Snakes in the head.

I am having one of those snakes in the head days where I just want to trounce on the next ignoramus who blazes past me as I struggle to hold a door open with my foot while ushering three little ones into a building all the while juggling tons of useless crap in my hands (strike that), hand - the other one is still out of commission. Oh! And the thing that chaps my ass the most? It's usually some slovenly jerk who has to turn sideways just to get past me and my little guys....! (Think Capt. Kirk here.) Must. control. head. from. spinning. off. it's. axis. Must. not. pretend. to. have. tourettes. and. blurt. out. what. I. really. want. to. say.


And of course, I have about zero impulse control when it comes to jackasses, so now I don't hesitate. I let the snakes in my head take over and I start hissing "say thank you! say thank you!" to the back of said ignoramus. Most of the time they are so caught up in their own importance that they're oblivious even to my overt verbal assault. At which point my kids turn to me, as if on cue, and say, "Mommy! That fat guy didn't say thank you!" And I just beam from ear to ear because not only are they starting to recognize good manners, they are becoming my little posse. Yes, that's right, even my two year old has my back!

And when the verbal missiles actually reach the target and said ignoramus actually acknowledges the fact that we all lost seven toes between us because of his "ill mannered" ways, I just grin sheepishly, shrug my shoulders and point to the youngest and say "tourettes". And that seems to settle things up between us.

I just love it when wealthy zealots tell people to go to hell.

Enter this guy: David H. Murdock. He is the owner of Dole Food Company and many, many other privately held, highly profitable businesses.

He's 83, he's brilliantly wealthy and extra, extra healthy and he's on a mission to get us all to eat our veggies, or something like that. He's so obsessed with getting Americans healthy that he'll capitalize on just about any moment to address the issue. Case in point. According to the July 28th issue of the Wall Street Journal, in a recent, highly contentious contract negotiation, Mr. Murdock admonished the 67 year old, 245 pound business man sitting across from him for being so "fat". He advised the gentleman that "he should expect to die within 18 months" and not expect to perform the contract to completion because of his unhealthy ways. But then he went even further, as if that wasn't enough, and offered the man an incentive. Murdock agreed to add $100K to the contract value if the man would agree to drop a mere 60 pounds over the next year (which was whittled down to 30 lbs by the end of the discussion). And so it was agreed to and, get this, IT WAS ACTUALLY DRAFTED AND WRITTEN INTO THE CONTRACT TERMS!

Dang it! Now why couldn't I be in on contract negotiations like this? I love when wealthy zealots do stuff like this. And it is sooooo classic that people are willing to turn tricks to accommodate these guys for the almighty dollar. Well, I'm being a little disingenuous here. For $100K, there's very little I wouldn't do. Of course, that has caveats as well, but we'll leave it at that. Moving along. We're walking, we're walking....

Mr. Murdock's sort of obsession with the health and well being of his fellow man, woman, .....any other politically correct genderbender identification that you wish me to mention....., is the type of zealousness I'd hope people would embrace instead of these other hysterics with whom we live side by side. You know the ones I'm talking about. The ones who are hell bent on destroying America/Americans by any means possible with their hatred and their misplaced notions of religious directives - "kill the infidel". These people? The ones who proclaim a philosophy that clearly interrupts my notion of a peaceful and free existence on the same planet? Yes, well those people are flat out lunatics. Mr. Murdock, on the other hand, slightly off, but lovable nonetheless because he's like a big, overbearing, and need I say, very wealthy father who just wants the kids to grow up "strong like bull."

The world needs more people like Mr. Murdock. The ones who are so ridiculously wealthy and so close to life's finish line they can actually see the tape and could give a rat's ass about being politically correct. Because when these people have their epiphanies, sometimes they really make sense. Who wouldn't want to eat better, live longer and enjoy being your ideal weight such that one is able to see one's shoes when looking down at one's feet. It's common sense, people. And Americans, look around you. We are getting huge. Which is why I believe the other fanatical loonies who fly planes into skyscrapers to send their "religious messages" make this decision from a vantage point that has little bearing on any substantial life experience of theirs. They are typically too young (18-44) to have lived long enough to decide for the rest of us what's wrong with the world. And perhaps, that is yet another reason why Mr. Murdock's advice is so sound - he's actually had these tangible life experiences after 83 years of living to know that what he proclaims has a modicum of truth to it.

