Want to make a great time even better? Add The Big Dog!

This past weekend I was at my Favorite Brother's* Surprise 40th Birthday Party. The term "Favorite" might be a little misleading here. My Favorite Brother is not my favorite because I like him the most of my brothers (The Baker's the nicest to me. Hands down.). He's my favorite because when you're really up a creek without a paddle, he manages to fashion a paddle out of the cover to a cooler and a passing branch. He's a problem solver. My Favorite Brother has great ideas and they work. He just won an Apple television at work for having the best solution in a team building competition. When I need to have my roof replaced, or evict 300 bats from my attic, or build a bug-proof garage that looks like a barn, or handle the other crazy problems we seem to get around here all the time, I like to consult with him.

[FN: My Favorite Brother and I also dance together like a dream. Had MY MOTHER had a little more foresight, we would have won a number of ballroom dance competitions in our teens and twenties, and then went on to establish our own elite Argentinian Tango/Samba dance studio. We would probably be choreographing numbers for So You Think You Can Dance as we speak. Unfortunately, that alternate destiny, like so many others, resides in the dustbin of time.]

The term "Surprise" is also a misnomer. My sister-in-law, Ms. S, had the party at her home, and my F.B. works from home. She had about 1,000 limes in the fridge, not to mention stacks of cheeses. Of course he knew she was having a party! My F.B. also said that the house was just too clean, so he knew something was up. Ms. S keeps her house very clean, so I think the cheeses were a better tip-off, but whatever. [Whenever I vacuum or move furniture around, my husband, Total Package, accuses me of planning to have a party without telling him about it. He's right about 50% of the time.]

By the by, Ms. S threw a great party. The mojitos were FANTASTIC! Mojitos are really easy to screw up. Lots of people put too much mint in them, and then you spend the whole night with mossy teeth. Take a page from Ms. S and go easy on the mint!

The company and food were also excellent. We had a writer, layered bean dip, a professor of french, pudding cake, a dancer, mushroom tart, an interior designer, bruschetta, engineers, goat cheese dip, a doctor, chocolate dipped fruit, a mechanic, lawyers, and a guy in a toupee. Really, what more can you ask for?

Finally, we had The Big Dog. Ms. L set The Big Dog (a.k.a., my little cousin) up with our former babysitter, who is a dancer and built like a brick house. The Brick House is also a great person who is much loved by all of our children. My son, Mr. B asked me this past weekend, "Why is this girl at our house?" And I said, "This is your babysitter, Cassie. She's taking care of you tonight." He said, "Where's the Brick House?" Which is especially funny, because (1) The Brick House hasn't babysat for him for years; and (2) I hadn't even given her that nickname yet, little pervert must of thought of it himself. [FN: Just kidding, he referred to her by name. He does want to marry her, however, after he marries me and T.P. is forced to marry the kids' bus driver. I hope we live here, because I am NOT going to move after all this time.]

The Big Dog (not to be confused with my uncle, The Original Big Dog) has been dating The Brick House for a few months now, but we didn't realize that they were in Sturbridge for the party, so it was an excellent bonus. They also seem to be getting along well, which is awesome because I think they are both so great. Especially after the other night, when we discussed what we were wearing to the wedding, whether undergarments would work with our dresses, and how their relationship is very similar to mine and T.P.'s. Obviously, we'd been drinking, but I will always maintain that there's not much better than a hard-working Italian man who likes to stay in shape, so we weren't too far off track.

To wrap up, Happy Birthday to My F.B.! I will continue to tell people that we are twins and that your wife is older than me just to mess with them!

Big Dog, nice to see you in the 'Bridge! You can party with us any time!

Brick House, there's no way your dress for the wedding is as awesome as mine, so you better keep rockin' that body! See you at the batchelorette party!

*Note to all my brothers -- I love you all the same, really, regardless of race, creed, or color.

Is this bathing suit too small, or am I too fat?

I realized last week that I will be watching my kids swim every day for the rest of the summer. While tiring, this is a pretty good gig. I put my orange hat on, slather my white children with sunscreen, [FN: Mr. B asks for sunscreen, because like most men he is always looking for a free backrub, so I pretend to slather some on him, too.] sit next to Ms. L and spend the rest of the afternoon squinting and yelling, "That's too deep!," "Get off of him!" and, my favorite, "It's not time for lunch yet!"

The two suits I bought last year are not going to be enough. The "bridal suit," as I think of it, is adorable and easily ruined, being white and ethereal, like its owner. As a result, I don't really want to wear it to the local lakes, or more importantly, the restrooms at the local lakes (last trip to the lake I took children to the restroom about 500 times). Let's put it this way -- there are no attendants passing out mints at state park restrooms.

The black one-piece suit is good, but let's face it, it's been under a lot of, shall we say, pressure, over the last year. Certain seams and wires can only withstand so much. Also, let's face it, a girl deserves a new bathing suit each year. It's part of what gives her the courage to go to the beach practically unclothed.

