"Is That Your Butt?"

So Short Person has really been wanting to take a shower with LJS lately. As best as I can figure, she must think that if she wants to spend any time with him these days it is going to have to be while he's doing something routine. Since she really dislikes showers (or at least did up to this point) this explanation works for me.

We said yes to the request and they got ready to hop in. LJS stripped naked and so did Short Person and they are standing in the bathroom waiting for the water to heat up and Short Person notices LJS's daddy part. She reaches out with one finger and taps on it making it move up and down, "Is this your butt?"

OMG! Caught between horror and hilarity! I really had to give LJS credit though, he barely reacted. Just said, "Stop. That's not good." Me, I sputtered and stuttered, "Umm... Sweetie, that's daddy's part. You can't do that."

She just looked at us and said "Oh, okay!" and got into the shower and that was the end of it.

I don't think LJS will be doing that again any time soon, however. He barely reacted but the look on his face was the same one I get. It's the "They never told me about this in parenting discussions. What the hell?!" expression.

VD and the Clitoris

I laughed so hard today at work I was crying.

I don't even remember how long ago, I wrote a blog on a verbal faux pas I had at work. It had to do with me reminding one the guys that I was a VB (vindictive bitch- his name for me, not mine), except that it didn't come out that way. It came out as me remind him that I had that whole "VD thing going for me." It was funny then and I really thought I'd never live it down. But today I DID IT AGAIN!

So we're stuffing envelopes for a mass mailing at work and I'm trying to get him to help us, to which he has pointedly refused several times.

"You need to help us." I said, trying to make my voice, all yuckied up from being sick, sound authoritative.

"No. Not gonna do it." He responded, tinged with a bit of smart-ass thrown in for good measure.

"You should... I'm a VD, you know." I don't catch what I've done, but he's cracking up laughing.

"Oh really, you are a venereal disease."

"NO! I did it again." I'm laughing and groaning and thinking hard about how I'm going to get out of this one. "Dang it! I thought I'd never live down the other one, and now I've done it again!"

He's laughing, but rights himself a little. "You know, I called my wife's plant a venereal disease the other day. She wasn't too happy about it."

"You called your wife's plant a vd?" He's got me now. I'm curious.

"Yeah, it's called something like a (I'll have to come back to this part because I don't remember the exact name, something starting with a cla... though). I called it a chlamydia."

I laughed and felt the need to say, "Yeah, at least you didn't call it the other thing that starts like that."

"Huh?"

"The other thing that starts cli..."

"Oh, I... don't go there."

I cracked up laughing. Even with the hesitation it still sounded funny. I laughed until my sides hurt. "You... don't go there?"

"No."

I'm laughing so hard I can barely choke the words out, but somehow I make them sound pitiful. "Poor Lori."

"Poor Lori?! What about me? She was really mad."

It occurs to me at this moment that he has absolutely NO idea what he's said that I'm laughing uproariously about. OMG, this is way too good. "Can you blame her? I mean really. Poor Lori."

"What?!" He's pretty indignant now, probably thinking that it's just a plant!

"Well, YOU are the one that said you didn't go there!"

I'm watching his face so that I'll know the exact moment... yep! He's got it now. I'm laughing so hard now that tears are forming in my eyes.

"Umm, uhh..." he's floundering and has no idea what to say, which is funny because he must have felt trapped. His arms were flapping around like a bird and his mouth was making little formations like he's waiting for mommy bird with the worm.

"Dang it!" He stomps his foot and looks all around for a way out, but I am still laughing. Luckily, he is now laughing too. All in good fun.

"Well, at least I'm not a vd."

Oh, how I wish I had someone who could get the last word in for me because since I'll never live down my verbal faux pas, I really need someone to remind him of his!

It has been forever since I've laughed that hard at work. I needed it. Too funny.

I Have Decided to Become a Lush

Should you see me, in the next few months, lying face first in a ditch, walking around with vomit on myself, or just looking a little bleary-eyed, I am asking you very sweetly to NOT stage an intervention.

I am telling you now that I have chosen this life of drunken stupidness and lethargy. I have chosen to throw it all away for one very specific thing. Blackberry Margaritas.

It's a sad, sad truth, but... I LOVE THEM!!! I had my first one last night and I am ready for more. A lot more. Dozens and dozens of more, mOrE, MORE!! They are so yummy.

When I told my husband this, he looked at me and said, "Well, you should have more!" Which leads me to believe that he is completely supportive of my decisions and has no problem with the whole face in the ditch thing.

Goodbye normal world. Gutter rats, here I come!

