I think $841 is enough

... but if you disagree--if you think I should send even more money to the American Red Cross's Haiti fund, head over to Babble's 50 best mommybloggers list and vote for Badger.

Not to be overly competitive or anything, but Badger apparently peaked at number 5. Not too shabby, considering she started at number 365. She's currently number 8--being beaten by Vodka Mom, with 901 to Badger's 841. I heart Vodka Mom, and there's a tiny, vestigial portion of my personality that refuses to tell you to head over to Babble and beat her into a pulp. See? That's me up there on the high road, being all morally superior.

But strictly pragmatically, above Vodka Mom, the numbers get pretty stratospherical.

I might as well face the fact that I might never be able to supplant the extremely dreary-sounding Peaceful Parenting. It sounds to me like a co-sleeping, nursing-on-demand, doula-hiring bore. And with numbers like that, it's a big show-off, too.

So I think I'll give everyone until 5:00 p.m. Eastern time to vote for Badger, after which I'll put a cap on my donation.

Remember, a vote for Badger is another dollar for Haiti. So vote, already!

In which I defy the space/time continuum

I was plagued by a series of physical ailments today.

Between my sore knee and hip socket (from Thursday's fall,) a sore eye (from wearing crazy glittery eye shadow to a cocktail party on Friday night and stupidly falling into bed in a drunken stupor falling asleep without taking off my eye makeup,) and a sore back (from standing around my fire-damaged condo discussing renovation plans and then pushing around an overloaded grocery cart,) I was feeling the weight of my years.

In fact, I was feeling the weight of more years than I've actually lived. By a few decades.

My lower back hurt, my hip hurt, my knee hurt, and my right eye hurt. "This is what it's like to be 83," I said to myself. And then I went out and told those pesky kids to get off my lawn.

And then tonight, at a dinner party, I was told I look 32.

So basically, in one day, I managed to add and then subtract several decades. With almost no effort on my part.

If Alfred Einstein could come back from the dead, I could win him another Nobel prize.

I'll let you know how young I am tomorrow morning. When I've sobered up.

Bullets Thursday

• There's a stretch of sidewalk on the street where my church is that has always struck me as an accident waiting to happen. It's one of the few places in town that can be described as a hill. In places the cement has heaved, so the surface isn't as smooth as it should be. In the summer when the leaves are out, the streetlights don't really do much of anything. In the winter, when it's already dark, the crazy sidewalk develops patches of black ice. Downward slope + crazy sidewalk + darkness + ice = guess who wiped out tonight on her way to choir?

• And it was a full-on wipe-out, too. I was glad I was wearing a down jacket and thick mittens, because the padding helped protect the upper half of my body. But I hit the sidewalk pretty hard with my left knee (take that, stupid sidewalk!) and ripped my jeans.

• And I have a feeling I'm going to be very sore tomorrow.

• I don't know whether you've noticed, but I'm doing Blog365 again.


• I'm picking up the slack from Badger, who did it in 2009.

• Badger is number five in the Babble mommyblogger write-ins.

• I nominated her, and she's gone from number 365 to number 5. This may be the single most impressive thing I've done in the five years I've been blogging.

• If you think I'm exaggerating, come back tomorrow, when I'll probably be reduced to posting pictures of the owie on my left knee.

Well conducted

My children are trying to kill me.

I mean, it's not like they haven't already tired me out. Especially new teenager Poppette, who sang in a concert tonight and was thoroughly excited and delighted by that ... and twenty minutes later, was home experiencing the depths of despair! And anger! Because she lost a textbook. Honestly, it was two extremes of emotion, height and depth--occurring incredibly fast, like one of those terrifying roller coasters that takes you way up high and then shoots way, way down. And twists. And leaves you hanging upside down. Maybe under water, I don't know. And I know I'm belaboring a cliché, but:

The ride is called Teenaged Girl, and it's coming to a Six Flags near you.

So anyway, now that it's almost midnight and I badly need to be sitting here drinking the one measly glass of wine Weight Watchers will let me have, I can hear her in her bedroom. And she is not asleep. And I'm going to have to go in there and get her to go to sleep or she'll be OTE (over-tired and emotional) tomorrow.

You know, teenagers are just like toddlers. Except with hormones.

OK, you already knew that, too. And so I'm posting this picture of my church choir, taken when we were visiting Salisbury Cathedral last summer.

