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Today I am sitting in maternity jeans and a Gap maternity t-shirt that desperately needs to be washed. The only make-up I have on is the concealer on my pregnancy-induced chin zit. My hair is in an up-do I like to call a pony tail. I have a project-related deadline, so the little lady will probably be watching movies all afternoon.

There will be no limousines. There will be no glorious 70 degree weather with not a cloud in the sky. There will be no bouquets and arrangements with so many lillies that I still remember the smell. There will be no receiving line where a Mrs. Robinson type instructs the groomsmen not to tell her husband that they all saw her in the local bar earlier in the day. There will be no huge party for 200 of our closest friends where the night ends up with grown men on shoulders with bow ties around their necks, but no shirts on. There will be no huge cake that I don’t remember even tasting. There will be no best man who is irate that he has lost his rental cumberbun, only to find it after he “lifts up” his college-created beer belly. There will be no sign which says “Congratulations Cole and Kristin,” which when turned over says “Congratulations Joy and Marvin” (a couple who must have had great taste in reception sites). There will be no getting drunk (for me at least).

Nope none of that.

But, ten years later I couldn’t be happier and more amazed at what our lives have become. Happy 10th Anniversary Baby. We thought we might go to Italy to celebrate. Instead, we will probably have some takeout, get the little lady to bed, and let the pregnant mamma rest on the couch. Maybe a ceremonial toast and a dance to “She Belongs To Me.”

Much has changed in ten years. But most has not. I love you. Continue reading ‘Wonder if Joy and Marvin made it to Tuscany?’

My latest DotMoms post is available. But here’s the deal: I need your advice. Take a trip over there or feel free to comment here on the subject of the post — whether or not we should bank the cord blood of the little guy. My OB/GYN said not to bother, but I am wondering what everyone else knows and what you have all done (and why you did it). So to all my lurkers out there who are stem cell experts, now’s the time to chime in.

It is definitely official: my entire existence needs to be weeded out.

I look outside and every single bed needs to be weeded and the overgrown perennials and bulbs need to be divided. Pruners need to be called to trim trees. Landscapers need to get here to fix a crumbling wall and a hill that is losing it’s “hilliness.” There are four jobs to do in every direction I turn.

I just spent almost two hours working with the little lady to organize toys. It started with her finding a daddy longlegs living in her dollhouse, which I think is a sign that the cleaning lady hasn’t been showing up in her house either. Polly Pockets are cohabitating with wooden dollhouse members (don’t tell G.W., but I think some of them may have gotten married and procreated little wooden slut dolls) and stray Barbies are claiming eminent domain in every corner of our house. Bins of baby doll stuff are mixed up with cooking stuff. Baby toys need to find a new home, but not too far away because I will be getting them all back out. And every time a baby comes to visit, the little lady falls in love with them all over again and decides they need to come back out.

Stacks of DVDs are waiting to find their cases. They are like little orphans separated from their parents and their homes. Shrek 2 longs to be stacked next to Shrek 1, but Shrek 2 is in mommy’s room and Shrek 1 is in the car. Toy Story 1 is awaiting cleaning in a pile in the family room because it constantly skips somewhere around the time they go to Pizza Planet and I think Toy Story 2 is living in the basement while its case is under our bed. I am sure I meant to pick it up the last time I saw it under there.

The art drawer is stuffed with the hundeds of coloring books and pieces of paper that the little lady NEEDs to keep. Whereas I used to be sentimental about keeping artwork (”Oh look, she drew a really great cat, where can I keep this so she knows I treasured every moment of her childhood?”), I now find myself secretly taking stacks of art, folding them up into some origami form with the drawing facing inward (always inward), and holding it close to my body while I sneak toward the trash can to put it deep, deep in the can. But not too deep, because you can see the drawings through the trash can liner when you empty the trash. And could some fuckface at Crayola please invent markers with caps that cannot be lost, or alternatively markers that don’t dry out?

The magazine basket is overflowing and I’ve already cleaned out all the catalogs. (Note to Pottery Barn, Crate and Barrel, Williams Sonoma, and others: we occasionally buy things from you — usually for other people, but it is always online so stop sending me catalogs. It is no wonder they all seem to focus on organizing your life anymore. Those products help you deal with all the freaking clutter from the catalogs and stuff they send. And a special note to Frontgate: I can’t afford a $400 margarita maker and although your Turkish towels and Egyptian Cotton sheets are lovely, we must choose our mortgage payment over your products. I am still not sure how I got on your list anyway.)

