My husband bought me a TV for Christmas. Because, I have been talking all year about a getting a TV, specifically a 46″ Sony Bravia LCD 1080p HCTV, because SEC football games are just amazing on this kind of screen. The three-stone diamond anniversary ring would just be a waste of money, what was I thinking?!

And it just so happens that Queen B. had such a TV, through her Finish the Basement project.  {Note: The problem with just painting and sealing the concrete floor (so trendy) when you live in the godforsaken Arctic tundra? It makes the basement colder than the Abominable Snowman’s asscrack, and completely unlivable.} So because wearing a parka was required, the TV had been watched less than ten hours total. My Dad is on a business trip, so anything in the basement is for sale.

So my sweet darling dearest husband bought the TV. For me. With absolutely no ulterior motives whatsoever.

Our entire Christmas budget is blown, and its not even Thanksgiving yet. I was going to inflict Tit for Tat on him, one way or another. And the opportunity presented itself sooner than I thought.

This past weekend Marmot had the TV home, set up in the sunroom. He was extolling the virtues of the new TV, demonstrating with the latest SEC football game – look at the uniforms babe, the colors are freaking brilliant!- I made a realization. Our old TV was a Sony TV. And therefore, we had a Sony remote. And with the addition of the new TV? We have two Sony remotes.

So, while he is engrossed in the game, I tuck the extra remote next to me on the couch, out of his sight. The Bullfrogs throw the ball – all the idiots in football helmets start running – Marmot starts cheering!

And- blink! The TV goes off.

Marmot: What the f#$%.

Me: That was weird. Did you hit a button?

Marmot turns the TV back on. He missed the play, but they have instant replay.

Somebody in a football helmet kicks the ball. The idiots in football helmets split up and start running towards each other. Marmot is screaming the most important of football strategies to the idiots in the football helmets. The game is heating up!

And – blink! The TV goes off.

Marmot: Mother-f#$&!@r!?!!!

Me: Geez babe, this is weird. You don’t think some electrical stuff was knocked loose when you moved it do you?

A few minutes later, all the idiots in football helmets starting running across the field again. Marmot stand up to cheer the Bullfrogs on, this is it! The idiots in helmets are running faster! Its going to be the touchdown of the season!

And- blink! The TV goes off.

Marmot throws the remote into the living room, shrieking expletives, and kicks the side of the coffee table. The cat goes streaking from the room, the dogs sit up and look at him- and I stifle a smile.

Marmot picks the remote, and the battery case, and batteries from the other room and turns the TV back on. The camera is panning over the crowd, still cheering themselves hoarse over the most fantastic play of Bullfrog football history.

Me: I think something was knocked loose when you moved it babe, you should call Customer Service.

An hour and three calls to India later, he finds out the warranty is null and void because he is not Queen B. But Hi-my-name-is-Larry in India helps Marmot through an hour and a half of system resets and diagnostics.

They have it all figured out, everything should be fine. The Bullfrogs are in fine form this season, amazing plays. This is shaping up to be a GREAT football season.

My first 1001 in 101 challenge has been completed! So #41 on my 1001 in 101 list was a modest challenge, but something I certainly wanted to do sooner rather than later: organize all my photos in iPhoto.

I got a Mac last spring when my sister-in-law was selling hers. Its a couple years old, but at $450 it was a perfect way to dip my toes into the Mac pond and see how the water felt. As it turns out, I’m a fan. Over the summer I worked on moving everything from my old PC to the Mac- and its done!

Now I’m not overly familiar with iPhoto, but like so many Apple products its pretty instinctive to use. Once I moved my 3k pictures (yes I seriously had 3000 pictures, not including my wedding pictures which I think is another 1000) it was very simple to sort by date and put photos into Events. And voila!

This is definitely going to make #’s 45, 46, 47, and 48 (scrapbooks for 2010, 2011, 2012, and 2013) easier!

