You Better Watch Out

When I was growing up, the local Lion's Club would host an annual "Pancakes With Santa" event at the local middle school.  We'd all trek over to eat pancakes and phallic breakfast sausage, and then queue up to get our picture taken with Santa.

Ahhhh.... Christmas memories.

There are no such pictures of Preschooler with Santa.  She's afraid.

OF COURSE she's afraid!

Our first attempt to see Santa came early in December.  We were eating lunch in the mall food court (DON'T JUDGE) when we noticed there was no line whatsoever to visit Santa.

"Preschooler, look!" we said.  "There's Santa!  Would you like to go say hi?  You can tell him what you want for Christmas."

"I don't know what I want!" preschooler whispered, a bit agog.

"That's ok!" we replied.  "Santa knows.  You can just say hi and we'll take a picture to show every one."

She wasn't exactly jumping for joy, but we headed off anyways.  We walked through a small maze of candy canes and evergreens and were within a foot and a half of the big man.

But instead of bounding up to sit on his lap, or even traipsing up to say "hi," Preschooler clung to my legs as if she were going down with a sinking ship.

"Honey, it's ok! Santa's nice!"

Santa sat there rather impassively.  He probably had his fill of screaming kids, and wasn't going to encourage any more.

Preschooler couldn't even reply, except to bury her head further into my legs.

BOO!

And without Preschooler there to take the lead, Toddler simply preferred her usual state of anarchy, rather than sitting nicely on a strange old man's lap, no matter how many free candy canes were involved.

"That's ok," we said.  "Maybe next time."

Next time came a couple weeks later at, of all places, our church's Christmas lunch.

Jesus?

One of the parishioners dressed up as Santa, and was soon surrounded by a plethora of excited children. All except Preschooler, who hid under a table, and then behind a door, and then in Husband's lap.

Oh well, we tried.

So imagine Preschooler's surprise when she wakes up Christmas morning to find the doll she'd been obsessed with ever since seeing the endless commercials for this toy.

"HE KNEW!" she cried.

Of course he knew.

"Next year," Preschooler decided, "I'll be big enough to go see Santa."

I hope so.  Mama wants some pictures!!

I'm No Actor, But I'll Play Along Anyways.

This week's Monday Listicle challenge is to answer questions posed on Inside The Actor's Studio by James Lipton. I love this show, and am happy to oblige!

*     *     *

1. What is your favorite word?

Love.  

2. What is your least favorite word?

Think outside the box.  I know that's 4 words.  I'm a rebel like that.

3. What turns you on?

Confidence.

4. What turns you off?

Arrogance.  It's a fine line between confidence and arrogance.  I'm complicated like that. 

5. What sound do you love?

My daughters' voices.

6. What sound do you hate?

Spitting.

7. What is your favorite curse word?

Dammit when I'm by myself, crap when I'm around my kids.  I know crap isn't the best thing for them to hear, but it's probably better than dammit.  Probably.

8. What profession other than yours would you like to attempt?

Novelist.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Daycare teacher in the infant room.  Also, accountant.  Math is my enemy, and dealing with numerous babies crying all at once would be utterly overwhelming.

10. If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates?

Welcome!  I'm so happy to see you.

*     *     *

As always, thank you Stasha for the fun prompt!

A Peek Inside My Drawers. No, Not Those Drawers.

The Cheesy Blogger prompt from this week was a peek inside our space.

Now, I'm no stranger to nosiness. Growing up, when we wanted to engage in a nice family bonding activity, we'd drive through the local frozen custard place. Frozen custard is like ice cream, but made of pure awesome. Then we'd eat it in the car as we took a drive around the neighborhood, to look at all the new houses being built in our city's burgeoning subdivisions.  While driving, we'd joke that we would slow down to peek from our car into any well-lit windows.  At least, I think we were joking.

Anyways, better late than never, here is my contribution to the peek inside my space project... a peek inside my desk drawers!

It's pretty standard stuff.  We went on a mad organizational frenzy over the summer, and while it might look somewhat disheveled, all the items make sense as belonging in a desk drawer.

OH.MY.GOD.

Just LOOK at the organization!

The one anomaly?  The basket of dirty laundry under my desk.  My kids dress and undress in the middle of the living room, so to save my fat lazy energy-conscious ass from having to bring dirty clothes upstairs just to bring them back down on laundry day, we keep a laundry basket under our desk.

Doesn't every one?

This Is How Jackson Pollock’s Parents Must Have Felt

Today I gave my girls highlighters to color with.  The reason they were using highlighters instead of regular crayons or markers is that I banned markers from my household. I was tired of my girls walking away with marker tattoos on their arms and legs, and anyhow, they dried out due to the caps constantly being left off.

There were good reasons why I don’t give my kids markers.  I should’ve remembered this.

But it was cold and cloudy and nasty outdoors today, and my kids were whining about being bored.  And in my household, the easiest way to deal with nothing-to-do-itis is to set my kids up with arts and crafts projects.  Except instead of providing my kids with an elaborate craft involving paper bags, googly eyes, and felt, I gave them college-lined notebook paper and highlighters.  Same thing, really.

So while they busied themselves, I spent five glorious minutes cleaning my kitchen without any children attached to my leg, clamoring for snacks, or movies, or ponies.  But when I looked back at the kitchen table to check in on my kids, I saw two things. I saw a beautiful drawing of a flower in all its neon glory that would’ve made any 90’s era gal proud. And I saw Toddler entirely covered from chin downwards in pink highlighter.

So, after an impromptu mid-day bath, I brought the kids back downstairs.  The first thing Preschooler did was run to the kitchen to see if a picture she painted with poster paints earlier this morning was dry.

It wasn’t.

My freshly-bathed Preschooler now had hands covered in poster paint.

And what does she do before I have a chance to get her to the sink to wash her hands, or even just give her a wipe for immediate damage control?  

She rubs her hands on the upholstered living room chairs.

Now I get to clean the upholstery on my living room chairs.  So much for being bored.

30 Million Day Blog Challenge #7: A Hobby I Have

I'm a great lover of hobbies.  That is, I like the idea of hobbies.

A couple times a year I decide I'm going to become the world's greatest "fill-in-the-blank."  I'll sink entirely too much money into supplies for my new venture. Then, after two weeks of diligent effort, I'll give up.  This is usually because my new hobby is hard, and I haven't the patience to persevere.

This happened with knitting.  This happened with canning.  This happened with scrapbooking.

