...for a different kind of girl

'and when you think you've had enough of this life...'

2012-01-25T10:46:00.004-06:00

...your husband will walk in the door an hour after you thought he was leaving for a three night work stint and inform you he's been fired.

Fired.

And other words that start with the letter 'F.'

And also no insurance.

Two kids.

One house.

Lots of tears.

It feels like this life never ends.

'let's all get up and dance to a song that was a hit before your mother was born'

2012-01-19T19:59:00.009-06:00

When I was growing up, my bedroom was a purple shrine to all things Duran Duran. Every square inch of the four walls was covered with posters purchased from Coach House Gifts and pinups extracted with surgical precision from BOP magazine. I believe it's safe to say every girl who came of age in the 1980s who had a pulse probably lived in a bedroom like mine.

During the course of my obsession, which is, I'm not going to lie, still sort of with me, my mother was forced to listen to 'Rio' more times than should be legal under some sort of UN treaty. Every time she'd enter my room, she'd ask, "Now, which one is Simon?" and "How come three of them have Taylor for a last name, but they're not related?" and I'd answer "My future husband" and "Some weird twist of fate," and then further educate her on these and all other things pop culture, and I was sure I'd done a pretty good job teaching her. Before I moved away, my mother was aware of Madonna and knew that we shouldn't make eye contact any time she passed by my room as Prince's "Darling Nikki" was blaring from the stereo. I was proud of the pop culture student she'd become.

Cut to this week when mom stopped by my house to give me something she'd found in my old bedroom.

That is an old Nike ad I yanked from a magazine and taped to the back of my childhood bedroom door sometime during my late teens, aka 'The Seriously Angsty Years (Prior To Those Presently Being Experienced).' That, my friends, was the last bastion of my old life, preserved for lo these many years and never uncovered until just recently because my mother no longer has the pleasure of living with a teenage daughter who slams her bedroom door shut in bitter defiance to whatever injustice she feels is being handed her.

(That wasn't me, though. I was the eager to please first born good child.)

Anyway, I couldn't figure out why mom was giving this to me. It's just an old ad, I told her. You could have just tossed this. "I was going to," she replied. "But then I turned it over and, well, I know how much you like the Beatles, so I thought I'd bring it by and let you decide what you want to do with it."

This is what's pictured on the other side:

Ladies and gentlemen - THE BEATLES!!

I think the one in the middle is Paul. The haircut is reminiscent, at the very least. I also think I failed my mom in all things pop culture. Although how a woman who should have experienced life during the height of Beatlemania is this confused is beyond me. If I had a guitar, it would probably gently weep. Perhaps this ad was inspired by the Abbey Road album cover.

Regardless of my failings, I loved that woman when she was 64, and I still do now that she's 66. She makes me happy. Also crazy and exhausted and overwhelmed and irritated and delighted, but mostly happy. So do these other things:

Swimming (if for no other reason than it forces me to shave my legs)
Finding my INXS Live Baby Live DVD while cleaning and wasting the rest of the afternoon watching it because gah! And swoon! That sea of bodies freaks me out.
Stumbling across Improv - Ice Starring Styx on TV this weekend. Figure skating to the music of Styx as performed by the remaining member(s) of Styx? Bring me the cheese!
The kind elderly lady who, when I found a book for her today, said, "Cool. Bless your heart!" I needed that.
Additionally, the young woman who asked "Where is your erotica?" The word 'erotica' makes me skeevily happy.
Saving a ton with coupons. I'm not extreme, but I'm damn efficient.
Speaking of my mom, the way she pronounces 'quesadilla.' She doesn't pronounce it as it should be, but rather she's straight up Napoleon Dynamite-style when she says it, and she doesn't even realize she's wrong! I love it.
Finally, and without remorse, giving up on The Jersey Shore. No more!
Finishing 'The Leftovers' by Tom Perrotta. It's not erotica, but it's good.

'you cook so well, all nice and French'

2012-01-12T22:59:00.001-06:00

I very much enjoy the ritual of cooking meals for my family. One of my goals this year was to reduce the number of times we eat out and instead enjoy a healthy, home cooked meal, so nothing gives me more pleasure than to plan, shop for, and prepare a meal that we'll all eventually gather around and warm our souls over while also enjoying great conversation. Each day as the clock ticks nearer to 5 p.m., and the motivation to journey to the kitchen to begin laboring over the stove approaches, I'm delighted to do this for those who depend on me to nourish them.

My plan, of course, is truly going well. In fact, if restaurants were built on such kudos as "Is this *really* what this is supposed to taste like?" and "I've had worse, I guess," then believe me, friends, I'd have a string of successful eateries dotting our nation's landscape, each staffed by individuals who began their days happy and eager to try new creations only to end them frustrated and packing away leftovers, all at your service! My flagship eatery would be named "YES, it has onions in it! Jesus! Just DEAL!" I hope you enjoy today's special, "If I wanted to poison you, believe me, I'd do it with something other than meatloaf."

Of course, the reactions my meals have been garnering the last few days might make you believe I'm a poor cook. Au contraire, mon frere! I am an excellent cook. I present to you the following photograph as evidence:

(not pictured - the 14 other options I presented my children with for a far healthier, more satisfying meal)

Yummy! Notice the sheen on that pile of Hamburger Helper Cheeseburger Macaroni (also known as 'the only good Hamburger Helper')! That means it's good for you! Oh, broccoli, your barely green hue makes me feel stronger and healthier just looking at you, so can you imagine how amazing you're going to make my body feel?

Yes, I am a good cook. Just ask my kids, who, after being served this meal, looked lovingly at me over their forks and spoons and declared this the best meal I've served them in days. Nay! Weeks!

"Is this a new recipe?" my oldest son asked. "This tastes delicious! Did you put some kind of spice or something in it?"

Seriously. Yes. I put some kind of spice in the Hamburger Helper to jazz it up. It was called water and whatever that weird cheese powder is. Screw the suggestions on the side of the box that would have creative cooks perking up an already flawless casserole by tossing in a can of diced tomatoes or adding a toasty crust of french onions! We're not in New York City! Let's not get all fancy pants with our palate, m'kay?

Speaking of fancy, it's time for the list of things that made me happy this week, part deux! What a coincidence! The first thing on my list is a delicious food item!

Green Monster spinach smoothies - I've honestly had dreams about these, so that gives you a little insight into just how exciting my life is. So good. So filling. So want one in my belly right now.
Playing Scrabble on my Nook.
Accidental twins days with my coworkers - that moment when I get to work and find out I'm wearing the same color shirt/pants combo as at least one other friend on the clock. We're as simple folk.
Scratching tasks off my 'to do' list.
Uncluttered kitchen counters - the fleeting bit of time between when my counters are devoid of clutter and everyone else comes home and dumps their stuff all over them makes me feel like I could run the world.
Taking the afternoon to do nothing but curl up on the couch and thumb through my magazine pile - on a side note, methinks me's getting too old for Glamour.
Playing this song by Childish Gambino (aka Donald Glover to all you fans of Community) - yeah, the woman who recently told her kids that, and I quote, "I can't listen to any more of this rappy music" can not stop stop listening to this (NSFW) song. Of course, if I keep gobbing that Hamburger Helper Cheeseburger Macaroni, I'm probably going to end up looking like one of those rap guys' girlfriends, so it's all good.
Downton Abbey - I must confess, though, that I'm still watching the first season and recording the second so I can keep up. And that until this week, I thought the show was called Downtown Abbey, which would probably be the American version starring Queen Latifah and Chris Rock.
Letting my dog, Max, burrow under my Snuggi (yep) so we could both stay warm and nap in my favorite chair Sunday afternoon.
That our free weekend of Showtime allowed me to see the U2 documentary From The Sky Down. I will never not adore Bono.
IQ84 by Haruki Murakami - Although maybe you should ask me again in a week when I'm more than 100 pages into this beast.

And that's all I got. Well, that and a gut ache from last night's dinner. Hopefully I'll cure that with my recipe for "Gah! Why can't we just have spaghetti?" tonight. That's not what I call it, of course, but trust me, it'll be delicious! If you're around, you're invited!

if you're happy and you know it, make a list (1)

2012-01-06T08:48:00.005-06:00

Happy new year, pals. I trust everyone enjoyed a good holiday season. Only 353 days until we get to celebrate Christmas again! I might need 329 of those to recover from the aftermath of my job, where the spirit of the season was lost on shoppers in the waning days. If you need me, I'm huddled up on the floor between science fiction and romance, muttering to myself.

We chose to keep Christ - and a few other, far less kind words - in Christmas by paying a mechanic more than $600 to replace the rear brakes on my 11 year old used minivan two days after the holiday. Hey kids, you weren't too attached to any of those presents yet, were you? I've still got the receipts right here in my shaking hands!

Good times.

I don't normally do this, but I decided to make some resolutions this year. Are we still talking about our New Year's resolutions? I mean, it's January 6th already. Most of these things, like the rear brakes on my 11 year old used minivan (bitter), have been broken by now, right? I think that tiny pile of candy wrappers on my kitchen counter already today is a pretty good indication I have a greasy (they were miniature peanut butter cups) grip on my goals.

One of the many resolutions I made for 2012 is to think of two things every day that have made me happy in that 24 hour period and keep track of them. I know. It's sort of cheesy, but it gets even more so. I'm tracking my list in a journal I got from Oprah. Seriously. Oprah sent me a journal. For free. Because we're good pals and she knows I have a massive credit card bill looming ahead of me. I've decided to do this because, well, I need the reminder. I need to do this much. I can go through a 24-hour period and not notice even the tiniest bit of good. In the spirit of sharing my cheese (a waxy, generic slice of American), I thought I'd post my list on Fridays. Does that make you happy? Good. Start your own list! In no particular order, here's mine for the week:

the way my youngest son, who will be 10 in a few days, still sounds like such a little boy on the telephone
the Mike and Tom Eat Snacks podcast
the soundtrack to the movie "Drive"
taking my dog for a walk by myself at night and peering into neighboring houses (sidebar - people of my community, it is time to take your Christmas trees down!)
making a lasagna from scratch (it was delicious)
how much my boys talk when it's just the three of us seated around the dinner table at night
coffee dates that turn into lunch dates with my friend Monica
my friend Monica
fortune cookie fortunes
writing with pencil
people who genuinely thank me for helping them, then stop me later to thank me again
that it's January (68 degrees yesterday!) and we've not yet had a measurable snow so far this winter

Pretty exciting stuff, right? I know! Just think, you have this to look forward to EVERY FRIDAY!!

(unless I break this resolution)(except I resolved to floss my teeth - ALL my teeth - every night and I've been doing that hardcore for more than a year, so yep, pretty exciting!)

and every mother's child is going to spy to see if there's a ferrari in the drive

2011-12-23T11:36:00.007-06:00

Every November, I turn my sons loose with a sheet of paper and a pen and tell them to give me their Christmas list for the season. My only suggestion for them is to dream as big as they wish, but please, be realistic, for like the little drummer boy, I am a poor boy, too. Or something like that.

As you might expect, their papers are returned to me with some truly pie in the sky requests. Things even I don't have (Hello, illusive iPhone 4s. How you doin', trampoline)! In case my mother has found my blog and is reading this, I'm still waiting for that Barbie Dream House, thanks. I've been a very good girl this year. And the 43 years prior.

I love their lists for this very reason, but I tell them it's like going to our McDonald's, where smiles are listed on the menu board as being free. Each time I go there, you better believe I ask for a free smile, but I've yet to get one, so sorry, my lovelies, but Santa won't be bringing you your much desired Playstation 3 this year (which, yes, sucks because even I want to play Call of Duty MW3 on that thing).

There is one thing on my youngest son's list, saved for the very last, I'm hoping to give him, though, and in the spirit of the season, I hope you're all getting it, too.

May you all enjoy a good Christmas! Not only because you deserve it, but mostly because you can't get a gift receipt for it.

(p.s. - if you were good enough to get an iPhone 4s or trampoline, don't come bragging around my kids, m'kay?)

'what's the things they never showed you'

2011-12-01T23:30:00.000-06:00

There's a church I pass on my way to and from work that I'm quite fond of. It's old and remote and you know immediately that it's a place that struggles to maintain itself, but does, and quite well. Every time I pass it, I wish I had a camera with me to capture the things I see around it. Flowers in the spring. Hand lettered signs advertising bake sales and chicken dinners. Congregants selling fresh corn from the back of trucks. Cats sleeping on the concrete stoop. Never more have I wished I had my camera than yesterday when I noticed two red balloons, bound together and tethered by ribbon in the branches of a tall, bare tree.

I thought about those balloons all day while I was at work, vowing to stop on my way home and capture them, even if it meant using my crappy cell phone camera to do so. I thought it would be a great photo, even if only I saw it. The more I thought about those balloons, though, the more I thought how very much they represent the state of my marriage right now. My husband and I are like two balloons stuck in the spindly branches of a barren tree. There's still a little life in each of us, but we're stuck in something that, while not quite dead, looks like it from the outside.

The thing about balloons is you never know quite when they're going to wither away to nothing and become garbage or when they might explode from the pressure exerted upon it. Right now, I feel like both aspects of such a balloon. I want to rage and scream and explode while at the same time bide my time until I simply wither up and become a wrinkled shell of what I once was, which was full of life and joy and possibility.

It's exhausting pretending to be happy all the time. I'm exhausted all the time. I'm too tired to cry. I'm too tired to scream. I'm too tired to talk. I spend 8 to 10 hours a day attempting to convince people - friends, family, strangers - that I am so very fine, absolutely wonderful, how are you? - that I can't be anything else when I get behind my own doors and left alone with my thoughts. My body aches from holding itself up. My hands ache after uncurling them from the fists I've realized they're in. My mind never seems to shut down because it's filled with thoughts and words I want to scream.

The other thing about balloons, I thought, is one of the pair stuck in that tree could break free and float away, miles and miles and miles away from the other. I'm not sure yet if my husband and I are like those balloons, and, like I said, I'm just too damn tired, too damn over-emotional to think about it, so for now, right now and for so long before now, we're stuck. Tied together, bound by knots, and stuck. Just like the balloons trapped in the branches of a tree in the church yard.

--------------------

To everyone who has read, commented, or sent me an email - thank you. Also, I'm sorry for not yet getting back to any of you. It's that exhausting thing. That pretending I'm OK thing. I'm still going to try, but until then, I just want to say thank you.

'oh your reputation is so golden. you're never lonely and you're never home.'

2011-11-09T21:23:00.005-06:00

So, for the sake of discussion, let's say you recently learned that your spouse, who travels for his or her job and is away from home two to three nights a week, was, on occasion, catching up with an old friend of the opposite sex while they were away. Would you:

(a) Be fine with it.
(b) I mean really fine.
(c) Like, seriously, it's good. It's fine. What's the big deal?

OK then, for the sake of further discussion, what if this person of the opposite sex was someone your spouse harbored a longstanding crush on that eventually, oh, ha ha ha ha, led to them dating for a time more than two decades ago. Would you:

(a) Still be fine with it.
(b) I mean really fine.
(c) Like, seriously, it's good. It was 25 years ago. Is that a molehill I see?

OK, but what if you found out about these meetings not because your spouse told you about them, but rather because you had to use their computer for a bit because yours crashed and your child, the one you had with your spouse, had a major homework assignment due the next day, and, hours later, when the two of you had finally finished, you went to log onto your Facebook account to lament how you wasted an entire night researching post-Communist Poland, but discovered your spouse's Facebook account was logged in so, rather than logging off without a thought, you went into his messages and, sure, you felt bad about doing it, your seriously did, but you're married to someone who doesn't even curse let alone robs banks, so what could they possibly have to hide, and you see a message from said longtime acquaintance so you click on it and then - THEN! - you discover your hard working, gone two to three nights a week spouse has been carrying on not just a flirty but a super flirty conversation string with this longtime acquaintance and the more you read, the angrier you become and, as you look at the dates you wonder, "Hey, how long has my marriage been less than stellar? Three years? Well, look at that..." Would you:

(A) Still be fine with it. Honestly?
(B) Lose your shit and/or mind.
(C) Write a super passive aggressive post about it.

Can you guess my answer?

i suppose even Jesus had to start somewhere

2011-09-26T17:23:00.004-05:00

Earlier today, I was told I'm an inspiration to the older women in my water aerobics class. Did you catch that? I am an inspiration!

(tip - I find if you blink your eyes a few times to the blinding light you see emanating around me, they'll adjust and you'll be able to continue reading)

(I'll also type louder, too, so you can hear over the sound of angels singing)

I am an inspiration!

Sure, it's just for my stunning degree of flexibility that enables me to reach my hands backward until I can grab my ankles and then pull my legs toward my back, all while floating on my stomach rather than doing something amazing like brokering world peace or curing cancer, but baby steps!

"You give the older ladies hope that they, too, will one day be able to do that," my instructor cheered after class.

Come forward, true believers, and let me touch your head and cure you of whatever ails you!

I'll be honest, though. Baby steps are really all I can take when I'm back on land after pulling off that inspiring move because my flexibility really isn't all that stunning, but don't tell any of those older women in my water aerobics class who clearly need something far, far more incredible to be inspired by. I could use the ego boost!

you can have anything you want, but you better not take it from me

2011-09-09T09:14:00.004-05:00

Nothing makes this middle age suburban housewife feel more bad ass while walking her tiny dog through my cookie-cutter community while wearing sensible shoes and conservative cotton blend slacks and toting a plastic bag full of animal waste than having Guns N' Roses' "Welcome To The Jungle" come on the iPod. I believe this is what you'd see if you looked up the phrase 'living the dream.' In the words of the prophet Rose, "Hungh."

Or something like that.

(sidebar - if you looked up 'humidity' you'd see a picture of me following my walk with hair looking suspiciously like Axl's)

and in between the moon and you, the angels get a better view

2011-09-01T12:06:00.007-05:00

I'm leaving in a few moments and beginning a lengthy trip to Colorado to see my beloved cousin, Shawn.

Tomorrow evening, I'll be with my family as we attend Shawn's visitation. Saturday morning, we'll join again to say goodbye at his funeral.

Shawn, who recently turned 41, who felt like he was next to God when he'd take his bike out into the mountains around his adopted hometown, who just sent his children off to school to start their third and fourth grade years, killed himself Monday evening.

Shawn is the second person I know and hold close to my heart to take their own life in less than a year. My heart can't take anything more like this happening again. I wish with everything in this heart of mine that their hearts, their thoughts hadn't been so sad to bring us to a place like this.

I hope there is peace that follows what was so secretly restless.

For Shawn...

what a drag it is...

2011-08-27T22:20:00.008-05:00

Once upon a time, I'd spend Saturday nights dancing in heels so high they'd threaten to make me tipsier than the frou-frou drinks I actually was getting tipsy on, and when the drinks were through, I'd be awake until Sunday doing scandalous things with a scandalous man. The kind of things that would make my cheeks blush as crimson as the grenadine that had been splashed in my drinks.

This Saturday night, I gave my dog a bath, then vacuum packaged 10 pounds of ground beef to store away in my freezer (after calling three people to tell them what a great deal I'd gotten on it at the grocery store earlier in the afternoon), all while test driving these bad boys to see if I'd be able to tolerate wearing them while being on my feet 20+ hours week:

Those are some very sexy size 10 wides 'You're This Close To Giving Up' sneakers from the Dr. Scholl Lunch Lady line. And, yes, friends, they most definitely have a comfort gel insole. Am I gellin', you ask? Oh, yes. I'm gellin' like a felon. Like a felon who was granted early release for good behavior. Like after an hour.

The only thing even slightly similar between my nights of then and now is the involvement of meat, where 'meat' isn't actually 'meat,' but more a metaphor meat. The latter me shouldn't even elude to that, though, because it's embarrassing. The former me wouldn't be embarrassed to say that, of course. The former me would have even giggled about it, tipsy on rum rollovers or not.

Once upon a time, I would have written about my past Saturday nights in a journal and relived them with a smile. This Saturday night, I'm posting a blog post, and in 10 minutes, I'll wake myself up when either my snoring gets so loud I scare myself or the book I started reading when I climbed into bed alone falls and smacks me in the nose.

I'd like to say that was the old me, but THIS is clearly the old me.

my entire history with the opposite sex as played out in a 10 second conversation with my 14-year-old son following his first day of high school

2011-08-24T09:00:00.004-05:00

Me: Did you miss me today?

Him: No.

Me: What?! I missed you all day! I thought about you a lot today!

Him: Honestly? I didn't think about you at all.

Me: Not even once?

Him: Nope.

Me: Really?

Him: Yep.

Me: .......

Him: .......

Me: Did you miss the dog?

Him: Definitely.

And just like that, I was transported back to high school, where my tenuous relationship with males took root.

dog days, it turns out, are not actually over

2011-08-14T21:30:00.003-05:00

This is Max.

Everyone say "Hi, Max!"

Max is my spirit animal. The universe, in whatever infinite wisdom goes into it, believes I should spend a large portion of my day asleep, posing in a fashion that results in getting belly rubs, and licking my privates. The more I think about it, the more I believe the universe is pretty spot on!

In addition to his spirit animal duties, Max is also our new family dog. Hooray!

We adopted Max last Tuesday, and he officially made himself at home here Wednesday evening by christening the corner of our living room steps like the Queen launching a ship. We've been told he's a terrier mix. Based on the way he jumped completely out of his collar and leash and sprinted half a block faster than I could blink my eyes when an unleashed dog aggressively greeted us on the last of our three hour-long walks Thursday (apparently the universe wants me to go on some type of quest), the mixed portion of him is Kobe Bryant or gazelle. I imagine we're going to have to look into the city's ordinances for exotic animals now.

When we chose Max, his name was Mason, which humane society volunteers had shortened to Mace. Look at him. Does he look like a Mason to you? Does he look like he'd tolerate being referred to as Mason Dixon or The Grand Poobah? Because that's what I'd undoubtedly have started calling him if we'd kept that name, and I've got to admit, I was pretty close to selling the kids on The Grand Poobah since, well, there's going to be a lot more pooh happening around here now.

