Oh Shitballs, Not Again!

As if the first airing of our Supernanny episode wasn't stressful enough, I just noticed that they are starting to do reruns of all of the episodes. Greaaaaaat.

So, in light of this realization, let me just tell you what I dealt with the first time around:

• Total strangers calling me during the show, just to chat. Ummmm....not even my family and friends called my during the show, just to chat. What is wrong with this picture?
• Being called horrible names on random chat rooms. For instance, "Ignorant slut" and "Irresponsible breeder."
• Being questioned, endlessly by skeptics as to my reasons for having a nice house, nice clothes and my toe nails being "perfectly manicured."
• Being told that I did not breastfeed long enough, I have a closet homosexual for a husband and that they hope I get my porno movie that (somehow) was my intention for going on television.
• Being stalked by a crazy woman who called numerous times and requested that I spank my children for the good of behavioral science.
• Suffering endless anxiety attacks.
• Reading messages from my ex-step dad, on ABC's message board and made to look like even whiter trash than we already do.
• Getting offers to appear on other image compromising reality shows, as if my whole intent was to become a reality show whore. No thanks. The taste of "celebrity-dom" was bitter and poisonous the first time around. I really do not desire another bite of that apple.
• Getting weird looks from people at school, the stores and other various public places.
• Being afraid to yell at my kids, be normal or park my car anywhere that people could gain access to my kids.

Am I looking forward to replaying these scenarios? Hell no! But this time, I'm more prepared. I'm going to fashion a splint that holds my middle finger in an upright position and draw a huge target on my right butt cheek so that anyone who has a negative comment will know exactly how much I care and what to do about their ill feelings towards me. That's right. Read the finger then kiss my rear end. I'm sure that the anti-kadi message boards will just go crazy over this post, alone! They always seem to end up migrating back to this blog, despite their hatred for me and my parenting practices. Maybe they are just bored and have nothing better to talk about. Well, I'm sure that the replay of the show will fuel their fires and cure their boredom. I'll be sure to let you all know when it airs again, just to facilitate their hatred and give me the chance to try out my new finger splint and butt target.

Happy Birthday, My "Enough" Man

Happy Birthday to the man who:

• Was foolish enough to marry me, thinking I was sane.
• Is brave enough to come home to us, everyday.
• Is loving enough to sacrifice his own wants for the sake of giving his children theirs.
• Is honest enough to tell me the truth, even when it is not exactly what I want to hear.
• Is tough enough to endure the daily pain in his back, to play football with the kids.
• Is big enough to admit when he's wrong (which is quite often according to me!)
• Is smart enough to know that his wife cannot be trusted to remember to pay all of the bills on time.
• Is understanding enough to back off when I get that "Don't even think about touching me" look in my eye.
• Is manly enough to play tea party and dress up with his daughters.
• Is sweet enough to pick his wife roses and write her love letters, even though she can be a psycho bitch.
• Is hygienic enough to shower, brush his teeth and shave every day (which is more than I've heard a lot of men do.)
• Is bold enough to argue with a woman who will very rarely admit that she's wrong.
• Is adventurous enough to go along with his wife's crazy schemes.
• Is wise enough to stop those crazy schemes when they get out of hand.
• Is immature enough to be able to enjoy cartoons and water balloon fights with his kids.
• Is mature enough to draw the line and discipline his kids out of love.
• Is insane enough to want to play this gig for the rest of his life!!

He is all of these things and so much more. I love him dearly and know how very lucky I am to share his last name.

You know what this means, don't you?

Oh, you don't? Me neither. I was really hoping that you knew. Well, in that case...we'll have to resort to plan B for this post. What is plan B? Just a bunch of random bullshit that I feel like sharing, complaining about and dissecting. Read it...don't read it. I really don't care either way. If you do stick around, I will tell you the secret to staying young, at the end of this post.

