The Spin Cycle: Children of the Corn(field)

This week, the beautiful, handy-dandy painter of houses, Sprite's Keeper, asked us each to put our spin on Halloween. Well, gather round folks, I've got a Halloween tale for you. It involves pain, internal struggle, hunger and public nudity. And it happened to me less than a week ago. Many moons will pass before I will be able to completely forget the events of Saturday, October 25th and the mindless destruction I witnessed that day.

Our day started off harmless enough. Jeremy turned to me and said, "Hey, I've got forty dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Why don't we pack up the kids, take them to an extremely overpriced farm where we can pay out the nose for entrance fees? Then, the kids can run around like their hair is on fire and we can pick up some super expensive pumpkins before we leave?"


"Deal." I said, "But only on one condition. I'd also like to blow a ridiculous amount of cash on popcorn and soft drinks. Oooh, and pig races. For the love of everything I hold dear in my heart, please let there be pig races!"


On the way to the farm, that just so happens to across the street from our house, Henry looked up at his father and me with wide eyes and said, "If it's alright with you guys, I'd really like run you both ragged so much so that you'll second guess any sort of physical stamina that you think you might have. Also, I probably won't listen to a word you say about staying near you at all times. Oh, and I plan on throwing a fit when it's time to leave the farm too."


Super. The Steenky family stopped right there in the middle of the road and high-fived each other until our palms were red. We didn't linger for too long though because no one likes a bunch of cocky people standing in the street high-living each other. Well, that's what the nice lady in the minivan shouted at us as she sped past us.


As soon as we entered the farm, we made our way over to the Kiddie Corn Maze. Reese wasn't too hip on traipsing through a corn field. Instead, she opted for the "I'm too cool for mom" game.

Henry, eager to get going on the corn maze demanded that we get going now. I believe his exact words were, "Let's get this party started, yo."

I thought it would be nice to capture a family moment on film before the journey to the center of the corn began. Here's a picture of Jeremy and Henry just moments before Jeremy slipped on an errant cob of corn lying in the dirt. He tumbled to the ground and grabbed his knee, wincing in pain.


I asked him over and over if he was alright. He just kept screaming, "Gimme the juice, doc! Gimme the juice!"

A nice gentleman, who identified himself as a doctor stepped forward and offered his help. I knelt down by my husband and stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. I gently kissed his forehead. I looked lovingly into his eyes and asked him, "If I get you the help you need, do you promise to finally clean out the garage?"

With all eyes on Jeremy, I barely even noticed when Henry took off running at a dead sprint into the corn field.


I jumped up and ran after the little guy in what I thought was a powerful stride. Halfway into my first turn, an elderly woman asked me to get out of her way as she lapped me. Eventually, I caught up Henners. He was huddled up in a corner looking quite terrified.

I grabbed him and pulled him up to me. "I'll never let you go, son!" I exclaimed, "No matter what!"

I then noticed a piece of yummy looking candy half buried in the dirt. I immediately threw Henners aside and snatched up the treat before my son had a chance to get to it first. I mean, who doesn't love free candy? By the time I stood up with my sweet score, Henners was off and running again.

I stood there, stunned. What was happening to my little guy? Was Henners now possessed? Was there any more free candy further down the trail?

I was all alone. I panicked and just began Twittering everyone I knew. I thought my cyber friends would help me out of this mess. I wrote "Help me. I've lost my son and I am stuck in a corn hole."

I must say, I received the most disgusting replies to @jenboglass via Twitter. People. Do you all know something about corn-holing that I don't know? Thanks for nothing.

I tried my hardest to gather my composure. My head told me to remain calm. My gut told me to go look for candy. As I moved forward, I heard something rustling in the stalks up ahead. It was followed by laughter. I recognized it as Henry's. I increased my pace immediately.

"Son!" I shouted, "Are you alright? Do you know where they're hiding more of those Snickers Bars?"

Then I spied a familiar small blonde head hidden in the stalks. I sneaked in a little closer.

It was Henry. Finally, relief swept over me. I was overjoyed to finally reunite with him. If luck was on my side, he would have chocolate. But as I approached him, I noticed something odd, something not quite right about him.

"What are you doing!" I shouted.


As I got closer, I noticed Henners, standing there, semi-nude, peeing in the open wind. To make matters worse. He had used a snack size Hershey's Bar as a target.

I take no issue with public urination. But when someone defiles a perfectly good candy bar....well, that is just unforgivable.

Happy Halloween!

Programming note: The Steeky family is gonna party like it's 1987 and unplug from the interweb for a few days. See you all Monday!

I Suck. Big Time.

So, yeah. I suck. There's no excuse for the level of sucking that I have reached. The sad part is, I didn't even try. How good at sucking am I that I didn't even try to suck and I sucked anyway? I sort of always knew I sucked. I mean, when the kids down the street yell "You suck!" at you every time you leave your house, it's pretty clear the level of suckiness that you've reached.

A few weeks ago, a lovely bloggy friend of mine emailed me to tell me that I had misspelled her name on my blogroll. I graciously accepted the criticism by shooting her back an email that read,
"Look, hussie: You better check yourself before you wreck yourself. Read my FAQ "About the Stank" link on my page. I practically scream at you that I misspell every thing! Just to spite you, I'm totally not changing it."

This bloggy "friend" then had the nerve to block me from sending her any follow up emails and even deletes all my nasty comments on her site. Some people are just so touchy.

Okay, so I was a little nicer than that.

Then I noticed that I had one of my favorite blogs listed twice in my blogroll and one of those links was listed incorrectly. So I went all willy-nilly and started revamping my blogroll and I think I got a titch too liberal with the delete button. I inadvertently removed a few blogs that I had been following because my fingers, thick with bacon grease, slipped and removed a few links just above and below my actual edits.

Then, I got with the program that same day and added a reader to my bloggy routine. I took my entire blogroll and dumped it into my reader. Because of my earlier blogroll gaffe, some of my favorite bloggers were now missing from my reader. Then, I found new blogs that I couldn't live without and added them to my reader, but haven't added them to my blogroll. I'm a mess!

So today, friends, I come to you asking for three things; 1) Help, 2) Forgiveness, and 2) Money. (I'm sort of kidding about the third thing. I just thought I'd throw it out there.)

Please forgive me for being a lazy blogger. Also, please help me mend my ways. Would you mind checking my blogroll on the left of this here page to make sure you are listed correctly? Also, if you're not listed, please give me a shout-out and let it be known that you would like to be added.

If you don't want to leave your comment in my comments section, email me at jenboglass@yahoo.com

Also, because I suck so much, I have created and presented myself with the following award. Feel free to snag it and throw it up when you're feeling like a lazy blogger. Although, if you really are a lazy blogger, I doubt you'll even muster up enough energy to copy and paste it to your site.

Emergency Guest Stumping/Emergency C-Section

Well, have I got a story for you. But you can't read it here. My good friend Krystal at Mommy's Escape had her baby Sunday night, just a tad early. Had I known Tiny Dancer would be here so soon, I would have boiled the water and ripped up the sheets sooner. Oh, well. I've got other pregnant friends. I'm looking at you Pamela and Jenni.

Come visit me at her place....Mommy's Escape.

