St. George, do you have a brother? For the snot monsters?

I'm learning that there are different types of snot monsters in this world. All snot monsters are not the same, nor are they created equally.

Mine is the lazy kind from Snot Monsters, Inc. She lets me feel really good for a few hours and then figures she's on the clock and better make it look like she's doing something, so she whaps me over the head and forces me back to bed for a while. I don't like her very much. She gives me a false sense of feeling better and then yanks the rug from under me. She's manipulative, too. She lets me think that one type of medicine is the cure-all, then decides she's stronger than the cold medicine the second time around. She's also a thief and violator of the space-time continuum. My earnings for the week are dwindling, no matter how much effort or hours I think I'm putting into it.

My husband's was just the opposite. He's a full-time employee, efficient, and apparently is due for a raise. One blow and he put Mr. Sapphire down for the count, but only for a day. He then moved on to pester someone else, leaving only a few irritating effects of his stay.

Tiger's Eye has a nomadic snot monster. He comes and goes. He's been pestering the poor kid for a month, riding into town, all guns blazing, and then he takes off again after a day or two. We are using megadoses of vitamin C. We hope it's like garlic to vampires.

ManCub's was the regular Joe employee at Snot Monsters, Inc. He came, did his job, worked half-heartedly, didn't cause too much of a stir, and only managed to keep ManCub home from school for one day. ManCub refused to be beaten by the Snot Monster and kicked him out of his life. We liked this snot monster. If you have to have a snot monster, I think this would be the one we'd invite back. Sad but true.

KitKat has the most insidious, rotten, evil snot monster I've ever encountered. This one takes over her voice and uses it to vent every piece of vitriol in her arsenal. She's vicious, daring me and taunting me, making KitKat demand that I rid her of the beast before ISAT testing next week. The vitamin C doesn't seem to be working; I guess the next steps are crosses and a good priest for exorcism. She allows KitKat all day without a cough, but as soon as she lies flat, the coughing begins. She won't let KitKat sleep and, as we all know, KitKat needs sleep. I'm afraid to wake her up in the morning because the snot monster only allows KitKat to fall asleep at 6:30 and someone (I've been chicken and sending her brothers) wakes her up and the snot monster helps KitKat send them downstairs, shaking, and informing me that the creature has risen from her vault, bringing KitKat with her, and to be ready. She's immune to medicine and makes KitKat's throat too small to accommodate pills, anyway.

I'm a stock market idiot. Does it make more sense to invest in the company that sells cold products or in the individual product, itself?

Why I love my mommy...and the rest of 'em.

My mom is ultra cool. Bet not a lot of people think that. I reflected on several things over Christmas today with her:

1. She raised kids in the 70s and 80s, and then got my kids to tinker with in the 90s and 00s. The woman has coolness down from every era. Why? One of my 23-year-old sisters said something and she whipped out that arm and snapped her fingers like a major pro. I'd never seen her do that! Apparently, Ash hadn't either, and commented on "da mom wid da snap."

2. The girls lamented about how they couldn't get away with anything (talking about the 23-year-olds here again). I looked at them, very directly, and said, "Hey! I broke her in!" Mom said, "You just broke me." Heh.

3. Mom despises Doris Day's singing, and isn't too big on her acting, either. My sisters know this, so guess what Ash picked up at a yard sale a few months ago? With a lot of drama and suspense, the present got, well, presented as the last one. Mom opened it up, the girls bust out laughing and, for a moment, Mom hesitated, really not wanting to say it, but finally blurted, "But I don't like her!" to which the girls promptly replied they knew. What did we do with the record, you ask? The girls put it on the turntable and messed with the speeds to the timing of her sliding vocals, adding to the octave spreads with each line of "Over the Rainbow." I don't know if you had to be there, but it was good. All good.

4. Mom likes "thought that counts" gifts. I asked my little neighbor/frequent guest to "cartoonify" my mom's dog, Herky. Here is the result, which went on the front of a card:
My little buddy E has met Herky, being concurrent house guests, and the dawg has bling, a hoody, and shades. This little guy has some serious talent, so give him props!

