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Well, folks, it's over. The flurry of activity that is Christmas has finally come to an end, thank God. Don't get me wrong, I love Christmas, especially with the kids, but it is definitely a time-and-energy intensive project to coordinate, one that I am grateful to have finished. Done. Complete. Finito. Feliz frigging Navidad and call it a day, por favor.

In reflecting on the past year, I must say, the most positive thing has got to be (besides my sweet baby) my decision to quit taking it up the arse & get a new job. I am simply un-depressable (is that a word?) these days. These fine folks are head over heels in love with me, and I with them. What I'm doing isn't rocket science, I realize this, but I seem to be doing quite the fine job, according to the feedback I'm getting, and that is perhaps what I was missing most at the old place. In the place where you spend the majority of your waking hours, you like to think that what you're doing means something to somebody, somewhere, and that you're doing a halfway-decent job of it. If I should ever get the money/motivation/time/energy to pursue further schooling, I may very well consider studying patent law. The things I've seen, man, they're so damn cool. Really far out. Ba du ba ba baaa...

The other thing that sticks out in my head about the past year is a lesson learned. And that lesson is...Shut the hell up. It's hilariously ironic to me that I went to a shrink to learn to communicate, and my New Year's resolution will undoubtedly be to keep my mouth shut. I'm so irritated with having had an innocent chat with a family member, only to wake up the next morning and read my personal business splashed across the front page. Why? Does no one have hobbies anymore? Is my life really that exciting? Did confidentiality die with chivalry? I'm at a loss as to how to explain these happenings. The only course of action I see fit to take is to, you guessed it, shut the hell up. My shrink would probably be pissed, but I actually foresee this as being beneficial to my relationship with Nathaniel...He will now be privy to every vent and comment I might ordinarily have gotten out of my system elsewhere. I love you, honey. Get ready.

Christmas, check. New Year's resolution, check.

So what bright sparkling future awaits us in 2007? Stay tuned.

I’m beyond curious as to what Julian’s first word will be. I distinctly remember the biting disappointment when Spencer looked adoringly at his father and softly said, “Dada.” In order to nip another situation like that in the bud, I find myself inundating the poor child with “Momma”s. I am bound and determined that he recognize who wears the pants in this family.

“Momma makes a bottle! Look at Momma making a bottle for Momma’s baby. Oh Momma, you are so clever Momma, look how Momma mixes a bottle for Momma’s boy. Momma Momma Momma Momma.”

And now, halfway through my headlong plunge into this task, I realize just what I have become. It’s official, folks. I have in fact become…a Pokemon.

Remember Pokemon? All the cartoon-y characters, running around saying nothing but their own names in conversation-like cadence? This is what I have been reduced to. A PokeMomma.

But you know what? It will all be worth it. My silly conversations to myself, with myself, about myself…the sacrifice of any real adult conversation before 7 p.m….will all be worth it, when my JuJuBee sits up one day, points a little Vienna sausage finger at me and claims me for his very own, “Momma.”

You better recognize.

One of life's deepest mysteries is the male reaction to a virus. I need some scientific proof, a study, an experiment, a fricking poll, anything, that gives me some clue as to why the male body reacts the way it does when invaded by a little ol' germ.

You know the reaction I'm talking about. At the first nasal tickle, the first (gasp!) drip, he keels over. Crawls, mewling like an orphaned kitten, to the couch, where he will slump in vocal agony as THE BUG ravishes his otherwise strong-like-bull body.

THE BUG in question will be debated upon for weeks to come, long after the symptoms have hit the road, jack. He will ponder upon just who could possibly have been so angry with him as to target his particular immune system with THE BUG. Who so brutally attacked him, and why? This, folks, this must be biological warfare. I say we drop a bomb of influenza on whoever the hell it is we're fighting now and watch the menfolk drop like flies, crying like babies to their momma.

It's funny, isn't it (hiLARious), how women, especially the working mothers among us, really get no downtime. Cold? Doesn't even slow us down. Flu? Take your OTC drug cocktail of choice and keep on trucking. Polio? Meningitis? There is work to be done, woman, what is this talk of a nap?? Heresy!

As we speak, You Know Who is laying on his deathbed, quite possibly the first person in the last 85 years to die of the common cold. Pay your respects while you still can, he's down to his last moments, I'm sure.

Well smack my arse and call me Busy, it seems this week has rushed by again with nary a chance to blog! Oh my dear, sweetly patient blogging audience, all 2.5 of you, thank you for waiting. You must have been very, very good, look what Santa brought you! More blithering nonsense. Ready?

If I should not answer the phone, or douse the lights and pretend not to be home, please don’t be offended. It’s nothing personal. It’s not you, it’s me. I am finding quiet, personal time to be more valuable than gold these days. Even Nathaniel has found himself talking to the hand on occasion, because, dear reader, at the end of the day, when the rapid-fire barrage of ceaseless questions are over and The Crying Game has ended, I am one tired, tired momma who wants nothing more out of life than to crawl under a rock where it’s QUIET.

I propose that instead of burning pokers under the fingernails or Chinese water torture, we send prisoners of war or terrorists to be subjected to the incessant, burning questions of very young children.

“Pick up your toys, please.”

“Why?”

“Because someone could trip over them and fall down.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to walk there, honey, it’s the middle of the doorway.”

“Where?”

“Right there, in the kitchen doorway, where your toys are!”

“Here?”

“Yes!”

“Here, where my toys are?”

“Yes!”

“Someone could trip over them? Who?”

“Yes, honey, like Daddy or Mommy or just anyone.”

“You would trip? And fall down? And go CRASH! BOOM! BANG! Like that?”

“Yes. Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.”

“Hey, Mommy?”

“What, baby?”

“I should pick my toys up.”

Oh. My. God. Stand back. Someone, quick, get me the waiting list for Stanford.

I love my son. Don’t get me wrong. I just sometimes wish I were on a white sand beach on the opposite side of the world, listening to the sound of the waves and THAT’S IT.

Lord help the attorney who asks me “why” on Monday.

Ahhh, the weekend. We meet again, dear friend.

In with the weekend, out with the Indian summer. It has been a glorious sixty-plus degrees here the past couple of weeks, and today, a return to freezing temperatures and, your favorite and mine, winter precipitation. Walla walla walla, step right up and place your bets! Will it hail? Sleet? Snow? Will it take ten minutes to get to work or forty-five? It's anybody's guess, and you won't know 'til you roll out of bed in the morning.

Ohio weathermen have got to have the toughest jobs in America. I can just picture them, poring over blips on screens and highs and lows and God knows what...Here comes the anchorman, straighten his tie, powder his nose, quick, somebody, tell him what to say! And we're live in three, two, one...Well folks, six oh two is the time and the weather tonight will be...(I SWEAR one time he actually said this)...Changing skies! WHAT? What does that mean?? Absolutely nothing. It's comparable to THE ORANGE ALERT (I always picture it in all caps) the country has been on for what, five years now? I just want to know how that helps, at all. I want to hear one eyewitness get on the news and stand there, shaking and upset but visibly relieved...You know, that ORANGE ALERT really saved my bum! I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for THE ORANGE ALERT!

A definite plus to working on the nineteenth floor is the frigging view, man. I am all up in those changing skies, and I can see foul weather rolling in a mile away. A dark line on the horizon, three layers of clouds moving at different speeds, and then...nothing. The clouds envelop us and for all I know, the nineteenth floor could have floated clean away and my elevator shaft nightmares could come true. We could be airborne, untethered, spirited off to that patent law office in the sky, some adventure to be had. It's all so Gulliver's Travels.

And here I am, daydreams burst, slamming back home to reality in my chair, my desk, my office, my floor, my building. My hunger to pour my thoughts out of my jumbled, eccentric mind, write them down, organize and share them has been sated, and that can mean only one thing. Lunch time is over.

Thursday? Thursday already?? How can that be? The time is flying, dear reader, and I am counting down the paychecks 'til The Big Day. Spencer, on the other hand, prefers to count down the hours 'til Christmas, and can hardly bear the thought of wasting any of them sleeping. The dilemma comes in knowing that Santa will be highly displeased to hear of him not listening to Momma and going to bed in a timely fashion. To slip peacefully off to sleep after a hard day of play, or to torture Momma with whiny excuses? Such are the moral struggles of a 3-yr-old. At the end of the day, of course, the Santa card trumps all, but you knew this.

Julian, on the other hand, hasn't a clue what is looming on the horizon and knows only his immediate pain. Frustration, thy name is SHOES! We had allowed our sweet baby to run with the wind between his toes thus far, but decided with falling temperatures and increased walking ability, shoes were in order. I had forgotten how putting the damn things on can throw all previous walking feats out the window and set us back, oh, to about 2-wk-old status. Poor Julian crawls around army-style these days, dragging the offending sneakers as if he were a war hero crawling home, useless legs behind him. What a drama queen. He gets that from his father.

Julian has also discovered his tongue, which adds boundless emphasis to his encrypted vocabulary. It's all so Sylvester, phbltt-uffering phbltt-uccotash.

Consider yourself updated, dear reader, a virtual peeping Tom in the bushes of my life, and fret not! I swear on a stack of patents, more postcards from the edge (isn't that a movie? Is that phrase trademarked? I should know, huh?) tomorrow!

Thanksgiving. Perhaps the easiest of holidays to explain thematically to the young'uns. More difficult, however, is explaining the meaning of the word, "thankful." Things or ideas you have, that you like, that you are just so so so happy to have. Or like. Things or ideas. You know. Stuff.

Seeing as how my insightful interpretation was laid out so cleanly before him, I don't understand how Spencer could not immediately grasp the concept.

"What are you thankful for, Spence?"

"Ummm...I'm helpful for..."

"No, thankful, look at my mouth, thu-ank-ful."

"Oh. Kay. I'm thankful for...Ummm...My friends at school..."

"Yes! That's great! Oh good job, what a nice thing to be thankful for. Go ahead, baby..."

"And I'm thinkful for..."

"No, thankful, Spence, thankful, what are you so happy to have?"

"I'm thankful for...Ummm...my friends, and...my school, and..." (Eyes start wandering) "...My mittens, and...our car, and...stop signs, and...stores, ay-uuund...car wash, ay-uuund...sidewalk, ay-uuund...lady walking her doggie, ay-uuund...Cwismas lights! And I'm thankful for Cwismas! And Santa Claus! And I will sit on Santa Claus lap! And I will say, (falsetto) 'Santa, please may I have a 'mote control car?' And he will say 'YES!!'"