Fattie: Update 1

Well, I think I fell off the wagon this week. Or did I jump back on the wagon? I don’t know which it was, but it’s definitely the wagon where they serve pizza and burritos and Indian food. That’s the delicious one, and I was definitely on it. Listen, if there really were a weight loss wagon, I totally fell off it and I couldn’t get my out of shape self up fast enough to even waddle behind it. There’s no way I was going to try to run and catch that thing. Who do I think I am, Colepack?

I did redeem myself a little bit though this week. Casey, the HAYSAY Nazi, emailed me several times calling me names and telling me to put down my doughnuts and stuff. She got me so worked up that I went out for a jog. Actually, our black lab escaped and I had to chase him about a half a block before he came back. Normally this wouldn‘t be cause for me to run after him, but before he took off in a dead sprint, he grabbed the very hamburger I was eating right out of my hand. I mean, the burger had bacon on it. I just had to get it back. Hey, exercise is exercise, no?

Saturday I chased Henry through a corn maze (future post) until I thought I was going to die. I literally thought that I was going to make the local news as the woman who wound up missing for a few hours until a search party found her unconscious and hidden by s a few stray stalks of corn.


When Jeremy eventually found me I was sprawled out flat on my back in the middle of a side trail in the maze. Of course, my first reaction was that I get myself camera ready because I didn’t want to wind up in the newspapers with straw in my hair. Jeremy then told me to relax. The only people that knew I was missing were two teenage boys that came out of the corn maze laughing at the “old broad” running around the trail with a crazed look in her eyes. Apparently, I blacked out for a few minutes and began threatening people with two corn cobs that I had turned into shivs. I think I told those boys I would cut them with the corn if they didn’t help me find my way out of that haunted field. On the way home, Jeremy and I reached an agreement that I am no longer allowed to watch Prison Break.

Sunday, I planned an early morning jog. I got up before sunrise to update my iPod before I left the house. But then I got so caught up in making sure I had every single Kings of Leon song on my work-out mix and I kept wavering back and forth on the new Katy Perry single. I mean, is it too trendy? Will I just grow weary of it like I did that "I Kissed a Girl" song? Then one thing led to another and I began downloading radio pod casts and books on tape. Eventually, six hours went by and then I grew tired and hungry. Then I looked up new chili recipes online. I always want chili in the fall.

I settled for a slice of cold pizza (not as many calories when it’s not warm, ladies) and a two hour nap. By the time I woke up, my track suit was all wrinkled, my hair was flat on one side and there was no way I was leaving the house looking disheveled like that.

I do want to give a shout out to everyone who took me seriously last week when I said that I would be more motivated if I had people insulting me. Krystal wasted no time verbally abusing me and within minutes sent an email of a monkey calling me all sorts of names. It was a double whammy of sorts. The insults? Sure they were spot on. The monkey? I can only guess that’s a reference to my unshaven legs. Nice.

Also, my good friend C called me a prostitute in Russian. That made my day. And Casey? Well, she made sure to call me a skan a few times a day. That’s right, I said skan. It’s a word, don’t look it up though, you won‘t find it. Yeah, it‘s so super-cool that Webster’s hasn’t even defined it yet.

The shocker came though when my sweet mother phoned me up and left me the most insulting voicemail ever. I really didn’t think she had those words in her. When I called to thank her for the motivation, she told me that it wasn’t meant for motivation purposes at all. She and my dad moved the downstairs sofa over the weekend and saw the cherry flavored Crystal Light stain I left there from high school. Oops. I’m positive I’ll get another one of those phone calls if they ever move my bed frame from my old bedroom. I never did get that red nail polish stain out.

So that’s about how week one went for me in my new fitness routine. I think I’m off to a pretty good start. My track suit it now pressed, my iPod fully updated and I know better than to run amuck through random stalks of corn. This week I’ll be hitting the pavement hard, I promise. I’ll be out there looking for cute running shoes and trying out different looks for my “exercise hair”. I can’t be seen wearing a scrunchy outside of the house more than one or two days at the very most. A girl’s got to have her priorities.

Want to track my weight loss saga? My first Fattie post can be found here.

Confused about what HAYSAY is? Me and you both! Click here to find out more.

Want to leave me some motivation or a mean comment. Then go ahead and comment!

Um...

Let's just put it this way....Henry hasn't always been a fan of Halloween.

Spin Cycle: More Than Meets The Eye

I’m not much of a trickster. I think tricks can be mean. However, I did trick Jeremy into marrying me. I constantly remind him that he promised in front of a bunch of people that he would stay with me for, like a really, really long time. Our marriage certificate is proof that he is contractually obligated to love me.

But tricks is what the newly coiffed Sprite's Keeper would like us to spin this go around on The Spin Cycle. Speaking of Sprite's Keeper, she has shiny, bouncy, new hair thanks to a pair of thinning shears. Also, when I figure out how, or even what it is, I'm going to super poke her on Facebook. Yeah, she should be warned.

So tricks, huh? You know what I want to know? What's the trick is to get those Transformer toys turned from a robot, into a car, then back into a robot without causing myself to suffer a mild brain aneurysm? I tell you folks, it’s a skill that I have yet to master. Usually, Henry has Jeremy assist him with all those complex toys with their whatsie-hoosits and fancy thingamajigs. Jeremy’s a whiz with those things and he quickly gained Henry's trust with all things small and plastic.

Henry learned early on in his life that I can’t be trusted with complex toys that require any sort of prowess to assemble. I hesitate to even bring up the Little People Barn House fiasco of ‘06. Let’s just say Henry was so traumatized by the way I handled the assembly of that particular play set that to this day, he still covers his eyes and screams whenever we pass by actual cows and horses in a pasture.

A problem arose this past weekend when Jeremy abandoned his family to stay in the wilderness for a week. He left us a car with no gas and a fridge full of nothing but bacon and tapioca pudding. (I will never let Jeremy go grocery shopping alone again. Ever.) So I grabbed the kids, gassed up the car went to the store and bought some chocolate pudding. Seriously, how does Jeremy not know by now that I don't eat tapioca pudding? It’s like he has no idea who I even am.

So, there I was at 9:00 at night, with two kids and a cart full of pudding strolling around Walmart in my snazziest track suit, (are you feeling my class?) when I made the fatal mistake of veering off course and passing by the toy section on the way to the exercise equipment. Henry spied an aisle lined with rows and rows of Transformer toys. “Hey, I have those at home!” he shouted.

"Yes, Honey, you sure do," I mindlessly replied as I searched for a Thigh Master in the fitness section. That bacon and chocolate pudding weight isn't going to come off all by itself, people.

We arrived home with pudding and a Thigh Master in hand and Henry immediately made a bee-line for his play room. About ten minutes later I heard a loud “Oh Man!” followed up quickly with a “Heck O’Friday!” (Yes, my 3-year old curses like an 80-year old woman. His best friend is his Grandma Granny, what can I expect?)

I ran down the hall and saw him standing there looking quite distressed. He caught sight of me and immediately hid his hands behind his back. Not knowing how to act casual about anything, he shouted, “Nothing! I don’t have nothing, Momma,” and tried to back away from me. After about ten minutes of coaxing and promises of lots and lots pudding, I got the little guy to show me what he was hiding behind his back.

He reluctantly held his trembling little hands toward me and revealed nothing but a Bumblebee Transformer toy. When I looked a little closer I could see that Bumblebee was missing one of his side panels. No biggie, just a little fix.

