dailydiatribes

There is a quiz on AOL health this morning called Are You a Hypochondriac?  I took it and received an almost perfect score.  Do I know my neuroses or what??   I know it's bad to put a link here, but I still can't do the other thing....http://body.aol.com/health/hypochondriac.  Take the test and see how you compare because I am the reigning queen of Hypochondria!!

The first question is completely legitimate, although slightly off base:  When you have a headache, do you immediately look up symptoms of brain tumors?  Well, I actually start out with aneurysms and once I have ruled that out, then I head for tumor.

Question number two is about strokes.  It lists symptoms and asks which one is not a stroke symptom.  Well duh, I know shortness of breath is not a stroke symptom!  It's a symptom of pulmonary embolism!!  Like I'm stupid enough to get my vascular diseases confused!

Question three is sort of silly:  what sort of doctor's greeting should make you think twice?  Renee not only says "back already", she already has a multitude of reference books out, ready to make my diagnosis of bubonic dengue tubercular plague fever, a virus that can only be treated with Tylenol.  After all, SHE DIDN'T GO TO MEDICAL SCHOOL FOR NOTHIN'!!!

I believe question four has been neatly resolved by events of the last week.  Obviously, not only do you need a surgical mask on hand, it should be worn AT ALL TIMES!!!  You never know when some idiot lawyer with TB (sorry A!!) is going to take it upon himself to honeymoon abroad and infect the unsuspecting.  Next time you are on a sunny Mediterranean beach and you see a happy couple frolicking in the waves, him bending over periodically to cough up a lung, you'll be glad to have that surgical mask close at hand!

With number 5, only the ER answer really applies to me.  Well, ok, I do use a paper towel to open the door of a public bathroom, but that's just common sense.  And I don't flinch when someone sneezes, I just bless them and move discreetly away, making sure my surgical mask is firmly in place.

Number 6 is a good one.  The internet is the most trusted source of medical information.  It is being constantly updated by hypochondriacs around the globe.  I know Renee went to medical school and all, but I bet she couldn't REALLY spout out the side effects of Yaz while out clubbing.  And what is she doing out clubbing anyway???  Can I trust a medical professional who hangs out at seedy bars?? 

Number 7 again addresses the number of doctor visits one makes.  Well of course I go at least once a month.  Doesn't everyone?  I want to start getting a total body scan once a quarter, just to be sure we're not missing anything.  I'm sure the radiation exposure will get me in the end, but at least I'll know what's going on with my insides.

Number 8 is a trick question.  Everyone knows brain tumor symptoms can be notoriously confusing.  A stuffy nose COULD be a symptom, because the tumor could be pressing down on the sinuses and interfering with proper drainage.  Don't these people read WebMD???

Number 9 is silly as well.  Of course there are not enough sick days.  One really shouldn't work between November and February at all, because cubicles are a breeding ground for dangerous bacteria.  And then the spring is no good because of allergies.  An ideal work year would be June to September.

Interestingly enough, number 10 is the only one I missed.  Can you guess why?  If you guessed it's because excessive use of antibacterials may contribute to the rise of superbugs, you guessed correctly!!  Every good hypochondriac knows that overuse of hand sanitizer could cause more harm than good in the end.  This is why I always wear surgical gloves with my mask!

Please take the quiz and see how you rate compared to me.  Now I've got to do some research on this  spot that has suddenly appeared on my leg.  It could be a bug bite, or it could be the first warning sign of scleroderma!

Some families are able to take vacations together.  They enjoy each other's company.  They frolic gaily among the attractions, holding hands and whistling tunes together.  They look like a freakin' Kodak commercial.

It became immediately evident the moment we got into the car, bound for Atlanta, that we are NOT that family.  You remember the Brady Bunch episode where they all drove to Arizona, singing "100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall?"  Well, in our car, we were trying to hit each other with the bottles.  I completely neglected the family car trip as a circle of hell.  Imagine being trapped in a hot car for all eternity with squabbling children, all of whom "Can't hold it any longer...", no snacks, no electronic games and nothing but an AM radio.  Tell me that's not your worst nightmare!!

Before we even got into the car, Josh was in a major snit because he was not allowed to choose the in-flight movie.  Despite being told over 200 times that the blonde goddess was not old enough to appreciate the subtleties of Adam Sandler's humor, he insisted on choosing an inappropriate flick.  He then flew into a rage when it was replaced with "Pirates of the Carribbean" because pirates dismembering each other and members of the British royal navy are much more savory than Adam Sandler.

