It's a pArTaY!

Today is a special day, and it's not because it's the day we get ready for Sunday.

It's because it's a pArTaY! day.

Two of the hottest blogging mamas were born on this day. Shelle @ Blokthoughts and New England Alyson.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SHELLE AND ALYSON!

Not only do I heart them both, I lurve them, I lub them, and I luuuuv them.

But above all, I LOVE them.

I don't know how old Alyson is, but poor ole' Shelle is hitting her third trimester, if you will, with three whole decades under her belt.

Oh, Shelle, I hope you handle it better than I did. It was horrible for me. It was just awful. It was as funky as it gets.

THIRTY!??? Yikers!!

It sounds soooooooo old. It sounds at least 10 years older than 29. Really, if you think about it, once you hit 30 you're like an old maid. You're that much closer to being a granny. Break out your puzzles, girlfriend, because life in the hot lane just hit an ice burg.

Big time brain FREEZE! brrrrrrrrrr.

hee hee hee hee hee

Just JOSHIN, Shelle Belle. It ain't so at'all. I promise. Right Aly? Back me up here. You just keep getting better and better until you hit 40 and then you really start smokin' up the runway.

Look at Jennifer Aniston.

So everyone rush to my comment box for the pArTaY!

I asked LoW to bring the cake and ice cream.

I was gonna bring root beer for the floats, but I'm off POP (eww, hate that word) so I hope you don't mind V-8 floats. They ain't too bad if you pinch your nose.

And I picked up tons of fruit from Costco--I got kiwis and cuties and pinepples and cara cara and green grapes and purple grapes and bananas and baninis.

(Okay, I didn't pick up baninis.)

After the pArTaY! make sure to drop by their blogs and poke them in the eye.

Oh, and Shelle and Alyson, I dedicate track 31 to you. And my birthday wish is that one day we can all get together and play Charlie's Angels. (But I don't want to be Sabrina.)


P.S. For those of you who didn't get the memo, Nevadanista won the Caramacs for guessing which American Idol I actually called in to cast my vote--Bo Bice. I was totally in love with Bo Bice.

My husband was in love with him too so it was a mutual fascination disorder. I'm pretty sure our votes got him into the finals. TMI: I loved calling American Idol just to hear Bo Bice say, "Hi Dummy, this is Bo Bice. Thanks for voting for me. Now it's time for you to grow up and get a life because Carrie Underwood is going to kick my bootie."

MORE TMI: We were at Disneyworld during the finals and we actually dragged our kids out of the park so we could watch the finals in the hotel.

WEIRD NEWS FLASH: After it was over, I never listened to him again. And I didn't miss him. I think I loved watching him sing SOULFUL CLASSIC songs, but I didn't love hearing him sing WIMPY WANNA-BE ALTERNATIVE songs.

P.S.S. I'm asleep right now. I just wanted to make sure this was posted at midnight, the minute these girls turned into a pumpkin (in Hawaii).

(I bet they're asleep too. Let's go mob them. hee hee. Anyone have shaving cream? Let's freeze their bras . . . oh, wait, I can't, I'm asleep too.)

A convenient lie and an inconvenient truth

I was photo tagged by LoW, even though she knows I hate tags. I swear that girl loves to inconvenience me.

But today I'm happy to be inconvenienced because it's better than being gross, and my last post had everyone gagging (particularly Robin's husband.)

So I'll do your dumb tag, LoW, but only because I'm anxious to squelch the gag-a-thon ASAP!

I'm supposed to publish the 6th photo in the 6th folder.

The only problem is I don't believe in the number 6 (it's evil). If I have to go with evil numbers I pick 13. That's my favorite evil number.

So I'm publishing the 13th photo in the 13th folder.

And, Oh my goodness, what a evil stroke of luck! It just so happens to be a photo of David Archuleta with my daughter's friend, Josi, at the Polynesian Cultural Center.

I stole this photo off her Facebook profile a few weeks ago because I was steaming mad that I didn't get my own photo with him. I was planning to photoshop my face over Josi's face, but then I got tagged.

So UNFAIR! Sandi's daughter, Kute Kasey got to meet him at the PCC, and Martha's daughter saw him at the temple. Me? I got nothing but stolen photos.

(oh, and I didn't just steal this photo. I lied about it too. This wasn't photo number 13.)

Here's a question for you. (Who knows Crash best?) Throughout all 7 seasons of American Idol, I only picked up the phone and voted for one contestant. Who was it?

I'll send Caramacs to whoever gets it right. (And it wasn't Archie).

Now here's another tag. It's called Message from the Universe Tag. (I love these games).

Grab the closest book to you RIGHT NOW. Open it to page 13. Scroll down to line 13. What is your message from the Universe today?

Mine is from a book called Glass by Ellen Hopkins:

I told you then, the monster is a way of life, one it's difficult to leave behind no matter how hard you try.

Gulp!

Now that's an inconvenient truth!

Don't you hate embarrassing dirty little secrets (with fairy tale endings)?

I missed Shelle's Don't You Hate it When contest. TAMNIT! I can't beleive it! Especially since I am the queen of hating it.

Like don't you hate it when you're sitting in a ward council meeting on Fast Sunday and it dawns on you that you smell like bacon?

And don't you hate it when people drive the speed limit? (I don't mind if they drive the speed limit behind my back, just don't drive the speed limit in front of me.)

And don't you hate it when you store your canned fruit behind your V-8 so you have to drink 48 cans of V-8 just to eat one bowl of peaches?

So now Shelle is having a Dirty Little Secret Day but dirtiness in general makes me feel so . . . dirty.

Shelle, can I combine my Dirty Little Secret and my Don't You Hate It When and still win your contest, even though I missed the silly deadline? I really need to win Emily's beautiful painting.

I WILL stop following you if you say NO!

My entry could also count as an embarrassing moment if you want to start a MEM contest.

Or maybe you and Emily can work out a special prize for the Most Embarrassing Don't You Hate It When Dirty Little Secret.


Here's my entry for Shelle and Emily's new MEMDYHIWDLS contest:

WARNING! It's dirty. And gross. And embarrasing. But it does have a fairy tale ending, if you're into that sort of thing.

............................

Don't you hate it when you're 17 and you're in love with the most popular basketball player in the school.


But it's impossible to get his attention because you live in the ghetto so you think you're ghetto . . .

UNTIL . . .

your fairy godmother sprinkles pixie dust on you and turns you into a varsity cheerleader.

