It doesn't get much better than British television - for SO MANY REASONS - but especially for their apparent fascination for wankers weirdos freaks an interesting subculture of probably very nice people who live their lives with fake dolls.

I blogged about this previously in my Creepiest Thing Ever posting where people live with fake adult dolls as if they are real.
Read the posting.
And be very disturbed.

Now I find out (AGAIN from BBC)? People are living with FAKE BABIES and treating them like they're real. I'm pretty sure if they make fake babies that keep you up for 23.75 hours out of the day, poop a horrifying volume of green goo in a color not found on any artist's color palette, and projectile vomit like The Exorcist, it would cure any "need" these women have.

Anyway...

They are called "Reborn Dolls" (yeah, I know, right?) and there is really an entire subculture out there. This is creepy stuff (all the way down to the "reborn" name). Check it out:




Does anyone else feel like we are treading into some Arnold Schwarzenegger sci-fi territory? (And how creepy that they keep referring to them as "Reborns"?!?).

*shudder*

And people? It's way bigger then we can fathom. These FAKE BABY LOVERS (*no judgement*) have their own supply store. Hell, I can't even find the kind of organic baby food I want for a REAL BABY and these people have an entire website dedicated to their FAKE BABY?!?

Whatever.

Anyway, BBC is doing a documentary on it tomorrow night (Wednesday, October 1) at 10 p.m. (Eastern). Set your DVR/TiVo/Alarm Clock or whatever you need to do so that you don't miss this.

And then come back here.

'Cos you know I'll be blogging about it.

And there will be judgement.

I liked it so much better when cross-dressing and vampires and people who love Iggy Pop were the only subcultures.
*sigh*

In a hotel room during a recent trip:


Todd: Do you need in the bathroom? I need to go...
ME: *sigh* Try not to do anything weird in there. I just washed Ella's bottles and they are drying by the sink in there.
Todd: *silence*
Todd: Um...what do you mean anything weird?
ME: You know, don't fling poo around in there or anything.
Todd: *silence*
Todd: *staring in disbelief*
Todd: You're actually worried about fecal fling?
ME: Yes. Yes I am.

__________


Whenever we take Ella to the doctor, the doctor says, "OOOH, Ella...you look like the daddy!" (and Ella's CLEARLY a carbon copy of me, but whatever...). It's become our joke. We took her in last week and the doctor told Todd that he's lost weight. On the way out:


Him: Did you hear? Did you hear? The doctor says I've lost weight.
ME: She also says that Ella looks just like you. You do the math.
__________

Him: Well, the insurance said they wouldn't pay for any of the $2700 roof damage.
ME: WHAT?!?!? WHAT THE... Why do we even pay insurance?!? Every time we need something they "magically" don't cover that.
ME: THAT'S IT! CANCEL THE HOMEOWNER'S INSURANCE. Why do we even pay it anyway?!?
Him: Ummmm...because it's a term in the mortgage...
ME: *sigh*
Him: It gets better. The inspector said that if we didn't get it taken care of sooner than later, it was going to cause mold to be growing on the inside of the walls and the baby would be inhaling mold spores.
ME: WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!??! ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE ME INSANE? I WON'T EVEN USE A TOWEL AFTER YOU'VE USED IT. WHAT EVER WOULD MAKE YOU THINK THIS WAS A GOOD THING TO TELL ME!?!?
__________

ME: Did you get that onion that I told you to get when you went to the grocery store.
Him: Yes, it's in the onion drawer.
ME: Um...we have an onion drawer?
Him: Duh...the vegetable drawer in the refrigerator.
ME: *sigh* It goes in the basket until we cut it. *bigger sigh*
Him: What basket?
ME: The one in the pantry. You know, the one the cat sits in?
Him: We really don't like cat hair on our onion.
ME: You'll never notice. Just like everything else they get disguised in all the spices I cook with...
Him: How much cat hair do you think Ella has ingested at this point in her short life?
ME *GLARE*

__________

Him: *all proud* Guess what I found?
ME: *silent stare*
Him: Remember that Siente CD article you cut out of the magazine?
ME: HM. You mean that baby CD I bought for myself?
Him: Yeah! I finally found the magazine article you gave me.
ME: You mean, the CD I asked you to buy me for Christmas last year?
Him: Yep. I found it the article!
ME: You mean, the only thing I asked for for Christmas, didn't get, and ended up buying for myself?
Him: *Sigh* YES.
ME: I'm just sayin'...
Him: Well, if you didn't already have it, I would've bought it for our anniversary this year.
ME: *sigh*
__________
(There was another story here, but I did something I've never done in my blogging life. I self-edited. It's probably for the better...)

