Rants In My Pants

{Chaps are not pants}

2011-09-07T22:24:00.000-07:00

It's a premier people. Our first Rants in My Pants guest contributor - my mom. Some things are just meant to be... read on.

I grew up in Montana and it was not unusual to see people wearing chaps - men, women and children alike. I never owned a pair of chaps, but my dad and brothers may have had chaps. It was quite vogue to wear chaps while herding cattle or competing in rodeo events or even in the 4-H show ring.

I left Montana in 1988 and have not seen a pair of chaps worn in public since that time. Until last week when I had the misfortune of running into a man in chaps. I was at the dry cleaners, just minding my own business when I looked at a male customer in the next line and he was wearing chaps. Perhaps there was some special event in the neighborhood that caused this man to pick up his dry cleaning in his chaps – as well as a woven leather headband with the tassels trailing down his pasty white back (he was bare from neck to waist) and his best lace up moccasins.

Things were worse below the belt. As he turned to feel in his back pocket he discovered (apparently without alarm) that chaps do not have back pockets. What he should have known (since I’m assuming he owns a mirror) is that the only thing he would be touching was his very white, flabby backside. I am not kidding -- this man had nothing on under his chaps. I don’t claim to have a marvelous bum, but I promise that I have never gone out into public pretending to be covered when in reality I was totally exposed. I was looking around for the hidden camera. The second glance after he turned back toward the counter was even more alarming.

Of course, my only opportunity to send a picture of a bare bummed, chap-wearing, American Indian pretender and my cell phone was in the car. I am pretty sure that I ruptured some internal organs as I stifled the laughter.

I spent some time after this unfortunate encounter asking myself “who in their right mind would ever go out in public with their backside totally exposed”. A few answers came to mind:

· -An escapee from a hospital

· -An escapee from a nudist colony

· -One of my grandsons who doesn’t like wearing pants

· -A cowboy who lost his pants in a game of poker

Not on the list - white guy collecting his dry cleaning. Just a friendly reminder to anyone who is tempted to try this at home – such activity may have an adverse affect on unsuspecting viewers for years to come and always remember CHAPS ARE NOT PANTS.

-Mama D. (whose pants always cover her bum.) Thanks for the story mom.

{If you do that with your pants, they'll stick that way}

2011-08-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

There are certain words/phrases that make me wish I did not speak English. Among them (and the list is long) are the words Hubby, Wifey and Kiddos. Hate them. Not the husband and the children (most days) just the obnoxiously altered catch-phrases that are intended to make the speaker appear to possess some kind of above average, sugary attachment to their family. After reading an article on "Mormon Mommy Bloggers" this week, I have decided that I am sick to my freshly dyed roots of being called a "Mommy" by people who I'm pretty sure did not emerge from my ... womb. (Attaching the word "Mormon" is a subject for a different rant on a different day... but I'm sure it'll be a good one.)

My problem with the word "Mommy" is that it is only applied by social commentators to women like me. Women who have chosen the glamorous world of caring for our own children, without pay or sick days, one peanut butter sandwich at a time. Can you imagine Michelle Obama or Sandra Day O'Connor or Gloria Steinem (had she chosen to have children) being called "Mommy" in an op.ed? It may be subtle, but this is a word whose intent, I believe, is to be cutely condescending so as to cloak the speaker's true feelings in folksy friendliness... like when an older man I don't know calls me "sweetie". It's basically a verbal pat on the head. It's a verbal dismissal... which we do to women who have chosen traditional roles all the time to women. Old Wive's Tale anyone?

And speaking of another term I dislike ... I am not sure when exactly a woman becomes an Old Wife; when what she has to say is no longer considered witty, well informed, well reasoned and practical, but rather the hysterical rantings of a girl who is too bossy for her own good. I am not sure who decided that the tales she tells are any less reliable than all those scientific certainties that never end up being that certain in the end. (Speaking of "hysteria"...)

I've found that the wisdom of women is treated in one of three ways. 1. We fold it nicely, wrap it up in acid free tissue paper, tuck it away in a cedar lined box toward the back of our closets and hope that another generation will one day find it and be glad that it has been preserved in such unused, vintage condition. 2. We put it on and grudgingly wear it only when we must be seen using it, like the horrible clothes that new moms get at baby showers and only put on their children when taking a snap shot to email to the giver. 3. We laugh and agree with others around us of a similar age that it is an unfortunate fad owned by a generation to whom we are glad we don't belong. (Much like the white tuxedo with huge lapel, pink ruffled shirt and velvet, navy blue bow tie which my father wore to his wedding),

I am beginning to understand that there is an unspoken truth that lives behind the words and through the words and around the words of women who have sacrificed to care for someone else. I am beginning to see the pain and happiness of life in the advice that Mommies and Old Wives pass along. When an Old Wife says "Don't let the cat go where the baby is sleeping, it will suck out his breath", maybe she is hoping that if she can convince the rest of the family that their pet is a baby-breath-sucking-predator, they will agree to get rid of the thing already. Perhaps she's trying to spare future generations of Mommies the extra chore of vacuuming cat hair on top of everything else they have to do.

When an Old Wife says "It's all fun and games until somebody gets their eye put out", maybe she's trying to spare you the pain associated with those things that look fun at first glance, but inevitably end with you missing parts of yourself that you'd wished you'd held onto.

When an Old Wife says "Don't do that with your face, or it will stick that way", maybe she wants to guard you from becoming like the grouchy auntie from her childhood who smiled at life so rarely and frowned at it so much that the lines and the wrinkles and the skin adopted a permanently gloomy look. Maybe she knows that the outside will eventually reflect the inside. Maybe she know that if there's a canker in the soul it will eventually show on the face in a way that no amount of lip stick and eye cream will fix.

Here is my decision- some will always be shocked at the competence of women. They are surprised at the force that we bring to life and at the things that we know. But not me. I believe in the words of the Mommies and of the Old Wives. Tell me all your tales and I will believe them. I will wrap myself up in them and I will wrap my children up in them, and when the time comes I will wrap my children's children up in them too... and eventually they will be glad I did.

{Plastic Pants}

2011-05-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

People have been asking me why I haven't been writing regularly for awhile. Between my 4 kids and the pages of essays that I write every week, I've basically used up all of my words.... and my time... and my words. However... here is a short op.ed. that I did for one of my required writing classes. We had to pick a topic that we think is relevant and of political importance and write a letter (no more than 250 words) to the local newspaper about it. (That's shorter than 2 tweets people.) I thought about it for like two weeks, and then it came to me. Plastic grocery bags. That's right people... our state legislature is trying to outlaw plastic grocery bags.

So here is my letter, that I'm sure will never be published except by myself...

Dear Oregon Legislature,

I am a 36-year-old, suburban mother of four. I carry my baby in one of those “I’m a hip Portland hippy mom” baby wraps. I recycle my aluminum cans (wait, no more aluminum cans –“organic, local, in season”). I even did some urban chicken farming (until we were forced to move during “The Crash” and couldn’t find a house whose rent was ten dozen pretty blue eggs payable the first of each month). I breastfeed, I compost, I deny my California upbringing.

I love that Oregon likes to stick it to The Man as much as the next girl, but you vote to take away my plastic grocery bags, and I will go third party on you. Collapsible, reusable, little shopping bags are good in theory. They feel responsible. People living in the Pearl District love them, but they aren’t what you’d call “family friendly”.

Some shoppers are fans of paper bags. I am not. I can’t hang 15 paper bags off each arm to minimize stair climbing. I can’t use paper bags to seal off dirty diapers and nasty soccer shoes. I can’t make them into homemade parachutes for those little green army men my sons love.

There’s a recession on (still). Oregon isn’t exactly known for its job security, and you haven’t even picked on a single public employee union yet. Oregon’s families have lost enough. For the love of all that is green, leave our plastic bags alone.

Sincerely,

It's my only little counter-revolution. I'm thinking about a grocery store sit in... in the cookie aisle. Who wants to bring the milk?

Stay Calm and Keep Your Pants On

2011-04-20T00:03:00.000-07:00

Here's a little history-ish lesson: during World War II, Winston Churchill commissioned a poster which, though relatively famous now, was not widely used or well known in his time. Winston wanted to get the word out that in the face of some very undesirable things, all you've got to do is "keep calm and carry on". Well thanks a lot Mr.Churchill for those words of advice... we couldn't agree more.

As many of you know, my nieces Arden (age 9) and her sister Naya (age 8 months) have cystic fibrosis- a disease that effects their lungs and pancreases (which is the plural of pancreas... I Googled it).

As of today the life expectancy for a person with CF is 37 years. I am 36. I am not ready to die, and I'm guessing that when they are my age, they won't be either. Luckily the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation is supporting all kinds of amazing research that is bringing treatments to market to help my nieces outlive their mother. But they need money... and that means we need you.

So,... because I believe that the best way to say "thank you" is with something special, we are offering these super-rad necklaces to everyone who gives to the cause. If you'd like one of these little cuties, all you have to do is click here to go to Arden and Naya's family Great Strides page and donate $10 (or more - whatever) to their fundraising effort. Seriously people, it's not that hard...the donation is tax deductible... and your neck will thank you.

Keep calm, breathe on, and help us cure CF.

And now...the low down on the pretty-

Each charm is handmade and comes with a little silver chain (as pictured) or one of those silver ring things that allows you to turn it into a key chain (C'mon boys... real men love themselves a pink keychain.
Please leave an email address in the comment section of the donation page (or email me via my blog) so that I can contact you for shipping info. Also, please specify which color combo you'd like... otherwise you get what you get and you don't throw a fit...( and I can tell you right now you will either get the really dark brown one, or the really light pink one because those are my favorites.)
The back of each charm is randomly finished in polka dots or little flowers.
Each charm is handmade to order. This means that there may be slight variation from piece to piece.
Please remember - these charms are made from glass tiles and resin so they are water resistant, but are not something you should wear in the shower unless you want a plain 1" glass tile on a string.

All charms are in combinations of brown and pink.
When you donate please leave an email address where you can be reached and specify
the dark, medium, or light variation of your preferred background color in the donation message area.

Those pants are way full.

2011-01-10T13:39:00.000-08:00

I just finished my first week of full time school...

On the up side- I am in school. I am not totally stupid. There are lots of chapters on genetics (thank you strangely shallow gene pool. Who says X-linked and other strange recessive traits can't help you out?)

On the down side- I am in school with 4 kids, volunteer work and a job in the church youth group. I am sort of stupid. Mac-n-Cheese or Fruit Loops for dinner? Where are the clean underwear? Why has the vacuum been sitting by the Christmas tree for 7 days? Wait, why do we still have a Christmas tree?

I can do anything for 10 weeks.

The Return of the Prodigal Pants

2010-12-22T19:36:00.000-08:00

I don't know if there is such thing as a writer's coma, but I think that I have been in one for several months. It's not so much that I can't think of anything to write about... I frequently write blog entries in my head. Mostly ones that highlight my borderline functional parenting moments or those that deal with the follies of my 4 children. I had a whopper all worked out, but the child who starred in the tale will k-i-l-l me if I actually publish it on the internet, so too bad for you... and now since I'm up a creek with no funny story, here's an update on what's been going on the last few... um... months.

I have officially started back at school and am moving slowly along my path toward becoming a midwife. I got 100% in my first class - intercultural communications. (Which was not that difficult since, based on their answers, most of the class thought that the homework questions were actually a Facebook survey.) I thought about sending my resume into the UN after my perfect performance, but my husband doesn't believe in the UN, so... peace at home before peace in the world I guess.

I have several sciencey kinds of classes that I'm starting and have to do a statistics course that I am procrastinating as long as possible. I 'm good with the words, but the numbers- not so much. Also, I'm pretty sure statistics is just something that big fat liars made up to try to convince everyone else that they're not big fat liars. (PS - I had to take a math placement test. Mediocre is over-exaggerating my performance. I swear the only thing that saved me is that my daughter broke her arm in two places at the beginning of the school year which meant that I got to act as 5th grade scribe/tutor for 5 weeks... also, I Googled "college math placement test" about 2 hours before I had to show up. Say what you will about Google. As far as I'm concerned they can map my house all they want as long as they help me test out of basic college algebra.)

I have lived to celebrate another birthday, ushering in my late-mid -30s... and that's all I have to say about that... except- my mom got me the best birthday present ever... 2 days with a bunch of hippy birth junkies whose idea of a fun Friday night is a women's energy/sharing/dance circle and swapping stories about placenta encapsulation. I am out of my mind excited. By the way Eugene Oregon... if you smell something strange, it's just my deodorant.

(...one more thing about the birthday. Every year on December 10th I reacquaint myself with the famous people who share my astrological sign. Sagittarius. Basically we break down like this... writers (Mark Twain, Emily Dickenson, Jane Austen), musicians (Beethoven, Hendrix, Donny Osmond, and Billy Idol), actors (Don Johnson) and politicians (Winston Churchill) including a couple of despotic tyrants. I was feeling like I had really found my people until it occurred to me that the horoscope folks probably don't include normal and boring lives in these lists and so it is very likely that every other astrological sign has a similar roll call of awesomeness... except for Donny Osmond.

The baby has cavities all over his mouth. You don't know judgement until your dentist peeks into your baby's mouth and the look on her face says "clearly he's been sucking down Dr.Pepper and Pixie Stix for 14 months". The first dentist (yep, more than one dentist) actually showed me how to put the toothpaste on the tooth brush and then made little circles with it in the air to demonstrate proper brushing technique. I'm not kidding. Just for the record... I have never had a cavity. Ever. I never had braces. I never had a retainer and I have all of my teeth including the 4 wisdom ones. Clearly, this is totally my husband's fault.

It's Christmas again. I have been possessed by the Spirit of Crafters Past and have an unexplainable and obsessive urge to make stuff out of paper and felt. Not necessarily in that order.

Merry Christmas all... and on that note, I'm off to send an email to Santa telling him that my kids are signing up for a Chilean miner"s pocketfull of coal if they don't stop their fighting. It usually solicits good results - after the crying and screaming that I am "the worst mom ever, seriously Mom, ever." Aaah. I love being the best at stuff.

{Nothing funny about those pants}

2010-08-06T13:17:00.000-07:00

***WARNING - THIS POST CONTAINS FRANK DISCUSSION OF WHAT I CONSIDER ADULT THEMES***

My son's hemophilia does not scare me. I am not scared by the daily questions like "Where did that bleed/bruise/bleed and bruise come from?" or "Hmmm. Shouldn't your clotting factor be actually helping you clot?". I am not scared of blood. I am scared of AIDS.

Recently I heard a brief discussion on NPR about whether or not the standards for donating blood should be revised to include men who have had sexual contact with other men in the potential donor pool. The FDA has recently upheld the current standard of declining to accept the blood of people who fall into this category.

As I listened to the guest talk, I must admit to struggling with a schizophrenic battle between the sickening panic in my stomach and the logic in my head. The idea of any kind of lowered safety threshold makes me deeply concerned. The consequences of contaminated blood is not theoretical for those of us in the bleeding disorders community. It is not a debate over ideologies or value systems or religious beliefs or civil rights. We have good reason to support strict controls on the level of risk we are willing to accept when it comes to blood born pathogens. By the end of the 1980s 10,000 hemophiliacs in the US had contracted HIV and 15,000 were infected with hepatitis as a result of FDA-approved tainted blood product. (To help understand the magnitude of that number you must know that there are currently around 17,000 people living with hemophilia nationwide.) It is well documented that both the government and the pharmaceutical companies knowingly allowed tainted blood clotting product to be marketed to and used by the hemophilia community. Exacerbated by poor blood screening/treatment mechanisms and high risk donors being allowed to contribute to the blood supply, the result was, what I consider, a generational genocide...and the reason my mother was widowed with 4 children before she turned 40.

The NPR guest did a lot of talking about the right to give blood - which, first of all, I'm not so sure is actually a right. Secondly, I do not think it is discrimination to say "Hey, you make risky choices... which may be ok with you, but not so much with us. Thanks, but no thanks." I think it's smart. I don't think it's smart, however, to have guidelines that make people think that they are more safe, while actually doing nothing to improve safety.

The question then becomes, does the ban on accepting blood donations from homosexual men in general improve the overall safety of the collective blood supply. In deciding where I come down on this issue I asked myself: "If my son needed a transfusion (like my 14 month old nephew just received) or a human-derived clotting product would I consider using the blood of a gay man who has sex exclusively with one person more risky than using the blood of a straight man who engages in sexual activity with multiple partners? Not taking into consideration the infinitely improved screening and treating processes, I would choose the blood of the monogamous gay man over the promiscuous straight man.

When making changes to the screening mechanism, I would prefer that donors be excluded based on the number of partners with whom they've had sex over a given period of time. Quite frankly I don't want my son exposed to the diseases that accompany risky sexual practices, whether those practices are with men or women. It seems to me that this criteria would appropriately identify risky behaviors practiced across all potential blood donors, while allowing those who engage in more responsible sexual behaviors to contribute to the much relied upon blood supply.

In the end, no one can truly police blood donors. It's not as though a list of questions is going to stop someone from donating blood that is considered high risk if they want to donate blood. This is why I am grateful for improved screening, treating and monitoring protocols, as well as recombinant factor that is not derived from human blood product. Constant vigilance is vital and I want to support policies that both actually keep our families safe and demand that those who are in a position of guardianship over that blood supply take their responsibility seriously this time... not just look like they do.

NOTE: Bad Blood is a documentary that was released to limited markets about a week ago. It tells the story of the devastating consequences borne by those in the bleeding disorders community when they were knowingly exposed to diseased blood product. I have not yet seen this documentary, but when it is released on DVD in December, I intend to purchase it. (I am in no way connected to the makers of the film, but am grateful that this chapter of our history is finally being told. Loudly.)

Winner of the Rants In My Pants June Giveaway

2010-06-24T14:54:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Jenny the winner of the great vintage inspired apron from Terrace Hill. Happy canning Jenny.

A huge thank you to Terrace Hill for sponsoring such a terrific giveaway.

Stay tuned for next month's giveaway starting July 7th.

{ Pants For Sale }

2010-06-22T17:03:00.000-07:00

For Father's Day my husband received:

One watercolor painting of a tree frog from our oldest son.
One watercolor painting of a sword fish from ... our oldest son.
One card expressing gratitude to my husband for his abilities to finish levels on the Lego Batman game, heretofore unattained by our 2nd son. (The card was written by our oldest son.)
One bar of Lever soap taken by my daughter from the hall closet, wrapped in homemade wrapping paper and tied up with a ribbon. She thought this was very funny and quite frankly... so did I.
One breakfast in bed.
One Father's Day dinner.

I made braised short ribs, and I'm not gonna lie about this, they were good. I consider ribs "man food" which basically means food that either requires no utensils and therefore a lot of finger licking (example: ribs), is totally disgusting (example: a hamburger with a fried egg on it), or both (example: a hamburger with a fried egg and a slab of ribs on it. Don't think you can't order this somewhere people - this is America). I also made Man Food's best friend - mashed potatoes, and rounded out the whole thing with some green beans, pineapple and corn on the cob.

Corn on the cob is one of those things that reminds me strongly of my own childhood and my own father. (If you are picturing me sitting on the porch shucking huge ripe ears with my dad ... not so much.)

When I was a kid, our church would earn funds for our budget every year by raising and selling corn. (Who knew there was such good money in small scale farming.) Each family in our congregation was responsible for tending a certain number of rows... and don't think my dad let a little thing like him being in a wheelchair get us out of weeding the weediest and most boring rows of corn in the history of corn. We kids did the hands and knees thing, and I'm pretty sure I remember him using some kind of homemade weed digger contraption assembled from various pieces of broken garden tools that were held in place with black electrical tape. He was constantly taping stuff to long handles to make his tools handi-friendly since he and bending over were not good friends. (Where the heck was Billy Mays then I ask you? Seriously, if there's a market for Life Alert, there's a market for Shoe-Horn-On-A-Stick...although we might need to work on the name.)

Once the "raising of the corn" was complete, it was time for phase two of the Great Mormon Corn Expansion Project. Also known as "the selling of the corn". Apparently, my family was like the Little Red Hen of Billings Montana, because we did it all while many of the other congregants ( "able bodied men" mostly) played the dog, the pig and the cat... or in other words, were too "busy" to help with anything.

I hated the weeding, but I loved the selling. My father, three younger sisters, and I would tow our trailer full of golden corny goodness to a spot where we would get lots of foot traffic (the parking lot of the Maverick truck stop and gas station), place our signage (a piece of cardboard with the words "Fresh Corn" written in spray paint) and wait for the cash to start flowing in (12 ears for $1 - I'm a little murky on this detail, but I'm pretty sure I'm right. I distinctly remember putting 12 ears of corn into old paper grocery bags, hoping that they didn't rip when I handed them out). I don't know how many hours we spent selling corn, but I do know that we sold a lot of corn. I think that we basically sold out of whatever corn we were selling. We sold more corn than anyone else in the church.

As a child, I thought that our fundraising success was due to our superior corn selling abilities. As an adult I realized that it was likely for a different reason entirely. Frankly speaking, who is not going to buy corn from a man in a wheel chair, parked at a truck stop in the middle of August, sitting next to a trailer full of one mountain of corn which is being scaled by four barefoot little girls in varying degrees of late summer shabbyness? (In my parents' defense - we had a bath every night and started the day with combed and braided and curled hair... but childhood is a messy thing. Especially when there's corn to sell).
Seriously, we could've inspired our own Dickens novel.

Clearly, my dad was a genius and this remains, in my opinion, the most genius marketing strategy in the history of church corn sales. I still smile everytime I think of what people must have thought as they drove by us, turned around, pulled into the truck stop and forked over their dollar bills. (This happened a lot.) I'm guessing we were the topic of more than one car ride discussion on the importance of family planning.

Maybe this year we'll get all of our corn u-pick style - for old time's sake (and because I love to listen to my kids complain - it's my favorite). Just don't think you're going to find me selling it wholesale out of the back of my minivan.

Rants In My Pants June Giveaway Featuring Terrace Hill

2010-06-09T08:24:00.000-07:00

June is here. It's time to bust out those cute little canning jars and weird suctioney lid things and get to making some strawberry jam...and if you believe, as I do, that it is not about what you do but about how you look while you're doing it that counts, you're gonna want to add this month's prize to your festival of fruit preservation.

That's right. This month's prize is a cool vintage inspired apron from Terrace Hill. Donna Reed wishes she looked so good. Too bad for you Donna.

Terrace Hill is an Etsy shop whose owner, Chadley, is based in sunny California. She sells all kinds of great vintagey aprons (her grandma used to tell her that a girl can never have too many aprons - you go Gran) and really cute sock monkeys (her parents never would give in and let her have that real pet monkey that she always wanted. Big meanies.)

Chadley is all about the beach and baking and gardening and spring cleaning and good books. She's a former librarian who has turned her considerable talents to her creative pursuits. Luckily.

Want to win? Here's how...

To be entered in this month's giveaway please visit Terrace Hill on Etsy. Hustle your pants right back here and leave a comment about your favorite item. That is worth ONE ENTRY and one chance to win.

