I Really Want to Make a Kung Fu Fighting Reference In Here Somewhere

Guess who has the most awesome blog readers in the whole wide blogosphere?  I do, that's who.

You guys are really, extraordinarily good at making complete asses of yourselves.  Really, I am in awe.  And I have to give someone that (fast as) Lightening Online t-shirt for making the biggest faux pas (which I will always pronounce as Foe Pahs, thanks to my darling step-mother, who thinks that's really how you say it.  Maybe she should get the shirt.)

In true, blond, Pisces me fashion, I find myself unable to pick a winner, so I'm leaving it up to y'all to decide.  I have narrowed it down to 3 categories, with two entries in each:

In the Menstrual Disaster category:

Mutha, who was asked at the UHaul counter to show her receipt.  (I'll admit, this one's my favorite.)
I checked my pockets. Nothing. I went to my car and didn’t find it. Suddenly, I remember where I had put it. It was in my purse, which I had left on the counter. I ran into the store yelling, “I know where it is!” I reached into my purse, saw the pink paper, shouted, “Here it is!” and pulled it out with a flourish.

There, dangling onto the end of it, was a maxi pad, which had somehow gotten stuck to the corner of the receipt.

Ahem. It wasn’t fresh, I had wrapped it in TP, because the rest room didn’t have a trash can and you can’t flush those things.

Special K, who had the quintessential junior high slasher chick nightmare happen to her.
OK In the 6th grade I was the first girl to start her period. It was a horribly heavy non stop thing I finally had to get shots to stop it. They gave me some hospital ones, you know, the ones after you have a baby? Except I didn’t have a baby and I was 11 years old.

The boys in my class found them, stuck scotch tape on the backs of them just to stick them ON THE HALL WALL SPELLING MY FIRST NAME!!!!!!!!

In the Poop category:

DCUrbanDad, who is really lucky she married him later.
Had an unfortunate sharting accident in college whilst trying to impress the ladies in college.

Was actually heading to the library with my now wife for an all night exam cram session.

Had to let one out after a dinner of enchiladas. I thought it was going to be fairly benign but boy was I wrong.

Ended up going commando the rest of the evening and threw my boxers away in the men's room.

Secret Agent Mama, who shit in a ditch once. Seriously.  More noteworthy; On her honeymoon.
“STOP THE FUCKING CAR!” I screamed.

He pulled over with diligence. I scanned the backseat, spotted and picked up a random towel, opened the door, and in one huge leap I was down in the swamp ditch with my jean shorts around my ankles, relieving myself. I didn’t care that I could be attacked by a gator. I didn’t care that there could be any poisonous plants. I didn’t care that a snake might bite me. I just didn’t care about anything, other than pooping, at that very moment. I dumped, I wiped, and I left the nasty towel. I wiped my brow and my upper lip, both of which were sweat drenched. When I looked at Michael, once I got back into the car, I saw this look of sheer, utter amusement on his face.

“Shut! Up! And, I swear Michael, if you tell ANYONE about this, I will divorce you,” I quipped confidently.

Oh, he told everyone.  EVERYONE.  And as luck would have it, every woman in Secret Agent Mama's entire family has done this on their honeymoon.

In the Just Awesomely Stupid category:

Mrs F, who set out to walk with her newborn baby about a mile to a friends house.
When number one son was a few weeks old, I was running round to a friend’s house for coffee (also new mother). Remember those paranoias you used to have? About forgetting the baby? So, before I left the house I had a little mental checklist: Keys? Yep. Diaper bag? Yep? Baby? Got it. Looked in the hall mirror - Mascara? Wow yes.

Friend greeted me with snorts of laughter and “Think you forgot something?”. Ran through mental checklist….. nope, got everything.

Except clothes. Utterly naked from the waist down. Naturally, I had shoes on.

Matt's is really long, but I can't find a good way to edit it.  He's on a treadmill, at a crowded gym, watching the Waco, Texas stuff going down on the TV, when....
I jerked my attention back as my left foot ran off the left edge of the motorized belt. Immediately my right foot tried to correct from the rapid change in speed and my ankle rolled a bit. My entire body was lurched back and I panicked. Without thinking I grabbed ahold of the little handrail in front of me, but it was too late. I heard a collective gasp from the hundreds of people watching behind me as my body laid itself out, white knuckles gripping the bar, legs and feet outstretched behind me, dragging on the treadmill with toes pointed. My shoes made a deafening “BRAP BRAP BRAP BRAP” sound as they dragged on the treadmill, capturing the attention of the few people who were not watching at this point.