Parenthood... Who’d’ve Thought

This has been a very interesting weekend in terms of happenings with Short Person. It started with the toilet paper argument and progressed into weird, in a definite funny sort of way.

So it's Sunday morning and since we are actually home for a change, we are getting ready to indulge in our breakfast tradition of pancakes and eggs. It's almost 10am and Short Person has been up a couple hours helping me clean my office. I'm nearly done, I only have a couple more things to put away, but she must have gotten bored because she's in the living room with Daddy. I can hear her talking to him about how she wants to help with pancakes.

I pick up the remaining items and carry them into the living room, kitchen, and our bedroom to put them away, announcing that she can now go into the office and watch Fievel if she'd like. Short Person jumps off the couch, grabs her Daddy's hand, and starts trying to pull him into the office. He's about 200 lbs. heavier than she is, so in an attempt to get him up I hear her exclaim, "Come on Daddy! Let's go look in Mommy's office and see what we can find!" The tone all together too close to that which you might expect from a child looking through Mickey Mouse's House-- NOT Mommy's office!

LOL... I just looked at her and said "Excuse Me!" to which the imp grinned back and trounced down the hall.

Later that same day...

We're watching some "House" episodes I've taped. On the television is a woman who is having heart surgery. Short Person looks at the screen and goes "I want to do that."

I'm having a proud parent moment and telling her that in another 20 years she could be a Doctor too and do surgery and she just looks at me and says, "No, Mom, I want to be the one getting cut!"

OMG, I know she's a hypochondriac, but that's taking things a bit too far if you ask me!

Fast forward to today...

I needed to go to Fred Meyer to get a picture cd made and also pick up some cold medicine for short person. I was hoping to get something that worked a little better at drying her up than what I'm currently giving her. We're standing in the aisle and I hear her go "Uh-oh... Mom... I need to be changed." I look down and see pee-pee dripping down her leg and onto the floor.

Oh crap.

Unbelievably (I say this because my luck is usually not this good) there is a telephone that you can pick up and get customer service a few feet away. I pick it up, explain the situation to the young man that answers, and then wait for him to show up with the paper towels and disinfectant. Lovely boy shows up a few minutes later and was so incredibly helpful and non-phased that it made me regret not getting his name.

Anyway, we get the floor cleaned up, Short Person's shoes off, and I grab the cold medicine I've decided on and we start down the aisle-- her still in wet pants and all. I'm walking quickly and urging her along and she's talking to me about how she wants to take them off. I'm in the middle of an explanation about the fact that she can't take her pants off when I look down and notice that she's already got them down to her knees and we're walking around like this.

Oh Lordy!

You know, when I signed up for parenthood, I don't believe all that would be entailed in the job was fully explained to me! LOL...

Carefully Made Plans Gone Awry

So, I have some friends who have a friend and they are constantly teasing that friend about being gay. Apparently, he bought a new car and it was not considered "manly" enough by the masses to get past the "Gee, you should wear a ribbon and come out of the closet" thing.

I've been following this little tete e tete for awhile now, cracking up because this guy is so far from gay that... well, it's funny! Anyway, I came up with one of my ultra-genius plans to tease him and give my friends something to laugh about.

The plan was for me to walk up to this guy and have him tell me his name. At which point, I was going to do the type of "Oh..." that's so full of knowledge that shivers run down your spine because it means they know much more than they should. After the "Oh..." I was going to say, "Yeah... you're the gay guy, right? You have that really cute car outside? Good for you! Way to not be afraid of who you are" and walk away.

At lunch, moments after having devised this seriously funny plan, I introduced it to my friends and asked what they thought. They cracked up laughing, so we were a go.

So it comes to the day of the Pancake breakfast, where I have graciously offered my services as a floor-wanderer. "Please let it be trash!" I begged, but they stuck me helping people. Not good for someone as anti-social as me. But I digress. I arrive and I'm ready to find this guy, but first I have to figure out who all the rest of these people are and figure out just what a "floor" person is. I'm walking around and come upon this young guy and introduce myself.

Wouldn't you know it. I didn't recognize him. Myspace is so non-representative, really. His picture... lets just say he had more hair in his myspace pic, okay? So anyway, I introduce myself, and he says his name, and I'm already thinking, "Shoot. I blew it!" But brave old me, I'm going to try to salvage the situation... with none of my friends there to witness the event.

"Oh... (insert name here)... I've heard about you." I'm silently smacking myself around for not being prepared.

"All good I hope."

"Well, I did hear you were gay."

