I have the sweetest boy in the world. It's true; he's unbelievably wonderful and I? Am one lucky mama. He has recently started giving toddler sized bear hugs to all and sundry. This includes, but is not limited to me, James, Lucy, and various other family members. His favorite hug recipients, however, are kids on the playground; I assume this is because they are his size. It is so stinking cute; he just walks right up and wraps his chubby little arms around the other kids and then goes back to playing. Most of the kids don't mind, and the parents think it's simply adorable, but we are trying to get him to realize that not everyone wants to be hugged all the time. This is difficult for him to grasp, because really, why would people not want to be hugged, right?

There is, we learned, at least one girl and her lunatic mother who do not appreciate "violation" of "personal space". I must preface this story with one simple question. Why, oh why, oh why, do people not learn their lesson about messing with me and/or my son? Seriously? This is what happened:

Joshua was being his usual wonderful self and gave a little girl a hug at the top of the slide. She was shy, and pretty much just wanted to go about her slide business but Joshua thought he could snag a hug out of her pre-slide. I sensed impending doom, because this little girl was not having it, so even as I was making my way over to the slide to get him to leave this poor little girl alone, I saw this creature whip her little hind end over there, grab my son by the arm, whip him around, shake her finger in his face and call him a "naughty boy". OH. NO. SHE. DIDN'T.

You may at this point, be wondering how I handled the situation. I would like to be able to tell you that I comported myself with the utmost dignity and grace, calmly defusing the situation and smoothing ruffled feathers. I did not. I? LOST IT. I slid up behind her, grabbed her arm and spun her around just like she did to Joshua. Words were exchanged.

Playground Nazi: Excuuuuuse me?

Mama Bear: (Growl) What, pray, the hell is wrong with you, that you thought to yourself, "yeah, it would be alright if I manhandled someone else's child"?

Playground Nazi: Clearly, he was offending my daughter. He attacked her. Were you not watching?

Mama Bear: Watching? Was I WATCHING? Here's what I was watching; my son, because he is friendly and marvelous, gave your daughter a hug. When I saw that she didn't enjoy said hug, I was coming over here to step in. Enter you, horns sprouting and steam billowing from your ears putting your meat hooks all over my little boy.

Playground Nazi: You need -

Mama Bear: Shut UP, Sweet Pea. I need to do nothing. There was no problem here until you ambled along and asserted your adult strength upon my son's tiny person. Back your SHIT up, woman, and leave my kid alone.

Playground Nazi: Your son needs to learn to respect personal space. He can't treat women like that for the rest of his life.

Mama Bear: First of all, he's ONE AND A HALF. Second of all, your daughter - what is she? Two? - is no more of a woman than I am the goddamn man on the moon. You are the one with some learning to do, my friend. Think twice before grabbing someone else's child, not everyone will handle it as well as I have done.

It was at that point I collected Joshua - he was in another part of the park with James by the time this little conversation took place - and we left the park. I didn't want to, necessarily, but I did because 1.) I feared my head was going to explode, and 2.) I really didn't want to bundle her up and throw her into the creek in front of so many witnesses. So we left.

Joshua continues to hug, and I continue to exclaim how precious it is. Thankfully, this was an isolated incident. Every other parent of a "hugging victim" has found it cute and funny. Thank goodness, because these confrontations are beginning to wear on me in my old age.

Dear Lucy,

I hope that after reading this, you will begin speaking to me again. Perhaps after I've had a chance to explain myself, you'll understand why I did what I felt I had to do. You're my baby puppy - still a baby even though you're seven - and I think you know I love you and want the best for you.

That said, apologies are in order. When I gathered your brush and my kitchen shears, herded you outside, and made you lie still while I played beauty parlor, it was never my intention to make you look as though you recently had chemotherapy which was causing your fur to begin to fall out. The vision I had in my head, one of a cooler, lighter, more carefree dog with a manageable hairstyle turned out to be vastly different from the cold hard truth - that mama sucks at beauty operation.

I know, Lucy, that we usually go to Petsmart, but it's so traumatic for you, what with all the scary clippers, hoses, and white tile floors, that I didn't have the heart to sedate you with enough drugs to fell an elephant and still see you traumatized. I thought, naively, that you would enjoy the privacy of an at home hair cut. I was wrong, I'll admit that. I'm sorry that you are too embarrassed about your new look to go outside. I wish you didn't feel like you need to hide your head in shame. I know you think your boyfriend won't love you anymore, and you may be right. But let's face it, Lucy, he just wasn't that into you. It's OK, you still have me. And Daddy. And Joshua, although I do understand that you don't particularly appreciate it when he tries to ride you.

Please, don't continue to shut me out of your life. Think of all the walks we have yet to go on, and all the catch we have yet to play. Don't give up on me Lucy; don't quit me. We can come back from this little "hiccup" in our relationship.

And Lucy? It will grow back.

Apologetically Yours,
Mama

Oh my gosh, the neighbor behind us has something going on in his yard that is making my anal-retentive skin positively crawl. I am so thankful for the bank of trees that separate our respective back yards so I don't have a full view; unfortunately however, I can see enough.

He has about fourteen hundred projects going on at the same time. If I was his wife I'd have put a bullet in my brain (or more likely his) months ago. I don't know how she stands it, quite frankly. Everything he's doing is really nice, but come on man! One at a time! Right now he and my husband are building a ten foot fence behind the trees (love!). That is project one. Project two is a tree house. He is constructing a tree house for his kids that is bigger than my SUV. It's huge. Plus, he wants to wire it for electricity. Sweet, but oh, the mess in that backyard. Then, in what I assume is project three, there are several holes placed about his backyard. I have yet to discern their purpose.

The thing is, there is lumber, cement bags, saw horses, tools, extension cords, shovels, and other things I find myself unable to identify strewn all about his lawn. I mean everywhere. When the most recent project reaches approximately the halfway point - pop! - up starts another project! I tell you, my fingers are itching to go over there and organize; I wonder if he'd shoot me if he saw my silhouette roaming around his yard in the middle of the night or if he'd just call the police. Because, I must say, I am fighting the temptation, and I fear it will get the best of me soon. And seriously? The law would totally be on my side. Everybody knows my aversion to mess. Clearly I'd be performing an act of public service.

We really like these neighbors (and by "we" I mostly mean "James" because, really, the mess? Is killing me) and our kids play together and we do all sorts of neighborly stuff. His ideas for backyard improvement are quite spectacular, if a little ambitious for one man alone, but still. It will be neat when it gets done. If it ever gets done.

Meanwhile, I'm going to wander out back and see about making that ten foot fence a twelve or thirteen footer. In the meantime, I'll walk back there with my dust rag and cleaning gloves - see if I can't drop a few hints.

You know, usually I'm more consistent. I typically plunk right down at my computer the minute Josh goes down for a nap to use the precious precious nap time to get some work done. But today? I did not. You see, today I was PBRT, being INTERVIEWED BY A CNN REPORTER ABOUT MAMA STILL WEARS GUCCI.

Snap.

I got an email from a woman who writes for CNN online, and when she happened upon my blog immediately decided that she must, simply must hear me opine on the oft lamented subject that makes mamas everywhere want to rant and rave in frustration: unsolicited advice. I can't tell you about it right now...it hasn't gone to press (shop talk) so you know, I can't give away the secrets. But you may be assured that I will provide the link when the story runs, and I will probably remind you more than a few times in the future that I was INTERVIEWED BY A CNN REPORTER ABOUT MAMA STILL WEARS GUCCI.

Oh yeah, and I'll do it in all caps.

Dear Birds in My Backyard,

I hate you. I want you to know that your goal of driving me insane by soiling my child's toys with your droppings, squawking incessantly day and night, and smearing your remains all over my windows when you fly into them because you are retarded, has been successful. I am now "certifiable", as I sometimes run about the house banging my head with a wooden spoon wailing about the different ways I want to rid you from my life.