If you just can't stand losing and would like to rack up some additional entries, listen up. You can earn ONE ADDITIONAL ENTRY EACH by:

becoming a follower of Rants In My Pants (my blog must show up on the "blogs I'm following" portion of your dashboard or it doesn't count)
linking to the giveaway from your blog or website
posting a link to the giveaway on Facebook
Tweeting about the giveaway
taking one the buttons from my sidebar for your blog
and/or writing a post on your blog about the giveaway

If you purchase something from our generous sponsor (in the month in which they are featured), you will earn 5 ADDITIONAL ENTRIES. (I'll need an invoice number or some other type of verification so that I can double check with our sponsor. Like I said, I don't want cheaters to prosper.)

YOU MUST leave a different comment for each entry. (Example: One comment with your favorite thing and a different comment saying you are a follower). If you don't, don't blame me when you don't get your rightful chances. I will use random.org's random number generator to pick our winner. The winner's name will be posted on Rants In My Pants and will be notified via email. They will have 24 hours from the time of the post with the big announcement to claim their prize. If the prize is not claimed within the time limit, everyone (except the "too bad for you" winner) will stand up and cheer, because we'll try again with the random number, claim it within 24hrs. thing.

This deadline for entering this giveaway is June 23, 2010 @ 5pm PST.

Good Luck.

This giveaway is open to US residents only.

Must be 18 to enter. If you're not 18, get your parent to enter for you.

-E.

Winner of the Rants In My Pants May giveaway

2010-05-27T10:25:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Christy , the winner of the May giveaway featuring Raspberry Baby. Check back with us next month when our prize will be sponsored by Terrace Hill.

A New Pair of Pants

2010-05-26T22:05:00.000-07:00

First the bad news...
it's 10:01 pm PST and I have not heard from our original May giveaway winner. Sorry winner number 1, but we're movin' on.

Now the good news...
we have selected a new winner and the clock is ticking away on her "hey give me that awesome prize" window. I will post her name once she has claimed her prize.

-e

Come and claim your pants

2010-05-26T18:03:00.000-07:00

Hey all -

I sent an email yesterday to the winner of the May giveaway but haven't heard back yet. If you are the winner you have until 9 pm PST to contact me... or you forfeit your prize. Sad.

Check your email accounts everyone. I don't want our winner to lose out.

{ Walk A Mile In Tiny's Pants }

2010-05-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

I don't usually do this topic on this blog so much, but lots of people ask me what Tiny's treatments are like. So I thought I'd give you a look. (If you want to know more about hemophilia or need clarification on the terms just check out our family blog "The Bloody Good Life"... mostly because I'm too lazy to cut and paste it over here.)

Prophy day (we have a standing appointment at our center for once a week treatments:)

7:30 wake up. Have a nurse. Have a bath.

Daily bruise inventory? Check.

Get dressed in short sleeves for easy vein access. Go for a layered look with a sweatshirt to keep the veins warm and plumpy...and stylish.

Electronic distraction for 4 year old brother? Check.

Factor? Check. Extra box of Factor? Check.

Arrive at treatment center a little early for parking...

... and playing

Favorite exam room? Check.

Purple gloves. You know you've got trouble when they pull out the purple gloves.

Pick a vein... any vein.

Mmmm. Hot packs. Warm veins are happy veins.

Mix the factor.

Cross your fingers for one good stick.

Let the good stuff flow.

Voila!

Get big love from the amazing team. Seriously. They are like prophy Ninjas.

Get big love from Mom.

Done and done. Now, what's for lunch?

Last Day for the May Rants In My Pants Giveaway

2010-05-25T08:58:00.000-07:00

Today is the last day to get in on the May Rants In My Pants giveaway. Click on the link on the sidebar and sign up to win a wrap style baby carrier from Raspberry Baby.

{ The pants on the bus go "let me off" }

2010-05-19T10:45:00.000-07:00

Every Friday I take an inventory of what is in my kids' backpacks.
... Same baggy of carrots that I just keep putting back into their lunchboxes day after day so that I will look like a good mom just in case Jaimie Oliver shows up at our elementary school... but without having to buy more carrots that will never be eaten? Check.
... A bunch of graded papers that I throw away without even looking at them first because I figure if there was real problem I would've heard by now? Check.
... All kinds of art projects that I tell my kids I'm keeping in their "special boxes" but really they end up in the same place that the graded papers end up? Check.
... Next month's calendar which confirms my suspicion that the last 4 weeks of school are just for show? Check.

The weekly backpack check is how I found out that my daughter has 3 field trips in the next three weeks... and because I pretty much live by the Biblical principle of "better you than me" I signed up to help with the one that has nothing to do with riding a bus with 120, 10-year-olds.

Last year, when I was younger, stupider and pregnanter I chaperoned the third grade trip to the junior symphony in downtown Portland. If you've ever considered driving a school bus as a profession - Do. Not. Do. It. The poor bus driver lady had to maneuver what is essentially a cattle car for children down all kinds of one way streets that were clearly designed for people on horses or maybe those bikes with the really big front wheel. Every time I saw movement out the window I'd stamp my foot down like I was pushing on an imaginary brake. Also, I kept doing that arm-seatbelt thing across my daughter's chest like my mom did to whoever was sitting in the front seat of our car from about 1978 onward. By the time we got to the concert my hands were totally sweaty, I was maybe going to throw up a little bit and I seriously considered calling my husband to come pick me up. (What I learned from this was that unless you want to die in a metal box that smells like dirty feet and peanut butter and sounds like that really scary attic scene from "The Birds" you should pretend like you're an involved parent some other way.)

The field trip destination was a concert hall that's all Baroqued out with carvings and beautiful architecture and marble floors and that lovely way sounds spiral up to the ceiling in buildings that are meant to be listened in. It also has a statue right in the entry way... a nude statue. I don't totally remember, but I'm pretty sure that this particular nude was a woman, because I don't recall any embarrassing boys bits hanging out there. What I do remember is that there was a lot of pointing and hands covering mouths and the kind of laughter you might do if you walk in on someone going to the bathroom. The third graders found the naked bum part particularly amusing. I think I spent the entire time up until intermission telling them to be quiet and stop laughing about the naked statue... at which point they went out to have another look.

Having learned last year's lesson about chaperoning field trips that have anything to do with a bus ride, I volunteered to go with my daughter's fourth grade walking trip to our local heritage center...yesterday. It can be summarized thus: 120 ten-year-olds, 2 miles there, 2 miles back. Old folks dressed like pioneers. Lots of rain.

This year's lesson? Stick to volunteering in the art program.

{ Lookin' Like A Fool With Your Pants On The Ground }

2010-05-16T20:49:00.000-07:00

When I was around 20 I started to know a whole lot about how to raise other people's kids. I did not have children. I did not want children... but I did know that when I did want and have children, they would not behave like those kids in the mall that hid from their mother under the Nordstrom clothing racks like some kind of freaky little special-ops ninja. I also knew that they would not say things like "you can't make me" when I told them to clean their room, yell out "take that you fool" while pretending to shoot the guy in the pew next to us during church, or write their initials all over the upholstery of my Volkswagen van with a bright blue Sharpie... (including the top of their baby brother's little bald head.)

What I did not know, however, was that every time I thought to myself "my child will never do that" God would dig through his personnel files and pick out the kids who he knew would totally do "that"...and then he would send out a memo to the shipping department that said essentially "Hey, you know how we didn't know where in the heck to send this one? Well, I just found him a spot. By the way, clear your schedule, because you're gonna want to watch this. Oh, and pull up that training video "Pride and You". I think we'll be able to get some updated footage."

I'm pretty sure that babies start out as babies primarily so that you can start out kidding yourself into thinking that you are the reason that they are so squishy and cute. You can believe that they sit up because you are a good mother, and use the baby sign language to ask for more freshly steamed sweet potatoes because you are a good mother, and learn to walk in uncomfortable shoes like a proper human being because you are a good mother. We say it's all about the baby, but really it's mostly about "Hey look what my kid can do. Don't you think I'm a good mom?" This is a trap ladies... and I'll tell you why. Eventually you are going to take your above average child to a Zumba class at your church and while you are doing your ab work at the end of your "wow, I didn't know I was Latin" exercise extravaganza he will walk over to some random lady who has clearly done more sit-ups than is healthy... and kick her. Just like that. (This actually happened to my friend of mine... a good friend and a good mom). All I'm saying is that if you start thinking that the reason your child has the talents, or disposition or personality that they do because of something you control... when they turn beasty, you're in for a massive identity crisis.

Don't get me wrong. I believe that parents play a huge role in the development of a child, but I've known too many good moms who feel totally defeated when faced with a child who came with a little more fire, or tears or hatred of seams than everyone else things they should have. Really good moms who have had to put up with the comments about "if you'd just let her cry it out then she'd sleep"...or "if he's hungry enough he'll eat it"...or "it looks like you've got your hands full"... Which is what I got to hear from a total stranger last week when I turned around at the park to find my 4 year old son, bum exposed to the world, peeing in the flower bed. I looked her right in the eye and said "You know, I'm never quite sure what people are trying to tell me when they say that". Then, I pulled up my son's pants, told him (really loudly so that every mom within earshot could hear) "good job keeping those pants dry buddy" and headed for the car... with my pointy chin held high... totally embarrassed and wondering how I could be so bad at this mothering thing after almost 11 years.

... maybe I'll just blame his father for this one.

That was not a good picture of those pants...

2010-05-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

Something went terribly amiss with the giveaway picture yesterday. It displayed fine on my computer, but apparently looked like a giant frowny face to everyone else. I'm not guessing that you want to win a frowny face. I reposted and you should be able to see the real picture now.

thanks-
e

Rants In My Pants May Giveaway Featuring Raspberry Baby

2010-05-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

Let your hippy chick shine through... carry your baby close to your body with this very cool baby wrap from Raspberry Baby. I use a baby wrap almost every day and highly recommend it to moms who love to hold their wee one... but may find it hard to hold their wee one while chasing the wee one's brother in the parking lot of Target, piling the wee one's astonishingly large pile of clothes into the dryer or cleaning up the pureed carrots rejected by the wee one at lunch.

The color of this wrap is super rad- grey (good for a boy or girl) and the style allows it to be used from infant to big kid, in front/on the back/on the hip. Who doesn't love something that can grow with the baby? Good for you, your child and your pocket book. Keep it for yourself, or give it as a gift.

This prize comes to us courtesy of Tiffany at Raspberry Baby. Based in Dallas TX, she is a mother of 3 and an etsy veteran of a few years. Her shop started with simple ring slings (which are still available if you aren't a fan of the wrap), and now boasts maternity skirts, nursing covers (which are very handy for the modest among us) and many other goodies for moms. You can find her stuff at her shop on etsy as well as various boutiques across the country.

Lucky for you, you can also find her stuff right here... this month only... in our giveaway.

To be entered in this month's giveaway please visit Raspberry Baby on Etsy. Hustle your pants right back here and leave a comment about your favorite item. That is worth ONE ENTRY and one chance to win.

If you just can't stand losing and would like to rack up some additional entries, listen up. You can earn ONE ADDITIONAL ENTRY EACH by:

becoming a follower of Rants In My Pants (my blog must show up on the "blogs I'm following" portion of your dashboard or it doesn't count)
linking to the giveaway from your blog or website
posting a link to the giveaway on Facebook
Tweeting about the giveaway
taking one the buttons from my sidebar for your blog
and/or writing a post on your blog about the giveaway

PLUS...

If you purchase something from our generous sponsor (in the month in which they are featured), you will earn 5 ADDITIONAL ENTRIES. (I'll need an invoice number or some other type of verification so that I can double check with our sponsor. Like I said, I don't want cheaters to prosper.)
THIS MONTH IS CF FUNDRAISING MONTH. YOU WILL RECEIVE 10 ENTRIES IF YOU DONATE (EVEN $1) TO THE CYSTIC FIBROSIS FOUNDATION VIA THE "JOIN ARDEN'S TEAM" PAGE HERE.

This deadline for entering this giveaway is May25 , 2010 @ 5pm PST.

Good Luck.

This giveaway is open to US residents only.

Must be 18 to enter. If you're not 18, get your parent to enter for you.

-E.

Rants In My Pants April Giveaway Winner

2010-04-30T14:43:00.000-07:00

Here it is people. The moment you've been waiting for... and waiting for... and waiting for... at least that's what I've been told. Apparently I am late at announcing April's winner. In the future "I will not allow my personal tragedy to effect/affect my ability to do good hair"... or blogging as the case may be. (I actually have not had a personal tragedy, I just like that line.)

So... without further delay... Congratulations to Melissa Haas. You are this month's winner. Enjoy your bag... and yeah earth!

ps - thanks as always to our great sponsor: A Beach Breeze. (Now go buy something from her.)

{You must remember to put on your pants}

2010-04-15T22:33:00.000-07:00

Here's something that you could make into one of those "spend more time with your family it won't kill you and it could be funny every once in awhile" TV ads... When you pull up to the Elementary School where your niece is performing as "Butterfly #1" in the first grade production about bugs at a picnic and you're noticing how nice all of the families look as they walk into the gym... and then, as you're parking your car, your own first grader announces "Oh, umm, Mom? Yeah, we need to go home, 'cause I've got on clean socks, but I forgot my shoes".

I'm sure it could happen to anyone, son.

{Rants In My Pants April Giveaway Featuring A Beach Breeze}

2010-04-12T09:34:00.000-07:00

As some of you may have noticed our monthly giveaway went on an unexpected vaca in March. We finally tracked it down and made it come home to do some work. Slacker. I think I'll forgive it though, because, in honor of Earth Day and farmer's markets (our's opens in 2 weeks) and the idealistic little college guy who tried to get me to sign a petition to outlaw plastic grocery store bags in Oregon, the giveaway brings you...

A super chic reusable shopping bag from A Beach Breeze based in Dallas Texas.

This bag is reclaimed and upcycled. In a former life it was a bed sheet, but now, after a little nip and tuck, by shop owner Erin, it's been transformed into a really cute and environmentally responsible reusable shopping bag. It is also a contortionist. (In a good way. Not a creepy "hey, where are your joints" way.) There's a little pocket in the front that the whole bag folds into so that it can fit in a purse or diaper bag or back pocket like a wallet. You've got to admit - that's pretty cool. Now you won't have to be that person at the store who has no room in the cart for actual groceries because it's full of reusable bags falling all over the place.

A little bit about the brains behind the bag... Erin (owner of A Beach Breeze) is a Kansas girl who went to design school in Denver and then made her way down to Dallas (where as far as I know there are no beach breezes. Sad). She comes from a long line of seamstress wizards, namely her mom and grandma. She attributes her love of vintage fabric to the time she spent playing around her grandmother as she quilted. (I love that by the way. Hey, I wonder if she does pants.) She's also a passionate recycler... hence the giveaway prize... which brings me to... the giveaway rules.

To be entered in this month's giveaway please visit A Beach Breeze's Etsy shop. Hustle your pants right back here and leave a comment about your favorite item. That is worth ONE ENTRY and one chance to win.

If you just can't stand losing and would like to rack up some additional entries, listen up. You can earn ONE ADDITIONAL ENTRY EACH by:

becoming a follower of Rants In My Pants (my blog must show up on the "blogs I'm following" portion of your dashboard or it doesn't count). If you are already a follower you can use this one too.
linking to the giveaway from your blog or website
posting a link to the giveaway on Facebook
Tweeting about the giveaway
taking one the buttons from my sidebar for your blog
and/or writing a post on your blog about the giveaway

This deadline for entering this giveaway is April 26th, 2010 @ 5pm PST.

Good Luck.

This giveaway is open to US residents only.

Must be 18 to enter. If you're not 18, get your parent to enter for you.

-E.

{How We Treat A Man's Pants}

2010-03-31T14:23:00.000-07:00

I have an investment idea for anyone out there who might be looking to expand their portfolios. I want to open a chain of treatment centers that specialize in helping the unfortunate politicians/professional athletes/manopause suffers everywhere who do daily battle with addictions to Stupid, and its gateway companion, Selfish.

If you're interested in helping stupaholic/selfaholic men kick the habit, let me know and we'll talk numbers.

{Our Tooth Fairy Keeps Forgetting Her Pants}

2010-03-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

Memo

From: E.

To: Tooth Fairy

Re: What the heck?

This memo is to serve as your official notification that I will be filing a formal complaint with your supervisor regarding our complete dissatisfaction with your performance as our family's Tooth Fairy.

On more than one occasion you have demonstrated behavior that leads me to believe that you would be better suited for a different field of employment. Such behaviors include an alarmingly high rate of absenteeism (my son waited three days for your last pick up), disregarding your obligation for personal written correspondence with my children (you have yet to answer my son's letter requesting information on what you do with all of those teeth - I think he finds it a little disturbing) and below market value pricing for my children's cavity free teeth. One of my son's classmates is currently being compensated at the rate of $10 per tooth, and my sister informs me that her Tooth Fairy leaves fancy gold dollars with each visit. We will be filing a separate complaint with the EEOC and will be requesting all back pay plus fines paid in full as soon as possible.

I do not have the extra time nor am I willing to assume responsibility any longer for your carelessness. I will no longer attempt to convince my disappointed children that their tooth money has fallen behind the bed, worked its way into the pillowcase, or become tangled in the sheets. I will no longer pen hastily written letters with my left hand to disguise my handwriting in hopes of protecting your professional reputation. I will no longer store two mouths worth of teeth in my underwear drawer because you have failed to remove them as per your job description. (Quite frankly it's just a little gross.)

As my children's advocate in this matter, I can no longer accept your irresponsible behavior nor will I subject them to the neglect and obvious careless regard that you have for their feelings. I will be requesting a replacement fairy as soon as possible, and can only hope that you pursue a career that does not involve destroying childhood memories.

I am keeping my fingers crossed that your replacement is more responsible and thorough than you have been.

ps-
I will be forwarding my complaint to the Easter Bunny, Santa's Workshop and The Great Pumpkin.

{Not sure that Yoda wore pants...}

2010-03-19T11:01:00.000-07:00

Really Mom? Really?

{Is that blood on your pants?}

2010-03-13T14:15:00.000-08:00

My family and I have started a new blog called "The Bloody Good Life". We will focus on issues surrounding raising children with hemophilia and try to serve as a resource for families living with this condition. A lot of the blogs etc. that deal with this disease are sort of ... big downers. We hope to show lives that are hopeful and happy in spite of things that can be scary and sad.

If you'd like to follow our journey, you can find us here: thebloodygoodlife.blogspot.com

{Do These Pants Make Me Look Fat?}

2010-03-11T18:02:00.000-08:00

When I was in the seventh grade I was on the school dance team. I use the term "dance" as loosely as possible here. Let's just put it this way - if 1987's idea of "going viral" had less to do with quarantine and more to do with laughing at the super uncool behavior of people that you do not know - YouTube would've been all over us.

Luckily for my sisters, this hip-shaking, streamer-twirling, jazz-hands extravaganza lives on thanks to the awesome invention of home video. Mostly, I'm forced to watch these videos at holiday gatherings- along with the videos of our band performances and one of me being interviewed by a local television program, also circa 1987-permed-hair. (I'd worked with a local artist on completing a piece of "wearable art" and it was being displayed in one of her shows. Apparently this was big news in Lockwood, Montana. My adventure in "wearable art" is a totally different post all together.) I have endured many hours of pretending that I am not totally embarrassed that I ever thought it was a good idea to wear a black leotard, footless leggings and red leg warmers... in public... while dancing to Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel." (If I had any idea how to get the video tape stuff onto the internet, I would totally post this for you. I'm a big believer in funny stuff... even if it's at my own expense.)

In those brief viewing moments when I actually open my eyes to see if my sisters have suffocated because they chose mocking laughter over oxygen, I am struck with something about myself. I was skinny. Not thin. Skinny. I seriously had no idea at all about this. I probably should've clued into this when the spandex shorts I wore for gym class were baggy, but I guess it's not until you fill out your spandex that you realize what that meant.

I only had one moment in my life (prior to adulthood) that I ever really even thought about my body. I was 12 and at a water park with our church youth group, and thus, wearing a swimsuit. I remember looking at myself and then saying to my dad "I have a fat stomach". (I did not have a fat stomach. I weighed like 95 pounds or something, but my stomach has never been totally flat. It's always had a bit of curve to it... like everything else on my body- even at 95 pounds.) My dad looked at me and said "You don't have a fat stomach. All girls have stomachs like that. God made girls to have stomachs like that." (I have since learned that this is a total lie. Not all girls have stomachs like this, but I go with "spirit of the law" on this one and so I'm ok with it.)

I thought about those two seconds with my dad yesterday as my daughter stepped off the scale at the doctor's office. The nurse announced her weight, and then my daughter looked at me. She looked like how you feel when you are waiting to find out if you passed your driver's license test. She has never looked at me that way before, and I'm not gonna lie - I was pretty sure it was one of those parenting moments that if you get wrong, will last until your children can tell their therapist about it. I thought of my dad and how differently I would've seen myself for the rest of my life if he would've even jokingly agreed with me. I thought of my dad and how he could have turned me into a different person with two sentences... and then because I am super witty and good with words I came up with ... "Perfect". That's what I said to her. "Perfect". I even said it really fast so that it would sound like I was not totally concerned about causing her to have an eating disorder or something.

I will always be sad when I think of her looking at me from that scale, but I'm pretty sure that this was a way bigger deal for me than for her... and if that's true, then I think I did my job.

{ Let me check your pants }

2010-02-26T10:58:00.000-08:00

A few months back, when we were looking for a new place to live, I applied for a job as an onsite apartment manager. It's not like when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I said "the onsite apartment manager for an over 55 property", but I was willing to take one for the team. I've been out of the paid workforce for over 10 years, so when they called and asked me to please bring my resume to the interview I thought that maybe they were joking. They weren't.

I actually Googled "how to write a resume with little or no paid work experience". Supporting my theory that you can learn anything from the internet, I was able to write something that was not a total embarrassment. It consisted of basically taking all of the stuff I've done as a volunteer and making it sound like someone should've been paying me to do it. I was ready to start sending out demands for back wages, but apparently the people at the property management place were less impressed. Here's something I learned from that - nothing makes you realize that everyone who ever claimed that you are smart and capable and talented were lying right to your face faster than not being able to get a job as a resident apartment manager. (I also kinda blame Google.)

I was asked to put together a similar job history for an application to a midwifery program that I'm interested in. I wrote the work timeline that they asked for, but it sounded pretty boring, so I tore it up (I actually just deleted it, but tearing it up seems way more dramatic and decisive) and wrote this instead:

Mom - 1999,2002,2005; employment responsibilities include: First Responder/Medic (specializing in Magic Kiss Treatment - proven to heal any hurt, except broken hearts), Transportation Services, Science Project Research Fellow, Lego-Conflict Mitigation, Light Saber Technician (contracted primarily by pre-school boys), Financial Controller, Calendaring and Schedule Coordinator, Life and Style Coach, Soccer Party and Birthday Catering, Homework Tutor (English: all levels, Math: K-3), Head of Housekeeping, Laundry Delivery Service, Social Etiquette Instruction, Director of Nutrition and Food Preparation Services , Psychological Counselor for ‘Tweens, Costume Mistress (including but not limited to Halloween, Soccer, Ballet, and School Pictures), Law Enforcement Agent, Pharmacist (special training in the uses of Tylenol, Chocolate Cake and Breastmilk).

