Walla walla walla, step right up and have a look-see at the amazing...Vivacity! New and improved, guaranteed results! But wait...there's more! No actually, that's about it. New format, whaddya think? A big THANK YOU to my html-savvy friends, check them out on the shiny new links found on the right-hand column.

I find myself on a mission, folks. Operation Mommy's Remote Is Not A Toy. It seems my one comfort in life, my one escape from the insanity that occasionally threatens to institutionalize me, that treasured connection to my revered reality shows and dramas, has been discovered, investigated, and shot down. No longer can I relax after a long day of work, coming home to more work, putting the kids to bed and then working some more...I am now forced to work to change the damn channels on the television in my bedroom.

I believe Spencer when he says, "I guess I don't know where your 'mote is, Mommy. I guess I sure don't." He is my angel-boy, and he won't soon forget the time I cried my heart out when he misplaced my ring.

Julian, on the other hand, is surely the spawn of Satan, sent straight from hell to deliver my pennance by way of long, slow, unmerciful torture. Ok, I may be exaggerating here a tad. He occasionally shows mercy.

But there is no mercy in sight in OMRINAT. He continues to appear completely innocent when asked, even cocking his head and batting his eyelashes. Oh, the facade, how complete it is. And the Oscar goes to...

I suppose this is merely an update, that there is no change in status in our household. Julian continues to reign with cruel whimsy, and if he deems it law that mommies must heretofor change their channels manually, so be it. So it is babbled, so shall it be done.

There are few moments of spoken words from mouths of babes that really grab your attention. Their first word, their first sentence, a cry for help, an exclamation of pride. There are just a few words that can really stop you dead in your tracks and make you take notice of what everyday static you had just been tuning out.

For instance, just the other day, young master Spence comes bounding down the stairs from the second floor, clearly excited, yelling, "Mommy, Mommy, I found Daddy's hooker!"

Just one of those moments when your heart takes a thoughtful pause before resuming its regular rhythm. Daddy's what now? I can't have heard that right.

"I saw it, I saw it, Daddy's hooker, just lying there on the floor!"

Hmmm. Aaalllll right, now we not only have a prostitute in my house, we apparently have an injured/unconscious/dead one as well. And here I thought it was just going to be another quiet evening at home. Silly, silly mommy.

Spencer continues his descent into the living room, around the landing, down the last two stairs and proudly runs over to show me a prize he's clutching in his little hand. Nathaniel's bungee cord.

"See? Daddy's hooker. I found it!"

Aaahh yes. Daddy's hooker. I've obviously wandered onto the set of Leave it to Beaver in the Twilight Zone. June, be a doll and fix me a drink, will you? I've got a pounding headache all of a sudden. {canned laughter}

So when you think you've heard some astonishing, gut-wrenching news, ladies and gentlemen, let's remember to take a moment and consider the source, shall we?

Oh my LAWD am I ever slacking on the bliggitty-blog-blog. Please forgive!

I have a piece of advice for those with husbands/significant others/baby daddies/whatnot. NEVER, under any circumstances, tell them any ingredient of any recipe you make, EVER.

Now I knew this rule, I did, it must have just slipped my mind during a recent kitchen escapade. Having misplaced (that sucker is GONE) my yellow cake recipe, I thought I'd go hunting through my cooking/baking magazines for something new, when lo & behold, there on the page was a recipe for Mayonnaise Cake! I was THRILLED. My mother didn't whip up too many things that tantalized my taste buds over the years, but her mayonnaise cake was always a hit. Absolutely superb.

So as my moist delicacy is baking itself into a chocolate decadence in the oven, I happen to relate to Nathaniel as he wanders by my elation over having found a recipe for Mayonnaise Cake. The man (& I use that term loosely) began clutching at his throat in a pantomime of an astronaut who just lost air pressure in his helmet.

"Mayonnaise? Mayonnaise CAKE? MAYONNAISE CAKE?!!"

I knew the jig was up. I knew this bakery snob would never let a morsel of my hard work past his lips. Eff him then, more for me (& my hips, & my thighs...this back-fired in SO many ways).

