He's No Zac Efron, But...

Then again, I'm no Vanessa Hudgens.

But if nothing else, my dear Knight is most definitely goofy. How so, anyone who doesn't know him personally may be asking? (If you've ever met him, you already know.) Case in point (and as God is my witness, this is a true, unembellished story - as all my stories are. Heh. Okay, maybe not all - but my reporting on this one is entirely and mortifyingly true):

Over the weekend the princesses were enjoying a sleepover at their aunt's castle, so my Knight and I rapturously snatched the opportunity to do what any couple with young children do when relatives take pity on them and keep the children.

Geesh, not that. This is not that kind of blog. And besides, you get me within ten feet of anything resembling a bed these days, I'll be sawing logs in 30 seconds. Yep, I am such the object of desire - I'm sure Playboy will be calling me any day. Snort.

Anywhoo, we went to the grocery store to grab a highly nutritious selection of bad snack food we would 1) never allow the princesses to have; 2) never let the princesses see us eating; and 3) enjoy while sitting in the living room in front of the TV, which we never let the princesses do.

Oh, how I love being a rebel.

So I'm wandering down an aisle, debating whether I should get Double-Stuf Oreos and the Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream or just grab the jumbo bag of Dove chocolates and wait for the diabetic coma to overtake me, when up walks my Knight. Rather than some normal greeting: "What are you looking for?" "Are you ready to go?" "Will I really get sick if I eat canned chili with jalapenos and Fritos?" he walks up to me and says - loudly, getting the attention of several nearby shoppers:"Why, Mistie Thompson, I haven't seen you in 20 years! How have you been?" At which point he grabs me, leans me back in his arms and kisses me like we're Scarlett and Rhett from "Gone With The Wind."

But that's not the funny part.

After he lets me up from this dramatic kiss, he looks at me with this completely innocent face and deadpans, loud enough to hear across several aisles: "So, how's your husband?"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a snapshot of my dear Knight in action. And why I have a feeling I won't be invited to participate in the school PTO this year.

But They Look So Sweet...

They are darling, aren't they? Such sweet little faces, such beautiful inquisitive spirits.

But that's their public face...a very clever and diabolical cover they've invented.

Their true personas only come out around Mom, and the truth they're hiding is scary enough to make your hair stand on end - or at least make your nose glow a little.

The horrifying secret I've learned - after only a couple of weeks into the summer - is this. In the privacy and security of their home, they're WILD, SCREAMING, WHINING, FAIRNESS-CRUSADING, TOSS-ANY-MANNERS-MOM-HAS-TRIED-TO-TEACH, PUSH-YOUR-SISTER-INTO-A-WALL-IF-SHE-BUGS-YOU BANSHEES.

Think I'm exaggerating? Lying? In need of stronger meds? (You'd be right, but still.) People of the jury, I give you Exhibit A: This Morning's Activities

• Wake up
• Whine about who got their chocolate milk first and in what cup
• Argue over whether to watch PBS or Noggin
• Shove each other off the bed
• Try to block the other from being the first down the stairs
• Get mad at the dog for getting fed up with the fight on the stairs and going around them to technically be the first down the stairs
• Argue about who gets the breakfast plates out of the cabinet
• Argue about who gets to say prayers first (I'm sure God is most thrilled about this one)
• Get mad when Mom chooses one to go first, whine about how unfair the world is and stick out tongue
• Whine over said tongue insult
• Start trading insults over the breakfast table - "You're a baby!" "You're a poopy-head!"
• Trip over the dog while getting up from the breakfast table to go hit alleged poopy-headed sister. Get mad at sister for obviously conspiring with said dog to deliberately arrange the tripping. Sit on the floor and cry.
• Stomp over to the "thinking stair" when Mom orders both there for timeout.
• Start shoving each other and fighting over who gets to be on what step.
• Pout and stomp up the stairs when Mom moves alleged poopy-headed sister to the landing in an effort to stop the stair territory battle.
• Quietly crawl up the stairs and taunt alleged poopy-headed sister by singing the theme song from "Willie Wonka" (actually only the small portion of the chorus that is known) until...
• Said sister snaps and "accidentally" pushes taunting sister down the stairs, resulting in a goose egg on the head and a cancellation of the day's planned visit to the pool.