I scooped up the yellow and black toy and began manipulating it in my hands just like I’d seen Jeremy do hundreds of times. How tough could it really be?

A wheel popped off and went flying across the floor. Henry looked terrified. “Don’t worry honey, it’s supposed to do that,” I calmly told him with a smile. If he even got a hint of my nervousness, he would quickly take the toy back.

I should have known to stop when I heard a loud snap and Bumblebee’s head went rolling into my lap.

“You’re doing it wrong!” Henry shouted. This immediately broke what little concentration I had as it brought back a flood of memories from my honeymoon night with Jeremy. My husband had shouted those exact words to me over and over in that hotel suite some eight years ago.

Eventually, I calmed Henry down and worked that little plastic toy over like it was nobody's business. Sure, Henry had a horrified look on his face as I continued to pull limbs apart and snap wheels back together in places they hadn't been before. But in the end, I convinced my son, that the Bumblebee he once knew and loved was now better than ever. How many other little boys have a Transformer with an arm where the head used to be and a left front panel held on by duct tape? Not many, I bet.

The rest of the night, Henry just sat and stared in silence at his Transformer toy as he cradled it in his tiny hands. I swear I even saw tears in his eyes a few times. Surely, those were tears of joy. I had made my boy the happiest little guy in all the world. I can't be sure, but that night, as he cried himself to sleep, I think I heard him say, "Oh Bumblebee, I'm so sorry," over and over. Oh how he loves that toy. I'm just so glad I could help.

This Post Was Supposed to be About How I Wanted to End Memes, But Then a Really Cool Chick Tagged Me So I Chickened Out.

Plus, I'm not really sure what my meme stance is. Am I pro meme or con meme? Doesn't pro meme sound like it should be some sort of topical cream the dermatologist gives you? "Sorry about that unsightly boil on your face, Jen. Instead of lancing it, why don't you try this new product, Promeme?"

My first meme started out harmless enough. I was tagged by Kat over at 3 Bedroom Bungalow (whom I love, love...thanks for Monday night, Kat!) for one of those unspectacular meme lists. Anyway, when she tagged me I was so excited I could barely breathe. I shoved both kids and Jeremy into the closet and began fervently typing away. I may have tagged way too many of my blogging buddies but I suddenly had the urge to find out seven unspectacular things about everyone of them.

I was on an adrenaline high. When Jeremy finally made it out of the closet, he refused to talk to me for a few hours. Not only was he upset with me shoving him in the closet, but he thought I seemed a little self-important about being tagged in a meme. When Jeremy came out of the closet he announced to me there would be no more memes for Jen.

(As a side note, Jeremy would like me to stop typing "When Jeremy came out of the closet". He claims it's misleading and totally false. Sorry, honey. I promise I won't type "When Jeremy came out of the closet" any more.)

Back to our story, three weeks later, after the kids and Jeremy and came out of the closet, I was tagged again with the same meme. I decided to tag people not in my immediate circle of bloggy friends. I thought by doing this I could somehow set this meme free and it would just float out into space to never return. I tagged Karl Rove, and strangely enough, he responded. Dang you, Turd Blossom! (Fun fact: Did you know that Mr. Rove has seen The Notebook over twelve times? True story.)

I am of the mindset that I absolutely have to answer all these memes. Sadly, I'm quite superstitious. I feel it might be bad luck if I don't answer each of them. Case in point, a few years back I broke a mirror and my hair just hasn't been quite right for some time now. Coincidence? Highly unlikely.

Also, what if I offend my tagger? It’s just not in me to not be responsive to another person. Some memers even dared me to keep the meme going, a few of them called me names. As I mentioned a few days ago, calling me names just motivates me more and even makes me like you a little better.

Which brings me to today. Today I was tagged by the awesomely irreverant C over at The Scattered Mind of a Tattooed Minivan Mom. She tagged me in a friendship meme so I absolutely could not resist. Also, she promised I would have lovely hair if I complied with her request. She then called me a name that I had to actually go look up on urbandictionary.com to find out just what it meant. I'm still not sure how to pronounce it, but it was plenty insulting, I'll give her that.

Four Questions about Friends:
1. Do you have the same friends since childhood?
Um, sort of. I keep in contact with a few of them, but we’ve all moved on. Life get’s busy and in the way, you know? Also, I’m pretty sure my parents paid the kids on our block to play with me. I don’t know for sure, but I can only assume so since I called up by best friend from the third grade a few years back and she shouted, “Listen chick, I’m no longer on the payroll!”

2. What do you value most about your friends?
Honesty, humor, time-shares in Mexico, swimming pools in their back yard, and forgiveness, especially when I break into their time-share or pee in their pool.

3. Are your friends sounding boards?
Absolutely! I call them and leave them very detailed voice mails because they seem to prefer screening their calls. If I need to talk to them immediately, I get a stranger to call them and they’ll usually pick up the phone. I then have the stranger pass me the phone and I have about 3.5 seconds to quickly tell them what I want them to hear. I’m pretty sure they get the gist of what I’m trying to say. Not one of them have ever called me back asking for any sort of clarification. Ever.

4. What is your favorite activity to share with friends?
Prank calling my bosses, prank calling your mom, deciding who we take pity on (that’s for you Julee), working on my phone skills (Rozzie), last minute deadlines (Sara) and late night pillow fights (I’ll never tell).

Now it's my turn to share the friendship love. If you've ever talked to, or thought about talking to a person with brown hair, consider yourself tagged. Copy and paste the questions and answer them on your blog. Here, take this badge too.

Fattie

So one of my bloggy friends, Casey, over at Half as Good as You is starting a fat camp for us bloggers. But can I ramble off topic for just a moment? Casey’s more like three times as good as me, not half as good as me as her blog title would insinuate. It’s sort of false advertising on her part.

As many of you know, I’ll do anything anyone tells me to. If HeatherPride so much as snaps those well manicured fingers at me, I’m up and jumping. Well, the same goes for Casey. She’s called me a fattie, skinny bastard, rat stalker, a hooker and a few other names I probably shouldn't mention on this site. So, if you insult me on a fairly regular basis, I’ll also do anything you tell me to do. However, I must say in Casey’s defense, I did call her a skank first. Then I tried to apologize and wound up referring to her as a wench.

Also, I must admit that Casey was well within her rights to call me out as a rat stalker too. After all, I did leave a dead rat on her driveway, but it came from a really good place, I promise. Well, not literally. I mean it came from a good place in my heart. I have no idea where the rat actually hung his hat at night.

But this post isn’t about rats, or skanks. (But what if it was? Wouldn’t that be awesomesauce?) It’s about a fat camp or something that Casey has created. It’s called Club Half as Small as You and it’s a brilliant way to bring a community of fellow bloggers together to support and cheer each other on as we strive to meet our fitness goals. I couldn’t be happier or more excited about this challenge. If I could, I would kiss Casey on the face as a sign of gratitude. But since she’s no longer speaking to me, I think that scenario is highly unlikely.

The Club Half as Small as You Challenge begins this week. To kick it off, participants were asked to post our response to the following fitness goal questions:

Motivation:
I am motivated by food or pretty and shiny things. I’m also motivated when people call me names. If I could just get someone to send me a mp3 file where they call me names over and over, I would be so pumped.