Looking through a holiday catalog today birthed another blog topic. Namely? The madness behind pinatas. I mean, what ever made us think that it would be OK to hang up things that look like children's toys, beat them with a stick until they're broken and then expect kids to find that joyful?

All this pinata talk not only made me crave some Smarties, but it also reminded me of my stepdaughter's third or fourth birthday. Known from this point forward as THE PINATA EPISODE.

In a "hey I have a great idea" kinda way, we got a pinata. The traditional Mexican burro pinata. You know, like this:

Cute, right? Maybe too cute. In hind site? Not a good idea. We figured it out quickly when my stepdaughter screamed at the first hit with the stick, followed by much wailing and gnashing of teeth the rest of the evening. Come to think of it, a 4-year-old just might NOT have the ability to distinguish between reality and, uh, FAKE PINATA TISSUE. Hm. The things you learn parenting (and reason #3471 for her to go on the Oprah show).

Pinatas in general probably aren't a good idea for kids. I mean, what are we teaching them? Grab a stick, beat something down until it gives you what you want.

It's almost like an episode of Cops.

Anyway, here are some pinatas that went a little too far and/or may make kids appear on the Dr. Phil Show:

The Gingerbread Man? I'm still severely disturbed by Hansel and Gretel and I'm 28-years-old. (shut up)

I'm thinking all you people with cheerleader issues? Here's your chance for revenge...

Here Kitty...Kitty...Kitty (my husband would LOVE to take out his frustrations on this one, cat hater that he is).

How do you say "BEAT DOWN A BUFFY" in Spanish!??! (SERIOUSLY!?!? "Here honey, here's a stick, NOW KNOCK THE CRAP OUT OF LITTLE DORA'S HEAD!")



Santa for goodness sakes?!?! I see years & years of therapy in any kid's future who gets this pinata...

(BTW...don't think I didn't try my best to find naughty pinatas for all you pervs out there...).

A Tweeterussion (Twitter discussion) took place with @smashtransistor regarding the spelling of whiskey (yes, smashtransistor, it is with an "e". I mean, if it's that way on the Jack Daniels website it must be true). The discussion quickly deteriorated (on my part, not his) (of course) into What ever happened to Boone's Farm?!? So you know what I had to do (go to the Google, man, go to the Google).

Get this:
Apparently there is a Boone's Farm Fan Club. For those of you who don't know (and I can't imagine), Boone's Farm is (from that mecca of truth, Wikipedia): flavored wine or malt beverage product. It's popular with kids (pre-drinking age) because it is

1. CHEAP
2. TASTES LIKE KOOLAID

The weird thing? It's only about 8% alcohol, but it can leave you with a wicked headache in the morning (*see koolaid guzzling). I mean, I've heard. *ahem* (Hey, I can afford REAL wine now...)

Anyway, the fan site is a hoot, but the best part? The testimonials. (Seriously, people are writing in about their Boone's Farm experiences). The "Featured Testimonial" was THE. ABSOLUTE. BEST.
From the site:

Boone's farm was the first thing I ever drank. I was 13 or 14. When my mom found me the next morning, my head was over the toilet because I was scared of chokin on my own puke.

Makin' mama proud little lady...makin' mama proud!

PS-According to the website, Boone's Farm merchandise is coming soon. OH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let it be in time for Christmas. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF SANTA, PLEASE...

I hate those verify boxes. You know, the ones where you have to retype some group of characters to verify that you are not a robot but in fact are really some loser sitting at home with nothing else to do but post comments on some forum.

Yep. Those.

