Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Look Away From the Light, Part 1

(Dear Readers - this post got way too long, so I'm splitting it into two, like King Solomon and the baby. Maybe more like an Oreo, and the first part of the story has more cream filling.  I'll post the second part tomorrow, so all three of you will have to wait.)

I'm starting to believe my house was built on top of a graveyard.  A graveyard made up of the graves of elves from Santa's workshop and sleigh-pulling reindeer who had a little too much eggnog and wandered out on the highway.  It's like the sacred burial ground of magical creatures, who have risen up to wreak their revenge.  "Why, Julie?" you might ask.  "Why are you such a pessimist?" 

I'm glad you asked, Gentle Reader.  Turn off your TV, the static is how they talk to you.  This is my story.

I've always loved the season of ThanksMas, or ChristGiving.  Let's go with ChristGiving, so I can give Jesus his props.  ChristGiving was always a season of truce when I was growing up.  In our otherwise chaotic and frequently miserable home, my parents always seemed to call a truce between what used to be "Nebraska vs. Oklahoma and Ohio State v. Michigan Football Day" (now known as Black Friday and Charcoal Gray Saturday) and December 31. 

Thanksgiving Day was great, but ChristGiving season began with cinnamon rolls and coffee the morning after Thanksgiving, and Dad would call his bookie to get the spread and place his bets, Mom would make Bloody Marys, and we all settled down to cheer for the Cornhuskers and watch the parental units get a little drunk, but it was a HAPPY drunk, particularly when Nebraska or the Buckeyes would win and Dad would get a little spendin' money. 

We would then get a 20 foot tree, because we lived on a lake and had one of those Walls of Glass that looked out on the lake that was two stories high.  Mom would pick the tree and Dad would grumble about the Fucking Tree all day as he hauled it home and set it up in the stand and prayed it wouldn't fall over and break through the Wall of Glass, and then he had to get on a 30 foot ladder to get the star on top and put up lights.  We would light the fireplace for the first time, and twice actually had a chimney fire, one time requiring the fire department and a bucket brigade from the lake executed by our drunk neighbors.

Mom only cried when it looked like the tree might not make it in the stand, but Dad always made it work, and otherwise it was all Smiles Everyone, Smiles!  We lit the Fucking Tree and it was spectacular, and even Dad got into the mood because he was a lapsed Mennonite and they really didn't go crazy on the whole tree/decor/gluttony/materialism thing when he was growing up, so embracing Santa Christmas was like part of his delayed teen rebellion.

SO, short story long, I really get into ChristGiving season.  Love the turkey.  Love the stuffing.  Love the music.  Love the decorating.  Love the whole Christmas morning thing with the kids, I just never tire of it.  There truly are moments of completely unbridled JOY at ChristGiving, from the smile on my daughter's face to the pulling on of the elastic waistband pants to tuck in to that turkey or 8th Christmas cookie.  (I even love Christmas cards, and I have personal standards for mine, which Current Husband hates - it has to have a photo, a letter, and be hand signed.)

(Hey look, the blog post should almost be over,
and yet, I still haven't gotten to the point!)

Last weekend was awesome.  For the record, my mother-in-law is a great cook, and she doesn't even read this blog so I'm saying that from a place of truth, not suck-uppyness.  On Thursday night, I went to WalMart for pre-Black Friday and puking circus women.  On Friday, I rested.  On Saturday, I drove to a local tree seller, put the seats down in the van, and shoved that seven-foot-tall bad boy in.  I like to get the tree all by myself and just show up at home with it, unannounced.  This way, I don't have to take a carload of people with opinions that might be different than mine to select something that I am going to mainly be in charge of, and then I don't get any arguments as to why today isn't a good day to decorate the tree.

Thus concludes the first part of my pointless holiday story.  I can't guarantee the second part is any better.  I do swear a couple of times, and there is a minor amount of violence, so there's that.  Part 2 tomorrow.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Black Friday Virgin

I'm not exactly sure how I thought it would end.  I know how it began.

We drove to my in-laws house in northeastern Iowa on Thanksgiving Day, late as usual.  We did say we would be there around noon, but it was closer to 12:30, and when people are cooking food around your arrival, it's best not to be late.  I'm one of those horrible people who are ALWAYS late.  I get up with the best of intentions, truly, I do, but something usually goes awry.  This time, it was the toilet.

Everyone is in the van and George the Superpet is set up and ready for the lovely sweetness that is my friend who let him out on Thursday and Friday, and then one of the kids says, "I have to go to the bathroom".  Okay.  Better now than 30 minutes into the drive, right?  So I take said child into the house, who does their thing and then says, "MOM?  I don't want to flush because there is something weird in here, and I didn't do it."  Oh crap.  Literally.  Someone did some business earlier, and now it is alive.

So occasinally someone in the sorority would drop a deuce so large it would merit all-house attention, because what is more Ripley's Believe it Or Not than a sorority girl with a huge crap?  A girl in our house discovered this Wonder of Science and did what was then called an "All House Buzz" on the buzzer system, essentially meaning "gather round".  Sisters filed into the bathroom one by one to see this anomaly, and one particularly sensitive girl stepped out and said, in a very panicky, breathy voice, "SOME HORRIBLE FRATERNITY BOY. HAS PUT. HORSE POOP. IN OUR TOILET!"  The poor sister who had the duty of House Manager at the time, Joan, had to take a coat hanger and break it up to get it to flush.  Ah, college memories. Thus concludes this somewhat gross and highly tangental story.  Let's return to Black Friday, shall we?

SO, one of the kids clogged the toilet, and Current Husband and I are fixing it while the kids are in the van, waiting to leave for Thanksgiving.  I look at CH and laugh, "Isn't this what you dreamed about on our wedding day?  Us, together, in the bathroom, unclogging the work of one of our offspring on the holidays?"  He smiled like, "NO." and then, toilet fixed, we took off for a nearly three-hour trip of kids bickering and various Ke$ha songs on the radio and CH's mom calling to see where we were because the food was almost ready.

The meal was served, and it was highly delicious.  My MIL is a kick-ass cook.  I brought an awesome bottle of chardonnay, and was well into it when someone brought up Black Friday.  My brother-in-law, Jeremy, and I had never been Black Friday shopping.  We discussed the fact that the only place to shop within an hour of where we were seated was Wal-Mart, located 15 minutes away in Prairie du Chein, Wisconsin.  Laughing, we looked at the Black Friday flier, and HEY! They have doorbusters at midnight, and then the good stuff goes on sale at 5 a.m.  NO ONE will be shopping at midnight on Thanksgiving in Prairie du Chein, right?  Jeremy and I decide to break our cherries.  We are going Black Friday shopping.  Everyone else says, "No effing way, have fun you freaks."  They loosen their belts and undo their top buttons and go to sleep.  At 10:50, Jeremy and I get into the van and head out for Wal-Mart.

