Why It Pays To Be a Carnivore Right Now

So there is a nasty stomach bug that's sweeping across the country, already affecting people in 11 different states. The cause? Well, the "exact cause of the outbreak has yet to be pinpointed" quotes one article on msn.com. (http://news.msn.com/science-technology/stomach-bug-linked-to-produce-sickens-285-in-11-states) Comforting. I'm glad to know you brainy, disease discovering guys are on top of this. What they DO know, is that the parasite at the root of the infections is commonly found on produce.

Since they haven't figured out which produce is the culprit, wary shoppers are now treating the produce section in their local grocery stores like it has leprosy. Lest they be infected by just passing through the aisles in the supermarket, people are avoiding buying this week's roughage. (Oh well, fiber is so last year anyway.) Colons everywhere are suffering. We're hoping for quick resolution before everyone finds themselves having to buy a case of Viactiv yogurt. (If you are unfamiliar with this notoriously colon cleansing yogurt it's time to get a tv. And turn it on. And watch the pretty, sparkly people try and sell you things in 60 second increments. Oooh, aaah, oooo.)

But with 285 people carrying around this little bugger, and the nasty ass effects it carries with it, no one wants to risk being victim # 286. What sort of fun things come with this virus? Why, let's see. How about: watery diarrhea? Sounds like a grand old time, does it not? And if that's not enough, how about: vomiting? Have you been thinking you need to lose a few pounds? Eat some produce! No, no, silly, don't wash it first! Just swallow down that creepy little parasite and you're that much closer to the bikini body you've always wanted! Sure, you'll be too weak to actually go anywhere or do anything, but that's semantics! If those weren't enough fun, how about: body aches? Wow, it's like a stomach virus married the flu and had a baby! What fun!

The article says that, if not treated, this circus of maladies can affect you for up to a month. Wow, four whole weeks of never leaving my bathroom? I think my boss would be okay with that. Going to work is overrated, right? Otherwise, you can treat this easily with antibiotics. Once they test to see if that nasty little creep is hitching a ride in your body. Otherwise, you just have a 24 hour virus. Go home, eat some crackers, and stop your whining! At least you don't have an exotic parasite using you as a host.

Just when you thought becoming a vegetarian sounded like a good idea, something like this comes along and keeps your feet firmly planted in the carnivore camp. At least until the next mad cow disease outbreak. Hopefully by then we can eat lettuce again.

Well Paint Me Yellow and Call Me a Taxi

It was June 20th, the last day of school. I was looking forward to no strict bedtime regimes and long, lazy days and nights of not having to run to various school functions. My perfect visions included icy, cold glasses of lemonade and a hammock. (Apparently I'm delusional in my visions because I don't work.) Then reality came and gave me a smack across the face.

We're now about halfway through the summer. Honestly, I can't get these little *$%#*'s in school fast enough! Since the oldest is making an ass of himself (See blog post: It's Gonna Be Puntacular Up In Here) and has his first job, I play a lot of taxi driver. Not to mention that baby boy is doing a morning program at the school and needs to be picked up from the bus stop. I've spent so much time recently shuttling one child here to there or there back to here that my ass is crying uncle. It just can't take that car seat any longer.

My lovely lunch hour, the one that I so covet for its lovely solitude and quiet in my house, has been disrupted. I now rush home to eat the quickest sandwich ever (Hello indigestion!) and then run and get baby boy off the bus. I bring him home and make his lunch because the poor kid doesn't get home until 1 and my over active imagination hears violins and sees sad, crocodile tears from my under nourished child. The middle daughter is trying out the role of babysitter (She even took a course so that she's certified. Back when I was her age they just let us sit on babies. We didn't even need special course permission!) and has 3 hours in the afternoon to practice on baby brother. Which is nerve racking. That same over active imagination can come up with at least a dozen kidnap scenarios and half a dozen injuries sustained. The truth is they sit around playing games and watching the boob tube until their neurotic mother rushes home after work looking for the ransom note.

Me: Week 5 of summer

After a month of all this constant driving around, I'm exhausted. I hope these little punks* appreciate their schedule free fun days that summer allows them because their mother needs a nap. Or twelve. My stress free, fun filled visions have popped like a cartoon bubble. I'm x'ing off days on the calendar until school starts with mad, gleeful giggles. I think I'm a candidate for a Prozac trial. In the meantime, I'm going to see how much it might cost for them to take an actual taxi and give me a break.


*Mentally there was a much stronger adjective to describe my little angels. It was edited for those of you who might not know how much I do love my kids and think that I call them little bastards in a mean way.

