I have a Vision

I am coming out of hiding for just a moment. The Husband is watching Big Brother upstairs on the bed because he's hurt his back for the millionth time. I keep trying to tell him he needs to ditch his secret dream of being a ballet star. It just doesn't suit his body type. Those pirouettes will kill ya.

I've gotten to where I can't stand the show anymore so I hijacked his laptop and I'm downstairs surfing the web for unglamorous things like blank chore charts, nontoxic dog throw-up remover, and dwarfs who get their goodies caught in vacuum cleaners. None of which have anything to do with the other, but my web surfing often has no rhyme or reason to it. I like to multi-task. Which really just means I get distracted easy.

The kids started whining about how they want to watch Big Brother Cries-A-lot so I gave in. Has anyone else noticed that BB doesn't redecorate the HOH room anymore? That's because they're spending $500 a week on facial tissue for the unstable asshats in the house that the show's executives apparently screened while cranking on Salvia. Or some other strong hallucinogen.

Of course the show has to open with Ambur-sting-into-tears-all-the-time going on about how she's had some sort of slop-induced vision of how she's going to win the POV and her whole game will change. Anyways, is it actually safe for a person to cry that much? Really. I'm worried about her. The girl is going to dehydrate herself.

Wahmber dear, I have a vision for you.

I see crying in your future. You will sob about everything and anything. You will sob so much that your face will contort until you reach a phenomena known as the Ugly Cry. You'll look like the scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz leaking large amounts of fluids from your eyes. Go ahead, rent the movie, don't say I didn't tell you so. You will begin to mumble incohorent things about how much you love people you've only known for two weeks. America will laugh and roll their eyes and there will be contests across the country to see who can do a better Wahmber impersonisation. In order to qualify they must first show emotional and mental instabilities, an insufficient vocabulary, and an ability to lose large amounts of fluid without passing out. And when you get home and see yourself on TV, you will curl into a ball in embarrassment and not just because your eyebrows look awful.

Listen, I'm getting worried for you. Like seriously. Girl, I'm not sure it's safe for one single person to cry that much in their entire lives. And I have four children!

Those four children also want to know what's wrong with the crazy chic who cries all the time and talks out of the side of her mouth. And they're all pretty crazy themselves, so if they're asking-that says a lot. They're rolling around the floor with their feet flung into the air heckling like a bunch of laughing hyenas everytime you sob like a little girl who watched their kitty get squashed. It has become a running joke around here. When I ask them why the maxi-pad wrappers are on the kitchen floor, why there's lettuce in the candles, and why the railings are broke, they burst into fake crying.

"I just don't know why this keeps happening to me. I'm a good person. I don't know how that all happened. I swear, I'm not lying, I've never lied in the house. I swear on my childs life". They've got you done pretty well.

And frankly it becomes very hard to reprimand your child for making fun of people when you are choking back your own laughter. You should see them, they even perfected the squivering lip and forehead stretch. What can I say, my children are talented little beasts.

And to you, Danielle, you really should eat a sandwich. The malnutrition is setting in. You're taking Wahmber off the chopping block? What pray tell for? So we can watch her sob herself to death? And while I'm at it, shouldn't you be looking for the crazy little garden gnome who keeps stealing Jessica and Amber's eyebrows? Cause you might be next.

Pillow Talk

The Husband and I were sitting in bed last night, where the magic rarely happens, seeing as though The Children don't know that they're not suppose to stand outside our locked door and ask questions like-How come they call it a sandwich when there's no sand it in? Or my favorite is when they knock on the door and shout into the crevice- I'M BORED.

Anyways, we were watching a movie and I was trying to get comfortable among my hareem of feathered pillows. In doing so I bumped my b**b which hurt because I'm one of the lucky ones that got a prescription for painful br*ast fibroids out of the Cracker Jack box back in 1996. I usually get the weird prizes. I've also noticed that my n**pples are often sore like they've been pinched.

So the pillow talk began.

My n**pples are sore. It's your fault.

Huh?

Yeah, now along with monster fibroids each month I have sore n**ples. They feel sore all the time like they've been pinched and twisted. And it's your fault.

The Husband with a confused expression: How is that my fault?

Remember ten years ago, back before you realized they were actually attached to my body and had nerves in them, you'd play that stupid game where you were trying to find radio reception. You had lame sound effects and all. Stop pretending like you're senile. Surely you remember. I began to question whether I should have ever married you. It hurt and now my n**pples are broke.

Looking totally puzzled now: What are you talking about? You can't be serious. You had four children chewing and gnawing on them for like five years each and you're telling me it's my fault that your n**pples hurt? That's insane.

That's not it. Besides, it was three out of four kids. Not four. Get it right.

Are you sure? Wasn't there some neighbor kid or something?

Phish-whatever. I'm not talking to you anymore.

And that was our pillow talk for the night.

Pizza and Jesus

What do they have in common. Well, when you're seventeen, you figure out a way to put two of your favorite thing together. J, Snoo, and Mooch are all in Staten Island right now on a youth group missions trip. They're teaching VBS to neighborhood New Yorkers and tonight at VBS ten kids got saved. One of the kids was a boy from Brooklyn who J described as the quintessential New Yorker. He's in 5th grade-quick-witted, smart, and wry.

The boys didn't think the night could get any better after that. Then God created pizza. New York Style Pizza.

After a late night Bible study, J and two friends went out for pizza. They went to a classier pizza joint. Which is so not the way I've taught him. I told him to go to the dingiest looking place he can find. You know-where you'd be afraid you'd catch hepatitis. That's usually where the best and cheapest food is. But when parents aren't around and The Children have been given $80 for a week (with most meals provided), they're livin' the high life. Right? Only they don't seem to ever take into account how much tax is. They spent $40 on pizza and soda between the three of them. Then they each paid a $7 tip. I need to work on his math.

J calls me at midnight on the cell phone. "I'm so pumped. There's this boy that really looks up to me. He's super cool and he's really funny. I led him to the Lord tonight and I cried when I heard some of the testimonies. I can't believe I cried in front of people. And Mom, I had seriously, like the best and probably biggest pizza I've ever had in my life. You should have seen it. It was the bomb. It was insane. And uh, so yeah. Good night, I love you."

God is indeed good; very good. And my kids are actually turning out alright after all. Heh.