Thursday, July 29, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 36

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: You know you want it.
 So Current Husband and I have just come off of the parental equivalent of a weekend at Cabo San Lucas - the children were at Grandma's, and if you closed your eyes and sipped your margarita and stood in front of a fan with a CD of ocean music playing, then by all means, Voy a tener otro, Jose.

On Wednesday I was getting ready to leave to have coffee with a friend, and put on a sort of flowy white shirt that always looks like a terrific beachy summer top in the store, and looks suspiciously like a maternity top or the Krispy Kreme Fan Club tunic at home.  I walked into the dining room where CH was working, and said, "Does this top make me look pregnant?"

He finished typing his e-mail, surfed the Net for another moment, and then looked up.  He looked me up and down, raised his eyebrows, and said, "You look like you want me to bend you over."

Perdon?  This answer:
A)  Gets you out of answering the question.  If you tell me that the outfit I am wearing makes me look like I want nothing more than to be ravaged by you, it does not give the crucial information I need, such as:
  •  "Is my muffin top spilling out anywhere?"
  • "Are the edges of my underwear forming permanent creases in the butt of these pants?"
  • "Is there an extra boob roll present?"
News Flash - I KNOW YOU WILL HAVE SEX WITH ME IF I LOOK FAT.  I also know you will have sex with me if I don't shave for months, get a hairy mole, or smell like garlic.  You won't like it, but you'll do it.
B)  It assumes I prefer to be bent over for ANYTHING, which honestly, I don't.  Hello, knees of an Octogenarian here!  Hips soon to follow!  The only thing I like to be bent over is a sushi bar, and that is only to reach for my second cup of sake.  However, I would like to see YOU bent over something - how about the garbage, or that pair of work shoes in the doorway everyone is tripping over?

C)  This is actually a soliciation for some spontaneous sex.  The chance of me actually putting down the keys and saying, "You're right.  Do me like a dog in heat" are incredibly slim, and yet, you are willing to take that chance, even if it might piss me off.  I appreciate your optimism, really I do.  Someday, when I put on those capri pants that are a little snug in the trunk and I say, "Are my granny pants totally showing through these?" and you say, "You know you want me to tap that," I am going to take the fifteen minutes to peel those pants back down like a banana over my Spanx and then remove said panties and then the kids will come around the corner and scream "WHY ARE YOU NAKED?!?!" and we'll be late for the school function, but we'll both know in our heart of hearts that it was going to be THE BEST SEX WE'VE NEVER HAD.

D)  Puts the ball in my court.  Because if I grimace, or complain, then you can be affronted.  "What?  Why is that bad?  Lots of women would LOVE it if their husbands said stuff like that to them!"  Um, honey, WHAT stuff?  You mean the part where after I ask if my stomach is visibly hanging below my hem you imply that I am begging you to bend me over and mate with me like lions on Animal Planet?  My bad.  You CLEARLY understand exactly what lots of women would love.

Now.  Does this shirt make me look pregnant?  Because there is a skinny vanilla latte and scone waiting for momma, and if you want me to play cheerleader to your quarterback later, I need you to reinforce my delusion that I am keeping my midlife weight gain from the world at large.  I need you to back me up, not bend me over.  Are we clear?  Excellent.  Now get your hand off my boob, I'm going to be late.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Grandma Made Me Do It

I love my kids.

Now that we've got THAT out of the way, I'd like to extend an open Thank You to my husband's mother.

On Tuesday, I dropped my lovely three children off at a gas station in Eastern Iowa, and my mother-in-law put them in her car and peeled out, gravel kicking out from under the tires of her Caddy.  This entire scenario was an absolute win-win, but don't think for a second I don't know I got the better end of the deal.

What Grandma gained:
  • Time with her grandchildren
  • Potential information on her son
  • The ability to wait on three extra people
What the children gained:
  • Time with Grandma and Grandpa
  • Three nutritious, yet incredibly delicious, home-cooked meals
  • Fishing, boating, bonfires, fireworks, cookies
  • Undivided attention from someone who isn't over their cuteness yet
What I gained
  • Sanity
  • Thai food
  • Sex
  • Booze
  • Sleep
  • Chocolate Lava Cake
I think we have a winner.

Tuesday - kids are dropped off.  I begin the drive home.  What's that?  I don't have to listen to the Top Ten station Oldest Daughter loves, where every song is about Love in the Club?  Hello, Damian Kulash.  Let's turn up my OK Go CD and rock this minivan.  I get back home and HEY!  I don't HAVE to be here!  What's that Starbucks?  You are selling Skinny Vanilla Lattes right now?  I'm on my way.  I get home with coffee on my breath and a smile in my heart, humming the lyrics to WTF.  Bliss.  Current Husband gets home from work, we get to know each other Biblically, and go to Inception (which sounds a LOT like Conception, and if that is what happened then this is the worst trip to Grandma's EVER, because this Uterus is CLOSED FOR BUSINESS).  Drive home from the movie, have a glass of wine on the porch, swear loudly just for the fun of it, go to bed.

Wednesday - Wake up without anyone jamming their small, adorable foot in my back.  Already a terrific morning.  Take a shower and walk through the house naked without worrying about sending someone to therapy.  Meet a friend for coffee and stay there for TWO HOURS without a phone call to break up a fight.  Mail a month-overdue birthday gift to a friend.  Peruse the aisles at the grocery store.  Buy a case of Diet Coke, a case of Sierra Nevada, an 8-pack of Smirnoff's Green Apple, milk, English muffins and Tostitos.  Drive home and work on freelance projects, and mess around in my crafty area, where I break plates and crank up Linkin Park or Jay-Z.  CH gets home, we go out for Thai food.  Spicy, delicious Thai food, which my kids don't like.  In a restaurant without a drive-thru window.  Eat chocolate lava cake for dessert with a Bailey's.  Go home and watch Syriana (big disappointment, I still don't really get the point of the movie, but who cares?  I watched it without interruption!).  Drink on the porch with CH.  Go to bed and read 100 pages of my book.

