I am a but insensitive

I HATE PINTEREST.

There, I said it. Too late to take it back.

Though I should clarify that statement by also saying that I have yet to even visit the site.

AWKWARD.

The reason for my rage-filled hate for the Pinterest is this post.

And, yes, I realize that it's my very own post, written with my own hand, almost three years ago.

That post is apparently making the rounds on Pinterest. I cannot tell you the volume of emails and comments I am STILL receiving on it. Most of them wonderfully complimentary.

But quite a few of them not so nice.

Take the most recent one, left by our old, cowardly friend, Anonymous:

Well, they're cute but Wampanoag Indians didn't live in tee-pees. They would be great for a lesson on the Plains Indians but not for Thanksgiving. Lumping all tribes and ways of life together is a but culturally insensitive.

I am assuming they meant it was a BIT culturally insensitive. I don't know what a but culturally insensitive is.

Though I am pretty sure my butt is quite offensive in several cultures. Maybe that was what they were saying?

And that is not the worst of them. I received a two-page email a few weeks ago from someone telling me I was promoting racial insensitivity, and that I was basically a racist pig.

In August, I got an email from a woman begging me to stop misinforming the world regarding the housing of the First Americans (as apparently, some don't like to be called Indians now). There were several informative links and if I gave a crap, I'd put them up here and educate the rest of you, too.

(Sorry. I don't give a crap. At least about educating the world on what the Indians First Americans lived in.)

Another kind reader informed me that I had no morals and was foul for using a swear word in that post.

(The dammit word.)

With the Resistance police hounding me night and day in my own home, I hardly need her to tell me I am going to you-know-where.

When I wrote that post THREE FREAKING YEARS ago, I had no idea that I would be offending Indians and prudes alike. I honestly just wanted a cute, edible decoration to put on my table at Thanksgiving.

I have said it before, and I will say it again, I WRITE WHATEVER THE EFF I WANT. If you don't like it, don't read it. And, if you have something crappy to say, have the courage to at least attach your name to it.

So, tell me, decent people of blog land, is there any reason at all that I should go visit Pinterest? Is it chock full of haters and anonymous trolls? Also? Is my butt offensive in your culture? Do you have obscure First American websites you could link for me? Would you like to send me condemnations for my bad language? Am I sarcastic and obnoxious?

Don't answer that.

My lucky day

A few weeks ago, I went on a little trip across the pond.

Or did I mention it? My trip? Yes?

All right then. Shut up.

While there (and properly following the instructions on my electricity converter, mind you) a slight mishap occurred that involved me and a Chi flat iron.

It broke my heart. (But mostly because it meant I had to walk around London and Paris with bad hair. And how would Darcy, Prince Harry, or Daniel Craig ever be able to fall in love with me?)

Because smooth, straight hair? Slightly important. Unless the Diana Ross ever comes back in style. Then I'm all set.

ANYway, the point of this rambling post is that I had to buy another one. So, first day off the plane, I stampeded my big-haired self into my local Ulta. Hannah came with me because, hello, she's female, and that store is like a magnet for us X chromosomers.

While in the checkout line, the clerk asked if I would like to donate a dollar to breast cancer research.

This happened at the exact moment that Hannah began tugging on my sleeve and whispering asking in a loud voice whether I thought the clerk was a boy or a girl.

The clerk, who was very obviously a boy, was wearing more make up than Cher on her best day in Las Vegas.

In a cheery attempt to distract Hannah and keep the He/She busy, I said that, sure, I'd love to donate to breast cancer. Oh, and what is that lovely thing over there?

I have no doubt that the He/She heard Hannah, and I got out of there as fast as I could.

Fast forward to today. I get a call from Ulta saying that I had won the breast cancer giveaway, which was $600 in free beauty products, and would I mind coming in to pick them up?

Would I mind driving five minutes down the road to claim my free stuff? Heck, I'd have crawled there in my underwear while wearing a crown of mayonnaise on my head. I love that store and spend a fortune on anything promising to make me look 12 again. Now you want to give me a whole bag of it FOR FREE?

