Dear Thrift Shop Ladies:

Can money buy hapiness?

Regardless of what you may have heard from numerous people without money, I am here to tell you that yes, indeed, money can buy an insane amount of happiness. Can you put a price tag on a young one's joy? As it turns out, yes, you can!

It's $2.

That's the exact amount MiniMe & I paid for Freakish My Size Barbie who, by the way, is now named Rosie. I want to thank not only the family who made such a generous donation to an immensely worthy cause, but I'd also like to give kudos to all your hard working volunteers who priced this "doll" and put her on your store shelves. Please know that gratitude oozes forth from every ounce of my being.

My Man is also happy because I am keeping MiniMe happy for a very frugal price. My HausFrau budget is operating in the black & I have avoided frivolously wasting his hard earned money on playthings to be soon forgotten. I have a feeling this doll will be with us for many a PSC to come. Hopefully, in a crate, on a boat & not flying coach.

As you may have guessed, Freakish My Size Barbie Rosie is now a member of our family -- MiniMe's "little sister" to be precise. This disturbs me on many levels. Most noteworthy is the nightmarish thought of giving birth to plastic chick.

But, I digress. It's all about the kinder, is it not? And, mine is happy. And, that makes me happy - in a very weird sort of way. But why, why, why does she have to be so happy with a disproportional doll with horror-flick eyes, clumpy hair and AA-cup boobs?

I've attached a few photos to illustrate how at home Freakish My Size Barbie Rosie is at the Rockin'Bauer Haus & how thrilled my youngest is to be sharing her life with her new sibling.

Notice we did change her dress. It's not the one originally purchased from your store. There was just something really wrong about little girl frills & lace on a doll with boobs.

And, freak eyes.

And, clumpy hair.

I just couldn't go there on a day to day, hour by hour basis.

Again, many thanks from me from the bottom of my heart. It's a pleasure to join your ranks & work with a group of such caring women. Maybe one day I too can be apart of something bigger than myself - just like you were when you sold me Freakish My Size Barbie Rosie, and when that nice lady at the counter helped count out exact change from MiniMe's piggy bank. And, helped me dig through my purse because she was a quarter short. My gratitude for helping me pull all those coins together for my child's sake because I was hopeful worried for a brief moment that we wouldn't have enough money.

I sincerely hope that I can fulfill my pay-it-forward requirements for this event. As long as it takes, I will search high and low for an opportunity to give so monumentally to another well-deserving child.

Gratefully yours.

Your new Wednesday volunteer, ~HausFrau

Laze-E vs. MiniMe

My new plan not to nag Laze-E about how her room looks is working out splendidly. I save myself the mental energy of momcidal fits gentle reminders AND the rooms looks exactly the same. Genius plan, huh? I was just sitting back waiting on her to want something . . .

It only took 4 days. She wants a sleepover with SundayRose (her friend who could easily pass for Nicole Kidman's daughter) on Friday night. Which is great for me because my currency is a clean room.

Which is bad for her because I'm not sure if she can get it done before Saturday morning. She did want to know just why can't I take the bus home with SundayRose right after school on Friday?! I couldn't think of anything appropriately smart-elic to say, so I said nothing. And, the silence was deafening.

But silence is my Haus is always momentary because MiniMe also resides here. In her clean room! Yes, I did help her clean it, but that involved mostly throwing 101 Little Pets into the drawer.

The freakish My Size Barbie was purchased at the Thrift Shop with a mere $2 in change from MiniMe's piggy bank. She keeps referring to the Barb as her little sister - which I find incredibly disturbing for several reasons.

Much to Laze-E's dismay, she also has to clean up her bathroom before I drive her to a sleepover. Seriously, if she'd just return all HairTools to their proper place, it's not that bad.

By Frat Haus standards.

While one child has a hairdryer and two round brushes in her sink, the other has rose petals. Honestly, I can't give the specifics as to why or how. I'm thinking MiniMe must have been left unattended while I was blogging making a nutritious homecooked meal.

Doesn't MiniMe's bathtub make you want to get out the Mr. Bubbles and dive in?

And, before you ask, Freakish My Size Barbie is not allowed in the tub.

Especially naked.

Ever.

No he didn't . . .

Please Note CSI NY Consumer Products Forensics Lab has scientifically determined the following:

ManTool grime, exact composition to be determined at a later date by GCMS (gas chromatography-mass spectrometry) was transferred into the crevices of the damn toothpaste lid during the commission of the lid removal attempt. The degree to which the grime was embedded testifies to the paramount force exerted on lid. Furthermore, tool marks would indicate rotational force exerted in the proper direction, determined by a lid algorithm to be that of counter-clockwise. Depth & severity of tool marks are directly proportional to the quantitative torque applied.

Submitted for your review, Exhibit A:

Without considering facts in evidence & upon learning about my toothpaste lid adventure, Man had but one query:

Are you sure you were turning it the right way?

Seriously, I am the only one strapped with a spouse who insists on always asking the Capt. Obvious questions as if my IQ is anything other than "above average"?

My response, complete with a condescending snort:

No, we (WonderWoman & I) were turning it the left way. I know how to properly screw.

What I wanted to say, but didn't because of that whole peace-in-the-marriage, respect-your-partner, let-thine-words-be-dripping-with-honey bit: Screw you.

But, I didn't because I'm not that kind of Frau. I love my Man, ass asinine questions & all.

HausFrau, Inc.

Talk about an eye opener! One of my Brussels friends (TGirl's maternal unit, TMom) sent me an invitation by email to join her online professional network. No problemo. With as much as we move around, this could be just one more way to keep in contact.

So, I clicked the link & the registration page popped up.

First Name: (Easy Peasy) HausFrau
Last Name: (Easy Breezy) Rockin'Bauer
email: savvyhausfrau@aol.com
Password: ********

I am currently: (choose from a pop down menu)

• employed
• a business owner
• looking for work
• independently working
• a student

Huh? Well, don't that beat all? Where's the selection options for unemployed, not looking, other, not applicable, contemplating what to do next, currently filling-out-sub-application-but-secretly-hope-they-never-call?

What kind of professional loser am I?

Do you have to be a professional with job ambitions to join this exclusive circle? Currently, TMom and I are professional polar-opposites. She has been gainfully employed with the military for 20 years & has a HausHusband to do the whole domestic-kinder thing. Me? I work off & on when the opportunity presents itself or when Man decides he can tolerate a little domestic discomfort. Maybe I don't belong in this network of hers. How about let's just keep each other's email addys? Or, hook-up on MySpace?

