Because K is the most Special letter

Introducing, brand-spanking-new to Blogger:

Daa da da dum!

Special K!!


Yea! Woo! Special K is here!

Finally someone who can really write.

ETA: I changed Special K's picture to her fabulous Fluevog photo. Despite the joy I took from the red sunglasses picture, she isn't a fan. And I don't want to be one of those people that posts pictures that are hated by the picturee.

Plus is it only appropriate that I finally recognize the fact that Special K has the best shoes I've ever seen. I'm quite jealous of her shoes ... and her quick wit ... and her willingness to befriend the desperate sorts of people like me.

Music and movies

Oh man. What a weekend.

I laid around on the sofa, played music with my kick-ass band, Riveter and watched movies.

Yeah, the weekend rocked.

We watched several movies, one of which at an actual movie theater. And I can't even remember the last time that we actually went to the movies.

So what movie drew us our of our self-imposed theater draught?

Curious George.

Yeah, we dropped a whole boat-load of money, so we could take Mar and her little friend to see Curious George.

I mean, how can you say no to these little nuts:


I took these pictures at the convenience store on the way to the movies.

Yeah, I feel no guilt whatsoever about sneaking contraband into the movies. I mean, we don't go to the movies because it's too expensive, so the only way I can justify going it by stickin' it to the man and sneaking in candy.

I'm a total rebel like that.

The movie was sweet and the girls enjoyed it. But I had a hard time hearing it — on account of Bill's snoring and all.

But he was tired because the night before both our bands played and now that he's so old, he has a hard time keeping up with the rest of us.


I guess I should give ol' Billy a bit of slack considering the grueling pre-show activities he participated in:

I'm buying a lottery ticket

After suffering through a week notably marked by my own incompetence, today the tide seems to be changing (knock on wood).

I woke up with a pretty serious migraine this morning and I started to panic. Not because I had a migraine — I'm plagued by this horrific malady — but because I knew that I was out of the pills I take for migraines.

It's really stupid of me to run out, but stupid is as stupid does, yo.

I began running through my options; they were all pretty sucky:

I could've waited until my doctor's office opened and had him call in a prescription to a local pharmacy. This doesn't seem like a bad idea until you realize that each pill costs $17 and they only come in boxes of 12. Yeah, $204 for 12 pills. (I normally get my pills through a mail pharmacy. I get four boxes for $30. It's a good deal.)

Or I could've asked my doctor to give me a shot of Imitrex. (I've had prescriptions for these injections before, but at $100 a pop and you have to get two at a time, it's just not affordable.) But the shots really knock me out.

Or I could just try to muster without medication. This is a really dangerous idea for me. If I get a bad migraine and don't treat it soon enough, I become a vomit volcano. Every time I've started puking, I end up in the emergency room.

So out of desperation, I began rifling through our cupboards, hoping beyond hope that there would be one pill somewhere.

And there was. One pill tucked in my purse.

Salvation. I held the blister pack above my head and gave thanks for the miracle that is Relpax.

With the pill duly swallowed and the knowledge that relief was on its way, I began my morning.

When I got to work, I checked our bank accounts and ... ding, ding, ding ... jackpot! We got our tax refunds today. Canna getta "Woo!" So now we can pay for the head for Bill's amp that we ordered earlier in the week.

Money rocks. Woo.

And to top off the whole Friday-morning sundae, the snack machine in our break room not only had chocolate chocolate-chip muffins but it gave me back a whole bunch of change. The muffin only cost me 20 cents.

So "Woo" to finding the last migraine pill. "Woo" for the tax refund. And a great big ole, stickin'-it-to-the-vending-machine-man "Woo" for the 20 cent Friday morning muffin.

Dork on display

I know that I'm a bona fide dork. I don't try to hide it ... too much.

I am still delusional enough to think that my general enthusiasm and butter-knife-like wit provide enough cover to get me through most situations.

But true dorkdom cannot be disguised.

I was asked by an instructor who works with Bill to come speak at her office administration class. She was under the impression that because I am an executive assistant that I have some knowledge to impart.

I agreed to speak to her class because:
I have a hard time saying no.
I'm a total ham.
I seem to feel that I don't really need to know what I'm talking about before I get up in front of a group of people.

To prepare, I made a detailed list of all the skills that I've acquired throughout my almost 20-year career of working in offices. I also outlined the qualities that I feel make a good office administrator and topics that are relevant to today's office employee, emphasizing organization, attention to detail, reliability and consistency.