Long-term goal:
I want to lose some lbs and tone my flabby self up. I want to get whistled at when I walk by a construction site.

Long-term weight loss goals:
I’m hesitant to say how many inches or pounds I want to lose because I have bloggy friends in Canada. What if I start throwing around terms of measurement that they’re unfamiliar with? They’d be all, “Inches? What’s that all aboot?” Also, someone from the Ukraine frequently logs on to The Bee. They always land on a post I wrote five months ago about Shark Week. Is there some viable shark threat in the Ukraine that I don’t know about?

Another tangent here. When I looked up Canada’s metrification (real word) on wikipedia (real, but not credible site) it said that Canada was considered “soft metric” not “hard metric”. How cool would it be to start a band and call it Hard Metric?

Alright, where were we? Weight loss goals. Let’s just say I want to be down three dress sizes.

Tools available to me:
We have a treadmill and a very dusty elliptical trainer in our basement. We also have a weight machine in the garage that has never been touched with the exception of the time we moved it into the garage. Also, you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a few free weights in my house. But why would you want to do that? Why would anyone want to swing a dead cat in my house?

I have three gyms within five minutes of my house, but who am I kidding? The gym? That’s never gonna happen.

How often can I exercise:
I’m going say I’ll exercise five times a week, but in reality, I’ll only exercise three times a week.

What do I plan on doing:
I guess I will have to stop eating a BLT sandwich every night. Oh, how I will remember those sixteen nights of bacon with fondness. Work days are difficult for me when I'm trying to adhere to a diet plan. One of my close friends at work used to be a University of Utah cheerleader and she has the metabolism of a six year old boy. She eats whatever she wants and doesn’t gain an inch, or a centimeter (or whatever “soft metric” countries call it). Since she sits right next to me and eats donuts like nobody's business, it's hard to obstain from fatty foods. I think I offended her one time when she lamented that she was feeling heavy. I was all, “Listen here, size 2, don’t even start with me!” I later found out that she was not a size 2, but in fact, a size 0. Awkward.

My best bet as far as calorie restriction goes would be to bring a lunch to work and store it in the communal fridge. Someone in our office steals lunches frequently, so it’s bound to happen to me at least once a week. Wa-la! Calories gone! Recently, I’ve become quite fond of these Kale shakes that I discovered from a friend. I’ll chug one of those suckers down in the morning, pray my lunch gets snagged and then eat something for dinner that isn’t pizza.

What has worked for me in the past?
Well, I was very thin when I was in high school. It might be a good idea take a closer look at my activities from back then. Let's see, as a teen I would avoid homework, talk in class and cruise by football practice constantly. Somehow, I don't think any of those things are going to magically melt my unwanted pounds away. Besides, I gave up cruising by high school football practice months ago.

Come to think of it, I did drop a bunch of weight when I had walking pneumonia about eight years ago. Maybe I could wander around Target and get a sickly stranger to cough on me. No, I promised Jeremy I wouldn’t do that anymore.

Honestly, I think if I don’t focus on losing the weight, but rather on trying to improve my performance during my workout, I’ll be more successful. I think I’ll try to run another half-marathon next spring. That should get me up and moving. Although, running 13 plus miles? That’s, like far and stuff. Maybe I better stick to the goal of looking tight in a pair of pink hot pants. Shiny hot pants.

Come on. It's not too late to join in on the fun, click here to see how the challenge works. Good luck everyone!

I've Adopted Another

I'm not here today, I'm somewhere else. I'm guest posting somewhere, but I'm not going to tell you where just yet. I need to tell you a few things first before I send you off.

Today marks the final day of Adoption Week at Steenky Bee. I promise, I only have one more story left, and it's about a fellow blogger that I have adopted as my big brother.

I've never had a brother, but if I were to have one, I would want this guy to be it. He goes by the name Captain Dumbass and he is was my very first bloggy friend, like ever. Besides my best gal (real-life BFF, JuleeSLC), Captain Dumbass was the first person to comment at Steenky Bee. And it wasn't like I had just been blogging a few weeks or anything, it had been almost 18 months. That's a long time with out any comment love, people.

I give the Captain all the credit for a pivotal change at Steenky Bee. I learned that there are nice bloggers out there. There are people that are kind and will offer up a link to your site just because.

So right about now, the Captain is wondering if he is being punked or something. I'm seriously never this nice to him. I'm not saying we haven't had our rough patches. There was that one Sunday a few weeks ago when I accidentally unfollowed him on Twitter. Those three hours are some of the darkest times I have ever experienced. I missed his tweet about the salmon burger he had for dinner. I KNOW!

Anyway, I have adopted the Captain and his family as one of my own. I look up to him like a brother. He has the coolest stories, the kindest words, two adorable boys and a wife who is the best sport, like ever.

So Captain, thank you and I'm sorry. Thank you for being my friend. Sorry for posting this picture of you on my site.

Go on over to Us and Them to see what happened when I finally met the Captain and his family face to face for the very first time.

In Between Your Errands

I want to thank everyone for your incredible support during Adoption Week at Steenky Bee. You all have left me some lovely comments and even some amazing stories. Thank you, thank you so much.

Wednesday, Heinous and I co-posted similar stories (on purpose) about our experiences as adoptive parents. Oddly enough, our posts had similar title names (not on purpose).

I received a beautiful email from Rock and Roll Mama about her experience as an adoptee. Her words were so beautiful and so honest. The next day she posted her amazing story about her personal journey to find her birth mother.

Goodfather also posted an adoption post about his experience as an adoptee. It was difficult for me to read and extremely eye opening. All I can say to him is, thank you for sharing.

Thank you P and MG for sharing your thoughts with me on your feelings as adoptees yourselves. (I didn't reveal your names here because I didn't check with you first to reveal them or link to you. You know who you both are though. Contact me if you don't mind a link up and I'll re-post with an update. :) )

Check out these peeps today in between running all your errands. You won’t be sorry!

The Spin Cycle: The Rhythm is Gonna Get You

Here we are again people. The ever Eloquent Sprite’s Keeper has put forth another topic on The Spin Cycle for us to chew on and spit out at you. It’s fear. Yeah, fear. Gather round peeps, this week, I’m going to let you in on a little fear that Jeremy has. He’s desperately afraid of my dancing face. I’ll say it again. My dancing face. Let me walk you through the whole sorted story, folks.

When Jeremy and I decided to adopt, we were standing in the parking lot of an In Vitro Fertilization office. We had just left a lengthy consultation with the doctor. On the walk to the car, Jeremy and I both agreed that we’d rather be parents than pregnant. At last, a huge weight had been lifted from us.

As Jeremy and I stood there and embraced in the parking lot, ready to start our future, I took his face into my hands and looked him in the eyes and said, “At least if we adopt, our children won’t have your revolting feet.” Jeremy gently kissed me on the forehead and replied, “And they won’t inherit your hideous dancing face either.”

After that we got in our car, drove off and ate the most delicious burrito ever. The burrito has no relevance on this story, but it was just THAT GOOD.

I first became aware that I had a “dancing face” in 2000. Jeremy and I were at a big, fancy company party with a live band playing 70s funk. I was so excited. I bought myself the biggest ball gown ever and slipped on my highest pair of strappy Payless heels. (Right now Stiletto Mom is choking on her bagel while reading that I wore Payless shoes. In my defense, I was young and naive and the word Manalos wasn't yet a blip on my radar.)

