Today was a good day, mostly. It had a few down moments and I am certainly in a sober mood right this moment, but all in all, I would classify it as a good day. We went to lunch at a local Chinese place and then went to the library to check out some books. There is probably no place I love more than the library. What could be better than aisle after aisle of books? Having the boys like books is even better. As we were standing in Juvenile Fiction looking for A-Z Mysteries, I was seized with inspiration. We’ll check out Tom Sawyer! Oh, this is going to be fantastic! What a great story it is! What a funny boy he is! What brilliant writing! Fantastico!

My children are 9, 7, 4, and 3. Now you think about what you remember of Tom Sawyer and tell me how brilliant this plan was.

We got done with dinner early and sat down in the living room to read at 6:30. I eventually just had to kick SquishSass out of the room, because she’s just too loud and sassy for real literature. Be gone with you! OUT.

She kept coming back in. As did the impossible language.

While Tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, Aunt Polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep — for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments. Like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning. Said she:

“Tom, it was middling warm in school, warn’t it?”

Doesn’t that just read like Clifford the Big Red Dog? And then with some negative injun talk and Tom beating the new kid in town to a bloody pulp, I was feeling downright awesome about this choice of reading.

It isn’t Laura Ingalls Wilder. That’s for sure. Still great, don’t get me wrong, buuuuutttt we might put this off a year or two. By then, I should have Sassykins into a good military school.

Well, good Friday evening!

What a day it was. It had Crazy Town Awards Ceremonies, kid meltdowns, one kid beating another kid with a girl’s bracelet, and some horseradish.

If you watched the recent Cone Off in the Park, then you will recognize The Organizer. Erin. She’s really, REALLY efficient. One day recently, she called me and said, “I think we should eat horseradish. For your blog.” Huh? Why? Well, because it will be torture and torture is funny. I agreed. Apparently, Erin showed up at the park last Friday with horseradish and spoons in hand. The only thing she didn’t have was me. And I was using a port-a-potty out in the middle of a forest. But I won’t take you down that nasty road again. You may or may not have already endured 4300 words about all of that.

So, today was going to be the rescheduled horseradish-off. I called her just to make sure we were still on. And then I called her again to ask what our goal was with this. And then I called her one final time to reconfirm what I had previously confirmed. There’s no real need to do this with an efficient person, but I am not efficient, so I had to keep calling. It did work out in my favor, though, because by the end of the third conversation, she had volunteered to pick up my kids (well, they’re not really mine…but they were in my charge today), bring the horseradish, the spoons, some Little Debbie Swiss Rolls to take the taste out of our mouth afterward, AND bring a camera. I couldn’t find my camera. It was hidden under a pile of non-efficiency.  And at the end of her list of what she was bringing, I said, “Then I’ll just bring me.” Awesome.

But back to that Cone Off for a second. If you saw that, then you know that Erin rocked that like she was born to eat that one melty ice cream cone from McDonalds. Three years later, I finished mine, long after even the 7-yr-old had savored hers. I came in dead last. But today, the results were different. It really wasn’t a contest, exactly. It was just a weird way to spend time. I don’t want to call it a waste, though, because I have a new talent and a new sauce for my hot dogs.

When you watch this video, take note of just a couple of things:

• When I start yelling “I did it!”, you start watching Erin. It gets funny.
• When Erin tries to talk, listen to her voice. She’s lost it. It wasn’t a put-on. She is practically suffocating here. It sounds a little like she swallowed a talking gerbil whole.
• When she leans over, notice how close to vomiting she is. It would have been so awesome if she had. Vomiting is fun. Especially when it’s horseradish.
• During all of this, her sweet daughter keeps trying to give her water to save her life.

Who knew that the girl who can’t handle medium picante sauce would be able to swallow a teaspoon of horseradish without a runny nose? It’s really too bad this is a worthless talent. And in case you are wondering if I am aware that I am a dork, I will answer that here. Yes, I am aware that I am a dork.

So Erin is still the most efficient person I know…except in the eating of straight horseradish.

