Random Hygiene Questions

1. What do you consider to be the shortest amount of time you, personally, can spend in the shower and still get clean?
2. How often do you replace your toothbrush?
3. What is your favorite soap, and why?
4. What hygiene product(s) do you truly loathe, and why?
5. What's the longest amount of time you've gone without bathing, and what was your excuse?
6. What non-bathing things do you do when you're sitting in the tub (e.g. reading, crossword, etc.)?

Don't ask me where this came from. I'm just typing the words as they wander into my head.

Merry Christmas from your Friendly Neighborhood Stalkery Loser!

It seems we have an obscene phone caller. He (or she?) generally calls at ridiculously early hours, like at 6 AM or earlier. I say generally, but this person has only called about three times in the past month. Including the morning of Christmas Eve.

Yes, that's right. But I didn't answer the call. My dad did. He kept saying, "Hello? Hello!" with increasing agitation, whilst the Obscene Loser kept breathing heavily. In fact, when Dad later repeated the story to me, it almost sounded like the Loser was snoring, which made me thing perhaps someone hit my number on his cel phone by mistake while sleeping. Dad, of course, dismissed this idea as wishful thinking (quite rightly, I suppose).

Anyway, after about four "Hello!"s from my dad, he finally told Loser, "You sound like you have a piece of s*** stuck in your throat, dumba$$." And promptly hung up.

Way to go, Dad!

I am mildly concerned about Loser. Whenever he calls, the caller ID reads "Private Name, Private Number," so I know he must be blocking his number on purpose when he calls. Stupid turd burglar.

It's okay. I know how to use the pistol AND the shotgun, and after a lifetime of hunting lessons, growing up in Texas, and being married to a Marine, I think I can safely say that I have no problem with shooting someone who tries to stalk me. And I have a fairly good aim.

*sigh* I had to come move back into THIS house

This morning my children and I were all very cold, and I made sure everyone had socks or houseshoes on, just like these:


But then at around 9 or so, while the kids were still shivering, I went to take out some garbage, and what did I feel but warm, almost muggy air, occasionally broken up by cool, refreshing breezes?

I looked back at my house, scratched my head, and then realized that my house has ALWAYS done this, since I was 12 years old, and I just got used to having a normal, climate-adjusting house after five years out of state.

It strikes me as the nuttiest thing ever that, in the middle of December, I had to open my windows to let the warm air in!

Merry Christmas!

Homemade cookies so easy, you'll slap yourself for not making them sooner

Okay, it's Christmas, and you want to be all "Oh, happy face for the kids, lots of traditions, happy happy happy, turkey and ham, homemade cookies, yay!" Only the reality is that you don't have time for homemade cookies, with the flour sifting and the just-the-right-amount-of-brown-sugar, because you're going 90 miles and hour trying to shop and wrap gifts and not kill yourself. And you don't want to spend $4 on refrigerated cookie dough, because you've already spent $599.95 on gifts. So here's the easy way to do this, and it's cheap.

• 2 eggs
• 1/2 cup veg. oil
• 1 box cake mix (any flavor)
• (optional) chopped nuts, chocolate chips, M&M baking chips, etc.

Mix together eggs and oil. Stir in cake mix with wooden spoon; continue stirring until all lumps are dissolved. Add in nuts, chips, etc. if desired. Place rounded spoonfuls on greased baking sheet. Bake at 350 degrees for 10 minutes. Cool 10 minutes. Makes 1 1/2 to 3 dozen cookies, depending on size.

Seriously, cake mix is 78 cents at Wal-Mart, and you already have eggs and vegetable oil at home. What's more, it's fun and easy for the kids to do it, too, so you can enjoy baking together instead of chasing them out of the kitchen so you can concentrate on measuring everything.

Happy cooking!

Some people...

So last night I'm in the check-out line at Wal-Mart, and standing next to me at another register is this family, consisting of a woman in her late 40s to early 50s, a woman in her 20s, and a tiny baby girl, I would guess 4 to 6 weeks old. They are right alongside the counter, with the baby lying in the seat, her head kind of propped up on the side of the basket.

Grandma goes to move the basket up so she can put her bags in. However, since the baby's head is sort of sticking out, and the little checkbook platform is sticking out, Grandma ends up just smashing the side of Baby's head right into the platform. The baby begins to cry, Grandma doesn't seem to understand why the basket isn't moving forward, and Mother says, "Mom, you hit her head!" Mother looks fairly alarmed and tries to comfort her baby.