Yesterday morning, I gathered my list and outlines and headed off to the class. I had placed a sticky note on my papers with the room number.

As I was walking up to the building I reached into my bag to get my notes and check the room number.

No notes.

My notes were not in my bag.

As I muttered "Damn, damn, damn" to myself, I shuffled quickly back to my car. If I didn't hurry I was going to be late.

I checked the car. No notes.

I'd lost my notes on how to be organized and detail-oriented.

Ironic, no?

Realizing I was going to have to speak extemporaneously, I scurried back toward the building, repeating my mantra, "Damn idiot. Damn idiot."

I arrived in the classroom out of breath and flustered and a little perspiry from the shuffling and scurrying. But I gathered my wit (I only have one) and began to speak.

It actually started out well. I told a relevant story about some jobs I'd held then began talking about skills, blah, blah.

Then I thought that my nose felt a little damp and when I touched my finger to that little valley that connects one's nose and upper lip I realized that my nose was runny. Yeah, 'the hell?

Now I had runny snot on my finger and nose.

And to make matters worse, I had written "CD" on my finger to remind me to pick up a CD at home on my lunch hour. I had used that finger to touch the snot coming out of my nose and quickly convinced myself that I'd transferred that ink to my face just like Mr. Pitt did on that episode of "Seinfeld."

To make matters worse, I drew attention to the whole affair by then saying, "Oh gross." and asking for a tissue.

Yeah, because I like to mortify myself like that.

All was not lost, however. I hadn't actually inked up my face and was able to finish the class without humiliating myself anymore.

Number one reason I should have a chauffeur

I took all of these pictures on the way to Mar's daycare ... while I was driving.

Yeah, it even seems like an idiotic thing to do to me.

Guitars and other musically stuff

On my way home from work yesterday, I had to make a quick detour.

I had to stop at the toy store downtown to pick up some kazoos.

Yeah, I'm a kazoo-buying freak.

Or just a freak who needs kazoos. My band is going to be incorporating some red-hot kazoo action into our show Saturday ... because we rock like that.

I took this picture at practice last night.
I love guitars and would buy them obsessively, if I could afford to.

My guitars are on the right. Yeah, baby, the Firebird and the glittery pink, Rock Candy.

Laurena and I are going to be doing the dramatic guitar change at the show. We'll go from our Daisy Rock's to the 'Birds — Laurena has the Thunderbird and I've got the Firebird.

We have to coordinate these things because we are, after all, girls and girls must accessorize and be all matchy-matchy.

I'll sign off today with this quote from music writer Brian Mansfield:

“Always put yourself at the service of the song. Hits may come and go but a great song can last a long, long time. Never quit listening to new music – or old music for that matter. Never, ever dismiss a segment of the music–loving audience because you don’t like its tastes. Mean what you say but never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Love really is a burning thing. Don’t worry about your technical limitations. You don’t have to be the best, but whatever you play, play it like your life depends on it.”

Yeah ... and?

Mar had her second ski lesson Sunday.

She has improved dramatically. She's gone from a level 1 beginner to a level 2-3 AND is now claiming that she will, indeed, be in the Olympics some day.

This is notable because up until yesterday, she hated the Olympics. Not for any philosophical or political reasons (you know, because lots of 5-year-olds protest what they perceive as global commercialism) but because we've been watching any and all Olympic coverage and, thereby, pre-empting her ability to watch "Family Guy" and "Everybody loves Raymond."

Mar was eager to tell her tales of riding the lift four times! And of falling down "all day long." She was pleased that she can now turn both left and right, as well.

She had to tell me about her trip to the mountain because I was shopping with ...
this dog, instead of watching my only-born child master the fine art of making a pizza wedge on skis.

I woke up annoyed and decided that standing around in the cold for several hours would do little to change mood. So they went without me. Bill and Sean snowboarded while Mar was in class.

It was good.

Let's see ... oh, this morning, I made this flier For our next show:

The show is a fund-raiser for the college radio station. We're playing with three other bands.

We're really looking forward to this show. We're doing one kick-ass, rock 'n' roll set. It's been a while since we've done a single-set show.

K, mm, I think that's all I got fer now.

Rock this Monday like no Monday has been rocked before.

