Tagged for Flickr Meme

I was tagged for Flickr Meme. Here's what this is all about:
Mamikaze tagged me to play a little game

1. Go to Flickr (don’t sign in)
2. Type your answer in the “search” box.
3. Pick an image from the first page.
4. Copy and paste your answer.
5. Tag 5 bloggers.

Here is my contribution
1. My first name
(Laura)












2. My relationship status (married)






















3. My favorite color (green)














4. My celebrity crush (Jon Stewart)












5. Who I'm listening to (Fountains of Wayne)














6. Favorite Disney Princess (opt out)













7. Favorite adult beverage (sidecar)




















8. Dream Vacation (Fiji)













9. What I want to be when I grow up (happy)

















10. My dearest love (David)














11. One word to describe me (spent)
















12. Year I was born (1972)























13. Where I was raised (a few places)












14. Blond or Brunette (artificial)













15. Favorite TV Show (top chef)









I tag Mrs. Crazy and Herbal Delight. Sorry, I can't do 5, I'm a bit of a blogging loner.

Little known fact

A two year old, a four year old and a 90 lb Great Dane puppy can fit into a 6x6 ft bathroom if that 's what it takes to intrude upon their mother's privacy while she uses the facilities. Who knew?

Yeah, I have some work to do

One of my resolutions this year was to reduce my assprint, in other words to shape up a bit. Drop a few pounds and try to get my body back to where it once was. Upon an honest inspection of the current state of my body, I was shocked to see how sad and well, floppy, it all has become. My ass is wide enough to tattoo, to scale, a very good likeness of Mt. Rushmore. My breasts, once small and pert, seem to want to point at my footwear. Now, I know my shoes are cute, but I really don't need my breasts emphasizing this by continually indicating toward my stylish accessories. In general, my form is softer and "cottage cheesey" than I'd like it to be, so I decided to take action before I started to seriously consider a burka as a viable clothing option.

So far, I've hit a few road bumps. For example, I really like food. I do, I enjoy cooking it and eating it. I'm trying to keep it all healthy goodness, but really, I like things made with real butter. Oh, and cheese. I love that stuff, the richer, creamier more gourmet, the better. So that's one obstacle. I'm working on it, but it is a rough road when I have to get really excited about eating the more restrained diets of those who don't really LOVE food. Don't get me wrong, I'm a good cook and I know how to make the healthy stuff really tasty. The bigger problem is that I just really long for the other good stuff I know I can make that is less good for me. *sigh*
On the other hand, I did make a real effort to go back to the gym. I even signed up with a personal trainer to help get my routine to "hurt" a bit more. That's all going fine. Well, when I actually make it to the gym. I call her a "devil woman" and joke that she hates me, but that isn't really true. She's one of those tiny perky people who bounces around the gym in her tight little body telling you how to make that squat work your quads even better. Apart from the perky thing, she puts up with my wicked sense of humor, my self-deprecating jokes and my snickering at the gym obsessed types working out nearby. I don't actually mind doing the work out. I'll never be an avid gym type, simply because I hate the whole gym thing. The workout itself isn't the problem for me, I'll gladly squat and crunch and lift and step up the cardio. It is the rest of it that I loathe. What I hate is going to the gym. I hate the drive there, I hate changing into workout clothes, sweating, hell, I hate sweating, then showering afterwards. I hate spending any tiny portion of my "personal" time fighting a machine while being forced to watch my ungainly battle in the wall of mirrors opposite the flock of fitness contraptions along with a crowd of similarly occupied work out drones. It is like watching some idiotic army of not terribly lethal cardio warriors, it depresses me. And I especially hate the wiping down process as though I am so sweaty and foul that I have to remove all traces of myself from the equipment. Yet I do it religiously, and sincerely resent anyone who does not.

I'm still just barely seeing results, but something is happening. Mostly, I'm sore and cranky, but my pants are a bit looser too, so it balances out. Well for me, not for my family really, but they'll just have to cope.

