Long Time No Talk -- A Very Random Blog (Seriously, Don't Expect A Theme)

Sorry I have been absent for a while. I have been studying my pants off! It's kind of fun. I always liked studying -- reminds me of college, well the parts of college that I remember, anyways. You know, I can't think of the last time I went to a party that had a keg, but for four years that was the absolute standard. Getting old I guess. Of course, we are wine drinkers now so a keg wouldn't really make sense.

Speaking of wine, if anyone else out there has a wine cellar, you should check out cellartracker.com. It is badass. You can enter all of your wines and where they are located in your cellar, and it tells you what they are rated, who else drank it on the website, and all kinds of cool stuff. One user's name on the site is "callmeacab." That is freakin' hilarious!

Now a bit about my health. I couldn't breathe for the last several days. Every time I tried to get a deep breath, I struggled. Like the paranoid freak that I am, I got on the internet and starting looking for what disease I had. This made my breathing even worse, especially since things like "congestive heart failure" kept popping up. So I finally went to the doctor, and they did an asthma test and an EKG (the heart test where they stick a bunch of wires on you with little stickers). Guess what fatal disease I have? None. I am instead having a 24 hour a day anxiety attack. Of course the doctor told me that that's what it was at the beginnning of the visit, but he had to do the other tests just to rule things out. So there it is. With the combo of me being nervous about my new job starting Tuesday, our contractor bailing on us with 98% of the remodel done, my husband's job being potentially on the line, not to mention raising my crazy kiddos, I was over the edge. Man, I always knew I was not good at dealing with stress, but an anxiety attack? I am way worse off than I thought. I told my mom about it and she said that when she was my age, the EXACT same thing happened to her, EKG and all. Of course, that would have been useful information if I had found that out BEFORE I made them test me for cardiomyopathy. So assuming I have my mom's chemical composition, I am so screwed when I go through menopause. She was a wreck for a solid decade. Then again, she doesn't drink. I think alcohol will be my ally in my war against hormones come menopause time.

But back to the present. The doctor gave me some little happy pills to take for a few days. Generally I am opposed to such things, but did I mention that I can't breathe? For instance, right now just sitting at the computer typing, I am making huge efforts to get deep breaths. So I opted in favor of supplying my lungs with refreshing oxygen and decided to take the pills. Hope I don't get addicted. It all seems very Hollywood to me. I am crossing my fingers that I don't find myself sitting in rehab with Matthew Perry. Or Rush Limbaugh -- that would be like my own personal hell.

Now, another topic (I told you this blog was random). There's a mouse in our house. Hey, that sounds like a children's book, doesn't it? I have not seen the mouse but he leaves evidence behind in the form of mouse poop. We found little poo-poo pellets in the kitchen, the pantry, under the couch, and in the sofa sleeper in the guest room. Blech. Honestly, I don't mind having a little mouse around if it would just stop pooping all the time. Come to think of it, that is exactly how I feel about Quinn. Man that kid can fill some diapers. We were just at Grandma and Grandpa's house when he filled his second diaper, and Grandma said, "But he just pooped an hour ago!" I looked at her like she was nuts. The boy goes at least 5 times a day. So does Henry but thankfully he is potty-trained. People constantly ask me when I am going to potty-train Quinn. He is 2 1/2 so I guess I could try, but Henry was such a defiant pain in the ass about the whole potty-training thing that it burned me out. He fought it and fought it and finally after he turned three I basically yelled at him (yes, I know I am not getting any Mother of the Year Award) and told him that that was IT, that he WOULD use the potty form now on. He said, "Gee, fiiiine Mom" in a very adolescent kind of way and used the potty from then on. So in other words, 6 months of being sweet and supportive like all of the parenting books said to do didn't work at all, but 10 minutes of him getting reamed by a mother who was fed up with getting kicked in the stomach during diaper changes (he was also the most defiant little diaper changer ever) worked like a charm. Anyways, when people ask when I am going to train Quinn, I politely say, "when he looks at me and says, 'Mommy I want to use the potty. I am ready for big boy pants.'" See, with Henry I felt so much pressure to do what all of the books said to do and please all of the grandparents and other moms. With Quinn I am MUCH smarter and give roughly a rat's ass if people think he should be out of diapers. Oh -- "rat's ass". That reminds me, I was suppposed to be talking about the mouse.