Because both of my teenagers in that choir, and we're taking another choir trip in a couple of weeks. See how orderly and calm and in control we all look in our blue robes?



See how lovely? Blue robes. Stained glass. Historic edifices. Beautiful music. Not plummeting to a messy death.

This is also my life. And I just figured out what we need in this house. We need a conductor. Someone to tell us what to do (and, if necessary, divert dangerous electrical charges.)

See, when I'm singing in a chorus, I do what the conductor says. I sit, stand, sing, listen, take careful notes, try to remember everything he has said. And I don't argue about what I'm told to wear. Blue choir robes? Not really my thing. I'm more drawn to the traditional black. And yet, I don't argue; I just wear the stupid thing. And it's also effective with teenagers. See the kids in the picture? They adore our conductor and do everything he says.

Is it possible to hire a conductor for something other than a musical performance? Because I'm sure that Mr. Buxom would agree that it would be a distinct improvement if someone else were in charge around here once in a while.

The Pioneer Woman has nothing on me.

Remember when I said I was going all Pioneer Woman on your asses?

See, I nominated Badger for the Babble We've Never Heard of Your Favorite Mommy Bloggers list, and I've decided that if The Pioneer Woman can whore out her blog for Haiti, then so can I.

Except the Pioneer woman gets millions of hits a day, so she only offered to donate 10 cents a comment.

I'm not as popular as the Pioneer Woman (discerning readers will call this "stating the obvious.") Ordinarily, the thought of this causes me to sob convulsively, but this time, there's a silver lining. Which is that I can afford to donate more then a lousy dime per reader.

Also, unlike the Pioneer Woman, I don't want you to leave a comment on my blog. (Well, actually, I do. I like comments.)

But what I'm really doing is trying to get you to click through to the Babble site and vote for Badger Meets World. So I've promised to donate a dollar per vote.

So far Badger is in 12th place with 407 votes. Some blog called "Peaceful Parenting" is at 1,596 votes. Now, I don't know about you, but that sounds lame as hell. I'm not even going to click through and check it out. I prefer my blogs to be funny, and somehow, I'm not getting the idea that "Peaceful Parenting" is going to deliver much in the way of yucks.

Let's go, people! I'm not saying we can kick Peaceful Parenting's ass, but we can at least bully it a little bit.

Remember, Haiti needs the money, and Badger needs the votes. Go give Peaceful Parenting a wedgie. And tell 'em Poppy sent you.

15

I can't believe it! Badger is number 15 in the Babble list-of-curiously-neglected-Mommy-bloggers.

If you haven't already, please head over there to vote. Hell, if you've voted already, head over there to vote again.

(What's a grass-roots referendum without some ballot-box-stuffing? After all, I live in Chicago.)

What--you're still here? Go vote. Do I need to go all Pioneer Woman and send money to Haiti?

OK--fine. For every person who votes for Badger, I'll send a dollar to the Red Cross Haiti Fund. And I hope you're satisfied.

Now go vote.

Last year's Christmas card

In case I never got around to sending you one, here's the picture from last year's Christmas card.



Inside the card it said "We hope your Christmas rocks!"

As you can see, it took quite a while to get a picture good enough for a Christmas card:






I know what you're thinking. What kind of narcissist thinks we'd be interested in her Christmas card outtakes?

Hey! This kind of narcissist, that's who.

Actually, I'm not doing it out of ego. I'm doing it so you'll get an idea of what I go through. I spend the whole year trying to get a picture of the four of us looking passably attractive and doing something interesting. And this is a huge challenge, because we're generally sitting around staring into a laptop and looking like dog vomit.

See, I'm not a narcissist. I'm a whore. I want pity, or if not that, empathy.

I mean, those Christmas cards of the entire family looking adorable and perky on a beach somewhere--the little girls in Lilly Pulitzer shifts, the little boys in matching polo shirts ... don't you just hate those people? Please say yes.

Four factoids and an update

Badger has moved up to position 25 from 365 on Babble's Top Mommy Bloggers that Babble Had Never Heard Of list. So, have you voted for her yet? Come on--you have to! This is my first attempt at starting a grass roots movement. Once I get Badger into the top ten Under-appreciated Genius Mommy Bloggers, I'll start working on women's suffrage. That's right; stick with me and before you know it, you'll have the right to vote in a real election. Until then, fake meaningless internet elections will have to do. So go vote!

