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The shocker

If there’s one thing no one likes, it’s the shocker.

Let me pause a moment while all you 12-year-old boys out there laugh your asses off.

*waiting… waiting… waiting…*

Are you done?

Okay then.

No one likes the shocker, and I mean the one that shows up right about this time of year, when all you do it stand up, throw off your snuggie, and decide to touch something metal. It feels kinda like this:

sparks

Only more painful.

The January joysuck of static electricity.

I swear to all the gods in the heavens I actually almost shorted out the television set. I thought Jim might murder me in my sleep.

But you know what’s even MORE shocking about this January? More shocking than the visible spark that lit up my son’s face as I tried to give him a kiss (and subsequently made him cry and not talk to me for the rest of the day)? It is that at this exact moment, 40 years ago, I was alive. I was here. I EXISTED. Sweet mother of pearl.

I’m not 40 yet. But on January 4 — the best day ever — I celebrated birthday number 39. And as my sister likes to point out, your birthday does not mark that you’ve reached that year, it marks how many years you have completed. Which means I am now in my 40th year.

How did we celebrate number 39? With self portraits on my smartphone:

2013-01-04_09.38.22

Then were did what all old people do. We went to the Olive Garden.

SAMSUNG

When you’re here, you’re family, yo.

I didn’t want to waste the whole freezing cold day of celebratory happiness doing nothing, so I cleaned out a few file drawers, where I was also reminded of my age.

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I found the Fisher Price camera my mother gave me. This baby takes 110 film, a flip flash, and according to my mother, it floats.

Then I found this gem:

SAMSUNG

Why no, that is NOT how you spell my name. But my mother found this novelty item at the moccasin shop in Wisconsin Dells in roughly 1981, and man was she excited to find something with my name on it, spelled correctly or not. Apparently she didn’t realize when you name your kid Marney that pre-printed merchandise with her name already on it would be hard to come by. So she was super psyched about this treasure, and I’m not lying, I was too. Both in 1981 AND when I found it again. I shook it and realized there was money in it. My excitement was slightly lessened when I opened the coin pocket and let that 32 cents pour into the palm of my hand, only to find that every last coin was stamped 1998 or later. Not sure who was using my Wisconsin Dells Marnie wallet, but you’re busted, and your cold hard cash is mine.

This isn’t the only excitement of January 2013. Hockey started again, so we celebrated like every normal suburban family, with a trip to Buffalo Wild Wings where Mom and Dad could watch the game while the kids destroyed their brains with Cut The Rope.

SAMSUNG

Parenting is so hard.

And of course, January was when I made my trip back to the main land, after our fun-filled trip to Ireland. Can you believe my family took me there for my birthday? Well, you shouldn’t, because they didn’t. We took the parents instead, to mark the fact that not only have they been married 40 years, they’ve been married 10 years on TOP of that.

ireland1

ireland2

ireland3

See how much fun we had? You know what else I learned in January? How to make photo collages on the internets.

The best gifts ever? The ones I brought back.

SAMSUNG

Little white boys are super cheap in Ireland.

Happy January everyone! Try to stay away from the shocker.

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I cannot understand a word you are saying

It started not too long ago. A message or a text. Then I saw it more on the face page. A response to something that I said, which clearly was brilliant: “Totes.”

Totes? What does this mean, I wondered. Like, Isotoners? Umbrellas? A cute little bag that you carry your lunch inside? Totes. Huh. I dismissed it as an autocorrect or typo and forgot about it.

Then it happened again. Someone declared, “this is totes random but….”

I have no idea what was so random, I was stuck on the word “totes.” What the hell does this mean? So I decided I would use my highly trained investigative journalist mind to unravel this mystery.

I googled it.

Totes, it seems, is shortened speak for the word “totally.” As in, the English language is being totes destroyed by the totes laziness of this totes embarrassing usage of the word totes.

This desperate need to shorten and clip words blows my mind. I cannot speak for anyone else, but I didn’t spend hours at St. James diagramming sentences just so that I could LOL and WTF at them later. Incidentally, how in the hell did LOL come to use anyway? I realize it is the shortened way to say “laugh out loud,” but back in my 7th grade note-writing days, we did that by writing “ha” which is actually shorter. What genius came up with LOL? And then took it a step further to ROFLMAO. Has anyone ever rolled on the floor laughing, or laughed their ass off? Couldn’t the same effect be achieved if you simply wrote, HA HA!

