6:20 am: Tiger and I are in our van, hurtling toward our carpool pickup spot. When I look into the rearview mirror I see that my hair has frizzed due to the high humidity. I look like I stuck my finger into a light socket, only less alert.

7:00 am: I drop off Tiger and meet Joanne at Starbucks to discuss the status of my upcoming swim meet snack bar.

As I wait for my grande, I imagine that Joanne will offer to take over the snack bar, giving me a much easier job to do for the team, like extracting impacted molars from giant crocodiles.

7:40 am: Our snack bar business has concluded and sadly, I’m still in charge of the snack bar.

8:00 to 10 am: I work on my snack bar shopping list. It’s hot and muggy and my t-shirt sticks to me.

I imagine working the snack bar on a hot and muggy day like today, but things are bad because I ordered hot chocolate instead of Gatorades and bottled water. Swim meet participants are dropping all over the pool deck from heatstroke!

That’s when a crew of parents attacks me with swim fins and snorkels for ruining their kids’ best chances for a Zone time, and I imagine trying to climb up the lifeguard’s chair to escape but the lifeguard beats me back down with a flotation device.

LIFEGUARD: My kid sister coulda had a ZONE TIME!

10:05 am: I leave to pick up Tiger from the carpool pickup point. Micki is late picking up her daughter so I call her. She’s stuck in traffic on the I-5. Just then a hit-and-run driver plows into Micki’s car. BAM!

She’s okay, but she’s going to be late. Joanne offers to hold on to Micki’s daughter and I race off with Tiger. We carpooling women are nothing if not flexible.

10:25 am: Tiger and I are late to his community service appointment. As we pull in to the parking lot the car makes a strange sound.

10:30 am: Tiger and I pick up coolers containing meals for homebound seniors. The odd car sound gets louder and turns into a grinding noise. It sounds like something evil is chewing up the car’s engine compartment.

I wonder if the car will die on me on the I-5. I imagine getting out and pulling up the hood, only to have something evil with wings fly out and attack me, but spit me out because I’m so sweaty and stinky.

EVIL THING WITH WINGS: And you never called back that sub sandwich place about donations, either!

10:40 am: I call the community service headquarters from the auto mechanic’s waiting area. I ask for a substitute driver.

I tell the auto mechanic receptionist all about the evil noise coming from my car. She writes: “check evil noise” on the estimate sheet. Hopefully they won’t charge extra for this.

11:00 am: Tiger just got off a 2-hour swim practice and is hungry. My brain turns off and I offer to walk him down to Alberto’s in downtown Encinitas. When we arrive at Alberto’s, I remember: I left the community service meal coolers in the mechanic’s waiting area!

Community Service Credo:

Never leave the meals behind!!!

I gallop past a storefront window on the way back to the auto mechanic. My reflection reveals a head of frizz; I look like an albino version of Foxy Cleopatra, only lots chubbier.

11:10 am: Tiger catches up with a diet Coke for me, which I gulp down. The substitute driver arrives. He doesn’t know the route and asks us to go with him.

Tiger and I pile into this guy’s tiny car. He rolls up his window and tells us he never uses the air conditioner and he’s not even sure it works. He turns it on. Hot air blasts out.

11:15 am: It turns out he was pushing the heater button. My frizzy hair now reaches for the ceiling of his car interior. Soon, it may start lunging at strangers.

12:30 pm: The mechanic calls just as we finish our route. Our van needs new brakes and new rotors.

$800.

KA-CHING!

I resolve to make Hubby a really nice dinner tonight and tell him after he eats, but then I remember I won’t be able to get groceries today, so I resolve instead to make a really nice dinner out of leftovers.

12:45 pm: The substitute driver drops us off at our house. It smells funny inside and I see odd-looking splashes on the floor and walls, reminding me I forgot to put cleaning supplies on my snack bar shopping list.

I follow the trail of splashes as I imagine how my snack bar sends 50 people (maybe more!) to the hospital with food poisoning.

CENTER FOR DISEASE CONTROL: The woman responsible for this snack bar will be put behind bars!

The splashes lead me to Mojo, who’s in the middle of an impressive diarrhea attack.

12:46 pm: The day pretty much went downhill from there.

Holy, moley, this is too good. I LOVE miniature golf!