Grandma goes to pick up Baby. At this point I realize that the baby must be at least a month old, despite her tiny size, because she's able to hold up her head. Grandma, carrying the crying baby, then says, "Shut up. You were going to cry anyway, Grandma just gave you an excuse."

I cannot keep the angry surprise out of my face, and Mother and I exchange looks of quiet outrage at this woman who claims to be "Grandma." Baby does not stop crying, so finally Grandma actually removes the hood of Baby's jacket and starts to check Baby's head. Mother then takes Baby from Grandma, checks her head herself, and rocks Baby a little to comfort her. Eventually Baby settles down enough to take a bottle.

1. Why was Baby propped up that way in the basket seat instead of in a carrier?
2. What the hell was wrong with Grandma that she couldn't figure out that basket not moving when I push it + Baby in basket is screaming = something I'm doing to the basket is making Baby cry?
3. What he HEY-ELL is she doing telling a six week old baby to shut up? If it had been my mom, she'd have been all, "Oh Baby, I'm so sorry, Grandma didn't mean it!" But this woman? Ugh.
4. Why did Grandma think the baby was going to cry anyway? She wasn't crying at all. She was just barely starting to get a look on her face that said, "I'm hungry," but she hadn't even started really fussing yet.
5. How did Mom manage not to chew her mother out right there in the store?
6. Why am I always the one who sees this stuff?

And another thing!

That movie that I ripped on, Herbie. In the final race, the antagonist (Trip Murphy, a.k.a. Matt Dillon's career-destroying role) uses his stock car to slam into the side of Lohan's little Herbie. Not nudging, but slamming it into the wall. Just trying to cause an accident.

Me: Bizarro Dad, is he allowed to do that? It looks unsafe.
BD: No, dear. It's one thing to nudge the car next to you, but what he's doing is illegal, and he would get a Black Flag for that.
Me: Then why doesn't he get a Black Flag?
BD: Because this is a movie.
Me: They were all ready to give her the Black Flag at the beginning of the race when she was way behind all the other cars. They want to take people out of the race for not flooring it right away, but they'll leave 'em in when they try to cause explosive car wreckage?
BD: ... Mo. Vie.

Funny thing about my baby

Sia is 18 months old now. She's learning and growing and developing that little vocabulary. Why just today she learned a new word: grapes.

I try to say prayers with my kids every night. It doesn't always happen, but I do my best. Gina is learning to say her prayers with help. Sia, I've just discovered, will not calm down in her crib until I kneel beside it and say a prayer for her. Then she will smile, lay down on her little pillow, and let me cover her up. She stays that way, too, at least until I get to the bedroom door and flip the light switch. But she doesn't fuss too long after that.

Maybe it's just her "bedtime routine." But I like to think that when I pray that she'll get a good night's sleep, that prayer is being answered.

Seriously, what is UP with these movies?

Bizarro Dad rented three movies last night: Christmas with the Kranks, Herbie: Fully Loaded, and The Island. Let's go over them, shall we?

Christmas with the Kranks

I don't understand how, or why, but someone somewhere must have blackmailed Jamie Lee Curtis into doing this movie. It is positively horrendous! Why Jamie? Why? I know you're good at comedy when you want to be, but for that to work out, the comedy actually has to be good. This just...isn't.

To begin with, Tim Allen is in it. And we all know that anything starring Tim Allen that isn't geared toward an eight-year-old is a guaranteed failure. Furthermore, the dialogue is crappy, and you can tell that nobody likes it because they all have crappy delivery. And why, why, oh why is it that Dan Akroyd's character and all his twenty children are always wearing plaid, all the time, everywhere, with everything? (Then again, Dan Akroyd seems to be all about crap in the last few years.) And someone please tell me, was it screenwriter Chris Columbus or director Joe Ruth who decided that Jamie's character should be shrieking all the time? Happy, shriek! Startled, shriek! Hiding in the basement with a statue of Frosty the Snowman, shriek!

