tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11329111801439312292024-02-18T21:16:34.332-05:00Life Is Too Short Not To Share...Simply trying to balance life and family along with all the challenges and joys of being a wife, mom, step-mom, daughter, sister, friend...not to mention a full-time career. My crutches that aid me through this journey include high levels of humor, honesty, patience, and let's see...have I mentioned red wine and my personal therapist?!
I love my kids. I don't have to like them all the time. Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.comBlogger166125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-16239005361992380262014-01-03T22:03:00.001-05:002014-01-03T22:03:07.347-05:00One Way To Show You Care About Your Box: COME VOTE!!!<div align="center">
So, I was like "all honored" to get an e-mail in my box <span style="font-size: 78%;">[not that box]</span>, </div>
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asking me to do an Eden Fantasies $50 gift-card giveaway... <br />
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And then, I see that this is the latest rage in blogging these days.<br />
I've seen THREE in the past 3 weeks! <br />
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<b><i>Reality sets in... I'm not so special. </i></b><br />
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However, $50 is $50. </div>
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And $50 can get someone a really nice gift of self lovin', </div>
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if you know what I'm saying???<br />
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<strong>So the question is:</strong> </div>
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<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">SHOULD I HOST MY FIRST</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-size: 130%;"><strong>EDEN FANTASY </strong><strong>GIVE-AWAY,</strong> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">even though they're spreading like wildflowers</span><span style="font-size: 130%;">??? </span></div>
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<strong><em>Let's take a Vote.</em></strong> </div>
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I'll leave it up on the side bar for a week, </div>
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and you guys help me decide, OK?</div>
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: 85%;">Voting will be open through 11:59 pm next Friday, April 10th!</span></em></strong></div>
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<br />And with that, I'll leave you with my husband's<br />favorite picture from our recent visit to Philadelphia.<br />These signs were <em>EVERYWHERE</em>.</div>
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He wants to make a t-shirt for me with the logo :</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFPxg8fAywBIoMMkow16PITMx52eYMsFupkangfvvxKztU708PwcECdclacB9SYhcF3TC2i3QN3TMTDcJ5me4c8bTX6-JVht9sF0jlAodMU2sUorV6kSdXz57uv0b7AAZoqOanUSQg5oO/s1600-h/blockthebox.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320446410272425890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFPxg8fAywBIoMMkow16PITMx52eYMsFupkangfvvxKztU708PwcECdclacB9SYhcF3TC2i3QN3TMTDcJ5me4c8bTX6-JVht9sF0jlAodMU2sUorV6kSdXz57uv0b7AAZoqOanUSQg5oO/s400/blockthebox.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 398px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<strong><em>"DON'T BLOCK THE BOX!"</em></strong></div>
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<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a></div>
Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-58227839628229011012014-01-03T19:43:00.000-05:002014-01-03T21:24:49.348-05:00Happy Birthday, Sydney!<div align="center">
<strong><em>Happy 7th Birthday, Sydney. </em></strong><br />
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<strong><em>You make me smile every day, </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>and I love you </em></strong></div>
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<strong><em>in amounts I can't begin to express....</em></strong></div>
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<em><strong>Your passion and energy shine through every day, </strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>and touch people in ways you simply can't understand... </strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>Thank you for what you give me... </strong></em><br />
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<em><strong>All my love,</strong></em></div>
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<em><strong>Mommy</strong></em><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> </div>
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Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-51463251529571561972014-01-03T10:00:00.000-05:002014-01-03T19:27:11.379-05:00ASK me another question you anonymous 12 year old TW_T<br />
My girls (11 & 14) are on so many social media sites, I can't always keep track. I try to. And any new APP they download to their phones automatically downloads to mine... pretty much my lazy effort in spying. The fun part is, I get to make a profile, and they have to accept me following them.<br />
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Instagram, Kik, Snapchat and Ask are the top 4 these days. And while I can't fit in on Instagram (since surprisingly at 43 years old I can't stomach snapping close-up selfies with "puckered lips" and then posting them to the world)... I did attempt to hang out on "Ask" for a bit.<br />
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Have you seen this app???!!<br />
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Aside from it being a "Bully Zone Amongst Girls", there's some funny shit our kids talk about on social media. Like "TBH". What the hell is that? "To Be Honest"... if you respond "Yes", then you simply respond "honestly"to their next question. Wow. That's creative.<br />
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And what about "Rate?". This is someone asking you if you're willing to "Rate" people if they give you a person's name... Like on a scale of 1-10. Or sometimes it could be on a letter grade scale: B+ or A-. Not A. But A-. WTF is that? My daughter gave someone a C and we had to talk. <br />
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So I set up my profile and "followed" my girls' accounts, checking in only every so often. And can you believe within 24 hours I started getting messages that "Moms are not supposed to be on ASK." "Get Off ASK." WTF? I was about to hand out a can of Whoop Ass right there on screen!<br />
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And then, I remembered my own advice to my girls... don't respond when people are rude. Don't fuel the fire. Don't stoop down to their level. They'll move on to someone else when ignored.<br />
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Screw that. Come on 12 year old anonymous twat. You found your match. But do you think you could just give me a little time to figure out how to create a "fake" account, under a new name, so my girls can't see what I'm doing? Then, I'll be ready "To Be Honest". Promise.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: 0px !important;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-18093257083691684762014-01-02T21:24:00.001-05:002014-01-03T19:29:43.713-05:00My learnings from Weight Watchers in the New Year: Cabbage is bad.It's been 4 to 5 days of getting back to my workout routine at the gym (which has been on hiatus for a long, long, long time). In addition, I agreed to join Weight Watcher's (WW) to jump-start my ambitious attempt to lose weight quick in early 2014. <br />
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Here's the main takeaways I've concluded to date:<br />
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1. Cabbage soup is NOT good for ones intestines several days in a row.<br />
