A former contestant on Britain’s Got Talent is suing Simon Cowell because he humiliated her on the show. When I snorted while reading the article, Hot Guy wanted to know what was up.

I think it’s a testimony to our love that my snorts, instead of repelling him, make him interested in whatever I am reading.

So I explained about the suit. I may have also implied that this woman does not deserve several million pounds for getting humiliated on a Simon Cowell show, since by now even people who hate pop culture know what happens when you sing in front of Simon Cowell.

This is a man, after all, who does not appreciate Jennifer Hudson.

I expected Hot Guy to agree. I mean, the humiliation of others is half the reason people watch those shows. And while the other judges might dash dreams, Simon makes a sport of how nasty he can be. So anyone who does audition should know exactly what they’re in for, shouldn’t they?

Instead, I got to hear a little lecture about how dreadful it is that Simon Cowell makes so much money being mean to people and basically he deserves every frivolous law suit he gets.

I was a little taken aback. Hot Guy usually agrees with me about frivolous law suits AND he’s always said that he won’t watch any competition shows because of the annoying screams of the adolescent audience.

But now I see Hot Guy’s point. Simon’s mean just to be mean and it does seem rather unfair that he’s got more money that the queen because of it.

So now I’m wondering what song I should sing for my audition. I guarantee he will  be very nasty to me because I can’t carry a tune unless I think no one else is listening. Then I can sue him for several million dollars and finally buy a new dishwasher. And redo my basement. . .

Damn,  I’m too old for American Idol and I don’t think Simon’s on America’s Got Talent (I’m pretty sure David Hasselhoff is , but there’s no point in suing him. Better he saves his money for another trip to rehab). Which is understandable, because the truth is, I don’t think Simon Cowell yelling at me would make me feel humiliated like it would have at 20. It would just make me ask him if it’s true that his penis is only 3 inches long (c’mon, it must be – what other excuse for his bitterness is there?) and somehow I don’t think this would help me with the whole “poor humiliated woman” case.

So there go my dreams for suing Simon Cowell. But hey, at least I’ve come to agree with Hot Guy on the whole thing. Though I still say frivolous lawsuits are bad, they are not bad if they involve Simon Cowell. Like tequila is bad, unless it’s part of a margarita.

Hot Guy and I are celebrating our anniversary today, because tomorrow (our real anniversary) we will celebrating the 4th of July (because my hometown is weird like that). Also, my parents have the kids.

After doing a lot of cleaning (and we don’t even have impending visitors. Hot Guy feels we should stop living like trailer trash. I say I would much rather live like people with servants, but he claims that’s not in our budget) we retired to the patio with books and drinks.

It was quite peaceful, except for the occasional blast of illegal fireworks. Which is sort of like our old neighborhood in KC, except there it wasn’t always fireworks. Anyway, given the time and the relative quiet, I was able to reflect upon the reasons that I love Hot Guy.

1. He’s hot. Duh.

2. He’s pretty understanding about my pathological need for alone time.

3. And about my crush on Tim Riggins.

4. He’s funny.

5. He’s an excellent father.

6. He cooks.

7. He can fix things.

8. He can answer all the kid questions I can’t.

9. He’s incredibly outgoing.

10. He can remember exactly when Pickett’s charge was, but not when the next pediatrician appointment is.

11. He never hides anything.

12. He accepts me exactly the way I am. (Except for the cleaning issue. Which I guess is sort of understandable.)

13. He lets me pick out his clothes.

14. He knows how to help around the house.

15. He can sing.

On Saturday, I tried to take my kids swimming. It sounds so simple. But, much like keeping a clean house or resisting bagels, things that are simple for other people are kind of challenging for me.

My first challenge was getting Hot Guy up and going. Unless Hot Guy has a pressing reason to be up early, he is a night owl. But we had to go early, because Hot Guy had a pressing reason to be somewhere in the afternoon (this should have been my first clue to delay the whole enterprise, but it was such a perfect pool day). So there might have been some snapping and grumbling.

