In Which Amy Lives with Cara

Guess where I am.

I bet you can't guess.

I'll give you a minute.

(cue "Jeopardy" theme music)

I'm at Cara's house!!

Yeah, that's right. I'm here for the Christmas break. I'm so excited to be here; it's gonna be awesome.

Mostly because I don't have to do anything.

No, seriously, Cara is totally a Cruise Director and has set up playdates and daytrips and all type of cool things for us to do with the kids. Not only that, she's offered to watch Lizzie if I want to go off and do things by myself.

Dude, I want to marry Cara. Does anyone think Bill would mind?

In Which Amy Talks Gifts

I'm watching the snow fall here in MOFN and I've resigned myself to the fact that winter is here. And with winter comes some undeniable, inescapable truths: it's really cold, it gets dark really early and the weather gets really crappy. Besides that also comes My Albatross:

Holiday themed jewelry store commercials.

On Facebook the other day I may have hinted that I find holiday jewelry commercials obnoxious, insulting, and exasperating.

I loathe them. I really do. The women in them porn-gasm when they see the little box from Zales/Kay/Jared/Helzberg Diamonds. The men in them always have doofy grins on their faces like they just washed down a handful of 'ludes with a fifth of tequila. And if you're really, really (un)lucky, you get the uber-adorable commercial kids hiding in the other room making comments like, "They're so cute at that age."

Oh, my Christ on a cracker. Somebody shoot me now.

I think men who buy jewelry for their wives are lazy. Oh, I know some women live for the sparkly stuff and will pitch a fit if their isn't some kind of bling under the tree for them Christmas morning, and I feel for those husbands, I really do (even though this is when I can pull out the old "You knew she was like that when you married her" card). But, know what? Some women (yours truly included) would rather have our husbands buy them something that's less generic.

Don't look at me like that: Jewelry is generic. Do you know how many diamond heart pendants Kay Jewelers sell during the Hanukkah/Christmas season? Thousands. Thousands upon thousands, if I want to (kinda) exaggerate. So that gift you're buying your woman that you think is so special? Yeah, thousands of other women are going to open it and coo over it too.

Rock on, guy. That's the way to show your girl she's unique and original.

I would rather have something under the tree for me Christmas morning that shows me my husband knows me. That he knows what I like, what I'm interested in, and what will, in fact, make me porn-gasm.

My Gift List is short, sweet, and super easy: I want Barnes & Noble gift cards, tickets to the New York Renaissance Faire (you don't even have to go with me!), written promises to wash dishes/load and unload the dishwasher once a week for a year, and maybe--if I'm feeling really extravagant--tickets to see a show on Broadway.

That's it. Isn't that simple? In fact, I've never had any guy read my list and say, "Damn, Amy, don't you want an over-priced piece of sparkle that you'll only wear once or twice a year?"

Gee, Anonymous Male Person in my Life, I can't believe I didn't think about that. Why don't you run down to Zales and buy me over-sized, over-priced, over-jeweled ring that makes it look like I'm carting around half a South African diamond mine and dwarf the size of my hand?

No, thanks. Just wash the damn dinner dishes every once and a while and I'm a happy girl.

In Which Amy Lists What She's Thankful For

Today is Thanksgiving. You might not have noticed since stores have decided to skip the entire month of November and started celebrating Christmas around October 30th, but I'm here to remind you that today is the day to celebrate what we're thankful for.

Now this is where I'm supposed to be all "I'm thankful for my family and my friends and my health and blahdy blahdy blahdy," but that's all been done before, so I'm here to list the things I'm really thankful for.

In no particular order, they are:

1. Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream. More specifically Mint Chocolate Cookie, Strawberry Cheesecake, and Dublin Mudslide.

2. Captain Morgan. No, not the pirate, the rum. In case you haven't noticed, I adore rum. In fact, I plan on drinking a little bit of it after dinner.