Thursday - Wake up to the smell of coffee and another morning of silence.  Ahhh.  Drink my coffee on the porch, listen to the birds, read a magazine.  A unicorn walks out of the woods and gives me a magical rose, and ponies frolick around rainbows with sparkling pots of gold at the end, and then The Edge refills my coffee cup and says, "Don't tell anyone, but I wrote the song "One" for you," and he winks and walks away and this annoying ringing noise breaks up my reverie. 

Damn.  It was Grandma on the phone.  Oldest Daughter has been away from technology for nearly 48 hours and she is starting to shake uncontrollably, and keeps mumbling "I have to do a status update...friend requests to answer...LOL..JK....LYLAS...TTYL."  It is time to return to reality.  I knew this time would pass.  And so today I will get in the minivan, crank up the tunes, get a Venti skinny vanilla latte, and get down with my bad self one last time before the kids come home, I start a full-time job, and school starts.  

It's been a lovely couple of days, and if I have sinned?  Grandma made me do it.

Monday, July 26, 2010

Jane Austen's Vampire Zombie Coattails Fight Club

Jane Austen has been dead for nearly 200 years, but surely she would be dying a slow death today if she could see what has become of her work. Or would she?  What would it take to really piss off Jane Austen?

I love Jane Austen. If you are unfamiliar, check her Wikipedia entry for a little background.  I love Jane so much that Oldest Daughter's middle name is Austen.  I read "Pride and Prejudice" for about the fourth time while pregnant with her, and here I am pregnant with The Son and reading "Sense and Sensibility", again:

Okay, I'm drinking a malt, a pregnancy staple.  
But the book is next to me.  
I knew what was going to happen in the book, 
but that malt wasn't going to wait.

My favorite book on the planet is Pride & Prejudice, my favorite movie is the BBC/A&E version of Pride & Prejudice (Oh Colin Firth, allow me to say how ardently I adore you wet and clothed in a frilly shirt).  There have been many books and movies influenced by Jane Austen's work, including Bridget Jones' Diary (P&P), Clueless (Emma), Lost in Austen (which I love) and The Jane Austen Book Club, just to name a VERY few.  I have no issue with these works inspired by Austen, and have in fact enjoyed them.  BUT.

What is the deal with all of the new Austen craziness?  Pride and Prejudice and ZombiesPrada and PrejudiceColonel Brandon's DiaryMurder at Longbourne?  I swear to you, these are real titles of real books that real authors have been paid to write.  Here is a list on Amazon of the top FORTY (they could only list 40!  But there are more!) Jane Austen-inspired books on the market.  I can't tell you if they are any good - I have steadfastly refused to read them in honor of Jane.  I've heard some of them are good.  It just feels so...wrong, somehow.  WWJD - What Would Jane Do?

Just when I think the Austen Craziness is simmering down, something like this comes up, which I found on

Here is the original Fight Club trailer, a movie I loved by the way, for reference:

I think the Jane Austen Fight Club is funny, I do, but then I think "When will it end? Is nothing sacred?" How would Jane feel about it all? What's next?
  • "Jane Austen's Wheel of Fortune"
  • "Jane Austen Celebrity Rehab"
  • "Rock of Love 5:  Passion at Pemberly"
  • "Project Runway:  Corset Style"
Are there any other traumatized Austen fans out there?  Am I being unfair to artistic freedom?  Have any of you read any of these recent Austen knock-offs, and tell the truth, are any of them worth the read?  I await your advice, gentle readers.  Until then, in the words of Mr. Darcy:  "My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."

Saturday, July 24, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 35

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Just Beat It

First, my apologies.  CH and I took out some of his clients for dinner on Thursday night, which is when I normally write Whoreticulture Friday.  Then today, we had a terrible storm that knocked out our power for over five hours (about 30 minutes after unloading $100 of food in the fridge), rendering me Internet-less.  I think I have about 30 minutes until it is midnight, so this MIGHT still publish on Friday...

I grew up without brothers, so the whole male species was a bit of mystery to me.  At the beginning of seventh grade I knew about a kid walking around with a boner during the school day, and while I vaguely understood that his boner wasn't an obvious blunder or stupid mistake, I wasn't exactly sure of the purpose of it.  Why?  It wasn't like he was going to have sex in Biology class.

Go to Webster's Dictionary and click on the Audio of the word "boner".  It makes the 13-year-old in my giggle.  Okay, the 41-year-old too.

Masturbation isn't exactly something one talks about while dating, or even really after initially getting married.  I think around the five year anniversary mark, when you sort of run out of things to talk about, the topic may come up (no pun intended).  When The Son was little, other moms in my coffee group with similarly-aged boys would laugh about how "Little Timmy found his penis yesterday!" or "I changed Charlie's diaper and he wouldn't stop grabbing his penis" or "Jacob had an erection the entire time I bathed him yesterday, it was a little awkward".  (What made it even more awkward is that Jacob was her brother-in-law.)  The Son?  Nothing.  No finding, no grabbing, no woody, no interest.  Which was perfectly fine by me.

Fast forward to The Son at the age of 10.  Every summer we send him to a camp over an hour away so he can spend a week with his buddy from the previous town we lived in.  Last summer, we picked him up at the end of the week, and on the way home we grilled him about what happened at camp.

