People like to ask me what I do for a living. When I tell them that I am a stay at home mom and I do a little freelance writing on the side, their usual response is something like, "What do you do all day? Don't you get bored?" Um, no. There's really no time for boredom. I wish I could get bored once in awhile. That would be awesome. So, to clear it up once and for all, here is what I do all day. I'll break it down into time increments for you; you're welcome.

6:28am - Roll over, glance at the clock, suppress urge to throw it through nearest window so it can't chime in two minutes. Or, if it still can chime, hopefully I won't be able to hear it as it is in the neighbor's yard.

6:30am - Hear, and resent, peal of alarm clock that I once again did not throw out the window, even though I had fantasies of doing so. Dark, lurid fantasies.

7:00am - Get out of bed when Josh wakes up. Who am I kidding with this 6:30 crap?

7:02am - Resolve to potty train child at earliest possible convenience, or hire a diaper changer to take care of this unpleasant task for me.

7:04am - Search about on internet for "Diaper Changer" in the "positions wanted" section of classifieds and job search websites. Find none.

7:08am - Lumber about kitchen, toy with the idea of putting an open cereal box on the floor for Josh and going back to bed. Reject this idea (forlornly) and fix breakfast for James and Josh.

7:10am - Wonder why in the world there is no coffee brewing, realize I forgot to set the automatic coffee maker thingy last night, and brew pot of coffee. Need strong pot of coffee. Not morning person.

7:20am - Clean up the breakfast mess, off of the table and the boys. Wonder if it would not be more efficient to hose down kitchen and dining room with fire hose than to use the more conventional method of Clorox sanitizing wipes and the dishwasher.

7:30am - Call to husband from shower that I need him to look up the phone number for ABC Rental, or failing that, the fire department.

7:31am - Wonder why husband is grumbling under his breath about "fire hoses and crazy women".

8:00am - Begin to feel human after shower, blow dry, and eight cups of coffee.

8:15am - Dress Joshua. If asked husband to dress Joshua, approve his clothing choices and/or pick out Josh's clothes myself.

8:20am - Check email, respond to hordes of fans writing of their love for me, harass editors and publishers that are taking too long to get back to me regarding some piece of literary brilliance penned lovingly by yours truly.

9:30am - Begin to repair the daily damage done to my immaculate house in the two hours since everyone has been up. Begin to think about errands and the running thereof.

9:45am - Make grocery and Target lists. Call housebound neighbor to see if she needs anything at the store. Ascertain that she does not.

10:00am - Arrive at grocery store (and later Target) without either list. Wing it in both stores, and wind up with likely hundreds of dollars of junk I don't need. What kind of person buys Centrum Silver 25 years before they will actually be considered "silver"? A person without a list, that's who.

11:30am - Arrive home, answer ringing phone while pulling into garage. On the phone is housebound neighbor wondering if I've planned a trip to the store today.

11:32am - Bash head against steering wheel.

11:34am - Unload purchases, superfluous and otherwise, and put them away. Grind teeth at thought of going to store for second time.

11:45am - Check email, re-harass same publishers and editors.

12:00 - Make lunch for Joshua, lament that despite my best intentions (and promises to myself whilst I lay abed this morning) I will not take a nap today.

12:30pm - Finally get Josh to nap after reading Horton Hears a Who nine hundred and forty six times. Begin to hate Horton just a little bit. Wonder how many years Dr. Seuss has taken off of my life.

12:35pm - Sneak out of Josh's room and make my way to the kitchen in stealth mode so as not to wake him up. Settle at lap top with cup of steaming tea and writing sweater, and try to get to work. Try being the operative word.

12:36pm - 2:35pm - Realize I have typed then deleted, typed then deleted, and finally stared at a blank screen for two entire hours waiting for Inspiration to find me. Realize that Inspiration must have lost my address along with Fame and Fortune.

2:36pm - Come up with absolutely marvelous idea. Watch fingers fly across keyboard as masterpiece comes to life.

2:38pm - "Mama?" Josh is up.

2:39pm - Bang head against counter top.

2:40pm - Eat several Tylenol and get Josh out of his crib.

3:00pm - Go back to the store for neighbor, this time remember list. Unfortunately the list remembered is mine, not hers, and it does me no good.

4:00pm - Start making dinner plans, only to realize that I took no meat out of the freezer.

4:45pm - Chip away at frozen block of (hopefully) ground beef that is sizzling away in a sautee pan. Hope that my eyes did not lie when they told me the square block of ice was the ground beef and not something else that would not function as taco meat.

4:56pm - Praise Jesus! It's the ground beef. Enough ice is now gone to reveal the identity of the meat. Wonder how meat will taste after being thawed on stove.

5:00pm - Call Cafe Courier. Remember how much better Chinese food is than watery tacos.

5:15pm - Check email, work on masterpiece, and attempt to run a vacuum through the upper floor before food delivery man arrives.

5:22pm - Succeed. Pat self on back.

5:40pm - Marvel at the wonder of Chinese food. Willfully ignore the calorie count of Sesame Chicken and Pork Fried Rice.

6:00pm - Throw away half-thawed ground beef and clean up kitchen and dining room. Usher boys downstairs to play. Tackle laundry, bathrooms, bedrooms, dusting, and a bit more vacuuming until satisfied with overall appearance of upper floor.

7:00pm - Go downstairs to play with boys, discuss busy day with husband. Decide to take Josh for a walk before bed.

7:01pm - Remember that walking is considered exercise, and that exercise goes against the very grain of my existence.

7:03pm - Decide to go anyway, remembering that marriage and motherhood is about sacrifice. Congratulate myself on my sacrificial love for my family.

8:00pm - Run bath for Joshua, restore him to his clean smelling, snuggly self.

8:20pm - Gaze at my adorable child in his fire truck pajamas, settle into rocking chair with him to read bed time story. Eight. Hundred. More. Times.

8:45pm - Fire off angry letter to Dr. Seuss (why are his books so irresistible to kids?) before realizing he's spent the last 20+ years dead.

9:00pm - Work more on masterpiece, check email, look again on internet for "Diaper Changer" applicants, pay bills, feel a little sick from Chinese food.