It's Definitely Not Charlotte's Web Up In Here

I think there is a small miniature sign, like a neon beacon, calling all spiders and their insect brethren into my house. I'm not kidding, there's something that says, "This house LOVES creepy crawlers. No reservations needed, immediate occupancy."

I, in no way, love creepy crawlies. Or slimy, scaly, slithery, long tailed, or talon-y  feet creatures. In short, I'm a complete and utter girl when it comes to these things. I reserve the right, even in this day and age of gender equality, to expect my husband to be the spider hit man. He can be the one to chase them down, paper towel in hand, because if I do, and it's one of those creepy jumping spiders (or hell, if it even moves a fraction of a centimeter), I'm going to issue forth a blood curdling scream so loud that the neighbors will start to think either Ike and Tina moved in or there's a murder going on.

Worse, my husband will tell me I'm over reacting.

Over reacting? I think not. Have you seen these things? There are about 4 legs too many. And the fact that they can spin a sticky web substance to trap their victims just creeps me right the hell out. Yes, I do realize their victims are all the other bugs that I also cannot tolerate, but still, they're like the serial killers of the insect world.

And why, for the love of God, do they want to come inside? Okay, in the winter they want a warm place, but it's summer. Aren't there insect puddle parties and fly-b-ques to go to? Aren't you looking for other creepy crawlies to hang out with? Because if you think they're in my house, well, let's just say this is where insects come to die. (That sounded very mafia boss, didn't it?) I have a plethora of flip flops and paper towels on hand for just the occasion. I can find the fly swatter at any given time. Blindfolded. Of course, this is only should hubby not be available to perform his manly "Killer of All Things With More Than 6 Legs" duties. In the absence of my husband, I will revert to my cave woman "fight or flight" instincts and squish that thing harder than it's ever been squished. Because the alternative is that later, perhaps while I'm sleeping, said creeper will find its way back to me when I'm helpless and REM'ing. Not cool, bro, not cool.

Maybe if the spiders were like Charlotte, I could reason with them.

"Listen, don't you have any pigs that you need to save from butchering?"
"Uh, we live in the suburbs."
"Oh yeah. Don't you have children you need to spawn in the wide, open spaces of the country?"
"I'm a dude."
"Oh. Is today a good day for you to die then?"

(This is what spiders look like in my mind.)

The Bouncing Bundle of Royalty

Congratulations to William and Kate! The newest royal addition is not even 24 hours old and already I feel sorry for him. He has yet to experience an entire day "on the outside" and yet all these reporters are all up in his grill, yo!

If you thought there was rampant speculation when Kimye's baby was born, royalty adds that much more excitement! There must be copious news reports about Kate's labor, including how long she was in traffic en route to the hospital, what she was wearing upon entering the hospital, which employees she spoke to at the hospital and how many guards are stationed outside in the hall. Actually, I have no idea if that's what was reported as I was trying to be facetious, yet sadly, it probably IS sought after information.

Of course, the official statement from the Prince is: "We could not be happier.", quoted alongside this picture:

I can see the joy in his eyes!

Yes, we can clearly see that he is beside himself at successfully bringing his proof of virility into the world. I mean, any happier and he'd have to be locked in an asylum. I know, I know, I get that this is not a picture of him at the hospital as there is his very lovely wife almost completely cropped out of the picture. And I'm pretty sure, princess or not, she's unlikely to be running around in a white Versaci (That's the only famous designer I know other than the Wang wedding dress lady.) dress mere hours after squeezing out the royal heir. But they couldn't find a single picture where he might not look like a corporate shark buttoning his suit jacket after a lunch of several liquidated companies?

Of course, since there seems to be nothing better to report on, there are articles galore on the baby and its parents and baby name speculation and even one article I found that compared Kate and Princess Diana's maternity wear styles. (I felt this was grasping. Nothing worn 30 years ago resembles what we wear now, even if I did get a few guffaws from 1980's fashion.) 

The poor child hasn't even been officially named and already there are "fans" storming the castle. Or in this case, the hospital. What the hell people? The woman just gave birth. I'm pretty sure that qualifies her for one week of paparazzi free time. YOU try squeezing a cantaloupe out of a mouse hole and see if you're up to pictures!

Oh, and all you well wishers, get over yourselves. Stop trying to make yourself look good by bringing a little stuffed lamb offering for the royal royalness. Don't you know his toys are all made of diamonds and gold?

