This is just something fun.  A friend posted this video on Facebook, and I thought I'd share it.  

Click here if you need a laugh.

I'm back after a somewhat unintentional "summer" break (after three years of blogging I think I was entitled to a blog vacation - can't believe it's been that long). 

Working backwards, let me tell you about the auspicious occasion that occurred the weekend before last  -- The Spouse's 25-year high school reunion -- which forced me to rethink my position on Facebook.

As I've mentioned before, I am a Spartan and The Spouse is a Lancer, which results in some good-natured mascot bashing every once in awhile.  But now some of The Spouse's former classmates feel like my new best friends.

In the months since he registered, The Spouse has become "Mr. Facebook,"  a Facebook Floozie of the highest order.  Thus, it seemed natural that he became one of the galvanizing forces to organize the reunion.  This in turn amped up Facebook usage to a ridiculous degree.  The Spouse used all the weapons in his arsenal -- pithy commentary, sentiment, flattery, taunts, threats, and yes, dare I say, blackmail -- to get people to go.  Long into the night, for weeks on end, I could hear him tap, tap, tapping away on the computer upstairs.

I couldn't help it.  I got caught up in all the posts flying back and forth.  I offered my own comments occasionally, which The Spouse obligingly posted.  So much so, that at the reunion, several of The Spouse's former classmates greeted me affectionately, telling me that they felt like they already knew me.  All thanks to Facebook.  I have to admit that it was a great tool in finding people and for gathering pictures.  The reunion was a resounding success, and I had a really good time -- even as a Spartan spouse. 

So, because of all the love I felt from my new Lancer friends, I am now officially rescinding my previous position on Facebook.  I'm thinking of joining.  I know. I'm weak.  So, to all the people who have been on my case about joining, and you know who you are, you may now say I told you so!

Once I do, knowing my uber-competitive spouse as I do, the friend contest will be on. (Sigh). 

The Teenager (15)  approached The Spouse about attending a nighttime concert at Summerfest with a friend.  The story was that she and her friend would attend the concert and be driven home by her friend's father, who was planning on going to a different concert that same night.  From this story, you could reasonably assume three things.

A) There was a plan.

B) The friend's parents were okay with the girls going to Summerfest.

C) The friend's father was going to be on the grounds at the same time as the girls.

Perfectly reasonable, right?  It would be unless you know the backstory on The Teenager.

The Teenager tends to do things on the spur of the moment, and most of her "plans" tend to be long on explanations but vague in detail -- this being typical of most teenagers, I'm guessing.

After pressing her for further information, The Spouse and I discovered that

A) There was no real plan.

B) The friend's parents were not all that okay with the girls going to Summerfest.

C) The friend's father did not intend to be at Summerfest until his concert started much later in the evening.

This revelation sent The Spouse into a tizzy --  this being typical of fathers of teenage girls. 

So, after further deliberation, it was decided that The Spouse would accompany the girls to the concert.   As the Spouse put it, "I trust you girls.  It's the drunk hooligans that I don't trust."  (As The Spouse holds a third-degree black belt, don't think that will be a problem.)

So, this is how The Spouse ended up paying for a concert ticket for a band that he has never heard of in order to protect his not-so-little-anymore girl and her friend from Summerfest drunkards.  That my friends is fatherly love.

There was a bad accident on Capitol Drive this morning.  I was there a couple of cars back from where the accident occurred. It happened right at the entrance road to the Sharon Lynn Wilson complex, a couple of blocks west of Brookfield Road.

I heard on the news that eastbound Capitol Drive will be shut down while Flight for Life is called in and while clean up occurs.  (News at 9:48 a.m.)  No indication of how long it will be shut down.

As I was driving by, I saw two people laying in the road, not moving.  It looked pretty serious.  Hope they will be okay.

This blog is a guest blog by my friend, Jodi Nolte.  Next weekend, she will be creating a memorial to her late father, Maury Weisfeldt.  But it has been a bit of a journey for Jodi to get to this point, and she wrote a short story about it that I think you will enjoy reading.

"How to Find a Dead Body" by Jodi Nolte

“So, I’m trying to find out what happened to my Dad.” That is how I started the conversation with Jim at The Medical College. What would you have said?

