...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.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

no we're not gonna work this out tonight...

Me: "So, boys, listen, tomorrow Mommy really wants to go see..."

My sons, in unions:
Me: "...the Jonas Brothers mov...wha? Why? Why can't I go see the Jonas Brothers movie?"

Oldest son: "Um, HELLO!! You're a MOM!!!"

Youngest son: "Yeah! You're a MOM!! And the Jonas Brothers suck!!"

Me: "Listen here, mister, we do not use that word in this house! Do you think Joe Jonas' Mom likes it if he uses that word? I bet she doesn't, and because of that, I bet Joe doesn't even think to use that word, ever!"

(except in my head, Joe TOTALLY knows how to use that word, and he likes to use that word for the reasons that randomly cross my mind so often that he can't help but sing it...)

Oldest son:
"But they do!!"

Me: --- wonk eyeing both boys --

Me: "Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to get out of school early tomorrow and go with me to the theater to see it, but since you apparently don't appreciate fine art..."

(words trail off as bait dangles in front of boys, and behind my back, my fingers cross in hopeful anticipation because...well, I need an excuse to go to this movie...)

Youngest son: "I think I'll finish the school day, if that's alright with you. We're having an 'sembly."

Oldest son: "No boys are going to see this movie, Mom, so there's no way we're going with you."

Me: "Boys like the Jonas Brothers!

Oldest son: "Name one, Mom."

Me, ignoring question: "Here, let's watch this video clip again. See!? Right there! There's a boy!"

Oldest son: "That's somebody's Dad, Mom. Besides, you just wanted to watch Joe again."

(I can't argue with the truth. What I can do is inform you - since, honestly, how many of you are going to watch it - that, in the above clip, a random dude does pop up in the crowd at the 1:03 mark. I can also tell you that at the 2:12 mark, the brothers pick up big hoses and shoot even bigger streams of thick foam out onto the crowd of adolescent girls (and no apparent boys), and if that isn't super subliminal - and the fodder of at least two of my recent dreams because hello, Joe, you look very happy squirting your stuff all over the place - I don't know what is. Now, give me four minutes, because I need to watch this clip again...)

Me: "Maybe that Dad said, 'Hey, honey! The Jonas Brothers are going to be playing in concert here today. Want to go see them with me?' and unlike you two, his kid jumped at the chance to spend some time with her parent. Would that suck so bad?"

Youngest son: "I thought you said we don't use that word in this house!"

Me: ...sigh...

Long story short, I need a date to this movie! I mean, sure, I went to see Hanson in concert last fall (ha ha - fooled you! You thought that link would take you to Mmmbop, but I like this song, too!)(also, if you clicked on that, why aren't you clicking on the Jonas Brothers clip, hmmmbop?), so why would I not buck up and go to the theater by myself to see this movie? If I were 14, it would be no problem. I'd gather up my posse of fellow JoBro pals - the one who liked Nick and the one who liked Kevin, and the one who would tell me not to use the word posse - and we'd go. But I'm 41, and my posse (that younger girl who told me not to say that word was kind of a bitch, so...) of female friends include several who don't even know who the Jonas Brothers are (which makes me all, "What the hell? Did you just wake up, Snow White? Welcome to Earth, E.T."). I even called my friend WHO HAS A SON NAMED JONAS (coincidence? I think not)(my friend would beg to differ)(also, the kid was born before the Jonas Brothers blew up)(don't even think of telling me you wish the Jonas Brothers would actually blow up!), and the first words out of her mouth were, "Please don't ask me to go see that movie with you," and then I may have stepped outside and rang my doorbell and told her someone was at the door and I had to go (cry).

Anyway, if you're in the Midwest and want to hang out with me in the dark tomorrow, I will spring for the popcorn, and I won't say the word posse (unless you ask, and then we'll say it so much that we laugh and laugh because when we do, it starts to sound like another word, so we'll laugh and laugh some more until the young girls around us tell us to shut up, and I'll turn around and tell them we don't use that word in this house. Well, we don't use either of those words in my house - at least openly - and then we'll giggle, because it felt right). The first showing at theaters here is 12:20 p.m., Friday. Actually, the first showings are at 12:01 A.M., but I feel it necessary to say - again - that I'm not 14 anymore, thus, I'm nobody's spring chicken (as evidenced by the fact I just used the phrase 'nobody's spring chicken').

(I just asked Tool Man if he'd take me tomorrow because he's off work. He laughed at me. I will now officially up my date proposal ante to include a candy item of your choice and - maybe - casually holding hands)


Tuesday, February 24, 2009

i met your children. what did you tell them?

So I was straightening books this afternoon in YRHC (that's Young Reader Hard Cover in fancy pants bookseller talk, now making you just as qualified as me for a bookstore job!) when I happened upon the tragic scene pictured above. My first thought was, "Awww!"