This online version of your local putt putt has got it all: windmills, clowns, etc.

But watch out for Hole No. 18. That messed up my whole game!

EDITED TO ADD: WOW! Ed Fleming over at GristleDrip.com has a Mini Put Tutorial, complete with a little step-by-step narration on how to get a hole in one, every single time!

“Overkill? Absolutely!”

This is our intrepid bulldog at the Wren Family Party. You may notice his intent expression; it is the look he wears while in Stealth Bulldog Mode.

You see, people tend to be a little careless at parties, especially with their food. They’ll get up to get a can of soda, stop to chat with a relative on the way, and generally forget they left their plate of party chow unattended.

By the time they return, sure… they might notice stuff is missing, but it’s a party, for crying out loud! If you run out of food at a party, you just go and get more!

And since Mojo is a Stealth Bulldog, nobody ever guessed who was making off with all the Wisconsin cheddar and roast beef—not until the middle of the karaoke contest, that is.

My sisters-in-law were doing a rousing interpretation of “Doo Wah Diddy” when Mojo steathily let loose with an emanation that instantly emptied the front row. The singers fled, gasping—one on her knees—and there was a short intermission.

Strangely enough, I felt an odd sort of satisfaction, as if nobody had ever listened to me when I told them bulldogs are really, really stinky.

Finally, they KNOW.

5:30 am: Hubby wrestles me into an upright position, pries open my fingers, places a hot cup of coffee into my hand, and bellows: “TIME TO GET UP!”

Yeah, well it takes a LOT to get me out of bed in the morning.

6:00 am: Tiger and I are barreling north on the I-5, on our way to an Irvine swim meet. Hubby went Thursday and Friday, but it’s my turn today. And as I pass through the border checkpoint, I realize the dangers of dressing while only semi-conscious: I’m wearing capris, something you should never do if you haven’t shaved your legs in a week.

I resign myself to looking as if I wore Ugg boots inside-out—when I notice something in the van’s console… a little piece of machinery that might come in handy later.

7:00 am: Tiger and I arrive in the aquatics center parking lot. He tells me to hurry but I tell him to go on ahead, that I’ll catch up. He shrugs and leaves. When the coast is clear I reach for…

…the cordless electric razor Hubby accidentally left in the van. Bwa ha!

7:15 am: I set up shop under the parent tarp. I did about half of my Super Sabado last night and it’ll probably be late again, seeing as how I’ve got this swim meet to do. But hey! Why not work on what I’ve got so far?

I open my laptop, and seconds later choirs of angels sing a heavenly chorus:

“The Aquatics Center has Wireless Access… Oooh wahhh.”

(Read the rest of “Super Sabado: Not as hairy as I was this morning”)

My boys like to play little tricks on me with my cell phone. For example, they’ll change the the ring tones without telling me.

CLERK: Who’s next?

BONNIE: (points) That gal, over there.

(A tinny version of “When the Saints Come Marching In” starts to play. It goes on. And on.)

BONNIE: (amused) Excuse me, ma’am, but is that your phone? No? (a little louder) Somebody’s phone! It’s ringing!

(The other customers look at their phones, and then at Bonnie)

BONNIE: Hunh? Oh! (grabs her phone) Heh! Sorry. My boys. Changed the ringer thingy! I keep telling them not to… Ahem.

Their favorite trick, though, is to change their phone number IDs. Right now, when Squirt calls me his caller ID shows up as “Santa Claus.” Tiger, however, prefers an ID with a little more authority.

CHECKOUT CLERK: That’ll be $158.86. On the credit card?

BONNIE: Yes, thank—

MECHANICAL VOICE: CALL FROM! JESUS! CALL FROM! JESUS! CALL FROM—

BONNIE: Sorry! (fumbles for the phone) Normally I wouldn’t answer in the middle of a transaction, but he never calls me unless it’s something important.

CHECKOUT CLERK: Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.

BONNIE: No, uh, heh! You don’t understand. It’s my son.

CHECKOUT CLERK: Really!

BONNIE: (into the phone) You and I are going to have a big talk when I get home, young man!

I did not allow myself to procrastinate today. I can’t! I’ve got this gosh-awful snack bar breathing down my neck. It’s like having an appointment with the guillotine, but much more scary and painful.

