WHAT??!!

Can someone please tell me how Michael Johns got voted off American Idol, and f'ing Kristi Lee Cook is still sitting her bad singing, leg thrusting, hand sticking out, sorry ass on that couch? How?? Is that what this country has come to? This is my first season watching, and I realize I must not really understand this, cuz there's a couple of people left there that should been long gone. Long, long gone. I have never voted for an Idol...never really thought it was necessary. And I will regret it for the rest of my days. Or at least this week. Because I'm totally sure my one vote would have kept him on. Or is it five you're allowed?
And if I ever see Kristi Lee Cook, I'm gong to kick that leg out from underneath her. And hope she lands right on that sticking out hand.

My Aussie hottie is gone. What a sad, sad, night. Maybe he'll go make an album of Queen cover songs. That would make this all better.

I love you Michael Johns. I will miss you more than you know.
And to my darling Benny, who grabbed my hand when they announced the results, and said, with total sincerity, "I'm sorry,"... I love you more.

I think I'm going to go cry myself to sleep now.

God Help Me

Not for the weak stomached.

So I'm preparing to pour myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Ruthie has been in the bathroom refusing to poop for some time. I go in and make some threats (no more Life cereal...not enough fiber), I leave, she cries. It's a rather pathetic cry as she has lost her voice due to the cold or whatever it is that Benny kindly brought home from work (really dear, just your paycheck would do) The pathetic cry forces me back into the bathroom where I find Ruthie perched on the potty is that ass-hanging-almost-all-the-way- into-the-bowl kind of way that little kids have, and on the verge of spewing phlegmy vomit from her mouth. At first I think it's merely phlegm. As I turn back from reaching for a tissue, I realize it's not. It's the whole shebang. I attempt to lift Ruthie off the potty, pants at her ankles and turn her so she can release this spew into the toilet. But she's done for th moment. I have caught a fair amount in toilet paper and tissues, but a visual sweep indicates that it is on the toilet seat, the lid, the floor, Ruthie's pajamas, top and bottom, and she is stepping in some. Sigh. When will this end? We have spent over $100 this past week on copays for doctor visits. We have spent $30 on prescriptions (thank you insurance) and the pharmacy lady knows me by name. Where am I going with this? I am about to make a desperate plea.
Please kind people of the world, if you are sick, stay home. If your kids are sick, keep them home. Not just from school. From everywhere. I know it sucks staying home. I hate it. I hate being cooped up with small children. I do. But if we all just stayed home when we were sick and didn't lug ourselves and our germs all over, we'd all be less sick. So we wouldn't have to stay home that much. We wouldn't have to waste so much time being sick, because the people with the germs would be considerate enough to keep them to themselves. I know this isn't a fool-proof theory, but it would help. And even one less illness would make me happier. I don't know exactly that Benny brought this home from work. It's my assumption since he got it first. He could have truly picked it up anywhere. So that is why I am making this plea to everyone...everywhere...all the time. Unless you would like to volunteer to care for my sick children, pay their copays, blah bah blah, please stay away if you are sick. From anyone. Stay home. It's the best place for you...and me...and my kids. Please pass this on to all the sick people everywhere.
Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

My blessed morning alone

Yes, this morning I had about 2 hours to myself. Two blissful, precious hours. And what did I do? Did I have a nice hot cup of coffee while I read a book? Did I soak in a tub full of fragrant bubbles? Did I nap? Give myself a pedicure? Have an early lunch with a friend? Take a leisurely shopping trip? Nope. I had a mole check at the dermatologist. Why was it so great? How could I possibly enjoy sitting in a gown in a doctor's office while they perused my body for suspicious moles and commented on the mild acne on my back? Well, for starters, I got to watch my husband rush out of the house on the way to the pediatrician, accompanied by a sick 4 year old and a screaming toddler in the midst of a full-blown tantrum. I got to picture him checking my note to be sure all of the doctor's questions were answered, while children whined and hung from his leg. I got to visualize him prying the children off the doctor's rolling stool before they slammed it into a wall with their little fingers sandwiched in between. And I got to know it wasn't me. I got to arrive at my doctor's office a couple of minutes early and only have one puffy winter coat to drag around. I got to bring in just my wallet and checkbook...no diaper bag..no sippy cups..no bribery snacks..no coloring books. I got to read a magazine in her waiting room. And I got to ride there and back in total silence. Heaven.