PETTY, I know!

But for a 17-year old ghetto-gurl, turning into a VC is enough to make you feel like you're someone. At least someone worthy of catching the eye of your favorite varsity basketball player.

Every morning during the summer your favorite VBB Player is in the gym shooting around. And every morning you're in the same gym shakin' your booty with your VC squad.

You begin working your angles and he notices you. You're sure of it. You swear he's watching you out of the corner of his eye.

Especially on this one particular day in August.

You're wearing your short plaid shorts even though you're on your . . . comma. But you don't know you're on your comma until half way through cheer practice when you take a potty break.

Luckily you catch it just in the nick of time. Still, it's a problem because at that moment you don't have access to anything to deal with your comma.

So you do the only sensical thing. You grab a bunch of toilet paper and trouble shoot before going back out to the gym to work your magic.

And work your magic you do.

And you just keep working it without any consideration for the laws of physics and gravity.

Several roundoff back handsprings later it's time to make your exit. You saunter past your favorite VBB player with a coy grin.

He's paying you particular attention and you're flying high on the wings of love . . .

UNTIL . . .

one of your fellow cheerleaders say's "Ewww, dummy, what's that?"


"What's what?"


"That red thing hanging out of your shorts."


Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!


The moral of this dirty little secret?

You can take the dummy out of the ghetto, but you can't take the ghetto out of the dummy.

AND . . .

Sometimes ghetto-gurlz do win.

FYI, that basketball player married that ghetto dummy.

And they lived happily ever after.

So there!

(Well they're trying to live happily ever after . . . for the most part.)

Thee End!



P.S. Did I win?




P.P.S. You should check out Springrose's Don't You Hate It When entry. It's hee-heelarious.


P.P.P.S. Iwa, don't let Danny Boy read this. I don't want him to think I'm a dirty dummy.

Rainbows and Butterflies ( . . . and flies)

I'm trying to clean out my draft box so I think I'm going to post the action shots of my MIL swatting flies today.

It's not because I miss my MIL. It's because I miss poking my MIL in the eye. I miss being a wolf in sheep's clothing and cooing softly in her ear, "Oh my, what big eyes you have."

And then pouncing on her with my camera and my evil-mad-scientist cackle, "The better to poke you with my dear!"

I do kinda miss the good ole days when they were here--especially the good old days when they were here yet they weren't here, (if you catch my drift). I'm talking about the days when they moved out and stayed in an enchanted beach house full of rainbows and butterflies.

I'm not over-exaggerating, peeps. This was their view of them.

My hub and I would go to the enchanted beach house every day for lunch just to sit and watch the waves hula dance and the butterflies hula prance under the rainbows until we were sufficiently mesmorized.

Once we were under (the spell), my MIL would begin spinning stories over Subway sandwiches about their latest encounters with the rainbows and the butterfies.

I had no idea rainbows came in so many shapes and sizes--double wide load, extra thick and creamy, crisp and clean w/no caffeine.

One time my ILs were walking on the beach and they followed the rainbow all the way to the end. They actually found the end of the rainbow. And guess what was waiting there for them?

Nothing. NO pot of gold.

It was just them (and a girl in a bikini with the tighest abs they'd ever seen). The rainbow stopped right at their feet.

"WE are the pot of gold!" My MIL exclaimed.

I almost choked on my cold cut combo when she broke the news.

There was only one problem with their charmed life.

The flies.

They say there is a fly in every ointment, and their ointment was no exception.

In fact, the only thing I ever saw them fist fight over was who who moved the fly swatter.

Honest to pete, they would get rough and tumble over it.

But I have to hand it to my MIL for how feircely protective she is of her husband. If a fly landed on him my MIL would grab that fly swatter and whack-a-mole the living life right out of it/him.

Do you want to see what it looked like?

First you must imagine this window sil as my FIL's face.

Scroll through that again at super-sonic speed.

Now scroll through it at super-sonic-speed while listening to track 49, Point of Extinction.

Now drink a Code Red Mountain Dew, then scroll through it again at super-sonic-speed while listening to track 49.

Trippy, huh!?

P.S. check out The Magic Quilt for the latest entry. All this magic is making me excited! And I do nice things when I'm excited so keep sending your entries.

Impossible Dreams

Last week I had a strange and unusual day (with a moral attached to the end).

It started with a cockroach and it ended with a cockroach.


At 2 a.m. my husband jumped out of bed and began beating the life out of his pillow. And then he did a strangle-hold on the covers.

What the helk? I cried.

"There's a cockroach in bed with us!" he cried back.

Ewwww.

I jumped up and we both commenced upon the task at hand: smacking our bed senseless.


Later that day another strange and unusual thing happened. I picked up 15 tacos at Taco Bell to feed my daughter's history day group. The cashier's forearm sported a fierce tatoo of a gigantic dagger dripping blood. When he took my order he called me beautiful and told me he wouldn't tell my husband our little secret.

"Thanks."

(That was all I could squeak out in reply.)

Things just kept getting stranger from there--my daughter used the word undulated in a sentence during dinner. And then later my 10 year old son, who was supposed to be in bed, came down the stairs with an open library book. He was READING!

Did you hear that, Peeps? I said, HE WAS READING!

And he asked us if he could read to US because apparently he really liked the last page of his book.

And so we sat with our jaws in our laps and our eyes filling up with strange and unusual drop of wet amazement as he read to us about Tony Dungy's impossible dreams:

I'm glad I had parents that helped me to dream. I'm glad they taught me to pray about the things that were on my mind (like the Steelers winning the Superbowl--I added that part, btw) My parents taught me to whatever we dreamed about we should tell God beacause He is the one that can make those plans succeed.

When he shut the book, he smiled and said again, "I really like that last page."

That would have been a beautiful ending to a strange and unusual post, don't you think?

But there's more. This post is not over until the fat cockroach sings. (Or until the skinny cockroach surfs.)

As I was mounting the stairs to go to bed I looked up and there, on our painting of Pounders beach, was a skinny cockroach trying with all his might to surf those acrylic waves (bless his skinny little heart).

I didn't have it in me to squash his impossible dream so I just walked on by and left him there undulating.

Not complaining, but . . . Waaaaah!

Don't take this the wrong way, because I'm not a whiner, AT ALL!

I'm only trying to relate. empathize. commiserate. Be one of the girlz!

Okay, so I was soooooooooooooooo cold this morning, guys!

