I learned a few things yesterday. First off, flu germs can survive a good scrubbing by Mr.Clean, Lysol and a variety of other cleaning chemicals. Secondly, woofing my cookies while my throat is still sore from the ravages of the strep bug is decidedly unfun. And thirdly, taking four gravol pills to help ease the nauseous feeling is the equivalent to hitting oneself up side the head with a baseball bat. I was completely knocked out.

The upside to that is I defintely caught up on my beauty rest. And it’s hard to puke while unconscious.

It feels good to be upright and not green around the gills. But hey, at least I was resembling the right colour for yesterday. A little St.Paddy’s green.

Yuk.

So, to celebrate my non-stooped-over-the-toilet-bowl position, I have dug up the best cheese I could find. The best, odourless cheese a girl could find.

Strong smells may induce me back to tossing the cookies, and that’s a chance I’m not prepared to take. Enjoy!

One day, a man from the Czech Republic came to visit his friend in New York.

When asked what he wanted to see, the visitor replied, “I would like to see one of the zoos in America.”

To his delight, the New Yorker took him to the Bronx Zoo. They were touring the zoo, and standing in front of the gorilla cage, when one of the gorillas busted out of the cage and swallowed the Czech whole.

Shocked, his friend from New York quickly called over the zoo keeper. He quickly explained the situation and the zoo keeper immediately took steps to save the man’s friend. The zoo keeper got an axe and asked the man, “OK, which gorilla did it? Was it the male or the female?” The New Yorker pointed out the female as the culprit. Quickly, the zoo keeper split the female gorilla open and found nothing of the Czech.

He looked at the man from New York, who shrugged and said, “Guess the Czech is in the male.”

In a moment of insanity last night, (and extreme parental laziness) I decided to take my kidlets out for supper. (The reality is I couldn’t decide what to make for dinner, and I didn’t feel like slaving over a stove only to have my kids poke at their plates, shrivel their noses and ask “What IS this?” with that special look of disgust that only they can manage.) So, off to the city we went.

I decided to take them to the restaurant I used to take their brother to almost daily, while he was in preschool. We went there so often that the waitstaff came to his funeral when he passed. His fondness for spoons and drooling over an orange peel were sadly missed when he left. I thought it might be nice to give the kids a little piece of their brother.

Turns out, they were bowled over by how classy the joint was. I really have to stop feeding my kids in the back seat of my car. They couldn’t believe there was a salad bar. I know, I know. Really, I couldn’t have set the bar any higher if I tried! They behaved themselves, and asked a million questions about their brother, which I answered while trying to blow bubbles in my milkshake glass. (Cuz I’m classy like that.)

Eventually, the conversation shifted from their brother to more current topics. Like boyfriends and girlfriends. My daughter Fric, has apparently met her soul mate; some scruffy, short boy, who resembles an elf. And not a cute elf. But hey, who am I to judge? Let’s give the boy a chance. He hasn’t hit puberty yet. There still may be hope. And it’s not like I was a prize when I was ten. I should be thrilled that she isn’t so vain that she picks her boyfriends based on looks, right? Except I have visions of troll babies as my future grandchildren….

My son, however, is like his dad. A real connoisseur of the ladies. He wants to sample them all before he chooses just one. I can’t tell you who choked louder when he explained that he liked to kiss them first to see if they were any good before he asked them out, me or the couple sitting at the table next to us, listening to our conversation.

They really do put those tables close together.

After the couple and I caught our breaths, and I determinedly did not make eye contact with them, my daughter informed me what a dog ladies man my boy is. Before any patrons decided to call social services on my parenting or lack of it, I hustled the little buggers out of the restaurant.

But not before I loudly proclaimed to my kids that it was always good to sample the goods before making the final sale. As I left I could hear that poor man hacking up his lung. Next time I decide I’m too lazy to cook, I must remember to choose a less crowded restaurant.

Digest your cheese while I hit the book stores to find a book to learn how to parent the next generation’s Romeo, so that I may avoid future mobs of angry parents and broken-hearted girls.

Enjoy your cheese!!

As migration approached, two elderly vultures doubted they could make the trip south, so they decided to go by airplane.
When they checked their baggage, the attendant noticed that they were carrying two dead raccoons.

“Do you wish to check the raccoons through as luggage?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” replied the vultures. “They’re carrion.”

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

I would like to thank Mama Tulip for awarding me a ROFL award for my post on the pitfalls of personal hygiene.

It’s good to know that my suffering and the mutilation of my pink parts brought joy to someone’s life. I couldn’t sit for a week, but damn, it’s good to be funny.

Thanks Tulip, I heart you. And if you haven’t read this woman’s blog yet, she can and does give me a run for my money on a daily basis. She’s got a dirty mind and husband who believes flatulence is the truest sign of love. What’s not to love about that?

You can also check out the other winners over here and here. There’s some damn good giggles out there.

I don’t have toddlers anymore. I did my time, paid my dues. I have even signed up for that adventure again. I should be able to sleep till at least nine in the morning by now. Aren’t older children suppose to want to sleep in? So why must my darling children wake me up at the crack of dawn to the lyrical goodness that is Shania Twain and the tinkling sounds of the two of them cackling like little hyenas? Shouldn’t they be quiet and thoughtful, appreciating the fact their mother is trying to get her beauty sleep after a long night of watching corny romances on the tube?

Shania Freaking Twain at seven thirty in the morning. God must really be annoyed with me.

