Junior, from someone who loves you! We love you. So does Jesus. We hope you have a....etc.

At this point Boog interrupts me and says, sincerely and with awe in her voice, "Mommy! Is that card from JESUS?"

The Good :

• San Diego Zoo:  The last time we went just to the zoo and not the Wild Animal Park and Sea World was when Monkey Boy was five and whiny.  This time we saw everything in record time and enjoyed Coronas and churros.  My favorite exhibits were the elephants, rhinos, hippos, gorillas, orangutans, assorted monkeys, meerkats, koala bears, and pandas.  If I can wait in line for an iToy, I can wait in line for the pandas.  We only missed the polar bears and sea turtles.
• Dick's Last Resort San Diego:  I cannot tell you what raucous, irreverant hellafun this was.  I cannot wait to go with friends here in Las Vegas.  Who's in?  Monkey Boy saw a lesbian's ta-tas and was embarrassed to pieces by Boog and I on the drunk walk o' shame back to the hotel.  Big Ass Glasses of Guinness and Jägerbombs are an evil combination.  And, since when is Red Bull used as an ingredient?  Fuck me!  I'm old!
• Manchester Grand Hyatt:  Last minute deal find on hotels.com for an affordable and luxurious stay.  Besides the windows were left open for fresh nighttime sea breezes.
• Pacific Beach: This is an excellent golden sand between your toes haunt.
• Gringo's: We were wasting away in Margaritaville and mouthwatering, authentic Mexican food after our fun in the sun excursion.
• Seaport Village, Gaslamp Quarter, and Balboa Park:  Many varied offerings for food and entertainment are in these areas.  Again, two and a half days are not enough to see it and to do it all.
• Perry's Cafe: This local legend has been around for decades and has the clinetale and naugehyde decor to prove it is "established."  The spinach fritattas were fantastic, and the old school diner style service was applaudable.  Thanks, Ruprecht, for the most edible suggestion.
• Spending time with Boog:  He is my "pocket full of sunshine."

The Bad :

• Pictures:  Not many were taken, and most of the ones that I did take aren't that great.  I will share the snarky ones from Dick's for Wordless Wednesday.   I must first Photoshop my face out of them.
• Beach weather:  It was overcast and almost too cool resulting in Boog being a little pinker than planned in the frontal lobe region.
• Comic-Con:  We were one week too early for the geekdorknerd fest.  Damn corporate asshats that Boog works for would not let him take this week off.  Yes, I would have gone and thoroughly enjoyed it.  I suppose I'll have to live vicariously through Ruprecht.
• Boarding The Terrorist:  Laugh if you must, but he is my baby.  It was painful to put my four-year-old in a cage, but we did make it back in time to pick him up and have snuggle buddy time in our own bed last night.  He seems to have forgiven us for now.
• Snoring:  We all snored at one point or another over the two nights.  I know that for me it is time to start eating right, exercising, and getting the extra poundage off.  For Boog and Monkey Boy, it appears to be in the genes.

The Ugly :

• Monkey Boy:  He had a nasty, smart ass teenager attitude the entire weekend.  Both Boog and I were insulted repeatedly by his words and his actions.  As per the usual, he does not get anything.  I am convinced now more than ever that he is socially retarded.  The harder we try to make things easier for him, the worse he fights back.  I am done.  I am being purposely vague with the details because it just frustrates me more to talk about them.  The I Read Banned Book's household may resemble a real-life Spaghetti Western before August 11 gets here.  And, yes, there will be a coming to Jesus meeting with Shoeless Sue very soon.

Next summer there will be an adult vacation without the step-slave or bust.

Hello world of my daughter-in-law!

I am CV’s Sunday blogger designée and this is my first guest post. Ever. Of course, I can’t keep up with my own blog, so why volunteer to post for someone else? You might ask. Well, she asked (more or less) and I offered, and here we are. If you’re a regular banned-books reader, you probably expect a snarky guest post, worthy of her superior intellect and sarcasm. You’ll be disappointed. I lived with the epitome of sarcastic for thirteen years, and found it to be far less funny over the long haul than it’s cracked up to be. Besides, I’m a nun. I rather had to give up most of my bad attitudes along with the worldly goods and bank account.