If You Say You Didn't Know, I'm Calling Bullcrap!

Apparently there was a show on TLC and Discovery Health called "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant". The show's premise is pretty self  explanatory: Women tell their stories of how they didn't know they were pregnant until they gave birth. Usually in a toilet. (I've heard of a water birth but that's ridiculous!) I've never actually seen the show in it's entirety, because, hey, I've got some standards about what I watch, but I have seen clips. And I call bullshit.

I might believe that a larger girl might not notice any weight gain. Or if she's a larger girl, maybe baby just uses what's available, I don't know. Ok, sure, you might have gotten lucky and been one of those people who sailed through pregnancy without a single ounce of nausea and morning sickness. (I automatically hate you for that as I remember in vivid detail the morning sickness with all three of my children.) And I might be able to swallow that a person who has irregular menses could go an entire 9 months with a wacky period. But there are some pretty universal pregnancy symptoms that can't be ignored.

I gots to pee! When you're pregnant, you're bladder takes it pretty personally. As if, by introducing this alien little being into your body, your bladder feels snubbed. Thus, it requires constant care in the form of emptying itself. This is a frequent thing. You always seem to feel like you've just consumed a Big Gulp. (That was the convenience store equivalent of a kegger of soda.) You make it a point to know where every bathroom is within a five mile radius of your house. And as your pregnancy advances, your bladder gets seriously ticked and makes those bathroom trips about, oh, every five minutes. Do you mean to tell me that you didn't notice you were spending half of your waking moments on the toilet? I think not.

Who needs a push up bra? Your massive mammaries are preparing for providing sustenance for your bundle of joy. They don't even need you to know you're pregnant to do this. As such, they begin to become larger. In a lot of cases, they will also become very sore and tender. By the time you reach your last trimester, your ta-tas could possibly be the star attraction, depending on what you started with. So I'm supposed to believe that you looked like you were going to a Hooters convention and thought that was totally normal? "Wow, I've gone up two cup sizes completely out of the blue! This must be normal."

Is that a basketball? Ok, so maybe you didn't notice that you were gaining weight. Maybe you weren't. But how did you not notice that your stomach felt like a hard rock? A really big kidney stone? Lunch didn't sit well....three months ago? You didn't wonder why your rock hard abs didn't look like you thought they would?

It's a soccer star! Ok, this one really puzzles me. Personally, by the time I was nine months pregnant, I thought for sure that baby was going to kick its way out without needing any medical intervention. There was no denying that there was another person in there. (Not to mention when they got the hiccups!) You cannot tell me that if you do not know you are pregnant, the baby doesn't move or roll or kick. Seriously, how do they explain this one to themselves? "Whoa, I shouldn't have had Mexican for lunch! That burrito is really causing havoc!" In the very least you would think that someone might think something is most definitely wrong and want to know what. Thus, they would go to the doctor and ta-da! You're pregnant!

I feel that shows like this dumb down the television industry. We're setting the bar too low people! Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to eat breakfast. (I didn't even know I was hungry!)

No Farting At The Table Please

I really try to lead my kids by example. They say that your kids are more likely to practice what you don't preach because they're too busy imitating what you're saying and doing instead. (Again, I'm not sure who they are but they sound like they know what they're talking about.) So I try to set a good example for my kids. Except for the fact that I have too many bad habits to pass on. Yeah, I forgot about that part.

Did you know, when you're trying to set a good example you have to listen politely, say please and thank you A LOT, not swear, never have road rage, and be tolerant of other people. Okay, one or two I could handle, but all of it? That's stretching it.

Granted, of all the bad traits my kids might take away from me, none of them are truly awful. I haven't killed anyone (that they can prove anyway), I don't buy, sell, or partake in any illegal drugs, and I shut down my prostitution ring years ago, so I'm safe there. Unfortunately, some of the things left open, while not completely horrid, are still not pretty. Like my road "rage". I quoted rage because I don't think I qualify as a true rager. I get mad and make sarcastic comments, but I'm not aggressively speeding up and passing everyone who pisses me off, narrowly causing accidents with my cave womanish behavior. I do, however, tend to make comments like, "Nice directional, moron!" or "Oh my god, turn already!" and possibly "Use the freaking median! That's what it's there for!" (This is the G rated version of my comments for when the children are in the car. When they aren't with me there's a lot more F-bombs and A-holes and such.)