In the end (unintentional pooh joke FTW!), we opted to rename our pet, and the boys quickly chose Max, which means instead of The Grand Poobah, I've referred to him as one of the following every day since:

Maxwell
Maxwell Smart
Maxwell's Silver Hammer
The Maxtrix
Maximilian
Maximum Overdrive
Maxi Priest
Maxi-Pad (I apologized)(it's been hard to stop, though)
Mad Max
IMAX
Frankie Say Remax
Tone Loc

That last one is a nod to Where The Wild Things Are, of course. Additionally, I've confused him by calling him Sir Sheds A Lot and I Know You REALLY Wanted Another Baby, Dear, But If We're Talking About Something That's Going To Need Us To Clean Up It's Poop Anyway, How About Something We Can All Enjoy?

Speaking of poop (again)(forever and always), in the five days we've now owned Max, I've yet to see him do his doody duty. My children assure me he's achieved maximum output (adding it to the list!), but like I told my pal Twobusy, I like to look at this function as if it was a ghost. I hear about ghosts from time to time, but I haven't personally seen one, and I'd like to keep it that way for as long as possible. Especially if it's a ghost and/or pooh that tries to kill me or steal my soul. I think the neighbor's giant barking dog is that kind of pooper.

My spirit animal is pretty rad. He's housebroken, curls up and sleeps through the night on the couch, rarely barks, kennels nicely when necessary, walks great on a leash, and, as we've ascertained earlier, doesn't poop in front of me. I couldn't take one of the many hairs he's shed all over my beautiful red narcolepsy chair (that's a pretty funny post so what are you doing here when you could be following that link and reading that one?), clone him and end up with a better dog. He's maximum pleasure with minimum effort. He's like everything I'd want in a husband if he were human!

The universe wishes for me to go squeak a toy now, so you'll have to excuse me. How cool is that? I imagine it must really suck if your spirit animal is an otter.

regret what i've done (regret you) i couldn't go on...

2011-08-11T13:54:00.007-05:00

From time to time, you'll hear someone talk about having a bucket list, a checklist of daring or exciting things they hope to do before it's their time to kick said bucket. I don't have one of those. Oh, sure, I, too, would like to one day don a jaunty beret and see Paris at night from atop the Eiffel Tower while also eating a baguette and French kissing a Parisian god, but I don't need to jot that down on a Post-it and hope it might happen. Honestly, years of scratching notes as a journalist has murdered my penmanship, so if I did write that goal down somewhere and then came across it years later, I'd think it was actually a grocery list and I'd wonder why I thought I wanted to buy parsnips. "Try parsnips" has a better shot of coming to fruition on any bucket list I'd create before a trip to Paris. I ate - and loved - brussel sprouts for the first time this year, so to say I'm capable of dreaming big is obviously an understatement!

I, do, however, keep two other type of lists, and while they aren't exactly bucket lists, I do refer to them using words that rhyme with 'bucket' and 'list.' Perhaps you can guess what I call them.

Take your time.

Do I really have to spell them out for you using the two letters and two symbols I'm going to because I want you to think I'd never actually deign to spell let alone say this word?

OK.

They are my F&$k It! and my F&$k That! lists.

(I know I said I used a word that rhymes with 'list,' too, but I can only think of one word right now that does and that word is 'piss,' or 'p&$s,' if you will, and I care not to put those two words together and then send them out into the ether, so in the interest of purity, I choose to stick with 'list.' Please accept my apologies.)

Confess. You have these sort of lists, too.

On my F&$k It! list, I have things like 'learn to belly dance,' 'go ahead and take a nap,' and 'start playing Angry Birds.' Nothing earth shattering, and truly nothing I'm going to excel at, as evidenced by how long I've been stuck on level 5 of Angry Birds, thank you very much. I am getting better at naps; however, closing my eyes for a few minutes a 3 pm and not opening them again until after 7 perhaps means I should change this entry to 'go to bed earlier,' but life's a marathon, not a race, am I right?

On my F&$k That! list, I've listed things like 'never climb anything that can be described as 'a mountain',' 'avoid falling on purpose out of an open plane door,' ''do not (again) style your hair in a manner that could confuse people into thinking you're a male,' refrain from killing your spouse,' 'never sing karaoke while drunk and/or sober,' 'eat all things from the sea in a fashion best described as 'cooked,'' and, most importantly, 'don't feel it necessary to attend any additional high school reunions.'

Well, guess what I did last week to screw this list up? No, I'm not writing this from a jail cell, so all's well on the 'refrain from killing your spouse' entry (for now)(oh, hahahahahahaha! ha.)

(ha.)

I f&$kin' went to my 25th high school reunion!!! It deserves two additional exclamation marks because I can't believe I went!!! I swore after my 10th I'd never go to another, and have spent the last 9 months avoiding any and all mention of the latest as plans were hatched and then swirled around my classmates on Facebook like so much cheap vodka in a red plastic cup (which, btw, is pretty much how the event went).

I blame Facebook for making me go. While Mark Zuckerberg was busy being a brainy two year old, I was grabbing my high school diploma, sneering "See you later, suckas," as I stormed out the building doors, and never planned to look back...at least after my 10 year reunion. But that dang Zuckerberg grew up, invented Facebook, and suddenly, every classmate who never spoke is sending me friend requests and commenting all over my Facebook page, telling me how awesome and funny I am. I was funny in high school, too, but nope, I didn't know about Senior Skip Day until coming across your photos from it on Facebook, Prom Queen, so I wasn't there to regale you with my sarcastic banter and witty bon mots. Sorry!

It was Facebook that uncovered me. "Where are you?!" "Come up here!" "We want to see you!!!" "UR SEW FNNNEEE!!!" Yes, the first night of our reunion was at a bar, and by the time I'd received that final message, it had been going on for about three hours, so I hope the spelling was so poor because of that rather than a testament to our education. Because I live the closest of any of my classmates to the reunion site - as in across the damn street - I couldn't go underground. I went, and I drank with my classmates for the very first time, which resulted in blowing another entry on my F&$k That! list.

I f&$kin' sang karaoke!! "Like a Virgin," of course, because I was quite possibly the only virgin in our graduating class...which was a little fact I used to introduce my selection. ME SEW FNNNEEE!!! Ah, like so much cheap vodka swirling around in a red plastic cup, indeed. Seriously, stop me if I bump into you somewhere and pull out maps and introduce you to my Sherpa, Mike, because I do not want to climb any damn mountains!!

By the time I ended the evening, all I could think was "F&$k me!" Screw the F&$k It! and F&$k That! lists. I'm thinking of tossing them out and referring to my new life plan as my Dammit! list I've already got a new entry for it. Last weekend, I cut my hair super, super short. I look like this now. So much for not looking like a dude.

pop quiz, hot shot

2011-07-17T16:10:00.008-05:00

What kind of person keeps two strollers, five car seats and a portable crib almost 10 years after last giving birth? Is it:

(A) someone incredibly lazy with a tendency to think 'out of sight, out of mind'?

(B) someone so afraid of being murdered by a craigslist respondent that it took days of gentle prodding by her visiting sister for her to get her act together so said visiting sister could post said items up in hopes of making a few easy bucks because seriously, how much could a used car seat really net?

(C) someone whose desire for a third (a fourth, really, if truth be told) baby bloomed almost instantly upon last giving birth nearly 10 years ago and has never once waned, who physically aches for another baby and who, though she's (finally)(no murder! no murder!) posted said items for sale and has perhaps resigned herself to a marriage that can't even be adequately described of late (where 'late' means 'three years'), is not at all willingly able to give up the ghost because that someone has had a tendency to get her hopes up when words like "Maybe," and "It's not that I don't necessarily want that, too..." were said because sometimes people just can't come out and say "No," but ha ha ha, guess what, sucker, it ain't gonna happen, in which case, oh boy, you should see how many Rubbermaid totes filled with infant and toddler clothes are filling someone's basement and talk about the room that will free up when someone tosses those out in a fit of sadness. See also:

(D) someone who quickly gushed her best wishes when her best friend informed her three years ago that she was expecting her third child, then pretended there was something in her eye when she had to quickly excuse herself to go cry in the questionable stall of the school bathroom she escaped to (and you'll do it again a couple years later, someone, when said best friend shares the exciting news about baby number four...)

When in doubt, always go with C. And also D.

Someone sometimes feels so damn pathetic...

'we can reach our destination, but we're still a ways away'

2011-06-29T21:55:00.007-05:00

Today I made 14 different trips in the car in less than 12 hours.

They were trips of little significance, but the most productive hours of my day were spent confined to a car.

Fourteen times. In less than 12 hours.

I went here and there.

Back and forth.

North and south.

East and west.

East and west.

East and west.

East and west.

East and west

There was lathering. There was rinsing. There was repeating.

It wasn't until the 13th trip that the thought of not returning home crossed my mind.

Did I say crossed? I meant it parked there. The idea of not returning home parked - probably illegally - in the space that had opened up in the front of my brain, and it proceeded to sit there with its motor running and its brakes engaged, allowing the glowing fire of its questionable intent to shine, confusing the other thoughts that circled the lot, wondering if it the thought was there to stay for awhile, or planning to reverse right out so one of them could slip victoriously back into the prized position.

In the time I spent in left turn lane limbo, my signal blink, blink, blinking my original intent, I considered my other. I glanced briefly into the driver's side mirror and back toward where I'd come, then quickly turned my eyes forward and thought of where I could go and who I might be when I arrived there.

I liked it there, that place where I imagined ending up. I thought I could be awesome there. I could go on and on and tell you why I did, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because it's late and I'm tired.

And it doesn't matter because on my 14th trip, I pointed the car toward the west again, and once again, I'm home.

I just wish I knew what I was doing now that I'm here again.

among the things i've recently decided...

2011-06-21T18:22:00.004-05:00

I don't have enough reason(s) and/or excuse(s) in my life to use the words 'nut punch.'

This honestly comes as a gigantic surprise and/or disappointment to me, especially considering how often in my life of late I feel like leaving someone with a subterranean depression of the gonads. I did use it earlier today, and I have to be honest, ever since, I haven't been able to stop thinking about how I can use it again.

Nut punch.

Nut punch, nut punch, nut punch.

Nut punch.

So how 'bout you? What have you decided lately?

sidebar - Subterranean Depression of the Gonads is the name of my band. We play emo music and never look at the audience while performing. I'm the cute one on bass.

oh, sexy internet...

2011-05-25T21:30:00.007-05:00

Is that a hastily constructed, not to scale model of the Washington Monument in my garage, or are you just happy to see me?

Ah, yes, friends, in the grand tradition of the balloon-powered vehicle and the giant soul-sucking, holiday weekend killing Jamaica project, tonight, we here at the House that Procrastination Built are putting the finishing touches on a project due tomorrow in my third grader's class. A project we didn't start on until last night...at 9:30 p.m., after a Little League baseball game. A project everyone here has known about because I've spent the past two weeks since it was assigned saying things like, "Hey, we should really work on that monument project!" and "Are you sure you wouldn't want to switch your project to the Lincoln Memorial? Because time's a'ticking and we already painstakingly built that monument five years ago, the last time this project rolled around, and I've been saving it in the basement for a day just like this!"

Thank goodness the end of the school year is in sight because this? This model - which is clearly slivered for your pleasure - is the closest thing anyone around here is coming to a good time tonight or any night in the foreseeable future.

i finally have concrete evidence no one is checking out my ass

2011-05-19T18:25:00.008-05:00

Twelve hours after putting on my pants today, I discovered a hole in the seat. A tiny hole, you ask? No. This was a gaping wound that tore apart the harmonious union forged in fabric once enjoyed by the two parts of my sensible pants.

(forgive me for what follows...)

This was definitely a hole near the a...OK, I can't...

My discovery is disheartening because until recently, this is a pair of pants my ass couldn't fit into for a long time, a pair I recently reunited with in a victory dance brought on by months of squats and a bitter breakup with peanut butter (note to peanut butter - I know you're still out there, I know you still love me, but cool it with the overt attempts to get me back, m'kay?).

Butt (har har) do you want to know the real reason I'm torn up by this tear? I visited the following highly populated areas during the 12 hours the pants were on my body:

my son's middle school
my place of employment
Walmart
the bank
the grocery store
the YMCA
the gas station

and not one person apparently took a gander at mah goods! While I was experiencing the flip side of "Hey, you've got a piece of spinach or something between your teeth," no one, in all those places, during all that time, cared to notice my holy grail in my holey pants! Seriously?! You could see where the sun don't shine through the opening I was (inadvertently) giving you! In fact, if you HAD looked, you damn well better have been done so through a hole in a paper plate. Not so much to protect your eyes, but to it to cover them so as not to see that, yeah, it's still a wee bit of a train wreck back there in the caboose department.

Perhaps peanut butter and I should rethink our relationship.

and i'm like 'forget you and forget my blog password too'

2011-05-15T15:21:00.012-05:00

So Blogger was down for a few days last week, huh? I guess I could use that as my excuse for not writing for ::cough:: a month, but to be truthful, I must confess. The reason I've not been here is because I forgot the password to log into my Blogger account.

Seriously.

I've been writing here for nearly five years, and then boom! I drew a giant blank on the combination of words I've been typing in on the Blogger homepage since day one that allows me to gain access to this secret lair, as well as comment at your places of business. If that wasn't bad enough, travel back in time with me, won't you, as I remind you what I last wrote about...

"I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid now, I've never been stupid, and I don't plan on getting stupid."

Ha! Ha, ha, ha, ha...ha! If there weren't already a song about irony, I could write one, don'tcha think?

So, hello, friends. It's good to see you again. How are you? What have I been up to? Oh, nothing special. Bracing myself for the end of the school year (three weeks away! Hooray!)(also, I've apparently been penning a little poetry). Purposely listening to this Justin Bieber song on the way to work (question - is there anything that Ludacris won't be featured on?). Playing a little game called 'Angry Birds.' Ever heard of it? Of course you have. Everyone in the world has heard of it and already grown bored of playing it by the time I discovered it a week ago. Hey, wanna talk about how cuckoo craaaazeee that nice fellow Charlie Sheen's been lately?!

I've also been trapped inside a lot because my hours at work (from an already generous 15 a week!) were cut and the weather's been so crappy I don't want to leave the house, so I've been working out six days a week and doing a lot of reading.

Cripes, I just realized what I've been doing is living the life of a prisoner! Alas, no Wendy O. Williams in "Reform School Girls" action up in this joint. Bummer. I do have biceps like a couple of angry vipers now, though. Tiny, still gestating in the egg vipers, but just you wait. Go heavy or go home, wussies! Also, here's a tip - I made friends with Rob Lowe so I could hear his stories and now you don't have to. You'll thank me because I'm your real friend for saving you the time you would've wasted on that one. Sorry, Sodapop Curtis. Please don't look at me like that (p.s. - for the love of heaven, why isn't "St. Elmo's Fire" on Netflix instant streaming?!)(trivia - I had the love theme from "St. Elmo's Fire" played during my wedding because I'm what the natives like to call hella romantic...and because the song that plays at the end of "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," while awesome, wouldn't have conveyed the same tender emotion I was going for with the day. Oh, no)(chicka chicka).

I think that's about it. Pretty boring. In retrospect, I guess you should be happy I forgot my log in information because if this is the type of thunder I'm bringing, well then, go on out there strapped to your wireless microphones and holding your giant steel rods (not a metaphor), because you're safe in this storm! For now, I've got a cake to frost (again, not a metaphor) and some hot dogs to grill (possibly a metaphor). When I do have more to say, I'll be back!

(so...I guess see you in two months next time, huh?)

and then i go and spoil it all by by saying something stupid like how stupid i sometimes am

2011-04-19T21:20:00.007-05:00

Earlier this evening, I caught my oldest son in a trivial lie. This type of thing doesn't happen often, but when it does, I like to drive home my disappointment with an overly emotional lecture that goes on about three minutes longer than it should, and sometimes involves a PowerPoint presentation with bullet points and graphics that float in from one corner of the screen and off the other, all set to the melodic inspiration of Celine Dion or Bette Midler. I think it's this aspect of my parenting skills that's resulted in having two children who rarely cause trouble, rather than the fact two laid back, typically apathetic individuals came together to create offspring who model similar behavior.

(Speaking of things that go on longer they should, talk about a long-winded introductory paragraph, why don'tcha...)

Twenty minutes into my lectures, I typically notice my audience fading (or, in some cases, disappearing entirely), so I like to conclude with a kind word or a catch phrase that reminds them, should they ever be tempted to repeat whatever bad behavior I was trying to discourage, that they don't want to sit through a PowerPoint again, so they'll nip their business in the bud (sidebar - make note of 'nip your business in the bud' as potential future catch phrase). Tonight, I tried out the following:

"I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid now, I've never been stupid, and I don't plan on getting stupid."

Seriously, does that make me sound bad ass or what?

But here's the problem. I just sat here for five minutes wondering "Or should that read 'Does that NOT make me sound bad ass?'" which absolutely contradicts the point I was trying to make to my son. Couple that with the fact that, in all honesty, I'm probably at least a little bit stupid if for no other reason than, earlier tonight, I had to cry mercy (read as: actually cry) while helping my youngest son with his homework. I honestly had no idea a rod was anything other than a stick and/or a proper name that never fails to make me snicker, but apparently - and I only learned this about an hour ago after my husband got home and was able to help our son, a rod is some sort of measurement, 16 1/2 feet to be exact. OK, that's all well and good, but don't expect me to know how many rods are in 66 feet. Seriously, don't expect that of me. Everyday Math? You win, OK? I don't do math like this every day.

Additional evidence to the contrary? I just sat here another five minutes debating whether it's 'Everyday Math' or 'Every Day Math.' Also, after telling my son that math gives girls headaches, I rubbed my eyes really hard, hard enough that you see geometric shapes, then cheered, "Ooooh! I see stars! And octagons! Wait - octagons have eight sides, right? Right?"

I think I owe my oldest an apology. My words sound awesome, but probably more so as dialogue in some testosterone-fueled action movie, where someone like Arnold Schwarzenegger would pronounce it as 'stooo-peed' and I would laugh, than spewing out of me long after any point I was trying to make was lost on the recipient (which is sort of like what's happening with this post...).

In an attempt to feel...what's the word? Unstupid? In an attempt to feel unstupid, I decided I'd toss one final zinger at my son to conclude our moral lesson.

"It would behoove you to heed my words," I said. Because I often like to speak (or should I say 'expatiate') as though I'm staging a forgotten play by Shakespeare to those among me who have no idea what 'behooves' even means. This explains a great deal now that I think about how many times I've used the word 'conundrum' while trying to get my husband to understand we have problems.

Anyway, you know who's not stupid? People who use words like 'behoove' and 'expatiate' (and sometimes 'conundrum'). Want to know how I came up with a word like 'expatiate'? I had to look it up in a thesaurus...aaaaaaaand I spelled 'thesaurus' wrong - twice - while Googling it in an attempt to bring one up online to come up with another word for 'speak.' )

OK, three times. What was that I was saying?

"I'm not stupid. I'm not stupid now, I've never been stupid, and I don't plan on getting stupid."

Clearly.

(I think I'd have made my point more succinctly (see also: 'in brief') had this post actually been a PowerPoint. Did you ever know that you're my hero? My heart will go on...)

(p.s. - there are four rods in 66 feet)(but I only know this after once again turning to outside help to be sure I was right about how many inches are in a foot...)(hooray, I was!)

ask a simple question, you'll get an answer that you has nothing to do with what you're asking, but i thought it was funny, so there's that

2011-04-04T18:13:00.006-05:00

My oldest son had a school assignment tonight that required him to interview someone about their job. This is probably the third time this quarter he's had this assignment, but when class time for this particular class apparently often involves watching episodes of Dirty Jobs, I guess I should just be happy he's finally got some homework.

His plan was to interview his dad, but because he's already interviewed him about this matter twice before, and because what the heck am I, chopped liver, I made him interview me. I'm exciting! I'm interesting! Sure, I don't sell tools to the tool-less, but what I do is important, too!

Sort of.

Also, by doing this, I get out of helping with the essay on Andrew Jackson that's also on the homework docket tonight, so take that, big time tool salesman!

Anyway, my son relented, sharpened his pencil, and posed his first question, which was "What was your first job in high school?"

To which I answered - "I was working part time at a five and dime. My boss was Mr. McGee."

He started to write that down on his paper, and I almost let him, but then I started to feel guilty because I didn't want to jeopardize that straight A he's built from watching television, so I corrected him, but I tell ya, if I had the chance to do it all again, I wouldn't change...my answer.

Oh, yes I would. I would have told him exactly what I did at my first job. I worked the diner all day. Working for my man, I brought home my pay. For love.

For love.

Kids today just don't get mah sweet jams.

parents, hug your children close...

2011-03-28T19:56:00.007-05:00

The following is a verbatim exchange between a me and a customer I had the pleasure of helping today during my bookstore shift. The part of me will be played by me. The part where I said I had the pleasure of helping her is because, for the most part, I did because that's my job, but mostly it's because it feels like that's what I'm supposed to say. And then I'm supposed to try and sell you a discount membership.

On with the show!

Me: "Here you are, one copy of Beatrix Potter: The Complete Tales. Is there anything else I can help with today?"

Customer: "I don't think so, no. Thank you for your help."

Me: "You're welcome. Please let me know if there's anything else I can help you with today!"

Customer: "You know, there is something you might be able to help me with."

Me: "I'll certainly try! What is it?"

Customer: "Is Beatrix Potter related to Harry Potter?"

Me: ".........."

Customer: ".........."

Me: "..........Um.........."

Customer: ".........."

Sidebar - I've been at this gig long enough to know I shouldn't even begin to doubt people are giving me a hard time when they ask me things like this. It's a little trick I've employed since the Great Request for MC Hammer's Greatest Hits Incident of Ought 7 (secondary sidebar - remember when I used to write all my posts in lowercase? good times. good, good times...), but honestly, when faced with this particular question, my mouth wasn't saying "Seriously?" but my face likely was.

Back to the show!

My face: "Seriously?"

Customer: ".........."

Me: "Well, no, in fact, Beatrix Potter and Harry Potter are not related when you take into account Beatrix Potter was a real person and Harry Potter is actually a fictional character."

Customer: "Oh! OH! Hahahahahahaha....ha...ha...um, so I guess I'm done in this area now."

Me: "Have a great day!"

My brain: "You're totally going to write about this, aren't you?"

Me: "Duh!"

And so I did, and you're all probably thinking that's enough, as well as "What a great story!" and "People are wacky!" and perhaps "Thanks for sharing!"

