Little White Lies

I came to a startling conclusion today. I lie to my daughter. Like....constantly. It's never anything major. Or mean-spirited. It's the little white lies that keep the peace. And I always leave myself a technical truth to it. Just in case that counts with God.

Like when it's bedtime and I tell her that Dora is sleeping. Is Dora really sleeping? I'm sure somewhere, at some time, Dora sleeps. And I didn't say she's sleeping now.

Or when I take my gluten-sensitive daughter through the McDonald's drive through. She gets a smoothie, which, incidentally is the only thing she can have there, other than a salad. And who really wants to see a toddler try to eat a salad in the car seat? I get my Extra Value Meal #2 fix. And when my daughter is begging for fries, I state "I don't have any fries" insert lengthy pause here "for you". How mean is that?? But, seriously, I really wanted those fries.

Then there's bathtime, where she insists the water runs the whole time. As she takes 30 minute baths, you can see the problem. So I say "The water is gone".  Then under my breath I mutter "from the faucet at this time".

She also tends to get reeeeeally whiney if in the car for too long. Can I be blamed if I ask "Do you see the cows?!". There are no cows in the visual area. But you'll note I didn't say there were. I just asked if she could see any. And it distracts her for a good 45 seconds.

I sometimes tell her that the batteries aren't working in an incredibly annoying toy. Of course they're not working. I took them out.

She's gonna catch on to me one of these days. And I'm going to feel like the worst mother ever. So from here on out, I promise not to lie to my daughter.

Unless my sanity requires it.

So I'm back....

I'm back and I have a pressing question. How big is too big when it comes to washing spiders down drains? I ask this because I recently chose the drain method over other, more conventional, means. This particular spider looked like this:

by the way, image not mine, I totally ripped it off of wiki. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tegenaria_duellica.JPG if we're going to be proper.

Moving on.

I slid back the shower curtain and saw this bad boy staring at me, hunger in his eyes. The mere thought of squishing it with a tissue was enough to make me vomit. Besides, he probably would have just grabbed the tissue and thrown it back at me. I took the cowards way out and started pouring water on him, slowing inching him towards the drain. The fact that it took 5 hair-rinser-cup-thingy's full to get him to the drain is a testament to his monolithic size.

Finally, he was gone. Let the showering commence.

But if a relaxing shower after a hard day of being a mom/slave/house-elf is what I was looking for, then it was futile. I spent the entire 4.5 minutes (yes, that was four and a half. Not forty-five. I've got crap to do.) waiting for him to come crawling back up out of the drain and exact his horrific revenge on me. I'm no mathematician. I don't know what the weight of something has to be in order for it to bypass the trap. I do know, however, that I felt my foot step on something as I was almost finished and literally jumped back into the shower wall. Was that part of his master plan? For it to look like an accident? I clung to the 4x4 white tiles and nearly sobbed with relief when I discovered it was simply a sliver of soap.

What's the point of this inane story, you ask? There really isn't one. Other than from here on out, I will not be a drain-washing pansy. I will crush the arachnids as they scurry. And I will not be satisfied until I see their hairy little legs twitch their final twitch.

But I'm always going to be waiting for the one from tonight's episode to come crawling back up.

Dieting and Technology

I am a master of dieting. Not successfully, mind you, but I can tell you the calories of any given food at any given time. It's a great party trick.

I've been looking for someone to blame for my weight struggles for a long time. Initially, it was my mother. Everything that lived in her house was overweight, except for her. Cats, dogs, children,....there was no prejudice.  Even the plants got huge.  "You need to eat healthier!", I would hear, followed by "You want a cookie?".

You know what? I still blame her. Let's move on.

It took me a few years, but next I found Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. The medication for this was going to change my life!!!

Well, I'm still fat. Now I just have cysts as well.

Next.

For awhile my husband took the blame. And when I say "for awhile", I mean currently. And until the day one of us dies. I eat because I'm stressed. He is the biggest stress producer I have ever encountered.  And he buys me candy. Like the lonely kid on the playground looking for a friend. Or the creepy guy in the van. Both analogies apply to him at different times.

