Several other bloggeirs have had this on their sites already, but I had a bunch of stuff to tell you so I’m running behind.

I found this on MSNBC and nearly choked on my iced tea.

When “Goodnight Moon” just isn’t cutting it… one dad and novelist has written a bedtime story to warm the hearts of sleep-deprived parents everywhere.

When you click over to the story, you learn that although it’s written and illustrated like a children’s book, it’s really for adults.  Whatever – I love the sentiment.

“The cats nestle close to their kittens.
The lambs have laid down with the sheep.
You’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear
Please go the f@#k to sleep.”

Hahahahahahaha!

I was at the mailbox when the informer discovered I was home.  

Sassy burst out the door and, from the front porch, yelled, “I’m not even going to tell you what Bandit is eating in the family room.  And. He’s. Naked.”

I know you think Sassy doesn’t really talk like that, but she does.  She’s very dramatic and she really works the emphasis.  And italics.  And exclamation points.  You can almost see all those things floating above her head in bubbles while she’s talking.

I looked around to see if the entire neighborhood heard her.  There was one pedestrian who tried not to make eye contact with me, but I can see his shoulders shaking so I know he was laughing.

“Get in the house,” I told her.  I grabbed the mail and stomped up the walkway.  Sassy continued to blab away, tattling on her brother with vigor that would suit a district attorney nabbing a mob boss.  I tried to ignore her, but she was ruthless.  She managed to stay in front of me the entire way, walking backwards and clicking off her brother’s sins on her fingers.

I feinted to the left and, when she fell for it, I dodged to the right and sidled past her in the front door.  I dropped my

I fear this could be The Bandit in 20 years

 purse, the mail, my keys, sunglasses and kindle on the kitchen table and strolled over to the door way to the family room.  Sure enough, there he was: stark naked, face, chest and hands covered in chocolate, melting Easter bunny grasped in his grubby paw.  But here was the best part.  Hold on to your hat.  He was astride a rocking horse, bouncing away and watching cartoons.  Clothes littered the floor.

I have no idea when our house turned into a locker room, but it has.  There are always clothes everywhere.

And don’t think The Bandit has this concept cornered.

Sassy got the slightest sunburn on Monday at her grandmother’s pool.  We’re talking the palest burn ever.  There was no discoloration of her skin to speak of, but the way she moaned about it, you’d think her skin was falling off.  Anyway, she walked around the house with no shirt on for two days. 

If I could have an eclair for every time I hollered at one of my children, “For the love of God, put some clothes on!” I’d be five hundred pounds.

Why can’t my children wear clothes?  At what age does my eight year old daughter’s modesty kick in?  Will my little boy ever stop flashing his willy to the world?

Please call before you come over unless you want a shocking surprise.  I’ll need at least ten minutes to get the heathens dressed and clean up the frat house.

“Did you get a call from the Headmaster today?” 

I should hang up the phone now and pretend I didn’t hear that.  “No,” I tell my husband.  “Why?” 

“Apparently your son was down there for spitting on people,” My Honey tells me.  The teacher told him all this when she caught up with My Honey as he was picking the kids up from aftercare.

I take in a huge, chest expanding breath and let it out slowly.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” he continues, “This was the third time he’s spit on someone, too.”

Third?  How come this is the first time I’ve heard about it?  My Honey tells me of the other incidents and it only makes me more frustrated. “So what happened today?” I ask.

Apparently the class was standing in line for something and, according to the teacher who clearly didn’t see the incident from the beginning, he turned around and spit on someone for no reason.  I don’t believe that is true, but I hardly think my son is a saint, either.  I’ll admit there have been times in the history of civilization when spitting on someone has been warranted, however, there is no way The Bandit is going to convince me that anything the five year old in line behind him did or said qualifies as a spitting offense.  Spitting is reserved for Nazis and people who murder your family, not for line pushers.

This time the teacher wasted no time in hauling his butt to the HM’s office and depositing him there for further disciplinary action.