Another gem I'm passing onto my children is my supreme lack of patience. This is something I have been working on for years! I've made actual progress. So when people comment now on my lack of patience, my reply is usually: "If you think this is bad, you should have seen me before kids!" I'm hoping the modicum of patience that I have managed to gather can be passed on to my progeny. Then it's their turn to expand on it. Hey, maybe 7 generations from now my great-great etc grand kids will have the temperament of Saint Theresa!

Also, I am not completely sure that my anal retentive, must have it just so, everything in its place mentality is completely healthy either. Quite often I just do things myself because I want them done a certain way (ask my husband about who's allowed to wash laundry in our house) and my precious offspring are seeing me be neurotic on a daily basis. (I'm thinking I should have started a therapy fund instead of a savings account for them.) I'm trying to teach myself to unbend a little but my inner organizational freak is having a tough time letting go.

Lastly, I'm guilty of swearing in front of my kids. I do think that they know every swear word in the book, and probably quite a few that aren't. (If they haven't heard it at home, they ride the bus to school. School buses should be re-named "Vehicles that contain information that you absolutely don't want your child to know".) Don't get me wrong, I don't have the mouth of a trucker or even a sailor. But my kids have heard me say ass so many times that they are probably unaware that it's a cuss word. (Which technically, it's in the bible so I use that loophole to prove it must not be a swear word, thank you very much.) "Dammit!" was my most common exclamation when my son was 3. Which he made me aware of this by parroting it .(At an extremely inopportune time as per the children's handbook rules.) And these are just the ones I'm comfortable admitting in public! Imagine the hair curling stories I could be printing!

So basically, I want my kids to act like their grandparents until their parents can be better role models. Until then, I'll be the one making armpit fart noises and blowing bubbles in my chocolate milk.

Does My 100th Blog Post Come With A Parade?

Yes people, that's right, this is my 100th blog post. Think of all the exciting things we've shared over the last 99 posts. We've started the apocalypse countdown (T minus 77 days now), mourned the death of Mr. Coffee, and learned that hell's waiting room is a home renovation project. We've been to Zumba class, the big ol' Mall, and even went on vacation together. So for our 100th post, I knew I had to do something special. Unfortunately, I can't seem to think in coherent sentences and that is why today's blog is about: ADDICTION.

Yes folks, that's right. I'm a big, fat, caffeine addict. Not just any caffeine though, coffee. I love the smell of it, I love the taste of it, I love the thought of it. Hell, even the word is sexy with its double f's AND double e's. Right in a row. Don't give me a frappaccino or a cappuccino or any of those frothy, gooey coffee impostors either. I want plain old Maxwell House french roast. (I'm all atwitter just thinking about that big blue canister of java juice.)

The problem is this: coffee is addicting because it has caffeine. I bet that's completely new information. I probably just saved you years of coffee addiction, because knowing that it will make you its slave because it's an addicting substance would totally turn you off from drinking it, right? You're welcome. Anyway, as I was saying, coffee is addicting. So pretty soon my morning coffee isn't enough for me and to take the edge off a very long workday, I'd have a cup after work. Before long, that 1 cup after work just wasn't enough though and I needed a second cup. While that dark nectar was happily thrumming through my bloodstream, I was cooking dinner, cleaning, and doing laundry. By the time I was done with all that, I was thinking, "Hmmm, maybe I could relax with a hot cup of joe."

So you can see how I very quickly can up my coffee intake from 3 cups in the morning to 6 cups a day. SIX. What the hell do I need with all that caffeine? Once the evening cup of coffee started becoming more than occasional, I knew I had to cut that crap out. I was acting like a junkie, waiting for my next fix. "Just give me the coffee and no one gets hurt! Don't make me throw this ladle at you! Because I will. Just carefully slide the coffee over to me and keep your serving spoons where I can see them!"

I successfully, with the help of ibuprofen (Because caffeine withdrawals come with adorable little tantrums called headaches.) managed to cut back to morning coffee and 1 single cup after work. Ok, baby steps, right? I felt like I was severing an appendage so I talked myself into a slow decrease of that afternoon cup. Let's not get crazy and do this cold turkey now. So I still have it, but its sporadically. This means my body is so confused by whether it should expect that cup or not, it doesn't give me a headache when I skip it.

This leads to another problem. Apparently the coffee was the only thing keeping me awake until bedtime. Huh, who knew? So if I start substituting the after work cup of coffee with a power nap, I might be able to stay awake at least through dinner. Aw what the hell, let's just have the cup of coffee.