It's gonna be a long summer, isn't it?

It's Summer - Let's Get Happy!

Yes, dear readers, I am - I pinky-swear promise this time - back. Dance recitals are done, major projects are put to bed, and now it's time for summer. (Cue the Jimmy Buffet music and the cabana boy bringing me a boat drink.)

To celebrate, here's my first official Happy List of the Summer of 2009. Y'all chime in with your favorites - what makes summer just rock for you?

• Wringing a promise out of my dear hubby that, upon retirement, we will move to some piece of ground where the mere mention of snow causes widespread panic and a run on the local grocery store...wait, that describes St. Louis. Let me clarify...and where there is no such thing as a one-syllable word because the Southern accents draw everything out to at least three syllables. And where it's a punishable by law offense to not serve sweet tea.
• The pool. Ah, our new local pool. Granted, I haven't actually had time to go there yet, but I will. Oh, I will. Get your sunglasses ready, Ellisville residents - me and my glow-in-the-dark-white cheesy thighs are unapologetically on their way. Consider this your one and only warning.
• Summer music. Of course, there's Jimmy. He is without a doubt the gold standard, and I will proudly be a Parrothead until the day I die. (BTW, I fully expect that at least one of his songs will be played at my wake. I will so come back and haunt you people if that doesn't happen.) Beyond Jimmy, I love good old Southern rock in the summer - anything from Lynrd Skynrd to Kid Rock will do. If you're with me on that, check out my friend Paul Highsmith's group The Vagabond Boys. They do what they call "Heartland Country Rock" and I'm enjoying it more every time I hear it. Not bad for a Yankee, Paul - we might make a Southerner out of you yet!
• The Princesses. I know. I'm sickening, but I can't help it, they're just so dang cute in summer with their little swimsuits, pigtails and flip-flops! Princess E is my long, lean one this summer. There's just no trace of baby left on her, which makes my heart break and swell with pride at the same time. I got her to age six without an unfortunate addiction to chocolate or an unhealthy preoccupation with the remote control - WHOOHOO!!

Princess G (thank you, God) still has her chubby little arms and legs, and the cutest cheese on her tush you have ever seen in your life. (I'm serious. It's precious...oh, shut up.) (BTW, why is cellulite so dang cute on little ones and makes people run screaming from the horrifying sight of it on us? Life is so unfair.) But I have a feeling that cute baby fat isn't long for this world - she's already got muscles under there that I'm envious of. Heck, the kid can already do more pull-ups than me. (OK, so probably your grandma could too, but still - I'm impressed.)

I've just decided to ignore the coming muscles and kiss all over her all summer long - and try to burn the memory of those little dimpled elbows and cheesy tush into my brain. Those memories will keep me going long after cellulite becomes a bad word to her, too - and keep a smile on my face even if my knight and I end up in Fargo.

(Dear Knight, just kidding about that last part. I'm sure Fargo is a lovely place...if you're a polar bear. I need warmth...and sweet tea...and big hair...and sandals year-round...and great college football. Do me right, darlin'!)

Uh...I'm So Proud?

Here's Princess E in her natural state:

Here's Princess E after being attacked by either the ghost of Tammy Faye Bakker or the makeup artist for this Robert Palmer video:

Okay, so maybe she was getting all gussied up for her dance recital dress rehearsal.

But I'm still worried her sister is preparing to be the 21st century version of Madonna. Oy vey.

Where's the nearest convent?