• Husband announces that he will be starting the Couch to 5K program, and downloads an app.
• Not to be outdone, you also announce that you will starting the Couch to 5K program and be kicking his ass.
• Spend two hours evaluating C25K apps on iTunes.
• Buy Get Running for $1.99 and position on the front page of your iPhone.
• Spend $10.32 on new music for your Tunes to Run By playlist.
• Come home from work and eat a bowl of sesame chicken and fried rice.
• Get online and research new shoes, workout gear, and headphones.
• Pin some fitness motivation quotes on Pinterest.
• Look for headphones in work bag, purse, junk drawer, and bedside table. Give up and steal husband’s headphones.
• Go downstairs looking for tennis shoes- find them in the basement in the Goodwill box.
• Put on workout pants, which were worn as pajamas the night before.
• Unfold treadmill from storage position in master bedroom, dust it thoroughly.
• Attempt to plug it in, and then go back to the junk drawer for the three-prong to two-prong adapter.
• All the upstairs-downstairs routine has necessitated a trip to the bathroom to clear ones GI system.
• Lay on the bed to recover from bathroom trip and read half of a Shape magazine.
• Finally get on the damn treadmill, and complete Week 1 Run 1 of C25K.
• Brag about accomplishment in Facebook status update.
• Add running to Facebook hobbies.
• Husband comes home from work, gets into pajamas and eats chips and salsa on the couch. He says he’ll start C25K tomorrow.

Dear Honey, this is your Mother speaking.

Your father started a game of “Tit for Tat” with me once. Sadly it ended with him having all the crotches cut out of his underwear.

He discovered his dilemma while dressing for work, not enough time to hit the store for a new pair.  Hmmmm???  My bright boy decided to use safety pins to piece a pair back together for the day.  Being a safety conscious sort of fellow he took the extra precaution of using a pliers to squeeze the heads securely shut so there would be no chance of having to explain a puncture wound to his bad boys in the emergency room.  Off to work he went.  “Ha-ha, very funny!” he quipped as he headed out the door.

“Tit” came later in the morning as he bent over to adjust lumbar position on his office chair.  Apparently, a small portion of his scrotum got pinched in the spring portion of the safety pin.  I am told that he screamed like a woman possessed, jumped out of his chair (sending it flying across the room), grabbed his privates (in front of two nurses, one other Doctor and the Hospital Administrator) and ran from the clinic with tears running down his face, in the general direction of the men’s room.

Smart enough to graduate from medical school, but stupid enough to try to play Tit for Tat with Queen B - hah!

When he recovered, your 57 year old father headed to Wal-Mart – “commando” – to buy a cheap package of Fruit of the Looms to get him through the rest of the day.

Then came “Tat”.   Did you know that unwashed underwear have some sort of fabric starch on them when they arrive here from China?  Either did he! Unfortunately your father found that the skin in his private region reacted negatively to this Chinese starch.  Another visit to the Men’s room, and an in-depth self examination followed. He had completely broken out in an itchy, seeping rash by early afternoon.  Convinced that his cut from the morning was now infected with what we like to call the “Chinese starchy terminal testicular infection” he headed to the office of one of his Medical colleagues. Presumably, in the Infectious Disease Department.

Love from your Mother,

Queen B.

Dear Mother, this is your Daughter speaking.

Apology? And groveling?! What kind of saintly mother do you think you were, Mother Teresa?

Ok, you know you started this blog advice business, by calling me out on my professions of organic-ness, because I had a freezer full of the totally un-organic Toaster Strudels. Yep, you called me out.

So Mom, I must inform you that prior to the Infamous Bunnies post, I have in fact been holding back on the blog. Because I was under the Other Pact, which is the Mother-Daughter Pact, in which I don’t talk about all the things that happened in my childhood that you don’t want to see in print.

But, the Other Pact is null and void when Tit for Tat has been invoked. Now if you want to play Tit for Tat, remember I learned from the best.

Love you!

Honey B.

Dear Honey, this is your Mother speaking.

