Bless the Lord, O my sole

Guess what?  I’m fat.  About seven permanent pounds for each kid.  I usually manage to lose some between pregnancies, but after baby #8 was born, I just kept gaining.

My husband thinks I’m beautiful, but I don’t.  I hate wearing special sizes with labels like “Curvy Coordinates!”  “Luscious Lady Plus!”  “Gee, Your Ass Looks Enormous!”  Being fat feels bad, but knowing I’m still gaining feels horrible. The real misery is in feeling like I had no control.

Many and many a time I’ve tried to just snap out of my face-stuffing ways, and go back to the habits that have worked in the past:  counting calories, swearing off sugar, working out four times a week, etc.  These things always worked before.  But this time, I couldn’t even stick to them for a day.  I knew I was in trouble, I knew I was making myself unhappy, I knew what I wanted, and I knew it was achievable.  But for some reason, I failed and failed and failed like there wasn’t any such thing as not failing.

(Actually, I know the reason. It was so I would learn sympathy with other people who struggle.  Okay, Lord, I get it!  Now lay off.  And stay with me, reader:  I’m not just sobbing in public — there is a point to this post.)

Anyway, last week I decided to try something new:  I wasn’t going to have a goal. I was just going to make the teeniest, tiniest improvement I could manage, the slightest motion away from my emotional squalor, and try and do that for one day.  I was just going to try and get control for one stinking day.

Step one was just to take notice every time I ate something.  Just:  “Yep, I just put that piece of ham in my mouth.  That was me doing that.  Idiot.”

Step two was to admit that I was eating partially (sigh) to punish myself for being fat and weak.  (Yeah, that makes sense.)

Step three (a big one) was to realize that God doesn’t want me to treat anyone that way.  Mothers are so used to dealing out justice and compassion and punishment and rewards, we sometimes forget that we are somebody’s child, too.   I wouldn’t consciously treat someone I love with contempt and injustice.  I don’t love myself, but I know God does, so I’ll work with that.

Step four was to only eat things that I actually want to eat, either because I’m  hungry or because I think they’d taste good — and to try to enjoy them, because they taste good.

Step five was to decide, at least sometimes, only to eat something good if I’m also hungry.

And step six is to decide not to eat things even if I’m hungry, because I’m trying to lose weight, and I want that more than I want to feel full.  That’s the step I’m on right now.   Eventually, I’ll work my way up to a weight loss goal, and regular exercise, and meal plans — all the things that have worked before.  It’s humiliating to go so easy on myself.  It’s distressing to realize I need such gentle treatment.  But none of the drastic steps were helping, so what else can I do?

And why am I bringing this up?  Because, in all the comments that people have made in response to the Pope’s remarks about condoms, one phrase stuck in my head: conversion is incremental.  That’s how it is, whether it’s for me getting back into normal-sized pants, or for more dire lessons of the soul.  For the hypothetical male prostitute, the goal would be to renounce fornication and seek healing for his disordered sexual appetites.  But can he do that in a day?  Of course not.  You can’t just strip away every aspect of your old life in a single motion, and expect to live that way from now on.

But he does need a new life.  So how can he do it?   With tiny, pathetic steps in the right direction — by, for instance, at least desiring to protect his sexual partner from disease.  It’s not enough.  But it’s a small step that probably can’t be skipped.

Sometimes we get knocked off our horses, or experience a miraculous infusion of knowledge of the faith, or the angel has to come and break our bones for us.  Okay, then we’re converted.  But for most of us, we don’t go from sin to virtue, just like that.  It takes lots of time.  Some decent folks are outraged by what seems like mediocrity and dawdling:  All or nothing! they holler.  If a sinner isn’t willing to renounce his sin, then nothing of value is going on!  True conversion of the heart is a radical thing!  No man can serve two masters!  The Lord will vomit the lukewarm out of his mouth!  And so on.

But we’re not talking about being lukewarm here.  We’re not talking about beingsatisfied with halfway measures.  But we’re acknowledging that — well, at some point, you do have to be halfway.   That’s how you get places:  you have to spend some time in between before you arrive.   Not to say that there is no truth in a fiery conversion.   It’s just that, unless you’re on your deathbed, the fire is not sustainable.  It’s not even desirable, because stewing in your own weakness teaches you compassion.

