Stumbling Towards Perfect

Reach your goal - even if it's at a tortoise pace. It does not matter how slowly you go, as long as you don't stop. I'm talking about paying off debt. I'm talking about losing weight. I'm talking about cleaning out your basement. You don't fail until you stop. So just keep going. Be who you were meant to be - everyone else is taken. Eat on the couch of you want to. Sing in the rain. Return items you simply do not want. Cry during Sex in the City re-runs (you know, when you finally realize Aidan isn't coming back. Again.). If you want to eat soup every day for lunch, do it. If you want to draw comic books, write music and perform in plays, do it. If you want to stay home and perfect the art of motherhood, do it. Just be who you were meant to be. You'll be happier. Trust me. Don't blame life. Life really is simple. It's the self-discipline that's hard. You already know the lessons: Be kind to one another. Don't hurl insults at other p

Thank God for Technical Writers. The manuals for the new washing machine and dryer were so idiot proof Big V and I had no problem with the installations. Well, except for the part where we realized the two hoses for the hot and cold water were actually had the words  hot and cold printed directly on the hoses after we had hooked them up (to the wrong pipes). We had to take the hoses off and switch them. Oh, and also the part when we got to the very, very end of the washer installation and we thought hmmm, maybe these rubber ring thingy-s are supposed to go on the inside of those hose connection thingy-s and we had to take the stupid hoses off again and put the rubber ring thingy's inside the connection ends. Something about stopping water leaks or something. But I'm sure this was all operator error and not the fault of the technical writer who wrote the manual. We weren't discouraged because it only took us 14 hours to install the washer so we thought how hard could the

Holidays can be crazy. Insane even. Especially if you surround yourself with insane people, which I strongly suggest you do because it gives you plenty of blogging material. This weekend we met Byron. I believe Byron fit in that overall insane category, but he was one of those funny insane people as opposed to the eating human flesh for Christmas Dinner at the Dahmer's type. Byron lives with his sister. He has another sister, too, but he doesn't live with that one. The sister he does live with has three kids and they're kind of like teenagers. (He doesn't know their exact age.) Anyway, when they clean their rooms they just throw their clothes in the basement laundry room and some of the clothes hasn't been worn and is actually still folded. This happens at our house, too, but I didn't tell Byron that because it was twelve degrees outside and he was supposed to be lifting a washing machine into the back of our truck and not chit-chatting about how right now he

The Bean wanted to bring a plate of those pickle-ham-tortilla roll-up appetizers for our family's Christmas. So I put her in charge. Because it's important for kids to get a sense of accomplishment. And by "kid," I mean a 15-year old oh-my-goodness-in-less-than-three-years-she-will-be-considered-an-adult-and-can-legally-defend-our-country kind of child. Plus, I was at work and couldn't make the pickle-ham-tortilla roll-up things at the office in a way that made people believe it was actually part of the " and all other duties as required " clause of my contract. Of course I told her to call if she had any questions.... Bean: Mom, I can't spread the cream cheese on the tortilla. It's too hard. Me: Put it in the microwave for fifteen seconds. Bean: Fifty? Me: Fifteen. Bean: Fifty? Me: Fifteen. Bean: Fifty? Or Fifteen. Me: Fif- teeeen . Bean: Oh, I thought you said fif- teee . Me: No. Fif- teeeeeen . Bean: Okay. But I'm not

If Big V has one problem I would define it as Hanes T-Shirt Addiction. As in the man had 68 plain white t-shirts that he wore. All the time. Every day. Rain or shine. You could always count on Big V in a plain, boring, white, t-shirt. Except it wasn't the "sexy man in a white t shirt" image you're thinking about. (Or the particular image I happen to picture...) Big V's shirts were stretched out. And kind of grayish. And covered with stains because he wore them to work. And also after work when he would eat buffalo wings and barbequed ribs and spill sauce and wipe his fingers on the bottom hem.  Since he wore a plain, stretched out, grayish-white, stain covered t-shirt every day people assumed he only owned one. Except he didn't. He owned many. Far too many for any one normal human being. Enter me. Like a stealthy ninja in the middle of the night, I took every single white t-shirt I could find and got rid of them. All 68 of them. (Don't worry; he to

A washing machine. That drains. A dryer. That dries. New tires for the car. Non-bald ones. And for the dippy lady who works at the eye doctor's to recode the stupid medical procedure for my daughter's wonky eyeball to something other than "standard office exam" so my insurance company will actually pay the claim already. That is all. Well, that and also a Tiffany blue tea kettle.  Make every morning Breakfast at Tiffany's with Martha Stewart's Blue Enamel on Steel Tea Kettle. 

