Rockin' the Suburbs

Last week, Jason emailed me the link to an article in the Washington Post. A blogger had an article written about her take on living in Suburbia (a place she has dubbed (Snoburbia). Check it out here: http://blog.snoburbia.com/

So, I read the article in the Post, then started reading the Blog. I must admit, I started reading both with a clear vision of who the author was referring to, and believe you me, never in a million years did I think it would be my family.Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. I, evidently, live in the Snoburbs (oh, and for those wondering how to pronounce it, it's SNOB-urbs). I blame Jason...and his brother's family.

One of the tell-tale signs that you live in Snoburbia is that you vacation in the Outer Banks....and then put an OBX Sticker on your car. Up until four years ago, North Carolina was merely a blip on the map in my way when I was trying to get to Florida. Then, Jason's brother and his wife said we should go to the Outer Banks for vacation. I was skeptical...I mean, I live 90 minutes from some lovely beaches in Delaware. Why in heaven's name would I want to drive for 64 hours* to get to a beach? (*driving time estimated only)

But, I agreed...to a vacation with Jason's Family...brothers, sisters-in-laws, parents...(and by the way, Jason didn't even get to go. He got sent overseas with work. That is a blog in and of itself. Trust me).

Have I mentioned how much I hate to drive? I'm not sure if I have, so let me just say this, I haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate driving. I especially hate driving in a strange place; not to mention with a car full of kids to boot.

So, we get there, and I fall in love. I heart OBX (except for Ocracoke Island - I'll save that story for a rainy day). Now being a fool for stickers (which I know I have related my love of), I buy an OBX sticker and slap in on my minivan. In my constant quest to not totally blend, I don't get one of those oval black & white stickers. Nope, mine is maroon and has a lighthouse. But I love it just the same. This summer will be our fourth summer there. I can't wait.

Back in Snoburbia, there is another tempest in a teapot brewing. This one has nothing to do with vacation destinations, but with pets. Dogs, in particular. Families in Snoburbia aren't content with Labs, Mutts, or any dog you have ever heard of. Snoburbians like "unique" breeds of dogs...like the dog Jason picked out, our Belgian Malinois, JoJo. I do have to admit, though, unlike the person skewered in the Post Article, Jason actually gets a kick out of people recognizing that JoJo is not a German Shepard...or a Mutt.

After reading the article, and the blog, I called Jason to let him know I have read up on Snoburbia. He said, "it's totally us."

Hmmm...I guess I'll be better prepared to address that after I eat some Nutella.

Can you hear me now?

I realize it's been a month of Sundays since my last blog post. I'm sure y'all have been weeping into your Wheaties wondering when I would write again (man, that's a whole lotta w's in one sentence).

Today is your lucky day. I'd like to start off by thanking everyone who has said nice things about the blog...whether you meant it or were just being polite. When I started this blog, I figured the only people who would read it would be my mom (because stuff like that is in the Mom contract), my sister (to make sure I wasn't talking trash about her), and my BFF. Anyhoo....enough mush, and onto the meat and potatoes.

Last night, one of my precious angels told his father to shut up. I know! Had it not been for my bionic ears, I might have missed it. Jason sure did. Said child had been asked about a quiz, and since said child had been playing video games instead of studying, the boy child couldn't tell Jason what the quiz was on. Jason made a comment about needing to study more, and as the boy stomped up the steps, I heard him mutter, "shut up."

Well, now...the one thing to set me off is muttering. I loathe when my children mutter under their breath. Because, really, I know it's usually something not very flattering about me.

I made the child come stand before me, and I asked him point blank if he told his father to shut up. (Do these children never remember I have bionic ears? I can hear all sorts of things they don't want me to). He looked at me and said,"well, you don't want me to lie, do you? Yes, I said it." Now my first reaction was to wash his mouth out with soap...but before I could, Jason sent him back upstairs to study.

We called him down later, and we took away his cell phone, video game & computer privileges. I must admit, I was a little disappointed in his lack of reaction. I was hoping for some drama to add fuel to the fire. Oh well...maybe next time.

Because there will, of course, be a next time. With four kids, there is ALWAYS a next time.

Let Them Eat Cake

Every family, I think, has recipes that only one or two members make. I'm not sure why, and I don't know how the people get picked to be the annointed cookers...I imagine there are secret handshakes and strange passwords involved. Then again, maybe not.

In Jason's family, the recipe is for a cake. It's really a simple cake...yellow cake with vanilla buttercream icing with melted chocolate poured on top. Jason's Grandmother called it a drip-dry cake. I'm not really sure if it was her invention or not, but we'll just give her the credit.

I've been around Jason's family for 22 years, and let me tell you, in those early years, having a drip-dry cake at a family dinner was an event. It didn't matter how many desserts were on the table, just about everyone asked for a piece of that cake first.

As Gram got older, she stopped baking. The cake wasn't made often after that. Then, one of Jason's Aunts moved back into town, and she made the cakes for every occasion. We were drowning in drip-drys (say that five times fast). And then, like Gram, she stopped baking. Alzheimer's stole her from us, bit by bit.

