Usually,? my heart fills with joy when my husband stays home from work.? It’s wonderful.? It’s great.? In fact, usually, I feel like a kid who? just scored with? two? ? toys in? his Happy Meal instead of one—and neither of them broke in less than 30 seconds.

But not today.? Today, I would’ve sent him to work with joy.? Heck—today, I would have sent him to Mars with joy.? Because today marked the commencement? of Whinefest #2, 2008.? And it wasn’t the youngest male in the household whining up a storm.? Nope.? My son is loud, but he ain’t that loud.

Apparently my hubby managed to acquire my son’s cooties.? And the rest of us are paying for it.? Big time.? Because hubby Whinefest means double the volume, double the fun.

And by the sound of things, I don’t think he’s gonna make it in tomorrow, either.?

? Maybe I need to look into? a trip? to Mars.? Do you think it’s quiet there?

But since space travel probably isn’t a very practical solution (and somebody in this family has to be practical, darn-it!), then I guess I’ll be giving my coping skills a good workout.? Let’s keep our fingers crossed for less whining on the horizon.? Stay tuned….

Never leave a Ridgeback puppy unattended with a used fire pit for longer than 10 seconds, lest you end up with your patio looking like this:

Doesn’t? Fergie look proud? of herself?? Note the golf club—how random is that?? I’m not entirely? certain how golf figures in with fire pits, but apparently my husband is.? Oh wait— so that’s the club he was in frantic search of all day Saturday!? And here I thought he said the Dolph club—no wonder he looked at me strangely when I hummed the Rocky theme.

A close-up of the disaster zone.? The scariest part?? It’s looked like that for two weeks already.? And I don’t see us getting to it anytime soon.? Oh, the joys of being a procrastinator.

Skye, the Princess,? is disgusted with the mess.

Once upon a time, my husband and I worried.? We worried that our son, who was almost two, had yet to say more than five words.

Now?? Well, he just turned four, and our worries have grown exponentially.? Not because he still doesn’t talk.? Not even close.? Rather, because he never stops talking.? Ever.? In fact, we have uncovered the disturbing truth behind what? was going on in that over-sized toddler head (hey, I can say this—the kid? was wearing a size 3T hat at age 6 months) during all that time.? He was plotting.? And planning.? See, apparently, our little blue-eyed pumpkin? nugget was? gearing up? for the big day when he could start stumping mommy and daddy with an endless array of? unanswerable questions.

I know what you’re thinking.? No big deal—all kids ask questions.? We should’ve been prepared for that.? Right?

Oh, how I envy you in your ignorance and pity me for my lack thereof.

You see, these aren’t normal questions, the types you read about in all the “What to Expect” books.? No, those types of questions are all a big, fat lie, aimed at ensuring that people continue to procreate.? I prepared myself for those types of questions, waiting with something akin to excitement for the day when I could begin imparting little? kernels of wisdom to my? pint-sized apprentice.? Ha.? Instead, not only has my son single-handedly? pulverized? any confidence in my? own intelligence (not to mention sanity), but he’s also forced me to cry out for? the revamping of every single one of my institutions of higher learning.? Obviously, they taught me nothing.? Am I smarter than a 5th grader?? Puh-lease.? Apparently, I’m not even smarter than a preschooler.

Here is a small sampling of the types of questions my husband and I are subjected to on a daily basis:

“Are people going to become extinct like dinosaurs?”? (not only do I not know the answer, but I am not prepared to get into a philosophical and ecological discussion of this nature with a 4 yr old.)

“How do the spark plugs in the car work?”? (Okay, so maybe some of you know the answer to this one, but alas, I did not take auto shop in high school.? Besides, this is one of those questions that feeds upon itself–if you get one answer right, it just generates another question.? i.e. “Okay, so then how does the engine work?? The starter?? The brake pads?” and on and on, until you are tempted to throw the car manual at him.)