In the booming economy my kids got something like 417 gifts each for Christmas. Now we're poor and I'd rather pay for heat so I needed a way to let them know that they'd be having a scaled down Christmas without coming across like the grinch. So, I told them Jesus only got three gifts for his birth and that His birth is what created the holiday in the first place and what makes them think they're better than Jesus that they should get more gifts than he did? They pitched a fit but only until I explained frankincense and myrrh were some sort of herb and if they didn't watch it they'd be opening up basil and dill weed come Christmas morn.

Of course my kids are going to compare the gifts wrapped under the tree. For hours each day they will compare, brag, cry, get upset, do cartwheels, jump around or stomp, all in the name of gift giving. The bigger the gift, the bigger the brag... and the bigger my headache becomes. And so it is with much excitement I announce the Great Go Fish Christmas Tag Program of 2010! The gifts do not have names on them. Instead, they are adorned with half of a fish pair from the commonly recognized card game Go Fish. One present has a card attached depicting a narwahl. Another a clown fish. And another a sand shark. Come Christmas morning each child will have an envelope holding the other half of their fish pairs. Pull out the sand shark - go find the matching gift! I'm thinking it will add a fun spin to the Christmas morning events. I'm also thinking I may just be a genius.

Me :  Hello. How can I help you? Woman on Phone :  I'm going to subpoena your coworker. Me : Um. Okay. Is there anything else I can help you with? WoP : He needs to testify at my trial and tell the judge my life was in danger so I can get my two thousand dollars. Me : Okay. I'll let him know. WoP : Because I'm suing my landlord. And he said someone was moving in there. Me : Who said someone was moving in where? WoP : My landlord. He said people were moving in to the apartment so I have to remove the mailbox. Me : Do you live in the apartment? WoP : No. I moved out. But now he said other people are moving in there and so I have to remove the mailbox. Me : Whose mailbox is it? WoP :  Mine. Ninety-nine percent of the people are too scared to put in their own mailbox; they just get their mail at the Post Office, but they don't have to. This is America and you can get your mail delivered if you want it. Me : It's your mailbox and you moved out and

Setting: evening; the basement, where the children had been banished hours earlier with strict instructions to clean the playroom and unearth the carpeted floor. Characters: The Bean, 15 - in the playroom, barking orders at her sister. Dotter, 9 - also in playroom, goofing off and being generally uncooperative. Mother, 27 (don't question the age, people, it's really not that important) - enters basement to do some much needed laundry. Scene: As mother juggles dirty laundry she spies The Bean walking by obviously hiding something, because, really, who walks sideways up a set of stairs with their back to their mother? Hello, red flag! Mother, sensing deviousness, pounces on the now alone, innocent, younger daughter: Mother :  What was she carrying? Dotter : Huh? Mother : The Bean. What was she trying to hide from me? Dotter : I don't know. Something in a bag. Intent on getting to the bottom of things, Mother waits like a silent ninja for the unsuspecting c

Twenty years ago, in an attempt to deter young people from getting knocked up at a young age, our high school required teens to carry a hardboiled egg around for a week. For some reason the staff felt I may need an extra push in the right direction, therefore I was handed the responsibility of "twins." One egg I named Melchizedek Barron and the other I named something far less impressive since I have no idea to this day what it was. For a week I drove around with the eggs nestled in the cup holder of my sporty blue, two door Pontiac Grand Am, rocking out to Salt-N-Pepa's "Let's Talk About Sex." What they should've done is made me spend every waking minute with a teenager. Babies are cute. And cuddly. And they smell good if you wash them on a regular basis. Teenagers are moody and hormonal and either don't use enough deodorant or spend in excess of ninety-eight minutes hogging all the hot water so that when you want to bathe all you get is a shrug

Last night I received a text from my older, wiser sister. But only older by 16 months. And only wiser by 16 points on the ACT. (Lies. I don't really know the ACT difference. At this point in my life I'm not even sure I've ever taken the ACT.) (I am, however, certain I took some military test that told me I'd be perfect as some sort of small weapons mechanic-y person. I took that to mean the test was bogus and the Army just needed someone to fill some slots.) (I went into a position where I did administrative work.) (But I digress.) Here is our texted conversation: Sister :  It's the 'damn, I washed another kleenex time of year'. Third load of laundry I've had to pick pieces off while I fold. And no one to blame but me. Me :  That's exactly why I'm a staunch proponent of using sleeves. Sister : I don't know why I put them in my pocket anyway. I grab a new one almost every time and end up emptying my pockets because they get too full.

