tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38076674464241896732024-02-20T18:44:52.860-05:00Cookies 4 Breakfast?email me - cookies4breakfast.marianne (at) gmail (dot) comUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger289125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-9353644679328862562013-05-12T08:21:00.000-04:002013-05-12T08:21:03.079-04:00The Good Mother<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NMVNNKo76bwo7LYWUTw7Osg9_oRXScDMRufC6P_PuKknc2HRGMdxPmeLkh-HknX2lQFSSNiexroMha_wZ_DX2rgM3b-oO26SYtNh6zUK1furETsuqs66CPmFSGnEnJT8FEAYAPwf7VE/s1600/AngelinaJolie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NMVNNKo76bwo7LYWUTw7Osg9_oRXScDMRufC6P_PuKknc2HRGMdxPmeLkh-HknX2lQFSSNiexroMha_wZ_DX2rgM3b-oO26SYtNh6zUK1furETsuqs66CPmFSGnEnJT8FEAYAPwf7VE/s200/AngelinaJolie.jpg" width="200" /> </a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
(By Guest Blogger Brenda)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
So, it's been four years since I was here last, and damn, it's dusty and cobwebby in here! Marianne has really let this place go.<br />
<br />
I suppose she <i>has</i> been pretty busy lately. Did you hear? She has a girlfriend now. (I <i>know</i>. Scandalous, right? Who saw <i>that</i> coming?) And she's living on her own, going to school, working, sharing custody of the kids, and managing to do it all really well. <br />
<br />
So I'm just going to sweep up a little, open some windows, and let in some fresh air. And while I'm at it, I'm going to tell you why I think Marianne is one of the best moms I know. It's Mother's Day, after all. And this will save me from getting her a card.<br />
<br />
1. She genuinely likes her kids. That's sort of a major requirement for being a good mom. There are some species who'll eat their young without a second thought. But not Marianne. I'm <strike>pretty</strike> sure she'd never eat her kids. She talks about their interests and talents and the things she loves about their individual personalities all the time. <br />
<br />
2. She nursed them until they were seven all because she knew that was the best choice for them. O.K., maybe not seven. But way longer than I'd feel comfortable doing it. My philosophy is that if they can ask for the boob with a complete sentence, it's time to move on to a sippy cup. But what do I know? The love in her voice when she talks about the closeness she felt with each of them while nursing makes me kind of regret hiring that wet nurse for my own. I mean, the way she describes it, it would totally be worth the loss of my perky breasts. Lord knows she sacrificed hers.<br />
<br />
3. She teaches them personal responsibility and respect for others. They are some of the most polite children I know. I am 97% sure none of her kids will ever be on an episode of Cops.<br />
<br />
4. She's a fun mom. She lets them get creative and make messes. She plays with them. She laughs with them. Me? I'm all, "Paddox and Brahara, I'm sorry. Mommy is too tired to tell the nanny to play with you. Go find a way to entertain yourselves. And don't make a mess, because I'm also too tired to tell the maid to clean up after you. But not Marianne. She's all, "Let's go to the park! Sure, you can make brownies! Let's go get ice cream! Why don't you have a sleep over here with your friends?!" You know, generally making the rest of us look bad.<br />
<br />
5. She puts the needs and welfare of her children ahead of her own. Do you know how many drunk videos she <i>hasn't</i> posted because she doesn't want her kids to see it someday? A lot. Do you know how many times she <i>didn't</i> run away to a tropical island somewhere because she knows her kids need her? Also a lot. This is a woman who usually waits until her kids are bed before breaking out the wine. That's love and selflessness right there.<br />
<br />
There you have it. Best mom ever. The rest of us can only aspire to be that good. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to tell the nanny to thank the kids for my Mother's Day gift. Parenting is so hard sometimes.<br />
<br />
<br />
<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script>Brandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12179949318807848041noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-45295356073507361652012-01-27T23:21:00.000-05:002012-01-27T23:21:37.170-05:00He's so cuteImagine me patting my husband on the head and pinching his bum.<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He's so cute when he discovers that there is major malware on our computer and doesn't do anything for two straight nights but try to discover and eradicate it. He's sitting at the computer with the biggest boner because he has the opportunity to use his skills. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Meanwhile, I am sitting here drinking wine, watching some good 'ol left-wing comedic political commentary-a-la Bill Maher and knitting. I don't agree with half of what he says, but damn! He does a good job saying it. Especially about the religious right. Those fuckers are crazy. Even when I was religious, I thought they were too much. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I digress....</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This post was about my cute husband and his obsession with our computer. How did I turn it into my opinion of crazy, right-wing religious fanatics? Meh, doesn't really matter. It's my blog, right?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-90750832947957544562012-01-01T21:19:00.000-05:002012-01-01T21:19:09.671-05:00Milestones<ol>
