Zombieland

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Gunnar loves the move
"Zombieland."

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So now he and Brody are zombies.


And Charmaine is a witch.



Ok, so it was just Halloween!


Charmaine made a haunted house and made several small children cry.

"Mom, You Look Like a Hobo!"

ME: "Excuse me? Did I hear you correctly? You think I look like I am homeless?"


BRODY: "Yes. The homeless guy on "60 Minutes" looked better than you." "And your hair is all (He imitates the sound of an explosion and waves his hands in the air)."


Apparently, words cannot adequately describe how bad my hair looks in the morning.




All this from my little punk rock kid who likes to wear men's large basketball shorts with knee high black socks!




It's not fair! My boys can all flop out of bed, pull on shorts and a t-shirt (which they likely wore to bed anyway), and go on their merry way. When I do the same thing (at least I brush my teeth first ........ sometimes), everyone has a cow!


My boys are not what I would call "fashionistas." Yet they've already learned what women are supposed to look like. And they are embarrassed when I don't measure up.



I'd like to dismiss their opinions based on the fact they only have one X chromosome. The problem is that even my sister tells me I need to be on the show "What Not to Wear."

I routinely watch that show. (I'll have to admit that maybe, occassionally, I wear something similar to the clothes that are ridiculed on the show.) Still, I like my ripped up jeans and my Uggs and my sweatshirtsand my message t-shirts (like the one that says "This is what a feminist looks like") and, well, umm, you get the idea.


Ok, Brody, I'll put my hair in a ponytail and change out of my jammies before I take you to school. Are you happy now?

I Must Be Psychic!

Skeletor called today.

She said that she's "not sure she likes it out there" (after one week).

I asked her why she didn't like it and noted that she hated it here, too. What she heard was, "So, I can move back there if I want?"

Where's my fricking receipt!!!!

Where's My Receipt?

I just deposited Skeletor in California, and I didn't get a fricking receipt!

Why do I need a receipt, you ask?

Because the receipt is what says "All sales final," and "No returns!"

It's only a matter of time. One day soon, Trish is going to call me to inquire about the return procedure.

I need proof that there are NO returns! EVER!

I don't know what I was thinking! I'm a lawyer for Christ's sake! I'm supposed to know to get things in writing!

I know. It's an implied contract. No one would ask an elderly woman to give up her apartment, sell most of her belongings, uproot herself, and take her away from her favorite daughter only to send her back. Right?

Every lawyer aspires to argue a case before the US Supreme Court - I just might have one!

SKELETOR FOUND HER LICENSE BUT NOW REFUSES TO FLY. SHE WANTS TO DRIVE WITH US :(

SKELETOR COULDN"T FIND HER LICENSE SO SHE MISSED THE PLANE :(

Don't Cry For Me, Colorado!

Have you heard the saying, "When God closes a door, He opens a window?"

Yeah, me too!

Bet you didn't know it went the other way.

This should be a happy day. Skeletor is getting on a jet plane in the morning to move to California. Ordinarily, I would be jumping up and down naked in the street right now. I thought that all of my "prayers" over the last three years had finally been answered.

There could be a day when I might not be insulted. I'm 46 years old. That's amazing!

There were parties planned! They were going to be catered! And fireworks!

Skeletor's door opened. My window shut! My door shut! My garage shut! My car door shut! Well, you get the picture.

Erin. She's moving to Colorado. Right now.

Be afraid! That's all I can say. She might read this!

Rockies at Spring Training

These are Gunnar's favorite photos from Spring Training in Tucson.

Yes Briana, There IS a God!

I've never been one you could describe as religious. I mean, my Uncle John spent 30 minutes lecturing my children on the "absurdity of religion" when he was in town last week.

But now I have to re-evaluate.

Ring Ring Ring

ME: "Hello"

SKELETOR: "I'm coming over. I need to tell you something, and I don't want to do it over the phone."

ME (to myself): This can't be good. The last time she said that she told me my cousin had committed suicide.

Five minutes later, the Skeletormobile pulls up. From under my bed, I heard Skeletor say, "Where's Briana?"