My Dad passed away on December 23, 2005. Because of the work that he had done with Biomechanical Engineers for the last 15 years of his life, he decided to donate his body to The Medical College in Milwaukee. My first thought was, “yuck!” But, if you think about it, it is pretty cool. Doctors are going to be able to learn something from him. I’m just glad he’s not teaching them how to drive. (“Just because the sign says 45, doesn’t mean you have to go that fast.”)

It has been three years since my dad has passed away, and we still have not received his ashes. When The Medical College completes its research using a body, you have the option of having the body cremated and returned to the next of kin or having The Medical College dispose of the remains. I guess “dispose” is the wrong word. Is “inter” the right one?
     
My brother thought that Dad had been buried by The Medical College. The college has a plot at The Wauwatosa Cemetery, which is conveniently located down the street from my house. Not that I knew I had reason to visit there! I mostly just try to avoid the cop that sits there every morning trying to catch speeders. But I decided to find out.
     
When you want to know something in this day and age, where do you begin? The Internet, of course! (Dad always said it was the next big thing.) I googled The Medical College of Wisconsin and found their home page. I then searched on the keyword “donation.” This led me to the page for the Anatomical Gift Registry. That sounds a lot nicer than the Dead Body List. I called the phone number on the page and a very nice woman answered the phone.
     
“Hi,” I said. “My father passed away three years ago and donated his body to your college. I’m trying to find out what happened to him?”
     
Not my most eloquent effort, but what else was I going to say? Unphased, the woman asked me for his name. She could not find him on her Dead Body List, I mean Anatomical Gift Registry, and so she transferred me to Jim.
 
Jim needed to do some research and get back to me. I gave him my phone number, and as I hung up the phone, I thought, “I bet this guy thinks I’m crazy.” But just 20 minutes later, Jim called me back. He informed me that the doctor using my Dad in his research would be completing his work the following week. After that, he would be cremated, and I could have the ashes returned to me.
     
I had found my Dad!
     
So, on Saturday, May 30, 2009 (the day before what would have been my dad’s 74th birthday), my family will be planting a rose bush in my backyard and spreading my Dad’s ashes beneath it. He always taught me to wait until after Memorial Day to plant.

 

Last Friday, The Youngest attended a carnival that was being conducted by the junior class at the high school.  As all the elementary students filed out of school at the end of the day, I noticed that the majority of them were holding plastic bags that contained goldfish.

Not having spotted my own child yet, I immediately prayed for her NOT to have won a goldfish.  Why?  Because we are goldfish killers.

We do not have a good history with pet fish.  The Teenager had a fish when she was about 5.  "Goldie 1" met an untimely demise because we seriously underestimated the predatory instinct of our otherwise docile and somewhat lazy cat.  The Spouse and I returned home from work one day to find an overturned fish bowl, a puddle on the floor, and an innocent-looking cat sitting next to a very dry and very dead goldfish.

The Spouse and I, thinking we could outwit the 5-year old, bought a new fish with similar coloring and markings, hoping to pass it off as the original Goldie.  But her powers of observation were just too keen.

"That's not Goldie," she declared as she came out of her bedroom after feeding the fish.

"What do you mean that's not Goldie? Sure it is, " we answered.

"I've never seen that fish before in my life," she stated.  "That fish is a different color than Goldie."

After going back and forth a few times more, we broke down and admitted that it was a new fish.

"I knew it!" she said smugly and promptly christened the new fish "Goldie." 

We smartened up with Goldie 2.  We bought a heavy tank with a lid, completely cat-proof.  But it did not stop the cat from stationing herself next to the tank and watching the fish's every movement.  Goldie 2 also met an early death shortly after we moved to a different apartment.  It might have been something to do with a change in the tank water, or it may have been simply her time.  I tend to think it was the stress from being stared at by the killer kitty day after day. 

After retrieving Goldie 2 from the tank, we had a fish funeral of sorts.  We stood around the toilet bowl, said a short prayer, and flushed Goldie into the goldfish afterlife. 

In the years since, we've been able to avoid having pet fish until last Friday when we acquired the new addition to our family, "Shiny"  (our daughters tend to be quite literal in naming their goldfish).

I tried to prepare The Youngest for what might happen by telling her that sometimes fish don't live very long.   The Youngest, appalled by my story of Goldie 2's funeral by flushing, instructed me that should Shiny die, we would need to have a "real" funeral, complete with a box for burial in the backyard and a sign to mark Shiny's resting place.

