Intruders!

Behold, the boxelder bug:

Boisea trivittatus.

Thanks to our recent cold snap, these little f---ers have been making their way inside my home. And, unfortunately, Mad Dog and The Deuce's bedroom window (old and drafty), is the main entryway for the little beasties.

They are especially attracted that side of the house. That side, a southern exposure, gets full sun all day long. The bugs like the warm aluminum siding, where they hang out all day. Then as night falls and the temperature drops, they weasel their way into the house through the shoddy window frame.

The only upside (and I do mean only) is that the bugs are totally harmless. They don't bite or sting and they're easily caught in a tissue. Once trapped, I promptly escort them to the nearest commode for a quick flush.

Whoosh! Gone.

I'm not super squeamish when it comes to bugs. On a scale of 1 to 10, I'm about a 6. So I'm pretty okay dealing with these little pests on my own. My ex-husband, however, was totally useless when it came to bug killing. More often than not, I had to rescue him from a creepy-crawly spider, and not the other way around.

I remember telling him that I didn't think it was good for the kids to see and hear him scream every time he saw a bug. I didn't want the kids to grow up afraid of harmless insects and bugs. I wanted them to be able to handle the situation. Not just wait for someone to rescue them. But, it was his honest, knee-jerk reaction and he couldn't help it.

Since I couldn't help him overcome his fear (and subsequent screams) I set out to show the kids the flipside of the same coin - an calmer reaction. So as Dad would scream like a little girl and jump on a chair, they'd see Mom, marching in, kicking ass.

Anyhow... so last night, when the girls told me they found 7 (count them 7!) "icky bugs" (my kid-friendly nickname for the little bastards) crawling around on their walls and ceiling, I wasn't afraid. A little grossed out, but not afraid.

Boxelder, a.k.a Icky Bug or Little Bastard.

So after relocating our gerbil, Stella, to a safer venue, I confidently captured and flushed the intruders. Then I opened the girls' window and doused the screen and window frame with Raid. When I finished fumigating, I sealed up the window as tightly as I could and closed their door, proclaiming the room officially off limits for 24 hours.

When I came back downstairs, Crowbar asked me what I had been doing. I told him I killed the icky bugs.

"I help, Mama!" he said, ready for combat. He ran to the tissue box and grabbed a wad. "I squash those bugs!"

SUCCESS!

Thinking about it now makes me a little misty. That's my boy.

If I go to hell...

...this guy will be there.



Seriously, my personal hell would be to have to listen to this dumb dog rap for an eternity. He's my main motivation to live a good, clean life.

Save the drama for your mama.

My kids are not introverts. They are all loud, boisterous and outgoing. They're very talkative and often exaggerate to make a point. They have a flair for dramatic behavior, partly to entertain others, but mostly to entertain themselves.

Crowbar likes to jazz up boring old grocery store trips by pretending he's Buzz Lightyear. Riding in the cart he'll press imaginary buttons on his forearms, sprout wings and make that loud swooshing sound as he opens and closes his spaceman's helmet.

"To infinity, and BEYOND!" he'll shout.

Sadly, my robot boy was not programmed with a volume control.

Mad Dog also has a knack for theatrics. Her signature role is pretending she's sick to avoid going to school. At least once a week, she'll start in, moaning and clutching her stomach. I've even seen her limp, for good measure. Unfortunately, she's not a great actress and has never convinced me to let her stay home.

On the other hand, The Deuce's acting is actually pretty good. She's obsessed with Hannah Montana, High School Musical and Camp Rock and has studied all the songs and dances. She can often be heard singing, "Best of Both Worlds," using a thick southern accent to boot. Her acting method is more subtle than her sister's and she's more convincing. I usually have to study her closely to know if she's trying to pull one over on me.


So, where do they get it from? Well, I'll admit that I can be dramatic. But I like to think that acting is in their blood, from their Dad's side. Even though he is a quiet, soft-spoken guy his family is full of some serious actors.

One of their aunts is in Chicago right now, pursuing a career in acting. She's been at it for about five years. I don't think anything's panned out quite yet. Right now, her foray into acting looks more like a promising career in food service, but I'm sure something will come along soon.

The real family talent is the kids' Grandma Nancy. Nanners, as she's known in the biz, just happens to be the choreographer of her local community show choir. The choir is made up of about 20 ladies between the ages of 60-80. In sequined costumes, they sing and dance, performing show tunes and patriotic numbers that simultaneously dazzle and amaze.

The show choir can be seen performing at VFW halls and high school auditoriums across northern Ohio. (Yes, they tour!) And Nanners leads the troupe through complicated grapevine maneuvers and daring twirls, taking great care not to aggravate anyone's arthritis or newly replaced hip.

The kids haven't had the pleasure of seeing Nanners perform yet. But when they do, look out. The girls especially, will be totally starstruck. I'm certain they will see Grandma in action and beg me to sign them up for voice and dance lessons immediately.

While each of the kids are talented in their own right, I don't exactly want to encourage their dramatic behavior - at least not now. I'd like them to stay a little more grounded, focusing on school work and other useful life skills. They can save the drama for play time.

Nope, the world's just not ready for these little actors. Even though I could make a fortune charging admission, for now, it's just Mark and me who get to enjoy the show.

Share and share alike

I've never counted how many times I've told the kids to share in one day, but I'm pretty sure it's between 20 and 5,000.

The girls have to share a room, many of their clothes and most of their toys. And all the kids have to share a TV and video/DVD collection, the computer and, well, me.

Share Bear.