But I've found a new target - technology. Specifically, the Internet.

Let me elaborate.

http://www.joyofbaking.com/ChocolateMousse.html

and

http://www.mybakingaddiction.com/amazing-brownies-a-giveaway/

I mean, come on.

The modern miracle we call the car enables me to drive to the store to spend my hard-earned cash on the ingredients. Or, if I'm feeling exceptionally lazy, I may purchase them premade. You know how many calories I burn making these little bites of heaven? About 45. I like to pretend that I will make them and then put them in the freezer, responsibly grabbing one when an irresistible craving hits.

My friends, they don't even make it to a freezer bag.

I'm all for personal accountability. Just not when it comes to these tasty, tasty morsels.

That's all for tonight. I'm starting a diet tomorrow and there is lettuce to be chopped.  Just as soon as the cookies get out of the oven. I'm going to freeze them, you know.

Household Chores and a Crafty Husband

Husbands and future husbands - read no further. This post is not for you.

Why are you still reading this? Scram.

Ok, ladies. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. My husband has perfected the art of getting me to do all the household chores. Not only that, he has gotten me to tell him not to do them. I'm willing to bet there are other wives out there in the same boat.

Jason (the husband of which I speak) is a reasonably intelligent man. All limbs function. Eyesight is intact. Hearing, although selective, is still working. Yet, somehow, someway, he will have me to believe that he is incapable of performing a household duty correctly.

Lies!!

I know he can do them. Yet somehow his freshly washed dishes will have a shiny layer of grease on them. The laundry will stay in the dryer for days. Sometimes it doesn't even make it that far. It nestles comfortably in the washer until I am alerted to its presence by the faint, lingering scent of mildew. The vacuum will stay upright in the exact spot that the last swath was made, the cord trailing a snake-like death trap waiting for a victim.

And he expects demands praise.

It's all a ploy and I am soooooooo onto him.

He knows that I cannot stand all of the aforementioned travesties. He knows that if he portrays himself as the inept, yet lovable, husband then I will tell him to get the crap out of the way and I'll do them myself. What he doesn't know is that I know.

But I can't prove it.

This all sank in the other evening as I found myself saying "Honey, I know you mean well, but please don't do the dishes anymore."

Wait. What?

It's ok. I'll continue this charade for a bit longer. But there will be casualties. And I will show no mercy. Clothes may turn pink and shrink two sizes. He may notice mystery specks on his otherwise clean dinner plate.

You see, ladies, marriage is all about training. It stands to reason that if a dog can learn to pee outside, then a man can learn to wash a dish.

Silent Christians

I'm not known for my gentle manner. Or my eloquent way with words. I am known, however, for saying exactly what I think, exactly when I think it. I am fully aware that this is something I need to work on. 

I feel as though lately my faith has been called into question more than the norm. Maybe not so much my faith, but the way I express it. I don't always do things the right way, or say things the correct way, but I do have the best of intentions. I can be brash, quick to anger, and sometimes a little harsh. And when someone is derogatory towards my God, I get angry. In the aftermath, when I have calmed down, I know that anger was not the appropriate response. I don't know as though anger has ever moved anyone to Christ. But I do know that I should welcome people who question my thoughts, my actions. Those are the people that hold me accountable. Even if they do not realize it.

On the flip side, Christianity is not solely about "being quiet and taking it". It's frustrating to me that the majority of Americans are familiar with the verses instructing us to be meek, such as "turning the other cheek" and "love is kind", but interpret that to mean that we are to simply be silent, accept all, and assure everyone that although we may not choose that path, it's ok for them.  Christians are not meant to be a silent group of people! We are meant to speak out. America is quickly becoming a country where freedom of speech and religion is encouraged for all faiths other than Christianity.

Ephesians 4:25“Therefore, laying aside falsehood, speak truth, each one of you, with his neighbor, for we are members of one another.”

Sometimes the truth is not the easiest thing to hear.

Colossians 3:16“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom, and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God.”

Yes, you read that right. It actually said "admonish".  It also said "teach".