It was like 60 degrees below zero, I swear! When I rolled out of bed I thought I might die.

Have you guys ever felt like that?

I had to wear my flannel/fleece robe and wrap myself in my flannel fleece blanket.

But I still got hypothermia and frost bite.

I went to my class anyway though--I'm a trooper like that.

I even wore SOCKS to class. (And boots.)


Can I ask you guys a personal question? How do you guys do it day in and day out?

What's the worst part? The freakin' frozen toilet seat? Washing the dishes with long sleeves? What?

I was so freezing that even my stone cold heart was numb.

Which was good because when I noticed this morning that I had lost another follower it didn't even phase me.


I was like "oh, well."

I was like "later, gator."

I was like "sianara sista"

I was like " don't let the door . . ."

GULP!

That's what I did when I realized . . . it was . . . Jami!

Jami???!!!

My superfluous friend? My ta-ta-for-now friend? My friend-to-the-bitter-end friend?

Oh Jami, why hast thou forsaken me?

Oh, it cuts like a knife to be rejected by one of your own kind!

I decided denial would be my best defense so I put on my old cheerleading skirt from high school, (brrrrrr) grabbed my pom poms and started doing cheers in my living room.

"Push it down! Push it down! Waaaaaayyyyyyy down!"

My huband doesn't think denial is cute, even in a cheer skirt. He thinks it's sexier to confront reality.

So this is me seducing reality:

There must have been some mistake. There must have been some misunderstanding. She pushed the wrong button. Her baby did it. Her husband did it. Her neighbor's crazy husband did it. Maybe he held her at gunpoint and made her erase all memory of the crash test dummy.

sniff ! (How do you spell a honkin' loud nose blow?)

My husband said, "why don't you just ask her?"

I was like, "What? Ask her? You know about my abandonment issues, right?"

He was like, "uhhh, yea, come to THINK of it, I HAVE noticed your abandonment issues from time to time over the PAST TWENTY ODD years I've LIVED with you! (And I do mean ODD, as in ODD, not as in NOT EVEN!)"

He's snippy like that sometimes.


Do you think it's because I'm warm? Because honestly, I'm not that warm. This morning I was downright frozen.


Do you guys think I should ask her?



Will you guys ask her for me? hmm? hmm? hmm?







Oh wait! She's back. (Never mind.)





I told you it was a mistake.

Good thing I didn't stress about it.

Good think I didn't waste a whole post over it!

I'm kinda hot now anyway (and not sexy hot). I'm going to go take off my socks.

Oh, P.S. Don't forget to check out The Magic Quilt for the latest entry.

Superstars!

The Universe has a message for you.

Two messages, actually.

The first message is that racing home after Sacrament meeting to eat peanut M&M's is totally okay, especially if you are preparing to teach the Miamaids that being a wife and mother is not routine and boring.

The second message is that people are amazing! Yes, they are also stupid, annoying and weird, but amazing, nonetheless.

The Universe has been poking me and prodding me all week to tell you this, which is why I'm telling you this!


(Now BACK OFF, Universe, before I smack you!)


Wednesday morning the universe shook me awake. I bolted up and peered at the clock . It was 3:45 a.m.

John Mayer was in my head telling me to say what I need to say.

But for gads sake, is there ANYTHING you really need to say at 3:45 a.m?


I went back to sleep.


The universe shook me again at 3:50 and then 4:00 and then 4:10.


Finally at 4:15 I dragged myself out of bed.


I sat at the computer.


I sat. And I sat.


There was nothing I needed to say.


But there was plenty I needed to do so I pulled out my class stuff and started grading.


I graded. And I graded. A task which usually makes me cranky and irritable, but for some reason I was off my game and my stone cold heart heart filled up with overwhelming awe for each of my students. My tired, puffy little eyeballs swelled with gratitude that I could wake up at 4:15 a.m. to think on them.

This feeling of amazement and awe then moved to my children and my husband.

I had to slap myself silly as a reminder that my husband and children are annoying and that I hate grading more than I hate tatortot casserole.


I tried, I really did, to be realistic and crabby, but I just felt magical.


When I walked into class that morning I was actually giddy--like I was surrounded by a bunch of Jack Johnsons. I wanted to wrap my arms around each of them and say, "can I have your autograph?"


So here's my point: Everyone is beautiful. In there own way.

No, that's not exactly my point. My exact point is this: Everyone is a superstar! Inside. A beautiful, amazing, annoying superstar!

You may live 2 doors down from a superstar and not even know it.

It happened to me.

This is my neighbor, Spencer. I didn't know he was a superstar.

I thought he was just an ordinary kid who I see everyday in the hood.

Normally when I see him I think of the Turkey Trot because every year he runs it and even though he never wins he always has this sweet smile on his face.

Now whenever I see him I'm going to think what an amazing, beautiful superstar!

Last night he rocked my world as I was sitting in the BYU-H auditorium watching him play Jo Jo in the most fantabulous musical ever (second only to Spamalot) Suessical the Musical.

Jo Jo reached out and gave my soul a squeeze every time he opened his mouth and sang.

I added my two favorite songs from the musical to my playlist--Alone in the Universe and It's Possible. (Track 60 and 61).

I want you to go listen to these songs and then walk to your neighbor's house and give all of their children a hug. Don't forget to ask them for their autographs because they are all beautiful superstars.

(And then can you tell the Universe to leave me alone already!)

A.D.D.D.

Oh my goodness, Oh my goodness!  

I feel like taking a long winter's nap.  Guess why?  

Because History Day is over!  Wahoo!  

And the brainchild made it past Districts.  She and her group will be going to the state competition in April.   

I'm such a proud grandma!  

And not just because my daughter's group is going on but because my son's group is going on too.  I never talked about my son because John Adam's (my daughter's project) was a much harder birth than Father Damien (my son's project). My son had an epidural for his brainchild and didn't feel any pain. 

(If you want to know what the what I'm talking about read this post.) 

So, at your request I'm now going to post my never-before-seen-by-human-eyes draft about my domestic disorder. It was written on October 11th, 2008  (And I've glammed it up a bit since).

............................................................................................

My name is Dummy and I have Attention Deficit Domestic Disorder.

At least that's what I said at my last ADDDA meeting. (Hey, why do they call it Attention Deficit Domestic Disorder Annonymous if I have to tell my name?)

ADDD is often confused with ADHD (Attention Deficit Housecleaning Disorder) but it is a far more serious problem.