<li>Vivian finally went to kindergarten. At first glance, it's seen as a relief. Upon further inspection, I have discovered that my life is a little bit boring without that kid around. The fun part has been figuring out who I am without a kid stuck to my side. And by fun, I mean not fun. </li>
<li>Patricia got her learner's permit, and I got more gray hairs. Seriously. I'm not even joking. This is not an exaggeration. I have more gray hairs. Everywhere. Even in places that I never thought would get gray hairs. Yeah. <i>THERE</i>. Although, I am pretty sure those ones have nothing to do with my 16 year old daughter. </li>
<li>Trystan is taller than me. He weighs more than me too. And he has a manly voice. Where did my sweet little boy go?</li>
<li>Mimi's isn't much of a milestone, rather a brag. That girl is the most empathetic person I know. She is the kid who plays with the unpopular kids who have no one to play with at recess. She is the one who takes time to help the kid who can't read well to find a book in the school library that he is interested in. I see this every time I go to her school. Her teachers tell me whenever they get a chance. Most importantly, Mimi lets me know. At least once a week. Hey- It's a good thing to know what you're good at. </li>
<li>Mel retired after 20 years in the Army. And now for the brag: In November, he had a retirement ceremony where I got to hear about all of the amazing things he has done over the past six years in his job. That was cool. I learned some things I didn't know before. What the best part for me was standing in the receiving line and getting to talk to all of the people who he had touched, both professionally and personally. I have always known how great he is. To learn that I'm not the only person to feel that way about him was priceless. I'm looking forward to the next chapter in our lives. </li>
<li>Isn't it ironic that I saved myself for last? I got my first REAL brazilian wax. Remember <a href="http://cookies4breakfast-marianne.blogspot.com/2009/08/three-words.html">this</a>? Or part <a href="http://cookies4breakfast-marianne.blogspot.com/2009/08/testing-testing1-2riiiiip.html">deux</a>? Or part <a href="http://cookies4breakfast-marianne.blogspot.com/2009/08/great-brazilian-self-waxing-adventure.html">the third</a>? It took just over two years for me to muster the courage to get it professionally done. It took 45 minutes. It hurt. My pussy was out of commission for two days. I'm going back on Wednesday for maintenance. (god help me)</li>
</ol>
<div>
Did you have any milestones in your life? If so, I hope it wasn't as painful as mine. </div>
<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-50330120150365881622011-11-23T23:44:00.001-05:002011-11-24T00:06:37.170-05:00Pretty Excellent<ul>
<li>When I get random funny text messages from Brandi.</li>
<li>When Ariella comes over for a knitting date and brings food.</li>
<li>When Patricia wants to drive and Mel doesn't want to take her so she asks me to ask him to get stuff from the grocery store so she can drive because she knows he'll go if it's helpful to me. </li>
<li>When a new recipe tastes even better than I imagined.</li>
<li>When an old standby recipe that has never actually been written down still tastes good.</li>
<li>When I get to connect with someone about something completely different from what initially connected us because of what she discovered about me on my blog. </li>
<li>When my closet is cold enough to refrigerate my beers. (NOT awesome when I'm trying to get dressed)</li>
<li>When I wear my warm, soft hat all afternoon and into the evening. It's sooooooo warm.</li>
</ul>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-85432938932598054412011-10-10T10:10:00.001-04:002011-10-10T10:10:51.914-04:00Unexpected SurpriseI went to the thrifty store the other day and bought an adorable jacket. I washed it, of course. And dried it, of course. The bonus came when I took it out of the dryer and found a $20 bill. Basically, I earned $15 by buying the jacket. Totally worth it.<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-42296939509810781792011-09-27T09:12:00.000-04:002011-09-27T09:12:50.339-04:00I Need LoveHave you ever been looking forward to an event for a long time and you build it up in your mind until it becomes so great and<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> fantastic</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">unbelievably wonderful</span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">amazing</span>, only to discover that it's not really <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">all 'dat? </span><div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Me neither</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I am having the time of my life with all of my kids in school. It's like a party from 8:30 until 2:30(4:00)(4:30) every day around here. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
