I found a spoon in my washing machine yesterday.  Yes, amigos, I am laundering the flatware now.  Impressed?

Today the kids have no school.  Elvis has been out of school since Wednesday because of parent-teacher conferences.  We had his conference yesterday.  Apparently he is doing well enough.  The teacher did mention that he has a penchant for inappropriate outbursts, including the phrase “Poop in a bucket!”  (Which, in case you’re wondering, the other 6- and 7-year-olds find hilarious.)

On Wednesday the kids have no school again because of Veterans Day.  I am wondering how Veterans Day observance has managed to survive all these years on November 11 without being relegated to a Monday or Friday to accommodate the insatiable American appetite for long weekends.  It must be right up there with Christmas and New Year’s.  Good for them!

This morning instead of sleeping in, I just stayed in bed pretending to sleep while Elvis demanded that I count all the days of the month of every month of the year on the 2009 calendar (plus four months in 2008).  This was very difficult to pull off.  I’m not saying I succeeded or anything.

I had a somewhat disheartening tap class on Wednesday.  Last week I was under the impression that I had finally mastered pull-backs (single, off the heel), which was awesome because I’ve only been trying to do them for the last three years with little to no success, and I had mostly decided that I was just too old to learn some tricks, but when I was finally doing them with consistency last Wednesday, it was like I wasn’t too old and a whole new world of tap-ability awesomeness was opening up to me.  Then I went to class this last Wednesday and darn it all to hell if pull-backs weren’t just as difficult as they always have been.  I did manage to do a couple of them (rather weak ones), so I suppose I just need to practice more.  (Exaggerated eye-roll with tongue hanging out.)  Where was I going with this?  Oh yeah.  I did find comfort in the fact that I can still do the type where you clip the toe and land on the opposite foot, but big deal, any trained monkey can do that.  (Mild eye roll, no tongue.)  My instructor also had us attempting to do double pull-backs and pull-backs off the toe, which ushered in a new era of suckitude for me.  I was quite relieved when she told us it was time to work on turns instead.  And I hate turns!  On the other hand, once the turns were over, I was able to enjoy the rest of the class.

See how awesome this blog is when I talk about the stuff that matters to me?  Tap dancing and monkey pull-backs?  Does it get better than this?  You’d better pray it does.

Actually, I have to go now because I’m expecting some friends to come over and I should probably pick some stuff up off the floor so the kids have more room to make a mess.  Or something.  I’m going to leave you with this gift of pure awesome that a friend gave me yesterday.

Enjoy the weekend, gentle readers.  Adieu.

P.S.  Girlfriend, having been unceremoniously awakened by her brother’s calendar shennanigans this morning, is now attempting to take a nap on the couch with her feet in a garbage can.  Yes, the garbage can is also on the couch.  No, there’s nothing in the garbage can besides Girlfriend’s feet.  What kind of people do you think we are?

Until you get rid of about 80 percent of your belongings, you have some choices to make.

Pick one:

1.  Clean house OR clean garage.  (NO!  You cannot have both.  You must CHOOSE!)

2.  Clean rooms OR clean closets.  (NO!  You cannot have both.  You must CHOOSE!)

X’s & O’s,
The Reality Fairy

P.S.  What the hell is all this stuff and why do you have it?  What’s the matter with you people???


“If you get any closer, I’ll [FLATULATE]!”

Two questions:

1.  Since when do they let fourth graders drive?

2.  Seriously, who are these people?

Sugar Daddy:  So they’re making a movie based on Milton Bradley’s Battleship.

Madhousewife (after mentally counting to 10):  Why?

SD:  [shrugs or otherwise vaguely indicates that it is a surprisingly stupid question on my part]

Mad:  How would they even do that?

SD:  They’re making a movie based on Candyland, too.

Mad:  Well, at least that makes some kind of sense.  I mean, it’s stupid, but at least there are characters to work with–

SD:  Stupid characters–”Queen Frostine.”  “Melty.”

Mad:  “Melty”?

