I hate people who steal. And I’m not talking about bank robbers here, I’m talking about people who go out of their way to weasel money out of businesses/banks/government/relatives. As far as I’m concerned, it’s worse than highway robbery because they do it with not only cunning, but personal justification. When it comes right down to it, they don’t even see themselves as takers.

Click here to read this week’s Standard Examiner Top of Utah Voices column of mine from yesterday’s paper.

I know, Saturday soccer games are your favorite event of the week, right after clipping your husband’s ear hair. But how about I give you a great service oriented excuse to replace them with?

Tomorrow is the big Service Soapbox March of Dimes Baby Shower for all those diaperless babies. Click on the link to find out the gory details (because I’m too lazy to get all my facts straight). If memory serves, we’re meeting at Noah’s, the party starts at 10 o’clock, and thanks to dedicated mommies like Becca from Blue Cricket Design (if you haven’t seen her blog lately, just go), and Sue who thought the whole thing up, this party is going to be a-rockin’.

And for the record, according to my sources, we’ve got so many sponsors donating lavish gifts for all the guests that with a little application of The Secret, you’re bound to walk away with something wonderful. Seriously, like 90% sure of it. (Plus I might bring Twilight T-shirts to hand out as consolation prizes to all the losers who don’t get picked. I offered them up like twice, but um, no one on the committee seemed to think they had any value. I can’t imagine why…)

And, if you’re looking to meet some fun bloggers, then come to the Women’s Expo today or Saturday and be sure to stop by Blogger’s Row. I’ll be there keeping company with the girls from the Casual Blogger Conference tomorrow afternoon, we’d love to see you.

Oh, and um, would someone please call me tomorrow so I’ll remember to attend all these things? That would probably be helpful. Caio!

I am hesitant to share this experience because now everyone will know just what a horrible mother I really am. With that said, this will never happen again.

I have decided that almost seven is not old enough to be home alone, even if only for seven minutes.

So yesterday I had a dr’s appointment. I love my new doc, he’s a dear, truly, but he likes to take his time. My appointment was scheduled for 2:15. I sat, alone, in the waiting room until 3:15 when they called me in. I was there almost another 45 minutes.

This wouldn’t be a problem if I didn’t have a seven-year-old with a friend getting off the bus while my legs were stuck in stirrups (literally). I called the neighbor girl to check on them while simultaneously running out of the office and trying to pull up my pants. She reported that all was well, they were just playing in the backyard, and did I need her to stay?

I thought about it, knew I was only about ten minutes away, and sent her home. Hey, Harry’s nearly seven, when he’s outside I rarely see him for hours at a time. How much trouble could he get himself into?

How about burning the house down and amputating a limb, does that sound like a worthy bit of trouble?

As the garage door went up, he greeted me in the kitchen with a huge smile. The house smelled like the fire station had done an exploding microwave demonstration. One look around and I saw knives, cheese, more knives, salami, one more really big sharp knife, and a loaf of mutilated homemade bread.

Yes, I am officially the worst mother in the world.

Apparently, the kid works fast. In a matter of minutes, Harrison tried to make oatmeal (which is ironic since he hates the stuff) and put a bowl of dry oatmeal in the microwave for 50 minutes. And yes, you read that right. When it started to explode in the microwave, he got smart, took it out and hid it somewhere in the garage with the hopes that his mother would never know what happened.

Luckily, while playing host to the neighbor kid, he didn’t amputate any of his fingers. OH MY GOSH I HATE MYSELF.

I can tell you right now that I was sick with shame and guilt for being the stupidest mother on the planet. And yes, our next Family Night will consist of Emergency Proceedures 101, and a short list of approved kitchen activities.

I’m sorry, but even an idiot knows that you don’t make catcalls at the pregnant lady.

So yesterday I took Harrison to baseball practice at the park. I pulled in and parked, taking little notice of my surroundings.

After shoeing the kids from the car, I went back for Harry’s baseball stuff. That’s when I first heard it.

Parked relatively close to me were two teenage boys in a little red beater. Windows down, music pumping, what better place to pick up chicks than the toddler jungle gym on a school day?

Let me tell you something I’ve learned about teenage boys. First, they think that if you aren’t looking at them, you can’t hear what they’re saying. Second, they think that they’re too cool for anyone to actually approach and/or head slap them.

I’m sorry, but I don’t care how bored you are, you don’t mock the pregnant lady. Unfortunately for me, I had to make about three trips in front of their nasty little car, listening to them make little comments about me and my knocked-up condition. It’s hard enough to be pregnant, suddenly everywhere you go, your best kept secret is broadcast to the world: I HAVE SEX! YES! THIS IS ME, AFTER SEX! I really don’t need to hear it.

