The raccoon

So where were we, before the proverbial fan was hit?

Ah, yes.

I believe I was telling you a story about a raccoon.

It's a story a friend told me some years ago, about something that happened at her friend's house.

So, if you're following closely, this happened to the raccoon of a friend of a friend.

So it must be true.

Anyway...

This friend of a friend, she had a raccoon in her yard, so she called the police. (Let's assume the raccoon was rabid, or perhaps trying to steal her bicycle.)

When the officer came, the raccoon (who was apparently walking very slow or perhaps having trouble with the Kryptonite U-lock) was still there, and the officer decided the best way to handle the situation was to shoot him.

Again, we'll need to make some assumptions, namely that the officer in question was new to the police force, and perhaps not familiar with all the paperwork involved when discharging a weapon within 100 feet of a domicile, or perhaps, that this raccoon lived in Montana and there were no domiciles with which to be concerned. I don't really know.

In any case, the owner of the home was horrified because it took several bullets before the raccoon succumbed, and her son witnessed the entire episode. I guess it takes a lot for those Montana people to bring their kids inside. Me, we'd-a never been out there in the first place, what with all the darned ticks, but if we were, the second that raccoon started trying to steal my bicycle, we'd-a come right inside. I say, just take the darn bicycle, you can always replace a bicycle.

Anyway, my friend's point was more about the raccoon itself.

"Do you know why it took so many shots?" she asked me.

In relation to its size, there is actually so little going on in a raccoon's body by way of important organs, she explained, that it is very hard to hit anything in there significant enough to kill it. (If I happen to have any raccoon biologists among my readership, please don't bother writing in with contradictory statements. Now is not the time to have facts blurring my story.)

This lack of stuff going on in a raccoon fascinated my friend. Mostly because she had hit upon a brilliant model for explaining the emotional (and on some days, intellectual) content of the human male.

There is so little going on in there, she extrapolated, that it takes a lot of repetition for them to actually get what you're saying.

I'd giggle over this story every so often - and even repeat it to other friends, in the way frustrated stay-at-home moms often do, as a means of coping.

But I didn't actually think it was true.

Until this weekend, as I watched the two males in my life, ages 7 and 45, whiling away an afternoon in a hammock, blowing ginormous soda burps into each other's faces, and laughing hysterically.

"Girl," I said, turning to my daughter, who looked on at the scene in horror. "Let me tell you a story. It's about a raccoon..."

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There's no burping allowed over at humor-blogs.

Whoa! Does this thing have brakes?

It takes an incredible person to meet head-on the convergence of Father's Day, the last day (week) of school, the end-of-season games and parties for TWO sports, the packing of one kid for a two-week sleep-away camp and of the family for a vacation, and the arrival of contractors, who, after making us wait six months to start a project, thought this would be a good time, with an actual post.

Yeah.

So there is no post here. Just a shrieking mommy busy picking up all the exploded bits of her brain from where they've landed around the house.

But if you want a good laugh, go read this one by the always amusing Mean Mommy. She's one of my favorites, even though I don't get there as much as I used to.

PSA: I'm too sexy for my blog

I have managed, in my year of blogging, to defy certain Blogging standards.

For example, this whole visual appeal thing. Just as in my real life, I am not the best dresser, it turns out I am also the dork of the blogging world, someone who cannot be bothered to figure out all the flashy gadgets and colorful gizmos that would make a page more fun to visit.

I suppose I could, if I tried real hard, but not if I also wanted my kids to have dinner, cupcakes for their class parties, rides to soccer, or anyone at their class concert, watching them sing what certainly must be the French version of 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall ("Lundi matin, le roi, la reine et le petit prince, sont venu chez moi...").

And it's OK. I've made my peace with being the lame-o blogger who STILL doesn't have decent graphics and doesn't care that this makes her look like a dork Luddite commitment-phobe. I figure I'll just write, and let you create the illustrations in your own head. Click on pretty much anything you like: it will stay the. Exact. Same. Not every day you run across something like that on a blog, is it?

I also tend to steer clear of certain, um... spicy topics, shall we call them, that other bloggers seem happy to share about at circle time.

I know you all probably think it's quite "cute" repressed prudish of me What? Was she raised by nuns? but there you go. I can't help remembering that, someday, maybe my son's teacher ("Mardi matin!") will read this and she doesn't need to know certain things about me. And the dads I walk by every morning on the way to school don't need any other images, thank you very much.

So I stick to tamer things, like my lovely kids getting sold off to crack whores and my problem with fondness for alcohol.

And yet...