SD:  Or whatever that guy’s name is.  “Gloppy”?

Mad (giggling uncontrollably):  “Melty”?

SD:  The thing about Battleship, though, is what’s the plot going to be?  “There are some ships out there–let’s randomly fire missiles and see if we can hit one!”

Mad:  “Oh, crap, we missed again!”

SD:  “Oh, good, we hit one–let’s fire another missile in the same general direction!”

Mad:  You know what would be awesome, though, is if at some point some character says, “You sunk my battleship!” and everyone in the theater would cheer.

SD:  I don’t get it.

Mad:  It would make more sense to make a movie based on Stratego.

SD:  They should make a movie based on Connect 4.  Or checkers.

Mad:  Right.

SD:  Checkers would be cool, because you could pan up on, say, Matt Damon going, “King me.”  And then another Matt Damon would jump on his back and he’d become a supersoldier.

Mad:  That would be cool.

Later…

SD:  I hope they make a movie based on Yahtzee.

.

Take my poll, suckahs!

Did you ever have a dream you were ashamed to talk about?

I’ve had some pretty wigged-out dreams in my day.  Or rather, my night.  I don’t often dream when I sleep during the day.  Hey, science people–does dreamless sleep mean you’re sleeping deeply?  I have a lot of deep-feeling sleep during the day.  You know, when I sleep during the day.  Not like I habitually sleep during the day, though I wouldn’t have a problem admitting it if I did–because sleeping isn’t shameful; it’s the dreams that weird other folks out.

My husband and I often share our dreams.  Not in the aspirations sense–outside of taking our meals out, we don’t have that many common goals–but in the REM-sense.  He’s shared some dreams with me that I kind of wish he hadn’t.  I’ve also shared some dreams with him that I kind of wish I hadn’t.  Like that dream I had shortly after we got married, where I dreamed that he was pimping me out to a mutual acquaintance of ours.  To make matters worse, it was a mutual acquaintance that I really didn’t care for, but that’s actually beside the point.  In the dream, the mutual acquaintance was all, “Dude, I really appreciate this,” and I was like, “Hey, I’m really not comfortable with this AT ALL,” and my husband was like, “What’s your problem?”

Anyway, I don’t know why I would have dreamed something like this…well, no, on second thought, I have an idea…but don’t worry, I won’t share it with you.  Why not?  Because my husband reads this blog, and if this experience of dream-sharing has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t share sensitive material with the husband.  Because he’s spent the last eleven-plus years teasing me about having sex with this person that I wouldn’t have sex with if he were the last person on earth, that’s why!

Sex dreams don’t necessarily have sexual meaning, of course.  At least that’s what I hope.  I mean, how would it be if you had a dream that you were watching a TV show and the TV show was all about how Steve Sanders from 90210 had been reduced to making pornos?  Wouldn’t that disturb you?  It disturbs me.  I mean, it would disturb me, if I were to have a dream like that, because no offense to Steve Sanders and his kinky-haired glory, but where the hell does that come from?  I always thought that if I had a sex dream involving a 90210 character, Brenda would figure more prominently.  I mean, not that I mean anything by that, but doesn’t it make sense?

Anyway.  I had a dream once that I was married to Liam Neeson, but oddly, there was no sex in that dream.  And by “oddly,” I think you know what I mean.

I’m just not saying.

Girlfriend was watching Charlotte’s Web and informed me that she wants a pig. Not any fool stuffed pig, either, but a real pig.

Has anyone figured out a reasonable solution for storing cookie sheets, wire racks, muffin tins, etc.? Or does everyone just shove them into a cupboard and slam the door and hope to never need one again?

My mother-in-law is visiting, which is why I have limited time to blog. No mother-in-law jokes, please. Also, I don’t have anything to talk about.

