I know this guy. And by "know" I mean I stumbled upon his blog a while ago and then became proficient at lurking there. Not because I am some creepy internet stalker (ahem), but because this guy is awesome. I may or may not have developed a tiny blog-crush. And I may or may not have laughed so hard at some of his posts that beverages came out of my nose.
I am going to get all link-y here....at least I am gonna try.
Seriously- go check out Johnny Virgil over at 15 Minute Lunch. He is an amazing storyteller. And it gets better. He wrote a book. A freaking BOOK. You can buy it. I bet he would like that.
I am going to be done gushing now...because there is a distinct possibility that this post will earn me the internet equivalent of a restraining order. But I am totally gonna chance it.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Plastic fumes are not festive. Something you should never learn the hard way.
So I just baked some Christmas cookies. Okay- to be more truthful they were just normal chocolate chip cookies, but I put in red and green M&Ms. So that makes them all festive, right? Here's the thing...... When I went to put the first ones on the cookie sheet I had a moment of "oh hell, I am going to hate this because I only have one cookie sheet and I am going to have to wash this in between each batch that I bake so they don't get all burn-y on the bottom uuuuggghhh why did I start this...."
And then I had an idea.
I remembered I have this rubbery mat-thing that is supposed to be super great for baking. Your baked goods will just slide right off and unicorns will sneeze glitter right in your very own kitchen! At least I think that is how the advertisement goes. So I pulled it out of the cabinet and got everything ready. Blopped the cookie dough onto it and put it in the oven where I imagined little imperfect circles of deliciousness would soon be created. But I think something went terribly wrong.
My first clue was the horrible horrible smell of burning plastic and hair. I can't even explain the hair smell. My only guess is that I used a new recipe and "bread flour" is actually made out of "old unwashed hobo hair."
And then the smoke alarm went off. But there was no smoke in the house. Weird, right? I think my smoke detector has a "your cookies are gonna taste like shit" alert. But I can't be sure. So I opened the oven door and the cookies were all half baked melty blobules and I was all "They aren't even DONE." So I had a debate with myself about whether or not I should just take them out because they were creating meth fumes or something, or let them finish baking because they weren't even real cookies yet.
I opted to let them finish baking. (You can't eat hot, runny cookie dough. Even I know that's not right. And throwing them away would be wasteful. Probably.)
In my defense, the only cooking lesson I ever got from my mom was when I was in college and decided one night to make dinner. I wanted to make roast beef (?). So I asked her how I would know when it was done and she said "Does it look like you want to eat it?" (And in her defense, that is actually true for beef.) The rest of my cooking knowledge I got from the Food Network and they let people like Guy Fieri have a show.
So I let them finish. And then I wrestled them off the silicon-baking-mat thing. And then I ate one.
They were pretty good. If you like plastic flavored M&Ms. Personally, I like the coconut ones better.
And then I had an idea.
I remembered I have this rubbery mat-thing that is supposed to be super great for baking. Your baked goods will just slide right off and unicorns will sneeze glitter right in your very own kitchen! At least I think that is how the advertisement goes. So I pulled it out of the cabinet and got everything ready. Blopped the cookie dough onto it and put it in the oven where I imagined little imperfect circles of deliciousness would soon be created. But I think something went terribly wrong.
My first clue was the horrible horrible smell of burning plastic and hair. I can't even explain the hair smell. My only guess is that I used a new recipe and "bread flour" is actually made out of "old unwashed hobo hair."
And then the smoke alarm went off. But there was no smoke in the house. Weird, right? I think my smoke detector has a "your cookies are gonna taste like shit" alert. But I can't be sure. So I opened the oven door and the cookies were all half baked melty blobules and I was all "They aren't even DONE." So I had a debate with myself about whether or not I should just take them out because they were creating meth fumes or something, or let them finish baking because they weren't even real cookies yet.
I opted to let them finish baking. (You can't eat hot, runny cookie dough. Even I know that's not right. And throwing them away would be wasteful. Probably.)
In my defense, the only cooking lesson I ever got from my mom was when I was in college and decided one night to make dinner. I wanted to make roast beef (?). So I asked her how I would know when it was done and she said "Does it look like you want to eat it?" (And in her defense, that is actually true for beef.) The rest of my cooking knowledge I got from the Food Network and they let people like Guy Fieri have a show.
So I let them finish. And then I wrestled them off the silicon-baking-mat thing. And then I ate one.
They were pretty good. If you like plastic flavored M&Ms. Personally, I like the coconut ones better.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Ten reasons the hamster that lives in my house should cease to exist
1. It's a hamster.
2. It runs in a wheel. All night long. It doesn't have a metal wheel, but a plastic one attached to the side of its cage. You would think that might be better, but it's not. Instead of SQUEEEEK SQUEEKA SCREECH SQUEEEEK all night, you hear THUMP THUMP WHUMP THUMP THU-THUMP. All night.
3. It refuses to learn to do any tricks.
4. The guy who sat with me to "learn the company's computer system" but who I was really "training to replace me" at my old job gave me the hamster (from his own personal hamster stash I'm guessing). Brought it to me. At work. On the day I was fired.
My boss called me into his office and was all like "We don't need your services anymore" and I was all like "Okay. I'll just stop by my desk and get my hamster and be on my way."
5. It openly mocks my non-pet-lover status by being a pet.
6. I got it for the kids. It is nocturnal. The kids are not. (Yes, I was aware of this fact when I got it.)
7. It is a constant reminder of my decision-making skills. (see reason number 6)
8. When I take it out of its cage and hold it for the kids to pet/poke it, the thing shoves its rodent face so far forward it looks like its eyeballs are going to pop out of its head. That's just creepy. And I have no idea what the protocol would be if ever tiny eyeballs suddenly fell on my floor.
9. It bites me when I feed it. That's just bad form.
10. It has chewed nearly all the way through one of the bars on its cage. Metal bars. I fear animals that can both eat metal and hide in a shoe. The potential for some sort of horrifying attack/embarrassing death is simply too high for my comfort level.
2. It runs in a wheel. All night long. It doesn't have a metal wheel, but a plastic one attached to the side of its cage. You would think that might be better, but it's not. Instead of SQUEEEEK SQUEEKA SCREECH SQUEEEEK all night, you hear THUMP THUMP WHUMP THUMP THU-THUMP. All night.
3. It refuses to learn to do any tricks.
4. The guy who sat with me to "learn the company's computer system" but who I was really "training to replace me" at my old job gave me the hamster (from his own personal hamster stash I'm guessing). Brought it to me. At work. On the day I was fired.
My boss called me into his office and was all like "We don't need your services anymore" and I was all like "Okay. I'll just stop by my desk and get my hamster and be on my way."
5. It openly mocks my non-pet-lover status by being a pet.
6. I got it for the kids. It is nocturnal. The kids are not. (Yes, I was aware of this fact when I got it.)
7. It is a constant reminder of my decision-making skills. (see reason number 6)
8. When I take it out of its cage and hold it for the kids to pet/poke it, the thing shoves its rodent face so far forward it looks like its eyeballs are going to pop out of its head. That's just creepy. And I have no idea what the protocol would be if ever tiny eyeballs suddenly fell on my floor.
9. It bites me when I feed it. That's just bad form.
10. It has chewed nearly all the way through one of the bars on its cage. Metal bars. I fear animals that can both eat metal and hide in a shoe. The potential for some sort of horrifying attack/embarrassing death is simply too high for my comfort level.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
A question possibly not worth this much thought
This weekend I walked into the bathroom after the youngest got done using it and immediately yelled for him.
"Get back in here and put the toilet seat down!" I was exasperated. I know I have said these instructions before. I know it's not a hard task to accomplish. To be fair, he is only five, but still....
He came wandering into the bathroom, drawn by my tone rather than the actual instructions I had given. He said "What?" and sounded just as exasperated as I had. "Put the seat down," I told him. He looked at me funny, but complied. And in that look I saw the thought that had hit my brain as I was repeating my command.
Why?
My only real answer could have been "Because I said so." Because seriously, why? Why do girls get to have everything all ready for us to (ahem) go? When did girls get so complacent that they cannot look before they sit? One wet derriere and I guarantee it will be lesson learned. And do we do this in other places- just sit all willy-nilly, never looking to see if there is something already parked in our potential butt-space or that will possibly hinder our enjoyment of the whole sitting experience? I know for a fact that at the park, or the movies, or hell, even on my own couch, I definitely check my landing zone.
The truth is that I have a hard time telling my kids to do things for the "I told you so" reason. Unless it's an emergency or dangerous situation. And I can't put a toilet seat in either of those categories. I have a hard time telling them to do things just because that's the way it's always been- some sort of weird tradition. And I wonder if seat-position injuries are really the epidemic we make it out to be.
The only accident I ever remember having happened when I was about five years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night and desperately needed a drink. So I wandered, jammied and sock-footed, into the bathroom and reached for the cup on the counter. And being the dinky person I am, couldn't reach. So I did the logical thing. I used the toilet seat for a step stool. Only the lid was up. And I was bleary-eyed and five. And so I slipped in. In my socks. But I am almost 62.3% sure that the problem there had nothing to do with seat up or seat down, but more to do with the fact that five year old feet are smaller (in general) than the opening of the bowl. And I wasn't injured except for maybe my pride. Just really soggy.
Maybe it just boils down to simple politeness. A be-nice-to-ladies mentality. But honestly....if this is what chivalry has come to, kill it. Kill it, now.
"Get back in here and put the toilet seat down!" I was exasperated. I know I have said these instructions before. I know it's not a hard task to accomplish. To be fair, he is only five, but still....
He came wandering into the bathroom, drawn by my tone rather than the actual instructions I had given. He said "What?" and sounded just as exasperated as I had. "Put the seat down," I told him. He looked at me funny, but complied. And in that look I saw the thought that had hit my brain as I was repeating my command.
Why?
My only real answer could have been "Because I said so." Because seriously, why? Why do girls get to have everything all ready for us to (ahem) go? When did girls get so complacent that they cannot look before they sit? One wet derriere and I guarantee it will be lesson learned. And do we do this in other places- just sit all willy-nilly, never looking to see if there is something already parked in our potential butt-space or that will possibly hinder our enjoyment of the whole sitting experience? I know for a fact that at the park, or the movies, or hell, even on my own couch, I definitely check my landing zone.
The truth is that I have a hard time telling my kids to do things for the "I told you so" reason. Unless it's an emergency or dangerous situation. And I can't put a toilet seat in either of those categories. I have a hard time telling them to do things just because that's the way it's always been- some sort of weird tradition. And I wonder if seat-position injuries are really the epidemic we make it out to be.
The only accident I ever remember having happened when I was about five years old. I had woken up in the middle of the night and desperately needed a drink. So I wandered, jammied and sock-footed, into the bathroom and reached for the cup on the counter. And being the dinky person I am, couldn't reach. So I did the logical thing. I used the toilet seat for a step stool. Only the lid was up. And I was bleary-eyed and five. And so I slipped in. In my socks. But I am almost 62.3% sure that the problem there had nothing to do with seat up or seat down, but more to do with the fact that five year old feet are smaller (in general) than the opening of the bowl. And I wasn't injured except for maybe my pride. Just really soggy.
Maybe it just boils down to simple politeness. A be-nice-to-ladies mentality. But honestly....if this is what chivalry has come to, kill it. Kill it, now.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
My best argument for why Ohio trumps California
Okay. So I am in the grocery store last week buying a stash of personal-use Halloween candy. I have the youngest Monkey with me, which means that I am spending about a bajillion dollars over my fun-sized budget. It also means that I have spent the entire trip to the store saying things like "don't touch that" and "you don't need a toy" and "quit poking me in the butt." On Repeat. To Infinity.
Needless to say, my conversational skills (and my nerves) are slightly frazzled.
So I get in line to check out.
I totally should have done the self checkout thing. There is some unwritten code in the self checkout part of the store. It goes a little like:
1. Customers shall not speak to one another. Not even if they have to walk in front of one another to grab a Coke from one of those mini-fridge things. Only mumbles and half-nods in the displaced person's general direction will be tolerated.
2. Customers will not acknowledge that fellow customers are purchasing actual items. Even if said items are awesomely awkward together or would possibly create the best binge eating session ever.
But I didn't. I went to a regular line and proceeded to occupy myself with arranging my candy bounty on the belt-thing and corralling my child. I was doing pretty good when I noticed a hand reverently caressing my bag of Kit Kats. It wasn't mine. Mine were occupied in a frantic search for that little card thingy that gives you three cents off your purchase. It wasn't the kid's. His were busy poking all of my body parts he could reach. I turned around and saw what could only be described as Mrs. Troll. What hair she had left on her head was stringy and probably hadn't been washed since her pet dinosaur died. She was wearing about three coats and a pair of sweatpants that were a Pollock painting of everything she had eaten in the past month. She had a tooth. I think.
I gave her what I thought was a scathing look, but what she thought was an invitation for conversation.
"I just moved to Ohio from California," she said. As if this explained her fondling behavior. "I haven't seen my brother in 25 years and he lives in Ohio so I decided to move here. I just had a hysterectomy and I needed a job."
