There's just nothing like a good cat hat...

Growing up, my dad had hunting dogs. Not just your normal, run-of-the-mill hunting dogs, mind you; these dogs were stupid unique. We always had two, although not always the same two. They were nothing more than yard decorations because they couldn't track worth a damn and instead of being his mighty helpers when he took them hunting, they instead saw it as more of a day off. He'd release them and they'd run off into the woods, relishing their freedom. After two hours of calling for them, my Dad would give up and drive home--only to find them sitting on the front door-step waiting for him.

Skipper once let a stray hunting dog move in with him. We called this dog Mooch, because he ate all Skipper's food and slept in his dog-house while poor Skipper would sleep on top of it because when my dad built the dog house he never considered the possibility of a room-mate and made it a bungalow. He apparently didn't realize the dog was gay, either, but with a name like Skipper, I think he must have at least suspected.

Skipper was also afraid of bees and hated green-beans like daddy-Bush hates broccoli. I don't care how well you stirred the green beans into the mashed potatoes and covered them all with gravy, the next day his food dish contained nothing but green beans, licked perfectly clean. It was kind of amazing how he did that, actually.

My current dog has some pretty quirky eating habits herself. We once bought her Beneful dog food in which some of the chunks were shaped like drumsticks. For whatever reason, Bonnie hated those particular pieces. She would pick them up in her mouth just long enough to wing them off to the side so she could better get to the non-drumstick shaped morsels.

You have to wonder how an animal that regularly licks it's own butt can be so picky about what it eats. Perhaps if we would have molded those pieces into a sculpture of her ass she would have then found them delectable.

Kewpie was one of my bizarre cats that I owned. She loved water. Absolutely loved it. She'd climb into the bathtub with me occasionally to lay on my chest in the water and she always played in the toilet. You could never sit on the toilet without first cleaning the seat because Kewpie always had toilet water splashed all over from her latest escapade. She also drooled when she was happy and foamed at the mouth when she was scared. Trips to the vet were a nightmare because by the time we got there she had so much frothy saliva hanging from her mouth that all the other pet-owners would immediately rush their animals to the other side of the room when we entered.

Kewpie hopped like a bunny when she ran and she loved to play with the wrappers from candy kisses that we'd roll into little foil balls. My mother loved candy kisses and always kept a supply in the small crock on her buffet table. Kewpie knew the clink of that lid being lifted and was immediately at your feet when you opened the crock. She wasn't allowed out after dark, so when she was being particularly bratty and hiding at dusk, we'd carry the crock out and clink the lid. Problem solved. She hated her curfew, but she'd give up her freedom for the promise of a little foil ball.

Snorkel was probably one of my favorite cats. He was my lover-boy and would leap from the ground into my open arms--at least until he got too fat to make it that far. In his later years he could only make it to my waist and finally, to my kneecaps. He loved shower-time because as I exited the shower, he'd leap into my arms. That cat just loved a good naked hug. He used to wrap himself around my head at night which was by far his favorite sleeping place. Joe used to wake me up by saying, "I see that you wore your cat-hat to bed..."

Snorkel used to answer the phone. When it rang, he'd leap up, knock it off the cradle and peer intensely into the receiver as he listened to people talk. Some of my friends who knew his little trick used to meow at him which probably didn't help matters. Whenever the answering machine was beeping he'd push the blinking button and listen to the messages which could have been useful if he had opposable thumbs and could take notes, but sadly, I missed a lot of messages. At some point Ed McMahon probably called to tell me I'd won $1M and my cat erased the message.

Then there was Maxie. Maxie-doodle was a beautiful black lab who was always startled by his own farts. He'd be laying on the floor, and when his back-end trumpeted, he'd whip his head around and stare at it, dumbfounded. He never got used to it, either. He was a smart dog, but he just didn't understand his ass.

Everyone always brags about how smart their animals are. I've never been blessed with smart animals, just crazy ones. Fortunately, I wouldn't have traded any of them for the world!

If I were to write a book....

Torette's Schmourette's

I have Tourettes syndrome, but not the fun kind, where you can yell, "Asshole!" when you see someone you dislike and then totally be like, "oh, I'm sorry, I have this mental conditon..."

I have a very special type of mental tourettes-- a mourette's if you will. It's like my inner child (a very petulant one at that) and I'm finding it increasingly difficult to control.