Except that is a total and complete lie. My first thought was not, in fact, "Awww!" but instead was a stretched out version of that - "Awwwesome!!" And, in a blatant disregard for company policy, I whipped my cell phone out of the pocket of my sensible work slacks (Slacks? Who says slacks? Really, really old people, that's who. Come here, sugar. Granny's got a butterscotch candy for you.) and snapped a photo of the pussy cat that had apparently gone off to Cat Heaven. You can't see it here, but to the left of the dearly departed was Cynthia Rylant's prequel to Cat Heaven, DogHeaven, and two plush dogs who were perhaps pinin' for the fjords.

(p.s. Cynthia Rylant? If you ever get tagged with that meme where you type your name into Google and tack on 'needs' after it and somehow end up on this post, know that we love you here at my house. My oldest son devoured your Henry and Mudge books. Oh, and when I play that Google game, it tells me that I need my mouth wired shut. Appropriate? I think so.)

Anyway, it was a good thing I was feeling all uppity today about company policy, because not five minutes after I tucked my contraband cell phone back in my pants (pant's?) pocket, it began ringing, and nothing is more awesome than to be talking to your work boyfriend (about zombies)(what else?) and have Now or Never from High School Musical 3 come blasting out from the vicinity of your crotch. And then standing there wondering what that sound is for a minute because no one typically calls you (because you are a big old loser who has it bad for the youngun's) before coming to the slow realization that what you're hearing is your phone, and that the look in your work boyfriend's eyes that says he's probably going to break up with you now. Yeah!

Back to anyway.

Anyway, it was good I had my cell phone on me because the nurse at my oldest's son's school was calling to tell me he was in her office with a low-grade temperature and I was all, "Of course! OF COURSE!!" because now that I'm getting over the Zombie Virus (though I still sound like I chain smoke a chain smoker), now my kid is sick. And did I mention Tool Man is sick now, too? Well, he is, and guess what? He went to the doctor yesterday and the doctor gave him medicine!! Did I get medicine when I went two weeks ago? No. No, I did not! I asked Tool Man if he flashed the doc his boobs, but he says he didn't. Personally, I don't believe him...because Tool Man...may need to lay down on the sweets for a couple weeks....

Anyway again, this isn't even what I was going to post about tonight, and I just did a 'preview' check of this post and seriously, I'm sorry. If you're still with me, come here, let me kiss you. I'm apparently free game since the work boyfriend (loser!) ditched me. I was going to post about what a seething ball of rage I was while on the clock today. I know what you're probably saying. "FADKOG, honestly. You work three hours a day, four days a week. In that amount of time, what could possibly irritate you?"

Well, first off, I now work four hours a day, three days a week, but that's a detail. When I'm at work, I have a variety of assignments designed to make the consumer's experience with us pleasant. The trouble with working in the children's department is I'm often not dealing with people who are consumers of anything but space, and today, two very perky women and their brood of insanely perky children planted themselves in the department for nearly three of my four hour shift! THREE HOURS!!

Here's what that meant - for three hours (or THREE HOURS!!, depending on how you want to read it), I babysat these womens' children while they sat comfortably and discussed God. Listen, I know that Jesus loves the little children, but after one hour, I could no longer follow Jesus' lead! While the ladies chatted, I abandoned all hope of changing out the five displays I needed to get done today, and shelving the four v-carts I had to finish, and instead spent the time hovering over the damage being spun around the place by their children sent books flying off shelves, grinding Goldfish crackers into the carpet, pawing through game boxes, and dancing on the Thomas the Train table (I hate that thing with the power of a thousand burning suns that I wish would ignite it in a blaze of glory). For the love of all that is holy, people! I know we all like a little grown up time when we've been around our kids constantly, but when you're out in public with them, do not forget you helped create them! Do not look at me like I'm a creep when you suddenly remember that hey, you've not seen little Timmy for 30 minutes after little Timmy got bored tearing up the Scooby-Doo books (yes...he absolutely did...) and decided to wander two aisles over to books for teens, because (in my head)(or my blog) I will freakin' go off on you!

Ladies (these two particular ladies, because I'm sure none of you parents allow this), did you tell your kid to behave? Did you tell your kid that you were just going to be a minute, and that, "Oh, look, do you see that nice lady over there? She's working really hard (four hours a day, three days a week) for a teeny weeny little paycheck so she can help take care of her children, so why don't we put all these books, toys, mysterious brown thing, and this magazine you ripped apart back where we found them so she doesn't have to!" Or are you one of those who, when you're in Super Target (kisses!) and decide you don't need that gallon of milk after all, you just tuck it behind the 10 pound weights in the sporting goods aisle because no biggy, right?

I know that the very nature of where I work lends itself to this kind of thing. Don't even get me started on the dude who comes in and adheres his ass to the comfy chairs with his stack of sci-fi books for the day. It's annoying, but at least he's not screaming or running or throwing books everywhere. I experience this kind of day every time I work (four hours a day, three days a week). Some days are better than others. Not Tuesdays, though. Tuesdays are always bad. What the hell, Tuesday?