Tune in tomorrow for 10 reasons why you should not have a geriatric do your taxes, no matter how cheap he is.

The Golden Ticket

It's been a while. Really, truly, to all three of you, I am sorry. Sometimes, I can;t find it in me to write about the minutiae of my life and nothing all that exciting is going on. We've had two birthdays, and about six illnesses, in the last month. Not what I had imagined you'd all want to read about. And anything else exciting usually happened in the midst of one of those illnesses when a limp whining, feverish child was occupying all of my personal space and preventing me from typing. On top of that, I had to get the girls' outgrown clothing and toys and prepare them for the local consignment sale. A task both frustrating, as I pin yet another diaper cover to yet another tiny dress, and melancholy, as my eyes well up over the same tiny dress that both Ruthie and Helen wore, once upon a time.
But today is a momentous occasion, folks. I have finally learned to do something I have been wanting to learn for years. And years. And years. This past Sunday was Palm Sunday...Sunday before Easter...loooong mass due to reading of the passion, palms are handed out to each attendee at Palm Sunday Mass. Ruthie and I each took a palm when we arrived at church. Ruthie went to the children's liturgy (a.k.a. church school) I told her to listen hard to her church scho teacher to fund out why we get palms. This was completely self-serving becasue I can't ever remember. (Carly...why do we get palms...don't they teach you that in choir?) Anyway, Ruthie came back with three more palms. And a little book about Easter and Jesus rising from the dead. No stories of why we have palms. But she came back with something better. So much better. Something I never dreamed they'd give her, because I thought it was illegal according to church rules. She came back with directions for turning her palms into a palm cross. Indeed folks, for years ands years, since I was a small child, I have seen people's palms miraculously turn into crosses. I never knew hoe they did this. I wold bring my palm home and try, but without the help of duct tape and staples, mine would unravel, and the duct tape really did add an element of modern crudeness to the whole thing. I gave up. I convinced myself that the church didn't want us decimating our palms. They were supposed to be treated with a certain respect. They were to be left on the kitchen table until they disappeared or turned into a pile of dust. Then they were to be swept into Daddy's ash tray. But here we were, being given the instructions. So it must be okay to make a cross form your palms. It must! I scanned the directions, and, realizing my husband's engineering degree might come in handy, packed them into out bag before we left for home. The consignment sale and some of the aforementioned illness kept me from attempting the crosses until this morning. But as I cleaned off the table, I realized U must do this before the directions, the palms, or both, got lost. So I sat down with all five palms, perhaps a bit drier than is ideal for palm making, and I began meticulously bending, folding and tucking. And I now have five beautiful palm crosses on the kitchen table. Don't ask me what I'm going to do with them. I don't know. Perhaps later I will take a picture, but I can't find my camera's USB cable, so even if I did I cannot currently post a picture. So just imagine how beautiful my crosses are. They are. So beautiful.

