and a wonderful thing, but no, what I love about being a woman is much smaller: painting my fingernails.

Yup, the simple act of brushing some polish on my fingernails makes me feel really good and really happy that I am a woman. Sound silly? Well maybe, but right now as I look down at the cherry red on the tips of my fingers a little smile crept across my face. It makes me happy, it makes me feel pretty and while I know that is not a very feminist thing to say, it does.

But you see, having my fingernails painted doesn't mean I still won't kill a bug or take out the garbage or use the snowblower. It just means my hand will be more accessorized when I do it.

In fact in some ways I think it makes it even cooler when you do. "Look at me giant daddy long legs or pincher bug (sorry I don't know the correct name for those bugs) look at my nice shiny red or pink or blue or green fingernails. Aren't they pretty? Yep, they sure are. Bettcha think that I must be all dainty and going to scream and run away from you don't ya? Well, lookie here, I gots me a tissue .... Am I gonna use it to wipe away the tears in my eyes from the sheer sight of you?? Nope, guess again, squash ... "

I just really enjoy when my fingernails are painted. Not that are painted all the time. But when they are it just brightens my day. I love seeing other women's fingernails painted. I don't do acrylic, but I marvel and what some ladies can do with incredibly long fingernails and the intricate way they are painted. It's cool, it's fun, it's easy and it makes me glad that I am of the female persuasion. Because even though there are men who do paint their fingernails, it not generally accepted among the male population like it it with the ladies.

On the flip side, there are also some manly things that I like to do that make me feel powerful and get my testosterone all a'flowing. I may love being a woman, but sometimes you just have to access your inner dude right?

Top of the list is starting up a lawn mower. Has to be a push mower though. I don't think I would get that some feeling turning the key on a riding mower. Grabbing that cord and pulling with all your might and hearing that mower come to life ... kinda makes me what to grunt like Tim Allen in "Home Improvement." It's a cool feeling. I don't always enjoy mowing the lawn, but those few seconds starting up the engine almost make up for it.

For me though, what is best of all, is that we ladies can have it both ways. We can paint our fingernails and mow the lawn. We can go out to work all day and get sweating and dirty and then come home and put on a dress and go out looking stunning. It's awesome. I love it.

Unfortunately though, I see a chip in my index finger so it looks like this paint is gonna go pretty soon. (I love painted nails, but I really don't like chipped ones). I may paint them right away, I may not. It is just nice to know that I can instantly brighten up my day with just a little bottle or color with a brush right inside its lid.

Strange bedfellows

Have I been making beds wrong my whole life?

I mean I know there is a basic way to make a bed. And just to clarify here I mean changing the sheets, not the act of pulling up the covers and straightening out the quilt or comforter. Unless you are one of those people who puts new sheets on their bed every day and in that case I guess I really do mean make the bed. (And I am suppressing a lot of snarky things I want to say right now. "If you don't have something nice to say Sarah, yea, yea, yea, I know ...)

So as I was saying, is it pretty obvious how to make a bed. So unless you are putting your pillows where you feet go or putting the fitted sheet on OVER the regular sheet you are most likely doing right. (And if you don't know what a fitting or regular sheet are, you are probably doing it wrong.)

It ain't rocket science people. Or brain surgery. Or insert-whatever-cliche-phrase-here when describing something that does not take much brain power.

So imagine my surprise when about six months ago I discovered there in fact WAS another way to make a bed. My mattress was totally flipped. (See what I did there? A little bed pun for ya. Although is it still a pun if you explain that it's a pun? Does that fall in the "If a tree falls in the woods" category? Hmmm, interesting ...)

MOVING on ...

You see back when I was young (let's say six or sevenish) I was taught how to put sheets on a bed. I am sure my mom taught me too, but I distinctly remember my grandma teaching me when my older sister and I went to stay with her for the weekend at her cottage. Learned the whole "hospital corners" thing and everything. And to this day whenever I change sheets at my house (don't worry it is a regular occurrence) I think of her.

So I thought I had the basic skills and knowledge down. I even got a handle on how to fold sheets. Even fitted sheets. Although it took an online tutorial and watching Martha Stewart show me on Oprah to really figure it out. And to be honest, I still only do it correctly about 25 percent of the time.

I don't really have any crazy ways of making the bed - I don't iron my sheets. I frankly don't know why anyone would. They are just going to get all wrinkly when you get into bed and they are covered up by a quilt or comforter anyway, so why bother? It would be like ironing a shirt when you are just going to put a sweater over top of it. Useless I say! So unless the Queen of England or Martha Stewart are coming over to stay at my house (the former being a preposterous possibility and I'm not sure I would even WANT the latter) I am not going to iron my sheets. I have WAY more important things to do. Like watching a rerun of "Friends" for the sixth time or obsessively check Facebook. (You laugh, but those are real things that I do.)