So back to the mouse. Being the little problem solver that I am, one night I closed all of the doors in the house and blocked the space under each one. I figured that that way whichever room I found mouse poop in had to be the point of entry. And I found it. BIG problem. It is in the guest room. Why is this a problem? Because that is where my stepdaughters' sleep and they are coming over tonight. And they will FREAK out if they know a mouse is coming into their room. We are going to board up the hole where it is coming in, but of course this will prompt questions from them about why there is plywood on the wall, and when they hear why I have no doubt that they are going to FREAK out. Tween girls tend to not like rodents, you know? Hmmmm, maybe I can slip them some of my happy pills.

Just When You Think The Laundry Is Done....An Evil Toilet Of Doom

There seems to be a rule in my house. I have known this rule for some time but seem to always ignore it, resulting in consequences every time. So what is the rule? Here it is -- Never, I repeat NEVER, finish ALL of the laundry. Why? Because it makes the laundry gods angry, and they are vindictive bastards, those laundry gods.

Some examples from laundry gods past:

I get every item of cotton through the ol' spin cycle and Henry throws up in bed. Hence more laundry.

After a full day of folding I have a clothes hamper emptier than my savings account, and Quinn leaks through his diaper on the couch. Hence more laundry.

I spend a weekend using up an entire gallon of Tide on the seemingly endless amount of clothes in the hamper, and Henry and Quinn decide to play in the sandbox that is our backyard (thanks to our remodel). And it just rained, so it is really more of a mudpit. Hence more laundry.

....

Why in the hell I have not figured out that I should ALWAYS leave a sacrificial item of clothing in the hamper to appease the Zeus of Laundry is beyond me. Maybe I am glutton for punishment. Maybe I am just plain dumb. Maybe both. Maybe Laundry Zeus is just a fucking asshole who likes to toy with people's heads. Regardless, it NEVER fails.

Empty Hamper = Impending, Inevitable Mess


So today, I foolishly spent all day doing a pile of laundry that would make Mount Everest look like it had shrinkage. Around 4 pm, I was congratulating myself on that empty hamper in front of me. What a day! We had all four kids all day ( H and Q, plus stepdaughters Carrie and Ally), and they spent the whole afternoon being so creative and amazing. They made a whole video that was a murder mystery, where Carrie was the secret killer and Henry was the hero (and you thought we wouldn't get to use his Halloween Power Ranger costume again -- ha!). They made sets involving a coffee shop, a fight scene, and apparently, as I found out afterwards (I have yet to see the video), an "evil toilet of doom." Their words, not mine.

Here are instructions for how to make an "evil toilet of doom":

1. Take all of the used towels off of the shower rod and put them on the toilet.

2. Take all of the clean towels from the vanity and put them around the base of the toilet.

3. Decide that this is not enough towels to make the toilet "doomworthy," therefore decide to add a thick blanket from the bed (thank god THEIR bed, not mine) into the mix.

Voila! There you have your "evil toilet of doom." Hence more laundry. But I really do have to see their video. Anything involving a coffe shop and an evil toilet of doom has Oscar written all over it.


Seriously, though, when WILL I learn about the laundry? In an effort to change my crooked laundry ways, I am now making this solemn vow to the laundry gods:

Laundry Zeus, I pledge the following to you: From this day forth, I shall never have an empty hamper again. I shall honor you with one sock, one soiled panty, or perhaps one shirt with dinosaur oatmeal droppings on it. Maybe a bra or two. In exchange, I ask of you to bestow upon me a house free of vomit, urine, and evil toilets of doom. I will even share our Oscar with you.

Now I am off to go sacrifice some Bounce dryer sheets, just for good measure. Maybe I will throw in my neighbors' birds, too. Not for good measure, just because they are highly annoying. The birds, not the neigbors. Okay, both.

