Halloween Humor Carnival

Hear ye, hear ye!

Ye ghost and goblins and ghouls, bring your tattered and torn ears and eyes here.  A very important and funny announcement is to be made. 

A Halloween Humor Carnival will be taking place on this Friday, Halloween.

Come read the ghoulish and scary stories, thoughts, opinions of the frighteningly humorous Humor Bloggers.

My tribute describes a very, very scary night indeed.  Since Halloween is about being scared and doing scared unto others,  I thought a recent wee scary escapade was ripe for the fearin' and scarin' of you, my faithful two or three readers.   (I heart you.)

It is not for the light of heart or for the weak of knees.

Behold, read at your own risk and remember....

WE HAVE YOUR SCARY FUNNY !

Screamers  especially welcome.

One Horrific Night

10:45 p.m.

“Breathe Sandie, breathe,” I whisper to myself as I pulled my car into the parking lot. I turn off the engine and took several deep breaths. It was going to take every ounce of courage to complete my task.

10:47 p.m.

Tentatively, I open the door, careful not to touch the car door beside me. I pull myself out of the car and slowly head towards the building. It is dark and there are dark figures milling around. I glance quickly at the front door and mentally calculate the distance. It is roughly 40 or 50 feet ahead of me. I can make it, if I am quiet. I keep my face to the ground.

10:48 p.m.

I pull my hood a little tighter. What is that? I feel something brush against me. Oh, it is just a stray plastic bag floating around. The movement of my leg sends it in a southerly direction. I watch it as it quietly drifts high and low bumping into this and that. Within seconds it vanishes completely from sight.

10:51 p.m.

I hear a squawk from behind me which brings me back to my task on hand. I start walking slowly, so as to not draw any attention to myself. I walk quickly, falling behind two…shadowy figures.

10:52 p.m.

The door opens silently and we enter into the building.

10:52 p.m.

I hear a piercing scream of terror. I freeze. I hear the commotion getting louder, coming closer at me, and then…it passes by.

10:53 p.m.

All of a sudden there is a push from behind, I fly forward. My hand reaches out to grab a shelf, anything to keep myself from falling. I wobble and teeter, barely managing to stay afoot. A cacophony of angry screams mixed with anguished cries assaults me. Moans and groans start closing in all around me. I feel myself starting to panic. My breathing is becoming heavier and more rapid. I feel the blood pounding in my ears. My pulse starts racing. I do the unthinkable, I stop. I hear angry retorts of exasperation and frustration coming up from behind me. I am sandwiched in among two or three of “them” as they start pushing and pulling at me from every direction.

10:55 p.m.

“What is she doing?” I hear the hisses, I feel their heated anger.

10:55 p.m.

I squeeze my escape through two of the shadows and stand by a wall. I wait for my heart rate to slow down. I look at the floor. I refuse to make eye-contact.

10:57 p.m.

I walk slowly and cautiously doing my best to veer away and steer myself away from any objects or persons within my reach. I turn a corner and hear a bellowing rage that cuts me to the core and I turn to the left and make the mistake of looking up only to see this:

10:58p.m.

Is that Clay Aiken and his newborn son?

"Please, no, make it go away."  I can't stop myself.  My eyes are glued to this hideous sight as the terror rises in my throat

I rush to the next aisle only to find this "maestro" with his salivating protégé in tow.  

My eyes widen in horror.

 

I must get away. Quickly, I dash down another aisle.

Suddenly, I stop. Is that music I hear? The volume is low, but increasing in volume and intensity.  I gasp. “No, no it can’t be.” I tug at my ears, I cannot believe what song I am hearing. A man and a woman are smiling at me.  The woman is singing:  “Stand by your maaaaan.”

I look around feeling sure that I have entered a time warp. Can that really be who I think it is? I am so confused….. and scared.

Something is wrong about this place, very wrong.

I turn myself away towards the opposite direction and a gargled scream escapes from my now dry, parched throat as I almost bump into this.

 

 

 

My eyes are wide with fear and glued to this horrifying creature, whose very existence alone constitutes a horrific act against nature.

I back away very slowly.

11:00 p.m.

My stomach is churning.

I. have. to. leave. NOW.

Like a coward, I flee to the safety of my car. I nervously insert the car door key and quickly open the car door and fling myself into the driver's seat, slamming the door behind me.

Slowly, I collect my breath. I will be returning home, empty-handed. My task, uncompleted. My goal, unachieved.   What I had been thinking?  What ever possessed me to think I could do this thing.  I had gone to a place where nobody in their right mind would ever  stoop so low to go to.  And on a Saturday night? "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Yes, I had done the unthinkable…. I had gone to a Wal-Mart store on a late, late Saturday night.

Never, NEVER again.

*shudders*

Uno, Dos, Tres

Me: "Thanks for teaching my son how to count to ten in Spanish."

Pre-k Teacher: "Um, I didn't."

Me: "You didn't? How did he learn it?"

Pre-k Teacher: "I don't know, he might have learned it from the other kids in his class who speak Spanish.

Me: "Well this is a good thing. I'm glad. I hope he'll be interested in learning Spanish one day."

Pre-k Teacher: "Oh well, part of our curriculum includes bilingual education."

Me: "Really? Can you tell me how it works?

Pre-k Teacher: "Yes, part of the day is taught in English only and then the second part of the day is taught only in Spanish."

Me: "Oh, only Spanish? Even if they do not speak Spanish in the home? We do not speak Spanish in our home."

Pre-k Teacher: "Oh yes, it will help them so much in future. Everyone needs to be bilingual these days."