Back to the registration form. I debated "independently working" vs. "employed" and decided to just go ahead and bald face lie about my circumstances.

employed

Company: uh, well, there's not actually one of those. Oh, OK, I know. The company's name is "Unemployed". I am currently employed with Unemployed. It's flexible & gives me time to blog. And, scrub toilets. And, cook schnitzel.

Industry: I actually thought I might have better luck with this one. I clicked on the arrow for my pop-up options & lo and behold, there were about 200 of them. I elevatored right on down to the "E" in search of "Education". Nope, not there. The only option was "Education Management". What? Plain old teaching doesn't count? You have to be an administrator? But, I even have a master's degree! And, experience.

Deflated, I continued to explore my options & came up with several industries to which I could belong, degree or not:

• arts & crafts (seriously, it's an industry?)
• consumer goods (spending Man's hard earned money everyday)
• entertainment (HausFrau is entertaining, right?)
• food & beverages (need I explain?)
• health, wellness & fitness (I'm going to the gym. Next week.)
• hospitality
• import & export (just imported Winkler Brau across the border)
• individual & family services
• Internet (Total Junkie)
• leisure, travel & tourism (The cruise is booked)
• libraries (Story Time Lady, that's me.)
• philanthropy (volunteer: thrift shop & library)
• primary/secondary education (there it is!)
• research (Just name a topic . . .)
• supermarkets (does the commissary count?)
• wine & spirits (and, just what are the professional requirements?)
• writing & editing (Does spell check count?)

OK, so Domestic Goddess wasn't an option. I look at it this way: that fact gave me a blog topic for the day AND I actually got a huge ego boost. Those professionals with career ambitions and actual jobs with paychecks quickly checked their ONE industry and didn't think twice about their limited and precise job skills. On the other hand, I effortlessly found 17 industries in which I have skills, talents, experience and savvy.

And, I was limited based on their menu options.

I think I'm going to fine-tune my wine & writing skills. I have professional ambitions of taking my blog to a whole new level. Stay tuned.

Geiselwind Freizeitpark

Warum ich Freizeitparks in Deutschland liebe:
Why I love Amusement parks in Germany:


Because the skies are blue and the entrance looks like this:




Because there are actually wine themed rides:





Because Frankische Weinfahrt beats teacups hands down.
Or up! as the case my be:

Because there are roller coasters that everyone can ride:

Left to right: MiniMe, C-Cuite, Laze-E & E-Girl

Becasue the photo opps are awesome:
Heather & her youngest, S-Cutie

Because not all rides have to be loaded with bells & whistles:

Because they remind me of volksmarches we've located before GPS -- let me tell ya, Frickenhausen wasn't called Frickenhausen when the Rockin'Bauers finally arrived after driving around lost for over 1 hour.

Flippin' Lids

You know what really irritates me?

Lids that are screwed on too tight & those that don't function properly. I totally get the concept that food must be properly packaged so that we consumers don't end up with nasty communicable diseases & on the receiving end of a multi-million dollar court award. I'm even game when I need to whack the pickle jar on the counter to help get that manufacturer seal broken so that first sterile Valasic can make its debut performance in my tuna salad.

But, I'm not so thrilled when I need assistance re-opening a ½ consumed jar of Miracle Whip from my fridge, same tuna salad scenario. Man Some unnamed inhabitant of my Haus always screws the lid on so flippin' tight that my petite, tiny & cute smaller than average hands don't stand a chance. It's hard to get a grip on those larger circumference lids. Hello, Babe! It's a mayo substitute, not some radioactive goo that must be kept tightly locked up.

OK, fine. Point taken. There are those of you who beg to differ, but I shan't get into the Mayo vs. Miracle Whip debate right now. Maybe later, like when I'm not complaining about lids.

So, back to lids that tick me off. Recently, it's been MiniMe's Disney Princess Gummi Vitamins. When I do the whole "push down and turn" nothing happens except for that obnoxious clicking sounds that means I'm not turning properly. My solution has been to have MiniMe ferry the bottle to Man where he does some Man-Magic and opens the darn bottle for her. Especially since MiniMe couldn't maneuver the kid-proof bottle either. That tells you something right there, doesn't it?

But, Man has been gone & I can't get the vitamin lid open despite numerous attempts & neither can my 5 year old. MiniMe is wasting away as I type. If she ends up with scurvy before Man returns from America, I may have to consult an attorney.

I almost felt bad about being a total wimp & unable to open bottle of children's vitamins, but two other women have tried & failed also. I had Haus guests for dinner right before we left for Bavaria. One of the moms commented on the vitamins & how those were the exact ones her daughter took. You think? Probably because it's the only "girl" vitamins that our commissary stocks. I bet we are all using the same name brand of Chili Powder too.

It's McCormick, if you must know.

She innocently comments on the vitamins and I verbally lash out about the damn lid. She takes 2 steps back from me the cue perfectly and attempts to open the bottle. Ha! She tried again. Double Ha! My other visiting friend tried and Triple Ha! All they got for their efforts was that you-are-a-lid-moron stupid clicking sound too. One HausFrau, one PartTimeWorkingMama & one WorkingMama, average IQ well to the right of the bell curve hump, and nobody can get the kinder vitamins past the lid.

I guess MiniMe will just have to choke down a banana or some OJ until Man returns.

And after she does that, she can brush her teeth with actual toothpaste. You see where this is going, don't you? Straight to a rant about the lid on MiniMe's toothpaste. Admittedly, the lid remains off her toothpaste 99% of the time. It's the stand-upright Crest, complete with kid-sparkles & infused with rainbow/bubblegumish flavor, just so you know. Again, probably the only kid toothpaste the commissary stocks. I can't remember for sure, but I have a feeling if there was a Princess or Hello Kitty brand, we'd have that one instead of the unisex kind with a dumbass lid.

Anyway, I had to slap the lid on the toothpaste so I could pack it for our trip to Deutschland. Upon arriving at our final destination, and after one bucket of margarita, I was having some difficulties with the toothpaste lid. I chalked that one up to being ever so slightly tipsy exhausted from such a long roadtrip & just brushed MiniMe's teeth with water. Can't dare use regular toothpaste because, and I quote,

Noooooo! It's tooooooo hooooot. It burns! Spit, gag, tap dance the feet around, tongue out, waving hand to cool off flaming taste buds & a big swig of iced tea.

I know, my eyes do the whole roll back up into my head thing too.

