Don't Choke Your Brother, Your Hands Are Too Small

Last night, after taking Hubby out for Birthday Dinner, The Boy lectured Hubby and me on our complete cluelessness, as parents, because we had had the nerve to tell his brother "Don't feel bad. If you didn't promise that girl anything, she's not going to be mad at you for saying you're not sure you want to be more than friends yet."

After explaining that everything we know about relationships between the sexes has been wrong for the past 30 years (yes, apparently I was already working on outdated dating info when I was ten years old and had not yet discovered boys) he moved on to Human Nature. Apparently, we don't know anything about that, either.

Religion: we are clueless and naive.

Parenting: we are coddling the brothers so they will never be able to make it in the chalkdust jungle that is high school.

Drug use and law enforcement: Ha! It's amazing we are allowed to walk the streets, we are so pitiably misinformed.

In the spirit of The Beatings Will Continue Until Morale Improves, The Boy talked and talked until Hubby and I were ready to send him to reform school on Mars, two of his brothers had exiled themselves to distant rooms in a failed search for peace and quiet, and one of his brothers was driven to tears.

"He's complaining about the exact stuff HE does to US, all day long!"

Longtime readers will remember that he did the same thing on MY birthday.

Around 6 this morning, while we were still asleep, he let himself into our bedroom, turned on the light, and did something in the master bathroom, and then let himself out. Did I mention we were both naked? Because, you know, we were in our own bedroom with the door locked, and asleep? Thank God I was under the blankets.

This morning, while I was battling nausea/soreness/chills/exhaustion/general wishes that death would come swiftly, The Boy insisted that I help him straighten his hair.

"Look. I did it for you yesterday. It isn't hard. You can do this. I'll talk you through it," I said. "I guarantee, every girl at school with straightened hair does it HERSELF. None of THEM has their mom do it. And I am DOING STUFF, OK? It's YOUR hair. I'm not even going to straighten my OWN hair, today."

Much whining ensued, but he did manage, with only fleeting assistance from me.

He had a dentist's appointment this afternoon, and spent so much time dicking around while I stood in the doorway, yelling, "WE NEED TO GET IN THE CAR, NOW," that we had to reschedule.

He then spent a good hour on the phone--the landline, even though we bought him a cell phone for Christmas. He worked in a dig at his brother, and told his friend that his entire family is crazy, while I stood inches away.

And he asked me to find him a photo, because he didn't want to bother taking a new one, even though, again, we bought him a digital camera for Christmas.

He then took the last bottle of my special, fantabulous soda which I can only get once a year on a trip down to Florida, drank a few sips and complained about the unpleasant "aftertaste".

His room is a mess, his possessions are strewn throughout the house, he's alienating his brothers and seems hellbent on driving me to find that dusty pack of cigarettes I have stashed around here, somewhere.

See that? That's my last nerve, right there.

I'm just a little bit freaked out

Because I have been outed.

Hubby's birthday was yesterday. He spent some time on the phone with his brothers, getting the traditional congratulations that come with being the baby of the family (he is 44, but his youngest brother is 58, so Hubby looks like a mere babe, and shall continue to do so, forever. While I, 4 years older than my sister, am the Older One, and therefore have one foot in the grave).

Hubby mentioned to Jesus Bill, about whom I have blogged, that Hubby has a blog of his own. Jesus Bill will probably check it out. And when he does, he will probably notice that there is a link to MY blog.

"What? Christine has a blog?"

I am counting on my generally dull reputation to discourage any and all familial scrolling of the Total Waste of Time Archives. Because, you know, the very thought of Actual Relatives reading some of this stuff is about enough to give me hives.

So, if you're reading this, Welcome, Jesus Bill. Love ya. And if the subject comes up, all you need to say is, "Christine has a really boring blog."

Well, thank God THAT's over

Hubby is a bass player (sometimes a drummer, too, and occasionally a guitarist, as circumstances merit). He is actually pretty damn good. The man can PLAY, OK? And I love to listen, love to watch him play.

Sometimes, he's in a band. Other times, he just jams with friends, hangs out at open mic nights, stuff like that. A part of me really misses it when he's not in a band, and I know he misses it, too. But then again.

BAND MEMBERSHIP=BAND DRAMA

He joined his latest band a few months ago, and I can honestly say I was AGAINST IT FROM THE START. "That one guy is a jackass," I thought, just on the basis of what Hubby reported to me about the audition. "I have a bad feeling about this whole thing."

Yes, I am such a tremendous judge of character that I can suss you out, even sight unseen. Trust this.

Last weekend Hubby's band performed somewhere, and it was...it was...well, let's just say it rhymes with Mustard Duck. So awful that the band disbanded that night.

One of the contributing factors? The BIGGEST factor, if you ask me? Yup. "That one guy is a jackass". For months, we have heard it from all over town, from people who used to be in a band with That One Guy. The music scene in the Happy Boondocks is incestuous, at best, so everyone knows everyone else, at least by reputation.

And I have tried as hard as I could not to Yoko Ono/Janine Pettibone myself into the situation. I constantly reminded myself I am Just A Fan and a Wife and a Chick Who Loves to Dance. I am Not a Musician and I Should Keep My Mouth Shut.

I have failed, miserably, as this blog entry attests. I TOLD him so, and after a while I couldn't STOP telling him so. I am embarrassed to tell it, but this blog is all about tellin' it like it is, so there ya go. Christine went a little overboard, on the nagging front, when it came to Hubby's latest band's Obvious, and Incontrovertible, Faults.

Anyway, the great thing about it is, Hubby is already working on forming a new band. Hubby on bass. Guitarist he knows and likes. Singer who kicks ass in a major way. And...a drummer, tbd.

They will be getting together later this week, to start ironing out the kinks. I am at least as psyched as Hubby is. I cannot WAIT to see what happens with THIS band. It is much more the band I had been hoping for, when he got suckered into The Band Whose Name Shall Not Be Repeated on My Blog Again.

Up is down, black is white, the election is coming

Fiddlin' Writer and I are at a loss. As the wildest Republican and most conservative hippie Democrat in existence, we have managed an uneasy truce on the political thing. Basically, we don't discuss it. No big deal, we have plenty of other stuff to discuss. She and I could talk allllllll day. And have.

During the last election, all we managed to say to each other on the political front was, "I am losing sleep, terrified that your candidate will win."

But this time, it is odd.

Her "rabid Republican" father is planning to vote for Hillary, "because it's about damn time we had a woman in the White House."

And my "crazy-liberal" mother-in-law supports Guiliani, because she is still amazed at the transformation he wreaked on her beloved hometown of NYC. "Everyone was polite. No one cursed. The streets were clean and there was no graffiti. I felt absolutely safe, wherever I went. It...just wasn't like home."

It is official. I have NO FLIPPIN' IDEA who will win. Heck, at this point, I am not even sure who's got MY vote.

Ugh. That stuff should come with a warning label

I saw some friends today, got some hugs. And that is great. But I got home a little while ago, and realized that that nauseated feeling I've been battling all afternoon is directly related to whomever it was who hugged me, while wearing Shalimar.

I know, I know, Shalimar is lovely and I am a clod for not loving it, but it makes me just want to hurl, ok?

In a perfect world, everyone who wears Shalimar would be required to wear a small warning label.

MOM! YOU HAVE TO SEE THE MANTAGE!

And, as usual, the Sons were correct.



They forgot, however, a few key mantage moments:
backing into a parking space!
stealing food from the dog's dish!
washing his hair with a bar of Ivory soap!
playing bass AND drums. With a broken leg!
laughing at fart jokes!
setting things on fire!

What's missing, ladies?

The Taller You Get, the Less Women Like You

Son #1 is explaining his irresistability to his brother (two years younger and about 4 inches taller) and best friend (also slightly taller than Son #1).

"The taller you get, the less women like you. They LOVE babies. They think toddlers are adorable. Little kids are cute. You get too tall, the women lose interest. Back me up, Mom--would you date an eight foot tall man?"

He has a point. And he does seem to be Catnip to the high school crowd. But, um, Hubby is over six feet tall, and I Ain't Complainin'.

Mr Backrub's Plan to Fix the World

Once I start mentioning you again and again, you earn Nickname Status on the blog. That way I can talk about you without worrying I'll embarrass you. So, here's to YOU, Mr Backrub. I bet you know who you are, even though I only devoted about 2 seconds to choosing your nickname...

Mr Backrub told me, the other night, of his great idea to eliminate the need for viagra, cialis, and all those other drugs.

"What we should work on is a pill that makes semen taste like chocolate. All the women in the world would say, 'Come to me, Willie Wonka!'"

I think that would probably go a long way towards establishing world peace, too.

For Jill: The Country Store

As you know, I love the Country Store. I get my blues fix there at least twice a month, and sometimes even more than that. There is plenty of grab-assing and dancing to be had. The food is awesome. And there is one more thing...

Though the men's room often has a long line, there is almost never a line, for the ladies' room.

Often, I will slide right in to the ladies', confident I can spend all the time I want reapplying my lip gloss because there's no one hopping from foot to foot outside the door.

If, however, you happen to be stuck in line, I have provided Entertainment. I made a couple of collages of my Blues Open Mic photos and hung them on the wall, across from the restrooms. Feel free to peruse, and loudly compliment them.

They also have a wide variety of nice liquid soaps, if you're into that.

Other than that, it's just a bar bathroom, but I know Jill is especially fond of those, so Here You Go, Jill.

Poky Redhead also will benefit from this particular post. SEE, I CAN INDEED wear a hat with a feather in it and not look like a pimp. Or one of those Red Hat people.

Sue Reviewed Me!

OK, this was just the thing I needed today. Sue reviewed my blog and actually made me sound OK :)

Her blog is a lot of fun, too. Check it out!

Heath Ledger and Fred Thompson

Yesterday, Heath Ledger died and Fred Thompson dropped out of the presidential primary. I have talked with a mess of people and everyone is upset about one of these events, but no one seems to be upset about both of them.