So as our little family sat down to a slice of heaven later that evening, he ever-so-politely cut himself a piece...and proceeded to eat every bit...of the icing. He continues to grumble under his breath about "trying to kill me" and therefore, dear reader(s), I must forewarn you...Never, ever, tell your old man what is in anything he hasn't eaten yet. Wait 'til afterwards.

A dear friend commenting on my last post has led me to realize...I've been spitting out the ol' blog for a year now! Good God, where has the time gone. This blog began as a way for me to begin my dream of writing, and from this platform I'm happy to say I've gone on to write a monthly column for the afore-mentioned dear friend (check out mom2momlounge.com), a weekly journal for Babycenter.com, and various articles which have actually earned me money (helium.com)! I am beyond proud to call myself a bona fide earning writer. I thank the kind people at Blogger.com who have created such an easy, affordable (read, free) website for hokey authors of nonsense such as myself to come express ourselves. And of course, for those loyal reader(s) still struggling through my rambling posts, THANK YOU.

From my last post, you will clearly see how I jinxed myself by commenting on the peaceful existence we were enjoying...I picked up Young Master Spence at daycare early yesterday after a phone call from his teacher reported a low-grade fever and persistent headache. How could I ignore the pitiful pleadings of "My bwain hurts!"? Awww, widdow boy, let's get you some ibupwofen and see if you don't feel bettew, you wascally wabbit.

So of course I pick the baby up also, who, not to be outdone, saw fit to LOSE HIS DAMN MIND. The child cried the entire drive home, through dinner, right up until bedtime. I knew I was in for it when his teacher reported only a 1/2-hour nap.

Tonight shall be spent recovering from yesterday, for all of us. And damning the Cavs for giving us such HOPE, man, it was close. So close we could all taste it, the whole city dreaming of our team making it somewhere, anywhere...It's been far too long. Happy Father's Day, LeBron, you son of a gun. You tease.

Friday, I've missed thee so. Bring on the pizza, the wings, the usual Friday fare, all things delicious and drenched in calories. Yummy, yummy calories. Let the laundry rot, let the dishes mold, it is FRIDAY and I am currently unavailable for anything resembling a chore. If you care to voice a complaint, leave your message after the beep. BEEEEP.

After much back-and-forth and a million revisions to plans, Tiff & I have in fact scheduled a meeting with my dear sister. The plan is to get to the root of her boyfriend issues, and see if she might not be happier moving back to our area, from her current residence out in North Carolina. I selfishly think it'd be nice if she lived closer (for babysitting reasons, mu-hahahaha) but I want to help her decide the right course of action for herself, period. It's hard to watch someone make mistakes or be unhappy, but all you can do is reason with them and in the end they will make their own decisions. I wish her happiness and peace.

Luckily we're going out for coffee, because I'm feeling rather droopy this afternoon. I could just lay my head down on my desk right here and make up for the sleep debt Julian so cruelly inflicted upon me this morning. Cock-a-doodle waaahhh!

In other news, Raphael, Spence's kitty, shall retain his left eye. For now. We were very concerned recently when it appeared to be dilated and protruding a bit...2 vet visits & billions of dollars later, we think it safe to assume this is either an injury or an abscess from a recent infection. All good news. My wallet thanks you, kind vet.

So the fam is doing well, I'm happy to report...We are enjoying the hell out of this sunshine with nary a runny nose in sight. Everyone's happy, everyone's healthy...And now of course I've jinxed myself by saying that & I'm sure to return home to a mess of grumpy sickies. I just haaad to be thankful for small favors, didn't I. That'll learn me.

Well dear reader(s), I must vacate this hellish deep freeze (oxymoron?) for the tropical sauna of my car & the drive home. I love that feeling of sliding behind the wheel after a posicle of a day like this one & feeling all the pores on my face open, my goosebumps finally relaxing...I'll never understand the mentality of the higher-ups with their hands on the thermostat. With all the $$$ you could save by dropping the a/c down to a comfortable level, I could collect the fat raise I desperately need! A girl can dream. Someone point me towards the suggestion box.

Oh you silly reader(s), did you think I forgot about you? Well I did. KIDDING! I've been trapped in a whirlwind, unable to do anything but cook meals & clean house & chase after little boys bent on self-destruction. The wind is dying down now...