I immediately called the Headmaster.  He related the same story My Honey received from the teacher.  The HM also disclosed he wasn’t in his office when The Bandit arrived so my little boy had to sit on the bench of shame outside his office to wait for him.  You know the bench.  Every school had one.  That bench or hard wooden chair that, when you were seated upon it, meant you were in serious trouble and were just awaiting your fate.  When HM arrived, Bandit was sobbing and I guess it took some time for the boy to get control of himself before they could even talk.

“I don’t want you to think I’m mean,” I told HM, “but that’s good.  At least he had the impression he was in serious trouble.”  Not like the trouble he gets into with his teacher and, I guess, his parents.  “He’s a very difficult child to discipline,” I explained.  Nothing you do to him seems to have any effect.  My brother was just that way, too.  I felt somewhat better that Bandit comprehended the magnitude of his trouble. 

“What did you say to him in your interview so I am on the same page when I get home tonight?”  I asked.

“We discussed how he was never going to do that again,” HM told me in even, reasonable tones.  “He said the words I wanted to hear, that he wasn’t going to have a repeat of the behavior.” 

“And then you beat him?” I asked.

The HM laughed knowing I was kidding.  Sort of.

“No, we talked about how men never break their word.”

“And then you beat him?” I asked, again.

“No, Mrs. Bright,” he told me patiently.  “However, he understands if he breaks his promise, his word, then I will have to call his parents and we’ll all have to sit down and figure out what will happen to him then.”

No beating?

This is a parochial school.  When did they get all touchy-feely with the hippy discipline?  Where was the nun with the ruler?  HM’s don’t keep a ping pong paddle in their desk drawers anymore?  What the hell am I paying them for?

Of course, I’m kidding.  If that actually happened then I’d have to go down there and go all Mama-bear on their ass.  But still.

Now when I get home I have to come up with an appropriate, effective punishment, something sufficiently awful that the child second guesses ever spitting at someone again.  I, for one, do not wish to sit on the bench of shame waiting for the HM to come.

My Honey had his favorite music channel on while he was studying the other day.  Lately, if I don’t have hockey finals on the TV then he has Palladia on.  Palladia shows concert footage.  I’ll admit there are some really great shows: huge concerts from Hyde Park, small venues from all over, some really great acts.

This weekend he happened to have a concert on from Green Day.  It was great show of live footage interspersed with interviews from the band about the songs, their experiences, etc.  My Honey and I both like Green Day a lot.

Sassy wandered into the room fresh from the clean, unblemished faces of the Disney Channel and walked into a Green Day.  That’s quite a culture shock.  You’d think, having a musician father she’d be used to unusual people.  Apparently various facial piercings and multiple tattoos did not prepare her for Billie Joe Armstrong.

“Oh. My. God,” Sassy began.  Her mouth hung wide open as she stared at the television.  “Is that a boy?”

“Yes,” I tell her.  I clue her into the names of the band and the singer to whom she is referring.

She shakes her head, perplexed.  She has taken on the attitude of an octogenarion.  She’s eight next month, not eighty.  “Well, I kind of like the music,” she discloses, “but he’s wearing makeup.”

“Yep.” 

“Well, he’s wearing way too much and he didn’t put it on very well. Also, I don’t know if black eyeliner is the best choice” 

It seems she’s gotten past the fact that he’s a boy and wearing make up.  Now her problem is that she doesn’t like his application techniques.  Whatever.  The younger generation always thinks their parents are losers.

Maybe our punk musicians would be cooler if they had their color wheels done.

Oh sweet Jesus, is this funny.  English humor is just a riot.

Remember how I said I was reading a book from a favorite of mine but that the title was horrible.  I stand by that assessment.  The book was wonderful and I’ll be writing a review for it on my examiner.com site for those of you interested.

That comment made me want to tell those of you who don’t know, at least with the romance genre, the author has almost no say in the title of their book.  The marketing department comes up with the final title based on what they think will sell.  This is even true for the superstars like Julia Quinn.  She told the Sisters that she had to fight tooth and nail for the title of her last book.  You’d think she’d have more pull, but no.

Also, the author has even less say on the cover.  Just so you know.

So I found this and thought it very appropriate.