I guess my Heath-loving friends and my Thompson-loving friends have only myself in common.

My Office

Most of the time, my office is in a corner of the living room. Some day, I figure, I'll have A Real Office with Four Walls and a Door. But that has to wait until the Sons move out.

Today, the Sons have off of school. We'll get their haircuts, and two of them will visit the dentist. They also are going to clean their bedrooms, if it kills us all.

Which brings us to my office of the day.

I am sitting on the floor in the hall, between the open bedroom doors of Sons #2 and 3. I can write the article I need to submit today, while watching them clean their bedrooms. I feel like the Cleanliness Nazi, but it's getting done.

Unintended Moral Lesson #105

Last weekend, Sons #1 and 2 went to a movie with some friends. The movie was hosted by the friends' Catholic high school. They went. Had a good time.

But Son #1 spent a good bit of time laughing at the idea that his friend's religion teacher bootlegged The Bucket List to show it to a bunch of high school students.

Yes, for those who missed it the first time, the school had a religion teacher steal something, for the moral benefit of students.

Christine Doesn't Care

Everyone posts these beautiful blog entries about the things that matter to them. I think I will, instead, tell you the things that I couldn't care less about, that I get the impression I'm supposed to, somehow.

Seasons. I don't need 4 of 'em. Winter is for crap, I tell you. If we only had the other 3, I'd be pleased. Work on that, will you?

Square Footage. Poky Redhead asked me yesterday, how big my house is. I can't remember. I could look it up, but who cares? It is cramped in here, now, and will feel palatial when the Sons are grown and gone. That's all I know.

Home Decor. Bah. Aside from an ill-advised foray into colorful walls (screw you very much, Sherwin Williams guy), I don't care. Hubby picked out the new carpet. He decided we needed blinds. If he wants new furniture, we get it. I love the stuff he chooses, and we have very similar tastes, in a furniture store, but I suspect that if I were living alone, I'd be sitting on the floor. Maybe I'm just lazy and cheap, but I don't understand how people can get all excited about choosing cabinetry and furniture and coordinating things, when they have perfectly good, useable stuff right there already.

What's On TV. I put the news on while I'm in the kitchen. But if the TV is otherwise on, Hubby or the Sons turned it on and chose the show. I sit through whatever they're watching, generally attempting to tune it out and listen to my own thoughts. If I can't, I aim to sleep. YES, there are shows I enjoy. But not enough to seek them out.

Hair Grows. The Sons are inching toward long hair. I don't care. I gather them up every once in a while for a trim, just so things look orderly, but if they all end up with rocker hair, I won't care. Just, you know, no product.

Gadgets. I have a ton of them, but I keep going back to: a knife, a saucepan, a skillet, a spoon. Maybe I just am tired of the additional noise of powered things. Maybe I miss the counter space under those gadgets.

Fancy Brands and Glamor Foods. I've had caviar and Brie. Ick. Those purses with the logos all over them look tacky as hell to me, too. I try exotic things, and I appreciate well-manufactured goods, but I am not going to buy anything to make a statement.

Being Fashionably Late. If I want to go, I want to be on time. Sometimes, in my eagerness, I even arrive EARLY.

I feel like a curmudgeon, so I think I'll stop here. If you all decided I was just a cranky bitch, well, I'd care about that.

We are hooked

On Rock Band.

We got it for Christmas, and it is FUN.

It's like Guitar Hero, but you can also play bass, and drums, and sing vocals. We've been playing a lot. It's a total riot. Here are a few things I've discovered:

I am the world's worst video game player. Although, I knew that.

Hubby is a bigger kid than all the Sons. It's kinda charming. Although, I knew that, too. Hubby is all about the boyish charm.

Son #1 is quick to "save" me, when I fail out. It's sweet.

Son #4 is a natural front man.

They spell it "s.a.p."

"Christine, can you show me the special way you crack the eggs so the shells come off?"

So I did. It's not brain surgery, folks!

"Mom, it's too cold for me to walk to the bus stop, because my hair is wet. And I can't wear that leather jacket you bought for me, even though it's below freezing."

So I drove them to the bus stop, which is all of .2 mile from the house.

I am a wife and mother. Spell it S.A.P.

ALF's archive meme

ALF, who swears she dislikes blog tag, has challenged us all to link to five specific blog posts in our archives.

Oh, yeah, THAT isn't going to take long.

So, here I go;

One about Family

One about Friends

One about Me

One about Something I Love

One random one of my choice

Are these my favorites? Well, not really. I'd be reading all day, to find them. But, they are a sampling, anyway.

Where everybody knows your name

And they're always glad you came...

Yup, Son #4 and I hit the ER again today. He woke up with the sensation of broken glass in his eye. It was red and teary and painful, and flushing it with saline at home didn't help.

Fortunately, the wait at the ER was so long that before he saw a doctor, it had resolved itself.

On the way out, he noticed the doctor who had sewn his arm up, on Christmas Eve.

"There's Dr. Esterhay! Can I go say hi?"

We are just toooo comfortable at the hospital.

2 am and they're as giggly as schoolgirls

The Sons have a couple of friends spending the night. Which means, just like it did when I was 12 and hosting half a dozen girls in the basement of my parents' place, they are Not Sleeping.

My parents were convinced that the "stay up all night and giggle" thing was a girl phenomenon. If they'd had boys, they wouldn't be dealing with that. It is to laugh.

At 1:30 this morning, the boys in the basement were talking so loud the dog (who sleeps in my bed) barked at them. Hubby tossed out a few of his Wallpapering Words and went back to sleep, good ear to the pillow. But me, well, once I'm up, I'm up.

So, in between telling the boys to CUT IT OUT, ALREADY, YOU'RE NOT FOOLING ANYONE WITH THAT STAGE WHISPER, I have been:

reading celebrity gossip web sites and National Review
eating ramen (needs cilantro, but I'm not shopping at 2 am)
watching that video of the tiger attacking an elephant on YouTube
considering cleaning (but that's even more pathetic than ramen and dlisted at 2 am)

I have also discovered who is rifling through my envelopes. Ellie, our cat, just tried to nest in there. It didn't work. Cats love a sheet of paper, so an entire stack of paper must have looked like Shangri-La to her, but...it is slidey, so she has returned to her favorite chair. I bet she tries it every night.

And the boys are mostly quiet, now. But they are clearly exhausted, and therefore giggly. I never would have believed that was possible, as a girl. All those middle school boys seemed so different from us. I guess I was just envisioning their future manliness. Because there is not a lot of Gary Cooper in my basement, right now, no matter what the girls think of those 6 young guys.

The moral of the story? It is good to be deaf in one ear.

De do do do Girl

I was discussing the timeless meaning of The Police with Son #2, the other day. He thought "De do do do, De da da da" was stupid. Until, of course, I asked him if there was anyone who made him feel that way:

Don't think me unkind
Words are hard to find
They're only cheques I've left unsigned
From the banks of chaos in my mind
And when their eloquence escapes me
Their logic ties me up and rapes me

De do do do, de da da da
Is all I want to say to you
De do do do, de da da da
Their innocence will pull me through
De do do do, de da da da
Is all I want to say to you
De do do do, de da da da
They're meaningless and all that's true

And then it hit him. He does, indeed, have what he calls "De do do do Girl". He just found out she'll be on his field trip with him.

Battle of the Bulge Fitness Challenge: A belated carol

Oh, holy crap
My gym's having a connnnntest
And I signed up because I am a nut
Prizes are few
And I shall not win aaaaaany
But I press on, hoping to tone my butt
A class each day
These teachers are all fascists
But then again
They all are in great shape
Falllllllll on your kneeeeees
And giiiiiiive me forty puuuuuuush-ups
My triiiiiiiceps are shocked
But I keep coming back
I waaaaaant that iiiiiiiiiPod
Shuffle
And flatter abs

Not that I'm a fan, or anything, but...

They are sure making a big fuss over Hilary getting a little sniffy. I am starting to feel like the campaign process is a most unhelpful way to elect a president.

The Idle Americans

I saw these guys last night. They run the blues open mic I often rave about. This is from a show I missed, but beggars can't be choosers when it comes to scraping content off of YouTube.

Teachers: Classy, Sophisticated Professionals

Son #1 got some great stuff from Hot Topic for Christmas. The other day he wore one of his new shirts to school. He looked great. He thought he looked great. All the girls thought he looked great.

His teacher, however, did not. While insulting one of his regular targets, he managed to zing Son #1, as well.

"You're an idiot, but at least you don't look as gay as _____ does, in that shirt."

That's some enlightened public education, right there. Makes me proud to send my kids to school.

For the "Man Resume"

I have been teasing Hubby, for a while, that I am such a fabu wife that he needs to write me up a recommendation letter for Hubby #2. You know, should he decide he's tired of me, or whatever, I figure, with a good CV, I could just walk up to Mr Fabulous of My Choice and apply.

"I'm the woman you're looking for, and here's a notarized letter to that effect." Save all the bullshit.

So every once in a while, I'll mention it. Whenever I do something he truly appreciates, I say, "Don't thank me, just put it on the Man Resume while you still have it on your mind." I think he takes it in the right spirit. We chuckle.

This Christmas, Hubby had an extensive Wish List at Musician's Friend. It was fun buying stuff I knew he'd like. So much fun, that Musician's Friend has sent me a coupon toward my next purchase. They like me. I am spendy.

So I told him that could go on the Man Resume, too. "Just put a wish list on Musician's Friend, and she'll buy you whatever you like!"

Hubby nixed that one.

"Ohhhhh, no. I'm not writing THAT down. You'd attract alllll the wrong kind of people."

Takes a deadbeat musician to know one, I guess.

Calling all tattoo artists

Son #4 got his stitches out yesterday. He is taking antibiotics for an infection which has the whole thing kind of pink & puffy, but otherwise I guess we have a pretty good idea of what the scar will look like.