Today is Al's birthday, & the 3rd-to-last day of school. Next year, high school, and then...the world! I cannot believe he's 15 today. I so clearly remember putting golf balls with him in his grandmother's backyard when he was a darling towhead of six. What happened??

Nathaniel's birthday is just around the corner. He's requested a little homemade cake. Wonder if he'd mind if I jumped out of it? Whatever we do, it certainly won't be a repeat of years past...I always attempt to throw a party that noone can attend (asses) or plan something, anything...The single exception to this rule was the year Tom Petty just happened to be in town exactly ON his birthday and I surprised him with his very first live concert. Freeee...free faaallin'...

I daresay I'll post tomorrow, since work has calmed down and eight legal assistants aren't calling in sick each day. Good night!

I think once you reach a certain age, your core temperature plummets out of control. Menopause, Ok, but what is a man's excuse? How is it that the powers that be have the thermostat set to "Freeze Your Tits Off" and can work perfectly comfortably in that realm all day?? Excuse the hell out of ME, but I am trying to wear summer clothes here, seeing as how it's approximately 80 degrees out today. Why a higher temperature outside equates lower and lower temperatures in the office is absolutely beyond me. At my previous employment, which was a much smaller firm and therefore subject to my unabashed silliness, I once wore a parka fastened Kenny-style and mittens to deliver their precious mail and faxes. They took the hint. They might not appreciate my subtlety here. Not that it matters; I'm pretty sure I'm frozen to my chair. Send for help.

So Sunday is Mother's Day...Wow. I've already received my first Mother's Day card, from a dear gentleman who happens to be my should-be-stepson's godfather. Very touching card, filled with his sentiments on exactly what sort of wonderful mother I am. Maybe not the best time to tell him I hit the bottle on occasion & have been known to scream, "BECAUSE I SAID SO!!"

In other news, dear JuJuBee has FINALLY begun cutting his molars on the other side of his mouth. Thank God, I see light at the end of this long dark tunnel filled with whines and cries. I'm so friggin thrilled, I want to go stand on the corner with a sandwich board proclaiming, The End Is Near!

Well dearest reader(s), wish me a fairly painless weekend. At the very least, I'll be able to control the thermostat. :)

I'm happy to report that last night's trim was a rousing success! I'm head over heels in love with my stylist, she's wonderful. She takes my incoherent babbling and turns it into exactly what I want. Beauty school must teach a course on mind reading.

I took Spencer with me because I'm an eternal optimist. I keep thinking, he won't misbehave this time. He's my angel boy. And I was mostly right, this particular outing anyways. He only scared one poor dear gentleman nearly to death by popping out from under a shampoo sink, and only said, "Watch me!" about two dozen times, physically impossible while having one's hair cut, and only spun himself off a spare swivel chair once. And I actually accomplished what I had set out to do, so...Success! Thank you, my dear boy, for the experience. Vivacity, indeed.

Just wanted to update you, in case you're wondering who that outrageously foxy lady with the new 'do is. KIDDING! I'm actually behind her and to the left, the fairly decent-looking chick in the background with the trim job. You may thank my sorceress of a stylist, that telephathic master of the mousse, the lovely Michelle.

I'm happy to report that the incomparable Mr. John Denver streamed from my kitchen speakers last night. Thank you Ebay seller of trivial crap! I think that's actually his screenname.

The baby & I danced a little jig all through 'Grandma's Feather Bed,' and you know what? His fever miraculously broke & he's been cool as a cucumber ever since. So I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that the Spirit of John Denver can, in fact, sooth the savage beast and/or bug.

Those of you who are tired of seeing me peer out from beneath this mop will be happy to learn I've got a haircut scheduled this evening. The Muppet look is so last year. I'm thisclose to pulling a Britney & shaving the whole damn thing off. It's so irritating! While I do enjoy my short 'do, I am not used to having to keep up with the constant trims that a cut like this requires. I'll never be accused of being a high-maintenance bizznitch. Nathaniel may beg to differ, but he lives in an alternate plane of reality in which I am a "nag" and he is "obsessed with cleaning." LMAO!!!! Slays me every time I hear him say that. You're right, darling, my body language does count as nagging and the tantrums in which you throw everything in your path down the basement stairs count as cleaning. Right on.

