January 4 this week marked my annual trek into the abyss of senility, as I exited year 37 and kicked into year 38. And you want to know what  really learned over this past year? I learned that I am not as awesome in everyone else’s eyes as I am in my own.

I know, right? Says who?

I’ll tell you who says: Facebook.

Facebook has this bizarre ability to trick you into believing several non-sensical truths, for example:

• I have hundreds of friends.
• My ex-boyfriends are TOTALLY interested in my life.
• I was the most popular gal in the class of 1992.
• Roughly 99 percent of people don’t believe in causes (hence they refuse to cut and paste said cause into their status line but come on, buck the trend! Cut! Paste!)
• I must like what everyone else has to say, even if the things they say are negative (I hate the rain! *like*).
• People want to see pictures of my children (they must, why else would so many keeping “liking” them).
• I am totally having an argument with a real live human being.
• That person totally cares about me.

Those last two — man, that’ll get you.

I recently had a Facebook “argument” with someone I do not know. I say “argument” because I do not know this person and therefore was not really arguing with her. I do not know who she is, where she lives, what she is like… NOTHING. Just that we crossed paths on the face page. Via mutual friends we had clearly “crossed paths” before, but honestly, I had never noticed her before.

Long story short — I said something she didn’t like, and she responded, “Keeping it classy per usual.”

Dudes, I was HORRIFIED.

Who is this woman? How dare she!!! What exactly does that mean PER USUAL? Why don’t you just say it to my face? I mean, never mind that I wouldn’t know you from Adam if you were in front of my face. The NERVE!!!!!!!

Then the following things happened on my birthday:

1 – My nine year old son walked into my bedroom at 11 a.m. and said, “Happy Birthday, you want a beer?”

2 – I went to the mall without a bra.

3 – I bought what I would deem as “nice clothing” as Sears.

4 – I received this card from my husband:

(the inside reads, “Wish you a hap-PEE birthday!”)

5 – And finally, we went to a fancy dinner. At the Texas Roadhouse. Where I sat in a saddle on top of a sawhorse while the waitresses yelled “yeeeeeeee-ha!!!!”

That’s not the important part of the story. The important part is, Jim inexplicably told the waitress that I did NOT want my birthday recognized. Which, as he knows, is just plain stupid. I’m a little upset I didn’t get MORE attention on my birthday.

So I pointed my finger directly in his face and said “you better fix this” with a tone that said “you’ll never feel the touch of a woman ever again for the rest of your miserable life if you don’t get those poor minimum-wage paid teenagers to bring their skinny asses back here right this instant and wish me the loudest happy birthday ever.”

Jimmy complied:

Could I *BE* having a better time?

But seriously, look at the woman behind me. How horrified is she? There is NOTHING about this that she finds amusing. Even. A. Little.

So I’m starting to think Facebook girl had a point.

Because look at me, belly roll out, hair swaying, ridiculous smile on my face, oblivious to the death stare coming from behind.

Keeping it classy. Per usual.

Everyone has Christmas wishes. Some dream of mounds and mounds of awesome material possessions, iPads and gadgets and Gaga tickets (oh my!). Others dream of peace on earth. Some dream of peace in their families.

*sigh*

Me? I made a very special wish. To start looking like an old hag.

So I went to the eye doctor and HOORAY my vision is going all to hell and I need reading glasses. I mean, I’m still a BABY. I won’t even be 38 until NEXT YEAR.

Well, at least this will make it easier to give Jim his Christmas wish — to sleep with the sexy librarian. And no dear …. I am not keeping them on.

Food — I eat it all, who needs moderation? Not me, I’ll tell ya.

School — why check backpacks, Jimmy will do it.

Television — Okay, okay, not exactly a priority, but as far as down time that I frankly owe myself, well, I have yet to watch a single episode of The Closer.

This space — if there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s the sound of my own voice, which translates in these here internets to my blog. More than a month! I’ve skipped five weeks of doing something I enjoy. Bummer.

