Winner-Winner-Chicken-Dinner and How Legos are Taking Over My Life

Just a good cup of coffee and a quick blog post before I get back to the fascinating reading of business law and management accounting...
(Yes, that should be read in a tone that is dripping with sarcasm.)
So yesterday, we had somewere around five bucks between the two of us and John was on his way to get money from an ATM. I was awake with the boys despite the fact that I was called into work last night and had to sleep. I was a little more than perturbed that John was making me stay awake so he could do this when there really was no need. So I'm counting down until he comes home and I can go to bed when he comes barrelling into the house.
"I haven't even been to the ATM yet," he said.
Excuse me, what? I've been waiting for you and you haven't even done what you set out to do yet???
"I didn't have to. I used the two dollars that was left in my wallet and bought a scratch-off lottery ticket..."
This is where I was gearing up to let him have it! I hate the lottery. We do not have that kind of luck. It is a waste of money and time, etc.
"....AND I WON FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!!!"
What? Really? The only thing we have ever won was a t-shirt as a door prize at a PTO meeting. Really.
But yes, he did. And I made him use it to pay the electric bill. One less bill for me. Yay. He used the rest to take the boys shopping. He is all extra-proud because, despite my stressing that my money is really our money, it has always been a secret blow to his male ego that a woman supports him. He isn't as progressive as he sounds in print. And so he bought some toys for the boys and is all about emphasizing that Daddy bought them. Whatevs. I won't rain on his parade.
Evan wanted a new Lego set. Which brings me to the second part of this post.
I effing hate Legos. First of all, the damned things are too expensive. And Evan is too smart. We can buy him the huge, most expensive and complex sets and he will retreat to his bedroom, closing the door to the rest of the world like a mad scientist, and will emerge with the whole set constructed within an hour or two. So they don't even buy him that much entertainment. And then they get taken apart and put together with all of the other deconstructed sets until there are what seems like a million pieces that are indistinguishable from each other. In other words, if you wanted to rebuild one of the sets, you can't because the pieces to the plane are jumbled in with the pieces to the fire station or space shuttle or whatever else is down there because I cannot keep track anymore.

And these are just the pieces that do not end up in my Kirby. Because the Kirby eats everything. I hate that damned vacuum.

And then there are the product lines Lego has: Lego City and Pharoah's Quest and Star Wars...On and on it goes. And we have meltdowns all of the time because something new came out and we no longer have the complete collection and OH-MY-GOD-HOW-CAN-I-LET-MY-KID'S-LEGO-CITY-NOT-HAVE-A-FLORIST?????? I am the worst mother of all time if I do not rush out and spend $100 on the set he lacks that he will put together in 1.5 hours and then feed to the damned vacuum.

Yes, I hate Legos.

So tomorrow, I am going to work on my idea. I am going to buy a bunch of those clear plastic shoe storage boxes and each time I buy a lego set, the directions and picture are going to be put into the bin along with the Legos that go to that set. And he will adhere to it or Mommy is going on a Lego Strike. I am declaring Lego Law in my house. Right. Now.

Dental Woes

Evan. Evan Evan Evan.

So I am working the busy ER when my husband calls me to tell me that my beloved eldest child is complaining of a toothache and bracing the right side of his face in agony. I immediately feel horrible because I realize that in the blur of the year of pregnancy and bedrest and new Zach, we have neglected to take the big one to the dentist for his annual cleaning. In this busy house, the squeakiest wheel gets the oil. And so Evan's teeth decided it was their turn to squeak. So I told John to give him some ibuprofen and send him to bed, that we would get him in with a dentist the following morning. John responded with a call back to the ER to tell me that in my shining example of motherhood, I managed to stock adult ibuprofen and infants' ibuprofen, but nothing in between. In steps my trusty ER Nurse friends to save the day: Evan is old enough, give him 2 adult ones with a small meal to avoid stomach upset.

So it takes 2 days to get Ev in with a dentist. We chose one that does orthodontics as well, since we already know we are heading there. And John takes him while I sleep off 5 12's in a row and a couple of marketing papers. And he comes home, frantically waking me to tell me the verdict: Evan has 8 cavities. Eight!

I immediately blame the pig stage we are in. I mean, I make the kid brush his teeth. He emerges from the bathroom with toothpaste breath. I assume he has brushed. And he may have been all along. But apparently not well. One tooth is so bad that it is all the way down to the nerve and needs a pulpotomy. Seriously, Evan?

So yesterday, we got our care plan for the dentist. Pulpotomy first. If he handles that well, they will do the rest of the work in the office. If not, it is off to Cincinnati Children's, where they will do all of the remaining work under general anesthesia. And the ballpark figure of my expense for all of this after insurance? Only the bargain price of $1600. I mean, it isn't like it matters, right? The kiddo needs it and the kiddo will get it. But this whole experience requires some research on my part.

As in how in the blue hell did my 9-year-old son come up with 8 cavities?

So I declare it a new day. No more sugar. No soft drinks (not like he drank a lot to begin with...). No more brushing twice a day. Nope, not for Evan. He brushes after he eats anything from now on. But still...8????

And then I find it out. That John has been giving in while I am at work and allowing Evan to take snacks to bed. Cookies. Ice cream. Candy. Ahhhh, we are such great parents. Turns out it was easier for John to do this than to deal with Ev's meltdowns. So $1600 it is.

Hey John! Remember that backrest you wanted for the Harley? The backseat? The saddle bags? The stuff we were planning to do to the motorcycle this summer? I know exactly where you can find them. They'll all be in Evan's mouth.

The Faded Old Jeans

I am a huge fan of old clothes. Comfortable clothes. And the best example is the old pair of jeans. You know the ones. The pair that seems to remember each centimeter of the curve of your hip. Soft against the skin and faded to perfection. You can shop and shop for new jeans. I have. Designer jeans on which I have spent an arm and a leg. But they always have the stiffness, the newness, the unfamiliar quality to them. They’re perfectly fine jeans. They fit well and look nice, but when it comes to comfort, to being home, they will never hold a candle to the faded old pair.

Of course I am not talking about jeans here.