3. Jeans. I love jeans. You can dress them up, you can dress them down, and--if you're wearing them just right--they have the ability to buy you drinks all night long. (now, some would argue that a good bra could also have the ability to buy you drinks all night long too, but jeans can get you drinks from the front or the back. no bra has that much talent.)

4. The Internet. If I could ever figure out who actually invented the Internet, I'm going to kiss him/her right on the lips. Unless they're dead. Because that would be really disgusting.

5. Barnes & Noble gift cards. Any denomination works for me.

6. Sarcasm. I don't think that needs any explanation. Especially if you know me even a little bit.

7. My imagination. At this point, I've been using my imagination to crown myself Queen of England, to win the lottery, to write stories, to escape from the crapartment, and to make myself smile for so long, I feel like I should give it an extended vacation . . . maybe over Christmas.

8. Facebook. Oh, don't give me that look. You know you love Facebook. How on earth can you re-make friends and cyberstalk your enemies without it?

9. Bedtime. It just makes me smile.

10. Salt air. Nothing reminds me more of home and makes me happier then to stand on the beach and inhale a double lungful of salt air. Erick calls it "refilling my salt air tanks."

11. Converse. High tops, black ones. Classic and awesome.

12. Coffee. Wawa, Tim Horton's, Wegmans. I don't care; I love coffee.

13. Long car rides. Now, I will admit I sometimes fall asleep during long car rides. Sometimes, I talk so much that I'm like a one-woman show in the passenger seat. Either way, we're going somewhere.

14. TV. Don't be uppity. You freaking know you love the TV too.

15. Curling up on the couch with a book, a blanket, a cup of coffee, some good music and warm woolly socks on a cold winter's day. Yeah. Oh, yeah. That's just nice.

So, Happy Thanksgiving, everybody. Be thankful for your family and your friends and etc, but think about what else you're thankful for. You know, the selfish stuff that's just about you.

In Which Amy Waxes Poetic About Words

Words are awesome.

I love words. I love to learn new words. I love to make words up. I love correcting people when they use the wrong words (yeah, that's one of my most endearing qualities). I love that some words are the same word with totally different meanings (think Coke and coke).

But what I love most about words is how you use them with others. The way you speak and the words you use with your parents, for example, are usually completely different than the way you speak and the words you use with your friends. The simplest feelings can be expressed so simply, it's like poetry or so eloquently, you swoon.

Words can make you melt. And it's not just the words someone uses; a lot of time it's their tone of voice or the look they give you as they say it. Said by the right person with the right look and in the right context, words can self-combust a pair of Victoria's Secret panties faster than gasoline can combust an old building on Devil's Night in Detroit.

But, unless the words can touch you in some way, the tone, the look, and even the person don't mean a thing.

Anyone can ask, "What do you like about me?" and get an answer like "'Cause I like you." or "'Cause you're cool." Wow. Thanks, Mr. Romance. But if you ask someone, "What do you like about me?" and they respond, "The way we banter. The way your hair smells when we hug hello. The way my hand fits perfectly in the small of your back.", you are way more likely to melt all over the floor than if they responded, "'Cause you kick ass at Halo more than anybody I know."

Of course, unless you want to know that you kick ass at Halo more than anybody your crush knows. Then, good on ya.

Guys get the short shrift when it comes to using words to their full advantage. Most men don't give women the answers listed above to the super-girly "What do you like about me?" question (notice I said "most"--I know a few guys who know exactly how to answer that question so the asker needs to be picked up off the floor).

But women don't always use the right words either. Now, I'm not talking about screwing up "runs" for "touchdowns" or think "PAT" means "Point After aTtempt." (oh, and fyi, girls: PAT means Point After Touchdown). Despite what guys might say, they want girls to throw out some wordy compliments too. Make it wordy, but make it short, ladies. It's tough to do, but if you get all Shakespearean on your man, his mind will start to wander. Then the next thing you know, you're yelling at him because he wasn't listening and he's trying to defend himself because when you asked him, "Are you listening? What are you thinking about?", he answered very honestly, "That part in Titanic when Kate Winslet gets out of the car in the beginning of the movie and she's wearing that purple hat. She's hot." (true story)

Yeah, words are awesome. They can end a romance just as quickly as they can start one.

