Spring Break!

I found my power as a mother yesterday.  In an unexpected place.

We had to take new puppy’s fresh poop sample in for giardia testing.  He had giardia (some nasty intestinal thing you get when you eat yours/some other creature’s poop.  Or just living here in CO will do it to you as well).  He had antibiotics.  Then we test again after a period of time to make sure all the giardia eggs/spores/whatever are gone – thus the need for the fresh poop sample.

This poop sample due date dovetailed with the start of Spring Break for Sissy and Sonny (which will be a STAYcation for us this year since I – uh – don’t HAVE A JOB.  Thanks for bringing it up), so they were home when the fresh poop appeared and the sample was swooped up and bottled.  And this is where my power began (mwa ha ha – evil laugh).

You see, you can pretty much make your kids do ANYTHING you want when you’re holding a fresh poop sample.  Especially when the poop container is most likely tightly closed, but might still be leaking scent.  And the warm poop has begun to fog up the container’s interior.

“Get in the car!  We’re going!!”  Rustle, rustle, scramble.  The kids are in the car, buckled, waiting for me by the time I arrive.  Fastest getting-in-the-car process in the history of our family.  Ever.  [hmmmm…interesting]

Because the ride is all of 10 minutes, naturally they have to get the “bugging each other” portion of the event started right away – which consists of poking and swiping at each other from buckled positions.  This starts as soon as we pull out of the driveway.

“Stop TOUCHING each other!  It’s gonna go bad soon and then you’ll be in trouble and Spring Break just STARTED!” I say (in a shout-y sort of way.  Lenten Promise Mom left a long time ago.  Her work here was done).  I swing the hand holding the poop sample around to the back seat.  Both kids pull back from the container like zombies recoiling from a flaming torch.  [hmmmm…VERY interesting…POWER!!!]

Simultaneous to the poop container slash flaming torch scenario, the kids are also talking about wanting to see the new movie that’s out.  As they describe it, it sounds fairly dumb.  It’s animated and it’s the kind of movie that uses the phrase “filled with pratfalls and hi-jinks” to describe itself.  And we all know that any movie that uses “pratfalls” and “hi-jinks” to describe itself is pretty much GUARANTEED to blow chunks.

My “we’ll see if we can fit that in next week” doesn’t inspire confidence so they move on to another topic.  Sissy has gotten the brilliant idea to come up with as many alternative words for poop as possible:

Sissy: “Poop.  Poo.  BM.  Pies.”

Sonny: “No!  PIES?!”

Me:  “Yes, I suppose.  As in cow pies.” [why am I even PARTICIPATING IN THIS?]

Sonny: “Penis.”

Me:  “NO!  Not even close.  Stop it.”

Sonny: “Diarrhea.  Bowl winder.  Toilet snake.  Poop bridge.”

Me: “Ok.  I’m not sure those are actual terms anyone uses.  How about ‘stool’?” [WHY AM I PARTICIPATING IN THIS???!]

Sonny:  “What?!  Stool??  Mom, that’s dumb.”

Sissy:  “Hey!  I know!!  Let’s come up with other names for throw-up!” [variations-on-a-theme I see.]  “How about puke, toss-your-cookies, vomit and throw-up.  Well, that’s about it.”  [Ok, I’m for sure NOT participating in THIS conversation.  Otherwise I’d add “blow chunks” to the list.]

Me:  “Look!  We’re here at the vet.  Sissy, can you please run this in??”  (Sissy wants to be a veterinarian.  Which means I can make her do just about any dog-related activity I want if I use the phrase “well, you’ll need to get used to doing this if you want to be a vet.”  At which point she promptly complies.  Even to the point of taking up “the torch” in the form of the poop sample container.)

While she’s gone, Sonny – who remains intrigued with the way our vet tested the new puppy’s ears for infection BY SMELLING THEM.  THOROUGHLY AND REPEATEDLY – poses the question, “what if vets had to test for giardia by putting the poop in their mouth??” He then promptly descends into maniacal laughter.