As I go about my daily life, and in the midst of conversations, words pop into my head. They have nothing to do with my actions or the conversations I'm participating in. They're just words.

Sesquipedalian. Fiduciary. Euphonious. Boulevardier. Convivial.

Sometimes the words actually have a theme. Arpeggio. Tarentella. Libretto. Syncopation. Sforzando.

Often, as the former, they do not.

If there were a name for my particular disorder, my mental diarrhea, I wonder what it would be. Lexicoconcordancitis? Repertoiryterminosis? Wow, just coming up with these new terms makes me all tingly in my special places.

Anybody who's ever really known me is aware that I've always walked a tightrope between sanity and absolute lunacy. I think my descention has begun. The proverbial fat lady has sung and that's all, folks.

I'd seek counselling, but I'm afraid I'd find the therapist to be: ingenuous, incredulous, inexorable...

Cin-full Readers

I recently signed up for Ad-sense, not because I figure I'll ever get rich from blogging, but just because I could. Ad-Sense puts "targeted" ads on your blog that they figure would appeal to your readers. Interestingly, these are the ads that were placed on mine this morning:

• Morningside Rehab Center Drug, Alcohol, Mental Illness Rehab We Help Individuals And Families! MorningsideRecovery.com/Alcoholism

• Fisher-Price® Coupons Laugh & Learn™ & Go Baby Go!™ toys Save $20 on a $100 Purchase www.fisher-price.com

• Free Spyware Scan Free Spyware Scan. Award-Winning Anti-Spyware. Download Now. www.STOPzilla.com

• Mental Health Checkups For Teens. Provide Screening to Adolescent Patients. Free Tools. www.TeenScreen.org

• Workers' Comp. Insurance Get Workers' Compensation Quotes from Nationwide Carriers & More. www.business.com

Apparently they feel my blog readers are alcoholic mothers with computer viruses and poorly disguised mental illnesses who fall down at work a lot.

So if you're reading this, go you!!

Sweet and sour kitty

Free to a good Chinese Restaurant: One slightly bitchy, psychotic cat who likes to hide around corners and attack me for no apparent reason as I walk into rooms. Would also make a fabulous fur coat or skeet.

Contact Bonnie Belle

Cin-Full-osophy 101

Some of my personal philosophies:

1. There should be no divorce. Divorce is ugly business full of hate and violent thoughts and actions, and custody battles that really only hurt the kid. Instead I think that whoever was the bigger asshole, the philanderer, or most responsible for the break-up of the marriage should just have to die. Now wouldn't that be easier?

2. If you're single and you find a man who likes cats, you should marry him. Immediately. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, just go straight to the altar and stake your claim. This is a man with a large heart and a gentle soul. Has anyone ever heard of a wife-beater who in his spare time plays with Mr. Whiskers?

3. Mini-skirts should not be made in plus sizes. I say this with no disrespect to plus-size girls, being as how I am one, but I once saw a mini-skirt on a clearance rack that was 4 times as wide as it was long (I will pause to let you fully develop this mental image). There was only one left.

4. Just because your child never bit another child does not make you a better parent than me, it just makes you a luckier parent. You aren't some super-mom who's better equipped to raise children, you simply didn't have a biter. I have five kids; one was a biter. Yes, he bit every child within a 50 mile radius of our home, but do you think actually think I taught him to do that? "Now, the next time I want you to really grind in there with your bottom teeth. Good job, son!"

5. Whoever started the Fudruckers restaurant chain just wanted to make people sound like they were saying a curse word without actually saying it.

6. Women who make the biggest show over not being able to figure out how to turn vibrators off and on most likely have more toys at home than Imelda Marcos has shoes. Who do they think they're kidding? There's two buttons, one says 'up' the other says 'down.' Even if you've never seen one before, it's pretty self explanatory, so you'd have to actually be illiterate or it's pretty clear you're deliberately pretending to be confused.

7. There should be a special program built in to every computer for spam-forwarders. If you truly believe that Bill Gates has nothing else to spend his money on other than people who forward an email to 2,548,963 friends, your hard-drive should immediately explode into 2,548,963 pieces. Game over.

8. Helping a little old lady across the street is only nice if she actually wants to cross the street. If she doesn't, it's kind of cruel.

9. People are rarely as wonderful as their dogs seem to think they are. Dogs also roll in feces and rotting carcasses, so the fact that he thinks your pretty cool doesn't mean much.