Actually this is your Mother not speaking – as in not speaking to you. I know this will come as a shock to you but I have not been speaking to you for over a week! I thought that you would have the courtesy to notice, but you haven’t, so I am now writing to inform you that I am no longer speaking to you. Why? Well let me explain this to you my dear Honey.

Over family life there is a veil of silence that cannot, and/or should not be broken. This veil requires all members of the family to share only touching stories, sweet and cheerful memories, and positive teachable moments from their childhood with anyone to whom you are not related. (Note: This rule also extends to your Grandmothers who at your birth both grew a judgmental bone the size of a large horn right out the top of their heads. Not to worry Honey I am almost completely sure that this will never happen to me.)

{Do the crowns hide the horns?}

This rule is called the Family Confidentiality Pact. The Pact, as I will call it, is put in place to protect the parents from being humiliated with stories of the insane lengths they have had to stoop to in order to raise you up to be the upstanding citizens that you now are. The Pact is also in place to protect you children from being yanked from our cozy little unbalanced home by Social Services when the story of …let’s see, oh yes… The Bunnies become public knowledge. The Pact cannot and/or should not be broken until the Mother and Father, both Grandmothers, any childless Aunts who never liked us, are all in fact dead.

So my dear Honey – There has been a Security Breach in La Familia. This cannot ever happen again. If this does ever happen again I will be forced to steps things up to the dreaded Tit for Tat game. (Note: Let me just say at this point that I have knowledge, Mother knowledge, from your youth, that you probably don’t want shared with the public. Eye witness accounts, pictures, and yes, even video.) Looking forward to your apology, preferably served up with a hefty helping of groveling. Oh how I love the groveling.

Love from your Mother,

Queen B.

Oh Mom, its so cute that you think Happy Hour is the worst parenting thing you’ve ever done. Allow me to take you on a walk down memory lane…

Easter morning, probably sometime in the early 90′s. As is your tradition, you made Easter baskets for us with candy and a present. The farm had rabbit hutches and we had been begging for our own bunnies, so on this lovely Easter morning our baskets held baby bunnies. One for each of us (it was just Apple and I, Ginger wasn’t born yet) and we were thrilled. I named mine Hopkins, Apple named hers Flora. We loved our baby bunnies, played with our baby bunnies, kissed the baby bunnies…our house was positively brimming with baby bunny bliss.

But now its time to go to church…our hair was curled, the matching frou-frou dresses and Easter hats, white socks with lacey edges and white patent Mary Janes…kiss the baby bunnies before you go, they will be waiting for you!

Fast forward to after church. We all tumble out of the car and are so excited to see the baby bunnies, we love the baby bunnies Mom! Dad had gone in the house first, but before we could go inside he said Girls, why don’t you play on the swingset for awhile? And so we did. Dad and Mom went inside, and a few minutes later Dad took a garbage bag to the trash bin, but we didn’t notice that…we were swinging and thinking about our bunnies!

Finally Dad says girls you can come inside, its almost time for lunch. We burst into the house, where are the bunnies, we want to play with the bunnies, we LOVE our bunnies!!

To which you and Dad uttered the words…”What bunnies? ”

The baby bunnies! Our Easter bunnies, we love our bunnies so much, where are the bunnies?

You and Mom looked at each other quizzically. What are you talking about girls, there aren’t any bunnies?

Oh but Mom yes there were, the bunnies we got for Easter! I remember the bunnies, don’t you remember the bunnies Apple? She remembers the bunnies too Dad!

The infamous Easter of 1988

And then Dad took it one devious step further- did you all DREAM that you got bunnies for Easter?

I paused and looked at Apple. Do you remember the bunnies? Apple started to cry.

But…the bunnies…we had bunnies…didn’t we?

To which you and Dad, said WOW, you all dreamt that you had bunnies! That’s the craziest thing! Well, Easter dinner is almost ready and your grandparents will be here, so go get ready for Easter pictures!

