Hoping I Didn't Forget Anybody

We've got a "thing" for Peanut M&M's in this house.

They can make the world's worst boo-boo suddenly feel just fine and dandy.

They can dry up tears in a flash.

They have been a requirement at each and every Penguins game the Toddler has attended.

They should be present anytime there is ice cream about to be shoveled into a Toddler mouth.

They can be used as an effective form of bribery for pretty much everything (except potty-training--that would be far too easy).

And, the Peanut M&M thing started when Alexis was just moments old. As our new little family was sitting in that tiny little hospital room, Mr. Husband was chomping on a big ol' package of the special candy.

As he watched me throw-up repeatedly from major drug-induced nausea.

Alexis, only your Dad could keep on eating through that massive amount of vomit. I think you can attribute your love of the candy to him.

Happy Father's Day, Mr. Husband!

(And Pappaw! And Grandpa! And other Grandpa! And Pops! And other Grandpa yet! Oh, and other, other Grandpa yet! And that other Grandpa, too!) (Yes, Alexis has a lot of grandparents. A LOT!)

Reward for Safe Return (of Babyhood)

Once upon a time, there was a chubby wubby little baby who had not one, not two, but THREE yummy little fat rolls on her legs. Sadly, the chubby wubby little baby decided she should outgrow one of those yummy little fat rolls before she even hit her first birthday. She grew and she grew and she chased that yummy little fat roll away.

Then, the chubby wubby little baby got the horrible idea in her head that she should walk. (I know, the nerve.) Quickly, a second yummy little fat roll began to feel unloved and it too melted away, leaving just one yummy little fat roll.



That one yummy little fat roll was a persistent little fat roll. It hung in there through the Summer, Fall, and even Winter. But as Spring slowly rolled around, it began to look for it's friends Yummy Little Fat Roll #1 and Yummy Little Fat Roll #2. Sadly, as Spring turned to Summer, it decided to take it's search on the road. Yummy Little Fat Roll #3 is gone, leaving only a faint shadow of its former glory on the chubby wubby little baby's legs.




If you've seen Yummy Little Fat Roll #3, could you please send it back? There's a reward for its return.

If You're Old and You Know It, Clap Your Hands

I learned something muy importante this weekend. Actually, two things muy importante:

1. Alexis does indeed have the patience necessary to sit through a movie at the theater (strike up the band, start the parade, and let's party! Woohoo!). Just make sure there is a whole lot of popcorn available for her to shove down my shirt.

2. If a movie has the words, "Kung Fu" in the title, it's going to have a fighting in it. (I know, DUH.)

The first one is all sorts of exciting. (Well, not the popcorn down the shirt part. Obviously, that part is annoying, especially since I was picking it out all.day.long. Many people at the Arts Festival were privy to a very special show because of it. You can all thank The Toddler for those repeated peeks at the cousins.) The second one brings a shadow of doom and gloom to my life. When the thought that Kung Fu Panda was too violent flitted through my brain, I realized something.

Dude, I'm getting old.

To be totally fair to myself, I'm only 32. Not quite old yet. But, I totally thought that movie should have been called, "Kill Bill: Volume 3." Sure, the characters are fuzzy and don't cuss. They also seem to lack the ability to bleed, despite being beaten repeatedly with metal spikes. But, holy crap was that movie full of violence and scary images.

See that? OLD.

Alexis didn't seem fazed AT ALL by all the creepy-eyed creatures, thank ye gods of Things that Make Toddlers Scream for Hours. Mind you, when she drops kicks a kid in the head tomorrow at daycare? I'm totally blaming DreamWorks. Cause that's all the movie was--fighting, violence, drop-kicking, violence, punching, violence, and more fighting. There was more violence packed into those 90 minutes than into 100 episodes of Road Runner.

See that? Oooooooold.

That's what I get for thinking it was a good idea to go see a movie with a Panda Bear in it, just because Alexis is obsessed with all things Panda-ish. I mean GAH! Jack Black and Angelina Jolie do voices for it. Have either of them ever been in a movie that was suitable for children? Shark Tale hardly counts, if you ask my old brain.

At least I'm still younger than Angelina Jolie. I've got that going for me.

Garden Pics

(BTW, the frog is about as big as my fist and the yellow fish is around 18 inches long. Objects in photos are definitely larger than they appear.)

I Would Have a Good Title, but I Had to Watch the Pens Game

Apparently there is some sort of Man Law that states that you cannot call a cheap GPS a dual anniversary and Father's Day gift. Darn the luck, that means I'm still on the hunt for a Father's Day gift for Mr. Husband. This may very well be the last year I'm responsible for picking something out, so I suppose I better make it good. He has a lifetime of ties and trinkets to look forward to, after all.

