I had my monthly Bunco game last night.? Although supposedly a dice game, what Bunco really represents is a thinly veiled excuse for a bunch of women to? escape from the old homestead and drink beer (and in last night’s case, margaritas and Mojitos).? Our group consists mostly of moms which basically means our games? rate higher? on the obnoxious and beer drinking scales by a factor of ten.?

So after unwinding and enjoying girl talk for a few hours, I stumble into my house at about? 11:15 p.m, ready to crash into my bed.? Only to discover this:

Hello there, big pile of trash on my floor.? Here’s? a closer view:

Either a cyclone hit my house while I was nonchalantly slinging dice at Bunco or my hubby and son? decided to play a few rounds of recycling man and failed to tidy up.

Talk about a buzz kill.

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Do’s and Don’ts of? listing your hubby’s? favorite golf driver? on ebay without telling him:

1)? Do not? mistakenly use his ebay account instead of your own to list club as strangely, ebay updates are sent to account holder’s email address.? Unless husband is too dense to decipher emails? saying such things as, “Notice–your wife’s listing of your favorite Callaway Golf Driver, which is supposed to be a secret but we really wanted to tell you anyway because we think only? a truly horrible person would do such a thing,? has a new bid!”?

2) Do notify hubby about? horrifying new virus? causing instant? computer implosion? contained in emails titled “Notice–your wife’s listing of your favorite Callaway Golf Driver, which is supposed to be a secret but we really wanted to tell you anyway because we think only? a truly horrible person would do such a thing,? has a new bid!”?

3)? Do not make up silly account name like “AllGolfersSuckTheBigOne” as bidders will be frightened.

4) Do make up silly account name like “AllGolfersUsingThisClubCanExpectPenisToGrowThreeInchesInTwoDays” as most men will be too frightenend not to bid.

5)? Do not post ebay info on blog if hubby’s co-workers read it.? This is virtual guarantee that hubby will be recipient of mocking in workplace and subsequently, will find out about missing club.?

6)? Do send link to all your friends in hopes their hubbies will take outlandish golfing beast off your hands.?

7) Do not fail to book yourself and children a hotel room for the night hubby finds out.?

8)? Do book five-star resort and plan to pay with proceeds of golf club sale.

9)? Do not fail to hide all prized possessions, including hound dogs and favored Coach purse, so hubby can’t retaliate with similar ebay listing.?

10)? Do conspicuously leave decrepit demented Rottwiler and hubby’s 80′s style Movado watch out in plain sight.

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Has your husband ever made you SO angry and scream SO loudly that your vocal cords burst? from? your throat and smacked him straight upside the head?? No?? Okay so maybe that didn’t happen here either.? ? But you know it’s bad when I’m seriously digging the visual.

Usually after going postal in my brain for a few hours, I just get over? such things? and move on.? But not this time.? This time,? hubby crossed the line.? So I did what any sane wife would do.?

Which is to say, I LISTED HIS BRAND NEW? GOLF? CLUB? ON EBAY.? WITHOUT TELLING HIM FIRST.

OH YES I DID.

Here are the specifics.? You see, hubby is a complete gadget and sporting goods whore.? And he kills me with the amount of stuff he buys.? Stuff he purports to “need”.? For instance, he actually bought a motorcycle about three years ago from somebody he knows in Chicago without telling me first.? Because he needed it.? Of course, since hubby made no arrangements for transportation, the freakin’ thing is still rusting away in Chicago, probably getting eaten by rats in somebody else’s garage.? But I’m glad we have one, you know.? Just in case.? And the ice axe.? For which I’m sure there are an infinite number of uses.? Providing you live in Alaska and not SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA which, last time I checked, is where we currently reside.

The main point here is hubby AGREED to a buying ban.? And this time I actually BELIEVED him.? So imagine my surprise when I go to fill the trunk of his car with groceries and instead, find this skulking there:

Yeah, I didn’t really know what “this” was either, until I took the cover off:

Why hello there, absolutely ginormous golf club that looks to cost as much as Heidi Klum’s wardrobe on Project Runway.? And note the most crucial detail—it’s BRAND–SPANKIN–NEW!