Last week, I was asked (for the first time ever) to make a drip-dry cake by Jason's mother. I was freaking out. Fah-REAKING. OUT. Not because I didn't think I could do it; it is a simple cake, after all. No, I was competing against ghosts and memories, and that's never fun.

So, I turned to my old friend with alllllll the answers. Google. There was no way I was taking a shortcut and using a boxed mix. So I searched...and searched...and searched for a recipe for plain yellow cake and kick-ass buttercream icing. (Did I ever mention how competitive I am? Yeah.. I am. If I was being thrown under the bus by making this cake, I wasn't going down without a fight.)

Recipes and ingredients in hand, I broke the cardinal rule of cooking: NEVER, EVER make a new recipe for the first time for an event. I mixed up the batter, and it was awesome. (Yes, I eat raw cake batter...and raw cookie dough. It hasn't killed me yet.) I poured my perfect batter into my cake pans, and I popped them in the oven.

After about 10 minutes, the house was filled with the smell of cake, which I thought was odd, since the cake had to cook 30 minutes. At about 15 minutes in, I smelled BURNT cake. ACK! So, I open the oven, and my perfect cake batter is spilling out of my cake pans. So, I do what any normal person would do. I closed the oven door and hoped for the best. After 30 minutes, the timer goes off. I open the oven door, and I see two perfectly cooked cakes...and an oven full of black smoke.

I let the cakes cool, thinking that just maybe they would taste ok. I opened all the windows and turned on the fans to clear out the kitchen of smoke (I was also more than a bit alarmed that all that smoke did NOT set off my smoke detectors). I broke off a piece of the cake to taste it, and it seemed ok. I wrapped up the cakes, and let them sit over night.

The next morning, the cakes still looked perfect under the wrappers. I peeled back the Saran wrap, and I was hit by the smell of smoke. DAMN! OK, maybe I was over-reacting. I asked one of my boy children (mistake #1) if he smelled smoke. Nope. Mistake #2: I believed him. I frosted the cake, and the more I pressed down on the cake applying icing, the more smoke I smelled. DOUBLE DAMN!

I kept frosting hoping I was just being hyper-sensitive (it's been known to happen). Nope...even frosted, I could smell smoke. Alrighty then. There was no way I could serve that. So, I made another one (after I scraped out the oven, of course).

I used bigger pans...SQUARE pans, not the normally used round pan. Again, the batter was perfect. I pulled the cooked cake out of the oven and smelled it. It smelled like....cake. Oh, thank gawd. First hurdle cleared.

At this point, I was absolutely convinced that something would happen, and my frosting would not be as good as the previous day's version. I measured, mixed and tasted. It was totally kick-ass. In fact, it was better than the previous batch. (How, I have no clue. I took it as a gift from the baking gods after my disasters the day before.)

It turned out great. I rocked it. Yup, I did. All the stress, all the smoke, all the butter...it was all worth it.

Oh, and if you tackle a family recipe, I highly, highly, HIGHLY recommend reading your recipe 4 or 5 times before you start cooking. Otherwise, you may read "8 inch square pan OR 9 inch round pan" as "8 inch round pan."

Just sayin'.

All the world's a stage

Dirty secret #243: I am a chicken. I mean, I am a big ol' Foghorn Leghorn (I know, he's a rooster, but I can't think of any huge girl chickens) sized chicken. I loathe public speaking. Even in school, doing speeches or reports in front of the class made me break out in hives.

Acting, therefore, is not in my repertoire. I think I'd pass out cold if I had to remember lines and spew them out on command in front of a packed house. In high school, I had to memorize the gravedigger's scene in Shakespeare's play, Hamlet. Even though I had one of my dearest friends as the other gravedigger, and my English class had maybe 12 kids in it, you would have thought I was standing on stage at the Globe Theater in front of old Bill himself. I was freaking out. I don't know how I made it through to the end, but I did.

Luckily, this is another one of my neuroses that I have managed NOT to pass along to my children. As everyone within earshot of me knows, I have a musical brood. They get up on stage and sing and play various instruments....in front of people. Lots and lots of people. Strangers! it's mind boggling to me.

I suppose it's rather ironic that I, the Queen of never trying anything new, encourage my children to try all sorts of new things. It's definitely not my trying to relive my misspent youth through them (see paragraph one above). I never had any desire to be in the spotlight....especially knowing if the spotlight did shine on me, I'd probably hurl...in epic proportions.

I am always anxious when my kids try something new. I try not to let them see it, but trust me, it's bubbling beneath the surface. There have been tons of musical auditions...more than a handful of rejections...and they keep going. It's their passion.

When Russell told me he was trying out for the school play, I was shocked...and worried...and so, so, so excited for him. I couldn't believe he wanted to subject himself to that sort of scrutiny. He auditioned...and made it past the first round of cuts...and then had to wait to find out if he made the final cut. His text to me this morning was only three small words, "I MADE IT!," but I could picture the look on his face, and I knew the unadulterated sense of joy he was feeling.

So, I'll be there, in the audience watching him try something new...and hoping I don't embarrass him by fainting...or barfing...or both.