But this didn't happen with blogging.  I avoided telling any one about my blog for several weeks, until I was sure I passed the two-week "this-is-hard-and-not-as-much-fun-as-I-thought" stage and entered the land of bona fide hobby.  I didn't want to tell every one I knew, "I BLOG NOW" only to have to tell them a month later, when they ask how the blog is doing, "Blogging? Oh. I don't do that anymore."

So, blogging is my hobby, as is writing in general.

But you already knew this.

Have A Very Misogynistic Christmas

A few days ago, when I noticed the 1964 stop-motion animation television special “Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer” was on, I was thrilled.  At four-years-old, Preschooler was finally old enough to really “get” the whole Santa experience, and I knew she’d love this movie.  So with an eager heart, I turned on the TV, and got ready to create some Normon-Rockwell-esque Christmas memories with my oldest child.  And as I predicted, Rudolph worked his charm. Preschooler sat there the whole hour, mouth hanging open, totally engaged in the story of the misfit reindeer.

For all the wrong reasons.

It turns out Rudolph isn’t as sunshiny as I remember.

Not five minutes into the movie, when Rudolph is born, we find out Rudolph’s father, Donner, is kind of a dick.  When Rudolph’s nose shines, his mother (Mrs. Donner Reindeer), says “Well, we’ll just have to overlook this,” Rudolph’s dad vocally opposes such a suggestion, and insists Rudolph wear a false nose.  So, when Rudolph complains the prosthetic is uncomfortable, his dad claims “You’ll wear it and you’ll like it!” Now THAT’S parenting!

As the movie rolls along, I can accept all the other reindeer are jerks towards Rudolph, if only because the carol commands the other reindeer not allow Rudolph to join in any reindeer games.  So it comes as no surprise when Rudolph runs away from home.

Donner and Mrs. Donner are understandably distraught when they find out Rudolph’s gone.  Mrs. Donner wants to strike out in search of her lost boy, but Donner stops her stating, “No! This is MAN’S work!” and he sets off alone.  

Despite this, and In a rare moment of female empowerment, Mrs. Donner and Rudolph’s little girlfriend Clarice leave the cave to search for Rudolph.  The next we hear from them?  They’re being attacked by the Abominable Snowman. OF COURSE THEY ARE.  

So, Rudolph, Donner, and Rudolph’s new misfit friends rescue them thanks to the wanna-be dentist elf, who pulls out all the Abominable Snowman’s teeth with a large pair of pliers. This led to some interesting discussions about how the dentist is your friend, and not some sort of nightmarish tooth-pulling fiend.

Finally, with the Abominable Snowman incapacitated, the gang can head home, but not without one more disparaging quip from Donner. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get the WOMEN home.”

Fantastic.

The movie’s most redeeming feature, in my opinion?  The island of misfit toys is ruled by a giant flying gryphon.  SCORE.  Totally forgot about that one. And, most likely, any hints of misogyny totally flew over Preschooler’s head, just as, for 30 odd years or so, they flew over my head as well.

Merry Christmas.  Merry Christmas, indeed.

My Day-After-Christmas Wish List

Before I tackle this week's Monday Listicles prompt, I want to thank every one for their kind words and support over the past week. I'm working with my doctor on adjusting my medication, and I'll hopefully continue to improve over the next couple weeks.  In the meantime...

This week's Monday Listicles prompt was to write a Christmas wish-list.  I'm opting for a day-after Christmas wish list, as the post-Christmas days are fraught with just as much peril as the days leading up to Christmas. So, I wish:

1) That the needles on my Christmas tree don't fall to the ground in one fell swoop, causing a hellish loop of vacuum - curse - vacuum - curse all while trying to chase my kids away from the mess on the floor.

2) That neither of my kids throw-up due to all the Christmas treats, excitement, and melt-downs.  There's no puking in Christmas.

3) That any toys with 101 little parts stay complete and whole for at least two weeks. And that I don't step on any sharp plastic piece hiding in the shag rug on my living room floor.

4) That the batteries in any talking-singing-noisy toys die as soon as possible.

5) That my kids wait at least one month before outgrowing any new clothes.

6) That the majority of this year's Christmas memories are happy ones.

I think that last one is manageable.

*     *     *

I'll Shut Up About This Soon, I Promise

I’ve been somewhat depressed lately.  This isn’t new.  Allie Brosh from Hyperbole and a Half described depression pretty nicely in her recent post “Adventures In Depression”; depression rears its ugly head in an avalanche of self-loathing and depravation.  It makes it especially difficult for me to write, because most of my internal dialogue goes something like this:

My brain: I know! I’ll write about birds.

My depression: Birds are stupid.  You’re stupid.

My brain: Uhhh.... ok.  What about the fact that I’ve abandoned the gym in favor of climbing up and down the steps in my own home?

My depression: Whatever.  You’re fat.  

My brain: Oh.

My brain: I can’t think of anything anymore.  All my ideas have been snuffed-out by the cold, blowing, wind of self-criticism.

My depression: I told you so.

My brain: I could write about being depressed.

My depression: No one wants to listen to that, you whiner. 

My brain: Ok then.... I’ll just go stand in the corner....

It started back this summer when I went to the dentist.  I hadn’t been to the dentist in six or seven years, and was banking on some good stories to come out of my own oral negligence.  

Instead, it was... uneventful.  Apparently I have good (and boring) tooth genes.  I wrote a post about it, but didn’t really like it that much.

And ever since that, I’ve felt flat.  Boring.  Whiny.

Even writing this, I’m hard-pressed to squelch the voice of “why bother?”  Is this a writer thing? A depression thing? Or am I in a pity-party state of mind that I should just get over already?

Yet as wretched and stupid as I feel right now, I do know one thing: It could be so much worse.

Before we figured out that I had specifically bipolar depression, my depressive cycles were so much more devastating.  I ceased being able to work, take care of my children, and function in any sense.  The medication I now take every single day saved my life, continues to save my life.  

And just having written this is cathartic. At least it's better than keeping it secret and silent. I don’t know when, but I know it’s temporary, and I’ll get though it.  

Just as I have before.

I'm Too Afraid And Guilt-Ridden To Give This Post A Witty, Concise Title.

For a number of reasons, and at times no reason at all, I'm on a depressive cycle.  This next topic is highly personal.  I debated whether to share it at all, but seeing as one reason I started this blog is to be transparent with my feelings, here it goes.

I want more children.  In fact, Husband and I have been trying to have a third child.

For a year, we've been trying to have a third child.

