I think Martha hates me

A few days ago my next door neighbor, Martha, came rushing to my door in a state of glee.

"I got you a gift! I got you a gift!" she cheered.

She was prancing around on my porch doing the happy dance like a drunken sailor when out of the blue she stopped short as if something important had suddenly dawned on her.

"Why do I always get you gifts?" she said.

"Hmmmm" . . . I thought and thought. "Is it because I went to the DMV and spent 30 minutes filling out paperwork and receiving training, plus step-by-step instructions for your son to get his learners permit?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Is it be because I recently made your daughter look like a princess for her 7th grade banquet?"

"No."

"Is it because I let your daughter lose my new wooden heart earrings at the banquet?"

It's a cute story really.  You see while Cinderella was running from Prince Charming one of the hearts fell from her ear and disappeared.  I'm thinking Charming picked it up and is now searching for the owner of his twin heart.  If Martha's daughter lives happily ever after we all know who to thank. 

"No, " Martha said.

"Is it because I'm cute?" NO. "Is it because I'm pop-U-lar?" NO NO NO!

Honestly, I have no idea why Martha gives me gifts, but this is her latest offering.


Farina.

It's like cream o' wheat, only not as creamy, and more wheaty.  It's actually more like cracked wheat than cream o' wheat.

Silly goose, Martha!  (I think she hates me.)

There were two things I loathed as a child: tator-tot casserole and cracked wheat. In my day mom's didn't have alternate meal plans for picky eaters so I used to sit at the breakfast table every morning with my down-dog frown while everyone cheerfully ate their cracked wheat.

One day I made a pinky promise to my mom that if she made me oatmeal until I turned 16 I would eat cracked wheat from that day forward for the rest of my life.

Luckily I was crossing my pinkys.

I did try to eat Martha's Farina because it was given with glee, but after 3 bites I got SERIOUSLY nauseous--granted I had just popped a One-A-Day vitamin, but I probably could have gotten sponsors for my gag-a-thon. 

You know how when you're pregnant and you eat spagetti and then you up-chuck spagetti all night long and then you can never quite shake the image of those noodles violently running for their lives via your nose?

Well, imagine that with wheat.

Or you know how when you go body surfing and the waves keep slamming your face into the sand and you're digging sand out of our ears for days.

Well, imagine that with wheat (and in your nose).

MAHALO Martha, but you can have your stinkin' Farina back!

Bikini Bottoms

I bet you thought this post was about Sponge Bob, huh? Sorry to disappoint, but it's a post in response to a response to a post.

(Close your eyes, Low, we're gonna talk about partial nudity.)

Melanie J, who lives in Calyforny, had this to say in my comment box after my last post:


I can't live where there are too many bronzed goddesses. We have skinny, toned, big b@@bed (edited to meet CTD standards) blondes and large luscious ladies who don't mind being all big and roundy in itty bitty bikinis and that's bad enough. Regular bronze goddesses jogging by would probably deter me from the beach forever.

See that's where you're wrong, Melanie J. 

Things are always worse in your imagination than they are in the flesh.  Better and worse, I mean.  Regular bronze goddesses are worse, yes, because they're naturally flawless eye candy, but better too because they're naturally flawless eye candy.  

You get me? 

Me neither, but let me try to explain what it's like to live with bikini bottoms here, there and everywhere. 

You're driving past Waimea Bay--bikini bottoms, shopping at the Pupukea Foodland--bikini bottoms, attending a baptism at temple beach--bikini bottoms.

See for yourself:

One of these girls is not like the others.

But if I'm being brutally honest, it's not that hard.

Don't get me wrong, it was a shock at first, and it made being perpetually overdressed a bit of a drag, but you get immune to it once you understand the underbelly of the bikini world (LOL, I accidentally wrote uderbelly first). In fact I highly recommend that everyone move to a tropical climate where there are nearly naked people in your face all day. It really takes the charge out of partial nudity.

I've only been a Hawaiian for 17 years, but in my humble opinion there are three types of bikini bottoms--the mooners, the spooners and the crooners.

The mooners are those who wear thong bikinis without feeling like they have a major wedgie. They derive pleasure in the knowledge that others are checking out their chiquitas, (as DeNae would put it) and they are likely to be the models in the BEFORE and AFTER shots on your Hotmail sidebar that you tamn to helk every time you write an email.

In a nutshell, they are exhibitionists with the intent to stimulate, titillate, instigate, invigorate and emancipate.

Then there are the spooners. The spooners have been spoon-fed the you-are-what-you-don't-wear campaign slogan from the time they were potty trained. Bikini-a'la-carte was strictly forbidden from their moral menu, consequently they have developed an over-active bikini alert radar. 

In college the spooners signed on the dotted line to keep not only their chiquitas out-of-sight, but out-of-mind too.  They also swore on the Holy Da Vinci Code they would refrain from publicly revealing their knee caps, as the knee cap can be dangerous if uncovered incorrectly. 

When wearing a bikini a spooner always feels devilishly wicked, which causes them to either crawl on their hands and knees through the snow uphill both ways for 1oo miles chanting hail marys, or to place their thumb on their nose, fingers extended in jazz-hand position, and shout NANI NANI BOO BOO to the sky. 

The crooners are the easy breezy-lemon-squeezy bikini bearing babes who live on tropical islands and shop at Foodland.  They exert no energy strutting like the mooners or fretting like the spooners.  They are what they are and it is what it is.  Period.  End of story.  It never occurs to them to cover up or to strategically place their knee caps in compromising positions.  And it never dawns on them that they should really learn to ice skate because where they're headed has plenty of double hockey sticks.

So you see, I have once again succeeded in making a perfectly non-sensical quantum leap by asserting that PPN (public partial nudity) really can go unnoticed.

(But STILL!  It's soooo NOT FAIR!  Even in h.e. double hockey sticks the crooners will be more comfortable and get more attention than me.)   

Hey, I'm just the messenger!

There's a walking path along the beach on the North shore that my hub and I frequently frequent on Sunday afternoons when we're sick of keeping the sabbath day holy.  

The North Shore is a great place to walk when you want to pretend you're not living in a bubble or when you simply want to feel like an OMM (overdressed modbe Mormon).  So yesterday I got overdressed and headed North.  As I sped along the pristine Hawaiian shoreline two words that will never escape from my lips came to mind: Glorious and Tremendous.  