For now, Shiny lives in our basement, ensconced in a bowl on a shelf, far away from the killer cat who, perhaps sensing a disturbance in the force, sniffs suspiciously at the crack under the basement door.  

**************

Why was I eating lunch alone in my car at Sendik's?  Read my latest post on Pizazz to find out.

It looks like this video has been around for a few years, but I just discovered it.  Funny!

Happy Mother's Day!

What is one to do if ever confronted by a coyote?  I never thought I'd ask myself that question, but a few days ago, while sipping my morning coffee, I saw a coyote running up and down our backyard.  It ran back and forth a few times and then ran off into the wooded area that borders our neighborhood.

I knew that coyotes were in the area because I've heard them howling in the middle of the night.  It's different from dogs barking.  It's kind of a high-pitched, frenzied howling.  

When I talked to a neighbor about it, he asked if I perhaps just saw a large dog.  But, I think I know a freakin' coyote when I see one.

I asked The Spouse about what I should do if ever I was face to face with a coyote. 

But The Spouse didn't know the answer.  So what did he do?   He put it on Facebook of course

This elicted many responses, with some heated debate between the "coyote shooters"  and the "coyote huggers".

And of course there was the response,"The coyote is more afraid of you than you are of it."

Yeah, in this case, I don't think so.

According to the Wisconsin Humane Society, this is what you should do if ever confronted by a coyote.

*****

You may have noticed a new look to the blogs.  We've switched over to a different blogging program, so if you encounter any problems with reading my blog, please let me know.  Also, if you wish to post a comment, you may be required to re-enter your information.

*****

Have you read my new blog?  Here's the latest post from PIZAZZ.

I don't often use my blog to vent, but I'm still feeling a bit cranky over an incident that happened at Sendik's, the one on Brookfield Road, over the weekend.

Like many others, I was out grocery shopping on Saturday afternoon in preparation for the Sunday snow storm that wasn't.  I had only a few items, so I got into the 10 items or less express lane.  Not counting the person who was currently being waited on, I was probably about the fourth person in line, with a few other people behind me.  I could tell I was in a bad mood because I was actually counting the number of items in the shopping cart of the person in front of me.  Other than feeling righteous indignation, I don't think I would have said anything had she actually had more than 10 items. Luckily she didn't.

For some reason, even though it was the express lane, it was taking forever to check out.  I slowly advanced to the second in line position.  At this point, the clerk who was working the customer service desk called out that he could take the person "next in line."

Following the conventional definition of this phrase, that would have meant that the lady in front of me should have been waited on.

BUT, a man at the very BACK of the express lane walked over to the service counter and plunked his groceries down.  Although a couple of us in line worked up angry glares, nobody said a word.  We were like sheep, I tell you.

I've noticed that this happens a lot.  People just let it go.  Maybe people don't want to cause a fuss. I do it too.  For me, I figure I'm not in a hurry and can overlook the fact that I've just been skipped in line.  But it still makes me cranky. 

Then, the next day, I am back at Sendik's again because I forgot to get my dad's yogurt.  So again, I am standing in the express lane, right behind the person who is currently checking out. 

I hear the customer apologize to the clerk because she is slightly over the 10 item limit.  (So, I'm starting to feel cranky again at this point.)

The clerk tells her that is okay. (Now just a teeny bit crankier.) 

Then, the clerk proceeds to tell the customer about a different clerk who sent someone out of the express line because the customer had too many items, as if that was a bad thing.  (Inwardly cheering on clerk who kicked person out of line, improves crankiness somewhat.)

Then the clerk tells the customer that she would NEVER send someone out of the express line for having too many items.  (What??!!  Now feeling cranky all over again.)

So, I feel that we, as customers, should be clear about grocery store rules.

GROCERY STORE RULES THAT EVEN A KINDERGARTENER WOULD KNOW

1.  If you have 11 items or more, this means you have MORE THAN 10 items.

2.  If you are at the BACK of the line, you are not NEXT in line.  You are not even in the middle of the line.  You are LAST in line.  

If we follow these basic rules, overall morale while waiting in line would improve greatly and would reduce the number of incidences of parking lot rage.
 

******

Check out my new blog:  PIZAZZ
 

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies -- Edna St. Vincent Millay (poet)

Although there are some that say that aging is a state of mind, it is inescapable that as we age, we begin to lose the people we love.  It is a sad and simple truth. 