My body gave up and I let go. My chin slammed onto the belt and I was jettisoned back off the machine into a large rack of dumbells with a loud crash. My face flushed and my heart raced as people begin to laugh. In an attempt to salvage what was left of my dignity, I quickly and confidently scrambled to my feet and raced back to the treadmill, jumping onto it with gusto. The belt was still moving at the same speed that it had been when I had fallen off. I realized this a moment too late and begin leaning forward, flailing my arms wildly around in a large windmill pattern, trying to right myself. For some reason, my breath was coming out of me in loud grunts as I was doing this, like “UH, UH, UH, UH!” Another roar of laughter went up from the crowd. Eventually, I stabilized myself and continued to run, the eyes of a thousand laughing faces burning tiny holes into the back of my head.

And now it's up to you.  Vote for your favorite, and the blogger with the top votes on Friday morning needs to send me their address.  Which I will use for evil.  *wink*

(If you're reading this through a reader, I don't think you'll be able to see the awesome poll thingy. Click through to vote.)

The Post I Will Be Deleting In Two Weeks When She Sniffs Around My Laptop And Finds My Blog

My husband's mother, she is a saint.

She retired 2 years ago, and decided to join the Peace Corps.  She sold her home, divided all her worldly possessions amongst family and friends, and hopped on a plane to The Flying Spaghetti Monster only knows where in Africa to do things involving, I can only assume, Peace.  Also, Corps.

Her oldest grandchild was almost 15 when she left and her youngest was 5 months old.  We had, only 3 weeks before, packed up everything we owned and moved to Vancouver, so the transition was easy for everyone.  My boys have missed her more than I think any of us thought they would.  She is, truth be told, an amazing, attentive, loving, doting grandmother.

And, oh yeah, I kind of hate her guts.

I mean, I am fucking her son and all, and that just never plays into a relationship very well.  Add to that the fact that I am the world's most terrible mother, a pathetic excuse for a wife, and don't forget that my carelessness and fertility ruined her son's chance at a successful, real life.  We were doomed from the start.

You can imagine how much I have suffered since the day she moved to Africa, how sad and lonely I have been, how I have pined away for her from afar.  You can only imagine the sheer joy I felt in my heart when I heard that she was leaving the Corps and moving back to Denver.  Where none of her grandchildren live.  Where none of her children live.  Where her sisters that she sort of hates live.

Bygones.

A few months ago, before she decided to come back for good, she emailed to say she was visiting for 3of3's birthday.  Which is, honestly, awesome.  The kid needs to meet her gramma already.  We got each other on the phone one day soon after the email came and she asked me to research hotels in my neighborhood.  I said, "You know the kids aren't going to be okay with you staying in a hotel" to which she replied, "Mr Lady, you? Me? Two weeks? REALLY?" to which I replied, "I'll get back to you on the hotels."

She's been stateside for a week, a week and a half now?  I get an email last night.  Here it is:
I've gotten my tickets and will be on your doorstep, or least at your airport, very soon.  I will arrive in Vancouver on Sept. 17 at (doesn't matter o'clock) on a (airline) flight originating in (American city) and will leave Vancouver on Oct. 3 at (not really anyone's concern o'clock).

Here is where I fucked up, bigtime.  Here is where you should learn from my mistakes.  Instead of my follow-up email saying, as it should have, "So, do you still need hotel info or did you already book one?" my dumb-ass, passive argressive, can't even stand up to a 65 year old woman because she scares the fucking shit out of me self asked:
What's the plan while you are here?  Are you staying with us?

Yeah, you know exactly what the response was:
I leave it to you.  I remember from our last conversation about my coming that you felt the kids wouldn't have it any other way.  Mostly, I just want it to be easy and fun...and cheap, of course.  So, whatever works.  Love, (Clever mother in law who just dumped the Bitch Card squarely in my lap)

Fuck. Me.  Either I give up all hopes of sanity for two and a half weeks, find some uppers or some serious downers to swallow for a few weeks, and let her stay in my house where we don't have a spare bed, a spare room, or a spare minute, where it would just be me and her and the baby big girl all day, every day because her son works no less than 70 hours a week and the boys are in school 8 hours a day, or I make a poor woman who just spent two years in Africa spend what would clearly be the last few dimes in her retirement fund to stay in a hotel where she'd miss some of the only hours she's had with her grandchildren in two years because I am selfish and don't care about anyone but myself and am clearly no more fit to raise these children than I was before she left.