We went swimming today. Nobody got hurt, except me. Purely out of happenstance, I stepped on a fragment of cactus (or is it cacti?) About twenty or so little barbs went into my foot. Translucent barbs that were only visible if the sun hit my foot at a certain angle. They were also brittle barbs that broke off in my foot when I tried to remove them. So I still have a hurty foot that my husband is making fun of me for. It's all his fault, of course. We never should have sneaked into his brother's backyard while his family is on vacation and used their pool. In all fairness, my husband should have suffered the hurty foot. It was his idea.

I think that Cherish and I are going to call our new business "Cherished Events." I did not even think of using her name until a reader suggested it. How lame is it that I had a perfect name right in front of my face, but failed to notice it? Geez. And Cherish probably would not have suggested it herself, just to be fair. But seriously, how perfect is it? I think we will use it. Now I only have the problem of coming up with my half of the corporation fees by Monday, so we can get the ball rolling! Anyone have 400 dollars laying around that they feel like investing in a new business? Go on...I'll wait while you check your couch cushions.

July is quickly approaching. A certain someone who shall remain nameless (rhymes with Bo Crossed,) has asked me to paint her a picture on a certain day in July. I'm not sharing this to toot my own horn, or because I think I'm such a great painter. Quite honestly, I am a bit verklempt....and I don't even know what that means but it just sounds good. I don't know what the heck I'm going to paint. I'm supposed to paint what I feel. But what if I feel like choking my children that day? I hardly think that this person is going to want to see a painting of hands wrapped around a child's neck. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it goes against everything that she believes in and has dedicated her life to preventing. Shitballs. Anyone have a painting I can buy and claim as my own?

Okay, I'm done boring you. And the secret to staying young? Hmmmm...I knew what it was, I just cannot remember it . Let me see if I can find where I wrote it down, Hold on...
Oh double shitballs, the kids tore up the paper into little pieces! Looks like we're all doomed to be old and wrinkly. Happy Sunday!!

No wonder we are so thin!

The kids had movie night with some of the neighbor boys, on Friday. They came over and brought some snacks. I asked the oldest boy to put the string cheese in the fridge. He did and as they were leaving later, he said to me, "Why don't you keep the rest of the string cheese? I saw how empty your fridge is and I think you need it more than we do."

After I stopped laughing, I told him that the fridge always looks empty when it gets close to shopping day. He looked at me, a little puzzled and said, "Oh. Our fridge is never empty." It made me wonder if we are the only ones that wait until we have only condiments on the shelves, before deeming it necessary to make a trip to the store. After all, you can still meet nutrition requirements if you use just the right condiments!! :)
I'm going to the store today. Lately, the bill has been over 400 dollars per week. That includes the use of coupons and sales. Eating healthy and using health supplements is very costly. I'm starting to wonder if we should just reinstate our old ways of eating and put all of the kids on ADHD medication...I'm absolutely kidding, of course. It is just outrageous how much the organic and health food brands are. Apparently corn syrup and red food dye costs less than evaporated cane juice and vegetable coloring. At this rate, we might need to move to Nebraska and operate our own farm. Of course, we will probably meet a family who has a child that feels it appropriate to tell me that my fields are looking a little bare. I just cannot win.

I NEED YOUR OPINION

Cherish and I need some help deciding on names for our new event planning business. I'm putting this poll up so that you can help us decide on the top three. Please choose the three that communicate our company's purpose, sound creative and would catch your eye:

Opinion Polls & Market Research

Steeeeeeerike Three, You're Out!

Did I mention that we have a new neighbor? I'm sure it won't take long before he violates the three strike rule I have. What is the three strike rule? Let me explain:

My neighbors have three strikes, much like baseball. I am always very nice, helpful and do not let my kids annoy the hell out of them...until they strike out. Then, all bets are off. Take the nosey neighbor lady, for example. She just cannot not tear herself away from the window where she loves to spy on my children. Strike one. She takes joy in reporting (and embellishing) every misdemeanor that my kids commit, mostly in our own back yard. (There was that one time that they hopped the fence and went swimming in the neighbor's pool.) Strike two. And finally, her Twinkies wrappers (and there are quite a few hundred of them) always end up in our yard. Just because someone doesn't take pride in their own yard, doesn't make it okay to allow the overflow to seep into other people's yards. Strike three. Now, we just do things to piss her off, on purpose. Yes, it is immature and evil. That's why we do it.