The whole way there we are laughing about how we are going to be the only people there.  Who would shop at midnight on Thanksgiving Day?  We are CA-RAY-ZEE!  The mood is merry.  Then, we pull into the parking lot and look at each other.  What the hell.  The parking lot is packed.  It is 11:05 p.m.  This has to be a mistake.  We walk into the store.

Everything is cordoned off.  Wal-Mart employees are running around all panicky.  There are huge, shrink-wrapped cubes of product in the aisles, with big signs that say, "DOES NOT GO ON SALE UNTIL 12:01 a.m."  Some items are wraped in black and say, "DOES NOT GO ON SALE UNTIL 5 a.m."  People are literally standing around the cubes with their hands on them, as though it is a contest where if you are the last person with their hand on the car you win it.  I stop laughing.  I get a little nervous.  Jeremy and I sync our cell phones and split up.  I won't see Jeremy again until 12:45 a.m.

I get to the video game cube.  Hard-ass looking women are standing around it.  The predominant look is tightly curled perm with faded Disney-themed hoodie.  One woman growls, "I've been here for over an hour and I need a fucking cigarette."  Oh God.  It was like I was in prison all over again. 

One woman looks at me and says, I swear to you, "First time?"  I smile weakly and nod.  Do not make me your bitch, oh please, do not, I am a terrible bitch, I swear. 
"What are you here for?" she asks.
"Um, Modern Warfare 2 and NCAA 11." I wait.  Perhaps I should have gone with Ponyville.
"Well I'm hear for Red (something) Redemption, and you do NOT want to get in front of me!" she chuckles.  "This isn't MY first time!"
"Oh, I won't," I assure her.
"Let me give you some tips," she says.  "First, everyone here is nice now, but when midnight hits they will turn on you.  Second, grab your game and hold it to your chest, people will try to take it out of your hands.  Next, DO NOT put it in your cart.  Someone will take it out of your cart if they see it."
"Thanks," I say.  I'm grateful for the tips, but now I am actually scared I will get hurt.  I leave and try another area of the store.  It is the same EVERYWHERE.  Tabletop griddles?  Check.  Shark steam vac?  Check.  Fleece pajama bottoms?  Check.  I totally steer clear of the Barbie VW Bug and Full Size Trampoline areas, because I can see nothing good is going to happen there.  This is WISCONSIN.  What is it like at the Wal-Mart in downtown Detroit?  I head back to the games and manage to get back in position.
"It's the same everywhere, isn't it?" my girlfriend says knowingly.
"How long until midnight?" she asks.
"About 20 minutes."
"God, I need a fucking cigarette."

At 11:56 p.m., a manager starts to unwrap the shrink wrap on a cube about 4 cubes down from mine.  My girlfriend says, "I'm taking mine" and rips the plastic.  Absolute pandemonium breaks out, as women start tearing shrink wrap everywhere.  I stand, paralyzed, and a hand with yellowed fingernails hands me a copy of Modern Warfare 2 and NCAA 11.  If I had a cigarette, it would be hers.  I turn and run into a woman leaving the stack of Wizards of Waverly Place DS games, so I grab one of those and a Toy Story 3 and Zhu-Zhu Pets game for Wii.  And Cooking Mama Absolute Gardener.  And Tony Hawk Ultimate Urban Skater.

I start aimlessly wandering around the store, watching the mayhem over SpongeBob robes and 17 Again DVDs, listening to people talk about a woman who power-vomited all over the back of the games area, when I hear my name.  It is Jeremy, in line with Wii games and a Nerf gun set.  He says, "Get in line!  There are only 4 checkers!" and I walk the quarter mile to the back of the line.  The next half hour was a blur, as I watched people scramble for a place in line.  Fights broke out, people were angry, and young children were tiredly being pushed along by their parents.  And this was for the midnight sales, not the 5 a.m. rush with flat screen TVs, cameras, and computers!  Happy Birthday Jesus!  This is all for you!

We finally got in the van and left the parking lot, shell-shocked.  I told Jeremy about my prison bitch, and Jeremy said, "Oh, I have you beat.  I was back by the DVDs and a woman who looked like she was drunk started puking everywhere.  People were clearing away and telling her to get out, and one woman completely freaked out and started screaming at shoppers, DO NOT STEP BACK HERE!  LEAVE THIS PLACE!" I looked at Jeremy, stunned.  "I heard of this vomiting woman!  People were talking about her all over the store!  You SAW it??!"  Jeremy nodded solemly.  "I saw it, I smelled it, I will never get it out of my brain.  Then, ten minutes later, I saw her actually shopping, covered in her own puke."

I saved about $180 on games.  Jeremy saved about $100 on his Wii and Nerf items.  However, we both agreed this was our first and last Black Friday.  We decided neither of us has the Right Stuff to be a Black Friday shopper.  Next year, I'm having a third piece of pie, unbuttoning the top button, sleeping soundly and peacefully while others claw through the crowds.  If I must vomit on Thanksgiving, it will be in the relative comfort of my in-laws bathroom.

Other than that, we had a fabulous Thanksgiving, and much to be thankful for this year.  I hope yours was excellent as well!  Have a great week!

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

The Thanksgiving Story

Gather ye round, children, it's time for the story of the original Thanksgiving.  It's important to know history, because those who don't know history are doomed to only talk about the Kardashians at dinner parties.

First, it's important to know that Franklin Roosevelt actually set the current date for Thanksgiving, which is on the fourth Thursday of November by an act of Congress.  FDR set that date because he had plans on the last Thursday of the month with his mistress, Lucy Mercer, to cover themselves in oil and see if the turkey was done, and Eleanor wouldn't argue with a date set by Congress.

The original Thanksgiving is widely thought have been in 1621, back when KFC was still Kentucky Fried Chicken and the green bean casserole with fried onions on top was still just a twinkle in Charles Campbell's eye.  The pilgrims at Plymouth had been near starvation, and they were saved with the help of the Wampanoug Native Americans, who taught them to work the land and fish the seas.  (Interestingly,the name 'Wampanoag' translated loosely, means 'no good deed goes unpunished'.)

Before the celebration began, the squaw of the Wampanoag chief called the wife of the mayor of Plymouth, and they had a very polite, yet, terse, conversation about where the Thanksgiving feast should take place.  "But you hosted the Corn Festival!" complained the wife.  "Yes, but all of the children went to your village for the summer solstice!" said the squaw.  A deal was struck where the first year would be held in the village, where the wife would serve her traditional stuffing and a pumpkin pie, and the next year would be with the tribe, and they would have beaver pate and Rocky Mountain oysters.  This was the first documented argument of the mothers arguing over who should spend Thanksgiving where.