It isn't working.

I never anticipated this.

All Husband had to do was look at me to get me pregnant the first two times.  I was on the pill when I got pregnant with Preschooler.  With Toddler there was just one time.  One night of unprotected sex.  That's it.

I thought I was a fertile-Myrtle.

If everything had gone according to my original plan, I wouldn't have even started having kids until just now. I wanted to establish my career first in my ongoing futile effort to be the MOST SUCCESSFUL PERSON EVER, so I could WIN AT LIFE. I always wondered why God gave me my two kids sooner than my plans.  Now I know.  At least I have two kids, who I love more than life itself.   It would've devistated me to have fertility problems with my first two pregnancies.

And that leads to the guilt.  The guilt I feel because I want more, and I'm very, very sad that it's not working.  As if I don't really have a good reason to be sad, seeing as I already have two kids.  As sad as I am about not having a third, each and every day I thank God for my first two kids.  But it doesn't always take away from the sadness I feel for wanting more, and the subsequent guilt.

I think what it comes down to is that as a woman, I like to think I'm in charge of my fertility.  That I can have as many kids as I want, and then stop having them when I choose.

But I guess that may not be a choice of mine to make.

Flashback... Errrmmm...Uhhh....Tuesday. Now With More Pie.

This Flashback Friday post is either really early or really late.  But since I'll be really busy over the course of the week, I want to reiterate some Thanksgiving wisdom I passed on last year...

*     *     *

Originally posted Thursday, November 25, 2010


Eat An Extra Piece Of Pie. Really. It's OK.


This post is an exercise in brevity, except now that I've written this sentence, I'm no longer being concise. 

Crap.

In any case, I wish only two things for you this Thanksgiving:

1) Blood relatives are family. Friends are family. I hope you can find solace in their presence this Thanksgiving. Many are not so lucky.

2) Eat an extra slice of pie. Really. You'll thank yourself the next day. Also, pie is always a breakfast food. Don't forget.

I'll be back by Monday. Happy Thanksgiving to all! And to my Canadian readers, Happy Belated Thanksgiving!

The Breaking Point

Lately my kids have been pushing me to the breaking point.  

For weeks, Toddler has refused to go to sleep until at least 9:00 pm, yet she still wakes up several times during the night, and by 6:00 am the next morning.

I’m tired.

Preschooler is highly sensitive to her sister’s feelings.  When Toddler cries about something (which is every day, terrible twos and all), Preschooler will start crying and screaming until she is more upset than her sister.  If you try to get her to explain why she’s upset, she’ll just choke out, “I. Don’t. Like. It. When. Toddler. Cries!!!” Then Toddler will cry even more, because her sister is so upset.  It's so incredibly frustrating and difficult to try to calm Preschooler down when she's in one of these fits, not to mention coping with Toddler's initial temper-tantrum, especially when it happens multiple times a day.

We're trying to work with Toddler by not giving in when she has a tantrum, and removing her from the situation when necessary. We’ve also worked with Preschooler on some coping mechanisms.  Everyday I remind her she can cover her ears, she can say “I don’t like this noise,”  she can go sit in her special chair with her favorite blanket, but she can’t scream.  Sometimes this works.  

Sometimes it doesn’t.

Preschooler has also taken to not listening.  Most of our conversations lately go something like this:

Preschooler: Mommy, can I build with blocks?

Me: Of course!

Preschooler: Mommy, can I build with blocks?

Me: Yes!

Preschooler: Mommy, can I build with blocks?

Me: YES! I ALREADY SAID YES!!

Preschooler: MOMMY, YOU’RE NOT LISTENING TO ME!!

Finally, the other day, I just lost it.  Toddler was only whining a little bit, when Preschooler pitched one of her volume-to-11 screaming fits. She screamed so hard her face turned beet red.  And I lost it.

“STOP IT RIGHT NOW!” I growled. “I’M SICK OF THIS. YOU GO SIT IN YOUR CHAIR RIGHT NOW UNTIL YOU CALM DOWN!”

There are no words to express the amount of guilt I felt the minute those words left my mouth.

Preschooler was still crying, except now?  Now she was crying because I yelled at her.  I could see it in her eyes.  I will never forget the way she looked so afraid and miserable at that moment.

And then I cried.  I cried because I was so frustrated.  I cried because I was so tired.  I cried because I don’t want to squelch Preschooler’s feelings.  There needs to be some balance for her between understanding that it's ok to be sad and being so in tune to the feelings of others, yet not over-reacting about every little thing.  I just don’t know how to  help Preschooler achieve that balance.  

I apologized to Preschooler.  I admitted I got angry and yelled at her, but that wasn’t ok for me to yell like that, and I was sorry.

She forgave me.  And strangely enough, she was pretty chipper the rest of the day.

I’ve been so grouchy with my kids lately.  I hate it about myself.

So I prayed.  I’m not saying this works out for every one, but this time?  It worked out for me.  For the first time in probably weeks, I woke up in a good mood.  Even though Preschooler had a potty accident first thing in the morning, I was in a good mood.  Even though Toddler was up at 5:00 am, I was in a good mood.  Even though I spent my entire shower listening to my kids fight and scream and cry over some Duplo blocks they were playing with, I was in a good mood.

And I am thankful for that.  I am thankful that today, hopefully today, I’ll be able to handle what life throws at me without being so overwhelmed by it all.  

I hope today will be a good day.

30 MIllion Day Blog Challenge #6: A Picture Of Somewhere I've Been To

I think this is the post where I'm supposed to post a photo of some far-flung destination I went to, maybe on my honeymoon or through study abroad.

I gots nothing.

I've been to lots of places around the U.S.A., but I've never been to the tropics or Europe.  I'm not one to have regrets about anything in my past, but I do regret never studying abroad.  And I got married a weekend smack in the middle of my third year of law school.  The Monday after the wedding, I didn't get on a plane.  I went to class.  Husband and I planned to head off to Europe for a belated honeymoon after graduation, but instead I got pregnant.

Which takes me to the place I'll provide a picture of:

Ohio.  Back when I was in law school and Husband was in grad school, we lived in St. Paul, MN. But mere weeks after our October wedding, Husband's graduate advisor took a new position at The Ohio State University in, you guessed it, Ohio.  We had a mere two months to make all living and school arrangements, pack up, and move.

To top it off, we only lived in Ohio for a couple months when I found out.... surprise! I'm pregnant.  What can I say, when forced to rely on each other as our sole source of companionship, Husband and I found ways of keeping busy.  Also, there was an ice storm.  The delivery room was mighty busy that following October.