I never submitted it. I had finished up my application, tracked down my transcripts, and was figuring out how I was going to pay for school, when I found out that I was getting a new employer... baby #4... and it is because of him that I need to update my resume.

I was picking up the living room while the baby was on his stomach doing his wounded-soldier-drag-crawl when I looked down and saw poo running up his back. Not down. Up. Have you ever heard that saying about poo not running up hill? Well, put enough gas behind it, and it loves running up hill. I grabbed the wipes and started my HazMat cleanup, but seriously, who was I kidding? Whoever invented those wipes either has a baby with the world's smallest bum, or a baby that came out knowing all about flush toilets. So, I just flipped him over and pulled the whole diaper off... and then I panicked.

My baby is breastfed. I do not even own a bottle (Keep your pants on people. I'm not telling you what to do with your girls, only what I do with mine) - and I hold off on solid foods until my kids can say, "Hey lady, how 'bout some of that sharing that I hear so much about?" (Primarily because the constant cleaning-eating-spilling-cleaning-eating-spilling cycle annoys me.) So, I was pretty sure that there should have been no big red things in my baby's diaper.

At first I thought that it was blood, (because of the hemophilia) and I had no idea how I was going to apply direct pressure and get an icepack to go ... where it needed to go. Then, I realized it was something solid and so (thankfully) not a trip to the emergency room. I then did something that I never thought I'd do. I picked two red mystery objects out of my baby's poo with my bare hands, wiped them off, and examined them. (Take that "Dirty Jobs" guy.) I'm pretty sure my younger self was there watching and shaking her head ... and gagging, but my poo curiosity was just too strong. I looked at the red things. I turned the red things over. I thought "I am really glad no one can see how interested I am in these pooey red things." I realized what the red things were. Two partially digested pieces of cardboard... from an empty box of Girl Scouts cookies that had been discarded onto (what else) the floor by the swarm of locusts that are my children. Awesome.

So... thanks Motherhood, I've just added two more jobs to an exponentially increasing list of skill sets - Waste Management and Forensic Anthropologist, (although considering that my baby's first solid food was an empty box of Girl Scouts cookies, I might want to brush up a little on the "Nutrition Director" portion of my work history... also, probably not great commentary on the "Head of Housekeeping" thing either). Now all I have to figure out is where to send my invoice.

{ Exposing My Pants }

2010-02-24T10:51:00.000-08:00

We are having a talent show at my church. I thought it would be a good opportunity to encourage our kids to display their unique gifts with our congregation and to make me feel like I was teaching them something useful by throwing some good Bible stuff at them like "don't hide your light under a bushel" and "don't bury your talents in the dirt like that one foolish servant did" and "honor your father and mother- but mostly your mother if you want your days to be long upon the land". (Whenever I heard that one about the "hiding under the bushel" when I was young, I pictured that song "On Top Of Spaghetti" where the meatball rolled off the table and (having apparently gained an enormous amount of momentum from its fall), made it out the door and continued rolling until it finally came to rest under a bush. I think after that it grows a meatball tree - and what could be bad about a tree that can grow meat?)

After determining with my sons that each of them would display one of their original Lego creations, and my daughter deciding that she would show some of the pottery she made while learning to throw on the wheel, my children asked me what I was going to do. My first choice was "stand in the middle of the gym and tell people what to do"... but I was afraid that someone might think "Hey - she's super good at being bossy. Let's put her in charge", and since my goal is to never be in charge of anything ever - it seemed counterproductive.

I considered tap dancing. I took a couple years of tap lessons when I was a kid. I don't know if I was very good, but as far as I can tell, the best tap dancer you've ever seen - not much better than the worst tap dancer you've ever seen, as long as they're enthusiastic, wear something with feathers and wave their arms around in really big circles a lot. (Actually, as I'm picturing this in my head, I'm thinking that maybe I should've gone with tap dancing. I would've made it on YouTube for sure.)

Since my first two ideas weren't super viable, I decided to read one of the stories from my blog. (Think a slightly-less-talented Sarah Vowell from "This American Life" only without the interesting voice.) This is a little scary for me because I'm not sure what I'm going to do if I get up on stage, read one of these things... and hear no laughter. This had not occurred to me until one of the ladies from my church who read my blog recently told me that she "didn't get it". (I like her a lot though, so I'm ok with it.) My husband asked me if it hurt my feelings, and I could honestly answer "no". I'm a big believer that writing, or music, or painting or dancing has nothing at all to do with how it is received. Once an artist has finished their work, the art part is over and it doesn't belong to the artist anymore. People are free to like it, or hate it... or not get it.

However... it is a lot more comfortable for people to "not get it" when you are separated by a computer ... and the internet. (Which I still contend is Al Gore's most significant contribution to our society... aside from the term "lock box".)

So... I need some reader feedback. In order to determine which one of these blog essays, (heretofore known as blessays), I should read, I'm asking for your suggestions. Tell me which blessay you think I should present and I'll narrow it down from there.

... and if it all goes badly when I'm finally on stage, I'll just have to improv a really sweet tap routine.

{ Someone's got lucky pants }

2010-02-23T08:37:00.000-08:00

We have a winner! (Actually two)...

This month's giveaway goes to

Marci Nafziger who is now the proud owner of a set of really cute little owl magnets
and
Julia McGuire who will be displaying all kinds of fantastic things with her new and equally fabulous monkey magnets.

As always thank you to our generous sponsor Mostly Magnets. Keep them in mind whenever you are in need of prettying up your fridge, workspace or locker.

Watch for our next giveaway starting the second week of March.

e

Last Day for the Feb. Rants In My Pants Giveaway

2010-02-22T10:09:00.001-08:00

The February giveaway ends today. Don't forget to get your name in the drawing for the super rad magnet sets. Remember - 2 winners this month!

{ Why Do Your Pants Smell Like Popcorn? }

2010-02-11T11:56:00.000-08:00

I have a very sensitive nose. I once saved my husband from what I'm certain would've been a nasty case of food poisoning or possibly death by smelling one mold spore on his sandwich bread from 10 feet away. It was very impressive. I do not subscribe to the "just cut the moldy part off, the rest of it's fine" way of thinking. When I was in 6th grade we learned about mold and what I remember is (as I am constantly reminding my family) that mold is a continuous filamentous structure. This means that it tunnels along, unseen in your food, and then at the last minute looks you in the eye and laughs. Basically it's the mole of the fungus world... only grosser because you might accidentally eat it. (By the way, if you are some kind of mold scientist and are going to leave a comment telling me that mold is not a continuous filamentous structure - just walk away now. If I have to stop sounding smart because you are a know-it-all, I might have to cut you.)

Because of the aforementioned sensitivity, I have some very definite opinions about smells. I love the smell of lilacs at Easter time. I love the smell of my baby's spitty breath. I love the smell of a sink or bathtub that's been scrubbed down with Comet. (I have a childhood memory of my grandmother cleaning her tub with Comet once before I took a bath. I also remember wishing that she would've let me have more water because it seemed like she had a really big bathtub and I was pretty sure that I would be able to pretend I was a mermaid or a whale. I tried this once at my own house as a child resulting in the flooding of my parents ceiling and me running nudey across the kitchen trying to escape my very irritated mother. The problem with the wet/nudey escape is that you end up not so much running as sliding on your belly across the linoleum.)

One of my least favorite smells? Burnt popcorn. It's not so much the initial smell that bugs me, but the fact that it creeps along like that smoke monster on Lost taking over every part of the house. Also, once burnt popcorn has made itself at home, it is pretty hard to evict.

What I learned this week is that when the motor on your washing machine burns up half way through the spin cycle, leaving plastic shavings on your still really wet clothes it smells like a bag of burnt popcorn. Only this bag of popcorn was being popped by one of those crazies who are trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for something really obscure like "largest bag of popcorn ever popped"... but because they left the room to check on their huge ball of tinfoil, they couldn't hear the popping slow to every few seconds and instead became the world record holders for the "largest bag of popcorn ever burned".

My family (as always) had a lot of suggestions about how the situation should be handled. It basically became an episode of Solve-the-Crisis-Family-Feud.

Solution #1 - Plunge and scrub the clothes in the bathtub and tell your family and friends that you are doing it because you care about the environment. Challenge them to wash their clothes in the bathtub too so that you look authentic and passionate.

Solution #2 - Plunge and scrub the clothes in the bathtub and tell your family and friends that you are doing it as research for a book that you intend to write about how giving up modern conveniences is liberating and character building - or some other such nonsense.

Solution #3 - Load up the little red wagon and walk the mile to the Laundromat/Keno Parlor/Dry Cleaner. Tell your friends and family that you enjoy the exercise. Also, come up with a smart sounding theory about how paying to do the laundry actually saves you money.

Solution #4 - Use the salad spinner. I'm not sure how I would fit my husband's jeans into the salad spinner, but I'm fairly certain that I shouldn't tell my family about washing the baby's poo-explosion clothes in the same place where I wash their food.

Solution #5 - Craigslist. You can get a replacement washing machine for $50 bucks... as long as you "don't mind holding the lid down during the spin cycle" or are not concerned that "the inside smells weird, but the clothes come out pretty good."

My mom had the best solution, "buy a new washing machine". I have long believed that the people that claim that money can't buy happiness are either liars, stupid or rich... and now I have proof. Money can buy jeans that don't have baby vomit on them. Money can buy little boy shirts without juice stains. Money can buy running clothes that aren't covered in old sweat. Money can let you send your kids to school in clothes that smell like fabric softener instead of burnt popcorn ... and that, people, is happiness.

(ps- thanks to my mom for our new washing machine and to my sister who took my laundry to her house and returned it washed, dried and folded.)

{ Rants In My Pants February Giveaway Featuring Mostly Magnets }

2010-02-08T08:38:00.000-08:00

Let's see if you grew up in my house. Here's your first test. What do you do when I say the word "Oklahoma"? If you just can't stop yourself from singing really loudly about waving wheat and how the wind comes right behind the rain, then you may have grown up in my house. (This impromptu -Broadway-show-tunes-extravaganza also happened/happens when anyone said/says the words "I've got chills", "tradition" or "76". If we were/are really lucky my mom might throw in a couple of the old Cougar Marching Band moves with that last one.)

(If you have no idea what the heck I'm talking about, don't worry - you'll like the giveaway stuff anyway.)

Well, warm up those voices people. Meet our February giveaway sponsor - Mostly Magnets from ... Oklahoma (Norman to be exact). This cool shop was founded in 2007 and introduced into the Etsy landscape in 2008. Run by sisters (insert lyrics from White Christmas here), Marie and Malin, their shop specializes in glass magnets and push pins, many of which are made with their original art work.

My favorite thing about their sets (besides the prospect of prettying up the refrigerator by replacing the Pizza Hut and Chem Dry phone number magnets) is that they make great, little inexpensive gifts. Pick a person. Pick your favorite magnets. Pick something you want them to hang up with the magnets and... Presto. Instant gift karma. (Think a child's work of art for a favorite teacher ... or... a stack of notes telling your amazing wife how amazing she is for Valentine's Day... or ... pictures of the kids for your mom on Mother's Day.) (I love giving pictures of my kids. I edit them in Picasa (which is easy and free), have them printed out by Ritz photo or Costco (which is easy and $1-ish), throw in a set of magnets for stylish fridge hanging (easy and $6.50) and I am the favorite daughter/daughter-in-law for yet another year.)

So ... in honor of gift giving, we will have TWO winners this month. One lucky reader will win a set of the owl magnets and one will win a set of the monkey magnets. If you think these magnets are as cute as I do, read on...

To be entered in this month's giveaway please visit Mostly Magnets' Etsy shop. Hustle your pants right back here and fill out the entry form found at the end of this post. I'm using the entry form method so that I can protect your email addresses from blog crawling harvester bots. Honestly, I'm not totally sure what the heck these things are, but I've read about them and I just keep picturing something out of that movie Arachnophobia. Better safe than bitten to death by a bunch of crazy blog crawling harvester bots, I say. It's only 3 questions - name, email address, and your favorite item at our sponsor's store. Totally painless and totally worth it. Doing that gets you ONE ENTRY and ONLY ONE ENTRY. (No duplicates please, that's cheating.)

If you just can't stand losing and would like to rack up some additional entries, listen up. You can earn ONE ADDITIONAL ENTRY EACH by following Rants In My Pants (my blog must show up on the "blogs I'm following" portion of your dashboard or it doesn't count), linking to the giveaway from your blog or website, posting a link to the give away on Facebook, Tweeting about the giveaway, taking one the buttons from my sidebar for your blog, and/or writing a post on your blog about the giveaway.

YOU MUST fill out a different form for each entry. (For example. if you pick a favorite item and become a follower you fill out the entry form twice.) If you don't, don't blame me when you don't get your rightful chances. I will use random.org's random number generator to pick our winner. The winner's name will be posted on Rants In My Pants and will be notified via email. They will have 24 hours from the time of the post with the big announcement to claim their prize. If the prize is not claimed within the time limit, everyone (except the "too bad for you" winner) will stand up and cheer, because we'll try again with the random number, claim it within 24hrs. thing.

This deadline for entering this giveaway is February 22, 2010 @ 5pm PST.

Good Luck.

This giveaway is open to US residents only.

Must be 18 to enter. If you're not 18, get your parent to enter for you.

-E.

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{ 6 Pants, 5 seats }

2010-02-01T13:15:00.000-08:00

Do you remember that riddle about crossing a river in a boat with a fox and a chicken and a bag of grain. I'm a little fuzzy on the details, but I'm pretty sure that it ends with the poor guy in the boat spending all of his time making trips across the stupid river instead of getting on with a life full of eggs and bread and ...a pet fox. (Maybe the guy in the boat watched too many Disney movies as a kid.)

Since the birth of our fourth child, my life is becoming increasingly similar to that guy in the boat. For a couple of years now, our family has owned one car. A good friend of mine, had generously been allowing us to drive one of her unused vehicles, but that offer is up due to the fact that kids have a pesky habit of turning 16, taking driver's ed and then wanting to drive their mom's car. This would be a much smaller dilemma if a.) our car came with as many seats as there are people in our family, b.) there were no such thing as seatbelt laws or c.) my husband's suits didn't get all wrinkly when riding in the trunk.

As two thirds of my options are frowned upon by the State of Oregon, we need to sell our current car (I'll just say that getting to church right now makes that boat riddle look easy). Hopefully then I'll be able to buy my dream vehicle ... anything with 6 or more seats, preferably with flames or the face of Jerry Garcia painted on the side. ( I did find what I thought was a keeper on Craigslist. $800. How often do I really need "reverse" anyway?)

So... if you or anyone you know is looking for a 2006 Passat 3.6L 4 Motion Sport let me know. (Obviously that description was written by my husband - I would've said "silver car, possibly some kind of VW, not broken". Sorry Gloria Steinem, but there it is.) Just click the "E.mail" button on the sidebar to contact me. If you play your cards right I just might throw in a chicken and a fox.

{ How Karma wears her pants }

2010-01-28T10:06:00.000-08:00

Anyone that has raised a child - even those people with the braggy "look at how great my child is - I must be really good at this parenting thing" bumper stickers - knows about tantrums. Vast tantrum experience has taught me that these usually fall into one of three categories.

Number 1: The tantrum of the misinformed - If you've ever told your kids that you're taking them to the park ... and then as you're leaving you realize that you're supposed to be taking a three course meal to some lady from church that just had a baby and all you have in your cupboard is an open package of broken spaghetti and some condensed milk so you end up at the grocery store at 5:10 buying dinner for someone else's family while trying to figure out how to talk your kids into eating pasta with condensed milk sauce... then you know about the tantrum of the misinformed. This is often accompanied by screams of "but you said" and "but we always do something boring".

I am all for bribing my way out of this particular type of tantrum. I find that a child whose mouth is full of candy has a hard time complaining about my mediocre and inconsistent parenting.

Number 2: The tantrum of denial- Unlike the tantrum of the misinformed, there's no negotiating your way out of this one. You can never back down on "no". Kids are like dogs. To them, indecision is easier to sniff out than a teenage boy trying to cover up his teenage boy stink with half a bottle of Drakkar Noir. Once a kid senses that their weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth is starting to sway you - they will not give up until you either give them what they want ... or die. (This lesson is courtesy of the dog whisperer. I'm just waiting for that guy to take on a 3 year old with a hankerin' for a breakfast of chocolate cake and fruit snacks. We'll see how tough he is then.)

Number 3: The tantrum of the overwhelmed- Take a little bit of tired, add a little bit of hungry, stir in a lot of noise/people/choices and voila! The tantrum of the overwhelmed. There's only so much a little kid can take and then, out of self preservation, they make themselves highly undesirable. This one requires time, space and solitude... for the kid too.

When you put all of these together, you get what is called "the meltdown". I'm pretty sure that there is an actual rule that says that meltdowns must be made in public, or else they don't count. Usually "the meltdown" happens at Target, in church, at the grandparents, or at the doctor's office... and unfortunately for the front desk lady at my doctor's office - she was on the receiving end of my last meltdown.

I often pick up my husband's prescription from our doctor. He's never on that side of town and he knows that one of my favorite things is running in and out of stores, dry cleaners etc. with my 4 children. It's big fun. On this particular day, I had driven the 20 minutes to my sister's to help with her kids because she was not feeling well. I passed the doctor's office on the way there, but they were still closed and so I planned on picking up the prescription on the way back to get my children from school.

When I left my sister's I realized that I was not going to have enough time to get the prescription unless I wanted to be 10 minutes late to the school... at which point I would surely get a phone call from my daughter asking me where I was because she thought that maybe I forgot about her and she just wanted to make sure I wasn't dead or in jail for speeding. (I've never been in jail for speeding - or anything else, I am not dead yet, and (because I know that the smart money goes on me forgetting them) I've set an alarm on my cell phone to remind me about my children. And yet - no trust. Go figure.) I actually did seriously consider just being late, but I went with "super martyr mom" and drove straight to the school knowing full well that I was tacking on almost an hour of extra car time with my kids.

After unpacking the baby and the 4 year old, locating my kids in the cafeteria and loading everyone back into the car (in the rain), I drove the 20 minutes back to the doctor's office to get the prescription. I unloaded the baby, the 4 year old, the 7 year old, and the 10 year old (in the rain) and headed in. After refereeing the fight over who would be the elevator button pusher I made it into the office... where I was told that due to a new office policy, I could no longer pick up prescriptions for my husband, and that they were "sure they'd left a message - didn't I get it?" Yep. That's why I'm standing here with my 4 kids trying to pick up my husband's prescription. Misinformation.

The first thing I tried was asking nicely. I said please and everything. I pointed out that I'd driven here specifically for this prescription... and my kids... and the rain... and could I please just take the prescription this month and figure something out for next time. Denial. I guess that niceness is overrated. I was starting to lose my grip.

I asked her to speak to the office manager to see if I could get an exception. She went through the door to the back. I looked around and could only count 3 children - the 4 year old had somehow escaped into one of the exam rooms with the front desk lady. On my right the 7 year old was spinning in circles on his heel and knocked over one of the waiting room chairs. On my left the 10 year old was telling me about how the office smelled bad and she didn't think I should make her do things like this because it was "not fair". The baby was waking up and he had that crazy look in his eye that clearly said "got milk"... which would mean another 20 minutes in the car with the kids while I nursed him before we could even start the 20 minute drive home... and the answer was still "no" on the stupid prescription. (I guess that the office manager watches the dog whisperer too.) Overwhelmed.

That is when it happened. Meltdown. Some crazy, angry woman, starting yelling out terms like "you people are ridiculous" and "had to make 2 trips to this part of town" and "we are finding another doctor". I looked around to see who was throwing the tantrum. Then I realized that I was throwing the tantrum. Still melting down, knowing I should apologize to the poor-little- front-desk-girl, but totally not in the mood to apologize to the poor-little-front-desk-girl, I grabbed my kids and marched back to the car (in the rain) - without the prescription. I thought to myself "call and apologize", but I went all stubborn and did not call. Time, space, solitude.

2 days later I called and apologized to the poor-little-front-desk-girl... except she could barely hear me... because my tonsils were swollen together in the back of my throat... because I had a raging case of strep... and I needed to come into the doctor's office... to get a prescription.

{ Winner of the Rants In My Pants January Giveaway }

2010-01-20T09:57:00.000-08:00

Tweet has a new home. Congratulations to

Megan May

our winner of the January Rants In My Pants giveaway.
Assuming that I hear back from Megan May within 24 hours of this post, she is one lucky girl.

Thanks to everyone who participated in January's giveaway, and a huge thanks to our wonderful sponsor

BluHour.

If you're looking for some good Valentines' Day gifts head on over ... or leave the computer screen open to your favorite thing... every day... and hope that the person who finds it gets the hint.

Thanks again for making this such a successful giveaway. We'll see you all back here in February for the next one.

{ Final Day of the BluHour giveaway hosted by Rants In My Pants }

2010-01-19T08:53:00.000-08:00

Just a reminder...

Today is the final day of the January Rants In My Pants giveaway featuring "Tweet" by BluHour. If you want this little beauty, you need to enter by 5 pm PST. Just click on the January giveaway link at the right to get to the entry page.

Good luck.

{ Hey lady- are you talking to your pants? }

2010-01-14T11:17:00.000-08:00

I am a big fan of a British accent. This is probably why I'm a big fan of British TV. I think that the line, "I'm not dead yet"would be a lot less "hey, that's really funny" and a lot more "hey, someone call 911" if the Monty Python guys sounded like they were from Brooklyn... and I'm pretty sure that Mr. Darcy would have a lot fewer followers if he sounded like an accountant from Salt Lake City.

The British can get away with saying things that other people just can't. Like when I heard Nigella Lawson use the term "spotted dick" in an interview on NPR. With a British accent? A yummy pudding/dessert that sounds like it would be good with cream. Without a British accent? A horrible, horrible disease that requires lots of tests and a totally different kind of cream. (Also, laughter. The kind of 7th-grade-health-class laughter that you try not to do, but can't quite manage it.)

The British accent is also one reason why I like the British period/costume dramas. You name it, I've seen it. Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Cranford, Return to Cranford, North and South. (When my friend A. suggested that I see this last one, I thought she was talking about the trashy mid-1980s miniseries starring Patrick Swayze pre-"Dirty Dancing". I was so excited that someone outside of my family actually watched that thing, that I started to clap and yelled out "I love North and South". Turns out that my admission was slightly premature. When she asked me if I liked the book too, I started to suspect that she did not share my love of the Civil War soap opera genre. I forgave her after I watched her North and South.)

My favorite, favorite word from the British costume drama is "vex". Vex, vexing, vexed, sorely vexed, vexation. Basically, this is a word that tells someone that they're the most annoying person ever, but in a way that requires them to think "Oh my gosh. I vexed her. What does that mean? I'd better apologize right now and never, ever do that again. Oh, and I should probably send flowers - just in case".

I am currently waiting for my flowers from the State of Oregon - because they have vexed me.