10. If you think you have Alzheimers today, and tomorrow you remember that you thought you had Alzheimers, you probably don't have Alzheimers.

Ding-Dong, Dinner is Served!

Last was date night for Joe and I. Sort of. It was actually kind of an upside down date, with some necessary shopping mixed in.

It was upside down because we decided to start with the sex, which was a good thing because Joe was too tired by the time we got home. Also, we worked up a really good appetite so we made dinner our second event.

Joe took me to Carrabba's which was my first time there, and I must say, I can't wait to go back. If you've never been there, or if you have been there but never had the Fillet Brion, I highly recommend it. It was quite possibly the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. Like party in my mouth good.

Fillet Brion is a nice tender Fillet Mignon topped with goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, basil and a fabulous sauce that ties it all together. I know, it sounds a little weird, but trust me, it's magnifico!

In typical Dagenhard fashion, we were so hungry when we got there that we got a little carried away eating the Italian bread, appetizers, soup and salad (hey, it was good sex!) By the time the entrees arrived I was only able to eat four bites of my steak, and a very small amount of my garlic mashed potatoes. Actually I'm a little glad because it was so heavenly that I was almost saddened by the thought of it being gone and now I have a lunch to look forward to today.

And, because I'm so clever, I left a business card in the little folder they put your bill in for Kristi, our waitress, who had patiently described every entree to us and filled my water glass before it was completely empty without ever being asked. Not only may I book a party from that meal, but now I can write it off on my taxes as a business dinner :)

Next was Lowes where we were helped by Dion who explained the various features on each Whirlpool washing machine and dryer and somehow managed to make it sound exciting. He pointed out the water-saving features on the model we subsequently purchased.

"It cuts your water usage almost in half during the rinse cycle because it sprays the clothes instead of filling the drum," he told us.

Of course, I HAD to ask him if it could then double as a shower so my kids could cut down on their water usage during bathing. He informed me that it could, as he showered in his washer every morning and always came out downy-fresh and wrinkle-free. Good old Dion--he never missed a beat during our back-and-forth banter. I highly recommend him too!

Then we perused the coffee makers since mine went the way of the washer and dryer a month ago and chose a Black and Decker with a thermal carafe that cleverly keeps coffee fresh and warm for four hours without scorching. Now I can stop using my French press which makes good coffee but I always have the urge to kiss everyone once on each cheek after using it.

On the way to the check-out we passed the doorbell section which never fails to draw me in. I always have to push all the buttons and listen to the chimes. I can't help it. Buttons are just meant to be pushed and I'm easily entertained so it keeps me busy for about five minutes every time because if I particularly like the chime, I'll push it five or six times. Joe said he'd have a penis-chime installed if I'd play with Peppy that much.

It's kind of like that doinger at the checkout at Walmart that de-alarms the expensive stuff so you don't set off the security system on the way out. It's the funnest doing-ing noise and if I worked at Walmart I'd play with that thing all day just to hear it. And when I do hear it, I have to replicate it verbally.

Machine: Doing!
Me: Doing!

Then I'd have to explain to everyone that I got fired from Walmart for doinging my doinger excessively at the check-out counter and everyone would think I was some sort of freak or sex-aholic or PeeWee Herman, except in a discount store instead of a porno-theater.

But I digress...

Just for fun, when we went up to the help desk I handed the clerk our coffee maker and told her I'd like to put it on the 12 month same-as-cash program. Sometimes I crack myself up, which is good because not everyone is quite so amused by me.

Then, on the way out to the car, I burped and would you believe, that burp was every bit as delicious as the Fillet Brion was? I'm telling you, that steak just keeps on giving! It's amazing!

Then off to Jen and Ed's to pick up a copy of my party demo that Jen generously took the time to tape for me and download it onto disc for a training tool for my fabulous down-line. I was a little worried about seeing it, because I hate looking at pictures of myself; I'm terribly un-photogenic, which is the reason I never change my profile pic, because it's the only good picture of me currently in existence.

However, even though I was rather mortified to see how fat I've gotten recently, it was actually fun to watch my own demo. I laughed at all my own jokes even though I knew ahead of time what I was about to say. And I thought, 'damn, I look like an idiot.' All this time I thought women were laughing with me and I come to find out they're laughing at me, which is ok, because I laugh at myself all the time. Sometimes I get mad at myself for it, and sometimes it makes me defensive, but I always get over it, which is good because alter ego me would keep doing it just to piss me off if I didn't.