The cabinet with the Tupperware in it is a disaster. In my guilt about throwing away plastic take out containers, I instead wash them out and stack them Jenga style trying to find uses for them that don’t include a landfill for a million years. Sometimes I think it might be nice to have no appreciation for the big picture. Just throw it all away and pretend it really disappears after it leaves my driveway in the trash truck on Thursday.

My inbox is overflowing with email that needs to be tagged, filed, or deleted. Bloglines is full of posts I haven’t read. iPhoto is managing thousands of beautiful photos in a lovely manner — but I really need to print some out or make some albums or do something with them. The little lady’s baby book is falling apart at the binding because of so much use and stuff, so I need to get that under control before I have a second baby book to keep track of. Although if my own family is any example, it is pretty much a given that work on the second baby book pretty much ends on the day the baby is born. Throw some footprints in there and a few pics and you’re done. And then just wait for the child’s therapy bills later on in life.

My closet is packed with both normal and maternity clothes. I’d take all the normal clothes out if I had some place to put them, but instead there are just twice as many clothes in there. That doesn’t include the huge Rubbermaid tubs full of maternity clothes that belonged to either me or my sisters piled up in the basement, somehow not appropriate because of the season or the fact that I’m just not into tapered maternity jeans from ten years ago. Now I see why people seem so generous when they present you with maternity and baby clothes. They are clearing shit out of their house so they are giddy with excitement.

Oh and please don’t even remind me about the basement. Down there are more toys to be organized. Bins and bins of beautiful little girl clothes that I must figure out what to do with. Boxes of notebooks from college and grad school that I don’t think I’ll be consulting anytime soon. Somehow the steps to an effective needs analysis, computing net present value, or the Perry Model of Intellectual Development just are not really helpful right now. If I can’t do it from memory, I don’t do it. Which doesn’t say much for what I have been accomplishing lately. And the basement also contains many items set aside purely for the purpose of a yard sale. Old Kimsta chairs from IKEA that don’t quite go anymore. That lamp from T.J. Maxx that we thought was so cool five years ago. Approximately twenty-three old computer bags or backpacks that don’t fit our needs anymore. And empty boxes. Have I mentioned that my husband has a distinct fear that every piece of computer or electronic equipment he buys will need to be sent back? And if you don’t have the original packaging, what would you ever do? It makes him a great eBay reseller but a pain in the ass as a husband.

I am purposely avoiding the garage because I think that the chances of a car ever going there are non-existent. With three or four different strollers, a few adult bikes that never get ridden, at least four child bikes from various stages, the mandatory Little Tykes equipment, and the other things waiting for our phantom yard sale, the cars have taken up home in the driveway permanently.

I give up. I’d have a yard sale if I didn’t have family functions or birthday parties or hubby business trips lined up from here to my delivery date. I’d do some ruthless cleaning if most hours weren’t spent on projects, or meetings, or preparing meals, or folding laundry, or the grocery store, or doctor’s appointments — or luxuries like taking a shower and actually blow drying my hair.

Oh and I have a spare room to clean out and turn into a magical, peaceful, and serene nursery. Of course, this will occur after I sell the antique bedroom furniture currently there and clear the old varsity jackets and lava lamps out of the closet.

There was quite a long time that I wrote this blog for my benefit only. Oh, how I cracked myself up (and occasionally if he was bored enough, my husband). After having a discussion with my parents the other day about how ridiculous toy packaging has become, I came across this post as I was looking for the color that we painted our spare bedroom, now future nursery (don’t ask why I had to look at my blog for that info, it’s the information age, dammit). So, for fun, I thought I’d post it again. Enjoy.