How did this turn into me ranting about my old man? Hmm. Curious.

So wish me luck tonight, as I venture off to my fairly-new stylist (she's wonderful) and leave the children with Mr. Clean. Wish us all luck.

I'm hopping on to report that we did, in fact, thoroughly enjoy our weather last weekend. It was everything the weatherman promised it would be & more. Beyond beautiful.

And as I write this, the dark clouds are rushing to gather overtop our little building here, threatening their inevitable downpour & depressing the hell out of me. I feel like that X-Men character Storm, so affected am I by the slightest change in weather. If I lived in California I'd be so damn bubbly I couldn't stand myself! Like, Oh my gosh!

I'll simply continue to curl up to my steaming cup of coffee, content to at least be inside & out of the trenches of our damnable Cleveland "spring." If I keep my coffee warm & focus on work, I won't even notice the depressing weather, right? At the very least, I won't notice the time dragging by until I can go get my boysies. Even with the baby at his moodiest, snuggling on the couch is infinitely preferred to plodding along here, without even the faintest hint of sunshine in my window. Spring, you tease, where have you gone?

I am THRILLED to report that the weather forecast is looking SUBLIME for this weekend. My patience has been truly tested with the recent unseasonal snow, and the five of us (did I mention my brothers moved out?) under each other's feet the whole damnable winter long. I think when Friday afternoon rolls around, we will spill out of the house like one of those practical joke cannisters of worms popping open. POW!

I'm convinced my girlfriend Tiff & I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, provided such a disorder does in fact exist. If so, we are definitely under its oppresive thumb. There is just such a marked change in the air when it gets above 60, something almost tangible. The scent of new blossoms in the air, warm sun on your face, animals humping each other senseless...What's not to love about spring? Bliss.

So slather on your sunscreen, break out your tank tops, & let's do the darn thing!

I just want to document something that I'm thinking I might forget in the future. I'm sure I'll look back on this time in our lives and clearly remember Julian's distinct knack for driving us all crazy, his ability to whine ceaselessly, his irritation made evident over every little obstacle, but I may not remember the sweet things. Okay, thing.

At the end of the day, when the fussing has dissipated and bedtime draws near, I perch said Crankmaster on my hip & begin our little nighttime ritual. We head to the kitchen, where I make his bottle & we discuss what sort of day we had. I use the term "discuss" loosely, seeing as how Julian has one vocabulary word, "uh-oh," which usually serves to describe his day anyway.

When the microwave dings, & the baba is ready, I hold it steady while Julian places the nipple on top. This child may be a Sir Fussalot, but he is clearly headed for some career in engineering. He loves nothing more than to screw lids on bottles, or jugs, or whatever fascinating container begs to be capped.

So he places the nipple, with ring, on the baba, and I say, "Yay! You did it! You put the lid on!" (This is my script, I dare not deviate from it.) At which point (here it is, my favorite part of the day), he grins, ear to ear, pride spelled across his little face, & then squeezes my arm sooo tightly, then releases. Just a squeeze, just a smile, but they mean the world to me. My heart melts, & whatever havoc yon bebe has wreaked during the course of the day falls to the wayside, forgotten, forgiven, as we share this moment.

I felt the need to jump on here, my little time capsule of a blog, and record the fact that Julian does have his endearing points, even if the majority of the time he's gunning for the World's Highest Maintenance Baby record. Love you, JuJuBee.

I do believe Spencer turned 14 instead of 4 last week. He's throwing attitude around like nobody's business, defying his father & me at every turn. I don't WANT to go to bed. Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! I don't WANT to go grocery shopping (although I may have said I did five minutes ago). I don't WANT pork roast for dinner. Don't wanna, don't wanna, don't wanna. Stomp, slam, you get the picture. Lord help him if he wakes up the baby, is all I've got to say.

I think it has a lot to do with vying for attention with Lord Of All He Surveys, King Julian. It's tough, folks! I'm trying my darndest here, but my #1 objective has got to be to stop JuJuBee's crying. I simply can't carry on another conversation while he throws himself at my feet, wailing and despondent. So I usually attend to him first, for peace & quiet's sake, then tackle whatever Spence has been dancing around talking about for the past fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, by the way, equates to about 2.5 years in Toddler Time. Oh the agony of having to wait until Mommy can watch me make a silly face. Or new dance step. Or whatever. ARGH!!