Anyhow, although I supported our move to Ohio and all it entailed, I still felt, especially once I graduated, got a job, and had a baby, that I was stuck in Ohio.

So it surprised me to realize that even though I left Ohio over a year ago, that there are some things that I miss.  Of course first and foremost are the friends I left behind in Ohio.  But here's a short list of things I'd recommend, should you find yourself stuck in Ohio.

Bob Evans.  I know.  Everyone who goes to Ohio sees copious amounts of billboards advertising Bob Evans.  And you'll say, "Oh, I'll NEVER eat at Bob Evans."  But then one day you'll find yourself eating at Bob Evans.  It's the ubiquitous breakfast-all-day-long diner in the state, and the first place we dared to bring our new infant out to eat when Preschooler was just a baby.

Tim Hortons.  For those not in the know, it sells coffee, donuts, and a few types  of sandwiches. More importantly, it was open 24/7. I worked crazy late hours while in Ohio, and it was the only place I could get a decent cup of coffee at 8:00 pm.  God bless Tim Hortons.

The Columbus Zoo.  It's one of the most impressive zoos I've been to.  Whenever we had guests over for a long weekend in the spring or summer, we'd take them to the zoo.

German Village neighborhood, in Columbus.  It's a walkable neighborhood with lots of cute shops and restaurants, all very historic with the same cobble-stone streets and buildings as days of yore.  Also, there was a free Shakespeare-in-the-Park show every weekend in the spring and summer.  We only lived in the German Village for eight months before moving to the Dayton area, and I wish it were longer.

So there you have it!  Sometimes being stuck in Ohio isn't so bad after all.

My Head Exploded, And I'm Now Headless.

Preschooler has a little sore on her upper lip.  “Honey, what happened to your lip?” I asked.  Her prompt reply? “I got it from kissing boys.”

***HEAD EXPLODES***

Thank you, Husband, for putting that little bug in her ear.

But it brings up a good point.  We really have to be careful what we say in front of her.  She’s old enough to pick up on phrases, including swearing.  She has already said “damn it” in an appropriate context. 

And I think last week I made a big mistake.

At Preschooler’s first parent-teacher conference, ever, it came out that she sometimes says “I don’t know” when asked something simple that you know she knows.  After the conference, I phoned Husband, my mother, and my sister, each time relaying this information and displaying my usual predisposition towards angst and over-analyzing, by wondering out loud why she did this, how to fix it, and OH MY GOD WHAT IF SHE HAS LOW SELF-ESTEEM AND IT’S ALL MY FAULT??!!

The whole time I did this, I never thought about the fact that Preschooler was within hearing distance of all these conversations. Who knows what she picked up from it, and how that will affect her own sense of self, especially towards school.

Oops.

At least now, I’m that much more aware of how I relate to her. 

Also, she’s not allowed to kiss boys until she is 30.

I Turned On The Christmas Music, And I'm Not Ashamed.

Today I played some Christmas music while I did the dishes.  Yes, I’m THAT person.

Fa-la-la-la-la-La-la-la-la.

I love Christmas, and as far as I’m concerned, the season to be jolly can last for the entire months of November and December.  I need something to offset all of that winter seasonal depression, and holiday cheer fits the bill nicely.

Christmas first waved hello to me in Starbucks.  I was there over the weekend to do a little writing, and what did I see?  Red cups!  Peppermint Mochas! 

“Yippee!” I said, while waiting in line.  

The woman in front of me turns around.  Did I say “Yippee?” out loud?

“The Christmas things are here!” I mumbled in a small but gleeful tone.

“Huh,” she said.

Whatever.  I drank my peppermint mocha in one of the cafe’s plushy orange chairs, and mentally planned every single moment of the next 8-10 weeks.   Christmas by nature involves list-making and if there’s one thing I love it’s a good list.  Lists of what presents to buy, when, and where, and to whom.  Lists of what to cook and bake.  Lists of what to pack on the long weekends visiting family.

And seeing as Husband and I have finally done what we always say we’re going to do, and spread our Christmas shopping out over the course of the year, it’s a bit like I’ve been celebrating Christmas ALL YEAR LONG.

Lucky me!

30 Million Day Blog Challenge #5: 15 Songs That Represent My Life's Soundtrack

Well it's been 50 days since I started the "30 Day Blog Challenge" and I'm up to challenge ... five.


I get a "D-" for effort.


This challenge is to list 15 songs that represent my life's soundtrack.  Click on the links to hear the songs on YouTube!!


1) "Angie" by the Rolling Stones.  My name was inspired by this song, so it's an appropriate way to start the list.


2) "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now" by Starship.  As far as I can remember this was my very first "favorite" song.  After all, all children should have early exposure to Jefferson Starship.


3) "Only In My Dreams" by Debbie Gibson.  My first concert was to see Debbie Gibson.  I think I was seven or eight, so I can probably be forgiven.


4) "This Used To Be My Playground" by Madonna from the movie "A League Of Their Own."  Best Friend and I were obsessed with this movie.  For weeks we'd go see it in the theater, and then went home to play baseball.  The problem was that neither of us could throw nor catch, so really it was just an elaborate game of fetch.


5) "Who Will Save Your Soul" by Jewel.  I kind of took a bypass on the whole "grunge" scene of the early 90's.  I was just too preppy, and, well, oblivious.  This explains a lot about my early teenage years.  It wasn't until Jewel appeared on the scene that I finally became aware of what was considered "cool" and decided to play along.


6) "Can't Stop Dancing" by Captain & Tennille.  I danced for 17 years of my life.  I was a member of a dance company for at least seven of those years, and when we took our show on the road to perform at various festivals, we usually ended the show with that snappy little number by Captain & Tennille, "Can't Stop Dancing."  I know, CLASSY.


7) "Bittersweet Symphony" by The Verve. My favorite song in high school, which adequately sums up all my brooding teenage angst.  No one gets me, man.


8, 9, & 10) "A Sorta Fairytale" by Tori Amos. "Don't Drink The Water" by Dave Matthews Band.  "Pink Moon" by Nick Drake.  All these songs remind me of being in college, of late nights studying in coffee shops, and mostly of the delicious freedom caused by my first taste of independence.


11) "Within A Mile Of Home" by Flogging Molly.  My favorite song from my favorite band, a band that I discovered in my early 20's after many nights hanging out at the local Irish pub.  