But wait! There's more!

Several minutes later, I was walking through the main sales floor when I spotted this particular customer at the cash registers, so I stepped over to ring out her purchases. As I was preparing to tell her her total, this is what she said:

Customer: "Oh, wait! I have this!"

This? This was one of our educator discount cards. Let me capitalize every letter in those three words for you to emphasize my point - EDUCATOR DISCOUNT CARD. Now let me put an exclamation point between each of those capitalized words to just be annoying - EDUCATOR! DISCOUNT! CARD!

She was an educator. An individual charged with educating children like yours and mine during a large portion of any given week day. And she was completely, absolutely not ironically unaware that Beatrix Potter and Harry Potter are not, in fact, related.

You're welcome, pretty much every other country in the entire world.

....................

In a related note, when I asked my oldest son what he did today in his Careers class, this is what he told me:

My son: "We watched 'Dirty Jobs.'"

Me: "You did what?

My son: We watched 'Dirty Jobs.'"

Me: "Let me see if I understand this. You watched a TV show????"

My son: "Yeah. We've done that, like, three or four times. Hey, have you ever seen the episode where he makes pooh pots?"

YES! Yes, I have seen the episode where Mike Rowe, the host of 'Dirty Jobs' makes pooh pots because I have both a high school and college education (and I work for just over minimum wage at a book store, so hahahahaha, who's the self-important smart one writing this post, hmmm?), and because I'm not in school, a place where I assumed there's learning to be done and tests to be taken, I can sit down on a Tuesday night and enjoy an episode of 'Dirty Jobs' after all my work is done and there's not a grade hinging on it. Hell, if I don't get to an episode right away, I can store up five or six hours worth of it on my DVR and take what might likely be considered a masters course in it when I watch them all over a rainy Saturday afternoon (and if that's the case, I just wrote my dissertation on 'Desperate Housewives' last weekend)(also, why am I still watching 'Desperate Housewives'?).

My kid watches TV in lieu of learning things in school (sigh...) that will help him focus on his future career goals. Considering his dream is to be a NBA superstar, I guess I should stop complaining about the hours he spends watching 'SportsCenter.' He's obviously going to be my meal ticket when I'm older.

testing the power of that whole 'BFFs 4-evah!' pact we signed years ago in our high school yearbooks

2011-03-22T17:09:00.010-05:00

Later this week, I have a lunch date with my best friend. Kay is the first person I think of when Nelson's '(Can't Live Without Your) Love and Affection' screams out of my iPod, the reason I know a little bit about a lot of bad 80s movies, and is someone who encouraged me to write even when I had no idea I wanted to. Growing up, she was the Kelly to my Sabrina (only because she'd call dibs on it first, and neither of us was nearly blond enough to pull off Jill)(and in a somewhat related note, she always claimed ownership of the name Jessica when we played 'Rich Girl in the Big City' games or, if it was a lazy weekend, simply 'Waitress').

We'd climb into her family's tiny camper, the one whose greatest adventures began and ended where it was parked on their driveway, and pretended to see the world. When we'd seen all there was to see on land, the RV became a rocket ship, and so believable were we as space adventurers, we came dangerously close to convincing her younger brother he was the spawn of aliens we'd rescued him from and given him to Kay's parents when they desired a son.

I was there, hiding my Barbies, while she pierced, tattooed, and put her own through rigorous breast reduction surgeries involving cement and a painful sounding scraping motion, when she was trying to decide what to do about college, and later, as her maid of honor when she married. I am absolutely looking forward to our lunch date because Kay is my best friend.

And because I haven't seen her in almost 17 years.

Is it strange, I wonder, to refer to someone you've not talked to, laughed with, or seen in so very long as your best friend? When I talk about friendship with my children, I inevitably mention Kay and how we grew up next door to each other (our mothers each still live in those respective houses), and forged a friendship when it seemed like no one else wanted in on our quirks. As my stories go on, I always, always preface things with "My best friend Kay and I..."

I do have other friends, of course, even some who've earned the 'best friend' crown, but no one in that circle of intimates has been with me since I was stealing (cough cough) copies of Smash Hits magazine from RecordLand so I could kiss the posters of Simon LeBon I'd rip from the pages and tack to my bedroom walls. None of them were there when I made the unfortunate mistake of wearing little other than fluorescent yellow the majority of my freshman year of high school, or the even greater mistake of giving myself the nickname 'Garbanzo Bean' during my sophomore year. I'm nobody's Jessica, baby. To her credit, Kay, the perpetual pretend Jessica, willingly adopted the nickname 'Kidney Bean.' No wonder we liked each other.

There's no reasonable excuse why it's taken us close to two decades to reconnect, especially considering during all this time, we've lived 30 minutes or less from the other. The last time I saw Kay, she came charging through the front door of the church just as I was getting ready to walk down the aisle. The sanctuary doors opened and my guests thought they'd see me, but I had to duck out of sight so Kay could enter and find a seat. And that? That was actually the first time I'd seen her in a couple years. We had no fights. Just...life. Life, as great as it can be, can also get in your way. So can people, opinions, and stuff. Lots of stuff. But mostly it's just been life.

It took Facebook, the great Switzerland of the Internet, to reunite us. Tenuously at first, then eventually to this place and our plans to meet for lunch later this week. She LOL'd me in a Facebook message when we'd firmed up our plans, saying she was going to "try and work a miracle in an attempt to get the gray that continues to keep coming back out of my hair...too bad I can't lose 50 pounds+ in the process :D" In my response, I told her not to worry about how she looked, that the zit on my 43 year old chin would trump any gray hair she thinks she has. But secretly, I'm bee-lining for the magnifying mirror and praying for a sunny day between now and then so I can hunt for errant chin hairs. That alien brother of hers once accused me of having a mustache, and a girl doesn't forget that kind of thing...especially when she's reached an age where, in that bright sunlight I've been praying for, it might actually look like she does!

In reality, though, I really don't care how either of us look (except note - paint fingernails). I'm only looking forward to seeing my best friend again. I hope lunch is an afterthought and we really just find we can start where we left off nearly 17 years ago. I can't say I'm not nervous. It may be like having to make a friend all over again, but I feel it's worth it.

Especially if I can fight imaginary crime again...only this time, I get to be Kelly!

a few words that, when formed into a sentence, make up a phrase that has not been said around my house in a long time. a very long time.

2011-03-16T19:14:00.006-05:00

"This thing is entirely too hard and way too stiff for me to deal with!"
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Which is exactly what someone like me would say when someone like me digs out her brand new, non-oiled, completely inflexible, baseball glove today for the first time in more than nine months.

It should be noted, though, that at no time did anyone say "Let's play ball(s)!"

However, it might be worth mentioning that the glove? It was way to big for me. Way too big.

-------------------------

(This is truly what I come back at you with after more than two weeks away, so...thank you? I'm sorry?)

so, that was awkward, huh?

2011-02-28T20:30:00.003-06:00

And I'm not just talking about the Oscars, though hoo boy, THAT was three and a half hours of WTF, am I right?!

No, I'm talking about my last post, in which I sort of hinted at kinks in the armor that is my marriage, and then went away for a couple weeks, leaving it to hang there. I've returned a few times since posting that, wanting to flick the offending creature away, but I'd end up staring at the words and thinking of all the things I want to say, but that I don't feel like putting up in a post because, even though we're all nice people (seriously, you all are some truly nice people), we all also know the internet is like that high school upperclassman who, even though you did absolutely nothing to them, likes to torment you for having the audacity to be alive. I like being alive. I do not like the idea of my 'woah is me' words being used against me by someone who doesn't know me. I've gone this long having a blog without that happening, and I'd like to keep it that way.

But I will say yes, things here suck. My marriage is not good right now, and if I were to tell you just how long it's not been good, I'd be embarrassed. And sad. Mostly sad, which is truly how I feel most days, but you don't know that because I go about said days as the "I'm good, how are you?" girl. Here, let me put an exclamation point at the end of everything I say because everything! in! my! world! is! amazing! "You're the funniest person I know," my friends often tell me, and I'm inclined to scream "You clearly don't know enough people!" because I don't feel funny, not even in the slightest. Not even now when I'm going to tell you that over the last two weeks, I've given some thought to what music video might better describe the state of my union than the two posted previously, and I've settled on this one:

Total Eclipse of the Heart. Yep. That's what my marriage feels like right now. A humongous, over the top, angsty mess, but minus the ninjas (also minus the kids with the glowing eyes, but really, who's to say those aren't adequate representations of my own children, or, at the very least, what I remember feeling like growing up as the child of two people who didn't seem to get along for a very long time).

Of course, there's a good chance I'm missing the bigger picture of this song. Sure, one could say it's all about the complexity of love, and isn't that sweet, but then there's this part where, oh yes, every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears. I get a little bit angry...a little bit terrified. Over there is a powder keg and yep, look at that! It's giving off sparks! And guess what? I am falling apart.

Good times.

I'm not purposely trying to make light of this situation. There's nothing light about it. This is the curse of being the 'I'm good!' girl.

But I'm not, and so I guess I have to start acting like it.

yer singin' my song, mister

2011-02-14T16:04:00.007-06:00

The song that came screaming out of the speakers of my car radio today as I left for work on this glorious Valentine's Day was this:

"Our Love's In Jeopardy" by Greg Kihn Band. Oh, Greg Kihn, I don't know how you did it. I don't know how you traveled to the future, then went back to the heady days of the 80s and penned this ode, but it's almost as though you formed the rhythm from the beating of my heart and penned the lyrics by taking the unspoken words in my brain and wove them in such a way you had no choice but to come up with this hit. I can't imagine a better, truly more ironic song to have started my Valentine's Day.

Except maybe this:

(special thanks to my pal TwoBusy for the following label...)

like you're less than...

2011-02-09T19:19:00.011-06:00

I was at my oldest son's basketball game last night when a group of his classmates, fellow ball players fueled by an earlier victory, sat down a few seats away from me. Lanky boys armed with cell phones or wired to iPods, it didn't take long for their collective attention to turn from the action on various tiny screens and the court to the cluster of cheerleaders next to them who were exuding school spirit for the home team. The squad, by no means the stylized visions of professional cheerleaders, included various individuals clearly trying to fill in the awkward uniform of teenagerhood.

At some point between foul shots, the two groups developed a slightly casual, seemingly harmless bantering in a fashion I can recall between teenage boys and girls. The boys began making up their own cheers for our team, and the girls laughed at their attempts. I found it all rather charming.

When the buzzer signaled halftime, the girls pranced out to the middle of the court and took a formation that made it clear they we're going to attempt a pyramid lift. Anchors were spotted, squats were taken, and the girl designated to peak the formation was lifted into place. The boys began making remarks about it all, and then, over their laughter, I heard one say, "Watch it there, Thunder Thighs. You wouldn't want to kill someone under you!"

His words were met with whoops among his peers. Some of the laughter seemed genuine, some of it I hope was just the reaction of those who didn't know how else to respond, so they did what they felt would allow them continued acceptance in the fold. As for me, I wanted to come off my chair and go after them for their thoughtlessness. I was seething as I looked out at the girls, each as gangly as the boys, each as athletic in their own way.

But not one of them overweight.

I prayed none of the girls heard the boy's words and the others' reactions. I prayed that because I was that girl who had thoughtless words lobbed at her. I was that girl referred to as a 'blow up doll,' 'fat bitch,' and others far more cruel by thoughtless boys while in school. Their words, combined with others from my mother, family members, other classmates, even strangers, made me hate myself for an incredibly long time, and in that immediate moment last night, I didn't want any of those girls to feel such a degree of self-hatred simply because another person chose to be senselessly cruel. I don't want any of those girls to be 43 years old one day and still remember hateful words lobbed at them when they were 14. I do. I remember every word, every time they were said, and even though I like to tell myself they mean nothing, they do. In their own way, they do. I was seated in a corner of the gym last night, secluded from other parents and fans, because when I walked in just moments before my son's game started, I didn't want to draw attention to myself, didn't want to clumsily engage someone in conversation and come off sounding stupid. I do this sometimes, even now, because of words said to me when I was the same age as the kids around me last night. To be called fat, to me, is to be made to feel worthless, unworthy, stupid. I opt to stay quiet and hidden more often than not, and honestly, I would hate that for the girls on that cheer squad. I hate it for me.

I hate that I let my own voice join the chorus of detractors around me, compelling me to take them to heart and feed my pain. I've seen pictures of myself from when I was a 13-14 year old girl, and I absolutely wasn't overweight, but as time went on, I grew increasingly unhealthy, and I struggle even now not to degrade myself when I look in a mirror or slip into a pair of jeans. It's not every day, of course, but there are days still when I do think of how I used to imagine physically slicing away at my thighs, hips and stomach to rid myself of the pain I was putting on myself, and it's all because of a few stupid words someone said to me, and that I eventually said to myself.

Of course, I am not so naive to think none of us makes hasty, uninformed decisions about a person based solely on their appearance. We do it every day. If you haven't yet, no doubt you will. So will I. But I try very hard not to. I know adolescence is an awkward time, but it's disgusting and disheartening to realize people can still be disparaged by another for something so grossly untrue.

i just realized i'm writing about similiar things two posts in a row. this is my life, friends.

2011-02-06T18:22:00.007-06:00

Things you might want to wake up to on a Saturday morning:

breakfast in bed
the promise of a new day
the arms of the one you love (IN their arms, not just WITH their arms)
Ryan Gosling, Mark Ruffalo, and/or Russell Brand

Sounds good, right? Hell, even waking up with a stranger's arms in your bed wouldn't be all that bad if you could easily prove you weren't a party to the detachment of said appendages. If I could get a good night's sleep, those are exactly the kinds of things I would dream about waking up to.

Here's a taste of what I woke up to Saturday morning:

my youngest son screaming
my youngest son screaming the following - "HE FARTED ON MY CEREAL!!!"

Friends, you cannot come back from that. You cannot do anything but pull the blankets over your head and pray for divine intervention to help you get through the day before you've even set foot upon the floor to get it started. You cannot help but either stand in your shower and hope the water pelting your skin drowns out the sound of your tears, or count to 10 on a continuous loop to regain your composure as you come downstairs to the tears and apathy of those you live with.

It's been a long weekend around here.

The only saving grace in this whole tragedy? The kids were eating Froot Loops. Thank heaven this didn't occur over a bowl (or 'bowel')(but I figured why go for the cheap joke) of high fiber cereal.

betty draper would have fixed them with a steely glare and sent them to bed without dinner

2011-02-02T09:15:00.001-06:00

Last night around the dinner table with my sons:

"Was this something pre-made?"

"You saw me standing at the oven cooking this meal not 20 minutes ago!"

"These noodles taste weird."

"These noodles taste like dirt. Are these noodles supposed to taste like dirt?"

"These noodles do not taste either weird or like dirt. These noodles taste fine."

"I'm thinking they taste weird."

"They're quick cooking noodles. That might have something to do with the flavor. They're fine. Let's just eat, OK?"

"I take it the corn is quick cooking corn then, too?"

"Seriously?"

"Well?"

"NO. It's just corn! Let's eat, OK?"

"That reminds me. When I woke up this morning, that hangy down thing in the back of your throat was numb."

"In my throat?"

"Yeah."

"My throat was fine."

"My throat!"

"Hmmm."

"It's not now, though."

"That's good. You should be able to eat without any problems then!"

"It was, though. It was weird."

"Indeed."

-- 45 seconds of uninterrupted eating --

-- or so I thought --

"Honey, I know your tooth is loose, but can you not try to pull it out at the dinner table?"

"That reminds me! Today in PE, we were playing hockey, and someone whacked me right here and I was bleeding."

"That will happen when you get hit in the nose."

"But it wasn't my nose. Weird."

-- looking down at my pasta...with red sauce --

"Can we just eat now?"

"Do you remember Courtney, Mom?"

"Mmmhmmm."

"She has this dry skin and it just flakes and hangs off her arms and stuff."

--putting my fork down --

-- because so far, putting my foot down hasn't worked --

"Also? When she thinks the teacher's not looking when we're on the carpet, she'll pick scabs off her legs and fling them."

"Well, be sure to duck if you see her aiming for you. And please, leave your loose tooth alone!"

"It's gross. She just picks, picks, picks!"

"Does she eat them?"

"No."

"So, it's kind of like this dinner, then, hmmm?"

"What?"

"She's saying this dinner is like Courtney's scabs."

"Huh?"

"Since you're not eating your dinner..."

"My nose is running."

"Seriously, this pasta tastes like dirt."

"It. Is. Fine!"

"I was looking at the Guinness Book of World Records today, and there's this dude who has 9 fingers on one hand!"

"Gross."

"I'm sure he didn't see himself as 'gross.'"

"And three of the fingers? Were stuck together! And there was, like, TWO THUMBS!"

"The better to pick up his fork and eat his dinner when his Mom asked him to, I'm sure."

"I've heard that a monkey went to space once. Is that true?"

"Yes. Also? Let go of your tooth!"

"Is it true, then, too, that corn helps you poop?"

--and then I caught myself actually explaining how corn doesn't fully digest in a person's body and five minutes later, I realized I was still talking about it, so I paused and pushed myself away from the table because clearly, this meal had gone down the crapper --

"I'm done. No dessert for you two tonight, gentlemen."

"Wha? Wait! This pasta's not too bad!"

it's astounding...time is fleeting...

2011-01-25T17:04:00.008-06:00

"Why do you keep taking pictures?" he quizzes.

"Because I want to remember this," I respond.

I want to remember how your hair, just like your brother's, remains suspiciously blonde.

How you're the only child I know who doesn't like macaroni and cheese and questions the purpose of butter as an ingredient.

How you talk my ear off whenever we're alone together in the car.

How you accept the fact I'll never understand NFL stats or all things Bakugan, as long as I accept the fact that we'll talk about these things over dinner no less than three nights a week.

How we share a love of questionably good music (ain't that Mr. Mister on the radio?).

How you dance when you think I'm not looking.

How you don't care if I join in when you notice I am.

How you relish carrying on conversations with me in dramatic, over-embellished accents.

How you come in to my bedroom and try to scare me every morning.

How you did scare me.

How I never fail to think "I love this boy," when I see you racing up the sidewalk from school.

How you love to play all sports despite humble beginnings from two athletically clueless parents.

How you'll still hug me and hold my hand and plant kisses on my face without making me beg.

How you feign tiredness just so you can say "I wuv you."

How your soul is old and your heart is soft.

How you willingly accepted me as your sidekick even though my super power - freezing time to keep you young - fails miserably at every attempt. Lucky for you thought, huh, considering your power seems to be making time fly.

How I hope it will be when the day comes when you must come to me, hold my hand, and ask me if I remember.

"So I can remember how we were when you suddenly turned 9," I respond.

Happy birthday, my heart.

join me, won't you, in weeping for our country's future

2011-01-18T18:37:00.007-06:00

I was shelving books at the store earlier today when somewhere between fiction and mysteries, I stumbled upon a pride of college-age girls. They appeared disoriented and unfamiliar with their surroundings. I was keen to this feeling because it's similar to the one I get when my third grader pulls out his math homework and I see it's geometry (geometry?!).

If I'd sniffed the air, I'd have been struck by the heady perfume of, well, perfume. However, I was first struck by sadness.

"Oh my God, you guys, apparently they'll make a book out any TV show!" one of the girls exclaimed.

Her words, of course, rang true. The bookstore is ripe with titles based on or inspired by television programs, but I was curious which of these books might have caught the young woman's attention. When I glanced over, I saw her hoisting up a large, leatherbound edition of Gray's Anatomy.

Gray's Anatomy, a lovely scientific tome filled with names and parts, but alas, none of those names include 'Meredith' or 'McDreamy,' or them doing things with their parts in medical supply closets.

We're in good hands, world. We're in good hands...which is appropriate, since that part of the anatomy is outlined in amazing detail in the book the young woman was holding in hers.

(and now I'm off to watch the last two weeks of Grey's Anatomy that have been hanging around my DRV!)

small victories are better than none

2011-01-12T08:19:00.005-06:00

I firmly believe in life's little victories, the things that happen to us from time to time that give us pause to celebrate. We all have them, tiny delights that make us want to high five a stranger or break out in a silly dance.

Stepping on the scale to find the number's dropped three pounds this week despite inhaling peanut M&M's like an ant eater over the last four days.

Waking up thinking the new day has started only to discover there's still four hours until the alarm goes off AND falling instantly back to sleep.

That moment at the end of the day when the bra comes off.

Finding a secret peanut M&M IN your bra when you take it off.

Those are just a few of my recent little victories, and believe me, given the past year or so of my life, I'm marking these occasions.

(believe this, too - that peanut M&M that falls out of your bra when you take it off? Melty deliciousness. Savor it. THAT'S the point!)

But the best thing that's happened to me lately? The thing that still has me smiling more than 24 hours later? A young man working at the grocery store referred to me as "Miss."

MISS!!

"Would you like a cart tonight, Miss?"

"Finding everything alright, Miss?"

"If you have any questions, Miss, don't hesitate to ask!"

"Are you having a good evening, Miss?"

"Paper or plastic, Miss?"

"Oh, please, Miss, I don't want you to stand out in this snow! Go ahead and get in your vehicle and I'll load these groceries in!"

"See you again soon, Miss!"

Excessive? Perhaps, but I'll be honest with you. I was so delighted by this moniker, I found myself purposely traversing aisles this young man was working in so he'd make further inquiries. It felt like I'd stepped into a Dickens novel. For one glorious hour, in what may have been the only hour of my life I've ever been referred to as such, I was a Miss. Not a Ma'am. Not nothing. A Miss! Cue the angels, sound the trumpets, give that boy a raise and a day off with pay, because I was a Miss! So delighted and charmed by this was I that I didn't even grumble when I got home and discovered this delightful young man loaded some heavier grocery items on top of not just my bananas but my eggs, too.

And why didn't I grumble? Because my two giant bags of peanut M&Ms were tucked safely and comfortably away together in their own bag. Oh, yes, thanks to this one simple act by this one kind person, I truly am one victorious Miss.

hot, happy and having a blast!

2011-01-02T15:58:00.004-06:00

Those three words headline a profile of Reece Witherspoon in this month's edition of Glamour magazine, which I just got done reading and tossing across the room in a fit of boredom and overall apathy (which may just be a fancy way of saying 'boredom,' but eh, there you go), but I think I'm going to go ahead and also declare them to be my resolutions for the new year.