And you know the worst part? This whole movie was based on a novel by John Grisham. No, I'm not kidding. It's titled Skipping Christmas. I've never read the book, and I'm sorry to say that I don't hold out much hope for it. I couldn't even get through the whole movie. I demanded that Bizarro Dad hand over the remote so I could stop the thing. See, there are movies that are stupid because they're trying to be that way, such as Dumb and Dumber, which I can't stand and tend to ignore. But then there are movies that are stupid because the people making them have butchered everything that could have been good, and these are the movies that make me violently ill, or violent, or both. This is one of those craptastic wastes of film. Jamie Lee Curtis, you are better than this.

Herbie: Fully Loaded

Speaking of better than this, what is wrong with you, Michael Keaton? And you, Matt Dillon? There was a time, Keaton, when you were freaking Batman, okay? And a damn good one at that. Not to mention your sheer brilliance in Much Ado About Nothing. And you, Dillon? The Outsiders, anyone? Beautiful Girls? To Die For? Any of this ringing a bell? What is the matter with you two?

*Someone taps Sleepless Mama on the shoulder and whispers, "Multiplicity. Jack Frost. There's Something About Mary. The Flamingo Kid." Sleepless Mama looks embarassed.*

Okay, well, maybe Keaton just needed money. But he sure didn't look like he was enjoying being in this movie. As a matter of fact, he seemed to detest his very lines, and made almost no effort to look like he cared when he delivered them. Not because he's a bad actor, but because he's a good actor in a terrible movie. As for Matt Dillon...I...have no idea what he was doing. I know he was playing the colossal jerk in this flick, but he sure was goofy about it. Maybe that's what the director wanted, though.

Lohan...was clearly smoking reefer when she was filming this. It's not that her lines were terrible. That whole "I'm being carjacked by my own car," was probably something you'd hear a real person say, if they were in fact behind the wheel of a car that suddenly did not want to follow orders. You know, after they stopped screaming obsenities and leaning their head out the window, begging the cops to come help them. The problem is that her emotional range in this movie was...oh, who am I kidding. The whole thing was dumb. She did this to keep herself visible to the public and to make some money. Business is business.

This movie is not without value, though. My four-year-old loves it. She screams at the screen, "No! They hurt Herbie! They hurt my car!"

The Island

I don't remember whether the critics liked this movie or not, but my dim memory is that they thought it was sorry for some reason.

You know what? Critics are paid to be negative about everything. You like science fiction? It's here! You like action? Right here! Explosions? Here!Attractive people? They're here! A few nerds for comedic relief? Dood! Here! (Inside joke.) Hot cars? RIGHT! HERE!

Oh, and there's, like, a message, too, for those of you who like to have that sort of thing in your movies. But I won't tell you what it is, because I don't want to give it away if you haven't seen it yet. I will say this: don't watch the previews, because that ruins the movie for you. Just go out and watch this movie.

I will warn you that some of the images are disturbing, but I don't think Hollywood is allowed to make sci-fi movies about human beings without the use of Disturbing Images anymore. You might not want the little ones to watch (hence the PG-13 rating), but we're not talking about anything that would make your preacher stare down his nose at you.

Besides which, it has Ewan McGregor, Scarlett Johansson, AND Djimon Hounsou. And if there's one thing I love to see in my movies, it's Djimon Hounsou. Whether it's for eye-candy purposes or ass-kicking, any movie with him in it is automatically ten times better.

And there wasn't one single time when I wanted to tell any of the actors that they were better than this movie.

You know how I said it was freezing the other night?

Well, last night we slept with the air conditioner on.

And tonight? Heater again!

*sigh*

Top Five Things That Suck about Potato Chips

1. Lay's potato chips have those sharp edges that get stuck in between my teeth or cut the roof of my mouth.
2. Salt and Vinegar chips; excuse me, but ew! And that's just smelling them from a distance!
3. Only corn chips go well with guacamole. You can't do, say, BBQ chips and guacamole, because it really just doesn't work.
4. The salt content is too high, unless you get the salt-free kind, which taste too crappy to want anyway.
5. So fattening that I'm gaining wait just thinking about it.

On the other hand...

Yum!

This is getting ridiculous...

Y'all, I am sitting in my living room at 2 AM, and as I type this, I can actually see my breath rising like steam when I exhale. The thermometer we keep over the kitchen doorway? It reads 52 degrees F (or 10 degrees C) and falling. INSIDE. THE. HOUSE.

You know why?

We have no central heat. Only space heaters and this one gas heater set in the wall of the bathroom, which we don't like to leave on in the middle of the night.

