Sprite's Keeper

Protecting Our Kids (Or Are We Just Blowing Smoke?)

Hi, I'm Jen. I'm a former smoker. It's been.....carry the 2.....multiply the 3....Hell, I don't know anymore.

(Sometimes, I compare smoking to drinking. You never really quit. You just take REALLY long pauses because if you are weak, you could fall right back into the routine.)

I started when I was 20. I really couldn't tell you why. It pissed off my parents. I was raging against the machine. I was attracted to Joe Camel. Pick one. I was addicted, although I was not as hardcore as others. I could go a couple of days without one before it would draw me in again.

I finally stopped pilfering cigarettes from my best friend when I found out I was pregnant. I haven't touched them since. (John is extremely grateful since he is not a smoker and hated the smell of it on my clothes and hair and basically EVERYTHING I was around. Funny that I never noticed the smell until pregnancy gave me hound dog strength sniffers and then I was repulsed by something that had never really bothered me just months earlier.)

I'm not here to preach about the horrors of smoking. I understand the horrors, I understand the risks, and I understand that the smokers understand this as well. They hear it on a regular basis from the nonsmokers. My best friend, Susan, is a smoker and has been hitting up the cancer sticks since we were an impressionable 16. (I'm trying to remember here, Sue. Let me know if I'm off. I mean, off on this. I know I'm just OFF, but the off I'm referring to is, aw, you know what I mean!) I know she knows how harmful they are, and I would love to see her quit, but I will not hound her with pamphlets when she visits, because I will lose my Starbucks friend. And I'm already losing some Starbucks in my area. And that is sad.

I am writing this post because another blog friend, Lisa, over at Boondocks Ramblings, wrote an interesting post about buying a Curious George book for her son Jonathan, since he seemed to like the monkey with the wandering mind. She looked through the book and saw something in one of the pictures which really is shocking these days, a man sitting on a picnic blanket with his family and smoking. (I'm sure that back in the day this illustration was originally produced, the audience would have been more horrified with the clothes the man was wearing than the burning cigarette.)

I don't think her intention was to call attention to the irresponsible artist who drew that illustration, more to point it out in a Ha!Ha! Look what I found! way since this is something you just don't see in kids' literature anymore.

Yet, I know many mothers personally, who would have placed a call to the publisher and demanded a reprint, recant, and burning of the "offensive" books along with full refund and public apology.

Why is smoking so offensive to parents nowadays? Why is it being rated like a language in the films? I'm going to focus on pop culture here, mostly because Lisa found this picture in a children's book, a popular one at that.

In today's All About Health-minded society, we are constantly reminded about the dangers of nicotine and smoking and the steps Hollywood and the media at large are taking to stop smoking from looking enticing to the virgin-eyed teens (RIGHT.). It's even affecting the ratings system in films so parents can go the extra step to make sure their child won't see the character puffing away on film. (Although they only have to look out the car window on the way home to blow that theory to Hell.)

However...

I find it almost impossible to escape tobacco's history in pop culture and the way it was almost celebrated back in the 60's and prior. Almost every classic movie before then had a major character smoking in it. Women were offered cigarettes from their would be heroes, because it was considered classy and polite. ("Cancer, milady?" "Why, thank you, kind sir.") "Thinking" men needed a cigarette or cigar to occupy their fingers and mouths while they chewed the scenery in the days of method acting. It was cool. ( Did the first shot of Danny Zuuko not have a cigarette hanging out of his mouth in "Grease"?) (And yet so many kids with the ever obsessive parents out there know every line to the movie...Whoa, did I just stumble upon a possible contradiction? Yes, I think I did.)

 Smoking is and always has been a lingering smell in pop culture. It even infiltrated the cornerstone of our most revered childhood dream makers. WALT DISNEY was a notorious chain smoker. (They airbrushed the cigarettes out of the pictures in the 80's to make him look more innocent because EVERY picture had a smoldering cigarette in it.) Smoking made it into the animated classics like "101 Dalmations" where Cruela Deville was puffing away.

No matter how much we try to shield our kids from this stuff, they will see it and notice it and may even imitate it. (Does anyone else remember the bubble gum cigarettes back in the 80's where if you puffed really hard, you could blow sugar smoke? That didn't do any damage, right? Right?)

It's our jobs as parents to educate the kiddies and make sure they understand why they shouldn't smoke. It's our jobs to be as proactive as we can to make sure our children understand the dangers of it and how to react positively to peer pressure.

But when they turn 18, our jobs will become more of a consulting gig, and we will have to take a back seat as they decide for themselves whether or not to ride the tobacco train, and no matter how much we tried to shield them or teach them about it, as my parents did with me, some of them will still go ahead and puff away, as I did.