12 & 13) "Ohh La La" by the Ditty Bops and "Mushaboom" by Feist.  Light hearted songs I'd play during my hours-long study sessions in law school, in hopes of relieving some of the stress of school.  I'm not sure it worked.


14) "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John.  My "official" wedding song.


15) "Forever" by Dropkick Murphys.  My "unofficial" wedding song, being the last song of the night.


16) "Lullaby" by the Dixie Chicks.  This song reminds me of my two children, and I still can't hear it without crying a little.


17) "Home" by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros.  This song reminds me of moving back home to Wisconsin after living for several years in Minnesota and then several more years in Ohio.  Our stint here in Wisconsin is temporary, and I'm relishing every minute of it.


Wait a minute! Seventeen songs?  What can I say, I'm an overachiever.

Eau De Baby

She had so much hair, it showed up on her ultrasound, a softly moving halo around her giant alien head.  Even after she was born, her hair never fell out.  It just got thicker and longer.

I loved my first born's hair.  I loved to touch it, but more than that, I loved to smell it.  It was an intoxicating primal connection.  I probably could've identified my baby in a room full of babies based on the smell of her head alone.

As she grew, I always managed to get a good long sniff in whenever I caught her in my arms.  And then one day ... it was gone.  Though she'd always be my baby, her head lost that baby-smell.  But I almost didn't notice the transition because, at the same time, I had another baby.  A new baby with her own new baby smell.

I coveted that smell.  While feeding her, cuddling her, reading to her, I'd take liberal opportunities to breath in the soft scent of her baby hair.  For two years I reveled in it.

But yesterday .... it was gone.  She no longer smells like a baby, with that unique baby-head-smell.  She smells, well, like a little girl.  It's still a wonderful smell, I miss the baby scent.

She runs.  She jumps (sort of.)  She talks, (sort of.)  She's starting to potty-train.  She takes off her own pants and shirt and socks. The last vestiges of babyhood are gone.

I do love when my kids start the next phase in life.  It's exciting, and their own pride when they master a new skill matches my own pride in their accomplishment.

But with my youngest growing up, I do miss my littlest baby.  When you become a mother, everyone tells you to enjoy your children, they grow up too fast.

I guess I just didn't realize just how fast that was.

*     *     *

Dear readers: I've been feeling a little down lately, so I'm using my blog to sort through the feelings that are bringing me down.  I'll return to my usual snark when I feel like it.  Thank you for understanding.

Remember That Time In College When Your Apartment Was On Fire, Except Not Really, But No One Would Believe You Anyways, Because You Were Dressed As A Mad Scientist? No? Me Either.

In college, my two roommates and I rented an apartment on the main drag of our college town.

Halloween in my college town has always been a spectacle.  Basically thousands of people from all over the state, and even out of state, dress up in outrageous costumes and go galavanting up and down the main pedestrian mall until they’re too drunk or too cold to feel their own feet.

Having participated in this event the previous three years, I knew better than to go outside.  Not because of the crowds.  Not because of the debauchery.  Because October in Wisconsin is FREEZING, especially when you are trying to parade around dressed as a “sexy vampire” or “sexy butterfly” or whatever they were trying to sell college girls that year.  

Nope.  Our awesome apartment looked right over the pedestrian mall, so we could watch the reverie and drink all the beer we wanted, without having to leave our warm apartment or wait in line.  

Now, we were still in costume (it was Halloween, after all.)  I was a car-crash victim, since it meant I could still wear a sweatshirt and yoga pants.  All I had to do was smear on some fake blood, and make my face look dead(er) using makeup I already owned.  Who knew all that purple eyeshadow would come in handy?

My roommate, Eunice, was a great deal more creative than I. She dressed as a mad-scientist.  She got her hands on a lab coat and safety goggles, and used black makeup to make it look like something just blew up in her face.   I’m not sure if my other roommate dressed up.  I’m pretty sure Husband (then Boyfriend) didn’t.  

The evening was quiet.  Once or twice we had people ring the doorbell, asking to get into the party.  We loudly informed them that there was no party at our place (4 or so people do not a party make), but maybe check the apartment across the hall from us, as they were having their own celebration with a number of guests. 

For some reason (I don’t remember why), around midnight, I opened our door to see the hallway FULL of smoke.  You couldn’t see the front door.  My roommates, boyfriend and I decided it was in our best interests to leave.  Actually, I may have hollered at them something along the lines of “HOLY CRAP, OUR HALLWAY IS ON FIRE!” and forced them out the door.  The tenants across the hall were also trying to escape.  

As we walked down the steps leading to the front door, we started stumbling and falling over one another.  For some reason the carpeting on the stairs was ripped out and pulled up.  We all spilled out into the mob outside our front door. 

Several of the tenants called 911.  Actually, I think I probably hollered something along the lines of “CALL 911!  QUICK! DO IT NOW!”  Apparently I become loud and bossy during a crisis, instead of actually doing anything myself.

Luckily, there was a noticeable police presence that night, trying to control the horde of partyers, so Eunice, the mad scientist, went to find one.  It didn’t take her long.

“Sir!” she said, “Our apartment is on fire!  Please come help!”  He took a look at her.  With a lab coat.  Covered in (fake) soot.  With her hair sticking straight up.

“Yeah right,” he replied.

I’m pretty sure at that moment Eunice’s brain exploded.  But she did drag the officer to our building.  At that point, the firefighters also showed up, and headed in the building. 

There was no fire.

Turns out some one (probably one of the persons turned away from the party that didn’t exist) broke in through the back door, tore up all the carpeting and sprayed several fire extinguishers into the hall, creating the “smoke” that sent us all catapulting out of the building.

Oops. 

Apparently, landlords don’t like to have to account for their tenants’ unnecessary 911 calls at midnight on the craziest night of the year.  Though she was MAD, our landlady was ultimately a good soul and didn’t hold the nights events too much against us.

Lesson learned: It’s better to go bar-hopping on Halloween than it is to stay at home.  

30 Million Day Blog Challenge #4: A Habit I Wish I Didn't Have

A habit I wish I didn't have?  Oh, dear. I'm doing it right now, though I didn't even realize it.

Twirling my hair.

I hate this habit.  It makes me look vapid, and if there's one thing I can't stand is when otherwise smart people act vapid.  OMG like totally.

I engage in this habit when I'm anxious about something, or deep in thought, so I often don't even realize I'm twirling my hair until some one (usually Husband) points it out.  It annoys him, too. 