Me: "What happens if they are not learning the core basics because of the language barrier? I mean they are just learning to read and write, shouldn't that be done in their primary language?"

Pre-k Teacher: "Oh no studies have shown that an English speaking child can thrive in the bilingual class."

Me: "Really?"

Pre-k Teacher: "Really, really."

I'm not so sure I'm convinced that this will end up being a good thing. I hope I am wrong. I want this to be a good thing, unfortunately I can see a good thing going terribly, terribly wrong.

*fast forward diez years*

My "bilingual" son: "Bueno dias, Mom. I was wondering if you could loan me some dinero. I just want to go to el cine and watch a pelicula."

"Mom, donde esta the keys to el auto? Did you put some gasolina in it? Can I bring mis amigos back here after our movie? Oh and Mom, can you make us some comida? Or could we orden algos pizzas? How about soda Mom, can you compra some?"

"Mom, no puedo encontrar my favorite jeans. Did you lava them? Are they seco?

"Hasta la vista, Mom. I'll be back pronto."

On second thought, I will be ever so grateful to the school system for teaching mi hijo to be bilingual. We can only hope that he will be taught as well as what my high-school and college Spanish courses taught me.

*batting eyelashes in mock modesty*

Ay, yi, yiiiiii!

Schultz's Wisdom

Dealing with children can be a very tricky thing. I find myself many times lacking the wisdom to know how to deal with them effectively. In other words, I'm doing it wrong.

So I've decided to approach situations in a Schultzinian fashion. He was such a gentle fellow, easily pleased. I think my boys and I could benefit from his wise mantras. Case in point.

My five-year-old son asked me, "Mom, what is hake?"

Me: "Hake? That's a type of fish."

Son: "No Mom, not a fish. Hay-aaaaake."

Me: "The only 'hake' I know is a fish, do you mean hate?"

Son sighs in exasperation and says, "No, Moooom. Hay-aaaaaaaake. Ka, ka, ka, ka, kaaaaaah. Hake."

I spent several minutes patiently trying to help my son and figure out what in the world he meant, after all I am his nurturer and I need to help him learn all that he can so he can morph and thrive into a self-reliant, giving, adult one day. Instead, I should have said in the wise words of Sargeant Schultz, "I know nothing, nuuu-thing!"

Fast forward to dinner time.

Son: "Mom what is that?"

Me: "It's a chicken and broccoli casserole I made for dinner."

Son: "I hate broccoli."

I don't bother responding.

I'm reminded again how easy it was to please Sargeant Schultz. Give him a little bit of chocolate or some pigs' feet and he was happy.

Me: "Well (again thank-you Schultz for the inspiration, if it made you happy, then surely it will make my son happy too), I can make you some pig's feet, ok?"

His eyes widen in horror.

Me: "Let me see if I can find that recipe, it belonged to a friend of mine, his name was LeBeau.

"Oh, he makes the best pigs' feet! He covers them in butter, then he takes a little bit of basil, and a little bit of oregano, and a little bit of . . ."

With that, he happily wolfed down that broccoli and seemed to enjoy every green morsel.

Fast forward to the usual after dinner activities: the boys fighting.

Son #1: "Mom, he came up and just hit me, for no reason."

Son #2 (sobbing and screeching): "Maaaaaaaaaaoooom, he hurt my feelings."

Son #1: "Mom, I told him to stop and he wouldn't. He just kept on hitting me and scratching and he tried to bite me!"

Son #2 (sobbing and screeching): "But Maaaaaaooooom, he hurt my feelings."

Son #1: "Mom, I'm telling the truth. I did not touch him."

Son #2 (sobbing and screeching): "Maaaaaaooooooom, he really hurt my feelings."

Again the wise words of Sargeant Schultz come to mind, inspiring me to use yet another of his wise sayings.

"On some occasions I look the other way because in war I do not like to take sides..."

(pause)

"So both of you go to your rooms right now! No arguing, just GO!"

Thank-you Sargeant Schultz for your wonderful words of inspiration, I never knew how helpful and handy they would be to me one day.

"Is that chocolate?" Yes, dear Schultz it is chocolate.

Ahhh, the sweet taste of parenting success.

Ready, Aim, Bread

It's 1973 (gaah, I'm old) and I am in school, elementary school. Our teacher, Ms. Marietta (gaah, I'm really that old and I actually remember her) gives us an art assignment.

"Class, I want you to make a poster for a toothpaste called Aim. The company is having a poster contest."

Creativity? Not my bag. I can try and mimic someone else's efforts somewhat decently, but come up with something on my own? Ha!

She really socked it to me with this assignment and I had nothing but bad vibes about it.

I dug into my pocket to find a piece of candy or gum to stick in my mouth. Why couldn't the poster contest be for a candy campaign instead of boring, nasty tasting toothpaste? Like M&Ms, oops the red ones are forbidden because of red dye #2, whatever. How about Pop Rocks? Umm, no supposedly they can explode in your mouth. Ah, how about gum, you can't go wrong there. Spider eggs? Allegedly, bubble gum has spider eggs in them? I'll pass on the candy campaigns.

I ended up sneaking a piece of striped gum (hopefully it did not have the rumored spider eggs embedded in them) into my mouth and tried to think creatively.

I'd much rather be daydreaming about David Cassidy (Oh yes, I think I love you too, David.) or Bobby Sherman. (Forget Julie, Julie, Julie! Instead, sing it Sandie, Sandie, Sandie do you care? Oh, I cared Bobby, really I did.)

I slogged through my brain trying to not think about my teen heartthrobs or my stack of Archie Comics or my Nancy Drew books that were waiting for me at home. I struggled to stay on task and finally came up with this slogan for a poster: Aim Against Cavities."