Free the Little People’s Republic of China

After writing my last post about banning unlevel parking lots in grocery stores, I began to think about other things that mothers should come together to ban: first and foremost, and key to the sanity of mothers everywhere, is extraneous toy security packaging. You know what it looks like… You go into Target and buy a “hush money” toy to try to keep the kid quiet while you look at the latest patio accessories. An hour and $100 later (the minimum amount of money that you can spend in order to exit the Target premises), you get home and the kid wants the toy opened immediately. Then it goes like this… unseal the box that is glued shut with taped tabs holding it all in, remove cardboard sub-structure that is holding the entire toy “scene” in place through the plastic window, remove tape covering plastic tabs holding wires in place, untwist wires in one direction until you realize they don’t go that way, untwist wires in other direction, remove plastic tabs threaded onto wires, remove wire that is twisted up through the bowels of some poor little toy creature, and then…. Free the little boy sitting in his wheelchair just waiting to go to the circus! And then, oh yes there’s more, you must do this 87 times until the whole scene is free. Then you must get a giant lawn and leaf bag to put all the packaging into. (I can picture the landfills now).

My sister gave me a great piece of advice for Christmas morning: open up all the toys before you wrap them and unwire, untape, etc. all the security devices, then throw it all back in the box so the kids can play immediately without you having to stop everything, cut your hands, and swear like a sailor on Christmas morning.

I have another thought… I bought my daughter the Plan wooden dollhouse recently. When I got a box of the accessories, there was a picture of the product on the outside of the box. All parts were packed loosely in the box. No wires. No tabs. No tape. Oh how I love European ingenuity and sensibility. Maybe we could just put a picture on the front of all our US-sponsored, made in China toys and let the Little People run wild inside until some kid comes along to terrorize them in worse ways.

OK… so I don’t think anyone is going to name Britney Spears the Swiffer Mom of the Year or anything. Between the no car seat incident, the car seat facing the wrong direction incident, the baby falling out of the high chair, and now the near baby drop outside the Ritz Carlton in NYC, she’s just not going to be seen on the cover of Family Circle anytime soon.

But, really? Can we really talk? When the little lady was a couple of months old, I was carrying her and a glass of water down our wooden stair case and slipped on my socked feet. I fell down a few stairs and managed to protect her from hitting anything, although I am sure her head snapped back as badly as Britney’s little Sean Preston. Now, I can’t say that I have put her in her car seat completely incorrectly or let her ever ride without one. But my goodness, she tripped. She was leaving a hotel with bodyguards and throngs of photographers waiting for her to slip up. And she did. I really would hate if someone had their eyes on all my mistakes 24/7.

So, I can look past this one.

But the fact that she loves GW and she wrote this poem (remember this one) after her honeymoon? No, I can’t get past those.

Honeymoon Poem
by Britney Spears

A honeymoon at last, to get away from it all
My assistant Fe gave me the call.

I remember it well, as she was smilin’
She said it was called Turtle Island.

I packed my bags light and quick,
Then grabbed my pink dress & favorite lipstick.

We hopped on a plane and took our flight
I slept really well, all through the night.

As we arrive, I turn and look out the door,
People are greeting us right at the shore.

A meal, a shower and some ice cream
Then I threw my man down, you know what I mean!

Magical nights filled with stars
Silence is golden, no running cars.

Private dinners, romantic fires
Little piece of heaven, whatever your heart desires.

Friendly “hellos” and never goodbyes
When you’re having fun, oh, how time flies!

As we sit and prepare to make our part
I thank you, Turtle Island, with all my heart!

~ Britney

In the moment

Here is a link to Sweetney where she includes a wonderful essay on motherhood by Anna Quindlen. Amazing. Just amazing.

When I hear so many veteran mothers telling us to relax, appreciate it all, and live in the moment, I know they are spot on. But why is it that none of us can (and they couldn’t either, hence their advice)? Are we female human beings simply not structured to live in the moment? How can I take a snapshot of my little lady sitting next to me right this very moment eating pretzels (prencils, as she likes to call them) in her denim overall dress and pigtails and make it stay in my brain? Not in film or video, but engrained in my brain. I want to remember faces and moments and smells, but I find I end up searching the depths of my brain to simply remember how it felt to hold her when she was born (not with much luck, I should add).

Or is it that mothers observe such monumentally small increments of their child’s development (minute by minute on some days) that it is nearly impossible to see the big markers and lay down the footage by which we remember them? I sure don’t know.

So, we are back to normal this week after the Pfifth’s Disease scare. I got bloodwork results back and thankfully I don’t have the infection and I AM immune. After a week of being with the grandmas, I am back at home and looking around at all the work that needs to be done. I love this time of year, but I do have to admit that sometimes all the outdoor work starts to pile on. Between flowers and mulch and weeding, it’s enough to get a pregnant woman down. Combine that with projects that are wrapping up and back on the front burner and end of school activities and field trips for the little lady, and I am pooped before I have even started. (As the little lady would say, “Mommy, are you really pooped or are you just tired?”)