Pilates, yoga, whatevah.

Recently I came across this FASCINATING article online about one Marine's plunge into the pool of physical perfection and excellence through the use of that ageless discipline we all refer to as YOGA. Normally, I could care less about what everyone else is doing these days to stay in shape - it's difficult enough keeping up with my own quest to achieve "body perfect" through limited expansion of energy. So far, I have not found this ever elusive holy grail of the fitness world. So I trudge over to the gym like everyone else, cursing every blessed step I take until I am forced to actually move muscles that resist the instruction to comply.

So here is this little Second Lt. (see images below) expounding upon the benefits of YODA to the journalist and I had to chuckle about the truthfulness of this expose'. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/13890826/ Yoga, YODA, pilates, whatevah, they're pretty much all the same as far as I'm concerned because they are truly the silent killers of any of the forms of exercise available to man. And I mean this with all sincerity. When I tell you it is difficult to do, just take my word for it and move yourself along. Nothing to see here.

About a year and a half ago, I purchased the "complete set" of this lovely product:

Why? You ask? Because working out around that time was difficult when I was literally the 24 hour cafe ole' for my bebe - meaning, life outside the four corners of the home was as difficult to attain at times as say, getting Barbara Streisand on that Goodship Lollipop she promised to sail off on when dubya came into office.

So my dvd's arrive and I embark upon my quest for body beautiful through what I anticipate should amount to some rolling around on the floor in some leotards and leg warmers and not much more than that. I am so smug about finding the perfect solution to my anti-exercise campaign, that I invite the family in to witness this remarkable feat. Me, performing what I believe will be some leg lifts, some "bottom" lifts, some arm swirly things to the flashdance soundtrack in the backdrop. What my family actually witnessed was nothing of the sort.

Suffice to say, Pilates is a discipline that I imagine the coaches for the Ukraine/Chinese Olympic gymnasts team conjured up as some really sick form of torture. I am watching the screen, I see all the other body beautiful's performing each exercise effortlessly. I am encouraged to try and do. And I hear Ms. Windsor coaxing me to use my "core center" to achieve these bizarre moves. I tell said core center to obey and listen to the lady. It does not. And I reference the screen again to see why I am not able to fold myself up mid-air and balance myself on my butt while wrapping my arms around two straighten legs in the air which, incidentally, are supposed to be pressed against my nose.

All the body beautifuls on screen have perfect form and I do not hear the rhythmic "thudding" sound emanating from the tv after each model falls over from performing this feat. Oh, that would be inherently blasphemous in the Temple Pilates! And then, like a whisper, Ms. Pilates instructs the camera to pan out to the "beginner" "intermediate" and "advanced" models in the group to give "everyone" watching the opportunity to see how you should actually look if you fall into any of these levels. Apparently, I fall into none of the above because I do not see the model on screen who is falling over constantly and cursing hysterically. That wench, I curse thee. So from my contorted and highly uncomfortable (thud) pose, I strain to see that "beginner" model whose about to be featured and whom I can blow kisses to as my way of saying "oh, thank you, thank you, you kind sista soul of mine."

Did it happen? Did I get to see what Pilates should look like from "beginner" model Bambi? Um, nooooooo. Why? Because like me, she must have attempted the death defying stunt of back bend slash one arm raise with simultaneous leg lift and accidentally fell off the stage. That or she simply didn't exist and Ms. Windsor was screwing with my head. I know these "I'm am just so natural and toned and wholesome with my Yoga/Pilates routine" women. Their condescension about how they can contort is unmasked and soooo unsubtle. They relish in exposing the unflattering and highly uncoordinated movements of people like me and beginner Bambi. And this, is just so unnecessary. Besides, it really messes with my quest for body beautiful through virtual inactivity.

