This Is/Was Halloween!

     As some of you may remember, Halloween is kind of a big deal around my house.  My boy child, Skeletor, feels that October 31 is better than Christmas, his birthday, Easter, and Valentine's Day all combined.  I tend to agree with him.  Other than working and baby raising, I really haven't done anything for the last few weeks except prepare for the big event.  I'm still exhausted, so I will now release unto the world a lame-o post that is mostly pictures.  You're ever so welcome.

Smarty Pants is clearly the most
 beautifulest witchy poo ever!

Miss Priss, the pretty gypsy girl.

Sassafrass as a gangster ninja. 
That's my girl!

Count Skeletor!

Captain Gingerbeard as Frankenstein.

Shield your eyes!  We're just too cute!

Miss Priss found that Corpse Bride to be suspect.

Visiting the graves of her enemies.

Reaching Nirvana.  Not to be confused with Narnia.

     And with that, my friends, I bid you good day and stuff.  I hope your Halloween was as awesome and spookalicious as ours was!

Parental Advisory: Explicit Content

     A couple of weeks ago, when I was on hiatus (that makes me sound important, right,) something hilarious/terrible happened.  I had the day off from work, and was all by my onesies while the kids were in school.  I should have done something awesome with my free time like throw a kegger, but instead I was slaving over Halloween decorations.  Anyhoozle, while I was getting my hot glue on, I got a phone call.  From my kids' principal.  Zoinks.  Apparently, Sassafrass, my darling six year old, was in the office.  Her offense?  Calling a little boy in her class a dick.  (In her defense, he was totally being a dick.  In my defense, she actually didn't hear that from me.  Any other curse word I could probably lay claim to, but I really don't know where she picked up this one.)  After my immediate horror subsided, I started getting a little pissy.  The intellectual part of me said, "That's unacceptable.  She can't just walk around calling people names.  Especially ones like that."  However, the dirty, damn the man hippie in me said, "That's horseshit!  Who decides what a bad word is?  If she had called the kid a poopy-head, she would have just pulled a quarter in class.  But, she calls a kid a word that's arbitrarily designated as a 'bad word,' and all hell breaks loose.  Shenanigans, I say!"  I'm still conflicted.  Obviously, because I'm a sell-out, I gave her a good talking to about curse words and name calling and all that jazz.  But it still just makes me all mangry thinking about it.  Not the school's reaction, really, just how random language is.  I'm tired.  And digressing.  Does anyone out there get as hot and bothered about stupid crap like this as I do, or is my crazy just showing?

I Wanna Be Sedated

     Oh, don't mind me.  My head's just going to explode at any minute, flinging grey matter all about my living room.  Skeletor and Sassafrass (who are only ten months apart in age, bt dubs) have been at each other's throats all week.  Yet, they refuse to be separated.  Put them in different rooms, and they're all, "Nooooooo!  We're best friends!  We love each other!"  And then two seconds later, pow!  Right in the kisser.  I am so tempted to just let them duke it out gladiator style.  Two kids enter, only one leaves.  But, alas, I fear that the authorities would somehow hold me responsible for the resulting carnage.  Lame.  And to add insult to injury, all the joints in my body are all swollen and Lyme-y, making it even more difficult than usual to make them respect my authoritah.  It's hard to rule with an iron first when one can't even make a fist.  Ooooohhhh!  I need a fist like the one Dr. Claw had on "Inspector Gadget!"  I have to go, now.  I know that someone out there in the vastness of the interwebs has a Dr. Claw prosthetic that they are willing to part with.  Or they can build me a scale-model gladiator ring in my backyard.  Either of these things would make a fabulous Mother's Day present. 



This is what I want, Captain Gingerbeard. 
Gangster spiked bracelet included.

Welcome To Fight Club

     I will now proceed to break the first rule of Fight Club.  And the second one.  This afternoon as we pulled into our driveway, Skeletor and Sassafrass unbuckled themselves and jumped into the "trunk" of our minivan.  I put that in quotations because I don't know if the area behind the third row seat of a minivan counts as a trunk.  But, I digress.  Anyway, they leaped with abandon into the trunk-like area in the back of our van.  And before my eyes, they transformed from sweet children happily at play into bare-knuckle bruisers not unlike a certain gypsy character from another Brad Pitt movie.  They were SCRAPPIN', ya'll!  Names were called, skin was scratched, someone asked me to hold their earrings, and one of them might have pulled out a razor.  It was insanity!  Then, sweet Sassafrass straight up cold-cocked her brother.  Punched him dead in the eye.  I'm not going to lie; it was slightly impressive coming from a six year old.  And then they both ran off crying in opposite directions, and it was over.  Total time spent in the ring?  Less than five seconds.  Bookies all over West Tennessee are cursing our names tonight.

Dramatic recreation.

5 Reasons Lady Gaga Can't Be Your Babysitter (And Stop Asking Me!)

     Recently, my six year old daughter, Sassafrass, asked me if Lady Gaga could pretty please with sugar on top be her babysitter.  I told her no, explaining that much to my displeasure Lady Gaga is not a friend of the family.  Logic did not prevail, and she continues to hound me about it.  Thusly, I have made a list of five arbitrary and random reasons why Lady Gaga can't be her babysitter.  I am hoping that the visual aids will help my case.

5 Reasons Lady Gaga Can't Be Your Babysitter (And Stop Asking Me!)

1)  Buddy the Stuffed Giraffe, aka your Very Best Friend in the Entire World, will not be safe.  Just look what she did to Kermit!  (Oh, the humanity!)

Above: Kermi-cide.

2)  She won't feed you.  Instead, she will make provocative fashion statements out of your dinner.  You WILL go hungry.

Above: Steak that is not in your tum-tum.

3)  She's a bit too liberal with the bubbles, there.  We're in a recession!  "Sorry, kid, I used all the bubble bath.  Guess your bath's gonna suck!"

Above: Reckless disregard for the price of bubble bath.

4)  The woman will not answer her phone!  What if there was an emergency?  That's just plain irresponsible!

Above:  Giving you the 'wait one.' 

5)  Yeah, about this one.  We're a military family, sweetie.  And I just can't condone her holding her weapons by the magazine.  Sorry.

Above: A deal-breaker.

Bonus Reason!!!

Above: The stuff of nightmares.

     And, there you have it, my list of random reasons that Lady Gaga can not be my children's babysitter.  Bt dubs, we absolutely adore Mother Monster around our house!  So, Lady Gaga, as I'm sure you are a devoted reader of my blog, please know that this was all in jest.  You can totally move to Tennessee and be our live-in nanny!  Pretty please with sugar on top?