So imagine my surprise when I was putting brand new Hello Kitty sheets on my two-year-old brand new "big girl" bed and they appear to be upside down. Quite confusing to say the least. The little pink Hello Kitty faces were upside down when I put the sheet on the bed and so were the words "Hello Kitty" that were written on the end cap thingy of the sheet. (Wait, end cap thingy? Sarah, what is your deal? But you know the top part of the sheet that is folded over and hemmed .... oh, wait I'll just go look it up ... ok, I couldn't find what it is called, but you know what I mean.)

I was perplexed, confused, puzzled, which for any of you who know me, know doesn't take much, but still, how could this be?

The logic did eventually creep in and I realized that the way this sheet was made the pattern side was supposed to be facing down, not up like I had been doing for almost 30 years. Was it this one manufacturer that decided to turn the sheet industry on its ear, or could it be that maybe just maybe there was an alternate way to put sheets on a bed. Because honestly these were the first sheets I had used that had caused me to reevaluate my entire bed making method. (Not that I have purchased THAT many sheets in my day, but enough, ya know?)

So with this new knowledge my mind was a buzz .... Was I supposed be making beds this way (pattern side down) the entire time? Had my grandmother and mom taught me wrong? Were they bed making rebels? Or was it the other way around? Were those who put the pattern side down in the minority? Were we falling into a Yupp and Zupp situation here? (A little shout out from the "Butter Battle Book" for all your Dr. Seuss fans out there.)

Could we all peacefully coexist? Was I supposed to make my youngest daughter's bed differently because the sheets direct me to do so? So far I have not, but am I doing the sheets a disservice? Do sheets have feelings? Do sheets even care? Why do I even care so much? I don't know ... you really don't want to know what goes through my head sometimes ... you would probably think I should be committed. Maybe you think that now. Not that I would blame you.

I know I could probably watch LOTS of "Friends" reruns if I were ...

Oh, and by the way, changing sheets on a toddler's bed with side rails is VERY difficult, but put that bed with side rails five feet in the air (as in the loft bed we just got our six-year-old) and the degree of difficultly goes up by 10. I don't think you are supposed to work up a sweat putting new sheets on a twin bed.

Germ-a-phobe I am not, but come on!

A pox upon your house!

I feel like our family must have seriously ticked of some old wizard or witch from the 1700s (and I don't even watch Game of Thrones) and those words were uttered in our direction, because, whew, it has been weeks since everyone in our house has been healthy. And we are still not totally there.

I for one am completely over it. I feel like every surface of our house is covered in germs and I just want to dip the whole house in a big vat of Lysol. In fact as I look at this keyboard I can almost see the germs accumulating on the "a" button, now the "e" button, now the "n" button .... ahhhh! Stop the madness!

Ok, keyboard and hands have been disinfected so I feel a little better. Still feel like am living in a Petri dish. Although doesn't anyone who lives with or works with kids feel like that. Germs, germs, all the time germs. And they keep passing them back and forth between each other and no matter what you do, you can seem to avoid catching it. Oh man, I am totally grossing myself our right now.

It started weeks ago when my oldest got some sort of bug. Fever, stomach stuff, feeling over all yucky (that is a technical medical term, in case you didn't know). Lots of "getting sick" as we call in our house. Sounds way less gross to us that the other terms you can use when the contents of your stomach head in a northernly direction.

She was babied, as all my kids are when they are sick. It is the most helpless feeling in the world when your kid is sick and there is nothing you can do to make them better. Give them soup, medicine, let them sleep, sure you can do all that stuff, but you can not physically take away the illness. Only time can do that. And my kids look super pathetic when they are sick. It is the saddest looking thing.

We all thought she had kicked by Sunday only to find out in our church's vestibule we were very, very wrong. Oh so embarrassingly wrong.

By Monday she had kicked it, but then the little two got it. Within about a half hour of each other. So when one "got sick" you knew that in thirty minutes or less the other would follow suit (like a really disgusting vintage Domino's commercial).

Then my hubby got some mutant strain of the bug that was less "physical" and more "audible." He never missed any work, but we both missed a lot of sleep due to the coughing. (Sorry hun, but you know it's true.)

Then my oldest got sick AGAIN. And not just sick - the kid got the SWINE FLU. Yea, the bleepity bleepin' SWINE FLU. I still can't quite believe that some medical genius decided to name this strand of flu after a pig, but I am sure there is some explanation out there that I don't really care about right now because I'm still reeling from my kid's diagnosis of the bleepity bleepin' SWINE FLU.