As long as we’re talking about food:  you know how you get a nice, juicy roast?  First you sear it on the outside.  High temps for a short time seals the juices in.  But thenyou turn the temperature way, way down and let it stew for the rest of the day.  That’s how God makes us so tender and delicious by the Second Coming:  first He applies the heat, and then He turns it down and lets us stew.

Let’s be patient with ourselves, and with each other, and try not to lift the lid too often.  We’re not done yet.


La Blabbatore Romano

I’m not a moral theologian, and every time I try and play one on the internet, I regret it.  On the other hand, it would be kind of weird not to acknowledge the brouhaha about the Pope’s comments that L’Osservatore Romano leaked, apparently following its mission to act as the poorly-informed, half-senile uncle who blurts out crazy stuff and makes things so awkward around the holidays.  Sorry about Uncle Romano — he . . . he doesn’t really represent our family.  Just give him some more pie, and maybe he’ll be quiet.

Nothing that the Pope said changes anything in Catholic teaching — both because (a) his remarks aren’t Catholic teaching; and (b) anyway, he didn’t say anything contrary to Church teaching.  Basically what he said was that the use of condoms might signal that people are starting to move toward a more humane view of their sexual partners, because at least they are thinking about not spreading disease.  The Church is in favor of people beginning to move toward more moral behavior.  This is not news.

For a lucid explanation about what the Pope really said, please read Jimmy Akin’sshort piece in the Register.  Akin also has a link to the full text of the Pope’s remarks and to Janet Smith’s guide to the uproar so far.

Hey, remember when that feeble old man was elected pope, and the press figured he was just a seat warmer until the College of Cardinals could find someone more suitable?


Even if you don’t like the guy, I don’t see how you can’t admire him.  He was ready to retire, and instead he got a life sentence to a job that any sane person would dread.  So he dove in head first and got to work, and hasn’t come up for air since.  May God bless and keep and strengthen him.  This is what true courage and fortitude looks like.

Final question:  what the heck is wrong with L’Osservatore Romano?  Were they were looking to boost circulation, or what?  My husband works for a newspaper, so I asked him what they do when their numbers are down.  He said, “Fire reporters.”  Not a bad idea.

7 Quick Takes: “Glitches Galore” Edition

Oh yes!   A Seven Quick Takes that is truly miscellaneous, like it’s supposed to be.  If there’s a theme at all, it’s that I found appropriate pictures for everything.

Or, I found pictures for everything.  UPDATE:   pictures which apparently didn’t show up this morning.  There’s a theme for you:  glitchiness.  Sorry about that!  If the formatting is still all weird, then we’ll know WordPress is just being terrible again.

Don’t forget to check out Conversion Diary for everyone else’s 7 Quick Takes, and then stick with Jen for the rest of the week, too — she’s always worth reading.

7 Quick Takes



I was halfway through Madame Bovary, because reading it makes me glad to be myself, instead of anyone who personally knows anyone in that book


But then it fell behind the bed (that happens a lot).   So I picked up I Am Jackie Chan:  My Life In Action.  You will really like it, if you like that kind of thing.  I came across this passage about his birth:

“Of course, my arrival in the Year of the Horse was hardly a coincidence; actually it took an awful lot of stubbornness on my part to pull it off!  Most babies are born nine months after being conceived.  I, on the other hand, stuck around an extra three months, until my mother was forced to go to a surgeon to bring me into the world, kicking and screaming, by caesarian section.”
He seems to believe it, too, because that’s how it’s always been told in his family.  Maybe it’s just clumsiness by the ghost writer, but somehow it struck me as an extremely Chinese kind of story — he’s just going along, talking about regular stuff, and then suddenly asking you to swallow this ridiculous, fantastic lie.  And then he just carries on with the story.  So crazy!
At 35 I don’t have any gray hair.  But it is suddenly mixed with about 40% coarse, black, wiry hair (my normal hair is brown and wavy) that hovers an inch over my scalp like concertina wire.  This bothers me because it was literally only a few months ago that I finally figured out what to do with my hair.  It involves mousse, a hairdryer, and a round brush — cosmetic devices that used to be as foreign to me as these:

19th-century eyebrows, spots, cheek plumpers, and breast pads.

“Cheek plumpers?”  Anyway, now I don’t know what to do with my hair again.  Not asking for advice, just complaining.