Come Sail Away

I love being on my boat. It's not big, it's not fancy, but it's ours, and we don't have a boat payment. We can house it in the garage (in fact, when we were having the garage built, Jason had it oversized for the very intention of storing the boat). Another plus? It has no sails.

While I love to wtach sailboats, you put me on one, and I become Regan from "The Exorcist." My head spins around, and I spew split pea soup vomit. Seriously. It's not pretty. I haven't been on a sailboat since I was a teenager...and I have no plans on changing that any time soon.

Plus, I like to go FAST. It pains me enough that a trip that would take 15 minutes in the car takes 45 minutes by boat. Good lord, I'd be on a sailboat all flippin' day and not even reach my destination. I realize that for some people, that is part of the charm of sailing. I don't have the patience for that nonsense.

OK, and there's another reason...with a motor boat, you gas up and go. There's no hoisting sails,
lowering sails, tacking this way or that. You just drive. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. I am allll about taking the easy way out when it comes to my leisure activities. If it's not fun, why do it?

Jason keeps making noises about wanting a sailboat and learning how to sail. I told him to go for it. I'll wave to him as I zoom by in my motor boat.

Besides, if we had a sailboat, the kids couldn't tube behind it...and if they couldn't tube, they couldn't wipeout...and if they couldn't wipeout, I'd have no pictures of said wipeouts to amuse me. Where's the fun in that?

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin'....

Today marks another shared milestone with my sister...she sent her oldest child off to his first day of preschool, and I sent my oldest child off to his first day of college.

Where has the time gone? I am not one to get melancholy about the start of a new school year like some of my friends. On the flip side, I am also not doing cartwheels like other friends of mine (note: I could never, EVER do a cartwheel...which is one of the reasons I never realized my dream of being a Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader...so sad...).

People always say spring is a season of rebirth. I think it's fall. The new school year brings so many new opportunities and adventures. As I send one off to college, I have Cameron (son #3) getting ready to embark on his first year of High School. How did THAT happen? I am supposed to have toddlers and elementary school aged children. I am soooooo not old enough to have these almost men as children. This only goes to prove my theory that aliens have abducted my children. I never said it was a GOOD theory...but come on, have y'all ever smelled teenaged boys
shoes? There is no way that funk is NOT alien. Anyway...

In two years, Russell will graduate from High School, and Paige will graduate from Middle School. That means in two years, I will have two children old enough for College. TWO. Years.

In four years, Cameron will graduate from High School, and JP will graduate from College. In. FOUR. Years. In four years, both of my sister's boys will be in school. The little roly poly boy who hasn't walked yet will walk into a classroom and start his school adventure.

When I was little, I used to think, "when I am 13, 16, 18, 21....things will be so different and so much better." I wished the years away. Now I look at my children's milestones, and I see how fast time really does fly. In fact, I think for every milestone, I get a new wrinkle. By the time Paige graduates, I will look like a flipping Shar Pei!

In eight years, I will be (gasp) 50 years old. By then, all four of my children (God willin' and the creek don't rise) should be out of school. Hopefully I will have a shred of my sanity left.

But for now, I will enjoy this last week of summer, and I won't even think about how many days it is until Christmas Vacation (121, by the way).

You've Got Mail

All this talk about birthdays got me to thinking about one of my favorite parts of my birthday (besides the cake -- which was conspicuously absent this year). I love going to the mail box and spying a brightly colored envelope addressed to me.

There is just something about a card, whether it is store bought or handmade, that warms my heart. With the prevalence of email and e-cards, the number of cards I get during the year is minuscule. But the cards that do come...whether it's birthday, Christmas, Mother's Day, Arbor Day make me so happy.

I admit I'm not the best at sending cards for every occasion (just ask my BFF), but when I actually do remember to that I need to buy a card, I'm the annoying twit standing in the card aisle reading card after card after card trying to find just the right one. Card buying between my father & I has reached epic proportions. He has been known to hold onto a card for almost a year if he stumbles upon a particularly funny/obscene/offensive one. I will go to several different stores to find the most funny/obscene/offensive card I can find. What can I say...the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. And yes, I am also one of those "crafty people," so on occasion, I may even break into my craft vault and MAKE a card with my own two hands. Quit laughing...it's been known to happen.

Of course, once I BUY the card, getting it stamped and mailed is a whole 'nother hullabaloo. I really have the best of intentions, but sometimes I get distracted, and the card I so carefully selected, or worse, lovingly made never makes it off my desk. (If you saw my desk, you would understand - Jimmy Hoffa may be be buried in here.) But, by some small miracle, it does get a stamp, and it does get mailed and not lost in my van, rest assured it was no small feat.

Gotta run...the mail truck just stopped off at the mailbox, and I think I caught a glimpse of some colored envelopes.

Worst Birthday Present Evah!

Birthdays have always been special to me. I love birthdays. My most memorable birthday is, ironically enough, one I can remember only one thing about. My mother wasn't there. I was turning 7, which to my six year old self was a VERY. BIG. DEAL.

