I vaguely remember playing dolls as a kid, but I know I did. I remember a whole lot of my sister telling me what to have my dolls say, do, and where to move, so I blame her for my limited imagination skills.

Having two little girls, I knew someday I’d have to start playing dollies with them, and today was the first day. At 4, Anna is just now getting into play acting with toys and dolls, and at 2 1/2, Claire is in LOVE with dolls. She’s a mini-mom - sometimes better than I am. Anna is not a girlie girl and doesn’t have an attachment to any one doll, but Claire has a collection of naked (it’s how she rolls) babies in every room.

I was cleaning out their playroom of some furniture today, and found a house playmat. Oh, bejeebus. What the hell did I discover?

It is now a requirement for everyone in the house to play dollies on the playmat. Even Daddy.

I took a shift, so Daddy was up. Granted, he grew up a boy (shocker), so his version of playing dolls is GI Joe and Transformers. Same but different. Dollies don’t typically blow eachother up and launch grenades at one another.

Patrick’s first few minutes of dollies was a whole lot of Anna saying, “Dada! Pepe needs to SAY something!” “Dada! You need to SING with Pepe!”

After glances over my shoulder at him to add to the dolly conversation and to interact, the boy in him came out.

“thhhhhshhhhthinoitnttttt….”

“thhhhshshhthhshhshhthttt…”

It seems Pepe has a health issue. That, or he’s preparing for tomorrow’s colonoscopy.

More, “tthhhhsnsnsalnsanssnsnsnsnnnnsssssthttttthhthhhhhhhhhhh….”

I never knew three dolls (counting stuffed animals as dolls) could fart and shit their way around the house and it could be counted as conversation.

THAT’S how Daddy plays dolls.

Mmmmmm…

(click to see what that goodness is)

Hey there doods - I’m guest posting over at Classy Chaos, aka OHMommy’s blog. It’s all neat and clean over there, so I thought I’d add my mess to her perfection.

If you’re new here, WELCOME!
Read, peruse, and come back for more tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. It’s a little different over here from the perfection of Classy Chaos. There’s a stank around here that can’t be bleached out. And that’s how I roll.

Word.

My Heart

My Whole Heart

GAH - even I’m gonna throw up from all the love.

It’s SO nice to have a kid who used the crapper for so many reasons.

But(t)…

When that said kid requests requires me to hold her hand while she pees on the potty, then waits too long to go for her morning pee, then stands in the bathroom (thank GOD) and pulls down her pants, then pees her morning pee all over herself, her pajama pants, and the floor, then stands in the bath being hosed down, then her little sister comes in to see what’s going on and falls in the puddle of morning pee, then cries, then has to have her diaper and pajama pants pulled off her her, then has to stand in the bath and get hosed down, ALL BEFORE I BRUSH MY TEETH, I kinda wish she still wore diapers.

Good morning.

Wherever I go, no matter the place, preparation, or length of visit, I always forget something. Sometimes my phone, sometimes my camera, many times my hairdryer on vacations, putting on deodorant (I have back up in my car b/c I forget so often), rarely my kids, but always something.

This morning I decided to go wait for an hour or so for a new iPhone. Yeah, I know - dork. But it’s Sunday - GOD’S day - so I figured the lines would move hastely like the Bible says we should work, and I got there at 9:45am. Doors opened at 10, and I was about 50 people back. I’m figuring I’d be out of there by 12 - NO problem.

But this, my peeps, is not the focus of my story.

Standing in line at the start of my 2nd hour of official nerdness, I started running through my morning.

• Awoken by Anna at 7:30 - “I want food” “I wanna watch Moose & Zee” “Sit with me” “I wanna paint my pig” “blah blah blah”
• Coffee at 8
• Shower at 8:15
• Claire up at 8:30 -  “I want food” “I wanna watch Moose & Zee” “Sit with me” “I want my paci” “blah blah blah”
• Check email 8:45
• Get dressed in my finest un-nerdwear 9:15
• Drive to fancy-ass mall and arrive at 9:45

Hmmm… I feel like I forgot something.