Maybe, this will all be a non-issue by the time Sprite is old enough to be impacted by it, but I will be honest with her and tell her that Mommy did smoke when she was younger. But Daddy didn't. And hopefully, she'll inherit Daddy's common sense.

Tuesday, Toddlers, and Tires- A Karma-dy!

Did I mention that I used to like Tuesdays?

"Tuesday! Why hast thou forsaken me? Because I blogged about you? Issues, dude!"

All right, it had been two weeks since John was laid off and a day after he got hired at his new company, so Tuesdays already had a black mark upon them. But this Tuesday, even though it lost to last Tuesday, made a valliant effort to be miserable.

As the work day ended, I looked forward to making the trek home with a hungry Sprite, get her fed, make a casserole for a Pot Luck my job was having the next day, and take on the Nord. I had a full plate.

Tuesday decided I needed more..

I picked Sprite up from school and we made our way home with the rest of the rush hour warriors. Our route has a break in it where the majority of the travelers separate from the rest, thus lifting the congestion and making the ride a little smoother.

When we hit the break, my dash emitted a audible warning. I looked and read that my tire pressure was low. I considered this as I continued on my way, although fate would not have me consider it for long. ("Cue ominous music!") 

Ten seconds after the light came on, I felt the vehicle shake slightly as a burring sound (That's the only way I know to describe it, like someone rolling their "r". Which reminds me, I can not roll my "r"s. John, Spanish being his original language, can roll em with the best of them. So, I think he should roll mine too, saving me the effort and humiliation when people think I'm trying to swallow my own tongue.) as I immediately removed my foot from the gas and shoved it full on into my mouth to stop the fresh stream of curses about to spew out.

I steered the van into a recently abandoned model home parking lot (there are tons of these in my area with empty parking lots to match the increasing amount of empty houses) and got out to check. Yup. There it was. Right rear wheel, flat. Crap.

Sprite was busy watching a DVD while trying to strangle her doll with its own hair (Huh, looks like she'll be a multi-tasker.) and ambivalent to my stress as I grabbed the cell phone and dialed R-E-L-I-E-F (Read: home).

"Hello?"

"John, I've got a flat."

"(Sigh). Where are you?"

I did my best to provide proper landmarks and hung up, waiting for my knight in his silver Honda to drive up and save us as I noticed thunderclouds looming in the distance.

John arrived with his Fix-A-Flat can and we tried to patch the tire. No go. "There's the problem", John said as he looked around the tire. A 2 inch wide razor was embedded into the tread. As the can emptied into the tire, the air came rushing out through the razor wide hole. "We're going to have to change it."

As John set about getting the jack out of the van and the spare tire from under the van, and (smart man, I told you I married a smart man) provided some cookies he had thought to bring along for the now impatient Sprite who wanted food or would start rioting, he mentioned to me in passing, "When you blog about this, tell them that this isn't the first time I've come through for you." O-kay.

This isn't the first time he's come through for me. (If you want more than that, you'll need to ask for it.)

Thunder sounded overhead and fat raindrops began to dot the pavement with the promise of a beat down if we didn't get our butts in gear. I helped John as best I could (mostly standing over him and making sure he knew that if he didn't get this tire on quickly, I would nag him endlessly. I'm not sure if he was trying to beat the rain or shut me up, but it worked.)

Lightning flashed across the sky as we quickly stowed the now defunct original tire and random jacks and nuts (Why was there a spare nut? Is that bad?) and made our way home to save the rest of the evening.

The end. (No, it isn't, but I'm sure I've reached the end of your patience level.)

Oh, yeah, Tuesday? You are officially on notice.

Blessed are the ignorant..

Dear couple with the baby we saw at Fireshouse Subs on Sunday,

Hi. We're the family who was sitting at the table next to yours. Ma'am, I saw you looking over at our table with a mixture of pity and apprehension. I know. I can admit it. We looked a little pathetic, didn't we?

Mom and Dad shoveling food in faster than we could swallow while trying to convince the cranky toddler to try a couple of bites and throwing pieces of sandwich from one tray to another, playing a sort of mealtime hopscotch. And while we're doing this, we're arguing with each other over whether or not to give the tot a sip of soda while the tot, obviously strung out on preservatives and all sorts of bad food, is reaching for the forbidden soda and whining for it. And then Mom snarls at Dad to go get the girl a "cookie, dammit!" Sorry sight, right?

I heard you telling your parents (at least I assume they are your parents considering you called them Mom and Dad, but I could be mistaken) about the great lengths you had gone to find the organic Cheerios you were feeding your son and how, since he is beginning to chew harder foods, you are being careful to read the ingredients on every product you bring into your home. 