Recently, I had such an incredible, earth-shattering experience, I feel compelled to share, even though it goes against my nature to be this explicit. There just is simply no way I could keep such an enormous thing to myself, not when so many women out there are fated to go their whole lives without experiencing it.

We already have so little, us women of the world, when you think about it. In the stay-at-home mom rat race, would it really be so awful to have something that put a smile on our face now and again? Mostly it's just chauffering and cooking and baking and cleaning and pretending to be listening and driving them around some more. When you find something that can bring this much happiness, this much joy, it's practically your obligation to share it, don't you think?

Because it can happen. To everyone. Like it did to me. Just out of the blue one day. And you just won't believe what you were missing the whole time, once you, too, finally find...

your perfect underwear.

Listen. I know how this looks. You are sitting there going, OK, now she has really gone and done it. She has hit the trifecta of lame: A blog without color, sex AND now, WITH granny undies? What the hell am I reading today?

But seriously. Just look at that model up there. Do you see how she's smiling? It is for real, people. It's not one of those "I'm smiling on the outside, but inside I'm just humiliated because I always thought when I grew up I was going to model undies for Victoria's Secret and just look at me now" smiles. No way. She is PSYCHED. She is even probably thinking, Man, I hope they pay me in these undies. Because they are that good.

Really. She is. I know. Because I stumbled upon those undies one fine day in Target when I was there for dog food and realized I wasn't going to have time to do laundry that day, and was out of clean underwear. So I grabbed a package.

The very next day, I rushed back to buy all the rest in the entire store.

And also the stock room.

And also would you mind calling to see if there's any on the truck coming in? Because these are the greatest things ever. And stop looking at me like I'm a crazy person. You're young - you probably don't mind having a thong stuck up your bum bum. But I am way too old for that nonsense. I want good undies that cover all the required parts - and keep them covered, darn it. None of this waking up in the middle of the night to put things back where they belong, or find subtle ways to do the same while you're walking down the busiest street in town.

None of this bending over to have the waistband of your undies sticking out over the rear waistband of your low-cut jeans that you think are also stupid, but despite all the promises of high waists coming back, you're still waiting, and forced to wear stupid low-cuts.

Best of all? Softest things ever! Like but-tah, I tell you. Try. Touch 'em. Seriously!

No! not the ones I'm wearing, you weirdo! Here, let's open a package. See? Like I told you. The best. Almost like a hug all day long. Well. If people hugged your bum, I mean, which... probably... yeah. No. Um, could you just make that call already? I'll buy as many as you can find.

And there you go. It may not be flashy here, chez Mad Mad, but sometimes, it's all about the little things. Even if they're a little pathetic.


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The folks over at humor-blogs probably wear cool things, like thongs.

Los tres sombreros

Alrighty, then. Here we go. The results of my first ever drawing to celebrate my year of blogging. I really do appreciate all the people who stopped by, whether just to say hi or to share a laugh.

Some of you really are funny, and I can totally see why it might be intimidating to leave a comment when you feel like you have to compete with the big wits that are Kim and Jess, whose comments are often funnier than the posts on which they're commenting.

I, myself, tend to leave comments on other people's blogs more along the lines of "Hahahaha. You are so funny!" Because I can't come up with anything better. So I totally get you. But sometimes, you know, that's all I can think of, and hey, it's enough. Bloggers just like to know someone is out there every once in a while. So thank you for overcoming your fear of the people in the computer coming over to slap you for not being funny enough to drop by and say hi.

So, onto the winners. In the knitting category, the winner was the aptly-named



How great is that? When I was copying her name down, I thought, "Hm. Wouldn't that be funny if she won?"

And then she did. Fair and square.

What's funnier, though, is that just yesterday she started her own knitting blog. And it is already better looking than mine. But you know what would be fun? If we all went on over and showered her with some blogging advice - that one bit of information you wish someone had told you when you started your blog. Wouldn't that be a nice welcome to the world of blogging? I think so. So go on over.

Oh, wait! Let me tell you what she won, first! I'm sending off a bunch of goodies to each winner, but the main one in this category is:



Ta-da! My last signed copy of She-Who-Sings-In-Elevators-With-Her-Groupies latest book. When I was in Northampton, I purchased a few copies to give as presents, and in a rare moment of forethought, an extra one to award to a "lucky" (heh heh) reader at my anniversary. It's all yours, Lucky. (If you already have it, just let me know, and I'll find you something else, no problem. Email me your snail mail address so I can ship it off.)

In the de-lurking category (and I apologize because Blogger flipped the picture for some reason, and while I tried doing battle, all I learned from that is that the giant corporation always wins, and then makes your picture blurry and handwriting too messy to read in revenge.)



But. It says: Anony. (neighbor of friend).