Most of the time they look like characters probably only found on the Arabic version of the keyboard. And? I RARELY type them back correctly (without 47 tries). I don't know if I need my eye site checked or if I just get all nervous from the anxiety hives that break out at the site of one of those boxes, but I NEVER. GET. THEM. RIGHT. This was one that I had to retype recently:


Your guess is as good as mine (and NO, I did NOT type it correctly). Seriously? What the hell is that at the end anyway? It was all fine and good until the last two letters.

In this day and age, there really must be a better way. I mean, how far out can the retinal scan in place of that Macintosh camera eye be anyway? If they can completely replace Tom Cruise's retinas in that one movie,it should be way easier to verify that I'm human.

I have a real pet peeve about misspelled information on signs - ESPECIALLY business signs.

As we drive, I edit the signs that we see. There's one hand-painted sign not too far from our house that reads, Fresh cut wood hear. The people put this sign out every year. It drives me nuts. I've threatened spray paint editing after margaritas on the dock many a summer's night.

There's also a business that reads something like Flowers & Collectables (which may be some awful variant of Collectible, but it just seems PLAIN. WRONG.). (kind of like that ending punctuation)

When the sign guy stenciled gently used books on the window of our bookstore, he inverted the l and t into genlty. I went INSANE. I actually covered it with a piece of printer paper until he could get out to fix it. To me, tackiness wins out over spelling something incorrectly any day.

Those are all nice stories, but the one that takes the cake is all on us him.

We have a huge lighted sign way, way up on our building at the bookstore. The sign has space at the bottom for us to put up messages (you know, those pain in the butt slide-in letters on business signs). We change the lettering depending on event - scratch that - TODD changes the lettering because of the ladder/balancing/height requirement.

One day, I handed him a note that had the message spelled out. We couldn't fit the author's entire name, so we were just going to put Author Event and then the date. On the way out of town, we swung by the store because I had forgotten something. LOW AND BEHOLD? Up there, on MY BOOKSTORE SIGN, was the following:

Authur Event 6/21

AUTHUR.

I get in the car. Much arguing finger pointing discussion ensued. To this day, he swears that I spelled it that way on the piece of paper I handed him. To which I reply several things:

1. As a published AUTHOR, I can see why I would spell it wrong.
2. Even if I did have a momentary lapse of, um, all that encompasses who I am, you still didn't know author was spelled with an O?!?

Fast forward a few months to last night:
Somehow this topic came up when our friend was with us. Believe it or not, Todd still won't relinquish. His unyielding position is STILL that I spelled it wrong (I know, who can believe). To which our friend said?

"Dude. Don't ever tell that story again. Even if she is the one who spelled it wrong, you still look like the dumbass."

Thank you. Thank you very much.
Vindication is sweet.

Bath and dressing that day? Courtesy of DAD (in case you couldn't guess).

Dear The Quarter:

I know, it's been far too long since we've collaborated. I miss you. I miss Tory and Jackson. I miss Abbey. I miss the sites, sounds and smells of New Orleans. I miss the mixture of humidity and warm breeze from the river while eating beignets at Cafe du Monde, covered in powdered sugar and listening to the hint of a lone saxophone waft through the air. I miss the laughter of people watching the street performers and knowing that a fried oyster Po boy or muffuletta is just around the corner, if only I would ask.

I know you want answers. I know many things are happening where you are, so many things left in limbo, unanswered. I have the answers that you need. I have the ability for closure. I know you don't understand what has happened. I know you need answers about the death, the plantation, that creepy Ray guy. I know you don't understand all the secrets and what has led you to New Orleans. I know you need to decide what you want to do with your life and your job back in D.C. I'm sorry I haven't taken the time to provide those answers for you.

I hope you'll forgive me that so much time has passed. I ask only for your patience and continued understanding until the timing is right.

Your Author,
Jacqueline Wilson

This was an(other) actual email that came to my PROFESSIONAL email account:
__________

Subject: Lonely heart, hello!!!

Hey there! I'm a hard working woman, enjoying what I have but looking for more. I'm your typical upbeat personality, proud of the choices I've made and the life I lead.