If I were President of the United States, I would make it mandatory that all cell phone alarms have a minimum 9-minute snooze because this four minute thing my new phone is doing is just not fair. I've started setting five separate alarms to go off at 9-minute intervals so I can just turn the alarms off and not depend on their stingy snooze. My plan was foiled this morning when the babysitter called saying something about massive vomiting, digestive parasites and  possible cholera, so guess who had to wake up that very second to track down a child sitter pinch hitter? No snoozing for me. Luckily, our Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker back-up was available which made me think (1) Thank God for this gracious woman, and (2) I totally could've slept for seven more minutes. All was not well when I went to wake the baby, who looked at me with one eye open ala pirate style due to the fact his other eyeball was crusted over with a gunky puss. Then he smiled this cute little adorable smi

I was putting a file away at work when I got a paper cut. I immediately contacted the proper personnel to file a workman's comp claim but they wouldn't do it. Instead I was offered some antibacterial wash and a band-aid. I made them pinky swear that if this gets infected and my finger needs to be amputated they'll backdate a claim. I'm not messing around here, people. Infections are serious. By they way, when I was writing this I couldn't remember the word "amputated" (probably because the infection is already rapidly attacking my brain cells) so I googled remove finger and was somewhat traumatized by the first site suggestion which provided the following detail: Ever wondered what two colliding high-strength magnets would do to a lime? What about a finger? There is no way I'm clicking on that video. As if I don't have enough things in this world to worry about, now I have to make sure to teach my children to stay away from high-strength mag

Apparently someone (or something) has been socking my 9-year old in the eyeball causing an inflammation and bruising situation that requires medicated eye drops and multiple visits to the eye doctor. Which wouldn't be too bad if I suddenly hadn't gone all anti-hoarding and held on to the medicated eye drops as opposed to tossing them in the trash last week. I have cough medicine that expired 3-1/2 years ago yet I toss the drops. I know I make no sense. Eye appointment looming I toss a bottle at the toddler and attempt to find his shoes. The kid owns exactly one pair of shoes. Do you want to know why my kid owns only one pair of shoes? Because he's not my first born. The first born had thirty-eight pairs of shoes to choose from at any given time. The third born child is lucky he gets shoes at all. But because the clock is ticking and the I-need-to-arrive-twenty-minutes-before-my-scheduled-appointment-or-I'll-implode 9-year is twitching I cannot locate the shoes. It'

I'm amazed by the little things in life. Like the fact that the woman who watches Cletus the Used to be Fetus told me he likes to eat apples. Even the skins. And I'm all you can't feed a kid with four teeth an apple with skins! He'll choke and die! What is wrong with you, woman? And she looked at me like I'm some sort of crazy person as she whipped out a cheese grater and an organic Golden Delicious and proceeded to explain the mush in the bottom of the bowl is much better for the baby because it's all natural and there's no bad stuff added. And he ate it. Micro-mushed skins and all. And how I can leave a very clean house and in less than two hours come back to a complete disaster, wondering why there are a pair of jeans dumped in the bathtub and a glass of milk, a 12-volt battery and a vacuum cleaner bag surrounded by metal clothes hangers on the living room floor. Sometimes it's best not to wonder... easier just soak in the awe of it all...

The Blessed Family has been incarcerated. Visiting hours are on Wednesdays from 4pm-6pm and Saturdays from 1pm-5pm. Positive ID is required. Please note you must be on the visitors list. If you aren't on the visitation list you will not be allowed access to visit the inmate. God Bless, Merry Christmas, and Happy Holidays. I suppose it is possible the plexiglass containment is for their own safety. Why people take off with the Baby Jesus from these displays I'll never understand. I think the lamb would be funnier. Look, Margaret! There's a lamb in our shower!  That would totally make someone come running. But hey, check out Baby Jesus in our tub! just gets you R eally, Henry? Baby Jesus? Go put that thing back in the park . In other news, I'm contemplating becoming an Amish Jew because I'm tired of chasing the kid who keeps turning the TV off and knocking ornaments off the tree. My 15-month old has learned how to turn the television off. And on. And off aga