2. Starting WW's during the first winter snowstorm of the year that causes everything to close down is simply bad timing since you're locked in your house with nowhere to go, except the refrigerator.<br />
3. My family used to enjoy cabbage but they've changed their mind after the past 3 days.<br />
4. Cabbage plus "flaxseed" smoothies in the same day is quite comical, in a frightening way.<br />
5. A glass of wine according to WW's is 5 ounces, and equates to 4 points. <br />
6. My normal consumption of wine is more than my TOTAL daily point allowance on this damn plan.<br />
7. I believe I need a different meeting - AA, not WW. <br />
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...Or a much smaller wine glass. But the kids are home in 2 days, so we know that is not an option.<br />
WW's or bust. I say bust. <br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: 0px !important;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-48827560717616056712012-05-14T12:57:00.000-04:002014-01-03T21:25:30.844-05:00My Personal Fifty Shades of Grey ResultsJust like many other women on this planet, I've completed the final book in the Fifty Shades of Grey Trilogy... and I have one simple question to pose:<br />
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NOW WHAT???!!!<br />
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Okay, so the reading lagged on a little, the sex scenes became a little expected, and I kept thinking an ignorant Miss Anastasia Steele was going to find Mr. Fifty Shades off with an army load of prostitutes at any waking moment, as you'd expect in the "real world". But I enjoyed the read. And more importantly, my cop of a husband pulled his hand cuffs out the other night to surprise me. <br />
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That's the entire point of the book, right?<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0 !important;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-54379689719496528172011-07-05T11:09:00.003-04:002014-01-03T21:26:31.012-05:00These are the things that make me miss my kids EVEN MORE while they are away this week on vacation with their Dad:<br />
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You have to appreciate a newly 9-year-old's "attempt" at making better eating choices - even thought she's absolutely perfect! <br />
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Syd and Sam: I hope you are eating ice-cream like 2 bats-out-of-hell this week at the beach. There is nothing better than sun, swimming and ice-cream every night on the boardwalk!<br />
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Missing you both desperately,<br />
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Mom xoxo<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-6494818048672126472010-02-07T15:29:00.004-05:002013-12-18T17:27:17.212-05:00Sex Education and the Questions That FollowSex-Education tips from a Mom who doesn't hold back:<br />
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1. Be prepared to be placed into the "Totally Disgusting" category. Yep, that's where I landed since my youngest child finally correlated "having a baby" to actually "having had to have sex". I think I can play this one out to my advantage for a few years. Sex = Disgusting. Perfect.<br />
<br />
2. Don't compare "sperm" to "fish". Because after stewing over the conversation for some time, my step-son still can't understand how an actual "fish" could fit into a woman's vagina and swim through her body and stay alive. I think I'm going to try "squirt gun" next time.<br />
<br />
3. Forget the line about how you promise not to "laugh" or "make fun of them" for ever coming to you with a question. The whole point of this is to have them trust you, right? Just abandon this at all costs. Because IMMEDIATELY after you promise not to laugh, you're going to be faced with the dumbest sex question E-V-E-R. And you're just going to burst out laughing at them. In their face. Yep, full LOL. And they will never come to you again, so save your energy up for the time when they realize Sex does not = Disgusting anymore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-25151117554994360252010-01-07T09:15:00.004-05:002014-01-03T19:32:40.763-05:00Step Parenting Sucks... sometimesI absolutely adore my step-sons. I really do. I love my husband even more. And of course, my girls are nothing less than precious to me. But step-parenting sucks sometimes. It's probably one of the most self-less jobs a person can have and brings on so many additional challenges when compared to parenting your own children.<br /><br />Here are just a couple of things I struggle with:<br /><br /><ul><li>The TRANSITION period. Children of divorce get the worst deal. They have absolutely no choice in the option of splitting living time between two separate households. And even harder for them is the difference in rules between houses. Unfortunately, when biological parents fall at opposite ends of the discipline paradigm, these poor little kids fall on their face. Well, at least when they get to our house they fall, because we actually have rules that we enforce. And for them coming to our house, it takes a at least a couple of days to simply transition to how they know they can behave in our home. And this leads to a whole other frustration around being the "mean" parents, or the "assholes". But from the words of my therapist, they will later appreciate or benefit from having structure and set expectations. ("When??!!" I ask, "When???") Rules and appropriate behavioral expectations will benefit them in the long run. I wish they could see that now though, instead of seeing me as the "step-mom" who should have starred in Cinderella.</li></ul><p> </p><ul><li>MY HUSBAND, THE DAD. I miss my husband when his boys are here. And I realize that he probably feels the same way when his kids are not here, and my girls are clinging to me almost 24 hours a day as if I were their lifeline to survival. Yet, for those 10-15 days each month when those little terds are here, they are glued to my husbands body as if he had a sudden growth on his side that was irremovable. How precious is the fact that they just eat every waking moment with him, because that is what they crave and desire. But inside, I miss him and feel selfish to even type the words. </li></ul><p> </p><ul><li>BLENDING A FAMILY. With two girls of my own (7 and 10) and my husbands two boys (6 and 9), when we are all together I couldn't be prouder. Yet blending 4 creatures together and cramming their entire lives under one roof for undefined periods of time can only result in chaos. Competition. Argues. Fights. There usually comes a point in time where I literally have to simply "check out". I've even told them that. I can't do it anymore. And then, I hear the uncontrollable giggling amongst them all in the basement, or the constant chit-chat at bedtime when they all insist on sleeping in one room together even though we just moved in order to give them all their own space. And then I fall in love with each of them all over again. Thank God.</li></ul><p>I struggle every day hoping that what I do is the best thing for each of them. I hope that I choose the right words, the right timing, the right battles to fight and ultimately that one day, somehow, they will look back and possibly think silently even for one moment in their adult life that I loved them immensely and did the best I could.</p><p>I can only hope.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a> </p> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-12153645371332661622009-11-03T16:07:00.002-05:002014-01-03T21:40:26.381-05:00Halloween HellI'm not sure what it is about Halloween, but I've decided it's hell. Costumes, makeup, nailpolish on 7 year olds, fish net stockings now on elementary aged kids... and most of you can relate to all the room-parent responsibilities for those of us who pretend we have enough time in our crazy lives to help out our teachers in order to be perceived as a fucking good parent. Arggghhhh.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMCqmkhVZ25FLP6FqO1LVBu7gP2b8gDLrifTh_-GbdM1tFg_ZipewqIITXip3MthpSqL1AfniN7IBur6RSPHSq5CpuMwGcxfwOvu6UExi7vMDNawYlqRI6Wr07gjvmPwFMNnnhyphenhyphenUWp0yl/s1600-h/pirates.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399989116050370690" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMCqmkhVZ25FLP6FqO1LVBu7gP2b8gDLrifTh_-GbdM1tFg_ZipewqIITXip3MthpSqL1AfniN7IBur6RSPHSq5CpuMwGcxfwOvu6UExi7vMDNawYlqRI6Wr07gjvmPwFMNnnhyphenhyphenUWp0yl/s400/pirates.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 291px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<br /> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-61159790157971038632009-10-22T12:20:00.005-04:002013-12-18T17:23:01.872-05:00My Daughter is pulling her eyelashes out and my therapist thinks I'm crazyWhile I'm in the midst of determining my own life purpose, I decided to face the fact that eyelashes actually <em>do</em> have a defined purpose. And my little OCD tendency kid who lives life through quirky routines to deal with some type of anxiety issue I'm sure I'm the root cause of has pretty much plucked almost all of her eyelashes out. <br />