not</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I'm bored as fuck. I have nothing to do. Well, that's not totally correct. I can clean my house, but I'm not into <a href="http://www.thedouglassdiaries.com/2011/09/ocd-like-me-in-12-easy-steps.html">12-step programs</a>. I thought I would do yoga every day, but I can't make myself get to class. I'm too lazy to workout on my own. I'm not even wasting hours of my life away on Facebook anymore because I don't understand it.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
i need a friend</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I need someone who will drag me out of this funk I'm in. I've done it for you mofos. It's your turn. If you don't I'll just continue not eating and get skinnier and skinnier and skinnier. Remember? I lose my appetite when I'm depressed. I eat when I'm happy. Here's your chance to fatten me up. </div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-45278899546917154152011-09-16T19:18:00.001-04:002011-09-16T19:18:22.044-04:00Sometimes the best ideas come from being an assholeThat's how about 39% of my great ideas start. I'm just sitting around being an asshole, and then POW!! A brilliant idea comes into existence. It's like the Big Bang theory, only different. <script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have some great ideas that come out of my benevolence and love for mankind. The sad truth is, they usually don't hold for too long. I'm not totally sure why. I probably should take that issue up with my therapist. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How do YOU find your inspiration?</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-75949053691945804352011-08-29T18:29:00.000-04:002011-08-29T18:29:00.808-04:00what is a blessing?The east coast got hit by two natural disasters last week. Tuesday, Mimi's first day of school, it was an earthquake. It was the weirdest experience of my life. The whole earth shook. Literally. I felt like I was the only one standing still, and everything around me was moving. Because it was. Thankfully, no one was hurt (that I know of), and my children weren't scarred for life (at least not because of this experience). Were we blessed? <div><br />
</div><div>The second event was 'The Hurricane of the Century'. OK, it was a strong storm. People died, and there was widespread destruction. But that didn't happen here in my area. Here's my two or three problems about my local situation: <b><i>1</i></b>. Certain acquaintances of mine panicking about the imminent danger of a hurricane. Those same certain people cautioning about 'being prepared'. Those same people passing along <strike>panic</strike> <strike>warnings </strike>admonitions to follow church leaders' counsel about EVERYTHING. They were obsessive and so eager to 'get' to use those 'skills' that they have prepared for. <b><i>2</i></b>. Their dismissal of my advice about what they can expect as a result of the storm. Wind. Rain. Likely power outages. Your house isn't going to blow away. Your car isn't going to be washed down the river. I grew up here. I have been through a couple of hurricanes. It's a lot of hype here. You'll be fine. Srsly. And <b><i>3</i></b>. Their disappointment that the storm wasn't worse. That they only lost power for 20 minutes, if at all. That they hadn't gotten the opportunity to bust out their 72-hour kits. 4. They were so <i>blessed</i>. BARF! </div><div><br />
</div><div>Ummmmmmm................told ya so?</div><div><div><br />
</div><div>What is a blessing anyway? I mean, really? Where do blessings come from? Who decides who gets blessed and who doesn't? Is it a lottery? Is there something a person can do in order to get blessings? Are there a finite number of blessings available to the world at any given time? Perhaps a triage of sorts? What is it called when people aren't 'blessed'? Cursed? Who deserves to be cursed?</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>Our house lost electricity for about 13 hours. I have friends who still have no power. Am I better? Or does someone just like me better? Or is it that I could only handle 13 hours and that's why I only had 13 hours without power? Does this <i>blesser </i>like me more than my friends or is it the other way around? Or does the <i>blesser </i>like the people who never lost power in the first place more because they weren't faced with any adversity? But doesn't the <i>blesser </i>give people adversity because he loves them? I'm confused. </div><div><br />
</div><div>The other thing that gets me, is that no matter what the outcome, the message is the same. If nothing terrible happens, then it's a blessing. If something terrible happens, it's a blessing because we heeded the warnings and were prepared. We're so much better than everyone else because we are blessed.</div><div><br />
