Me, just now: It's almost midnight, and we are leaving tomorrow at 8 a.m. for Miami. I have not packed. I have not showered. So why am I blogging?

Kelly: Because you're you.

So there you have it. The most blogging I've ever engaged in in a single day. I even post-dated a couple of 'em, to seem less lame, but then realized that only made me lamer.

Seeya next week!

Cue the synthesizer music.

My brother captioned this, "Well hello, ladies"

I don't know what it is about the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome that brings out the Twin Cities' best dressed, but every time I go there, I see something right out of a fashion magazine. GQ must have been holding a photo shoot during last week's preseason Vikings game. There is a fashion rule about horizontal stripes, but I can't quite remember it. I think it goes something like, "Horizontal stripes are flattering to the rounder figure. That's why Ernie wears them and Bert does not."

There are many things I hate, but probably the one I hate the most is happening right this moment. That thing is called Watching the Weather Guy Tracking A Goddam Tornado Right in the City Where Your Daughter Goes to College and Your Brother and Sister-in-Law and Fabulous Niece and Nephew Live There Too and You're on the Phone With Said Daughter from her Scary Basement When Her Phone Goes Dead.

Oh, man. Then she called back on her regular wired-to-the-wall phone, and we stayed on the phone as I watched Dave Dahl freaking out and drawing hook echoes right around St. Peter. Stanley was barking his head off, protecting her from tornadoes just like he protects her from vacuum cleaners and ironing boards, and then THAT phone went dead, too.

I think the worst is past St. Peter now, and heading into Cleveland and Kilkenney, hopefully wearing itself out by ripping up farm fields and not farm houses and farm people and farm animals.

Okay, power is out in St. Peter, and that explains why Rose's phone went dead.

Oh, crap. I have to go pick the other kid up at her boyfriend's house, which is in Shoreview, which has weather woes of its own.

Hey, you know what I could use? A vacation! I think I'll go to Miami tomorrow.

Update: Well, shit. It didn't only eat farm fields. It got some houses, too. Poor families.

Either a snowman has climbed onto our deck and taken a nice crap, or we have just experienced a little hailstorm:

In other news. . .

Pat was doing a little research online, trying to check out a medical procedure for a friend, when he came across something that entertained him so completely that he had to print it for me. It reads, in part:

What is wrong with him?! Keep in mind that this is a 49-year-old man who wears a suit and goes to meetings; whose job requires him to be focused and responsible at all times, and to devise and communicate complex plans about sales and profits and procedures and campaigns and programs and models. And yet, the mere mention of the words "anal fissure" has him chortling and snorting, laughing so hard that tears are streaming down his face. What a dork.

Oh, what's that you say? What? You haven't seen a photo of the best dog in the world lately? Okay, since you asked so nicely:

Until this year, I have been the one in our family who takes care of the lawn. I enjoy mowing (as long as a snake doesn't come by), and weeding and trimming and all that stuff. It gives me great pride and pleasure to have a pretty green lawn. Last summer, I got an estimate on an irrigation system, because we have kind of a big yard, and it's a lot of work to move the sprinklers all the time. At that time, my husband felt strongly that the expense was just too great, and that moving sprinklers really shouldn't be a cause for whining.

Last September, you may recall that my maternity leave ended with my oldest child's entrance into her sophomore year of college. Twenty years is a long maternity leave, and my returning to work was quite an adjustment for all of us. Pat very graciously took over lawn duties. He hired a guy to mow the grass once a week, another guy to fertilize several times per year, and he took care of the watering himself. He has spend a lot of his early morning and evening hours moving sprinklers, as we have had one helluva drought this summer. Suddenly, an irrigation system doesn't sound like a bad idea to him. Here's the current view from my driveway:

After today, ain't nobody movin' no sprinklers no mo'!

My nephew, JohnHenry, is on the D.L.

Tonight, the young man endured the gnarliest of injuries: the impalement.