I had to straighten the shelves of HCYR (and much more) after the chaos brigade finally left, and there's a chance one of those kids may have been responsible for the demise of the stuffed cat in the photo. My first thought was no, probably not, because those particular books are on the second of a six level shelf, but I didn't tell you about how I had to kindly remind them that, "Hey, climbing these shelves probably isn't the best idea! Let's try to be careful, shall we?!" I had to say it, because their mothers were talking about purses.

So yeah, long story short,thank cat heaven my kid decided he was sick this afternoon, because, as my shift drew to a close, I found the poor plush pussycat's fate so perfect because it looked exactly the way I felt by the end of my shift. Totally paws up.


Sunday, February 22, 2009

as real as it may seem, it was only in my dreams

Friday - Slept fitfully thanks to dreams that I'm a world class cake decorator hired to sculpt masterpieces for demanding clients. Upon waking, discover arms are tired from hours spent rolling out fondant in my slumber. Blame is immediately placed on the hours spent watching episodes of Ace of Cakes and every Food Network Challenge involving cake decorating the week prior.

(Food Network, I am the vein to your crack. I've watched the Miley Cyrus' Sweet 16 episode of The Food Network Challenge four times already. The suspense? Gone. The goodness? In full-force. When I die, don't bury me in a casket. No. Bury me in a cakesket whipped up by Duff and his Charm City Cakes crew, please.)

Saturday - Slept fitfully thanks to dreams that I've become the 19th member (or the 20th, if we're counting the as yet not pregnant and counting Anna) of the Duggar family. REMS are compromised as I succumb to spiral perms, shopping for long denim skirts, and fighting Jim Bob and his can of Aquanet for moment alone in the bathroom. Wake up exhausted from completing an entire night's worth of Duggar jurisdictions, battling for my share of tator tot casserole, and trying to remember to answer to my new name, June Carter Duggar. Blame is immediately placed on sitting up the night before and watching DVR'd episodes of 17 and Counting (sigh...yes...yes, I've got it on season pass...) because my Tool Man was being a bit of an ass (p.s. Tool Man? I bet Jim Bob never acts like an ass! I mean, sure, he's killing the earth with all the hair spraying, but still!)

Moral of the story - What I watch while conscious directly impacts my subconscious, and apparently, I need to shake things up around here. I mean, I like cake, but dreaming about it?

So tonight, I may watch some porn before retiring for the evening. But just a wee bit. That part of me that's all Duggar reigns me in just a bit.


On waking up on the second morning of my restless nights, I rolled over and thought, "Well, yeah! Something to blog about!" Seriously. Because this is the quality high-brow I like to bring you people. Then I thought, "Sheesh, it's a wonder people don't want to roast me for giving them stuff like this." Later in the day, I opened my email and found a note from my friend Chag, the Cynical Dad. "A word of warning!" it read. "I'm taking suggestions for the next person to be roasted at my site. So far, two people have nominated you." By the end of the weekend, a few more people had thrown me under the bus, so Chag wrote me again and was all, "We're doing you," and I was all, "You're doing me?! Freaky! How'd you know I was just getting ready to watch some porn?!" (of course, by porn, I sort of mean I'm planning to watch the Jonas Brothers' segment from the Barbara Walters Oscar special I recorded earlier in the evening. Come to mama, Joe....).

If you'd like to do me (and don't mind if I call you Joe while you're having a go), or at the very least you want take a stab at me, please visit Chag for all the details. Honestly, I'm such a nice girl, I don't have a clue how you any of you are going to find things about me to go off on...


Wednesday, February 18, 2009

jolly good, england. jolly good, indeed

Oh, England, long have I loved you. You have given me so much even though I've asked for so little, and for that, how could I not be grateful.

England, do you know you've had my heart from the very first moment I heard a carefree girl I later dreamed was me laughing her jaunty laugh to open Duran Duran's Hungry Like The Wolf? You have, England. You have.

I know you're far too sophisticated, England, to want me to tell you all the other reasons I love you, but I'm going to anyway, for I am just a clumsy American, and when I get like this, I can't stop myself. Humor me, England...

England, I woke up early to watch Lady Diana Spencer marry and become a princess, and stayed up late to watch her funeral years later. My love knows no timetable.

I love that you've given me clever, more sophisticated sounding words for things. Words like lift, bangers, loo, and biscuit. Bloody hell, England! Do you know how sexy you sound when you talk? It makes me want to bonk you, England. Hell, England, I would stand around in a bloody queue just for the chance to bonk you, and believe me, if I had that chance, I would bonk you all night long! Then, if all that bonking made us a baby, I would push that baby around in a buggy. Seriously, England, my knickers are so off for you.

You gave me the queen, England. No, not THE queen, but rather the fantastic Queen. Even that whole Radio GaGa thing isn't so bad. And while you didn't give me Prince, you did give me Prince Harry, that silly rapscallion, and for that, again, there's love. The same way I love how you generously gave me Ricky Gervais and the smashing UK version of The Office, Simon Pegg and Shawn of the Dead (and Hot Fuzz)(and oh, yes, Spaced), and England, DO NOT EVEN GET ME STARTED ON Monty Python and The Holy Grail. I mean it, England, if you get me started on that, I will never stop quoting from it. Ever.

