Thursday, October 30, 2008
Baloney lovesssssssss Sesame Street characters. Elmo was the coolest, until Abby Cadabby came on the scene. She *hearts* that girl. At Sea World, they have the Sesame Street Bay of Play, and all the characters. She flips her lid every time we go near the place. It is like a little kid at Christmas, her eyes grow huge, and her grin is stretched further than a Cheshire cat with a face lift.
Sesame Street tried to up the ante by creating a line of New Balance shoes. Old school style, with the characters. Saw them in Parents Magazine and headed over to Kids Foot Locker. She nearly leaped out of the stroller, climbing the walls, clambering for these shoes. They had green and yellow Oscar the Grouch's, red and orange Elmo's, and black and blue Cookie Monster's. She was allllll about the Cookie. Cookie I said. Just to clarify. But every time we went into the store, they never had her size, and they were 42 dollars, which is a lot. For shoes she will grow out of. But they are damn cute.
I felt like the worst.mom.ever whenever we went in there. She knew exactly where they were, and took it well every.single.time. we left empty handed. There are just some things that break your inner mommy heart when it comes to disappointing your child, and especially when she never throws a fit, when she is told no about it. We went in their last week, and no more Cookie. He's gone. Never to come back.
So I googled around the Internet, to see what was out there, and hell-to-the-yeee-haw, I found the shoes. On sale. At Amazon. For EIGHTEEN DOLLARS. I think I got whiplash trying to get my card out fast enough. I told her the mailman was bringing her Cookie shoes and they arrived today. We find the box on the porch, she brings it in, and kept asking what it was. We sat down on the floor and opened it. The minute she saw the box, she ripped the paper, started dancing, and I thought her little heart would burst from happiness. "Cookie shoes!!! Mommy, look!! COOKIE SHOES! For my feet!!" "Try them on? Cookie My shoes?" and was shaking, she was trying so hard to put them on.
She is now sitting on my bed, with a book, cookie shoes on, and pajamas. All is right in her little world. Cookies and all.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
It got real old, real quick, and many days went by, where I swear my eyes would start to twitch and my ear would explode when I would see them come into the room. I would try to be grossly involved in setting the table for breakfast, or labeling diapers, or choking on my spit, anything but interacting with Small's dad. He had this high pitched voice, that he would almost sing song into a room, so much that I heard Cats offered him a role, complete with tights. Orange colored ones.
Once it was snowing outside, and he wanted to know if we went outside. Uh, that would be a no.
A freezing, no-way-in-hell-or-Antarctica-I-am-taking-7-toddlers-out-in-the-snow, NO. He proceeded to go ask the office why I didn't. He then, tried to call the state to question what the actual weather temperature it could be to take them out. He spent the next two weeks, calling around 10, and coming in to ask if we took them outside that day. "It doesn't have a wind chill of 25, you can go outside," he would sing-song in his annoying Fiddler on the Roof voice. The whole "bundle up 7 kids, hope they all brought boots, jackets, hats, gloves, pray they don't get wet, and bring them all back inside in ten minutes" didn't phase him. He wanted to know why I couldn't take just his son outside. Because apparently the other 6 kids and their tuition paying parents didn't matter, as long as Smalls got his breath of fresh Arctic air everyday. The kicker: Smalls got picked up at 2:30 every day. So, uh, WHY couldn't Daddy Musical take him outside?
Smalls's mom was preggers, and about to have a baby. As were a few other moms in the class. So, one day dad came to pick him up. And mentioned that grandma would be dropping him off the next day, because Mom had just had the baby. He was going to take Smalls to grandma's house, and then bring mom home from the hospital, the next day. He said it was going to be a big surprise. That there was going to be a baby in their house.....
They, not one time, told this little boy that his mom was going to have a baby. They were going to "surprise" him when she came home. Yeah, big fun fat surprise mom walking in with a screaming baby. Move over, Smalls, there is a new kid who needs to go outside in town. I was completely baffled. It's not like they didn't have 9 months to prepare, and they are so worried if this kid sleeps at 1 instead of 12, but bringing home a sibling? Let's surprise him! I could just hear the melodic "Surprise!" and tried to stab myself in the big toe with a dull toothpick.