In 2011, I will be hot! I will be happy! And I will be having a blast!

I'm going to do all those things in exactly that order, too. Based on the fact I wake up most nights in a simmering, lukewarm pool of my own sweat, I can safely say I'm (possibly too old to be reading Glamour magazine) already a third of the way toward meeting my goals. Huzzah! Check mark in column one of my Trifecta of Awesome! That was a hell of a lot easier than the time I vowed to not let little things annoy me, and cut back on sweets.

Oh, January 1. That was a good day...

Seriously. It's January 2, and at approximately 12:37 p.m., CST, 36+ hours into a banner new year, I lost my mind at my children and my husband over two slices of leftover pizza and a few measly reheated chicken strips, then I scored a bowl of brownie batter and inhaled that. It's now 4:06 p.m., CST, no one is speaking to each other, and I have the shakes so bad it's a wonder I can type at all. It's hard getting that monkey off your back, friends.

It's also hard to get brownie batter stains off your shirt. Clearly you can see why being hot in 2011 is going to totally work for me. I'm either going to be (a) gorgeous or (b) get full-blown menopause. Oh, but hey! If option (a) works, maybe I'll end up pregnant instead! I know which one I'm rooting for...and which one(s) my husband fears!

I'm not quite sure how I'm going to accomplish the happy component of this plan, though I'll confess, the brownie batter went a small way toward helping it. Maybe some therapy would, too. And having a blast? What constitutes a blast? I'm almost afraid to find out.

It's possible I have my work cut out for me this year, so my final resolution for 2011? It's flossing my teeth every night before bed, but only because I've already been doing this religiously for the last four months and I want some small victory to enjoy at the close of this year when I've failed miserably at the Three H's.

Trust me. It's hard to look hot when you have questionable brown stains splattered across your bosoms, but as the great Howard Jones once said, "Things can only get better."

Wow wow wow oh, wow wow wow oh oh oh oh...

(FINAL final resolution for 2011 - do not say 'bosoms' again. At least not until March)

********************

I hope you all had lovely holidays. My husband's mother passed away Christmas morning, and this last week has been a blur of grief and all the other things that seem to go along with death. It's been a difficult time here, but I truly believe, thanks to my faith and my mother-in-law's very, very strong beliefs, that she chose Christmas day as her last here on Earth for a reason. We gathered as a family to celebrate her 80th birthday three days prior to her death, and it was clear then that she'd made peace with God's plan and was ready. I think that's given my husband, our boys, and his family some sense of joy during this sad time. It's never easy, but there is still joy to be had in what we have here. I hope you all have some of that joy, too.

yeah i'm sorry, i can't afford a ferrari

2010-12-21T15:04:00.005-06:00

The above are the first installments of my boys' Christmas wish lists, or as I like to call them, the lunatic ramblings of those who seem to forget our house already feels overwhelmed with toys and/or the part where their parents are broke. Ho, ho, ho!

Depending on the day and how much Christmas spirit I have left in me after toiling for some minimum wage bounty, I also like to call these lists either 'A young boy's letter to his unrequited love' or 'A ransom note for Santa.' Seriously, the penmanship of these two! I bet you can't tell which was written by my 13 year old and which was penned by my 8 year old. Here's a hint - one of them broke their arm not once, but twice in the last four months and still had the guts to ask for a skateboard, a pogo stick, and electric scooter and a trampoline.

Every day over the month since writing their lists, one of the boys will come tell me they have an addition they'd like to make. Alas, it's impossible at this point because they've filled up both sides of the paper, and I draw the line at a second print run. I've drawn the line on shopping, too. For the first time ever, I finished my holiday shopping in early December and have spent the weeks since gloating about it. Heck, they're already wrapped, too. Take that, slackers! Every item I purchased seem to come in an odd shaped package (that's what she said), so the wrapping looks like I was trying to do it with not one, but two broken arms, but it's done. It's a Christmas miracle! Take that again, slackers!

Of course, just because my shopping has been done forever (don't tell my kids, but there's no computer under the tree, and there's definitely no trampoline!), it doesn't mean I've not been out in the maddening crowds almost daily. That's the beauty of working retail. Until late last week, my holiday spirit was in full bloom. Then I had to clean up puke. That will dampen more than the floor and surrounding walls. It also dampened my spirit. As of today, mine is a big pile of steaming reindeer droppings. Just one more shift. That's all I have to get through, which is good after today ("Do you have Chicka Chicka 123? "No. I just have Chicka Chicka ABC in stock now." "What's the difference between the two?" "....")

If any of you are still around, I wish you a very Merry Christmas. I'd attach the Christmas card my Mom emailed me, but honest to baby Jesus, it involved a penis and a Santa hat, and if there's one thing the Internet frowns upon, it's penis pictures, so imagine what it would do if said picture came from my Mom? Gasp audibly, that's what it would do. At least, that's what I did when I opened that bit of holiday cheer.

Merry Christmas.

on the 12th day of christmas...

2010-12-14T19:17:00.005-06:00

...a little girl threw up all over the Thomas the Tank Engine train table in the children's department of the book store where I work, and when I say 'work' I mean in the children's department!

So that was awesome.

No, wait. I take that back. It wasn't at all awesome. It was like asking Santa for Barbie's Penthouse and waking on Christmas morning with hopes as high as the sky only to find your stocking filled with new underwear and generic chocolates. Hope you enjoy riding around with Skipper and all your friends, including Donny and Marie and Sabrina from Charlie's Angels, in this car I made out of an empty tissue box for you, Barbie. Again! Sorry there's no room for that bionic Amazon, Jaime Sommers. Guess you'll just have to strap her to the trunk, which is never easy, thanks to your inflexible arms.

(the preceding is a true story)

(also true - my hatred for the Thomas the Tank Engine train table in the children's department, where I've seen Bash the Twin Engine live up to its name on more than one occasion when one toddler doesn't feel another is playing fairly. I sometimes dream of setting it ablaze with something acidic...just not stomach acid)

So, no, it wasn't at all awesome. Equally not as awesome? Having to clean that shiz up. The only saving grace? The mess wasn't actually s*#t. Thank you, Santa Claus. Bawk bawk. There was pastries for horking, marshmallows for spewing. Additionally, there may have been some Chik-fil-A for recycling, further cementing my claim that there's nothing I find fascinating about their waffle fries.

"I'm surprised she threw up," said the girl's mother as she scooped the soiled child up and attempted to contain her while I confetti'd the area with paper towels and tried to keep my insides from coming outside. "She hasn't thrown up since Saturday night, so I figured she was better."

Did I mention this was Monday morning, which in and of itself is already a fine slap in the face? No? Well, it was. I'm no doctor, but if I had to do a quick diagnosis, it would go a little something like this: Not better - 1. Better - 0.

I'm also not a hazardous waste materials handler, but I had to be one. The scent of Lysol hung in the air like sadness the rest of the day.Additionally, I also had to be bomb detonation specialist when I thought a parent who began protesting loudly that I was keeping her precious angel from playing on the train table because I was cleaning vomit off of it and how come, how come, HOW COME!!! was going to lose her mind.

Seriously, I would have thought the river of vomit, which is not typically part of the train table's topography, would have been tremendous give away.

Thankfully, she only lost her mind and not her stomach. I can only take so much in one day, and I'm already sufficiently beat down during this time of retail bliss. My only wish now is this headache I have isn't a sign of something more ominous chugging its way toward my intestinal tract because quite honestly, that was one gift I don't want to see keep giving.

bear in mind, i think train's 'drops of jupiter' is one of the greatest songs ever recorded

2010-12-09T23:18:00.004-06:00

Confession:

I absolutely, positively do not think Paul McCartney's 'Wonderful Christmas Time' is the worst holiday song ever released. Nothing about this song annoys me. Nothing. In fact, I just played it three times while writing what may possibly be the shortest blog post I've ever created here.

Make that five. I wanted to bask in the lyrics. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong, ding.

Now, I'm not going to try and do something radical like try and convince you Scrooges out there who claim to hate this song that you're wrong (subliminal message insertion: YOU ARE), but I think if you were honest with yourself, deep down, you'd realize you like this song, too, and when you come to terms with that, we can hold each other gently and smile lovingly at each other, which I think was the only thing Paul wanted us to do when we heard this song. I give you this to listen to:

When you're ready, my arms are open. The mood is right. The spirit's up.

mrs. :real name goes here: jon hamm. JH + me = TL4vr

2010-12-06T15:29:00.015-06:00

Let me start this post by apologizing to all of you for posting a little 'guess what!?' query last week and then disappearing the way my waist line had been before I caved to the siren's call that is Reece's peanut butter trees. I'm sorry, but those things are delicious and I, well, I am a bad writer. Forgive me?

Good.

Now, can you forgive me for lying to you up there in the first paragraph? Oh, there's some truth contained within. I have been eating way (WEIGH!) too many Reece's peanut butter trees lately (and peanut M&Ms), but the truth is, ever since receiving my Entertainment Weekly in the mail Saturday afternoon, I've pretty much been standing in front of my bathroom mirror, holding this cover shot of Jon Hamm up next to my face, and smiling demurely at that look he's giving me. Sometimes I pretend he's just called me a precious scamp and is smiling at how I giggle when he says that. Other times I think he's wondering if he should plant a big old kiss on me or chuck me on the shoulder. What's that, Jon Hamm? You want to nuzzle your whiskers on my neck? I do so like scruffy and Hamm!

Basically, I've spent several moments over the last three days pretending Jon Hamm is my pretend husband, which is crazy, I know, considering my real husband is presently standing in our kitchen, approximately 35 feet from me, chewing so loudly after shoving a giant wad of potato chip crumbs in his mouth, I fear going deaf. Back off, ladies and perhaps some gentlemen! That one is all mine.

Honey baked, indeed.

p.s. - Please forgive my atrocious chipped fingernail in that photo. It's all part of the look when you're a punk princess like me. OK, that's not true, either. Truth is, it was a tough day burying the bodies. The ground freezes quickly in these Midwestern winters.

(What's that? You say you didn't even notice the chipped black nail polish because you were so taken aback by my man-like digits? Nice. Alas, you'd not be the first person to think it)

*************************

Speaking of digits...

The thing I was asking about when last I wrote? Do you still even care to know what it was that prompted someone in my house to ask if they could stick one of theirs in it? Yes? OK, it was a giant tub of yellow, snot-like slime I received in the mail. For free, because why would I pay for a giant tub of yellow, snot-like slime other than the fact that it would make my children gleeful, which is my sole agenda in life? Before I could secretly toss this offensive glob of goo away, my 8 year old saw it, and ran through the house with such speed I thought he'd gotten into my secret stash of Reece's peanut butter eggs (by the way, no endorsement implied with all these mentions, but my hips would be willing to attest to their deliciousness), screaming "CAN I PUT MY FINGER IN IT?! CAN I PUT MY FINGER IN IT!?"

Of course, it was so adorable, who was I to say no? I was still the woman who wanted to throw the stuff away, of course, but I am all about the happy times.

(you hear that, Jon Hamm?)

*************************

The other reason I've been away is due to some medical issues with a family member that came to a head with yet another of those famous 6 a.m. telephone calls that I'd like to see abolished. This time, the call concerned my mother-in-law, who is battling several cancerous spots in her body as well as some other pressing medical issues, and has been in and out of the hospital over the last month. My husband and I rushed out the door last Wednesday morning thinking we would be saying final goodbyes to her. The day came to pass, but she did not, which, in light of what we were told when the call came, is wonderful. What's not, of course, is the continued medical issues my mother-in-law will continue to face, and helping my husband come to peace with the realization that life for her is changing. It's been a very long, sad week.

*************************

Now I must prepare to bring the start of this week to a close by getting my above-mentioned slime-loving boy ready for his winter concert this evening. If in a few weeks you find yourself staring at the face of an adorable boy on the cover of your copy of Entertainment Weekly, the one where the headline declares him a triumph on the glockenspiel, that's my kid. If your daughter wants to stand in front of the bathroom mirror and moon over his pure cuteness, that's cool, but you might want to let her know that, at least for right now, he still thinks girls (but not slime) are kind of gross

p.s. - Wouldn't Glockenspiel be a most excellent name for a hardcore rap group? One whose members spit out extravagantly long beats about firearms. Maybe they'd have a hit with a remake of Pop Muzik. "Wanna be a gun slinger, don't be a rock singer. " (um, that's music from the olden days, kiddies). I'm not condoning that sort of thing, of course, but I assure you, it would be nothing short of awesome, and if I ever decide to form a hardcore rap group, it's what I'm going with, so don't you go lifting it from me, DJ Jazzy Jeff.

possibly filed under the category of 'famous last words'

2010-11-30T17:50:00.005-06:00

Someone in my house just said the following:

"Can I stick my finger in it?"

Yeah. That JUST happened!

Anyone care to guess who said it, and in what context?

wouldn't it be 'eggcelent' if I reran a post from 2 years ago?

2010-11-22T17:39:00.007-06:00

Um, what are you doing here? Seriously, don't you know it's a holiday week? Don't you have some turkeys to stuff? Some thanks to give? No one's really around this week, you know that, right? Heck, even I'm not here. I'm busy busting my retail rump, providing the best customer service you've ever had. I'm talking the kind that makes you hunt down a manager just to tell them about the awesome woman in the children's department who helped you find all the books you wanted AND talked you into purchasing a tremendous amount of gift cards. You're welcome. I'm here for you.

Because of that, I'm not here. At least not completely. I decided to stop through and drop an oldie but a, well, oldie on you from a couple years ago. Remember a couple years ago? Time flies, eh? It's creepy, honestly, the way it does. Even creepier is how you get a sense of deja vu about it, like I did this week when my mom let me know what I could contribute to our family's Thanksgiving meal.

Did you guess deviled eggs?

Yep.

***************

The list of things I have never done is rather diverse. I have never:

jumped out of an airplane
run with the bulls
swam in shark-infested waters
snorted cocaine off the rippled belly of a supermodel
sung in public
used the phrase "True dat!" in conversation (although I think I recently used it in a comment I left on someone else's blog, and if that's the case and that person found it either ironic and/or humorous, then I might consider incorporating it into actual conversation)
dined with royalty
broken a man's heart
pulled off a heist

Pretty diverse, eh? I know. I look at that list and think how amazing my life really is, even though I've never done any of those things. I do actually think I have broken a man's heart before, but the dude in question refuses to admit it, thinking it's cool to have this big strong man demeanor, but whatever. I believe he misses me, and really, sometimes what I make up in my head is all that matters.

Also on the list of things I've never done?

Deviled an egg!

But guess what! This morning, I have to do just that, and not just one egg. No. I have to devil 24 eggs for the Thanksgiving meal my family foisted itself upon. Have you ever Googled the recipe for deviled eggs? There are more than 2 million entries! My Tool Man (his heart - completely intact) looks up from one of the 2 million Facebook games he plays and says, "How hard can it be. Some mustard. Some mayo. There you go." Well, well, well. Check out the Iron Chef over there. However, have you ever tasted his recipe for Jell-O? I suggest you rub your distended belly and say you're full as you back away from the buffet line. Easiest thing to prepare in the world, and I've watched him get confused pondering the one cup hot, one cup cold guidelines.

So I'm on the hunt for a classic deviled egg recipe. I refuse to ask my Mom for her recipe, because she will make fun of me. I can hear her now. "You're 41 years old and you've never made deviled eggs? Who raised you? Wolves? Hell, I bet you can't even make Jell-O, can you?" To which I would respond, meekly, "I make Jell-O better than you, woman!" before running to my bedroom, slamming the door, and turning the volume on my stereo super loud so my Journey Escape album would drown out the sound of my tears.

Here's what I've learned while browsing a handful of the millions of recipes. Deviled eggs should not have meat, barbecue seasoning, pickles, or cheese in them. To all of you who think these would be a treat, I ask why? The thought alone makes me shudder. I simply want mustard, mayo, and maybe (if I remember to stop at the grocery store on my way home from work tonight) a sprinkling of paprika.

Actually, what I wouldn't mind is just having my Mom make them because her recipe is pretty damn good, but I refuse to admit defeat. Only so many tears you can cry, right Steve Perry? Sigh....

Right.

***************

I wrote this post almost exactly two years ago, and guess what I've STILL never done? Made deviled eggs! After I wrote this, I apparently convinced my mom to take over production of my first attempt, and my inquiries into what I could contribute to later family meals have been ignored, or resulted in me bringing just my smiling face (which is delicious, btw). But this year, the deviled egg request has returned! Will this be the year I step up to the plate with my platter? Possibly not. My mom's already volunteered to make them if I simply boil a couple dozen. However, I may surprise her. It may be two years before I let you know, though, so until then, Happy Thanksgiving, my fellow Americans, and to the rest of you? Enjoy your Thursday!.

happy birthday, aleksander kwasniewski!

2010-11-15T00:01:00.001-06:00

Who's Aleksander Kwasniewski, you ask? Just the former president of Poland, and today he celebrates his 56th birthday! So happy birthday, you crazy Kwasniewski! Party like the former head of state you are!

You know who could write a kick ass, brain worm of a party song for the birthday boy? Chad mutha-flippin' Kroeger! Who's Chad Kroeger, you ask? Wha? Do you people live under a rock? He's none other than the lead singer of Nickelback! I figure you'd know that when I used the words 'brain worm' to describe one of his songs. Listen, we all say we hate Nickelback, blah, blah, blah, but deep down, you know when one of their songs comes on the radio, you're like "Hey man, is that Freedom Rock?" But no, it's Nickelback, and before you know what's happening, you're singing along, even if it's to that annoying Photograph song.

ESPECIALLY if it's that annoying Photograph song.

However, Chad Kroeger might be too busy to write a song for Aleksander Kwasniewski that sounds hauntingly like all his other songs. Care to guess why? Anyone? No? Well, if you had guessed it's because Chad's celebrating his birthday today, too, then ding, ding, ding! You'd have been right! Chad Kroeger turns 36 today, folks! Happy birthday, you amazing troubadour!

Maybe now you're thinking, "This is all very interesting, fadkog, but honestly, it's also a little boring. Who cares that it's Aleksander Kwasniewski's and Chad Kroeger's birthday today? I mean, other than Ed Asner and maybe Anni-Frid Lyngstad, the redheaded singer from Swedish pop super group ABBA, the one you once dreamed of being while singing along to 'Fernando' in your childhood bedroom, both of whom are also celebrating birthdays today, who really cares?"

Um, how about MY MOTHER!? The woman who gave birth to ME! ON THIS SAME DAY?!

That's right. I share a birthday with this notable list of individuals (and Randy Savage, who I neglected to mention, but fist bumps, Macho Man), so that means I get to blow out some birthday candles today, too, assuming my above mentioned mother and/or husband decide who might be responsible for making me a cake. You could probably go back in the blog archives to determine my actual age, but to save you time, I'll simply tell you I fall somewhere between everyone I've mentioned.

I've been getting a lot of spam emails lately wishing me a happy birthday, and those have meant a lot to me. I've also been getting a lot of junk mail about erectile dysfunction and ways in which I can achieve a younger penis. Apparently, when you reach my age, you morph into a man with a sluggish trouser snake. Based on the giant black hair I plucked from my chin today after mistaking it for an errant eyelash (and then weeping because gah, giant black chin hair(s)), there may be some validity to that. But here's the deal. I want a lot of things for my birthday, but a younger penis? OK, who am I kidding. Maybe. But I'm not so sure that would make my husband happy.

("Mine's younger than yours," he just told me when I mentioned that line. Apparently, although he is just a smidgen younger than me, his mind and ability to discern the difference between us is slipping fast)(or I am, in fact, slowly morphing into a man)

The few times I've floated around the Internet this month, I noticed people offering advice to the 16-year-old version of themselves. I've been giving some thought this week to what I'd tell the younger version of me, especially since every time I get on Facebook now, many of the girls I graduated high school with are announcing the arrival of a new grandchild, which makes them GRANDMOTHERS!!! When did I get old enough to possibly be someone's grandmother?! It's my belief that if a photo of one of these new grandbabies causes my ovaries to seize and release a million viable eggs in my desperate, soul crushing desire for another child, then I shouldn't be old enough to be in such a category.

What else would I tell 16 year old me? A few things. For starters, that boy you loved, the one who took you to prom and was the stuff of teenage romance novels? One day, he's not going to remember your name (true, recent story), so when he asks if you want to have sex with him, remember how proud I still am of you for not caving. Also, you're not going to believe this, teenage me, but Madonna? Yeah. She's still around. I know that's not so much advice as it's really just a statement, but seriously, can you believe it? You know what else you're not going to believe 16 year old me? At 43, you're STILL going to break out with zits, and yes, it's still just as annoying and inconvenient now as it was then. Thankfully, your Dad won't want to try and pop them every night after dinner, though, so yeah for being a grownup!

Finally, young me, you have pretty awesome taste in music. One day, you're going to turn the radio on and you're going to hear some guy growling over the roar of guitars. That's Chad Kroeger and his band, Nickelback. You're not going to like them. Especially that annoying Photograph song. But when it's his birthday, you're going to give him his due.

Happy birthday, Chad mutha-flippin' Kroeger. You, too, Aleksander Kwasniewsk!

And, yeah, OK. Me, too.

good bye, good bye, good bye.

2010-11-11T11:55:00.006-06:00

In a few minutes, my husband and I are leaving and heading to a church about 40 miles away. It's the same large church we were at to celebrate Shawn's life, and today, we're there again to say goodbye to his widow and our friend, Penny. The pain she felt this past year since Shawn unexpectedly passed away was not something those of us around here were unaware of, but the depth of it? The power it had over her when all of us who loved her couldn't be with her? Unimaginable. I don't believe I can say at this point in my own life that I can understand what it must have felt like to be her these last months, but I can say - even with grief so fresh and a heart so broken - that I don't feel angry at her, Penny, for the choice she made.

I'm not sure that makes sense. Very little right now feels like it does.

But back to the beginning of this post. We're leaving in a few minutes, and when we arrive, we'll be surrounded by friends, as well as those whose only connection to us is that they, too, knew and loved our Penny, and after we huddle together and feel sad in our moment, we'll then turn to her boys and we'll do all we can to protect and love them. Right now, that's the simplest, most necessary thing we can do.