He pauses, and then mutters aloud, "Gay..." then looks out the windows at the other firefighters gathered outside.

"Yeah, I heard you drove a cute car too."

"Cute car."

Now at this point, he doesn't sound all that upset, or surprised, or murderous, so I'm smacking myself again at not being fully prepared. "I heard you're selling it?"

"You know... I'm okay with the gay thing now. It doesn't bother me."

Inside I'm chuckling at that statement because it sure looks like he's thinking to himself, "I can't believe this crap." and hoping he can find 10 minutes with his girlfriend to... reassure himself that he's most definitely not gay.

At that point, another person walked up and the conversation ended.

Now, you might be thinking that, in spite of everything, I still pulled off this little joke with aplomb. I told my friends about it, and they all laughed and anxiously awaited his reaction.

Days go by and... nothing.

It turns out that, while I had no clue who he was by sight, he apparently knew who I was. So the whole random person who knew he was gay thing didn't work as planned.

I've been begging my friends for a new gay person, but I suppose I'll have to wait until someone else on the fire department buys the same car.

This Morning’s Argument With Short Person

I needed to run to the store to get two things-- milk and toilet paper. We were down to about a tablespoon of milk and half a roll of toilet paper.

I don't care so much about running out of milk since I have both juice and chocolate milk boxes in the fridge for short person. But toilet paper is a must. If you run out of that stuff, you are basically praying that you have a random box of Kleenex running around. Or paper towels, but if you've ever used those you know that it's like sand paper on your ass.

Anyway, we go to Bi-Mart and I'm telling her what we need to get. She's good with the milk, but she has serious issues with getting toilet paper.

"But Mom, we already have toilet paper at home."

"Yes, I know dear, but it is almost gone."

"Well, you should wait until we have it all gone to get some more."

I know I'm in trouble with this one because "having it at home" is my standard answer for her wanting another bag of Cheetos, a new baby, chocolate milk, etc. I look at her. "Honey, toilet paper just isn't something that you can wait to run out of first."

I pick up a package of double roll Angel Soft and hand it to her, which seems at least temporarily to solve the argument. She's helping now and it gives her something to do. We pay for it and carry it out to the car. I buckle her in and climb in to the driver's seat.

"Mom, we just don't need toilet paper. We have some at home. I think we should take this back."

Unbelievably, this argument lasted all the way to Wendy's to get chicken nuggets, all the way to the coffee shop, and all the way home.

It has stopped now, but only because mommy put it away.

Out of sight, out of mind.

"She Raised the Seat" / Mr. Cutie at the Coffee Shop

Virginia Tech.

I don't think I need to mention much more than the name on this one. We all know how horrific the set of circumstances that surrounded April 16th are and we've all felt sorrow for the parents and friends of the people injured and killed. I mostly just put it there so you'd know how I started thinking about this.

Leave it to me to find humor in the most horrifying of circumstances.

I've read the bios of the people that were killed and fought the fear that all parents feel when a child is killed. I've prayed for Short Person's safety and held her close, AND...

I've thought about my own obituary. What would my friends and family say about me if I were killed in similar circumstances?

I haven't done anything extraordinary, I don't really have a talent, unless you consider a weird fascination with sex "talent" (LOL... my husband might though, I suppose), and I'm not a philanthropist that affected millions of lives. So, where does that leave me?

I thought, and I thought, and I thought, and I keep coming back to the only thing that a friend said to me that stuck out as being something that might come up. See, I am friends with a male that lives alone. My theory is that if in a woman's apartment the respectful thing to do would be to put the seat down, then in a man's house the respectful thing to do is leave the seat up... well, I'm going to leave the seat up.

So, as best I can figure, if they ask him to describe me, his words will be "She left the seat up."

*************************************

I had a very odd thing happen at the coffee shop today. I was standing in line behind this really cute guy who was dressed in shorts, a t-shirt with a running jacket, and a baseball cap. I listened to him order a vanilla latte and broccoli and bacon quiche. When the girl pulled out the quiche I spoke to her and said "I'd like one too, so if it saves you some time you could..." She interrupted me to tell me there was only one piece left.

I asked what kind and she told me, and I immediately changed my mind on the quiche. Mr. Cutie then said, "Oh, you can have it. I'll take one of the others."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yeah, I didn't have my heart set on it."

"Thank you." I replied and then went about ordering my drink. A vanilla latte.

Mr. Cutie is standing at the counter waiting for his drink and he looks at the day old bread. "Hey, I'd like to get this too."