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::UPDATE:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
(BTW, she's actually at position #16. Go badg!)
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::UPDATE:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

In another instance of my generosity towards the internet, today I blogged about moisturizer.

Friday's Mamarazzi is already up, too.

But the really big news is this: Poppette turned 13 today. I wanted to upload some lovely pictures of her celebration, but I couldn't find my good camera, so all I have is a couple of crappy cell phone photos.

But tomorrow you can have a look at her birthday cake. I know; what a thrill. Listen, it was extremely expensive as well as fattening, and I want to get my money and calories' worth out of it. So come back.

If you wonder why I blog every day, it's to show you two guys giving themselves blow jobs with a leaf blower.

Why I need a vacation

My son got his exams back. While I don't need to put him on the vocational track, he's not about to get tapped for Valedictorian.

I cooked short ribs of beef to have for dinner tonight.

I did six loads of laundry.

I planned my daughter's birthday party.

I cleaned the kitchen, right down to the turtle enclosure.

I spent about 100 minutes on the treadmill.

I ordered stuff for my daughter's birthday.

She's turning 13 tomorrow.

Florida? LA? The Greenbrier? New Orleans?

I'm trying to figure out where we should go for spring break. I was thinking of heading to New England to visit our families, but the snow and cold have me craving a warmer climate.

But here's the complicating factor. Most warm places assume you want to play golf or tennis or go to the beach or something. And mostly we're such geeks that the finer points of these delights are lost on us.

In former times we avoided golf and beaches by heading to Disney World, but the finer points of waiting in line are lost on me, if not on my daughter.

So, Los Angeles? We like it and have had a great time there. But we were there in 2008. Would it be better to go someplace different? And is LA too close to Disneyland?

Gasparilla Island? Sarasota? Too beachy.

The Greenbrier? Although I would love to bask in its over-the-top Dorothy Draper interiors, I'm a bit worried that going to one of these huge resorts would set our geekiness in sharp relief. I can totally see me playing iPhone games when I'm supposed to be working on my backhand.

Which leaves me with New Orleans. Pros: great food; lots of history; really different from Chicago; no golf or beaches.

What do you think?

Out of left field

Spike, played by James Marsters, and Poppy, played by Sarah Michelle Gellar

Some Randy McRandompants observations:

• James Marsters is the greatest actor in the history of ever. Mr. Buxom and I are watching the final season of Buffy and we're falling off the sofa over his performances. It's a large, deep sofa, too, so that means a lot.

• However, Mr. Buxom draws the line at having a crush on him.

• That's OK, because I have enough crush in me for two.

• James--may I call you Spike?--call me.

• Don't forget to go vote for Badger on the Babble best under-appreciated Mommy blogs. She's currently at position 113, and I won't be satisfied until she cracks the top 20.

To mix a catch-phrase: Go ahead. Light a candle.

You know the old saying: it is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.

This is a metaphor, kids. (More use for my expensive literature degrees, yay!)

In this case, the darkness is that part of the blogosphere that is not already reading Badger Meets World. Badger is the funniest mommy blogger I know. Why isn't the whole world aware of this?

And so, the candle is my nomination of Badger Meets World on the Babble.com list of top mommy bloggers.

At last view, Badger was #366 #234 #190 #156 #120 on the list. Please go here and vote for her.

Dream interpreters? I've got something for you.

I dreamed that there was this music playing--skipping, actually--the same phrase over and over again. I got up to investigate and make it stop. I went into my kitchen and there was my pink Hello Kitty CD player sitting next to a white metal breadbox with a clear plastic lid. Mariah Carey and Bruce Springsteen were in the bread box trying to have sex. Bruce yelled at me to turn off the music, so I did.

And then I realized the annoying music was the guitar riff on my iPhone. Which I use as my alarm clock.

I obviously have an unhealthy obsession with the sex lives of celebrities. And yet, this morning's Mamarazzi post deals with Lindsay Lohan and the sex tape rumors. I'd blush in shame and join a 12-step group, but my dream is far more disturbing.

I mean, the Bruce Springsteen part of it makes sense. He is my boyfriend, after all.

But Mariah Carey? I had no idea I ever thought about her at all, let alone imagined what she looked like naked.

Does this mean I have a crush on her? (Be gentle with me, internet.)