I saw you give the boy, who is probably about 10 months right now, a toy to play with and he occupied himself with it quietly, giving you all a chance to enjoy a leisurely meal while the toddler (and bad influence) at the table next to you was building a complicated looking structure with her pieces of bread and meat and then going all Godzilla on it with one swipe of her hand. (If I could compare the two tables, I'd say your table had the perfect weather with sunny skies while our table was experiencing hurricane warnings with a high chance of scattering debris.)

It's okay. I'm not taking it personally, because I know something you don't. You will be us. Soon.

Your day will come. When your son begins to walk, and talk, and decides he's not on the same page with the decisions you've been making, your day will be here.

You will have that day when your perfectly clean child decides to take the entire plate of food and hold it over his head, showering sodden bits of bread and lettuce all over his pristine curls.

You will have that day when you are throwing food from one parent's tray to the other because your obedient son all of the sudden decides he only wants food from Daddy's tray and even though Mommy is the one supplying the food, you will do everything you can to make sure it looks like the food is in fact coming from Daddy's side of the table to avoid the tantrum that he will initiate anyway when he catches you in the act with the turkey arcing through the air.

Your day is on the horizon when your golden child, always contentedly sipping from his sippy cup filled with exactly one part nursery water and one part 100% apple juice, will look up and realize his entire life is now hinging on one sip from the soda you are enjoying yourself, and you will be forced to have a battle of wills with yourself and your husband over whether or not you should give in and let him have a sip, thinking on one hand that you may be providing the gateway junk which will in turn pave the way for more bad food to be allowed entrance into his unsullied temple and then the other hand will slap at you with "It's just a sip. It will shut him up." And you will cave.

You will wonder where your good eater's appetite has gone as you make quick calculations in your head over how much turkey and bread and lettuce made it into his mouth versus the floor and whether or not a cookie, while not a substantial source of vitamins and protein, will hopefully fill him up and then order your hapless husband to get the freaking kid a cookie, the same husband who is tired by now of playing hoagie hockey and defending his own meal from marauding tiny hands, and he will look up blankly at your request making you repeat the demand with a "dammit!" and the child, upon hearing the word "cookie", will cry for the cookie while not taking the time to understand that the timespan between hearing the word "cookie" and the cookie's actual appearance is not instantaneous and the volume level will rise until not even the appearance of the sweet merciful tantrum ending cookie will calm him down.

Yes, mark my words. You will be here.

So, no, I'm not taking your pitying looks to heart. Every dog has its day and every toddler has his tantrum. And yours will have his.

In the meantime, soak up all his cuteness and obedience for this is his way of letting you rest up before the real fun begins.

Cheers,

The mom at the next table

Got Guilt?

Wouldn't that make a better slogan than "Got Milk?" Even the lactose intolerant folk can identify with it!

Guilt is an emotion I am very familiar with. I feel guilty when I haven't called my mom. I feel guilty when I finally do call my mom. I feel guilty as I'm dialing the number. I feel guilty when we're done talking, because I live 2 hours away and can't get her granddaughter to her as frequently as I would like.

Evonne Lack, over at MOMformation, wrote a funny expose on Guilt and how it affects us mothers. This got me thinking about the amount of guilt I generate on a daily basis. (Seriously, if I could channel that guilt into my gas tank, I would be sitting pretty in a Hummer while the rest of you sit at the pumps!)

Being of a certain faith, I joke about guilt having been brought upon me from birth to now. I mean right now. I feel guilty right now, because I'm sitting here typing a snarky post about guilt. I'm gonna get smiten. (Or is it smitten? No, that's something different. What is the passive tense of smite? Why didn't I pay better attention in Grammar? And now there's something else to guilt up my day...)

Why do I feel this way? Why do I feel guilty for turning down invitations to parties or play dates? Why do I feel guilty when I give assvice? Why do I feel guilty when I cut off Joe Schmoe whose turn signal has been blinking "right" for umpteen minutes and has been riding his brake for the last 2 miles?

I have never liked being on the receiving end of guilt and always make the comment, "No guilt trips please. I haven't packed." But it is still inherent in me. I think I inherited it from my mom, along with her curly hair issues.

I'm mostly used to the clenching feeling in my stomach by now when I feel like I should have done something earlier or remember the forgotten something I should have done, so it barely registers anymore at first other than a "Oh, crap" and a hastily scribbled note I jot only to forget the note and then remember it right when I see the note about 24 hours later and any chance I had given myself to rectify the guilt is now a small ripple in the fresh wave of guilt. (Begin Tangent-when you read a run-on sentence, do you find yourself gasping for breath as if you said it audibly? If so, I'd say you have issues, but I do the same thing..just food for thought. -End Tangent.)