Well, I do admit to spending some time looking through Squirt’s yearbook. It was the first time I’ve had a chance since they came out last week.

In fact, I’ve got Squirt’s in front of me right now. Let’s peek inside:

Squirt: DIE. Love, Betty

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Squirt! GIVE ME FOOD FROM YOUR PANTS! Gordo

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See you Mister Zombie Boy… Leah

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Squirt, I want you to know the 5 minutes I’ve known you were the best of my life. Greg

Great thinkers, all.

This inspired me to check out my old yearbook, to see what bon mots I’ve forgotten.

Bonnie… Get a tan! Love, Alison

God bless the guy who invented self-tanner, that’s all I can say.

Maybe Hubby’s yearbook will be more interesting:

Wren: It was fun in Electronics this year. Don’t ever cut my belt loop again. Terry.

Ho hum, more of the same. No! Wait a minute… What’s this?

Wren: I sure wish I had as many girlfriends as you have had. You’re a big “Latin Lover”. They flock around you. Later, gater! –Joe

I had to learn more about this interesting tidbit from Hubby’s past! A past which has so far eluded me I might add, despite my best investigative efforts.

BONNIE: Hubby, sweetie, read this.

(Hubby reads, then chuckles)

BONNIE: So, exactly how many girlfriends did you have in high school? It must’ve been a lot! C’mon, you can tell me!

HUBBY: (shrugs) I dunno. I forget.

The booger.

We’ve almost got everybody trained not to leave anything on the floor. Yay for us! It only took, what… a year?

Unfortunately, there are still SOME PEOPLE who (Read the rest of “Monday Morning Mojo No. 37″)

Upon Receipt of the Wren Family Karaoke Party Invite

BONNIE: Yuck! How… gauche. Who would really ever participate in a karaoke contest?

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After Hearing Which In-laws Signed up for Various Songs

BONNIE: Heh! That’ll be a good show.

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Five Minutes After Learning of the Prizes for the Most Songs Sung

BONNIE: (dials phone) Micki? Didn’t you say you had a karaoke machine? May I borrow it?

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Yes, we Wrens will do anything for prizes, even karaoke. Well, maybe not Hubby or Tiger, but most of us. And boy, is karaoke HARD. Rest assured that I never warble without running around and closing all our windows first.

I hear margaritas are excellent for the throat, so let’s have some and get going on this late Super Sabado!

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I’ve spent this week on board a ship, which has given me a prime opportunity to observe human nature. Nowhere is this more fascinating than at the karaoke bar, which is packed every night. Normally, I wouldn’t have been within a mile of the place, but one of my relatives does a killer Elvis impersonation, and I just had to see it.

Charlaine Harris, possibly tipping us off as to the inspiration for her character named Bubba. Give karaoke one try, Charlaine! Just one!

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Color aside, my new phone has all kinds of cool features like a camera, which has allowed me to be the proud owner of 18 pictures of my son’s nostrils and five photos of the inside of my purse. I’ve also successfully but mistakenly text-messaged a snake farmer in India and a German brewery.

TC of Fish in My Hair, who always makes us laugh, even if we are stressing about snack bar planning and which song to sing for the karaoke competition.

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I say that I may be slow with my math at times… but if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, then its probably a duck. It may be a migrating duck that I can live without — or it may a non-migrating duck that I have to learn to live with in moderation. A duck is a duck, none-the-less. If we have this knowledge, it’s much easier to deal with our ducks, and organize them. One might call this process “getting our ducks in a row.” We can then differentiate between “Bye Bye Birdie” ducks and sitting ducks that are here to stay.

Teri Gray Franta of Here’s to Happy Women, writing about relationships from an ornithological point of view.

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He’s a wisecracking duck from another universe, she’s a drop-dead gorgeous redhead from Cleveland. Not exactly a match made in heaven, would you think? Well, no, but these two stick together like glue. Switzler is absolutely devoted to her Ducky, and Howard – who staunchly believes that people are ‘No damned good’ – nevertheless has a soft spot for Beverley.

TimT at Will Type for Food, offering his contribution to Teri’s new classification system.