5. My mom gets just as frustrated with Tiger's Eye (usually) lazy bones. My biggest beef is that I work nights. I put Alex out before I go to bed, usually, but with the kids out of school for the holidays, I have the freedom to put him out at midnight and my son put him out when he gets up, right? Wrong. This is the first thing I ask as I stumble around when I awaken:

"Please tell me the dog's been out."

"I didn't put him out."

"Why not?"

"I can't find my shoes."

NO longer a problem, my son. Knowing this battle, my mother bought him a pair of slip-on Croc-like-but-not-as-ugly shoes for his big ol' feet. Pop? "You can wear those in the snow." Me? I looked dead-eye at my eldest child, and said, "Exactly."

My mom rocks.

Now, onto the other peeps: My pop attended today's festivities. He's weakening. He's been very, very deaf for a very, very long time (childhood), and he's got the beginnings of Alzheimer's, but I overheard him on a Christmas call with my aunt (his daughter), and heard the following:

"So, you've got a bad cold? I ain't never heard of a good one."

:) He also takes his pocketknife wherever he goes. I took one from his house for a momento, and we launched into a discussion about how every boy needs a pocketknife, and he just couldn't believe that if Tiger's Eye went to school with one, he'd face arrest and expulsion--zero tolerance stuff. Pop's take? "How's he going to carve his girl's initials on a tree?"

My sisters: We had our big Christmas earlier this year, but the Dance Dance Revolution pads didn't come in time for the big Christmas. Tiger's Eye got them later, and now, "Can you come over? Will you bring the Playstation?" Did I mention they're 23? Crack me up. The two of them follow each other around the house. They started out eggs together, so I suppose it's only natural, especially that they've spent the better part of two years away from one another. They're not allowed to be on the same team in any game, it's so freaky. They're just, well, them. The best thing that ever happened to our family. Shiny stars, ultimate in positivity and cuteness, and just astounded that they finally developed hips last year. They're funny, and they keep Mom at her peak of performance, or she them. I think it's a mutual thing. Yes, they're old enough to live on their own, and yes, they're kind of freeloading, kinda, but they are looking for gainful employment and intend to pay Mom rent. She does have that huge house and none of us want her to be alone, but I'm sure she'd like a break :)

The kids...wow. What a Christmas. I deceived the poor children for months. I have earned serious cool mom pointage. We don't usually buy new gaming systems. Playstation has the Final Fantasy franchise, and Gamecube has the Zelda and Mario. Playstation was the last bought, and they still play the old, old, games, like SNES old. They'd given up hope of ever having a Gamecube, especially when KitKat asked specifically for more Zelda games, and I told her to go tally up the total for the 'Cube and the games, to which I told her precisely how many hours (uninterrupted) I'd have to work. Truth? It had been sitting in my husband's office for 2-1/2 months. MONTHS. Yeah. They went ape. Two Zelda games and one Mario game. KitKat's face turned beet red. She jumped up and down and said, "You got us! You SO got us!"

Yeah. That's why I bought it. I like having them and having them happy. Rarely does anyone play a RPG alone. They all sit and watch and read and collaborate on how to beat the bosses or their opinions on what's coming up. I'm very liberal with the games, because it promotes bonding between the three of them, and they're actually very good at limiting themselves, although KitKat whined about having only 5 minutes to play. I heard that many times today. The girls are keeping her tonight and they're going to watch a chick flick and keep the DDR for another day!

Merry Christmas, one and all. Herky's in the hood, Pop's got a reply for everything, the girls just bounce, and my Club Nimrod thinks we are such awesome parents. I got a good kitchen cleaning out of it, anyway.

So, what does it mean...

when you hold your little niece for the first time, your sister snaps your picture, and you look at the little perfect bit of heaven in your arms and say, "You are *so* blogged!"?

In our family, we tend to have perpetual Christmases. You see, there are only occasional planetary alignments that allow all five siblings, three spouses, and their five children to be in the same house at the same time. This weekend was one of those amazing times. This will be followed by our family Christmas, another Christmas at my mom's with just three siblings, and probably another trip down to the country and my aunt's house. When my other set of grandparents were still at home, that meant another Christmas, too. We love Christmas. This is the earliest I can remember Christmas, but it's not a stretch. Not too long ago, Mom had five kids in five different states. One year, she had five kids in four different states AND another country. Yeah, did you read that bit about the planetary alignment? Or do you believe in Christmas miracles? Me, too.