My connection to CV is of course through my son (I am the monster-in-law) and why he allows her to call him Booger Bear, or Boog, is beyond me. Of course, it’s her blog and she can call any of us whatever she wants, but I would be insulted to be named after a piece of dried snot. I called him Punkin Doodle when he was a wee one… A vegetable? you say. Better that than dried snot.

I’ve visited these kids a few times and am here to say the damn dog is well named. On one visit he devoured my scrunchies (right off the top of my head) and the last trip I had to keep my suitcase zipped, not just closed, because he’d sneak into my room and drag out an assortment of items, and managed to shred my favorite shirt when we tried to retrieve it. I still have the shirt. I’m going to repair it someday when I have nothing else to do. Which segues right into the story of my current life… a nun living in a geriatric zoo.

By becoming a nun in my later years (after a lifetime of unwise choices, varied careers, multiple addresses and amazing adventures) I have settled into a community rhythm of prayer and service, not necessarily in that order. Our convent, in the heart of New York City is home to four of our elderly sisters (two use walkers, two use canes, three are in their mid-eighties.) There are four more of us who still function, but we are in our 50s and 60s, not exactly spring chickens.

I am the only sister who can wield a plunger. Rather, I am the only one who will. One of our elders, only five feet tall, loves to eat, and subsequently makes kielbasa-sized deposits in the toilets. We have twenty-four working johns in our place and at least three are always stopped up. She doesn’t bother to mention that she’s overflowed the toilet. We find out the hard way. Another sister detests her walker so she bangs it into the woodwork and the elevator door whenever she can. She has knocked the door off its track at least five times, which always requires a maintenance visit. We are now “preferred customers” with the elevator repair company.

I have come to understand (in graphic detail) that the cycle of life is actually circular. You are born incontinent… you get potty-trained at some point, live with clean underwear for several decades and then the process reverses. You are born with no motor skills… you have to be fed, then you learn to eat with your fingers, then a fork, then that process reverses. You are born knowing nothing and crying for everything… you learn manners, the customs of your world, how to defer gratification, and then that process reverses. And who says God has no sense of humor?

The only difference I can see is that babies and toddlers smell better, are easier to pick up, and can be sent to their rooms with “1 – 2 – 3 – 4” and spanked when they’re naughty. There is no such remedy with old people. Just try and spank an 80-year-old and you land in jail for elder-battering. Oh, there’s another difference I just thought of: they call your diapers Depends instead of Pampers.

I’m saving my children from all this, don’t you think that’s amazingly noble of me?

This post marks the first in my second year as a weekly poster on Thursday Thirteen.  Since I rarely talk about myself on this blog (rolling eyes at my haters and Boog), I thought you would like to hear more about how fucking fabulous I am.  Please hold your applause, and humor me by reading about my 13 current obsessions.  Sadly, there are more than 13; however, I am going into detail, so I don't want to make this post TLDR.*

1.  Promotion - Why worry when I can obsess?  The last interview is still a possibility as no one has been appointed or moved to that position.  I put my name in on five (5) new openings this week.  Those who obsess get ahead in life.

2.  Publication - As if I needed another obsession besides this blog and the Cult of Insanity, I want to see MY writing in print in bookstores everywhere no later than the end of 2011.  That's when I turn 40.  I am writing more now than I ever did.  Maybe if the right people see this blog, I'll get discovered.  Pimp me out, but don't steal my shit.

3.  Plurk - For the past few weeks, this little obsession is the first second thing I think about in the morning (Coffee is always the first.) and the last thing that crosses my mind at night.  Obsessively, I wrote a song about Plurkin.' Pathetically, I have been dreaming about Plurk and caught myself mlurking (mobile plurking) on the toilet in the movie theater on Sunday.  Clearly, I am going to have to face it; I'm addicted to Plurk.

4.  Photobucket - This obsession goes hand in hand with Plurk.  I am constantly looking for original material, especially in the smiley realm.  If I could only figure out the copy of Adobe Photoshop CS3 I stole illegally copied have the rights to own my home computer via the district's license, I would bedazzle some of my own instead of obsessively searching for the latest and greatest visual for a smack down.

5.  Google Reader - Until very recently, I had all my favorite blogs and daily guilty pleasure websites bookmarked in my sidebar, and I clicked away each and every day.  On the recommendation of several real world and Twitter and Plurk friends, I decided to try Google Reader.  I am affectionately and obsessively referring to GR as my lover now.  I don't know why I resisted for so long.  I love all of the features (that I have figured out), and I want to start sharing some of my reads in the sidebar of this blog.  That brings me to the next one.