I will truly try to come up with something pithy to say later. I’ve been trying for weeks. Perhaps today is the day. But before I cart myself and two sick girls off to a riveting awards ceremony for Mamasboy, I want to take this opportunity and use this platform and shake my very tiny cyberfist as I shout, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…..”

Pia Toscano should not be leaving American Idol. Anyone who knows their own address and can string two sentences together knows that this is a black and white matter. She was made for this competition. Though I still love Casey like he’s my long lost hairy child, Pia was really made to win it.

At the beginning of the season, I made strong statements about being OVER it since Simon left. I wasn’t going to watch. Since then, I’ve watched more than 15 hours. However, the more the judges all say the same thing and sound no more intelligent than I do right now, and the more good people keep getting sent home, the less I care about the whole deal. I didn’t watch last night’s utter fiasco. I found out on Facebook and then promptly went to bed by 10 p.m. I should have lost sleep over it, but I determined not to.

Without Simon, there’s no brain.

The other worthless topic I want to discuss is one that made me laugh and really shouldn’t have was a news story I caught early this week.  It began like this:

Police in Maryland are on the hunt for the perpetrator of what appears to be an April Fools’ prank that left a man glued to a toilet at a Wal-Mart store.

Now, I do have sympathy. That’s a horrible April 1st prank and a horrible situation to be in. But the writing of the article just got me. Here’s some more and then I’m off to celebrate.

There, they found the 48-year-old victim, who called for help after realizing the sticky situation he was in when he tried — and failed — to stand up and leave the superstore’s restroom, Donnelly said.

It took responders 15 minutes to remove the victim from the stall, but they were unable to disconnect the toilet seat from his body, Donnelly said.

Oh, man.

Every season has its wonders and its quirks. With each season that rolls in, I make strong statements about why this is the best season. Fall has the simplicity that comes when the days are shorter and the nights are dark and crisp. It has the smell of fires in a fireplace and the promise of upcoming holidays. Winter has the coziness of snow and hunkering down under an electric blanket at night. Well, I live in Florida, so that snow thing is a joke. We get a lot of people from Wisconsin who drive kinda slow. That’s always fun. Summer has long days, and no early morning deadlines. The kids are home. The pools are welcoming. The time spent together is enticing. It represents relaxation and togetherness. But Spring, well Spring is special, too. It has its own little bowl of potpourri, like Jasmine and honeysuckle. It has berries like strawberries and blueberries.  And there’s the IRS. Who can fail to acknowledge the fun of doing one’s taxes? And then there’s Easter.

The Easter Bunny was always a character I didn’t completely understand. An oversized bunny that leaves candy hidden in your house. I mean, I can get my mind around Santa Claus, because at least he’s a dude that has a house in the north pole and a life outside his holiday magic. But where does the Easter Bunny live? How can I trust a man-sized rabbit who lives in a secret location? I just don’t know. We never made a huge deal out of Easter, though we did do the baskets/candy thing on Sunday morning before church. One year, when I was probably 12 or so, I came downstairs in my house on Marston Road and rounded the corner to gaze upon the wonders that would await me on the hearth. For the last 9 years, there had been a basket there for me on Easter. This year, there wasn’t. Wha? Huh? My brother and I stood there. Stunned. No basket. No Easter Bunny. He didn’t come. Did we offend PETA? Had we misbehaved in some way? Of course, by this point, we totally knew our parents were him, so we went straight to the source.

“Hey, what’s the deal?”

“Oh, well. We just figured you were too old. It’s over,” my parents announced. Without a word of prior warning, the Easter Bunny was dead to us…and us to him. Well, huh. So I went to church chocolateless and with just a little less spring in my step. And that was that.

I can’t complain, though it totally sounds like I am, because I do virtually nothing for my own children on Easter. The grandparents go overboard and I don’t want my kids to think the Easter Bunny is made of money.  So I do nothing.  I think it all shakes out fine.

In the spirit of the season, the Informinator sent me a picture of her firstborn with two other children sitting in the lap of a very unnatural looking creature. I will post it as Easter gets closer. If you have photos that will crack the world up, do send them along. I’d love to post a few. missy at snappshots dot com.