At some point it will all pay off, or that is what I keep telling myself. But honestly, I keep hoping that some supernatural imp will appear and offer to give me the body of my dreams for the cost of my eternal soul. Well, maybe not my eternal soul. Maybe we could work out some compromise where I get an imperfect but passable body, but for some more reasonable price, like the loss of my little toes and half of my index finger or something. Better yet,I dream that scientists will finally discover a way to harness the calorie burning power of watching Law and Order reruns and release me from the bondage that is my "healthy lifestyle". I mean, if scientist can't do that, really, what use are they?

Quit the damn bickering.

Seriously, I don't care who started it. I know one of you is older but that doesn't mean that you are stronger faster or smarter. Just older. And being younger doesn't make you any more innocent, just younger. You are not going to sway me to your side with insults, so don't resort to name calling. Don't dredge up past arguments or make accusations that you know, just as well as I do, are not true. And if you do, don't come whining to me when the same is done to you. Also know that I know what you really did and didn't do. I'm not so easily fooled by your cute smiles and claims of innocence. I really don't have a favorite, and if this keeps up I swear I may end up walking away and letting you two really have the battle to the death you keep clamoring for.

All I care about is solving the problem at hand and moving on. Really. If we can just do that one thing instead of picking each other to pieces, we'll all be a lot happier. I am so damn sick of the fighting and bickering, the whining the insults. It is wearing me out. So stop it Hillary and Barack.
If you don't I will find some way to send you to your rooms.

Conan takes on the sofa.

When you are small, and there are larger things near you, and you are male, it seems that nature dictates that you must conquer that larger thing. I say this because Tuesday night, Little Dog decided it was time for the sofa to feel his superiority.

Usually next to the sofa, there is a small rocking chair that the boys use to climb up on the couch (and then jump off the back in an attempt to land their mother in an early grave) but I had moved this to a new location in my pre-guest cleaning frenzy. The new location was nice for the chair, but it left the sofa open for a fresh attack from little people.

Little Dog decided that it was his mission to climb up on the arm, unassisted, using the the strength in his upper body. Once was not enough, he had to haul himself up again and again.

I was downstairs when this started. All I heard was a loud thud followed by laughing and clapping, a pause, a loud thud more laughing and clapping. Rinse, repeat.

When I came up to see what the commotion was, Little Dog had taken off his shirt, and was grunting and groaning ala Monica Seles as he did repeatedly dominated the sofa. He was sweaty and exhausted, but would not give up. Frustrated with his own exhaustion, he'd shout "I can't do it!" then try his attack one more time with a power-lifter grunt. At this point, he was so tired, he couldn't do it and that was frustrating him even more, but he was still refusing any help. It was quite a sight.
To add to the action Big Dog followed him around the living room with his milk cup coaxing him to "drink some milk, come on", and we got a the feeling that as much as Little Dog was training to be a power lifter, Big Dog was training to be his manager and coach. Once big Dog had talked him down and got him to take a break, I thought we were finished. He had put the sofa in its place, no fear of being overtaken by the seating in our house.

Yesterday he started up again. Mr. Dog dubbed him Conan, and for some reason, this seems to fit. It is like a competitor from the World's Strongest Man Competition has come to stay for a while with his manly grunts of exertion as he goes about proving his strength. It is amusing, but I can only imagine how this will play out as years go on.

Ever wonder what is in your brain?

Last night, when I climbed into bed and snuggled with Big Dog, he announced in a robot voice that he "needed my brain".
"Don't do it!" warned Mr. Dog.
Too late, Big Dog put his hand on my head and pretended to lift my brain from my skull.
"Thousand Grabioli. Orange. Old Fashioned." pause "and a nut" he says in the same robot voice.
"What? What are you doing?" I asked.
"I am reading your brain." says my son the robot.
"And I have ravioli in there?"
"Yes, grabioli and a nut."
"I see"
He dramatically puts the brain back in place.
"What about your dad?"
"Oh, he already read my brain" he laughs
"So what's in your brain," I ask.
"Ravioli, and a nut."
"Why are there ravioli in our brains?" I ask the robot.
"Go to sleep." says the robot. And that is the end of the discussion.

Discovering Peeps.