This month on the facepage, people have been doing something obscenely annoying totally introspective: The Month of Thanksgiving. Folks from all walks of life are taking time normally set aside for stalking ex-boyfriends and playing mafia wars to list one thing each day for which they are thankful. You know, for Thanksgiving. Because Thanksgiving in America is all about saying, “Hey Indians, thanks for the food, now step aside while we rape and pillage your land. Oh,  don’t worry, we’ll give you “reservations” where the earth is bruised and rocky and the water is completely non-potable but the Bingo far exceeds any expectation you saw in your latest hot sweat vision quest!” And nothing celebrates that sentiment quite like two sentence quips each day on an addictive website built by a millionaire teenage dork.

Well, I have NOT participated in the Month of Thanksgiving. But I am. Thankful, I mean, For all sorts of stuff. So I present to you, 30 days of thanks, all in one convenient package:

1 – Health. Food might be on my list of things I have been bad about, but at least Zumba Stacey keeps me in check. It’s nice to be able to move like you’re one big sass machine.

2 – Beer. How can anyone dislike a food that will trigger you to vomit if you’ve had too much? It’s barley and hops sponsored bulimia at its best.

3 – Teachers. Without them, I’d have to parent 24 hours a day. No thank you. I didn’t have kids so I could watch them.

4 – Naps. Did you ever notice the way children freak the hell out at even the suggestion that they settle down, let alone lie down, let alone close their eyes? Can you imagine if every single day someone said to you, go sleep for no less than 45 minites. Sweet mercy, I would be in heaven.

5 – Pooping. I’m sorry, that just feels great.

6 – Chocolate. I am not a sweet fiend, but even I can appreciate this one.

7 – Chicago. Everyone has their big city, even if they don’t live there. This one is mine.

8 – Aruba. I’ve never met you, but we have a date. January 4, 2014.

9 – The never-ending saga that is Law and Order. Man was I ever pissed when they canceled your flagship show. IT NEVER GETS OLD. bum-BUM!!

10 -Lady Gaga. Self explanatory.

11 -Selena Gomez.. Your songs are so catchy and my sons are deeply in love with you. Sure, I am totally afraid that the day will come when the very magazines I bought featuring you will become my son’s first stroke material. At which point I will want you banished from all things Disney. Just please don’t Lohan on me.

12 – Smart phones. THEY ARE SO SMART!!

13 – The First Amendment. Totally working for me.

14 – Divorce. Also totally working for me.

15 – Pitbull. Possibly the worst artist ever. But I have never in my life wanted so bad to find somebody sexy and tell them hey.

16 – The Omaha Morning Blend. Making my kids stars at least twice a year.

17 – The facepage SO. Don’t ask, it’s secret!!

18 – Makeup. Zits + splotchiness + 38-year-old woman = your eternal customer

19 – The Winchester Brothers. Damn you’re fine.

20 – Central air. Now hear me out. I despise manufactured cold air. I love few things in life the way I love to sweat in July. But with my love comes fear that the rest of the free world disagrees. And no one, especially me, wants to deal with my husband Sybil when the oppressive heat of summer refuses to let go. Even I know when it’s time to flip the switch.

21 – The oppressive heat of summer. That’s why I have both a front and a back porch.

22 – The Chicago Cubs. Because the only way to stay sane is to deal with eternal heartbreak.

23 – Boobs. They’re right there and even these old gals come in handy.

24 – The Happy Place. Where happiness takes place, 365 days a year. I know there is supposed to be some natural rivalry and lifelong disdain between the cheeseheads and the FIBS, but there are few things in this world as truly beautiful as rural Wisconsin. Just so long as we don’t have to collectively bargain to keep it that way.

25 – Kayla and Nancy. A girl ain’t nothin’ without some girls of her own.

26 – Three sisters and one brother, all of whom are in their 40′s. I am in my 30′s. Suck it hags.

27 – My Mom and Dad. I NEVER tell them how much I love and appreciate them. Because clearly, I am a shit.

28  – Jimmy. Seriously, what were the chances of that ever happening?

29 – My boys, Hank and George. If you’d asked me when I was younger if I’d have sons or daughters or a combination, I would have told you sons. It’s pretty much the one thing I was ever THAT right about. I love those kiddos. They are the best thing I have ever done.

30 – Peace, love and happiness. I have it. I should take the time to notice it a little more often.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

At some point, they met.