I don't remember the theme I picked out or the flavor of my cake. I don't remember which of my friends attended. All I remember is thinking my party was ruined because my dad had to run it.

Where was my mother? In the hospital in labor with my baby sister who would wind up being born on MY birthday. The "ruined" birthday party set the tone for my feelings toward my sister for years.

Good grief...it was bad enough she stole my birthday thunder, but then I had to have joint birthday parties with her (I am pretty sure that in reality it was only a couple times, but in my mind, they were all lumped together).

As the oldest child, I was constantly being told to be nice to her because she was "the baby," "the youngest," "my sister." She was my shadow...and an obnoxious one, at that. She cut the hair off my Chrissy doll, ripped heads off my Barbies, and wreaked havoc wherever she went. Whenever she did something wrong, *I* would get into trouble because I should know better.

And then, something happened....

She started growing up. Oh, she could still be a major pain in my backside, but when she was acting like a semi-civilized human, I noticed some things. She was witty. She liked the same music as me. She was fiercely loyal. She was fun to be around. Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit! The brat who ruined my birthday was actually now my friend.

Oh, don't get me wrong...there are times when I still want to throttle her. She has a memory like an elephant, and she pops off with all sorts of things I'd rather not remember...like the time I convinced her our dog's AKC papers were actually her adoption papers (man, did I get in trouble for that).

She's married now (to a Saint of a guy), and she has two beautiful boys that I get to watch while she's at work. They are too young to hear the stories about their mother now, but there will come a day when I get to fill their heads with all of my memories. Be afraid, be very, very afraid.

Happy Birthday to the only present I still have after 35 years. :-D

The Name Game

A rose by any other name would not be a rose.

Naming a child is like navigating shark infested waters. You could get out unscathed, or you could wind up as chum. In Jason's Family, all of the children in his generation are named "J" names...as were all of their parents. Thankfully, Jason's cousin and older brother broke the "J" streak with their children.

When I got pregnant with baby #1, there was a teeny, tiny part of me that wanted to name him Barnum Nicholas Bailey. We'd call him Nick, of course, but on paper, he'd be Barnum N. Bailey (say it out loud; you'll get it...and if you don't, I can't help you LOL). I was thisclose to doing it, but ultimately decided against it. Wanting to avoid "J" names, I thought Patrick Joseph would be perfect, and we could call him PJ.

Jason's younger brother's name is Joseph, so I thought we would dodge drama by throwing that in the name. Jason didn't want there to be any hurt feelings from his older brother, so we added John to the mix. John Patrick Joseph Bailey was born. He was never, ever, EVER called John by the family. When he got to school and someone called him John, he wouldn't answer. John was not his name, and he had no problem telling people, even teachers, that.

John Patrick morphed into JP, and family and friends used them fairly interchangeably. (There is nothing more satisfying than yelling, "JohnPatrickJosephBailey, get your butt downstairs." Seriously, try it.) To us, JP was a perfectly acceptable nickname. It was not babyish, odd, or embarrassing. winner, winner, chicken dinner.

Sidebar: My brother was named after my grandfather, who went his whole life by a nickname. When my brother was born, he got not only my grandfather's given name, but his nickname as well. My cousin was the fourth with his his given name, so he, like his Father, had a nickname. When the guys hit high school, they decided to go by their given names instead of their nicknames. I still have trouble to this day calling them by anything other than their nicknames. Old dog, new tricks and all that nonsense....

When JP graduated this Spring, he announced that he wanted to go by the name John. I laughed. Probably directly in his face,if truth be told. That sort of fizzled out...he has one Uncle, one great Uncle, and one older cousin named John.

So, this week, he decides that he wants to be called Jack. Jack? His rationale was that John Patrick is too long, and he is over JP. Hmmph. He was upstairs with his brother, and I called them downstairs to do some menial grunt chore for me yesterday, and calling, "Cameron & Jack" just didn't have the same oomph for me.

I can see him introducing himself as Jack when he starts college. It may even catch on. Jack Bailey is kind of a cool rocker name, but John Patrick Joseph Bailey is an excellent New York Philharmonic Name. Just sayin'.

Then again, I could always start calling him Barnum....

Stick (People) it to Ya!

Yeah,I'm one of those Moms. I have a stick person family on the back of my mini-van...along with stickers from my kids' schools and places we have visited. I even have a purse with the name of my son's school on it.

And you know what? I love my stickers and magnets. Plain is boring. I don't eat vanilla ice cream because it's too plain. I may be many, many things, but boring is not something I strive to be. It's bad enough that I am driving a silver mini van (of which there are approximately 647 MILLION exact same ones on the road). Even before I had the stick people, I had unique stickers on my vehicles (the most memorable being "White Trash Goddess" -- oh, how I miss that sticker). Now, I do not have our names below our stick figures. I think that's just asking for trouble. I never had the kids' names embroidered on their backpacks, and other than sports jerseys, they didn't have their names on clothing.

I think the notion that by having the stickers, it makes my family a target of predators, is a load of hooey. Even if I had not one sticker on my MINI-VAN, the sheer fact that I am driving a MINI-VAN probably indicates I have children. And honestly. how many times am I alone in the van? Most time, we look like one of those clown cars at the circus...chock full of kids.

