Special of the Day

Being the almost-three-year-old that she is, Lainey's tastes are ever changing. Her passion for shoving things into her toolbox and/or purse remains the same, however a new fondness for dinosaurs has emerged in the last few months. Much to the dismay of Johnny.

Johnny has spent a lot of time recently at the bottom of one of those aforementioned purses, disregarded in favor of a Spinosaurus who, apparently, enjoys salads. But today, Johnny took a stand. He offered himself up as a "Special of Day" in hopes of being reunited with his best friend Lainey.


Judging by the fact that he was still laying there after I returned home from work, I'd say that the "Special" was not well-received. It's a sad, sad day for poor Johnny. Keep smiling, buddy, don't lose hope yet...

For Your Viewing Pleasure...

Did a little reorganization of my computer and found a couple oldies but goodies for your viewing pleasure. First one is some spectacular dance moves, the second is Owen VS. Brobee. Enjoy!

Worst. Prize. Ever.

Last Saturday was my husband's company's (belated) Christmas party, and they held it at a bowling alley. To most people, that would probably be lame, but for me - it was nothing short of awesome. I am pretty much terrible at bowling, but I find it oddly entertaining to try, not to mention that they turned on the blacklights so the laces on my stylish blue-and-red bowling shoes glowed. How is that not great? Plus there was free food.

About halfway through the night, someone got up on the microphone and starting giving away prizes. The catch was that they just called your name, and you had to go up and get a box wrapped up in Christmas paper so that you didn't really know what it was that you won. They called my husband's name while I was standing in line for my watered-down soda and he came back with a box that looked like it could fit a small child inside. Naturally, I got really excited - big boxes mean great prizes, right?

I held my breath as he tore open the paper to find...a....a.....

Turkey fryer.

Now I don't want to come off as ungrateful, it really was nice to win something. But somewhere the cooking Gods are having quite a laugh over this. I'm sure it's a wonderful piece of equipment, and in the right hands I'm sure it can fry a mean turkey. But I can't possibly think of a worse couple of people to own such a thing - except maybe vegans.

On the positive side, I scored an unprecendented 158 in bowling and I didn't even spill anything on myself this time.

Avon Calling

Yesterday we made a scheduled trip up to the University of Iowa Children's Hospital for another exciting round of barium swallows and waiting room boredom. I spent the good majority of the day moving from one uncomfortable leather chair to another, trying to secure the best possible people-watching seat that I could. You see, Owen's first appointment ended at 10:30, and his second was not until 1:00 (which really means 3:45 in "doctor time"), so we certainly had some time to kill.

I knew that the boy needed a nap, and the last thing I wanted was for him to conk out just as the doctor comes in the room to poke and prod him. So I settled into a torn double-seater in the lobby just outside the cafeteria - prime viewing, I figured - and got him comfortable enough to doze off. Then I took inventory of my surroundings.

Across from me sat an older man, perhaps in his late 60's, reading a magazine. His attire consisted of loafers, a plaid shirt, and giant red suspenders that had to be at least 3" thick with the word "COCKHUTT" written lengthwise down them. Feel free to make your own judgements.

Next to me was some guy in scrubs who looked like he was about 12 years old reading a book that had close to 2100 pages in it. And either he received a page or he had to go pee really bad, because all of a sudden Doogie Howser shot up out of the chair and took off at warp speed down the hallway.

And then, diagonal from me, were two women. One of them had one of those voices that was just loud enough to be heard, but not understood, with just enough of the Fran Drescher nasal tone to make you want to shoot yourself. She was a bigger woman who seemed to put her entire upper body into this conversation. The second woman just sat next to her, silent, perhaps too scared to move lest she get pummeled by her friend's tree branch-like arm. They seemed like an odd pairing, and from the bits and pieces I could make out such as "online" and "invoices" I decided that they were conducting some sort of business right here in the hospital cafeteria lobby.

I was going to guess drugs or hoagie sandwiches when all of a sudden, the loud one got up and gathered up some papers, signaling the end of their partnership. And just when I thought I had to find someone new to focus on, this woman comes barreling towards me like a herd of rhinoceroses.

