Now, mind you, this is ALL super exciting stuff, you'll surely agree, but the highlight of all was cleaning out the toaster. OF ALL THE THINGS I COULD BE DOING WITH NO CHICKEEBABIES UNDER FOOT, I AM CLEANING OUT THE CRUMBS FROM THE FRIGGIN TOASTER!!!!!!!! As I was cleaning them out, I thought to myself, "Wow, I must be getting old or something...."

Now, those of you who know me really well (well enough to know that I MEAN WHAT I SAY AND SAY WHAT I MEAN SO IF I SAY "DON'T TOUCH THE FRIGGIN' STOVE BURNER, IT WILL BURN YOU, YOU IDIOT MORON!!!!, it WILL burn you--ah--but I digress. Just think, there are people out there who don't listen and think that laws don't apply to them. Digression.... oopsie.) So, back to those of you who know me well--as I'm cleaning out the toaster, I just go and turn it upside down over the trash can and start banging on it, similar to what I do to get the crumbs out of my keyboard. I'm just a thwacking and whacking away at it, sit it down, then there are crumbs EVERYWHERE, when there is a Eureka! moment--there are crumb trays! All you have to do is slide the little things out and voila, dump your crumbs. (I'm sure the rest of the civilized world knows this, but hey, I haven't cleaned my toaster out since, well, a long time, we'll just leave it at that.) Only thing is, they don't seem to catch many crumbs. I empty the crumb trays, put them in the sink to wash them, realizing that there were enough crumbs in my toaster, and now in the floor, on the counter, in the sink, in my hair.... that I could feed a third world country probably. The next thought that entered my mind, as I was rinsing the soap off of them, "You know, nobody would know if I didn't rinse the soap off of them because it's not like anybody would eat the crumbs out of the toaster crumb tray. Then I wondered, "Why do I wonder about crazy stuff like this?????" Note to self--clean out toaster more frequently than never. With that, I must continue on about with my child-free (for another hour) time--it's off to do another load of laundry!

3/13

Hallo mah daleen lammikins! Okay, so I'm going to get up on my soap box and wax poetic. I think the disgraced fallen governor of NY, Spitzer, is a good example for my ramblings tonight.

Why is it that people think they can do something--in this case, violate the law, and think it's okay for them to do it? Beyond that, it's okay, so long as they don't get caught? Now, I've got to give him credit, at least he's not some pansie coward who can't admit he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He screwed up, he's resigning, he's taking it like a man. Worse is the little chicken s*** coward who plays all, "Oh, that wasn't me...." when you know darn good and well it was.

Here's the thing. So what that he's the governor--or rather, WAS. So what that he's disgraced. He made the conscious choice to do what he did, so he deserves the consequences. If somebody is going to be assanine enough to violate the law, let them get thrown in jail. Let their lives go to hell if that is the fall out. They should have thought about the consequences BEFORE screwing up. So what that you lose your job--shouldn't have broken the law. If, as a result of losing your job, you lose your house, your family, suck it up buttercup. If people are that stupid, let them sit their butts in jail, have some time to ruminate over the error of their ways. If they get out and fly straight, great. If not, well, stupid them for screwing up again. Laws exist for a reason. Those who blatantly, knowingly, willfully violate them at the expense of others, at the expense of their victims, WTF??? Does anybody ask the victims their opinions? Did the victims have a choice to not be a victim beforehand? Poor Spitzer's wife, my heart goes out to her. For other jerks who commit crimes, grow up, become a responsible person. Live within the boundaries of the law. If you don't, then suffer the consequences. Moron jerks. They want to push the limits, put their toes up to the line and get chalk on their shoes, those are the ones who deserve everything they get. Idiot meisters. Go to jail. Leave the law abiding folks alone. So there!

03/11

ARGH! I swear, sometimes I truly question the competence of others. I am discomfited highly at this moment. I was greatly looking forward to satellite TV programming today. I ordered it Thursday night, on a whim, as I found Russian and German programming. Well, who doesn't want Russian and German programming? Really! The website says, "Call today for installation tomorrow....." Turns out, the earliest they can do an installation is MONDAY--between 8-12. What the heck with "installation tomorrow"?????

Well, in reading more about the international programming, evidenty, you need the mac daddy satellite dish, not just the crappy satellite dish for those poor folks merely content with domestic satellite programming How trite indeed. I call customer service back late Friday, to confirm the mac daddy satellite hardware for my international programming. "Well, let's see, you have installation scheduled for Tuesday, noon to five..." "No, that's supposed to be Monday, 8-12." "No, my records show you're scheduled for Tuesday, noon to five." Well, I was glad I called with questions.

Thus, Monday comes and goes, disgruntled as I was not to get my international programming after all. On the way home from the gym, the satellite company calls to confirm, "You WILL be there by noon tomorrow, correct? You ARE getting Russian and German programming, correct?...." I go to sleep, eagerly looking forward to Tuesday--Deutsche Kino, here I come! Russian talk shows, yeah baby! My morning at work goes to hell in a handbag. Meetings, schedule conflicts, pulled into this meeting, draft this, print that, post this, change that.... meeting, meeting..... But hey, I was bolting to be home by noon darn it all.

I bolt from the office, check my phone, see a number I don't recognize. I typically NEVER answer numbers which I don't recognize, I mean, no telling what crazy psycho stalker folks there are running around out there. However, I was expecting the installer to call me, thus, voila--a missed call. I call the number, it's the satellite place. "Well, maybe they were trying to get you to come out earlier than noon...." "I was in meetings, I couldn't. I was told to be at my house by noon. I'll be there by noon." "Oh, I see what the problem is... did you want international programming? I think there's an error here and they put you wanted international programming, which requires a different type of satellite than normal satellite....and we don't have any of those in stock. I can correct it and remove international and have them install a regular satellite today, though." %$*#(($QQ($%*!!!!?^<$At this point, my calm demeanor was sorely challenged. "What do you mean you don't have the correct satellite? YES, I want international, as the customer service rep confirmed last night. The whole reason it was rescheduled from Monday to today was because it's for international. I can't keep rescheduling half my day at work, I'm very busy...." Then the customer service rep had the audacity to say, "Well, they tried to call you before you left work but you didn't answer...." BECAUSE I WAS IN MEETINGS THAT I'D FRIGGIN' MISS THAT AFTERNOON YOU MORON!!!!!!! It gets better. "Well, maybe I can call some of our subcontractors and see if they have an international dish in stock..... Can I call you back on this number--will you answer it?" "Well as I'm not in meetings now for the rest of the afternoon, yes, I'll answer it." I'm thinking, call me crazy here, that maybe THEY SHOULD HAVE FLIPPIN' CALLED A SUBCONTRACTOR BEFORE TODAY. I'm just saying, might have been prudent. ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Come on people, I've lived without international programming my entire life and CANNOT wait one day longer! Had they said it would be next Sunday, I'd not like it, but hey, it is what it is. To wait until friggin' Sunday to realize, "Gosh, darn, we'd like to install it, but we don't have the part because you want international..." You KNEW I wanted international when I placed the order.