And then there is my dog. My lovely Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. Who has decided that come the first ray of light in the morning sky, I should get up and play with him. He refuses to leave my side. Even if I boot him off the bed, he just jumps back on. He is so loyal. Bugger. If I take too long to rouse my sorry ass, he just attacks my feet or my hands, or my face, in that playful, stinky dog breath way of his.

He’d make a nice rug.

Before I serve this week’s cheese, and be warned, it is fairly malodorous, (which, as you know tends to be the best kind) I would like to shout out a special thanks to a couple of very punny people. I had to do it. It was too easy.

Thank you, dear brother in law, a.k.a The Great White Hunter, for the five minute long message you left me on my voice mail, reading me once stinker after another. I love cheese, even the kind left on my answering machine.

And a big cheesy hug for my bloggy buddy Gette who shared a sample of her family’s personal recipes for stinky fromage. I thank you from the bottom of my cheese-loving heart.

My inbox is always open to a good pun. You won’t hear me complaining about having a pun in the oven…O.k, that was awful. I’ll admit it. If you can do better, or have some puns you would like to smear across the net, email me. I’m easy that way. (And in other ways too, my hubs will tell you…)

On to this week’s serving. It’s a hum-dinger. So plug your nose and enjoy!

A debt collector knocked on the door of a country family, that made their living weaving cloth.
“Is Jack home?” he asked the woman who answered the door.
“Im sorry,” the woman replied. “Jack’s gone for cotton.”

A few weeks later the collector tried again. “Is Jack here today?”
Once again the answer was “No, sir, I’m afraid he has gone for cotton.”

When he returned for the third time and Jack was still nowhere to be seen, he complained, “I suppose Jack is gone for cotton again?”
“No,” the woman answered solemnly, “Jack died yesterday.”

Suspicious that he was being avoided, the collector decided to wait a week and investigate the cemetery himself. But sure enough, there was poor Jack’s tombstone, with this inscription: …

“Gone, But Not for Cotton.”

I have nothing interesting to blog today. I’ve hit the blogging brick wall. Perhaps it is because I slept in the same position all night long with out moving and now feel like I’ve been run over by a big truck driven by a jilted wife. Or perhaps it is because my darling children decided today was a good day to sneak into my bed, slide under the covers and put their icy little toes against my warm body at six-thirty this morning. If it were legal to drown them, I would have seriously considered it this morning.

As I sit here, waiting for my beloved java to wake me up and jolt me back to the land of the living, I offer you this piece of cheese. It is old, smelly and definitely not of the finest quality. Kind of like me. Which makes me love it even more. Enjoy!!

The world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make is taking a stroll through his local town. As he passes by the music store, a sign catches his eye: “Just Released - New LP - Wasps of the World and the sounds that they make - available now.”

Unable to resist the temptation, the man goes into the shop.

“I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make. I’d very much like to listen to the new LP you have advertised in the window.”

“Certainly, Sir,” says the young man behind the counter. “If you’d like to step into the booth and put on the headphones, I’ll put the LP on for you.”

The expert goes into the booth and puts on the earphones. Three minutes later, he comes out of the booth and announces, “I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make and yet I recognised none of those.”

“I’m very sorry, Sir”, says the young assistant. “If you’d care to step into the booth again, I can play you have another track.”

The expert steps back into the booth and replaces the headphones.

Three minutes later, he comes out of the booth shaking his head. “I don’t understand it”, he says, “I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make, and yet I still can’t recognise any of those!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Sir” says the young man, “perhaps if you’d like to step into the booth again, you could hear another track.”

Sighing, the expert steps back into the booth. Five minutes later, he comes out again, clearly agitated.

“I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make and yet I have recognised none of the wasps on this LP.”

“I really am terribly sorry”, says the young assistant,

“I’ve just realised I was playing you the bee side.”

It happened again. The hubs has left me for more lucrative prospects. Apparently, the lure of big money and the prospect of sharing a hotel room with a sweaty, smelly, overweight balding man was just more tempting than having lots of bendy sex quality time with me and bonding with his children.

I’m cool with it though. Let’s get real. After a month of having the bed to myself, not tripping on his dirty socks or sitting in the damn toilet bowl because he thoughtfully left the seat up to make peeing easier for himself next time nature called, I was ready to see him off.

Sure I’ll miss the back rubs, the words of whispered romance and the ability to have an evening to myself since the kids crawled over him like ants on a syrup bottle, but there is such a thing as too much.

And he’ll be back soon. In ten days or so. Just enough time for me to start missing him again. As long as he gives me plenty of notice of his arrival, all will be well.

I wouldn’t want him to know the truth about how we live while he’s off busting his bottom. It takes time to pick up the empty pop bottles, chip bags and candy wrappers scattered everywhere. The layer of filth that accumulates in his absence doesn’t miraculously clean itself you know.

A special thanks to my brother-in-law and his wife, a.k.a the Great White Hunter and Martha Freakin’ Stewart, for opening their home to me and my small brood last night so we wouldn’t wallow in our collective misery about Boo’s departure. Thanks for the Chinese food Frac whined about eating (it was very good, but for some reason I was hungry an hour later), the hockey game (it was a treat to be able to see the Oil lose; generally I just listen on the radio), and for sharing your chitlens, One through Five. Even if One, Two and Three think it’s cute to lick me, I still love them.

Now I’m off to hunt down some chocolate and spend some quality time with my children, whom I have ignored for the better part of a week. Enjoy le fromage while I dust off my parenting skills!

Paints were a very precious commodity in the good old days, and British merchants could make a small fortune supplying paints to the colonies.

One company sent a clipper ship full of red paint across the ocean. It had the very bad luck to collide with another ship full of blue paint.

As a result of this disaster, both crews were… marooned.

Hee hee.