US:  "So what did everyone do?"
SON:  "We swam, rode horses, did some archery, climbed the tower, you know."
US:  "How was the food?"
SON:  "Terrible.  But I made it."
US:  "How were your cabin mates?"
SON:  (Pause)  "Well....they were a little weird."
US:  "What do you mean?"
SON:  "During the rest time after lunch, they would take off their pants and try to grab each other's junk."
US:  "What?"
SON:  "You know.  Like hit each other in the jingles."
US:  "Did they like this game?"
SON:  "Oh yeah, they played it every day.  J and I would just go outside the cabin and play cards until they were done.  We thought it was really weird."
US:  (Relief)  "Well that was probably the best thing to do."

And then we let it drop.  Because how do you tell your 10-year-old son that he just witnessed a week-long Circle Jerk?

Circle Jerk, as defined by Urban Dictionary, the go-to resource for Whoreticulture Friday:

1.) When a group of males sit in a circle, jerking each other off.
2.) *NOT* when a group of males stand in a circle to jerk off onto a cookie or anything of the sort. That retarded frat game is called "Limp Biscuit"... which kind of indirectly explains why the band of the same namesake is so fucking horrible.
3.) When a bunch of blowhards - usually politicians - get together for a debate but usually end up agreeing with each other's viewpoints to the point of redundancy, stroking each other's egos as if they were extensions of their genitals (ergo, the mastubatory insinuation). Basically, it's what happens when the choir preaches to itself.
4.) A game on MXC that's based on sumo wrestling. Beware the Green Teabagger.

Yes, Definition 1 is correct, although I do plan to beware the Green Teabagger.

We sort of let the whole thing go away.  The Son is a kid who likes to question things.  He is a gatherer of information.  And he isn't afraid to broach uncomfortable topics, so I'm quite sure he would have felt comfortable asking about the Junk Punching game if he had any questions.  I told CH this was his department, as I have no knowledge in the masturbatory habits in the human male.  Not to say CH does.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So this year, The Son goes to camp again.  On the way up, I tell him that if is going on, he can leave to play cards or whatever.  He nods and looks out of the window.  Today, I got a letter from The Son from camp.  It is titled, "Dear Homies".  He says "the food is terrible, but I make it through the day".  And then this passage - "The guys in my cabin are nice, not like the last ones without pants."

Whew.  Because those bad cabin mates?  They can just Beat It.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday/Saturday, and have a great weekend!

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

A Day in the Dad

Today was my quarterly cut, covering of the grays, waxing off of the Freda Kahlo, and generally begging of my long-suffering stylist to make me look younger.  Unfortunately, they have not perfected the waxing off of the Chin Gobbler or Coloring of the Eye Bags yet, so I walked out looking better groomed, but still 41.


We are showing the house at 5 p.m., and I just realized that due to some bad planning, I am now going to show the house with my pink Hitler mustache from the waxing.  Neat.  Much better than the showing last night, when I was feeling a little gassy.  It is 4:32, so I'm in my freakout mode and I'm realizing I didn't blog today, so I'm posting an awesome video.  This is a clip a friend sent to me, because she thought CH would appreciate it.  I will tell you that the first guy?  With the "gas station glasses"?  I might have thought he actually IS CH for a moment.  Hilarious.  See you Friday!

Monday, July 19, 2010

Bad, Rotten Mommy

The Son left for camp yesterday.

It is a week-long resident camp, and this is his third year.  We moved to our current town four years ago, and he goes to camp with his best friend from our previous town so they have a week together every summer.  They are like St. Bernard puppies, rolling and playing and barking and sleeping, with big clumsy feet and lolling grins.  It's about the cutest damn thing.  

This past week, I was busy with a job interview and showing the house and getting Oldest Daughter to string camp every day, and I told The Son to get his camp bag packed.  The camp sends a very specific checklist of what goes in the bag, and since this is his third year, I thought he could follow the checklist and get it done.

This was the Fatal Mistake.

He packed everything and had it sitting in the middle of his bedroom.  I came up to review his items, and asked if he had everything in his bags.  He showed me the list with double check marks next to everything in the "Required" section.  The phone rang and I ran away, since we are doing the whole house-selling thing and I am doing the job-interviewing thing and the phone is kind of important right now.

I drove him to the campsite, over an hour away from home, and helped him carry his pillow, sleeping bag, backpack and duffel bag.  He had shoes, he had bug repellent, he had sunscreen, he had a flashlight.  We seemed to be on the right track.  While we were standing in line waiting to come in, I overheard another mom say, "Oh, we forgot to bring a baseball cap!" and I thought "Damn, so did we!" but if it's just a hat we forgot, I could live with it.  I checked him in, we met his friend, and we walked to the cabin.

We walked in, and The Son took a top bunk.  I looked around, and every other bunk had a mini-fan on it.  I seemed to remember sending a fan with him in previous years, but didn't do it this year.  Whoops.  The cabins are not air-conditioned, and it was already pretty muggy in there.  Plus, I am sure it is hotter and muggier closer to the ceiling of the cabin.  I thought of my son, suffering in the heat, tossing and turning on his big down-filled (translation - HOT) sleeping bag, listening to the other boys fans.  Their moms are attentive and thorough.  His mom has ADD and didn't even check his bag.  

The counselors started shooing away the parents - we're all supposed to leave by 3:30 so the homesickness doesn't start and the helicopter parents are long gone before the kids start climbing "The Tower":
Actual photo of The Tower.  The Son LOVES it.
I think about liability issues.

The shooing means I don't have time to check The Son's bag.  Because I am already at camp, with no way of getting him the things he forgot, so it seems like a good time to check through his stuff and get distressed about what might or might not be in that bag.  He's 11 - he cares more about the flashlight than he does the toothbrush (which I know he has).  I get in the car and drive home, thinking.