Anyhoo, I couldn’t wait to shake my groove thang on that dance floor. We walked through the door and I made an immediate bee-line for the middle of the floor dragging Jeremy along with me. I proceeded to get down and jiggy with it. I was throwing down my best moves, The Cookie Jar, The Running Man. Hell, I even moon walked. In heels. No, I moon walked in CHEAP HEELS.

I was just wrapping up my best Bounce and Lean move when Jeremy grabbed me by the arm and pulled me behind two giant tower speakers in the corner. Had my wicked dance moves made me irresistible? Turns out, not so much. Jeremy pulled me aside because he had got his first whiff of my dancing face.

Jeremy: What are you doing with your face?

Me: What do you mean? (still dancing)

Jeremy: Are you doing that on purpose? It’s really freaking me out. Why do you frown and wince when you dance? Do you mean to stick your tongue out the far? Did you know that your eyes go all crossed when you dance?

I ignored him and just kept on hustling out there on the dance floor. Jeremy just backed away and stood, staring at me from the sidelines along with a small crowd of his co-workers gawking in my direction.

The next day, we had my parents over for brunch and I brought up the subject of my dancing face. My mom put her fork down and looked at me nervously. “Honey, I think the time has come that we have a little talk.”

My mom went on to explain that she and my father had discovered my dancing face “condition” at an early age. When I was three years old, my parents enrolled me in a beginners dance class. At the first recital, they noticed my face would contort into an odd expression when I performed on the stage with the other little girls. As I got older, it just got worse. My mom said that by age seven I had developed the most severe case of “white girl overbite” that anyone had ever seen. She even took me to a few specialists, professional choreographers of sorts, to see if they could help me. None could. They all felt my dancing face deformity had just progressed too far.

“Mom, what about the box full of ribbons I have for dance competitions?” I demanded.

“Those are Participant ribbons, honey,” she gently replied.

“Yeah, but they don’t just hand those out willy-nilly do they?” I asked.

Tears formed in my mom’s eyes as she explained to me that every little girl received a Participant ribbon with their registration packet.

“But remember how I won fifth place in the individual dance competition in grade school?” I protested. My mom explained that even though placing fifth was quite an achievement, only four little girls had entered.

My dad suddenly pulled a picture out of his coat pocket. He handed it to me across the table. “Here, sweetie, take a look at this,” he said. I looked down to see he was holding my prom picture from 1990. "Wow, my hair was really bad back then," was my first thought. But then I saw past the high bangs, past the bad perm and focused on my face. There it was, my ugly dancing face.

My dad has yet to offer a reasonable explanation as to why he carries my prom picture around in his pocket. But that's for another day.

From then on, Jeremy ran our house like that mean dad in Footloose. Music was kept to a minimum at our place. If I wanted to dance he asked that I do so in the bedroom behind closed doors. Sometimes, when we was out of town, I would get in the car, turn the radio up really loud and just jam out. When the cat’s away, the mice will play.

In 2004, we were blessed with the arrival of Henry in our lives. And as fate would have it, Henry came to us with superior dancing genes. His birth mother was a breakdancer. I’m. Not. Kidding. A breakdancer with very good-looking feet, I might add. Double jackpot! Jeremy and I were high fiving all over the joint.

At eighteen months, Henry could cut a serious rug. When he heard music, he was out on the dance floor shakin’ his little money maker. People would stop and comment on what a coordinated little boy we had. “He’s definitely got the rhythm!” Jeremy would respond. I, on the other hand, was quick to point out to total strangers how handsome Henry’s feet looked in open-toed sandals. We each had our own priorities.

About six months ago, I began spending a lot more time working on my dancing face in private. I would tell the kids, “Mommy’s going upstairs to rehearse! I’m locking the door.” Jeremy would just smile and nod. I was beginning to think my dancing face was improving with time. My white girl overbite had noticeably receded, my squinty eyes were definitely less prominent. I was ready to show Jeremy my progress.

A few nights ago, after both children were tucked away in bed, I pulled Jeremy and my portable boom box into the kitchen. I qued up Milkshake by Kelis’ (my practice song of choice) and launched into my self-choreographed routine that I had been perfecting over the past two years.

Before Kelis’ had even reached the first chorus about her milkshake bringing all the boys to the yard, Jeremy stopped me. “No, no, no! It’s all wrong, Jen! Your mouth contortions have grown worse. When did you add that wink? Why do you keep sticking your tongue out when you moon walk? And WHY do you think it’s still acceptable to moon walk?” He shouted.

I stood there, looking at him defeated. I thought I was doing so much better. I had been working hard, practicing nightly in front of our full-length mirror.

Just then, we heard a rustle from around the corner. Jeremy and I sneaked down the ahll to investigate. We found Henry huddled in a large box spying on us. He poked his head out from the top of the box and gave us a little grin.

“What are you doing up?” Jeremy quizzed him.

“I heard mommy’s dancing music and I wanted to come dance,” he answered.

Henry then began bouncing and clapping to the rhythm, even throwing in a bootie slap here and there. I was so caught up in the ease and grace of his movements that I totally overlooked his face at first. But eventually my eyes made their way upward and saw Henry making the very same dancing face that I have.

Jeremy and I shrieked at the same time and grabbed on to one another. Jeremy cried, “No, son, no! Not you too!”

Yes, it seems that Jeremy’s greatest fear had come true. The rhythm had gotten Henry. He had inherited my dancing face.

Jeremy turned to me and held my face in his hands. As tears rimmed his eyes he croaked, “Well, at least he still has good-looking feet.”

Final Meme

I got memed. I got it bad. First, the lovely and beautiful Jen at Coconut Belly tagged me. Then I turned around and the holy-crap-I-don't-know-how-she-does-it-all-and-remains-totally-awesome Krystal of Mommy's Escape tagged me.

It's a picture meme. You know the drill, yada yada sixth file, yada yada sixth picture....blamo. So I thought I'd play along. Then as I was rifling through my photos, I found this one and decided to try to be a little more like Sarah Palin and live life as though I were a maverick. I began wearing trendy eye wear and engaging in strange double speak. I also cut bangs and wore the most festive little skirt suits you ever did see.

Not really, I just became Sarah Palin in the "bucking the system" way and decided I liked this photo much better than the sixth one in my sixth file.



It's Henners sitting on his mini potty trying his hardest to will a stream of pee out. Why is he trying so hard you ask? Visit this post back in the day to find out. It's all about a night that a three-year old had his way with me.

Also, props to Coconut Belly and Krystal. Go check out their photo memes. Jen's was a wonderful vacation story and Krystal's...well, her's made me have a long cry in the bathroom by myself.

P.S.: I totally thought it would be okay to post a potty picture since Captain Dumbass does it all the time.

P.P.S.: Since I'm dropping linky love, Jen Maselli wrote about diarrhea yesterday.

P.P.P.S.: Ringleader taught me how to spell Dee Snyder. That's right, of Twisted Sister.

P.P.P.P.S.: The Tattoed Minivan Mom gets people cat-calling mean things at her. In turn, she takes it out on me by shouting "HOOKER" when she emails me.

P.P.P.P.P.S.: I'm not passing this meme on. I'm flushing it down Henry's training potty. It's gone forever. If it somehow gets passed on to you, don't touch it. It's been in my son's toilet.