I don't like to eat them, but I must admit there is a certain allure to these odd little marshmallow chicks. I included them in the boys' baskets today. At a pre St. Patrick's party, Big Dog was given his first taste of marshmallows. Let's just say a gummy sugary blob and a 4 year old boy is a match made in heaven. When I saw them at the store, I just had to have them.
Upon discovering them in his basket, Big Dog asked "What is this mama?"
"Oh, those are Peeps!"
He looked them over carefully. "Peeps? Do you eat them?"
"Yes, they're marshmallow!" I said enthusastically.
"Ooooh! Marshmallow! I'm going to bite its head!" and Big Dog was off and chomping.
After a bit, Little Dog saw the Peeps and Big Dog helped him find his own little row of edible yellow chicks.
Some more time passed and Little Dog called to me "Mama! I a clown!"
And when I looked up, my precious angel had a half-bitten Peep stuck to his nose.
I think I love these things for a whole new reason. Sadly I had no camera handy.

I have a voice I didn't know I had

and I hate myself when I use it.

Raising an Evil Genius

I think Little Dog may already have a career goal. I suspect he is aiming to be an Evil Genius. I have no idea what the future job market looks like for people in the Malevolent Misdeed business, but he seems to be attempting to head into that field.

At this point, nothing he does is really bad, and because he is equipped with angelic blue eyes with a long fringe of lashes and a set of adorably chubby cheeks his naughtiness presents a contradiction between doer and deed that is usually quite funny. Unfortunately by laughing at his impishness seems to encourage it as much as I do try to hide my un-motherly chuckles.

But how can I hide my pleasure when my tyke tents his fingers and says "Brilliant! Bwahahahaha!" throwing his head back as though taking devilish pride in his plans. I can't. In fact, we ask him to do it on cue.

And last night, when he sweetly requested "a taste" of my dinner repeatedly until my plate was empty then tossed his head back as he clasped his hands together and declared "Mine ALL mine! Ah hahahaha!" I must admit I took a little pride in his perfect application of his borrowed line (from Backyardigans) to his own life. My laughter was doubled when he then started in with a repeat performance while conning his dad out of his meal.

I think he knows he has a wicked streak. He likes it when I call him a piss ant, he even declares he is one at times. He also rebuffs my attempts to tell him he is cute by insisting "I not cute. I BAD." Where he has ever been called bad is beyond me since he has charmed us all from the moment he was born.

Despite all, I am not worried. Here is the truth, I think it is more of an inclination toward hamming it up. He loves the attention he gets as I struggle not to laugh out loud. While he my not actually go on to rule an evil empire, I know he will continue ruling my heart with his devilishness for years to come.

Scaling Mt. Washed

On craigslist today someone asked about our least favorite household chore. Since I couldn't really say "Housework in general" I agreed with the original posters #1 hated chore. Folding and putting away laundry.

I hate this task so much that our clothes generally never end up in our dressers. Their short life outside of the hamper and washer/dryer is usually spent in a heap on our bedroom floor lovingly known as Mt. Washed. Getting dressed usually involves diving into this pile of textiles to seek out your desired garments. Finding matching socks can take an hour if I've been working diligently on conquering Mt. Washed's evil cousin, Mt. Unwashed.

I knew things were getting bad when Big Dog decided to climb it and started to refer to it as the "stairs in your bedroom". Still didn't motivate me to do anything about it. I've even considered hiring a high school student to fold it all, but then I still have to put it away, AND I'd have to deal with the mental image of someone folding my underpants. Man, I have some serious hang ups.

Lunch with the dudes

NE brought the boys and VP to my office for lunch today. I love these guys. As we sat down to eat, Big Dog shouts "You ROCK mama! Punk Rock!" Little Dog backs him up "mama wock, punk wock!"
I've never been more proud!

That much?

"Big Dog, I love you something special!"
"Thanks mama. Mama, I love you like the dogs!"
"uh, thanks Big Dog."

Don't hate the player...

Over the weekend Big Dog had something to tell me.
"Guess what I have mama!"
"Um, a dog!"
"No."
"A pickle? A block? A car? A book? An octopus?"
"No."
"A coffee cup? A third thumb? A piece of paper?"
"No."
"A sandwich? A hammer? A knife?"
"Mom, it's not a guessing game. You say 'What?' and I tell you!" said with a look of sweet-Jesus-do-I-have-to-explain-EVERYTHING-to-this-woman.
I dissolved into laughter and he stalks off frustrated with the overgrown child he calls Mama.
My work here is done.