Money Matters

So I was at the babysitter's the other day and hauled out my checkbook to
pay her for the week. Michela came bopping up and said, "Mommy, why are
you writing her a check? Why do you have to pay?"

I said: "I'm paying for you!"

Michela (with a shocked expression): "Did you BUY me????"

Me: "Oh honey, if you ONLY knew! I'm just making a payment."

I refuse to add up what I've paid thus far over the last 7.8 years. At
least they didn't make me take out a mortgage for her. Although, come to
think of it, maybe that should be a requirement for all people BEFORE they
have kids. Well, when I'm queen of the world, I'll have that on to my
to-do list.

Shot Down in Flames

 A couple weeks ago we tried having Michela take her lunch to school because she talks so dang much that she doesn't eat and often ends up in the lunch supervisor's office because she distracts the other kids.  So I thought that by us making her lunch she will have some ownership in it and want to eat it, right?

Anyway the first day I put a cute little note in her lunch box.  It said "Dear Michela, I love you!  You are Awesome!  Love Mommy".  But had I tucked the note into a mesh pouch along with her spoon, which she must not have found.  So later that night I asked her if she found something special in her lunchbox.  Of course she hadn't and got all excited thinking it might have been candy.  

I found the note and told her I had put it in there.  She turned away to read it and looked back at me with shining eyes.  (Here I am all prepared for a *super *sappy Lovey Dovey moment with my kid....)  She says to me, "Aww Mommy!  You're so sweet!"  (this is where I'm waiting for "I love you too")  

Says Michela:  "Yeah, I AM awesome".

Personals Ad

In a fit of boredom, I posted this on a "dating" site.  I'll add any interesting responses I get too.  I need help coming up with a teaser tho!!

(Current header - Are you literate and sarcastic?)

I'm not a nice girl but I can fake it in more ways than one. I've seen sixteen Marx Brothers Films but prefer Mel Brooks. I'm 5 feet 4 when I wear my ugly black shoes. I once weighed 128 pounds. I'm more than 18 but less than 100 years old. I have one child of the human persuasion and four others who are much hairier but don't live in the house. I only smoke things I can grow myself.  I like drinks that taste like candy, but don't like being so drunk I throw up, that's just icky.  

I am looking for a man who is willing to let me do anything I feel like, whenever I feel like and who will worship the very toilet paper I use. You must be able to back up a large truck & trailer, be over 6'1-1/2" and under 6'3" so as to reach things on tall shelves for me but not hit your head repeatedly on low door jambs. Must have excellent income and be willing to give it all to me and live on the occasional coins I lose in the wash. Must do all the dishes or own a minimum 1800 square foot home on at least 10 acres, with built in Whirlpool appliances all in stainless steel. Smoking is fine as long as you do it outside, in the bathroom or somewhere else away from me; I inherit everything in your will; and you brush your teeth with cinnamon flavored toothpaste after every puff. I can hunt, clean and prepare my own deer but I cannot open a can of Pillsbury Crescent Rolls because the muffled pop makes me jump.

I promise to love you conditionally, not steal all the covers or fart in public when I'm with you.

Still reading? If you're literate (if you don't know what that means, you're NOT) and love sarcasm, puns, short sassy women, and you're not hung up on body style or makeup, keep going. If you're allergic to animals, the outdoors or children, stop. I'm employed and expect you to be as well (unless you inherited millions and still have at least some of it). Kids are fine in limited doses, but I get sufficient drama watching "Grey's Anatomy".  Ihave a faux farm and own and ride horses.  I can tolerate a city boy just fine but up front you might as well know I have mud on my boots most of the time and it's entirely possible that my truck is bigger than yours.  Get over it!  Life's too short to put up with whiners, alcoholics, unemployed jerks or hypochondriacs so I try not to be one either.  Please reply with a current photo of yourself, NOT Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp – unless you happen to BE one of them.

Spam test - respond accurately to this reference - "Spam! Lovely spam! Lovely spam!"

You Take The Horse; I'll Gladly Take The Dog - By Dave Barry

If you haven't read Dave Barry... I suggest it.  He's hilarious.  


RECENTLY a woman I know named Michelle came into the newspaper office with a big ugly wound on her upper arm. Realizing that she might be self-conscious about it, I said: "Michelle, what's that big ugly wound on your upper arm?"

Sensitivity is the cornerstone of journalism. It turned out that Michelle had been bitten by a horse. It was her own horse, and it bit her while she was trying to feed it. This is a typical horse maneuver. Horses are the opposite of dogs, gratitude-wise.  You give a dog something totally wretched to eat, such as a toad part or a wad of pre-chewed Dentyne, and the dog will henceforth view you as the Supreme Being. It will gaze on you for hours with rapt adoration and lick the ground you walk on and try to kill the pizza-delivery person if he comes anywhere near you. Whereas if you spend hours grooming a horse and lugging its food and water around, the horse will be thinking: "Should I chomp on this person's arm? Or should I merely blow a couple gallons of horse snot into his hair?"

I don't trust horses. "Never trust an animal with feet made from the same material as bowling balls" is one of my mottoes. I never believed those scenes in Western movies when bad guys would tie the hero up, and his horse would trot over and untie the knots with his teeth. A real horse would size up the situation and stomp on the hero's feet.

I don't blame horses for being hostile. I myself would feel hostile toward somebody who was always sitting on me and yanking on my lips. But what I don't get is, how come they're so popular? Especially with women?