Speaking of things getting me down, can I just mention that the little guy is absolutely going to be a boob man? Holy shit. I just received the latest installment of the “my boobs are getting so big, I need yet another new bra” club, and I think I could have gone up even another size. I started this pregnancy in a very civilized 32D bra, and am now up to a 34DDD. Which to some people is considered an E cup. And it is not the least bit big on me. As you can imagine, these aren’t your run of the mill Victoria’s Secret or Target bras. They are freaking reinforced steel girders with circus tent fabric stitched on them (made by Wacoal). Now I shouldn’t be too negative, because the bras are quite comfortable and thank goodness somebody makes them. But when I held it up, the sheer size was quite alarming. The hubby took notice by making fun of my big momma bra, which made me feel even more lovely. I had these issues when I was pregnant with the little lady, but nothing like this. As a matter of fact, when I pulled out my maternity stuff, none of those bras even remotely fit.

Combine the DDD’s with my growing belly, and my back is starting to cry “uncle.”

Oh man. I love to envision my google search hits after a post like this. Boobs, uncle, momma, grandmas… Some twisted shit there.

I’m probably the last one to have seen this, but thanks to Mom-101, I have been brought into the mainstream. She is much more eloquent than I, but man this chick Pink is starting to make me proud that we do still have popular voices of dissent in this country.

My niche

It seems that other than my fabulous writing, people are constantly drawn to this site to get information on getting rid of pinworms or are looking for allergy friendly recipes. Throw in my use of profanity, and you get some weird and wacky Google referrals. So, I mentioned the other day that I was going to make some banana bread (and no, I didn’t get a referral from some sicko who likes to use banana bread as a sexual aid with his momma, but was afraid he might get pinworms). This is all making banana bread sound so appetizing, huh?

Anyhoo. I found a great recipe for eggless, dairyless banana bread. Here you go. It really is great.

Allergy-friendly Banana Bread

1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cups white sugar
1/2 cup margarine, at room temp (I use Earth Balance)
3 very ripe bananas, mashed well
2 cups flour (I used 25% whole wheat, 75% white flour)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 cup vanilla soy milk, mixed with 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon allspice
1/2 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 350 F. Spray a 8×4 bread pan with non stick cooking spray, or lightly coat with margarine.

Sift together flour, baking soda, salt and spices.

Cream together the margarine and sugars. Add bananas, soy milk and vanilla.

Add the wet ingredients to the dry. Mix well. Pour batter into pan. Bake for an hour to an hour 10 minutes. (I used 350 convection and baked for about 50 minutes).

Those Buddhists know their Banana Bread.


Remember there used to be a salad dressing that started with “Pf” but it sounded like an “F”? For the life of me, I can’t remember the brand, but I remember a marketing campaign with salads that were pfantastic and pfresh.

So, I have been talking lately about the curse of the “P” words and communicable diseases in our household. Which leads to me this: have you ever heard of Pfifth’s Disease? Some like to call it Fifth’s Disease, but I am quite sure the original spelling had to have been Pfifth’s. Why might you ask? Because I found out this morning, after dropping off the little lady at school for the first time all week, that it is going around.

But, Imperfect Mommy, you ask, “isn’t that just a nuisance kind of thing with a rash on the cheeks?”

Why yes it is. Except of course if you get it while pregnant.

No, we don’t have it yet to our knowledge. However, it takes 7-10 days to develop the tell tale rash and by that point you are not even contagious any more. So, the little lady was probably in contact with the child before they even knew what he/she had. And then she told a friend and then she told a friend and then she came home and slobbered and threw up and wiped her snotty nose all over her pregnant mommy.

The problem is that if a pregnant mother gets it, in some cases (not many) the fetus can develop issues with red blood cell production/anemia, etc. which can cause the unthinkable — miscarriage or still birth. Apparently it is more troublesome in the first twenty weeks, and the odds are still low that anything would happen. Beyond, 50-60% of people have immunity to Pfifth’s because they have had it already. BUT.