We visited for a while because Jen and Ed are always fun to hang with and Ed makes me piddle a little because he's so darn funny (sorry about the couch, guys!)

You may be wondering what the point of this Blog was. In truth, I have no idea. I really just wanted to share about the steak, but once I get started, sometimes it's hard to stop.

But seriously--go try that steak. Now. Just do it! You'll thank me later.

Sweeping with the enemy

I was evilly and viciously attacked this morning while cleaning my bathroom. The intruder was particularly ugly and didn't even bother to mask his identity.

Lavatory Tarantulosa made his appearance as I was sweeping the floor. He immediately did that crouch-down thing they do when they prepare to attack, and as he glared at me with his eight eyes (eight eyes, for God's sake--wtf's up with eight eyes??) I swear he was hopped up on meth or heroin or something. He's all like "Hey, motha fuckahhhhhh" and I'm not sure what happened next because I kind of blacked out for a while.

When I came to he was gone and I felt very violated. And panicked because now I can't use my bathroom ever again which is a problem because I occasionally have to pee in the middle of the night and the only 24-hour gas stations around here lock their doors at night. I don't think I can pee through the little slidy-shelf they use for after-hour sales. Well, I could, but I don't think it would go over very well.

People say that spiders are more afraid of you than you are of them, but who actually believes that crap anyway?

I once read a story about a man holding up a gas station with a daddy long leg. Everyone had a field day with that one because the cashier actually opened up the register and gave him all the money. I don't blame her. I would have done the same thing.

If someone held a spider up to me and made demands I'd hand over my collection of old Simon and Garfunkel music that I love more than Willy loves his weed or Pee-Wee Herman loves his porn.

So, as my son mopped the bathroom floor (you didn't actually think I'd finish it knowing there was a killer on the loose did you?) he swears the spider came out from under the radiator and he killed it, but I don't believe him.

I believe he killed A spider, I just don't think it was THE spider. I think the first one was the Don and the one Dalton killed was one of his associates. Now we've killed one of the 'family' and pissed off the spider-mafia and there's going to be a horse-fly head in my bed because I'm the one who ordered the hit.

I'd call the exterminator, but the last time I called him and said I had just gone head-to-head with a rabid, nun chuck wielding, Tommy-hawk throwing arachnid, he said he doesn't deal in that particular variety of Hannibal Lecterosa so I guess I'm on my own.

("Hello, Clarice!"....)

Let's just hope he thinks the world is more interesting with me in it.

PMS Wednesday

I have had PMS for two days now and I'm starting to get on my own nerves. Seriously, I'm so horribly mean and ugly I want to punch myself in the face until I straighten up. I don't always get it this bad. Sometimes I'm just a little bitchy, but this month I'm full-blown crazy.

This is why I should never own a gun. Ever. If I did you would have to lock me up once a month like a wherewolf (is that spelled correctly? I don't think I've ever written that word! I'd look it up, but I just really don't feel like it. Wherewolf? Therewolf!! Sounds like a conversations between two-year-olds. Great, now I not only have PMS but ADD as well. Sigh.)

I was going to get a full day of office-moving in today, but I think I'll just sit around and play Snood Slide all day, because it's my favorite time waster and since today is most likely going to be a waste, might as well do it up right.

If you've never played Snood, or Snood Slide, you really have to check it out. Snood is a skill game, but Snood Slide is total strategy and it alternately pisses me off when I lose and makes me all "in your face!" when I win the higher levels, which can be particularly nasty.

I hate it when I've spent five moves setting up the perfect slide to reach a difficult area and the key snood-piece I need turns to a numskull. Bastard! That's what I always say when it happens, too. Nothing like teaching your kids good sportsmanship, eh?

Check out Snood at www.snood.com, and play the trial version of Snood Slide. Maybe you'll get hooked on those little bastards too! If you do, don't say I didn't warn you...

A 13-year-old's Survival Kit

Yesterday was our second annual tubing event. No nudists, no clown posses, and thankfully no angry locals descending upon us ("You got a purdy mouth").

What we did have was our children to provide us with endless hours of entertainment. Our two girls, Bri and Brittney who are 19 and 'almost 16' (this is an actual age, according to Brittney) respectively were along for the adventure. My friend Shawn also had her girl Tristan who is 13, and Tristan brought her 13-year-old friend, because what's better than one 13-year-old, but two?

