I promise not to publicly embarass you this year by doing something like, oh, telling the internet that you own the soundtrack to every major Broadway production since Stephen Sondheim was born. Or that you slavishly sing along to them in the car and at home. Or that you have a particular yen for “I Feel Pretty” from Westside Story. 

See? I totally wouldn’t do that because I realize that informing people that this: 

…likes to sing this:

…most definitely qualifies as a violation of the “don’t ask don’t tell” policy. So enjoy your birthday and know that, for once, I will do my level best to preserve the perfectly macho facade that you have so carefully cultivated over the years.

P.S. - Is it physically possible to fit 57 candles on top of an MRE?

P.P.S. - Do you still make the Taliban POWs sashay around and call you Maria, or has that been declared an official violation of the Geneva Conventions?

You know, there are times when I want to come type away on this blog about some of the stupid shit I do just because, well, it seems like it would make it less dumb if I were to publish a post and then sit back and imagine that somewhere out there I have several readers who are sitting in front of their monitors, smacking their foreheads and saying out loud, “Dude. I’ve totally done that too.”

As if doing something stupid makes it less so when it is diluted and spread out among a greater sampling of humans. Like buying a Humvee. Or wearing crocs.

Anyway, here is a list of the stupid things I’ve done in the past week that no person in their right mind would ever fess up to:

- backed over something, stopped, rolled down my window and put my head outside - and then without confirming that what I had backed over was not, in fact, a dog or small child or some other legally recognized entity whose annhialation would result in me being sued - pulled forward, and then backed over it again.

- fed my kids several metric tons worth of chocolate, marshmallow and soda before allowing them to ride home inside the car instead of putting them in front and yelling Mush!

- Forgot to wear BodyGlide to the gym so that my running skirt wouldn’t ride up (at least the guy on the treadmill behind me didn’t seem to mind)

- answered the door for a Jehovah’s Witness

- locked my keys in the car

- locked my keys in the car with the kids (who were Not At All Helpful in unlocking the doors)

- locked my keys in the car and gained entry by crawling through the rear window when there was a perfectly good spare clicky-thing just ten feet away

- inadvertently introduced flax seed to my daughter’s diet

- plotted a ten mile run for Sunday, answered the phone, became sidetracked during phone conversation, finished plotting run without really looking, fled house, returned twelve-point-two miles later wondering why I felt so beat up.

Please tell me I’m not alone in this. What kind of goofy stuff have you done this week?

I’m sitting in one of those McDonald’s “playland” things. You know, those plate-glass enclosed boxes filled with plastic tunnels and rubberized mats into which you can release your feral offspring after force-feeding them more calories than the entire Donner Party combined?

So, figuring that it might help me in tuning out the non-stop din of blood oaths and other parents’ threats to inflict bodily harm upon their children I figured I’d bring my laptop.

This, of course, was a stupid idea. Never mind the fact that universally speaking, kids are pros at busting stuff. Especially my stuff and particularly when said stuff costs more than my first car.

Then again, I can handle the fact that every time I take my daughter to the bathroom I come back to find a zillion tiny fingerprints all over the screen. I can even get over the ick-factor of returning from refilling my soda to find that one of the parents pulled up his myspace page which  - so far as I can tell - is mostly populated with boudoir photos.

Side note: How is it that it’s been at least eighteen years since I was exposed to the wonders of donkey shows but somehow missed this creepy ”male boudoir” phenomenon?

What I cannot handle, the thing that is making me most crazy, the one behavior that may very well result in me being led out of this McDonald’s in handcuffs and charged with aggravated assault is the incessant whining of one of the kids on the playscape.

This kid started whining the moment he arrived and in the hour that we’ve all shared this space the brat has only let up long enough to cram several pounds of french fries into his ever-lovin’ mcnugget hole. And believe you me, when I say the kids whines I really mean he “wails at a decibel range commonly used to keep prisoners awake at Gitmo”. This tyke isn’t satisfied with a simple registration of his displeasure: he wants to inform the entire continent and outlying domestic territories of the injustices he’s being forced to tolerate at the hands of a mother who can’t seem to stop pouring soda down his gullet.

You may ask, what is the kids whining about?

Everything. If he falls he whines. If the a/c is too high he whines. When a little girl was using the slide he whined. When other kids look at him sideways, cross his path or fail to bow and scrape before addressing his Whininess the kid. Fucking. Whines.

The boys are now brandishing the toy guns that came in their happy meals. The girls are planting the seeds of rebellion. I now have a nervous tic. Whispered conspiracies are flowering in the ball pit and I suspect there will be an attempted fragging momentarily. Everyone, including the little terror’s mom, has developed the thousand yard stare.