“Why doesn’t cotton candy have antioxidants?” (I wish I knew the answer to that one.)

“Why do dogs lick their private parts so much?” (Okay, so I? could actually answer this with something approaching confidence, but really—is this a topic? you would take on with a preschooler?? I think not.)

“If both girls and boys had wee-wees, would there be only boys?” (HUH?)

And my recent favorite:

“Is there something else besides ‘on purpose’ and ‘on accident’?” (My head hurts.? Is “just don’t do it” a cop-out?)

? Oh, how I long for a simple “Why is the sky blue?”

So, tell me, what types of questions do your kids ask?? And by all means, if you have a creative response to one of the questions above, feel free to impart your wisdom.

Aw, look, my son took a picture of Peanut with his new Christmas camera–ain’t that sweet?

Welcome to my house.? Today, we are experiencing a little something I like to call Whinefest #1, 2008.? ? The 2008 is to distinguish this Whinefest from all the other Whinefests that occured in 2007.? The #1?? Well, that’s to distinguish it from the inevitable Whinefest #2, #5, and so on, up to about Whinefest #357.? Of course, that’s only if it’s a good year.

It’s on days like these that I feel like a really bad mom.? A terrible, evil mom, ala Joan Crawford.? It’s not that I have a thing about wire hangers.? It’s just that I have a thing about whining.

Even legit whining.? For example, today, my 4 yr old has the flu.? Do I think he is entitled to whine?? Sure.? Provided that he does it somewhere at least two county lines away from me.? Besides, this is not? your garden-variety whining.? This is whining as enhanced as the typical breast in Orange County.

In all honesty, I can tolerate a bit of whining when he’s sick.? Maybe even more than a bit.? But the whining that emanated from? that? cherubic little blue-eyed? boy today?? Fran Drescher on speed’s got nothing on him.

He whined if he was on the couch. He whined if he was on the floor.? If the TV was on, he whined to turn it off.? Once it was off, he whined even louder to turn it back on.? He whined to take a bath with my husband and our infant daughter, and then he whined that he didn’t want anyone touching him in the bathtub (okay, that sounded way more Michael Jackson-esque than it actually was—the point being, since we don’t run a bathhouse, our bathtub is not really large enough to accomodate a preschooler, a baby, and my husband without people making contact).? He? whined again? when my husband got out in a futile? attempt to stop the whining.

He whined and whined to get a Jamba Juice, of which he promptly took one sip and whined that it “tasted yucky.”? He then whined to taste everyone else’s Jamba Juice, which had to be promptly? discarded when he whined that they also “tasty yucky” and refused to drink them.

I even caught him whining in his sleep.? Something to do with smoke alarms, his striped blankie, and Thomas the train.? It doesn’t matter that I have absolutely no clue what? this means—it still gave me that feeling you get when your dog lifts his leg and pees on your brand spankin’ new Manolos (as if I ever had a pair, but I’ve got a great imagination), right after you let him out to his business.

So, basically, my husband and I spent all day trying to figure out ways to escape this hellish assault on our ears.? We actually argued over who got to run errands.? For dedicated procrastinators, there were some awfully strange conversations going on in our home.? Such as, “I’m going to run and get toilet paper.? I’ll only be gone about five hours or so.? What do you mean, you just got some?? Well, then, I’m going to run and get Thanksgiving supplies.”? My husband even tried to tell me he had to go into work.? On a Saturday?? Nice try, buddy.? I wish I had that option on the? seemingly endless stream? of weekdays when I am the sole? audience for? the Whinefesting.

From where did this Super-Whine originate?? Come and visit my husband sometime when he’s sick, and you won’t have to ask.

My son is now asleep (aha, so God is finally making his presence known), and all there is left to do is pray some more.? What am I praying for?? ? That tomorrow is not the start of Whinefest #2.