It gets better. I know, hard to believe, but true. Dear customer service guy then asks, "You want Russian and German programming..... I guess you speak those languages?" NO WAY! NOTHING gets past this guy, does it. Personally, I was thinking of getting the Arabic programming because I've got nothing better to do with $35/month than spend it on programming which I don't understand. Doesn't everybody? Evidently, they don't get many requests for Russian and German programming. (Yes, I'm getting some English programming also.) Thus, I"m a bit ticked off and I have no clue if they found a subcontractor who has one, if they don't, if I'm having to sit at home again and wait, can I leave the house..... Those of you who know me should know how much I'm enjoying this. Boo hissssss!!!!

On a different note, my wicked cool professional belly dance costume came in. It's GORGEOUS!!! No, I don't belly dance professionally, but so what. Everybody NEEDS a professional belly dance outfit. It was supposed to be custom made to fit me, based on my measurements, but it's still too big. Evidently tape measures in Turkey are not the same units of measurement as tape measures here in the U.S. No worries, though, I can take it in easily. It's hot pink and gold and to die for! I love it, love it, love it!!!!

03/04

Yeah!!! I'm such a happy camper! Tonight, I earned my Presidential Bronze Fitness Award!!!! It took 40,000 points (if my coach had me register as a regular schmuck, a non-athletic schmuck, I would have only needed 20,000 points to reach bronze and 45,000 is a silver medal.) Thus, I'm now 44% of the way to a silver medal. For a gold, I need 160,000 friggin' points! OMG--WHAT was I thinking???? In any event, I'm such a happy camper!

On a different note, the anal retentive "Oh honey let momma help you with your school project" side of me reared its head. The project was a Clifford puppet. Evidently, last week, with dad, Binky had a project to do--write a book report on his favorite book he read last month and then make a puppet of the character in his book. Monday, I got an e-mail from his teacher, telling me she wants to give him credit for his book report but that he needs to make a puppet. Evidently, Binky drew a picture of his character.

Later in the day, I'm talking with Binky's dad and dad apologizes for being late on Binky's book report. "That little man didn't tell me about it until Friday when a reminder note came home, so we worked on it Sunday night..." "Yes I know, his teacher sent me an e-mail telling me that he still needed to make a puppet." "Oh, we drew a picture of his puppet...." OMG I laughed so hard. How do you draw a picture of a puppet? I mean, that's a picture, not a puppet. I told him as much, laughed even more, and told the teacher, as I knew our Monday night plans did not include making a puppet, that he'd have it ready for Wednesday if that was okay. She said that'd be fine and thus Monday night, we ran around and did our busy stuff, knowing we'd make the puppet today.

So, we go fencing. We go to the nail salon and drop off $ for tips since I had no cash on me last time we were there. We get dinner. We come home, I'm on the computer checking e-mail and then his dad and I talk on the phone about some German CDs he lent me and dad mentions the puppet. Wouldn't you know it, I TOTALLY forgot about the puppet.

I make a mad dash to the garage. Out comes the red velveteen. I make a tongue out of pink cotton fabric. I debate, "Do I line the ears with pink cotton since I have it handy? I think in the book, Clifford has black ears. Well, I don't really have to line the ears, I mean, it IS a first grader's puppet, after all. I guess I can just serge the edges.... Binky, come pick out buttons for his eyes and nose..." Then, I start sewing--his eyes have to be in just the right place. He gets a collar--yes, mom sewed a collar on the Clifford puppet. I was working on placement of the tongue, intially eyeballing it for the center of the puppet's mouth insert piece, but sure enough, what do you know--I break out the ruler to assure that placement is dead center. I serge the inside, finish off the seams, and tell myself it's NOT the end of the world if there is 1/8 inch difference in ear placement for the puppet. I take it to Binky, ask what he thinks, then I add that I think the lower part of his mouth is too big. "But mom, it's Clifford the Big Red Dog... he's supposed to be big...." Karl says. Nope--mom can't have a 1st grade book report puppet project with a mouth that looks disproportionate. Back to the serger I go. I fix it, and all the while, I'm telling myself, "Tonbijou, it's just a 1st grader's puppet.... The ears don't need to be lined. It didn't need a collar, or a tongue, but c'mon--stop already...." Truth be told, I thought of adding a tail on the back of it, even stuffed with fiber fill. Luckily, I was able to step away from the sewing machine at that point. Binky said two others did Clifford puppets. I asked how they made their puppets: "With paper bags...." he said. And with that, I leave you to your own devices. TTFN

03/02

Ugh.... agh... umph... It hurts to type to you now. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to sit, stand, walk, lay down. I ache--ALL OVER. OMG I HURT! So this weekend, my time sans chickeebabes, was spent pretty much killing myself. Friday night, after engaging in charitable endeavors with two of my favorite charitable causes (I just registered Team Tonbijou in the 2008 Race for a Cure, so stay tuned as I will hit you all up for donations/to sleep in for the cure/be on our team.) that I found myself sitting at my computer, in wonder and amazement, at my free time sans chickeebabes, wondering "what to do, what to do...." Never did it dawn on me to go out and raise hell as well, all I wanted to do was be comfy and warm. Low and behold, I had no wild night of crazy shakin' a tail feather--no indeed.

Saturday was the day I had arranged with my boss to meet him at the golf course. He's an avid golfer, as is his teenage son, and he agreed to let me join them at the golf course. I had planned to hit the gym first then go golfing, then have time to kill and in the late afternoon, head over to my fencing school where I also train in cane fighting and test for my yellow belt. Yes--that was to be my day--gym, golf, cane fighting.

I took FOREVER to get ready to go play golf. What to wear? It was cold and windy and all of my cute golf outfits are for warm weather. I finally decided on black, got the car loaded up, but also had to have my gym clothes as I'd hit the gym AFTER golf as I slept later than I should have.

Now, I must admit, my boss is pretty cool as otherwise the last thing most employees would do is hang out with their boss on a Saturday. He and his son were really patient, didn't laugh when I'd dig up a divot a foot before the ball, when it'd roll off to the side--and they truly did help me and coached me to the point my balls actually soared through the air. They then took me to the putting rage, taught me how to read a green, high or low/left or right.

My boss then tells me he's leaving me with the cart and the rest of the bucket of balls, he and his son have a 12:30 tee time elsewhere. I can keep the cart and go where I want to. I stay at the putting green for a while, where I'd do really well, then really crappy..... really well, then really crappy..... Time came to get in the golf cart to go to the driving range. I got in the cart, turned the key, and nothing happened. I turned it off, then on, and nothing happened. I did this a few times, made sure the brake was off, tapped on the gas pedal that had "go" written on it, nothing happened. I thought to myself, "Oh crap, my boss showed me how to hit the damn ball but not how to drive the golf cart.... What to do???? I sat and tried and tried to start the golf cart, but when I turned the key, nothing happened, the motor didn't turn over--NOTHING!