</div><div>P.S. - Two weeks ago, I discovered Sam Adam's Cherry Wheat. Now THAT'S a blessing. I think I'll go bless myself now. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-23097268926978425392011-07-15T12:04:00.000-04:002011-07-15T12:04:09.598-04:00Why didn't I do this with the dog?Several weeks ago, Mimi asked me about getting another pet. A gerbil. Or two. After I <strike>smacked her</strike> laughed, I told her no. Whine, whine, beg, beg, plead, plead, plead. Still no. Then genius hit me. I suggested that she ask one of her friends who owns a gerbil if they are going on vacation this summer and need a pet sitter. <script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Last night, Mimi's friend dropped her gerbils off at our house for the next ten days. As I was clearing a space for them, I started thinking about how fucking genius I am. I mean, it's like we are borrowing her friend's pet. You can't just ask someone if you can borrow their pet so you can play with it for a week. People don't really DO that. But that's exactly what we are doing. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Then I realized what a fucking idiot I am for not thinking about this sooner. Like when we got our cat. Or our dog. Fuck! When we got our kids, for that matter. Why the hell didn't we borrow someone else's dog/cat/kids before we committed to taking them? Now that we have them, there's no going back. (not that we would if we could) (yeah, right) (not really) (ok, well, sometimes maybe)</div><div><br />
</div><div>But DAMN it's nice having a pet that the kids love and play with and take care for a week, and just when they start to lose interest we can give it back. Kind of the way grandparents must feel. Shit, I can't wait until I'm a grandparent. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-57641938620467616402011-06-29T09:39:00.000-04:002011-06-29T09:39:13.618-04:00Just in case you've missed it<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the off-chance you aren't my Facebook friend and haven't already been inundated with pictures of my sexy bald head, I thought I'd post it for you. My ego is already the size of Texas because of all of the compliments I've gotten so far, so don't feel compelled to tell me how beautiful I am. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpVdBGtvco0AxeQMOcjThDUTpZsS2pEXE9-P8H9npofXP1hw86jAxpLVC313kncHFWYYmvQr2KbpFjuvWhvj3Z6QukSafnW9tDT8dbKD64apd6OnUMg9kMdnAsQhyphenhyphenAFGhBfTEJmxqkQX8/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpVdBGtvco0AxeQMOcjThDUTpZsS2pEXE9-P8H9npofXP1hw86jAxpLVC313kncHFWYYmvQr2KbpFjuvWhvj3Z6QukSafnW9tDT8dbKD64apd6OnUMg9kMdnAsQhyphenhyphenAFGhBfTEJmxqkQX8/s320/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm the one on the left</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And, if we aren't Facebook friends, why not? You must be pretty fantastic if you still read this blog, so why not take our relationship to the next level? Shoot me an email.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-23776749906800270682011-06-19T12:35:00.000-04:002011-06-19T12:35:40.032-04:00Happy Father's day<div style="text-align: center;">I don't have one of my own. That's ok. Don't be sad for me. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">What I do have is a great husband who is an even greater dad. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I'm glad that my kids have something I never had.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I love him.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-32472168884200747902011-06-15T11:41:00.000-04:002011-06-15T11:41:01.809-04:00wait...what?So, she wants me to go to the grocery store, but she doesn't want to go with me. She knows how much I loathe that place. Duh, if I enjoyed going there, we'd have groceries. And? Did I mention that she wants me to go NOW? Yeah, not when I finish what I'M doing. Now. Or like, in 15 minutes, K? Not K. <div><br />
</div><div>"Can you make a list?"</div><div>"..."</div><div>"Will you plan out some meals to cook?"</div><div>"..."</div><div><br />
</div><div>I'm in the other room helping the younger girls clean their room. It's very muchly needed. Muchly. I'm getting tired of Vivian whining about cleaning up HER mess. I'm not whining. I'm cleaning a messy room that I only enter to tuck-in or read-to. Oh yeah, and I occasionally have the chance to vacuum in there. If the floor isn't covered in kidcrap. So, the last thing I need is to go run errands. I need to finish this task.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But I'm on the computer now. I've done a respectable amount of work in the girl's room <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">(Is the apostrophe in the right place?)</span>. I'm taking a break now. To vent.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I have such a hard time getting tasks completed around here. My kids are to blame. No they're not. That's too easy. It's me. Distractions. Clutter. It's hard to focus on one task long enough to get it finished. If I shut everything out/don't talk to anyone/kick the kids out of the house/listen to the iPod/drink tons of caffeine/make the TV babysit the kids I can get it done. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Thanks for still reading this blog. You mofos are great. I need to get off of here and crack <strike>some skulls</strike> the whip. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-50301228381685913522011-06-07T08:45:00.000-04:002011-06-07T08:45:55.094-04:00So much fun for usYesterday, I spent $80 on a one-wheeled bike. I guess technically, it's not a BIke. Is it? <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">inequity</span> I guess it's more like a half-bike. But not really half, because it has pedals and handlebars. Only the handlebars aren't for steering. They are only for holding on. Do you have a good visual yet?<div><br />