I drew a tube of toothpaste, some toothbrushes, and a cheesy smile on the poster. I wrote the words at an angle on the poster.

That was it. Pretty far-out, no? More like crummy, with a capital C.

Ok, as was aforementioned this took place in 1973.

Lo and behold the campaign ad that came out in 1975 for Aim toothpaste.

Aim's slogans are "Fights cavities...Children like the taste" and "The Great Tasting Gel!". When the brand was introduced in 1975 (emphasis added), the tag line was "Take Aim against cavities (emphasis added...again)!"

Coinkadink? I think not.

Have I been acknowledged, let alone compensated for my creative genius that inspired a successful national toothpaste campaign? That would be a big fat negatory.

I am not trying to flip a wig, but I'm seriously thinking of litigation. I know it's been 35 years, but I did not want to rush into anything. I didn't want to act rashly. I'm thinking now that the economy is in a total state of drag, it might be time to move forward with a lawsuit.

I would be a chump, if I did not speak up. And it would be so neat-o if they come through with some sweet residuals. I really think some toothpaste fat cats owe me some bread. It will be totally groovy if this works out. I'll let you in on the skinny as soon as I know something.

Later, I'll catch ya on the flip side!

Muffin Epidemic

It's the invasion of the muffin tops, pre-school style!

I went in to help out in my little boy's class today. Every time the teacher asked the kids to sit on the story rug, I would see a sea of plumber-butt, kiddie style. And it was always on the girls! I was really surprised. I have to admit that kiddie plumber-butt looks kind of cute at this age. The problem is: it does not stop at this cute stage. They keep showing us their plumber-butt even as they get older and....heavier! Yikes.

Next, comes the muffin tops. Uuugh. I do not understand why any girl or woman (because I see both committing this offense) would wear such tight, short tops that reveal every bulge and roll. Then they wear jeans cut so low that their "muffins" squeeze over the top and bulge out. This even happens to skinny girls. It's strange, but all of their flesh (all .2 ounces of it) is squeezed up and over the top of the jeans. Do they really think this looks attractive or sexy? I don't think so. But (pun intended) I am not a guy, so I cannot opine on their behalf as to whether or not they think muffin-top looks attractive on a girl.

It's everywhere I go. It cannot be avoided. Look around you the next time you go out shopping, I'll bet you see more than just one muffin top. Heaven forbid they bend down, then we get a big ole' eyeful of the plumber-butt, not looking so cute anymore.

Oh, they try to "dress" it up with a thong, puhleeze. "Honey, I think you are trying too hard." Alright, maybe my green-eyed monster is influencing me right now. Some girls can pull it off with their cute little bums, but (again, pun intended) many cannot. And they still do it anyway.

*shudder* Gives me the heebie-jeebies, big time.

I say let's keep the blubber covered. Let's keep the muffins in the muffin trays and not oozing out of the tops of our jeans.

All this talk about muffins has got me hungry. I think I'll go eat one, or two, or three!

Don't worry, I've got high-waisted sweats on. (Yes, they still do make them, hard to believe, I know. And no, they are not made out of polyester...sheesh!)

My muffins?

They be covered.

Another Birthing story...

Move over Rosemary's baby. There's a new kid in town.





Now that's quality television.

I am all over that.

Ding Dong

Of course.

The doorbell rings and the dogs go crazy. And of course, I'm in the bathroom.

It. Never. Fails.

Oh, I'm sure that people from my church think I am the most anti-social and rude person ever. (It's always people from my church who are "inspired" to deliver something to my front door when I am "busy.")

The first few hundred times this happened, I would stop my business and hurry to the door, just to see the mini-van driving away. (And it is always a mini-van.)

After that, I just decided not to stress over it. I don't even try anymore. I let the dogs go crazy, barking and such. I take my time, finish my business (I am usually playing a game on my Nintendo DS: I am a Rummy fool.) and then get in the shower. I will go and get whatever it is they leave on my door, later.

Sometimes though these good-hearted people will take it one step further.

Oh yes, not only will they drive away thinking, "Boy, she's a rude one," but then a few seconds later, thanks to modern technology, they will call me from their cell phone. Sigh. This is usually around the time I'm in the shower singing, "You can ring my bell--ell--ell, ring my bell, ding, dong, ding."

(Thanks to VE for reminding me of that classic song!)

So not only do they think I did NOT come to the door (when they knew I darn well could have, if I had ANY decent friendly genes), but now they are thinking, "Sheesh, she won't even answer the phone."

"Anti-social wench, she be," said Yoda to nobody in particular.

According to the Plumbitall.co.uk, we spend about three years of our life on the commode. For me? Add a year or two.

I always knew my life was in the toilet, now it's official.

*flush, swoosh, flush, gurgle*

Excuse me, time to take my shower.

Ding dong. I knew it! I just knew it!

We Belong Together

Beware: a very mushy, cheesy post follows. (Hey, I’m a Mom, I’m entitled!)

I want to dedicate this post to my five-year-old son. You see this little guy was adopted by us last December 2007. He came to live with us April 2006. He was two-and-a-half-years old at that time. Today, he turns five-years-old.

We had wanted more children so desperately and were not blessed with anymore. We decided to consider adoption, and ended up taking the adoption road less-traveled. We decided to try and find a child within the “system.” We had to go through intensive training and we filled out so much paperwork, I’m sure we killed at least ten trees.

Once we were certified then came the hard part. Waiting. We were considered many times to be parents for different children, but none of those possibilities felt right. (I’m still not reconciled with these feelings….I mean when you are pregnant you get what you get…you don’t get to pick and choose!)