Internet, I give you the booty, bounty, and beautiful pile of free stuff from the tragically gorgeous He/She at Ulta:

Shampoos, lip glosses, a blow drier, a curling rod, face creams, hair spray, nail polish, perfume...you name it, I've got it.

Even three pairs of fabulously pink reading glasses.

I'm thinking today HAS to be my day to play the lottery.

Either that, or I should just put everything on my face at once, head over to Ulta, and take a photo with the He/She.

(I'll bet he'd (she'd?) still look better than me. Seriously. Boyfriend rocked the make-up.)

My after dinner snack? Tums.

Tonight is the night mothers everywhere look forward to with dread. Not only do you have to try to keep yourself out of the chocolate, but you have to police your children lest they consume too much and find themselves home from school tomorrow with a belly ache and a bag full of candy.

Which, really, is a never ending cycle of misery for all that plays on repeat for days and days.

Plus, you have to parade your children around the neighborhood, frozen hands shoved in your jacket pockets, and beg the neighbors for yet more candy.

It's my least favorite holiday.

I will be glad once again when it's behind us and I can look forward to the real reason to gorge yourself sick: Thanksgiving.

But my scrooginess won't bring the party down -- we'll celebrate in the usual way: A pumpkin-shaped pizza, chocolate for dessert, and maybe I'll even find the energy to whip up a batch of these.

And, since I'm mean beyond belief, we'll also be taking the oldest boy for an after school appointment to get his braces tightened. Because nothing says I love you more than a Halloween orthodontic visit.

But, today, we wish you a very happy Halloween anyway. From a very cute cowgirl:

And two of the cast members from the television show Psyche.

Can you guess who this one is?

No? A cop with a gun, name tag, and handcuffs doesn't give it away? Combine a surly attitude with this, and maybe you'll have it figured out:

That's right, he's our favorite, Carlton Lassiter. Some of the boys' friends decided to band together and dress up as all the Psyche characters. It was an easy sell. Guns? Handcuffs? Bad attitudes?

Done and done.

Chase was assigned a critical, but lesser known, role. Any guesses?

He's the one cop on the Psyche police force who actually dresses like a cop. (And, yes, he wears shoes. As Chase sometimes does.) Give up?

It's McNabb, whose job is usually to bring in a bag of evidence or stand there looking pretty while holding a gun. Chase is quite thrilled to be him.

Happy Halloween, peeps! Raise your bottle of Tums high tonight!

[And last, but certainly not least, courtesy of our friends at Random dot org, the winner of the Son of a Gun giveaway is Amanda D. Email me your address, sister, and a copy is headed your way.]

At least he doesn't inhale

Last night we had our church Trunk-or-Treat party.

Which, as many of you know, is basically just 75 kids running around on a sugar high begging for that which they do not need: more candy.

As I watched my friend Beckie (whose son, Jack, is a diabetic) administer his nightly insulin shot, I asked her if we ought to maybe just give every kid that walked by a little dose with the insulin pen.

She thought it was an excellent idea, and a possible way out of ANY and all future church callings.

Instead, we handed out candy and opted NOT to drug other people's children.

I know. We're boring like that.

Today, as I'm trying to control my the kids' consumption of the candy we brought home, McKay introduced me to a middle school phenomenon known as smoking the smarties.

The theory behind it is that you crush up a tube of smarties until they resemble a fine powder, keeping the wrapper intact. Holding the smarties like a joint between your thumb and pointer finger, you open one end of the cigarette candy wrapper and suck some of the powder into your mouth. You then blow it out in a sugary, billowy smoke that, honestly, resembles something far more grown up and sinister than candy.

He tells me the key is to not inhale the smartie smoke, to just take a little bit in before blowing it out again. And that his new goal in life is to be able to make the smoke come out of his nose.

He also claims, "It's not bad for you. And it won't hurt you one bit."

Where have we heard that before, hmmm?

I am thinking that in 20 years, there will be Anti-Smartie campaigns and DARE to Keep Kids Off Smartie parties at school.

Anyone know of a good smartie cessation program out there? It's probably best to wean him now while he's still young and pliable.