And as it turns out, that’s all I know about my parents courtship. It occurred to me recently (yesterday) that while I have heard endless stories of their youth, I have no idea when they started dating, when they fell in looooovvveee, when they got engaged, how he proposed, nothing. I know none of it.

All I know is that they got married 49 years ago today, October 13, 1962.

I asked my mother the questions above. She decided that NOW is the time to be mysterious:

We met right after he moved in, but he was too old for me at the time. I thought he was cute. I am sure he would say getting married was my idea. He asked my dad and then bought me a ring for Christmas. Nothing blog worthy here…..well maybe we had a few secrets. I’ll leave it in a letter to be read after I die. Thanks Mom

Thanks Mom. Not even LOVE. Thanks. Like, thanks for asking!

Nice try — they ain’t getting off that easy.

The 50th anniversary is the Golden Anniversary. The 49th has no traditional specification, though a random website told me that in modern times, the theme for 49 glorious years is luxury. So I am giving my parents the luxury of starring in my blog.

And to this day, my mother will in fact tell a stranger that she HAD to get married. She always waits for the look or the gasp or the “well good for you for admitting it” before she spouts out, “Yeah, we HAD to get married if we wanted to have sex.”

Oh, those crazy kids.

But real love — TRUE love — is when you find a 20-year-old photo of your loved one, realize you cannot get it out of the frame as some sort of wetness has sealed it in, take a photo of it with your cell phone,  and then post it on the internet to celebrate their birthday.

Happy birthday Pookie Bear.

And I’m sure somewhere, in space, the light reflection from your Sally Jesse Raphael sized, circa 1991 glasses is still shooting through the atmosphere.

Love you!

That’s a long time.

It’s long enough to heal. It’s long enough to hurt again and heal again. It’s long enough to come together then be driven apart. It’s long enough to lose thousands in a war. And another.

But it’s also long enough to forget.

Over the past week or so, I have read several different stories about this man:

This photo has been dubbed “The Falling Man.” It was snapped by an AP photographer named Richard Drew, and it is part of a sequence of multiple jumpers from that day. The picture is iconic in the way that the jumper seems — relaxed. Earlier in the sequence, he is shown coming from the window like a diver, face first. He flipped midair, into this ”pose.”  Later in the sequence — which documented the last ten seconds of this man’s life — he rolls to his back. He waves his arms. His jacket flies off, revealing an orange shirt.

I saw this photo for the first time a few weeks after September 11 in a media trade magazine, asking the question, “should we, as the media, show this?” At the time, I didn’t know. I remembered the picture, but really hadn’t seen it again until recently, when it was published online and in the newspaper with the same question — should we be looking at this photo?

I think yes. Then sometimes, I think no.

I saw a documentary about a man who found a photograph of a woman jumping. She appeared to be wearing the same type of clothing as his wife was wearing that day, and she fit her general description and was in the correct tower at the right height. There are two grainy photos of her. In the first, she is at the broken window, halfway out the building, clinging to the side. In the second, she is in the air, her body in a “v” formation, arms up, face to the sky. The man said he was certain this was his wife, and it gave him peace. It gave him peace to know what happened to her, to know that she didn’t get burned or crushed. That she died on her own terms.

I assume not all family members would feel that way.

The “jumpers” were always the ones that stuck with me the most. I remember watching in disbelief as the jumpers were played over and over again in rebroadcasts. Then, they were rarely shown again after that, presumably to protect the families who might recognize them.  I tended to agree, and it was because of one man who I watched die — several times — as the feed was shown and re-shown on the television set next to my desk.

All these years later, I still don’t know how I feel about it. I think the photos of the jumpers are an important part of the record of September 11. But I still hope the families don’t ever see it.

I went back to a post I had written about it two years ago, and decided I would repost it, because I still feel the same.

From 2009:

On September 11, 2001, all those who lost their lives in the World Trade Center towers, the Pentagon and on board United 93 were already gone by the time I woke up. I remember the night before explicitly. I was working at a TV station in Rock Island, Illinois, and I had worked well past 11 that night. I came home and had a beer (disclaimer — I did not know I was pregnant at the time!) and went to bed, exhausted.

