K: Hey.
D: (ignoring me as he pours the beer into the glass)
K: Hey, hey, HEY!!!
D: (with three-quarters of the beer poured in the glass and finally tilting the bottle back) What?
K: Don’t WHAAAT me.
D: (attempting his most innocent face) Did you want some of this? (pointing to his beer bottle)
K: Yes. As a matter of fact, I DID want some of the last beer.
D: Oh, I’m sorry. Here (handing me the bottle).
K: No, THANK YOU (opening up the fridge). Oh, look. There’s one more beer hidden in here. I’ll just have this last EYE PEE A instead.
D: WHOA!!! Don’t be drinking the IPA. You know that’s my favorite. You drink this (motioning to his Pale Ale).
K: Screw you, Mr. Selfish. That’s what happens when you are SELLL-FISH!!!
D: I’m sorry?
K: You are only sorry because I’m drinking a better beer than the one you opened.

I drank the whole thing. And some of his when he wasn’t looking.

Come back tomorrow to find out what I’m giving away. I know, tomorrow? Seriously. I’m back on my best behavior. There will be posts. All week. I’m giving stuff away. I have motivation.

You have some questions right now.  Yes, The Baby has a butter knife in his right hand.  Yes, that is a quart of motor oil to his right.  The food getting spit out of his mouth?  The pizza from yesterday that he found somewhere that he was properly advised NOT TO EAT because it is a day old and would taste like crap.  Which apparently was not believed.

I then went downstairs to upload the pizza debacle.  When I came back up stairs, I found this.

Technically it is the dining room table but it is still in the living room from New Year’s Eve.  Yes, that happens to be a 5-gallon bucket of deck stain on the dining room table.  It has to warm up to actually be put on the deck because you can’t put deck stain on a deck in weather under 40 degrees.  It was colder than 40 degrees where the stain was in the garage.  Grant it, it’s colder than 40 degrees on the deck.  Hey, I’m not the mathematician in the family but 2 plus 2 is looking a lot like 5 right now.

The stickers on the reading glasses?  So Dad knows which ones are the correct ones.  Not to be confused with just trying them out at the store to see which ones are best.  Let’s just buy 4 pairs and play the “I CAN’T READ” game every single time a pair goes on.  Or at least 75% of the time. The crumbly mass The Baby is sitting upon?  Hot crushed red pepper.  He was actually sneezing.  Pink earphones?  In a package when I saw them last.

The Republican haircuts?  I know the craze is to make your child look unwashed by letting their hair grow long and unruly.  We like to use clothing as a conversation piece about whether these children ever get bathed.  And when someone has vomited in the barber shop just a couple of days before, they do their best to make sure you aren’t coming back any time soon.

There are an incredible amount of hand prints on that mirror, right?  Those prints are from a year ago.  My husband keeps his stash of his beloved Windex well-hidden.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I can barely keep the fam in clean underwear and socks.  Clean a mirror?  Surely you jest.

Nasty feet with unclipped toenails?  Check!  On the table?  Check!  Not just on the table but the nicest table cloth.  Interestingly enough, no one even hedged or looked apologetic when I busted them.

It’s not even 10:30 yet.

Jess is very concerned about what we intend to call The Baby when we have the newer, more important Baby.  It’s clear The Boy is a disappointment.  We may as well get a jump on moving beyond the middle child and focusing on the child that is most important, Baby #3.  If you have an opinion (as I know you do), let me know in the comments what you think the name should be for The Baby and for this little rug rat that is determined to come out via my belly button.

We should have built an ark.  We should have built an ark.  Have I mentioned that we should have built an ark?  Or at least a boat? Wait, we have that boat.  But I think it leaks.  The Husband swears it doesn’t.