<br />
Q) So what does a reliable "mom" do? <br />
<br />
<strong>A) Call her therapist to get back on the schedule. </strong><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">4 days... no call back.</span><br />
<br />
Talk about a slap at someone's self esteem. Shit. Here we go again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-43454105808374441712009-10-16T10:47:00.004-04:002013-12-18T17:25:59.026-05:00The Color of Crack is Quite ScaryWell, I'm finally ready to share a brief summary of my learnings around the color of ass crack. And thanks to my curious children, I'm prepared to dish up some great conversation with strangers at holiday parties this year. <br />
<br />
Here's what I found in a nutshell:<br />
<br />
1. You can't google "Why are Ass Cracks Pink?" without getting some really nasty search results. Most of the pics I dared to open were things I wouldn't even WANT to share with you. And most of you probably know, I'm usually willing to share quite a bit.<br />
<br />
2. There are people who actually post questions on butt crack colors on Medical Websites. And worse off, there are more than too many people that have hairy butt cracks, growths on butt cracks, or bleeding/chaffed butt cracks, who in my opinion are desperately in need of help. <br />
<br />
3. There is a drink called "Sand in your Butt Crack". It includes melon liquor, Jack Daniels and pineapple juice I think. I watched a video on it thinking I could at least share <em>SOMETHING</em> valuable in this post, but the drink looked as if it would literally <i>taste</i> like ass crack.<br />
<br />
So for now, I lay my search to rest. The curious kid who posed the innocent question around butt crack color a few weeks ago has already moved on to her next fascination in everyday life anyway, which entails picking her eyelashes. And unfortunately every google search on this one points to needing a therapist. <br />
<br />
Like mother, like daughter.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-75554275990837375282009-09-18T16:12:00.005-04:002013-12-18T17:30:54.486-05:00The natural color of ASSQuestion: "Mom, why is your butt crack pink?"<br />
<br />
Response [jumping up, wiping off ass of pants frantically]: "What??? Do I have something on my pants and didn't know it? Did I sit in something, Kid2?"<br />
<br />
Question [kid laughing, but still curious]: "NO MOM. Why does everyone have pink on their butts? You know, inside their cracks? Why are they pinkish purple?"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 78%;">silence...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 78%;"><br /></span>
<em>WTF?</em><br />
<em><br /></em>
And now I'm off to google "pink butt cracks". I will share my learnings tomorrow... because when I asked my husband this same question last night and how I might have responded to the curious blue-eyed 7 year old Kid2, his answer revolved around how porn stars actually bleach their assholes to rid of pinkish-purple coloring for video. <br />
<br />
I think I will eliminate that from my educational discussion with my curious kid tomorrow. Google, here I come.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-10346073278374192022009-07-03T00:34:00.003-04:002013-12-18T17:44:22.412-05:00OCD is obviously hereditary. Shit.I've come to the realization that my little <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OCD</span> child may be learning tendencies from me.<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">WTF</span>???<br />
<br />
Shit. Well, you tell me... <strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">Is it normal to</span>:</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Ensure that during your nightly set-up for delayed timing of morning coffee brewing you also lay out in precise motion exactly ONE SECTION of a select-a-size paper towel set at a perfect diagonal, your coffee cup, 2 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Splendas</span> and a specific favorite coffee teaspoon so you are fully prepared in the morning for instant <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">gratification</span>? </li>
</ul>
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
<ul>
<li>Take 22 minutes before bed to apply <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">prescription</span> arm lotion in specific stroke movements, always right arm first, then left, then pop an Allegra, then reapply wax to poking metal brackets of new braces before even speaking one word to your husband because even the smallest messing up of such a ritual will set you off and force one to start over from the absolute beginning causing husband to stare at you as if you were a crazy woman? </li>
</ul>
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
<ul>
<li>Eat popcorn one popped kernel at a time, even though you are starving and craving the buttery taste, but have developed such a habit so many years ago you can not think to entertain any other mode of consumption? First, grab fistful of popcorn with right hand; second, transfer fistful of popcorn to left hand in one swift move; third, use right hand to feed mouth individual kernels from left hand, one by one. </li>
</ul>
I swear I'm laid back about a lot of shit. It takes me less than ten minutes to get ready in the morning in order to leave the house. I can pick up a pair of wrinkled jeans from my closet floor and pair it with a 2 day-worn tank top, dress and feel newly re-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">freshed</span> without hesitation. (I'm not sure why I'm proud of that, but I am.) Put me in an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">uncomfortable</span> situation at work or out socially, and I'll think to myself, "Hey, whatever..." and find some way to make a joke out of it. <br />
<br />
But <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">WTF</span> is up with some of this other shit? Seriously. To my 7 year old Kid2 who I've so many times cussed out about your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">OCD</span> tendencies, nightly routines of tucking blankets and obsession with the remote control, today you receive my compassion and apologies. Mom's messed up, kid.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> <br />
Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-52169012763135241532009-06-15T08:20:00.007-04:002013-12-18T17:59:29.298-05:00How to Crush Your Kid's Lemonade Stand DreamsI love it when my husband loses his shit and I look like "Parent of the Year". It doesn't happen often.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure which brilliant dipshit came up with the idea to have a "Lemonade Stand Contest"... but with "Regular-down-the-street-kid-who-thinks-she-lives-here" visiting, it was 2 against 3. Each were going to have "advertising signs". Each were strategically planning their set-up, supplies, price per cup and total dollar goal for the sale. This was some serious MBA economic shit-planning going down.<br />