This is the part where I am supposed to ignore her. I am supposed to turn to the cashier and pay and get the hell out of there. I made some grunting noise. Did the half-nod thing. A vague smile. And I tried. I swear I tried to just hand over my cash and leave. But there were questions swirling in my head. Like "Why is your estranged brother the person you turn to for job help?" and "Do they let you keep your uterus? You know. In a jar or something."
She is still talking as the cashier bags my stuff and I am vaguely listening and nodding. And then she says something that totally catches my attention.
"They don't sell Kit Kats in California. There are commercials for them, but they just don't sell them in stores."
NUH. UH. I cannot believe the cruelty of California. It is horrendous to taunt people with commercials of chocolaty-wafery goodness and then not provide. It is unconstitutional to allow people to think they can gain all forms of candy and then snatch away their dreams. California, I weep for thee.
VIVA LA OHIO!!!*
There was nothing I could do at this point but attempt to ease this Troll's pain. I opened the Kit Kats and gave her one. I couldn't help it. It was my civic duty. And I'm all about that. But then I got the hell out of there before I had to possibly compliment her jarred organs. Cuz really, what do you say about a uterus?
*I have no idea what language that might be or if it is foreign-language grammatically correct. I don't care. You get the point.
Needless to say, my conversational skills (and my nerves) are slightly frazzled.
So I get in line to check out.
I totally should have done the self checkout thing. There is some unwritten code in the self checkout part of the store. It goes a little like:
1. Customers shall not speak to one another. Not even if they have to walk in front of one another to grab a Coke from one of those mini-fridge things. Only mumbles and half-nods in the displaced person's general direction will be tolerated.
2. Customers will not acknowledge that fellow customers are purchasing actual items. Even if said items are awesomely awkward together or would possibly create the best binge eating session ever.
But I didn't. I went to a regular line and proceeded to occupy myself with arranging my candy bounty on the belt-thing and corralling my child. I was doing pretty good when I noticed a hand reverently caressing my bag of Kit Kats. It wasn't mine. Mine were occupied in a frantic search for that little card thingy that gives you three cents off your purchase. It wasn't the kid's. His were busy poking all of my body parts he could reach. I turned around and saw what could only be described as Mrs. Troll. What hair she had left on her head was stringy and probably hadn't been washed since her pet dinosaur died. She was wearing about three coats and a pair of sweatpants that were a Pollock painting of everything she had eaten in the past month. She had a tooth. I think.
I gave her what I thought was a scathing look, but what she thought was an invitation for conversation.
"I just moved to Ohio from California," she said. As if this explained her fondling behavior. "I haven't seen my brother in 25 years and he lives in Ohio so I decided to move here. I just had a hysterectomy and I needed a job."
This is the part where I am supposed to ignore her. I am supposed to turn to the cashier and pay and get the hell out of there. I made some grunting noise. Did the half-nod thing. A vague smile. And I tried. I swear I tried to just hand over my cash and leave. But there were questions swirling in my head. Like "Why is your estranged brother the person you turn to for job help?" and "Do they let you keep your uterus? You know. In a jar or something."
She is still talking as the cashier bags my stuff and I am vaguely listening and nodding. And then she says something that totally catches my attention.
"They don't sell Kit Kats in California. There are commercials for them, but they just don't sell them in stores."
NUH. UH. I cannot believe the cruelty of California. It is horrendous to taunt people with commercials of chocolaty-wafery goodness and then not provide. It is unconstitutional to allow people to think they can gain all forms of candy and then snatch away their dreams. California, I weep for thee.
VIVA LA OHIO!!!*
There was nothing I could do at this point but attempt to ease this Troll's pain. I opened the Kit Kats and gave her one. I couldn't help it. It was my civic duty. And I'm all about that. But then I got the hell out of there before I had to possibly compliment her jarred organs. Cuz really, what do you say about a uterus?
*I have no idea what language that might be or if it is foreign-language grammatically correct. I don't care. You get the point.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Worst. Job-Seeker. Ever.
"Do you have a high school diploma?! Do you want to be trained not to kill people?!"
Why yes!! That is me! I definitely would like to not kill people and I for sure have a high school diploma. In fact, that is the only diploma I have because that was the last time people weren't all like "Eh, we don't care if you come to class or not..." (Turns out they care enough to do things like "not accept late work" or "fail you." They are all like "You are an adult now." and you are all like "No way! I still think 10 a.m. is early and my mom still buys my shampoo." But whatever.)
So that's kinda how it went when I decided to take my summer program to become a Pharmacy Technician. And after a summer of finding answers to questions like.....
"If a doctor orders a 12.6% solution of dextrose to be administered to a patient by baby spider fangs at a rate of 900 drops per second and all you have on hand in the pharmacy is 700 mL of a 32% solution, how much sterile water and unicorn sweat will you have to add to fill the required prescription?"
(And, by the way, the answer is NOT "Punch the doctor in the throat and then bitch incessantly because your pharmacy does not carry unicorn sweat.")
....I figured I would have a job by now. But I don't. I have applied and applied and applied- for all kinds of positions, including ones called Pharmacy Technician Trainees. But I haven't even gotten those, which really does nothing for my self-esteem. In fact, I may take to wearing a big sign that says "Untrainable" on it. Maybe. But what is really happening is that I am becoming a Human Resource Department Stalker. I get the idea in my head that instead of checking my application status online (again) I will call and maybe get to talk to a live human being and then maybe they will take pity on me or really like my go-getter attitude.
And so I call.
And they tell me to check my application status online.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back and pretend I don't have internet access.
And so they say that if I haven't been called then they aren't ready to talk to anyone regarding the job.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back. Only this time I get a little panicked because I figure they can recognize my voice. So I use a fake accent.
And they say that they haven't gotten through all the applications yet.
And so I say thank you and hang up. Only it sounds more like "theeenk yuh." (Yeah- I don't know what that accent is either.)
And so I call back. Only this time I panic because what if they have caller ID and know its me calling back and are just going to answer the phone to see what kind of other crappy voice I am going to do this time and then totally laugh at me over their lunch break......
I think my next step is to actually go to these establishments and hang out with my face pressed against their windows and shout out drug names like some sort of Pharmaceutical Tourette's. I think it will totally work.
Why yes!! That is me! I definitely would like to not kill people and I for sure have a high school diploma. In fact, that is the only diploma I have because that was the last time people weren't all like "Eh, we don't care if you come to class or not..." (Turns out they care enough to do things like "not accept late work" or "fail you." They are all like "You are an adult now." and you are all like "No way! I still think 10 a.m. is early and my mom still buys my shampoo." But whatever.)
So that's kinda how it went when I decided to take my summer program to become a Pharmacy Technician. And after a summer of finding answers to questions like.....
"If a doctor orders a 12.6% solution of dextrose to be administered to a patient by baby spider fangs at a rate of 900 drops per second and all you have on hand in the pharmacy is 700 mL of a 32% solution, how much sterile water and unicorn sweat will you have to add to fill the required prescription?"
(And, by the way, the answer is NOT "Punch the doctor in the throat and then bitch incessantly because your pharmacy does not carry unicorn sweat.")
....I figured I would have a job by now. But I don't. I have applied and applied and applied- for all kinds of positions, including ones called Pharmacy Technician Trainees. But I haven't even gotten those, which really does nothing for my self-esteem. In fact, I may take to wearing a big sign that says "Untrainable" on it. Maybe. But what is really happening is that I am becoming a Human Resource Department Stalker. I get the idea in my head that instead of checking my application status online (again) I will call and maybe get to talk to a live human being and then maybe they will take pity on me or really like my go-getter attitude.
And so I call.
And they tell me to check my application status online.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back and pretend I don't have internet access.
And so they say that if I haven't been called then they aren't ready to talk to anyone regarding the job.
And so I say thank you and hang up.
And then I call back. Only this time I get a little panicked because I figure they can recognize my voice. So I use a fake accent.
And they say that they haven't gotten through all the applications yet.
And so I say thank you and hang up. Only it sounds more like "theeenk yuh." (Yeah- I don't know what that accent is either.)
And so I call back. Only this time I panic because what if they have caller ID and know its me calling back and are just going to answer the phone to see what kind of other crappy voice I am going to do this time and then totally laugh at me over their lunch break......
I think my next step is to actually go to these establishments and hang out with my face pressed against their windows and shout out drug names like some sort of Pharmaceutical Tourette's. I think it will totally work.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
My Inner Dork is showing
Random thought today (As I was listening to a bunch of music I have been introduced to over the past year...so maybe not so random.):
It takes a lot of experimenting and transitioning before you really find your niche.
I know this well because I used to listen to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQcsNDqcyuw
P.S. Secretly, this still brings me delerious happiness to listen to.
P.S.S. This was my gateway music into R.E.M., The Cure, INXS, The Lemonheads......(???????)
P.S.S.S. My first concert was The Monkees (reunion) when I was in the sixth grade. Beat that.
It takes a lot of experimenting and transitioning before you really find your niche.
I know this well because I used to listen to this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQcsNDqcyuw
P.S. Secretly, this still brings me delerious happiness to listen to.
P.S.S. This was my gateway music into R.E.M., The Cure, INXS, The Lemonheads......(???????)
P.S.S.S. My first concert was The Monkees (reunion) when I was in the sixth grade. Beat that.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
I know its superficial....and there is nothing wrong with that
This morning I stood outside in my pajamas with my ever-present and absolutely necessary cup of coffee watching the bus stop until my eight-year-old was safely on his way to school. I was watching from a distance of course, having long ago been banished from actually going within a hundred feet of the bus stop. A bus stop restraining order, if you will. Not that I can blame the boy. I am pretty sure the only thing that will kill your third grade cool-quotient faster than bed-head-mom-in-holey-pajama-pants is eating your boogers. While I stood out in the early morning cold I saw something that made me smile and made me think a little.
There were two neighborhood girls having a chat. They were older than the bus stop kids- probably about seventh grade. One was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and the other girl was dressed in a bright blue well-fitting t-shirt and shorty pink and blue plaid shorts (no shoes yet....). Keep in mind it was about 50 degrees outside this morning. My first thought was "Oh that girl is crazy! Its too cold for shorts!" (Yup. Mom-me totally got the best of me.) And then I saw the explanation for the craziness. Tennis shoe girl pulled out two pairs of earrings and the girls started holding them up with the pink and blue outfit and giggling and talking in that mile-a-minute way that only girls can do. Speech peppered with "Ohmygod's" and quick smiles and tripping breathlessness. My mom-shock at the inappropriateness of the outfit for the weather gave way to womanly familiarity with such girly preening.
I knew that woven into their laughter was the name of the boy that all of this preparation was for. I knew that they were devising scenarios to place shorts-girl in the boy's line of vision. I knew that there was nervousness and exhilarated excitement in abundance in that female twosome.
I remembered being the same age and doing the same thing. I remembered some of my very favorite outfits. There was the blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons that I wore with a blue butterfly clip (for just one side of my hair) and about five strands of beads that were some sort of fad at the time- you wore them all twisted up and with various clips to hold them together. I remembered my very favorite jeans in the seventh grade- blue with a pink flower pattern on them and zippers and bows at the ankles. I remembered what I wore to my first boy/girl party and my very favorite Homecoming dress (black velvet with silver straps). I saw the simple truth in the tableau in front of me. Most women won't say it. We say we dress for ourselves or for other women. And yes, there is an element of that, but to leave it at just that is like saying that a peacock has its feathers because they make him feel special.
Gentlemen, we dress for you.
We dress for you, not because we expect you to remember our specific purple shirt or that our earrings complimented the tones of our shoes, but rather because we want to be a vision in your minds that lasts beyond the latest Black Keys song or the taco you had for lunch. We wear our feathers (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally) and our glitter and our perfume because we want to capture your attention and imagination. We want to become a part of your memory, whether you end up knowing us in a real way or just as a misty aura of a woman.
And that, to my mind, is beautifully feminine.
There were two neighborhood girls having a chat. They were older than the bus stop kids- probably about seventh grade. One was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt and tennis shoes and the other girl was dressed in a bright blue well-fitting t-shirt and shorty pink and blue plaid shorts (no shoes yet....). Keep in mind it was about 50 degrees outside this morning. My first thought was "Oh that girl is crazy! Its too cold for shorts!" (Yup. Mom-me totally got the best of me.) And then I saw the explanation for the craziness. Tennis shoe girl pulled out two pairs of earrings and the girls started holding them up with the pink and blue outfit and giggling and talking in that mile-a-minute way that only girls can do. Speech peppered with "Ohmygod's" and quick smiles and tripping breathlessness. My mom-shock at the inappropriateness of the outfit for the weather gave way to womanly familiarity with such girly preening.
I knew that woven into their laughter was the name of the boy that all of this preparation was for. I knew that they were devising scenarios to place shorts-girl in the boy's line of vision. I knew that there was nervousness and exhilarated excitement in abundance in that female twosome.
I remembered being the same age and doing the same thing. I remembered some of my very favorite outfits. There was the blue plaid shirt with snaps instead of buttons that I wore with a blue butterfly clip (for just one side of my hair) and about five strands of beads that were some sort of fad at the time- you wore them all twisted up and with various clips to hold them together. I remembered my very favorite jeans in the seventh grade- blue with a pink flower pattern on them and zippers and bows at the ankles. I remembered what I wore to my first boy/girl party and my very favorite Homecoming dress (black velvet with silver straps). I saw the simple truth in the tableau in front of me. Most women won't say it. We say we dress for ourselves or for other women. And yes, there is an element of that, but to leave it at just that is like saying that a peacock has its feathers because they make him feel special.