11:30pm - Fall into bed, exhausted, and resolve to have a relaxing "at home" day tomorrow. Remember who I am, who I live with, and where I live, and give up the impossible dream of relaxing for any stretch of time. Recall that there are about 6,782 more things that did not make it on to this list because there was not time to put them there.

Midnight - Drift off to sleep, realizing that my life is pretty damn great. I am one lucky Gucci Mama.

Well, I have decided that I will do a weekly entry entitled Stir the Pot, Gucci Mama. You will have seen the first one about sex ed in public schools, published just this afternoon. While I am sure I can come up with several ideas to get the Brandees of the world to twist their panties, you can help me as well with the panty bunching, as it were. If you have an idea, a question, a query, a controversy, let me know, and I will Gucci Mama it up for you! You can leave them as a comment to this post, or you can email them to me; my address is available on my blogger profile page.

Love,
Gucci Mama

Out with Horton Hears a Who, in with Heather Has Two Mommies. Out with discipline, in with permissiveness and whimpering "whatever's right for you" sotto voce. Out with a clear definition of right and wrong, in with "tolerance" of everything under the sun. Out with the Boy Scouts, in with the Gay/Straight Alliance.

Is anyone else as horrified at sending their children to public school as I am? I am convinced that I'll receive mounds of hate mail declaring me "intolerant" and "ignorant", but I'm not these things. I'm just a concerned parent, and I have every right to be. This is a scary time to raise children; we live in one messed up world. Public school isn't helping. Public school is a joke.

We live in times where sex ed is taught to six year olds. With boys and girls together. We wonder why we have children as young as 11 or 12 who are sexually active? Why we are experiencing a teen pregnancy epidemic? Why one in three women have had an abortion before age 40? What did everyone think was going to happen if, from the time they were old enough to write their names, children were being taught the mechanics of reproduction? Not only are very young children taught these things, they are encouraged not to abstain from them, but to just "be careful". Our children are taught that sex is acceptable in a variety of relationship contracts, with a variety of partners, and at virtually any age. Instead of being lauded, morals and virtue are laughed at, by fellow students and educators alike. Abstinence is seen as undesirable and unattainable. Teachers and advocates assume (wrongly) that kids/teens will have sex anyway, so they may as well know how to do it "right". I would submit that the reason they are doing it is because the notion that they are unable to control themselves is drilled into their heads from such a young age. The favorite argument among the sex ed elite is that they're all "out doing it anyway". That's simply false. They learned the behavior. They are told they "can't help it".

Children learn impulse control from toddlerhood. Parent's don't give in to whining for a reason; eventually kids learn that even if they really really want something, sometimes they can't have it. Sometimes they have to wait until they're older. Impulse control is a crucial behavioral milestone, and it does not disappear come puberty. To ascertain otherwise is patently ridiculous, and it's not giving kids enough credit. Teenagers have the ability, nay, the right to value themselves, their bodies, and their virginity. They have the right to just worry about their homework and Friday's football game, and not diapers and bottles. Not condoms or gonorrhea. This is not to say that kids this age aren't experiencing sexual awareness and even urges, but what people need to realize is that this awareness does not need to be acted upon; and it's ok to say so.

Sex ed is a relatively new phenomena. It was not taught this way thirty years ago, and thirty years ago we did not have the rampant promiscuity, sexually transmitted diseases, and teen pregnancies that we have today. Today we live in a sexualized culture; sex ed is not the only culprit, of course. The media is a horrible influence for the most part; it is difficult, if not impossible, to find a program during prime time that does not have sexual undertones. One cannot walk through the little girls department without seeing clothing that is entirely age inappropriate. There is no reason for sweat pants with the word "juicy" on the backside in a size 6x. It makes me sick, quite frankly. There is no reason for mid-riff T-shirts and short shorts for little girls.

What happened to letting our kids be kids? Why is everyone in such a hurry to grow them up? I didn't envision a family of pint-sized adults when I decided I wanted children, I envisioned a family with happy children who don't have adult worries and responsibilities. To that end, we have decided on private school for all of our children. We don't allow TV right now, and as Josh (and future children) get older, TV will be pretty limited. I have to wonder though, is it enough?

Even in private school, people seem to want to butt in to our families, and tell our children things they should be learning from their parents. Private schools are certainly much better, and of course they are not accountable to legislators who want mandatory sexualization of our kids, but there is no such thing as perfect. And that's really the crux of the issue for me. It is the responsibility of the parents to teach kids about sex, it is the responsibility of the parents to teach kids values and morals, and it is the responsibility of parents to make sure their kids are allowed to stay young as long as possible. It is dangerous to leave something as important and as sacred as sex to be explained by a non-family member, some one who could have or even likely has very different values than the family.

Sex-ed undermines traditional values, it mocks them as unrealistic, and kids buy into this, because this agenda is pushed at them from first grade on. Unfortunately, because sex is treated as just another "fun thing to do" by public educators, kids engage in the act before they are emotionally ready in addition to being biologically ready; consequently there is much more tragedy in the lives of teens than there needs to be. How much heart ache could be avoided, not to mention unplanned pregnancies and STD's, if abstinence was given at least equal air time with contraception? If abstinence was taught, truly taught and not just mentioned, and if contraception and STD prevention were put on the back burner, it can only be concluded that there would be a rapid decrease in sexual promiscuity among teenagers and therefore less of the heartbreaking consequences of too-early sexual encounters. I know this because this is how it used to be.

It is not unrealistic, ignorant, or backwards to call for a return to reason in the area of sex education, meaning putting an emphasis on abstinence, yes, but also an emphasis on how sex when you're too young, sex with the wrong partner or with too many partners can be utterly ruinous.

I want to be a Grandma. I think that will be nearly as magical as motherhood. I just don't want to experience the magic when I'm 35.

If my sister, we'll call her "Shannon" (mainly because that's her name) were a teenage mutant ninja turtle, she'd definitely be Michelangelo. Since my sister truly is a teenage mutant ninja turtle, she, I suppose, is Michelangelo. In fact, I will tell you without breaking the ninja code or giving up any ninja secrets, we are part of a select group of "true ninjas" along with our mom. So, if "Shannon" is Michelangelo, "I" would be Leonardo (mainly because of my brilliance) and "mom" is, well, "mom" is Raphael. My dog "Lucy" is Splinter, the leader of the ninjas. Seriously, her face looks exactly like the face of Splinter from the 90's Turtle movies.