My friend recently told me she’s a good wife, but not a good housewife.? It got me thinking (always a dangerous? pastime in our home)—what the heck is a housewife?? I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I? married a man, not the outrageously? over-priced tract house with the world’s most minuscule kitchen? in which? we currently reside.? Although? I suppose I could be wrong—we did have a helluva? lot of booze? at our wedding.

Seriously, though, I think the? term “housewife” epitomizes all of the outlandish expectations men have? of their wives–for example, things like mopping the floor daily (sorry, I don’t live in a Brady Bunch rerun), or cleaning the toilet until it sparkles (I’ve never really understood the need to clean an appliance that will be instantly sullied by human excrement within hours of washing it), or discarding dirty toenail clippings (hey, they’re biodegradable).? ? I don’t know about you, but my wedding vows were to love, honor, and cherish—not love, honor, and pick up thy husband’s dirty undies ’til kingdom come.? And I’m pretty sure the latter statement would have penetrated even? the haziest of? booze-impaired brains.

So, instead, I like to call myself a stay-at-home mom, or SAHM, for short.? (or, if you read dooce, it’s actually an acronym for various profanities–which is equally apropos on any given day).? Honestly, though, I? have no problems with this moniker.? I do stay at home—well, except for the plethora of playgroup meetings, music class, gym class, grocery shopping, dog walking, outings to the zoo or Legoland or the beach, picking up the dry cleaning (okay, so I’ve only done that once in my entire married life, but it sounded good), etc, that force me to vacate my? residence for seemingly hours on end.? And I am a mom, unless those two little fiends living in my home were beamed? down by aliens, whose sole purpose? is to? study the effects of supreme daily chaos on the human body? (boy, are THEY getting an eyeful).?

Come to think of it, I had that second? fiend au naturel—and since certain body parts, which shall remain nameless, will never be the same, I suppose the kids are legit. (In case you’re wondering, “au naturel” means no drugs, no hospital—just my own house, my own bed, and a leather strap to bite down on—oh, wait, my husband is now telling me that was actually his arm.? Oops.)

But note, the title is stay-at-home mom.? Stay-at-home MOM.? The problem being—this title is an evil lie.? Or, an evil lie of omission, if you will.? Because implicit in this title is a whole list of other things we SAHMs are expected to do on a daily basis, things that are far less appealing than just being a mommy.? Let’s face it, you hear the term stay-at-home mom, and and what do you envision?? Images of smiling, cooing babies,? pictures of pristine moms in Jimmy Choos ruffling their equally pristine toddler’s hair, thoughts of decked-out MILFs and beaming, spotless children skipping hand-in-hand through the meadows, right?? ? Wrong.? It’s all a bunch of cow manure.? Essence of steer.? Meadow muffins.? It’s a load of poppycock propagated by men so that women will agree to be stay-at-home moms in the first place.? They cunningly neglect to mention all the fun extras that come with the job.?

For example, would you sign up to be a stay-at-home? poopy bottom wiper?? A stay-at-home dog barf cleaner?? A stay-at-home dirty undie scooper upper?? I think not.? I mean, seriously, who is going to pee their pants? with excitement? at the prospect of? being a stay-at-home snot sucker outer?? (There may be a lot of pants-peeing going on around here, including my own due to the above-mentioned baby-damaged body parts, but I can guarantee you it ain’t out of? glee over mucous).? Or a stay-at-home-hubby’s-nasty-hair-clippings-in-the-sink cleaner?? ? The last time I checked, my Master’s degree did not? adequately? prepare me for? such topics.? Maybe I should petition my school.

One time, my husband? proclaimed that he would make a great stay-at-home dad and a great househusband.? ? I? actually think I heard God laugh out loud.? Either that, or one of the dogs blasted us with another of those high-pitched farts.? Don’t get me wrong—my husband is an extraordinarily devoted dad, and an awesome husband and dad in so many ways.? Unfortunately, none of? those ways? involve? either a single? iota of ? consistent discipline or acceptable human cleanliness.? Basically, our house would implode within a week of leaving him home with the kiddage and doggage.? Think Home Alone, only? set in Bosnia instead of the suburbs, and you’ll get the picture.