I woke up at 10 a.m. central time, two hours after the first plane hit, 40 minutes after Flight 93 crashed in Pennsylvania, and 30 minutes after the second tower fell. All those lives — gone — as I slept soundly in my comfy three room apartment.

I woke up as usual. I normally went to work at 2 p.m., so I rarely set an alarm. I generally ambled out of bed, shoved a little coffee down my throat, and clicked on the news. But this particular morning, I had pulled back the blinds and noted what an awesome day it was. Blue skies, warm temperatures, summer holding on. I thought, I am going for a bike ride! I hadn’t gotten both feet over the bed and onto the floor when the phone rang. It was Cliff, the assignment editor at my station.

 ”You better get in here,” he said.

 ”Why?” I asked.

 ”You don’t… (sigh) Just turn on the TV.” He hung up.

I clicked on the TV to see what was already over — the towers were down, the Pentagon was attacked, a plane was down in Pennsylvania. Air traffic was grounded. The President was… somewhere. No one knew what the hell was going on. I threw on a t-shirt and a pair of jeans and aimed my trusty Cavalier toward the station.

Six flights had been diverted to our airport in Moline. We rushed to the airport to talk to the travelers, all of whom had two questions: What the hell happened, and where the hell is Moline, Illinois? I don’t remember where those flights were from. We organized cut-ins from the network, live shots from the Rock Island Arsenal which had upped security, interviews with people at the airport trying to rent a car. We found people who knew people who knew people who worked in the towers. We talked to old military men and local officials about security and took feeds from Chicago which was sending everyone out of the city. We worked non-stop until after midnight, when I finally went home, downed another few beers (still not knowing I was pregnant, mind you) and sat in front of my TV, watching some more, until I finally fell asleep on the couch.

This morning I was discussing the day with my husband, and asked if he remembered the people jumping out of the buildings. He said he never saw that, and it occurred to me that part of the reason I saw it over and over is because I was working in TV, and I was watching the feeds all day. I wonder if the fact that I worked in TV and had access to feeds and video that weren’t necessarily shown on network TV is why I feel more haunted by September 11 than he does.

There was one man. I cannot tell you which tower he was jumping out of. He had dark hair, my guess is that he was somewhere between 25 and 40 years old. Average size, he was wearing a dark suit and a tie. He jumped from high up, and the camera followed him all the way down. He fought it every step of the way, kicking his legs, his arms flailing. He didn’t want to die. I could fee that much. But given the choice, die by jumping or die by fire, jumping was his better option. Yet still, he fought it, all the way down.

When I got home that night, before I snagged my beer, I thought about him. I went to the bathroom, and stared at my towels. I thought, somewhere in New York, or New Jersey, or Connecticut, is this man’s bathroom. His towel is hanging in the bathroom, possibly still damp from the shower he took this morning. Maybe he has a dog waiting for him to come home. Maybe his wife opened up one eye to see him leaving their room early that morning as she slept. Maybe there was a grocery list he had scribbled out stuck to his fridge. Maybe his kids were looking out the window, waiting for him. But one thing is for certain — his towel is hanging in the bathroom. His clothes are hanging in his closet. There’s food in his cabinets. The most basic of living essentials. Only he’ll never see them or touch them again.

I’m older and I have a husband and children now, including the one that was already brewing that day and I didn’t know about it. I have a completely different life now. But he’s still gone. I think about this man a lot, but more so on September 11. I wonder where he would be today if he had just missed that first train, or if he had accidentally slept in, or if his car wouldn’t start. I wonder why I had to watch him die. I wonder who picked up his towel, washed it, folded it, and put it away. I hope for them, they didn’t have to see what I saw.

Oh how I love summer. Long and glorious summer!

Today on the facepage some friends were commenting about how they were excited about the impending fall. And I thought — bleh. SUMMER!

Jim and I had this conversation just the other day, how I have actual anxiety each year as fall approaches. Now let me first say, I very much appreciate living somewhere where the seasons change EXACTLY as they are meant to. Winter is white, spring is rainy and full of pretty flowers, summer is hot-hot-hot and fall is seriously beautiful changing of the colors. And while I hate being COLD, I don’t really hate winter. I strangely enjoy shoveling the driveway, and as the kids grow, so do the amount of outdoor winter activities in which we get to participate. Sledding = yay!!