Then I had to assemble the troops and get bathing suits, sunblock and water shoes on them. Then I had to pack the car with noodles, snacks, towels, sand toys, beach chairs and the new kick board. There might have been some reminders that whiny children don’t get to go swimming.

Then we had to drive to our local pool. Now, we are not members of our local pool, which is really a very large pond. It’s not cheap and I don’t know anyone who goes there, making it unappealing for times when I might consider taking all 3 kids myself (which – spoiler alert! – is never going to happen now.) But as residents, we have been able to buy day passes in the past.

Not, apparently, anymore.

We could not swim in our town’s pond without paying a full family membership. So I called my parents, who are members of their town’s pool, by virtue of being senior citizens (but for us to join that pool would be even more expensive, FYI). My Dad agreed to meet us at his town pool so that we could be his guests, because after all that build up and preparation we couldn’t possible tell the kids that we would be skipping the pool altogether.

By the time we got settled at my parents’ town pool, the whole thing had taken almost 2 hours.

We could have driven to the shore and gone to a real beach (that doesn’t demand several hundred dollar membership) for that amount of time.

I am reasonably sure that Lovebug and Ironflower had fun once we got there, but I can’t be positive because sandbox loving/ wading pool adoring ChunkyMonkey hated the whole experience.

And as soon as Hot Guy went to get himself some food, ChunkyMonkey decided to let me know how much he hated the experience. He was mad that I didn’t have snack packs. He was mad that he couldn’t eat the crackers he’d thrown in the sand. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him head butt me. He was mad that I wouldn’t let him hold the open bottle of apple juice. It was like all the tension of the morning exploded out of him in the world’s longest, loudest tantrum. Eventually Hot Guy took him to the car while I watched the older kids from the beach chair where I’d collapsed.

Not exactly the fun family day I’d had in mind.

Hot Guy calls it “the big black”. How I love it. It’s huge, round and insulated. It has fallen down stairs, fallen into the trash and been left in hotel rooms. I have violent feelings when other people try to use it. When Hot Guy uses it, I want to smack him. It’s MINE. It’s my favorite. And I earned it, dammit.

Sure, it’s probably petty to get so upset about a cup, but I don’t care. I love that cup. I got it at the hospital where I gave birth to Lovebug and I’ve been overly attached to it every since. It’s not just that it’s black instead of some brightly colored advertisement for 7-11 or Quik Trip (which, for the record, kicks 7-11′s ass). It’s not just that it reminds me of giving birth to my middle child (aka the least dramatic and traumatic of all of my children’s births). It’s that I’ve declared it as mine.

When Hot Guy and I first moved in together, I discovered that my collection of large, refillable, insulated cups was depleting. He would take one and leave it somewhere, comfortable in the knowledge that a new cup was only a few bucks and a short drive away. I tried to get over it. After all, it’s not like I was emotionally attached to the cups, right?

Enter “the big black” a few years later. It looked so cool, Hot Guy conned the nurses into giving him one too. Which he subsequently left somewhere. And I declared that the other big, black cup was MINE. He was not allowed to take it anywhere and I really didn’t want him to use it at all.

My cup has survived these last 4 years, mostly due to my vigilance. At first, he avoided it completely. But eventually he’d use it if it was in the drying rack and he wanted a quick drink of water. I tried to let it go, especially when he’d just hand it over if I asked for it. Even though sometimes he’d suggest that I drink water from it too. If the Goddess had wanted me to drink water when I wasn’t exercising, she wouldn’t have invented Diet Pepsi.

Anyway,  it’s getting worse. The rest of our supply has been decimated, and our local 7-11 doesn’t seem to have them. This morning I caught him drinking cranberry juice out of it. I am very concerned that his next step will be to take it with him somewhere. Then I may have to kill him.

I know, I know. It’s a cup. That’s Hot Guy’s argument. Why get worked up over a cup?