ADHD is the simply the inability to focus on basic housekeeping tasks because you are allergic to brooms and dustpans.

But ADDD encompasses so much more. Your ears zone out when your child says the word homework, your eyes fog up when you try to alphabetize the piles of clutter on your countertop, and your brain freezes when your husband says, what's for dinner?

A few nights ago, while I was rebooting my brain, my husband told me it was time for an intervention.

I had never considered the possibility that I might have ADDD. I always thought I was just really good at multi-tasking and that one day all my tasks would be complete, but apparently I've been suffering from accute denial, which my husband says is not the same thing as cute denial.

"There's nothing cute about denial," he said when I put on my high school cheerleading skirt, grabbed my pom poms and grinned widely while chanting, "Push it down, push it down . . . waaaaayyyyy down!"

"You should be chanting "Give me an A! Give me a D!" he told me.

My ADDDA counselor says that education and support are key to coping with and managing my disorder, so I've organized support group.

If you are displaying five or more of the following symptoms, you too may need divine intervention.  Meet me (and the universe) in my comment box and I will take care of it.

The first step to coping is recognizing and taking responsiblity for your disorder. You may take responsibility for my disorder too, (if you feel so inclined (because it is kind of your fault, don't you think?)).

1. Has your smoke alarm ever gone off while you were making dinner because you just had to finish a sadoku puzzle?
2. Do you ever find rubber cement in your spice rack and blame it on Jackie Robinson?
3. Do you ever feel an urgency to count and wrap your penny collection as soon as you begin scrubbing the kitchen floor?
4. Do you ever fantasize about sticking the ethernet cable in your ear so you can blog while your husband is talking to you?
5. Do you ever kneel down to pray but then remember you need to check your comment box real quick, (but hold that thought God, because I'll be right back to say amen, I pinky promise) ?
6. Do you ever open the dishwasher then wash all the dishes by hand before loading it.
7. Do you only get an overwhelming urge to clean your during Sacrament meeting or while you're grading research papers?
8. Are you the only mom who blows off last-minute, optional lunch-on-the-lawns at your child's elementary school?  (Okay, I just added that one).

If you answered YES to at least five of these questions you too are suffering silently from ADDD.

It may be time to come out of the closet, ladies. (Unless that's where you hide your chocolate.)

Bad Mommy

Can I just add one thing to the list of things a good mother should never do?

A good mother should never blow off a last-minute, optional, lunch-on-the-lawn at the elementary school because even though she told her son she wouldn't be there her son might be permanently damaged and come home with a scowl tatooed to his face because he was the only motherless child eating lunch on the lawn.

I couldn't cheer him up so I asked his siblings if they would please help.

"Don't feel bad," said my twelve year old. "Once I wrote a poem for mom for valentines day. Everyone in my class read their poems out loud to their moms, but mom wasn't there!"

"In fact, she was the ONLY mom not there. I know how you feel."

"Don't feel bad," said my daughter. "Mom wasn't there for my 6th grade graduation when I won Top Scholar and Super Citizen of the year! I know how you feel."


Uhhh, not exactly the cheering up I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of tickling.


(BTW, I WAS OUT OF THE COUNTRY!)

Thought for the day: It mattereth not how many things you do right, the things that stick to memory are the things you do wrong.


A good mother should know how to buy her child's love and forgiveness. It's only costs $16.51 at the local candy store.




P.S. Brain still clogged. Attention Deficit Domestic Disorder post coming tomorrow!

Are you keeping the girly code?

Mariko told me I should write something new--as opposed to glamming up something old--for publication in the college literary magazine here at BYU-H.

NO, Mariko, NO!

I need to finish 40 essays and topic proposals TODAY. Plus my brain is clogged with History Day details because both my daughter and my son are performing on Saturday for the district competition.

Do you guys know what a performance requires? Props, set, costumes, practice and lots and lots of chips and salsa.

HOWEVER, I do have a stash of fresh unseen material in my draft box.

Guess how many stinkin' drafts I have in that stinkin' box?

54!

(What the what?) Most of them are total junk, so I tossed them, but I did find about 10 nearly complete posts that are worthy of hitting the front page today.

I might as well post some of them while I'm waiting for the plumber to come unclog my brain.

Which one do you want first? The one with the actions shots of my MIL swatting a fly? Or the one of my husband diagnosing my Attention Deficit Domestic Disorder? Or how about the one where I show you why I'm so lucky to live Laie?

(I may hold off on that one until spring seeing as some of you are sensative to sunshine right now and I am sensative to getting smacked around in my comment box.)

I think I will post the one about the girly code today. Let's see if you're keeping the girly code.

This post was practically plagiarized from my students (past and present). I didn't even embellish a single line.

(btw, I've been dying to tell you all about my students this semester because they are so uber awesome. I have photos to prove it.)

Today, however, you'll have to settle for their collective oddity.

This post was originally written on October 8th while reading A Doll's House with my Fall semester class. Since I am now reading A Doll's House with my winter semester class, it seems fitting:


10/8/08

Are you keeping the girly code?

This morning my twins were going to a birthday party. I didn't have any wrapping paper so we had to wrap their gifts with white tissue paper and lime green ribbon.

"It looks so girly!" said the first twin.

"What can we do to make it look more manly?" I said.

"Fart on it," said the second twin.

(ooooh, I hate that word).

But my boys love it.

My daughter has of late been telling me how much she wishes she was a boy. Why? Because boys have it easy. And they have all the fun. They don't have to learn how sew and cook at Young Women's. They get to play basketball or cops and robbers or set up a skate park in the cultural hall.

Plus they get to pass the sacrament and become bishops.

I've never actually ever wanted to pass the sacrament or be a bishop.

But I have always been curious about men/women roles and we talk about it a bit in my English class. I always give an in-class writing assignment where I ask my students to complete the following sentences:


A good wife should always _______ and a good mother should never _________.


There are plenty of predictable answers, but the unpredictable ones are more fun.

(Keep in mind these are the REAL opinions of REAL students.)

*I placed asterisks by the codes I have broken.

A good wife should always . . .

• let her husband drive*
• cook yummy food*
• use less emotion*
• shave her legs daily*
• bring not just a half, but a whole person to the relationship*
• be fun to be around*
• allow animals in the house*
• specialize in her profession as a wife*
• be happy, grateful, patient*
• be honest, cheerful, friendly *

A good mother should never . . .