Ah, Thanksgiving, you poor overlooked holiday. You are merely a stumbling block on the road to Christmas.

I am thankful for my boys, for my entire family, may they forever be deliriously happy and healthy, and for my sense of humor, without which sanity would not be possible. Amen.

Just recently we touched upon how similar dear Spence’s personality is to that of his father. In today’s Happy Hour, we will discuss a way in which Spence reflects a love of my own heart, The Great American Word Game.

Word play, it seems, provides endless fascination for this 3-yr-old, and he will happily engage in it with any willing participant/innocent bystander for hours on end.

“Hey Spence, look, it’s Uncle Jonah!”

“Uncle Jonah?”

“Yup. Say hello!”

“Hello, Uncle…Cheek!”

My dear brother, being the kind-hearted goof he is, plays along.

“Hi Spencer! How are you?”

“Fine, Uncle…Blanket!” (hysterical laughter)

“Oh yeah? Well that’s good, Spence-cheek!” (more hysterical laughter) “How was your day at school today?”

“Fine! I played on the swings pickle! I said pickle! Ahahahaha!!”

“Well the swings are fun…But what about the slide CHEEK?!”

(Spencer, of course, now believes my brother to be The Funniest Man On The Planet.)

“Well my favowite is the monkey PICKLE bars!! Ahahahahahaha!”

“All right, Spence, you’re a silly boy...Oh look, it's dinner time…Are you hungry? How about a WOODEN BLANKET SANDWICH?”

(Spence falls down on the floor, arms wrapped around his own stomach to keep from busting a gut.)

My brother has now cemented his place as favorite uncle. This only leaves the question of how to explain to the extended family at the upcoming holidays why Spencer now refers to him as Uncle PickleCheek BlanketPants. I’m sure they’ll understand.

Happy Friday! Friday, Friday, you know what that means...Donuts for breakfast, takeout for lunch, and pizza for dinner, meaning by the end of the day you will probably be unable to sit down comfortably in those jeans you were so excited to wear to work today.

Yes, Casual Friday, dear reader, Denim Paradise as far as the eye can see. I have a theory, yet to be disproven, that there may be a direct correlation between one's age and exactly how high-waisted one's jeans are. A teenager, bopping around the mall or whatever it is teenagers do these days (feels like ages since I've been one), will unflinchingly sport pants with approximately half an inch of material between crotch and button. These are called "low-rise," or "belly before baby" jeans. Display it now, chickies, display it while you still can.

Add on an inch or so for each decade lived and you've got the formula! Remind me to stop wearing jeans in about thirty years, Ok? Thanks.

When this theory leaves you questioning your results, an additional way to determine how old one truly is is to engage said person in light conversation. Note the enthusiastic use of the word "sucks" and the sideways glances to be sure you think they're using it properly. Very telling.

Again, these are just theories.

I'd like to lobby management to instate Pajama Thursday. Then we could really have some fun.

Oh, LAWD, here we go again. On a very reputable bulletin board that I visit, the inevitable debate of whether to return to work after children or stay home has reared its ugly head.

I thought I'd come here to vent a bit. Smart girl, aren't I? These things can get pretty heated on the boards and I'd rather not wake up with a severed stuffed animal head in bed beside me.

So humor me, won't you? I believe I've stumbled upon the perfect illustration of how it feels to be a working mother in the company of those who so fiercely believe anything less than staying home full-time to be equivalent to leaving your children in the woods to be raised by wild squirrels (I'm in Cleveland, Ok?).

Say you are one of the afore-mentioned mothers. Now say you throw a dinner party, of mixed company. If an acquaintance of yours, attending said dinner party, had a mastectomy, and you were aware of it, would you gather your bosomy friends 'round and go on and on about how you couldn't imagine what it must be like to lose a breast(s)? You couldn't possibly ever go through that, what it must be like to wear a swimsuit, how could you please your husband, etc. etc. etc.

See what I mean? Now, I'm not a (complete) idiot, I realize that these two things are not comparable in real life, not even close, but I wanted to paint a picture for you of what it feels like to be degraded in such a manner, even unintentionally. One of my best friends does this to me.

That said, I understand that each of us makes choices we hope will be best for our family, with the research we've done on our own personal situations and a desperate attempt to project the future of each decision. I say, if you can feasibly stay home, if you have both the financial stability and patience of a...very patient thing, then do. Enjoy the hell out of it! But please don't assume that I'm an asshole who could stay home and doesn't, or rub it in that you have that luxury. While I read your posts, I am at work missing my boys like crazy, hoping like hell they'll still love me best at the end of the day.

CAN'T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG??

P.S. Silly, light-heartedness tomorrow.

Today is an absolutely beautiful day in my neck of the woods. The sun is shining, it's warm(ish), & the leaves are lazily floating down all around. I'm thinking we'll take little Spence out to the park, as this may prove to be our last genuinely nice day of the year. Then...bum ba BUM...Snow, and ice, and all manner of things hazardous to this commuting chick. Ick. I keep threatening to move to Arizona. I actually know nothing about Arizona, but I hear it's a nice dry heat. I'm IN.

Irregardless...(I'm KIDDING, if you ever actually say this non-word to me, I'll take it as a personal affront & bitch-slap you)...We are looking at an inevitable stretch of cabin fever ahead of us. There are only so many times you can read The Boy's favorite book, or watch Toy F Me Sideways Story (oh no, it seems I'm tired of this one already, & winter isn't even fully upon us), or glue popsicle sticks together or whatever fun projects I can pull off my bookmarked kiddie websites. I can never come up with something truly original. I'm crafty like a fox, and only that way.

Where was I? Oh, cabin fever, indeed. These two words, along with "financial preparedness" are possibly the only obstacle on the path to having three children. I simply don't think I can stand to be sardine-d in with one more single person over the course of an impossibly long, dreary Ohio winter. For a scary sight, swing by my place around, oh, February-ish, peek inside, and watch the zombies duke it out over the remote. Fun times.

My last thought on this as I prepare to hibernate is this...If you take the term "cabin fever" lightly, consider this...There was a gentleman you may remember who suffered through a child-induced case of cabin fever. His name was Jack Torrance. 'Nuff said.

Just in case there was ever any doubt as to my coolness, it's been confirmed...Starting sometime soon (???), I will be writing a "journal" (blog, really) for babycenter.com, the site for the hippest mommas. How cool is that?!

True, it will be a lot of hard work, a thankless, non-paying job, but that's motherhood, really. I'm already signed up for that, may as well sing about it from the mountaintops for the sheer rush of it...The hiiills are aliiive...With the sound of tyyyping...

So I'm here today to write about writing, to blog about blogging...I do so apologize for the redundancy, but being offered that journal spot absolutely MADE MY FREAKING DAY. Tell your friends about me! No seriously, tell them. I could use the exposure.

I'm kidding, of course...if you actually tell anyone you're reading my lame-o crapola, they will certainly snub you. Or at least snicker a bit. If anyone asks, you Googled "vivacity" for a work project and stumbled across this really weird site, check it out, you might like it. It's this certifiable mom chick writing about her clearly disturbed children and the train wreck called her life. It's a scream!

Well darling dears, the journey to becoming the next {insert favorite author here} starts with one step, so...I'm off! Wish me luck! And thank you, audience, I sincerely appreciate your patience with these humble attempts to catalogue My So-Called Life...It is your support that gives me the inspiration to continue pursuing this, my dream.

Well, folks, it's happened. The inevitable is upon us, and I find myself less than prepared to deal with this new onslaught of milestones and the emotions that ensue. The Baby, if I can even call him that anymore, is walking. I am the proud emotional wreck of a mother to one young boy and one, GULP, toddler. I'm not ready. Hold me.

Tears aside, it is HILARIOUS to watch. He'll get halfway across the room, crawling like an express locomotive, before remembering that he knows how to walk. Pause, mid-knee-raise, head cocks to the side, wait for it, wait...A-ha! Gathers his legs beneath him, a push off the ground with little sausage-fingered hands, and VOILA...He's a stand-up kinda guy. Then, and this requires much effort...lift of the foot and quickly thump it down...steady now, steeeaaadyyy...and...other foot. This is exponentially more amusing than watching paint dry, although it takes about twice as long.

Spence is both intrigued and frightened to death of this new development. Our enthusiasm is contagious, and he'll fight to be the one to stretch out both arms and invite Julian to take a stroll his way...But at the same time, when said baby does actually reach him, he gets a little freaked out at someone pitching towards him, tearing at his clothes and leaning in, doe-eyed and dewy-lipped, for a kiss. Some day he'll actually search this out, from the appropriate girl of course. Oh, excuse me, the appropriate girl or boy. Momma's an open-minded kind of gal, you lucky sons of guns.

Even with Spence running hot and cold on him, The Baby seems interested enough to pursue this walking endeavor. And we are one hundred percent behind him, literally, arms ever-ready to catch a stumble.

On the bright side, I suppose this puts us one step closer to Adulthood and Get The Hell Out. Some shining day of the glorious future, when Nathaniel and I have the time, energy, and money, we'll travel and travel and travel. Or maybe just stay in bed and recoup from years of nerve-wracking stress. Either or.

Working on the 19th floor these past 3 weeks, I've come to realize some valid concerns I have regarding Gravity-Defying Death Traps, or what my completely oblivious coworkers call "elevators." Perhaps I can squeeze some free therapy out of this blog.

Concern #1: What if, or should I say when, because it seems like an inevitability over the course of time and daily wear and tear...What if the whole damn hulking thing should come loose, that is, the brake and corresponding emergency brake should give out, while an innocent person was, say, stepping out onto a floor? Would that person lose the leg they were so unsuspectingly stepping out with? And if so, whose insurance responsibility would that be?? How much blood are we talking? And just how many Halloween horror movies does it take to turn one's mind to an all-day gore-athon?

Concern #2: What if this same innocent Death Trap rider were "safely" in said Death Trap when Concern #1 occurred? Hurtling to the earth, free-falling and rapidly gaining speed...18, 17, 16...What would be the best course of action? 15, 14, 13... Randomly push buttons while screaming "Fire!" because any chick with an email address knows that would bring the most help the quickest?? Or...Maybe, just maybe, brace yourself as best you're able, thereby avoiding the direct impact of Death Trap vs. ground? Hmmm. Food for thought. And Lord knows I have plenty of time to review my options while rocketing up and down all day in these crazy, crazy machines we've come to rely on. I should have asked for more money.