By the time I get home, I know what he's missing.  His swimsuit.  At camp.  With a pool.  And a river.  He went to the local pool with a friend on Thursday, and told me about how he had to dig it out of his packed bag, and I was willing to bet $100 that he didn't re-pack it.  I got home, and my suspicions were confirmed.  Swimsuit was hanging in the bathroom.  The Son is the type of kid to get really upset about this type of thing.  Crapola.

So what is on my list early Monday morning?  Call the camp and be sure he can get a care package.  Tell them he needs it ASAP.  I am sure Carol on the line thought, "Yeah, yeah over protective HoverMom, they can't live without you for a week."  I ran to the store to bought a new small fan for his bed.  I found a baseball cap.  I packed his swimsuit and extension cord for said fan.  I drove across town to Priority ship the box of the things he forgot that could have been avoided had his mother taken 10 minutes to check his bag and the list of "Optional" items (like a fan).  Sigh.

How did I miss the sign-up for the course on "Necessary Things To Know To Be a Mother"?  Because I cannot do the following things:
  • french braid or otherwise style young girls' hair
  • separate important school paperwork from the crap
  • get the kids to make their beds or put away their clothes
  • switch summer clothes with winter clothes in a timely manner
  • be organized in any way
  • get current year school pictures framed before new ones are taken
  • stop swearing
  • not piss off the PTA
I do try, really I do.  There is just something wrong with my Estrogen Wiring.  I guess I'll be thankful for Priority shipping and other moms knowing to remind me about things, and continue to be the Scarlett O'Hara of Wifery, because as Miss Scarlett would say, I can always count on the fact that "Tomorrow is Another Day".

Thursday, July 15, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 34

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Effing Parents

Have you ever caught your parents having sex?  I don't think I did, but my sister insists that on one trip when we stayed at a hotel, my parents took the bed and we slept on the floor and we heard them.  Clearly I have blocked this painful memory.  My kids haven't caught us as far as I know.  We tell them Mommy is screaming because she is having a charley horse caused by lack of potassium, a cautionary tale to children who don't eat enough bananas, or that Mommy has terrible daytime nightmares, and she is yelling "Don't!" and "Stop!" but just really close together.

Actually, rarely can I have sex when the children are on our property.  Hence the popularity of the Nooner at our house.  I believe my reluctance to get it on when Elvis is in the building stems from some friends of ours getting busted.  They had a lock on their door, and they would frequently engage it in the mornings on weekends.  Their sons, ages 10 and 7, would knock or try to open the door, get frustrated, and see it as their opportunity to go eat frosting or try to start the lawnmower.  One Saturday morning, the boys thought they needed their parents more desperately than usual, and after rattling the door in its frame for a few minutes, the older son yelled, 

"C'MON you guys, we know you're SEXING in there!"

Oh God.

Chelsea Handler starts her uber-hilarious book "My Horizontal Life" with a chapter called, "Look Who's Having Sex With Mommy", about how at the age of 7 her sister dared her to run into their parent's room and take a picture while they were having sex.  Which, of course, she did.

 "Seeing your mother naked is not something you easily recover from.  Seeing your mother naked and jumping from one side of a king-sized bed to the other with a nurse's hat on while your father, who is also naked, is chasing her with a bandanna around his neck is a reason to put yourself up for adoption."

Along those lines, I have a friend who told me she was riding her husband like she was Jackie Kennedy at a dressage event, except that my friend was not tastefully dressed but instead buck nekkid.  (I am sure, however, that her husband thought of her as the First Lady.)  When approaching jump, the friend turned and saw her daughter watching them in the doorway of her room.  I am sure my friend got a 10 from the judges on her quick dismount, and then she got to have a super-fun talk about sex with her daughter, who I believe was 9.  Thank you Jesus, for sparing me the "Mommy Rides Daddy for Exercise" conversation so far.

Another friend, who was the 10th child out of 10, told us that when he was little his parents had a fun "game" they sometimes played with the kids.  His dad would take a handful of quarters and throw them in the back yard.  None of the kids could come inside until every kid had a quarter.  He told them it was an exercise in teamwork and helping each other.  What they figured out later is that after 20 or 30 minutes, their Dad would come out to check their progress, and someone would always magically find the last quarter moments after he left.  It turns out the parents were having sex, and the Dad would bring the last quarter outside and quietly drop it in the grass after the mission was accomplished.  Well done, parents of ten.  Now if only you had used those quarters toward The Pill.... but if his parents weren't so frisky and were big advocates of birth control, we wouldn't have our friend, the 10th of 10, now would we?

Did you ever catch your parents?  Have your children ever caught you?  Today is your day to contribute to Whoreticulture Friday.  Your kids already know...what's the harm in telling your anonymous, faceless Internet friends?  None whatsoever.  Show us your drawers.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Finally, A Real Day in the Wife

This blog is called "A Day in the Wife", and yet, ironically enough, I never write about that.  Today will be different, because it has been my typical clusterf**k of a day, and I think my readers should know how bad I really am at this whole Wifery thing.

7:25 a.m.
The alarm has apparently been going off, but I have somehow missed it.  I have to leave to take Oldest Daughter to String Camp in 20 minutes.  She needs at least 40 minutes to get ready.  I wake her up and take my verbal beating, knowing there is coffee in my future.

7:28 a.m.
I walk into the kitchen to make coffee.  We are out of coffee filters.  The crying begins.

7:50 a.m.
We leave for String Camp, late again.  Oldest Daughter is angry and I am starting to shake from lack of caffeine.