DAN: "She's in the bedroom."

ME (to myself): "Narc!"

SKELETOR (very seriously): "Sit down, Briana. My friend Trish (in California) called. She asked me if I would move in with her and her husband in their mansion."

ME: (to myself) I didn't take any acid, so why am I hallucinating?

SKELETOR: "Do you think I should go?"

ME (to myself): How long do I have to sit here before I start jumping up and down screaming "WOO HOO?"

"You'd have someone to hang out with, so you wouldn't be so lonely. There's no snow there. She probably needs you to help her deal with her husband's cancer. There's no rent. Sounds like that would be good for both you and her."

(to myself): What else can I come up with to convince her it's in HER best interest to move to California, not just MINE?

"We can help you pack. Dan can rent a U-haul and take some of his vacation to move you out. I'm sure I can get you out of your lease. When do you think you'll be ready?"

SKELETOR: "I'm gonna go."

PRAISE THE LORD!

(I hope this doesn't mean I have to start going to church.)

A Woman Without a Country

I'm a woman without a country (ok, family).

You may recall the recent incident at my in-laws house, in which my father-in-law threatened to kick me out of his house because I almost said FU&%. While I don't agree with the notion that saying the word outloud is worse than a teenager doing it without protection, and, therefore, getting pregnant, this is the family that I married into.

This is the problem.

My uncle Peter (the one who still lives in Ireland) flew to Chicago for a visit. He jumped in my uncle John's van for a road trip (never said he was smart) and they arrived in Colorado a couple days ago.

So, we're in the middle of my uncle John's gourmet microwave dinner (in which everything is cooked in a microwave), and the obligatory lecture about the absurdity of religion, and, not surprisingly, a few swear words are mentioned.

I mentioned the aforementioned "incident" at my in-laws. John asked why I didn't actually SAY the word that was perfectly suited for the sentence. "Cause I didn't want to piss off my father-in-law," I replied.

I didn't think it was possible, but I got even MORE shit for NOT saying it from my family than I got for NOT saying it from Dan's family.

Their disappointment in my weenieish behavior resulted in a serious lecture about the appropriateness of the phrase, "Go fuck yourself," and my serious lapse in character for not having implemented that phrase when under attack by my in-laws.

So, I'm screwed by my in-laws if I say (or don't say)"fuck," and I'm screwed by my mom's family if I don't say it. WTF?

I'm a woman without a country (family)!

So what do I do?

Well, as they say, blood is thicker than water :)!

Play Ball!

I just made this collage of Gunnar. I think it's cute!

Bad Mom of the Year (um Decade) Award

The other day I had to apologize to all of my boys about my having dropped them or let them fall of the bed/couch/counter, etc. (several times each).

Why did I feel the need to apologize, you ask? They couldn't possibly remember (most likely due to the repeated head trauma).

Because I failed to destroy the evidence.

When my boys were babies, I started a journal for each one. I never did baby books for them, and I knew I wouldn't remember the cute things they said and did.

Apparently, I didn't remember the times I dropped them, either.

When we came upon the books recently, each child started reading their respective journals, thereby learning the truth about what a negligent mother I was.

Oops!

I still think they turned out ok!

Does Anyone Understand You?

I just got off the phone with Dave. I met Dave when I was in college MANY moons ago. Ok, we all know how old I am, so I'll admit it's more than 25 years ago. I didn't know then, but he has turned out to be one of the few people who really understands me.

Weird!

He's been in California for almost as many years as I have known him.

Yeah, we agree on politics (more or less). And we discuss politics. Of course, he's WAY more knowledgeable about it than I am. But, that's not it.

He actually BELIEVES in me.

Again, weird!

That's never happened before.

Yeah, my sister believes in me; but that doesn't really count. She's related. She's kind of genetically required to (course that doesn't apply to Skeletor, but that's a different story)!

Dave and I very different, but very similar. He believes in me more than I believe in myself. And I believe in him more than he does himself.

It comes down to ego.

The people who have it are generally the people who shouldn't. The people who don't, are generally the people who recognize that, while they know alot, there is much more to know.