My little KitKat beat me to the punch. She snatched little Kedi for herself! Resigned to second place, I tended to something else, only to find my sis-in-law stole the Angel! Yeah, I forgive her, because I'm apparently so soft-n-snuggly that little Kedi likes to fall asleep in my arms, and, of course, no one wants to move a sleeping baby. All the while, my little Kaplan, my nephew, ran around and talked to everyone. "Aunt Kewwy" are the most precious two words, but the little stinker told me he'd rather give smoochies to Pop. He gave in later, though. He is successfully wearing his big boy pants!

Pictures to come. I promised to blog little Miss Kedi, and I surely intend to!

Sapphire VS School Marquee

I saw the worst school marquee today ever.

I found it so wrong that I wrote it down on the back of a receipt in the parking lot. This is my kids' school district. These are the educators I trust. My eldest son attended said school as a volunteer because of an overflow in our neighborhood school. My younger son wholly benefited from the special services and is doing very, very well now but, I'm sorry, but this strikes me wrong on so many levels:

"No one is ever hurt by doing the right thing."

Ghandi, anyone?

"Life skill of the month - peace."

Doing the right thing = peace? I'm not so sure about that.

I'm heavily into WWII history. All those countries who played a part in the resistance? Those who hid Jews? D-Day? Someone did a lot of wrong then, and someone did a lot of right, too, and there are graves scattered all throughout Europe to prove it.

Doing the right thing is often the most detrimental thing you can do in your own existence. We're not solely talking historical figures. What about the guy in the convenience store who gets shot because he keeps the pregnant cashier from getting hurt by a robber? For God's sake, has anyone heard of Iraq? The soldiers there...we occasionally see the pictures of them with those they were sent to protect, the innocent children. Yet, "no one is ever hurt" by doing the right thing?

Never confuse this for me being an advocate of NOT doing the right thing. Doing the right thing, though, takes guts. Doing the right thing has a potential to cause collateral damage. Doing right could mean loss of income, emotional stress, isolation/ostracization from loved ones, and even death.

Witness protection program, anyone?

Like so many things, the phrase seems so harmless, but it's fluff. There was more room on that marquee, too, so there was room to change it to make it relevant, to something like:

"Doing the right thing hurts, but you can make a difference."

Or

"The world could be better. Step up, do the right thing, and show them how it's done."

The second one is more appropriate for kids. That's not scary for them. On that level, they're worrying about Suzy having a bruise and crying on the playground because Mom hit her. They tell an adult, the adult intervenes, and the problem is on its way to a solution.

Geez, standing up and doing the right thing is nearly never easy! If you're living right, there are prices to pay. My family's moral code is based by Christ's words. If the Antichrist does come in this age, I can see my mother in the front yard with her hands extended for the cuffs! She might use it as a stall tactic while the other house's inhabitants get away, but...that's still doing the right thing!

The drop-out kids on the street corner with the bags of pot - they're probably making more money than I am. Their friends see them and either join them or go the other way, ending life-long friendships. Doing the right thing absolutely bites sometimes, but unless someone does it, we don't have a better world.

Think American Revolution. Think taxation without representation. Think abolition of slavery. Think underground railroad. Think Abraham Lincoln.

Was that easy?

This country was founded on doing the right thing. This country was founded on freedoms, particularly the freedom of speech. When in a position of authority, please use your free speech wisely. The sentence that started this diatribe is without substance or merit, just a feel-good saying that looked good on a school marquee.

I read marquees all over the town as I drive past them. I find some offensive, I find some thought-provoking, and some I just don't get. I think this falls in all three categories.


Yeah, I get upset over marquees with nonsense posted on them. Shoot me.

Gratitude I took for granted.

I have something to be incredibly thankful for. I usually have a very long list, but the most important are:

I still have my son, I still have the back part of the house, we still have our snake collection, and Mr. Sapphire still has a business where the critters are breeding.

We almost didn't.