I may revisit these dvd's again someday. I may not. It's just my little way of thumbing my nose at the fitness establishment. "There, take that!" I say in my silent protest of all that is cruel and tortuous when attempting to retrain a body that has no interest in pressing the body perfect autopilot button. For now, I will press on until the next fitness marketing genius convinces me that they are really my friend and will help me in my endless quest for this legendary grail.

Never judge a book by it's cover.

I traveled to Monterey/San Francisco this spring for a glorious girls week in NoCal. I had expected a friend of mine from SoCal to meet us for the visit, but at the last minute, trial preparation precluded her from coming at all. Since I had hoped I would have had an extra day in SF with my dear friend, my return was staggered from the 2 ladies I traveled with on the outbound. (Who cares, right?). Here's the point.

In that final day in SF, essentially free to come and go as I pleased, I had booked for myself this beautiful, hour long massage. At the time I was warned by reception that a male therapist would be “servicing” me (ha ha, that sounds incriminating, doesn't it?) and would I agree to that arrangement. Sure, I'd agree to a cat "servicing" me so long as the feline was a good massage therapist.

I'm at the appointment. I'm really mellowing out hard with the new age music, etc. I'm in my fluffy terry cloth robe and I am ready to get "serviced". Okay! Of course I'm playing around here - making jokes with all kinds of innuendo…really it wasn't one of those "happy finish" kind of places.

I meet my therapist. My "gaydar" meter is up and activated (because all women do this the instant they meet a strange man) and the reading declares that I am in good hands (on all fronts...back, side, you name it). Totally gay! Full tilt of the arrow on the meter - WAY to the right. Woohoo! No cares in the world about my male attendant because, this guy is on my team. Houston, we have a go.

And he was superior. He was magical. Just divine with his hands. I have never had a better massage in my entire life. He's so good, I nod off at one point. As we talk and chat about his life, my life, our lives, etc., I find out he sings opera, his voice is in the tenor region, he is unmarried, has lived in SF a long, long time, yadda yadda yadda. GAY! And I can't help but think throughout the massage (as his hands continue to knead and heal areas I didn't think could even relax) I actually thought: "thank God this guy is gay, because I would be really uncomfortable now if he wasn't". And then, that thought passed and minutes later, we were almost through.

But then, he said the strangest thing as he was working out the, ahem, side of the gluteus maximus area?..Which btw, was completely faboo! (Those hills in SF were killer for working out that pound of flesh). He said: "yeah, I think my landlord is really into me because she always wants me to help her around the building. And I think she is so gorgeous and I really am into her too, but she and I would never work out...we aren't of the same religion."

What the?

Pin drop.

Um, hold on for a moment. I believe I am having an equipment malfunction here. Check gaydar AGAIN. See the meter arrow pressed all the way to the right as before. Hit gaydar several times against meaty part of hand. Arrow still banking hard right on meter. Flip gaydar over, check batteries. Holy sweet mother...NO BATTERIES! I am totally hosed.

It is at this precise moment I hear the voice of my fourth grade teacher, Sr. Mary Anne, professing that age old proverb: "you can nevah, evah (because she was from NY), evah judge a book by its cover." As God as my witness, I never will again.

Conversations overheard between four hearing impaired friends at Dad's 70th.

Friend 1 to Friend 2: "Uh, hey! Umm, how was that cochlear implant procedure? What exactly was involved?"

Friend 2 to Friend 1: "Well, they put a magnet under my skull to keep the equipment attached to my head (peels back the head piece device sticking to side of scalp) and they also implanted a device behind my ear. Before the procedure, my hearing was at 10%. After, my hearing is a solid 60%."

Friend 1 to Friend 2: "Wow, that's great! It sure looks complicated though. Did it hurt?"

Friend 2 to Friend 1: "Not that I remember. Some pain, but it was really worth it."

Interjecting Friend 3: "That maybe so, but now, unfortunately, we have to hang him up on the refrigerator at night for him to sleep."

Happy 70th Dad!