Next week: Fire In The Stairwell...Now What?

We touched earlier upon the subject of children inheriting their parents’ traits, and this past weekend has revealed that Spencer has most definitely inherited his father’s outgoing personality.

As a child, I was completely unable to approach anyone I wasn’t familiar with, and express myself in any fashion whatsoever. I felt a longing to crawl under the nearest rock, or perhaps disappear entirely, whenever a social situation presented itself. When playing that fun game, Which Super-Power Would YOU Want? Mine was invisibility, hands down. Still is, when I’m late for work or caught typing a blog entry on company time. POOF! Want to scold me? Got to find me first, bitches!

Nathaniel, on the other hand, is and has always been the most extroverted person I know. This, I believe, is why our balancing act works so well. He’ll order the dinner when dining out, for example, and scream if it’s wrong, and I’ll stare at the floor. We each have our parts to play.

So back to this past weekend…We took the kiddos to an indoor trick-or-treating event and they had a BLAST. Batman, a.k.a. cousin Jason, took the lead and off they went, trick-or-treating to their hearts’ content, punctuated with the occasional delighted scream as some masked creature peeked out from around a corner. Said with no sarcasm whatsoever, fun times.

At the end of this winding road of Halloween joy, we came to a gathering place where they had everything from a coloring contest set up, to refreshments and a large area with a d.j. for the kiddies to break it down to the tune of the Monster Mash. I said, “Spence, go show ‘em your moves!” Half-expecting him to turn bashfully into me & hide his face against my (ample) thigh. Son of a gun if he didn’t take off full speed into the heart of the melee, shaking his booty like a pro.

I was astounded…I myself couldn’t have gone onto the dance floor for a million dollars, regardless that my judging peers would have been an eighth my age. Nathaniel was pleasantly surprised, a little smile on his face which I knew meant he was reminiscing on his heyday, complete with impressing the grade-school girlies with his fancy, fancy moves. ‘The sprinkler’ has not died, ladies and gentlemen, it lives on, if only in Nathaniel’s memories.

So I’m here to say, lock up your daughters, because darling Spencer is truly his father’s son.

In this time of wondrous change and growth, I've sat back and watched my boys get older with the subconscious idea that I was somehow perfectly preserved in my 16-yr-old body. That window of internal viewpoint slammed shut just last night while perusing some old photos. I came across one of myself in a sweatshirt in which long blond hair was flowing in the breeze, and I had this smile on my face like, Responsibility? What's that? Who needs it?? Not me, I'm just hanging out, wearing perfectly applied makeup & have you seen this HAIR? Yup, woke up & styled it with all the time in the world laid out before me.

I'm thinking, yup, that's me, wrinkle-free face & all.

Then my eye caught the sweatshirt I had been wearing, & the condition of this sweatshirt, which I actually still own. The shirt is absolutely threadbare, really just two sleeves held together by an Aeropostale logo (yes, I was quite the fashion snob, before I knew what "bills" were).

A bucket of cold water to the face. While I realize that skin doesn't age at quite the rate cotton does, I...prepare yourself...have aged as well! Son of a gun. Who'd have thunk, even I could be affected by the passage of time?? I have laugh lines now, & carry some hefty luggage under my eyes...& around the hip-thigh area...

Oy. I'm not ready for this! Who the hell wants to get older? Not I, said the fly, as he keeled over 24 hours after his birth.

I'm thinking a cute haircut & an extra workout or two may stave off the depression I feel breathing down my neck, edging in on my happiness here at the new job. Well, I suppose I've got to take the good with the bad...Do you know any 16-yr-old legal assistants be-bopping around downtown, going home to the arms of a gorgeous loving family?? All right then. I've got two healthy dollops of sugar at home to help the medicine go down.

Today's Pondering:

What would a stifled sneeze, followed by a sigh of relief, sound like to a cubicle-mate?

For side-splitting fun at home, try holding a book or other impromptu divider between you and a friend, deep breath, lips pursed tightly together, forcefully expel the air, big sigh finale, aaand...Voila! Instant fun! Note: Please don't attempt this if you are actually right now sitting in a cubicle.

Also great at parties!

The government is approving a much-needed piece of legislation I think all of you Internet-savvy should be made aware of.

TAADA (The Acronym Awareness & Dispute Act) allows any person or agency to bring forth an acronym for discussion. If said acronym is already in common use, it cannot be granted to said party. If it’s an unusual & fun one, such as DUBYA, which of course stands for Dumb Useless Bullshit-Yakking Arsehole, you will automatically be placed in the running for the Nobel Prize (NP).

TFB (This Fun Blog) would like to take this opportunity to say that there are entirely TMA (Too Many Acronymns) on This Crazy Planet (TCP), and although there actually is no PL (Pending Legislation) before TBIC (Those Bastards In Congress), I feel there should be. So STIYPASI (Stick That In Your Pipe And Smoke It).

If I come across as Frustrated And Cranky (FAC), it can only be due to my present learning environment (LE), which appears to run solely on WTMATL (Way Too Many Acronyms To Learn). PL (Patent Law) and the ADBMW’s (Attorneys Driving BMW’s (Bavarian Motor Works)) a.k.a. BOSS’s (Bitches Out Sidewalk Shopping) should really consider patenting a learning environment (LE) in which one is submerged in PLL (Patent Law Language) for a short period and be done with it (FINITO), rather than this slow, current madness-inducing CWT (Chinese Water Torture) method.

Please, DUBYA, can’t we come up with some legislation ASAP, or I fear I may TALWOASP (Take A Long Walk Off A Short Pier).

SOL,
Cera

P.S.
P.P.S.
R.S.V.P.
Cc:
Fw:
Encl.
CKV/ckv

Dear Little Boy in the Oven Door,

I just want to extend my heartfelt thanks. You never disappoint; you are always there for my Julian when he needs you to be. You never complain, you never make a sound, you are not another mouth to feed…you’re simply there for him. And he leans on you more and more these days (literally), especially when seeking some quiet solace from his larger, older, much louder siblings. So thank you.

You remind me of “Katie,” Anne of Green Gables’ mirrored friend. Do you know her? How is she these days? Haven’t heard about her since Anne traipsed off to The Isle.

I also wish to apologize…You seem capable of handling not only Julian’s weight, but endure his lengthy make-out sessions, which can get quite messy. My most sincere of apologies for those. When I laugh hysterically and take pictures, don’t fret, dear Oven Door Boy, my mirth is not at your expense. Per se.

So keep up the good work! I know what you’re thinking. I’ll put my money where my mouth is. I’ll break out the Windex this weekend, and all will be right with the world.

Yours in Kitchen Endeavors,
Cera

I see my mistake. Now I see my mistake.

We discussed getting a pet, way back when, LBB (Life Before Baby), and Spencer was positively enthralled with the prospect. Although the pair of goldfish didn’t last too long, may they rest in peace, we had actually been toying with the idea of getting some sort of pet, perhaps a hamster in one of those handy indestructible plastic balls, the better to scurry out of reach of the clutches of afore-mentioned loving boy. Who was that cartoon girl, Elmira? Elvira maybe? Who would squeeze her animals til their eyes bulged out of their desperate little heads, squeaking sweet nothings like, “I will LOVE you and HUG you and SQUEEZE you and HOLD you forever and ever and ever!” Mental image in place? Good. Now insert the face of my sweet 3-yr-old. There ya go.

Enter Baby Julian, stage left. I do believe dear Spence thought his wish had been granted. A pet, at long last! For his very own. To LOVE him and HUG him and…you get the idea.

I had thought, when I realized I would be the proud mother of two, two, two boys for the price (I wish) of one! that the sort of obstacles I might face would include separating fights, dividing rooms with pieces of masking tape, deciding whose breathing space was whose, etc. And that may very well be in my future, but for now…

I find my biggest obstacle is separating them, all right. Separating Spence from HUGGING (yes, I mean to use all caps) defenseless Julian, yelling vows of undying love in his face (it’s the ol’ deaf/tourist trick…if they don’t respond, just YELL til you think you’re getting through), lovingly petting random features (ears, toes, eyeballs), slipping food to him from the kitchen table like a little…you guessed it…pet.

So a word to the wise…If you are even considering trying to conceive another baby, whatever you do, limit your child’s exposure to animals. Although cute, warm and cuddly, current studies are indicating that babies are not, in fact, pets. In my house, however, the jury is still out.

This is me, prostrate before you, begging forgiveness and whipping my own back with one of those handy flogger thingies. All right? Ok?

My humblest of apologies for having been absent so very long…In Blogger years, a week equals about two months, I know. Haven’t you been just dying to know what antics my boys are up to, and what the new job entails? Well, honestly, I’m still training for the new job, so when I figure it out, I’ll let you know. In a timely manner, Scout’s honor. I’m an honorary Girl Scout by way of Thin Mint Obsession.

Quick update, since I used a nail file to saw through the ankle chain to my desk and once they discover me missing, it’s all over! They’re coming to take me away, ha ha, hee hee, ho ho…Honestly, it’s not too bad here on the ol’ patent law frontier, just difficult to learn all the terminology. They speak another language ‘round these he-yur parts, and I’m a-fixin’ to learn me some.

The boys, well…Boys will be boys will be boys, no matter how much I dress them in girls’ clothes and makeup and force them to practice their curtsies…KIDDING! My boys are boys, through and through. Spence has just recently joined the ranks of The Rough’N’Tumble Gang, which positively horrifies Julian. It’s difficult to convince the baby that Spence is screaming in fun, especially when the baby and I speak different languages. But we’re learning, the both of us.

In other news, Julian has decided to cruise the furniture as his primary means of transportation, so when his daycare calls Child Protective Services on me for all the bumps and bruises, you are all witness to this testimony, this sixteenth day of October, year of our Lord two-thousand-six…I do solemnly swear that although said baby does piss me off occasionally, I have never raised my hand to him. There are simply too many people in line in front of him for their well-deserved bitch slap. Speaking of which, I do so hope my darling ex-employers have mailed me my last check.

Well, dear audience (are there any left? I feel I’ve been away for eons), do please continue to check in…I promise never to neglect you again for so long. Please don’t pine away for me, I’m here, just struggling to juggle the world and everyone in it. It’s a rough job, but somebody’s got to do it. This is The Circus, signing off.