This new neighbor seems like a nice guy. The only suspicions I hold are the fact that he lives alone in a huge house and owns three very nice cars, plus one motorcycle. Based on sheer experience, it makes me wonder. But, just because the last neighbor proved to obtain his riches by illegal means, doesn't make it right to judge this new guy. So that doesn't not count as a strike...yet. If I see any increase in traffic, the strike status will immediately change. He does have one strike against him, already. He borrowed our toilet plunger. Which, I guess, is a reasonable thing to do if you have a clog and do not have your own plunger and cannot use one of your three cars (or motorcycle) to go buy one. The strike is because he brought it back when he was done using it. STRIKE ONE. That is just nasty. What's worse, is that we were not home when this happened. Daniel and I were out to dinner and my niece and nephew were babysitting. They told us that he borrowed it. I found out that he returned it when Reed came walking in with it on his head. After I washed his head (five times) with rubbing alcohol and tossed the contaminated plunger, I made the mental note to hide our new plunger, just in case he ever asks again and we are not home.

Will this guy survive the three strike law? Not if he keeps the pace he is running now. I sure hate to be mean to a guy who seems nice. Then again, the old neighbor was nice too. But that didn't stop him from allowing hid rapist son to move in and sell drugs out of his house. Even nice people can make for crappy neighbors. In this case...the crappy part is literal.

Poor Hopeless White Boy

Is it wrong to want to laugh hysterically when your son shows you the dance that he's learning in hip hop class? I mean, even if he looks like God made him without any bendable joints or rhythm, what so ever?

Shitballs. Well, I guess I'll just have to work harder on stifling it then. In all fairness, wouldn't you laugh too if you watched a boy who is whiter than white bread, try to do the snake? The worst part is, he doesn't even realize how bad he looks. He gets so into it, that nothing can break his groove concentration. It's a good thing too. Otherwise he would totally notice how hard I'm trying not to snort out in laughter.

Today, he and Marlie were so excited as they ran out of the class. They were telling me about the upcoming recital. Recital? "You mean a dance recital, where you exhibit the dance you've been learning, in front of hundreds of people?" I thought that Daniel would take my words and let them serve as a deterrent. He hates any kind of attention being paid to him. Surely he would be scared poopless at the thought of a crowd gazing upon his every move. Nope. He was still excited.

I have mere months to figure out how to save my son from utter humiliation. After all, if his own mother has trouble not giggling, how do you suppose total strangers are going to fare, as they witness the severe dance retardation that my son suffers?

See, I told you it was serendipity!

I am reading a book by Max Lucado. It talks about using your natural abilities and the things that you are passionate about, to find your calling in life. Now, I know that the obvious calling for me was having a boat load of children and raising them to be good people. I enjoy teaching them about life and watching them use those lessons to make good choices. They aren't always good, mind you, but when they are, it makes me feel like I've succeeded at something grand!

Through the experience of being a mommy, I've met many wonderful people. I've also been able to realize that I have a passion for communications, organizing events, socializing and helping people. I always have loved these things, but never really stopped to visualize how all of those things would come into play for the future. Through the thought provoking lessons in the book and recent opportunities, I've been able to see what may be my calling, besides being a stay at home mom.