…and I’m beginning to wonder: is it too late to force this woman to have an abortion?

A couple of weeks ago, just before I seemingly abandoned my blog, my husband and I decided to take the kids on a family vacation. Since he and are alike in that we find the prospect of taking a two year old on a plane about as inviting as performing home dental surgery on one another, we decided to vacation close to home.

Also, the in-laws had taken their RV and skipped town, thus leaving their Santa Cruz County digs, fully-stocked liquor cabinet, porn collection and cache of guns lonely for company.

Kids? Meet Mr. Tequila and Mr. Glock. They’ll be your babysitters for the next two weeks.

Before our vacation I decided to try my hand at triathlons which means enduring the Pacific Ocean’s sub-Arctic conditions which means purchasing a wetsuit which means that somewhere between the words “Honey” and “I’m thinking about doing triathlons” my husband shelled out a few hundred bucks to cover his wife from neck to ankles in neoprene with nary a blowjob to show for it.

But he got even. And how.

So while we’re in SC we decide to take the kids out to the beach. He picked Sunset Beach; a lovely stretch of sandy coastline that shelves gently into Monterey Bay. It is quite a relaxing spot if you are, in fact, intelligent enough to remain on dry land.

At any rate, we arrived at the beach. I had my wetsuit. My husband and kids had parkas. We were ready for an authentic Northern California beach excursion minus the hypothermia that seems to plague bikini-clad tourists who’ve watched too much television.

I’m not going to bother going into detail about the ambivalent signage everywhere that indicated that yes, while it was true that one could technically swim at this particular beach, it was not generally advisable. Not that there were signs that specifically said “Keep Out” or “perhaps you should reconsider” or even “update your life insurance.” Instead, there was a plethora of directions on how to survive should the ocean throw an undertow, sleeper wave or riptide your way.

I’m also not going to bore you with details of waves several feet taller than me, jellyfish and kelp infested swells, or even the fact that I would have had to swim halfway to Japan to get beyond the surfline.

Sufficed to say, things were not going well. I was taking a ton of foam in the face and within ten minutes I felt like I had eaten a salt lick. Have I mentioned that I’m terrified of water? These are but a few of the reasons why - when I saw the nice boy with the lifeguard gear waving at me from the beach - I was more than happy to pack it in.

“What’s up? Is there a problem?” I asked the kid, not that I didn’t know the answer. Of course there was a problem; some idiot at Fleet Feet had set me loose with a wetsuit.

“Um…” The kid started to hem. He didn’t need to talk. His expression said it all, Lady, there’s a whole list of reasons you have no business being out here but you’re a sasquatch and I’m afraid you’ll rip my arms off before I reach #50.

“There’s an awful riptide comin’ through here today.” The kid stammered. He pointed to a red warning flag that was most definitely not there before I’d gotten in the water. Not that it wouldn’t have been helpful to know. “Could you, uh, just swim closer to the lifeguard tower?”

“Do you mean swim closer to it or get out?”

“Um…” The kid looked at me and then looked at his feet.

“Look, what would you do?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t be swimming. Not out here anyway.”

“Can you just tell me that I’m being kicked out of the ocean?”

“You’re being kicked out of the ocean.”

“King Neptune thanks you.”

My family and I have been on vacation. Or more like a “staycation” since our time away from home wasn’t exactly far from home.

Still, my online presence has been next to nill and I have been neither posting nor visiting other blogs which, I realize, makes me A Very Bad Person And Flaky Blogger and really? After such prolonged neglect who could blame my laptop if it decided to break up with me and move on to a more dedicated end user who would caress it with soft kisses and a tender upgrade to Windows Vista? Not I.

But I’m back now and boy, I have to say that after several days of choking on smoke and ash from wildfires in Monterey, Big Sur, Watsonville and Santa Cruz it sure was refreshing to return to the Sacramento area and find that it too was a charred and smoke-filled bowl of Hell.

…and I’ll bet a $20 Starbucks giftcard that every televangelist in America is gleefully proclaiming that these wildfires are proof that God is still in the smiting business and legalizing gay marriage is as good a reason as any for him to convert every Californian’s home to ash.

At any rate, I’m back. But not that back since I am going to have to further neglect my laptop while I complete a huge project for my summer accounting class and if the words “summer accounting class” didn’t cause whatever was in your hands to fall to the ground and shatter while you crossed yourself and said a Hail Mary for me then you are a black-hearted and soulless being beyond salvation.

Also, in case you’re wondering, that top photo is a rather large jellyfish that my husband and I found washed up on the beach in Marina last week. I’d love to say that I picked it up and relived my glory days by starting a jellyfish fight with my husband using that hamburger-sized monster but I’d be lying.