Needless to say, Atlanta may only be two hours north of Birmingham geographically, but in a car full of children, it's more like twenty hours.  The entire ride was punctuated with the usual cries of "he touched me" or "she hit me" or "Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm" wailed in an ear piercing shriek.  By the time we arrived at our hotel, I was more than prepared to serve prison time for the dismemberment of my children.

We checked in and then jumped back in the car and went to see another installment of "Pirates".  That was three hours of bliss in a dark, cool theater, with the children completely enraptured by the saga unfolding on the screen.  Alas, it would be the last three hours of peace we would experience.

On Friday, we got up early and hit the subway, to our first destination, the World of Coke.  The kids enjoyed it, primarily because there was a room full of soda fountains, filled with the brown, bubbly, caffeinated goodness.  We lurched out, belching mightily and energized for CNN.

Unfortunately, the blonde goddess was less than enthralled by the inner workings of the great cable news network.  Indeed, once we had ascended the 8 story escalator (something I rank right up there with playing with chainsaws in terms of safety) and she realized there were no cartoon characters waiting to greet us, she lost interest.  She sulked and pouted through the demonstration of the different camera angles, loudly letting us and the fifty people around us know that she was not interested.  Then as we descended through the building, she whined and snarled at each stop.  There were several moments where I thought CNN might have a live story in the making:  woman beats six year old to death on CNN tour with cardboard figure of Nancy Grace.  Great stuff on a slow news day.

By the time we were done, I was completely exhausted.  Unfortunately, we had to trek back through Olympic park and then walk six blocks uphill to the MARTA station.  Ah, what bliss to be alive on a summer's day in Atlanta, hiking in the humidity!  On the plus side, by the time we got back to the hotel room, everyone was exhausted and I had no problem getting them to sleep.

On Saturday, we went to Stone Mountain.  This is a large piece of granite with pictures of great Southern heroes carved into the side of it.  One reaches the top via a glassed-in car suspended on a tiny, unsteady piece of cable that is subjected to the elements daily and could at any moment, snap and fling the car and its passengers hundreds of feet to the ground.  Or at least, that's my theory.  But in the interest of not living my life afraid, I gamely entered the glass car of death and buried my head in Tim's shoulder.  If we were going to plunge, I was not going to watch it.  Everyone oooohed and aaaaahed as we passed Robert E. Lee and his brethren, mounted on their fierce steeds, immortalized in granite.  I just clenched my eyes tighter and prayed for a speedy death.

We made it to the top alive and once upon the rock, I was a lot more comfortable.  A fence surrounds the perimeter, so plunging off would be difficult, although not impossible.  I walked around for a few minutes, took in the view, and then went to sit down and mentally prepare myself for the descent.  When we entered the cable car of death, I tried to employ my previous strategy and cling to my husband, reasoning that if we plunged and I landed on him, I might survive.  However, he kept brushing me off to take pictures (ass) so I finally gave in and opened my eyes.  We were halfway down by then and I was able to take in the view stoically and kept my eyes open to the end.  But I DID NOT enjoy it.

From there, we spent the rest of the day walking around the park, squabbling about what to do.  The big kids wanted to leave, while the goddess wanted to stay for the entire day and play on the climbing wall.  Everyone did have fun in the big barn, which is a four story indoor playground.  It's filled with tiny foam balls that can be loaded into guns stationed at various levels throughout the playground, guns which can then be used to try and eradicate one's sister from the planet.  It's amazing how highly tuned a mother's ear is to the cries of her children.  Even in a four story room, filled with screaming children and all sorts of electronic noises, I could still hear Abby shrieking "STOP IT JOSH!!"  

We did not make it to the laser light show.  Seven hours was all we could handle, so we wearily trekked to the car and headed back to the hotel.  Tim wanted to leave the next day and head straight home, but I foolishly insisted we go to the zoo because I wanted to see the baby panda.

It was an incredibly hot, overcast day and the zoo was packed.  We waited in line for 30 minutes to see the panda and for me, at least, she was worth the wait.  She was so cute and she jumped and rolled, while her mother sat in the corner with her legs splayed out in front of her, munching on bamboo.  It looked a lot like a scene from my life, only I prefer bon bons to bamboo.  But after the panda, it went downhill.  Josh's friend was not the least bit interested in the zoo.  He was ready to go home.  But I insisted on seeing the rest of the zoo since we had paid a fortune to get into it.  