I finally got so fed up with their little snickering comments that I turned around, put my hands on my hips, and yelled, “WHAT?!” Let’s just say they went from being uber cool to extremely sheepish. “You got a problem?” I added. They mumbled a little, and within about thirty seconds had manufactured an excuse to vacate the premise.

They were lucky that was all I said. My comebacks were boucing between, “Why don’t you just take a picture, it will last longer!” to “Look you little punks, I get more action in a month than you’ll see in the next five years!” Luckily my filter wasn’t completely down and I managed to keep those comments to myself.

But for future reference, pregnant ladies don’t like to be talked about. WE CAN HEAR YOU.

I really need to borrow a brain. Preferably one that functions.

So this morning I come into the family room and find my daughter covered in chocolate. One glance at the trail of Russel Stover’s Sugar Free Mint Patty wrappers leading out from behind the recliner and I knew we were in trouble. She’d eaten an entire bag. A big bag.

For those of you who have never tortured yourself with the South Beach Diet or some other anti-sugar lifestyle, this might mean nothing. Hey, we’ve all binged on chocolate now and then, right? It’s part of our passage to womanhood.

But until you gorge yourself on sugar-free chocolate during a desperate moment of frenzied, diet-crazed rebellion, you know nothing.

See, those candies are smart. They know that you’re going to regret the binge, so they are designed to punish. The first time I made this mistake not only brought on serious abdominal pain, but let’s just say the toilet and I ended up with a new appreciation for each other.

It took about an hour before the first blow-out occurred. We’re talking new outfit, up to her belly button blow-out. It was at that moment that I realized I was out of pull-ups (which we’re still in because I’m too lazy to care). I had one left, and there was no doubt in my mind that one wasn’t going to cover it. (I was able to dig up two more from my church bag and emergency car supply, one of which we blew through before Dora was finished.)

And so we headed off to Target (chosen because I seriously love their plastic bags) to buy pull-ups. Pull-ups were my top priority. Pull-ups were essential. We had to get the pull-ups.

Of course, on my way out of the house I realized that I was low on chocolate chips and brown sugar, which are both necessary ingredients for chocolate chip cookies, and also decided to grab a red onion and some capers for dinner. But no need to make a list, that was only five things. I can remember five things, right?

Yeah, we all know I forgot the diapers.

We’ve got chocolate chips, and we’ve got capers, but as far as diarrhea catching pull-ups are concerned, I have none (because you know we used that last one about half an hour ago).

Sometimes my brain is so worthless.

This week’s Regarding Annie column is part two of my fish post. For those of you wondering how it all ended, here you go. I thought I’d cut and paste again to make the article easier to swallow.

Our fish is dead.

This is particularly sad to me since I’ve never liked fish, never wanted a fish and yet somehow managed to water bond with this surprisingly social kitchen fish.

Last year for Harrison’s sixth birthday my sweet, kind-hearted, evil sister-in-law decided to get my kid a present he would love. A fish. Yes, I kind of wanted to drown her, but when I realized how happy my kids were to have a pet, I got over it.

For the past year, Indie has become more my pet than anyone’s. He sits right next to the kitchen sink and does swimming tricks each week when I do the dishes.

But last week something happened and the fish lost his ability to swim, eat or converse with me. It might have had something to do with the fact that I came into the kitchen and found the lid off the tank and my two-year-old elbow-deep in Fish Land, but I spun it to her brothers as a circle of life thing.

I let this poor fish float around the top of his bowl for four miserable dish-free days, trying to ignore the fact that he wasn’t playing dead, this was for real. Finally Jason decided to set me straight.

“You need to flush the fish.”

“What? He’s not dead, look, his left fin still flutters when I tap the glass!”

“Yeah, you need to flush the fish.”

What to do? Do I tell the kids that their fish is almost dead and we’re going to put him out of his misery? Do we flush him when he’s still alive and remind them of Nemo’s “all drains lead to the ocean” example? It was time to take action, besides, I couldn’t stand watching him gag around in his tank, all wet and sick.

“Harrison,” I said, “I think it’s time to send Indie to the ocean.”

“Why?”

“Well, his tank is making him sick, I think he’ll feel way better and be much happier if he has more room to swim.” Technically this could have been the truth. I’m sure he would have been happier, in his younger months, with more room to swim.

“Is Indie going to die?” Harrison asked with a mildly curious and not particularly sad expression.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll die someday,” like in the next three minutes, “but he’s sick so we’ve got to set him free and let him out of his bowl.”

“Cool!” Not really the reaction I was looking for.

We marched into the bathroom and with very little ceremony (since he wasn’t dead yet), and after a pre-flush to make sure he had fresh sewer water to die in, I prepared myself to dump in the fish.

Of course, right before we flushed him, he tried hard to show me that he wasn’t dead yet, that he still had a few strokes left in him. Also he could have been having a seizure.

I held my breath, lifted the tank, and we sent our fish to that big swirly in the sky.