Australiacan Idol

To all three of my faithful readers, I apologize for my recent neglect of my blog. We have been plagued with sick child #1, sick child #2, sick child#2's birthday, sick child #2's birthday party, followed by sick mommy. But I know, that is no excuse. It has, after all, been nearly a month.
It is Season 7 of American Idol and I have pledged to watch the full run this time. I completely ignored the mania of the first few seasons. The Clay Aiken season I watched sporadically (by which I mean, the auditions and then the finale, and probably nothing in between. ) I've watched the auditions only, for the last couple of seasons. But this season I am in for the long haul baby. (Perhaps a development akin to my recent interest in the whole political thing...see previous post). I made the decision to commit to this when I was under the impression that Benny would be out every Wednesday night, taking a class to review for a test which he took and thought he failed. Two weeks into the class, he found out he passed. so now he is home on Wednesday nights. While I love his company, this poses a problem in our one TV home. Benny will watch the auditions with me, cause admit it, they are humorous and oh so entertaining. But I think he's out of the game now that they're over. However, I have a new friend to watch with in my little daughter. Ruthie, though she will only watch the girls sing for the time being, will keep me company and watch the TiVo-ed American Idols while Helen naps. She has an AI microphone she got in a Happy Meal ages ago that is getting some legitimate use. She actually interviewed me this morning about who I liked. She also at one point packed a bag and said she was leaving to go to American Idol.
We just finished watching last night's episode. I have some clear faves early on, and some I could get rid of, and others who are just forgettable. Some notes from the cluttered corners of my brain:

• I really like David Archuleta and I think the boy can sing.
• I laughed out loud when Colton Berry said he's been told he looked like Ellen DeGeneres because that is EXACTLY what I said to Benny when we watched the Hollywood auditions last week. Or maybe what I actually said was "Who is he? Ellen DeGeneres' long lost little brother?" Close enough.
• Danny Noriega may have some talent but if he doesn't tone down the cracked-out fairy act, he'll be on the next train out. NO FLAMES...I'm not a homophobe. I wouldn't like that same behavior in a girl. Perhaps after tonight I'll be offering the same advice to a girl. He is just too over the top and a bit overconfident.
• (Leif) Garrett Haley is likable but too quiet. Amp it up dude!
• Jason Castro...at first glance I didn't think I'd like him, but I was impressed. He can sing, he has a personality. I like him.
• EZ Cheese - Wasn't impressed.
• Cruise ship guy...I don't even know his name, but I'm not gonna look it up because I'm pretty sure he's going tomorrow night.
• Robbie Carrico - I'm kinda liking Mr. Rocker dude.

but my clear fave of the top twelve guys is Michael Johns. If you haven't yet heard or seen him, watch this: (the good stuff starts about thirty seconds in)



Not only is that one of my all time favorite songs by one of my all-time favorite groups, but that man rocked it. He is amazing, and he is kinda hot.
My only concern is, he wants to be American Idol, but he ain't American. I am all for the Aussie dude wining, but I don't know how it goes. Seriously. I claim utter ignorance here. Have a lot of foreigners been as serious a contender as this guy? Has a non-native ever won? Does American Idol translate to "an American who kicks butt and gets a recording contract" or "someone who kicks butt that Americans love, who gets a recording contract." Or would he be the first "Australiacan Idol". And I realize that if I want to vote for my beloved Michael Johns, I can't be watching this the next day...and Ruthie cannot stay up that late. And Benny the non-watcher is now home on Wednesday nights. I have some serious decisions to make. And if Michael doesn't win, then he will just have to be my Australiacan Idol.