Which is bad enough, but dude? I'm in Texas. On the Gulf Coast. I should be hot, or at the very least nice and comfortable. But no, I sit here all teeth a-chattering, like I'm back in freaking North Carolina, or worse, Washington D.C. Not that there's anything wrong with those places (in fact, I rather miss NC), but I came to Texas to get warm.

And all this freezing weather? Won't even have the decency to produce an inch of snow. Not in Houston. Maybe up in the panhandle they get snow, but here? Nada. And my poor Gina has been begging me for snow. If she has to freeze her little nose off, she should at least have the satisfaction of being able to make a snow ball.

Old Boyfriend Stories: Part I

Just to give you some background on my ex (whom I shall call the Notorious D.I.C.), we were together for about two and a half years, two years of which was a long distance relationship. Once the long-distance part was over, our relationship rapidly deteriorated. The following is an example.

At the age of 19, I hadn't had my license for too long. Even though he and I came from a large city with lots of freeways, most of my driving experience at that time was limited to driving around the small university town I was living in. And by small, I mean there was only one large highway, which I only got on to drive back home to visit family. The feeder roads to this highway were two-way roads instead of the normal one-way that you find in big cities. Even in the town itself, I didn't do much driving, since I lived on-campus. I mostly just went to church, the laundromat, and Wal-Mart.

So D.I.C. comes home from his two-year absense. We decide one day to drive out to Mars Music Store, an incredible place to go for a musician (which he was, and I was learning to be). It's all the way out in West Houston, and we had to take I-10 to get there (a freeway). Since I was the one with a car, I drove. D.I.C. had a biting comment for every little thing I did wrong, and that was just from his house to the entrance ramp. Once we got on the freeway, and I had to merge and bob and weave and get from Loop 610 to I-10, we hit some of the worst traffic I have ever seen in my life. I don't know if there was an accident ahead of us, or construction, or a herd of screaming monkeys, but the cars were all just jam packed. The freeway was practically a parking lot. I took an exit and decided to just stay on the feeder, which seemed to have a bit more flow.

D.I.C. had no mercy for me. I was the worst driver he'd ever seen in all his 22 years, I had no idea what I was doing, blah blah blah. He called me names, said I was stupid, every critical thing he could think of, he said. Meanwhile, I'm sitting in the driver's seat, both hands on the steering wheel, already nervous from all the traffic I was wasn't used to, and growing more frightened and discouraged with each remark. I don't know how I managed not to cry. He didn't seem to think he was doing anything wrong, probably because he felt his tone of voice was not hostile. And while it is true that he was not yelling, he sure didn't sound friendly to me.

When at last we finally got to the music store, and I found a parking spot, I made a point to turn off the air conditioner before I turned off the car. (I later learned that this was supposed to prevent problems with the air compressor.) D.I.C. asked me why I did this. I told him that my father told me to always turn off the A/C, that it was good for the car for some reason. D.I.C. proceeds to rail on me for doing what my father asked me to do for my own good. If memory serves, he said something about being stupid for following advice without knowing exactly what it was for. "What if I told you to do (such-and-such) for no good reason?"

At this point, I'd had it. I felt I'd taken enough abuse for one car trip. I could have said (and should have said) a lot of things, but all I said was, "What if I slap the shit out of you right now?"

When I look back on it, I think of all the things I could have done. I could have said (while on the road), "You know what, I'm not used to driving in this kind of traffic, and you? Aren't helping. You're making it worse." Or "Would you like to drive instead of me, since you're such an automotive prodigy?" Or perhaps I could have pulled over at a gas station and said, "Here's $20 and a quarter. If you can't stand my terrible driving, call a cab. Or better yet, call your mother, so she can deal with all this traffic just to take you where you want to go." Or maybe I should have just said, "D.I.C.? Shut. The f***. Up."

My secondmost personal favorite what-I-should-have-said diatribe is "Why do you always have to be such an ass? Why don't you ever have anything positive to say? You're not paying for my car, or my insurance, or even the gas for this little drive-from-hell. You're not my father or my driving instructor, so I don't see why you think you have the right to tell me a damn thing about how I drive. So from now on, do like they taught you in kindergarten: if you don't have something nice to say, shut the hell up."

My absolute favorite response that I fantisize about using: pull over on the side of the freeway and say "Get out. Now." Then leave.