The young girls at work are on a mission from some higher power to “spice up” my marriage. Meaning that they think John and I are boring. It all started with an invitation to a Pure Romance party that another coworker is holding. Of course being the older voice in the room, I made a statement to the effect that no matter how freaky-deaky I could possibly choose to be in my private life, there  is no way in hell that I would order a sex toy at a party with my coworkers. Yes, I realize the reps at these parties take each customer someplace private to complete the ordering process. But you still have to sit through the presentation. Yeah, right. Like I’m going to sit through a dildo show with my colleagues. So they think John and I have lost something.  They’ve volunteered to watch the kids. One even joked that she was going to take me lingerie shopping and make us a Marvin Gaye-esque mix tape. Because we are so boring. I made the comment that we have been married 10 years, that we have two kids, for crying out loud. To which both of them exclaimed that this doesn’t mean we have to let the spark leave our marriage. I think these young whipper-snappers are confusing familiar, comfortable, stable with boring. And this is where the difference in what one values comes into play.

We have all lived for that spark. The fireworks of a first kiss at the end of a good date. The thrill of the dating game. The fun of courtship. Just like shopping for those great new designer jeans. But I think we all eventually reach that point where comfort is most important. It is in that comfort zone where we find security, peace, and in the right circumstances, empowerment. And we slip on the faded jeans.

My marriage didn’t start out this way, of course. It took years of practice, years of breaking in much like the metaphorical jeans. But because we have had those years together, he has become perfect for me. Where I am weak, he is strong, and vice versa. He always gets the perfect gift because he knows me as well as I know myself and can know in an instant what it is that I will like. He knows when it is that I need to be left alone and doesn’t follow then. But he also knows when I need him to be there with me, by my side. How I like my eggs cooked in the morning, and exactly how much creamer to put in my coffee. When we watch a sappy movie together, he will look at me and away from the screen at precisely the moment in the film where I am going to start to cry. He is the only other one to know from where we have have come and to believe in where we are going. To have been there for me in all of the moments where I thought I was losing myself, to be the one to remind me just who I am when I needed it most.

John and I don’t need lingerie or sex toys or expensive dates. We don’t need to hand our kids over to someone else. We are happy enough to just be. With Evan. With Zach. As a family. Evan’s and Zach’s presence doesn’t take away that before they came into the world, there was an us. We know that. And this doesn’t mean that we forget how to be a couple when they aren’t here with us, either.

Quite simply, we have evolved over the past decade to where we don’t need any of that any more. It isn’t that the spark is gone because in order to have what we have together, there have to be some embers glowing constantly. Sparks are just the fleeting part of it all, and that isn’t enough on which to build a life together. We have so much more than that.

So comfortable and secure does not equal boring. Taking simple pleasure in each others’ company doesn’t mean for a single second that our marriage is suffering or lacking in some manner. The opposite is true. John is my home.

Griswold's Bouquet

Okay, so I was thinking of this today for no particular reason. It isn't the day of the week, the season, or anything else for that matter. I just randomly thought of it and laughed. I laughed because Clark Griswold loves me. If you don't know who that is, then you have an assignment for this week: go to any video store or Netflix and rent National Lampoon's Vacation. It may be that you're too young to know. Either that or you have had your head crammed up your own arse for about 25 years or so.

But anyway...

Clark Griswold loves me. Lemme explain.

It was a hot summer day and I was at the midpoint in respiratory school. I was actually trying to cram as many of my premedicine requirements in as possible that summer while on break from my respiratory classes, and was enrolled in more chemistry classes than one should ever take simultaneoulsy. General, organic, blah, blah, blah. John was coming to pick me up that day, as he had my car. It wasn't a special day or anything. Just a run-of-the-mill, this-sucks-that-I-have-class-today kind of day. I would've rather been by the pool. Or on the lake. Or inside my air-conditioned house, in comfy sweats, with the thermostat set on 50 degrees and blissfully pretending it's winter. But nope. Chemistry.

So I get out of class and John isn't there yet. I hate that. If you are going to keep my car, don't make me wait on you to pick me up. I don't care if I get finished an hour early. If you have my car, it is your job to telepathically know that and be there. So I'm pissy. And hot. And carrying about 500 lbs. of texts. I don't know how long I waited on him that day, but in my mind it seems like 2 hours, though it was probably more like 10 minutes. And up rolls John in our car.

I'm gearing myself up, getting ready to let him have it because I'm a dragon-lady. I fling open the car door and suddenly I am speechless because in the passenger seat, there is the most gorgeous arrangement of peach roses I have ever seen. I should stop here and tell you that peach roses are my absolute fave. They have to be the true peach. Not pale pink or orange-ish white. Peach. And so on that note, they can be kind of hard to find. And I love them.

So John finds peach roses and buys me a bouquet arranged in a vase, trimmed with this gorgeous sage-colored ribbon. And completely surprises me. And so I can't yell at him for making me wait anymore. I go to get into the car after flinging the backpack in the backseat. It is kind of difficult to maneuver around the huge bouquet, but I lift it up and slide in underneath it, gingerly sitting the vase on my lap. I didn't bump it on the roof of the car. Didn't whack it with the door or maim it with my seatbelt. But...

The instant I sit it on my lap, all of the blooms fall off of the stems. Seriously I have never seen anything like it. Complete and utter flower decapitation. It wasn't just that the petals fell off. The entire bloom. And they were still mostly closed, too. So I am left with a dozen of what look like weeds. John and I both stared in complete amazement for about 5 seconds, unable to say anything. Of course that was before he peeled out of the parking lot, raving mad and headed straight to the florist. He was mumbling these incoherent sentences, something about "$100" and a few F-bombs. Mind you, this was when I was in school. And we were seriously broke, y'all. I don't know how much he dropped on my V-day roses this year, but we still to this day don't spend that much on flowers unless someone is getting married or has died and that someone is a close relative. (I'm sure the 2 dozen I got for V-day this year was even more, and I don't even want to go there.) But then? As broke as we were at the time? Wow.

So John goes back to the florist and takes them in. He had just left, so the lady obviously remembered him. And he walks in and hands her the weeds in the vase and the flowers separate from them and demands to have a full refund. And she tells him--get this!--"I'm glad you brought them back so I can maybe sell them to another customer." Because I'm sure the demand for decapitated roses is sky-high. And she tries to give John another color of rose. He's having none of that. He takes his cash and gets back in the car where I am waiting for him.

Of course by this point, I am touched that he did this for me on a random day. Really I am. The gesture was enough for me. But he is bound and determined that I am going to get peach roses. That is what he set out to do and that is what I am going to get, damnit. And so he drives all over town, despite my protests, to every florist he can think of. And he finds the peach roses. And they are even more beautiful than the first.