Anyhoo, we had our biological son to consider, so this process became quite heart-wrenching and hard for us.

Finally, a ray of hope appeared in March of 2006. We learned about this two-year-old who was born exposed to meth and had been removed from his home for neglect. His biological parents were both addicted to drugs and alcohol. His father has served many prison terms. They were unable to care for this little guy in the way that he deserved.

He was developmentally delayed, but other than that he didn’t seem to exhibit any of the typical problem behaviors that usually manifest themselves in children born under these types of less than favorable circumstances.

We met him and the first time we saw him, I knew this was it. He was adorable with a capital A. I just wanted to take him home right then and there. Of course, we had to be patient and go through the proper protocols. We did the required number of visits and finally on April 18, 2006, our family grew by one.

We still had many months of waiting for the adoption to be finalized. Both of his biological parents appealed their rights being severed, but unfortunately for them and fortunately for us, their track records stood as a testament against them.

It was worth the wait. We love him so very much. Our relief was felt so intensely when we finally got to go to family court and finalize the adoption. I was so relieved that my medical condition (the Big C) did not affect the outcome. It's like I told the Social Worker: "There is never a guarantee that nothing bad will ever happen to you as a family." I just knew this little guy was supposed to be a part of our family. We gladly accepted this little one into our hearts and home permanently.

Not long after this momentous date, I heard a song by Phil Collins, “You’ll Be In My Heart”. I had heard this song numerous times, but it never held any significance for me until now. It touched me and I realized that is exactly how I feel about our little guy.

Come stop your crying
It will be alright
Just take my hand
Hold it tight
I will protect you
From all around you
I will be here,
Don't you cry
For one so small
You seem so strong
My arms will hold you
Keep you safe and warm
This bond between us
Can't be broken
I will be here
Don't you cry
'Cause you'll be in my heart
Yes, you'll be in my heart
From this day on
Now and forever more
You'll be in my heart
I know we're different
But, deep inside us
We're not that different at all
And you'll be in my heart
Yes, you'll be in my heart

Yes, my dear, sweet, scallywag of a son, you will always be in my heart. It mattereth not that you were not formed in my belly. You touched my heart and you are mine! Well ok, you also belong to Daddy and your brother…sometimes, when he’s in a good mood and he's willing to claim you.

The best part? No pregnancy pains and discomforts. Whoo-hoo!

Cyber Lemonade

I was cyber-snubbed!

Eh, what's new. I get snubbed all the time in real life, so why should it be any different in the bloggy world or blogosphere. You pick. I'm feeling generous today.

This is how it went down.

I commented on a post. I have commented on this blog before. I was offering a different point of view, but I pinky swear that I was very nice about it.

It was political. I gave her a "I agree with you, but....." Which was my honest, yet respectful opinion. Honestly, I didn't attack her or her opinions at all . I just nicely offered her a half of a cyber-valium. She was extremely stressed at the thought of a certain individual becoming President.

So I wrote in something like this, "Yeah, I agree that it will be tough if (so and so) gets voted in. It won't be easy, and we're not going to like a lot of things, but we've gone through eight years of this political philosophy before and life will continue whether or not (so and so) is voted into office. Things might not be easy, but it will be okay."

(Aren't I clever....you don't know if I'm talking about the Bush Administration or the Clinton Administration! Or do you?)

Anyhoo, was my comment rude? I didn't think so.

She never published the post!

I checked for two weeks. I thought all bloggers LIVED for comments. From what I had been reading, she doesn't get a lot of comments. I know I would LOVE to get some comments. You don't have to look closely to see that I started with cyber-drought conditions and remain there to this day.

Even if she did think my comment was rude, it could have been some blog fodder for her. I have seen some pretty funny posts from bloggers who have received "nasty" comments and mean emails from readers. They made lemonade out of their lemons.

I still don't think my comment was anywhere near the "nasty" stage.

Maybe she needs some help making lemonade. Or maybe she just doesn't like lemonade, so I offer her an alternative.

(singing)"You put the lemon in the diet coke and then you stir it all together."

*fizz, fizz* Enjoy!

What is that smell?

[In my best Charleton Heston scream] "Peee-ple, it burns! It burns!! The pain! The pain!! Peeeeee-puuuuuuull!"

I think I've discovered what soylent green smells like (and I don't think it's made of people after all).

What is it about a dog's fart that makes it incredibly smelly and therefore excruciatingly painful? Oh, the pain, it burns. My eyes are watering. They are actually watering! What's worse is that you never hear it coming. They are always silent, and deadly. Forgive the cliche, but it is so annoyingly true.

Let me describe what this fart smells like. (Consider me the expert, being the fart connoisseur that I am.) This one stenches of a triple dose of sulphur mixed in with day old Swiss cheese.

Nasty.

Human farts aren't much better, but canine farts go beyond all expectations of what a fart should be. Yes, a dog's farts are much more pungent than a human fart. And for some reason they dissipate at a much slower rate. Time seems to slooooow..... doooown.... to leeengthen the staaaaay of their offensive lingering odor. You can almost see the gaseous bubble slowly floating around in the air, its inevitable path straight to the receiving end of your nostril hairs.

We are talking hard-core ghastly smells, my friend.

Once the fart contamination is complete, then and only then, can the molecular cleansing begin. After several minutes of cleansing, then regular breathing and smelling can be resumed. It's nice to know that the smell will not be clinging to my nostril hair on a permanent basis. I'm glad I don't have to smell that smell over and over again.

At least until... the next dog fart.

