and now for something completely different...

...a child who knows how to converse.

I had the very distinct privilege of spending one glorious afternoon with The Kid. The Kid is who named me Mr. Lady, many many years ago. I spend most days with a varied assortment of kids, most of them spoiled rotten, most who only want to talk to you about Pokemon or what Santa is bringing them.

Today was, well, refreshing.

Allow me to share with you our conversation on the way home from his school.

Kid: "You must be an awesome mom, because you have three kids. Is it hard?"

Me: "Yeah, I guess it is sometimes. But I just love'm so much, it doesn't really feel hard. You know?"

Kid: "Yeah. I bet it gets loud sometimes, though."

Me: "It sure does, Kid, it sure does. And they smell bad most of the time. Three kids can get pretty smelly."

Kid: "I bet that's why their room is always a mess."

Me: "I bet you're right, Kid."

Kid: "L's hair got long now. You know the kids that live below me? They can't play alot. Between you and me (yes, the 6 year old said between you and me) they can never play. Like two years never."

Me: "That sucks."

Kid: "I think their mom makes them do a LOT of work."

And as we exited my pigsty I call a car, The Kid said the following...

Kid: "I stepped over the yucky old banana so I wouldn't squash it."

Me: "Thanks, dude. Sorry my car is so messy."

Half way across the street he turned around and ran back to the car.

Kid: "I have to get something."

And what did he get? That yucky old banana peel.

Kid: "Come along, Mr. Yucky banana", the Kid spoke. "It's time to meet Mr. Trash Can. After that you will get to meet Mr., um, err..."

Me: "Mr. Trash Truck?"

Kid: "Yeah! Mr. Trash Truck. And then it's off the the beautiful Trash Garden. You'll make lots of friends there."

Dude, I loves this kid. LOVES him.

whining is more fun when you look ridiculously good

I am thinking of just dedicating this blog strictly to birthdays. Apparently, most of the people I know were, well, born at some point. And evidently, I know a lot of them. And clearly, though I have lost yet another set of keys and can't remember which last name I am using these days, I can't manage to forget a single birthday.

Go ahead, scroll back through the archives. There's an assload of birthday posts.

It's not that I don't have anything else to say, I just like the birthday posts. Why bother being all in love with people if you can't put your finger on exactly what is is you love? In addition to the birthday posts, I have this habit of compiling soundtracks for all of my big relationships. Like Molly. Her soundtrack rocks. Tim the old boyfriend has a soundtrack that would bring you to your knees. Scott, the old old boyfriend, actually received his soundtrack in the mail a few years ago. It was 3 CD's long. Scott and one other person are the only two to have ever heard theirs. The rest just live in my head. Like N, who starts off with The Roots and goes from there.

Point is, I like the people I like and I like remembering why I like them. Sometimes they get a paragraph on the Internet, sometimes they get a file in WMP.

The real point is that I have loads to say, I just don't much feel like saying it these days. I think I have hit the point where I am all done pretending how great things are and I just want to have a great big fat temper tantrum because I am freaking sick and tired of waking up with the kids every day and not being able to meet friends out for happy hour and I seriously need a real job and no one should live in a house with 8 people in the basement in the office where the one computer is that people seem to feel the need to use until midnight even though my bed is 1 1/2 feet away and if I don't get laid soon someone may get hurt and did I ever mention that I hate dogs especially dogs that poop all over the house the second their mom leaves?

See, I am all Eeyore these days and the birthday posts, well, they make me happy. Maybe I could charge people $5 a pop and say something devastatingly beautiful about them on their birthdays. That would be a really fun job. At least until I ran out of adjectives.

On a side note: I had a killer hair day. That is by far the girliest thing I have ever said, but it's true. Killer. Hair. Day. Those days be my favorite days.

Eight years ago, a 23 year old Mr. Lady had recently had a beautiful baby boy. She quit her craptastic job for a while to stay home with him, and then decided to take a little part-time gig at the diner down the street.

Eight years ago, an almost 20 year old Jessica lost her 16 year old brother in a particularly nasty DUI accident, killing only him but seriously maiming the three other drunk passengers in the car. She took a week off, Christmas week, the week of her birthday, from the diner she worked at to go bury her brother.

A week after I started working at that diner, I met Jessica. Her first morning back, she came in, Robert Plant hair, huge black circles under her eyes, terrible skin, dirty clothes, wreaking of cigarettes and pot, and for the first time ever I laid eyes on her. She was beautiful.

Um, when they talk about love at first sight, they ain't kidding.

It took us all of an hour to fall head over heels, truly madly deeply in love. We spent most every day together from that one out. The first time she held my baby boy in her arms, she knew and I knew and we knew that we were in for life.