The list of your transgressions is really quite extensive. You bathe in my son's water table, filling it with your disgusting avian germs. You fly into my windows constantly, you even broke one of them with your stupid beak(s). Do you KNOW how much it costs to replace a triple paned window that's over twenty feet tall? I don't THINK so. You torment my poor dog by swooping on her and pecking at her head. Hasn't she endured enough? She minds her own business and let's you do your thing in the yard, yet you continue to torment her. You build your nests everywhere, and nests make a huge mess. If you knew me at all, birds, you would know that I. Hate. Mess. I have tried to rid you from my yard in myriad ways, up to and including manhandling your eggs so you refuse to take care of them, thus ending the vicious cycle of bird reproduction at Delger House. You have not responded as I hoped. You continue to plague my backyard with your horrid selves, and you continue to tend to your eggs and hatch new little birdlings despite my best efforts.

I don't know what to do anymore, quite frankly. I am desperate to get you out of my life, because again, I hate you. Because you have not responded to my earlier, more peaceful efforts, I am bringing in the big guns. Literally. I will deck myself out in camouflage, paint my face, lay on my roof with a BB gun and a scope and pick you off one by one. Get the point? Henceforth you may refer to me as Madam Bird Sniper.

You've had your chance; you've not responded, so I'm now going to forcibly evict you. Been nice knowing you birds. See you in hell.

Best,

Madam Bird Sniper

Sorry, not the disgusting, heat lamp warmed, quasi Chinese food restaurant, I mean actual china. Oh yeah, I went shopping.

As most of you are aware, my father-in-law is in town, so my husband took him and Josh somewhere and had a "boys day". Naturally, it then stands to reason that my mom and I would have a "girls day". Duh. And what do all self respecting Gucci Mamas do on their "girls days"? Um, shop? Once again, duh.

Because I bought new furniture - er I mean new furniture fell from the sky - I clearly was in desperate need of new place settings. The old stuff just would not cut it on the new dining room furniture. Need I repeat myself by saying 'duh'?

Ta da! Isn't it gorgeous! Love it! Beautifully hand painted delicate flowers perfectly encircled by a 24 carat gold rim all exquisitely displayed on the finest bone china. What? Close ups? Well, if you insist.










The cup and saucer. Aw. More still? Really? OK...














The dinner plate. Sorry about the glare, I'm a writer, not a camera man!

Anyway, you get the idea. The problem is now, who do I allow to eat off of it? I know I can be trusted, but can James? Can Josh? Certainly not Josh, he has a proven track record of breaking things. James can probably be accorded a trial run, but who else? I want to invite some people over and have a dinner party, but have you MET our friends? Nay, not our friends. The correct sentence would read, "have you MET James' friends?" Some of those animals (I say animals because I am nearly one hundred per cent convinced that they were not only born in barns, but raised in them too) eat MREs right out of the package when they're not even on duty with the Army. The kind of person who would choose to eat a meal out of a bag that has been "cooked" with a tin of lukewarm water is probably not a person who can be considered for china dining candidacy. Who then? Am I destined to eat lonely meals off of beautiful plates but have no one to share them with?

Sigh.

My new china needs to be out of the china cabinet and on my dinner table; it needs to stretch it's legs, so to speak. It doesn't like being cooped up for long periods of time, it told me. Aha! I have it; I shall have a girls night. After all, none of my friends were raised by wolves.

I'm drowning! Please help me! I have a parenting article due in six days and I have a lethal case of writer's block. Please, send me the antidote, in the form of some sort of topic idea. "Parenting" is just a little too broad for me, and I'm having a hard time narrowing things down. Help me help me help me. I'm on my knees begging, which is an entirely new position for me.

Leave me comments full of helpful suggestions! Much obliged.

Oh yeah, I re-made available (re-made available? Do I call myself a writer?) my blog called The Diet Diaries. Check it out!

Nice weather? Check. Cute new outfit, including long plaid shorts? Check. New set of pink golf clubs to match new outfit? Check. Golf bag stroller thingy, in order that I am not required to carry my golf bag about the course? Check. Pink golf balls? Check. Visor (do I even need to say it's pink?) Check. Modicum of talent and/or skill? Oooh. Not so much.

Apparently just having all of the above accessories in matching abundance does not a Women's PGA player make. I doubt they'd accept me as a ball washer for the kids league quite frankly. I'm that bad at golf. This is a fact that really annoys me, because I really want to be good at it, mainly because it is one of the very few things my husband can best me at. This cannot be allowed to stand. I must win. I beat him at cards, at tennis, at board games, at crossword puzzles, at, um other stuff I can't think of right now, but I cannot beat him at golf. Then, of course, Mr. Smug Pants dances about as if he is the first man to ever win a golf game. I swear if I hear him condescend to me one more time that while I beat him at everything else, I can't have golf because golf is a "gentleman's game" I shall not be responsible for the consequences. Like running him over with the golf cart while laughing hysterically, for example.

So last night, I went golfing with four other ladies; I needed the practice without James' "help". I think I did pretty well. We played nine holes and I shot a 42. This story is not as impressive when I tell the whole truth, which is that I shot a 42, and then we gave up and moved to the second hole.

Maybe it's not that bad, but it's close. Last night I lost my ball in a tree, on the other side of the highway that runs along one side of the course, and in several sand traps and duck ponds. Thankfully, the women with me did not fare much better. I contrive never to do things with people who are significantly better at them than I am, in this way I can protect my fragile ego. I'm quite sensitive you know. Stop laughing! It's true.

Now then, even though I totally sucked it up on the course last night, I did have the undisputed shot of the century. It was unbelievable; I wish you could have seen it. I got....(drum roll please...) a birdie! Yes! A birdie!

I mean literally. I killed a bird with my ball. I didn't mean to, he just happened to be flying within my ball's kill zone, and the inevitable happened. It was one of the three (out of about two hundred) balls I hit that actually made it off the ground, and it was pretty. It sailed upwards, glided gracefully through the air in a perfect arc, and then BAM! Hit a bird. Both ball and bird fell to earth like two dead weights (pun totally intended). The game ended at this point for two reasons. Firstly, we were unable to control the fits of wild laughter (mostly at my expense) about my gross lack of skill and the incredible irony of getting a "birdie". Second, no one wanted to touch the bird in order to remove it from the green. Since we were just about done anyway, we left it there, told the clubhouse about it and let it be their problem. Then we went home to drink White Russians and laugh at me some more.

Alas, my dreams of beating James at golf may never come to fruition, but I'll always have my birdie. All the handicaps in the world can't take that away from me.

It seems that my father-in-law will be arriving this afternoon and staying here, in my home, for one week. Thanks, husband mine, for giving me some advance warning. I really appreciated the, "Oh yeah, my dad's coming, tomorrow I think," last night at ten. That was fabulous. So now, as I have finished my last minute washing of guest bedroom sheets, cleaning and stocking with towels of the guest bathroom, and sending James to the grocery store so we have some "guest food" in the house, it it just now sinking in. He'll be here in a matter of hours. For an entire week.

The thing is, I don't really know what to do with him. He doesn't really talk, so engaging conversation is out. It's not that we don't get along, it's that he prefers silence after the initial "hey, how are ya," greeting. So then it's six days and 22 hours of sitting around the family room staring at one another. Fun! I'm not sure why this is the case, I just know that it is. We can't really go out and do much either, because he's kind of sickly. Well, not sickly I guess, but he has a lot of aches and pains, including a horrid back problem, that prevent him from doing much. We can't go to the movies, we can't go to the museum, we can't take Josh to the park, we can't we can't we can't. There is a whole lot of "we can't" and I have not been able to come up with one "we can" other than the sitting around the family room staring at each other thing.

I have suggested to my dear, dear husband that he take a day (or two or three) and take is dad and Josh to see the father-in-law's family that lives about an hour from here. In this way they have something to do for an entire day and I have an entire day! to myself. To do whatever I want. And I have vowed to James, if he does this, I won't spend one minute of that day cleaning. I have pinned all of my hopes on this one day, so I hope that it comes to fruition. Until then, I better hone my staring contest skills.

In spite of this, I have contrived to take some halfway decent pictures of my recent foray into redecorating. I give you....my new family room. And dining room. There was a great deal of furniture that fell from the sky.

The bar. Neat, huh? I like it...but the ambiance is slightly affected by the play tent you can see in the corner of the picture. Who puts their play room in a bar? This family, apparently.










A view of the family room from the steps. The carpeting is just unspeakable, is it not? Notice, if you will, the cork wall behind the longer couch. Clearly, there is more work to do.











