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1) When I wake up in the middle of the night and look at the clock and realize that I have several more hours of which to do Sleepy Time, it is absolutely delicious. DELICIOUS.

2) Yardwork. I know. It’s weird, but I love working in our huge yard. I did two hours of weed-whacking yesterday and my arms feel like spaghetti but it was so worth it. Well, except for when I whacked those huge weeds and the weed guts flew into my eyes, like blood spatters from a CSI crime scene. Gross.

3) That first sip of coffee in the morning. GLORIOUS.

4) Hugging my husband and snuggling into his neck.

5) Hugging my kids and snuggling into their necks.

6) Listening to my cat George snore. It’s super cute.

7) Pretending I can sing as well as Idina Menzel and belting out songs from “Wicked”. I also have been known to warble a few “Glee” related songs, especially anything Mercedes or Rachel sing. It’s quite an ego trip to pretend that I sound like these ladies.

8. Going to garden stores. Garden stores are my Rodeo Drive. I could easily spend thousands of dollars in there and not even blink an eye. I would have absolutely ZERO guilt.

9) I love listening to Henry play by himself because he tends to make up the most interesting scenarios. For example, the other day he was playing with his Hot Wheels and sending them zooming off a precipice and it all had something to do with having to go with the bathroom. No idea what was going on there, but it was hilarious.

10) Getting my hair brushed or cut sends me instantly into a trance-like state. I always feel bad when I go to get my hair done because the nice ladies are trying to chat me up and I’m all “can’t talk in a trance MGHHHHHHH”. I seriously get all glassy-eyed and can’t move my arms or legs. It’s weird. If I had a million dollars I would pay someone to brush my hair for two hours a day. Any takers?

What are your things that make you silly happy?

So! I’ve been strangely absent this week (emphasis on STRANGE) since my computer decided to catch a virus and go completely Manchurian Candidate on me.

It’s been weird not having a computer. I’ve had to do work on the kids’ computer, which, since it’s parental-controlled up to the HILT, makes it interesting to say the least. I mean, how am I supposed to get any work done when I can’t watch me some cute kitty cat videos on YouTube? Hostile workplace, I tell you.

I promise I will be writing some fun little vignettes in the next day or so about stuff that’s been going on this week, including Dean quitting his soul-sucking job (hooray!), the kids loving school (hooray huzzah!) and me shaving my legs three days in a row (>>>>awkward silence<<<).  In the meantime,  I’ve got lots of cute kitty vids to catch up on, including this one:

I watched it for a couple of seasons and then put it aside, mostly because I just ended up feeling kinda dirty after watching it, and not the “fweeeee!” kind of dirty. The kind that makes you want to go take a bath. And add a few cupfuls of bleach.

I did always enjoy the intro song to Weeds, which is “Little Boxes”, originally written by Malvina Reynolds in the 60′s, and now sung by different artists for every episode. For instance, here’s Elvis Costello:

This weekend, as I was plucking the mysterious goat hairs that apparently have decided to make my neck, jaw, and chin their new summer residence, I started singing a little song put to the tune of “Little Boxes”. You can sing along if you like. Personally, I find that singing this song as I rip out various intruders with sharp metal tweezers makes the whole process that much more super-de-duper. Here we go!

Little Goat Hairs

Little goat hairs, on my jawline, little goat hairs on my my neck and chin
Little goat hairs, on my face now, little goat hairs, why are you here
There’s a brown one and a long one and a short one and a black one
And they’re all made out of collagen and they all look just the same.

And the goat hair on my chin now all pokes out waving to my friends
Saying “hello I’m a goat hair look at me now LOOK AT ME”,
And there’s tweezing, and there’s trimming, and there’s painful hot wax applied
Yet they all come back again and again, and they all bring some friends.

TA DAAAAA!!!!!!

Did you sing along? I know I did.

P.S. There’s actually four verses to this song, but I gave up after two, because honestly, how much do you really want to hear about my ‘special little problem’?

Here’s what I do every day:

• Treadmill for 30 minutes on the “weight loss interval” mode.
• Weight training.
• Stationery bike for 30 minutes.

So yes, I AM exercising for about 90 minutes three times a week. Have I lost any weight? Why, no! Am I seeing ANY kind of progress? Tra la la! IT IS TO LAUGH.

One of the treadmills at the Sherwood Y, actually, #38, is somewhat, um, “moody”. Actually, substitute the word “moody” for “high on a number of mind-altering substances and holding a whale of a grudge” and you’ll have it about right.