8:15 a.m.
I get coffee at Starbucks, but my Starbucks card is .52 short.  I have to leave the coffee, go back out to the car to get money, and come back in to pay.  There are four angry people waiting in line behind me, and because they couldn't override it on the register, so they had to wait for me.  Suck it up, people, I NEED that coffee!

9:10 a.m.
Other children wake up, and demand breakfast.  I am out of cereal and bagels.  Luckily, I have toaster strudel.  I make the toaster strudel, but Youngest Daughter refuses to eat it because the design I made with the frosting is unacceptable, asks for Dots candy instead.  I openly lose my temper for the third time today.  YD eats toaster strudel with bad design, and somewhere, Michael Graves shakes his head at the tragedy of it all.

10:00 a.m.
I take YD, her brother, and his friend to PetSmart so they can look at snake accessories.  The Son and his friend both have corn snakes, which go on "playdates" to each others tanks.  I warn The Son that snakes are not pack animals, and they will probably kill each other eventually.  On the plus side, this will get me out of buying frozen baby rodents to feed said snake.  YD asks if we can go to the Target next door for a free cookie.  While out, I get a text from Oldest Daughter's cello teacher that the audition clinic for the local symphony youth string ensemble has been moved to today at 1.  Is OD planning on attending?  He strongly encourages it.  And we will have to reschedule today's lesson.  I panic, trying to quickly rearrange the day and figure out where and when this clinic is taking place.

Pick up OD from string camp and tell her she is going to ensemble clinic in 45 minutes.  She begins to cry, says she is not ready, tells me she doesn't want to go, and blames me for the symphony reschedule.  Because I hold unlimited power in the universe.  I spill coffee on my shirt.

12:50 p.m.
Yelling at everyone to "get in the van, we are late for the clinic!"  Everyone is crying:  OD because she is freaking out, YD because there is no candy involved, me because I am late AGAIN, and The Son because he is sad that everyone else is sad.  Make note to self to Google which Norman Rockwell painting corresponds to this moment.

1:05 p.m.
Pull up at audition site, comment on how empty parking lot is.  Go inside, ask secretary where clinic is, she looks at me like I asked her how to make cat salad in Portuguese.

1:09 p.m.
Force OD to text friend, find out clinic is tomorrow, cello teacher messed up.  I swear profusely.  OD is relieved.  YD asks for Skittles to celebrate.

1:15 p.m.
Get home to find gas company employee standing in my yard next to the For Sale sign, smoking, with the new gas line pipe sticking up out of my yard three feet from his cigarette.  Briefly hope he flicks his butt that way.  Instead, he opts for Port-O-John across street from my house (Did I mention my house is on the market?).  Notice full McDonalds bag on my curb next to where the gas company truck was parked about an hour earlier.  Hope prospective buyers avoid our house today.

1:45 p.m.
Realize in cello panic, I forgot to give anyone lunch.  Vegetarian daughter wants mac and cheese.  YD does not want mac and cheese, she asks for Twizzlers.  The Son doesn't feel like mac and cheese either, he would prefer turkey sandwich.  Children start fighting about which lunch would be best.  I leave to find Aleve bottle and a corner in which to rock.

2:43 p.m.
Remember I intended to make barbequed ribs in slow cooker for dinner, but they are supposed to cook on low for 6-8 hours.  I brown them in a frying pan and put them in the slow cooker on high, hoping that 6-8 hours on low heat means 3-4 hours on high heat will suffice.  Suspect my meat math is off.  Hope family isn't hungry until 9 p.m. and this does not result in multiple counts of food poisoning.

4:17 p.m.
Remember The Son goes to resident camp over an hour away on Sunday, and I haven't sent in physical forms.  Call camp and find out there is still a $285 balance.  Secretary urges me to get forms in mail tomorrow, since they are supposed to be mailed in 4 weeks prior to camp.  Crap.  (NOTE:  Same thing happened last year.  And possibly year before.)

5:43 p.m.
Call Current Husband to remind him that I am meeting friends for margarita and Eclipse, and need to leave by 6:10.  He tells me he will be home in 10 minutes.

6:13 p.m.
Current Husband arrives at home.  George the Superpet is jumping on him.  OD, YD, and The Son all run to him, grateful there is a non-swearing, non-caffeinated parent on the premises.  CH comments on how good dinner smells, and I say, "You can try it now, but it may not be done until 8 p.m.  Have fun!" and I leave.

7:45 p.m.
Two margaritas under my belt.  Rob Pattinson is filling up the screen in front of me.  I have a Diet Coke, and am surrounded by eight great women.  My day just took a turn for the better.

10:45 p.m.
Arrive at home calm and relaxed.  Walk in door.  The Son announces he has a friend over for the night and they will be playing with the snakes.  Oldest Daughter says she has plans with a friend tomorrow, and could I send lunch with her so she doesn't have the awkward vegetarian moment?  YD comes yelling out of the back room, seemingly ready to stay up for another three hours.  She asks if she can have a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  I refuse.  She is angry, fights the whole "going to bed" thing.

12:22 a.m.
YD finally asleep.  Blog is almost done.  House is disaster.  Have to wake up in 7 hours.  At least I have coffee filters.

UPDATE:  1:13 a.m. 
Realize as I'm going to bed that I forgot to call the real estate website by Wed 3 p.m. deadline to tell them we are having an Open House this Sunday, now all advertising is gone and I have to cancel Open House and reschedule for the next weekend.  Because I am so organized.

Coffees:          5
Diet Cokes:    2
Medifast bars:  3
Expletives:      43
Margaritas:      2

Tomorrow, I will wake up at 7 a.m. (I hope) and try all over again to get it right, but I am not optimistic.  Perhaps two more coffees will get me there... 