Another view of the family room, in which the pinkish tint of the wall becomes more apparent. The color was called 'Dusky Desert' or some such nonsense, and to me that does not say pink! Still, it came out nice. Maybe we should have painted the baby gate...








This is my new reading nook, which I am desperately in love with. It's right off the dining room, which is my favorite room in the house. You'll see why in the next photos.











Alright, another view of my reading nook. It's so awesome it really deserves two pictures, don't you think?












The dining room, ah the sweet dining room. Dining room, I heart you.













Another view. I could sit in this room all day. Dining room, will you marry me?













I hope you enjoyed my shameless boasting of my beautiful home. I know I did.

Blech. I hate remodeling, redecorating, re-anything that makes a mess all over my house. I love the finished product, but, wow, I hate the process. Thankfully, the process, for the family room anyway, has finally ended. I kind of forced the issue, when I, um, perhaps, maybe, may have, possibly, theoretically bought new furniture while my husband was out of town. I mean, maybe I did. I don't know. I have no memory of making such purchases, but the fact remains that there is indeed new furniture in my house, however it may have found its way here. Naturally, then, the family room needed to be repainted. You know, to match the furniture that I had nothing to do with procuring. It fell from the sky.

I, of course, was in charge of picking out the paint. Self-appointed paint chooser, you understand, but then, that probably goes without saying. The thing is, it was much less pink in the store. I picked out a pretty beige-y color to match the chocolate leather furniture and bright red carpeting. I hate the bright red carpeting. It's ugly. It was cool when we first moved in, I guess, because we have a built-in bar downstairs and there once was a pool table and other bar type accouter-mal, but I've, ah, outgrown it. The "whole college student chic" thing just isn't really my style, and while we've kept the bar (I'll admit, it's pretty cool) we've gotten rid of anything else that makes it look like a.) a downtown bar or b.) the basement of a fraternity house. Except the bright red carpeting. That's the next thing on my list, probably. I want hardwood. It's pretty, it's functional, it will fit in with my vision of sophistication, and most importantly, it's not bright red carpeting.

But we were speaking of the paint. Ah, the paint. Well, perhaps it's the bright red carpeting that gives it a pinkish tinge, or perhaps I can attribute it to the different lighting, or maybe both. I don't know. I just know it's the least little touch pink. And James is not much of a pink fan. I like it, but he still requires some persuasion. The thing is, he'll learn to like it, at least for awhile. I cannot stand the mess that accompanies painting. I hate it, hate it, hate it. It makes my skin crawl to see crap spread from one end of the room to the other; I don't care that it will be gone in a matter of hours when the painting is done, I don't care that it needs to be everywhere for the painting to be successful. All I care about is that I hate it, and I want it gone. And now it is, so I am a happy girl. Plus, the room is simply gorgeous. If I can figure out how to use my camera decently, I'll post some pictures.

I suppose, if James doesn't get used to it, he can just leave town again; I'll buy another set of new furniture and the process can start over again. Next time, however, when the paint bomb explodes, I'm going to the spa.

I exchanged the following emails with the executive director of the non-profit of which I am president. Piqued your interest? You want to know what non-profit? Alright! Fine! Here's the link. Just read my sweet blog first, K?

To: mamastillwearsgucci@montanamamas.com
From: admin@montanamamas.com
Re: Ladies Night Out

Any ideas for goodies? I'm thinking of something cheap and yummy.

To: admin@montanamamas.com
From: mamastillwearsgucci@montanamamas.com
Re: Ladies Night Out

Shrimp and caviar?

No? OK, how about, um, (furious glancing about as if seeking an answer in kitchen) well, perhaps, ah, (stomping in frustration at inability to think) maybe, let's see (stammering and turning red in face) how about some snackie type thingy.

Does that help?

[end emails]



You see, faithful readers, I am in need of assistance. Clearly my response was the opposite of help. Feedback much appreciated.

I'm so impressed with mamas. Seriously, we're pretty stinkin' awesome. I am frequently struck by my own awesomeness, so not much of a revelation there, but yesterday I was reminded, by a duck of all things, that it really takes a super hero to be a mom. Moms are, by definition, caped crusaders on behalf of their babies. Or ducklings as the case may be.

Yesterday, at the "beach" there was a family of ducks - mom and dad and five babies - that were swimming around in formation and finding themselves generally pleased with their pond. There was also a lone duck that was swimming in circles because it had a broken wing and a broken leg. I was inclined to feel sorry for it until I saw what it had done to deserve such abuse. It was harassing the ducklings. It was a menacing little thing, and that mama duck was not. having. it. She quacked and drew her body up out of the water to look intimidating, and she finally went after her babies' tormentor with beak and webbed feet. This thing was fierce. I wouldn't mess with it.

After she dispatched the bully duck, she was in no mood to be trifled with. Lucy, our dog, did not read these signals correctly. Apparently, she thought that the feathers flying, scream-quacking, blood drawing tirade meant, "Hey, golden retriever! Why don't you come and play with my babies! Love to have ya!" She did not, as it turns out, want Lucy to "duck-sit". She went after my dog with all the ferocity of something that was not attacking an animal twenty times her size. Perhaps I'm making too much of her bravery, because upon the first squawk Lucy ran up to me, rolled over on her back, put her tail between her legs, and shook - literally shook - with fear. Of a three pound duck.

Still, I think the event itself was really striking. Animal and human moms are alike in that they are willing to face insurmountable odds for their children. I love it. I love the fact that whether it's duck, bear, or Gucci Mama, we'll stomp through hell and back for our babies, and we won't utter a word of complaint.

Well, we won't complain until after we get back from hell and our husbands are watching football and the sink is still full of dirty dishes...

Or rather, the man made pond. We are currently experiencing a marked lack of beaches in Bozeman, Montana. But, there was water and sand, and Josh doesn't need the ocean to be crowned Undisputed Cutest Boy on the Planet. Observe.

Sometimes I make up acronyms. I don't know why really; I guess I'm just cute and funny like that. I find myself whimsical.

Take PBRN. I made that up months ago, when I was (fittingly) much too busy to even say "pretty busy right now", so I shortened it. To PBRN. It stuck. Since that time, there have been a few variations, like PBTD (Pretty busy that day) and PBTW (Pretty busy that week). But, mostly, I just use PBRN. It's an old standby, and it works for me.

And hey folks! I'd love to wax eloquently for hours on some creative and witty parenting topic, but today? I'm PBRN.

See you Monday. Maybe tomorrow, but don't hold your breath. I'm likely PBTD.

These are one hundred things you desperately want to know about me, but are just too afraid to ask. I'm pretty scary, I know.

