Alerte!!!

Come and wath Hillry Duff with me


...A note I found from Winnie alerting her friend Paige to some tivo action. She had crossed out "wath" and replaced it with "wach".

The "Alerte" was one of several notes -- they played school which produced a list of friends:


I have a freind her name is Paige Peterson, I actchale have a lot of frends But she is my greatest freind my ather freinds are nice to.

I'll list my ather freinds

Katleyn Flute, Rachel Yelgens, Macey Beddle, Alex Novonally, Tayler Rogers, Katie Henderson, Autumn Brond (in the ather class of third grade)

*Love*
Winnie



They played gymnastics -- the note for that:


Step hop
three times
brige for
10 seconts
Handstand
2 times
fourwerd roll turn
aroud skip 7 times
backword roll forwed
stradele roll and
Land in a Pose


And then they played hospital -- here's the doctor's report:


Name Hilry Duff
2 doctars
Little sister
bune - bune (that's Lizzie's doll Bun - Bun)

Hilry Duff
sugry on her
arms and legs
her littel
sister is here
for a cast on
her arm and
regeler docters
opontment with
docter b.
and Hillry Duff is here with Dr. Haliy Duff
and Dr. B

8 is great!

Another anniversary, wasn't I just writing about a seven year itch? My how time does indeed fly.

This year we yelled less. Some issues were actually resolved while others remained but have been hashed over from every approach thought of to date -- I just let those be as best as I could this year. We had enough good times where he endeared himself to me to keep me from killing him when he didn't.

It sounds one sided because it usually is -- he's usually got no truck with me. He's often surprised to find that I don't think things are going well -- and therein lies much of the problem. It's mostly age old couple's stuff and we are surviving it, getting through it and learning to live with much of it -- even getting past some of it.

It's been a fairly stressful road, but through it all have been some good times and the sense that we are the real deal. Ours is a constantly evolving relationship. I don't ever feel we are growing apart, it's always been a process of better understandings of one another and deciding if we are willing to live forever together knowing what we know.

Not the romantic dreams of my youth, but what is? "Life on life's terms" is not just a phrase for bumper stickers. I think my entire human drama spawns from the thought, "but why can't it be this way -- this fun, easy, my way -- over here?"

I definitely process slow to acceptance of life's drudgeries.

Rich and I had a weekend get-a-way this past weekend so we are in a real good space to have an anniversary. It's amazing how well we get along when there are no expectations of each other to live up to.

There's some New Age crap out there that suggests spiritual bliss once you stop placing expectations on people. That's all well and good as long as there are no children to be cared for -- or any other of life's responsibilities hanging around for that matter. Until such time, there will be expectation, disappointment, accountability and all of the other combustible aspects of life.

It's not realistic to give up expectations, but it is possible to flee the expectation causing responsibility -- so we did -- and boy did we have fun. Side note on that is, I have found my machine and it is, the Yamaha three man jet ski.

We rode and rode on that jet-ski -- every time I started to fall asleep on our first night home I had the sensation of pounding over the waves. The first day was smooth lake, but on the second day the water was pretty choppy -- all the better to get air borne my sweet!

AAAAhhh, I could live on a jet-ski...

It's been good to laugh with him. And to be rested.

Last night we actually got to talk as we lay in bed -- usually one or the other of us is snoring away any opportunity for chat. We looked at the stars through the skylight and wondered about the satellights we saw and do any of them ever fall out of orbit because, "remember Skylab?" (there were t-shirts with targets and everything).

We reminisced about our first date -- when I got there he walked out of his bedroom and said, "Thank God you finally showed up, now I can stop changing my pants". I walked over to hug hello and dropped my soda all over him and the floor. He laughed at my Nell mocking and I laughed at him pointing out his average hands when I was singing Blister in the Sun. We layed together on his couch and talked and laughed and talked and laughed and gave each other a hard time.

Most of all I remember the sense of relief that I had in knowing that this was the one for me.

He says he knew on our first date that I was the one for him -- I knew the night of our phone call regarding the planning of an up-coming event for a conference we were working on together--it turned into an all night conversation that ended with the planning of the first date. The first date was confirmation.

No matter what my head is thinking, it's always there -- that sense of comfort in belonging together that I felt that first night I knew he was the one.

Happy anniversary baby.

I love phonics: a note to Frankie from Winnie

"Be have
Frankie
Be have Frankie"

How stupid am I?

Oh good grief, I went looking at dogs on the internet.

First of all, my Big cannot be replaced.

Second of all, I am considering being done with dogs -- we do have a second dog now, but he's getting older and he's always been "the dumb one" (sweet, but stupid. And sometimes nervous and he likes to run away. We work at not giving him survivor's guilt, but I'm not sure it's working).

"You don't want a puppy. This too shall pass, this too shall pass, this too shall pass..."