• Purse (check)
• Phone (check)
• Wallet (check)
• Clothes (check)
• Shoes match (check)
• Deodorant (che…. maybe not)

DAMN - I forgot my deodorant - AGAIN. No problem though, I have some in my car….. DAMN! I brought Patrick’s car! (Side note: he wins Husband of the Month.) I’m stuck for the next umpteen hours standing in line wondering if I stank.

But do I smell?

I spend the next - no joke - 3 hours checking to see if I stank. Oh, you know you’ve done it.

The sly scratch over your shoulder and *sniff* or the rub your cheek on your shoulder and *sniff*.

But as it turns out, I don’t stank. At least I didn’t smell myself. I am surrounded by a gaggle of geeks, and you know they all smell like the inside of a computer tower and their mom’s basement.

Maybe I’m like Matthew McConaughy and don’t need deodorant. I’ll just go around town with my own signature musk.

On the other hand, I’ll just get myself a few extra sticks to put in every car and every purse for backup.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I was inspired by my hooker, Mama Wise, for this forgetful post.  Lord knows I don’t want to be accused of stealing.

Big ups to Lotus for running every Sunday. Shower Show her some lovin and stop by her place. If you haven’t already, crawl out from under your blog rock and go.

This picture of Anna gave me chills when I saw it scroll by on my computer. Today seemed like a breakthrough day for her. She’s recently been diagnosed-ish with anxiety and will soon begin receiving therapy.

But today at her 4yo birthday party, she was the happiest, friendliest, and most outgoing I’ve EVER seen her. It was a solid 1.5 hours of extreme happiness - Patrick thought her head was going to explode. This picture captures the epitome of how she felt today.

SeaWorld

Bud Donkey

Fake, but very pretty waterfall

Hello

Big Ass Turtle

Manatee

Injured by a boat

Penguin

Is there a….. a…. PENGUIN behind me?

Way back when I first started blogging in 2007, I posted about Patrick’s adventures in sleeping. I’ve edited a bit here and there to funny-up myself.

For all of my new Plurky friends and new bloggy friends and for everyone who forgot the hilarity, read below:

——————————————

Every night as my head hits the pillow, I wonder what sounds I might fear hear, laugh at, or be frightened by. No, not in my dreams. By my husband.

HockeyMan takes Ambien each night out of necessity so he says. He’s always been a sleep-talker, but because of the Ambien, his talking is amplified 10x.

His mom’s favorite sleep-talking phrase is one where she asked him what time he had to be up. His answer: “A half passed destiny.” Right. I’ll get you up then.

Because I so enjoy a list, I’ll give you a run-down of some of the things I have experienced in the late-night hours of sleeping next to HockeyMan.

• Uproarious wake-the-house-up laughing. It lasts for 5 seconds, and then silence. I’ve tried asking him what was so funny, but I get no response.

• Jibber-jabber. This is the most commonly heard sleep-talking. I’ve tried so hard to determine what he’s actually saying, even asking him what he’s saying, but to no avail.

• Groping. I know this doesn’t fall in line with sleep-talking, but it’s a side-effect of the Ambien so he says. He will roll over and aggressively grope me. Now, you think that would be nice under normal circumstances. But when he’s DEAD asleep and has no idea what he’s doing, it’s kind of creepy. Back off sleepy man.

• Tickling. Again, doesn’t fall in with sleep-talking, but he’s DEAD asleep. I’ve been awoken by HockeyMan ATTACKING me and tickling me all-the-while laughing very creepily. It was very frightening, but then again, really funny. Then it stops in about 5 seconds, and he’s back to dreamyland.

• Kick save. HockeyMan is plays hockey (duh), and he’s the goalie on his team. In that dreamyland state just before full sleepage, he’s made a few kick saves and glove saves. Those are kinda scary.

• Questions. This one needs some set-up. I had been out with my girlfriends (this happens about once a year unfortunately), and my drunky friends decided it would be funny to stop by my house to say hi to HockeyMan. It was still a bit early, so he was still up and awake. I have a crazy friend - you know, the one who will do ANYTHING. She and HockeyMan are close (no funny ideas) and kid each other all the time. So when I came to bed that night/morning, I cuddled up to HockeyMan.