You old Son of a Gun

Whenever I hear people complain about their in-laws, I thank my lucky stars once again for mine. Though I was madly in love with the Husband and could not wait to marry him, I also was madly in love with his family and could not wait to be a part of them. He is one of seven and often jokes that his parents like me better than they like him.

I do not dispute that. I am all kinds of awesome.

But this past year, my mother-in-law was given every writer's dream. She was contacted by her uncle with an idea he had for a western novel. He hired her to write it and breathe life and depth into his characters and story. She worked tirelessly for months to finish the manuscript. On a whim, she submitted it to a publisher, got accepted, and it's been a whirlwind of excitement around here ever since.

In fact, the top of Chase's birthday wish list this year was a copy of Oma's book.

The book is out this month and it's fantastic. I thoroughly enjoyed reading it and could not put it down. Though Oma kept it pretty clean in the event that any grandkids would one day want to pick it up, there is plenty of adventure for the rest of us: saloons, shoot outs, runaways, ladies of the night, and heroes that save the day. Without giving anything anyway, the ending will leave your jaw gaping.

So, to celebrate her big accomplishment, I am going to give one lucky reader a copy of her book. Leave a comment telling me your favorite author and come Thursday morning, I will randomly pick a winner. If you blog about the book and leave me the link, I will put in two entries for you, doubling your chance to win.

This is a great story - fun for people of all ages. Got a dad or grandpa who likes westerns? Enter and you've got a Christmas present all ready to go.

Hurry quick. Contest ends Thursday morning at 8 a.m. central time. And, yes, I will happily ship internationally.

P.S. Should you not win and want to get the book for yourself anyway, here is where you can find it.

We have nothing to fear but....how does that go again?

The Real Bloody Mary, image via

As I mentioned a few days ago, we are in the middle of The Remodel. Now before any of you hunt off to search for free p0rn, I promise this post will not consist of any before and after photos. I do not intend to give a daily play-by-play of what is happening in my home.

Though I could.

But I'd be the only one left reading this blog inside of two hours, I am sure.

No, this story only relates to The Remodel as it is the reason my children are now sleeping in the basement.

Which, according to them, is evil, dark, spooky, and/or haunted.

It's been a bit of a battle, most especially with Hannah, to get them to willingly fall asleep down there.

You know, in our fully finished, well-lit, not haunted or evil, basement.

Last night, I sat down to watch a little television in the family room in the basement. It was like a moth to the flame - instantly, all three kids were at my side, attempting to snuggle on the couch. They simultaneously all pretended that I was beautiful and began petting me on the head while cooing words of love.

It was like a flash mob of sudden and really weird affection.

Not actually minding that much Being a total pushover, I told them they could have 30 minutes with me, and then it was time for bed. We put on an old Seinfeld re-run and settled in for a few laughs together.

In the middle of the show, a commercial came on. For this movie. When the "Bloody Mary" scene appeared (watch at the 57-second mark, if you're very, very brave) they all three crushed me in a vice grip of fear. I peeled their fingers and bodies off me and told them it was just a stupid commercial for a very stupid movie. I explained who Bloody Mary really was and that it was just a superstitious joke about a terrible Queen in British history.

I even went so far as to say her name three times in the mirror, just to show them the stupidity of it all.

Fortunately, she did not appear. That could have been awkward.

But later that night, I was upstairs getting ready to crawl into bed myself. I heard the sniffles before I saw the feet shuffle in sheepishly. His eyes wide with fear, Chase begged to sleep in my room. Eight seconds later, McKay was at his side making the same request. Before I could weigh a judgement, I looked down to find Hannah tucking herself and five stuffed animals into my bed.

With a sigh, I caved again -- threatening that it would only be this one time. After all, the Husband was out of town and it seemed harmless.

And it was.

Until Bloody Mary appeared and killed us all. Until about 11:30 p.m., when we were all still WIDE awake. And feeling very, very unhappy.

McKay was coughing.
Hannah was yelling at McKay because he was coughing.
I was yelling at Hannah because she was yelling at McKay.
Chase was apologizing for everyone because he was afraid I'd send them back downstairs to their graves.

It was a disaster.

In hindsight, it might have been better if Mary had appeared.

At 11:30 p.m. on a school night, my children would probably have had less to fear from her.