Sugar & Spice

Today N. is trying to figure out how to make the sound produced by the placement of one's palm over one's pit and pumping the arm up and down. He's determined to perfect this skill prior to the arrival of his cousin this weekend. I'm happy that he has a goal; he's seemed a little aimless lately. I think he may still be in slight stunned awe following my reaction after I discovered him eating gum from the underside of the restaurant table earlier in the week.
Cadaver workshops and county hospital coverage apparently have not rendered me immune from the occasional gross-out that can be provided by my sweet little boy.

Asshole, Chapter 2

Where to start? I've been locked in a dungeon toiling away at laundry, ironing, and meal preparation for the past 3 weeks. It was almost as much fun as a girls trip to an out of town spa, but not quite. Wait, how the hell would I know what a girls trip to an out of town spa would be like? Maybe it would completely suck, and I'd spend the whole time wishing I was at home cooking and cleaning for that asshole, er...my loving husband, I mean.

Since my last post, we have been invited to never return to the home one branch of my family. Out of everyone at the whole huge wedding, including drunken hillbillys and Extra Super Baptists, Nick was able to distinguish himself as the Supreme Asshole and word was passed that he is no longer welcome. He has estranged himself from his entire family, and is now beginning to work his way through mine. I wish he'd get himself a girlfriend, then I could just boot his ass and act all indignant.

We've also celebrated birthday #7 for our lovely H. It was an over the top extravaganza, as per her big fat daddy. Nuffin's to good for his little girl. Said party included renting a bus and taking about 60 children and a few grown-ups to a water park. When I politely mentioned that this was getting rather expensive, I was informed that we were wealthy and could afford these things; that is until it came to the issue of providing lunch for our guests, at which point the big shot said that ordering sandwiches was ridiculous and expensive and I could make them, what do I think we are, rich? CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER. He also had stolen enough napkins and forks from Chipotle in the last several months that he saved another ten bucks there, whew.

Nick's 50th birthday is coming in the fall and I'm either getting him a Rolex or divorce papers. I've got 3 months to decide if I'm shopping for lawyers or jewelers.

Board results coming soon. PRAY.

Lourdes of Madonna

I hate to break bad on kids, but since people keep saying that H. looks so much like the little Madonna tripe, I'd like to point out that my daughter is the most beautiful child on the planet, second only to my niece. And my lovely daughter does not have a freakin unibrow, nor does she have a beginner 'stach long enough to braid. Madge needs to put down that $4,000.oo Hermes bag and take her little girl for a little waxing. and everyone needs to just quit comparing H. to inferior beings. Thank you very much.

Fabulass fourth

Of course the kids wanted to see the fireworks. The problem is, that although I too wanted to see the fireworks, I had no desire to enjoy them with the great unwashed masses crowding to the waterfront as they feast on giant turkey legs and salmonella flavored potato salad.

The perfect solution: a nice little catered event upstairs in FK's fancy ass office with lots-o big windows overlooking the whole sloppy mess.

The kids looked like mini homeless people, as they had spent most of the day with Nick, who's grooming habits are less than impeccable. Nick fortunately stayed home, which gave me a delightful evening just by the virtue of his absence.

It was all quite opulent, that is until we had to figure out how to get home. Eventually, when we figured that there would not be a helicopter coming to retrieve us, we ended up joining the teeming hoard and walked up the avenue homeward. It was quite a lot for the kids to take in, what with all the suburban teenage girls dressed up like little hookas and the real ho's vying for the suburban boys. Thank go we live in the city. I'd hate for my kids to have to mix with those raunchy kids from the burbs.

Also, a lot of really really BIG drunk people wearing crocks and fanny packs. Is there really anything more gay than a fanny pack? not so much the item itself, but the name. "Fanny pack". think about it. gay, gay gay. Action hero Mitch Rapp donned a fanny pack in one of the novels, and I expect in the next one he'll be wearing a feather boa. I've totally lost respect for him.

KNOCK KNOCK

One of the nice things about having little kids (besides being able to have little people to lord over), is that they think that I am amazing, beautiful, and hysterically funny.

Not to worry, I'm completely aware of the fact that in about 3 years they will start to be embarrassed to be seen with me, and in 6 years they may actually hate me; but for now, they think that I am some kind of wonderful goddess, and I will bask in it while it lasts.

Today I told them crappy jokes from Highlight's magazine, and then some jokes that veered a little into potty land, and they nearly ruptured their little spleens laughing. They think knock knock jokes are the funniest things they've ever heard, there doesn't really even have to be a good punch line.

N. can amuse H. for hours by his burping prowess. They also believe that I have only burped once in my life. My benchmark belch which set the standard for all other burps came as a surprise to everyone, even me. It was so damn loud the neighbors probably heard it, I'm sure I was undergoing some temporary demonic possession. Anyway, the kids refer to it as the bullfrog burp, and the memory of it assures my continued domination on the circuit. They think I saved up for it my whole life, and that I will have a similar occurrence sometime around my eightieth birthday.