It is 1936 and you have entered into this world as the seventh member of nine Lewis siblings. You are loved dearly. You are boy. You are named Edward R. From this day forward, you will effect and be affected and your influence and mark upon this world will be indelible.

You are three now, and floating (and rowing) your wooden orange crate on drainwater runoff on a street in Brooklyn - over huge waves created by public buses as they file by perilously close to your little body. A terrified Aunt Maggie witnesses this horrific scene and attempts to persuade you to come home. Up and down the swells of the runoff you paddle furiously, oblivious to the perils ahead. And in a completely dimissive tone you advise your Aunt to "hit the road, Mag." Who could have known then that hit records would find their genesis from such an expression.

You are five now and quite fond of riding bicycles. So fond in fact, that at such a tender age you literally had a collection of them in your parents backyard. Missing bike? Check the Lewis residence - for it was certain to be found among the myriad of other bicycles unclaimed after little Eddy could not recall from whom he had borrowed them. It came as no surprise to the Lewis household, therefore, that the owner of the patent rights for the bicycle lock happened to live next door to them at one point.

You are ten now. You are suffering from a viral pnuemonia and your body has reacted strongly to penicillin. So strongly in fact that one ear is stretched and distended to five times it's normal size. You've become concerned now that your destiny in life will amount to standing around listening for things.

You are fifteen now. You are enrolled in the St. Joseph's Seminary in Metuchin, NJ. Your Jesuit education provides you with the academic and moral foundation so vital for a young man. You are contemplating a holier and higher vocation now. And fortunately (and quite selfishly) your children today are grateful you did not. Your education there preserved the religious guidance offered by your own parents and has always guided you throughout your life.

You are twenty now. You are enlisted in the Army where you serve in places like El Paso, TX. Places that were so brutally hot, shoe polish was known to melt off newly shined boots. So effected by your tour in the Army, you are unable to stand even the slighest rise in temperature even today. It was during this time in service that you also managed to flip a live missile and cause that well-oiled example of military and Army excellence to come to a screeching halt to correct this slight nuisance.

You are 25 now. You have met the love of your life: a beautiful Irish woman whose name your family can hardly pronounce without their heavy Brooklyn accent influence: "Patreesha". You will grow together from this point forward in a union that will remain unmarred even after 43 years.

You are 26, then 30, then 34 years. You are a homeowner, computer programmer analyst, and now a father to one son and two daughters. Your family is complete and your spiritual journey, it seems, has only just begun. Your children will test your faith in God, test your will power, test your generosity. Yet through it all, you remain principled and loving and always willing to share the joke.

You are 40 and you've officially adopted a Nissan Pulsar as your fourth child.

You are nearly 50 and finish your fourth NYC Marathon a mere 10 years after defeating your pack a day habit - and incidently, you've achieved a personal best time.

You are 60 now and your family has grown once more. You have welcomed 2 new son-in-laws and 1 daughter- in-law.

You are 65 and retiring. You achieve that life long dream of traveling to Egypt and you never look back on the corporate world. You are finally "downing tools".

You are 70 now. You are still a husband, a father, a pensioner and now a grandfather to six grandchildren and, until recently, one very special Chloe'. You are loved. You are still effecting and being affected by the world and your influence is felt by us all and we thank God everyday for you.

Lay rolling over in his grave..with laughter that is.

Not one to capitalize on the misfortunes of others, but I found myself secretly disappointed when Mr. Ken Lay, former Enron Chairman, up and died before serving any time following his recent conviction. (We all know the story, I won't belabor the point.)

So many of us who followed this case, (and who didn't really?), were satisfied when a guilty verdict was returned and the punishment of incarceration for a million, billion years was to be meted out upon a gentleman who deserved no less. Surely, the world would have some peace knowing that justice was about to be properly administered for a crime so pervasive and callous and conceited. A crime, mind you, that less than 30 years ago would have been largely ignored by the public (and prosecutors). And then, poor Mr. Lay succumbed to the stress and grief of his apparent situation, and his heart simply stopped working. (I smell conspiracy - where is Oliver Stone when you need him most?) But was that the end? I dare say, it was not. For through his (apparent) untimely or premature demise, Mr. Lay has given life to a very prophetic statement which he made publicly as he exited the courthouse after the reading of the verdict. That statement was simply this: "I am innocent." Well, he said more but who cares.