6.  WordPress - GRRRRRRRR! I am completed irritated and confused by certain aspects of WordPress, particularly plug-ins.  As a perfectionist, I am too proud to ask for help.  I am trying to set up multiple features on my template that I just cannot figure out.  This one may only be frustration, but I am going to lose my religion trying to get it right.  (Those of you who know my borderline agnosticism and loathe for Bible thumpers are giggling at that line.)

7.  Clutter - I am obsessively organized.  I bitch, moan, and complain about clutter constantly around the house and at work.  Yet I do nothing to fix it except read self-help books and blogs.  If I showed you a picture of my Monica's secret closet right now, you would gasp audibly and say in your best Chandleresque voice: "He he he he ... You're messy ... I married Fred Sanford." On the other hand, I also believe that a clean desk is the sign of a cluttered mind, and I want my bookshelves to be color-coordinated and/or alphabetized.

8.  Monkey Boy's Stankonia - On the advice of my Pleeps, I will use duct tape, make him stand in The Terrorist's wade pool in the backyard, use the HOSE HOSE HOSE, apply copious amounts of Lava Soap followed by "stink pretty" soap, and scrub him raw with a wire brush.  How's that for obsession?   I decreed on Monday that he is subject to a daily inspection until further notice (August 11).  I am considering watching him apply the anti-perspirant/deodorant he refuses to wear and sending in Boog for his twice or thrice daily shower detail.  And speaking of the love of my life, let's move on to Boog.

9.  Boog's snoring - I have no room to talk because I snore "when I am congested," but here goes. I harbor a secret, vengeful, obsessive desire to smother him with his pillow while he sleeps.  Yes, I've tried to obligatory pillow over my own head, poking and kicking him with "turn over, Boog," and wearing the neon foam earplugs.  We recently purchased his and hers humidifiers for our nightstands.  We take turns sleeping on the couch when we really need the rest.  Boog even had a septoplasty less than a year ago.  I am getting desperate at this point which is why I say it has become an obsession.  Do you think a Snore Pillow purchase is wishful thinking?  P.S. And when he isn't snoring, he's twitching and talking about World of Warcraft in his sleep.

10.  Craig Ferguson - He's been making me laugh out loud forever, but he keeps me company from 12:35 AM until 1:35 AM weeknights.  He should really "Cut that out!" because I want to sleep in and have to deal with Boog's snoring.  He addresses himself as "TV's Craig Ferguson."  Are you sure he isn't on Plurk?

11.  Tattoo - I am getting inked sooner than later.  No, I won't tell you what, where, when, or who.  It will be custom, and I don't want anyone thieving my idea.  It will be my first (and possibly only), so I want to keep it a big ass secret as long as I can.   The only difference between tattooed and non-tattooed people is that tattooed people are way more cool and can kick your ass.

12.  Smoothies - Can you believe that it is near impossible to get a snow cone in Las Vegas?  Well, it is.  That is when Boog and I say:  "It's smoothie time!"  Don't confuse Smoothie Time with Business Time, but it runs a close second when it is eleventy billion degrees in July and August.  Besides, Tropical Smoothie has happy hour twofers on weekdays from 4-6 PM.  Oh, yeah, we love the Jamba and the King too.

13.  iPhone - The real question is:  Should I camp out or not?  It is mine tomorrow!

The sun'll come out
Tomorrow
So ya gotta hang on
'Til tomorrow
Come what may
Tomorrow! Tomorrow!
I love ya Tomorrow!
You're always
A day
A way!

As far as you are concerned, readers, love me or hate me; it's still an obsession.  Leave me some loving in the comment box.  How's that for obsessive?

*Too Long Didn't Read is a Boogism.  Did you finish ALL of it?  That would make you a little obsessive.

I am still blogging despite anything I implied on this blog, Twitter, or Plurk.  I had two uncomfortable experiences this week with attribution on top of the havoc the Hormone Hostage is wreaking.  I'm over it, and I am moving on with this blog because that is what the voices are telling me to do.