So, please, make sure you read the fine print before signing on to be a SAHM.? That way, you can start learning how to be a stay-at-home-crusty-booger-wiper-offer far, far in advance.

We have a car, sitting idly in front of our home, that my husband fondly? refers to as? “The Red Rocket”.?

Me?? I fondly? refer to? it as “The Red-piece-of-shit-that-my-pragmatically-challenged-husband-paid-$1100-for-against-my-explicit-instructions-and-look-I-was-right-the-damn-crappy-thing-doesn’t-work Car”.

The Red Rocket.? A poetic and fitting name for, say, a corvette or maybe a classic 70′s muscle car. Heck, it would even be? marginally? appropriate? if we had an Eclipse.? Or? possibly a Saturn (although that’s a stretch). What is? it not a fitting name for?? Well, certainly not the 1989 none-too-gently used piece of snot Toyota Celica that has apparently taken up permanent residence outside our home.

The Red Rocket.? What an ironic name for a car that can’t muster over 50 mph on the freeway, on those rare occasions that it actually deigns to start for us.? Oh, it’s red, all right, but my husband must have been smoking crack to come up with the rocket part.? The only? remotely rocket-like thing about? it? is the? ear-numbing? amount of noise it produces, because of? a blown muffler.

You might be wondering how we acquired the? Crimson Crap-mobile.? Well, join the party.? I’m still sort of wondering the same thing.? One day, my husband? goes for a walk with my son to the park,? when, lo and behold, he returns with the Maroon Monster.? It was one of my husband’s? decidedly less inspired? impulse buys (of course, he chalks it up to the ADHD he self-diagnosed a month ago).

Actually, back that up a bit.? My hubby called me in-between the walk to the park and the ride home.? He called to ask me what I thought about purchasing the Magenta Money-Sucker.? My answer?? “No!”? Him:? “Maybe we should think about it?”? Me:? An emphatic “NO!”? Him:? “I’m sure it would be a great commuter car?”? ? Me:? “NO, NO, NO!”?

Husbands of the world, a quick tip—Never, ever ask your wives their opinion when you know you are just going to blatantly disregard it anyway.? This is the epitome of stupidity, and makes you destined to be? snoozing with Fido for a very long time.?

Back to our story.? See, my husband got his car totaled by a drunk driver last April (not that it takes a whole lot to total a 1996 Nissan Sentra).? My husband, who commutes over 60 miles one way to work every day, got a rental car, thinking this dude’s insurance would pay us pretty quickly, since he was clearly at fault.? Ha!? Such naivete on our part.? The? freakin’ bastards? (Legacy Pacific, in case you’re interested), have, to this day,? not forked over one measly dime.

So, what makes? someone spy a junker with a “for sale” sign and think, “Hey, there’s the perfect commuter car!”?? What conversation could? have possibly been going on in? my husband’s? head?? Hmmm…I like to? imagine it was something like this:? “Why, it’s a piece of crap 1989 Toyota Celica, complete with ripped up upholstery and a tape deck from the stone ages.? And look–it has a stick shift, which my wife can’t drive, and no room in the back, even though I have one kid already another on the way, and three dogs!? But that’s okay, because it’s perfect!? Why, it’s the Red Rocket!”

Or perhaps he was just thinking of a new fun way to piss me off—if so, hon, you’ve succeeded beautifully.

I told him to take it back immediately, I told him it was too old, I told him it was too ugly.? Heck, I even told him it would spontaneously combust within minutes of us owning it.? I may as well have been talking to my son’s miniature R2D2 robot (which? listens to? me about equally as well).? The Rojo Rubbish-Heap stopped working within a week, as I predicted, and now sits in front of our house, in all of it’s red glory (or lack thereof).

