"Smackberry"

My husband had  a "mistress" and on certain occasions I didn't mind the witch, but "she" took over our lives. Her name was "Blackberry, Cell Phone, Laptop" or any other invasive technology that can be used "anywhere."

At first I thought she was my friend and she acted that way too. I was able to contact hubby whenever I wanted and vice versa. I should have been wary of such a "helpful" friend. She, after all, eventually became the go to gal for most of hubby's wants and needs. It was kind of nice for a while, especially after the birth of our third child, when hubby was able to "work on stuff" and pretty much stay away from me as I was so tired I could barely stand some days.

Eventually I got my groove back so to speak, but alas, hubby was addicted to instant information. It was as if I didn't exist when he was "communicating" with her. At times I felt that if I had a monitor on my head and a keyboard on my chest, I might get some "attention."

I knew the problem was real and needed addressing when I was pulled from a fulfilling slumber by an eerie blue glow and the slight tapping of thumbs furiously returning e-mail at 2:30 am. He had brought that tramp into my bed with me in it! Oh no no no! As tempted as I was to grab her and fling her against the wall, I did not. I knew it would only wind up costing me in the long run. I would have to pay for any "damages" to her and if she were unable to be of service to hubby anymore, he would just get a younger model with more features to entrance him further under that technological spell. Lord knows I did not need this.   

Finally, one of our children reached her father in way, I could not. My incessant crabbing and complaining about the "other woman" was doing nothing but driving him to her more. My 11 year old said to her Daddy, "Why do you love your 'Smackberry' more than us?" He asked her why she was calling his beloved a "Smackberry". "Well Dad, we all want to smack either you or her whenever you are together. I have told you 3 times about my school project that won the Science Fair and you act like you don't hear me. That's not fair and I don't like you." Our 7 year old chimed in to agree and the baby gave her opinion by filling her diaper, very stinkily, I might add.

I have discovered that it is harder for hubby to take his children not liking him than for me to not like him.

Prologue: Hubby was downsized from his job and alas his mistress left him for somebody new. It seems that she didn't care as much for him when his prospects were questionable. His family on the other hand, remained at his side and liked him once again.

Wasting my Education?

I admit it, I am a stay at home mom. I don't work... outside the home. I sure as heck work inside it. I am just a little crazy from people telling me I don't work. Don't get me wrong, I have been a working (outside the home) mother as well. I just don't understand why it seems that we (mothers in or out of home workers) need to be on opposite sides of some imaginary line that says whether we are good parents or not.

Today I was told that as a "SAHM" (stay at home mom), I am wasting my college degree and my husband should be unhappy with me for not "contributing" to our family. This was said to me by a woman who "works outside the home."

I believe every family must do what is right by that family. When it was right for our family, I had a job I went to every day and was happy and my kids are none the worse for wear having been in Daycare (this was the equivalent of a four letter word when I was "working).

It just now works out for our family that I stay home. As for contributing... Do I ever contribute.

I consider myself the CEO of our household. After all, it is me that makes the household productive.

I manage many different divisions: I manage and stock my own restaurant that is open 24 hours a day. I manage a 24 hour fluff and fold laundry service. I manage a pet care division that services an elderly cat with dementia, an aging dog and one cat that is a minion of Satan. I run my own cleaning company and yes, I do windows. I run a financial service and take care of all bills directly related to all my other businesses. I am the head of a chaffeur company for 3 ungrateful clients all under the age of 12. I also tutor said clients and make sure that they are on task. I also do landscaping and interior decorating as well.

There are so many other things I "contribute". Let's face it the pay sucks, it is the benefits that keep me going... chocolatey sticky kisses, rainbow pictures drawn just for me, good report cards and numerous other perks.

Occasionally, hubby forgets all that I do. I have to remind him... I hide all his clean underwear... it's amazing how fast he remembers!

All I'm trying to say is... Do what's right for your own family and don't judge what works for anyone else.

"Fantagious"

There are days when I honestly think my life can't get any weirder. And then I talk to my 7 year old. She is in her own little world and when she comes out to where the rest of us are (Planet Earth) there are bound to be some interesting conversations. (Yes, I am going to describe one of these "conversations.)

Samantha, aforementioned 7 year old, climbed into my lap to cuddle. This was nice because it is not her usual behavior. Usually you get a growl of acknowledgement and then she is off to do whatever it is she does... dig in the dirt, catch bugs, or just a general wreaking of mischief somewhere.