We laugh and joke about that day often. The day something so simple as bringing me a surprise bouquet of flowers went completely wrong. About the random and bizarre happening to us. It's been sort of representative of our relationship. If something could possibly go wrong, it will. And no, our last name isn't Murphy. We are indeed like the Griswolds.

Sometimes I wish our life together wasn't so difficult at times. And at other times I know that those experiences are the glue that binds us so steadfastly. If it is something so serious, we learn and we grow. If it is something silly, we laugh together. There's an entirely twangy and cheesy country song out there, and one of the lines says something about "we're lost but holding hands". That's us. That is 100% John and Andi. If I could have one wish granted for the rest of our years together, it would be that we never lose that ability to laugh together.

A Night Out

The fam and I headed out for a nice night out this evening before I head back to work. Well, if you consider pizza and Chuck E. Cheese a “night out”. Of course we hate the Chuckster’s pizza. We opted instead to hit up Dewey’s first. Where I swear you can find perfect pizza. Both babies behaved themselves. John insisted on letting Zach try a hint of lemon, though I tried to tell him that the citrus was too acidic for Zach. Well, I’m wondering now if babies can taste sour, because Zach wanted to eat the lemon wedge instead of making the requisite funny face and turning away. I know they can’t taste salt before a certain age, so who knows.

And then we headed to B&N, where I picked up a complete anthology of Jane Austen. It makes me feel dirty to buy her books in such a way, but I cannot wait to get lost in the vastness of all of it in one book. Now I have to make the confession that I have never read Jane Austen. Not Pride and Prejudice. Not Emma. Not  Persuasion. I know it’s awful. But I am going to fix it all starting tonight. But at least I didn’t just watch the movies and pretend I know all about her works. I never even watched the movies. That would’ve been even sluttier than cheating and buying all of her books under one cover.

And then we went to see Chuck. What more torturous experience than to hear Justin Bieber songs piped over a PA in the voice of a mouse? But Zach looked on from his stroller while Evan and John played. I did find the coolest arcade game EVER in the form of the giant Operation. Evan spent $25 in tokens to win a whopping $3 worth of prizes, but the point is to have fun and he did. I can only take that place in small doses and today was just right because hardly anyone was there. Code for not many screaming children, no long lines, and no worries that I am going to turn my head and Evan was going to go missing or something equally terrifying. Actually, the last time we were there, there was this really creepy guy sitting in a booth by himself, watching all of the kids play. Who goes there without a kid???? And so we haven’t been there in some time since then. But no Chester the Molester tonight.

So now Zach, exhausted by the stimulation of the evening, has gone to sleep before we even had a chance to fully clothe him in pj’s. Poor kid is just in his onesie. Evan is finishing up his homework and will soon be heading to a niv=ce bath and bed. John, though he doesn’t know it yet, is going to serve me a bowl of ice cream and brew me some coffee while I dive into my foot-thick book. And I may just get a back rub while I read. Life really can be good.

Getting Even

With my husband. My better half. Because anytime you take a pic of him, he does this crazy stuff. So it looks like I married the Great Retardo in each and every pic of him. He really does look normal, I swear. So I was going to put this one on Facebook, but he threw a fit. And by looking at it, you’ll understand why it begs to be shared with the world, even if it is just the Blog World. Maybe this will teach him to just say “cheese” next time…

Before I Forget

I spoke too soon, and Zach has some respiratory thing going on. He keeps spiking a 102 degree fever, has a bad cough, and a runny nose. Evan has the same, minus the fever. Zach, however, also has wheezing. (Yep, I whip out the stethoscope whenever my kids have a cough to hear what is going on in there...). Evan is getting kiddo cold medicine while Zach gets his inhaler and alternating Tylenol and Motrin. Zach's front gums are terribly swollen, so I hope we at least get some teeth out of this.

And Mama Ferris reminded me with her post today that I forgot to mention my V-Day surprise! John got me a virtual crap-ton of roses: a dozen red from him and a dozen of the most gorgeous hot pink from the boys. Before they die, I wanted to capture a pic of the pink ones because I have never seen this color in a rose before. The camera didn't do it justice. But I woke up to get ready for work on Valentine's Day and they were there beside me. Love him.

Now off to work. Again. And hoping my babies are feeling better when I get home tonight.

Scary Crappola

My hubster is the king of all things horror. He prides himself of the amount of B-rate horror movies he can watch in his lifetime, I think. There was one on pay per view once that, I kid you not, was called Thankskilling. About a rogue animatronic turkey out to kill people. And the tagline in the trailer was "Gobble, Gobble, Mother******!". Seriously, who watches that crap? But he wanted to rent it. And I had to whip out my trusty veto power and nix the request. And he wants me to watch the movies with him. And I am an absolute weinie when it comes to scary stuff. Case in point: when I was a kid, I would literally run and dive into my bed each and every night because I wa convinced Freddy was going to reach out from under my white canopy bed with the frilly pink bedding and grab my ankles with his knife/phalanges. We went to see The Village, and we embarrassed each other because I screamed out in the theater and he, in turn, to me to shut the eff up, pretty loudly at that. That was also the last time we saw a horror movie together in public.

This time last year, while I was on bedrest, we watched Paranormal Activity. And I did just fine during the movie. But after? My whole world was wrecked and I freaked at every squeak and creak in my house. And I made him escort me to and from the bathroom and everything. He had to go into a room before me and give me the all-clear. And he would always say, "Damnit, Andrea!", and be pissed that I made him do it. Yet he continues to make me watch these movies.

So the other night, he makes me watch Paranormal Activity 2. It seemed pretty creepy to me that I saw the first one while pregnant and now, the second one has a fricken baby in it. But I watch.

And the crib is the faux-antique Jenny Lind one like Zach's. Ugh. Creepy. And there is this scene where they are showing video footage of the baby's room and the camera is trained on the crib when the mobile starts to spin on its own, without music or anything. Creepier. But something about the mobile looks familiar and I make John pause the movie and rewind so I can get a better look. Ohholyshit. It's Zach's exact moblie. That matches this bedding:

Gah! Of course now you are going to think I am insane when I tell you that I think I may believe in ghosts. When I was pregnant with Evan, I kept seeing this weird old man dressed all in white with a white fedora on. I could remember from my dreams that there was something odd about his face. They weren't bad dreams, just eery. He even referenced my mom in a few of them. I really thought I was going crazy when I saw a picture of the man who had owned the house (and died in it) before we lived there. It was him. The man in the white fedora. He had a very prominent nose, which explains the nondescript weirdness about his face in my dreams. And while I was pregnant with Zach, I would see these dark shadows pass in my peripheral vision, about the height of an adult. Yet when I would look, nobody was there. John never saw them. And Zach. Zach will giggle and smile and stare at a point in space where there is nothing to stare at. That one time, I took the picture of him sitting up and he is bathed in light on that one side in the pic, even though the light in the room was out and the day was pretty overcast with very little natural light. I swore it was my mom. He looks like her, and was born the day after her birthday. I actually had my amnio to find out his lungs were mature and my misery would be ending on her birthday, which seemed odd since she died from lung disease and its associated complications. Of course I could be completely, certifiably insane, too. That's always a possibility.