Gentlemen, we dress for you.
We dress for you, not because we expect you to remember our specific purple shirt or that our earrings complimented the tones of our shoes, but rather because we want to be a vision in your minds that lasts beyond the latest Black Keys song or the taco you had for lunch. We wear our feathers (sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally) and our glitter and our perfume because we want to capture your attention and imagination. We want to become a part of your memory, whether you end up knowing us in a real way or just as a misty aura of a woman.
And that, to my mind, is beautifully feminine.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Soapbox city (days after everyone else got here)
Okay. So I know I am way behind the bandwagon here, but I can't help it. Bandwagons have never been my favorite mode of transportation and news bores me. Maybe if they had a mime or something instead of that annoying scroll bar thing on news stations I could totally get on board. *
I just read an article on the Gulf oil spill. Yup. Just now.
The spill started on April 20th and we just now got a cap on it? And the "long term plan" includes the words "jam it with dirt and cement."
I have this image in my head of the control room at BP (yes, in my head its this big room that is a cross between the command center of the Starship Enterprise and the control area of Houston in the movie Apollo 13) on the day of the explosion. It goes a little something like this:
*BOOM*
(Everyone stares at the giant IMAX-like screen that shows some live feed of the oil well that, up to that second, was doing absolutely nothing.)
"Holy shit! Did you see that?!"
"Oh my god! This is awful! What are we gonna do?!
"Run!"
"Pretend like we didn't see it!"
"Cover it with something!"
"Jam it with dirt and cement!"
That suggestion has to have been one of the first things said in the initial pandemonium. It is too stupid/simple/brilliant not to have been.
Some senator got BP to release live feed video of the spill, which has to be the environmental equivalent of watching paint dry. And nope, I can't be bothered to figure out exactly which one did because frankly, I don't care. You know the dude who did it is the same kind of dude who calls attention to his own farts just to have something to brag about. And I looked for the video of it online while I was writing this post. I found one that had a big headline "NOW WITH MUSIC". What???!!! It has some vaguely techno-ish Arabian-ish music and I swear I almost wet my pants I was laughing so hard. Here it is for your listening pleasure:
Right here.
See. You can't stop laughing either can you?
It makes me kinda sad that with all of the technology and "brilliant minds" that are supposed to be working on this it has taken this long to a) cap it, and b) decide that the best course of action is to plug it up. (I know, I know- its at the bottom of the ocean. Blah, blah, blah.)
I am kinda happy that there is a video feed of this though. I will admit that when they get done with all the testing and finally get around to "jamming it with dirt and cement" I plan on grabbing a snack and watching. Cuz that is gonna be one sweet-ass cement truck.
*disclaimer: If you think that this blog is supposed to be informative or even factually accurate, you may want to have your head examined.
I just read an article on the Gulf oil spill. Yup. Just now.
The spill started on April 20th and we just now got a cap on it? And the "long term plan" includes the words "jam it with dirt and cement."
I have this image in my head of the control room at BP (yes, in my head its this big room that is a cross between the command center of the Starship Enterprise and the control area of Houston in the movie Apollo 13) on the day of the explosion. It goes a little something like this:
*BOOM*
(Everyone stares at the giant IMAX-like screen that shows some live feed of the oil well that, up to that second, was doing absolutely nothing.)
"Holy shit! Did you see that?!"
"Oh my god! This is awful! What are we gonna do?!
"Run!"
"Pretend like we didn't see it!"
"Cover it with something!"
"Jam it with dirt and cement!"
That suggestion has to have been one of the first things said in the initial pandemonium. It is too stupid/simple/brilliant not to have been.
Some senator got BP to release live feed video of the spill, which has to be the environmental equivalent of watching paint dry. And nope, I can't be bothered to figure out exactly which one did because frankly, I don't care. You know the dude who did it is the same kind of dude who calls attention to his own farts just to have something to brag about. And I looked for the video of it online while I was writing this post. I found one that had a big headline "NOW WITH MUSIC". What???!!! It has some vaguely techno-ish Arabian-ish music and I swear I almost wet my pants I was laughing so hard. Here it is for your listening pleasure:
Right here.
See. You can't stop laughing either can you?
It makes me kinda sad that with all of the technology and "brilliant minds" that are supposed to be working on this it has taken this long to a) cap it, and b) decide that the best course of action is to plug it up. (I know, I know- its at the bottom of the ocean. Blah, blah, blah.)
I am kinda happy that there is a video feed of this though. I will admit that when they get done with all the testing and finally get around to "jamming it with dirt and cement" I plan on grabbing a snack and watching. Cuz that is gonna be one sweet-ass cement truck.
*disclaimer: If you think that this blog is supposed to be informative or even factually accurate, you may want to have your head examined.
Friday, July 16, 2010
On call
By no means am I grossed out about body stuff. I have three kids for god's sake and a nurse for a mother. If anyone got over their icky feelings about talking about poop or pee or exactly where a boo-boo was, its me. I can explain the intricate workings of a tampon or catch an eruption of puke in my shirt or bare hands. I am not embarrassed by the words "penis" or "vagina" (though the word "stool" gives me the willies for some reason). I knew what would happen to my body during puberty long before any of my friends had ever thought the word "period." Okay- so maybe that was part my nurse-mom being responsible and maybe it was partly that I had my first period at age 11 and started shaving my legs in the fifth grade (I am a hairy beast, what can I say? Unfortunately, I fear my daughter will be following in my footsteps...) The point of all of this? The point is that even with all of this comfort level I was sadly unprepared for the phone call I received a few days ago.
My best friend, Chloe, just had a baby. Well- it was like three months ago but that is "just" enough. He is a wonderous little thing, all floppy limbs and beautiful in that wise-to-the-world-soul-on-fire kind of way. She already has two kids (the youngest of that set being four years old) and we laugh a lot about how much she feels like she has forgotten in the last four years. She will worry about how much he is eating, or not eating, or peeing, or crying... or whatever. Maybe that's just the way it is with newborns, no matter how experienced of a mama you are. I don't really remember- within three and a half years I had three kids. Those beginning days and months are safely locked in the part of my brain that protects me from trauma, I think.
So she worries. About everything. Even with her own body/psyche.
And she calls me.
Chloe: "Hey. The kids were exposed to Hand Foot and Mouth Disease at daycare. Is there a rash or something that you get on your butt?"
Me: (quickly looking up said disease online so that I may speak "intelligently" about it) "Yes! There is! Which child are we talking about here?"
Chloe: "Well, ummm..... its me....and I need someone to look at this...."
Me: "Its like midnight."
Yes- the thing that jumped into my head first was not that I was being asked to go look at my friend's ass, but rather that the ass-looking was to take place at such a late hour.
Chloe: "I know, but I need someone to see this! Its not really a rash, but more like a zit. But not a zit. But like a bump. But kinda not. I need you to come check."
Here's the real kicker.... I started considering it. If my friend was really in need, how could I not? And yet, on the other hand I was not really looking forward to the viewing.
Me: "Can't Martin check it out?" (My thought here being, as her boyfriend and father of the new little wonder in her life, he may be more, ahem, familiar with the area.)
Chloe: (in desperation) "He won't! And its like IN there!"
After a few more minutes of convesation with words like "crack" and "taint" and instructions like "pop it" and "call the doctor" and questions like "can I have your cute black shoes with the super high heels when you die of a butt boil?" we came to the conclusion that it was a hemorrhoid. That's right. I diagnosed a hemorrhoid. Over the phone.
Ahhh....the little extras we sometimes get with the birth of a child.
Ahhh....the things we will do for our friends.
I am available for consultation by phone to anyone else with odd questions. But only between midnight and three a.m.
And I still super want those shoes.
My best friend, Chloe, just had a baby. Well- it was like three months ago but that is "just" enough. He is a wonderous little thing, all floppy limbs and beautiful in that wise-to-the-world-soul-on-fire kind of way. She already has two kids (the youngest of that set being four years old) and we laugh a lot about how much she feels like she has forgotten in the last four years. She will worry about how much he is eating, or not eating, or peeing, or crying... or whatever. Maybe that's just the way it is with newborns, no matter how experienced of a mama you are. I don't really remember- within three and a half years I had three kids. Those beginning days and months are safely locked in the part of my brain that protects me from trauma, I think.
So she worries. About everything. Even with her own body/psyche.
And she calls me.
Chloe: "Hey. The kids were exposed to Hand Foot and Mouth Disease at daycare. Is there a rash or something that you get on your butt?"
Me: (quickly looking up said disease online so that I may speak "intelligently" about it) "Yes! There is! Which child are we talking about here?"
Chloe: "Well, ummm..... its me....and I need someone to look at this...."
Me: "Its like midnight."
Yes- the thing that jumped into my head first was not that I was being asked to go look at my friend's ass, but rather that the ass-looking was to take place at such a late hour.
Chloe: "I know, but I need someone to see this! Its not really a rash, but more like a zit. But not a zit. But like a bump. But kinda not. I need you to come check."
Here's the real kicker.... I started considering it. If my friend was really in need, how could I not? And yet, on the other hand I was not really looking forward to the viewing.
Me: "Can't Martin check it out?" (My thought here being, as her boyfriend and father of the new little wonder in her life, he may be more, ahem, familiar with the area.)
Chloe: (in desperation) "He won't! And its like IN there!"
After a few more minutes of convesation with words like "crack" and "taint" and instructions like "pop it" and "call the doctor" and questions like "can I have your cute black shoes with the super high heels when you die of a butt boil?" we came to the conclusion that it was a hemorrhoid. That's right. I diagnosed a hemorrhoid. Over the phone.
Ahhh....the little extras we sometimes get with the birth of a child.
Ahhh....the things we will do for our friends.
I am available for consultation by phone to anyone else with odd questions. But only between midnight and three a.m.
And I still super want those shoes.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
My newish oldish gig
First let me say that I am possibly the flakiest blogger in the world. Soooo long between posts.... are you ready for a little rambling?
(In my head I just did a little "Let's get ready to Raaammble!!!" like that wrestling or boxing or whatever announcer. I am as lame as I am flaky.)
Okay- so I started this class last week to become a Pharmacy Technician. I have pretty much zero marketable skills when it comes to the job world, unless you count upselling from regular fries to cheese fries or convincing someone that Ketel One vodka is really better than the well shit (it is, by the way). And yes, I know that I have a job (thank you, Dad) but there are a few things up in the air with that. This just seemed like a good idea to do and I need job(s) to pay the bills until I can write the Great American Novel. At this stage of my life I am not allowed to say to people "I am a Writer and and Artist. I cannot be bothered with mundane things like dinner."
Unless, of course, I want to get all artsy-fartsy with some spaghetti and meatballs. Maybe throw a noodle scene in my story. Or make a sculpture. "On Top of Spaghetti: A commentary on the materialistic nature of Man".
Anyway, I started this class. And it is HARD. I should not be surprised, and I am not really. I mean its pharmacology (like my fancy new vocabulary?) shit and that stuff is not easy. Its only a 50 hour class and the sheer volume of information is slightly overwhelming. But when it is all over I get to add some letters to the end of my name. Sharon (legal last name here), CPhT. Impressive, right? The super funny thing is that I did this job when I was 16- waaay before there was this pesky licensing requirement. I am pretty sure that me at 16 doing this job was pure comedy gold.
I worked for this little neighborhood pharmacist, Mr. D., who still called his helpers his "girls" and kept Coke syrup in his stockroom. Once I had a little tummy ache and he gave me some. Yum. I worked after school and on Saturday mornings counting out pills to fill prescription requirements and stocking shelves with things like sunscreen and support stockings. But the most harrowing part of the job was doing deliveries....
Mr. D had a ninety-something-year-old father who was in a nursing home. Mr. D. filled all of his prescriptions every month and then had one of his "girls" drive them to the nursing home. In his delivery car. This huge whale-y boat of a vehicle with no power steering or fancy ABS system. It was white with a maroon velour interior and a shiny tan steering wheel. It was both terrifying and embarrassing to drive, especially for the newly-minted driver that I was. It was long, long, long and I hit curbs every time I tried to make a turn. I quickly learned the purpose of pumping brakes. The front seat didn't move forward and I am kind of a shorty- so being "on the edge of my seat" was a literal thing for me in that car. Did I mention that I worked there over the winter? Scary, I know. I prayed every time I went into work that there were no deliveries that day. I begged to be allowed to drive my own car, to no avail.
I still cringe when I think of that delivery system. Cringe with me, will you?
I learned a lot at that job. I learned how to pay attention to details, how to be respectful and courteous in the face of cranky customers, and how to properly ask for time off from your job (it is NOT "Hey, I won't be here tomorrow." I pass that little life lesson on to all of you. You are welcome.).
But most importantly, I think, I learned how to keep a car from fishtailing on an icy road.
(In my head I just did a little "Let's get ready to Raaammble!!!" like that wrestling or boxing or whatever announcer. I am as lame as I am flaky.)