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, “I find no pleasure in them”–  Ecclesiastes 12:1

Surely everyone who stops by here will know which wackadoodle is me. This was second grade for me. 1978. Why I am wearing a 1980 Olympic Games really fancy t-shirt is beyond me. I guess we were so excited about the 1980 games that we were printing cheap t-shirts two years in advance?

I was standing here with my three amigas. Debbie was wearing school spirit attire. We were the Kate Sullivan Crocodiles. Kelly was wearing an adorable dress. Lina was wearing a matching izod shorts outfit. And I am wearing blue jogging shorts and a premature olympics t-shirt. There is also a hint of some really bad tube socks. I shake my head at the whole scene, but the truth is that is exactly who I was. And whether it’s a blessing or a curse, it is still who I am today. I’m still the oddly dressed fluffy one running off with a Popsicle. Did I not see the mom with the camera?

Lately, I have found myself in a bit of an icky little rut. I can’t seem to find the comfy white t-shirt or Popsicle and get in touch with the kid who was always moving. So today I spent a couple of hours talking to myself about this very thing. Call me crazy if it makes you feel better, but I can’t get the girls to respond to me philosophically, so I make do.

I got to thinking about the verse that tells me to remember my Creator in the days of my youth before the difficult days come when I find no pleasure in them. That’s not to say my days have no pleasure. Don’t schedule an intervention or start a card campaign for me. I’m fine. But the older we get, the more life can sit down on us. And we are either prepared for this or we aren’t. If we have established a strong connection with the Creator, it is easier. I think my foundation is solid. So there’s a base to run home to.  So how to get from here to there is what I chatted about today…with myself. And in case you ever have days like this yourself, maybe some of this will have some value. If not, at least you got a glance at the girl they called “Popcorn Head.” My mother-in-law offered me $10 to post this picture. I’m going to go stand by my mailbox and wait for that. Just kidding. This list is in no particular order.

Some Ways to Get Your Popsicle Back On if you’ve lost it along the way:

1. Surround yourself with good people. People who know you. People who will tell you the truth. People who love you even when you are a dork in a bad t-shirt or running off at all the wrong times. If you get what I mean…
2. Spruce up. Put on shoes. Check the hair and make-up. I got ready for my day at 8:30 tonight. It was beyond idiotic, but I feel GREAT.
3. Find some natural light. Go outside.
4. Encourage someone. Is there a person you’ve been meaning to write or call or say something to? Do it. Immediately.
5. Get moving. The longer you are flat out on the couch the likelier you are to be smashed by a passing child on an indoor scooter. Yeah, it does happen around here. Exercise. I can’t say enough about a regular routine here. When I am exercising, I am unstoppable. When I’m not, a hamster could stop me.
6. Identify a bad habit. Replace it with something. You can’t just drop it. Dr. Phil says there’s no such thing as will power. Hey, Dr. Phil said it…If T.V. is your nemesis, find a good book or spend 30 minutes on a cool hobby.
7. Identify your goals. If you don’t know where you are headed, you won’t accidentally end up there. Then, make sure your spare time activities move you toward the goals, not away from them.
8. Pump up the jam. Either crank up some C and C Music Factory or sing something perky at the top of your lungs. You can’t sing Zippity Doo Dah and be down. Ya just can’t.
9. Read the Bible. Every day.
10. Clean something. Either clean a drawer or a closet or tidy up a main living area. Improve something. Then, if you break out with a nasty case of shingles overnight, you’ll be suffering in a peaceful space.
11. This is a bonus and one that’s too obvious to really discuss. But it’s also the one I struggle with as much as anything else. Go to bed. Get 8 hours of sleep. Stop typing. Now.

Yeah, I know. I spend too much time alone.

I’ve been offline. In Scaryville. I have stories to tell. But the best thing I can do this afternoon is clean out my car, take a pill that cleanses me from diseases, and call my therapist to tell him about the potty situation in Scaryville. I’m pretty sure he can’t help me.