1. I was born the first day of June.
2. Eight out of the thirteen years I have lived in Montana it has snowed on my birthday.
3. I have a degree in Political Science
4. Which I took great pains to acquire; it isn't easy being the only female republican (or at least feeling like the only one) on the entire university campus.
5. I have not worked out of the home a day in my life since college.
6. Because I had a baby.
7. And I wanted (want) nothing more than to be a stay at home mom.
8. Plus, politics has become something that while I once had a tempestuous love affair with it, my passion has now cooled and it seems less like "changing the world" and more like "making my blood pressure skyrocket trying to change things over which I have little or no control."
9. I want four children.
10. I will have four children. If this is something my body is unable to provide for me, we will adopt.
11. I think adopting a child would be a wonderful blessing.
12. I love the Lord.
13. I am a Christian.
14. But I'll never preach at you.
15. I'll answer any question you want to ask me, but I'll never come to your house thumping my Bible.
16. Bible thumpers annoy me; I think they turn way more people off than on.
17. I have been married four years to my high school sweetheart.
18. His hair is a fiery red.
19. He's the hottest man I've ever seen.
20. He's the hottest man you've ever seen as well.
21. Three weeks after our wedding, the hottest man any of us has ever seen went to Iraq.
22. He was there nearly two years.
23. He's still an Army sergeant.
24. My buttons burst with pride to speak of him.
25. And he chose me.
26. I'm the luckiest woman alive.
27. In his other life, my husband is an electrical engineer.
28. This is good for me, because I have a shoe closet that he calls the "Imelda Marcos Collection".
29. I needed a man who could support my habit.
30. Sure, I could live without Jimmy Choo, Gucci, Coach, and Prada.
31. But I don't particularly want to.
32. I am a professional writer.
33. Quasi-professional.
34. My son is the most incredible child on the face of the planet.
35. He is the light of my life.
36. I don't remember life without him in it.
37. I repeat this to myself when he throws my Jimmy Choos in the toilet or spills his grape juice on my Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater.
38. The ecru cashmere with the unremovable purple stain is my new favorite sweater.
39. I am a Montana Mama.
40. The President of Montana Mamas, actually.
41. Sometimes I hum "Hail to the Chief" to myself because of this.
42. While I was in college, I worked as a fashion merchandiser for an upscale men's clothier.
42. Fashion merchandiser is a fancy way of saying "coffee fetcher, measurer of inseams, and occasional arranger of clothing on display.
43. I am pro-life.
44. Some people, upon hearing this, classify me as "anti-abortion" because they think I'll find it offensive.
45. I don't. I take it as a compliment.
46. It's a point of pride.
47. I am petrified of grasshoppers.
48. Scared stiff. I mean like panic attack scared.
49. I am not ashamed of this; grasshoppers are horrifying little creatures that serve no discernible purpose except to make me convulse with fear and repulsion.
50. I am not as thin as I like to think I am.
51. I discover this, over and over much to my dismay, whenever I see a recent photograph of myself.
52. But I'm still quite ravishingly beautiful...
53. I love to cook.
54. I am a wonder in the kitchen; people clamor for invitations to my dinner parties just for the exquisite cuisine.
55. I am, apparently, not bashful.
56. Or modest.
57. I cannot stand reality television.
58. Except Jon and Kate Plus Eight on The Learning Channel.
59. And, Deadliest Catch.
60. But only because it's narrated by Mike Rowe.
61. So, that means that there's a third reality show that I love, and that's Dirty Jobs. Also due solely to Mike Rowe.
62. I love me some Mike Rowe.
63. I am slightly brain dead when it comes to doing anything on the computer more fancy than checking email.
64. And now, thanks to my engineer of a husband providing me with the proper training, blogging.
65. I have a double oven, which I love.
66. It is mustard yellow, which I hate.
67. I still do not understand why my double oven remains mustard yellow, considering these compelling arguments.
68. My favorite color is pink.
69. But not to wear.
70. My favorite color to wear is black; it's slimming.
71. I have never even seen any illegal drugs, much less experimented.
72. This does not make me some sort of exalted personage, just naive.
73. And a little chicken.
74. I am a germ freak. I furiously disinfect surfaces in my house and vehicle multiple times a day.
75. I am aware that my obsession with cleanliness is not quite normal.
76. If frantic cleanliness is wrong, I don't want to be right.
77. I voted for George W. Bush.
78. I would vote for him again, if such a thing were possible.
79. I delivered my son via emergency C-section.
80. After 38 hours of labor.
81. THIRTY EIGHT.
82. I love love love to read.
83. Before my son was born, I read three or four books a week.
84. In my post-baby year(s), I have whittled that down to one or two books a week.
85. I am the world's worst bowler. And plus, my feet are so small that I have to wear the kids bowling shoes. The ones with the velcro instead of laces.
86. But a mean card player.
87. Sometimes I feel inadequate.
88. But mostly I'm very pleased with my self and my life.
89. I am not lacking in self-esteem, but maybe a little confidence every now and then.
90. I have a younger sister and a younger brother.
91. I lorded it over them when I was little.
92. My mom is my best friend; I have the best mom on earth.
93. My best friend from high school died of a heart condition when he was 19.
94. My son is named after him.
95. My sunglass collection could rival that of Elton John.
96. I listen to opera music. Almost exclusively.
97. If (when!) I have a daughter, I want to name her Eloise. She'll go by Ella.
98. I am strong willed. Very strong willed. I have an aversion to the word "stubborn".
99. Other than my husband, my hero is Ronald Reagan. He was the single greatest president in the history of the United States, I should think. I cried when he died.
100. I know all sorts of useless facts, like why we call a sandwich a sandwich. Wanna know? Alright. In the eighteenth century, the Earl of Sandwich was involved in an all night marathon card game, and got hungry. As he did not want to leave the gaming table, and he needed something he could eat with one hand, he instructed his valet to place slabs of meat and cheese between slices of bread. It was such a useful delivery device, that other peers of the realm began ordering it at their card games. As it was customary to call a man by his title, the peers would order by saying, "I'll have the same as Sandwich." Eventually it was shortened to "I'll have a sandwich." The sandwich was born.

Phew! That took some doing! I hope you enjoyed this little glimpse into my windows, so to speak.

We went to the pediatrician this week for Josh's eighteen month well check, as I mentioned here earlier today. As most of you must be aware, when a child goes to the doctor, mom is sent home with ream upon ream of paperwork that includes parenting tips, medicine pamphlets, milestone and growth charts, and the ever present "Don't spank your child or they'll grow up to me an ax murder" essay. I've gotten one (or more) of those irritating and grossly misinformed missives every single time we've gone to the doctor, and I'm not any more interested in the opinion, nor have I begun to subscribe to it, than when I was first bombarded with the information two years ago. That, however, is not what I'm talking about today.

Josh is napping - I plead the fifth on the Motrin scandal - so I am finally leafing through this mostly useless waste of paper before I inevitably throw it in the trash. I will be saving one piece of it, I think, because it is perhaps frame worthy, and I think both monster child and man-child can learn from it. It was a near miss, really, because the title had the words "self-esteem" in it, which made me want to toss it without a second glance, but something caught my eye and made me keep reading. Apparently, a mom can build her child's "self-esteem" by giving him chores! Heeey! I can get behind a little manual labor, for all the males in this house, not just the ones under three feet tall. So I saved it. I highlighted a few key phrases because, in my mind, these things apply to James as well. I think it would give his "self-esteem" a big boost to vacuum the living room, for example.

As James is out of town for one more day but I am anxious for a "self-esteem" building exercise now I have decided that once Josh wakes up, I will snuggle with "Buckie" (Duckie), drink some whole milk out of a plastic cup with a cartoon character on it, eat a few apple puffs and maybe knock back some cheerios while Josh folds a basket of laundry and mops my kitchen floor.

I am, naturally, looking out for his best interests. I don't want his "self-esteem" to suffer. I wonder how he'll do washing the windows on the upper floor? Best not to risk it - yet - I don't think having to blow into a tube to move your wheel chair and occasionally flicking your left pinky finger to and fro is conducive to healthy "self-esteem". Well, there's always next year when he's more steady on his feet...

This is great! Imagine when all my four kids are here and old enough to need their "self-esteem" boosted by household chores! I'll become a "self-esteem" guru, and my house will be sparkling without my needing to lift a finger! Oh, happy glorious day.

I'm still burning the "no spanking" nonsense though.

Must. Make. Child. Stop. Whining.
Slowly. Going. Insane.

I can't figure it out. Josh is, um, well, he's pretty much the best, the brightest, and the cutest boy on the face of the earth, but if anyone met him today, they'd not blame me for being tempted to sell him on eBay. I don't think I'd actually sell him, but I may rent him out for a few hours this afternoon if anyone's interested. Every time I hear a whiny little whine my head implodes a little.

Part of me is feeling a bit bad for him; he's had kind of a rough go. Daddy's been gone for two weeks, he had his eighteen month well check this week, so that means two vaccines, he has a little bit of a runny nose, and his fluffy duck is in the wash. So, pretty earth shattering for a toddler, yet I am not sure that this is sufficient reason to roam about the house with a perpetual whine in the back of his throat which, upon seeing me, increases in both volume and intensity. I. Am. Over. It.

He's just not getting his way today. For example, I would not let him jump off the back of the couch, even though he did have one of James' jackets tied around his shoulders like a cape. I wouldn't let him play in the toilet, and I would not let him sail down the stairs in a laundry basket. Hey, would somebody get me the number for Child Protective Services? I've decided to turn myself in. So, as he's not able to get me to see his side of these equations, he's whining. Constantly. He's whining to me. He's whining for Daddy. When he realizes Daddy isn't here, he wants Grammy. When Grammy says she's at work (although I'm sure she'll swoop down this afternoon and take the little hellion out for ice cream) he whines for Lucy. The dog. And Lucy, my sweet Lucy who has never looked at me quite the same way since I betrayed her by bringing home a baby, comes to me and pleads his case. Et tu, Lucy?