</div><div>NO?</div><div><br />
</div><div>I wish I could have gotten a picture of us on it, because I'm pretty sure we looked AMAZING on it. </div><div>Vivian and I.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I bought a tandem bike trailer. It attaches to my seat post. Two people riding a bike with three wheels. Shit. I guess that makes it a TRIke, huh?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"> inequity? </span></div><div><br />
</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"></span>The awesome part wasn't how we looked. The awesome part was how we cooperated, learned, and trusted each other. That was the best part EVER! </div><div><br />
</div><div>When we first started out, we were so wobbly. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to handle the bike (trike) with both of us on it. I didn't feel very confident, and we only pushed along at 6 or so miles per hour. I'm not sure Viv wanted to go too fast either, because I think I did all the work. For the first half of our ride.</div><div><br />
</div><div>After we took a break and turned around, something clicked for us. We started off so smoothly, I almost forgot that we were connected. Before I knew it, we were speeding along at 13+ MPH. No wobbles. No shakes. No hesitation. She even 'made' me cruise so she could push us along. </div><div><br />
</div><div>We only did 6 miles yesterday on the <a href="http://www.aacounty.org/RecParks/parks/trails/bandatrailpark.cfm">B&A trail</a>. From one end to the other, it's 15.5 miles. I love riding my bike, and so does Viv. I'm pretty sure I know what we are going to be doing much more of. As I'm writing this, she's asking if we can go back today. I wouldn't be surprised if we biked from one end to the other and back this summer. <div><div><br />
</div></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-41600413056244486582011-05-18T08:03:00.000-04:002011-05-18T08:03:02.130-04:00Turkey SandwichLame. I know.<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-75132588290763938752011-04-25T09:14:00.001-04:002011-04-25T09:14:42.703-04:00Rated R<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Contrary to popular belief, an 'R' rating doesn't mean something is inappropriate, bad, or unsuitable. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GZ6HOzihyphenhyphenseNJQlpPkkdOFqI3R-5VG2iHSNTsnQAEhxKHvs70kDIFrs5K2hTAQnkWKXq85fH2ZNrm-4uh-UEl6BMWmwujr7-MHxZgSCVCxvzBkheh0yhCL8oKq-qp77nlFS_JCW5S1w/s1600/securedownload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GZ6HOzihyphenhyphenseNJQlpPkkdOFqI3R-5VG2iHSNTsnQAEhxKHvs70kDIFrs5K2hTAQnkWKXq85fH2ZNrm-4uh-UEl6BMWmwujr7-MHxZgSCVCxvzBkheh0yhCL8oKq-qp77nlFS_JCW5S1w/s320/securedownload.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Though, I guess it depends who you ask.</div><script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-58700945446526922312011-04-22T08:58:00.000-04:002011-04-22T08:58:04.811-04:00No more procrastinationI don't know why I do it to myself. I can see how much coffee is left in the container. I can tell that it's running low. I know how much goes into the coffee maker to make the perfectly brewed two huge cups/three regular size cups of coffee. Yesterday, I knew that there wasn't enough in the container for today's coffee. So, why didn't I get more while I was out yesterday?<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Is it because I like to live on the edge and scrape the last coffee grounds out of the cracks of the container in hopes of filling the basket with enough to make that perfect cup? No. It's not like 6 coffee grounds is going to make ANY difference.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Is it because I like to drink weak coffee? Because I don't. I'd rather drink nothing. Weak coffee makes me angry, enraged, offended. Why do I have such a strong reaction to weak coffee? I think I might need to explore this, perhaps with a therapist.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Maybe it's the lord's way of telling me not to drink coffee in the first place. Naaah, you mofos know I don't believe that shit. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I guess it's because I'm a crazy procrastinator who really wants good, expensive, Ethiopian coffee and hasn't been to the fancy-schmansy coffee shop to get it. I guess today's the day. Because I'd rather HAVE coffee than NOT HAVE any. </div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQuNFex1si3uLQRwTEJYLh-lpS4EHyXLIdtw8M7DDeRYp0zBXXlh6JbYn2meO8eFUJc1fCcRz7veSFEyDCQwAM4HaFZEZXup6ATkFj2MNwWU1_OMsZL7myMuPYI7mEIfidAwXKjK3eMQ/s1600/more-coffee-seeds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsQuNFex1si3uLQRwTEJYLh-lpS4EHyXLIdtw8M7DDeRYp0zBXXlh6JbYn2meO8eFUJc1fCcRz7veSFEyDCQwAM4HaFZEZXup6ATkFj2MNwWU1_OMsZL7myMuPYI7mEIfidAwXKjK3eMQ/s320/more-coffee-seeds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-26991656975802596092011-04-11T09:22:00.000-04:002011-04-11T09:22:56.751-04:00You know what it's like when you start to watch a show and you really like and then you find out that there's five seasons that you can watch all at once?That's how I feel about my new favorite podcast, <a href="http://skeptoid.com/">Skeptoid</a> . There are over 250 episodes to listen to. I feel like I just hit the jackpot.<br />