However, it's not worth the drama.

So, after brushing MiniMe's teeth with water for nearly a week, I decided to publicly admit defeat and ask my friend (Hallo, Heather!) if she could open the lid for me. And, guess what, she couldn't either (or eye-ther). She gripped that lid with great Mama & HausFrau determination & nothing happened except the lid spun and mocked her efforts with that same damn clicking that the vitamins produced.

See, it's not just me. It's these inferior commissary products that I keep purchasing with Man's hard earned money.

Heather likes a challenge & was set on opening the toothpaste lid. Together we sashayed down the stairs in search of pliers, or some other desirable ManTool, preferrably one that could extract a lid from the kid paste. We settled for pliers & Heather clamped down on the lid and turned one way while I held on for dear life and turned the other.

Nothing except click-click-click-click-click-click-click.

Frustrating, I know. But she did manage to pull on the lid just enough that a bit of toothpaste leaked out onto the pliers. Not to appear ungrateful for her efforts, I swiped the toothpaste off the pliers with my impeccably clean hands & transferred it to MiniMe's toothbrush - finally, a little fluoride.

A lesser woman with anger issues would have just chucked the darn toothpaste into recycling bin, but I couldn't do it. It had nothing to do with anger, really. But the toothpaste was relative new & almost full. What a waste that would have been. So, being the cheap frugally savvy Frau that I am, I packed the toothpaste & brought it back to Belgium holding on to a secret hope that Man could open it for me upon his return.

But guess what?

I made one last attempt last night to open the toothpaste and the damn lid practically FELL OFF in my hand. No drama. No exertion. No Man tools. No foul language. No nothing. The lid just came right off like Proctor & Gamble intended.

What the . . . ?

Wow, that was a close call.

I was thisclose to saving the toothpaste for Man. I had it all planned out. Right after he opened the vitamins, I was going to tell him that not only could I not open the toothpate, but neither could Heather, and neither could the both of us. With tools. And our strong, highly-defined biceps. I planned to verbalize the whole click-click-click-click-click thing & watch as he struggled and failed to open the flippin' lid.

Can you imagine?

I almost handed him a lid that was precariously perched. A lid that practically leaped off on its own accord.

I swear this has happened many, many times before. I can't get a lid open, pass if off to big, strong Man & he effortlessly opens the lid, then looks at me like I'm wimpiest wife on the planet.

So, how many HausFraus does it take to open a lid?

Just one. Provided that she's savvy enough to pass that lid right along to her Man.

Who cares about pride? I just want to make tuna salad, brush teeth & give my child a little extra boost in the zinc department.

Without compromising my sanity.

I have recently learned don't ask that lid is also slang for one ounce of cannibis.
Do you think there's connection? Because, I'm convinced.

Are we there yet? Take 2

I've decided that it's more fun to travel with at least one other adult, provided you get to chose which adult. At least with Man or one of my girlfriends, someone will actually talk to me. When traveling solo with the kinder, I end up being just the sounding board for all whining, griping, complaining, bitching and all verbal &/or nonverbal expressions of dissatisfaction. I'm cold. I'm hot. I have to pee right now! It's taking too long. When will we be there? Why can't you highlight my hair tonight when we get home?! But, Mom, I want my highlights, right now!

Another adult might actual care about how I'm handling the trip & show some consideration. Do I need a pee break? Would I fancy a diet soda? What might be nice to listen to on the CD player? Do we need to switch drivers? It's okay, I got it. I'll yell at the kids this time . . .

OK, so traveling with a buddy is more fun, but that wasn't my reality. This was a Git'R Done RoadTrip - school starts tomorrow, pedal to the metal. Just me & the girls and miles and miles of Autobahn stretched before us. And, having had the recent experience of traveling with the same kids, I was ready to have a different tale to tell for the return trip.

We pulled onto the A3 late yesterday morning and all was well, Enchanted playing (a-freaking-gain) on the surround sound. 24 minutes into our journey, MiniMe started foaming at the mouth because she can't get her 3 pillows fluffed just so. Somehow that meltdown quickly disintegrated into pillow throwing and a kicking temper tantrum - something about our not fluffing pillows to perfection posthaste. That song & dance was quickly followed by I hate you! I hate Sissy! I hate the both of you! etc. etc. blah, blah, blah.

For the record, that was so not cool. But darned if I didn't have to keep driving because there was no where to pull over legally.

It was during that small part of the drive (between pillow tossing & Pilot parking) that I decided patience is way overrated, it just delays the inevitable. I tried that on the trip down & told you all about it, play by play. I know some of you were gritting your teeth for my putting-up with what I did in the name of tolerance, understanding & love. I mostly restrained myself for that 7 hours of RoadTrip fun & as a result, had to fall face first into a bucket of margaritas at my final destination.

Then there was that unpleasant hangover bit.

Not wanting a repeat of that anytime soon ever, I decided to handle myself in a manner that smacked of Malcolm in the Middle's Mom. Stress relief without the ethanol.

So, 3 minutes later when I did find a parkplatz, I whipped the Pilot off the Autobahn & relieved MiniMe of her seat belt in one fell swoop, dragging her darling butt out of the vehicle. We had a little Come to Jesus Meetin' on the side of A3, with it being Sunday and all, it was appropriate. That brief display of parental fortitude bought me 7 hours of relative peace & quiet for the rest of the trip.

Go, HausFrau. Go, HausFrau.

Hallelujah!

Incidentally, I'm not the only one who's gone momicidal on the side of the Autobahn. I ran into a friend of mine in Wiesbaden - in the restroom of the food court of all places. Small world, isn't it? Everyone using the same loo.

Anyway, upon chatting with her - later at the actual food court, over Burger King chicken fries - we swapped some RoadTrip tales. Remember my mentioning something about it not being legal to just pull over on the side of the road? Well, when she was faced with similar traveling meltdown issues, she didn't care. She just stopped the car, put on the hazard lights & climbed over the back of the seat . . .

Could you imagine sitting there, strapped into your carseat, throwing a mack-daddy temper tantrum & having one pissed-off mum flying over the seat, headed straight toward your center of happiness?

Wow.

I'm definitely going to remember that one.

And, should I be traveling with another adult, we wouldn't necessarily have to pull over. There goes HausFrau, kicking butt, taking names & hauling-A on the highway.