Before I could say a word, she plopped down on the seat beside me and said "Have you ever tried Avon's Lotus Shield Shampoo?"

OH NO! It's...it's....an AVON LADY.

And here I was, trapped, sleeping baby in my arms. Well played, Avon Lady, well played. She rambled on for a moment about some Avon product and how it was made out of the teardrops of unicorns or some other such nonsense before asking me if I had ever tried Avon products before. Thankfully, despite the mind-numbing boredom that had consumed me in the lobby, I managed to reply that not only did I use Avon, but one of my best friends was an Avon rep.

I smirked internally, thinking surely that was enough to chase away this lady and to finish out my people-watching in peace.

"So what are you guys here for?"

OH NO! It's...it's....SMALL TALK WITH AN AVON LADY.

Could this get any worse? I couldn't believe that this woman had the gall to try and sell me shampoo in a hospital waiting area, let alone pry into our personal health status. Part of me wanted to tell her that I had a contagious skin rash and then ask to shake her hand. I still had 45 minutes left to kill and I really didn't want to give up my great people-watching spot, can you blame a girl?

But just as I decided to give her the bare minimum of information, her Avon-sense must have triggered an alarm that there was another woman nearby unattended that she could attempt to sell product too and she quickly dismissed herself.

And I breathed a huge sigh of relief, as well as a tiny curse word under my breath. I honestly can't think of a more inappropriate place to try and sell makeup aside from maybe your own grandmother's funeral. What was that woman thinking?

Project 365

In my endless pursuit of things that will eat up all my time and eventually dwindle into oblivion, I have decided that slacking on one blog wasn't enough for me: I have created another one. But this one is different. Instead of listening to me ramble, I am going to let my pictures do the talking. Join me on my photo journey, won't you?

Common Goddess 365

'Twas the Night Before Christmas...

I would like you to enjoy this stunning rendetion of "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" as told by my two-year-old daughter:

"'Twas the night before Christmas and all over the house, creatures were stirring - even a pigeon! And the pigeon was stirring in the kitchen. Then I saw a T-Rex and he said 'RAAAAAAAWR!' and then we went to the library. Santa came down the chimney and said 'Ho Ho Ho' and brought presents to the good girls and the pigeon and the T-Rex."
And with that, Johnny, the Mouse-ephant ornament and I would like to wish you a very merry Christmas! May you and your own pigeons have a safe one.

Watch out for those dinosaurs...

Christmas Gift Guide

The holiday season has once again descended upon us and, like every year before this, there are a few people on my list who are nearly impossible to buy for. Typically, I bide my time, intending to make the most amazing homemade gift that anyone has ever laid eyes on. And then, when Christmas Eve rolls around and I have nothing to show for it, I make a run to Walmart and find the "As Seen on TV" section instead. But this year, I was determined to get my materialism...ahem, I mean Christmas shopping...finished up early. And in my quest to find the perfect gift, I found some other ones that most definitely deserve an honorable mention. So without further ado, I bring you the Common Goddess Gift Guide 2010:

Jesus Toaster - Where do I even begin? This would be so much better if they didn't put that picture of Jesus on the outside of the toaster so that the burnt "design" was a surprise. How much fun would THAT be to serve to Aunt Matilda during your family Christmas brunch?

Backwards Clock - This would be a great choice for that person on your list who can never make it anywhere on time. Oh wait, I guess those people would need a REAL clock. Ok, this would be a great choice for those of you out there who enjoy waking up in the morning confused and stressed out. Note: This would not be a good gift choice if that person happens to be a schizophrenic.

Squirrel Feet Earrings - It is SO hard to find a pair of earrings to go with my squirrel skin coat. Thank goodness for Etsy!

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - Have you ever thought back to those classic books you've read and say "That was good...but it sure could have used some more zombies..."? Then you are in luck!