The latest trend in raising a generation of baby geniuses is to teach the fine art of sign language. While this may be a noble endeavor, I don't find it to be very practical. In my short time on this planet, in fact, I have never met a blind person. Although I appreciate sign language, don't get me wrong. Helen Keller, you da woman.

What may be more beneficial, to me, is reading lips. I'm going to start teaching my darling 7-mo-old...tomorrow. This involves much over-exaggerated lip contortion, facial expression, and possibly a hand gesture or two, all with the volume set to 'mute.' Should be hilarious.

Selfishly, I'll guide Julian to read lips for my own ulterior motive. This will help to answer a line item on my List of Burning Questions...WHAT ARE THE EXTRAS SAYING?? I must know. I could die happy tomorrow if I only knew what exactly those background conversations are about. You know what I'm talking about. You're watching a TV show, and Susie is breaking up with Bobby or whatever the hell, front and center, but behind them, a couple walks past, or "co-workers" are mingling over by the water cooler...Extras. People, instructed to act as though they are having some sort of fascinatingly intellectual conversation...The director yells, "Action!"...And these people who probably met each other the day before at a casting call turn to each other and say...What?? They certainly seem to be enjoying themselves, do they not? I find myself more fascinated with this than with whatever is happening center stage that I'm supposed to be paying attention to. Hence my problem. This is where Julian comes into play.

So those pseudo-actors had better step lively. In just about...10 years, I'm going to be totally hip to their scene. And...Action!

I've touched in the past upon the subject of Ye Olde Boob Tube and its undermining influence in my household. I'd like to revisit that subject...

Sunday evening, I was temporarily possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver and decided to whip up a batch of wholesome goodness for my doting family in the form of cookies. I actually find baking to be very therapeutic, and I need all the therapy I can get these days.

My darling 3-yr-old comes wandering into the kitchen in the midst of said whirling dervish. Curiousity piqued, he begins the usual volley of questions...What's this, what's that, flour? I love flour, let me taste, the oven is hot? What's that thing, what's it for, can I use it, can I mix it, can I touch it, can I hold it? What's that, baking soda? I LOVE baking soda, please may I have some baking soda? I asked nicely.

Since I didn't have a free hand at the time to throw him out the nearest available window, I withstood this one-man firing squad rather well, and was under the impression it was winding down when it clicked.

Down came the peanut butter out of the cupboard. The inevitable..."Peanut butter? For...PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES??"

A gleam came into my darling sweet boy's eye, the like of which I had seen only on cartoon villains...The picture was made complete by much licking of chops and wringing of hands.

"Peanut butter cookies! What a great idea!" I wish I could convey the tone to you. As if I had just suggested some fantastic new method of world domination.

"Peanut butter cookies! Mu-hahahahahaha!!" I know you think I'm making this up, but I swear on Nip/Tuck I'm not exaggerating when I say dear Spencer threw back his head and laughed maniacally.

So the new rule is this...Alden watches his cartoons on his TV, and Spencer can watch as much light-hearted, upbeat kiddie fluff on the Disney channel as he wants. And I can once again sleep at night.

Actual excerpt of a father who shall remain nameless reading to his son last night...

"...And this is a fire engine...."

"...And the person who drives the fire truck is called an engineer..."

"...And the people who sit in the back of the truck are called losers..."

Wanted: Full-time Watcher. This position involves filling all requests to "see," "look," and "watch" during all waking hours of one spirited 3-yr-old. Seeking extremely patient individual's undivided attention. This position's pay is the reward of one little boy's adoration and one tired mother's undying gratitude. Yeah I didn't think so.

I have a new job. This may interfere with my commitment to growing The World’s Largest Secretary Ass, but so be it. This double-wide is moving on to bigger and better things, dear reader, and hopefully, fingers crossed, even more fodder for such sarcastic fun as you’ve enjoyed thus far.

My decision to move the hell on occurred about 2.5 seconds after being informed, a couple of weeks (good Lord, has it only been that long?) ago that I was being passed over for a promotion. Not just any promotion, THE only promotion that a lowly secretary such as myself might ever hope for in this teeny, tiny closet of an office. Which used to feel cozy, but now feels like the walls are closing in like that scene in Star Wars where they’re being smushed to death by an intergalactic garbage compactor. Horrible way to go.

Utter bullshit. I was forced out of the office manager position because one of the owners thought his wife would make a lovely front office fixture (wrong-o, she wears aquamarine mascara circa 1985, ‘nuff said). But in a desperate scramble to explain themselves to an understandably upset me, they attempted to mislead my gullible ass into believing that I was not a “go-getter.” Oh, really? How about I “go get” myself a new effing job, how’s that for go-getting? I hope you like green eyeshadow. Enjoy the view.

So, this blog will be coming to you live and direct from a lovely patent law office downtown, beginning Monday, October 9. Until then, I shall be smuggling juicy little tidbits of the circus that is my life from the trenches, faithful reader. Viva VivaCity!

My 3-yr-old son seems to be in the midst of some sort of identity crisis. His lovable little self needs confirmation at every step in every process, and then seems to find it easier to remove himself from the situation entirely and transform into something fantastic.

"Spence, come eat your dinner." (You're thinking, Oh, what a simple request. You poor fool.)
"Come eat?"
"Yes."
"Come eat my dinner?"
"Yes."
"At the table?"
"Yes!"
"Sit down at the table and eat my dinner?"
(Sigh, smack forehead) "Yes. Please. Some time today."
"Today?"
"YES, baby, today, right now, puh-LEEZE."

Pause.

"Call me 'dragon.' Say, 'Come eat your dinner, dragon.'"

At which point I usually take the fork from his place setting and begin stabbing myself in the eye socket, which is much less painful.

So he's got this split personality thing going on, which can be frustrating. Dragons tend not to eat their vegetables, to breathe fire into their baby brother's face, and abhor any bedtime which might cut into their townspeople-scaring time.

I'll wait this one patiently out...I am loathe to stifle any creativity...But if it continues much longer than the average phase, I think I'll request that he address me as Queen Mommy, Ruler of the Known Universe, and see just how dedicated he is to keeping up this charade, because let's face it, a Queen Mommy trumps an ordinary dragon any day of the week. I've had years to perfect my imagination, dear boy, don't tempt me.

Life can be summed up in two categories: Life Before Bills and Life After Bills. Think about it. As a child, you roamed freely, did whatever occurred to you and your numbskull buddies without second thought of consequence, and used the hell out of that most wondrous of foundations, The Bank of Mom and Dad. Withdrawal, withdrawal, withdrawal, baby needs a new pair of shoes.

And even as a young adult, perhaps when you were baby-sitting or mowing lawns or even landing your first real j-o-b, money was no object. Once your car payment was made, it was ON. Life was lived one shopping spree to the next. Good times, and I say that with no sarcasm whatsoever. Good friggin times.

The ironic thing is, all this time, you’re daydreaming about being an adult, with all the freedoms that entails. Boy, are you a dumbass.

Once you’ve crossed that threshold into Adulthood, hooo boy, it’s a whole ‘nother ballgame. It may even be thrilling, to start getting mail and phone calls addressed to that all-important ADULT, you. How fun. How exciting. You’re a bona fide member of society. But mark my words, a horde of fear-mongers will haunt you, and they are…Bills. Bills will knock on your door and ring your phone til you’re lying on the floor, writhing in pain from Empty Wallet Syndrome, fending off these beasts who try to wring money from your very tortured soul. The only weapon these hounds of hell respect is a golden sword called Credit, and woe is he who doesn’t brandish it. You may as well lay down and give up. Start selling organs, you poor bastard, because it is over.

So today’s lesson is this, dear readers: Teach your children, and teach them well. Lay the armor of Knowledge over their breastplates, and instruct them how to wield that irreplaceable shining golden sword, Credit. Please.

If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know those bastards have finally found me and taken their ton of flesh. Let my epitaph say, Here lies Cera, Blissfully ignorant child, Woefully credit-less adult. May she romp carefree in eternal bill-less innocence.

Dooce (dooce.com) poses a question to those of us plodding along in her footsteps, struggling to eke out a blog and fill it with brightly intellectual fodder for the mind. Or just, you know, go on and on about our babies' bowel movements. Which can be quite fascinating, actually. Ever see the business end of a jar of pureed carrots? Care to go there? Dare me. Double dog dare me.

She asks, what are your deal breakers? Following is a short list of my own personal "deal breakers..."

• Stringing me along for 4.5 years with a carrot of a job dangling on a stick that was never going to be mine. Bitches.
• The consistent use of double negatives. It's over, Johnny. Or rather, it ain't not over.
• Poor hygiene. I had to kick Matthew McConaughey to the curb when I heard that nasty rumor that he doesn't wear deodorant. He was heartbroken.
• Gross misrepresentation, which I feel Nathaniel may be guilty of. I could have sworn he boasted of being a "neat freak" at some point early in our relationship. Baby, what happened?? Where's my stenographer? Read that part back.
• Petty, close-minded, egotistical self-involved attitudes. See first item.

In closing, I would like to point out that I feel I am an excellent candidate for The World's Most Laid-Back Person, but eff me once, shame on me. Eff me over a period of 4.5 years, shame on you, bitches, I'm out. Peace.

I have some deeply unsettling and disturbing entertainment news to share today. I know what you're thinking, but no, it's not Britney's second baby. Although that is disturbing in its own right.

Whitney Houston, best-known female warbler on the pop scene, has filed for divorce from her long-time husband, Bobby Brown.

Let me tell you why I am upset by this. I used to watch Being Bobby Brown, their reality show, and I would think, Damn, these two have got to be the craziest fuckers on the planet. But it truly showed that there is someone out there for everyone, even if you are the craziest fucker on the planet. You have a cosmic mate.

Their ability to be completely at ease with each other, goofiness, drugs, kids, careers, LIFE...Amazed me. I could definitely stand to be a little goofier with Nathaniel, although if I told him to kiss my black ass, I doubt he'd be as amused as Bobby was. He already shoots a dirty look if I say, Oh HELL to the no. Whitney, you're my idol, and Iiiii....Will always...Love youuuu. May your quirky sayings be inscribed forever in our pop culture history.

So in today's somber post, I'd like to take a moment to pay my respects to the goofiest, most passionate relationship I have seen in my short time. I still can't believe it. Oh hell to the no.