Remember in high school when we were forced to sit in assembly and listen to someone who knew better tell us not to have sex because then we'd get pregnant and then you'd be stuck with that baby for like, forever? And they told you how stressful things were going to be. Things that we never really cared about anyway. Like, oh boy, if I get pregnant now, it might be stressful trying to graduate while taking care of a baby. Really? We were IN high school. Walking down the halls in jeans that weren't rolled just right was stressful . Being called on by Mr. Norder in biology large group was stressful because, let's be honest, no one listened to him teach so how were we to know how to actually answer a question when called upon? Those talks did a great disservice. No one ever talked about the realities of the long term effect of having children. And by this I mean picking out Christmas gifts year after year. Sure, you might have yourself fooled into thinking you're

I have returned from a most unavoidable sabbatical, wherein I was confined to the four walls of my bathroom for a few days. Upon my emergence, I was forced to take care of additional sickies and spent countless hours hauling blankets to the washing machine and hosing off both ends of a spewing baby. Suffice it to say, I did not necessarily enjoy the Thanksgiving holiday. Here's a summary of the past week (other than the disgusting flu part): Big V installed a killer floor at my parent's house. They've had the product sitting there for God knows how many months but had planned a Thanksgiving Working Feast Day so he could get help from the other boys in the family (half of which were also stricken with the flu). Big V realized my brother, Patrick, is a mathematical genius, especially when it comes to geometry, because the boy whipped out complicated trim pieces like he was tying shoelaces. Dotter decorated the Christmas tree. Except it's not an actual Christmas tre

Dotter:   Am I Ireland? Me: No. Ireland is a country. You are most definitly not the country of Ireland. Dotter: No, I mean am I Irish? Me: You're all sorts of things. Like a mix. Dotter: What does that mean? That I'm a mix? Me: You're made up of all different stuff -- Dutch, Australian, Irish, Scottish, English -- you're like a cake mix. You know, when you use a whole bunch of ingredients and mix them together, then you get a cake! Dotter: But I don't like cake. Me: That's fine. I was just using it as an example. Dotter: I like brownies though. Me: Fine. You're like brownies. Dotter: My poop today was all bumpy but at the end it came out like a smooth point.

You know how you try to kill something and it keeps coming back to life? Well, Satan the Dog is like that. Except I'm not really trying to kill it off. I'm trying to kill the memory of it off. There's a difference. One makes me a cold-hearted bitch that faces imprisonment in a horribly cold, dank cell that won't allow down comforters and the pleasant silence of watching HGTV in solitary confinement. The other just makes me a cold-hearted bitch. So, Big V called..... The good news is - he has found the dog a home! For sure this time. It's about an hour away and he will need to drive immediately to the kennel where the dog is currently being boarded (thirty minutes away in the opposite direction) and drive the dog to its new home. (Guess who gets to hurry home, get the baby from the nanny, tie him in the car, race to the sitters where Dotter is, race home, gather the Bean, take her to youth group, wait a half hour, drop Dotter off at her youth group - which, by t

Cletus the Used to be Fetus is boycotting his newly moved into pink room. I'd prefer a silence strike, but that kid, he's a tricky one...he's decided to proceed with some sort of howling ambush. Every two hours he wakes up and screams. All. Night. Long. He's been doing this for a week. It's getting old. I'd let him cry it out, except we shoved him in a room with Dotter and she needs her sleep. (She takes school seriously and lets the teacher know when her mother failed to ensure 8 nonstop hours of slumber.) I could shove Dotter in with Bean -- if I wanted to spend the rest of my life blaming myself for the murder 15-yr old Bean would surely commit against her 9-yr old sister. To me, the answer is obvious: shove Bean in the basement. What highschooler wouldn't want their room in the basement? Away from the nosey parents. Away from the annoying little sister. Away from the toddler that plays in toilet water. What highschooler wouldn't want their room in

"... we interrupt this program to bring you the following announcement: The damn dog is back." And so began my weekend. Big V called me at work late Friday night, hemming and hawwing about the dog. You know, the dog. The we-got-rid-of-you-because-you-ate-through-the-drywall-and-we're-afraid-you'll-eat-the-children dog. The satanic dog I openly referred to as Satan because, well, because it was. The dog that finally, after two very long years, had left our home never, ever to return again. Yes, well, you see, that dog was back. Kind of. It wasn't quite back in our house, but it was back in Big V's truck. Here's the short version: Satan left our house and went to Dan's. Dan had two dogs already. And a girlfriend. He wanted to keep the two dogs. And the girlfriend. So he called V back and was all this is not working out, man . However, Dan found Gas Station Dude who wanted the dog. Because Gas Station Dude loved hungry pit bulls that ate metal,