• starve her children*
• get in other people's business*
• feel obligated to join the PTA*
• put her children in daycare
• tell her daughter how to act*
• embarrass her son in front of his friends***
• be impatient*
• eat a lot*
• complain*
• get mad/argue*
• dress weird*
• max out the credit cards
• be lazy*
• drink alcohol, (at least not in front of the children)
• tell the truth about Santa Claus*
• keep secrets*
• give bad advice*
• be unprepared*
• ask too much*
• ask too little*
• let her children cross the road alone********

If I have broken most of these girly commandments, does that mean I can pass the sacrament and be a Bishop?

Serotonin Surprise

Yesterday Iwa asked me a really important question.


She wants to know what people who are non-functioning non-depressives should do if they don't have the cash or the unfortunate friends to land them a luxury hotel for the weekend.


I have the perfect solution--they can live vicariously through me.


I'm going to live vicariously through me too because now that I'm functioning again, I'm feeling depressed. (Are we only content when we're not cramming a gazillion things into our day?)


So let's live vicariously through me together.


Did you guys bring your sunscreen and your earphones because I'm ready to give you guys your present now.


Lather up and plug yourself in . . .


Now scroll to track 57, sit back, and get ready to chillax.


Hand me your brain.


(Don't worry, I'll be careful with it.)


Now close your eyes for your surprise.


No peeking.

Surprise!

I brought you some serotonin!

I hope you like it. I know February and March is the pits when it's cold and dark and dreary and drab. It used to throw me into a grand funk, anyway.

But wait there's more.

Do you want to take a dip in the pool? I think they mix the water with satin because it feels like you're swimming through silk.

Or we can fall asleep on the balcony together.


Or we can just stare into my son's deep blue eyes until we're in a hypnotic trance.

But first let's lay out and release the serotonin until our moods are elevated to sheer joy. (Or at least to near joy).

Which chair do you want?

Okay, no more talking for at least 20 minutes while we release the serotonin.

(Oh, you'll have to hit reply on track 57 about 25 times because it only lasts 40 seconds. My apologies for the inconvenience. I hope it doesn't mess with your mojo.)

p.s. what is mojo?

Today I made my husband happy . . .

And I didn't even have to kiss him.

I just had to function.

Did you hear that, Peeps? Today I functioned!

I got up early, paid the bills, scrubbed the toilets, did the laundry, dusted the wood, windexed the glass, and vaccuumed the floors. (I forgot to buy vaccuum bags last week so I had to sweep the floors after I vaccuumed them, but still . . .)

I even washed all the sheets. (Well, actually I lit my Clean Cotton Yankee Candle so my husband would think I washed the sheets. Shhhhhhh . . . )

I still haven't taken control of my hair, but I feel like I've taken control of my life.

I even found my phone charger (after two weeks) so if anyone wants to call me I'm now available.

I think I know why I wasn't functioning. I have, as of late, been borrowing from my sleep to say what I need to say and to do what I need to do, and we all know how borrowed things just hang over your head until you pay them back!

Well, I paid it back this weekend.

I wasn't going to pay it back so soon, but after we hit the open road for our luxurious Valentines get-a-way, I shouted at the top of my lungs, "OH NO! I FORGOT MY LAPTOP!"

My husband got an evil grin on his face and said, "OH WELL!"


And so it goes.

And sooooo it goes.


As soon as we got to the hotel I fell asleep. Then I went to the pool where I immediately fell asleep.

Then ,while my daughter watched a CSI marathon and my sons watched football, I stretched out on the balcony to read and I fell asleep.

Then I took 3 hot baths and fell asleep again.

I fell asleep in The Pink Panther II and I fell asleep in the car on the way back home.

As soon as we arrived home at 7:45, I promptly fell asleep and didn't wake up to brush my teeth and put on my P.J.'s until 3:15 a.m. (which was kind of creepy since I read Amityville Horror a bazillion times as a tween.)

Even though I slept through my luxurious weekend, I still had time to get you guys a present. I'll give it to you tomorrow though because today I need to keep functioning for my night class.

Come back tomorrow, okay! And don't forget to bring some sunscreen and your headphones.


........................

P.S. I need your advice, Peeps. I have these two former students who rocked my world. I told them so. I also told them that one day their writing would rock the world's world. They believed me and now they are the editors of the literary magazine on campus. They want me to submit something to publish. I want to rock their world too, but I don't have time to write anything. Will you guys whisper in my ear your #1 favorite post so I can glam it up for publication.

And it can't contain any nudity or charming profanity. And it can't contain any gratuitous violence . . . or extra-marital crushing . . . or . . . snapshots or Obama almost coming out of the bathroom.

DEAL WITH IT!

Aloha Peeps!

Guess where I was all weekend!

I was valentine-ing in a luxury hotel with my hub and my cubs on the other side of the island.

Neither my husband or I can take credit for planning the delightful weekend, we were merely the benefactors of a dear friend's romantic misfortunes.

In short, our dear friend was handed lemons, which he passed on to us to make s'mores.

Is it bad that I had a delightful time making s'mores out of our dear friend's lemons?

Would it make it any better if I said it wasn't all delightful, it was also little bit insightful?

Remember in my last post I confessed that I am, as of late, a non-functioning non-depressive. (I can't seem to get anything done, even though I'm emotionally fine and dandy.)

(Of course I blame this--and all of my other problems--on my hair, because taming the shrew takes a lot of energy).

If you too are suffering in silence as a non-functioning non-depressive, here's a mind blowing tip: Go chillax in a luxury hotel. There's no functioning required in a luxury hotel. The whole concept is set up so as to allow you to be non-functional.

It's pure genius!

Besides this insightful epiphany, I was also able to confront and embrace three truths about myself while chillaxin at the luxury hotel.


Truth #1: So I ain't gots no class (DEAL WITH IT!)

Truth #2: So I ain't gots no shiny straight hair (DEAL WITH IT!)

Truth #3: So I ain't gots to spill truth #3 cuz it ain't none of your beeswax! (DEAL WITH IT!)

(It's really liberating to confront and embrace truths.)

I have had issues with truth #1 for a long long time--ever since my MIL made me pull a ratty cooler full of POP, as she calls it, through the lobby of this very same hotel several years ago. (Note: This very same hotel where we've sat poolside with Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey.)

I have an aversion to looking like trailer trash around beautiful rich people. I think it may have something to do with my inner wounded child being dropped off at school in a station wagon held together with duct tape.

But this weekend I realized that class is a state of mind.