In my quest for the perfect gift idea, I realized that various companies have been emailing me some craptastic Father's Day suggestions. Babies 'R Us, I'm talking to you. This email?



RIDICULOUS. Telling me to buy my husband a diaper bag for Father's Day HAS GOT to be some sort of twisted joke. Even if he were to like such a gift (he wouldn't), that would be against all the laws of what is right and good. Men do not need special diaper bags. Period.

Just in case there are any men many reading this, allow me to make the whole "manly" diaper bag thing crystal clear. Real men suck it up and carry whatever their baby mama buys. If that means you are stuck carrying a pretty princess diaper bag for several months, just shut your trap and do it. I don't care if carrying that pretty princess diaper bag makes you nauseous. Imagine carrying a real live human being right next to your kidneys for nearly ten months, squeezing it out of a tiny little hole, and THEN we can talk about nauseous. You owe your baby mama the right to buy whatever the heck diaper bag she wants. Carry it and shut your trap.

While you're at it, men, make it a mission to see if you can change more diapers than your baby mama. I dare you.

The day after Babies 'R Us assaulted my sensibilities, Bath and Body Works joined in the Mess with Her Head Party with this offer:



Um, NO. If I were to buy Mr. Husband a bunch of froo-froo soapy things for Father's Day, I'd be getting bricks in my stocking this Christmas (yes, twits, that was an intentional nod to you). Now that I think about it, I can't think of a single Dad that I know who would be overjoyed to find that his wife and kids thought he needed smelly stuff for Father's Day. Ponder for a moment the image of the guy you think would appreciate the gift of goop. I'll just leave that one hanging.

The WORST of the email Father's Day offers that I have received is one that I deleted before it could completely enter my conscious. I swear on the biggest bag of gummy worms, I seriously received an email offering me a great deal on Allure Magazine for Father's Day. Um, yeah. Mr. Husband wouldn't just be mad, I think buying him Allure for Father's Day would be all the judge would need to hear for him to declare the trial a case of justifiable homicide.

I think I'll just buy Mr. Husband this little thing. I'm sure he'll LOVE it.



(C'mon, you HAD to know it was about time I posted another freaky doll.)

Goodbye!

Mr. Husband and I are quickly approaching our 8th wedding anniversary on June 3rd. Since we are ever-so patient and ever-so romantic, we already exchanged gifts as we passed each other in the dining room last night. I've been holding his gift for a while because a stroke of genius came over me (in the form of a forwarded link from Mr. Husband--if he doesn't like what he got, then he shouldn't have asked if he should buy it). It was the PERFECT anniversary gift--a GPS. After all, nothing says "I lurve you and always will" like a GPS system. Especially when the GPS system is super-marked down and cheaper than you've ever seen one. That's romance right there.

Today was the debut of the fancy little GPS system, specifically the TomTom. Except, Mr. Husband set TomTom to use an Austin Powers voice, so I think we should call it AusTom. Anyway, AusTom was assigned to leading us to a fish store that we had never been to before (we are in the midst of restocking the Fishtank of Horrors--the worms need company). AusTom comes complete with a few little issues:

1. AusTom seemed to be under the impression that we needed to drive over the bridge, through the woods, around the block, down the street, and then back again to get to our destination. Once I saw where the joint was located, I was all WTH? We could have gotten there 20 minutes faster if we had taken a different route. You know, the DIRECT route.

2. Probably 5 minutes of that wasted time was due to AusTom's very significant design flaw--men don't listen to directions. Whether those directions come via a wife, a neighbor, a stranger, or a GPS, men quite simply are not programmed to listen to directions. It's a fact.

3. Even though she had no idea who or what was talking, the Toddler thought everything AusTom said warranted a, "Goodbye!" Every.single.time.

So, two minutes in the car went a little like this:

AusTom: Turn left in 100 yards.
Mr. Husband immediately turns left.
Toddler: Goodbye!
AusTom: Turn around at the next opportunity.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Mr. Husband: What did it say?
Me: It said to turn around.
AusTom: Turn right in 500 yards.
Mr. Husband immediately turns left.
Toddler: Goodbye!
AusTom: Turn right in 200 yards.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Mr. Husband drives past turn.
Me (cause I'm an IDIOT): You missed your turn.
Mr. Husband: Where?
AusTom: Turn left in 50 feet.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Mr. Husband: I didn't miss my turn.
AusTom: Turn left in 10 feet.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Me: Yes, you did.
AusTom: Turn around at next opportunity.
Toddler: Goodbye!
Me: See, you missed your turn.
AusTom: Turn right in 300 yards.
Toddler: Goodbye!

