Like all Great Pumpkins, our’s started out something like this.

Though I just photographed this one and left it for someone else to pick.

Ours actually looked more like this:

Don’t mind the warts (on the pumpkin, not my son) he had a very nice shape–until I performed the craniotomy…

Now if you’re new here you might not know that I am surrounded by males. I’m currently shacking up with four men–okay three sons and one husband. Semantics.

Anyhow, I thought boys liked gross things.

But apparently not.

At least he wasn’t as sad about pumpkin guts as he was about his lack of a black nose a few Halloweens ago.

And yes, despite the break from traditional Muppetry, I did give the poor kid a black nose–using make-up–so he could look like his brother. I mean wouldn’t you? Look at that face.

But back to the pumpkins…and the wimpy boys in my house.

Like most men, he only wanted to help if he could use tools.

And soon he abandoned me when I refused, for the sixth time, to allow him to wield the knife. What? I think all 10 of his fingers may come in handy later (that was a bad pun and not at all intended when I wrote it, but now it’s cracking me up so it stays).

And I don’t know what’s so gross about this anyway?

Doesn’t everyone love the way pumpkins seeds feel when they’re all wet and clean in the strainer?

What’s with the crickets??

Whatev.

So abandoned to my pumpkins and with seeds separated from their stringy friends, I set forth to carve.

Hours later I ended up with this:

Why didn’t anyone tell me how hard it is not to carve all the way into a pumpkin? There’s GOT to be a trick I don’t know. Should have googled it.

By the way, that’s a white pumpkin, which makes the BOO more appropriate but I’m still figuring out all the settings on my camera.

And…my masterpiece:

Sure I used a stencil, but her nose?? I don’t mean to be a witch or anything but that was a bitch to cut out.

Please don’t focus on the wax pencil 12 above her. Why did the pumpkin patch mark the best side?? Oh and let me know if you have a trick for getting that off.

To top off the project, Vaseline has been applied and cinnamon has been sprinkled. We’re ready for Friday night.

Hmmm…that didn’t exactly come out the way I meant it to.

What do you get when you bring together a bunch o’ mammas (w/o kids), some libation and designated drivers?

That was my Friday night with the DC Metro Moms.

(you might be wondering if that is really grey hair at my roots, but I swear it’s just one single bright light shining on my head and only my head–I swear!!)

Every time I get together with this amazingly beautiful, smart and hysterical group of women, I wonder who in the hell ever invited me (oh yeah, hi Jill, Beth and Tekla!!! *waves*).

I could have used another three hours to really get the chance to talk to everyone in there, but I was too busy stalking Aimee, Jessica, Diana, KC, Leticia, Stacey, Stacy and Kim; hugging on Sandie; patting the bellies of Victoria and Kristen; trying to prevent Devra, Sarah and Jodi from taking over the bar; embarrassing myself with tales of sex toys in front of Jess or yelling at Linda from across the room, I had a terrific time.

Of course I need to say a special thanks to Nicole for putting together such a great party and to GM for graciously sponsoring it.

(for the record this photo is right side up on my computer but Blogger isn’t cooperating–seems to appropriate for a photo of Dev anyway, doesn’t it?)

Oh and to my loser friends who couldn’t make their way out to Tyson’s on Friday (Steph, Joanne, Kimberly, Susan) well… see if I stalk you next time.

Busy contemplating the critical issues facing humanity–or the sore joint on my left pinky–I looked up into my rear-view mirror on my drive home from work and noticed a red car behind me.

Then I looked in my side mirror, as is my habit to check all mirrors while I’m driving (I’m so safe) and there was another red car on my left.

Then I looked to my right…another red car. And in front of me? Another red car.

I was surrounded by red cars!

Okay so government agents and crime syndicates probably don’t use red cars when going after a mark, but it was a little weird.

And then I looked up.

Yep. A black helicopter was flying overhead.

I’m not kidding.

Now I may not blog under my full name, but I don’t wear tinfoil inside my hats. Shoot, I throw away magazines and catalogs with my name and address on them. In the trash. Without shredding the information!

You didn’t know I was an international spy did you? Oh sure. I’m constantly evading convoys of red cars and black helicopters. It gets quite boring actually.

The whole suburban, working mommy blogger thing had you fooled didn’t it?

Did you know how much I adored you?

Did you know that all these years later I can remember specific moments we spent together as clearly as the crisp days they occurred.

Maybe the memories seem clearer than they are because I have photos tucked away in an album. There I am looking at you with a big smile. Or there’s the one where we’re playing not realizing we’re being photographed.

*sigh*

I had such a thing for older men then.

Or was it your twin brother Richard. It was always hard to tell you apart. Who knows. I was only five.

This memory is brought to you thanks to my friend Jennifer who was remember her own Robert today.

My kids won’t find the embarrassing stories I share with the world if I do it on another blog.

Right?

Just in case they do, let me say this.

Boys,

I want you to know that I do remember what it was like to be a pre-teen and I’m not unsympathetic. It’s just that I’m discovering there are certain traditions that are the rights of every parent. And when you become parents yourselves, I fully expect you to “torture” my grandbabies in the exact same way.

Please know my sweet things that the “fights” I put up to your attempts to fit in are only for show–and I am giggling in my head the whole time. For I know hormones are taking over your body, which is prohibiting you from exhibiting any normal sort of behavior–kinda like demonic possession without the projectile vomiting (there better not be any projectile vomiting).

