Ok, I hate to do this to you but I have to.  I absolutely have to.

If I had to see this, so do you.  Are you ready?  I would advise you look away but I know you.  You are going to scroll right down and check it out.  Remember – you have been warned.  I am giving you time to hit the back arrow and get back to trolling Facebook for your old college boyfriend or looking for some ridiculous craft on Pinterest that you will do when hell freezes over.  You know, the one with your kids footprints and glitter.

Last chance.

Ah, welcome back.  I knew you couldn’t resist.   What is this you ask?  I. Have. No. F’ing. Clue.

It haunts me.  It keeps me up at night.  I will admit though, my sister and I have laughed at this so hard we had tears coming from our eyes.  A lot of them.  Is it nuts?  Is it a butt?  Is this creature smuggling plums?  Is it a lady?  Is she holding a purse?  Should she invest in a pair of zubas?

More importantly, is it a taco butt?  Holy hell, if this is a taco butt, I may just grow a hump and move under the nearest bridge.  Is this my future?

You may remember that the taco butt is legendary in the Vogel family and it haunts us.  The origin is sweet Grandma Vogel who proudly showed it off her her purple polyester pants.  She so kindly passed it on the my father who who so generously passed it on to yours truly.  He also passed on a whole hell of a lot of white hair which if I did not manage would be recipe for disaster.   Once in a while I will get lazy on touching up the roots and my husband will start referring to me as “Pauly Walnuts”.  That is my cue.

If you recall a taco butt is a very flat ass that seemingly has points at the end.  I am not sure how this is possible but I do know it is the reason the I require a belt and I pull up my jeans 236 times a day.

I know what your next question is and the answer is this…..I have no idea where this came from.   I found it at about 2:00 in the morning and I have no idea what I googled that brought me here.  This could be the real problem.

So, you are welcome.  The next time you are getting ready to go out and are doing the once over in the mirror – you know where you check out your ass in the full length mirror while rubber necking your head to see every angle, remember this and say this, “damn, I look good.”  You do, trust me, you do.

After you tell yourself how good you look, make sure you enter a new event into your phone calendar for the year 2044.  “Go find Vogel and see if her ass looks like that lady with the plum nuts.”

It is getting to be that time of the year…..soup.  I could eat soup everyday.  I eat soup in Mexico for lunch when it is 109 degrees.  If I could eat soup for every meal, I probably would.

Soup is amazing but it needs a little something else to go with it.  My standard go to is a good artisan french bread topped with some smart balance, garlic salt and munster cheese.  Throw this under the broiler and it is the perfect side to any soup, chili or stew.  (Although, I have to digress about stew.  I don’t like this word.  It reminds me of some neanderthal type dish made with chunks of hairy boar and full size carrots).

So, I made some soup for dinner, invited the world’s best neighbors over and decided we needed to paint pumpkins and have something to go along with our soup.  Meatball sandwiches on a stick.  Say what?  Yes.  Meatball sandwiches on a stick.  So good.  So easy.  (I tried to remember to snap a few pics but I was busy between the dance party in my kitchen and cleaning glitter and paint off of my giant baby).

Here is what you need:

And some cheese….whatever kind you have.  We live and die by Munster in our house so it is our go to cheese for grilled cheese, quesadillas, garlic cheese bread etc.  Make sure you make buy the party size meatballs.  (They are in the freezer section). They come 64 in a bag.  Grab some wooden skewers and you are ready to roll.

See what you do there?  Thaw the meatballs and then wrap the breadstick around it and skewer it with the….well, the skewer.  Funny how that works.  Then brush them with a little bit of butter or olive oil and sprinkle with garlic salt and oregano.  Then we added our standard slice of Munster and threw it in the oven at 390 for about 10 minutes.  Just freeball it as I really did not use the timer.

Then server them with dipping sauce – whatever floats your boat….marinara, ranch, gardinaira. (How in God’s name do you spell that word?)

So this is what you end up with……this was the last guy standing.  I forgot to take a photo when they came out of the oven, but you get the jist.  They come together in about 12 minutes, bake for about 10 and wah-lah.  Something fun to serve with soup other than garlic bread.  The kids think they are super cool and so do I.

So just make these…..I promise you will like them.  I do.

Also, invite your neighbors over and have a dance party….and paint pumpkins.  Why not?  