And until I was in my twenties, I thought my sister and I had both dreamt about bunnies. Until I was in my twenties, I just thought our cat Mo was a good mouser. And until I was in my twenties, I didn’t know that you and Dad would rather delude your girls into thinking we had some mind-dream connectedness, for a decade and a half, rather than explain the facts of life, the predator-hunter food chain bunny carnage that happens when you have a cat and baby bunnies.

I rest my case. And RIP Hopkins and Flora.

Honey: “Mom, what was the most awful parenting thing you have ever done that you’ve never admitted until now?”

Dear Honey,

It pains me to admit this, but I did have one bad parenting moment while raising you.  Shocked? I knew you would be.

So, my dear Honey, I will tell all ……if, IF, you promise me one thing.  No sharing this information with anyone I know!  And for goodness sake don’t put it on the blog, those people already think I am a lunatic.  Man privy?  Why don’t you edit these things?

Anyway, here is what happened ……  It had been a long winter on our quiet rural farm in the middle of the godforsaken frozen tundra. January, you can imagine, why do we live here anyway?  You were 9, Apple B. was 5, and Ginger B. was … I don’t know … .somewhere between teething and potty training I think.  Snow so high it prevented our little homeschooling family from going anywhere for weeks.  I was getting a little  - well, edgy.

Out of sheer boredom I had resorted to cleaning out the cupboards. I found a set of two mismatched wine glasses, some plastic cocktail swords, and a set of paper napkins that said “Dinner will be ready when the smoke detector goes off”.  Probably one of your fathers attempts at humor.  I was about to stick them in the Goodwill box when you found them and wanted to play.

“Fine,” I said.  “you and Apple B. climb up on the stools and you can have a cocktail party while I make dinner.”  I put cranberry juice in the wine glasses and called it “wine”. The kitchen island became “the bar”.   And, yes we called this game “Happy Hour”.

I cut up bananas and grapes on a plate and they became hors d’ouerves.  Stabbing them with your little plastic swords kept you two busy for half an hour while I cooked dinner.  Fabulous!  We made it a nightly event!  Every afternoon at about 4:30 or so I would tell my precious little girls to “Belly up to the bar girls, it’s Happy Hour!”  You would eat anything I put in front of you with those swords so the next day I cut up cucumbers and tomatoes,  then carrots and lima beans. {Nice try Mom, I know we didn’t eat the lima beans}  I was going to get Mother of the year for this -  my kids were eating raw veggies and loving it!   I couldn’t wait to share this at the mothers group.  I was a genius …… until your Grandmother, my Mother-in-Law, came to visit.

She had been there for most of the afternoon.  Testing you on reading and math skills while I was out of the room (she never did support the whole homeschooling thing), and checking under the couch for dust bunnies (anyone who spent all their time teaching couldn’t have a clean house).  It got to be about 4:30 and I was heading to the kitchen to start dinner when I heard your sweet voice sing out…… to your very Catholic, Italian, unhappy that her only son married a Methodist, tea-toddling Grandmother …….”Belly up to the bar Gramma, it’s Happy hour!”

I don’t think there is much else to say.

Love from your Mother,

Queen B.

Graduate school. Don’t do it. Learn from my experience dear friends, and save yourselves. My life has been consumed by pathophysiology, family theories, and the role of the advance practice nurse. And this is going to take me two years to finish. Kill me now.

I have been subsisting almost entirely on junk food and, most importantly, iced coffee. I’ve been looking at recipes online, and have tweaked mine to be exactly the way I like it – cloyingly sweet and tasting nothing like coffee. Hah!

I dump a bag of ground coffee (my favorite is Caribou Lakeshore) into a container with a gallon water. I let it sit for six hours until I cracked and had to try some, but admittedly the stuff I let steep overnight is the best. Strain it through a paper towel or some coffee filters, and then pour half a glass over some ice cubes. Extra credit if you used the extra coffee you have left from making Black Magic cake (below) and make coffee ice cubes. Fill the glass to 3/4 with a mix of evaporated milk and sweetened condensed milk, and then top it off with some 2% milk. In a word? A-ma-zing. And as the coffee ice cubes melt, the drink actually gets stronger instead of watery.