And indeed, now he is actually that: innocent. For when a person dies after a conviction and "prior to his receiving a chance to appeal that conviction," under the doctrine of abatement ab initio, "[t]he conviction gets wiped away. Everything associated with the case is extinguished, leaving the defendant 'as if he had never been indicted or convicted.'" The Wall Street Journal, C3, citing in pertinent part a 2004 opinion of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit. The government will be hard pressed, if capable at all, of collecting any money (obtained by ill-gotten gains) from the Lay estate absent some really creative legal footwork.

It is strange how life works sometimes. How will I sleep trying to reconcile the fact that even in death Mr. Lay has literally wormed his way out of one of the most anticipated sentences of our time? I just won't. And why do I care you ask? Because my head will be filled with thoughts of how he possibly managed to commit the most outrageous white collar crime of the century AND still keep the loot despite the massive effort of our government prosecutors to take the bastard down. This will just chap my ass to no end. I imagine, to be as narcissistic, merciless, and greedy as Mr. Lay was in life, there had to be a deal with the devil in there somewhere. Something like? Oh, I don't know, Mr. Lay committing himself to the fiery pits of hell in death in exchange for earthly power and financial dominance while living? Possibly. For now I will try to ignore the images I have of Mr. Lay lying prostrate in his coffin, adorned in his best duds, arms crossed around his gluttonous belly and laughing hysterically. No, these images don't help at all. Instead I'll imagine that deal he made with devil: the one involving that voice in his head that screamed for him to disregard all social and moral boundaries and promote his own greedy desires. And I'll picture him suffering in the torment that he mapped out for his family and ultimately himself. And I will close my eyes and.....forgive him.....because it's too late for him to fully understand that it is not he who is now being punished and tormented. No, he got off easy - but his family will not. And though I despise what that man stood for and believed about his standing among the rest of society, I still hate to see his family live out a legacy of shame which, by all accounts, he alone deserved to shoulder.

The grass is not always greener.

When I was just a wee little girl, I was educated by the sisters of St. Patrick's. I'm sure they belonged to another order of nuns, but the name escapes me now and what kid would have remembered anyway - we were just babes. I loved my days at St. Pat's - loved the students - and teachers as well, except that one vicious nun who was always beaming us in the back of the head. I kid you not. Nun abuse - it wasn't just the stuff of Hollywood, it was real man.

Today, everytime I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for my kids for lunch, I am reminded of those special times in those hallowed halls of dear old St. Pat's. I say this because for as many years as I attended this cherished elementary school (approximately 200-250 days of education times 8 years give or take holidays, sick days, and the ever popular "hot lunch" or field day) I probably consumed more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than was humanly possibly.

Therefore, I am a HUGE critic of this delicacy: peanut butter MUST be Skippy. Jelly MUST be grape and WELCH'S, not that cheap crap. (And this is for you Mom) And absolutely, positively no effing other jelly like raspberry or strawberry (and I'm shouting now) PARTICULARLY AND ESPECIALLY if it had seeds! Yes, that's right Mom. All those nasty substitutes that you so earnestly tried to pawn off as the real article - those? they didn't work. Can you say circular file? Those miserable seeds! Those miserable seeds! What was with those m.i.s.e.r.a.b.l.e. seeds you were always trying sneak in there - like we wouldn't actually notice jelly consistency that is normally smooth suddenly cracking the fillings of our molars?

