To The People In the Cute Stucco on the Corner of Mclean and Johnson Parkway

I apologize for throwing up in your yard this morning. I apologize for doing so a second time, humiliation eased just a bit by the fact that I made it to the boulevard instead of your front yard.

I should probably write a note or clean up, but ( as soon as I turn off this computer) I am in bed with the flu.

The question of the hour is how someone with a fever and stomach flu ends up on the corner of Johnson Parkway and Mclean -- about a mile from her house -- at 7:00 am on a Saturday morning?

Because the matronly brain is not connected to her body. These two entities sometimes exist on separate planets. So I interpreted my leaden legs, queasy stomach, and exhaustion (after a solid 8 hours of zz's') to a simple reluctance to rise and shine.

So I overcame that obstacle, the one called Reality, and headed out for my regular four mile run.

We all know how well that went.

So, neighbors at Mclean/Johnson Parkway, I hope for a day of steady snow, natural integration and (small and friendly )wild animals without actual palate.

The Matron is snuggling in under some covers.

UTDs

Uterine Tracking Devices.

We girls have 'em. Scarlett and I can locate anything in this house. Need a mitten, a book, an earring? No problem.

The three people with penises stand around and drool. "Where's my sword?" Merrick always loses the weapon. Scarlett remembers: it's in the family room, under the couch. She just saw it!

"Mom! Someone stole my book!" Stryker assumes Evil afoot. Oh, it's right here on the kitchen table. Stupid. (but I don't say that because he will remember the Stupid in gestalt therapy when he's older). But I'm standing by the table and the book is actually jumping up and screaming at me. Funny how he can't see that.

But the best is John. When he leaves for work, I don't lock the door. Five days out of seven, he's back within ten minutes. "Oh my God - have you seen (fill in the blank)?? I totally spaced that out."

Can't find it AND forgot he needed it in the first place.

Many days, I am waiting at the door. There are no phone calls, no queries. I see said item (hmmm -- wouldn't he need office keys? wallet? cell phone? or briefcase?) and stand ready for the hand-off.

And he's always surprised that I am one step (ahem) ahead of him.

Thanks bipolarlawyer for reminding me of how darn righteous we women are--and to my friend Jennifer for coining the phrase!!

Hey You Derfwads!

Come here and give me a little kiss!

Thanks to Mrs. G for letting me simmer on Slow Cook Thursday over at the Derfwad Manor. A relative newcomer to the blogosphere (October), I haven't yet created a blog roll but when I do, Mrs. G will top the list. She shined up my post real pretty!

Thanks, Mrs. G. I'm sorry about Johnny. Maybe we can share?

Welcome to new readers -- hope you enjoy the matronly landscape.

Fortune 500 Offspring

Think you’ve got that entrepreneurial spirit?

When introduced to all things ejaculatory—wet dreams, masturbation, sperm—my oldest had one simple concern. “If I keep baggies by the side of the bed, can I catch the stuff and sell it to single women who want to have babies?”

He’s gonna go far in this world.

Domestic Goddess

Last night, I was possessed by the devil and suggested we bake chocolate chip cookies. We only had to borrow four items from neighbors and took just over one hour to make the dough! Don't even ask about that whole in the oven business. Stryker said, “You should take pictures and blog about this, Mom! Document every step of the way just so people know you can actually do this.”

That’s how often I bake cookies. Indeed, the last time I suggested said endeavor, the three children and my husband, in four distinct and uncoordinated conversations, suggested that we ask our neighbor (who has mastered this skill) to bake them for us instead. True.

Dog In Diaper, Take Two

This guy is nearly 15 years old. His name, which suits, is Jekyll, as in Hyde. We rescued him from the woman who rescued him first. She found him under a bridge, tossed like somebody's garbage. He had a broken rib, fleas, minimal hair and Attitude awarded those with small parts and big egos.


But we saved him from her, too. She put an ad in the paper. When we answered, we discovered that she had over 300 house mates: rabbits. There were cardboard dividers throughout the house, creating little running zones for the bunnies, who freely dropped their tiny stinky business every which way and that. Dander, it did fly. The matron, then a buxom lass, did notice the asthma inhaler and cigarettes on the counter.