<br />
Damn, these kids are brilliant when they want to be. And they have never been so juiced up like this.<br />
Never. Ever.<br />
<br />
It wasn't long before the unraveling began. The older kids sneak Oreo cookies, bagged chips and teddy grahams to sell. The youngest of the group throws open the garage door, flies up the steps to the kitchen with flushed cheeks screaming at his father and I:<br />
<br />
"WE <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED</span> SNACKS TO SELL!!!!!"<br />
<br />
My husband wants absolutely nothing to do with it anymore. He's moved their tables 13 times, filled 2 pitchers of lemonade, removed 1 mosquito from someones cup and has slipped on a patch of ice chips.<br />
<br />
My husband to the desperate 5 year old in attempt at keeping calm: "No, go outside. You don't need any snacks."<br />
<br />
Desperate Child: "YES!!!!!! WE DO!!!! The older girls have snacks! We <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">NEEEEEEEED</span> SNACKS too!!!"<br />
<br />
My husband [with veins in neck about to burst] to desperate 5 year old: "<strong>NO YOU DON'T</strong>. If you don't go outside, you're done."<br />
<br />
Desperate Child who Never gives up opens pantry and starts tearing through food packages, whipping pasta boxes and other food packages out onto the floor.<br />
<br />
And then I hear it.<br />
<br />
This is what my husband screamed in slow-motion, to our desperate 5 year old child in the very next moment, stooping down to eye level, only 3 inches from his face:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">"YOU ARE NOT GETTING ANY SNACKS. </span></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">DO YOU UNDERSTAND? </span></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">BECAUSE NO ONE IS GOING TO </span></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">BUY YOUR LEMONADE! </span></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">NO ONE IS GOING TO COME </span></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">TO YOUR GOD DAMN SALE! </span></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 130%;">DO YOU GET IT? </span></strong></div>
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: 130%;"><strong>NO ONE! NO ONE!"</strong></span></div>
<strong></strong><br />
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: 78%;"><chirp></chirp></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 78%;"></span><br />
<div align="center">
<span style="font-size: 78%;"><chirp></chirp></span></div>
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
<span style="font-size: 78%;"></span><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span><br />
<div align="left">
</div>
<span style="font-size: 100%;">Me Quietly Reaching for an entire sleeve of chocolate chip cookies and new family size bag of Cheetos: "Here. Go sell some snacks dude." <blockquote>
</blockquote>
</span><span style="font-size: 100%;">And the sale continued. With an entire final count of $6.85 in total earnings. Minus the $22.50 cost of snacks, cups and lemonade on my part. But hey, who's counting right? Especially when the final outcome is my husband quietly muttering under his breath as he leaves the kitchen: <blockquote>
</blockquote>
</span><span style="font-size: 78%;"><strong>"You're a way better person than I am."</strong></span> <br />
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
No honey, it's just your turn. That's all. <br />
<div align="left">
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> </div>
Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-11629578232316736272009-06-04T19:00:00.007-04:002014-01-03T21:47:57.333-05:00Jealousy, Sex and the 70 Year Old Owner of our Future House<div>
So, I was going through my husband's jeans last night... <br />
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
<strong>[not a normal habit I would like to protest... I was simply looking for a few spare dollars to donate to a door-knocking-neighborhood-teen-scoundrel raising money for some God forsaken sports trip...],</strong> <br />
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
...and this is what I find in his back pocket:</div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjZLya8djxxsyCQrhqw6mW_Lwusa5BS4P9nfup92yg8imjUDmZI8QaPfLDwgXYCgQi4le9YTsrL33PGOczNQBMNVvE80wWPrK1065lrOG2n8LeFmhNttuHnD5eRvZavq12xUwuZynbuQB/s1600-h/wallet+1.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343615280170670050" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjZLya8djxxsyCQrhqw6mW_Lwusa5BS4P9nfup92yg8imjUDmZI8QaPfLDwgXYCgQi4le9YTsrL33PGOczNQBMNVvE80wWPrK1065lrOG2n8LeFmhNttuHnD5eRvZavq12xUwuZynbuQB/s400/wallet+1.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6086nK8muR2gZqMJYQXfNS73sFjNLkDVeq3J3c1Nq-SPJEqQAnXqWOlHLOlI7c2jzHjCCPZ9RR3zGr9JfVWlDr_n3hjRZwMmP62xFMYANrZqwjM0GQanLrqm9ax2Rkkuldly-EIjfA7ir/s1600-h/wallet+2.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343615285141171074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6086nK8muR2gZqMJYQXfNS73sFjNLkDVeq3J3c1Nq-SPJEqQAnXqWOlHLOlI7c2jzHjCCPZ9RR3zGr9JfVWlDr_n3hjRZwMmP62xFMYANrZqwjM0GQanLrqm9ax2Rkkuldly-EIjfA7ir/s400/wallet+2.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<div align="center">
<strong><span style="font-size: 180%;">WTF?</span></strong> </div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div align="center">
Um, for those of you that don't know </div>
<div align="center">
me or my two blonde daughters, </div>
<div align="center">
THOSE BITCHES AIN'T US!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div align="center">
<strong><em>So I ask you... </em></strong><br />
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
</div>
<div align="center">
Is it a picture of:</div>
<div>
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
A) Illegitimate children he so shamefully neglected to speak of these past several years?;</div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
2) The woman I in a matter of 2.4 seconds flat decided he might be having an affair with, and her two daughters who so strangely are both blonde and oddly resemble my own two girls in age?;</div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
3) The daughter and grandchildren of the 70 Year Old woman who currently owns the house we are purchasing, who happened to leave her house key for my husband yesterday in order for us to be present for the full-day inspection going on.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
</div>
<div>
Women are asses. But the funniest shit is, he was actually flattered by my expressed jealousy.<br />
<br />
So readers, jealousy can be a good thing, if it every-so-often presents itself in <strong>small</strong> doses.<span style="font-size: 12px;"> </span><br />
And so is the sex that follows. </div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: 78%;"></span></div>
<div>
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> </div>
</div>
Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-41368881664153146022009-06-01T13:28:00.005-04:002009-06-01T14:18:54.433-04:00Susan Boyle, Me and my OCD Child<div align="left">I'm not very shocked at the recent news stories around Susan Boyle's supposed nervous breakdown. I mean, how could any ho-hum-never-been-kissed-but-now-sudden-superstar-at-way-too-old-of-an-age human being make it through the unbelievable press and attention she's gotten over the last several months?<br /><br />Right?<br /><br />And then again, while I may not have to hide from photographers or journalists crouching outside my bushes to catch a glimpse of me at my worst moments, my life these days feels like a category 5 hurricane. Or tornado. Or whichever one of those damn natural catastrophes is described by some type of "categorical system".<br /><br />These days my own definition of "Category 5" can also be described as:<br />"Complete Mother-Fucking Mayhem".<br /><br />Yeah, yeah... whine, whine, bitch, moan. But in addition to all I have going on personally, my kids decided to enter new stages in life, JUST as we have tons of shit going on here at home. Well, OK, my 9 year olds' attitude still sucks the shit out of me - her phase just keeps spinning downward... however, my little soon-to-be-seven-year-old OCD kid has developed new tendencies at night time which basically revolve around NO SLEEP WHAT SO EVER. Her complaints consist of having wrinkles in her sheets, having no pajamas that are comfortable and hating her bed because it is crooked.<br /><br />Am I the only mother that honestly with her whole heart truly attempts to console and cuddle and talk out these issues with their child they love and treasure to death for nights on end, but suddenly, when asked to tuck blankets tighter for the 17th time in a row, loses all sense of motherly instinct and checks out to no avail wishing her kid a night of hell, only to lock herself in the bathroom with the tub running in order not to hear the cries for mommy, waiting and counting to see how long it takes her husband downstairs to attend to issues he would never normally deal with because kid-in-question wouldn't DARE exhibit such bullshit behavior if alone with Dad or Step-Dad or any other caring adult for that matter?!!!!<br /><br />Am I???<br /><br />These are the days I feel like I suck shit as a Mother. My little 6 year old who deals with small OCD tendencies most likely caused by anxiety, [I will leave anxiety source ex-husband out of the story for not wanting to be convicted of defamation of character], is probably in her own way dealing with the traumatizing event of moving from the only one house she has ever known, and has expressed she doesn't want to go, even though she is filled with excitement after seeing the new house. Even the smallest change in routine knocks this kid to no end. And here we are as the adults in her world, not even contemplating the effects of all this change on the littlest of female beings, trucking on as usual, without even asking how she's doing with it all.<br /><br />But then, just as I start to feel sympathy again, all I can hear in the back of my brain are the screaming words of "Tuck Mommy, TUCK!! Tuck harder, Mommy, GOD!" And then I hear complete tears.<br /><br />Tears from both of us. </div><blockquote><p align="center"></p></blockquote><div align="center"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPjVN4kbBK2YV1c4COXcAC5OSEgytxw4qwzGXym4aMCvn7GPQg7wB1DABDgEW08hzXmdFFKPal6Mm4nYXzlJjd-9TYFp1R_q-RW-atpJArgL1OLg_gJJeNS800gNYjGZC7IHOzTfbQDCy/s1600-h/sydney+porch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342424560219546370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFPjVN4kbBK2YV1c4COXcAC5OSEgytxw4qwzGXym4aMCvn7GPQg7wB1DABDgEW08hzXmdFFKPal6Mm4nYXzlJjd-9TYFp1R_q-RW-atpJArgL1OLg_gJJeNS800gNYjGZC7IHOzTfbQDCy/s400/sydney+porch.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">Maybe tomorrow will be better, that is, after we head "new pajama" shopping tonight. </span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">If not, I may follow Susan Boyle's footsteps and check in somewhere after my awaiting nervous breakdown.</span><br /><br />Wish me luck.<br /><br />And in the meantime Sydney, I hope you know,<br />Mommy loves you <em><strong>more than the world</strong></em>.</p><blockquote></blockquote><p align="center"> <em>We'll figure this out together, baby.</em><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a></p> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-65653098835827703712009-05-28T12:05:00.003-04:002014-01-03T21:50:55.786-05:00BRACE Yourself When You See THIS!<blockquote>
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I think maybe this is the start of a mid-life crisis? </div>
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New job, new house, and hopefully in a year, NEW TEETH! <br />
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I've been a chicken to do braces, </div>
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and while I don't have major renovation needed, </div>
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I finally made the jump to fix my smile. </div>
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In the meantime, my husband's penis is "turtling in". </div>
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<strong><em><span style="font-size: 78%;">Those were his words, not mine. </span></em></strong><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Y5zWwOHOEhfoyxc-uwISRF3hOX-sRVkLAD17MlgRdmLQdwMKguJ_WYRX7TsWeHrIzyKxZw1SXvNPSCXW4T5i3XMRkJHT9JilPt2ElNSTiHeCI46AYg8QSm1KoxWNWMF0b-gjJ_nixch4/s1600-h/braceface.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340909107054052114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Y5zWwOHOEhfoyxc-uwISRF3hOX-sRVkLAD17MlgRdmLQdwMKguJ_WYRX7TsWeHrIzyKxZw1SXvNPSCXW4T5i3XMRkJHT9JilPt2ElNSTiHeCI46AYg8QSm1KoxWNWMF0b-gjJ_nixch4/s400/braceface.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 262px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Now I know <strong><em>why</em></strong> 12 is the preferred age to put sharp metal on teeth.</div>
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<span style="font-size: 78%;"><em><strong>18 months and counting, honey!</strong></em></span></div>
<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-2441315500824708822009-05-20T08:24:00.008-04:002009-05-20T09:10:14.680-04:00To Work or Blog... that is the question.Today marks day 10 of my re-employment.<br /><br />I haven't really brought it up directly, mostly because I think I'm so overwhelmed with new information that I don't want to face reality. But today's the day.<br /><br /><br />Back to Work. Bye-Bye daily blogging.<br /><br /><br />After a week in California in training at my new Bio Tech Headquarters, this is what I'm facing for the next 6 weeks:<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISAL4dr_Yfq5QCZY5DoYrj5r2yfiHesSgkzODN_9hYeGDW-WsZIg38iI7Rh2U6DVi-jRIRhIZ9QsnDJ_J3wOXWzmha1_taKJI7LIEWpZxKkxYRJNu4UwKUnLZ-lwy9b_EqqNuiHCAPR2Z/s1600-h/dna_copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337888475329569026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 327px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjISAL4dr_Yfq5QCZY5DoYrj5r2yfiHesSgkzODN_9hYeGDW-WsZIg38iI7Rh2U6DVi-jRIRhIZ9QsnDJ_J3wOXWzmha1_taKJI7LIEWpZxKkxYRJNu4UwKUnLZ-lwy9b_EqqNuiHCAPR2Z/s400/dna_copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p>I'm about to rip my eyeballs out. For those of you who read my writing, favorite topics tend to focus on the human anatomy or how my kids are such ass-holes at times, of course usually sprinkled with an occasional F-bomb here and there. So instead of writing about my husband's taint, or how my kids' asses smell like um... er... well, ASS way too much, I'm now having to submerge in what I believe to be PhD level chemistry modules on things I will most likely NEVER have to speak about with customers anyway...</p><p>I do not have science background. I'm a business major. And I am not a scientist. I'm in SALES for God's sake. So this is just <strong>pure</strong> torture. </p><br /><p>And this morning as I should be cramming away, I choose to blog.</p><blockquote></blockquote><p>I.Just.Can't.Open.The.Books.Again.</p><p>We all have our different learning styles. Mine involves pictures and simplistic descriptions from those around me. And here's my level of learning style: </p><br /><p><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlkSZAz0dt9kyqMzU_OJPX3J0RW3rZDCodcNSsk6IIlJx46gnj-AS49Kg2zphHe_HEeHwN5AU3DZdSQOLSvUxnHuWytkfsnZ70ycjid3VpUTwwy62yy6xJ5SjnoMNpw0RE3KLuT1YLwEu/s1600-h/kidlearning.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337881129036389330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 315px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 315px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLlkSZAz0dt9kyqMzU_OJPX3J0RW3rZDCodcNSsk6IIlJx46gnj-AS49Kg2zphHe_HEeHwN5AU3DZdSQOLSvUxnHuWytkfsnZ70ycjid3VpUTwwy62yy6xJ5SjnoMNpw0RE3KLuT1YLwEu/s400/kidlearning.