Well, at this point, I thought, "Surely it's bad form to just abandon a cart on the side of the pebble path...." and I caught the golf pro, whom my boss had pointed out to me earlier, walking back up to the pro shop. I went prancing after him, looking really spiffy in my cute little golf attire. "Excuse me.... Excuse me sir.... um, I need your help.... I have a question...." "Yes ma'am, how can I help?" "Well, um, you see, um, the golf cart--my boss left me here by myself and didn't tell me how to drive the golf cart and now it's stuck over there and I can't make it go." He looks at me and says, "It's very simple--you turn the key and you go." "I did that, only it didn't go and well, um, it took me seven tries to get my drivers license and all and well, I just didn't think it would be a good thing to wreck your golf cart." "Oh my, well yes, let's see what's wrong here..." So the golf pro comes out to the cart, sits in it, turns the key, presses "go" on the gas pedal and says, "See, you press go and then you go. If you want to go faster, press harder." So, after feeling like a real idiot--I just wasn't pressing down hard enough, voila, the cart went! All was fine, for about three seconds, when I had a fork in the path, neither of which took me where I wanted to go. I'd have to turn around. Darn it all, the guy didn't show me how to put it in reverse! I ended up driving up over a curb, hoping I'd not flip the cart my first time driving. No sooner had I driven up over the curb than there was an "Ah-ha" epiphany moment--a little button with "F" and "R" on it, for forward and reverse. What can I say but that nothing gets past me!

I hit balls until 12:30, then was terribly late for the gym or super early for cane fighting. Knowing if I didn't go to the gym then, I'd not have an opportunity to later, I bolted to the gym, put in an hour long kill myself workout, then ran late to cane fighting. Once at cane fighting, my coach and I ran through things, he ended up whacking me in the knee, I ended up nailing him in the groin with my cane--all in a day's fun, right?

Fast forward to Sunday. I'm supposed to meet my boss and his son again at 3:00 at the golf course to play 9 par 3 holes. I meet Amber for lunch and shopping, for Easter dresses. I think I've finally come to the realization that my 18 year old daughter and I are NOT going to find A dress that we both like enough to wear matching dresses. "How about this, honey?" I ask and hold up a dress as she mock vomits. "Hey, mah, look at this one--wadda ya think?" "Well, I don't think 'hoochie mamma' is quite the look we want for church, is it?" I reply. I end up buying a new suit for work, a dress for church for me and more golf clothes, which causes Amber to utter inaudible things under her breath, something along the lines of, "You can't even friggin PLAY golf so why do you need so many friggin golf clothes????"

Now, before meeting her for lunch, I was readying my equipment for the play ahead. No longer confined to the range, I knew I'd need my own balls. A friend of mine said he doesn't care whose balls he has when he's done playing, as long as he has as many balls as he came with, that's all that matters to him. Not wanting to lose my pretty pink and purple balls, I was going to use my plain white ones. The idea was suggested to me, if I have smack down ping pong, whereby I write the names of idiot jackass jerks on the ping pong balls with which we play, why not do that with the golf balls? OMG what a eureka moment that was. So, low and behold, I did that. I would love to see this guy take one of my balls. I had "Psyho Stalker D......" "Dumb A** D....." (the same person as 'psycho stalker D....) "Emotionally constipated M......" Dumb F*** S......" "Butt wipe a** hole ______________" (that is a generic one for "fill in the blank") "Napoleonic Complex A.... AKA Fred Flintstone" "Fat slob liar S......" and there were a few others. The ones that got the most play--NOT because I lost any balls, which I didn't, I just felt like smashing the crap out of their balls, (what can I say but that it's therapy--cheaper than shrink co-pays (maybe not when you figure in the cost of my golf wardrobe) and a lot more exercise than sitting on a couch asking "WHY, WHY, WHY?????") oh, but I digress, so the "Dumb A** D......" "Fat Slob Liar S...." and "Emotionally constipated M....." got the most play today. My boss, there for every step of the way, to watch what I was doing, correct me when I did it wrong, would go and fetch my balls out of the rough areas (yes, I did hit a ball or two into the rough) and he'd bring them to me, put them on the grass, and then, every time I'd go to hit my ball, I'd position it so that "Dumb A** D....." was facing up at me as I whacked it. We didn't keep score--he and his son are really good. They humored me very well and kept from busting out laughing at some of my shots.

By the time we were done, walking 9 holes, my poor abused body was ready to commit mutiny on me. We walked the whole time, and they had two bag carts, so his son carried his bag and they let me use the other bag cart, but still, it was up the hill and down the hill, up the hill and down the hill, up down, up down, walk walk walk hit the ball walk up the hill down the hill up the hill down the hill drag the cart, hit the ball, drag the cart up the hill, down the hill.... you get the picture. By the time we were done, OMG my butt and the back of my legs were not happy--as remember, I did the "kill yourself in an hour" workout the day before. I was hoping to complete my bronze presidential fitness medal this weekend. I was at 91% as of Friday. Last night, I'd made it to 95% once I logged my activity, and today, I'm at 97% now and well, darn it all, I just can't bring myself to do any more. I'll hit the gym at lunch time tomorrow, and then there's racquet ball tomorrow night for 2 hours--a beginner's clinic at the gym, so that should put me at my 100%. For now though I'm on the Tonbijou diet--kill yourself doing so much that you can't lift food to your face. Seems to be pretty effective. I know some folks who could benefit from such a diet. Okay that all said now, I've got to go crawl into a dark corner and die a slow and painful, hungry death.

02/28

Good evening my darlings. So last night, I was living life on the edge. I was a wild woman. I was living as dangerously as it gets. I threw the pillows from the bed onto the floor! I know, I know--how was I able to sleep last night after such wildness? It was tough, I tell you. (Truly, on a serious note, I was worried I'd not be able to sleep until I took all the pillows and arranged them neatly. Those of you who really know me know that this is a true statement.) Now, mind you, I took the pillows off of my side of the bed and arranged them neatly in their routine places: Euro shams at the foot of the bed, striped pattern vertical, king sized regular pillow and king sized sham upright, against the wall, in the corner by the tall chest of drawers, and then the little throw pillows go on the chaise lounge, black pillow with designs first, then the coordinating with the comforter pillow,then the silk pillow with fringe, then the long black pillow with the cording. Now, those are just the pillows on MY side of the bed.

Here's a thought to ponder, though, and I pondered it last night as I crawled into bed: isn't the whole bed my side of the bed? I mean, really, it's not like anybody ever is sleeping next to me-well, Bambi and Binky sometimes are there, but really, having "my side of the bed" would mean that there is somebody else who has a side and well, that just aint so. Thus, I decided that I could be a wild woman and I COULD SLEEP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BED!

Truth be told, I have walked on the wild side a time or two before--but maybe not as fully as--well, those times I made sure that the pillows were all neatly arranged in their respective places before curling up in the middle of the bed.