As Alexander Pope said, "A little bit of knowledge is dangerous."

I've gotten a little off-track.

My message is that there are people who believe in you. You just need to know who they are.

And I do.

How Many Ways Can My Inlaw Insult Me? Let Me Count the Ways.

In case you are tempted to interpret these stories as my inlaws "joking," remember - these are not funny people!

1. When I almost said the word "FU#@," my father-in-law sternly warned, "Watch out, Briana; I kicked your mother out of here for saying that."

LESSON #1 You are not welcome in their house if you swear no matter how long you have endured them.

You ARE, however, welcome in their house if you are one of the several teen boys who have impregnated one of their teen granddaughters and you stick your tongues in each other's mouths in front of them. You can actually fuck. You just can't say the word.

2. While discussing some of the funny differences between the US vs Europe (such as having to shop in different places for fruits and meats, having to ask where the "toilet" is, rather than the "restroom"), I contributed that when I was in Ireland, I had to go to a "pharmacy" to find tampons.

My sister-in-law, Sandy, noted that I should have been prepared and brought tampons with me. I asked her if she knew how old I was (since us old gals don't have regular periods). She did, but I still was irresponsible for not bringing them.

LESSON #2 It is irresponsible to not carry tampons with you at all times.

It is responsible, however, to not carry a prophylactic or take birth control pills to prevent pregnancy when you are a sexually active unmarried teen - not once, not twice, not three times, but four (that's the number of kids, not the number of times having sex - four kids - three dads).

3. Speaking to my brother-in-law's girlfriend, my cousin-in-law's husband interrupts to warn her that she has reached her "Briana exposure limit." He added that he was just happy that I had dethroned him from his position as the most disliked person in the family.

LESSON #3 Speaking to me for longer than 10 minutes is toxic.

It is not, however, toxic to continuously insult me. (That's the best I can do here).

4. While discussing the day's crappy weather which involved sun, rain, snow, tornadoes, etc., I spoke enviously of how Charmaine said she was going to take a walk on the beach.

My father-in-law said, "Maybe she should look for work rather than walk on the beach."

Yes, employment is important, unless you have a parent or grandparent who will take you (and your dog), in rent-free, and let you spend your income which should go toward rent for a new car payment. Course, you might have wanted to shell out a few bucks for condoms, but that's another topic!

Dan's cousin's wife was asserting her philosophical position that law is a yes or no thing. I said, well, some aspects of law are like that. Maybe you can view criminal law that way since there's a guilty/non-guilty aspect (though that's not all it is). But the vast majority of law cannot be reduced that way.

Blonde Bulimic Bimbo: "Yes it is, blah, blah, blah".

Wait a minute, last time I checked I was the lawyer. You were the bimbo with large bozoombas whose claim to fame is that you drove the beer cart at a golf course and the drunk old men gave you stupid tips. And you ate a 7 pound burrito at some restaurant that entitles you to free food forever. (I wonder if you threw up since you are a size 0). Impressive! But what about that makes you think you know more about the law than a lawyer? Oh, you're in Dan's family; and I'm me. Well, there you go then.

5. DAN: "My mom said to tell you that you shouldn't drop off Brody and Tyler at their house without knowing if they are home or not. You dropped him off at their house after school and they MIGHT not have been there."

ME: "But they were there, weren't they?"

DAN: "Yes, but they might not have been."

ME: "But we went by yesterday so the kids could mow the lawn, but they said they couldn't since they had just fertilized, and they said to come by the next day after school, which is today."

DAN: "My mom said they might not have been there so you shouldn't leave them there without checking."

ME: "But they were home. What am I missing here?"

DAN: "It's irresponsible to leave kids somewhere when you don't know if the people are home."

ME: "I know. But they WERE home."

LESSON #4. I am an irresponsible parent to drop off kids at my in-laws house when they are home. (Apparently, at the age of 46, after being a parent of three kids for 16 years, I need to be told to not leave kids where there ARE grandparents, since they MIGHT not have been there even though they said they would.)