I had been on top of the whole flu shot thing too - that is the ironic part. I know they needed it and my youngest had had hers and my son should have had his (but I wanted one not raised in eggs because of his egg allergy). The only reason my oldest DIDN'T have hers was because she had scouts the day the other two went in to get theirs. I had an appointment set up for her the next week. So of course she gets the bleepity, bleepin' flu five days before her appointment. Of course she does. Sigh ... Curse you witch/wizard person ... what have I ever done to you??

And when you are used your kids going off the school all day and your life is in some sort of routine, having them home really throws everything off. In some ways it is good because you are not running off here, there and everywhere, but now you also have one more demanding child at home and not only demanding, but sick. And I have a hard time saying no to a sick kid. A sick child is my kryptonite. I will do just about anything for them. Even if they have spend more time being sick then well in the last three weeks.

So all these germs have me more than a bit paranoid about my own health, so I decided I too am going to get a flu shot. So naturally what happens? I get sick. And I am telling you I have not felt this awful in a LONG long time. Go to the doctor, have to get that AWFUL throat swabby thing (which I think could possibly used as a form of torture) only to discover - nope I don't have anything. Maybe something viral but no medicine needed. WHAT the what? Come on! I KNOW I can be a bit dramatic (what? shocking I know!), but I HATE admitting I am sick. It is just something about me. I don't like to be sick so I consciously will it away. (Does that really work you ask? I say yes, but my husband may have a different answer.)

So to tell me to just gargle salt water and take some Motrin to make me feel better when I KNOW I am sick - that just ain't gonna cut it folks. The witch or wizard who I seriously offended must have taken some sort of pity on me because just as I was getting ready to walk out the door I was stopped. The stick thingy from the throat swabby test (yes, I am using technical medical terms here) changed and now surprise surprise I really AM sick. Yeah! (Wait, did I just cheer because I am sick?)

Medicine prescribed, medicine taken, feeling better, pox lifted (fingers crossed anyway). Still think dipping the house in Lysol wouldn't be the worst idea. We have all had our shots (now I am making us sound like a bunch of dogs - had our shots, sheesh). Well, all except the captain of our little ship here - my husband. But he has already been told by the two-year-old that he needs to get it done.

And  he really should because I don't need ANOTHER sick kid in the house ... Love ya hun!

(Oh and Happy 10th Anniversary sweetie! Betcha didn't think that ten years ago when we said "I do" I would be telling the world - or at least the 10 people who might read this - about your coughing or needing a flu shot did ya? For better or worse baby, for better or worse.)

It's so absurd you have to laugh

No, I'm not talking about what is happening in Washington D.C. right now ... It's something a little more on my level: - kid-dom.

This is an honest-to-goodness-hand-to-heart conversation I just had with my kids ...

While serving up dinner I asked my oldest what she might want to do after dinner. She thought about it for a bit and then answered that she wanted to play a game. Monopoly Jr. to be precise. She then asked her brother what he wanted to do after dinner and then declared (before he could answer) we would all vote on what each of us wanted to do.

Very typical first child move (or at least very typical MY first child move). It was clearly known that she (the eldest) wanted to play Monopoly Jr. So when her brother's choice of going outside was vetoed (it was about to rain) he decided he to wanted to play a game too. And not just any game, but Monopoly Jr.

Well now that just makes it simple doesn't it? Consensus made, everyone is happy. Monopoly will be played. End of story ....

Nooooooot so fast ....

No, no, no. Instead of being happy that her choice was selected by another one of her siblings, she decided to pitch her own little fit about it. And I quote: "NO, I didn't want him to pick that game! I wanted him to pick something else!" Followed by pouting and quickly tears. Absurd right? You are getting your way child. Why are you wigging out?

I tried to reason with her that she SHOULD be happy her brother wants to play the same game she does. That was my first mistake - reasoning with a six-going-on-fourteen-year-old girl. But patience, calmness etc., etc. Keep your cool mom. So I tried again to explain that it really is a good thing that he picked the game she wanted to play.

I don't know if it was because he kept saying he wanted to play the game (in that little brother taunting kind of voice) or the fact that her little sister was now chiming in with her brother but she obviously was having some kind of moment. It was clear she was torn. She had to be happy that what she wanted to do was what was chosen, but because it wasn't chosen through HER methods (which had to do with poll taking and hand raising) she wasn't happy.

So in the true spirit of my darling oldest daughter she declared "I want to play Legos."

Oy vey!

Trying to stifle a laugh (you know one of those weird creepy laughs of the insane) I attempted to simply move on from the topic. This slowly spiraled downward into "stop repeating me" and "he's looking at me," to the point that now they have to eat in silence or go into time out.

Not my finest parenting moment I'll admit, but desperate times right? They did all eat their dinners so that is something? Let's call it a draw ...