Nah, I was feeling rather kind that day so I picked up this little half-dollar-sized jobber and hucked it at him instead. 

Jellyfish fights… good times!

Let me tell you, when you’re sick and have an ache-level that is measured by the degrees at which your spine is trying to rip free of your body it helps to have a spouse who is willing to run to the store to retrieve things for you. 

A reliable source has informed me that this soup contains both pixie dust and antibiotics which explains its ability to cure everything from a summer cold to an advanced case of Ebola. Last night I was prepared to give my left arm for this particular soup and my husband was prepared to sacrifice the rest of my body to shut me up. So he ran out and grabbed it for me and I pretended not to notice that he’d spiked it with NyQuil.

Such is the stuff our marriage is made of.

I’m sick with something. I’m not sure what bug hit me but it’s chewing at my throat and making every muscle fiber in my body sore and achy. I’m pretty sure the damned thing is gunning for my sense of humor as well because I just puked on my husband’s side of the bed and I haven’t been able to muster the energy to properly savor that moment the way I should.

At any rate, I can barely sit up so I’m just going to post photos and try to come up with something to go along with them. Sound good?

Alright, here goes: 

Ok, so let me explain; yesterday was our new housekeeper’s first day (yes, I am quite the spoiled bitch) and while I was taking a bath last night I noticed that not only did she manage to get the hard water stains out of the toilets and sinks, the woman made spotless our soap savers. 

I have no idea if she scrubbed them or soaked them or dipped them in a substance that will eventually eat my face off but who really cares, really so long as they look good. After seeing this I proceeded to throw the contents of my refrigerator on the floor before letting my children lick the tile clean. Just because I could.

This carving was a gift from a friend of mine who was gracious enough not to kick me out of her house when I ran rough-shod over her southern sensibilities:

It’s called “Love of Learning”. Isn’t she adorable what with her books and no face? And totally unexpected since just two days prior I had the audacity to ask my southern girlfriend about her rib recipe which, apparently, is grounds for justifiable homicide where she’s from. Even when the southerner in question is a white woman who threw off enough of her old-fashioned southern upbringing to marry a black man.

Went to Tahoe the other day: 

There was no real reason for the trip other than the fact I was about to kill and eat my offpsring if I spent one more day cooped up with them. In the end the pile of gold kugrands required to fill my gas tank was worth getting out of town for.

I helped out with a jog-a-thon at my kids’ school: 

Quite a few parents turned out, which was nice since it meant we didn’t have to jump through hoops for permission to beat students when they got out of line.

I finished up finals, but not before I snapped a few photos inside the Winchester Mystery Trailer: 

You know what I love best about this photo? The fact that right next to the infant casket is a Costco-sized package of granola bars and a sign admonishing people to pay fifty cents before taking one.

I received straight A’s by the way. Not that anyone really cares, but I figure what’s the point of getting straight A’s if you can’t lord it over everyone? Oh, and there’s more funeral education photos here.

I’ve been growing stuff: 

It’s large and loud and orange and therefore I am totally in love with it.

Ever see a wind farm?  

This is a photo of the wind farm on the Altamont Pass taken during the drive between Sacramento and Santa Cruz.

A friend of mine made the trip up to Sacramento to participate in the Sac State Alumni recital:

He’s an incredibly talented musician and I can’t think of anything smart to say about him although trust me - I’ve really tried to come up with something. Since we grew up together I try to tread lightly since he’s the only one who can produce photographic evidence that I’m a total tard and not at all as cool as I try to portray myself on this blog. He leaves for Kansas next month to earn his doctorate.

…and since this post doesn’t have nearly enough photos to destroy the bandwidth of most of my readers, how about another photo of the Winchester Mystery Trailer?

Yup. That just about wraps it up. Sorry about the loading time.

…but we didn’t answer the door. I’m in the middle of studying for finals and avoiding parenting my small child who, by the looks of things, has gotten her head stuck between the slats on the back of one of our dining room chairs for the third time this morning.

I suppose I should help her out but I find myself welling by parental pride because dude! My kid was capable of suspending the laws of physics long enough to push her honeydew-sized head through a space that only a softball was formerly capable of passing through! How cool is that?

Also, I’m thinking that - as a parent - it is by far better for me to let her figure out how to solve this issue on her own. You know, the day isn’t too far off that she’ll be off in the big world alone and what would happen if she goes off into it having not learned how to dislodge her head from impossibly tight spaces? I mean its not like she can expect me to come running should she get jammed into a copy machine or a dorm window.

Well, I suppose she could expect me to, but she’d be waiting a long time because when my children turn 18 I’m only paying for colleges that are a minimum of four time zones away.