After I made my remark about slapping him, he got quiet for a minute, then stopped and faced me. He apologized for yelling at me. "You didn't yell at me," I said, sounding tired. "Well, I'm sorry for being ugly to you."

I don't remember my response to this. I only remember that when we finally entered the doors of the music store, I didn't want to be near him. I went towards the acoustic guitar room and played a sad song. He went...somewhere. I didn't care. I don't even remember which of us drove my car home. I just remember how much I wish I'd told him off, told him to go to hell, told him to stop treating me like dirt on the ground.

He probably doesn't remember this event. It was many years ago. But I remember. I still feel the emotional scar. I still get nervous when I drive.

I wanted to post something deep and meaningful...

...but once again, I have blogger's block. So instead you get pictures.

Yes, I know I've posted this pic before. I don't care. I love this picture.

I think I'd like one of these. My 18-month-old has been talking about puppies non-stop since Monday, when we borrowed a puppy from my grandmother to keep the girls occupied while Bizarro Dad used his power tools outside. Now every two hours, I hear "Buppy! Buppy!" And that's if she doesn't see a dog. If she happens to see one out the window or glance at the dogs next door, then it's "Buppy!" for 30 minutes straight. And this word applies to dogs of all sizes, whether they be her grandmother's chihuahua or her aunt's French Mastiffs. If only we could get her grandfather to tolerate an indoor dog. Alas, he will have no such thing, and so we must wait until he moves out of this house, whenever that may be.

From the first page of Genesis. I don't know why, but Hebrew sounds have always struck a chord in me whenever I hear them. Genetic memory, maybe?

This is on my wish list over at amazon.com. I wish the image here were a little nicer. Anyhoo, I don't normally ask for jewelry, but I saw this and could not resist. I must be nuts. But at least it's not expensive!

Have a good weekend, all.

A nice, easy recipe

Broccoli-Cheese Rice
4 cups long grain rice
amount of water directed on bag (8 cups or 12 cups, depending on your brand of rice)
2 bags frozen broccoli
butter
2/3 of a large block of Velveeta cheese, cubed
milk
salt
Set rice and water in pot, adding in desired amount of salt to taste. DO NOT STIR. Throw in the broccoli on top. Bring to a boil. Cover and simmer until rice soaks up most of the water. Uncover and let remaining water burn off. Stir in a few big globs of butter, the cheese, and some milk (less than a cup). Cover and leave on low heat, stirring frequently, until cheese is completely melted. Serve. Makes 8 to 12 cups of rice.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone. And Nilo, take courage! At least it's not Christmas yet!

I saw Harry Potter!

I've gotta make this short because I have to start my baking for tomorrow. (Yeah, that's right, I'm having Thanksgiving tomorrow. AND Thursday. So many in-laws, so little time.) So if you haven't seen the movie yet and don't want to be spoiled, stop reading right now.

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

The movie felt rushed. The transition shots did not adequately show the passage of time. Show a season changing, or Halloween, or at least someone dressed in clothes that didn't include a jacket and scarf. Is it always winter there?! Too much was cut for time, but it seemed to be done at the expense of flow. I would have preferred a three-hour movie with better flow and maybe some footage of the actual Quidditch game at the World Cup. We just went from Viktor's grand entrance to the Weasley's after party. I felt kind of ripped off by that.

But I REALLY felt ripped off by the credits. I was promised there would be funny credits. Where were the funny credits!?! But no, all I got was "No Dragons Were Harmed in the Making of This Movie."

What I want to know is, when they introduced Beautiful Hermione, why did they have to make Harry look so captivated by her? We've all ready the sixth book. We know he ends up with Ginny. We know he never develops any romantic feelings for Hermione. So why make it look like he might? *sigh* I guess the director or someone wanted to throw the Harry/Hermione shippers a bone. Whatever.

Awesome stuff:

• The dragons
• The Yule Ball
• The underwater sequence
• The graveyard scenes
• The ferret scene
• Mad-Eye's transformation to that Crouch chump

Also: IMAX is overrated.

Happy Thanksgiving!

In Remembrance of You

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave
'Cause your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone
These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me
These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

My Immortal by Evanescence

You know the scars you left on my soul, or you should, if you're even half the sensitive person you were when we first met. But then, if you were still that person, we'd have never parted ways.