Sharing some of your stories with my friends?? It’s just that a mamma has to do something to maintain her sanity.

I love you forever,
Mom

The following letter was written by a friend of mine who is just so exasperated by Gov. Palin’ that she fired off this letter off to our dinner group. It is reprinted here with her permission. You may often see her commenting on this blog as Harried Mom of Three. I’m trying to convince her to start her own blog.

Dear Ms. Palin:

As a liberal, feminist, woman, I am not upset that John McCain picked you for what your supporters deem my “opposition to a pro-life, spunky, good looking woman.” What I am opposed to is that you are a woman who seems to have gotten to the top for ONLY being pro-life, spunky and good looking and for not having any other substance.

My great hope was that when a woman was a hair’s breath away from the top office of the land that she would actually be able to handle the job. Over the last week, you have proved that you cannot handle even the largest softball of questions from Katie Couric of all people.

How, as an American citizen and a mother, am I supposed to trust that you’ll be able to outwit world leaders when you can’t even outwit America’s journalistic sweetheart?

And, please, please stop talking about journalistic “gotchas.” We’re not giving you a pop quiz. We’re trying to figure out what you are made of and whether or not we want to select you for one of the most important job in this country. You should be able to answer questions thrown at you, including naming ONE newspaper from your great state that you might read in a regular basis.

I will admit that Barack Obama has never held an executive position in government–and I’m nervous about that. However, I’m willing to give him some leeway, because he’s proven on a regular basis that he’s thoughtful, intelligent and well read.

There’s a reason that “Joe Six-Pack” shouldn’t be (vice) president and it’s because it’s a hard job filled with lots of responsibilities and it involves making many important decisions.

Stop blaming the media for YOUR inability to answer questions, stop blaming liberal women for your inability to snow these voters into supporting you and stop blaming Gwen Ifill for being biased. If your running mate’s campaign didn’t know she wrote that book back in August when they agreed to her as moderator of your debate then I’m afraid they read the paper as infrequently as you do.

Love,

K

Mr. 4 asked me to wipe his bottom today after a trip to the bathroom.

Then he showed me he could count to five.

“Look mom! Five poops. One. Two. Three. Four Five.”

We’re not doing anything here if we aren’t always looking for those teaching moments.

It was a pretty afternoon (every other hour it didn’t rain today) and it started like this:

And as any parent might expect, it ended like this:

Way back in February I broke my ankle. You may remember the photo of the cast that attracted many an eastern European cast/braces fetishist to my site (thanks for the extra bucks my friends).

A physical therapist friend of mine recommended a terrific orthopedist to treat me. I loved him immediately. As the kid of a doc, I’m often hard to please when it comes to medical care, but he was personable and thorough and even cleaned my foot himself after it had stewed in a cast for six weeks.

Granted he missed a second break and a bunch of other soft tissue damage, but none of that was apparent on the x-ray. I still loved him.

His office staff is friendly. It’s easy to get in to see him and you don’t have to wait long in the waiting or exam room.

A virtual medical miracle.

But yesterday the love affair died.

Yesterday, at my three month check-up, we discussed some of my lingering pain and my continued inability to wear heels.

His answer?

You probably won’t ever be able to wear heels again. The area of your injury is affected every time you put your foot at that angle.

*blink* *blink*

Clearly, he doesn’t know that I consider Nordstrom’s Shoe Department the mothership. Clearly, he hasn’t seen my closet. Clearly, he doesn’t understand how wearing a great pair of shoes can make you invincible.

Clearly he’s not the doctor I thought he was.

Wonder how long this is going to take me.

Is this the most efficient way to assemble these?

This stapler sucks.

Dog chewing edge of box–well at least she’s not teething on my toes. Could be worse.

That box is a virtual cornucopia of fundraising flyers.

This stapler sucks.

Screw it. They’re stapled.

Shit, some Kindergartener is going to cut their hand on that staple. Do over.

Freaking husband. Convenient phone call while I’m sitting here with all this to do.

This stapler sucks.

Wonder if I should take that blogging gig. Interesting topic. Do I have time? Will I have anything to say? Will I need to research? Think I’ll take it. I’m not sure.

Wonder if the motion I’m using to lean over and sit back up counts as core exercise? It should. I can feel it. My posture sucks. If I sat up better, I bet it would count.

How sad is it that I’m considering stapling as exercise??

But I’m sweating. Okay–that’s cause I turned off the air.

This stapler sucks.

Still on the phone my mate? I swear it’s because you can still hear my stapler.

What?? You’re offering to help? Sure count and label these.

Bonus points to hubs for helping out.

Well it’s his kids’ school too. Damn right he should.

I’m a bitch.

Kinda fun hanging out doing this together.

Shit I’m not stapling fast enough.

Oh look and help from a four year-old!

I’m going to be here all night.

Thank god for the short attention span in four year old.

I must be close to done.

Hmmm. I could write a blog post about this.

This stapler still sucks.

What? We’re only through the 1st grade classes?!

And there goes the hubs.

I’m going to be here all night.

What shows do I have to set up on TiVo this season? I liked that Criminal Minds.

I watch too many cop shows.

Didn’t get many emails today.

I’m going to die alone.

This stapler sucks.