It is a crescent, with the ends pointing towards his wrist. I am thinking it would make a great shark mouth, should he ever decide he needs a tattoo.

Any great "incorporate the scar" tattoo ideas for my 11-year-old?

Hey! The Government Found Me!

A friend of mine writes the Thursday blog posts for Gov Gab, one of the Federal government's blogs. Nancy is great. She even has a pseudonym, on this blog. And today, she wrote about me!

Wooo, me! I am famous!

So run on over and check us out.

240-813-5221

Late last night, my cell phone started beeping. I'd missed a text message. But I was in bed, with Hubby, who is about the only person who ever texts my cell phone, so I knew it was not a real person. This morning, I checked the phone.

The message, from the above number, read:

"Pat McCarthy is someone you need to fuck up."

Sugar, I'm flattered, but I have got to tell you I am five feet, three inches tall. You are requesting thuggishness from someone who just...can't...help you.

Update on the Events of Christmas Week

I've been getting questions, so here are your answers.

Son #3's finger doesn't hurt. He is feelin' fine. He is also faithfully doing his exercises, because Dr Herring made it clear that the alternative was not cool in the least.

Son #4's arm doesn't hurt. The stitches look cool. He's working on a story to tell the ladies, in future. Something involving the Cong, I think.

My friend's son did not have a broken finger. He had a broken HAND. I am encouraging her to press charges, because thugs like that need to be labeled so the rest of us see them coming. HEAR ME, BLONDIE? POKE THE POLICE.

Son #1 had the same reaction to his friend's "the one who's a ni..." statement. "DID I JUST HEAR WHAT I THINK I HEARD?" I mentioned it to him after I blogged about it (because I AM interested in being factual, but...not necessarily enough to check things before I blog). And he scooted around with me for a while. "Mom, do you think he is...a RACIST? HIM? His whole FAMILY? Racist? REALLY?" And I left him with..."Well, all I can say is, I heard what I heard, and I can't imagine a situation where that word would cross your MIND, let alone your lips, so there it is."

NO, I am not sick of ACME Blues Company. They are awesome, and their CD will be in my car forever. No, I do not need more than one or two Non-ACME CDs in my car at any one time. If you don't like the rotation, bring your own CD. Better yet, tell the ACME guys to hurry up and release a second CD. What a ridiculous question. Geez. "sick of ACME yet." Where did that come from?

Controversial Opinion of the Day

I don't care how many times I hear otherwise.

Krispy Kreme donuts are absolute crap.

Dunkin Donuts ROCK.

Don't get me started on the "hot donuts" sign. A Dunkin Donut is good days later. Still damn good. Still better than your Krispy Kreme thing, on its best day.

There, I said it.

the most terrifying bird of prey in the Western Hemisphere

While cooling my heels in the dining room at the Robert Trent Jones Golf Course (Son #3 was in the men's locker room, getting his finger taped), I noticed this logo. I can't believe I've been coming here for at least a decade, and never saw it before.

I can hear his squawky voice, now, raining terror from above.

"IF BEAK NOT SCARE YOU.

IF TALONS NOT SCARE YOU.

ME HAVE TWO GOLF CLUBS.

YOU DIE NOW!"

I'd like to see the islamofascists deal with some of THAT.

Honestly, though, lunch was yummy and, as I have stated before, the place is packed with relaxed orthopedists, so it's a great setting for a little post-prandial football injury.

Rawrk!

Did I hear what I think I heard?

Yesterday the Sons had some friends over. People they don't see very often. But nice, well-behaved kids. Quiet, respectful, church-attending kids who work hard at school and excel at sports and participate in community service projects.

There are no airsoft battles, lately, because 2 of the Sons are on the injured reserve bench. But they got to talking about a previous get-together. That day, there had been a LOT of kids over, from all over town. Most of them didn't know each other, but they all got along. It was nice.

One of the boys who was over yesterday asked a question about one of the other boys who had been here, that day a few months ago. But he couldn't remember the kid's name.

"You know, the one with the really short, fuzzy hair."

"Colin?"

no.

"Connor?"

Son #1 was going through his list of friends, most of whom have the long, silky hair that is popular these days. Pony hair. So, you know, he had no idea who his friend was asking about.

"You know, the one who's a ni..."

I think that yesterday I heard a teenager start to call a fellow teenager a nigger, in my own home. He caught himself, I think because of the reaction he was getting from Son #1. But holy shit. What is up with that? I had no idea.

Equally bizarre: he LIKES this other kid. He was not hurling anger, or hate. He was not criticizing Son #1 for befriending a kid whose mother is of African descent. He was just...describing him, so my son would know who he was talking about, while they rehashed the fun parts of a previous get together. Describing a kid whose name he couldn't remember.

As a nigger.

Jesus help us.

Also yesterday: a friend's developmentally disabled son got the tar beaten out of him by some kids in the neighborhood. He has cuts and bruises and a split lip and possibly a broken finger, I guess because he was trying to be "one of the guys" but can't quite master the mysteries of being a teenage boy. Can't quite see it coming, when the shit hits the fan.

The hospital called the police.

How bad do you have to look, before the hospital calls the police?

How bad do you have to BE, to gang up on a sweet kid with developmental problems and brain cancer?

Elvin Bishop had it right.

"People, people, what the hell is going on?"

I've been tagged by a non-tagger

ALF tagged me. And so, here are 7 things about me:

1-I hate forwarded emails, but I love blog tag. Go figure. I think it is because I am completely self-absorbed, and want people to want to know pointless crap about me.

2-I am the Queen of MySpace, when it comes to Southern Maryland nightlife photography. That is a mighty miniscule kingdom, I know, but every time I see my photos up on someone's MySpace page, I am thrilled. So much more fun than the photos I take for work. So far I have photos up with: ACME Blues Company, Riptide, Don Dirkin, Wave & Wolf's Blues Jams, and Baker's Boys. Kudos to Wave, because he credits me on his pages. Just another reason to love that man.

3-I love cilantro.

4-I have no sense of direction, and a lousy memory. So, I often get lost, even going places I have been a dozen times. I got a GPS for Christmas. This shall give me back thousands of hours of future driving time, enabling me to write the great American novel and cure cancer.

5-I was "Chris" until I met my husband. He decided that "Chris" was a man's name, and started calling me "Christine", like my parents do. We've been married nearly 20 years and "Christine" still seems pretentious. But "Chris" just sounds odd. If you call me Chris, we've known each other since at least 1985.

6-I rode a motorscooter (sidesaddle, no less)to the hospital to give birth to Son #1. I highly recommend it, as you can jump off and walk during contractions.

7-I make really good fried rice. This was harder for me to learn than I expected. I threw out a lot of bad fried rice, at first.

And in honor of ALF, I shall not tag anyone. But feel free to self-tag. Because if you read my blog, I absolutely want to know seven things about you. More than that, even.

Lessons Learned at 40: Life's Too Short

I've been 40 all of 2 months, and so I am ready to pontificate.

Life is too short to sit through bad music. If the band is bad, give 'em three songs to change your mind, and then get the hell out.

Life is probably too short to do a lot of other stuff, but tonight that's all I've got. If you're sitting at the bar thinking, "I should be scrubbing toilets," it's time to call a cab.

Breaktime's over!

Hubby's last words to me, last night:

"I don't have to get in to work too early, tomorrow."

So, this morning, I slept in. I moseyed down the hall and made his coffee. I checked my email. I poured the coffee. And I brought it to him, about an hour and a half after he normally would have been up and getting ready for work.

"Sweetie, it's almost 8:00. I brought you coffee."

I could practically see the Disney birds swirling around my head. I let him sleep in! I brought him coffee! I woke him sweetly! Aren't I amazing?

Hubby's first word to me, this morning:

"Why?"

I think he's going to be late for work.

Freecycle Day

Today, after taking stock of the Christmas giftage, I am Freecycling a bunch of our old, useable, but no longer great stuff. The coffeepot. The George Foreman Grill.

And a couple of new gifts, too, that I don't have receipts for. Merry Christmas, fellow bargain hunters! I wonder if someone else is going to offer things I want. Could be. If not, though, I'll just be happy to get rid of this stuff.

ACMEEEEEEE! Wammy Nominees AGAIN!

That Band Christine Won't Shut Up About just was nominated for Best Blues Band, and Wave, the singer/harp player is up for Best Vocalist.

WOOOO! They are awesome, they deserve it, and I am psyched on their behalf.

So, that just means you have ONE MORE REASON to drop everything and come see them, next time they're in town.

What's better than a late-night trip to the ER?

TWO late-night trips to the ER!

Ohhhhh, YEAH!

Christmas Eve, after returning from Mom-in-Law's festivities and hanging our stockings by the chimney with care, we opened the traditional One Early Present. Then, Hubby and the Sons watched TV while I sacked out. Because, you know, I like my sleep. It was only 9pm, but something told me I would really need it.

And at 10, I found out what I'd need it for.

Son #4, in a Christmas Eve frenzy (and who could blame him? So far, all he's received is 2 articles of clothing and a jumbo package of Swedish Fish) ran down the hall for a blanket and snagged a nail that had popped out of the paneling.

With his arm.

So, I took him to the ER while Hubby sent the rest of the Sons to bed and went back downstairs to continue Christmas Prep.

You know, when you slash your arm, the wound pulls open and you can see all the globby bits of fat, puffing out. It's not as cool as you'd think, when it's on your own arm. Or on your son's.

We were, again, amazed at the speed and efficiency of the new, improved triage center at St Mary's Hospital. I, personally, was glad just not to recognize any of the staff.

Once the anesthesia kicked in and the repair work commenced, Son #4 asked what any 11-year-old House fan would ask.

"So, Dr. Esterhay, have you ever treated a CIPA patient?"

Unfortunately, being a real ER surgeon, and not a dedicated House fan, Dr. Esterhay had not, in fact, ever treated a CIPA patient. He was not even familiar with the term. He was kind, though, and quick, and I think the scar will be of the "cool, not horrific" variety.

