a letter to my neighbor on the occasion of a warm saturday

Hi! It was surprising to see you this weekend. I suppose you could tell that by my scream. The one that made you look up from your lawn mower and glance around? Yeah. That one. Loud enough to hear it over small machinery. Pretty impressive, if you ask me.

Speaking of impressive. Wow, your man pelt is coming in nicely with the warmer temps! I always thought shaggier animals were inclined to shed during balmier months, but apparently I was wrong. That's a right fine downy layer you're sporting, neighbor. I'm especially taken with the lack of demarcation that is apparent starting at the curve of your ass and running up over your shoulders, then down to what I often hear affectionately referred to as "the treasure trail."

Though, in your case, I think "the treasure thatch" might be more accurate. Especially since the equation of unemployment + free time x several cases of Miller Light (I'm not judging, dude, but you knocked that wall of empties down in your struggle for the weed whacker, so, you know, not really a secret...) = plenty of ground upon which the grass to grow, if you know what I'm sayin'.

Now, I'm a fan of shirtless men. Big time! Heck, I'm even a fan of hairy men. However, sometimes you just have to have a change of heart when you're hoisting that Hanes Beefy T up out of your waistband and find your fingers getting tangled in the treasure thatch.

So, scary hairy neighbor, since you can't seem to decide when it's a good time to keep your shirt on, I've provided you with the following tips:

• If bears attempt to hunt you in hopes of bagging a you skin rug for their libraries, you should keep your shirt on.
• If neighborhood children wake you from a Sunday nap, begging you help them recreate the infamous scene from "The Empire Strikes Back" where Han Solo slices a stinky tauntaun open so Luke can stay warm while on the planet Hoth, you should keep your shirt on.
• If, after a particularly taxing day working out in the humid Midwestern air, you can wring out your back hair, you should keep your shirt on.
• If you always answer "It's just you," to the query "Is it cold in here or is it just me?", you should keep your shirt on.
• If Michael Stipe of R.E.M. opens a concert by dedicating the song Hairshirt to you, you should keep your shirt on.
• If bald men speak in hushed tones and bestow you with gifts and golden trinkets as though you were some sort of tribal king, you should keep your shirt on.
• If you have to part the strands to scratch your belly, you should keep your shirt on.
• If you go to Jamaica and come back with your nipples accented by a line of cornrows and beads, you should keep your shirt on.
• If Bigfoot knocks on your door and says "Dad?" before giving you a big hug, you should keep your shirt on.
• If the sun hasn't made contact with your skin since you were 10 years old, you should keep your shirt on.
• If your wife routinely prefaces her remarks to you by saying "Why, you are abominable! Whoops! Did I say 'you are'? I meant 'that is...'", you should keep your shirt on.
• If birds attempt to nest in your pectorals, you should keep your shirt on.

Like that thick patch on your left shoulder, I could go on and on, scary, hairy neighbor. Instead, I'll just apologize for the screaming and the temporary lull it placed in your yard work. You are a true testament to testosterone, and I would bow to you, but I'm afraid the hair on my head would spark that upon your chest, and I don't wish to start an inferno. You're hot enough already.

I mean literally. You have got to be hot with that much hair on your body, right?!

Signed,

Your less hairy neighbor who is always after her husband to keep things tidy, and awaits the sale of your house to Numby, who should get cracking and make an offer because they just lowered the price again, and apparently he doesn't scare the laydeez when he mows sans shirt.

'fill my eyes with that double vision...'

The other morning, my husband and I were watching a national morning news programs when the band Chicago appeared on the screen, telling us to stay tuned for their performance after the commercial break.

"Hey, Chicago, without Sting, what's really the point?" Tool Man asked the TV screen, and then flipped his thumb toward the TV and turned to me with a grin that was all, "And you say I don't know anything about music. Pffft!"

"Oh my GOD! Are you kidding me?" I cried.

"What? Do people even care about Chicago if Sting's not up front?" he responded.

Stunned, I said, "Fans of The Police probably don't care about Chicago, baby. To the members of Chicago, this no doubt breaks their hearts."

He gave me an embarrassed look, but refused to admit his knowledge of music is squat. "Good thing you charmed me with your adoration and cuteness, because it's the only way I could look past the fact you proudly own Taco's cassette and end up married to you."