I love our mechanic very much.  He looks a little bit like Freddie Mercury’s responsible older brother.

Fat bottom girls, you make the suspension system wear out prematurely.

He pretends not to notice the oppressive pee smell in our van, and I pretend not to notice the overpowering, um, hardworking mechanic smell when he gets through fixing it.  He even drops the van off at our house when he’s done looking at it.  Today, he dropped it off and said the entire front brake system needs to be replaced.  I still like him, though.
In case anybody missed it:  Do yourself a favor and read A Right To Be Merry: Five Things That I Don’t Know How Non-Catholics Live Without by my talented and mostly merry younger brother, Joe Prever.  Oh, really, WordPress– now I can’t add links?  Fine, here is the thing:

Definitely worth copying and pasting into your browser.  I think this article ought to be made into a pamphlet and put in the backs of churches, where sullen teenagers hang out because they think they’re wasting a precious hour every week. It will cheer you up if you’re already Catholic, and if you’re not — well, what are you waiting for?  We got the goods.
5.If machines really did want to take over the world and enslave mankind,
then causing the kind of confusion documented in Damn You, Auto Correct (sigh: ) would be an excellent way to start.  I had to close it before my husband got home, because I was embarrassed to be laughing so hard.  Warning:  it’s full of dirty words and crass sexual and potty humor — but it’s the absurdity that’s so funny.Here’s one of the tame entries:6.I’ve always pooh-pooh’d the idea that children from wholesome, spiritually-grounded families will be seduced by the glamors of evil if they’re allowed to go trick-or-treating. And yet how else do you explain this?


I’ve always weaned my babies at 15 months or so because I’m generally already pregnant, and can’t deal with feeling so surrounded.  It’s like the St. Patrick breastplate:  babies with me, babies inside me, babies beneath me, babies above me, babies on my head, babies crawling around in my pant legs; etc.  And then at the end, instead of “Amen” I go “Aieeeee!” and decide it’s time to wean.


You can tell by their glazed, roving eyes that an older baby is mulling over all kinds of strange and fascinating ideas when they nurse, but it’s a revelation to have a kid old enough (mine is 18 months old) to express those ideas. The other day, she unplugged for a minute to say, “Say ‘cheese,’ Mama,” and then chomped back on again.   Later, she interrupted her snack long enough to inform me, “Vvvvvvvvvvvvvv.  Sound hamat!”  (Hamat = elephant.)  And this morning we had the following conversation:

Her:  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!  Mama!

Me:       Here I am.

Her:      I wan’ noishe, Mama.

Me:       Okay, let’s nurse.

Her:     I so happy.

Ahhhhh.  Happy weekend, everyone!


I don’t want to be a dog person.

I don’t want to get a dog.

I don’t want the fleas.  I don’t want the stink.  I don’t want the hairs.  I don’t want the scrabbling nails and the chewed-up doormat, and I don’t want the noises of chomping and slobbering.  I don’t want someone else making me feel guilty for not paying them enough attention.

And I don’t want to clean up any more poop.

Which brings me to my final fear:  I don’t want to turn into a dog person.  Honestly, I think I dread that even more than I dread the dog itself.

Now, I am sure that there are tens of thousands of courteous, upstanding dog lovers out there who are utterly clear-headed and responsible about their pets.  All I know is that, of the four neighbors who live within woofing distance of our house, three of them are dog owners . . . and they are neither courteous nor upstanding nor clear-headed nor responsible.  They are The Other Kind.

Yesterday, I was stalking around in my blasted November garden, pulling up stakes and feeling slightly ashamed of the incredibly rinky-dink job I did of caring for the poor vegetables this year (I don’t actually remember using a deflated  punching balloon to tie up the tomatoes, but there it is).  I was there not because I’m a good gardener who was prepping the soil for winter, but because we had reached that section in first grade arithmetic when I knew I had to get out, out, out of the house for a couple of seconds, or I  was going to strangle one bright but very obstinate first grader, who would sooner die than admit he understands place value.

So I’m out in my garden, and what do you suppose I find?  I found evidence — EVIDENCE, I tell you — that at least two large dogs have been romping in our yard.   Romping, among other activities.   And one of them, apparently, recently ate a fuzzy white sock.  Ugh.  Ugh.  Ugh.