I can, however, take just a moment and say thank you to all of you. Thank you. Thank you for reading, thank you for your words, and thank you for your prayers. I want to respond to each of you, but, in all honesty, since writing of Penny's death on Sunday afternoon, aside from a few moments scattered here and there, I simply turned the computer off and did not look toward it. It was a gift, then, to open my emails late last night and know there are people out there extending a hand or thought toward me, as well as Penny's family. What a world. When I can, you'll hear from me.

Right now, I'm ready to join my friends and church family - many of whom will be wearing their most amazing shoes and sporting pink, which were, on a list that also included her family and working with and advocating for people with disabilities, Penny's most favorite things in the world. "Never, ever let anyone tell you a redhead can't wear pink," she once told me. I'm nowhere near the redhead my dear friend was, but every time I slip into pink, I think of her words. Always will. I thank her for them.

And I thank you all, too.

and so, now...

2010-11-07T13:15:00.004-06:00

Just a year ago, my dear friend Shawn died unexpectedly. The loss of everything we loved about him has been a gaping hole in my heart and the hearts of those who love him. I hate that I cry when I think of him instead of beg him to stop what he's doing because it's making me laugh so hard that I'm crying. Two weeks ago, on the anniversary of his death, I took time to pray for his two sons, and I spoke with his wife, Penny. Last Sunday, during the busy transition period between our church services, I smiled across the room at Penny, then made my way to her to hug her and tell her I love her.

This morning...

This morning, en route to church yet again, I growled when I heard my cell phone start to ring from somewhere at the bottom of my purse, and stabbed my arm into the bag several times before my fingers made contact with the tiny device I think I now officially hate.

"I have some news, and it's not good."

God, seriously, I hate these phone calls.

Unexpected.

Unwelcome.

My friend Penny killed herself early this morning.

Unhappy.

Undone.

I simply have no words, and the few I do seem pointless. I know none of you had the honor of having either of these individuals as your friend, but I just needed to put these few words down here as a reminder to me when I come back to them that, yes, this is all true. There's yet another reason to cry.

oops, he did it again. seriously.

2010-11-02T21:25:00.005-05:00

Thirteen days.

Thirteen!

That's how long (little! it's only been a little!) it's been since my youngest son FINALLY got his arm cast removed. Over a two month stretch, he wore three versions of that stinky monstrosity for a total of two months as both bones in his forearm healed. THAT'S a long time. Especially when you're 8 years old and you're supposed to start playing flag football for the first time ever in three days.

Well, guess what!!

WE GET TO DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN!!

Eight weeks and 13 days since breaking his left forearm, my son came home tonight from a friend's house in tears (which I could hear before he ever got near the house thanks to his tendency to cry loudly which may or may not be a trait he picked up from me), clutching the same arm, and I was all, "Seriously?! Seriously?! I just today mailed the first of what will be approximately 3,394 payments to the clinic and the ER for the first broken arm!"

It's like deja vu. And other words that start with the letter 'D.'

Like 'damn,' and 'dang,' and 'damn' again.

It's also for 'dog,' which is what caused this new break. My son had his back to his friend's very large dog, very rambunctious dog while they all played in the backyard, and the dog went charging after a toy. In the process, he slammed into my son's back, knocking him to the ground. My son landed hard on his elbows and then rolled. The impact caused the lower bone in the same arm, just barely healed, to snap again.

Did I mention 'delightful'? Oh, yes, it's that, too. We pay (literally)(and a lot) another visit to our orthopedic surgeon tomorrow for yet another stinky cast.

Thirteen days.

Thirteen!

By the way? He was supposed to start playing basketball in three days.

it's the great pumpkin, blog readers

2010-10-28T18:00:00.002-05:00

Perhaps you've seen me mention it here a time or 38 that I'm not a crafty person. Glitter, in my opinion, is the dry skin that flakes off Satan's ass, and before you say "Really?" let me just remind you of this - Hell's hot, thus it's dry, and dry skin flakes. It's simple science, friends.

The idea of making things that I then don't know what to do with, which is my definition of crafting, makes me panic. I love my 8 year old son's drawings, but after awhile, honestly, I want them off the fridge, OK? Of course, my kid knows this about me and like a vulture circling a steaming pile of roadkill, he likes to swoop in and pick at me to make something with him until I eventually relent. Naturally, the holidays are a perfect time for this instinct to kick in because the season's ripe with fun things to make and do (or so I hear). Sometimes this results in an art project that's nothing short of museum quality, like these kick ass haunted graham cracker houses we made two years ago.

Then there are times like today.

Feeling inspired, my son came to me after school and asked if he could make something that was, and I quote, "fun for Halloween!" When I think of making something fun, I think of either brownies or love, but I'm missing most of the stuff needed for either of those, so I unleashed him upon some small pumpkins I'd picked last week. Alas, as he pondered his canvas, we soon realized I was missing a lot of things that could have made it (even more) beautiful. Check it out:

Pretty abstract, huh? Shortly after we finished, the neighbor kid stopped by. "You know what you could have done? You could have painted your pumpkins black, taken a drill, drilled eight holes around the top of them, shoved black pipe cleaners into the holes, glued googly eyes on them and made them into spiders! That's what we did last week when I volunteered at the youth shelter downtown!" this miniature Martha Stewart suggested.

"Dude," I replied while gathering up all the dry markers we discovered while trying to find any that worked well enough (just two!) for my kid to scribble on his pumpkin. "Paint. Pffft! It's a miracle I even had tape. Just cool your jets, show off."

It was a good idea, though. I'll have to plan better for next year. Until then, in the spirit of show offs, I'm showing you my kid's pumpkin. Totally crafty, that one.

take two

2010-10-19T12:15:00.004-05:00

Mad Men?
Holy hell!

Walking Dead?
Bring it!

Dead Set?
Amuse bouche.

Zombie lover?
Without question.

Bigfoot fear?
Solidly intact.

Halloween candy?
100 Grand.

Sister Wives?
Totally courted!

Russell Brand?
Would shag!

Christmas merchandise?
Killing me.

Quarter raise?
Big whoop.

Sixteen years?
Tough lately.

(really tough)

Intense headaches?
Scarily frequent.

Birthday coming?
Whoopee.

(two syllables)

(it's allowed)

(rule bender)

Streaming Netflix?
Ass growing.

The Wire?
Enjoyable when?

Cookie baking?
Must stop.

Hershey's Kisses?
Intervention necessary

Ranch dressing?
Godly nectar.

Achtung Baby?
Commuting soundtrack

Book choices?
Uninspired lately

Flossing daily?
No lying!

Missing friend?
Anniversary approaches.

Overall mood?
Sad, defeated.

End blog?
Been pondering.

Anything else?
Not now.

Your turn!

(pretty please?)

well you're a real tough cookie...

2010-10-12T19:30:00.002-05:00

So I've been in a bit of a funk lately, which I suppose is a very 1950s way of saying I think it's time to concede that I'm depressed.

Ragingly, put on a happy face and pretend I'm not, "Me? Oh, I'm good, thanks for asking," depressed.

Hooray!

Yep.

You don't know this, of course, because I don't talk about it here, and when I hint at it, as I sometimes do, it's just that. A hint. An ingredient in the mix you can't really be sure is in there, but you kind of pick up the subtle nuance of something different when it hits you right there on the back notes of the funny, and if I told you it's been hanging around for a long, long, long time, you might be surprised. Maybe not. I'm not good at guessing things. Suffice to say, this sadness and resignation and disappointment has been a shadow I can't seem to shake for more than half the life of this blog, but instead of telling you about that (out of sadness and resignation and disappointment and what's this? Oh, yes, fear), I tell you about my lust for Joe Jonas (so very solid) and taste in bad music (um, I buy Jonas Brothers cd's, friends).

And in the case of this post, I give it to you this way.

So I'm depressed. Without question. Some people try to combat depression in a variety of ways. Maybe working out. Perhaps meditating. How about writing? Me? I decide to bake! Last week, I holed up in my kitchen and was a muffin-making, cookie-baking, issues-ignoring fiend. If my doorbell had rang and I'd opened it to find Hansel and Gretel standing outside, I'd have not been the least bit surprised.

When I finished, I decided it was time to sample my work. Solely for quality control purposes. And because chocolate chip cookies are my nemesis ("You'll never defeat me, cookies!" laughed her thighs, though it was hard to tell if that sound was a laugh or a desperate cry for help because the way they rubbed together had a tendency to muffle her authority). When I lunged for the rack of still warm from the oven treats, I was stopped in my tracks at the site of this:

Do you see it? Do you? No, that's not the face of Jesus in my cookie, but rather that of a grumpy old man!

(Some of you may wonder if there's a difference between the two possibilities, and, well, I'm no Bible expert, but yeah, I think there is. Your results may vary.)

Seriously, take a closer look! Do you see it now? No? OK, let me present a more in-depth analysis put together by a crack team of investigators equipped with both time on their hands and the latest in photo editing software:

That (when you click on it to enlarge it so as to read the witty bon mots because, look at that, I adore tiny point sizes!) appears to be irrefutable evidence that my cookie, much like myself, has a bad attitude and could perhaps benefit from a prescription for an MAO inhibitor. It could also be confused with the look my mother would have given me had she been here and seen me about to gorge myself on super chunk cookies, but that's another issue I've secretly been dealing with for years, too, and I shall not burden you with it today.

I confess to hesitating a bit before eating this particular cookie, and perhaps praying to the deliciously gooey melted chocolate contained within, but then I remembered how much I love cookies and how much I needed an outlet, however temporary, to squelch my feelings, and this (and three of its nondescript counterparts)(OK, six, MOTHER!)(hush now)(it was spread out throughout the late afternoon)(if by late afternoon, you accept that it was 15 minutes)(it was more like five)(like you haven't) seemed to do the trick.

So, long story short, I'm depressed and, when it comes to these kinds of things, that's just how the cookie grumbles.

this deserves a title, but it's late & I've used fewer words than this the last four days

2010-10-03T23:28:00.001-05:00

I watch him scurry down the block in the late afternoon sun and try to decode his fluttery hops and line-defying skips to determine which of two goals he’s hoping to accomplish - secretly outrun his lengthening shadow, or keep ahead of his father, who has a tendency to move at a slower pace at all times except when he’s walking 10 paces ahead of me, an invisible crown bouncing atop his head.

He pauses to thrust his left arm in the air like Judd Nelson striding triumphantly across the football field at the end of The Breakfast Club, and for a second, I can’t tell the difference between the neon orange exoskeleton that is his cast-clad appendage and the sun gleaming between the changing leaves. His boisterous greetings to neighbors are so loud; his personality even more so, it makes me wonder if the camouflage pants and military green shirt he’s wearing feels inclined to give up the fight. It must be difficult to blend into the surroundings when you’re constantly peeking outside safe cover.

If that isn’t enough ammunition to get him noticed, surely the humongous purple and yellow wig, procured at the previous evening's homecoming game through a series of hypnotizing blinks of his big brown eyes and a chorus of repeated pleases, has to be. The synthetic cloud orbits his tiny head like a halo of dandelion fluff blowing in the day's breeze, falling over those same big brown eyes with each fluttery hop and line-defying skip. It's a bold fashion statement that compels the neighbor three houses down to pause from his chores to chuckle and smile broadly at my boy.

Mercy, child. I surrender.

The sight of him running carefree through the neighborhood with his bright orange arm and Crayola coif made me happy, but an equally large part of me was jealous. I don't know at what age some of us let self-consciousness slip in to take over our spirit, but I dread knowing it could be any time now for my young boy. And me? I feel like I buried my brightly colored wig, whatever it might have been, some time ago, then forgot to mark the spot so I could go back and find it one day. More often than not today, I feel like I purposely mute my colors. Keep my head down. Don't dare run through the streets. It's been black here lately. So very, very black. But there's a boy without any cares in a purple and yellow wig who makes me want to try and brighten things up.

Or at least wave a white flag.

sometimes...

2010-09-28T16:39:00.005-05:00

I like to turn the air vents in my minivan on high, pop a little Ru'Paul's 'Supermodel' or Pat Benatar's 'Sex As A Weapon' up even higher, and pretend I'm a model while my hair whips wildly around me. That means the man stopped next to me at a red light this morning got an early look at the spring 2011 line from the Fashion House of Me. Look for kicky v-neck T-shirts in bold colors and black pants to be all the rage next year!

Speaking of Pat Benatar, sometimes I like to read books so you don't have to. You can thank me now and scratch Pat's memoir off your 'to read' list. Here's something you might not know since you're not going to read this book now. Pat long ago nicknamed her husband 'Spyder,' and still lovingly refers to him as such. You'll know this by the way she refers to him as such 24,359,987 times.

I wish I could stop reading a book if I can tell immediately that I'll hate it. See above. Pat, I love you, but that book was a battlefield.

I wish I knew someone reading the same book I'm currently reading so we could discuss and guffaw.

I could use a good guffawing from time to time.

When I talk to myself, I do so as though I'm auditioning for a television show or part in a movie. I turned yesterday's lapse into a bad attitude into a scene from a romantic comedy. Were there tears? Yes, but if you thought those were silly, happy tears, then I'd like to thank my lord and savior (big ups, G!) and the Academy!

I wonder why I'm still watching '90201.' No, not the old one in repeats, but the new one. The NEW ONE!! Some of those actors are as old as me, but I still feel I could be their grandparent. Also? Totally sucks. In addition to my award, I'd like to also thank God for giving me the power and the wisdom to delete all episodes of 'Hellcats' from my DVR without watching any of them, and await his divine and glorious guidance regarding the new season of 'Desperate Housewives.'

I wonder if I may be using my time in my church's 24/7 prayer room incorrectly. See above.

When I cook, I pretend I'm the host of a cooking show. Almost every time, including when I'm doing something as simple as pouring a bowl of cereal (uh, yeah, that's cooking around here some days, pals). Tonight's episode is called "The choice is yours - Domino's or Reheated Pork Chops!" (pssst - it's a rerun).

I think I'm developing a crush on Pauly D from 'The Jersey Shore.' Listen, I know. I KNOW! He annoyed me, too, until a couple weeks ago when, after an episode spent scamming on girls who were apparently DTF (you can figure that one out), he returned from the commercial break having met a girl he respected and wanted to treat nice, so he planned a date, got his hair did and his flowers bought, and proceeded to treat this dream girl "like a man treats a wifey." Consider me sold right then and there! Consider me also playing that segment of the show on a semi-constant loop on the occasions when my husband is home.

I write posts like this when I don't know what else to write or really don't want to scare you with the other stuff filling my head, the stuff I talk to myself about after successfully auditioning for a co-starring role in a Lifetime Movie Network presentation staring Meredith Baxter or Melissa Gilbert.

I wonder what's going on with you.

$#*! that dude buys

2010-09-23T21:52:00.006-05:00

I stopped at the grocery store yesterday afternoon, capping off a morning spent running various errands by picking up ingredients for a couple different dinner options. When I was done aimlessly wandering the aisles and resisting the siren call of the ice cream freezers, I made my way to a cashier to complete my purchase.

As I was making pleasant small talk about the day, the weather, and my items with her, I felt the presence of another person behind me. Not unusual, of course, in such a setting, but this particular presence felt uncomfortably close.

"Someone's in a real toot," I thought, sliding my debit card through the machine.

A toot, indeed! Before I could step forward to grab my handy recyclable bag filled with goods, I felt the other shopper's cart nipping at my heels, so I turned to face this most anxious foe. Before my eyes even hit upon the person behind the cart, they landed upon the items in his cart.

Fifteen cans of peanuts and 12 bottles of prune juice.

Let me just repeat that, OK?

Fifteen cans of peanuts and 12 bottles of prune juice! Seriously. I counted.

I mean, really?!

From there, my eyes flew upward to see a smiling, greasy-haired, jovial man clearly eager to make his purchases and go.

Perhaps literally.

I was honesty frozen in my spot, fighting the urge to ask the man what sort of terrifying cocktail hour he was setting himself up for. I can't imagine anyone's gastrointestinal system could be strong enough to withstand the powerful force a combination of peanuts and prune juice could have on the body. I'd think your colon would have to be made of industrial grade metals or Terminator parts. I thought my mind might actually explode coming up with all the different ways this combination couldn't be good for one's body, but then I feared any explosion that resulted from the moment this shopper and I we were unwittingly sharing, and so I grabbed my bag and made to leave.

What was in MY bag, you ask? Why, just everything I needed to make a massive pot of chili! Chili so good it's been known to cause one's insides to start singing like angels on high mere moments after consumption!

(Except for mine, of course, for while the title of this blog may include the word 'girl,' I am nothing if not a lady)

I guess the moral of this story, if there is one, is that it doesn't really matter what any of us have in our shopping carts, at the end of the day (or perhaps first thing in the morning) we're all the same in the end.

(Here's where I might be inclined to say something like 'Rim shot!' and end things, but that would be wrong. Because I am a lady...I just felt like I should maybe remind you of that...)

i didn't get a lot in class

2010-09-20T16:26:00.011-05:00

From time to time, you very kind people tell me how awesome I am. It makes me blush and say things like "Thank you, but I think you have me confused with someone actually awesome," and "Gee, shucks!" It also sometimes makes me wonder why no one living outside my laptop seems to see this same level of awesomeness I must have, but that's a story for another day.

I appreciate your kind words. I really do. However, lest you start a campaign to crown me Queen of All That Is Awesome (potential campaign slogan - Awesome! Just like 'Awful,' But With A Little Something Extra!), I feel now is a good time to burst your bubbles. Ready?

I left work this afternoon with a giant smile on my face. It had been a productive day. I'd killed customers with kindness. Hell, I'd even gotten a 25 cent an hour raise! It was the kind of day you'd all probably be jealous of, and I'd say who could blame you, really. You can't buy a day better than the one I had, not even with an extra $1.25 a shift before taxes!

I left work with a spring in my step, got in my mini, and proceeded to drive home. Smiling. Singing. The usual (which is different from the bad day usual which involves driving, scowling, and singing). My good mood rendered me somewhat oblivious to my surroundings, so when I approached a busy intersection as the light was changing from red to green, I was startled by a loud squealing of car tires nearby. The sound was so pronounced, I thought someone in the lane next to me was stupidly showing off or there had been a collision next to me, and so I slammed on my brakes, coming to one of those stops where, had my Mom been driving, she'd have reached her arm across the seat to brace me from impact.

I sat there for several seconds while cars kept whizzing past me and finally the person behind me honked their horn and then changed lanes to race by. It was only then that I realized where the screeching tires had come from.

My iPod.

Remember the one with the awesome songs on it? That one.

Want to know what was playing when I thought the world was crashing around me?

Yep. 'My Prerogative' by Bobby Brown. The four-second (four!) sound effect of squealing tires at the start of the song caused me to think the world around me was ending and nearly caused me to cause an actual accident. I don't need permission. Make my own decisions. That's my stupidity.

Still think I'm awesome? I think the person who zoomed by me flashing her finger was telling me I am, indeed, awesome. In fact, according to her, I'm apparently the number one most awesome person on the planet!

For what it's worth, I place the blame for this mind blip on an injury I incurred over the weekend, one that, oddly enough, also involved driving and my iPod. I was on the way to my church small group gathering last night, appropriately enough singing along to Madonna's absolutely impossible NOT to sing along with (don't click on the link unless you're prepared to belt it out no matter where you are) 'Like A Prayer' (here's where you could say something like "Ha ha ha! Isn't it ironic?" and I'd say, "Don'tcha think?" and also "Don't worry. I've got that one on my iPod, too!"). Like today, all was well, and when 'Like A Prayer' ended, the next song kicked in.

Haddaway's 'What Is Love'.

Oh, yes. You read that right.

(sidebar - Are you like me and gone your entire life without ever seeing the official video for that song? Change that now.)

Do you know what you are obligated to do when you hear that song? If you answered "Fast forward immediately past it and/or throw it on the floor and smash it up into a million tiny pieces and/or steal your iPod and put better music on it when you're not looking," your answer is wrong and you have no soul. Heathens.

The correct answer is you're obligated to bob your head side to side to the beat with a level of enthusiasm that borders on illegal. Or just embarrassing when you're still doing it at the stoplight and you glance over on the downbeat and notice the motorist stopped next to you is watching, which totally happened to me. Of course. But you know what? OH WELL! Because I was feeling it, friends!

And then I was feeling my head slam against the driver's side window after I bobbed a little too voraciously to the left and made the kind of violent impact that would have resulted in tiny bluebirds and stars circling my head if I was in a cartoon world. Talk about your baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more! It appears my head didn't get the request even though I'd asked it t0 more than 10 of the nearly 20 times the song makes you sing it. Thankfully, no other motorists saw me take that punch.

As a result of this event last night, I have a large, tender spot on the side of my head and a pronounced lack of wisdom. Long story short, I probably should start listening to books on tape when I drive. I should also think about tossing that extra $1.25 a shift before taxes into the Queen of All That Is Awesome campaign fund, too.

i say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. because i don't have much else to say right now.

2010-09-15T09:40:00.005-05:00

So I just ate some peanut butter toast for the first time since January and if that wasn’t enough excitement for the day, I colored my hair while dancing around in my bathroom to Dino’s ‘I Like It.’

Just now. That JUST happened.

What? You thought this red was all natural? Aren’t you precious! A lot of things come nice and easy in my life, but this hair isn’t one of them, pals.

Huh? That’s not what you were thinking? You were wondering what I was thinking with the song? Um, listen, I don’t know what YOUR iPod is made of, but mine is made up of awesome. Plus a lot of Hanson and some might say a freakishly excessive amount of ABBA.

(like yours isn’t…)

As I was saying, I just colored my hair while dancing around my bathroom to Dino’s ‘I Like It,’ to which I’m linking again because yes, Dino and I want you to get up on it, because you know you want to, and if you did (strike that and insert DO), you’d find the dance moves for this tune are really pretty easy, and during the chorus, I’d lean over and I’d tell you there was a time in the late 80s/early 90s when my hair looked suspiciously like said Dino.