I refuse to let these two words into my vocabulary because my MIL spits them out for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but every so often, like profanity, they spontaneously escape from my subconscious brain when my eyes are bedazzled by the sparkling Aqua Fresh ocean against the Downy blue sky full of cotton ball clouds.  

(Does anyone else suddenly feel the urge to brush their teeth and do the laundry?)

In short, it was another tremendously glorious day in paradise.  

I parked at Sunset beach and attacked my walk like a pit bull, determined to be fit and fabulous at forty (ish).  Left. Right. Left. Right.   

I was marching along when the palm trees suddenly started yawning.  They swwwwwwayed baaaaaaaaack and fffffffffforth, toooooooooo and ffffffffffro, whispering "You are getting sleeeeeeepy.  Verrrrrrry sleeeeeeeepy."

Then the waves began strrrrrrretching themselves out across the sand in down dog position.  "What's your hurry?"  they chanted, moving gracefully from cobra pose to monkey pose to lion pose to cow face pose to cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof pose. 

Then the bouganville winked and told me to chill out and the sand beckoned me to come and play. 

 

Against my will my pace began to slowwwwwwww wayyyyyyyy dowwwwwn.  

Before long I could barely put one foot in front of the other.  

When I reached Pipeline I pulled a Forrest Gump and just stopped.  I was just done.  

I plopped myself down on the beach under the shade of a palm tree, took off my running shoes, dug my feet into the cool sand and propped myself back on my elbows.  I inhaled and exhaled. I inhaled again.  

Then I started to cry

Wah Wah Wah!  

And it wasn't because of the beautiful bronze goddess jogging by in her sparkly black bikini.  It was because I was thinking about Jon and Kate plus 8.  I hate it when people break up after they have sextuplets.  

(KATE!  STOP bossing Jon around!  And JON!  Stop having your mid-life crisis.)  

Okay, I didn't really cry, but there really was a beautiful bronze goddess jogging by in a sparkly black bikini.   

An extremely hairy old man (I'm talking Robin Williams hairy) with a crooked neck gave her a friendly wave and said hello as she jogged past him.  Then he turned around and checked her out from the back side.  

When he reached me he didn't wave or say hello.   But maybe he didn't see me sitting right in his path.  But fyi and ftr and btw, another hairy old man DID say hello.   In fact he stopped to chat with me.  When he found out I was an OMM he asked me if I wanted to be his nanny.  

Of course I had to regretfully decline, being that I have 4 kids of my own, but I said I understood his desire to hire a Mormon girl.   You can trust Mormon girls. 

His eyes narrowed into little slits.  

And then he leaned forward.  

Closer.  

Closer.

Closer. 

I puckered up in case he tried to kiss me.  

But instead he reached down and picked up a chewy granola bar wrapper which had been discarded on the ground next to me. 

"This yours?" he asked. 

"Of course not," I stammered, but his eyes said tsk tsk tsk. "I don't even eat chewy granola bars."  

But the seed of suspicion had been planted.  I was guilty by association. 

Then before he turned away shaking his head he looked me straight in the eye and said, "are Mormon girls really trustable?" 

What the what the what???

I lie not, peeps (except about puckering up for a kiss).  Could I make up such a tall tale about a word like trustable?   I'm an English teacher for goodness sake. 

There's a moral here.  There's a definite moral. 

Jon and Kate should NOT break up! 

(Hey, I'm just the messenger.) 

Something Strange and Unusual

You'd think with my hub being out of town I'd be blogging my brains out.  

But NO.  

Something strange and unusual happened.  

Normally I like to observe life.  I like to capture it, record it, interpret it, twist it, comment on it and wring it out to dry.  

But this weekend I just went ahead and lived it.  

For example, yesterday I attended the annual neighborhood Memorial day beach bash at Kawela bay and I don't have a single shred of photographic evidence to prove it.  

Wanna know why?   Because I didn't hover over, interrupt, surprise or stalk a single person.

I just.  simply.  talked to them. 

How weird is that? 

And I talked to my kids too.  All weekend long.

How weird is that? 

And we didn't just talk.  We also ate shrimp chips and watermelon and watched Ratatouille and the John and Kate Plus Eight marathon.  (PLEASE don't break up John and Kate!  What about the kids?  What about US?) 

We ate popcorn in the California King because we're not supposed to eat popcorn in the California king. 

We went to the movies because we could.   

We shopped at Target and ate at Blimpies because we never have.   

We've never ordered ice cream from Baskin Robbin's either so we did that too.  For some time now one of my twins has been begging me to take him to Robin Basket.  I finally figured out what the helk he was talking about so I decided to make his dream come true.  That's just the jeanie-in-a-bottle vibe I was riding this weekend.  

Which is why I accepted my daughter's invitation to take her to the the mall for a little Memorial day shop-like-you're-on-What-Not-to-Wear spree.  At first she was ticked because Macy's was the only store still open after 5 p.m., but the clearance racks were crammed full of interesting clothes--the kind of clothes that make you LOL in the dressing room because you can't figure out how to assemble and apply them to your body, but they look uber darling once they are applied, (even though your arms aren't quite in the sleeves).  

We don't have any photos to show for it, but we have oodles of complicated new clothing.

Today after the kids went off to school I thought about blogging, but I drove to the North Shore instead.    There's a walking path from Sunset beach to Sharks cove and I felt like giving my legs some rigorous exercise instead of my fingers. 

But if you don't mind, can I save that story for tomorrow?  Because right now I'm really busy sitting around listening to the birds chirp.  

MAHALO!   

And have a nice day. 

Boom boom clap, boom de clap de clap

That's right, peeps, I'm doing the Hannah Montana hoe down. Get on your boots, click on track 62 and let's pop-it, lock-it, polka-dot it!

Why, you ask?

Because I finally saw the Hannah Montana movie.

Why, you ask?

Because my hub is finally out of town. 

And that folks, is the reason my stress level was elevated to an orange alert last week.  I wasn't just trying to get my hub on a plane, I was also trying to get my son on the plane with him, which meant my son had to finish all of his school assignments early, (including his 50 page fully illustrated autobiography.)

After the 50 page fully illustrated autobiography was handed in, I turned my attention to my hub, who was packing for his father/son trip. This is the photographic evidence:


It's an age old argument around here. I say all you need is lub and he says all you need is a basketball, a baseball mitt and a couple of tennis rackets.