So essentially, most nights, I lay perched on the sliver of the bed that is closest to the alarm clock--thick, heavy blankets and down comforters burrying me so deep beneath that there is barely a bump on the bed to indicate there's a person under all those layers. Normally, I don't stir much at all--as the blankies are so heavy, that I typically only take the pillows off of "my" side of the bed and all the other pillows for the other side of the bed literally remain unmoved throughout the night. Either I'm a really deep sleeper or that's a really big bed--which, truth be told, it is. Normally, I'm just too darn lazy and too pushed for time to take all the pillows off the bed, because, well, do you have 15 pillows on your bed? If you do, the you know how long it takes to make the bed in the morning, so if you're all by yourself, you either leave the pillows or have to spend that much longer making the bed each morning. If you have someone else in your bed, that makes only 7.5 ppp (pillows per person, very similar to parts per million) as opposed to 15 ppp, so it's not such a big deal to take all the pillows off each nght. Though, really, it's not that optional with two, is it? I mean, ya kinda have to, don't you? Still, though, I THREW PILLOWS ON THE FLOOR. When weighing the pros and cons of the 15 ppp vs. the rate at which I'd oversleep, I even went so far as to contemplate leaving for work in the morning and leaving the pillows in the floor because, well, WHO'S GOING TO SEE THEM WHETHER THEY ARE ON THE BED OR IN THE FLOOR???? I'll tell you who--NOBODY.

So this brings us to our next OCD thing--it's a fate worse than death for me to leave the house and leave the bed unmade. Of course, when the bed gets made, and the pillows go back on the bed, the stripes on the Euro shams MUST be vertical, the pillows must be arranged in perfect symmetry, and well, here's what I can't figure out--why must the slubs on the silk pillow with fringe be horizontal but the stripes on the shams are vertical?

So there you have it--I'm a real wild one.

02/27

Hello dear and gentle readers--and the occassional louse who's sure to stop by. I have a sad, sad little tale to tell. It is the story of the job apprentice and the boss. There was an apprentice who hoped to land a plum position with the company of his dreams. He was vastly less qualified than the past apprentices and it was a sheer stroke of dumb luck and the celestial alignment of the planets that even lead to him having the opportunity to be accepted into an apprenticeship with this incredible organization.

The apprentice wasted no time in trying to wow the boss with his work ethic, however, there were times when he crossed the line and had the audacity to tell the boss what to do. As any sensible employee who wants to keep his job, he should have known that had he chosen to tell the boss what to do, he would have to do so with skill and finess-two things in which he would ultimately prove lacking.

He continued to push the limits rather than step back and work his way up to master apprentice, and ultimately master craftsman, through steady hardwork and dedication to the organization. This approach was inherently flawed. The more he pressured the boss to do what the apprentice wanted--the more irritated the boss became. I mean, come on, there is a reason why the boss is the boss and not an apprenctice. Yet push he did. Ultimately, he demanded better than his length of study as an apprentice at the organization warranted and he told the boss that the boss was hardly fit to be his boss, so the boss put him on notice. He was on probation.

Most sane people would know that being on probation means they need to stop screwing up. Unfortunately, however, the apprentice did not have the sense God gave an animal cracker, and he decided to plague the boss like a bad skin rash. He was SURE the boss had hired new apprentices, when in reality, the boss was just tending to daily business as usual. There was not money in the budget to hire a crop of new apprentices, so busy was the boss with just tending to daily matters at hand. When his incessant phone calls to the boss to give him another chance at his apprenticeship failed to get him the response he wanted, he went so far as to go on company property after hours, in some odd sort of corporate espionage type thing, to try to prove other apprentices had been hired. Needless to say, after enough of this ridiculous behaviour, the boss had him escorted out by security. The hapless apprentice ended up in front of an arbitration panel,having the audacity to file for unemployment, where he sought to have his grievances heard, only, well, evidently his memory was no better than his common sense. He couldn't remember any of the details that his boss had told him during training. Ultimately, the decision to fire him without recompense was upheld by the arbitration panel and he was barred from ever setting foot on company property again.

There are a few lessons to learn here:

There there, wasn't that a sad little story about someone we'd worry wouldn't have the sense to come in out of the rain? Isn't it nice to know that in real life people aren't that clueless? We have all heard the saying, "If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was." Notice you never hear "If it doesn't, hunt it down, drag it back kicking and screaming and lock it in a cage until it gives up." There's a reason that's not the way that saying ends.

Isn't it funny how when things don't go the way a person wants them to, they are quick to blame someone else, or some external condition, as opposed to accepting that that person made the choices that got them there? It's easier to think that someone else lied to them or deceived them rather than think "Oh, my bad...."

Sometimes, when we don't get the answer we wanted, it's not that the answer was wrong, but perhaps a different question needs to be asked. That's one of the first rules of research to which we adhere. I searched for 14 years for my complete, original translation of my Tales of 1,001 Arabian Nights. One of the reasons it took me 14 years to find it was because what I THOUGHT I had read as the translator's name, Norton, was really not Norton. Thus, every time I googled Tales of 1,001 Arabian Nights Sir Richard F. Norton, I came up with nothing--NOT the answer I wanted. Well, turns out, I remembered wrong. It was Sir Richard F. BURTON. Once I changed my search criteria, voila, within seconds, I found the long coveted set of books for which I'd been searching for so long. Now they are proudly sitting on a shelf in my livingroom.

Thus, when we ask a question, and it's not the answer we expected, is it the answer that is wrong, or the question? To ask, "Did you eat a chocolate chip cookie today?" when you know cookies are missing from the cookie jar, and the answer is "no," well, ask yourself, do you want to know if someone ate a chocolate chip cookie TODAY or do you want to know if someone ate a cookie from the cookie jar? They are entirely two different things. Any competent person knows the difference between past, present and future. To ask a person if that person is a smoker is NOT the same thing as asking if that person has ever smoked. Going to Tenerife last week is not the same as having ever been to Tenerife.

Yes, I am rambling tonight, but takaya va zhizn. Remember, if you push and push and push your dog into a corner, even the sweetest little pooch can bite. You should back off and let the pooch come to you when it's ready to--and if it doesn't, go get yourself another dog.

02/26

Hello my darling little lammiekins, and those of you who are not my darling little lammiekins--you know who you are you mendacious miscreants. Here's a thought--GET A LIFE. Go find somebody else to bother.

Okay, back to those of you who should be here and who were properly invited to the tea party. Tonight I had a fencing/cane fighting lesson. I had some aggression to excoriate from my system, left over from yesterday's adventures with our judicial system and what happens to people who touch a lit stove burner after being warned repeatedly not to do so. Well, yesterday wasn't a fighting day (well, really, our school motto is "It is a good day to fight," but yesterday was not my private lesson day) so I had to vent by adding a cowardly yellow newly named ball to my ping pong ball collection. I swear, you'd have thought I was a brain donor--I could hardly hit the darn ball. Then again, it's not the issue of the volley in smack down ping pong, but rather the "smack down" part of smack down ping pong that's so much fun. Today though, despite the staff meeting ad infinitum, I made it to fencing/fighting tonight and we determined, as I showed up in my whoah!!!! hot pink work out outfit that I am, indeed, a mean little pixie bitch.