As we walked away from the panda exhibit, Abby's flip flop broke.  This was, of course, my fault, even though I had begged her to wear tennis shoes.  She would not wear them because they looked too "tacky" with her ankle brace.  She whined and moaned for 45 minutes as we made our way to the front of the zoo, hoping and praying there would be some sort of footwear for sale in the gift shop.  The only pair of flip flops they had cost $10 and were bright blue and printed with turtles.  I threw them at her and told her to put them on and shut the hell up before I fed her to the lions.

Two hours later, we were all hot and sweaty and ready to murder each other.  The highlight of the trip came when we paid $15 to ride the zoo train.  I believe the entire trip lasted about 4 1/2 minutes and covered ten square feet.  I thought Tim was going to choke someone.

We headed to the parking lot and got in the car and turned South for home.  About five minutes into the journey, the squabbling began, but this time, in my heart, I knew it would end soon.  I love my children, I really do, but I will not miss the family vacation when they are grown and gone!  We made it home without killing anyone, though, and we gratefully pulled into the garage and unloaded the car. 

An hour later though, I was once again the culprit.  Seems Abby and her friend had put their free, souvenir bottles of coke into the refrigerator in the hotel room and had forgotten to get them out when we left.  This was also my fault, since it is my job, as the mother, to anticipate when my child will decide to refrigerate something and to then ensure its removal from refrigeration upon our departure.  The difference between a fit in Atlanta versus a fit at home is that, after a minute or two of listening to her, I sent her butt upstairs to bed.  Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!!

We are going to Atlanta for the weekend.  Please do not despair if you check in and don't find an update; one will be forthcoming upon our return. 

Do not think because I have posted this that now is a good time to come and burgle my house.  Tim's brother Bubba is coming over to mobile home-sit and feed the three pit bulls, Huey, Louie, and Dewey, and the rottweiler Babycakes.  Bubba has not been himself since he got back from Iraq and he tends to err on the side of caution and shoots first.

Love you all!!

You know how sometimes when your child complains, you totally ignore him or her and just hope he or she will go away and leave you alone?  Like when your child has a stick lodged in her eye and she's whining about it and all you want to do is finish watching "Young and the Restless" so you tell her to go put a bandaid on it and quit crying?  And then later you find out that it was really bad and you should have jumped up right then and there and taken her to the hospital because now she has to have her left eye, part of her brain and 1/3 of her ear removed, all because you ignored her?  Well that sort of happened to me.

A few weeks ago, Abby started complaining about her ankle.  I asked her what she had done to it and she did not remember doing anything to hurt it.  So I proceeded to ignore her.  A huge tactical error on my part.  The problem with her is she is impervious to pain.  If she falls down and starts crying, I call the paramedics, because I know it's life threatening.  She makes Lou Gehrig look like a sissy. 

But for some reason, I ignored her complaints about her ankle.  True, it was swollen, but she was walking, even running, on it, so I knew it wasn't slowing her down.  "You probably rolled it," I told her.  "So suck it up and deal with it."  Words that would come back to haunt me.

Last week, she started complaining about the pain.  So I grudgingly called the doctor, whined a lot, and they worked her in to their schedule.  When we arrived, I presented them with the x-rays Tim had lovingly taken.  What's the point of owning an x-ray machine if you can't occasionally x-ray your family members?  There was a spot on the x-ray he wasn't sure about, but as he pointed out, human children have more growth plates than dogs, so it might be normal.

Well, the nurse took a look, said she needed more views, but thought she saw a chipped bone.  The guilt started bearing down upon me.  Probably, it was more than a chipped bone.  Probably, it was a compound spiral fracture and fragments of bone had already entered her blood stream and were racing toward her heart to kill her.  And I had told her to suck it up.  Great parenting; Dr. Spock would be so proud.

They took her for x-rays and then the doctor came in and examined her ankle.  He pulled it and prodded it and she squirmed uncomfortably.  I watched the pain my child was in and mentally vowed to take her shopping to make up for it.  Finally he addressed the problem.  Yes, it was just a bad sprain, he told me and I mentally wiped my brow in relief. 

However, he went on to say, she had evidence of an old injury where she had CHIPPED OFF PART OF THE BONE!!!  The guilt returned in full force, and I almost fell to the ground under the weight of it.  Not only had I ignored this injury, I had evidently ignored a previous one, one that had actually resulted in maiming her.  How could I live with this.