I put my hands on my hips and said, "And what, pray tell, do you plan on wearing when you use this basketball, baseball mitt and tennis rackets?" 

He put his hands on his hips too and replied, "The same thing you plan on wearing when you fill the suitcase with lub," he smiled.

What a silly goose!

I'm not going to tell you where he and my son are because I don't want you to show up at their hotel and ask for autographs, but I will say they've been to two Padre games already and caught 4 balls at batting practice--one of which came straight from Derek Lee.

Whoop dee doo da!

Now that they're gone, the rest of the fam are hopping on the ParTaY train!  Our first stop was Hannah Montana. I give the movie a thumbs up.

Seriously, it's got something for everyone-- outrageous physical comedy, culturally diverse hoe downs and tons of roosters. If you are a ten-year-old boy from Laie, this movie is your rooster heaven.

Despite the sub-par acting, it made us laugh (out loud during the Marx brothers-esque revolving door scene) and it made us cry (poor Miley had major hat head after she took off her wig at the concert) and best of all it made us tap our feet to the fun soundtrack (so sad Miley didn't collaborate with Kara on that American Idol finale song about mountains).

Who can resist a movie about the great identity crisis we all face as we struggle to strike a balance between holding onto our dreams and holding onto our relationships.

And who can resist a movie about breaking out of your cocoon and learning how to fly (with a sweetie-pie cowboy butterfly).

This movie reminded me that EVERYONE is an undiscovered super star.  It was almost as inspiring as sunday school.

So while I was watching  the movie and tapping and laughing and crying and thinking shallow thoughts about cowboys and deep thoughts about butterflies one person came to mind:

Melanie J.  @ Write Stuff

Melanie J.  just received the exciting news that her dream is coming true. Her first novel has been accepted for publication by a big time publisher! WAAAAAHOOOOOOOO!

HIGH FIVE MELANIE J.  I knew you when. And even though you support Yo Gabba Gabba, I am soooooooooooooooooooooo PROUD of you.

I just LOVE it when people tap into their inner rock star and SHINE!

So places,please! In honor of Melanie J. we shall now commence to boom boom clap, boom de clap de clap! (before track 62 ends!)

If it's already over then listen to track 63, light a candle and think about Melanie J. climbing a perilously steep mountain. 

(Save us a spot at the top Mel J.  We're still climbing. )

Hey, let's all crash her blog and scream some Barry Manilow Looks Like You Made It at the top of our lungs. 

The TRUman Show

Remember that uber pooey feeling I was telling you about in this post? Well, it's been elevated to an orange alert, meaning the risk of me not folding the laundry, not doing the dishes and not cleaning up after myself is significantly higher than it was 2 days ago.

It all started yesterday morning. My twelve year old son had stayed up until midnight to finish the last two chapters of his autobiography. When I first woke up I thought it was cute to learn that he wanted to be a missionary in Japan so he could convert a few samari and that he wanted to name his first born son after Rocky Balboa. I even burst into fits of deep-belly laughter when I saw his cover page.


But this was his final project in English class which meant somehow it needed to be printed ASAP-- seemingly simple task for someone who actually has a working printer and a computer that operates in something other than safe mode.

For me it became a trial and a tribulation of monumental proportions. When your child has a 50 page project that needs to be printed, YOU have a 50 page project that needs to be printed. And when your child inserts photos onto nearly every page of his project, black and white ink ain't gonna cut it.

Let's just say I had to exercise the patience of Job.

On second thought, Job's got nothin' on me! He never had to deal with technology.

Granted half of my trials and tribulations were due to my own stupidity, the other half were all my computer's fault.

In fact, I'm going a write a book called, MEN ARE FROM VENUS, COMPUTERS ARE FROM MARS!

Although, if you think about it, computers and men are actually a lot alike. They both need power to operate. They both wait to be commanded before they complete a task. They both shut down unexpectedly when you don't speak their bewildering language or understand their frustrating logic. And they both get that glazed look when you tell them your emotional needs.

The only difference is that you can't sweet talk your computer. You can't bat your eyelashes and run your fingers through their hair and say "please, please, pretty please, will you print this document? I promise there will be something in it for YOU, big boy!"

I'm not going to bore you with the deets so please don't ask and don't offer advice and most of all, don't say Why didn't you just push F8 or control/alt/delete or why didn't you call me?

There were three different computers involved, of different races, creeds and genders--not to mention three different word programs that are no longer on speaking terms.

Why can't we all just get along! I kept saying in my best Rodney King voice.

I had to call IT services to do an intervention on my office laptop, but even they couldn't coax it to print, save files or connect to the internet. Finally it pulled a crash test dummy and they threw their hands in the air and recommended I have it admitted for rehabilitation.

One thing I now know for sure is that we are all just characters in The Truman Show.


I testify that this is tru. Why else would it be called the TRUman show. This life is nothing more than one big reality show. And the director is Mr. Murphy. He lays down all the laws.


I could almost hear his voice over the loud speaker calling out directions to his crew:

The dummy's in a hurry, cue the pleasant old man in the golf cart to turn in front of her in five, four, three . . . NOW! And slow him down to 3 miles per hour.

The dummy is walking from IT services carrying her unprotected laptop. Cue the rain.

The dummy is about to complete her task. Cue print services to jam their copy machines with 800 flyers.

And then as if that wasn't enough, Mr. Murphy decided they needed some dramatic irony.

Do you know what dramtic irony is, peeps? It's when the audience knows something the main character doesn't know. Something that makes the audience giggle or cry or say oh NO, look out below!

So yesterday millions of people were sitting on their celestial couches, eating their proverbial popcorn and giggling as I rushed around campus like I was trying to win The Amazing Race with my zipper down.

That's right, I had XYY!

And that's not even the half of it, but you wouldn't understand because you've never walked a mile in my slippahs.

The long day ended with me consoling myself in a ginormous cherry blossom bubble bath with extra extra bubbles to cover all my nooks and crannys.

(I figured the audience had had enough laughs for one day.)

My Virgin American Idol Finale Review

Is anyone still talking about American Idol?  Am I too late to chime in?  

I haven't read a single review or opinion since the winner was announced so here's my virgin take on the finale:  

Thumbs up for Alyson and Cyndi Lauper. 

Thumbs up for Steve Martin and Miss Utah, what's her name?  That cute eclectic chick with the original voice (the first few times you hear it) that got embarrassingly sassy before she got the boot?