So we fell in love with the scrappy, yappy, stinky skinny terrier mutt -- and brought him home. Our first dog, Thurston was just a few months old and when we introduced the brothers, it was puppy love. Now Thurston is gone.

And Jekyll is the newest (actually only--John and I have a few good years left) geriatric case in the house, the one in need of diapers. When we wake him up in the morning (he is deaf and blind and needs a good shaking), he just stands up and pee falls from him.

If it's cold -- oh wait, we live in Minnesota -- I mean: Every day he puts his tiny snout out the back door, juts back in and poops.

Our other dog was so old and so worn when he died that people stopped saying hello when they came to our house. They said, "Oh My God. Isn't that poor thing dead yet?"

So we know the road ahead, well. But this guy is far from suffering. He is simply wildly inconvenient and messy. Not my euthanasia material. At least in my book (I know friends who have killed their pets for peeing: not me).

Besides, if Jekyll wasn't around, who would the new puppy torment?

Happy 67th Birthday, Joan

Ski Trip, ll

Despite the climate (Minnesotan) the ski trip was lovely! My friend and I had a two hour conversation over coffee. Thus fortified, we shopped and lunched while the children skied. Nary a matronly toe touched snow.

Plus, we discovered that Scarlett -- who once reported being allergic to weather--can ski!

Due to a disastrous first stab at skiing four years ago, Scarlett was even less enthusiastic than I over the trip. Imagine. Yes, screams and threats flew in all directions (and from all the major players in this drama)--and that was just to get both of us in the car.

After further ado, she was forced onto skis and handed to the poor instructor. I left with my friend, watching Scarlett glower as we walked away. For those of you unfamiliar with Scarlett's amazing powers, the Glower exudes radioactive material and can kill.

When we called to check in at lunch time, Scarlett reported being "happy." This is not a word I associate with my daughter. I demanded Stryker get on the line: "Has she hit her head? Fallen on a pole?"

No, Stryker reports. "Mom, she's a natural."

Turns out that Scarlett hurled her hysteric self down the hill and was hooked, period. The ski instructor thought maybe we should hook her up with permanent lessons. The phrase "natural ability" was uttered.

Well, well. That little apple strayed from the maternal tree this time!

Thanks to all the dear friends who employed prayer, charms and potions to guide me through my foray into nature: I survived!

Check This Out

I heard about this on NPR and it looks very interesting: www.bigthink.com

The site's new so y'all can be trend-setters if you jump on board now. And as I was despairing over the state of women in state, I found this: www.ifeminists.net

Hey Feminism! We Need Wave Four!

Remember my thoughts on a woman's shot at the presidency? I'm right and, let's add this.

Ski Trip

I hate nature.

Give me a coffee shop and high heels, period. Of course, I want clean air to breath (I'm a Green girl) but let it be urban. I mean, I have seen one deer. Is there really a need to see another? And hiking? Where are we actually headed?

So I'm off for an overnight ski trip. In actual snow. Like outside all day.

Mostly, the kids will be skiing (I hope) and I shall be safely inside with various beverages and books!

More Meatloaf Head

Merrick has a solid swear word vocabulary, thanks to his significantly older siblings, who delight in Illicit Tutelage, all sort.

And regular old profanity just won't do. He's a creative guy, that Merrick. He took with his big brother and sister dished out and added: poopy head, poopy butt, crabby face, frog head, mean butt, meanie face, egg poop.

Wow. Egg poop.

Maybe this stems from his own nickname trauma. When he was a baby and Scarlett was usurped, she declared that she half loved him and half didn't. She also observed that his head looked like a great big hunk of meatloaf!

Whaddya think? Meatloaf Head?

It stuck, even as he was the most adorable child on the planet.

And here's our solution to the swearing. John told Merrick that "Pussycat" and "Frankenberry" were the very worst, most mean things you could ever say. People would drop in their tracks, the horror.

So now when there's a tantrum, he screams, all rage and venom: You Big Fat Pussycat!