They're not always happy to share so much with each other. Of course this leads to countless fights, many of which get awfully heated. And so I assume the dual role of judge and referee, encouraging them to "work out a plan" to share their things.

I've recently come to the realization, that when I tell them to "share", I'm telling them to adopt a behavior I seldom model myself. My kids don't see me share, because most adults don't need to do it much. Think about it. Do you share your clothes, jewelry or cell phone with anyone else?

Since being on my own for three years now, I have systems and rituals that are pretty well established. It's going to be an adjustment for me to learn how to share space with Mark. (Sharing space with kids is relatively easy, especially when you're the only adult in the house. What you say, goes.)

Rainbow Brite knows how to share.

Mark's also facing a major adjustment. Like me, he hasn't had to share much and his routines are even more established. Since being discharged from the Air Force where he had to share everything except the contents of his footlocker, Mark's always called his own shots and done things his way - without the need to consult anyone else.

We jokingly apply the 5 stages of grief (denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance) to our ever-growing list of items we're starting to share. Here's an example:

JESS: Honey, I need to run to the store. Can I take your truck?

MARK: My truck? No way. This can't be happening. (DENIAL)

JESS: Yeah, it's blocking my van in the driveway."

MARK: NO! Nobody drives my truck but me. (ANGER)

JESS: Please? I don't want to have to move both vehicles.

MARK: I'll move them so you can take the van. And here's $10 for gas and $50 more for groceries. (BARGAINING)

JESS: Seriously? You won't let me just take your truck?

MARK: Just leave me and my truck alone. Sniff, sniff. (DEPRESSION)

JESS: Don't cry. I'll take the van.

MARK: No, that's okay. I love you and trust you. Here are the keys. (ACCEPTANCE)

You can be assured that I too, go through these stages - often several times a day.

With moving day only 3 weeks away, we're taking it step by step. We've already covered some of the biggies, like coffee pots, closets and checking accounts. Together, we've expressed our needs and wants and have come up with plans that'll make us both happy.

While it might be a little bumpy at first, I know that we'll all be okay. We're avoiding petty disagreements by staying focused on our larger goal - becoming one, big happy family. And keeping a sense of humor along the way doesn't hurt either.

Dog

Now, if you've met Crowbar, it's highly likely that you've also met Dog. My mom gave Dog to him when Crowbar was first born and it's rare for the boy to be without him.

Dog.

Crowbar carries Dog nearly everywhere and, over the past three years, Dog has gone from a soft, fuzzy stuffed animal to a mangy mutt. Even though I wash Dog regularly, he's got this smell -- a combination of playground wood chips and old bedding. But still, he's Crowbar's best friend and we all love him.

Despite my best judgement, Crowbar takes Dog with him to daycare every day. The staff doesn't mind, especially because with Dog, Crowbar is the easiest kid to get to take a nap. Without Dog...not so much.

Boy + Dog = peaceful nap.

Well, Tuesday night at pick up, I knew something was wrong immediately. Crowbar came running to me with his eyes full of tears.

"MOM! Look! Look! Dog got hurt!"

He held Dog up for me to see that he had somehow lost an eye.

"It's gone! His eye!" And then he looked up at me with tears streaming down his cheeks and asked, "You fix it? Please?"

I couldn't help it. I started to cry too. I hugged them close and told him that yes, I would fix Dog's eye. We dried our tears and headed out. I told him we'd go to the craft store to find a new eye.

"Yes," Crowbar said. "We go to the crack store. We fix him." I gently corrected him, clarifying that we were going to the craft not a crack store. (That'd be a tough one to explain to his teachers, grandparents and, eventually, the police.)

We searched the aisles for a suitable replacement eye. Crowbar walked behind me, holding Dog to his chest, assuring Dog that we'd find his new eye soon.

"It will be okay," he said.

After a quick lap, we found the aisle with the eyes. Worried, I could only find muppet-like googlie eyes, which clearly wouldn't work. A saleswoman approached and asked if we needed help. Crowbar turned to her and said,

"You find Dog's eye?"

The woman was taken back by Crowbar's sincere look of concern.

"Oh, my. Yes, honey. Yes, I will."

She helped us track down the only remaining packet of brown, non-googlie eyeballs. It wasn't an exact match, but it was close. She wished us well and told me that helping Crowbar and Dog had made her day.

As we were leaving, we walked past a display of Halloween decorations. I picked up a gigantic eyeball candle, a gross green, blood-shot looking thing, roughly the size of a grapefruit.

"How about this instead?"

Crowbar laughed and tightened his grip on the packet of brown eyes.

"No, Mom. You're crazy."

That night I made the necessary repairs and Dog was good as new. When Crowbar woke up the next morning, he thanked me profusely.

Dog, post-op.

"Mom?"

"What?"

"You're my best friend."

You know, I'm actually quite proud of my surgical repair work. I'd made a small cut under Dog's chin, removed the remnants of the old eye, snapped a new one in place and then stitched him up. You can't even see the incision.

Though, Dog now has a new problem. Between his two eyes, the new one is shiny and clear and the old one is scratched and cloudy looking. Crowbar doesn't seem to mind, but if he wants, I'll gladly pull out my scalpel again and try my hand at cataract surgery.

Don't forget: Help pass the PROTECT Our Children Act - 1738

We only have a day or two left to appeal to our senators to pass this act. I emailed my two senators and already received confirmation that one would definitely vote to pass the PROTECT Our Children Act.