I don’t claim to be “crunchy,” referring to the granola-oriented method of parenting, but I’m no health slob, either. We fall somewhere in the middle…Somewhere between organic tofu and hot fudge sundaes.

My own parents approached rearing my siblings and me in the same manner…Excepting, of course, the use of wheat germ and oats, which I found a bit excessive. We knew, Mom. You weren't pulling one over on anyone. You may as well have called dinner Whole Wheat Surprise. Mom and Dad's original plan was to go sugar-free the whole way, which was a nice idea…But here on Planet Earth, the reality is that children love and will get to sugar by any means necessary. As a kid, I would and did gladly trade my soul for a Ho-Ho on many occasions. And now that I am free to go buy the local grocery store’s entire stock of Ho-Ho’s, they are my thighs’ sworn enemies. Oh, the agonizing irony of it all.

So Nathaniel and I continue plugging away, singing our little song and dance to get the “bedge-tabuls” into our dear boys…Tossing them an ice cream every now and again, more for its twisted entertainment value than anything else.

Hey, Jude…Don’t let them win…Move your damn hands…And frigging crawl now-oo-ow…We’re tired…Of watching you rock and cry…Some time before next July-yyy…Friggi-ing crawl now. Naaa…naaa naaa na na na naaa…

Crawl, man. Go ahead. We’re all behind you. Yes, you might fall. Yes, rugburn on your teeny nose is a risk…A risk you must take. Crawling is hip, man, all the babies are doing it. Far out.

I promise if you crawl within the next…hmmm…two weeks, I’ll doctor your baby book and say six months. By the time you and I get around to sitting down and reminiscing over such milestones, Mommy dearest will have forgotten anyway, sweetheart, and no one will be the wiser. The terms of this deal expire after two weeks, though. Act quickly.

Although Mommy loves you and is SO PROUD of your hands-and-knees rocking ability, it’s getting old, babe. Mommy doesn’t have the greatest attention span. I love the movie Dirty Dancing, but would I watch it 24/7? Let’s get this show on the road.

I know that all too soon, you will be jet-setting circles around me, and I will crave a moment in which you are immobile and speechless, but I must admit I’m getting a bit worried about development. Word on the street is, rocking on your hands and knees is not the best way to attract women. Or the right type of woman, rather. And it has no place on a college application. Unless of course you plan on testing knee pads for a living. Which doesn’t provide for a cushy mother-in-law suite, so that’s out.

All I’m saying is this, dear JuJuBee…CRAWL. Please. I have the greatest aspirations for you, but time’s a-wasting, and you’re going nowhere fast. You can be anything you want to be…except stationary.

My son, the enigma. His all-important 3-yr-old self never ceases to amaze me. Or himself, it seems. At a festival last weekend, we saw the pony-ride-induced mini-stroke coming a mile away, and being the cruel ogres we are, forced him to ride anyways. Buck up, cowboy, life does not get any easier than being led around in a teeny circle on the back of an oversize dog. I mean really.

But then a few minutes and many tears later, he tugs our sleeves over to a huge inflated slide approximately fifteen hundred feet high and begs to go down. We hide our shock and disbelief (we’re fighting over who holds the baby; the other, by default, will have to climb up after him when the inevitable acrophobia strikes) behind encouraging smiles and a couple of “you go boy!”s and he is off. Amazingly, not only does my Boy Wonder make it to the summit, he completely bypasses the helper lady stationed at the top and hurtles down all by himself! BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE! When he returns to us, all flushed cheeks and Einstein hair, he requests another turn on the slide! After we pick ourselves up off the ground, dust the baby off, and collect our thoughts, we gladly hand over another ticket.

So you think you’ve got it all figured out, do you? Animals terrify and heights excite? Oh, were that it was that simple. There seems to be no rhyme and reason to sweet Spence’s laundry list of fears. For instance, he was able to calmly feed the goats that day, wicked horned beasts with cold blips for pupils, but is absolutely unable to touch Nathaniel’s mother’s dog, paralyzed with fear. He runs shrieking from this adorable foot-tall miniature poodle like the hounds of hell were after him. My mental jukebox kicks in and plays Benny Hill music in the background. We are quite the sophisticated family, I tey-ull you whut.

Well, faithful reader, I’m off to scour Ebay for a gently used plastic bubble in which to protect my Certified Wussy Boy. Keep your fingers crossed he outgrows it by age 30 or so. I’d like grandchildren some day.

The first step is to admit you have a problem. Hello, my name is Cera, and I’m a stickler for grammar. I correct people incessantly. Some of my finer moments have been spent screaming, “We were, we were playing outside, say it, we were!”

Most of my finely honed tutoring skills are currently directed at poor dear Alden, who I’m sure wants nothing more than to crawl into some cool dark place I’ll never find him and say whatever the hell he wants. Eff that bizznitch, she’s be all up in my bidness, for REAL. In my presence, however, precious little passes my attention uncorrected. I try to only remedy 99.5% of grammatical transgressions…I PITY DA FOOL accuses me of nagging. And yet…There’s something so damned satisfying about the slamming one home in the lost art of nagging…

I must share…I was recently completely confounded by my reluctant student Alden. In all my years of grammatical outreach, I have never been so completely thrown for a loop as I was when Alden, making reference to a video game he was playing, said, “I didn’t seen none of them nowhere.” A triple negative? Are you kidding me?? He may have even known what he was doing, pulling a fast one and sidestepping the rule of double negatives by adding another, therefore MAKING THE SENTENCE TRUE. I was at such a loss, I actually let it slide. Where to begin???

So just a heads-up…If you should ever feel like tormenting me mercilessly, forget the rack, forget Chinese water torture…Just tie me down and start throwing double, or if you want to be especially cruel, triple negatives around and my eardrums will no doubt implode. Horrible way to go.

I know you’ll think I’m posting blatant lies on the Internet, but this evening I will actually be leaving the house for a short period of time during which I will consume as many alcoholic drinks as I can while desperately attempting to portray a sane adult who does this all the time and throwing furtive glances at the clock when my girlfriend is not looking. Wish me luck.

My friend Tiffany has been asking, begging rather, for me to go out and socialize with her. I keep claiming that the outside world no longer exists, therefore I see no need to build a façade of normalcy and parade it around in front of them. I am much more comfortable being a goofball in the comfort of my own home, where the booze is cheap and the conversation is to-the-point. How big did you say the baby’s bowel movement was today?? Jesus. Pour the scotch.

But the outside world has intruded on my little bubble life, dear readers, in a big way, which I will go into at a later point when I feel safe doing so. Heed ye always the wise words of dooce (dooce.com), who bids us to be ye not so stupid as to discuss work issues while, oh I don’t know, still employed there. Wait til ye have socked it to the man before discussing his many, many irritating habits and the downright shockingly two-faced way you have been treated and misled. Ye olde fuckers will bear the brunt of my wrath, I assure you, and in due time I shall share my story. Put the kiddies to bed early that day and pour yourselves a drink or eight, it’s going to be a looong entry.

So dear sweet Tiff, who has been thus far so patient with my stubborn refusals to leave my poor babies even temporarily motherless, will be treated to nothing less than my best effort at cheery relaxedness, which will of course actually be drunkenness. Which is fine too. Cross your fingers for me tonight, faithful reader…I will be gingerly walking that fine line between just enough alcohol to be able to laugh casually and carelessly toss my hair over my shoulder, and way, way too much alcohol, in which said hair must be held back from my face so as not to impede the flow of vomit. The way things have been going at work here lately, I’m really leaning towards the latter.

Life is a nightmare. Life is a really, really bad dream and then you wake up screaming in an icy sweat and you’re late for the bus and the dog ate your homework and the shower’s cold and someone hacked off your feet with a nail file while you slept. C’est la fricking vie.

I seem to be a tad down these days. I find it hard to be chipper and upbeat when all I really want to do is ram my stapler up my co-worker’s ass and staple his small intestine to his urethra. Take it away, Mormon Tabernacle Choir…Digestive tract’s connected to the…peehole.

Fucker.

So please forgive my short-post-ed-ness while I nurse this hangover. Occupational hazard.

The holidays are quickly approaching, ladies and gentlemen, and you know what that means. Hot cocoa and mini marshmallows? Get real. I’m talking, of course, about playing the Santa card. It’s pure magic, dear readers, and I don’t give a flying eff if it WAS invented by Hallmark. If I saw Mr. Hallmark on the street tomorrow I’d kiss his fat face because he has saved my dear boy’s bum from a spanking on more than one occasion. As soon as the birthday streamers hit the wastebasket, it is ON. Santa is WATCHING, Spence, so if I were you I’d reconsider shoving that straw up your nose. As positively thrilling as that experience would be, it will most definitely land you on Santa’s Horribly Naughty Very Bad Boy List, and would it really have been worth it? I think not.

We are perfecting our Reindeer Games so well, that I usually only have to throw him the crazy eye and Spence KNOWS I’m thinking about ratting him out…Only once have I been forced to ask Nathaniel to please look up Santa’s phone number for me. The boy made a mad dash to right his wrong (damned if I can remember what it was now), screaming all the while, “I’m being good! I’m being good!”

My own parents never exploited this to its full potential. In fact, they told me at quite a young age what the deal was. In all honesty, I’m not sure they ever let me believe there was a Santa. I’m afraid I dashed quite a few friends’ imaginations to pieces. Santa? Santa Claus? Oh you poor misguided child. I’ve got news for you, buddy.

I’m a bit torn now, as to the prospect of having to break it to my own kid some day. I think 3 is a bit young, and I’m certainly not ready to give up the priceless value of the Santa card in my hand yet, but what is the right age? 4? 5? 6? When he out and out asks me, maybe? Is there a Santa, Momma? No dear. SWEET. I’m never cleaning my room again.

This one may have to be handed over to Daddy Dearest. Honey, when you get a chance…Could you cover sex, drugs, and the nonexistence of Santa? I’ve got to run do that…errand…thing…you know. I’ll be back later. Point me in the direction of the nearest bar, I’ve got to go mourn my son’s innocence and come up with an equally intimidating incentive…The Apocalypse, perhaps.

It has been brought to my attention that when asked to spell out my last name, I always say “‘V’ as in ‘victory’… blah blah blah blah blah.” HA! You really thought I was going to give out my last name on the Internet? Conspiracy theorist I’m not, but that seems a tad dangerous even to ignorant li’l ol’ me.