The kid was monkeying around with my belt, which I carelessly left lying on the floor of the family room, where belts do not belong. Belts especially do not belong on the floor of the family room when they are the kind of belt that has a pokey sort of hook that might possibly be knelt upon by a rambunctious eight-year-old. Kneeling on a pokey hook may very possibly end up with the dull-but-pokey hook stabbed right into the kneecap of the eight-year-old kneeler, at which point the eight-year-old kneeler may begin to scream. The screaming will seem very loud, but only until the aunt of the kneeler unimpales the kneecap from the pokey hook. Now THAT is some loud screaming.

That poor boy was so brave. Seriously, it was awful. The pokey hook is about one-third of one inch long. And dull. And hooked. Brrrrr. He bled like a gaffed Northern for thirty minutes or so, and then hopped on the exercise bike and spun around here like his normal whirling dervish self as if nothing had happened. If any of the rest of us had impaled our kneecap on a pokey hook, we'd be hospitalized and hopped up on morphine, demanding lumps of brown sugar for comfort.

Here's a pre-impalement portrait of JohnHenry pretending to like his charming sister, Sophia, taken just after we lit off a monstrously illegal firework that spewed out 56 flaming parachutes:

If I told you that I was going to take my kid and have her wrapped like a sausage in a nylon pancake/strait jacket, hoisted 300 feet in the air, and then dropped to within a foot or two of the ground, you'd say that was child abuse, right?

But she goes to Valleyfair and willingly submits to the torture. I don't understand.

Have I ever mentioned that I am a sugar alcoholic? Because I am. I cannot control myself when it comes to sweets. Well, I can control myself, but the only way I've found to do it successfully is to treat it the way alcoholics treat booze: don't ingest any of it. I don't eat candy, cake, desserts, etc. I just don't eat 'em, and I haven't since February of 2004—two and a half years, now. It works for me.

But there is one exception, and that exception is lumps of brown sugar. I cannot resist a lump of brown sugar every now and then, when I'm baking, which isn't all that often, believe me.

Today I'm making some cinnamon rolls, because my husband is coming home and has had one of those business trips from hell: canceled flight followed by late flight followed by lost luggage. And let's not forget about MUST CHECK ALL LIQUIDS! which means he may as well check all his luggage because he has to bring his Johnson's Baby Bath for his daily soak (and I am completely not even kidding about that, so those of you who know him, enjoy!).

So anyway. . .I guess I just wanted to tell you that I'm all hopped up on a lump of brown sugar.

I hate whining, but really I only object to other people's whining. My own whining doesn't annoy me quite as much, and so I am going to whine to you about my eyes.

All week, they've been runny, itchy, stinging messes. Contact lenses? Out of the question. I've been wearing my regrettable glasses that were supposed to make me hip and happenin', but instead just make me look severe or deranged, depending on your point of view.

So a couple of days ago, I was trying to read some stuff at work, and I suddenly couldn't see it. I mean, I could see most of it, but not all of it. Some of the letters were missing, and others were sort of cut off. I could make out a particular letter if I focused just to the left of where I thought it should be.

I went right in to the eye doctor, because obviously, a symptom such as this can only mean one thing: eye disease, blindness, and a hasty death. Of course that wasn't the diagnosis. All the workings of both eyes are in fine fettle, and she doesn't have an explanation for why they're irritated, or for the wonky vision thing. She says maybe it's a migraine.

So last night, it happened again, only I was at home and could pay more attention to it. Upon closer study, I found that maybe parts of my vision weren't really gone, but were instead covered up by this thing that I saw floating around on my left. I could see it whether I had both eyes open, or one at a time, but I could see it better out of my left eye. And it was all flickery. On your right is a high-quality, technically perfect, artist's rendition of the imaginary object that was hanging around the left side of my head.

These periods of the flickery thing covering up my vision only last about an hour or so, and then I see just fine again. I remember this happening one other time, almost a year ago, when I was interviewing for my job. Leslie was showing me something on a spreadsheet, and I suddenly couldn't see the numbers. I didn't worry too much about it, because I wouldn't have understood the spreadsheet anyway, nor would I have cared. My customary response to spreadsheets if for my eyes to roll back into my head, so it wasn't that far out of the realm of normal.

Okay, so hit me with your best shot at a diagnosis.