So I think I’m just going to sit here and savor this precious moment and appreciate these days before my daughter has figured out how to dial up the fire department for assistance.

I’ve been on the phone with the kind folks at National Poison Control this morning because, you know, you’re not a real parent until you’ve suffered a premature heart attack when your child confronts natural selection head-on.

Anyway, care to guess why?

…because when I was a young and idiotic college student I went to school with people who would do anything to get high, including chugging Robitussin and eating massive amounts of nutmeg. This is when I discovered that morning glory seeds contain lysergic acid.

…because lysergic acid - for those of you who might not know - is the long name for LSD.

…because this morning, years after I ended my own quest for hallucinogens - which, may I add? Is really a very stupid way to blow your free time and results in the accumulation of Grateful Dead cd’s which, the last time I checked, suck. So kids? Don’t do drugs. - I spent and hour planting these little psychedelic corpuscles along my back fence.

(Just for the flowers, ok? It’s not like I’m emptying seed packets into the blender and pouring myself glassfulls of four-way-window-pane.)

…and because, while I was planting said plants I was blissfully unaware that my daughter had given me the slip.

…because my daughter, after having snuck back off into the kitchen, climbed onto a counter and grabbed the remainder of the seeds that had been soaking overnight and was busy snacking on them.

…which leads me to my conversation with the nice lady at the National Poison Control center in Washington D.C. who I’m pretty sure didn’t believe me when I said that I was actually planting the seeds when my daughter grabbed a handful and ingested several of them.

I mean, could you imagine getting that phone call? I’ll tell you what, if I had been working the desk at Poison Control this morning the first thing I would have done upon hanging up the phone with me would be to look over the cubicle wall at my neighbor and say, So this lady out in California says she was “planting” morning glory when her kid “accidentally” ate some. As if.

…and yeah, I would have used finger quotes and everything.

Oh, and the noises the neighbors must have heard this morning as I crammed my fist down the kid’s throat in a vain attempt to retrieve some of the chewed up morsels of hallucinogenic goodness that she swallowed. I just know that even if the lady at Poison Control doesn’t call the cops then my neighbors definitely will because my lame attempt at rescuing my offspring from an acid trip sure sounded like I was choking her to death.

Look for me on the news folks. I’ll be the one being led out of the house in cuffs while my moon-eyed daughter sings Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

I love being a student. Especially a mortuary school student. Not only do I get to attend classes in the Winchester Mystery Trailer but I suspect I may be one of only a handful of people throughout the country who can legitimately incorporate photos from rotten dot com into a class assignment.

Yesterday I was finishing up a project on putrefaction and an accompanying visual aid which - I’m quite proud to report - was adequately disgusting, when it became apparent that I was going to need some crafty-type stuff to get the photos and cards to stick to the poster board the way I wanted.

That’s when I went to Joann’s. You know, the crafty-type store with lots of gingham and fake flowers and cutesy pink ribbony things that attract hordes of uptight soccer moms who never get laid or use the word “fuck”?

Yeah. That store. Oh boy do they love me there.

So I go. And I have to say that there is nothing more fun than cruising down aisles filled with muffy moms comparing puff paints while I search for glue with which I can affix photos of bloated, drowned, and dried-out corpses.

Good times… especially if you could have been in my head.

For a few minutes I actually felt like I was on an undercover mission. A mission in search of crafty contraban and the staff at Joann’s had been specifically instructed to be on the lookout for student morticians in order to apprehend us before we breached their perimeter. And the other customers would be in on it too; if it was discovered that I had in fact gotten past the crack team manning the cash registers the customers would provide a secondary line of defense in order to prevent me from defiling their zots or glue sticks with my dark and disturbing crafting. Maybe they would trip me in the scrapbooking section or try to waylay me at an end-cap dedicated to felting.

…and now I totally lost my train of thought because my dad just called in the middle of me writing this post to tell me that despite the fact that the Army licked a stamp and sent him via priority mail, he has managed to travel for five days without actually being dumped off in Afghanistan yet. At this point I’m not sure who’s worse in the reliability department: the government or Delta Airlines.

“So where are you then?”

“Turk-ij-is-tanople?”

“Dad, that’s not a country.”

“Manna-fanna-stan?”

“Sounds like the name game.”

“Turk-a-jerk-my-chain-is-stan?”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

“Ok, I give up. I don’t know what country we’re in. I don’t know what time zone we’re in. I don’t even know what my name is.”

“Well at least you’re in the section with countries that end in -stan.”

“True. Hey, wanna burqa? They’re super cheap here. Wave a few American dollar bills and the women practically fly out of them.”