I Carried You in My Heart

Today's post is part of a group post of sorts. I recently found out that my good friend Heinous adopted his son from Korea. I immediately emailed him and asked him way too many questions. In an attempt to get me to leave him alone, he suggested that we each post our adoption experiences on our own sites today. My story, rather, my children's story is below:

Did you know that you picked mommy and daddy to be your parents while you were in heaven? You saw us and you said, “There they are! That’s my mommy and daddy.” But mommy couldn’t grow a baby in her belly. She could only grow the hope for you in her heart. Soon, you met a very nice young woman named Bailey. You made each other a special promise. She promised to love you and keep you safe in her belly while she found your mommy and daddy. You were so little and needed her help. One day, she found your mommy and daddy. (That’s us!) She placed you in our arms. Then mommy and daddy made a very special promise to Bailey. We promised to love you and protect you always. Then mommy gave Bailey a piece of that hope she had in her heart. Now, mommy carries you in her arms, and Bailey carries you in her heart.

Henry loves to hear that story. It’s his story. His baby sister has a similar story that one day she’ll grow to love as well. It’s the most straightforward and honest way we can think of to explain adoption to them while they’re so small. People are often surprised that we talk to our children so early and so freely about their stories. We’ve made a conscious effort to make sure that Henry and Reese know their stories now. We want them grow up NOT remembering an awkward moment where they discovered they were adopted.



For anyone who hasn’t adopted, you’re likely to hear stories from couples who have journeyed down this road. They’ll speak of mounds of paperwork, parenting courses they attended and the emotional roller coaster ride of the whole process. All this can be true, if you let that be the memory you keep.

I like to think we’re just like everybody else. Remember your first sonogram? Remember how excited you were? Well, I remember the first phone call from the adoption agency telling us that we were approved. Remember that sugary gunk you moms had to drink to test for gestational diabetes? My version of that was turning in background clearance paperwork. My labor? The phone call we waited months to receive. Congratulations! A birth mother has selected you, but keep in mind, she can change her mind at any moment. Now wait for two more months. Good luck with that.


See? I’m just like you. I may not have gone through the physical parts of pregnancy, but I have some of the same battle scars. After we adopted Henry my hips spread about two inches. I’M NOT JOKING. I even cut my hair in what I thought at the time was a sassy mom bob. Turns out is was way more “mom” than it was sassy. After Reese came along, I purchased some expensive go-to-town sweats and suffered a long bought of postpartum depression. It’s true. Adoptive moms can have depression and dress in fancy sweats just like you!

Both of our adoptions were domestic, meaning they were conducted inside the US and both took place in Utah. As a matter of fact, Henry’s birth mom (Bailey) lives only thirty minutes away from us. I find myself looking for her when I’m out shopping.


Reese’s mom (Keely) only lived in Utah for a short time while she was pregnant. About four months ago, she moved back to her home state in the southern US. Even though she’s hundreds of miles away, I still look for her when I’m out shopping too.

The first time I laid eyes on Henry he was swaddled up and in the hospital nursery. There were two baby boys born within minutes of each other that day. Jeremy and I stood together, our faces and hands pressed against the glass trying to figure out which little creature was our son. Something drew me in closer to one baby in particular. I can’t describe fully why, but I just knew the little loud one on the right was mine. Although my eyes didn’t recognize him, my heart certainly did. I pointed to him, with tears in my eyes and said, “That’s him. That’s our Henry.” Jeremy hugged me and said, "God I hope so".

Reese came into our lives a little differently. We believed, along with her birth parents and two ultrasound technicians that Reese was a boy. When our caseworker called to tell us that Keely had given birth to a little girl, we were stunned and thrilled. (Mostly thrilled.)

Keely and Tim (birth father) waited to name her until we arrived at the hospital a few hours later. The four of us had grown closer so it felt only right that we should name this baby together. Her name is Reese, meaning lively and energetic. Her middle name is Michelle. I don’t know what it means and you know, it doesn’t really matter. It’s Keely’s middle name. That’s all I need to know.

I remain in contact with both of our birth moms somewhat. We reunited with Bailey when Henry was just ten months old. She was able to hold him and finally spend some one on one time together. We send her updates yearly and she has our blog address.

Keely and I email a few times a week and I send her updates as well. We’ve reunited with her twice since Reese was born. Keely is also a frequent reader of this here blog. (She even sent me the nicest message yesterday after reading Reese's post)

I have no doubt that my path will cross with these birth moms at some point during my children’s lives. Will it be a chance meeting at the grocery store? Will it be long awaited reunion when the time is right? Who knows? But whenever or where ever it is, I will welcome these women with open arms. They loved and carried my babies when I could not.



Be sure to visit my good friend Heinous (Jim) over at Irregularly Periodic Ruminations today. He has a touching adoption story about his six year old son Jacob. It was his idea to post together today in a tribute to our children.

(This week has been an emotional one for The Bee Family. I'm rounding the corner for regularly scheduled nonsense soon.)

Reese

Reese, today you are one year old. This weekend we celebrated your special day while you were surrounded by friends and family. Everyone that loves you most in the world was there. All except for two.



Two people, who will play a big role in your life without you even knowing it, your birth parents. You see, bug, you didn’t grow in mommy’s belly, you grew in Keely’s belly. She took you in and took care of you before you were born. She felt your first sign of life. She was the first one to hear your heart beat. She was the one that you kept up at night while you kicked and hiccuped inside her. It was her voice you heard first. Her voice that told you that she loved you and would forever. And ever. For nine months, you two were connected in a way that I will never know. You were there with her always. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Keely gave you that smile, those pouty lips, your little laugh, that beautiful head of blonde hair. She gave you long fingers and two big toes that continuously curl upward. She gave you your curious nature and your ability to work a small crowd and make them love you instantly.

Your birth father, Tim, gave you your love of adventure, sense of humor and beautiful blue eyes. We often hold him responsible for the times you take off in a high speed crawl down the hall while we chase after you or when you climb up the stairs faster than I could ever imagine you should. You are an independent spirit and so full of life. You have received all of these wonderful traits from your both of your birth parents.

But, perhaps the greatest gift they gave you, is the one I never saw coming. When they placed you with your daddy and me, they gave you the opportunity to have a big brother. I know it sounds strange to say that Henry might be the greatest gift, but hear me out. It’s unexplainable, the expression on your face, when you see him for the first time in the morning. Your little eyes just light up and begin dancing right in front of me. I know it’s typical for the younger child to look up with fondness to their older sibling, but somehow I feel this is different. At such a young age, I could see love registering on your face. Love. It’s so powerful, and I see it whenever you see your brother.


Sometimes I catch the two of you playing together in your room. I watch Henry as he hands you toys and describes them to you. Sometimes he steals them back from you, and then some. It just doesn’t matter to you, little bug, you still have the same look of adoration on your face as you watch him.

Yes, there are times, more often than not, that he complains that you are too loud or he protests if you even so much as look in his general direction. But, little girl, there are so many times, when he hears you fuss that he bolts into his room to grab Lightning McQueen, his most favorite toy of all, the very one he keeps out of your reach. He hands it to me and tells me “Reesie wants this. This will make her happy.”