Kindy vs. 8th

First Day of Kindergarten: The official first day of school. Up early, looking cute with very little effort. Plenty of time to be snappy with the camera at home, in the car & sitting in the new classroom. Showing off the new Tigger backpack and Barbie lunch box. Smiles, hugs & kisses for Mommy. Everything is happy & full of sunshine. Life is good.

Little Laze-E, age 5, John Tower Elementary, Texas

First Day of 8th Grade: Up early, but slow-poke around with the hair straightener & make-up to get the cute going. Try on 3 different outfits, don't dare wear what was chosen the night before. Trip over mountain of clothes on the floor. Be totally oblivious to any predictable increments of time ticking away. Get pissy with mom for verbalizing said increments of time. Look for lunch bag. Screw it. Get pissy with Mom about the time: Gosh, Mom! I know what time it is! Grab lunch & shove it into backpack. Decide to locate saxophone. Rush out the door only after Mom spots the bus coming down the street. Get pissy with Mom because the bus is coming. No time to pose for pictures.

Laze-E, age 13, Brussels American School

Are we there yet?

Saturday morning, I put the Pilot in reverse & backed out of our driveway. Driver's seat perfectly adjusted, butt warmer on high, dash & console swiped of dust, 80's music in the CD player, Laze-E riding shotgun. GPS set for Bavaria.

MiniMe was on a mission to thoroughly enjoy her status as our only First Class passenger for this 7 hour journey. Bum bucket perfect adjusted, blanket fluffed & tucked into all the right places, 2 pillows to support every nook & cranny from head to waist, Ella Enchanted playing on the on-board, on-demand rear entertainment system, go-cup of iced tea within easy reach. Cheese pizza slice being polished off as this most pleasant of journeys begins.

Traffic is light, skies are blue, clouds are cotton candy puffy & precisely 23 minutes down the road:

MiniMe: Are we there yet? This is taking too long. I want to be there.

Me: No, cupcake. Remember, we will be riding all day. Mommy is driving as fast as I safely can. Please just watch your movie.

Some short time later:

MiniMe: Are we there yet? I can't take it anymore. This is taking too long. When will we be there?

Me: Well, I need to stop and get gas before we cross the border. How about a quick potty break & we'll get a snack?

MiniMe: And, then we'll be there?

Me: No, sweetpea. Remember, we'll be in the car all day. But you can have some chocolate and finish watching Ella. OK?

Sometime later:

MiniMe: Are we there yet?

Laze-E: NO! Now stop asking!

Me to Laze-E: Hey, hey, hey. There's no reason to yell and get all huffy. Be nice to your sister.

Me to MiniMe: We are almost to the German border. It's still going to be a long time before we are to Heather's.

MiniMe: But, I want to be there right now!

Me: Sweetie, just chill. It's going to be awhile.

MiniMe: But, I'm hungry.

Me: Dear, you've had lunch & a snack. You can't be that hungry.

MiniMe: Ok, then. I'm thirsty. Are we there yet?

Sometime around 5 minutes later:

MiniMe: (said with the utmost whine and temper tantrum enthusiasm) This is taking tooooo looooong! I want to be there right noooooow! Are we there yet?

Me: No. We are not. there. yet. Not even close. Now please be quiet & watch Shrek.

Some undetermined amount of time elapses, but apparently not enough:

MiniMe: I can't take it anymore. I want to be there. How much longer is this going to take? Are we there yet?

Me: OMG! We are not there yet. Finishing watching Shrek & it will be time to stop in Wiesbaden.

MiniMe: Then we'll be there?

Me: No. And, stop asking! I will let you know when we are almost there. Now stop talking about it!

MiniMe: I have to pee.

Me: OK. We are almost to Wiesbaden. We'll stop to pee & get another snack.

MiniMe: You mean we are almost there?!

Laze-E: NO NO NO! We are not there yet! Now stop asking!!

Me to Laze-E: Please try to be nice to your sister.

Me to MiniMe: How about if we all listen to Shrek? When it's over we'll be to Wiesbaden.

MiniMe: Are we . . . .

Me: zzzzziiiiippppp

MiniMe: . . . there . . .

Me: I said, zzzzzziiiiippppp! Stop talking about it! Don't ask again! Not another word! Understand?!

Apparently, time flies when you are having fun. There I was driving along & listening as Fiona cooked up the eggs for breakfast & the next thing I know, we were jamming to Living La Vida Loca & the closing credits were rolling.

Oh, Thank God. I honestly didn't know how much more of MiniMe's antics I could have handled.

Wait one minute here. That little stinker just fast-forwarded through the rest of the movie!

MiniMe: The movie is over. Are we there yet?

Me: No! I am driving a flippin' 100 mph. Now sit there, zip the lips and I'll let you know when we're about to stop in Wiesbaden. Do not ask "are we there yet?" again.

MiniMe: Are we almost there yet?

Laze-E: No! And, shut up about it!

Me mouthing words to Laze-E: Oh, you go, girl!

Sometime after the pitstop (yes, everyone arrived safely at the pitstop location, I know you were wondering) MiniMe starts right back up . . .

MiniMe: When will we be there? This is taking too long. Insert: whining, crying, stomping, pouting, huffy crossed arms, sulking, head spinning & pea soup spewing . . .

Uh oh.

Oh no.

She just had to go there, didn't she?

It was at that moment in time that I went completely Momicidal on her:

OMG! OMG! We are not there yet! We are not going to be there for a very, very long time! I had enough patience, love & mommy-goodness to last for the 7 hour trip. I even slept-in this morning & didn't rush around trying to get us out the door. I packed snacks for the car & 12 awesome movies. I was excited to take this trip & really, really looking forward to it. It was a bright, sunshiny day. But, you had to keep going on and on and on and on. I asked you to stop. I told you to stop. I even tolerated a 10 minute 2-year-old-meltdown while you cried, kicked and practically screamed at me all because you couldn't just sit there and watch animated movie magic and be content. And, where does this leave us now? Let's see, we are 3 hours from our final destination & you have used up and abused every ounce of patience, maternal love & tolerance that I had for a 7 hour road trip about 3 hours too soon. Too bad for you.

So, I'm done. I can't deal anymore. Done, done, done. So here's the deal: you are going to sit your pretty little behiney in that bum bucket & watch 2 more movies without another word about how long it's taking. You are not to speak to me unless your words are dripping with rainbows, sunshine & puppies. If you ask one more time about "how much longer" I will have to pull over and,

uh, and, I'll,

ummm.

We'll I'm sure sure exactly what I'll do, but it won't be pretty & you'll most definitely be on the receiving end of whatever it is. You don't want to be around for that.