That’s when it hit Harrison. He pulled up a stool, closed the lid, and draped himself over the toilet to properly mourn. Seventeen seconds later he got out paper and crayons and drew a lovely picture that I like to call, ”The Flushing of Indie.”

Farewell, fine fish. Thank goodness you’re irreplaceable.”

So we all know that Jason and I have been hopelessly and painfully devoted to Dave Ramsey’s Live Miserably program for the past year. And don’t get me wrong, it has totally paid off. It’s amazing how much money you can save when you don’t go anywhere, buy anything, or incorporate any happiness into your lifestyle.

I got my hair cut tonight. Like all other expenses, we have a hair budget for me. I think it’s something like $17 a month, and that has to cover all products and thrice yearly hair cuts. As many of you know, my blond comes from a bottle, purchased with a coupon and frantically applied in the privacy of my own bathroom. I’ve been doing this for the past six years, only getting it professionally “fixed” once or twice a year, when/if I can afford it–this is code for “if he let’s me”.

See, I like to think I’m the boss of my life. I stomp around, make unimportant decisions about our diets, wall color, and salad dressing choice, but when push comes to shove, he’s my king. I like this, I approve of this, when Jason gets all bossy (which doesn’t happen very often) it’s sexy. Usually.

But not tonight. Tonight I had to fight for a leg of the pants.

When I’m pregnant, strange things happen to my body. Not only does it stretch and swell in frightening and rather unattractive places, but my pigment changes. Five minutes in the sun and I’m burned, and five hours of bleach and my hair turns orange. That’s right, my hair get’s all pregnant on me and I can’t seem to make it work right.

And you know it’s bad when your hair girl grimaces and has to shield her eyes from the brass. So, like a wise woman who has to be on television this month, I decided that there is only one solution: I need to get my hair professionally colored. That’s right, I’m going to pay actual money so I can feel semi-attractive. Cause we all know, you can either be fat, or have bad hair, but when it comes to television, you can’t do both.

And when I gently explained it to my ever loving king tonight? Like every other Dave Ramsey miser out there, all he could see were the dollar signs. Oh, he’ll let me do it, but he’ll mumble unsupportive, budget-conscious garble every time I walk by. Things like, “It just makes me sick…” and “Such a waste of money…” Next thing you know he’ll suggest I start shaving my head to save us money.  You just know Dave Ramsey loves bald guys because they’re so inexpensive to keep.

Well guess what, buddy, you want to talk about sick? TRY BEING PREGNANT AND HAVING BAD HAIR. Trust me, it’s enough to make me lose my lunch most days.

I want to yell at my son’s soccer coach.

Here’s the thing about Rex. He’s the funniest, quirkiest little four-year-old you’ve ever met. When it comes to being a stay-at-home mom, the kid hasn’t given me a moment of in-house grief since we conquered the toilet. He’d happily stay home and play with toys for the rest of his days, living on a steady diet of apples and peanut butter sandwiches.

But Rex has anxiety. Not everything gives him anxiety, just random, unpredictable things. He loves theme parks, preschool, and Walmart. And when it came time to sign his brother up for soccer, all he wanted was to be a soccer player, like Harrison. So what did we do? We signed him up.

Let’s just say that the fall half of the season (it’s divided into fall and spring games) was what I like to call a total and colossal disaster. He loved to wear his uniform and kick the ball in the backyard, but when it came to game time, you’ve never seen such intense field fright in your life.

I’m sure the other parents thought we were forcing him to attend, since he’s sit huddled on my lap refusing to even look at the field or coach for each and every game. If I didn’t know me and the situation, I’d think I was a beast for making him go.

But he wanted to go! Every Saturday, he’d don his uniform, grab his soccer ball, and run out the door all cheerful like. Then we’d get to the field and he’d completely lose all his courage. We made (forced, really) him stay for every game, and by the end of the season I had managed to get him to cheer for his team. Hey, baby steps, right?

So last Saturday the spring half of the season started. We got the schedule the week before from Harrison’s coach, but after waiting and waiting never heard from Rex’s. Finally, Jason emailed and called him on Saturday morning, trying to find out if and where the game was.

I will tell you that Rex had spent two days in his soccer uniform, asking when we could go to his soccer game.

Finally, Saturday night, the coach got back to us. He “forgot” to email us/call us/send a homing pigeon with the game information. Hey, he’s got five players on his team, that’s sooo much to remember.

And I am ticked. We’re talking, ready to rip his head off for excluding my boy. I don’t care if he sat on the sidelines for all the games, I don’t care if he freaks out when he sees a soccer net, we paid the same money that everyone else paid and gosh darnit, how dare he make assumptions and leave Rex out?

I am not particularly good at bridling my emotions these days, and I’ll admit that I regularly verbally fillet him in my brain while I vacuum, do dishes, scrub toilets, and fold clothing. I’ve let him have it so many times, in so many ways, that I don’t even know what I would say to his face now.