Okay- so I started this class last week to become a Pharmacy Technician. I have pretty much zero marketable skills when it comes to the job world, unless you count upselling from regular fries to cheese fries or convincing someone that Ketel One vodka is really better than the well shit (it is, by the way). And yes, I know that I have a job (thank you, Dad) but there are a few things up in the air with that. This just seemed like a good idea to do and I need job(s) to pay the bills until I can write the Great American Novel. At this stage of my life I am not allowed to say to people "I am a Writer and and Artist. I cannot be bothered with mundane things like dinner."
Unless, of course, I want to get all artsy-fartsy with some spaghetti and meatballs. Maybe throw a noodle scene in my story. Or make a sculpture. "On Top of Spaghetti: A commentary on the materialistic nature of Man".
Anyway, I started this class. And it is HARD. I should not be surprised, and I am not really. I mean its pharmacology (like my fancy new vocabulary?) shit and that stuff is not easy. Its only a 50 hour class and the sheer volume of information is slightly overwhelming. But when it is all over I get to add some letters to the end of my name. Sharon (legal last name here), CPhT. Impressive, right? The super funny thing is that I did this job when I was 16- waaay before there was this pesky licensing requirement. I am pretty sure that me at 16 doing this job was pure comedy gold.
I worked for this little neighborhood pharmacist, Mr. D., who still called his helpers his "girls" and kept Coke syrup in his stockroom. Once I had a little tummy ache and he gave me some. Yum. I worked after school and on Saturday mornings counting out pills to fill prescription requirements and stocking shelves with things like sunscreen and support stockings. But the most harrowing part of the job was doing deliveries....
Mr. D had a ninety-something-year-old father who was in a nursing home. Mr. D. filled all of his prescriptions every month and then had one of his "girls" drive them to the nursing home. In his delivery car. This huge whale-y boat of a vehicle with no power steering or fancy ABS system. It was white with a maroon velour interior and a shiny tan steering wheel. It was both terrifying and embarrassing to drive, especially for the newly-minted driver that I was. It was long, long, long and I hit curbs every time I tried to make a turn. I quickly learned the purpose of pumping brakes. The front seat didn't move forward and I am kind of a shorty- so being "on the edge of my seat" was a literal thing for me in that car. Did I mention that I worked there over the winter? Scary, I know. I prayed every time I went into work that there were no deliveries that day. I begged to be allowed to drive my own car, to no avail.
I still cringe when I think of that delivery system. Cringe with me, will you?
I learned a lot at that job. I learned how to pay attention to details, how to be respectful and courteous in the face of cranky customers, and how to properly ask for time off from your job (it is NOT "Hey, I won't be here tomorrow." I pass that little life lesson on to all of you. You are welcome.).
But most importantly, I think, I learned how to keep a car from fishtailing on an icy road.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
This one goes out to the ones I've loved.....
If you love something let it go.
We have all heard these words of wisdom before, usually when we are in the throes of heartbreak- at the exact moment when those words mean absolutely nothing to us.
The truth is that people walk in and out of our lives all the time. We let loves walk out, we redefine family relationships and drift away from friends. We even actively work to make this happen with our children. We teach them the skills they will need to survive on their own. Experts tell us that when our children test their boundaries we are actually doing our jobs as parents correctly. We go into the job knowing that someday they will strike out on their own and leave us behind.
There are hurts in each of these leavings. Our children push us away and it digs into our hearts that our babies don't need us as desperately anymore. We realize we haven't spoken to our best friend in weeks/months/years and it tears at us that the inside jokes may not be funny anymore and instead of "What are you doing today," we are left with "Once we did things together." A love leaves us and we crumble a little with the knowledge that we gave a stranger a piece of our heart only to have it handed back for not fitting quite right against theirs.
But here is the thing... do we ever really let go of the people who were important to us? The people we love poke us and sting us and stab us and stretch us and grow us. Our ties to them stretch like rubber bands and our relationships are redefined and readjusted. They become a part of our story. Do we not hold them in our hearts? We can remember the way they looked when they laughed. We can still hear their voices in our minds in quiet moments. A sight or a scent in a crowded room can take us back to a specific moment in time entangled with the memory of that person. We don't need their permission to love them, we just do. Maybe the only thing we need to know is not that they loved us, but that we loved them.
I was issued a challenge this week regarding the idea of letting someone go. Not so much with the first part of the saying- letting go is something we do when we have no other choice. When those that we love have already gone. The challenge comes with the second part of the saying: "If it comes back to you, its yours forever." I am not really sure that anything can ever be yours forever. Relationships are fluid, not solid and guaranteed. Maybe we can love someone enough to let them go....
But can we love someone enough to let them come back?
We have all heard these words of wisdom before, usually when we are in the throes of heartbreak- at the exact moment when those words mean absolutely nothing to us.
The truth is that people walk in and out of our lives all the time. We let loves walk out, we redefine family relationships and drift away from friends. We even actively work to make this happen with our children. We teach them the skills they will need to survive on their own. Experts tell us that when our children test their boundaries we are actually doing our jobs as parents correctly. We go into the job knowing that someday they will strike out on their own and leave us behind.
There are hurts in each of these leavings. Our children push us away and it digs into our hearts that our babies don't need us as desperately anymore. We realize we haven't spoken to our best friend in weeks/months/years and it tears at us that the inside jokes may not be funny anymore and instead of "What are you doing today," we are left with "Once we did things together." A love leaves us and we crumble a little with the knowledge that we gave a stranger a piece of our heart only to have it handed back for not fitting quite right against theirs.
But here is the thing... do we ever really let go of the people who were important to us? The people we love poke us and sting us and stab us and stretch us and grow us. Our ties to them stretch like rubber bands and our relationships are redefined and readjusted. They become a part of our story. Do we not hold them in our hearts? We can remember the way they looked when they laughed. We can still hear their voices in our minds in quiet moments. A sight or a scent in a crowded room can take us back to a specific moment in time entangled with the memory of that person. We don't need their permission to love them, we just do. Maybe the only thing we need to know is not that they loved us, but that we loved them.
I was issued a challenge this week regarding the idea of letting someone go. Not so much with the first part of the saying- letting go is something we do when we have no other choice. When those that we love have already gone. The challenge comes with the second part of the saying: "If it comes back to you, its yours forever." I am not really sure that anything can ever be yours forever. Relationships are fluid, not solid and guaranteed. Maybe we can love someone enough to let them go....
But can we love someone enough to let them come back?
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Have your credit card ready...
I am a sucker. I am an advertiser's wet dream. If it can be advertised, I can be convinced that I want to buy it or beg for it for a gift. I am especially susceptible to late night infomercials.
Debbie Meyer Green Bags? Of course! Who doesn't want to keep their produce brand-spankin'-fresh?! I am fully convinced that these special bags will make my strawberries last until the end of time, unless I remember I have them in the fridge and eat them all in one sitting.
The Bumpit? Yes! I want it! I even have it! Sadly, it does not work. I am truly disappointed. Nevermind the fact that I have never nor will I ever actually leave the house with any sort of hill or mountain sculpted into my hair.... the models on the commercial seemed so happy. So put together- which is totally my fantasy. I am one of those women who always looks like she could have used an extra five minutes to get ready. Disheveled is my norm. Anything to help it not be like that would be welcome. Next I am gonna try the InStyler. If Allure magazine says its good then it has to be, right?
I can totally see the use for the Kangaroo carrier to make switching purses that much easier. At three in the morning the Neckline Slimmer makes sense and I am a huge fan of Proactive though I do not possess the pimply face that the product requires. I can kick the asses of all the PX90 people and I dream of having closets thoroughly organized with those special hangers and Space Bags and the Flip Fold.
Oh these advertisers have me by a choke-hold. My late night brain wants it all. (My late night brain also thinks that there is a chance in hell that someday I will hit the winning lottery numbers...)
But the other night I found my Holy Grail of late night infomercial products. The EZ Egg Cracker. Its not so much that I have the obviously huge problem of cracking and separating eggs that this product promises to alleviate. Its the "free gift" that comes with it. An egg scrambler that you use to scramble the eggs IN THE SHELL. Just poke this little probe into the bottom of the egg and press a button and egg innards are whipped and mixed. I MUST have this. And not so much because I spend my mornings bitching and moaning that the scrambling process takes just too much time and muscle....no... what I want to do is steal into your house (yes, yours) and prescramble all of your eggs. I want the media to pick up this story- a rash of home invasions where the only damage done was creating morning convenience.
I wanna be called The Scrambler.
Or maybe the Egg-sistentialist.
Sigh. I need help. And a Jupiter Jack.
Debbie Meyer Green Bags? Of course! Who doesn't want to keep their produce brand-spankin'-fresh?! I am fully convinced that these special bags will make my strawberries last until the end of time, unless I remember I have them in the fridge and eat them all in one sitting.
The Bumpit? Yes! I want it! I even have it! Sadly, it does not work. I am truly disappointed. Nevermind the fact that I have never nor will I ever actually leave the house with any sort of hill or mountain sculpted into my hair.... the models on the commercial seemed so happy. So put together- which is totally my fantasy. I am one of those women who always looks like she could have used an extra five minutes to get ready. Disheveled is my norm. Anything to help it not be like that would be welcome. Next I am gonna try the InStyler. If Allure magazine says its good then it has to be, right?
I can totally see the use for the Kangaroo carrier to make switching purses that much easier. At three in the morning the Neckline Slimmer makes sense and I am a huge fan of Proactive though I do not possess the pimply face that the product requires. I can kick the asses of all the PX90 people and I dream of having closets thoroughly organized with those special hangers and Space Bags and the Flip Fold.
Oh these advertisers have me by a choke-hold. My late night brain wants it all. (My late night brain also thinks that there is a chance in hell that someday I will hit the winning lottery numbers...)
But the other night I found my Holy Grail of late night infomercial products. The EZ Egg Cracker. Its not so much that I have the obviously huge problem of cracking and separating eggs that this product promises to alleviate. Its the "free gift" that comes with it. An egg scrambler that you use to scramble the eggs IN THE SHELL. Just poke this little probe into the bottom of the egg and press a button and egg innards are whipped and mixed. I MUST have this. And not so much because I spend my mornings bitching and moaning that the scrambling process takes just too much time and muscle....no... what I want to do is steal into your house (yes, yours) and prescramble all of your eggs. I want the media to pick up this story- a rash of home invasions where the only damage done was creating morning convenience.
I wanna be called The Scrambler.
Or maybe the Egg-sistentialist.
Sigh. I need help. And a Jupiter Jack.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Sometimes it takes someone else's eyes to see clearly
Guess what?
I am not pretty.
Ummm... yeah. Sweet perm, right? My sincerest apologies to whoever took this picture. I will give myself a break though. This picture is from right around the time I also thought that it would be cool to jump in a way-back machine and be a singer in the 60's. My secret fantasy was that I would go to the recording studio one day and meet the Monkees and Davey Jones would fall madly in love with me and I would live out my days playing tambourine duets and wearing go-go boots and hosting Tupperware parties in the Jones mansion.
I am a Nerd, yes. But model-pretty? No.
When I pull my hair back into a wet ponytail I look like my brother. (Not in a family-resemblance kind of way, but in an "is that a dude with boobs?" kind of way.)
My eyes are kinda squinty. (Especially when I smile. Is there such a thing as eye fat?)
I am hairy. (Like I started shaving my legs in the fifth grade and once in the sixth grade I shaved my arms, using the excuse that I had just gotten a cast off my wrist and the "doctor told me to do it." I discovered that the only thing less attractive than a forest of arm hair is arm stubble.)
I am freckly and wrinkly and have graying hair and have been occasionally mistaken for pregnant when I am not.
I have a funny crooked front tooth.
My face is kinda red all the time.
I am not pretty. And I have obsessed over it. Tried everything to change that. Tried not caring about it. (Ha!) And it hasn't been until recently that I could really look at myself in any other way besides being tied to those flaws.
It looks like I laugh boldly, I was told.
And that is beautiful.
No no!! Don't do it! Don't go to that place in your mind where you say "Aww... yes you are." I am not fishing for compliments here. The truth is that I am never gonna be a model. And yes, at the age of thirty-five I may or may not have just come to this conclusion. Though there was a time in my life when this was a "dream" of mine.
Ummm... yeah. Sweet perm, right? My sincerest apologies to whoever took this picture. I will give myself a break though. This picture is from right around the time I also thought that it would be cool to jump in a way-back machine and be a singer in the 60's. My secret fantasy was that I would go to the recording studio one day and meet the Monkees and Davey Jones would fall madly in love with me and I would live out my days playing tambourine duets and wearing go-go boots and hosting Tupperware parties in the Jones mansion.
I am a Nerd, yes. But model-pretty? No.
When I pull my hair back into a wet ponytail I look like my brother. (Not in a family-resemblance kind of way, but in an "is that a dude with boobs?" kind of way.)
My eyes are kinda squinty. (Especially when I smile. Is there such a thing as eye fat?)
I am hairy. (Like I started shaving my legs in the fifth grade and once in the sixth grade I shaved my arms, using the excuse that I had just gotten a cast off my wrist and the "doctor told me to do it." I discovered that the only thing less attractive than a forest of arm hair is arm stubble.)
I am freckly and wrinkly and have graying hair and have been occasionally mistaken for pregnant when I am not.
I have a funny crooked front tooth.
My face is kinda red all the time.