It is still a concern. And after calling my OB-GYN, they suggested I come in for bloodwork to see whether I have had it, or currently have it. The results don’t come back for 7 days though. In the interim, given the swiss cheese state of our collective family immunity, I think I am going to keep her out of school for the next week to cut down our chances and wait for my bloodword results. If I do get it, I guess they have to monitor you much more closely to make sure none of these conditions develop with the baby. And if the conditions develop? I haven’t gone there yet.

So, this morning, I melted down. It seems it has been something every other week since Christmas. Since I got pregnant. This pregnancy has been defined by stages of illness. I bet I could count the number of full school weeks that she has had since then on one hand (and probably more like three fingers). I guess it is just an advance lesson about the complications of having two children — keeping one healthy while the other one is sick, keeping one asleep while the other one yells, ensuring that one is safe without ever taking your eyes off the other.

And I know we can’t quarantine ourselves. But damned if I am going to knowingly subject the little guy to anything that potentially harmful. You have to attempt to grab some control where you can. Even if it is pfake control.

On edit… guess what virus is respsonsible for Fifth’s Disease? Parvovirus B19. Coincidence? Not likely.

Passed along from Lizard Mama

I AM: sitting my ass on the couch on day three of our virus hit parade.
I WANT: to get off the couch so we can make banana bread sometime soon.
I WISH: I liked to run.
I HATE: emptying the dishwasher.
I MISS: being able to sit outside at some college bar and drink lots of beer on sunny afternoons.
I HEAR: Pinky Dinky Doo on Noggin.
I WONDER: who the hell Pinky Dinky Doo is. Don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.
I REGRET: that my iBook is running out of juice and I will probably have to get up and plug it in soon. Oh no. Change that one. I seriously regret that the little lady just spilled my entire glass of water all over the coffee table and carpet.
I AM NOT: an outdoorsy person at all.
I DANCE: very well when I am drunk.
I CRY: very easily for hormonal and “I can’t believe how much I love this little girl” reasons.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: kind to myself.
I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: a serious mess in the kitchen every time I cook, but the results are usually pretty damn good.
I WRITE: to quiet the voices in my head.
I CONFUSE: the top and side corners on fitted sheets every. single. time I attempt to change the sheets.
I NEED: to get rid of a whole lot of meaningless shit taking up room in our house.
I SHOULD: have a yard sale.
I START: a lot of sewing projects that end when I realize I can’t thread my sewing machine.
I FINISH: every last bite of dessert and every last sip of wine.
I TAG: Ventura Mom and George W. Bush.

Can I just get a hearty, hell yeah for what an awful winter it has been for communicable diseases? We all remember the Pinworms ‘06 Epidemic here at the IM household. Well, after that started to clear up, I got Plantar Warts. It was not something I was especially proud of (not that pinworms are) and it wasn’t that big of a deal, so I didn’t even let you, my readers, know about them. So, the daily laundry continued because I didn’t want anyone else in the family to get my little version of HPV. Eventually, the doctor froze them off and I think they are gone for a while. I should mention I have never had them before in my life. I guess that’s what pregnancy immunity does to you.


I have had some sort of virus this week with a fever and cold symptoms. I broke down and took some Children’s Tylenol on Monday so I could stop my body from the gyrating shivers. Yes, if you are back tracking, you may realize I did get sick on my birthday. Which is always a big suck.


On Friday, I had that thought that a mother should never let flow through her head. “Hmmm… I can’t believe we have plans tonight and everyone is healthy and we don’t have to cancel.” Thankfully, Friday night was great. A big shout out to the Lizard Mama for making one kick ass island pork tenderloin salad (and I’m gonna do that meme, I promise). However, Saturday night, my eye started to hurt. When I eventually looked in the mirror, I saw some lovely goop. Yep, for those playing along at home… Pink Eye! I woke up Sunday morning with lovely glued shut eyes that I hadn’t experienced since elementary school. The pregnant homeopath that I am, I searched online for some home remedies for pink eye and came up with putting warm, wet teabags on your eyes and also rinsing with saline contact solution. So there you go google searchers, it fixed my pink eye up within a day or so.


You may not be surprised that my husband finally broke down and agreed to get a king size bed recently. What with the pinworms, the plantar warts, and now the pink eye, I can’t say that I blame him. When I saw my puffy pregnant self walk by the mirror with bloodshot crusty eyes and a tissue stuffed in my head for my pregancy-induced bloody nose, I really couldn’t blame him. I might add that with that bed purchase, we had to buy new bedding and sheets. I might also add that we selected a white duvet and sheets (which for those screaming at home that I am a crazy woman is not such a bad idea because they are washable and bleachable.)