I can't show you what you've won because I don't know your gender or location; you'll have to email me at the address in my sidebar with more gory details, as well as your snail mail address.

I am pretty excited about this win, though, because I have always been curious about one of my anonymous commenters in particular, who always leaves very funny comments - I don't know if this is the same person, hence the delurking category. (A first name once in a while ain't gonna kill you, ya' know.) But I'm guessing I'll find out today, which is exciting. (It takes so little to make my day, doesn't it?)

The third winner in the not-a-knitter-or-a-delurker category, which for lack of a better word I termed regular person, is a blogger who started leaving some funny comments here a couple of months ago, a former Massachusetts resident who now lives in Florida:



She's Little Miss Sunshine.

I picked something fun for her, because she seems like a fun kinda gal, and also I thought it went with the whole Florida motif. (Of course, over-thinker that I am, I now think that one probably doesn't do much baking in steamy Florida, so if funky potholders aren't your cup of tea, just let me know and I'll send off a little something else. Email me with your snail mail address.)



And that's that. So congrats to all the winners, and thanks to everyone for playing!

This is just gettin' ugly, I know

I PROMISE you, I'm not slackin'.

See?

Three separate hats.

It's done; I'm just researching the best gift options. It turns out, for example, that a pair of hand-knitted wrist warmers might not be the best prize for someone living in Florida, for example. Even if they are cashmere. (Note to self: NEXT contest, announce the prizes first. I think I'm really starting to get the hang of this whole 'live and learn' thing now.)

Anyway. The other reason I'm going to need another day is this: I lay awake last night thinking my last post might have been just a little bit mean.

So being the good guilty mom that I am, I have designed a penance. I am going to go find three separate 18-year-olds and tell them I like their outfits. And would they, perchance, mind telling me where they got them so I can get exact replicas for myself?

And three whole, separate times, I will stand unflinching and allow their looks of sheer horror and revulsion wash over me.

And then?

Fifteen minutes standing in Schmollister.

That should be enough self-flagellation, don't you think?

So I'm going to be a little busy this afternoon.

And I'm sure you'll all understand if I need a day to recover from this mental and physical duress, right?

So tomorrow. But for sure.

Another wee (-wee) delay

I was all set to do my contest, and a post on the contest, and on the many fun, new people who were nice enough to drop by, when I had a slight emergency.

Well, actually it started with Dog's emergency. He was insisting and insisting he needed to pee and I was insisting and insisting he needed to wait because I was busy, but ultimately he insisted right onto my kitchen floor, so I finally had to take him for a walk.

Well. That is when my emergency occurred. I was accosted by an 85-year-old woman with crooked lipstick who wanted to know where I got my shorts because she loved them SO MUCH she had to come all the way across the street to tell me.

So you understand my emergency. I need to get to a mall, pronto.

Because I definitely need new shorts.

Whoa, whoa, whoa and a bit o' woe

There I was, gettin' all big for my britches, trying to hold a contest of my very own like the big-time bloggers do (And it was so very, very nice of all of you to participate. I got to read a few new blogs, and meet some new friends, which I love to do) when I got a bit of a slap in the face by Zsa Zsa Reality.

The problem with trying to join the modern techno-savvy world when you're still convinced there could actually be little people in your computer making it all work is that the old-fashioned ways have their problems.

For example, at my house, the contest went a little like this:

"Look. Go get some little pieces of paper and copy down all these names from this website - don't actually read any of the stuff on the website - just take down the names and put them in a hat. Got it?"


"Just go do it. "


"Now. Go put them in a hat. What do you mean 'What hat?!' Any hat. Get. A. HAT."



"Thank you. "

The small, hard-won victory, however, soon turned into a struggle of another kind:


We'll call it the "It's my hat! Give it to me. Momsaid-momsaid Leggo, leggo! I'mgonnadoit,nuh-uh,it'smyhat, momsaid, momsaid, Iwannadoityoualwaysgettodostuffit'smyturnandit'smyhat, blah blah blah..." struggle.

And that struggle shortly became this one:



Which promptly escalated to this:




Which then of course became....

Time Out for Thing 1:



And Time Out for Thing 2:

• Anyone notice how no one bothers matching their clothes these days? What kind of mother do they have, anyway?
  
  In desperation, I turned to another not-so-willing helper:
  
  
  And then?
  
  Well, then, and only then, after all that work, is when I remembered there were supposed to be THREE SEPARATE HATS.
  
  So.
  
  I just don't have the strength today. Tomorrow, though. After I sell off my children research random number generators.
  
  
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  I wonder if the folks over at humor-blogs could lend me a couple of hats.