Finally, a holiday that men won't forget

Those are my supa-cool friends, Special K (she just got tenure at the college here. She totally rocks and is way smart. Plus she has better socks and sunglasses then anyone I know) and Markel (I love Markel despite his yeasty eye).

Markel left this comment on Wednesday's entry (you know the one where I talk about lesbian porn):

All men (and women) should be freed from the shackles of this manufacured holiday. Kristen's dad & stepmom have this fully locked down...they call Valentines Day "Amateur Night" and go out the weekend after for a fabulous meal. As a general rule the likker tab must exceed the food tab.

Plus, as it's celebrated in the US, it's a pretty one-sided affair with guys on the short end of that stick.

MEN! BEHOLD! Steak and Blowjob Day can be ours! http://www.steakandbjday.com/

Yeah, so Steak & BJ Day. Huh. That's quite a marketing concept, eh?

Maybe next year for Valentine's Day instead of lesbian porn, I'll get Bill this bumper sticker:


Blow jobs aside, I think the problem with Valentine's Day is just as Markel suggests, it's too one-sided. By the dictates of this made up holiday, men are supposed to shower the object of their desires with love 'n' stuff on this one day, to hell with the rest of the year.

It's a holiday that is just ripe for satire. And the really fun, smart people do just that.

These are the cards that were exchanged between Markel and Special K:


Markel's "Bee Mine" homemade, clip-art card was inspired by a Simpson's episode.

According to Markel, K was inspired to purchase her doily-esque declaration of love while at the grocery store on Valentine's Day. Apparently the scene of desperate men frantically snatching up sappy, overblown cards and stale candy warmed the cockles of her heart.

I mean, come on, nothing says "I love you" like doilies and blow jobs.

Pizza 'n' stuff like that

Yeah, she looks happy, huh?

She's 5 and she's having Pizza Hut for dinner ... again.

Her school, like many others I'm sure, have been promoting reading through this program:

Kids read books, parents write down the books they read and at some point the kid is sent home with a coupon for free pizza from Pizza Hut.

This is her fourth one.

I'm tired of Pizza Hut. But it makes the kid smile like that so what can we do?

I've learned so much from Mar being in kindergarten.

One of the most shocking things I've learned is that gender stereotypes are still rockin' out. Fer reals.

So far this year, Bill has volunteered to do things in Mar's class three times. I've volunteered a grand total of zero times.

Yet, whenever they need parents to help in the class, they always call me. When they do call me I always tell them that I can't* do it but that Bill probably can.

If I was the person calling, begging parents to come in and play warden to unruly 5-year-olds, I'd totally be calling the parents who actually want to be called. I sure as hell wouldn't be calling the freaky-ass, dressed-head-to-toe-everyday-in-black mom who doesn't like kids all that much.

* Yeah and it's a total lie when I say that I "can't," because my boss would totally let me. It's really that I don't wanna. I mean, have you seen kindergardeners? They have runny noses and weird names. They're all dirty and loud ... I totally know because I have one.

But mine's all cool and swears 'n' stuff.

A man's perspective

When it comes to relationships, I'm a firm believer in asking for what you want instead of hoping that you get what you want.

Why should I expect someone to read my mind when I can just tell them my preferences, my likes and dislikes?

So several years ago, I told Bill that for Valentine's Day, I didn't care about fancy dinners or heart-felt cards. I just wanted a box of chocolates ... nuts and chews to be specific.

I don't really care about the romance associated with this made-up holiday, but I'm all for any occasion that will net me a box of chocolate candy.

This was all fine and good until I started working here at the newspaper four years ago.

This office is unlike any office I've ever worked in before. It's a throw-back to generations past. Everyone dresses up for Halloween and they decorate their areas for Christmas.

On Valentine's Day, there is a veritable parade of deliveries all day long: flowers, balloons, stuffed animals, even singing valentines.

Since that first year, Bill has made a special effort to make sure that I get some sort of bouquet for my desk. This year was to be no exception. He ordered a generous three-dozen pastel roses to be delivered early in the day yesterday.

They never came.

I felt so bad for Bill because he didn't want me to be left out of the rose parade that takes place here every Feb. 14.

There was some delay in the delivery. I told him to cancel the order and that he'd totally get credit for effort and generosity of the order.

And guess what, the flower people (www.ProFlowers.com) refunded all his money AND sent me the three dozen roses today.

Yeah, the best Valentine's flowers ever.