A title can make or break a book, and F. Scott Fitzgerald had a devil of a time coming up with a good one for this greatest novel.  He originally planned to call The Great Gatsby by the title Trimalchio in West Egg(a too-clever reference to a character in Petronius’s Satyricon).  His editor, Maxwell Perkins, thought better of that and persuaded him to change it.  For a while, Fitzgerald was hot on The High-Bouncing Loverbefore hitting on the classic, succinct title we know today.  Even then, Fitzgerald had his doubts.  Just before the book was to be printed, he cabled Perkins with the suggestion that they change the name to Under the Red White and Blue.  What would be the consequences of delaying publication, Fitzgerald asked.  Perkins’s cable, one word reply: “Fatal.”

You have to admit, several of those trashed names are terrible.  Thank goodness cooler heads prevailed.

I was standing in the bathroom, bleary eyed and confused.  Why was I here?  Why was I even up?  The clock/radio over the toilet read 6:03.  I don’t have to get up until 6:45.  This is horrible. 

It all started coming back to me in hazy, sleep-colored waves.

I marched back into my bedroom.  Sassy and The Bandit were wrestling on my bed.  I have no idea what they were even doing up in the first place.  Traditionally I have to blow them out of bed with a squirt gun of ice water and a fork lift.  Unless it’s the weekend.  Then my charming babies are up at the crack of dawn and demanding breakfast.  This was a school day and thus inexplicable.

I dimly remember Sassy urging me out of bed, “Mom, you’re late.  Time to get up.”  Of course I got up.  If someone tells me I’m late getting up, I don’t analyze it, I get up.  I’m always late getting up.

This time I figured it out before I got into the shower.

“Get out of my bed,” I holler.  “Why did you get me up?  I still have like a hour to sleep.”

“I don’t know,” she says, using the standard kid go-to phrase when questioned about anything.

“Get dressed and go watch cartoons or something,”  I point at my bedroom door to emphasize my point. An hour early.  My god!  I’ve only been in bed for four hours anyway.  I mutter to myself as I climb back under the blankets. 

Mercifully, my superpower is the ability to fall asleep almost instantly, any time, anywhere.  That’s a darn good thing since I never get enough sleep.  I covet sleep like Donald Trump covets attention.

Eventually, I did get up.  The cartoons were turned all the way up in the living room, but the kids had their clothes on so I let them get away with it.  The Bandit was making toast.  He’s been making toast like, well for lack of a better word, like a bandit for the last several days.  Our toaster was in horrendous shape.  Everytime we used it, swearing would ensue.  The toast would emerge black and charcoal-like on one side and raw on the other.  Last weekend it actually made a scary popping sound that was quite alarming.

I still had some “atta girl” points at work, and since we really had no idea if work would still be there in the morning, I quickly used my points and ordered a new toaster.  Then I promptly forgot all about it.  Several days later, when Sassy, the Bandit and I got home, there was a mysterious box on the porch.  When we opened it up a shaft of light burst from the box like the Arc of the Covenant in Indiana Jones. LO! A toaster.  A beautiful white, four slice toaster.  The Bandit thought four slices was the most outstanding thing he’d ever seen.  He’s been very sheltered in the small appliance department.  I figure we don’t want to spoil him with crazy things like food processors and such.

So this is a grilled cheese, but I still think the toaster has the capability

We plugged  in the new toaster and he immediately dropped four slices of bread in the slots.  Minutes later, out popped beautiful brown bread.  I’ll admit, I felt a little teary-eyed.  Bandit looked at the four perfectly toasted pieces of bread like they were a certifiable miracle and I should call the Holy See about canonizing it.  After all, we’d only have to prove two miracle to have the Proctor-Silex toaster made into a saint.

I’m here to tell you people, even as a nonbeliever, I’m totally quitting my day job if, all of a sudden, out pops bread toasted with the face of the Virgin Mary.

“Why are they all so phlegmy?”  My Honey asked me.  “I’ve never seen a sport with so much spitting.”

Ugh!

He’s right.  We’re watching #15 lick spit off his chin like a rabid dog.  It’s times like this, or when they blow their noses with their fingers, that I’m not sure why I love this game.  I tend to look away when they show the bench.  Nasty things happen there.

