I don’t put up with rude children, especially when they’re mine. Check out this week’s column for the whole sorry story.

What a week. Don’t get me wrong, the balmy mid-eighty weather and appropriately smallish pool have been nice. And the maid service? I need it. I want it. I’m kind of addicted to it on so many levels.

But the rest of the week…not so much. From the man I had to save at the pool (he almost drowned in four feet of water–poor guy hit his head and didn’t speak any english. The ambulance and paramedics kind of ruined our afternoon pool excursion) to the sunburn I received as payment (note to self: it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing 50 spf,  if you feel like your legs are frying, they probably are), we would have been safer at home.

And our trip to InstaCare? That’s a whole other post.

We decided to surprise the kids and have dinner at the Rainforest Cafe. Not because the food is any good, but because we thought they’d love the animals. Oh, they loved them, for about seven seconds. Then Rex warped into I’m-terrified-so-get-me-out-of-here mode, complete with lava-like bursts of blood-curdling screams.

To make matters worse, they had placed us smack in the center of the dining area, surrounded by old, non-kid-friendly adults wearing sour, “Well, I never!” expressions on their faces. I  kid you not, that boy was screaming so loudly and the food was so expensive ($9.99 for a kid’s meal) that at one point, I thought I might actually explode into a million pieces of super-cheap, over-worked mommy matter.

And the next time Jason goes to Vegas on business? I’ll stay home and go to the local pool, ignore my laundry, and eat on paper plates. Trust me, it will be just as good. And as for what happens in Vegas? As far as I’m concerned, Vegas can keep it.

I love road trips; until I get on one with three kids in the backseat. That’s when I realize: road trips completely suck.

So we’re driving along in relative peace when June starts whining from the back seat. I had given her a box of raisins to keep her occupied. Don’t ask me why I thought she would actually eat them. I look back and she says, “Owie!” and touches her nostril. Hmm, that’s a little odd. Why would her nose hurt? And why is her left nostril bulging like that?

That’s when she sneezes and the first two raisins fly out.

“Mommy, I gotta go potty!” Rex says at the exact same instant. Now, we all know when a three-year-old gets desperate enough to ask to go potty, you’re in trouble.

“Jason! Pull the car over!”

“Honey, we’re in the middle of a dust storm, this really isn’t the–”

“I SAID PULL OVER!!”

Car pulls to the side.

I am not going to horrify you with the details of me trying to convince Rex to pee downwind in a dust storm. I would have had better luck inserting a catheter in him; there was no way that child was peeing with 45 mile gusts of wind at his back. We piled back in and I dried his dusty tears.

So on we drive. In a few miles we see two things, first, a sign that says, “Rest Area 3 Miles”, and second, a gas station.

“I’ll just get off here,” Jason says.

“No! Wait for the rest area. We can let the kids out to play,” I say, perched on the edge of my seat, gripping the dashboard and my door handle like a person suffering from severe claustrophobia. Believe me, I was way more uncomfortable than either of my children.

“But the gas station–”

“Just go!” Jason cautiously drives on, keeping his head down and his eyes on the road as we speed past the gas station. One mile. Two miles. Four miles.

“Where’s the freaking REST AREA!” I say calmly.

“I told you we should have–”

“I KNOW WE SHOULD HAVE GONE TO THE GAS STATION!”

We drive another 15 miles of rest area-less highway. Can I just say how cruel it is to play a rest area joke on people? It’s not funny. Ever.

We finally pull into a gas station and unload everyone. I drag Rex and Harry inside and find this sign posted: “RESTROOMS OUT OF SERVICE. PLEASE USE OUTDOOR FACILITIES.” Honey buckets. All they had to offer were filled to the brim honey buckets. So disgusting.

I couldn’t do it to him. I stuff the boys back in the car, ignoring their seat  belts, and race across the street to the nice, clean, tiled bathroom on the other side.

And Junie? Jason pulled three more raisins out while he waited for us.

We’re leaving today to spend the rest of the week in Sin City.

Remember when the dinosaurs came up with that funny line about what-happens-in-Vegas-stays-in-Vegas? That line is so funny. I still laugh every seven seconds when I hear someone say it.

Anyway, let’s talk for a moment about what DOESN’T happen in Vegas.

1. Laundry. For the rest of the week, no laundry will happen in Vegas. My children have one set of clothing for each day and if they pee, puke, or spill on it, they’re wearing it anyways because I. Don’t. Care.

2. Dishes. Yes, our room has a small kitchenette, and no, I will not lift even a pinky to rinse a dish. I shall leave them piled up in the sink each day and vacate the room so the maid can load the dishwasher. If I’m feeling generous, I might even leave a tip (although no one ever tips me). And if the maid fails to come and clean the room, I shall stack them outside my door. Ha.

3. Carpool. I will not have to pick up my child from kindergarten for the rest of the week. I hate this job. I detest this job. Loading and belting everyone into the car so we can drive nine seconds down the highway to his elementary school is a form of parental abuse. There will be no carpooling in Vegas.

4. Snow. It won’t snow in Vegas, and if you try to tell me differently I will curse you with a pox.

5. Vacuuming. Sweeping. Mopping. Dusting. Scraping oatmeal off the floor under the bar. Getting peanut butter off the window frames. Wiping down toilets splattered with “lemonade” (or not seeing the lemonade and sitting first). Sandwich crumbs scattered in my bed (because Rex and his animals like to go “swimming” right after lunch).

I don’t really care about what I do in Vegas this week, I only care about what I don’t do. Do you think total and complete laziness counts as a sin? I sure hope so.

I’ve decided that if I had to be stranded on a deserted island, I would probably take my husband. (Unless Hugh Jackman was available. Have we looked at his photo lately? No?)