Decision

I decided to do part-time teaching. I just thought it would be too hard on the boys to suddenly have a nanny that they have never met, or to suddenly double their hours at school. So now the only thing I have to figure out is where they can go Tuesday and Thursday mornings. And there are some other complications as well, such as how I will get them to school when my husband is traveling. All at once my life is so much more complicated, but my brain needs to work so badly. It would make a lot more sense for me to not work until the fall, but I seriously think I would have to start drinking during the day if I were to stay at home for another nine months.

Henry is going to FLIP OUT when he finds out that I will be gone every morning. The boy doesn't even like changing his underwear, for pete's sake, much less his daily schedule. Quinn will no doubt coast right on through. Funny how two little brothers can have such vastly different personalities.

So I don't know how much I will be blogging over the holidays since I will now be re-teaching myself calculus for the next two weeks out of my old college text. Thank goodness I kept that. And being married to a mathematician certainly will speed up my learning curve! Oh yeah, and I have to find childcare for the boys, too. Man, and I thought LAST Christmas was chaotic! C'est la vie! At least my Christmas shopping is done. And there is a full cellar of wine to help me through. Plus that bottle of vodka if I am really desperate.

Sidenote:

We just ate at Taco Bell. I always feel gross for a solid day after eating that food, but today is even worse, mostly for the irony. Because... tonight we are going to a "Slow Food Dinner." If you are not familiar, the "slow food" movement is a group of people that believes that the key to health and happiness is to eat good, organic, natural foods that take as long or longer to prepare than they do to eat. And they obviously believe in eating as many preservative-free foods as possible, and lots of fruits and veggies. Which we believe, too, in theory. Let's hope they don't smell the Burrito Supreme on my breath.

Working Mama

For the past five years, I have done part-time work here and there. I wrote curriculum for my husband's colleague when Henry was little, I have tutored since we moved from Berkeley to southern California, and I taught at a local community college in the evenings. But I have decided that I am ready for an actual - gasp! - daytime job. Five frikkin' years is a long frikkin' time to have been home every day, and I am ready to have co-workers and lunch breaks, not to mention a paycheck. SoCal livin' ain't cheap, you know.

By the way, for all of the people out there who always complain about the prices out here, while it is true that it is expensive, look at where we are living!! Of course it is expensive. We are a few blocks from the ocean, have perfect weather year-round, AND if we want to go to the snow it is a mere three hours away. How many people have that kind of life? So while it is true that I live on a tiny little 3500 square foot lot that is valued at over a million dollars and that we have a mortgage that is over 50% of our income, I think it is worth it. We could easily trade our home for a mansion in Texas, but no way in hell would I do it. Sweaty summer nights, mosquitos, icy winters, and killer humidity. Blech! So we prefer to live here and live simply. A no frills kind of life (except alcohol -- we MUST pay any amount necessary for alcohol, or else I fear the boys might not survive their formative years. I will buy my clothes at Goodwill before I give up drinking).

But back to my point. I went to a local charter school to see if I could do some part-time work for them, and while I was there they fired a math teacher. And they offered me the job! So now I have to figure out if I want to work part-time or full-time. Mostly I am concerned about the kids. I think I would be fine spending more time away from home, but it would be a huge adjustment for the boys. I would have to hire a nanny or put them in longer hours at preschool, and I am not sure how they would react. My guess is that Quinn would be fine and that Henry would be whiny. Of course Henry is whiny about everything, so that wouldn't be a change!

But this school is so cool. It is very unstructured, very respectful of the students and teachers, and very laid back. The teachers go by their first names and wear jeans, and all of the classes work together on team projects. No 50-problem meaningless crappy worksheets to be found. And if your daycare is closed for the day, you just bring your kids with you to class. The entire staff looks like a cover of Vogue Magazine, and they are all so positive and self-reflective. In other words, I really want to work there. I cannot think of any school that would be more fun or more interesting. The teacher that got fired was fired because she apparently was very negative toward the students. The only problem is that she was the Calculus and Statistics teacher, which are two subjects that I have not looked at in roughly 7 years. Yikes! So I guess my holidays will be spent doing a self-taught crash course in upper mathematics.