I hardly realize I do this, sort of a knee-jerk reaction I suppose…I’ve been doing it for years and had heard my father do it for years before that. Yup, we’se some spelling fools. This is where my issue comes into play (surely you knew I have many, many issues). Why do I want to be one of many in a long line of monotonous spellers handing out boring little phonetic tips to boring little FedEx guys in our boring little daily routines?

So…Please no one forewarn him…The next time that poor dear unsuspecting FedEx man asks me how to spell my last name, I’m going to say, “You know, ‘V’ as in ‘vasectomy,’ blah blah blah blah blah.” Cock my head pertly, make a little snippety-snip hand motion, smile sweetly and return to my desk. I’ve got $5 that says he remembers how to spell my damn name from now on. Don’t feel bad for him…It could be worse…I could go with my first instinct, which is of course vulva.

Rage against the tedium!

I believe I’ve touched on the subject of depression, and possibly even the current slump I am in, but I also think there is a hidden danger in need of being exposed…The abuse of anti-depressants. I have reason to believe certain workout divas who shall remain nameless must choke down bottle upon bottle of these happy pills before jumping deliriously in front of the camera and going to TOWN. Either anti-depressants or crack. No sober person is that THRILLED to be sweating buckets after performing her ten thousandth grapevine. Grapevines are just not that exciting. Yet their eyes are rolling back in their heads with orgasmic ecstasy, impossibly huge grins splitting their Barbie heads in half while their backup dancers slowly shrivel up from dehydration, matching smiles melting into puddles on the floor. Except of course the chick in the back who’s doing the “modified” workout, moving very slowly and carefully so as not to kill any elderly women or asthmatics who might be trying to can-can at warp speed like the rest of us poor suckers. Easy there, Grandma, let’s not get crazy and oh, I don’t know, burn calories.

I know I really need to step it up in the workout department, I know this, but I simply can’t find it within me to face that cheerful bitch every single morning. I’d happily, however, show her a perfect left, right, left in a dark alley behind her workout studio.

My novel marketing idea is to show it how it REALLY is…I’d get in front of that camera in my holy sweats, take extremely long water breaks, and flop down at the end, exhausted and irritated and in desperate need of a shower. Stretching be damned. Of course, the background track to Sweatin’ To The Real Shit would not be high-powered jamming techno, but the high-pitched whiney I need juuuiiice…Mooommaaaa…Juuuiiice…Mooommaaa…Juuuiiice…Mooommaaa…Juuuiiice…And one and two and one and two and one and two…In my world, both trips to the kitchen for young’uns and/or swift kicks to their rears count as working out. If you’re balancing a baby on your hip simultaneously, add 200 calories burned. Hi-yaa.

I think I’m stuck in this hamster wheel for now, though, ladies and gentlemen…Until of course I can launch the Suck My Thighs Fund, coming to a drugstore coffee can near you. Exercise: the poor man’s liposuction.

It’s absolutely mind-blowing to watch your children grow and develop and see your own traits emerging in them before your eyes. I hope, along the lines of genetic therapy, the ob/gyn’s of the future can prepare some sort of checklist that allows parents to choose the qualities (I use this term loosely) that their children possess and toss out the ones that might be bothersome.

For instance, my poor dear Julian may never sit himself up completely. He tries his damndest, a Herculean effort each time, but he only ever gets as far as the point where his thighs come into view, then flops back, disgusted. This is my fault, of course, since he’s inherited both my thighs and my loathing of them. He’s going to be really pissed when he discovers he also has my cankles, which are of course the absence of any sort of shapely ankle whatsoever, just a sort of running of the calf directly into the foot. Poor kid. It’s probably a positive thing we never had girls…Cankles are the sort of torture only Mother Nature could invent for the female psyche.

Spencer is the beneficiary of his father’s gift (I also use this term loosely) of gab. Some day, when the two of them, you know, speak the same language, I can only imagine the marathon conversations that will ensue. I may finally get some reading done.

And that Warrior of Teenage Wasteland, Alden, has CLEARLY inherited his father’s love of practical jokes. I am absolutely awash with sympathy for our pitiful mailman, who, due to the tedium of summer, has been subject to everything from a gorilla-costumed hand thrust out of the mail slot to a “Just Married” sign taped to the back of his little truck. He even found the latter to be quite cute and funny, that is until he got halfway down the street and realized the joke wasn’t complete without the customary aluminum cans on a string.

And so our bloodline continues, proud bearer of the Receding Hairline, the Goofy Gene, and of course that damned mutated Cankle Chromosome. If we start breeding with supermodels immediately, we could have shapely ankles somewhere around the year 2095.

I fear I’m going to have to have Spencer’s head examined. He seems to have quite the issue with memory (“membry”). All is well and good when we are playing the card game of the same name, or when I ask him simple questions about something that happened within the past hour or so…But lately Memory Lane has taken a Stephen-King-ish twist down some dark avenue to Crazy Town.

For instance…

“Hey Spence, here’s that toy truck Dada got you from the store, remember?”

“Yup! I ‘member! And when we go to da STOW-ur (extra syllables for emphasis), Dada will buy me a TRU-uck, and he will buy me IY-uce cream, and da monster will TAY-uk my ice cream, aaayuuund…I will get a bloody NOSE!”

This child has had one bloody nose his whole life, but perish the thought anyone should ever be so heartless as to forget The Day Blood Ran From Spencer’s Nose. To hear him tell it, you’d think we take turns punching him in the face for the fun of it, just to watch the blood fly. Good times.

Don’t get me wrong, I want to encourage his burgeoning imagination, but I think he may have “remember” confused with “what if.” What if a monster came and ate our house all up? I don’t know, head for zee hills maybe? But I certainly don’t remember it happening yesterday. The house, after all, is still right here. Just try telling Spence that. Go ahead, reason with the 3-yr-old. Ha!

So I guess I’ll just keep whispering common sense into his ear and trying to make sense of the tangled mess he spews forth....And trying like HELL not to laugh my ass off at inappropriate junctions that would reinforce his idea of “membry,” like this honest-to-God gem, “Hey Dada, ‘member when you poked me in the eye with a stick?”

I knew his teacher at preschool was giving me dirty looks.

I hope it’s not a phase, honestly. I hope he fine-tunes the master storyteller within and becomes the next Edgar Allen Poe and supports my ass. Early retirement, here I come.

Nathaniel and I are on the hunt. Be vewy, vewy quiet….We’we hunting baby-sittews.

I remember being an up-and-coming teenager back in the day, when I used to have to stave off the competition for baby-sitting gigs with pointed sticks and CPR certification. These days, it seems even friends and family start looking longingly at the door & blatantly checking their watches if you should mention in polite conversation how long it’s been since you left the house without one child on the hip and one up the butt. And the third a half-step behind, mouth running at what I think of as JPM, jokes per minute. Knock knock. Who’s there? Ima. Ima who? Ima stick my foot up yer ass you tell me another joke in the next five minutes, that’s who. Let’s take the JPM down to idle, shall we?? Jesus. I need to get out of the house.

So we’re in the market for a baby-sitter, and let me clarify…A respectable baby-sitter. Nathaniel has the idea that just about anybody, up to and including the bum on the corner and/or a rock with a stern face painted on it, would suffice. I’m going to have to go ahead and, um, exercise my veto…Yeeeah. My argument is this…What would the point be of going out to relax if I am unable to completely relax? That, and of course, the boys’ safety. Just the minor stuff we might want to consider.

I’ve looked in the local newspaper and found a wealth of TWO whole ads that MAY apply to what we need. My next step will be to run an ad of my own…3 children, slightly spanked, free to good home. 2 house-trained, 1 high maintenance, all current on shots, all must go!

And yet, I’m hesitant, due to my penny-pinch-iness…I can just imagine the cost of dinner, a movie, a couple of drinks, and the baby-sitter tallying like the meter on the damn gas pumps…Not to mention the cost of gas! Do you think those nice ladies in the ads would be upset if I asked them to drive out and watch the kids for fifteen minutes while we took a stroll around the block? Hold hands and presto-chango, we’ve got ourselves a bona fide DATE, hyuck hyuck! Ain’t nothin’ in this hey-ur werld sweeter ‘en walkin’ with mah man. If I’m-a lucky, he’ll bah me some ahce cream and kiss mah hand!

Have I mentioned I’m going stir crazy here??

So if you have a reference, someone reliable who doesn’t, say, beat the kids too harshly or make them cut their own switches, or care to loan out your sweet grandmother, please let me know. I can be reached in Padded Cell #155 at the Home for ApeShit Mommies. Whatever you do, DON’T send a file. It's lovely in here, nary a crayon mark or diaper odor around.

Has anyone ever been driven to the brink of insanity by the sound of her own flip-flops?? Damn you, Casual Friday.

My dearest JuJuBee is no longer completely defenseless in this cold cruel world...He is the proud owner of two ridged mean-looking teeth on the bottom of his formerly sweet gummy smile. He can now fend off such offensive intruders as strained grean beans or carrots, and believe me, he parries them valiantly. I have an idea that I'd be more successful if I dipped his toes in the stuff. His own teeny tootsies are never deflected. I imagine they taste like Vienna sausages.

It’s a bittersweet milestone, as this means we’ve shed Infancy and are moving full speed ahead towards that treacherous territory, Babyhood. Armed only with scant memories of what Spencer did at this age, we pat ourselves on the back for having kept him alive thus far, close our eyes, wish for the best, and plunge ahead.

I know Julian himself is THRILLED about quickly approaching mobility. He’s a willing spectator at all of Spence’s impromptu shows (unlike some of us…Hey, these things can be lo-o-ong and exhausting to even watch…Watch me do dis! Now watch me do dis! Did you see? Did you SEE dat? No? Well watch dis time!). Julian watches with wonderment shining in his eyes at Spence running and jumping and singing and making siren noises…Oh GOD, the ever-present SIREN NOISES…And cycles his legs furiously in empathy. I have an idea that if I were to set him upright at just the right moment, he would take off in a sprint on sheer momentum and we’d find him somewhere around Columbus.

So my sweet baby, very likely my last baby, which will of course concrete his place in history as THE baby, is dropping infantile habits left and right. Instead of the repetitive vowel sounds we’ve gotten used to (aaaaaa….eeeeee….oooooohhh), he’s now mixing it up with consonants, which is both encouraging and frustrating to Spence. He can carry on a conversation, but occasionally seems quite dismissive of Spence’s accomplishments (Ohhhh, yeah? YEAH yeah yeah yeah yeah…).