Of course, the Wampanoag arrived a little late, which messed up the whole meal for everyone else because the mashed potatoes were getting cold and the gravy was burning, and the mayor's wife had that one extra glass of wine while waiting that changed her from hospitable to bitchy, and she started making snide comments about how civilized people wear underwear to dinner.  Everyone ate, making awkward small talk about their jobs and kids and what home improvement projects they were working on, and by dessert, everyone was in a food coma and had to lie down on the floor and watch the second half of the Redskins v. Cowboys game.  Of course, the Cowboys lost.
Near starvation, yet dressed impeccably.
And no one ate that dog, which I'm
happy about, because roast dog for Thanksgiving
would've been a bad tradition.

The next morning, the mayor's wife woke everyone with fresh cinnamon rolls, which were delicious until she told anyone who would listen about how much work they were and how they didn't turn out right, and the squaw's rolls were undoubtedly better and they would all be happier next year when they were at the Wampanoag's house, and then she went off to the outhouse to cry and everyone looked at each other with the rolled eyes and ate their rolls.  Then everyone went to WalMart to beat the shit out of the other shoppers to get $20 off on a toaster oven.

Then everyone went home, talking about Uncle Truman's awkward insistence on kissing of all of the young girls, how Aunt Rosemary is still bitter, and how Miranda Petticoat's children are completely out of control brats.  By September of the next year, they couldn't wait for Thanksgiving again, because like labor, the pain is easily forgotten, especially when there is pumpkin pie involved.  Or beaver pate.

Happy Thanksgiving, and have a great weekend!

Sunday, November 21, 2010

I Don't Want To, Either.

First, can I just say that I had one of those rare weekends of pure bliss. Why? Because it was completely ordinary and uneventful.

On Friday we traveled a few hours to see Oldest Daughter perform in Junior Honors Orchestra (have I mentioned that yet? I'm a little puffed up about it, probably because I never played an instrument, and if she is accomplished, then by extension I must be as well.)  We drove home and stopped at McDonalds twice - once for crispy fries and sodas, another time for ice cream - and Current Husband and OD dropped me off at the door of The Gap Outlet for 10 minutes of power shopping while they got said ice cream.  Poor CH.  He thinks I can't do much in 10 minutes.  He should really stop underestimating me.

My Mother In Law drove nearly 3 hours to be home when my youngest two got home, and she helped them make cookies and gave them pizza and brought pumpkin bread and let them talk about what they want for Christmas for five hours straight, so it's Hero Time in the Grandma department.  She stayed for The Son's basketball game, which was awesome, and then she left for home.  I turned off my cell phone at the game, and haven't turned it back on yet.  I didn't check e-mail all weekend.  I didn't even get the mail on Saturday.

Isn't he cute?  Sigh.

We took the kids to see Harry Potter, complete with requisite popcorn and peanut M&M's mixed up (if you haven't tried this artery-clogging treat, you are totally missing out on the joy that is the perfect mix of salty and sweet.)  Brief review, because I am a full-service blog:  Harry Potter was good.  There were two parts where I covered up Youngest Daughter's eyes because it was scary.  However, it felt like exactly what it is - the first part of a two part movie, and it was too long, but that's okay because you really don't want Harry Potter to ever end.  C'mon, JK Rowling, can't Harry and Ginny  and Ron and Hermione have kids and start a whole new series?

After the movie, we all went to Village Inn for breakfast at 4 p.m.  Awesome.  Then home for a game of Scrabble and college football.  Slept in this morning and CH made coffee.  Spent the day unpacking more boxes and getting OD's room in order.  It is so cool, I want to live up there.  We caught up on laundry, ate leftovers, had a generally satisfying time. 

Until Bedtime.

Youngest Daughter had been misbehaving off and on during the day, getting hopped up on Grandma Cookies and milk.  I get that.  But at bedtime, we went into her room, and I saw the pile of freshly laundered, folded clothes on her bed.

ME:  "Why didn't you put away your clothes?"
YD:  "I didn't feel like it."
SCREECH. My head spins around 360 degrees.  HUH?
ME: "What?"
YD: (slowly) I. Didn't. Feel. Like. It.
Let me say that I am not a big spanker, but this did merit a small swat.  A "Can I please get your attention" swat.  Easily confused with a "Oh, I brushed a mosquito off of you" swat.
YD:  "HEY!"
ME:  "That is for thinking you can tell me you won't do what I ask you to do because you don't feel like it.  (Insert 10 minute speech about what I don't feel like doing here. This is when time actually stops, and everyone in the family freezes, unable to see, hear, or speak.  Their eyes get glassy, and drool seeps out of their mouths.) And because of that, you are grounded from TV tomorrow too."
I would like to point out that YD was COMPLETELY nonplussed by the swat.
YD:  "So, how much TV are we talking about?"
ME:  (in disbelief that she doesn't care) "ALL DAY. NO TV."
YD:  "Okay, I'll read a book instead."
CURSES!  She has turned a punishment into an admirable activity!
ME:  "Um, okay.  Good night.  I love you."
YD:  (brightly) "I love you too, Mom!  Good night!"

I walk slowly in to the living room and tell CH the story.  We are agreeing that this particular child is crafty, and unaffected by punishment.  As if to punctuate what we are saying, YD skips into the room, grabs her iPod, and skips back out of the room, happy as a little bunny rabbit.

Dang it. She's pretty cute too.

She seems so happy.  I'm taking this as a life lesson, and the next time my boss asks me to do something, I'm going to say, "I don't feel like it."  I have a feeling it's going to end well.  Probably with me in my room, reading a book.  Or the want ads.

Have a great week!

Thursday, November 18, 2010

It's Boreticulture Friday.
Issue 1

Boreticulture: The industry and science of boring the socks off of your readers. Boreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of crochet, vanilla ice cream, and Yanni music. The word is composite, from two words, bore, from teenagers meaning "lame", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Boreticulture Friday exists to make you wish you were reading absolutely anthing else but this.

Today's topic: State Honors Orchestra

I'm not going to lie to you people, I'm going to bore your socks off today.  So take another slug of that espresso and finish your Jolt Cola, because it's going down now.

I spent my entire day thinking about what to write about for Whoreticulture Friday, but I had one of those days where unfunny things just kept happening all day long.  You know what I'm talking about....I like to think of them as pinata days, when you are all full of candy and you're all colorful and fun, and then someone picks up a bat and tries to knock the paper maiche smile off of your face.  But at least eveyone got to eat some candy.

On the happy front, Oldest Daughter was one of five kids at her middle school asked to play at state honors orchestra, which is kind of a big deal.  To me, anyway.  She was one of two cellists, and she left for Ames, Iowa today to spend the night in a hotel with a bunch of other middle schoolers.  Yikes!  I felt safer with her in the bar seeing Neon Trees under my tutelage than in a hotel room three hours away with a pack of teenagers.  She has been texting all night about her evening, so at least Mommy is pacified.  Tomorrow, after CH and I drop The Son at his early morning orchestra rehearsal and take YD to school, we are driving to Ames for the performance.  CH and I both graduated from Iowa State, so it will be terrifyingly aging  fun to see her there.