Perhaps Dr. Sears, who fancies himself an expert on motherhood, even though he is a man, and therefore hasn't much of a clue, would be pretty put out with me. I have plied my child with juice (not even cut with water!) and graham crackers. I may have laced his juice with some children's Motrin. I mean, he does have a cold, and it is nap time, so this will help him sleep off his runny little nose. You know, hypothetically. I will neither confirm nor deny the Motrin allegations.

Either way, when nap time arrives, I'm lacing my own beverage with a pain killer or two, and going to lay in a dark room in the fetal position and shiver. That's what this whining is driving me to.

Yay! James will be home in two days and my adventures in single parenthood will be over. For now, that is, until the next Army fun time exercise. Until then, things will return to normal a few days after James get home, relearns English, and stops speaking "Army". "Army" is not a language in which I am fluent. I really don't think I can even ask where the ladies room is like I can in Spanish. I get the 'latrine' confused with the 'head', and that's not a place one wants to be when one is just looking to powder her nose. Anyway, he called last night, and we had the following discourse:

Sgt. Husband: Well, it's going to be kind of a busy day tomorrow.

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: Oh?

Sgt. Husband: Yeah. Some of the Privates need help getting their cack straightened out before we can go to the big cock tomorrow night after the bar-b-que.

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: 'Scuse?

Sgt. Husband: Well, not everyone knows their way around the cack like I do, and we need to get the Private's cacks fixed before the bar-b-que.

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: The bar-b-que?

Sgt. Husband: Well, we need to eat a lot before the big cock ceremony. It lasts a long time and takes a lot out of you.

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: I see. Um, dear?

Sgt. Husband: Uh huh?

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: Help me understand. You're going to 'straighten' the 'cack' of a Private, and then watch his WHAT?

Sgt. Husband: Not quite. The Privates do need help with their cack, but then all of us are going to go see the CO's cock.

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: And the 'CO' is the 'Commanding Officer'?

Sgt. Husband: Yup.

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: And is he married?

Sgt. Husband: Yeah. His wife will be there watching his cock with the rest of us. There's a big ceremony.

Mrs. Sgt. Husband: I think perhaps it's time for you to explain to me, in plain words an idiot can understand, exactly what 'cack' and 'cock' are; I'm not sure you want to know where my head is.

Sgt. Husband: Ah, CAC is 'Common Access Card', and COC is 'Change of Command'. We're attending a Change of Command ceremony tomorrow and having a bar-b-que to celebrate that and the end of this training exercise.

Ah.

Dear Joshua,

While I do not blame you for being cranky because of your cold, I do hold you fully responsible for the following actions; cold or no.

1. Scattering your diapers, the diapers that I stacked so neatly on your shelf, all about the house.
2. Throwing your lunch plate at the vase on the dining room table, causing it to fall and subsequently crumble.
3. Pushing my vacuum down a flight of stairs, causing it too to nearly crumble.

Now son, the problem as I see it is two fold. First of all, diapers do not stack as neatly when they have been opened, shaken, crumpled, and strewn about hither and yon. Secondly, I have no functioning vacuum with which to clean up the chards of priceless antique vase given to me by my great grandmother. It wasn't all that important to me, she just brought it with her when she decided to leave everything she knew in Norway and come to America with her new husband, whom she married against her aristocratic family's wishes. It's not your fault I missed out on the noble title that by rights should have been mine, however, I do feel that it was perhaps a poor judgment call on your part to throw the plate at the vase in the first place. Then again, one could argue that I should not have placed it on my table with a toddler in attendance, but I really feel that I can absolve myself of any and all blame.

I am right now deciding on an appropriate course of action; I see that you are innocently sipping your juice as if you have not a care in the world, as if there are not diapers everywhere and pieces of six hundred dollar Dyson vacuum in my garbage can. I don't even want to talk about my vase. I suppose I'll just have to attempt to reassemble it with super glue, but I think Krazy Glue may cause a bit of a deficit in the historical significance, the monetary value, and the overall look of the piece.

Ok, Josh, you caught me. I bought the vase at Nordstrom. It's not antique, and it didn't belong to some marchioness buried in our family history, but I still really liked it. And it was rather expensive. I would take it out of your allowance, but between that and the Dyson, you'll be making your bed and dusting the end tables until you're 45. And it really wouldn't be fair of me to take it out of future allowance, because by the time you actually receive said allowance, you won't remember this little incident.

Rest assured, however, that I have the memory of an elephant, and when the time comes, you will invite me to live in your home when I need to be taken care of in my dotage. And son, I will push your vacuum down the stairs.

All my love,
Mom

From the lips of the pediatrician straight to the ear of God. It has been acknowledged and confirmed; my child is a genius. You know it, I know it, everybody knows it.

I have of course, been aware of this since well before he was born. It has taken the rest of the world a little while to catch up, but hey, you're here now. What was the litmus test for the eighteen month old genius? You ask yourselves. I shall tell you. In fact, I am sure you will enjoy the conversation I had with my pediatrician (Dr. Hansen, I heart you) just this morning.

Dr. Hansen: Does he follow simple instructions?

Mom of Genius: Yes, he does. He is a very good boy.

Dr. Hansen: Does he "help out" with household chores?

Mom of Genius: Uh huh. In fact, the other day I was doing laundry, and Wonder Child was in the laundry room with me. I narrate all of my activities to him, and this day was no exception. I said, "Josh, next we're going to put your clothes in the washing machine!" I acted excited so he wouldn't know that laundry makes me want to stick my head in the oven.

Dr. Hansen: You're funny. You should be a writer. But pardon me for interrupting; do go on.

Mom of Genius: Funny you should mention that...ever heard of Mama Still Wears Gucci? Anyway, after I told him that the next load of laundry washed would be his, he waddled his chubby little legs over to his bedroom and dragged his full laundry basket to me.

Dr. Hansen and Mom of Genius in Unison: He must be a genius!

Mom of Genius: Jinx, you owe me a pop.

I think we'll probably skip kindergarten and go right to Stanford. That's sweet, think of how much money I'll save on private school...

I have never been much of an environmentalist. You'd never catch me taking my own canvas bags to the grocery store, driving an electric car the size of a pack of gum, or owning a Subaru with a Yakima on the top and seven hundred bumper stickers, six hundred and ninety eight of which make some reference to "our mother, the earth". It has been brought to my attention recently that this might just make me the least little touch, um, evil. Well, we just cannot have that, can we? I'm much to cute and fashionable to be evil. You can't be evil and own several pair of Prada stilettos, I don't care how many movies say otherwise.

So, in an effort to be less evil and more like a Subaru driver (minus the "musk" that follows not showering for weeks) I shall hereby adhere to the following strictures. Indeed, I vow to comply with the following "green" rules I have made for myself. I would raise my right hand, but I need to it type, so you'll just have to trust me.

I vow I shall stop referring to Al Gore as "that Fatso Moron who does not know his ass from a hole in the ground". I shall refer to him henceforth as Mister Fatso Moron who does not know his ass from a hole in the ground.

I solemnly swear that I shall brush my teeth in the shower, and not allow any of the water to go down the drain; instead I shall trap it in a large container and boil half to sterilize for drinking and use the other half to water my soon to be planted herb and vegetable garden.

I hereby confirm that I will not use pesticides in my soon to be planted herb and vegetable garden; I will just count the bugs crawling on my food as extra fiber.

I shall no longer buy regular, earth hating cereal. Instead I shall purchase Rain Forest Crunch.

I promise to terminate my long standing relationship with Northwestern Energy and live by candlelight and cook by fire. Soy candles and firewood from sustainable forests, of course.

Because I cannot bring myself to part with my SUV, I will at least contrive not to complain when eco-terrorists spray paint profanity upon it or burn it in effigy. Even if they betray their "cause" by using aerosol cans of spray paint.

I will aim to wear the color green at least once a week; in this way people will know I don't hate the earth like other SUV driving, hairspray using, electricity wasting, non organic food buying, gun toting republicans.

Wait, I am an SUV driving, hairspray using, electricity wasting, non organic food buying, gun toting republican. Huh! I mean, I don't hate the earth, really, but no one can be as "eco-friendly" as people who wear tie dye and eat with their fingers.