I watch all of this unfold with mixed feelings…How bittersweet that my little one should be so quickly vaulting over milestones with the prize in sight while I cling to his sweet-smelling present and buck the thought of tomorrow. I know, I know, it will be nice when he’s more independent, but we will never again be in this particular pleasant time-bubble where he needs me, truly needs me, and falls asleep each night in my arms with those damned big boy teeth hidden behind his sweet smile.

So if on the day my JuJuBee goes to take his first wobbling, proud step, and you should happen to see my arm snaking out to push him down, just look away and pretend not to see. Don’t judge me.

"You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test."
-Source: United Press International, "Bush Proposes Increase in Education Funds," Mark Kukis

Can I get an amen? Can I get a what the EFF are you SAYING??!! It absolutely tears me up that this man, with his poor grasp of business administration and even poorer grasp of the English language, totters around representing this country. Unbelievable.

I stop myself from running away screaming from each televised press conference in the following ways…By reminding myself his terms are almost UP, he is very nearly out the damn door; by hoping he’s vacationed just enough to not have made any real decisions (besides that li’l ol’ Iraq whim); and by finding the humor in the situation. The man makes up words, dear audience. Just the sight of him at a podium, eyes blinking rapidly, goofy grin from ear to ear, desperately looking around for a teleprompter or a meteorite to come crashing out of the sky or just ANYTHING to save him…I cringe. So let’s delve into the humor of the situation at hand, shall we? Because if we weren’t laughing, we’d be crying. And if abuse of the English language sounds as much to your ears like nails screeching down a chalkboard as it does to mine…Enjoy.

"I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family."
—Greater Nashua, N.H., Jan. 27, 2000

"Rarely is the questioned asked: Is our children learning?"
—Florence, S.C., Jan. 11, 2000

"I glance at the headlines just to kind of get a flavor for what's moving. I rarely read the stories, and get briefed by people who are probably read the news themselves." NO SHIT.
—Washington, D.C., Sept. 21, 2003

"The most important thing is for us to find Osama bin Laden. It is our number one priority and we will not rest until we find him."
—Washington, D.C., Sept. 13, 2001

"I don't know where bin Laden is. I have no idea and really don't care. It's not that important. It's not our priority."
—Washington, D.C., March 13, 2002

"I think—tide turning—see, as I remember—I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of—it's easy to see a tide turn—did I say those words?" Holy bumbling idiot, Batman.
—Washington, D.C., June 14, 2006

"I was going to say he's a piece of work, but that might not translate too well. Is that all right, if I call you a 'piece of work'?"
—To Jean-Claude Juncker, prime minister of Luxembourg, Washington, D.C., June 20, 2005

"It's a time of sorrow and sadness when we lose a loss of life."
—Washington, D.C., Dec. 21, 2004

"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again."
—Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002

I genuinely hope I haven’t offended anyone…My desire is not to turn this site into a political debate minefield or anything of the sort. I simply find myself offended by the slaughter of innocent grammar at the hands of our fearless leader. Did you know even Google is hip to this scene? When I typed “bush-isms,” it politely asked me, “Did you mean bushisms?” We, the American public, have been forced to make up words in order to properly document him making up words!! Stop the insanity.

Strap yourselves in, ladies and gentlemen, it’s going to be a bumpy 2 more years. Lord save us from Dubya.

Nathaniel and I have been drawn towards the latest craze in extreme sporting...Frisbee. We of course plan to take our doubles team all the way to the top (is there Frisbee in the Olympics?) and thought we'd squeeze some practice in yesterday evening at the local park. Julian, so accustomed to the stale recycled air of the indoors, took 2.5 deep breaths of fresh air and promptly fell asleep. Like in the SciFi movies when the astronaut takes a step on an unchartered planet, removes his helmet, inhales cautiously and then cries "It's Ok, it's breathable!" and suddenly keels over. Kind of like that. Poor kid.

So we started out as many young couples would, zipping back and forth across the field, laughing at each other's antics and just full of pep in general. I'm not ashamed to admit I even turned a cartwheel or two. Or eight. As the evening progressed, however (and by "progressed," I mean half an hour later), we found ourselves slowing exponentially, and realized this astounding but true fact...We are not "in shape." Sure, I do my Turbo Jam dvd every so often (you have to do it at least twice a month to be able to technically say, "I work out") and God knows running after these kids keeps us busy, but when it comes right down to it, folks...We are pretty pathetic. Nathaniel is SHOCKED that marathon fishing has not given him a six-pack and buns of steel. By the end of our outing, we are standing within arms-length of each other, half-heartedly chucking that damnable disc and missing half the time anyway. Mr. Morrison is turning in his grave, I'm sure (http://inventors.about.com/library/weekly/aa980218.htm).

So I'm thinking with some free time I have this morning, I'll cruise the Internet for the nicest local nursing homes. Time to face facts and realize dear bald Nathaniel and I are seventy-five and aging quickly. I've got to find a place that caters to our needs...gin rummy, Frisbee, and all the channels Nathaniel could ever dream to flip through. It's never too early to start shopping for a room with a view.

This morning on the radio show I usually tune in to (http://www.roverradio.com/), they were discussing the most recent rash of blame laid on television programs, movies, and music for the way the current generation is flushing themselves down the toilet. The bimbo chick (by the way, can we just go ahead and get all radio stations to ban female dj's? I've yet to hear one I can tolerate. The stupidity practically OOZES out of my speakers) was actually defending the bureaucrats whose own children are no doubt ditching their Catholic school uniforms for doo-rags and boxer-baring pants as we speak. St. Mary’s, repreSENT, G Funk All-Stars style. I completely agreed with the rationale of the male host, who said something along the lines of a) children are their parent’s responsibility to some point and their own people with their own ideas and motivation after another point; and b) shut the hell up, Female DJ.

I’m always reminded of the movie Footloose when this left-wing conservative crap comes to the table…Remember John Lithgow and whats-her-face, his wife, when they realized Holy Gee, I guess rock’n’roll doesn’t equal sex? You could have knocked them over with a pair of fuzzy handcuffs.

So my crazy new-fangled idear is this…To raise my children to think for themselves, along the way encouraging as much music appreciation as possible. If you appreciate music for music’s sake, you’re not dwelling on lyrics like they’re damned street signs on the already difficult-to-navigate roadmap of life. Love of music is something my parents instilled in me (thanks Mom and Dad, may Stevie Ray Vaughn rest in peace) and something I hope my boys express a genuine interest in.

Honestly, I don’t understand why music can’t be a part of everyday life. It certainly is in my household. You can find me singing as I drag my ass through mundane tasks like doing dishes (Tiny Bubbles), scrubbing the toilet (Dirty Deeds), or laundry (Suds in the Bucket). There are approximately half a dozen songs in whatever genre strikes your fancy that apply to any given situation. And if there isn’t, well, make one up! Is saying “clean your room” any fun at all? Try singing that shit in your best Mary J. Blige voice, while your partner hot-boxes for you in the background and throw some “Right now! A-Right now! I sic-a-sic-a-sic-a-said right now!” circa Run DMC at the end. Mix it up. This may get your child beat up on the playground if his friends hear, but I promise you he will remember his childhood as being FUN. And damned if he doesn’t learn to appreciate some old-school. Word.

I knew my approach was working when I went to hand my 3-yr-old his juice recently and he sang out in heartfelt falsetto, “Thaaa-AAA-aaank youUUUuuuuuu dear Maaamaaaaaa…” I could have cried. Life CAN be a musical, and it damn well SHOULD be, in my humble opinion. I’m not adding to my family so much as building a chorus line. Once Julian learns to sing harmony, it’s ON. VivaCity Traveling Roadshow, coming to a so-far-off-Broadway-it’s-almost-back-again theater near you.

In order for me to properly set up this next juicy morsel of good wholesome fun for your viewing enjoyment, I must first tell you a little about Nathaniel. He is a fun-loving, adventuresome man whose life's pursuit is to find the line of my irritation, nudge it, then take a flying leap gleefully past it with both eyes closed.

In this manner we set out Saturday morning for the Metroparks Zoo, where my office was having its annual summer family outing. On the way there, we were discussing the many animals we will see there, what Spencer's favorite is (lion), what Nathaniel's favorite is (monkeys), etc. etc. etc. No sooner had we covered the topic of monkeys than we happen across what appeared to be the two finest ladies our city has to offer taking a leisurely stroll in their Saturday best...halter tops and shorts cut off up to their eyebrows. Lovely. I mumbled something along the lines of, Holy Jeez, put some clothes on, and Nathaniel, not about to let a golden opportunity like this one pass him by, actually TOOTS THE HORN AT THEM. Ha ha. Ha fucking ha ha ha.

Having made their days, I'm sure, we continue on past these diamonds in the rough to the zoo. Since I'm still laughing uproariously over Nathaniel's little prank, when Spence asks if we are there yet for the 2 millionth time, I say No dear, your father's still looking for booty. In hindsight, of course, I've now filed this under Things I Wish I'd Never Said To My Kid. Spence says...Dada is? I say Yes, Dada. He says, He likes booty? I say Yes, yes indeed, very much. Silence from the backseat for approximately one full minute, which in 3-yr-old time computes to about 25 years. Then our tiny genius starts making connections, all on his own, which ALMOST made up for the stupid honking in the first place. It's quite elementary, dear Watson.

Dada likes monkeys? Yes, love.
Dada likes booty? Mmm-hmmm.
Dada likes monkey booty?

I'm reminded of some class I took, probably in grade school, where we learned that if Statement A is true and Statement B is true, you can only deduct that the third related statement is true. Therefore, Nathaniel does in fact enjoy a good piece of monkey booty.

Which would all be well and good and hilarious in its own right, if we hadn't been on our way to the friggin zoo. You might see where I'm going with this.

A lovely luncheon with my co-workers and their respective families begins our outing. I load the baby in the front carrier (I call this my strap-on), slather sunscreen on everyone, and off we go for a relaxing tour of the zoo on a lovely summer day. You'd think we were June friggin Cleaver and Company if you didn't know better.

Pink flamingos, elephants, kangaroos, parrots...We really do have a stellar zoo in our city. Spence is excited and having the time of his life, roaring right back at the lion, finding an exotic STICK on the ground, just absolutely in little boy heaven. At this point Nathaniel and I have completely forgotten about anything but just trying to struggle along, exhausted from schlepping gear and juggling responsibilities...Winding down our trip and thinking about home.