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It is my understanding that there are certain beaches in the Miami area where people do not wear anything to guard their sensitive areas from sunburn, and as I frequently mention, I <heart> naked people! My question is, how hard will I have to look to find them? Kelly and I are going to Miami for a little end-of-summer last hurrah. We'll be staying on the water, about a mile or two from South Beach. If we just follow the shoreline, will we find the happy danglers? Or do they sort of hide in a secret cove somewhere? Can anybody help me out here?

Also, is Miami someplace one might go out on a boat and do a little snorkeling? Not diving, mind you. What about parasailing? What else is there to do there, keeping in mind that Kelly is 15?

Here's a little bedtime story for you. It was first told to me by my friend we call Lisa, in the interest of privacy, as we floated down the Apple River a few weeks ago.

Lisa works at, say, in the interest of privacy, the Twin Cities' premiere luxury car dealership. And I'm spelling it like that on purpose. It's fancier. Lisa is that guy whose office your sales guy goes into, to "see what he can do to getcher payment where you want 'er." She works with a guy we'll call Jerry, in the interest of privacy.

One day, Jerry was. . .okay, I forgot some details here, so I'll make up this part. . .Jerry was eating a giant caramel apple which had been marinated in jalapeno mustard fish oil and topped with pistachios, pink pencil erasers, and chocolate-covered bees, then encased in a layer of concrete. . .back to the real story now. . .when he became aware that he had managed to pop a crown right off his tooth. Sadly, he didn't come to this realization until moments after he swallowed the mouthful of chewy crunchy goodness that contained the crown.

So, Jerry went to the dentist. The dentist advised that a crown was, indeed, still necessary on the now-exposed tooth stump; a new tooth had not miraculously grown underneath the crown. Jerry had two choices: a new crown, at a cost of a lot of money, or replacing the same ol' crown, at a cost of not that much money. Of course, the old crown was, at that moment, on a remarkable Magic Schoolbus journey through Jerry's digestive system. Jerry, being the adventurous sort, opted to attempt to recover the crown and have it reinstalled in his mouth.

Back to the office went Jerry, full of resolve, dedicated to the task at hand. The afternoon proceeded normally with a steady stream of wealthy geezers getting sideswiped as they drove their brand new cars off the lot without looking or stopping or realizing other people live in the world with them. Lisa performed her usual bean-counting nerd duties until she looked up to see Jerry speedwalking past her office in little steps with his ass cheeks clenched, toward the industrial, car-fixer area, and then speeding back the other way, toward the restroom, carrying a pair of rubber gloves and. . .okay, embellishment again, because I lack the skill to pay attention to detail, we're going to say rubber gloves, a hubcap, and a spork from KFC. Now back to reality. . .

Jerry locked himself in the bathroom and the wait began. The office was atwitter. The tension was building as time passed, and Jerry remained ensconced in his cave of adventure. When the door finally opened, a droopy-shouldered, downtrodden Jerry emerged, defeated. The expedition had been unsuccessful. Jerry regaled Lisa and the other employees of the Twin Cities' premiere luxury car dealership with the sad tale. "I thought I had it," Jerry choked a sob, "but it was. . .it was. . ." he sighed, "corn."

The tale has a happy ending, however. The next day, Jerry embarked on another search-and-rescue mission, and this time came up with the prize. The tooth was replaced, and now it and Jerry live happily ever after. Except that Mrs. Jerry probably doesn't kiss him anymore, because hello! Gross! Poop tooth!

And I imagine that sometimes, when Jerry is at a restaurant with people, he might order something he doesn't like, and he'll say, "This tastes like ass!" and all his friends will roll their eyes and go, "Yeah. . .that's probably not the food, man."

I would bet that Jerry is the only Luxury Car Expert in the Twin Cities who has digested one of his teeth AND bit himself in the rectum.

I think I'll head out to the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport tonight. Word on the street is there's going to be some good stuff in the trash—perfume, makeup, toiletries, stuff that explodes when mixed with other stuff. Who's with me?

While Kelly was being tortured:

I was taking photos of water dripping into the stainless steel sink next to her.

And I'm blogging about it. My life has become such a snoozefest.

Hey, I've updated my links over there on your right. See 'em? There used to be some dead links, and some links to blogs nobody ever posts on anymore. I updated the broken and replaced the abandoned with some blogs I read every day. In fact, when I took a look at the list, I was shocked to see that I hadn't added them yet. Click around over there, and you'll find good stuff.