So here are the pros and cons of full-time versus part-time:

If I were part-time, meaning I would only teach the morning classes, I would still be able to pick the boys up from school, but I would have to race out of work, go pick them up, take them home, and get Quinn down for a nap. I would be off work at 12:30, but that would mean all of my prep work would have to be done at home. And it would be half the pay or less.

If I were full-time, I would be at work until 3:40, but I would have time to prep there, be able to work with other teachers, and would get paid more. But I would have to get a nanny or have extra daycare every day, whereas if I were part-time I would only need to get someone for Tuesdays and Thursdays. But it might actually be easier to find a nanny if I were offering full-time employment. What to do, what to do?

Here Comes Mama Claus

You know what is annoying the absolute hell out of me right now? That I keep getting all of these emails and hearing all of these commercials about how it is not too late to finish my "last-minute Christmas shopping!" LAST-MINUTE?? What in the hell?? Last-minute is when you find yourself buying a crappy racecar at Rite-Aid on Christmas Eve. Last-minute is NOT WHEN IT IS ONLY DECEMBER 13TH!!!!!!! Are they trying to give us heart attacks? What has this world come to? A full MONTH ago I was in the mall and heard a mom lamenting how she was not just quite done with Christmas shopping yet. IN THE FIRST HALF OF NOVEMBER. I spit on her. Well not really, but I did give her an evil look. Behind her back.

I blame the internet, really. Apparently right after Thaksgiving this year the internet was flooded with traffic. By early December, half of the things Henry wanted were already sold out online. Anyone with small children knows that having to shop a month before Christmas is a huge joke. The under-5 crowd has the interest span of a flea, so if I was organized enough to buy whatever my kids wished for in November, by December it would be old hat. Plus I am completely convinced that toy companies over-advertise and understock just to create a huge demand for their products. Thank goodness I found the last two Power Rangers Delta Enforcers at Toys R Us, but lets just hope Henry and Quinn will be distracted by all of the other presents and forget about that Power Rangers Supreme Megazord that they want so badly and that no longer exists in any store on the planet. And I am not even letting them SEE any other toys until Christmas. If they start noticing Bionicle, then by Christmas Eve they will be sending an emergency memo to Santa saying that they no longer like Power Rangers and so could he please bring them the Bionicle guys instead. Then I will REALLY be screwed.

So by the way, I have to tell you how Henry lets me know what he wants for Christmas -- DVR (Time Warner's version of TiVo). He used to fast-forward through all of the commercials when he was watching a show, which I loved because then I knew he was missing all of those brain-washing advertisements. But recently he realized that he was missing out on an opportunity. So now he forwards through the commercials until his keen eye spots a desired toy. Then he PAUSES the commercial, runs to find me, and drags me to the TV to show me what newest poorly-made, over-priced piece of plastic he wants. I have to admit that it is kind of nice because then I know exactly what he is talking about without having to guess, but it is a little unsettling to see a young kid so savvy in his quest for materialistic possessions. My favorite was when he told me that "they said that if you want the new Game Cube, then it is only 9 9 9 9, but that it is only at Toys R Us. Why is it 9 9 9 9, Mom? Why do you have to have 9 9 9 9?" Now let's just hope he doesn't see any Bionicle commercials.

So in our efforts to keep Christmas reasonably small, here is what they are getting:

Henry -- Power Rangers Delta Enforcer, Lego Prehistoric Creatures (from the Discovery Store), Lego Helicopter, Blokus board game, and one other board game that I have yet to pick BECAUSE IT IS NOT LAST-MINUTE, PEOPLE!!!

Quinn -- Power Rangers Delta Enforcer, a car garage toy, a dump truck, a Rescue Hero, and one other toy that I have yet to pick because, well, you know why.

So five gifts each. Is that reasonable? Have I lost my mind and am actually giving them too much stuff? Or am I being too miserly with only five things and they will feel like Santa gave them the shaft when they go compare notes with their preschool friends? Bear in mind that they will each be getting gifts from two sets of grandparents and a few other random relatives. The five gifts above are just from us (three from "Santa" and two from Mommy and Daddy).