That leaves us with an opening; who can be Donatello? There are certain requirements to being a true ninja, none of which I can share with you, lest you be required to forfeit your life. I have pushed for my husband, "James", to fill the role, but Mikey and Rafe aren't really interested in that. I thought of "Josh" too, but he's really to young to eat ninja chow or wield a bow staff.

Please keep yourselves safe by not asking about ninja chow. It is a top secret recipe; Shredder has been trying to steal it from us for months. The less you know about it, the safer you are.

There is a new contender for Donatello, my sister's new fiancee "David". Yes, Mikey's engaged, and Splinter approves. "I", however, do not think it wise to just willy nilly allow some "David" to take up the bow staff of Donatello, however much I may approve of the marriage alliance. What do we really know about his ninja skills? Has he ever even seen a pair of nun chucks? I don't THINK so. Maybe I'm a little put out that "James" was voted off ninja island so early, but still, I have reservations.

If Mikey knows one thing, however, it's how to get married in style. And how to pick a pretty great guy, even if he isn't exactly what I would call "Donatello Material". In January, they will leave the confines of snow covered, ah, everything, and travel to Australia to wed on a beach. I'm not going to miss this.

The thing that's great about "Shannon" is that she throws convention to the wind, other's opinions be damned. She doesn't care that I think its N-U-T-S nuts to get married not just on the beach, but in the actual water. I love that about her. It's her wedding, she can get married in the damn ocean if she wants! I just hope she doesn't expect me to wade in there with her, the salt water will not be kind to my ninja blades.

We have cause to celebrate in this family! One of our ninjas is entering into the sacred bond of matrimony, even if it is with a mere human, and not a teenage mutant ninja brother in law. I'm just thankful he's not a member of the Foot Clan, Shredder's minions. It would really be a shame to have to throw a smoke bomb at him and tie him up with silken cords before he even knows what hit him. As ninjas, though, we do what we must.

I must go now, and practice with my flips and my blades. Ninja.....vanish!

Maybe I'm being unreasonable; and please, if I am, set me straight. But I do not see any reasonable explanation for all of this rain! Every day for a week! I love thunder storms, I like just regular rain, but enough is enough, no?

And I vow, if I hear one more person blather on about how "we need the moisture" I will find a devious way to drain the life's blood from their person. First of all, no one says this because they have a clue what it means, how much moisture we need, or how much we already have. It's just a token response to a comment about the dreary weather. It's kind of like when they ask you in the Target check out, "Did you find everything ok? Did you get everything you need?" How do they expect me to respond to questions so asinine? Not the way I do, I'm sure. Last time I said, "No, I didn't get everything I need yet, I just want to see your smiling face here in the check out asking me if I found my things alright a few more times today. So I'm shopping in stages. I'll bring this load out to my car, and then troop right back in. Expect to see me five or six more times this afternoon." Strangely, they don't ask me courtesy questions in Target anymore. Odd.

So, I'm sitting in my kitchen right now, which is adjacent to the formal living room. The formal living room has no walls, just banks of floor to cathedral ceiling windows. It's beautiful, and I love bathing in the sunlight in this room, especially in the summertime. Unfortunately, though it is 1:36 in the afternoon, my living room is black as pitch; thank goodness I have electricity, or I'd be writing by candle light. I understand that's hard on the eyes.

James is not working this summer; he has decided to take these three months off before putting his electrical engineering degree to good use and working for some sort of firm that does some sort of thing of which I am not aware. I think "electrical engineer" sounds cool, but I have virtually no idea what it means, other than it's not something I want to mess around with. Anyway, we have been looking forward to this family summer for months. We're going on vacation, we're completing some much needed work on and around the house, but most importantly, we have all this family time. We envisioned going to the park and the pool, playing in the back yard, going on picnics and long walks. So far, though we are nearly four weeks into summer, we've been unable to enjoy these outdoor activities. It has either been colder than the
Arctic Circle or raining as if God means to once again flood the earth. I know He promised never to do that again; but maybe he's settled on just flooding Bozeman. There are a lot of hippies and Obama supporters here after all. Alright, God wouldn't do that. He's a much nicer guy than I am; which is why He is God and I am not.

Still, I am no longer singing in the rain. We've really exhausted every indoor playground and play group in the greater Gallatin Valley, and I think we all know why I'm not willing to go back to the Children's Museum any time soon.

Well, at least I have my writing to keep me company while Josh naps. I'm not bored that---oh crap. Power's out. My laptop will run on batteries...but no lights. Where are all those damn candles?

Dear Diary,

Oh, so many questions today. What is it about me that threatens people in general; militant feminists in particular? Is it my stunning good looks? My incredible charm? My unparalleled skill with pen and paper (or key board and computer screen as it were)? My uncanny ability to debate logically, even in the midst of their insult hurling, name calling, pealy mouth spouting of platitudes? Is that what offends them so? That I cannot be distracted by their bitter mudslinging, and continue to form logical points that they cannot compete with?

That must be it. I have been attacked by one woman in particular, and two others to a much lesser degree, about my last post on breast feeding. One wonders why they felt they must attack me personally, my parenting skills, and my womanhood rather than come up with one intelligent point. Because, while there was a lot of spouting fun tag lines and sound bites, nothing they said between the three of them could be formed into a logical or even decent response to what I was saying.

Oh, diary, those feminists are so silly. They attack my parenting; yet when I asked them, several times mind you, how many children they each had, not a one bothered to answer. This leads me to believe that their knowledge of motherhood is purely theoretical. Huh. Well, perhaps they have another chore in addition to the one I gave them in my last post. The one I already gave them was to search around in the haze of hemp filling their houses for a sense of humor. The second task I give them is to have a child or two before presuming to dole out unsolicited and inaccurate parenting advice.

Thanks for listening, Diary.

Yrs, etc.
Stepha

Dear Brandee and Anonymous (Well, the anonymous that felt sorry for my lack of education and support),

Thanks. Thanks for your personal attacks, your deliberate misunderstanding of what I wrote, and for doing your part to make bottle feeding mothers everywhere second guess themselves. You're doing great! You are wonderful travel agents for mommy guilt trips. It's because of you that women attempt to breast feed at all costs; at the expense of their children and themselves.