Top 10 List Of What Moms Really Want For Mother's Day

1. Sleep
2. Breakfast in bed - at noon
3. Sleep
4. A professional massage - i.e. not by the cheapskate hubby with some massage oil, a couple of candles and a Luther Vandross CD
5. Sleep
6. Kisses and hugs from children who aren't screaming and punching each other over who gets to kiss and hug mom first/last/the most/the hardest/the sloppiest
7. Did I already say sleep? I can't remember. I'm sleep-deprived.
8. One night in a luxurious hotel suite. Alone. No Disney Channel - or Luther Vandross.
9. One night in a luxurious hotel suite...with Zac Efron. (Did I write that out loud? I'm sorry. I'm sleep-deprived.)
10. Healthy, loving, vibrant children and a hubby who knows how to cherish a lady. Without dragging out the Luther Vandross CDs.
11. Sleep. Wait...do I have 10 yet? I do? Sorry. I'm sleep-deprived.

Singing The La-La Song

That's what I find myself doing at some point every day when I just can't take any more of the sheer insanity going on in the world today - sticking my fingers in my ears, closing my eyes and singing "la la la la la" at the top of my lungs. Childish? Yes. Effective? Kind of. And, it's better for me than drinking heavily.

What I also like to do is compile another addition of the Happy List.

1) Funny or Die - yes, some of the videos are childish, and some are stupid, but some are just dang funny. My current favorite is Jon Hamm starring in "Lex Luthor Bailout." It's Jon Hamm - even if you don't find it funny, it's still a pleasure for the eyes, ladies. Heh.

2) Temperatures in the 60s for at least half the week. Spring is in the air!

3) The iPhone. Oh, how I love this invention. My knight accuses me of being addicted to it. Not true. I can put it down at any time. I just choose to occasionally walk into walls and sort of listen to him whisper sweet nothings (actually, just his ideas for the grocery list) in my ear.

4) Humor from The Patriot Post. 'Cause I am not going to sit around crying in my cornflakes over this mess. Fortunately, with this kind of thing regularly delivered to my email inbox, I don't have to.

Y'all join in and give us some more Happy List suggestions. I know there's some good stuff out there. If not, we're creative people. Or just people increasingly desperate for a good belly laugh. Or just more photos of Jon Hamm.

Playin' With The Big Dogs

Oh, I am big time now.

My colleague - and more importantly, dear friend - Marijean (aka the STL Working Mom) has named my little ole homegrown effort here one of her "Mom Blogs that Rock." Seriously.

This is a huge deal for me because 1) Marijean's gentle cajoling (OK, actually borderline physical threats) urging me to start a blog is the reason this venture even exists, and she is a uber-well-known Blogger Extraordinaire (she's a flippin' TV news commentator, for goodness sakes!), so the fact that she thinks enough of it to recommend it is seriously flattering; and B) maybe now someone other than my family and certain deeply disturbed friends (I mean that in the best possible way, y'all - love you!) will actually read my blog.

So if you found your way through Ms. Marijean to this little slice of Southern craziness, with a side of two of the most precious little lovelies you will ever meet (that would be Princess E, age six, and Princess G, age three) and a Knight in Shining Armor (a little dented, but loyal and true after 15 years), welcome. Please give me a couple of chances to grow on you (kinda like kudzu) before you run screaming.

And please don't let the "Conservative Christian" label scare you off. I don't speak in tongues (I tried to learn Russian for two years in college, but my attempts were pathetic at best), I don't handle snakes (eeww, that would so ruin my manicure) and I won't try to baptize you with virtual water. I am a ridiculously flawed chick who screws up more times every day than I can count (and then blogs about it - it's cheaper than therapy), and I'm just grateful that God is forgiving. And patient. And eager to love and care for and bless me every day. I just declare "it" to the world from the get-go now because, to quote the wisdom of the great pugilist and admirer of all things Olive Oyl: "I yam what I yam." And for the first sustained period of time in my entire life, I really am starting to like who I am. I hope you'll like me, too.

And if not, well then, bless your heart. Heh heh.

My Little Hockey Player

I know what you're thinking. Wait, I thought she had the two prissiest little pink-wearing, tiara-loving, bow-head princesses in the Midwest.

I did. I still have one. The other is now apparently starting a new chapter in her life as a substitute defenseman for the St. Louis Blues.

To be fair, she wasn't actually playing hockey when this happened. She and her dad were catching softballs in the front yard. Unfortunately, he forgot to tell her not to catch the ball with her face.