Last night, I attended the funeral of a friend's parent.  It is the third such funeral that I have attended in three years, and as always, I was anxious about what I would say to my friend when I saw her.  The anxiety was purely of my own making because I knew that she wouldn't really care what I said, but I know that there are many out there like me who are at a loss for words in these situations.

From my own personal experience, I have found that little things, done from the heart, are remembered the most. Maybe it's just a note or card.  Maybe it's a phone call or email. Or as my blogging colleague Tom Gehl once told me, mere "presence" is enough.

For my brother and I, there is one memory that stands out from the night my mother passed away. 

It was around 8:00 in the evening.  My mom had died a few hours earlier, and we were waiting for the funeral home to come.  The family and friends that remained at the house were exhausted, mentally and physically.  The doorbell rang, and my brother's friend, "E", was at the door.  In his hands were about 6 cups of coffee drinks from Starbucks, the giant Venti-sized ones.  The scent of cafe mochas, carmel macchiatos, and vanilla capuccinos quickly filled the air, and we divided up the larger cups into smaller ones so that everyone could share.  We gathered around the kitchen table and on the sofas in the adjacent family room, quietly sipping from our mugs.  Maybe it was the caffeine, but we all seemed to feel better afterwards.

What was especially touching about E's gesture was that once he received the call about my mom's passing, he drove in from his home, about 45-50 minutes away, leaving behind his wife and two kids, just because he wanted to do something for us.   He didn't even know most of the people at the house, but he helped to pass out the drinks and quietly listened as we talked.  Even now, on the occasions my brother and I speak of that night, we remember E and his coffee.

It was a little thing, but greatly remembered and appreciated.

*******

Check out my new blog: PIZAZZ 

From the second floor of our house, I was yelling for The Spouse to come and help me with something.  No response.  I called again.  In answer, The Youngest came trotting up the stairs and said, "Dad can't come right now.  He's looking at his face."  Facebook that is.

Awhile back, The Spouse advised me in all seriousness that I should not join Facebook because I would become addicted.  Well, guess who needs Facebook rehab now?

And apparently he is not alone because Facebook has caught on with "older" adults.  Check out this hilarious article from Time magazine. 

But I am still resisting the temptation to join.  Here are my Top 10 reasons.

 
1.  One Facebook-obsessed adult (and Teenager!) in the family is enough.

Nothing would get done otherwise.  There would be no face to face conversations.  Just "chats".  I kid you not.  The other day, The Teenager was on the upstairs computer, and The Spouse was on his laptop downstairs.  They were chatting via Facebook, despite the fact that they were physically about 10 feet away from each other.

 2.  Why join when I can read The Spouse's stuff?

I facebook vicariously.  Yes, I admit it.  I am an enabler.  After all, when your spouse opens up his laptop in bed, how can you resist sidling up to him, peering over his shoulder, and reading what is causing him to laugh like a hyena? What's weird is that I don't even know most of the people, and yet I cannot fight the voyeuristic allure that Facebook holds.

 3.  Use of the word "friend" as a verb bugs me.

As in, "I just got friended by Joe Smith" or  "I sent a request to Jane Smith to friend me".  On the other hand, I am almost equally bugged by the use of the correct verb, as in "I was befriended by Jane Smith."  So, I guess there's just no making me happy on this point.

4.  I already have a blog (2 actually).

I am convinced that Facebook is actually for people who want to blog but who want to avoid the general public spotlight.  Looking at some of The Spouse's friends posts, there is political commentary, links to scientific/news articles, and even poetry worthy of use on e-harmony.  So Facebook essentially lets you blog to your friends, who because they are your friends will tell you how terrific/witty/funny you are rather than telling you that you are inane and don't know what you're talking about.  Or maybe they will, depending on how honest your friends are.

(BTW, I just started a new blog on MilwaukeeMoms.com called Pizazz.   I'm going to try and keep the content different, so I hope you'll visit my other blog too.)

5. Too much pressure to create an interesting "status". 

Facebook has a feature called "status," that is used to inform your friends of what you are doing at any given time.  Die-hard facebookers will update their statuses several times a day.  Of course, most people try to post something funny or unusual because even your friends are really not that interested in the fact that you had a ham sandwich for lunch.  The Spouse tends to update his status about 2 or 3 times a day.  When he is hurting for material, he steals my lines.  For example, a recent status for him: "My wife is telling me that 'friend' is not a verb."