I guess I have only myself to blame. I was curious. I fed this dog some salsa. I didn't think she would actually eat it. She gobbled it all up! Her tail was wagging doing the Conga. She lapped up that salsa with zest and joy. That was not part of the plan. I thought she would take a sniff and then turn her nose away.

She did not think twice and I should have thought twice.

Salsa plus dogs? Not a good combination.

*sniff, sniff* What is that? (my eyes widen in alarm and pure fear) Oh no, could it be? *sniff* It is! Another canine fart wave is coming my way! I thought she was done. Criminy, I can actually see the bubble!

I. can. smell. it.

Gag! I hope I don't pass out, I hope I don't fei... .

*thud*

33 Q-tips and A Boy

We've been scallywagged.

Son #2, the four-year-old, is a major scallywag. He is a mischievous imp and he has struck again.

Let me just explain one thing. On weekends, my husband and I tag-team in taking care of the boys. It's kind of nice to be able to go and run errands (sans boys) or do some projects at home (sans boys) knowing that the boys are in the good hands of the "other" parent.

The only problem is communication, or the lack thereof. Sometimes the hubby and I forget to tell each other, "Your turn."

That's all a scallywag needs, just one itsy bitsy teensy weensy window of opportunity.

Recently, I was complaining about the basin in the master bathroom. Lately, I have had to "feed" it a whole bottle of heavy duty Drano and it continues backing up. It drains, but incredibly slow. I explained all of this to the hubby when the light came on for both of us at about the same time.

The Scallywag.

Yes, our little imp had struck again. We just knew he was the originator of this problem and we knew what had to be done.

My husband brought home from work an extra-long mega-sized tweezers. He put on the mask, goggles, and gloves and began the long and pain-staking procedure of miscellany removal from the drain.

The operation was performed when I was far, far away from home. This was a good thing. Had I been there to witness the procedure, I would have fainted or hurled; or perhaps, both. Drains scare me. They are nasty, vile creatures that can harbor sludge and toxins and who knows what else. He ended up removing a couple of unidentifiable stick-like structures and then proceeded to remove numerous... sludgy q-tips. (Ew, ew, ewwww) Out came another and another and another, there seemed to be no end in sight.

Final tally? 33 q-tips. My husband said it was amazing that anything was draining considering how clogged up the drain was with those q-tips.

This child delights in his own curiosity. As a result, he continues to torture us, his parents. It's a big, big world out there and he cannot wait to discover, pull, pour, mix, pinch, poke around and fill up every nook and cranny he can find with sticks, rocks, sand or in this case, q-tips.

Oh, and he loves to create as well.

The other day he came in to tell me (on my "watch," I hate to admit) that he was fixing a "special" drink for his Grandma. "She's gonna like it, Mom."

(Hmm, Grandma is out of town right now.)

"What special drink?" I asked. "Wait a minute, are you in the kitchen?"

He looked at me with those sweet, innocent, dreamy brown eyes, and said, "Yes."

I ran to the kitchen and found this: his stepping stool was up against the kitchen counter, on the counter there were two bowls filled with sugar and water (the sugar lid was about two feet away from the sugar container, with nice sugary watery sprinkles all over the counter top), a sherbet container (which amazingly, still had frozen sherbet in it), and an ice-cream scooper. I don't know where he was going with this "special drink," but I put the kibosh on it, right then and there.

"Curiosity killed the cat." Well, we have no cat and his curiosity is "killing" us, emotionally, mentally, and many times financially.

Needless to say the boy has been banned from my kitchen, the bathroom and from q-tips for like.....forever!

And a day.

Funny Foto Friday

I was inspired by wannasmile.com. Thanks Wanna.

I'm having one of "those" days and I need as many laughs as I can get.

I finally found something to help calm the boiling waters, distract me from self-pitying ways, and in general boost my self-esteem. I can be dumb, but not THIS dumb.

Stupid Target Shooting*

Hopefully, you too, will share a laugh with me. Hopefully, you too, are not having one of "those" days either.

Psst, please do not forget about the littlest violin in the world playing, "My heart bleeds." Play it for me, would you? On second that, scratch that thought. I'd better just stiffen up the lip and deal with things.

This "maturity" thing sucks sometimes, doesn't it?

*(courtesy of http://www.tensionnot.com/funny_pictures_17.html)

Lost or Found Boob?

The following story is true. All events are real and are based on true events. It may be too intense for some readers. It may be unsuitable for sensitive people. Read at your own risk. If a rash, redness, irritation, or swelling develops, discontinue reading. Some humor is included.

In honor of breast cancer awareness month and the fact that I happen to be a breast cancer survivor (and cervical cancer too, I'm so very special, and I love to brag about it. *wink, wink*), I thought I would share a little one-boobed mama humor with you.

One day, I was looking for my fake boob and could not find it anywhere. I mean really where could it be? How could I lose a fake boob? It’s not like I took it out to pay for groceries and then left it there at the cash register. I did not remove it to use the restroom at my friend’s house and then leave it on the bathroom counter. I did not take it off at the park to cool off a bit, and then leave it on a bench.

“I did not leave it here or there, I did not leave it anywhere!” (Thanks Dr. Seuss for this inspiration.)

I asked my boys if they knew where my boob was. Their responses? The four-year-old grinned and said in his high pitch little voice, "Your boo-oob? You lost your boo-oob Mommy?" The eleven- year-old rolled his eyes at me and said, "Ewwwwww, Moooom. That's disgusting."

Hey, I had to ask.

Well, there were only so many places this boob could be and what do you know. I finally found my fake girl. She was in the hamper still ensconced in my mastectomy bra. Thank goodness she’s made out of material that does not absorb odor. Ha ha ha.