Where the heck did all that come from? Who is this crazy mom-lady? She could probably use a glass of wine or a chill-pill. Or two.

Of each.

Oh, and mommy loves you so much, sweetie. I know it's hard to sit there and be bored for hours on end, cupcake. But, you can do it, sunshine. Here's your blue gatorade & pillow, sweetpea. We'll play Enchanted, OK?

But, don't ask me about the trip, OK? Good girl.

We all climbed back into the Pilot & I white-knuckled the steering wheel to keep crazy mom-lady at bay. Thoughts of 'ritas at my final destination dance through my head. Then, half way through Enchanted:

MiniMe: Sissy, mom said I can't ask her, so I'm not. I'm asking you: Are we there yet? How much longer? Are we almost there yet? Are we close? This is taking too long! I just want to be there! I can't handle it any more! Are we there yet? Almost?

The rest of the afternoon & evening is a blur - that happens when crazy mom-lady wants to come out and play & I have to tell her "no". I remember something about "arriving at destination, on left". "Wow, Frau, you look like you need-a 'rita!" Another 'rita, buttery nipple, more 'rita, nuttery bipple, mo' rita . . .

MiniMe Says . . .

Setting: master bedroom

Time: around 10pm European Daylight Time, 4pm Eastern Daylight Time

Event: talking on the phone to my Man while MiniMe impatiently waited

MiniMe: Mommy! I want you to get off the phone RIGHT NOW & read to me!

Me: Just a minute. I'm on the phone with Daddy.

MiniMe: You've been on the phone for-ev-er. I'm tiiii-errrrrd. Read to me noo-oow. Come on. I said I want you to read to meeeee.

Me: Daddy & I are almost done. Just one more second.

MiniMe: N0000! Get off the phone RIGHT NOW & read this book to me.


Me: LMAO

Thursday Night in Brussels

Last night was the sneak-peek opening of the Brussels Flower Carpet & the girls and I got in on the action. The city only does this every two years & with Man's 3-year track record of changing jobs every time the wind blows, we couldn't pass up this opportunity in hopes of maybe making the 2010 shindig.

After a very European dinner at Pizza Hut (located in Brussels = European), we headed downtown on the Metro. It was getting dark so I didn't get the bright-sunshiny flower pictures that I'm accustomed to taking, but I was snappy enough to get a few more BTDT pictures for our photo albums.



Yes, the pattern is impressive, the flowers are petal-perfect & the whole concept a bit mind boggling. But, what I found the most intriguing is that the entire carpet is only 1-2 inches thick. These flower people didn't just arrange some nice potted begonias on the Grand Place & call it a rug. These flower people actually painstakenly arranged every petal and every blade of grass. Perhaps, I'll kick back with some cider & black this weekend and attempt to figure out how they did that & to where all the stems, dirt & roots disappeared.

I'm hanging my head in shame, because it if was moi in charge of the flower carpet, we'd be looking at something more like this:

Hey! Wait one minute here! As you may have partially noticed, there just happens to be an insane amount of stems, roots, dirt, dead leaves and shriveled up flowers on my patio.

Ooooohhhhh!

Do you think those hooligan flower people had the balls emotional fortitude to brave damn rooster & throw their leftover botanical rubbish into my garden?

Of course. That has to be it. I can't possibly be that unaccomplished when it comes to growing flowers - especially in Europe where everything grows beautifully for the natives.

Regardless, I'm still kicking back with some cider & black this weekend. Cheers!

Anyway, while we were downtown we had to check up on the Mannekin Pis. You know, to see if he was wearing any of his clothes. 300+ outfits & they left him naked for the big event this weekend. Maybe they, like me, were unsure about which outfit would have been most appropriate for a little boy to wear for a flower fest.

Since every other person in Brussels was looking at the flowers, we had the Mannekin all to ourselves. Laze-E wanted a really good shot of her with this national landmark - without some stranger's stray elbow in the way. It took some maneuvering, but I managed to line up this shot perfectly.

OK. There. Smile, Sweetie!

*************

I know, I know. I may have to transfer money out of her college fund to pay for therapy in the near future, but I swear, I just couldn't help myself. And, as you can probably imagine, I didn't try very hard either.

Ok, maybe I'm the one who needs therapy. But, I'm happy, so I can't possibly need that much.

Maybe just a little blue pill every now and then.

Or just a pint of cider & black. No doctors, no pharmacist, no papertrail documenting my instability insurance claim. It is always such a bother to seek proper reimbursement.

On our way back out of town, we practically had the Metro to ourselves too. The tourists chose flowers; we chose the pissing little boy & public transportation. In some cultures it's actually desirable to be cheap & easy low maintenance. Yes, I had my children out at 10:45pm and yes, this is how MiniMe chose to entertain herself on the way back to our privately owned vehicle.

Remember The Friday Night Special not too long ago? The tutu, the merlot & America's Most Wanted?

Now we have the Rockin'Bauer Thursday Night Special: Pizza, Pissing & Pole Dancing.

Yep, that's us, making the most of this unique European assignment.

Redneck Reflections

I know that I promised to watch Earl later this week, but there might be a scheduling conflict. I'll eee-ther/eye-ther be downtown at the biannual Brussels Flower Carpet, or I'll be hauling A cruising the Autobahn to BFE Bavaria. So, here's my tribute to the Redneck. You know, just so y'all don't think I'm all world class, uppity European posh, tres chic & culturally well rounded. At least not totally.

These two "jokes" always make me laugh & are my all-time Foxworthy favorites. Even though I have absolutely no personal experience whatsoever, I'm still amused.

You might be a Redneck if . . .

• you've ever been too drunk to fish.
• your mother doesn't remove the Marlboro from her lips before telling the State Trooper to kiss her ass.

And, these are my real-life favorites. Didn't happen to me personally, but I was present & absolutely freakin' amazed when the event went down.

HausFrau thinks you might be a Redneck if . . .

• You attended your BFF's family reunion & landed a husband.
• You have ever tried to glue a dental crown back on with Elmer's school glue.
• You wore Walmart brand high-top tennis shoes under your wedding gown.
• The Baptist Church posted handwritten signs reminding your wedding party to "Please remove hats inside the sanctuary."
• You frequently wait out Tornado Warnings at the casino.

No, I am not naming names. At least for now. But you either know who you are or have a darn good idea who I might be referencing.

This one of my favorite King of the Hill episodes. Bobby decides that Wichita Falls, Texas, is the greatest place ever.