? I know,? selling someone’s stuff without permission? sounds bad.? Terrible even.? But seriously folks, we’re supposed to be at least pretending to save money.? You know, for the trivial stuff.? Like the new baby.? Our kids’ college funds.? ? The monstrously large mortgage.? Oh yeah, and sometimes we even like to eat.? I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking a surreptitious $500+ golf club purchase pretty much blows? hubby’s spending ban straight to hell.? And hello, he already has a driver.? A Big Bertha in fact, so it’s not like it’s some Toys R Us special.? But for the man with fifty tents and almost as many (non-working) cars, the word “enough” is meaningless.

And I tried to like it.? Really I did.? In fact, I seriously considered ebaying my husband and keeping the club.? For one thing, it didn’t hog the covers.? Or steal my pillow.

? ? And we never fought over what to watch on TV.

? My? kids kind of liked it.

? Heck, even the hounds seemed to accept it as just one of the girls.? Plus,? having a club instead of a husband? freed up crucial couch space.

? Of course Peanut didn’t think much of it.? Then again, he tries to eat his own reflection.

In the end, though,? I decided there’s something to be said for a little intelligent conversation.? ? Plus, the club’s idea of a good time was driving by a golf course, honking the horn and screaming “SLICE!” just as some poor schmuck was getting ready to tee off.? ? Although on second thought,? the club most certainly learned that trick from hubby.

Besides, I’m pretty sure the club is worth more on the open market.

? At any rate, if you want to read more, go to? http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=120290738165&ru=http%3A%2F%2Fsearch.ebay.com%3A80%2Fsearch%2Fsearch.dll%3Ffrom%3DR40%26_trksid%3Dm37%26satitle%3D120290738165%26category0%3D%26fvi%3D1

Or if that doesn’t work (notice my killer skills with tiny url)? try http://www.ebay.com and plug in item # 120290738165

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The? great purge has finally arrived.? And it’s about time.

No, not that kind of purge–I enjoy my yummies entirely too much to sully their memory with the? flavor of? vomit.? Besides, we don’t clean our toilets enough for me to? chance? sticking my face inside ours on a daily basis.

No, I’m talking about a stuff purge.? As in, cleansing our home of the five zillion useless pieces of crap that clutter every square inch.?

Hubby and I have been vainly attempting to get organized for years.? And finally, it’s? dawned on us why even? the smallest drawer has thwarted our? most? Herculean efforts to? conquer it:

It’s all about the stuff.? Granted,? both hubby and myself? are utterly devoid of any organizational talents.? ? Not to mention, ? the thousands? of brain cells? we’ve sacrificed at? the altar of parenting haven’t helped our cause.? But,? really, people.? Surely? even the most organizationally-void? soul doesn’t clean their garage for an entire day, only to end up having it look like this:?

(And yes, the same totalled car? from over a year? ago is still in residence.? Talk to my husband, because I honestly don’t have an answer for you.? At least, not a coherent one.)

So, finally, after a stunning number of failures, we think we’ve excavated the? root of our issue.? See, it’s not just an organizational thing, it’s a stuff ? thing.? And we’ve got too much.? Stuff, that is.?

I know—for a couple with three and a half graduate degrees between us, it took long enough.? I mean, when your counters look like this, and your garage like this, you’d think anyone with an IQ over ten would have come to this conclusion years ago.? Let’s face it—even? the love child of Pamela Anderson and Dan Quayle? would have comprehended that there are simply not enough organizational devices? in the entire Northern hemisphere to encompass the vast amounts of junk taking refuge in our home.?

So, in a massively ginormous effort to both de-stressify and greenify our lives (hey, this is my blog, and thusly, I am granted the power of making up words as I see fit), we’ve decided to purge.? The plan?? Simple.? We sell some on craigslist, list some on freecycle, and give any leftovers? to charity.