Son #4 now has a 2-inch long, crescent-shaped wound with tons of bitchin' stitches and a story to tell. I swear, lately these boys will do ANYTHING to earn mention on the blog.

After we open presents this morning, I'm going to make the other two Sons flip a coin.

And the Golden Foot Goes to:

Me & Son #3.

Every time we visit my inlaws, I put my foot in my mouth. I say something so completely wrong it just stops conversation. This time, I lucked out. I get to share the award with my dear son.

Yes, the same one who broke his finger, 2 days ago, while visiting the same side of the family.

Today, we went to my mother-in-law's annual Christmas Eve party. There was some tension in the air, because she had asked me what the boys wanted for Christmas and I told her...the truth.

"They would love new airsoft guns and masks. And they'd each really appreciate a black hoodie, because everyone their age wears them all the time."

Mother-in-law took one look at my email (which did, in all fairness, include many other shopping options) and called Hubby (aka The Son Who Can Do Nothing Right).

"ARE THEY PLANNING ANOTHER COLUMBINE? BLACK, HOODED SWEATSHIRTS AND GUNS? HOW ARE YOU RAISING THESE BOYS?"

It went on for quite a while. I could hear her through the phone and across the room.

Can I just say that they are, for the most part, peace-loving, gentlemanly young people? That they stage airsoft battles in the yard, with their friends, using plastic pellets and low-power, clear plastic guns, and everyone is required to wear masks, and it is all in fun?

And may I further state that hoodies are warm? And that black is just a manly color? And that the Columbine guys wore TRENCHCOATS, anyway?

And may I postulate that when she was raising 4 sons of her own, back in the 50s and 60s, before Hubby came along, I will lay you whatever odds you like that those young men were allowed to play cops & robbers & cowboys & Indians & whatnot?

And that none of our boys has ever been hurt playing with airsoft rifles, but one just broke his finger, playing football?

All that was by way of background information, by the way.

So, anyway, we get there, and after much waiting and Sonly gnashing of teeth, and the munching of the Christmas lunch, it turns out that Grandma had indeed given each Son a black, zippered hoodie. They immediately put them on. They loved them, because, after all, ever since the black hoodie trend took hold in our house they can't get enough of them. They thanked their grandmother.

And in the spirit of "find something specific to say, to compliment the gift you received," Son #3 turns to the crowd of relatives and says,

"Yep, once you go Black, you never go back!"

Soooo much wrapping paper

I have spent every spare minute, the past 2 days, wrapping presents.

This has severely cut into my gym attendance, grapefruit consumption, and other enjoyable pasttimes. I am pasty, flabby, and disoriented, and I just peeled a piece of skin off of my thumb because I thought it was tape.

It has, however, greatly increased the incidents of "boys hovering outside Mom's bedroom door, beatboxing, because Mom is 'rapping'". This is hilarious. (Ask anyone. We are, as a family, whiter than bleached sheets.)

I realized, this evening, that several gifts we ordered have not arrived. We'll need to GIVE those gifts to relatives, tomorrow. We'll be on the road by 11am. If the gifts have not arrived by 10 tomorrow, they will be too late. So, I need to repurchase, either late tonight or early tomorrow.

I'm thinking I will curl up with a good book and rise early, instead of walking around Target, etc., like a zombie, tonight.

Speaking of which, we saw I Am Legend, today. We all enjoyed it.

I think it's just a different way of dealing with stuff

I don't drink coffee, but I need a few minutes to myself, in the morning. Quiet time without anyone talking to me or asking me to do stuff. I check my email, read my daily blogs, pick the first couple of things I need to tackle. It kind of helps me get a grip on my day. Sometimes, like today, I KNOW I need that time, so I haul myself out of bed when I still think I really want another hour of sleep.

I woke up this morning and decided that after I checked my email I would fold the 5 loads of laundry, and then wrap presents. That was all I could wrap my head around. "Internet. Breakfast. Laundry. Wrapping. Re-cap Later."

Then Hubby came down the hall with the big running list of stuff he's going to do today, and the stuff I need to do, and all the driving he's going to have to do over the holiday, and wanting the update on Son #3's finger, and needing me to help him with some stuff, and to remind him of the last few people we need to shop for, and he gave me the latest round of Christmas receipts to file, and he was checking the light bulbs he just bought (bright FLICKER dim FLICKER "maybe I'll return them I don't know")and he's walking back and forth down the hall to the bedroom, which we're keeping locked because it is heaped with presents for the Sons, so every time he goes in there he asks me to unlock it for him, so I had to follow him down the hall 4 times this morning (5th time, he unlocked it himself).

I've been up for an hour and 15 minutes and haven't had my quiet moment. Instead, I feel completely stressed out. And I realized, just now: Hubby is not trying to pile onto me. He is not trying to boss me around. He is not jerking me around, this morning. Chatting about what he's got to do today wraps his head around it all. That's the way HE plans. So, there is no point in me feeling like he has handed me the running list and I need to tackle everything on it--that was not his intention and I know he has no idea that I am stressed, right now.

So, I am back to square one. I will have some breakfast and wrap presents and fold laundry and that is ALL I will contemplate, for now. I'll admit, though, my shoulders are pretty darn hunchy around the ears, right now.

It's not a holiday without a trip to the emergency room

While playing football with Hubby's side of the family, Son #3 was tackled. His pinky assumed a jaunty angle.

Back inside the country club, Hubby asked if there was a doctor in the room. Five hands shot up.

They buddy taped the finger, we drove back home, and Son #3 and I hit the emergency room. Xrays confirm it is broken, so it is now in a fiberglass splint until we can get to his orthopedist, the day after Christmas.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

What look are we going for, Mom?

Son #1, upon being reminded that he CANNOT wear studded pants and a Rolling Stone hoodie to the country club for lunch today:

"What look are we going for, Mom? "Loser" or "Suck-up"? Because I'm all out of "Loser", but I have a hell of a lot of "Suck-up""

The word you're looking for is "Distinguished"

Hubby just noticed, this morning, that he has a few grey hairs.

Let us all hold cyberhands and pray that Hubby has the good sense to know that a man can look damn good, with a few grey hairs. Or even a lot of them. Dying your hair is for women--women prissier than Christine. If he starts covering HIS grey, I just may have to do the same, in order to not look like his aunt, or something.

I just don't know I have the energy for all that maintenance.

I am tempted to point out every sexy grey-haired man I see, but I think maybe that would come across less as encouragement for him to Embrace His Sexy Middle Years and more as "Gee, Christine sure does spend a lot of time checking out other men."

There is no future in that.

So, let me just state for the record that grey is not a dealbreaker. Grey can be The Hotness. There's plenty of play for Mr. Grey. OK? Now come on over here, baby, and give Auntie Christine a kiss...

Grapefruit junkies unite!

For the past few weeks, I have been overwhelmed by a craving for grapefruit. I cannot let them run out. I go to the store as soon as I eat the last grapefruit, and buy a new bag.

As you can see, I eat them at my desk. Every couple of days, I have to Windex my laptop, because it is sticky.

The grapefruit is delicious. I cannot get enough. Son #4 thinks this is hilarious. But, yeah, even I think it is kinda funny. I am going through a 3 lb bag of grapefruit about every 36 hours.

Which basically means that I am, accidentally and with no plan, kinda doing the Grapefruit Diet. Let's see if all this grapefruity goodness pays off on the scale, when I weigh in in a couple of days.

But even if it doesn't, I swear they cannot MAKE enough grapefruit for the Christine.

I have my reasons

It was the DARK chocolate kind.
I had just vacuumed, Saturday morning.
I had to pick it up, anyway.
I never buy them.
I have no other sweets in the house.

THAT is why I ate the M&M off the floor, just now. Stop looking at me like that!

The Best Thing About Our High School

Son #2 came home on Friday with a big smile on his face.

"You know the BEST THING about Great Mills High School? Best. Cheerleader. Uniforms. EVER. They are AWESOME."

Glad to know he's getting a treasured and lasting education.

Geno Didn't Mention and "Moose: a Three Strikes Story"

Last night I went to the Moose lodge to see my buddy Geno's band. They played a lot of old-school rock & roll, a couple of country tunes, Brick House, you know, fun stuff. Most of it was stuff the boys knew, too, so I noticed a couple of Sons singing along. I almost got a couple of them up on the dance floor, too, but...dancing with your mom is social death, and I wasn't going to push it.

I got to introduce the Sons to Geno, suitably transformed from "Christine's Fun Friend" to "Mr Mears Who Knows How To Act Around Children"--a transformation not every adult manages with grace.

The rest of the band was happy to talk music with Son #1, which was very cool. And the Sons shot pool. So the combination of pool and live music pretty much had us stoked, as a group. They even got along, mostly, which was a relief.

What Geno didn't mention, though, surprised me. Geno can sing.

He has been coming to Open Mic for months, playing great guitar, and keeping his lips zipped. But the man has a beautiful voice. GENO, NO MORE HOLDING OUT AT OPEN MIC.

And now, on to The Moose.

Years ago, when I was not even a teenager, I think, my father's boss insisted he join the Moose. And so he did. He ended up attending a lot of functions at the Moose lodge, because that's where his boss liked to do business, and Dad knew how the game was played.

The Moose, however, had a policy. "Moosettes", aka Wives of Moose Members, were only allowed in the front of the lodge. So, my mother could go sit around the bar with the other Second Class Moose Citizens, while Dad and his boss did Secret Moose Stuff in back, or she could stay home.

She chose, mostly, a third way, in which she taught me and my sister moose calls and a Secret Moose Handshake which we all used as my father left for his Moose meetings. It is very possible that the Moose has changed their policy on women, in the 25 or so years since Dad joined the Moose, but I don't know. When Dad's boss retired, Dad stopped going to the lodge. It wasn't all that fun, anyway, and Mom of course had us all Moose calling as a reflex.