Beginning January 1st it became illegal in my state to use a hand held cell phone while driving a car. Like "pull you over and charge you money" illegal...and if that's not vexing I don't know what is. Personally, I don't see how talking to one person on my cell phone can possibly be any more distracting than listening to my daughter tell me about her 10 year old girl drama while my son recites random (and often totally boring) facts about birds that he learned during his science unit while my other son sings the song from Star Wars that warns you that Darth Vader is on the move while the baby does his impression of a very loud, very vexed Pavarotti. One adult conversation vs. Four kid conversations. I think you've outlawed the wrong conversations, State of Oregon bossy rule writers.

In an attempt to stick it to the man and thwart what I'm fairly certain is some kind of conspiracy between the legislature and the powerful cell phone accessories lobby (where's Michael Moore when you need him), I tried to come up with a few ways to avoid buying some kind of new head set/ear piece/cell phone-surround-sound device. My "go to" was, (what else), duct tape to the dash board. This was unsuccessful for two reasons. 1.) I couldn't find my duct tape 2.) I was afraid that the tape would leave a residue on my phone and then it would stick to my face while I was doing non-car talking. I decided that a duct tape facial/hair removal was not something that I was interested in.

My sisters had some promising ideas. One suggested tying a string around the phone and hanging it from the rear view mirror - like fuzzy dice. I'm not sure how you string up a cell phone, but I was concerned that even if I managed such an engineering feat, that the phone would go swinging around, bashing into the windshield, forcing me to hold on to it, effectively defeating the "hands free" goal.

Another suggested that I just stick it in the visor. I tried this one, but the only way I could manage to get it to stay in there ended up blocking the voice receiver part. I kept having to talk really loud and point my chin up as far as I could so that my mouth would be closer to the microphone. Again, I didn't think that perpetually looking at the ceiling of the car while operating a moving vehicle was going to help with the "distracted driver" thing.

So, basically for the last two weeks I've been, (what my sisters and I are now referring to as) "crotch talking". In other words, yelling at the speaker-phone in my lap, while both hands are on the wheel. The upside to this is that it doesn't cost any money. The down side? (Beside talking at your crotch)- the person you're talking to only hears every third word you say which is mingled with the drama-birds-Vader-Pavarotti mess you've got going on behind you. This means that you are constantly repeating yourself, thus using three times the minutes of a normal conversation... thus costing you money.

I finally admitted defeat to my cell phone accessory maker foe, and told my husband that we were going to have to buy a hands free device for me to use in the car. It was then, after 13 days of sort- of -lawbreaking, that I found out that my husband owns an extra head set/ear piece thing, (which he claims he told me about some time in December)...

... and without even attempting a British accent, I let him know that I found the whole thing extremely vexing...and that I will be expecting flowers.

BluHour Giveaway hosted by Rants In My Pants

2010-01-05T10:43:00.000-08:00

Get your tweet on with this amazing bubble glass charm necklace from BluHour. This little guy (Tweet) is up for grabs for the next two weeks in our first giveaway of the year. (Branch not included). (Seriously, I am so excited about this I can't even stand myself.)

I just love this piece. For the girls out there - good with jeans, good with a dress. Enough said. For the men- here's a way to get a Valentine's Day present for your wife or girlfriend that you didn't pick up from the grocery store on the way home from work on February 14th. (Love at home, people. Love at home.)

So, about BluHour - the owner, Brooke, lives here in my fair city of Portland, Oregon with her husband and dog. She has been designing and selling jewelry since she was a child and set up her Etsy shop to keep up with her passion for art and design. As you will see, when you visit her shop, she's all about sparkly things and stuff that feels vintage... but with a modern twist.

Her "must have" pants? Jeans. My kind of girl.

Three things I love about BluHour-
1. I like pretty things. All of the pictures on Brooke's site are really well done.
2. The Bee Charmer necklace. This came in a close second to Tweet. (I went with Tweet in honor of my son.)
3. Reasonably priced. ("Tweet" normally sells for $24 plus shipping.) You'd think that buying handmade stuff would be a lot more expensive than buying from chain stores or whatever, but it's totally not. You can find some really good deals by buying straight from the artist.

Winner or not, you'll want to take a peak at this shop and get your Valentine's shopping done early.

So, how do you enter? Well...

To be entered in this month's giveaway please visit BluHour and then hustle your pants right back here and-

leave a comment about your favorite BluHour piece. Doing that gets you ONE ENTRY and ONLY ONE ENTRY. (No duplicates please, that's cheating.) Please leave your email address so that I can contact you.

If you just can't stand losing and would like to rack up some additional entries, listen up. You can earn ONE ADDITIONAL ENTRY EACH by becoming a follower of Rants In My Pants (my blog must show up on the "blogs I'm following" portion of your dashboard or it doesn't count, if you are currently a follower you qualify for this), linking to the giveaway from your blog or website, posting a link to the giveaway on Facebook, Tweeting about the giveaway, and/or writing a post on your blog about the giveaway or about Rants In My Pants (or both). Make this a separate comment (just write "follower" or "linked from" ... etc.) or it will not be assigned its own number when I go to pick a winner and you will lose one of your chances.

If you purchase something from BluHour in January (2010) you will earn 5 ADDITIONAL ENTRIES. (I'll need an invoice number or some other type of verification so that I can double check with our sponsor. Like I said, I don't want cheaters to prosper.)

YOU MUST post a separate comment for each entry. If you don't, don't blame me when you don't get your rightful chances. I will use random.org's random number generator to pick our winner. The winner's name will be posted on Rants In My Pants and will be notified via email. They will have 24 hours from the time of the post with the big announcement to claim their prize. If the prize is not claimed within the time limit, everyone (except the "too bad for you" winner) will stand up and cheer, because we'll try again with the random number, claim it within 24hrs. thing.

The deadline for entering this giveaway is January 19, 2010 at 5:00 pm PST. The winner will be posted on January 20th 2010.

Good Luck.

This giveaway is open to US residents only.

Must be 18 to enter. If you're not 18, get your parent to enter for you.

{ Who Doesn't Like Free Pants? }

2010-01-04T18:17:00.000-08:00

In church on Sunday we were talking about hypocrisy - specifically how hypocrisy in our homes affects our kids. I raised my hand and told all of the ladies in our women's organization that I am the biggest hypocrite I know. I yell at my kids and husband for two hours on Sunday mornings in a vain attempt to get them to move faster, because I'm afraid that we might not get to church early enough to get a squishy pew, sing the opening hymn (which, inevitably, turns out to be "Love At Home", or "Home Can Be A Heaven On Earth."), and feel the influence of the Holy Spirit. I'm pretty sure the Holy Spirit is with me on the getting to church early thing.

I also told them that although I am a big old hypocrite, I'm also the first to point out to my children that I'm a big old hypocrite... and I tell them that hypocrisy is a bad thing ... so I'm not sure if what I do counts as hypocrisy at all. It seems more like honesty to me.

In my defense, I don't think it's just me. This time of year seems to bring out some "do as I say, not as I do" in a lot of us. All I'm saying is if we really believed that "it's better to give than to receive" there would be a lot longer line at the mall's giving tree and a lot shorter one at Santa's workshop. (Which, by the way, is where we have our children sit on the lap of a stranger, talk to a stranger and accept candy from a stranger... after having threatened them with a very painful death if they wander off... because a stranger might take them...resulting in a very painful death- or possibly candy and presents.)

After Christmas passes, there's a lot of the making of promises that we know we can't keep - even if (and maybe most especially if) the promises are to ourselves. I don't believe in resolutions. I'd like to pretend it's because I believe in constant progress and goal setting and all that other stuff that makes highly effective people highly effective. Actually it's because I am honest enough to admit that sometimes good enough is good enough. I know myself well enough to know that it's gonna take a lot more than a resolution to get me to embrace changes like getting out of bed, in the dark and the cold to go running at 5am, or giving up the mini chocolate bars I stole from my kids' stockings for breakfast. Fear of public humiliation, however usually does the trick - which is why I have committed to running a half marathon with my sisters and mom in July. This means it's either run now and work off my bouncy parts in private, or wait until later and embrace the possibility of having people stare as they watch me bounce...and then pass out.

I am, however, going to try at least one new thing this year... right here on my blog...and (luckily for you) it doesn't involve bouncing.

Even if we are still up in the air on the "better to give than to receive" thing, I think we can agree that it is at least as good to give as it is to receive. So... I've decided give a little something to the readers of Rants In My Pants. Each month I will be hosting a giveaway (giveaway sounds better than "friendly bribe") where you can score some very cool stuff. I will be announcing the first one within a couple of days - and let me tell you it's gonna be good.

I'll be concentrating on featuring unique handmade items that will make all your friends jealous. I've lined up some really cute things that you can only get from the sponsors of our giveaways. No corporate giants allowed. (Take that WalMart.) Just to be clear - I am not getting any compensation from any of the giveaway sponsors. I just found some stuff that I thought was cool/cute/rad and asked nicely. I will however, do a review of their shops and share a list of my favorite things for sale there. Everything I get from them, goes straight to our winner or winners. Too bad for me. Really good for you. (I will post the rules and guidelines for the giveaway when I reveal the item for that month.)

I hope that all of you have happy, happy pants in 2010 - made only better by the great stuff you're going to win from us.

e.

(PS - Our giveaway slots have all been claimed for the first part of the year, but if you are interested in sponsoring one in a few months, contact me via the E.mail button on the sidebar. If I like your stuff, you're in.)

{ I Almost Wet My Pants}

2010-01-03T00:46:00.000-08:00

When people send me emails that they are forwarding from someone else, I typically roll my eyes and delete them without even opening them.

My sister A. forwarded these to me, and then as a backup, read them to me over the phone.

I have to admit... I laughed.

(ps- I don't know if these are real or not - despite the claims that "they actually appeared in church bulletins". I have serious doubts. I mean, who exactly are the people gathering up all of these multi-denominational programs for republication in never-ending chain emails? If they aren't real, I don't care because they're funny and I wish that I'd written them. If they are real... I'm glad I didn't.)

Love those Church Ladies.. They're Back! Those wonderful Church Bulletins! Thank you church ladies with typewriters. These sentences (with all the BLOOPERS) actually appeared in church bulletins or were announced in church services:
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The Fasting & Prayer Conference includes meals.
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The sermon this morning: 'Jesus Walks on the Water.' The sermon tonight: 'Searching for Jesus.'
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Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands.
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Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our community. Smile at someone who is hard to love. Say 'Hell' to someone who doesn't care much about you.
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Don't let worry kill you off - let the Church help.
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Miss Charlene Mason sang 'I will not pass this way again,' giving obvious pleasure to the congregation.
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For those of you who have children and don't know it, we have a nursery downstairs.
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Next Thursday there will be tryouts for the choir. They need all the help they can get.
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Irving Benson and Jessie Carter were married on October 24 in the church. So ends a friendship that began in their school days.
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A bean supper will be held on Tuesday evening in the church hall. Music will follow.
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At the evening service tonight, the sermon topic will be 'What Is Hell?' Come early and listen to our choir practice
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Eight new choir robes are currently needed due to the addition of several new members and to the deterioration of some older ones.
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Scouts are saving aluminum cans, bottles and other items to be recycled. Proceeds will be used to cripple children.
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Please place your donation in the envelope along with the deceased person you want remembered.
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The church will host an evening of fine dining, super entertainment and gracious hostility.
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Potluck supper Sunday at 5:00 PM - prayer and medication to follow.
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The ladies of the Church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon.
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This evening at 7 PM there will be a hymn singing in the park across from the Church. Bring a blanket and come prepared to sin.
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Ladies Bible Study will be held Thursday morning at 10 AM. All ladies are invited to lunch in the Fellowship Hallafter the B. S. is done.
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The pastor would appreciate it if the ladies of the Congregation would lend him their electric girdles for the pancake breakfast next Sunday.
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Low Self Esteem Support Group will meet Thursday at 7 PM. Please use the back door.
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The eighth-graders will be presenting Shakespeare's Hamlet in the Church basement Friday at 7 PM.. The congregation is invited to attend this tragedy.
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Weight Watchers will meet at 7 PM at the First Presbyterian Church. Please use large double door at the side entrance.
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The Associate Minister unveiled the church's new campaign slogan last Sunday: "I Upped My Pledge - Up Yours".

{ Dog. Pants. Now. }

2009-12-31T11:54:00.000-08:00

I do not believe in the great outdoors. I do not hike. I do not fish. I do not camp. My idea of "roughing it" is a hotel with less than adequate room and towel service. I do not find anything morally superior about sleeping in the dirt and washing with water that may or may not look like one of those microscope slides from high school biology. Nor am I interested in knowing what color one's boogers can become depending on what is burned in the campfire. As far as I can tell, "outdoorsy" is just a one word phrase for "let's pretend we're homeless - only with bears and mosquitoes."

When I got married I found out that my in-laws did believe in the great outdoors. They kept making reference to vaguely planned, upcoming family camping trips as though they expected me to say "Super. I keep my hip waders in the car. Just let me grab my Survivor Man jammies and we're off. By the way, don't bother bringing toilet paper - I'm cool with leaves and grass." I promised them one camping trip. Ever. So far I've done two - and that was only because I really wanted the S'mores.

I am pretty much the only one on my husband's side of the family that scrunches up their nose at the thought of sleeping bags and backpacks. My father-in-law (who is 72 by the way) goes snow camping with the church scouting group... in the snow. (Seriously. I didn't even know that this was a thing until I met my father-in-law. They sleep in full on igloos...which they build out of snow. Crazy talk.) My husband's sister and her family go on week long hunting trips ... with guns and shooting and camo undies. My brother-in-law loves to talk about what he's killed, what he's almost killed, what he thinks he may have killed, and what he'd like to kill if given the chance. He also likes to talk about killing accessories. Knives. Guns. Trucks. Dogs. Sons.

I have to admit that I feel somewhat conflicted when I listen to these stories. My father was quite the hunter/gun enthusiast . You wouldn't think that a guy in an electric wheelchair with a bleeding disorder would be your first choice as a point man when trying to sneak up on a wild animal while holding a gun, but we need to break barriers where we can I guess. Also, I'm a big fan of eating meat. However, I'm pretty sure that if I had to kill the meat myself, you'd be looking at the world's newest vegetarian. I'm just not sure that I'm totally on board with sentences that start "It was the most beautiful animal I'd ever seen..." and end with "... and so I shot it." (You can imagine what it's like to share this opinion while sitting in a room with a giant, furry, once-real bear mounted to the wall. A bear.)

Even though the subject matter isn't my favorite, I do like my brother-in-law... and since he doesn't run screaming from the room while gouging out his eyes when I breastfeed my baby during family game time, I feel like I should be a little flexible. His latest story was about a duck hunt that had happened a few weeks ago. I have to admit that I was half-listening to him, half-watching the TV, half-trying to figure out why my boys were being so quiet and half-trying to figure out how I was going to get the Christmas presents wrapped in one night. There was something about a duck in a bush and really cold water and his dog is a genius. My ears grabbed onto the part about the dog.

From what I could tell, after being blasted from flight, the duck dropped into a bush and my brother-in -law (who was standing in the cold water) said to the dog "dead bird". (A little gross, but there you go.) Dog the Genius then ran down a hill, under a fence, across a field, and picked up the bird in his mouth. (Also a little gross. Although, I guess that when I eat a cheeseburger I too have a dead animal in my mouth. Hmmm.) Then, (with the dead bird in his mouth), the dog returned across the field, under the fence and up the hill where he sat down next to my brother-in-law, put his head against my brother-in-law's leg and at the command "my bird", dropped the dead bird into my brother-in-law's hand. Again, a little gross, but you've got to admit, impressive.

While listening to my brother-in-law's braggyness about his dog, a memory of a long-ago Nordstrom shopping trip popped into my head. I came into the store, child sitting in the stroller, when I was suddenly surrounded by a cloud of very smelly, yet very expensive, perfume. In an attempt to clear my nose... and vision, I temporarily, but vigorously shook my head back and forth thus taking my eyes off of my son. The 2 year old seized on my distraction, jumped out of the stroller and sprinted to freedom. (I think the perfume sprayer lady may have been his accomplice. It seemed like a pretty seamless plan to me.) He made it to the end of the aisle, slid on his belly across the marble floor and army crawled under a rounder of very ugly, yet very expensive jeans. Bird in a bush.

In my mind I pictured myself yelling out "dead kid" and then standing back and watching with great satisfaction while a very well trained hunting dog comes bounding down the escalator, knocking middle aged white women aside, heading straight for my son. I picture him flattening his body, easily fitting under the jeans and grabbing my child by the seat of his pants, dragging him from his strategic position. The dog would then knock down the perfume lady as payback and drop the little escapee back in the stroller. Good dog.

As it was, that particular shopping trip ended with crying and threatening and staring and judging and me on my belly (less successful at fitting under the jeans than the dog would be) and my son being really glad that Nordstrom has security cameras.

It is clear to me now, thanks to my brother-in-law, that there is an easy solution to just such parenting dilemmas. It is clear to me that what I really need to be a more effective parent is not more love or patience or organization or discipline. What I really need is a really good hunting dog. Besides patrolling the perimeter on shopping trips, all I need him to do is identify which kid started the most recent Christmas vacation fight, retrieve Nerf missiles from the neighbor's yard and make sure that the dirty diapers make it to the garbage. This seems like it would be a lot easier, and less gross, than finding a dead duck in a far away bush. I'm pretty sure that some dog will want this job. Maybe I'll check Craigslist, or maybe I'll just yell "dead kid" really loud and wait for him to come to me. Good Dog.

{ My son's Ptnas }

2009-12-16T17:47:00.000-08:00

Some people can spell. Some people can't. Most people fall into the second category. That's why they invented dictionaries... and when that didn't work they invented spell check... and when that didn't work they invented texting.

I don't believe in texting - all it does is promote sloppy handwriting and poor spelling/grammar... and it feels suspiciously like the telegraph to me - only smaller and more annoying. I'm pretty sure that eventually the texting people will be selling a handheld device that will utilize some other "cutting edge" technology - like smoke signals... because they're all about efficiency in communication. It'll be called smexting (not to be confused with sexting) and the smoke will come in a choice of your favorite color - just to make it more "you". Also, either U2 or Coldplay will write the song for the ad campaign. (Oh, just a PS on the sexting thing - if a man/boy is sending you sex messages typed out in short hand on your phone he is a). tacky

b). possibly cheating on someone within the range of his voice
c). intending to show his man friends everything you said and will probably email your sweet nothings to your mom when he dumps you in favor of a faster sexter. Don't say I didn't warn you),

I'm not even sure how most people use those little touch screen phones. I can barely see the keys, let alone touch only one of them at a time. It's like that game "Operation". I keep expecting a buzzer to go off every time I type in a letter. It makes my hands shaky (and a little sweaty) just thinking about it. Apparently the cell phone industry uses a bunch of Chinese sweatshop seamstresses to test out their products. How about throwing a few big boned white girls into those focus groups fellas? Oh, and to you Mr. "let's invent a bunch of super helpful texty features, like maybe one that automatically fills in the word that you want to use with a word that is similar to but not actually the word you want use", you owe me a new phone... one that doesn't break when you throw it out the window.

I just don't text. In addition to my annoyance, I'm really slow and my level of accuracy leaves something to be desired. It takes me like 20 minutes to type "da kds r kklng me. wn r u cunig hone?"...which is followed by a phone call from my husband clarifying my text message - "the kids are killing you. when am I coming home?" Like I said - super efficient. I'm not good at it, and I don't want to get good at it.

I know that this might be techno lame, but I like it when the words I'm reading are spelled out...all the way... with all of the letters... in the right places. It just seems to me that the more we abbreviate and change and eliminate parts of our language the more likely we are to miscommunicate and cause problems and create more work for ourselves.

What I learned this week is that I am not alone in my opposition to the alternative spelling movement. Mother Nature isn't on board either. Especially when it comes to a little something called DNA. Even though it can only use only 4 letters (A, T, C, and G), DNA spells out the longest word in the world. (Take that antidisestablishmentarianism.) Long story short, you'd better hope that your DNA was homeschooled because this is one spelling bee word that you don't want to mess up. Too bad for us... our son's DNA was not so much a speller as a texter... and not a very good one. Turns out that his DNA reads "A" where it's supposed to read "T"... and it ends up spelling "hemophilia".

For those of you who don't know, hemophilia is a bleeding disorder that effects primarily boys (there are a few girls that have it, but it's really rare). Hemophiliacs are missing a protein in their blood that helps it to clot. There are really excellent treatments now, and the risk of being infected by blood born diseases like Hepatitis and HIV is basically zero these days because the replacement clotting factor is made from synthetics instead of human plasma.

We are doing totally fine. We have a great treatment center with an amazing hematologist and insurance that covers our son's care and meds. (Tender mercies people, tender mercies.)

I debated whether or not I should write about this, it's not exactly funny and doesn't make as good a story as giving myself a bad haircut, or locking myself out of the car at Winco...but I write about life, and this is just part of our life. Although I wouldn't ever raise my hand and volunteer my son to have a life long medical condition, especially one that involves so many needles, I am not sorry for him either. I will never mourn the life of another person just because their body functions differently than mine. I think it's condescending and arrogant. It would imply that because a person faces challenges different than mine that they will, by definition of their circumstances, have a less fulfilling life. I have a friend with a child with Down Syndrome, a friend whose child died during birth because his heart was backward (and some other stuff) and a niece with cystic fibrosis. I never said that I was sorry about those children because I am not sorry about them. They should be celebrated just like every other baby born to this world. Each of them is important and will contribute things and learn things and be things that I can and will never be. So here it is - I don't want anyone telling me that they are sorry about my son - unless you want to annoy me... which you don't.

However... you can tell me that I have the most beautiful baby that you've ever seen, and that he's really, really ridiculously lucky... and clearly a genius... and brimming with talent... just like his mother. You can even text it to me. I'll let it go - just this once.

Golfers wear ugly pants

2009-12-09T09:05:00.000-08:00

Thought that I would forward this on to Tiger. My advice was originally intended for John Edwards, (see" His pants have been around"), but apparently we need to get the word out. Listen up boys- the mistress always tells on you... and then your wife beats you with a golf club and leaves you shoeless in the street... Oh, and then she takes all the money and the kids. If only he would've asked...

"...The general rule of thumb is : Keep your pants on. If you are unsure whether or not this rule applies to your given situation here are a few simple tests. Ask the woman with whom you are on a date "Are you my wife?", if "yes", you are free to do whatever you'd like with your pants as long as you are not in public - the rule always applies there. If "no" - leave your pants on . Follow up with questions such as: "Have you seen my wife?", "Do you know how I can contact my wife?", or "Why am I on a date with you if you aren't my wife?".

If you cannot determine whether the aforementioned woman is your wife- keep your pants on, and leave the premises immediately. Proceed to a safe location, your home for example. If there is a woman there who is making sure your children are cared for, nutured, well fed (in theory),and is sacrificing herself to support your ________ career (add specific field of employment here) you may have found your wife. If she looks like the woman in the wedding/family pictures on the wall - you can safely assume that she is your wife and it is now safe to remove your pants. (Unless she's the nanny - which is a far more complex and dangerous set of rules and a different blog all together.)

You're welcome in advance. Hope this clears things up.

e"

Maybe I should also write some advice for all those girls out there who believe "he really does love me more than his wife, his kids, his money and his reputation", "he'd never treat me like he treats her", and "I'm actually a really good person". Super smart.