The whole scenario was so similar to what I do every morning that it was WEIRD. It was like two twins ordering the same thing and going through the same motions. I swear the guy was even the same age as I am.

Match.com at the coffee shop.

So, Short Person Was In the Car

These past few weeks have been incredibly hectic around my house. First, we took on another toddler; Then, my husband started moving his warehouse and working 15 hour days; and, at my work, absolute chaos.

Everybody's tired.

I really had thought, however, that short person had been getting enough sleep. But last night, I realized that it was taking a toll on her as well. We were in the car and she got really quiet and I looked back at her and asked if she was okay. She looked at me and in a quiet voice said, "I'm just grumpy and sad."

I responded, "Oh... why are you sad?"

"It just means I'm tired, Mom."

"Oh..."

And People Wonder Why I Don't Sleep

So, about a week ago there was an advertisment on Craigslist. It was posted by a person looking for significant dreams to use in a project. I don't know what the project is-- I didn't ask, but I did email a series of dreams that I had to the person.

I'm sharing it here because even though I was saying "Holy Crap" to myself for weeks after it happened, writing it and reliving it... is something else.

Here is my email.

****************************************************

I've always had very vivid dreams. Sometimes odd, sometimes scary, I'd wake up feeling as though if I tried hard enough I'd be able to tap into some odd alternative universe. In one dream, a black tree in the middle of the desert produced pearls the size of large oranges. In other dreams, I'd be sitting in the living room watching television and terrorists with machine guns would come and make mince meat of the sliding glass doors... and of me.

As bad as those were, this night was worse.

I don't remember the day. I don't remember what I fell asleep thinking about, what I watched on television. I don't remember if anything signigicant happened or if I had experienced a panic attack-- which I am, sadly, prone too-- all I remember is the dream sequence and waking up each time too scared to go back to sleep.

My heartbeat was racing. Blind. I was blind. No wait, blind-folded. My hands bound behind me. I could feel the cold barrel of the gun hitting my temple as if teasing me. Terror made my knees ache, the shaking rubbing them raw against the ground. I was going to die and I knew it. It was going to come soon. I heard the loud crack of the gun and my head suddenly ached as though someone with a large rubber band had just snapped it above my ear. Pressure. God, the pressure in my head was so intense I knew it was going to explode. I waited as it built higher and higher, tighter and tighter. And then... nothing.

I woke up and my heartbeat was thundering in my chest. Cold sweat poured down my body and I couldn't move. Too scared. Too shocked. Too stunned. I let my eyes focus around the room, letting the comfort of familiar objects help lull me back into a regular breathing pattern. Oh my God, I thought, I just had a dream where... I felt. Forget color. Forget being naked or running or whatever interpretation any book could give me! I had just felt my dream. My God, I know... I KNOW what it feels like to get shot in the head. And... it didn't hurt. Huh.

I lay back down, my pillow folded and scrunched underneath my face as I buried into the familiar lavender scent of the spray I used on the sheets and breathed deeply, attempting to drift back to sleep. I though about tropical oceans and sunshine, about hammocks swinging in the breeze surrounded by palm trees and went back to sleep.

The train is rocking back and forth making the stuggle all the more clumsy and ferocious. He's trying to kill me, the sharp blade of the knife angling ever closely to my person. I bear him no great harm, but will not allow him to get away. I'm meant to bring him... somewhere. Into custody maybe. There's a woman in the car with us. She's rooting for me, but I don't know what her business there is. Hostage maybe since she seems to be stuck, unable to help. Suddenly, the train jars forward and I fall onto my back onto the round table in the middle of the room. I'm holding the knife at bay above me, but winning the battle. His arm is bending back and I'm about to lunge forward and claim victory. However, it is not to be. The train suddenly jolts and the chandelier above me breaks. It takes a moment, but I realize why I can't breathe. Why there is liquid filling the back of my throat. Why the woman is now screaming. I see him stand, lower the knife, and look at me as sleep overtakes me and blackness fills the room.

This time, I came out of my dream more slowly. My eyes opened slowly and I looked around, grasping for a hold on time and place. As awareness comes to me, I can feel my heart start racing, chills running down my limbs. Panic freezing me imobile. Again, I had felt my dream. Again, I died and felt it. This time, however, I drowned on my own blood. My throat cut.

I rolled over and looked at my husband sleeping peacefully and then noted the time. 1:00am. It was still very late, or extremely early depending upon your taste. Either way, it was still time to be in bed. Using the same lulling devices that I had taught myself and picturing white sandy beaches, I calmed myself to sleep once more.