Tonight, I am hoping to sit down and tell the stories. Since I don’t really have a therapist and can’t afford one anyway, that role will reside with the reader. Please get in touch with your deepest compassion and wisdom, put on a robe, get a pipe, and help me. Later.

For now, here are a couple of lists:

Top Ten Reasons Not to Go Camping for 3 days and 2 nights:

1. 155% humidity. This affects everything from the bottom of your tent to the inside of your car windshield to the quality of your Fritos.
2. Mosquitos. Angry, angry mosquitos.
3. Port-o-lets. There just are no words. Unfortunately for you, I will find some and say much, much more about this than you ever wanted to know.
4. Nobody at the campsite likes you.
5. You don’t like anyone at the campsite.
6. If you lock your keys in the car, you’ll pretty much be sunk. Not that I would know. Sure.
7. Sleeping bags never stay in position. You always end up with the zipper under you in the most awkward way possible. This phenomenon came into existence one second after the Stray Sock Phenomenon.
8. It takes one full day to pack up and one full day to unpack. For those who don’t like math, that adds up to the same amount of time you actually are camping.
9. Short people who are also short on sleep are short on patience. That’s too many short things in one sentence.
10. Mamasboy.

Top Ten Reasons TO go camping for 3 days and 2 nights:

1. Mamasboy.
2. Camp chairs with drink holders in the arm.
3. Fires.
4. Open air.
5. Stars. LOTS of stars.
6. Sleeping 2 inches from my favorite people in the world who don’t yet know that I’m not the coolest person ever.
7. Lupton’s barbecue and free Coke Zero. (I’ll explain later. I know this wouldn’t typically make a Top Ten Camping list…)
8. Cooking hotdogs and s’mores over an open fire. Snacking straight out of a cooler.
9. Reading by flashlight.
10. If you do lock your keys in your car, and there are 45 cub scouts roaming the area, you have a 95% chance that one of them has a father who used to steal cars for a living. Boo-yah.

Meet Miranda.
She’s my first official guest writer. Yeehaw.
Following the lovely photo of her hands and her offsprings’s feet, there’s a story. And while this is me babbling, her babbling begins there.

So back to Miranda. Besides meeting her, you’re going to meet her grandma. And you’re going to meet her version of Chuckie.
Miranda’s a Machine, so I’m going to call her The Machine. She’s a writer, a mom, a wife, an extreme couponer, a funny person, and 1000 other things. She does all of that, plus the 1000, because of that whole Machine thing. She’s a Machine. But I already said that.

Her baby has lips that you could kiss forever and still not run out of prime real estate. If he were normal, or my girls were, I’d be working on an arranged marriage. But as it is, he’s a little wacky and my girls are a lot wacky, so it’s probably best that all three of these cherubs try to find someone that can ground them.

At any rate, when we started talking about Doll Week, The Machine sent me the following story. I tried to find a real picture of one. You know you’ve got a very VERY unique toy when you can find NO TRACE OF IT online. All she has left is her memories. Before her story, I’ll post a picture of her hands and her baby’s feet, because it’s one of my favorites. After her story, I’ll post my photoshopped attempt of…The Miranda Doll.
_______________________________________________________

Let me open with this: I heart my grandmother. I didn’t just love her….I hearted her, which carries a meaning unto itself nowadays. She was not the Donna Reed type. Not by a long shot. She smoked for many years, made very large, baubly jewelry to sell at the flea market each weekend, took me out to eat, and played Bingo. She always made sure there were tiny glass bottles of Coke in the fridge and plenty of game shows to watch on her 1000 inch television.

And she loved us so much.

That being said, she was not a natural gift giver. Some people have a talent for that sort of thing. Finding some rare trinket, wrapping it in an emotionally-significant way, and passing it along at just the right moment, with just the right expression.

Nope, not MawMaw. She seemed to really enjoy buying things from infomercials. And no wonder, really. Bad gift ideas just seem better on a 1000-inch television.

And so this is how it came into my possession—“the monstrosity,” as I like to call it. It was Christmas, some year, and we were opening gifts under the lovely tree (one of the greatest things about the holidays at her house). And I pulled out a perfectly wrapped package, tore into the paper, lifted the lid…and froze in terror. This was not a too-small sweater, or too-bold nail polish, or too-old candy.