If you weren’t already impressed enough that I used the word “evidence” instead of “enormous turd” to describe what I found, then allow me to impress you even further:  Guess what I did?

I’ll start with what I didn’t do.  I didn’t grab a rake, scoop up the poop, and fling it at the house of the dog’s owner.  I didn’t scream obscenities, and I didn’t threaten anyone with a hammer.  (Yeah, those were all things I did in my old neighborhood.  And they deserved it!  Lucky for me, it was a street where that kind of behavior was considered fairly unremarkable.)

All I did was knock (okay, maybe pound) on the door of the house from which two large dogs were seen to bound that morning, and explain that, while I do not want to be a bad neighbor, I do not own a dog, and so I get very, very, very angry when I find dog poop in my yard.   And that I would appreciate it if this never happened again.  Ever.  Ever.  Ever.   I also rolled my terrible eyes and gnashed my terrible teeth a bit.  Then I threw the poop at their house!  Ha ha, no, I didn’t.  I put it in a bag and threw it away. But I was still so angry, I went and cleaned my car, too.  That’ll show ‘em.

Why is someone else’s dog poop so upsetting, especially to someone who lives on the highway and regularly picks up trash galore?  I guess it’s different from other litter because some litterbugs just don’t care at all about how they live.  It’s disgusting, but at least they’re consistent:  they throw beer bottles in your yard, they throw beer bottles in their yard, they accidentally swallow the occasional beer bottle — whatever.  A medium-thick carpet of clinking, rolling empties is just an integral part of their chosen lifestyle, and wherever they go, that’s how it is.

image source

But the whole invasive pooping thing is different.  It makes my blood boil because these are people who clearly understand that it is undesirable to have dog poop in one’s yard.  It disgusts them; they do not want it.  And so the only alternative they can see is to send out the dogs to poop in someone else’s yard!  Because that is not disgusting!  Problem solved!  Dogs come home, everyone’s happy.

Now why is that uptight neighbor lady headed this way with a hammer?

I tell you, if I do manage to put a Paypal donate button on this blog, it’ll be for my bail.

X-ray Specs

My daughter, exterior view:

and interior view:

That explains a thing or two.

(Thanks to my wonderful sister Abby Tardiff who, for some reason, agreed to spend some of her precious time drawing out the true nature of my little monkey child.  And don’t you wish it were still summer?)

It’s like some incredibly crappy version of the Iliad.

Oh, Kentucky. So the moral of this story is:  next time you go see your buddy next door and it turns out he’s already incredibly drunk (love the detail of “already” — as if it’s inevitable, but the timing made things a bit ticklish), that might not be the best time to start dickering over the price of a used lawnmower.

“One thing led to another, and before I knew it, there were knives and guns and everything just went haywire.”

He says his brother had a mark on his neck, where a knife was held. But Westmoreland’s loss was more permanent.

“They cut my beard and forced me to eat it,” he said.

I love the fact that it’s the News 18 BIG STORY.  And I love, love, love how the guys says he believes in the “la-awwwwww.”  And check out the mug shots of the two accused men!  Oh man!

Now I’m ready for the weekend.

My favorite joke

Hey, happy Veterans Day!  Thank you, veterans.  Thank you veterans’ families.  We pray for you every day.

We have the day off school, and we just got home from the doctor, where I got mini lectures because (a) my son only has two servings of milk a day, not three; (b) when I said, “I didn’t realize they offer the meningitis vaccine to kids this age.  I’d like to read up on it first, ” she took it to mean, “I can only hope that my entire family will get some o’ that fantastic meningitis ASAP”; (c) my son, who is 79 pounds, doesn’t ride in a booster seat. Gugh.  It wasn’t our regular doctor, thank goodness.  Our regular doctor thinks we’re hilarious, and lets us do whatever we want.

Also this morning, I was rude to some poor, earnest Bible thumpers — well, really they were so mild, they were more like Bible strokers — who came to the door when I was still in my PJ’s and the baby was naked and covered with yogurt.  WHY did I have to tell them we’re Catholic?  It was probably fairly obvious.  And then, attempting to spruce up a little, I reached for my eyeliner, only to discover that it was actually an X-Acto knife.  Yipes!  Well, now I’m awake!