I don't know. What do people think? How much is too much? How little is too little? What do YOU do for Christmas? I feel like if I am going to make it through another 16 years of this, I need some sound advice.

The Sleep Joke

I love Tuesdays. You know why? Because we have nothing to get up for. No school, no nothing. This used to suck when the boys got up at the crack of dawn, but recently they have BOTH developed the ability to sleep past 8 a.m. It rocks. So where is the joke? The joke is that come next August Henry will be in kindergarten every day, Quinn will be in preschool, and if my plans go as I hope I will be teaching part-time in the mornings. No more sleeping in! After 5 long years of getting my children to sleep through the night with no nursings, no bottles, no puddles, no poop, no crying, no nightmares, no mama-sleepus-interruptus (that's Latin), my glorious accomplishment will be ripped away from me in less than a year -- eight months to be exact. Five years of training them to sleep past dawn will be gone in a flash. There will still be weekends and holidays, I know, but still, I put in FIVE LONG YEARS for a moment like this. A moment where I am sitting and typing at 8 am with a nice hot cup of coffee (that for once, I have not had to reheat a dozen times when I leave it to go make a sippy of milk or a cut-up bagel or put a Dora on TV). A moment of absolute quiet in the house when the sun is actually up.

Still, I can't help but think of how soon they will be teenagers and how I will be dragging their sleepy little heads out of bed and complaining about why don't they get up at 6:30 a.m. so they have time to get ready for school. They are starting to grow up so fast. I keep putting Henry's clothes on him and checking the size to see if they are Quinn's clothes because his pants are starting to look like capris on him (not a good look for a boy). And Quinn has so much more wisdom in his big, round blue eyes every day.

...

They both woke up at 8:05. I just left the computer for about twenty minutes to go make milks and bagels. I answered a dozen questions about the roaring space heater I set up in the living room. I found a few Lite Brite pieces on the floor, put a Dora on TV, and of course reheated my coffee. I was kind of starting to miss those little buggers, anyways. Happy Tuesday!

Why I Am Drinking A Cosmo Before 5 PM

Two words -- Lite Brite. Oh. My. God.

I LOOOVED Lite Brite when I was little, but as a mom I want to throw its sorry choking hazard little ass out the window. Though honestly, the fact that it has all those little chokeable pieces has nothing to do with why I hate it. In fact, one of my children choking on a tiny blue piece of plastic might actually break up the unbearable monotony of having to DO the Lite Brite in the first place.

The good thing about it is that the boys are really good about doing it together, which is a major miracle. So that part I like. The bad thing about it is that approximately, I don't know, every 20 seconds or so, 90% of the pieces fall from the table to the ground, and since we have wood floors, they go EVERYWHERE. And every 50 seonds or so, there is some little lettered hole that they cannot punch through with their child-sized two-and-four-year-old-hands, so guess who ends up doing most of the design? Any guesses? Yup -- me.

Pillow Talk

We have a little Christmas pillow in our living room that says, "ho ho ho" and I just noticed that if you turn it upside down it says, "oy oy oy," so I guess that if we become Jewish, we can still use it.

Nipples and Nuts

I am reading a book called "Why Do Men Have Nipples? Hundreds of Questions You'd Only Ask a Doctor After Your Third Martini."

So I was in the shower again yesterday, and Henry came up to me as usual, and he asked what color my nipples were. I said kind of pinkish-brown. He seemed weirded out, so I told him that he had them, too. He pulled up his shirt, and much to his surprise, there they were. And he looked at me and said, "But Mom, why do boys have nipples too?" Weird coincidence, eh? I mean, considering what I am reading. So I told him that I wasn't sure, but that I was reading a book about it. I asked him if he would like me to tell him when I got to that part. He said yes.