Hello! I'm a great communicator who wants someone to talk to... and more. When I'm at home alone, it's time to relax with good wine and a good book. I prefer to stay open to whatever comes my way. My friends call me when they need a shoulder to cry on. For me a perfect Friday night is a great dinner, a hot club, then back to my place for more intimate activities. When I'm out driving I like to see the sights along the backroads. Experience-wise, I know what I'm doing, but I'll always take a few pointers. Feel free to drop me a line if you know how to treat a girl right. I'm not changing my life, I just want to improve it to the tune of one man. If you contact me remember that I'm looking for a relationship, not just a one-night stand. I am looking for a straight male. Who is funny, caring,likes to try new things,a one woman person,a tad on the romantic side. Someone who acceptes me for who I am. Note: I'm not afraid of change but am set in my ways and expect the same of others. I am looking honest and caring....someone who accepts people as they are...and will treat a woman like a woman. I want to find someone who loves to laugh and have a good time whether we are out or at home. Most of all, I'd like to find someone who believe in mutual respect and loyalty. I'm looking for a single man who would want to take their time to get to know me with the possible developement of a relationship. You must like going out on the town and be able to spend time at home with a movie or.... I hope, that you will answer me my letter and will write to me the answer to mine e-mail the address: (edited for your protection)

Your new girlfriend.
P.S Tomorrow I shall search for your answer and I wish to send you my photo. I hope, that my photo is pleasant to you
__________

Is it wrong that I wanted to date this chick?!? I mean, aside from the poor spelling, occasional grammatical error and sentence fragment this might just be THE. PERFECT. PERSON. If she had thrown in some comment about bubble gum ice cream, I would SO. BE. THERE.

A couple of talking points about the email:

1. "Hello! I'm a great communicator who wants someone to talk to"
No man is getting past this sentence. EVER. She lost him RIGHT THERE.

2. "When I'm out driving I like to see the sights along the backroads."
UMMMMM...This sounds familiar. Isn't this the same thing that serial killer chick played by Charlize Theron said in that Monster movie?

3. "I'm not changing my life, I just want to improve it to the tune of one man."
Oh honey. Seriously? "Improve" and "man" just do not go in the same sentence.

4. "I am looking for a straight male. Who is funny, caring,likes to try new things,a one woman person,a tad on the romantic side."
She's looking in the wrong sexually-oriented group IMHO.

Anyway...
I've been known, from time-to-time, to answer a spam mail or two (from my just-for-fun-spam-email-address).
This one?
I just forwarded to my husband...

(Hey, I know he's not single, but he still might be interested).

During my influx of brain melt (AKA: television watching) lately, I've been having some real issues with television commercials.




This commercial?
ALL.
LIES.


How do I know this? Because any self-respecting mother/wife would NOT be focused on a number-of-paper-towels-it-takes DISCUSSION. Instead, her head would be spinning around about why her idiot husband and obviously chip-off-the-old-block son were not only WATCHING ice cream melt on the rug, but also letting a soda run right to the edge.

WITHOUT DOING ANYTHING.

(And why is she smiling?!?! I NEVER look like that when I'm cleaning...)

Seriously? All lies...

When I first saw the headline Body Found in Suitcase, it made me chuckle. Not because death is funny. Nor are suitcases funny. Generally speaking, neither are bodies in suitcases, but it reminded me of a weird story I read (and then subsequently blogged) about when I was in Miami a couple of years ago.

Anyway, turns out, this story really isn't funny. The story relays how they think this grandfather killed his granddaughter and put her in this suitcase. Sad. Very sad. More than sad - tears at my heart in places that I thought were dead (or nonexistent). But that's not really what this blog posting is about. What it is about is the horribly written article. I've read it several times and I'm still confused. Here are the paragraphs that are confusing:

The girl's parents lived together in France, where Rose was born. But when the couple went to meet Pizem's father in Israel, Renault fell in love with the grandfather.

Pizem went back to France and took the girl with him, but Renault said she suspected he abused her and brought her back to Israel, where she bore two daughters with Ron.

Uh. HUH?!?