Road Kill Toys - Anyone who has children knows how hard it is to curb their temptation to scrape dead animals off of the road. Here is a way to indulge their morbid curiosity without getting maggots all over your carpet.

Bacon Soap - Does your husband or boyfriend hate to bathe for fear that they might wash away that heavenly bacon aroma that clung to them during their breakfast run to Hardee's? Let them lather up with this bacon-scented soap and you both can savor that down-home smell 24/7. And after a long day and a hot bacon-scented shower, you can all sit down as a family and navigate Weiner Wasteland as you play Mr. Bacon's Big Adventure.

Fetus Cookie Cutter - Who doesn't love eating fetuses? You can bake them up in any flavor for that soon-to-be mom on your Christmas list.

Rear Gear - There is nothing worse than an adorable puppy with an unsightly rear. So for the pet lover, I recommend these holiday butt covers. Because really, if you don't want someone to notice something the very BEST thing you can do is to slap a giant pink flower sticker over top if it.

My Apologies

To my small handful of readers;

You have my deepest apologies. I have been unable to muster any time, nor any wit, to devote to this blog. I have tried - Oh Lord have I tried - and the writing that came out had all the humor and excitement of Al Gore at a funeral procession. And I like you all too much to subject you to something so horrific.

But to summarize our life right now in a few lines:

** My daughter learned, thanks to a show even MORE boring than an Al Gore speech called "Dino Dan", what a Quetzocoatlus was. I'll give you a hint: It's a dinosaur. This show has become her new best friend, and heaven help anyone who try to change the channel mid-show. She also tried to tell me that there was a Longneckasaurus in our dining room, complete with sound effects. I have to admit, it was pretty convincing....

** I have determined that at the end of my son's medical journey, whenever that may be, I am going to promptly apply to be on the TV show "Mystery Diagnosis". It is quite possible that they may have to devote the entire hour to his case alone, since now the docs are performing tests just to rule out things that are just as statistically likely as Owen being struck by lightening while simultaneously winning the lottery. Oh, and he also decided to stop sleeping through the night in favor of thrashing, crying, and performing flying 2am headbutts against me and the wall.

** I made something today, IN THE KITCHEN. Sure, it only involved some cinnamon and Elmer's glue, and sure, the ornaments we made won't be for human consumption. But I MADE IT. Using real kitchen utensils.

** It's freaking cold here.

Ok, those were pretty boring highlights. But I swear, it's like my time just evaporates into thin air. One minute I'm getting breakfast ready and the next minute I'm reading "I Love You Stinky Face" just before tucking the kids in to bed and I have no recollection of the hours that passed inbetween.

Bear with me. If I can carve out an hour of time, I have quite a spectacular list of Christmas gifts for that hard-to-shop-for person in your life. I'd hold off on that jellyfish aquarium you've been contemplating, some of these products are nothing short of amazing.

Until then,
Common Goddess

One Year

A year ago last week I was sitting down at the Thanksgiving Day table, ready to shamelessly stuff my 10-months-pregnant face full of turkey, potatoes, and anything else that came within a few inches of my dinner plate. I knew, given the (hormonal) state I was in, that no one would dare question it or look down upon me for it. After all, I was eating for two, right? Besides, the very next day I was scheduled to have our second child surgically removed from me. That meant chicken broth and crackers, if I was lucky, so it only made sense that I needed to stockpile some Thanksgiving dinner in my gut to prepare myself for the long weekend.

And then Black Friday came - but instead of out shopping for $50 big screen TVs, I was settling into a hospital room, anxiously waiting to meet the son who would someday be begging for everything in that 2198281 page Toys 'R Us ad. He was unusually quiet that morning, zonked out on turkey no doubt, unaware that he was about to be unceremoniously removed from his warm cozy home. And at 9:40am on November 27th, 2009, out came Owen - all 10lbs, 3oz of him.