Rich is thinking the opposite end of the spectrum this time and he wants a small dog -- a Miniature Pincer to be exact. I looked them up and they have minimal health problems. The things I'm not about are the barking and the 'keep all the little stuff off of the floors and possibly even the counter tops'.

He has no idea what that means, but what it means is -- this thing eats buttons and crayons and power puff key chains and tinsel and stray threads and coins and all the things you never considered a hazard now hold the potential to keep you up all night with a crapping dog (or worse).

I know because I had a pug once -- it wasn't my fault, I didn't get one on purpose -- it was my sister's dog and she moved to a place where she couldn't have the dog -- that story. Roxanne the pug was endearing, but oh so full of trouble. She once pulled the table cloth from the table and ate an entire box of chocolates. The cure was to have her drink peroxide. The results were straight out of a Monty Python movie, complete with lots of running and lots of projectile vomit.

She also didn't come with a shut off signal for when she was full. She was like a goldfish -- she would eat to the point of death if you let her. One day I came home from work and she had gotten into the cupboard where I kept her food. It was a giant green bag of IAMS (you can afford the good stuff when your dog requires a half a cup of food a day). There she was -- she had ripped open the bag and was laying on top of the food, panting and looking very pregnant -- her belly was hard to the touch. I thought she may burst when I moved her.

And those little bug eyed dogs -- apparently their eyes pop out fairly easily. The neighbor's German Shepherd didn't help with it's brute use of force, but still...Her friggin eye came out.

Eyes don't hang by veins like in the movies, and they aren't as round as you would think either -- they kind of jut out of the socket and sit all jutted and bulged on the outside of the eye socket.

Her final end came quickly when she decided she was going to take on a raccoon. She went missing from the front yard and my boyfriend at the time found her -- I never had to see it. Those little dogs think they are big and that doesn't always bode well for them. A charmed life, hers was not.

Izzy may have had an ill fated end, but she had a great life right up to those last two days. I know that wasn't just because she was a big dog...

My grandparents always had success with the little dogs, but I just don't know if they are for me. One thing I do know about me though is that sooner or later I will own another dog. The entire family wants a little dog -- a tiny dog.

It's too soon, but what's with me? I was looking at puppies -- it's in there -- the puppies have sparked a desire.

Puppies -- naughty -- lots of work -- no puppies now.

Maybe some kind of Min Pin mix might have something to offer...

You did not name your kid Mimosa

It is not a tree. And it's not a bright star either -- it's a cocktail. (Okay, maybe it has all those meanings, but everyone is thinking about the cocktail.)

When you tell people her name, all they will think about is what you must have been drinking on the night she was conceived and they will have to look away to hide the fact that they are working very hard to stifle all expression from their face.

I like her nickname though, Mimo is very cute -- stick with that.

I love a creative name -- I just don't think they thought this one all the way through (is what I'm sayin).

What's that thing called?

It has happened again -- someone who's writing I admire has made a public declaration against the misuse of punctuation.

Crap like that used to make me afraid to write -- pushed around by punctuation snobs -- what a shame.

The way I see it now is that if you have a hold of the rules, it's a gift from God and you aught to be more humble about it.

I try, I really do -- take that last post for example. When it came to writing "in-between", I felt a lurch in the punctuation portion of my brain. Questions: "Does that dash thing go there?", "What is that thing anyway? A hyphen?", "Is it 'in between'? or 'in-between?'"

Presently, I forget how to quote within a quote, but I know the triple mark at the end of that last question can't be right. And do I need to quote my thoughts?

I'm not real sure.

I googled about the hyphen and it seems to be done both ways, with no particular instance giving up the rule. Then I check at AskOxford.com and they don't know either.

Sweet validation. Thank you Oxford.

I don't have have time to look up my every punctuating doubt. I'm proud of myself for even knowing it was called a hyphen (total recall -- no google necessary).

When in doubt, I usually go for these things: --.

The double dash.

I'm sure the dahses have a formal name, but I don't have time to look it up. I do know they are supposed to be used when you are not quite ready for a new sentence and you want to make reference or clarification on the thing you just said, or something like that. When I'm not sure if I'm in need of a comma or the double dash, I always go for the double dash.

I probably shouldn't point that out because now you will be distracted by them, "Yes, there she goes again -- she's used those dashes."

Alas, my friends, tis the double dash which gives me flow. Without them, my entire writing experience would consist of punctuation wonder. Thoughts would jam and fragment into worthless bits of uninspired starts and stops.

I try, I really do. I'm as distracted as the next person by poor spelling, poor grammar and punctuation run amok. For me the main rule of writing is; learn as you go. (Was that the correct use of that semi-colon? Do I need to put quotes around "learn as you go"? Is this a case for the double dash? Neither? What is the correct way to separate the phrase? It ought to be separated, right?).