("Too late! There he is! Where? There. What? Behind the rabbit? It is the rabbit! You silly sod! You got us all worked up! Well, it's no ordinary rabbit! That's the most foul, cruel and bad-tempered rodent you ever set eyes on! You tit! I soiled my armor, I was so scared! Look, that rabbit's got a vicious streak a mile wide! It'll kill ya!")

(See what I mean, England? You only have yourself to blame for that one!)

The only real problem I seem to have with you, England, are roundabouts. Roundabouts are confusing, England! Am I supposed to slow down? Who do I yield to? Am I even supposed to yield? I know. It's a minor detail, really, and if you can forgive me that Robbie Williams never hit bigger here across the pond, I can forgive you roundabouts.

However, England, I think the real reason I love you is best demonstrated in the following photo:

England!! Look what you gave me on my telly! I don't remember any BBC folks interviewing me for that program, but I'll admit, those they did helped in the crafting of a fine piece of television. Oh, do not judge me, England! Just because I will never care for James Bond movies doesn't mean you have a place to look down upon me because I learned of My Big Breasts and Me while watching a program titled Brothers and Sisters in Love (you gave it to me, England. Much like you gave me My Fake Baby. It's not all Dr. Who and Gordon Ramsey, is it now, luv?) I love you, England, because you love boobs, and that makes me very randy. Shall we shag, England? Yeah? OK, but can we make it quick? That Tree Man show might be on Discovery Channel right now, and while I love you so, England, I'm a bit of a tramp when it comes to train wreck television.

Air kisses, England! Let's have tea soon!

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Sunday, February 15, 2009

pretend this is a prince song as I break my weekend down for you by the numbers

  • 1 - Hour (rounded up from 52 minutes) I worked last Thursday before management sent me home thanks to my never-ending zombie virus.
  • 5 - Total hours worked last week thanks to never-ending zombie virus.
  • 28 - Estimated amount in dollars my paycheck for last week will be. You know what I could buy with that much money? More pointless Sudafed and cough syrup.
  • 18 - Continuous hours spent glued to the same spot on my couch Friday. Seriously. You know that episode of Nip/Tuck when Christian and Sean had to surgically remove a woman from her sofa? I felt like I was one Hostess 100 Calorie pack away from being that woman on Friday. Also, am I the only person still watching Nip/Tuck?
  • 3 - Times Friday when I thought about actually getting up off the couch for a Hostess 100 Calorie cupcake pack, but honestly, the even split in energy it would have taken to get up off the couch versus popping the three tiny crumbs of cake into my mouth cancelled each other out.
  • 350 - Tissues used in the last week and a half.
  • 90 - Ounces of Diet Mountain Dew consumed between the beginning of the day Saturday to this point on Sunday evening, which, in all honesty, should be illegal and at the very least deemed an incredibly poor idea when you consider the little incontinence issue still at play with this never-ending zombie virus.
  • 2 - Basketball games I attended Saturday.
  • 8 - Points my oldest son scored during his basketball game.
  • 5 - Times I turned to my Tool Man and pondered how it is our son seems to know everything he needs to do before he even needs to do it when he's playing basketball, and yet I must remind him every day to change his underwear. Every day, people!
  • 2 - Pairs of my oldest son's underwear I washed and folded today, which constitutes the number of pairs he's worn since last Sunday. Awesome. Oddly, I washed 3 pair of his socks.
  • 6.37 - Amount in dollars my math shows is more than what the bank indicates should be in our checking account at this time.
  • 0 - credit card bills I'm able to pay this month based on present standing of said check register, so my sincerest apologies Discover, Visa and MasterCard.
  • 12 - Roses that arrived at my front door Friday thanks to my Tool Man and the fine men at DadCentric. You really helped my Valentine dodge a bullet this year, boys.
  • 12 - Hours spent watching this season's episodes of 24, enabling me to be caught up with this show for the first time ever in my long and fantastical history with Jack Bauer. Additionally, I spent 5 hours watching recent episodes of the new 90210, for which I can only ask myself why?
  • 1 - Naps taken. Alas, this nap was far too brief, achieved while sitting upright on previously mentioned couch, and punctuated by random thoughts of being too cold and disturbed by voices emanating from BBC America programming I was too weak (lazy) to turn off by exerting approximately 0 pounds of pressure on the remote control.
  • 4 - Slices of toast eaten for dinner Sunday night. Four!? Four slices of toast?! Do you really need four slices of toast?! Excuse me for one second, won't you? "Mom, seriously, go away." OK. That's better. Sorry about that. The real reason I had four slices of toast for dinner is because toast is pretty much all I can handle without gagging thanks to the (say it with me!) never-ending zombie virus.
  • 19 - Times I've watched this clip of the Jonas Brothers on SNL since it aired last night. My love for Joe remains strong.
  • 1/2 - seconds it took for my Tool Man to be snoring as soon as his head hit the pillow Saturday night (aka - Valentine's Day, thank you very much). The fact that I presently gag on everything other than toast that I attempt to eat at this time may or may not be the reason behind this matter...
  • Infinity - Times I've watched the following clip since following the link from @rainnwilson's Twitter page last Thursday:

  • 0 - Actual blog topic ideas I have at this time and/or the amount of time I'm going to keep you all here reading this particular post.