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the totaled Sentra is still here as well, keeping the Scarlet Shitbox company.? Why?? Aha, so you haven’t read my blogs on procrastination yet (Christmas? tree Procrastination and? All other varieties of Procrastination).

Hi.? I am a procrastinator.? I admit it.? In fact, I admit it freely.? What’s more, I like to talk about procrastinating.? A? lot.? Why, you ask?? Because talking about the things you procrastinate about is the ultimate procastination.? It’s like procrastination nirvana.

? What kinds of things do we procrastinate about at our house?? I don’t think there’s enough space on the internet to list? them all.? Honestly. But I’ll try to throw out a few.

Some procrastinations are small.? For example, I procrastinate about buying various items at the store.? Toothpaste (yes, friends, that not-so-fresh-breath is sometimes me),? toilet paper (according to my husband, you can cut up used socks and use them instead—a fraternity house secret), and food (hey, we all needed to go on a diet anyway), just for starters.?

Sometimes, the procrastinations are bigger.? Like the fact? that we have yet to get? our daughter? a social security number or a birth certificate.? The midwife told us those in power like this to be done within 3 weeks of the birth.? Alas, our daughter is over 3 months now, and still without a country to call her own.?

This may not seem like a big deal, unless you knew that we had a home birth.? Apparently, if we don’t do this at some point, she will not be considered a citizen of the United States.? What I am wondering is, is it possible to be a citizen of nowhere?? How does that work, exactly?? I mean, I ‘ve heard of dual citizenship, but never no citizenship.

? But I digress (or, you might say, I procrastinate about procrastinating).? We also procrastinate about doing laundry (it saves the environment), replacing brake pads (we’re single-handedly keeping the rotor-making companies in business), and picking up dog poop (it’s free fertilizer, if you leave it long enough).? We didn’t have a crib mattress until our baby was two months old (hey, I needed an organic one, and you actually have to drive further than a mile to get those), and as for cleaning out the refrigerator?? Well, making your own penicillin does have some benefits, I guess.

Why do we procrastinate?? I honestly don’t know.? I mean, it’s not as if I really believe the toilet paper fairy is going to come make a delivery at our home (unless she just made a drop off in our trees—but I’m pretty sure that’s the kid who lives down the street, the little bastard).? And it’s not as if we think our friends are going randomly drop by and say, “Oh, I was just passing through, and thought I would? bring you? a crate of Charmin–it’s so squeezably soft, you know.”? (but friends, if you’re reading this, it’s not a bad idea—especially if you think you might need to use the john).

But the beauty of procrastination is, you can do it anytime, anywhere, anyplace.? In fact, I was able to procrastinate on about a billion projects, just by writing this blog.

So what if I’m? writing about? a Christmas incident? in the? middle of? January.? I’ve already admitted I’m a procrastinator, right?

Anyway—pretend it’s the morning of Christmas Eve.? My mom and dad are in town, and my sister and her boyfriend are getting ready to come over.? For once, I’ve actually taken my time to really place the ornaments nicely and make the tree look good, instead of just throwing them up there willy nilly.

My husband is downstairs in the living room/play room? (where the tree is), with my 4 yr old son and my 3 month old daughter.? I’m getting ready to take Fergie, our energetic 14 month old Ridgeback puppy, outside from her kennel upstairs.? Since the baby is on the floor and I don’t want her to be pulverized just yet, I make the rational decision to get a leash for Fergie.? Of course, I can’t locate a collar, and being that I’m 1) unorganized, and know it will take me a good 15 minutes to locate one in the disaster area we call home and 2) am too lazy to spend said 15 minutes in search of one, I make the less rational decision to just slip the metal clip through the hand hole on the leash and form a make-shift collar.?

Do I know this a bad idea?? Certainly.? Does it stop me?? Unfortunately, no.