Because we were sad about OD being gone, the rest of us ate a Papa Johns pepperoni and sausage pizza and a cinna-pie to drown our sorrows, and watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  George the Superpet had Purina Dog Chow.  Todd the Squirrel ate nothing, as he is dead.

Are you bored yet?  Let me work on that a bit more.  Hmmmm.  I'm currently reading "Bobby and Jackie", by C. David Heymann, which basically asserts that Jackie Kennedy Onassis was a slut and had an affair with Bobby until he was killed, and then she freaked out when Bobby was shot and had to get her kids out of the country, so she agreed to marry Onassis because he was filthy rich and could essentially hide her in Greece.  Interestingly, it appears Jackie was sleeping with both RFK and Ari, and the men were bitter rivals, so Ari said he had "bagged the queen" the first time he slept with her so RFK would find out.  Those people in the Sixties, they be having lots of sex up in here.

Here's another uninteresting tidbit from my week - I've mentioned that I'm now training to be a hooker, and one of the old hookers was on the phone with me from North Carolina, ordering some equipment for her craft.  We talked about hooking, and then she said something I couldn't hear, and when I asked her to repeat, she said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just taking a gulp of wine."  Not a sip, not a drink, a gulp.  I pointed this out to her, and she laughed and said, "Just you wait, honey, the older you get the more things change, and the more fun you'll have.  I love wine, I love rug hooking, and I love sex."

In that order? Rug hooking must be awesome.

She continued on to tell me that post-menopausal sex is the best ever, and to keep hope, it will all be great in the future.  I thought to myself, "How, in ordering new blades for her wool cutter, did this lovely, well-meaning woman get the impression I don't like sex?"

When I got home that night, I told CH about it, and he told me how many days had passed since we'd had sex, and then I realized CH is praying for early menopause.  I'm stocking the wine rack and looking into rug hooking.  What happened to the semi-slutty party girl he married? Poor CH.  He suffers so.

Well, I hope you are fast asleep.  Thus concludes your first issue of Boreticulture Friday.  Have a great weekend....it can only get better, right?

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

OD's Mom Has Got It Goin' On

Okay, not really.  But I like to remember a time when I might have had it goin' on. 

After I posted the video for the song "Animal" by Neon Trees last Friday, Current Husband had one of those rare moments when he surprises me.  In a pleasant way, even, which is a double bonus, because the unpleasant surprises exceed the pleasant ones.  I give you his penchant for jalapenos.  Unpleasant surprises.  But I digress.

CH came into our room with his laptop and made an announcement.

CH: "Hey, you know that band you like, Neon Trees? They're playing at Ribco Tuesday night.  Wanna go?" 
ME:  "Um, yeah!  But why do you want to go, CH?  You get annoyed in packed bars."
CH:  "Because it would be a fun date night."
ME:  "Whoa there, padre!  Oldest Daughter would kill me in my sleep if I did this show without her."
CH:  (sighs.) "Okay, get three tickets."
ME:  "You're all full of crazy if you think we can take OD and not take The Son.  They're both into music."
CH:  "I suppose now you're going to say we have to take Youngest Daughter because we can't take the other two and leave her."
ME:  "What's wrong with you?!!?  I'm not taking my 7-year-old to a bar!"
CH:  Walking away shaking head.  "You do what you want."
And this, my friends, is the line that ends most of our conversations.

We found one of those perfect solutions for the night - we have some friends who have three children who are the same gender and general ages, so the mom came with us and her OD and Son, and their dad stayed home with our YD and theirs.  We got to the bar and got our Over-21 bands, bought the girls concert t-shirts, and found our first round of beer for the adults and water for the kids.  The place was pretty packed, and there were two opening acts - one with the word "Giants" in the name, and they were pretty good, and then New Politics, which I have to say I hadn't heard of because I'm 41 and listen to NPR when the kids aren't in the car.  New Politics was like a blend of Nirvana and The Sex Pistols, and I couldn't believe they could get as much sound out of a guitar and drums and a singer as they did. 

The lead singer, David, was very theatrical and animated on stage, and can stand on his head for long periods of time without hands.  The Son was a little fascinated with him.  After their act, The Son and I went to talk to David, and he was super surprisingly nice to my son, considering he's a punk rocker, and then David signed this memento for The Son, which is now hanging in his room:

Violators will not be asked to leave. 
They will be ejected.
Do two wrongs make a right, people?

Our viewing position at the show was toward the back and to the side, against a brick wall.  The two teenagers had already broken away from us and were angling their way up to the stage where all of the other potential groupies were gathering. 

We kept lifting up the two boys so they could see, and then one extremely nice guy in front of us got a barstool so the boys could stand up on a rung to see the bands.  Earlier, I noticed there was a couple in their 50's sitting at the table near us, and there were two unused barstools under their table.  It was between bands, and the boys were sick of standing, so I asked if they could sit on the two barstools.  The woman said, "Sure, but don't move them, and we have people coming so we'll need them back when our people come."  Fine.  I have saved a seat before in my time.  The boys sat, but the SECOND one of them stood up, her husband threw his jacket across the chair.  Um, don't worry, my 11-year-old isn't going to pee on it OR fistfight you for it.

Two hours later, NOT ONE PERSON had sat on those barstools.  It was about 10 p.m., and Neon Trees had just taken the stage.  We had one barstool that the nice man got for one of the boys.  I leaned over and asked the woman, "Can I use one of these barstools?" She looked at me, all exasperated, and said, "I guess, but don't move them from this table."  By this time, Mommy had finished her third Blue Moon, and manners were taking a nosedive on the list of priorities.  So I said, "REALLY!?! Because I haven't seen ANYONE sitting on these barstools, and you've been reserving them all night." And she said, "The people they are for are right there!" and pointed off to the huge sweaty crowd.  I gave her my BITCH look and said, "Whatever. That's pathetic." and walked off.  OOOOHHHH.  I showed her!  "Whatever" is always the best comeback.  However, I did get have CH get a picture of her to humiliate her on my blog, so the three people who read it could get as outraged as I was.

See all of the barstools around her? 
This is during the headlining act,
three hours after they sat down. 
I wish early incontinence and thick
black facial hair upon this woman.

After Neon Trees finished, the other mom, I'll call her Neen, and I decided to use the bathroom while waiting for the band to come out.  We were in the stalls when this group of drunk bottle blondes came stumbling into the bathroom, talking about ass-grabbing Tyler from Neon Trees and singing Animal at each other's weddings.  Then one of them said this:
"Oh.My.Gawd. did you see the KIDS out there?  A couple of those kids are my students! I mean, like, what kind of parents bring their kids to a BAR? Like, why are there KIDS in here?"