The Tribe has Spoken

I've always been what I considered to be politically ignorant. This wasn't so much a choice as it was a function of my brain. I was a preschool teacher, a kindergarten teacher and a first grade teacher. I have the attention span of a child of approximately those ages. Though I'm apt to believe childbirth has killed a moderate share of my brain cells and I am now leaning more towards the attention span of a toddler. Those of you who now have a toddler, or have had one in the past, know theri average attention span is nil, except when they have stumbled upon an unattended box of Kleenex, and then they are able to spend a minimum of three hours slowly pulling each individual Kleenex out of the box of 470 tissues, and then meticulously tearing each of them into pieces the size of sesame seeds. But I digress. Kleenex aside, children are not known for their abilities to pay attention to things. So, for obvious reasons related to such, it has been difficult for me to maintain the focus needed to follow what is the LONGEST FREAKING ELECTION PROCESS IN THE FREE WORLD!!! Every major election year, I would vow to learn, vow to listen to the candidates and their issues, vow to read the paper and news magazines, vow to go into the polling place on Election Day and make a truly educated choice. It never happened. It would go more like this: When the Iowa caucus approaches, I would attempt to familiarize myself with the names of the candidates in the running. I would search my brain for information on caucuses from my high school poly sci class, and I would fail. I would read an article in Time magazine on one or another political candidate or issue, and I would fall asleep. I would attempt to watch a debate if it didn't interfere without necessary television like ER or reruns of Benny Hill, and I would fall asleep. I would shamefully abandon all hope of figuring any of it out on my own and I would call my friend Andie, who was a poly sci major in college and actually worked for a time in the government (don't ask me what branch, I was much, much more impressed when she did the radio news during the Imus show for several years) and I would ask Andie who to vote for. And she'd tell me. And I would. I was just proud of my self for voting.
This time, I made a similar vow. Except this time it's working. At a time when I've typically already fallen sleep (yes, I relaixe it's onl been a matter of weeks), I'm interested to see who is winning the primaries in which states. I've actually visited candidate websites (though I can't get too far because I refuse to give them my email address). And I actually watched almost all of the new Hampshire debate a couple of weeks ago. This was helped by the fact that we have TiVo, so the pressure to watch it all live, and all at once, was off. And I would have watched it all, but I realized the Republicans were interested in nothing much more than making sure the US was still a superpower. So after an hour an 45 minutes of them, I gave up. But I watched the whole Democratic debate. And I have anxiously awaited results for the primaries thus far. And I was gleefully happy with myself. I thought maybe I was maturing. Maybe I had finally become socially and politically conscious enough to make my own decisions. But I realized that no, this wasn't it. You see, this whole primary business, the whole debates and voters and stuff, is really just like a very long and debatably more important, though less entertaining, reality show. So here I must thank Jeff Probst, Simon Cowell, Phil whatever his name is from the Amazing Race, and more recently, the people with forgettable names (Carson being the exception) from Crowned. After years of watching reality shows, and hanging on for months to see who will be the winner in the end, I can apply these same principles of dogged persistence to the presidential race. I do realize, because we have LONGEST FREAKING ELECTION PROCESS IN THE FREE WORLD, that my attention will need to be held slightly longfer. And for this, I respectfully request a few immunity challenges, road blocks, and even Simon telling one or two of the hopefuls "You're dreadful, get out of here," before November rolls around and I can enter the polling place with confidence...and likely a toddler at my feet, before casting my vote and mumbling under my breath "The tribe has spoken."

I'm so proud

Helen's second birthday is less than a month away. I am becoming increasingly sad about this as she is our last baby, but that is another post. Today, as we were walking through Target, Ruthie and I were discussing Helen's birthday. (And taking advantage of the limited time we have left to discuss such matters in her presence without her knowing what we're talking about.) As I've mentioned before, I like to let Ruthie pick out gifts for people, and her sister is no exception. I asked if she knew what she'd like to give her sister for her birthday, and she said she'd like to get her a toy. Knowing that Target has a lot of toys on post-Christmas clearance, I suggested the three of us take a stroll over there.
As we were making our way over there, I asked if she knew what kind of toy she'd like to get for Helen. She replied that she knew just what she wanted to get her. She wanted to give her the big brown teddy bear she had at home that she didn't really need anymore. I was glowing with pride. Yes, I'm proud that she is thinking of her sister, and that she would give up something of her own...but mostly I'm proud because, at the ripe old age of three, she is already regifting.