Oh yeah, have a glass of wine too.  That helps with the clean-up.

Quit growing.  I know we all complain about it and every time someone’s kid has a birthday, we hear the same thing muttered, “how in the hell (well, maybe these are me and my friends) did another year pass?”  Seriously. Someone needs to figure out how to slow down time, just for a few years – right until puberty would be nice.  Really just until that first pube sprouts.

I have spent the past few weeks getting into friendly “arguments” with my husband because I want one more.  “Just one more.”  He says I am acting like it is a chip.  “Go ahead and eat the whole damn bag of chips….have all the chips you want but kids, no more.”

His famous line has been, and keep in mind it is said with a shit eating grin from ear to ear – “Sure, go ahead and have a fourth baby…..with your third husband because I am out.”  Ouch.  Yikes.  That is like a double burn but I have to give him credit.  He can come up with some good zingers.  The funny thing is that before I would agree to the vasectomy, I made sure he put a “sample” on ice so if I could ever change his mind, I had the nectar needed to grow one sassy little kid who wears a cross around his neck and thinks that Nonie and Papa live in the Green Bay Packers.  They don’t just live in Green Bay.  They live IN the Green Bay Packers.  How cool is that?l?

Fast as lightening my husband called the sperm bank where the goods are held to make sure that I could not get my mitts on it.  He is the only one who can get it released.  He is scared he is going to come home and find me in one of my fancy yoga poses with a turkey baster up my nether regions.  I mean, geez.  I would lock the door so he wouldn’t have to see anything.  I do have some tact.  Not much, but some.

3 has always been my lucky number and I was good with it until today.  My giant baby really is no longer a baby.  He is just giant.  Today he did this:

All by himself, mohawk and chucks double tied to his feet, took off down the sidewalk on his sister’s pink scooter.  For the record, this did not cause a problem – none at all.  That was her pink scooter and only girls like pink so he has to stop asap.  Like now, he has to stop.  He didn’t stop.  He laughed.  I laughed.  His sister cried.

And now he is dying to get potty trained.  He sits on the shitter.  Plays with shitter.  Has me take his diaper off 46 times a day so he can pretend shitter.  “Poo poo” is his war cry these days.  For the record he has yet to actually shit on the shitter but he is getting damn close.  Is there a chance that I could actually miss changing those diapers?  Cleaning poop off of nuts? (and I am not talking acorns, almonds or macadamias)

To make matters worse, the other night he was “practicing” in a canadian tuxedo that he picked out.  It was so awesome on so many levels but made me realize the shit is getting real.  He is getting big.  Giant.  My giant baby really is now a giant toddler.

Keep in mind he lugged the second hand shitter that we got from our awesome neighbors…..from the restroom to our living room.  He got bored in there alone.  Our neighbors are going through a massive remodel and I stopped by and this shitter was on their front porch. After I stopped laughing, I asked Mr. Patrick where that toilet was going.  He informed me his son had used it out there, right on the front porch but it was on it’s way to the dumpster.  Not so fast.  It is on it’s way to my house.  Where it sits in my living room.

So, apparently I will not be getting my way and as De La Soul (WAY back in the day) said -“three is the magic number.”  (Do you remember that jam?  so fun)

I guess I am 40 and not 30 so maybe it is better this way.  It’s just that I love my pals so damn much, that I think having even more would be better!  If three is good, 4 is better.  RIght?  How the hell do you think I am from a family of 7.  The albino gyno (my dad) never wanted the fun to end.

I know I am nuts….but I love to love.  I love to craft, read, color and cook and screw with people, so I feel like I have room for one more degenerate here in the “Gerbie Gang”.

Thank God my sister just had a new baby.  The cutest little guy you ever saw.  He might be easy to steal.  Wish me luck.  As I always say – if you ever hear a report of a giant orange lady with big boobs robbing a bank or committing a crime doused in accessories,  think Snooki…..not me”

Really.  Googly eyes make everything better.

The best part – you can buy a giant bag at Dollar Tree.  That is another thing that does not disappoint.  I take my kids there and tell them they can pick ANYTHING in the entire store.  This can literally blow a couple 4 year old minds.  Don’t think you can go to Dollar General or Dollar Value (I am not sure this is even a place) – it has to be Dollar Tree.  Trust me on this.  Dollar.  Tree.  Googly eyes.  Also gift bags and crap for kids parties like balloons, streamers, those kazoo things – all that junk.  1 dollar make you holla.