And now here we are, one year later. That fateful Friday seems almost a zillion light years ago, and yet - prepare yourself for a lame cliche - like it was just yesterday. I can hardly begin to describe what a roller coaster ride the past 365 days have been. And even though, thanks to Owen, I can drive an hour to the children's hospital blindfolded and backwards....and even though he cried when we tried to feed him cake and frosting...and even though some of his diapers smell like a dead zombie that has been marinating in the sun for a week...I still would never even consider trading him in. He is my sweet little blue-eyed troublemaker and I'm loving (almost) every minute of it.


"For a long time, there were only
your footprints and laughter
in our dreams;
and even from such small things,
we knew we could not wait
to love you forever."

My Daughter's Purse

It is always a bittersweet time when you see your children mature before your eyes. Recently, I've had the pleasure of watching my daughter display some very instinctual woman behavior, one so deeply ingrained in our history that many of us don't even acknowledge it. I'm not talking about a woman's natural compassion for others or our predisposition to the "caretaker" role. I'm not talking about a maternal instinct, an inborn cooking ability (which clearly skipped me anyway), or the desire to please the men-folk.

I'm talking about the tendency to put crap in our purses.

I'd like to submit a photo into evidence. I had to wait until my miniature hoarder had gone to bed so as not to upset her by going through her purse, but once I had established that she was, indeed, asleep, I laid out all the contents. Let's examine them one by one, shall we?
1. This goes back and forth between being a simple bouncy orange ball to being a fruit snack. Either way, it would come in handy in that long line at the post office.

2. This hot pink bracelet goes with every.single.outfit. How is that not full of win?

3. Got Milk? Sure do! We plan ahead in our family.

4. The circus elephant threw me for a loop, I won't lie.

5. A cup, useful for everything from storing your before-mentioned fruit snack in to pouring a glass of delicious milk. Oh, and sometimes it's a hat.

6. Ah, the number 3. This poor foam letter has more bites in it than a lame vampire novel and yet it's still hanging in there.

7. Johnny's skateboard, because the guy has to get around SOMEHOW.

8. A fork, always a good idea. You just never know where those ones at the restaurant have been.... Though I'm not sure I really know where this one has been, either. Hmm.

9. I'd like to claim that my daughter uses this to whip out mathematical equations in her free time, but really - she thinks it's a phone. Don't go and ruin it, ok?

10. A big thanks to Uncle Eli on this one. This is also a "phone", however, this phone only calls Mr. T. My daughter now uses such phrases as "Don't gimme no backtalk, sucka" and "Whaachoo talkin' 'bout, fool?"

11. She claims these glass are stylish, however I have my reservations.

12. This is Joe. He was discovered in the same mystery toy pile that produced Johnny, but Joe is more like the annoying little brother who always tags along.

13. It's a plate. It's makeup. It's a clock. It's Johnny's chair.

14. Typically, these are used in some sort of medical fashion. The blue one with the notch out can often be found shoved up someone's nose or measuring their ears during a checkup. The small orange one detects your heartbeat. Don't worry - everyone is safe when Dr. Lainey and her Magical Mystery Purse are present.

15. RAAWR! What? The girl likes dinosaurs.

16. The brush I find rather ironic, considering that 80% of the time she acts like having her hair brushed is the equivalent to having hot pokers shoved into her eye socket. She does, however, like to brush Owen's hair, which takes all of 2.7 seconds so I guess it has a use after all.

17. Anyone caught without one of these in their purse should be thrown in jail.

18. Johnny. Duh.

19. Hello Kitty bracelet. Let it be known that this has never actually been used *AS* a bracelet. Usually she tries to barter with it like money.

20. A Hostess treat, in the plastic form. Always useful in thwarting those snack attacks.

21. This is a birthday cake. Never try and correct that, let's get that straight first of all. Also, those are not nuts - they are candles. You are allowed to blow the candles out as she sings you happy birthday, and then you will never see the cake again.

22. This is traditionally how the cake is served, via measuring cup. Sometimes, though, it dispenses medicine. I truly love things that are multi-functional.

23. Lipstick. Occasionally, it's eye shadow, but you have to watch it with that one - she's a little aggressive.

There were also two Cheerios half stuck to the inside, however I was unsure how long they had been condemned to the bottom of the purse so they now live in the garbage can.