If you follow AusTom's directions, you'll find the remnants from when my head exploded all over Pittsburgh.

Goodbye!

I Wish this Were a Paid Post

Dear Makers of Those Things I Lurve but that Cost More than a Gallon of Gas,

Hiya! Let me just start by saying I don't do paid posts. Nope. No way. In fact, they make me cRaZy. Won't do them.

But.

I think y'all are geniuses. Mind-reading geniuses. Mind-reading geniuses who crawled into my brain (scary place that it is) and figured out EXACTLY what it was that I so desperately needed last summer. You watched how I lurved seeing the Toddler enjoy popsicles. You heard my brain noise about how I was going to blow a gasket if she didn't eat the dang things faster. You saw the fireworks when she dripped popsicle juice all over every freakin' thing in the tri-state area.

And you solved my problem.

That mini thing? GEEEEENIUS! I mean, people, those things are EXACTLY toddler-sized! I know you knew that, but WOOOOHOOOO! I can give the kid a Popsicle and she will actually finish it in under 15 minutes! There's still a little drippy drippy going on, but I can live with a little drippy drippy as long as it doesn't lead to sticky sticky all over my floory floory.

So, thank you SO MUCH for creating the perfect solution for one of my many little problems!

But.

WTH? Over $4.00? For some juice on a stick? Are you serious? I know you know I'm going to buy them anyway. $4.00 is a small price to pay for a little bit of sanity. But. I'm going to moan and groan each time the kid downs five of those little buggers in one day (and she will--they are tiny enough for me to shove a whole one up my left nostril and still have space to breath). I'm going to whine that I could have driven to, um, a block or two with the gas I could have bought with that money. I will never let the world forget how ticked off I am that I am a slave to the over-priced Popsicles.

So. How about you send me some coupons? $1 off would be nice. Even $2 off. Heck, why not go all cRaZy and send some coupons for FREE Popsicles? If you do, I will say your name over and over and over and over and I'll tell all my friends to buy them and I'll rave about how fantastic miniature popsicles are for slower-than-molasses toddlers.

Pony up some coupons. C'mon, you know you want to.

As an added bonus, I'll do a much better job of capturing the Toddler singing your praises. I might even bust out the semi-decent and hardly ever used camcorder. Maybe some lights. I might even throw in some hair and makeup.

Love,
The Lady Who is Devoted to You, but Would Like to Save a Buck or Two

P.S.
It just occurred to me that you won't know I'm talking about you if I don't say who you are, Popsicle Mighty Magic Minis. So, Popsicle Mighty Magic Minis, did you know that I love you, Popsicle Mighty Magic Minis? Well, Popsicle Mighty Magic Minis, I do love you. However, Popsicle Mighty Magic Minis, you are too expensive. Work on that, will you, Popsicle Mighty Magic Minis? SEND COUPONS TO ME. ME, ME, ME. Please and thank you.

P.P.S.
I know I could make mini popsicles myself. In fact, I did last year. BE YE NOT SO STUPID! It was totally not worth all the effort. Or, maybe it's just me that ends up with a freezer full of assorted juices that are permanently frozen in place because the stupid Popsicle mold thingy got knocked over before it all froze into a solid sheet of red and blue and purple and green flavored ice. Speaking of which, I wonder what would happen if I were to defrost the freezer? Biggest sticky puddle ever? Better not chance it.

P.P.P.S.
I may be typing in run-on sentences because I may or may not have eaten about a dozen over-priced miniature Popsicles (Did ya' know that was a brand name and not the name of the stuff? You know, like Kleenex? I didn't either, but I do now!) and I may or may not currently be suffering from a sugar high. Woo-eeeee! So, how about some coupons? Go team Blue Popsicle! Coupons. Me. Me. Coupons.

Just One of Those Moments I May Never Understand

Mr. Husband has recently acquired the skill set necessary to tuck the Toddler in for the night, so I decided to throw myself a little freedom party by running to the grocery store for some very much so needed milk and veggies. (I'm wild and crazy like that.) As I zipped up and down the aisles, grabbing things left and right without a deranged Toddler nor very many deranged grown-ups to drag me down, I was thinking that I might have to make it a habit to do my grocery shopping late at night on the weekends. The local craptastic supermarket is WAY more tolerable when there's hardly anybody else there.

I changed my mind after what had to be the most confusing five minutes I've ever spent in a grocery store parking lot (considering I worked at a grocery store for a while in college, that sort of is saying something).