On a separate note, I earned major mama points last night by buying the boys peanuts still in their shells. The mama points are due to the fact that two boys shelling peanuts makes an ENORMOUS mess. But oh my God they had SOOO much fun. I set them to work at the table with two sets of nutcrackers and they spent a good half hour shelling and eating. I figure that this is their practice bag. If they can master peanuts, we will graduate to pecans. Walnuts will be our Mount Everest. My husband thinks I am crazy, I suspect, encouraging the kids to do something so messy. But I have a theory on parenting that goes something like this -- 30 minutes of peace and happiness is well worth 30 minutes of clean-up!

Things I Said While In The Shower This Morning

My shower faucet is like the Pied Piper to my boys. I turn it on and they come running. And they always have plenty of interesting things to say and do while I am in there. Here are a few snippits from today's shower, all said by me:

No, Quinn, don't bring that blanket in here. It will get wet and dirty.

Oh, no, Quinn! That's Mommy's wedding ring. How did you get that? Go put it back right now. Thank you!

NO, Henry, you don't pick up the ring either! Put it down!

Stop fighting over who puts the ring down, guys! Just leave it alone!

What's that, Henry? Why do your teddy bear and your snake that are in your bed sleep forever? Because they are not real. They are just toys.

Oh thank you, Quinn, but Mommy doesn't actually NEED the toothpaste right now. Go put it back on the sink. No, no, honey, I really don't need it. Put it back. Put it back, please. Okay, fine, hand it to me.

Guys, don't be too rough wrestling on my bed. Be careful!

Why am I drying off? Because I am all done and all wet. Keep rubbing? Okay, thank you, Quinn. Good advice.




Ahhhhhhh, yet another relaxing shower. Just like being at the spa.

Meaningless Tasks: A Parent's Best Friend

My boys sometimes resemble caged animals, except without the cage. My husband and I have discovered a great way to deal with their seemingly boundless energy, and I thought I would share it since possibly someone else with crazy kids might be reading this and looking for advice. So our advice is...give your children long, meaningless tasks to do. It really works!

For instance, the other day, my husband and I were trying to talk and Henry kept interrupting. So we told him to run up and down the stairs 15 times because that would just be SO COOOL! And he did it. And loved it. And we got to finish our conversation with each other. Then today, I was trying to get ready to leave the house with the boys and they were being their usual hyper little selves, so I gave them each 20 pennies to put in their piggy banks. And they did it. And they loved it. And I got the car loaded up in no time flat.

We especially like tasks that involve going upstairs (their piggy banks are upstairs in their bedroom) because it wears them out more, it takes them longer, and it gets them far enough away that we can actually not hear them for all of two minutes. Our other favorites involve having them make a surpise for Mommy and Daddy. We say, "Hey go make a really cool block tower, and don't let us see it until it is really huge!" When my husband is really desperate, he will send them on an impossible mission, like trying to find some toy that he knows we don't have. Admittedly, this seems a tad cruel, but it does keep them busy for a really long time.

On an unrelated note, we just finished day 3 of the boys' antibiotics. Seven more long days to go. Henry keeps complaining about the taste, so I put a little bit on my finger and tried it, and you know what? He is right. It is pretty disgusting stuff, unless you happen to like the taste of an orange-banana smoothie with three cups of sugar in it. Which apparently Quinn does, since he sucks it down and is disappointed that there are no second helpings allowed. Then again, Quinn is a sugar junkie, plus I have seen him eat sand, for pete's sake, so it is no surprise that he would like the syrupy, melted push-pop taste of the antibiotics. And speaking of antibiotics, when the doctor prescribed them, I asked if it was really necessary to take them, what with all of the talk about how too many antibiotics are being given to children. She said the boys' ear infections were pretty bad, that the infection MIGHT go away on its own, but that her doctor friend treated a child who had an untreated ear infection that "ate through her ear" and turned into menangitis. So I took my little prescriptions and RAN to the nearest drug store!

Now I am feeling really crummy, too, a little worse each day, so I bet I will end up on antibiotics as well. I wonder what flavor MINE will be. Strawberry-Pineapple Slushy? Cherry Delight? Mango-Lime Sorbet? All I know is that I had better hide it from Quinn.