Thumbs up for Danny Gokey and Lionel Richie! 

Thumbs WAY up for Adam singing Queen!  Been waiting all season for that moment and he didn't let me down. (And Kermit singing with Keith Urban was pretty cool too (if I kept my eyes closed)).

GINORMOUS highlight for me when Kara upstaged spray-tanned bikini babe.  WOW!  Kara's got vocals.  She should sing songs about  mountains and hurricanes.  (And is it bad that I shouted TAKE THAT BIKINI BABE! when her wardrobe malfunctioned?)

My favorite song of the whole night was the Ford commercial.  Adam and Kris sounded incredibly in-sync.  They should hook up and do a car commercial world tour.  I would pay to that my husband to that.  It's like killing two birds with one stone. 

And it looks like I switched camps just in the nick of time because I ended up on the winning team.  Woohoo.  I'd hate to be on the losing team because we all know what happens to the losers of American Idol--they get to be on the Disney Channel.  

I'm excited to see Adam on iCarly.  I hope he wears those black sparkly wings he wore when he performed with Kiss. 

(The only thing that would have made that performance better is if Adam, or one of those old dudes in spandex,  had taken a spill in their clod hopper shoes.) 

I need to give you an update on that uber pooey feeling I've had,  (I think it would look cuter spelled poohie, don't you?)  Which has now turned into that uber duber poohie feeling.  

I also need to give you a progress report on my son's autobiography and on my puppy lub and on my unwashed kids.  

But you'll have to sit tight--stay tuned--don't touch that dial.  The weekend report will come tomorrow--because I've dozed off a half a dozen times since I started this post.      

Can you guys tell which parts I dozed off during?

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

How do you spell a snore?

Carmen.  Is her name Carmen?  

  

That uber pooey feeling

You know that jelly fish feeling you have inside after you've been waking up at 4:30 a.m to meet deadlines and make arrangements and get organized and make preparations and be of assistance to?

My daughter, who has a way with words, would call it that uber pooey feeling.

I'm not talking about that uber pooey feeling you get when you haven't had a printer since December and when you buy a new one it doesn't work anyway because your home computer crashed and only runs in safe mode and your office computer freezes every 42minutes (so DON'T FORGET TO SAVE or you'll end up under the gun having to retype chapters four and five of your son's autobiography for him before noon.)

I'm talking about that uber pooey feeling you get after you retype chapters four and five of your sons autobiography and find out the print center on campus is running a big project so you have to run to the copy center and pay $25 and wait 25 minutes to have it printed out.

I hate that feeling!

I think the universe is punishing me for rooting for Adam on American Idol. You must admit he's insanely talented, creative, original and versatile. I bet he's flexible too. But after last night I'm officially in the Kris camp.

I actually can't watch either one of them sing. They both creep me out. Adam's eyes say, LOOK AWAY little girl, before I bite your stinky neck. And Kris's mouth says, It's not easy being green!

Was that rude?

Not trying to be rude, peeps. Just sayin'. Bless his little kermit mouth. My mouth gets all bent out of shape like that when I blog so I have total compassion.

Before I go I just want to say that while I was retyping chapters four and five of my son's autobiography I learned things I never knew about his hopes and dreams.

Do you mind if I share? (Go grab yourself a tissue, because I laughed my mascara off.)

I have high expectations for high school. I’m going to be in AP classes with a 4.3 GPA. But the biggest thing I want to accomplish in high school is to be the Valevictorian.

I want to go to a Division I college. Any college between Duke and North Carolina, maybe Stanford, Kansas, Oklahoma, Oregon, UCLA, USC, Georgetown, Notre Dame or NYU. One of those colleges would be cool.

I know! I know, It will cost a lot to get into one of these colleges, but I think I can pull it off. I don't know yet what I want to major in yet. Right now I am leaning towards something that has to do with acting. For plan B I might want to get an education in plumbing. I always found that fascinating.


If over/underachieving makes him an (oxy)moron then I'd have to say that's my boy!

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOLOL

I'll never wash my kids again!

Oh my goodness!  Oh my goodness!  I have so much to tell you.  

Some things are unmentionable because they're (private). Other things are unmentionable because they're (top secret).  Other things are unmentionable because they're just plain (embarrassing),  (like guess what . . . I dropped my daughter's cell phone in a public toilet on Saturday.  Oooooops!)   

And there was another embarrassing moment too when my twins jumped up on stage at a concert on Saturday night and started ROCKING THE HOUSE DOWN! 

To make matters worse an empathetic friend recorded it and emailed it to me because she said she was laughing so hard she cried and and she wanted me to cry too.  

And since misery loves company I want you guys to cry too.  

So what you're about to shed tears over is my twins and Martha's twins shaking their groove thangs at a Upstanding Youth/Cubworld concert here at BYU-H on Saturday night.  (BTW, both groups are born and bred in Laie so nani nani boo boo!) 



Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing



Photo Sharing - Video Sharing - Photo Printing

You should check out Upstanding Youth. They ROCK (and plus I taught the trumpet player how to read and write). (It's good to take credit where credit is due.)

And then check out this post I wrote about CUBWORLD! He's da bomb. He lives in Utah now so when I saw him in church on Sunday I dropped my scriptures and started screaming like a little glrl. I thought I was going to hyperventilate for a second, but I was okay.

Here's the photographic evidence that I was sitting on the front row at the concert:






Ahhhhh! He's touching my kids.

I'll never wash my kids again!

And he brought us a trifle yesterday.

Did you hear that peeps? CUBWORLD brought US a trifle!

Ahhhh, I'll never wash that trifle again either!

In regards to my recent kidnapping . . .

I'm still being held captive in my basement at gunpoint.

By my life.

I blamed it on my hub and my kids and my students, but my life is the real mastermind behind the whole plot to keep me from blogging my brains out.

(Admittedly I made up the million dollar ransom part to make a quick buck.)

(And anyway, we don't have basements in Hawaii)

(Oh, and my hub cleaned the whole garage by himself yesterday) (while I sat chained at gunpoint in the basement.))

(That is if we had basements in Hawaii that is where I would have been sitting chained at gunpoint).

I haven't even had a chance to send out all of my thank you notes for your birthday wishes and your puppy prayers.

MAHALO!

Your prayers were sort of answered. In mysterious ways.

I've been granted visitation rights of my puppy.