Now, if you think about it, Tinkerbell was a mean little pixie bitch, too. She sold Wendy out to Captain Hook. I don't think, though, that bitch is a bad thing (unless you're selling someone out to a walk-the-plank-kind-of-death out of simple jealousy-get a grip Tink, I love ya, but really, you can do better than Peter. I swear I don't understand this whole jealous insecurity thing. GET OVER IT. MOVE ON. Move on. Surely Tink there are other boys out there who can tickle your fairy dust)--relative to what chauvanist men would have some think. I've heard it said that it stands for Being In Total Control of Herself. I think that it's empowering for a female to stand up for herself and her rights. To defend herself, to take no crap from someone trying to give her crap--well, what's wrong with that? Maybe something is wrong with the people trying to give her crap. If doing what's right is somehow perceived as bitchy, if being strong, independent and capable is bitchy, well, then yes, I'm a BITCH! In any event, my coach got the brunt of my residual angst from yesterday--we fought--first cane fighting. We test for our yellow belts this weekend. Then, we fenced. I beat him 10-7. I was a bit perturbed. He said he'd start preparing me for seniors--10 hit bouts. I'm not ready for seniors division yet. I'm still too young for that. (Schas ya doomayou o eta glupaya zhensheena i kak ana bila takaya tolsta--karotka i tolsta.) Sorry, but I digress. Amber, last night, had to keep reigning me in--I'd go off on this rant that seemed to always end with "and cheap polyester suits!" "Mom, you already said that about 500 times, in the last hour...."

Well, so coach and I are working on the cane fighting--did I tell you all he gave me my very own cane? It's so pretty. He said our school uniform is white top, black bottom. I wanted pink. He begged me not to get pink. I didn't get pink. I said if I had to get my uniform, it would be pink. He finally succombed and realized that we don't have uniforms yet and I get to wear my in-your-face-hot-pink-Victoria-Secret-work-out-outfit that truly is like "WHOAHHHH!!! That's PINK!" to test for my yellow belt. After I get my yellow belt, I guess then I must conform. Until then, pink power work out suit it is.

On a totally different note, don't you feel sorry for the people who take this site seriously? I mean, really--come on. There's so much that I want to say my darlings, but alas, I bite my tongue/temper my fingers as some of you truly have no clue as to my tremendously biting sarcastic wit. I'm laughing my ass off over here. Amber asked me once, "Mah, why do you write things that nobody but you knows what they mean? What's the point if nobody else gets it?" Ah, so young, so pristine. I guess I'll go and turn into tool time guru Tonbijou right now as I've got some domestic diva issues to which to tend. I will close with this thought--down with triple double knit polyester! (What can I say but that certain people do polyester NO justice.)

02/25

What a day, what a day, what a day. I had to deal with a person who touched a lit stove burner and thought it wouldn't burn him. Only gosh, golly, darn, it did. I have a splitting headache now and am drowning my headache in my Diet Coke. I went to lunch with a friend of mine who was fortunate enough to witness the lit stove burner touching episode. We went to the bookstore to kill time. They have lots of "This and That for Dummies." We couldn't find "Stove Burner Touching for Dummies."

Here is a thought to ponder. Well, being that I know the stove burner toucher's attorney evidently likes to visit my site, I will refrain from writing that thought to ponder, but gosh it's a good one. For now, though, it will just be between me and the fence post.

Okay, so after dealing with the lit stove burner touching episode, I had to go partake of retail therapy. I returned a golf shirt that I bought yesterday--along with a golf shirt that I bought yesterday that was just exactly like the golf shirt I bought two weeks ago and returned because I didn't like it but I bought it again because I found it in a S instead of XS and thought that would make the back inset design feel better but it doesn't but I won't return this one also as evidently that's just the way it is--ah, but I digress. So, I returned the one golf shirt today and bought two more, as well as another golf skort. (Bambi baby, don't be pissed with me--I had a rough day and I tried to buy you an Easter dress but you were nowhere to be found.) Now, I've calculated that I'll have to play golf at least 3.8 times per week to be able to wear all the cool/cute/super cute golf outfits I have. I think perhaps it might be wise to actually buy some practice balls that I can try learning to hit.

Another issue which I've considered is the fact that I'm ALWAYS friggin' cold. 95% of the cute outfits I have are for warm--wait, HOT weather. If it's the slightest little breeze, I sure as heck won't be wearing a cute little skort and sleeveless shirt. I'll be out there in a parka and thermal triple insulated golf pants--cute thermal triple insulated golf pants, mind you, but still, thermal golf pants in May nonetheless.

So, on to a totally different issue--last night, I found myself eagerly looking forward to the 10:00 p.m. "Russia Today" news broadcast. That, in and of itself, was a clear indicator that I need to get a life. Prior to that, though, I watched a show on the animals of Chernyoble. The show was about how nature has been reclaiming the land in the last 20 years and how, contrary to what scientists and environmentalists would have thought, no blatant health issues have manifested themselves. They theorize that this is because the animals' natural life spans are too short for tumors and genetic mutations to take hold, however they are not sure how in the long-term this constant exposure to radiation will manifest itself.

We've already ascertained that I need to get a life, but here was the real crux of things. They had this wolf--a lonely guy wolf. He was doing his lonely guy wolf thing, and then he realized he needed a gal wolf. He woke up one morning and evidently, the scent of a female wolf was in the air. That day, instead of hunting for food, he hunted for a girlfriend so they could go and live happily ever after, making wolf babies.

WTF--here is this guy wolf, just goes out sniffing, and poof, he's got a girl. Imagine if human mate selection were like this. She didn't size him up on his balance sheet or earning potential (or lack thereof.) He didn't give her the once over, "Wow, look at those ganja thighs..." He was a guy wolf who needed a gal wolf, she was a gal wolf who needed a guy wolf. Case closed. They don't argue over who will stay to take care of the kids. If one of the kids gets out of line, I guess they could eat it. They even kick the kids out after a year. You don't hear stories of him out trolling for more she wolf action--he was lucky to get any in the first place. By the end of the show, I came to the sad reality--a desperate wolf in a radiation contaminated cesspool of environmental ick was more successful in his relationships that I am. He was gettin' some, and well, he was gettin' some. It kinda reminds me of that afternoon at Dunkin Donuts years ago on New Year's Eve when the woman who had a conjugal visit with her husband that night was freaking out. SHE was going to get lucky that night. I wasn't. Amber said, "Well, um, mom, if you lower your standards and go troll the city jail, I bet you could get lucky tonight, too!" Ah, that's my girl.

Too bad life is not as easy as Mr. Studmuffin Wolf thinks it is. Never mind that he's poisoning his body with every time he digs his nose in the dirt. I'd like to see him try to find a nice she wolf here in the big city of life called REALITY. Okay, yes, Tonbijou needs to get a life.