One of our heavy-duty extension cord melted right in the middle, where the neat coils fused together in a bubbling mess. The fire alarms went off when the smoke got bad enough, but, because there were no flames (yet), we had difficulty finding it. By the time we did, it melted the carpet, the padding, and was on its way into the subfloor. I imagine, had the wood been any further burned, the flames would have started - right in Tiger's Eye's bedroom.

Count your blessings, name them one by one, and may your list be as long as mine!

So, Nimrod, ever been to Kenya?

My cousin and her family have a chance of a lifetime to make a difference. Please help them and their friends get there. Like I said in the link, it's not until June 2008, so donate for this year's tax deduction and once again for next. Kenya 2008!

In other news, my nephew might just be on that flight to Kenya with them, because, you see, Kaplan is an official Nimrod. There is no more junior member for this little dude. See here? Tell his momma she needs to start a-blogging. She's got talent, and this little man's going to make sure she uses it!

My sister Joni writes:

Hey, family! I apologize for those of you who are not interested, but I thought you might enjoy
hearing about my day yesterday with your youngest nephew. I thought Mom and Sapphire would enjoy this the most.

Anyway, we are in the throws of potty training, as most of you know. I decided that I've had about enough of a 3 year old in diapers, despite having a 5 week old. I may be insane, but when else would I be stuck at home and doing tons of laundry? So, I've been taking him to the potty every hour to hour and a 1/2. We also gave him matchbox cars as an incentive to poop in the potty. I thought, no problem. I only paid $.50 for them on sale. $.50 a day for a potty trained child is well worth the investment. I didn't anticipate that the child would squeeze a little bit out almost every time he sat on the toilet, resulting in 4 to 5 cars a day! That's getting a little more pricey. We've now switched to the dime system and for every 5 dimes, he can trade it in for a car. Maybe with any luck, he'll learn to use the potty and the value of a dollar! Boy, am I an accountant!

So yesterday, he had done pretty well and already amassed about 3 dimes. I thought it would be safe to put him in his room for quiet time. So I took him potty again, read him 3 books and left him in his room for a bit. Hubby was working in the office just next to Kaplan's room and I was sitting down to feed Kedi (editor's note: My newborn niece). Meanwhile, Kaplan asked to go to the potty again. Just after that, I received a phone call and chatted with my friend for a while.

Mind you, the kid had JUST GONE POTTY TWICE in the last hour.

When I got off the phone with my friend, I realized that I heard movement (no pun intended) from the other end (again, pardon the pun) of the hall and told Kedi that we should go check on her big brother. Kaplan met me at the bedroom door, sans pants and underwear. I got so excited. "Did you go to the potty all by yourself?" "Yes!," he exclaimed back. I noticed brown smears all over the inside of his leg. By then I was turning the corner to the bathroom. Poop was smeared all over the toilet, where he had tried to dump his underwear to make it look like he pooped in the potty for a dime! I couldn't help but sigh and laugh. I do have a 3 year old, after all. They can be naive and crafty all at the same time. At least he knew he'd gone in his pants and was doing something about it rather than sitting in it for me to find! There was my silver lining. That, and as I'm cleaning, he's saying, "I'm sorry, Mommy. I'm sorry."

After completely cleaning the bathroom and my son, I decided it was time for a bath. I ran the bath water, complete with bubbles. After asking if he needed to pee and receiving a negative response (after all, hadn't he gone several times the previous hour?), I plopped him in the tub. About 2 minutes later, he said, "I just peed in my boat." By now, I was losing patience and yelled, "Kaplan, I just asked if you needed to go and you said NO!" I drained the bath water (which takes forever), cleaned all the toys and then the bathtub. I refilled the tub and stuck him back in. Literally seconds into it, I watched him pee again. I exclaimed, "Kaplan!" I pulled him out of the tub and stuck him on the now clean potty. He received a sponge bath after that. I couldn't handle cleaning the tub once more.

Even after all that, I wouldn't change my job for the world, though sometimes I wonder! But it also gives me even more appreciation for you, Mom and Sapphire and any other Mom who's been there and been a maid for a number of years, without pay and without appreciation.

Love you all!


Editor's note: We love you too! Thanks for giving me permission to post that. Moms of all kinds are gonna read this and think, yeah, been there. I've so been there.