But let's not let this go to our heads. We, as Christians, are required to lift up our brothers and sisters in Christ, both emotionally and spiritually. We are also required to speak out when we see a fellow believer slipping away. Our choice, however, lies in how we decide to speak out. We need to choose wisely. I need to choose wisely. I ask anyone who reads this to hold me to the highest standards when it comes to professing my faith. I NEED to hear that challenging viewpoint, and I need to hear it often, or else it is far too easy for me to slip into silence in order to avoid ruffling anyones feathers. But I also need reminders that speaking out is to be done with grace and love.

A silent Christian is an ineffective Christian.

Purpose & Sacrifice

I have come to realize that my purpose in life is to make other people feel better about themselves. But not in an obvious, in your face kind of way. No, that's not my style. I like to improve other's self esteem in a way that makes them think I wasn't even trying.

Like how I let the hedges grow to where they almost touch the eave of the porch roof. It's not laziness. It's not an unwillingness to do manual labor. I simply want the neighbors to take pride in their own homestead. This way they can take a break from the daily grind of suburban competition and their home still looks good in comparison.

Or when I go into the office with my hair casting an aura about me that is similar to a witch who was electrocuted in a rainstorm. I sacrifice myself, my own personal appearance, so that the other ladies can get a little boost. It has nothing to do with me waking up ten minutes before I'm supposed to leave the house. Or ten minutes after. Whatever.

I also drive down the road in a van that hasn't been through a car wash since 2005. I notice the superior looks of my fellow drivers and it warms my heart.  I will joyfully give up any hope of a resale value, as long as the Lexus cutting me off goes about their day with a spring in their step.

Sure, I'd like to be the Super Mom that breezes through the mall, perfect child in tow, clothing immaculately pressed, hair coiffed to salon standards. But that is a dream I will have to sacrifice for the good of the cause.  I'm willing to leave the house unkempt. Disheveled. Wearing a t-shirt that has bathroom caulk permanently embedded in its fibers. Screaming child hanging upside down. And I do this for you, readers.

It's all about you.

Adventures in Wal-Mart

As I made my fourth trip to Wal-Mart this week, it struck me - you can really tell a lot about a person by the items they are throwing on the checkout counter.  I find it helps to pass the time by giving the shoppers little nicknames and stories.

Take Sniffles. You've seen her before. The one with two bottles of NyQuil, a box of Sudafed, and Kleenex. I give her a wide berth. And slap on the hand sanitizer. If I happen to be picking up a can of disinfectant, I may give a subtle press on the nozzle. No harm done.

Then we have Drunky McHappy Pants. You know who I'm talking about. The 21 year old kid with the scrawny goatee who tosses the box of condoms on top of the 30-pack of Miller Lite. Save your money, kid. By the time you finish that beer, those condoms won't be necessary.

Today I witnessed a new character. A small little man. Glasses. Rather effeminate. I classified him as harmless. That is, until I looked at his items. Lawn & Leaf garbage bags, nylon rope, a chef's knife, and a bag of fun-size Snickers.

Holy Mother of All That is Good and Pure.

I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing as my eyes cast furtively left and right, looking for a way to gracefully get myself as far away from Stuart Serial Killer as possible. I feigned a need for a Diet Pepsi and quietly got into another line.

I threw my Always pads, Tootsie Pops, and microwave popcorn on the belt. PMS'ing and irrational? That's a good possibility.

But I wasn't taking any chances.

Public Service Announcement

I feel as though I am being called to impart a crucial bit of wisdom today.

It's about your driving.

I'm going to make a list of Do's and Don'ts (that doesn't look right, but who are you to judge me?). I would like for everyone to print out ten copies. Place one copy somewhere visible within your vehicle and give the other nine to those that you think will benefit the most. It's not particularly funny, but I feel as though I have to forsake the humor in order to conduct my civil duty.

DO's and DON'Ts of Driving

by Celeste

DO drive the speed limit or above. Driving above the speed limit is not endorsed by your local law enforcement, however, it is endorsed by me. It's up to you to weigh the pros and cons of disappointing either one.