He prescribed a brace and a month of physical therapy.  After a month, he would recheck her.  About 50% of the time, the PT does the trick, he said.  But if it doesn't, the next step is surgery.  By now, I was gasping for air.  What had I done to this poor, sweet child???  How could I, the original over-reacting hypochondriacal parent, miss an injury like that???  Was I so busy monitoring her for signs of leukemia that I overlooked the obvious?  Apparently I am not the good parent I thought I was. 

I thanked him meekly and I slunk out of the office, Abby hobbling behind me in her new brace.  Well, ok, she actually was about ten yards ahead of me because she walks so darn fast I can't keep up with her.  We got to the car and headed immediately for the Galleria.  There was no amount of money to assuage my guilt, but a shopping spree is at least a good start.  There's something about the air in Abercrombie that restores health to my child.  I will keep you posted on her progress and a fund will be opened in her name to pay for the physical therapy, as well as my psychiatric sessions for dealing with the guilt.  We also accept major credit cards and Pay Pal, with a valid driver's license.  Operators are standing by, so call now!!! 

It's 5:30 a.m on Memorial Day.  All of you are still asleep, which is as it should be.  The brave men and women who died fighting for our country would want us all to still be asleep on a government holiday.  It's the American way.

Unfortunately, Abby had eight of her little friends from school over to spend the night last night.  When Tim and I went to bed at midnight, they were still going strong.  Tim informed me that at 3:30, while I was snoring (his word, but I don't snore..I just breathe loudly), they were still going strong.  Now at 5:30, they are still going strong.  When I got up to go to the bathroom, Abby the birthday girl, poked her head in and chirpily said good morning.  I volunteered to beat her into silence with a shoe, but Tim restrained me.  I asked her if they stayed up all night. 

"Only five us stayed up all night," she said cheerfully.  Hmmm, more than half.  Some mothers in town are NOT going to be thanking me.  Teensy, your daughter was not one of the five!

Yesterday passed in a flurry of preparation for the party.  I tied a length of nylon rope to my waist, anchored it to the iron stair rail, and prepared myself to go into the treacherous wasteland of my daughter's room.  There are not adjectives enough to describe the horror within, but let's just say it filled an entire garbage bag.

Downstairs, I dusted, I swept, I vacuumed.  I vacuumed up a bottle of bubbles and jammed the hose.  I had to unplug the vacuum cleaner and use a pair of scissors to extricate the bubbles.  You know my track record with vacuum cleaners. 

Finally, the big moment arrived, and 12 year old girls swarmed into my house like a herd of locusts.  "Did we really only invite eight?" I asked Tim fearfully, as they plunged into the house.

While they frolicked outside, Tim and I slaved in the kitchen, preparing their nutritious meal of cheese sticks, pizza rolls, and taquitos, with a side order of french fries and chips and dip.  When we announced the food was ready, they swarmed into the kitchen and began devouring everything within their reach.  A truly frightening spectacle.

From the kitchen, they swarmed down to the basement to watch a movie.  The screaming began.  Ten minutes later I walked downstairs to see why they were screaming.  The floor of the basement was covered with Nerds.  For those of you not acquainted with the term, I do not mean the bodies of Abby's less popular friends.  No, Nerds are a type of candy, brought to you by those wonderful folks at Willy Wonka.  They are tiny pebbles of sugar in bright, technicolor shades.  They crunch underfoot and I wobbled a little as I made my way across the room.

"What happened here?" I snarled in my nicest voice.

"Oh nothing," Abby replied airily.  "Just a little accident." 

I trudged back up the stairs and got the broom.  I brought it back down and thrust it at her.  "Clean it up," I told her, and went back upstairs.

Ten minutes later, I came back down and the Nerds were still on the floor and the broom was also on the floor, in two pieces.  I was visited by a sudden premonition that this would be a very long night.  To be fair to the girls, the broom was about to break anyway and it probably didn't take much for it to die.  Still...

Tim and I settled in uneasily to watch a movie.  The screams from downstairs continued, punctuated with the occasional loud thud that shook the foundations of the house.  He would look at me like I was somehow responsible.  At around 11:30, they trooped upstairs and the screams continued from above.  I felt like I was on the set of a horror movie.