For example: I’m on the treadmill, things are going well, I’m sweating, heart pumping, etc. All of a sudden, the heart rate measurement thingy completely disappears.

“Huh”, I think to myself.

Then the little text readout starts flashing “SPEED UP SPEED UP SPEED UP”, even though just SECONDS ago, it had measured my heart rate in the green cardiovascular zone and things were going quite beautifully. Now, the heart rate thingy utterly turned on me and flashed a measly 45, which in turn sent a signal to its treadmill brain of “SLACKER FATTY INITIATE KILL MODE NOW”.

“But I’m already going too fa-ERGHHSHGHHHHHHH”

Then the incline thingy? The part that is supposed to go up and down gradually in a non-threatening manner? It suddenly goes from a hearty “3″ all the way up to a Mt.Everest, heart-attack inducing “15″. Basically, I’m walking straight up and down in the middle of the air at this point, desperately holding on to the hand rails, walking as fast as my legs will carry me, while the treadmill readout is STILL screaming at me to “SPEED UP SPEED UP SPEED UP” in a horrifically taunting, Jillian Michaels sort of way.

It’s all I can do to stay upright at this point, and the Red Button of Failure is nowhere near my sweaty, panicking fingers. I start slapping buttons randomly, and the “incline” button, even though I’ve ratcheted it down past “Evelyn Salt” level right on down to “Seriously, John Candy Could Do This”, continues to happily support #38′s mission to MESS ME UP BUT GOOD.

Then, all of a sudden, the incline starts going down. I’m not walking up in the air Jetson-style anymore. “THANK YOU JEBUS”, I pant. Legs and feet are cramping in a worrisome, not fun sort of way, sweaty palms are sliding all over the handrails, but things are starting to get back to normal OR MAYBE NOT.

Those “intervals”? The ones that were carefully planned to increase my heart rate at a level both safe and sane? NOT SAFE AND SANE ANYMORE. And guess what? THERE ARE 5 MORE INTERVAL CYCLES TO GO. #38 is basically completely full-on Exorcist now, and bumps me all the way back up to level 15.

See, here’s where most people would have said “There is obviously something wrong with this machine, and I shall report it to the proper authorities immediately.”

Those people are practical and sensible. I am not one of those people.

Instead of realizing that “hello? this machine has gained sentient intelligence and is out to kill me John Connor style”, I was all like “BIYATCH?!?!?!? WHO YOU THINK YOU’RE MESSIN’ WIT? DON’T MAKE ME CUT YOU”. You should probably picture me saying that in the style of a super awesome Sarah Connor kickass montage; in reality it was about as intimidating as a vanilla cupcake laced with flopsweat.

So, yeah! After all that, ALL OF THAT, I managed to stumble off the treadmill without further humiliation, but I’m pretty sure that #38 is rubbing its treadmill-y hands together in violent, inappropriate anticipation of what it’s going to do to me next time. It’s probably talking to all it’s fellow machine friends in the break room: “HA HA I got me a good one today fellas, OH MAN it was like MADE of AWESOME, I got video on YouTube, wanna see it?”

Let’s focus on the butt-nekkid part. OF COURSE. Here’s how my first experience with ChatRoulette went down:

Me: I have to turn the what on now?
Me: Camera is on and blinking at me. Red light. Eye of Sauron. I SEE YOU. Ha ha. I’m such a nerd.
Me: So now I just wait I guess SWEET JESUS.
Me: WHAT?
Me: I JUST SAW SOMEONE’S PENIS.
Me: clicking furiously out of penis cam

Me: Okay the next one should be better.
Me: Hello?
Me: whispers I think she’s asleep.
Me: I’ll just click to the next one SWEET GOD THIS ONE’S NAKED TOO.
Me: clicks furiously
Me: Wait, what? What is this happening now? WHAT? WHAT?
Me: clicks furiously
Me: This seriously is so WHAT THE WHAT. FULL-ON NAKED.
Me: clicks exit

So, yeah. A lotta naked, little bit sleepytime, one brief flirt with disturbing/creepy, and I was officially an ex-Chatroulette newb. Honestly, I do try to keep on top of all the hipster Web shenanigans, but I draw the line at naked people staring at me. STOP STARING AT ME, NAKED PEOPLE.