That is to say his 10 year old owner brings her over to visit. I'm like her grandma now. I get to borrow and babysit my puppy and give her jerky treats, but it's a package deal. The owner visits too. And she yakity yak yak's my eardrums off. I hate to say it, but it's kind of testing my puppy lub.

Is this the puppy and owner I want to spend the rest of my life with? It's such a big commitment. And can my eardrums take it? (what's left of them).

I do lub the puppy though. And she gets so excited to see me. It's so charming how she wags her tail madly and bites my face off.

I'm a puppy lub virgin, but I'm thinking puppy lub is a lot like people lub.

At first it's just you and your puppy and that's all that matters. Lub is all you need. Lub conquers all. Lub lifts you up where you belong.

But what goes up must come down.

It gradually dawns on you that behind every good puppy is a previous owner who raised that puppy and wants to control that puppy just as much as you do.

You get me, peeps?

You don't just marry your puppy, you marry your puppy's previous owners.

Something to think about while I'm chained in this basement.

Psssst!

Over here . . .

It's me, Crash!

I'm scratching this message to you will a paperclip.

I'm being held hostage by my hub and kids and students. They're keeping me tied up in the basement and right now my hub is forcing me at gunpoint to clean the garage.

Please drop 1 million dollars in my comment box if you ever want to see me again.

I will try to escape while I'm waiting for you to come up with the money, but I can't promise anything.

I have so much to tell you, but it's hard to write with a paper clip so for now I just want to wish my drop dead gorgeous sister, Melanie a happy birthday.




I thought this photo appropriate because we had just eaten chocolate cake at IKEA, which is exactly what I would have given her on her birthday if I hadn't been kidnapped.

Melanie is the most talented, generous, glam-bam sister in the world. LY Melanie.

I also want to wish my saucy/sassy/salty soul sister Sandi (say that five times fast) a happy birthday. She doesn't have a blog so you'll have to wait here for her if you want to poke her in the eye.


Or you can go to Kute Kasey's blog and look at her hilarious photo tribute. It's a must if you want to see her 12 year-old hub. I stole this photo of Sandi because it's my favorite. It's just sooooooo Sandi!

LY Sandi! I threw you a Tim Tam Slam party in my class yesterday. I'll post the photos if I ever escape from this basement.

P.S. Did I mention I fell in love with a lost puppy? sniff!

Puppy Lub

For best results, please read the following post to song #73 on my playlist.



I can't get Donny Osmond out of my head.

I never fully understood him before, but he was right on when he said, This is not a puppy love.

He said that beause he was in full grown DOG love.

You can be in full grown dog love even with a puppy, peeps. Take it from me!

And when Donny said, Someone help me! help me, pleeeeee-E-E-E-zzzz I couldn't have said it better myself.

My puppy is gone.

I WANT MY PUPPY BACK!

It's a long story, full of ups and downs, highs and lows and in's and outs, but in short, we found the owner.

I knew it was coming, but I was still a little sad so I reached for the can of whipped cream my hub gave me for my b-word day and had a squirt (or three). Then I ran to the store and bought some doggy jerky treats and some prime rib Alpo. I felt like a grandma-gone-wild but I didn't want my puppy to forget me.

Then, much to my surprise, the owners said they didn't really want the puppy and were looking for someone to take care of her.

Ooo, ooo, PICK ME! PICK ME! I said, jumping for joy.

My head was full of doggy collars and leashes and shots and hairy furniture and fleas and disgruntled neighbors.

Everything was right with the world and I knew there was a Gad.

But SUDDENLY! they didn't pick me after all.

Cursed, cursed spite.

Dr*t! D*rn! D*ng! Sh$cks! Sh##t! Cr*p! Cr$d! Z%%ks! Sh##sh! Sh%%ts!

I ran to the tub and took a piping hot bath. It was so hot that my eyes began sweating.

Profusely.

WHY GAD? WHY?

Why do we have to love and then lose. Why????

I would marry that puppy if she asked me. But sadly that puppy and I live in different worlds. And she doesn't belong to me.

Why can't THAT puppy belong to me???

My hub was a little surprised by my profuse sweating.

"Do you need to see a psychiatrist?" he said. "Or should we just buy a puppy?"

"I don't want a puppy!" I yelled! "I want THAT puppy!"

Then a put a wet washcloth over my face and continued yelling.

"Don't you get it? I'll never love another puppy as long as I live. There's only one puppy for me! I'm a one-puppy girl!"

So there it is, peeps.

Sometimes life is funny.

And sometimes it's not.

I wonder if it would have turned out differently had I been born aboard the Queen Mary.

So you know who I've been thinking about? Remember Tiffany, who was about to adopt the baby she'd been raising since birth? Remember how the mother came back and yanked him out of her arms.

I wonder how she's doing.

I wish I could give her a ginormous hug right now!

Let's all run over to Tiffany's for a group hug.

Go AWAY!

I mean, ah shucks, peeps, you didn't have to celebrate my birthday. Fo' real! You really know how to make a dummy feel special.


Thank you so much for all of the primary songs and the Disney songs and the bi-lingual songs and the off-key songs in my comment box.


How many of you are sick to death of my birthday though, raise your hand!


ME TOO!


In fact the next time I hear the b-word I think I might hurl.


So I know I told you that all I wanted for my b-word day (bleh!) was world peace, but I really just wanted to feel pop-U-lar. I wanted to feel for one day like even though I wasn't born on the Queen Mary, I should have been, or I could have been.


You guys so tapped into that.


Thanks. I'm totally feeling the lub.


But I have to admit I kinda miss the good old days before I was a dummy when I wouldn't tell anyone it was my birthday just so I could mope around all day feeling like I was born in a medical center. There's nothing like feeling sorry for yourself to justify acting like a spoiled brat.


Kinda missing that.


So do you guys want to hear about my day?


Something happens to you as you move closer and closer to that sweet spirit phase of your life.


You get nervy. Saucy, almost. Sometimes you get an intense urge to wear a bedazzled jacket and stick it to the man.


That's how I felt this morning. Maybe because my hub pulled us all out of bed at 5:30a.m. so we could sit around a table of flowers and French toast and FUZE (Don't ask me why he bought me FUZE. Totally random). He forced the kids to sing happy b-word day (bleh!) while he sprayed whipped cream all over my French toast.


I knew then it would be a gods-must-be-crazy day.


And it was!