As a small token of my affection for my betrothed, I bought him this book for Valentine's Day:

We take yoga on Tuesdays and we really like the partner stuff we do in class sometimes.

I asked him if he liked the book. He got this school-boy grin on his face and replied, "Oh yeah" like he had just seen Beyonce do one of her booty dances.

I was a bit puzzled until I took a second look at the book, then I realized his excitement.

Here are a couple of the photos from the book:

Girls touching girls. It's like porn ... lesbian porn.

I bought my husband lesbian porn for Valentine's Day — yeah, I totally rock like that.

A Valentine story to warm the heart

One day last week when I arrived to pick up Mar from kindergarten, I immediately knew something was up.

As Mar tried to pass through the gate, she was held back by the teacher's assistant. Mar's expression flashed from lackadaisical to fearful.

The assistant asked me to wait.

I waited and began to worry.

"What now?" was my first thought. I caught Mar's gaze, looking for a clue as to what infraction had brought about the conference I was about to have.

When all the other children were either tucked into their slots on the bus or trundled away by parents, I was ushered closer to my daughter and her teacher.

The teacher's assistant looked down at Mar and asked her to tell me why we were standing in the school yard instead flitting off to daycare.

Mar looked at the ground.

The assistant knelt down, looked at Mar, then up at me. "Margaret said a bad word today."

I immediately plastered a horrified expression on my face and listened authoritatively as the teacher explained to Mar that such words were not to be used at school.

I supported the teacher and her assistant as they discussed the complete ban on "bad" words at school.

Mar began to cry. She will always cry when faced with negative attention. However, I could tell that she did feel bad about her utterance.

As we walked slowly to the car, I asked her the one question that I was dying to have answered but wouldn't have dared to ask the teachers: "What did you say?"

Mar replied in a quiet, tentative voice, "I said, 'Damn you.' "

I was so relieved.

It could have been much worse.

No rock nor roll

I realized that I didn't have any good new photos to upload for today's post.

I quickly determined the reason is likely because I barely got out of my pajamas the entire weekend.

This fact alone made this weekend rock like no weekend has rocked in a long time. Dude, sometimes a girl just needs some time to sit around in a pair of men's pajama bottoms adorned with cupids.

And I rocked the cupid pants this weekend!

I ate, too. Bill made yummy chicken and salsa soup Friday night and yesterday he made pork and green chili casserole AND baked chocolate-chip cookies. It's a very good thing I was wearing elastic-waisted pants!

We watched Wallace and Gromit: Curse of the Were-Rabbit
Saturday afternoon (I mean what's the point in going out of the house when you can watch claymation?). Delightful, but I think that I began to take on the consistency of Wallace after a weekend of lying about and eating Uber-husband's home-cooking. Oh, and I love cheese, too.

I watched as much Olympics as stingy NBC would show and have — along with every other 13-year-old girl — developed a crush for that adorable almost-man, Shaun White.

I'm sure it's that hair.

Then it was Sunday evening and I fell into bed after hanging with our good friends, Rob and Tracee (Yo, Tracee-Trace, sup girl?), knowing that while I didn't get lots done, I am finally rested. What a glorious feeling.

I'm going to remember this feeling, because it ain't part of the rock 'n' roll lifestyle that I've grown accustomed to.

Friday wrap up

The Tooth Fairy came last night.

She left a buck and four quarters.

Mar was thrilled. There is something about quarters that gets her all jazzed up — I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that quarters fit nicely into candy machines.

We decided to use the envelope trick that my mom used on my brother and I when we lost teeth.

See we had Mar write, "To Tooth Fairy From Margaret" on a whole bunch of envelopes (stating that she had a lot of teeth to lose, so we'd better stock up on envelopes). Then we sealed her two, tiny baby teeth inside one of the envelopes and tucked it under her pillow when she went to bed last night.

This morning she woke to find the envelope still under her pillow but instead of containing teeth, it had two dollars in it. (For those feeling a bit slow this Friday, we took the envelope with teeth and replaced it with another envelope which she had pre-addressed — we can totally trick a 5-year-old kid!)

Um, let's see ... Oh, we're probably going to go back up on the mountain tomorrow so Mar can have her second ski lesson.

I'm debating on staying home and doing some much needed cleaning or going along to stand tearfully at the edge of the bunny hill and watch my little nut shush around.

Yeah, it's a total toss up.

My very dear friend performed a miracle Monday and gave birth to this blessed bundle.