Sissy is back shortly and a round of the “do-your-hands-smell?” game ensues.  (You know that game, right?  You pretend YOUR hands smell and then you ask the other person – ohhhh, say for example someone who’s been holding a poop sample container – if THEIR hands smell.  When they go to smell their hands, you smash their hand into their nose.  That’s a fun game, right??)  Except in THIS version, we’ve skipped the making-the-other-person-smack-herself and we’ve just gone straight to smacking her directly.

And alas.  I turned in my “power” at the vet’s office.  So I don’t even try to intervene.  But it occurs to me during the ride home that this Spring Break STAYcation is going to be FILLED with “pratfalls and hi-jinks.”  I’m going to need a LOT of poop sample containers to get me through.

Crown of Thorns

Have you seen this Lenten Scam?  It’s called a Crown of Thorns.










Some “lucky” group of sinners wins it at an innocuous Friday Fish Fry and then spends the rest of Lent being worthy of it.  The point is to pull out all the toothpicks – one toothpick for every good deed you do.  By Easter Eve, you should have all the toothpicks long-gone and then you can decorate the triumphant Crown of Thorns and reflect on how GOOOOOOOD you’ve been preparing for Christ’s rising.

The problem we’ve run into is that this is TODAY’S picture.  We’re at T minus 2.  And there are a LOT of toothpicks left.  Too many in fact.  We’re not gonna make it.

(Now, if I had said “We’re not gonna TAKE it,” that would be cause to resurrect my 80’s-song-for-every-moment-of-life theory.  But I didn’t.  Instead I worked the word “resurrect” as a pun into a blog about the Crown of Thorns.  Either way, I win.  And so do you.  Thanks for stopping by.)

The main flaw-in-the-plan as identified by my husband is that “there are about 150 too many toothpicks for any one family.”

The main flaw-in-the-plan as identified by me is that “the toothpicks have somehow been BAKED into the crown and now won’t come loose despite our best efforts.”  In essence, this whole thing has devolved into a King Arthur sword-in-the-stone effort; One that leaves you with splinters in your fingers.

But now?  Now we’re in a mad scramble to get the toothpicks gone (break ’em off if you have to – success at all costs!).

Puppy pee-pee’d outside?  Pull a thorn for him!

Sonny (who continues to hold out hope that there might be some way we could actually EAT the bread crown once the thorns are all gone) came down for breakfast after TWO reminders instead of FIVE.  THREE thorns for him!!

Sissy’s uniform skirt made it NEXT TO the dirty clothes hamper?  It’s a pull-one-get-one-free special!  

So.  The lesson here is…should you be the lucky “winner” of a Crown of Thorns next year…give it away to another family of sinners as your Lenten Good Deed.  Either that or stop being such a family of sinners.  At least  for 40 days.  Is that too much to ask?  Now pass the olive-oil-and-balsamic-vinegar.  This is gonna taste GOOOOOOD!

Walking the dog

Me to Hubby:  “How do I look?”

Hubby to me: “Fine.”

I look absolutely ANYTHING but fine.  But this man will not be phased.  He uses “fine” for just about everything – from how I looked on our wedding day to that time I was shuffling to the bathroom before my in-and-out throat surgery.  The bathroom is totally visible to all the other patients sitting in their little partitions-open-to-the-front.  I’m using one hand to push my I.V. along and the other to hold my hospital gown closed; I turn to him and ask him if you can “see anything.”  He says, “No, you’re fine.”  At which point I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror that’s mounted along one entire wall of the day-surgery area and see my ENTIRE A$$ HANGING OUT OF MY HOSPITAL GOWN!!!  “Yeah, folks.  Bow-chic-a-wow-wow.  Enjoy the show.  Me and my ‘fine’ a$$ have to pee!”

While that was a LONG time ago, nothing has changed.  I still look “fine” to him.  I’m wearing a silver hat with faux black fur poking out the front.  It has ear flaps that snap under my chin.  It’s complimented by a hand-crocheted green cowl scarf wound twenty times around my neck , a jacket that makes me look like the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man (‘cept in black), massively big exercise pants worn over top of my actual exercise pants and tucked into silver boots that have shiny black toes.  Alpaca mittens with little alpacas on them cap off the look.  For good measure I wear big movie star sunglasses to add a dash of mystery and glamour to the whole ensemble.