Still, summer is my absolute favorite. Ab. So. Lute. And it makes me feel sad when it goes away.

This year I didn’t want summer to skip on past. So I literally worked on a daily basis to try to pack a lot of stuff into it. Which was not easy since it was about 100 degrees each and every day in the month of July. But we got lots of lake time, pool time, outdoor time when we could.  We tasted Chicago. We took actual tours of touristy stuff. Baseball was plentiful. We managed to take TWO trips that required a hotel stay, something which the boys find most awesome.

Then in July, I serioulsy mucked up my marriage:

Y’all! (that’s Louisiana for “Oh my God, guess what you guys!?” Easier to say, huh?) 

We ran. Three miles. Through mud and obstacles. Military style obstacles. I have never fallen down so hard and laughed so hard in my life.

We participated in the “Mudathlon” in Valparaiso, Indiana. When I ran the Shamrock Shuffle in the spring with my sister, there was a flyer for the Mudathlon in my swag bag. So I brought it home to Jim and said let’s do this. And since he’s never run a race before in his life, he was like, uh, ok.

There were points in this race where we were actually swimming. And once I fell so hard that Jim was torn between asking if I was okay and grabbing hold of his junk to prevent the laughter-inspired pee from coming out.

Y’all! (again — it’s a good expression)

This was POST-shower. The only horror of the entire race actually WAS the post shower. See, the Mudathlon people provide what is essentially a great big cage with water spitting down at you, so that you can make a feeble attempt to rinse yourself off before getting back in your car. And we rinsed here and there and got most of it off our faces, but knew there would be no real way to extract all of the caked on mud until we got home and could give ourselves a soak in our own showers.

So we thought.

As I entered the Mudathlon shower-cage, I ended up smack in front of a woman who had stripped down to her bra and underwear (no biggie, there were girls in bikinis, after all). But I swear to God, she moved her underwear to the side and began to AGGRESSIVELY clean out all her front side lady bits. Right. There. Rub-rub-rub. I think she might have pinched it. I chose to turn around and run for cover before she moaned with pleasure, only to see that Jim had already found a different spot far, far away.

So to recap – race = awesome. Accidental Hedonism = scary as hell.

Needless to say, my shower once I returned home also involved me washing out my eyeballs.

But July wasn’t over yet! My kids got their first taste of my previous profession — television news:

Oh my God, how cute is this?

Kayla came for a visit, but this time, she flew to Milwaukee. So she got us all a tour at her station’s SISTER station, WTMJ. Where the boys were not at all shy about plopping themselves on the set. I’m sorry, but they look like total naturals!

We spent a long weekend at my folk’s house at The Happy Place, but went to a Cubs-Brewers game while we were at it.

1 – Monica was way too skinny.

2 – “The Rachel” might as well have been a mullet — it seemed like a good idea at the time, but looking back, sweet Lordy what was that? And anyone with that haircut now is worthy of being pointed at and snickered about.

and

3 - One of the best concepts EVER was The List.

Now, I certainly don’t assume that Friends came up with this idea, only that they popularized it for my generation. The List is the five people you can cheat on your significant other with, without any consequences because of their stature on your list. There are a few rules, obviously. Mostly, the person has to be famous. I cannot exactly put the guy down the street on my list. Unless the guy down the street is totally famous and out of my league. Then — on the list he goes.

Over the years my version of The List has changed dramatically. But I think it’s fair time that I go ahead and create a new one. In the past, The List was always just a thought. But now it’s blog-worthy. On the internets for all to see. Which means it is like a contract. So Jimmy has to just accept it. I can be with these men if I have the opportunity. You are all my witnesses.

The List, 2011 edition:

#5 — Bill Kurtis

Oh, wipe that look of horror off your face.

Yes, Bill Kurtis.

Bill Kurtis is 70 years old. And his voice is as dreamy as ever. I got physically excited when he returned to Chicago news a couple of years back. That VOICE. Oh! I swear, he could say, “Marney, I am certain that you are about to be sliced up by a serial killer, a serial killer with a lust for moms and a desire to watch them suffer” and I would be like OH SWOON BILL KURTIS.

