...for a different kind of girl

silent surburban girl releasing her voice, not yet knowing what all she wants to say about her life and the things that make it spin. do you have to be 18 to be here? you'll know when i know.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

hey, cherry. do you belong to the physics club?

Last week, Tool Man was out of town for work, doing whatever it is Major Tool Company representatives do when they leave their wives at home alone with the children while they're (finger quotes) allegedly (finger quotes) out pimping power sanders and drills. The bulk of his time away was spent in Chicago, where he attended three days of corporate meetings and various rah-rah sessions designed to pump up staff for the holiday quarter.

On Wednesday morning, Tool Man called to tell me his meetings were kicking off that evening with employees gathering for a series of trust-building activities and outdoor games. Before he could finish telling me that one of the activities was called "whirly ball," I was forced to interrupt him by screaming out "Team Building Exercise '99!!" directly into his ear. Sadly, my glee at this very appropriately timed pun was met with silence from Tool Man, who refused to watch the first season of Flight of the Conchords with me last spring, instead opting to mutter "That looks stupid," to which I responded, "Oh, yeah?! Well, so's yer frackin' Battlestar Galactica!" Then we got into a knock down, drag out fight that ended with some kissing and perhaps me begging for mercy and taking back what I said about Battlestar Galactica, even though I totally had my fingers crossed behind my back.

(BTW - I've since made him watch Flight of the Conchord clips that number too many to count mutha uckas, so he at least knows what I'm talking about, thus leaving him without an appropriate excuse for denying me the appropriate response of a "Ha ha ha," after my witty remark, though I should probably forgive him because, people, I still don't know what whirly ball is, but Tool Man came home bruised in places that only someone who is married to or in a consensual relationship with someone who has played whirly ball should see.)

(BTW: Part Deux! - It's my understanding that I'm responsible for the 84 kabillionth link to the Conchord's Business Time clip in a blog post. Took me awhile, so I gave you two versions!)

(BTW: last one, I swear - Bret McKenzie is the latest additions to my celebrity crush list, which also now includes Craig Ferguson, who really has nothing to do with this post, other than I find him and his accent magically delicious)

Anyway, where were we? Ah, my Tool Man and his team building exercises. OK. So, late Friday night, Tool Man made his triumphant (and incredibly bruised) return to me. While unpacking his bag (and grimacing in post-whirly ball pain), he tossed me a hat and muttered, "Here. They gave this to us at our meeting."

People! This hat is the far more kick ass equivalent of a Team Building '99 t-shirt, and Seth, my inner 14-year-old boy, and I were delighted beyond belief to have it! Seth and I carried on and on (shocking, no?) about how proud we were Tool Man was finally in the Wacker Club, and peppered him with many highly inappropriately-worded, yet very appropriately timed questions about what the club meetings involved, but once again, I (we) was (were) met with silence from Tool Man. That forced me (by then, Seth had bailed) to do what I often do when faced with someone who totally loves me, but just doesn't get me, and that is to bastardize quotes from my other delight, The Breakfast Club.

"So in wacking club, you talk about wacking? Properties of wacking?"

More silence. Perhaps my charms were really just bruising his ego in a fashion that matched his whirly ball bruises. Whatever the case, I tipped my new Wacker Club hat at him, stood to leave the room, and totally called him a wanker.

"I don't know any wankers, but I'm not going to run out and join any of their wacker clubs," Tool Man replied.

And that right there? That's all part of the foreplay with my Tool Man and me. I love foreplay. You can imagine what heppened next.

Awww yeah, it was business time (85 kabillionth).

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Thursday, September 25, 2008

i like big twits and i cannot lie

A couple of months ago, I wrote about the things I'd tweet if I twitted. Shortly after that post, in my quest to be as close to Backpacking Dad as legally possible, I became a huge twit, and if you ever wish to see me pushing my twits together far more than I probably should, you can join me at the love shack.

While I can appreciate the 140-character stable Twitter keeps you reigned in at, the confines of such brevity for a girl as wordy as myself (See what I mean? I could have just said '...for a wordy girl as myself,' or, better yet, just '...wordy girl') can feel a little like I'm trying to shove a pair of kick ass double Ds into a B-cup bra. Thus, to cap off the week, I'm letting my tweets spill over by sharing some random delights (or "double D-lites!") with you.