The good news is the missing tooth was already loose. The better news is that the other front tooth is loose as well. Hopefully it will fall out soon. Very, very soon.

Until then, I wonder if just the right kind of lip gloss will act as camouflage. Or maybe I should just stick a big bow on her Angelina Jolie lip. Pink, of course.

A Good Old-Fashioned Pity Party

Yep, I'm havin' one tonight.

Why? Because this was supposed to have been an Official Girls' Weekend. Not the little girls - the mommies-who-want-to-revert-to-silly-and-carefree-girls-for-48-precious-hours. I was supposed to be here this weekend, enjoying this spa and this shopping with some great girlfriends.

Ah, the best laid plans - so often thrown awry by my dear (and I use that term ever so loosely in this instance) King. Unfortunately, my long-planned Official Girls' Weekend coincided with his last weekend at a job that's been great to him for the past 13 years, but has made six- and seven-day weeks, with weekends a given for working, the norm.

He's found another great job with a great company that (gasp!) has normal working hours. (Note: the adjustment by all of us to this "normal" schedule will no doubt result in some...ahem...amusing posts over the next few weeks. [i.e. AAGGHH! He's at home on the weekends; now what the heck do we do with him?]) But, before he starts this great new job, his old one had to get one more weekend (i.e. pound of flesh) out of him. Which meant that my Official Girls' Weekend went out the freakin' window.

So, my friends are whoopin' it up in the Big B, enjoying spa treatments, bargain-hunting and meals without cutting up someone else's food. And I'm here. At home. Negotiating the Princesses' latest battle over who gets to sing what part in which Hannah Montana song and cleaning up the dog's latest "I'm ticked 'cause you didn't feed me exactly at 8 p.m. so I'm gonna poop in your office" present. (Side note: Why didn't one of you take pity on me and send me earplugs - or a new, non-deranged dog - for Christmas? Yeah, I see how you are. Ungrateful lurkers.)

Once I got the Princesses to declare a bedtime truce and threw the dog out into the street (oh, I'm kidding. I let him back in after a few hours.), I totally indulged my pity party with a hot bath, a viewing of "Dr. Zhivago" and as many M&Ms as I could suck in. Do I feel better? A little. Do I feel fatter? Definitely. Am I going to make sure the King has the next Official Girls' Weekend on his calendar in blood (whose blood is TBD)? Oh yeah.

Back To The Real World

Yeah, I've been a blog slacker over the holidays. A completely lazy bum.

Man, it's been great.

Not that I dislike blogging. I really enjoy it. But these past couple of weeks, I've just needed to recharge my batteries, sleep late (7:30 a.m.-ish - WHOOHOO!!), complete some badly-needed home projects and, most importantly, play with the Princesses.

I mean hardcore playing, people. Ongoing sessions with their new and complete set of Disney Princess dolls (quoting the packaging:"Including Mulan!" Apparently Mulan has only recently earned doll status, poor dear. Och, the inferiority complex she and Pocahontas must discuss with their therapists.), Barbie clothing store (complete with "credit card" - and people wonder why we have a debt problem in this country?!), and the HSM3 Girls-In-Their-Actual-Prom-Dresses-Just-Like-The-Movie dolls (insert squeals of delight here!). Countless readings of several new books, more than one of which Princess E can read all by herself (looove to watch her read). Board game nirvana with Chutes & Ladders, Zingo and the Disney version of Scene It (seriously Disney, my household is pretty much supporting the upkeep for at least one of your characters - or Chip & Dale at a minimum. Remember this the next time we visit, m'kay?).

And let's not forget the tea parties with the new pastel-and-polka-dotted tea set. I bet I've had 100 cups of "tea" over the past two weeks, along with detailed discussions of upcoming art projects and while watching rehearsals for the next big show the Princesses are planning. The new wireless microphones, "dance cam" attached to our playroom TV and electronic keyboard (thanks, Aunt Kay & Uncle Brian. I'll be sure to have them practice every single time you visit us. No earplugs allowed.) have added a whole new dimension to their shows. You wanna cast "HSM 12," Kenny Ortega? Come to my basement.

