Long Live Plaid!

Dear Jen Lancaster, How do we love thee? Let us count the ways . . .

Dear Jen Lancaster, We giggled, snorted and guffawed while reading your first book:

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Dear Jen Lancaster, We had a similar reaction to your second book:

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Dear Jen Lancaster, We laughed AND cheered you on in your third book that chronicled your weight-loss battle:

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Dear Jen Lancaster, We can’t wait to read your newest memoir that celebrates the 80’s:

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Dear Jen Lancaster, We hope you have a huge turn-out for your Pretty in Plaid book tour. (Dates here.) We’ll be there in our miniskirts with rubber belts, jelly shoes, and Swatches, and we’ll be rockin’ our claw-shaped bangs. Every body Wang Chung tonight . . .

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OMG, We’re So Trendy We’ve Been Outlawed!

The Queen and I recently told you about getting these Dr. Fish Pedicures (which, interestingly enough, is now being called a “massage”.) Here’s that post. Just last week, the state of Florida outlawed the use of the fish because the tanks can’t be disinfected between users.  (Whatevs, once we got rid of that weird breakout of blisters, we were totally fine.)  Here is the article about Florida in the LA Times.  We are not only very sexy, but Queenie and I are very much scofflaws.  We will not be hassled by The Man if we want fish to be nibbling our toes.

Regarding the name change from “pedicure” to “massage”, here’s my suspicion:  massages probably fall under a different regulatory body than pedicures.  Anyone in Virginia want to offer their expertise on the subject?

Kids Are Gross (Can You Hear Me Now?)

I recently wrote this post for my other blog, and thought it would be an excellent intro to this post:

If you had told me yesterday that I would be able to write this true sentence, I would not have believed you:

This morning, BabyGirl actually ate cat poop for the second time in her life.

Thank you, I’ll be accepting my Mother of the Year award from Brittany Spears.

I mean, really?  Don’t you think once is enough to figure out it tastes like, . . . oh, I don’t know, CRAP??

It was only when I was talking to The Queen the other day that I realized how many gross things I’d seen involving my kids lately.  In no particular order:

Exhibit A:  Took BabyGirl to my Bible study last week.  All the kids were playing upstairs while the moms did our thing in the basement.  When I came upstairs to collect her and leave, I found her in the bathroom.  With a plastic cup.  Which had water in it.  With her sleeves wet to her elbows.  I asked her, “Did you drink the water out of the toilet?”  She said, “Yesh!” with a big smile.  Of course, if the question is phrased the right way you can get a two year old to admit they shot JFK, so I’m not sure how reliable her “Yesh” was.  I sanitized her hands and dragged her yelling out the door.  She wanted to drink the rest of the water in her cup.  (Honestly, after cat poop, should a little toilet water be cause for concern?)

Exhibit B:  We had some icy weather recently and the big trucks had come by sprinkling the road and parking lots with sand and salt.  A few days later, BabyGirl and I went to our local Wal-Mart.  (Don’t get jealous just ’cause we live on the wild side . . .)  As we headed home, I could see her top half in the rear view mirror.  She kept licking her hands.  All I could think was how many germs had been on the shopping cart.  If only.  When I got home and opened her car door, I saw that she was rubbing her hands all over the bottoms of her shoes and then licking the salt off.  The phrase “parking lot juice” just makes me nauseaus.  I picture some huge guy spitting his ‘baccy juice on the ground, some drunk teens peeing on the cart return, and all those winter cold loogies that get hocked on the ground.  I think I need to go lie down for a little while.

Exhibit C:  One of my big kids, DearDaughter4 (DD4) had been complaining about not hearing well with one ear.  (Don’t worry, this isn’t about bugs or worms in her ear.  Even I wouldn’t find that funny.)  Of course, SugarDaddy is a Googlechondriac, so he assumed this was some genetic disorder and we just should start learning sign language to prepare for her hearing loss.  I took her to the doctor.  When the doctor looked in her ears, she sent us to the clinic tech to get an “ear wash” so she could see the ears more easily.  (Side note–there is a whole product line dedicated to the washing out of ears.  Like little buckets that have a little hole for your ear so that when the water runs out, it just goes in the bucket instead of on your shoulder and down your shirt.  Imagine some guy years ago saying, “I have this vision . . . <snap> I know–I’ll make little ear buckets!  We’ll make a fortune!”)  So the clinic tech gets all the equipment put out and starts shooting warm water into DD4’s ears.  The little bucket is catching all that comes back out.  Only it doesn’t look anything like water.  More like a hearty apple cider.  With little bits of real apple.  I know, right?!  I’m across the room keeping BabyGirl occupied, but I am fascinated with the bucket of cider.  I asked the tech, “Are you getting a lot of stuff out of there?”  The clinic tech, who, I am sure,  deals with vomit, blood, and poop on a regular basis, actually wrinkled her nose like she was grossed out and said, “Yeah, a lot!” I was so proud.  After the ears were both cleaned, DD4 said, “Wow, every time I talk it sounds like I’m talking through a megaphone!”  I think she’ll be getting Q-tips for her birthday this year.