<br />
Have you ever listened to it? You should. Especially if you're one of those people who forwards emails about the newest computer virus that is threatening to destroy the earth,or if you forward those dumb chain letters that claim that Bill Gates is going to pay for your college education if you add your name to the bottom of the list and forward the message to 80 of your closest friends, or if you repost those stupid 'awareness' status messages on facebook. I could go on forever. You get the picture.<br />
<br />
Skeptoid takes a critical look at everyday issues. The host, Brian Dunning, examines these things from a scientific point of view and explains to the average person (the non-scientist) how to evaluate the facts and determine for yourself if the claim is true or not.<br />
<br />
I have only listened to the first 20 episodes. They are pretty short. Most of them are under 10 minutes. If you don't want to listen to it, you can read it on the website. I like his dry sense of humor, so I prefer to listen. Here are a few that I've enjoyed so far:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://skeptoid.com/episodes/4006">Wheatgrass Juice</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://skeptoid.com/episodes/4011">Killing Bigfoot with Bad Science</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://skeptoid.com/episodes/4001">Religion as a Moral Center</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://skeptoid.com/episodes/4014">Cell Phones on Airplanes</a><br />
<br />
What do you think about it?<br />
What are YOU skeptical about?<br />
<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || []; _gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']); _gaq.push(['_trackPageview']); (function() { var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true; ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js'; var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s); })();
</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-86916949185714351712011-04-08T11:47:00.000-04:002011-04-08T11:47:32.758-04:00She's 10I now have three kids in double digits. Mimi, my sweet girl, is 10 today. Let me give you just one example of how special this kid is:<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>She has a child in her class who has autism. He is on a strict gluten/dairy/soy free diet. Whenever we volunteer to bring a snack for any classroom function, she always considers him. Today, instead of cupcakes, she chose to bring in a treat to celebrate her birthday that he can have also. She didn't want him to feel left out. </div><div><br />
</div><div>She's always doing such thoughtful things for other people. I love her. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-23083431285326592932011-04-03T21:29:00.000-04:002011-04-03T21:29:07.774-04:00Have you ever eaten Ethiopian food before?<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25citG4dWCtS4mfA9bUXmz0FmGj0Wmz8lrOzrl9d6PxbQnAbCRVoF6rmSclOCIYzJNMKMfqdk93dmmgZLj9EiFRoE-YhI5HKWpCRmJVETGKfIedlrpPPTtTPzHhv4qRPQWsAxThS9eRw/s1600/photo+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh25citG4dWCtS4mfA9bUXmz0FmGj0Wmz8lrOzrl9d6PxbQnAbCRVoF6rmSclOCIYzJNMKMfqdk93dmmgZLj9EiFRoE-YhI5HKWpCRmJVETGKfIedlrpPPTtTPzHhv4qRPQWsAxThS9eRw/s320/photo+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You already know who these people are. My boobs look pretty good in this picture, don't they?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheC4kd8IS4INgbsDdp8kNdR-zKCCZoMEOFjEUE-qcGDKrOV4lz4xe12BOE_og3c2HhZjBbvB4BHvWFLvta0J2cK5xv4LYtv8FaFND3UDSjg9aD1SGzcCQvnwYLIGOMJUXAXivCWCphB38/s1600/photo+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheC4kd8IS4INgbsDdp8kNdR-zKCCZoMEOFjEUE-qcGDKrOV4lz4xe12BOE_og3c2HhZjBbvB4BHvWFLvta0J2cK5xv4LYtv8FaFND3UDSjg9aD1SGzcCQvnwYLIGOMJUXAXivCWCphB38/s320/photo+1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My handsome brother and his beautiful girlfriend. We got her hooked on this delicious food.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz99JChM-jhyphenhyphen5stkgFJQKEKZO7198WMwJuLu8gvV1JAxFn_PJ0RVSUSjnLZpE7Y6bH35yjx_bz8ED5N-BgBAJcHZhhwIly5rhyLGRnwC0h0uSY7bDHPsI2yuppi4xAxXSZRA6zIrk2wHo/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz99JChM-jhyphenhyphen5stkgFJQKEKZO7198WMwJuLu8gvV1JAxFn_PJ0RVSUSjnLZpE7Y6bH35yjx_bz8ED5N-BgBAJcHZhhwIly5rhyLGRnwC0h0uSY7bDHPsI2yuppi4xAxXSZRA6zIrk2wHo/s320/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mel and I shared this huge plate of yummy food.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-XR7wlNhyphenhyphen1lTunNSxF_uKqoto-Z9jUtyoEYYadG4o6JrGKDt2jvBDzhoZ0OTbtGhsUtLqqL5uFnC7UeMGX6nOFCscf5XX5HmXGxchPK3JKZ04ANReqcZDIQmnMY-9A0ZUTgylTa5Z8Q/s1600/photo+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-XR7wlNhyphenhyphen1lTunNSxF_uKqoto-Z9jUtyoEYYadG4o6JrGKDt2jvBDzhoZ0OTbtGhsUtLqqL5uFnC7UeMGX6nOFCscf5XX5HmXGxchPK3JKZ04ANReqcZDIQmnMY-9A0ZUTgylTa5Z8Q/s320/photo+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheeeeeese!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-85486453451902927322011-03-30T14:01:00.000-04:002011-03-30T14:01:35.708-04:00The Prodigal Child: Yes, you really can come back home.For the past two years, I have been personal trainer to the stars. OK, maybe they aren't <i>REAL </i>stars, but they did come from L.A. And they were <i>MY </i>stars. I have been an excellent trainer for not-so-excellent pay. I didn't mind because:<div><div><ol><li>I was learning on the job and for a little while, I wasn't really that good.</li>