I'm tempted to ask my friend Chag at Cynical Dad if he'd be willing to school Tool Man in the musical arts. I'm hoping my guest post at his site today might warm him up to the idea. When he asked me to swing by his place while his family enjoyed a vacation this week, I thought, "Well, that's just like giving a stalker keys to the place and asking them to dig around in your fridge and paw in your underwear drawer! So yeah, when you leavin'?" Then I acted calm and naturally agreed! Please go over there, read my love letter, and drop a comment. Don't forsake me, people! If you and I ever meant anything to each other ever, you'd do this for me. You know I'd do it for you!

********************

Before you go, though, take a look below here. See that other post? It's by Aphron at Foolish Mutterings. He's here as part of the Great Blog Swap of 2008, which was initiated by FTN as a means of allowing interested bloggers to infiltrate another, purely agreeable blogger's home for a guest post today. Through a no doubt scientific selection process, Aphron is visiting here today, so if you're inclined, please leave comments for him on his post, then visit FTN and see where others are hanging out.

What's that? You're wondering if, since there's a guest blogger here, does that mean I have ANOTHER guest post out there on the internets today? You all are so sweet! Have I told you that lately? You are. Sweet as brownies. The answer is yes, I do, in fact, have another post up at Therese's blog, Therese In Heaven. That post mentions sex, so hey, go visit and comment there, too!

That's it for me. Seriously. I'm beat from all the writing I've done this week. And TWO posts for ONE day?! Sheesh! Exhausting! I don't know how you people who post every day do it. My only guess is you're all a bunch of prolific wizards, and I just can't seem to pull off the pointy hat.

great expectations

No, not that dreary story we had to read in high school. We all have great expectations. We enter into something with expectations of how things will turn out. Sadly, many times things do not turn out like we expected them.


I read many people’s blogs and talk with other “real” people at home. Few seem happy. Fewer seem ecstatically happy. Why? Usually it is because our expectations were not met. Since we tend to invest the most time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears into our marriages, this tends to be a big source of our expectations not being met.


Having realistic expectations is very difficult. It’s like jumping out of bed Christmas morning and finding gifts that are nice, but not exactly what we wanted. We like the gifts OK, but we really wanted that BB gun.


Life is a series of changing our expectations. Adjusting what we expect to happen. All the while, we have to take care and not become cynical. That is the pitfall, when too many expectations are not met. We tend to start lumping people into categories. It becomes too easy to stop trying. Sometimes, though, life is damn hard.


However, is it fair to expect a person to meet, or exceed, our expectations? No. We are human. Fallible. We have to learn to love people, despite their failings, despite our expectations not being met. Maintaining resentment is hard work. Letting go and realizing that, taken as a whole, the person we married is the best thing for us is the path towards contentment.


I’m not sure what your expectations were when reading my post, but I hope that everyone can achieve that life-long contentment. The path is narrow and difficult.

Thank you to For a Different Kind of Girl. Although my writing and boobs are not as kick ass as hers, I hope you enjoy it. I know I’ve enjoyed my time here.

finding it between the covers...

Stunning bookseller (aka me): "Hi! Is there anything I can help you find tonight?"

Grouchy, grumpy lady (aka SUPER grouchy lady): "I think it's called 'Just Do It'. It's about sex. Do you have that?" (heavy sigh)

SB: "Let me just look on the computer. Oh, here we go! 'Just Do It: How One Couple Turned Off The TV And Turned On Their Sex Lives For 101 Days'. Is that the book you're wanting?"

GGL: "Yeah (deep sigh). Do you have it?"

SB: "I'm sorry, ma'am, but it appears we don't have it in stock at this time. However, the other store may have it available, or, if you'd like, I could order it for you."

GGL: "What do you you mean you don't have it in stock!! It came out today, didn't it?!"

SB: "Indeed it did, ma'am. Unfortunately, we sometimes don't receive all lesser known titles immediately upon release..."

GGL (interrupting): "Listen, it was on the TODAY show today. You guys should really think about gettin' some!!"