He's watching our pants with the eye of the tiger.

2009-11-30T15:35:00.000-08:00

I have, what I refer to as "The Crazy". Every time I had a baby, I heard a lot of talk about depression...but not so much about crazy. I kept reading those online screening tests. Apparently someone, somewhere thought to themselves "Clarity and accurate judgement- that totally describes the clinically depressed. This self diagnosis thing is fool proof." Just a hint Mr. Depression Test Writer, asking women who are dealing with the hormone induced free fall that is the post partum period the question: "hey crazy lady, are you crazy?" might not be the best screening mechanism. Just a thought. The problem for me was that these surveys seemed really concerned with things like "crying for no reason" and "fear of death", but "head exploding into flames when the three year old spills her juice (again)" - not so much. I figured, therefore, that crazy was normal... and therefore I was normal... and therefore - problem solved.

During the first few months after my third child was born, I finally realized that being bossed by The Crazy really wasn't normal (and when I say "I realized", what I mean is that my husband made an appointment for me with my doctor, drove me to said appointment and told my doctor not to let me out of her office until I agreed to a pharmaceutical exorcism.) It was practically a reality television show...but it worked, and The Crazy was fired from being the boss of me. Until this weekend... when we put up our Christmas tree.

Every year I manage to convince myself that this is going to be big fun for the whole family. I picture my children gathered around the tree looking like 3 little models for The Gap. In my mind there's usually a lot of dark washed denim and layering of vintage tee shirts and hoodies and maybe the occasional piece of corduroy. I picture matching ornaments that each child hangs in a predetermined "decorating zone" that leaves plenty of room between siblings to avoid elbows and whining. The ornaments (of course) coordinate with the stockings that I laundered and packed away carefully the previous year. I picture everyone snacking on cut up vegetables and whole grain crackers and warm cider. Oh, and there's music. Handel's Messiah - all 2 hours of it - which we can stream from the NPR website. (This is not product placement for NPR - I promise.)

But...

Every year I find myself staring into a box of ornaments which contains a grand total of 14 glass balls in 14 different colors (8 of which are missing the tops and hangers), 1 Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer made from 2 old-school clothes pins and a piece of red felt, 1 glitter covered canning lid with my picture from Kindergarten in the middle, some white wire snowflakes, and a handful of green jingle bells. Every year I try to figure out where I put that other stocking. Every year I end up totally annoyed because my kids insist on hanging every mismatched ornament in the same 8 square inches of space and I find myself saying things like "just wait until after I hang this part up and then you can help" over and over again, while feeding them left over Halloween candy and yogurt for lunch. (Thank goodness they trick-or-treated in a good neighborhood this year.)

So this year, in an attempt to include my children in their childhood memories, I let them help me. We assembled a chain made from silver and gold paper that I found in a box during our move. (I did half, they did half. Then I fixed their half when they weren't looking). I also let them help me fold origami star ornaments (my attempt at a coherent tree theme) from brown paper lunch bags (seriously, I had tons of them and they were free) - or in other words, they watched me fold origami star ornaments from brown paper lunch bags. (For some reason they weren't totally on board with the "organic look" of brown paper lunch bags.) I also let them help pick the decorating music. We each got to choose a song. I picked The Messiah. I went first. After 30 minutes of my "song", they caught on, and my son started asking "is it my turn yet Mom?", "how 'bout now?", "do we get to hear my song now Mom?". Hoping that it would be a short selection and then we could get back to Handel, I consented to play his carol... which turned out to be "Eye of the Tiger" by Survivor.

As I watched my son take his power stance and start up his air guitar to the "dun... dun, dun, dun... dun, dun, dun...dun dun duuuuun" riff at the beginning of his chosen song, I gave up. I decided what he needed was not a crazy mother and a perfect Christmas tree. I decided that what he really needed was... an awesome drummer. He smiled at me as I sat down next to him and did my best Tommy Lee (wrong band - I know). I smiled at him as he rocked his head back and forth and made a face that clearly said "I am the best air guitarist ever". Then I smiled at The Crazy and waved goodbye to her... and her tree.. and her memories...until next year.

These just look like Scrooge's pants

2009-11-23T11:00:00.000-08:00

My daughter, whose birthday was last week, has always had pretty strong opinions about food. When she was five or six, she came to us and said that she wanted to be a vegetarian. She said that she didn't want to eat animals because it made her sad. I was ok with it. I believe that just because a person can't tie their own shoes, doesn't mean that they can't believe in stuff. I explained to her that vegetarians eat grains with made up names like "quinoa" and "millett". I explained to her that vegetarians eat actual vegetables- even the ones that (in her words) "are stinky and feel like slime in my mouth". I explained to her that vegetarians do not eat chicken nuggets - ever. She gave up being a vegetarian. (I think what she really wanted to be was a carbotarian.)

Despite the fact that she is a huge fan of the soy burgers (or "protein sponges" as I refer to them) and that she tells me "you know that's a dead animal right?" every time I grill up a ribeye, she is still a sucker for fast food. Basically for her, (and her brothers), the ultimate dining destination is a McDonald's restaurant...with a play structure.

The McDonald's playland is indeed my worst nightmare. It more often than not smells like a poorly sanitized boy's locker room and there is always at least one family who seems to think that the sign that reads "SOCKS MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES ON THE PLAY STRUCTURE" really means "IF YOU WANT TO WALK BAREFOOT TO THE RESTROOM AND THEN COME CLIMB ALL OVER THIS THING IT'S COOL WITH US". Also, I'm inclined to believe all those urban myths about how playland janitors find used hypodermic needles and random human body parts in the ball pit. When my kids are playing on these structures I become the slightly panicky mom who you see pacing neurotically back and forth in front of the twisty slide muttering words like "e. coli" and "cryptosporidium" under her breath while clutching a purse sized bottle of hand sanitizer like some kind of super clean talisman.

I do not like the McDonald's playland. However, I believe that a person should be able to do whatever they want to do on their birthday. More specifically, I believe a person should be able to eat whatever they want to eat on their birthday - and so at my daughter's request this is where we went for her birthday lunch.

We walked up to the counter and I asked them what they wanted to eat. I've got no clue why I do this since they order exactly the same thing every time we go there. We ended up with 1 McNuggets Happy Meal (no sauce), 1 Double Cheese Burger Mighty Kids Meal (only ketchup), 1 Chicken Strips meal (no sauce) and 1 really gross salad. (The really gross salad was mine - I'd like to wear jeans with a zipper again.) I swiped my debit card and began working out how I was going to carry two trays full of food and a baby car seat while stopping my four year old from pretending that the tables and chairs were in reality, a practice course for that TV show "Wipeout". (He watches it with his father during "man time".) The McDonald's counter lady told me my total and then said "... and would you like to donate a dollar to Ronald McDonald House Charities today?" I looked right at her and said "Nope. I wouldn't", and hit the accept button on the debit machine. I'm pretty sure I saw her give me a look that clearly said "Oh, no you didn't."

I didn't mean to go all Ebenezer Scrooge on her, but honestly, it's not just her. There are a lot of worthy causes out there that I choose not to support. I feel like maybe I should have more guilt about this than I do, but I ask myself - is it better for me to give one dollar to thirty different charities just because I don't want to get the evil eye when I say "no", or thirty dollars to one charity because I believe in their mission and want to help? I have chosen the latter. My husband and I give to a few, specific organizations that we feel address the diseases and social ills that we care most about. When I give a dollar - I give it to them. Unfortunately, there's not usually enough time to explain this to the four people standing in line behind me at the grocery store who see me not donating to breast cancer research... or to the McDonald's counter lady who I'm guessing was less than impressed with my apparent lack of generosity. All I'm saying is that I do my alms in private. Is it too much to ask that I be allowed to do my non-alms in private too?

My kids eventually finished their romp in the playland and we made it home with no sign of serious infections or illness (yet.) Just my guilt over not feeling guilty. Hopefully if I wake up in the near future with a scary, non-verbal Christmas Spirit floating over my bed, he'll let me pull up my online statements to prove that I really am a good person and that he should go haunt someone else. In the mean time, I think I'll just stick to the drive through... at least until next year's birthdays.

Who wears your favorite pants?

2009-11-16T10:10:00.000-08:00

"Rants In My Pants" is a nominee for a Divine Caroline "Love! This Site Award". Please help me get enough votes to at least not be embarrassed. Just click on the badge on the right hand side and vote.

There will be a winner in each category plus 9 "Editor's Choice" awards, so I'd like to get enough support to get noticed. I'm not going to lie - I get money if I win... and (again with the not lying) - I like money.

Voting ends on DECEMBER 4th at 4pm (PT), so hustle on over there and show the love. You can also "share" with your friends via the Facebook, the Twitter and however else the kids are sharing these days.

Thanks for the support.

Proud of My Pants

2009-11-06T11:06:00.000-08:00

When I was pregnant with my oldest child I knew a few true things about having a baby. Most of these things, it turned out, were totally untrue. Foremost among the untruths was this: babies require a lot of junk in order to survive and be happy and get the pediatrician to put a little PostIt Note on your child's chart saying "you can tell that this baby momma totally knows what's going on because she owns a baby wipes warmer." I bought all kinds of stuff that I later discovered is the reason that garage sales and consignment stores were invented. I also discovered that the depreciation rate on a baby bathtub is basically 100%. Apparently other moms just use sinks... or the bathtub that came with the house. Or maybe, people just feel weird about putting their baby's naked bum in the same place where someone else's naked bum has been sliding around. Even if the other naked bum that's been sliding around belongs to another baby.

As the birth of our 4th baby grew steadily closer, I realized that I was going to have to break down and buy some supplies for our new addition...and I wanted no part of it. This was for two reasons. First, when we found out we were pregnant way back in January, we had no job and therefore - no health insurance. Awesome. I basically handled this by pretending that the reason that I was sick everyday was because I had some rare and exotic stomach flu whose other side effects were constant crying and giving false positives on at home pregnancy tests. The professional term for this is "denial", and it lasted until at least 5 days past my (alleged) due date.

Second, even though we now do have a job and health insurance, I was trying to be resourceful and just use what I already had. (Stupid recession.) Which unfortunately was not much since I either gave away or sold all of my baby clothes and accessories the previous year... (when we had a job and insurance)... because I couldn't get pregnant. (Who says God doesn't have a sense of humor?) I came up with a couple of super rad ideas too. What baby wouldn't want a hat made out of his father's old Gold Toe sock or a jammie sack converted from a tee shirt that reads "Eat Krispy Kremes"?

My mother, however, was not having any of this. She generously gifted our son with clothes and diapers and onesies and a super plush bath towel and a super plush blanket with a softy edge(my husband really wants a man size one of these). She also got me a new diaper bag. The best diaper bag ever.

This bag has a name- "Chocolate Cake". Literally, that is the bag's name. Mmmm. Mary Poppins wishes that she has this bag. This bag comes with a matching wallet. This bag comes with a second, washable bag that you use to protect the Chocolate Cake bag just in case you are forced to place it on some kind of unclean, unworthy or otherwise undesirable surface. (I asked the lady at the store if the second bag was for dirty diapers. She was not impressed and I think that she seriously reconsidered allowing someone who would not hesitate to put actual poop inside this diaper bag to purchase it.)

I have gotten more complements on my bag than my baby - and he is cute. I take good care of my baby and I take good care of my bag. I am proud of my baby, but I am also proud of my bag... and that's what got me in trouble. Bag pride.

Here's how it went. I took all 4 children to Winco for the weekly grocery shop. (I do this because I love to hear the comments about how it looks like I've "got my hands full". It's my favorite. Also, it's fun to mess with the guy that has to reconstruct the Pyramid of Giza out of macaroni and cheese boxes on the end of aisle 4. You haven't seen fear until you've watched that guy's eyes when he catches site of my four year old demonstrating his new found ability to walk backward and spin at the same time.)

After strategically parking near the cart return and assigning each child a cart spot where they would not be within touching or breathing distance of their siblings, I strapped the baby up in the sling and picked up the Chocolate Cake bag. I looked at the Winco shopping cart. Visions of little hands covered with peanut butter and jelly, boogers, H1N1, and worm guts flashed before my eyes. The cart that was good enough for my kids - not good enough for my bag. I put the bag back in the car.

I was very thorough. I covered that thing with every sweatshirt, backpack and burp cloth I could find - just in case there was some roving diaper bag bandit on the loose... because I'm sure that the master camouflage job wouldn't tip him off. I closed the door. I realized that I forgot my cell phone. I put my hand in my pocket to get my keys.

It was one of those times when you feel like you might throw up a little bit and automatically start to do a mental inventory and your mind starts replaying the last few minutes of your life. I saw myself removing my wallet. I saw myself putting my cell phone in the pocket of my bag. I saw myself hitting the lock button on my key. I saw myself putting my keys... in the pocket of my bag. The same bag that was now residing at the bottom of a pile of kid gear... in my locked car... with my cell phone. Awesome.

I learned several things that day. One was that pride cometh before the fall... and the call... for help from the Winco customer service/MoneyGram/Lotto numbers line. I learned that I need to stop using the automatic dial feature on my cell phone and actually memorize someone's phone number. (Seriously, the only phone number I could remember for several minutes was 911 and I don't think that they would've been on board with my definition of emergency.) I learned that my plan of keeping my spare key in my bag just in case I locked my first set in the car qualifies me to work for FEMA or maybe those flu shot planning people. (I'm sending them a resume). I learned that anything that can be locked, can be unlocked (after your husband gets the valet key from your friend that was holding it as a backup),

But most importantly I learned that the best way to deal with your kids during a dilemma with the Chocolate Cake bag at Winco is... the chocolate cake aisle at Winco - and that's something that I'm proud of.

Suprisingly large pants

2009-11-04T12:46:00.000-08:00

I keep trying to write something witty and funny and enlightening about the birth of our son. I have started 6 or 7 times. I got nothing.

I guess some things really are just better left unsaid... for now anyway.

So... here it is.

Birth Day: 10/02/09 (I will be starting a campaign entitled "Due Dates Are A Big Fat Lie Perpetrated By The Man On Unsuspecting Women Who Can No Longer See Their Feet")

Weight: 9 lb. 10 oz

Length: 22 inches long,

Other random facts:

Huge shoulders (which I think they should measure and document on that little card in the baby warmer and the birth certificate... and maybe give you a t-shirt and a medal like at the end of a marathon. I wonder who I talk to about that.)
Lovely auburnish hair... which has all fallen out (except for the back and a few long scraggly ones on the top. Basically he has a middle age man comb over.)
Ears that are flat to his head... rather than the "elf" models that our other children were issued. (Thankfully they grow out of this.)
Pointy chin. He will thank me for that later. There's no hiding a weak chin.

And here he is...

And so it begins.

Smartie Pants

2009-11-02T08:42:00.000-08:00

What does it mean when your four year old's last words to his father before drifting into a Halloween candy induced coma are "Dad will you put my candy up somewhere high where Mom can't get it?"

Hmmm.

Goodbye to Maternity Pants... Sort of.

2009-10-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

I am coming back from my pre and post maternity leave. I will posting again ... as soon as I think it's funny to be covered in milk, poop and vomit at 3 am.

e

Two sisters, One pair of pants

2009-09-13T18:04:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I had to fill out a little survey about myself for church. I spend time each Sunday attempting to open up the exciting world of Christian spirituality to a group of fourth and fifth graders, who as far as I can tell, are concerned primarily with
a. telling me what they did the previous week,
b. asking me if I brought treats, and
c. requesting permission to use restroom during class. (In that order.)

Each week during the children's Sunday School, also referred to (by me) as "The Show", there is singing and storytelling and lots of adults telling the kids to "shhh" and "pay attention" and "this is very interesting actually" and "stop flipping your eyelids inside out - it's gross". Also, (and this is the kids' favorite part of the whole fiasco), there is "The Spotlight". Hence, the aforementioned survey.

Most of the time during The Spotlight we learn a little something about one of the children, but every once in awhile they like to shake it up and feature random facts about one of the adults in the room. What I learned from answering The Spotlight survey questions, which I can only assume were designed to show that I really am cool and interesting and not just old and bossy, is that... I am totally uninteresting. The most exciting things that I could think of about myself were that I like chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and that I work as a labor doula. (If you think that explaining the doula lifestyle to an adult is challenging try the 8-12 year old crowd. I felt like I should've had a signed note from their parents with an explanation letter detailing the course syllabus. In retrospect, I think I should've told them the story about how after we moved my husband couldn't find the case for his contact lenses and so instead put his last pair of contacts in two cups next to the sink. It is his contention that he told me what was in there, but clearly under the impression that they were His and Hers matching drinkware, I apparently downed the entire contents of the "Hers" cup during the night and now he only has half a pair of contacts. Not remotely useful... or so he tells me. Regardless, I'm pretty sure that the 10 year old boys would think that me swallowing a contact lens was very gross and therefore very cool. Oh well.)

One of the other things that I told them was that "I am the oldest of four sisters and that we don't have any brothers." My dad used to joke that even the dog was a girl. Our house was a house open to all the girlie issues. Our father was so comfortable with the girlie issues that sometimes I think he forgot that not all men are so comfortable with the girlie issues. Example: Once he was shopping and needing to stock up on girlie supplies. (Teenage daughters require a lot of supplies.) Unfortunately, stores tend to keep the girlie supplies way up on the top shelf where a man in a wheel chair cannot reach them. Fortunately, my father was met in the hygiene aisle by people that he knew and could ask for help with the reaching of the girlie supplies. Unfortunately, those people were the missionaries from our church. Poor 19 year old boys - retrieving industrial sized boxes of tampons in the name of Christian service.

My mother-in-law was also raised in an all girl house. There were five of them. A couple of weeks ago the youngest of the five died. It made me very sad for her that she had lost one of her sisters. I wondered about what it was like to see someone that you had known in every stage of their life come to the end of theirs. I wondered about what you do when someone that is part of the definition of yourself dies. I think it must be different than a parent dying. You expect that your parents will die before you and although it can be tremendously painful, it seems like a natural progression somehow. I have never lost one of my children (thankfully), but I think it must be different than that as well. When I think of my sisters dying I picture that scene from Back To the Future where all of Michael J. Fox's siblings just sort of fade from the family photo and then he starts to fade out too. I think it must be something like that. Fading.

I started to think about my sisters and what the death of any of them would mean to me. When I was a little girl, the only nightmares I can remember having involved something happening to my sister K. (mostly someone taking her and me not being able to stop them. Hmmm.) She is 17 months younger than I am and I don't think that I have a memory in my life where she is not in it. After she was married, she moved away from me for a short period of time. I remember watching her drive off down the road and I was sobbing and crying like those women in the Middle East that you see on the news after a road side bombing. I laid down on the couch and cried for so long, that the back of my head hurt. To me, we seemed very far apart, but eventually, she came back home.

I have to admit as well, that I was a little bit stunned when I realized that I was thinking in terms of "what I would do" when really, eventually, it will be "what I will do". We joke all the time about what we will be like when we are old, and our husbands are dead, and none of us can remember anything- except that there's something important that we really need to remember. Here's what we've never talked about though- eventually, one of us, and then another of us, and then another of us will die. Eventually, one of us will be the last sister to have said goodbye to all of her other sisters... the last one that remembers our childhood homes, and our father's smile when he was young and our mother singing "Oh Holy Night" at Christmas... and then she will be... sisterless and sort of alone. I do not want to be the last sister, but I also don't want any of my other sisters to be the last sister either. (I'm pretty sure that it will hurt a lot, and I'm not such a big fan of pain. ) I'm not sure what to do about that. It seems like a problem that doesn't really have a good answer. (ps - my mother's convinced that she is going to outlast all of us, so maybe that's the solution. Poor Mom.)

The other thing that bothers me about this whole sister thing, is that I'm about to give birth. To a boy. My third boy. My last baby (and I am totally serious about that.) This means that my daughter will never have a sister of her own. I have tried to spin this as a positive thing, but really it's just a big fat lie. It's lame that she will never have a sister - and no matter how I try to help build excitement about the prospect of holding her third brother, who is due to arrive any day (or week knowing me), she knows it's lame. The birth of her brother will be the death of her chances at a sister, and even though I know that she loves her brothers, and that she is very blessed to have female cousins that help fill the void... she is sisterless and sort of alone.

Getting ready to give birth to my baby and the death of my mother-in-law's sister has made me think about all the changes that come with shifting a family, and about how those changes are very much the same, whether you're coming or going. Birth and Death are indeed the sisters of life. They look very much alike and sound very much alike. They both have a rhythm and a pattern and tears and suffering and blood and exhaustion and relief. They both have a job, and the job is to help someone change places from where they were to where they are going. To shift a family. One is the first page. One is the last. One is the winding up. One is the winding down. They cannot be separated from each other. The one helps to define the other. To give her boundaries. To give her purpose. No matter how many times we experience them and feel them and act apart of them, like true sisters - even when they seem very far apart, they always come back home. These are two that will never be sisterless - and I guess once you've had a sister, you will never, ever be truly sisterless either.

My pants are marooned

2009-09-10T23:54:00.001-07:00

If I was writing a message in a bottle/marooned on an island diary in the sand.

Last week...
Moved.
Pregnant.
No internet.
This week...
Boxes.
Pregnant.
No internet.
Next week...
Pregnant?
Internet.
Finally.

Send help and cookie dough.

e

A Gypsy in Snow Pants

2009-08-28T19:28:00.000-07:00

Women have children for many different reasons. Some women want a baby (This is a classic bait and switch ladies. How they start out is not how they end up.) Some women want to be mothers - sometimes even after they truly know what that means. Some women just want people to stop pestering them about when the baby is coming already. Here is a confession - one of the main reasons that I had kids was to dress them up in super awesome Halloween costumes. In my mind I saw my little trick-or-treaters marching into the night clad in thematically inspired clothing designed and executed by their super creative and capable mother. (Me.) The actual trick-or-treating would be done with their father, because October's too cold for me to do that kind of craziness and also, someone has to answer the door and dole out candy. (Also, this was going to be the time when I could judge all of the other mom's efforts to see if they were as good as mine.)

As you can see, my plan was foolproof. In my mind. Then I had children... and my children had opinions. These opinions included ideas about what they would and would not wear at Halloween. Mostly these opinions revolved around what they perceived as "cool" or "not cool". Also, these opinions tended to change the night before Halloween...after I'd completed their costume. So now it's store bought costumes and no matching. (Who's being judged now? )

Too bad, because I had some good ideas too. Some of the better ones that were summarily dismissed were:

Marie Antoinette and some random French peasants. My daughter just didn't get this one and she hated the wig. What kind of girl hates a huge white wig, I ask you? If I could wear a big old powdered wig to the grocery store I would totally do it... and I might or might not yell "let them eat cake" when I walked past the bakery.
Little Bo Peep and her sheep brothers. I'm not sure why my four year old son would not want to dress up as a sheep to coordinate with his baby brother and be herded by his older sister's crook while I took pictures, but it totally ruined a good photo op. that would've been very cute in one of those graduating senior slide shows. Whatever.
A family tribute to "The Wizard of Oz" - again foiled by: a. my sons, who felt that they could've made a lot shorter work of the Wicked Witch of the West if only they were allowed to use their light sabers at the church trunk-or-treat, and b. my husband, who had no interest in going out in public dressed as a member of The Lollipop Guild. Go figure.