I did love you. With all my being, I loved you. And you me. But it wasn't enough. Love by itself is never enough.

That's why we went on to marry different people, I guess. I found something more than love. I hope you found it, too.

Why do I only think about you at night, or when I'm alone in the car? Why are you so much better in my memory that you were in real life (to which my journal can attest)?

When will I be free of you? When will I finally be able to release all the pent up anger and sadness? When will the words I always meant to scream at you finally come out?

Attention All Mommy Bloggers! (and Nilo)

It seems that chasing your kids around all day long is not, repeat NOT a form of exercise!

I went to the doctor today for chest and back pains (which are stress-related, apparently), and one of the things my doc suggested was getting more exercise. He told me that chasing the kids does not count. This is extremely puzzling to me. How can it not count as exercise when it tires me out so? Doc nearly cracked me up, telling me to walk around the subdivision. "Subdivision?" I wanted to say. "Dude, I live in da HOOD. No, not even da hood, I live in the barrio. Little 9th grade thugs used to tag up the sign on the little Pentecostal church two blocks away from me. Stray dogs roam free, snapping their jaws at passing strollers and bicyles. You want me to go for a WALK!"

One of the other things my doc suggested was Valium (only a 2 mg dosage). Which I have taken this evening. Thus far, it seems to have no effect on my desire to snap my husband's computer game in two. More on that in a minute. But my doc (I should say, my NEW doc, as I've just started seeing him this month) prescribed a bunch of pills for me, none of which seem to be working. I say it's because I bought generic stuff. The pain pill isn't easing the pain, the anti-inflammatory isn't anti-inflammating, and the Valium for my nerves isn't making me stoned or beatific or anything. Although I didn't yell at Bizarro Dad for his excessive game-play; I just made fun of him. It was quite pleasant, actually.

See, he plays this online fantasy RPG. I don't know what it's called, and in fact don't care. All I care about is that he gets on that stupid game the minute he gets home from work and does not get off until he's ready to go to bed. Now, to set up the rest of the story, watch this video. Go ahead. I'll wait...

So he's played this game all day, even after he's taken off work to "help me with the girls." He even kind of ignored my mother when she came over to help me with something. I just smiled and put up with it. Occasionally I teased him by saying "Are you wearing Boots of Escaping?" when his character is running away, or "Don't roll an 18!" But after a good 8 hours of him playing this game, I finally decided that enough was enough. "Honey, if you don't cast a Spell of Getting Off the Game in the next hour, I will put on my Boots of Kicking Your Butt." He glared at me and kept playing.

But when the hour was up, the computer froze on him. "See!" I said. "I cast a Spell of Computer Freezing!" But then I left him alone, because he had That Look on his face. So I just went and sat back down with my mother and quietly laughed at him.Hmm. Maybe that generic Valium stuff really is working.

There are so many things I should be doing right now...

...but instead, I'm blogging. Don't you readers feel special? All three of you?

Yesterday's newspaper said something about the weather I found odd. "The cold front coming in should provide us with a week of crisp, autumn weather, maybe even two." After which we will return to our regularly scheduled summer, I suppose. It was 78 degrees in the house on Monday, forcing me to turn on the a/c. Yesterday we were in sweats and parking it in front of a space heater as the temp got down to 57 degrees (and that's during the daytime!). Next week we may be back in shorts.

This is the thing about living here: you can never "put away summer clothes and bring out winter clothes," at the end of autumn and into winter. You just kind of have to make more room in the closet and dresser for the extra sweaters and overcoats that you may need, should the weather decide to get down to freezing. It does do that, you know. People have to wrap their water pipes and light the pilot light on the gas heaters and go shopping for gloves. But we really only get about three weeks or so of actual winter, in which there's frost on the ground and the sky is grey and you can see your breath in front of you. It comes in spurts, between stretches of warm weather (or the elusive "cool" weather).

Which is why the Wal-Mart closest to me actually sells sleeveless children's Christmas dresses. Without little skin-tight shirts to go under them.