I could go on, trust me, but I think you get the point. And Dan doesn't understand why I don't want to spend yet another Mother's Day at their house tomorrow.

My Dog is a Murderer!

I thought Sophie's worst problem was that she was an alcoholic (see earlier post).
Little did I know that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Yesterday was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining. The air warm. Flower buds beginning to break through the earth.

I had to go to the office for a will signing, so I left Sophie in the backyard to frolick in the nice weather.

I returned home and opened the door to let her in. She came bounding up the stairs wagging her tail and carrying one of her stuffed animals in her mouth.

But wait. The stuffed animal keeps moving.

"Holy mother of God, that's a half-dead squirrel in her mouth and she's trying to take her kill into my house!"

"Drop him, bitch!"

The injured squirrel staggers away and hides under the deck. But what do I do now? I don't want Sophie in the house now because she has squirrel-breath. But I don't want to let her outside because she'll finish off the cute little squirrel. I read the book, "All Creatures Great and Small" so I value ALL animals!

Course, the squirrel IS almost dead. And I REALLY don't have time right now to wash Sophie's mouth out with soap.

Ummm. Sorry, squirrel.

Eventually, I had to let Sophie back in the house. I opened the back door to call her in. And then I saw it.

Sure, it wasn't a horse's head like in the movie "The Godfather," but I got the message.

My pantry is fully-stocked now with real meat bones from the butcher. Every time she looks at me with that "Make My Day" look, out come the bones.

God forbid the day I run out of bones!

How To Annoy a Pro Baseball Player - Ask For an Autograph

My boys are HUGE Rockies fans! Like many little boys, they admire and look up to professional athletes. (Brody wants to be one)!

All of our vacations are baseball-related. We drive to wherever Brody has a tournament where we watch tons of games in searing heat and humidity. (Most recently, our travels have brought us to exotic places such as Omaha and Kansas City.)

So when Dan suggested we travel to Tucson to attend a couple of Rockies spring training games, I figured, in the grand scheme of baseball vacations, we were improving. (The added benefit of the games being played by cute men, rather than cute boys, didn't hurt.)

After Matt Holliday left the team, I had to pick a new favorite player. It's this guy, Seth Smith. Tell me he's not cute!

The major draw of spring training, though, is the vastly increased likelihood of getting player autographs. In preparation, the kids bought Rockies baseballs.

Even I bought a hat (which I gave to Gunnar to get signatures since cute players don't sign middle-aged women's hats no matter how much cleavage they reveal - and I'm not saying that based on experience, it's just a guess).

They don't make it easy for the kids, either.

The fans start lining up in the designated area two hours before game time.
It's 90 degrees.

They wait. And they wait. And they sweat. And they wait.


Then it happens; a player has to walk from one building to the clubhouse. To do so, he must pass by this line of adoring fans who have traveled great distances for this one chance to get an autograph from the players they so admire.

CHILD:
"Hey (insert player's name, i.e Seth, Brad, Tulo ...). Can you please sign my (insert name of object, i.e. baseball, hat, program, shirt ...). Please. Please. Please."
PLAYER:

"Uh, sorry guys. (Insert lie, i.e., I'll be right back. I gotta get ready. I gotta eat....)

Eventually, a player goes by who remembers what it was like to be a little boy looking up at famous players and wanting to be just like them.

CHILD:
"Eric, Eric, Eric. Please sign this ball."

PLAYER: He stops, walks down the line, and signs as many autographs as he can.

Thanks, Eric Young, Jr. You're pretty cool!

That evening, we discovered Manny Corpus sitting in the pool area of our hotel. We sat with him and his family toasting marshmallows around the fire pit for an hour. Then he posed for pictures with each of my boys and each of their friends.

VERY cool!

Tucson - Day One - Planes

Now that I peaked your interest about the planes, I feel I can't let you down.

This is the Air Force One that carried the recently-deceased JFK back to D.C. while Johnson was being sworn in to office.

Here are some more planes.

Uh, more planes.

Well, you get the idea!

Sorry, Charmaine, that I haven't written another post.