So I see this movie. And I think of Zach. And now I have to protect Zach from the demons that may be coming for him. Damnit, John.

Zach's New Ride, The Awesome Husband Award, and the Pot and Kettle

Zach got a new ride a few days ago. Well, Zach got a lot of new things this week. Evan too, for that matter. It all started with the car seat. We had purchased a big-boy carseat and had a "carseat tech" install it, but then when Evan tried to get in the car next to it, he didn't have room to even get a seat belt latched, and so the carseat immediately was taken out of the car and replaced with Zach's infant carseat once again. We returned it for a refund, but then had to revisit the whole issue once again. We have solved the problem because this time, Evan went with us, and we secured both boys in the car to be sure before we even left the BRU parking lot. And I was so happy because not using Zach's infant carseat meant there was no longer a reason I had to use the companion stroller.

I hated that stroller.

If you have a stroller in your car, you're a mom. And if you're a mom, you're going to need to get groceries. And that damned stroller was so big that I had to put it in the house if I planned on buying more than 2 or 3 bags of groceries. Seriously. With only 2 kids, I shoudn't need a cargo van to go to the supermarket. So Ta-Daaaaaaa! I now had an excuse to buy a new, more compact stroller. But I hate umbrella strollers. Geeez, I really am hard to please. So we found the solution: The Combi Cosmo EX stroller. Light. Folds easily. And not only does it fold flat like the other one, but once flat, it folds again in half, making it ultra compact. And it looks all cool with brushed chrome. The only con was the lack of cupholders to carry the requisite Venti Mocha that it takes to get me to do anything productive, but that was fixed with a $6 attachment. Love it. And if (or when) we have another, The Combi Shuttle infant caseat is compatible with it.

As for the Awesome Husband Award, John takes top honors. I keep thinking I'm going to find out that he shrunk a favorite sweater while doing laundry, or broke a figurine while dusting. Something must be off, and I'm sure it has nothing to do with the Super Bowl today because I will be at work when it's on and have no say in whether he watches it. But as I fell asleep after work his morning, he gave me a foot massage. When I woke up, he brewed me a fresh pot of coffee and brought me lunch here at my desk. And right now, as we speak, he is on the way to pick up a supplement for me. On the other side of Cincinnati, about 45 minutes away. And the supplement is More Milk Plus. And he is most definitely male and not lactating. Whatta guy. I must admit that it makes me chuckle to picture Sniper John of Marine Corps fame going up to someone and asking them where they keep the More Milk Plus.

And the shoes. OMG the shoes. While I was getting my eyes checked a couple of days ago, John went to a shoe store in the mall to buy Evan the new shoes. We decided it was easier to guestimate them fitting and potentially having to return them that it was to deal with Evan at the actual store. And the night before, as I was looking online at the shoes Ev wants, John walked into the room an threw an ever-loving fit. "Andrea, you are NOT going to spend that much on shoes for Evan!!!!" But they were cute. I actually was wondering if they had them in pink in my size. But even my inner Shopaholic had to admit that John had a point, so I planned on doing some sale surfing the next day at the mall. Lo and behold, John did it. That was good, since my eye exam rendered me pretty useless. But I just saw the shoes about 30 minutes ago. Purchased by the man who yelled at me over expensive shoes for Evan. Apparently I can't buy Evan expensive shoes, but John can. Because I pull the box out of the bag and immediately see the contradiction when I spy the little outline of the man in the jumpng position on the top of the box. Yep. John bought him Jordans. You know, because Jordans are so cheap and all. "But they were on sale like you wanted," says John. Yeah. Okay. Their sale price was the same as the full price of the ones I was going to buy. I can see how that makes sense, John. And besides, the last time we bought Ev Jordans, a classmate of his was jealous of them and intentionally stepped on them with mud-covered feet on the first day he wore them. I think I need to devise some sort of plan to get even with the man. Hmmmmmm. I think I need a new purse.....

Random

Not much to report from here. We are in the midst of some reorganizing and purging here in the house (as evidenced by Zachy's changing table on its side in the background of this pic!).



John got his second ticket this past week. Apparently he didn't stop long enough at a stop sign around the corner from our house. I think the local police just have an affinity for my car for some reason.



Zach's teeth are just right there. The two front lowers. Gah! I wish they would just break through. Tonight he gnawed on a whole wheat organic teething biscuit for the first time. He isn't particularly fussy or anything. I'm just impatient.



Evan is grounded. Again. He insists on making me be the bad guy. This week, he lied about homework, and so I took away priviledges. So later that night, I went to work and John let him have his Nintendo DS. (Way to back me up, Honey!) So I have confiscated the DS and now take it to work with me. Video games rot your brain, anyway, Evan! Read a book instead.



I am now addicted to the damned DS. Hey, those games can be pretty fun, and it sure does pass the time when I'm pumping at work!



Zach loves "Where is Thumbkin"!



Evan brought home a B in Science on this past report card. Seriously, Evan? Last quarter, he had a 99%. I was secretly disappointed. It was his lowest grade at 92%. Which brings up the grade scale for 3rd grade. This is new for Evan as a 3rd gader, but 95-100 is an A, 90-95 a B, 85-90 a C. A D is anything below 85%, which is considered failing for any grade above 2nd grade at his school. It seems like it should be another planet or something where 84% is failing. Poor kid. Times sure have changed since I was a 3rd grader, and I was in the gifted and talented program where my homework was so difficult that there were times when my mother would crack up laughing when trying to help me because it was too difficult for her! Seriously. So I sort of feel bad for Ev, and haven't been busting his chops about the B since it would be an A anywhere else. And with 92% being his lowest grade, I can't complain. I just know he can do better. Plus, all of the teachers left the same remarks in the comments: "Evan is too talkative in class.", "Evan has trouble paying attention duing class.", and my fave by far, "Evan is a remarkably bright little boy, is engaging and fun, but is entirely too disruptive in class." How can the kid get the grades he gets and be that disruptive? He must get that from his father.