*********
Nilo said something about people not wanting to admit that they'd been taken in by fads. And he's so right. Nilo, you've inspired me to make a confession:

When I was in the fifth and sixth grade, I was in love with the New Kids on the Block. Yes, it's true. I loved them and had most of their CDs, back when CDs took up a mere three sections of shelf space at the music store. Yes, even the Christmas album (a real piece of crap, that one). I knew all the words, even to the songs that I thought were not so good. I had posters of them all over my walls. I would even kiss these posters. And my greatest treasure was an autograph by Danny Wood, acquired by my mother's boyfriend at the time, who met the guy at a local gym when the band was here on tour. (He wasn't too impressed by Danny Wood, and even asked him if he could make out a different one, as the first was completely illegible.) Yes, it is a sad thing, when I reflect on it now. In fact, it was a sad thing when I reflected on it in seventh grade, which is why I denied ever having loved them or even owned a single CD.

But now I can admit this. Yes, I did love the New Kids on the Block. When I was twelve and too dumb to know better. Don't judge me! In another ten or fifteen years, you'll see bloggers shamefacedly admitting that they loved N Sync and Backstreet Boys when they were in middle school. Of course, by the time those two rolled around, boy bands were made up of guys old enough to have goatees, not 12-year-olds who still hadn't hit puberty yet so they could hit the high notes (Joe McIntyre).

And as long as I'm admitting things, I might as well tell you that I had the cassette of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. Just reading the insert was good for a laugh. One of the songs actually had a vocal credit called, "Fly Puerto Rican girl on the sex tip." For making...noises. And actually gave her name. Whoever that girl is, I'll bet she's not happy about having her name on that album now. Of course, by now she's 35, and hopefully living a happy life that is Wahlberg-free.

Happy Thursday everyone. One week to Thanksgiving! Make sure to visit Butterball's website for all your turkey-cooking questions, including thawing safety!

Top Five Things I Love About Living In Houston, TX, Again

5. Finally, after five long years, I get to eat Ultimate Cheeseburgers from Jack in the Box again! (They don't have this place in Florida or North Carolina.)
4. I'm not living directly in the path of a helicopter base anymore. (What? What's that? I can't hear you!)
3. My kids don't have to grow up with that crazy Carolina accent. Instead, they can develop their Houston Northside accents. (Northside in the HOUUUSE!)
2. All the free babysitters, I mean, relatives.

And the number one thing I love about being back in Houston is....
All the kicka$$ restaurants!
*Insert Paul Schaffer music here.*

Seriously, Dad, this has got to stop

My father, when he wants something done around the house, has no hesitation in telling me about it. I appreciate his direct approach. I just wish he'd direct his requests at someone other than me once in a while. Seriously, it's like I'm the only one he can ask to take out the garbage. I know he doesn't want to be the only one doing it, and I want to do my part, too. But there are days when I don't even see daylight because the girls are keeping me so busy inside. There are two other grown men in the house besides him. He can't say "Son, please empty the garbage before you leave," or "Hey, son-in-law, can you take the trash out to the curb before you leave for work in the morning?" No, it's "Sleepless Mama, why am I the only one who takes out the trash? Why doesn't your brother ever do it? He sees it's full. Why doesn't he just do it? Why am I the only one to do it?" He sounds like a woman. He sounds like me, when I used to complain to my best friend about how Bizarro Dad never did any chores without being asked first.

When my father gets like this, my response is usually something like, "I'm sorry, Dad. I should have emptied it last night. I'll take care of it."

Sometimes he says, "Your brother was just in the kitchen five minutes ago. He could have taken it out, too." Then he fumes about how my brother never helps around the house.

Well hell, Dad, why not just ask him to take it out? It's not like he's ever had a wife to nag him about that kind of thing. Neither you nor Mom ever taught him, "When you see the trash is full, empty it," when we were growing up. He's simply not one to think of these things. But no, you don't tell him to help around the house, or even ask him to do a single thing. You just mitch and boan about how he never does anything.

In fact, my brother took it out just the other day when I said, "Please, do me a favor and take the trash out before you leave this morning." That's all I had to say! I asked, he did it, I thanked him, end of story! Stop making a federal case out of it, Dad! Stop nagging me about what my brother doesn't do!

And while your at it, Dad, if you want my husband to do something, you need to ask him yourself, or write him a note, or at least tell me, "Sleepless Mama, please ask Bizarro Dad to do such and such." Don't just tell me "See that this gets done" with the assumption that I know to relay the message to my husband. Usually I feel like you're just putting it on me. I have enough to do, thank you. And if my husband is sitting right there, just look him in the eye and ask him yourself. I'm not your message board!

Ugh!