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />You see, I probably can understand cell structure and differentiate between DNA and rDNA and mDNA and all that other shit. Or wait, is that mRNA?<br /><br />OK, so let's just cut to the shit. I can't remember anything that isn't drawn out in simple diagrams that comes along with a slick acronym to memorize it by. Without that, I don't care about it. And DNA surely is not what makes my sales numbers. <blockquote></blockquote>So in my world, rDNA will be remembered as "Real dicks need ass" for the next 6 weeks, until my final exam is over. And then, rDNA will dissolve from my memory. <p><em><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">Real dicks DO need ass, right?</span></strong></em> </p><p>So while I have to get a 90 or above on every test through mid-July, my blogging hobby will slowly be replaced. Here's what my new writing hobby has turned into:</p><br /><blockquote></blockquote><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv-T8jxK_1fYvGO04goLwujininSm79vBDNmfXTAUCWry4AzNxnhnLEaynwkLYPFc6YZeMPXdOn0vWyLeehLPoWFZb1HbkMo0EkzlmlXN_S0wss7m4-TbHC4vihi7ftdwqlhL4CibZ9Cz/s1600-h/cheating+hand.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337881130918223426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 304px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxv-T8jxK_1fYvGO04goLwujininSm79vBDNmfXTAUCWry4AzNxnhnLEaynwkLYPFc6YZeMPXdOn0vWyLeehLPoWFZb1HbkMo0EkzlmlXN_S0wss7m4-TbHC4vihi7ftdwqlhL4CibZ9Cz/s400/cheating+hand.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And I'm determined to keep blogging. It's just going to be hard to find inspiring content when all I'm reading about is genomes and chromosomes and rheumatoid arthritis injections. But I'll find something.<br /><br /><br /><br />IWP. <blockquote></blockquote><span style="font-size:78%;">I will prevail.<br /></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-16958568585901372022009-05-18T07:32:00.003-04:002014-01-03T21:54:04.260-05:00From the Mouth of a 5 Year Old<div style="text-align: center;">
"Hey SUE!!! This is a small? My GOD, why is small so X-TRA LARGE????" </div>
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<em>Spoken from the mouth of a 5 year old.</em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5HdPO1SltMgQLzkg4fScbIgPpZGR4U4Lu5-Ei6AFdlqYuAC8k8cOTaIK0_iZRRktgwjvdatsavv4T6izg2eif-LvHmDSno1Vd5W4KOxQr8kzIZyFqqqz5ZtgoRySXK5KZRw3NBD54lyxn/s1600-h/panties.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337125776792333890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5HdPO1SltMgQLzkg4fScbIgPpZGR4U4Lu5-Ei6AFdlqYuAC8k8cOTaIK0_iZRRktgwjvdatsavv4T6izg2eif-LvHmDSno1Vd5W4KOxQr8kzIZyFqqqz5ZtgoRySXK5KZRw3NBD54lyxn/s400/panties.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 365px;" /></a></div>
<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-16880953207346689152009-05-08T00:15:00.000-04:002009-05-08T00:15:00.217-04:00Free Family Entertainment at Target<div align="center"><strong>Free Family Entertainment Tip #92: <blockquote></blockquote></strong></div><div align="center">Head to your nearest Target</div><div align="center"> and assign each child a display model digital camera.</div><blockquote></blockquote><div align="center"><strong><em>"Which ever child takes the funniest picture </em></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><em>gets to ride home in the front seat."<br /></em></strong><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8sh7bSpQaUU7X4TM-y423ndfmc3vC2907OB6dfNG0v_5lK24VeFsUFPaVnPLshe28Vo6tLihg84I-RbAbudg2FMaVEPxt8tqGzJOQSCf0cCx37fnrPnZQj5IN5aqRz15JYSJt7Q1mnno/s1600-h/sydccamera2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333058468595764482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 322px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8sh7bSpQaUU7X4TM-y423ndfmc3vC2907OB6dfNG0v_5lK24VeFsUFPaVnPLshe28Vo6tLihg84I-RbAbudg2FMaVEPxt8tqGzJOQSCf0cCx37fnrPnZQj5IN5aqRz15JYSJt7Q1mnno/s400/sydccamera2.JPG" border="0" /></a> <blockquote></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9fCHFBZlw6Dmo5t6eYKJiejeVAQZm3jsQ2ssDOSYhUkPUT5N1xrG24PpymxzOtnbZIOLb9qx5WDGhh2eatsJVvW46Aw_rZguXIJxvH4r_m0hEg-suA98dXFuKRogL3SG3wc18KcIYJ0R/s1600-h/sydcamera.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333058463813595586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 275px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw9fCHFBZlw6Dmo5t6eYKJiejeVAQZm3jsQ2ssDOSYhUkPUT5N1xrG24PpymxzOtnbZIOLb9qx5WDGhh2eatsJVvW46Aw_rZguXIJxvH4r_m0hEg-suA98dXFuKRogL3SG3wc18KcIYJ0R/s400/sydcamera.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>She won. <blockquote></blockquote></strong></div><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">But for a picture I made her erase... </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">Electronics employee's plumber ass showing </span></strong><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">as he was bending over at register.</span> </strong></div><p align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Like mother, like daughter.</em></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a> </p> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-85909785985643951822009-05-06T09:53:00.008-04:002009-05-06T14:17:41.340-04:00Flip This... The death of a fishA six-year old returns from a classmates birthday party, running as fast as she can, while balancing a bowl of water. As I see the expression on her face, a pit begins to form in the bottom of my stomach...the smell of algae and stagnant beach water begin to surface more and more, with every step she takes towards me.<br /><br />The innocent child presents with such pride, the "favor" she received when leaving the birthday party.<br /><br />"MOMMY, WE HAVE A PET NOW!!! LOOK! I NAMED HIM FLIPPER!"<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong>You.Have.Got.To.Be.F*#&%NG.Kidding.Me.</strong></span><br /><br />My brain starts spinning at this very moment - WHAT in the name of God did I ever do to this particular child's mother. Think. Hard. Wasn't I somewhat courteous those few times we entertained the obnoxious class of 1st graders together at Christmas time, and even during Easter Spring Fling when her little girl flung her black jelly bean at me just because she didn't like the taste? Did my kid hide her little one's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">favortie</span> toy one day, or cause a riot about being line leader again, forcing her own child to second place?<br /><br />Shit.<br /><br />It had to be something. Because who the F_#&K in their right God forsaken mind would hand out live <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">flippin</span>' fish to six year <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">olds</span> at a birthday party? And in a 6 inch diameter of a bowl with 6 rocks scattered at the bottom?<br /><br />Oh, and a "Ziploc snack bag" filled with about 24 flakes of gold fish food?<br /><br /><strong>WHO, in God's name? WHO?</strong><br /><br />This woman obviously never cared to ask me of my horrific childhood that included rotating pets - a variety of pets that seemed to come into our lives with gusts of excitement, only to be taken away by mysterious disappearances...<br /><br />I had gerbils. They got loose. My Mom still claims they climb inside her basement walls. I think she poisoned them and dumped them one Monday morning during garbage pick up, as they suffocated in a plastic baggie.<br /><br />We had rabbits. And ducks. They all supposedly got "too big to handle" and were transported to farms all over the area where they could live a wonderful life with greenery and waterfront scenes. I think we ate them at dinners that summer. That was the year we upgraded our barbecue grill.<br /><br />We had two Irish Setters. We had several mix puppies. We had two cats... and then Daisy, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Bichon</span>. She mysteriously inherited some type of raging kennel disease, and lay to rest somewhere. But the last time we remember seeing her she was happily chewing my moms favorite sandal one morning, just as we were shuffled out the door to catch the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">school bus</span>.