Oh yeah, and I figured I could give some stuff away on my blog.? And here is the perfect place to start:

Yes, that is my closet.? Disgraceful, I know.? But just think—you can assist me in at long last determining the color? of the? carpet inside.? Assuming I actually have carpet in there.? And here’s how it works:

I’m going to be photographing various items I need gone and posting them here over the next month.? If you want that item, leave a comment.? At the end of a set period of time, which I’ll state in my post, I’ll randomly pick a winner and send them the item.? Oh, and feel free to leave a comment even if you don’t want the item–seriously, you won’t hurt my feelings.? Well, maybe just a little.? But I’ll get over it.? I mean, I am giving the item away after all, so logic dictates that I can’t be too attached.?

Then again, there are times when logic? is just? as elusive to me as the? plentitude of Pamela Anderson’s bosoms.

Anyway, I figure it’s a win-win-win situation here–I’m cleaning my house, you’re getting prizes, and we’re all recycling and saving the landfills.? And all joking aside—hubby and I are really serious about scaling down the material goods.

So, here’s the first item.? I honestly don’t think I ever bought this dress–is it possible my clothes are procreating in there?? ? Frankly,? it’s? just a wee bit too short for somebody getting ready to attend her 20- year high school reunion next month (yikes)!? The brand is Billabong, and it’s a size Medium, and never been worn (unless I wore it with the tag once, which, knowing me, is a distinct possibility.? Details are so not my thing).

And if you are one of those people who must see it on first, then here you go:

Love? it?? Need it?? Or absolutely detest it, but just want to get to know your mailman better?? Then leave me a comment.? You have until midnight Thursday.

So, I’m thinking this is not what the Happy Heiny’s manufacturer intended when they called this diaper an “all-in-one”.? But really—doesn’t it make a perfect hat??

Everybody’s a fashion critic these days—even Finley.? ? And? here’s what she had to say about my Tar-jay bling bling sandals:

(In case you’re wondering—yes, that is a gi-normous pile of baby spit-up.? On my foot.)

So they’re obviously not Manolos.? But really, are they that bad??

Well, we obviously know Finley’s opinion.? Then again, just about anything can make her upchuck.? Even her own drool.? The real question here is—does it make me a bad mom to admit how high on the icky scale I rate massive amounts of baby yak?

And for the life of me, I can’t fathom how something so cute produces such a vast amount of yuck:

Stacey and Clinton, don’t get any fancy ideas!

This morning was pirate dress-up day at preschool.? And water play day.? I suppose the two are compatible—after all, pirates did live on ships most of their lives.? Still, I felt a little strange having my son don striped pirate breeches over his blue and orange plaid bathing suit.? I mean, what would Stacey and Clinton think?

We picked up his friend on the way, which always makes for an interesting experience.? Here are just a few scintillating snippets of conversation? from the seemingly never-ending car ride (Note:? preschool is about two minutes from my house).

“Ahoy there, you scarfy dogs!”? (These being the? scurvy dogs’ more fashionable cousins, presumably.)

“Baby sister, quit being so full of happiness!”? (Ah, a budding Morrissey.)

“Go faster, mommy, go faster!”? (He won’t be allowed to drive until he’s thirty.)

“Yeah, Miss Debra, go fast!”? (Ditto his friend.)

Son:? “We’re going faster than a walking piece of nothing!”? (I wasn’t sure if I should take offense, or? if this was some sort of preschooler existentialism.? And how exactly does this relate to pirates?)

Friend:? “We’re going faster than poop plopping down from the sky!”? (Now, that’s an analogy I haven’t heard before, but I suppose plopping sky poop would be quite speedy.? ? Though I’m still not sure what any of this has to do with pirates.? Or Gordon Lightfoot, for that matter.)

Then of course, the inevitable round of “Quit touching me!”? “No, you QUIT touching ME!”? And so on, until my head? demanded? an IV of Extra Strength Tylenol.