This is A Day in the Wife. 

Please tell me your days are not dissimilar.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

My Apologies to St. Joseph

Have I mentioned we are trying to sell our house? Yes? Okay, then you may recall that a sweet Catholic friend gave me a statue of St. Joseph to bury in our yard. 

I wanted to bury him with Bailey's, but CH said that was sacrilegious, and I reminded CH about the priest who was drunk a lot when CH was an altar boy, or my Catholic neighbor who drank vodka in her morning coffee when I was a kid, but he still thought it was wrong and would offend God.  Raisins seemed like the obvious second choice, because they are nutritious, they keep you regular, and the Sun Maid Raisin Girl is a hot biscuit and could keep St. Joseph company while he focused on selling my house.

I was so wrong.

After my first open house, where we had over 20 different groups of people come through and look, I didn't get any calls in the first few days.  I couldn't understand it - everyone talked about how much they loved the house!  Then, I found this:

Yes, this is the EXACT, UNDISTURBED scene I found in my flower bed.  St. Joseph's home-selling contemplating spot had been disturbed by some rat bastard chipmunks, and to make matters worse, the Sun Maid Raisin Girl had been defiled.  How much must St. Joseph endure?  NO WONDER my phone wasn't ringing!  The connection had been severed.  I took St. Joseph out, cleaned him up a little bit, and apologized.  Then I reburied him with this:

Because St. Joseph could probably use some new threads, and I'd just like to see you TRY to get $10 off at Aeropostale, you rat bastard chipmunks.  Can't eat a bargain, can you!?!  And, WORRIED MUCH ABOUT GOING TO HELL, CHIPMUNKS?  Because you have disturbed a holy place.  I suspect my chipmunks are Baptists.

But then I really started thinking about the situation, and I was troubled.  Was his tomb truly disturbed, or had he pushed the boulder away from the entrance of his crypt and forced the Sun Maid Raisin Girl out because she was a tart?  Was this a miracle?  I'm a lapsed Methodist, so I'm not well versed in the rites of Catholicism.  This is why I have Catholic drinking reading buddies.  After speaking with them, I decided to cover my bases:

A)  Call up my Catholic friends for support.  This is my friend Angie, a fellow college Chi Omega.  She is a very good Catholic girl, and she agreed to meet me for coffee and send some of her Catholic ju-ju my way.  Just look at her!  Isn't she adorable?  It makes you want to grab your rosary, doesn't it guys?  Well fuggetaboutit, she's taken by a good Catholic boy.  That's right.  I double dipped.

B) Make George the Superpet read the entire Catholic version of the Bible.  It was exhausting work, but I gave him a Beggin' Strip for every Book he read.  He learned a lot, and it's sort of irritating because now he barks every time I sin.  BARK BARK BARK all day long.  Enlightened dogs are SO overrated.

  Do you see the Blessed Mother on my toast?

C)  Pray until I get a sign.  I prayed the prayer that comes in the St. Joseph box.  It's kind of a long prayer, but full of nice things to say, and you feel like you've done something pure and good when you are done.  After the second or third time, my toast popped up, and lo and behold, the Blessed Mother, the Virgin Mary, appeared to me on a slice of split-top wheat.  It wasn't a huge surprise, because another Catholic friend sent me the Virgin Mary template to make Holy Toast, and I used it for the first time (the Virgin slice?) while saying the prayer, because it seemed like the right thing to do.  However, all of the praying made me very hungry.

Uh oh.  Father forgive me, for I am about to sin....

 Not on my Medifast plan.  The devil made me do it.

 George the Superpet was very hungry 
after all of that reading.
JIF is his kryptonite.

As soon as I reburied St. Joseph with the gift card and had coffee with my Catholic friend, the calls started coming in.  I've shown the house a bunch this week, and there are some seemingly interested people.  Plus, we had another busy open house today.  But I'm a little nervous because I ate the Mary Toast tonight, and I feel like God may frown upon that.  So let me take this moment to apologize.  I am weak, Lord.  Tomorrow is first day of the rest of my life.  And even though I am a Methodist, I respect my Catholic friends, especially because they always bring wine when they visit.  George the Superpet is barking again.  Wish me luck!

Friday, July 9, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 33

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Summer Hair Management.

I'm sort of a slacker mom.  Granted, we've been pretty busy so far this summer, but I took my kids to the pool for the first time last week, and their summer break is halfway over.  The kids have been to the pool - they've been in swimming lessons, been with friends, and went with our local park board.  But I, the Wife, had not stripped down for the community at the local pool until last week.  Preparing for my pool trip made me realize what a hairy woman I have become in my old age.

 Actual photo of me at pool, playing water guns with kids.

Every woman deals with this issue on some level.  Honestly, I don't shave my legs much between Thanksgiving and St. Patrick's Day.  Why bother?  Current Husband isn't going to turn me down because he doesn't have a girlfriend yet and I am his only option.  Besides, it keeps me warm.  But in the summer?  You don't want even one little unsightly hair poking out of anything.  Let me break it down for you from head to toe:

 Me at PTA event in May.
I think the flower in my hair is a nice touch.

I am a total Freda Kahlo.  If I don't pluck my eyebrows every few hours, I will grow a Bridge to Terabithia between my eyes.  Now that I am over 40, some of those hairs are gray or white, and much harder for me to see with my reduced vision.  I always seem to notice those little buggers about 10 minutes before I'm ready to walk out the door.  Last night is a great example - CH and I attended a John Deere Classic Golf Tournament dinner with some friends.  Nice event.  I wore a dress.  But as we were leaving home, I noticed a few stray eyebrow hairs, and I had to pluck them.  HAD. TO. And of course, I got huge welts on my eyebrows.  I told people I was hit in the forehead by a stray golf ball on my way into the event.  Kenny Parry got me an ice pack.  Zach Johnson suggested cucumber slices from the salad.