I already have enough trouble trying to come up with witty/interesting topics for this blog.

6. Rejection 

What if I send a friend request and it gets declined or ignored?  Then, I'll just feel stupid.

7. I'm already "connected."

As a former law school professor once said to our first-year law school class, "I don't need any friends.  I have enough."  Maybe, I'm an unusual case, but I've kept in fairly close contact with a fair number of my high school/college/law school friends.

8.  I'm not happy with any of my current pictures.

If I ever made the move to join, I'd have to find a current picture that I'm satisfied with.  As I take a lot of the pictures in my family, there are very few photos that have me in them, let alone one that has me solo.  Also, I don't want anybody looking at a mediocre picture of me and saying, "Well, she looked better in high school/college" because you know that's what people do.  I was looking at some pictures of a guy in my husband's class.  It was a striking black and white head shot.  When I commented on it, the Spouse said, "Oh, he used to do some modeling."  Then, I looked at a picture of one of my hubbie's best friends, and I swear he had it professionally done because he looked like something out of a J. Crew catalog -- not that he looks bad normally, I'm just saying.

9.  Do not want to be accused of being a "Facebook Floozy."

This is what happens when you "friend" everyone, even when you barely remember him or her. 

10. Do not want to engage in friend contest with uber-competitive spouse. 

This happened with classmates.com a few years ago.  My high school class was using it to organize our 20-year reunion.  So, using the free features, I could see how many people "visited" the profile I created.  Well, then The Spouse joined too and was constantly asking how many visits I had.  I outpaced him for awhile, but then suddenly, his numbers started to double, at which point he started to lord it over me.  I later found out that he actually paid classmates.com in order to use otherwise unavailable features, like photo posting, which drew more people to his profile -- WHICH WAS A BLATANT CASE OF CHEATING.

 My friends who are on Facebook tell me that resistance is futile.  So, in the future, I reserve the right to delete this blog at any time.

I'd like to give a shout out to my old alma mater, Marquette University. If you haven't heard, their basketball team, ranked number 8,  is playing a highly-anticipated game tonight against Connecticut, ranked no. 2.

What is the Brookfield connection?

For awhile, I've been wondering about a MU flag that I've seen flying outside an office building on Bluemound Road.  It's outside the building that has "R.A. Smith" on its front.  What tickles me about the flag is that it is not a Marquette Golden Eagles flag but a Marquette Warriors flag.

I am a MU grad twice over and during my time there I was both a Warrior and a Golden Eagle, but personally, I preferred being a Warrior.  But I guess we should be happy that we didn't end up as "Gold".  (Remember that fiasco?)

So another shout out to the rebel Warrior fan on Bluemound Road, whoever he or she may be.

Go Marquette!

*********

UPDATE - March 20

Marquette beats Utah State!!  

Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, means paczkis to me.  I love pazckis.  If you've never had one, a paczki is a Polish treat similar to a jelly doughnut that is generally consumed before the start of Lent.  Although a prune filling is the traditional choice, I prefer raspberry, liberally sprinkled with powder sugar.  

Some of the best pazckis I've had in Brookfield come from the National Bakery on Greenfield and Sunnyslope, but if you can't make it out there, I've seen them at the Sendik's on Brookfield Road and at Grasch's. 

They disappear tomorrow, so you better hurry.  Laissez les bon temps roulez!

My title is the tag line of a BCHS cheer made famous by the Class of 1984, or so I've been told.  Although I am a Spartan, I'm doing a favor for some Lancer friends of mine by announcing that the BCHS Class of 1984 is currently planning its 25-year reunion.  Although at the time of this post no specific date has been set, the reunion organizers are hoping to schedule the reunion in July or August.

If you are a member of the Class of 1984 and currently have a Facebook account, you can join the Brookfield Central Class of 1984 group and find out more.  If you don't want to join Facebook but want to receive information about the reunion, contact me by either clicking the email button at the top of my blog or by sending an email to brookfieldwannabe@yahoo.com.  I can then put you in contact with the reunion committee.

I'll post more details as they become known.

 **********

Update - 4-1-09 

The date for the reunion has been set: Saturday, August 8.  Two events are being planned:  a golf outing in the morning (dependent on how many are interested) and a cocktail/hors d'oeuvres reception in the evening.  (I'm not sure if the venue contracts have been finalized so I'm not going to post the locations yet.)