<li>I loved it! </li>
<li>I loved the people I trained.</li>
<li>I had great coworkers.</li>
<li>I had complete schedule flexibility and autonomy.</li>
</ol><div>I was pretty comfortable with my cheese. It tasted good, and was easy to find. On Monday, someone moved my cheese. Admittedly, the supply had started smelling weird. It was starting to spoil, and it didn't taste as good as it used to. As a result, I cut back my consumption of the L.A. Cheese. I shouldn't have been surprised when the Big Cheese boss over at L.A. Cheese told me that I was being cut. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Over the past several weeks, I had been thinking about a different kind of cheese altogether. I even recommended this different brand of cheese to some of my fellow L.A. Cheese consumers. Today, I went back to the place that taught me to enjoy cheese, New Cheese. I have always had an affinity for this type of cheese. Even when I was getting my cheese at L.A. Cheese, I missed the cheesy times I had at New Cheese. The wonderful Cheese bosses over at New Cheese welcomed me back with open arms.</div></div><div><br />
</div><div>The best thing is that I am going to be getting MORE MONEY!!! Another best thing is that I am going to be working with one of my favorite people. Another best thing is that I have a place to train my old stars if they decide they don't want to keep going to L.A. Cheese. I hope to see my old stars at New Cheese. AND I will have new stars. I can't have too many stars in my life.</div><div><script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script></div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-42021413993843919382011-03-28T21:34:00.000-04:002011-03-28T21:34:45.092-04:00Who moved my 'got damn cheese?A change is on the horizon. I only wish I was ahead of it instead of trying to figure out how to work around it. Dammit, change sucks when you're comfortable with the status quo. <div><br />
</div><div>As Haw says, "Smell the cheese often, so you know when it's getting old." As I look back, I can see that the cheese was getting old. I can also see that piece by piece, it was getting smaller and less satisfying. It's time to look for the cheese somewhere else. It's time to let go of the old cheese and enjoy the taste of new cheese.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">How is YOUR cheese holding up? What IS your 'cheese'?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvkaqPgK4vQ7GvclOEXKzfEfabh9afGvAM-qfvAHWZ0_G4OsoR_aUGLwdSoD-hNeumIP6xxQUjxa3EM_3ugMw2q4-6KOPhfMgxM3EtrOAXhQVolC5TwqWkdmzDUrncypmfokaZM7RM_o/s1600/cheese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsvkaqPgK4vQ7GvclOEXKzfEfabh9afGvAM-qfvAHWZ0_G4OsoR_aUGLwdSoD-hNeumIP6xxQUjxa3EM_3ugMw2q4-6KOPhfMgxM3EtrOAXhQVolC5TwqWkdmzDUrncypmfokaZM7RM_o/s1600/cheese.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-44284446685265363992011-03-24T02:51:00.000-04:002011-03-24T02:51:26.075-04:00Takin' My Cookies Back<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZIg3j0hJtNeeFhHoOCfeZVGQHyRgh1KoN94LzOeQ9ctgClwr6o2KlpaP2QRz8qHMPC2lJKvpQuTs2AJY7bNQx2-emhIwSxpcTjC6iS0yAi5aJ2yHRbdnUwIyJQaI_T_pYFiRkOc-6EvU/s1600/marianneistheshit.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZIg3j0hJtNeeFhHoOCfeZVGQHyRgh1KoN94LzOeQ9ctgClwr6o2KlpaP2QRz8qHMPC2lJKvpQuTs2AJY7bNQx2-emhIwSxpcTjC6iS0yAi5aJ2yHRbdnUwIyJQaI_T_pYFiRkOc-6EvU/s320/marianneistheshit.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-19862517461304033102011-03-15T14:38:00.000-04:002011-03-15T14:38:46.608-04:00I text all amazed<script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div>Am I the last one to find out that you can send a text message to donate money to help with relief efforts in Japan? It's so easy. It takes a couple minutes, and the charges just show up on your cell phone bill. </div><div>Everyone texts. At least, everyone <i>I </i>know. And if you don't, here's your chance to start.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, here is your invitation to donate $10. <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/03/14/iyw.howtohelp.japan/index.html">Pick a charity</a>. </div><div><br />
</div><div>I'll wait a minute while you complete your transaction. </div><div><br />
</div><div>.......</div><div><br />