SB (smiling agreeably, thinking "As should you, ma'am. I already did, and I didn't need a book to get it. In fact, I'm thinkin' I'm gonna get some more later..."): "That's the ultimate goal, isn't it, ma'am? I'll be sure to short list it."

'grab that cash with both hands & make a stash'

This afternoon, my youngest son and I were sitting on his bed, fishing coins from a near capacity quart-size Ziploc bag and dropping them into his blue Little Tykes piggy bank (which has a far better interest rate than my own lousy bank and gives out Dum Dum suckers). The coins were a gift from my son's grandpa. Either that or my kid handed him a scrawled stick up note, told Grandpa to give him all his money, and no one would get hurt, which, based on my son's desire to buy every wrestling action figure Target can stock, I'd not put that past him.

As we pulled the various coins from the bag, I quizzed him on the value of each, and we tried out various mathematical equations before feeding the piggy bank. Several minutes into our task, my son sighed loudly, then threw his tiny hands up into the air and proceeded to shake them out like he was in some hyper parade.

"My hands are very tired from doing this," he explained. "This job is making my hands very tired from all this money."

This job.

This job involved not actually having to do any work, and yet still allowed my son to pull in a far bigger paycheck than I will this week. Grandpa, Inc., is a leading manufacturer in spoiled children, and their non-taxing work environment makes it a great place to punch in and put the hours in.

"Mommy needs a job like this," I said. "I wish I had a job where I could drink all the orange pop I wanted and bank baggies of money without having to actually do any work!"

His eyes shining like the brand new quarters we found in his bag, my son looked at me with a grin and said, "You need to get yourself a Grandpa, Mommy. We can find you an old man to give you money!"

Assuming the only way I'd get money from an old man would involve either an inheritance or doing the sort of job I can't put my resume (And they don't call that a job for nothin', mister. Oh, and also, when I relayed this story to my husband later, he winked at me, patted around his wallet area, and told me he'd give me a raise. Get it? A raise? Yeah.), I assured my son that my financial portfolio was doing OK.

Then, when he wasn't looking, I pocketed 50 cents (parental commission), and we went downstairs and enjoyed our Dum Dums.

good day sunshine

Dear Mother Nature,

As a longtime user of your services, I'm writing to extend my appreciation for the quality work you've done in my life. I understand your job is unpredictable and often frustrating, and that most often means you hear the dissatisfied rumblings of your consumers.

However, the purpose of my letter isn't to complain. For the past five days you've graced my world with sunny skies and tolerable temperatures. I don't know how you do it, Mother Nature, but each new day has been better than the prior. As I throw open my windows and breath in the fresh air, I can't help but also take in the glorious sight of the sun in the sky, and the many, many shirtless men out mowing lawns and ditches lately, specifically the very attractive stay-at-home dad who lives around the corner and must tend what appears to be a turbo fertilized yard. While some may complain about the recent deluge of rain you've unleashed upon my area of the state, Mother Nature, I simply say thank you.

Thank you for the rain. Thank you for the sun. Thank you for the humidity that makes it very warm while out mowing around 3 p.m. on Friday afternoons. Trust that I'll forever be a fan of your work, and will work tirelessly to promote your talents to my friends, family, and those I meet.

Sincerely,

Me

gettin' my britches in a bunch

"So...anything you want to tell me?" I asked my Tool Man as I emerged from the laundry room, my arm extended for miles in front of me, my fingers pinched around a bouquet comprised of several pair of men's Hanes underwear in subtle shades of black, blue, and gray.

For the record, Tool Man - who I predict would be superdedupity happy to know you all know this - is a tighty whitey drawer wearin' man. He is not, nor has he ever been - except maybe in his Underoo sporting days - a colored drawer donner.

As if he was telling me something as boring as the weather outside, Tool Man glanced at the briefs, then at me, and responded.

"They're my Dad's."

Those briefs that were in my hand? Yep. Before the word "Dad" was even fully out of Tool Man's mouth, they were on the floor. Like they'd spontaneously combusted. Then I wanted my hand to catch on fire because I'd JUST BEEN TOUCHING MY FATHER-IN-LAW'S UNDERWEAR!

"What's the problem?" Tool Man asked. "It's not like they've been worn."

Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, these underwear had most definitely been worn. Perhaps several time. At least (although I didn't check for evidence, and you know what I'm talking about so don't pretend you don't!), the nubby, faded nature of the soft cotton sure made it seem they'd been washed several times.

It bears repeating here that I have no beef with briefs. As Tricia Thongs, lead singer of the imaginary multi-platinum selling band Penchant for Panties, I'm what can be described - in a purely non-pornographic fashion - a panty lover, a fact cemented by how I like to show them off. However, I like to slip into undergarments I purchase for myself. I am not a fan of the hand-me-down panty. You'd see how true this fact is when we shopped together at Goodwill and you saw me make the "EWWW!" face at the display of undies hanging near the used housewares items. In theory, I know they're clean. In reality, they once weren't.

On the other hand, Tool Man apparently has no problem at all with the gently used man panties, and in a move he described as being "fiscally responsible," he heartily agreed to accept his Dad's maybe used/maybe not underwear when his Mom offered them to him last weekend.

Let's me break this down for you:

• Tool Man, who is rapidly approaching 40 years of age, let his Mom pick out his underwear.
• To bolster our family's economic stimulus package, he's willing to put his package where another package may have dwelled.

I should be proud of him. I should have nothing but the utmost respect for him and how he wants to be sure his family is taken care of financially. Done and done. But this underwear swapping business is probably more than I can deal with. When I'm feeling a little frisky and want to get into his pants, I don't want to be bringing things to (Jesus, stop me...) a head, only to glance down and discover I've got my hands on my father-in-law's Hanes. And no matter how I try to train my thoughts, they will ALWAYS be my father-in-law's former underwear.

I tried to explain this to Tool Man. I even went so far as to try and find information about how no one wears used underwear. However, you try doing a Google search for "used underwear," my friends. Yeah. It seems there's a lot of love out there for used undies.

Sensing a degree of my unwillingness to work with these manties, Tool Man eventually got up and retrieved the non-combustible drawers from the floor and returned them to the laundry room for me to eventually wash and put in his actual drawers. But (Ha! Make that 'butt') I'm sorry, I just don't know that I'll be able to do that for him, and believe me, I've caved on A LOT of things when it comes to this man.

A LOT!

Some second hands need more of a second thought.

werd 2 ur father

Around these parts, Father's Day was rocked traditional style.

• Slept in approximately one hour beyond usual - check
• Warm breakfast served with a smile and kiss - check
• Enjoyed a quiet morning interrupted only by the adoration of others - check
• Lunch at a restaurant of choice - check
• Gifted with a thoughtful yet practical item - check
• A two hour, utterly uninterrupted nap - check
• A reprieve from being on "What's that smell? Is that you?" duty - check
• A nice, casual dinner where everyone ate without coercion - check

Then I remembered it was actually Father's Day. Huh. Whattaya know.

So I gave my Tool Man a little kiss, complimented it with one of my trademark little tweaks, thanked him for his good works, and wished him a happy Father's Day.

Then I closed my eyes and took another little nap.

Yep. Father's Day around here totally rocked. Hope you all had a lovely one as well.

good job, you!

This week, the managers at the store created a clever little bulletin board encouraging employees to pluck a paper crown from a nearby stack and share on it a way one of our fellow booksellers have "gone above and beyond the call of duty."

Every once in awhile, management does this kind of thing to pump us up. In the nearly four years I've worked at the store, I believe this has happened three times. I guess they figure we all appear to be such happy clams the majority of the time, we're going around patting the backs of our fellow comrades constantly. But when we slip and tiny dark cumulus clouds seem to hover over our heads, we need bulletin boards so everyone who wanders to the break room to eat their discounted cafe items and bitch about an especially taxing day (What? You don't think that can happen at such a happy place as a bookstore?) can see how much we love and appreciate each other.

In theory, I dig this sort of thing because I like to see my name in lights. And bulletin boards that won't be changed for months. Especially when the bulletin board is decorated with images and positive sayings from The Backyardigans. Really, managers? Perhaps tomorrow we'll learn our ABC's after a tasty, peanut-free snack, for this feels like preschool.