 Kids!  Let's get some ice cream with Higgins!
There is nothing hotter than a mother of three with a fluffy 'stache.  Again, over 40, darker hair, more prevalent.  What is that all about?  I didn't have a mustache in college!  I had very little unsightly hair before I was 25.  It's like God WANTS you to get pregnant before you're ready.  I get that bad boy waxed every few months, but I have to be sure not to schedule anything in the afternoon, because when the Tom Selleck is yanked off my face, I get a huge pink Hitler for a few hours afterward.  They even douse me with witch hazel or vodka or something, and yet, I sport the FemiNazi until dinner.

 It appears that Alec Baldwin and I 
share more than calling our 
children names on their voicemail...
Oh, you heard me.  I said it.  Nipples.  And I know lots of women who get stray hairs around their nipples, so don't EVEN try to tell me this is shocking in any way.  Fortunately, my nipular hair level has not reached shaving level, because I never want to say to CH, "Hey, wanna get it on?  I just shaved my tits."  I'm a plucker.  A mother plucker.  So hot.  Speaking of hot...

I'll pluck yours, Rob, if you pluck mine...
Yep, here too.  I've heard this called the Dirt Trail, but Urban Dictionary, the go-to resource for Whoreticulture Friday, says that is actually a disgusting fecal issue, so don't take my word for it.  I had a friend in high school who was plucking dark hairs from her navel to her dealio, and I thought, "Wow, that sucks".  Now I think of her as a pluck those stray bad boys, because she has a terrific job and probably gets hers professionally done while sipping a Mojito and reading "W".  Touche.

Bikini Line - really, you don't want an image here.
I am not brave enough to wax yet, so I am a shaver, despite warnings from my OB-GYN friend from high school who says to be careful with the razor because she has put stitches in a LABIA (cringe) from someone doing their own bushwhacking.  And let me tell you, it is hard to be thorough for swimsuit wearing.  I was very conscious about leg placement at the pool, because honestly, I am getting old and not as bendy as I used to be, and I was a little concerned about being surrounded by hairless teens in small bikinis.  Enough said.  As for Brazilians, let me just tell you that my pain tolerance level is quite low, and until they are giving epidurals with Brazilians, I will not carry a passport.  No travel to Brazil for me.

I look just like this, 
if you add three pregnancies, 
loads of spider veins, 
hairy German bloodlines,
and 15 boxes of girl scout cookies.
I always shave my legs in the summer, but I notice there are spots on my knees that I miss, which is weird.  I also occasionally notice longer dark strays on the back of my thighs a few inches above my knees, like there are a couple of hairs that seem to duck whenever I am shaving, and suddenly they are an inch long and showing off my German heritage.  I guess I'm married, so who gives a shit, but really, it's more about the principle.  I used to have great legs, it was my favorite feature, but then I had kids.  Some families pass down sterling silver or china.  Some families pass down stock or ownership in companies.  My family passes down the chin gobbler, Alzheimer's, and varicose veins.  Thanks, ancestors!  Now I have a map of Toledo on the backs of my legs, so really?  The hair can stay.

I get my pedicures done in Middle Earth with Frodo.
My big toes have hair on them too.  I also had five wisdom teeth, so it's like my people really haven't evolved that much from the apes.  I've been known to shave my big toes.  It's like my razor sees me coming and goes, "Oh Christ, really?"  I think I just need an all-over waxing.  Wax on, wax off.  Just like the Karate Kid.  But hairier.  And sadder.

I'm sorry to burst your bubble people, but I'm not too sexy for my shirt.  But I may be a little too hairy for it.  I know.  Current Husband is one lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Keep on waxing and have a great weekend!  St. Joseph story to come, he couldn't fit into Whoreticulture Friday, Sunday seems a little more appropriate.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Guest Post by Oldest Daughter

Oldest Daughter is actually a more accomplished writer than I. She won a contest in Writer's Digest, back when they had a kid's contest, so she's been published in Writer's Digest and I haven't. But I'm not bitter and that's what's important.

She's been doing writing prompts she found on a website, and she sent this one to me. It's an obvious cry for help, so I told her I was posting it on my blog. Publishing your child's personal work on the Internet is what all good mothers do, right?  She looked at me incredulously, and then said, "Are you SERIOUS?" At first, I thought she was horrified, and then I realized that she was honored, which is really funny, because HELLO! Grandma already thinks you're a genius!

So OD thinks she's hit the big time because she is on A Day in The Wife. And I will allow her to think these thoughts because they might translate into me looking like an authority of some kind.  I am posting this because I think it will give you some insight into 33% of what I deal with on a day-to-day basis.

Here is her Guest Post - I believe #5 was actually written with me in mind.  Or perhaps all of them.  #3 and #6 are my personal favorites:

10 Reasons Why You Shouldn’t
Write Your Life Story, by OD

  1. Writing your life story is like making people depressed with you. For example, you could have a great story up until you start writing about when you turned thirteen and you figured out you were moving to another town and that your friends were happy you were. Or that your parents were getting divorced and that you started doing things you knew were wrong - I’m not speaking out of experience here, by the way.
  2. It’s like you’re just spreading out you’re personal information. Ex: “when I was thirteen I got my period at my best friend’s pool party where everyone made fun of me and started calling me ‘spot’” - again, not speaking from experience- but c’mon, really? Do we need to know your childhood nickname? No.
  3.  It attracts stalkers and other pedophiles. You could answer the phone one day to an unknown number and someone on the other end could be all, “meet me at the BP gas station in five minutes or your daughter gets it!” and you could be all, “but my daughter is with me…?” and they could be all, “not for long.” and then you would be forced into a spiraling paranoia where everyone thinks you’re crazy and people have to put you in a local asylum. Do you really want that?
  4.  People from your high school graduation class that you wrote about would call you and be like, “wtf were you thinking writing about how it was me who slashed the tires on principal McManny’s car?!” and you would be like, “oh I didn’t edit that part out?” and then they would be all mad and upset at you for the rest of your life.
  5.  You could end up with some crappy publisher and end up just paying them to go nowhere with your book, so it’s a total waste of time and money and bad childhood nicknames (see #3).
  6.  Your children would hate you. You could write about them being born and their entire freshman class could read it and be like, “HA! Your parents never meant to have you!” and your kid would be all, “what the heck were you thinking?!” and you would be all, “oh my god, that part wasn’t edited out either?!” and then they would hire a hitman to come and end you so they could be all, “who’s the accident now?” and you would look up or down at them sobbing and be like, “I’m so sorry.
Alright, I can’t come up with ten reasons I could only come up with six. (:

SPECIAL NOTE: none of these examples are from personal experience and I apologize in advance for if they relate to you in any way.

I have to admit, I love the disclaimer at the end.  "These don't relate to you in any way, especially the part where I hire a hitman to come and end you.  Sleep well, Mother. I'm also fond of the "spiraling paranoia".  Therapy with her is going to be fun and interesting.

Happy Thursday!  Back tomorrow with an update on what happened to St. Joseph, and let me tell you, it isn't pretty.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Taking My Teen to a Sex Den

Last weekend, I took Oldest Daughter to a Sex Den.

Actually, I took her to two of them. They were on fire, red-hot, hunka-burning-love, bulge-in-the-jeans-in-your-face places, and to my great joy, OD was stone cold, like an ice cream cone next to a volcanic fajita pan. Where are these lusty locales? In the mall, just two doors down from each other. We shopped in Hollister and Abercrombie and Fitch.

"Steve leaned against the post and 
watched his children play on the playset 
while planning his and Jenny's 
15-year-anniversary celebration."

Any parent who has walked past either of these stores knows what I'm talking about. They are Temptation personified. They post gargantuan, blown up pictures of washboard abs and bulging jeans, pump their lusty, eat-the-ripened-fruit perfumes out of the doors, and crank their roll-on-the-beach-in-the-sand-with-us-and-hope-you-don't-get-knocked-up tunes at the highest decibels.

They hire people who look like models - anyone with a BMI over 20 or in need of Proactiv need not apply.  There is always a model employee folding and re-folding t-shirts by the front entrance, which looks like a surf shack people sneak into after a few beers to make out, and they greet you.  If you are over 22 and come in alone, they say, "Welcome to Hollister, let me know if I can help you" and they smile at you like "I'm sorry you got old and can't wear our clothes."  If you are under 22 they smile and say, "Hey, what's up?  Welcome to Hollister!  Holla if you need something!" and if you are the cash cow adult accompanying the person under 22 you don't exist until you approach the register.  There, they await your debit card and look at you with a kind expression that says, "You must hate being old and missing all of this fun!"  And then they hand your purchase to you in a bag with naked men on it.

"Beth asked if he took the dresser out 
to the garbage for Bulky Item Day, 
and he said 'Yes, but it kinked my neck' 
and she said 'well we can't afford 
the co-pay this month, 
let me try to adjust it for you'."

A couple of years ago, OD would actually avert her eyes if we were to walk past either of these stores, or Victoria's Secret.  She physically couldn't bring herself to look at them, because they always have the 10-foot-tall black and white artsy photos of naked college kids.  I asked her once, "Why do you put your hand in front of your eyes?" and she said, "Because the pictures are gross and those stores are for older kids", NOT adults, mind you, but as though she somehow wasn't ALLOWED to look at the stores until she reached middle school or had the sex education day films.  I thought "Well this is ridiculous - she's seen Current Husband and I walk around the house half-dressed!" and then realized "OH.  No one looks at us and thinks 'I'd like to tap that'." Because when we are half-dressed, we are usually saying things like, "Mother of Pearl my back hurts, would someone rub it?" or "Is it just me or are my varicose veins actually BIGGER?"

"Would you feel this mole on my back?  
Does it seem cancerous?  My elbow hurts 
when you bend it like that, do you think 
I have arthritis?  I can hear your knees 
cracking.  Put my tank top down, 
you can see my stretch marks! 
And don't even TRY to grab my tits, 
the kids might walk in!"

Now when I take OD into these stores, she can manage to walk in, but she doesn't dwell on the naked pictures.  She doesn't ogle the male model employees...that I notice.  She actually looks at the clothes and tries to figure out which colors will go best with what she already owns.  She looks at prices and only buys a few things that are on sale, as we make her use her own money at these places so she can appreciate how expensive sex advertising can be.  And she doesn't buy into the "wouldn't this t-shirt look great hiked up to your bra?" or "these jeans are meant to be worn down to the coin slot" philosophy.

"Jeremy looked toward the shed and thought, 
'Damn all this rain, this yard is going 
to be impossible to mow' and regretted the 
Scots Turf Builder he had applied only 
the week prior.  'I swear to God the next 
place we buy is a condo'. "

Abercrombie and Hollister are hot for her, but for now?  She's so cold.  We've always said she can't date until high school, and she is starting eighth grade in the fall.  Lately, her popular question has been "Does high school start the summer between eighth and ninth grade, or after ninth grade actually starts?"  I'm hoping Siberia sticks around for a while, but I'm realistic enough to know a thaw is coming.