In Which Amy Talks About Blogging

Blogging seems like it should be so easy.

(No, this isn't going to be a re-hash of my writer's block post.)

You get an idea while washing dishes or scrambling eggs and it starts to germinate. You spend your day doing whatever you do all day long--keeping house, working, IM-ing doing homework as your 3 year old uses your body as her personal jungle gym--but all the while you're writing your blog post in your head.

I find myself writing the whole blog post in my head, editing it, posting it, reading it, and then breaking my arm patting myself on the back because it's just frakking brilliant.

The only drawback is that--wait for it--IT NEVER GETS WRITTEN.

Something always comes up: more IM-ing homework, a child-related crisis ("Mommy! We have no GOLDFISH CRACKERS!"), Facebook, watching DVR'ed TV shows from 3 weeks ago with Husband before hustling off to school. Coming home at 10pm sort of kills the creative gene, but never stops me from watching TV until 1am.

It was suggested to me that I purchase a digital voice recorder and ramble my ideas into it so I don't forget anything (I only knew that the person meant "handheld tape recorder" because the guys on Ghost Hunters will say digital voice recorders and then grab handheld tape recorders). It sounded like a really good idea for about 30 seconds, then I had a terrible flashback of rambling into a tape recorder during my pot-smoking days, thinking I was spouting off pearls of wisdom. But--when listened to when I was straight--was mostly just hours and hours of me crunching Pringles and meandering through half-thought-out statements and many, many, many, many instances of me saying, "Uhhhh . . . yeah . . . like . . . mmmmmmm . . . " which I assumed wasn't an actual pearl of wisdom I was trying to get out, but mostly my Maui Wowie-induced appreciation of overly-salted potato treats.

Blogging is, in fact, harder than it looks. I can tell you a story that will make you laugh because of hand gestures and facial expressions and precisely placed sarcasm, but it loses a lot in translation when I type it up on a computer screen. (A friend of mine came in contact with this phenomena the other day when I made a comment about rape and being glad I'm not a guy. I could feel his tense uncomfortable-ness through the Internet so I backpedalled quickly with the always safe "That sounded a lot cuter in my head.") So many funny things happen around here during the day, but it always seems flat and boring when typed up. Told to girls I go to school with, though, it kills.

I read on another blog I love that the key to blogging is to write everyday. Dude, really? Thanks for playing. If I could write everyday, two of my posts wouldn't be about how I can't write everyday. But that blogger had a point. There are so many blogs, so many news stories, so many things that happen during an average day, how can I possibly not find something to write about? Easy.

1. Some things would make for great blog-fodder, but aren't worth the fight with {fill in blank with person or family member's name} that would follow the publication.
2. Some things really do lose a lot in translation. Read this statement: "I have no idea why you kept taking "no" for an answer. I couldn't if I were you. Guess it's a good thing I'm not a guy." Terrifying, right? Now picture me saying it while waving around a glass of white wine and giggling like mad with a flirty/snarky look on my face. Hysterical, right? (you really have to know me and my sense of humour to think this is funny. you know who you are)

So, I will press on, trying to find funny things to blog about. Don't be surprised if my next few blog posts are about my dull to the nth power life in MOFN or how I will never, never, never, never get to move back to New Jersey (this is the part of the sentence when I throw myself across the love seat with my hand to my forehead like a Massive Drama Queen).

God help you all.

Maybe Cara can save us all with some really, really brilliant blog posts. We know she can do it.

In Which Amy Loves All Over Autumn

There's some inherently delightful about Autumn.