I'm one of those polite and not lazy people that put the cart away when they are done with it (we rock). As I was walking across the four spaces between the cart return and my car, some chick thought it would be fun to pull through the spaces in the middle of the lot and park three feet in front of me, directly between me and my car. So, I walked all the way around her car and then stopped to wait by my trunk. I don't know what I was thinking, maybe that the lady was planning to get out of her car and go in the store? Since her driver's side door was right next to my driver's side door, I guess I made the crazy assumption that we would have to take turns opening doors.

So I waited.

And I waited. I just knew that if I tried to get in my car, she would suddenly throw her door open and whack mine. She totally looked like the type that attacks stranger's cars.

Finally, she rolled down her window and asked, "Can I help you with something?"

I'm sure the look on my face was priceless at that very moment. Somehow, I managed to construct a sentence about how I was just waiting to get in my car.

"Oh, am I in your way?"

Ding! We have a winner! Of course, I didn't actually say that, I just displayed my second priceless expression of the night.

Slowly the woman fumbled with her keys, reached over to her glove compartment to fumble some more, and then finally made her way out of her car.

As she walked past me, I realized she had something in her hand. It was a little bitty can. She had it poised perfectly in her palm, with a finger on top, as if she was ready to spray something.

I can't swear to it, but I think the lady was carrying mace. You know, just in case I habitually stalk women late at night in a grocery store parking lot. I do indeed prefer women who don't know how to park, and that need five minutes to get out of their cars.

Takin' a Walk

Every day after I pick the Toddler up from daycare, I try to take her somewhere that she can just have a little fun. Since the weather has been muy sucky, the playground has been out of the question. I'm sorry, but I just have no desire to figure out what to do with a kid after they've landed with a splat in a mud puddle at the bottom of the slide. So lately we've been going to various trails to take a little walk. Despite her insistence that I don't know where I'm going (she yells "DAT WAY!" when I drive past the turn for the park--it's fantastic that my 2-year old is already a back seat driver), she seems to be enjoying the walks.

One thing that she hasn't been enjoying is my insistence that she try blowing the seeds off a dandelion. She can't seem to figure out how to blow without shoving fuzzy flower tops into her mouth first. Yum. I would feel bad about repeatedly insisting that she do it, but first I'm waiting for her to apologize for waking me up three to four time per night. Every night. For no reason other than she wants to make sure I'm still alive. So, yeah, I'll feel guilty just as soon as I get a full night's sleep. Uninterrupted.

She's damn lucky she's cute.

For the Sadistic Bloggers

I have learned a very valuable lesson in the past 24 hours. If ever I am stuck somewhere and freaking out, I WILL NOT ask a blogger for help. They are sadistic souls who will stop to take a picture, laugh for a minute, maybe take a nap, and THEN help me out of whatever situation.

Since you freaks were so entertained by my poor child's misery, here's the other photo I took. This would be the one where I could swear she's having a stroke. For the record, she wasn't in pain, she was just frustrated. Muy frustrated. Oh, and I got her out by lifting chair and all out of her little house then lifting the pissed off kid straight up. How she got in is still a mystery.

A Few Random Photos . . .

Lately Pittsburgh's weather has been, well, craptastic. I keep complaining that I'm all for the extended hockey season, but that the extended hockey weather is SO not necessary. Between the cold and the rain on Saturday, there was a brief moment where that bright yellow thing (I forget what it's called) shone for a while, resulting in a rainbow. We happened to be in the midst of car purchase torture at the time, but I ran outside with Alexis so she could see her very first real rainbow. You would have thought I was showing her Dora dipped in glitter and Zoe--she was more than a wee bit excited.



Speaking of the new car, it took exactly two days for the stupid thing to start calling me names. I think it's mad that I keep saying I miss my Mitsubishi. (Hi, Mitsi! I love you! I'm sorry I had to leave you like that, but DUDE! $80 to fill your tank? I can't do that every week. Sorry. Maybe your makers will figure out a way to make you more fuel efficient. If they do, we will be together again some day.)



I know that I shouldn't stop to take photos when the Toddler is clearly experiencing extreme duress, but she's the fruit loop that got herself stuck in a doll's high chair in the first place. I still haven't figured out HOW she rammed her big butt in there.



This one is just because crazy faces make me laugh and I have a ton of photos that I haven't posted yet.

He Didn't Know What Hit Him

About a month ago, I made a BIG HUGE GIGANTIC IDIOTIC mistake. I had just surveyed the occupants of our driveway and made note of the two gas-guzzling SUVs and the gas-guzzling over-sized ugly truck and muttered the syllables "new car."