Anyway she climbs into my lap to be "nubby" (family word for love is "nub." It's an SNL Eddie Murphy as "Buckwheat Sings reference.) As usual I digress. She is being unusually affectionate. She takes my face into her hands and squeezes my chin. In feeling my chin she is perplexed and looking at me in a strange manner.

I ask her "What's wrong Sammie?" She replies with a question of her own, "Are daddy's whiskers 'fantagious'?" I am at a loss. I have no idea what she is asking me. So I intelligently counter with "Huh?" She asks the question again, "Are daddy's whiskers 'fantagious'?" I simply must have looked stupid because she expounds on her question.

"I can feel your beard Mommy," she says yanking on an apparent hair I had missed in my last "tweezing session." She continues, "Did you get that from kissing Daddy? Is it fantagious?" Normally I would laugh and think how adorable, but at the same time she is asking, she yanks the offending hair out of my chin....(Freakin' OUCH!).

She shows it to me and it is nearly one and a half inches long and curly. It is a gray, gnarly hair which is why I didn't see it when I was plucking. She thinks it is the same color as Daddy's hair and I that caught his beard from kissing him.

Yes, it is funny... only if you are not the one standing in front of the mirror with a flashlight pointing at your chin; Now, not only worried about the black hairs you find there, but these new freaky ones. Yes, I found more. It was like I had a small set of cat whiskers growing straight off my jawline at the chin. And yes, they curled at the ends.

I think I am going to blame this on hubby. These hairs are in the realm of the "fantastic" (not in a good way). He must have been "fantagious" that day when I was actually nice and kissed him hello from work. (Oh my goodness, what if I had been even.... "NICER?" I might look like sasquatch right now, had I been).

Samantha is calling me right now, apparently she needs to go potty, her "blaster" is full.

Chesty LaRue or Elsie the Cow?

I needed to go to our local Mega Chain Retail Mart (don't want to say the name: With their oodles of money, I'd probably get sued). Anyway, I needed to go buy clothes hangers. At some point I managed to actually catch up with all the laundry and I don't have enough hangers. This is my explanation to my hubby for why the laundry room is always in a state of chaos. Again, I digress.

I needed to go to the store and as usual I have my 5 month in tow. Before we go, I feed her at home to what I assume is capacity as she blurps cottage cheese all over me at the end of her nursing session. So I clean up and off to "Generic Mart" we go.

We are in the store for maybe 20 minutes when the little princess begins wailing in pitches that dogs in a 30 mile radius begin responding to much to the dismay of their owners. Annaleigh is hungry... Again.

I, being a mother in the 21st century, am, of course,  prepared. I have my handy dandy nursing cape. It is a lovely giant swatch of material that snaps around my neck and is imprinted with images from the nursery rhyme, "Hey Diddle Diddle." I mean, after all, if I am going to nurse in public (yes, this is where this story is going), I want to be subtle and blend into the background.

I find a bench (of course in the middle of the main aisle) and park the cart next to me and set about putting my little bundle of joy under the cape and feeding her. I know that she will go to sleep and I can finish shopping with no more "incidents." I settle myself as comfortably as I am able, she has latched on and I feel that all is well. I am sufficiently covered and not showing that anything is happening save for the little bare feet sticking out from under the cape and the slurping sounds coming from beneath. She sounds like a toothless "wino" sucking from a paper sack after a long stretch without the "stuff," if you know what I mean.

I am perfectly comfortable doing this in public, but alas, much of the public is not. I am met with horrified stares, curious stares, embarrassed stares, and my favorite: the openly hostile stare. Any time I can irritate someone by merely sitting on a bench, is a good day for me. (People reading this who know me are now nodding in agreement.)

All is well for a bit and then the "well-meaning" public begins to intervene: First a "much more mature than me woman" (yes, an old lady) decides to tell me that in her day, they stayed at home and let someone else run errands when there was a "young one who needed tending to" in the house. I merely smile, nod and say, "yes, weren't those the days" all the while thinking, "you didn't have to worry when it was just you and Noah on the Ark."