It’s 9 degrees out and I’m getting ready to walk the new puppy.  This is akin to walking a stuffed animal on a piece of a string.  It mostly consists of dragging it along behind you, with the odd throw-it-out-in-front-and-then-catch-up-to-it manuever added for fun.

No, all you dog lovers, I don’t ACTUALLY pull the dog along behind me (much), so don’t report me.  But the whole thing IS an exercise in tedium.  Long catatonic pauses followed by five-foot mad dashes are not my idea of fun.  Added to the fact that the dog is scared of absolutely EVERYTHING (the pine tree, car tires crunching on the snow, the tiny, pretend-dog that exhorts him not to poop in that yard, the fifty MILLION birds that live in every other yard) and it’s no wonder I long to get this over with and get at the day’s P90X assignment.

And when it finally IS over?  It looks like I’m returning from a demented shopping trip to the poop store, swinging my purchase jauntily from my wrist.  “Yes, please, sir.  I’ll have a half-pound of poop, sliced thin and wrapped up tight to-go.  And we’ll be back tomorrow!”

Witch Craft-y?

Me:  Mirror, Mirror, on the wall…who is the LEAST crafty mom of all?



To set the scene:  Daughter had a Sock Hop Sunday night.  I checked around with all the neighbors to see if they had a poodle skirt we could borrow.  Bust.  I checked with various same-sized-daughter friends to see if they had a poodle skirt we could borrow.  Bust.  I traveled to D.C. for my mother’s birthday party and in the process raided TWO nieces’ closets in the hopes of finding a poodle skirt.  Big FAT FLIPPIN’ BUST!!!!

Duh-duh-duh-daaaaah.  Not to fear!  Least crafty mom is here!!

“Hey, I have TIME!  AND an MBA…I’ll make a poodle skirt.  How hard can it be?!  I’m sure there’s something on the internet I can use.”

Turns out people BLOG about poodle skirts.  Super.  Easy.  Poodle skirts!!!  No less than a dozen blogs later and I still can’t figure out how the math symbol PI has anything to do with anything and I’m busy collecting the parts of my brain that juiced out of my ears after my head imploded.  WHY IS THERE SO MUCH MATH INVOLVED IN MAKING A CIRCLE SKIRT?!??!  Screw you, CIRCUMFERENCE!  AND the horse you rode in on!!!

And all you poodle skirt bloggers out there?  GET JOBS!  You SUCK!!!

Because it turns out that taking a waist measurement and dividing it by 4 and then cutting out a waistmeasurementdividedby4 smaller circle on top of the howlongyouwanttheskirttohang bigger circle (which is already too short because I cut it out using a big, dumb, jerry-rigged protractor on the short side of the fabric instead of the LONG side.  GAAAAHHhhh!) doesn’t ACTUALLY RESULT in an appropriately sized, no-sew waist.  It results in a waist that slips down over the head and keeps right on going to the floor where it lands with a plop and looks like the waist of a Christmas Tree skirt!!!!  At which point the easy, no-sew skirt becomes the massive sewing project of the century.

Here’s the net damage…

Poodle applique: $3.78 (using a 40% off coupon at Jo-Anns)

Ribbon: $0.58 (full-price.  Screw it.  I can’t be bothered to find a coupon for 50 cents)

Felt: $4.02 (40% off coupon at Jo-Anns.  Separate trip from the poodle applique trip.  BLEEEEEEP!)

Elastic waistband:  $3.93 (40% off coupon at Jo-Anns.  Yes, a THIRD trip for this crap.  AND?  They wouldn’t honor my 50% off coupon because THIS WASN’T CONSIDERED A FABRIC!!!)

Thread: $1.46 (25% off entire purchase.  ALSO purchased at Jo-Anns.  Don’t even say it.  I’m warning you.)