Mr. Husband's man brain snapped out of that Wife Filter setting, defying the laws of nature as he actually heard the words that came out of my mouth. That rarely occurs. In fact, I'm still intrigued by the fact that his hearing is suddenly just dandy when I say words that he WANTS to hear. I could stand inches from his ear and yell, "PUT YOUR SHOES AWAY, PLEASE!" and he wouldn't hear a single syllable.

Anyway, Mr. Husband has spent weeks researching and exploring and generally driving me crazy as he found one "perfect" vehicle after another. I mostly ignored him as his Wife Filter kept ignoring the part where I insisted that the vehicle be cheap and get better gas mileage than anything we owned.

Then yesterday I made a new BIG HUGE GIGANTIC IDIOTIC mistake--I let Mr. Husband drive through some car lots. That action alone is all it takes for him to come home with something. We've bought at least six vehicles together over the past 14 years, and each time it's the same. He sees a vehicle, he buys the vehicle. There are no steps in between those two actions. In fact, his vehicle negotiations go a little like this:

Mr. Husband: "How much is that car I'm going to buy, even if you tell me it's over-priced?"

Salesguy (it's always a guy): "It's twice the Kelly Blue Book value, but I'll give you a deal and whack $100 off the price."

Mr. Husband: "Will you take double that?"

Salesguy: "Um, sure."

Mr. Husband: "Great! It's a deal!"

He will vehemently deny that this is how it all goes down, but he will not deny that since I took over the job as Official Price Negotiator in our house, we have paid significantly less for things. Recently, in fact, he called me a loony toon for thinking I would be able to buy the gas-guzzling over-sized truck for less than a third of it's Kelly Blue Book value. I bid my super-low price anyway and HELLO! it's in our driveway.

So, we set foot on a dealership parking lot and I knew at that very moment that we would be coming home with a car. I instantly made my traditional conversion to Clueless Female. Can I just say, the salesguy fell for it hook, line, and sinker? He totally bought into my "You talk to him, honey" and "I know I'll be the one that drives it, but I trust you're opinion, so you go ahead and do the test drive and tell me if I'll like it," spiel. (I'm not entirely sure that Mr. Husband doesn't fall for it, too. If that's the case, Mr. Husband, sorry, but yes, I have been using your manliness to get us a better deal. You can thank me with a new Coach watch.)

I know the guy fell for it because when it came time to go over the amount they wanted for the car and how much they were willing to give us for our trade-in, it looked a little like this:



You could have built the Great Wall of Pittsburgh through the chasm on the table. The salesguy tilted that offer sheet in such a way that only Mr. Husband could possibly see it, then proceeded to yammer on with his back directly to me. To be honest, I'm not sure that Mr. Husband saw the smoke coming out of my ears. If he did, he may very well have mistook it as me sending smoke signals for him to shut his trap. Either way, the men at the table were both taken aback when I ripped the offer sheet off the table and scrawled a counter-offer on it. I was trying to play the role of Clueless Female, but this Clueless Female has more than a little input when it comes to car negotiations.

As the salesguy slowly realized that nobody was spending any money unless I said so, he dove into typical salesguy crap and tried the lines about having to keep his boss happy and not having the kind of wiggle room on the price that I was requesting. I revved up to Bitchy Wife mode and told him I didn't really care. Meet our price, or we were leaving.

There was the usual hemming and hawing, but in the end I managed to get the price down to an acceptable level and we drove away in a new-to-us 2003 Audi A4. The salesguy was kind enough to apologize, admitting that in sales school they taught him to never ignore the wife, and that he had clearly committed that sin. He may have even thanked me for sparing his life.

Next time you may not be so lucky, Mr. Clueless Salesguy.

Random and Stuff

- I have a new goal in life. I would like to go an entire week without something bizarre happening with the Fish Tank of Horrors. When I was cleaning it earlier today, I pulled out a rock and took it into the bathroom to do a little extra scrubbing. I failed to notice the Ghost Crab hanging out in a nook of the rock right up until he (she? it?) suddenly lunged out of the nook right at my face. I jumped out of my skin and my innards ran out of the house and down the street, shrieking the whole way. Mr. Husband is still laughing at me and the neighbors now KNOW I am a freak. If they recognized me without my face, that is.