(like yours didn’t…)

But now my hair is even shorter than it was when I told you I cut more than 10 inches off, and it’s red again! Huzzah! Of course, my bathroom walls are also now red, which is something I often forget about when I color my hair and then bust into impromptu dance parties and the music calls for excessive pelvic thrusting. In fact, the walls are so red it looks like Jason Stackhouse just shot that wacky vampire Franklin with a wooden bullet and turned him into a hemoglobin geyser. Seriously, True Blood! Between the boobs and the blood this season, my face was in a perpetual “I just smelled something nasty” mode. Buffy the Vampire Slayer clearly ruined me by making me think whole idea that staking a vamp simply turned them into evaporating dust.

(that suspicious looking pool of red on the floor near the shower door may actually be blood, so don’t slip while doing that lawn sprinkler move while we’re dancing to what song again? Oh, yes, Dino’s ‘I Like It.’)

Anyway, the point of this post is to tell you I don’t have one. That’s just what I’ve been doing lately. So, what’s up with you?

You know what, screw it! I’m just going to embed the damn video! That’s the way it has to be, people. The bad part is it isn’t the same high quality video that I linked to above because I couldn’t take that one, so now you’re forced to scream “Get UP ON IT!” in the opening yourself. That’s the way it has to be again. You’d do it anyway, so no big whoop.

oh, i, i just died in your arms tonight. or maybe you died in mine thanks to the potential for smothering. hugs?

2010-09-08T23:15:00.002-05:00

"Your arm is as flat as a pancake!" I declared as the nurse gently peeled away layers of cotton and bandages from my son's left arm earlier today. "It looks like you got steam rolled in some kind of crazy cartoon world!"

My son broke both bones in his forearm two weeks ago, the result of an unfortunate and quite volatile mating dance between his scooter and an in-ground sprinkler head. He's not entirely clear how it happened. The events leading to the attack have been slowly trickling back into his memory like post-battle field flashbacks. What is his major malfunction? Coordination, apparently.

As you can imagine, we've spent a tremendous amount of time these past 14 days talking about his arm and arms in general, and as we waited for the nurse to see if they had glow in the dark casting material (thank goodness, no) we marveled at how compressed his arm had become after this initial healing time in the splint.

Once he was casted - all the way to his armpit in bright blue battle armor - we waited in the exam room for the doctor to let us know the results of the day's second round of x-rays. To bide the time, my son decided to play junior orthopedic specialist and began examining my arm. After a few moments of careful inspection that involved putting me through a variety of range of motion exercises, he began poking my upper arm, then started singing my diagnoses.

In all honesty, it's not a good one.

"Oh, gigolo, hello! Hello, hello gigolo! Hello, gigolo, hello!" he loudly crooned as his fingers sunk deeper into what delicate ladies might refer to as the mud flaps on my apparently doughy upper arms.

"Hello, gigolo, hello! Gigolo, hello!"

When they're not busy caring for my family and doing what they're designed to do, which is to hoist delicious fistfuls of microwave popcorn (and ice cream and macaroni and cheese and oh, look! Snickers!) to my mouth while lifting nothing heavier than the television remote, they're providing paid companionship to lonely ladies. Considering the amount of money I need to come up with to cover the medical expenses we're incurring thanks to my son's broken arm, it's probably a good thing my appendages have taken on a side gig. I just hope they're clear they need to charge more for SOME of those jobs. And, hey arms, no kinky stuff!

I probably should have been (wait for it...) up in arms (totally hilarious, right?) over his diagnosis, but I was afraid waving these flappers of mine around haphazardly could have knocked the kid off the exam table, and I didn't want to take the risk of having him break his other arm.

"I think you mean 'Hello, jiggly!'" I corrected him. "I also think I'd like to know how you know the word 'gigolo.'"

But before I find that out, I'm wondering if I should sue him for malpractice.

Oh, but the cuteness! Could you just die?! And could you die from flabby arms?

check this hand 'cause i'm marvelous

2010-08-31T23:14:00.017-05:00

So. Well. Here we are. Not much's going on around here, which is nice, really, because that means more room for my simmering bad mood and overall sense of 'meh' that's been hovering around like a spirit unwilling to cross over these last few days. Or maybe it's been weeks? Months? Suffice to say it's been awhile.

But I don't want to burden you with my sad trombone, friends. Instead, I've decided to compile a list of things that make me forget the time(s) I've been far too 'woe is me' lately. Before I do, though, I feel I should warn you there are a few things on here that might compel you to make fun of me, so just let me remind you to be gentle, m'kay?

M'kay. Here goes. For no one's pleasure other than my own:

Jimmy Fallon's Emmy opening number. I seriously can't stop watching this. See also 'freezing the picture on Jon Hamm.'

A tub of Cool Whip, a spoon, and some alone time. To eat directly from the container, sickos! What did you think I meant? Listen, what you do on your own time with a delicious non-dairy whipped topping is your own business.

Constantly being peppered with 'Would you rather...' questions by the guys I work with. When faced with the choice of bending my fingers backward and rendering them broken once a year, every year, or purchasing a bag of spicy Doritos and using one to scoop my own eyeball out, I always choose the annual broken fingers.

Just Dance for Wii. It's sweaty, loud, ugly, and potentially deadly, but if you want to bring it 'Wannabe' style, I have just two words for you -Bring. It.

Season 4 of 'Dexter.' Holy hell, this show is so fantastic (aside from the Batista/Laguerta romance, which, yawn)! Sure, even though, thanks to the Internet, I knew how things ended, I still gasped. Yes. I gasped.

Speaking of the Internet (and strangers and friends and amazing people outside this little box), did you hear about Cure JM?! After a roller coaster ride on the final day of voting for a Pepsi Refresh grant, they topped the choices for a $250k grant! Kudos to Kevin and his family for their tireless efforts, and thank you to all of you who voted!

(pssst - have have the urge to do some more harmless Internet voting for a good cause? My friend the weirdgirl and I hope you'll consider supporting her community's efforts to rebuild their elementary school, which was destroyed by an arsonist's fire. I know, right? Please visit her to learn how you can help. I have. It didn't hurt at all. Do it. Please?)

'Talking To Girls About Duran Duran' by Rob Sheffield - Get thee to a bookstore and buy this one, OK? Don't just grab it off the shelf, find a comfy chair, and then camp out all day reading it for free. You'll be cheating yourself and possibly annoying those of us who work at bookstores. I'm not kidding. Especially about that annoying bit. Seriously. Would you throw your feet up on that coffee table, stuff your hand down the front of your pants and then maybe take a 2 hour nap in your own house? You would? Well, OK. Can you just do it there and not where I work, though?

Cutting 10+ inches off my hair. TEN! MORE THAN! The last time I cut more than 10 inches of anything out of my life, I told that guy I was getting married the following Saturday and maybe it would be nice if he'd quit calling me already.

My dear best friend who, when she finally saw me for the first time after this major hair transformation, told me I could pass for 19.

The fact that I'll never, ever, ever have to be 19 again. Even though I may or may not have made out with above mentioned best friend after her declaration, which may or may not have been something I would have considered exploring at 19.

Mario Badescu Drying Lotion for killing the giant bald-headed man who emerged from my chin this week and was all, "Hey, whassup?" and I was all, "Um, my nose? Which you clearly have a bird's eye view into?" I'm a pretty, pretty princess.

(now if I could only use it to kill the chin zit's accomplice currently residing in a Locale That Shall Not Be Named)(did I mention I'm a pretty, pretty princess? The prettiest!)

The fact that I wasn't killed in my sleep last night by the ghost of a 14-year-old girl who was murdered and locked away who now apparently exacts her revenge upon the world by brutally killing those who don't forward text messages about her while they slumber. Sorry, teenage boy who keeps texting me despite the fact I keep (stupidly) responding (in complete and correctly spelled sentences - a dead - heh, no pun intended - giveaway that no, I don't know him and yes, I AM likely old enough to be his mother. Of course, tonight's another night, so if you don't hear from me after this, it's been nice knowing you!

Speaking of things getting killed, sayonara, solid dark chocolate Dove Easter bunny. Never again will I write of you.

Did I mention it's nice how dark chocolate doesn't seem to go bad even after almost two years? And I wonder why I have a giant chin zit...

Hooray! Last year's jeans still fit!

Tomorrow, I'm going to spend the entire day holding a newborn baby girl. The entire day. Hours. Holding a newborn. I'm probably going to spend at least two of those hours plotting a way out of the house with said newborn girl undetected, but you didn't hear that from me.

'Camp Rock 2' premieres Friday night (um, yeah, have we met?!)!! I predict some alone time in my future (with or without Cool Whip)!! Hush.

That Nick Jonas sure has come into his own lately...

I know. Relax. I'm forever a Joe girl. Woman. Old lady. Whatever.

Pecan Sandies. Seriously, I am SO thankful last year's jeans still fit.

Polite Fictions. Are you (please!) reading us there? Oh, I wish you would! There's some great stuff happening there as we round out our "What Happens After..." theme. I don't know what it is about this go 'round, but I've gotten teary reading every single contributor's entry. Even my own! It's like all my friends there live in my heart and are wrapping beautiful words around the voices I hear in my head. If you want to know the real me, go there. Please read! Please! No voting involved!

This clip from 'Phineas and Ferb':

This was how I was dancing (to, um, 'Come Sail Away.' So sue me) in the kitchen tonight when the boys walked in and discovered me. "She's sportin' major kinkification' may be my new mantra. And this? This is bordering manifesto territory, so I'll be going now, a little bit happier than I was when I started. Your results may vary.

just like kenny loggins said, this is it

2010-08-31T08:12:00.004-05:00

Today is the LAST DAY for voting to help Cure JM secure a $250,000 from Pepsi's Refresh Everything program. Over the last two days, Cure JM has had more ups and downs in the rankings than I am currently putting my family through. Yesterday afternoon, I logged on to vote and found they'd fallen to three. I yelled "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" and started voting my heart out. When I went to bed last night, they were ranked number 1.

NUMBER 1!!

I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

Then I got up this morning. Guess who is number 2 again? Did you guess Cure JM? Good for you.

NOW PLEASE GO VOTE!!

(need an incentive? Go read Kevin's post about his daughter, who was diagnosed with Juvenile Myositis, and other children who are also enduring)

Through TODAY ONLY, you have three opportunities to vote three different ways. Three! Three times a charm, baby! Here's what you do:

end a text vote: Text 100850 to Pepsi (73774) (standard text messaging rate apply)
Use the Facebook app: http://bit.ly/CureJMonFB
Vote directly from the Pepsi website site for our Cure JM and its affiliated causes at http://pep.si/CureJMKidstoWin5

After last month's round of voting, I got an email from Kevin telling me Cure JM was out of the running. I really don't want to get another email like that from him. I like the happy ones. I want a happy one.

how often do I promise you something quick and easy?

2010-08-27T11:30:00.004-05:00

I spent last night in the emergency room with my youngest son. While on his way home from a friend's for what was sure to be a gourmet dinner (sandwiches!), he fell off his scooter and broke both bones in his left forearm. When I got him inside and was able to take a better look at the situation, I could tell we were in for a long night. His arm was in a very pronounced U-shape, which helped me explain things to him when I pointed to it and said, "YOU have broken your arm, my lovely."

Unfortunately, I didn't have time for the second part of the diagnosis, which would have been "YOU are going to probably throw up right now!" because he tossed his after school snack all over the carpet before either of us expected it. Bonus!

As a family, we've been incredibly blessed to have healthy children. In fact, until just three weeks ago, when this same child went mano-o-vano with our family vehicle and came out on the losing side with five stitches to his forehead, we've never seen the inside of an emergency room. I'd like to think (hope, pray, make questionable promises to questionable individuals) that walking out at 2 a.m., today after this latest visit is the last time we have any medical issues.

I'd like to wish the same for other parents. Unfortunately, it's not always possible.

Perhaps you know my friend Kevin, who writes (well!) at a few sites, including Always Home and Uncool. Kevin is, I believe, one of the entries in the dictionary under the listing for 'awesome.' He's exactly that. He and his family work tirelessly with the organization Cure JM to raise awareness of juvenile myositis, an autoimmune disease affecting approximately 5,000 children in the United States that Kevin's daughter, affectionately known as Thing 1, was diagnosed with JM eight years ago.

If you know Kevin (and you should by now if you visited the link to his blog!), you know Cure JM is a contender for a $250,000 grant in the Pepsi Refresh Project! Did you catch that? Pepsi will give $250,000 (!!!!) to the top 2 individuals, businesses or non-profit organizations in August, and as I write this, Cure JM is holding steady in the top 2!

As you might imagine, Cure JM would love to retain their spot during the next five days of eligible voting (and heck, I'd imagine they'd love to move into the number 1 spot, too, but, well, sometimes being number 2 doesn't stink!). You might also be imagining ways you can help them. What you might not be imagining is just how easy it will be to do so! Now through August 31, you can vote three times a day using these three different methods:

Send a text vote: Text 100850 to Pepsi (73774) (standard text messaging rate apply)
Use the Facebook app: http://bit.ly/CureJMonFB
Vote directly from the Pepsi website site for our Cure JM and its affiliated causes at http://pep.si/CureJMKidstoWin5

The first thing I do when I get up in the morning is check on my kids, say a little "thank you" for their health and well-being, and then I log onto my computer and I vote. Simple, quick, and for a friend and his child and other children fighting this. My new wish today is that you'll please take a minute (heck, even less than that!) and do the same.

i went to chicago and all i got were these bullet points, a burnt scalp, and a better understanding of why we don't take many vacations

2010-08-25T08:39:00.013-05:00

I call this one "Be thankful for small things." Like the fact this is not a small, curly piece of hair on the bed, but rather a long, curly hair on the lap shade. Hotels rock!

When last we were together, I was getting ready to leave for a vacation in beautiful Chicago. We've been home a few days, and those of you who travel know those days are spent doing laundry, playing catch up on real life, and regaling your Facebook friends with photos of your trip. I've not done any of those things yet. That's the plan for today! What a great way to spend the first day without my kids around all the time! Kids who apparently don't have any clean underwear and, well, at least one of the two is rather fond of fresh drawers and informed me I have work to do this afternoon. So needy that one! I was going to write a fantastic post letting all of you know Chicago did us a grade-A solid, because it really did (psst - call me, Chicago!), but instead, I figured why bore you with my vacation slides. Instead, here's a few things I observed during our time away that helped make our trip complete:

HBO is airing the same episodes of Taxi Cab Confessions they were when I was 14 and would sneak viewings of what I then thought was edgy and shocking content. Now you've heard one transsexual's story, you've heard them all.
One room bad, two rooms good. After an initial night of hotel lodging in which I thought my 8 year old was actually going to attempt womb re-entry as we tried to (yet never actually did) sleep, we booked a second hotel room. Hooray for Priority Club member points! Tool Man being gone constantly has it's rewards!
There's something sweet (and OK, perhaps a wee bit wrong) hearing your 8 year old sing the lyric "...put your hands on me in my skin right jeans."
Speaking of jeans, jeggings really aren't for everyone. Seriously. They're not. I mean it. No.
While we're still on the subject, neither are body suits ::cough lady wearing neon blue body suit at the Iowa rest stop cough Glamour don't cough::
Homeless people love, love, LOVE to pray for me! I was stopped three times on my walk to Buckingham Fountain for a bit of divine intervention. That's more times then we pray during an actual church service!
I can go 6 days without a diet Mountain Dew, but you won't like me by the fourth day.
I finally got a diet Mountain Dew on day seven, and alas, you would have liked me less. Let's just say fountain pop that's not mixed right put me into tears.
However, I'm blaming the tears on having to listen to the that "I Wanna Be A Billionaire" song 5,402 (or an actual billion) times while we were traveling.
What up, Oprah!
Before I even unbuckled my seat belt when we got home, my oldest was in the house, up two sets of stairs and on the phone with his best friend.
Before I got my leg out of the car, he was back asking if we could drive him to said best friend's house 14 minutes away. This after he'd complained and sighed his way through being in a car for 7 hours.
Air travel has to be better than car travel with my family.
Although portable DVD players are the shiz, yo!
Ten minutes after we got home, the phone rang for my youngest but he was already gone to another friends house.
Basically, my kids got a ticker tape parade upon arriving home, like they're astronauts.
We learned about astronauts during a trip to the Adler Planetarium. Well, I learned about astronauts. Unlike my family, I like to stop and read about the various displays. Call me crazy!
P.S. - no one has called for me (crazy or otherwise) yet. We've been home five days.
"War" by Sebastian Junger isn't the lightest drive time read you could choose.
Negative - My husband got to continue his vacation on Monday while I went back to work. Pro - While I was at work, he took the boys to Chuck E. Cheese and I didn't have to go!
My kids ran around the Holiday Inn like they were freakin' Zack and Cody at the Tipton. That was just about as annoying as the actual Zack and Cody.
My husband and I accidentally dressed alike on three of our vacation days. We didn't realize this faux pas, of course, thanks to our separate rooms. Not awesome. We were one day away from a fanny pack.
We got gas bombed by a dude who got off the elevator two floors before us. I was this close to scratching a goodbye note on the walls before the doors finally opened and we all fell out and crumpled to the floor.
We'd driven 40 miles before I finally abandoned all hope someone would say "That's what she said!" after I'd tossed a bag into the trunk and said "I don't want this giant thing between my legs for seven hours!"
Speaking of my legs, they are strong like bull after walking the entirety of Chicago. My spirit, however, is crushed after walking the entirety of Chicago with two kids who only wanted to know when they could eat again and to remind me of just how tired they were. "Listen," I said. "You didn't stay up late watching HBO's Taxi Cab Confessions, so just zip it!"
I also lost a tremendous amount of sleep on Day 3 because I dreamed of bed bugs most of the night.
My scalp is still burned more than five days later. You could drive a Mars rover around up there and not know the difference between me and the red planet...which I learned more about at the planetarium. I did. Not my family, though.
Dude, seriously, if I see another museum or anything remotely resembling a museum for awhile, it will still be too soon.
Chicago, your pizza is made of fairy dust, angel's wishes, and the bright cheeriness of a child's smile, but sweet heaven, that's some serious cheese! It's way more cheese than my colon should be near. I needed a safe word after eating just one piece!
Nice try, Sky Deck. You nearly got me to go completely out upon your 4 X 4 glassy box of (possible) death, but I realized what was happening before it could have been too late. You are a formidable foe, but this round goes to me.
I can get Chicago souvenir cheaper on Iowa...so I did. Shhhh. Don't tell my kids!
Whoa oh oh oh sweet bed of myyyy-eeee-iiine!
"Heh...Wacker Drive...heh!" giggled Seth, my inner 13 year old boy (who should be celebrating a birthday soon) In fact, Seth found it hard NOT to giggle.
P.S. - 'Found it hard'? Perfect place for a "That's what she said!" Take a note, Tool Man!
Obviously, I need to get out more.

I choose to believe this is the dried blood of a previous occupant of my hotel room, and not the sauce of a delicious Chicago-style pizza left here as a reminder from said previous tenant as he or she searched the channel guide for the more adult fare on the hotel's television. It made things more exciting to think that.

25 or 6 to 4

2010-08-14T20:55:00.009-05:00

In just a few hours, my family and I will be leaving for a short vacation. I had to Google the proper spelling of 'vacation' because it's been so very long since we've actually been on one. To put it in perspective, the last time we took a vacation, my oldest son, who will turn 13 on Thursday, was 2 years old. My youngest son, who wasn't around on that last epic, apparently bank draining adventure, has no idea what's in store for him when I say we're taking a trip. I honestly believe he thinks I'm telling him we're vacating, because he keeps looking around the place, trying to decide which of his most prized possessions he should salvage in the event we have to break camp here in the middle of the night. It's been fun watching him scurry about in a panic because he can't find his Nintendo DS that I've already packed away for our journey.

The title of this post probably gives away where we're going. Additionally, it represents:

The approximate number of hours we'll be on the road
How many times I'll ask that we stop so I can use a bathroom - in just the first 2 hours
A third of the cost for us to enjoy this grand adventure
How high I should count before responding to something the boys or my husband says
The scientific strain of germ I fear picking up from the hotel bedspread

Good times! If you haven't figured out yet where we're going, here's another hint. It rhymes 'tomato,' but only if you say 'tomato' as though you were quite proper and British. Are you quite proper and British? No? Then here's another rhyming clue - "Key Largo." No, we're not going to Key Largo. Do you really think I'd just give you the answer? Besides, if we were actually going to Key Largo, I'd have referenced another equally annoying song from the late 70s/early 80s in the post title, but that would have given it away completely, and where's the fun in that?

Nowhere, that's where!

Oh, but we're going somewhere (insert enthusiasm! and preparedness! and fun! lots and lots of fun!) here! So here's your final clue:

"It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses."

Anyone?

Yes! That's right! Chicago! What gave it away? It was the word 'Chicago' wasn't it? No? Awww, you guys are just a bunch of brainiacs, aren't you?!

Sadly, according to our Garmin, Google Maps, Rand-McNally, Google Earth, and every other devise and/or website Tool Man has consulted today, it's far more than 106 miles for us to get there from here. Pity, really, because I could probably make that without any bathroom breaks and all the weary travelers would be happy.

Speaking of happy, I think the kids are really looking forward to our trip. At least, I think my oldest son is because he's been gleefully informing me about how he "doesn't want to go to Chicago!" and asking "Why are we even going there, anyway?" As you might imagine, I'm really looking forward to spending this quality time with him.

Before I can bask in his brightness, though, I have to finish laundry and pack. Tool Man has Julie McCoy-ed the hell out of us for this trip, but for some reason, he neglected to inform me of his tight schedule until today, so the fact we're leaving Sunday morning comes as a tremendous surprise to me. It's no wonder, really, why we never go on these wacky things. What is surprising, though, is how we've made it this far and not killed each other. Don't you wish you were tagging along?

I wish you were. We could stay up late giggling in the hotel room after a day spent tearing up Chicago sausage king-style like Ferris, Cameron and Sloan, which I fully intend to do when I'm not staring at some ancient artifact at a museum or weeping at the sheer joy my oldest child is having. Are there any parades schedule for Chi-town next week? If so, watch the nightly news for reports about how I rocked the Danke Schoen out of that town.

But before all that, I must finish laundry, pack, and encourage all of you to please, don't miss me too much. I know it's hard not to, but really, when I've only been posting once a week (or, ahem, less), doesn't this just seem like normal? Just trust I'll be back and know I'll eat a Chicago dog for you. Maybe. I don't like tomatoes and I'm not particularly fond of hot peppers. We'll see. Either way, you're probably going to miss me (sorry!) and I will be back, so everything will be OK.