A Dozen Mea Culpas and A Pound of Butter

I don't know why everyone thinks you need to stay on top of current events. Personally, I'm terrible at it. Everything I know is usually second or third hand from conversations I hear about the topic. The only content that actually filters down to me are the celebrity issues. Yes, because the celebrity affairs, of people I will never meet, will impact me more than the immigration reform bill. Or because it's just beat to death in the media until even I hear about it in my cone of silence: Kimye's dumb ass baby name, who dumped Taylor Swift this week, and poor Paula Deen's infamous racial slur episode.

Now, as I just mentioned, I'm awful at keeping up with current events. So I'm not sure exactly what the deal is other than the salient point: 27 years ago Paula called a black person the "N" word. How it's just coming to light now, I don't know. She did an interview on the Today show and was basically persecuted by Matt Lauer. He "lawyered" her and asked quite a few different ways whether or not she was racist. As if phrasing it just right would break her house of lies and she'd admit to being the devil's own instrument in spreading discord and racism? "Well, Matt, when you asked outright if I'm a racist, I said no. But when you asked 'By birth, by choice, by osmosis, you don't feel you have racist tendencies?' by golly, that's a different story. Yes, I'm a big ol' racist pig, Matt. I'm glad you cleared that up because for awhile I was thinkin' I was a good person."

Let me go on record saying I do not, in any way, condone any sort of racism. People can be assholes no matter what color their skin is, what country they come from, or what parentage they have. But you cannot tell me that people haven't made inappropriate comments before. Am I to assume that Matt Lauer never once laughed at a joke that began with: A priest, a cowboy, and a black man walk into a bar....? Because if he did, surely he has racist tendencies. What about my grandma who hates rap music because she thinks it's all "noise" and "Back in my day, we actually made music, not this junk that's on the radio." Well, grandma, that man who is rapping is African American. Congratulations, you're a racist.

In an ironic twist, if a white man calls a black man the "N" word, he's racist. If a black man calls a white man a "cracker", he's funny. (And I STILL don't understand what that means. I get that it's offensive, I just don't know why.) We can pick and choose what to be offended about I guess. Personally, I can't imagine not calling someone who tried to rob me at gunpoint a very nasty name, no matter if he was white, purple, or polka dotted. It's not as if she was just walking down the street calling out blasphemous names at people. I think we can rule that the extreme circumstances give her a little verbal liberty. If I was robbed at gunpoint and survived to tell the tale, I'm sure the names I would call that person would make a sailor in a whorehouse blush. I'd have to walk around with an FCC censor attached to my mouth for at least a month or two.

(All the while, there's something big going on in the Middle East. Huge, life altering decisions are being made by those in charge. But sadly, we'll never know because it was pre-empted by Lindsay Lohan's high speed, drug induced, car chase.)

The point is: Stop beating a dead horse people. Paula Deen made a mistake, owned up to it, and apologized. Do you know how rare it is for a celebrity to admit to anything? She's got class. With a pound of butter. And she's not afraid to use it.

Let's Have a Party. No, I Mean Right Now. Immediately.

So I'm thinking that I should have a party and invite everyone I've seen on a social basis for the last few years. The reason? Because I finally weeded the flower beds in front of the house and it actually looks like people who aren't overworked and clueless actually live in my house.

To my credit, the flower bed in front of the house was designed pretty much so that I could not give a crap about it. Well, not much of a crap anyway. I have hosta and day lilies and lily of the valley flowers. They pretty much do their thing, I pluck a few errant weeds and we're good. I usually have a small space by the stoop that I plant some pretty annuals and voila! Summer foliage for dummies.

The problem started when I was given flower seeds and I decided to plant the (FREE) seeds rather than buy (NOT FREE) established flowers. So I'm waiting for these seeds to do....something and all the while the weeds are creeping in one by one. And they notice that I'm not plucking them out by their scrawny, rooty asses because I don't know if it's really a weed, or the seeds I planted are finally coming up. So I'm letting it go thinking that when the flowers bloom I'll definitely know which are the weeds. Um, I SAID.... when the flowers GROW......yeah, not so much. Unless you count the weeds I was growing.

Now, admittedly, the flower garden is already a vague memory once my vegetable garden goes in. It's kind of like finding out you're having another (surprise!) baby in your 40's. Yeah, sure you love them as much as all the other kids. But you're tired and don't have as much attention span so they're the ones who get to watch tv more and eat processed foods full of sugar and gluten. It pretty much takes something major to make me even look closely at the flower area. Like the hosta flower stalks which drive me crazy! I hate stalky, long flowers. I take immense pleasure in pruning those suckers right down. So I notice this week (Ok, you got me, last week.) that the evil hosta has burgeoned forth with the spears of doom and I need to cut them down.  Well, tonight's as good as any other time to do it, right?