As you might predict, halfway down the stairs, Fergie is pulling so hard that I let go of the leash.? What you might not have predicted in a million years, though, is that the little metal clip bounces off our wood floor, ricochets, and not only lands on the Christmas tree but gets completely snagged there.?

Fergie, is, as usual, completely oblivious, and rushes around the corner.? I watch in horror as the Christmas tree follows her, falling completely over and narrowly missing her, my husband, and my baby. Ornaments go airborne and fly to all corners of the room, along with a plethora of pine needles.? And? there’s Fergie, still attached, who? could care less that she is now a giant make-shift tree ornament, and continues to wiggle with excitement, further tangling her leash.

Unbelievably, only one ornament broke.? It was, of course,? the most expensive ornament on the tree, a Radko collectable, but in light of what could have happened, I guess I can’t complain too much.? (The fact that it was also an ornament featuring Santa, the earth, and animals, proceeds of which benefited an environmental group, makes me think it was bad karma for us buying a dead tree to begin with, but that’s another story…..)

The tree, alas, never quite looked the same afterwards.? And that is why you should just slop those ornaments on your tree when you live with Ridgebacks.

Every year, my husband and I make New Year’s resolutions to get organized and stop procrastinating.? ? Every year,? my husband and I? know we’ve failed miserably by February.? ? How?? By the fact? that? the friggin’ Christmas tree is? still creating a massive fire hazard in our living room come Valentine’s Day.? Seriously.?

Being (mostly) environmentally friendly people, we actually tried the live tree thing our first year in a new house.? Our son had just been born, and we got all teary-eyed thinking how great it would be for him to have his own Christmas tree in the backyard, commemorating the wonder of his birth.

Bad idea.? Aapparently, you have to actually plant the darn? things before July.? Go figure.?

And not having a Christmas tree is just not an option in our home, with our son.? Why not try a fake one, you ask?? Are you kidding?? The only reason the tree ever exits our house at all? is because after awhile, the dead pine needles start molting.? If we had a fake one, I can only imagine it would become a year-long fixture.? Tempting as that is, we just don’t have the space for it.? We’ve got a myriad of other random assorted crap to strew over the floor, you know.

In case I haven’t made my point yet—it? is a bad, bad thing to be a procrastinator and unorganized.?

However, when both you AND your husband are equally cursed with both of these traits, you are basically as screwed as if a tornado had taken up permanent residence inside your home.

Think I’m joking?? Well, the policeman sure didn’t, even though I tried to explain to him that we really MEANT to renew our registration, but we 1) didn’t open the notice? until too late and 2) then couldn’t find it again once we opened it, in the sea of assorted papers that is our counter.

? Seriously, ladies, heed my advice.? If you are single and unorganized, then start looking for datable men who work at places like the Container Store, or better yet, cast members from Clean Sweep.? A procrastinator?? Go find yourself? a CPA hottie.? Because,? honestly folks,? this is not something you want to double up on in? your gene pool.

This year, however, we have made serious progress.? The Christmas tree actually made it to the curb in time for the trash man to take it.? ? This is the first time since my husband and I have owned a home that he hasn’t had to sneak around in the middle of the night in the slightly illegal endeavor (whatever that means) of dumping the tree in an empty dumpster at the nearby junior college (hey, the benefits of college have far exceeded my expectations now) because we missed the tree pick-up dates by a mile.?

The fact that we are actually? truly excited by this milestone shows how pathetic we really are.

Of course, in the process of exiting our home, the tree shed needles like a flock of Samoyeds shed hair, all across our living room.? Hmmm, might have something to do with the fact that neither of us remembered to put water in the little holder thingy?

At any rate, my husband, upon re-entering our house, gives the mess a cursory glance and says, “I’ll clean it up”.? That was on Tuesday.? It’s now Friday.? Is the mess still there?? You bet.? In fact, I imagine those pine needles will still be rotting away there come December, waiting to? greet the next Christmas tree.? ?

Aw, the circle of life.?