Best Christmas Present EVER!

I hope my husband and parents don’t read this. Because the coolest present I got this Christmas was not from them. It was from our very own Queenie! And it was totally worth waiting until after Christmas to open. Check out the shirt she had made for me:

Really, I'm not just trying to show off my bo-zooms in this picture.

Really, I'm not just trying to show off my bo-zooms in this picture. And I'm just anal rententive enough for it to really bother me that my shirt is crooked. Argh!

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Isn’t she the greatest?? Maybe we’d get more hits if we made up a bunch of these and handed them out around DC during the Inauguration. People love free stuff. We’d just have to find where we could buy those huge T-shirt cannons that shoot shirts into the crowd. Think the Secret Service would allow those?

The “Build a Bear Experience” = Stuffed Animal Hell

I had to do something this week that made me cringe and which is against all of my principles:  I had to buy a Hannah Montana Build A Bear.  Shoot me in the frickin’ head now.  Miley Cyrus annoys the living daylights out of me.  But it’s what my niece wants for Christmas, so I sucked it up and went against everything I stand for in regards to celebrity marketing and bought it.  Have you done the Build A Bear thing?  It was embarrassing.  The sales girl loved her job WAAAY too much (her enthusiasm was just oozing through the store like syrup) and she decided that I, an almost 40 year old woman, absolutely HAD to enjoy the entire Build a Bear “experience”.  Experience?  I thought you just walked in, grabbed your damn bear out of the bin, said “Stuff it please” and left.  Nope.  Evidently there is an entire ritual to be performed when buying a stuffed animal these days.  First I had to push a pedal to fill my bear with fluffies while the sales girl encouraged me and cheered me on. You would have thought pedal pushing was some new Olympic sport the way she was whooping and hollering.  Then I had to stick my hand under this air duct of floating poofy hearts and grab one to put in the bear.  Okay.  Kinda cute in a corny way, I guess.  But then she had me hold the heart between my hands and rub it for warmth while making a wish, followed by pressing it up to my heart to send love along with the bear.  Getting silly now.  “Now rub it on your nose.”  WTF?  Keep in mind I was THE ONLY PERSON in the store except for a hot UPS guy who was watching this entire performance while he waited for Pollyanna Perkypants to finish with me.  So I touched the heart ever so slightly to my nose so as not to get make-up on it and assumed we were done.  Wrong.  “Okay, now kiss the heart to send your love.”  Didn’t I already place this now annoying little heart to my chest to send the love? Now I’m supposed to KISS it, too? I’m not exactly Mother Teresa.  I don’t have a whole lot of love to spare. By this point the UPS dude was glaring at me like “I don’t get paid to stand around watching middle aged women make out with stuffed trinkets, so let’s bust a nut and get on with this little display, shall we?”  So I gave the heart a little peck and stuffed it into the bear’s ass where it will remain for eternity, never to be seen again.  The sales girl was elated. I was mortified.  My niece better put this damn bear in a curio cabinet and bow to it in all it’s glory every night before bed.  I’m serious.

What a Smart Parent!

Just ’cause The Queen loves these bumper stickers so much, I had to show what I received in the mail this week:

Four for four!

Four for four!

I may not be into putting stickers on my car, but I am very proud of my kids for making honor roll.  They are all in honors classes and I am pretty much hands-off with their school work.  Don’t know where they got their study skills and work ethic–The Sugar Daddy and I are baffled as to where that DNA could have possibly originated.  Definitely not from us.

And, Queen? Since I have so many, I’ll be saving you one to put on your car.

The Dress of Her Dreams

My friend Connie is such a sweet and supportive mom.  Her daughter is only 14, yet Connie has already picked out the most gorgeous wedding dress for her.  I mean, doesn’t every mom dream of this type of dress for her baby girl?

Wow!  Nice, um, rhinestones.

Wow! Nice, um, rhinestones.

She might need a little shawl if her shoulders get cold.