So what if I don't have dazzling diamond necklaces dripping into enthusiastic bronze cleavage!

So what if my kids sneak their own Ritz crackers and bite-size Snicker bars to the pool while I'm drooling on the lounge chairs!

So what if my boys do Nacho Libre leaps through the lobby and stop, drop and roll into the elevators!

So what if we eat at Burger King on valentines day with the other two lame-o couples on the island!

Truthfully, I don't eat there for the food, I eat there for the wrappers. Have you ever read the wrappers at Burger King?

Hee-larious!

Sometimes I order everything on the menu just to read the hee-sterical descriptions of each food item.

When I grow up I want to write for Burger King. Either that or I want to marry the writer for Burger King so he can make me laugh AND make me feel like I'm having it my way. (Such an attractive quality in a man.)

To our credit, we also took our kids to Chilis for the all-you-can-eat chips and salsa.

Again, I don't go to Chilis for the food, I go for their playlist. They really know how to pump up the jam, especially in their restrooms, which I personally think is a brilliant idea.

Yesterday my husband asked me why I was spending so much time in the restroom and I told him I thought I might have the stomach flu, but actually I was listening to the Counting Crows and Foo Fighters.

But shucks, I digress.

More about my delightful insightful weekend tomorrow. For now I gotsta go pretend to be functional.

(DEAL WITH IT!)

The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind

You know how they tell you not to stay up past midnight so you won't be tempted to break the commandments?

That's not true! I never feel like breaking the commandments after midnight?

After midnight is actaully my favorite time of day because it's just me and my playlist (and my thoughts).

They should warn us about the temptations we'll face before midnight--particularly between the hours of 6-7:30 a.m. and 2:30-9:30pm. These are the hours when me and my playlist (and my thoughts) have to pay attention to the soft scrub and the mop and the broom and the laundry and the toilets and the dishes and the oven.

Oh, and the kids.

(Okay, that's not true. I don't pay attention to any of those things.)

So last night after midnight, me and my playlist (and my thoughts) were just hanging out and getting to know each other better. It was h.e.a.v.e.n. but it made me sad that the three of us don't get to spend more time together.

But it also made me happy becasue I love that you are listening to the same songs I am when you hit my blog. It makes me feel like we're two peeps in a pod--like your chi and my chi are snug as a bug in a rug. (Unless you push mute, in which case you're blocking my chi.)

Do you want to know which songs make me smile the widest when I log in?


1. Why Georgia Why--John Mayer ((AKA Jack Mayer) I never get tired of John/Jack Mayer asking me anything?)

2. Say What You Need to Say--(I also never get tired of J/J Mayer telling me anything.)

3. Lucky-- Jason Marz. (Love this son, even though I don't believe in luck. (I only believe in science!) (Nacho Libre alert.) )

4. How to Save a Life--(If The Fray's voice had lips I would kiss them lips silly.)

5. Where is the Love?--Black Eyed Peas. (Because I love rhetorical questions. Where's the love ya'll? Where's the truth ya'll? (And please don't tell me to go read my scriptures.))

6. I Wonder (wonder wonder) Why the Wonderfalls--Andy Partridge. (I've always wondered why the wonderfalls too.)

7. What's Going On? --4 Non Blondes. (Add one more non blonde to the protest.)

8. I Don't Feel Like Dancing--Scissor Sisters.

9. Better Together. Jack Johnson. (Amen, JJ. AMEN! Especially when you're arm is wrapped around me.)

10. Mr. Blue Sky--ELO


BTW, I need to do some adding and deleting to my playlist. Any suggestions?


So, tomorrow me and my hub and my cubs are running away for V-Day so I gots ta go pack, but allow me to leave you with a thought. Or better yet, a confession (in honor of my follower of the week).

You know how some people are functional deppressives? At this very moment I'm a non-functional non-depressive.

I can't get anything done, even though I'm totally fine and dandy.

I thought it might be because I'm now a Crash Test Granny. (Believe you me, it's a lot of work being a CTG).

So I asked the universe today "What's uh, the deal?" and guess what that silly universe told me?

The answer my friend is blowing in the wind. The answer is blowing in the wind.

And it was!

My hair's to blame!

There is one thing I fantasize about more than Jack Johnson taking me on tour with him and writing a song for me . . .

Straight shiny hair.

Can someone please start a collection for me to get my hair Japanese straightened so I can get my life back in order?

Crash Test Granny

I'd like to apologize to Karen @ Now Don't Get Me Started, for tricking her into reading my blog yesterday.

My title, I'm a Grandma! may have been a teensy bit deceptive.

I lured Karen in and she wasn't prepared when I pounced on her and cried, "The better to eat you with my dear!"

Maybe I should post a disclaimer at the top of this blog that says:


You see Karen, I take my responsibility to help you guys maneuver this slippery slope called life very seriously. Sometimes that requires object lessons. Sometimes that requires trickery and tom-foolery.

I'll do what it takes. I'm that committed.

I do solemnly swear, on my honor, to share my attitudes AND my platitudes till death do us part. Amen!

In fact, allow me to share a few right now while I'm in the zone: You all know it's a hard-knock life, right! But did you know that the sun doesn't always come out tomorrow? (unless you live in Hawaii).

And did you know you can be fully dressed without a smile? I've tried it successfully several times. (But you can't be fully undressed without a smile.)

Don't believe everything you see/hear/read, peeps! Life will trick you, taunt you and tease you. Life will poke you in the eye.

What kind of dummy would I be if I sent you out into the world unprepared for these realities?

Do you get me?

Oh, btw, speaking of realities, who wants to hear the fortune cookie update, raise your hand.

Or would you rather just see which fortune cookies actually came true? Huh? Huh? Huh?

(Don't forget to add the special subliminal ending when you say it. That's what the ancient Chinese did.)







P.S. Anjeny added some fabric for The Magic Quilt. Go check it out.

I'm a grandma!

My husband lubbed my last post so much he says I can count it as my valentine to him. (YAY, I'm off the hook.)


He said that post made him want to give me 100 fortune cookies just to see which ones will actually come true.


But he thinks that should count as his valentine to me. (cheap skate!)


It didn't take me long to figure out that he didn't actually read my post, he skimmed it and missed the whole point.


He thought I was seriously going to put on my flawless bronze legs and my thong and call him Jack in a Brazilian accent.