This weekend, I saw a cousin of mine whom I love dearly. We have been missing each other for, um, EVER, and were trying to meet up over Thanksgiving weekend last year when I was in town with the husband and Sprite. Sprite got sick and I ended up shortening our time there and forgot to call. I have been saddled with guilt ever since. I kept thinking, I should call Shira. Why didn't my butt pick up the phone and call? Because I would not only be owning up to the guilt, but speaking to the person I had slighted. So, I continued to feel guilty about the fact that I hadn't called her and then added to that guilt with some more guilt based on the fact that I continued not to call her to apologize for not calling her in the first place. (Sigh.) If guilt had a shape, it would be round.

So, when I saw her this weekend, I had the opportunity to stop the cycle (and the madness!) and finally apologize for not calling her and owning up to what a horrible cousin (and dresser) I am. We hugged, we talked about our kids, the fact that her husband is a former WoW player (left eye twitching..), and everything OTHER than the entire thing I was feeling so guilty over.

After she left, I immediately remembered what I had wanted to say, but the guilt was a little less stinging, so I was able to shove it into my closet along with the other skeletons and close it in for a while.

And so it goes. I've got guilt. I will always have guilt. And I will try very hard not to pass that guilt onto Sprite or anyone else.

Well, it's almost 10pm now, and if I want this post to publish in the morning, I need to yank John off his World of Warcraft raiding and pillaging so I can use the computer. Yes, I know he gets to play until 10pm, but my blog comes first.

Funny, I don't feel guilty about short handing John's time on the computer. Huh.

(Call your mother.)

(Editor's Note: Ash commented that the past tense of smite is "smote", which will also pass for passive tense as if I am being smote, so thanks Ash for the definition, and for calling attention to the fact that I was too lazy to Google it and find it myself.. something else I now feel guilt over... Stop the cycle!)

(And Ash, you're right, "smote" is fun to say.. smote smote smote smote...)

Blaming this one on Susan

My best friend sent me this link this morning.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24357277/from/ET/

I usually don't write about religion unless in a passing way. This article in no way represents me or my faith (or faiths) or my beliefs about parenting.

I'm just shocked by the story and merely passing it on.

I'm sparing you my personal opinions and comments, because Sprite will someday read this and I would like her to learn them fancy curse words from me directly.

I'm thinking this article is payback from Susan for putting that song "I hear the secrets that you keep" in her head all day Tuesday.

We're even now.

It's her birthday, but it's MY party!

On Saturday, I brought Sprite to a one year old's birthday party. We had a good time and a lot of Sprite's school friends were there, but I noticed how elaborate the whole shebang was, and the expense the birthday girl's parents went through to celebrate their daughter's first year. The cake was a perfect (HUGE!) replica of her invitations. Balloons and streamers all over the pavilion shouted for all that she was being celebrated. The food was mountainous. The camera was set up on a tripod, aimed at her seat of honor, recording hours of people walking right in front of her seat. (I would hate to sit through the playback on that one.)  She, herself, looked pretty clueless as to why these people were congregated and sat in her adorned high chair, more confused than sociable.

That was when it hit me. Who was this party for? Her or her parents? Why did they spend so much money and time feeding other people and putting the entire thing together for it to go largely unnoticed and more than likely forgotten immediately by the guest of honor?

I'm going to throw myself under the bus here. (Would that be considered mental suicide? Whoa, way off topic. We'll jump that bridge another time.) When Sprite turned one, I flip-flopped between throwing her a party, having a small barbecue at my parents' who live on the East Coast (where everyone in our immediate family lives), or just coming over for the weekend and having a little cake and coffee (mm, Starbucks..oh, sorry!) get together for everyone to just see her.

Sprite had no idea what was going on (I read her diary. Unless she was faking it, she really was not clued in.) and would not know it was her birthday so would she really be missing anything?

In the end, I chose to go the party route. We threw a party at a park close to our family (and two hours away from our home) and had almost 50 guests (almost all of them either family or close enough friends in which they are considered family anyway) come by to greet the birthday girl and share in her day.

I remember thinking about that party every day for a month. We did custom invitations (by way of Snapfish) to let everyone know of the impending celebration. I ordered platters from Publix, Costco, and a local pizza shop to make sure everyone had a choice of food. I had a big box of goodies for the kids coming in lieu of goody bags, but there were candy bars, puzzles, little games, bubbles, you name it. My sister (who is an amazing baker) made 50 cupcakes and arranged them artistically with candy flowers to capture the garden theme I wanted to convey. Yes, I even had a theme!