Reunion organizers are still looking for classmates to add to their growing list.  Join Facebook or contact me as described above to get your name on the invitation list.

Update - 5-16-09

Reunion organizers have created a website, www.brookfieldcentral1984.com

I had never heard the term "sandwich generation" until I received a brochure in the mail recently, advertising a series of lectures for people like me -- adults "sandwiched" between raising young children and caring for aging parents.  I have a precocious young daughter.  I write about her exploits often, and she is one of the joys of my life.  I also have an 81-year old father.  Last summer, he was diagnosed with lymphoma, just two years after lung cancer claimed my mother. 

My dad decided to seek treatment and began chemo just before Thanksgiving last year.  The clinic said that he was the oldest patient that they ever had who had chosen to undergo this particular chemo regimen.  With every cycle, his white blood cell count would be wiped out, almost to the point of non-existence.  He didn't want to eat or drink.  It was a battle to get him to take a few bites of his meals.  His hair fell out, which left him depressed.    Anti-depressants caused him to hallucinate.  With each new problem and each new hospitalization, it became more and more apparent that my dad would need to be more closely monitored.  So, although my dad was already living with my brother and his family, we decided that it would be best for my dad to move in with me, the stay-at-home offspring, for awhile.

I was happy to do it, but it's been hard.  I didn't realize how stubborn my dad could be about things, even things you'd think wouldn't be a problem, like taking his medication when he's supposed to.  I understand that this is scary for him.  The cancer and subsequent treatment have robbed him of his independence, and he needs to rely on me and others.  Helping him isn't a burden.  It's the battles over him accepting help that leave me worn out.  When he is tired of me and the reminders of his dependence, he snaps, "Well, maybe you should just put me in a home."  He knows we wouldn't, so I say nothing, even though sometimes, sometimes when my patience has worn thin, I feel like snapping back, "Well, maybe I will."  But like I said, I don't.  I just feel tired after confrontations like these.

But I have to pull it together because I have another person that I am responsible for, my daughter.  She is still of an age where she depends on me for a lot of things, and I'm no good to her if I'm too angry, too tired, or too sad over my dad's situation.

It's not all hard though.  I worry a little less about him now because I know firsthand that he is eating regularly and taking his medication.  My daughter likes having him here; she acts like a "little mother" to him.  And I know he enjoys seeing her on a daily basis.

To say that my brother and I were devastated by the news that my dad had cancer would be a gross understatement.  We just didn't think it could happen--that cancer would strike both our mom and dad.  I am sick of the word "cancer."  I am sick of reading articles and statistics.  I am sick of hearing about friends, relatives of friends, and friends of friends that have been newly diagnosed.  But I can't get away from it.

The worst effect that cancer has had on my brother and I is that it has robbed us of our hope.  We don't pray for the miracle anymore.  A few months ago, The Spouse found out that one of his good friends from high school has an inoperable, malignant brain tumor.  As we read his wife's blog, I was struck by how positive and hopeful she sounded about the treatment he is undergoing.  She prays for the miracle, the cure.  I pray that it won't be as bad as it was last time. 

Even when we get good news, like we did a few weeks ago, I still can't quite believe that it is true-- that the chemo appears to be working.

We don't know yet if this living arrangement will be permanent.  So for now, we are taking it one day at a time --my dad, my daughter, and I
 

As The Youngest grows up, it's fascinating to hear her views, especially on big topics, like religion or politics for example.  Conversations with her can be a bit of a mind exercise for The Spouse and I because we need to frame concepts in terms that she can grasp.

On Inauguration Day, I watched the events on T.V.  As soon as The Youngest came home from school, she promptly told me to turn the T.V. off because Dad would be "mad".  (The Spouse is a stalwart Republican.)  Worried that she might give her playground friends the mistaken impression that her Dad was unpatriotic, I responded that Dad wasn't really "mad"; he was just disappointed.  She asked why he was disappointed, and without really thinking, I replied that he was disappointed because he was a Republican, forgetting that the Youngest has no idea what a Republican is.

So, then I had to root around in my head for an analogy that she could understand. 

"It's like a club," I said.  "Dad belongs to a club that's called the Republicans, and President Obama belongs to a club called the Democrats.  Daddy's club lost the competition this time, but sometimes Daddy's club wins."

"Was the 'old guy' (Senator McCain) a Republican?"

"Yes." 

"So, Daddy's disappointed because he lost?"