DO stay in your own lane. The pretty yellow and white stripes going down the middle are not decorative.

DO stop for all police, ambulance, fire trucks, and funeral processions. Have a little class. Your $1 cheeseburger can wait.



DON'T pull in front of another driver only to turn three blocks down. Or drive like Granny after cataract surgery. Either one is unacceptable.

DON'T suddenly lose all common sense when confronted by a four-way stop. It's all about taking turns. We learned this when we were three. Well, most of us. Either way, the concept is simple.

DON'T stop twenty feet behind the car in front of you at a stoplight and then inch your way forward a foot at a time while the light is still red. You will not, I REPEAT, will not make the light turn green any faster. All you're really doing is encouraging me to give you a gentle bumper tap.

DON'T think you'll just follow the car ahead of you and make that left hand turn after the light has hit red. All you're doing is holding up traffic going the crossways, and you know what? They are the vehicles that will be following you in about 2 seconds.


Now, I'm sure this post will be edited as I (or you, reader) think of more.  Just remember, when in doubt, get the crap out of the way if you see a green Town and Country behind you.

Cheers!

Spoon Gnomes

I would like to know where all the small items go in this house.

Specifically teaspoons.

Once upon a time, I had a very nice set of Oneida flatware. Sure, it's not sterling silver, but I like it. While the knives have remained intact, I am down to six forks and one teaspoon. While we're at it, I'm missing a crap load of baby spoons too. Where are these things going?

It has actually crossed my mind that my husband may be a closet crack addict. Briefly. It's not like I searched his man cave for spoons and syringes or anything. That he knows about. We'll keep that between ourselves.

After exhausting all other possibilities, I am now a firm believer in Silverware Gnomes. Laugh at me if you must, but I know they exist. There's no other explanation. How many times have you rummaged through your purse looking for an item, only to look again five minutes later and it's right there? That, my friend, was the doings of a Purse Gnome. When you hear a noise late at night, yet nothing is there? Sock Gnomes.

All missing items can be blamed on these malicious gnomes.

I know that someday, somehow, I will find a pile of my missing treasures. Spoons, forks, socks, keys, batteries, pens, and the like.

And when I find their magical lair, I'm going to steal their tiny little pants.

Tantrums and Meltdowns

Let's talk about tantrums.

Hush it, Mother. I'm not talking about mine.

We've all seen them. The random child in the Wal-Mart checkout line that is pulling and throwing every candy bar within it's reach. The little girl who throws herself onto the tiled floor and sobs as though someone has kidnapped her Pooh Bear. The four year old boy that is hitting you across the shins with his plastic sword while his parents croon how absolutely adorable their child is.

I'm not going to lie. When I witnessed these pint-sized parenting failures, I felt superior. I knew that my child would never EVER act like that. And if they did then the punishment would be swift and appropriate. Meltdown in aisle 4? We would simply leave the store. Screeching in front of the milk cooler? They are only trying to communicate.

I. Was. An. Idiot.

Today I witnessed a full-blown, bona fide, mind-crunching tantrum by my 16 month old daughter. Sure, Jason and I have been joking for months how she has my attitude and we're both screwed. I'm not joking anymore. We. Are. Screwed.

I'm actually a little freaking lot afraid to take her in public. I can picture her slamming her head on the shopping card handle while I move three feet away and pretend that I don't know who's child that is, exclaiming to passers-by "What is wrong with her parents?! Poor dear must come from a broken home."

I dread the moment I park the cart too close to the shelves bearing glass packaged items. Like the return of Jesus, I know it's going to happen - I just don't know when.

While waiting by the coffee bar before the church service yesterday, I let her down, foolishly thinking that she would stay close to mommy and all those near would marvel at her utter cuteness.

I really didn't know she could run that fast.

Luckily my sister was walking up and heard my way-too-loud-for-that-small-of-a-space yell "Catch her!".

She went to baby jail, a.k.a. children's church, immediately following.

I'm going to ask everyone to start praying now.  Before long she's going to be able to string a sentence together and my face will be a permanent shade of red.