Taking my husband might seem like the obvious choice, but I have seriously given this some thought (See? This is what happens when the baby wakes you up at 2:33 am and you can’t get back to sleep. Life on a deserted island 101). In all honesty, it would be way more fun to take a girlfriend with me. Taking a man guarantees endless hours of one-sided conversation, kind of like this:

“Honey? Do you think these coconut shells make me look fat? I mean, I ate way too many papayas yesterday and I’m four coconuts up on the scale. Sometimes I just feel like this whole island is out to get my butt, you know?”

“Uh huh.”

However, if I had a girlfriend with me, a statement like that would lead to an entire morning of stimulating diet-centered conversation, probably followed by a power walk on the beach and a low-cal smoothie. Sometimes I think Eve must have been really lonely.

The main reason I would take Jason is so I could hopefully, eventually get myself a daughter (and because the thought of building huts and digging holes sounds totally exhausting. Okay, and he’s hot and fun to shop with).

Where would we be without the women in our lives? Mothers, sisters, daughters, neighbors, girlfriends, it’s the women I love that make up the majority of  my support system.

So I declare this National Phone A Friend Day. It’s almost one o’clock and I’ve been celebrating this day since 8:12 am (I’ve already logged over an hour, thanks to Verizon).

And the next time your husband bugs you about talking on the phone so much, just tell him it’s National Phone A Friend Day and you’re just doing your duty as an American.

Okay, to those of you who were offended by my last post (where I pointed out that Anoop looked kind of like a terrorist with his scrubby facial hair), please remember that I suffer from severe hoof and mouth disease. I can’t help it, I think that kind of thing is funny and the government let’s me use the internet. It doesn’t make me a racist, it just makes me insensitive. But you already knew that, right?

So, shifting gears to what might be equally offenseive material, I got a new swimsuit in the mail. Check out this week’s column for the whole sorry story.

For those of you who have been spared personal contact with me, you might not know that I am a firm believer in sporadic, spontaneous, public displays of musical and dancical affection. I actually believed until I was about nine that people in old movies were bursting into spontaneous song and dance just because they were happy or sad. Let’s just say I’ve never quite gotten over it.

Then I saw this video. I don’t think anything has ever made me happier in my entire life. We’re not alone, Kendra!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0UE3CNu_rtY&feature=player_embedded]

Have you ever really wanted to go off on someone?

I grew up next door to my oldest sister. She might be 26 years my senior, and we might have been raised in different houses, but we’ve always been close.

I remember getting in trouble from her one time (there were many). She called me up and (rightfully) reprimanded me for my unacceptable behavior. I listened and apologized, then hung up the phone. But come on, I was 15–in my mind, I was totally right and she was totally stupid.

I hung up the phone and blew up. Oh, it was an impressive monologue, I spewed out all the things I was too chicken to say to her face, with my own mother sitting helplessly on the couch, listening. She knew it was pointless to interrupt me and she was right. I remember thinking, “Boy, I wish my sister could hear this!” My speech was eloquent, it was extensive, and it lasted a good ten minutes.

Just as I was finishing, exhausted from my lenthy tirade, a car pulled into the driveway. I sat silently in the chair by the door and listened to the steps on the porch. Then the front door opened.

There stood my sister.

I stared at her and she stared back in total silence, locking eyes with me in that intimidating, I’m-your-older-sister-and-I-know-everything kind of way. Then she calmly walked past me, over to the phone by the couch, and firmly hung it up.

That’s right. The phone had been off the hook the entire time and she had heard every. Single. Word.

My sister? She loved me. She forgave me. She remembered that I was just a kid with a serious case of hormones and an overactive imagination. She did what all good adults do and taught me how to talk through my feelings, face to face. I am so lucky to have her in my life, she’s one of the greatest communicators I know.

I learned two important lessons from this experience. 1) Never say things behind someone’s back that you wouldn’t say to their face, and 2) Always hang up the phone.

I owe my mother an appology.

For years I scoffed and scorned at her constant reminders to keep myself looking clean and put together. She’s always been a big advocate of hair brushes and lip stick (not to mention the occasional teasing comb and mascara). My sisters and I roll our eyes to this day when she offers to let us borrow her lipstick.

And then, it happened. I realized something horrible about myself today. I like my daughter better when she looks cute.

Seriously. If she’ll only leave her piggy tails in I will do just about anything she asks: fetch juice, put on Barney, get her a piece of salami–her every cute little wish is my command. But the moment those little pig tails are yanked out and her diaper smells, she might as well be someone else’s kid.

And so, Mother dear, I promise to keep my face fixed and my hair clean as much as possible.

Well, at least when you’re around.

BLACK

PURPLE

BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN

Veronica took my head shots this week. Look at the first two compared to the third photo. See what I mean? She can make an average crazy lady look like a professional crazy lady. Impressive.

And do you see all those laugh lines around my eyes, or that big zit on the left side of my upper lip? No? Me neither. How about the the river system of veins running through my sleep-deprived blood shot eyes, or the scar on the side of my nose? Of course you don’t. Why? Because Veronica is kind of magical.

So, I have posted these photos because at the moment, they are the three top contenders for my new newspaper smug (small mug shot). I NEED YOU TO VOTE.

Please, if you could just pick one and vote in the comment box, I would really appreciate it. The people close to me have differing opinions and I don’t trust any of them (Jen likes the third one best. I think she’s biased because she took it).

And if you don’t know me personally, even better. That way I’ll know that you are being completely honest because I don’t actually matter in your life.

Think of that show on TLC, where the poor under-accessorized person stands in a glass box while strangers off the street guess their age. This is kind of like that show (except I don’t want you to guess my age unless you’re going to guess somewhere between 24-27).

Do me a favor and pick a pic.