Oops.  Perhaps, Ms. Student Teacher, it was the sign that said "ALL AGES WELCOME" on the poster?  Maybe I brought my children because they play piano, cello, and drums, and they are way into music and I thought it would inspire them as musicians?  Nah.  It was totally so the girls could have tequila shooters and the boys could fantasize about the two goth girls making out right next to them, and I could get out of the house.  I also take them to my meth dealer's lab when I'm low on product.  SO, when I walked out of the stall the same time as Neen, and we looked at each other and laughed a little bit, I turned to Blondie and said, "WE are the parents who bring their 11-year-olds to concerts!  We are the bad parents!  Who-hoo!" and fist pumped as we walked out of the bathroom. 
With the guitarist from Neon Trees,
doing our rock star hands. 
See you at conferences, teachers!
(NOTE: The teachers were NOT from our school. 
I love our teachers, really, I do.)

We got home at about 11:30, tired, hoarse, a little hard of hearing, but happy.  It was a great night out at the bars with the kids, stalking musicians.  I'm so proud. The torch has been passed. 

Is it Saturday? No?

Went to the Neon Trees concert last night with CH, OD, and the Son, and some friends of ours. It was fun, and Mommy had three Blue Moons on a work night, so today is a little rough, because Mommy can't hold her Belgian beer like she used to.

SO, we had a mini-altercation with a barstool-hoarding wench, our thirteen-year-old daughters moved into the mosh pit viewing area, and we met the guitarist for Neon Trees and he was awesome. I have pictures (one of the wench, too!)I will post tonight.

Happy Hump Day!

Sunday, November 14, 2010

The Tooth Fairy is Lazy?

Last week, Youngest Daughter lost another tooth.

She's seven, and in that phase when the teeth are falling out of them, and the subsequent teeth look enormous and out of place in the little mouth and they're all different lengths and sizes and you start thinking, "Well this will keep her out of prom".  But then it all works out to some extent, and even if the teeth grow in and they're somewhat straight your dentist will inevitably send you to an orthodontist because they golf together, and then the orthodontist will say, "Her teeth aren't PERFECT but they're close enough to perfect that if you'll just cough up $4000 or more and take unpaid personal time at work to bring her in for appointments over the next two to six years I can get them PERFECT."  Unless you are me, and have five (yes, FIVE) unexpected wisdom teeth and then the prior two years of nighttime headgear wearing, four years of braces, and two years of retainers will all be for naught because your teeth are going back to their British, pre-ortho care state.

But I'm not bitter and that's what's important. 

What was I talking about?  Oh yes, YD and her teeth.  So a month or so ago, she lost a tooth and very carefully placed it in the pillow and went to sleep all hopeful, only to wake up with her hopes dashed because our tooth fairy sucks.  YD was a little upset, but that night very strategically placed her tooth fairy pillow in the middle of her room, because maybe the tooth fairy just missed it.  The next morning, we all woke to the sound of YD's exasperated yelling, "YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!  I CAN'T BELIEVE THAT THE TOOTH FAIRY STILL DIDN'T COME."  Oh boy.  The following morning, the tooth fairy came, and ponied up a little extra change for the late charge.  Tooth Fairy?  YD may forgive, but she never forgets.

A few days ago, YD lost another tooth.  She very carefully placed her tooth fairy pillow out, and awoke to another disappointment.  Our tooth fairy apparently believes that children should experience disappointment early and often, so they aren't shocked when they get into the real world.  It's the responsible thing to do.

I was approached at breakfast.
YD:  "Mom, the tooth fairy didn't show up, AGAIN."
ME:  "It seems that we have a very lazy tooth fairy."
YD:  "I think the tooth fairy is you."
Oldest Daughter, now alert:  "So you think Mom is lazy?"
YD:  "Well!  She likes to sleep in on the weekends!"
(The other children stop eating and look up in interest to see how I'm going to take this.)
ME:  "I am sure the tooth fairy is very hard working and just can't manage to fit all of her work into one day.  She'll pull through, she always does." 
(Bored, the other children go back to their breakfasts.  They've heard this all before.)

YD decided to rethink her strategy.  Perhaps she should engage the tooth fairy, maybe get to know him/her a little better.  YD wrote a note to the tooth fairy, which I dearly wish I could scan, because it is so much better in her little handwriting, but sadly the scanner is still not unpacked.  Her is her tome to the tooth fairy:

Dear Tooth Fairy,
I don't now your actually real name, but will you tell me thank you.  How tall are you? Right I mean draw a picher of you on the back of this paper.  How do you now wen someone lost a tooth?  What is your favorite food and color?  What do you do with the teeth?  Wich restaurant is your favorite?  How much money does everyone get?  I look like this (insert YD's self portrait, done in ball point pen).  Are you a boy or a girl?  You write on the other side.

I saw this note, and with some exasperation went to Current Husband and said, "What the heck is this?  Are you behind this interrogation?" and CH laughed, pleased with himself, and said, "Well, if the Tooth Fairy is going to flake out, she is going to have to answer some questions!" and I said, "Well I guess the Tooth Fairy won't be doing you any favors soon". 

The next morning, YD did get her money, and the following response:

Dear YD,
There are lots of tooth fairies, because there are lots of teeth.  My name is Melvin.  I am two and a half inches tall.  I know when a tooth falls out because it is really loud.  My favorite color is green, and I like to eat at Buffalo Wild Wings.  I return the teeth to the factory to be cleaned and re-used.  How much money is given depends on the market price of silver on that day, it is a very complicated process.  Thanks for the tooth and the note,

YD was so excited.  "I have the same tooth fairy as Eddie!  His tooth fairy is named Melvin too!"  What are the odds that I would get so lucky?  Eddie, who is in YD's class and only lives a block or two away, also has a tooth fairy named Melvin!  Of course!  This is Melvin's territory, and as YD knows, there have been a LOT of teeth falling out around these parts lately.  This explains everything.  The tooth fairy isn't LAZY...the tooth fairy is BUSY.  Big difference.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, older children.  Now someone go out and get me some Buffalo Wild Wings, stat.  And to you, CH, Mr. 1000 Questions?  The answer is NO.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 49

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. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.

Today's topic:  The Ghost of Kisses Past

Of the three children I've birthed, one has been through sex ed at school, one has gleaned the knowledge of the older and wiser sibling, and one doesn't think Barbie and Ken can progress past the kissing stage.  For Youngest Daughter, after Ken and Barbie have kissed long enough, they share a mortagage on the Barbie Dream Home and Ken is crapping in the pink bathroom.  YD's nonchalance aside, here is how I plan to answer my children's sex questions when they finally get the guts to ask:

Q:  "How old were you when you first had sex?"
A:  "I haven't.   Not that there's anything wrong with it."