Now, you're probably saying: "Dave, you're just bitter because in fifth grade you had an intense crush on Susan Cartoun, and you wrote 'Sue' on your notebook inside a heart, but the name inside the heart on her notebook was `Frosty,' an imaginary horse that she loved much more than you, despite the fact that, if Frosty ever had the chance, it would have gotten imaginary snot in her hair." Yes, it's true that I am a little bitter about that.

Also, I have not forgotten my first experience with a horse. I was 9 years old, at a farm, and I attempted to ride a pony. "Pony" is a misunderstood word. Many young people, having grown up watching the "My Little Pony" cartoon show, believe that a pony is a cute little pastel-colored critter with a perky voice and a nurturing personality and a 1973 Farrah Fawcett hair style. Whereas, in fact, a typical pony is the same weight as an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme but with no controls or moral code.

Anyway, following my sister's directions, I put my foot into the metal thing hanging down from the pony (technically, the "stirrup"), and instantly the pony, not wishing to be boarded at that time, trotted briskly off, with my leg attached to it.  I attempted to keep up by bouncing next to it on my other leg, like the famous Western cinematic star, Hopalong Dork, but finally, in a feat of astonishing equestrian skill, I fell down backward and got dragged across the field with my head bouncing gaily behind amongst the cow doots. I could tell the pony enjoyed this immensely. It couldn't wait to get back to the stable and tell the other horses via Snort Language. "You should have seen his hair!" snorted the pony. "He'll need to shampoo with industrial solvents!"

"Next time," snorted one of the older horses, "try stepping on him. It's like dropping an anvil on a Hostess Twinkie." "And the legal authorities can't prosecute, because we're horses," snorted another.

So I stayed off horses altogether until 20 years later, when I was courting my wife. We were in the Rocky Mountains, and they had rental horses, and she wanted to ride one. Naturally, she loves horses. As a child, she used to ride a neighbor's horse bareback, an experience she remembers fondly even though she admits the horse would regularly try to decapitate her by running under low tree branches at 27 miles per hour.

I don't want to sound like a broken record here, but why is it that a woman will forgive homicidal behavior in a horse, yet be highly critical of a man for leaving the toilet seat up?  But I was in Raging Hormone Courting Mode, meaning I would have wrestled a giant snake to impress my wife-to-be, so I let her talk me into getting on this rental horse. It turned its head around and looked at me with one of those horse eyeballs the size of a mature grapefruit, and I knew instantly what it was thinking.  It was thinking: "Hey! It's Hopalong Dork!"

So while my wife's horse trotted briskly off into the scenery, looking for low branches to run under, my horse just stood there, eating and pooping, waiting for me to put one leg on the ground so it could suddenly take off and drag me to Oregon. So I sat very still, like one of those statue generals, only more rigid. I'd say we moved about 11 feet in two hours. Next time I am
definitely renting the snake.

Fortunately, my wife's horse was unable to kill her, and we got married and lived happily ever after, except that she keeps saying that she wants us to go riding again.  I don't know what to do. I think maybe tonight I'll fix her a candlelight dinner, give her some wine, and put on some soft, romantic music. Then, when the moment is just right, I will gently but firmly bite her upper arm.

Distorted Christmas Lyrics

Last night in the car kiddo was practicing for her upcoming Christmas program at school. She was trying to sing The Twelve Days of Christmas and asked evil Mommy for help.

Hehehe... please be sure to check youtube and listen to "The Twelve Days of Christmas" by Bob and Doug MacKenzie and remember, this the stuff I grew up on. Don't forget, "Walkin' Round in Women's Underwear" and "I am Santa Claus" (think Black Sabbath).

Here is Michela's (final) version:

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me:
Twelve jump ropes jumping
Eleven kittens purring
Ten snowmen melting
Nine reindeer farting
Eight comic books
Seven Roller Skates
Six Barbie Dolls
Fiiiiiiiiiiive golden lipsticks!
Four toe rings
Three little ponies
Two turtle necks
And a beer... in a tree.

I can't wait to hear from the music teacher. Muhahahaha!

Why do I feel so dull and boring lately?

Everyone is blogging, texting and sending photos these days. Everyone but me, that is. No home internet, no wireless internet, no home *phone, heck no TELEVISION even. Everything I need can be accomplished with my Nextel or the Playstation DVD thingy. 10 years ago I would not even dream of being bound to earth with a wireless electronic device, now I can't imagine being without it.

Not the least reason being, the One and Only Grand Miss PooBah, Michela "I Farted!" Buxton. I'm surely not only over-protective, anxious, former-horse-magazine-reading now-reading-only-child-rearing-zines girly-shoe-geeking mother in America, but some days I feel alone on the planet.

Is it because I'm struggling with being a single mom, having my life change drastically from a self-centered, nearsighted horse-crazed introvert to being a pop-tart-fetching slave to a 6-year-old eye-rolling tyrant in the guise of the world's most beautiful little girl?

Or is it because I read my friend's blogs and wonder at the amusing antics they are still capable of? Or maybe because even so many of my friends are so "plugged" into the wireless world that I feel left behind? Ipod? Iphone? Ispy?

Well, never one to resist a challenge, I'm going to (try to) continue the blog scene and at least keep dithering with Facebook. So, the next obvious step would be to post some witty excerpts of my daughter's last farting episode. Hah. Why be conformist? Maybe next time, when I can shake some of this noxious self-pity. I despise self-pity. I also despise paying taxes, so go figure.