It could be worse, though.  I could constantly sniffle, or clear my throat. That irritates every one.

Oh, wait. I do those things too.  At least during allergy season.

Pass a tissue.

I'm Probably Not Going To Add "Parenting Expert" On My Resume

This week's Monday Listicle challenge was to offer your very best parenting advice.  Now, I'm no parenting expert.  Quite the opposite, sometimes I feel like I can do nothing right.  But here are some things I've learned over the years, albeit the hard way:

1) You can trick your kids into thinking a whole-wheat Ritz cracker is actually a cookie by explaining that cookies, like Oreos, Chips Ahoy, and ... uh ... Ritz are CIRCLES.  Crackers are squares.  Or occasionally triangles. Duh.

2) One day your child will only eat an apple if it’s cut up in slices.  The next day your child will only eat an apple if it’s the whole apple.  Either way, you’ll guess wrong.

3) If your child sees a commercial for a toy, and says, “I want that!” keep in mind that this is only theoretical.  Once she actually owns the toy she will discard it after one afternoon of play.  Also, it will probably break.  All this will make you swear multiple times under your breath.

4) Despite the disappointment mentioned in number three, your purchase will be redeemed when the younger sibling plays with the toy more than the original owner.  This is because your sister’s toys are always more interesting than your own toys.

5) If you leave any sort of important paperwork on your desk, it WILL become a coloring paper.  Also, coloring with mom’s highlighters is always preferred over coloring with regular markers.

6) All pants will become accidental capris after one month of wear.

7) Cleaning poop out of a potty chair is just as gross as a poopy diaper.

8) Your child’s favorite book will be the longest one on the bookshelf by default.

9) Don’t give your child your cell phone to play with.  They will break it and/or lose it and/or delete all your contacts.  Don’t ask me how I know this.

10) Despite your best intentions, there will come a day when a fruit roll-up constitutes a real serving of fruit.

*     *     *

Thanks to Stasha and Cookie's Mom for the fun prompt!

30 Million Day Blog Challenge #3: A picture of something you cannot live without.

A picture of something I cannot live without?  Well....

I'm a mother, so I think I'm obligated to say first and foremost, these:

And I'm a wife, so I think I'm also obligated to say, this:

But I'm also going to throw this in there:

And these:

Note: These are real jeans, NOT Pajama Jeans.

And this:

Ok, so I don't own an elephant.  But one can dream.

No Sleep Makes Mama... Something... Something... Zzzzzzzz

Step...step....step....It’s two in the morning, and I’m plodding the hall in a twilight state of mind.  My youngest daughter lounges restless in my arms because, at two years old, she decided to stop sleeping through the night.  She graces us with her presence at least two or three times a night, demanding a sippy-cup full of milk, or some significant cuddling before falling asleep again.

I’m not sure how many more sleepless nights and painful mornings I can take. It’s like having an infant, but an infant who heretofore had been sleeping through the night for quite a while, weighs twenty-five pounds, and says “NO!”

We are at a loss as to what to do. We are reluctant to have her cry-it-out, since she shares a room with her sister.  We’ve contemplated having Preschooler sleep in a sleeping bag in our room, so she doesn’t wake up from the noise. But we’re afraid that she’ll start to prefer that arrangement, and then we’ll have another child refusing to sleep in her own bed at nighttime.

It is so frustrating.   One painfully sleepy morning, we took her to the doctor, hoping she had an ear infection.  At least if she had an ear infection, we’d know  WHY she wasn’t sleeping at night. No such luck.

On a possibly related note, she has also decided to stop eating.  Apparently she’s meeting her daily nutritional values by simply looking at her food.  We wonder if maybe she’s getting her two-year molars, but it’s to hard to tell when she clamps her jaw shut every time we try to look.  And her language skills aren’t good enough for her to simply tell us what’s wrong.

I know that as my kids get older, they’ll be able to better communicate their wants and needs.  I know that all this is happening, because she’s, well, two.  I know it’s a phase.

But it doesn’t always quiet the voice inside me that says, “Fix this.”  And my failure to do so, while unwarranted, still makes me feel like I’m simply floundering in a sea of incompetency.

So, step-step-step, I’ll continue my midnight strolls.

Because I love her.

This Is Why Obituaries Rarely Include Puns

We gather here today, to mourn the loss of our beloved dining room chairs.  For six years they faithfully crowded before our dining table. But now I have no chairs left.  They have disappeared.  They have a new purpose in life. 

They stand in front of our buffet to prevent Toddler from opening each and every drawer like a poltergeist in pigtails.

They are used by Preschooler to construct blanket forts.  The chairs aren’t very good at this, as the blankets constantly fall down, requiring my assistance to set the fort back up again, and again, and again, until I go insane.

I use the chairs as a precarious step-stool to reach the highest shelves in our cupboards, despite the fact that we have a real step-stool in the closet. I’m like a lazy MacGyver.

And, actually, they do serve as chairs during meal-times, lest we all eat off tv trays on the sofa.

So maybe my chairs haven’t left me.  They’ve simply diversified.  They should put this on their resume, so that one day they may be chairmen the board. 

Hardy-har-har.

Sorry.  I promise I’ll never use a pun again.

Hell Is Full Of Brimstone. And Hard-Water Stains. Probably.

I’ve mentioned before how I loathe cleaning bathrooms.  But I’ve got it down to a science.  The science of doing it wrong.  Observe:

1. Bring toilet cleaner and all-purpose cleaner upstairs to the bathroom.
2. Realize you left the paper towels downstairs.
3. Trek all the way downstairs for the paper towels, and then back up to the bathroom.
4. Realize you also left the toilet brush downstairs.
5. Contemplate simply sticking your hands in the toilet and using paper towel to clean it.
6. Realize this is a disgusting notion.
7. Go back downstairs once more for the toilet brush, and back up again.
8. Ponder that an organized person might keep all bathroom-cleaning supplies upstairs in the bathroom.
9. Lament that I’m not that organized.
10. Put toilet cleaner in the toilet bowl, and let it sit to do its work.
11. Start scrubbing toothpaste stains out of the sink.
12. Realize you forgot to brush your teeth that morning.
13. Brush your teeth.
14. Start scrubbing the toilet, mercifully, with the toilet brush.
15. Find out there are hard-water stains that won’t scrub away.
16. Contemplate going to the store to buy hard-water stain remover.
17. Decide that I can live with hard-water stains.
18. Move on to the bathtub.
19. Scrub  walls of the tub surround.
20. Wonder how to clean the floor of the tub surround without getting wet.
21. Roll up your pants legs and scrub the floor of the tub surround.
22. The floor of the tub surround won’t come completely clean.
23. Curse.
24. Decide to sweep the bathroom floor.
25. Go downstairs for the broom.
26. Go back upstairs and sweep.
27. Contemplate mopping, but the mop is downstairs.
28. Curse. 
29. Decide to skip mopping.
30. Breathe a sigh of relief.  The hellish task is finally at an end.