Reese, I’m so happy you found us. It took a strange twist of fate, a long journey to the Rockies and two people who loved each other very much to bring you to us. My life changed the day I opened that deli door and saw your birth mom standing there waiting to meet us. She had your little grin, your nervous giggle and your contagious laugh. As we talked over lunch, she ran her hands over her belly and talked about you and her as “us” as a “team“. I loved that you two had a bond already.

I can’t bear to know what it was like for her those last few days or weeks before you were born. My heart doesn’t dare to go there. I can’t imagine her journey knowing that she would soon have to say goodbye and trust someone else to love you just as much as she does.

Reesie, today is your day. It always will be. But every October 14th, a piece of my heart will be tugging for someone else. Someone who loved you, someone who was brave for you, someone who stood up for you, someone who protected you and someone who took care of you before I could. Reese, it is my wish, that somewhere in the back of you mind, you will always hear Keely’s voice whispering that she loves you forever. And ever.

Happy Birthday, Reese. I will love you forever.
Love, Mommy & Mama Keely

Memed...Like a Lot, You Guys

I was tagged this past week like crazy. I don't remember having this much physical contact with anyone since Jeremy and I thought it would be fun to train for Ninja Warrior last spring. Bare with me folks, I've got three memes to get out of the way.

Meme Number 1
Miss Jack over at Spyrou Family Chronicles recently tagged me for the personal history meme. At first, I was hesitant to play along because I was just recently tagged. However, when she used the term “awesomesauce” in an email to me I couldn’t help but be instantly hooked. I KNOW! How have I gone my entire life and not heard of this term, awesomesauce? I was in the middle of a board meeting when I received her awesomesauce email. I laughed out loud. This didn’t go over to well with the others in the meeting. When it was time to vote, instead of offering a “Yay” or “Nay” I shouted “Awesomesauce!” I was then escorted out of the meeting. (Can you believe how many times I worked my new favorite word into one paragraph? Yeah, me either.

My good friend, DeeMarie (aka The Dancing Cookie) over at My Life in a Nutshell tagged me last night. I read her list and fell in love with her even more. Who knew there was such a thing as a biscuit chef? I wasn't hesitant at all to follow through with DeeMarie's request. I do anything she tells me to.

When Ginger Snaps also tagged me for this meme as well. Although she never made mention of the word awesomesauce, I’ll have to give her the benefit of the doubt that she’s never heard of it before.

The rules: Answer the following questions about yourself. Mention and link to the person that tagged you. Tag five more people and let them know that they have been tagged. Let the person who tagged you know that you have completed the meme by posting in their comments section.

Jen’s History:
10 years ago I was:
1. Unaware that the word “google” would one day be commonplace in my vocabulary but not in a dirty way
2. Unafraid of eating a banana in public. I just know better now.
3. Dreaming about the joy children would one day bring into my life
4. Naïve about how these very same children would test my sanity every day
5. Obsessed with Monica-gate. I so wanted that blue dress from the Gap. (dry cleaned, of course)

Five things on today’s to do list:
1. Pressure people into using Twitter. (I’m looking at you Margie and Casey. I already forced Heather.)
2. Feel badly about pressuring people to use Twitter
3. Crank call Steve Jobs and tell him that my iPhone sucks
4. Find a phone to crank call Steve Jobs with since mine has apparently exploded
5. Stalk Stiletto Mom but in a casual, breezy sort of way. That way if she catches me, I could just say “What? I was here first.”

Five snacks I enjoy:
1. All the fattening ones
2. Awesomesauce
3. Henry’s feet
4. Reesie’s ears
5. Jeremy’s neck

Five things I would do if I were a millionaire
1. Get some plastic surgery (and by some, I mean lots)
2. Buy a new iPhone
3. Eat a bunch of In-n-Out Burger
4. Buy up every copy of Karate Kid and burn them all (Sorry Ralph)
5. Start an apple sauce conglomerate to manufacture my new product called Awesomesauce

Five places I have lived:
1. In fear that I would never have children
2. In the moment
3. Fearful for my life
4. In embarrassment
5. In heart-racing anticipation

Five jobs I have had:
1. Peacemaker
2. Mother
3. Dumper
4. Dumpee
5. Survivor

Meme Number 2
Ron over at Clark Kent’s Lunchbox and Wendy at Notes from the Sleep Deprived tagged me on virtually the same day for this one. Now, you may remember that I was recently tagged in a similar meme just a few weeks ago, but in the spirit of unspectacular (which I strive to be every day), I am giving you yet another peek into all my lameness.

Rules: List five to seven unspectacular things about yourself. Link to the person that tagged you. Tag five to seven other unsuspecting souls and let them know that they are “it”. Post a comment to the person that tagged you letting them know you have fulfilled your tagging duties.

Seven Unspectacular Things about Jen:
1. I have eaten a BLT for dinner twelve out of the last fourteen days. Weird huh? Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking eating tacos those two other days. I have no explanation for my behavior other than we have several generous neighbors who have tomato plants.

2. I despise the words “ointment”, “probe” and “moist”. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

3. Whenever Jeremy picks up a lottery ticket, I am continually surprised that we don’t win.

4. I am obsessed with professional baseball. It is everything I am about: statistics, strategy and the slow-paced build up that something very cool could happen at any minute. I honestly have a heart attack watching a live game. Fun fact: Jeremy flew us to see a Yankee vs. Mariner’s game in Seattle a few years back. I insisted we go early for batting practice. I stood there watching A-Rod hit ball and after ball and just cried to myself. Not because I love A-Rod, but because I had already missed Bernie Williams at his practice.

5. I don’t like bacon. This is vexing since I’ve eaten all those BLTs.

6. I am tall. I’m 5’9”.

7. I lie. I’m actually 5’8.5”. Sorry.

Meme Number 3 (Last one, I promise)
My new friends, Colepack and Supervised Mama tagged me this weekend for a photo meme. Their touch was firm yet gentle. I was very pleased. But, I fear that next time either one tags me, it might be a little more of a b*tch slap because I’m cheating. In this meme, you’re supposed to go to your fourth photo folder and pick the fourth photo file to post on your site. You then give a brief description of what’s going on in that photo.

Well, when I did this, I found some interesting pictures of Jeremy and a girl he insists is just a cousin. Funny, why was his cousin wearing a bikini and why all the kissing in a smoke filled room? What was he doing with all those one dollar bills? And this cousin, Khandi Kane, why doesn't she own a decent handbag? I’m sure those bills he's putting in her bikini bottoms are just going to fall out the minute she climbs off his lap.

I decided to post this picture instead:



This was taken yesterday morning in our front yard. You may have heard that Utah received a sprinkling of snow this weekend. We didn't. We were dumped on. Henry jumped up and down and screamed that Santa was coming soon. Oh, it's bound to be a long fall here in the Rockies.

I am so not tagging anyone this go around. You can all breath a sigh of relief. Unless, of course, you want to be tagged. In that case, get to it!

*PROGRAMMING NOTE*: This week is sort of Adoption Week at Steenky Bee. Most of my other posts will have a thread of adoption common to each one. A few of them might be a little serious. I know. This has never been attempted at The Bee. Most of them, however, will be filled with the sarcastic nonsense that I hide behind.

In case you didn't know already, both our our little Bees (Henry and Reese) were adopted. During the week, I'll link you back to a few stories I've already posted about them.