  • I called my 6-year-old niece Monday afternoon because I needed someone to feel bad for me after my tumble down the stairs. "Auntie's covered in owies, and the boys just laugh at me when I hurt, sweetie. Can you give me a hug through the phone?" After she'd happily obliged, I asked how her day had been. "I fell off the jungle gym at recess today and broke my wrist in two places and the doctor twisted it and I cried and now I have a cool cast on! I'm going to decorate it with polka dots!" she said. "Huh. So. I guess you're wanting that hug back." Gah! Totally pwnd by a kindergartner! Sympathy fail!
  • During the same phone call, my 11-year-old son, who'd earlier "Heh'd" me when I told him about my fall, virtually held the fragile bones of his cousin and told her what a trooper she was. Talk, as it is wont to do among the young, turned to cartoons. "So, do you like Scooby Doo?" my son asked. His query reminded me of his deep, consumer-driven love of all things Scooby Doo he'd had for years, the one Tool Man and I fed with videos, toys, clothing, and related paraphernalia. I smiled when I heard him ask his cousin if she, too, loved that damn dog, and I thought of how cute he was as a toddler at his Scooby Doo-themed birthday parties, and dragging two stuffed Great Danes to bed in his Scooby Doo pajamas. So sweet. And then: "Yeah, I really hate Scooby Doo, too." What? Under the mask of this so-called Scooby Doo fan was actually a boy who hated the crime-solving canine?! Poof! went my memories! Memories I would have held onto longer if it weren't for that darn kid!
  • I had my annual review at work the other day. This process took a record 90 seconds to administer because I'm just that fantastic. Management wishes science had the means to create a super colony of book sellers just like me, except we all know how that kind of thing turns out. There's always one Terminator/robot/alien/bionic goddess who uncovers her feelings deep within her steely facade, and then chaos breaks out. Alas, they'll have to make due with just me this holiday season.
  • At the completion of my review, I was rewarded for another year of awesomeness with a 50 cent raise. She's got big thoughts, big dreams, and a big brown Mercedes sedan! Four years of bionic-like employment, and this token puts me in the shadow of a double digit hourly wage! This is, alas, more than I ever made as a newspaper editor. Cristal for the house, courtesy of yours truly! Did I say Cristal? I meant Chrystal Light.
  • Hearing the theme song to 90210 - Duh nuh nuh nuh. Nuh nuh nuh nuh. Clap, clap. Duh nuh nuh nuh. Nuh Nuh Nuh Nun. Do do do do - still totally makes me happy. BH-Niner, I am forever your Andrea Zuckerman. I'll totally go all the way with you after prom. Just tell me you love me, too.
  • Speaking of love, the Kings of Leon's song Sex On Fire kind of makes me want to get laid. Strike that. It definitely makes me want to get laid. Seriously. I've probably listened to this song more times than I've actually been laid (which is to say, I've listened to it at least twice). In between verses, I think I can hear it pleading for mercy, saying something about how it's "...just one song, woman, not a machine!", and feigning sleep so I'll not hit rewind on my iPod to continue the sexy time.
  • Speaking of sexy time, I began the process of storing calories for the hard winter today when I discovered Reece's peanut butter pumpkins have made their triumphant return to stores shelves. They've probably been available for awhile now, but I've been too busy buying vibrators at Target to stroll the store's candy aisles. I bought one to bask in its glorious greatness (aka shove it in my mouth so quickly you'd ask to see my hands afterward because you would be afraid that, in my haste, I also ate my fingers clean off). Some observations - (1) Reece's peanut butter pumpkins seem a lot smaller than I remember and (2) Reece's peanut butter pumpkins are still totally awesome. However, having gorged on one, I must now declare a cease fire and prevent them from declaring war upon my ass. One and done. Cold turkey. Unless! Unless Reece's decides to put out a peanut butter turkey for Thanksgiving! Then all bets are off, and so will be my clothes, because I will eat so many of those damn things nothing will fit me.

That's about it. After reading those, you're perhaps thinking, "Eh. Follow you on twitter? Based on this post? I think I'm good. Yeah. I'm good. Are you good? Yeah. We're good. How 'bout we just get the check now?" That's OK. No worries. However, if you're so inclined, I've just shown you my tweets, so if you want, show me yours. Here, there, or anywhere.


Wednesday, September 24, 2008

i'll tumble for ya

Last week, while feeding the children's department shelves copies of Ramona the Pest, Tales of a Fourth-Grade Nothing, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid, my thoughts of "Wow, if you didn't know better, you'd think kid's books today had serious self-esteem issues," were interrupted by an older gentleman who was shadowing his granddaughter around the department. With every move toward independence the toddler took, the man would sigh and warn, "Don't fall down now, you hear? Don't fall down now."

"Don't fall down now, you hear?" he asked as his young charge successfully climbed a stage that sits three inches from the ground.

"Don't fall down now," he said when the girl stood to peer over a chair.

Don't fall down now," he advised as she teetered across the floor, eyeing a display of stuffed animals.

For more than an hour, I listened to this man do nothing more than encourage the young child not to fall down. Now now. Perhaps later, but not now. "Don't fall down now." By about 39 minutes in, I'll admit I was starting to wonder if there had ever been a time in history when the suggestion "Do not fall down now," ever worked. I imagine there was one or two Romans standing around, who, while watching the collapse of their empire, turned to their buddy, pointed at the mess, and muttered, "See? I told 'em not to fall down now, but would anyone listen to me?" Perhaps a German or two wondered, "Is this why we wanted the wall to fall now? Now? After so many years?" as they watched the barrier be chipped away to reveal David Hasselhoff crooning Looking For Freedom. And I promise you, Kim Carnes absolutely tried to warn those other chicks Kenny Rogers would one day duet with to not fall in love with a dreamer, but he was all, "Pfft, whatever, Kim Carnes!" Well guess what? That's right. Three years later, along comes Sheena Easton, and Kenny's all, "Why should we worry? No one will care, girl." You want to know who cares? Kim Carnes. Kim Carnes cares, and she's saying, "Sheena? Soon he's going to be all, 'I know your plans don't include me,' just so he can bail and not look like the bad guy. But have you SEEN Kenny Rogers lately? Dude definitely looks like the bad guy!"

(Sidebar: Dude! Cool electric coat on Hasselhoff! That is BAD ASS! Also, if anyone is going to do some falling, I suggest you fall to our knees in reverence to the fact that I just busted some Kenny Rogers love around here! Two years of blogging. That's all it took!)

Anyway, we were speaking of falling...

Cut to Monday morning. I was at home, getting ready for an exciting new work week (Three hour shifts? Somebody better fluff my pillow and fetch me my slippers after that kind of taxing day!). I was heading downstairs to enjoy some tasty peanut butter toast when, while standing at the top of the steps, I spied some cards Tool Man had left for me on the cedar chest in the living room that opens up from our staircase. Intent on retrieving them before I had breakfast, my mind was immediately filled with thoughts of "Cards! Cards! Cards!" (btw, this is also how my mind operates when I think "Backpacking Dad!, Backpacking Dad!, Backpacking Dad!" Only there's typically two exclamation points when I think about him!! And a soundtrack.). Around the fifth step, my gears switched and I heard the advice of the older gentleman from the bookstore last week in my mind.

"Don't fall down now, you hear? Don't fall down now."

"You're right, Older Gentleman From the Bookstore Last Week. Sure would suck if I fell down the stairs now," I thought. "Sure hope I don't fall down now."

Left foot planted on the step. Right foot lifted into the air and swung forward, and my thought immediately changed.


People! I went hurtling down from the middle of my staircase, and in the midst of it, I thought, "CRAP! I AM TOTALLY FALLING!! (Wow! I'm falling really quickly, and yet, this is sort of slow and cartoon-like, thus allowing me time to think) CRAP!!! I AM TOTALLY FALLING RIGHT NOW!!"