<br /><br />And then there were fish. They were free for God's sake. They were won from numerous attempts by the four of us oldest siblings, wanting so desperately a pet that we could keep for more than a week. We filled a bathtub full of water and emptied at least 30 beautiful guppies into the tub.<br /><br />My mom smiled, and left us alone to care for them. Now, I realize she knew. There was no chance for their survival as the pure tap water poured over their fins, choking them as we unexpectedly watched in glee. I'll never forget waking up that morning. It was like an atomic bomb hit Fish Land. Every single one of them were floating. And I was totally devastated.<br /><br />So last month, when the 6 year old came proudly home with her new fish, I remembered my childhood, and promised even against my husband's wish, to care for this as my own dream pet. I sought professional advice and purchased a tank along with special drops to remove chlorine and chemicals from our water as well as food. I also bought stones, and a silk plant for my dear "Flipper". And as much as my husband made fun of me, Flipper and I bonded this past month.<br /><br />Until yesterday.<br /><blockquote></blockquote>As we arrived home late from baseball practice, I ran to feed Flipper, but to no avail he was missing. He wasn't behind the plant, and as fear filled my entire body, I peeked from underneath to look all the way up, yet no Flipper was to be found, not even floating on top of the water surface. I screamed for my oldest step-son, Spencer.<br />He came running, and seeing the sheer horror on my face, raced to the tank to find my dear friend. Nothing.<br /><blockquote></blockquote><br /><br /><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote>Nothing.<br /><br /><br /><br />No where.<br /><br /><br /><br />Until...<br /><br /><br /><br />Wait...<br /><br /><br /><br />"Um... Sue???....."<br /><blockquote></blockquote><div align="left">"He's SUCKED IN THE FILTER! HE'S SUCKED IN THERE!! HE'S STUCK!!!"<br /><br /><br /><br />Oh.My.God. I'm a pussy. I can't take shit like this. I just can't take this shit.<br /><br /><br /><br />So now with the entire family filling the kitchen, my husband took charge, and after surveying the tank, asked everyone to leave. I looked at him.<br /><br /><br /><strong><em>It wasn't good.</em></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o8hecjfHjmlpLM1BVhwEz2Ugz8L17w2IS0dxUpgTAh7DdPL5JmUkBsqowPzzE6Gt6YI0pKhEWw5bFXy1wUw7iouLDtQj-8FJere3fBGywELpRydrCobUqeoMJDrEeahKS6fiayh3L__E/s1600-h/flipper+in+bowl.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332747351039274370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 281px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0o8hecjfHjmlpLM1BVhwEz2Ugz8L17w2IS0dxUpgTAh7DdPL5JmUkBsqowPzzE6Gt6YI0pKhEWw5bFXy1wUw7iouLDtQj-8FJere3fBGywELpRydrCobUqeoMJDrEeahKS6fiayh3L__E/s400/flipper+in+bowl.JPG" border="0" /></a> <blockquote></blockquote><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUInAsZ7zAmMVAJSBJKH_twmywbi5fsTCIiF2YEvujGPHkmMIw18kKtPhQaMQMcHJ8x97YSLNcLAfAryUA6vAjZPaEwEdJe6jS0CmLTVjZux41ShX4o9j9OYvdbx3BYqvsycreeMGgDhp/s1600-h/flipper.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332747346036843666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 370px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinUInAsZ7zAmMVAJSBJKH_twmywbi5fsTCIiF2YEvujGPHkmMIw18kKtPhQaMQMcHJ8x97YSLNcLAfAryUA6vAjZPaEwEdJe6jS0CmLTVjZux41ShX4o9j9OYvdbx3BYqvsycreeMGgDhp/s400/flipper.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><em>Peace Out my dear friend, Flipper.</em></strong> </div><blockquote></blockquote><div align="center">I have now joined the club of "Parental Pet Killers".</div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:78%;">My Mom will be proud.</span> <blockquote></blockquote><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a> </div> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-9348839145719199842009-05-01T10:11:00.004-04:002009-05-01T10:18:09.281-04:00A Cop With A Camera...it's safe to speed now, my friends<strong><em><br /><blockquote><strong><em></em></strong></blockquote><p align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">How You Know a Cop's Indisposed:</span> </p><blockquote></blockquote><p align="center"><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3aJabumtD48gtt3BnvxUUBjrZ95Mk41pB3yeUVLsLGCbhALgWFtqPe5PCpva9VKVHn5KCrSWQzRFkHp3G9EsRDqsqFRjCgOQ4CpgLYalyBXs_8H1tjzh4yjS38YW9O9eY4apHuqb2QfL/s1600-h/bathroom.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330858359639810018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3aJabumtD48gtt3BnvxUUBjrZ95Mk41pB3yeUVLsLGCbhALgWFtqPe5PCpva9VKVHn5KCrSWQzRFkHp3G9EsRDqsqFRjCgOQ4CpgLYalyBXs_8H1tjzh4yjS38YW9O9eY4apHuqb2QfL/s400/bathroom.JPG" border="0" /></a> </em></strong><br /><strong><em><div align="center">Mmmm... just lookin' at his gun and holster even this way makes me melt. <blockquote><span style="font-size:78%;">We are sick people, baby.</span><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a><br /></blockquote></div></em></strong> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-54145668449457334672009-04-29T14:27:00.003-04:002009-04-29T14:30:46.096-04:00Source of Swine Flu Identified<blockquote></blockquote><p> </p><p> </p><br /><br /><blockquote></blockquote><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21SU49La1y6rQm_VihPyRkr4qbQms1TcWBPLf8ksfZIqWvm3kmK_VkHNjlinzMKO1UFTK4TgNgKa_V6lkUw7l8_gKP72OUtA1NWvtK2QYQfrE-sIqJ3PYQaHwTOAt9sSzkT06ABRt4xJr/s1600-h/pig.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330182058252452274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj21SU49La1y6rQm_VihPyRkr4qbQms1TcWBPLf8ksfZIqWvm3kmK_VkHNjlinzMKO1UFTK4TgNgKa_V6lkUw7l8_gKP72OUtA1NWvtK2QYQfrE-sIqJ3PYQaHwTOAt9sSzkT06ABRt4xJr/s400/pig.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Damn Kids. <blockquote></blockquote></span></strong><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a> </div> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-74361897158954843532009-04-28T07:38:00.005-04:002009-04-28T10:00:42.806-04:00Survival Tips for Blended Families (or anyone with children)<div align="left">One of my best friends tells me all the time I need to write a book. </div><div align="left">"Seriously Sue... you need to write a reality book on "blended families". </div><br /><div align="left">Just call it "The Splendid Blendeds". It would be hysterical!" </div><br /><p><span style="font-size:78%;"><em></p><br /><blockquote><span style="font-size:78%;"><em></em></span></blockquote><br /><div align="left">chirp...</em></span> </div><br /><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><br /><p align="left"></p></blockquote><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>chirp...</em></span></div><br /><blockquote><br /><br /><p align="left"></p></blockquote><br /><div align="left">Of course, this <em><strong>particular</strong></em> "best friend" just so happens NOT to have kids yet.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong>Very.Funny.My.Dear.Carla.Very.Very.Funny.</strong></span> <blockquote></blockquote>When your life becomes a living entertainment log, </div><div align="left">you know you might be in trouble. </div><div align="left">But seriously, that's the way our life rolls in this house. </div><div align="left">And I truly think, it's similar to any other family... "BLENDED" or not. <blockquote></blockquote>Thankfully, my husband and I both choose to see it through humor.<br /><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"><blockquote><strong><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></strong></blockquote>Otherwise, we'd probably be praying the two of us </span></strong></div><div align="left"><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">become the next Swine Flu Victims. </div><br /><blockquote></blockquote></span></strong><strong><p>So with that, here are a few tips on </p><blockquote></blockquote><p></strong><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Surviving in a Blended Family:</p><blockquote></blockquote><p></span></strong><span style="font-size:78%;"><strong>[Or just surviving in ANY FAMILY, as these rules apply to anyone dealing with more than one child.]