As I reflect on the chaos that was tonight's dinner (tomorrow will be another story I am sure) it occurs to me that maybe this whole debacle is some sort of metaphor for what is happening in D.C. Similarities can be drawn. And maybe there is a lesson to be learned here too. There probably is, but I gotta go clean up dinner, and hopefully play a non-violent game of Monopoly Jr.

But if you figure it out, please let me know.

Giving Mother Earth the cold shoulder

Does anyone else feel guilty when they throw something away that should be recycled? Or is that just me?

I feel like when I put that empty spaghetti noodle box in the trash and not the recycling bin I'm giving Mother Nature a slap in the face. Well, maybe not a SLAP ... that may be a bit extreme ... more like stepping on her foot or bumping her funny bone. It smarts for a minute or two, but then the pain fades and goes away.

Still doesn't feel very good and that is why I have such guilt about it. I mean, it's not Catholic guilt or anything. That I DO have (in droves), but guilt nonetheless.

(On a side note, isn't nonetheless a wonderful word? It seems like it isn't used very much anymore. Like thus, thine or thou ... but I don't really like those words so much. They make me think of literature I don't understand and is boring to read. But nonetheless is so lyrical to me ... so lovely .... But I digress ...)

I do TRY to be Earth conscience and green and all that. I bought the reusable grocery bags, started a compost bin, break down boxes and wash out cans and bottles for what has become not one, but TWO recycling bins we put out every other week for our garbage/recycling company to pick up. So that is something. (Even if my "compost bin" has yet to be anything but a bunch of avocado rinds(is that right?), onion skins and grass clippings. Some sort of disgusting Mother Earth stew that has never really developed into the lovely compost soil is was supposed to.)

It was just that yesterday I had a pots and pans all over the kitchen, and the spaghetti box was empty, and the bin was ALL THE WAY in the garage and I must admit I threw it in the garbage. I know! The SHAME!! I instantly felt guilty. Although not guilty enough to actually reach my hand into the garbage, take the box out and put it in the recycling bin.

To make matters worse I had already chastised my husband earlier in the day for tossing an empty hand soap container in the trash instead of putting it in the recycling bin. But again, I didn't put my hand in the trash can and get the container out to be recycled. (Especially since I had just thrown a banana peel in there. Nobody wants to reach in a garbage can and feel THAT! But now I feel guilty because the banana peel should have gone in the compost bin. Ahhh! The guilt, the crushing guilt!)

I try to justify my "spitting-in-Mother-Nature's-face" actions by telling myself that it will break down in whatever dump it lands in right? Who are you kidding Sarah? It won't. It will rot there for thousands of years and the human race will not be able to continue to exist on this planet and we'll end up in same sort of Wall-E existence, all because I could not bring myself to walk the 15 extra feet to the recycling bin.

I AM KILLING THE EARTH!!

The shame, Sarah, the shame!

I'll take my penance in the form of cold, quick showers to conserve water and energy, reading in dim light and walking to the store instead of driving (up hill, both ways, in four feet of snow). OK, that last one isn't really feasible with kids but I feel like should get a couple of points just for thinking of it.

On an unrelated note, it officially fall weather here so I am in full on Mr. Rogers mode. To explain, it means that I wear a jacket when I go out of the house and when I come home I take off my jacket and then put on some sort of sweater-coat or sweatshirt or something. Because once the nippy weather hits, I am pretty much cold until at least May. Weird I know. I get cold when it's 70 degrees out. Ask my husband. It just happened Saturday.

But I love fall and I would rather be cold than hot so I will look ridiculous wearing a sweater-coat OVER a sweater (it has happened) and getting goose bumps when it is 72 degrees out.

Maybe being cold all the time is Mother Nature's way of getting back at me for those bottles I didn't recycle. Like the whole how-do-you-boil-a-frog-scenario but in reverse.

Maybe not. Either way I think I need to go put on another sweater ...

Take wisdom from Yogi Berra

My husband has a pretty infamous phrase he uses (and now I use) whenever we have to do something we really don't want to do.

"Just do it, and it will be done."

He can't take credit for it, it was something he learned from a professor in college (a university I won't mention because our house bleeds green).

A little Yogi Berra-ish in my opinion, but effective nonetheless. If you do something, then it will be done. Palm to forehead simple right?

So why is it I choose to do ANYTHING else than the thing I really need to do. Right now I have a sink FULL of dishes that need to be washed. I know that it won't take me as long as I think it will take me to wash them, and I know I will feel infinitely better once they are done. Yet there they sit. Hour after hour. I keep passing them by, sometimes adding MORE to the pile and still they sit.