As I was careening downward, I could see the wall edging ever closer, preparing to flatten my nose into my profile, and the corner of the cedar chest next to it, braced to take my left eye out if I hit the corner of it with my face instead. I don't know about you people if you were faced with a similar situation, but I took that split second to think "Gah! Backpacking Dad!"

No. No I didn't (whispering to BPD: I totally did. Shhh...). I thought, "VANITY!" and was able cover my face with my right hand while prepping myself to brace for landing with my left arm. Just in time for my hand-guarded face to slam into the wall, knock me on my right side, and then roll me all twisted up on my left. I laid there for quite some time, relieved in the fact that I was home alone, thus robbing my family the joy of laughing at me, but also stressed that I was alone, thus robbing me of someone to drive me to the hospital if I'd broken any bones, all of which were hurting and creating a delicious cocktail in combination with the sudden-onset nausea I was also experiencing.

Finally able to complete a mini-triage exam, I ascertained that, for the most part, I'd come away from the fall unscathed, and worked my way back up to standing. Want to know what I thought next? I thought, "You're so freakin' right, Older Gentleman From the Bookstore Last Week. We all need someone to follow us around, telling us not to fall down now."

Then I thought, "Huh. Today's the first full day of Fall. Irony? Why yes, I believe so."

Finally, the last thought to really hit me (more literally than like my face-covered hand hitting the wall, which actually did hit me) was, "OMG! I knew I was going to fall JUST BEFORE I STARTED TO FALL!!"

Do you people realize what that means?


Take a minute and think about that! Really think about it. The power to predict the future?! How flippin' kick ass is that?! Sure, I might not have been able to prevent my fall, but I damn well knew I was going to fall! Before I fell! This ability affords me all sorts of power! Why, it's a wonder the government hasn't tried to sweep me up and keep me off the radar. Next week, in all the free time I have when I'm not working 12 hours a week (over the course of four days!), I'm thinking I'll look into picking up some hours as a crime fighter. Except there would be no actual crime to fight because I'd PREDICT IT! Before IT HAPPENED! Then I would stop it! I would do that for no pay, people. I am not pretentious and driven by the mighty dollar! No. I am, it would seem, really driven by gravity, though.

I really do think I may have hit my head...

I also bruised the hell out of my muscles and my arms are killing me. Every time I get up, I groan and look around to see if there's anyone to weep to. If you're going about your day and wonder what that strange sound is, it's probably me, attempting to get off my couch, and you perhaps offer up a little prayer for me, so I thank you for thinking of me.

Except some of you (not you, though, BPD, right?) are probably laughing at me behind my back.

Which also hurts, btw.


Sunday, September 21, 2008

the curse of 'the curse'

Friday night I opened my email account and was delighted to see an email marked as "A friendly reminder!" in the subject line. I clicked it open to read the following:

You have approximately 2 days until the start of your next period!
Picking at my teeth with a sharpened bone of one of my more hapless victims ('Twas cute, the way he begged for mercy upon his soul. Ah, Tool Man, we had some good times...), I glanced down at the ravaged remains of those I had slain throughout the day with my emotional talons, evil glares, and fiery responses ("You really want to know why Mommy's crying again!?" I dare you to ask me what's for supper!), the very remains I'd stepped over to get to my laptop and find this friendly reminder (exclamation point!), and thought:
"Yep. That seems about right."
Then, after dislodging a bit of hair and skin that had gotten hung up in the back of my throat when I chewed the heads off my prey, I punched a hole through my computer screen and wrung the neck of the first nice person at Mon.thly.info who happened to be walking by at the same time my giant fist burst through the wall, encased them in my hook-like fingers, and thanked them for their sweet, sweet (awww...'love, mon.thly') email.
For those of you totally consumed with everything about me (you know who you are and, for the record, the feeling is totally mutual!), or who are keeping track of my periods (friendly reminder! love, you), this is my THIRD period in TWO months! In fact, it's my SECOND period in THREE weeks! I'm super lame at math, but when I add this up, the answer seems wrong. I am, however, waiting for a doctor's appointment, and hoping it's not the one where she tells me I'm old now and the magical elves in MenopauseLand are waiting to welcome me, even though I have no proof that there is such a thing as MenopauseLand (though, if there is, I bet the lines are hella long, it's super humid, and the rides are like really, really, really long car trips with my super chatty Mom, thus it would be torture) nor that there are elves there, but if there are, I kind of feel sorry for them, because in the whole elf gig, they drew the worst card, so no wonder I'm bitchy. It's the elves fault.
Or something.
Anyway...so...I guess now's the time where you all go, "Yeah! I'm so glad she wrote about her period again! Because that DOES NOT happen enough around here. It's been a couple weeks since the last time and, I don't know about you, but I was FREAKING THE HELL OUT, man! I was sort of relieved to read about her sexy retail escapes on Friday, but still! I can take a breath now!"
Or, aside from that, feel free to chat me up about whatever you wish in the comments, because I am slowly working my way back to you (except you, You Know Who! I am always with you!) through them, and, I don't know about you, but I think we're going to be very happy together.


Friday, September 19, 2008

are you picking up on that vibe?

When I was high school, I had a part-time job as a Target cashier. I loved this job for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was for the 10 percent discount on the purchase of my Wham! Make It Big album (and I say "my" because I still own it!), and because I got to work with Shane, my high school crush who led me to believe we'd one day marry because he seemed to know so much about me and my fantastic taste in pop music, a fact I later deduced was the result of all the time I spent riding my bike by his house, slowly, and (perhaps) leaving notes on the windshield of his car.

I worked at Target in the era of "touch key professionals," which meant I'd hand ring in purchases using the code numbers off price tags with my right hand (which to this day remains robotic and I must take care so as not to crush the spines of those I wish a hearty "good job!" to with a clap on the back), while also guiding the various items along the counter and into a bag with my left. This was all done while never looking at the monstrous cash register AND having a conversation with the customer about the quality of their day, the weather, and perhaps their plans for the weekend.

I'm sure there's a more concise way to map out the job description of a "touch key professional," but I am wordy, so there you go.

