How long before the urban legends start?

From MSN:

The hugely popular children’s group The Wiggles is expected this week to announce the departure of its lead singer because of a serious illness, media reports said Wednesday.

The Australian supergroup has reportedly scheduled a press conference for Thursday in the western city of Perth to make a “major announcement relating to members of the group,” according to the Sydney Morning Herald, Australian Associated Press and the online edition of Sydney’s The Daily Telegraph newspaper.

The reports said the group was likely to announce the departure of the “Yellow Wiggle,” Greg Page, who has been frequently absent from touring since undergoing a double hernia operation in December.

The 34-year-old known for his bright yellow T-shirt has been undergoing medical treatment since June after experiencing fainting spells and lethargy, the reports said.

I found the perfect shirt today. It’s the shirt I’ve been looking for. The shirt I’ve been dreaming of. The shirt that will perfectly match the perfect pants and perfect boots I picked out for what will undoubtedly be an imperfect family photo taken at a JC Penny’s in West Virginia.

Yeah, you heard me.

The family will soon be traveling to West Virginia. To take photos in a JC Penny and ride on tractors. Well, I don’t think I will be riding on any tractors, but my son sure is excited.

Anyway, back to the shirt. The shirt is still sitting at a local department store after I carried two hysterical children, one under each arm, out of said department store. This was after the boy clung to a pair of jeans on a hanger, thinking it would save him from being carried out, and the girl crashed the display of Halloween sale items to the ground as she too grasped for something to stop the larger and stronger carrying arms of her mother.

Somewhere in the middle of looking at children’s clothing and finding that shirt, my kids got the store shits. You know, the store shits. The one where they get all grumpy because they have to look at Mommy things and not kid things and they don’t want to walk. Or be carried. So they touch things you tell them not to touch and the whine and complain the entire time and all you want to do is buy a motherfucking shirt.

You didn’t even try on the shirt, because you knew there was no way that was going to fly…but at least you found a shirt that will match your pants so you can look, at the very least, clean and respectable while you try and sit pretty for a picture. Taken at a JC Penny’s in West Virginia.

Now that stupid shirt is still sitting in the store where I am positive that RIGHT NOW some childless person is trying it on lazily and taking it up to the cash register. Stupid childless people. And your lazy, try on shopping. That’s MY shirt. Put it down.

Anyone want to babysit while I go buy a shirt?

People like you make me cringe. No only was your comment about
Absolutely Mindy immature and nasty, but unnecessary as well. Is that the example
you hope to set for your own kids? Is it so hard to just turn the radio
off? Absolutely Mindy has won many awards for her show and does not need a
‘Mommy Blog’ to brag about them. Hope you feel good about yourself.”-Ashlie

I still hate Absolutely Mindy. I hate her. Her voice makes me want to pull all my hair out. Pour acid on ears. Shun XM kids forever because they employ someone who’s voice makes mothers kill themselves. And that is the nicest thing I can say.

Should I have talked about pulling out vocal cords? Probably not. Does she still suck? Yes.

Ahhhemmmm

My apologies to Ralph’s daughter, Fiona.

Apparently Ralph enlisted the help of his daughter for his new videos on Playhouse Disney. How the hell was I supposed to know the girl jumping around next to Ralph was a relative? From my angle, she just looked like a very conservatively dressed dancer. On speed.

Of course I do not believe she’s at a bar drinking scotch with the now fired Melanie, formerly of PBS Kids Sprout. Her Dad is a rock star; she’s totally shooting up heroin in Hollywood.

Cough. Cough. Cough.

Rest assured I am usually pretty fair and balanced. And to prove myself, I’ve just finished a lovely chat with Genevieve of Choo Choo Soul. She and the crew will be rockin’ the Queen of Spain blog next week promoting the ITunes release of their kick ass kid’s songs. That totally makes up for making fun of a teenager and some annoying radio personality.

When a large and heavily accented woman calls you “old” and tells you it’s time to begin using eye cream, you have no choice but to fall to your knees and accept your fate.

“No more just soap and moisture…now you must tone, hydrate, exfoliate, and NIGHT cream…don’t forget NIGHT cream.” You’re half expecting her to advise vodka as well…

Night cream? My grandmother used Night cream…there is no way I’m…..