HELLO! I thought I made it perfectly clear that I left my flawless bronze legs in my pre-mortal life. I haven't seen them since 1967. And the only body part that has ever worn a thong is my feet.



Hey, guess what!? I don't need thereapy afterall. I found a Jack that I'M NOT IN LOVE WITH.


Jack Weyland. I don't love Jack Weyland!!!


When I read his book Sam in college, I tore it to pieces, poured Mountain Dew all over it and started it on fire. That was during my feminist phase so I threw my bra into the fire too.


And then I made s'mores.


When life hands you lemons, make s'mores. That's what I always say.





So peeps, I've been absent yet present again. It's because my daughter has been in labor.


It's so hard to watch your daughter in labor.


She's only 14 so of course it wasn't baby labor, it was mental labor.


But giving birth to ideas is exactly the same process as giving birth to babies.


An idea must be conceived then carried in your mind while it grows and grows until it makes you crazy uncomfortable and crazy cranky. Carrying an idea around wears you out. You begin retaining water. You get heartburn. You can't sleep at night.


And worst of all you can't fit into your old ideas anymore.


Well, this is exactly what my daughter's group has been going through with their history day project on John Adams. They have had the longest, hardest labor--with no epidural. I was tempted to perform an emergency C-section because John Adams is a huge baby! (And he has bad teeth too). He almost broke their poor little backs on his way out of their brains.


Once I got to help my neice give birth--baby birth, not idea birth. She was pushing that baby out for so long I thought her face was going to pop off. Because I hate seeing anyone curse, instinctively I jumped up and put my hands on her head and pushed down as hard as I could. Every time she pushed, I pushed.

To this day she says it didn't help her get that baby out, but I know it did.


So that's what I did for my daughter and her group last night. They were sweating and cursing and swearing they would never have another idea ever again, so I jumped up and put my hands on top of their heads and I pushed down as hard as I could until their ideas popped out.


My daughter and her group are now the proud parents of a brand new history day script.


And I'm a grandma!


(btw, love being a grandma! They have to perform it, block it, dress it, feed it, burp it and teach it how to walk. Hee hee All I have to do is sleep through the night and spoil it. I think I'm going to buy it an XBOX 360 next week. And Rock Band too, of course.)

My daughter took a sick day today but should be fully recovered shortly.

No gifts necessary, but thanks.

.....................

p.s. Here's a birthday shout out to one of my very favorite blogging buddies ever. You go, LoW. You're almost over the hill. LY, LoW!!!

Lub my Hub

My BBFF, Funny Farmer is such a funny farmer. She has, as of late, been concerned about my standing in my marriage.


I told her that my standing is fine--it's the sitting that gets tedious.


So this post is for Funny Farmer and all of you who are curious george about my tendency to fall in love with unavailable famous Jacks.



If you must know all the boring details of my life . . . I lub my hub.


There, I said it!


In fact, I would go so far as to say I lub my hub-a-dub-dub.


He's like an ole comfy pair of jeans that I can pull on for every occasion (except blogging).


I lub that I don't have to picture him in his underwear to keep from getting tongue tied and twisted when he talks to me. (Okay, that came out the wrong way and only a handful of you will get it--sorry.)


I lub that I don't have to put on my flawless bronze legs to impress him. Flawless bronze legs are a dime a dozen around these parts, but tired, overwhelmed wives with ginormous hair who can't keep the house clean are harder to come by.


I lub that he gets that.


I lub that he is totally cool about me calling him Jack, as long as I say it with a brazilian accent and matching thong.


Something to work towards.


I lub that he lets me fall in love with any Jack or Jill I want, as long as they're unavailable and famous.


BTW, I thought of two more Jacks to add to my list--Jack Sparrow and Jack Sprat. And Kristina P. suggested Jack Daniels, which I'm considering as an alternate.



My husband suggested Jack the ripper, which I'm considering as an alternate to that alternate.


I'm not in love with any of them yet because none of them have made me think deep thoughts about life or about kissing.


(Jack Sprat hasn't anyway.)




So bottom line, peeps. I lub my hub THIS MUCH! And I lub my Jacks this much.



What can I say, I've got me a big heart, (and there's plenty of room for everyone).

This is not a post! This is self defense!

When I told the Old Boat Guy that I was cured of my HTML disorder, you know what he said?

"You'll never be cured. You're addicted!"

How rude!


Well here's me thumbing my nose at you, OBG!

Notice the seat is UP. (Clearly not MY throne.)

But fo' real, my favorite OBG has entered his boat in a beauty pageant--Miss Elegant Thang, or something something.

I was thinking she needs a great name to represent her. Something elegant, yet ironical (as my husband always says).

I'd like to nomiate . . .

Will anyone second the motion?

Anyone? Anyone?

And hey, go read Sandi's contribution to The Magic Quilt. It's beautiful.

And Tu Tu's having a Great Aloha Give-away. (I like her blog).

And Emily (my blood relative, thank you very much) is teaching us how to make cute valentine banners (if you're krafty like that).

And Wesley's mom, (Sue Ann) has a fun love song guessing game going on. Check it out.

And please go poke Kristina P in the eye. She's selling the ShamWOW now and she's been caught in the act of PDS--public display of snuggi. I think it's a disease, peeps.

And check out this Heelarious little video clip at In Time Out's blog. She calls it hilary ous. It's worth the watch, peeps. I'm going to go follow her while I'm there. Wanna come?

Why I Might Need Therapy

I might need therapy because I don't love Sundays.

Today especially. I didn't love today.


Church, for instance. Today I was seriously so . . . well, let's just say I almost yawned myself silly. I wanted to wrestle with my boredom demons, but I couldn't wake my brain up.


Then after church, I didn't love the whole close proximity to my entire litter of offspring trying to keep the sabbath day holy thing. It's dangerously oxymoronic. Or at least dangerously oxymormonic.

Keep in mind it'ss been exactly 28 days since my last comma. (wink wink)

Thankfully I was able to punish my offspring in cruel and unusual ways without breaking any commandments. I started by making them sing the scriptures, which quickly escalated into them standing in the corner while singing the scriptures, which quickly escalated into me performing some wax on/wax off moves on them while they sang the scriptures.

Why can't we keep Mondays holy? Mondays would be so much easier to keep holy.

Today my husband and I decided to run away. Or at least briskly walk away (we would never run on the Sabbath.) We briskly walked the path from Sunset beach to Sharks Cove.

We slowed down and then came to a complete stop at Pipeline because my husband needed to make a pit stop so I found myself a nice bench in the shade to sit and wait.