With temperatures hovering at 34 degrees, it won’t stop raining.  As I speak, the children are mesmorized by Steve Songs singing that “Rain is falling down, falling down, falling down” song and frankly, as much as I love Mr. Steve, I want to throw a boot at the television.   I can tolerate that 50% of the country had a white Christmas while we did not, but the rain has got to stop.  The only way daily rain is tolerable is if it was 80, I was illicitly lying on a beach chair at an all-inclusive in Aruba and I was carefully calculating the number of SECONDS it would take for that tiny rain cloud to pass over my body and move on as the sun shone brightly.  Kinda like those water spritzers they have at the pools in Vegas.  But all natural.  On the perfect day it would be exactly 120 seconds.  Just enough time to rinse the salt water off your body but not long enough to get your towel too wet.

Don’t ask how I know these complicated equations.  I just do.

I don’t know how you people in the Pacific Northwest do it.  Oh, that’s right.  You have SNOW now.  Are we getting your rain?

The roof is leaking.  At least it’s in the bathroom.  On the bright side, you are already wet from your shower.  And my basement full of thousands of shirts?  Dry as a bone.  See, it’s not all doom and gloom over here.  Except that part where The Boy threw up the second we walked into the barber shop last night.  He had complained about wanting to throw up but I thought he was just faking.  What a horrible mother.  We were out to dinner and his father said, “give him that cup in case he wants to throw up” and I was all, “if I give him my sprite cup then I can’t refill it.”

Thirty minutes later I was cleaning up puke at the barber’s.  That’ll teach me.  I also was carrying a plastic bag for him to throw up in but in good pregnancy form, held it in my hand as he vomited 4 times.  You think the thought would have crossed my mind to open it up and, I don’t know, stick it under his mouth?  Nah.  The barbers thanked me profusely for cleaning up because apparently the last horrible mother who didn’t believe her child was going to throw up was in such denial that she didn’t believe he threw up even as they walked through it to the door.

It felt slightly like watching a dog throw up.  You stare oddly at the vomit, wondering where all that stuff came from because none of it looks remotely like Kibble.  This time it was the shell pasta that threw me off.  We haven’t had pasta in a week.  I’m pretty sure we don’t have any leftovers in the fridge.  Who knows?  He was asleep at 7 and woke up looking fresh and frisky this morning.  We’ll see what happens.

I had to get up at 11:40 last night because I forgot my credit card bill was due.  In this economy, I could have awakened today to a 78% interest rate and a $200 late fee.  Too bad we couldn’t have just gotten that American Express bailout directly attributed to my card.  That would have been nice.  Bastards.

I really don’t have anything else for you.  Sorry.

I am so hung over.  You know when you go to a party and all night everyone is drinking and a) no one thinks to put a pitcher of ice water on the table to keep the natives hydrated or b) even makes ice so now everyone is drinking drinks without ice?  And that crappy hostess is you? And you get hung over because now you have eaten salt-laden goodness for a total of like 6 hours and you haven’t had anything to drink other than illegal sips from someone else’s Anchor Steam because wielding your very own beer after you have pried your fat pregnant belly under the table is just frowned upon by even the loosest of folks?

I’m too old for this.  I laughed so hard last night I actually laid my head down on the dinner table and cried.  That might have been when my husband started his falsetto/vasectomy voice across the table or maybe when I was rehashing for the 6th year in a row the story about my gay ex-boyfriend’s emotional breakdown of nuclear proportions in my kitchen one New Year’s Eve and BeBe didn’t think it was funny because she was drunk thanks to that Trader Joe’s Sparkling Limeade and vodka concoction and then someone asked if Carl and I used to date?   Which we never dated but we did have that marriage pact and then Carl got emotional and thanked Derek profusely for marrying me.  I really can’t pinpoint the crying party but I do think the top half of my bra was hanging out my shirt for the better part of the night and when I commented on it, Amy said, “who hasn’t seen them?” That would be my girls, which were hanging out the top of my bra.  The crying in laughter was definitely NOT when Carl strayed from our 8 year New Year’s Eve script and brought up my ex who threw about the Baby Jesus or his reference to my church as “The Pickup Church.”  or the reference to my match.com years.  I mean days.