So, I've been busy. But now, since we're all headed back to school and work, I'll probably get back into the blog rhythm again. If I don't, though, it's probably because I've been called away to a Command Performance/tea party summit. A Queen's gotta prioritize.

Music To My Ears

I love this time of year. Especially the torturing of children part.

Not physically, you sicko. No, I mean the mental torture that we adults benignly call "the annual visit to Santa Claus." Let's think about this from the child's point of view

• You're forced to get all dressed up in uncomfortable and usually scratchy clothes
• You're made to stand in line without any drinks or snacks - don't want to get those clothes dirty before the photos, darlin'!
• A grouchy elf who's obviously been eating all the snacks you've been wishing for pushes you up in front of...
• This large hairy man dressed in weird, blood-red clothes and screaming "Ho Ho Ho" in your face while trying to grab you and pull you up to sit on his knee.

This isn't a memorable childhood experience - it's a bad outtake from a "Stranger Danger" video. No wonder the little darlings run screaming. It's a miracle they don't spend the rest of the Christmas season twitching uncontrollably every time anyone mentions the name "Santa."

But, of course, we parents continue dressing them up in outfits they wouldn't be caught dead in otherwise and dragging them out in the freezing weather to wail at the first sight of the Big Red Dude. It's a rite of passage - or just another little memory to file away until they leave your home and begin a long relationship recounting the horrors of their childhood with their friendly neighborhood therapist.

Faithful readers may remember Princess G's reaction to Santa last year. Trying to be a little smarter this year, we skipped the possibility of a public nudity citation and caught him at the kids' Christmas party for the King's company. Surprisingly, neither princess ran away screaming, although Princess G made a pretty wide berth around Santa to get her present, while Princess E submitted to a two-second lap sit before thanking him for her present and getting the heck outta Dodge.

So, we had to make do this year with shrieks of terror from some of the other children attending the party, a few of whom you may hear in this priceless video of Princess G opening her present. Not that I've listened several times to snicker at the sound of the little boogers freaking out in the background or anything. Heh heh.

Of course, once Santa exited the building, the Princesses were all fired up to sit on his "throne." They are princesses, after all. So here they are, scratchy clothes and all, grinning ear-to-ear from a serious sugar high and thankful that, for another year, they've survived the trial that is The Great Santa Visitation.

The Tooth Fairy Needs A Bailout

We've had a bright spot in an otherwise tough week - guess it was only a matter of time until the kiddos made us all laugh again.

After at least a month of playing with a loose front tooth, Princess E took the next step into parental bankruptcy due to orthodontia - er, I mean big kid-dom - and said sayonara to her first tooth.

She was (and still is ) beside herself with excitement - see exhibit A:

We're taking donations to support not only her dental work fund, but ongoing dance classes to relieve her of her uncanny resemblance to Elaine from "Seinfeld." Please help - friends don't let friends have kids who dance like this.

Is She Ready To Graduate Yet?

So we're about six weeks into kindergarten with Princess E - I don't know about her, but I'm exhausted.

I thought kindergarten was supposed to be this fun, let's-get-used-to-going-to-school-for-the-next-16-years (at least) rah-rah time. It's flippin' boot camp, people. Naval Academy plebes have it better.

We have the daily folder check for homework, notes home, etc. We have the weekly list of Spanish words to practice, the math concepts to review over the weekend, and the maps of the U.S. and the world to "look over" as often as possible. We have the contest to see how many books you can read in a month - if you reach a certain level, you get free pizza at Pizza Hut, which seems to me to be in direct opposition to the goals of the P.E. teacher, who has a monthly sports "theme" and seems to have been trained by the Chinese Olympic team in coaching regimens.

Then we have the sign language "songs" practiced weekly to learn new signs, the daily discussions of current events (which of course have to be rehashed over dinner at home - that's led to some interesting discussions!) and the nonstop writing practice. Did I mention the two Bible verses Princess E has to learn perfectly each week? Or the twice-weekly computer lab, which apparently has as a goal having the kids proficient enough to be recruited by Microsoft by first grade?