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Yesterday, my charming child, Kelly, cooked up one of her schemes, a scheme which involved badgering her parents into allowing her to go to First Avenue to see a band called Reel Big Fish. "Ha ha ha ha!" Pat and I laughed in her face, "as IF we would allow our 15-year-old to go into a questionable area of downtown Minneapolis to a nightclub! Where there is booze! And loud music that will wreck your eardrums! And scary weirdos! And gangs! And the music is probably angry and dark with subliminal messages instructing listeners to follow Satan into the pits of hell, and stab each other in the eye, while they're at it. Bwahahaha not a chance!"

But Kelly is clever. During this operation, she also asked to be allowed to get her lip pierced, and to ride in cars with boys, and to not have to call me every time she leaves somebody's house to go to somebody else's house. Smart kid, because I started thinking about how I like to be able to say yes, and the only one of these issues that would be even remotely possible would be the music thing.

I went to google for parenting advice. First, I found Reel Big Fish's web site, and found that this band looked interesting and funky, and not sharp and hateful at all. There is a trumpet! And a trombone! I listened to a little of their music and found that they're sort of B-52's-ish (dating myself, but who cares) and their songs are actually happy, light, and a little snarky, and I like them very much, and even downloaded one of their CDs at iTunes and put it on my iPod. A little more googling told me that this was a show for all ages, and that it started at 4:00 p.m., and would be over while it's still daylight. We decided that we would allow Kelly to go, under the following conditions:

I would drop her and Halie off at the front door at 4:00. No hanging out in front waiting for the doors to open.

She and Halie would stay together the entire time.

If they had pop or water, they would NOT PUT IT DOWN and if they did put it down, they would consider it trash and buy a fresh one if they were still thirsty.

I would pick them up before 8:00 p.m.

I would be within a two-block radius of First Avenue, and available by cell phone, the entire time.

Kelly would help me clean the garage to earn the $22.00 for the ticket.

So now, Kelly and Halie have experienced the teenagery delight that is First Avenue, where, in my day, Prince performed regularly. At this point, I should admit that I can't remember if I've actually been there. I have distinct memories of being there, but I think they might actually be memories of Purple Rain, the movie that was filmed there in the olden days. The girls came out all giddy and sweaty and wound up, with tales of the mosh pit, and a toenail injury to illustrate it. Note: do not wear flip-flops in which to mosh. Wear tennies. Or better, steel-toed work boots.

I spent the afternoon and evening buying a camera nerd manual at Borders, reading it and dorking around with my camera while sitting on a bench in front of Block E, and wandering around shooting photos of downtown sights, which I am never allowed to do when Pat is along, because PUT THAT CAMERA AWAY! SOMEBODY WILL RIP IT RIGHT OFF OF YOUR NECK!

My only question now is how many of these mouth-breathers now have our home phone number. Mouth-Breather A, whose every intake breath is a gasp; Mouth-Breather B, who wears a chef's hat and a Bill Murray in Caddyshack retarded look on his face, and Mouth-Breather C, who snores a little quieter when he's awake than when he's asleep :

Yes, indeedy, I am the nicest mama, but there will be no lips pierced on my watch.

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This dog is obviously a canine voodoo prince. I know this because he has me under his spell. Remember how I do not like dogs much? Well, at some point in time, which I do not have conscious memory of, this dog hypnotized me to fall in love with him.

Stanley is Rose's dog. Although they live at Rose's cool college house, they've been hanging out here a lot the past couple of weeks, and the voodoo doggy love has caused me to lose my mind. I'm shopping at Petsmart—WITH the dog. I'm watching him sleep. I'm leaving baseball games early, looking forward to the excitement and the jumping, and the happiness that will be demonstrated on my return. I'm voluntarily picking up tiny piles of poop in plastic bags. I'm sharing my bed. I'm talking baby-talk. I've become that lady who drives around with a needle-toothed yap dog on her lap, with its paws on her arm so it can see out the window. I'm willingly examining the healing incision from last weeks removal of the puppy nads, and fretting over how much he might be itching as it heals.

Puppy voodoo mind control. Definitely.

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