Bear with me while I work this out:
Rose=the poor little deceased girl
Marie-Charlotte Renault=Rose's mom
Benjamin Pizem=Rose's Dad
Roni Ron *cough*stripper name*cough*=Rose's Grandfather & Benjamin Pizem's Father

So, here's my confusion from the paragraphs above:
1. Did the mom fall in love with her husband's father or her husband's grandfather?
2. Who did the mom suspect was abused?
3. Who "bore" two daughters with the grandfather? The little girl or Renault (the mom)?

Here's a little tip for Ian Deitch (the journalist):
Dude, next time either a) Use less pronouns, b) Provide the genealogy tree, or c) have someone else translate the article into English. (or D-ALL OF THE ABOVE).

(Hey, they're just suggestions...)

Seriously, this is so why I just watch the Travel Channel and leave everything else alone...

In an effort to accomplish SOMETHING on my goal list (like #11), I went searching for some mommy-and-me-play-group thing to join.

I know, how soccer mom of me.

Actually? It has to do more with the fact that Ella's getting sick of me and I'm, well, running out of ways to entertain her. I see it in her face sometimes when she gives me that baby SIGH with "YOU AGAIN?!?! Seriously, we need to get more variety in our lives" look on her face.

So I ran across a pretty cool site online - Meetup.com. There are groups - or people waiting to join groups - for anything and everything. I mean ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING. I have a pretty open mind and try not to judge other people and their lifestyles (OK, I said TRY), but get a load of some of the things I ran across while browsing the groups:

• Space Exploration? Yep, group for that.
• Interested in Transhumanism (or, er, learning what it is)? Sure, group for that.
• Pagen Parenting? Shudder, but yes, there's a group for you.
• Still into Dungeons and Dragons? (I mean, who can believe?!?!) But, OK, sure, your group is waiting.
• Interested in Cocktails? OF COURSE! I mean, yes there's a group. (And, it wasn't specific enough - is this about MAKING or CONSUMING?!? For fear of being put into the wrong group, I didn't join).
• VAMPIRES?!? There is a group for VAMPIRES.

So did I find a mommy group? Well, I tried. There was a group called "HIP MOMS". I consider myself semi-hip, so I go to the description only to find? Apparently they aren't interested in someone with my advanced maternal age because "...moms 20 to 30 years just seem to work best."

Uh. OK...

I "applied" to another area group with more relaxed standards, but didn't hear back. Maybe it's because of my Swoopy Mowhawk Kid in the picture I posted?!? I mean SERIOUSLY, people who think they are VAMPIRES can have a group, but I can't even get an email back to be invited into the MOMMY GROUP?

My life sucks way more than I thought.

So I have thick naturally curly hair. At one point, it was LOOOOONG thick curly hair. It only makes sense that I would birth a daughter with thick naturally curly hair, right?

WRONG.

Instead? I birthed a Swoopy. My daughter's hair is paper-thin...wispy, even. AND? It is only growing on the top. On one side more than the other, so that it "SWOOPS" over and up. I seriously nicknamed her Swoopy and we call her that. (Yeah, I know, she'll appreciate THAT when she's 13. Oh well, another reason to go on Oprah).

Pretty soon it will be a full-on Mohawk. And then? I will look like one of those weirdo parents who do asinine things to their infants. People already stop me on the street REGULARLY and ask how we get her hair like that. My newest answer?

"Lots and lots of AquaNet."
(Do they still make that stuff?!?)

As I write this post, I have only 19 days, 2 hours and 1 minute left until the end of my MAFE. As I look around the house (my office specifically), panic is staring to set in. This is one my #1 goal right now. I really don't want to let go. This is important to me. I'm letting a lot ride on this. Like, if I fail at this then there's no hope for getting the rest of my life in order. And, there's a preset garage sale date at the end. Which means that if I don't clean it out, it just ain't goin' (and THAT is NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN.).

I know, 19 days seems like a lot of time, but it's really not. Not when you have 7 rooms and closets LEFT to completely go through, declutter and reorganize. In addition to 3 businesses. And 4 animals. And a 7 month old. I definitely haven't gotten as far along as I wanted. (I'm blaming that on my husband being gone on a business trip from a Tuesday through the following Monday and my total nervous breakdown in there somewhere).