There you have it. Cleaning the bathroom in 30 easy steps.

But in the future, I’m delegating this chore to Satan’s minions.  I’m sure they’ll thank me for it.

Garden Fail

I’ve always enjoyed gardening.  When I was a child, my parents always let me have a little garden of my own, to plant petunias, marigolds, and other plants hardy enough to withstand clumsy handling.  When I was 17 or 18, I moved on to planting some perennials, some of which survive to this day.

So now that I had a whole four square feet of land outside my front door, I was eager this summer to pull out the weeds, and replace them with flowers; my own take on urban beautification. But away from the influence of my parents’ green thumbs, this garden was a near failure.

My black-eyed susans never bloomed.  My coneflowers were eaten by rabbits.  My salvia (no, not the hallucinogenic kind) grew all wonky, instead of straight and tall.  The pre-existing bleeding hearts withered away and died.

The only thing to flourish?  Potted petunias.

I guess I’m back to square one.

Just Share, Dammit!

I’m an expert share-er.  What’s yours is mine, what’s mine is yours.  When I was in college, my roommates and I would go grocery shopping, then split the bill three ways, rather than having our own personal boxes of crackers, cartons of milk, packages of ramen noodles, etc.  In retrospect that was a really bizarre arrangement. 

Because sharing comes so naturally, I foster that attitude with my kids, since as of now they’re too young to rebel.  With a few notable exceptions, all toys are everyone’s toys.  All books are everyone’s books.  However, they must take turns, and not just snatch away Malibu Barbie when her sister clearly has it bandaged up in what I can only resume is some sort of Civil War battlefield reenactment. And as of late, this has been the sticking point.

For example, Preschooler will be playing with something, and Toddler will come by and just pilfer the toy from Preschooler.  Preschooler’s reaction is not to steal the toy back, but to run to me crying about her lost toy.   Usually I help her out by taking the toy from Toddler and giving it back to Preschooler, while admonishing, “We don’t take toys from our sister.” But there have been times when I’ve been too busy to interfere, and simply called out to Preschooler, “JUST TAKE THE TOY BACK FROM HER!” I’m an awesome parent like that.  

It works both ways, though. Toddler will be playing with a toy, and Preschooler, who hitherto had no interest in the toy, will purloin the toy from Toddler’s grasp because, “I want to play with it.”  Then I have to return the toy to its rightful owner with a warning, “WE TAKE TURNS IN THIS HOUSE.”

I’m thinking my next job after this stay-at-home gig should be international peace negotiator. At this rate, I’ll surely have enough experience.

UPDATE: It's The End Of The Summer As We Know It

My favorite season of all is autumn, mostly because it heralds the end of summer’s scorching heat.

This is why I hate summer.

I absolutely wilt in the summer.  It's like my body does the opposite of surviving, as payment for my ongoing desire to DO THINGS. For example,  I fainted at least once during both of my pregnancies, each time in the zenith of summer.

I do believe I have the vapors.

Basically all I can do in the summer is stand around sweating, which sabotages my efforts to DO THINGS.

So now that the weather has cooled down for a little bit, I’m renewed with energy to DO THINGS.  I’m recommitted to keeping my house tidy.  I’m slowly and painfully teaching myself how to bake.  And now that it’s cooled to the 60’s, I’m dragging my kids outside to play every day.  I say “dragging” because despite the fact that it has finally cooled down a bit,  all they want to do is stay indoors and wrestle each other.

The stupid thing is, when it was 80+ degrees out, they wanted nothing but to play outside, while I sweated and shook an angry fist at the sun, a sun that mocked me mercilessly.  It doesn’t help that I have alabaster skin, so instead of tanning I just sort of pink.  

Still,the leaves are turning colors.  The cranes, ducks, and geese have gathered to flock. And even though the temperatures are still on the low 70’s, I feel justified in wearing long sleeves.

Hello, autumn. It has been too long.

UPDATE: I spoke too soon.  It will be unseasonably warm for the next 10 days.  Stupid karma.

30 Million Day Blog Challenge #2 And Flashback Friday #3: Look, I'm Multi-Tasking!

Today's 30 Million Day Challenge is: The meaning behind your blog.


I covered this back in July, so this post also counts as a Flashback Friday post. Two for the price of one!  And the price is $0.00!  Ummm.....awesome?

*     *     *

Originally posted Tuesday, July 26, 2011: 


This Is What I Get For Trying To Be Clever

Why did you name your blog what you did? 

Every now and then the question gets thrown around internetland. After all, names are important; they turn the vague to the specific, and give life to an otherwise unknown entity.

Also, names can be really funny. Or really stupid. Or really beautiful. Sometimes all at once. Take my inability to pronounce certain words correctly, for example:

A Curious Individual: You blog?! What’s it called?!

Me: Begging The Answer.

A Curious Individual: Bagging the answer?

Me: No, Begging The Answer.

A Curious Individual: Bagging the answer?

Me: No, begging. Like, "This begs the question...." But begging the answer.

A Curious Individual: *blink* *blink* Bags?

Me: Ummm...yeah.

A Curious Individual: Oh. I get it.

Me: This is what I get for trying to be clever.

So naming a blog may not be my strong suit.  But if you want me to name a child or name a cat, let me know.  I have tons of good ideas.

Tweets From A Bygone Era

I'm not a big player in the Twitterverse. I try not to spend more than 10-15 minutes a day on Twitter.  For me it's just too much of a distraction, cutting into valuable writing time and, more importantly, family time.

Still, I like to think I tweet a few worthwhile things in those sparse 15 minutes. So here is a list of some of my better tweets from the summer months of June-August:

Went out with the girls. Too much wine. Am now watching Clarissa Explains It All and eating Doritos. Aug. 27th.

This tweet was celebrating a really fun, and too infrequent, girl’s night out.  And the Doritos part? It’s like college all over again, but with less watermelon Pucker. Do they even make that anymore?