It's at that point that I realize my flower beds are  more weeds than actual flowers. Crap. Now I have to weed weed. A lot. With actual tools and gloves and crap. Man, that means a trip all the way back into the garage where I just came from. Sigh.

 And sometime in the past 2 years I have noticed a new weed that's kind of vine-y and spreading and makes me feel like one day I'll wake up in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. ("The Vines") I'll be trapped in my house by this super mutated strand of vining plant that has grown over all the windows and doors, thus sealing me inside my house. By the time I break free, using my superior intellect and many failed attempts with an ax, I torch  a hole through the greenery only to see that my entire neighborhood is covered, including my car. Ok, so I don't know that this weed has this super power, but the amount it seems to be spreading is definitely making me uneasy.

So before nature takes its course and overwhelms my flowers again, I'm going to invite people over. And we're going to eat outside. In the front yard. Next to my beautifully landscaped area. That has a neon arrow pointing out its non-weed like glory.

Gimmee A Case Of Clorox Please

I find as I get older I'm starting to resemble Howie Mandel more and more. No, I'm not developing a shiny, bald head, although I would save a ton of money on hair accessories! The OCD/germaphobic tendencies, however, are another story.

I grew up a normal, germ encrusted child, playing in the dirt and making mud pies. I shared sodas with my friends without worrying about getting sick, I used public restrooms all over the city without even using a paper liner on the seat, and I borrowed girlfriends combs and hair scrunchies with nary a thought of possible spreading creepy crawlies. I was a normal, average, tangled hair, sticky faced kid.

Then the internet came and brought along the information age. (Web MD can be a sickness!)

Now there's e-coli and salmonella and mad cow disease. Bird flu, swine flu, fifths disease, HPV, and as a co-worker would say, "The Creeping Crud". There are more reasons for me to put my kids in a bubble than to keep them out of it. I'm one of those wackos that really doesn't need this information. I have too active of an imagination. Case in point: Hubby is trying to clean out his ear. I'm not sure if he had water in there or a boulder, but he was working hard at getting it out with some peroxide and a bulb syringe. Which would have been okay had I not seen his method. Which was basically sticking the syringe in his ear and then sticking it back in the peroxide bottle. Are you kidding me?!?! Now I have ear wax flotsam and jetsam in my peroxide. I can't use this now! The next time I'd disinfect my cut I'd be thinking about how many particles of wax per ounce of peroxide are swimming in my open wound. I have to buy a whole new bottle of peroxide and I just bought this one two weeks ago. (Note to self: Buy peroxide. Buy 2 bottles and put Hubby's name on one.)

And this gets me thinking....if I hadn't walked by and seen him do this, I would never have known that there were wax cooties in my peroxide. What else don't I know about my family? Did my child use the last of the toilet paper and put on a fresh roll before washing their hands? Did the youngest get a fork out, put his grimy hands all over the tines, and then put it back in the drawer when he decides he wants a spoon instead? Did my daughter wipe up a water mess on the sink with the hand towel that we dry our clean hands on? Do we now have grungy particles on the towel that we're passing around?

Sadly, these are all things that I know my family would do, and then give me the "What?!?!" look when I glare at them. They can't see why I'm all bent out of shape that they use a sponge to wipe something off the dog hair infested floor and then wipe up the counter right after. There was a time that my son used the kitchen hand towels to clean up everything on the floor....ketchup, soda, ice cream. It was all fair game. And then hang it back up to be used again. They couldn't figure out why Mom had steam coming out her ears. My inner germophobe has teamed up with my inner worrywart and paranoia and come back a three headed monster. I'm two steps away from a power washer, a case of bleach, and a bug bomb. (Because you never know, right?)

So if you're planning a visit to my house, I'd make it soon. Left unchecked, Germaphobe-itis can manifest quickly into "I'm never leaving my house again dammit and you can't make me go out into that germ infested cesspool of a world!" Just close the door behind you and step into the decontamination chamber to your left......

When Good Girls Go Bad (And Badder. And Worse.)

Is it just me or is anyone else really disappointed with the role models that our young girls have to look up to? I swear, every single young female celebrity has issues. Drug issues, alcohol issues, daddy issues...they're dressing like tramps and acting like truants. Yikes!