Okay, so I’m finishing my BA this quarter (yay me!), and of course, I left the excruciatingly difficult math class to the very last. The final exam was a proctored exam, which means that you have to take it where someone watches you to make sure you’re not Googling all your answers (AS IF I WOULD EVER DO THAT). And yes, the word “proctored” sounds like “prostate”, so I was getting a lot of secret, HIGHLY inappropriate giggle time out of that word every time I had to say it, which, surprisingly, was a lot.

Anyway, I got into the testing center, sat down, vaguely thought about checking my Facebook and then realized that “hello? You have a math test to do, woman”, and then got right to it. The room was blissfully quiet, perfect for a two hour gorge of insanely difficult math-like fun, but only for a few minutes.

That’s when Bronchitis Man came in.

SWEET BABY MOSES ON A BUTTERED CRACKER, PEOPLE. Every few minutes, this guy would hack like a seagull choking on a Danish. He would snort so loud, hawking so much assorted bodily fluids at the same time, that I seriously kept thinking that I was going to have do the Heimlich on him or something. It. Was. Disgusting. Way to end my career as an undergrad, Universe! Ha ha, you kidder, you!

Act Two:

Henry comes home from school, goes back in his room, and comes out with just his underpants on.

Me: “Why are you walking around with no pants? Go back and get some pants on. Nobody wants to see you in your underpants.”

Henry: “Today is TUESDAY, Mom. It’s my Underpants Day.”

Me: “……..”

Henry: “I TOLD you that, Mom.”

Act Three

Dean’s sitting in the big white chair that’s conveniently situated right next to the ginormous window in our living room. I decide to give him a little somethin’ somethin’ and go sit on his lap; kids are still up, so we’re talking PG here, enough to make the kids go “EWWWW” but not enough to, I don’t know, stare blankly and clutch a teddy bear to your chest in horrified fascination. Anyway, I’m nuzzling and doing various inappropriate things to him, and the FIREMAN NEIGHBOR WALKS BY, making full-on eye contact with both of us, especially me who is sitting on the Hubs’s lap and pushing my boobages into his face.

We both waved.

Finite

Encore: Found out shortly after this that the Mother In Law is coming over ALL DAY WEDNESDAY. She will be bringing her little rat-like dog who likes to eat all the cat food, jump on the counters, and stand silently behind me as I’m cooking and then freak the living daylights out of me.

Encore Deux: Found out shortly after THAT that I have a dentist appointment Wednesday AM, which I promptly cancelled, and the secretary person AS USUAL made me feel extremely guilty, to the point where I wanted (almost) to call back and apologize for the fact that I’ve already used up all my dental insurance monies this year and would have to pay out of pocket and GOOD LORD YES, please, PLEASE put me in that dental chair so I can get to being scraped and poked. Almost.

On the way.

Yes, we are walking on piles of dirt.

That would be Mt. Rainier. I kept watching it out of the corner of my eye, waiting for it go all Mt. St. Helens on me. Paranoid? No, just WELL-PREPARED.

Friends since they were 11. Oh, the stories we could tell! And will! But not right now.

Henry is walking, walking, walking.

STILL walking. Where the heck is this mystical pile of dirt?

Emma starting to think there's something to be said for sitting down and playing Scrabble. Or maybe that's me. Either way, she's getting tired of all this walking.

FINALLY here, and climbing hill. James has been humbled by the 3 year old who scrambled up this hill in .02 seconds.

Yeah, I don't think I'm climbing up there.

Henry makes his way around the Mountain Of Fun, scoping out the best route.

James still working on getting to the top. I cheered him on from the bottom. Thought about throwing little pebbles at him, not gonna lie.

Okay, MAYBE I'm climbing up, and maybe I'm just sitting here looking cute.

HENRY IS ON TOP OF THE HILL. Behold his above-average hill-climbing skillz, peeps!

Frog. Surprisingly, did NOT look like the nattily dressed Frog from the classic Frog and Toad adventures. No plaid wool vest? I call foul.

Yeah. This kid is like, what, 2? 3? He was embarrassing all of us with his ability to scoot up this hill with like, Spiderman powers. Or something. Aquaman? No, that's not right.

Of course, I had the requisite moment of crippling embarrassment since I slid spread-eagle into a deceptively smooth little plain of mud that smelled like cow manure. Thankfully, I did NOT fall, but I sure did look awkward. Fun!