Flash Forward to 1987...Christine, wearing a Cheap Trick t-shirt, most likely, brings Bash home for Thanksgiving weekend, and he proposes. My mother finally sees a use for the Moose: we can use their lodge for our wedding reception.

Except.

Two of my bridesmaids were not, apparently, suitable Moose guests. They were not eligible to enter the lodge, at all. Not the bar, where the wives cooled their heels, and certainly not the holy of holies which was the back room where receptions took place.

My dad officially quit the Moose, the day they told him he couldn't use the facility for my wedding reception because two of my bridesmaids were black. We all stopped Moose calling, and retired the secret handshake, and I for one was proud of Dad for taking a stand. Bigots. This was the late eighties, remember? As the Sons would say, "Cracker, pleeeease."

Again, it is very possible that the Moose have changed that policy, as well. I seem to remember a lawsuit, a few years back, that opened up the Moose for African-American members. But, you know, Two Strikes in my mind, against the Moose. Honestly, I never would have gone to a Moose lodge, if it were not Geno, and live music the Sons could hear.

And then, last night.

As I've said, Geno & band were great. We had a great time. Hubby came late, because he was auditioning a new lead guitarist for his own band. But about 10 minutes after Hubby arrived, they kicked me and the Sons out of the building. Apparently they noticed that they have a "no kids after 9" policy.

I think what they noticed was, I was a band Fan, not a band Wife. So all those kids shooting pool and bobbing their heads to the music were not there to support their dad, but instead were Breathing Moose Air Without Having Moose Cred. I will lay you odds, if Hubby had not shown up, they would have continued assuming I was there With Geno, instead of just To See Geno, if you know what I mean. And we would have seen the whole show.

But, hey, I have no problem with the "no kids around the bar after 9" concept, so we were out of there faster than I could even say goodbye to Geno.

(Goodbye, Geno!)

About 5 minutes later, I got a call on my cell phone from Hubby. He'd been kicked out of the lodge, too.

"ARE YOU A MOOSE MEMBER?"

Hubby explained that while he was not a Moose, he was with the band, and was going to join them on stage for a few songs. That cut no ice, with the Moose. Out on the street he went, after perhaps 15 minutes of Breathing Moose Air and Observing the Mighty Allure of the Moosettes.

Hubby and I, we are done with the Moose. But Geno, we love.

Gimme a "P!" Gimme an "M!" Gimme an "S!"

At this point, I can count on the fingers of one hand the people who have not jumped completely on my last nerve, in the past 24 hours:

*Hubby. Hubby is battin' a thousand, these days.

*Wave, who told me last night that I looked "Wonderful".

*Actually, everyone at the Country Store, last night, except that one guy who got on my nerves. Can that still count as just one finger? May I also stipulate that he wasn't TRYING to get on my nerves? And that I would probably not have minded him, if I were not preparing for The Most Wonderful Weeeeeeeeek of the Monnnnnnnth?

*Son #4

*A couple of girlfriends. Like Cyndie, who is talking me down on AIM, as I type.

OK, that is more than 5 people. I feel slightly better. But only slightly. Because I have PMS. And I KNOW I HAVE PMS. For the uninitiated, that means I am totally ready to rip you a new one, if you deserve it. The self-restraint I exhibit the rest of the month is Not Going to Help You Now, so Pour Some Sugar on THAT.

You have been warned.

Can you hear the F word under my breath?

Ugh.

The past few evenings, the Sons have been all up in each other's business. Much yelling, pestering, and tears. People stomping around. People Refusing to Get Out of the Car. It's a laugh a minute, over here. And of course they all have to talk to Mom about it, because it is all my fault that He Has It So Easy or He Is Such A Loser or He Is Being A Jerk or He Gets Away With Everything or He Is Trying To Get His Butt Kicked. They are all pointing the finger at each other, and all loaded for bear. I, apparently, am that bear.

By the time Hubby and I extricate ourselves from the turmoil that is 4 sons between the ages of 11 and 16, we are exhausted and bummed. Our evening is shot.

Tonight is Open Mic, and I WANT TO GO. I want Hubby to go. I want to have FUN, dammit! Away from bickering and yammering. And at this point, I don't know if we'll be able to go, because I don't know if we can leave the Sons at home unsupervised for 4 lousy hours. This makes me crazy.

Yesterday, Son #1 got dragged to a meeting wherein he was supposed to talk about his "First Gay Experience". An experience he has not had, because, of course, he was only at the Gay-Straight Alliance meeting because 2 hot girls had him by the hands and pulled him into the room. He and the other straight guy (also in the company of 2 hot girls) felt pressured to be something they are not. They were uncomfortable. And hearing about it last night made me uncomfortable, too.

Because, to me, talking about your sexual experiences is not for a group of random strangers and 2 hot girls you don't know well. Those conversations are for intimates. Like, your spouse. Your sex partner, or potential sex partner, if you need to warn them that you have a past. Maybe your best friend. But, of course, the school thinks that I am anti-sex, anti-gay, bigoted, etc, for wanting my son to keep his most private, personal thoughts and feelings and experiences in a private, personal place. I throw my hands in the air, I go nuts.

Today, Hubby asked me to fight with the dental insurance company. They won't pay for his crown, because they think he has had that tooth crowned already, less than 5 years ago. But they are wrong. The other crown was on an adjacent tooth. So I call, and get disconnected. And I call again, and they won't talk to me without Hubby's express authorization. So I will have to wait and call while Hubby is in the room, so I can hand him the phone. Which kind of makes me feel superfluous to the whole process.

I am feeling frustrated and grumpy and totally on my last nerve.

Yesterday, Hubby had to sign four separate sympathy cards. Including one for an infant. I just found out we're going to that baby's funeral, today. And yes, that totally puts all my problems into something like perspective. I have four healthy sons who are driving each other nuts, and a husband with functional crowns. I have a kid who is willing to try just about anything, for a girl, except lying about having a more Interesting sex life than he really has. I think some people would gladly trade their problems for mine, today. Especially the parents of that poor baby.

Just...crap.

Let's pack the Moose lodge!

My friend Geno's band, Four of a Kind, is playing at the Mechanicsville Moose Lodge this Friday night. Geno is a great lead guitarist (I know this from Open Mic Night) and a lot of fun (I also know THAT from Open Mic Night).

The show is from 8-midnight, and YOU CAN BRING KIDS. So, I'm bringing Hubby & the Sons, and Fiddlin' Writer is probably coming, also, with her two.

Those of you who are residents of the Happy Boondocks must, by now, be absolutely vibrating with excitement. Christine! Hubby! FW! Six boys! Geno!

In short, Christine knows where the fun is. So, come with us. Have some fun.

Christmas Trees for the Girls, Bloody Arrowheads for the Boys

I've been making cookie dough and sticking it in the fridge for the past few days, and today I baked. Chocolate chip/peanut butter cookies. Chocolate chip cookies WITHOUT the dreaded peanut butter (Hubby can handle peanut butter in sandwich form, only). Rolled sugar cookies a la Simpson. Here they are, although the last of the peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies were still in the oven, when I took this shot.

And tomorrow, or soonish, I will break out my pizzelle iron. Woo! I haven't made them in a few years, but this year I am feeling up for it. Also, my parents are coming down, this weekend, and I'd like to be able to serve them pizzelle. The pizzelle iron belonged to my grandmother. My mom uses an electric one, but I Cannot Do That. It Would Be a Culinary Travesty.

Of course, my mother also makes them more frequently than I do, perhaps because it is not an Ordeal, but I don't care. I do them the way I do them.

I may or may not continue baking, after that. I mean, this looks like a heck of a lot of cookie, to me. But I know that the Sons will eat their way through them, so I am not Terrified of the Baked Goods. Not today, anyway.

The Magic Man Shoes: Update

I showed Fiddlin' Writer a photo of a man wearing the Magic Shoes that Make Men Irresistable.

"That's them? Um...Christine?"

"Ohhhhh, yeaaaaaaah. Look at him, ROCKIN' those shoes."

"Er, um...ok."

So, let's just say that "this myth is busted".

Or, at least, very Christine-specific. Which probably explains why every man in the free world isn't buying Magic Shoes.

You can USE it like a towel

The Sons subscribe to the "toss your used bath towels in a heap on the bedroom floor, so they get moldy and the dog pees on them and Mom has to wash towels all the time" philosophy. This means there is almost never a towel hanging in the bathroom, when one of them needs a towel.

Some of the Sons have learned to check for a towel, before they start their shower. But Son #4 almost always realizes he's towel-less, as he's standing in the tub.

This can require a mad dash to the linen closet. But this morning he was in the bath early, while the older Sons were still at home. So he called to Son #1 to hand him a towel.

Son #1 tossed him a shoe.

"A TOWEL, PLEASE."

Son #1 tossed him a pair of boxer shorts (clean, I know, because I can see that he fished them out of the depths of his clean clothes stack, in the living room).

"COME ON! Just give me a TOWEL."

"You can use it like a towel."

He then handed him a Christmas-themed dishtowel.

"UGH! PLEASE!"

At this point, Son #2 chimed in with his traditional words of wisdom.

"In future, you should get your own towel, before you go into the bathroom."

Fortunately, Son #2 serves up his snark with kindness. He handed him a towel.

"But this is the last time."

The Boy Does Have a Point

And now, for something to make my female readers run screaming from their desks....

It's a lazy, weekend morning. Hubby wants to make a Hearty Breakfast, which requires a trip to buy bacon. Which means he needs a shower. Walking down the hall, he hears the sound of running water.

"Who's in the shower?"

All are accounted for, except for Son #2. But it turns out he wasn't in the shower, after all. He was going to the bathroom.

For a very long time.

"That's a mighty stream, my son has! Wow! No weak pee, for my boy! I am so proud! Listen to that!"

Son #1, standing in the hall, can't take it.

"SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP! Good GOD, Dad! Do you have to talk about him PEEING?"

As a mom, I hear the trigger phrase that pulls me into any familial conversation.