The little lady woke up with a bad dream and seemed feverish last night so I brought her into bed with us. What the hell? There’s plenty of room now. A half hour later the Puking began. By the way, we had tacos and spanish rice for dinner, followed by a chocolate soy ice cream sandwich.

Bleach you are my friend. And if it weren’t for the fact that the letter “P” has made me Pregnant with a son, I might be prying it off my keyboard as we speak. I have had my problems with you before. And don’t think I am not searching WebMD for other “P” conditions so I can figure out what’s next.

Apparently about four, but it will take 60 to pass.

Seriously, can we not as what many call the greatest nation on earth, come up with anything better than this? First, $100 doesn’t even begin to cover two tanks of gas for most people. And B., couldn’t the money be spent on slightly more important things? Say like alternative fuel research and development? Do we not realize that the supply of oil is finite? That countries like China and India are just gearing up for our level of industrialization and consumption needs? That it’s not gonna be around forever? And that beyond that, we need to find a better solution for our environment anyway? (And I must digress about the Arctic Wildlife Refuge … it might lower our reliance on foreign oil sources from 70 to 66%. How does this help us longterm??)

When the oil dries up or the Chinese are the only ones who can afford it after buying up all this wonderful American debt, our country comes to a halt. My brother was here this weekend talking about Peak Oil Theory. It’s some crazy, scary shit. And it doesn’t just mean that we won’t be able to drive our cars or heat our houses (which would be ruinous enough for most). Somewhere he read that the average grocery item in the US is trucked 1500 miles. In Canada, it’s more like 5000 miles. Every product we consume on a daily basis is produced with petroleum at its core — whether for the energy consumed to make it, the energy consumed to transport it, or the raw materials themselves (think plastic anything), etc. The geopolitical issues turn away from wars on terror or axes of evil to resource wars. Those who have the few remaining resources get the power. Think we have enough to fuel our consumption needs?

The fossil fuels argument is not just for environmentalists anymore (and I lump myself in that category as someone who tries to act responsibly for the environment, but within the bounds of practical realism…). There are red-blooded, capitalistic reasons to be concerned.

So, in summation, our leadership sucks. But we all knew that already.

Hey hey… it’s my birthday. And my DotMoms post is up for your enjoyment. It’s like in France when you have to buy everyone else a drink because it’s your birthday.

On that note, the little lady told me last night that we were going to have a surprise birthday party for me tonight, but we had to keep it a secret…. from daddy. That probably won’t be hard to accomplish. As she was reclining in the tub, she informed me that while she was at school this morning, I should go out and buy streamers and balloons for my party. When I said, “anything else I should do for my party?”, she told me I should also clean the house. Great. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to…

I told her I was feeling a little overwhelmed with all of these things I had to do for MY party. And nicely enough she told me, “Mommy, I can make you a list if you want so you don’t forget all the things to do for your party. (Long Pause) But you might have to help me write all the words.”


Anybody need some vicodin? How about prozac or zoloft?

Because the comment spammers have found me in a huge way and I think they are trying to do some targeted marketing among us crazy mothers. I used to get a few comment spams, but the filtering software did a pretty good job of keeping it light. Now something just snapped all of a sudden … and the spam is flowing and the filtering software might as well be a slim regular tampax on day three.

In the beginning, I was excited. What? 12 comments to approve? Now every time I check it’s just more spam with a nice little comment wedged in there somewhere between the virtual druggists’ little advert-iss-ments. Sorry, I think it must be pronounced that way to make it funny– but then I laugh at some weird shit. (I told you that my husband’s name is Cole… well, I used to get a real kick when he went biking to make sure I told him “you better wear your helmet, Cole.” Get it? Helmet Cole? Just like Helmut Kohl, the former German chancellor? Yeah, he didn’t laugh either.)

Oh well. I digress. Comment spammers, please leave me alone. There are no crazy people here in need of medication. No, I am serious. All those posts about mothers and crazy and forgetting meds and needing wine? Just ignore it. No one’s gonna buy your shit. We have a little bit of self respect, by the way. Never without a prescription and the sage advice of our doctor.