Is it the fact I can wear jeans again and no one will stare at me like I'm insane (I wear jeans all year long--even if it's so hot that you can fry eggs on the hood of your car)? Is it the fact that apples are my favourite fruit and they finally come into season in fall? Is it the fact that the nights get longer which means I can sleep longer (Oh, who am I kidding? I still stay up until 1am every night, regardless of the season)? Is it the fact that my birthday is in September?

Well, now that I'm in my (gulp) mid-thirties, it might not be the birthday one that much anymore.

Who knows and who cares? It's Autumn!

The air is crisp and cool. The leaves change colours. Hoodie sweatshirts start to be acceptable to wear here, there, and everywhere. Halloween and Thanksgiving beckon with the promise of society-approved gluttony. I can finally go outside during the day without the skin melting off my face from the humidity. Kids hate Autumn because Autumn means back to school (which, ironically enough, is the reason a lot of my friends gave me for liking Autumn).

Summer-loving people always lament the coming of Autumn because that means Summer is over. Oh, boo-hoo. Thanks to global warming, Spring has ceased to exist, so Summer starts in April now. Plus, when Summer ends, the bennies go home.

(I AM NOT A BENNY. I haven't assimilated to life in MOFN that much. I might have Pennsie plates on the Vibe, but I'm still All Jersey. So much so that I'm pretty sure that 90% of people at school think my name is actually Jersey and not Amy.)

Autumn means driving with the car windows down. Autumn means the air smells like burning leaves. Autumn means pumpkin picking. Autumn means you dig out the slow cooker and make soup, stew, and chili.

Autumn is like Earth's way to kiss outside life good-bye because Winter is just such a bitch.

Top Five Reasons why I Hate all Men--Literally

Ah, yes. Guest Blogger Tina had an awesome and hysterical thread under one of her Facebook statuses that I decided needed to be a blog post.

I told you to start writing and sending Cara and me stories.

Now do you believe me?

Amy

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Reason #1
First and most important, we menstruate. Will someone please tell me why men gets to be part of that word? Why not call it ladystruate or ladiesleaking? But, no. Some hoity-toity man thinks, "Ehhh, 'menstruate' is a good word." I think I'm going to call Websters and ask for an ethics committee meeting on the validity of using that word and its definition in print.

Reason #2
Fellas, the PMS blame is getting old. Anytime we are moody or bitchy, you blame our bad attitudes on PMS. I am here to set the record straight. Its not PMS: it's Y-O-U. Maybe if you cut the grass or took out the trash or played with your kids when we asked you to, we wouldn't get huffy and pissy when we see that, two hours later, you are still sitting on the couch. Then when we stomp past you to do it ourselves in a rage, you wouldn't have to wonder "What the hell's her problem?" and you wouldn't have to complain to your "boys" that your wife\girlfriend\whatever you call us now is ragging it or PMS-ing. Honestly, we are all pretty fun chicks if you would just help out a little.

Reason #3
When its time to pay bills, please wipe the dumbfounded look off your face and do not even bother asking, "Where is the money you got from me two weeks ago?" Please stop offering these ridiculously small amounts of cash like you are doing us a huge favor. Remember that running a house is more the rent\mortgage and utilities. We also need toilet paper, shampoo, food, laundry soap, diapers, wipes, tampons (see Reason #1 for clarification on this), etc. And throwing us a little cash and saying, "Buy yourself something nice." might be a nice thought but I see you are sporting some new kicks while my shoes have made it through two summers. Also this goes back to Reason #2. If we didn't have to beg for bill money repeatedly, we might be able to skip some of those PMS MOMENTS. Again, it's all on you.