I renewed my PALS this week. Yay, fun! And I also started looking into the home study program for my Neonatal/ Pediatric Specialty credential. That would make my credentials RRT-NPS. What is it about adding more letters after your name that makes you look more important? Anyhow, I don't need the cred to work the NICU, but it would make me look like a rockstar in the neonatal respiratory therapy world. And my boss would have no choice but to pay me a lot more. Which means the whole process, though admittedly rather expensive, will eventually pay for itself. Score.

Evan has been driving us crazy with the Karaoke machine John's mom bought him for Christmas. Apparently it has kids' songs programmed into it. There really is only a certain amount o time one can listen to the instrumental version of "This Old Man" before one goes completely, certifiably insane. Just sayin'.

Zach's hair has started to grow toward the center of his head in hilarious fashion. So from one angle, it looks like a fauxhawk. And from another, a Kewpie doll. Ha!

I guess that's all I have to report.

Happy 2011

Okay, so the New Year is upon us. Incidentally, I am now a year older, and don't even get me started about the Baby New Year stuff. I heard my whole life how I was the second baby born that year, and thus got the shaft.)

2011 has to be better than 2010.

Of course I started off 2010 with contractions. But 2010 was also the Year of Zachary. With this in mind, it was all worth it. But I remember that first trip to the hospital like it was yesterday. Crushing because I had held out hope that my pregnancy with Zach would be so different from the one with Evan. When I felt that first contraction, I knew exactly what it was. I held my belly and breathed deeply and waited. The next came 6 minutes later, and then 6 minutes after that. And I cried. Oh, how I cried. I didn't even tell my doctor right away. I continued having them like that for weeks before I finally admitted to my doctors what was going on. It took them getting to be 2 minutes apart before I told them I couldn't take it, and I admitted in defeat that it had been going on for some time. I know this seems crazy, but I didn't want to admit what was going on. And I had been to the show before and knew what followed. My hope is that you, the reader, will never have to hear your baby referred to as a non-viable fetus like I did with both boys. Because even at the size of a bean, he was still our baby. Somehow we made it through, though.

2010 saw Evan turning 9 years old. Nine! My baby! And when I stepped away from work and pre-medicine and I looked, his face stopped having the roundness of a baby's and took on the angles of John's face. He is in the midst of the last of his primary school years. Before I know it, he'll be a teenager, too cool for mom. And then he'll be in a cap and gown, and I will be regretting each and every minute I allowed to slip by without appreciating it fully. Children grow all too fast.

And my John and our 10-year anniversary. I found a gray hair on his head for the first time this year. And his crow's feet got a little more noticeable. Yet when I was reflecting back and looking at the pictures of the day we married, he looked the exact same to me. I don't know how this is, other than that he is still my JohnJohn.

My family is on the cusp of some great opportunities of which I cannot speak just yet, but I am convinced that 2011 is going to be stellar as I continue on with the three men in my life in this, my 34th year.

So Happy New Year. Be blessed. Be happy. Be healthy.

For Him

There are several songs out there that remind me of my husband. I have a hard time limiting it to just one. And of course John and I have complerely opposite music tastes, so I will hear a song that reminds me of him, and I will tell him to listen to it, then he talks straight through it. There is one in particular that I think of when I mention this, and it always seemed kind of depressing to me. And then my first gray hair appeared in my sea of brunette. And John started to get that little crinkle in the corners of his eyes when he smiled. And I know that we are getting older. It's no mystery. But we are doing what we set out to do, and that is to grow older together. In a world where marriage is not as meaningful and permanent as it should be, I feel like this milestone is a victory for us of sorts. And now, some things just take on a different meaning. Including this song. On first read, it seems to be speaking of death. Looking at it again, from this side of our decade together, to me it speaks of clinging to one another until the very end. So for my JohnJohn. My beautiful soul of a husband, who will not listen to my music, but will read, the lyrics to Now Comes the Night, as recorded by Rob Thomas. The only thing I can say is that the roughest of hardships have all been worth even the tiniest glimmer of joy that comes with having him by my side.