I am not pretty. And I have obsessed over it. Tried everything to change that. Tried not caring about it. (Ha!) And it hasn't been until recently that I could really look at myself in any other way besides being tied to those flaws.
It looks like I laugh boldly, I was told.
And that is beautiful.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The tides are rising
Its Summer! Okay- so its only the end of May and school isn't out yet and corn on the cob hasn't come into season yet.....but its hot outside. Hot. Pretty much that means Summer to me. If I can get out the sprinkler and feel comfy in a bathing suit (umm... outside the obvious "haven't lost the baby weight" thing) then its Summer, whether or not that kind of day happens in May or July or the middle of December. In fact, I am a big fan of grilling out in December, just so I can taste a charcoal-seasoned burger and eat the crispy burned parts of a hot dog.
I remember Summers when I was little. Waking up in the morning and "getting dressed" in my bathing suit first thing. Every day was endless and filled with popsicles and making bouquets out of dandelions from the backyard and the thought that just maybe today the neighbors would invite you to swim in their pool. And then as I got older it was days of laying in the backyard working on my tan with the neighbor girls and riding my bike around the neighborhood hoping to catch a glimpse of the cute guy down the street. And then those days giving way to teenage summers of lifeguarding and meeting friends and boyfriends at the mall in the evenings.
Thinking about those seasons and looking through old pictures I found this one
I love this picture. I am about 9 years old in this picture and I love the fact that I am holding my breath in anticipation of being engulfed in the waves. There is a quality of holding your breath in anticipation of life at this age. Someday not far in the future of this picture I will be spending my days tanning and gossiping, learning how to correctly apply eyeshadow, and just how powerful a smile can be. I will be spending my babysitting money on new lipgloss and the perfect pair of jeans. I will be fighting my way through the social jungle of high school and sinking into the quicksand of my first heartbreak. Trying hard not to get swept away by the tidal wave that life can be in those years.
And I find myself even now on the cusp of this Summer, the Summer of my thirty-sixth year, twenty five years after this picture, still holding my breath....
Sending my seven-year-old off to the last days of second grade and knowing how close he is in age to the little girl in that picture. How big changes are coming for him- changing schools next year to join a gifted program, growing into the age where its no longer acceptable on the playground to be the sensitive child that he is, and only a few short years away from filling his Summer days with girls and jobs and hangin' with friends instead of Pokemon and scooters and water fights on the lawn with his mom.
Watching my five-year-old on the verge of being a little girl and no longer my baby girl. How she is morphing before my eyes from the giggly and shy preschooler to the Queen Bee of her social group, strong in both opinion and body- preparing to head off to kindergarden in the fall into a world filled with school buses and outside influences and "on her own" situations.
Watching my four-year-old clown around and dig in the dirt and bridge the gap between toddler-hood and child-hood. How he is becoming aware of his world and the world around him and knowing that my hold on him is slipping with each day- how he already alternates between calling me "momma" and "mom", how he begs for freedom and still runs to me for the smallest of hurts. Waiting for the day he no longer needs to be tucked in at night and thinks that his friends are smarter than I could ever be.
And I am holding my breath for myself. Feeling myself on the edge of change and feeling the growing pains of learning to fit into my own skin. Wanting to keep myself from being swept away by the process of making decisions that make long-hidden dreams come true and the letting go of the ideas of what "should" be. Trying not to drown in the oceans and lakes and puddles of a life spent not really living, but surviving.
Maybe this Summer I will learn to swim. I will let the wave catch up to me and pull me in and I will float instead of sink. I have held my breath long enough.
I remember Summers when I was little. Waking up in the morning and "getting dressed" in my bathing suit first thing. Every day was endless and filled with popsicles and making bouquets out of dandelions from the backyard and the thought that just maybe today the neighbors would invite you to swim in their pool. And then as I got older it was days of laying in the backyard working on my tan with the neighbor girls and riding my bike around the neighborhood hoping to catch a glimpse of the cute guy down the street. And then those days giving way to teenage summers of lifeguarding and meeting friends and boyfriends at the mall in the evenings.
Thinking about those seasons and looking through old pictures I found this one
I love this picture. I am about 9 years old in this picture and I love the fact that I am holding my breath in anticipation of being engulfed in the waves. There is a quality of holding your breath in anticipation of life at this age. Someday not far in the future of this picture I will be spending my days tanning and gossiping, learning how to correctly apply eyeshadow, and just how powerful a smile can be. I will be spending my babysitting money on new lipgloss and the perfect pair of jeans. I will be fighting my way through the social jungle of high school and sinking into the quicksand of my first heartbreak. Trying hard not to get swept away by the tidal wave that life can be in those years.
And I find myself even now on the cusp of this Summer, the Summer of my thirty-sixth year, twenty five years after this picture, still holding my breath....
Sending my seven-year-old off to the last days of second grade and knowing how close he is in age to the little girl in that picture. How big changes are coming for him- changing schools next year to join a gifted program, growing into the age where its no longer acceptable on the playground to be the sensitive child that he is, and only a few short years away from filling his Summer days with girls and jobs and hangin' with friends instead of Pokemon and scooters and water fights on the lawn with his mom.
Watching my five-year-old on the verge of being a little girl and no longer my baby girl. How she is morphing before my eyes from the giggly and shy preschooler to the Queen Bee of her social group, strong in both opinion and body- preparing to head off to kindergarden in the fall into a world filled with school buses and outside influences and "on her own" situations.
Watching my four-year-old clown around and dig in the dirt and bridge the gap between toddler-hood and child-hood. How he is becoming aware of his world and the world around him and knowing that my hold on him is slipping with each day- how he already alternates between calling me "momma" and "mom", how he begs for freedom and still runs to me for the smallest of hurts. Waiting for the day he no longer needs to be tucked in at night and thinks that his friends are smarter than I could ever be.
And I am holding my breath for myself. Feeling myself on the edge of change and feeling the growing pains of learning to fit into my own skin. Wanting to keep myself from being swept away by the process of making decisions that make long-hidden dreams come true and the letting go of the ideas of what "should" be. Trying not to drown in the oceans and lakes and puddles of a life spent not really living, but surviving.
Maybe this Summer I will learn to swim. I will let the wave catch up to me and pull me in and I will float instead of sink. I have held my breath long enough.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Vacation to an exotic location
Hey! Guess what!! I am getting to visit another blog and post a little sumpin' sumpin' there! Today I am over at Not To Brag, an incredible blog by my friend MEP. Megan and I grew up together and spent our days in the same Catholic schools from second through twelfth grades. Same art classes in gradeschool shown on PBS and same Homecomings and Proms. Same lovely uniforms and Science Fairs. I have recently reconnected with her through Facebook, that wonderful of all wonderful "Hey how ya doin'" spots. She is a mother with two boys and a brand-new baby girl and a wonderful voice in the dark. Her blog is funny and honest and just plain entertainment in a world of "should have's" and "ought to's". And she has been a wonderful source of support and information as I have begun my journey sharing my words with the world. Go check out my little addition to her world and while you are there stick around and read a while. I guarantee you won't be disappointed.
Be back soon!
Be back soon!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Conclusion: Spain hates little kids
I stumble into the living room this morning and the Monkeys are all in various stages of lounging- each with a different arrangement of pillows and blankets and breakfast items- giggling hysterically.
"Mommy, Mommy! Watch this!"
I stare at the TV through blurry pre-coffee eyes and mumble something vaguely like "Oh, that's great" and attempt to shuffle away to make myself a pot o' the juice.
"MOMMY! Watch until I say stop!!!"
Ugh. Fine. I stand and watch, barely registering what I am seeing (pre-coffee me is grouchy and unable to process things). This is what I see on the screen
It appears to be some conglomeration of stuffed animals in a car. Doing stuff. Now imagine this scene with a live cricket hopping around. No, I am not making this up. The above creatures and one of these
Now, I hate bugs and everyone knows this. I figure this is why the Monkeys are beginning to giggle even more. It is disgusting. And seriously, if this was in my car (nevermind the stuffed animals that apparently can come to life and kill me in my sleep- if they can figure out the child safety locks) I would never go in it again.
"Keep watching," I am warned and the giggling is becoming louder and louder.....
A panda bear with a muzzle appears on the screen. What??!! A stuffed panda I get, but a muzzle? I have never once felt the need to muzzle a stuffed animal. There has never been a point where I looked at a cuddly stuffed creature and thought "Ya know- this bear is getting a little too mouthy. That's it, mister! One more backtalk and I will muzzle your ass!" And who MAKES stuffed animal muzzles? Is there a huge market for this sort of thing? Is there an epidemic of out-of-control-yappy-rabid toys that I am unaware of? Do I need to go get some of the seemingly vacant-eyed animals in my house in check? Or is the Disney channel getting into some sort of subliminal fetish thing? (Which I would be more concerned about if the panda was wearing a ball-gag, but still...)
More and more giggling. And then, out of nowhere, crawling over the seat of the vehicle right toward S&M Panda and Blue Ball Dude and Jumping Cricket is this
Oh my effing god.
I simultaneously jump, scream, and throw up a little. My heart is racing. I am awake! Fight or Flight has fully kicked in. (flight all the way, baby) My Windex is powerless against such a creature. And the Monkeys have erupted into full-fledged laughter. Why? Why is this? Do they not know that this creature has this face?
And it will think nothing of sucking your brains from your head or at the very least getting really close to your face and giving you a heart attack. (I can no longer look at this picture. His spider eyes are stealing my soul as we speak.)
This is a kids show? Whatever happened to Scrooge McDuck or HeMan or Jem? This little nugget of a show is called The Secret Life of Suckers and I Googled it and discovered it was created by some Spanish production company. All I have to say is this: "Parar y desistir!!!" and "Sus dibujos de animados me da pesadillos!!"
"Mommy, Mommy! Watch this!"
I stare at the TV through blurry pre-coffee eyes and mumble something vaguely like "Oh, that's great" and attempt to shuffle away to make myself a pot o' the juice.
"MOMMY! Watch until I say stop!!!"
Ugh. Fine. I stand and watch, barely registering what I am seeing (pre-coffee me is grouchy and unable to process things). This is what I see on the screen
It appears to be some conglomeration of stuffed animals in a car. Doing stuff. Now imagine this scene with a live cricket hopping around. No, I am not making this up. The above creatures and one of these
Now, I hate bugs and everyone knows this. I figure this is why the Monkeys are beginning to giggle even more. It is disgusting. And seriously, if this was in my car (nevermind the stuffed animals that apparently can come to life and kill me in my sleep- if they can figure out the child safety locks) I would never go in it again.
"Keep watching," I am warned and the giggling is becoming louder and louder.....
A panda bear with a muzzle appears on the screen. What??!! A stuffed panda I get, but a muzzle? I have never once felt the need to muzzle a stuffed animal. There has never been a point where I looked at a cuddly stuffed creature and thought "Ya know- this bear is getting a little too mouthy. That's it, mister! One more backtalk and I will muzzle your ass!" And who MAKES stuffed animal muzzles? Is there a huge market for this sort of thing? Is there an epidemic of out-of-control-yappy-rabid toys that I am unaware of? Do I need to go get some of the seemingly vacant-eyed animals in my house in check? Or is the Disney channel getting into some sort of subliminal fetish thing? (Which I would be more concerned about if the panda was wearing a ball-gag, but still...)
More and more giggling. And then, out of nowhere, crawling over the seat of the vehicle right toward S&M Panda and Blue Ball Dude and Jumping Cricket is this
Oh my effing god.
I simultaneously jump, scream, and throw up a little. My heart is racing. I am awake! Fight or Flight has fully kicked in. (flight all the way, baby) My Windex is powerless against such a creature. And the Monkeys have erupted into full-fledged laughter. Why? Why is this? Do they not know that this creature has this face?
And it will think nothing of sucking your brains from your head or at the very least getting really close to your face and giving you a heart attack. (I can no longer look at this picture. His spider eyes are stealing my soul as we speak.)
This is a kids show? Whatever happened to Scrooge McDuck or HeMan or Jem? This little nugget of a show is called The Secret Life of Suckers and I Googled it and discovered it was created by some Spanish production company. All I have to say is this: "Parar y desistir!!!" and "Sus dibujos de animados me da pesadillos!!"
Friday, April 16, 2010
A tale of a shoe and a "bee"
I just chased a bird out of my house. Like, JUST did it. There was a bird. In my house.
I opened the patio door to check on the Monkeys (who were drawing faces on rocks and setting them up "to take pictures of the rock family"......???) and a bird flew right over my head and into the dining room. My confused brain could not make sense of it at first. And then the Monkeys started yelling "A bee flew into the house! A bee flew into the house!"
Holy eff. That was a huge bee. I don't think I have enough Windex to drown such a big bee, I am thinking. Windex is my weapon of choice to kill all unwanted living creatures that wander their way into my home. Its pretty good on spiders, but I am pretty sure I will have to rethink my weapon if say, a rabid dog or a thief finds their way in.
Thief: I am here to steal your worthless belongings.
Me: You shan't take my 8 year old TV!! Watch yourself! I am armed and will make you delightfully streak-free!
Thief: Your cleaning products have no effect on me. Now hand over your semi-working printer and your Julia Roberts DVD collection.