So back to googly eyes.  They come in 4 sizes.  I love sizes.

I put them on everything.  We fired up the glue the other day and put them on acorns.  Seriously, how do you get cuter than this?

I mean, come on.  Look at those tiny eyes and that long stem.

That tiny guy is my favorite but I love them all.  I do.  And sizes, I love sizes.

So the other night, at the urging of a friend who knows my love of googly eyes, I had a little fun in my fridge.  And for the record, yes, I know how lame I am.  My husband informed me of this right after I was giddy with excitement after he FINALLY noticed my handy work.

I mean, look at the roll of sugar cookies peeking out of the drawer.  It is hard to see but each Activia yogurt has tiny eyes.  You can’t beat that.  And sizes, you can’t beat sizes.

This guy….my favorite “tiny” guy – eats off the floor and I am ok with it.

I have one of the word’s pickiest eaters on my hands and I have nearly given up.  He literally only eats white shit.  Well, not shit, not really but he might as well.  His diet is about as nutritious as dung.

My giant baby eats the following white foods:

-Bananas

-Vanilla yogurt

-Granola Bars

-Oyster crackers

-Graham crackers

-Goldfish (technically not white)

-Applesauce

-Tater tots

-French fries

-Chicken nuggets

-Saltines

-Ramen noodles

-Pediasure

Lord.  This is it.  I have tried.  I have left the poor kid in the high chair for 2 hours with nothing but peas and turkey.  The little guy is stubborn.  He wanted to have a stare down instead of eat.  He started eating his fingernails, which technically are white.

The pediatrician said it was a phase and not to be worried.  I actually had a nephew that was the exact same and he grew out of it so there is hope.  The odd thing is that my pals will eat anything and everything.  They love fruit.  They love veggies.  Eden likes everything except ketchup because she thinks girls do not eat it, only boys.  I wonder where she got this from.  Ketchup gives me the shivers just thinking about it…so does salmon, red pepper, mango, peaches, swiss cheese, mustard, tuna salad and the McRib.

It is actually not surprising that Abbott is picky because I am about the worst.  I do not think I have ever gone into a restaurant and ordered off the menu without tweaking the item in some way.  This is why I kill servers and bartenders with kindness although my brother still swears I have ingested at least a gallon of spit due to this annoying habit.  On a side note, I waited tables for years and didn’t give a rip if people ordered special requests as long as they were nice about it.  This is where “the kill them with kindness” part comes in along with the standard 25% tip.  Unless my husband is in charge, then this goes up to 30% because he thinks I am so annoying and feels the need to make up for my “can I have extra mushrooms, sauce on the side and no red pepper please.”

So, I do anything and everything to get my giant baby to eat.  The 5 second rule does not apply at our house.  Or anywhere.  If he found a random cob of corn at the park and wanted to take a bit, I would let him. This is why our house has about the 24 hour rule.

I sweep every day.  Don’t get me wrong, it is not a deep sweep.  I am talking a 4 minute sweep to pick up the crumbs, shattered dreams, beads, glitter and cheerios.  I sweep it into one spot and this guy comes along and just eats right out of my pile.  Guess what, I am ok with this.  The other day he ate a fruit loop and I was just excited it was a red one and not a yellow one.

So the 5 second rule does not apply at our house.  Not even close.  The other day I personally picked up a tater tot, brushed it off and considered popping it in my mouth.  I found a dog hair on it though and we have not had a dog here for about a month.  Maybe I need to rethink my 4 minute sweeping strategy and up it by a minute or two.

*(On a side note, for those wondering – Enzo is not dead or anything.  He just happens to have moved in with my mother-in-law aka St. Roberta so my sanity can stay in tact).

Ok, these things are awesome.

No, not the Ikea plates (well those are awesome too) or the goldfish (totally awesome too) but the corn holders.  The freaking corn holders.  If you don’t have these, get them for your pals for your last bbq.  Do you remember the one’s they had when we were little?  Oh, actually I have a hard time remembering because for some reason my mother would not buy these for us.  My sister Sas and I recall begging, literally begging for them in the Sentry grocery store but Barb would not have it.  She would rather we burn our tiny little digits than use these brilliant devices.  I will never understand this one.  It is one of those weird things I remember – wanting these damn corn on the cob holders.  Do you remember the ones from the 70’s looked like tiny cobs of corn?