Q:  "Do you drink?"
A:  "Only for medical reasons."

Q:  "Have you smoked pot?"
A:  "Yes, I've burned a number of pans."

Q:  "What is a blow job?"
A:  "Get Mommy a fresh drink and some roller papers."

The other day Oldest Daughter and I were in the car, and we were singing along to our current favorite song, "Animal" by Neon Trees, video embedded below, (I'm a little obsessed with this song at the moment) and OD looked at me with that smug teen look and decided to get a little ballsy:

OD:  "Do you even know what this song is about?"
ME:  "Yeah.  Do YOU know what this song is about?"
OD:  "It's about sex, Mom."
ME:  "I know."
OD:  "Really? Because I don't think you knew."
ME:  "Really?  Because I've actually had sex, so I think I'd recognize it in a song."

And then I was a little horrified because A) I sort of admitted that I've had sex, and B) I am going to have to go through this whole story again when OD is in therapy and I have to listen to the therapist talk about "filters", which will just go over my head and make me thirsty for coffee. 

One would think this type of conversation wouldn't be a problem in front of one's husband.  I mean, he KNOWS you, Biblically, right?  So nothing will faze him.  Right?

Last weekend, Current Husband and I attended a lovely shindig benefiting the Iowa SIDS Foundation, and let me just take a moment from trying to be funny to say that if you need to find a worthwhile organization to send a donation, find a local SIDS Foundation chapter. Wow.  (Can I just take a moment to say I find it hard to believe that I made a plug for Iowa SIDS Foundation in a Whoreticulture Friday post?  I don't know if they would be grateful or outraged.)

ANYWHOO - here is the picture again, so you know that we occasionally step out of the house without face paint:

Hmm.  I haven't fed this picture for a week
and I still haven't lost any weight in it. 
Frigging Reeses with your irresistable
combination of chocolate and peanut butter.

There was delicious wine and lovely company - we were the table guests of some friends of ours, and they invited us with the full knowledge that CH and I are card-carrying banjo loving white trash, and about three rounds of wine tasting into the event, another couple walks by and our hosts stop to introduce them to us.  I look up, and the man and I give each other one of those, "How do I know you?" looks.  At the same time, we say, "How do I know you?" 

Here we are, three couples, standing in the social circle jerk of 'who talks now?' and you KNOW it's going to be me.  I say, "What was your name again?" and he says, "Baron Mrmrmrmr" and a slide show of three guys flashes through my brain.  They are the ghosts of kisses past.  Or more.  My eyes widen and I say, "Ohhh!" and then I do the reflex "OH SHIT" look at CH.  CH rolls his eyes and takes a drink, because he knows from past experience this could really go any way.  Baron's very lovely wife is looking from him to me like, "Do I need to spread a rumor about this woman and herpes in her PTA group?" and the host couple is smiling like, "Oh yeah, THIS is why we invited Julie."

Here is how I should have handled it:
"Oh yes, Baron!  Remember, we were in youth group together in high school!" and then let him fill in the details.  If pressed about why I looked embarrassed, say, "Baron heard me fart in church."

INSTEAD, I say this:
"Okay Baron, you know me, I dated M., stalked D., and made out with V. at the Haunted House your fraternity had with my sorority and I lost my lavaliere and made everyone look for it so my pledge mom wouldn't murder me. Weirdly enough, V. was the best kisser."

Baron starts laughing and says something along the lines of "How could I forget!?  I knew I knew you from somewhere." and his wife looks really relieved and the host couple looks a little disappointed.  CH already had this information, but it's not something he loves to talk about at cocktail parties and benefits - "Hey, has my wife told you about the time she went through a fraternity like a cop in a box of donuts?"  But he gamely went along and thankfully the next wine flight came along before I could go on any longer.

All class, all the time, people.

Here is that video I promised.  Love this song.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday and have a great weekend!

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

Mmmm, Cake.

Tonight, I continued on my author stalker journey. I attended The Women's Connection International Authors night, and the author scheduled was a lovely woman named Bharati Muhkarjee. I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to Ms. Muhkarjee. She was interesting and funny and intelligent, but unfortunately, there was chocolate cake, and when I saw that cake I sort of blacked out.

My crazy friend JM organized the night with my book club.  We attended last year, when the speaker was Alexandra Fuller, also lovely and amazing.  I'm not sure if there was cake last year, but apparently I wasn't going through some sort of crack-addict-like phase with chocolate, so I was mentally present at that event.  I blame Halloween and all of those Reese's Peanut Butter Cups that got me on the sugar binge.  Let me break it down my thought process tonight for you:

We arrive at the event.  Upon checking in, JM and I immediately search out the bar and get ourselves a $5 dixie cup of bad house white wine.  We find our table, "The Hot Chicks Book Club", but honestly none of us is especially comfortable with that name.  We decide we need a new name.  My vote is for "Cheap and Easy Book Club" or "Braless Brainiacs" or "Slap My Bestseller and Call Me Oprah Book Club".  Maybe "Is That Twilight In Your Pocket or Are You Happy To See Me  Book Club".  We'll work on it.  The voices dwindle away, because I see this:

Sweet Jesus, is that double fudge?

I found myself saying aloud, "Does anyone else want to start dinner with this cake?" and a few people chuckled and I was all, "No, I'm serious, who is starting with this cake?"  But no one took a bite and the salads came out, so I dutifully ate my salad like a good girl, thinking "how much spinach can I eat before I don't want that cake?"

The wait staff is taking away everyone else's plates with a polite amount of salad left on it, but I'm scooping up every last shred because HELLO! It's strawberry vinagrette dressing!  Then they put a plate of beans and chicken in front of me, which is fine, but I'm staring at that cake.  Is it dense?  Is it moist?  Will it be fluffy?  Is that frosting cream cheese?  Why didn't they put raspberries on it?  I bet raspberries would be good.

I shove aside my half eaten chicken, and get a good hot cup of coffee with cream prepared.  The coffee is the cake foreplay.  Other people start taking bites, and the speakers have begun.  The attention is turned away from the table and no one can see me savoring this delicious cake.  It is quite fudgy and dense, and goes perfectly with my coffee and that little dab of whipped cream next to it.  I see the Virgin Mary in my cake.  I cry a little.

Once my cake is gone and I have licked my fork and then the plate, I try to focus on the speaker.  She grew up in India in a wealthy family with servants, and her father was to pick a bridegroom for her and...WHA???  Look how many people at my table did not finish their cake!  Why?  Why would they deny themselves the sheer pleasure that is cake?  It is here, already baked and frosted and cut by someone else, and then arranged so nicely on this plate with the fudge drizzles and the dab of whipped cream!  Someone took the time to make this nice for you!  It's almost insulting not to eat it.  And it would make me feel better about myself if you did eat it.