Here's a quick reminder of why this act is important:
In essence,

• It would authorize $1.06 billion over the next eight years to increase funding for the Internet Crimes against Children (ICAC) Grant Program.
• The additional funding would ensure that local law enforcement agencies have the necessary resources to investigate potential cases of online enticement of children, child exploitation, child obscenity, and pornography.
• The legislation also authorizes over $40 million to hire 250 new federal agents in the FBI, the Immigrations and Custom Enforcement Agency, and the U.S. Postal service assigned to investigate child exploitation cases.

Please email your senator today. Here's how:

Visit http://www.senate.gov/general/contact_information/senators_cfm.cfm and use the drop-down menu to look up your senator(s). Each senator should have a e-form you can use to send them an email. Copy and paste this sample letter below - or write your own.

Dear Senator:

I know that you believe, like I do, that we must do everything possible to protect children from sexual predators. That is why I am asking for your help.

Last year alone, U.S. law enforcement identified over 300,000 criminals who were trafficking in movies and pictures of young children being raped and tortured. Experts say that one in every three of these criminals has local child victims. Child pornography trafficking over the Internet has given us a trail of evidence that leads straight to their doorsteps, but the vast majority of these children will never be rescued because investigators are overwhelmed, outnumbered and underfunded.

As your constituent, I urge you to do everything in your power to pass the PROTECT Our Children Act (S. 1738, Biden-Hatch). This bipartisan legislation passed the House 415-2, but it is now the victim of petty partisan politics.

Now that we know where these children are and how to protect them, there is no excuse for the Senate to fail to take action this session.

(Your name here)

Please protect your children and mine. This isn't about taking sides -- in fact, both Democrats and Republicans have shown strong support. Instead, this is about giving law enforcement the resources to protect our kids.

Please, request your senator's support today. Thank you for considering.

Jess

SNL commercials

I'm a big fan of SNL, though admittedly, I can barely manage to stay up long enough to watch the opening skit. So, I have to catch snippits here and there through my DVR or online.

Their fake commercials are my favorites - and have been since the days of Ackroyd, Belushi and Chase.

For a while we went thought a dry spell and suffered through some fairly lame ones. But they've gotten way better lately. Here are a few of my new (and old) favorites:

>> Annuale
>> Jar Glove
>> Happy Fun Ball
>> Bass-o-Matic '76

Glory be! Mom's NOT hungover!

So last night we went my cousin's wedding. It was a beautiful affair. The couple was ecstatic. The venue was unique and romantic. The dinner was out of this world.

And to top it off, the bar was open.

Despite what I've written here, I'm really not a big drinker. While I'm a HUGE fan of the occasional glass of wine or pint of beer, I'm really not one to imbibe in more than one or two at a crack.

This thrills Mark, especially when we go out for $1.99 margaritas at Tumbleweeds, where he can loosen me up (from nerves to knickers) for under $5.


So last night, with an open bar between 5-10 p.m., I found myself a wee bit tipsy after 3 (count em, 3!) glasses of wine. I switched to coffee and Diet Coke around 9, which successfully killed my buzz before needing to return home and speak coherently to the babysitter/next door neighbor girl with the parents who are (no lie) born again Christians.

NOTE: I cannot screw up this babysitting arrangement. She's the best sitter I've ever had. She's old enough to be responsible, but young enough to NOT have a life at night on the weekend. All I need is for her to relay one bad report about the scandalous divorcee next door, and her parents might put the ix-nay on her watching my kids again.

Anyhow, when Crowbar crawled in my bed at 6:30 this morning, I cautiously opened my eyes, wondering if my three glasses of sauvignon blanc had done me in. While being hungover sucks, it sucks more when you can't sip Orange Crush and crash out on the couch all day. It's not fun to take care of little people when you can barely take care of yourself.

After making my way downstairs to the coffee pot, I was relieved to determine that I would in fact, be fully functional today.

Hallelujah.

Beached

Ever have one of those weeks?

This past week totally and completely kicked my ass. From kid drama to back-to-school stuff to killer work deadlines, each night I came home, all I wanted to do was beach myself on my couch and just veg out.

My happy place.

Sadly, my parental duties prevented a well-deserved beaching. Instead I had to prepare healthy, nutritious meals (that they'd bitch and moan about), break up countless sibling squabbles, and tackle pages of math story problems.

Each night, after finally getting everyone to bed (and after going upstairs 20 more times to urge Crowbar to stay in bed), I'd collapse, realizing it was the first time I was able to sit down and relax all day.

It was just one of those weeks that felt SO DAMN LONG, but at the same time WAY TOO SHORT to get everything I needed to get done, done.

So, when Friday (yesterday) finally rolled around, I woke up both relieved (for an end to this awful week) and horrified (still needed sign off on that huge project at work).

Isn't that just the suckiest feeling?!?

It wasn't until yesterday afternoon when I clicked SEND on the email telling the printer we're good to go, I finally felt relief. I had this huge weight lifted and an it's-okay-it's-Friday-now kind of feeling washed over me.

Thankful that there'd be no 3rd grade math that night, I opted for drive-thru (much to the kids' delight) and, upon returning home, promptly hit the couch for a proper vegging.

Me, Friday at 6 p.m.

I beached myself immediately after the kids finished eating their chicken nuggets and stayed there until it was time to shuffle them off to bed at 9.

It was pure heaven.

Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day!

I'll bet you didn't know that today, Sept. 19, is International Talk Like a Pirate Day.


In case you're not familiar with the holiday, today's the day when you celebrate your inner pirate. Here are some helpful resources to help you enjoy the day:

Why talk like a pirate?
English-to-Pirate translator
Pirate personality test
Pirate name/personna generator

Arrgh! So today, y'all best be refer'n t' me as t' Mad Mangler. (Me official Pirate Day name.)