With that said, I give you this week's Thursday Thirteen.  It is for Boog's ultimate survival during Hormone Hostage Week in the I Read Banned Books household that I am posting these tips.

13 Don't You Fucking Ever Cross the PMS Line Rules for Hormone Hostage Week:

1.  Don't ask me if I am PMSing, or if "it's that time of the month again." Come closer and say it again.  All jokes about PMS are hazardous to your health.

2.  Don't mention the zits on my face or offer me any chocolate or caffeine. Despite anything I do or say, this does not fucking help.

3.  Don't suggest I take any less or more medication. It is NOT all in my head, and I am NOT overreacting.

4.  Don't walk away from me when I am talking. I will NOT be ignored.

5.  Don't dare ask if I want some. You may be replaced by a toy at any time.

6.  Don't try to reason with me. You are an idiot.

7.  Don't try to correct me. I am never wrong.

8.  Don't try to appease me. Nothing you suggest is good enough.

9.  Don't ask me what is for dinner. Cook your own damn meal.

10.  Don't leave a piece of dirty clothes anywhere except the hamper. I am not your maid nor your personal assistant.

11.  Don't assume I am feeling better if I laugh or smile. I was envisioning you passing a kidney stone in my head.

12.  Don't tell me to calm down or to relax. I know where you live and when you go to sleep.

13.  Don't take anything I do or say personally. I still love you to the sky, asshat.

This PSA was brought to you by the Hormone Hostage.  Don't say I didn't warn you.  This week is going to be ugly.  I'm really not kidding.  I feel this one in in my blood ... literally.  This chick will be here all week.

If you have forgotten who she is, don't forget she also wrote all the clickables in this entry.

Psst ... the last clickable is my personal favorite.  Go read it again.  And, then I double dog dare you to cross this psycho hose beast for the next few days.

Boog is a n00b.  Yes, he sure is.  He is a part-time first-time college freshman in addition to being a full-time casino floor supervisor, all-around geekdorknerd, father to Monkey Boy, and husband to the one and only CajunVegan.  He is pretty busy these days taking a online psychology class and a site-based English 101 class.  As an educator and a former teacher of English, I am witnessing his love-hate relationship with being a student again.

Boog was welcomed to English 101 about three weeks ago.  This composition class is required of almost every American college freshman. It should be one of the most enjoyable and rewarding courses in a person's college experience.  For Boog, it has been downright frustrating.  His love of reading, and his voracious appetite for the written word is clearly evidenced in his writing.  However, his professor has made it clear that her opinion is the correct interpretation of all texts he is asked to read critically and to write analytically about for his discussion questions and essays.  Furthermore, she has chosen pieces authored by largely African American (okay, Boog, black) authors, and Boog is as homeslice as they come.

Last night, he was reading James Baldwin's "Stranger in the Village."  The second of the three discussion questions was as follows:

Baldwin relates the white man's language and legends about black men to the "laws" of the white man's personality.  What conviction about the source and the nature of language does this reveal?

Boog's initial response was:

Yes, it says:

"I don't have a fucking clue what this questions means.  I am a fucking 40 year old retard."

I paraphrased the question as I understood it (not having read the selection and being a crazy ass white girl myself), and Boog was able to answer it eventually.  One thing I do know for sure is that for Boog to succeed in anything, it helps to be prepared.  So, speaking as a former middle and high school English teacher, I am going to let Boog in on one secret to surviving freshman-level courses:  Be prepared to be overwhelmed, and know that I am here for you.  If worse comes to worse, you can always take the Soul Man approach like C. Thomas Howell did and re-enter next semester as the 40-year-old Black Man Virgin.

]]> http://alaskanmama.wordpress.com/?p=150 Fri, 20 Jun 2008 21:28:37 +0000 Happy Mama http://alaskanmama.wordpress.com/?p=150 1. Make sure that you have a red eye flight, then pump them full of junk food. ie. hot dogs, fruit snacks and granola bars.

2. When it comes time to sleep during the red eye, make sure you've booked the fullest most uncomfortable flight and that your child develops a pressure induced earache.

3. After waking up at 6:20 AM (realizing that 6:20 is realy 2:20 AM back at home which is where your child's biological clock is still running) you get on a shuttle and head to the happiest place on earth where your hotel room isn't ready and won't be ready most of the day. Oh, and your husband, the father of the exhausted-meltdown-waiting-to-happen still hasn't left the neighboring state on his flight to your destination.