Should I say anything? Perhaps just slashing his tires would get my point across most clearly.

I recently committed the most horrendous, I-should-know-better-especially-right-now sin in the entire world. I asked another mom if she was pregnant. And she wasn’t.

Let me back up a second. On Saturday we went to Lagoon (thanks to the generous and loving hearts of my babysitters who got us in super cheap). It’s an amusement park. That’s right, everyone’s favorite Saturday activity: cart three small, screaming children around all day and force them on rides.

Due to the tender ages of my offspring and my current delicate condition, I find nothing amusing at amusement parks. I spent somewhere around seven hours transferring toddlers from ride to ride, trying to keep my little serial cutters from pushing the smaller, weaker, politer children aside so they could satisfy their adrenaline lust.

As I was standing in line, trying not to watch my kids spinning around in decrepit old helicopters, the mom at the fence next to me struck up a conversation. We visited about our kids for a second, and bonded over the fact that we both have three small children, and like bald men. She was tall and pretty, certainly not fat, and was wearing what appeared to be a maternity top.

“So when are you due?” she asks me. Frankly, I was kind of surprised she said anything. I feel like I’m still in the “is she fat or pregnant?” stage of things, sometimes I wonder if all that thumping around is really just indigestion from too many cupcakes.

“Oh! Um, I’m due at the end of the summer, what about you?”

Okay, let me clarify something here: Up to this point, the only strangers who have publicly asked me if I’m pregnant ARE PREGNANT LADIES. I just assumed that she wouldn’t have asked me if she didn’t want me to ask her…right?

“Oh, I’m not pregnant, just fat.” And then I wanted to die.

I seriously considered throwing myself into the duck pond at that point, I felt so horrified and stupid. I casually played it down and explained why I asked, besides, she definitely didn’t look fat. But it doesn’t matter how you sugar coat it, once it’s out, there’s no putting it back (kind of like having a baby).

I was tired, the kids were tired, and all I could think of was how badly I wanted someone to threaten me with a nap. I’ll tell you, I would have gladly accepted the punishment.

Here’s this week’s Regarding Annie Column from the paper. Thought it might be easier if I just pasted it in for you.

“Is there anything more harmlessly dangerous than a domesticated husband?

Here’s the thing about men in their 30s with stable jobs and good marriages: It doesn’t matter who they were in their 20s, what condition their hairline is in or how schooled they are in the fine art of seduction, women everywhere want them. Why? They’re tame, they’re not out to impress anyone, and they’re hopelessly ignorant to their own attractiveness.

In other words, humble and friendly is to the 35-year-old divorcee what sexy and single is to the 20-year-old clubber. And my husband is absolutely clueless about it. To make matters worse, these poor stupid men have no idea that their idea of friendly regularly comes across as flirty. Flirty with big red flags and blowtorches.

So the other night Mr. Sweet Talker stops for a milkshake at the local drive-through.

“Hey, can I get an Oreo shake?” he asks the girl.

“Sure, no problem.”

“I’ve just got to ask, is there any chance you still have that peppermint shake available?”

“Sorry, we discontinued it after Christmas,” she says.

“That’s too bad, I loved that shake! Man, I would get one of those every day if I could.”

Now to some idiots, like my husband, this might sound like nothing more than friendly conversation. But to his wife, who knows that his flirting button broke about 10 years ago and he now spews forth all kinds of innocent chatty fodder to every woman who crosses his path, this could be the start of something … else.

“Yeah,” she says with way too much warmth for a person discussing ice cream, “that shake was awesome. But hey, we’re bringing our peach shake back, you should come by and try it sometime.”

Let me translate: “You sound hot and friendly and I would totally go out on a date for peach milkshakes with you.”

“Cool,” he says, “I’ll have to do that.”

Now, what he meant by that was, “peach milkshakes sound good and I’d like to try one.” What she heard was something a little closer to, “let me get your number and we’ll share a peach milkshake and maybe something more.”

As he pulled away from the speaker and inched the car closer to the payment window he noticed my You Poor Idiot look.

“What? Did I say something wrong?” he asked.

“No honey, you said all the right things,” I replied.

“I don’t get it,” he said.

“I know, but she does, and she’s going to be really disappointed to see me sitting in the passenger seat when we pull up to that window.” I then gently explained to him for the 89th time that he’s sweet and friendly and women find it irresistible. Since he’s the most single-minded loyal hound on the planet, the thought that anyone would find someone as old and settled and married as he is attractive is inconceivable to him.

Let me tell you, she wasn’t any too happy to clamp her eyes on me as she handed him his peach milkshake. Frankly I don’t blame her, there’s nothing as appealing as a friendly puppy dog, especially one that’s house trained.”