This is not to say I don't take the safety of my children seriously. I am realistic, though. I have my kids' pictures on my Facebook Page (with the privacy settings at the highest level). My kids' pictures have been in the paper, on the schools' websites, and on their own Facebook pages (along with all of THEIR friends' pages)...I think my stick people family is the least of my worries.

Besides, I think the stick person version of me is totally cute.

On the side

I am a notoriously picky eater. The list of foods I won't eat is miles longer than the list of foods I will eat. I am funny about tastes, smells and textures. My mother used to tell me that "once it was cooked, I'd never be able to taste (fill in the blank)." I always tasted it.

Family legend has it that when I was a baby/toddler, I would eat anything...pheasant, goose, rabbit, muskrat (I really hope they are kidding about that one). I say, if they actually fed me that, it's no wonder I am so picky now.

Going to a restaurant with me used to be like the scenes in "When Harry Met Sally." My best friend loved to watch me order a Cobb Salad and totally deconstruct it. Jason says I don't really eat salads....just bowls of lettuce with carrots tossed in. I do try new things when I go out to restaurants, and I really, really, REALLY try not to be overly obnoxious when I order something (after all, I do not care to have my entree served with a side of spit).

In spite of my food idiosyncrasies, I tried to make sure I didn't pass them on to my children. Yeah. That didn't work so well. If I was the queen of "on the side," JP was the Emperor of "plain." I mean, plaaaaaaaaaaain. Dry white toast (a la Elwood Blues), pancakes and waffles with no butter or syrup, pasta with no butter or sauce, hamburgers were patty & bun (god help us if we went through the drive thru and they messed the order up), cereal with no milk...and on and on. The child would hoover broccoli, but he wouldn't eat a peanut butter & jelly sandwich.

Packing the child a lunch for school was quite the show. He survived, though, and now, he eats all sorts of stuff (most of which I still won't eat). The first time I went to Subway with him and he ordered something other than a meatball sub, I about fell over. I listened to him ask for lettuce, tomatoes, onions, peppers,and on and on, and I swear, I turned to him and asked,"who's going to eat THAT?!?!" He ate it.

Cameron & Russell will eat bait, I mean, sushi, like it's going out of style. They all love seafood. You would think growing up in Annapolis that I would, too. Nope. Dirty little secret #625: I hate crabs. I will pick them for hours on end, but I will not eat them. I don't like crab cakes, crab imperial, or crab anything except hot crab dip and cream of crab soup. And fish....ugh. This drives Jason nuts, but I will only eat canned tuna, not fresh. Why, I don't know. I have tried fresh tuna, and I just can't eat it. I do love shrimp and lobster, though. :-)

I went to Norway several years back with my best friend, Tami, and I made a concerted effort to eat things I normally wouldn't eat. I ate reindeer, escargot and scallops (not all mixed together -- are you nuts?). I survived them all. Would I go out of my way to order them again? Probably not, but I can say I have tried them. Once.

I made chocolate muffins last week, and I put zucchini in them. Guess what? You couldn't even taste it.

It was.....soap poisoning!

Since it is 100* here today, naturally my mind drifted towards thoughts of snow...which led to thoughts of Christmas...which led to thoughts of one of my favorite movies ever, "A Christmas Story." There is a scene in the movie where Ralphie's father (aka "The Old Man") was fixing the furnace. In the movie, Ralphie narrates it as, "my father wove a tapestry of obscenities that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan." In yet another of my favorite scenes, Ralphie gets to help the Old Man change a flat tire. Ralphie is holding the hubcap filled with the lug nuts, and he drops them. In the snow. At night. He reacts by saying, "Oh, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuudge," only, well, he says the real word. He gets his mouth washed out with soap, and there is another great moment where he compares the tastes of all the soaps he has "tasted."

I grew up in a house where "shut up" was a bad word. I was the oldest of three kids. Like Ralphie, I tasted my share of soap. Of course, as a child I vowed I would never do anything as barbaric as wash my children's mouth out with soap. Jason grew up surrounded by lots of "colorful" language. Once free from the threat of blindness from soap poisoning, my vocabulary became peppered with expletives, too.

Now, no one wants their precious angel to have a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush. So, I found myself, in the bathroom, with a bar of soap in my hand saying, "if I EVER hear you say that again, I am washing your mouth out with soap." All four of my children have had their mouths washed out at various points in their lives.

Four years ago, when Cameron was in 5th grade, "crap" was suddenly the cool word to say. Evidently, it was taken off the "bad word" list, and no one had the decency to tell me. Kids in school were saying it, some teachers were saying it, and no-one was batting an eye. Then it was "pissed off" (and all the variations) that became en vogue. I told my kids that just because everyone else was saying it, that didn't mean I wanted to hear it. A gaggle of 12 year boys saying, "oh, crap" every other word truly grated on my nerves (and lordy, that "Oh, snap!" phase just about sent me to the loony bin. They are lucky I didn't wash their mouths out for that, or else they would all have been stricken with soap poisoning blindness).