"HEY! Don't tell your Dad to shut up."

"Oh, come ON, Mom! Look me in the face and tell me you don't wish Dad would shut up, right now. Dad, you sure are lucky Mom loves you."

For the record, Son #2 was still peeing, throughout this entire exchange. Hubby is in awe.

Conflicting Study Habits...20 years after the Dorm

I have a pressing deadline. What I need is silence. Son #1 has homework. What he needs is music. This town ain't big enough for the two of us.

I think I'm going to chug lattes, so I can stay up after the Sons go to bed and write through the wee hours of the night.

Ugh.

I'm turning into my father

Back in college, when Hubby and I were just dating, he gave me a T-shirt from a band we both loved. He had even SEEN Cheap Trick, in concert. So of course I loved the shirt. It was Cheap Trick! and it was His. I came home from college one weekend and wore it.

My father went totally ballistic.

No daughter of his was going to wear a shirt that called her a Cheap Trick.

Well, um, I tried to explain to Dad that it was a BAND, and that it didn't mean anything, and that no one who read it would think anything other than "Cool shirt! I Want You To Want Me is great!" He would have nothing of it. Future-Hubby got the shirt back.

Ok, fast-forward 21 years. I am now the mother of a 16 year old who calls all good things....

"Pimpin'".

As in,

"Pimpin' cheeseburger, Mom! You rock!"

Saturday, while he enjoyed said cheeseburger, he, um, tried to explain to me that it didn't mean anything, and that no one who heard him would think anything other than "Great cheeseburger!"

I would have nothing of it. In MY house, cheeseburgers are "delicious". Not "pimpin'".

But, boy, do I feel old.

I (jingle bell) ROCK!

Poky Redhead's annual Christmas Prep Party was yesterday. A bunch of women who love her (PR has that effect on just about everyone) sit around eating and doing Christmas Crafts, in theory. In reality, mostly we sit around eating. And people who really feel ambitious might scrapbook (I did last year) or address Christmas cards.

So, yesterday I did all the cards.

YES, it is ridiculous to me that I need to drive nearly 2 hours, each way, to write my cards. But I did, and they are done, and they are IN THE MAILBOX NOW, with the flag up and everything.

I'm nowhere near done with the shopping, I am avoiding baking because baking leads to eating, and none of our decorations are up. But I have sent Holiday Cards (we have the occasional Jewish relative) to everyone.

IN YOUR FACE, MARTHA STEWART!

It's totally not fair that she's fitter than me

This morning I was on the elliptical machine. There were 2 women next to me doing the same thing, but they had come to the gym together and were talking to each other. One of them said,

"You know what would make the perfect gym, for me?"

And I was thinking, "Actually, I love this gym just the way it is. Lots of cardio machines, lots of weights, lots of classes, help if you need it but they leave you alone otherwise, 5 minutes from my house, decent music most days, and I never feel totally schlubby, even when the really buff people are there. Gee, I wonder what this woman would like to add?"

I was all ready to hear her tips. Some new class or piece of equipment that would ramp up my workout.

"If they had really dark, glossy, hardwood floors, and grey pads on the machines, and that really, really pale yellow on the walls. That would be great."

For Kim: A Blacksmith

Saw this guy at the Celtic Festival last spring. Have no idea if he fits into Kim's Blacksmith Fantasy.

And let me just say that I think it's hysterical that all I need to do to get people to comment on my blog is ask them what they think looks sexy on a man.

Lingerie (warning! TMI!)

After yesterday's blind panic, I did the counter-intuitive thing and put on something sexy. Hubby was appreciative. Which, naturally, put me right back in my happy place. (didn't hurt that my weight was down this morning, though I vow to stay off the scale for another month so as to not go completely batshit crazy).

He also felt a little sheepish that he didn't own anything he considered equally sexy.

What on earth could a man wear, in bed, to look sexier than a naked man?

"That doesn't leave much to the imagination," he said. But, speaking just as ME, I told him I don't think women think that way.

"Women don't have an imagination?" he asked.

But I don't think that's it. We just don't go in for the "little scrap of fabric covering the naughty bits".

So, I was thinking...what looks good on a man?

I have come up with the following list:

Work clothes: either spiffy office duds, or that grimy busted-knuckle thing. I can confirm this by the way my friend VeggieBlonde rhapsodizes about men in white, oxford cloth shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Ooh, she gets that dreamy look in her eyes.

Clubbing clothes. Not too prissy, just dress up a bit, ok, guys? The guy in the suit, who then dirty dances with you while managing not to spill his beer, looks good, most nights. And of course the tuxedo, if the circumstances merit.

Good shoes. But I mentioned this to a friend and she looked at me like I was nuts. Apparently I have a female version of the foot fetish. I have a real thing for a certain style of men's shoe. Gotta go buy some for Hubby.

And let us not forget the Marlboro Man. There is a guy I see from time to time, who is clearly not from the Happy Boondocks. Or, at least, not MY area of Boondockery. He is always in the tight little jeans, boots, leather jacket and cowboy hat. I never would have thought that was going to spin my wheels, but I tell ya, that guy moseys by and I take notice. I think if you can manage that look, you should give it a try. But you've gotta be trim. (As a chunky chick, I apologize for that requirement. I feel your pain, big men. I'm just tellin' it like it is.)

Playful clothing, also fun. A friend of ours wears Fun Stuff. You know, work shirts with weird names on them, tuxedo shirts with jeans, Chucks with his suit...the man looks great. But he is wearing Confidence, more than the clothes. And yes, he is also the only man who comes to mind who can wear an earring and not look ridiculous, to me. Women latch onto him so much, they stop other women just to shake their heads and say, "If he weren't married, I would be ALL OVER THAT." (I know, because a woman pulled me aside to say just that, a few weeks ago).

So as I thought of these various things I thought, "None of that sounds like lingerie."

The closest I could come was the jeans-and-no-shirt look. But, again, that one pretty much requires you can carry off the Marlboro Man, only better.

Any other options out there, that I have neglected?

Male readers, please feel free to walk around the cabin

Because right now, I am in Female Panic Mode. Why? Because I weighed myself yesterday, as I do each month, and I have gained 2 lbs.

Two damn pounds, and I feel like I need to breathe into a paper bag.

"Look," I tell myself. "I am a happily married, educated, financially secure woman with healthy, happy children and a budding career. My parents are healthy. My sister is dating someone who may end up part of the family. I love my blog (and people read it!). I get to go out, a couple times a month, to dance to music I enjoy and hang out with Hubby and have my ass grabbed (literally and figuratively) by guys who tell me how hot I am. I have friends I love, who love me back. I am, in short, in an enviable spot in life."

But what do I remember?

TWO POUNDS.

Gah. No wonder men think women are crazy.

At least my blog is kinda intelligent

Get a Cash Advance

On a semi-related note, a book fair came to the Sons' high school today. Son #2 looked, but soon realized he had no money and no interest in the books on offer, which, according to him, were not worth reading.

"Maybe they ARE high-school-appropriate books, but I think by the time you're in high school the only books worth reading are adult novels. Not 'Eleven Ways to Remain Celibate', which was pretty much all they had."

He has a penchant for exaggeration, my boy does.

Vert burrs? Rent buns? Vent bund?

My handwriting is deteriorating. I found something on my to-do list and have no idea what it means. The sad thing is, I wrote this list YESTERDAY. So, not only can I not read my own handwriting, I can't remember jack for 24 hours.

I think I need a night out. (except I just had one)

For Jill

This is the ladies' room at Boatman's Point Lookout, in Ridge, MD. I don't know why it is vertical in Shutterfly Studio AND Canon Image Browser, but comes out horizontal on the blog. So, please to tilt your head.

It doesn't look like much, but apparently it is a romantic hot spot. I know this because I spent quite a bit of time waiting for that couple to come out, so I could enter.

Musician's Wife

Hubby is playing a gig tonight. I am waiting for my curling iron to heat up, so I can be all fabu for tonight, while he packs up his gig bag.

And I've been thinking, lately: How did I end up a musician's wife? I mean, I think it's great. I LOVE going to see Hubby play. And I love listening to him practice, too. It's fun for me, and it's great to see him having fun. So no complaints. But I never dated a musician, before I met Hubby, and he wasn't playing in a band, when we met. How did I get here?

This is all I can come up with, at this point. Fellow musician's wives, please add to the list:

-I genuinely enjoy listening to the same bass line, all afternoon, until he gets it right.
-I have batteries and rubber bands, at all times.
-I gladly go out any night of the week and see, essentially, the same show.
-When women dance with Hubby's microphone, I smile at them...I may then dance BETWEEN them and said microphone, but I don't act snarky just 'cause Hubby is hot.
-I have a minivan. Which is great for last-minute runs to get the other instrument, another guitar stand, several jugs of iced tea, a throne for the drummer who forgot his, and a better shirt.
-When Hubby's band is playing, and any other band is also playing, I go see Hubby's band (and I usually keep my mouth shut about the other band, although I have been known to kvetch a little).
-I will dance with anything. Drunk, toothless, old, in a wheelchair, shorter than me (which is an achievement), whatever. I am all about getting people on the dance floor.
-I can say "Woooooo!" "Wooooooo!" is like "Aloha", for bars. It means anything and everything.
-I keep frozen pizza in the house at all times, so the Sons won't starve while I'm out partying
-I know what everyone in the band drinks, so I can run to the bar for them
-I hug all the drunken women

There's probably more that should be on the list. I'll be thinking, on my way to Boatman's tonight.

Oh, and one more thing: When Hubby and I had only been dating a few weeks, I took him to a music store and bought him a guitar. I had no idea this was crazy behavior. He, however, INSISTED that he pay me back. Which he did.

Years later, he explained that musicians are known for using their girlfriends to support their musical habit. He didn't want to give me the wrong impression. Which was very sweet of him.

The guitar was destroyed while we lived overseas, but he still has the memory of me stroking that check, in Chuck Levin's. I think maybe that made me a Musician's Wife Candidate.