He's just about the cutest thing. Babies ... sigh.

And for those unconvinced that giving birth is a miracle: Growing a person inside of another person and then expelling that new person through a normally very tiny hole, is not only a miracle, but the most amazing thing the human body can do.

That's about it. I'm anxious for this workday to be over (7 hours to go).

Tooth Fairy take note

I work for the only significant newspaper in the Grand Valley. The paper has a decidedly right-leaning editorial position (in my opinion of course — we get letters all the time telling us that we're too liberal ... ha!).

Most of my friends are liberal, some are very liberal.

I've been asked before how I could work for this newspaper. This frustrates me to no end because I feel very lucky to have my job for so many reasons.

My experience this morning solidified my love for this job.

This morning, Bill and I took this pouty face to the dentist to get two baby teeth pulled.

She didn't know that is why she was going. She knew that her adult teeth coming in back of her baby teeth was a problem and we had suggested that the dentist may have to "help" those baby teeth come out, but never flat out told her what was going to happen.

We did the right thing (phew!). She was in and out of the chair in about 15 minutes sans two lower baby teeth.

Other than being a little loopy from the nitrous and having a big "gum" lip (she always mispronounces numb by saying gum). She was fine.

Instead of taking her to kindergarten, I took her to work with me for the morning.

At my work, she was a celebrity.

She showed off the bloody holes in her lower jaw and brandished the tiny, pink treasure chest that held her pearly baby teeth like it was full of diamonds.

Everyone was eager to look in her mouth and comment on what a brave girl she was.

She ate up the attention like it was chocolate-covered chocolate.

By the time we were ready to leave for lunch and then on to daycare, Mar told me that going to the dentist was "fun" and she looked forward to going back.

Yes, the procedure was quick and relatively pain-free (she still doesn't know that she had a shot to "gum" up her teeth), but I doubt that she would have been so enthusiastic about her experience without all the love and support she got from my co-workers.

I am very lucky, indeed.

(I've posted a whole bunch more pictures of Mar's dental experience here.)

Lockdown!

Isn't he cute?

Lookit my Uber-husband all cute and smiley while two-fisting it with a beer and sippy cup full of — milk? Mmm ... beer and milk.

I love this picture of Bill. He's a stand-up guy that you can count on. A guy that can put up with the likes of me (he'll be up for sainthood if he can manage to stay married to me for a decade — this April will mark 6 years!).

Definitely not the kind of guy that you would lock in the basement ... unless it was an accident.

And it was totally an accident that I locked him in the basement last night.

Our basement is the adult getaway. We've got our guitars and amps down there and our nice iMac. We hang out with our friends and generally find ourselves up to no good down there. (Oh, our washer and dryer are down there, which means that I can socialize and fold underwear at the same time — cuz I'm totally classy like that.)

So last night after I got home from yoga, Bill accompanied me downstairs. I was doing the obligatory laundry and Uber-husband was keeping me company and surfing the Web.

I finished and left him down there. I donned my pajamas and practiced guitar scales while watching the boob tube.

I thought I heard something on the back service porch where the door to the basement is but I figured it was one of the cats coming through one of the pet doors.

(See, we've got a dog door that is used by all animals to go out the back door. Adjacent to the back door is the basement door which has only a very small pet door used only by the cats to go downstairs. Oh and just for clarifications sake, it should be noted that the basement door only closes when latched with a hook and eye on the outside of the door — you see where this is going, I'm sure.)

So, during the next commercial break I walk into the kitchen when I hear, "Roooobbbbbiiiiinnnn! Roooobbbbiiinn!" Coming from downstairs.

When I walked back to the service porch I immediately noticed that the cat door was being propped open, not by furry cats paws but by man fingers.

There I found my Uber-husband hunkered down on the stairs yelling through a 6x6" hole on the other side of the locked basement door. Oops.

When I opened the door, Bill pathetically bleated, "You locked me down there. I was calling you and knocking for a long time."

And for some sick reason, I find this quite funny. The picture of him on those stinky stairs calling out through a tiny cat door. Oh man, it's so pathetic, it's hilarious.

Say it ain't so

Believe it or not, but I've — temporarily, of course — run out of witty, banal stories with which to regal you.

Normally, I'd work up a rant about something terribly significant (I mean, the face-transplant story is just ripe for the pickin'), but the stack of 40 papers my students turned in last night are giving me the hairy eyeball. The enthusiasm over getting to read the brilliant discourses my students have bestowed upon me is almost too much to bear.