And I haven't even mentioned the nature walks, the field trips, or the art and music classes and the weekly Bible knowledge quizzes. Or the quantum physics.

Kidding. That's in second grade.

Now, let me mention that Princess E is loving every moment of this. Every day I pick her up and ask how her day went, her answer invariably is "great!" Her teachers are so skilled at making it all fun that she doesn't even realize how much they're cramming into every day.

I, on the other hand, have a main "family calendar" dry erase board up on our wall in the kitchen with all activities color-coded to each person, a Google calendar, a task list on top of the microwave, and a phonics reference sheet, world map, and Bible quiz Q&As next to the field trip permission slips and daily classroom schedule stuck to the refrigerator. I've got a stack of activity reports, teacher updates and "homework" samples piled on a corner of my desk in the kitchen because I haven't figured out where to store these yet, and I've got the Bible verse book permanently affixed to our kitchen island so we can work on the verses any moment we can grab during the week.

It's at this point that I admit my utter weenieness as a mom and bow down to Dana, Adrian and all those other super-moms out there who go one step beyond this and actually, miraculously, seriously home school their kids. I also bow down to Laura, who even though she just had a baby six freaking weeks ago manages to blog more often than I do, take precious photos of both her adorable kids on cute outings around town, and make ridiculously cute signs to mark each child's monthly age milestone.

Y'all just suck - and yes, I say that only because I'm totally jealous of your awesomeness. Or you never sleep and you're taking great drugs - to which I say, "You're holding out on me. Share or I'll spread vicious rumors about you, two ferrets, a gallon of olive oil and the entire defensive line for the St. Louis Rams."

Hey, it worked in high school. Didn't even have to say it in sign language - or quantum physics.

God Made Them Cute & Funny For A Reason

Here's a sampling of recent quotable quotes from the Princesses, which, given their recent penchant for fighting with each other like two little Tasmanian devils, may be the only thing saving them from being duct-taped to their closet doors by the Queen. (What, I wouldn't leave them there more than an hour. Or three. I'd undo them regularly to go tinkle.):

Princess G wakes up every morning with the same question: "Mommy, is the sun open yet?" And yes, when it goes down, "the sun's closed."

Princess E: "Mommy, we're having a special day at school tomorrow - Egg Day!" (Translation that I fortunately got from another mom before I stayed up all night making an egg costume: They're having "Decade Day" - a 50's poodle skirt works just fine. Runny yellow yolk makeup is not necessary.)

Princess G, when asking for green peas at dinner: "Peas pease!" (Don't quite have that "l" sound working yet. This is so cute, however, that I serve peas several times a week just to hear her say it.)

Princess E explaining playground politics: "All the girls meet under the slide to plan our next moves. We're all superheroes, Mom - I'm SuperFast Girl, Audrey's Strong Girl, Leah's Flying Girl and Abigail's Gymnastics Girl."
Mom: "Where are the boys?"
E (scornfully harrumphing): "Oh, all they have are spider webs. We beat them all the time 'cause we have superpowers. They're scared of us."

Princess G, when told she needs to get ready for bed, but she doesn't want to lay down alone: "You seepy, Mommy? Go get you jammies on, Mommy - you seepy, too."

Like I could duct-tape someone so cute...is Scotch tape allowed?

Moo Moo Eeewww

OK, so I know a good portion of the Texas coast is rubble and the U.S. banking system appears to be on the verge of collapse and the really big news is that Lindsay Lohan thinks Sarah Palin is an idiot (BTW, media people? The day I give a flying rat's tush about Lindsay Lohan's opinions on hmmm, let's see, anything, is the day I need to be escorted to a padded room and sedated into oblivion for my own safety. Seriously, people - at this point, we're getting so far past stupid I'm thinking God should just throw in the towel and hit the restart button on this whole shindig).

Forget all that - let's talk pet peeves. Specifically, my pet peeves. 'Cause I'm just self-absorbed that way. Sue me.

