Would you be mine, could you be mine, won't you be my village?

::ties shoelaces::

Dear Internet, 

Meet 2of3. 2of3 is, by every definition of the word, my middle child. He is silly and outlandish and hysterical and he feels *everything* and he needs validation on a constant basis and absolutely must be accepted into social circles and is in no way, shape of form afraid of color.

While every other jr high school boy is wearing enough black that they, themselves, become matter-sucking holes in the universe, with emovers, my 2of3 is wearing purple t-shirts or pink polos with these.

He is the kind of person who isn't able to bring himself to actually *do* silly things, but he sure as shit will wear them. I have no idea where he gets this from, but I love it about him. In a world of carbon-copied mediocrity, my son has a style that is all his own, and he rocks the shit out of it. 

Rocked. 

Jr High School has done what Jr High School does to all of us eventually. My son spent the better part of the day listening to people point and laugh at his *girl* shoes. GIRL SHOES, INTERNETS. 

And just like that, he doesn't want to wear his shoes to school anymore. Just like that, his power animal inhaled a Marlboro red and was all, "Slide, bitch." 

If Jr High School sucks the originality out of the one child in this school zone who has any, I just won't be able to go on. I need him to be able to confidently walk into school tomorrow being the person he is, the Greyscaled Axe mafia be damned. 

Of course, I just want to go punch them all in their throats, so I need you, internet, to help me fight pre-pubescence with fire. He needs a comeback line, one great line to say that will give him his mojo back. Preferably one that won't also get him suspended. 

::buttons up cardigan::

Now, If I Can Just Figure Out How To Age Like Richard Does.

You know what the very best thing about having a blog is?  It's that you can be all, "Someone bring me a cross to nail myself to!  No one understands me!" and 70 people will immediately remind you that A) you are not alone and B) you actually live on the nice side of the island where the smoke monster doesn't eat you, the Dharma people have buried all the beer, and the children don't take birth control pills, the cops haven't shown up for them, dogs don't drag around their used condoms, and they aren't as old as you were whenst you bore them into the world.

So, yeah, point taken.  I'll be getting back to obsessing over Lost now.

Accidentally, A Post About People Who Clearly Have Little Sense of Self Worth

I'm having a bit of an internal conflict with today's post.  I mean, there's some pretty big stuff going on in our nation right now, in my hometown.  (Yes, I know yesterday I was all, I'm from Delaware! and today I'm all, WhutWhut, Denver representin, yo! but I am from both.  Let's move on.)  I am more tuned in to this electoral race than I was even prepared to be, and I can't seem to get it off my mind.  And Hillary's speech last night?  Well, let's just say that I am kind of quietly hoping that none of her followers listen to her and there's a bit of a surprise for everyone come Thursday.  I was never sold on her before, but today I am.

So, I want to talk about the convention.  I want to talk about our country.  I want to talk about important things.  I also want to talk about babysitting.  I'm torn.

Since I leave in about 30 hours for Denver, I figured I'd give the babysitter talk a shot, and save myself for the trip home, when I could tell you all the fabulous things I saw and heard whilst mingling with the dead sexiest group of bloggers the world has ever known.  But then, oh, but then, something came up, and I decided to do both.

My dear friend Stephen is out and about Denver mocking covering the protests in Denver for Pajamas Media.  Stephen is a republican, he drinks scotch, and he's kind of a jerk when he wants to be.  We have NOTHING in common (maybe except that jerk bit. Bygones), but I love him and I read him religiously because, well, no one can make me laugh at myself better than he can.  He's brilliant, and he always remembers to tell me I look pretty.  I'm a chick, and quite susceptible to flattery.  I digress.

Anyway, Stephen was downtown at the mint, filming some protesters doing something completely ridiculous for his video debut on Pajamas Media, when he tripped and fell on an event that I can only describe as the reason I am not registered as a Democrat, and the reason I'm really reluctant to call myself one in public.  This asshole?  Is giving us all a bad name.  And has no respect for others.  Especially women.  Even women who's politics I abhor; she's still a woman, and still a human.  Go watch.  Watch it all.  It's terrible in that Oh My God This Tastes Like Shit You HAVE To Try It way.

Next, babysitters.  I am doing something I've never ever done before; I am leaving my children in the care of a 14 year old for TEN STRAIGHT hours on Thursday so I can fly 1600 miles and throw a party.  I am kind of scared shitless about the whole thing.  She's quite capable, and very loving to the baby, but still.  10 hours straight with my kids and I'm hitting the liquor cabinet.  What's this poor girl going to do?

Anyway, I had to make sure the Babysitter Instructions were still on the fridge, and indeed they were, and as I reviewed them I realized that maybe I ought to share them with you.  Because maybe you need to make a babysitter instruction list, and maybe I can help you out with that.  I'm a giver.  Here we go, copied straight from the sheet on the fridge, I promise:
The BLT Instruction Manual (My kids initials spell a sandwich.  I like food)

  1. Don't kill them, please.  I've been waiting for 10 years; I have dibs.

  2. Don't let them have candy.  Unless you are on great medication or don't value your sanity.

  3. Bedtime is at 9, 8:30 if you start prematurely aging.

  4. They can read in bed with their lights on.  No, they may not read Playboy.


That's about it.  Thanks, dude!

Yes, that is the whole list, excluding our phone numbers, which nice try, but you have to work way harder than that to get my digits.

One question: As much as I love Little Ms Sitter, she is one of those girls that refuses to name her price.  Which annoys me to no end.  Have a little sense of self value, already.  Besides, I don't know what the exchange rate is from shoulder shrug to CAD.  My question is this: Normally, we pay $10/hour for sitting.  But there's no way I'm giving a 14 year old $100 for one day's work.  No way in hell.  I don't make $100 in a day, and I'm betting most of you don't, either.  So, what do I pay her for a 10 hour day of chasing my toddler, playing my Wii, eating my chips and making sure the boys have bandaids and cookies?

Sorry, Ron

I am screwing with the blog again. This time, however, I brought in the big guns. I hired a professional. A hot professional. More on that, and her, later.

In the meantime, I have to figure out how I want this thing to feel. I most definitely want to add a FAQ section, in the interest of cleaning up some clutter. The problem is that, aside from some incomprehensible Tron conversations and a rather embarrassing round of emails that included fetishes, handcuffs and vertically challenged Americans, no one has really ever asked me a question. Like, ever.

This is where you come in, dear readers. I want an FAQ, I need and FAQ. So here's the deal. You get to ask me any questions you want. Any. I don't really have personal boundaries, per se, so ask away. I will do my best to dance around a straightforward answer as humanly possible. The most inappropriate frequently asked ones will get slapped in my fancy new Frequently Asked Vaguely Answered Questions section.

Sounds totally awesome, doesn't it? Get crackin', kids.