Ah, sweet 13. I'd forgotten in the 'almost 3' years since Brittney was 13 how fraught with angst that age is. The drama alone is worth avoiding that entire year of a girl's life.

Tristan's tale of woe is particularly sad. Her mother is horrible. Joan Crawford horrible. She admits her mother has never actually beat her with wire hangers, or anything even closely resembling them, but she sleeps with extra blankets for padding just in case.

Her mother also has the gall to occasionally purchase something for herself after denying Tristan her most basic needs. Yes, she tearfully told us, her mother doesn't buy them any food.

"Really?" I asked. "You don't look anything like those starving Ethiopian children from the TV commercials."

As it turns out, Tristan's definition of 'no food' is food that must be prepared, as in heated up before serving, or even, God forbid, cooked!! And, yes, Shawn does cook dinners, but sometimes she's at work and Tristan and her 17-year-old brother must fend for themselves!

Had I known my friend was such a monster I'd have turned her in to Child Services a long time ago! Friends or not, I just can't tolerate abusive and neglectful behavior toward innocent children.

The entire day was a trip down memory lane for Joe and I as we pondered those years when our own girls were 13. This is what we've decided all 13-year-old girls should come with:

1. Tissues. Lots and lots of tissues, for when they burst into tears for no apparent reason.

2. Caseloads of Midol to combat the raging hormones responsible not only for their tears but the bouts of explosive anger and self-pity.

3. A fainting couch for more dramatic effect.

4. Kid gloves and egg shells (self-explanatory).

5. Clearasil. Nothing ruins their day faster than a zit.

6. The exact same size breasts (or lack thereof) as every other girl their age.

7. Their own bathroom. Other people need to use it too.

8. A Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle concoction that will knock them out for an entire year.


What parents of 13-year-olds should have:

1. Prophylactic headache medicine. Take two every morning whether your head hurts or not, because you know you're going to need it at some point anyway.

2. Artificial tears to show them we genuinely do care that Susie's mom bought her Super Mega Rockstar 3 and all the equipment that is required to play it while we need that $200 to pay the electric bill that was run up by the continuous use of hair dryers, curling irons and straighteners.

3. Some sort of alcoholic beverage-- take two shots as needed.

4. Ear plugs.

5. An escape route.

Whether you have a 13-year-old girl, or a soon to be one, take heart from the fact that most parents do survive. The tic will eventually dissipate and the shell-shocked look is seldom permanent.

God be with you!

Beering Aids!

Joe and I are getting ready to head out to what promises to be a fabulous party put on by one of our favorite peeps, DC Dan. We were invited to about seven different parties, but this was the winner. Why, you ask? Because DC Dan owns DC Music Productions and there will be Karaoke there!

I am admittedly a bit of a karaoke whore. I love music, and I love to sing. It’s silly when people ask me if I’m coming to karaoke night-- of course I am! Whether you like my singing or not, I will be there and with the help of some liquid courage I will sing until someone drags me away with an over-sized shepherds crook.

Of course, how well I sing is directly proportional to the amount of vodka I consume throughout the night. No surprise there; drink too much and there’s not much you can do well. What is surprising is that the more other people drink the better they think I sound.

I call this particular phenomenon beering aids. Much like beer goggles, it’s not really a matter of how I sang so much as how a person’s slightly fermented brain perceived my performance. Fortunately for me, by the time their put-upon liver has cleared the last vestige of alcohol from their system, they never quite realize that I did not in actuality sound like Celine Dion, but rather more like Cameren Diaz in My Best Friend’s Wedding. For this I am eternally grateful!

So come to the next karaoke night where you are sure to be entertained. Drink up and I promise by the end of the night I will not only sound like Shania Twain, I will look like her as well!

Gotta go-- my public awaits...

Tuberating with nudists!

Ah, sweet summer! It's the lazy, hazy days that make you want to lie around and just take it easy. One of my favorite summer activities is tubing. Not the kind of tubing where you attach yourself to the back of a speed-boat and hold on for dear life while hurling down the river at 100 mph as your face ripples and warps like silly putty.

That's entirely too much work for me, and way too close to death or permanent disfigurement for my comfort.

No, I prefer the kind where you park your derriere in a giant air-filled doughnut and float s-l-o-w-l-y down the river while imbibing in whatever beverage you happened to bring along-- in my case, Vodka (I swear I must have Russian in my blood somewhere along the line.)