It was a baby doll screen-printed with my own face.

And not my baby face, either. No…my teenaged smile captured in a senior picture just weeks before.

I like to think of myself as a decent actress when it comes to gifts. Good, bad, mediocre, I can pretty well feign surprise and delight. But in this case, I remember only choking out a “Oh…wow. Thanks,” which was a feat, since every cell in my body was screaming at me to fling the unholy thing from my person.

Somehow we made it through the Christmas Day, with the Baby-Adult Miranda doll grinning from the corner. But you can bet she lived the remainder of her days under my bed.
Behind a bag of clothes.
With a box resting on top of her.

I’ve seen movies. I’m no fool.

And then I moved on to college and she went the way of all old toys (Toy Story 3, all the way). But every now and then, I think about her. Not the doll…my MawMaw. And how she perhaps saw an emotional significance in that gift that I could not.

At least, not until now. Now that I am 30. Now that I am a mother, and a wife, and an employee. Now that there is no baby left in her only baby granddaughter. Perhaps “the monstrosity” was just a reminder to stay young. Stay fresh. Stay sweet and innocent.

Or maybe it just gave her a good laugh.

One of our faithful readers just sent me a real link to these disturbing dolls. If you are disturbed and want to be further disturbed, visit http://dollsbylisa.com/Little_Me.htm

Not so long ago we were eating out. I was just thinking fondly of restaurants because I am hungry and about to eat an all-white-turkey-meat hotdog of sorts. Mmmmy. Right. So that led my mind to wander to a better food day in my life. My mind wandered right down to our favorite Sonny’s BBQ. We used to go there a lot.

I love their food.
I do not love their restrooms.

But when Sister Tinklepants asks to go to the potty, you don’t say no. So we went.

We’ve all had them: creepy bathroom experiences in public places. Maybe it’s walking in on some sort of aftermath that leads you to wonder if the previous occupant had been raised by wolves. Maybe it’s wandering into a restroom of a dollar theater and being 100% certain that you’ve interrupted an animal sacrifice or a terrorist operation.

I’ve had my public restroom moments. I am not a germophobe, which might account for my kids having had their share of airborne diseases. Still though, I have standards. One of the rules I have for myself in public bathroom stalls –call me crazy– is that I must shut and lock the door when I’m going to disrobe and relieve. There are at least 150 very obvious reasons for this, most basic, of all rules. But there is at least one person in the greater Tampa Bay area that does not share this particular policy. So as I walked into the Ladies’ room in Sonny’s BBQ that day, I was surprised to have to force myself to look away as I walked past an open stall with an oldish woman using the toilet. Oh. I didn’t see a whole lot, as I managed to snap my neck in the other direction very quickly. The girls gawked as long as they could in that second and a half as I rushed them by into a stall of our own. I had just a moment to gaze upon the old woman’s feet as I could see them from the next door stall. Oh, the horror. Feet are inherently ugly. You should have seen these. Words cannot support the task of describing these feet. Sister Tinklepants was marching back and forth inside this stall singing at the top of her lungs. I’m sure everyone in the restaurant knew that I had two toddlers in the bathroom with me. And as I was waiting for Beloved to be done and pass the torch, the hand that accompanied this gnarled set of pantyhosed feet reached under my stall partition and grabbed hold of Tinklepant’s fat baby leg. My eyes immediately humongosized as I grabbed my baby back and moved her away from the Crazy Toilet Troll. Then came the questions from the girls. Who is that? What was she doing? Why does she pee with the door open? Look at those FEET. We waited for her to move on before we did so ourselves. I was out of stock reactions to horribly awkward moments, so I could not risk facing her at the sinks. Sinks? She potties with the door open! She wasn’t going to wash her hands. Well, either way. That was that. It seemed the price we had to pay for sweet sauce and the moist towelette.

We eat in a lot more often now. And when I have to use the restroom–when I absolutely have to–I always check the feet under the next door stall. You just never know, apparently.