So, dear boys, please know that Mommy loves you, even if I may yell in frustration occasionally or make promises to sterilize your father the hard way. I'm only venting a little steam. I'm sure you understand.

Today is THE DAY. Spencer, my love, turns 4 today. FOUR YEARS OLD. This, of course, means that I myself am ancient. It wasn't so long ago that I felt quite the free spirit, flitting about, not a care or responsibility in the world. And look at us now! We're the best little family we can be. I'm extremely proud of my boys, and our family, and even if it means giving up my careless ways, so be it. They are worth any and every sacrifice. Be-bopping around wasn't so great anyways, as I remember it.

So we're venturing off to THE place for birthday boys' lunches, that most fantastic gem of an eatery, McDonald's. Although I allow Spence full reign today, on his special day, I do however draw the line at having Mickey D's for both lunch & dinner. Another plan, please, dear boy. Mommy's arteries can't take it.

And the grand finale, excluding his party on Saturday of course, is the kitten we're surprising him with when we get home! A brand-new best friend, I can think of no better present. Not to mention it'll help my sweet wussy boy to slowly overcome his fear of larger animals. We hope. Perhaps we'll get a dog by his 30th. Fingers crossed.

So, my love, my life, my Spencer, Happy Birthday, dear boy, and may this and each birthday hereafter find you in good health, great spirits, and exploring all the fabulous potential we see in you. We love you!

Let me tell you why I'm a cheeseball. A complete, hopeless, buttered-nut cheeseball.

Last night, when I told Spence he had one minute 'til bedtime, he patted my arm & said softly, "That's gonna be a looong time, Mommy." And I melted.

This morning, Nathaniel told me I looked nice today. Made my day. :)

And just now, I pulled out all the stops & did a little happy dance at having been named...Ready?...The highest bidder for some John Denver music on Ebay. Cassette tapes.

And that, ladies & gentlemen, is a rough outline of just exactly how big of a pushover, pantywaist, loser of a cheeseball I truly am. There is a word to describe me, & that word is...Nerd. Or, in the neo-slang alternative, nizzerd. Please address me appropriately.

Ah, Friday, we meet again. Tonight marks the third Family Movie Night at the boys' daycare, so we expect another peaceful evening in a quiet setting. HA!! We fully expect to once again see, key word "see," another old cartoon flick, since hearing anything but a full-out screaming contest is out of the question. You see, when children gather in large numbers, it is their civic duty to contribute to the din as much as physically possible. A tea-time soiree this isn't.

Monsters, Inc., I believe, is the feature for this evening, and I'm having a helluva time explaining to Spence the oxymoron of "friendly monsters." It's a bit over my head, too, darling. You see, these horrific creatures' job is to scare the living daylights out of small children...But it's Ok, really it is, because...Disney says so.

And so, for the sake of tradition and making nice with fellow parents, we'll pack it all up and head out to the auditorium, hoping to leave with just the slightest scrap of sanity still intact. Wish us luck.

So the old man & I went out for a little of the green swill this past weekend. I honestly can't remember when the last time was that St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday, and apparently neither could anyone else, because the bars were packed. Holy geez. Care to dance, anyone? Too bad. There's a reason sardines can't dance.

But before you get the wrong impression, let me just say that it went splendidly. My best girlfriend put together an absolutely wonderful evening, including the extremely Irish hibachi steakhouse dinner, followed by drinks at the pub where she met her new man friend (lovely man, by the way, hang on to him, Tiff, even if he doesn't sing karaoke), and the kicker was how cheap the cab ride home was! Definitely do-able. Watch out, girl, we may be crashing every get-together in the future. Who knew it was less than $20 to get schlepped from the sticks to the city?

So, although I neglected to catch The Flying Shrimp Spectaculaire when the hopped-up Asian chef dude winged it at me, and I physically could not dance (besides a rousing rendition of the Irish jig), I did manage to thoroughly enjoy myself. The old man agrees, continuing to "date" while raising children is a must in any relationship. The fundamental base of the family rests squarely on the health of our relationship, no? So, you see, it is absolutely essential to raise a glass to ol' St. Patty, that patron saint of green beer, every now & again. Cheers.