You know, Wordless Thursday really has a nice ring to it……

And here’s the pirate swag my son created and brought home.? I’m? thinking less swashbuckler, and more, I dunno, Liberace meets Dead or Alive, maybe?? And the apple stickers are throwing me off a little.? ?

Unless? the? pirates ate them to fight off “scarfy”:

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Moms complain incessantly? about the sneaky, manipulative and, well, hormonal ways of their teenagers (to put it quaintly).? And I’m sure teens come with a bevy of tricks up their sleeves.? I get that.

What? I don’t get, however,? is why those same mamas? don’t tell you this behavior can start much, much earlier—say, at age two?? Okay, so maybe not so much the hormonal behavior? (thank goodness!), but the sneakiness?? Most definitely.

I mean, I’m not one of those moms with her head? buried? in the sand? about her kids.? (Although, my son buries his own head in the sand—frequently.? So if you see him, no, that’s not dandruff).? I? own the peculiarities and challenges that? comprise my little mop-headed, opinionated, over-thinking? four year-old.? Hey, that was me standing in line at Barnes and Noble several years ago, clutching a towering stack of parenting books before my son even deigned to toddle.? Books with titles like “Parenting a Spirited Child”, and “How to Set Limits for Your Strong-Willed Child”.? ? And “How? to Keep Your Royal Pain? in the? Butt Kid? from? Driving? You? to Imbibe Massive Quantities of Alcohol and Smash Your Head and His onto a Very Hard Stone Surface on an Hourly? Basis.”? Okay, so maybe that last one? only existed in my brain.? ? But had? that title? been available for purchase, you can be 100% certain it would be keeping the other? manuals company on our bookshelf right now.

Still, there is no book on earth that prepares you for all the intricate nuances of parenting.? ? Or the minutiae of kids’ brains.? I mean, some children are just born thinkers.? And reasoners.? And lest you start thinking this is a wonderful thing, let me share a little story with you.

We call it “Connor and the Peanut Butter Cup”

Just before his third birthday, Connor is heading back home with hubby from some kind of male bonding experience, which, given my son’s utter enthrallment with trains at that time, undoubtedly consisted of the manly pursuit of visiting the hobby store and? fondling all the Thomas the tank engines.? For hours.? On the way home, hubby stops at the corner gas station for a drink, and of course, Connor asks for a mini Reese’s peanut butter cup (trust me–this is the lesser of many, many sugary evils that hubby exposed Connor to periodically at that same store).? ? Demonstrating? uncharacteristic restraint, hubby says, “You can only have one, and then we’ll bring another one home to mommy.”

So, moments after climbing into his car seat, Connor’s peanut butter cup vanishes, destined for a quick but fatal trip to Tummy Town.? And about a millisecond elapses before he’s demanding mine.? Hubby tells him, no, that one’s for mommy—you ate yours already.

Connor thinks for a moment, then says innocently, “Can I just hold it for mommy?”

Now, my hubby knows our son by now as well, so he’s immediately suspicious.? “You can’t eat it–it’s for mommy,” he reiterates.

Connor smiles again–”I know.? I just want to hold it for mommy, so I can give it to her when we get home.”

Melting under the radiant innocence of my son’s beatific grin, hubby caves and hands over? the peanut butter cup.? A few seconds later he hears, “Daddy, maybe I can just unwrap it and look at it for mommy.”

Hubby, who clearly did not read the “Setting Limits for Your Strong-Willed Child” book referenced above, says something to the effect of “Oh, that’s not a good idea.”? ? Basically, this kind of wishy-washy talk is like an open invitation to sin for spirited children.? Which means the wrapper? flies off said chocolate treat faster than the pants off a whore.? Then—”Daddy, this peanut butter cup’s broken.? ? Maybe I’ll? just eat this edge off, so it still looks pretty.”