I determine that it is a bird (thank god not the most genetically mutated bee on the planet) that has buzzed my head and landed on the ceiling fan. I must remove him from the house. I do not need another pet. And the bird poo. Oh dear god. If it becomes cement on my car's windshield I can only imagine what it will do to my couch. So my brain immediately thinks of my secondary weapon of choice for unwanted living creatures- a shoe. I have many to choose from- and I take a moment to ponder the options. One of the kids' flip flops? Hmm... good because it is pretty disposable if something terrible happens and bird entrails accidentally appear, but they are small and will require a proximity to the bird I am not prepared for. My high-heeled black boot? Nah. I really like those shoes. My pink and white Easy-Tone exercise-y shoes? Perfect! I grab one (is it weird that I took a moment to consider left or right?) and head back to the dining room to do battle. He is sitting on the fan sizing me up. I think he knows he can take me.
My brilliant move? I use the toe of the shoe to spin the fan. Bad. Idea. He takes off in a chirping fury and flies frantically around the living room. My next brilliant move is to stand on the couch and wave the shoe around above my head with the hope of....knocking him out of the air maybe? (Then what?!) Perhaps to be DIRECTLY in the line of fire of his pecky little beak? My thinking is not clear. All I know is that I need to remove this feathered poop machine from my house.
Apparently, the work-out shoe frightens the thing (I know, buddy, they frighten me too). Or maybe the sight of a crazy woman doing some sort of spaz dance on the furniture scared him straight, because he headed straight for the open patio door. You could almost see his little bird brain thinking She aint got no rhythm. I refuse to be taken down by an Arthur Murray reject.
He heads for the door with me in hot pursuit. Kids are yelling directions (unhelpful ones like "Kill it!" and "Get me a feather!" and "Go get a birdcage!"). He makes two attempts to make it through the wide open door (really?) and finally flies free straight to the back fence where he sits and glares at my house.
Damn. He is totally gonna come back in the night and do a fly-by pooping of my windows.
I opened the patio door to check on the Monkeys (who were drawing faces on rocks and setting them up "to take pictures of the rock family"......???) and a bird flew right over my head and into the dining room. My confused brain could not make sense of it at first. And then the Monkeys started yelling "A bee flew into the house! A bee flew into the house!"
Holy eff. That was a huge bee. I don't think I have enough Windex to drown such a big bee, I am thinking. Windex is my weapon of choice to kill all unwanted living creatures that wander their way into my home. Its pretty good on spiders, but I am pretty sure I will have to rethink my weapon if say, a rabid dog or a thief finds their way in.
Thief: I am here to steal your worthless belongings.
Me: You shan't take my 8 year old TV!! Watch yourself! I am armed and will make you delightfully streak-free!
Thief: Your cleaning products have no effect on me. Now hand over your semi-working printer and your Julia Roberts DVD collection.
I determine that it is a bird (thank god not the most genetically mutated bee on the planet) that has buzzed my head and landed on the ceiling fan. I must remove him from the house. I do not need another pet. And the bird poo. Oh dear god. If it becomes cement on my car's windshield I can only imagine what it will do to my couch. So my brain immediately thinks of my secondary weapon of choice for unwanted living creatures- a shoe. I have many to choose from- and I take a moment to ponder the options. One of the kids' flip flops? Hmm... good because it is pretty disposable if something terrible happens and bird entrails accidentally appear, but they are small and will require a proximity to the bird I am not prepared for. My high-heeled black boot? Nah. I really like those shoes. My pink and white Easy-Tone exercise-y shoes? Perfect! I grab one (is it weird that I took a moment to consider left or right?) and head back to the dining room to do battle. He is sitting on the fan sizing me up. I think he knows he can take me.
My brilliant move? I use the toe of the shoe to spin the fan. Bad. Idea. He takes off in a chirping fury and flies frantically around the living room. My next brilliant move is to stand on the couch and wave the shoe around above my head with the hope of....knocking him out of the air maybe? (Then what?!) Perhaps to be DIRECTLY in the line of fire of his pecky little beak? My thinking is not clear. All I know is that I need to remove this feathered poop machine from my house.
Apparently, the work-out shoe frightens the thing (I know, buddy, they frighten me too). Or maybe the sight of a crazy woman doing some sort of spaz dance on the furniture scared him straight, because he headed straight for the open patio door. You could almost see his little bird brain thinking She aint got no rhythm. I refuse to be taken down by an Arthur Murray reject.
He heads for the door with me in hot pursuit. Kids are yelling directions (unhelpful ones like "Kill it!" and "Get me a feather!" and "Go get a birdcage!"). He makes two attempts to make it through the wide open door (really?) and finally flies free straight to the back fence where he sits and glares at my house.
Damn. He is totally gonna come back in the night and do a fly-by pooping of my windows.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Bathtub hijinks and senseless beverage death
Scene yesterday morning:
I am in my jammies enjoying a cup of coffee and watching the younger Monkeys color at the table. It is relatively calm with only a few random arguments over the whereabouts of certain crayons or who has had a longer turn with the one remaining colored pencil. Ahhh.... vague peace. And then there is a knock on the door. Craaaaaap.......
The guy is here to fix the tub. I totally forgot he was coming. After a brief back-and-forth conversation in my head about possibly maybe just ignoring the door I come to the conclusion that I live in a townhouse and this is the maintenance staff. If I don't open the door they are going to come in anyway. Craaaaaap......
So I answer the door. Jammies and bedhead, coffee in hand. And there is Tub Guy who immediately starts laughing. Okay, I will give him that I am standing there in plaid flannel boxers and my ancient BGSU sweatshirt. And did I mention the full-on bedhead? I don't get movie bedhead where there is possibly a strand or two perfectly mussed. I get crazy person bedhead where it looks like I have actually electrocuted myself and/or may be starting a crop of dreads or maybe a wild mouse habitat. So while I will give him all of this, it still is a blow to my fragile morning ego. I make him stand there in the doorway while I run upstairs to gather the damp towels and stray underwear discarded before the family's morning showers (well, from everyone except me- double crap) and kick the pile of undone laundry out of the way and close the bedroom door (because it looks like the rest of the house threw up its junk in that room).
I listen to him work for a while fixing the hole (yes, hole) that had appeared where the silver overflow thingy had been. I was unaware that a bathtub could get a hole in it. And even less aware that it could be fixed. He calls in reinforcements and two other maintenance guys show up- Jovial Guy and The IT Kid. Seriously. I wonder if it is Bring Your Computer Dork Teenager To Work Day. He has those black-frame rectangle glasses and a goatee and carries the clipboard. Go figure. I hear the word "hacksaw" being casually thrown about. I am nervous. I wonder if they are possibly turning my tub into a wonderful watery sculpture- and if IT Kid had to get a permission slip from his mom to use such a dangerous tool.
They wrap things up and I am given this warning from Tub Guy: "Don't get this wet. AT ALL. I will be back in the morning to finish." (As he shows me a hole in the tub that looks suspiciously the same, only with some gray putty stuff around the edges. Hacksaw?) No shower for me. This is tragic. Showers and coffee are survival tools for me. And I am being told there is no wonderfully heated water or jasmine scented shampoo in my future today. I am gonna have to make it with one out of two survival requirements today. Craaaaap.....
Which brings us to the scene this morning:
Nine in the morning. I have gotten a HUGE cup of coffee while out taking my oldest to school (seeing as I was all out of coffee in the house). I am standing in my bathroom, vaguely dressed and sporting the towel turban, frantically wiping the water-splatter evidence of my illicit shower off the tiles with a Spiderman beach towel when the following things happen simultaneously:
1. There is a knock on the door from Tub Guy. Damn. He is going to send me to Plumber Jail for unauthorized bathing.
2. The four-year-old yells "Oh no!" and I walk into the kitchen and see this scene
The untimely demise of coffee in its prime.
Damn. One out of two again.
*Note: Four-year-old coffee bandit was unharmed in coffee disaster. My coffee-addicted soul, however..... scarred. Also, Tub Guy reduced my Plumber Jail sentence to time served in light of the agony of the above tragedy and the hard labor required to remove 22 ounces of sugared beverage from a kitchen floor.
I am in my jammies enjoying a cup of coffee and watching the younger Monkeys color at the table. It is relatively calm with only a few random arguments over the whereabouts of certain crayons or who has had a longer turn with the one remaining colored pencil. Ahhh.... vague peace. And then there is a knock on the door. Craaaaaap.......
The guy is here to fix the tub. I totally forgot he was coming. After a brief back-and-forth conversation in my head about possibly maybe just ignoring the door I come to the conclusion that I live in a townhouse and this is the maintenance staff. If I don't open the door they are going to come in anyway. Craaaaaap......
So I answer the door. Jammies and bedhead, coffee in hand. And there is Tub Guy who immediately starts laughing. Okay, I will give him that I am standing there in plaid flannel boxers and my ancient BGSU sweatshirt. And did I mention the full-on bedhead? I don't get movie bedhead where there is possibly a strand or two perfectly mussed. I get crazy person bedhead where it looks like I have actually electrocuted myself and/or may be starting a crop of dreads or maybe a wild mouse habitat. So while I will give him all of this, it still is a blow to my fragile morning ego. I make him stand there in the doorway while I run upstairs to gather the damp towels and stray underwear discarded before the family's morning showers (well, from everyone except me- double crap) and kick the pile of undone laundry out of the way and close the bedroom door (because it looks like the rest of the house threw up its junk in that room).
I listen to him work for a while fixing the hole (yes, hole) that had appeared where the silver overflow thingy had been. I was unaware that a bathtub could get a hole in it. And even less aware that it could be fixed. He calls in reinforcements and two other maintenance guys show up- Jovial Guy and The IT Kid. Seriously. I wonder if it is Bring Your Computer Dork Teenager To Work Day. He has those black-frame rectangle glasses and a goatee and carries the clipboard. Go figure. I hear the word "hacksaw" being casually thrown about. I am nervous. I wonder if they are possibly turning my tub into a wonderful watery sculpture- and if IT Kid had to get a permission slip from his mom to use such a dangerous tool.
They wrap things up and I am given this warning from Tub Guy: "Don't get this wet. AT ALL. I will be back in the morning to finish." (As he shows me a hole in the tub that looks suspiciously the same, only with some gray putty stuff around the edges. Hacksaw?) No shower for me. This is tragic. Showers and coffee are survival tools for me. And I am being told there is no wonderfully heated water or jasmine scented shampoo in my future today. I am gonna have to make it with one out of two survival requirements today. Craaaaap.....
Which brings us to the scene this morning:
Nine in the morning. I have gotten a HUGE cup of coffee while out taking my oldest to school (seeing as I was all out of coffee in the house). I am standing in my bathroom, vaguely dressed and sporting the towel turban, frantically wiping the water-splatter evidence of my illicit shower off the tiles with a Spiderman beach towel when the following things happen simultaneously:
1. There is a knock on the door from Tub Guy. Damn. He is going to send me to Plumber Jail for unauthorized bathing.
2. The four-year-old yells "Oh no!" and I walk into the kitchen and see this scene
The untimely demise of coffee in its prime.
Damn. One out of two again.
*Note: Four-year-old coffee bandit was unharmed in coffee disaster. My coffee-addicted soul, however..... scarred. Also, Tub Guy reduced my Plumber Jail sentence to time served in light of the agony of the above tragedy and the hard labor required to remove 22 ounces of sugared beverage from a kitchen floor.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Buried (in plain sight) treasure
When I was at my parents' over Easter I found a bunch of old pictures (and by "found" I mean "pulled out the box that was sitting right in front of my face.") Soooo many treasures to behold in that box of old photos. It was a virtual cornucopia of awkwardness and odd faces caught at inopportune moments. It was beautiful. And then I came across this picture:
I know, right?!
Look at that face!
Check out those clothes! (okay, okay....it was the early 80's...)
I'm all elbows and knees and giant mouth! (Anybody have any doubts anymore about the whole fist-in-the-mouth thing? Makes sense now, right?)
And the hair?! Was the mushroom haircut ever a good look? (Sorry, mom.) Who takes their kid to get their hair cut and says to the stylist "Make it look like she is wearing a hair shower-cap" ????
Jump-roping was my favorite activity at that time. (I was seven) That Cinderella dressed in yella had so many doctors taking care of her snake bite, it was ridiculous. And later I would expand my jump-roping repertoire to include Double Dutch. And even went so far as to enter into a Double Dutch competition with my Girl Scout troop. We spent hours and hours practicing technique and making up a "routine"......and never went to the competition. I don't know why. Perhaps a camp out with the requisite jungle breakfast (Does anyone remember those? Little boxes of cereal and bananas that were hung from trees and we had to forage for in the early morning dew-covered woods. Why this was considered fun, I will never be able to explain.) caught our collective ADD attentions. Perhaps we simply realized that a routine that consisted only of the ability to jump into the ropes and jump back out without becoming hopelessly entangled would never really win any awards....
But I love the joy this picture captures. And I like to think that I finally grew into those poky elbows. And maybe next time I go visit my pit crew I will ask Molly for a little shower-cap 'do...... for nostalgia's sake.
And there were so many more treasures found... I will be sharing them from time to time....
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Brain purge
Seeing as I haven't posted here in the last week with Spring Break and everything I think I am going to take this moment to purge my brain of some random thoughts- which is really how my brain works- not in a neat and tidy linear operation.....