Wooooooo!

Rhinestones vs Diamonds: A Tutorial

In my shopping online for Christmas presents, I found myself a cute little ring. It arrived the other day.

The Sons were shocked that I would buy myself a diamond ring, because those are EXPENSIVE. So I explained that this was only rhinestones, and cost me less than $12, including shipping.

Son #1 then opined that you can't tell the difference between diamonds and rhinestones, so only a moron would buy diamonds. This proves, in my mind, that he is a guy. Because you CAN tell the difference, and because only a man who doesn't love you would buy you rhinestones.

I explained this. "A woman can buy herself rhinestones. But an engagement ring needs to be a real diamond."

"Well, then, just buy rhinestones and tell her it's diamonds, and then use all the money you saved to buy yourself a car or a video game system or something."

Perhaps, when this comes up again, I will explain the charm of giving your future bride something she could hock, in extreme circumstances. Maybe that would appeal to his sense of practicality.

He's gonna bring home the crazy

One of the Sons has a disturbing taste for crazy girls.

Sure, he likes normal girls, in theory. But in practice, the ones that make his heart go completely nuts are the ones who are nuts themselves. The Son comes by this honestly, on both sides of the family. Mom & Dad are the sanest people out there, but we each dated a little of the crazy before settling down. Trust me on this.

Is it just me, or are crazy teenagers craziER than they were, when I was dating?

Hubby and I approached this from slightly different angles.

"Well, Son, you might want to consider that a girl with a history of (doing that crazy thing that set Hubby & me off) might go REALLY crazy, in times of stress. Like when you break up with her, which you almost certainly will."

(that was me)

"Look. Women are crazy. Relationships bring OUT the crazy. You don't want to start with a girl who already (did the crazy thing that set Hubby & me off). Find a girl who, when she goes crazy, cries to her mother or plays guitar or writes poetry or yells at her friends or something."

(that was Hubby, who has 2 ex-girlfriends who were still crazy, at last check, even though he's been married for nearly 20 years. Hubby drove at least 2 women completely batshit, so he KNOWS from crazy girlfriends.)

The next day, while all the Sons were sleeping and Hubby was in the kitchen with me watching his morning coffee drip, I whispered to him,

"That's the one who's going to give us a crazy daughter in law. We're going to be driving him to sit in the emergency room with Crazy Girlfriend. It's just a matter of time."

Hot Topic Wish List

ALF, who shot a man in Reno just to watch him die, blogged recently that EVERYONE should use gift registries, so we can buy gifts people actually like and will use.

Some people may have a problem with the practical, un-romantic nature of gift registries.

Those people are idiots.

Why do I say this?

Because for the past few days, my mother has been frantically calling and emailing, asking what to get the Sons for Christmas. 3 of the sons are Thinking. This takes a while. Which is making my mother crazy. She has no idea what to get, and doesn't like to wait until December to shop.

Son #1, however, created a Wish List at Hot Topic. And we emailed it to my mom. And she is buying him everything on his (admittedly short) list.

Son will be thrilled, come Christmas Day. My parents are ALREADY thrilled, because they are done shopping for him.

All hail the gift registry.

boy, are we married

A while back, an exceedingly attractive man struck up a conversation. I found myself rambling incoherently about my husband and children. After a few rounds of that, well, I don't have to worry too much about conversation, do I?

And I wasn't even doing it on purpose. I just couldn't help what came out of my mouth. I have never been so inarticulate and dull in my life.

So, if you are a man talking to me, and I start in on Hubby and the Sons, trust me, You Are Hot. Take it for the compliment it is.

Today, Hubby was out and a woman told him he has beautiful hair. Which he DOES. It's a shame he ever cuts it. And what was his response to said woman?

"Yeah, my wife tells me the same thing."

We are soooooo married. I am one lucky woman.

eBay

I'm doing my Christmas shopping on eBay, this year, if I can manage it. More cool stuff than is available in the Happy Boondocks, and no schlepping to the mall (which is an hour away, anyway).

But let me just say that shopping, and purchasing stuff, is a total waste of time.

The Name Game

I got this over at More, More, More
Feel free to try it, yourself. Clearly, I was meant to be a superhero, or a really hot detective.

10. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother & father's middle name) Maria Henry

9. NASCAR NAME: (first name of your mother's dad, fathers dad) Joseph Richard

8. STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, 2 letters of your first) Basch

7. DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, fav animal) Black Cat

6. SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born) Elizabeth Washington

5. SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd fav color, fav drink, add "THE" to the beginning) The Green Tea (this makes me sound like some kind of modern, school-approved eco-hero)

4. FLY GIRL/GUY NAME: (1st 2 letters of 1st name, last 2 letters of your last name) Cham

3.. GANGSTA NAME: ( fav ice cream flavor, fav cookie) Coffee Brownie

2. ROCK STAR NAME: (current pets name, current street name) Ellie Camelot (or Otis or Jake Camelot, if I'm willing to be male, which I totally am, for the purposes of this meme)

1. STRIPPER NAME: ( name of your fav perfume/cologne, fav candy) Ginger Essence Butterfinger

Pointless Self-Help Advice of the Day

Read this one, this morning:

It is not men's acts which disturb us, but our reaction to them. Take these away, and anger goes.

--Marcus Aurelius

OK, M.A., I see your point. But isn't this, at some level, "Don't let things bother you, and things won't bother you." Kinda circular, if you ask me.

Not that I am a great thinker like Marcus Aurelius...just, you know, it's not all that helpful. Not to mention, sometimes anger is the appropriate response. Sometimes, men's acts are despicable, and we SHOULD react.

Shit! Shit! Viagra!

Phoenix Dating

Apparently I earned this rating, this week, because I said "shit" twice, and "Viagra" once. I will have to start cursing more, or discussing more icky products, to earn the coveted R rating.

Thank you, Veterans

When I was a kid, I distinctly remember arguing with my dad about War. I had been taught, in school, that War was bad. That America was imperialistic. And that the soldiers in Viet Nam had been baby-killing maniacs.

This was in the late 70s, I guess. What was I? 13? Old enough to think I knew shit, too young to realize I was just parroting the shit my teachers thought they knew.

My father is a calm man, by nature, and not one to rely on emotions to win an argument. He laid out the facts for me, as he saw them. He made a lot of sense, and eventually I ended up a lot more hawkish than Dad is.

A few months ago, Dad said something that shocked me. Not because it happened, but because he didn't tell me, all those years ago.

When he was coming home from Korea in the late 60s (they told him he could re-up and be sent to Viet Nam, or he could go home), people saw him in his Air Force uniform and called HIM a baby killer. My calm, loving, future Dad, who had spent his time in Korea fixing military vehicles and chatting up Korean bar girls and trying to learn the trumpet. They spat on Dad, in the airport. For wearing that uniform.

Today, I live in a Navy town. Hubby is a contractor, "supporting the War Fighter". And every single time I see someone in uniform, I want to stop them where they stand and THANK THEM for serving our country.

We are so damn fortunate to have people willing to fight for us. We are so privileged to have strong, dedicated patriots willing to do whatever it takes, to keep us safe and to maybe spread a little freedom, here and there. The world is a better place, because of the American military.

Thank you, Veterans. Thanks for all of it.

Boy Biting Update

It was in my gym bag.

I owe Son #2 a Coke.

And just to prove that I realize I am totally in the wrong here, I'm leaving BOTH posts up.

Mustn't....bite...boy

Son #2 has started Bogarting my hair straightening iron, before school. He doesn't use it where I keep it, he sneaks it into his bedroom and then, THEORETICALLY, returns it to its appointed spot.

Lately, though, it hasn't made the trip back out of Boy Lair. Not that I've cared, all that much. I figure, the less heat styling, the better, for my hair.

Tonight, however, I am going out to watch Hubby sit in with a local band.

This requires a modicum of cuteness, on my part.

I have the cool outfit. I even have the plastic shoes, reminiscent of my childhood. I would be painting my fingernails, too, if I weren't so ticked that I have to blog.

The iron is gone. He swears it is not in his bedroom. He is blaming his brothers (one who is, as I mentioned, sportin' a mighty Jewfro, and two who have naturally straight hair).

I mustn't bite the boy. I must paint my nails and hope he finds the darn thing.

And tomorrow, I buy a new one.

Chessboxing: Ultimate Man Competition

Yes, it is exactly what it sounds like.

And yes, I realize women play chess. And even box, nowadays. But, um, geez.

If they could incorporate building a functional shed and playing bass, I think the winner would be the most manly guy on the planet. He would be terrifying. His 5 o'clock shadow would kick Chuck Norris's butt. And all the women of the world would love him.

Unintended Consequences

Longtime readers may remember that last year, Son #1 was attacked by a much larger student, threw a few terrified punches in self-defense, and was suspended for the rest of the day. The other kid was suspended for more than a week, and when the school administration heard all the witness accounts, they said that it was clear that Son #1 was only defending himself. At the time, the vice principal told me it was the strangest fight he'd ever seen, because neither student had a visible injury.

Son #1 was concerned, last year, that when Marco returned to school he'd get creamed. But, somehow, things blew over.

As it happens, this year Son #1 and Marco are in a class together. And Marco clearly hates Son #1's guts, but doesn't do anything about it.

Son #1 explained to me, this morning, that the school rumor mill has given him an inflated reputation as "The skinny, white kid who beat Marco up".

People stop him in the halls, to congratulate him. "YOU are 'Jewfro'?? You beat Marco up? Wow!"

And he tries to correct the record. "Actually," he'll say, "I hit him 3 times, and he was fine, and it hurt my hand."

But The People will have none of it. Son #1, aka 'Jewfro'*, has street cred, thanks to the rumor mill.

It's like he accidentally, against his will, took that advice they give to new prison inmates: find the biggest, scariest, toughest guy in the yard, and punch him, and you'll never have to fight again.