4. Three hours of "waiting" later your husband gets there and optimistically has you leave the comfort of the hotel lobby, grumbling in all of your stench, to the resort for lunch. You notice your child is in a daze, but chalk it up to the heat. Only to discover minutes later that she has fallen asleep at the restaurant table and has to be laid down on chairs to nap.

5. You do your best to not drop her or pull your back out as you carry your rag doll all the way back through the 90 degree heat to the shuttle station where you go back to the hotel that you left and hour earlier to find your hotel room ready and waiting.

You have my permission to change up the routine, but I guarantee it will work and work very well.

At first I was confused. "What's going to happen if she watches?"

"It just makes it worse." he replied from firsthand knowledge.

Well, I wasn't about to announce to my four year old NOT to watch the blood being sucked out of her arm through a hose. I'm sure that little announcement would go over really well. "MOMMY! They're going to KILL ME!" and on and on. Oh lordy that would be fun.

So I played pretend that it was going to be "neat" and she was going to be "so brave" when they put her up into the chair.

When they stuck the needle in her arm though she panicked a little. She looked freaked out but was stuck until they were done. It wasn't until about a minute after the needle came out though that the fun started.

It started with her face turning a little white and her telling me she wanted to go home. (Not a good sign since she never ever wants to go home) I realized she was about to hurl, so we hung her head over a trash can and waited. 3 minutes later she still hadn't puked, so crisis averted we sat her up and gave her a sip of water. 30 second later up came her pb&j.

And here we are, yet again with a first in a medical facility. The last first we had was the first 2 year old to hold completely still during a CT scan. I have such a special child.

I swear I spent an hour trying not to fret over why I wasn't giving my kid the shiny lip gloss or doing her hair up all curly. Why was I not picking at her every five seconds? My kid is the best one up there, obviously everyone can see it! So why doesn't she have a freakin' feather clip? GAH!

I love that Boog loves ballet. I'm thrilled for her to love something so much, but I just can't stand these women. They create this feeling that they are living through their kid's cuteness and by the end of it I'm feeling the same way and I hate it.

I can't wait for Karate to start.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE WOMEN?

Here, we start with her giving out her final orders before they move out.

Here they commence with the mewing and crawling.

Single file and marching on all fours they continue on their quest to the ever ominous slide.

Dearest Boog,

We now know why I was such a psycho hose beast for the past week. You were a casualty of the PMS war raging in my body. I know the way I was acting was "somewhere between Christmas and being buried alive," but like Howard Jones eloquently versed it “things can only get better.”

Until the next episode …

I love you to the sky,

Your adoring wife also known as CV

P. S. We can even go see Iron Man tomorrow if you would like me to make it up to you.

Boog was married to Shoeless Sue, Monkey Boy's mom, for less than two years. He was her second husband, and Monkey Boy is her second child. She divorced her first husband and abandoned her first son. She then met and fell in love with Boog. While they were planning to be married, she found out she was pregnant again. She and Boog were married shortly after Monkey Boy was born. They moved from Florida to Louisiana sometime after Monkey Boy was a year old to work in the casino industry. She got pregnant with and aborted another child. She and Boog decided that they did not want to have more children, and he agreed to a vasectomy. She then cheated on Boog with someone they both worked with, and this devastated him enough to try to commit suicide. They legally separated and were planning to divorce when we met shortly after Monkey Boy's third birthday. He was ready to move on, and I was ready to move away from Louisiana. After a visit to Las Vegas, we decided to give it a go and moved out here.

It took me four years to finally get Boog to marry me. During this time, Shoeless Sue was in two long-term committed relationships that eventually ended as her two marriages had. She called them off and moved on to the next flavor of the month. Monkey Boy was shuffled from Louisiana back to Florida and then to Colorado during the second of these post-Boog relationships. He became very close to "Rick" and was crushed by the news. We moved Monkey Boy to Las Vegas for third and fourth grade to give Shoeless Sue a chance to get her own life in order, for Boog to bond with Monkey Boy, and for me to see what kind of stepmom I was or was not meant to be.