Reason #4
You have been a male your entire life. Well, unless you had a sex change and I don't honestly know anyone who has. Please explain to me why someone who has peed the same way their entire life (minus the first two or three years) still finds a way to miss the toilet and instead pees on the seat, the floor, and all over bathroom carpets. Ahem, again this goes with Reason #2: if you didn't pee on my carpet, I wouldn't have to wash them. And if I didn't have to wash them so often they wouldn't fall apart leading me to stomp past you in a huff to throw them away. We wouldn't have to ask you for money to buy new ones, and you wouldn't be left telling your boys (again) how we were "PMS-ing" (yet again). See how Y-O-U created the problem?

Reason #5
The question of all questions: "Do I look fat in this?" We are asking this for a reason. Do not try to over think this one. Don't chew on your lip and think, "Do I tell her that she looks like a babe or do I tell her that she looks like a beached whale?" Honestly, I will most likely take that lip chewing as a sign you are lying and I will write you off as NOT GETTING ANY tonight. If I ask "Do I look fat?" it's because:
1) Duhhh, I want to know.
2) If you tell me I look great and I wear it, I am going to run into my lady friends who say, "What the hell were you thinking packing Texas in your underpants this morning? The J-Lo look is sooo last season." or--worse and better that that--they will break into a Glee-style version of "I Like Big Butts" by the legendary Sir Mix-A-Lot. And all without Puck, which will just piss me off even more.
3) I know at some point someone is going to take my picture and add it to their Facebook album where I will be tormented for all eternity by the caption that reads "The Wide Load Truck posed with us, but we had to take pics anyway."
Moral of the story: If I look fat, say so and risk the chance of me being mad at you. That is probably the only time I will accept the story you give the boys about being raggy and PMS-y.

Now, guys, I made this as easy as possible to understand. Don't break any more of these rules and we'll be good to go. If not, well, see Reason #2.

Would You Check That????

Another Facebook note too good to pass up. This is by my "sister" Tina about being a strong single mom, whether she wants to or not.

Better start blogging, girls. I'm on a mission.

Amy

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So, I am left to ponder past experiences in my life and I have come up with a revelation:

Men are scaredy cats.

I remember a night (no particular night specifically) when I heard a loud noise downstairs. I said, "Hey did you hear that?" I got the "Mmmm-hmmm." response. So, as I mutter under my breath about the ladies who asked for equal rights, I go to check it out. I think our forewomen should've been more specific when asking for equal rights: like asking for equal pay for jobs. I don't think they had intentions of us cutting the grass, changing our own oil and tires, pumping our own gas, unclogging toilets, and any other job I want a man to do for me. I have a tail light out; my first thought is "Daddy Dearest." I don't mind the fact that I have to do these things as a single mom, I just think that very nice men friends should say, "Oh, how about I help with that?" (HINT HINT)

All of these little nights of being "The Man of the House" left me stronger for my life as a single mom. I have to do mommy duties and daddy duties and if that means being a bad ass at 3 am checking out noises, I will.

Come to the present day.

The other night, I was just starting to fully sleep. My insomnia has me up late most nights. This night, my tired butt was ready to fully knock out when my pit bull, Ruby, let out the most fierce barks I have ever heard. She ran to my windows looking into my yard, letting out these warnings. Truthfully, I was pretty scared. I know someone was out there. Yet, there I was, with my phone in hand to call for backup, checking out the noise. I look at the phone and think, "Shit. Do I need a man to save me? Hell no!" I exchange the phone for a butcher knife. So, note to any friend who thinks they want to surprise me at night: I come wielding knives. Big ones.

I don't know if it was my pounding heart or the barking that scared the noise away. Maybe it was the wind. But I again was the brave one checking it out (Brave = Me + one bad ass pit bull). As I crawled my butt back into bed, I was full of thanks. And here was my quote of thanks:

"Thank you God for putting pussy-ass men in my life to make me stronger. I appreciate you're thinking ahead for me."

A Skeptics Change of Heart or My First Experience with Kiddie Soccer!

I gleaned this post from Facebook. My and Cara's mutual friend Merrie Napolitano (nee Reilly) posted a note about her son's first day with soccer. It was too good not to share with Blogger.