I had plates and matching silverware. Juice for the kids, soda for the adults. Veggie platters, fruit platters. Balloons, tablecloths, banners, oh, my! This kid was covered.

John was wise and stayed away from the party planning. His involvement was budget. I couldn't go over a certain amount. $300.00 was his total.

I did stay under budget by canceling plans for a face painter and possible arrangements for a bounce house, and even I thought the Donald Trump impersonator was a little much, and the party went ahead as planned. We all had a great time, but the birthday girl looked less than impressed. She looked closer to pissed when I pressed her hand into her cupcake to capture the "Oh, look how my little darling made a mess of herself with birthday cake!" moment with my camera. She held her hand out to me with a look that said simply, Clean this. I didn't get my messy cake face picture after all. She then proceeded to fall asleep about 2 hours into the party ( She could have tried a little harder to keep up with us for the rest of the four hour fiesta, but negotiations broke down after the cake incident.) To keep her involved (on display), we set her pack-n-play in the middle of the shelter so everyone could see her, but she decided her rest was more important and snored the rest of the afternoon out. The nerve. 

We never opened presents, choosing instead to bring them back to my folks' house and open them later that night when Sprite was in a better mood and not feeling so cramped by people.

As I looked around at the mass of gifts, most of which she really didn't need, I got my reality check. This party was for us, not her.

Now, John will probably throw his two cents in and say how I masterminded this campaign and all he did was say, "Can you keep us out of the poorhouse on this one?"

This party was to celebrate the fact that we had kept our little one alive for one freakin' year! That was something to be celebrated! And look, she still has her fingers and toes! And you all thought I couldn't keep a HAMSTER alive! Hah! And ohmygoodnesswouldyoulookatthat, she's taking some steps! Celebrate me and my accomplishments! Yeah, she's the birthday girl, but I made her! Me! Me! Me!

(Wow, getting ahead of myself there. Taking a step back..surveying the damage. Yep, pretty bad.)

(Okay, moving on.)

I don't fault anyone for throwing their kid a first birthday party. I'm just observing and remembering what we did for Sprite, only my rose-colored glasses have been removed. And I am going to put them away until the next child is born and I conveniently forget the torment I put John Sprite through and make the new kid go through the same thing. (It's only fair.)

This year, much later this year, Sprite will turn 2. We will throw her another party, but more geared towards her. We will invite her playgroup friends (about 10 in all) over for a toddler tea party and cake. The entire thing will be under 2 hours and there will be no face painter or Donald Trump impersonator.

I'm still ruminating on the bounce house though.

Hating the game, not the players

(Editor's Note: I read the comments on my WoW post this morning, and while most of the comments are very supportive of my WoW bashing ways, one really stood out. I mean, it was 900 pages long. It had to! So, I'm reprinting it since I believe it needs a response. This commenter and I have had many verbal sparring matches over the years. I respect the hell out of him, so it's okay if I rip into him a little. He won't mind. Honest!)

Alright Jen,   
(For those who do not know me, my humor is cynical which means a lot of screaming and finger pointing but in the end it’s just a rant that I’m having fun with. If this is offensive to someone please understand it is just a joke)

Let me try to explain and defend my friend John.  I know you are a very educated strong willed woman and living with you for several months, I know your personal time is spent doing things that you deem worthy.

I will start with your first paragraph.  Stealing time… What time?  The time you guys are watching TV together like a mindless drone, laughing at the jokes you have heard countless times in other sitcoms, talking about how you like a particular character in this TV drama and rambling about it for hours and hours afterward.  Does the show Friends and Scrubs ring a bell?  Would you call this quality time spent together?

TV, books and crochet are activities hence the word ACTIVE.  What WOW or any other game brings is interactivity. In a book the story is already laid out for you and you are vicariously living someone else’s life.  In a game you are control of the life and making decisions that govern how well this character evolves and competes with others, and god knows John could use some kind of decision making in his life even if it is in a pixilated world.

Would it be any different if he was a mechanic and spent this time in the garage building a motorcycle or hotrod? If he was doing the laundry and re-arranged the towels differently then what you are accustom to would you not complain about his folding skills? If he spent his every waking hour with you, would you not complain that he needs his own life and you need some space? The question you need to think about is before John started playing WOW what was your major complaint about him then?
 
I’ve been married for almost 12 years and alive for 36 and this is what I have noticed from both being married and watching my parents ... People get old, gas prices always go up, heath insurance is a joke, it’s always easy to pick on a world leader when living in a free country and wives will always complain about their husbands.  Truth be told, I said it, the cat is out of the bag. Come one everyone say it with me “Wives will always complain about their husband” Their we have said it, it’s kind of an eye opening isn’t it.