I am in Tucson right now for the Colorado Rockies Spring Training, but I'll update you just as soon as I get home. I'm sure you can't wait to hear about the Air and Space Museum, which has a million old planes, including JFK's Air Force One.

Tomorrow we are going to a Rockies game. My goal is to get some players to autograph the hat that I bought today. Dan said to show a bunch of cleavage to increase the odds. Whatever it takes!

Aaaaagghh! I Am Being Stalked!

Celebrities are stalked by obsessed fans. Some women are stalked by ex-boyfriends or secret admirerers.

Not me. My stalker is way scarier.

It's Skeletor!

I am like one of the three little piggies (ok, stop laughing) trying to keep the big bad scary wolf out of my house. A mission, I am finding, that is much more difficult than it sounds.

I was naive (stupid). I willingly gave the wolf (Skeletor) a key to my house (my brain). When I finally realized wolves cannot be housetrained, I took back the key.


But what the little piggies knew (and I didn't), was that the wolf (Skeletor) doesn't need a key!
Nor does she need to blow the house down to get in.

The Tool Box:

Answering Machine: "I know you're not answering because you know it's me (duh). I feel so sick. If you don't hear from me by 10, check on me because I might be dead."

Doorbell: Ring. Ring. Knock. Knock. Ring. Ring. Knock. (Turn off the tv. Beg Sophie to be quiet). Ring. Ring. Ring. Knock. Knock. Knock. Sound of door opening (Crap! I forgot to lock the back door!) Skeletor leaves a note on the table for me to find which describes how cruel I am.

Note to self - lock back door.

Driveway: The wolf knows that the little piggie arrives home after picking up the littlest piggies from school at 3:30. She arrives at 3:00 and waits. Then she follows the littlest piggies into the house, knowing the main little piggie can't kick the wolf out of the house in front of the littlest piggies since they already think the little piggy is mean to the wolf.

Relatives: "Briana, this is your Uncle Michael (your very intimidating Uncle Michael who loaned you money for your first year of law school despite the fact that your sister had borrowed oodles of money and never tried to pay it back and I only call you under very extraordinary circumstances and the only thing I hear about you is the bullshit that Skeletor tells me but I don't know any better).

Me: "Um. Hi."

Michael: "Your mother sent me a bill from a credit card bank about an $11,000 cash advance that your sister charged on her credit card 3 years ago. Aren't you a lawyer? Isn't that fraud or elder abuse? Can't you take care of this?"

Me: "Well, I did. And, no, it's not fraud since Skeletor put Erin as an authorized user. But I directed them to stop calling Skeletor and only contact me in writing as permitted by the Fair Debt Collections Practices Act 3 years ago.

Michael: "Well, your mother just sent this bill to me and John. We can't pay this. Can't you help her?"

Me: "I did, 3 years ago, when I stopped the harrassing phone calls. They are only contacting her now because she let Erin send a letter to them asking for proof it was a valid debt, which is weird since she knew it was a valid debt, so it opened the door for the company to start contacting Skeletor directly again."

Michael: "You need to help her."

Me: "I did help her. But she let Erin send this letter without letting me see it. Like when she co-signed on Erin refinancing her house to get $80,000, and when she stopped paying her mortgage, they started calling Skeletor, and I stopped that, and then Erin sent Skeletor papers to sign and told her specifically to not show them to me and she signed them anyway, thereby eliminating any leverage that I had in my attempt to save her ass again. Blah blah, blah..........)

Michael: "Blah, blah, blah, on Skeletor's side, blah, blah."

The gist - he helped me pay for law school, and I won't help Skeletor.

Swoosh. 2 points - Skeletor.

UPDATE

Two days later, Skeletor said to me: "I'm gonna talk to Michael and ask him what he said to you that made you not talk to me since then."

Several more days later:

Ring, Ring.

Me: "Hello"

Michael: "Briana, this is your uncle Michael." I received a letter from your mother. She said to stay out of her life because I said something to you and you won't talk to her. And she said she can't hear and is lonely and wants to die."