Sugar Daddy got free tickets to the Fright Town haunted house thingamajig at the Memorial Coliseum, so we went there last night. The usual stuff happened. I screamed, he laughed. (At me.) That’s why we go to these things. It’s not for my benefit, that’s for darn sure. To his credit, SD always thanks me for “indulging” him. I wonder if he notices that I don’t ever say, “You’re welcome.” Just doing my wifely duty, sir. (And he didn’t even buy me dinner–apparently, we’ve been married far too long.)

When we were coming out of Fright Town, we met a homeless guy who wanted a cigarette. We didn’t have any cigarettes on us, so he asked if we had any change. He wanted to get something to eat, and also a beer. I’ve noticed that homeless people are being very upfront lately about their intentions to buy beer. I think they think we appreciate their honesty. I actually couldn’t care less. The cat’s homeless–who am I to micromanage his beverage choices? So we gave him some money, and then he said, “How about a hug?” Uh…okay, then. So he hugged both of us. Then he asked us to pray for him. You can pray for him, too. His name is Todd.

That’s about all I have for today. I wish there were more, but there isn’t. Happy Wednesday, amigos.

1.  He loves to play Empire at War.  Technically, he bought it for his father’s birthday, but he’s gotten a lot more use out of it.

2.  He’s going to dress up as Tyber Zann for Halloween.

3.  He’s writing a Star Wars comic book.  (Anyone sensing a theme here?)  This is how it starts:

4.  He loves animals.  His favorite animal used to be the panda.  Then it was the red panda.  When he was reading the Warriors series, it was cats.  Now his favorite animal is a horse, specifically a gray Arabian.  He asked for a horse a few weeks ago.  I explained to him that it was out of the question.  Now he wants a fish.

5.  He is not a morning person.  In this he takes after his mother.

6.  He was very proud of himself for learning how to play the mini-harp.  He was excited about taking piano lessons, but five months later, that enthusiasm has evaporated completely.

7.  He and his best friend made up this song, “Evil Bunnies.”  It goes like this

It goes on a bit more, but I don’t remember the rest of the words.

8.  He thinks it’s hilarious to slap his own butt while dancing.  He’s correct about that.

9.  HE IS NINE YEARS OLD TODAY!!!

And now for the nostalgia portion of the program…

When I started this blog, he was three.  I started out calling him just “Bubby,” but as I wrote in May 2004:

Here is another post about him from June 2004:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MISTER BUBBY!

I hate going to swim class.  So does Girlfriend, incidentally, which is why it’s so very easy to stay home instead.

Speaking of Girlfriend, I have Mister Bubby to thank for teaching his baby sister the word “crotch.”  It’s not like it’s a bad word or anything…exactly…but it’s still disconcerting to be changing a diaper and hear this sweet little-girl voice protesting, “No!  Not my crotch!”

It’s kind of funny, sure, but at the same time, disturbing.

Seriously, how many words out there are grosser than “crotch”?  Insert disgusted emoticon here.

As long as I’m being disgusting, I’m going to say that I’m losing my patience with Elvis’s joke-of-the-last-six-weeks-or-so, which is him saying that he’s going to poop in various places or on various items.  This is partly my fault, I’m sure, because in an effort to stop saying, “Crap!” so much around the children, I started saying, “Poop!” instead–which is not, technically, much better, except that it sounds better to hear a kid repeat the word “poop” than it is to hear him or her repeat the word “crap”–but because it’s not remotely satisfying to say, “Poop!” when I’m upset, I had to embellish it somehow, and I ended up saying, “Poop in a bucket!”–because “poop in a bucket!” is much worse than just regular old poop, thus conveying the serious nature of my annoyance.  Anyway.

So Elvis started repeating “poop in a bucket,” which was…not as bad as him repeating the “crap!” thing, but still not good, especially when he would say it out loud in church while the sacrament was being administered.  So, okay, I have stopped saying, “poop in a bucket,” but Elvis has not.  More to the point, that is not his only catch phrase–and here is where I take some of the blame off of me and spread it around to Mister Bubby and also Sugar Daddy, for that matter, because they are always talking about poop in places where it ought not to be.  Thus Elvis walks around all day, threatening to poop in the trash can, poop on the floor, poop on the toys, poop on the paper, poop on the tricycle, poop on the telephone, poop on the computer, poop in the bookcase, poop on the piano, poop on the spaghetti, poop on the magazine rack, etc., etc., usw.