That’s when he asked, “Which one are you?” Ummmm… Exsqueeze me? Which one am I?

Apparently, when he was falling asleep, he thought that if it had been just 30 min later when all us girls showed up, that my crazy friend would have gone in and jumped up and down on our bed, or even cuddled up to him, to wake him up. Very valid. So, he was thinking that we had come back and someone, not me, had crawled into bed with him.

Yeah… it was me. Sorry for your luck, HockeyMan. Now go grope yourself.

Am I lucky, or should I be grateful?

If I’m lucky, I can’t be grateful because luck is something that happens by chance, and therefore cannot be altered by fate or karma.

If I should be grateful, I must owe everything good in my life to karma and fate.

I vote for grateful.

*note: I really don’t want this to be a throw-up-in-your-mouth love fest, but rather a peep into my life. If you don’t want to peep into my life, visit a strip joint. Or if you really know me, do both. And take me with you.

I’m grateful from the tips of my newly pedicured toes to the top of my 2-day-unwashed frizzy head for my family. I read on the interwebs and talk to friends in real life about the trials and tribulations that they go through on a daily basis, and I can’t relate to most of them.

Yes, I have my issues, but I’m medicated. Thanks, Zoloft! You’re my true BFF.

But for the most part, except for mounting cavern (oxymoron anyone?) of debt, we are happy. Crazy happy. Dance around in the living room nekkid happy. Fear not - we don’t actually. I’d be the one throwing up in my mouth.

My husband is so incredible, he does the dishes and buys my hurting peepee medicine for me. He never yells at me or complains that he has to dig through a clean laundry pile daily for his panties. He brings me home the remainder of his chocolate milkshake, and dood, that’s better than a kiss.

My kids are good kids. 80-90% of the time. And they’re crazy-cute. Can’t ask for better.

GAH - I’m gonna make myself ill.

You can throw this back in my face when I find out Patrick’s left me for another woman or my kids needs to be sent to boot camp. Or, you can remind me that I weigh more than 50 pounds MORE than I did when I got married.

Let’s get some hookers!

And now, a word from a highly respected representative from Canadia, our 51st state: Ms. Huckdoll.

For those of you who don’t know me, I am Huckdoll. Born and raised in Vancouver, BC.

Canada.

Most of my young life was spent inside ice arenas watching my brother, cousins and friends play hockey. Saturday nights especially, were all about being in front of the television watching Hockey Night in Canada, whether I liked it or not.

My home team? The Vancouver Canucks.

I’ve been to many, many games - on occasion paying upwards of $300 a seat for playoff tickets.

What can I say? I love the smell of ice and more so, the energy of a few thousand people around me in one complex sharing my passion for one single thing - hockey.

When Baby Daddy and I found out we were pregnant, the first thing we purchased were Vancouver Canuck onesies. My daughters fell asleep many nights watching hockey games wearing these little things.

As they got older, they continued watching with us - on their own will. They’re almost three and not fully potty trained but they know almost every word to our national anthem. Some nights I’ll put them to bed and hear them softly singing it through the baby monitor.

They’re hockey girls, through and through. Why wouldn’t they be when they live in a country like Canada, in a city like Vancouver with so much love and passion for the game? Not to mention a dad who lives, breathes and plays the game.

This makes me smile and brings a tear to my eye, even. I LOVE Canada THAT much. I’m nothing short of proud to be one of these crazy Canucks in this video.

So, it didn’t really surprise me the other evening when my daughter asked me for a hockey beer cup.

What’s a hockey beer cup, you ask?

Well, I didn’t know either, so I asked her to show me. When finally made our way to the fridge, she pointed.

She wanted a beer.

My almost three year old wanted a hockey beer cup. To be brutally honest, I laughed my ass off. I’ve really never heard anything so cute in my entire life - that the twins associate beer with hockey. Talk about Daddy’s girls!

But, being the good mommy I am, I handed her a juice box instead and she cheers’d me with the unopened beer in my hand.

Only sixteen years to go, my hockey-loving baby girl.

Sixteen years till you realize that spending $24 for three beers at game is something only us crazy hockey fans do with a smile.

GO! Calgary Flames Canucks, GO!