Instead I have elected to rearrange my dresser drawers, organize my closet and well, um, write a blog post. And while all those things ARE productive (well, except maybe the blog post) they still aren't getting done the one thing I really need to do.

Procrastination, you are my Achilles heel. Or you are just a heel ... either way, you kinda suck.

And so I continue to waste time, finding anything else to do beside the dishes (or in last week's case clean the bathroom) and in the time I wasted do other less important things I could have washed, dried and put away the dishes (or cleaned the bathroom ... you know what I mean). Yet I continue to sit here and write words that bather on and on and not really say anything ....

And you continue to read them ...

Maybe you are trying to find anything else to do except the one thing you NEED to do too ...

Except I must say, reading this blog probably doesn't fall in the category of "productive things to do." Maybe you should clean out your keyboard or update you contacts list instead. And your welcome ....

Or you could just "do it and then it would be done" like I should ... sigh ...

I know, I know ... I'm going .... the dishes wait for no one ....

Buuuut ... my inbox IS a mess ... I really SHOULD clean it out ...

Maybe we should just switch to paper and plastic ...

Deep thoughts ... by Sarah Gray

Do hypnotists have to take an oath? You know, like the ones doctor's take? Basically that they have to use their powers only for good?

'Cause if I was a hypnotist, and I had kids, I would definitely being trying to find a loop hole.

These are the kind of random thought that cross my mind - and sometimes pop out of my mouth ... usually only to my husband.

But seriously, do they?

I'm not saying kids should be walking around like zombies obeying our every command, but wouldn't it be nice to just be able to say the word "Cowabunga" or "Pumpernickel" and your kids would just stop what they were doing and start cleaning up their toys, or stop bickering with each other or finish eating  their dinner? (Of course then your kid would never be able to work in a bakery.)

I'm not saying I would use it all the time, but on those nights when you are completely frazzled, the kids have been at each other's throats for hours and all you want is for them to move slightly faster then a snail's pace cleaning up their toys to be able to say something like "purple monkey toes" and they would start actually putting toys away. (And not just moving toys around like they really do, so in a fit of exasperation YOU actually put them away. Don't let their cute little faces fool you, kids are sneaky.)

Of course it would have to be a word that people don't say all the time like "Lindsay Lohan's Oscar" or "delicious liver and onions." If it was something common like "No" or "Stop it" or "Quite hitting your sister," your kid would be making and remaking every bed in Bed, Bath and Beyond.

It would probably be pretty easy to do, too. Once you got your child to sit still long enough to actually look into your eyes or be quiet and concentrate. Wait, what? Get a kid to sit still and concentrate? Only if Spongebob was on ... That must be where they get us. No kid could sit long enough to actually be manipulated that way. Well played kids, well played ....

But maybe we could use it on spouses .... I know it wouldn't break my heart if I didn't have to push my husband's chair in at the table anymore ...

Quick, honey ... look deeeeeep into my eyes ... connnnncentrate .... you are getting sleeeeepy ... wait, no, now I'M getting sleepy ... what was I trying to do again? ... Zzzzzzz ....

Two-dimensionally challeneged

The other day my husband I were driving home from our last trip to our house up north before selling. We had traded our minivan (and our kids) for my in-laws 4x4 truck - not a bad trade if you ask me. About halfway through our trip back home my husband asked if I could take over driving. His back had been giving him fits and needed to be able to fidget more than his current position allowed (and probably more than his was legally able to as well).

Annny way .... we pulled over, I hopped out and then hopped in (if a five-foot-seven (oh who are we kidding here - five-foot-six-and-a-HALF) person can hop into a 4x4 truck). I will admit I was a little nervous about driving such a large vehicle. Before this the biggest thing I had driven was our mini van. We pulled out onto the freeway and I serpentine through the construction maze that is US 127 near Frandor, passed 496, passed 96 and southward to much less congested traffic.

As my confidence grew, a thought crossed my mind. I was driving around a slight curve, while passing another vehicle (all within the legal driving speed limits I swear Jim!) when I said "It's funny how I can drive a big truck like this, but when I play MarioKart I am all over the place." My husband laughed, but it's true.

Because you see my friends, I am two-dimensionally challenged. I can not play video games. Even ones as simple as driving a car down a road - something I do every day (and without crashing in to walls or trees too). I am hopeless.

Now I am not going to go on some rant and blame my parents for not getting me Nintendo when I was young or anything. I had video games - on the computer. I rocked "Where in the World is Carmen Santiago" and "Oregon Trail." But the truth of the matter is I simply wasn't interested. Still am not. It isn't interesting or exciting. When I do play I am either dying every other minute or my car is ramming the left side of the screen, then the right side and then the left side again. I just don't have the feel for it.