Oh, so to make up for this post being late and about nothing, here is a joke.  I was doing a “My Favorite Joke” feature for a while, but I guess rather than emailing jokes to me, just put ‘em in the comment box.  This is the joke my daughter told me yesterday:


Three guys are working on some scaffolding way up at the top of a skyscraper.  They take a lunch break.  The first guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw, man, meatloaf again.”  Second guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw, man, baloney again.”  Third guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw, man, tuna salad again.”  They eat their lunches.

The next day, it’s lunch time again, and the first guy opens his lunchbox, and goes, “Aw man, meatloaf again.  You know, if I get meatloaf tomorrow, too, I’m going to jump off this skyscraper!”  Second guys opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw man, baloney again.  You know, if I get baloney tomorrow, I’m going to jump off this skyscraper!”  Third guy opens his lunchbox and goes, “Aw man, tuna salad again.  You know, if I get tuna salad tomorrow, I’m going to jump off this skyscraper!”

Next day.  Lunchtime again.  First guy opens his lunchbox, cries, “Meatloaf!”  and leaps to his death.  Second guy opens his lunchbox, howls, “Baloney!” and leaps to his death.  Third guy opens his lunchbox, screams, “Tuna salad!” and leaps to his death.

Next day, at the funeral.  The widow of the first guy wails, “Oh, why oh why did I give him meatloaf in his lunch?”  The widow of the second guy moans, “Why oh why did I give him baloney?”

And the widow of the third guy says, “Don’t look at me!  He packs his own lunch.”

Highway to Hell

Just because I have a lot of kids, people assume I have a lot of kid-managing skills.  Not so.   In the last twelve years, I  have perfected really only two child-related talents:  ignoring screams, and buying spaghetti in bulk.  Other than that, I’m pretty much where I was at the beginning:  terrified, stymied, trying not to let them corner me.

How, for instance, do I deal with lots and lots and lots and lots of time in the car with four small children who have lots and lots and lots and lots of desire to be out of the car?  Haven’t figured that one out yet.  The reason this comes up is that, as part of my nefarious plan to erase all traces of labor, hardship and inconvenience from my life when we decided to send our oldest four children to a charter school, I have been spending an awful lot of time in the car.

Emphasis on the awful.

The four youngest children always come for the ride in the afternoon, and sometimes in the morning, too.  Sometimes they read or play with baby dolls during the ride; other times, they just sit there, quietly soaking their car seats.  Of course I know all about portable toys, books, snacks, window stickers, soothing or amusing music, “I spy,” and so on.  But some weeks, we spend so many hours in the car, it’s not a matter of passing the time.  We’re just living our lives, but in the car, you know?  We just do the things we always do, but we can’t get away from each other.

Here’s a little illustration. To comprehend the psychological freight inherent in the following drama, you have to know a few things:  first, that the three-year-old


is completely nuts, and likes nothing better than to start arguments about nothing at all; and second, the 18-month-old thinks the three-year-old is a god.

And one more thing:  it was raining.

3-year-old:  “It’s not raining.”

Little sister, parroting:  “Yainin’!”

3-year-old:  “No, it’s not raining!”

Little sister, blissfully playing along:  “Yeah, yainin’!”

3-year-old, in a rage:  “NO, it’s NOT raining, it’s NOT raining, it’s NOT raining!”

Little sister, joyfully agreeing with her idol:  “Yain-yain-yainin’!!!!!!!!!”

3-year-old, in a quivering ecstasy of fury:  “IT!  IS!  NOT!  RAI-AI-AI-AI-AI-AININNNNNNNNNNG!”

Little sister, transported with bliss at the wonderful camaraderie she was enjoying with her sister:  “YAAAAAAAAAAAININ’!”

And so on.

There was nothing that anyone could do.  The three-year-old had rocketed so far past the point of reason that she remained in her little orbit of hysteria for a good half hour; and when she came down, she was hungry.  And guess what?  I had forgotten to bring a snack.

Did I mention we were in the car for three hours that day?  I’m just glad we belong a religion that believes in the value of suffering.  Because, man, it’s only Tuesday . . .

My hobby

There are people who don’t understand drinking at all.  You can tell who they are because they say things like,”Isn’t it kind of cold for beer?” or  “I guess it’s okay, as long as you don’t feel like you depend on it” or “Yes, I had a Bahama Mama last weekend, and it was yummy!”