The author attended the Iowa Writer's Workshop in Iowa City.  I wonder if she ate her cake?  If she saw half-eaten pieces of cake laying around her table, would she be tempted to ask her tablemates if she could just take one tiny bite of that delicious cake?  It shouldn't be wasted.  Maya Angelou loved a section of Ms. Muhkarjee's book "Jasmine", and I'm thinking Maya Angelou supports cake.  She seems like such a deeply happy and satisfied person, which only people who really appreciate and support the eating of cake can achieve.

The author finished.  She was good, I know she was, but Damn, so was that frigging cake!  I took JM home, got home myself, and told Current Husband about the cake.  He wondered why I didn't smuggle any home for him, and I thought, "This is it.  This is why I love CH.  He appreciates a good cake."  We are like Avatar, but instead of saying 'I See You', we say 'Let's Have Dessert'.

I will tell you that as I am typing this, George the Superpet is sleeping on his chair behind me, and he is farting up a storm, which is sort of killing my cake memories.  I should take a vial of liquid Purina Dog Chow with me at all times so I can make an emergency intervention in case there is ever a cake this distracting at an event where I need to pay attention. 

My next author stalker night definitely needs to involve The Barefoot Contessa and a latte.  I going to bed now to dream about cake.  But first, I will take a Prilosec, because you can't do the crime if you can't do the time.  Sweet dreams, cupcakes.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Sixteen Candles, Redux

Happy Monday, y'all.

First off, after the Bert and Ernie Halloween debacle and the ensuing photos (hey, thanks for tagging them on Facebook, "friends"!), I thought I could right a wrong.  Current Husband and I went to a thing Friday night, and I was cleaned up a bit, and thought, "Now is the time to take a picture to burn the Bert from people's minds."  However, I forgot that I am totally, impossibly unphotogenic. 

This is not false modesty. 

I actually had a photographer, tasked with taking a business headshot about a decade ago, say, "Wow, you're really hard to photograph!" and I said, "Oh, you mean my raccoon eye rings and budding gobbler get in the way?" and he sort of chuckled and said, "No, I meant more that you get shadows around your face easily" and I said, "Yeah, because of the coon eyes and chin gobbler." and he just shook his head, but his silence was his confirmation, and this was back when I still had my youth and my teeth.  (I still have my teeth, but hey, those days are just around the corner.)

Oh look!  It's CH, me, and my grandma's right arm! 
Thanks Halloween candy!


A while ago, I had a bad experience when my older two kids and I were singing Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody in the car, and I said, "You guys should see Wayne's World!" and we rented it and they stared at the TV for about 30 minutes and then said, "Wow, you guys really had bad movies when you were kids."  Today, we came across the movie Sixteen Candles, and I thought, "Okay, THIS is my redeption!"  We got into the movie pretty late - it was after Anthony Michael Hall showed Molly Ringwald's underwear for $1 each at the school, and Jake Ryan's party was in full swing at his parent's house.  My kids were entranced.

And that's when I realized,
Oh My God, I'm Old.

How did I come to this earth-shattering realization?  When the party is going on at Jake's house, and Long Duk Dong is up in the third floor gym with Sexy American Girlfriend, and she lifts up some weights and they slide off of the bar and go through the floor, through the kitchen, and down into the wine cellar.  I very loudly gasped, and my kids said, "What's wrong?!" and I said, "Do you realize how much wine they just ruined?" And really, it was a crying shame.  I cried a little bit inside.

Of course, I spent a lot of time telling my kids about how bad it was of Jake Ryan to have the party.  Then I started totaling some damage.  Then the scene comes up when Carolyn, Jake's prom queen girlfriend, is drunk and gets her hair stuck in the door.  Oldest daughter is beside herself that Carolyn's friends cut her hair of the door - "Why!  Why are they cutting her hair!? Why don't they just OPEN THE DOOR!!" - and I take this as a chance to say that underage drinking causes people to chop your hair off at the first opportunity.  It became an Educational Moment, learned in my recent workshop "Effective Parenting Through Fear".

Then, something terrible happens.  Jake Ryan is talking to The Geek, played by Anthony Michael Hall, and he expresses not only his interest in Sam, but says he is over Carolyn.  He then says THIS:  "Carolyn is up in my room right now, inebriated.  I could violate her 10 different ways, but I'm just not interested."

WHOOSH.  The air was sucked out of the room.  Did Jake Ryan - MY Jake Ryan, who in a hundred dreams took me away from my high school in a red porsche to get me a birthday cake and ask to make a wish on top of a glass table and I say, "It just came true" - just become a DATE RAPIST?  Noooooooooooo........!!

Don't pass out, Molly! 
You don't want to find out about the 10th way!

I'm looking at my kids, and they are looking at me.  They know this is bad.  They watched "Are We There Yet?" with me and they finally pushed the STOP button on the DVD because I was in a spiraling rant about what was wrong with those kids.  Oldest Daughter and The Son knew Old Faithful was about to blow.  And then Jake took it to the next level.

When The Geek said Jake was lucky to have Carolyn, Jake told The Geek to TAKE HER and have fun!  The Geek said, "But I'm just a freshman" and Jake said, "It's okay, she's so drunk she'll never know."  WHA?!?!  In the next scene, Jake is loading up his DRUNK GIRLFRIEND in his dad's car and telling Michael Anthony Hall to not wreck the car.  "Have fun date raping my girlfriend, but DO NOT wreck my dad's Rolls Royce." 

I turn to the kids.  Oldest Daughter says, "That is wrong on so many levels." and The Son says, "He should be taking care of his girlfriend."  There is silence.  I am still staring at them.  "Um...and he should be more respectful of his parent's property?...And, the geeky kid shouldn't have taken the offer of the girlfriend?"  YES.  All of those things.  Rant avoided, let's get back to the life lesson.  The Donger gets kicked in the balls by Sam's grandma.  The sister gets all doped up on muscle relaxants because of her period.  Jake is leaning up against his car in front of the church waiting for Sam, and she looks behind her and points to herself and mouths "me?" and Jake smiles that winning date rapist smile and says, "Yeah, you!" and then she skips her sister's wedding reception to hop up on the glass table with him.

Meanwhile, Anthony Michael Hall takes pictures with the drunk Carolyn, and they wake up together in the Rolls.  He asks if they did it, she says, "I think so" and he asks her if she enjoyed it.  Carolyn thinks for a second and then says, "You know, I think I did."  Oh Holy Mother, are you KIDDING me?  I loved this movie in 1984!!! 
Thanks for taking advantage of me! 
Let's go catch Luke & Laura's wedding
on General Hospital, and dream our
sexual violation ends up the same way!

While I still think it's a great movie in so many ways, I realize that age and rational thinking have ruined the John Hughes movies for me.  Goodbye, youth.  My kids thought it was a good movie, but they realized I couldn't handle it.  It was full of LESSONS for them, so they will probably pass when Pretty in Pink is on TLC.