Rhyme time

People say the dumbest things. I mean, really, the dumbest things. And they're so often unnecessary. And unprovoked.
The girls and I were at the gym today, trying to get some energy burned off on a frigid, below zero wind-chill day by donning swimsuits and splashing around. Thank God the pool is indoors. There were quite a few other kids and their moms there. One woman had a little girl who, it turned out, is just a week older than Helen. They didn't exactly play together, but they acknowledged each other's presence in a "that's-my-mommy-keep-a-reasonable-distance-or-I-may- bite-you" kind of way. The mom and I exchanged pleasantries and the usual "Oh, how old is she?" exchange took place, which prompted the realization that our girls were only a week apart. We retreated to the locker room to change...always an ordeal when Helen is around. Once everyone was dressed, I proceeded to wrangle up the girls to dry their hair somewhat. I called their names, which I will reveal ONLY for the purpose of this post. Do not attempt to refer to them by name in any other capacity, unless you know them in real life. I mean it. Anyway, Ruthie, whose name is really Amelia, and Helen, whose name is really Anya, were in need of a corralling, so I called out "Amelia and Anya, come let me dry your hair." To which this other mom, who is now in the locker room as well, immediately (like as if she had diarrhea of the mouth), responds "Oh, why did you do that yourself?" My stunned silence must have egged her on. "Amelia and Anya? Is that what you said?" "Yes," I replied. "Wow, I get Stacey and Emma mixed up. That must be tough." I responded with one of those half-assed grunty laughs that is more of a "Who the hell asked your opinion?" or better yet "Who the hell gets Stacey and Emma mixed up, you moron." I know my girls' names don't sound dissimilar, but they're not that alike that a complete stranger should feel the need to comment. I didn't name them Shelly and Kelly. Or Casey and Tracey. She must have realized at that point that she had made a comment for which I did not care because then she said "They're beautiful names, though." I thanked her and turned the hair dryer on, drowning out anymore of her senseless, unsolicited commentary. Next time I see her I think I'll call the girls Annie and Fannie.

Here I Am

I''m posting because it's been two weeks since I posted last and I'm feeling guilty. I don't have anything witty or interesting to tell you. We survived our Christmas party, and actually had fun. For real. Christmas was low-key, which was great. New Year's Eve was even lower key. Tomorrow Benny resumes school. This means Wednesdays will be very, very long for me. He will leave home around 7:30 a.m. and return around 10:30 p.m. This makes for an interminable long time when Ruthie is in one of her whining, uncooperative moods and Ruthie is n a temper tantrum streak. Benny had this schedule last year. Except that it come on the heels of my Tuesday night volunteering at the NICU (which usually has me tired the following day) and just before his Thursday night basketball. This year, the NICU will be on Mondays, which will give me night to recover, and Benny has agreed to be more flexible about basketball. (i.e., if one or three of us has pneumonia, or say, I have just been hospitalized with a kidney stone, he will skip basketball.) This may help. As will the fact that Helen is no longer nursing. We'll see. My knuckles are white. If anyone has been thinking of having us over for dinner, Wednesdays are good. Better yet, if anyone was thinking of having just my children over for dinner, Wednesdays are excellent.

Claustrophobics beware

Every year, my husband's side of the family has a Christmas party. The host changes annually, on a rotating basis. We last hosted in 2001, pre-children. We lucked out with smaller than average crowd that year, and, having no children, we had some extra space to work with. We are up again this year. If you've been to my house, you know it is small. Very small. Say 1250 square feet. This would be ideal if Benny's extended family consisted of, say, three people. In all actuality, the number of attendees will likely be ten times that. Now, when I say 1250 sq. feet, that is not all usable space. Usable space is maybe 700 sq. feet. We were hoping for a warmish December evening, not out of the realm of possibility given recent years' green Christmas trend. We had hoped that we could comfortably put food and drink in the garage, and that maybe we could even light a big bonfire in the backyard for those brave (or drunk) enough to venture out there. Well, we have over a foot on snow on the ground. not exactly ideal bonfire conditions. And the weather prediction for this Saturday is cloudy (really, in winter?) with a high right around freezing and a low of...um...8. Yup, 8. Now nearly everyone who is coming has been here before and should be aware of the minuscule space the party is occupying. We will still utilize the garage, but I'm thinking I should look for extra mittens, and I will be begging my neighbors for their space heater. I am slightly nervous about all of this. And I haven't even gotten into the logistical chaos of trying to clean the house and prepare food with a very curious, very bright, very agile and often sneaky (but oh so adorable) not quite two-year-old on my hands.
I'm sure I will have lots of updates in the coming days.

And if you think you hear faint weeping sounds coming from afar, it is probably me.