And since NO ONE has taken us up on our offer to co-blog with us co-bloggers, I'll keep stealing notes from Facebook until you all contribute.

Amy

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Well, I experienced Kiddie Soccer yesterday afternoon. I was dreading going, being someone who has played soccer for half of her live at a very competitive level. I even brought something to distract me from the horror of Bumblebee Soccer (I really didn't think I could handle it). I also had no idea how Tristan would react to playing with other children, or if he would even enjoy playing a semi-structured sport.

I was so bowled away by how the BTSA runs their Kiddie Soccer, and how excited Tristan was to play that I never touched my diversion. I found his cleats, shin guards and a ball over at Dick's for a great deal $34.99 and Tristan got to pick out his ball (he wanted the red one). Well, on the ride over, he informed Nick and I that he needed to give the ball to his coach. We told him that the coach didn't want his ball and in fact that the coach was going to give him a ball and a soccer shirt to play! But still he insisted, so we just agreed.

We got to the field early since this was actually the second game but Tristan's first (he missed the first game the week before because of his cousins' 4th birthday). I sat him in the back of the car and put on his shin guards, socks and cleats, and when he jumped down he looked up at me and smiled, "I'm ready!" I smiled; this was a good sign. "Then let's go find your coach!" I said and off we all went. Armed with the stroller for Inara, a chair, blanket, lunch (for Inara), the camera, and the Flip we trudged to find someone to tell us where to find the Tigers.

Having basically grown up on Pinewood Park fields I felt right at home, but had a rock in the pit of my stomach, completely unsure of what was to ensue once we reached the team and new coach. We were directed to the second field, and were told the Tigers were the dark blue team all the way at the end. Upon arrival at the correct field, his coach came over and introduced himself and spoke directly to Tristan (this was a major plus in my book), telling him he had the jersey (t-shirt) and a new ball for him. Tristan took to him right away, and had a smile on his face from the moment he stepped on the field until he took his nap that afternoon at about 3 o'clock.

This is where my dread returned. Was Tristan going to listen to the coach? Would he behave? Even if he did actually listen, would he follow directions? Would I be able to handle 10 3-4 year olds buzzing in a hive after a tiny size three soccer ball? You will be thrilled to know (as I was), that all of my fears were untoward and I wish the hour could have been longer.

During the 1/2 hour practice, Tristan listened like a champ and followed directions with ease. It left me wondering if there is a soccer camp that goes all year long! LOL And he showed a great skill for the sport. Plus I found that watching 3-4 year olds learn how to play soccer was therapeutic. I laughed the whole time. They were adorable learning new skills and then announcing their achievements when they could manage to do it without falling down. It made me realize that dribbling a soccer ball while running is a complicated skill that takes concentration and coordination! (Even if it comes naturally to the child they still have to think about it. After years of playing, you forget that it is not a natural movement).

Then came the 1/2 hour game. I can't remember the last time I laughed so hard. They were great! Running around after the ball and each other, they listened to the coaches shouted instructions with the skill of pros! Unfortunately they all listened to both coaches equally and weren't really sure which goal to shoot at or which way to turn and run, so there was a lot of running in circles. Two little girls on opposite teams were holding hands in the middle of the field talking. Tristan decided he needed hold up the goal post with another little girl at one point (Uncle Ryan insisted he was flirting). One little girl refused to put the ball down and pouted when it was taken away by the coach. And the best part was Tristan, who ran over to us a number of times asking for HIS soccer ball, because someone took the other one away! LMAO! Nick and I would laugh and wave him back on the field telling him he had to go get that one back, and he would smile, laugh and run back to get the game ball!

He had a blast and out of the 8 children on the team, Tristan and another little girl were the only kids on the field for almost the whole 30 minutes! The coach was encouraging and I give him tons of credit for taking on this job. He certainly earned his wings!!! Upon leaving (which Tristan did NOT want to do), he asked to go back tomorrow and he refused to take his sweaty jersey until right before nap at!