02/24

Okay folks, help me out here on this one. Does life immitate art or does art immitate life? I ask this in that, well, yesterday Donna and I watched, "Love Actually." Donna and I are pondering this, wondering how it is all these people are falling head over heels madly in love, having what appears to be a wonderful time with fantastic sex. By our accounts, if art immitates life, well, why aren't folks as lucky in real life as they seem to be in the movies? Regardless of if life immitates art or art immitates life, either way you slice it, we should be happy in love folks who walk around with big smiles on our faces constantly from all the good lovin' we're getting. Thus, I think life immitating art, or vice versa, is a bunch of crap.

Not that I'm bitter, mind you--let's just call it like it is--fantasy. Yes, it might happen, boy meets girl, boy falls for girl, girl falls for boy and they are happy--for about a half an hour. (Think about the average length of a movie--two hours or so--you gotta give them time to meet, there goes the first half hour, then they fall in love, are happy and all is well--for the next half hour, then you've got an hour left for it to get all buggered up and go to heck in a handbag.) Next thing you know, turns out boy is psycho or girl dies or something horrible happens. WHY must two people who meet, fall in love and stay happy past that half hour then end up separated because girl ends up road kill from a logging truck while she's riding a bicycle with no hands, with her eyes closed while listening to music on a headset? Kinda sucks, huh?

Well, with that cherry little update, I've got laundry to do. Perhaps I'll bake a loaf of bread or something. Then again, I think I'm too lazy even for that. You know, when you're too lazy to put ingredients in the breadmaker to bake bread, that's the ultimate in lazy. TTFN

02/21

Hello dahlinks! Yesterday I had the pleasure of spending my day at a video/audio production studio. They were great there. They let me sit in on audio soundbooth recordings for a major toy company. The guy doing the voice overs had to be a dragon in a race car with an Irish monster voice. Then, I sat in a session for a voice over for a hospital and got to watch the sound editor remix it all, add the music tracks, and he did it all so quickly! They were just super nice. I showed them some of my videos. The gals in marketing LOVED Karl's weather report video, particularly his voice over trying to pronounce those big words. The ladies there sent out for Starbucks coffee. Now, most of you know how I absolutely ABHOR coffee, thanks to Mommy Dearest, but not wanting to be rude, I graciously accepted the caffee latte they got for me. All I can say is thank goodness for hot chocolate! I had the first coffee I've had since possibly 1996 and I realize that I totally don't care for coffee at all! Still, though, it was nice of them to be hospitable.

On a different note, my coach gave me my offical late birthday/Valentine's Day present--my very own cane with which to crack someone's skull open. It's quite lovely, really--simple, elegant, functional. I had a cane fighting lesson tonight and my coach has realized that I have an aggressive streak in me when provoked. Really.....?

02/19

Well, well, well, didn't I have a healthy serving of crow pie tonight! A couple of weeks ago, a call came in at work which my boss' assistant passed on to me. A local high school was having a German event--why study German, and they wanted somebody from the state/economic development to speak about the importance of Germany from the business perspective. To whom else would the honor fall but me? Of course, kind, benevolent person that I am, naturally said I'd be happy to help out--and tonight was the night.

I have nothing prepared for my talk time. I don't do well with canned powerpoint presentations or anything like that. I do much better off the cuff. I get so flippin' lost on my way out there. I've only put 10 miles on the car to get there, and half of those were backtracking for turning the wrong way--but I've been driving around lost for 45 minutes. (Believe it or not, in my world, the math works.) I finally make it to the destination. I know nobody there, so I think. I find the organizer, turns out, I do know her. She's the wife of my ex-husband's friend to whom he looked for a job back, well, when I was his secretary and we were just dating and I'll leave it at that. (Needless to say, I didn't mention that whole career fiasco to the students. Go figure.) Then, turns out I see another guy there--"I know we know each other..." I say, and he says his first name, I say his last, and then finish with, "Yes, I'm such and such's ex wife.... " The evening gets better. (Luckily I was never anything but nice to those people for the brief interludes of time in which our paths crossed.)

I'm looking at the program and then I see someone from the German department at my university alma mater is going to be there. I look to find her, ask where she is. I'm informed by one of the organizers that she's not coming. In her place, Professor X is coming. I must have turned white as a ghost. "Oh shit! Not him!" Mind you, I THOUGHT this and didn't say "Oh shit!" but the expression on my face probably said it all. Professor X was the bane of my existence in college. In advanced German grammar, I was SURE he waited until precisely the question he KNEW I would have no clue as to the answer and of course, that would be the one he'd call on me to answer. In advanced German literature one day, I told him, "You know, if your classes weren't needed to graduate, I'd never set foot in one of your classes again!" (I'm not joking. I really said these things.) The final straw, for which I could be arrested if I said it now--so keep in mind, this was well before Columbine or Virginia Tech, was said one day out loud in class as he handed back test papers in advanced German grammar, "So, if a student happened to murder a professor while he was handing back test grades, could it be considered justifiable homicide????" I got a B on that test and later I went and apologized to him. (That's one of the hard-learned lessons in keep-your-mouth-shut-when-emotionally-aggitated that others would do well to learn. For me, it was better late than never.)

So, fast forward, to tonight, and we are now "colleagues" presenting at this event as to the benefits of studying German. I plagued the man like a bad skin rash, making fun of his argyle sweaters and perfectly matching argyle socks, wondering if his wife dressed him each morning. We could always tell when his wife was sick or out of town as he would be wearing stripes AND plaids. And now, I'm having to go make small talk with him. I wanted to curl up under a chair and die.

Before we started to present (I was first), I told him about my time living in Prague and how I found Franz Kafka's grave in the new Jewish cemetery and that I kicked dirt on it, spat on it and screamed and yelled at him for all the grief he caused me in advanced German literature. (Yes, I've accepted I might burn in hell for this, but if I burn in hell for that, I was doomed long before to burn for some other equally absurd infraction.) "Who the hell turns into a friggin' beatle anyway?????" I asked this long dead writer who haunted my college days. When I got up to speak to the students, I briefly alluded to my time plaguing Professor X like a bad skin rash (kinda like the prodigal daughter who made good) and I think now, if I'm nominated for outstanding alumna in the School of World Studies, I might actually get the award as hopefully he won't block it as I'm sure he must have a few years ago--before my kiss-and-make-up of tonight. He took one of my calendars and a business card so that we can put their programs in our newsletter. The kids loved my presentation the best and I followed up with "and I owe it all to the excellent education I got from....."

Now, on a similar but different note, I didn't even tell you about my calculus class. I did NOT want to take calculus. My then father-in-law conned me into taking it. "If you take calculus, or any business course, and get a B or better, I'll take you to dinner anywhere in Richmond you want and you can order anything you want." For those of you who know me, I'm a sucker for lobster tail. I'll do pretty darn near anything for a good piece of lobster tail. Thus, as much as I DIDN'T want to take calculus, I wanted lobster tail more.