I know my boys swear. I know they listen to music with swear words. They know I swear...that is no secret. But still, it's a bit disconcerting to actually hear the words coming from my boys' mouths. When JP would plug his iPod in to the car speakers, he used to skip certain songs. Or if he "forgot," he'd at least give a quick,"oops, sorry," while changing the song.

The day of his graduation from DeMatha, on the way home, JP played a string of hand-selected songs that were hilarious...and borderline obscene. Jason almost wrecked the car he was laughing so hard. I was torn between laughing at JP's audacity and being appalled that he was comfortable enough testing his newly found freedoms. So, it's no surprise that I lectured him while laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes. Proud mommy moment, for sure.

In another 20-40 years when my children make me a grandmother, I fully expect to get a phone call saying, "Mom, I don't know WHERE they heard such a word, but I had to wash their mouths out with soap." Let's just hope they didn't hear it from me.

**Side note** as I was typing this, my three year old daycare buddy said to the other kids,"What the Hell?!?". Seriously. I'm telling you I can't make this stuff up.

One of the Longest Weeks Evah

I am a gadget girl. I love them. For the longest time, my cell phone was just your regular, boring, run of the mill phone. Then I lost it. So, in replacing it, I figured I'd better get something that would stick out a little more. I got a hot pink Razor phone. Loved it. Lost that one (we actually think it was stolen out of my car, but still, another phone gone). I replaced it with another hot pink Razor, which I used until it the number keys started malfunctioning. You would think I would give up and not have a cell phone. I might have, but then I saw the iPhone. Now, being me, I had toyed with the idea of a Blackberry, but they just didn't speak to me like the iPhone did.

Oh, how I coveted that phone. I wanted one so badly I could hardly stand it. At the time, I had a fully functional phone, so it was no dice. Then, as I said, my current phone started dying. By this time, the iPhone was up to the 3Gs version. I got it. I loved it. I don't know I managed to function pre- iPhone. It became a part of me. Wherever I went, the phone went. I even took the phone onto the beach (encased in a heavy duty ziploc bag). The phone has been to the pool, on the boat, in the rain with no incident. Then I went to play mini-golf.

I had the phone in my pocket, and I crossed a bridge to the next hole. I didn't even hear the splash. My phone landed face down in 2 inches of water. I almost started crying when I saw it lying there, submerged, like a little rock. I took the cover off and sat it out in the sun (it was 95+ degrees that day) while I finished up the round of golf (which, by the way, I won..AND I won a free game. Normally such things would send me home singing, but alas, the glory of my golf luck paled in comparison to the thought of being iPhone-less).When I got home, I put it in a bag of rice and prayed heavily to the God of Gadgets.

And I waited. Have I mentioned how much I like waiting? Yeah. All I wanted to do was try and see if it would work. Every time I would pass my rice buried phone on the counter, my heart sank a little more. I held off pushing any buttons or moving it until Thursday. I plugged it into the charger, held my breath and...Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Well, fluffernutter. I went to the computer and scrolled down on the website I had googled about how to fix your wet iPhone. I wasn't about to try the putting it in the oven thing. I just knew I would be the one in 60 zillion that had the phone explode and burn down the house. I wasn't going to try and pry the phone apart in hopes that I could realllllly dry it out. The more I read about the extreme lengths some people went to to get their phones working (someone left it in rice for TWO MONTHS!), the more my heart sank. I was bracing myself for the idea that my phone was dead. I kept reading, and I got to a post about blowing the phone out with an air compressor. Now that, I could do. Once I had sprayed it down, I plugged it into the computer and....SHAZAM!

It was back. The screen was a bright beacon of loveliness. So far, so good. I called it, and it rung. I took pictures, and they turned out. I sent a text and got a reply. It's been a full week since I resuscitated my phone ,and it seems to be pretty much back to normal. All is well in my gadget world....although I have to admit, a teeny, tiny part of me almost wishes it had died so that I could get the iPhone 4. A gadget girl's coveting never ends.

A Dingo Ate My Baby

As I have said previously, life in my house is nowhere near perfect. Case in point: my seven month old nephew has just begun to crawl. And he is fast. After 6+ months of him being a lump, albeit an extraordinarily cute lump, I forget sometimes that he is mobile.

So, all hell breaks loose at my house. I've got the phone ringing, the Schwan's man at the door, the dog barking, my brother in law coming to pick up my nephews, JP trying to leave the house to pick up Cameron from his cousin's house...get the picture?

I'm trying to help my brother in law get the boys scooped up, and...I lost the baby. My house is not big. All the doors to the outside were shut tight. I do not see the baby anywhere. I tell my brother in law that I have, indeed, lost the baby. He looks at me and says, "he's not in the crib?" Crap! Did I put the baby in the crib? Nope. I look in the bathroom (the only room with an open door). No baby. I come back to the dining room where my brother in law and the Schwan's man are standing.

While I am racking my brain about where the baby could have hidden, the Schwan's man (who is used to the craziness in my house) looks up and says," you're looking for the baby? He's right here by the back door." Very helpful.