Should I mention that, 2 weeks later, mom brings him in and asks for some advice. Seems as though Smalls has a strong dislike for his sister. Hit her in the face. Every chance he gets. Uh... ya think. He's going to run screaming from the room for the rest of his life when someone mentions the word "surprise." Next time you want to surprise someone, give them pack of gum. It will go over much better.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
~Hawaii birth certificate fake
~step-grandma says he was born in Kenya, so we should beleive her.
~even if all of that is untrue, and he is an american citizen, he's not because his step dad adopted him, and he lived Indonesia for 4-5 years.
~He is "friends" with terrorists, racists preachers, Oprah, and probably Britney Spears.
~He went to TWO Ivy League schools, graduated Magna Cum Laud, lecturer at University of Chicago, but won't release his records.
~His middle name is Hussein. He should change it to Fred.
~is old. Very old.
~doesn't know how many houses he owns. Does he know how many states are in the U.S?
~Cheated on his first wife...many times.
~In the bottom five of his graduating class. supposedly only got into skool cuz of his daddy.
~Lived in Washington while fam lived in Arizona. Needless to say he doesn't have father of the year title.
~has some women issues.
~His middle name is Sidney. He should change it to Fred
Bottom line: Both are human, not perfect. I pay attention to where they stand and go from there. This is all in political fun.
Annnnnnnnnd laugh my arse off these. Got'em at Pundit Kitchen
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
see Sarah Palin pictures
They have cute little peel and stick rock star/punk/halloween type graphics on them. The kids picked them out for me, and chose where to put them.
How cute is this green guy......
And for stupid human tricks, here's mine. I am double jointed. In my fingers, which sucks, because my knuckles will lock the other way. I can individually bend each joint, in different angles. Skills.... I got skills. "Ewwww how do you do that?" is a familiar comment. Grosses the husband out, and the kiddos think it's cool. For now.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
*Elmo sleeps with Shamu. EVERY NIGHT. Now, I didn't hear it from a first hand source, but... I heard it. Ponder that and get back to me.
*there's this really catchy tune being sung on some commercial, about manatees the size of Alabama. It's a commercial for a vacation to the Obamas. Says Oldielocks. She wants to go to the Obamas some day.
*My husband told me I looked like one of the Duggars today. He really did. I think I might have to burn my clothing. I had on a super cute, 40's-ish dress, with ruffles. Scandalously short, complete with round toed red heels. That would never fly in the Duggar house.
*I got my nails done for the first time in forever. I don't have fake nails, just my own.
"Oh, you have long nails."
Yeah, I kinda do."
"You do housework?"
"...No..." (thinking she meant for a living, as in being paid to clean, ha)
"Ohhhh that's why. You don't clean, you don't use nails."
Why, at that moment did I feel like she was looking down on me, as in I'm Cinderella's stepsister, instead of Cinderella. I have cleaned many a toilet, puke, dishes, dirt in my life, thankyouverymch. I am never getting my nails done again.
*watched a dinosaur chicken nugget show at the table. But they were Mickey Mouse nuggets. But if you bite the head off, you get a dinosaur....that dances.
and song of the year? "yo yo yo (nasally high pitch) yeah yeah yeah (low deep voice) yo yo yo(long falsetto) ye-aw ye-aw ye-aw.
Tomorrow's Monday. Ye-aw ye-aw.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
To the Dirtbag McGee in Kentucky,
I'm a mom. Not much gets by me. In this house, we work hard for what we got. Whether it's clothes or coloring books, it's ours. We earned it. Through sweat and tears and savings. Every friday we eat pizza. We like to call it Pizza Friday. Not Dirtbag McGee Friday. Last friday you made it all about you.