Last week was Spring Break. I have mixed feelings about this as a holiday of sorts. When I was in high school I sooo wanted to take a fantastic trip to an exotic location such as Myrtle Beach. I wanted to spend the week crammed into a hotel room with 19 other people and lounge on the beach and come back with a story of some cool dude I met from some other exotic location- like possibly Kentucky. Or Michigan. But alas, my parents didn't believe in Spring Break. As in "we don't believe in Santa Claus or Spring Break." These days I do get to travel some over this "holiday"- and by "travel" I mean "go to Fairfield, Ohio." The upside (?) to this is that I do get to share a room with many other people and there is always a hullabaloo going on. The downside (?) is that the shared room and hullabaloo are all attributed to my Monkeys.
I have not been able to go see my beauty pit crew in a while and the other day in a furious attempt to groom myself, I overplucked my eyebrows. Damn. It was one of those back-and-forth attempts to even things up that was my total downfall. All I really wanted to do was rid myself of the terrible stray hairs that make my eyebrows look like they actually connect to my eyelashes. Now I think my only option is to shave them off and draw on new ones. I like this option actually, because it will give me the opportunity to do the one-eyebrow-raised look that I can't do in real life (and am totally jealous of when other people do it).
I hate capri pants. I only mention this because over the holiday I went to one of those family functions where capris not only seem appropriate, but mandatory. I realize there are people in this world that actually shop for these almost-pants, like them, and even wear them willingly. But not me. I don't know- maybe it is the babydoll-dress-and-Doc-Marten-wearing twenty year old in me or maybe it is the fact that I am 5'3" and they make me look like I am wearing my little brother's pants, but I have never been able to get on board with this particular item of clothing. (It should be noted that the writer of this post is, at this very moment, wearing cutoff jean shorts and an older-than-dirt Cleveland Indians t-shirt and possibly should not be making any statements regarding fashion.)
I love strawberries. I love them so much I can eat my weight in them. I also know how to make them into a delicious shot-delivering vehicle.
And..... that's enough for now.... except to direct your attention above to the picture....nice, huh? (that's right, I'm totally being all show-off-y about it, seeing as I NEVER actually look like that in real life.)
Last week was Spring Break. I have mixed feelings about this as a holiday of sorts. When I was in high school I sooo wanted to take a fantastic trip to an exotic location such as Myrtle Beach. I wanted to spend the week crammed into a hotel room with 19 other people and lounge on the beach and come back with a story of some cool dude I met from some other exotic location- like possibly Kentucky. Or Michigan. But alas, my parents didn't believe in Spring Break. As in "we don't believe in Santa Claus or Spring Break." These days I do get to travel some over this "holiday"- and by "travel" I mean "go to Fairfield, Ohio." The upside (?) to this is that I do get to share a room with many other people and there is always a hullabaloo going on. The downside (?) is that the shared room and hullabaloo are all attributed to my Monkeys.
I have not been able to go see my beauty pit crew in a while and the other day in a furious attempt to groom myself, I overplucked my eyebrows. Damn. It was one of those back-and-forth attempts to even things up that was my total downfall. All I really wanted to do was rid myself of the terrible stray hairs that make my eyebrows look like they actually connect to my eyelashes. Now I think my only option is to shave them off and draw on new ones. I like this option actually, because it will give me the opportunity to do the one-eyebrow-raised look that I can't do in real life (and am totally jealous of when other people do it).
I hate capri pants. I only mention this because over the holiday I went to one of those family functions where capris not only seem appropriate, but mandatory. I realize there are people in this world that actually shop for these almost-pants, like them, and even wear them willingly. But not me. I don't know- maybe it is the babydoll-dress-and-Doc-Marten-wearing twenty year old in me or maybe it is the fact that I am 5'3" and they make me look like I am wearing my little brother's pants, but I have never been able to get on board with this particular item of clothing. (It should be noted that the writer of this post is, at this very moment, wearing cutoff jean shorts and an older-than-dirt Cleveland Indians t-shirt and possibly should not be making any statements regarding fashion.)
I love strawberries. I love them so much I can eat my weight in them. I also know how to make them into a delicious shot-delivering vehicle.
And..... that's enough for now.... except to direct your attention above to the picture....nice, huh? (that's right, I'm totally being all show-off-y about it, seeing as I NEVER actually look like that in real life.)
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Midnight confessions and escapades #1
I cannot sleep. This is a fairly common occurance, so there is no need to be alarmed. I blame it on the coffee. Or perhaps that sleep is simply BORING, and who wants to sleep anyway when there is a Cheers marathon on the Hallmark channel? Not me! (Side note: I am a total Terrible TV junkie. I would be watching a Kendra marathon right now if it was on.)
Anyway, I have been wandering the house searching for something to do and found myself in the bathroom. After poking at my gray hairs for a while, I spied the bucket I had used earlier to clean the kitchen floor. It was sitting in the corner where I had placed it earlier to save it from being knocked over in a raucous game of indoor tag. It was lonely and forgotten....and still full of Lysol-y water. Ewwwww..... I know this is what you are thinking- mostly because that was what I was thinking. (Have I mentioned my borderline developmentally delayed housekeeping skills? No? I will share sometime...)
I decided to do what I should have done hours ago and empty the bucket. (Have you never heard of a Swiffer? you are thinking.) Now, here is where the brilliance happens. Are you ready? I dumped the contents of the bucket into the toilet- so it could do the faux flushing thing. (Never done it? Gather the family and try it out.) As I watched blue Mountain Breeze water- and maybe a bloated Froot Loop or two- empty into the bowl, I saw a flash of pink. Damn.
Remember my dilemma with the old toothbrush as a scrubbing tool? (I would put a link here to that post, but who am I kidding? I am so new to this blogging thing its right here on the same page as this one. Just scroll down a bit. Oh, and I don't know how to do the link thing.) I totally chose to use my pink Oral-B in my fight against stovetop grime. And apparently, somehow, said toothbrush had made its way into this Lysol bath.
And has now made its way into the U-bend of my downstairs toilet. I did not know you could flush a toothbrush, faux-style or otherwise.
P.S. It is 3 a.m. I will blame that on the possibility of TMI in this post. And the fact that this entire incident made me laugh. A lot.
Anyway, I have been wandering the house searching for something to do and found myself in the bathroom. After poking at my gray hairs for a while, I spied the bucket I had used earlier to clean the kitchen floor. It was sitting in the corner where I had placed it earlier to save it from being knocked over in a raucous game of indoor tag. It was lonely and forgotten....and still full of Lysol-y water. Ewwwww..... I know this is what you are thinking- mostly because that was what I was thinking. (Have I mentioned my borderline developmentally delayed housekeeping skills? No? I will share sometime...)
I decided to do what I should have done hours ago and empty the bucket. (Have you never heard of a Swiffer? you are thinking.) Now, here is where the brilliance happens. Are you ready? I dumped the contents of the bucket into the toilet- so it could do the faux flushing thing. (Never done it? Gather the family and try it out.) As I watched blue Mountain Breeze water- and maybe a bloated Froot Loop or two- empty into the bowl, I saw a flash of pink. Damn.
Remember my dilemma with the old toothbrush as a scrubbing tool? (I would put a link here to that post, but who am I kidding? I am so new to this blogging thing its right here on the same page as this one. Just scroll down a bit. Oh, and I don't know how to do the link thing.) I totally chose to use my pink Oral-B in my fight against stovetop grime. And apparently, somehow, said toothbrush had made its way into this Lysol bath.
And has now made its way into the U-bend of my downstairs toilet. I did not know you could flush a toothbrush, faux-style or otherwise.
P.S. It is 3 a.m. I will blame that on the possibility of TMI in this post. And the fact that this entire incident made me laugh. A lot.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
One of those days
It is one of those days. The gray (is that word supposed to be g-r-e-y or g-r-a-y?) and rainy kind. The kind of day where you wake up and put your hair in a ponytail only to fight the urge to cut it off with the biggest scissors you can find. I feel old and tired. My gray (grey) hairs are showing. The laundry is overtaking the upstairs hallway, having long ago conquered the hamper. I caught the dishes in the kitchen sink looking for a nice piece of vacation property in the bathtub. The children are behaving like procreations of Satan. Sigh. Its time to change my attitude....
I will be a Fun Mom! We will do a craft. I have visions of little hands busy cutting and gluing construction paper into charming creations with elaborate stories behind them. Ten minutes and a wad of glue in my hair later, the vision fades.
I will be Productive! I will do some of the laundry spilling from the hamper. I daydream of machines quietly humming and stacks of neatly folded shirts in a rainbow array across my bed. Ten minutes and a dryer hose that has popped off the back of the machine (which I do not know how to fix) later, the daydream ends.
I will be Social! I will call some friends and chat. In my mind I am sitting quietly at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee and laughing with some unamed person on the phone. Maybe there is a scone involved. Ten minutes and the realization that all of my friends have day jobs (and that I do not like scones) later, the picture in my mind disappears.
I will be Cute! I will find a favorite sweater that makes me feel amazing and makes me look skinny......awww screw it....
Its a granny panties day.
I will be a Fun Mom! We will do a craft. I have visions of little hands busy cutting and gluing construction paper into charming creations with elaborate stories behind them. Ten minutes and a wad of glue in my hair later, the vision fades.
I will be Productive! I will do some of the laundry spilling from the hamper. I daydream of machines quietly humming and stacks of neatly folded shirts in a rainbow array across my bed. Ten minutes and a dryer hose that has popped off the back of the machine (which I do not know how to fix) later, the daydream ends.
I will be Social! I will call some friends and chat. In my mind I am sitting quietly at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee and laughing with some unamed person on the phone. Maybe there is a scone involved. Ten minutes and the realization that all of my friends have day jobs (and that I do not like scones) later, the picture in my mind disappears.
I will be Cute! I will find a favorite sweater that makes me feel amazing and makes me look skinny......awww screw it....
Its a granny panties day.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
When The Mood Strikes
I am in a cleaning frenzy. The truth is that these moods don't come along very often and I need to take full advantage of them when they appear. My house is a fantastic mess. I lose interest in projects long before they are completed- even "projects" as simple as scrubbing the bathtub. Dishes stay in the sink, mostly because I loathe unloading the diswasher (loading- fine, unloading- not so much) and my family will forage through baskets of clean laundry for days before I get the urge to fold anything.
So today I find myself in posession of the rare desire to scrub somethinbg until it sparkles. I know! The stove! I will need a sponge. And a cleaning agent of some kind. And to disassemble the burners. This is going to be a tough job, but I am ready! I should really finish thinking this through before I begin- to ensure that maybe I will actually finish. What else could I need? And then I remember that an old toothbrush could be an effective scrubbing tool. Perfect! I will go and search for one!
Alas, my house seems to be old-toothbrush-free. Which brings me to this moment in time- standing in my bathroom staring at my pink Oral-B and wondering:
Just how much Comet would be "unsafe" to brush my teeth with this evening?
So today I find myself in posession of the rare desire to scrub somethinbg until it sparkles. I know! The stove! I will need a sponge. And a cleaning agent of some kind. And to disassemble the burners. This is going to be a tough job, but I am ready! I should really finish thinking this through before I begin- to ensure that maybe I will actually finish. What else could I need? And then I remember that an old toothbrush could be an effective scrubbing tool. Perfect! I will go and search for one!
Alas, my house seems to be old-toothbrush-free. Which brings me to this moment in time- standing in my bathroom staring at my pink Oral-B and wondering:
Just how much Comet would be "unsafe" to brush my teeth with this evening?
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Bag
So this morning everything seemed to be going well. I woke up (always a good thing as I am really not what you would call a "morning person"). I stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen and made coffee (this is an important step- coffee has actually been used to lure me out of bed in the morning). I made the oldest Monkey his lunch for school and finished getting him ready to go. I sent him off to the bus stop with actual minutes to spare this morning (a rare feat). It is warm outside so I stood on the step and watched him at the bus stop for a minute (in secret, as this is an activity I have been banned from doing by the fiercely independent seven-year-old). Suddenly, I heard cries of "MOM!" and saw his little mohawked head bobbing towards me as he ran frantically in the direction of home. "MY BAG!!!" he was yelling.
Crap. In his class each child gets to be a Teaching Assistant for a day and help the teacher with everything- passing out papers and writing things on the board and making the math problem of the day....everything. Part of this is to bring something from home in a special TA bag to share with the class. In other words, this is a Big Deal. And he had forgotten the bag in his room.
I flew to his room and grabbed the bag and ran. Down the steps and out the door. Down the sidewalk and through the rain. Barefoot. In jammies. Bedhead and all. Ignoring the rocks and sticks jamming their way into the arches of my feet. The pretty (?) plaid of my jammie pants becomming splattered with mud.
As I made the handoff of bag to Monkey I realized something. I. Am. Out. Of . Shape. Like seriously out of shape. Like if there was a murderer chasing me there would come a point where I would have to stop, turn to the guy and do the hands-on-the-knees-gasping-for-breath thing and say "Dude. Time out, k?"
I soooo hope my murderer knows the rules of Time Out.
Crap. In his class each child gets to be a Teaching Assistant for a day and help the teacher with everything- passing out papers and writing things on the board and making the math problem of the day....everything. Part of this is to bring something from home in a special TA bag to share with the class. In other words, this is a Big Deal. And he had forgotten the bag in his room.