We come across quite the crowd, approximately two-thirds of Cleveland's respectable children and their respectable parents are gathered here at one exhibit, quite excited to be pressing up against a square of glass, on the other side of which is a beautiful hulking black gorilla. Spence worms his way to the front of this crowd, and when he sees what the fuss is about, he understands why.

"Whooo-EEE! Dada! Dada, look! Look at dat MONKEY!"

Something triggers our Parental Alarms, and we start edging towards the exit.

"Dada! You see dat monkey? Just look at dat MONKEY BOOTY! Whooo-EEE! You like dat, Dada? YOU LIKE DAT MONKEY BOOTY? YOU WANT SOME??"

You see, all of this could have been avoided had Nathaniel simply not honked the horn at some young thangs with twice my figure and none of my good taste, all in the name of humor. I hope he's learned his lesson.

So dim the lights and don the gorilla suit, honey, tonight I'm making all your dreams come true.

On the way home from daycare yesterday, my insatiatably curious 3-year-old and I had the following conversation...

Spence..."Will you read this book to me?"
Me..."Not right now, honey."
Spence..."Why?"
Me..."Because I'm driving."
Spence..."Why you driving?"
Me..."Because we need to get home."
Spence..."Why we going home?"
Me..."Because it's dinner time."
Spence..."Why it's dinner time?"
Me..."Because that's what TIME it is."
Spence..."Why that's what time it is?"
Me..."Well...Back in Greek and Roman times, they didn't have any sort of timetable whatsoever, except for knowing when the sun rose and set and by this they lived their lives, but of course those times bred great forward-thinking masterminds of science and together they arrived at the conclusion that it would be wise to assign numerals to each passing segment of each day and to give these segments names. So they devised great machines, like large dials, which filtered the sunlight according to it's position in the sky and the dial would turn and thus they were able to put a number on that valuable concept called time and THAT is what we today refer to as what time it is."
Spence... ... ...Silence from the backseat for approximately 30 seconds...You could HEAR the synapses firing...Then..."You wrote this book?"

When I stopped laughing long enough to steer the car back onto the road, I realized that it will be a sad, sad day indeed when my sweet innocent boy realizes that I am not The Person Who Knows The Most in this world. I will mourn the day when I am unable to answer his trigonometry question or tell him matter-of-factly the purpose of life. There are so many things I myself have yet to learn, it seems a bit scary to me that someone else's knowledge is being built upon the foundation that I have yet to complete. I hope he pushes off from my measly foundation and skyrockets, I really do, and someday I will ask him something out of innocent curiousity, and he will look down (physically) at me and answer my naive question. Or perhaps, fulfilling my dream as the next generation seems so often to do, I'll find myself reading the book he has written, his contribution, and my trip 'round the sun will not have been in vain after all.

I'm considering taking off work in order to volunteer with Spence's field trip coming up on the 31st...Word on the street is they're going to a "cultural garden." I am excited about both the opportunity to watch young children absorbing knowledge like good little sponges and also learning myself exactly what the HELL a cultural garden might be. I have this crazy mental image of berkas blowing in the trees while a river of sake flows with a little sign advertising "FREE FOOT-BINDINGS FOR THE KIDDIES!" in the corner. I have no idea what to expect, although the idea of steeping my son in a little culture really appeals to me. And it would sure the hell save me some money on shoes.

I'm also a little apprehensive about the whole volunteer experience...The last time I volunteered for Spence's class, we went to the park (sounds simple enough, except multiply the idea you have in your head times fifteen toddlers at nap-time, ALL of whom want to swing on the 2 swings) and it started out being a grand time. The single hitch in the whole shebang was when I turned (cliche, I know, the ol' "I turned my head for a SECOND!" line) from manning the bottom of the slide, which the children had down pat anyways (My face was getting tired from all the over-enthusiastic "Hurray! You DID it!"s, what do you want from me) when my fantastically brilliant co-volunteer at the top decided at that very moment to put the tiny brace-wearing handicapped child down. I swear she must have kicked him down with both feet to get the kind of momentum this kid had. All I have to say is Thank God for small favors. And soft dirt.

But this is a new classroom, with mostly new friends and new teachers and hopefully nobody who remembers The Day Elijah Fell. So I'm bravely walking that gangplank called Volunteering once more...Wish me luck. Or better yet, pray your fool heads off those kids survive the day with me. Mu-hahahahaha!

Forgive me if I seem a tad loopy. My son woke up at approximately 3:30 this morning, screaming for Juice! Juice! like he'd just crawled across the Sahara. Normally it's the baby that tends to throw the midnight parties, but for whatever reason poor Spence's subconscious called a pit stop on that track named Sweet Dreamland, desperately needing to be emptied and juiced. The baby, not to be outdone, joined in the festivities, and...I'm one tired Momma, Ok? And in this sleep-deprived state, I vaguely remember having signed up to volunteer on the 31st. Lord help the children.

Dear Men,

I am writing you as a representative of the female gender. I hope this letter reaches you in good health. May your balls not itch nor your hairline recede.

The purpose of this letter is something like a general inquiry...I must know...I think the best way would be to put it to you bluntly...Here goes...What IS it with the penis?? Please, please enlighten me.

The fascination seems endless. As a baby, Spencer, my first son's favorite plaything was the afore-mentioned objeto de la fascinación. He actually had trouble when he first started walking...I call this Al Bundy Syndrome, or metal-penis-magnet-hands disease. And when I first changed my second son's diaper in Spencer's presence, fugghedaboudit. A BABY PENIS! He squealed with delight. It's SO CUTE!! (I swear he said this, you can't make priceless gems like this up.) Julian looked adoringly up at Spencer like, Please, kind sir, tell me more of this "penis" you speak of.

I'm also curious, dear male gender, as to when in addition to why. When can I safely tell my SO, Significant Other, or Sperm Operator, in this case, that I am going up to bed without him hearing Oh my GAWD, you big dirty nasty So'N'So, I've been so terribly naughty lately, I DO believe I should be punished, and then would you mind doing me all night long? If dreaming of throwing you out the nearest window is bad, then yes, in fact I have been terribly naughty lately. But I honestly meant I was going upstairs to SLEEP, crazy as that may sound. YOU tell your penis, I don't feel like arguing with him tonight. He's still pissed at me for nicking him with my tooth that one time.

I suppose this penile obsession has just been brought to my attention recently, when I heard the strains of that lovely little ditty "Peeeee-nis, my peeeee-nis, oh peeeee-nis..." wafting down the hall. You know this one, sing along. I think I'd be more concerned if my 3-yr-old HADN'T yet come up with a beautiful tribute to his favorite anatomy.

So I must know, men, when does it end? When will the testosterone in my house drop to a safe, inhabitable level?? WHY the fascination? Is there anything I can do about this? Is there some gold-plated diamond-studded rattle toy of the future that could possibly distract my baby from becoming obsessed with his junk? Or am I doomed to forever be the lone island of estrogen-driven logical common sense in this sea of testosterone and all things penile??

In closing, I thank you for your time and attention to this matter. I know you are quite busy. It's been 10 minutes you've spent reading now; your penises must be SCREAMING for attention.

Sincerely,
Cera
President, Mothers Against Senseless Fondling

I had two full paragraphs written on the demise of the ozone layer due entirely to my bosses driving SUV's for no apparent reason whatsoever. Funny, funny stuff, if I do say so myself...Could you imagine YOUR boss off-roading on his way to work? Or hauling loads of manure, or a gaggle of friends and family car-pooling with his cranky ass? Because THAT is what those vehicles are meant for, ladies and gentlemen. There is no kind way to break it to you. Do me a favor. Take a good look around tomorrow morning as you get ready to commute. Can you physically see your gas gauge dip down as you press the accelerator? Are you alone in the car? If you turn and yell into the backseat, do you hear an echo? These are all signs that it may be time to reconsider your choice of vehicle, dear reader.

So I had written up clever little nicknames for my bosses, and started to tell the saga of the hole in the ozone layer that travels directly above them and their ridiculously large fleet of SUV's...Then I remembered reading dooce recently (dooce.com) and how she got her big start blogging. She had been working at some corporate something-or-other when it was discovered she had been publishing wonderfully sarcastic little tidbits about her boss(es) on the Internet for the world to see...and have a good laugh at. She was promptly fired, which actually ended up working for her, but I got about halfway through my initial post when I remembered this and reconsidered my own situation. My paycheck still puts food on the table, literally, although Nathaniel does Ok in his own right (I'm still pulling for ya, babe), and while no one has ever accused me of being the sharpest knife in the drawer, I thought it might not be wise to hit "publish" like I really, really wanted to. I had the cutest nicknames.

I promised my friend Tiffany I would speak on the subject of gigundo SUV's and how ridiculous their solo drivers look. We had a lovely conversation last night regarding this and other irritants. We are best at being that for each other, the mitt to catch the other's venting and general frustrations. We are both highly committed to enthusiastic, therapeutic, equal-opportunity venting. I'm worried, however, that she is under the impression that people actually READ this little blog 'o' mine. Here's the true test, then, girly girl. If tomorrow on your drive in to work, you get flipped the bird from more than the average amount of commuters driving Expeditions...SUCCESS!!

I've been teasing JuJuBee about putting him on a diet...Alas, he inherited my thighs, poor thing...So today, I did just that. In fact, I made my best effort to starve him completely. I thought, Gee I enjoy this commute. And gee, gas prices don't affect me at all! What silly, inconsequential things, gas prices! What could be more fun than one commute? Two, two, two commutes in one (day)! I would say two commutes for the price of one but I believe I've touched on gas prices already. So my subconscious mind must both truly believe the Bee is looking a bit chunky these days AND enjoy my little half-hour commute so much that it allowed me to drive all the way here to work before half-heartedly tossing out that little red flag of wrongness...I'd forgotten to leave the damn bag 'o' bottles at daycare with my dear son who, guess what, needed them. Son of a BIZZNITCH.

So I got to enjoy a little extra fresh air this morning...Have I mentioned how expensive gas is today? I'm going to call my Congressman and suggest a return to the horse and buggy way of life. No burning of fossil fuels, no high-speed accidents, and if God forbid I should forget the bag 'o' bottles, my ass is going home for the day. Please point me in the direction of the Community Suggestion Box, dear citizens, I believe I've got solid gold here.