Every once in awhile, mixed in with the cases of motor oil, economically priced clothing items, and assorted toiletries, a customer would bury a box of condoms. As was often the case during these types of transactions, as soon as my fingers would brush the box of Trojans, the customer would go silent and the remainder of our brief time together would involve me thinking "Heh, heh, heh!" in my 16 year old, I love Shane mind.

Sometimes I'd also think about George Michael. Not so much in those tight shorts in the Wake Me Up Before You Go Go video, but more like in the Everything She Wants clip. You know that part when he's laying naked under that sheet? Yeah. That George Michael. Because I didn't realize. And the album was called "Make It Big," and that would make me think "Heh, heh, heh," too. And I was 16. So give me a break.

Anyway, this wall of condom-induced silence would happened every single time someone purchased condoms from me at Target. Every time!

Once, wanting to forgo the silence, I'm sure, a group of teenage boys stole an assortment of condoms, and their hasty retreat from Target was being matched by security personnel who were running behind them. One of the guards yelled for me to block the thieves' way by standing in front of the door (Nice. Apparently I looked like a linebacker in high school. This still hurts me.). I gauged the speed at which this cops and robbers brigade was bearing down on me, quickly multiplied it by how much money Target was paying me to stand at the express lane next to Shane, and decided that being Tubbs to the guards' Crockett really wasn't my thing.

Anyway, this story is getting hella long, so let's cut to present day. If you've been to Target, you know there's no longer any class system as regal as that of the "touch key professional." Cashiers don't have to know any codes, or attempt to ring and bag with their opposing hands, and hell, if you get the sullen teenager, you don't have to engage in witty bon mots with them. I'll admit, while there's a level of efficiency to this current system, it does make me long for the old days. Happily, I got a taste of them last night!

Last night, I ventured to Target as part of a date with my MILF labeling pastor's wife girlfriend, and OMG, how the mighty moral have fallen! Just before closing time, she took me by the hand and led me to the pharmacy aisle teeming with condoms and various aids, grabbed a Durex Play Vibrations, and cheered "This does a damn good gob!", and then we totally made out until the Target staff turned the lights off and walked by us a lot, clearing their throats, and telling us they closed 20 minutes ago.

The end.

Wait! You skipped a page in this Choose Your Own Adventure story!

Not wanting to scare my wild friend into knowing the cache of various, no doubt stronger items available to me in my nightstand drawer (yet!), I said I'd buy one and see if she was right. "Be sure you mention your husband a lot with the cashier so she doesn't think we're going to use this together after you pay," my friend said. "You're ruining the fantasy, as well as the inevitable long blog post I'll write about this evening," I pouted, tossing in a package of personal lubricant in m cart to really drive whatever point I had and lost home. As luck would have it, we got the cashier who was happy to engage us in clever banter to close out her evening.

"Look like someone's going to be having a good night tonight!" she said.

"Her husband! Well, and her! She is! She's going to have the good time tonight! With her husband!" my friend said.

And for the next two minutes, the cashier and I bantered about my sex life, and I went on and on about how my Tool Man is going to be gone all next week, and I need to store up, and hey, if this vibrating ring works as fantastically as my friend over there says, I'll come back and let you know, blah, blah, blah, oh, and hey, what do you think of George Michael?

I got home 20 minutes later, planted a kiss on Tool Man, and pulled out the Durex Play Vibrations from the bag, and told him it was on (at least for 20 minutes, which is apparently the lifespan of the Durex Play Vibrations, to which I say "Seriously? Just 20 minutes? You clearly don't know me, Durex!"), and told him to get upstairs and be ready for me.

Then I went to open the package AND THERE WAS NOTHING IN IT!!!!


Shoplifters foiled my fun!!

(Actually, they didn't completely because, like my blog posts, it took me awhile to get over the irony I felt, make a phone call to my friend and tell her, talk to her for 30 more minutes after that, AND then go upstairs, which, by that time, was filled with the contented snores of my Tool Man)

So now? Now I have to take my empty Durex Play Vibrations back to Target and have another conversation about how shoplifters are hurting not only the economy but my sex life (or lack thereof at this particular moment). I'm pretty sure when I talk to the employee manning the customer service counter, they're going to be thinking "Heh, heh, heh," when I tell them the box was empty when I bought it.

And then I'm going to ask if they'd like to sing Careless Whisper with me.


Tuesday, September 16, 2008

'I don't like my job & I don't think I'm gonna go anymore'

Remember that time when I was all, "Oh, oldest child, I love you! I adore the ground you walk on! You make my time as your mother better than a thousand calorie-free ice cream sundaes with nuts!"

I raved about this kid of mine here, here, and here again.

Wait! Also, ha ha, this was a funny one. And oh yeah! Here's one where I went all soft and sweet on him.

(You should really check some of those out! I believe those are what is called "very special episodes" in the business. The business of being an awesome mom, that is!)

Anyway, those days are over! As of last night at approximately 8:15 p.m., I've officially tendered my resignation as a mother. This post serves as my letter announcing my intended departure. It does not, however, absolve the company of any or all future legal action I may take against them, of which I am presently weighing my options. Mommy wouldn't mind paying for some plastic surgery to erase evidence of the fact that I've given birth.

I realize this may seem hasty, that the logical step would have been for me to fire my kid. Trust me, with the number of write ups he has in his personnel file - which range from breath that smells like he ate a small animal to numerous recent infractions for insubordination - he should be the one being escorted out by security. However, numerous probationary measures have been issued and patently failed, so, after a closed-door strategy session with the company president (which is what I like to make Tool Man think he is, but we really know who's running this conglomeration. Oooohh yeah!), it was decided I'd resign and take a hefty, yet fair severance package (which may or may not include taking my youngest son with me because, let's be honest, he's still young, adorable, and, most importantly, pliably impressionable. If he goes now, there's a good chance I can deprogram him from the evils his older brother has worked to instill upon him, thus turning him into a potential asset - or fighting machine! - for me)(however, based on how things are going so far this morning, coupled with the way he growled at me when I informed him we were out of Rice Krispies, I'm leaning toward the 'maybe not' option).