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The bird looks kinda’ stiff huh? LOL…That’s because it’s a decoy. That’s right…that puppy…er, bird is all plastic! It’s to keep the real one away. Apparently they’re a very territorial bird, and one won’t inhabit an occupied spot!

Bonnie of Bonnie Writes, on goldfish-eating herons, and NOT ducks.

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My manager shot me down “No way can we supply that.” So I went straight to the VP – on temporary relocation from San Fran. “Do it,” he said. So I did it. I sold $7 million dollars worth of Viagra to a Swedish dude named Magnus.

Buffy of Plain Simple English, on one of her more interesting jobs. And we only included it here because we thought she said something about a Swedish duck.

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I FEAR: not being able to help those in need.

I HEAR: my hubby snoring in the next room. Heh.

Mimi of Mimi’s Pixie Corner, whose desire to help those in need does not include telling Dave to roll over.

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“Are you okay?” my wife asked rushing into the living room.

“Huh? Yeah. Sure. I was just singing along with Chris Isaak. Man he can hit some high notes.”

“Please don’t do that. I’m tired of prying the cat off the ceiling and having the neighbors call 9-1-1.”

Ernie Witham of Ernie’s World, who neglected to close all the windows before he turned on the karaoke machine. It works for us, Ernie!

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What to do when you’re crap at 23…

The title of some advice given by Neil Gaiman, who unfortunately included no suggestions for 40-something women who are crap at karaoke.

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It is the actual me.

Consider the sublimely eloquent syntax.

Were it not I, you’d be able to snarfle it out in a trice.

Yr. pal, Harlan

Harlan Ellison’s answer to a doubting Thomas on a thread at Asimov’s.

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No warning.
Black like death.
For two whole days.
Like a desert island.

Bernita Harris of An Innocent A-Blog, with her excuse for not posting during an absence which prompted an online search-and-rescue party.

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Among other things, jaundice causes brain damage. True, brain damage would make him less vulnerable to zombie attack, but how often do those come up?

Jon of Letters to Myself, on the reason he can’t bring the baby home yet. And you thought it was because of the zombies!

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Her bulldog is adorable. That’s not the name of her blog, but Milo is the focus of many posts. Ball Point Wren is a So-Cal look at family life in suburbia, San Diego-style. Check out Bonnie’s site here.

Denise Scatena of VoiceofSanDiego.org. Thanks, Denise, for the mention! We’re quite happy with it, but there’s a stinky bulldog here who wants you to know that it’s Mojo. MO-JO.

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i want to sell my daughter into slavery what is a fair price

Lachlan of My So-Called Blog, reporting on the search terms which bring users to her site despite its glaring lack of slave auctions.

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Actually, it was really easy picking the winner. Dean was the only guy who entered, and it makes no sense whatsoever for a chick to be King of the Gypsies, so –

Doug of Balls and Walnuts joking around about the outcome of his King of the Gypsies Contest—which we did NOT win. Booger.

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And for those of you who’ve stayed until the very end, I’m continuing my Star Trek video AND karaoke obsessions. Have fun next week!

SCENE: Wednesday night after dinner, Bonnie’s usual writing time.

SQUIRT: Mom! I need the computer! I have to write a research paper!

MOM: What?!? How many pages? But school’s almost over! When’s it due?

SQUIRT: It’s due tomorrow. Four pages. But don’t worry, Mom. I’ve got it covered.

It turns out “got it covered” is Secret Teenager Code for, “I haven’t done any research yet.” But hey! At least he picked a topic!

SQUIRT: Ninjas.

MOM: You’re writing a research paper on… ninjas?

SQUIRT: Yeah! Cool, hunh?

Yup. Cool.

You can blame him for me not posting on Thursday.

Last night’s Crazies was all my fault, though. Late in the evening I realized we hadn’t completed the independent P.E. application the high school requires, so we basically scrambled around like the noodles we are just to complete everything in time to turn them in this morning.

And then this morning I mistook the orange juice jug for the milk carton.

It wasn’t the best tasting stuff in the world, but heck, caffeine is caffeine.

I thought this Random Flickr Blogging thing might be fun. Some participants are inspired to write complete stories!

I, however, am a lazy woman.

At that moment Jonelle realized the capris were staring at her—and not in a good way, either.

Via Balls and Walnuts.