So I turned to my life coach/personal shopper, Ms. L and said, "Why haven't you bought me a new bathing suit this year?" She said, "Oh, I didn't know you wanted one! I have a few that I found that are on sale, let's take a look!" [FN: Certain remarks she had made about my black bathing suit were what sowed the seeds of my discontent in the first place, so I don't know why I had to even have the conversation, honestly.] Ms. L is frighteningly knowledgeable about where to find good bathing suits on the internet. Much like The Girl with Dragon Tattoo doing a background check, she trolls around at high speeds, knowing just where to find suits for every budget, body type and need. It's a little disconcerting. [FN: I wonder how much teaching she actually does. . . ]

We settled on a gray suit that is very similar to my black one, and, in a leap of faith, an awesome black bikini. [FN: It has little see-through stripes around a square neckline. So cute!] Both were, while on sale, very expensive. Total Package did not believe, upon reviewing our credit card report, that I spent that much on just two bathing suits, but I had, and it was worth it! As I'm sure you understand, I would be happy to plate my ass in gold if I thought it would make me look good on the beach. Who wouldn't?

Unfortunately, the bikini is just a little too tight. This was confirmed by Thorn. I pointed and said, "This is the problem, right here." and she said, "Yeah, if you could get rid of that, it would look nice." Unfortunately, we were pointing to part of my anatomy, and that is not very easy to alter.

The suit may do its job and inspire me, however. The fed ex guy knocked on the front door just as I was dishing ice cream out to the kids. I took the suits out, put them on a counter, then dished out the ice cream. Then I had a banana.

Good Morning, Monday! Do you feel real?

I was on the phone with my sister this morning [Footnote: The other day my son, Mr. B, asked me if Ted was my sister. I said, "Yes, yes he is." However, don't be confused, this morning I was on the phone with my other sister, Ms. L]. I heard my kids arguing in the next room, and my youngest started to cry. She ran into the room, sobbing, and she said, "Mr. B says that Darth Vader is going to cut me in half with his light saber."

I told her that Darth Vader is not real, and light sabers are not real, [Footnote: Actually, someone, somewhere, has probably developed a light saber, and nylons that don't run, and alcohol that gets you drunk without a hangover, but we commoners will never see them.] and even if they were real, Darth Vader would not be attacking my Bean, because she is not under the auspices of the Empire, and as far as I know, has not joined the Resistance. Also, Bean really likes to get along with people, and is pretty understanding, so I think that she might have a shot at turning Darth Vader away from the Dark Side. Certainly a better shot than that puling, whiny wuss Luke Skywalker had.

Discussions about what is "real" get very heated around here. Total Package tells our kids that everything he likes, for example, E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark (excluding the last movie, which was a train wreck), the Fonz, Star Wars, etc. are real. I think it's important for my kids to know that a Southeast Asian man cannot use magic and chanting to rip their hearts from their chests, so I am a little less whimsical. I think that this is an especially important lesson, given that their pediatrician is from India.

I try to be clear without being repressive. I was driving through the countryside, coming home from my weekly trek to pick up vegetables from the CSA, when I had to try and explain a similar misunderstanding to my nephew, Mr. Pants.

Me: Look, boys, there's a pony!
Pants: Is it a pony or a horse?
Me: I can't tell by looking, it could be a pony or a horse, but it's pretty small, so I bet it's a pony.
Pants: Too bad it doesn't have a horn. We should get a pony with a horn. Did your pony have a horn?
Me: Those are called unicorns, and they're not real. They're imaginary.
Pants: But I've seen them on T.V.
Me: They are beautiful, but they are imaginary.
Pants: What about the pony with a horn on My Pretty Ponies?
Me: Those ponies are pretend - they are pink and purple and blue. Real ponies are black and brown and white and don't have horns.
Pants: Cows have horns.
Me: Yes, but not just one horn on their forehead, and ponies and horses don't have horns, like unicorns. It would be fun, but it's just in our imaginations.
Pants: I'd going to get a unicorn.
Mr. B: We should both get unicorns.
Me: Sounds good. Please get me one, too. I'd like a pink one.

You see how these conversations run. I answer their questions, but tell them they can believe whatever they want in the end. After all, you can't push Santa Claus on one hand, but turn your nose up at unicorns. People certainly believe in things that are much harder to swallow than unicorns, like frozen yoghurt, for instance.

I do draw the line at scary stuff. TP said that the fairies must have done something this morning, and Bean scoffed and said there was no such thing as fairies. A few moments later, when my oldest, Thorn, was describing a trip to a cemetery, Bean told her to be careful in cemetaries, because that's where zombies come from. I told her in no uncertain terms that there were no zombies. Later in the day, she ascertained that it is impossible to prove a negative ("But Mom, you can't know EVERYTHING, so you don't know for sure."). I therefore took a different tack. I told her I was really old, and all her grandparents and great-grandmother and aunts and uncles were really old, and none of us had ever seen or heard of a real zombie, so she didn't have to worry about them. That impressed her, mostly because she can't quite believe how old we all are. She was also talking about going to a cemetery with my mother-in-law to visit TP's grandmother's grave. I'm not sure if that is because she is now certain there are no zombies (which I am very confident about, honestly) or if she is just double-checking my work.

Back to this morning, while I was on the phone with my actual sister, simultaneously convincing Bean that as a non-rebel, she was safe from Empire reprisals, Ms. L was trying to calm down her kids. Her three-year-old, Cookie, had swallowed a penny, which his more cautious siblings feared was an instant death sentence. They were all screaming, "He swallowed it! It was a penny! It could have been a dime! He swallowed it!" Baby C was loading up the car for a trip to the hospital. Mr. Pants was trying to argue that Cookie probably had never actually swallowed anything, he just said he did, so he'd be OK. I think I am more likely to see Cookie eat a penny than to ride a unicorn, so I have to disagree with Mr. Pants on this one. Unfortunately for Ms. L, I think hunting for unicorns would be a lot more fun than hunting for pennies will be.