Then comes the woman with children who is frightened that I am going to do some kind of "Chesty LaRue" porn star routine right there in the middle of the store scarring her children for life. She openly tells me that I should either go to my car or nurse in the restroom. I am half tempted to adjust my cape at this time exposing my nursing child and the boob to which she is attached. Don't worry I don't. I simply tell her that I am nearly done shopping and I have just a few more things to get and would like to get this done today and as for the public restroom and feeding my baby, I really don't think that is an appropriate place to eat. I then ask her "Do you feed your children in the bathroom? Would you like to use the toilet seat for a plate?" She makes an unnatural sound of what I assume is disapproval and makes off with her children, one who has been picking his nose and eating it during the entire exchange.

Finally a store employee (female) approaches me. It seems someone has "told on" me. I know that Annaleigh is nearly done and so I don't even give her an opportunity to say anything to me. I fire first with this missile, "I am a card carrying member of a radical group known as the La Leche League and I have my attorney on speed dial." This stops her in her tracks. She counters with "If you need help finding anything, just let me know." I know this is not what she had been intending to say. We all know that if you ask for help in one of these stores no one knows where anything is or "it's not their department." At any rate, I feel victorious.

As for the La Leche thing, I am more scared of this group than the public so really I am not a card carrying member. I am just a 35 year old mom trying to get through the day and complete my errands. As for nursing a child in public: There is absolutely nothing provocative, sexual or embarrassing about it. It's just something that needs done and if Elsie the cow can do it without being bothered then I should have that same right! There are more controversial things on prime time television!

It's been stated on the news that milk may go up to six bucks a gallon. If this happens, don't be surprised if you see women nursing their entire families as a way to save money.

I say "Viva La Boob Juice!"

My Kid Says I'm Not "Cool", What the Heck Does She Know?

Tubes Tied, Vasectomy, Abstinence, Nunnery... I'll do it!

Okay, I am back after being gone for a bit. As you may know if you have read my other rantings and looked around, I have 3 demon spawn... oops, I mean lovely daughters. Well, just for giggles (as I must be some kind of mental case), I invited my niece and nephew to spend a week and a half with us. This puts my child talley at 1 - 6 yr. old, 1 - 7 year old, 1 -10 year old, 1 - 11 yr. old, and let's not forget the 5 month old as well as the 37 year old overgrown child that leaves every morning and comes back at some point in the evening. All I can say is anyone with more than one kid has got to either be an angel with the patience of a saint or a mental patient in search of a cracker factory. I have no illusions, I need to be committed.

I have barely managed to keep up with the laundry which I was never too keen at to begin with. I thought I might institute craft day where we take extra pillowcases cut holes in them for heads and arms and call it "Caveman Kid" Day, just to get out of washing for a day. The only baggage that comes with that is the fact that one of them would decide they need a "club" and that opens a whole other can of worms.

I have decided that also after these past few days that "tattling" should be an Olympic event. The drive and determination that these kids have to accomplish a "tattle" after they have been told a gazillion times that unless it involves "gallons of blood, excessive vomiting or imminent death, I don't want to hear about it!" they still feel the need to do it. I can dodge them, ignore them, avoid them and still they come: "She was touching my stuff... well, he wasn't playing like I told him to... She is the meanest girl ever... blah, blah, blah." The tenacity of them is amazing.

It will also be nice to shut down the diner. It is hard to accommodate 5 children's meal requests. Sadly my niece and nephew have not had to share in my children's "you eat it or starve" meal planning agenda. Normally I would not cater to this behavior, but a week and a half of not feeding them might get me into a legal situation. I know the "Lurp" of a husband my sister has would not hesitate to irritate me with his tremendously intelligent perception of the situation. If this were to happen, I am afraid I would face legal ramifications no matter how justified... oops, again I write out loud.

Last but not least, I get my house back. Not that I do not love all these children, but they are intent on destroying my home. 4 Times I have had to re-hang curtain rods, twice hubby had to re-hang closet doors, there was a fishing expedition in the upstairs toilet for an empty toilet paper roll. Every piece of clothing my 6 year old has wound up on the floor of her closet and when told to pick them up... they went into the hamper, because "now they are dirty."  Yeah, this is where I dreamt up pillowcase clothing day.

If they had stayed any longer I think I would have bought 5 rolls of paper towels and stapled outfits on them everyday. Of course it would have been recycled, biodegradable paper towels. After all, just because I am crazy doesn't mean I can't think of the environment.

I think I have figured it out for next year... I will have hubby put up a steel building. This is where the kids will stay. I can hose them and their room down everyday and all will be clean, tidy and indestructable.