Probably the most hated girl celebrity on my list is Miley Cyrus. I've never really liked her, even when she was "cute" Hannah Montana. Maybe it's because I don't like her achy, breaky mullet sporting honkey tonk yokel of a dad. Or maybe it's because even at age 12 she sounded like Great Aunt Myrtle who smoked 2 packs a day for 20 years. There was something about her voice that set my teeth on edge. I was glad that my daughter never fully jumped on that band wagon because here we are at age 20 and she's gone the way of all the other child stars before her: a little crazy, a little rebellious, and a lot stupid.

Have you seen her recently? She's chopped her hair into some space alien meets Sharon Stone 'do and has taken to wearing very little clothing and doing videos that feature her on stripper poles. Um, yeah, some possible daddy issues with a touch of overt sexuality frothing into an angstful (I really think this is a word but spell check is disagreeing.) teenage star with more money than sense. Good Lord what are her parents thinking letting her act like that?

Sadly, there seems to come a certain point in the lives of these child stars where they have a melt down and turn into every (normal, non-celebrity) parent's version of a nightmare. Lindsay Lohan? Holy crap! There's a hot mess. How many times has she not gone to rehab now? 19? 26? Granted, she was heading towards the "Where Are They Now?" show on VH1 when her bad behavior netted her the infamy that's keeping her fresh in our minds. But boy, this girl needs some help. Every picture shows her looking like she's on the back end of a 3 day bender. Scary!

And have you heard about Amanda Bynes? This one makes me so sad. Both my older kids used to watch "The Amanda Show". (If you're unfamiliar, it's basically a kid's version of SNL.) Now she's tweeting pics of herself (Um, put some clothes on please.) and advocating eating disorders, but not the one she thinks. She says she has an eating disorder and has a hard time staying thin (So I'm thinking, "Okay, she's an eater, I can totally relate!") and yet weighs 114 pounds. Which, by the way, is still 14 pounds away from her goal weight. Add in that those half naked pics really advertise the boob job and the lip plumping she's had (You can't tell me she hasn't!), she's heading straight past hot mess into "What the hell?" territory.

I can't even blame it on all these new stars. Remember Drew Barrymore? Let me go on record saying that I LOVE Drew. She's adorable in the quirky, girl next door kind of way. But she was a star at age 6 and a drug addict by 13. I'll say that again: thirteen. My daughter is almost 13 and I don't even like her to wear eye shadow, let alone be a drug addict. On the other hand, I don't want her to be like Taylor Swift either, whose sole purpose in life is to date as many boys as she can, get dumped, and turn it into a hit song. Can you really not find any other song inspiration?

Right now, Selena Gomez is the current allowable teen idol. Keep your fingers crossed that the Biebs doesn't knock her up or she'll have to get crossed off the list too. And it's getting pretty short.

The Red, White, and Yoo Hoo

Ah, July 4th. The holiday that truly signifies the start of summer. Yeah, yeah, I know it has more significance than that. It was on this day in 1492 that we signed a treaty with Magellan or something. No, wait, it was that map guy. Oh, wait, was that Magellan? I forget. Kidding! Kidding! I know that this was the day in 1776 that some guy named Frank electrocuted himself in a thunder storm because he had a key in his pocket. Geez. How dumb do you think I am?

Anyway, as I was saying....if there's any holiday that screams summer it's Independence Day. Picnics and parties and of course the 4 F's: Family, friends, food and fireworks. If you're lucky, you get good hot summer weather too. There's nothing better than sucking down a Popsicle or an ice cream treat when it's a scorcher. Now that I have my own kids, I get to experience summer through them. That's almost as much fun as actually being a kid again. In fact, I can act like a total doofus with my kids and people accept it. They think you're just having fun with your kids. They don't know that this is my personality. It's a complete unknown that I'm a giant 14 year old who is thrilled to let her inner child out to play. To them, I'm "interacting" and "letting loose". Ha ha. Suckers.

So we have a family gathering for today with some family. Automatically I'm pumped because I offered to bring watermelon. There are only a few foods that can summarize the essence of summer in one bite. Watermelon is one of them. If you're wondering what the others are: Potato salad, burgers and/or hot dogs cooked on a grill, and grape Popsicles. I don't know why grape, because cherry is the best with orange being the second best. Grape is clearly the red headed step child of the box. And why can't we just buy the box of all cherry or all orange? Because what happens to the box of Popsicles? The good flavors get eaten first until there's 4 or 5 left and no one wants them. Unfortunately, your two choices are to suck it up and eat the pops because Mom won't buy a new box until the old one is gone, or go through an entire summer protesting your Popsicle rights. (Wow, when I digress I really get the job done!)