Thank you for letting us bottle feeders know that if we were just more educated, dedicated, and loved our children more, we'd have made a better go of that whole nursing thing. Because, really, a woman who would give her child artificial food can't really love that child, can she? She can't really want what's best for it! In fact, she'll probably let it play with matches after it's done with the bottle.

If it weren't for you, Brandee and Anonymous, I'd still be thinking that it was creepy to nurse a pre-teen, but you've shown me that primitive third world cultures from remote places around the globe do this, so it must be a good plan. After all, they have their agrarian societies, genocides, and tribal hierarchy; not to mention their lack of infrastructure, adequate medical care, or clean drinking water. They're obviously doing something right!

Before you attack me for being insensitive to the plight of the third world, Brandee and Anonymous, rest assured that I do not make light of their situation. I illustrate it merely to point out that their system of doing things, up to and including breast feeding school aged children, may not make for the best society.

I want you to know I appreciate your valiant efforts to belittle me, call my parenting into question, and make me feel like less of a mother and less of a woman because I was unable to breast feed. You didn't succeed, really your ludicrous assumptions, half truths, and propaganda just vindicated me. You made my position that much stronger, because you see, no one likes a bully.

Let's face it, Brandee and Anonymous, you have been trying to bully me and other moms into breast feeding at all times and at all costs. You, apparently, cannot see the forest for the trees, or in this case, the nipples for the bra. I suppose that being of the "it takes a village" mentality, you find it acceptable to try to guilt women you've never met into your line of thinking. You erred, however, when you assumed I'd allow the village anywhere near my baby boy.

Again, thanks for your thoughts. Hope you enjoy life on the Yellow Brick Road. Give my regards to the Wizard.

Best,
Stephanie

I suppose, if I've ever really been all that offensive to you, you'd have stopped reading long ago. Since I get more hits every day I can only assume that I am just saying out loud what you would like to if you were as mean and nasty as I am. Ah, who am I kidding? I'm a sugar plum.

This however, may get to you. If I cared I wouldn't write it. Ha ha. I guess, if you find yourself with panties bunched up tightly in a wad, you can call the La Leche League or something, because I'm sure they'll get their ten year old nursing bras all twisted around when they hear about this.

Yesterday, thanks to the incessant rain, we found ourselves with nothing to do and a nearly lethal case of cabin fever. Even though he hasn't been a big fan lately, we took Josh to the Children's Museum, thinking that at least we'd get out of the house. Well, get out of the house we did, but we also got just a little bit more than we bargained for. In the form of a 38DD in the face.

I nursed. Oh yeah, you bet. I nursed for about two weeks after Josh was born, until he was losing weight left and right and my ahem felt as though they'd been ground with sand paper and then run over by a cement truck. So I know all about breast feeding. I'm a proponent. I mean, I'm not going to wear a sandwich board or anything, but I don't care if you nurse your baby, even in public. Just please, for the love of God, GET A BLANKET.

This case of the Children's Museum Boob Caper was especially sordid, because well, this woman seemed quite proud of her, ah, assets. She could not content herself with (a) going around the corner for privacy, (b) strategically placing a blanket over her nursing child, or (c) keeping a shirt on. Since the floodgates of heaven had been open for the previous few days and Bozeman looked to be on the verge of requiring an Ark, the museum was full of kids. And dads. I'm not sure if this woman was expecting tips, but I'm sure these men felt like maybe they needed to quick get some singles to place, um, somewhere. She didn't have a lot of clothing left on to slip a dollar bill into.

Men and boys alike had a hard time looking away, and strangely so did I. It was kind of like an especially gory train wreck. No one wants to look, but for some reason it is nigh impossible to tear the eye away.

This problem, for me, was compounded by the fact that the child she was nursing was like four. Seriously, what the hell? I cannot be the only one who thinks it's a little creepy to nurse a kid that can speak in full sentences. In thirty years this kid will be speaking full sentences to his flotilla of psychotherapists, talking about his mommy issues. What will this mother do next year, when her child goes to kindergarten? Whip off her bra in the lunch room? I simply do not get it.

This is an example (albeit extreme) of why it is ridiculous, even dangerous, to make a cause out of everything. Yeah yeah yeah, we have the right to feed our children; I've heard the militant chanting. Of course I agree with that. We also have the right to public washrooms, but that doesn't mean we do our business on the floor. The problem with making breast feeding, which should be a private as possible bonding experience between mother and child, a matter of public outcry is two fold. First, we get nut jobs who take it to the extreme and disrobe in front of God and everybody. Second, we have moms who can't nurse made to feel unfit.

I was unable to nurse; and I have since given up all feelings of inadequacy, no thanks to the saggy bra La Leche Leaguers. I tried. I tried so valiantly. We stuck it out for two weeks, and it just didn't happen. I believe I mentioned the unimaginable pain it causes, so that was a biggie, but more importantly, Josh was not getting enough to eat. He was starving all the time. It came to a choice between formula or starvation. We chose Similac. Guess what? Josh survived his horrible mother feeding him formula! He grew just as big, he's just as smart (who am I kidding, he's the smartest kid alive), and he's never had an ear infection or the flu. So all of the "formula is evil" scare tactics didn't prove true with my wonder child.

I've mentioned before that I plan on having three more children. So I'll give this breast feeding thing another go. I won't, however, lobby congress for the privilege of flapping my chest in people's faces, scowl at mothers with bottles, or forgo weaning until Driver's Ed.

So nurse on, moms with babies, but don't be surprised if, when you forget your modesty, I cover you with my jacket.

This top ten list is in the spirit of 1.) enticing new readers to go back and read previous (hilarious) posts and 2.) reminding you, faithful fans, of why you still come here, day after day to remind yourself to be thankful you, um, aren't me. On the other hand, perhaps you wish you were me. I know I would, if I were someone else.

Here are my top ten favorite lines from past blog entries, and links to the posts in their entirety.