Do you know how hot a cob of corn fresh out of the pot can be?  Piping.  But it has to be piping so you can roll it over the stick of butter right before you salt and pepper it up real nice.  Then if you don’t have these beauties you end up trying to eat the corn while balancing it between your fingers and not dropping it due to the heat.  The corn essentially turns into a hot potato.  Who knew?

My mom was severely awesome and gave us so much but for some reason I remember the few things we did not get.  We never got to get the super cool fancy folders or notebooks at back to school time…..just the plain colored ones.  F’ing Mead.

The drive-thru lunches and dinners were another one.  At McDonald’s we could only get hamburgers or cheeseburgers and Taco Bell – plain taco or bean burrito.  If you thought you were getting a McRib or a mexican pizza, think again amigo, it was not happening.  An apple pie?  You better get to bed so it can be in your dreams because that is the only place you would find an apple pie in 1983.

I just got a great idea – I am going to go get a few apple pies from McD’s and put the corn holders into the ends and munch away.  Talk about nirvana….I will eat it right over my Strawberry Shortcake folder so if any juice drips out I will be covered.

It’s that time again….anniversary time.  The time of the year where I get to thank my husband for another amazing year of tears, laughter, fighting, smiles, diapers, sleepless nights, love, drama, bills, hugs, a few hangovers, vacations that turned into trips, endurance of a lifetime, compromise and most of all “give and take” – mostly give.

This guy…..the guy who works a grueling 80 hours a week so his kids and wife can have everything we could dream of.  This girl – who works in and out of the house so her kids can experience every single thing possible.  I want them to experience the stuff that will steer them to the path that will continue to make them kids that we are so proud of – sweet kids who want to share with their pals and put others first.  That is my first job – my kids. My second is changing diapers and singing showtunes.  My third is being a Real Estate broker in a FINALLY turning market.  My fourth job is private chef and 5th is bath time comedian.  I also make sure the house runs – there is food in the fridge, stamps in the drawer, Irish Spring bath gel in the shower and Right Guard deodorant and fresh black socks in the drawer.  The little things are done but Arno Robert does the big thing…..the really big thing.  He puts up with me.  All of me.  All of the time.  Well, most of the time.  Sometimes he works mysteriously late.

I have to admit that I usually run the show and Arno Robert is ok with this fact.  When we go out for dinner, he does not even open the menu because he just lets me pick a couple items and we share.  He wants me to be happy all the time.  I want him to be happy all the time too so it works.  We try hard to make it work and it is not easy.  Being married is the hardest job I ever had but it is also one of the best.  It has its perks – I don’t have to take the garbage out and I always have someone to spoon.

Arno Robert is the hardest worker I know, the worst speller I know and an amazing father.  This is another reason why I love him so – his children adore him.  The look on their faces when he walks in the door really says it all.

So to you, Arno Robert, my knight in shining armor – Thank you.  Thanks for all you do.  Happy Anniversary….and cheers to many more.

Well, we took the summer off to do all the fun things we needed to do – camp, the zoo, fighting, trips to the Lake house, a family trip to Belize, fighting, T-ball, swimming lessons, fighting.  You know the drill.

School officially started.  5 days a week from 8-3.  You read that correctly.  All day, all week.  This Junior Kindergarten thing is no joke.  Show and tell every Friday, a 30 minute nap and the very best part – uniforms.  Ah….no more trying to figure out what they are going to wear.  No more arguing that she cannot wear her Minnie nightgown to school or he cannot wear his minion shirt for the 4th day in a row.  Blackwatch plaid – you are my hero.

We took the obligatory first day photos with their signs.  My mom certainly did not do this when we grew up, no one’s mom did.  Well maybe once or twice but things are different now.  I do have a few photo’s of me with my Dorothy Hammil haircut on the front porch but there were no signs back then.  Now every damn kid, mine included, take their first day of school photo holding a sign.  It is detailed – the grade, where they go (in case you need a reminder of where to pick them up) and of course, what they want to be when they grow up.  My pals have appropriately decided on Minnie Mouse and a minion from Despicable Me.  Hey, I always tell them they can be whatever they want to be when they grow up, so they are really reaching for the stars.