Because we conveniently live a short 100 miles from nowhere in all directions, there is exactly one place to tube, not counting the water-treatment plant, although in a murky river, who can tell the difference? I prefer to think of whatever brown things I see floating as a stick, not a turd and I just don't investigate.

We always go as a large group so reservations are necessary. This year, for our first annual trip, I reserved 18 tubes as usual. Upon arrival, we proceeded to sign in, where the woman behind the counter of the office (which is two buses welded together) asked us if we reservated.

I'm not kidding.

I assured her that we did indeed reservate. I explained that we even reservated two extra tubes for our coolers. That being settled, they taxied us up the river in our short bus, which is particularly appropriate for our group, but the driver took us to the wrong drop-off.

"Excuse me," I said. "We reservated for the six-mile, not the 2.5."

We all snickered.

He used his high-tech communication devise (walkie-talkie) to call the office. My husband looked at me and said, "He's confirmating."

Now we were really laughing.

By the time we finally got to the correct drop-off point any word with "ating" at the end was hysterical. Once in the water, we were manueverating to avoid driftwood and fallen trees. People in canoes were canueverating. We may not be the brightest bunch, but we do amuse ourselves.

Then, the best part of the entire day happened. As we lazily drifted, relaxed from the alcohol we were sipping, someone piped up.

"There's a canoe heading toward us with naked people in it!"

We shimmied up in our tubes to get a better view, and sure enough, there they were, paddling down the river completely au naturel!

"Good afternoon!" we greeted them.

"Hello!" They said, "Nice day isn't it?"

"Absolutely beautiful," we agreed.

Then, as they passed by, we turned our attention back downstream to see an entire fleet of canoes holding-- you guessed it-- more naked people! Apparidently we had reservated on the same day as a group of nudists.

They were a friendly bunch, but my guess is that people who enjoy canuderating are most likely not shy by nature so we weren't too surprised at their open and easy-going attitudes. We considered joining in, but there's just not enough Vodka in the world that would make me remove my clothing, especially with my bottom dangling in a creature-infested river and my top exposed to the threat of venomous spiders dropping out of trees, which is scary enough fully-dressed. I'm sure the men were also thinking about shrinkage.

We decided to enjoy our trip completely UN naturel.

I must say, though, that this was by far my favorite trip. Strange things frequently happen to us, and this weekend was certainly no exception.

I wonder what new and exciting experiences our next trip will yield. Clown posses? Just thinking about that makes me imagine 24 clowns jammed into one tiny little canoe. They will periodically paddle in circles while honking. One will look like Ronald McDonald and the new fun-word of the day will be anything with 'Mc' in front of it.

McTubing down the McRiver will McFun!

Time Savers Heloise Never Taught You

It has recently been brought to my attention that my busy life has unfairly infringed upon the lives of certain friends (friend) who may want some of my time for their own personal needs (need). It was even suggested that perhaps I’m not budgeting my time wisely enough in order to free myself up for others (other).

I’m all for self-improvement, so in the spirit of change, I’ve used some of my poorly budgeted time to come up with a few ways to save a couple of minutes here and there... Sure, I could have used this time to buy a few groceries to feed my children, or pay some bills before my utilities get shut off, but apparently certain friends feel as though finding some free time would be more beneficial to me (them) in the long run, so here goes:

1. Conversations with my husband and children will now be limited to between the hours of 3:30 to 4:00 pm. The allotted time will be used for only the most pressing matters and idle chit-chat will not be tolerated. Each person has 3 minutes to say what they have to say, 2 minutes to hear my feedback and 30 seconds for rebuttal. I’ll then render my final decision in whatever matter is at hand.

2. Grocery shopping will be done at gas stations after pumping gas and before paying thereby saving on useless trips to the grocery store. What’s for supper? Slim-Jims on Wonder Bread with a Payday for dessert. Shut up and eat up.

3. In the event of dinner company, when a more formal sit-down dinner is required, meal preparation, serving and eating will take place simultaneously by the clever implementation of a Salad Shooter. This will also eliminate the need to set out pesky dinnerware or wash it afterward.

4. Laundry is taking up way too much valuable time, therefore all clothes must be worn a minimum of 3 times before being washed, with the exception of underwear, which can be worn a second time after turning inside out so the clean part is against the body (this goes for socks as well). In order to save folding time, every three days, everyone will remove their previous 3 day old clothes and don their fresh outfit right from the dryer. Nobody will need more than 2 outfits, to be changed only on laundry days. No pajamas either-- sleep nude, use an extra blanket.