My friend, Cherish, and I had the opportunity to plan a Ladies' Night at a local wine shop. It was so much fun to plan and awesome to see brought to fruition. Since Cherish and I work well together, have a vision for the future and both seem to love the same ideas, we decided to make our partnership legal. Wait...did that just sound like I was suggesting a gay marriage? Sorry. Not what I meant. We are forming a corporation and starting an event planning business. It will not take me away from my job as a mommy, but allow me to have a taste of the professional world. It will be the start of an ever expanding venture that we can take up a notch when the kids are all full time students. We already have a business meeting, next week, to discuss our involvement with all of the Inland Empire WineStyles shops and Ladies' Night Events. I have to admit, I'm a little giddy to be able to use my brain for something in addition to wiping butts!

Who knows, maybe I'll be able to cut down on the blogging some day and add "Event Planner" to my list of professions. Hey...I'll also be able to add the title to my butt wiper business cards!

Here's My Card

Just because you have business cards that have your name on them, doesn't mean that you're worth a crap.

Take me, for instance. I saw this web site for "Mommy" business cards. They were adorable. They had different designs to choose from. They had room for all of the kids' names. It seemed like a sensible thing to buy. I mean, after all, they would come in handy at all of those mommy networking conventions I attend. What an idiot I can be. But they were too cute not to buy, so I ordered a box.

They arrived and were even more adorable than they looked on the website! This was suddenly seeming like a great idea....until last night. I was at Ladies' Night at WineStyles. It was going fabulously. There were at least 80 women present. The vendors all had great products. The wine was delicious and the networking opportunities were endless. Everyone was meeting, greeting and exchanging cards. I was so caught up in the moment, that I pulled out my own "Mommy Cards." I handed them to vendors and guests, alike. They looked at them, paused and suddenly, seemed confused. "So, what business are you in?" That's when I realized what a stupid idea those cards were. How was I to answer that question?

I stood, dumb founded, for a second. The only thing that came to mind was that I wipe my kids' butts all day. I couldn't very well tell them that I wiped asses for a living. Then I would have to follow up with, "Well, I don't know if it is really considered a profession because I don't get paid." So it all boils down to this, does it? I wipe butt cracks, all day, for free. That's my life, in a nut shell. Fanfuckingtastic. I'm standing in a group of women, who are all waiting for me to tell them that I'm a professional butt wiper. "Freelance writer." The words finally tumbled out of my mouth, sounding very unsure. They all looked back down at the cards and gave me a pity smile.

I'd be five seconds away from burning all of those lame ass cards, if I hadn't paid so much for them. Shitballs. I guess I'll just hang on to them in case the world ever decides to consider butt wiping a paid profession.

What Do You Know?

You know you're in serious trouble when you go looking for your missing child and he is out front, trying to buy a popsicle from the ice cream man, with your credit card.

You know you're screwed when your kids can team up to distract you, while one kid steals the good snacks from the pantry.

You know you've got problems when your daughter calls the wine "coffee" because you put both in a to go mug and carry it around wherever you go.

You know you need to work out when your kids nickname you "jiggly butt."

You know you're a bad parent when your 2 year old learns to diaper himself because he's so sick of waiting an hour to be changed.

You know you're addicted when your daughter tells her teacher that mommy loves her blog more than her kids.

You know you're doomed when the kids figure out that Santa isn't real and that they can be bad and still get presents because you can't keep track of who's been naughty and nice.

You know you're a mom when you go out in public, alone, and guys stare at you. Not because you're hot, but because you're wearing Barbie hair clips that you let the girls put in while playing beauty shop. Cute.

You know you're destined for the parenting hall of shame when you give your kids a death threat and they laugh hysterically.

You know you're a sorry excuse for a mom when your kids remember each other's names, birthdays and food allergies, but you cannot even recognize their faces in the school pick up line.

You know you need help when you end every day thinking, "Maybe tomorrow I'll figure out this whole parenting thing.

You know you're psycho when you write about all of the above in a blog for the world to read and expect them to laugh with you, not call CPS.

You...THRIFTY? That's a joke!