I had no idea what to expect coming in to this as a mom new to this world of Kiddie Soccer, but I was thrilled with Tristan's reaction to the sport, and my own reaction to what basically can be called organized chaos! I have to say thank you to the BTSA and their volunteer coaches for running such a great program and for making a skeptic and pessimist have to rethink her ideas of Kiddie Soccer. It was such a joy watching my son playing and loving a game that I loved as a child and adult! And thank you to those mommy's out there who gave the BTSA props when I wasn't sure it would be the right place for Tristan to play!

In Which Amy Tries to Understand Banning Books

The ALA (American Library Association) is launching Banned Books Week from 9/25 - 10/2. The tagline for this "celebration" is Banned Books Week: Celebrating the Freedom to Read.

Really?

I mean, really? Has book banning gotten so huge and out of control that it needs a whole week dedicated to it?

I love to read. Ask anyone who knows me or even sorta knows me, reading is my life. Running a close second and third to reading are writing and scarfing down pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream while wearing stretchy pants and watching Orlando Bloom movies, but I digress.

But I don't get banning books. How can you ban a book? Who gets to decide a book is "filthy" or "trashy" or "anti-family" or any of the others phrases that crazy nutjobs use? Can you really just remove a book from library shelves and reading lists because some whiny parents who probably haven't opened a book since high school suddenly got it in their heads that their kids' AP English teacher is peddling smut?

God, this kind of crap pisses me off.

Do you know what and who's on the Banned Books Lists? I mean, you've got the Usual Suspects of English Literature--including The Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Grapes of Wrath, A Separate Peace, 1984 and The Great Gatsby (all of which, excluding To Kill a Mockingbird and 1984, make me want to stick pins in my eyes)--plus the Harry Potter series and pretty much every book written by Stephen King and Judy Blume, but you won't believe some of the others. You're going to die laughing*:

Captain Underpants (series) by Dave Pilkey

Bridge To Terabithia by Katherine Paterson

A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L’Engle

And my two absolute favourites:

Junie B. Jones (series) by Barbara Park

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

C'mon, people! Junie B. Jones? Are you freaking kidding me? It's a chapter book written for elementary schoolers! What could possibly be wrong with it? Because Junie is a little sassy and acts too big for her britches now and then? Hello! What elementary schooler doesn't? I have a 3 year old who's sassy and acts too big for her britches. Junie always does right in the end and learns a good lesson.

I can't even fathom banning Fahrenheit 451. They do know that book is about BOOK BANNING AND BURNING, right? You'd think that the right wing fruitloops who decided that Fahrenheit 451 needed to be banned would actually like the book and its ideals: Books are bad, reading is bad, critical thought is bad, and etc. The reasons that the novel was originally banned was because of the violence, disregard for human life and hedonism. But, if you really read Fahrenheit 451, you'll soon learn that the reason the book's population is so violent, hedonistic, and unintelligent was because books were being banned and destroyed in their world.

Irony thy name is book banning.

While I do think some books deserve to have marshmallows roasted over them (Stephanie Meyer, Twilight hack, I'm looking at you, sweetheart), in this day and age, not enough kids are reading. And what they are choosing to read is getting banned more and more often. If you keep taking books out of the hands of kids and restricting what they have access to, how can we raise them into adults with opinions, ideas, and thoughts of their own?

I could never try to remove a book from a library shelf or high school reading list. Not only is it wrong, self-destructive, and just plain silly, I just don't have the wherewithal to start a letter-writing campaign and a legal battle just because some fictional character in a novel decided to say "fuck." Once.

So, go grab your copy of Slaughterhouse-Five, Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret, Heather Has Two Mommies, or The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big, Round Things and get ready to celebrate Banned Books Week; because if we don't celebrate it, who will?

*These books are on the Top 100 Banned/Challenged Books 2000-2009.