Why the bail out, you might be asking? Because I'm tired, so very tired, of playing the lead role in Groundhog Day with this kid every day (the 'every day' thing being the perfect means by which to reference Groundhog Day, which, if I'm playing the lead, I guess that makes me some kind of Bill Murray, which now just leaves me confused and yet relieved that I've chosen not to be Andi MacDowell. Anyway...). Every day, no matter the hour, life with my oldest son is like caring for a newborn lamb. One I must nudge with my furry Mama Lamb nose to get up and walk, eat some grass (wait, I'm from the suburbs, people...do lambs eat grass?), dress himself (a task that begs the reminder to yes, change his underwear), and brush his little lamb teeth (what's left of them, anyway). This is every! damn! day! people!

Then there's the time he's in school. Every day since he started middle school nearly a month ago, Tool Man and I have beseeched him to come home with all the materials necessary for studying. Binders, bags, glasses, homework, anything. Every day he comes home with one thing, but not the other. The next he'll have the other, but not the one thing. We are now nearly four weeks into this first big year, and he insists he never has any homework. I know! I find it odd, too. So I keep tabs on him, via the mysteries of the Internet, as well as my old school option, the telephone. Here's an example of a conversation that took place in our house last night:

Me: "So, do you have any homework. How about a test to study for. You should be having tests by now, shouldn't you?"
Little Lamb: "I don't have any homework. Tests? Wha? Huh? I don't know what that word means. What's a test?"
Me: (silence...simmering silence)
Little Lamb: (blank look of someone so simple and without care or clue)

::Ring! Ring!::

Me: "Oh, the telephone! Saved by the bell! Ha ha! STAY RIGHT THERE!"
Little Lamb: (watching dust particles float through the air like fairies)
Me: "Hello? Oh, hello, Mrs. Little Lamb's social studies and science teacher! How are you tonight? Great. What? You want to talk to me about Little Lamb's TEST? The TEST he took in social studies. The TEST in social studies that HE TOOK TODAY?"
Little Lamb: (sigh)
Me: (simmering glare)

Replace 'social studies test' with 'science quiz,' 'reading assignment,' and/or 'writing notebook,' and you pretty much have a front row seat to what we do every day (have I driven that point home enough yet?) in my house (although my hair doesn't always look as great as you might imagine it does). Last night, in a fit of despair compounded by the fact that the new season of House was set to start soon and I was going to miss it, I informed my insubordinate child that, if things didn't change around here soon, I'd be taking off work next week (oh, friendly bookstore, will you miss me for those 12 hours?!), and I will follow his little lamb butt to all his classes, and I will put my hair up in a mass of eight or 10 ponytails and perhaps scratch at my boobs and raise my hand and ask pertinent questions, just to embarrass him.

My other option is to follow his every move while outside the school building, then, when he's settled in his various classes, I will tap on the windows, point at him, and make the universal sign for throat slashing with my index finger, then point at him again. I assume that 'index finger across throat' is the universal sign for throat slashing and/or threatening to throat slash, but Steve only taught me how to say "more" and "I love you" on those wonderful episodes of Blue's Clues, so I need to check with Backpacking Dad to be sure. Actually, if you could tell me how to sign "There's more throat slashing /(actual slash!) alluded to throat slashing where that came from. I love you!", that would be totally awesome. (P.S. Did you miss that I didn't insert you into my last post? I figured it would have made you uncomfortable, what with the MILF talk and all. But in my mind? Totally there!)

It's my belief that you can only do something over and over again before you lose the will to live or to put in a good, honest day's work at it, whichever comes first (however, this theory doesn't pertain to my interest in linking BP Dad all the time, just so he knows). As much as this kid is driving me crazy, I would like to live long enough to one day see grandchildren (see them drive my son insane with the blank stares and smirky behavior of those who are testing their boundaries and finding them dangerously lined with grenades and buried mortar shells much like the way this boy of mine and I are at present), so that is why I feel my best option now is to step down from the job as his mother and see what new and exciting options await me out there in these shaky economic times.

I am willing to now entertain any and all job and/or lifestyle options anyone has for me. Feel free to leave your proposals in the comments, but know that any of them that involve having either you or any people standing 4' 9" or under calling me Mom will be dismissed (but thoroughly enjoyed).


Sunday, September 14, 2008

my kids' mom has got it goin' on. apparently.

The other night, I met a friend at Starbucks for coffee and catching up. Over a pumpkin spice latte for me (Starbucks? Call me. I will totally sleep with you on the first date) and hot tea for my friend, we engaged in random discussions quite often punctuated by uproarious laughter. While taking a breath following one such hilarious moment, my friend settled back in her chair and gave me the once over while peering above the rim of her tea cup. Then, leaning across the table toward me, she declared, "You know, you're looking very MILFy tonight."

Her assessment caused me to choke on my latte, sending drops of its delicious crack-like goodness spilling down the front of my shirt. Because that's apparently how smooth and seductive we MILF types are.

Blotting away at my misfortune (And/or my friend's unfortunate lost eyesight) afforded me the opportunity review what it was about me on this particular evening that provoked such a remark. In my haste to get out the door to meet her, I'd doffed my sensible work shoes (Oh, New Balance black cross trainers in 10 wide, how you cuddle my feet in cushiony bliss for those oh so taxing three hour retail shifts) and slipped into a pair of black heeled boots hoping to improve upon my work pants ensemble (Mmmm...work pants! Tres sexy!), Also, perhaps there was some heave to the cleave, but nothing so out of the ordinary that MILFs everywhere would feel compelled to bow down at my (unpedi'd) feet and crown me their new queen.

Foregoing the napkin in favor of blotting my boobs with a Tide To Go stain removal pen (which, let it be known, doesn't work against the mighty Starbucks pumpkin spice latte), I glanced up at my friend and demanded she retract her statement immediately.

"Oh, I beg to differ," she stated. "Without question, you are positively MILF-esque!"

"It was because I just looked up at you with demure eyes through batting lashes, isn't it?" I asked.

"Well, there is that," she responded. "But it's the way you wave your hand in front of your face when you laugh, too. And your hair. Your hair is...."

"Too porny, isn't it! My hair is WAY too porny! I KNEW IT!" I injected. "Gah! I was worried about that!"

