A vampire wanting to slay a demon in order to help some grubby humans? I just don't get it.

I read a book.

Don't freak out or anything. I know, it's shocking to me too. I don't think I've read a book for fun since Bush was president...Bush Senior. Perhaps not that long ago, but certainly pre-motherhood. And the last book I read and actually enjoyed was when I was still young and thin enough to pass for a background dancer in High School Musical.

My book club (which is just another name for my Mommy Meetup group that wanted another excuse to get out of the house) is meeting for the first time this Saturday. We all put up suggestions for the first pick and since vampires are the new magical wizards, I begged and pleaded for the Sookie Stackhouse books. To my dismay, everyone else picked Twilight.

Of course. I shook my nonconformist fist and grumbled in the background, but eventually picked up the damn thing to get a feel for it before next weekend. I started it around 5 p.m. last night, read between rounds of dinner, diaper changes, watering Dom after he mowed the lawn, and was about 2 chapters away from finishing it by the time I went to bed at 10. Woke up and immediately finished it between rounds of breakfast, diapering, and coffee/sippy cup refills.

Now, it's no secret that I have an affinity for the strange and elegant allure of a good vampire saga. Well that and cutesy robots that dream of being human. Who doesn't like a heartwarming robot story? Or cheesecake? I really love cheesecake.

Anytransition, back in the day I was nearly to the level of obsession that involves licking the television screen every time I saw David Boreanaz on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. So, holy freakin' bloodsucker...I need me some more Edward Cullen. I've actually been pacing my house because Dom took my car today and I can't continue from the New Moon sneak peek in the back of my paperback until he gets home and I can go get the full version.

Can you blame me? It's got all that excitement of falling in love that gives your stomach flutters, danger and damsel in distress rescues, and the guy sparkles in sunshine. Yes, I not-so-secretly daydream about being saved from death by incredibly handsome undead men who are then shocked when I suddenly kick their asses in a very slayeresque manner for doing so. Because clearly, I don't need saving but I want the best of both worlds.

Today's subject line quote is Bookstore Owner, "Angel" (1999) {Are You Now or Have You Ever Been (#2.2)}.

I hand selected them with careful consideration to group dynamics.

Social circles involve all kinds of horrific and annoying people. Not all are the same level of civil atrocity and depending on what person you are, "the worst" is always subjective. Over the years I've met rainbow of headaches in the form of people. I'm guessing most of you have met someone that could fall under one of these categories too.

The Escape Artist

He or she is a master of self-defensive maneuvers, and by that I don't mean a wicked set of karate chops and sweep kicks. This person has an excuse for everything. They've given stubbornness a face and it's staring you right in the eyes. These types have a million problems they have to share with you, but secretly like their troubles because of the attention they receive. Here's an example:

EA: "My foot is on fire."
Joe Schmo: "Throw water on it!"
EA: "I would, but I don't want to get wet."
JS: "Fire extinguisher?"
EA: I'm allergic to things that might help me. I'll just wait it out.


The Therapist

This Dear Abby will undoubtedly get tired of the Escape Artist's shenanigans quickly because he/she is an advice giver to the point of needing a real therapist. "Therapists" think their crappy experiences give them the authority and heroic calling to inform everyone that "What you need to do is..."

One-Uppers

Have a really great story involving dancing elephants and a tour bus breaking down in front of your house? Great, but the One-Upper had Dinosaurs in tutus drive a trash truck through a neighbor's window.

I'm naturally a bit of a One-Upper. It's not intentional or as extreme as most true OU's, but I do feel compelled to share story for story. I've met a new group of moms via meetup.com recently. They're normal. All pretty down-to-earth and even sometimes funny. More importantly, they laugh at my humor instead of just staring at me with a why are you still talking look.

Which is why I'm trying to mute myself every other conversational topic. Not everyone has to hear EVERY story I might have been reminded of. That's what I have a blog for.

Today's subject line quote is Hodges, "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" (2000) {Lab Rats (#7.20)}.

And Australia's still like "WTF, mate?

I am not dead! It's been an eventful and interesting week of which I will now address; however, Dom made me watch this again last night and since I, too, am le tired I feel like pronouncing everything with a Group X quality French accent.

So I have declared that le blog should be read today out loud with a French accent. Is funnier, no?

First off, the inspection I was yelling at the laundry about went fine. They have now registered that we have a "mostly outside" cat that "we made the mistake of feeding once." In other words, we never told them about Opie and instead of staying outside after I threw him over the fence in the back, he came back whining at the back door.

Also, our oven broke the day before the guy showed up. And since I'm still waiting for a call back, I'm going to have to contact them myself. We also must have been right in the middle of a light bulb kamikaze mission because they ALL burnt out the same day. No one has that many on hand unless they're Mormon or a Boyscout.