So pick your poison cause in the grand arena there are husbands that cheat on their wives, drink till they drop, neglect there fatherly responsibilities, get in to fist fights at the local pub, get arrested and much much more. If you can’t think of any others, then I suggest you turn on the local news. You live in south Florida, I’m willing to bet that within the 1st 5 min of the news there is a story of someone’s husband, boyfriend, or ex-husband that did something catastrophic.

You should be thanking your husband for picking a hobby that keeps him home in the house, with in ear shot and around in case there is a real problem. You should be thankful he is not out getting into trouble.

Don’t get me wrong, if he is neglecting his child, work, and you front yard grass is 8 inches long or he takes a 5 day vacation from work to sit in front of the computer with a 24 case of coke and a bag of cheetoes gaming away and only getting 2 hours of sleep a day… then yes, congratulations you actually have a real problem.

Let the guy have some fun, life is too short.

P.S. If you are OR thinking about scrubbing the grout out of your neighbor’s house I would suggest seeing a doctor cause your OCD has gotten way out of control and that my friend, is a real problem.

Love you guys miss you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ah, Richard,

My old roommate, husband to a wonderful woman, father to 3 beautiful children. (So I guess all your time wasn't spent gaming then, huh?) Discounting your political preferences, there's nothing bad I can say about you. About your comment, well, you're right. The fact that John is there if I need him (read paragraph um, somewhere in the middle, about the spider killing) is wonderful. He has never put the game over me or Sprite in many years. (Now, if you want to get into Diablo territory which I thought we buried years ago, you'll have to admit we had a problem.)
I have gotten over my Friends addiction and even stopped Tivo-ing old episodes (I mean, even I get a little tired of the Ross/Rachel cycle), but Scrubs remains a favorite (which you really should watch since Dr. Cox and you are remarkably similar-in a good way!).
My confession is, I have gotten used to having my evenings to myself. I use my treadmill, read, write letters to Sprite, campaign for literacy, the time is pretty much well spent. We've settled into a routine which I am very comfortable with.

I am completely aware of the levels of addiction and what it could be like and I'm very happy to say John is nowhere near that. He understands his priorities and he knows what comes first. (Did that just sound redundant? Yes, yes it did. Should I fix it? Maybe later.)

Oh, and one more thing I actually don't mind about the game. This game gives John a chance to be with his friends, even those who live states away. This game keeps him connected with you (one of our beloved friends) and others who have joined your GUILD. (That was correct wordage, right?)

I cannot fault him that. I cannot fault you. You two are both devoted fathers, husbands, and men. I am proud to have you both in my life. So, I refer to the title of this post when I say it's okay to hate the game, not the players.

I do take exception with one of your comments about controlling your character. Yes, reading a book is passive and you live vicariously through someone else's words while reading. However, controlling your character in a computer game is also passive (well, maybe passive aggressive since you all like to whoop ass on other players) since none of it is happening in real life. (There are also limited choices since everything your character does relies on the server's programming--ooh, that sounded geeky! Anyway, your character can only do certain things.You do not have the ultimate power. You have the power the server allows you to have.) There are people who live their entire lives as meek, understated individuals, afraid to make their own choices and live a reality, so they choose to enclose themselves into a virtual safety blanket of characters and power, none of which is real, and none of which will help them deal with actual society.

That is my problem with the game. While I can read and get into a book, and become engrossed with the characters, the book has a beginning and an end. The book ends, and I am back to reality, and the dishes are still not done, dang-it. With WoW, the game never ends. And I think this is where the addiction happens. Players get caught up in the game and don't know when to put it down since there is no ending. There is not really a way to just get up and say, "You know what? I'm done. I'm calling it a night." Nay, nay. There are more quests to be done, more enemies to slay, more characters to beat the ever-loving crap out of. (Reminds me of clubbing days when you saw the partiers who could not come to terms with calling it a night. They stayed until the owners or homeowners kicked them out.)

Maybe if WoW had time limits, and you were only allowed to get to certain areas within a 24 hour time span, us spouses and significant others would be more accepting of this pastime. (But then we wouldn't be able to complain about it. Life would be without drama. We as wives would have absolutely NOTHING TO NAG ABOUT!!! Scary stuff, that.)

And now, unlike the game, this response must end.

I must get back to the dishes and the laundry and the grout cleaning, and crap, there's that spider again..

With much love and respect, (And a guilt trip-it wouldn't kill you to visit!)

a Wife Aggro

Treadmill Trauma

My treadmill is broken!

NNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHY? WHY? *Sob!*

What am I going to do? How am I going to continue on my weight loss?

The treadmill was always my motivation. It mocked me every night and I answered the call and showed the treadmill who was boss. Now, it is mocking me even further by being SILENT. It just sits there. SITS THERE!