Now Comes the Night

When the hour is upon us

And our beauty surely gone

No you will not be forgotten

No you will not be alone

And when the day has all but ended

And our echo starts to fade

No you will not be alone then

And you will not be afraid

No you will not be afraid

When the fog has finally lifted

From my cold and tired brow

No I will not leave you crying

And I will not let you down

No I will not let you down

I will not let you down

Now comes the night

Feel it fading away

And the soul underneath

Is it all that remains

So just slide over here

Leave your fear in the fray

Let us hold to each other

Until the end of our days

When the hour is upon us

And our beauty surely gone

No you will not be forgotten

No you will not be alone

No you will not be alone

Lessons Learned

Somedays, I absolutely love my job. And like most people, there are day where I hate it. And then there are sometimes where the love and the hate are one in the same. Yesterday was one of those days...
A patient who broke my heart into a million little pieces. I was called to intubate this elderly woman who had been discovered down in her home. Without heat. She hadn't had the resources to pay her electric bill and her core body temperature was 74 degrees. She was in that shape for days before she was discovered by a relative. And the family! So guilt-stricken, not only because she had asked to borrow the money and they told her they didn't have it, but because nobody had checked on her in days.
A patient who made it all to real for me. A nice-looking, clean-cut guy. Dressed casually in a fleece and a pair of jeans, much like I do on winter days. I was sitting at a computer in the ER, charting away, when he came up and handed me this folded piece of paper, asking if he could use the phone to call these people. I unfolded the square of paper, soft and worn so that it was about to split where the creases had been, and dialed the number for him. It was for the emegency cold shelter the city sets up for the homeless on freezing nights. My first thought, considering his manner of dress and the way he spoke, was that he was calling for someone else. Since he carried on the conversation right there at my desk, I couldn't help but hear his end of the conversation. He had been carrying the paper around with him, too proud to use it, until it just got too cold and he had no choice. I heard him tell the person on the phone that he hated to take a bed from someone who needed it more, and so he had never used their services. But on that night, he didn't have a coat, either, and so he couldn't sleep on the streets. He even offered to sleep on the floor to take as little space as possible, if he could just sleep indoors that night.
The patient who was a reminder. I got called to the NICU for a preemie. 23 Weeks, 3 days. She or He wasn't delivered yet, but mom was dilated and her membranes had ruptured. They were doing an ultrasound because they suspected placental abruption, in which case an emergency c-section would have to be performed. They were trying to send her across the river to the OB Mecca where I was sent many times during both of my pregnancies. Apparently OB Mecca was full to bursting and so had to triage. This means they were only accepting patients to which they could provide the most help. 23 weeks is on the cusp of viability. 24 is the magic number, and so they turned her away. Her doctor had to explain to her the odds of the baby surviving with any quality of life intact. At a certain point of gestation, we automatically resuscitate, no questions asked. 23 weeks is not that point. And the mom had to make the decision that we were going to let her baby die peacefully in her arms.
People ask me all of the time how it is that I do my job. I usually tell them that for every single one we cannot save, there are several we can, so there is a balance. And for the ones we cannot save? I get to go in that room with that patient who is terrified of death, and I get to do something, anything, to make it a little easier for them. And then there are nights like yesterday.
Heart-breaking, soul-crushing nights. Nights where I take each and every one of them home with me. These happen to be the nights I get something out of my work.
The hypothermic woman reminded me to hold my loved ones closer. To never, ever take them for granted.
The homeless man, at a time when I am financially drained from the year we have had, reminded me that I may not be able to buy myself anything and everything I want right now, but I have a warm home filled with love on these cold, cruel nights of winter.
And the mom. Oh, the mom. She brought every contraction back. Every hospitalization for not one, but two pregnancies. I swear I could feel the needles in my hips. I could feel my belly torque and twist deep down. I was 18, 19, 20, 21, 22 weeks pregnant all over. I was in fear for my babies' lives all over again. But this time, instead of the depression that follows each time I deal with a preemie since my return to work, something very different happened. In the same instant those horrible things were brought into my mind, my head filled with other images. Evan's first cry, first step, first day of kindergarten. Those nights this past summer where the pregnancy was over and I spent five blissful weeks just getting to know Zachary. Zach curled into my chest, deep asleep. His beautiful smiles and giggles. Candles on birthday cakes and tiny baby feet. The smell of baby lotion and the sounds of John playing with our boys. Squeals of delight at a new milestone conquered. I was reminded of what could've happened to us and of what didn't happen. Of what we've survived and what we've escaped. And while I know that my last pregnancy did something to me emotionlly, I am on the way toward healing.

We are, all of us, just minutes from a moment that could destroy us. That family never dreamed they would never speak to their mother again. I'm sure the polite, clean-cut man never dreamed he would be homeless. And I'm sure that mom never dreamed she would have to make the call to allow her baby to die. Any of this could happen to me. Instead of letting this consume me and depress me, I am choosing to let this be a lesson learned: to appreciate everything I have, to love the family I have, and to focus not on the ways in which my children came into this world, but the moments I have had with them since.

Him, in a Song

Did you know I was a music major in a past life? Yep, I played classical flute for 16 years until my mother died and I just couldn't anymore. But I still have this deep-seated love for music. And I think my favorite thing about it is the memories it evokes of the people who have come and gone from our lives, and the ones who come and never go.

Tomorrow morning is my John's 36th Birthday. Actually, Thanksgiving starts the whirlwind for us: Thanksgiving, John's birthday (sometimes one in the same), Christmas Eve (our anniversary), Christmas, New Year's Eve, New Year's Day (my birthday), all in a row.

This is Our Time. I always get nostalgic and sappy and sentimental as the calendar pages turn from November to December. This year is no exception. And I know why, though it has taken me years to figure this all out--John. My angel and devil, my super power and my kryptonite. My biggest fan and my reason for doing a large amount of what I do. The one who showed me that there is such a thing as permanent love. Even during the loudest rage of one of our arguments, there is no place I would rather be.

So, in order to satisfy my urge for sentimentality and also to honor the very beginning of John's 36th year on earth, here are a few songs that make me smile and think of the other half of my soul. Happy Birthday, JohnJohn.

Laughter and More

So the topic has come up recently at work about how it is that I can justify supporting my family alone. Again, it came up. I think the actual words were, "I can't believe John doesn't work."




Hmmmmm.....

My mother raised 7 children and never worked outside of the home. For several years, before I went back to finish my degree, I was a stay-at-home mom to Evan. I wouldn't say that either of us didn't work. Because being a homemaker, if done correctly, is the hardest job out there. No one says this of women who choose to stay home. But John's a man, so it must be different? Why?



So yes, I work and John stays home. It probably won't always be this way. It is just the arrangement that works for us right now, and my ownership of a vajayjay doesn't make me above or below being the breadwinner. Honestly, my earning potential is about 4 times that of John right now, and so it just makes financial sense that I should be the one working. And quite honestly, even if he did work, the cost of daycare for Zach would negate his earnings. So why would we do that when I can honestly replace his potential income with one extra shift per week and no daycare expense?



So what is it that John does????? Well, he is excellent with the kids. He cooks the majority of our meals. He does all of the laundry. He tries to keep the house. (I say "tries" because I don't think anyone could keep it to my standards but me--I am that OCD about it!)

What else? Well...

He knows te extact brand and absorbency of tampons I use and has no qualms about buying them. He knows the brand of shampoo I use, the exact shade and brand of my makeup, and more. And in his manliness, he is still not afraid to traipse into the store at the mall and get the goods for me while I'm working.

I don't have to ask for a thing. If I say I'm thirsty, he immediately gets up and brings me a drink. If I'm cold, a blanket. If I'm hungry, a snack. As a matter of fact,if I don't want him to do any of those things, I have to be careful not to think out loud because he does it all without my asking. He even drives mto work and picks me up because the employee lot is quite a distance from the door and heaven forbid I get cold or rained on while walking in. In the winter, when everyone freezes upon exiting the hospital, I don't even have to wear a coat because John is there in front to pick me up, with the car nice and toasty. Seriously, I am that spoiled by him!



And most of all, he makes me laugh. He is nonstop comic relief from the shitstorm. Like the time I had a horrible day at work and he put on my pink Crocs and danced around the living room singing "I Feel Pretty", even though he didn't know all of the words. Or the day I thew out his boxer briefs full of holes. e resurrected them from the trash and he ripped the seams all the way so they looked like a rough version of a bikinis and he puffed out his chest as he came into the room, wearing only them and shouting "This is SPARTAAAAAAA!" And taking a picture of him? Seriously impossible without cracking up. Seriously. So now I am going to close this with some examples.

Don't Tell Him

We have this running joke in my little family. That John got off too easy. My birthday is New Year's Day. And our anniversary is Christmas Eve. He will never, ever be able to forget one or the other, thus saving him from the Doghouse forever. John, you're welcome.