All of this?  Is because I am a pussy.  Is because, though I can write fucking odes to carbohydrates, I cannot properly compose one 10 word email to someone who already knows she should be getting a damn hotel room.  Is because I left the fucking door wide open, man.

I have two living, breathing, fully existent and sentient parents, and I don't speak ONE WORD to them.  There's a reason for that.  Why I have to be the one to deal with his mother, I'll never understand.  I've never made anyone talk to my mother, let alone try to negotiate with her.

Someone, anyone, get me out of this mess.  Or mail me some Valium, and fast.

Help.

Things I just found out today:

  • My mother in law is coming.

  • In 8 days.

  • And is planning on staying with us.

  • For two and a half weeks.


Help me?

No.  Well, here's someone you actually can help, who really needs it.  My friend Tiff @ Three Ring Circus, she has a little girl and....oh, who am I kidding?  Veronica @ Sleepless Nights said it best; I'll just cut and paste.  Read on, take a minute, sign the petition if you can.  Which, if you don't think those things make a difference, they do.   The CEO of the International Pemphigus Foundation found Veronica's post, forwarded it to the blistering Specialist that Ivy saw way back in January, who just happens to be on the board of the Pemphigus Foundation.  These things work, they make a difference, they may just help a beautiful little girl and her family.  (Edited to note: From the time I hit publish and went to bed until the time I got up this morning, the petition worked.  She's getting the treatment. Thank you all so so so much.)

Cut and pasted from Veronica's blog, with consent and thanks...



Ivy is beautiful and Ivy is sick. Ivy is only 2.

And yet, at age 2, Ivy has seen the inside of a hospital more times than anyone should have to. Ivy has a rare immune deficiency IgG. Because of that, she has Pemphigus which is an autoimmune response to the IgG  [please note, these are photos of Ivy's pemphigus blisters and they may be a little graphic for some people].

These are horrible conditions that no adult should have to deal with, let alone a child.

Ivy is currently on Prednisone and Mycophenolate to help control her symptoms and blistering; however, these drugs suppress her immune system, on top of the deficiency.

Ivy’s mum says “…she was never good at mounting a response to infection but the meds make it worse.”

She frequently ends up in hospital on IV antibiotics, just to help control the infection in her ears that never seems to completely disappear. She cannot be exposed to a simple virus in fear that it will land her back in hospital for days at a time.



She can’t go to the playground to play.

She can’t attend playgroup.

She can’t head to the supermarket with her mother.

She might never be able to go to regular school.

She is only 2.

However, there is a treatment that would give Ivy a good chance at normal life.

It’s called IVIG (intravenous immunoglobulin) and it is a transfusion of immune cells that would bolster Ivy’s own immune system and help her fight infections in a normal way.

Think about it, a chance at a normal life. A life that doesn’t involve frequent hospitalisations.



Unfortunately, the officials at the Australian National Blood Authority have denied the request for Ivy to have this treatment. This treatment that could very well keep her out of hospital. So far, all appeals have been in vain.

As Ivy’s Mum says on her website:

“My little girl is going to have a life of hospital admissions and illness, some chronic, some life threatening, because some guy in an ivory tower decided she could survive without this medication.”

How is this fair?

What if it was your child? What if it was your sister’s child? Do the rules change for daughters of the officials? How come someone with a big stamp gets to say yes or no to this little girl’s chance at a normal life?

It shouldn’t be like this.

All I am asking for is 2 minutes of your time. If you could just head over here and sign our petition, we might be able to get enough support to convince the National Blood Authority officials to change their mind.

Ivy is only 2. She deserves a chance to be normal.

Please, a minute of your time could make all the difference for Ivy.

Sign the Petition



Tomorrow, maybe, we can talk about my mother in law.

I'm Not Wearing Anything Under It, I Swear

So, a long time ago, someone that I know and love had a contest on their blog.  A "show me your boobs so I can send you this t-shirt that's circulating about the world" contest.  Let's just say, I took that a bit too literally.  Yes, one mommy blogger has my tatas slapped all over her family webpage.

AND I STILL DIDN'T WIN.