5. To cut down on morning preparedness time, coffee shall be consumed while using the toilet upon awakening. All shaving of legs, armpits and the like shall be done once, every other week, but never on the same day. Deodorant will be applied to only one armpit, alternating sides each day. Brushing teeth will take place in the shower. Hair will be dried canine style on the way to work, by hanging my head out the window. No make-up... it’s simply a luxury I can’t afford.

6. Love-making will be combined with household chores. No reason to waste the time while I’m down on my hands and knees simply scrubbing the floor. Multi-tasking just makes sense.

7. Friends wishing to visit may do so while I’m using the bathroom or taking my shower. This is usually just wasted time anyway. There will be no initial greeting or time spent on pleasantries. We’ll just assume that I’m fine and so are you. Get to the point.

8. All special events will be combined and celebrated at once every three months. On the last day of March and September there will be a Happy Birthday Baby Shower Going Away Welcome Home Congratulations House Warming Funeral. On the last day of June it will be a Happy Birthday Baby Shower Going Away Welcome Home Congratulations House Warming Funeral Graduation party. Similarly, on the last day of December it will be a Happy Birthday Baby Shower Going Away Welcome Home Congratulations House Warming Funeral Merry Christmas Happy New Year event. Woohoo. Party hardy.

These are just a few of the changes I will be making in the upcoming weeks. At the end of Summer I hope to have saved enough time to sit down and make some additional changes or tweak the system as needed.

Oops, time to talk to my kids and husband..

See you in the bathroom!

A Parent's Revenge

Being a parent of five children has never been easy. Being a parent, period, is not easy. You start out your pregnancy thinking about what a happy, healthy family you will be. All of your children will shit sunshine, flowers and rainbows every day. They will love each other unconditionally and treat each other with kindness. Like an episode of the Brady Bunch, when someone breaks a lamp by violating the "no basketball in the house" rule, you will know they did it, but you will wait for them to come to you in guilt and admit their wrongdoing. Then, of course, THEY will decide that after their terrible behavior, it simply wouldn't be appropriate to go on that camping trip they've been looking forward to all month. Then everyone will hug.

Bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaa hahahahahaha! Yeah, right! You soon find out that there's a reason that the Brady's were so happy. They weren't real!!

With Brent already living on his own, and Bri heading out into the big world, it amazes me that in just three short years, my kids will all be heading off to start their own lives-- hopefully in their own houses :-) Mine and Joe's lives will once again be peaceful and quiet.

But it's got me thinking about all the things they have done over the years and I just don't feel as though they should be allowed to go on their merry little ways without paying the piper for all their little shenanigans over the years. Oh, no. That would be too easy.

So, just in case they never have children of their own, this is how I plan to exact my revenge on them:

1. When they introduce me to their friends, I will assume the body posture of a velociraptor. I will hunch down, bend my arms and extend my claws. I'll curl my lips up while I begin to dart about the room, shrieking. Everyone will be mighty impressed with my stellar performance.

2. Each time I visit their house, the last thing I will do before leaving will be to flush some sort of foreign object down the toilet. Match-box car or a rubber ball just small enough to fit through the opening, but big enough to completely clog the entire sewage system. Whichever.

3. When they kindly invite us over for dinner, I will stare at their culinary efforts, their labor of love meant to nourish our bodies and souls, and I will loudly exclaim, "Yuck! Carrots are gross!" I'll then pick at my food, with unsightly facial grimaces and ask if I actually have to eat it.

4. On mother's day, when they take me to a beautiful restaurant, I will belch loudly and Joe and I will explode in a fit of giggles. If someone has the misfortune to scrape their chair on the floor while sitting, I'll point to them and yell gleefully, "They farted!" thereby reducing Joe and I to yet another episode of laughter.

5. If their phone should ring while they are using the restroom facilities, I will answer it and inform the caller that they can't come to the phone as they are "on the toilet." If said caller should be their minister or boss, I'll upgrade their status to "pooping."

6. When shopping, should a lady with an extremely large derriere happens to walk by us, we will point, snort, and say, "Man, and we thought your butt was big!" We won't notice their red faces or angry glares. We'll simply high-five each other for our cleverness and quick wit.