The only man to survive the cut from my original version of The List, the one I first made after that episode of Friends aired back in 1996. At that time, I was given the “eeewwweee” from my actual friends for picking a 56-year-old man. But I’m keeping him.

#4 — Johnny Galecki

I met Johnny Galecki once in a bar in Oak Park. And I was like “hey, you are totally famous, you are on Roseanne!” And he was like “no, dude…… giggle….. don’t say that.”

I don’t think either one of us was old enough to be in that bar. And silly drunk Johnny Galecki did not turn me on. But Leonard from Big Bang Theory totally does it for me.

#3 — Pacey Joshua Jackson

I’ll admit it, I was a Dawson girl. To this day, I am still pissed as hell that the show ended with Pacey and Joey together. Oh, and sorry I didn’t throw *spoiler alert* in there, but if you didn’t watch that episode by now, it’s doubtful that your VHS will fire up anyway to let you check the tape. PACEY gets the girl. DAWSON is alone. Even though the whole creek belonged to Dawson.

But then came Peter Bishop. And hum-a-nuh hum-a-nuh hum-a-nuh. All is forgiven Pacey. After all, if Dawson could see what you have to go through now, I’m sure he’d say, “I don’t want your life.”

*zing*

#2 — Jon Stewart

Does this really need an explanation?

#1 — Misha Collins

Holy crap am I ever in love with this guy.

He’s the one in the middle there. And as you can see, in order to be in love with this guy, it is necessary for me to be a 37-year-old woman who admits that her super favorite show is Supernatural. Which, you would think, would make me pick one of the two Winchester boys to be my #1. I mean, LOOK AT THEM. Holy hottness, huh?

But no. No no no no no. I like this guy in the middle. Castiel, the good angel gone rebel angel gone good angel gone fallen angel gone OH MY GOD ARE THEY GOING TO KILL HIM OFF NEXT SEASON NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

If I cared about Twitter, I would follow Misha Collins, because apparently he has quite a following.

Marney and Misha.

No one will know who is the boy and who is the girl.

And that, my friends, is how you make The List. I encourage you all to go make one of your own.

I have started and restared various blog posts about the things we’ve done, but decided maybe it would be best if I just showed you:

And it’s only halfway done! Happy summer everyone, more to come!!

So we headed to the land of rednecks and poo-holes known to us northerners as St. Louis. There are a few important things to know about St. Louis.

1. The people there hate everyone from Illinois, even when they live on the Illinois side.
2. The people there need a map.
3. The people there think the most important thing in life is wearing t-shirts that are anti-Chicago.

Okay, maybe I am over-generalizing. It was Cubs-Cards weekend, and the Cardinals officially handed the Cubs their asses on a stick. I’m just saying — Jackie — you’d think that would be enough. I’m just letting you know — Kyle — your “How many rebuilding years can the Cubs have” t-shirts are stupid. That’s all I’m saying.

But I digress.

The trip to St. Louis had us worried, as it seemed this was going to LITERALLY be the crappiest weekend ever. And I don’t believe in using the word “literally” unless I mean it. Because one minute it was all this:

“WOO HOO WE’RE TAKING A TRIP!!”

And the next thing we knew, little George there got a look of complete and utter fear on his face. Followed by the runs. And when five-year-olds get a case of the runs, they don’t squeeze their butt cheeks together real tight and hold on until the next stop. They wait until you are two milliseconds past the point when you could reasonably take the exit without flipping the Kia Sportage, chit their pants, try to lie about it as if we cannot smell that nonsense, and suddenly there’s a good ten miles between the next stop and where you sit now in your stinky, nasty car.

Finally. We make it. Lincoln, Illinois.

We would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to the people of Lincoln who entered the bathroom at the Wendy’s and had to smell that. Score for Jim for biting the bullet on taking care of this.

Wipe. Clean. Throw away underpants and put on fresh ones. Back in the car.

30. Minutes. Later….. Bomb #2.

We would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to the people of Williamsville, Illinois who entered the bathroom at the McDonald’s and had to smell that. Score TWO for Jim for biting the bullet and taking care of this.  I took this opportunity to go to the convenience store, where I picked up a bottle of Pepto, read the label, clearly saw it said not to give it to children under six, and gave it to my five-year-old anyway.