I was about 7 months pregnant with our third. This one:

(Faces have been hidden to protect the innocent. Although, it’s not really her that needs to be protected in this particular posting. That would be me, about to talk about my horrendous gas expulsion.)

I don’t know if you know this, but pregnant women are like, HUGE, HUGE farters. Like, amazingly awesome farts that you’re all like “wha??? Did I just hear that come out of you? Was that for real? Did a gang of bikers that just ate a barrel of cheeseburgers drive by unexpectedly and I did not know about it? AND WHAT IS THAT SMELL, PRAY TELL?” Mmm hmm. You know what I’m talking about.

It was a lovely day in spring. I was in my office at Cannon Beach Conference Center, where I worked as a retreat coordinator. I was happily working away, doing office-y things, when all of a sudden, I got That Feeling.

You know That Feeling. It’s very special.

I looked around. Nobody in the office. Coast is clear. There will be no hiding this under a bushel, so to speak. I will let my PF (pregnant fart) fly with abandon! It will travel without boundaries! It will fly, singing, to the heavens!

That toot? It came out, with style. WITH GLORIOUS RENDERINGS. It was so freaking loud, yall. I started laughing hysterically, which made a few aftershocks emerge QUITE unexpectedly. Laugh, laugh, laugh. Ha, ha, ha. All by myself so it’s okay NOT BY MYSELF OH SWEET LORD.

So, yeah. The Human Resources Manager was sitting in the office behind me, face red, probably trying to figure out how he could gracefully swoop out of the office without me noticing AND not open his mouth at the same time, because I had, you know, kind of distributed my own special brand of Febreeze all over the place. Metaphorically.

I was seriously so flummoxed that I had to go home for a few minutes and lie down. That magnitude of embarrassment needs to be dealt with appropriately, and so I did: with much weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Which, ironically, made me fart YET AGAIN. Circle of life.

I’m silly that way.

I mean, it’s hard. It’s crazy busy. After all, I have three kids, a husband, three cats, and a huge, smelly dog. These all need tending. In fact, they need a LOT of tending. Especially the dog, because wow. Candles aren’t cutting it at this point, and he’s shedding like nobody’s business. Plus, he has horrible gas. I’m not even kidding. He can clear a room with one well-placed emission.

ANYWAY.

I love it all. The business, the craziness, the hecticness (that’s not a word, but I’m making it a word. Make a note of it.). I mean, what else would I be doing if it weren’t for this?

(If I gave it a few minutes, I bet I could think of a few things. But we’re going to disregard that.)

I’m definitely not a Super Mom. Super Moms do stuff like drive their kids to soccer practice while simultaneously authoring their opinion on managed healthcare and filling their gas tank. They always look good, like with actual makeup and EVERYTHING. They actually take showers! Daily! With soap!

I’m not a Super Mom, but I do have some pretty super sidekicks. I live in a small town in the Northwest that’s full of really gorgeous moms that look perfectly put together all the time, even at 7:30 in the morning dropping off the kids at school, which is hard, because hello? It’s 7:30 in the morning. I’m lucky if I remember to put my pants on at that time of day. I have a cute little house with a fun yard that I like to putter in (and hopefully keep the killing of plants to a minimum). I have not one, but TWO, minivans. Which puts me right up there with Mrs. Brady. Except mine doesn’t have wood panels and bench seats. I don’t do laundry, but I put it away. And I love, love, LOVE to cook. Like, for real. Really really real.

I might not be a Super Mom, but I did manage to put my pants on this morning. Does that count?

My husband is a huge Star Wars geek. Huge. Like, he has action figures all over this desk, posters carefully placed in giant cardboard tubes, and at least ten Christmas ornaments that are currently on the tree (including one of Princess Leia in her Jabba the Hutt bikini. Huh.). So I knew this Christmas I wanted to get him something to add to his collection, something that he would totally go nuts over. So I hit Craigslist, and lo and behold, I found a walking, talking R2-D2 that is brand new in the box, only been used a couple of times, for $40. It originally sold for almost $200 last year, so I feel pretty proud of myself for being so cheap finding such a bargain.

So I had to be quite the sneaky girl yesterday in order to actually obtain this item. Since Dean and I both work from home, I made up a library errand (the gig was almost up when he decided he was going to go with me, but I gave him the slip) but I actually went to the Starbucks parking lot and met the nice lady who sold me this fun toy. It’s HUGE. I had to hide it in my closet underneath all my jammies; hopefully nobody will look there. Craigslist is awesome!