Happy Friday, dear reader(s)! It's been a very long week indeed.

Julian, I'm proud to report, has been doing splendiferously in his new room at daycare. This morning, for the first time, he even leaned towards the teacher's outstretched arms while still perched on my hip. That's fine, baby, just take your mother's heart out & stomp on it. I'm kidding, partially, I mean I do want him to be happy & comfortable with his new teachers, in his new surroundings...Could you just wait 'til I'm out of the room to profess your affection for them?? I mean really. Just call me Chop Liver.

And the Spencinator is doing fine. My current gripe with him is this nose-wiping thing. His shirt, by the end of the day, looks like a road map to Crazytown, snot and that day's lunch from wrist to elbow. Gross, honey! He is easily within a half-dozen steps from a tissue at any given point throughout the day. Why, baby, WHY?? I suppose I should be counting my lucky stars that we've steered him away from nose-picking, infinitely worse in a public scenario, but still. The nose-wiping thing has got to go.

On my own front, the office has hired an additional 2 attorneys, with no mention of their support, so I suppose I'll be juggling their secretarial needs for a while. Which is fine, I actually prefer to be busy, makes the time fly by. One attorney, two attorney, three attorneys, four. Five attorneys, six attorneys, seven attorneys more. See, it clearly hasn't affected my mental state. Not at all.

So c'mooon, weekend! This particular weekend, I'll be shoe-shopping and meeting my best girlfriend's new "man friend." My only qualifiers are that he drink socially, play board games, and sing karaoke. Should be a shoo-in.

Well, dear reader(s), I'm off. May your weekend(s) be fruitful, safe, and full of relaxation. And karaoke.

In addition to carrying out the roles of nurse, chauffer, etc., I’m considering branching out into the fashion industry. Motherhood is screaming for a new trend. Allow me to introduce…Pantaloons!

Pantaloons, which is of course baby talk for “pants,” will become all the newest rage on the motherhood circuit, you watch. These slacks come in a wide variety of colors and fabrics, and sport what every mother of a toddler desperately needs…A design into which snot and drool can blend. Now these reminders of exactly how tall your toddler is and how many times he or she hugged you around the knees that morning won’t have to be scrubbed away! Because let’s face it, they really can’t ever be wiped entirely away. Trail of Tears, indeed.

So step right up, sign here and be pre-approved for your very first pair of Pantaloons! Coming soon.

I want to go home. I want to go home and crawl under the covers and never, never come out, world be damned.

I am a conundrum...A sick mommy. Mommies, who tend all wounds and nurse all sickly babies back to health, are really not allowed to get sick. Who doctors the doctor? No-effing-body. So here I sit in my cubie, head swimming in Advil and coffee and trying not to look like I'm slumping over, which I totally am. Were it not for this workspace securely fastened to the wall, I would surely be in a heap on the floor. Not the best spot to seek a raise/promotion from. Hell, it's hard to stay employed if you get in the habit of taking naps on the job. Not a good idea. Where's the maitre'd? More coffee!

I'd be sharing all the hilarities my boys have been up to if they weren't sick themselves. It's hard to practice your Laurel & Hardy routine when The Virus Of '07 has got you down for the count. Although there are exceptions...

The baby is learning to wave. So far, that's about all he's got down, the wave. Elbow-wrist, elbow-wrist, just in time for the Mardi Gras parades. Next, we'll tackle timing, because his is seriously off. If we are, say, entering a room, I'll do my Mommy thing and put on a mini-Broadway show...HEL-LO! HI! OH, HELLO! HI THERE! Waving like a madwoman all the while. Baby appears uninterested. But in the middle of a stroll across a room where no one has entered or exited for the past 12 hours, he will spontaneously start waving. Elbow-wrist, elbow-wrist, entirely for his own benefit. Or perhaps for a little exercise. I've been meaning to talk to him about those rolls. Sheesh.

Methinks it may be time to pop another cold med. The world is coming into focus again. Ick.