There were many ups and downs during the time Monkey Boy lived with us. Without going into all of the details, let me clarify that we did see a family therapist and also put Monkey Boy into private therapy as well. At some point, Shoeless Sue convinced Monkey Boy to move back to Colorado. It was not too challenging to figure out why. She has a new beau, Grizzly Adams, was pregnant again, and had recently married in a secretive ceremony. Long story short, she could offer him the sibling we could not, and he moved back to Colorado at the beginning of fifth grade.

Boog was lonesome; I was heartbroken. I felt like I could not win for losing with Monkey Boy. I could never compete with his mom before Devil Incarnate was born; how was I supposed to now that he had a sibling? Soon afterward, we learned that Monkey Boy had been diagnosed with depression; it was not really a big surprise as both Boog and Shoeless Sue suffer from clinical depression. Monkey Boy has been under doctor's care and on medication for the past four and a half years and seems to be doing much better overall despite being one of those evil beings commonly known as a teenager.

When Monkey Boy was here at Christmas, we learned that things were tense with Shoeless Sue and Grizzly Adams. We took the opportunity as we do every time we get to let Monkey Boy know that he is loved and welcome in our home anytime he wishes to move back. As you can imagine, things went from bad to worse and Shoeless Sue admitted to Boog that she and Grizzly Adams were in therapy.

A few weeks ago, Boog and I sensed that Monkey Boy was unhappy and reiterated to him that we wanted him to come live with us but would support whatever decision he made. As he is now 15 years old, we know that any court of law would want to hear his opinion, and we have always left the "moving back to Las Vegas decision" with Monkey Boy. He stated again that he did not think he wanted to move back here as he was now in high school, has friends and a girlfriend, and would not want to leave his now five-year-old brother. Under that all was the feeling that Monkey Boy knew something was going to happen between Shoeless Sue and Grizzly Adams. Boog and I could sense it and have been able to predict it for years now. We were just waiting for the ball to drop.

The ball dropped today. Shoeless Sue called and told Boog that she and Grizzly Adams were divorcing. She is staying put in Colorado because she has made somewhat of a life there for her two children. Monkey Boy has not talked to either his father or me about this, and I suspect he is waiting until he comes for his summer visit. He may or may not say anything, but I feel for him today because he has been through this so many times before now. Even if he wanted to move back to Las Vegas (which I suspect he does now that he will be a full-time live-in babysitter for his mom), he will not ever do it because of his loyalty to her. She is, after all, his mom, and he should feel loyalty to her; however, I know Boog misses him and wants him here now more than ever.

I want everyone to be happy, including me. Right now I am worried about Monkey Boy, hoping that this doesn't affect Boog in a negative way, and weeping inside for the child of my own I'll never have. Is it selfish of me to resent Shoeless Sue's free-spirited ways? Maybe I will never be able to make sense of my feelings about motherhood. All I know for the moment is I do not understand why some people are chosen to be mothers and others are not. Monkey Boy may have not grown in my belly, but he has grown in my heart.

Darth Vader theme

You, too, can be one of Darth Vader's (not DWP's) minions on Twitter.

Ain't nothin' gonna to break my stride
Nobody's gonna slow me down, oh-no
I got to keep on movin'
Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride
I'm running and I won't touch ground
Oh-no, I got to keep on movin'

I googled it to see who sang it and check the lyrics for a whole other idea for today's post. I found the lyrics on website called OLDIE LYRICS. I was mortified. I remember this song from middle school; I was 12 years old when it came out in 1983. Boog chided, "Doesn't that make you feel really old?" Sure, Boog, go ahead and rub salt in the wound. I am getting older, but I am not 40! Oooh, burn!

I don't care what anyone says. The 80s were the best decade for music and for singers who looked like Luigi from Super Mario Brothers. It's just hard to accept that I remember watching this video on Solid Gold 25 years ago. Damn! I am getting older.

The title for this post is courtesy of Boog in his best Mr. Garrison voice. He exudes snarkiness at times. I really would like to see him start his own blog and call it "Help! I've Turned 40, And I'm Stuck in the 80s."

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e.e. cummings

Boog, my sweetest, I known that you have made it quite clear that you do not want a fuss, and I am inclined to comply (except on this blog). How the hell did you get to be forty years old?

For the record, you are now 14,611 days old, 350,644 hours old, 21,039,840 minutes old, 1,262,390,400 seconds old, but who's counting?

In dog years, you are dead; however, in tree years, you are still young.