At that point a hush fell between us, and we may have tee-hee'd and tittered a bit, unsure of this new ground we'd forged in our friendship. On one hand, I wanted to embrace this woman who still can't say the word 'penis', but the other hand figured maybe she needed a little space. We sat silently for a moment, and I blew the steam off my fresh pumpkin spice latte (Seriously, Starbucks, I'll even make breakfast the next morning. How do you like your eggs?) while pondering my options, which included:

(A) going full-on late night Cinemax movie-mode, bursting with hints of girl-on-girl action (And who's kidding who here? All late night Cinemax movies have girl-on-girl action)(I mean, I assume so), thus dictating my next move be to dip my finger into the whipped cream atop my latte, pulled said finger gently through my pursed lips, and then trace it atop my friend's hand (or, you know, whatever), and suggest we go somewhere a little more private. Wink wink and all that.


(B) pretending we're the stars of a really heinous sitcom and engage in a hilarious spit take (or, you know, whatever) upon hearing her words, prompting the studio audience to fall into fits of laughter, and eventually make "You know, you're looking very MILFy tonight," become the show's initially hilarious, yet soon rapidly annoying catchphrase. Sort of like "The tribe has spoken," only cuter.

To be clear, regardless of the MILF-like mystique I was apparently emitting on this particular evening, I didn't think my friend really wished to begin engaging in any carnal delights with me before we had to pick up our respective kids from school each afternoon. I'm just not used to being referred to as such a fantastic (or, you know, whatever) mom. Even Tool Man refrains from referring to me as such, instead saying I'm his WWRLMDTIHTBHFFTFDOMANTPMTSBWIWTGHNA (Woman Who Randomly Let's Me Do Things I Had To Beg Her For For The First Decade Of Marriage And Now That's Pretty Much The Standard By Which I Want To Get Her Naked, Amen). In fact, he chuckled when I relayed this story to him later that evening, an unfortunate move which resulted in me not calling and/or making him my DILF (Which was a crying shame because I was hopped up on two lattes).

When the time came later that evening for my friend and I to part ways, we stood laughing in the parking lot, and set a date to get together again soon. "So, I guess this is goodnight," I said.

"Yes, I suppose it is," she replied, moving in closer.

"So...um...are we supposed to kiss now?" I gleefully inquired.

"I think a hug would be OK," she said.

"You just want to feel me up, don't you?" I cheered, jutting out my stained-sticked chest for her under the glow of the street lamp.

"Totally!" she cheered louder.

...then I ran my finger down her arm as we untangled from our embrace, and whispered, "I'll see you Tuesday night!"

And that, my friends, is the tribe having spoken.


Wednesday, September 10, 2008

things I'm pretty sure I never thought I'd say

  • This Jonas Brothers CD is pretty damn good!
  • How do you lose a pair of panties in a public restroom, anyway?
  • Who'd have thought Brian Austin Green would have turned out so HOT! Peach Pit (me) After Dark? Yes, please, David Silver.
  • I can't believe Backpacking Dad has been showing up so far down in my comments lately.
  • This super short haircut doesn't make my head look like a festering tumor at all.
  • Sweetie, there's two girls from school on the phone for you.*
  • Face Puncher is a great name for a baby!
  • Pointing to your crotch and saying, "Game on!" is not really a turn on.**
  • It doesn't freak me out at all that FTN knows everything about me.
  • Can you find something quiet to do while Mommy watches Steve on your old Blue's Clues videotapes?
  • Your face smells like mozzarella cheese.
  • What would Jesus do?
  • I have so many things I could write about that I can't imagine I'll ever write a random filler blog post and then ask people to tell me something they never thought they'd say!***

* Even though I knew it was bound to happen.

** OK...it sort of is. I mean, I let it be one for what it's worth.

*** I don't really have so many things I could write about. That I've stretched this business out for nearly two years is pretty damn amazing. Some days, this is what you're bound to get from me. So, you know, you can tell me something you never thought you'd say, or whatever else that's on your mind (like, perhaps, the way I can make the phrase 'Peach Pit (me) After Dark' sound really creepy).


Monday, September 08, 2008

coming clean about my dirty mind

To say that cleaning my house gets me a little turned on would be an understatement. A really, really embarrassing understatement.


I realize in the past, I've led you to believe I disliked cleaning, and I confess now I did that so as not to appear odd (some would say more odd) or weird (others would say more weird, whereas I would say weirder) to you (at least two of you would say more than you already do). Bear in mind that when I confessed this alleged disdain for cleaning, I did so in a post in which I trumpeted the joys of cleaning while naked (Go on and go read it. I'll wait.), and when I sat back and read it upon it's completion last year, I thought, "Yep, you know, the naked thing really does sell it. My work here is done. Kudos, me!"

So, to turn a phrase, today is the day I'm coming clean (while fully dressed, I should add, because confession, while delightful, is not akin to actual cleaning, thus it requires clothing) and admitting my love affair with cleaning. I'm a wee bit, shall we say, anal about cleaning.

--- Before we say that, however, let me pause to say hello to all those who will now find my blog by searching Google for 'anal cleaning.' Come, sit, and enjoy your time here. Let me introduce you to the others. Everyone interested in the doing things doggy style, welcome the anal cleaning hobbyists. And...that about covers everyone. --

When I clean, I'm giddy with the idea of transforming the disgusting into the delightful. Restoring order where once there was chaos makes my skin flush. The feeling of satisfaction brought on by cleaning closets burns through me and compels me to fondle their knobs, and swing open their doors just so I can admire (aka lust over) the newly achieved storage space, neatly folded towels, and perfectly aligned rolls of toilet paper.

Mmmmm....I had me at perfectly aligned rolls of toilet paper...

You probably think I'm kidding, especially since a few paragraphs back, I outted myself as a bit of a liar (or we could say embellisher of yarns and amusing bon mots), but in this instance, I absolutely am not. Just ask my Tool Man. He'd tell you that, on more than one occasion, he's discovered me, head-first in the refrigerator, body illuminated simply by it's light, as I drink in the heady scent of cleaning products, and admire the gleaming shelves of perfectly organized yogurt cartons and rows of condiments.