Money gets lower, closer to payday. We do what we have to, so it was Little Caesar's day. We don't mind 5 dollar pizzas and some rockin' crazy bread. We do, however mind getting declined. Turns out there is a freeze on our card. And racing to the bank ATM, wondering all kinds of crazy things. Turns out our stuff is just fine.
Til we get home. And there is a message on the answering machine.
It's frickin XXXXX-XXXX fraud department for our bank.
WHAT THE Whiskey Tango Foxtrot!?!?!?!? How about triple WTF's covered in whipped cream and nuts on top.
Seems to me, Dirtbag McGee, you took some money. That doesn't belong to you. From OUR account. Placing "skimmers" on gas pumps, atm machines, card machines in places such as Target, Wal Mart, grocery stores, etc. Low life scum,such as yourself, out there stealing numbers and making fake cards. Actual fake frikkin' cards. With anyone's number. The card is never out of their sight. It's not stolen off the internet. Or anywhere. Stolen from unsuspecting people, who sweat, work, spend hours away from their families, just so you can get wasted. And buy some nice knock off purses and cheap leather jackets. And a Magic Bullet Blender. You seem like the lazy type.
Dirtbag McGee, you stink. You smell like the 400 dollars you stole. But, as smart as you think you are, you're not. They caught you at your game. They smelled stinky moldy butt from a mile away and knew something was up. So, my money is still mine.
Get a job.
Get a life.
Take a bath, DirtBag.
(and I can joke about this, simply because the fraud department rocks. They caught it within minutes of it happening. Besides, go ahead, take my money, I wiped my butt with it. Not really, but 10 year old humor gets me through life.)
My dad, is American Indian, Spanish (from Spain they say) and Mexican-Indian. The whole dark beady eye, thick black hair, saggy baggy cheeks, Indian beak nose, and moccasins. Ok, so not really the moccasins. He looks a lot like this guy. (Geronimo meets the 2000's.
My grandma, my dad's mother is a short little American Indian lady, who will tell you, is "built like a brick shithouse." She married my grandfather in the sixties, so while he is not biologically related, he is, in every sense of the word, my grandfather.
We call him Pompa. He hails straight from the hollers' of Pennsylvania. He wears white undershirts and jeans, complete with big belt buckles. He is tall and skinny. He has sideburns that sometimes attach to his moustache. He zips one-liners all day, in a hillbilly accent. It's hilarious.
As long as I can remember, my Pompa would sit down with me, and we would go over my "blood." I would count off my fingers and say "I have Indian blood, Mexican blood, American blood, and donkey blood." Yes, I said donkey. Why? I dunno
I got a little older and never really mentioned it any more, my bloodline, but it was always in the back of my mind. Donkey blood, really?
So, when I was around twelve, we went back out there for a visit. A bunch of us were sittin at the table, and I asked him why I had donkey blood.
He laughed until he choked, and said
"I damn near pissed ma' pants. Hollywood, you don't have donkey blood, you have HONKEY blood!!!
All my childhood, I had been thinking and trying to figure just where the "donkey" part of my blood came in, but really, it was honkey?(which is "Used as a disparaging term for a white person.") I never knew it as bad, after all that's what he called my mom, that and Old Lady. He used "honkey" left and right, when uh, he was as white skinned as they come, blonde hair and blue eyes.
I still, to this day, as stubborn as I am, think he really meant donkey.
Monday, October 20, 2008
I made this for a friend who is having a bambino in November. It's a boy, and I adore chocolate brown... with anything. It is chenille on the back, and super cozy. I hope she likes it.
stay tuned for Halloween costumes, and felt food. exciting, I know.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Ain't gonna find that here. I'm keepin it real.
Here's a teeny tiny glimpse.
5:45 am : the joyous sound of childrens laughter, squealing out Knock Knock jokes, much like this.
"Knock Knock" (Baloney)
"Who's there" (Middle)
"Apple Pie" (Baloney)
"Apple Pie who?" (Middle)
"Knock Knock" (baloney) and so on.