Which brings me to my next beef. Thinking of all those pb and j sandwiches I've eaten in the course of a lifetime made me realize that I was lucky that I wasn't one of those kids (like today) who suffers from a peanut allergy. And I've encountered quite a few little buggers these days who have some sort of food allergy - especially peanut/nut. Come to think of it, it was the 70's and most of my friends had pb/j at least once a week. Even so, I have no recollection of any of our nuns leaping from their cafeteria posts over numerous tables with a gutted Bic disposable pen clenched menacingly in one hand as they stood ready, able and willing to perform an emergency tracheotomy at a moments notice. To think of it, if the kids from the 70's matched the number of children today who have a known nut/dairy/or some other crazy-ass food allergy, there would have been bloody pandemonium. The sisters of St. Pat's in particular would never have been the same. And the kids! God! the kids - we would all have been dead because despite the terrific education we received, St. Pat's capital improvement and materials funding wasn't exactly "90210" material. This was indeed deliberate - "humility through Jesus" or something like that - more like suffer like Jesus. Oh, those walls were humble alright - I think condemnable really. How we survived is truly God's plan.

Besides, our beloved school nurse was only authorized to stock bandaids and duct tape and these items hardly qualified as life saving gear. (All the kids knew even at such a young age that it was better to throw yourself into the traffic on Main Street if you needed medical care then throw yourself at the mercy of the St. Pat's medical "team". You had a better survival rate if shipped off to the local vet clinic.) After all, about the only thing St. Pat's did really well in the way of medical assistance was scatter those cat litter pellets on puke inadvertently marring the clear pathway of students returning from recess. Yes, the art of "neutralization" and it's sudden chemical transformation of Joey's lunch into complete "sanitization".

I digress. The only reprieve I received from this vicious cycle of pb/j daily special (times five and then times about 38) were "special days" at our school. You know the ones: field trips, outings, field days, etc., and the ever prized "hot dog" lunch, courtesy of those wacky crack-up mothers of St. Pat's.

It's this last one that I take issue with. I don't know whether these ladies had a rebel rousing "liquid lunch" before they manned operation hot dog day at our school, but let's just say this: if the pb allergies didn't kill us off, then salmonella certainly was a close second. These women, God bless them, really, really, really tried.....to kill us all off. And they were so bold about it! Like we wouldn't notice that they were merely waving these disgusting pink wiener looking food products over the hot steam before taking the tongs and dropping them in the bun. Like the friggin' things even needed to be captured with tongs! They weren't even hot! Hell, they weren't even cooked! And with straight faces! They actually served them to paying customers..., LITTLE KIDS for crimony sakes! Half steamed little bastards - they weren't even cooked! Where's the justice? Where's the outrage? I could've been killed I tell you! Mom always defends this point with "what were we to do? We only had a certain amount of time to set up and before we knew it the hoards of kids appeared and starving and...well what could we do?" Avoid prison, for one, by not knowingly serving raw or undercooked pig lips and ass to defenseless children unfamiliar with aggressive and deadly food bacteria and it's unpleasant effect on the living. That would be a good start. What? My Mom is tough, she can take the heat. Love you Mom!

Nevertheless, I should have suspected my Mom had it in for me when she tried to crack my fillings off with that b.b.gun seeded nonsense she tried to pass off as "jam". I thought she was just being European and all highfalutin when she said "jam" instead of jelly. I had no idea it literally translated to immediate hellish trip to the psycho-dentist (DON'T. GET. ME. STARTED. ABOUT. OUR. FAMILY. DENTIST.) Jam! My "you-know-what"! But she was clever. Yes, she was. Because it is hard to get a kid to eat the same lunch DAY IN AND DAY OUT. I know this, I have my own now. And here's the point: if you can show the child that the grass isn't actually greener, they will not pine away for "the other side". Meaning, by creating the greatest taste aversion to the one item that was historically cherished and revered in our school as the greatest lunch evah, she managed to renew my commitment to sticking with what I knew was tolerable: good ole' pb/j. And that, in my mind, is just pure mothering genius.

Hostage Negotiation 101

You must pardon my intrusion. Yes, I realize it's 1 a.m. But I am compelled to rouse you just to share this little ditty. Oooh, it's a good one. It must be, right? I'm daring to stir the sleeping giant just so you too can gain this type of enlightenment. Is it the answer to the meaning of life? the cure for cancer? the answer to that age old riddle the chicken or the egg?.....No. It's this:

I like a good bargain. By bargain I mean "deal" - the kind of event that results in me getting what I want, under the terms for which I've negotiated, that usually ends in a nice firm slapping jolt of a handshake. It's this last part that I especially cherish. The collective bargaining hands now joined together as they cup each other as the proud symbol of agreement, raised up high then thrust downward once with a "deal" shouted in unison to officially seal the pact.