However, I'm not adverse to a refresher course on the alphabet, because there's a few of my fellow booksellers who seem to have a hard time with the whole system. I wouldn't say that outloud, though. And I certainly wouldn't put it on a paper crown I would then pin to the Backyardigan bulletin board, for shelving eight copies of a book by someone with the last name of Mitchell between those written by the likes of Burnes and Carpenter isn't really going above and beyond the call of duty so much as it is being annoying.

Apparently volunteering to take a shift in cafe is, though. A coworker and I were in the break room last night when we saw the board, deemed the few crowns that were already posted a bit lacking in the exceptional vein, and decided that going above and beyond the call of duty meant really busting our asses (as I do every shift, I'll have you know! For you. I do it for you!) in the area of customer service.

"The other day, armed with just a plastic spoon from the cafe and a book on human anatomy plucked from the science section, I performed a complicated surgical procedure on a customer who had collapsed in the bargain section. I think that qualifies as above and beyond," I told my fellow bookseller.

"That's good, but this is better. Last week, I established a small triage area by newstand when a group of giggling teenagers, flipping through the sex books, became entangled and started hyperventilating while trying to bend themselves into the various poses of the Kama Sutra," he replied.

"Nice one. Let me get you a crown!" I said.

Wanting to make sure I was properly recognized as many times as possible, I informed my coworker of the many times I held my tongue (which is gross, so don't do it in public, but if you do, don't touch me afterward because blech!) when a customer approached me at customer service and asked for one of the following: A book; a red book; a red book they saw while visiting the Kansas City store: and/or Oprah's newest book.

(If you think we don't react to questions like that when customers walk away - after we've helped them, of course! - then you must have never worked retail, to which I say "LUCKY BASTARD!!")

A few crowns completed, my fellow bookseller (I'm contractually obligated to refer to my coworkers as such) paused in mid-sentence on a crown about how great my hair always seems to look when I come work a shift, and how he appreciates the effort I must put into smelling good (um...effort?!), when he put his red Sharpie down, looked at me, and said he believed what he was about to tell me should earn him the biggest crown on our Backyardigan bulletin board. Intrigued, I leaned in closer so he could tell me.

"Last week, I cleaned evidence of the most explosive bowel movement ever in human history from the toilet, floor, and walls of the men's restroom," he declared, shuddering a bit as he relayed how he had to mop the walls and endure the pity filled eyes of those who wandered in to the massacre.

Rendered nearly speechless, for nothing strikes more fear in a bookseller than seeing they've been assigned the nightly bathroom checks, I could only squeak out a feeble "Dude...you win," and started to draw actual jewels upon his paper crown for emphasis.

Anything, even bringing someone back from the dead WHILE ordering an especially hard to find book, is trumped by cleaning up bodily fluids, especially of the explosive kind, when it comes to going above and beyond the call of duty.

Make that going above and beyond the call of DOODY!

Ha!

Yep. This is why I'm working a retail gig...

things i'd tweet if i twittered

• I'd kill for Adam Sandler's career. Kill! Then cash my "Good job being stupid today!" check, hands clean.
• Hey y'all. Y'all, listen to this! Spent most of Sunday watching a Paula Deen marathon on Food Network, y'all. Y'all? I can't stop talking like this! Y'all!
• Doing Summer Bridge workbooks to keep my kids brainy. My brain? Um. Yeah. Not so much. Give Mommy a minute, k? Metaphors. Metaphors. What's a metaphor...
• Put some South in your mouth, y'all! See?! I can't freakin' stop with the Paula Deen talk, y'all
• I believe I'm a better actress than Zooey Deschanel, and my acting career ended after a triumphant run in a nonspeaking part as one of the playing cards in my 8th grade production of Alice in Wonderland. And scene...
• If The Happening sucks because of Zooey Deschanel (or the "evil" turns out to be the air) I'll be pissed. I'm already sort of pissed.
• Ha ha! Walking among the grass clippings on the driveway after mowing, my Mom said she was going to give it a blow job. I counted to 10. She finally got it around 7.
• BTW? Laughing about blow jobs with your mom? Bonding. Bonding AND awesome!
• My adorable son, when you pat my back when giving me a hug (five times, just like I do to yours), I want to hold you there forever. Then you get all bitchy because I'm keeping you from your real love, wrestling.
• Also? When you hang out alone in your room and I hear you reading Dr. Seuss books and listening to They Might Be Giants? Makes me want to drag strangers off the street and tell them to listen. Listen! He's mine!
• I believe I'm this close to going full blaze cougar on The Jonas Brothers.
• My pride, you ask? I lost it around the age of 5, when I also lost control of my bladder at the city library. Thanks for believing me, Mom.
• Nearly 40 comments on a post about salad dressing?! Had the post been about how I can't eat salad dressing today because salad dressing killed my father, I bet it would have netted 19! Blogging is truly a sociological experiment.
• My ass apparently wants Adam Sandler's career, too, because it's killing me. Welcome back to biking.
• Hi, weird neighbor woman (girl?) I only see sporadically as you do the Walk of Shame to your car. Here's a tip. Pink sweatpants that read "juicy" across your ass (is yours killing you, too?) and black heels is a colossal 'don't'.
• If I come back, I want to come back as Annie Lennox. Or old school Stevie Nicks. Either works.
• Of course I know what a metaphor is. This blog entry is a crater, useless and empty.