But I digress.  The t-shirt made its way here and there and eventually landed in the lap of ZoeyJane.  She had a contest to give it away, and I totally entered that contest, not realizing it was a contest; I just like fill in the blank games is all.



Yep, I am finally in possession of that t-shirt.  No, I am not linking you to the booby shot.

It's the Lightening Online travelling t-shirt, and it's going around as far as we can all get it.  I will mail to to whoever wants it next.  To enter, all you have to do is tell me the most humiliating thing you've done in public in the comments.

Like, say, submitting a picture of your boobs to win a contest for a t-shirt, not winning said contest but still having your booby-shot shown on an insanely popular mom blog anyway.

Or, say, turning around at your desk in the 10th grade to talk to the mega-popular chick who sat behind you, who you had no business making eye-contact with let alone discussing protein synthesis with, and mid-sentence you sneeze, which wouldn't be a big deal if it weren't allergy season, in New England, causing you to sneeze out 2 tons of ectoplasmic residue all over that girls desk, science book, hand for Christ's sake.

Or, something like going to school in 9th grade wearing white pants and realizing in the middle of 2nd period chemistry that you've put your maxi-pad on upside down and just as you suspected, the adhesive strips aren't nearly as absorbent as the padded side is.

Make me feel better about myself before Wednesday, and the t-shirt, she's yours.  Join us, won't you?

A 6 Pack of PBR is Aluminum, right?

10 years ago today, I was 23 1/2 years old.  I had one and only on child, and he was 5 months old, fat as all get-out, barely crawling and just about weaned.  10 years ago today, I lived in the basement of a friend's house who also had a new baby, and we were all best friends.  10 years ago today, I still wanted to design sets for plays as my career, still read angsty poetry, still had never touched that thing called the internet.  10 years ago today, I had a full time job in accounting, one that I was really good at and thoroughly enjoyed.  10 years ago today, I was several dress sizes bigger than I am right now, one full shoe size smaller than I am now, and had much shorter hair.

10 years ago today, there was no way I could have imagined my life now, today, in the present.  I couldn't picture my son standing to my shoulders, couldn't see the other two children yet to come into my life, would never have guessed I would live outside the US, or stay home full time with my kids, have tattoos or a nose ring, be hooked on politics, not really care about religion anymore, have lost both parents or found two new ones.  I couldn't see what a fine man my brother would grow up to be, or dream that he'd have such a great family and beautiful kids of his own.  10 years ago today, I had no real concept of family or unconditional love.

10 years ago today, I put on a new dress and a pair of new shoes, and I became your wife.

It's never been easy, but no one said it would be.  We both are totally, completely, unrecognizably different people today than we were back then. Sure, we more or less look the same; I've got a whole lot of extra stretch marks, and you've got some gray hair, but the who of who we are, the what of the things we want in life, the why that drives us on every day, none of it remains unchanged.  We discovered ourselves over this past decade, and we almost lost each other along the way.  We almost gave up, we almost walked away from it all.

Thank you for not walking away.

Thank you for sticking it out with me, even when we're apart.  Thank you for understanding that I have to run when it gets too hard, and that I'll be back soon.  Thank you for all of these kids, who are the greatest gift I'll ever be given for the rest of my life.  Thank you for keeping your sense of humour through all of it, and thank you for still believing in me after I've taken away every reason for you to.  Thank you for wanting to know me, for seeing good in me when even I can't find any, for loving me despite myself, for your patience and your kindness and your goodness.  Thank you for trying for me.  Thank you for wanting to be a better man for me and for our kids.  Thank you for every day you sacrifice, going to a job you don't really like, working more hours every day than I am awake, cleaning golf clubs you may never actually get to use again, all so that I can be home with our kids not getting the laundry done, so that we can have what we need and never have to worry.  Thank you for the security that you bring to our family.

Mostly, though, thank you for seeing something in me when I was still too young to see it myself, thank you for hanging around while I looked for it, and thank you for loving me on the other side of this decade though I probably don't deserve it.

10 years ago today, I walked down a path.  The whole way down it, I thought about stepping off, of turning and running, just like I usually do.  I didn't; I stayed, I vowed my life and my heart to you.  I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference.
Happy 10th Anniversary, baby.  I love you, with every little bit of me, forever and ever.



PS: In cased you missed it, last years' post is right here.  The post won't format and the pictures didn't move over, but you'll get the idea.