So we get to the party and it's HOT. My parents don't have AC so it's hot inside and it's hot outside. Now remember, I'm one of those weirdos who love heat so this isn't bothering me at all. My inner 14 year old is giddy with the prospect of watermelon, grilled food, AND a hot day all in one picnic. I've hit the party lottery. But baby boy sweats like a sumo wrestler in a sauna room. The poor kid is sticky and sweaty and starting to look a little wilted. So we leave and go swimming at the other grandparents' house. (I know, nice right? We let them feed us but when it gets hot we say, "Sorry, we're outtie. We're going to go find someone with a pool. Thanks for the grub!")

It's as my kids are playing and splashing in the pool that I feel that summertime happy high. I'm high on the smell of fresh cut grass, chlorine, and sticky kool-aid mustaches on my kid's faces. I'm high on barbecue chicken on the grill and impromptu games of tag on the lawn. (Barefoot of course. Everyone knows that shoes are illegal in the summer.) I'm high on childhood innocence and one day having them look back on their carefree summer days fondly.

And it's then that I realize: Holy crap! I'm turning into a Hallmark commercial! Quick someone tell a fart joke, stat!

So as this holiday wraps up, I'm thankful for the red (meat, charred to perfection), white (wine, preferably chilled), and Yoo Hoo. Seriously if they didn't make Yoo Hoo I would have no basis for comparison or know that I can make tastier chocolate milk with Hershey's syrup. So thanks Yoo Hoo, for being a chocolate milk impostor!

Happy Fourth of July everyone!

Kidless Adventures in Shopping

Have you noticed how different shopping can be when you have no children with you? Now that baby boy is 6 and has decided that he isn't an actual appendage of mom, I've had quite a few kid free store trips. Of course, some of these might have involved super stealth sneaking out of the house with the keys clutched tightly in my hands to prevent any jingling noise  from escaping and alerting the fruit of my loins that I'm daring to try and escape the house without including them. To-may-to, to-mah-to.

When you take kids to the store, it's as if you mentally gird your loins (How often can you find a use for that twice in two consecutive paragraphs?). You know what's coming. I don't care how well behaved your spawn is. The magical thrall of the grocery store compels them to ask for sweets and cereals and candy oh my! These devious miniature lawyers will sense any small hesitation and pounce like a cheetah, negotiating skills at the ready with their barrage of "Pleeeeease!" with "Pretty pleeeeeeease?" and bartering extra "I'll be good" time for just one treat. Of course, they also sweeten the pot with their promises of "I won't ask for anything else! I Promise!" Which they promptly break five minutes later when you go down a new aisle and they see that super awesome fruit snack that was just advertised 82 times in an hour show. (Way to cram that brand name into their heads ad executives!)

If I have kids with me, I always spend my time alternating between saying an emphatic "No!" to their multiple requests for sugary sustenance and mediating arguments about who picked out the cereal/drinks/substitute whatever the frick (It's not a real word spell check, get over it!) product here. There's also a lot of mental mediation going on. And some pep talks. For myself. To try and not strangle my kids in public. Or pull out all of my hair. Or both. I end up trying to do a marathon sprint through the store because the quicker we are done, the quicker we can leave.

Now, if you subtract those kids from that equation? I can lolly gag. (Do you just love that word?) I can waste all sorts of time looking at things. In quiet. No squabbling or choruses of "Can I push the cart?" No one wants Little Sugar Cakes of Hyperglycemia. I look like a normal, non-mom type of professional woman. Is this heaven? Because there's chocolate, coffee, and books. I think it's probably heaven.

On the other hand, not having those children with me is pretty darn dangerous. I have time to add things to the cart that I don't need but look pretty darn good. (Which probably translates to "will add 5 pounds") With kids it's a dash to the finish line. Only grab essentials, do not pass go, do not collect your receipt. But now I'm perusing. I have half as much chaos without the kids but I spend twice as much money.

So then I think, "I just have to be clever. I won't use a cart. I only need 3 things, I can carry that." Which turns into eight things, balanced precariously on a leaning tower of groceries, cradled in my arms. Meanwhile, the purse is a dead weight on my left arm, I'm wondering when I started carrying 20 pound weights in there, and the people in front of me apparently can't read "Express Lane: 20 Items or Less".

So for the peace of shopping without kids I get to come home with spaghetti arms. On the upside, I got to indulge in one of my guilty pleasures while waiting and got caught up on celebrity gossip. Did you hear about Princess Kate........