- A couple people asked how I keep managing to get tickets to the Penguins games. It's simple, really. TicketMaster.com is scared of me. If I sit down at the appointed hour for any sort of event, there is a 90% chance that I will walk away with a pair of tickets. The other 10% of the time I beat TicketMaster to a bloody pulp, and that seems to help my future chances of scoring tickets. I've had the magic touch my entire life, which explains how it is that I managed to see New Kids on the Block and Nelson in concert back in the day. For the record, North Dakota isn't exactly the land of quality concert choices. In fact, I had to drive six hours to Minneapolis to see New Kids. Look how nice I am, giving you oodles of reasons to mock me. Enjoy.

- If you haven't started using Twitter yet, you are SO missing out. AFF tells the tale here.

- This thing where the Toddler hauls her doll Baby Shell all over creation is kind of cute right now, but I smell a pain in the arse on the horizon. Methinks I might just have to go buy a twin, just to be safe.

Mother Nature, You've Been Warned

There is a frost advisory tonight in the Burgh. You want to know WHY there is a frost advisory in very late April in Pittsburgh? Because of this:



And this:



Oh, and this:



And don't forget about this:



And this:



And finally, this:



Uh huh. The one and only time EVER that I manage to get the containers on the deck all spiffy before Memorial Day and we have a frost advisory. I swear on a package of gummy worms, if so much as one speck of frost or one single solitary snowflake touches one of my plants, I'm going to go Britney Spears Shaved Head Crazy on Mother Nature.

Grr.

Sunday Notes on Monday

Yeah, so I fell behind on a few things, so I'm catching up tonight. Deal with it.

- Because TicketMaster recognizes that I am the master of the online ticket-buying universe, I was able to acquire a pair of tickets to yesterday's Penguins playoff game. Lesser beings would have sent the Toddler to a babysitter and made the game an adult activity, but we are brave souls who were willing to see if she could go 3 for 3 on being well-behaved while watching the Pens win. She did. She spent part of the game watching the "Penins skatin," part of the game playing with the completely unnecessary earplugs I brought in preparation for playoff level noise, and the rest of the game searching high and low for Iceburgh. Alexis rocks and so do the Penguins.

- The only thing worse than having mother truckin' worms in your saltwater aquarium is catching one of those worms (a BIG one, too!), sticking it in a little cup with the goal of flushing it in a few minutes, forgetting about it for two days, and then having to smell the odorific nastiness that is a worm two days decayed. I was thisclose to barfing when I flushed that sucker. I swear those stupid worms just keep finding ways to get under my skin.

- Alexis has a new favorite television program, Dancing with the Stars. The girl Waltzes and Fox Trots and generally shimmies and shakes her little hiney all over the living room when it's on. I need to get video because it nearly makes me fall over laughing every time. Have I ever mentioned that she dances about as well as Elaine on Seinfeld? Yeah. I need video.

- I think it's about darn time the Blogging Moms of Pittsburgh (and anybody else who is close enough to drive on in) held a little get-together. I mean, I've been wanting to meet you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and I already know you and you are awesome, so why not get us all together in one place at one time? Here's the thing, though, I don't like to do decisions. So, jump over here and we'll figure this whole thing out. Spread the word, too, so that we can have as much fun as possible. (I know the layout is beyond wretched and fully intend to fix it soon. Just pretend you didn't notice how very very bad it is, mmkay?) Let's keep the discussions of said get-together over there so as to not make our non-Pittsburgh friends incredibly jealous. Which they should be.

More About the Secret Agent Family in the Burgh

I wasn't able to do a proper post regaling the majesty that is Secret Agent Mama's kids last night as I was knee deep in the crud that Mr. Husband was piling up all over the place as he dug himself into the world's deepest hole. As his parents have been known to read this here blog, I won't completely humiliate him, but rather just say that he found himself quite the bulldozer last night and dug real deep. The fact that he was a putz and didn't even manage to call his Dad to say happy birthday was the LEAST of his transgressions.

Anyway.

Happy birthday, Dad! Love ya!

Ahem.

A few weeks ago Mishi emailed me to let me know that during her grand voyage, she would be passing through Pittsburgh and did I want to meet for a few minutes over coffee or something? I am no fool, so of course I was all Where? When? Yes, Please! I gave her my top secret cell phone number (seriously, like 10 people have that number which is good because I never answer it) and anticipated her call yesterday afternoon.

When she did call, it was to say she thought she was perhaps an hour away. Or at least, that's what I think she said because there was much noise and giggling and goofiness going on in the background. You see, she and four, yes FOUR, kids had been in the car for about 13 hours at that point. As we made our arrangements to go the route of McDonald's (so that the kids could run around and rediscover the joys of using their legs for something other than kicking the seat in front of them), I admittedly thought to myself that Mishi must be a little bit coo-coo. In my defense, who in their right mind spends over 17 hours in the car with four kids INTENTIONALLY? Exactly.