Anyway...back on it.

Today? The kitchen and kitchen pantry.
I mean, when was the last time I used that espresso machine, anyway?!? (Hellllooo? The 1990s called and they want their espresso machine back!).

If you're lucky, SOME DAY I might post the before and after decluttering pictures for you. It will make you feel REALLY REALLY good about yourself. And who doesn't want to feel better about themself by making fun of other people?

EXACTLY.

BACKGROUND:
When we first acquired Ninja Cocaine Kitty last year, he was just a confused scared little kitty. He was so small that he would try to "nurse" on Todd's goatee or on my ear. He would crawl up on my shoulder and latch himself in a jaw death grip to my ear lobe and try to nurse. He tried this for months and months after we got him and finally he grew out of it. He will still try it on occasion (which makes me sad and I say, "OOOHHH LOOOOK...he must miss his MOMMMMMY", completely forgetting that he just randomly Ninja flung himself at me mere moments ago).

FAST FORWARD TO THIS WEEK:
Ella is fascinated with our pets (2 dogs, 2 cats), which is sad because they want nothing to do with her (the spectrum varies from mild disinterest to complete loathing on their part). This week, Freddie (AKA: Ninja Cocaine Kitty) has been hanging around Ella a lot, so she's taken a great deal of interest in him. I've been teaching her "KITTY! KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!" (which she thinks is the BEST. NOISE. EVER.).

Upon Todd's return home from a business trip, Ella sees Ninja Cocaine Kitty and starts all, "KI-KI-KI-KI" (yes, she's a genius) in front of her daddy. Todd was in great awe of my new monkey trick. He then says, "OH! While I was gone, I had all these weird dreams. One was that we were pumping your milk with the pump, but not from your breast, FROM YOUR EAR LOBE."

Discussion about his mentally stability and need for regulated medication ensued.

After that, I was telling him how I was teaching Ella the "KITTY! KITTY!" thing this week and I couldn't figure out why Ninja Cocaine Kitty wouldn't leave me alone. It took me a moment to realize that he wouldn't leave me alone BECAUSE I WAS CALLING HIM ("Kitty! Kitty!")

(Hey, I never claimed to be bright).

At that point? My husband deadpans:

"He wasn't leaving you alone not because you were calling him, but because your ears were lactating..."

There's something seriously wrong with us in this household.

Today, I receive this email from a recruiter:

I found your resume on the Web recently and think you'd be a great candidate for a Janitorial Cleaning Manager job we currently have available. Your credentials in management are what make you an ideal candidate for this opening.

Below is an outline of the opportunity. We'd like to invite you to apply today.

Janitorial Cleaning Manager Income growth opportunities Dedicated professionals with a history of successfully managing and assisting companies are preferred. To learn more about the job or to apply, please click on the link below.

The above was sent to my professional writing and consulting website email address. This says one of several things. Either:
1. Their database search is set really, really wide.
2. They are really, really hard up for Janitorial Cleaning Managers.
OR
3. I seriously have not accomplished as much as I thought at this point in my career.

Look, I'm not knocking it, but like Andrew, I'm just not interested in the custodial arts. I'm confused how a published academic author, college instructor, healthcare consultant and owner of three completely unrelated businesses (to each other, let alone the janitorial services) feeds into the random search for this position.

Huh. Go figure.

Now that I think of it, I could use the money. Do you think I would have to wear those zip-up coverall thingies?!?

And, if so, do they come in pink? (And, does a Black Prada Backpack Purse go with?)

We've gone crazy. In a nation world of starving children, I can't believe that parents are spending thousands of dollars (hundreds of thousands in some cases) on parties for their kids a la My Super Sweet Sixteen.

Check out some of these stories that will make you cringe/beat your head against a wall/want to slit your wrists/never want to procreate/all of the above:

In 2007, "...former CEO of the leading supplier of body armor to U.S. soldiers in Iraq was charged yesterday with looting the company to bankroll a lavish lifestyle that included a $10 million bat mitzvah for his daughter."