The Five Spot

I was chatting via email with one of my Canadian bloggy friends, Captain Dumbass, the other day and I asked him a few questions about his homeland. I mean, besides everyone owning a pet moose, free health care and polar bears, I didn't know much about our neighbor to the north. I asked the Captain if I could interview him for my Five Spot. I set up a translator and everything. I was later told that they speak English up there. Who knew?

I asked him to send a picture of himself, you know, to help paint a clearer picture about who he really is. He described himself to me as "tallish, Canadian, educated and prone to asking a lot of questions". So I googled him. Here he is.

Canada's own, Alex Trebek, beloved host of Jeopardy? It now made perfect sense that he sent all his responses to me in the form of a question. Here goes...

1. Who the hell do you think you are?
I am a man of constant sorrow. I'm a little teapot. I'm every woman. I'm not ready to make nice. I'm the black private dick who's a sex machine to all the chicks. I got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack. I am woman, hear me roar.

2. Why did you start blogging and why won't you stop? For the love of everything we hold dear, why won't you stop?
I started blogging as a way to let my family know that I was still alive since it's so damned hard to pick up the phone. No. They don't care about me. I started blogging so I could tell my family about the kids and what they were up to without having to call and email pictures all the time. I am sloth, hear me sigh.

Then I realized that they weren't looking at the blog at all but I was enjoying writing and that little counter thingy kept climbing. I am a whore for attention, which is why I won't stop.

3. What's your favorite fruit?*
I'm partial to grapes that have been crushed and fermented. Aside from that, as long as it doesn't belong to the melon family and it has been peeled and diced and whatever else... basically set before me so I only have to eat it, I like that kind of fruit. Berries are good. Mangos. Did you know pineapples grow in the ground? Supreme Leader enjoys that one. We had our honeymoon in Maui. We were driving to the north side of the island one day and went through a pineapple plantation. I'm all like,"What's that?" and she's all, "Those are pineapples you fool. Where did you think they grew? In trees?" and I'm like "....." and she's like, "Did you really think they grew on trees?" and I was like, "I grew up in Canada! Pineapples come from Safeway." She's never let that one go. But really, you ever stop to think about where a pineapple comes from? Oh, and I hate durian. Anything that smells like a rotting corpse? Not so much. I like my corpses fresh.

(*I should point out, here that the Captain must have not understood my question. I actually asked him "What's your favorite music group?" He went into such detail about fruits that I didn't have the heart to tell him about his gaffe.)

4. Most embarrassing moment? (besides the fruit question above)
In the last hour? Since I got up this morning? You'll have to be more specific. Seriously, I have no embarrassing moments. Every last detail is carefully orchestrated. My life is synchronized like a NASA pre-launch routine, like an 80's Paula Abdul video, like... something Swiss. A watch or something. Bank maybe.

5. Besides 'Captain Dumbass' is there another nickname that personifies you?
Rapscallion.

It was at this point when I thanked the Captain for his time. I had all I needed. He shot me back an email and demanded that I continue the interview. I replied back to him telling him that this post is called The Five Spot for a reason. A few moments later, another email from him claiming that the exchange rate in Canada is higher than it is in the US now. My five questions would have to become ten.

Ladies, as tempting as the Captain may seem to you now, I’d hold off on map questing directions to his home. I mean, who doesn't love a guy who can wax poetic about a pineapple for like the longest paragraph ever? But remember, the Captain is married. He claims his wife, Supreme Leader, rules him with her pimp hand. I had to explain to him that this is concept would be lost on us Americans. You see, here, the much needed smack down and occasional waterboarding Supreme Leader uses are considered mere enhanced interrogation techniques.

6. Six words Supreme Leader would use to describe you.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid man!

7. What's the most masculine thing you've ever done?

Way back in the day I was out on my first horse back ride a my high school girlfriend. We were heading down this path that led into a steep ravine. Drop on one side, steep slope up the side of the mountain on the other. Something spooked my girlfriends horse, probably a rattlesnake, and it took off up the slope. Mine followed right behind it. As I was holding on for dear life I could see that her saddle was beginning to slide off and a fall in that situation would have been really bad. I kicked my horse into a faster run, caught the reins of her horse and stopped it. First and last time on a horse.

Oddly enough, when pressed for further details about this "mystery girl" and the horsey date, the Captain caved in, admitted he embellished the story and began sobbing like a baby. I was shocked because; a) I could actually hear him sobbing via email, and b) He falsified that story! Turns out he only was walking a dog with his cousin when a squirrel spooked them. He ended up running away and ditching the poor girl and her dog.

8. What's the most feminine thing you've ever done? Don't lie this time.
I got Supreme Leader a spa package for both of us on her last birthday. I had a pedicure. First and last time I'll have a pedicure. (Although, seriously, my feet looked fantastic the first time I wore sandals this year)

I fact checked this with Supreme Leader. Totally true, with one exception. He's had three pedicures since.

9. What other questions did you lie about? Feel free to rectify your answers here.
All of them. You've emailed the wrong person. I have no idea who this Captain Dumbass person is. Who's the dumbass now?

10. Describe your website in ten words or less.
People's evidence, exhibit A.

There you have it folks. If you like what you read here, and for some reason want to know more about a guy with an affinity for pedicures and pineapples, head on over to Us and Them. I promise you won't be disappointed. Well, not pinky-swear promise, but you know...

Winners!

The results are in! The winners of the Custom T-Shirt Contest have been selected. I want to thank everyone who participated. Thank you so much for playing along! I was floored by all of your creative suggestions for customized shirts.

The winners are:

Cameron of Get The Stink Off. He posted multiple times until he landed the coveted #5 spot. Toward the end of the contest, Cameron went down a shame spiral for technically cheating to reach the fifth comment spot by posting three times in a row. He hung his head low and offered to withdraw from the competition. I wasn't hearing any of it. I assured him that the other players were just jealous of his ingenuity and upset that they hadn't thought of it first. It is my long held belief that if you're not cheating, you're not trying. Way to go, Cameron! You won a t-shirt and my adoration for your take no prisoners attitude!

DeeMarie of My Life in a Nutshell also snagged herself a custom tee. The contest idea was her brain child so I thought it fitting she be rewarded too. In the span of about an hour, I received four emails, seven tweets and one registered letter from her demanding that I host a contest. I love me a gal with tenacity.

The final winner, as promised, was selected by our son, Henry in the most scientific and delicious manner we could imagine. First, I numbered a piece of paper 1 through 37 (the number of contestants). Then I placed an M&M on each number.



I told Henners that his decision would determine who the winner of a special shirt would be. For a while there the pressure was just too much for him.



Carefully he selected the M&M of his choice.

The number 32 was revealed. Who would it be?

It's Heinous of Irregularly Periodic Ruminations! Congratulations! You have just won your very own customized shirt! I showed Henry a picture of Heinous online and he was so excited that he looked like a real-life cowboy.

Henry then asked if he could have more M&Ms. I didn't see any harm so I obliged him.

But things started to take a turn. He just kept eating and eating those little candies. I was worried he would be up all night and bouncing off the walls from a sugar high.

But twenty minutes later, our little guy passed out from sheer exhaustion.


Congratulations to Cameron, DeeMarie and Heinous! Remember folks, in life, we should treat everybody like a winner. These three are just bigger winners, that's all.