Running. Hiding. I'm hiding and getting ready to run. Bushes. I'm behind the bushes, but I need to get to the door. If I get there, I'm safe, but I don't know if I can do it. They are waiting for me. It's a race against time. How fast I can move vs. how fast they can move. I don't want to be captured. To my right, in the other row of bushes is a friend. He's hiding too, waiting for me to move. He's holding a gun, hoping for the first opportunity to fire. At them. He loves me. My fiance. Go. I need to go now! I take off running. Running. Fast. As fast as I can. But it is not fast enough. I hear the crack of gunfire and feel the punch in my back. Pushed down, I've been pushed down! But no... I've been shot. I've fallen to my stomach on the ground. I can see the bushes where my lover hides. My final vision of him hiding there in the place I know where to look... crying.

I woke up and it was still only 1:30am, but I'd had enough. It was one of quite a few nights where the dreams were so bad that I induced insomnia so that I wouldn't fall asleep again-- and I didn't. For four days.

Reality vs. Fantasy

So, Saturday night, after speaking with an old friend, I had an epiphany of sorts.

The difference between reality and fantasy is that in reality we all make mistakes, but in fantasy we always have the ability and opportunity to fix them.

*sigh*

Wouldn't it be nice if we could have "do-overs" as just a standard thing?

The Nose Knows

Short Person is amazing. Or a freak. I can't figure out which, right now. I'm still shaking my head and wondering where she comes up with stuff.

I took three fleece blankets over to TJ's so that her daughter could put them together for me. I was going to do it, and even borrowed the equipment for it, but her daughter is going on a school trip to DC, so at the last minute I decided that I'd hire her and pay her as a way for her to make money.

She had the blankets for maybe three days and bam! was done. Today, I went to pick them up. The short person's is brown on one side and has monkeys on the other. So cute!! So stinking cute! I couldn't wait to put it on her bed, so when I got home, it was the first thing I did.

I went into her room and pulled off her blankets and put the fleece one on and called her into her room to look at it. She walks in and with excitement starts telling me how soft it is and it's so cute and then, she bends down to smell it.

A little odd, but okay.

I haven't told anyone that I was going to take the blankets over. Haven't mentioned it to my husband, haven't talked about it on the phone... nothing.

Short person inhales deeply and looks at me and says, "Did it come from TJ's? It smells GOOD!"
Someone please tell me, how in the heck... what the heck... just happened? She's THREE!

Okay, I smell fresh tortillas and get transported back to Mexico, but not once that I can remember have I smelled a blanket or a piece of clothing and gone, "Oh hey, this must have come from so and so's house."

Wow... I'm amazed. Just amazed.

They do smell good, by the way. Just in case you were worried. LOL...

I’m Not Wearing My Brat

You might be tempted after reading the above title to believe that I am talking about the short person.

And in fact, you'd be right, but only partially.

It just so happens that I'm talking about something totally different. Something that took me quite some time to decipher, and something totally unexpected.

The other day I was lying on the couch, tired and unwilling to move even though the kids were climbing all over me. Short person had the best perch just below my belly button while the other had my legs. My eyes were closed but I was doing the wonderful "is it bedtime yet?" glance at the clock every few seconds.

"Hey Mom... are you wearing your brat?" My daughter asked in a highly curious tone.

I peered up at her from beneath my arm which was shielding all matters of light from my eyes. "My brat?"

"Yeah. You need your brat to sleep. Are you wearing it?"

Some day, when my daughter has had time to practice facial expressions, I am going to pay for the looks of utter confusion I give her. "I'm sorry, Honey, but... my brat? What's... my brat?"

"You know, your BRAT. You have to wear it to be comfortable."

"I... don't... know. Do I usually wear a brat?" My mind is racing. All I wear to bed is pj's so does she mean a hat? A scrunchy? Is it jewelry... we'd just had a conversation about earrings... maybe?

"Yes. You do."

"Okay. Am I wearing a brat now?"

My daughter sighs that exasperated sigh of three-year-olds everywhere that signals that they think they've surpassed you in knowledge and give me a break I'm only three! Rolling her eyes at me (which she is getting quite good at) she responds. "I don't know. I asked you. Are you wearing your brat. You need to wear it to sleep."

Again, my face, total and utter confusion.

Short person sighs and looks at me. "Mom, you need to wear your brat to sleep. Here, let me check and see if you have it on."

With this, she proceeds to lift my shirt high into the air and peer underneath. "Nope. No brat."

Someday... someday... when she is 15 or 16, her and I are going to have a chat about brats.

And maybe one about flashing the neighbors too.