I may attach a homing beacon to the baby tomorrow. Just in case.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Mine grows in spite of me. Dirty little secret #794: I hate gardening. Hate. it. I love gardens. I admire those people who can spend hours upon hours with their hands in the dirt making their gardens show pieces (my across the street neighbor is like that. Luckily, she put up an eight foot privacy fence in her backyard so I don't have to see her slaving away in her gardens all day).

Don't get me wrong, I adore flowers. I've even grown pumpkins from the jack o' lantern that fell off the front porch into the untended flower bed. I'd just rather stick nails in my eyes than do the gardening. One of the major problems I have with the gardening is that I always get poison ivy when I do any sort of yard work. It doesn't matter what sort of yard work (raking leaves, pulling weeds, picking up sticks). I get poison ivy every time. Every.flipping.time.

I also hate to get dirty and sweat. This is definitely problematic when it comes to gardening. Nothing could be less relaxing or therapeutic for me than spending my day up to my elbows in dirt. That being said, I do have flowers in my garden...and various shrubberies and plants that I haven't killed through my neglect.

Nothing thrilled me more than to see the first crocus pop through the soil after the 6 months and 47 feet of snow we had this winter.* The daffodils and lone tulip that bloomed made me smile every time I walked by. The lilies that have exploded throughout my garden with all the hot weather brighten my day. The hydrangea (that had purple blooms when I planted it) survived being buried under all that snow, and it is bright pink and thriving. In spite of me.

I have been sorely tempted to dig everything up and just quit. I mean, I could plant fake flowers...or rocks...or a flock of plastic flamingos. I figure my garden is a metaphor for my life. It's not always perfect, things are sometimes way out of control, but there are bright spots that make it all worth while.

*Length of winter and amount of snow estimated only

Patience is a virtue...

...It's just not one of mine. I know, for those of you that know me, this is a shocking revelation. I'll wait a minute while you pick your jaws off the ground. Better? Let's move on. I hate reading directions, manuals, rules, etc. I would much rather figure things out on my own than read about it. 95% of the time, it works out just fine. Sure, it might take a few more minutes (hours), but really, I saved all that time by not reading, right?

My sister gave me an ice cream maker. Since it's been hotter than Hell's Hinges here, Jason & I thought it would be perfect to make some ice cream after dinner the other day. Awesome. So, we get the box out, start setting it up, and one of my boys (who does read directions) announced woefully, "for optimum results freeze insert for 6-22 hours." That sure took the wind out of our sails. I don't know if I can wait until 2 a.m. for ice cream...even homemade ice cream.

Me being me, I said, "but do we HAVE to? It says for optimal results. I could live with less than optimal results." So, we put the insert in the freezer and waited...and waited...and waited. Last night, after a long day of mini golf and boating, we finished dinner about 8:30. I ran out to the store to buy whole milk and heavy cream so we could make ice cream. Cameron got some Reese's Peanut Butter Cups to put in the ice cream, too (excellent decision on his part).

I mixed everything up, and poured it into the machine. And I waited...and waited...and waited. At 10 o'clock last night, we ate ice cream. I don't think Ben & Jerry's need to lose any sleep about me overthrowing their ice cream empire (yet), but it was good. I put the leftover ice cream into a little container so I could wash & refreeze the insert right away. I didn't want to be caught unprepared again, afterall.

The insert is ready to go (I checked it this morning first thing. It's frozen solid). Of course, I need to wait until after breakfast for ice cream, right? Maybe I can read some ice cream recipes to kill the time...recipes are much different than instructions.

Can Music Save Your Mortal Soul?

I may not be able to play an instrument, but I love music. I always have. You name a song, a singer or music group and I probably connect it to a moment in time. Shaun Cassidy's "Da Doo Ron Ron?" Yup, I used to request it on WNAV and listen to it on my transistor radio (you young 'uns can go Google all that).

"Country Roads" by John Denver? That would be driving through the hills of Pennsylvania in our Blue Van with my father singing (he'll probably deny that, though) and smoking cigars with the windows rolled up.

I remember when we got cable tv. The remote control was bigger than my foot, and it was tethered to the cable box with a wire. You had to punch the numbers in on buttons that looked like a calculator. And if the wire got unplugged, all of the "preset" channels were lost.

But that box, that magical cable box brought me MTV. Oh, what a channel. Nonstop music videos, bands I had never heard of, clothes I had never seen, Duran Duran Simon Le Bon... New music videos were an event. I ate it up. The "Thriller" video was epic...Madonna singing "Like a Virgin," the Beastie Boys fighting for their right to party....Headbanger's Ball, 120 Minutes...I even watched Yo, MTV Raps. I couldn't get enough music.

I have passed my love of music on to my kids. They have just as impressively eclectic collection of music on their iPods as I do on mine. We took JP & Russell to see Buffett when they were itty bitty (unlike my first concert - The Bangles when I was in college). I thought I had done a good job instilling a sense of music history into the kids until one of my children (who shall remain nameless to protect his pride) asked me,"Was Ringo Starr in KISS?"