After my mother realized I was flunking out of college she expressed her disappointment in me. I was all it's not my fault! I can't help it that my house is, like, right next door to the funnest bar ever created on planet earth and they just happen to sell beer for, like, a quarter! What do you want me to do? And she was all, "Well, I guess, if I were you, I'd start by getting a job." Well, let's be honest. I was 19 years old and an adult - hello! There was no way someone was going to boss me around. Especially some woman who loved me unconditionally, had only my best interest at heart and would lay down her life for me in a heartbeat. I mean, the nerve , right? So, I showed her: I joined the Army. It was surprisingly easy to join. Almost too easy. But, whatever. At least I could live my own life, and not have someone breathing down my neck all the time, knowwhatImean? *nudge! nudge!* (You get why I was flunking out of college, right? Not exactly the

Dotter does not have pink eye. Which is good. Because I don't care what people say, pink eye is gross. You would think pink eye wouldn't be gross because there are lots of pink things that aren't gross at all. Like fluffy cotton candy and a quarter of the marshmallows in Lucky Charms cereal. By the way, did you know Australians call cotton candy 'fairy floss'? See, makes pink even cuter! But not pink eye. Pink eye is still gross. And I don't mean the pink eye of a rabbit (although I have always been freaked out by those). Anyway, I'm talking about the pink eye crustiness of thousands of kids a year ... with the gunk and the contagiousness and the ickiness and - ugh! I just grossed myself out again. Anyway. My point is Dotter does not have it. Her eye does happen to be pink. Well, more in line with red, actually, and it does hurt, but that's because she has a bruised eyeball, y'all. The eye doctor seems to think she poked it or hit it or rubbed it r

I can't actually wrap my head around this weekend in order to construct one complete and/or coherent sentence, so if it's okay with you, I'm just going to bullet point this post. I'll call it Things I Did This Weekend . Or maybe, Good One, Guys, Now Give Me Normal Back . Someone other than me who is also considered a grown-up in our house left the garage door open. A skunk got in. Then someone other than me who is also considered a grown-up in our house went into the garage. And surprised the skunk. And the skunk sprayed. I ate bacon covered dates. Not to be confused with that one time when my date brought over two pounds of bacon. These were the food kind of dates. And since no one actually eats dates but everyone eats anything wrapped in bacon that's how I was able to consume them. And they were good. I went to a Catholic breakfast. Except I'm not Catholic. And now I never, ever want to be Catholic. Because I thought the flag waving was bad enough, but t

I admit there are times when I am what one would call "unbending." My world can be incredibly black and white. There are certain things that are acceptable and there are certain things that are not. For instance: wearing a seatbelt is required by law in the state I live in; therefore, a seatbelt must be worn. There is no discussion. There is no argument. There is no convincing me that sometimes, in a particularly given case, not wearing a seatbelt is acceptable. That is not to say I agree or disagree with the law. It's not up to me to discuss it - it just is because it's a law. So wear your seatbelt. All. The. Time. My Black & White Unbendingness is also demonstrated in several other areas of my life. Although there are no particular laws governing the following, there should be. In no case shall jello of any variety be placed on the same plate as any other food. And especially if there is a bun or other bread product on that plate. Jello juice shall not be

Well, we managed to survive Halloween. Instead of running with the masses, we opted to create Halloween Treat Jars and deliver them to a select group of people. Dotter created her list, picked out the candy, and stuffed the jars. I helped tie on the Halloween ribbon she picked out. She dressed up as a vampire (the cape was totally the selling point for that kid) and off we went to deliver our goods. I guess instead of Trick or Treating she went Treat Delivering. Now that Halloween is over it's time to focus on the next big holiday. And by that I mean Black Friday. The day reserved by insane people to willingly wake up at some ungodly early hour to fight crowds in the hopes of securing a super cool deal on a portable DVD player that's only good between the hours of 5am and 7am. Oh, and there's only two of those particular items in the store so you have to fight your fellow man in order to be the first to grab it. Hold on tightly, because your neighbor is at the end of the

I have really bad allergies. Now. I never used to. I used to just see people with really bad allergies and I'd think that is so gross; why are they always sniffling? Why do they always look glassy eyed and high? Why are they always clucking in the back of their throat? They keep saying their throat itches -- I bet they're on drugs. They've got to be on drugs! Druggie! Believe it or not, I've never used drugs - smoked pot, hit the hippie lettuce, smoked a spliff, cued the cannibis - I just assumed that if you did that sort of thing your throat would itch. I didn't know that pollen in the air could create that kind of havoc. See, I judged those people. I saw those allergy-ridden icky people gasping for breath in-between sneezing fits thought not-so-nice things and God saw me and said, "Now, that's not nice to judge people. I think you need to learn compassion. Therefore, after the birth of your second child, I shall deliver to you allergies." And ju