For more access to my dementia, please go to sapphiretigress.com. It's free. I'm still working on getting my own DSM-IV diagnosis...stay tuned...

Is this kind of a "why is the sky blue" question?

So...

ManCub can't hear his own alarm. KitKat can't hear her own alarm. By golly, though, wouldn't you know...she complains that his is too loud, and he wakes up by her alarm. I've been up all night and I can't Aesop this one out. I'm going to let it go.

Five chapters edited. Cover letter written. Synopsis form...still sitting where I left it in the front room Sunday while I watched football, cooked, did dishes, yada yada ad nauseum in patheticum deo. I have no idea if that means anything other than my dementia is all I have left to offer after a night of typing for a colorectal surgeon, one Arab rheumatologist, one Indian rheumatologist who speaks her version of the Queen's English with some American accents (I love typing for her - she's awesome), one plastic surgeon (no 750-cc Mentor silicone implants tonight, darnit--I love laughing at those chicks), and lots and lots of colonoscopies with poor bowel prep. Doc S has so many ways of saying they didn't take their GoLYTELY seriously. ::shudder::

Yeah, that just fell under the TMI category, didn't it?

For more of my dementia, please visit sapphiretigress.com. It gets weirder than this, folks. I guarantee it.

Meet them, one by one...the nimrods also stalk here.

New site for the website, new blog feed: Club Nimrod, now with pages for each nimrod.

For more, please visit sapphiretigress.com

Child on a leash?? Are you crazy?

This is going to be my contribution to the great child-on-a-leash debate. I don't care if it's a cute little monkey, or brightly colored wrist bands, or an old-fashioned yellow harness with a clip-on leash thing with a loop for mom or dad's wrist...

If you have a frisky child, use the dang leash, guilt free. No apologies!

The leash I used for my eldest was passed down from my mother. You see, when my brother was a frisky three-year-old, she had to navigate airports from St. Louis to Incirlik Turkey. We're talking JFK. We're talking Heathrow. We're talking Germany and Greece and and and...

We made it to our destination, with my brother. Quite a feat for a mother of three, traveling alone to the other side of the world.

Flash forward to 1994. My son was 2-1/2, my daughter about ready to pop out from my uterus. Heavily pregnant with an active son of his caliber in the seat meant constant bumps of his shoes and knees against a belly already pressing on my bladder. Now, you couldn't let Tiger's Eye loose. I already learned that one lazy spring morning when I opened the door and let the screen door bring in some of that lovely air. He knew he had me; I sat. About nine months pregnant, seated on a low couch, renders the best of us disabled. I sat, he watched, and he ran for the door. Before I knew it, he was out the door and on the way to see his grandma.

Yeah. I had on a nightie. He sure was faster than me, and he had a heck of a head start, given that I had to kind of roll off the couch onto my knees and push off the floor in order to stand.

I panicked and yelled when he got perilously close to the street. Thank goodness, he listened and stopped. I took him by the hand and led him back inside, in tears. He got away from me, plain and simple. The fear of him crossing that street and me having to watch...never again.

I told my mother, and she gave me the leash. Smart woman, that one. Five kids gives you wisdom, that's for certain sure.

Soon after, I made one of the last trips to the grocery store before my daughter came along. The C-section was scheduled and I needed to stock up before the big event. I fixed my son in his harness, and he absolutely loved it. He barked a couple of times and panted, and that was just across the parking lot.

The leash gave him wiggle room. It was either the leash or the seat, and, like I said, I don't particularly like bladder problems in the middle of Schnucks, you know. We perused the cereal, Tiger's Eye pointing out his favorites and me denying them for plain Cheerios and such.

Then, she came. A virtuous woman no doubt, young, in 3" heels, the consummate professional. And she lectured me, standing by the cereal with my happy son fixing the boxes in a nice row.

"That's cruel. How can you attach your child to a rope like a mutt?"

"You're right," I said. "Babe, come here." I lovingly extended my hand, which he took. He turned around, and I unleashed him.

What did he do? Just like I anticipated, he ran down the aisle without a care in the world.

"As you can see, I have trouble keeping up," I said, rubbing my belly. "You'll have to get him for me."