I think there must be a phenomena that during which a book is written, the characters are real, and living out great capers at the whim of the authors pen. If this is true, and I will present imperical evidence that it must be so, my story is The Birds by Alfred Hitchcock. We have birds everywhere. They're all over the yard, they fly into the windows, they nest on the roof. Some of the more evil ones swoop down and attack my poor dog. Of course, joke's on them, because Lucy just, um, eats them when they do this.

Now, however, something even more terrifying than swooping attack birds has occurred. As you will see in the photograph, when a gigantic dinosaur-esque bird attempted to roost in the nook above our front door, drastic measures were needed.


Notice, if you will, perched atop my front door is a scare-bunny. You'll see in pictures that have been zoomed in a little bit that he looks innocent enough, what with his fluffy fur and yellow bow. But don't look too far into his droopy eyes lest you chance to face an embodiment of pure, unadulterated evil.







Yes, his ears are floppy, his tail is bushy, but it's just a facade. Beneath these seemingly innocuous accoutroments lurks a sinister countenance.












Oh, he scares off the nesting bird alright, but at what cost? He extorts us for carrots, thumps night and day, and his nighttime squeaking is a scarier sound than the ancient pounding of Mongol drums. People lived in fear of those invasion warning drums, but I swear to you that if this bunny would have been around in the thirteenth century, he would have stopped Ghengis Kahn himself dead in his tracks.


I know the pictures are blurry, and I apologize. However, I had to snap them quickly; I didn't want to risk the wrath of this bushy tailed fiend. He hates having his picture taken; he never wants his identity revealed. In fact, he goes so far to keep himself a secret that he burns off his fingerprints and shaves off all his hair. The white fluffy stuff you see pictured is but a bunny wig.

I don't know why we got ourselves into this mess, and I see no way to extricate ourselves. We thought the birds were bad; at least they only attacked the dog, and that only in the back yard. This rabbit creature has us all cowering before our own shadows, diving under the table every time we hear a squeak or the crunch of a carrot, and stone cold petrified to attempt walking through our front door.

Mr. Hitchcock, I realize you're dead now, but you forgot to write the end of our story. You know, the part where the evil bunny is foiled forever, and peace is restored to our household? Don't you have a ghost writer or something? Work on that, would you? I think I hear Mongol drums in the distance.

Normally I horde my recipes to myself, as they are the result of blood, sweat, and tears; not to mention hours in the kitchen experimenting and testing. I choose to share this one with you for a few reasons. 1. It's flipping awesome. 2. I came to me today on the treadmill, so not a lot of blood, sweat, or tears. No sweat because ladies do not sweat, they glow, and I didn't fall today, so no blood. Maybe just a few tears. I hate the treadmill. 3. I didn't have to test it more than once, it was spectacular the very first time I made it. So, you may read it, you may try it, and I guarantee you will love it. Let me know what you think after you try it out. Serves 4-6 by the way.

Ingredients List

Half of a large red onion
Three cloves of garlic
About twelve crimini mushroons
One pound of spaghetti
One bottle of your favorite red wine
One cup of arugula or spinach, whichever you prefer
Two tablespoons of fresh Italian parsley
Four tablespoons of a good gorgonzola cheese
Four ribeye steaks
One half cup of beef stock

Assembly

Bring the entire bottle of red wine along with about four cups of water to a rolling boil, add a pinch of salt and entire pound of spaghetti. Allow to cook to al dente (pasta has just a little bite). Meanwhile, mince garlic, onion, and mushrooms; set aside. Broil steaks for about 4 minutes on each side, depending on thickness, until they are medium rare. Remove steaks from oven and cover with tin foil. Allow steaks to rest for at least fifteen minutes; this will allow the juices to redistribute throughout the meat so the steaks are wonderfully tender. When pasta has reached al dente, remove from heat, but keep it in the cooking liquid. Sautee the mushrooms, onion, and garlic in the beef stock. When they are tender, add the spaghetti noodles to them in the sautee pan. Mix well, and then add the spinach/arugula.

Plating

Arrange a bed of the pasta mixture on a large platter. Cut the rested steak into long, thin strips, and lay on top of pasta. Top with gorgonzola cheese and garnish with freshly chopped flat leaf Italian parsley.

Enjoying

This dish can be served warm (for dinner) or cold (for lunch). It would also be great cold on a picnic. Pair it with a nice merlot or chianti. Home made garlic bread would also go very well with this dish.

If you ask me nicely enough, I may share with you my award winning recipe for home made garlic bread. We shall see.

Try this recipe, and let me know if you like it. Scratch that. Let me know how much you like it, because there's really no question that you will.

When there is a consistent problem that follows one throughout life, that shadows one from place to place, job to job, relationship to relationship, it may be time for one to examine exactly why this problem shadow exists, and in extreme cases, explore the possibility that the fault actually lies with oneself, not with everyone else.

This earth shattering conclusion came to me today as we were driving home from a great new play area for kids. I just learned about this wonderful place yesterday, and yes, it was everything I dreamed it could be and more. Almost. The facility is fabulous, the employees are wonderfully kind and helpful, and Joshua absolutely loved it. We stayed and played for three hours. We'll definitely go back. Soon. I think I'll just adjust my expectations a wee bit for next time, so a trip to the fun house doesn't require a car ride soul search when we leave.

I thought, silly me, that bringing Josh there would not only be good for him, but for me too. I thought I could meet some other moms and become fast friends. You know, the kind of friends that tell you when your outfit makes you look fat, or if its just your face making you look that way. I have a few friends like this, and I cherish them. Friend pig that I am, I want more. What better place to look, I thought, for women with similar interests than a place like an indoor playground? Oh, they were there. Just not exactly what I had in mind.

They had their little kids dressed up in hemp clothing and organic cotton, eating hummus and tofu out of wicker baskets lined with recycled paper. They walked around bare foot and sat down not on furniture, but on the floor in impossibly ridiculous yoga positions; they looked like so many granola Gumbys. Enter me, wearing imported Italian leather stiletto boots, denim capris and a (gorgeous) Ralph Lauren ecru cashmere sweater. These women do not like me. Hate at first sight, based on what I can only assume, is my immaculate (and animal sacrificing) ensemble.