When she hints that the “young ladies” in your husband’s office have skin like angels and you “are not young any longer, and must take measures now,” you graciously accept her stinging, burning, magical peel and praise her Eastern European ways. All while some annoying Yanni pings in the background.

She will slap a gob of a wet, thick, gel like substance on your wrinkles and use words like “anti-aging” while she, in broken english, talks of hiding those “hideous” bags and “build up” from years of interrupted sleep and Hot Wheels to the face.

She’ll scrub, scuff, buff, puff, steam, smack, extract, hydrate, and pull. She will show you no mercy, despite your timid mention of being here to “relax.” The Yanni. Make it stop. Am I in hell?

In your mind you will curse her, the entire time re-running Rocky IV in your head and it’s scenes with the freak that got all nasty with Flavor Flav and Drago. The Hun is now demanding you begin microdermasomethingoranother as soon as possible, it is, after all, your only real shot at any hope of keeping a fresh and dewy face.

She asks you something about a tinted sunscreen and lip gloss and you’re nodding your head just to get the hell out of there. Lady you can make me look like a Russian mail order bride, just let me the fuck off this table.

FINALLY the pain has ended and you spring up to dress, only to find your dominatrix shoving a mirror in front of you and coaxing you to “see now, you see how you now look young and beautiful, not like a middle aged mother.”

You grab the mirror while clutching the front of your spa gown, only to find she has already taken the robe off the back of the door, opened it like a Southern gentleman, and reaches to tug your gown off while putting an arm through the terry cloth.

But nearly naked and somewhat slippery you no longer care…

“Holy…no…wait…hey…but…”

“Yes, I say…you beautiful now, no wrinkle…see?”

“Yes, I do see….that is AMAZING!”

Beaming and glowing you arrive home with your bag of night cream, eye cream, lip gloss, eye gel, tinted sunscreen, and a promise to start microdermawhatever-that she told you was “like a sandpaper fast on your skin” -very soon.

I wonder if she babysits too.

***updated with photo goodness…make fun of me and I’ll deck you.

Sorry I’ve been out of the loop. I’m suffering from the “at the urgent care with two kids until help arrived,” suck ass, diveritculitis.

The good news is I got vicodin. The other good news is I WHOMPED EVERYONE in this week’s fantasy football fun.

The bad news is I’ve once again been cursed by some rare “only people over 60 usually get this” disease. I had shingles last year.

Only the cool people get shingles.

And diveriticulitis, apparently.

I like to romanticize my life in hoop skirts, corsets, and pantalettes. I can swoon with the best of them. Take gentleman callers, tea, and dance in a large hat.

But leave me without electricity for 12 hours and I’m in tears, praying to a God I don’t believe in, to deliver me from this hell of no air conditioning, television, internet, cold beer, and light.

I have no doubt that without modern conveniences I would have died, twice, in child birth and been left in the attic with my stepford crazies to count the swirls in the wallpaper.

The first few hours of powerless life here in suburbia were a novelty. We played games, swam in the pool, danced and sang silly songs. And after the novelty wore off, it was all about survival.

Lord of the Flies with teddy grahams and lukewarm juice. Puppets were sadly replaced for Jimmy Neutron and the off-off-off Broadway show bombed. The Royal Palace smelled of smoke from a nearby wildfire and entirely too stinky candles found stashed in the garage.

The afternoon heat became unbearable. The kids, more than restless. The Mom ¦medicated.

We took refuge at the Olive Garden for lack of knowing where else to go, and became the family that everyone stares at.

Mom in her sweats, dripping with sweat, and a dirty (pink) baseball hat. Daddy fresh from work and juggling two children content to play musical chairs/laps.

Eat, juggle. Drink, juggle. Retrieve toy from floor, peel off pepperoni from pizza, blow to cool, quickly take bite of own food, juggle, sip, repeat.

The drinks were not big enough. And the explanations of “we have no power at home”? brought faint smiles from wait staff and patrons.

Somewhere around 3am the house sprang to life. The air conditioning blared, the TV’s clicked, sweet, sweet power hummed and buzzed.

We can even watch the freak ass Doodlebops today. I just wish to bask in the glow of the TV, open and shut my cold fridge, and lick my laptop.

Hoop skirts are overrated.