So a coworker was making me rather sad because she is a single mother and for one reason or another, she has just had rotten luck with scheduled holidays this year and has missed out on that time with her kid. So after looking at the schedule and confirming our tentative holiday plans with John, I told her I would help cover her Christmas Eve assaignment. John's mom has 20 days off in a row in December, and so long as I am off for Christmas Day so I can spend time with my family, 4 or 8 hours of work on the eve are not going to wreck anything.

Then two of my coworkers piped up: "Andrea, isn't that your anniversary?????"

Oh. Shit.

Yes it is. I forgot.
My 10-year anniversary, to be exact. A milestone that is a pretty big deal, considering the crap we have endured together. I didn't even think about it because our anniversary always gets lost in wrapping presents and making sure Santa has cookies, in last-minute shopping and stuffing stockings at 2 AM after Evan has finally lost the sleep battle. Somewhere in there, we tell each other "Happy Anniversary". That's it. And that is our fault because we are the ones who got married on a date that would never be about us anymore once we became parents. And so I forgot.

Don't tell John.

Chocolate Ugly Cake

Don't ask me why I thought of this story. I think it was this post I ran across while catching up on my blog reading for the week that made me think about baking.

I do not bake. I can make a lasagna that makes my husband's toes curl, which was genetically shared with me from my Italian mama. (Genetically shared, not taught. She wouldn't let any of us girls in the kitchen because she was afraid we would ruin her kitchen or burn the house down. I left for college in a very confused state over how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Seriously.) But I really, really do not bake.

John's mom, in her Perfect-Suzie-Homemaker fashion, bakes with the best of them. And she was always making these beautiful concoctions of confectionary architecture that belonged in Better Homes and Gardens. And for the time when John and I stayed with her after Ev's pregnancy ruined us, she would do so for every meal. And while it was delicious, I was so stinkin' jealous.

One day I decided I was going to make dessert for once. I'm a smart person. I figured I could figure it out. There was, however, no way in Hades that I would attempt the "from scratch" part. I enlisted the help of Betty Crocker, but I wanted to make a chocolate layer cake. And so I baked the two round layers. The problem is that nobody told me that you only have to use one box of mix and divide it among the two layers. So I used two full boxes of cake mix. In other words, I made the huge cake. Enormous. Paul-Bunyon-sized. So big that the massive cake server/ saver thingy didn't fit very well over it. But oh, well. Too late to turn back.

So I had to ice this damned thing. And I got the chocolate icing and spackled the layers together (or whatever you call that step). Now it was time to get started on the outside. Usually, my icing jobs look atrocious, so I was pretty pleased with myself when it started turning out nice and smooth. But then something started to happen...

Why in the hell was the top layer sliding off like that, creating this massive chocolate-cake avalanche???? Oh my God, make it stop, make it stooooooooooppppppp! And before I knew what was happening, there was chocolate icing/goo/ sludge all over everything. On my hands and arms up to my elbow. All over the counter. All over the front of my shirt. And my smooth icing job on the outside was having strange things happening to it: huge chunks of cake were breaking off onto my spatula so it was more like I was caking the icing instead of icing the cake.

Turns out you do not try to ice a warm cake. Especially one that large and out-of-balance.

Nothing I could have done would have saved the monstrosity. Nothing. The huge layers slid all over, so that it was hard to slide the lid of the cake saver over it. So it had big hunks of cake clinging to it. It was horrible.

No one would eat the cake.

Except for John. (Thank you, John.)

And Evan was just a newborn, so I was fresh into New Mommyhood. And I started to have visions of Evan trying to take cupcakes to school, and all of the other moms telling their kids, "Don't eat that. That Andrea-person made it!" And I cried. And cried.

And the harder I cried, the more John gushed about how delicious and moist the cake was. And went back for seconds of it. And if I recall correctly, even thirds. And he named it. "Andrea's Chocolate Ugly Cake".

Then and there, one year into our marriage, I knew he was a keeper.

This is why, when a situation calls for it, Evan takes the largest, most pimped-out cupcakes to school.

From the best bakery in Cincinnati, not from my kitchen.

(Image: http://www.last.fm/group/Chocolate+Cake!)

He Strikes Again

At least nothing in my home or near my children was ablaze this time.

Yeah, I'm talking about John. Again.

This time, it was with my money.

I could kill him. Really. (No, not really. Don't call the police or anything.)

It all started with me being assigned to my 12 here at the ER. No cafeteria, no gift shop. Roughing it again. And I forgot. So I call John relatively early to let him know a few things: A. I'm starving and can feel my fat cells being eaten. B. I have no cash. C. Even if I did have cash, what would I do with it? So I tell my dearest all of this and he assures me he is on his way to bring me dinner and singles for the vending machine. Beautiful. Just what I wanted.

15 minutes later, the secretary transfers a call to me. It's John. And it went like this:
John: "We have a problem."
Me: "What problem???? Where are you?"
John: "I have no money."
Me: "Well, I know that! Use the debit card. I left it in your wallet."
John: "Ummmmmm. About that...."
Me: "What is wrong?!?"
John: "I tried, but...."
Me: "What do you mean, 'you tried'?"
John: "Remember when they mailed you that new pin number?"
Me: "Yeah, it's in the lockbox with all of the other banking stuff..."
John: "Well, I forgot where it was...."
Me: "Well, now you know. When will you be here? I'm starving!"
John: "Ummmm. I can't. I went to get cash, but I entered the old pin too many times andtheATMkeptyourcard." (This last bit gushed out as all one word because he knew I was going to kill him!)

Seriously. No money because we are products of techno advancement and just use our magic plastic for every-fricken-thing. I pretty much told him that he made the mess and he had to fix it. How? Well, I made him call friends until he found someone willing to loan us $20 until the morning when the bank opens and I can withdraw enough cash that we can survive for the 2 weeks it takes to get a new debit card. He wanted to know what to tell whichever friend he got ahold of. And I told him to put on his Big Boy Britches and tell them what he did. 20 minutes later, he was here with food, a sheepish grin, and a very red face. But I ate. And Ev now has lunch money for the morning.

Only John.

The 'Tots Survived

B said she could see a blog post coming on this and she was absolutely correct!

It all started at about 1 AM when John said he wanted a midnight snack. He decided to make some tater tots, of all things. Our deep fryer died some time ago, and with my husband's relatively new struggle with diabetes and hypertension, I was not about to replace it. A normal person would have baked them in the oven. But this is John. My love, my life, my soulmate, the father of my children. But living with him is kind of like what I imagine it to be like for the Man in the Big Yellow Hat to live with Curious George. Seriously.