Especially after I quit singing that damn Chicago song.

and tell you all my dreaming...dreaming is free. and sometimes a little creepy. ok, a lot creepy

2010-08-09T16:20:00.004-05:00

Other than a dream I had last year involving me, Zac Efron, and an elaborate plan to repopulate the planet after a mysterious post-apocalyptic tragedy that was interrupted just as Zac was telling me I should check his ammunition supplies (hint - "ammunition supplies" had very little to do with actual ammunition)(second hint - when I say "very little," I mean absolutely none), I very rarely remember my dreams.

Lately, though, my mind has been revving up during my REMs, and I've been haunted by a variety of different dreams I've been unable to shake. Some of them have been fantastic while others are simply confusing and perhaps a wee bit terrifying. For example, early last week, my mind raced through a trippy masterpiece involving a gang of giant, evil dolphins flying through the air with tiny, terrified humans screaming out their panic while clinging to the dorsal fin of their captive dolphin. Did I mention I could tell the dolphins were evil because of the suits of armor they were wearing? Oh, yes. Ornate battle armor conducive to, well, battling, and apparently, flying through the sky. Because dolphins can't swim while wearing armor, and they were smart enough to know that.

Also, they're smart enough to forge their own armor despite a lack of hands, apparently.

I have no idea what this dream meant. A Facebook friend suggested I'd perhaps had a traumatic experience involving a dolphin as a child, but growing up in the landlocked Midwest would seem prohibitive of such a thing. I was, however, nearly trampled to death by a pen of escaped cows when I was 9, so if there's a metaphor to be made there, I'd be curious. My thought is the dream was meant to serve as a spirit guide sent to prepare me for Shark Week (a moment of silence, please, for the end of Shark Week 2010...), and it sent dolphins rather than sharks because it didn't want to actually scare me (but it sort of did!). If such is the case, then thank you, spirit world, because thanks to Shark Week, I now know there are sharks swimming off the coast of Massachusetts, and it makes me laugh to think of them having hella wicked Boston accents.

Because if I ever actually have and remember a dream about sharks, I'm sure they'd talk.

You know who else talks in my dreams? Paul Rudd, star of stage, screen, and nocturnal fantasies like the one I also had last week involving the two of us and a party at my Mom's house. The first clue it was a dream wasn't that Paul Rudd was at a backyard barbecue on my Mom's patio, but that I looked ah-may-ZING, as I am wont to do in my dreams, including but not limited to the ones where I turn up naked at some Big Important Event, or am falling from a tall building. Or falling naked from a tall building at the conclusion of some Big Important Event. Anyway, after hours of crazy flirting, it was obvious Paul and I had reached a point where one of us was going to be screaming "I love you, man!" before the night was over, and, well, since I'm not a man (which was obvious by my very large dream breasts), clearly I was to be the scream-ee.

I know you're probably thinking, "Sure, it's Paul Rudd. Every man wants to be him, every woman wants to do him. I can see why this was a dream you'd not necessarily want to wake up from." Believe me, that was the case, but then, in the dream, my Mom pulled me aside and said, "I really don't condone you having sex with Paul Rudd in my house, but if you're going to, in my house, and of course you are, you damn well better not get pregnant! While in my house!"

Um...OK? I mean, by then, he'd musked up ("That's the smell of desire, my lady!") and both of us wanted to do the no-pants dance, so I couldn't let him down (heh heh...veiled double entendre!). I have no idea why my mom had to step in and try to, OK, I'm just going to say it, cock block me, but let me just say, I'm glad she didn't succeed, because the sex was - wait for it - dreamy. There was floating, spinning, harp music, tiny birds descended from the heavens to weave ribbons in my flowing locks, and, yes, unicorns pranced about during the proceedings. Hell, a disembodied voice even narrated the festivities!

Seriously.

It was the kind of dream that made me mad when I woke up because (a) now I'm going to have to pay full price to see "Dinner for Schmucks" to get my fill of Paul, which was never on my life list, and (b) I didn't want it to end! It made me want to look up that crazy dream-stealing team from "Inception" and hire them to replant that dream deep inside me (and by that I mean inside my brain...of course...) so I could have it again. Over and over and over again. I want to have this dream again in four weeks just so I can take a pretend pregnancy test to see if I AM carrying Paul Rudd's seed because, despite my Mom's warning, I think I might actually be with dream child!

Then, of course, there's the nightmares. What could possibly be worse than giant flying dolphins wearing battle armor, you're perhaps asking. Maybe a dream involving sex with a giant flying dolphin wearing battle armor? Yes. That would be incredibly terrifying. Thankfully, that wasn't my nightmare!

No, the dream that haunts my slumber involved me, Guy Fieri and acts so depraved I can honestly barely look at him when I watch one of the 8 million shows he has on the Food Network because I feel like he's watching me and he knows what he did to me and he's feeding me signals that let me know he's not done driving the bus to Flavor Town, if you know what I mean. And I think you know what I mean if you take that wonderful sex dream I had involving Paul Rudd, strip away Paul Rudd, and insert Guy Fieri in the equation. Or the position. Whichever you prefer.

Holy-moly Stromboli, that dream scared the Bejesus out of me! Guy went on and on about Triple D, and I was all, "Listen, I know in my dreams, I have tremendous breasts, but I draw the line at triple Ds, and trust me, there will be absolutely no dives of any kind!"

(yep, I'm just as wordy in my dream state as I am in my non-dream state, so it's no wonder I'm constantly exhausted, hmm?)

As things progressed, he'd say things like "This sauce is so money," or "I'mma need more than a minute to win it!" and I'd clamp my eyes shut tighter, hoping he'd finish soon. I tried to distract him at one point by asking why he was making me yell out "FEE-ET-TEE," when it's clearly not how his name's spelled, but then he'd interrupt me by making me say "What's winner, winner?" and I'd have to say "Chicken dinner."

You know those dreams you have when you realize it's a dream and you absolutely don't want to be having it, so you try to wake yourself up from it? THIS was that dream for me. I've never seen an episode of "Minute to Win It," but after I had this dream, I came across one while flipping channels and paused (frozen with fear is more like it), and listened as Guy set up a game for a new contestant. It involved tossing some Velcro wrapped ping pong balls down a sloped board and trying to get the balls to attach at the end. The name of the game?

Sticky Balls.

Guy Fieri said sticky balls on national television. Then he may have turned toward the camera, looked directly at me, and winked.

And I no longer sit up at night watching Food Network before going to bed.

honey, they don't call it a job for nothin'

2010-07-26T20:21:00.013-05:00

Hey gang! Let's play a game I call "Who's Day Sucked More!?!" It's a spin-off of the wildly successful party game "Oh, Trust Me, I Am SO Much Sicker Than You!!!" of which I'm the reigning world champion.

(My husband spent the entirety of last winter suffering from pneumonia, became anemic, AND THEN developed pneumonia-induced asthma that he still suffers from today, which is his excuse for not mowing the yard, but oh, I'm on to him there, friends! However, my non-drugged, rapid-fire deliveries of his two heirs and the weakened bladder muscles I'm forever reminded of as a result thanks to a wee bit of, well, wee brought on by every sneeze, jump, or casual run I take means I win. I WIN INFINITY!)(Also? Hahahaha...me? Running? Hahahahaha! Priceless!)

The rules of this game are simple. We all sit back, sigh with as much resignation as we can muster, and then toss the day's horrible experiences back and forth until a winner's declared. I say declared, but bear in mind, there's no way you're going to beat me at this game.

Ready?

OK. We all begin with 120 'This Sucks!' points because it's Monday. These points are a given. Next, I'm going to subtract 100 million points from my score, leaving me with a deficit, because, as I do every day, I went through this one without coffee. Some of you need it to survive, but I don't. Does that make me stronger than you? Debatable. However, you now all have 120 million points.

(Is that right? No, that's not right. Is it? Jeepers, math is hard!)

I know you're probably feeling confidant. You think the massive points spread that separates all of you from me is so vast there's no way I can beat you.

Think again, losers!

(sidebar - I do not now nor have I ever considered any of you to be actual losers)

(You're all going down, though!)

OK, now, go ahead and tell me a few of the horrible things that happened to you today.

You got stuck in a bear trap and had to chew your own leg off below the knee to escape? Yowza! Thirty points!

Your boss yelled at you and made you cry? Ouch! That probably seemed like it sucked! Fifteen points!

Your name's Tommy and you used to work on the docks, but the union's been on strike so you're down on your luck? That's tough. Fifty points.

You forgot to hit 'save' the entire time you were writing what was to be the next great novel (or Twilight saga)(bazinga!) and your kid ran through the room, tripped, and yanked the computer chord from the wall, causing your hard work to disappear? Bummer, dude. Eight points (mostly because I can't believe you never once did a 'save as').

Now it's my turn!!

Ten minutes after arriving at work in the children's department (automatic 100 points) at the bookstore, a mother changed her toddler's diaper right there in the department. What's the big deal? Hasn't that happened before? Yes. But just let me tell you! She spread that kid out ON the Thomas the Tank Engine train table and yanked what was, without a doubt, the rankest, most excrement-laden diaper I've ever been witness to off her child atop a play set revered my millions of children daily at my store. No amount of Lysol I could (did) spray on it after she (tossed the diaper in the waste basket right next to my customer service counter, of course, awesome, thank you) left could kill the issues that presented. Listen, I know the train table is awful. Personally, I never touch it. EVER. If I find a toy train somewhere other than on the table, I use a tissue to pick it up, then go scrub my arms down, Silkwood-style. Every child who plays there sticks a train either in their mouth or nose. Many have eaten off it. Kids have peed on the floor around it. Hair has been pulled and punches thrown. I've witnessed gangland murders go down around it. It may seem like a bathroom, but it ain't no bathroom! Gah! Two million points (Plus previously mentioned 100 points)(You do the math)(I'm serious)(Please?).

As if poop couldn't dampen my day, what say you to puke? "Oh, now you're just pulling our leg, Fadkog! First you have what's possibly a dead, poop-entombed animal festering in your wastebasket, and now you're going to tell us there was puke involved in your day, too?" YES! Just before I was going to take my (much needed) break, a child yakked her lunch up right in the center of the department. Delightful! It appears she'd enjoyed some Chik-fil-A about 45 minutes prior. Who cleans that up? Ahem...ME! As a result, I'm now totally off the bird. And probably waffle fries, too. Ten million points!!

After poop and puke, I needed one more thing to make this day a triple crown winner. Luckily, I got it. Ready? PENIS! Dear heaven, yes! Penis capped my work day off in fine fashion when I was shelving young reader picture books and rounded a shelf to find an elderly gentlemen tucked in a chair in the corner, thumbing through a book on the Third Reich. No big whoop, I thought. It happens. Then I noticed his shorts were uncomfortably short. So short, in fact, they appeared to be riding way, way, WAY up his leg. So far up his leg, in fact, I was left dumbstruck when I realized his penis had ventured out and was reading along with him. Awesome (in a completely, absolutely not awesome way). Thankfully, no children were around, and I alerted a manager to handle the matter. Then I awarded myself 90 trillion points.

Of course, this clearly makes me a winner in today's game (and I'll willingly submit to a drug test if you pansy out and make claims I'm 'roided up), but because my easy win had my adrenaline pumping, when I left work, I figured why not go for the bonus round! As soon as I punched out, I headed to Kohl's to burn a $10 voucher. I need some new black shoes for work, so I made a beeline for that department to hunt for a comfortable pair. As I approached a young man working in the department to see if he could help me, I realized he was on the phone with a customer, so I stepped back to wait. As he spoke, he was waving a black tennis shoe around in the air, and then he described the shoe to the customer.

"To be honest, I'm pretty sure she wouldn't like this particular tennis shoe. They look exactly like something a really old lady would wear," he said.

I glanced down at my black tennis shoe-clad feet, then back to the one he had in his hand. It was, of course, the same shoe.

Of course.

So when he finally got off the phone, I offered him a Werther's Original, yanked a tissue from the sleeve of my shirt, dabbed at something on his cheek, then shuffled off as fast as my tennis ball-tipped walker and my old lady tennis shoes would carry me.

945 kabillion trillion million points to me! SQUARED!!!

if you don't hear from me for a few days, hope for the best, but expect the worst

2010-07-20T15:13:00.006-05:00

I came home from work an hour ago to find my husband and sons missing.

Missing!

I know what some of you might think (How? Why, thanks to my amazing power of thought stealing, of course! Bwahahahaha!) if you were to come home and find your loved ones (and your husband)(it's been a long week, friends)(Wait...it's only Tuesday? Damn...) absent from your home.

You'd think aliens abducted them!

Trust me, it was the first thought that crossed my mind, too.

No, I take that back. My first thought was "Well, it's good to see the mess they all created yesterday, the mess I'm purposely NOT picking up so they learn to be responsible, is still scattered throughout the place! Nice. Reeeeaaaal nice."

THEN I thought aliens.

OK, that's not true. After bitching about the mess, checking to see if anyone had found the stash of peanut M&Ms I have hidden behind the Tupperware, changing into a pair of shorts, and clearing out voice mail messages, THEN I thought aliens had swooped down from the heavens and taken my family. Personally, I think it's the aliens navigating that mysterious glowing sausage that was spotted floating over China last week. I think they want to probe my children's knowledge of video games for new and exciting offerings from Nintendo, offerings that will hopefully be available for purchase in time for Christmas 2011!

I honestly couldn't imagine what aliens might want with my husband, even after spending this past hour mulling it over. The only conclusion I've come up with is maybe they want to harvest the vast knowledge of space and space civilization he's gleaned from hours spent watching ScyFy channel programming. Seems plausible.

Then, of course, I remembered. They left this afternoon for their Second Annual Testosterone Throwdown (and fossil hunt)!

So, do you know what that means?

If you said "You're going to spend the next two days fighting for your survival and trying not to freak out by every damn noise you hear when it gets dark and poor whittle baby has to go to bed?" then see what I mean? I TOTALLY CAN STEAL YOUR THOUGHTS!!

Of course, that's exactly what I'll be doing. Trying to stay alive while alone in my house. Listen. I know it's tempting to drop everything you're doing right now, Google Earth my exact location, marvel at the caulk jobs Tool Man has done to the house over the years by basking in the site's street view option, stop at a convenience store for Cheetos and Red Bull, and then drive like a maniac for the next 4 to 26 hours until you arrive at my front door, pound on it, and successfully scare the ever-lovin' bejesus out of me, but I'm begging you, think twice. Then think two more times. Between the Chinese UFO and not one, but two chupacabra sightings in Texas last week, well, I think we all know it's just a matter of time before my much feared Bigfoot comes to stand under the streetlight I look toward when I peek out my bedroom window every night before bed.

Oh, mark my words, friends, it will happen one day. I just pray a Loch Ness monster doesn't rise out of the man made lake across the street from my house first.

"Great. So NOW what are we going to do with our time?" you're thinking now (do I really need to explain this to you a third time?). "We can't come hang out with and/or scare the hell out of you, you probably wouldn't share your peanut M&M stash with us, and listen, if we're being honest here, we're just as scared of Bigfoot as you are, so tell us, what can we do now?"

Glad you asked.

Please, please, please go visit me at Polite Fictions! Remember that awesome collaborative fiction site I'm part of with a band of awesome writers who keep me around because they're wacky? Click on that link and go read my newest submission! We're all writing on the theme of "What happens after...", which opens up a ton of ideas. There's just three so far (mine is the third, but please give some love to the ladies who've laid the smack down before me, then return for the gauntlet tossing the rest of my friends will be challenging you). Listen, I know we're all busy, and who needs (exasperated sigh) another (geez!) website to visit, but honestly, do this, please, because it's like a free gift of awesome for you, and you're not even going to think about wanting to return it. Critics call it "Thoughtful AND thought provoking!" and "THIS is why the Internet was invented! Who said it had anything to do with easy access to porn? Did you say that? Well, you're wrong! It's this!"

Did you know I fuh-reak the hell out when it's my turn to write for Polite Fictions? Oh, baby. In fact, to say I freak out is a slap in the face and complete disservice to the word. I go loco. Maybe that's evidenced in what I produce. I don't know. I'm a wee bit of an over-thinker (so as you can imagine, it's exhausting trying to steal my own thoughts), but I could use some feedback on what I've written, so I honestly would love it if you'd take a moment and visit.

I'd also love it if you didn't prank call my house over the next two nights and yell things like "Boo!" or tell me how much you want to do me, because that once happened to me when I lived alone and the dude sounded EXACTLY like my boyfriend at the time, and listen, um, I may have ::finger quotes:: talked ::end finger quotes:: to that stranger about some things I only talked to my old boyfriend about, which probably explains why he'd call every night at 3 a.m., for two weeks solid before I got wise. Oh, yes, I got wise, but that doesn't mean I'm not still a big old weenie (and that may have been part of what I talked about with the stranger...anyway...)

Long story short, please go read my newest attempt at fiction, won't you? Now that I know my family is safe, I'm going to go bask in the quiet and watch what I want to watch. At least while it's still light out.

and when you're wise enough, you'll know...

2010-07-13T19:56:00.004-05:00

"Mom?"

My oldest son's voice drifts toward me from the back of the minivan as we venture out on yet another journey to his friend's house a few miles away.

"Hmmm?" I hum, clicking pause on the iPod to snuff out Katy Perry's tribute to California girls.

"How will I know when I've finally been struck by puberty?" he asks.

Before the invisible dot can be hung at the bottom of his question mark, my mind races through all the signs that have been springing up like billboards around me to signal my son's arrival at this most magically awkward time in life.

That voice that's just queried me. The one that seems deeper today than the day before.

The time spent traversing to and from the bathroom to ponder the state of his lengthening hair.

Speaking of lengthening, how about those showers, huh? The quick "Did you really, really take a shower?" showers have been replaced and now force us to yell things like "Water doesn't grow on trees, you know!" to get him to finally shut it down.

The golden downy fuzz I've noticed starting to tickle his upper lip.

His realization that he now kinda sorta (his words, not mine) thinks girls are far more interesting for far more reasons than he did a few short months (perhaps weeks) ago.

My realization that the person plugged into his cell phone contact list as 'T-Rex' who clogs many of the entries in the 'calls made' and 'calls received' categories is in fact a girl and neither a boy whose name starts with the letter T who thinks he's super cool nor a real tyrannosaurus Rex, which WOULD be super cool, but also seemingly impossible thanks to said species incredibly short arm-to-ear reach.

The musky scent of Old Spice deodorant that hits me in the face each time I pass his bedroom. It comes from the sample-size stick he's waited patiently to use since receiving it during his fifth grade puberty class and seems to crash forcibly against the impenetrable wall of generally odd odors boys just seem to put out.

All the time spent in front of the bathroom mirror flexing his muscles and admiring his, and I quote, six-pack like he's The Situation. Of course, this time of worship only happens when he's finally given up pushing his bangs back and forth in an unrelenting quest to achieve the perfect style.

I glance in the rear view mirror and smile as I catch sight of him waiting for my response.

"Oh, honey...I'm pretty sure you'll feel the sting when puberty ups and smacks you one."

i will be forced to tweet this post because, well, tweeting about it will seem really obvious when you read it

2010-07-06T20:39:00.020-05:00

The boys and I were enjoying a pleasant dinner earlier this evening when, in between the din of gulped drinks, daily recaps, and forks clattering against plates as the boys shoveled food down their gullets, I kept hearing a squeaking sound.

"Please stop rubbing your tennis shoes together!" I begged my oldest.

"I'm not!" he declared.

SQUEAK!!

I immediately shot a look to my youngest.

SQUEAK!!

"It's not me!" he insisted.

SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEEEEAAAAKKK!!

"What in the? What is that noise?!" I asked. By now it was louder, more insistent, and coming directly from the other side of the door that leads one from our garage into our house.

SQUEEEEAAAIMCOMINTOGETYOUUUUUBWAHAHAHKKKK!!!

"There's a bird in the garage!!!" the boys cheered in unison.

SQUEEEAAAWEVETRACEDTHECALLANDITSCOMINGFROMINSIDETHEHOUSEKK!!!

"Oh, HELL NO!" I cried.

If there's one thing I hate in life more than anything, it's social injustice. Additionally, I'm not a huge fan of birds (don't EVEN get me started on birds that are unjust socially), so realizing I had a bird sitting right outside my door, chirping not because it was in distress but because it was talking itself through an elaborate plan to turn the doorknob with it's downy wings and come inside in time to watch Wipeout put a gigantic damper on my evening.

You might say it even ruffled my feathers.

(rim shot!)

I implored the boys, who, unlike the bird, were eager to return to the wild after finishing dinner, not to exit the house through the garage. The last thing I needed was a giant crow or perhaps irritated bald eagle soaring through my home, wreaking havoc on the carefully crafted and woefully unintentional country-like decor that is my living room. Remember when I said the thing was squeaking? Well, by now, the bird was mad and feeling wronged by all its former high school classmates for the years of teasing and snickering they subjected him to. It was like the demon chick in Paranormal Activity (who, for accuracy's sake, was NOT an actual chick nor fowl of any kind).

"CHEEEEPP CHEEEPP LITTLE LADY! CHEEPPPITY CHEEP CHEEEP! TIME TO GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAAAAAANN. DID I MENTION CHEEP!"

I knew without even going outside to investigate that this bird was evil. Also, it was clearly rude, what calling me cheap and such. It started thumping its beak against the door. A few minutes later, it was slipping photographs of me in smashed picture frames under it. I knew I had to get it out and get to my garage door opener to seal off the hell hole before I woke up in the middle of the night to find it standing beside my bed, rocking back and forth and preparing to peck my eyeballs out.

"CHEEP CHEEP! I GOT A LITTLE QUESTION FOR YOU, LADY! YOU KNOWS HOW'S SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW BLUE BIRDS FLY? YEAH, WELLS THEN, BIRDS FLY OVER THE RAINBOW, WHY THEN, OH WHYS CAN'T I? CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPP!!!"

The trouble with this scenario, of course, is my husband, the man I'd naturally turn to when terror strikes our home, is out of town (p.s. - stay away, potential attackers!)(at least until Thursday!), and this forced me to panic and then try to come up with a way to solve the problem. If you know me at all, you know I've caved under lesser pressure involving both the carbon monoxide detector going off in the middle of the night and neighbor kids clogging the toilet (though not at the same time, but if that should ever happen, well, then, just feed me to the Bigfoot I'm so very terrified of because I'm as good as a goner anyway). So I did what any sad, unfortunate grown woman would do.