I don’t know. Maybe when I wind up in chocolate rehab my therapist can help me figure it out. But for now I’m asking you, internets, how can I make sure he keeps his paws off of MY cup?

Very early on in our relationship, Hot Guy rearranged my refrigerator. As all it contained was breakfast food, condiments and diet Pepsi, I didn’t really think much about it. If he wanted to bring food over and cook it for me, who was I to complain about the organization of my refrigerator? Besides, it was so cute how much interest he took in it.

Now, of course, I make breakfast and lunch for the kids and myself every day. A lot of times I have to make dinner (or, you know, an attempt at dinner) too. The refrigerator is usually full. So – and it was just a coincidence that Hot Guy was out of town – I rearranged the fridge and freezer the way I like it. I like to have things organized because my short-term memory is shot from lack of sleep. Sorting things by category allows me to find things quickly, which makes me happy. And cuts down on the whining. The kids appreciate quick service.

Anyway, now Hot Guy is back. And what did I discover on the breakfast shelf of the freezer this morning? Chicken nuggets. I mean, sure, the kids probably WOULD eat them for breakfast. But they don’t. The chicken nuggets had been on the meat shelf. With the other meat. Like should be put with like. In rows. With the oldest ones in the front. Because that’s what makes sense, right? RIGHT?

Already his expensive Parmesan has moved from the cheese shelf to right in front of the yogurt.

I think his system can be summed up as, “Wherever I can put it quickly”. He says it has to do with being a cook. Either way, it means that stuff gets forgotten as it winds up in the back. And you always have to move stuff out of the way to get what you want. And it just looks messier. Not that he seems to care. He has absolutely no respect for my system.

So, which one of us is the problem here? Do you have an organized fridge? Or do you think I’m weird?

When Garmin Girl did not lead us directly to the interstate, I didn’t say anything. After all, we already know that I have issues with the GPS, plus driving around all of these speeding old people makes Hot Guy annoyed enough without my helpful suggestions.

I also kept my tongue when Garmin Girl had us bypass the interstate completely. Just because the ad for the outlets had stated its interstate exit did not mean that the interstate was the best way for us to get there. Still, I began to worry. Garmin Girl is not known for sensible alternatives to the highway, after all.

We drove farther and farther into the Gulf Coast’s interior, which seemed to me a logical place for an outlet mall. Land would be cheaper and no one would be distracted by a good view. It sort of looked like Kansas with palm trees. Except soon there were less shopping centers. My mother was the first to voice her concern about our location. By that time, though, we were nearly there.

Or so Garmin Girl said.

Garmin Girl felt that the outlet mall was on the dirt road to the right. Not even the paved version of the road on the left, not for Garmin Girl. That’s when I thought about Dad programming the GPS for us. And how, of course, you have to program the town before you can program the street name. I asked Hot Guy if Garmin Girl would search for a street name in the nearby towns too.

Apparently Garmin Girl is not able to that, she searches one town only. Get the wrong town and you wind up at the end of a dirt road surrounded by swampland. Which mom and I were totally open to exploring, but Hot Guy and the kids not so much. So, while I did find the correct route to the correct place on Garmin Girl, we mostly followed MY directions to get to the outlets.

Because unlike Garmin Girl, I can synthesize information. And use logic.

Thankfully, Hot Guy finds these skills sexy.

I got my haircut yesterday. Thanks to my great fear of pregnancy/post-partum hormones and hair decisions arising from them(at least I learned from the dye job that made me look like a goth after I had Ironflower), I have not had a haircut since July. Except for the bangs I cut myself in September (hormones + stress = I’m convinced I can fix my own hair problems). Anyway, my hair had gotten quite long. Hot Guy LOVES long hair – and doesn’t notice things like split ends or style when the hair is long – so I felt slightly bad chopping it off. But only slightly.