At midnight, I went up and read them the riot act about being quiet.  Then Tim and I went to bed.  I turned on all the vent fans in the bathroom and turned the radio on really loud.  At first, we shut the door, but then Tim worried they might try to sneak downstairs to do something dastardly, like scream some more.  So we left it half open.

And so here we are at 5:30.  They are still screaming.  Tim is in bed, trying to catch a little more sleep, but I have yielded to the inevitable.  There is no more sleep to be had.  So I got up, made some coffee to cheer him up when he finally concedes defeat, and now I am recording this for posterity.  The one consolation is we drove to Krispy Kreme yeserday to get donuts for the invited guests.  So I plan on inhaling a half dozen or so.  Gotta have some sugar to keep me awake because the little varmints don't go home until noon!!     

1.  I am having hormonal issues.  Because Renee is now one of my dearest friends, I can no longer see her for my "yearly" female checkup.  I can't imagine sitting at my favorite bistro with someone who just that morning told me to spread my legs and say ahhh (altho she didn't go to medical school for nothin'!!)  So I picked a new doctor and she decided I needed to take some hormones.  I have put on ten pounds in the last week, I've had insomnia, hot flashes, homicidal rages and a frequent urge to rape 85 year old men who suddenly look damn hot to me.  In short, I am a mess right now and I am never taking hormones again.  This has taken a toll on my creative side. 

2.  As if the hormones were not enough, I am experiencing terrible allergies for the first time in my life.  My eyes are so red I look like a stoned weasel who was trapped in a house fire.  My nose is stopped up, but still manages to run copiously.  My throat hurts and feels like an emery board.  I cough like a 300 pound truck driver with a 3 pack a day habit.  In short, I am a mess.  Again.  Add the above symptoms and you can see why I may have a problem being witty right now.

3.  We have a new puppy, possibly one of the single biggest mistakes of my adult life.  She is an adorable golden fluff ball, a golden retriever named Lulu.  She pees on the floor every fifteen minutes, regardless of how many times she has been outside.  She also likes to wake up and bark for twenty minutes at 2:00 in the morning.  When she did it this morning, Tim became enraged and hauled her, cage and all, down into the basement.  It muffled the cries somewhat, but not enough.  Tonight if she barks, I am going to drive her, cage and all, to the Cahaba River and set her afloat.  Maybe I'll send a few kids with her.

4.  The month of May is busier than December.  Every possible event comes crashing down all at once, including dance recitals, graduations, end of year parties, soccer parties, birthday parties, and all kinds of other events that cannot be missed.  Every event consists of pizza and cake.  We ate pizza and cake for six days straight.  If you were to take my blood, it would probably consist largely of tomato sauce and buttercream icing.  Add the hormones and my next child could look like the Domino's Pizza delivery guy, the freaky one with the nail in his ear and the tatoos on his legs.  Frequently, these events occur at the same time, at opposite ends of the city.  They all involve some sort of cash outlay, usually only $5 to $10, but when you mulitply that times five events times three children, it ends up being more than the mortgage on my house.  How can I blog when I am facing financial devastation and clogged arteries?

5.  My house has been declared a federal disaster area by the Red Cross.  The carpet in the family room is dotted with wet spots where the puppy has peed and we blasted with Spot Shot.  There is laundry everywhere.  Abby is having eight little girls over to spend the night tomorrow.  The party favors will consist of a Swiffer, a can of Pledge and a toilet bowl brush.  I'm going to divide them up into teams and set them loose.  Whichever team gets its section the cleanest gets to keep the cleaning supplies and come back again in two weeks. 

So this explains why my blog has been so quiet lately and why my topics have been so scatological in nature.  And if you question me again, I'll stab you to death with a spork....right after I rape you!!!! 

I can't believe I am scooping Birmingham Blues on an important political news story.  I am beside myself with joy!!  It has been a long and busy day for me and I only just read the paper.  This morning I had an important breakfast meeting at the Chick Fil-A (the one with the playground) to help implement new girl scout strategies, like whether we all needed matching shirts or not.  Then it was off to Mountain Brook for my birthday pedicure/manicure, courtesy of my sweet friend Karen.  My toes feel so refined right now for having been touched by a Mountain Brook pedicurist.

Anyway, after I dropped Karen off, I headed home to eat lunch and read the paper.  To my delight, Leonard Pitts, my favorite columnist, focused on my home state in his column.  I love to see Alabama mentioned on a national level.  We always get such good press, and today was no exception.  Leonard's column is about the continuing fight to legalize the sale of sex toys in Alabama....I would hyperlink it, but after almost two hours, I still can't make it work!!  Go to www.miamiherald.com and type in his name.  You'll find it.