I tried to play nice. Really, I did. They weren't having it. They turned their un-made-up faces away from me and proceeded to talk about what I can only assume were their imagined benefits of not shaving, because if there's a Lady Bic in any of their houses that's seen the light of day for the last ten years I'll eat my hat.

I've run into this type of problem before. Apparently there's something about me that rubs some people the wrong way. I think I'm basically a sweet and lovable gal, discounting my biting sarcasm and acerbic wit, but I only bring out those guns of you upset me. By ignoring me for example. I toyed briefly with the idea of describing to you, gentle reader, the various ways I put these holier than thou hairy legged women libbers in their place, but I have decided to rise above.

Nah, I'm sure they were properly chastised this morning, whereupon they learned that feeding your children animal flesh does not a criminal mother make, and I don't need to add insult to injury. Well, anymore injury. I am convinced they're all home now with their sandal wearing husbands and licking their wounds. Plus, I have to go polish my leather boots. With a steak.

I sent the following email to the owner of the gym of which I am a member. The subject heading was "Points of Interest".



Leroux,

Love your gym, love your program, hate your towels.

My "fitness goals" used to include the following:

A. Stop being fat
B. Think of/see a treadmill without urge to vomit
C. Use new thin body to take over world

Now they read more like this:

A. Stop being fat in order to,
B. Fit minuscule gym towels about person
C. Get fabulous new haircut to go with de-puffed face
D. Buy Leroux fat girl sized towels for gym as a thank you gesture
E. Convince husband Leroux's name is pronounced LeROW, not LeROCKS

I typically bring my own, ah, plus sized towel with me for my post-work-out-shower drying pleasure, but today I forgot, and so was acquainted with your pea sized specimens. I believe the Lord Himself made sure no one entered the ladies locker room during Stephanie's Great Towel Caper purely to prevent His beloved from immediate hysterical blindness.

But, don't cry for me Argentina, I have lived to tell the tale. And I shall never forget my own towel again.

Best,

Stephanie Delger

Dear Verizon Wireless,

Allow me to begin by congratulating you on your brilliant customer retention scheme. I hope you gave the man who came up with the "tell the customer to assume the position of bending over and grabbing her ankles" strategy a big fat raise. Because, really, what better way to ensure your company continues to rake in money hand over fist, but doesn't have to be bothered by that pesky "customer service" nonsense, or that irritating sense of right and wrong? Who needs that?

Verizon Wireless, I salute you. You have managed to scrape together from the dregs of college drop outs the most aggravating, useless, and quite likely ugly persons to answer your "customer service" line after days of hearing a robot voice tell the valued customer that their call is important to you. In an amazing side benefit for you, you have also met with great success in assuring that everyone you employ lacks even the hint of common sense. Before I became a mom, Verizon Wireless, I ran a business, so I know how important it is to have employees too obtuse to follow a simple path of logic. If you have employees who have skills like knowing what words mean, you'd be bankrupt! Thankfully, you save yourself from public assistance by (1) the brilliant strategy I mentioned previously and (b) hiring people who will not deviate from a prearranged script even on threat of death. In this way you ensure that no real solutions can be reached, and the customer is always the one bending over and taking it...well you know where.

I had the following conversation with one of your half-wits just today, Verizon Wireless. I'd like to share it with you, that you may know you're doing something right.

Verizon Wireless Phone Robot: Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless. All of our representatives are currently assisting other customers. Please wait, and your call will be answered in the order it was received. Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless. All of our representatives are currently assisting other customers.....

This went on for approximately 78 minutes, or precisely enough time for me to pull all the hair out of the right side of my head. Finally, a half-wit picked up. Who knew the day would come when I'd be longing for a half-wit on the customer service line?

Half-wit: Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless, how may I be of service to you?

Me: Well, I got a new phone about four months ago, and there weren't any in stock so the store I went to had to order one for me -

Half-wit: Did you get it from a Verizon Wireless location?

Me: No, The Outback Steakhouse.

Half-wit: I'm not aware of any Verizon outlets in that restaurant.

Me: No? Alright, I got it at a Verizon store. May I continue?

Half-wit: Of course, ma'am. Tell me what kind of phone you purchased.

Me: Kindly don't patronize me by calling me ma'am. I know you don't mean it, and I'm already aggravated from having to listen to that stupid recording being thankful for my call for the last fourteen days. Now then, when the phone I ordered came in, I went to the store and exchanged my old, non-working phone for the new one.

Half-wit: Uh huh. What seems to be the problem, ma'am.

Me: Don't get lippy with me. The problem is, Princess, on my latest bill you're charging me four hundred dollars for the phone I RETURNED TO THE STORE.

Half-wit: That's not something I can fix for you, you're going to have to talk with the store you say you returned it to.

Me: I don't "say" I returned it, I JUST RETURNED IT. I have never in my life had to pay for something that I don't own, that I in fact returned to the very store from which it was purchased. I have especially never had to pay for something that I returned to the very store from which I purchased it because, like all of the other products in that store, it crumbles into a thousand pieces, sometimes literally and sometimes figuratively, approximately three days after it leaves the store. I already explained this to the fourteen year old manager, and he told me to call you. I did that. Then you told me to call him. I did that a second time. This time, in a display of behavior perfectly suitable to a fourteen year old, he hung up on me.

Half-wit: I'm sorry you're having trouble, and I understand you're frustrated. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do. You have to talk to the store where the phone was returned.

Me: Did you hear a word I just said?

Half-wit: Yes, ma'am, and I'm telling you that I cannot help you.

Me: Kindly transfer me to someone who can.

Half-wit: There's no one here to help you.

Me: How many thousands of employees does Verizon Wireless have? I am willing to bet that you are not the highest ranking official. It stands to reason, then, that you have a boss. I think that your boss has a boss, and so on and so forth, until we come to the president of the company, who I will talk to if that's what it takes!

Half-wit: Let me put you on hold for one moment.

Me: By all means.

Verizon Wireless Robot Voice: Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless. All of our representatives are currently serving other customers...

Half-wit: Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless, how may I be of service to you?

Me: Aren't you the same idiot I was just talking to?

Half-wit: Your name and phone number please?

Me: It is you! You put me on hold for your supervisor.

Half-wit: He's on a cigarette break.