I just totally gave myself the shivers typing that! You know like the kind of fluttery delightfulness that runs through your body when you first see a cute guy you know you're going to kiss (or Backpacking Dad)(but probably minus the kissing)? Yeah! Totally like that!

Seriously. Cleaning turns me on.

Alas, I've come to the conclusion I might need to nip this pleasure in its delightful (and dust free!) bud. See if you agree: After hours in my kitchen spent organizing shelves and wiping down cabinets, after cleaning out the refrigerator from top to bottom, I got my super sexy Dyson out to vacuum the floor (and perhaps the toaster)(and my broom)(do not judge me). When every nook and cranny of the floor was clean, I grabbed the vacuum hose and a long attachment, and crawled into the garbage cabinet, ready to do battle with anything that lurked there. With my head in the muck and my ass in the air, I was pushing and pulling the vacuum hose to and fro. Gleeful? Indeed. So much so that, when I felt something suddenly smack up against my ass (which was bouncing along to the cougary songs of the Jonas Brothers), I was all, "Hold on, baby! Just let me get into this back corner here and I'll be right with you! I am so turned on right now! Look how much gunk I sucked out of the garbage cabinet!"

Except no one responded to my seductive tones. All I could hear was the hum of the Dyson (and the beating of my heart!). I'd just been hit on - and responded to with sexually charged, cleaning enhanced lust - by my vacuum! And I liked it!


I'll close by confessing that I've let my house go to pot a little bit this week, because, clearly, if I'm responding to the smooth, flirtatious ways of my vacuum, I need to focus a little less attention on waxing my floors, and giving more toward sprucing things up with my Tool Man.

However, Tool Man does seem to have a thing for when I'm down there scrubbing toilets...


Wednesday, September 03, 2008

'you got the teeth of the hydra upon you'

Over the past two weeks, my boys have been losing teeth like mini-flyweights pitted against vicious warriors of dental destruction hellbent on leaving their smiles riddled with black holes. Nearly every other day, one of them comes home from school, grinning a scarecrow grin, and clutching a tiny plastic treasure chest containing a random molar or insular incisor they've plucked from their gums earlier in the day.

Last Sunday, my oldest came up to me and asked that I hold out my hand. One might think living in a house dominated by males, his request would be a yellow light warning cautioning me about what fate awaits, but I sometimes forget. It was in that realm of forgetfulness that I found a bloodied molar deposited in my palm, and a gap-toothed boy smiling in front of me. "Oh, my God! Was this tooth even loose? You haven't even said anything about having yet another loose tooth! Did you just pull this tooth out for pleasure?!" I cried. My dismay over this perceived dental mutilation was met with a nonchalant, "Yeah, it was loose. It was buggin' me, so I just pulled on it and there it is." He figured he'd get rid of the right upper molar to match the loss of the left one a few days earlier.

I still don't buy it. There's a part of me that thinks the kid simply has no fear and is going totally horror movie on me when I'm not watching. I also think he's trying to pull his younger brother into the act by goading him to go toe to toe - make that tooth for tooth - in the Tooth Fairy racket they apparently have brewing. This racket would be pretty ingenious if the Tooth Fairy wasn't such a slacker lately. It's high time for a performance review around here. You miss rewarding a kid for their missing baby tooth once, I'm going to look over the top of my glasses and maybe shake my head at you a little bit. Miss them a second day and I'm putting a write-up in your personnel file. Standards, Tooth Fairy. We have them for a reason.

Back to point, which is my oldest kid is an apparent dental desperado. Consider the following evidence that was presented here last Friday evening, then feel free to weigh in:

My youngest son is in the process of losing his top two teeth. At the bus stop last Wednesday, he stuck a finger in his mouth, flicked at the flapping shutters these two wiggly teeth had become, and announced he'd return home at least one tooth lighter. True to his word, I met him at his stop seven hours later and he produced his tiny plastic treasure chest laden with dental bounty. The other loose tooth remained intact, yet as loose as a two-bit whore (no offense to any actual two-bit whores out there), dangling precariously like a mountain climber slipping on the ragged ridge of his gum line. That night, and for the next two, my little jack o' lantern would work at dislodging it from the grip his mouth was keeping on it, but to no avail.

By Friday night, the tooth appeared to be on its last legs, and the two of us stood in front of the bathroom mirror and tried to finish the job, by now rather bloody, with as little drama as possible. Repeated offers to yank the tooth were met with sideways glances that made me feel nefarious. The debate and the angst had raged for quite some time when he nixed as "too owie" Tool Man's suggestion of a string, a doorknob, and one swift swipe.

That's when my oldest, Dr. Evil, D.D.S., jumped in to help.

"Lemme talk to the boy," he sneered. Getting down on his knees to be eye-to-eye with his younger brother, the loose tooth veteran of the house grabbed the other's shoulders and said, "Kid, you just gotta live through the pain. Just buck up and bite it back! That's just part of life, man."

Apparently, a questionable past with the Tooth Fairy has transformed my once docile boy into Mickey Goldmill from Rocky, a whiskey-riddled poet, or a jaded cynic to life's dark shadows. At 11 years old. I don't know what these two kids of mine are doing when they're playing in the basement, out from my watchful yet easily distracted eye, but for the briefest of moments, I wondered if perhaps they weren't re-enacting one of the dental torture scene from Marathon Man, but minus the Nazis.

(Oh, and I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Sheesh, Fadkog! Don't you have any topic relevant examples that aren't more than 30 years old, what with your 'Rocky' this and your 'Marathon Man' that." The answer is no. You should see my DVR. It's littered with movies and programs I recorded as far back as nine months ago, for heaven's sake. It's not like I'm sitting around watching TV and keeping current on all your new-fangled talk box programs!)

So what do you think? Does this 'buck up and deal' attititude explain the nonchalant way in which my oldest is always handing over bloodied bits of his once intact grill to me? Or! OR! Do you think it could be rooted in the habit my Tool Man has of depositing the boys' teeth in empty prescription bottles tucked in his sock drawer, making me feel like I'm sleeping with a serial killer each time a child loses a tooth?

