Mother Fucker

Some of you may recall a spat which recently took place between The Husband and myself. It involved him placing Ben Folds songs on the iPod that the children listen to in an effort to expose Emma to the piano stylings of the aforementioned songwriter/performer. After realizing and admitting that his "filter" had "inadvertently" missed some songs with "questionable" lyrics, The Husband assured me he had resolved the issue and removed all of the songs containing lyrics which may land a child in the principals office if sung during class.

I trusted The Husband when he made this assurance to me.

This was, as usual, a BIG mistake.

While preparing dinner this evening, Emma was singing along to her iPod. I wasn't really paying attention as this is a frequent occurrence and usually she's singing "Someday my prince will come" or "Shake a tail feather." No so tonight. I became aware that Emma was no longer singing, but rather speaking as a musician may when speaking to an audience before a concert, and she's saying,

"Rock this bitch?? OK." Then sings, very softly, "I'm gonna rock this bitch. I'm gonna ro-o-o-o-ock this mother fuckin' bee-atch!"

At this point I'm NOT a happy camper. I take away the iPod to investigate how this particular song made it past The Husband's "filter" thinking perhaps, maybe he simply looked at song titles and this particular song has an innocuous one. Nope. It is, in fact called "Rock this bitch."
So I take the iPod to listen (with headphones) to various other Ben Folds songs and find that frequent curse words are apparently a common theme with the band. They seem to be particularly fond of "mother-fucker." I heard such lyrics as:

"hey pretty baby, light your ass on fire;"
"trying to figure out how she's going to fit all that butt into those underwear;"
"he might rock it with his mother-fucking blue shirt on;"
"get your hands off of my woman, you mother-fucker;"

and my personal favorite,

"he's gonna rock out with his mother-fucking cock out."

Chris I should add, is not home right now--he is at school. On his way home, it would be prudent for him to stop at Walmart. I hear they have tents on sale.
Mother-fucker.

The Final Count

18 eggs. 8 double yolks. I'm not a math person, but that's like almost 50% I think! Weird-- at least I thought so. I was prepared to start playing the lottery, right??!! But then I started doing some research and it turns out that they aren't quite as uncommon as I thought. (There is even a store in Baltimore that sells entire dozens of double yolk eggs.) Apparently, all the hormones that farmers are using in the chickens are causing some strange things to happen with eggs. Including yolk"less" eggs, shell"less" eggs, and the weirder, double shell eggs. When I find one of those--I'll get excited. So all of my excitement over my recent freaky egg discovery has been totally crushed by this new-fangled thing called the internet.
The only good thing that came of it was that I began to notice that the double yolkers were longer and thinner than a "normal" egg so I was able to predict accurately if an egg would have one yolk or two, which finally did impress Sam.

Freaky Egg Update

So this won't make any sense unless you read the previous post, but for those of you keeping track--after this mornings scrambled eggs and this afternoons cake, the total is up to 5.
Very, very weird.

The Apocalypse is Nigh

So I'm baking a cake for my friend Paul's 30th birthday and it's not going well, but that's another story. I'm making the cake in stages and I'm mixing the batter for the second part of the cake when I crack an egg into my measuring cup and discover it's a double yolk. Cool. I show Sam. He isn't terribly impressed. So I crack the second egg and discover it's also a double yolk. Freaky, right?? (Sam still isn't impressed.) But I thought it was weird so I took a picture:

Then I decide that my cake pan needed more batter so I set out to mix more. I crack the first egg and it's normal, but when I cracked the second-- you guessed it--double yolk. Really freaky!!! I took another picture:


Now, I'm starting to feel a little uneasy. I bake a lot. And when I say "a lot" I mean really. So I've cracked my fair share of eggs, right??!!? And occasionally you come across a double yolk, but I have never come across 3 in the same day.

I think the world may be coming to an end. . . .

P.S. I wanted to crack the rest of the eggs to see how many more there were, but I figured that was unnecessary and wasteful. But mostly I didn't want to get in trouble with Chris.

Fun In The Snow

Last week it snowed. I am happy to report that this is no longer the dreaded event it once was because for the first time in my motherhood experience--all three of my children can dress themselves for snow play activities. Trust me--there is nothing more exhausting than putting on 3 pairs of snow overalls, 6 boots, 6 mittens, 3 hats, 3 scarves, 3 coats and then inevitably having one or more of the children come right back in to say they have to pee. I know it's cliche, but believe me--it happens every single time.
But this year everyone can dress themselves--it's wonderful!! So the kids spent all morning sledding and having a grand old time until I noticed Sam's lips were turning a lovely shade of blueberry and Emma was trembling (and not from excitement). I decided it was time to come in and warm up. As I was helping Sam get his wet snow clothes off (alas--we have not reached the point were he can remove the layers independently) he was very, very cold and soaked through to his clothes underneath. So I told him I would run a bath for him so he could warm up. He runs off to his room to finish getting undressed and I hear,

"Mommmiiieee . . . there's something wrong with mine pee-nus!!"

So I go in to see what the matter is, (although I have my suspicions) and discover Sam bent over examining himself and looking very concerned. "Where did mine pee-nus go?" he asks.
So here I am, trying to explain scientifically what happens to the male body when it gets cold, but I can see he 's not getting it. That's what I get for trying to share a little knowledge with my children. "Just go get in the bathtub--it will be fine. . .trust me."

I just can't imagine why not everyone wants to experience this.

Steelers suck.

'Nuff said.

Liz Learns Sarcasm. . . Hooray!

There are certain milestones that a parent looks for their child to accomplish at certain ages. Walking, for example, should be achieved between 12 and 18 months of age. By age two your child should have a vocabulary of 50-300 words. Between 3 and 4 years of age, toilet training should be mastered.

Apparently, sarcasm gets learned right around 7 1/2 years.

So I'm cooking dinner this evening, the television is blaring football (because Chris's beloved basement television has died and he now feels the need to watch all sporting events on the kitchen TV), Chris and his friend Justin are yelling at the television (because this apparently affects the player's performance and therefore the outcome of the game), Liz and Sam are having a very loud Robo-Dinosaur vs. Robo-Man battle right under my feet, a dog is barking, and did I mention I have a pounding headache due to the delightful cold I have acquired from one or more of the outbreak monkeys who sprang forth from my womb and became instantly unable to walk past my drink without stopping to backwash into it.

So I (very sweetly and with marked patience) say to Liz and Sam, "Is there a reason you can't play with those toys downstairs in your playroom?"

And my lovely little second grader says, "Uh, because if we were downstairs, then it would be quiet in here and you would be able to concentrate on making dinner."

And Chris looks at me and says, "Oh great, Liz has learned sarcasm!"