So he fills a pot with canola oil and heats it up. I am in the bedroom, just around the corner from the kitchen, playing on Facebook, when I hear him ever-so-calmly ask, "Honey, do we have any baking soda?"

And I think to myself, "Why in the is he baking at 1 AM?" And so I ask him why he needs it. And I hear him say what I think is, "Oh, fire." Just like that. Casual, nonchalant. So I get up from my perch at the desk to investigate. Surely that isn't what he said.

And I peek around the corner into the kitchen...

Yep. That's what he said. Oh my God!
I just see 4 feet of flames shooting from my stove. What happened next is a bit of a blur. I thought we had a fire extinguisher under the sink. Guess what! We don't! And so I started randomly jerking open cabinet doors. (Like the one with drinking glasses in it...what in the hell was I thinking?) And John is screaming at me "Get me SOMETHING!!!!!!" I did't think about the flour that was in the cabinet right behind John, which would have worked with the grease fire in place of the baking soda. I couldn't think of anything other than the flames, which were getting higher and higher. And I yelled at John, "Should I call 9-1-1?????" And he shouted back "Ummmm, yeah Andrea. GOOD IDEA!!!!!" (Hey, I do not appreciate that sarcasm, Mister!) And so I reached for the cordless phone while simultaneously screaming to Evan in his downstairs bedroom. The poor kid ran up the stairs in his little boxers, looking all bleary-eyed and confused.

"Evan, baby, run downstairs and throw on clothes and go outside though the back door. Hurry, baby, please!
So he tries to come up through the kitchen, and I had to shout at him, "No Evan! FIRE! Get OUUUUUUUUT!" And bless his little heart, he did. In the meantime, the only thing nearby for John to grab was a neat little stack of Zach's receiving blankets that were folded on the kitchen table, waiting for the next morning to be put away once Zach awakened. So John is fanning the fire with, trying to smother it, but only making it worse. And there are huge chunks of burnt blanket wafting through the air. I dial 9-1-1, and as soon as the dispatcher answers, I shout "FIRE!" at her as well. I don't even remember the rest of that convo. I know she asked if everyone was out, and I told her I was working on it. I grab Zach and run outside to meet Evan and wait for emergency people to arrive. The local police are first, and just as I am teling them that my husband may be mildly retarded and started a grease fire by frying tater tots, John emerges from the house, arms full of charred baby blankets and breathing rather heavily, to tell us the fire is out. (Incidentally, this is the point where I think, "Shit! I haven't treated smoke inhalation in a long time---do I remember how?????)
Wthin the blink of an eye, the police officer is on the phone to let the fire people know it is out, yet within three minutes, there are 3 enormous fire engines lined up on the street in front of my house, sirens wailing. Zach is looking in awe at the lights, and I look over and saw Evan put on shorts and a huge parka--that's it! No shoes, no shirt, no long pants. Thankfully a neighbor brought over a blanket for him.
The fire people get a great laugh over the fact that my father-in-law is the Fire Chief in his town and John was a volunteer firefighter for years, yet we didn't have anything to put out a fire in my house.
So anyway, with the fire out and the family safe, we were still not permitted to re-enter the house because of the smoke. When the fire people opened my living room blinds and opened the window, I gasped. The smoke in the house was so thick you couldn't even see anything other than opaque white. With the fire department's industrial fans and my opened windows, it cleared relatively quickly, and we thanked the people who helped us and started to head inside. And then it happened.

By it, I mean the most ridiculous statement I have ever heard come from my husband in almost 10 years of marriage.

"Andrea, do you want some 'tots? I saved them for you!"

That Time Again, Folks

Yep, that time of year again. And in the event that I am the only Midwesterner you will ever encounter, I should start with an explanation.

Nothing--and I mean nothing--gets an Ohio native as fired up as Buckeye Football. We are crazy about it. We hold Jim Tressel and his trademark sweater vest to be sacred. We live for script Ohio done by the marching band, The Best Damned Band in the Land as they are called, at halftime. Woody Hayes, may he rest in peace, remains our idol. The Horseshoe is our Holy Land. We learn the words to "Across the Field" before we learn our ABC's and 123's. It is what we are all about. Surrounding Indiana and Kentucky have basketball. Because they know they just cannot do football like a Buckeye can. That's just how we roll.

And we hate--and I do mean HATE---Michigan. With a passion. With the fire of a thousand suns. And it really is a good thing I crossed the Ohio River to reside in Northern Kentucky, just outside of Cincinnati, because I did the unthinkable. I married a Wolverine.
Yep. John was born in Michigan. His whole family was, and for the most part, still is there. His parents relocated to Kentucky when he was a kid simply because of his dad's job. But they are all still Michiganders. And they hate--and I do mean HATE--Buckeyes. And to them, from the months of September through January, I will always be The Girl in the Scarlet and Gray. Because just like John's family is all Michigan, my family is all Columbus, Ohio. I was the only one born and raised in Cincinnati after my dad relocated for his job. So I was raised on the stuff just like John ws raised on Michigan football.

I should clarify that the mutual hatred between the states dates far back, and that it is based on this tremendous rivalry between the two teams. No joke--coaches have lost their jobs not based on how they performed all season long, but based on what their record is in the Ohio-Michigan saga. Seriously. And apparently it all started way back when over an argument about where the division of the states really should be.

So what does this mean? It means John and I will be fightng a lot. And at least once, we will swear we will be getting a divorce. No worries--we do this every year and have for the decade we have been together. And there will be lots of talkin' smack until that fateful day in November--always the last game of the regular season. Ohio State has a pretty good streak going on, and so John is primed and ready for a fight this year. And I am ready to gloat. A victory for my team earns me bragging rights for a entire year. And he has to shut up. Until next season. As for the kids? Well,he won't allow me to put anything Buckeye-related on them, and I am the same about Michigan stuff. So they are Switzerland.

I never request off of work, but I do for the Ohio State-Michigan game. Every year. Not for Christmas or my birthday. But just for that game.

So, on that note, let the War begin. And excuse the language in the following clip, knowing that all's fair right now.


(Incidentally, this video is a clip from a documentary done by HBO on The Rivalry. And yes, I do know the words to, and sing, the We Don't Give a Damn for the Whole State of Michigan song they sing in the clip. I am that hardcore. )

O-H.....