Friday, February 13, 2009

...and the love song never stops

For not stopping me when you come home to find me dancing wildly in the kitchen to INXS' Don't Change, whether there's music actually playing or not.

For being the quiet to my loud.

For not calling me out on my overzealous use of the rock hands.

For explaining the finer points of time travel to me. I guess things are really starting to pay off for you since you began watching LOST for the first time ever in the middle of season four.

For being the one who makes the RSVP calls when the boys get invited to birthday parties.

(Better yet) For being the one who goes to the birthday parties and sticks around with the other parents, none of whom you know, when you know it would freak me out.

For giving me sons who look like you. And, well, like me. Basically, for the way we look scarily related.

For looking at me every time something marginally funny happens on a television program or movie to see if I "got it," even though, honestly, dude, that annoys the hell out of me.

For letting me have the last slice of leftover pizza when what I made for dinner sucks, even though I know you really want it.

For keeping up the boys' Webkinz sites even when you're out of town, even though I think you secretly like it.

For asking me if I was hungry for a banana when we realized we were alone in the living room last night and had been watching Curious George for 20 minutes.

For calling me five times from Wal-Mart to ask me if we need generic goldfish crackers, do they still make generic goldfish crackers, where are they, how many boxes do we need, do I know that the price went up, and once again on your way home to tell me you forgot to buy them.

For thinking you're so fantastic at Guitar Hero. Strike that. For believing me when I tell you you're so fantastic at Guitar Hero, even though it is I, Tricia Thongs, who rocks this bitch out! P.S. - Rock hands would be going up here.

For not mentioning the two-inch stripe of glaringly dark hair running down the center of my head in stark contrast with the rest of my look.

For laughing at me when I came home from the hairstylist last fall with 1970s Dolly Parton hair, even though I'd called you in tears (granted, brought on by my own laughing) and begged you not to.

For no longer bombarding me with requests to play Facebook games with you.

For accepting the fact you're pretty much stuck with me.


Tuesday, February 10, 2009

'and when I fall asleep, i don't think i'll survive the night (the night)'

So do you know what happens when you don't leave your house for five days?


Absolutely nothing.

Which explains this post, which is about absolutely nothing.

Because I've got nothing.

Actually, I do have something.

I still have this kick ass upper respiratory zombie virus. Of course, that's not the AMA's offical term for what I have. The doctor I finally saw nearly an hour after my scheduled appointment last Friday called it, and I quote, "a bummer."

Let me save you all a $20 co-pay and tell you there are no quick fixes when you come down with a case of The Bummers. What you do is you take a lot of really pointless over the counter medicines and you spend a lot of time dislodging what feels like pieces of brain matter through your nose (you'll know you've achieved that when you think "My kids would be so grossed out and yet fascinated by this if I were to show them!") as you blow into an ever-increasing pile of discarded tissue, and you rock a low-grade temperature that leaves you huddled up on your couch in a Not An Officially Trademarked Snuggie slanket and arm warmers on a Friday night, watching Legends Of The Fall on Oxygen, and just as you're shivering and feeling super sorry for yourself, and wondering what your husband might look like if he perhaps grew his hair long the way Brad Pitt wore his in said movie (sidebar - le sigh...get on me, Tristan), your fever will break and your body will start sweating in places that have never before emitted liquid, and you'll toss off your slanket and arm warmers and hike up your nightgown, and blow streams of raspy air down your cleavage, and you'll think, "Great! This is just totally great! First the bummers and now MENOPAUSE!!"

Then, if you're lucky, it's time for another shot of NyQuil Nighttime and you'll drift off into fitful dreams, which is what I did last night, and often those fitful dreams are fantastic, but I woke up around 3 a.m., from a hacking cough and the thought that I could hear voices murmuring around me in the dark and that? That was not cool, because my exhausted brain immediately went to that whole demon possession thing I'm apparently fixated on at the moment (see previous post) and while part of me realizes that the sound was just my breath as it wheezed it's way out of my lungs, through my throat and out my nose, I was semi-convinced that I heard the words, "You're ours, now!" a few times. Awesome. So I employed my patented way of warding off The Possession - I clamped my eyes tightly shut and I thought, "Nope. Nope. Nope," until I was eventually able to fall back to sleep. Oh, The Bummers, in addition to incontinence, have given me crazy ass dreams.