Well, there goes that plan. Too bad, I almost turned into a dredlock/Yakima/burlap/hemp wearing/Al Gore kool-aide drinker. . Phew! That was close.

Well, this has been a most educational weekend. I have made some discoveries, been apprised of some new information, and I have learned some most useful trivia.

For example, it has come to my attention that when one places - under the false assumption that any alcoholic beverage will not actually freeze - a bottle of wine in the freezer to chill before enjoying, and then one forgets it is in there and leaves it overnight, and then opens the freezer at the precise moment the cork is propelled out of the frozen wine bottle with shotgun force, one will get a black eye. In fact, one is lucky to be in continued possession of said eye.

I have learned that no matter how many times one vacuums and cleans glass surfaces in one's home in preparation for a dinner party, one's toddler will, without fail, scatter crumbs and grub up the windows five minutes before one's soiree is scheduled to begin.

I am now aware that if one has a total of two people for dinner and calls it a "soiree", one is suffering from delusions of grandeur. One calls it a soiree anyway.

It has been brought to my attention that when one allows one's offspring to eat a cookie with frosting in the car, the cookie and frosting will find itself spread about one's leather seats, car seat, floor, and ceiling. The cookie will further find it's recently chewed self spewed into one's hand when one's offspring suddenly declares it "icky".

I did not know before this weekend that when one fills one's child's Bob the Builder sippy cup with grape juice, one's child's ah, material will be purple, and this is no reason to panic and call one's pediatrician on the way to the ER.

I know now that one can teach an old dog new tricks, or at least one's dog can learn them on her own, and that when said trick is one's dog dragging her behind along the carpet, it is recommended to call one's veterinarian posthaste.

I am enlightened enough now to realize that no matter how much one rails against it, no matter how much one wails and gnashes one's teeth, one must empty the full diaper pail and deposit the contents into the dumpster when one's husband is out of town and there is no one else willing to do it for one.

I am reminded that even if one has lost nearly thirty pounds, one should steer clear at all costs of the bathing suit section of the department store, and resign oneself to wearing long pants and turtle necks on the beach this summer.

According to the sales lady at Macy's, it is not appropriate for one to rend one's garments while grieving the poor fit of any and all bathing suits if one is merely trying on the garments, and one does not actually own them yet.

According to my husband, it is not appropriate to rend one's garments in Macy's, regardless of the reason, especially if they do not yet belong to one, because one is then required to purchase them, and what is one to do with two hundred dollars worth of ripped clothing?

According to my mom, one in this situation should learn how to sew.

According to me, one will not be learning how to wield needle and thread any time soon.

See, my friends, one never stops learning.

The New Kids on the Block are reuniting! I am not sure I can describe the depth of feeling I have for the New Kids. When I was a pre-pubescent girl I was in love with the New Kids. I had the T-shirts, the bedding, the Trapper Keeper, the watch, the concert video, the posters, all the paraphernalia. And now? They're getting back together...YES!

Their music sucks, let's not kid ourselves. Quite frankly, they're not much to look at really either, they dance like so many epileptics in the throes of a fit, so what do they have to recommend them? Ladies, I give you Joey McIntyre. I have had a huge crush on Joey McIntyre since I was like ten. I could just gaze upon his wonderfulness all day.

In fact, I think I will now.

Joey, I heart you.

This garbage problem is totally coming back to bite me in the ass. First of all, I have no place to put my recently accumulated refuse. Secondly, two of my neighbors have called to tell me that my garbage is at the end of the driveway still, and could I please wheel it back up to the garage? TWO. Who has nothing better to do with their time than to call poor, overworked, downtrodden little me and complain about the placement of my dumpster?

It's still at the end of the driveway.

I get a little bit of perverse pleasure in knowing that the nosy neighbors are all atwitter about my flipping garbage. So they can kiss my sweet little hind end for now; there is nothing I would rather avoid than dragging that heavy stinky bucket of waste back up my driveway and through the minuscule doorway to the garage closet so I can put it away only to forget to put it out in time next week. No thanks.

But, boy, if I thought I had an Alfred Hitchcock problem before, you should see the swarm of birds now. I don't know what it is about garbage that attracts birds, or what it is about birds that makes them want to rifle through my dumpster full of diapers, but to each his own I suppose. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have allowed the bird feeder in the back to remain empty. Why would I fill it with bird seed, when such an action would just make the birds come? I. Hate. Birds.

Unfortunately, now they're snacking on dirty diapers. Hmm...well, perhaps it will cut down on my rat poison bill. Not that I lace their food with rat poison...

It's happened. I can't believe it, but the truth is staring me right in the face. I may not like it, I may rail against it, but the fact remains. I? Have made a mistake. It's a bad one, too, considering I am, you know, practically perfect in every way (like Mary Poppins).

The difference between me and Mary Poppins is that she had servants. Well, technically she was a servant, but she was an above stairs servant, not a member of the family but not (heaven forfend) a scullery girl or anything. The point is, while she was technically in service, she still had chamber maids to take out her garbage. I, to my utter dismay and disbelief, do not have maids of any kind, and so when my husband is out of town, the responsibility falls to me to complete household tasks that I feel are just slightly beneath my dignity.

Like taking out the garbage.

I hate taking out the garbage. HATE. I don't mean removing the bag from the can and taking it to the dumpster in the garage (although Husband does this too when he's home). I'm talking about taking the dumpster from the garage and all the way to the end of the driveway to be picked up. On Wednesday. How do I know it's Wednesday they do this? Well, when I put it out yesterday morning (Thursday) it remained full.

I really cannot be blamed for taking it out on the wrong day, quite frankly. I have not been properly trained. In the past I have lived comfortably in the assumption that the garbage is magically removed from my house, and it is therefore erased from conscious thought. If the magical garbage gnomes have always taken care of business in the past, why should they not now? Even when Husband is out of town?

Stupid gnomes.

So, I am now left with a full dumpster that I was required to wrest back up the driveway and into the little garage closet where I am now aware it is kept. I could have lived the rest of my life without either the task or the knowledge.

The problem now, of course, is the fact that I need to find a location to squeeze an entire week's worth of garbage. We generate our fair share in this household, do be sure. What's a girl to do? I've looked and looked, but I can find neither the contact information for magic gnomes nor an inconspicuous place to stash the fifteen garbage bags I'm sure we'll accumulate in the next seven days.

Ugh, menial chores.

HATE.

Just, please, God, don't let me forget next week.

Greetings, faithful fans and new faces. I have decided to repost a piece from yester-month because it is one of which I am particularly proud, and quite frankly, I don't have it in me to come up with something new today. I'm slightly afraid Charlie M. is bent on making an appearance. And plus, maybe it will encourage my beloved "newbies" to search the archives a little bit. Enjoy.

I am wearing my writing sweater. It is the same sweater I put on whenever I sit down to write; I don't know why. It's kind of like the hockey player's lucky jock strap, except not disgusting. I have my glasses perched upon my nose, a cup of tea on the counter next to me, and my hair is in a messy bun. With all of these crucial factors in place I cannot figure out why inspiration is not finding me. I don't know what to write!

Maybe we can talk about my sweater for awhile. It's kind of mauve-ish I think. It was knitted, not by me, but by someone who likely knows how to knit well. There are some little puff ball thingies marching down the front, and the entire garment closes with a shark tooth shaped button at the top. It's not a real shark tooth, because that would be too scary. It's just made of wood. Breathe easy. I like it because it's warm, and it makes me feel like a writer when I wear it at the same time as my glasses. I think in every movie ever made wherein one of the characters is a novelist, when he/she sits down to work he/she is always wearing an ugly baggy sweater and glasses. And my sweater fits into both categories, so again I say, I don't know why I can't think what to write.

Boy, I hate writing "he/she". It annoys me. I don't feel a deep and abiding anger on behalf of women everywhere when "he" is used as a default pronoun. I don't think it's sexist; I think its just easy. In fact, it bothers me that people think it is sexist. Lighten up! Find a real problem to get worked up about. So, from now on, I refuse to write "he/she". As my own little rebellion against militant feminism I will proudly use "he" as my default pronoun, and you can just remember when you read it that I don't think only men can perform whatever task I have assigned to "he", I just don't want to type four extra characters. K?