Oh yes... hubby gets his vasectomy very soon... either traditionally through the doctor or not so traditionally (now where'd I put that butcher block and knife?").

The Romance of the Beach... Only if Sandless!

I have spent the last 3 days in a minivan with my husband and 3 children driving the West Florida Gulf Coast. While it has been beautiful, I have made it to age 35 never having taken a "dip" in the ocean. I have seen both the Atlantic and Pacific and been tremendously awed by them both, but I have never "played" on the beach or in the water. Maybe this is why I had romanticized how fun this adventure would be.

It was not in the least romantic or glamorous. I was on the beach with my gray-haired, pasty white, four months out of pregnancy body surrounded by tanned, tiny beach nymphs in string bikinis. Let me tell you, I had the good sense to be out and about in my knee shorts and billowy (easy access for nursing) T-shirt, giant granny sunglasses and sun visor. What a picture of beachy fun I presented.

It was with a morbid excitement that off in the distance I spotted a fin! Yay! String Bikini Shark Bait! I had the secret hope that some of these little hard bodies could possibly be gobbled up. (Yes, I know, how horrible of me, but waddling around with a baby on my hip, leaking milk, while trying to keep the oldest two from blinding each other in a sand war while my husband stands around like the mouth breather he is, allows me these mean spirited yet gleeful little fantasies.)

Alas, no skinny wenches were munched, as the fin I spotted was actually a dolphin. This was a high point of the trip. They were so free and happy frolicking in the sea, jumping and splashing. I turned my thoughts to what it must have been like to be Mr. Limpet (boy, I'm dating myself here).

Anyway, I learned that reality very rarely meets fantastical expectation once we reach a certain age. My kids of course were ecstatic splashing and chasing waves as well as digging for crabs stupid enough to pop their heads out near us. This is the joy for us as adults: Adopting the joy of our children as our own negating the perceived "bad" of the situation. Yeah, yeah, yeah, hokey it may be, Lord help me, it is the truth.

I do know that despite how it was made to look, that beach rolling love scene in "From Here to Eternity" had to suck. I barely got into the sand and 3 days later, I am still finding sand in places I didn't even know I had on my body. I can't even imagine how long Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr were finding sand. Romantic....Hmphhhhh!

Milestones

I have a wonderful new baby and I have been gauging all her milestones and puffing with pride at her accomplishments. And then it dawns on me: I am meeting a quasi-milestone of my own this year and it's kind of freaking me out. I will be 36 this September and it occurs to me that I started dating my husband right before my 18th birthday. The conclusion: I will now have been with my husband for "literally" half of my life. It's almost inconceivable to me we have been together so long. It doesn't even include the amount of time we knew each other before we started dating. We were married at ages 21 (me) and 23 (he) and will hit the 15th anniversary this year (I have relatives that lost money at the 5th one, I am sure).

My daughter is fascinated by how and why we got together. It's very simple... we were the only ones from our high school home at the time. What I mean is, all our friends went off to college away from home and we didn't. Actually my husband went into the Navy but as a result of some medical issues and flubbed paperwork, he was unable to be on a nuclear sub and he was honorably discharged and sent back home. I was already at home because I took a year off between high school and college to work in the "real" world. Let me tell you, if you have a child on the fence about going off to college, let them take a year off and work in a small factory on a back road. Like me, they will not only go to college, they will pay for it themselves and finish and obtain that degree.

At any rate, we started running around together because as I said before, no one else was around to entertain us and we had been friends in high school. He had graduated a year before me.

Eventually we figured we might as well get married. After all, were we really going to find someone better than each other? Well, we probably could, but why go through all that aggravation (yes Daddy, I spelled it right - inside family note). We were used to each other, knew each other's past "relationships" and had been through the whole "what were you thinking there?" issues. Especially Mark, before me, he was a complete idiot. I refer to his past "mistakes" as the "dog-killer" (yes, this psychopath lured his dog out to the road and ran over it), "her royal highness" (this wench was way high maintenance), and the "fingernail licker" (this one freaks even me out and I was raised by "bikers, not to mention, she was my good friend in school and with the certain knowledge I have, I don't think I could ever look her in the eye or the hand again). I, of course, had the "string-bean, frizzy-headed older man who had no driver's license because of a DUI, but I feel superior because I only had one idiot moment to his 3.