why my marriage holds water

If there's one thing my Tool Man's good at, it's the fine art of seduction.

I paused after typing that sentence and looked to the end of the couch, where Tool Man's currently perched, intently watching the classic Beneath Loch Ness on the Sci Fi channel, to determine if I could pick up a vibe on anything else he's good at, but I'm coming up blank. This kind of makes me feel bad. Kind of. Because if you're going to be good at something, the fine art of seduction ain't too shabby.

Especially when you nail it as easily as Tool Man does.

And by "nail it" I don't always mean me.

Oh, who am I kidding. I always mean me, because if you had a front row seat to our romance, you'd see how easily I cave. Mostly after rolling my eyes and muttering "Are you kidding me with this?" But he gets as excited as I do when we stumble upon Road House on television - "Do you enjoy pain?" "Pain don't hurt," baby - so I'd follow him to the ends of the earth.

This weekend, I followed him into my mom's and my in law's basements. We've had a ton of rain this past week, and both basements flooded. After trips to my mom's to move furniture and Shop Vac, we'd head over to my in law's to stare at the water spouting up from the sump pump. It was a messy, smelly, exhausting experience.

Kind of like sex.

Which Tool Man tried to get off me when, as we emerged from his parent's basement for the final time, he turned back to me, smirked, and said with absolute double entendre dripping from his words, "We should get home. You're soaking."

I rolled my eyes. Smacked him. Then pushed him out the door and into the truck, telling him to drive hella fast before I completely dried off.

But then we got home and discovered Road House was on VH1, so, you know, we looked at each other, simultaneously said "Rain check?" (because we're clever, the way we tie in the art of the seduction and the pause button). Then I asked him "How's a guy like you end up a bouncer?" and he replied, "Just lucky I guess."

Oh, he'll get lucky. I'm a total caver. That nailing it bit (plus being able to quote Swayze? Oh, hell yeah!) gets me every time.

god, grant me the strength...

Addict much?

I didn't realize I had a problem with the Thousand Island. Sure, I suppose there were signs. I get a little spacey and am all "I love you, baby," when the salad greens come out. I'll take the Romain, but I'm always looking to score the spinach. And when I'm at the grocery store I might rub up on the dressing bottles and promise them things I may or may not be able to deliver.

But perhaps I'm hovering on the fringes of an intervention, for I had no idea there were this many bottles of Thousand Island in my pantry, and that clearly, I'll buy my fix off of anyone. I'm not loyal at all.

"Um...I think I'll go to the store and get some milk. Yeah...that's right. Milk..."

Sure.

My family is worried. Rightfully so. We've been ranch dressing people for a very long time, and I'm sure my Mom doesn't want me to know this, but I can tell when she's been crying and praying I'll get help.

First step is admitting you have a problem, and apparently I have one.

But God, it is so good...

(this lame blog post brought to you by Summer Vacation. Summer Vacation. We'll fill your days with swimming, whining, snacks, games of catch, and the occasional crying jag. Summer Vacation. It's not for the weak!)

first day of summer vacation

(or "How I May Have Shot My Wad Too Soon")

Tuesday was the first day of summer vacation for my boys. As the great prophet Alanis Morrisette once said, isn't it ironic that the day dawned with a monstrous rain and wind storm. Thanks, Mother Nature. Thanks for taunting us like we're hormonal teenage boys hoping to feel up your bosom when you flash us with your warm temperatures and sunny skies, only to have you give us flashes of lightening instead. You're a little minx, Mother Nature.