I flew to his room and grabbed the bag and ran. Down the steps and out the door. Down the sidewalk and through the rain. Barefoot. In jammies. Bedhead and all. Ignoring the rocks and sticks jamming their way into the arches of my feet. The pretty (?) plaid of my jammie pants becomming splattered with mud.
As I made the handoff of bag to Monkey I realized something. I. Am. Out. Of . Shape. Like seriously out of shape. Like if there was a murderer chasing me there would come a point where I would have to stop, turn to the guy and do the hands-on-the-knees-gasping-for-breath thing and say "Dude. Time out, k?"
I soooo hope my murderer knows the rules of Time Out.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Note to Self: I am A Big Girl
Okay, so I am cleaning the kitchen from dinner (yes, I realize it is 9:30 in the morning and this meal happened last night and that my Monkeys had a picnic breakfast because of this) and preparing for a weekend scrapbooking trip (yes, scrapbooking- but my intense dislike of this hobby is a whole other post). We did the whole"'breakfast for dinner" thing. Not my favorite, and requires some intense scrubbing of dried up pancake batter from the countertop (I know, I know....if I had just done this last night....blah blah blah...). On the upside though: bacon. I love bacon. Love. Bacon. Once I even got it for my birthday. True story.
So I am cleaning up last night's laziness and attempting to figure out where and when I will be meeting the friend I am going on this trip with. It is a lot of back and forth with times and places, as I am being delivered via Husband UPS to our meeting point and said Husband must then race back in time to get the eldest Monkey from school. We have it down to a half an hour difference in possible times for the exchange of me from one vehicle to the other. Damn. This just isn't gonna work. And it just hit me. I am a grown-ass woman. Guess what I am allowed to do? That's right- sit in a restaurant and have a cup of coffee and wait. All by myself.
Duh.
There is no need for direct vehicle-to-vehicle delivery.
Does anyone know if it is safe to eat day-old floor bacon?
Too late.....
So I am cleaning up last night's laziness and attempting to figure out where and when I will be meeting the friend I am going on this trip with. It is a lot of back and forth with times and places, as I am being delivered via Husband UPS to our meeting point and said Husband must then race back in time to get the eldest Monkey from school. We have it down to a half an hour difference in possible times for the exchange of me from one vehicle to the other. Damn. This just isn't gonna work. And it just hit me. I am a grown-ass woman. Guess what I am allowed to do? That's right- sit in a restaurant and have a cup of coffee and wait. All by myself.
Duh.
There is no need for direct vehicle-to-vehicle delivery.
Does anyone know if it is safe to eat day-old floor bacon?
Too late.....
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Oh Thou Holy Hershey Bar
So here's a thought that has been rolling around in my head for a few days now. I don't get Lent. And not in the "What's it all about?" technical sense of Lent (I grew up Catholic for god's sake- I get Lent). I understand wanting to show a little solidarity with the J-man, but the idea of giving up pop or candy or swearing to do it is beyond ridiculous to me. I'm thinking you don't get to the Pearly Gates (which in my head are not Pearly Gates at all, but more like the turnstiles at the entrance to an amusememnt park where you can see the top of the first hill of the best roller coaster.... or maybe like opening the door into the noisy quiet of your favorite coffee shop...but I am getting parenthetically long-winded here...) and get a ton of credit for not shoving your face full of candy bars for a few weeks out of the year. I'm thinking there is no way that Jesus looks at any of that and goes "Oh! You didn't suck down a case of Coke back there in Lent of 2010? Dude, we're even." And then he gives you a high five. But not a regular high five. One of those bro ones. The up-high-down-low-behind-the-back-fist-bump kinds.
Just a thought....
Just a thought....
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Blow Out the Candles and Make a Wish
I am 35 today. I have been toying with the idea all day about posting something because, really, its not that big of a deal. But now I am laying around in my way-too-big-for-me jammie pants and 18-year-old BGSU sweatshirt (though I use the term "sweatshirt" loosely, as all of the fuzzy material that would make this garment classify as a sweatshirt is long gone) and have decided that I should commemorate this day in some way. So here's what I'm thinking:
I am seriously considering forcing the issue of a mid-life crisis. I don't feel all crisis-y, but there could be some Fun in this. I wonder what women do for a mid-life crisis. Maybe get myself a bunch of Botox? Start dressing like a slut? Find myself a young Italian Boy Toy (preferably one who doesn't speak much English- though this is not a hard and fast requirement)? Or maybe I could borrow from the men and get some hairplugs and buy myself a fancy red sports car (hmmm.... Italian?). I don't know. Something to think about....
OR... (and this might be an even better idea!)
A party! But not a boring adult birthday party with cocktails and stuffy conversation and demure appetizers and a cake decorated with those big frosting roses. I want a Birthday Party! I want pizza and chips and ice cream. I want a huge gooey lopsided homemade chocolate cake with my name on it in shaky letters done with that disgusting gel icing stuff. I want balloons and streamers and birthday hats and those little goodie bags filled with cheap plastic cars and candy. I want to eat my cake from a Little Mermaid plate and blow out candles shaped like a "3" and a "5".
This is my 35th year and it deserves a Celebration!
You're all invited! Be watching- I sent out Princess invitations to everyone!
I am seriously considering forcing the issue of a mid-life crisis. I don't feel all crisis-y, but there could be some Fun in this. I wonder what women do for a mid-life crisis. Maybe get myself a bunch of Botox? Start dressing like a slut? Find myself a young Italian Boy Toy (preferably one who doesn't speak much English- though this is not a hard and fast requirement)? Or maybe I could borrow from the men and get some hairplugs and buy myself a fancy red sports car (hmmm.... Italian?). I don't know. Something to think about....
OR... (and this might be an even better idea!)
A party! But not a boring adult birthday party with cocktails and stuffy conversation and demure appetizers and a cake decorated with those big frosting roses. I want a Birthday Party! I want pizza and chips and ice cream. I want a huge gooey lopsided homemade chocolate cake with my name on it in shaky letters done with that disgusting gel icing stuff. I want balloons and streamers and birthday hats and those little goodie bags filled with cheap plastic cars and candy. I want to eat my cake from a Little Mermaid plate and blow out candles shaped like a "3" and a "5".
This is my 35th year and it deserves a Celebration!
You're all invited! Be watching- I sent out Princess invitations to everyone!
Friday, February 19, 2010
This Is Normal Around Here
I live with a four-year-old. (Well, actually, I live with three Monkeys who are 7, 5, and 4) And yes, I mean that I live with them, not the other way around. Because let's face it- I am not in charge here. I am lucky they let me have a place to sleep and a few morsels of food from time to time.
I am standing in the kitchen this morning sipping (okay- chugging, but that is so much less ladylike) my forty-second cup of coffee and watching the intent work of the four-year-old. He has interrupted my contemplations about getting adult braces...
....I missed out on braces as a pre-teen. All of my friends had them. I soooo wanted to live in the glory of fluorescent rubber bands adorning my teeth and restrictions on eating such things as popcorn and fruit roll ups. I begged for braces, but sadly, was left behind at the retainer and headgear stage.....
But I digress...So, the littlest Monkey has interrupted my dreams of orthodontia to ask for a magnet that is just out of his reach on the fridge. He is standing in front of me holding a piece of bread in one hand and innocently pointing at the strongest magnet gracing our fridge. I must admit- I am curious. I must see what his little offbeat brain has dreamed up. I hand him the magnet and lean back against the counter to continue my chugging and watch. He sits on the floor and very deliberately rips the crust from his slice of bread. And then, in one swift movement, he slams the denuded bread to the front of the fridge and captures it with the magnet. And there it hangs like a bizarre little piece of edible artwork while he laughs hysterically.
Seriously.
I don't stand a chance in this house.
I wonder if I should go with Invisalign........
I am standing in the kitchen this morning sipping (okay- chugging, but that is so much less ladylike) my forty-second cup of coffee and watching the intent work of the four-year-old. He has interrupted my contemplations about getting adult braces...
....I missed out on braces as a pre-teen. All of my friends had them. I soooo wanted to live in the glory of fluorescent rubber bands adorning my teeth and restrictions on eating such things as popcorn and fruit roll ups. I begged for braces, but sadly, was left behind at the retainer and headgear stage.....
But I digress...So, the littlest Monkey has interrupted my dreams of orthodontia to ask for a magnet that is just out of his reach on the fridge. He is standing in front of me holding a piece of bread in one hand and innocently pointing at the strongest magnet gracing our fridge. I must admit- I am curious. I must see what his little offbeat brain has dreamed up. I hand him the magnet and lean back against the counter to continue my chugging and watch. He sits on the floor and very deliberately rips the crust from his slice of bread. And then, in one swift movement, he slams the denuded bread to the front of the fridge and captures it with the magnet. And there it hangs like a bizarre little piece of edible artwork while he laughs hysterically.
Seriously.
I don't stand a chance in this house.
I wonder if I should go with Invisalign........
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Personal 911
In a conversation today the idea came up that someone could act as an oxygen mask for your soul. I immediately fell in love with that idea. I like the image of being an oxygen mask for someone. I like that a person would have someone in his life who could fulfill that vital role. I like it a lot better than the saying that someone "is a breath of fresh air" because that seems so fleeting and unable to be contained or sustained.
This idea make me think though. Maybe we keep a whole batillion of medical machines in the friends we surround ourselves with. Our own personal ER of sorts....
You have your Oxygen Mask Friend who fills your lungs with breath and relieves the suffocating that can happen just by living a daily life.
There are IV Friends. These friends provide steady nutrition and flow thorough your veins and feed your cells and your soul. They are always there, attached to you and part of you. These are the friends you learn to dance with and move with and work around and live in union with every day.
Everyone has a Defibrillator Friend. The friend who shocks you back to life. They jump-start your heart with the things that they say and do. They momentarily take your breath away and jolt you back into being. They are perfect for pulling you out of the fog and snapping your eyes open wide again.
And unfortunately, everyone has an Enema Friend, the worst kind of friend (well, at least they are my most hated kind). She is the friend that crawls up into your personal spaces and really only makes you feel better once you expell her from your life.
Wouldn't it be super cool if you could find all of these Friends wrapped up in one person? (Well, not Enema. We can totally go AMA with the Enema thing.)
This idea make me think though. Maybe we keep a whole batillion of medical machines in the friends we surround ourselves with. Our own personal ER of sorts....
You have your Oxygen Mask Friend who fills your lungs with breath and relieves the suffocating that can happen just by living a daily life.
There are IV Friends. These friends provide steady nutrition and flow thorough your veins and feed your cells and your soul. They are always there, attached to you and part of you. These are the friends you learn to dance with and move with and work around and live in union with every day.
Everyone has a Defibrillator Friend. The friend who shocks you back to life. They jump-start your heart with the things that they say and do. They momentarily take your breath away and jolt you back into being. They are perfect for pulling you out of the fog and snapping your eyes open wide again.
And unfortunately, everyone has an Enema Friend, the worst kind of friend (well, at least they are my most hated kind). She is the friend that crawls up into your personal spaces and really only makes you feel better once you expell her from your life.
Wouldn't it be super cool if you could find all of these Friends wrapped up in one person? (Well, not Enema. We can totally go AMA with the Enema thing.)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
This Is It
Okay. So here's the thing. I have been staring at this screen for weeks now with the vague idea that I should introduce myself at the beginning of this blog, and it's just not really happening. Instead in my mind I have compiled a list of things about myself that wouldn't serve as introductions, but are things that I would really like people to remember about me after I die. So here goes:
- I like cake. A lot. If your party includes cake, I'm there. And sneaking a piece home in my pocket. Or just licking cake directly from your serving plate, depending on how well I know you.
- I reeeeeaaaallly wanna win the lottery. And I totally think sheer desire should play a part in determining the winners.
- I can fit my whole fist in my mouth. Both disgusting and amazing, but sadly does not translate into any prowess in the childhood camp "Chubby Bunny" marshmallow game.
- I once yelled the sentence "Line 'em up!" when ordering shots at a bar. I'm not sure what this says about me, but it makes me laugh.
- I am a lover and a fighter and I don't think one should have to choose between them. I'm not sure how true this statement is, but I really like how it sounds.
- I want to be an Olympic figure skater. And even though I am staring down my 35th birthday (and don't know how to ice skate), a part of me still thinks this can happen with enough dedication and the right coach. I want to do this, not for Glory or America, but because that shit looks like Fun.
- I don't like my food to touch on my plate. At all. I hate food touching so much that china versions of those three-sectioned paper picnic plates have been purchased for me. I have an image in my head of letting this little demon loose and actually taking them to other people's parties and events.
- I make a mean margarita, can pour a beer faster than anyone I know, can remember multiple complicated food orders in my head (but not the location of my car keys), and am fluent in "Sweetie" and other restaurant lingo. Thank you to all of the various eating establishments and bars I have worked in over the years.
- I have fat thumbs. And I am self-conscious about it.
- I am never on time, am addicted to coffee, and often speak without thinking and think without speaking. I don't look good in hot pink, can't fold a fitted sheet to save my life, and I hold on to the hope that this thread I am hanging by will someday magically weave itself into a rope.
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