Besides, I didn’t chop it ALL off. Just about four inches (my hair grows really fast). So now it’s shoulder length and layered to encourage the wave and all that. I actually kind of like it now. But I was a little worried about what Hot Guy would think, since he’s such a big fan of long hair.

When I got home, he said it looked good. But as we talked (and I confessed to buying product too) I realized that he looked slightly . . .guilty. Shifty. Not happy. I started questioning him. Finally he admitted, “You’ll be mad if I tell you what I really think.”

I was kinda surprised. After all, it wasn’t like it was truly short. But since I was sure it was cute I knew I could handle his opinion, no matter how bad it was. I told him to tell me the truth.

“I can’t tell the difference, ” he said fearfully. He then went on to explain that since I wear it back so much and since it always “looks nice” when I wear it down. . . well, it just didn’t look any different to him.

“But I cut off FOUR INCHES!” I exclaimed. He nodded and looked at me as though expecting a blow. I wasn’t mad, though – I was just relieved that he didn’t want me to grow it out again. Okay, and a little shocked at his lack of observational powers.

The shock and relief may have turned to a little bit of frustration when he went on to explain that he doesn’t really notice whether I’m wearing make-up or not. “WHAT?” I said, possibly quite loudly. I’m very pale. My skin is uneven. I have straight eyelashes. I look A LOT better when I put on make-up. The difference is palpable. The comments from other people on how rested or not rested I look correlate WAY more to how much make-up I have on than to how much actually sleep I have gotten.

Hot Guy, possibly feeling more confident because I wasn’t acting mad, went on to explain that I always looked fine – and the same – to him. Though he did make sure to point out that I did look especially nice when we got dressed up.

I’m not sure what to do with this information. Although it’s caused me to realize – as I put on concealer and blush this morning – that I definitely don’t do these things for my husband’s benefit. (Since he doesn’t EVEN NOTICE) It’s so empowering to know that I style my hair and do my make-up for me. . .isn’t it?

My love/hate relationship with Halloween started when I became a teacher. Because while there’s a certain joy in watching the kids have fun, organizing the party and the parents and the changes in routine and dealing with the sugar rushes. . .well, it’s a lot of work. Of course, for most of the years I taught I was able to recover from the day by going out and getting drunk or by curling up with a book.

Stupidly, I somehow thought that Halloween as a parent would be easier. Or, at least less stressful. It was, until last year. And this year? We had school celebrations on two different days, one indecisive about costumes, one still having a hard time wearing his, sugar highs, trick or treat demands. . .oy. (I’m sure being freaking full term pregnant also had something to do with this year’s stress)

By the time I got them to bed last night – yes, I, Hot Guy and his just briefly in town brother had escaped to the city an hour before – I thought I was going to become a parent who spanks. I would give them a direction and it was like I was speaking to them in Chinese. Or like I was actually mute. Or that they were deaf. Or. . .er, you probably understand what I’m saying. Anyway, I have seen my children hyper and over-tired before, but never that far gone. I seriously thought I was going to have to tie them down to get their pajamas on.

It’s a good thing that they’re so cute.

I think this was the first time Lovebug really got Halloween. We actually got him to wear his costume this year – even if it required many, many reminders of the “no costume, no celebration” variety. (Something that the trio of middle schoolers who showed up at my door at 9:30 last night need to hear as well, I think) And he went along with his class quite well. But when his class sang for all the adoring parents? Lovebug seemed to think his job was to observe. Ironflower did the same thing the next day when her class sang. It’s so weird. My kids are not shy. They love to sing and get attention. But while their respective classes were performing, they just stood there. We couldn’t even get them to smile.

Oh well, at least they had fun otherwise. And I’m sure my back and feet will recover soon. Probably after Tuesday (when my c-section is scheduled, thankyougod). I told everyone that my costume was that I was pregnant with triplets. Hot Guy wore his pirate hat, Ironflower was Cinderella and Lovebug was Thomas the Tank Engine.

What were you and yours for Halloween?