Yes, I'm afraid it's true that here in Alabama, you can go to any Wal-Mart and buy a gun, but you are not allowed to purchase a vibrator.  Not even a dildo.  Not even nipple rings.  Where is the justice in this?  So it's ok to buy a rifle and blow Bambi away but you can't buy a life-like representation of the male anatomy to, um, pleasure yourself?  I find this thinking to be extremely backward.  If people were experiencing more orgasms, they wouldn't have time to shoot each other.  If we were to take the guns out of the hands of Al-Quaida and replace them with something more, er, stimulating, the war would be over in five minutes.

I don't get what's wrong with this state.  The blue laws are bad enough.  God forbid we should drink a beer on Sunday.  That's a one way ticket to hell right there.  Can't play a high school football game on Sunday because it's the Lord's day.  The conservative values of the moral majority are imposed upon us everywhere.  Now they're taking away our dildoes?  Are we going to stand for this??  Why is it ok to buy a gun and not a vibrator?  In the great scheme of things, which one is likely to cause more damage?  Ok, granted, if your vibrator shorts out while you're using it, the resulting burn damage could be most unpleasant, but still, that's a worst case scenario.  Dildoes don't kill people; guns kill people.  And I am having 250,000 bumper stickers printed up as we speak.

While I do not claim to be an expert on all things biblical, I am reasonably certain none of the commandments Moses toted down from the mountain addressed masturbation.  I don't recall "thou shalt not pleasure thyself with mechanical objects" in any of my Sunday school classes.  So what in the world is so bad about it?  And this is America for crying out loud!!  I am pretty sure I have the right to masturbate if I want to!  Not that I own a vibrator, and I know I am incapable of buying one, let alone operating it, but still, if I want one, I should be able to get one.  It's the American way.

Orgasms make people feel happy and good.  They reduce tension and promote harmony.  They are good.  In fact, while researching for this blog ( you would be amazed at the amount of research I conduct to get this thing done) I stumbled across justification for my theory...www.globalorgasm.org.  It seems there is a worldwide movement to send a surge of positive human energy out into the atmosphere by getting everyone to orgasm at the same time.  Hey, count me in; I'll play that game!

So the next time you do your gun shopping at your local Wal-Mart, don't count on picking up a nifty little strap-on at the same time.  Because it's immoral to orgasm.  God only wants us to shoot things. 

I wandered into the bathroom this morning and found Tim pawing through his sock drawer.  He kept holding different socks up to the light and tsking.  Finally I asked him what the problem was.

"Whoever sorted these socks did a terrible job," he complained.  "None of them match."

That's when I had to share the bad news with him.  I can't believe he didn't see it on CNN or Fox already, since it's been on all the major news outlets.  The sock sorters union, fed up with management's refusals to meet its demands, has gone on strike.  This has upset households all over the United States.  Athletic socks, dress socks, ankle socks, crew socks and tube socks are jumbled together in a shapeless mass until the sock sorters go back to work.

R. Gyle, president of the sock sorters union, vowed there would be no socks sorted until managment acceded to a lengthy list of demands.  "For too long," R. Gyle said, "we have suffered in silence, spending 8 to 10 hours a day in cramped, poorly lit laundry rooms, sorting socks with little or no recognition for our efforts.  Our backs are ruined, our fingers are arthritic and our eyesight has suffered from spending endless hours trying to match toe seams.  It ends today.  If you want someone to sort the navy socks from the black socks, you better be prepared to pay!"

CNN was able to obtain a list of the union's demands, which included requests for a significant increase in the labor force, more spacious folding areas (possibly located in that mansion in Southlake I've been looking at), and increased benefits, including a more generous lunch allowance.

Many families are already feeling the pain.  Tim Brunner was interviewed at work wearing a Tommy Hilfiger ankle sock and a navy blue dress sock.  "I can't believe this," he said to reporters.  "I can't find two socks that match.  I had no idea it was such a skilled job."

R. Gyle has promised to keep the picket lines going until sock sorters get the benefits and the respect they deserve.  "No one else wants to do this job," he told reporters.  "So I feel confident we can resolve the issue without compromising our demands." 