Oh yes, I forgot the other reasons he wanted to marry me, I am shorter than him and my "DD cups runneth over". It's okay. He told me it was this that made him think of me as something other than a "friend." My reaction: At least he's honest about it.  He did look up at my face once in a while when I was speaking unlike some guys who never heard a word I said.

He had a couple things going for him as well... A good job, his own vehicle with active driver's license and as I am short, he wasn't too tall. And although he was blonde (not my first choice in hair color), after boot camp, he was all chest and arms (definitely my first choice in body feature).

Although I jest about our relationship, I know it was indeed meant to be and tell him how I know....

... If he had married and had children with any of his previous relationships, his children would not have been quite so attractive (I don't want to say ugly here as no child is ugly, but if he had procreated with, let's say the "dog killer", there may have been some plastic surgery needed on down the road, or at the very least some major dental and jaw work). As I was saying, only he and I could produce children so attractive (pictures on this site). Only two people so meant to be together could have produced such beauties as we have had.

 

People are Reading and My Daughter is Horrified!

According to my counter on this site, 365 visits have been recorded. Whether or not anyone is reading this stuff is not as "tangible" as the number of "hits." I have had a few nice comments, but I do not write for the benefit of anyone other than myself. It is generally at the end of the day, when my family is tucked into their beds that I sit here in the dark and "rant." It is my time to vent and clear my head and prepare to "do it all over again" tomorrow. Unfortunately my eldest daughter is not pleased that I put it out there for the world to see. I mean after all, "what if someone she knows" reads it. She told me that even though she is "freaked" out by the amount of hair growing out of her father's nose and ears, she doesn't want people to know she thinks of him as a yeti. I say, "Why not?" That's good for a chuckle. She refers to me to all her friends as "freaky note woman" because I won't let her participate in any school events without a detailed written description of the activity, what's involved and who's in charge. So I can be "freaky note woman" but dad can't be yeti? She tells me I shouldn't write about our family and if I am going to, I should make us sound better. I don't know what she thinks better is, but if I was married to Ward Cleaver, I think I'd have to "cleaver" myself. The fact of the matter is, and I tell her this, no one is "normal." Actually, I'm not sure what normal is, and I'm not sure I want to. I'm proud of my chaotic life, my sassy mouth children and my hairy yeti of a husband. I have degree in English and was always given the advice by professors to "write what I know." Well, I know that my family entertains me rather than embarrasses me and someday when she is older, she will appreciate our "freakiness." Until then, I tell her to remember... No one can laugh at you if you were already laughing first!

Your Home, My House

All right, so I am having a conversation with my 10 year old daughter (oops, I mean 10 and 3/4) year old daughter about her messy room. She says "It's not messy." I look around and yes, you can walk through it as she has piled everything up. I will give her bonus points in that each pile had a theme: stuffed animal pile, dirty clothes pile, clean clothes pile (although these latter two would inevitably have a romantic relationship and breed the "I'm not sure if it's dirty or clean pile), and misc. other themed piles. You get what I'm saying. I remind my beloved daughter that this is not what I mean by a "clean" room. Her response to that is... "Well, you don't live in it." It is in this moment that I realize I have come full circle: I am now standing in my mother's shoes facing the next generation of me! (I know now that there are not enough apologies I could express to my mother, my punishment has been the parental curse fulfilled... a child just like me.) How do I respond to this line of reasoning? While she is my child, I am after all my mother's child. I simply say... "While this will always be your home, it will also always be my house and until you pay for all those things that you receive lovingly given with only being asked to clean your room the way I say to do it, only then, may you keep your room in any state of clean you wish." Needless to say, off she went with a laundry basket and the eye-rolling, chest-heaving, foot stomp. This I ignored. Sometimes in order to win the war, you have to concede your battles. In the end: Her room is cleaned the way I told her to do it in the first place...I win!