So Alexis and I pulled into McDonald's and were greeted by, quite simply, some of the most outgoing, sweet, and polite kids I've ever met. I think we've already established that I am a crazed lunatic about manners, so it was a joy to meet kids who all said 'please' and 'thank you' and were nice to one another. Seriously. I think those kids actually like each other. And the polite? Oh, it made me swoon. I very nearly fell over when I heard one of them refer to Mishi as Ma'am. That is the stuff dreams are made of right there.

Of course, she may have paid them all to pretend to be good kids, or maybe it was all part of some crazy version of Punk'd where kids act wonderfully while cameras capture people's reactions of awe and amazement. If so, Ashton is gonna' love some of my facial expressions.

After not nearly long enough, the Secret Agent Family had to pile back in their car so they could complete the last four hours of their journey. It was most certainly fun to meet them.

Thanks, Mishi, for stopping in my 'hood!

When Secret Agents Pass Through the Burgh

Look who I got to meet today:

Random Tales and Stuff

- Because my life is awesome, this morning when I went into Alexis' room, Perc was missing (again). I found him in the filters (again). He decided he would leap for joy (again). BUT! This time I was prepared. I slapped the lid to the tank down so fast the dang fish bounced off the lid with a loud thud and then ricocheted back into the water. He's probably feeling a bit woozy after the whole fiasco, but at least he didn't end up with a fur coat.

- Alexis has discovered the joy of those stupid little quarter machines in stores. I'm OK with it because for 50 cents, I can shop in peace while she plays with whatever random toy I choose for her (this isn't a democracy, she isn't getting candy, tattoos, or slime out of those machines until she's old enough to know that snorting slime will not end well). Today's choice was a little bitty Winnie the Pooh. It was a good choice because it led to many amusing Toddlerisms.

"Mommy, I eat Pooh!"

"Where's Pooh?"

"My Pooh is lello." ("lello" is Toddler for "yellow.")

"Pretty Pooh!"

Yes, I am a 13-year old boy for laughing at each and every one of those. And then encouraging her to say them again. And again.

- A couple of people requested photos of the new 'do. The problem is that there is nothing new about the 'do. It looks exactly the same as it has for the past eight years. You can just refer to the About page for a photo. Yup, I still look exactly like that. The Toddler, on the other hand, has grown approximately too many inches in the year since that photo was taken.

I'm Decking the Next Person to Giggle in My Presence

I have never in my life enjoyed going to get my hair did. I never know what I want, and chatting with some stranger who is holding scissors awfully close to my eyeballs just isn't my idea of fun. I managed to avoid the whole dreaded process for years by cutting my own hair, or by only going the absolute minimum number of times per year possible. Then, right before Mr. Husband and I got married, I went and got myself some highlights.

That was the end of the very occasional torture.

Mr. Husband lurves himself the blondy streaks. Since I never actually know what I want, I more or less of go with the status quo on the whole issue, figuring that at least I'm appeasing him. That pretty much means I can blame him for every second of torture I endured today.

I don't have a hair chick or hair guy. I just haven't found someone that strikes me as so wonderful as to want to return to them. So I wander. Today I wandered to an OK hair chick, but OK Hair Chick was a little overbooked and had to elicit help from Really Not OK Hair Chick. I had to deal with Really Not OK Hair Chick during the whole wash cycle. The longest wash cycle of my entire life.

Really Not OK Hair Chick instantly made me want to stab my eardrums with a sharp object. She didn't end sentences with a period like a normal person. Nope. Instead, she ended every.single.sentence with a giggle. Even sentences that weren't funny. Here's a sampling of our conversation. (Side note: I usually would tune out this kind of junk, but because I love YOU, I made my brain stay in the game. You're welcome.)