Now it appears WTF has been replaced by WTAF, which adds the word “actual” in it (which also makes my friend Lara irrationally ragey — also not a word but I like that one). But it appears that WTAF is just the modern version of “huh” which is also a letter shorter. Don’t even get me started on how www is the shortened version of world wide web, but when you SAY www, you are saying six additional syllables than if you had just gone ahead and said “world wide web.”

Remember when acronyms were used for good, and not evil? KISS — keep it simple stupid. HOMES — Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior, the Great lakes. NASA — need another seven astronauts (too soon?).

Anyway, I felt the need to get to the bottom of this totes ridiculous phenomenon. Turns out I am saying that wrong, too. Because it is not totes ridiculous. It’s totes ridic. It’s cray-cray. Ima say it prolly so cray-cray it for realz could turn my brain to mush. Which would be the exact opposite of totes adorbs. If that happened — FML. Obvi, I’m jelly of ppl who can avoid this sitch.

(somewhere there is someone who understood all that)

This makes me sad. It makes me so sad. I wonder if this is what Shakespeare would think if we plopped him down in front of an episode of any television show ever made. WHAT THE HELL ARE THESE PEOPLE SAYING? I want to say that this is just the evolution of like, grody to the max and gag me with a spoon, but NO. Because that was fun. And also, words. Full on words. “Gag me with a spoon” is extremely descriptive, you know EXACTLY what I am saying.

Naturally (natch?) I decided this matter needed immediate attention from my husband. It took a fairly long, somewhat slow conversation in order to explain to him what is happening here, what people are saying, how to understand it. The result? The next day, Jim sent me a text in the morning. “Are you awake?” “Yes,” I replied.

“I totes knew you were.”

And it has begun.

These words that are making us crazy, we’ve now spent so much time ripping on them, they are becoming part of our daily conversations. We’re officially cray-cray on the reggae (I have no idea what that means).

Case in point — dinner. There we were, sitting at family dinner (we have family values) and Jim and I were discussing something. I can officially say I have no idea what we were talking about. But the words “totes” and “ridic” were fluid. I def don’t know what was said. It’s possible he said he had to go to the libes (that one came from a friend of mine). We spoke of our besties and Christmas prezzies and the deets on what we had for breks.

Hank was watching us, slowing putting his food to his mouth (and missing half of it — for hell’s sake, he’s 10, when is he going to learn to eat without half the food falling onto his shirt?), watching us back and forth like the world’s slowest ping-pong match. He finally cleared his throat and said, “uh, why are you two talking like teenagers?”

I don’t know, kid. It’s like a virus. A ridic, awk, presh, gorg, cray-cray, and bee-tee-dubs adorbs virus. Whatevs. I need a vacay.

Somebody, gag me with a spoon.

Totes.

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Boo!

So it seems that the more things change…

The more they stay the same.

Happy Halloween everyone!

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Go thank yourself

So I’ve been having an issue with accountability lately. Seems that a whole lot of the things that I had regularly engaged in as part of an effort to keep myself sane have just gone out the window.

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!

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Summertime, Summertime…

Sum-sum-summertime!

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.

I can barely get Jim to even SMILE when he takes a picture with me. But bring along Kayla and her blonde hair and her long legs and suddenly he’s all kissy faced…

 
 
 
 
If that doesn’t look like fun times to you, well then… you are stupid.
 
And so has gone the summer. With scenes like these peppering it all over the place. And man, have I had fun.
 
School starts in a few days, and I am definitely still a little sad and anxious about the season coming to an end shortly. But dammit, I had a good time.
 
Bring on football.

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The List

Anyone who spent a good portion of the 90’s watching Friends (or the time since then watching re-runs on TBS) knows three very specific things:

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

00bill

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

castiel

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.

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Meet me in St. Louis

We had our first summer 2011 get-away weekend recently. We went to the deep south. And as anyone who is from the general Chicagoland area knows, everything south of I-80 is the deep south.

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!

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