I loathe chewing gum. Hate it with a passion. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that I was never allowed to chew it when I was a child. Not only was it banned, but I was told each time I asked (because I was an annoyingly persistent kid - which today we just call "focused" but back then was labeled "obnoxious") that "little girls who chew gum look like cows chewing cud." I don't know if y'all have been up close and personal with a cow, but being a backwoods Arkansan (some would say trailer trash - but since I did not marry a relative, never raised any pigs or chickens in the house and still have all my teeth, I reject that particular label), I've seen many a cow chew cud. It ain't pretty, folks.

And, for a not-very-cute kid from the backwoods (I think the particular colloquialism assigned to me was, "Dang, that girl's been hit by the ugly stick one too many times.") I was desperate to avoid anything that was the least bit unattractive. Thus my aversion to chewing gum.

Of course, now Princess E wants to chew gum. Thinks it's the coolest thing in the world, especially when the beautiful, waaay cool, stylish, trendy six-year-old neighbor chews gum. Of course, I've been using the cow-cud analogy on her every time she asks, but it doesn't work as well when 1) the child is adorably cute; and 2) she hasn't gotten close enough to a cow to develop a particular cud aversion. So today, in a moment of weakness. when Miss Waaay Cool from next door offers Princess E a stick of gum, she asks again (yes, she's "focused") if she can have some, and I actually said okay. You would think I'd have taken her to the toy section at Target and said, "See this aisle of Barbies? They're all yours." She was in heaven.

I, on the other hand, just tried to busy myself with housework in different room from the Princess and avoid the gum chewing altogether. But then we had to tackle her homework - and I couldn't avoid her anymore.

It was like the story about the heart of a murder victim buried under the house still beating in the ears of the murderer, who is slowly driven insane by the sound. I stood it for as long as I could, I swear. It's not like she was smacking it or being unduly obnoxious with it. She was just chewing it. And it was just gross. Seriously, I got nauseous.

But, to my credit (yes, someone give me a cookie. Now.), I didn't snap and snatch the offending stuff out of the Princess' mouth, nor did I make her spit it out after a screaming match over her desire to keep it. I got sneaky about it. It was snack time, and of course she couldn't eat my freshly made brownies with gum in her mouth, now could she? Heh heh. The gum had to go, but with a square of chocolate heaven to appease her, Princess E was happy. And, I survived yet another day without a heavy dose of antipsychotics.

Anyone got a cow for hire? I need to schedule some aversion therapy for the Princesses before that neighbor chick visits again.

Whiners Beware

So I know I have at least a couple of male readers lurking out there. Be warned - I'm about to do some wholesale male bashing. I'm ticked. Sue me.

On the other hand, maybe you can help answer a burning question: WHY are men such wussies?

My dear hubby, the King of our tiny little kingdom, is driving me nuts. He has acquired the sinus infection that Princess G has been suffering with for the past couple of weeks, and oy vey, the kvetching (Yiddish is so much more fun than English). This is not out of character for him.

This is the man who, while sitting at my hospital bedside, called his friends the day after the birth of Princess E to describe in detail how exhausted HE was from MY 46 hour labor. ("I've been up for three days, and I swear I'm so sleep-deprived I'm hallucinating." Yes, ladies, he said that to someone in front of me.) If I could have gotten my battered Dixie Treasure and emergency c-section cut-up body out of that hospital bed, I would have beaten the crap out of him.

To his credit, he did apologize later (finally) for that egregious breach of post-birth etiquette (don't men realize that moms alone are allowed to gather sympathy for our birth stories? Jerks.). But heavens to Betsy, this is a pattern that has made me crazy since we got married. The man thinks he's dying when he gets an ingrown toenail. He gets a headache - it's a tumor. He pulls a muscle - he's a prime candidate for reconstructive surgery.