My time:  5 HOURS/$250 (5 hours x the $50 per hour I COULD have been making as a Principal Product Marketing Manager and MBA graduate)

% of brain now missing:  99%

I could have just gone to the party store and BOUGHT a #%-#^*& poodle skirt for all the time and trouble it’s taken me to make one.

And the best part?  The f*#^ing thing was SEE-THROUGH!!!  So I had to run to Kohl’s and get a slip.  Gawd, I LOVE Kohl’s.  The slip cost $15.00 but I had $10 in Kohl’s cash (oh, no reason I had Kohl’s cash.  None.  Stop asking.).  And I had a 30% off coupon that expired last week BUT WHICH THEY HONORED ANYWAY!  So that whole effort cost me $3.78.  Have I mentioned that I LOVE YOU, Kohl’s?!  Pay no attention to anything previously stated about you here or here or even here.

After I helped my daughter into her skirt (which we couldn’t pull UP over her soccer-player thighs because there was something really, really wrong with the no-sew waistband [which I renamed “the waistband of tears which had to be sewed anyway”] – so we had to pull it DOWN over her head with the usage of circus-freak contortions of her upper body while lots of weird ripping noises came from the waistband-of-tears-which-had-to-be-sewed-anyway), she said, “Wow, Mom!  You should make clothes for people.”

Uh.  No.  I shouldn’t.  The mirror, mirror doesn’t lie.

Hygiene Is Important

I had my dental hygiene check up this morning.  With Marge*.  She was the “first available” hygienist since I had to cancel my previous appointment.  It’s now totally obvious to me why she was “first available” and why she won’t ever be “first available” for me again!

Marge is no less than 80.  And smells like smoke.  Perhaps she’s actually 60 and just LOOKS 80 because she smokes?!?  Either way, this is her second career and she comes in once a month to work with Dr. Chew. (How funny is that?  My dentist’s name is ACTUALLY Dr. Chew.  I choose my dentists the way I choose my racehorses.  All based on name.  I find this to be a sound practice.)

And Marge spent the first 5 minutes of the appointment SNEEZING INTO MY MOUTH!  Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

She claimed she was allergic to the mask (thank God she had a mask on.  But STILL!) so she went to change masks.  Then proceeded to breathe heavily through the new mask as if she were in a P90X yoga class.  I mean, she was LOUD.  In fact I had to glance up at her a few times to make sure she hadn’t fallen asleep and was SNORING instead.

Nope.  Wide awake and looking down at me.  Filling my entire field of vision with her ill-fitting goggles which she had to keep pushing up on her nose.  (Uh – Marge, I wasn’t ok with you sneezing into my mouth and now I’m ALSO not ok with you touching your nose and putting your hands back into my mouth.  Please get better goggles.  And also?  I’m not sure what you’re so worried will hop out of MY mouth and get you in the eye, but you should be LESS worried than I am.)

Then we did this gum-counting-thing where she checks every tooth with her dagger device and shouts out numbers.  (Let’s see, the super annuated perineum tooth is a 2-2-3.  No.  It’s a 2-2-4!  Oooh.  4!!   Apparently 4 is bad and means my death-from-gum-disease is imminent.  Oops.  No.  Got that wrong.  That tooth has always been a 4.  Just loose gums on that particular chopper I guess.  Phew!  Good thing we cleared that up.)  And she also checks for bleeding gums during this process.  (No SH** my gums are bleeding, Marge.  You’ve been POKING THEM WITH A DAGGER!!)


And I can’t flinch my head away because she snuck up from behind and literally has my head in that head-lock move they had to put Dr. Hannibal Lechter in BEFORE they put that face mask on him.  Is this even a REAL hygienist move learned at a REAL school and sanctioned by the Dental Hygienists’ Union??  Or has Marge just “been around teeth” so long that they let her work on them any-old-way for minimum pay once a month?!

But I have to say the head-lock move was SLIGHTLY better than the “gold watch pressed (PRESSSSSSSED) into the forehead” move the dentist from my youth used to use.  (Hi Sissies!  Remember we were just talking about this?)