It's Begining to Look a Lot Like Christmas

In an effort to keep this blog on the lighter side I won't go into my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Halloween. For the first time in my 28 years of existence, I was quite happy to see that holiday come to a close. That did not mean, however, that I was prepared for what I would see the very next day.

I came home from work that evening, tired and anxious for a couple days' respite, and sat down in the dining room for a late dinner. Something seemed...different...so I took a moment to analyze the room when what, to my wondering eyes should appear, but a Christmas tree sitting cozily in the corner. On November 1st. A FREAKIN' CHRISTMAS TREE!

I like Christmas, don't get me wrong. 'Tis the season, holly jolly and all of that, sure. But I just don't transition from spiders to Santas that quickly. I need time to rummage through the bags of clearanced Halloween candy, to get out my oversized fleece sweatshirts and my ridiculous cocoa mugs, and to indulge my inner fat kid on turkey and mashed potatoes. They aren't even selling egg nog yet, for crying out loud! They are, actually, already selling cartons of the delicious artery-blocking syrup. Right next to the leftover SweetTarts, no doubt.

I continued to stare at the tree, mesmorized by the 12 strands of colored lights that now glowed thanks to my husband's impatience and holiday enthusiasm. I looked at him, confused that somehow I may have dozed off and slept through the rest of November. Reading my confusion he offered "At least I waited until after Halloween...", as if the mere act of waiting was the equivalent of being beaten with a tree limb or having to give up the last Oreo.

He has been making pumpkin pies in a continuous stream now for about three weeks, so I should have seen this coming. We have boxes of ornaments and decorations enough for two houses, most of which end up out all at once. One by one I take some down and redistribute them until we have an tolerable number of singing Christmas trees and bell-ringing thingamajigs. And not only do we have all of the kid's gifts purchased (thanks Swagbucks!), but he has already assembled the toys in preparation for Christmas morning. I won't lie, I find that quite adorable. His desire to create some wonderful holiday memories with our kids is contagious, and seeing the kids squeal (and drool) in delight over the same miniature train that we've watched 29382948 times already this week does sort of warm my heart - even if it is about three weeks early.

So here's to 48 more days of Christmas music, twinkling lights, and tinsel-coated cat puke. If I disappear between now and then, I'm likely in an egg-nog induced coma.

PS, I hope I didn't ruin your manly image, honey. I know that, should the day ever come, Christmas decorations would take a back seat to a good 49ers game on TV.

Reason I Love Being a Mom #14

Reason I Love Being a Mom #14: Having my daughter tell me during bathtime that she needed to wash the "pirates". I played along, asking if we needed to clean their pet parrot, too. She looked at me as if I were insane, grabbed the bar of soap, and proceeded to wash her nether region. Arrr matey, it's PRIVATES, not pirates...

No, DON'T Take Off the Mask!

The other day my husband was watching a show that went behind-the-scenes of the movie "Halloween". As an avid horror movie fan, I was appalled. Not only should they never have made such a thing, but I'm pretty disappointed that my husband would even turn it on in my presence.

"Halloween" is probably one of my all-time favorite horror movies. It's a classic. I mean, who knew that a bright white William Shatner and a few notes on a synthesizer could be so terrifying? But it's all over the second you go behind-the-scenes and see the guy behind the mask. He looks like someone's goofy uncle who wears his shorts too tight and loves to tell knock-knock jokes. I'd be more afraid of him cornering me and giving me a noogie than stabbing me in the guts with a kitchen knife. And can you believe that this "real" Michael Myers was afraid to pull the phone cord too tight because he didn't want to hurt the actress? She kept complaining that the cord was too loose around her neck, and to pull tighter, but he refused. Talk about sending the horror factor right down the crapper...

And if THAT weren't bad enough, the couple from Paranormal Activity made an appearance on some awards show the other night. Wait, weren't you two possessed? Did the Demon release your souls long enough for you to accept an award on his behalf? Disappointing. What's next? The puppet from SAW making a cameo on Sesame Street? Jason on Larry King Live?