"HillyBilly Food"

So I went to a lot of trouble to make a nice dinner for my family of 5. Well actually 4 of us get the meal at the dinner table and my 4 month old gets it second-hand, so to speak. Anyway, I'm thinking, "I am such a good mother, wife, woman... etc." I made a big pot of fresh from the garden green beans with potatoes and onions picked from the very same garden. And to make them even more tasty, I did throw in some bacon. Now I ask you, what could be better. Think of how many additives and preservatives appeared in my meal: None. I know... this is why I had the audacity to feel so puffed up and proud of myself. I was even more proud of the fact that my two oldest daughters had helped pick the produce. They out of the kindness of their hearts (with no expectation of pay or even praise) offered to help our older neighbor harvest his garden. You see, I am raising them right (yes, there are days I have my doubts, especially when I am sure the little one might severely injure the older one). They were indeed rewarded for their hard work and given their fair shares of the "pickin's". This is why I chose happily to make this lovely meal upon which to "sup." Imagine my irritation when presented this wonderfully aromatic splendor, my most angelic looking 6 year old said, "What is this? Hilly billy food? I am not eating that. Can't I have pizza? (reference to the 99 cent cardboard like frozen disk in the freezer). My 10 year old chose to eat a peanut butter sandwich. All was not lost, however: My human Hoover of a husband ate it with gusto.

New Lawnmower

I love my hubby, really I do, but today it occurs to me that I could use a new lawnmower, preferably a shirtless Antonio Banderas in toreador pants would be great! Normally I would not fantasize about a hot latin man doing manual labor in the hot East Tennessee (yes, there is a distinction about living in E.TN, I have discovered) sun, but today hubby drove me to this distraction. You see, he hates mowing and in his child-like way puts off mowing for as long as he can before he is likely to receive a "punishment." You know what I mean: Remember when you were a kid and your mom went to work and left you a list of chores that seemed endless (what I wouldn't give for that to be my chore list nowadays), and you put off doing them until 15 minutes before she was due home. This is hubby's method of lawn maintenance. In his effort to finish the job in his metaphoric "15 minutes",  he managed to hit a large decorative boulder and bend the mower deck. This of course did not stop him from trying to finish the job. It just now looks like Otis (remember him from Mayberry?) mowed our lawn. This I could overlook if the "pecs" were olive-toned, muscular and glistening rather than pasty white and fuzzy. (Did I mention that our oldest daughter once took a look at her father with no shirt on and asked him if he "was a yeti?") At any rate, the lawn did get mowed, and Antonio Banderas most likely pays someone to mow for him and just so you know, hubby and I will be happily married for 15 years this year with many more years of lawn maintenance to come.

There is a God... and He has a sense of humor.

Many people ponder whether there is or is not a God. I don't. I know He's up there. Every day I look in the mirror, I know. He's definitely up there and He's got a sense of humor. I say this because as I look in the mirror trying to figure out what to do with my gray hair (all of it gray at a young 35) and whether I want to put make up on to cover my acne (yes, acne at the ripe old age of 35), I am convinced there is indeed a God and He has got to be having a nice chuckle at my expense.  Why else would I be cursed (oops, I mean blessed) with the attributes of both the old and the young at the same time? Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining. I would much rather believe that the "man upstairs" is messing with me than thinking that this is some random act of the universe doing this to me. After all, I can take a joke as long as Someone is laughing with me (looking up) and not laughing at me. I do think that maybe the joke might be going a little too far when He gives me an infant just so people can ask me, "Oh, how old is your grandbaby?" I'm still laughing (Ha Ha Ha, through gritted teeth), but I think it's time to move on to the next patsy... or maybe He has...  (turning to yell over my shoulder) "Not that shirt Mark, it makes you look like you are a bra-less 'C' cup!"

Such a Sad State for Hubby

The 4th of July is here and it is time to show our patriotism! What's the best way to do that, you ask. Why eating tons of meat, mayonnaise based salads of potato or macaroni, swigging beer and blowing stuff up, of course! The latter, as many of you know, appeals to hubby who is an out of the closet "PYRO". Sadly, we live in a town in which it is illegal and strictly enforced NOT to set off fireworks. Of course this town is in a state where every 6 miles on the interstate you can purchase alcohol, fireworks and let's not forget pornography. The trifecta of sin abounds and he (feel sorry for him here) can't partake in the only one of these to which he is severely viced (yes, I meant vice here, not vise):FIREWORKS. He cannot legally blow stuff up at home. I have to worry about him going elsewhere for his "Blowing Stuff Up" fix. What's a poor woman to do? How am I expected to keep my man at home where he belongs and not out nearly setting another home on fire or burning the lush green lawn of another whose grass lies in an area zoned to allow such illicit behavior as firing off bottle rockets or M-80's? Think of me and my children (sigh...sniffle) as you enjoy your festivities today. Happy 4th!