I guess if I hadn’t found her, I could have resorted back to the good ole’ method of stuffing my bra with toilet paper or Kleenex. Actually, I have found that socks can work pretty well in a pinch.

Excuse me one moment. Push, push, squeeze, squeeze, PUSH, PUSH, SQUEEEEEEZE. (Why don’t they make the bra pocket slit a little bigger for the fake girls?)

Breast equilibrium has been restored. Ahhhhhhhh.

Once I get my boob on, it usually stays on. Sometimes it does move around, but I just move it right back into place.

There was that one time when I adjusted my girl at Target. (Sometimes I forget how to act in public.) Yes, the Target employees had a field day with that one. I still shop there. I don’t hang my head in shame or humiliation over it. Life, with or without boobs, happens.

There was one time when I totally forgot to put on the girlfriend. The boob? She be heavy and gets hot. Let’s just say for someone who is hot and sweaty all the time, wearing a fake boob adds to the discomfort. Usually when I dress for the day, I put everything on except the girl. I like to wait til the last moment possible to put her in.

So one day we needed to get a document notarized. We went to a local FedEx store and they were unable to help us because the notary was not going to be in that day. We chit-chatted with the employee for a few minutes and then he suggested that we go to the bank down the street. They were open on Saturdays, and they had notary services available. We got back in the car and drove to the corner where the bank was. We got out of the car and were walking towards the front door of the bank, when it suddenly dawned on me that I did not have my fake boob on!

Oooops, I had left home with out it!

There I had been in the FedEx store be-bopping around like a one-boobed Mama fool. (Actually, I don’t think it was that obvious because I had a loose tee shirt on.) But when I became aware that I was one boob shy of a normal rack, I felt very self-conscious and I held the folder containing the documents up against my chest.

We did get our document notarized and nobody (I hope) was the wiser to my one-boob state.

I just never know what one-boob adventures life might throw my way. Losing a boob, real or fake, just adds spice to the whole mix of life.

At the moment, I’m over-seasoned.

No more spice, please.

LMBFBO Childhood Memories

Contrary to the title, there was not much funny in my childhood. Maybe it was because my BFB (big fat butt) hadn't developed yet or maybe it was because I’m one of those millions of kids who grew up in a *gasp* "dysfunctional" family.

At humorbloggers.com they are having a carnival. Whoo-hoo. (A big thanks to Ettarose for hosting the carnie.) They have issued a challenge to write about something funny from your childhood. So that means the challenge for me is to dredge and dredge and dredge through my memories of a less than perfect childhood and find what I consider to be a funny moment or two. But hey, I think I can do it. (And lucky you, you get to read all about it.)

I was a navy brat. When I was six-years-old, my father was stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. I remember walking to and from elementary school every day. We lived on base. The walks to school weren’t so bad. But the walks home? They proved to be very scary for me.

Why, you ask? Because I was physically and emotionally tortured by another six-year-old boy in my class. I’ll never forget Sean. Sean and his friend would wait for me each day after school. They would randomly pick a bush, a tree, or a house on my route home and hide. Once I passed them, Sean would hurl himself at me, taking me down to the ground, wrestling-style. He would then assault me with kisses. I would fight him off like crazy, but I was Penelope the Cat to his Pepe Le Pew. I even tried shaking things up by walking a longer way home using a different route. Wouldn’t that Sean sniff me out and there he would be ready to pounce on me again. His friend, by the way, was his cheering squad of one. “Yeah, Sean, go! Kiss her. Kiss her!” And kiss me he did. I’m sure this left a scar on my emotional psyche. I didn’t stand a chance of making it to “sweet sixteen and never been kissed.”

Ah yes, the sweet, carefree, not so innocent days of my childhood.

Now, let’s fast forward to when I was sixteen.

Oh yes, I was a wild child when I was sixteen. Imagine this: A sixteen year old girl waiting (impatiently) for her parents to fall asleep on a Saturday night. What’s that? Yes! The last toilet flush, there’s the water running for the last hand-washing, the click of the parent's bedroom door closing, and then the golden sound of silence.

Waiting for a few minutes...still waiting...still waiting...Ok, it’s been quiet long enough.

I sneak out of my bedroom and I go into the kitchen. I open the cupboard and grab a can of chicken spread, saltine crackers, and Picante sauce. I quietly tip-toe into the living room going towards the front door. What was that noise? I stop frozen in my tracks. One second, two seconds, three seconds. Whew, false alarm. I forge on. Tippy toe here, tippy toe there. I’m almost to the front door and then I reach right over next to the door and flip on the tv set. I’m about to watch (dun dun dun) the forbidden Saturday Night Live show (back in the days when it was actually funny, very late 70’s and early 80’s).

What? You thought I was gonna sneak out? You thought I was taking munchies to a midnight party? You thought I was going to find a boy and then swap some spit with him? (Remember, my six-year-old kissing memories had already left a bad, bad taste in my mouth.) Pshaw, who needs a guy and kissing when you can indulge in chicken spread on a cracker with a dollop of picante sauce on top. Mmmmm-mmmm. Them there is some good snack fixins! (Hmm, I'm sensing this was the beginning of some emotional eating issues.)

It was a party, alright. It was a private party with me, myself, and I, with some snacks for us all.

I always had to sit closely to the tv set for fear of my parents hearing it. Anytime I thought I heard a noise from their part of the house, I’d quickly turn off the power and wait. I think I only watched a total of about a half hour of each show because I was paranoid and constantly turning off the tv set. And yet in those precious half hours, there was television joy. I loved Eddie Murphy in his Mr. Robinson’s Neighborhood skits. He was the best! There were many other SNL skits, too numerous to list here that had me rolling with laughter. Good times, people, very good times.