(I know. It's gross. I've made note of it and stuck that tidbit in the Tooth Fairy's personnel file, too).

Whatever the case may be, the youngest still has his lone top tooth flapping in the breeze. Personally, I think it's cowering in fear, concerned my oldest will come around and kick it in. We'll just have to see how long it can hold on.


Monday, September 01, 2008

the best laid plans...

When last we left the beautiful princess and her handsome prince, they were delighting in the freedom that awaited their arrival in the mysterious land of Kansas City, Mo., for a brief weekend of mirth and merriment. In the days leading up to their departure, the kingdom was ablaze with much glee and jovial tweaking of various tweaky parts.

A new day dawned shiny with potential on Saturday, and the beautiful princess and her handsome prince made haste to the carriage of love that waited to take them on their journey. Join us now as we meet up with the beautiful princess and her handsome prince upon their arrival in the mysterious land of Kansas City, Mo., and their grand entrance into their room at the charming Holiday Inn Express in Lee's Summit....


"There's a run down and abandoned restaurant outside our window, which, if there's no screen here, takes us right out onto the roof. You know what that means, don't you?" I asked, nay purred.

(In case you were confused, I was playing the part of the beautiful princess. Oh! See? Now you get it! You know who's the handsome prince, right? That's right! My Tool Man!)(Relax, Backpacking Dad. You know you're totally a prince in my mind!)(Or had I not told you that yet? Sorry...)(You totally are)

"It means we have to drive a bit if we get hungry and want to eat somewhere, and we have an easy way out in the event of a fire!" Tool Man, responded.

"You are so romantic. I must make out with you now! Quick, fast, and in a hurry!" I cried.

Kissing and various forms of making out commenced, and twas delightful

(sidebar - did you people know that Holiday Inn no longer has bedspreads on the guest beds? I didn't, and when I discovered this, I was tempted to cease kissing on my Tool Man to make a hearty 'Kudos to you, Holiday Inn!' call to the front desk. Tool Man said they removed them to cut down on having to waste so much water and electricity washing and drying them. I say they removed them because they know I don't wish to lie down on the leftovers of those who have, in some cases quite literally, come before me.)

Back to making out. There is kissing and more kissing. There may have been a few other things. OK, yes, there totally was. "About that window thing," I whispered. "I meant we could totally have sex out on the roof!"

(because sex on some nasty concrete littered with the carcasses of dead bugs and the droppings of many birds apparently skeeves me out less than human leftovers, and I didn't realize this about myself until Saturday afternoon at approximately 4:10 p.m. Central Time)

"I know what you meant," Tool Man replied. "But just a second. Do you hear that? I hear something"

"Just the beating of my heart as it taps out it's erotic serenade for you," I said (though I totally didn't, because seriously? That is so awesomely lame I'd have been unable to say it without falling off the bed, laughing, and while I'm glad that the beds at Holiday Inn Express are now 85 percent less skeevy, I can't vouch for the floors. At least the one in Lee's Summit, Mo.)

"I don't think we're alone," Tool Man said.

"We're totally alone! This whole weekend is about getting to be alone!" I cried. "Now, kiss me some more!"

"No," he countered. "I think an interloper lurks in our midst. Someone or something meaning to impede on our frivolity."

"Fine. I'll get up and investigate," I sighed, and padded off to the door to see if someone might be there. "There's no one here," I yelled back while scanning the hallways left, right, then left again. "We're totally alone. We have an hour. Let us commence alone time now!"

And that's when I heard it, too. A tiny voice, but one that was packed with enthusiasm.

"HEY! It's me! How are you!? It's been a long time since I've been in Kansas City, too, so I figured I'd surprise you and tag along! WOO HOO!! I know, I know. You weren't expecting me. I figured I'd sneak up on you and totally surprise you! Wait! Did I interrupt something? Whoa! Wow! Tool Man really needs a little sun maybe. Cripes, you're really into this pale thing, aren't you? His chest his pretty damn white. HOLD UP! You're into that? Wow! And wow, I DID interrupt something, didn't I? I totally did! Hey, my bad, man. I know you're probably totally unprepared to have me just show up down here and find you, but I was so hyped when I heard you were coming that I said, 'Self, how's 'bout we remind our old pal here about the good times we have together and just show up and be all 'SURPRISE!!'. Whattaya say?' Did it work? Did I surprise you? So here we are. Here you are. There's Tool Man over there. Heh. And you twos wanted to be alone together. Ha! How's 'bout we go get something to eat, yeah?"

Who showed up to surprise us, you ask?



Just fourteen days (!!!!)(WTF???) after coming around the last time. AND talking like gangster goon from a Martin Scorsese movie, no less!

Tool Man assured me it was fine as I collapsed in a heap of instant onset PMS-related tears. Then he told me to roll over, grabbed the television remote from where I'd collapsed, and we did what I predicted we would as a clever and slightly humorous blog post capper to last Friday's tale. We watched free HBO (which wasn't the only thing that sucked about the weekend in the end...heh, heh, heh...oh, I heart you, double entendre! SWAK!), but wasn't exactly the happy ending I had in mind.


So, what have we learned here, ladies and gentlemen? We've learned the following:
  • Knock on wood after announcing to the world my intent to get lucky with my husband in a mid-range, economical hotel
  • Schedule an appointment with my ob/gyn to find out WTH I'm having another period within 2 weeks of my previous one
  • I will kick someone's ass if I have another period in September. More so for real than I normally would while in the throes of my actual expected cycle
  • This post serves as my replies to all of you who graciously commented below with your virtual high fives and wishes of good luck in the getting lucky department
  • I perhaps built this post up as something far more hilarious to FTN while chatting with him Sunday evening
  • But I do not think so, because sometimes I come back to these posts and crack up, then look around to be sure no one saw me
  • If you're ever looking to do a hotel tour in honor of famous deaths, ala the Hotel Chelsea and a moment of silence for Sid and Nancy, the demise of the grand plans I had for my Tool Man took place in Room 219 of the Holiday Inn Express in Lee' Summit. It's around the corner from an animal hospital and across from an empty restaurant. Can't miss it.