Which is too bad, because Molly Ringwald taking care of her unemployed alcoholic father and getting insulted by James Spader and stalked by Jon Cryer and pursued by Andrew McCarthy while sewing her own rather hideous prom dress would be a good Sunday afternoon with the kids.

Have any movies been ruined for you on the second viewing decades later?  Because I'm going to be grieving for Jake Ryan all week.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 48

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. Or people I work with. Or neighbors who are raising feral cats.

Today's topic: Periods & Exclamation Points

I'm sorry people, but I'm phoning it in a bit tonight.  But seriously, do not fuck with me because I have been waiting to get my period for three days, and really, any woman will tell you that's just as bad as actually having it.  It's like anticipating a shot and then the shot isn't so bad, except that with periods you are bleeding anyway so it actually is as bad.  Yes guys, it's THAT BAD.  And don't even try to compare what a pain in the vajayjay having a period is with any man issues you might have, like getting kicked in the nuggets, because no one kicks you in the Weebles once a month.  And if they are, that's an indication that you have other personal problems that need to be worked out.

As long as I'm bitching, let's talk about smuggling tampons.  How many of you have had to smuggle a tampon in your sleeve to a bathroom before?  I remember in middle school, when I was just a budding dork and not the full-blown social misfit I am today, when I would actually carry a brown lunch sack into the bathroom with a twin mattress sized pad in it.  Wow, that must have fooled everyone.  Either I was having my period, or I was planning on eating my lunch in the bathroom.  Or I was selling pot, but trust me, I did not look cool enough to be selling pot.

Just a few weeks ago, at The Former Full Time Job I Can't Blog About (and can I just take a moment to say how very much I love my new full time job as a Hooker?) when I was having my fourth period at that organization in two months, I was walking back up to my desk from a company-wide meeting and could hear this crackling noise in my clothing as I walked.  I started looking in my pockets and my sleeves, and lo and behold, there it was...a Tampax Tsunami size stuck down the front of my sweater.  Apparently I was diverted to the meeting on my way to smuggling the tampon into the bathroom.  Classy.

Now I am due to confer with Mother Nature any time, and I've found myself smuggling a bag of pads and a few tampons into the new job to hide in my credenza.  Mind you, I work in a small factory where they do machine tooling, so 90% of the people who work there are men who have beards and listen to Lynyrd Skynyrd.  They don't even want to know tampons EXIST much less see them.  I'm the new girl, so a random tampon flying out of my sleeve will forever brand me as The Chick on The Rag. 

I suppose my current bitchiness is advertisement enough, but the last thing I want is the eye-rolling "Oh she's that way because it's that time of the month."  Do you want to get punched in the genitals?  Because a man looking at a woman understandingly and telling her it must be her "time of the month" because she's being irrational or moody is the fastest way to pull a clamped fist into your ballsack.  And you know what?  She probably IS bitchy because of her period.  It doesn't matter.  No sex for you.  Take your beating and go to your room.

Now for the exclamation point!  When I left The Former Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, I bought myself a celebratory massage at my favorite place.  I met Current Masseusse, whom I had never met before, disrobed, did the get under the blanket thing, and then CM came back into the room to begin.  He was a nice, cute guy, and I am all about full disclosure, so I looked at him and said the following:

"Listen CM, I need to be honest with you.  We are going to be very intimate now, what with your hands and oil all over my real estate, and I didn't have time to shower this morning, my razor is dull and I'm sure there's all kinds of stubble there, I'm sporting some Hobbit feet, half of my big toenail fell off a week ago and it's rather heinous.  I'm so sorry, and I will tip you."

CM looked at me for a moment, got a big smile on his face, clapped his hands, and said,


And I knew we were going to get along just fine.  Hand to God, this is exactly what was said.  Normally I'm a no talking massage girl, but this time I happily chatted with CM the entire time, and he didn't dry heave even once when he touched my calves or saw my feet.  If he wasn't already married to another guy, I might have fallen in love a little bit.  If you're reading this CM, I'm still bringing that CD to you, I promise!

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and I hope your weekend is filled with more exclamation points than periods!
p.s. Not one of you may say, "Are you pregnant?" because I am not.  Bite your tongues, you naughty monkeys.

Monday, November 1, 2010

The Hood, The Mad, and The Fugly

"Why would I spend $50 each on Bert and Ernie
outfits when I can just get face paint?"

And that, my friends, is where things went terribly, terribly wrong.

Current Husband would like me to point out
that he is crouching, and that it isn't orange blackface,
he just didn't want to dye his beard.  I have no excuses.

So I am being a total cheapskate and think I can make Bert and Ernie outfits, which maybe I could if the face paint wasn't actually some horrible lead-based dye that I still can't get off of my hands.  People kept looking at us and saying, "Oh...I get it...you're horrible clowns."  Like we were making some kind of statement about clowns by purposely making clowns look bad.  The problem is that clowns really creep me out, ever since I spent the night in the guest bedroom at an old boyfriend's house, and his mom collected clowns and it was floor-to-ceiling John Wayne Gacy, all night long.  Oh holy shit people, a room like that will turn you away from the circus fast.  And so, apparently, will my homemade Bert and Ernie costumes.

Believe it or not, at one point, I looked worse.  I made myself a Bert unibrow out of clippings from Ernie's wig, and put it on two-sided tape.  However, I didn't account for how clumps would fall off the front of the tape, so then I tried to remedy it with Gorilla Glue.  Please learn from my lesson:

Do Not Put Gorilla Glue Anywhere Near One's Eyelashes

Oldest Daughter was concerned; we were going out in public, so her reputation was on the line.  She grabbed the scotch tape and stuck one long piece of tape across my head to hold the unibrow on.  And this is when the costume went from bad to fugly:

The Son actually yelped, and said,
"You look like the Bride of Frankenstein!"

So the Bert and Ernie costumes were a Fail.  But next year, we are SO nailing it.  My favorite costume was the Brett Favre with the Wranglers around his ankles, a Vikings jersey, and a huge, yet realistic looking, penis swinging around out of a jockstrap.  EVERYONE wanted a picture with Brett.  Including me.  I wish I could show you that and the picture of me with Creepy Jesus, but CH won't send them to me off of his phone.  Probably because he is still angry about the orange face paint staining his goatee.  But as I explained to him, sometimes you have to make sacrifices for your art.

Here are the offspring in the Hood:

Alice, Flamenco Dancer, Hula Girl
George watches a feral cat in the distance.

Who is mad, you might ask.  Let me show you who is mad:

George the Superpet went dressed as Todd "Hot Nuts" Epstein.

 And Todd went as George the Superpet.

And they were MAD.

Hope you had a Happy Halloween, and your costumes were better than ours!  Post pics of your costumes on the ADITW facebook page if you can figure out how!