See, Mom, wishes do come true. I have a child just like me.

It's My Birthday and I'll Meow if I Want To.

Today was my birthday and BOY did I celebrate big time! Between the dishes, the laundry, the caring of a c r a b b y child, and the mad dash to Farm & Home for newborn kitten supplies, it's a wonder I was able to stand the excitement.

By the way, I turned 33  24. Just another day in paradise.

You're asking about that kitten, though, aren't you? For the past two days I have heard this poor, pathetic mewling outside the kitchen window. But, if you'll refer to my previous post, I'm not looking to tack years onto my cat sentence. Today I could take it no longer. I looked in the hollow of the old tree out back and there was this tiny, gray, striped bundle of needy love. It can't be over 3 weeks old. I know this because I spent the better part of an hour googling how to take care of newborn kittens. But I digress.

I yell at Jason to watch Leah and I hop in the van, superhero cape tied firmly around my neck. I will save this kitty! As I walk into Farm & Home it strikes me that there is a completely separate subculture that frequents that store. A subculture that I actually feel at home with. Farmers. I love them! Some of my best memories are from my grandparents farm. We would play in the grain bin. We would climb the tractor. It's where I fed my little sister her first piece of dog food. Oh, the memories!

On a side note, however, I saw a rather robust man wearing a t-shirt that said "Ask me why you're not hungry, don't itch " and there was something else after that part, but I got a little scared when I saw the don't itch part. What does that mean?? I did not follow the shirts advice. I did not ask.

Where was I?

Ah, so I was in Farm & Home, checking out the selection of tiny bottles and kitty formula. An elderly couple walks past and I get "the smile". The same smile I got when I was pregnant. Some might think this was weird. Not I. I thought of them as victims possible cat parents.

"You have a baby?" the sweet man asks.

"An abandoned kitty" I say, trying to evoke as much sympathy as humanly possible. I may have batted my eyes, I can't recall. It happened so fast.

"Awwwwwww"

But wait! Wait!! They were still walking! Should I have brought the cat in with me? Shown it around? Like merchandisers do with impulse-buy items?

"You want a cat in 4 - 6 weeks?" My shrill voice carries much farther than I intended it to.

They laugh. They keep walking. Forget them. They smelled like celery anyways.

My next target is the check-out lady.

Again, "the smile". Again "You have a baby?" in the syrupy voice.

I have no time for the small talk.

"Yes. You want a cat?" Crap, I forgot to smile when I said it. I tack a toothy grin on afterwards.

"Oh no" she says as the smile quickly disappears.

Why am I not surprised.

So here I sit. Listening to the kittens constant meowing. I'm not even going to tell you about my attempts at bottle feeding. That was just ridiculous. I'm also not going to tell you how the kitten pooped on me.

But I will tell you that there is a kitten available to a loving home.........................

take me home, I will love you forever, I will be your bestest friend

Louie. Evil Genius.

I have an evil cat.

Go ahead and laugh. You know you want to.

Right now he is sidling up to my leg, looking for a little love. I'm not falling for it. We've played this game before. The evil cat is also a genius. I've seen him in action.

His name is Louie.

Yes, he is shaved in that picture. Does that account for his evilness? Possibly. That's not the point.

Ten years ago he was diagnosed with a fatal disease and given a year to live. I cried. I prayed. I held him tight. It was me and Louie against the world. I completely stuffed a ballot box at work so he would win the Cutest Cat commendation.

For the past 5 years I have been waiting for him to........move on. Go to the light. Kick the bucket. Buy the farm.

What's that? Too harsh, you think? Now before you call PETA, let me say that he is well fed. Sheltered. Occasionally petted. Moving on......

He will pounce on service men.

He will lie in wait behind a partially closed door and take a swipe at your ankles as you pass through.

He will intertwine himself around your feet as you're walking and then chuckle as you fall. Don't you doubt me, I have seen this cat smirk.

He also plays with knives. I sleep with one eye open.