Sure, sure, practice, makes perfect and all that. If I kept trying I might get good and I might enjoy it, but eh, no ... it's just not for me. I just don't think my brain is wired like that. Nothing wrong with it, nothing against it, just not my cup of tea ... I prefer coffee

My husband - who does like to play, and IS good - has had to suffer through my ignorance and complete and total lack of skill. We have tried to play - I just get frustrated. We have tried simple games - I can bowl and play tennis on Wii - that is about it. That and the "Price is Right" - but really is that considered a real game? Sure, it puts money in corporate's pocket, but true gamers would probably laugh in my face if I told them I kicked ass at "Wheel of Fortune" for Wii. (And I wouldn't blame them.)

But there is light at the end of the bleak tunnel of gaming in our house  - the kiddos. Our kids have finally come to the age when they can start playing video games (age appropriate and fully supervised of course). So while I might be a lost cause, my husband can at least smash monster trucks with our oldest and race with Donkey Kong and Mario with our son. Plus they are better than me anyway.

One small consolation I will take from all this, is the response I got from my husband when we were driving home. "Well, if you are only good at one of them, I'm glad it's driving a car."

Thanks for the confidence hon, but if we pass by Luigi or Princess Pea we are in big trouble ...

Well begun is half done

I have been MEANING to write a post for two days now, but I keep getting interrupted. Interrupted with laundry, meal times, lawn mowing, grocery shopping, changing diapers .... the list goes on ... and on ... and on ...

While I DO have lots of things I'd like to post about I still need to find the time to post them ... Cause right now with three kids hollering at me and my creative gene is out on a coffee break - literally ... I just poured cup number three for the day.

So stayed tuned, I promise I WILL write about something vastly more interesting than my inability of write (and changing diapers).

Until then take a moment, close your eyes and enjoy the silence around you ... (if you are so fortunate to have silence around you) and think of me  ...

Cleansing the soul ... with dish soap

Standing there in the aisle at the grocery store, I could almost feel the little angel and devil on my shoulder.

No, I wasn't deciding whether to get the bag of Oreos (always yes) or the pint of Ben and Jerry's (again, always yes).

No, this question went to the very core of my being - to my very soul (whereas the Oreos and Ben and Jerry just ends up on my thighs).

I was staring at the dish soap. Dish soap you might say? How would that evoke any kind soul searching question? I'm glad you asked! Let me share my over dramatized dilemma with you ...

As I stared at the various brands of plastic bottles in almost every hue of the rainbow, my eyes settled on the two bottles in which I have very mixed emotions. One a pretty light pink bottle - like that a rose or a big puff of cotton candy (my mind is never far from food). The other a deep blue - like the color of the ocean near a beautiful Hawaiian beach (or cotton candy).

Please tell me your dilemma over dish soap did not involve color you might want to say as you roll your eyes and you will be happy to know that no, color was not what had me standing like an idiot in front of the dish soap for five minutes. Nor was it the brand of dish soap, nor was it the scent of the dish soap (of which I discovered there is much more than lemon and none) or even the price of the dish soap.

No, it was what was inside the bottle that was the question and even past that, what the liquid inside the bottle would do. Curiosity peaked I hope ...

No before I go and tell you the reason why the simple choice of a dish soap has caused me to look inside myself and decide what type of person I really am let me give you a little back story. My family and I recently moved and in our new house there is no dishwasher. And while my husband is wonderful and does the dishes as well, I feel like I am constantly at the sink washing the many cups, mugs, bowls, plates and silverware that accumulate during the day. I don't like doing dishes (and I have yet to find someone who does) but it is a necessary evil.

Now, here is another fun little fact about me - because you were just dying to know! I have dry hands. A lovely little feature and as much as I have tried to curb the problem, no lotion has yet to bring me long term relief. And of course washing dishes every day does not help in the least.

So now here's my dilemma ... do I buy the dish soap with the lotiony (I know it's not a word) ingredient that is said to help heal dry hands while you're doing dishes, OR do I buy the dish soap with the cute little ducky on the bottle which says that for every bottle purchased a proceed with be given to help little duckies and seals and other birdies that get covered in oil during maritime oil spills.

Save the duckies, save my hands? Save the duckies, save my hands?

Seems like a over dramatisation of seemingly non-problem right? Well, maybe ... but this is a BLOG and not a meeting of Congress.

For those of you holding your breath to see what I chose you may now exhale .... I chose the duckies ... Saving animals from poisonous oil is MUCH more important than my silly old hands ... At least that is what the angel kept telling me ...