Operation Mommie Dearest

The transition from our lazy summer evenings to our new, nightly back-to-school routine has not gone smoothly.

The kids are having a hard time adjusting to the volume of third grade homework and are starting to buckle from the responsibility of maintaining daily assignment notebooks. As soon as I mention the word homework they start in with the whining and bellyaching.

School work aside, the twins have also become exceptionally moody. This always seems to happen when we have a change in routine. They’re at each other’s throat and alternate between pushing my buttons and each others’. I’m getting tired of having my authority questioned and boundaries tested with such regularity.

And dinnertime has become particularly difficult lately. I find that no matter what I prepare, they poke, complain and stretch dinnertime out much longer than necessary. I’ve gained 5 lbs by simply willing them to eat. Too often, I’ve found myself clearing the table at 7:15, and having barely enough time to finish up homework and begin the bedtime routine by 8.

After one especially tough evening, I collapsed on my bed and vented to Mark. I was feeling battered, bruised and frustrated by my nightly role of task master, cook, housekeeper, teacher and referee. It was just all becoming unmanageable.

Mark confessed that he too, was feeling worn out. His evenings were consumed by running between his house and mine, then quickly jumping into the role of math tutor, Crowbar entertainer and Mom pep talker-er. (Don’t question my spelling –I’m tired and crabby, dammit.) He agreed that the kids seemed to have taken over, monopolizing our time and wearing down our nerves.

Then he shared something his mom always says, "Don't negotiate with a kid."

What he said really resonated with me. It was true, I’d become too tired to fight every little struggle and had essentially created a larger problem – kids who try to (and sometimes successfully) negotiate their way out of things that should be not negotiable.

Together we agreed that:

• Homework should be done quickly, efficiently and accurately.
• Eating dinner should take no longer than 30 minutes.
• All parties, ages 8 and younger, should be in bed, sleeping by 8:30 p.m.

Additionally, we agreed to set the following expectations:

• The dinner menu is non-negotiable and complaining is not allowed.
• Instructions given by grown ups should be followed immediately, and without debate.
• Mad Dog and The Deuce will accept personal responsibility for the condition, completion and organization of their school assignments and materials.
• Special activities, events and purchases are privileges that may be earned and lost – nobody is entitled to any of these things.

So, to accomplish this, we devised Operation Mommie Dearest*.

• Whatever the kids don’t eat after 30 minutes will be re-heated and served for dinner the following night.
• TV time is limited to about an hour a night – and not right before bedtime.
• No more counting to 3 or asking more than once. A negative consequence will be delivered immediately after the first request has not been immediately obeyed.
• TV and other privileges must wait until homework is completed.

Now, aside from the 30-minute dinner time limit, we didn’t come out and broadcast the new house rules. We just quietly rolled them out and have been enforcing them consistently for a few nights now.

I wish I could tell you that our new strategy worked immediately. But, to be honest, it’s just too soon to tell. We’ve seen some small improvements – and let me tell ya, if you could’ve seen the look on the kids’ faces when they were served their leftovers instead of a delicious slice of pizza (like Mark and I enjoyed), you’d be as sure as I am that they’ll think twice before poking away at dinner, wasting time.

I may not win mother of the year with the new zero tolerance Mommie Dearest approach, but I expect to see results.

I'll let y'all know how it goes.

* The name Operation Mommie Dearest should not be taken to imply that Mark's mom is or ever was Joan Crawford-like in any way, shape or form. She's a lovely woman, who successfully raised three kids into responsible, tax-paying, law-abiding adults. In fact, I think so highly of one of her kids, that I'm marrying him. Thanks, M!

Getting serious for a minute

So, just when I swore off Oprah, she airs an episode that moves me. I forced myself to watch an episode about Internet child predators last night. It was awful and unpleasant, but I stuck with it hoping that I could learn something that would help me prevent something awful from happening to my kids.

What I learned was shocking. Internet child abuse is so prevalent, so widespread, that it's becoming an epidemic. Hundreds of thousands of people (or more) trade images and videos of children doing unspeakable things each day, like baseball cards. People are even trading information about how to abuse children, how to avoid leaving DNA evidence and how to groom victims to remain quiet about it.

They're saying that these people are living/working/breathing beside each one of us. They are our neighbors, co-workers and fellow church goers. And they have access to our kids. (Many abuse their own.) Another shocking fact is that most of these cases are people who habitually abuse neighborhood kids, family members and close friends' children. The number of kids who are snatched from their parents and then abused is a tiny percent of overall victims.

And often, the only way to catch these sick people is through their computers, which can take time and resources.

Luckily, there are people who make it their job to find and prosecute these people. But they are overworked and underfunded, meaning that each day when they leave the office and leave a stack of work to be done, they know that thousands of kids will be abused in the time before they get back into the office the next day.

So, as I watched and learned of these horrible facts and statistics, I learned that there's something very real that I can do to help stop these horrible crimes against children. I need to reach out to my senators and ask them to please pass Senate Bill 1738 - The PROTECT Our Children Act.

This is a non-partisan bill which will:

• Authorize over $320 million over the next five years in desperately needed funding for law enforcement to investigate child exploitation.
• Mandate that child rescue be a top priority for law enforcement receiving federal funding.
• Allocate funds for high-tech computer software that can track down Internet predators.

We have to act soon. I can't find the deadline, but I believe they said we have until Sept. 25. Writing, calling or emailing a senator could save hundreds of thousands of children from being abused.