Personally, my favorite Halloween costume when I was a little girl was a gypsy. When you live in the Rocky Mountains the idea of being a gypsy is about as exotic as it gets. I had visions of being decked out in a white peasant blouse, huge gold hoop earrings, a festive head scarf with fringe all around the edge, and a red skirt that would fly up in a huge circle when you spun around on your heels. (One of the best parts of being a little girl is a twirly skirt. Fun.) I would of course need lots of bangles and beads and bracelets and baubles - because I was pretty sure that those were the things that made a gypsy's life so great... and I'd seen pictures. Oh, also, I'd need a tambourine.

Yep, that's what my costume looked like... in my head. However, as I recall I usually ended up wearing a read bandanna, lots of cheap, beaded necklaces, and some lipstick. (I realize now that essentially my costume was a biker chick at Mardi Gras.) The things that really gave it that authentic Mediterranean flair though, were - snow boots and a winter coat. The sad truth was that Montana at the end of October was no place for twirly skirts and peasant blouses. No place for a gypsy- unless the gypsy wanted frostbite.

I look back on my gypsy obsession now and have a couple of thoughts. Firstly, I'm totally unclear about whether it is or is not okay to allow your child to dress as a gypsy for Halloween. It seems a little... racial. I think it must be alright, though. I mean, I would let my kids dress in lederhosen (another thwarted family costume theme: "The Sound of Music" - I wanted to be that Baroness lady), or in kimonos or ninja wear. I would let them dress like Cleopatra and other Egyptiany people. So...

Secondly, I didn't know that one day I would come dangerously close to living the gypsy lifestyle with my three children and hugely pregnant belly. Living like a gypsy, with the constant moving around, is less glamorous I've found, than dressing like one. We are on the move again after just one year. Our rental house was sold and the people that are buying it actually want to live in it. Rude. At first I did not think it was going to be a big deal to find housing. We wanted to "downsize" anyway and we were pretty open to whatever came along. (By the way, the word "downsize" might sound neutral and consoling, but in reality- it's pretty lame. I'm hoping to leave the "downsize" part of life behind us really soon.) Too bad for us, finding a rental that allowed us to keep our kids around people they know and didn't force us to revisit the last school year with our daughter (an experience just as enjoyable as a daily bikini wax) turned out to be asking a lot. Particularly when you're trying to "downsize".

With about 10 days to go before we had to move out we still had no place to move... in. What I learned next was this: Necessity might be the mother of Invention, but the mother of Necessity is Poverty. That's when I hatched my plan. Yurt. Or maybe a tent. At a campground. Homeschooling and cooking over a fire. Apparently Poverty is also the mother of Crazy. My family was not impressed. I told my sisters that a lot of people live that way. They told me that those people were called "homeless" - or "scary polygamist kidnappers on the run from the law". They told me that I needed to find somewhere to take my soon to be newborn baby that did not include communal showers and exposure to random mosquito borne diseases.

Fortunately, God knows that despite my willingness for adventure/borderline personality, I am not exactly cut out for camping and that I would last about two minutes in a Yurt homeschooling my children and beating my clothing against a rock. After that, there would just be a lot of tears. From me mostly. So... although I was looking forward to a big adventure, we have successfully found a place to move our family... that includes a permanent roof and flush toilets. Now with exactly two days to spare all I have to do is come up with a way to move all of our stuff. Maybe, if I can find one that fits over my belly, I'll wear a twirly red skirt and a huge powdered wig during the whole fiasco and hope that the new neighbors recognize a gypsy (at heart) when they see one... and since it's August, I won't even need snow pants.

What kind of pants does a doula wear?

2009-08-22T17:06:00.000-07:00

If you are curious about what I really do as a doula, read this. It was written by a mom whose birth I had the privilege of attending. Women rock.

PS- I am not loving the picture of me. Just remember that I am very pregnant and had just done several hours of labor support. It tends to be hard on the makeup.

It's a miracle his pants survived

2009-08-18T15:03:00.000-07:00

Animals are interesting things. Some are beautiful but not useful. Some are useful, but not beautiful. Some are not beautiful, and not useful. Some are just so stinking annoying that you don't even notice if they're beautiful or useful. (I'm just now realizing that this applies to people too. Hmmm.) Falling squarely in the "stinking annoying" category are: our dog (don't ever let Santa bring your kids a dog - ever), woodpeckers that mistake your roof for a giant red wood tree, Nancy Pelosi, (seriously Nan, I can't understand what you're talking about 99% of the time, and I'm pretty sure it's not me) and ... moles (any size, any kind).

Moles are the Howard Dean of the animal kingdom -ridiculous looking and without any apparent purpose other than to agitate the landscape and drive self-respecting suburban property tax payers to the very edge of sanity. Also, there is no way to get rid of them. You think they're gone and then... they're back.

My family's obsession with mole eradication is one of the things that binds us as a people. There are four principle mole hunters among us and they have had varying levels of success.

1. My husband: We used to live in a house that was situated on a large corner lot. Behind us was a huge field (good for privacy, not so much for vermin control). When we moved in, the entire property was overrun with knee high weeds, and creeping vines and very aggressive flora of every other sort. My husband worked for a long time on that yard and finally got it looking really lovely. It had green grass and everything. He was proud. He was a content lawn gardening putterer. (You know - he went out and dug around in the dirt and admired his tulips and lilies and whatever.) Then came the great mole plague of '05... and '06 and '07. My husband turned into a hunter. It was a little scary.

The first thing he tried was to drown them. I was skeptical of this technique as I didn't believe that one could actually flood real life mole tunnels like might be done in an episode of Winnie the Pooh. (All I could picture was that little mole guy with the miner hat and the lisp stomping up to angrily confront my husband about the goings on in his tunnel system and how he was behind schedule now.)

Next he went for the "stalk and smash" approach. I found him at 2am in the back yard with a headlamp and a shovel, poised over a section of earth which he had determined as the spot most likely to host the mole's next appearance. I was pretty certain that the only people (other than my husband) that wandered around in the middle of the night with a head lamp and a shovel were those that made a living farming the kind stuff that gets them thrown into the pen, and since I didn't fancy seeing myself on the next episode of "Cops" made him go back inside the house.

Some of the other things he tried were - chewing gum down the holes (I think this operates on the same concept that your mom had when she told you it would sit in your stomach for 7 years if you swallowed it), maybe poison of some kind, and these strange devices that he borrowed from my brother in law. They were like cylinders that you'd bury down their holes and then at random intervals (both day and night) would vibrate and hiss. Apparently I have better ears than the mole. The "audio deterrent approach" made me want to leave my husband, but the mole was willing to go into counseling to save their relationship.

(Just for the record the only mole I think we ever caught was caught by me. And when I say "caught" I mean I found it dead on the driveway and picked it up with a shovel while saying "iiih". I suspect he may have caught a glimpse of my husband in the head lamp and laughed himself to death.)

2. My sister A. I'm not sure that her mole capture should count in the family tally as it was actually her rat terrier that made the kill. Poor mole. What he learned that day is that you can't outrun good breeding. (Also, I think this is the only reason that she keeps that dog. Santa got her too.)

3. My mother. She actually caught a mole with her bare hands. Or rather a cup that she was holding in her bare hands. Moles might be fast with the tunneling, but with the running - not so much. For reasons best known to the mole, this one was making an above ground dash for my mom's flower beds when she trapped it in a cup and then, as any logical woman who suddenly found herself holding a cup containing a live mole would do, flushed it down her toilet.

From there on out, my mother hired a mole removal service.

4. My brother in law. My sister and her husband own a piece of property that is like 3 acres or something. 3 acres can hold a lot of moles. My nieces actually came running inside the house one afternoon yelling that there were 2 moles wrestling on the lawn. My sister and her husband were skeptical, but upon closer inspection actually found 2 real life moles wrestling around on their lawn. (They weren't doing that kind of wrestling. They were actually wrestling - a territorial dispute I guess.) In a move that I think made my husband a little bit jealous, my brother in law grabbed a shovel and - there's no easy way to say this- bashed the little suckers. He does admit to being slightly concerned at the impact that this act of brutality might have on his little girls, who were onlookers to the attack, but don't worry - they cheered him on. Literally.

Like I said, moles don't leave. I'm not sure if it's reincarnation, resurrection, or reproduction, but there's always one ready to step up and take the place of its fallen comrade. So... despite the shovel incident, where he got two in one blow, the mole problem persists and my brother in law has resorted to traps. Lots of traps.

Which brings me to... mole karma. The mole traps are usually covered, for obvious reasons, but yesterday they were uncovered so that my brother in law could mow the yard. My 3 year old was taking turns with his cousin (waiting for his turn actually) riding the lawn mower with his uncle and I was sitting talking to my sister. That is when I looked over and saw my son, holding in his beautiful man sized hands, a fully armed mole trap. I yelled. He dropped the trap, but because he is going to be a valedictorian some day, leaned over to pick it back up. I yelled again and went over to pick him up before he succeeded in losing at least 7 of his 10 fingers. (At this point my sister said to me "Don't you pick it up". Apparently she thinks I'm a valedictorian too.) I explained to him in as graphic language as I could think of why picking up a mole trap was a bad idea. (I didn't feel like it was a time to wax poetic.) Unfortunately for him he's three, and his uncle was coming back toward him with the lawn mower. He thought that it was his turn for a ride.

In reality my brother in law was coming to disarm the mole trap. My son ran toward the spot where he would traditionally wait to swap with his cousin ... right toward the still fully armed mole trap. I screamed for him to stop. He kept running. He stepped on the mole trap. The trap snapped. The trap missed.

Call it what you want. Call it luck. Call it a miracle (I do). Maybe it was because my husband never actually executed a mole and therefore its blood did not cry out for vengeance. I grabbed my son and hugged his trap free foot/ankle/leg, made sure he was okay... and then I yelled at him about obedience and listening and how hard it is to run with crutches. I yelled. I yelled loud enough to scare those pesky little moles into saying to each other "Man, that girl's crazy. C'mon, I heard some guy's trying to flood us out two doors down. I could use a laugh."

And if I can get rid of moles, I'd consider myself both beautiful (most days) and useful.

Always have a spare pair of pants

2009-08-03T21:01:00.001-07:00

Here's something you need to know about boys: every boy knows everything about something.

My oldest son knows everything about oceans and all the stuff that lives in them. Want to know what color an octopus' blood is? Ask my son - (also, you can ask him why it is not the same color as your blood, if you're interested.) Want to know which sharks give birth to live young? Ask my son. Want to know how barnacles eat? Ask my son. (My kids and I actually saw this at the coast last week - it was pretty cool, if I do say so myself.)

My second son knows everything about Star Wars. Apparently this is something that lots of boys know everything about. I learned this lesson when I went to the park with three of my very good friends and their children. Between the 4 of us we have 14 children ages 10 and under. The families break down like this 4 boys, 3 boys/1 girl, 2 boys/1 girl/1 boy on the way, 1 girl/2 boys/1 boy on the way. That's a 13:3 boy-girl ratio, in case you're counting. You'll never see anything more wonderful and potentially dangerous than a pack of little boys roving free range through a park hitting each other about the head and shoulders with multiple colors of plastic light sabers. At one point one of the little Jedis ended up saberless. Sad. I pointed out to him that one of my sons had two light sabers, and because he was raised right, I was certain that he would willingly give one up. If hope had a face, it would've been his. However, when he turned around and figured out who I was talking about he explained (to a girl who was obviously in need of some serious Star Wars education) "Oh. Yeah, he's General Grievous. He's in Clone Wars episode three. He's actually supposed to have 4 light sabers." Apparently he was a Star Wars purist, and so settled for a blaster rather than further compromising the aforementioned Grievous.

You might think that when boys grow up, they no longer know the everything about the something that they knew as children. Not so. Totally not so.

My husband, for example, knows everything about cars and always has (according to his mother.) He too likes to share his knowledge with me. Before I met him, I knew where to put the key and the gas. I now know terms like "continuously variable transmission", "holly four barrel carbs" and "dual exhaust". Before I met him, I used the terms "wheels" and "tires" interchangeably. Now I know that wheels and tires are not the same thing, and you cannot call them the same thing. I also know that they come in different sizes. I even know what size tires our car takes.

I know this last little gem, because when you are 8 months pregnant and you are driving on the freeway to a baby blessing on a 95 degree Sunday afternoon with your three kids in the back seat of the car in their church clothes (complete with little man neck ties) and suddenly your car says "low tire pressure" and then "hey hope you are close to a cute little boutique that sells tires because your spare is already on the car and it's gonna be hard to drive on three wheels - even if they do do it in the movies all the time", you get to hear your husband telling the people that he's managed to reach on his cell phone over and over again what size tires you need followed by "a special tire order isn't going to help me - I'm literally sitting here with my kids in the car... (fill in the explanation from above here)." Also, I learned that the only people besides our family that observe the Sabbath anymore are the people that were already at the blessing (cell phones in the car, not the church) and the Les Schwab Tire Company - who slightly deflated the miracle of loosing a tire at the freeway exit by a tire store, by not being open on Sundays.

Other things that you should know about cars with flat tires - if you pull into a gas station, don't expect anyone that works there to give you any kind of helpful information, except how much a car wash costs, and also, if you buy your kids and yourself an ice cream treat to stop them from saying "stop putting your hand in my section" and "I can hear you breathing too loud through your nose" it will taste slightly of petrol, Valvoline and trucker stink - just like everything else you buy from the Chevron quick mart. Yum. Oh, and the patrons of the Chevron will keep asking your children where they are going dressed like that on such a hot day and then look at you like you're some kind of fundamentalist loony because you dared make your children change out of their camouflage shorts and Crocs before going to get religion.

Every boy knows everything about something, but every girl knows something about everything. The something about cars that I know is this -they break - but fear not, eventually someone will answer their cell phone, eventually you will come up with a plan to rescue your stranded family and eventually someone will be able to sell you the part you need...and then - who cares what it's called, if they sell a spare, buy one and keep it in your car.

Sometimes it's ok for a man to wear the pants.

2009-07-15T13:13:00.001-07:00

Every person has good parts of their personalities and bad parts of their personalities. Most of the time they are the same parts of their personalities. For example...

I am a fairly independent girl. I was raised by an independent girl - and an independent boy. For those of you that know my parents, enough said. For those of you who do not...

My mother was raised on a farm in one of those towns where they could've filmed the movie "Hoosiers". Except the town was in Montana, not Indiana. It's one of those quickly disappearing rural communities that no one knew existed in the first place. As a matter of fact, I don't know if it's there anymore. Anyway... she was raised on a farm with 6 brothers and 3 sisters, and when I say she was "raised" I use the word as loosely as possible. My mom was "free range" long before they started applying the word to really expensive meat and dairy products. Let's just say that when your mom has 10 kids, and a farm and works a job at the post office to help ends meet, you aren't exactly sitting around waiting for her to make your lunch. If you need food, you fix it yourself. If you need clean clothes, you wash them yourself. If you need to get your dad from... wherever farmers are... during a snow storm... uphill both ways... because your mom's in labor, you drive the car yourself, license or no license.

It stuck with her I guess, because, for as long as I've known her, if my mother needs something done, she does it herself. (Except polish her toenails. That girl likes her pedicures.)

My father, on the other hand, was raised by a woman that would've been happy to take care of him for his entire life. Not that I blame her. He was in and out of hospitals and clinics and doctor's offices a lot during his childhood and adolescence and she learned, sometimes the hard way, to guard her son. Too bad for her, my dad wasn't super interested in being guarded.

Eventually, because of complications from his disease, he ended up in a wheel chair (I don't remember him any other way). I think it would've been very easy for him to have other people do lots of stuff for him, but like my mother, if he needed something done - like changing the horrible, awful, greasy, pulley wires on the lift for his van, or making sure his daughters had a decent softball coach, or curling the hair (and sometimes burning the ears) of 4 girls everyday before school - he did it himself.

Which brings me back to me - and a clogged pipe. I went down to the basement of the house that we're renting and the utility sink was overflowing with, what can only be described as, pipe vomit. Yep, vomity smell, vomity appearance... vomity reaction. So, because I am who I am, I got my utility vacuum and starting sucking. A couple of things about utility vacuums - they eventually fill up and then they must be emptied. Our vacuum holds 16 gallons of pipe vomit. Pipe vomit weighs roughly 8 lbs per gallon. Now, I'm not that great at math, but what I found out is that when you're 30 weeks pregnant, pipe vomit is really heavy, even if you're only lifting it into the bathtub where it will hopefully run into the sewer and not the basement. I filled and lifted and emptied that stupid thing 4 times. I'm not going to lie - it hurt, and I sounded a lot like those men in the Scottish Highland Games that throw that big log thing.

After clearing the water I proceeded to get under the sink (admittedly with some difficulty), disassemble the plumbing, snake the pipes, locate and snake the clean-out-hole-thingy in the wall next to the sink, locate and snake the clean-out-hole-thingys in the ground outside, locate and snake the clean-out-hole-thingys under the deck, reassemble the plumbing...and then, because all of my snaking was for naught, purchase what I can only assume to be one of the main ingredients in chemical explosives, to dump down the drain.

The pipe stayed blocked.

Like I said, I am an independent girl, but having exhausted all other options, I did something that I despise above almost anything else. I asked my husband for help. Now, I am very well aware that if this had been one of my sisters, I would've welcomed the rescue, but... what I'm pretty sure that this boils down to is ... my husband is a man, and asking for man help makes me... very unhappy - like the time that I drove to church for a big meeting, and there were so many cars that the usher guys wanted everyone to back into the parking spaces, presumably to make it easier for the worshipers to make a quick escape in case they got bored. (Which I'm pretty sure I did.) I had to get out of the car and let my husband park because I cannot back a car in a straight line. Rrrr.

So... when he got home from work, my husband opened up the clean-out-holey-thing in the wall, pushed the snake through

and - WHOOSH. Unclogged pipe.

I tried to be annoyed, (since he did exactly what I had done, but apparently his plumbing voodoo is better than mine), but between having a husband that could solve the pipe problem and knowing that I could safely shower and get the pipe vomit out of my hair, I was so happy, I just had to hug his neck.

So much for independence... or maybe just pride.

Act now and you get the second pair of pants free.

2009-07-02T22:04:00.000-07:00

When I was maybe 10 or 11 years old I was obsessed with this guy on TV named "Chef Crowley". Looking back, I'm not totally convinced that that was his real name... or that he was actually a chef for that matter. However, he did have a very excellent set of knives...and he was selling them...and I was so buying.

Chef Crowley had a knife for any and all culinary eventualities. There was a little tiny knife that you could use to transform a radish into a mouse - tail and everything people. There was a knife that sort of twisted down inside any solid vegetable giving you a super nutritious and edible slinky. (The potato was my favorite. French fried slinky. What's bad about that?) There was a knife that was kind of v-shape so that you could fancy up your boring old melons into fluted edged baskets that you would then fill with all kinds of other fruit that you fancied up right there in your own fancy kitchen saving you hundreds of dollars a year in catering expenses. (Apparently the soaring costs of catering expenses was a big selling point for the "11 year old girls living in Billings Montana" demographic.)

I had no idea when I was 11 years old that Chef Crowley was doing a commercial. I sort of thought he was doing a kind of public service announcement for aspiring food preparation experts the whole world 'round. I had never heard the term "infomercial". I didn't know any better. You'd think I would've learned, but...

After I learned of the death of Billy Mays, (don't pretend like I need to explain who this guy is), I started to think of all of the things that I have purchased from TV infomercials. Then I called my family for an informal survey. It appears that this is a congenital defect for which there is no cure, and over which we have no control. I regret to say that my sweet son is also affected by this disorder. Sad. One day he said to me ... and I quote... "Mom, I really think Grammy should get "Life Alert". Then she can live alone, without ever being alone." I thanked him for his concern for his grandmother and then laughed until I wet my pants. (Not really, but I laughed pretty hard.) I'm sure my mom will be totally on board with wearing the stylish Life Alert necklace.

So... In honor of Billy (and his totally inexplicable hair - whoa) here is a list of my favorite TV infomercial purchases. (Either I or a member of my family actually own/have owned/own multiples of each of these items. I'm not saying who owns them though. Confidentiality is an important part of the healing process.) Note: You don't even want to see the full list, I actually broke it down into categories: beauty, exercise, kitchen accessories, cleaning products, strange and unlikely children's toys, misc. clutter.

10. The Slap Chop- This is one of those containers with a blade that has a sort of plunger thing attached to it. The plunger thing moves the blade up and down and ... voila. Chopped stuff. Now, the reason that this made my favorites list has nothing to do with the product, but with the commercial. The pitch man is chopping nuts (because you can't do that with a knife) and he states emphatically, as only a man can "you're gonna love my nuts." Sorry, it makes me laugh. A little 13 year-old boyish, but there you go.

9. Moon Sand - Whoever came up with this stuff should be forced to visit the homes of everyone who bought some and pick up every last grain with their bare hands. Also, I don't think it actually comes from the moon. I think it might be the bi-product of some kind of industrial waste disposal project and I'm pretty sure it's gonna give somebody cancer.

8. Caruso Steam Curlers- Okay, this one is just mean. Mr. Caruso, who I assume is ex-mafia turned infomercial hair dresser, promised me - I mean he promised me, that his curlers that were heated with the power of steam could transform my stubbornly-straight-awesome-for-the-70s-not-awesome-for-the-80s hair into curly fabulousness in 15 minutes. Turns out, steam... good for the industrial revolution and saunas, but not so much for curling the hair of a desperate 13 year old. All I got out of this was burned fingers... and what you get when curly hair is exposed to steam - frizz. Curse you Mr. Caruso.

7. Core Secrets- Also known as "that big silver ball that has a pile of dry cleaning on it" or sometimes "the birth ball" (if you don't know why this is "the birth ball" you've never had back labor with a baby - count yourself lucky.)

6. The Gazelle- Seriously. I think this may have been purchased out of fear. Tony Little is scary and there's no way around this. I didn't know that face skin could be so tight, nor did I know that "mandex" (my word for man spandex) was acceptable attire on anyone not competing for multiple Olympic medals. In swimming. Not gymnastics. Yuck. (Don't even get me started on, what my husband has christened, his "tonytail".)

5. Ronco "Set It and Forget It Rotisserie Cooker" - Finally. A countertop rotisserie cooker for the whole family. Too bad for you... every time it's magic rotisseries make a turn it sounds like a car that is long overdue for a break job. We used this little beauty to cook a Christmas roast and the whole family was on sedatives by dinner to stop us from committing Roncocide. If "set it and forget it" means "stand and watch it cook so that you can figure out if your rib roast is off center" then I'm totally with them. (The best part of this is the giant, elbow length, latex gloves that you wear while pulling/prying the meat from the skewers. Have you ever tried to hold 10 pounds of hot meat in too big latex gloves. Hopefully the "5 second rule" applies to Christmas dinner.)

4. The Ped Egg - The commercials make me gag a little, (who really wants to see someone empty out their nasty foot skin shavings into the trash), but if it helps combat public grooming then I'm for it.