40 is the new 30. Just ask Cuba Gooding Jr., John Singleton, LL Cool J, Chad Lowe, Mary Lou Retton, Sarah McLachlan, Edward Burns, Lisa Marie Presley, Gary Coleman, Molly Ringwald, Jeri Ryan, Daniel Craig, Mark McGrath, Kenny Chesney, Lucy Lawless, Céline Dion, Patricia Arquette, Anthony Michael Hall, Ashley Judd, Tony Hawk, Kylie Minogue, Jorja Fox, Gillian Anderson, Eric Bana, Debra Messing, Rachael Ray, Will Smith, James Caviezel, Naomi Watts, Jane Krakowski, Hugh Jackman, Shaggy, Vanilla Ice, Parker Posey, Sammy Sosa, Owen Wilson, Jill Hennessy, Lucy Liu, Margaret Cho, and Rachel Griffiths - they too all turn 40 in 2008.

Make and wish and blow out the candles before I have to call the fire department.

Growing old is mandatory ~ growing up is optional. As for me, I love you, my 40-year-old husband, to the sky.

]]> http://alaskanmama.com/2007/11/22/whats-it-all-about-anyway/ Fri, 23 Nov 2007 07:56:36 +0000 Happy Mama http://alaskanmama.com/2007/11/22/whats-it-all-about-anyway/ Thanksgiving is about appreciating the abundance we have in love and friendships. It's about celebrating where we are in our lives and being grateful no matter what we have or who we are.

But for me thanksgiving was about getting a veiled guilt trip from my mother (thanks mom - seriously) to get off of my ass and make my kid a costume for her Thanksgiving feast at preschool. I wanted to just cut holes in a sack and glue on a feather, but O'ma HAD to give me better suggestions. Using that tone of voice that said, "If it were me making it for you this is what I would do." So I buckled and spent the next morning making her a costume before her party, and discovered that I gave birth to the sassiest Pocahontas ever.

Maybe I should write Eve Ensler of the Vagina Monologues give her the new name.

Boog was spoiled from the start. She saw the animals, got all of the food that we got, had her face painted, got her picture taken with the family, played games, won a sword, got a hat, and even rode some rides. You can guess where the wet little paint-smudged booger is right now - passed out in her bed.

I think I'll go do the same (that helps the weight gain right?)

Boog woke up from her nap about half an hour ago and announced over the baby monitor that she had peed in her bed. So she comes out into the living room so that I can strip her down. I get her dress-up dress (she has to be a princess while she sleeps too) off of her and see a big ol' outline of a turd in her panties.

Being the veteran of crap that I am I laugh a little and ask her to go into the bathroom so we can get her cleaned up. I dispose of the doodie and tell her to go get a clean pair of panties out of her top drawer. She runs into her room and shuts the door.

A few minutes later she says, "Mama! I went poo poo again!"

In disbelief I grab a handful of wipes, tell her to stay put and open the door to her bedroom. What I see makes me slightly ill and gives me a case of the giggles at the same time (I'm kind of twisted that way).

Boog is halfway underneath her table with her butt sticking straight up in the air, right at me. And perched right in between her butt cheeks is a great big butt nugget. I frantically say, "don't move. don't move!" and run over to catch it before it gets squished into the carpet. Then she tells me about the other cow pie she deposited in front of her dresser.

What's the lesson here? Time to put her back into training pants!

“No, Mama.”

“Booger! Did you go POO-POO?”

“No! I didn’t go poo-poo.”

“So what’s in your pants?”

“uuuhhhhh…poo-poo?”

I can’t complain too much however. Hubby always seems to get the short end of the poop-stick. Both children seem to sense that their time is near and just as soon as I leave for a little Mommy-time they both unleash their load on their poor unsuspecting Daddy. And it’s never an easy hard little turd. It’s consistency is just squishy enough to find every little crevice and escape hole in a pair of panties or diaper and then spread like a virus onto every nearby surface.

When I get home he’s exhausted, dirty and the house smells like the squishy fecal matter that he’s used a box of wipes and miscellaneous towels to wipe up (and leave in multiple corners of the house). He’s not so great with poop, but great with dark scary slimy kitchen drains.

*on a diapering note: I have yet to have a cloth diaper have a blowout, but frequently have disposable blowouts.