To say I need to get out of the house is clearly an understatement, so I did yesterday when I went to work, but as soon as I walked in the door, two coworkers told me I should immediately go home because I looked like death (I'd like to think it was just because I didn't wear make up for the first time there ever, but I imagine that, even when I do, I still look like death, but with a rosy glow to my cheeks) and later that evening when I took the boys to Dairy Queen for supper (if you run into Tool Man, please don't tell him, OK, because we're in the midst of this whole Dave Ramsey Financial Peace thingy and this was not in our very scary budget, even though one of the kids ate for free, so score!). I was hoping the kids would give me some fodder o' the blog while they wolfed down their meals, but the most I got out of them was my youngest son's declaration that he hates Demi Lovato, and I said, fine, but when I write about that, I'm going to insert the video of her big yapper singing from Camp Rock, and that means my teenage boyfriend is going in (hello, Joe), but by then, the kid was just about scoring his free Dilly Bar.

Myself, I'd have gone for a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup Blizzard, but, alas, that was not in the budget.

So basically, what I've done in this super wordy post, is give you nothing, and because of my mind freaks at night, I'm exhausted, so I may just say sorry, and then head up to bed after downing the placebo that is the sudafed I've been taking for the past five days. If you care to just wipe this post out of your memories, might I suggest clamping your eyes tightly shut and muttering, "Nope. Nope. Nope," over and over again until we meet again in what I hope will be far less germy circumstances.


Before I go, I want to say that today, I'm celebrating Cynical Dad Day. To honor Chag, the man behind Cynical Dad and one of my longest blog friends, as he celebrates his 39th birthday, I had planned to pull off a heist in his name. Sadly, being laid up with The Bummers has really impeded my efforts to pull together a capable heist team, and because we've all seen that opening bank robbery scene from The Dark Knight, you know you don't mess around with a team of backstabbers all looking for their cut ("So why do they call her the Joker?" "I hear she wears make up." "Make up?" "Yeah, so people at her job at the bookstore don't tell her she looks like death when she shows up, ready to work hard for her money."). So instead, I want to share a thinly veiled love letter I wrote to Chag last June when he asked me to guest post on his blog. Heists and hearts, Chag! Heists and hearts. Happy birthday!


Thursday, February 05, 2009

the post where, if you've had even the slightest hint of a crush on me, you're now saying, 'yeah, listen, it was fun...' and then backing away slowly

See that thing over there? Can you guess what it is? Anyone? You. In the back. Is your hand raised or are you just scratching your back?

Oh, you want to try your luck at multiple choice, eh? I see how you are. OK, your choices are as follows:

1. The hyper-fertilization of the sauciest egg at the party. Ah, slow jam, baby.

2. The end result of what three hours and nearly 800 prize tickets will net two boys who worked in tandem at Chuck E. Cheese's.

3. A virulent strain of germ that is, as I write this, lodged within the deep recesses of my lungs.

If you chose Number 2 you would, by all accounts, be correct. This is (finger quotes) technically (finger quotes) a close up shot of the small (emphasis on small because why would you spend three hours and endure gastrointestinal distress at Chuck E. Cheese's for a big prize, yo!) ball the boys picked out as their joint prize. My boys are such sweethearts, choosing to pick one prize rather than four rubber earthworms, one plastic ring, and 14 Tootsie Roll Midgies apiece. I love that they work together and reduce bickering. I'm sure the pouting I did when they didn't have any Tootsie Rolls for me to steal wasn't the greatest way to demonstrate my pride, though, and for that, I'm sorry.

OK, so, this proves you're all very, very smart people. I didn't really doubt this for a minute, mind you. However, I was actually hoping you'd guess Number 3 - the virulent germ strain that will perhaps be named after me once it has successfully worked to kill me. What's that? You in the back again? Another itch? No? Oh, you want to tell me you hope I feel better soon? Aww. Thank you! Aren't you a dear!

As I typically do when I acquire a new illness, I like to place the blame for my distress at the feet of the person or persons most likely responsible, then do everything in my power to make them pay. Naturally, my first call was to Chuck E. Cheese's. I figure if I came home Monday night ripped up from the inside, it's not unlikely someone back in the kitchen hocked up a big old smorgasbord of germs on our pepperoni and sausage. However, no one else in my family is (as yet) displaying similar symptoms, so I feel compelled to cross the mouse off my list.

My second choice is the herd of preschoolers to whom I taught Sunday school last weekend (I'll give you a minute to recover after reading that sentence...). Here's a list of reasons why I think they - either individually or as a team - are responsible. Please read them and then give me your thoughts. Let's brainstorm this, people!

  • The funky smell of funk detected as I entered the room filled with 20 four and five-year-old children (granted, "funky smell of funk" doesn't necessarily equal "raging cold" but I feel it necessary to include).
  • The fishing of Playdough from the mouths of approximately three of said 20 children
  • God laughing uproariously at the idea of me actually teaching Sunday school to a gaggle of preschoolers, resulting in holy spittle falling from the heavens and landing upon me.
  • The thick green ribbons of mucus I helped wipe from the faces of four children (including one of whom who opted to use her tongue instead because I was apparently too slow).
  • The recoiling in horror I did when one tiny zombie-faced child lumbered toward me before taking a header and landing in my neck. After smearing her snotty face across my cheek.
If it helps you any, the lesson I taught was about Abraham, and we painted paper tents, then put dark blankets over a table and crawled under them so we were together in our tent while I read the story of God telling Abraham he had to move, except I didn't so much get to read the story as I broke up fights about the blanket and tried to keep some mother's little angel from kick fighting with another mother's little angel. And then I went home and wept.