For all of you who have strong ties to north central Texas, enjoy! For those of you who don't, this is why HausFrau needs a heck of a lot little Jose C when traveling that way . . . visiting all my close relatives and some of the greatest friends ever!

Take the Girl Out of Texas

I am so embarrassed & ashamed.

I know better - really, I do. I have lived in Texas for over 30 years total & first chance I get, I forsake my heritage. Disgrace my DNA.

It all started innocently enough. This past Friday afternoon, MiniMe & I had a social engagement.

Event: Summer Party at MiniMe's little friend's house
Hostess: British Mum & Little Friend
Guests: Lots of British Mummies, 2 American Moms & loads of small children
Menu: sugar cookies, ice cream & cupcakes

MiniMe scored an invitation to this party & we got our foot in the door with the British crowd. Except for the lefthand-drive cars with Belgian tags parked out front, it was like being in England at an afternoon tea party. How cool is that?!

I was understandably mesmerized by the little kids speaking perfect Queen's English. It was so adorable, as were they. Some of their bums were happily hugged by nappies while the loo-trained crowd was sporting knickers. One little girl was pushing a baby doll in a shopping trolley around the lounge/parlor. Others were decorating bickies (short for biscuits which is British for cookies) with icing & sprinkles. They were also attacking fairy cakes (cupcakes) with the same toppings and enthusiasm. MiniMe & her little American friend included.

Of course, MiniMe has no problem fitting in with this crowd. She's been calling our yard the garden for years & straightaway is her favorite word for right now.

I was completely enjoying myself. I even ate one bickie sugar cookie that MiniMe decorated for me & inhaled not one, but two sccops of dame blanche ice cream. OK, fine there were also 2 cones involved but they were practically forced upon me. And, I didn't want to be rude. Honestly, I protested when asked if I fancied a second scoop. I even made a frowny face and patted my bum emphasizing the dire need to refuse. Apparently, my efforts were interpreted as meaning I'll just put those extra calories right here on my ass. Make that second scoop worthwhile.

While all the BritMummies were sipping on hot tea, I was kicking back diet Coke. Yes, it was diet. Someone had to do dame blanche damage control. Anyway, we got into whole US/UK language and cultural differences.

I was quizzed on my pronunciation of po-taaaah-to.

It's po-tay-to.

And to-maaaah-to.

It's to-may-to.

And, eye-ther.

Either or. Depends on what mood I'm in. Lately, I've been in an eye-ther mood.

Although we agreed there are some cultural differences, I made a valid point that they know way more about American culture because of all the images that Hollywood sends across the pond. Of course, every last image is a completely accurate representation of American life. When I'm not prissing around the garden in my carpi-tshirt-Birk ensemble at an afternoon tea party, you can find me frolicking on the Malibu beach in my fushia string binkini. With David Hasselhof in hot pursuit.

I think I was saying something about how diverse American culture really is & the word redneck came up in conversation. Specifically, it came out of my mouth.

All eyes on HausFrau. Frowny looks of puzzlement and confusion begged to hear more. What is this redneck of which you speak?

Wow. Y'All've never heard of redneck?

Oh.

Well, it's, um . . .

OK - I completely fumbled the ball. Dropped it at the 10 yeard line. Exactly, how was I to properly explain redneck to this group, pray tell? Without referencing Blue Collar Comedy, Jeff, Bill, Larry, Ron, Earl Hickey, Hank Hill, Dale Gribble or Gretchen Wilson?

Or this classic couple:


And, worse: I couldn't think of one, not one, You might be a redneck joke to save. my. life.

There's one about mowing the yard, how does that go?
What the one about grandma telling off the highway patrol?
Maybe spray paint and water towers?
Something about 5th Grade?

Uh, well, redneck means . . . uh, kind of lower class.

Yes, that's good. The Brits totally understand a rigid class system.

And, well, redneck mostly means under-educated & proud of it. And, a redneck's house trailer might cost way less than their souped-up hot-rod big-ass pick-up truck.

Oh! Oh! Oh! I know! A utter & complete lack of sophistication!

Or something like that. Straight from the lips of Mr. Foxworthy himself, so it had to be right. Right?

The frowny looks of puzzlement & confusion were quickly replaced with raised eyebrows and bulging eyeballs with lots of white showing. They didn't have to say it, I knew what they were thinking. HausFrau, the Crazy American Lady.

Thankfully, I didn't have to stick around to finish up the redneck conversation. HostessBritMum came to the rescue & begged me to show the little ones how to play Duck, Duck, Goose! Turns out that game is an American thing that BritMum learned about at VBS during Story Time (shhhh, don't tell GloryWoman, she wasn't there that day).

Here's a picture of MiniMe & me showing a few of the kids how to play Duck, Duck, Goose! I totally made amends for that whole redneck fiasco - at least as far as the Queen's subjects are concerned. The children quickly got the hang of the game & I babysat kept them actively engaged long enough for the mums to finish their tea.

As a way of apologizing to any offended family members rednecks, I promise to watch both King of the Hill & My Name is Earl this week. And, I'll cook brisket & ribs at Heather's Haus next week. Maybe we can make it a block party and get the neighbors involved in some Boot Scooting Boogie line dancing.

Fingers crossed that it will work. If not, I fear the Republic of Texas just might revoke my passport & charge me out-of-state tuition.

Tripping & Traveling

Today was the big day. It's been on the calendar & we've planned around it for months. Man left this morning, heading to Virginia for a 3-week class. It's some Leadership in the WorkPlace class - it's for people with real jobs who bring home a paycheck. Or something like that. What would I know?

I found out last night that he not just going to some Ft. Something-or-Another in Virginia, but specifically the D.C. area. Now, I'm a weenie bit jealous. The Smithsonian. All that yummy ethnic food . . .

But, I'll get over it.

Besides, the girls & I are heading to Germany very soon (Hi, Heather!). Although D.C might trump my Haus & the damn rooster nextdoor (He's obnoxious, isn't he, Coral?), Bavaria definitely trumps D.C. At least as far as we Rockin'Bauers are concerned. Especially, in the ethnic food category.

Anyway, this travel day started like many, many others. Man got up, with the damn rooster, at the butt-crack of dawn & headed down stairs to goof-off on-line & watch TV. He ate 2 PopTarts & kicked back at least one diet Dew. He surfed the net. Maybe checking the weather at his final destination. Probably Maybe looking for another job. He watched a little "news" that's been taped-delayed for us by a mere 7 hours or so. Surfed the net some more.