And the gold watch move was a MILLION times better than the “resting the right forearm across my chest” move Marge employed shortly after the headlock.  I couldn’t concentrate on all her coughing because I was worried I was being molested; And was too busy with all my subsequent self-talk about lines-not-to-be-crossed.  As in, “ok, if her arm goes ANY further, she’ll get nipple and then I’ll KNOW I’m being molested and then I’ll have to say something.   But only then.  Not now.  Her arm is still in a (perhaps reasonable and authorized) chest slash top-of-breast area.  No nipple yet.  Still no.”  At which point she claimed someone has taken her polisher and that she would be “right back.”  She was actually gone 5 minutes and smelled even MORE like smoke when she got back.

“Ok.  Did she just take a SMOKE break?!?  While pretending she was looking for a machine part?  I don’t think this can be right.  Are they allowed to take SMOKE BREAKS?!?  Right NOW???  If she takes another one, I’ll have to say something.  Not now.  Not right now.  Still no.”

But I do have something positive to share about the whole experience.  Marge was the FIRST hygenist who actually wiped OFF of my nose and face all the crap she splattered ONTO my nose and face.  Usually they just let me walk out with toothpaste flecks and flossing detritus all over me.  Not cool.

What’s also not cool?  While Marge got my nose (she was oddly thorough with my nose.  So thorough in fact, that I thought we might have entered a “bonus facial” portion of the visit), she totally missed the bloody gum-chunk sitting right on my neck.  GAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!

(NOTE TO SELF: Don’t wear cowl necks to the dentist.  And don’t see Marge at the dentist.  And pick a different dentist.  The way you pick dentists is dumb.  Totally, totally dumb.  In fact, screw the teeth.  Go get a facial instead.)

*Marge’s name was changed to protect the innocent.  Her real name is Lucy.


[Full disclosure: Even though I’ve been doing P90X since January, today was the first day I’ve done the Plyometrics dvd.  I’ve been substituting running-on-the-treadmill for Plyometrics.  But the new, renewed P90X me is in it to win it!  Thus the Plyometrics maiden voyage today.]

First off, it’s important to note that Tony Horton defines Plyometrics as “Jump Training.”  In which case, I have renamed this dvd to PEEometrics.  And it’s supposed to take 58 minutes from warm-up to cool-down.  But with all the JUMP training going on, it takes me twice as long for the pause-and-run-to-the-bathroom component I’ve had to build in.

But I do have this to say for the dvd: at least the people in this segment are the least annoying of the bunch.  There’s Dominic who does all the exercises on steroids.  There’s Pam (she’s mostly annoying because Tony keeps calling her Pam the Blam.  Ugh.  See?  Annoying, right??).  And then there’s a one-legged man named Eric!  He puts the fear of God into you right up front because now you’re thinking, “OMG!  If I can’t do this stuff and a one-legged man CAN?!  Then I’m a TOTAL exercise loser!!”

And what’s up with the fake band-aid on his leg?  What’s that all about??  Tony “outs” Eric’s fake leg right up front, but I didn’t notice it because I was so focused on his BAND-AID.  (Which technically isn’t fake.  The leg is.)  Also, Eric has this secret smile on his face the entire time.  Which I find odd.  Either this is the best time he’s had all day.  Or he’s secretly planning to jump Dominic in the parking lot afterwards for making the rest of us look bad.

Anyway…this pee-ing after every move is a total drag.  So I looked up “suggested approaches” to overcoming this issue on BeachBody.com.  The go-to resource for questions that Tony mentions CONSTANTLY.   And??  Nothin’.  ‘Cause Tony didn’t plan for that, did he?

That, my friends, is called a Flaw in the Plan.  Kind of like the Flaw in my Pull-Up Bar Plan.  I now have a pull-up bar.  And it’s now mounted over the bathroom door.  The Flaw in THAT Plan is that the bathroom door won’t close when the pull-up bar is mounted on it.  Which is fine when it’s just me and the dog doing PEEometrics (this is the place where MOMMY pee-pees, Teddy).  But add a week-end party to the mix and the Flaw in the Plan becomes self-evident!