Forget it!

Writing is enriching for the writer no matter how well it's done. With a little luck and/or practice -- it's enriching for the reader as well.

Fear not the rules of language and go for it.

Write! Write, I say!

And some moments in life are sweet

In-between kid's shows, PBS gives little tips on how to be a good parent. Upon seeing a bit on playful parenting, Lizzie turned to me and said, "You're my playful parent, mom."

It's stupid that I didn't have cable for all that time

There I was trying to have a meaningful life and all that goodness.

Who knew I could have been with HBO on Demand for much of that time?

Better late than never.

Boo, stinkin, hoo

Shrank a pair of favorite summer pants. Brown, linen, capri, trendy -- fantastic find at Marshall's, worn 4 or 5 times . I got my ten bucks worth out of them, but it would still be nice to be able to wear them some more times.

At least it's not like the 70 dollar "Katharine Hepburn Slacks" fiasco -- they were so flattering, it happened years ago and I may never learn to let them go.

Let ribaldry live -- multiple bungholes for everyone!

I'm not always mature, so when Frankie comes downstairs and starts relentlessly antagonizing his sisters, I hit back where it hurts -- with toilet humor.

Rich has passed his loath for inappropriate butt talk on to his son -- so while Frankie refused to stop dishing out his brand of funny -- frustrating his sisters to the point of tears (Oh, that's funny) -- of course I come in with the big guns and say,"Girls, did you know Frankie has two poopers?"

Laughter.

Then Lizzie picks it right up -- she comes to the defense of her brother with, "Mom, you have 100 poopers! I can see them with my eyes, because I can see through pants."

I wonder aloud if these are big or small poopers and do they all fire at once, or take turns? Is it like a pooper pipe organ or what? I am aware I am pushing the visual envelope, but that's the fun of it, right?

Well, much to my dismay, it is my Winnie who brings out the tone of shame and tells me to stop talking so gross while she is trying to eat lunch. Frankie was hot on her heals with his own wet blanket of shame. "Sure Frankie, you can start it, but can't finish it, can you?"

I made a small plea to Winnie to not lose her sense of humor, but I think they've gotten to her.

I should have come to her defense when Frankie was shaming her for farting on her sister, but I let the kids hash it out themselves and now look what's happened. I mean, I don't think she needs to be farting on her sister, but I don't think she needs to hang her head low for having done so either.

Life kind of sucks a lot of the time, what's the point if you can't have fun with a pooper or two?

Do you know why most rich and famous people don't stay married? Because they don't have to, that's why.

Logistics for the commoner are a bitch. I'm forced to think long and hard about details and in that time we usually come around to something worth remaining together for -- enough to justify staying without feeling like a complete moron for doing so anyway.

I created this blog specifically to have a place to vent when my husband pisses me off. I know I haven't fired off a substantial rant in a good long time, but that's not because he hasn't hacked me off -- it's because, fuck him, he can get his own blog.

This week his thoughtlessness has convinced me that I married a medical miracle, because he is obviously brain dead.

The details go on and on and are beyond proving he can be a real schmuck -- they make me look and feel stupid for being in this relationship.

He's pissing me off anew, right now, as I try to type he keeps interrupting me -- further evidence of a non functioning brain, because it would only require one working cell to figure out to shut the fuck up and stay the fuck away -- cause bitch ain't throwing things or yelling or trying to make conversation or anything like that. Bitch has gone quite, which means you are dead to her right now -- she's got nothing but cold and empty and now is not the time to see what's behind the ice.

People with brain function, what's behind the ice? Anyone? ...Bueller?

It's not love and forgiveness -- it's a little ditty I like to call, "Okay, you want to know what's wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong -- let's spell this motherfucker out, shall we?"

Since that particular activity would be a pointless waste of energy, how about you just give me some space right now. Make a call to someone and have them make you feel better about yourself.

I have a few versions in my head of my exit from this relationship. All of them have Sinead O'Connor singing The Last Day of Our Acquaintance and involve the door being nowhere near my ass on the way out.

Today's version doesn't find gravel spitting from the tires as I burn out of the driveway -- hu uh, nope. Today I am in the house and he is not, Sinead is singing from the bedroom stereo and I'm looking up numbers of realtors to see how much we can expect to split between us.

Thin line indeed.

This could be just the inspiration I need

Some perv looking for stories about where people are putting their Ben Wa balls found me through a Google search.

Well, when I checked my rank for "ben wa balls in my" -- I was number 4.

But do you know who was number 1? Do you?

Dooce.

That's correct, three away from Dooce -- I'm definitely having a blogging moment.

I'd like to shout out to my sister Robyn right now --Hey Rob! Sharing a search results page with Dooce over here.