Then our internet got scared of all my yelling at the laundry and ran off again. After spending 2 hours on the phone with tech support with the cable company and a man in India that works for Linksys, my internet still didn't work. Well the net did, but the router was still effed up. I fixed it by myself without having to call another Indian man for 2 hours. I am le awesome.

You forgot to continue with the accent! Hm? It's ok, I reminded you. Come on "reminded" is an especially fun one to say all French and fancy pants.

Now for the better parts! Did (most) of our taxes and we will be receiving a large refund. I'm not surprised, we do have a walking rebate trying to poop in his diaper right now. But we've decided to pay off a credit card with it. We managed to pay off 2 in the last year! Now if we use our refund, that will leave us with minimal credit card debt and can actually eliminate that by next tax day!

So we celebrated by buying a few frivolous (do it French) items. We never really do that! We have a monthly allowance that often gets neglected because we're so frugal now. Frugal is just another word for "guilty about spending."

Anyway, Dom got a new Playstation 2 since the one we bought used a few years ago died a slow and painful death. It's been refusing to read discs more and more. Since we just bought an assload of Guitar Hero stuff at Christmas, we just couldn't bring ourselves to get another platform. We felt a bit frugal about it.

And guess what I got! Did you say iPod Touch? Why, yes! I did get an iPod Touch!! It's le sweetness. I'm totally turning into one of those people that's always on the internet via a mobile device. Prepare yourselves for me becoming a total asshole. That's why I'm having you pretend I'm French today.

Today's subject line quote is from "But I Am le Tired" by Group X.

The ornaments were yanked from the tree with despair, while dad vacuumed pine needles from his rump.

I'm having internet issues...so this is actually the entry intended for March 26:


Friends are the family you choose and family is the family you endure for the sake of good blogging material after major holidays. However, I lucked out when the heavens assigned me to my dad. He's about the coolest dad I could have ended up with. And since today marks the 55th anniversary of him popping out of my grandma, my readers get An Ode to my Dad.

He's often regarded as a quiet man. When he does speak, it's frequently profound or simply hilarious. When on vacation in Orlando, we rode the "Earthquake" ride that ends with a flaming propane tank exploding next to the fake subway car. My dad, who was sitting on the outside of the car and had been front and center for the firey blaze, turned to the rest of our family and quietly said, "Well I forgot to wear my SPF 5000." He's very much like the classic Winnie the Pooh, in his short and very matter-of-fact statements such as "Oh, just a small helping of honey...well perhaps a bit larger of a small portion."
This secretly thrilled me growing up because it scared the holy crapolas out of boys coming to court me. See, teenage boys don't like a silent father figure because there is a fear in the unknown. There was no way to tell if they were liked or likeable. Was there even hope for them to charm their way in to my father's good graces? Even I couldn't tell. But it did make me rest easy that I wouldn't be hassled or treated like anything other than the lady I was, because my dad would probably run them over with the GMC Jimmy parked in the driveway. Quietly. They'd never hear it coming.

And even though I may sing his praises on the blog one day out of the year, I think about him constantly. I'm lucky. Because my son is a blonde toddler version of my dad's image, I am always reminded of how much I love both of them.

It makes me recount my days still living with my parents and sharing all of our favorite snacks that made my mom want to gag, like cottage cheese or crackers and milk. It was something that I had solely with him. And it made me feel special knowing that I was the only person in the world that got to sit in his lap after he came home from work.

Since he’s a quiet guy, I may talk to my mom on the phone more--but I still feel just as connected to my dad. I really hope that Michael will get to share some of those bonding experiences with me and his "Pops" when he's older.

Today's subject line quote is Big Pete Wrigley, "The Adventures of Pete and Pete" (1993).

See, this is another sign of your tragic space dementia, all paranoid and crotchety. Breaks the heart.

A plea to my laundry:

Um, laundry? Why do you have to be such a punkass bitch? I've got an inspection of this renthouse on Saturday and you're just lying there on my couch like a lazy pile of clothes. Go fold yourself! Make yourself useful. Get a job so I can hire a maid, watch my kid while I take a shower, or just make me some more coffee so I can clean this place up on my own!

Every day I have to see you crumpled up in a heap, mocking me with your lifelessness until one of the umpteen toddler shirts rolls onto the floor and I'm forced to pick THAT up too. You disgust me. I'm going to set you on fire and buy new clothes.

A plea to my hair:

Please stop doing that wavey, kinky, swirl thing. It's not cute. Now I have to spend the time I need to fold the good-for-nothing laundry drying and styling you because I'm a superficial and petty diva who wants to be judged by her social ineptitude rather than bad hair.

A plea to my stomach:

Quit whining. There's an enchilada in the fridge.

A plea to the enchilada in the fridge:

Please don't make me fat. If I have to eat any more grilled sandwiches with fat free cheese and light bread that falls apart when you butter it with SmartBalance Lite margarine, I'm gonna set the laundry on fire.