Me: Of course he is. Every supervisor I've ever asked to speak with is constantly on a cigarette break. Putting Joe Camel's kids through college, I'm sure. When will the supervisor be available?

Half-wit: I don't know. Is there anything I can help you with?

Me: You have got to be kidding me. Am I on Candid Camera? No, you can't help me; we already established that. I'll call back, and when I do, I will not hang up until Old Smokey grinds out is eighty fifth cigarette and wheezes his spindly ass over to the phone to help me!

Half-wit: Ok! Thank you for calling Verizon Wireless, and have a great day.

You see, Verizon Wireless, you have effectively ensured that no one who calls you will be helped, and you have safeguarded yourself against losing customers because of this by requiring astronomical fees for early cancellation. Bravo!

I just want you to know, Verizon Wireless, that I will continue to pay my service charges. I have always paid on time, and I will continue to do so. I may even send a little something extra for the retard I talked with on the phone today. Perhaps I'll send a pack of Marlboros. I will not, however, pay the four hundred dollars you want to charge me for a phone that is in your possession. Not unless you are willing to pay me $549,000 for my house. You see, if you did that, and I kept my house, we'd be even. I'd pay you for a phone you own, you'd pay off my house. I bet if we asked one of your customer service reps they'd back me up. They, as we know, don't have brains of their own, they are programmed only to read their patronizing little script.

So, Verizon, I bid you farewell. I do not concede defeat; this battle is far from over. I will not bend to your tyranny and pay for a phone I do not own, and I will not fork over several hundred dollars to cancel my phone service only to sign up with a different rapist for phone service. You haven't heard the last from me, your Number One Fan. Until then I remain,

Your Fondest Patron,

Stephanie

I was fantastic mother before I had kids. You should have seen me. I had it all figured out, and I was entirely convinced that if those idiots with misbehaving, badly dressed, messy kids would just listen to me, they'd see peace restored in their households. Yeah, I was childless at the time, but what does experience matter when one has such a wealth of theoretical knowledge? As it turns out, experience is the only thing that matters. Go figure.

I am ashamed of myself for my pre-child judgments and eye rolls. I wish I had never commented quietly to my dinner companions that my child would never act up in the restaurant. By God, he'll eat what's on his plate and thank me for it! Right. It's amazing to me what I thought I knew, and how all of my "knowledge", theories, and plans went right out the window the minute we brought Josh home from the hospital.

Now I am on the other end of the judgments, eye rolls, and backhanded comments, I would like to go back in time to my pre-child skinny self and kick her ass. How ridiculous for me to assume that I knew better than parents, even new parents blindly (or nearly so) stumbling their way through this adventure of parenthood. It's not something that can be understood until it is experienced.

My sister would disagree with me. Grr. She, bless her heart, is a mother with no children. My sister is 21, still in college, and CHILDLESS. And she is just like I was. Since Joshua was born, she has relied upon her two college psychology classes as a jumping board for a litany of unsolicited advice. I love my sister, and I know her, ah, "help" is coming from the right place in her heart, but not only does she have no real life experience, we agree on just about...hmm, let me compute...got it! We agree on just about nothing. We are diametrically opposed politically (she's tells me she's a liberal, I tell her that admitting she has a problem is the first step toward recovery), we have different values and goals, and that's great, but it doesn't jive with parenting advice. Her opinions don't bother me, really, I just brush them off as 21 year old idealist college student fluffy stuff. And I sincerely appreciate that she has such an interest in my son and our family. I think she'll be a fabulous mom when the time comes; just not to my kid(s).

And that's really the point isn't it? Our kids are ours for a reason. We know them, we understand them (until they're teenagers and become aliens), we love them, and we know what's best for them. So why, for the love of God why! do not just our loved ones, but strangers think they have a say in how we interact with our children? Loved ones can get away with it, but the snippy lady in line behind us at Target cannot. The impatient waitress, the meddling fellow shopper, the woman without kids, the (fill in the blank) cannot conceive what it is like to be mother to our children and thus need to back their shit up. It's one thing to call your mom at three in the morning so she can assure you that your newborn will live until morning even if you don't get up every six minutes to check if they're still breathing. It's another thing for a perfect stranger to criticize your children's behavior and your reaction to it.

I have learned to largely ignore critical eyes, and I secretly smile at the day their own children will do something they, in their pre-child years, would have deemed unthinkable. It happens to all of us. No one is immune. I only hope that people will learn to curb the impulse to condemn harried mothers at their wits end, and not butt in with "help". Also, I feel like I should pay some sort of a penance for my behavior before I had Joshua. Maybe I'll say a Hail Mary or something. And I'm not even Catholic.

I had this wild idea in the garden department of Home Depot last night. We were buying some shrubbery to plant along our fence, and I, like a two year old with the attention span to match, wandered over to the herb and vegetable section. I looked, I felt, I picked up and turned around all sorts of rosemary, sage, thyme, and so on. I then skipped over to my husband and (while jumping up and down) exclaimed, "I need! I need!"

Yeah.

Not too sure what came over me, but the results of my little foray into being an herb and vegetable gardener were nothing short of catastrophic. I ended up purchasing a rosemary plant, some mint, and red and green peppers. One would think that these things would not be too difficult sow and reap; and in reality, they probably aren't. I, however, managed to murder all of my recent purchases overnight.

I went home as fast I could last night to dig out my pink gardening gloves, my matching pink tools and gardening mat, and plant my budding little herb garden. I lovingly dug their little holes, buried their roots, watered them, and even gave them some yummy little outdoor plant food. Ah, they looked lovely, and I took a moment to imagine myself preparing savory dishes in my kitchen, stepping outside to clip a branch of rosemary straight from my garden, and maybe even adding a red pepper or two. Ah, how delightful it would be to grow my own herbs and vegetables!

This morning, when I went outside to visit them again, they were, to put it delicately, dead as door nails. Even though they stood up proudly and fresh smelling last night, by first light of day they were wilted, brown, and ready to be measured for their miniature plant coffins. Clearly I am not cut out for this gardening business. Good thing they sell fresh herbs at Rosaur's.

Ok! I'm back! Sorry sorry sorry! Let me just tell you what it's been like in the last few days since my near two week visit from Charlie M. In fact, hey! Why not do a top ten list!