It's true that it's getting harder and harder to shock audiences these days. Between the violent video games and the political ads on TV it seems like blood and gore is mainstream. So you would think that the people in charge of creating these horror movie masterpieces would be a little bit more careful in divulging their dirty little secrets. While it's interesting to note when the director's cigarette smoke drifts into the frame, it sort of takes away from the edge-of-your-seat, white knuckle terror to know that someone is standing there having a casual smoke as this poor girl is being attacked. John Carpenter, take note.

I've been informed that my husband has also DVR'd "The Making of Nightmare on Elm Street". I suppose next they'll tell me that Freddie Kruger loves puppies and tuna salad sandwiches. Is nothing sacred?

Johnny's New Skateboard

Johnny is rockin' and rollin' on his new skatebo.....OH NO! Johnny! Watch out for that giant mutant donut!

My Ghost Story

Since it is getting to be that time of year, I decided I ought to share a ghost story. Get your Depends on and gather around the campfire kids, because unlike Paranormal Activity, these are actually REAL experiences had by yours truly. And I mean freaky-real. And I'm not lying. Are you on the edge of your seat yet?

One night when my daughter was about 6 months old (which would have been about two years ago, give or take) I was home alone with her and we were in the bathroom. It was late in the evening, just before bedtime, and I was giving her a bath before we called it a night. Suddenly, without warning, a rubber duck hit me in the face - ok, that wasn't a ghost, that was just Lainey. But immediately following the duck assault I was overcome by the smell of men's cologne. I don't mean a whiff, I mean it surrounded me in a cloud similar to one you'd find in a bar on college night. *Important Story Note: My husband does not wear cologne. He has scented deoderant but that's where his affiliation with Old Spice ends.*

Naturally, I was terrified by the sudden odorous onslaught and I immediately slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it, positive that there was a strange man in my house. I sat on the floor shaking, trying to determine what my strategy should be. Of course this particular bathtime found me without my cell phone (which was charging away happily downstairs), and the only other exit was out the 2nd story window. I could go MacGyver and fashion a zipline out of a wet towel and the electrical line that connected to our house. Wait, wet towel and electricity? Not to mention that this would require my daughter to cling to my back koala-bear style. Ok, scratch Plan A.

I could recreate the scene from Panic Room where she opens the door and runs for her phone before they get to her, but I did not have the benefit of 360 degree security cameras to aid me so unless I had a 2x4 and came out swingin' I wouldn't stand much of a chance. So much for Plan B.

I probably sat on the floor of that bathroom for at least an hour, deliberating on what to do. I did finally remove Lainey from the bathtub before she shriveled away into a tiny pink raisin, and with her sitting on my lap I decided to go through every drawer and cabinet in the bathroom just to make sure that the cologne wasn't something my husband had stashed away. This took up another half hour and turned up unsuccessful.

By this point my daughter was so beyond tired that her exhaustion-induced tantrum could have easily taken the place of a fancy security alarm. And I couldn't stay locked in there forever....so with Lainey in one hand and some spray can of cleaning foam in the other (to douse the intruders eyes with) I boldly left the bathroom and found....




.....absolutely nothing. My cats were snoozing comfortably on the sofa, my doors and windows were all intact, not a thing was out of place.

To this very day, I have no idea what exactly happened that night. But the smell of that cologne was so vivid that I would have no problem picking it out of a lineup even now.

I had sort of let that experience fall back into the recesses of my brain - until about two weeks ago, that is. Around 5am I was literally awoken from my sleep by yet another overwhelming smell - but this time, it was of a woman's perfume. *Important Story Note: I do not wear perfume. Not only do I find that most of them give me allergic headaches, but even if I did enjoy them I don't believe that wearing some to bed is proper protocol*. A quick (and slightly disoriented) scan of the room revealed no one. The bedroom door was not even so much as cracked. I could have checked the closet, but considering the obnoxious squeak of the closet door coupled with the fact that opening it would have sent a mountain of baby clothes down on the intruder, I determined it to be a non-issue. Both my husband and my children continued to snooze away happily, oblivious to the strange happenings. I sat in bed and watched the room, in the dark, for a long while before I eventually fell back asleep.