Please, please, please help me pass this bill. Learn more.

The power of 10

Mark is moving in with the kids and me next month.

The decision was made after careful consideration. We weighed our options and being the practical folks we are, we decided to shack up and then hunker down to save, save, save. Together we can put away well over $1,000/month, which we'll use for the wedding and a down payment on a house.

I know that living together before marriage is frowned upon by many. And I'm sure that living together, before marriage and with kids is frowned upon by many more. But, we're both very committed to each other and are in this for the long haul. And this savings strategy will enable us to make our next move our last move, which'll be easier on everyone - kids included.

(Quick aside - This is one of my favorite articles from The Onion:
Live-In Boyfriend Like The Deadbeat Dad Kids Never Had
It's totally wrong, but I love it anyway.)

Anyhow, I've got about 30 days to clear the path for Mark and his dogs to move in.

I've decided to take it in stages. This weekend, I'm focusing on my room, namely closets and dressers. Next weekend will be the kitchen and then I'll focus on bathrooms. Most of his stuff will end up in storage until the move into our house, which'll be sometime next summer.

For a 3-bedroom townhouse, I've got a lot of closet space - two double closets in my room alone, in fact. But sadly, I've also got a ton of clothes I never wear filling them. So, today I decided to get real, and pare down my stuff.

A lot of the clothes that made the Goodwill pile were somewhat outdated or too small. But, I also got rid of clothes that I don't particularly care for anymore or haven't worn in over a year. Piece by piece, I'd check the pockets (didn't find anything), fold it carefully, and then add it to the donation pile.

Eventually I came across one of my favorite dresses of all time. It was a copper-colored sheath dress with green and mauve details. The last time I wore it was to a wedding in 1997. I remembered that night and how I looked and felt in the dress. It fit me like a glove and I felt drop-dead gorgeous. The only time in my life that I ever actually turned heads when walking into a room, was in that dress.

I held it out and looked at the label. Size 7. Ugh.

Now, I've lost some weight recently and have been feeling good - but I'm currently size 10. I wondered if I could get down more to squeeze into the dress again. Who knows? Maybe if I cut out starches for, like a year or two...

I slipped off my shorts and slipped on the dress. I could get it up past my hips (awesome!) and slip my arms through the sleeves. (Woo hoo! Sleeveless!) When I got the straps up onto my shoulders, I realized that I have something I didn't have in 1997. Boobs. I tried to cram the girls into the front of the dress and, after a minute or two, actually succeeded. Holding my breath, I tried the zipper.

Not a chance.

Eleven years and three kids have made size 7 completely and utterly impossible. Defeated, I slipped out of the dress and, after a hearty exhale, gently folded it and laid it on the pile.

I feel sad about giving it away, but to keep it would be silly. Besides, how awesome would it be if someone else could find it, buy it and feel as amazing as I did in it?

At the end of the day, I made significant progress in my room and Mark will have a nice, big closet to call his own. While I may never lose enough weight to get back down to a size 7, what I've gained (and continue to gain) has been well worth it. I don't miss being a 7, not when my life now includes my little guy, my girls (the twins) and the girls (my bosom).

Nope, I wouldn't trade any of it for the world -- not even on a bad day.

I love, love, LOVE VH1 Classic

Every morning as I get ready for work, I have the TV on to VH1 Classic. The music's so diverse - from old school rock and rap to early 80's alternative. I LOVE IT.



Here's just a sampling of some of my favorites I heard this week:


Der Kommissar by Falco
She Bop by Cyndi Lauper
You Are by Lionel Richie
Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin
Free Falling by Tom Petty
Cool it Now by New Edition
Girls on Film by Duran Duran
Waterfalls by TLC
Everything Counts by Depeche Mode
Break on Through by The Doors

I used to be a HUGE Duran Duran fan. Yesterday morning I had to stop, mid-mascara to watch the Girls on Film video. Ahhh. What a way to start the day.

If I had it to do over again...

So as you know, Mark and I are engaged. We're very excited to get married and are looking forward to a very special family-focused celebration.

Neither of us want the big, cookie-cutter wedding reception. We're content to skip the DJ, sliced-beef buffet and corny cake-cutting photos. Instead we're planning a rather small, somewhat non-traditional affair that we hope will be intimate and special.

For me, this will not be my first wedding. My first wedding had a very typical Midwestern reception. We had the predictable, gravy-soaked buffet dinner and ended the night singing, "A little bit louder now!" with 175 friends, family members, co-workers, distant relatives, parents' friends and general acquaintances.

While the reception was fine, the marriage wasn't, and frankly, I don't want this reception to look, taste or feel remotely like the first.

I'm finding that a second trip down the aisle is a mixed bag. While I'm so excited about getting married again, I still feel a little weird about, well... getting married again.


I try to look forward, only focusing on June 20, 2009, but you can't really plan a second wedding and not glance back at least a few times. And glancing back TOTALLY sucks, because it's a reminder of what was ultimately a painful experience.

And I've gotta be honest, I'm having a hard time with some of the basic stuff that should be easy, but isn't. Dress shopping should be fun, but instead, I feel anxious and unsure about what's appropriate. The thought of wearing a big, puffy wedding ballgown doesn't feel right, but I don't think I should wear a burlap bag over my head either.

I know I shouldn't be ashamed about my past - and Mark NEVER makes me feel that I should. But, I can't help but wonder if somewhere, somebody's whispering, "Let's just hope that this one works out for her."

So, we've got 9 months to go until the big day. So far, we've booked the church and an incredible site for what we're calling our Wedding Celebration. We've rented out a romantic, yet slightly kitschy restaurant located in an old mansion.