And just so you know, I HAVE thought of the alternative in which I could save the duckies AND my hands - washing with rubber gloves. And while I know that would help and it would keeping me from touching any of the food bits floating around the dish water - something that grosses me out to no end - I don't like having my hand smell like rubber gloves afters I'm done. To which the suggestion would be, just put on some scented lotion, silly. Yes, yes, you are right. You are much smarter than me and probably are a better dish washer than me too ... I think you need to come over and show me what I am doing wrong ... but be prepared - I am a VERY slow learner ...

Take me out to the ball game

I like sports. I do. I like pretty much any sport. There is one sport however that I watch regularly. And that is baseball.

Actually I love to watch baseball. And my team is the Detroit Tigers. For all of you who don't like the Tigers I am very, very sorry that you have chosen your allegiance to a less awesome team because the Detroit Tigers are awesome.

I will say with all honestly that I haven't always been as fervent a fan as I am today. It was only about six years ago or so that we (my husband and I) started watching the team with any kind of regularity. But we most certainly do now. We watch at least some of almost every game that is on and when we can't see them play we try to hear them play - on the radio I mean.

I have had my Tiger, Alex Avila, for a few years now, my husband has had a few. And now that our kids are starting to get into the Tigers they each have picked their favorite Tiger, too. It's really cute. Our youngest, who is two, really has no idea what is going on so her favorite changes almost daily. Our son used to have two favorites, but now he has firmly decided on Torii Hunter and our oldest is an Austin Jackson fan. (Fun side note, our son for awhile called him "Awesome" Jackson because he couldn't say Austin.)

So, while I hope all of this build up has shown that I am a true blue Tigers fan and a fan of baseball in general there are a few things about this great sport that I find to be a bit peculiar.

And now before anyone goes ripping my head off (if anyone is even reading this), I will admit that I don't know everything about baseball or it's complete history. These are just a few of my observations I have made during my hours of watching the game.

They eat during the game. Yes, I know it's just sunflower seeds (I hope that is all anyway) but still ... They eat during the game. I have yet to see another sport - and I will admit I haven't seen every sport there is - where the players eat during the game. And it's not just in the dugout between at bats and heading to the field, it's while they are playing too. I recently saw Miguel Cabrera chopping on some seeds while he was manning third base. Seems a little dangerous to me. One line drive his way and he's gonna need the Heimlich. I'd hate to see a player go in the DL on account of choking on the field ...

They were jewelry during the game. I know that baseball is typically not a contact sport, unless you are sliding into a base so the chance that someone else is going to get tangled up in your neck ware is slim but still if someone was sliding cleat first toward me I'd hate to have something dangling from my neck. Sure, some of the necklaces they were are supposed to help their energy or their chi or something. To me, it's just seems like a hazard.

The managers where the same uniform as the players. Now before anyone (or either one of the two of you that will read this) goes all crazy on me, I know the reason why they do this. Way back in the early days of baseball, the managers wore the same uniforms as the players in case there were too many injuries or not enough players showed up or something and then they would play. OK, I get that. But I think it would be fair to say that the sport has evolved a bit since then and there is about as much chance of Jim Leland getting out there in left field as there is of a monkey flying out of my rear end. I highly doubt when Leland puts on that jersey every night he's thinking "tonight's the night I'm gonna play." Furthermore I have seen a lot of those managers and quite frankly if there was a circumstance when it would be necessary for the manager to play, I really don't think most of them should. And if that were to happen who would enter the line-up first? Manager? Pitching coach? Batting coach? There are about five different coaches all suited up ...

They still use a corded phone to call the bull pen. That just cracks me up.With all the technology we have these days, the pitching coach still picks up a corded phone to call for a new pitcher to warm up. What is funnier still is that those phones are being installed in the stadium. I could see if it was a older stadium that has been there for decades, but there are new stadiums being built all the time and these phones are being purchased and installed. Millions of dollars are spent erecting state-of-the-art baseball stadiums and they spend $9.99 on the phone to the bull pen. Where can you even find phones like that anymore?

Spitting. Oh, so much spitting. I don't think I have watched another sport where the players spit so much. My husband tells me they do a lot in football and while I don't watch the sport very much or for very long but in my limited viewing I do not think I have seen even a smidgen of the spitting I see in baseball. I'm sorry fellas, but it's gross. I know you think you need to, but I don't really think you do. I mean basketball players are running up and down the court working up just as much of a sweat as you and you don't see them hockin' any loogies do ya? I mean, I know they can't because they play indoors, but still ... every bit of saliva that is in your mouth does not immediately have to go on the ground. It is not attractive ...

Yes, all this may be too critical and yes, it is all a bit silly, but let me assure you, while I may find some aspects of America's past time a bit perplexing or nonsensical, it does not - I repeat, does not - take away from my love of the sport or my love of the Detroit Tigers. I assure you, I will be cheering them on tomorrow night as they take on the Kansas City Royals. Gotta keep that first place spot in the AL Central boys! October is coming soon!!