Eventually, he decided to do the whole shower & get ready bit.

45 minutes after eventually, he finished up with the shower & looked around for clothes to wear.

Then he started to get ansy. Time was tick-tocking away & he still had not packed yet. Or decided what to wear - today OR for the next 21 days.

3 ½ hours after he dragged his butt out of bed, he glanced at the clock. Oh shit! Golly Gee, where did the time go? Man noticed that he had at whopping 17 minutes before his self-imposed deadline for pulling out of the driveway.

He then began to show classic signs of getting pissy. He stomped around the bedroom in his sock feet. Mumbled something about Frau mixing up his blue and black socks again. He threw a pair of gray slacks into his suitcase only to yank them back out again to double check the size. Tossed them back into the suitcase with a big-bad wolf huff because he could not remember what size he currently wears & he didn't have time for this crap.

T-minus 10 minutes rolled around & Man proclaimed that he needs to pack at least one suit-shirt-tie combo. Hopefully, he had the good sense to plan that wardrobe choice around the perfect Double Windor knot I tied for him last month.

I wouldn't know because I didn't stick around long enough to find out. I immediately evacuated the premises, with MiniMe in tow. No one was going to honestly accuse either of us of ignoring the 0940 departure time.

Man finally made it downstairs & loaded the Pilot. He was almost in a full blown pinging fit, complete with cold sweat & elevated BP. It was either that, or he drank 3 diet Dews while goofing off earlier.

We left our Haus at 0950 & Man anxiously watched the dashboard clock - which happens to be perfectly dustfree thankyouverymuch. He doesn't have to tell me, but I know that he has visions of missing his flight dancing in his head. Dolby Digital with THX surround sound.

Traffic was good and we took the exit to the airport at 1000. I know, it's mind boggling. We live next door to damn rooster & his buddy the turkey, but we can be at a busy international airport in 10 minutes. At 1005, we were still waiting in the line to get to the departure drop-off area.

Mans knees started knocking anxiously up against the glove compartment. He was now inside the 2 hour window for an international flight & feared the worst. Damn airport face-lift road construction. He didn't have to tell me, but I knew he was now running down a mental list of what he might have forgotten in his mad rush to pack. Toothbrush? Shaving cream? Undies?

I remind him to calm down. There's plenty of time & we are almost to the drop-off zone. Besides, he was headed to America, the Land of Plenty, where he could get into his rental car, shop 24/7 & swipe the debit card until Kingdom Come. He even had the Tom-Tom to guide him to any number of name brand establishments. So, should his suitcase be short on Fruit of the Loom or the gray pants be on the tight side, there was nothing to worry about.

It's only 1008, Babe, it's O. K.

The original drop-off zone was closed and under construction, so we followed the detour signs & temporary fencing to the new drop-ff area. Man kept nervously glancing at his watch.

About that time (1009 to be exact), we both noticed the "detour" signs. What? Not French? Not Flemish? But English?

Me: Oooohh, get my camera out of my purse!

Man: Uh, no. We. Are. Late.

Me: I have to take a picture of this. I either take a picture while I am driving past or I will have to pull over, get out of the Pilot & walk back. And, as you've casually mentioned, we are running a bit behind.

Man: Oh, fine. Here's your camera

Uh, Kiss & Drive? What's that all about? Isn't that dangerous? Note to self: I should probably make a new Haus Rule about kissing & driving for Laze-E. Wouldn't that be a first? A proactive Haus Rule?

Turns out that Kiss & Drive is what Brussels National calls drop-off parking. Isn't that sweet? Unless you are dropping off the obnoxious visiting relatives 3 days after the welcome was completely worn out.

In that case, we might need to consider:

• Park & Punt
• Drop & Drive
• Fling & Fly
• Bump & Board
• Slow Down & Skeedaddle
• Hug & Hurry
• Off-Load & Accelerate
• Brake & Boogie

Sooo, I pulled into a parking space & watched as Man unloaded his bags. We did the whole smoochy, kiss-kiss, hug get a room thing. Afterall, it was practically manadated by law. And, Man was on his way - with time to spare. His flight actually departed at 1219. Ten minutes late!

Have a safe trip, Babe. I'll hold down the fort while you are gone.

Ich liebe dich. Tschuß!

VBS, Very Bloggable Stuff

What I Learned at VBS 2008

By HausFrau

I learned that the words for the song are not Choose Jesus! Choose to Believe! Choose Jesus! Elbows & knees!

I learned that they were not serving "Baby Jesus" for snack time.

I learned that CheerBear makes a really good paralyzed man for Jesus to heal.

I learned that I'd much rather deal with cutie-patootie preschoolers than juvenile delinquent kindergarten & first graders.

I learned that I look really hot standing in front of a castle.

I learned that GloryWoman some people don't think Tootie-Ta is an appropriate time filler for the preschool crowd.

I learned that there is a Christian version of Tootie-Ta that's only slightly different that the evil secular rendition.

I learned that GloryWoman does a lot of head-shoulder-knees-toes head-chest-shoulder-to-shoulder cross thing in my presence.

In my defense,

Laze-E was raving about the "Baby Cheeses" (tiny cheese cubes for those of you, like me, who were wondering) & how good they were. Can I help it if the K-1 crowd was so loud so that cheeses sounded like Jesus? Futhermore, GloryWoman it's not "sacriligious" as you put it that I mentioned "Baby Jesus" and food in the same sentence. I seriously thought they were serving "Baby Jesus" sugar cookies. Or something along those lines.

And, Tootie-Ta, for those of you unfamiliar, is a wonderful preschool & early elementary song with lots of fun movement. It does not have anything whatsoever to do with the ta-ta's.

Or farting.

Also, there is a popular children's song called Head & Shoulders, Knees & elbows & Toes, maybe you've even heard of it? But, I now know the words to Choose Jesus are really "help those in need". A big, heartfelt thank you goes out to whomever printed off the lyrics to the entire SonWorld CD. Now when I lie awake in the middle of the night with all those songs playing non-stop in my head, I can lip-sing all the right lyrics.

Additionally, the Story Time center was set up to be the castle of the SonWorld Amusement Park. I did look hot. It was a flippin' 90 degrees outside & we were inside, at dinnertime, on the second floor, facing south & west, surrounded by lots and lots of windows. So, it was a dripping with sweat kind of hot, not an oooh-la-la kind of hot.

In conclusion, I'll be back next summer to help out. Maybe I can be on cupcake or cookie duty.