The Cake Lady spent the better part of the night being “on” and hobbling around on her bum knee due to an unfortunate mini motorcycle accident and then there were all manner of “bum” stories.  Who knew “bum” meant so many different things to so many people.  PopPop offered again to birth my child for me and while I am sure he is an excellent plumber, I mentioned I may have to pass on that one.  The Husband was forced to tell The Boy to stop “grating the guests” which could have referred to either The Boy’s attempts to use an actually cheese grater on Tom’s arm OR screaming loudly and annoyingly in a manner which would have suggested that bedtime would have been helpful, say, 3 hours earlier.   Dinner wasn’t on the table until 9, the host was pissed off because his grilled tenderloin was cold (so you are saying I should have started the green beans earlier?) and his exact helping of potatoes dauphinoise wasn’t cooked enough (mine was org@asmic, thank you very much) and I think he was still pissed off because of the damn vasectomy from last month.  Seriously, get over it.  By 11 he was hammered and then he was really funny, which is why I married him.  Which is not to be confused with the vasectomy, which is why I am staying married to him.  Derek did his best to share the marital disharmony by making Amy her very own bucket of popcorn from my brand new popcorn maker that Tom did NOT buy for Amy for Christmas and I don’t know if they fought on the way home because of it.

Matt and Deb waxed wistfully nostalgic about their kids growing up so fast and college applications and we folks with small children looked at them like they were crazy.  Because they are.  Time has stopped over here.  So much so that when the clock struck midnight, we missed it.  It was only at 12:01 that someone realized.  No, wait.  I think that means that time is moving faster.

I need a Gatorade. Happy 2009!

Go on over to PBS Supersisters and tell me your best impossible NY resolution.   And just know that that 50 pounds is going to be 60 by March, at the rate I’m going.

We have this little problem in our family.  Everyone wants to go everywhere with everyone else.  I moan but I really want to be with all of them too.  Actually, I really want to be with my husband so I tolerate his clones.

So tonight we all headed out to pick up the combi double stroller we found on Craigslist and then off to the Apple store to rectify the problem that is my fat ass.  I know it’s shocking that Apple can fix the size of your backside, but it’s true.  No, actually they can fix the problems caused by your ass such as standing directly on your I-Phone as you get out of the truck.  Not good, People.  And because it already had 17 hairline fractures on the glass screen and I’m pretty much as irresponsible as they come, I offered to take my husband’s I-Phone that looks like it was purchased yesterday (even though today is its one year old birthday) and get him a new 3G I-Phone.  He says that life is sometimes unfair in a good way in your direction but it so rarely is unfair in his good direction.  It was the least I could do.

We were getting out of the truck and I finally just asked who smelled like ass.  In a house full of men, they pretty much all do but every once in a while someone carries his ass smell around in his diaper and I try not to propagate that smell at all cost.  Why should strangers be traumatized?

K:  I think The Baby smells.  Do you want to change him?
D:  Eh.  I’ll change him in the mall.

Fast forward to the Apple store, then the AT&T store and it was as if time stopped.  No one took The Baby to change him.  I think he still stank but no one was listening to me.  Derek then started to complain that Nate’s diaper had leaked and asked if I could go buy him pants.   I looked down and both Derek and The Baby were soaked.  It was weird.  He headed off to Cheesecake Factory where we were on the eternal list and I headed out to find sweat pants that did not cost 19.99.  WTH?  I’m sure people buy $20 sweat pants for their 2 year old but I am not one of those people.  I found a pair of pajamas for $8.99 and The Boy and I headed out to find the other two.  My new-used phone rang.

D:  Nate’s not wearing a diaper.
K:  WHAT????
D:  Nate has no diaper on.  That’s why the leak was so bad.
K:  What do you mean?
D:  Did you forget to put a diaper on him?

This is a valid question to ask a pregnant woman.  Along with, “did you make sure you took ALL the kids before you left the house?” and “did you blow out all the open flames before you left the house?”  Anything is fair game.