Ah, Saturday morning.  A time for leisurely reading the paper.  A time to watch cartoons.  A time to dawdle over breakfast and listen to the bluebirds chirping as they smack into the window.  A time to clean the house.

We live in squalor.  We have an attractive brick home and from the outside, it looks very respectably middle class.  However, to pass through its front doors is to enter the crack house from hell.  You can't come in the front door without tripping over a pile of Josh's smelly laundry.  No toting of the Pottery Barn limited edition monogrammed wicker laundry baskets down the stairs for my children.  No, they simply stand at the rail and heave their dirty underwear over the side like so much unwanted ballast.  Charming.

So the front rooms are filled with laundry in various stages.  Dirty laundry, waiting to be sorted and washed.  Clean laundry, piled in baskets, slowly wrinkling into something resembling a shar-pei.  Folded laundry languishing on the sofa, sadly waiting for some owner to claim it and put it away.  Yeah, right, like that's going to happen! Shirts and slacks adorn the backs of the dining room chairs, anxiously waiting their turn to be hung.  See above pronouncement on the likelihood of that.

Come on into the kitchen and trip over the watermelon that's been sitting on the air conditioning vent for a week.  My brilliant husband put it there to chill.  I said "dang honey, why'ont you put that sucker in the crick to cool?" but he wouldn't listen.  No one has touched it because none of us like to cut up watermelon.  Avoid the watermelon and step in one of the dog food bowls that attractively range around my kitchen floor like land mines, waiting to annihilate the unsuspecting.  One is metal, and it really wakes you up when someone inadvertantly kicks it across the floor.  Unless, of course, it sticks to the floor, which has been known to happen.

Pass on into the family room and you'll probably step into a large wet spot composed of puppy urine and Spot Shot.  Yes, we foolishly acquired a golden retriever puppy.  She is a precious, cunning little fluff ball!  Who voids her bladder every fifteen minutes on the carpet.  Doesn't matter whether she just spent two hours outside, she's not going to pass up a chance to mark the carpet.  If you miss the urine, you will almost certainly trip over a pile of shoes belonging to the blonde goddess.  I picked up 13 pairs this morning.  Imelda Marcos would gnash her teeth in envy over the child's shoe collection.  And heaven forbid we should wear the same pair twice.  Or put them away after we've worn them.  No, we keep them attractively displayed in the middle of the floor in case we get an urge to change them mid-morning. 

This morning, I declared war.  Every so often, the clutter gets so bad, it impedes the flow of creative juices.  There's something soul destroying about tripping over the same pile of towels 5 days in a row.  So I casually began assigning tasks to the older children.  First, I asked Abby to unload the dishwasher.

This was met with the predictable wail of "It's not my turn!!!  I just did it!!!  Why can't Josh do it????  Why doesn't Anna do anything??? It's NOT FAIR!!!!!"  I continued to ask in a very calm, pleasant tone, until I wore her down and she did it.  Elated by my success, I allowed a few minutes to pass, then I asked her to clean the bathroom.  She erupted into a frenzy.

"WHY do we have to WORK on SATURDAY?????  It's supposed to be a day for fun and you have to RUIN it by making us work.  IT'S NOT FAIR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"  I completely agree, and I suggest one you readers call DHR immediately and have these children removed from my care for the abuse I have heaped upon them.  However, I continued to pleasantly insist and eventually, she subsided to the bathroom with a huff.

Ten minutes later, she emerged and walked into my bedroom where I was folding the shar-peis and said "I'm sorry.  I love you."  And she put her head on my shoulder.  Such a tender moment.  Until I asked her to take her clothes upstairs.

She danced away from me in a rage.  "Why ARE you SO MEAN?" she snarled.  "You keep making me do everything and no one else has to do anything.  Why do I have to do ALL the work???"  I sensibly pointed out that Josh was downstairs cleaning the basement and that the goddess was frolicking in the woods, as six year olds do.  I pointed out that when she was six, I required nothing more of her than to flush the toilet after she was done.  "Yeah, but Josh is older than me and he didn't have to do anything then either." 

I decided it was unwise to continue arguing with her and so I calmly asked her to put her clothes away.  She grabbed them and stomped all the way up the stairs and slammed her door.  I am sure every stomp was meant to be a dagger to my mother's heart, a reminder of the injustices I had visited upon this child I was supposed to love and cherish.  In fact, it made me remember she needs to vacuum the stairs next.  Batten down the hatches y'all, cause the hurricane is comin'!!!