We're keeping the guest list down to about 50, inviting only our immediate family and a few close friends. We don't want the night to end with us not having had the opportunity to talk to everyone there.

And, maybe most importantly, we want the day to be special for the kids too. We want them to feel included and have fun, because ultimately, this is a party a celebration of family.

Our family is growing, expanding. I'm not just gaining a husband who I will love, honor and cherish -- my kids are gaining a step dad, a new role model, friend, and father figure.

And, you know what? It really doesn't matter what I will wear or what I think anyone might say about it. When we're 90 years old, sitting side-by-side in our recliners, we won't remember the details of the day. But we'll remember how we felt and how our family grew, both in people and in love -- and that's what really matters.

Oprah. The ultimate parody.

Okay, Oprah is officially ruined for me. I used to record her new episodes with the DVR and over the summer, when it was all just re-runs, I hit a dry spell. I hadn't seen a new episode in months. But I did catch several Mad TV and SNL parodies instead.

Their parodies are very similar - The fake Oprah shouts into the camera... pausing... at every...other...word for EFFECT!!!!! Her low voice sounds forced. Her delivery is totally over the top and made that much funnier when they add crazed fans, skinny/fat cams and spoofed Gails and Stedmans.

So, imagine my shock when I catch the first few episodes of the new fall season. I swear to you, she has turned into a parody of herself. The voice. The shouting. The over...the...top... DELIVERY!!!!! I watched her tribute to Team USA, which was really great, but barely tolerable because of her crazy shouting. "And here... comes... the... U... S... MEN'S... VOLLEYBALL... TEAM!!!!!!"

I tried to find a clip of real Oprah to compare to the fake one, but quite a few have been taken off You Tube for copyright issues. Figures.

I think I'm also a little over the legions of Oprah fans who hyperventilate during the opening of each show. If you want to see out of control, watch one of the Oprah's Favorite Things episodes.

Somehow, I actually found a great comparison of real vs. fake Oprah fans gone wild.

The first clip was from the real show - Oprah's Favorite Things 2007. While her behavior is pretty subdued, fans totally and completely freak out. The insanity lasts for a full, 2 and a half minutes. See if you can last that long.



And here's the SNL parody. It's really not too far off the mark. The best is at about the 2 minute mark when a crazed fan wets herself. (Tina Fey, you're my hero.)



Yeah... sorry, Oprah. I think I'm done.

Bacon, part deux

Each Saturday, I post the week's meals on a dry-erase board on my refrigerator. The kids can easily view the planned menu and often comment on the selections. Sometimes, I'll post a bogus menu, full of items like Veggie Stew and Creamed Spinach just to mess with them.

This week, I posted a menu item that is always a hit: Night Breakfast. Named by my dearest Mad Dog, Night Breakfast is exactly what you'd think - breakfast at night. Though the main entree might change (pancakes, omelets, or quiche), one thing remains a constant - a hearty side of bacon.

Mmmm... bacon

I'm not a huge fan of bacon. If given the choice, I'll take sausage, but I've become an expert at preparing it. I can make the best, crispiest bacon around. Guaranteed. And when I make bacon for my crew, I make the whole, one-pound package. And there are never leftovers.

The first time Mark experienced Night Breakfast, he was a little surprised by just how much bacon my crew could pack away. As a HUGE fan of bacon himself, he was actually more than just surprised - he was dismayed. He never had to share bacon before.

Kevin Bacon

As I set the bacon plate down on the table, the kids instinctively began to grab for a slice. He snatched the plate off the table and held it up above his head.

"Hey! Back off," he snarled. He then proceeded to dole out a slice at a time, making sure to add several slices to his own plate.

I didn't realize how deep Mark's love affair with bacon went until I showed him the bacon flow chart. What I thought was just a funny site, he called "a useful decision-making tool." And once, when I asked for his opinion on some random topic, he answered,

"Unless you've got a bacon sandwich in your pocket, I'm not interested."

In his defense, I was probably rambling about something stupid, but still... the man loves his bacon. And really, the only time I've ever seen him remotely upset, is when he thought we were out of it.

Sir Francis Bacon

I recently made a batch of BLTs for dinner. Oh, they were so good - made with fresh home-grown tomatoes and my super-crispy bacon. These were the kind of BLTs that made your eyeballs roll back into your head.

After we each finished our sandwiches, he began making himself a second. The first was so delicious, I decided to indulge and make myself another one too. But there was a problem. There were just four slices of bacon left.

We sat blinking at each other for a few seconds over the bacon plate. Who would get the last helping? Knowing how much he loves bacon, I lowered my eyes and dropped my shoulders as a sign of concession.

Without a word, Mark put two slices on my plate and the last two on his. He looked at me and smiled.

Now that's love.

Everything's better with Bacon

It's funny how people get weird nicknames from their families. For example, I know a full-grown man who goes by "Bo-Bo." These things aren't necessarily planned, they just sort of evolve.

When Mark first started hanging with us, each time he'd walk through my front door, Crowbar would run up to him and yell, "MARK!"

And every day, Mark would swoop him up in his arms and ask, "What's shakin', Bacon?" Over time, somehow he dropped formality and just would greet him with a hearty, "BACON!" I guess it just stuck.

One day, I asked Crowbar/Bacon if he had a nickname for Mark. He thought about it and decided on "Broccoli." I'm sure he picked this because broccoli is Crowbar's favorite vegetable (no shit) and he likes to make silly faces at Mark while he eats it.

I didn't think this Broccoli-thing would stick, but it did.