Me: "Uh. Really? I don't know what you're talking about. She stopped by here twice yesterday and everything was normal."

Michael: "Well, she said to get out of her life and that she wanted to die; which is what Michael (his son) said to me right before he killed himself." (which was just a month ago and Skeletor knows that). Ok, I'll call her now."

This was a 3-pointer. I don't help her and now I make her want to die. Actually, that was out of the park! I bow to the master.

The Only Man Who Ever Broke My Heart

Richard L. Peterson

January 15, 1934 - October 6, 1981

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwCykGDEp7M

My Olympic Moment

The ladies figure skating competition in the olympics is going to start soon. Are you as excited as I am?

When I was a child, I LOVED ice skating. Not just watching - actually skating. I begged for lessons. I didn't get them for the same reason I didn't get gymnastics lessons - Skeletor wasn't interested.

She was, however, interested in piano, ballet, and irish dancing. I wasn't very good at any of them. Charmaine was great at all of them (that bitch)!

Charmaine felt bad for me. She tried her hardest to convince Skeletor to let me have ice skating lessons, or even take me to a rink to just skate - to no avail.

She was undeterred. It was winter in Connecticut. She knew it was going to snow. She took the garden hose to the front yard next to the driveway and set about pouring water. By morning, the little puddle was frozen. She brushed off the snow. And there it was.

My own personal ice skating rink.

I strapped on my skates. The rink was no more than 7" long and 5" wide. Just enough to skate forward a bit and do a little twirl. If anyone drove by, I'd try to stop really fast. I knew I had to look like a freak. But it was worth it.

Like Frosty the Snowman, the rink would soon melt. Until the next storm when, without fail, Charmaine would be out in the front yard with the garden hose.

Thanks Charmaine.

Can Reality TV Help Me?

There seems to be a consensus that I need the help of reality tv.

Not just one show - several.

My neighbor thinks I need to be on "Clean Sweep," which if you recall makes you get rid of all of the crap in your house. I agree with that assessment; but it's no longer on the air.

My sister, Charmaine, thinks I need "Super Nanny." I have to disagree with that. I don't think my kids are so bad. And what does she know? She doesn't have any kids (although those are usually the people who think they are experts)!

Brody thinks I need to be on "What Not to Wear." As much as I would like $5,000 to shop in New York, I won't, because they would make me get rid of my favorite violations - Uggs, torn up jeans, and turtlenecks in every color. Not gonna happen!

I appreciate all of their suggestions; but the only reality tv show I want to be on is "Wife Swap."
Doesn't this look like fun!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYNymvtbWw4

The Ties That Bind

A little over a week ago, I flew to Chicago to attend the viewing for my 46-year old cousin, Michael. He committed suicide.

I hadn't seen Michael or his siblings for quite a while, though I chatted with Michael on Facebook recently and had received an email from him 5 days prior. I'm not going to say we were close, though over the years, there were times when we were.

Michael went to college in Denver. I remember the night that my mother and sisters arrived home from the hospital where my father had just died at the age of 47. I don't know why, but Michael was standing outside our door. The five of us went in the house and sat in shock at what had just happened.

Fast forward 29 years later, and I am in shock again. But this time, it's Michael.

In the midst of the trauma, there was something good.

I was able to reconnect with my other cousins and meet all of their children. I was a little uncomfortable at first, but it didn't take long to find my way back to the cousins that I had once known.

Enter Mark. The youngest of that batch.

Four years apart isn't much now; but when I was 16 and he was 12, it was huge. He was a brat. A fun brat, but a brat, nonetheless! He's not a brat anymore; but he's still very fun.

He happened to have an overnight in Denver a few days after I returned (he's a pilot), so he came over for a few hours. One by one, he enchanted each of my boys. They played guitar and drums for him. He played piano. He encouraged them to do their best.

And then, just when I thought he couldn't impress them anymore, he pushed the coffee table out of the way and started teaching them how to wrestle.

xxxxxxx

None of us could stop laughing.

xxxxxxx

xxxxxx

xxxxxx

xxxxxxx

xxxxxx

xxxxxx

Now Mark has taken up the cause of making my family healthy. We are all under strict orders to do at least 50 push-ups and 50 sit-ups every day.

xxxxxx

We have a chart.