I showered neked. I went outside without sunscreen. I parked in a tow-away zone.


But, get this, I didn't get towed away.


It was like the universe had my back.


The bestest part of the day, besides my grilled ahi sandwich at Lei Lei's, was this:

My twins found a lost puppy.

I got to hold him and lub on him and nuzzle him all night long. Oh, peeps I need a baby or something. I am right now at this very moment watching him through the sliding glass door and hoping he wakes up so I can comfort him.

I'm thinking I better sleep on the couch in case he needs me.

I pinky promise I 'll look for his owner tomorrow. Or the next day at the latest.

If any of you recognize him, don't call me, I'll call you.

The second best part of the day was at 10 pm when I got a mysterious knock on my door. OMGOSH, it was so exciting because no one was there and sitting on the porch was a Sadoku book and the most delicious vegan cookies ever from my daughter's hoity toity English teacher, Mariko. The little sneak. I'm thinking she dropped the cookies and ran because her last post was about how much she hates it when girls come to her door bearing cookies. Ha! Such a hypocrite.

But vegan cookies are so Yum-O! I savored every bite just trying to crack the secret vegan code. Tell me if I'm right, Mariko. Vegan instant oatmeal, vegan white chocolate chunks, vegan dark chocolate chunks, vegan instant banana pudding, and vegan apple sauce in place of the sugar.

No, I take that back. It's non-vegan sugar. But the big question is, butter or shortening?

Mahalo Mariko! Especially for the beautiful vegan card. I bet you or Jake took that photo. Am I right?

(BTW, that puppy is going to break my heart, isn't he? huh? huh? huh?)

K, peeps, b-word day (bleh!) is officially over so stop STARING at me and go AWAY!

(Wait, come back. I didn't mean it!)

Tru Lub!

Four score and 15,330 days ago today, (you do the math) a dummy was born of goodly parents in Long Beach, California aboard the the Queen Mary.

At least that's how I remember it.

My mom remembers it as St. Mary's Medical Center, but I'm sure it was the Queen Mary because I don't have a religious bone in my body.

(You guys are totally questioning my testimony right now, aren't you?)

One thing my hub and I like to do to spice up our marriage is role play, and since it's my birthday I took on the role of Grumpty Dumpty and he took on the role of Grumplestiltskin.

Poor Grumplestiltskin is tired of paying attention to Grumpty Dumpty after Mother's Day and poor Grumpty Dumpty is tired of turning another year older and another year wiser because it means she's that much closer to morphing into that girl with the sweet spirit and the nice personality.

You all know the girl.

Oh, just JOSHIN' peeps! I'm not old! And I'm not wise! And my hub and I don't role play to spice up our marriage!

And anyway, I ain't throwing no pity pArTaY today! I can mope about my sweet spirit tomorrow.

So I thought of something you can give me for my birthday? Give me a mountain with nothin' to dew!

Get it? Nothin' to dew? Are you guys too young for that commercial?

Did you guys dew the math on my age yet? Get it? Dew the math! (cracking myself up here).

If you want to know how old I am in Mountain Dew years then watch these commercials.

Just dew it! (Double dog dare you.)

At least watch the first three. I'm older than the It'll Tickle Yore Innards and the Hello Sunshine ads.

I was raised on the Give Me a Dew ads.

Which I blame for my GIVE ME A DEW RIGHT NOW mentality.

Which reminds me of the cutest, cutest Mountain Dew story ever. You guys know Sandi, right? Kute Kasey's mom? Well Sandi lubs me so much she sent her hub out here to Hawaii to buy me some Code Red Mountain Dew for my birthday. The guy camps out on the beach in a tent for 7 days scouring the island in order to help me CTR (Chose the Red) on my birthday. He even signs up for a Costco membership. But guess what! Costco doesn't sell Code Red. No one on the island sells Code Red (except Foodland, which is right next to my house.) So get this, she tells him to buy me a Ted's Bakery Chocolate Haupia pie instead(MY FAVORITE).

sniff

That's tru lub.

I'm verklempt (which means choked with emotion in SNL).

And coincidentally I bought Sandi a Ted's Bakery Chocolate Haupia pie for her birthday too, (which is on Saturday) (but since it's impractical to send a pie on a plane, I ate it and bought her some Japanese rice crackers instead).

Is that like the most beautiful Gift-of-the-Magi story ever?

MAHALO Sandi and Sandi's hub.

Well, I gotsta go. (My hub is waiting to give me my 15, 330 birthday spankings so he can call out Who's your dummy? from his van down by the river.)


P.S. Don't dew drugs. peeps!

Dead or Alive?

Today one of our favorite people is having a birthday!  Her name is Kristina with a P.  

HAPPY BIRTHDAY Kristina P.  We all pitched in and got you a new Snuggi. And a Sham Wow! And a Tim Tam Slam with a side of SPAM! 

Everyone go light a candle and leave it in Kristina P's comment box because she is the world's greatest blogger.  I lub her with all my stone cold heart.   

And, since it's her birthday, I'm gonna lub her with all my Cold Stone heart too.  

And just so you know, tomorrow is my birthday too.  

But you don't have to get me a gift (unless you want too).  All I really want for my birthday is world peace. 

My hub and I already celebrated.  He took me on a date.  I wanted to see The Soloist and he wanted to see Star Trek.

Since it was my date night I said, "well, I'm not much of a Trekie." And he said, "Well you're not much of a soloist either."

He had me there. 

Would you like to hear my review of Star Trek?  Do you have anything better to do?  Well, okay then. 

Star Trek is about emotional compromise. In space. At uber warp speed.

It's emotion meets reason. Fire meets ice. The past meets the future--meets the past. In a black hole. Full of red matter.

It's the tragical meets the comical. While hurtling through a worm hole. Boldy. Where no worm has gone before.

It's Trek meets Shrek (minus the awesome soundtrack and Eddie Murphy acting like a Jack-behind). 

It's Kirk meets Spock. 

It's Spock meets Spock.

It's what-the-helk-is-happening meets who-the-helk-cares (because Captain Kirk is smokin' hot (before he got all bloated and became the spokesperson for Priceline.com)).

He could almost pass for a smokin' hot vampire, don't you think?

(He's not this creepy in the movie, btw).

On the way home, while my hub was explaining all the quantum physics of the movie to me, I said "It's too bad William Shatner is dead."

"William Shatner's NOT DEAD!" he said.