Questions? Thoughts? Opinions?

Yeah. I'm inclined to agree. I think the Sunday school class is to blame, too. Thus, as revenge, I shall unleash a reign of terror upon their houses the likes of which they've never seen before!! That should be really awesome considering that at this moment, I sound exactly like
Regan in The Exorcist (p.s. I'm home alone tonight and looking through a bunch of video clips for that one creeped me the hell out)(well, I mean, the kids are here, but of what good are they to me in situations like demon possession?!). Anyway, I'm all rattly in the lungs and when I cough, it sounds like death spewing forth from my bowels, so when I say I can unleash a reign of terror, I'm not jacking around here.

I also don't exactly mean my bowels either, just FYI. That would be hella gross. What I actually mean is...sigh... OK, when I cough...ladies...help me out here...when I cough I think I'm close to dying, so naturally, as one of the last things I think I'll do, I thank my laughing God for my children....and then I curse them a little bit because getting them to the outside meant they've wreaked havoc upon my pelvic floor. I'm not admitting anything for sure here, but there's a chance I'm writing this post while perched atop two very thick beach towels folded under me and placed delicately upon my couch. Oh, I am a pretty, pretty princess.

Hello, Kegel exercises, you saucy wenches. I see we (need to) meet again...

Oh, and I see we meet again, too, chicken salad sandwich on honey wheat nut bread I ate around 2 p.m., today. Yeah. The coughing is so powerful that it does have a tendency to work from both ends sometimes. Ladies, here's a tip. If you have long hair like I do, never be without a hair scrunchie in your pocket. You'll thank me later.

I'm so hopped up on cough syrup with codeine (my faithful lover) that if Tool Man was here, he could SO get it on with me right now (see photo above). Because nothing says "I desire to throw you down and make mad, hot love to you!" like a little incontinence. Oh, like YOU'RE judging ME!

You in the back again. You have something more to say? What? I am a sexy, sexy beast? Oh, stop! You're making me blush!

Or maybe I just have a fever now! Crap!

Damn those Sunday school kids! Damn them, damn them, damn them!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I (may) have to go change now.
P.S. Hey! As my dying wish (what? it feels like I am dying, you know!), won't you go over to Blogtations and vote for me and my fun and fancy quote from last fall to be the best Blogtation of the Year? Just read through the other (more hilarious) quotes, then do me a solid, follow the email link right there on the page, and vote for plain old mine, OK? I'd do it for you. If I wasn't dead, I mean. Voting ends February 13th, and if you do, I'd kiss you. Except you don't want my germs. Right. OK, I'll curtsy in your general direction.


Tuesday, February 03, 2009

as a parent blogger, it's mandatory i write this post

Monday night, my Tool Man and I took the boys to Chuck E. Cheese's as a belated hip hip hooray for my youngest son's birthday. I'd hoped he'd forgotten we'd agreed to such an adventure two weeks earlier when he'd charged through the house, hopped up on mouse lust. Sadly, the kid who can't remember to brush his teeth twice a day (hell, even once a day) woke up Sunday morning and asked "Chuck E. Cheese's?" and I was a goner. "Tomorrow, baby," I caved. "We'll go tomorrow night when it's probably not as crowded."

That, ladies and gentlemen, is a testament to how damn cute my kid is. If you saw him, you'd say, "That's a damn cute kid. Hell, I'll take him to Chuck E. Cheese's, he's just that cute." To which I'd respond, "Here. He's all yours. He likes straight up pepperoni pizza. No sausage, no funny business. Have fun, but be home by 8 p.m., because he needs a bath tonight. It's picture day at school tomorrow and he needs time for his funky hair to dry."

Seriously. Where the hell were you all last night when I was sighing and lamenting my fate, anyway, because P.S.? Monday night is not a quiet night at Charles le Fromage.

P.P. S. - I spent the entire evening referring to Chuck E. Cheese's as Charles le Fromage's, much to the annoyance of Tool Man, who may have laughed twice, but then was all, "Stop, OK? I get it!" and I may have been all, "This is Bitch, calling in a payback!" because seriously, dude can totally drag a lame joke into the ground.