Go Tigers!

Stuffed with crazy

Like anyone who has small children - or even one child for that matter - my house has been over run with stuffed animals, baby dolls and the like. (See, I told you I was going to write about my kids a lot.)

Stuffed animals are a great go-to gift for relatives or friends at birthdays or holidays. They can also mysteriously pop up in your shopping cart during a trip the grocery store when your little one looks up at you with his or her big doe eyes and says "pullll-ease!" How can you say no to that? You can't, well I can't anyway - not a day when they have been exceptionally good or I have been exceptionally grumpy. And at my house there is a about a 50/50 chance of it being one of those days.

Now after three children and three sets of doey eyes looking up at me, our house is littered with stuffed animals of various size and baby dolls (mostly naked) and even some combination of the two. Some end up on the kids' beds, a few special ones have been placed up on shelves or dressers, but the majority are buried in bins I have purchased in an attempt to contain the ever increasing number of stuffed arms, legs, paws, hooves, wings etc.

Every night I spend time picking up these animals and dolls to return them to their home. But unlike the Legos and Hotwheels I carelessly toss into their perspective bins, I can't seem to bring myself to toss the seemly hundred of stuffed toys into bins. I know it sounds crazy, but I can't. It just feels wrong to throw a naked baby doll into a bin and pile a bunch of other toys on top of it.

Does that make me weird? Maybe,but I was weird anyway so I guess this quirk doesn't really tip the scales ...

I also can't bring myself to carry babies around by their legs or heads. It just feels so wrong. Maybe I have some amazing maternal instinct or something ... nah ... just feels creepy. And given the choice between weird and creepy you gotta pick weird right?

Look, I know these babies aren't alive and when I leave the room they aren't going to spring to life like in Toy Story, but ... I don't know, there is still this very small child-like part of me that doesn't want to give up of the sliver of a chance that they might and I don't want any toys talkin' smack about me ...

A few weeks ago I set up a small pup tent in the basement for my kids to play in. Later in the day I went downstairs and was horrified to see, not only the mess that lay in front of me, but a stuffed bear hanging by it's neck from the inside of the tent. Now I am sure that this wasn't meant to be some sort of torture device for the bear, it was an accident. Maybe the knot got too tight and it couldn't be untied by a six-year-old's fingers, but there it was.

I couldn't help myself I rushed over, untied the poor bear from his noose (I am guessing the bear is a he - he was wearing brown) and proceeded to give him a big hug. Then a carried him around for awhile like a baby and laid him down gently before tackling the mess that was my basement. Weird, sure, but don't go crinkling you nose at me - it's not like I gave him mouth-to-mouth of anything (or would that be mouth-to-snout?).

I know treating dolls and stuffed animals this way doesn't really make much difference in the big scheme of things (except to secure the fact that I am a little coo-coo), but it sure makes me feel better. And if there is any way I can ward off being a victim of one of those Chucky dolls, you can bet I'm gonna do it!

Let's get it started!

Hello Bloggosphere! Welcome to the crazy little space between my ears!

This is my first time blogging so excuse me if I am doing it wrong - but hey! I'm new here, cut me a little slack! I'll get the hang of it eventually. And if I don't I'm sure the blogging gods will let me know and punish me by make me watch all the seasons of "Keeping Up with the Kardashians" on a continuous loop until I am bleeding out my eyes or come to my house, confiscate my computer and shake their finger at me in disgust.

But for now I am here and I plan on taking full advantage. Here are my thoughts people and you must read them! Or you can just click the little red X in the right hand corner of your screen too - it's entirely up to you. 

If you do decide to stick around, first off thanks! And second you may as well know up front that I am going to write about my kids. A LOT. I am a stay-at-home mom (domestic goddess, housewife, homemaker ... whatever PC term we are using these days) and so my kids are in my face, and under my feet and in my space all day every day. Don't get me wrong I love it, even if it may not always come across that way, but this is my life.

So in turn, it's what I write about. So what makes me different from the millions of other stay-at-home moms, a few hundred of which probably have a blog just like mine? Well .... nothing really. I don't have some amazingly unique parenting style, or am amazingly crafty or am a gourmet chef who cooks only organic meals ... I am just your run-of-the-mill mom with three kids (six, three and two) who is desperately trying to get through the laundry and the dishes and the Legos ... Some days are fun, other days are trying and all days are tiring. 

So if you like my style of writing and my attempt at being humorous stick around - there is more to come. If you don't, thanks for stopping by and reading to the end. It's been a privilege having you on my page. You are a very attractive individual too ... did you lose some weight? I love your hair that way too ...