Yep, I knew how to rock a Saturday night. Each weekend brought forth a renewed zest and enthusiasm as my challenge awaited me. I’m proud to say, I never got busted. Although my Mom did wonder why the chicken spread was always disappearing so quickly.

It’s funny, I don’t eat that chicken spread anymore.

What was that?

(scrape, scrape, scrape)

Sounds like this funny childhood memory bowl has been licked clean. For now.

It was tasty, no?

My Husband is 45% Lucky!

I found this important quiz. It's titled "Would You Be a Good Spouse."

Since I am already a spouse, I figured I should pass with flying colors. I took the quiz and was pleasantly surprised. I scored much higher than I thought I would.

RESULTS FOR QUIRKYLOON

You Would Be a Good Spouse 45% of the Time
In general, you have the skills and ability to make a marriage work.
However, you're still a bit too selfish to be a good spouse. You almost always put yourself first.

If you want to have a good marriage (either someday or right now), you're going to have to give more than you take.
Be proactive every day. Work on being a good friend, family member, and partner. With practice, you'll be an excellent spouse.

I'm still a bit too selfish? I only spend about six or seven hours daily on the Internet, so I can blog and surf the net. Is that wrong? Wait a minute. WAIT. A. MINUTE.

Practice? Proactive? Good gadfrey, that sounds like a lot of work. I don't think so.

Can you hear the sound of hysterical laughter? That would be me.

I think my husband should be more than satisfied with the 45% he is already getting. That's 45% of MY wifely and motherly effort. By the sweat of my sweaty brows and face and arms and legs, and all other bodily nooks and crannies where sweat can pool, I slave for this family. It requires a goodly effort to keep us stocked in frozen pizzas and taquitos, clothed in WalMart high quality cheap clothing, to keep toilets scrubbed, dishes washed, floors vacuumed, laundry washed daily every few months or so.

Why push our luck?

My Not So Brave Son

Son: "Mom, David is beating me up almost every day."

Me: "Who is David?"

Son: "He's this new kid who failed like two or three times. He's supposed to be in the eighth or ninth grade right now, but he keeps failing."

Me: "What?" (I'm thinking this kid should be in a charter school or something if he's that old.) Just how big is this kid?"

Son: "He's about my size. I think he's eleven too."

(Okay, that means he's where he's supposed to be, in the sixth grade.)

Me: "Hmm, who told you that he got held back two or three times?"

Son: "Josh." (His BFB)

Me: "I think Josh might be a little confused. Don't believe everything he says, ok?"

Son: "Well, okay Mom, but David is always beating up on me."

Me: "Hit him back. I will defend you in the Principal's office if you get caught and sent there."

Now don't jump on me for this response. Oh, I started out so good, "don't hit others, even if they hit you, that's not nice. Be the bigger person, don't stoop to their level."

And you know what happened? My son got bullied.

I just wish he had hit back ONE time, then the bullies would know that he's not a pushover or an easy target. It's a cruel fact of life, but it is a fact. He should have defended himself at least once. In my mind, this is no longer up for discussion. I made the mistake. I did wrong by my son and I regret it to this day.

The other day my son came home from after-school sports and he whizzed by the living room, so I called out to him, "How was your day?" He backed up a few paces and faced me.

Son: "It was okay, except for one thing."

Me: "What happened?"

Son: "David starting beating up on me again."

Me: "What did you do?"

Son: "I didn't do anything, Hannah did."

Me: "Who is Hannah?"

Son: (mumbling)"Thisgirlwhokindalikesme."

Me: "What was that?

Son: "Okay, Mom, I'll tell you. (he eye rolls at me) There's this girl named Hannah and she sits next to me all the time, even during lunch, and she's always staring at me, well she followed me to after-school sports, saw David head-gripping me and she went up to him and put her face up to him and said, 'Knock. It. Off.' he made a face at her and he backed off."

I was speechless for about 20 seconds trying to digest this information, then I said, "Good. I like this girl. You be nice to her. She rocks."

Hey, if I can't be there to protect my child and I unintentionally made him an easy target for bullies, then I'm glad someone like Hannah is there.

Yes, things have changed since the days I was in elementary school. I never would have guessed that I, as a girl, could have saved some cute boy who I was crushing on from a bully. All I ever did was the goo goo eyes at the boys. In return they thought I was spaced out on some sort of drug or just plain weird. I'm sure the drool at the side of my mouth was misinterpreted as something gross, not the kiddie lust I was indulging in.

To the new generation of Hannahs and other girls like her, I thank-you.

You rock!

Oh no no no no no no no noooooooooo!

Looks tasty, doesn't it?


Remember appearances can be deceiving. What you are looking at is Spam Strudel.

Ack!

This is just so very wrong.

It's an act against nature. The strudel part sounds delicious. The spam in the strudel? Not so much.

Thank you Google Gmail for exposing me on an early Saturday morning to the existence of such a heinous dish. I was just checking my Gmail, a very innocent act. No need to get ugly with your Gmail users by subjecting them with this recipe link. Not a pleasant way to start the day.

There was not an image attached (and yet I actually found one, yes Virginia there really is a Santa Claus and you can find ANYTHING on the Internet), but that didn't mean nauseating images didn't assault my mind once I read those words, "Spam Strudel." Violating strudel with spam? It's just not right. I feel a hairball coming on!!! Ugh.

Consider me heebie-jeebied for the day.