"Well, Daddy's disappointed because he will pay more taxes."

"What are taxes?"  (See what I mean about mind exercise?)

"Well, taxes are money that we have to give to the government."

"But why are they taking Daddy's money?"  (This is of course the question that The Spouse keeps asking himself.)

"Umm, there's a rule that says we have to give some of it away every year."

"But why does the rule say that?"

Not really wanting to dive into the topic of government spending, I countered with the ultimate distraction.  "Umm, wouldn't you like a snack?"

But the Youngest still had politics on her mind as we watched more of the inaugural festivities, while munching on goldfish crackers.

"You know what, Mom?"

"What?"

"I think we need a girl to be president."

"Why?"

"Because there have been too many 'mens' already!"

Maybe next time, kid.  Maybe next time. 

There are three key phrases that I find myself repeating over and over to our youngest:

1.  Keep eating.

2.  Turn down the T.V.

3.  Sit down.

I'm sure there are more.  But this YouTube Mom says it all. 

Are you ready for Christmas?  I'm not.  Here's little ditty that explains part of the reason why...

Sing to the tune of Jingle Bells (start with the "Dashing through the snow..."  part)

VERSE 1

About two weeks ago,

In the darkest part of night,

The youngest woke up screaming

In tones of fear and fright.

She was sick all over the bed,

On her clothes and on the floor

The Spouse stepped in the middle of it

As he opened her bedroom door. Oh!

REFRAIN: 

Stomach flu, stomach flu

We had it.  How 'bout you?

Washing bedsheets day and night,

Not a pretty si--ight.

Stomach flu, stomach flu

We're better now but still

Of viruses and flu-type bugs,

We've really had our fill!

VERSE 2

So for many days on end,

We stripped, and washed, and scrubbed.

We threw our soiled linens

In our utility tub. 

It went on for a week.

She ate mostly rice and toast

Of all the stuff goin' round this year,

I hate stomach flu the most! Oh!

REFRAIN

Stomach flu, stomach flu

We wouldn't wish it on you.

This sudden, nasty, winter bug

Would really make you blu -ue.

Stomach flu, stomach flu

It's over and it's done. 

So, now it's time to settle down

For some Christmas fun! 

 
******

For some fun, check out these sites my sister-in-law sent me:

Chins Carol   (Try the "12 Days of Christmas", my favorite one)

Simon Sez Santa 

On the news this morning, I heard that governors are now asking for money. I didn't hear the entire story, but the new phrase they used had me shaking my head.

What did they call their plea for money?

A request for  "Temporary Counter-Cyclical Funding"

Winston Churchill is said to have defined the history of humanity as "one damn thing after another".  Lately, I've felt that A WHOLE LOT of humanity has been happening at my house.  Hence, the absence from the blog list these past few weeks.

But of all the things that have gone down -- ear tube/adenoid surgery for the younger daughter, jaw surgery for the older daughter, projectile emissions from both ends of the cat that have resulted in astronomical vet bills -- the one thing that really left me irritated was the dastardly deed that befell The Spouse.  No one was hurt, but property was taken. 

Was it something of personal importance to us?  Not really.

Was it something of great value?  Not really. 

Was it irreplaceable?  No.

Somebody stole the registration sticker from our license plate!  Ripped it right off.  Who thinks of something like that?

I was using The Spouse's car because the lingering smell of spilt gasoline in my mini-van was making me gag.  (Oh yeah, I failed to mention earlier the fuel spill from a new snowblower that happened in my car and that we eventually had to have professionally cleaned.)  I was putting groceries into the trunk and just happened to notice that the registration sticker said "05".  I thought that was strange, and then it dawned on me that someone had stolen the sticker.  Who knows how long it had been missing.

Rather than making the trek to the Waukesha DMV, I went to the closest vehicle emission testing place to see if I could get the sticker replaced.  I got a new sticker there free of charge, after showing them my current certificate of registration.

The clerk who was helping me gave me this advice, which I'll share with you.

Scrape off all the old stickers.  Clean (as best you can) the area where you are going to put the sticker.  Then, once the sticker is in place, take a razor blade and score the sticker.  Although scoring doesn't prevent a thief from trying to take the sticker off in the first place, it causes the sticker to come off in pieces and makes it difficult for the thief to remove and re-use it.

I know it was a little thing, but it was just one of those "You have got to be kidding me" type moments.