OMG. I about spewed Diet Mountain Dew out of my nose. I answered that no, he was in the BEATLES, and the boy child said, "really? Are you sure?" I almost fell out of my chair. Am I sure?!?! Yes, child, I am sure. I'm no fan of KISS, to be sure (all those years of nuns telling us we'd go to Hell if we listened to them had a little effect...that and I thought they were untalented and ridiculous, but I digress).

This is definitely a black mark against me and my children's musical education. I think I'll make him watch all the Beatles movies then make him watch "Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park." That should do it.

Yes, they're ALL mine.

I don't view my family as larger than normal. Four kids, in my opinion, is not a lot (most days). I certainly pale in comparison to the supersized families (Gosselins, Octomom, Duggars, etc) that you see in the tabloids and on tv. However, it almost always amuses me when people's eyes bug out of their head when they see my demon brood coming. When the six of us flew to Florida, you should have seen the people praying that they were not going to sit next to us. There was a mad scramble to get away from us (and for the record, the children were absolutely well behaved, with only a minimum of muttered threats and bribery).

Many moons ago, we did the Bay Bridge walk with all four kids. Paige & Cameron were still in strollers. We got halfway over the bridge, and JP was done. I mean, he was really, really done. He looked at me and asked," Can't we just turn around and go home?" As I was explaining to him that it would actually be faster to keep going instead of turning around, we were approached by a reporter from the Baltimore Sun. She had heard the conversation, thought it was funny, and she wanted to interview us. She talked to the kids, and then she turned and asked me, "do the kids all have the same baby daddy?" (Well, maybe she didn't ask it quite like that, but I was so taken aback, all I said was yes, and the interview went on). Never again have I been asked if they were all Jason's kids.


Now you add three or four cousins into the mix, and it's game on, baby. Any one of my nieces or nephews could be interchanged with my kids. There is definitely a family resemblance. Try as I might, I can't deny any of the little buggers (I mean darlin's). So, when I have extra kids in tow, you can imagine the looks I get. One time, years ago when the kids were little, I was with my sister in law, and all 6 of our kids, at Sam's Club. There was a little old couple who watched us (with their mouths hanging open) as we disgorged ourselves from my mini-van. I could see them counting...and their eyes kept bugging out of their heads. I had the kids hold hands, and we walked like ducks in a row past them. Oh, did I mention my sister in law is teeny? I mean, she is really, really petite. I heard the couple muttering some thing about my "seven kids." Yup, they thought my sister in law was one of my kids. Since she is just a little bit older than me, we had a good laugh. And by we, I mean her, obviously.

When my nephew (and godson) was in preschool, I used to drive him and pick him up. This went on without incident for almost two years...then one day his mother (the petite one referenced above) picked him up from school. Now besides being teeny, she also has brown hair. Not that there is anything WRONG with brown hair. One of my very own children has brown hair. Brown hair is perfectly lovely. Her youngest son has blond hair. I mean, knock your socks off platinum blond hair. The color hair I had until my children sucked it out of me. The color blond that I now pay my hairdresser good money to recreate. Can you see where this is going? My sister in law was waiting in the carpool pickup line, and a teacher said, "Who are you here for?" When she told her the name, the teacher asked her,"And you are?" My sister in law answered as frostily as her sweet self could muster, "His MOTHER." So, thankfully they released him. To his mother.

Another time, we were at a local restaurant celebrating Jason's Aunt & Uncle's Wedding Anniversary. The kids were getting restless, so I volunteered to take them out to look at ducks and boats. Again, the looks and whispers about "all the kids" were buzzing about me like so many annoying bees. I just smiled and went about the business of making sure no child fell into the water...or got his or her eyes pecked out by a rogue duck.

Are they all mine? You betcha. They are all mine.

Barefoot and Bonkers - An Introduction to Me

Well, I'm not really. I do have cute flip flops on. You get my drift, though. The bonkers part, well, that's pretty much spot on.

Summer vacation is finally here after the longest, coldest, snowiest, most awesomest (yes, I know that's not technically a real word, but cut me some slack) winter ever.

I'm not an expert on any subject, nor do I pretend to be. Well, maybe I pretend just a little bit. My opinions are no more valuable than anyone else's, but I'd like to think they may be a tad bit funnier. As the Mother of 4, Aunt to 11, Sister to 2 and friend of some, I do have a unique (read: totally skewed) viewpoint on family, friendship, food and fun.

My life is crazy, and I wouldn't have it any other way. My house isn't always immaculate, the socks don't always match, dinner some nights is Domino's or Cocoa Pebbles, but if I can't laugh about it, what's the point?

I like watching the crazy "reality" shows on VH1...I love all things 80's...I love Barry Manilow...I believe cold pizza is still a perfectly acceptable breakfast...I was put on this planet to be a mom...I have made my children cry with just a look...My bloodstream is probably made up of 3/4 Diet Mountain Dew...and lastly, if you don't have anything nice to say about somebody, come sit by me.

You may be asking yourself about the name of the blog...I'm not always crabby, but I do live on the Shore, and we're known for the crustacean type crabs. That's my story, and I am stickin' to it.