Two eerily different and yet freakishly similar experiences, with no explanation for either of them. I am nearly certain, after replaying both in my head eleventeen thousand times, that they must be spirit-related. Is it someone who used to live here? Is it my grandparents stopping by for a visit? If so, why did they choose a scent to make their presence known? Perhaps I may never know...but at least I can be thankful that they didn't take on demonic voices and throw me across the room.

*Unimportant Yet Spooky Story Note: As I sit here writing this, there is an owl hooting somewhere very close to my bedroom window.*

A Tale of Irony

It's me again, with another all-true bumper sticker tale.

I had just gotten off work and was heading across town to pick up some dinner when up ahead I saw the distinct red and blue flashing lights that signaled that my particular route to the pizza place was about to become a parking lot.

Sure enough, I began to idle when I noticed a small red car in the opposite lane trying to merge in front of the car behind me. The driver looked very aggitated, perhaps due to the terrible hair cut she had no doubt just received, and she must have assumed that no one could see her yellow blinker because she started to flail her arm in the air towards our lane in some type of crude caveman-style sign language. She may have even been grunting. I think she had been waiting to merge for almost one whole minute at this point, so I can understand her impatience. Unfortunately for her, the car behind me did not understand her signals and once our lane did start crawling again, his car remained permanently attached to my bumper. This made the lady in the red car furious, and in my rearview mirror I saw her face contort in what surely wasn't a verse of "Twinkle Twinkle" and then display another piece of sign language that nearly everybody understands...

Once we passed the sirens and were free to use two seperate lanes again, who should I see flying past me but the woman in the red car. As she disappears ahead of me, I notice a big sticker plastered on her foreign plastic bumper:
Probably not that, if I had to guess.

Johnny Meets Shrek

Johnny was so overwhelmed meeting both Shrek AND a real dinosaur in the same day that he fainted. Given the look on Shrek's face, I sure hope they don't eat him while he's unconscious....

Off to the Pumpkin...Graveyard?

It was a disturbingly beautiful day outside today, and since Halloween comes pretty close to surpassing Christmas as my favorite holiday of the year I naturally got all giddy at the thought of hitting the pumpkin patch.

Honestly, I'm not sure why I hold pumpkin picking in such high regard. Not only am I constantly disappointed in the selection, but my standard for the "perfect pumpkin" is set higher than that creepy Halloween fanatic who has a 30 foot black cat on top of their roof. Silly, really, considering that I have little to no actual pumpkin carving talent so having a flawless pumpkin is pretty much irrelevant. Not to mention that our grocery store's pumpkins are just as round, not to mention significantly cheaper, as any I'd find out in a field. Nonetheless, I take on my annual pumpkin quest with all the enthusiasm of a dog who has found a new fire hydrant.

We loaded the kids up and made our trip to Country Corner (even the name of the place made me gush like a keg of warm apple cider). When we arrived, I excitedly pulled out my camera and made a mental checklist as we headed towards the patch. Beautiful sunny day? Check. Adorable little red wagon? Check. Two happy and equally enthusiastic kids? Check. Perfect pumpkin? Er....Houston, we have a problem.

The second we walked into the patch, henceforth known as the pumpkin graveyard, I knew my perfect pumpkin picking was doomed. Everywhere lay casualties of rodents, sun, and in one corner full of oozing green pumpkins - an apparent nuclear holocaust. We weaved through the vines, desperately (ok, I was probably the only desperate one...) trying to find a pumpkin whose guts were still attached and on the inside. Halfway through my husband calls out "You know, we're probably going to have to just get some off of the shelves out front."