I have also become addicted to what is easily the best chocolate cake I’ve ever had in my life- Black Magic chocolate cake. And I’m a chunky girl, you know I’ve tried them all. I don’t really know what to say about this cake, other than get into the kitchen and bake it. Immediately. Its moist and dense without sticking to the roof of your mouth, the frosting is to die for, and- it has coffee in it!!

So how has your Labor Day weekend been?

Look here for Part One and Part Two!

Twenty four hours later we arrived at the hospital– again. And yes, they let me stay even though I was at only three centimeters. “Three centimeters, are you kidding me – THREE!” They assigned us to a room that was the size of a closet somewhere off in Wing Z. I was pretty sure that this was where they left the “no insurance” mothers to labor and deliver on there own. Or, quite possibly, with the help of members of the janitorial staff. I started to cry.

The next twenty four hours were a blur of ice chips and jello. They would come in and check me every few hours and tell me I was going slow, (“Really, really?”) and doing well. But I knew the truth, you were never coming out. I cried some more, and blamed your father.

Just when I thought that all was lost, and I was going to go into Ripley Believe It Or Not as the worlds longest labor, it happened – transition. It was a big contraction, a real winner, and then it didn’t end. It just went right into another, and another, and another. I could barely gather enough breath to scream at your father. “Make it stop! Turn it off! You jack-ass, do something!!!!” He tried giving me ice chips and I backhanded them across the room. He took out the tennis ball to rub my back, and I tore it in two with my teeth. He told me to breathe slowly and I just glared at him. He said later that it was like something out of the movie the Exorcist. When my eyes turned a strange shade of green, and I started hissing through my teeth – off he went for the nurse.

They laid me back on the bed with a few pillows, knees up and spread to check me and to direct the pushing. Grunt, groan, agony. Grunt, groan, agony. Over and over till you finally started moving – just as I felt some forward momentum and possibly crowning the nurse brought in the wheelchair. “WHAT? Are you *%#@- ing kidding me, you want me to get up and get in the chair now?” Yep, that was the plan. Into the chair and then a short ride to the delivery room, where I had to climb into a birthing chair that I had never seen and didn’t know how to use. By the time I was situated the doctor had appeared on the scene with twenty three students, four interns, a half dozen residents, and the homeless guy from the corner. They were three deep in places – it was like a home football game – they needed bleachers.

“This won’t hurt..” Never trust a doctor who says that, it is a lie from the pit of hell. Snip, snip, and I had an episiotomy. Grunting, groaning, and agony for a few minutes and then that devil pulled out the Vacuum Extractor! I guess things were not moving along fast enough for him. It looked like a small plunger attached to a vacuum hose. And yep, you guessed it, they stuck it up my hoo-haa and attached it to your head. Then they started pulling —– Aghhhh —— I screamed. It was like someone was pulling my intestines out with their bare hands. The doctor (sick sadist bastard) was on some sort of power trip and quickly told me “No need for that now (meaning the scream)…” as he pulled again. Completely full to the brim with anger, I gave one final push I birthed you and a hemorrhoid the size and color of a plum.

Your APGAR was eight – and I only had a slight panic attack when I had another contraction to deliver the placenta – “Twins?” The intern that was set to catch it assured me labor was not starting again! Praise God! “Are we done?” I asked as they wrapped you in a blanket and set you in my arms. “All done but the sewing… “ and so it went on for another twenty minutes – stabbing and pulling.

The intern that sewed me up forgot to remove the Vag-pack (a round pack of gauze the size of my fist) , I managed to deliver that the next day through my stitches. That was fun! You nursed like a trooper, pooped on schedule, and three days later we got to go home. And that my darling Honey, is your birth story.

Love from your Mother,

Queen B.