I once purchased a book on animal behavior. The page that instructs you how to establish dominance over your cat has been chewed out.  Little paper shreds hanging from the spine.

As he sits in the windowsill, stray cats will pass by and I hear him make strange whispering sounds. Not growling, hissing, or other aggressive nonsense. And I have to wonder what he is plotting. An evil scheme to take me out? Or something grander......maybe a plan to take over the world. I've tried talking to him about this, but all I get is the cold tail flick.

I have no witty closing line. I'm too frightened. And quite frankly my tummy hurts. I saw Louie nosing around my chicken pot pie earlier.

Does anyone else smell almonds?

Taco Bell and Basic Arithmetic

I get a text at work that my daughter is pulling at her ears and running a fever. Well, crap. I cancelled the much needed hair appointment and resigned myself to a few more days with my gray hairs waving hello in the wind. As I leave work, I figure I have time to run through Taco Bell before grabbing Leah from the sitters and going back to town for the Dr's visit. I pull up, place my order, nonchalantly roll through to the first window and hand my money to the employee (hereafter referred to as Taco Bell Drive Through Man, or TBDTM, for short). He grabs my hard earned cash with his grubby hand and the window closes behind him. I rest my arm on my van's window ledge, in anticipation of my change.

All I wanted was my change.

$5.25 to be exact.

But obviously I had broken rule #1 of fast food drive through transactions. I had not given him a whole dollar amount. I know, I know, you're shaking your head. I should have known better!! My total was $4.84. And I.......well....I gave him $10.09. I was only trying to avoid the utter inconvenience of a plethora of loose change! I swear! I did not want to confuse TBDTM. I was not trying to trick him. It was not a test.

The window opens back up.

"Uhhh....were you wanting a quarter?", he says.

"I'm sorry?", I query. My brows raise in confusion.

"Your change is $5.24. Were you trying to get a quarter back?".

I pause. I recalculate in my head. Yes.......yes, I'm sure I'm right. I take the fools road and instead of just giving him a penny and being done with it, I try to lead him to the correct answer.

"I gave you $10.09......", I lead and he nods in agreement. "The total was $4.84.....". Again, another agreeable nod. "That makes my change $5.25". I smile in triumph and think how lucky he is that someone like me, someone who yearns to teach the ignorant, has become enmeshed in his mathematical quest.

"Uhhh....it says here that you only get $5.24 back".

**crickets chirping**

I've already explained the mathematical formula. I've led him to the correct answer. And yet, somehow, he has lost his way.

"That's not right", I proclaim. I've lost my soothing teachers voice.

We lock eyes.

Me, refusing to give the extra penny and end this madness.

Him, obviously confused by numbers. And hairstyling products. But that's a story for another day.

I take a deep breath. 'We can go through this again', I think to myself, 'I can't lose him now!'.

"84 minus 75 is 9, correct?". He's gonna get it, I just know it, we're almost there!

"Yeah".

"So when I gave you the 9 extra cents, it's like it took my total down to $4.75. You see how that works?". See how patient I was being? I truly amazed myself.

"But it says your change is $5.24".

Aaaaaaaaaaand we've swung right back around to where we started.

I kept silent. I stared. He stared back. Then he looked at his cash register.

"Ohhhh, I typed in the amount wrong. Heh heh heh. My fault." He continues to chortle.

I cannot even bring myself to smile.

It's really probably a good thing I had my sunglasses on.

Not only were basic mathematical skills beyond him, but so was typing in a correct dollar amount. But you know what? Jesus loves him. And in respect for that, I am not going to tell you his name.

He probably had on the wrong name tag anyways.

A Cross-Dressers Coming Out Story

Remember that post from two days ago where I may have mentioned that I loathed/detested/
vomited-upon-the-thought-of shopping? I take it all back.

I found a local store that I adore - Cato's. Big girl fashions at tightwad prices!