I called my mommy.

She doesn't like it when I call her that, though, so I just refer to her as Mom. Her first suggestion? Go see if the neighbor guy would retrieve it. Nice. And make my neighbors think I'm a wimp? Unacceptable (though very true)! Her second? Trap it under a laundry basket and scoot it out of the garage.

"Let me see if I got this. You want me to toss a plastic basket over a pterodactyl and slide it out of the garage?" I repeated.

"Something like that," she said.

And I'm the crazy one!

Not as crazy as the bird was becoming, though. With its voice growing louder and my will to live ebbing, I figured it was time to go out and investigate my foe (or potentially my fowl). Care to see what I was up against? Brace yourselves!

Picture not to scale. Mostly because I took it with my telephoto lens behind a barrier constructed from a large box and the driver's side door or my trusty Dodge Grand Caravan. I respectfully await your call, National Geographic magazine.

Two words. First word? Bad. Second word? Ass! Look at that mad face! Look at that scowl! Fall victim to those beady black eyes! This? This right here makes that praying mantis freak show from last fall look like a delicious cake walk in comparison!

What's that? That's a baby robin, you say? A tiny, defenseless baby robin? Rockin' little robin go tweet, tweet, tweet, you say?

YOU WEREN'T THERE, MAN!! YOU WEREN'T THERE!

Here's a sampling of how I attempted to remove this beast from my garage after two hours of listening to it squawk:

Panicking.

Pacing.

Telepathically signaling my neighbors to come see what I was doing by walking up and down my driveway like mad.

Taking to Facebook and begging for help.

Facebook had the (loving) nerve to laugh at me before suggesting I pick up the bird and place it back in nature because, get this, the bird was too young to know how to fly! Color me crazy, but if the bird was smart enough to stroll in, then this bird should have been smart enough to stroll back out! I was nauseated thinking about having to touch this animal.

Finally, my Mom called to see if the wild kingdom was back in its rightful place. I laughed nervously (to mask my tears) and told her I was still working up the nerve to touch the bird.

"Oh, for God sake. I'll be right over," she said, falling right into my trap, which, you know, if I was the trap setting type, this would have put things at Me - 2, Birds and/or Moms - 0.

A few minutes later, she pulled up to my house, emerged from her car wearing a pair of gardening gloves, and eased into the garage talking like the Bird Whisperer. "It's OK, little birdy. Mama's gonna take care of you. Come here, little sweetie." I may have had a flashback to my teenage years and wanted to ask if she thought if she'd spoken to me like that when I was young and impressionable, did she think maybe I'd not have gone through years of disordered eating (here's a hint - I didn't exactly eat like a bird), but I didn't want to crush her groove. I did get the nervous laughs, though, because I thought had it been an owl trapped in my garage, I'd have spent a large chunk of my night walking around singing "Who you gonna call?" because, well, if it's not obvious, you won't get the pun.

(OK. Owls. Who. Ohhhh...)

Two seconds later, she had, well, a bird in the hand, and I stayed a safe 20 paces ahead of her as we walked it to a tree in my backyard. That way she couldn't see me cry (kidding!) as she cooed and air kissed the bird, telling it how she could feel its tiny heart beating a mile a minute in its tiny little chest. After two hours, this potentially tragic crisis had been successfully averted, thanks to my Mom, who is now known in some circles as the best substitute husband a girl could ever want, and, lucky you, the end of my story neared!

As soon as she left, I did comfort myself with a fudge-dipped Oreo. What? It'd had been a truly stressful night and I may have been having flashbacks, mostly of that time I got caught in the chained entryway at our zoo's aviary display and not necessarily my teenage years, which could be a metaphor for the other, but I digress.

(btw, thanks again, TwoBusy!)

Speaking of food, remember when I told you the boys and I were enjoying dinner when we first heard this interloper? Want to know what was on the menu?

Scrambled eggs!

Yeah. You honestly think now that bird wasn't trying to send me a message?

what you gonna do with all that junk? all that junk inside your trunk?*

2010-06-30T08:31:00.008-05:00

*and several of life's other mysteries that continue to perplex me.

Remember when I used to blog regularly? Ah, yes. Back in the olden days. I remember the spring of 2009 fondly. Good times. Good, good times.
Have I told you lately that I love you?
Did you know that song was one my husband and I had performed in our wedding, which, coincidentally, also took place in the olden days?
What is it about Frisbee golf that compels players to strip off their shirts and play bare chested? Every night when I ride my bike through our city park, I feel I must pay a cover charge and maybe order a plate of questionable nachos because of all the half-assed nudity being flung around there along with the flying discs. By half-assed, I thankfully do not mean bare assed...though I fear it's only a matter of time.
Is anyone else as scared to light their gas grill as I am?
Remember when I wrote meaty posts ripe with topics for potential discourse and compelling opinions that successfully swayed your mind on topics important to the masses? Then you've read this far and didn't realize until just now that you were on the wrong blog.
What's the deal with those door-to-door Kirby vacuum salespeople, huh?
Why does my neighbor seem to annex more and more of my yard every time he mows? And why does it make me stressed out and annoyed that he's now basically mowing my entire front yard, because hey! Free lawn mowing!
Maybe it's just me, but when any of you see a bulging garbage bag tossed recklessly into a ditch, is the first thing you think, "Hey, I wonder if that thing's filled with severed body parts?" That's just me, isn't it? Because that's the ONLY thing I think when I see one, and if I see TWO garbage bags tossed recklessly into a ditch, I morph into Buffalo Bill asking "Oh, wait. Was she a great big fat person?"
Why did YouTube recommend Celine Dion's video for "Think Twice" to me when I went there to look up a "Silence of the Lambs" clip?
Why can't the neighborhood children remember to ring the doorbell like I've kindly reminded them to every time they come here and press their sweaty, slimy kid faces and hands against my windows? There's enough DNA on my front door to replicate an army of children, and maybe I'd be compelled to do just that, but if science has shown us anything, it's proven that we couldn't pull off flying cars by 2010 AND that messing around with cloning never goes well. Also, these children have already proven they have poor listening skills and I don't need any more of that going on in my life.
You remember a while back when I asked you what you thought of when you see bulging garbage bags tossed recklessly into a ditch? Good times. Well, what's your thoughts on spying an old Styrofoam cooler on the side of a gravel road? Is it to tsk, tsk someone so uncaring about our environment, or is it to enact the final scene of se7en, like I did yesterday while driving home from work? "What's in the box? What's in the #&@ boooxxx???"
You ever think maybe I read too many horrifying books? Well, try this on for size. When I see one shoe on the side of the road (say it with me now - "What's up with that?"), I always hope the person who owned that shoe was running so fast they ran out of that beat up New Balance and saved themselves from their potential attacker. However, if I see a PAIR of shoes strung up on an overhead electrical wire (kids, those are how old timers got power to their homes), I think it's an unfortunate the victim made their attacker so angry they threw their shoes up in the air as if to show their victim they were mad before, but now they're REALLY mad.
Remember how frickin' hot Brad Pitt used to be?
How awesome is How I Met Your Mother? Seriously.
How old is too old for tossing up the rock hands? Before you answer, bear in mind I ask as a 42 year old woman who is, at this very moment, pulling off some seriously awesome pig tails that, on first blush, might make you think I look like the world's oldest preschooler. I ask because I'm guilty of tossing rock hands at various points in any given day, and sometimes when I do, I notice the younger people - those it would seem would be more attuned to tossing the horns - looking at me oddly. Is it because I gave the salute after the delivery of some less than awesome news, or because I'm too old for the rock? The lifestyles newspaper in my state publishes a lot of photos taken at bars and public events and in almost every photo, there's a group of people who, when in front of a camera, resort to the rock hands and I just think "Well, that's really a shame," so now I'm curious and maybe a bit paranoid.
\m/ \m/
Can you believe I didn't write jack for two weeks and then I came back and gave you this?
Any questions?

remind me not to ask twitter if i should jump off a cliff

2010-06-16T16:08:00.020-05:00

Earlier today, I was cleaning my basement, which is something I like to do when it's finally nice outside, I have a day off work, and it's only the eighth day of summer vacation so ha ha ha ha ha ha, oh (gasping for air), ha ha ha ha ha, it's so very unlikely my kids will destroy the place again within minutes using just the power of their minds, a million tiny board game pieces scattered like confetti around the room even though we never seem to play games (like you even have to ask), and an errant bag of microwave popcorn I kept telling myself was OK for them to eat down there, but I knew better. Oh, yes. I knew better...

Long opening paragraph short, it was sarcastically delightful. I'm a wee bit anal, so the chaos had me feeling out of control. Also, my use of the word 'anal' is a lovely, yet sad coincidence to the story I'm eventually going to tell. Check it - I'd chastised my oldest son about the condition of the basement, using words like "crime scene" and "this must be what Hell's like." As I concluded with "It's like you two come down here and morph into apes, flinging pooh around your cage!" I reached into a small trash can (apparently fitted with an invisible trash blocking lid) to toss the lucky detritus that had found its way in when my fingers melted into something damp. I think we all can agree that when you blindly touch something damp and, oh, did I also mention soft, our mind immediately goes to someplace sinister. Mine definitely did. It also instantly switched into survival mode. Fearing the worst, I looked skyward and begged God, "Please, please, please...don't let this be..." as I pulled my digits from the quicksand of questionable origin. Before I could even finish my prayer, I was punched in the face by the odor. Like Captain Kirk unleashing his frustrations, I gritted my teeth and screamed "POOOOOH!!!!!"

I lost my...well...I think you can fill in the blank there with a word some people use to refer to what I'd just stuck my hand in to best describe what I misplaced. Contrary to this lengthy story-telling buildup, I had no words. I live with three males. I wash enough horrifying underwear every week that I've become numb to the experience. But this? I...don't...even...want...to...know. I tweeted about it, but no one responded, so clearly, they didn't want to know, either (so it's weird I'm writing this, huh?).

After I collected myself and dump (ha! also a perfectly coincidental use of an appropriate for the situation word) the offending bag of crap (which also included things I typically refer to AS crap, such as Happy Meal toys, mega balls, and Bakugan cards), I trudged back down to finish the evil I'd unleashed. Nearing the end of my task, I picked up a plastic bag littering the stairs and noticed it had a bit of heft to it. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson, but no. I stuck my hand straight down that thing like a vet reaching into a birthing cow to pull a calf's legs, and what did I emerge with this time?

An unopened bag of peanut M&Ms! JOY AND HAPPINESS AND BLISS!! Much like the pooh that preceded it, I tweeted my discovery, asking my mysterious friends if they, faced with a discovery like mine, and knowing the candy belonged to a child who'd apparently forgotten about said goodness (my crime scene reenactment placed the M&Ms in my house sometime between March 30 and April 4), would shove the candy down their gullet. Of course, I issued the proper warnings. This time, the responses were mighty. I was advised to eat them and never look back. I was also informed that the statute of limitations was clearly up I (I'm looking at you, solid Dove chocolate Easter rabbit STILL in my house!), and that possession is 9/10ths of the law. Thus, I took it upon myself to declare this "Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers Day" and I poured those chocolaty nuggets of peanutty goodness into my belly.

I know you can't imagine how this story could possibly get any better than it already is, but just wait, because it does! Soon after my candy discovery, I unearthed several little plastic bags filled with money that were knotted up and scattered throughout the basement! It wouldn't take a CSI team to uncover the rightful owners of the property I'd discovered, but Twitter once again reminded me of the malfeasance (or, one might say 'the malfeces' if one were me) that had been unleashed upon me today, and encouraged me to pocket all of it and feign ignorance. After some mulling over the Internet's reasons, I decided my kids owed me for today, so for clarification on what I did with those treasures, please turn to Section 23, Article 4 of the "Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers Day" rule book to the top of the page titled "You Win Some, You Lose Some," or to Section 58, Article 9 - "Too Bad, So Sad." Additional clarity can also be found in the "Sorry, Charlie!" clause.

-------------------------

"My, you have quite manly hands, Fadkog. In fact, your hands look like that of a man who works hard, perhaps 'rasslin' gator or tossing spherical orbs of fire on to unsuspecting wrongdoers. Might you use some of those quarters to get yourself a nice womanly manicure? Perhaps a massage? That death grip your hand's in would seem to indicate you're perhaps under a little stress, though I'm sure it's not because the Internet just mocked your man hands."

-------------------------

That's $8 in quarters there, friends! Eight smackers! Not pictured? The penny I also found, making today's haul almost what my hourly wage at the bookstore is, and trust me, I deal with some pooh there, too, and I ain't all just Winnie the Pooh, my friends (rim shot)! Notice how my control issues rendered me incapable of leaving the candy unopened before taking the photo? Notice also how the quarters are scattered in what almost appears to be an arrow pointing to the M&M bag, as if to encourage me to put the camera down and indulge accordingly? That George Washington in front is all "I cannot tell a lie, so, um, yeah, you better eat these M&Ms and bank me and all my buddies here pronto if you think you're going to get away with this sweet caper, Clyde Barrow." While taking that photo, my oldest son ran inside and heaven help me, I threw a pillow atop my (questionably stolen) loot and actually whistled while staring innocently skyward. Had he come equipped with a polygraph machine, I may have ran through the house screaming "You'll never take me alive, copper!"

The moral of this story is twofold - Twitter has has some very loose and highly questionable morals, and also, if you dig deep enough, even the crappiest day can turn out to be a pretty happy one...unless you're a kid jonesing for some chocolate and discovers (a) his candy is missing and (b) he's suddenly too broke to go buy some, in which case, remind that kid of subcategory 45-B (aka - the "Ain't That A Shame" amendment) in the "Finder's Keepers, Losers Weepers Day" bylaws, which states "Sometimes having one's hand coated in pooh not of one's making means never having to say you're sorry."

Just wash said hand before you dig into that delicious candy.

never mind the buttocks

2010-06-09T09:30:00.003-05:00

True story -

On my drive home from work yesterday, my iPod graciously served up the following selections:

Notice a theme? Dang right you do! Not only are those songs about butt, but they kick butt! Also, you notice I have AWESOME taste in music, which is a little fact we've previously ascertained.

(Ha! ASCERTAINED. Get it? Ass-er-tained! Hilarious! Because all those songs are about, well, asses. I really AM this hilarious!)

Awww, yeah, my iPod's got a booty like pow, pow, pow!

Now, bear in mind, each of those songs, if played on their own, represents a butt load of awesome. I'm nothing short of blissful when such a thing happens.

BUT(T) (heh...) GET THIS -

Each of those songs played one right after the other!!

IN! A! ROW!

You might be asking "Hey, fadkog, do you have some kind of patootie play list on your iPod?" and I would say "Wow. I'm surprised you use a word like 'patootie.'" Then I would tell you I don't believe in play lists. I like to take my chances when I plug my player in, so when this tushtastically themed trio came up, it was as if I was experiencing some sort of miraculous event on my short commute home! Jesus, take the wheel, indeed!

Oh, I know what you're probably wanting to ask now. What about the miracle of life, fadkog? Huh? How about sunsets? Are you really going to sit there and compare a trio of bum odes to the beauty of a sunset? Sunsets are miraculous!

Pffft! You've seen one sunset, you've seen them all! However, it was rude of me to compare these songs to a miracle. I apologize. What I really meant to do was to call them magnificent.

Gluteus maximificent, that is...

(oh, and the answer to your other question is no, other than here, I've never used the word 'tushtastically' before, nor will I likely ever use it again)(maybe...)

The only thing that would have been the cherry on top of this perfect moment would have been if Queen's Fat Bottomed Girls had come on to close out my drive...bringing up the rear, you might say.

Oh, yes, that would have clinched it.

Or should I say 'clenched it.'

i once went on a blind date with a guy to see the movie 'cool runnings.' that's as close to jamaica as i want to get after this weekend.

2010-06-02T12:30:00.008-05:00

Oh, dear Internet friends, how I've missed you! Did you enjoy a wonderful long holiday weekend with your family and friends (not necessarily in that order)? I hope so, because that wave of calm you're hopefully still riding may temper the jealousy sure to bubble up inside you when I tell you how I spent my long weekend!

Ready?

I enjoyed a fantastic time in Jamaica! Why, my whole family enjoyed our unexpected little diversion so much that, as the sun set on Monday, signaling what could have been a return to real life, we decided to throw our cares into the ocean and tacked on a couple more fun-filled days in paradise because, knowing my luck, it will be five or six more years before we get to return or, fingers crossed, travel to some other grand destination of one of my children's choosing.

That's right. My oldest son decided we should holiday in the tropics. Ah, to holiday! How I love using that word as a verb! It makes the whole experience seem so carefree and light. Why, you can almost picture me drunk on the first rum drink handed to me, and succumbing to the customary cornrows and beaded headdress, can you not? I can. It's because I can that I feel I should warn you that it's better if you can't.

Also, stop thinking about me in a swimsuit. Seriously. It's for your own good. And just ignore those empty Hershey Bliss wrappers next to my leg. Do I know you?

Anyway...

Too damn bad this particular Jamaican getaway came all frustrations paid by the above mentioned kid, who informed us late last Friday night we'd be going to (or rather 'Googling') Jamaica because he'd failed to realize the scope of a huge project his social studies teacher had assigned two weeks prior. Did I make it seem like this was a fun trip? Then I am some kind of amazing word genius, because, believe me, it wasn't a fun weekend here. Did I also say my son failed to realize the magnitude of the project? OK, I was wrong. He didn't fail to realize that until after I'd informed him the paltry scraps of information he'd gleaned during two week's of class research fell nowhere near meeting the requirements specified in the SEVEN PAGE assignment sheet.

Research a hero native to your chosen country and write a biography of them! Include at least two photos!

Prepare a database of the animals and insects that inhabit your chosen country! What do they eat? What are their prey? Are they endangered? What more can I ask here that will eventually make your mother weep in frustration? Make it colorful!

Do you know how to make a graph? GOOD! Compare the average annual temperature in your chosen country and in Iowa. Now graph them, showing all variables. When you're done, write a paragraph explaining how the climate impacts your country's culture, workforce, and inhabitants.

On and on and on the outline went. Each required category included five to seven bullet points that also had to be researched and incorporated. When I got my hands on it, I got the shakes. Reading over each point and trying to make sense of them was like holding a teleportation device that whooshed me back to college and the time when I ACTUALLY DID SLEEP THROUGH A FINAL EXAM!!

::deep breath::

(sidebar - My kids' last day of school is this Friday. Typically at this point in the school year, I'm moaning about how they aren't doing anything in the waning hours in regard to actual learning, but last weekend, I confess I was bitching at the audacity of assigning such a huge project with only four days of school left - three, really, considering it was to be turned in today - and going on about how there's no way the social studies teacher is going to thoroughly look at every thing on these display boards, so, OK, honey, if you actually want to state that Jamaica's leading export is, in fact, marijuana, you just put that nonsense down!)

(addendum - I love teachers. Honestly. I support them, volunteer for them, and donate to their classrooms when I can...but gah!!)

(finally - While Jamaica does, in fact, enjoy a thriving drug culture, the country is actually the world's leader in the production of pepper, so put that in your bong and smoke it, instead. Or maybe just season your eggs with it. I mean, that's probably the safest use of eggs when you consider that whole 'this is your brain on drugs' business, right?)

I had NO desire to go to Jamaica. My plans for the weekend involved being outside, enjoying the fantastic weather, riding bikes, shooting baskets in the driveway with my kids, maybe grilling a hot dog or two. They didn't involve repeating "Really?! REALLY?! Because I've already gone through school! I don't HAVE to attend your seventh grade social studies class, so no, no, I didn't JUST INSTINCTIVELY know you'd need a tri-fold display board!" to my kid after clocking six of the more than 10 hours we spent on this project on Saturday alone. After spending more than 20+ hours total helping my kid, I've still have very little desire to actually go to Jamaica, a fact that has nothing to do with the State Department's recommendation that tourists steer clear of Kingston due to some island fun involving a drug lord, his minions and the words 'lots of bloodshed.' Bloodshed that's apparently been mentioned on the actual news since early last week, but that I knew nothing about prior to this project, of course, because, well, I didn't get to watch any actual news over the last five days. Thank you, Google!

You might want to ask me why didn't I just let my kid suffer the consequences of not completing his project thoroughly and as assigned. No need. I asked myself the same thing a lot. Especially when I woke up around 3:30 a.m., Sunday, thinking about all the stuff that still needed to be finished in order to to cross them off the outline. I guess my answer is the same one I have when I wonder why I have to tell him every day to put his dirty laundry in his hamper or to brush his teeth, and that's that one day, I hope the light bulb goes off over his head and he finally understands he has to listen, learn, and follow through. I almost thought he was grasping that whole idea until early Monday morning when, as I was stressing out over whether he'd decided to profile the sport of cricket or track ("Include a biography of an athlete from your chosen country who has excelled at the sport, detail the rules, and include photos!"), he looked at me over the top of my laptop and actually said, "Chill out, Mom!"

Though he may actually have told me to "Chill out, mon." By then, I was trying to talk Tool Man out of his idea that I craft some sort of dreadlock-adorned Rastafarian hat for our son to wear today when he presents his board. That's also when I started saying things like "Jamaican me crazy!" and "Don't Jamaica me come over there and smack you!" I had to say things like that so I wouldn't cry anymore, which I may have been doing during breaks from performing the Beach Boys' song Kokomo for the one millionth time, because, oh, yes, I was edging dangerously close to meeting that goal by Monday night.

(And now you'll pick up that torch! "Aruba, Jamaica, oh, I wanna take you..." Brain worm! Look! Uncle Jesse on the steel drums!)

When we finally putting the finishing touches on the project Monday night, I did get to go sit on my deck and enjoy the last of the weekend's sun. While watching it set, I tried unsuccessfully to convince Tool Man to be "That Other Guy" to my Tom Cruise while we acted out a scene from Cocktail and dreamed about opening a cute little Jamaican beachfront bar like our cinematic heroes. Maybe that will be our reward for getting an A on our project.

I mean our kid getting an A on his project. Yeah
.

Hey, mon! Your bored is not boring!