Set phasers to stun

OK, so this morning was my son's last exam, and it was supposed to start at the uncivilized hour of 8:00. That wouldn't be so bad, except he's supposed to get there about half an hour before the exam. So my husband, who realizes I'm not an early riser and in fact, am amazingly grumpy in the morning (pay attention here, because that's what English teachers call "foreshadowing") volunteered to drive him.

So I tried to be helpful, because my husband had been doing all the math cramming and now was doing the driving. I asked my son whether he'd like a commuter cup of tea to bring with him, and went to the kitchen to fix it.

And of course, there was barely half a cup of tea in the carafe, so of course, I had to make more, and of course, my daughter had to wander in at that point, and of course, she wanted cinnamon toast for breakfast, so of course, we were out of cinnamon sugar, and of course, the butter was hard as a rock.

So I made a fresh pot of tea, mixed cinnamon sugar, toasted bread, buttered it, sugared it, cut the crusts off, ran it under the broiler so the butter would melt and the sugar would bubble just a bit, and then decided I deserved another cup of coffee, so I set up the Melita filter and proceeded to make a cup of coffee.

Which promptly overflowed the mug and got all over the counter, trickled to the floor down the front of the white cupboards, and puddled inside the drawer where I keep batteries and take-out menus and such.

I opened the drawer and said "Oh no! I got coffee in the drawer!" at which point my daughter said "Can you not complain to me?"

Internet, you would be proud of me. I merely told my daughter that she was done and should go upstairs to get dressed.

I then fixed my mug of coffee and went back to bed.

Luckily for all involved, my husband came home. I told him about my morning and we've decided we have new catch phrase.

Your best friend is ranting about her husband? Your mother is bored and unhappy in her retirement community? Your child falls and skins his knee? Dooce is tweeting that Maytag isn't doing whatever the hell it is that she wanted them to do?

Just say "Can you not complain to me?" I guarantee, this will flatten your opponent. Take it from me, Miss Grumpy in the Morning. I was in such shock, I actually clammed up. THIS NEVER HAPPENS.

Of course, I'm better now. I'm feeling talkative again--I don't know whether you've noticed--and I'm about to go around to the blogs in my sidebar and leave comments. Because today is National Delurking Day.



I found this out by visiting Rachel over at Southern Fairy Tales. And now I'm heading back to comment. Because Rachel wants me to, and so do Miss Manners and my mother. My daughter wants me to comment, too--as long as I'm not complaining.

Thank goodness

tomorrow is my son's last exam. (And it's Plane Geometry, so you know I wasn't helping him study tonight.)

my house, The Building Formerly Known as Hell, is a little more homey today.

I found the perfect pajamas to wear to BlissDom--in the unlikely event that I actually wear pajamas to the pajama party.

There are times when being a parent isn't all rainbows and unicorns

... and this is one of them.

Thank goodness for YouTube.

Let me get you up to speed. The high school freshman is undergoing his first set of final exams--at present, trying to cram an entire semester's worth of Environmental Geoscience into his brain. And I can't really help, because what the hell is Environmental Geoscience, anyway?

He just asked me "Mom, what does 'stabilize' mean?" And I said "to make stable; to keep from fluctuating; to put into an equilibrium; to keep from flying into millions of tiny pieces."

Meanwhile, that's what my other child is trying to make me do.

Today I was criticized for, among other things, not making her wash dishes or run errands. This is apparently Treating Her Like a Baby. Other kids have chores. Why haven't I assigned her chores? Like buying the groceries. That would be helpful and responsible, wouldn't it? Why don't I make her do that?

I tried reasoning with her. I explained that when the closest store is a half-hour's walk away, there aren't many errands a twelve year old can do.

I tried telling her that until she develops stricter habits of personal hygiene, food-handling is not advisable, and had she ever heard of Typhoid Mary?

My arguments were found wanting.

Internet, I officially give up. I'm lying on my bed with the down comforter over my legs. I'm drinking tea and blogging, and I'm not coming out until everyone in this house is a grown up. Yes, it'll be 15 years or so until that happens, but when you're a parent, you take the long view.

In the meantime, I can, if asked politely, Google things like "geothermal energy" and "ethanol pros and cons."

So what's this about YouTube?

Greatest. child. threat. ever. Mothers of six- and seven-year-olds? You'll thank me for this:

If you don't stop arguing with me, I'm going to record you with the digital video camera and upload it to my YouTube account.