So.  Where does all of this leave us?  Basically we spend the entire time jumping and/or doing a variety of cartoon character moves.  When we’re not acting like we’re avoiding the Acme TNT, we’re acting like we’re in some alcohol-fueled Saturday Night Live skit (Mary Katherine lunges, anyone?). And no matter what we do – Tony exhorts us to “Land like a cat!”  or “Land like Spiderman!”  At which point I exhort Tony to bite me.

Pssst!  Dominic.  We’re just doing front-to-back jumps.  Not ALL THE WAY AROUND jumps.  You look like a DEMENTED BALLERINA!  So knock it off, ya moron!  And if Eric’s getting a plan together to GET YOU after class?  I’m totally in!

I’ll just close this blog post with….Squat Jacks??  SQUAT Jacks?!??!  ‘Nuf said.

Why yes, Teddy.  This is where Mommy pee-pees!

Core Synergistics (Take 2)

Ok.  I lied.  My Core Synergistics blog from a few weeks ago was NOT the final word from me on Core Synergistics.

This is.

I’m still plugging away on this end with P90X.  But I ended up taking several days off last week to go visit my mom for her 75th birthday (Happy Birthday, Mom!).  So I’m re-winding the clock and am putting myself back at 4 more weeks to go.  During this Final Push, I’m gonna give it my all.  My new plan is to cut back my running to ONCE a week.  On the P90X “day off” (when I could “rest” [pssst!  Tony’s version of “resting” is to do his 65 minute X-Stretch video]), I’m gonna run.  And other than that, I’m putting running on the back burner and going full-bore with Tony Horton Crazy Town the other 6 days-of-the-week.

(Oh – and I finally got a pull-up bar.  I think that’s gonna help.  The stretch band was nice and all, but I suspect using it around the leg of the pool table wasn’t giving me the same results as ACTUALLY DOING PULL-UPS!)

But I digress.  Back to our favorite topic of Core Synergistics (which is a made-up phrase, btw.  Made up by the voices in Tony’s head.).  It occurred to me in this Final Push, that if I could just get him to stop nattering on and on during the lost 57 minutes of my day, it would be sooooo much better.  I mean, really, Tony.  Just ZIP IT!

And what to my wondering eyes should appear?  But this nifty little feature Tony offers on his dvd’s wherein I can select 1)Normal, 2)Music Off, 3)Music & Cues and 4) Silence & Cues.

Apparently I’m not the only one who likes to exercise with Tony when Tony SHUTS UP!

So I gave the 3)Music & Cues a try.  I was really pumped that this was gonna be great!


Not so much.

First off, Tony STILL TALKS!  Gaaaah!  What’s that about?!  I thought he’d be quiet for once.  Makes me think I should try 4)Silence & Cues.  But I’d hate to spend an hour hearing nothing but the sound of my grunting and weeping.  Boring.

Secondly, we need to have a quick word about the Music in the 3)Music & Cues option.  Apparently a bad 80’s band escaped through the time portal to arrive in 2013 and sell Tony some terrible syncopated music.  Don’t tell me you couldn’t afford better, Tony.

Finally, to cap off the whole on-going horribleness.  Dreya’s still there.  I thought by now she would have patented her Dreya Roll and moved on to greener pastures.  But no.  She’s still there.  All cute and ripped and doing Tony’s dirty work.  EFF OFF ALREADY, DREYA!

And I told you before, Tony.  NO MORE JUMPING JACKS, ya jackdaw!!!  At this point I’d like to suggest a 5th option: 5)Listen to me already; AND Silence – except when you break your silence to tell me when I’m gonna get skinny.

Yeah.  I’m selecting that option next time.

Slimming Panel

Must EVERY pair of pants at Kohl’s have the Top Secret Slimming Panel?!?  I actually call it the Totally Obvious Blubbing Panel.  Because it emphasizes the blub by PUSHING it from mild belly pooch status to UP-AND-OVER-THE-TOP BLUB FEST U.S.A.!!!

But as my husband so perceptively points out, “Blubbing Panel” wouldn’t really be a good marketing gimic, would it?  Excellent point, Sweetie.