Imagine me, sitting and waiting like a frump on a log, among the gently swaying ti leaves and palm trees, looking pensively into the deep blue eyes of the ocean.

Now imagine the ocean getting all rico suave on me and trying to seduce me by sending it's waves to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

It's a good thing I left my accent and my flawless bronze legs in my pre-mortal life or no doubt I would have succumbed to temptation and had a passionate affair with the Pacific Ocean right then and there.


TIP: If you're planning a trip to Hawaii, don't forget to pack your accent and flawless bronze legs--they will match your thong bikini nicely, trust me, especially if you bring your Brazilian accent.


So the balmy breeze is running it's fingers through my . . . baseball cap, and the exotic accents are wafting in and out of my ears and all the flawless bronze legs are poking me right in the eye and I suddenly feel like the d word.

NO, not dumb! The d word that starts with d and ends with pressed.

Whenever I'm the d word I begin meditating and pondering and reflecting upon my inner wounded child, and also upon my outer flawed, un-bronzed adult.

Is that too much information? Because there's more.

There's my epiphany.

I could tell you about my sudden startling realization as I was sitting frumpity frump style on a stone bench at Pipeline beach.

Do you want to hear it?

I might need therapy because I only fall in love with famous unavailable men named Jack--Jackie Robinson, Jack Black, Jack Johnson, Jack Bauer, Jack Shepherd . . . I'm also in love John Adams and John Mayer, but everyone knows John is a synonym for Jack, which is either a complete coincidence or it's a message from the universe.

Would my husband need therapy if asked him to change his name to Jack?

Or would that be like him asking me to change my accent to Brazilian to better match my thong bikini?

I'm CURED!

OMGOSH! I've been working through some major major HTML issues for the past 4 freakin' hours.

But guess what?

I'm cured!

I've conquered my HTML ineptitude!!

I did it, peeps!

Funny Farmer is going to have a heart attack because I just designed and posted the lovely Magic Quilt button you see in the top right hand corner all by myself! (With a few tips from Swirl).

Oh, Yea, that's what I'm talking about. (Now I just have to figure out how to get my Crash Test Dummy Button back.)


So PLEASE grab a button and jump on the magic bus, gus. Scatter some sunshine. Spread the word because we got our first submission for the magic quilt today!

YAY!

Mahalo Amanda for making us one quilt block closer to healing the world.


Grab a tissue and go cry your heart out by clicking here.


P.S. Hey, how much will you give me if I get JJ to donate a t-shirt for the magic quilt? Huh? huh? huh?


P.S.S. Does anyone need a button?


P.S.S.S. You thought I was going to say I'm cured of Jack Johnson, didn't you!

My cup of envy runneth over!!!

Did you guys hear me screaming at the top of my lungs?

It sounded a lot like this:

AAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhhhhhhhhh!

No, it was more like this:

AaaaaHHHHHNOWAYAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

No, it was more like this:

OMGOSH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


My daughter just called me from her soccer slumber party, which just so happened to be hosted by the neice of Jack Johnson, who just so happens to live right next door to . . . you guessed it . . . Curious George!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh!

I just love that little monkey!

And GUESS WHAT!? Guess, guess, guess!

Okay you'll never guess!

Jack Johnson came over to the slumber party and sang a bunch of songs for the girls!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And guess what else!? Guess, guess, guess!

Okay you'll never guess this one.

Jack Johnson talked to my daughter.

And you know what he said? Huh? Huh? Huh?

He said, and I quote:

"I think I met your mom. She looks just like you."

Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

It just goes to show how important it is to spawn carbon copy offspring of yourself so they can jar the memory of famous people you love.

I wonder if he remembers wrapping his arm around me and kissing me on the cheek?
I still haven't washed that cheek, btw.

(I just hope he doesn't know that I found out about his Eagle Powers.)

P.S. Sorry for interrupting my skillz post. You can go back to ooh-ing and aah-ing over my uber awesome new photog/blog skillz now.

Got Skillz!

So I just got me some serious new photog/blog skillz which I am dying to show off (in a Braggedy Ann sort of way).

And since I spent the last few days in town watching my daughter lose both her state soccer games I will now exhibit my new skillz less through my amazing Jack Johnson and more through my amazing daughter.

But first, if I were an impressionist this is how I would paint what Hawaii looks like from my Santa Fe window as I'm driving to my daughter's soccer game:



And if I were a cubist . . .



And if I were a swirlist, this is what why daughter's soccer field would look like cubed then squared then swirled:



And if I were a realist . . .



Now for my amazing daughter . . .



Here's what she would look like if she played soccer during the early twentieth century.



And here's what she would look like if she were playing soccer in the mid twentieth century:







And here's what she would look like if she were playing soccer in the early twenty first century.





And here's what she would look like if her team didn't have enough uniforms so she had to exchange shorts publicly every time she subbed in.

Grab your reading glasses and a Code Red

Seriously, go grab a Code Red because my kids think this post is going to crash and burn!

(Get it . . . crash and burn!)

(And it will very likely self destruct in 24 hours.)


Pay attention to the fine print because I learned a new skill today.


Remember when I had the best day ever thanks to Jack Johnson?

And remember how weird he acted when I asked him about Curious George and the man with the yellow hat?

And remember how we became best friends and I then I realized that famous people are people too so I made a vow never to post photos of him again?

Well I lied.

We didn't really become best friends.

And I'm going to post more photos.

But in my defense, the photos were taken accidentally.

I kid you not.

He and his lovely cool-cat wife and his super cute l'il boys just happened to sit down right in front of me at my daughter's soccer game today so how could I NOT accidentally take photos of him, huh? huh? huh?

When the universe sets up a photo op, you don't ask why, peeps!

So after sitting behind JJ and his LC-C wife and SC L'il boys, I learned a thing or two that might not be common knowledge, like who he eats bananas with and who he voted for. Oh, and where he gets his special powers.

So why not share?

First:

I think he should hire me to shoot his next 3-D album cover.

Second:





Third:


The man with the yellow hat is alive and well:


And finally (and most importantly):



(Now if that doesn't get me at least one more vote for BEST HUMOR BLOG I don't know what will.)

P.S. It's April's birthday today. Let's to cover her blog with streamers! Happy Birthday April!! LY!!

Oh wait, it's T's birthday too!(belated) And Shelle's anniversary. PaRtAy! LY T!! LY Shelle!!