6-7 am. Door opens repeatedly as happy children ask if we are awake. We say "No." and they leave. Repeat 28 more times.
7am: Hubbylcious makes pancakes. Baloney throws fit at table about peanut butter. We love when she throws fits. It's the sign of a well rounded toddler.
8 am: Clean up syrup off table. Prepared to sent out the Syrup SWAT team to 2 of the 3 girls locations. 2 of the 3 girls scream. We like screaming. Screaming is the sign of healthy lungs (or a possessed creature....)
9-12. The children find various ways to put the
Middle and Oldielocks grip and complain that they have to *gasp* clean up the large mess the tornado left behind. That or apply for federal aid, and federal aid comes in the form of early bedtime, no tv privileges or wii time. Authority has a bad rap around here. They take the clean up choice,though not without trying to make a plea bargain. The D.A. came back with no lunch until it's clean. I can't type the scene after that, let's say it was not pretty.
Baloney takes a nap, for a whole whopping 45 minutes. Wakes up cranky. Proceeds to crank for the next 45. I have decided that when she wants to run away from home when she's 9, I'm not stopping her. In fact I'll start packing for her now.
Kids do kid things for the next few hours, like Middle riding bikes in a dress that is dangerously close to the wheel, starts to fell off the curb, but sings her way through it. Singing as she drifts into the bushes.
Oldielocks mopes around, saddened by the death of Flippy. Flippy died. Flippy is an origami frog. That flips. Made out of green paper that got wet. So she is having services for him. Or something. Only in my house would this happen. We mourn all things. Origami frogs, missing shoes, last roll of T.P.
Dinnertime is chicken fried rice. We insult all cultures here by trying to make their food. I ask Oldie to get her sisters. She turns around and yells for them. Looks at me... and laughs. I told her it's gonna be really funny when we all eat and she has no plate. I tell her I will laugh. She giggles more. I can't win. Baloney comes to the table, and proceeds to point and tell everyone "NO, wait for others." They all are waiting patiently as she points to herself, and says "You may eat", and does. She apparently is not held to the same standards.
After time, Oldie and Middle fight over how to equally divide 7 cookies amongst 5 people. I made 40 last night. 7 are left. Hmmmmmmm.
Baloney, in the past 5 minutes, pulled up her shirt, stuck at her belly, and in her throaty voice said " Yook at my belly. Shake Shake shake."
My day is not over. There were no sweet drawings, homemade bread or fresh pressed linens involved. But I laughed a lot, refereed a lot, and was surrounded by my kids. Cranky, yelling, happy, silly and all.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
We head north of the city, and see this little white building with a weathered blue roof, and I swear I started salivating at the sight of it. This has got to be it, I thought. It looks like a dive, but it would hold the secrets of mid western Mexican.
We walk in, sit down, it's fairly busy. Doesn't quite have the smell of "back-home" food, but it could hang.
They bring out the salsa. I dip my chip and... take a bite, of this watery tomato paste with herbs concoction. Maybe the little Mexican grandma in the back took the day off....there is a little Mexican grandma in the back, right?
I order chicken enchiladas, rice and beans. My staple. The husband gets a burrito. We are talking, enjoying our young life, when our food came. I should have ran out the door, headed for the nearest plane, and flew back to my beloved Cali. I took one look and.....
It was a flour tortilla, with chunks of chicken, with some watery tomato sauce. The beans were pinto, probably from a can, and the rice. OMG, the rice. I double checked to see that we were in Chopstick Charley's Cafe, because to my horror, I had a ball of WHITE rice on my plate. WHITE, as in steamed, as in to sit under beef and broccoli, not sit next to enchiladas. No seasoning, no nothing.
I tried the chicken. It was as dry, and as plain as the cardboard I packed my moving boxes in. I had never tasted chicken so gross in my life. The soggy tortilla and tomato sauce. *gag* I looked around at all these other people gobbling up the Pace Picante meets Heinz platter, like it was GOOD.
