...for a different kind of girl

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

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

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

*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?

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Wednesday, June 16, 2010

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

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.


Wednesday, June 09, 2010

never mind the buttocks

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!!


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.'


Wednesday, June 02, 2010

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.

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!


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?


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

::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!