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.