</p></strong></span><div align="left">1. If you have never done so, or if you're new to the whole "blended" thing, call a family meeting to solicit "family" rules. Create and post these on your refrigerator for everyone to follow. Go through each one, and discuss why for example, "Being Kind to Others" is important.</div><br /><div align="left">Do not be surprised that just as you're getting to Rule #2 or #3, kids everywhere during the meeting are chatting, rolling eyes, wrestling, and trying to sneak the remote control in hopes family meeting time is OVER and they can get back to better things in life. "Family Meetings" are so NOT-cool to 8-year-olds. However, "Family Meetings" are a strategic way for parents to get all kids on the same side if even for a mere 4.6 minutes. [And while that "same side" is basically "We all think Mom and Dad are boring and family meetings suck.", they <strong><em>are</em></strong> all on the same side for at least that one moment, right?]<br /><blockquote></blockquote>2. Do not hang created Family Rules poster from suggestion #1 just below the ice and water dispenser of your refrigerator, as drips and left behind melting ice chips will cause rules to become illegible. This in turn only gives children an "out" when they break a rule, because they actually "couldn't read the writing" and forgot the <em>totally UN-obvious</em> rule that states "We do not pinch or hit other people". <blockquote></blockquote>3. Get used to the 7,245 ways of implementing "taking turns" between siblings. Once you've created allotted times children must rotate to take turns with various activities such as computer time, Wii time, holding the remote control time, brushing teeth time, laying with mommy at bed-time time, TV channel selection time, playing on the round swing time, playing on the green swing time, hitting the tree with the stick we all happened to find together time, and every other human movement or decision-making time that exists, they'll have hit college-age and hopefully chosen a school with a minimum distance of 120 miles from your current city of residence.<br /><blockquote></blockquote>4. Spend half a day and $38 in office supplies and laminating services to create interchangeable seat assignments in your god-for-saken Mini-Van stealth of a vehicle creating the rule that with each new day comes a rotation in seat assignments. Velcro name tags are secured to backings on all four seat windows in rear of van and will be rotated every morning for change of scenic opportunity for each kid. This will minimize ten minute fight prior to each outing and reduce both adult and child tear production on a daily basis, as expectations are set and parents do not overheat prior to backing out of the family driveway.<br /><br />5. Have realistic expectations that rotating name-tags will only reduce fighting for approximately 3-4 weeks. Once "newness" wears off, be prepared to implement tip #3 around implementing fair "turn-taking" as to who gets to implement daily morning rotation of Velcro name tags. <blockquote></blockquote>In addition, create the following rule: "If any child even touches a name-tag without being asked, that individual will be locked in the basement for twice the number of minutes of their age. With no lights on." ["No lights on" clause very important in execution.] <blockquote></blockquote>Then, just realize that this idea should probably just be scrapped after a month and the feeling of shame may set in with the now semi-permanent Velcro sticking laminated name tags that add one more horrific element of personality to your Mini-Van stealth of a vehicle. <blockquote></blockquote>6. I'm too tired to share more and of course can not give away all my secrets if I still entertain the idea of writing a book.<br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"><strong>WHAT'S YOUR FAMILY SURVIVAL TIP? </strong></div><br /><blockquote></blockquote><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:78%;">[Please share. I need help surviving.]</span></strong></div><br /><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a></p> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1132911180143931229.post-69849855568695886642009-04-27T15:40:00.010-04:002009-04-27T17:17:12.888-04:00My Child's Love Affair with SunscreenIt's 90 degrees today in Upstate New York, and I have been smacked in the face by yet another <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OCD</span> tendency of my 6 year old. The tedious process went away this winter season and luckily seemed to escape my memory for the past 8 or so months.<br /><br />But 90 degree weather and 2 days of straight sunshine has caused a sudden re-birth. <blockquote></blockquote><br />My kid has <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">OCD</span> with "Sunscreen Application".<br /><br /><br />Are any other people's children obsessed with this phenomenon? I mean, my step-sons could care less about sunscreen. We usually need to chase them around poolside with lotion in hand, slapping their backs as best possible hoping that even the smallest amount lands.<br /><br />My 9 year old will whine, but knows that succumbing to the rub-down is a much better deal than facing a time-out. There is no worse torture than watching your siblings play outside or swim while you sit nailed to a chair for 10 minutes. No worse torture.<br /><blockquote></blockquote>But then, there is my 6 year old.<br /><br />Sunscreen application is a very serious process. It begins at certain points on each arm. The lotion must be administered slowly - in small dabbing motions which then turn into single finger strokes, up and down, up and down.<br /><br />Leg coverage is massive. The child looks like one major grease ball and if asked to hold anything within an hour after completion, items slip through her fingertips even with the most determined grip hold. <blockquote></blockquote><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Uy0vdKl2iFYnARpSYgAQWqBLyUH9nTSPP7wMDW1rrUrAATJCb5a2CtwK885GAIi8IjRqQlKLdPQQnrk8shgHRS7SSKp6ptC4SkW4QkZthG4Gq4rG1bUhbKnzAu8bALvpESpfqRcG8WMr/s1600-h/sunscreen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329474356711442690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Uy0vdKl2iFYnARpSYgAQWqBLyUH9nTSPP7wMDW1rrUrAATJCb5a2CtwK885GAIi8IjRqQlKLdPQQnrk8shgHRS7SSKp6ptC4SkW4QkZthG4Gq4rG1bUhbKnzAu8bALvpESpfqRcG8WMr/s400/sunscreen.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And then we have the ears, neck, underarms, shoulder and facial coverage. Facial coverage is what I fear the most. As yesterday reminded us, facial coverage causes facial sunscreen <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">drippage</span> after any amount of sweat or perspiration, which in turn causes massive eyeball <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">burnage</span>.<br /><br />Wouldn't most normal people learn a lesson after just one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">experience</span> of massive eyeball <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">burnage</span>? I would surely think so, but that would then not allow for the entire process of facial sunscreen coverage and here I believe is where the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">OCD</span> takes over in my child.<br /><br />And as much as I feel sorry for the kid, I can not help but laugh inside. I love that greasy mass of child, even as I realize that the season for wet-washcloth application over eyes has just begun.<br /><br />God help us all.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54486/385/2619F8E93E493E6F361F8B388171981A.png" /></a> Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04974251468371326729noreply@blogger.com11