**If you're a twig, don't worry, they have clothes for you too. There's even a bathroom that the employees will let you use if you need to purge your lunch. **

So now I have a selection of cute clothing. I have nowhere to wear it, but it's there. I'm sure the co-workers will wonder for the next few days why I have suddenly went from jeans and men's t-shirts (which I still adore) to....well... still jeans....and women's shirts. I have suddenly realized what cross-dressers must feel when they decide to throw caution to the wind and dress in an alternate wardrobe.

Hold on, Leah is yelling at the neighbors out the window.  It's all gibberish, but I have a good idea what she's saying. Probably the same thing I feel like yelling at them most days.

Back to the matter at hand......

While I was in the store, the sales lady was laying on the flattery thick and heavy. Normally I have no problem with that. As a general rule, I encourage it. But when she pulled out the "your drivers license picture is so cute" card, I had to put a stop to it. I assured her that she already had the sale, no need for falsehoods. And if you have ever seen that particular picture, you would know exactly why I said that.

There's really no great personal wisdom to glean from this post. But if you want some cute clothing and some serious flattery, you know where to go.

Now, I must end our time together. My daughter has taken to prancing across the scale and then "eh eh EHHH!" 'ing until I give her my hand and help her off.

Sometimes I cry and someone needs to help me off the scale too.

Animal Cracker Missiles and Carrot Bombs

Today was not one of the joyous days of motherhood. I met the sitter in town to pick up my 15 month old and the minute I picked her up she started screaming. Why? Probably because she hates me. That's all I can figure. I endured 15 minutes of blood-curdling screams on the drive home, as well as animal crackers zinging past my head. Don't think she wasn't aiming. I know exactly what she was doing.

She was placed in her crib for a nap about 14 seconds after we walked in the door. And then she was an angel once again. For about 90 minutes. She woke up and it was whine whine here, cry cry there, again with the throwing of random objects. Dinner time rolled around and for one foolish moment I deluded myself into thinking that would make her happy. I pictured her chubby cheeks, her angelic curls, her little fingers delicately moving the nutritious morsels I so lovingly prepared to her precious cupids-bow lips.

Her pork chop (that I had sacrificially cut into tedious, bite size pieces) was slipped to the dog. Her carrot coins that I had slaved over getting to the right temperature (microwave, 100% power, 40 seconds, by the way) were thrown onto the ground with such force that they exploded like little orange bombs. Finally I cut up an apple into miniscule pieces, threw it in a bowl, and set it in front of the tv. Ironically, I had posted earlier today on my Facebook profile that tv is psychologically damaging to children. But I digress.

Things are much calmer now. Oh sure, I'm still yelling "Get away from the cat!" and "Put that down!" as I peer around my computer screen, but at least there is no sobbing going on.

Well, at least not by my daughter.

Stuffed Sausage in a Sweater

I enjoyed a wonderful, inspiring church service this morning. The hands raised, voices lifted, awe-inspiring kind. An hour and a half later I was traveling down Broadway, with my voice and hands lifted again. Only my voice was saying "See that light? It's green. Green means go!" and my hands were certainly not lifted in praise. More like exasperation.

You see, I had to shop for a pair of pants this afternoon.

What a hideous ordeal! I remember it being a lot more fun about 6 sizes ago. Now all my clothes have a W after the number. I don't think that stands for "Women's". Personally, I think of it as Wide. What size do I wear, you ask? Well, that's none of your business. Stop being nosy.

I walked into Bergners for the first time in years and immediately a sassy sweater caught my eyes. I lifted the price tag. $78?? If I'm going to pay $78 for a sweater, it had better wash, dry, and fold itself. I quickly moved on, looking for the Big Girls Section. Now, it's not like I'm expecting a big flashing sign saying "Fatties Over Here" or anything, but maybe something a little more obvious than the sign with a size 8 font stating "Women's" would have been helpful. Finally, I just started shadowing another BBW and found my way there quickly enough.

I browsed. I picked up. I put back down. I walked in circles. I went back and picked back up. Lord, I hate shopping. Then the confidence inspiring try-on session began. The trendy layering tee with the long cardigan? I now call that look Stuffed Sausage with a Sweater. **shudder**

I got my pants and I got out of there. Then hit Taco Bell. And I don't care who knows it.