"Hello, Bacon. Whatcha you doin'?"

"Hi Broccoli. Nothing. What are you doing?"

"I'm watching the Cubs game. Bacon, would you like to join me?"

"Yes Broccoli." (Climbs up onto the couch.) "I'll share my blanket with you."

It was the weirdest exchange and there have been a few equally-weird conversations since. But I must say, it's been absolutely heartwarming to see the two of them grow so close.

I used to wonder and worry if I'd find a guy who would truly and deeply love my kids and not just tolerate them to be with me. The sight of Broccoli and Bacon together, sharing a blanket and watching the game, frankly, made me a little misty.

Bacon has become Mark's shadow, asking him to play Lego's and Transformers every chance he gets. And Mark doesn't mind one bit. He'll sit and play with him for hours. As the only two men in the house, they just stick together. Perhaps its a survival mechanism.

Or, maybe it's because he loves Bacon so much. And who wouldn't? Everything's better with a side of Bacon - even Broccoli.

Assholes in the carpool lane

For the past few months, Mark and I have been carpooling to work each day. This is the first time either of us have ever carpooled before, so we were equally delighted the first time we were able to use the carpool lane to bypass a half dozen cars on the on-ramp.

"Yippee! Look at us!" we chirped in unison as we whizzed by. High on adrenalin, we cheered and hooted for the next mile or two. "Carpooling totally rocks!"

The next day, the line for the non-carpoolers was exceptionally long -- at least ten cars. As we flew by, using our personal express lane, our cheers somehow became directed toward the other drivers and took a somewhat nasty tone.

"Ha, ha! YOU SUCK! WE RULE! Woo! Hoo!"

Of course we keep our celebrations on the down-low, taking care to not let the other drivers see or hear our chest pumping and guffawing. As exhilarating as the carpool lane is, neither of us want an ugly road-rage incident. So as we breeze through in our lane, we turn to each other (not out the window to the other drivers) to celebrate.

The other day, as we cruised through the carpool lane, Mark burst out, "Take THAT, Loo-HOO-sers!"

And the day after that, I sang, "We are the champions, my friends..."

The carpool lane = power. And as illustrated in the first Spider-Man movie, with great power comes great responsibility.

Mark and I are not handling our new-found power responsibly. In fact, we've become total assholes with it. But in our defense, there's simply no other time when we feel so superior to everyone else.

I hope the gods of the carpool lane take mercy on us. We're really nice people in every other way - honest. Maybe they'll at least give us points for keeping our cheers and jeers to ourselves.

Are you there Vodka? It's me, Jess.

Scale:

1 - not a drop

2 - just a nip

3 - take another snort (or three)

4 - open up that second box of wine

5 - black-out city

It's been a rough week and deadlines at work are totally kicking my ass. What's frustrating is that a lot is out of my control and I'm waiting on other people to contribute their parts before I can wrap up mine. My strategy has been to do my best, keep communicating with my clients and then hit the bottle when I get home.

On the flip side, the kids have been little rock stars all week. The fighting has been minimal and returning to the back-to-school routine hasn't been half bad. (Woo hoo!)

Mark's point of view

What I write here is pretty skewed toward my opinions and observations. I never attempt to represent the material as being fair and balanced - it's my damn blog.

But, if you want to hear Mark's side of the story...

http://www.apathetically-yours.blogspot.com/

Thanks, Mom

When I first moved out of the house, I used to call my mom every other day for cooking help. She was my personal combination of Ready Reference and Take Home Chef all rolled into one. Looking back now, most of my calls were pretty ridiculous, but hey, you've got to learn, right?

"Yeah, Mom? It's me. I'm trying to boil an egg and it keeps cracking every time I drop it in the boiling water. What am I doing wrong? Oh, so I've got to GENTLY place the egg in the pan, THEN add water and THEN put it on the stove? Yeah, I was just dropping it in."

"Mom, if I were to make, say a lasagna, how would I do it and do you have any of the ingredients and I can borrow them?"

Then, when my kids were first born and I realized what unbelievably hard work it is raising them, I'd call her to apologize for all the rotten/difficult stuff I did.

"Yeah, Mom? Remember when I used to projectile vomit all over everything? Sorry about that."

"Hey Mom. Remember when I spilled cherry Kool-Aid on the living room carpet? Yeah... I'm really sorry."

But lately, I'm feeling compelled to just call her up and thank her for all the basic, how-to-get-through-life wisdom she gave me without even really trying. And I'm finding that it's the mundane stuff that's actually the most useful.

For one thing, she taught me how to grocery shop. Sounds simple, right? Not really. She taught me three basic rules that save me hundreds of dollars each year:

1. Plan ahead.
2. Make a list.
3. Stick to the damn list.

Mom also taught me through example, the art of extreme resourcefulness. Seriously, she's like MacGyver. She can do anything with a butter knife and her trusty singer sewing machine. And she loves being presented with a challenge:

"What? We need to make a 3-D replica of a hammerhead shark for tomorrow? Okie dokie!"

The woman simply lives for Halloween. As kids we never had store-bought costumes. They were ALWAYS homemade and they were always TOTALLY EFFING AWESOME. How many kids do you know who went as the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria?

And let me tell you, I thank God at least twice a week that she passed her creativity and resourcefulness on to me. (Especially every time one of the kids announce that "Career Day" is less than 12 hours away.)

"Hold on honey, let me just take this coat hanger, hot-glue gun and old slip and I'll make your circus ringmaster uniform in a jiffy!"