*still shuddering in fear and loathing*

Dogs Days of Summer

**slurp slurp slurp slurp slurp**

What is that? Only the sound of my dog drinking water out of the toilet! (Ok, I admit this is not an actual picture of my dog. I'm not fast enough to catch her in the act. By the time I get to the bathroom with camera in hand, she's fully sated with toilet water.)

What gives? We are pretty good about making sure the dog’s water dish has water in it. It has water in it right now. So why does this mutt insist on drinking out of the toilet? I hear her doing it two or three times a day.

I think she's just being lazy. Afterall, she would have to pad her way down the long long hallway and walk all the way around the table to the corner where sits the dog water dish. It's a lot to ask of a dog, I know. Why do that when "water" is just a few paw pads away from her sleeping area? No need to waste precious dog energy.

I guess she didn’t hear. The dog days of summer are supposed to be OVER. Finished. Done. Those lazy days should be no more. It just feels like those dog days are still here.

We in the Phoenix metropolitan area have had the privilege of having 106 consecutive days of temperatures reaching 100+ degrees (as of October 2, 2008). Oh joy.

Predicted high for today? 99 degrees.

I’m so glad fall is finally here.

Just Call Me “Staff”

I’m obviously through with having babies. They nuked my female innards when I was going through radiation therapy last summer. That’s okay. I’ve never had the desire to be a fifty or sixty year old Mom. That may work for other women, just not this woman.

Although my baby naming days are over, I still have some pretty strong opinions about names. I'm sure you are dying to know....so here are my quirky opinions about names.

I don’t really care for the old traditional names. Charles, Thomas, or Robert. Boring. Yet, some of the “new” names are way too out there for me. Names like….like….like…. what Sarah Palin named her babies!

What was she thinking? Track, Trig, Bristol, Willow and Piper? (This name always reminds of the actress, Piper Laurie, from the movie Carrie. She played Carrie's weird Mom and she screeched "Your filthy pillows..." I'm sure this has resulted in some sort of emotional scarring of my psyche.)

Ok, Willow and Piper aren’t too too out there, but the first three? Me thinks she and her hubby were on some sort of Alaskan high. I’m all for outside of the box thinking, but these names are thousands of miles outside of the naming box.

Names can produce powerful memories (good and bad), or names can produce just downright scary memories (as was mentioned above). It is important to pick a good name for your child. (So why do you parents out there insist on naming your child, Dick? I'm not trying to be crass, I really want to know!)

Anyhoo, my random wandering thoughts led me to this link where a clever person has created (drum roll please) the Sarah Palin Baby name generator!

Clicky clicky here! http://www.politsk.blogspot.com/

Today is your lucky day. I bet you didn’t know that when you woke up this morning. Yes, you too, can enter your name and find out what is your Sarah Palin name had she named you.

John McCain was asked what he thought of her kid’s names and this was his response.

Is that a yay or a nay, Senator?

By the way his Sarah Palin name? Steam Fangs Palin. Oy!

No need to mention what a disgusting photo this is of Senator Steam.

*shudder*

I truly have been deprived. I’ve been suffering through life as a Sandra or Sandie when I could have been called Staff? My full name? It would be Staff Wrench Palin. Life could’ve been so much more interesting with a name like Staff. (Isn’t staff the past tense of stuff? “I staff the envelopes yesterday.”)

I think I need to go. This Mama’s brains are fried, too much thinking tends to do that.

*pop pop sizzle*

Smile *Flash*

Yesterday was picture day for my pre-schooler.

Boy, did I blow it. This kid’s hair is like straw! It’s the strangest thing. I like to keep his head buzzed, but my husband was lamenting that we shouldn’t buzz him anymore. “Winter will be here soon. He needs his hair to help keep him warm.”

**snort** Winter in Mesa, Arizona! A wintry day here is a low of 68 degrees. (I can’t wait!) It’s not like we are fighting blizzards and snow flurries.

Anyhoo, I do pick and choose my battles, so I relented and said, “Okay, no more buzzing for the winter.”

Now what do we do with this kid’s hair? It just sticks straight up and out. It literally looks like a broom. My husband had the answer. Gel. I made him take a special trip to Walmart to buy some gel. None of the rest of us use gel.


He came home with a huge bottle of L.A. Looks Sport Gel – Level 10+. This is some serious hair gel here. He told me to wash the boy’s hair, then use a generous amount of it on his hair and then it should stay down.

He forgot that I tend to be heavy-handed with lotions and liquids. I was generous all right. I put so much gel on this kid’s hair that his head was shining! I had to cover my eyes while I toweled a bunch of it off, but his hair did stay down.

I’m not sure at which moment the invisible hair imps came out and did their damage, but they did do their thing with this kid’s “gel-do.” When I picked him up from school, his hair was still down but plastered onto his head in thick clumpy lines, with huge gaps of scalp peeking through. All he needed was a nose ring or an eyebrow piercing or both, and he could’ve easily passed for Goth boy, minus the black hair.

Good grief!

Can’t wait to get these school pictures (insert eyeroll here). Somehow, I think we’ll be taking advantage of picture re-take day. Hopefully, between now and then I can master the skill of hair gelling.

I was obviously absent on that day in Jr. High or maybe it was High School, when we had the mini-class, Hair Gel-101. I keep getting myself into these hairy situations (pun intended) and truly, I do not try. They just sort of happen.

The “Mommy” mold was broken when they made me. *grin* You just never know what I’ll come up with next! Forget the gel, I'm also pretty handy (*wink*wink*) with the scissors and a head of hair. Thank goodness I didn't have any girls. Can you imagine the horror hairdos I could've come up with? Oh, the hair nightmare possibilities are endless.

Say cheese.