Speaking of feminism, I saw a bumper sticker today that I thought was quite funny, and if I were the bumper sticker type (alas, I am not) I would certainly put it on my car. It read, "So, you're a feminist! Isn't that cute?"

Say! It would appear I have found a topic! Thank you magic writing sweater!

I am offended by feminism. Oh, I'm not opposed to equality, I don't think we should all be barefoot and pregnant all the time (unless we want to), and I believe just as strongly as the next person that a woman is just as capable of heading a Fortune 500 company as a man, but I'm not going to march on Washington any time soon. Not with bedfellows like Hillary Clinton, Diane Feinstein, and Barbara Boxer anyway. I think these women are out to lunch. On Pluto.

First of all, I find it very hard to reconcile the fact that they and their kool-aid drinkers want to celebrate their womanhood by aggressively advocating the destruction of that which is our most amazing uniquely female ability. I simply cannot grasp how the "right" to abort our babies is a benchmark of our equality with men. How far have we come in the women's movement if the women who are supposedly the trail blazing activists encourage us to reject our very femininity, at the core of which is our body's incredible ability to carry, nurture, and deliver new life? The early feminists, the founders of the movement like Mary Wollstonecroft were ardently opposed to abortion. I imagine chief among their reasons for this hard stance was the fact that men can use it as a get out of jail free card! I won't go into all the arguments against abortion here. With our understanding of pregnancy and human development in this day and age it is absolutely atrocious that this practice is still not only legal, but encouraged. This, however, is not my topic today.

Feminism has effectively destroyed gentlemanly behavior. Thankfully there are still men who aren't afraid of being slapped with a lawsuit if they open the door for a female coworker, but they are becoming more and more scarce as women are convinced that they must shed all vestiges of natural femininity in order to be considered "on par" with men, especially in the corporate world. I realize that sexual harassment is real, and should be dealt with swiftly and effectively, but really, enough is enough! Let's draw some logical lines, and realize that gender roles do exist and that's okay.

I consider it an honor and a privilege to stay home with my son. My husband works so I don't have to. I love it! However, I expect the femi-nazi police to break down my door any day now and demand to know why I have bought into the fallacy that I have to, shudder, stay home with my child, and clean my house, and make dinner. I can and should get right back out there into corporate America and resume my pre-child career, they say. After all, it's my right, and who is some "man" to say that I can't? I ask, why is it that child-rearing is no longer considered an honorable "profession"? I don't have a problem at all with women who want to (or have to) work after their kids are born. Great! Maybe staying at home isn't for everyone, but I do not appreciate being pitied for my "oppressed state" because I do so. Radical feminists cannot grasp the fact that I may choose to do so, and instead believe that I am being forced to by a tyrannical husband.

I call for a return to reason, a return to the true precepts of "feminism" (I even begin to hate that word). Equal opportunity? Yes! Equal pay for equal work? You bet! The right to vote? I can get behind that! But we also need to remember that becoming more masculine in order to promote feminism is ludicrous, and the pioneers of rights for women would be ashamed of such behavior. Let us celebrate our womanhood, and remember that men are not the beasts the Mrss. Clinton, Feinstein, and Boxer would have us believe. Let us love our families, our children, our husbands, our homes, and if we have them, our jobs. Let us cast aside the mantle of shame that is put upon us for not buying into the militant side of feminism and just be feminine.

Let us fix the misguided problems in this movement before it's too late. Then again, I am not part of the problem; I'm a republican. Kiss kiss.

Still. Flipping. Raining.

Poor Josh and I are scraping along here, two gloomy little house mouses (house mice?) and we, for our part, are ready for the sun to shine. We're cranky, a little sick, bored, and ready for Daddy to come home.

"Daddy" had to go to "Boise" with the "army" for "training" and he'll be gone for two weeks. This means several things to me, most of which are decidedly unpleasant. It means that a). I must eat several Zyrtec in order to b.) not expire of anaphylactic shock when I c.) mow the lawn by myself. Further, I am required to d.) remove from the yard the carcass of a sparrow that flew into my window three seconds ago so e.) Josh doesn't play with it when he can finally go outside if it ever stops raining. It has occurred to me that I must f.) weed the flower beds that surround our house so my perennials don't g.) die, and it has further occurred to me that I am thankful we have underground sprinklers o I don't have to h.) move hoses around the yard or water by hand. I am not very excited to i.) sweep the courtyard or j.) trim the hedges, so I think that Sergeant Husband should hurry up and k.) come home.

On the bright side, I have the whole bed to myself and I have watched both and The Sound of Music and Elizabeth, The Golden Age in the few days since he left. So there is something to be said for this "There's strong, and then there's army strong, go army, hooah" two week training crap after all.

If only there wasn't so much manual labor involved for me.

Who am I trying to kid? I'm off to call a landscaping company. I don't mow. Maybe while they're here they can pick up the dead bird and kill some errant spiders for me...

The following is the extent of my son's vocabulary: "Mama, Dada, Lucy, no no, yeah, blah blah blah." Therefore, one cannot easily conclude that one could have a lengthy conversation with such a boy. One would be wrong.

Joshua: Mama!

Me: Yes, Josh...Joshua Delger! We do NOT take our pants off at the dinner table!

Joshua: Yeah. Dada!

Me: No, Daddy does not take off his pants at the dinner table, and you should not either.

Joshua: Mama, no no!

Me: Joshua, you are not listening to Mama. Sit down on your bottom and eat your dinner. Give me your pants.

Joshua: Blah blah blah.

Me: Joshua, why are you standing up in your high chair? And why are you putting food in your diaper? How did you get your diaper loose enough to get food in it?

Joshua: Lucy. Diditdiditdidit.

Me: Lucy did it?

Joshua: Yeah.

Me: Wait, did you just say "did it"?

Joshua: Diditdiditdiditdiditdidit! Mama! Diditdiditdiditdidit!

Me: Good job! You're a big boy with your new words. But big boys do not put food in their diapers.

Joshua: Blah blah blah.

Apparently, big boys actually do put food in their diapers, because I just threw one away that was full of pot roast. Ah, the joys of motherhood.

I am experiencing the joys (read: trials) of single motherhood for the next two weeks while James is in Boise with the Guard for annual training. Ugh. I tell you, I have new found respect for moms who must go it alone all the time. I don't think I could do it. If I had to, I'd survive, but it would probably drive me just crazy enough that I'd feel an urge to put pot roast in my panties.

We do a fair amount of traveling in this family, and of course we love it and feel very fortunate to be able to do so. I, for one however, am mortally tired of airports and their "security". If I see one more ninety year old woman getting wanded by the FBI I shall scream. I have a few airport stories that I'll relate to you, and then go on to explain why the security in the airport is a joke, and people need to get over their politically correct inspired fear of profiling. But first things first.

Airport Fiasco Number One: This one took place (thankfully) before we had Josh. My husband is in the Army National Guard, and about three weeks after our wedding, he was deployed to Iraq. During the almost two years he was gone, there were a handful (three if I remember correctly) of times that he was able to come home for a two week "R and R". I can still remember the months of anticipation when these leave takings were approaching. I remember the countdowns and the purchasing of new outfits and the making of plans. I also remember the horror of saying goodbye again; the two weeks always passed entirely too quickly. I remember the sinking feeling of not knowing if this was the last time we'd see one another. Because of this, obviously, we made our goodbyes count. I always drove him to the airport and got a special pass so I could wait with him at the gate. I don't know if he knows this, but I would watch him board, watch the plane taxi down the runway, take off, and I would stay there, eyes glued to the horizon until I could no longer see any indication of his plane. I was able to do this because soldiers fly commercially all the way to Kuwait, so I suppose that was nice. Until The Incident. The Incident took place when he was flying back to Iraq after his final leave. He was due to come home for good a mere seven months after that leave, so while it was still extremely difficult to once again say goodbye, at least this time there was light at the end of the tunnel.

For those of you who don't know, the bugs in Iraq are awful. Approaching Biblical plague proportions, I should think. The flies are the size of dinner plates, and the mosquitoes weigh more than the average four year old. Because he was tired of being eaten alive, I bought him an electric fly swatter. You must understand that these mutant insects needed to be fought with something greater than a little "Off" Repellent and a citronella candle. They needed the big guns. This contraption I bought him sent a little electric jolt through whatever was unfortunate enough to touch it.