Oh, and don't get me started on the Momisms I now use. My use of profanity is gradually being replaced by phrases only Moms say. What exactly is a "jiffy?" I don't know, but I say it A LOT.

And I want you to know that I'm doing my best to pass on valuable, life-enhancing knowledge to little Mad Dog, Crow Bar and The Deuce. Since day one, I've cradled each one in my arms and whispered my own words of wisdom:

"Be cool, stay in school."

"Credit cards are for emergencies."

"Nobody likes a whiner."

God, I hope they're listening.

Fortune Schmortune

The other day Mark and I ordered Chinese. While the kids aren't crazy about that type of food, they beg and plead for the fortune cookies, the girls especially. I can generally use fortune cookies to bribe the twins into all sorts of things -- from clean rooms to clean plates.


Being only three, Crow Bar is a little new to the whole fortune cookie thing. When he saw the little, individually wrapped cookies he knew he wanted one. And when he saw his sisters' enthusiasm and willingness to stand on their heads to get one, he knew the little cookie must be something special.

For the last several weeks, Crow Bar has not been going to bed well. He's been popping up every two minutes and coming downstairs. I've tried just about every trick in my book to get him to stay in bed, but nothing has proven effective for more than two nights in a row. Near desperation, I bribed him, saying he could have one of the fortune cookies if he stayed in bed all night.


His eyes lit up and he immediately ran to his room and dove under his covers.


"I stay in bed, Mama!" he promised enthusiastically.


And he did.



The next morning, Crow Bar bounded out of bed and asked for his prize. I helped him unwrap his cookie. He carefully studied it. It was clear he was concerned about breaking it. After a little assurance, he cracked it open and was delighted to find the little piece of paper inside.


I told him it was his fortune. With wide-eyed amazement, he listened carefully as I read, "Your kind spirit touches many souls."


He looked perplexed, so I explained it in simpler terms saying, "You are a kind and nice boy and you make other people very happy." Still, he looked somewhat dissatisfied and ate his cookie with a crinkled brow.



Several minutes later, Crow Bar padded into my room, fortune in hand.


"You read it wrong, Mama."


He held it out in front of him, cleared his throat and began to "read" it.


"It says, 'You go to Chuck E. Cheese today.'"


After a good laugh and a big hug, I sent him on to play with his trucks. I'm sure there's a lesson here. Maybe we shouldn't just accept the fortunes we're given. Maybe we should all be willing to write our own.

Good choices = good consequences. Bad choices, well... you get the idea

In addition to our Three House Rules, we have a family mantra: Good choices = good consequences and bad choices = bad consequences. I've been drilling this into my kids' heads for years. They control their own actions and have to be responsible for the outcome good or bad. And for the most part they get it.

The other day, Mark and I took Mad Dog and The Deuce to a water park. Crow Bar stayed home with Grandma so we could ride the big rides. (Thanks, Mom for sparing me a heart attack at the wave pool!)

If you've ever been to a water park (or any public pool for that matter) you know that the people watching is one of the best reasons to go. Knowing that people will be people-watching me back, I'm ridiculously self conscious about how I look at these places. I worry about accidentally exposing the public to my bare midriff or blinding small children with reflected sunlight off my near-translucent thighs. So, I take necessary precautions, wearing a specially engineered tankini that minimizes these risks, but still looks relatively fashionable.

But after less than five minutes at the park, I realize my precautions are unnecessary - there are other women much larger than I wearing bikinis and walking around with the confidence of Playboy Bunnies. From teeny-tiny bikinis in size 42, to giant, ape-like men in Speedos (no, you do not look like Michael Phelps), you see it all... including an interesting variety of tattoo choices.

First, let me say that I'm not against tattoos. In fact, it's quite the contrary. I'd get one someday if I wasn't worried that I'd regret the design or placement somewhere down the road.

I guess I always thought that if I got one, it'd be something very symbolic and placed somewhere that would be covered most of the time. Trouble is, I never have seen a design that I liked enough nor am I comfortable putting its intended location under a tattoo artist's nose for 2 hours.

But, as was evident at the water park, many others do not share these hangups. I saw a woman with intricate vines protruding out from under her swimsuit, originating somewhere near her nether regions. I saw a man with full body art that made it look as if he had on a skin-tight tattoo T-shirt. I saw women with fairies, flowers and Celtic art so masterfully drawn, they made me want one of my own. I saw men sporting colorful coy, masterful portraits of relatives and beautifully written names of loved ones. These people had chosen tattoos that were truly works of art.

By contrast, for every well-chosen tattoo, you'd see ten badly chosen designs. From Jack Daniels bottles to cartoon characters to the damn confederate flag, we saw it all.

We also saw tattoos that had gone bad. What probably seemed like a good choice 20 years ago, didn't age well. I saw several ladies with tragic, sagging lower-back art.

I saw preppy, suburban fathers cradling their toddlers with arms covered by skulls with spiders crawling out of the eye sockets. For every good choice, there were several bad ones.

When my brother was in high school, he begged my parents to let him get a tattoo. Despite their refusal, he studied different designs carefully before settling on a Chinese symbol which he planned to put on his chest. The great tattoo debate had been a source of major friction between he and Mom. She opposed and he persisted, until his eighteenth birthday when he got the tattoo.

Because I haven't seen my brother shirtless much if not at all over the past 15 years, I'd completely forgotten about his tattoo until this summer at a family swim party. Unable to recall what the Chinese symbol meant, I asked him about it.

He rolled his eyes and slapped his hand over his chest, hiding the symbol.

"Oh, this? It means 'don't get a tattoo when you're eighteen'."