Let’s begin with a cheer, shall we?

We’re Number 1, We can’t be Number 2,
Cuz we’re gonna beat the whoopsies outta you,
The Whoopsies outta you.

OK. So are we Number 1 because you are Number 2 already?
Why can we not be Number 2?
Is that BECAUSE we are already Number 1 or because we are beating your Whoopsies?  Also, what is a Whoopsie? I doubt that is the word that would escape someone being bludgeoned by my team.

Here are a few things I learned today that are of very little consequence, but I will pass them on nonetheless.

1. If you are going to sing “I love you a Bushel and a Peckeroo”, changing the words into a shameful version of wackadoodle, be aware of your surroundings. Ensure that the lady in the Toyota Tercel is not waiting on you to strap in your child so that she can get into her own car 2 feet from you.  Also, do you sing well enough to sing loud in a parking lot?
2. If you have 34 different documents, programs, or processes running on your laptop, it will take you about 5 minutes to complete a mouse click and 10 solid minutes to close all of those windows. Then, your operating system will begin sending you hate mail about what you have been doing for 3 days without a re-boot.
3. Apparently, I forgot we still receive mail. My son came in and said, “We got mail. You better come see.” I thought maybe that meant an exciting shaped package was in there. Maybe there was a ferret hiding in the mailbox. There was a package all right. But it was smashed up against the inside of the mailbox with about 82 other unopened items. Coupons, special and meaningful correspondence from banks and credit card agencies telling me how much they’d love to have lunch with me, fliers, 4 thank you notes from real people, and a mouth-watering life sized pamphlet for Smoothie King. Man, I’m hungry.

So to sum up, watch where you sing, run fewer than 5 applications on  your computer at a time, check your mail, and watch your back for Cheer Babies trying to beat your Whoopsies.

I am afraid the Informinator is not happy. Doll Week wasn’t a week. Or even about dolls entirely. Organizers and Informinators do not fly by the seat of their pants. That’s why they have knowledge and order. I do not have knowledge and order. I have a chaotic brain. And four kids. And one with flu. And another one with a fever that I’m watching. And a very ancient body that just wants to sleep ALL the time. I bet I’ve taken 5 hours worth of naps in the last 3 days. And still I am tired. And so, with all of that said…which sounds like a lot of hooey…Doll Week will march on. Randomly. I’ll get better at all of this. I will. I still have at least 3 doll posts in the hatcher. One of them is psychotic and worth a good nightmare.

Yesterday, during some of my waking hours, I took my daughter to the Organizer’s daughter’s birthday party. Watching people with no arm strength try to throw even a 6-lb bowling ball is a hoot in any culture. I fear that, at some grotesque moment, a child may forget to let go and that ball just takes them away. But then I realize that the ball they throw only rolls at 2.5 mph, so it’d be pretty easy to retrieve the child before they hit any pins. And if they did hit pins, at that speed, there’s little hope any of them would fall. My own daughter, who is 4, is spindly at best. She is the teensiest bit of nothing I have ever seen. I must learn how to mask the chortles that inevitably follow when she spikes the ball and it comes to a complete standstill 6 feet down the lane. This is funny to adults.  Not so much to a 4-yr-old. But we had a great time in spite of a total lack of strength and skill.

The best laugh of the day came when all of these tiny people were signing a bowling pin for the Birthday Girl to take home as a forever keepsake. I am posting the picture. You don’t need me to point out the awesomeness of this.

These are kindergartners, most of them. Phonetic spelling comes and goes. Correcting them is unnecessary. If someone had corrected this little angel, I would have missed out on a moment I will remember for the rest of my life. I would have missed an honest glimpse back into childhood, into friendship, into the innocence that children have before the world smacks them around a time or two and takes that part away.  In that one moment, I relived a lifetime of dest frenbs and I still have that fuzzy feeling with me, 30 hours later. I’ve been blessed with the dest frenbs on the planet. Everybody should have one. And if you do, tell them without spell check. It won’t matter.

But don’t tell them on a bowling pin.
They might think that was weird.