K:  I remember putting a diaper on him.  And he stank when we got out of the truck.  Was there poop in his pants?
D:  Nothing.

Maybe I should mention that Nate has been taking off his diapers after he “fills” them.  Somehow his clothes remain on but you’ll find a crap diaper under the dining room table.  It’s happened twice in the last three days.

K:  Dear.  God.  Where do you think he took it off?  OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG.  Did you leave him alone anywhere?
D:  Of course not.
K:  Where is the damn diaper?
D:  Um, Merry Christmas mall employees?

Because making minimum wage at a lousy job at the mall two days before Christmas isn’t bad enough, you now get to find a “filled” diaper under a rack somewhere at the end of the night.  Nice. To the people at the mall, I am so very sorry. So. Very. Sorry.

I went to a Holiday Cookie Exchange party the other night at The Cake Lady’s house.  It’s only been since I have moved to this house that I have “friends.”  Before I had “friend (Hi, B, Renee, Cath!!!  Singularly and never in the same place)”  Now I go places in packs like the rest of you popular people have been doing for years.  I pee with other people now.  It’s nice.

Of course I didn’t tell The Boy that I was going to The Cake Lady’s house because if he knew I was going to be with his lover Harrison then it would have been all over.  I just told him that I was going out with Wendy.  And the interrogation began.

E:  momomomomomomomom.  I want to go with you and Wendy.
K:  You can’t.
E:  Why?
K:  Dad would miss you.
E:  Dadadadadad.  You wouldn’t miss me.  Why can’t I go with Mom?
D:  How come you always put on makeup when you go out with your girlfriends?

Um, cause I’m hoping to pick up the guy who cleans out the fish tank across the street?  It’s a vag1na party, for heaven’s sake.  I’m putting on makeup to cover the fact that I am twice the weight of every person who will be at this party and will be nibbling on nothing, complaining about moving from a size 2 to a 4 during the holidays.  A juniors 4, that is.  Nothing says “Look at my face instead of my ass that can barely fit through a doorway” like harem red lipstick.

K:  You can’t come.  It’s just for moms.
E:  But MOM.  I want to go to Wendy’s house too!!!!
K:  You can’t go to Wendy’s house.
E:  So you are going to Wendy’s house?

Rookie, rookie mistake.  Had I been the interrogator, I would have given the suspect my best “SUCKER” face.  His father looked on in dismay.  The kid is 3 and he just flipped his mother.  This isn’t looking good.  Wendy showed up in the nick of time and brought a plate full of kick ass cookies just for the kids.  We left. Apparently their father let them have two and then they had to go to bed.  He put the tray up on top of the fridge.  We had an awesome time at the party and I talked too much.  That happens when they only let you out of the psycho ward every 6 months for visitation.

The next day the kids were being kinda quiet in the kitchen and there was some noise but I wasn’t paying attention because I was busy taking the 600 dead lights off the tree and putting on the new strands.  I love Christmas.  Because the lights had to work the first 20 minutes I put them on the tree and then put all that breakable stuff around them.  Dammit.  Suddenly I heard The Husband YELL.

It appears that The Baby (you read that right) decided that he and The Boy needed some of Wendy’s stash and he found a stool in the laundry room.  He brought it out and put it against the counter.  He climbed onto the counter, up on the microwave and began reaching across the top of the fridge from the top of the microwave for the cookies.  When he couldn’t reach them, he decided to just push the tray over onto the floor for easier access.  Why do all that work for one when you can have 20?  It was only then that The Dog decided that maybe he too should indulge in some reindeer games.  When The Husband entered the kitchen, he said there was a feeding frenzy on the floor, with the kids trying to eat faster than the 95 pound Lab.

You tell them never to stand on the top of the microwave, but do they listen? No. You think you lock the stools up in the laundry room but does that stop them? No.

I’m so glad my husband is leaving me alone with these children tomorrow. Go to work. Really. I’ll be fine. I have to wonder what happened to that last pack of matches though…