Dude - you looted your company for a Bat Mitzvah to the tune of $10 million?!? $10 million on a Bat Mitzvah? Where do you go from there? How old is that - 13, right? (Sorry to all my Jewish friends). Where do you go from a $10 million party at 13 years old? What can possibly ever satisfy this child in her life now? Can you imagine the poor schmuck that she ends up marrying? It's SO a lost cause.

Another goodie? At one 10-year-old birthday party, they created a "Coach Themed Cake" for? Anyone? Anyone? Anyone know the answer?

$1500
FIFTEEN HUNDRED.
DOLLARS.

That's more than my wedding cake (seriously).

And it had like SIX TIERS.

And like FOUR DIFFERENT FLAVORS.

But, anyway...

Here's the real one that takes the cake (yes, pun intended):

From the caption:

"Elisa Strauss' Confetti Cakes made this elaborate 'Charlie and the Chocolate Factory' cake, which cost $2,000, for a 5-year-old's party."

The kid was FIVE.

FIVE.

The kid probably eats his own boogers and still needs help wiping his butt. I'm pretty sure that he didn't understand that he had a $2000 cake.

Look, many of us - as parents - have probably spent a little more than we should on occasion. We once got my oldest stepdaughter tickets to NSync at height of their heyday. But we sacrificed to save for those tickets (and the hearing loss we sacrificed due to the shrill of nine-year-old girls screeching at the top of their lungs. Who knew an entire stadium of females can shriek like that?!?). Not to mention? It scored me BIG POINTS on the cool stepmom scale and I'm all about bribing and buying love. But this post isn't about me, now is it?

(AND, if it makes you feel better, we MADE her birthday cake).

(Probably from a box...)

(And we were giving a lot of money to charity that year, too).

(And volunteering...)

Anyway, whenever I see these kind of extravagant stories I always ask myself, "If I could - if I had the means - would I?" Inevitably, without fail, the answer is NO!

A few Oprah shows ago, she relayed that we are raising the most indulgent generation yet. What are we teaching our kids? How are they going to function in the egocentric "enough about me, what do you think about me?" world we've created for them? I mean seriously people, stop the madness!

Really.
STOP IT!

Now.

I mean it.

And to think, all that I ever wanted was a Barbie Cake.
Ahhh...simplicity...

Just in case this posting hasn't made you crazy enough: http://www.cnn.com/2008/LIVING/04/18/lw.pricey.bday.parties/index.html

Recently, I posted a topic on another site. It went something like this:

We have been in several (more than 1, less than 20) area restaurants that, upon arrival, have asked us, "Do you need a kid's menu?" This question should be a red flag for several reasons:

1. We have a child with us, but she's 6 months old.
2. She's in a CAR CARRIER.
3. She does have opposable thumbs, but no coordination.
Lastly (and probably most importantly)?
4. She has no teeth.

The first time it happened we laughed it off. It was a busy night, the hostess was a teenager, so whatever. The second time? The third time? At different restaurants? It started to get a little creepy. Last night? They added a line item to our receipt for "$0 Children's Buffet".

UH. HUH?!?

I thought that posting covered one of the weirdest things that had happened with Ella in public.
Until this weekend.

We were at a large area art festival and had pulled the stroller over to the side of the massive push of pedestrian traffic (and seriously, people, getting a FREE radio-station-logoed T-shirt is so NOT worth decapitating my daughter over as we innocently and unassumingly found ourselves in your crowd).

Anyway...

As we stood by a vendor, the woman working the booth started talking to Ella (who simulates dancing moves whenever she hears music).

(Ella, not the woman).

Riveting conversation ensues:

VW (Vendor Woman): OOOO...look at her dance! Does she appreciate the visual arts, too?

ME: Ummmm...it's a little too early to tell. She's definitely interested in everything going on...

(What I really wanted to say: She really enjoys staring at the 'shroom-style-acid-dropping-type visuals of the Baby Mozart/Einstein DVD. But I withheld. I mean, that counts as appreciating the visual arts, right?!? Anyway...)

VW: AHHH...is she coloring yet? Here's a coloring book, I bet she'll enjoy that!

ME: Well. Thank you. That's very generous. She's not quite there yet, so maybe we'll save this for a little while.