The other night he woke up wet because his pull-up had leaked, and the whole time I was changing his bed, he would just lazily murmur, “Poop on the sheets…poop on the training pants…poop on the shoes…” even though there was no poop on any of those things.  It was all just talk.

“That’s enough,” I said, as I tucked him back in to his dry, never-pooped-on bed.

“Poop on the enough,” he said.

Yeah.  Whatever.

Now I really have to go to the swimming pool.  Which I originally typed as “poop,” just so you know.  That’s what my life’s about, kids.  You should be grateful I don’t blog more often.

Madhousewife:  I haven’t been to that many funerals.  I think I’ve only been to…four funerals in my life.

Sugar Daddy:  I went to a funeral while I was a missionary, and I went to your mom’s funeral.  Did your grandpa have a funeral?

Mad:  No.

SD:  I don’t think I want a funeral.

Mad:  I want a funeral.  I want lots of crying, too.  I think I’m going to go before you, incidentally.

SD:  Can I bring a date?

Mad:  Sure.  Can’t say the children would approve, of course.

SD:  Well, it’s not about them, is it?

Mad:  True.

.

Have you planned your funeral yet?

So recently Sugar Daddy and I Netflixed The Greatest American Hero on DVD.  Last night we watched the pilot episode.  Mind you, we both enjoyed The Greatest American Hero when it was on TV, but that was almost thirty years ago.  Holy crap.  Holy crap, people!  How old am I???  But now I’m veering off topic.

So yeah, we watched the pilot episode last night, and it was…really dumb.  I mean, we already knew the show was cheesy.  It’s about a special ed teacher who gets chosen by aliens to be a superhero, complete with red long johns and a cape.  We remembered that much.  What we did not remember was what we probably didn’t realize at the time, which is that the whole production–the dialogue, the plot, the everything–was just freaking ridiculous.  It was like a fifth-grader had written it.  I’m not being snarky.  It was very much like something I myself would have written as a fifth-grader–and I was reasonably talented for my age, but, you know, still ten years old.  Not ready for prime-time.

As I said to SD this morning, TV would never get away with this crap nowadays.  You youngsters are living in a Golden Age of television.  As far-fetched and over-the-top as some shows are, there is a bare minimum of competence that just wasn’t present when the fifth-graders got together to make The Greatest American Hero almost thirty years ago.  (Crap!)

Mind you, we’re still going to watch the rest of the first season–if only for that classic theme song:

Which reminds me of this classic answering machine message:

I can’t stop singing it.  I’VE TRIED.

Speaking of stuff that happened a long time ago and youngsters, I was listening to a talk show and the host was talking about the Nobel Peace Prize and who had won it in the past; offhand he asked how many people under the age of fifty knew who Andrei Sakharov was.  Both of the under-fifty people in the studio with him did not know who he was.  I had a vague idea of who Andrei Sakharov was, but had the details of his life and career appeared as a Jeopardy! clue, I’m sure I would not have been able to pull “Who is Andrei Sakharov?” out of my brain, so my vague idea doesn’t really count.  Then the host asked if the under-fifty-year-olds knew who Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was.  Now Aleksander Solzhenitsyn I knew.  I even read part of one of his books.  (A very small part.  It was…ummm…very long.)  I would have aced that Final Jeopardy!  Unfortunately, I would have been disqualified in the Andrei Sakharov round, so that is neither here nor there.

I’m just curious how many of you under-fifty-year-olds know who Andrei Sakharov and/or Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn were, without Googling.  (On your honor, please.)  To tie this into the first part of the post, I leave you with a quote from the pilot episode of The Greatest American Hero:

Prescient, or just fifth-gradey?  You decide.

What television shows did you enjoy in your childhood that upon re-visiting have revealed themselves to be ultra-dumb?