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My arms are sore!

Skeletor Statistics

68 - Number of times Skeletor has left a phone message in which she states she feels absolutely awful and instructs me to call her in the morning in case she's dead.

59 - Number of times that she has arrived at my house shortly after leaving one of the afore-mentioned messages with no apparent health problem.

675 - Number of times Skeletor has demanded that I say "thank you" for things like starting my dishwasher, bringing in my mail or newspaper, etc.


0 - Number of times she has thanked me for saving her ass in the NUMEROUS legal problems that she brought on by herself.


1 - Number of times Skeletor walked around to the back of my house and let herself in through the back door after finding the front door locked. (Once, because it only took once for me to learn to lock the back door when I leave).


1 - Number of times she has refused to leave my house when asked, and, instead, told me to call the police.


5 - Number of days before she visited following the birth of her first grandchild (Aidan).

50 - Number of minutes she stayed.


5 - Number of times she has called Aidan a "bastard" or"liar" to his face or accused him of doing drugs in her car.

0 - Number of significant life-events that she attended sober i.e., college graduation, law school graduation, wedding, etc.

969 - Number of times she has made negative comments about my or my family's weight.

46 - Number of times she has implied that I am jealous because I weigh more than her (103 lbs).



98 - Number of my kids' events, such as orchestra performances, choir performances, talent show, games, that she has been invited to.


14 - Number of my kids' events that she has attended.


14 - Number of my kids' events in which she criticized the students, talked through, or left early.


545 - Number of times since then that she has complained about not being invited to my kids' events.

My Dog is an Alcoholic

I know you have never heard of a canine alcoholic. I am willing to admit that it is entirely possile that Sophia is the first.

Why, you ask, do I believe my adorable Goldendoodle to be an alcoholic? Let me explain.

Occasionally, I drink beer. And more occasionally, I drink beer while doing something on my computer, at which time, I place the beer on the floor (the fact I don't have a table nearby is another matter).

Every once in a while, Sophia would trample by and "accidentally" knock over my drink. Typically, at this point, I would utter a few swear words (especially if there was no more beer in the fridge).

Then I would run to the kitchen to get a towel to dry it up. But when I returned, Sophia would be licking up the beer left in the carpet. I thought this was funny, but then this sequence of events occurred more frequently.

You might assume that the frequency of this occurence was relative to the frequency of beer bottles being on the floor. That would make sense, wouldn't it? And yet, it's not.

My dog is an alcoholic.

Her first taste of beer following a spill may have been unintentional, but, clearly, that was all it took for her to be hooked. She's a smart dog. She immediately understood the sequence of events necessary to provide her with alcohol.

Sure, she puts on a good cover. She comes bounding over to me with her tail wagging. A naive person would believe she wanted to play. But I know the truth.

So now I put my beer on a table.

Conversations With Children

1. On the way to basketball practice:

BRODY: "McKenna and I think that when someone dies, they come back as someone else."

ME: "That could be true. I don't know."

BRODY: "I think I lived in Japan and my name was Takito."

2. After Charmaine put hair extensions in my hair producing the illusion of great length and volume:

BRODY: "That looks good, mom."

ME: "I know. Do I look younger?"

BRODY: "Your hair looks younger."

3. After I finally realized that Gunnar was trying to get in the house since he forgot his key and it was fricking freezing outside and he had been out for a while (he didn't ring the doorbell, so it's not completely my fault):

ME: "Gunnar, what are you doing?"

GUNNAR: "Trying to get in a window. Thank's alot mom." (spoken in a very sarcastic tone)."

ME: "Where's your key?"

GUNNAR: "In my room." "And on top of that I just found out that that an 8th grader killed himself over Christmas break and I knew him."

ME: Very huge gasp with hands over my face. "Oh my God. What happened?"

GUNNAR: "His parents were fighting and he went and got one of his father's guns and shot himself."

ME: Another very huge gasp. "Oh my God."