As is customary for those who have sired children AND a blog, I'm now going to give you a post comprised of my random gripes about Chuck E. Cheese's, but in an unexpected twist, what I'm going to do is share them as highlights of the the night, starting with the lowest on the list and culminating with that which made the night spectacular. Enjoy!
  • Getting our hands security stamped by an employee we had to rouse. Nothing says, "I've got confidence you won't let my kid leave with a pedophile!" like tapping the shoulder of some 16-year-old ne'er do well who will slowly lift her head from the velvet ropes and greet us with warm, gooey silence.
  • The lack of good games. WTF Chuck? Last time you and I hung out together, there were some cool games to partake in as I slowly prayed for death. Now it's just a bunch of games where one has to spin a wheel or launch a game token at a shark or chicken head in hopes of pulling down the bounty of prize tickets. Yeee-aawwwwnnn.
  • The old guy positioned near the Deal or No Deal machine. The one who didn't appear to be related to anyone at the restaurant, and who kept asking passing kids, "Are you ready to play Deal or No Deal?" like some creepy Willy Wonka, then gifting them with shiny game tokens retrieved from his pants pocket ("Gah! Please, please, please just be touching tokens while you're digging in your pockets for that token, mister!" I prayed more than once as I watched him).
  • Feeling like a queen among my peers in their various states of undress as I walked around in a shirt marred by the dried tributary of chicken noodle soup spilled upon myself earlier in the day. "Should I perhaps change before we go?" I asked myself before we left home, then laughing at the sheer insanity of such a thought as I recalled how previous trips to this heaven have brought me face to face, so to speak, with the butt cracks, gunts and everything in between of some of the finest my state has to offer. Mmmm...stay classy, America's heartland!

And the number one reason my evening at Chuck E. Cheese's was so spectacular -

  • The dude seated at the table next to us returned from the salad bar with a heaping plate of bacon bits and ranch dressing! JUST bacon bits and ranch dressing! People, I'm telling you, I caught this dude's eye as he positioned his moobs along either side of his treasure with his left hand and raised his fork with his right, and I saluted him. I also tried to take a photo of the spectacle, but dude wrapped his arm protectively around his bounty and shoveled it in so fast I feared he'd eat me, camera and all, if he noticed. I apologize for using this phrase again so soon after doing so in the post directly below this, but it is fitting, so I must - it was LeAwesome!
Halfway through the evening, I started feeling queasy (as one is wont to do after a slice or two of pepperoni and grease pizza), so I wadded up the napkin upon which I'd scrawled my last will and testament, and begged the boys to please hurry and waste their game tokens so we could leave. Then I begged Tool Man to run every red light to get us home quickly before the mini became a fun zone of horror. Naturally he stopped for gas before doing so (though believe me, there was already some gas in that thing, thank you very much)(seriously, I was praying for death). By the time we got home, I bailed out of the van, ran inside to the bathroom, stripped off my coat...and discovered MY PANTS HAD BEEN UNZIPPED THE ENTIRE TIME we'd been at Chuck E. Cheese's!
Not a little.

Not halfway.

Now I understand why that one chick who kept hobbling by me slowly with one shoe on and one shoe off gave me a thumbs up, but I'm pissed that I didn't at least score a prize upgrade. However, somewhere, I hope I'm a bulletpoint on someone's blog post of awesome things about the time at Chuck E. Cheese's last night.


Sunday, February 01, 2009

things i learned while watching the super bowl, which, truth be told, i didn't care about. at all.*

*alternate title: Just wrap your legs under this Not An Official Snuggie slanket and strap your hands across this book because I'd have preferred staying home rather than watching the Super Bowl

  • Watching a game you don't understand with a roomful of armchair quarterbacks is not The Awesome, as evidenced by the schooling I took from the roomful of men after inquiring about when Kurt Warner (whose name I only know because he's an Iowa boy) would be taking the field. Huh. So, let me see if I've got this straight - football is a game of offense and defense? Good to know.
  • A can of tomato juice and a can of beans does not a pot of chili make.
  • Hey, Biggest Armchair Quarterback Of Them All, I know there's a vague similarity there, but Steeler's Coach Mike Tomlin is not, in fact, in this Pepsi commercial with Bob Dylan. That would be will.i.am of the Black Eyed Peas. Don't fight me on this and insist Tomlin had time to actually film a soft drink commercial:

  • Also? Tomlin actually looks more like Omar Epps, that dude who plays Dr. Foreman on House.
  • Apparently Heroes starts up again on Monday.
  • If I were a dude, I'd pretty much demand my name be Dick LeBeau, for that name is LeAwesome.
  • Sitting on a folding chair for four hours to watch the game I didn't want to go watch in the first place is about as comfortable as I imagine a bunch of men who've run around and tackled each other for as long must feel. I'd have liked to call a flag on the sofa at some point in the action.
  • Fine church-going folks in the room with me probably won't chuckle at the GoDaddy.com commercials, but Seth and I will.
  • Reece's Pieces that fall into your bra during the first quarter of the game make for a delicious treat when you discover them in the middle of the third quarter. Mmmmm....melty!
  • Tool Man totally over analyzes commercials. Yes, dear, it's feasibly impossible for a a team of grasshoppers to cart off a bottle of coke. Get over it now.
  • Apparently wishing super hard that Bruce won't perform Glory Days during his 12-minute half-time extravaganza won't keep it from happening.
  • Bruce is like my crazy uncle from from Jersey. If I had a crazy uncle from Jersey, that is.
  • There's a pretty good chance I got a wee bit of a girly boner for Bruce after he slid across the stage a couple times.
  • Tool Man got a boy boner when he saw the commercial for the new Star Trek movie. Good to know he's still capable of such a thing.
  • Did I mention the Reece's Pieces in the bra thing? You know you'd eat them, too.