"NO!" my inner child screamed, "I don't want a 'grab a pumpkin from the shelf' memory, I want my warm and fuzzy pumpkin picking memory and I am NOT LEAVING HERE WITHOUT IT!" I tried not to let the cloud of panic and disappointment show as my daughter and I went from rotten pumpkin to rotten pumpkin. Apparently, she too already holds a high standard, as each one we came upon she declared "Not this one, this one is dirty!" Honestly, I would settle for dirt so long as it didn't have a giant gaping sinkhole...

And then I saw it. A tiny little thing, perhaps only 6 or 7 inches tall, sitting all alone. I immediately dispatched my daughter to retrieve it, and when I saw her pick it up I breathed a sigh of relief (because in order for her to pick it up it needs to be almost completely free of dirt particles). It was perfect. Small, but perfect. I breathed a sigh of relief.

We headed out of the graveyard, my daughter carrying her tiny pumpkin triumphantly. And yes, we did stop at the pumpkin shelves in order to get an equally perfect large pumpkin for me to mutilate with a knife - but that was ok, because in the end, I got what I wanted. I got my pumpkin picking memory.

(Ironically, my daughter dropped her pumpkin on the ride home - it may have a concussion and some mild bruising, but that won't stop us from covering it in fingerpaint tomorrow.)

Things I'm Too Old to Laugh At (But Do Anyway)

** The doctor who introduced himself as Dr. Gooey. Ok, I'm sure it isn't spelled just like that, but it SOUNDED just like that, which caused me to chuckle internally and miss the first minute or two of what he was saying.

** The signs that say "Slow Children at Play". Would it really cost that much to add a comma in there, folks?

** My daughter using a curse word. I know I should discourage it but darnit, nothing is cuter than the word "hell" coming out of a two-year-old mouth. At least I don't ask her to keep repeating herself like my husband does...

** The anesthesiologist who let out a not-so-dainty fart while trying to lower the bed rail on Owen's crib. She had the decency to say excuse me instead of trying to pretend like one of the machines collapsed, although that almost made it harder not to laugh.

** The 92-year-old woman I saw at Walmart wearing a Hannah Montana shirt. I was a little worried that the sparkles might interfere with her pacemaker somehow.

** The anectdote I heard recently about a woman who was sending off a business email to a bunch of clients. She signed off on the email "Regards", however, lamented the fact that the letter "G" and the letter "T" are a little too close on the keyboard. Honest - I laugh every single time I think of that story.

** The word masticate.

** And this:

Thanks a Lot, Paula Abdul

I turned on my XM station this morning as I was getting myself and the kids ready for the day when a song came on. It was an old Paula Abdul song, "Straight Up" late 80's awesomeness. I listened for a moment and realized that honestly, the girl never really could sing. She can dance, I'll give her that - and I'd be willing to bet that she can down a 40 in under two minutes flat. But sing? Notsomuch. And yet I distinctly remember being such a huge fan back in my grade school days, thinking that maybe if I teased my hair up into a gigantic wave and choreographed a dance near my hall locker, Keanu Reeves would be all mine.

I mentally scolded myself for ever enjoying such generic, talent-free music. I snickered, even, at the thought of the American Idol execs scanning through a list of musicians, finding Paula, and saying "That's IT! We want her!" What, was Bobo the Singing Groundhog busy that day?

After the referee rang the bell on my mental Abdul-bashing, I went about my day. It wasn't too long though before, seemingly out of nowhere, a song became lodged in my head. A song so horrible, so painful, that it makes Paula shine like a gold-encrusted turd.

Mambo Number 5.

I haven't heard this song in years, and let me tell you - those years were pure bliss. Clearly, this is a case of bad musical karma. Three hours later, it's still stuck in my head and I want to get down on my knees and apologize to the powers that be so that my soul might be released from the torture that is Lou Bega.

Paula, if you're reading - I'm sorry. You are still my homegirl. You may be zonked out on prescription medicines but you rock those sequins like nobody's business and besides, we share a birthday...that has to count for something, right? Could you please call off your musical revenge before I have nightmares about Angela, Pamela, Sandra, and Rita?