Left peering out the window like two unwanted orphans watching their little orphan friends drive happily away with their new families, my boys turned to me in hopes that I would be their summertime savior. All before I'd had breakfast!

I've declared this "The Summer We Don't Watch TV/Play PS2/Get On The Computer/Act Like Emo Teens Who Just Broke Up With Their Girlfriends (So Please Go Outside Already So Mommy Can Do Those Things)," but I've not had a great deal of time to bulk up my bag of tricks to make this plan possible, and the rain and their forlorn looks kind of caught me off guard. I spent several minutes repeating "Give me a minute, would ya?" until I came up with some standbys. So far for summer vacation, we've:

• baked blueberry muffins. From scratch!
• debated how the passage of 15 minutes feels vastly different from the whip speed frenzy of five minutes. Here's some magic for you - it's like three times as fast!
• read five books.
• answered 555 questions (seriously!)
• baked three dozen chocolate chip cookies. From scratch! (Thanks, Mother Nature. You're a temptress AND an enabler, and my ass says no more, dammit!)
• chuckled to myself at the idea of my ass actually speaking, then explained the reason for my giddiness to the boys without actually using the word ass.
• Alas...used the word pee and poop a lot in a debate about who and what pees and poops. Just because it's summer vacation, it doesn't mean the learning hast to come to a constipated halt. I finally won the discussion by referring the good book...
• ...or so I thought until we made up songs about peeing and pooping (sample lyric: "Peeing is freeing, you can do it while you're kneeling. Pooping beats snooping, you can do it while you're stooping." I smell Grammy, my friends! And that's ALL I hope I smell!).

When there was finally a small break in the storms, I slathered the boys in sunscreen and hustled them out to the car so we could exploring new parks in hopes of finding one that wasn't too muddy. We thought we'd discovered the perfect one when we spied one teeming with young kids monkeying around the bars and slipping down the slides. So many kids, in fact, it made it far too difficult to do any of Backpacking Dad's playground workout, thus forcing me to find a comfortable spot at a picnic table after playing with the boys a bit, and search out a moment of peace in this first full day of summer vacation.

The weather calls for rain the remainder of our week here, and I'm a bit concerned that I may have given all I've got to this summer vacation before one full day comes to an end. It's quite possible that by around 1:38 p.m., Thursday, I'm going to be out of ideas to make this a great summer for the boys, and will cave on the whole "...Summer We Don't Watch TV/Play PS2/Get On The Computer/Act Like Emo Teens Who Just Broke Up With Their Girlfriends..." thing, much to the boys' delight (and, I actually think, perhaps their plan because, and I could be wrong, but I think I heard them chanting something that may have been a prayer to the rain gods as I was yanking that first dozen cookies out of the oven because seriously, the kids love the Playstation). However, if that does seem to be the case, I can fall back on the tried and true standby. Sing it with me, won't you?

"Peeing is freeing, you can do it while you're kneeling. Pooping beats snooping, you can do it while you're stooping."

'...and you don't come from this town.'

Every once in awhile, when the Tool Man and I get tired of life in the humdrum suburbs, we talk about moving someplace exciting. Someplace that throbs with life.

Someplace like SexCity (town motto: "It's a fine, fine day for coming home!").

Look on the map. It's right there over Mt. Monogamy, and just across the lake from Virginville. We hear property values are on the rise, and the the neighborhoods don't suck.

Now, the neighbors? Yeah, they might.

I could go on and on with the innuendos, but I think I'll leave those up to any of you who wish to drop one in comments. Also, if you wish to comment and be all, "You're serious? This is what you giggled about when you tucked this in your pocket Friday night and were all 'Eureka! Monday's post!' allow me to remind you, Internets, I sometimes have a "fowl mouth," so yeah, me and my inner 13 year old boy, Seth, dig it.

We also dig the idea of running for mayor of SexCity. I hear there are lots of positions on the board.

(Heh. Good one, Seth!)