NROKHC: Is that your natural hair color, giggle giggle?
Me: Uh, which one? (Dudes. Highlights. There are like 50 colors in my hair.)
NROKHC: Oh, it's just such a pretty color, giggle giggle!
Me: Ummm, thanks?
NROKHC: Are you married, giggle giggle?
Me: Yes.
NROKHC: Me, too, giggle giggle! I was all anti-marriage and stuff, giggle giggle. But then I met my prince, giggle giggle.
Me: ?
NROKHC: I just told him he saved me from being that old cat lady with like, giggle giggle, 50 cats, giggle giggle.
Me: ?
NROKHC: I tell people all the time, just wait, giggle giggle, because your prince is out there somewhere, just like you thought when you were a little girl, giggle giggle.
Me: ? (Too busy wondering who the h#ll married Giggles to respond. She didn't notice.)
NROKHC: Do you have any kids, giggle giggle?
Me: Yeah, a two-year old.
NROKHC: Oh, that must be so fun, giggle giggle.
Me: Um, yeah.
NROKHC: (Suddenly clutching my skull in her hands) OH, giggle giggle! You are so stressed, giggle giggle!
Me: ? (Frankly, I was trying very hard to block out the boobs and armpits that were invading my space, so yeah, maybe a bit stressed. I don't really aspire to be blinded by some giggly chick's boob and I have no interest in checking to see if her deodorant is working. Over and over.)
NROKHC: I guess two is a really hard age, giggle giggle. Isn't it, giggle giggle?
Me: Actually, my kid is pretty good. (Seriously, we hit the jackpot with this one.)
NROKHC: Oh, giggle giggle. You are just SO stressed, giggle giggle. (STILL clutching my skull, tighter than Britney is clutching her sanity, by the way.
Me: Not really.
NROKHC: Wow, giggle giggle! Your hair color is just so pretty, giggle giggle!

And then my head exploded. Or she finished. Whatever.

The Toddler did, however, help me to reassemble my grey matter. The second we were reunited, she was kind enough to tell me that I was pretty over and over and over. I told you we hit the jackpot with that one.

Sweet Dreams for One and All

While we were in Cleveland, I saw something that I haven't been able to get out of my head. Somewhere in the mall we visited, we came across some a store that sold custom-made dolls. Alexis LOVED the dolls. They were adorably life-like with cute little faces, realistic little bodies, charming little outfits, and came complete with an $89 price tag. For obvious reasons, we put the babies back in their beds and left empty-handed.

Over a week later, I find myself regretting that we didn't buy one of those dolls. I know, I need slapped. No two-year old needs an $89 doll, even if she does take really good care of her toys and almost never asks for things when we are in a store and she would treasure that doll for years and she has been pretty well-behaved lately and it could wear real baby clothes and they were all so cute and

FINE.

I want the doll.

There. I said it. I want the stupid $89 doll. However, we aren't about to jump in the car and drive two hours just to buy me a new doll. So, this morning I figured I would see if I could find them online. I asked Mr. Google for some custom made dolls and he showed me this:



Um, yeah. That's not exactly what I was looking for. Actually, that image kind of creeps me out. So I tried again and got this:



*shudders*

Clearly, we have a pattern on our hands. I knew there were a bunch of crazies living in the Internet and I knew there were doll crazies in this world, but I HAD NO IDEA the depths of loony the doll crazies could conjure if they found the Internet. I feel the need to share a few of the faces that will be haunting my dreams tonight. You're welcome.

These dolls aren't so bad, but those outfits are the stuff of nightmares. And maybe flashbacks, but I can't talk about that without my shrink in the room.



This one is 40 inches tall and I'm pretty sure she could kick my butt.



In fact, I'm pretty sure she knows how to use a puzzle piece as a ninja weapon of human destruction.



It looks like she already had her first victim:



You can tell me that all those scratches and bruises just make that thing look life-like, but I then get to tell you that you are wacked out. Dolls should not look like their faces were pulverized with a puzzle piece.

Nor should they have evil eyes that can bore holes in my soul.



While I'm pretty sure that doll is doing the devil's work, this one is just plain pissed off:



Her description claims that she is "lifelike and sweet." Um, yeah. Sweet. I must be confused as to the meaning of that word.

Speaking of pissed off dolls, check this one out:



You know what she's thinking? OK, nothing because she is a doll. But, if she were a kid? She would be thinking about how pissed off she is that someone took her picture while she had that doily on her head. That ain't nice.

This one isn't really all that bad:



But it's female counter-part sure is.



I swear on a big package of gummy worms, I have seen the grown-up human version of that doll working the night shift at Waffle House. However, I have never before seen a doll that looked like it smoked two packs a day.

This one is looking to heaven in hopes of having it's prayers heard. It's praying that the Harley chick drops her cigarette ash on that outfit and the whole thing goes up in a cloud of smoke.



At some point during my over-priced doll quest, I started to consider the idea of having a doll made that looks like Alexis. But then I saw this:



Say what you want, that is a 10 on the Creep-O-Meter if you ask me.

This one is about a 13 on the Creep-O-Meter:



Dolls should not look like they are straight out of somebody's va-jay-jay. Never.

I could keep going on for hours with all the scary stuff I found while trying to find a cute new doll that wouldn't give me nightmares, but I have a Penguins game to watch. So I'll leave you with this:



You are so very welcome.