I hope it sticks.

*Son #1 has inherited my curly hair. He lets it grow. He is shaggy and adorable.

The Sons are also, coincidentally, 1/8 Jewish, through their paternal great-grandfather. Which we have explained to them means they are "Jewish enough to be stuffed into a cattle car bound for Auschwitz, but not Jewish enough for a bar mitzvah."

Down here in the Happy Boondocks, that is pretty darn Jewish, somehow. And people really can't believe that he gets his Jewfro from the Italian/British side of the family.

Also, "Sky Blue"

Women in the Muslim world are oppressed, compared to women in the West.

Who'da thunk?

Go, Peggy, Go!

Read this and had to agree. She sums up my problem with certain rarified types, and hints at my frustration with women who say they'll vote for Hillary Clinton because she's a woman.

Because, honestly, that is the dumbest reason to vote for someone. She will not be in charge of giving birth to the nation or lapdancing for it or teaching it how to apply lip gloss. She will, if she wins, be the PRESIDENT. She needs to be able to run the country and scare the bejebus out of the bad guys. If you think she's the best person for that, AMEN, vote for her. If the only good thing you can think of is that she's a symbol for all us chicks, ugh.

I guess I'll have the beef.

Bats

We have bats in our attic. A whole little family. Maybe six bats, altogether. They huddle on the screen at the end of our attic.

Every winter, they leave for Mexico, or so the agricultural extension people say. They also say that bat guano is the best fertilizer on the planet. Which is fabulous, but I have zero interest in gardening.

There are 2 kinds of people, so far:

People who wax rhapsodic about the happy plants I'd have, if I let my bats live in peace in my attic.

and

People who completely freak out, and are certain we're all going to get rabies, if we don't kill all the bats.

According to the agricultural extension people, killing the bats is not only unnecessary, it is just bad mojo. They suggested, last year, that we find where they go in and out, and block it. We did that. Hubby and I found the chewed piece of screen, and removed it, and replaced it with heavy-duty, pest-proof screen.

The bats did not care. They returned, this summer. They are more powerful than the staples that we used to attach the screen. They LOVE our attic.

So, it's getting cold, again. The bats should be moving soon.

Poky Redhead suggested I get an electronic pest annoying machine, to confuse the bats upon their return. Plug it in, it makes crazy soundwaves, the bats hate it, they leave. I bought one, today.

Son #1 says it would be better to just let him shoot them all, with his airsoft gun.

Bastante Already: For Christine ...

Bastante Already: For Christine ...

Holy crap! Kim put up a blog post just for me!

If you haven't already become hooked on Kim's blog, this is the perfect excuse to go visit. She is the queen of awesome. Even the deer love her.

But she keeps her bananas around waaaay too long.

Son #1: Secret Chimp

Yesterday, I bought 2 bunches of bananas. I ate two bananas. Yum, I love bananas.

Today, I ate a banana.

The bananas are all gone.

Son #1 ate about 10 bananas, in less than 24 hours. Now I understand all those people who said that, with 4 sons, I would never be able to keep food in the house. Hubby has taken to hiding food he likes in a secret area of the house, because otherwise it is gone before he has a chance to eat any of it.

And yes, thank God, again, for SuperWalMart, home of abundant, cheap, beautiful produce.

Germ transmission: Also, somehow my fault

Sons #3 and 4 just got over strep throat. So you know what's next. This morning, Son #2 woke up with a sore throat. And this is what he said, about it:

"You need to tell them to stop leaving their cups out. Because I drank one of their drinks, and now I'm sick."

Now, PLEASE. As the person who gets stuck doing the dishes almost every single time, I have definitely told EVERYONE in the house, repeatedly ad nauseum, to put their dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Last thing I need is some teenager telling me that I need to nag his brothers for something I am already nagging everyone about, BECAUSE I HATE TO NAG.

But, um, what made the Arbiter of Effective Parenting decide that drinking someone else's abandoned beverage was a good idea? Especially when he knew that 2 members of his household had communicable diseases?

Yup. Son #2 has a sore throat that happened to him because I didn't nag his brothers. NOT because he drank some unidentified substance.

Flip side of the eternal question

After Son #2 contemplated the difference between men and women, Son #1 gave me the perfect example of same:

"Dylan is hilarious! I mean, he can be a jerk, but he is so funny! Today, at lunch, he ate a candy bar, and then he put the empty wrapper on it, and had it hanging out of his zipper. And he got someone to touch it, hanging out there in the candy wrapper, but he didn't know it was in the wrapper. And then the lunch monitor started coming our way, so Dylan just figured, what the hell, and jumped on a table and started dancing, and it was still hanging out of his zipper, in the candy wrapper."

There are myriad reasons why this is the perfect example of boy vs girl behavior.

First of all, only a teenage boy would wrap his genitalia in a candy wrapper. Girls, even if our genitalia were easily wrappable, just wouldn't do it.

And encourage someone to touch it, through the wrapper.

And only another teen boy would actually DO that. Wrapper, or no.

And faced with an angry lunch monitor, only a boy would have the nerve to leave said "candy" dangling, while they danced on a lunch table.

And only a teen boy would come home and take about 10 minutes to tell this story, because he was laughing so hard he could barely speak.

See, girls would just be mortified. I'm amazed Dylan hasn't been hit with a sexual harassment suit.

Ah, the eternal question

Son #2 came home from school, and asked:

"Why are girls so complicated? One day they love me, and the next day they find me completely repulsive. But you love me all the time."

As Norman Bates said, "A boy's best friend is his mother."

Working on my new website

Poky Redhead, who originally goaded me into launching this blog, has spent the past few months telling me to get off my butt, already, and revamp my out-of-date website. Add content! Make it my own! Advertise! Use it as an inspiration to write more, photograph more, and generally throw myself into the whole career thing, instead of thinking about it and painting my nails while listening to blues music.

Now, thinking, nail-painting, and blues definitely have their place. But Poky Redhead is right. It's time.

So, I am working on a new website. SiteBuilder makes the web site part pretty easy. But the deciding---that is a killer. What do I really want? Where do I want to go with this?

So, you know, when it's ready, I'll let you know. And your job is to look at it and tell me I am fabulous, and then tell all your friends that they need me. Are we all on board?

Viva Viagra?

Dinner is over, so I am washing dishes. Which means I am also watching the news. Apparently, evening news watchers are not just dishwashing 40-year-olds, like me. Why, you ask? Because I was just treated to the latest Viagra commercial.

As the couple danced across the floor, shooting each other significant looks (he: "Hey, baby, my parts work!" she: "Am I crazy, or am I actually going to GET SOME tonight?") I was thinking the same two things I always think, when confronted with a Viagra commercial.

Firstly, "Boy, I must be watching a show that older men watch."

And secondly, and most importantly, "Thank God I am married to a young man."

Yeah, I said it. Scoot on over to Hubby's blog, and see if he's blushing.

A book, a movie, a CD

Someone asked me, recently, what I'm reading (not much, lately). And of course MySpace has that "what are you listening to" thingy. And I read a movie review, the other day, that made me want to watch the movie.

So, here's one of each, for all y'all.

The Sparrow, by Mary Doria Russell. Oooh, I loved that book. Science fiction, theology, faith and betrayal and naivete and heartbreaking loss. Have you read it? Probably not, or you'd still be talking about it, with me. Now that I think of it, I think I'll read it again.

I've been listening to The Beatles' "One" CD, in the kitchen, and ACME Blues Company's "I Think I Made It", in the car. And lots of Green Day, of course, because Son #1 has eased back into Green Day, thank God. Soooo much better than some of the stuff he's been listening to, of late.

Last night, I watched Pootie Tang. It came out years ago, but apparently I missed it, at the time. RENT THIS MOVIE, it is hysterical. Son #1 thought it was pretty funny, too.

What it takes to be cool

For the record, I've never really managed "cool".

In recent years, though, I've kind of thought that maybe, in my circle, at least, I am one of the cooler people. Ha. Just ask a 16 year old.

As last night's party approached, I overheard Son #1 talking excitedly with his first party guest.

"I can't WAIT to meet ----'s Mom. She listens to System of a Down! She really cranks it up! They mosh pit TOGETHER! And sometimes, she doesn't even cook dinner, she's been head banging all day. She sounds soooooo coooooool."

I, in the next room, of course, thought, "She sounds soooooo depressed."

But what do I know? Me and my classic rock, funk, blues, folk, jazz, and hot dinner.

Halloween

Sons #1 and #2 are hosting the Second Annual Halloween Bash. It is going well. I took Sons #3 and #4 trick-or-treating, in the course of which we saw:

a couple of teens starting to TP a house ( I recognized one of the teens, and knew the residents of the house, who were home at the time)

one crying toddler

a couple giving out quart-sized bags of candy to each kid, and taking their pictures. We got to see the Sons' photo from last year.

And two houses with CHRISTMAS LIGHTS. First the Branson commercial, and now this!

The Halloween Bash should be over in about half an hour, which means we have reached the portion of the evening which is candy-fueled and loud.

Or, actually, I think it's been candy-fueled and loud since about 6, but I lucked out and missed about 90 minutes of the Bash, to hike the neighborhood with my youngest two.

Happy Halloween, guys!

Oh, and I carved a puking pumpkin, this year. Takes no time at all, and boys think it's the cooliest. I highly recommend it.

My spam has changed

Since that fateful day I turned 40, I have noticed one big difference: my spam has changed.

These days, in addition to the regular spam I've always gotten, I have also been getting a lot of the following:

Dating Over 40!
and
Who's Your Secret Crush?

type stuff. No big surprise there, right? But there is one other category that kinda has me scared. Why am I all of a sudden flooded with emails offering me help with HERNIAS?

I guess I better lift with my legs, not my back, right? I don't want to start clicking on that stuff.

Come to Branson, MO, for Christmas

Andy Williams told me, today, that I should come to Branson for Christmas.

"NO, ANDY! NO! It is not even Halloween!"