Tidbits

And so, it ends, this month of Nablopomo torture. No longer will I subject you to forced, uninspired, crappy writing. From now on, the crappy writing will be truly from my heart.

Am I glad I did it? Meh. I mean, I've been blogging about 3 years now, right? (gotta check the sidebar to double check...) Oops. Nope. Only 2 1/2. Well, anyway, 2.5 years and I have to be able to say I tried it at least once. So, check that one off of my blogging belt and file it under "Fun-sucking things I will never commit to again."

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Is turkey renowned for extremely smelly gas? Because the odors around here are less than desirable, in case you wanted to know. At least it's not all my fault. My son let me know this week that he can now fart on command. Which is, you know, the first official step towards manhood. The pride is oozing from my pores.

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Am I a bad mother for doing a victory dance over beating my 9 year old at a game of pool on Thanksgiving? I mean, after he made a joke about my crummy shots being due to my gender, I had to step it up a notch and kick his little butt. (Well, to be honest, it was pure luck that I beat him. My shots may be strong, but my aim is definitely girly...) Still. A woman has to rake in the glory wins. And gloat. A LOT.

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As we watched Jesus Christ, Superstar at my Mother-in-law's house tonight, I leaned over to Patrick and said, "Do you think your grandma is a bit confused by the machine guns and tank tops in Jerusalem?" She had been dozing off when the boys were watching Superman, but got extremely interested when a movie about Jesus came on. I wonder what she made of it?

Justin paused in the midst of a rowdy game of Old Maid and asked his great-aunt "Why does that song sound so familiar?" Gee, um, because your father and I sing songs from the soundtrack Every.Single.Day? Because your dad sits at the piano, pounding out the chorus while we both belt out Judas' first solo? Ya think?

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No. I haven't been drinking. The randomness is gen.u.INE.

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Ok, that's a lie. I had a pomegranate cosmo.

Or 2....

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Back to the circus tomorrow!! Whooot! Patrick gets to go with this time. Did you know that my poor, deprived husband has no memories of ever going to the circus? Ever. EVER. I'm sure it had nothing to do with his fear of a certain character that is fundamental to the show...

DooDoo the Clown

Scare anyone?!? Sorry. Patrick's sister used to tease him with a stuffed clown when he was little. That, and he had nightmares from watching a horror movie where the toy clown came alive and chopped everyone to bits. You know, basic stuff like that...

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M'kay. I am off to put these kids to bed and continue watching season 2 of the Soprano's with Pat. He received the entire 6 seasons as a gift from his boss and we are HOOKED. Of course, watching it before bed may not be the best choice for me, seeing as how I've had at least 6 very vivid dreams revolving around getting whacked, eating manicotti with mozzarella, and giving birth to a baby boy that we couldn't keep as he didn't look Italian enough. Also, my own grandfather who said "Oh Madon!" himself about 30 times a day, keeps getting inserted into the dream mafia hits...

Not quite sure why it is that anyone of Italian descent seems to have at least 1 story about how a grandmother or uncle or relative 2 times removed had a connection with Capone... But. Well. I do... (And, strangely enough, my German husband has a story, too. Is it more of a Chicago thing than an Italian thing?) Why is it that we all say we abhor the mafia, and all that it does, but still? Still there remains this fascination with the inner workings, relationships, and glamorized Hollywood version of the mob...

Digression. AGAIN. After I specifically said I was putting the kids to bed. Sigh... I'll smack myself later. For now, I'm signing off.