By the time “No!” flies from my? sucker’s, I mean hubby’s,? mouth, it’s? too late.? The edge is gone.

? A? few moments later, “Daddy, it’s too small for mommy now.? I’m just gonna eat it all, and we can get her a new one later.”

Needless to say, I did not enjoy a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup that day.

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I don’t know how you spent your last few minutes of awake time last night, but I’m reasonably certain they weren’t squandered discussing the merits of Gordon Lightfoot.? Me?? Not so lucky.?

Here’s how it happened: Hubby and I are getting ready? for bed, and at a decent hour for a change. Not that we’ve been up partying and closing down the bars lately.? But in our baby-driven lives, even eleven o’clock is pushing it.

Just as I’m fluffing my pillow and channeling Doris Day by pulling on my pink satin mask (it was cheaper than black-out shades), disaster strikes.? Because instead of the hum of our white-noise maker (okay, so it’s really just a humidifier sans filter and water–call me MacGyver)? I hear hubby’s voice.?

The talking is? brief enough at first—a few questions about facebook and linkedin, and who he’s reconnected with so far.? Then, mysteriously,? the topic? jumps from old college friends to Phish concerts to, of all things, Gordon Lightfoot.? No, I really have no idea how that’s possible, either.? But those kind of? random neuron firings? happen all too frequently around here.? Maybe it’s the 60′s coming back to haunt me.? Which is mildly perplexing, since I wasn’t born until the 70′s.

Of course, then? hubby? has to look good old Gordon up on the computer.? I mean, how could? one possibly? be expected to ever sleep again until they were reminded of which songs he sang,? songs that most likely held the talent and longevity of a Milli Vanilli number?? So hubby grabs his handy-dandy laptop, only it’s not so handy-dandy because the battery is shot so it always requires a plug, as does mine, come to think of it, and then we’re in business.?

I was pleasantly surprised to? discover that Mr. Lightfoot actually sang some pretty good stuff, including Sundown and If You Could Read My Mind.? So, after wasting even more precious snoozing time listening to samples of his music, then looking up the lyrics to Sundown (what did he say in that line about “sneaking” again?), we finally settle in for bed.

And it’s still only 10: 20 pm, so we’re in good shape. Until hubby starts in with some Connor-isms from earlier that evening.? How this relates to Gordon Lightfoot, I have no idea—hence the emphasis on random neuron firings.? Apparently, my son was having a little chat about swear words.? Connor told hubby that he could start? using some? bad words? when he turned? five.? When my hubby inquired which words those might be, Connor says, “Stupid.”?

Upon hearing that, hubby heaved a sigh of relief, which was short-lived.? “…And f*ck,”? Connor continues, disingenuously.

? I wasn’t there, so I can only imagine the sound of my husband’s jaw slamming onto the concrete and his eyes popping out of his sockets and flying across the garage.? I mean, hubby and I have been known to utter the occasional “butt-munch” or “fart-knocker” at home (and yes, maybe I’ve? spewed forth with? “jackass” a few times while driving), but our profanity pretty much stops there.? But Connor has bionic ears, so who knows.

Hubby said it took him a moment, but he finally came up with, “No, that one’s not okay until you’re at least eighteen.”

Connor apparently thought about it for a moment, then smiled and said, “Or ten.”

After that, of course, all bets for sleep are off, as I’m left pondering how I’m going to convince my son that the “f” word is only legal for use once you’ve reaching voting age.

And I still don’t get what any of this has to do with Gordon Lightfoot.

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Happy 4th of July, from the gang (and the Target dollar bins)!

Skye:? Mom should be banned from Target.

Fergie:? I sure hope this visor’s tasty.? Then again, I eat beer cans.

Peanut:? I’m pretty sure I like visors about as much as I like bunny ears.? Notice my demented look?? Oh wait—I always look like this.

Peanut:? Getting angry now…..

Peanut:? Wait a second—aren’t you the one who put this thing on my head?

Peanut:? Yeah, that’s right—-RUN!