But so as not to leave you with rivetergirl blue balls, here are some fabulous pictures taken not too long ago:



Yeah, my friends totally rock!

A time to ski

Lookit!

Look at my little duckling all bundled up and ready for her first day at ski school.

Finally, after two years of trying to get her to ski, Mar is ready to hit the slopes.

Much to Bill's dismay, she chose skiing over snowboarding (he's hoping she'll change her mind ... soon!).

I was thoroughly pleased with the children's ski school at local ski hill. They really go to great lengths to have fun with the kids.

Here's Mar learning to snow plow in the little dish near the bunny slope.

We were secretly watching her (and taking pictures). To our great amusement, we noticed that whenever she would snow plow to stop, she would bend her arms down like she was doing some kind of Rerun dance.

But I almost cried when I saw my little nut waiting in line and then boarding the chairlift for the first time.

You can't see her well, but she's there, on the lift in the chair on the lower right.



I waited with baited breath for her to come down the bunny hill.

Finally we could see her little form (in the center) snow plowing down, traversing across the mountain.

She did great and really enjoyed it. The instructor even said that Mar is very coordinated!

So it seems we'll be spending more time on the mountain this year ... maybe I'll even get back to riding the snow.

(To see more pictures of Mar on her first ski outing, go to here.

The horror

Before I begin today's entry, I want to take a moment to brag a bit. (I know ... that never happens.) Yesterday, as I walked up to Wee One's kindergarten, I noticed it immediately. Her 100 days poster was displayed in the front window along with one other student's.

When I pointed it out to Wee One, she was nonchalant. I, on the other hand, was beaming!

Now here's something I hope you really like:

About a week ago, Uber-husband took Wee One to the dentist. She had been complaining that there was something behind her lower, front teeth that was bugging her.

Upon examination, we discovered that there was something behind her lower, front teeth bugging her — more teeth. Like a shark, our darling little mako had her adult teeth growing in behind her baby ones.

I got that same sinking feeling that I had when I found out that she had two cavities last year. I knew that it couldn't be good.

A call to her pediatric dentist assuaged our immediate fears by telling us that they get at least three calls a day asking about adult teeth coming in behind baby teeth.

But the dentist wanted to see her sooner than later.

After a complete examination, she was found to have no problems ... except the for the shark teeth, of course.

The dentist said that if the baby teeth didn't loosen up quickly, they'd have to pull 'em. And they scheduled an appointment to do just that for next week.

The thought of her not getting the experience of her first loose tooth is very sad. Instead of getting to experience the sensation of being able to push her tooth around with her tongue, she's gonna get to experience a shot of Novocain and pliers.

We've been encouraging her to wiggle those teeth and I give 'em a good yank whenever I can trick her into opening her mouth, but they are not budging.

So, next week, she's gonna have them pulled. She doesn't know this yet. We didn't figure that she would look forward to such an event, so we'll let the dentist tell her (we're chicken, I know.)

But because she had a good check up, she got a gift certificate for a free meal at Red Robin. We took her there a couple of nights ago (instead of going to yoga. I mean eating at Red Robin is very similar to doing yoga, right?).

Here's a picture of Wee One and Uber-husband at the restaurant. Notice Wee One's body language.

She's smiling, but there's worry behind those eyes.

What might cause this reaction?

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This did.

We were trying to get her to take a picture with the Red Robin robin, but she wasn't having it.




She acted like we were trying to send her home with this guy:


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100 days

My kid — who was born just yesterday, it seems — is celebrating her 100th day at school today.

Her first 100 days in the public school system.

100 days of kindergarten full of running noses and time outs.

I don't know what I expected, but I am simultaneously awed and horrified by what has transpired in her first 100 days of school.

She can read now. That fact alone humbles me.

Her whole world is shifting because she can read things for herself.

And I don't mean that she can recognize the number of sight words she's been loathe to memorize, but, when she's in the mood, she can sound out all the words in her beginner reader books.

Here's an appropriate example: Wee One can read this book, One Hundred Days (plus one), from cover to cover.

To celebrate their 100th day of educational bliss, each child was to create a poster with 100 things glued on it.

I get all uptight about these projects. Mostly because I want Wee One to have — not necessarily the best (but I won't cry if she did) — definitely not the worst project in class.