3. Urine Gone- Yep, that's its real name. This handy cleaning solution comes with its very own blue light to help you search out whatever dried bodily fluids might be hiding in your home. It's like playing CSI. Mostly I just laugh at the name.

2. The Flowbee- I've decided that this was invented, produced and marketed on a dare - it was either going to be a handy vacuum haircutting device, or a handy vacuum hickey machine. Too bad for my nephews the haircutting thing won out.

1. I think it's called "Nads": Edible Honey Based Body Wax- If anyone ever tries to sell you something that promises to pull out your hair by the root without causing any pain, straighten yourself up, point your finger at them, and yell "liar" (picture Billy Crystal's wife in "The Princess Bride" while you're doing it). Of course you only need to do this if buying something with the words "edible" and "wax" in the description weren't enough of a warning for you. They weren't for me. I schmered this stuff all over one of my legs, gave a mighty yank and ... not so much "pulling the hair out" as just "pulling the hair". Not one hair was actually removed by this alleged hair removal system. However, it did effectively remove the top two layers of skin leaving me looking like I had a giant rug burn on one shin and calf. PS - the reason it's edible is that you have to practically chew off your own leg to get the stuff off.

Note: (It was a tough choice for #1 between this one and something my sisters and I loving refer to as "idiot sticks". These are essentially popsicle sticks covered in fine grain sand paper used to "gently buff away unwanted facial hair". Yeah - I know.)

There you have it. The consumer sins of my family. Maybe we'll start a support group for those afflicted with the dreaded "as seen on TV" addiction. If all this sounds familiar - just put on your Snuggy, and head on over. I promise, you're gonna love our nuts.

Short pants

2009-07-02T13:14:00.000-07:00

Why do the people at the Twitter assume that a bird must "tweet". My favorite bird is an owl and it does not tweet - it hoots. I don't use the Twitter (because I think it's arrogant, presumptuous and narcissistic), but if I did I would send out "hoots" and change the name to the Hooter.

Are you sure there are only 2 people in your pants?

2009-06-09T18:16:00.000-07:00

When I was in the first grade I had a teacher named Mrs.Bowen. Mrs. Bowen was the Maria Von Trapp of Lockwood Elementary School, and indeed, my childhood. (Except for the part where Maria dances with the Baron Von Trapp and then marries the Baron Von Trapp because: a. my dad was in a big, heavy, electric wheelchair that no girl would want running over her toes during the Viennese Waltz - trust me I know, and b. my dad was already married to my mom, and she is not a girl to be tangled with.) We did, however, do a lot of singing in Mrs. Bowen's first grade class - mostly folk music and patriotic tunes and the occasional seasonal songs about Santa's shaky belly or Easter bonnets or pumpkins sitting on a fence. Also, (and I liked this a lot) she gave us a package of Smarties when we got perfect grades on our spelling tests... which I did every time we had a spelling test... except once. I cried.

The best thing that I remember about Mrs.Bowen though, was that she knew how to pronounce my name on the first day of school. Without my help. Now for all of you Amys and Jennifers and Sarahs out there, I'm guessing that this would not be all that impressive. I, on the other hand, was used to spelling my name out and having my mother break it down syllable by syllable into easily understood phonics so that people could stop trying to fancy it up. (My mom still does this by the way: "It's End, like the end of a sentence, Re, like to redo something. Endre.") I'm still not sure why people have such a hard time with my name, but Mrs. Bowen didn't and she is still one of my favorite people ever.

Now that I'm an adult I think that what Mrs. Bowen did by finding out from someone how to pronounce my name- (I found out later that she had asked around to see if anyone knew my family and thus might be able to give her a clue. Another teacher at the school did)-was just good manners. What it said to me at age 5 was , "My teacher is so cool". What it says to me now is "Hey kid, I know you're only 5 and I've got 24 other names to learn, but I'm choosing to make you feel good about yourself today." It boils down to this - people with good manners try to make everyone around them feel as comfortable as possible. All the people around them. Even the pregnant ones.

That's right. Shocking as it may seem, pregnant woman are not interested in being insulted every time they leave their homes. Commentary on the size, shape or volume of a pregnant woman's body is not an acceptable social greeting. Conjecture about whether or not she might "explode right now" is never something in which a pregnant woman wishes to engage. Convincing you that she is not carrying twins or that she has not miscalculated her due date by several months is not her job. Although, based on my experience as a pregnant woman, it appears that this is not common knowledge as I have actually been asked, all of the following:

1. Could you possibly get any bigger? (Check back in 1 month. Oh, and shut up.)

2. You sure got big fast, huh? (Yep, yep, I did. Oh, and shut up.)

3. Are you having triplets? (Triplets. Seriously lady? You went right to triplets?)

4. You're due when? Oh, you'll never make it. You're too big. (Just "shut up" with this one.)

5. Maybe you should jump on a trampoline to get things moving. (Good idea. You must be some kind of famous doctor or something. Maybe I'll try that in 4 months when I'm actually due. Or not.)

6. Are you okay? You just look tired all the time. (Fantastic, I guess I'll apply more moisturizer, oh, and shut up.)

The amazing thing is, that when I, the pregnant woman, attempt to defend myself by saying things like "well thanks for that", or "wow, that was super nice to hear" the person that originated the rudeness acts like "oh, was that offensive?" or "her hormones can talk too, how cute". Apparently these people think that my job is not only to be life support for someone I've yet to meet, (and I can only hope that I'll get along with), but also to gracefully accept the verbal abuse that the men -and worst of all, woman (c'mon girls - really?) see fit to inflict upon me.

Well, no more I say. In the spirit of Mrs. Bowen I am launching a campaign to educate people one at a time about how to behave properly around a pregnant woman, large or small. When people say things to me because I am pregnant (and yes, very large - I do own a mirror folks) that they would say to no one else, I am going to respond "Think about what you just said. (Dramatic pause while they are thinking). Now, try again." Maybe this will remind people to use their grown up manners, and not those of the mean 13 year old girl that even her friends secretly hated. Maybe this will encourage even the most verbally clutzy among us to help pregnant women feel good about themselves during a time when that's not so easy. Maybe, they will never speak before thinking "would I like to hear this" again. And maybe, if they are very sorry, and they tell me that I am the most radiant vessel of life ever, I will give them their very own package of Smarties. Maybe.

We know what's in our baby's pants.

2009-06-02T18:18:00.000-07:00

My pants are all better

2009-06-02T15:45:00.000-07:00

My computer is finally back from the doctor and is as good as new. Allegedly. I tend to be more than a little skeptical about fidgeting with techno gadgets. I don't believe that anyone really knows how to "fix" any of these things and I'm pretty sure the term "up grade" is geek code for "Keep my card handy lady, you'll be paying me to fix whatever problems I've just caused with your ________ (fill in the blank with whatever electronic devise you've made yourself dependent upon) within a fortnight." (ps - I love the word fortnight. It makes me think of that movie "So I Married an Axe Murderer" where the Mike Meyers Scottish dad character talks about craving Kentucky Fried Chicken. I'm laughing a little right now actually). All I know is that before my husband (I'm totally throwing him under the bus here) called in repair man Moses (that was his real name) to "do some maintenance" my computer before the warranty ran out, I was happily blogging and mapquesting and googling. Post computer- fixer- guy/techno prophet? Broken computer and me, totally unable to do the whole list of cyber verbs. Annoying.

My relationship with computers and all of their electronic cohorts, I've decided, is something like that between ancient native peoples and volcanoes. Always living in the shadow of something that could blow up in your face at any moment (metaphorically or literally) ending life as you know it, (again metaphorically or literally, have you ever seen "War Games" - hello) but strangely unable to abandon it. Clearly I need to come up with some kind of awesome ceremonial ritual to appease the computer gods and head off any more complications. I'm not sure what this will look like exactly, but I'm pretty sure it will involve lots of fluorescent body paint, garlic and a life size picture of Al Gore. Awesome.

Like my computer, my child -Tweet, has also been to the doctor. Today actually. Unlike my computer, we failed to purchase the extended warranty for Tweet which means that when he gets sick, no one shows up at my house in pants that expose a relatively large section of their bum and poke at him with a screw driver swapping out all of his diseased parts. Also, I have to pay someone to fix him. This places me in an interesting dilemma as a mom. The nurturing, self-sacrificing side of me wants to be told that there is nothing wrong with my baby that a little homemade chicken soup and plenty of TV watching won't fix (aka - "he has a virus, there's nothing we can do about it"). Unfortunately for "the good mom", her voice doesn't even come close to drowning out the other part of me that thinks "if this kid isn't sick with something that needs at least one test and some serious medication, I'm taking the $15 copay out of his bank when we get home." I'm sorry, but it's pretty frustrating when you've been up taking temperatures and pushing Tylenol all night to a kid that feels like he's on the verge of spontaneous combustion and then when you finally get him to the doctor's office he doesn't have the decency to muster up even a little fever. What I learned today is that the fever can leave, but the Strep Throat stays... also, you shouldn't cheer when you find out that your 3 year old really did need to come to the stupid appointment after all. It probably sends the wrong message.

So... let the amoxicillin and blogging begin. (Sounds like the beginning words from an ultra modern alphabet book). Hopefully we can contain and destroy the bugs we have, and avoid any further infections, break downs, crashes, or trips to the doctor... both techno and human.

MIssing my pants

2009-05-21T19:20:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to let you all know that I am not dead (in the event that this were to occur please refer to the post about my funeral wishes), but my computer is. Dr. Dell has it now and I hope to have it back soon. (Actually, every computer I touch lately dies. Apparently I'm some sort of high speed serial killer.)

Anyway, I have access to library computers (with my three year old climbing on me and the homeless guy next to me. Luckily, he has a lot to say about how the government is watching the library internet connections - thanks... I'll be super careful when I email my top secret intel reports to the rebel/pirate mom's group in Somalia) - OR - I can use my husband's work computer - which was assembled circa 1992. I'm calling it Grandpa Joe (ala Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - the one with Gene Wilder because it's less creepy and I like Gene's ever -changing crazy hair.) I think Grandpa Joe is secretly laughing at my frustration with his tiny little keyboard.

So... the Grandpa Joe boycott is on and I think I'll be avoiding the library (I wouldn't do well under CIA interrogation). As you can imagine, I will be happy to have my lap top back so that I can sit on my bed and let the voices in my head do all the talking... and typing. Keep your fingers crossed for the beginning of next week.

Mom pants are all alike.

2009-05-10T08:36:00.000-07:00

One of the first things I realized after my daughter learned to talk, was that truth is Truth. The second thing I learned was that to a two year old, Truth and Manners are not well acquainted. A two year old sees you as you are. They are the human equivalent of those horrible magnifying mirrors that are placed strategically all over department store makeup counters and are designed to show you just how much you need a $52 bottle of foundation. (Which I do.) When a two year old informs you that "your breath smells like dirt and worms", or that "those pants cut your tummy in half" or that "you have a fuzzy chin like daddy's", too bad for you - because like it or not, you have just met Truth and it is letting you know who you are. ( Lesson two was followed closely by the instigation of the "that's something you say in mommy's ear" rule. Although... if you have multi-colored hair, a pierced cheek and a tatoo of Marvin the Martian on your neck, maybe someone should tell you that "you made your face ugly." ) I guess children assume that if you've caught even a small glimpse of yourself in a mirror lately that you see what they see and therefore, it should be no surprise when they point it out to you. However, it became very clear to me while watching Sesame Street this week with my three year old, that what he sees is very different than what I see.

So... I'm sitting on my couch watching Cookie Monster doing his "letter of the day" schtik , and out comes this other character to help him. This puppet was obviously a female and obviously related to Cookie Monster. She was, essentially, a hairy,blue, Barbara Bush. Blue curly hair, (like my Grandma has worn for the last 30 years), pearls all over the place (like my other Grandma has worn for the past 30 years), and a lovely floral print, um... muumuu (which even my grandmothers would consider just plain wrong). Naturally, I thought "How cute, his Grandma. I think it's great that Sesame Street supports extended family relationships for kids". Simultaneously my son yells out "Oh, Him's Momma. Him loves her." (We're working on the pronouns). He was right. It was not Cookie Monster's totally old grandmother, it was his totally old mom. If I could write out that noise that Scooby Doo makes when confronted with a confusing/surprising plot twist it would be an accurate representation of what went through my mind... and came out of my mouth. Seriously. I am the only mom my kid has ever known. I am his maternal frame of reference. I am the literal definition of the word mother for him. I am... Cookie Monster's mom.

After several days of denying my family resemblance to Mrs. Monster, (I'm assuming she's married - maybe not. They can be pretty progressive on the Sesame Street.), I've come to a sort of "Susan Boyle" kind of answer as to why my son thinks that I am the same as a frumpy blue muppet. It's just never going to be about looks. I can do stuff to my hair and put on makeup and shape my eyebrows and wear good jeans, but I've decided that to a child, it doesn't matter, because mothers don't really look like anything. That isn't what she is. To a child, their mother is how she makes them feel. If you make your child feel beautiful and loved and smart and safe, then that is what a mother is. If you make them feel ugly, and scared and lonely and ignored, then that is what a mother is too. If you make your kid a birthday cake that splits in half because you frosted it while it was still warm (who knew there was an actual reason that the box says "let cool completely"), but you love them and they feel special because of that ugly cake, you just might find yourself reading in their classroom anthology that their favorite thing about you is that you make really good birthday cakes. (If you're lucky this will be accompanied by a picture of you holding a beautiful, tall, and elaborately decorated cake still in one piece - and then you will laugh loud... and cry a little). To you, the mom, your efforts might look like a disaster, but to a child, the effort is all that mattered in the first place.

So here it is. The things that as mothers we think make us good moms - it's all a big fat lie. It isn't if you feed your kids the right organic food, or put them in the right college resume building activities, or buy them the right techno gear, or make the right homemade Halloween costume. It is, in my opinion, that you give them the right feeling - about who they are and, (even on those days when they're sucking the life out of you), about how you could never love anyone quite like you love them. Kids that feel love from their moms know love when they feel it from someone else. They know love when they see it someplace else. They know a mother when they meet her.

I hope that my children will always know the truth about me. I hope they will know that I was not a perfect mother, but that I was a persistent mother. I hope they will know that I was not a serious mother, but I was serious about being a mother. I hope they will know that I often had no idea where we were going next, but that I could always be found in their corner. Mostly, I hope they know that I love them... and also that I will never, ever wear a blue, curly perm and pearls - ever.

ps- Happy Mother's Day to my mom who always loved me - which due to my easy going and compliant nature has always been super easy to do. I love you Diane.

I hope one day she has old lady pants.

2009-04-30T17:00:00.000-07:00

Usually the things I write about are frivolous and self indulgent - like almost everything else on the internet. Today, I am writing about my niece. She is neither frivolous nor self indulgent. She is seven years old. She has curly hair, a love of rock and roll and she has cystic fibrosis.

When Arden was diagnosed at 3 months old, her parents learned that the life expectancy for a child with CF was 32 years. Because of the financial support that the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation receives it is able to fund research that is producing life saving treatments for people like my niece. In Arden's short 7 years, with the help of this research, the life expectancy for a child with CF has grown to 37 years. It is a great improvement, but I cry when I think that when Arden is my age, she could be very near the end of her life.

May is the a fund raising month for the CF foundation and I would like to make an appeal to anyone/everyone reading this to help us find a cure. Every dollar that is donated makes it more likely that my all the smarty pants scientists that want to save my niece will have the funding to do so. Please consider contributing to this cause. I realize that many of us/you have suffered financial set backs in the last year, and that there are lots of places for money to go, but even one dollar shows that you care. There is a link in the sidebar that will take you to a donation site.

Please enjoy this video of my beautiful niece. It was produced by my sister (Arden's mom and associate bakery owner), and my sister (the news junkie, who never tries to scare anyone with her tales of doom.) As usual, I sat and supervised.

Thanks-

Pigs don't wear pants.

2009-04-28T19:41:00.000-07:00

My son Mack has nightmares. I very often wake with a start at 2 am to find him standing next to my bed just staring at me like an extra from that "I see dead people" movie. I have tried to explain to him that this freaks me out and I'd rather he just say my name or something. In his defense the monsters in his head are arguably less scary than I am when someone wakes me up.

Sometimes he remembers what he dreams, sometimes he doesn't, but let me say this - the ones he's told me about would make Stephen King wet himself. Once, Mack had a dream that he was at a fair, and he saw a clown with balloons. Clown? Fun. Balloons? Fun. Skeleton with an evil laugh? Not so much. Which is what the clown became once he got close enough to claim his balloon. FYI- there are a lot of child therapists on the Google, be specific when you search.

Because of the nightmares, and the fact that I am loosing valuable mattress space to a combination of scared children and my rapidly expanding girth, I encourage my kids to avoid things that kindle fear of any kind. Admittedly, this can be inconvenient as it eliminates even things like the daily weather forecast since my daughter is convinced that, sooner or later, we are going to be hit by a Kansas style tornado. We aren't. Also we are not the site of the next hurricane Katrina, or a Thailand style tsunami. She remains unconvinced. Unfortunately she, like so many people, believes that if the TV shows it happening to someone, it will eventually happen to her. This is why, at our house, we never watch "the news".

I firmly believe that the point of network news (or any news for that matter) is to scare people bad enough to make them feel like they need to watch the scariest newscast so that they will know exactly how scared they should be. The more viewers these scary broadcasts attract, the more sponsors the networks can land. The more sponsors they have, the more money they make... and knowing full well that the only way to keep their viewers/sponsors/money is to keep up the scary, things quickly devolve into pictures of (just for example) an endless line of people queueing up for some mystery vaccine, complete with masks and gloves and various other "necessary precautions". Don't believe me? Two words. Swine Flu. Actually, a few more words: SARS, West Nile Virus, Bird Flu. Seriously. Who knew that in my life I would survive so many a pandemic. I must have the best immune system of all.

Don't get me wrong, I believe swine flu exists and can make a person sick. Also I don't want it. I don't like the name (it just sounds gross) and I'm pretty sure that when a person contracts it, it looks like that scene from Pinocchio where the lazy kid that smokes cigars and cuts class, grows ears and a tail and turns into a donkey... except you would turn into a pig - obviously, duh. Also, from then on, when people referred to you in conversation they would always say "you know, that kid with swine flu" even when you're 35. Having thrown that out there, I hardly think that 64 total (US) cases of some random strand of flu is cause for me to start wearing one of those ugly surgical masks and stock piling MREs. All I'm saying is that if this thing is that contagious, then why aren't the families of all of those spoiled little Mexico Spring Breakers all sick too? As I see it, if this was 1918 all over again, those folks would already be getting a bulk discount from the local undertaker. Luckily though, America, we're going to spend like a million dollars on swine flu stuff - because we have tons of extra room in the budget... and things like not sneezing on other people, washing our hands and staying home if we're sick seems a little too... rational...and free.

So, the pandemic coverage viewing ban is now in full effect at our house. The last thing I need is more nighttime visitors with visions of killer pig attacks and giant dancing surgical masks. FOX, CNN, OPB, ABC, NBC, et. all., be warned, I need my rest. If you take that away from me, you'll be hearing from me - and trust me- you'd rather face a skeleton clown with swine flu and SARS than me with sleep deprivation.

Stop biting my pants.

2009-04-20T11:00:00.000-07:00

I did something this weekend that I swore I would never do. I watched the movie Twilight. In my defense - Friday is the worst night ever for television viewing, especially when you only get four channels. Bill Moyers gets on my last nerve and I would rather do a stint in Guantanamo than watch "Super Nanny" or "Wife Swap". So instead of finding something productive like blogging, tweeting, or facebooking I sacrificed my pride and rented a movie about teenage vampire love from the MacDonald's Red Box. (How could a dollar movie be bad?)

My aversion to the Twilight series hinges (loosely) on three things. One - I have a bit of an addictive personality. Two words: Harry Potter. I read each book straight through with almost no breaks. My poor children learned to develop a taste for dry cereal and left over breakfast pancakes. Additionally, I own all of the books on tape and listen to them whenever I'm doing kitchen chores. At this point I think it's just for the background noise, but that could just be an excuse. I am not however as... well, weird, as those people in the documentary "We Are Wizards". I don't live a "wizard lifestyle" and I don't own a wand. But... I did watch a documentary called "We Are Wizards" so... Anyway, I find it best just to avoid anything that might trigger my more obsessive impulses.

Two - I don't like doing stereotypical girly things. I don't scrapbook. I barely take pictures actually. I volunteer at my kids' school out of guilt, and do not plan on doing it full time after the public education system has claimed my last child. (I'm planning a mitzvah actually. You're going to want an invite. It's going to be super fun.) I will never quote Oprah Winfrey, and I boycott her book club (is she still doing her book club?) In short - I'm a bit of a snob sometimes

and it's hard for me to shake.

Three- Stephanie Meyer is Mormon. Now, some of you may be scratching your heads at this because... so am I (Mormon, not scratching my head). I just don't like feeling obligated to love or even half-heartedly support something simply because the author/politician/actor believes in the same God that I do. I always want my loyalty to be based on merit... and how funny a person is. That's important. (This might actually boil down to the snob thing too. What do ya think?)

Anyway. I watched the movie and keeping in mind that I have never read the books, so I'm sure I'm missing some plot twists that some of you might consider important, I have a few observations.

1. Teenage girls love angst ridden boys that only they can fix. This vampire boy has been alive since 1901 (did I do that math correctly) and there's only been one girl in 108 years that he couldn't stay away from? Only one girl in 108 years that could make him emotionally attach. Let's face it- I totally would've gone for that when I was 17. (Now at age 34 I would think to myself - COMMITMENT ISSUES. RUN AWAY.)

2. When a boy saves a girl from a drunken gang of would be evil doers and pulls an awesome reverse-180 spinning driving trick she is going to think he's cool. Especially if he buys her dinner afterward. There's just nothing that can be done about it. What I've learned from this is that my daughter will always do the driving.

3. The hair can make the boy. Just be careful here, because sometimes the hair can leave the boy too.

4. Hot trumps Creepy every time. Think about some of the dialogue in this movie. Vampire Edward tells Bella (the girl) that he's essentially been stalking her because he "feels very protective of her". He tells her that he wanted to kill her when they first met and that he suspects that he still just might do so. He tells her that he's been sneaking into her room in the night to watch her sleep because it "fascinates him". He tells her that he is so strong and fast that she could never get away from him. Hmmm. This is all good with her though because... he's hot. Now, think about how this would've played out if the boy looked, not like Robert Pattinson, (who p.s. was also in one of the Harry Potter movies) but like one of those slightly sweaty, greasy, dirty teenage boys with long, slightly frizzy, pony tailed hair, with patchy facial hair and acne- complete with long, black trench coat and army boots. What do you think of the stalking, sleep watching, killing impulses now? I don't know about you, but if that boy would've said those things to me, he'd be named as a defendant. Pretty people can get away with a lot of stuff that the un-pretty just can't pull off, and that includes being creepy.