He packed this fly swatter, still in its original packaging, in his carry on bag as he had no room in any of his checked luggage. I should mention that when soldiers fly anywhere while on duty, they fly in full uniform. It was pretty obvious he was in the army, what with the camouflage and the US Army insignia marching across his chest. Apparently the mental midgets in TSA shirts either didn't realize this, or didn't care. When they saw the fly swatter, in its original packaging, they pulled both of us into their little interrogation room; they didn't say anything to us, they just kept making little phone calls. Misplaced faith in system that I had, I really thought they were making calls to see about making an exception for this soldier, this brave man who was even then leaving the safety of American soil to fight a war in a foreign land, ready to defend us against the very terrorists that made such stringent security a necessity in the first place. Too bad it's not PC to detain potential terrorists...but I digress.

When I asked the men in the room with us what they were doing on the phone, they did not respond like I assumed, telling us that they were going to let this GI Joe take his fly swatter on the plane, as it was in the original packaging. On no. They were determining how many felonies to charge us with! Bringing a deadly weapon on an airplane, carrying a concealed weapon in an airport, attempted hijacking. Things like that. I lost it. I laid into those people and stripped their hides of flesh. Figuratively anyway. My tirade continued until James very calmly placed his hand on my arm and said to our captors, "If you would like to call my commanding officer and explain to him that you have detained a United States soldier on his way back to Iraq, which you are clearly aware of considering you're holding my itinerary in your hand, I would be perfectly willing to give you his contact information. You may further explain to him that you are detaining my wife and me over a fly swatter that is in its original packaging. Go ahead, tell my CO what you're doing to a veteran of the War on Terror. I'm sure he'll be fascinated."

They let us go. I never did get the fly swatter back, though. And plus, they had a sheriff's deputy escort me out to my car; apparently they feared I'd try to take it back by force. So, we didn't really get to say goodbye that time, and two and a half years later I'm still irritated over the whole debacle.

Airport Fiasco Number Two: This one is more light hearted, but just as irritating. I was flying to Minnesota with my mom. James wasn't with us, but I did take Josh. He was about ten months old. Anyone with small children knows the chaos that ensues when traveling with them, and we were no exception. I had my diaper bag, my purse, my carry-on, and my Bob jogging stroller. This stroller is just a little bit bigger than a Volkswagen Beetle, so pretty fun to maneuver through the Bozeman airport. I'm trying to get all of this through security while at the same time putting my lipstick and Purel in plastic baggies (as if a plastic bag would stop a liquid explosive) and arguing with TSA over taking a full bottle of formula on the plane. Apparently they didn't think Josh's needing to eat was a good enough excuse to bring his food on the plane. I also had to remove my own shoes and Josh's. (Asinine). After this circus ended, I walked through the metal detector expecting the nightmare to end. It did not. It beeped. I backed up, reaffirmed that I had no metal on my person, and walked through again. BEEP BEEP BEEP!

Lord.

So, I have to cart all this crap over to the screening area, meanwhile my mom is nowhere to be found, and submit myself to the indignity of being searched. Do you know what the problem was? The underwire in my brassiere. Because they could not take my word for it, I had to be searched by a female officer to, I gather, make certain I wasn't hiding knives in the cups of my bra.

I am so tired of seeing little old ladies harassed in airport lines over their knitting needles while a man in a turban walks right through dragging an ax behind him. Can't stop that guy, because that would be profiling. Profiling hurts people's feelings.

A little common sense and a healthy dose of factual evidence is all that is needed to prove that even if liberal apologists don't like it, profiling just makes sense. Are all Muslim males terrorists? Certainly not! That would be a ludicrius assumption. However, all of the terrorist attacks on U.S. soil and U.S. interests in the last thirty years have been perpetrated by male Islamic extremists aged 17 to 40, with the exception of the bombing in Oklahoma City. Observe.

November 1979 - 52 Americans taken hostage when militant Islamic fundamentalists aged 17-40 stormed the US Embassy in Tehran.

April 1983 - Bombing of US Embassy in Beirut by militant Islamic fundamentalists aged 17-40. 63 people were killed.

October 1983 - Bombing of Marine barracks in Beirut by militant Islamic fundamentalists aged 17-40. 241 Marines were killed and over one hundred were injured.

December 1983 - Bombing of US Embassy in Kuwait by militant Islamic fundamentalists aged 17-40. Six people were killed and eighty were injured.

1982 - 1992 - Thirty western "infadels" kidnapped and held hostage by militant Islamic fundamentalists aged 17-40.

September 1984 - Bombing of US Embassy annex Northeast of Beirut by militant Islamic fundamentalists. 24 people were killed.

December 1984 - Kuwait Airways Flight 221 hijacked by militant Islamic fundamentalists. Two Americans were killed.

June 1985 - TWA flight 847 hijacked by militant Islamic fundamentalists. US Navy
Diver was shot when the terrorist's demands were not met, and his body was dumped on the tarmac.

October 1985 - Hijacking of cruise ship Achille Lauro by militant Islamic fundamentalists. When the terrorist's demands were not met, a 69 year old disabled woman was killed and her body thrown overboard.

December 1988 - Bombing of Pan Am Flight 103 by militant Islamic fundamentalists. All 259 people on board were killed along with 11 people on the ground.

February 1993 - Bombing of World Trade Center by militant Islamic fundamentalists. Six people lost their lives and over one thousand more were injured.

November 1995 - Bombing of military headquarters in Saudi Arabia by militant Islamic fundamentalists. Five people were killed.

June 1996 - Bombing of Kobar Towers in Saudi Arabia by militant Islamic fundamentalists. Nineteen people were killed and hundreds more were injured.

October 2000 - Bombing of USS Cole by militant Islamic fundamentalists. Seventeen seamen were killed.

September 2001 - Almost three thousand people lost their lives when militant Islamic fundamentalists hijacked three airplanes and crashed them into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and while likely aiming for the White House, a field in Pennsylvania.

These are just a smattering of deadly terrorist attacks carried out by militant Islamic fundamentalists aged 17-40. There have been hundreds more all over the world, both before and since September 11th. So does it make me angry that my United States soldier of a husband, this veteran of the War on Terror is detained in the airport for having a fly swatter? Does it make me clench my fists when TSA is so busy with my underwire that they could be missing some one with a real intent to harm? Does it make me sick that my eighty year old grandma cannot go through airport security without fear of being wanded, searched, and harassed? You bet! It makes me so mad I could spit; and ladies do not spit. And why are we doing this? Because the liberals are concerned about feelings. Wah wah. I'm much more concerned with safety, and the logic of ensuring it than I am about feelings. Give me a break. Religion of peace my foot.

Salutations. This will be a short one, as my monster is sickly and napping fitfully. I wanted, however, to express my, shall we say, consternation about my weekend. Specifically one event on Sunday.

My brother, the last of the Bjelland brood, graduated from high school this year, and Sunday was the commencement. Every year the student body chooses one of their own to give the commencement address. This year it was Sean (Shawn?) McSpadden. I don't know this kid, I'm sure he was popular and lovely and blah blah blah. That's fine. No issue there. What I have an issue with was the content of his "speech".

Ugh. I was quite glad that Josh slept through the entire thing, though admittedly even if he had not, he's a little young to understand what Sean (Shawn?) was saying. Thank goodness. This speech was so incredibly inappropriate I cannot even quite believe I heard correctly. If I was this kid's mother I would be mortified; and I'd ground him until age 30.

The 20 minutes he spoke were filled with sexual innuendo, lurid content, and a healthy dose of Narcissism. The latter I'm not too concerned with, but some of the things he said were just pathetic. For example, when talking about a Frisbee game with his brother he said that his brother told him to "go deep" to which he replied "That's what she said". He talked about his sensuality and his prowess with the ladies. Since when is this appropriate for a seventeen year old, um, EVER, but during a commencement address?

What happened to "good luck in the future" and "way to go class of 2008"? It's really sad to me that we have sunk so low as a society that teenagers think ribald jokes and frank talk of sex is acceptable fodder for not just conversation, but public speaking in front of fellow classmates and members of the community. I hope his mother took his car away or something.

My monster is stirring. I'm off to give what comfort I can to his sick little body and also to inform him that if he ever behaves that way in the future, he'll be cruisin' for a bruisin'.