It's like hiring Michael Jackson to babysit. It's like leaving your shot of tequila sitting next to Lindsay Lohan, while you run to the restroom. It's like taking an autistic child on a plane ride (did you read that news story yet?) It's like all of these situations put together in one.

It is the mother of all bad ideas. It is my new position as co-author of the "Simply Thrifty" blog. How many times have you read a post on saving money at the Inn(sane)? I think I've written one, about the Dollar Tree at Christmas. That was my one shining moment of being thrifty. Yet, I still walked out of the store with 107 dollars worth of stuff. I was not cut out to be thrifty. I think I was absent when heaven held the "Money Saving 101" course for all outbound fetuses. I'm pretty sure I remember ditching the class to go shopping at the Pearly Gate Mall.

So why on earth would I be interested in authoring a blog I know absolutely diddly squat about and suck at? I'll tell you why right after this EBay auction ends....I'm kidding! I've decided to break the shopaholic mold I was poured into. Times are tough. Money is tight. Kids are plentiful and reasonably priced gasoline is not. If we are to see these kids into adulthood without claiming bankruptcy or "Livin' in a van down by the river" (Chris Farley,) I need to learn the art of thrifty living. Oh crap, it even hurts to say it. I am determined to do it, though. Stop laughing, mom. I can do anything that I put my mind to, despite my 29 years of irrefutable proof that I am incapable of being money savvy.

Join me on my quest to morph into a "Simply Thrifty" role model. My success will either inspire you, or my failure will give you a good laugh. Either way, you will be entertained!
P.S. Please click here to win a million dollars. Okay, you're not really gonna win a million dollars, but it will help my ranking and give you that warm fuzzy feeling, which is totally worth a million dollars!

I'm Quirkee And Lovin' It!

Life is boring around here. Not much to do...with the exception of cleaning poop scrapes off shower curtains, trying to cook food without a whole bunch of off limit ingredients that make food worth eating, keeping the kids from killing themselves (and each other) and writing a few (hundred) blogs. So when James of Quirkee.com, invited me to write for their publication, I figured, "Hey, I've got nothing else to do all day. Why not?" Then when he told me the monetary compensation for my services would be the equivalent of Britney Spears parenting skills, I was like, "Wow, sign me up!"

I am only doing this gig because I have great faith that Quirkee will become a hugely popular online publication and I'll have so much money that I could buy Britney Spears a lifetime supply of undies, and find us a house in a drug bust free neighborhood. Okay, that's just not gonna happen. Actually, I'm going to write for Quirkee because I believe in the right to assert my insanity and encroach on other peoples comfort while doing so. There aren't many places in this world for people like me (besides sitting next to Britney at the parenting classes.) Quirkee is one such place. It celebrates the things that make people stare at us as if we have ten eyes, four arms and seven children (oh wait...)

Check out Quirkee's site when you get a second, because chances are, if you can stomach the things you read on this blog, you're gonna love it over there!

You Would Think I Was Twelve Again.

You know what the funniest and most pathetic thing about being pregnant for such a large part of my adult life, is?

Every time I wipe and see blood on the toilet paper, as my period commences, I get scared for a split second. Like, "Oh shit, why is there blood? Oh yeah, I have periods." I'm totally serious. I always have to remind myself that I have periods every month. For crying out loud, my baby will be two in two weeks. Why am I still surprised to see blood? You would think that I would remember something like a period. However, in my defense, the amount of time that I have had periods, still does not equal the amount of time that I have not had them. So you can see where the confusion might come in...no? Yeah, me neither.

I also forget to do things like change the tampon. I have gotten in the shower and scared myself shitless to feel a little string down there. Remember, I did have that scare with my IUD strings. Feeling anything down there, always raises an alarm now. It's like my brain goes into "IUD alert" mode, now. Then, after a second or two, reality kicks in and I recall the fact that I am wearing a tampon. Duh.