“I’ll give them some credit for their restraint though.  I’m telling you if some guy pissed me off out there and I was holding a stick in my hand…” My Honey muses.

He’s right.  As much fighting as they do, I’m often amazed there isn’t more.  The more frustrated they get, the more punches fly.

“Seriously, some of the stuff they do, anybody else would get 5 to 10.”

I’ve forced him to watch most of two games today.  He’s very patient.  Although, he did offer to start rooting for Detroit since he knows my loathing of the Red Wings.

* * * * * * * * *

I worked for three days tweaking Chapter 16.  It was an important chapter and a whole lot of emotional and psychological stuff was going on that I wanted to get right.  It’s important that my hero remain “a nice guy” without being a wuss.  Also, our heroine had to have a REALLY good reason for her refusal to do something relatively simple.  Sometimes this is all so complicated.

Out April 26th

To make matters worse, I’m reading and advance copy of one of my favorite authors.  The book is fabulous – the title is awful.  When I have a great book going, it’s really hard to write until the book is done.

I’ve started writing reviews and posting them on my examiner.com site.  What’s really exciting about that is I’m getting advance copies of stuff.  I know some of you are jealous out there and you should be!  I’m so excited about it.  Do you know what that tells you about me? 

That I am a giant nerd.

I was typing away on Chapter 17 when I realized I’d never posted today.  Ack! 

Don't drive angry!

I’m also watching Groundhog Day.  I love this movie.  Bill Murray is a genius of the dry look.  Here I am, the rest of my house sound asleep and snoring away, and I’m cackling away after midnight.

Captain Shane Doan

I watched game 3 of the first round of The Stanley Cup playoffs earlier tonight.  Coyotes lost to Detroit. Again.  This may come as a shock to a great deal of my extended family, but I really, really hate Detroit.  We have very little chance of moving to the next round.  We’d have to win the next 4 games in a row.  Odds are not good.  My other favorite team, the Blackhawks is in the same boat with Vancouver. Deep sigh.  I’ll be down to rooting for either the Penguins or the Capitals who both look to advance to the next round.  No matter what, I’ll still be mourning the Coyotes.  Bummer.

I’m also doing laundry.  I’m pretty sure that is my real purpose in life.  Sorting, washing and folding clothes – it seems as though I do some form of it every single day.  Ava, Kelli and I often joke about getting our own apartment.  We figure we’d be able to get away with it until there were no more clean clothes. 

“I’m out of underwear.  Where’s your mom?”

We went out to dinner on Saturday night.  Neither of my children selected either chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese.  I know!  Those of you with children must assume my children have been kidnapped by space aliens.  That’s the only feasible explanation I can come up with.  When Sassy told me she wanted fish sticks I almost lost all control over my spine and slipped underneath the booth.

Just when I thought I had it together, I turned to my right and asked the boy what he wanted.  I lost brain function when he told me peanut butter and jelly.

“What? Who are you people?” I asked in wonder.  Maybe these new children, these impostors, will also clean up their toys before being asked.  Would it be too much to ask the aliens if they’re going to replace my children that they do it with ones who don’t wage full on battles in the back seat of the car?  I swear the fighting has gotten to the point where their father and I are about ready to install a Thunder Dome in the backyard and let them go at it.  Two kids enter, one kid leaves.  Some days this is a totally feasible option.

So the waitress had no idea she was contributing to the annals of history when she served fish sticks and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to my table.  I made up for it by ordering onion rings.  If onion rings are to be had, they will be had in my mouth sooner rather than later. 

A while later, when I began evaluating how their dinners were being consumed, I discovered a new and bizarre eating habit of The Bandit.  Holding each triangle of sandwich to his mouth, he was able to eat only the top piece of bread spread with grape jelly.  All the peanut butter triangles were summarily deposited back on the plate.  I am at a complete loss.  As far as I’ve always been concerned, the peanut butter is the most important part of the PB&J sandwich.  Jelly is completely superfluous. 

Just so you all know so we can keep track of the signs, Aliens don’t eat peanut butter.  At least not the creamy kind.  That may have been the issue anyway.  Everyone knows chunky peanut better is the best.