Today's subject line quote is Mal, "Firefly" (2002) {The Train Job (#1.1)}.

Then I'm afraid the fever has reached your brain and you'll have to be destroyed.

I've caught something that's been going around and I have now given it to my husband. I'm not talking about the stomach bug that's been causing major barfage--though, I may have that as well.

This is much more serious. It's epidemic that inevitably keeps society going and growing. I've got the fever people! Baby Fever.

From a statistical standpoint, it was an inevitability. I first contracted it back in 2006 after being exposed to Meredith's first round. Once you've had the fever, you're far more likely to develop symptoms in the future--especially after being in close contact of mothers with multiple or small children.

There is no set "cure" for Baby Fever. After the initial exposure, the fever will either burn itself out or develop into a much more serious condition which eventually leads to the removal of a large growth from the uterus.

Luckily, there are precautions that can be taken to prevent the growth from gestating often known in common vernacular as "birth control." It will not treat the fever, but does give the affected patient time to assess the sickness and prepare for the onset of symptoms.

Symptoms that develop in Stage 1: Pre-growth Fever

uncontrollable verbal skills near infants that cause the patient to involuntarily say "awwww," sporadic bouts of crying near children, young and fluffy animals, and Pampers commercials, illusions of grandeur that allow the affected to believe they can withstand extended periods of time without sleep, a compelling need to spread the fever to your significant other

Symptoms that develop in Stage 2: Growth Inutero

extreme irritability, incessable hunger leading to the expulsion of the patient from all-you-can-eat buffets, vomitus maximus, back pain, knee pain, foot pain, neck pain, vagina pain, a magnetic force around your belly that pulls in old ladies to touch it, sensitivity to stupid people


And those are just the ailments that occur in women who contract Baby Fever. So what happens when men, like Dominic, are affected? They gain 20 lbs. after sympathetically craving sushi and ribs for 9 months.

We haven't moved from Stage 1 yet, so with some home remedy treatments (exposing ourselves to ill-mannered, screaming toddlers and taking vacations without children) we might beat this thing before it becomes much more serious.

Today's subject line quote is Daria, "Daria" (1997) {The Teachings of Don Jake (#1.12)}.

This is a bar. You want conversation, go to a Starbucks.

I feel better.

Dom took me to get some New York style pizza last night for dinner and it helped me unwind a little. I found the ziplock full of my makeup in the back pouch of the diaper bag and managed to salvage my hairstyle with a knitted headband, so I didn't feel so trashy going out.

We laughed about the lousy day we both had and it was nice. Though Dom didn't have to save a toddler from a gigantic ant hill, he did have 4 shots of espresso for breakfast and was still reeling from it in the car after dinner. Being the java junkie that I am, just talking about it made me ask him stop at Starbucks to let me go in and get a latte.

And here's the part of my night when a barista confused me with his social ineptitude.

I think he must have interpreted my need for coffee and knitted headband-metallic purse look as someone who throws "The Hills" watch parties because he kept making assumptions about how I'm not appreciating my day enough.

First off he was one of those bubbly, service industry guys that feels particularly safe fortified behind the counter. I say this, because he wasn't even the one taking my order but still felt obligated to say,

"So one of everything on the menu right?"
"No. Not quite."
"Oh, just half then."

I smiled at his attempt, because friendliness is a rare and precious thing to me. Strangers are often stiff and uncomfortable, and it's unfortunate to not be yourself around the majority of society. My smiling demeanor usually goes unnoticed in public. If I try to coax a pleasant interaction out of someone behind a counter, 99% of the time it ends with them looking up and away while telling me a total.

The one time I go somewhere with an I had a bad day countenance, and Super Barista thinks it is his personal quest to figure me out.

"You look tired." I immediately shot back an "I am," with an implied you dumbass attached. Good thing I don't have that condition where you can't filter your thoughts from what you actually say because I was thinking, You work at a coffee shop, shouldn't the people coming in either look like zombies or completely wired?

He then proceeded to spill his guts about how it's a nice day and I should go for a walk in the park to make up for him being stuck inside, only to retract it quickly with a "What am I saying, you're probably on your way to work."

I corrected him. Kid, husband, car...coffee? I also really wanted to tell him that this afternoon's romp out in the backyard got me a handfull of antbites while rescuing my 16 month-old, so my appreciation for the outdoors may need some time to recover. I didn't.

Once discovering I was a stay-at-home mom and not fashionista locked in a cubicle all day, he seemed to quit trying to make me have a bigger love for life. Or maybe he was just trying to hit on me the whole time.

So, was he insulting me or hitting on me?

Today's subject line quote is Patrick Hanchin, "The Dead Zone" (2002) {Playing God (#2.11)}.