And you know the wonderful pre-menstruation bloating? I still have not grasped the fact that it is normal to experience, just before starting. I look at my swollen abdomen, every 28 or so days, and think, "Oh shitballs. This cannot be happening. I thought vasectomies were permanent!" Then, two days later, I scare myself again with the first sign of blood. Maybe someday, the idea of a period will finally sink in and stop being such a head case...well, in that aspect anyway.

Revelations From The International Food Aisle

Trenton and I are in the International Foods section of the store, picking out some Asian fare when he starts reading labels. "China!? Mom, this is made in China! We can't buy this. Those Chinese people are trying to poison us!"

I can feel the eyes of the Asian family standing next to us. I don't dare look, but try to give the "Shut up!" signal to Trenton with my facial expression. Trenton must not be gifted in translating facial expressions, because he does not stop talking. "Mom, mom...do you see this? He starts pulling more items from the Asian section and reading the labels. "These are all made in China." I think my face is ten shades of red by now. I offer Trenton some gum, just to shut him up. For the first time in his life, he is not in the mood for gum.

"Oh, this one is made in Japan. Are Japanese people evil too, mom?" Oh God, kill me now. Then I drag Trenton a few feet away and explain that what he was saying could possibly offend the Asian family that was standing near us. I also explain that not every Chinese person is evil and that only some of the people who live in China are doing evil things to our products. "But mom, those people weren't Chinese...they are American because they are in America." How do I argue with that? So we walk back to the same section, with the promise that Trenton will keep his thoughts on the evils of Chinese people, to himself.

The family that was next to us, is still there. "Dammit! This is going to be awkward," I think. Then the woman turns to me and says, "He's a smart boy, I wouldn't trust anything from China either. Crazy Communists, all of them!" Trenton, unable to contain his joy at seeing someone agree with him, blurts out, "See, mom? Even the people from China don't trust themselves!" Oh shitballs. Daniel and I need to stop discussing current events in front of the kids.

Chatting With My Leg

So I'm getting ready for bed tonight when my right leg comes out of nowhere and strikes up a conversation:
"Hey how's it going up there?"
I look around and realize that my leg is actually talking to me. Should I pretend not to hear it? Oh f**k it. Par for the course, right? So instead of screaming and telling my husband (who now has the local nut house on speed dial...just in case,) that my leg is trying to make small talk, I just say, "Fine thanks, you?"
"Can't complain. Hey, what was that all about this morning?"
"What?! You mean, you didn't do that whole restless thing on purpose?"
"Hell no! I'm so tired after pumping blood and chasing kids all day, that the last thing I want is to be flailing around in bed."
"Wait a minute. Does my left leg talk too?"
"No. He's mute."
"He?"
"Yeah, well...his name is Frank."
"And your name?"
"Don't have one."
"How come?"
"Lady, I'm a talking leg and you want to know why I don't have a name? Geez...you really are nuts!"
"Well anyway, if this whole restless leg bit doesn't stop, I'm going to have to take desperate measures."
"Maybe you could start by trying laser surgery."
"Why? Does that help with restless leg syndrome?"
"I dunno, but it sure as hell would help with these nasty varicose veins you've slapped on us during your seven effing pregnancies!"
"Okay. Now you are being rude."
"Sorry. I was out of line. So what kind of measures?"
"Amputation."
"No! I'm too young to die!"
"I'm joking. I'm not sure, though, what to do. I'm calling the doctor in the morning."
"Okay. Good plan. Let's get to bed. We have a long day ahead of us, tomorrow. Don't forget to put on your socks."
"Socks? Why?"
"Because I'm tired of listening to these feet complain about its cracked heels."
"Only if you promise to stay still tonight."
"I'll try. Hey...maybe I'm ADHD."

Oh shitballs. As if it isn't bad enough that my leg talks, he also has ADHD? Don't tell him, but I'm seriously considering amputation!