Dearest, beloved, adored Jessica, happy 28th birthday. Every little single thing that I am that is good comes from you. You taught me who I am. You taught me that who I am is just fine. You love me, especial. I write silly haiku because of you, I listen to way too much rap for a white girl because of you, I play the guitar (badly) because of you. I dance when no one is looking, I drink too much coffee and smoke like a chimney (isn't that the line of some song?), I keep a bottle of glitter in my makeup bag, I always know exactly how far I am from Durango, I read a little Dutch, I speak a little Spanish, I wear baggie jeans, I paint, I draw, I sing, I kill fish, I know the theme to Jem, and what all the words to Megadeath songs are, all for you.

There is nothing in this world that has happened to me that has been more important than the day I met you. You defined me, you saw a hole in the center of me and you hugged and kissed and danced it away. You sang songs to my very pregnant belly, you love my children more than almost anything is this world, you stun and amaze me with your mind and your body and your soul.

I think I might marry you someday.

Oh, wait, I can't. In nine short weeks you will stand under the full moon on a beach in Costa Rica and with starlit eyes become a bride. That means that in nine short weeks I will stand, with teary eyes and a sweet suntan and become a bridesmaid.

I hope he knows that I will steal you from him someday.

this one's for you, wherever you are.... say that nothing's been the same since we've been apart, woah oh oh oh ah...

Don't hate me for the Barry. David gave me Xanadu, I'm just sharing the love.

So, happy 31st birthday, Sarah. *sigh*

Sarah, wow. Man. Oi.

I met Sarah, um, 7 years ago or so at a baby shower. I just didn't realize I met her until a few months ago when I met her again. Online. This is becoming a habit for me.

Sometimes, you make these friends, and then life moves you on, and moves them on, too, and those friends make new friends and then it gets all weird and complicated, because usually, at least in my world, those new friends don't mesh with the old friends. Well, Molly is that friend. Sarah is that-that friend. Sarah was, on that fateful baby shower day, one of Molly's new friends. A college friend. A kid-less friend. A not-stupid-high-school friend. A big fat threat to all I held dear with my BFF. I remember that day, feeling weird and awkward and small and totally insecure. 'Cause, see, I loves me some Molly and I was afraid that as I stood in that room I was losing her. Losing her to cooler, more traveled, funnier, cuter people.

This sort of thinking caused me 7 long, hard, dull years without a girl I think I will never go a week without now.

Sarah, I love you, baby. I love you because you have been, like, there for me and shit and we really don't know each other. I love you because we write the same way, which means we talk the same way, which means we think the same way. I love you because I think you are exactly as neurotic, and psychotic and, well, as generallyotic as I am. I love you because our paths have overlapped in crazy, creepy, twilight zone sorts of ways and we have yet to actually shake hands. Did you know I looked at your sophomore and junior yearbooks a few weeks ago? You're, um, cute and shit. I love you because you are kind, and you are way funnier than I could ever hope to be, and you are honest, and you are vulnerable, and you are strong, and you are very very brave, and mostly I love you because you love my Molly and I love my Molly and I love people who love her and make her world a happy place.

Sometimes I think we are related. Sometime you make me believe in god, because there is no way in this world that I didn't meet you for a reason, a big fat honkin' reason. Maybe the key to that reason lays in the bottom of a pint glass; that I don't know yet, but I think we will have to look in a few of them for sure when you get here.

Sarah, thank you for reading this little blog. Thank you for leaving a comment. Thank you for stalking me on myspace. Thank you for writing your blog. Thank you for being an amazing friend to me. Thank you for making me giggle and making me think and, ugh...

Just thank you for being you. You blow my mind and I am honored to know you.

Honored and shit, yo.

prepare yourself

If you have ever contemplated having children but are unsure if you really, really want to, I highly recommend that you first buy every Bill Cosby album ever made and commit them to memory.

That guy knew what he was talking about.

B got in the shower the other day and got out 10 minutes later. He came down in a towel, all shiny and clean and pink, and with one completely dry head of hair.

"Um, did you wash your hair, dude?"


"Um, ok, but you hair's, um, dry...."

"No it's not. I washed it."

(mom holds up mirror) "Buddy, it's dry. I know I didn't hear the blowdrier."

(son gazes in mirror for a minute). "Errrr."

"Get back in the tub and wash your filthy hair already."

And then my precious first born baby boy shot me a look. A Look. A look that said, "Woman, I am 8 and one half years old. This hair, it's my hair. I will wash it exactly as often as I choose to. I enjoy smelling like a horse and it is no longer your job to monitor my activities in the shower."

And then I shot my precious first-born a look. A Look. A look that said, "Child, I don't give a rat's ass how old you think you are. That hair, I made that hair. It's my hair for 9 and one half more years. See these 263 stretch marks? Feel this massive curvature in my spine? I got those so you could have that hair. I did not gain 105 pounds and get permanetly fused vertebrae so that you could walk around smelling like a horse. Go wash your motherfucking hair. Now."

My look won. I love that I still have better looks.