</div><div>Ok, that was easy, wasn't it? Now for the fun part. Leave a comment and let me know that you donated. Of course, I have no way to verify that you actually did it. You could be a big, fat, liar for all I know. But, I will randomly pick one person and give away a homemade knitted cotton market bag. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-49434481673313825292011-02-26T22:17:00.000-05:002011-02-26T22:17:52.889-05:00What's wrong with this picture?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">It was windy on Friday. I don't know how windy because I don't have the technology available at my house to measure wind gusts. Let's just go with <i>very</i>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I want you smart mofos to look at the picture below. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxEB5w74t8PRXwuV4iBdfTddLWgD2Tv8Y_BbNcVliHwV_EbMXi1rQd2on86wD60vXL9jTVKkdYahA8ouqLJJP_M5GZoFaTB0NMZeLf7bVQPmKthn075rGhmMQT96LgzfPUJEi-Bdn_0A/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxEB5w74t8PRXwuV4iBdfTddLWgD2Tv8Y_BbNcVliHwV_EbMXi1rQd2on86wD60vXL9jTVKkdYahA8ouqLJJP_M5GZoFaTB0NMZeLf7bVQPmKthn075rGhmMQT96LgzfPUJEi-Bdn_0A/s320/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Do you see anything wrong with the picture? Look harder. See it? Keeeeep lookin'. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">MmmmHmmmm....yep. Look at the left side of the picture. See how there's an empty space above where the cars are? Now look to the right. All the way to the right. See the trampoline? Yeah, the big motherfuckin' tramp? It's trying to escape. It's headed down the driveway. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxEB5w74t8PRXwuV4iBdfTddLWgD2Tv8Y_BbNcVliHwV_EbMXi1rQd2on86wD60vXL9jTVKkdYahA8ouqLJJP_M5GZoFaTB0NMZeLf7bVQPmKthn075rGhmMQT96LgzfPUJEi-Bdn_0A/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdT2WEoapzeOdCXgpc4ar2-RjADHrQ7BZ1mjzReCzAUPXXVefGoJmyMIhTWlZn1L_1CopeZgpRw4zXT4Y71Q0GnPGcVexEt-m_GrAJWoMmQvFL491nS1-M4iEyxqxLR-tMmAtW_geCR4w/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdT2WEoapzeOdCXgpc4ar2-RjADHrQ7BZ1mjzReCzAUPXXVefGoJmyMIhTWlZn1L_1CopeZgpRw4zXT4Y71Q0GnPGcVexEt-m_GrAJWoMmQvFL491nS1-M4iEyxqxLR-tMmAtW_geCR4w/s320/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">See? It didn't have much farther to go before it headed off across the street.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is the same tramp that Mimi fell off of and broke her arm several weeks ago. She wasn't even jumping on it. She was trying to zip up the 'safety' net. I'm beginning to think that maybe she was <i>thrown </i>off. By a possessed demon tramp. And now it feels guilty for hurting a kid, and it's trying to run away. Don't run away silly tramp. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">We like jumping on you. Well, not we. They do. The kids. I don't like jumping on you because you make me piss my pants. EVERY TIME I JUMP ON YOU. Even when I take precautionary measures like peeing before I jump, I still pee. By the third jump, I have to get off and change my pants. My kids don't know this bit of information. They just think I am afraid of the tramp. I tell them I don't like to jump on it. I feel sad when I say that because it's a LIE. Who doesn't like jumping on a tramp? If it weren't for the pissing, I'd be on that bitch every day. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well, I guess my secret's out. Patricia reads this blog. Now she knows I'm a pisser. Please don't tell the other kids. Or I'll post a link to your <a href="http://cookies4breakfast-marianne.blogspot.com/2010/12/awkward.html">awkward picture</a> post on your FB wall. Mmmmkay?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3807667446424189673.post-40224590346729575052011-02-17T10:40:00.000-05:002011-02-17T10:40:06.946-05:00It's a hug!<div>I've been sick since Monday. Coughing, sniffling, and achy. Oh! How I ache! I can't drive because it hurts my hands to grip the steering wheel. I also can't focus on the road because focusing makes me want to close my eyes and sleep. My joints don't hurt too much as long as I stay on ibuprofen. I forgot to take it yesterday because I felt good when I woke up. By lunchtime, I was almost in tears because every joint in my body ached. </div><script type="text/javascript">
var _gaq = _gaq || [];
_gaq.push(['_setAccount', 'UA-18179084-1']);
_gaq.push(['_trackPageview']);
(function() {
var ga = document.createElement('script'); ga.type = 'text/javascript'; ga.async = true;
ga.src = ('https:' == document.location.protocol ? 'https://ssl' : 'http://www') + '.google-analytics.com/ga.js';
var s = document.getElementsByTagName('script')[0]; s.parentNode.insertBefore(ga, s);
})();
</script><br />
<div><br />
</div><div>Needless to say, I'm a pretty boring mom this week. Vivian and I were getting some snacks to take downstairs to eat while we waste hours on the couch, when I asked her to give me something. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Puzzled, she asked, "What?" </div><div>I promptly replied, "It's big, and warm, and-" </div><div>"A HUG!! IT'S A HUG!!"</div><div>"Yes dear, it's a hug. That's what I'd like you to give me."</div><div>"You got it mom!"</div><div><br />
</div><div>And I mustered the energy to hold her in a full-body legs wrapped around me hug. She's the greatest!</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH30r5GNBBcGsIMBFRju0RH4CLs47i8h-9_L0jNLd2LenydoAvLJaJULmKMI_ofRDOJ3Ih-ohVTtq_hYzqqOHj3XxFM13vr4wmVUPmkndUiKAR00bzTnUueflZriP8Kp51iqQS02b_WSs/s1600/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH30r5GNBBcGsIMBFRju0RH4CLs47i8h-9_L0jNLd2LenydoAvLJaJULmKMI_ofRDOJ3Ih-ohVTtq_hYzqqOHj3XxFM13vr4wmVUPmkndUiKAR00bzTnUueflZriP8Kp51iqQS02b_WSs/s320/photo+%25283%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0