She ran down the aisle, her heels clicking against the tile. My baby did this beautiful U-turn around the frozen fish freezer thingy, and careened toward the meat while I leisurely strolled up the aisle. By the time she caught him and led him back, her posh hairdo came apart, and she blew back a free strand of hair with a puff.

She said nothing, absolutely nothing, as she placed his hand in mine. I clipped the leash back to the harness. I said nothing, absolutely nothing, but "Thanks."

I really can't remember using the leash after that, other than a trip to the zoo. When KitKat actually arrived, I had more wiggle room of my own, since Daddy or Grandma kept the baby or I shopped at night after work.

Bottom line? I know my child. I know his potential. I know that, when he runs, his legs extend in a beautiful, deer-like stride. I also knew this could happen in the parking lot.

Moms know their kids. If you think your kid doesn't need a leash, good for you! Mine did. I make no apologies for keeping him safe.

Use the leash, and keep them close. You snooze, you blink, you pick up a tomato...

Think. Just think, people. Thou shalt not judge, and I raise this child and know him better than you do.

See more at www.sapphiretigress.com.

Halloween...but she's not too scary. Usually.

Here's KitKat, ready for the Halloween Dance, 2007. For more pics, please go here: KitKat

Why my children won't be physicians.

They drive me crazy, they drive each other crazy, but they're worth keeping. Also, NaiLz McGraber strikes again.

Never mind the snake in the kitchen - beware of the cat!

Mr. Purr is at it again, and I found someone we thought we lost. At 2:00 a.m.

My life is never boring.

Troubles With Trebble-shays

Part Four is now up, for all you nice people who have read it. There's at least another two parts. Yeah, it felt that long, too LOL

We're on a countdown!

My sister does her Demi Moore impression. In her own style.

Troubles With Trebble-shays

Series in progress. Parts 1, 2, and 3 are ready. If I can cut down on the graphics, it might only be 5. We'll see. Trebuchet nightmares.

Option #2, Madame Gazelle?

It comes to the point where you think people have two options...click here.

Club Nimrod, dead computer, and fuss, fuss, fuss.

Click the title. Thanks!

Dude, it's the Thursday spelling test thing...again!

Click the title to take you to the blog at sapphiretigress.com. Thanks!

We love our neighbors!

Hamper Hamster


















Laundry Leprechaun

Multicultural St.Louis

I love working from home. I love not having a set schedule. I wondered how long it would take, going from daily trips out of the house to do the pickups/deliveries before I needed out.

Yesterday was that day. Actually, it happened before then, but Friday was the soonest I could make it happen. I was on pins and needles and antsy, antsy, antsy. I wanted OUT!

KitKat and I took the MetroLink to Union Station, where were promptly assailed by a henna tattoo merchant. He definitely wasn't Indian, so while getting a dragon on my arm (he was a very good salesman), I discovered he was from Israel. His kiosk sat not too far from another, a Dead Sea product merchant, who too was from Israel. Interestingly, I talked about the Dead Sea and how I'd been wanting to see it, and that I swam in the Mediterranean, but it wasn't as salty, when another gentleman with the 2nd gentleman from Israel asked what part of the sea in which I had swam. I told him Mersin. Turned out his mother was Turkish. I told him "merhaba" and chatted very nicely with them for a while. Then, we went upstairs and had gyros. I told the guy behind the counter that, so far, I had been in conversation with two Israelis and a Turk, and I assumed he was Greek. He made me guess. That's a dangerous, dangerous game. I felt safe he wasn't a Turk, so I stayed away from that one. I guessed Crete. He said no. I said Lebanese. He looked at me like I'd be dead. I told him that playing the guessing game from that part of the world could be construed as an insult and I thought it would be better off if he came clean. He was from Morocco. The gyro was delicious, and then we went downstairs and played with the Chinese finger weapons and looked at a crossbow replica and a mace with four stainless steel balls, and, of course, more dragons for KitKat.

It was PLEASANT. Wow. I feel like I've done something, and all we did was leave the house for a few hours. I am such a homebody, and KitKat and I now have matching henna dragon tattoos. It was fun, and I think KitKat looks at me just a bit differently. She's so shy and I'm so not, and had I been shy, we wouldn't have had such a nice dinner conversation topic.