Even Butters got in on the whole “Sign thing” even though he is going absolutely nowhere…..well do naps count?  Then he will be going to his crib along with running errands with mom and hanging out with the world’s best nanny, Marlena, while Mommy goes to work.

This whole “what do you want to be when you grow up” reminds me of one of my favorite stories growing up.  My mom sat my 3 older sisters down and asked them what they wanted to be.  The oldest wanted to be a farmer.  Simple enough….and do-able really.  Amy wanted to be a princess or a burglar.  Both slightly disturbing but what the hell as long as she does not get caught.  Be the best burglar you can be.

Elisabeth wanted to be a “plain person”.  My mom really liked this one.  She excitedly asked her if she wanted to be a stewardess or a pilot because you know, it was the 70’s and women could be pilots.  Laura set her straight – “No mom, she does not want to be on an airplane.  She wants to be a plain person. Someone like you, someone who doing nothing.  A PLAIN person.”

So on this first day of school I guess I should be thankful that I have a future Minnie Mouse and Minion and one kid who wants to live in my basement, according to his sign.

Wow.  My parents just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary.  50 freaking years.  That is amazing when you really think about it.  50 years produced 7 kids and 17.5 grandkids.

Try wrapping your head around how many diapers my mother changed over the years?  She is responsible for stepping up at least 250 times with all my pals.  Papa is probably responsible for 1.

50 years and countless trips with kids to the ER, sleepless nights with bad dreams, worrying until they were sick about the kid who didn’t come home,  hundreds of softball games and track meets, dozens of dance recitals, thousands of tears wiped and a million hugs.  That is just a bit of what they have endured…..and they have endured each other.   Well, I should say my mom has endured my dad.

The albino gyno.  The silver bullet.  What a guy.  He got a perm without telling her one time.  She said he looked like George Washington.  She was so embarrassed that she told him she would not be seen with him and he didn’t know what to do.  He decided that sleeping with a pair of pantyhose on his head should do the trick.  Wrong.  My mom said he woke up looking like Bart Simpson.  He also showed up one day with a cherry red corvette because he was feeling old and beat – turned out he had mono but the Corvette stayed.  Let’s not even talk about the time he dyed his hair green for a Packers game and it wouldn’t come out.  Someone told him to get the most vibrant color he should use food coloring.  He was game.  Sounds like a great idea until you go to see your gynecologist and he walks in the door with a head full of what looks like lime sherbert.  These are just the tip of the iceburg.  My dad is awesome in so many ways and my mom just rolls along for the ride.  She calls him her “social director”.  He cannot sit still….ever.  On every family trip he is 17 steps ahead of us.  He has dragged my mother to every corner of the earth and she goes, with a giant smile on her face and a bottle of pepto in her purse.

They have done so much in their 50 years together.  Countless trips to Haiti several times a year to help those less fortunate.  The helped spear head “Friends of Haiti” and work year round with the organization.  They never ask for gifts but if you ever give them something, they will tell you to give money to Haiti.  They always put others before themselves.  They have truly changed so many lives in Haiti.  My father has done hundreds of surgeries. They took care of several boys who came to the states for surgeries and treated them like one of us.  They have had their heart ripped out after sending their sweet Soloman back to Haiti after he lived with them during multiple surgeries.  He was like their 8th child and losing him was hard, especially on my mom.  She has always had so much love to give….to all of us.  She also happens to be the most thoughtful person you will ever meet.  She is the lady that drops off the soup to a sick friend, drops a card in the mail for no reason, shows up with a special gift she saw and thought you had to have it.

My parents really are my best friends.  Is that weird?  My husband tells me all the time that I cannot be upset if our pals grow up and are not obsessed with us like I am with my parents.  I talk to them every day.  EVERY day.  They are more than just parents – they are a counselor when you need advice, a comedian when you need a laugh, a Bed and Breakfast owner when you come home, a social director when you need a vacation, a nanny when you need a break, a 5 star chef when you want the best meal you ever had…..but more than this, they are my parents, my best friends.  My parents are the most amazing people I know.  Our family has had our bumps in the road and the normal ups and downs of life but they keep trucking along.  50 years and going strong.  Mom and Dad, I could not love you more if I tried.  (Trust me, I tried).