Regardless.  Kohl’s – please stop.  If I wanted a slimmer panel, I’d do something totally ludicrous like embark on a 90 day death march towards fitness (hear that, Tony!?  I’m talking about P90X, Ya Jackdaw).  I sure as heck wouldn’t buy it at Kohl’s with my 30% off coupon and $10 Kohl’s cash for every $50 spent.

And I don’t need my lack of success with said death march PUSHED (UP AND OVER) in my face.  So stop it.  Just a variety of relaxed-waist pants would be fine.  I’m not saying Karen Scott/Alfred Dunner elastic (I have my standards), I’m just saying ix-nay on the slimming anel-pay.  O-kay?

Papal Conclave

What with all my free time and all, I was able to watch the procession of cardinals into the Sistine Chapel yesterday as they prepared to enter into the Papal Conclave.

There’s lots I could say here – but I won’t.  Other than to mention that there was one fella’ (sittin’ right in front I might add) who didn’t get the “we’re all gonna wear red” memo.  I mean, seriously.  He was wearing some sort of mostly-black Rasputin outfit.  I hope he doesn’t win.  I wasn’t getting a good vibe from him.

Nor was I feeling real warm and fuzzy towards the fella’ in the wheel chair WHO WAS DOZING during the “give us strength and help us make the right decision” prayer.  Uh…is his vote gonna count?!?  Just wondering how the rules work on that.

And the man LEADING the “give us strength and help us make the right decision” prayer?  Almost walked away from the mic without his hat.  Guys – ixnay on the ats-hay.  There’s too much to keep track of.  You don’t need ONE MORE THING to worry about.  Am I right?

I attended a mass last week said by the Archbishop of Denver.  And afterwards one of the other moms and I were talking about the hat situation going on up there on the altar.  If we were in charge, we’d say leave the hats at home!  No one has time to mess with the hats.  Who can keep all the rules straight about when to take them off and put them back on again.  Again, I’m pretty sure they have more important things to worry about!

But just in case they do forget their hats?  It’s a good thing they have those huge altar boys who follow them around and give them back their hats, which is what happened in the scenario with the Master of Ceremonies yesterday.

So…all this filing-into-the-room business took up quite a bit of time.  And so I never even got to see them enter the time portal and put this thing to a vote.  But yesterday’s vote was a bust so they got to come back OUT of the time portal to board the climate-controlled bus from the Sistine Chapel back to the guest house (can you just imagine the conversations as they’re brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed?!  Goodnight John Boy!  Goodnight Cardinal Scola!  Goodnight Cardinal Scherer!).  They’ll begin the process all over again this morning.

Doesn’t the entire world wonder what they’re doing in the conclave?  Well – I know what they’re doing.  I saw it on t.v. yesterday.  They have a copper-piped still in there.  Which leads me to believe they are making small-batch, single-malt scotch.  In fact, they have TWO stills in there.  The t.v. camera panned away from the filing-in and did a close-up of the stills.  I hope they don’t get too distracted with the distilling process to focus on the task at hand!

And this next question may just be me.  And the fact that I’m looking at all of this through my “I don’t have a job” filter.  But how much is all of this costing??  Let’s wrap this up asap, guys.  If some stay at home mothers were in charge, we’d send them through the time portal with a sleeping bag and a toothbrush.  We’d get a much quicker decision that way.  And while I’d like to also say ix-nay on the otch-skay, they might be on to something.  I mean, they could charge a LOT for it and people would buy it.  That might defray some of the costs.

Either way, the world is wishing them the best of luck.  May the best man win!!

Pssst!  Just one final, quick comment.  Not that it bears mentioning.  Just like the rest of this.  But we gals learned during a bad stint in the 80’s that oversized dresses with drop waists and lots of lace don’t look slenderizing.  I’m just mentioning it because – even though I LOVED the Laura Ashley Years while they lasted – looking back now I can see so clearly where it all went wrong.  Could someone pass this fashion message on to the Cardinals?


That’s right.  They’re busy.