"Yes he is!" I insisted. "He died like a year ago. I distinctly remember it because I wasn't sad at all."

"You wanna bet?" My hub said.

"I don't bet." I told him. 

"Oh, so you'll bet that Tatum is tired and you'll bet that the twins will catch roosters, and you'll bet that I will give a motivational speech in my van down by the river, but you won't put your money were your mouth is when it come to William Shatner?" 

He got me again.  So I bet.

As soon as I got home I googled it and guess what?

He's ALIVE!!!!!!

There's nothing creepier than hoping someone's dead and finding out he's alive.

My Ho-Hum Mother's Day

This morning, whilst my daughter was doing her hair and giggling about how she figured out my username and password to break into my blog and steal my identity, I listened attentively in shock and awe.

It was as if I was seeing her for the first time. Or as if I'd seen her around before but had never been formally introduced. 

"Do I know you?"  I said.  "You look familiar, but I don't recognize the breaking and entering.  Oh, and the slandering. "

There were a lot of insinuations made by my family yesterday which could hurt my reputation as a dummy.

It appears that my children have inherited the big fish syndrome. They get it from their great-grandmother, Gigi. She's from Portage, Utah and everyone knows that people from Portage are bottle fed exaggeration. 

Besides being from Portage, Gigi was struck by lightening three times. You can't get struck by lightening three times without some serious scrambling to your genetic geography. 

That being said, allow me to clarify a few things.  My son, Wyatt said I was a really nice mom, but for the record, a week ago he accused me of treating him like a slave.   

As for my cooking . . . LOLOLOL.  I do not cook amazing meals, unless you call slapping a bowl of chili and rice on the table once a week scrumdidilyumptious. And yes, I do complain. Wah! Wah! Wah! are my favorite three little words. 

And as for pushing my son and helping my son with his homework . . . I never laid a hand on him. He tripped down the stairs all by himself.  Cross my heart!

If there's one thing I learned from Mother's day as my children were going around the dinner table accusing me of all sorts of outrageous acts of kindness and support is that it doesn't matter what you actually do for your kids, it only matters what they think you do for them.

Can I get an AMEN! 

So my Mother's day was just like an other Sunday. I woke up to my hub giving me a back massage. Then he took me for a walk on the beach. When I returned my kids had made pancakes and eggs and a delicious orange/banana julius. After breakfast I let them eat ice cream while I took a piping hot Cherry Blossom bubble bath. I got a long-stemmed rose at church and then my hub sang to me on the stand in front of everyone.  (Technically he was hiding in the corner behind a large plant, but he was moving his mouth so I'm counting it.)  My favorite part was when one of my twins leaned over and said, "Is he lip syncing?"

After sacrament my hub said "Do you want to skip Sunday School?"  We can run home and prepare your surprise Mother's Day dinner?"

"Let me get this straight!"  I said.  "You're asking me to ditch church so I can use my new knives to help you surprise me?"

He nodded.

"Okay!" I said. So we raced home and chopped potatoes. And then we sliced watermelon and pared watermelon and boned watermelon and scalloped watermelon. Don't tell my kids, but the watermelon turned out so pretty I set a few pieces aside for my scrapbook.

My new knives are incredibly SHARP! Let's just say I am stuck on band-aid and band-aid's stuck on me. I actually sliced a fingernail clean off in the onions. (But nobody has ever choked on a fingernail have they?) 

All in all it was a Ho-Hum day, except for the part where Anjeny came over and gave me a beautiful hand made mother's day card and a lovely letter.  She totally understands that my primary love language is words of affirmation.  

Mahalo, Anjeny!  You made my day.  (Some of the rest of you made my day too.)  

Hope all of you had a Ho-Hum Mother's Day too! 

Happy Mother's Day Mom

So, I hope you enjoy this mom! This is your mothers day present from me. I broke into your blog and am going to write embarressing things about you. This is Tatum, by the way. I just want you to know how much I love you! You are always there to support me your famous phrase, "I bet." You always make amazing dinners, and try to prepare me with sunscreen. When I was little I was mad that I looked like you instead of dad, but now I'm grateful because you are so beautiful. Not just on the outside. You have been a great example to me. Service is a big part of your life and you never ever complain. My favorite thing about you though, is that you always follow your dream. Even when I tease you about it, you fight for what you want with all your heart. I love you so much, and I hope you enjoy this :)

Wyatt: "I love you so much. I'm really grateful to be alive, because you take such good care of me. Your a really nice mom. "

Garrett: "Thank you for everything that you done for me and thank you for being my mom. You are so funny and make people laugh in my class. They like you too."

Zach: "I'm thankful for everything you do for me. When you help me with my homework, push me, and you always want the best for me. You make good food. You try to be funny. You always take pictures of me. "

Alan: "Hey hun, I'm glad Tatum decided to break into your blog, so we could suprise you for mothers day. I love you a lot. I'm not the writer so I won't say much, but I'm proud of you. You have been such a great mother to the kids, and a wonderful wife to me. I love you!"

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY MOM!!!

Another Mysterious Package

This time from my silly-goose mom.

Let's just say the Crash Test Dummy Scored again!


My mom sent me a new wooden block knife holder. Wahoo! Just what I wanted.

I've been using this old faux Farberware knife holder for almost a year now.


Why would my silly goose mom send me a new wooden block knife holder, you ask?

Because IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!

Next week.

(I love having my birthday so close to Mother's day. It's double the fun of making my hub feel twice as guilty about not loving me half enough.)

So about my birthday present, that's not all, peeps. I thought that was all too, until I went to throw the packaging popcorn away before my kids scattered it across the living room, but guess what I found!


KNIVES! Actual knives. The useful kind with sharp blades.

The kind that excludes you from being able to say if only I had sharp knives I could feed my children.

The kind that turns your boys into Ninja Sushi Turtles and your girls into Betty Crocker spaniels.

I think my mom might be feeling guilty for neglecting to educate me about the various classes and cultures of the Cultery Empire because all the knives are numbered and labeled so I won't forget where they go and what they do.

A. Maze. Ing.

Like did you guys know there is a special knife just for cutting bread and bagels?

Well, there is! It's #4 and it's called a bread and bagel knife.

It slides through a bagel like butter and makes it look like angel food cake.


Now we can't stop cutting bagels.

And there's one called a cleaver knife so you can cleave unto your reflection whilst you're cooking dinner.