I have this really great idea . . .

Number Crunching

In honor of my math teacher friends (Hi, Jen! Hi, Laura!) let's have a little pop quiz, shall we? See if you can keep up with the numbers. The complete version of this word problem can be found here at AOL's Strange But True News.

Given:

26 teen girls who happen to be cheerleaders

14 ≤ age of girls ≥ 17

50% of available neurons working at any given time

one elevator, volumetric dimensions unknown

four floors

one birdbrained dare double-dog dare idea

a few panicked cell phone calls to 911

1 girl taken to the hospital

2 girls treated at the scene

25 minutes to extricate/resuce all girls

1 elevator repairman


Using only the given information, calculate the following:

The number of police & firefighters who responded to this prank emergency.

The final bill to the tax payers for services rendered.

Number of parents actually annoyed with their daughter.

The final cost of repairing the elevator door, including parts & labor.

Number of cell phone calls made within the first 30 & 60 minutes after the crisis.

Number of text messages sent within the first 30 & 60 minutes.

Number of girls who needed to pee (& hold it -- should've thought about that ahead of time) while stuck on the elevator.

Number of tears cried.

Number of girls who learned their lesson (& how to read maximum occupancy signs and calculate accordingly, both by number of people & weight limit).

Number of HausFrau's readers who are currently making new Haus Rules about elevators.

Extra Credit (+6 points), and yes, spelling counts.

Give me an . . . S
Give me a . . . T
Give me a . . . U
Give me a . . . P
Give me an . . . I
Give me a . . . D

What's that spell?

Memaw Strikes Again

Warning: I have another Memaw story to tell.

Depending on how well your bladder is aging & how keen your sense of humor, you might consider a quick tinkle trip to the loo before you continue on. When Memaw first told me this story about 2 years ago, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both. And, let me tell you, if I hadn't been crying from laughing, I might have been crying from embarrassment. Especially when I consider for one moment that some of her nuttiness charm just might be genetic.

I hope I do her story justice. Remember: This is her story, told my way.

Memaw and Pepaw have a little Shih Tzu named Precious. Yes, Clarice, that's the dog's name, and for some reason, it adds dimension to the story. Anyway, it had been a while since Precious had been groomed and the poor puppy was having problems, as Memaw put it, shoo-shooing.

Oh, yes, this is a puppy poo story. Do not say I didn't warn you.

And, once I learned that this tail tale was about doggie-doo, I should have just stopped listening. I mean, there were major bells & whistles going off inside my pretty little head. But, I chose to ignore them. We all know that I'm a really big fan of morbid curiosity - it was really out of my control at this point.

So, where were we? Oh yes, the puppy’s butt hair was too long and became matted up with puppy poo to the point that her little butthole couldn't see the light of day. Constipated, backed-up and plugged-up, Precious needed an emergency visit to the vet. On a Sunday.

Memaw has limited mobility, so Pepaw was tasked with taking puppy to the vet. The vet does whatever medical procedure vets do when dogs can’t poo. Yeah, I prefer not to get bogged down with the specifics, but this is how the vet chose to earn a living, and I have no sympathy whatsoever. Let's face it, people who are smart enough to make it through vet school are smart enough to train for numerous other professions – especially ones that may not require dealing with elderly people’s constipapted dogs on the weekend.

After this rather expensive vet trip, Precious is mostly cured and Pepaw is sent on his merry way - loaded down with an obnoxious assortment of medical paraphernalia because the poo problem needed some follow-up treatment at home.

So Pepaw brought the dog home and showed Memaw a wide array of latex gloves, syringes, enema bottles, & KY jelly. Pepaw swore he couldn't remember what the doc said needed to be done, how, when or how often. I’m convinced that he knew exactly what to do but chose to play dumb. He feigned ignorance to ensure that he wasn’t slammed with dogshit doodie duty for the next week.

I mean, afterall, he did drive the dog to the vet, wasn't that sacrifice enough?

So, Monday morning rolled around & Memaw flipped through the Yellow Pages to find the Vet’s number. She dialed-up and explained her unique situation.

One ringy-dingy.

Two ringy-dingies.

Three ring . . .

Memaw: Yes, hello, my name is Memaw. I'm HausFrau's grandmother. I live in Holliday (it's in Texas). My husband, Pepaw, had our little dog, Precious, in to see you yesterday. She's the little Shih Tzu with the pink bows who had shoo-shooing issues.

Memaw: Pepaw can’t remember what we are supposed to do to fix the poo-poo problem.

Memaw: Pepaw came home, driving his green Caddy, with all this stuff and we don't know what to do with it. Can you tell me what to do?

Are we supposed to just rub the KY on the outside of her anus to help her poo?

Or do we stick it up into her rectum, using the gloves and syringe? You know, kind of like a little doggie KY enema?

If so, how much KY needs to be squirted up in there? How do you measure that?

How far past her anus would the syringe need to be placed? That is, if that’s how we are supposed to do it.

Again, I'm just the over-eager messenger. And, I warned you back a few paragraphs that this wasn't a skittles & sunshine post. If you are still reading, it's your own darn fault.

Hey, I was still listening at this point too. It's kind of like watching the proverbial train wreck - it's just too hard to turn away.

A n y w a y,

According to Memaw, she goes on & on making sure that the vet is not confusing her and Pepaw with any other grandparents who brought a Shih Tzu into the Emergency Center for failure to properly poop any time in the last decade just the day before.

Once she was convinced that the vet knew exactly who she was, exactly where she lived and the exact doggie diagnosis, she took a breath and paused just long enough for a reply. Anxiously, awaiting professional medical advice.

And, the vet responded:

Ma’am, I believe that you’ve dialed the wrong number.

Now that guy. He's the one I have sympathy for.

Moral of the Story: To save yourself embarrassment, make darn sure you are talking to the Pizza Guy before you order an XL pepperoni.

Ooohhh, How Sweet!

My camera & I expertly snapped this little gem in Canterbury, England, on Saturday. Aren't we just witty & clever? Man was trying to ignore me and listen intently to our tour guide. He had no clue what I was giggling about. He nevers sees what's funny until I blog about it point it out.

Let's vote on our favorite caption:

• a) When I grow up, I want to be a Sugar Daddy!
• b) Yes, I have a sweet tooth. What's your point?
• c) But, I wanted to be a real boy!
• d) Man Rockin'Bauer, DDS
• e) Who are you calling boy?!
• f) Hope nobody noticed that I just farted.