Here’s to the next 50!

Well, it has been over a week since I updated my blog aka “a peek into this crazy life that I have that allows you to point and laugh and be glad it is not you.”  I have to admit that 93 % of the time my life is pretty darn tits but when you have 3 little kids, they are allowed to f up the last 7 percent without giving notice.  I mean zero notice.  Zip.  Zilch.  None.

When I stepped out of the house last week to go meet a client, I was not expecting a hysterical phone call after I was just about a block away from home.  I didn’t really understand much…..just “lots of blood” and a mention of a slamming door.  That seemed ok, easy enough a tiny pinched finger.  Certainly not fun for whoever was the victim but I thought a band-aid would seal that little sucker up and I would be back on my way.  I turned around and walked back into camp Chaos on fire.  Not. A. Chance.

I walked in and immediately saw that it was poor Abbott that was screaming bloody murder and LA was sitting in the fetal position with a sheer look of terror while Eden was happily giving me the full low down on EVERYTHING.  We have the most amazing nanny in the world and together we have all been telling L.A to STOP SLAMMING doors for at least the past 6 months.  The worst part is that I had the foresight to go buy the pool noodles for the doors to stop future slamming incidents. Thanks to Pinterest, I read that if you sliced them up the slide, you could put it over the door edge and even if it slammed, injury would not ensue.    I had the pool noodles but that was it.  The kids played with them and pretended they were giant lasers.  You win some you loose some.  When you put a toddlers finger in the hinge side of a door and slam with all your might, you are going to have a problem.

My super nanny held his finger on and told me we had to go to the ER together because if she took the pressure off, the finger would FALL OFF.  Say what?  We made the landscapers (I know if sounds WAY fancier that it is) come in and watch the guilty party and queen tattle tale while we burned rubber to the nearest hospital with the nib of a tiny swear finger hanging by a shred of skin.  They wrapped it up while we figured out logistics because apparently the hospital we choose did not have a pediatric hand surgeon.  Of course….who even knew there was such a thing.

I was left with this in the waiting room.  Not my shining moment as a mom.  The poor kid whailed in pain so I cranked Baby Einsteins on my phone to try and distract him.  Let’s just say the other ER patrons were not fond of us – a screaming baby and mom blaring baby tunes from her phone.

They decided we needed to be transported to LOYOLA where the fancy surgeon was that was going to sew the digit back on.  He liked this part.  He felt important.

I was a wreck at this point and so was Dad who raced down there.  It seems so minor when you hear about someone else’s kid’s finger but when it is your poor kid, it is a big deal.

So, after the 2K ambulance ride (don’t get me started – it was 2 miles AND we have insurance.  Real insurance.  Real damn expensive insurance).

The little guy got his versed and he was out…..they tried to stuff back what looked like ground beef back into the chubby little finger, line that sucker up and just sewed all the way around the damn thing.  11 stitches with what looked like a giant fish hook that was lifted from Sponge Bob’s joint.

Now his finger resembles a piece of purple asparagus.  Lots of black and blue and very spikey stitches.  I am not sure I can ever eat asparagus again…unless it is on sale.

Fast forward to one day later and this kid was cruising around the joint like NOTHING ever happened.  We realized since all the nerve endings were cut/shredded he could feel no pain but the cast didn’t even bother the guy.  If it was going to happen to any of my pals, this for sure was the best one to happen to.  This kid is so laid back and tough as nails.  The other 2 are a touch prima donna and could use a ladel to drink up any attention they get bestowed on them.  They can turn the waterworks on at the drop of a hat and showing off is their gig, well, they did learn from the best.  I still show off.  Just the other day in yoga I did and it backfired….I thought I could lift my leg that high and I did not have to pass gas.  Backfired.   But thank God only Dexter was next to me and he is about 80 and just goes to check out the ladies in the yoga pants.  It is our little secret.

So if he loses a tip of a finger, it will not be the worst thing that will happen but right now it all looks good.  Sir Abbott is amazingly resilient and quite frankly, he is my hero.  My hero is a 1 year old who shits his pants and likes to grab his nuts EVERY opportunity he gets.  I may want to rethink this.