Apparently my 2-y-o woke up at 5:00 in the morning so she could play with her singing tea set. She may not live to see lunchtime. Aug. 19th.

Toddler lived.  Good thing she’s cute.

I've been too serious on my blog lately. I should post a fart or something, to make up for this. Aug. 3rd.

My blog is mostly humor, but sometimes I lose the funny in my life.  When this happens I either write a serious post, or (more likely) no posts at all. Also, this uber-scientific quiz said I write like James Joyce when I write a humorous post, but I write like Dan Brown when I write a serious post.  Humor is clearly my strong suit.

I woke up at 6:00 am in hopes of having 15-30 minutes of "me time" before the kids got up. They were up at 6:03. DAMMIT!!! Jul. 29th.

I now have to wake up at 5:00 am to get that 15-30 minutes of “me time.”  It’s worth it.

I just made homemade strawberry jam. Or possibly homemade botox. Time will tell. Jul. 9th.

My jam failed, but it made for an awesome blog post, and no one died of botulism.  So the $50 spent on canning equipment, sugar and strawberries was totally worth it.

For the number of times I type "Arrrgghhh" on my blog & twitter, people are going to think I'm some sort of pirate. Jul. 5th.

UPDATE: Am not a pirate. Yet.

My parents raised me to with proper respect for Jefferson Starship - this time with less chicken satay http://tinyurl.com/4yaov26 Jun. 8th.

I accidentally posted a link to a chicken satay recipe instead of my blog and had to correct it.  My blog is not a food blog, unless you count all the times I had a baking fail.

I just saw some one driving an emerald-green mini-cooper with the license plate "1IRISH". I can only assume it was a leprechaun. Jun. 7th. 

I have since found no pots of gold anywhere.  Greedy leprechauns.

*     *     *

Thanks to Stasha and Bits of Bee for the fun writing prompt!

I'm Writing This Post For Extra-Credit

Note: Thank you all for your support after my last post.  I'm working through what I have to work through.  I have a good support system in place, including all of my blogging friends.  Thank you, again, for caring :)

*     *     *

I was dubbed a “brain” almost instantly in school, a namesake that never left me, even when I struggled in certain subjects.

Calculus?  You can stay, but I’m leaving. 

I entered kindergarten already knowing how to read, so my teachers set me up as a “helper” to buddy up with kids who weren’t reading yet to help them.

I spent months in seventh grade carrying around a tattered copy of “Gone With The Wind,” my new favorite book. It was this ancient blue hardbound copy that my grandmother once owned, and I was asked by more than one fellow pupil if that was a Bible I was carrying around.

Not Jesus.  

I always missed a couple weeks of school each year to attend dance conferences and competitions.  During these absences I insisted on doing extra credit-work, even when the teacher required no extra-credit work whatsoever.

Oh, how I loved extra-credit work.  It was like insurance, should a disastrous “B” come my way.

Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!

So now that Preschooler is finally living up to her namesake, and entering preschool, I have a hard time holding back.  I want to be room mom, on the PTA, and a field trip volunteer, even though it isn’t feasible for me to be all those things, seeing as I have Toddler at home to contend with.

But that doesn’t stop me from believing I could, nay, should be all these things.  

I just have to keep reminding myself that there is no winner of preschool.  It’s meant to be fun, and I’m not going to suck that fun out of it just because I’m fighting off my own impossible determination to be perfect.

I always thought school was fun.  I hope she does too.

Dear Internets, I Has A Sad

Hello internet land.

I has a sad, and when I feel like this it makes it next to impossible to write.  I can't be a smart-ass when all I feel is wretched.

I don't really want to get into why I feel so wretched right now.  Suffice it to say it's a combination of life events and my own inclination to fall into depression when things in my life get rocky.

So forgive me if I'm a little silent on this blog for a while.  I promise as things get better with me, I'll be more active.  In the meantime, I might post a few gems from my archives.  Maybe I'll even work through my sadness on this blog.

But for me, just admitting that I'm anything other than ok, is a huge step forward.

This Is An Ex-Parrot! UPDATED

Growing up we always had pets.  We never had more than one pet at a time, but over the years we slowly churned through a litany of domestic animals, including fish, rabbits, parakeets, dogs, and several turtles.

I don’t remember the first dog or the fish.  We had to give the dog away when I was an infant; it was tired of playing second-fiddle to the new baby and soon grew moody and vengeful.  After that there were some fish, but they had the lasting power of an ice-cream cone on a windy day.  It was probably for the best seeing as I don’t have a good history with fish anyways. 

No, the first pet I remember having was a rabbit.  He was a brown bunny named Harvey. Or was it Ardie? Or maybe Arby?

Hasenpfeffer?

I liked the bunny quite a bit.  He lived in a pen in the garage, and his greatest talent seemed to be pooping. Unfortunately, we soon learned that I was allergic to rabbits, including Arby.  So one day I went (sneezing) into my garage, but my bunny was nowhere to be found.  My parents explained that Arby was making me sick, so Dad found a nice meadow in the woods for him to live in with the other rabbits.

Later I found out dad just drove down the road, and deposited Arby on the side of the road.

Dear Dad, 

I do not think you thought your cunning plan all the way through.

To appease my broken heart, my parents went out and bought my sister and I a couple of parakeets.  They bought the child, who was already allergic to rabbits, a bird.  With feathers.

Dear Mom, 

I do not think you thought your cunning plan all the way through.

The parakeets were named J.J. and Crackers, and I hated them.

Well, hate is a strong word.  But I didn’t like them.  They didn’t do much but make a lot of noise, and bite my fingers when I tried to touch them.  And their poop was downright boring compared to rabbit poop.

So one fateful day, my sister and I came home from school, only to find J.J. snuffed it while we were gone.  My sister’s heart-broken sobs radiated throughout the house, and I?  Well, I didn’t care.  I’m pretty sure I went on to eat a bowl of Cookie Crisp and play with my Rainbow Brite doll.

A week or so later, Crackers left us as well.  And again, I didn’t care.  I didn’t care for them when they were alive, and I wasn’t sad when they died.  Which makes me wonder, what happened to me so early on in my existence to render my heart so calloused? 

Oh yes, I probably subconsciously remembered an otherwise gentle cocker spaniel that transformed into Cujo in my presence, and my rabbit was released into the wild pitted against a Volvo. 

That wasn’t traumatizing at all.

UPDATE: I have been informed by those with better memories that the rabbit's name was ARTIE.  Oops.  Who wants curly fries?!