Or you can take artistic photos of yourself and give them ironic titles like Reflections of A Cereal Killer.


Or Reflections of a Cereal Killer's Nose.

The one with my son's nose in it is called a showtime knife.

The scalloped blades suggest it could have something to do with scrapbooking. (Silly goose mom--always trying to encourage/manipulate me to get my scrapbooks started.)

In short, all those years of making my mom carve and hack and saw through her food finally paid off. I am now the proud owner of a chef knife, a saw knife, a boning knife, a sportsman knife, a chop and serve, a cheese knife, a garnish knife, a paring knife, a carving knife and a fillet knife.

(I have no idea what they're for, but look out Helk's Kitchen, cuz there's a new kid on the chopping block.)

And that's not even all.


Remember this candy-apple red purse my mom peer pressured me into buying?


Well lookie what she sent to round out my collection. How sweet is that!?

Thanks, Mom! You're da bomb. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! But now I feel kinda bad that all I sent you was a pack of Orbit Mint Mojito.

(I should have sent two packs.)

Anyway peeps, have yourself a merry little Mother's Day!

Disgruntled Guests

Today I got a mysterious package from my rockstar brother and his wife. Enclosed was a gift and thank you card for letting them stay with us while they were in Hawaii.

They said they had a great time, but it could have been better.

You wanna know how it could have been better? huh? huh? huh?

According to them, their stay could have been better if our hand mixer had two beaters instead of one.

So they took it upon themselves to send us a brand spankin' new hand mixer.

(Insert evil mad scientist laugh here.) They walked right into our sneaky little trap.

See, when we have visitors we hide all the good stuff and pull out all of the junk stuff.

Then we make our guests use the junk stuff.

(chuckle chuckle chuckle)

I made my SIL mash a whole bowl of REAL potatoes with one beater. (snicker snicker) And now I've got myself a brand new hand mixer.

(heh heh heh)

When my hub's brother brought his family a few years ago, they asked us if they could use our cooler to keep their Diet Coke chilled while they soaked up some sun. We put their sodas in a garbage bag and emptied all of our ice cube trays on top. Then my hub did the hokey pokey, slung the bag over his shoulder and said "HO HO HO."

We've secured 3 coolers that way. All thank you gifts from disgruntled guests.

We've also raked in a toaster, three blenders, two new mops, a crock pot, a toilet, and a hoover upright vacuum cleaner. (For some reason guests hate sweeping the carpet with a broom.)

Sometimes, when we get doubles, we sell our gifts on e-bay because we subscribe to the reduce, reuse, recycle philosophy (and we love extra cash).

So peeps, if any of you need a place to stay on your next trip to Hawaii, let me know. We've got plenty of room.

(And we need a new van-down-by-the-river).


P.S. Anyone wanna buy a hand mixer?

"I BET!"

Yesterday we pulled the kids out of school after lunch so we could make the one hour journey into town to watch my daughter play her first state tennis match.

If you wanna know what it's like to ride around in a beat-to-crap van-down-by-the-river all day with the dummy family try saying Unique New York over and over and over and over.

Go ahead, try it--double dog dare you.

Did it sound like this? New Yeek New York, New Yeek New, New Yeek, New York.

Or did it sound like this? U Neek U Nork, U Neek, U Nork, U Neek U Nork.

Either way, you're now officially a dummy! Congratulations.

So about my daughter's first state tennis match. She basically played a machine, but she got one game off her and she made the machine work for every point, so as parents go, we are proud as peacocks. She's only a baby freshman after all, and it's an honor just to have your baby freshman nominated.

After the match we went to Costco and ordered some pizza. My daughter said "I'm tired" and I said, "I bet."

Then she said "I KNEW you were going to say I bet. You ALWAYS say I bet after I say I'm tired. I don't know why I even bother telling you I'm tired because I already know you're going to say I bet."

Enlighten me peeps! Is there something more appropriate I should be saying? Like I'm tired too so quit your whining!

I bet just sums it up so succinctly. It's so much more pointed than saying, NO DUH you're tired, and well you should be--it's an inevitible repurcussion of playing on the Freshman tennis team while simultaneously playing on two select soccer teams and qualifying for the National History Day competition. You deserve the world's longest nap, girlfriend.

So then she said, "I have a headache."

So I said "I BET!!!"

Only this time I bolded it and capitalized it and punctuated it thinking that might encapsulate what I really meant to say, which was of course, NO DUH, girlfriend! You deserve to have the world's largest headache because you just played THE MACHINE in the state tennis tournament.

She just rolled her eyes and said, "Mom, you have pizza in your teeth."

I should have elaborated.

I should have said, NO DUH, I have pizza in my teeth! That's like saying, Mom, you have fillings in your teeth. It's an inevitable repurcussion of being old and dumb and eating at Costco.

But I didn't. Just as I wouldn't have elaborated if my oldest son had said, Mom, I need a massage, or if my twins had said, Mom, I'm going to chase roosters, or if my husband had said, Hon, I'm going to give a motivational speech to the kids.

I simply gave her the same response she would've given me had I said, I am so going to blog this!

I rolled my eyes and said, "I BET!!!"

(Stupid, Stupid Woman!)

Last night I had a million things to do. Pages and pages of things to do.

So I did what any responsible adult would do when they have pages and pages of things to do.

I watched Gone With the Wind. All 4 hours of it. I even watched the intermission. No joke. Did you know Gone With the Wind had an intermission? Well it does, and it's the most romantic intermission I've ever watched. I didn't even get up to go to the bathroom.

Gone With the Wind is not the same as I remember it to be 25 years ago. Scarlett O'hara is a stupid stupid woman now. She's got sass, sure, and she's beautiful. But she's a brat with a capital RAT.

I used to feel sorry for her--poor thing in love with Ashley Wilkes all those years.

Now I just think she's as dumb as a doorknob. How can she not see that Rhett Butler is a total stud muffin.

And that Ashley Wilkes is a wimp. Her big toe could boss him around.


Sure he's noble and he's nice, yada yada, but COME ON, ASHLEY! Grow a spine, dude! Why would you give a tamn about that spoiled, selfish Miss Scarlett when you've got Melanie?


What a class act. (My sister is named after her and rightly so.)


Ain't that just like life? You're dangling like a diva around the neck of your gift horse and all you can do is look it in the mouth.

(Stupid, stupid woman!)