I was horrified. Culture shock. I think I ran out and bought a sombrero and guacamole, and danced the salsa. And quickly, very quickly, learned to make my own.
(nacho mama's closed down not long after that. I wonder why.)
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
I love apple cider, apple pie, apple crisp, apple bread, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin bread. Stew in the crock pot. Chicken and noodles. I throw down in the fall, after salads all summer.
I made Candy Apple Pie a few weeks ago. It was pure apple goodness. We went apple picking a few weekends ago, picked the smallest apples ever, but made apple pie anyways. With ice cream and warm caramel topping. Drool drool drool.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
The girls had fun. We had fun. It was crisp, and cool, making it seem much more like fall, than the typical sunny 70's weather we always have around here. Not showing off, just stating the obvious.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
We head to the airport, with my other aunt from here. Now, this was back in the olden days, where you could go meet people at their gates. We go to the gate, and sit down and wait. Mom and aunt head to the bathroom.
What happened next, was...traumatizing.
People are getting off the plane, and coming up the ramp. I look to my right, and see these giant turds walking towards us, holding signs. And wearing sunglasses. Please, oh please imagine a walking piece of poo with sunglasses on. Giggling. Giggling poo pieces sun tanning or something.
Oh, wait, they're NOT giant turds? You mean, that maroonish brownish baggy, bulky, wrinkly thing over the body is a......... RAISIN?
I'm 9. I'm staring at these loonies. When to my childhood horror, I realize the freak shows with the California -dog poo bag- Raisin costume is
my MOTHER. and AUNT.
They had on black tights, black shirts, these turd things, white gloves and sunglasses. All to welcome my aunt to Cali. Dressed up as California frick frackin Raisins.
I don't think I have ever lived down the shame.
(This is a pic of what she used to make the costumes. Yes she MADE these. They used to be stored in a trash bag. (like all pieces of poo. *snicker snicker*)
Friday, October 03, 2008
I order my tacos, and a drink, and am all set to hear my total.
Then comes the question.
"Would you like to donate a dollar to world hunger?"
I say yes, quickly.
After all, I'm sitting in a Taco Bell drive through, and am about to stuff my fat face with all their fake mexican goodness, and all they want is a dollar? How could I say no. What kind of person would I be, chompin on a taco, when there are kids that have no idea what a taco is. Or have the option of soft or crunchy. And if I hesitated to answer, then they would be like "Oh no, she actually had to think about it? Someone gets some hot sauce to thaw her icy heart." I may not buy popcorn tins from boy scouts, or donate plasma, but I am NOT about to be known as the world hunger witch.
They gave me a little card to put my name on, to say I "helped" with world hunger. It was the guilt that drove me. And my growling tummy. And the fact that it was a dollar.
Thanks for the guilt trip Taco Bell.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
1 entitlement crust (after all, this pie is about you)
3 cups of no one likes me
2 1/2 cups of you never ask, sing, talk, write speeches about me
1 c of I know you are but what am I
2 tbs of tears
2/3c you owe me
1/2c blame it on the rain, stars and anyone else but me
1 tsp of self pity
bake until you get satisfactory results. Check it over and over again until you do.
Sit in the corner and chow down on your Hurt pie, after all you worked hard for this pie.
(this is for entertainment purposes only, those who's feelings are hurt, really, really need to stop baking pies.) (This was ghost authored for a FRIEND, by a FRIEND.)
Thirteen Things About My Name....
1. My name is really Dulcinea
2. It is latin, for sweetness.
3. It is pronounced dul-sih-nay-uh. Not Dool-sin-ee-uh. If you are spanish speaking,you'll say it with the dool. I'm not, so it is dul or dull, which I am hardly that.