The professor's name was Brown--Mr., Dr., I don't know. He SUCKED! He'd fill up a board two or three times over, working a problem, only to get the wrong answer. We questioned, in exasperation, HOW were we supposed to do it right if HE couldn't???? One day we were taking a test. The first hour was to do the 21 question test. The second hour was for class. Needless to say, NOBODY was done after an hour. I was the first finished, NOT because I had a clue, mind you, but rather that I just gave up. I walked to his desk, threw my paper down on it, and said, "You know, some people will look at your students' grades and think you have stupid students. Others will be able to see past that and realize it's really your inability to teach!" With that, I walked out of the class and slammed the door. Somehow, I got a B in that class--ergo, I got my lobster dinner. HOW I got a B, mind you, I have no friggin' clue, as well, the only grade I ever saw in that class was a 65. We surely know it wasn't because I kissed ass. I was the anti-butt kisser, well, except for Virginia history, but that's another story that I'll save for another night. It's late and I must get to bed. TTFN

02/17

Well, it's official--I have volunteer envy. I want to be able to put on my emails "Race yada yada something Co-Chair of the XYZ Committee...." for the Race for a Cure. It's NOT enough that I'm a volunteer educator. It's NOT enough that I have my own team for the race, design my own t-shirts and banner for our team, and it's not enough that I volunteer to be on the logistics committee or the race day volunteer committee or the PR campaign. NO! I want to be a committee chair person darn it all! Then again, probably I don't. As a volunteer, I can just go where I want to go, do what I want to do based on what my schedule permits. If I'm a committee chair person, it's sort of like being the manager of a retail store or restaurant. When you don't have enough live bodies scheduled to work, you've got to pick up the slack. Still, though, I know I will not rest until I have the "Race yada yada something Co-Chair of the XYZ Committee...." on my e-mails too!

Never mind that I volunteer at the boys' school and now I'm eager to get involved with this great new charity I encountered on Friday. No worries that I've picked up two new sports this year alone--and that's on top of picking up golf in December. You should know in advance that if I know your e-mail address, I'll hit you up to donate to our Team Tonbijou 2008 race team this year. It's for a good cause. Help us raise LOTS of $$$$$ for breast cancer research.

Okay, so I've GOT to tell this funny story. Last night, at the volunteer event, it was at a basketball game. The home team organizers needed somebody to come out on the court to answer a trivia question. None of the other wonderful ladies helping out at this event wanted to volunteer to go out on the court and be the trivia answerer--mind you, you'd be given the answer, so you wouldn't make a fool of yourself..... But then again, if you're Tonbijou, all things are possible, even WITH advance knowledge of the answer.

I go down to the court, have a seat right on the court side by the hoop. The "handler" person gives me the answer--"It's 'B' so they will give you your choices, and then you play it up like you don't know, and then poll the audience to get their answers. They'll fight fiercely over A, B or C. Then you pick B. The announcer will say, "Tonbijou said B and the answer is B--Tonbijou wins four tickets to the next home game...."

Well, I get out there, the question and answer choices were supposed to show on the score board. I look up there and all I can see for answer choices are A. Ant, B. Caterpillar and c. Spider--and those sure as heck weren't the answer choices I was given. They give me a microphone and I didn't know it was on, so I ask the "handler" if it was on--and of course, it was. I then ask, "How many of you think it's A?" And then people started shouting out answers, making letters with their arms, there's this little boy by the hoop shouting for all his might "B.... BBBBBBBBBB........" and then I go to speak--all I've said thus far is "How many of you think it's A?" and the announcer says, "Tonbijou said B and the answer is B--Tonbijou wins four tickets to the next home game...." I looked at him like, "What????? I never said B.... All I said was 'How many of you think it's A?' and then....." In any event, I took my four tickets and as I was walking back up into the bleachers, this guy said, "You said B, right... I heard you..." as a joke. I replied, "Yeah.... I said B, didn't I?" Only in my world can a trivia question when you already know the answer be screwed up like that.

Today the twins are with Aunt Mel at the circus. She had an extra ticket because her nephew got in trouble and couldn't go. I asked the Binkmeister if he wanted to and he said no--he wanted to spend his day with mommy--how sweet was that? Truth be told, he'd surely have more fun with them than with me. To Aunt Mel's defense, she did offer to take Binky weeks ago and I said no as I thought it would be too much for her to handle--four little kids at a crowded event like the circus, and her nephew is 4. So don't hate Aunt Mel that she wasn't taking Binky. So now, I've got to get dressed and do fun things with my handsome fella.

02/16

Welcome to my world. You envy me. I know you do. You envy that I am woken up early on a Saturday morning to, "Mom, um, this is an emergency.... We can't find the snake, it got out of its box...." They know that unless there is blood, DO NOT WAKE ME ON THE WEEKEND! For some odd reason, they seem to think that a lost snake warrants the same attention as blood spewing forth from a sibling. Not to be crass, but um, if it's lost now, it would probably still be lost when I'd wake up on my own anyway. Such announcements don't usually fluster me as well, it's not the first time I've heard it--and Scaley Jr. has always managed to be hiding in his box the entire time. This time, though, I think they may have a point--the snake is on the loose. Binky, clueless little thing that he is--tells me, as we came downstairs for breakfast, "Yeah, we tried to lay a trap and catch it.... We cooked some meat and put it on a plate so the snake would smell it and then we'd catch it...." My instant thoughts were, "I don't even want to know what that is all about...." As a dear friend would say, "It's only going to get worse.... three boys.... gosh are you in for it in a few years....."

So, I sit here writing to you with the knowledge that our pet snake is on the loose. You know, I don't know if it's a good thing or bad thing that I didn't get the ganga huge flame red snake that was so pretty but had only been at the pet store for an hour so they didn't know if it was mean/would bite. At least we'd be able to find something that big a little easier. We might get bit in the process--but at least we'd find it. This snake, though, it a tiny little thing--no biting, but hey, no finding. You might not believe this, but we don't happen to have freshly dead newborn mice just laying around the house for the snake to find, so my fear is not that we DON'T find the snake, but rather when we do, it will be a shriveled up dead snake that starved to death. As I said, you envy me. I know it.

On a different note, in retrospect, you CAN have too many silk throw pillows. 15 is just right. 18 are too friggin many pillows on a bed. They went back to the store last night. After that trip to that store returning, we went elsewhere and I got the boys new jeans, as well, they seem to put holes in the knees of their jeans faster than I tend to follow the next bright, shining object. Then, mom got more golf clothes. They had this whole new stash of golf clothes--the stuff that's at Golf Galaxy on mark-down for $40 I got for $14. Now, mind you, I still can't hit a damn ball to save my life, but I've got at least 10 new outfits for going out and trying to hit the ball. I am, however, returning the majority of it today as well, how would you like to go shopping with three little boys and actually try to try on any of the clothing you like? Just shoot me now! Thus, I buy what I like, take it home, try it on, then take back whatever doesn't do it for me. Thus, the boys have the joy of going returning with me today.