Yes, I adore deals. So much so that I'm teaching my kids the art of deal making. Correction, I thought I was teaching them the art of negotiation/deals but it seems my wiley little ones are well versed in this - it's the handshake part that they show a keen interest in (apparently kids come with "hostage negotiation 101" hardwired at birth and good luck getting through that!).

Take for instance the bedtime routine. I have one. You have one. My kids should have one and do - although the ritual, I mean, routine, is less then automatic 80% of the time and requires, shall we say, the artful employment of deal making and out right haggling. Enter, hostage negotiation tactics 101. "Teeth, potty, pj's, story, lights out" is a mantra that can be repeated up to 7 times a night -EVERY night - if need be. Kind of like the directions on the back of a shampoo bottle: lather, rinse, repeat. The resulting effect: prizes are awarded at the end of the night to the kid who can turn Mommy into a rabid, thundering, foaming-at-the mouth lunatic who somehow is reduced to repeating said phrase over and over until dropping onto her bed exhausted from the ordeal. THIS is not a bargain - THIS is what happens when kids know how to out maneuver the fat head who actually gave them life.

Bargains come in all forms AND can be made among and between animate and inanimate objects/parties. Well, we'll see right? Sometimes there is seemingly an inequity in the bargaining powers of the parties. Initially, one party seems to hold a superior position of power over the other. But it is only through a bizarre chain of events and six degrees of separation that one in that seemingly powerful position quickly realizes how powerless he or she really is in effectuating the terms of their deal. (Remember how I mentioned earlier you would be enlightened? Well consider this your fast forward button).

When I put my kids to bed and then turn in for the night, I have an expectation that I will remain asleep until morning. Simple right? THIS is what I have bargained for....you go to bed on time and I'll feed you in the morning. Good bargain! I am seemingly in the position of power here: you don't sleep, I won't feed you and since you can't work the controls of the oven or stove yet - seems like a good deal. A little inequity, maybe. Does it work? No.

You see, the same parties that I have negotiated ferociously with about this issue have been at work all day setting the stage for the grand pooba of all hardcore negotiations: getting what they want (and which, coincidently does not involve any of my talking points) such as being allowed to sleep in the big bed with Mom.

So, very cleverly the wiley children go about their day, acting quite casually in anticipation of the evening "routine" - er, deal. One uses Mommy's bathroom (potty really) and stuffs it full of a roll of Charmin. The other removes plunger from same bathroom and stashes it in an inconspicuous spot. The third carefully "forgets" to retrieve matchbox truck from staircase.

(FF) The kids are all tucked in, and I had been asleep all of thirty minutes - just enough time for the movie behind my eyes to start when the little guy rips out an ear piercing howl about needing an ice water. I stumble out of bed; zombie slush down the hall and halfway down the stairs where I encounter tough negotiation tactic number one and somehow manage to right myself after a near death defying free fall down the remainder of the staircase. Retrieve precious ice water for kid and return to gauntlet now passing for stairs these days. Reach top of landing to discover middle child now complaining bitterly about some baby who woke her up. Toss ice water bottle into crib, assure middle one he won't do it again and to go to bed. Middle one will not go back to bed. She insists (quite mysteriously) on using my bathroom before doing so. I stumble back into bed and flop down in time to hear my daughter say something like "it's coming up not going down". Leap out of bed with the warrior cry of a Mohawk; skid into bathroom and lunge for the plunger. Not there! Mother of God! RUN down hall, RUN down stairs, skid on same rogue truck that nearly cost me my life earlier; SNATCH plunger from 1st floor b-room; ascend stairs like Supergirl three at a time - (okay she would have flown, whatevah!) and jam and spear disgusting rubbery thing at offending potty until it obeys and recoils with that mess down the frightfully tiny recess that's responsible for keeping us in line with Roman technology. Stab. Plunge. Jam. Scream. Repeat. Until finally, potty gives up and I win. Turn (about face) to exit bathroom only to discover oldest child now rubbing eyes and complaining that all that shouting woke her up. "Son of a.....". Assure her that Mommy's "Zena Warrior Princess" act is now over and the audience is free to exit stage right. She is immovable (along with her younger sister who wants to see this deal sealed).