4. It has never been ranked on any popular list. Which is fine, being popular is overrated.
5. It is from the novel "Don Quixote." A novel about a knight, who has a dream girl, and even though she is a really just a peasant, street walker, (Aldonza is her name)whatever, who sees her as his princess. (Dulcinea)
"For me, in the same way, it's enough to think and believe that your good Aldonza Lorenzo is beautiful and modest, and her ancestry doesn't make much difference either, because no one's going to come searching out her pedigree, in order to confer any titles on her, while as far as I'm concerned she's the loftiest princess in the whole world. . . . And so, to sum it all up, I perceive everything I say as absolutely true, and deficient in nothing whatever,and paint it all in my mind exactly as I want it to be, whether as to beauty or to nobility, so that Helen of Troy can't match her, and Lucretia can't come close, nor can any famous women in all history, whether Greek, Barbarian or Roman."
6. It was written in 1614. Good thing I like history.
7. My parents went to the play, Man of la Mancha, and yeah a few months later, that was my name.
8. The only other Dulcinea I have ever met, went to my school. Of all the odds.
9. I go by Nea, though, because it is always mispronounced, and much easier for kids to say.
10. There is a song called..... Dulcinea. Here's some of the lyrics. (to sum it up, I'm every guy's dream girl. I'll take it.)
" Dulcinea, Dulcinea
I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea
or this one. (from the same play)
" To each his Dulcinea
That he alone can name...
To each a secret hiding place
Where he can find the haunting face
To light his secret flame.
For with his Dulcinea Beside him so to stand,
A man can do quite anything...."
11. I once got called "Dog-a-nea."
12. Toad the Wet Sprocket named their album Dulcinea
13. You just learned more than you ever wanted about that name. There will be a quiz later.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
2. Post the rules on your blog.
4. I used to have a 1965 mustang. Cherry red. V-8 engine. It was my baby. Her name was Mustanga.
5. I have 3 kids. Each one has a different eye color. Husband and I have brown eyes.
I should play the lotto with odds like that.
6. I *heart* celebrity gossip. I read In Touch, US Weekly, People, etc.
To the 11th power.
Like his mom.
She had this boyfriend, they were together about 20 something years. He always had one liners and rude things to say. No one ever put him in his place. He was icky. And picky. He couldn't taste or smell. He had this weird piggy turned up nose, that it was kind of ironic, with nostrils wide open like that, and he couldn't smell. And his nose..... was the result of a nose job. He actually chose for it to be Mr. Piggy style. Like this: (complete with glasses cuz not only could he not taste or smell, he couldn't see.)
Back when we were dating/ first married, his mom would have us over for dinner.
They are Midwest folk, which is not a bad thing, but they do like meat and potatoes. It seems that's all we had. A slab of chicken boob from the grill, and potatoes. Or corn. Not even seasoned chicken boob. Just plop the salmonella magnet on the grill and burn away. She is the only person I have ever met that can burn water. She burned stuffing, pans, pop overs, eggs, everything. Which didn't matter because her bf couldn't taste. Supposedly he could taste butter, salt and orange. I opened up his lunch bag one time in the fridge, and it was a stick of butter, salt packets, hard boiled eggs and cheese. True story.
One day, we were there for dinner. It was chicken and rice, a casserole dish. It is what it is. We seat down to eat. Her BF, covers his food in salt, and starts to shovel it in, like slop to a pig. She turns to him and asks "How is it?" He starts to say it isn't good, it's terrible, he's going to have to get himself something, he can't eat it. She gets all teary eyed, and upset.
um, WTF!?!?! DUDE CAN'T TASTE!!! Are you seriously going to ask the guy with no taste buds how the food is and take his opinion on it? She was all kinds of sad/mad/crazy, and I was beyond baffled.
So, me, being me, and having had a enough of BF, opened my big chicken and rice eating mouth.
"Did you just ask the guy who can't taste...if the food was good? I really don't think he can give you a truthful comment."
His mom was kind of taken aback, husband starts laughing. Of course that egged me on.
"There is nothing appetizing about a stick of butter, but you're still munching on those like they are candy bars."
He had nothing to say.
So I ate some of my bland chicken and stopped at Wendys on the way home.