At that moment? Todd and I simultaneously look into the stroller at our 7-month old, who is?
Drooling and sucking on her big toe.

Perhaps we shall wait a while longer before we introduce crayons into her life...

See other Wordless Wednesday participants.

So, to insure that I'm not sticking to any goals right now (especially not #14 on my Goal List), I went to a local fast food drive-thru today that shall remain nameless but starts with an M and has a scary (maybe sexually-confused, not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that) clown for a mascot.

Look, it was 5 p.m., I had been cleaning all day WHILE entertaining a 7-month old and only had a granola bar? OK?!?!

Anyway...

I order a chicken sandwich meal. CHICKEN SANDWICH - no special orders. Just the regular #8 OFF THE MENU. I pull through and get the, "Would you mind pulling forward it's going to be a minute."

*sigh*

"Is that my soft drink right there? Can I at least have my soft drink while I wait?"

*total confusion (on her part, not mine)* Then? "OH yeah, sure."

"When you bring my food, can I have mayonnaise and some salt?"

"Sure."

As I pulled forward, I already knew my mistake. They usually can't even get the prepackaged condiments correct when I'm sitting there at the window. I knew I should've just made them pass those little nuggets through the window before I assumed the interminable hold position.

I pull forward and count not one, not two, not three, but seven...SEVEN...cars go through the window to pick up their orders while I wait.

WAIT.

FOR MY CHICKEN SANDWICH MEAL.

CHICKEN. SANDWICH.

Finally, the girl comes out. Before I even look in the bag I say, "Is there mayo and salt in here?" Of course there wasn't. As she turns to go back in, I check the bag and? NO FRENCH FRIES. JUST THE CHICKEN SANDWICH. At which time I yell after girlie, "WHERE ARE MY FRIES?!? YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING, RIGHT?!?"

Seriously, at what point does some level of quality assurance kick in? Some multitasking training may be in order here. I mean, walk AND look in the bag to check the order at the same time. You're the same kids I see texting, driving AND drinking your forties ALL AT THE SAME TIME on the weekend. How hard could it be to open the bag while you walk?!?

Seriously.
Don't mess with my fries.

You write the story...

Last night we drove by a beautiful park/campground on the water. As we passed all the RV's, I took note of all the "decorating" RV owners do when camping. It prompted me to start this conversation:

ME: "Did you see that ice cream cone light two of the RVs had hanging from their canopy?"

Him: "Uh. No."

ME: "Seriously? You didn't see them?"

Him: *sigh* "NO. Driving!"

ME: "Do you think the two ice cream cone RVs were together?"

Him: "Dunno."

*silence*

ME: "Do you think there's, like, an RV decorating store or something?"

*silence*

ME: "Or, do you think there's an RV class or caste system? Maybe some subculture that we aren't even aware of?!?"

ME: "What's the difference between class and caste, anyway? I always get those two mixed up..."

Him: *sigh*

Anyway, it started me thinkin'.

First let me say that I'm not making fun of RV-ers (or whatever they call themselves). Todd's grandparents traveled all over in an RV. They just stopped. And they are each 111 or something.

Heck, a few months ago I tried to get Todd to sell everything off, buy an RV and travel around the country doing, you know, good-for-something stuff. I could even home school Ella (when it gets to that point). But would it really be HOME schooling if you lived in an RV?

I digress...

So anyway, I guess I'm intrigued.

Is there an entire class system within the RV world? Like, the people who can afford the waterfront camping lots don't associate with the "people in the back"?

Or, do the number and types of lights you have decorating your RV canopy determine your place in the RV class system? What if you have no lights, OR *gasp* NO DECORATIONS. Are you shunned completely? Because I have to tell you, I wouldn't be part of the drag-all-the-crap-out-only-to-put-it-away-five-days-later group. I don't even unpack my suitcase when we are on vaca, for goodness sake. I would be in the shunned group, I guess.

By the way, there IS an RV decorating store (of course there is!), uh, there are LOTS of resources as it turns out. RVCrafts.com was my all time favorite website - who couldn't use some nifty RV-character placemats?!? But it was this site that made me realize, "Dang, people take their RV decorating very, very seriously!"