I'm too tired to bargain now. Here are the terms that I've just recently accepted in order to get back to bed: Oldest - I've agreed that six is a great age to learn how to drive my vehicle and that belly shirts actually wouldn't look too slutty on a girl her age. Middle one: she can have that horse that requires it's own house and stablehand and may or may not suffer from any equine virus. The baby: he can cook pancakes on the stove tomorrow. Oh, and the girls are both sleeping in the big bed. There, that's settled. And we all shook on it and yelled "deal" to seal the pact. At least I can take credit for getting some life lesson in there - how to do the "deal" handshake. Although not what I bargained for, I will certainly rest easy knowing I still have a mere five hours to out maneuver these kids before they settle upon their next strategy. I love a good bargain.

Punxsutawney Phil

I ran over Punxsutawney Phil this morning on my way to Mass. I had the whole fam in the car with me, which only added to my grief and the groundhog carnage that I chose to leave for dead in the middle of the road. (Hey, we were going to miss the Gospel if I had stopped). I could not avoid the poor animal, try as I might. And despite practically standing on the brakes and cutting hard to the right, the little bugger just simply had a hankering for VW bumper and practically drew the bullseye on his body right before impact. As I banked hard, the little guy mirrored us in his scramble to avert disaster and well, the rest is apparent -right down to the sickening bumpity bumpity's that follow these events. Of course, when I finished shaking and thanking God that I had not flipped the vehicle (or killed other driver's) in my effort to spare his creation at the expense of my own children, I had to minimize the collateral damage to my kid's innocent perspective on life. It went something like this:

Me pretending to see Phil in my side mirror. "Oh, look at that. I think he got up. The groundhog ambulance just came and is taking him to the groundhog hospital. He'll probably be fine!" (Now scanning small faces in my rear view mirror to see if they "bought" that one. Oldest: looks good, yes - she bought it. Middle: Lip is curling over and tears are evidently welling up. Not sure if that look is sadness for the animal or pure disgust for Mom - judging from how kind and sensitive she can be, I think her face says: "We should have taken one for the team, Mom". Mental note: must secretly bribe this one later to revive that "Mom you're the greatest" look. Youngest: picking his nose. Fantastic! He's clueless.

On my way home from Mass I scoured that same alley of death in an attempt to spot Phil. He actually was gone! I started to feel a little less Terminator and more hopeful that my story to the kids actually had a kernel of truth to it. That is until I began to see the tufts of fur and fresh entrails scattered for about 15 feet in, quite coincidently, the same area that Phil and I first met and, ahem, parted - literally. VW's, who knew they were such death machines?

And then, as I wallowed in the painful notion that I had taken the life of this poor, defenseless creature (ignoring, of course, the fact that I am a carnivore and partake in the slaughter and consumption of defenseless animals daily ), I realized something. I have killed quite a few animals with my vehicles over the span of my driving career that it might be beneficial to start advertising this on my car - almost Red Baron style. To illustrate: during WWII fighter pilots would mark their planes with x's or whatever, to show the number of dogfight kills they've earned. I should do this as well. After a time, the whole driver side door of my vehicle would look something like a pre-school wall with all those birds, reptiles, mammals, etc, with huge X's and a circle around each image to represent all the little animals I have managed to wipe off the face of this earth through well honed driving skills. Perhaps this would relieve the tremendous guilt I have for being unable to avoid their premature, most untimely death. And perhaps it would warn future road kill to avoid my vehicle like the plague when I'm on the road if they are able to cross-reference my "kills" with their own furried, scaley'd, or feathered likeness.