Wipe. Clean. Throw away underpants and put on fresh ones. Back in the car.

I kid you not… 30. Minutes. Later….. Bomb #3.

I wish I had taken a photo of Jim’s face. He pulls off into Middle of Nowhere, Illinois, into a lovely gas station that was slightly nicer than what I assume hell looks like, put the car in park, and stared straight ahead. Clearly it was my turn. I retrieved the LAST pair of underwear from George’s suitcase, helped him waddle into a bathroom that even Britney Spears would find gross, and proceeded to used every disinfecting wipe I had to clean various surfaces (to no avail). Wipe. Wipe. WIPE. Holy balls, people, it was wrapped around his balls! It’s bad enough changing the diaper of a two-year-old. A five-year-old with the runs might as well be YOU with the runs. I swear to God, the child does not have enough lower intestine to produce that much crap, but out it catapulted from his ass.

We would like to take this opportunity to formally apologize to the people of Wherever-the-hell-that-was-south-of-Springfield, Illinois who entered the bathroom at the gas station closest to the highway and had to smell that. Especially the three terrified looking women who were standing there when I opened the door after ten minutes and my child still had a little dookie stuck to the back of his leg. I had to clean it with a sunscreen wipe. But, in my defense, minus the smell, I think I left that bathroom cleaner than I found it.

More Pepto and a quick prayer — we are out of underwear.

30. Minutes. Later.

Okay, this time their was no rear-end explosion. But the child does suddenly say, “I have to pee!”

Come on, now! Again, barely a foot past a safe place to turn off the highway.

Jim takes the next exit. We probably should have noticed that the sign said, “Exit to Terror Land, HERE!” At this exit there were two things — a gas station/liquor store complete with a woman smacking her child and a man picking his teeth with a knife… and a Venture. You know what does a fast U-turn? A 37-year-old man driving a Kia Sportage.

At this time, Jim distracts George by telling him he can see the arch. Nevermind the kid had no idea what the arch was up until that point. It’s RIGHT THERE! (we can’t see it yet). LOOK THERE IT IS! (still can’t see it). THE ARCH!! (finally!)

Over the river, into town, toward the ballpark, suddenly turn into tourists (LOOK! *point* THE STADIUM *point-point* TALL BUILDINGS! pointy-point-point* THAT WAS OUR TURN BACK THERE *backwards point*).

Parking. Hotel. Check-in. Poops seem to have passed, so hell, let’s get in the pool. It’s dark. No one will notice if George takes another un-toileted shat (he didn’t).

Back to a quick rant of the Cardinals here — This was Friday. The game ended shortly after we got to the hotel, 6-1 Cards. And I found myself alone in the elevator with several drunk, overly cologned 20-somethings, letting me know, “THE CUBS WERE RAPED TONIGHT. UN-CON-SENSUAL RAPE!!!” Then there were some bro-hugs and bro-fives. Honestly Jackie. This excuses your choice of a DE-troit fan, because two Cardinal fans would be unacceptable at Mr. E’s place in Wisconsin. I’m just sayin’.

Anyway, with the backseat blowouts safely behind us, we got to the business of enjoying the rest of the weekend, which frankly, was awesome.

Foot of the arch!

Totally artsy picture of Hank.

View from our seats!

Balloon hats!

View from the completely unnecessary tower of terror arch.

Feeding the fish at Union Station.

Complete and utter exhaustion.

Cruel and unusual punishment.

Seriously. That bigger one there — three separate trips to the hospital, eighty-bizzilion hours of labor before a c-section, single parenting. I went WITHOUT health insurance so I could afford it for him. And the little one — ten months of refusing to be held at feeding time by anyone but me and my right boob. Poor righty was all full and sore and nasty because he wouldn’t take lefty. Not to mention the ABOVE DESCRIBED POOP TRIP 2011. And this is the thanks I get.

Little monster children.

Just let it be known, if you two EVER yell in an elevator that the Cardinals have just raped the Cubs, I will seriously have you removed from the will.

Happy summer!