And for snark's sake, I slammed my big toe into it on my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I begged John last night to call in a surgeon, or a treadmill repair guy, to resuscitate my beloved foe.

I'm praying for repairs to commence immediately.

If I set up a treadmill fund, will anyone give? A damn?

Hopeless, I tell you. Hopeless. *Sob!*

Ooh, a Twinkie!

Daylight Stealings

I hate you, Daylight Savings! (shaking fist in the air) Curse you! Curse you for mocking my organized life!

I am NOT changing my clocks just to spite you. And YOU can bite me. (However, Sprite just did this morning, so you're just gonna have to get in line....)

Saturday night, I was a controlled, organized, everything set out the night before to avoid last minute delays the next morning which may cause us to run late and I hate being late, woman (who happens to like run on sentences and thinks punctuation should share my hate with Daylight Savings. Curse you, Daylight Savings!)

We had a busy day on Sunday with two events which were both on the East Coast of Florida, and since we live on the West Coast, that meant driving long distances. I know, you're thinking, wow, a day trip to the East Coast which involves at least 5 hours in a moving vehicle with a 16 month old, no wonder Sprite bit you. Well, that's another post, maybe, so please, stop getting ahead of me. My blog. Mine!

We had a birthday party for a two year old at ten in the morning and a family get together at Jeff and Loni's (yes, that's right, they're the ones having a girl, gold star for you!) at noon.

I made sure Marlee's birthday gift was wrapped and in the van (in the locked garage, thanks) and the invitation (which was brilliantly printed by the way and laminated since it had Elmo on it so you know the Sprite was going to want to play with it and we were going to need the directions from it, so win win, Marlee's parents totally rock for that one) was also in the van waiting for directions to be plugged into our navigation system. I also made sure Sprite's diaper bag was packed for possible explosive diapers and checked for possible explosives (because you never know with toddlers..) and even made sure she had snacks and drinks for most scenarios barring a freak hurricane. Oh, yeah, and the van was gassed up and ready to go too. So, yes, you can say I was prepared.

Since it would take 2 1/2 hours to get to the birthday party, I set my alarm for 6:15AM. We were to leave by 7:30AM latest, which would give me ample time to get Sprite up and dressed and fed and tressed and strapped in and stressed (she still hates her car seat), so I went to bed feeling pretty smug,

(You know where I'm going with this, don't you? You are so smart. Another gold star!)

The alarm went off at 6:15AM. I cannot blame the alarm clock, although it would be nice. John came into the bedroom (he had risen an hour earlier to play games on his computer. Yes, he is addicted to World of Warcraft. I am trying to stage an intervention. Any ideas? Suggestions? Leave a comment.) and asked, "Do you know what time it is?"

I sleepily and grouchily looked at the clock without my glasses. "6:15, right?"

"Um, doesn't Daylight Savings begin today?" That would mean it was really 7:15. That would mean we were already late before the sleep was excised from my brain.

My eyes flew open. "Crap! Wake up Sprite! Get her dressed and ready." I ran for the closet to throw on some clothes and make myself decent.

We finally got out the door by 7:45. You have to hand it to us. Thirty minutes to get ourselves and a toddler ready for a full day? I'm sure impressed.

We stopped at Dunkin Donuts for some coffee and a couple of munchkins to get on Sprite's good side (yes, yes, I know we were already late. Hey, do you want to lose one of your gold stars?...I thought so.) and started our journey, way behind the eight ball.

We pulled into the parking lot of The Little Gym at 10:20AM along with at least three other parents and their toddlers ("Daylight Savings?" "You too?" Laugh, laugh, laugh) and blended into the party. Elmo was everywhere! If Sprite loved the red Muppet before, this kind of Elmo immersion would either kick her craving or amp it up 3 or 4 pegs.

So, yeah, toddlers running every which way and what and parents sometimes running after them, sometimes running away from them. Joe, the guy running the show (Yes, I bothered to find out his name. I care.), let 30 balls loose over the expanse of the large mat which had the toddlers going ape-dukie (I'm trying to watch my language here.) running after them. A slightly larger boy stole Sprite's ball which made her lose her temper. (Please, someone else be out there who can understand why I laughed at this. John thought I was evil to laugh at my poor little girl whose entire world at that moment was centered on the possession of this green ball and her face contorting in rage like she just had an appendage removed tickled my funny bone, but for different reasons than what John thought. I think I'll explain it further on Wednesday's post.)

We corralled the kids into the party room and Sprite sat obediently for pizza and cupcakes while wishing the birthday girl a happy deuce. By the way, Sprite scored in the party loot department. They gave out an Elmo doll, a red hat, and a red purse which contained play-doh. Best. Party Favors. Ever. (!) (I told you Marlee's parents rock.)