Swiffer Vacuum And Why I Hate Going To The Doctor (Two Totally Unrelated Events)

First off, if you have hard floors in your house, run, I repeat RUN, out to your nearest store and buy a Swiffer Vacuum. It is unbelievable. It is cordless, weighs about three pounds, and gets all of those little floor tumbleweeds quicker than anything I have ever seen. And it can get the stairs and baseboards, too. Now I know you may be thinking that blogging about a vacuum is pathetic and lame (which is probably true), but go get yourself a Swiffer Vac and I promise that you will be making sweet, sweet love to it before nightfall.

In other news, we went to the doctor yesterday because the boys both have ear infections in both ears. Lovely. So amoxicillin, our dear old friend, we welcome you back into our lives for the next ten days. How we have missed your sweet orange taste!

Just so I don't seem ungrateful, let me take a moment to say that I appreciate all that our doctor does for us. She is sweet, attentive, and very calm and rational. Not one of those doctors who makes you freak out about things. So now that that is said, I will proceed to bash the hell out of her office.

The first problem is the waiting room, which I prefer to call Germy Ghetto Toyland. Besides the fact that the toys are probably coated with every germ known to mankind, they are the saddest looking bunch of toys I have ever seen. There is a train track with no train, a kitchen with no pots or pans, three or four Leggos, and a car with one wheel. It looks like the kind of stuff that people wouldn't even buy at a garage sale. The stuff that if you offered it to The Salvation Army, they would politely say, "No thanks." If you left these toys by your trash, homeless people who saw them would not even bother taking them to their children.

But of course, my kids want to play with these toys, so I grit my teeth, throw some suspicious looks at that kid playing with the one-wheeled car -- hey, what is that weird rash all over his face? -- and let my kids play. Then when we leave, I burn their clothes and scrub them with bleach. Of course, three days from now, they will probably have a rash on their faces, and that boy with the weird rash will likely have an ear infection, all thanks to the superhuman germ breeding ground that is Germy Ghetto Toyland.

The biggest problem, though, is Moron Girl, the receptionist. When I get to the doctor, I drop my kids off at Germy Ghetto Toyland, walk past the kid with the weird rash, and go to sign my kids in. Yesterday, when I called to make the appointment, Moron Girl answered the phone. She said to come in at 8:45 a.m. When I clarified that I would be bringing in BOTH boys, she said to still come in at 8:45, but that I would have to wait. Huh? So I said that since she knew I would have to wait, shouldn't I just come in a little later? Nope, apparently that would just make too much sense. So I am already annoyed at her when I arrive. Then the bitch ASKED ME FOR A COPAY!!! Now this may not seem like a big deal, so let me give you a little bit of history. Here is the conversation that I have had with Moron Girl every single appointment for the last 3 1/2 years:

Her: You owe a $40 copay.

Me: No, I don't. Our insurance carrier doesn't require a copay until age 6.

Her: Really?!

Me: Really.

Her: REALLY???!!!

Me: Yes.

But yesterday, since I was tired (because of insomnia), sick (because I am no doubt getting whatever the boys have), and pissed off (because I hate having to deal with morons, especially when I am sick and tired), THIS is the conversation that I had with Moron Girl:

Her: You owe a $40 copay.

Me: No, I don't. Our insurance carrier doesn't require a copay until age 6.

Her: Really?!

Me: Really.

Her: REALLY???!!!

Me: Okay, listen. I have had this exact conversation with you I don't know how many times over the last 3 1/2 years. WE DON"T HAVE A COPAY. So do you think that, just maybe, you could write yourself a little note on that chart that you pull out every single time so that we might possibly avoid having this conversation another 300 times??!!

Her: Bitch. (Not that she said it, but I know she was thinking it.)

Me: Stupid fucking moron. (Under my breath, once I had returned to Germy Ghetto Toyland and sat in a slime-coated chair.)



I won't even tell you about the trip to the pharmacy that followed, but let's just say that the people there make Moron Girl look like a Harvard Grad. Just to give you an idea, though, the cashier didn't know how to open the cash register. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. Does anyone else need a drink? I wonder if amoxicillin tastes good when mixed with vodka.