Hi everyone...sorry sorry sorry I haven't written anything in awhile. Between Charlie M., other writing commitments, a little, ahem, writer's block, and ah, life, I just haven't been able to make it here in awhile. So, I promise to sit down tomorrow afternoon with my writing sweater, a nice steaming cup of tea, and my laptop. Well, I promise to try...

Alright, so all of you know that I have been doing a weekly top ten list every Monday. You probably have also noticed that I have not done one this week. This is for the simple reason that I would like your involvement. Yes, I am asking for help. I do like comments, I do like feedback, so I am attempting, with this new idea, to force your hand a bit. I want my next top ten list to be fueled by you! Maybe my ego is a bit over sized, but I have been thinking you may want to get to know me a bit better. Here is your opportunity! Send me questions, you can email me or just leave a comment on this post. I will pick my ten favorites, and voila! Next week's top ten list will be born. You can ask them anonymously or leave your name, up to you.

That's it for today, folks! I'd love to stay and chat, but I have much to finish before Joshua wakes up from his nap. Please, heed my siren's call for acknowledgment and help me out with the next top ten list. Pretty please with sugar on top...

Ah, greetings, after a brief hiatus, I have returned. (Collective sigh) I have recently ascended from the pit of what I call a Charlie M. migraine. Charlie M.? you ask. Allow me to enlighten you. You've seen Casino, right? Ok, if you have not seen Casino, crawl out from beneath the rock you have been residing under for the last two decades and go rent it, watch it, watch it at least one more time, and then come back and finish reading this blog.

Now then, for those of you who have chosen to dwell above the surface of the earth, I salute you. You remember Casino, who wouldn't? It has scrumtious Robert DeNiro, Joe Pesci the lovable little guy, and yeah yeah yeah, Sharon Stone. This movie is the inspiration for my migraine name. There is a scene in which Nicky, Joe Pesci's character, is looking for some information. He apparently was not interested in asking nicely, and the person whom he was asking was not being all that forthcoming. Hence, the head in a vice. Yes, for a little guy, Nicky's pretty tough. He puts this man's head in a vice and tightens it until one of his eyes pops clear out of his head. Pleasant image, no? This is the point where he finally breaks, and gives up the name "Charlie M."

When I have a migraine, this is how it feels. Only worse. Alright, my eyes are still where they should be, but sometimes that's hard for me to believe, considering the intense pressure and knife like fingers of ice inserting themselves into my brain. This is why I have not been around for the last few days. I'm not entirely sure how long it's been, as I do nothing during a Charlie M. episode other than lay abed in the dark trying not to cast up my accounts and worry about the pain causing permanent brain damage. This time was especially lovely, because halfway through I thought it was over, only to have it rear its ugly head once more. Yes, twin Charlie M.'s are my particular favorite.

I hope against hope that I am back to my normal self again. Please, resume faithfully checking with me every day to read my new and fascinating insights into life and motherhood. Meanwhile, I'm going to see if I can get Joe Pesci to come over and finish off Charlie M. once and for all.

I know I left you in a lurch yesterday, gentle reader, not finishing my harrowing tale, but I just could not bring myself to continue. For one thing, it is just simply too awful a subject to dwell on for long, and for another, we had to get out of the house until the bleach fumes subsided a little bit.

The tale continues...

After I left Joshua downstairs, peacefully slumbering away in his play pen, I put my game face on, marched upstairs, and prepared to face the firing squad. The guillotine. The hangman's noose. The electric chair. The material filled rooms.

Thankfully, I keep a large supply of cleaning tools at my disposal. I had all the rubber gloves, disinfectants, sponges, rags, and towels a woman could ask for. I even had a painter's mask to help with the odor emanating from the toxic, ah, material. I knew my husband had a gas mask, but beast that he is, he wouldn't drive out to the armory in Belgrade and get it for me. Something about Army "rules" or some such nonsense.

I do not exaggerate when I tell you that between the two rooms I used one and a half bottles of Clorox multi-surface disinfectant, four boxes of baking soda, two scrubbing brushes such as one would use in a bath tub, three rolls of paper toweling, one can of Oust air freshener, and an entire Costco size bottle of Febreeze. Now my house just smells like flowery material. I have a feeling that the horror will linger a bit longer; to this end I have set off several more Febreeze bombs and kept the windows and doors open. It is getting better, but this is a slow road I must travel.

What about the sheets? you ask. Well, the sheets were beyond redemption, so were the clothes. I would like to rip out the carpeting and sheet rock in both rooms and begin again, but my husband feels this is a little drastic. The following is an excerpt from our conversation when he got home last night.

"Do you want to know what went on in THIS house today?" I demanded.

(Cringing) "Er, you're pretty...?"

"You bet. YOUR son took off his pants and diaper and spread his...his...WORD I DON'T SAY all over the walls. Are you LAUGHING?"

"Of course not," stifling wild contractions of mirth, he still attempted to convince me he was not laughing.

"And then, and then do you know what he did? I'll tell you!"

"Yes dear, I'm sure you will."

"When I took him into the bathroom to give him a bath, after he was all cleaned up I left for four seconds and he DID IT AGAIN!"

This time there was no stopping the hilarity, apparently. He could barely choke out a reply, he was working so hard to contain his laughter.

"Anyway, dear," I said to him, "I cleaned it up, but I really think that I'm just going to throw away the sheets."

"Ok." (Man of many words, you see.)

"And his clothes, too I think."

"Fine."

"You know, I don't know how to get the mattress clean...maybe we should take it to a professional. Or maybe we should just get a new one."

"Hey! Why don't we just tear everything out of both rooms and completely remodel!"

"Now that you mention it..."

"On second thought, that's really not far enough. Let's do the entire upper floor."

"I'm beginning to pick up on your sarcasm, James."

"No!"

"Beast."

"I'm just trying to help. I'll do you one better than remodeling...burn down the house!"

I ended the conversation with Mr. Sarcastic Pants at that point. Must be nice to be able to come home to a clean and lovely house every day without having to worry about how it gets that way.

So, my house is restored even if a hint of material smell can still be detected. Thank goodness it's warm outside so I can air out the house. And we can eat outside. And sleep out there too. Well, the boys can. I think I'll go to a hotel.