From the birthday party, we drove another 30 minutes or so to Loni and Jeff's where we had a great time with John's family and talked about Princess 1 and Princess 2 in-utero. John's brother Ryan took some great shots which I will update (only if you say "Please". You're welcome.) and also promised to design me a new banner so I can impress you with something other than this drek. (Yiddish for, um, dukie. I'm going to be teaching you some Yiddish here, huh?) Yeah, he rocks too.

Yes, yes, I'll end the post soon.

We finally made it through the front door at 7:07PM and gave Sprite a bath to get her dampened, diapered, and drowsy, and all before the sun went down. So, all in all, the day went very well, despite Daylight Savings stealing my peace and calm in the morning.

Daylight Savings, I am willing to forgive you and remove the curse I earlier placed upon you, this time. But I won't forget...

(Editor's Note: As you probably noticed, Daylight Savings was last Sunday, not yesterday. I write my posts about a week before they actually post. And yes, all of this really does happen. I may over-emphasize some of the events for entertainment purposes, but they are all very real. Even the frog riding the conveyor belt. It really happened. What can I say, this kid is full of material! I just sit back and let her do her thing and then I plagiarize it for all it's worth. I feed her, she keeps me entertained, it's a give and take thing. So, keep reading. I'll keep documenting. It really is Sprite's World. John and I just live in it.)

Does this thin mint make me look fat?

They're back.

Thin Mints, Tagalogs, Samoas.

Fresh faced Girl Scouts are peddling them in high numbers. You see them everywhere. They used to go door to door. They had their regulars on speed dial who were good for 4 or 5 boxes. Now, that's not good enough. They've branched out into retail, appearing at the entrance of every major grocery store and mall, going for the unknowing, naive population who think, it's just a cookie... (Oh, you will find out what "just a cookie" means when you bite in. Heed my warnings!)

There's a reason they come out once a year for a few months. To keep the population hungry for more.

Every year at this time, the hairs on the back of my neck raise a little. You see, I used to be a Girl Scout. Troop 3502. My mom actually led our troop from Brownies to Girl Scouts until my sister and I outgrew it (around the same time my mom handed the reigns of the troop over to a woman whose daughter was fanatical about everything Girl Scouts and compared patches and badges like they were worth gold. I also think she free based Do-si-dos on the side, but I never actually saw it, so I'm only assuming here..). We learned about walking the elderly across the street and how to sew a straight line and learned how to camp and even went to a chocolate factory, although that didn't seem to have any life lessons and all we got out of it was a 2 day sugar high. We were also child laborers selling our cookies to anyone who would buy them. We went door to door. We sent our parents to work with forms to guilt their co-workers into buying them, we bought them ourselves. (We called it sampling.) We even persuaded a couple of teachers, regular AND Hebrew school ("It's ok! They're Kosher!") to buy our edible wares. I was a pint-sized pusher.

I remember the good times being a Girl Scout. The organization offered built-in friends, girls with similar interests. I don't keep contact with any of them anymore, but no regrets for the most part. I'm even considered semi-normal now. (Trust me, it's an upgrade.)

I have reservations about Sprite joining a troop though. Yes, she can learn some valuable moral lessons that sometimes have to be taught by someone other than her mother and father. She can also learn to put together a Sit-Upon (would you believe my parents still have a couple of them?) which would keep our bums dry when sitting on wet grass. But to have the temptation in my home three months out of the year ready to pounce when she will have an in on when I'm hormonal? I just don't think my thighs can handle the pressure- Wait, let me re-phrase- I don't think my JEANS can handle the pressure of facing those stupid, fattening, minty, put them in the freezer and chomp them one by one until all you're looking at is the cellophane which allows you to look through it and see the other sleeve which is still unopened and OH, I need to unzip my jeans "DAMN YOU THIN MINTS!", decadent chocolate wafers.

Granted, I have a lot of time before any of this becomes relevant to Sprite. This is good since I'm just in the early stages of trying to get my body back. (the kid did a lot of damage...) My diet and the scale tell me to say no when those little girls pounce as soon as I exit the store. I'm being good although I have been glanced a few times by the properly executed lip protrusion I get from the bummed out brownies as they sit rejected until the next mark comes out the door and the smiles are pasted back on their faces to project their upbeat attitudes so the target can fall and open his wallet on the way down.

Yes, girls. I reject your cookies. (For now.) I used to be one of you and in a way, I'm still recovering. So, please, don't be too offended by my declinations. The guy right behind me looks pretty vulnerable. Hit him up for Trefoils. He'll buy. And he'll buy again.