So now he's got this sinus infection, and he's moaning about body aches, asking what medicine we have on hand and generally moping around the house. I should just ignore this and not let it get to me, right? But AAAGHH! I also caught the sinus infection, and like moms all over do every day, just kept going. There's no being sick in MommyLand, dear readers. You just suck it up (or quietly throw it up) and charge ahead. If you've been in MommyLand long enough, you realize it's not even worth it to mention that you're sick, because no one cares. (Actually, that's not true. Your fellow mommies do, but chances are they're pushing through their own quarantine-worthy illnesses and can only offer so much support.)

Added to it, I deal with chronic pain every day. I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome and fibromyalgia, and that combination pretty much ensures that some part of my body is aching every day. (My co-workers may have noticed that lately, when they come in my office to talk, I have to completely turn around. That's because I can't turn my head to the left at the moment.) When I'm having an EDS flare-up, the pain level can become almost unbearable.

But hey, I'm a mom, and an employee, and a friend, and a Sunday School teacher, etc. I don't have time to give into it or talk about it. Yes, it hurts, but there are a lot of people dealing with a lot worse (my mom has rheumatoid arthritis - that really sucks), and there are people depending on me to get out of bed and take care of business. So I do. And I'm sure I'm not even close to the only woman out there who does this.

So men, here's the deal. We love you (most of the time), and we know you get sick and hurt, too. And we'll take care of you when you need it. But make sure it's when you really need it. And ask the woman in your life how she's doing every once in a while, but make sure you pay attention long enough to really hear the answer. You just might make her life a little easier if you do.

And we all know if mama's happy, everybody's happy. And we all know what "happy" means, right? (Long pause.) Yes, that is what it means. You're welcome.

Olympic Oh-My Man Vol. 1

For all you people out there who think this is just going to be a purely superficial, lusting-over-gorgeous-hunks series of entries, you are so wrong. It's going to introduce you to athletes and sports you might not normally watch, even during the Olympics. This is going to be educational, people - be prepared for the quiz at the end.

Having said that, it's really mostly about lusting over gorgeous hunks.

Ladies, I give you USA Rowing team member Giuseppe Lanzone. Please tell me they row sans shirts.

I'm Rendered Speechless

Y'all may have already read that I am just too immature (repressed, squeamish, Southern - insert your own thoughts here) to utter the clinical term for what I now prefer to call my Dixie Treasure. I don't care if I've pushed two babies out of it (okay, 1 1/2 to be precise - Princess E got seriously stuck and required a c-section, but you really don't want to hear the gory details), I still can't say it.

So this just pushes me completely over the edge.

I'll make a deal with all the environmentalists out there. I'll be happy to plant as many trees as necessary to counteract my...ahem...feminine hygiene product use if you promise to keep this thing far, far away from me.

And in a true OMG moment, come to find out the dang thing even comes in sizes. Wait, now they want to size my Dixie Treasure? Uh, I don't think so.

I'm sure it's a lovely product, and very useful to women who don't have sufficient access to...y'know...but EEEEWWWW!!!!!

I'm officially scarred for life - I don't think I can even buy Dixie cups again after this.

Y'all Are So Bad

Here I've been struggling to come up with topics that would really pull all my lurkers out of the shadows and get the comments flowing in - and come to find out all I had to do was put up some slightly nekkid photos of Olympic hotties.

You naughty, naughty readers.

Never let it be said that I don't listen to y'all and give you what you want. Later this week, I'll kick off a very special recurring Olympic-themed entry you won't see on NBC - the first official edition of "Olympic Oh-My Man!"

And I hereby declare myself not responsible if your keyboard is ruined due to excessive drooling.

Eye Candy Olympics

8.8.08 - the beginning of a couple of weeks of really great TV programming for the ladies. Now, if you're not a sports fan, you may be wondering what I'm talking about. Why would you want to watch the Olympics if you're not really into sports?

Exhibit A - Troy Dumais, USA Diving

Exhibit B - Sean Scott, USA Beach Volleyball

There's also the entire USA men's water polo team, and just to show I'm not biased towards American men, there's the Australian men's swim team.

Ladies, I'll supply the popcorn and drinks for the watch party. Who's bringing the ice? We're going to need lots of ice.