The Bean was made for Halloween. That in and of itself made it an awesome holiday. I knew I hit character paydirt when she wanted to be a monk. She was two. Another year she was spaghetti and meatballs. Then she was a super feathery chicken. With orange skinny legs. All her costumes were handmade. All her costumes were awesome. Now she's fifteen and the only costumes she looks at have the descriptive label "sexy" in front of them. Sexy nurse. Sexy firefighter. Sexy cop. There is no sexy chicken. There is no sexy spaghetti and meatballs. You'd think I could now live vicariously through Dotter - but she wants absolutely nothing to do with Trick or Treating. She hates strangers. She hates strange strangers even more and there's nothing worse than a stranger dressed as a zombie scaring the pants off little kids and rewarding them with a tootsie roll. She doesn't want to trick or treat and she doesn't want to hand out candy. Although she does want to dress

Do you know who Maura Kelly is? You will. Go read this article she wrote for Marie Claire: Should "Fatties" Get a Room? (Even on TV?) Go ahead. I'll wait. I'll wait for you to read it, and then I'll wait for you to call all your friends and exclaim you have just experienced the most ridiculous attitude towards overweight people ever. And I'll wait while you update your twitter account with Maura Kelly really IS a size-ist jerk . Maura Kelly writes, " So anyway, yes, I think I'd be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other ... because I'd be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything ." Ouch. Actually, beyond ouch. I think I'm just dumbfounded. I mean, she gets paid, right? Marie Claire pays her to write. She writes articles and has to update her blog and they actually hand her a paycheck to write whatever she wants. Even if it is incredibly insensitive and hurtful. And

You know what's gross? Opening your fridge and finding this: No, I'm not talking about the cartoony, sponge-printed green and white moose dishes (although they are listed first on my Things to Replace List). Look closer..... THAT'S gross.

Remember when I told you we had to keep my awesome health insurance because the Bean might have something medically wrong with her that explains why she can't wipe the gobs of toothpaste out of the bathroom sink? Well, we might also need it for Cletus the Used to be Fetus because he might have short term memory loss. This kid is like 50 First Dates  except we can't get through sixteen seconds. I absolutely love Cletus - and I mean love in the sense I want to pick him up and hug him and squeeze him and eat his cheeks and never let him go because I can't get enough of this kid. I absolutely love him because he is the happiest baby on the planet. I thought my sister's youngest was, and he was, but now he scowls (which is frickin adorable, too, but you can't really call a scowly baby happy, you know? Even if he only scowls once in a while. It's a technicality.). Anyway, I prayed and hoped for a super happy baby and that is exactly what I got. He laughs these grea

I hope I can keep my job forever because I think we're really going to need the health insurance coverage because the Bean may have some severe neurological problems. I think she's suffering from some sort of awful hand-eye coordination issues because she can't seem to get the right amount of toothpaste to squeeze out of the tube. See, every morning, before she heads off to school she brushes her teeth, because as a high schooler you know there's nothing more important than fresh breath. Well, at least to a teen age girl. I've been told that if you have a teen age boy fresh breath is not necessarily their top priority. Usually it's girls and football, with football taking the lead. Anyway, I know there must be a serious problem because nobody can be so disgusting as to leave globs of toothpaste in the sink every. blasted. morning. Like this: Gross, right? That's because it is. And yes, it's there every. blasted. morning . Not in the same spot, and so

When the Census push was going on earlier this year the government hired some guy to come sit in the lobby of our building to help people who had questions on their census forms. I thought it was a ridiculous waste of money because (1) most the people around here are not full time residents, therefore were sent the form to their permanent address located somewhere far away from here where I'm sure they obediently filled it out and, (2) there were only ten questions. A couple people were sent the "long form" but that was because their life sucked and the government obviously hated them and screw the government, they don't need to know anything about the people who live here. Ever. (Not necessarily my thoughts, but heard nonetheless.) (Isn't that a great word: nonetheless ? I love it and vow to use it much more frequently. "I realize you don't want to take a bath, nonetheless, I am your mother and I told you so." I can so make that work.) Anyway, Gov