I still have to tell you all the sirius satellite radio story, but I'll save that for later. That's a funny one. I must get dressed so that we can go returning. TTFN

02/14

Hello my darlings and Happy Valentine's Day! Well, what can I say--Amber OMG is making me laugh my ass off here. This is the kids night to bust on mom big time. So Binky comes downstairs in this little ragamuffin looking outfit--black sweatpants and a regular light blue shirt under a dark blue shirt with a scorpion on it. I suggested he wear jeans and then the scorpion shirt would look good under his green and blue plaid shirt. "Honey, you always dress so nicely when dad sends you to school...." Truth of the matter is, dad DOES dress him well, however, he likes what mom gets him--glow in the dark dinosaur shirts, Transformers, scorpions, tarantulas--all the kinds of shirts that dad won't let him wear. So, he says to me, "The kids at school will think I'm dressed cool...." "You really think the kids at school will think you look cool?" "Yes--they will...." "So you want to wear what you picked out?" "Yes...." "Amber, what do you think--should I let him wear the outfit he picked out?" "Oh, DEFINITELY mom, you should let him wear it." As he walks away, she says, "OH COME ON MOM! Think about the things you sent me to school in when I was little.... and I still turned out okay."

So, to add insult to injury--or rather, Amber added insult to the Binkmeister's injury, I took my handsome fellas out to dinner tonight for Valentines. As we're sitting there, Karl asks if I gave one person a present this morning. Mind you, I can't stand this person and part of her "pet" name is .... Bitch..... Shrew...... The boys only refer to her as ...... Shrew ..... though. I looked at him and said, "What present would I give HER??????" "A punch in the face..." Then Nikolas said, "Yeah, I'm sure it would improve her looks...." Then Karl starts talking all sorts of nonsense--punch her in the face, throw vinegar in her eyes and give her a cookie covered in hot sauce. What can I say, we'd just come from mom's cane fighting/fencing lesson where we were perfecting our groin smashing techniques, as well as our skull bashing.

As we're walking to the car after dinner, the discussion gets serious. "Now, guys, there are certain things you have to do for Valentines when you have a special girl in your life when you are older...." I start with the "You need to get her flowers..." and Binky chimes in, smiling up at me with a bright smile that lights up the night--"I already have a special girl in MY life...." he says, looking up at me, smiling so adoringly. I start to gush, "Oh, Baby, that's so sweet of you, you're my special Valentine, too!" "No mommy, I mean this girl in my class at school...." SLAM momma--shut me right up, put me in my place.

The only thing that could soften the blow was shopping at TJ Maxx for more throw pillows for the bed. I'm up to 18 pillows on the bed now. I'm debating if I crossed the line now into WTF throw pillows on the bed, but I mean REALLY--can one ever have too many down filled, silk covered throw pillows? Not hardly--that's like saying you have too many black pumps--IMPOSSIBLE!!! Karl says there are too many, Amber says there are too many, but hey--it's my bed and if I want friggin' 18 pillows on my bed, well, that's my business. Yes, I AM OCD about the pillows--the silk slubs must be laying horizontally. The vertical stripes on the Euro shams must be vertical--even when removed from the bed. The Euro shams have their place at the foot of the bed at night, and the throw pillows, well gosh darn it all, now there are too many to fit on the chaise lounge at night. WHAT was I thinking????? Oh well, such is life. I like them. I will admit though, the golden/wheat color one might be the one too many. I will have to cogitate on that one.

Alas my dearest darlings, sweet Valentine dreams to you all. Angel baby wants me to spend time with her.

02/13

Hello once more my dear and gentle readers. I trust that this finds you safe, well and warm. I've been on the road for day trips the last two days--in some of the gawd awfulest crappy weather imaginable. It makes spending the day in the office tomorrow seem pleasant. (Well, as the Binkmeister is star student this week, mom has the honor of joining him for a fine institutional lunch tomorrow, so I will have a break from the office. Gosh, I'd rather battle horrible weather/traffic and subject myself to elementary school cafeteria lunch. That's not saying good things about spending time in my office. It's not that bad, really. I actually LOVE what I do--so much so that I don't even think of it as work most of the time.)

Last night, I decided I didn't feel like kicking butt cane fighting/fencing. I wanted to stay home and make Valentine cards. My boys are giving their teachers the fanciest hand made Valentine cards you can imagine! I totally trashed my family room, filling it full of card stock, embossing powder, ribbon, lace, beads--all so that I could spend hours making a few cards. The boys still buy Valentine cards in a box for classmates. Karl came to mom for help trying to figure out how to get the little sticker in the card so that it wouldn't fall out. Not one to let anything get by me, as well, we all know, I'm all that and a bag of chips, well, he brings me the sticker and then the Valentine--I insert the sticker into the Valentine, much the way you insert a business card into slits in folder to hold it in place. I had the sticker on the side with the to/from on it, then we folded the Valentine so that the sticker was folded on the inside and the pretty flower showed on the outside. Then we took a heart sticker and stickered the card shut. Surely, you know what's wrong with this picture, no? Yup, you got it--how can he know to whom to give the cards if all the to/from are on the inside? They are so lucky to have me for a mom, aren't they? Hey, I can't help that he used up all of my brain cells during the making of his weather report movie......

Okay, now, I'm still in shock that I'm passing this on--but it did make me laugh. I can always count on S. in Italy for a totally offensive, yet absolutely hilarious forwarded e-mail.

Subject: February 14th!!

On a totally different note, to soften the crassness of that with a warm, fuzzy chaser, try this--I'll add it to my "Riddle Me This/Food For Thought" page eventually--probably at the same time I get around to posting the Christmas of 2005 pics. Yeah like that will ever happen...

Why, Why, Why.....????

02/10

Hello dear and gentle readers! (Well, most of you are dear and gentle readers. Some of you I daresay are moronic enough to touch lit stove burners or do Gawd only knows what else. No, TS, I DON'T mean you.) Okay, so, funny, sad, yet true story. Years ago, when I was teaching German in a high school, I had a dear friend, Missy, who taught math. She was short and plump. I was tall and well, not plump. So many days, we'd end up dressing alike--totally unbeknownst to us when we'd get dressed in the morning. We would show up at work in a red sweater, black slacks, black shoes..... black sweater, gray skirt, black boots..... It happened ALL the time. We shared lunch duty, so we had to walk the halls and shoo students back into their classrooms who happened to be wandering the halls with no hall pass. Yes, those were the good ol' days. (Heavy sarcasm there.) People would joke that we were the Bobsey Twins--except I was tall and rail thin and she was short and plump. Missy would tease me--when she learned I was formerly a diplomatic bodyguard for the Saudi Royal family, she jokingly asked, "What, did you guard the royal chihuahua?" Missy always said I would ".... blow away like a fart in a wind storm...."

Well, today, I found myself out shopping as I NEED more throw pillows to throw on the bed.