7. I will wait until their night off, when they're well on their way to inebriation, and then announce that the paperwork I need to complete for my life-insurance policy that is due tomorrow (the one I claimed was finished one month ago) is indeed NOT completed, and I need their help to finish up the final sixteen pages. This will require them to drag out their most recent tax returns and financial statements, and will take at least five hours of work.

8. I will crash my car and, being without transportation, I will beg, cajole and whine until they agree to drive me to my best friend's house-- three counties over. One hour after they return back home, I will call them and explain that my friend never actually got permission from her parents for my visit, and they must now come pick me back up again.

9. When they return home from buying the final Easter supplies and groceries at midnight (the night before Easter), there will be a strange, sticky substance covering every hardwood floor, the staircase, banister and every doorknob. When they ask what happened, Joe and I will look at each other and shrug; the absolute picture of innocent.

10. When visiting, I will ask permission to use their phone. I will then call random numbers, without bothering to block their caller-ID and inform whomever answers that they've just won $500 in the "Butter on a Bald Monkey" contest. I'll hang up and run.

These are but a few of our plans. Four years is after all a long time. I'm quite certain this list will continue to grow.

Gotta go, my son just walked in with purple hair and his tongue pierced. I'm not so sure I want to add that one to my list...

Boobs: Women have them; men just act like them

It's long been thought that women are the weaker sex. We just can't get along without a big strong man to protect us and support us. While this may have bloated the heads of centuries' worth of men, women have long since known that we have the ultimate power and the most effective weapon.

It's stronger than any nuclear weapon and can reduce even the mightiest man to infantile behavior by the mere mention, sight or even thought. They're right under our noses, quite literally and they're called boobs.

Boobs are basically God's way of apologising for the creation of men. Kind of an, "oops, sorry for that-- but here's a little something you can use to keep him under control..."

I'm not quite sure why this weapon is as powerful as it is. I mean, think about it; all women have them so it's not as though they're a rare commodity! And not just one, but each woman has TWO of them puppies! Surely if men were rational they'd realize that such an abundance should decrease their value, but, alas, it only seems to further confuse them. So many boobs, so little time... I truly believe that man's quest to lengthen his lifespan is spurred on by the desire to have more time in which to ogle more boobs.

It seems to effect their every waking behavior, and all their senses. Take their sense of hearing. A typical conversation between a man and a woman may go like this:

Mr. Mechanic: What seems to be the problem, ma'am?

Unsuspecting female: It sounds like there's something loose in my engine.

Mr. Mechanic: A rattle, or more of a knocking?

Unsuspecting female: Well, maybe more of a knocking sound.

Mr. Mechanic: I'll take a look under the hood.

This is the conversation as heard by the woman. The man interprets it more like this:

Macho man: Wow, those are some bodacious ta-ta's you have there. How may I get you to show them to me?

Boob owner: I'm very loose.

Macho man: Can I rattle your knockers?

Boob owner: Why, yes, my knockers are your knockers.

Macho Man: I'll gladly look under your blouse.

I understand how frustrating this is for women. But let's think outside the box for a second. We spend hundreds of dollars on our hair and makeup. We have our body waxed, and shave delicate parts in order to be more appealing to men. We obsess over our muffin-tops and wayward eyebrows. But why? Men would probably fail to notice facial hair on the bearded lady as long as she were topless. It's kind of freeing when you think of it in those terms. We no longer have to ask, "honey, does my butt look big?" Instead, just say, "Honey, do I still have breasts?" They'd find that question much easier to answer anyway.

I'm fairly certain, if you were to genetically map out a man's brain, somewhere in there is a huge lobe devoted entirely to breasts. It's probably the same lobe that, in women, is responsible for our shoe fetish and the inability to pass up a shiny bauble of any sort.

I say we stop seeing this niggling behaviour as just an annoyance and instead use them for the greater good of all humanity. Just think of the noble causes that could be served by boobs. Send women into battle instead of men. We could get enemy troops to surrender if we just showed up in wet t-shirts, bra-less. In fact, I'm fairly certain that we could pull off total nuclear disarmament in 30 days or less by simply offering to show one breast in exchange for each bomb. All this talk about smart-bombs! We have the original smart bombs permanently attached to our bodies!

So, wear them proud! Maybe even take a moment of appreciation for all they do for you. It doesn't matter what shape or size. Whether yours resemble a couple of fried eggs or ripe melons there's an entire battalion of men who see them as your own personal coupons toward whatever your heart desires.

Rock on, my fine ladies-- world domination will soon be ours if we just harness the power of the boob!