5. Old-ish women like to watch young women being loved in a way that is reckless and primal and totally unrealistic, either because they were never loved that way by a boy and wished they had been, or because they were and wish they could be again. Just remember girls that new love isn't always love. Sometimes it's just chemistry. Chemistry is fun and nice and tingly, but it doesn't hold your hair back while your throwing up sick with the flu, or tell you you're beautiful when you've gained 40 lbs (who are we kidding?) 60 lbs of "baby weight", or help keep you calm as you're trying to pay way too many bills with way too little money. Chemistry doesn't do that, Love does. Chemistry might be sparkly and flashy, but eventually it explodes and then it's gone...and ask any chemist, sometimes it leaves a really bad smell behind and may or may not singe off your eyebrows.

As much to my surprise as anyone's, I actually thought that the movie was pretty good, (although I was really disturbed when my 9 year old daughter told me that many of her friends have seen it and did I think that she could see it too? Yeah right kid), and it gives me added pleasure to imagine the look of horror on Bill Moyers' face if he knew that I would rather watch a pretty boy vampire than listen to him conduct an interview on the current climate of labor politics. Like I said - the hair makes the boy and in this case Bill, sorry but there's no contest.

Just wipe it on your pants.

2009-04-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

Before I had children, I was a different girl. I stayed thin with way less work, I never bought a car based on the size and location of the cup holders, and I knew a lot more about raising children. Before I had children I gagged at anything remotely off-putting. Once, my brother-in-law said the word "blob" at the dinner table and it seriously threw me into such an episode of heaving and retching that I actually had to leave the table and put a cold wash rag on my face. Another time, an eensy weensy spider met his sad and crispy fate cooked a top a piece of my mother-in-law's lasagna. My piece of my mother-in-law's lasagna. It was just... I don't know... I can't even really remember anything except running away and gagging... violently gagging. I don't think she's made lasagna for my family since. (ps- It was totally not my mother-in-law's fault. She is a fantastic cook, and I would eat her lasagna anytime.)

My first pregnancy put an end to pointless gagging. I think my body saw it as an inefficiency that needed to be stopped. There would be no more gagging, just vomiting. I starting throwing up at 7 weeks and I didn't stop until 41 weeks, 3 days, when I was (finally) holding my fat, slimy little daughter. I threw up at home. I threw up at church. I threw up at school. I threw up in the car, on the road, in parking lots, and in the grocery store. Sometimes I made it to the bathroom, sometimes... not so much. It didn't matter what I ate, it didn't matter what voodoo home remedies I tried. Nothing stopped it, and so... I learned to be really good at throwing up. I stopped fighting it, and just did it.

Here is the miracle. After I had my baby, nothing, and I mean nothing could make me feel even remotely sick or gaggish. It was like the vomiting was the crucible that burned away my gaggyness. (WARNING - I am now going to tell you some of the gross things that should make me sick, but totally don't... so, if you're a gagger, you might want to skip this part.) I have literally wiped my child's nose with my bare hand and wiped it on my leg. Worse than that, I have wiped the nose of a child to whom I did not give birth, with my bare hand and wiped it on my leg. I have picked my child's binky out of the bark chips at the park and used my mouth to clean it off. I have eaten a left over peanut butter and jelly sandwich that had been left on the counter over night, simply because I didn't have the energy to make something new. (Don't pretend like you haven't done some of these people.) I have had baby throw up in my hair and wondered if I should just put on a hat. I promise you- I am not totally disgusting. I am just... desensitized- like one of those soldiers that has to go through those secret army torture courses, so that they won't break when captured by the enemy. It just so happens that the enemy that has captured me is code named "you've got three kids, deal with it". (By the way - I haven't even given them my real name yet, let alone my rank and serial number. Take that rebel insurgents.)

I have turned into a pretty tough girl. Today, however, I think I met my match. I was doing the grocery shopping while my three year old slept in the cart (speaking of miracles) when I happened upon a man - clipping his fingernails. In the grocery store. Where I was buying food. Now men, maybe no one has ever told you, but - this is not okay. The clipping of the nails is an activity that should be confined to the house. Your house. The clipping of the nails is not an activity that should be done at church (I have witnessed this on more than one occasion), in the movie theatre while waiting for the featured presentation, or in the grocery store.

Also, where the heck are your wives that should be putting an end to such nonsense? C'mon ladies, step it up. Think to yourself "would I have married _____ (insert husband's name here) if I'd have seen him doing ___________ (insert questionable activity here) in public?" If the answer is "no", then no matter how much you love him, what your husband is doing is grossing us out and you need to tell him to "stop it now, everyone is staring". In the case of the grocery-store-groomer, his wife was next to him pushing the cart and giving me a look that clearly said "you're disgusting" as I doubled over and gagged a huge pregnant gag. As far as I'm concerned she should just be happy that a little pee didn't come out with the offending gag. I know I was. (Not glamorous, but true. Sorry.)

Clearly there are some things that a girl and her reflexes just can't get past, and for me public grooming is the crunchy cooked spider of social interaction. I mean, even the best soldiers have their limits, and today amid the nail clippings and canned peaches, I definately found mine.

Three-minute secrets to make your pants look younger.

2009-03-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

I don't love rules. OK - I don't love rules as they apply to me. Ironically, at least two out of three of my children show a clear aptitude for "conduct policy enforcement", also known as "head hall monitor". Each day they debrief, giving a detailed report of all of the goings on at T. Elementary School, including recess, lunch, and the always adventurous, educational, and slightly disturbing bus ride home (this, my friends is another post all together). They remember how many stickers D. got on his "cooperation chart" during calendar time, and which girl B. was talking to when she got a warning during the spelling test. But when pressed with the question "what did you learn today?" they stare at me like Timothy Geitner trying to explain the AIG bonus thing.

I think mostly I just don't like other people trying to be the boss of me. I relent slightly on this where my mother is concerned (anyone that lets you live inside their body for almost a year earns some bossiness currency with that), and also to my sisters as it relates to giving my children things that I would normally say "no" to. They say things like "come here to your Auntie" and then they somehow totally undermine me without being disrespectful or rude. It is a true blessing for the children of the crazy sister to have access to the far more stable sisters to plead their case. It's child advocacy at it's most effective, really.

I, however, am not now, nor will I ever be, ok with getting lifestyle/parenting advice from magazines, Oprah Winfrey or (let's face it) most of the time, my pediatrician. They try to tell me lots of stuff that has nothing to do with medicine that I pretty much roll my eyes at because I know that by my next child, their recommendations will have changed based on the "latest research". I especially do not like it when a magazine to which I have subscribed (presumably because it was part of a magazine and wrapping-paper school-fundraising sale) shows up at my house covered in an airbrushed and professionally lit photo of some supermodel/celebrity/mom trying to resurrect her career by sharing with me and other common folk her three minute beauty tricks and radically new mothering philosophies.

The latest of these allegedly real-mom advice givers is Helena Christensen on the cover of my "Cookie" magazine. If you don't know who she is... remember when they used to have music videos on MTV? Remember the Chris Isaak music video "Wicked Game"? Remember the pretty-much-nudie girl frolicking on the beach in the Chris Isaac music video "Wicked Game"? Meet Helena. (Mom, I always covered my eyes - promise.) In case you're clinging to the edge of your seat like you're watching an episode of Lost, her "three 3-minute beauty tricks" are:

1.a warm, nude face, 2.red lipstick, 3.metallic eyeshadow. Gee, thanks Helena. My guess at your "three 3-minute beauty tricks" was : 1. Look like Helena Christensen. Oh, did I say three tricks? I meant one.

In addition to salvaging her otherwise hopeless appearance with her magic red lipstick, apparently Helena is also a "hands on" kind of mom (she probably chooses the nanny herself), and is qualified to dole out parenting advice as well. She says of her 9 year old son, "He's all that matters. He's my best friend." To that, I say: Crazy Talk. I am not my 9 year old's best friend. I never hope to be. I am not my child's peer. I never will be. I am her mother, I will always be her mother, and being her mother means that I love her more than any of her BFFs ever will. Being her mother means that I love her so much that I do what is best for her, not what is fun for her - even when that means I'm not super popular with her. I am an adult woman, and my mother? Still my mother. What I've seen in my life is that women that had a friend instead of a mother, spend their whole lives searching for someone to help them feel secure by being their bossy, stable, female authority figure and they latch onto anything that comes close. Thanks Helena, but I'm the bossy one around here and since in the end everything is the mom's fault anyway... I'm going to earn my kid's therapy hours the old fashioned way.

ps - Your "He's all that matters" theory = selfish, self centered children who think that their needs supersede every one's around them. Sometimes, children need to understand that they are not all that matters because, let's be honest - they just aren't. It doesn't mean that we don't love them, but it does mean that they need to learn to wait their turn... for siblings, or life, or for mom to go to the bathroom... by herself... without anyone watching her... or telling her random facts about how sharks, or worms or dinosaurs poop too.

I am hoping that one day I will see featured on the cover a magazine the beauty secrets of a real life woman addressing things like; "When you just can't get around to showering - best scents for masking the smell of throw-up", "Bras that make your boobs look like they did before you nursed three children" and "Acne and wrinkles-who knew they could go together?" The parenting section would have advice like "Don't worry - you're doing fine and it's not your fault. Lots of kids pick their noses in public. Just speak really loudly and say "Your mom told you not to do that anymore. Hey, where did she go anyway?", then roll your eyes and walk far enough away to feign a convincing search for the mystery mom."

Now tell me women all over the country would not line up to buy that. I, for one, will be looking for that publication to purchase in the next school fundraiser, and if I know anything... so will Helena Christensen. Or at least her nanny will.

The shoes make the pants.

2009-03-15T14:10:00.000-07:00

I believe that the right pair of shoes can change everything. If you don't believe me, you clearly were not paying attention during the once-a-year Wizard of Oz television-viewing-extravaganza that was a mainstay of the American childhood pop culture experience. Too bad for you, because this story has a really good moral. Maybe you thought "...Oz" was about how only bad people are ugly. (And I quote, "I'm a good witch. Only bad witches are ugly"). Maybe you thought it was a documentary about the exploitation of flying monkeys (poor monkeys, they're probably a lot less scary in their natural habitat). Maybe you thought it was about scaring little kids into taking better care of their mangy little pets, or else get taken hostage by a green skinned shut-in with an hour glass of death and an acute case of aquaphobia. (No bubble baths for her, I guess. I wonder if she can brush her teeth.)

Maybe you thought those things. You'd be wrong. The Wizard of Oz is actually a story about how, because she had the right pair of shoes, Dorothy was able to annoy powerful people, get to where she wanted to go, became a hero to millions of oppressed people (namely low-wage laborers in the Lollipop Guild and Lullaby League) and look really pretty while doing it. If you still don't believe me that it's all about the shoes, perhaps it would interest you to know that Dorothy's shoes in the book The Wizard of Oz were silver, but silver isn't exactly a cha-cha color on screen and so... the Ruby Slippers were born - and the theme of a political satire was lost. Shoes trump politics every time.

Of course, the magic shoe voodoo all depends upon Dorothy keeping the shoes on her feet. Apparently no one bothered to tell that to Muntadhar al-Zaidi. In December 2008 Muntadhar al-Zaidi took off his shoes and threw both of them at then President Bush at a press conference in Iraq as a response to the "occupation" of his country. Fortunately for President Bush, he is a lot quicker than he looks and does a mean "bob and weave". Unfortunately for Mr. al-Zaidi, although he achieved the "annoying powerful people" and the "becoming a hero to millions" parts of the Oz lesson, the "getting to go where you want to go" lesson... not so much. Unless, of course, he wanted to go to an Iraqi prison... for three years... for assaulting a Head of State.

I must admit that, although I don't subscribe to shoe-throwing myself (even though it would make an amusing carnival dunk-tanky kind of game), and I'm deeply conflicted about the war in Iraq with all its accompanying baggage, I think this guy has guts...and a little bit of crazy - which I respect. Although less guts and less crazy than the guy I read about on the Google that threw a shoe at the Iranian president this month. Or the guy that threw one at him in December of 2006. Never heard of them? Shocker. I'm betting that they didn't get any 3 years in prison either.

I think that the fact that we all know this man, and know where he is now proves some things. Even in places where it wasn't before, it's now OK to disagree with, be angry at, and show your disapproval of your government without blowing yourself up in a public market killing babies, children and old people. You can still be heard and even be a little famous without destroying yourself and your home. I'll take a couple of oxfords over an IED any day of the week - and I'm betting President Bush would too. This is hope, people. Hope that catches on like a red, sparkly pair of high heels in a black and white movie... and there's no ignoring red, sparkly high heels. Pretty soon everyone will want a pair. I know. I own some (patent leather, not bedazzled).

Which brings me to my second point. The right shoe (and sometimes the left shoe, too) can change everything. Like when you put them on and send yourself home, or like when you take them off and hope to send someone else to theirs. Yep, shoes trump politics every time - even the Wicked Witch of the West knew that.

You still need pants - even with a lab coat.

2009-03-04T19:24:00.000-08:00

Who here wants to repeat the third grade? Anyone? Well, too bad for you because if you have a child - even a really little one that doesn't make much noise and is relatively cute - you will be repeating the third grade... along with all the other grades, too. If this is news to you, then clearly the homework has not started coming home yet. My third grader actually has homework that she is instructed to do "with a parent" (and this is not like the 7th grade health class homework that I had to do with my parents - you know what homework I mean. My dad was very thorough with this. He did not want me falling for any crazy-liberal fancy-talk when it came to the all important "abstinence only" education). No, this is math and spelling and all the boring, and might I add, totally not-useful stuff I had to learn the first time around. All I'm saying is that I went all the way through calculus in high school and guess what... no one cares! Also, two words: spell check. (Or is that one word. Hmmm... maybe I'll recant on the spelling thing.)

So, I've just barely figured out a way to trick my kids into doing their own homework while convincing them that I really am helping them like their teacher said, when those pesky PTA people go and mess the whole thing up. I am convinced that these are the same people that as children raised their hands at every question the teacher asked, even if they didn't know the answer, just so they could get the participation points. Now they're forcing their participating ways onto my family by convincing my children that they want to be involved in the mother of all extended homework projects, known as the Elementary School Science Fair.

They hooked my daughter first. She came home armed with half a plan and dreams of a first place "I'm a Better Scientist Than You Are" ribbon. She recently won the "design a bookmark" contest at school and I think the fame has gone to her head. She then proceeded to convince my son that his short life's ambition is to taste the glory of science fair victory, as well. I'm telling you - it was Adam and Eve all over again (except this time I can't kick them out and tell them that they're on their own with their big idea project). I thought that I could derail them by pointing out that it's 2009 - not 1983, and that means that no one actually gets to win anymore. The most they're getting out of this thing is a lousy Certificate of Participation and a mother that's slightly more grouchy than usual. Nope, they still want to do the stupid projects.

So, now I'm helping coordinate two, count 'em, two elementary science fair projects. I felt it only fair that I should get to help choose the subject matter, since I will end up doing at least 5o% of the work. I had two solid suggestions that were pretty rad, if I do say so myself.

1. "Peeps: What the Heck Are Those Things?" OK, tell me that that title didn't catch your attention and make you think "Yeah, what are those things?" Seriously, we could blow one up in the microwave, see if one freezes, see if one floats, leave one out on the counter for 6 weeks and see if it's still edible, even use one as a conductor of electricity (I thought we could try to make some kind of lamp out of it). The list is endless, really. In addition to this idea being really good science, my family has a joke that my dad actually died because he ate too many Peeps. I still laugh every time I see one of those little guys, which means I could at least derive a little dark pleasure from this experience.

2. "Poop: A Study in Gender Differences" This is an anthropological study really, and you can try it for yourself since it didn't make the cut. Just say the word "poop" to a male of any age and he will laugh. I have tested this with four of my nephews, a few of my brothers in law, my husband and my sons. It doesn't matter how old or young, saying the word "poop" is an easy way to amuse any boy. Girls, on the other hand, stop laughing around age 8. After that they just think it's gross. Of course, our findings would've been based on a randomized sample of random men, but I'm telling you, it's as concrete as XX and XY.

Unfortunately, it turns out my kids are not only curious about science, but they are also totally boring. My daughter chose a project about how sound travels through different "media" like water, air, plastic, and metal (or some such nonsense). My son's project will evaluate the soil benefits of worm castings, which my son explained to me are just "worm poop". And guess what happened next. Giggling pile of little boy all over my floor. Hypothesis proven. First prize ribbon to me.

Tooting my own pants.

2009-03-03T19:59:00.001-08:00

I have another article featured on Divine Caroline. It's the one I wrote about my niece's soccer game and is titled "Postcards From the Edge of the Soccer Field". It's on the front page, but you might have to watch for it for a minute because it flashes up in a series of featured articles. It is also the featured article on the front page of the "Play" section.

I have to admit it's pretty cool, even though I suspect that it might be some kind of clever rouse to keep me going to their website rather than actual appreciation for the quality of my prose. Oh well, at least I'm on to them.

No pants allowed

2009-02-17T08:22:00.000-08:00

On Sunday morning I wake up before everyone else. I shower, shave my legs, wax my face, moisturize my face, put makeup on my face, do my hair, get dressed, iron pants for 2 little boys, iron white shirts for 2 little boys, find pretty-close-to-matching pairs of socks for 2 little boys, find little man ties for two little boys, make breakfast for 2 little boys and (sometimes one little girl... she's pretty independent, that is to say "picky" and she complains a lot less if she is her own chef), curl and fix my daughter's hair (she has really beautiful hair, especially when she lets me comb it), force two little boys into white shirts and little man ties (which, as you know, is my favorite piece of little man clothing, but which they believe is essentially wearing a noose for Jesus.)

Then it's: gather all the scriptures, (which no one can ever find), gather the shoes (which no one can ever find), and gather the keys (which no one can ever find). I suppose I could get everything ready the night before, but that seems a little subversive to me, and not at all something that should be associated with the Sabbath. Much better to be yelling at everyone "GET. IN. THE. CAR. NOW. WE. HAVE. TO. TAKE. THE. SACRAMENT."

Recently added to my list of Sunday morning awesomeness is "pack a sack lunch", not a snack, a full on lunch. A camel I'm not, and it could get ugly fast if I miss a meal, church or no. So... at some point during the services I head into the mother's lounge (which is where the mom's with nursing babies can go for some privacy and still hear the speakers etc.) with my picnic basket to enjoy my peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich, grapes, carrots, cheese stick, oranges, cookies etc.

I choose the mother's lounge for a couple of reasons. First, I don't have to share my food with my kids or with the kids in the pew in front of me that turn around and give you the Oliver Twist face as soon as they hear the rustle of a wrapper. Second, I don't have to field any questions or quizzical looks about why I'm chowing down at church. Women know, if you're eating at church, you're pregnant and you're sick - and they leave you alone. Men on the other hand think it's a good time to strike up a conversation beginning with a very quippy question/statement like "I hope you brought enough to share with me." Whatever.

So... last week I haul my Mary Poppins church bag full of food into the mother's lounge... and there's a man in there. I am not kidding. A man sitting with his wife and baby in the mother's lounge. As far as I'm concerned this is inexcusable. It is a kin to a man hanging out in the women's restroom because he wants to be with his lady friend. (My husband calls me that when he wants to make me gag a little bit.) I don't care if I'm only in there washing my hands, or putting on my lipstick, or hiding from my kids - if you are a male that is old enough to not need your mom to hold up your tie while you're doing your business - you are in the wrong place and need to get the heck out. The "get the heck out rule" also applies if

you are a man and you are sitting next to me while I'm getting a pedicure. I don't want to see big, hairy, man feet being buffed. Yuck.
you are a man and you are in the park (or someplace similar) during the middle of the day without a child of your own. Creepy... and I will say something to you.
you are a man and you are anywhere near my favorite makeup counter. I don't care what MAC says. I don't want to buy makeup from a boy trying to be prettier than me.

So... does this creepy-mother's-lounge-man-dweller just leave me alone to eat my lunch? No. He strikes up a conversation. It went something like this:

Creepy-mother's-lounge-man-dweller: "I used to do that"
Annoyed Me: "What?" (You have to pretend to hear my annoyed voice in your head. Also, I did my best "14 year old girl thinking you're lame" face. That's important when you're annoyed with strange men.)
Creepy-mother's-lounge-man-dweller: "Hide in corners and eat during church"
Annoyed Me: "Why?" (Again, same voice, same face.)
Creepy-mother's-lounge-man-dweller: "Because I would get hungry during church and it was embarrassing when people would walk in on me and blah, blah, blah..." I stopped listening. This is a grown man that needs a baggie of goldfish during church. I was not impressed.
Annoyed Me: "I'm pregnant, stupid" (OK, I didn't actually say stupid, but I totally thought it at him and I'm pretty sure he got the message.) I also looked at his wife and thought "Wow, he's a keeper. I'm jealous." I'm not sure that she got the message.

These people finally left when another woman came in and, shocker, wanted to sit down and nurse her baby. Maybe he was just off to get his goldfish fix. I just rolled my eyes (I am pretty good at this) and she shook her head and... because I was eating my lunch, and because she was raised right, she didn't speak to me at all.

There's a late slip in my pants pocket.

2009-02-10T18:58:00.000-08:00

I was never late to school when I was a little girl. Not once. I always felt sorry for the little kids that sort of tip-toed into class during the Pledge of Allegiance with their heels hanging out of the backs of their sneakers and a cold piece of toast in their hand. Their hair, as I recall, usually bore a striking resemblance to Albert Einstein's after a night of clubbing with his homies. Sad. I always felt bad that they had to face the firing squad made up of the judgey front desk attendance lady and a teacher that could put that kind of stuff down on your permanent record, or worse - put your name on the board... especially since I assumed it was their loser parent's fault. I mean, what 6 year old gets themself to school?

Well parents of the Lockwood Elementary kindergarten class of 1980, I apologize. Turns out, those little juvenile deliquents earned every one of those little pink tardy slips all on their own.

When my husband left the house at 7:59 this morning to take my son the .8 miles to school the timeline should've gone something like this:

8:04 arrive at school

8:06 arrive in cafeteria where Mrs.P is waiting to greet you in all of her kindergarten teacher glory; talk Star Wars and Legos with best friend M.

8:15 walk to class in one straight line - no talking, no pushing, no spitting (I made that last one up, but I cannot believe that it wouldn't be part of the rules)

8:20 start class... on time... responsibly... making your parents look good

Instead it went something like this:

8:04 arrive at school

8:06 walk through the doors of the school

8:06a turn head for one last look at Dad driving away, notice huge snowflakes that look exactly like fluffy cotton balls

8:06b wonder if it is possible to catch those huge, fluffy, cotton ball snowflakes on tongue

8:07 turn body and walk back outside

8:10 catch snowflakes on tongue

8:15 catch snowflakes on tongue

8:20 catch snowflakes on tongue

8:25 catch snowflakes on tongue

8:27 be escorted back inside by a judgey front desk attendance lady that notices you out on the lawn catching snowflakes on tongue (finally - hello?)

8:29 receive tardy slip

8:31 tip-toe into class during the Pledge of Allegiance... not on time... not making your parents look good

So... after today my son's permanent record reads a little something like this:

Mack - tardy due to inclement weather and the complete inability to not be a little boy.

Good for him.

Pants are the best protection...

2009-02-02T20:37:00.000-08:00

Ummm... Can someone tell me why there are so many lines on my negative pregnancy test?