Ten questions for ADBPBT. And the rest of you.

1. Why does the Christmas carol say "In the deep midwinter?" We celebrate Christmas right after the solstice, when things are just getting started.

2. I have tiny, kangaroo-like, almost-vestigial hands, but my feet are like ping pong paddles. Did my parts get somehow mixed up, and if so, can I exchange the feet?

3. Is it normal to have Fear of Decorating?

4. Have I lost weight?

5. I go to the dentist twice a year. Why do I always think of it as a "fresh hell?"

6. Do all husbands snore, or is it just mine?

7. Why do so many southerners fear cold, and is this related to my fear of palmetto bugs?

8. Where did I stash the big bag of Mamarazzi t-shirts?

9. Has Paris Hilton really gone away?

10. Was last night's Simpsons 20 Year Anniversary Special as lame as I thought? Or is Morgan Spurlock not as insightful as he thinks he is?

In case you haven't noticed

Bettie

Page

is

alive

and

well

and

shopping

for

shoes

at

Neiman

Marcus.

Or if she isn't, she could be.

I'm

~drinking a cup of this

which tastes vaguely like cologne.

~wishing I were having dinner tonight at blackbird's. Eleanor will be there. I predict jollity. And molten chocolate cake.

~looking forward to receiving these

and proud that I blogged about them on my all-but-moribund shopping blog. Because I thought it was time to blog about stuff again. (But be of good cheer! I mean stuff as in "loot," not stuff as in "my inner turmoil.")

~glad my husband is cooking dinner tonight. He might not be blackbird's K, but I'm not going to argue with New York strip steak.

Where I've been, where I am, and where I want to be today

1. At Mamarazzi, posting about Tiger Woods's 19th girlfriend (but who's counting?)

2. At the mall, exchanging Poppette's Christmas boots for a pair that fits.



Fringed boots are it. And apparently, the more fringe, the better.

3. At the kitchen table, eating pizza. Fridays are pizza night chez Buxom.

4. On the brown sofa of love, watching Season 6 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with mah huzbin. Luckily, he's OK with my feelings about Spike.

Bullets Thursday

• Yow.

• Dealing with the aftermath of the condo fire is a little bit like telling time by looking at the second hand of a clock. The story keeps changing, so why bother to listen to it? Or maybe it's like a roller coaster ride. First the insurance guys were all "there's vaporized asbestos all over your apartment--unclean!!!" and then they were all "actually, it's OK," and then they were "OH NOEZ, U NEED MEN IN HAZMAT SUITS" and then they were "Hey, no problem; a specialized team can go in and wash everything."

And half of that ride happened TODAY. So that was tiring.

• High school continues to kick. my. ass. Final exams are next week. Somehow I suspect that this weekend will not be spent curled up on the brown sofa of love drinking wine and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD.

• That's OK because I'm back on Weight Watchers, so a glass of wine a day is about all I can handle. OK, maybe two. But no guzzling. Not if I want to also eat food.

• I went to the dentist today. (Yes, I'll go this low. Dental blogging. Hey, what's the internet for if not to give a rendition of the condition of my dentition?) Is the suspense killing you? Relax. They're fine. And the hygienist even complimented me on my gums.

• You know what's sad? I'm always pleased to remember that my teeth have already been flossed twice on the day I get them cleaned--once by me, once by the dental hygienist. And that means--ta da!--I don't really need to floss again before I go to bed. Which is AWESOME. And on a day with a diet, a dentist appointment, and a bunch of insurance hassles, awesome is good.

• I have not yet begun to take down Christmas decorations, mostly because long conference calls with insurance agents tire me right out and leave me looking longingly at the wine bottles. But also because I'm not sick of them yet. THEY'RE PRETTY.

• Hey, I made chicken cacciatore tonight and both of my children ate it!

The calm before the storm.

Do any of you remember when I was trying to pick out a new kitchen table? Here it is.



Every afternoon at about 2:45 I head for the kitchen to get ready for the kids to come home. I make a fresh pot of tea and decant it into the carafe. I put out teacups and saucers and cookies and napkins.

The kids get home around 3:30--sometimes earlier, sometimes later. Typically we sit at the kitchen table and eat and drink and once in a while, when I'm really lucky, they tell me about their day.

Sometimes we have a hilarious time; sometimes the younger members of the party are somewhat glum.

(The youngest member will turn 13 later this month, which might explain that.)

After about 20 minutes, it's off to do homework or take a cello lesson or go to a rehearsal or get ready for karate.

And the homework. Today I helped someone write an essay on Inherit the Wind. A play that I've never read; a movie I've never seen.

It's actually pretty good.

The 12 Days of Blogmas: Day Twelve--the OMG I've actually rejoined Weight Watchers edition

Hey, everybody! I'm fat again.

And with a BlissDom in February, a college reunion in May, and BlogHer in July, I need to get ready to deal with my public. And that means joining the gym and starting the diet.

The thing is, I'm re-joining a gym I used to go to about 10 years ago. And Weight Watchers? Wasn't it just two years ago I lost almost 20 pounds doing that?

I'm like the new Alfred E. Neuman: What me, yo-yo? God, I'm such a cliché. I feel so sheepish. Sheepish and hungry.

I'm a cliché who's lightheaded from hunger, so I'd better get on with the contest before I faint dead away.

Because it's the final day of the contest. The first person to figure out what popular Christmas song is illustrated with the following record album covers wins a Mamarazzi t-shirt.

I just hope the sound of my stomach rumbling doesn't prevent you from concentrating, that's all.

12 Days of Blogmas: Day 11--the join-a-new-gym edition

OK, will somebody please take me aside and tell me (in a low, concerned voice) that I'm not funny? Or that they've tried, but they can't leave comments at Mamarazzi? Because I post twice a week there, and apparently I'm posting to an echoing vastness of limitless space. And in space, no one can hear you comment.

Seriously, it would really be a kindness to let me know how much I suck before I spend another five years polluting the internet with my so-called "humor."

Right! So, on to the contest! Sharpen your wits--the same ones you'll be using to inform me that a job as a gag writer for Stephen Colbert is not in the offing--and figure out which popular Christmas song is illustrated by the following pictures. First one to figure out the song wins a Mamarazzi t-shirt. You know, that web site I write for that's NOT FUNNY.

Ready?

12 Days of Blogmas: Day 10--the homework edition

OK, after two days of driving, we arrived in Newtopia safe and sound, and even had a pretty good dinner after we arrived, because for once I acted like a mom and got my husband to freeze half of the homemade lasagna he made for Christmas eve.

(Even though we go on these long drives ALL THE TIME, our safe arrival is always marred by the realization that ZOMG!!11!!! We need to buy milk!!!)

(This is actually OK, because it proves that I'm not my [hyper-organized, thrifty, practical] mother. No matter what my enemies say.)

But this time the lasagna AND THE MILK were in the freezer. Yay!

Caution: when you freeze milk, don't freeze an unopened bottle. Word to the wise.

OK, here's the third-runner-up to the last day of Christmas, so get ready to play! Figure out the name of the popular Christmas song illustrated with album covers grabbed from Amazon.com. The first person to figure out the name of the song wins a Mamarazzi t-shirt. Ready?


And if you find this at all challenging, just imagine the joys of helping my son do the extremely lengthy homework packets he brought home from school on December 18th and just cracked open yesterday.

12 Days of Blogmas: Day Nine

12 Days of Blogmas: Day Eight

Happy New Year!

At the moment, many bloggers are getting all reminiscent, reminding you of where they've been in 2009.

I could do that too, but I'm more interested in where I am now.

Which is in a (dis)Comfort Inn in Eerie, Pennsylvania, having finally talked my daughter to sleep in her bed, instead of on the floor.

You see, the chef in the Japanese cook-the-steak-at-the-table joint spent waaay too much time telling us about the time he stayed at a cheap hotel and didn't like the look of the sheets, so he slept on the floor. This convinced my daughter that she should sleep on the floor tonight. And this, of course, necessitated a conversation in which I finally succeeded in making the point that our hostelry, though modest, is at least adequately clean. And that people walk on that floor! And you don't know where it's been!

Good to know that after five years of blogging, I've developed enough rhetorical flourishes to be more convincing than a randomly-encountered loserish white guy who makes a living throwing pepper grinders around in a Japanese steak house in Eerie, Pennsylvania.

And now, for today's contest! Guess which popular Christmas song is illustrated by the following album covers and win a free Mamarazzi t-shirt!*









*(Second prize wins a quart of teriyaki sauce! Third prize can choose either a AAA Guide to Western Pennsylvania, or a brand-new Roach Motel.)