I worry that she'll see her poster next to the other children's and rue the fact that her lazy-ass mom couldn't help her come up with a better project.

As soon as we got the notice that she was to create a poster of 100 things, we began brainstorming.

I came up with the idea of gluing beads and sequins into the shape of a flower.

Wee One immediately nixed this idea.

She wanted to use the many rubber stamps she got for Christmas and put 100 stamps on to a poster board.

And really, I wanted to let her do that. It is a perfectly good idea, but my obsessive-compulsive self couldn't fathom a poster covered in stamps declaring "Happy Kwanza" and depicting menorahs and turkeys.

I mean what if some of the stamps didn't print well and we ended up with half of an Easter greeting?

I tried not to pooh-pooh her idea, but she's smart and quickly figured out that the idea gave me the vapors.

Much to my gastric relief, her second idea was much more palatable. She wanted to use her paper punches to punch out 100 flowers and hearts and glue them to the poster board.

Ding, ding, ding ... we have a winner!
(She's drawing stems and leaves on the flowers and faces on the hearts ... some of the hearts have big toothy smiles and look just like the Blue Meanies.)

So we spent one evening punching out flowers and hearts in groups of ten organized by color. (Oh, the joys of an organized poster project!).

The next evening we glued. Actually she glued, I held the glue stick.

It took every ounce of will power to not glue the hearts and flowers myself while she watched the Family Guy.

I so wanted to glue them into nicely arranged clusters, filling up the space evenly, in order to create a unified appearance.

But I let her do it all willy nilly.

OK, I glued a couple when she wasn't looking, but I was harshly chastised by both Wee One and Uber-husband.

So now it's done and 100 days of school are behind us ... but Valentine's Day is just around the corner. Oh, the fun I'm gonna have ... er, I mean, we're gonna have making homemade Valentine cards.

Control and ooge

Today, we're going to talk about pantyhose — now, not just any pantyhose but control-top pantyhose.

Here's a picture of this modern-day invention.

For those not in the know, i.e., the men, skinny women and children, the dark part of the hose, the part at the top, is the control part of the control-top pantyhose.

They are ingeniously designed to compress anything that might just be jiggling around and hold it in a vice-like grip. To control those parts of us that get out of control, thereby creating a smooth rump-and-thigh region.

It helps clothes fit and hang better.

Seems like a good idea, huh?

Yeah, but no. There is a huge flaw in the logic.

First, let's go to the above photo and really take a look.

Examine the areas on the model that have are being controlled by the control-top pantyhose. Look closely. Do you see any jiggly parts?

No, that model has nothing that needs to be controlled. She could be wearing burlap pantyhose and the effect would the same.

If you saw a picture of say ... me, in those same control-top pantyhose, you would immediately see the error of the control-top ways.

See I have some jiggly parts that need to be controlled and have worn (and continue to wear simply because I have them) control-top pantyhose (OK, actually they are tights but that's a whole different story).

And in their defense, the aforementioned control-top hose do control my jiggliness.

However, it must be noted that the control-top portion of the control-top pantyhose are designed to control the areas of the thigh, buttocks and lower stomach. The rest of the jiggliness is on its own.

So when I don hose of this variety, I am struck by the fact that control-top hose control the jiggle by compression. The extra jiggliness has to go somewhere. It doesn't just dissipate when squeezed, like air out of a whoopie cushion.

What I've found is that after I've shimmied my way, tugging and coaxing, the vice-like Lycra on to my jiggliness, the extra ooges out the top.

Let me tell you, it is not a pretty sight.

And it opens a whole other Pandora's box. What do I do with the newly formed fountain of flesh that is being squeezed out of the top of my pantyhose?

Do I wear it like a flesh belt? Or do I try to pull the hose higher, allowing it to control more area? It's a lose-lose situation.

Then there is the problem with the lower portion of the control-top pantyhose.

Again look at the model, the bottom of the control area ends below her rumpus, creating a smooth line.

But when I case myself into control-top pantyhose like a Johnsville cheese bratwurst, I can never really create the seamless line between rump and thigh.

Instead, the bottom of the control portion squeezes my fleshy thigh like a rubber band around water balloon.

Yeah, it just don't look good.

So after I've veneered the undergarment to my ample form, I'm now left with a new tube of flesh around my waist and an enormous dent around my thighs and I look nothing like the model in the above picture.

I think that should rename "control-top pantyhose" to "control and ooge hose of mass discomfort."