These people are drinkers in the same way as Thomas Kinkade is a painter:  there are enough superficial similarities to the real thing that the casual observer might be taken in — and yet, at the heart, there is this gulf which is vast.  Vast.

I think what people don’t understand is that your relationship with alcohol develops over time, just like in a good marriage.  At first it’s all infatuation and fireworks and throwing up.  But it’s only later, after many years of fidelity and forgiveness, missteps and recovery, that you and your drink can look each other in the eye and say, “Yes, I need you, and you need me.  And I’m all right with that.  Oh, I could live without you — I wouldn’t drop dead if you walked out of my life forever, and I know I could even learn to be happy without you.  But why would I want to?  You’ve been there with me through all the best times of my life, and all the worst, too.  Even when you couldn’t be there, like when the nurse was all, ‘You are 80% effaced; it is time to put that bottledown!’, you were notable by your absence.  Oh alcohol, I am a part of you; and you, pound by blubbery pound, are becoming more and more a part of me.”

What non-drinkers don’t understand is that the city of Boozopolis is a beautiful and variegated place.   Got a few hours to burn?  This bottle of gin looks open and accommodating, willing to let you take the lead, and no hard feelings if it’s just a quickie.  Bourbon is there to take your hand and let you enjoy your misery for a while.  Tequila is a great way to find out whether or not you’ve grown up in the last ten years.  Red wine becomes a river of conversation which appears insightful at the time, and makes room in your heart for all the terrible Irish music you’ve been denied all your sober life.  Or maybe you’re just thirsty?  Well, then, my friend, it is time to have a beer.

I’m not trying to preach, and I’m not trying to nag.  I’m just trying to say that an awful lot of you could be doing a lot more to pick up that glass from time to time, you know? I try my hardest, but I’m only one woman.

Well, what did you do on your weekend?

7 Silly Things that Make Me Laugh


Store brand cereal names.   When I was little, manufacturers of generic food didn’t bother trying to snare the thrifty shopper by putting grinning strawberries or wacky breakfast raccoons on the box — it was just a white box with black letters, stating the legal nomenclature of the grain product you were about to consume.

Today, however, they try and make it sound like it’s some kind of close cousin to the Real Thing, without infringing on any copyrights. Some of them just try to sound like the brand name, like Tasteeo-s instead of Cheerios.  Then some of them are just kind of disconcertingly descriptive:   Crispy Hexagons, Corn Spheres.  But some of them . . . some of them are just a cereal mystery, and they make me laugh.  And the greatest of these is Confruity Crisp.


Renita Jablonski from the radio show Marketplace.  I realize this makes me an eleven-year-old boy, but ever time I hear her name, my brain giggles like Beavis and Butthead.  See, cuz, it kinda sounds like Heywood . . . oh, never mind.


My three-year-old daughter says “who” when she means “what.”  I occasionally correct her, but it’s just too much fun to see her come into the kitchen, wrinkle her nose and say, “Who’s that smell?”  It’s your supper, that’s who.


The Howard Dean scream.  It just never gets old.


Sometimes, when my husband is changing a diaper, he puts the clean diaper on his head, and then pretends he can’t find it. Gets me every time.


That scene in 30 Rock where all the guys are sleeping on the couches, and one of them takes a bite of his sandwich in his sleep.  I can’t believe they’re still making that show!  It’s so funny, it should have been canceled by now (we’re up to season 4 on Netflix).


Well, in keeping with the way things have been going around here lately, I hate this post and couldn’t finish it, but couldn’t do anything else until it was done.  I guess I should be grateful to have six things that make me laugh, but instead I was just hung up on how bummed I was that I put my beer on the back of the couch for a second, only to discover that the back of the couch wasn’t up against the wall after all, and so that was the end of my beer.  I hate that couch so much, I’m glad it got beer spilled all down the back and on its stupid confruity little skirt ruffle; but still, I had to clean up the beer.  It was a Corona, too!  Oh, anyway, so while I was looking for a towel, my husband said that fart jokes always make me laugh.  I don’t think this is strictly true, but on the other hand, we’ve been together for a while now, so I guess he would know.

Okay, okay, wait.  It does make me laugh when someone says “poot” instead of “fart.”  Poot!  That’s not even a word.

Oh, boy.  Well, check out our lovely hostess Jen Fulwiler of Conversion Diary for Seven Quick Takes, and find out how the normals are doing it.