The Kid I Didn't Squeeze Out Of My HooHoo

I arrived home from the grocery store to find the kids all out back, huddled around something and clucking like hens. WTF? I was envisioning a dead animal or something of the sort. Anytime the kids are all standing close in proximity, without a fist fight ensuing, I know that it can mean no good.

Where was my husband? "Daniel?!" I called out, but no response was given. This cannot be good. I dropped the groceries and ran outside. As I made my way to the huddle, I noticed a contraption made from a plastic Little Tykes slide and an old, rusty wagon. Several bikes were laying around it. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together. I shooed the swarming children away to find my husband laying on the ground, laughing and whimpering at the same time. His leg was bleeding. "What the hell is going on here?"

"We were all taking turns on our bikes, jumping off the ramp! Daddy went the highest! It was soooo cool! Then, he crashed." No shit. A man, with a metal cage and screws in his lower back, riding a little girl's bicycle, jumping off of a (poorly) homemade ramp, got big air and ended up on the ground...bleeding and in pain. I'm reeeeeeal shocked! Fortunately, he was the only one who got hurt and it serves him right. What was he thinking? It is no longer safe to go to the store and leave the kids with Dad, unless I set down some rules. So, here they are:

1. No building dangerous contraptions designed to defy gravity while on a bike.
2. No fire.
3. No watching Mixed Martial Arts.
4. No playing Mixed Martial Arts Death Match.
5. No scary movies.
6. No daring the kids to do anything that could end them up in the ER.
7. No jumping off of things higher than two feet in height (this also applies to Dad.)
8. No bomb making.
9. No Bruce Lee movie reenactments.
10. No watching the Comedy channel.
11. No death defying obstacle courses.
    

I know...I suck the fun right out of quality Dad time!

P.S. All you have to do is click here to help my humor-blogs rating. It won't cost you a penny, won't take but one second and to be honest, I am slipping out of the top ten, which just isn't acceptable! You don't even have to read anything, but I highly suggest it because it is hilarious blogging at its finest! Thanks bunches :)

The crazy ...It's Spreading!

The eye twitch has been annoying. The fact that it birthed a smaller, less frequent twitch was a little concerning. But this newest addition to my close knit family of physiological symptoms is just ridiculous!

I was laying in bed (don't worry, this story doesn't get raunchy,) and enjoying a semi-restful sleep, when I was awakened by the sounds of my husband getting ready for work. Nothing strange about that, right? Right. Except that I couldn't fall back asleep because my legs would not stop twitching and having this funny feeling in them like I couldn't keep them still. What does that sound like to you? Sounds, to me, like it is time to pay a little visit to Dr. Pickmybrain and figure out why my body is suddenly having involuntary muscle spasms.

Only, I'm afraid that if I do go into Dr. Pickmybrain's office, I will never come back out. I'm terrified that he will hear about my gyrating legs, see my problematic facial twitches and insist that I go straight to the nut house. Do not pass go...do not collect 200 dollars. Which wouldn't be so bad if I got to bring my lap top. Then I could start a new blog called a Womb At The Padded Inn(sane) and document my days as a psychiatric patient. Yeah... and I could eat pudding and little pills that make me happy, all day long. I wouldn't get to see the kids, except on visitation days when my husband (who would have to play the part of both parents,) brings them to see me. Then, when the twitch starts to happen, the nurse would kindly ask them to leave so as not to upset me. So that's a positive.

I'd never have to clean again, cook again and my whole wardrobe of straight jackets and non slip socks would all be laundered and put away by the housekeepers. I'd get to stare out the window, watch television and have group therapy. Plus, most of the other patients would be so crazy that I'd feel like the normal one (kind of like the pretty girl who only hangs out with ugly girls so that she feels better about herself.) Maybe I'd even find peace there. You know what? It isn't sounding so bad after all. I think I'll give Dr. Kim a call today and set up my vacation, er... appointment.

Is stupidity genetic? Because I need someone to blame.

What happens when you leave the room to answer an important call and leave a nine year old in charge of keeping disaster from occurring? This happens: