Tuesday, December 28, 2010

I'd Like A Blizzard, a Snow Blower and a Tapeworm, Please

As John Lennon once wrote, "And so this is Christmas, and what have you done? Bought a damn Blizzard machine, you now weigh a ton."

But if John Lennon DID write that, he would be lying, because anyone who bought the DQ Blizzard machine has found themselves practically Blizzard-less, because that damn $40 machine makes a 2 ounce serving. Hello! I bought the thing not for my child's joy, but so that she would be forced to make me Blizzards on demand.

Look at the kids on the box:

Don't they look all coked up?  Those big, wide eyes say, "I've had 32 ounces of processed sugar and dairy products and I'm going to clean the bathroom floor with a toothbrush at 2 a.m."   Once again, I am sucked into false advertising.

THIS is what I was expecting:

Come to Momma.

This is what I got:
A spaceship that poops 2 oz. of half-and-half, and a pissed off kid.

 Another issue I have with the DQ Blizzard Maker?  Where are the effing Reese's Peanut Buttter cups?  WHERE?!?!  It includes little packets of "Popping Candy", but who honestly orders their Blizzard with Pop Rockets on them?  M&M's, Brownie Batter, Reese's, Heath Bar...lots of things would suffice, but strawberry flavored hydrochloric acid?  Not on the menu, people.

Basically, this DQ Blizzard Maker purchase was just another exercise in futility toward my dream of having a Joan Jetson kitchen.


Fried chicken?  Let's just push the button. 
Rut-Row!  We got Blizzards!

Maybe I just misunderstood the product.  Maybe it wasn't some vanilla-flavored-sugared-up-lactose-crack at all.  MAYBE it was a Narnia-type machine, whereupon opening the box, an actual BLIZZARD descended upon the land around you, and the White Witch would appear and offer you Turkish Delights, but I just opened the box enough that eight inches of snow fell around my house and Current Husband complained all day that he would have to shovel it and then when he went out to start the 2-year-old snow blower it wouldn't start but instead had gasoline flowing down the back of it.  Is that a Turkish Delight?  Because I think I did it wrong.

Let's Recap:
  • No actual Reese's Blizzard
  • No child waiting on me
  • No cracked-up sugar-jacked kids cleaning my house
  • No snow blower
  • No Turkish Delight
If that wasn't enough, I had a large salad for dinner tonight, because there is about to be an intervention regarding my Christmas sugar-cookie problem.  Here is the magnet CH had best not give me:

Oh, Onion.  I love you so.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Merry Christmas, Wifers!

It is 9:37 a.m. in Wiferville. 

The presents have been opened, the cinnamon rolls eaten, the stockings unstuffed, the first pot of coffee gone.  CH and I went to bed at 1 a.m. and were awakened at just before 6 a.m. 

The sounds of warfare are drifing in from the living room, where The Son is playing his new XBox, which I made the Best Buy guy promise me would not turn him into a serial killer, or worse, live jobless and girlfriendless in my basement forever. 

Oldest Daughter is strumming on her electric guitar, wearing her zebra print Snuggie, presumably planning her escape on the road with her band.  Only then will we regret making her unload the dishwasher last night.  There is so much injustice in the world.

Youngest Daughter is ignoring her plethora of gifts so she can shove an alien whose eyes pop out of it's head into Oldest Daughter's face, because annoying your sister is SOOOO much more fun than any gift off of the shelf at Target. 

George the Superpet is partaking in his Annual One-Hour Destruction of a Toy, because no one can make a durable toy for dogs over 50 pounds.

Current Husband?  He is sleeping on the couch with a stuffed puppy.  Not sure if a child put it there, or if he brought it to the couch with him.  There is well over 6 inches of snow outside, and we are cozy and snug in the house, surrounded by coffee, cookies, and leftovers, and we have no where to go today.

And this?  This is EXACTLY what I wanted for Christmas.

I hope all of your wishes came true, and there is peace and joy in your lives today.

Merry Christmas!


Sunday, December 19, 2010

Stay in Minneapolis, Mr. Icicle

Freaking Iowa winters.
I've been all excited because a friend of mine who lives about an hour away by interstate invited my family over for dinner Monday.  I'm leaving work a touch early, snagging the chitlins, and barrelling the swagga wagon/rolling dumpster down I-80 to see said friend and his loverly family and another sweet friend and her loverly family.  However, I'm geeking out about it a bit because a friend of said friend (are you still following me) has been reading the blog for a bit, and he is traveling through this Iowa town for the night with HIS people and stopping at said friend's house, and said friend thought it would be a great opportunity for blog reader to meet blog writer.  It's always fun to meet someone who reads the blog ("oh that one about cutting off your skin tag was fun!" Oh yeah. I wrote about that. And posted it. Yay, me.) but this guy happens to be a writer in LA, and I want to pick his brain apart and eat it with fava beans and a nice chianti.

(CLICK.  That was the sound of him un-following the blog. And possibly contacting the authorities.)

And I also want to see said friend and sweet friend and their respective families.  And eat their pasta.  And guess what?  I just looked up weather.com, and there is an effing ICE STORM coming here tomorrow. 

Of course there is.

When I was 22, I drove from Denver to Ames straight through during a huge blizzard/ice storm wearing cutoff jean shorts and drinking 300 ounces of Mountain Dew and listening to "Radar Love" on the radio and driving my Chevette in the ditch on I-35 to Ames at 3 a.m. and having two college boys from St. Olaf push me out of the ditch so I could drive on to Ames to see Current Husband when he was still Current Boyfriend.  And that was NO BIG DEAL.  Because I was 22, stupid, and in love.

Now I'm 41, a mother, and am experiencing varicose veins, bad circulation, acid reflux, waning eyesight and hearing, and prone to wearing flannel and wool socks and curling into a ball on the couch when an ice storm hits.  I don't even really like to drive more than 2 hours at a time when it's 80 and sunny outside, because like a caterpillar in the cocoon, I am becoming my mother.

But they will have pasta and wine.
Strong motivation, that.

(And the people.  Of course I want to see the people.)

(But I bet the food will be delicious.)

So Mr. White Christmas/Mr. Icicle/Mr. Snow/Mr. 30 Below?  Stay in Minneapolis or Fargo, where you belong.  I got me some pasta to eat and a professional writer to assault.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Shooter on Aisle 6

Can I just say that it's a miracle there aren't more shootings in WalMart at Christmas?

I know there are those who love WalMart, but I really try to avoid the place whenever possible.  There is this "Kill or Be Killed" mentality that seems to permeate the place.  Today, I was getting the oil changed in my swagga wagon with Oldest Daughter and discussing the gifts we had yet to buy.

ME:  "I need things like gift cards, socks, a curtain rod, the Twilight movies, playing cards, Hershey's kisses, Apples to Apples, a quart of paint, and popcorn bowls."
OD:  "I also want to get something for H, and I need some posterboard for a school project."
ME:  "Crap."
OD:  "What!?"
ME:  "We only have an hour.  We're going to have to go to WalMart."
OD:  "Oh no.  You are always mad when we leave that place."
ME:  "The gods have spoken.  We're going in."

First mistake - we get the van washed BEFORE we go to WalMart.  Because you know there is always some D-Bag in a Ford F-250 with sticker of Calvin on the back pissing on a Chevy who thinks he's in a truck rally and drives 40 mph in the parking lot spraying slush all over everyone.  And there is ALWAYS a foot of slush in the MW parking lot.  If it's dry out, I swear they truck it in.

We circle the parking lot for 30 minutes and finally get a spot two miles away from the front door.  We get inside, 5000 irritated people are in the front door.  The whole gang is here:

  • Crying babies?  Check.
  • Probable domestic abuser?  Check.
  • Disoriented older person?  Check.
  • Family of six stocking up their food bunker in the basement?  Check.
  • Potential shooter?  Check and check.
First, we pick up a few groceries.  Amazingly, the vegetable section is relatively empty, but try to get a box of Toaster Strudel and someone will cut you, most likely with the 14" knives on sale in Sporting Goods.

We give up on food.  We go to the electronics section to find Twilight movies as a gift for someone (because you KNOW we already have all of them! Play Clare de Lune for me again, Edward...) and there are 8 people crowded around a $5 movie bin, throwing movies all over the place.  Someone is loudly bitching at the one cashier in electronics about how they don't have enough XBox killing games, and another woman is loudly giving her reviews on every movie on the shelf. I start repeating a thought over and over in my head:

Must leave.  Make it stop.

There are no sticky rhinestones for bedazzling something, only iron-on.  No pre-tinted paint, only white base paint.  No Twilight, only New Moon and Eclipse.  No regular Hershey's kisses, just the holiday flavored ones.  No Apples to Apples, just the Travel one.  I decide to cut my losses and bolt.  The "20 items or less" lane has about 10 carts lined up with 6 of them having at least 30 items in them.  We get in what appears to be the shortest line, and I tell OD to get us a Reese's to split, but of course, she can only find the crunchy kind.  The cashier and the woman in front of us are talking.

#1:  "Girl, I don't think this gingerbread house is going to go up."
#2:  "Girlfriend, you just put it together with the frosting."
#1:  "I knows you use frosting, I'm tellin' you I don't think it will happen."
#2:  "You just use a butter knife - here, give me the box and I'll show you."

Oh dear God.  Don't give me the butter knife because I am about to get all stabby on your asses.

I wish I had been blessed with more patience, truly I do.  But I backed my cart with 11 items in it the hell out of that lane and made OD jog behind me while I trotted to the next shortest lane, muttering expletives under my breath.  No regular Reese's in this aisle either.  I look up, and the little old lady in front of me is taking out a stack of coupons.  Please, let her be donating them to WalMart.  No.  No she is not.  And so, she slowly goes through her stack of coupons to see what she can use that day, and what can I do?  She's a little old lady, probably on a fixed income with 10 stray cats at her house that she feeds every day, with ungrateful children who never call and grandkids who throw temper tantrums every time they are told they have to visit because they'd rather be on facebook and a bird feeder out back that she can't fill because it is too icy outside and 6 monthly prescriptions that are sucking away all of her income and a bowl of Werther's Originals on her desk that have been there for 4 years.  I lean over the handlebar of my cart and settle in.  This is going to take a while.

I finally get to check out, and it comes to $108 because I somehow always mysteriously go into three digits every damn time I'm in WM, Target or Sam's Club.  I could buy Trident gum and it would come to $102.98.  OD and I try to get our cart out of WM, but somehow we are again going upstream from the other carts, and people are swearing and getting up in each other's grilles.  We break out the front door and dodge the racing F-250s and unmarked Econovans through the slush to our van, manage to back out and get the hell out of Dodge.  OD looks and me and says, "Please don't ever make me go back there."  I feel you, OD.  It isn't necessarily about WALMART per se, it's just that there always seems to be a thinly veiled cloud of despair hanging in the dimly lit rafters of WalMart.  And people look like they will cut you.

We drive home, and we're all indignant about our ill-fated trip, and I check my e-mail.  There, in my inbox, is an e-mail from Jenny "The Bloggess" Lawson, and she has matched me up with someone in need for Christmas.  If you missed it, The Bloggess decided she was going to give $20 to the first 20 people who e-mailed her that they were going to have a bad Christmas this year because they had no money.  As in, "We're going to have to tell our child there is no Santa so he doesn't think Santa just forgot him."  Hand to God, even typing that makes my heart constrict and my eyes burn.  (Julie pauses, says a little prayer of thanks.)  So Jenny says in her blog that she hit the 20 people so fast, and the requests kept on coming, but every time she got another request, a donor would pop up in her comments, saying "I want to help too!"  I e-mailed Jenny yesterday and said, "Let me help!" and there she was. 

The Bloggess is the Queen of the Island of Misfit Toys.

I feel like the whole community of thousands who read her blog are the Misfit Toys.  We are the sort of wacky people who are a little off kilter but have a lot of love to give if someone would just adopt us, and Jenny the Bloggess has adopted us all.  She's crazy funny all year, but every few months she posts something that touches you deeply, and not in a "creepy uncle by marriage" sort of way.  She tries to use her power for good, and the force is strong with her.  Her blog jokingly says, "Like Mother Teresa, Only Better", and no disrespect to Mo Te, who was awesome, but there is a special place in heaven for Jenny too.

"Point please, Julie?  You're losing me."

My point is this.  I can go into Walmart and bitch and moan about how people are pissing me off and I want to shoot someone, but then I get a kick in the pants like an e-mail that says "Chelsey needs your help, here is her address" and all I have to do is go to amazon.com and purchase a gift card and have it e-mailed to Chelsey, BECAUSE I CAN.  It's called Perspective, people, and today I got a little.

I am not rich.  Not in the numbers sense.  But I am rich beyond measure in the love of my family, the health and happiness of my children, the support and laughter from my friends.  I have everything I need, and can manage to give when someone needs it, and that doesn't make the recipient lucky.  It makes ME lucky.

Are you ready for EVEN MORE CHEESE?  I'm also lucky because I have you, gentle reader.  This crazy blog, full of nothing but the trivial details of my relatively uneventful life and weekly soft-core porn, manages to get over 5000 views a month.  I'm aware that my mom clicks on about 1500 times, and CH maybe 500 or so checking to see if he's been slandered, and maybe 1000 robo-bots from the internet looking for Spam outlets, and 500 Taliban recruits, but that still leaves around 1500 views a month.  Thanks for caring people.  I'm giving you all a big, virtual, personal-space invading and slightly uncomfortable hug.  Now, those of you who can, go to http://www.thebloggess.com/ and leave a comment for Jenny that you can help too.  And if you don't hear from her, stick money in a kettle or find a Santa Tree.  It will feel good, I promise.

UPDATE, Sat, 8 p.m. - I sent my Bloggess Secret Santa match a $40 amazon gift card about two hours ago.  I felt a little silly sending such a small amount, but I've participated in a couple of local Secret Santa things, so I'm a little tapped out.  My Bloggess person sent me a wonderful e-mail thank you for the little gift card I sent, and told me what a difference it will make in their Christmas.  This is what it's all about, people. I'm a little verkempt.  If anyone wants to add to the gift card I sent, e-mail me at adayinthewife@gmail.com.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 51

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. Or Santa.

Today's topic: Who's Your Daddy?

And now, from the ADITW Christmas Carol Chorus - can I have the first two bars of "O Holy Night?"  Can I get a witness?

"Oh Holy Shit,
I'm not done with my shopping
It is the eve of the last day of school.

Long lay in bed, CH is watching Burn Notice
Til I appeared and he tried to look busy
A thrill of hope, a weary wife rejoices
Until she looks at the laundry on the floor

Not on my knees, oh hear the children's voices
you're alone tonight, so do the dishes
Oh night divine, the mall is open."

I am still not effing done with shopping.  Tonight I baked oatmeal raisin cookies and almond bark peanut butter Ritz cracker sandwiches, and made some homemade chicken noodle soup to give to people at work I need to gift.  Next week, teacher cinnamon rolls.  I will admit, I almost bailed on WF again this week, but then I remembered I did it last week and felt like a huge slacker.

So I'm in Walgreen's last week picking up a prescription for Youngest Daughter's semi-annual ear infection, and I'm thinking about what to buy for Current Husband.  I mean, he has ME, so what else could he possibly want?  He is one lucky bastard, CH.  So I'm waiting for the prescription, and I glance over at the shelves by the pharmacy and see this:

OMG.  It's perfect.
And at $29.99 it's in my price range.

I can already picture CH on Christmas morning.  He has his second cinnamon roll and his cup of coffee, and the kids are opening their gifts, and they say, "Daddy!  It's your turn!"  I turn and look at him all lovingly while he tears the paper off of his own personal paternity test.  It's the gift that says, "I want all of your questions answered.  You can finally trust me."

The kids look at the box, and then they'll look up in confusion.  "What's this?" they ask.  I say, "Well kids, even though you don't look like Daddy, this is a way we can all be sure he will support you for the rest of your underage lives."  I could really get my $29.99 worth if I had him open it at the Christmas exchange at his mother's house. 

Sweet Baby Jesus, it's tempting.

For those of you who are interested in, but unfamiliar with, a paternity test, here is the box information:

Paternity impacts many important life decisions and can affect a child's financial welfare and parental custody. More importantly, paternity knowledge provides peace of mind. Our laboratory follows rigid scientific protocol and routinely provides results probabilities greater than 99.9%.

•Committed to your privacy - information is kept strictly confidential
•DNA test results reported to you in 3-5 days
Purchasers of this kit qualify for a discounted price of $319 for a legal purpose DNA test (proof of purchase required).
How it works: Using the enclosed cheek swabs, rub the inside of the cheek to collect specimens. Place the child's swabs and the possible father's swabs into the separate specimen envelopes provided. Send payment, swabs, and order form to IDENTIGENE using the enclosed postage-paid envelope. Obtain results in 3-5 business days after samples arrive at the laboratory. Results available via mail or online at www.DNAtesting.com. *Additional $119.00 laboratory fee required. When DNA testing is performed for legal purposes, specimen collection and handling must be performed by a disinterested third party. .
© 2009 Identigene, LLC

Hold the phone, Identigene.  Do you mean to tell me that I have to pay a whole $119, plus postage, to find out the real identity of the father?  WTF!?!  I thought we had this down for the price of a week's worth of Big Mac Value Meals!  Now you're cutting into my drinking budget, and that's not cool.  Plus?  I want my third party INTERESTED.  For $119 I want my Aunt Nancy running the test at the lab.  Some disinterested person might mess it up.

So I guess we'll just move on with our lives knowing CH is the father, but it really sucks away all of my fun.  I guess I'll have to go with something a little cheaper, and it's a gift CH and I can share all year 'round:

Thank you, Walgreens. 
These, Boone's Farm and
 a Snuggie are what
 I call a Date Night.
Are you in, Baby Daddy?

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

All Done With Christmas Shopping

OMG, I am totally done with Christmas shopping!!

I've managed to fill about 80% of the wish lists of each of my biological children (can't get everything in life, kids, I don't want to set you up with unrealistic expectations) and I'm done with Current Husband. (So. Done.) I've even purchased a couple of gifts for myself and told CH where to find them. I'm sure I will probably be wrapping my copy of the Grant Wood biography and slippers.

It feels great to be done early for a change. I felt so happy about it that I made cookies last night. The peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kisses in them and some butterscotch-chocolate chip cookies. The kids all had homemade cookies in their lunches today. It's like I'm June Effing Cleaver, and ....wait. School. TEACHERS. I haven't purchased my teacher gifts.

I am done with Christmas shopping
except for teacher gifts.

That's not so bad. I always make our teachers cinnamon rolls and get them a gift card. I can handle that. So there are the classroom teachers, and I like to get something for the secretaries and the maintenance guy because they are awesome. Crap. Those aren't our only teachers. I still need to get something for the piano teacher, the cello instructor, the dance teachers and the basketball coach.

I am done with Christmas shopping except for the teachers, piano teacher, cello teacher, dance instructors and basketball coach.

They can all get the same thing, right? That just sounds like it's a bunch of gift cards, it's not like it's my mother or any...SHIT! My MOM!  I haven't bought my parents anything, and they are driving 24 hours from Texas to see us on the 23rd and 24th.

I am done with Christmas shopping except for the teachers, piano teacher, cello teacher, dance instructors, basketball coach, and my parents.

Oh crap, CH has parents too! And there are four of them! (It takes a lot of people to come up with someone as spectacular as CH. Merry Christmas honey, you're stocking's been stuffed.) And then there are siblings! CH has a sister, half brother, half sister, and three step siblings, and I have a sister as well. OH HELL, my sister's birthday is on the 22nd, and she just had surgery, and I still haven't even sent her a Get Well card.  And there are the friends I do actual exchanges with, and the newspaper carrier and the mailman and the garbage guys, and I should really bring something in to my new co-workers whom I like so much...

OMG, I am totally behind on Christmas shopping.

I know Jesus is the reason for the season.  Do you hear what I hear, Jesus?  Props.  To you.  Now how's about you pull a little Christmas miracle for me?  Yes, again.  Just add it to my tab.  You know where I live. (Note to self - buy Subway gift card for Jesus.)

Sunday, December 12, 2010

We're All Very Busy at Home

First, I apologize to the two people who missed Whoreticulture Friday. My budget was due at work, and while I would much rather have been blogging about sex toys or vaginal dryness, I had to project how much money my company will spend on hookers in 2011.

That joke never gets old for me. I love my job.

I get home on Friday night, and Current Husband tells me there is a note in Youngest Daughter's backpack I need to read.  Great.  I open her folder, and there is a slip of paper in there with a space for a parent signature.  It is her spelling test, and she got a whopping 2 out of 10 on it.  This is a test taken by the girl who puts on her big fake eyeglass frames every night and reads for a half hour to her stuffed animals, and is in the extensions program at school.  Translation:  Complete Lack of Effort.  Then, to make matters worse, YD's teacher wrote a note on the back that essentially said YD had not turned in more than a couple of sheets of homework this QUARTER, and when pressed, told her teacher, "Well, we're all very busy at home."


I'm hard pressed to think about what has YD so busy at home that she can't do her homework.  Then again, she's seven, so her dance card is pretty full.  There is iCarly to watch, and a Littlest Pet Shop game to play on her DS, and siblings to annoy.  She always takes time out to roll on the floor with George the Superpet, who outweighs her by 50 pounds and almost always ends up accidentally rolling on her hair.  She also reserves an hour each night to press me on when she can have a friend over, or when she will receive some hard-earned candy.  There is the half hour she spends telling me she is cleaning her room, when it looks mysteriously the same when I walk in. 

Yes, she is far too busy at home to do her homework.  There is an empire to run, and Rome didn't build itself.  I'm sorry Mrs. S...I'm on YD's side here.  We are FAR too busy at home to be bothered with homework, because God wouldn't have allowed us to invent technology or Oreos if He didn't intend for us to enjoy them.  Are YOU going to mess with Divine Intent, Mrs. S?  I think not.

As long as we are talking about messing with beings we know exist but cannot see, let's check back in with Melvin, the Tooth Fairy.  YD lost another tooth on Friday, and she left another detailed message for Melvin, but this one felt....darker.  

"Dear Melvin, 
How do I communikate with you when I havnt lost a tooth?  What are the names of the tooth fairys of the kids in my class?  Are you real?  Gabe and Lily say you are not real, so you should stop leaving them stuff.

Melvin wrote back:

"Dear YD,
I cannot give out the names of the other Tooth Fairies, it is against the rules.  Tooth Fairies are real only to those who believe.  You are a good girl, but you need to start turning in your homework.

She is crafty, that YD, I will give her that.  And the next time my boss wants a fiscal year budget turned in on time when I feel like blogging about Whoreticulture, I'm going to turn it in 20% finished.  When he wants to know why I didn't turn in my work, I'm going to take a lesson from YD's playbook, and tell him that I would love to turn in a budget, but I am VERY busy at home.  

I'm sure he'll understand.

Happy Monday, have a great week!

UPDATE:  I told YD that if she doesn't get her homework done, she might not move into 3rd grade, and then she wouldn't be in class with her friends anymore.  Her response?  "That's okay, the first graders are really nice and I already play with a bunch of them." 

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

A Little Help - What's a Virgin?

Last Saturday, a long-awaited date came up on the calendar.  Eclipse was released on DVD.

Oldest Daughter and I are Twilight freaks.  Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, and if having a crush on a ficticious sparkly vampire (or the hot borderline jailbait British kid that plays him) is wrong, I don't wanna be right.  And let's get one thing straight...I don't watch Harry Potter and think about getting it on with Daniel Radcliffe.  But Rob Pattinson I would happily spank.  I have standards.

So it isn't enough that I've read the book...a number of times.  Or saw the movie in the theater two times.  OD and I have watched the DVD three times since Saturday.  I can explain it no better than a meth addict explains why they like meth.  There is no rational explanation.  But a margarita, a Twilight movie, and my flannel pjs go together like Larry, Mo and Curly.  Or ice cream, brownies and fudge.  Or teenagers, acne, and Facebook.  Or beer, NASCAR and Winnebagos.

Let me make one criticism of the movie - Jacob?  He's hot.  He's buff.  He's what I would expect a guy who turns into a werewolf looks like.  Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, I buy it.  But the other dudes in the pack in Eclipse?  They have muffin tops bigger than mine.  It really should be in their contracts that they have to work out with Taylor Lautner, because if you are going to spend the entire movie running around shirtless, give me something to look at, not be uncomfortable about.  If I was going to be in a movie shirtless, I would work the freeweights and get a boob lift, AS A FAVOR TO THE VIEWER.  You're welcome.

So we watch the movie with another family the first time.  Youngest Daughter and her second grade buddy are busy chanting for Jacob and cheering for the wolves in the first movie.  It's cute.  The second time, we watch it with just our family.  The Son and YD are asking questions and then shushing each other when the other one talks.  It keeps them somewhat occupied.  The third time, YD is sitting on one side of me, and The Son is on the other side.  It's the part when Bella and Charlie are talking in the kitchen, and he is asking her if she and Edward are taking precautions.  Bella ends up saying, "Okay, Dad?  I'm a virgin!" and they both get uncomfortable and leave the room.  YD turns to me.

"Mom?  What's a virgin?"

"Oh God, honey, it's been so long, I don't know," is what I think.  I know YD doesn't know what a virgin is - when she and a friend were into the movie "The Grease", as YD called it, they sang the song Sandra Dee a LOT.  When her friend would sing "Lousy with virginity", YD would say, "No, it's 'Virginia-t', like my middle name."  "OOOHHH, I get it" her friend would say, and they'd go on singing.

"Shh! We're watching a movie!" is what I say.

YD whispers..."MOM! What is a VIRGIN!?!"

The Son is shaking with laughter, eyes big, watching me.  The older kids live for moments like this.

"Well...um...it's when someone is very careful....they don't do a lot of crazy kissing or anything...." the scene changes to Bella trying to seduce Edward into tapping that.  We all watch in silence.  I'm hoping The Virgin Moment has passed.  YD is watching intently as Bella wraps her leg around Edward's rock hard...vampire body...and starts to unbutton his shirt.

"Is THAT what a virgin does Mom?"  YD is now confused.  Bella says she is a virgin, and then in the next scene is dry-humping Rob Pattinson.  Well honey, that's what some virgins do.  I had a friend in high school who we referred to as "The 69 Queen" - and I know you read this and you know I love you - and she proudly graduated as a virgin.  But her boyfriend all during high school always had a smile on his face.

"Um, no honey, a virgin probably wouldn't be getting quite so...crazy."  I don't know why, but the word 'crazy' just kept popping up in my head.  Probably because it was an easier word than 'penetration' or 'hymen' or 'intercourse'.  It's just so..so...crazy!

I thought about going with the whole Virgin Mary comparison, but still, Mary ended up with Baby Jesus and it still waded into waters I wasn't comfortable swimming in.  YD knows about penises and vaginas, she just isn't aware yet that they are interlocking parts.  I finally tried a strategy that addressed genital involvement.

"Bella just means Edward doesn't see her private parts."  I stared at the TV.  Edward was telling Bella he wanted to protect her virtue and asking her to marry him.  Stick with the theme, YD.

"Ew. Why would she want him to do that?"

"She wouldn't.  That's why we like Bella.  Yay!  They're getting married!" And finally, YD was distracted.  A wedding!  Like Bridal Barbie!  And we could just forget about vaginas for now.

YD might see the wedding scene, but Breaking Dawn will conveniently break down when the honeymoon starts.  But Mommy?  Mommy might have to watch that one alone.  Brown Chicken Brown Cow....

Sunday, December 5, 2010

A Gift To Yourself

Hello Wifers!  Brace yourselves, I'm about to get all philosophical on your asses.

I hope you all had a terrific weekend!  Mine was fan-effing-tastic.  It was one of those weekends when nothing is scheduled but everything comes together almost perfectly, except that I didn't end the weekend 10 pounds thinner or 10 years younger.  But otherwise? Perfect. 

Lots of sleeping in, Eclipse DVD viewing night with another family in our jammies, margaritas, donuts may have been involved, Christmas shopping nearly finished (those of you who know me in real life know this is almost unheard of), kids were whisked away by another family who took them sledding for the afternoon, marital relations may or may not have happened, a good friend was in touch whom I haven't heard from in a while, and I talked to my mom.  It's one of those weekends that makes you step outside of your day-to-day routine and say,

"How can I make the rest of my life feel like this?"

I am very blessed. This I know for sure.  Just by virtue of where and to whom I was born, over which I had no control, I'm luckier than 90% of the people on the planet.  I have my share of stresses, but I've never known true poverty, hunger, homelessness, or serious abuse.  Sometimes, when I let myself get weighted down by the small stuff, it can be hard to regain perspective on how good my life really is.  Lately, there have been a couple of small things that have been troubling me.  One of them, if I think about it too long, will bring me to tears, even this moment.  But this weekend was one of those times when you take an assessment of what is giving true value in your life.  Appropriately, this a-ha moment was actually brought home to me in a quote by a hooker.

As I've mentioned before, I work with hookers, and will be taking lessons soon to be a world class hooker.  Rug hooker, that is.  And these old hookers are very profound.  They tend to be women in their 50's and 60's who have experienced life and raised their children and survived jobs and marriages and divorces and friendships and families, and they are a wealth of information.  I spend my days at work talking with these old hookers on the phone, reading their blogs and websites and e-mailing with them, and I've noticed many of them are rife with philosophical sayings.  Here are a few gems:

"If you love something, let it go free.  If it returns to you, it was meant to be yours.  If it doesn't, hunt it down and beat it with a shovel."

"It's better to have loved and lost than to have wasted your life on the bastard."

"Old hookers never die, they just eventually lose their wool."

Seriously, these women are pretty funny.  And bawdy, which is a great mix for me.  Some of the sayings are profound.  There is a product on the hooking market that is basically a duplicate of the product I market, but cheaper.  We're not worried about it at work, but we are keeping an eye on it.  The hookers know this, and one sent me a lovely e-mail that ended with this:

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

Wow.  Think about that, truly.  It can apply to anything.  Have you ever loved how a room in your house looks, and then you go to a spectacular room in someone else's house and say, "Well, Damn."  How many times have you been ready to go out, and you are thinking you look like ALL THAT, and then you see someone else and suddenly think you are Less Than?  Just be who you are, and love thyself.  Or, as Drew Barrymore has said, "Let your freak flag fly."  Hold on to that joy, and keep it, like ET in the closet.  (Except that ET would have died if he stayed in the closet, so I guess I am saying "Come out of the closet!")

((WAIT, that is a whole other blog, only come out of the closet when you are good and ready, don't let me push you out of the closet.  But I fully support you either way.))

Where was I? 

One quote I loved this summer that didn't come from a hooker, but instead from the movie "Eat, Pray, Love," is the phrase "The ruin is the gift."  I really loved that, because I've always thought that if something bad happens to me (or something that I perceive as bad), there is always something to be learned from it.  Even when I was at The Full Time Job I Couldn't Blog About, and was really miserable, I took so much away from that experience.  I met terrific people at that job, and found out what I didn't want in a career.  It made me appreciate the fact that I could have another opportunity, and it also made me appreciate the time I spent at home with the kids and realize not one minute of it was time wasted.  And?  More than anyone, Current Husband totally came through in the crunch and I realized he had my back. That was a gift.

At the beginning of last week, I was feeling particularly down about one little thing when I got a nice e-mail from a hooker, and her saying at the bottom hit me like a lightening bolt.  It was:

"Never make someone a priority
who only treats you as an option."

Whoa.  It even makes my heart skip a beat right now.  What a little piece of serendipity.  It was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment, and it was so freeing.  It isn't about EVERYONE treating you as a priority - that would be a tad egotistical, no?  This is about the Golden Rule, really.  Treat other people as you want to be treated.  So this holiday season, take a look at yourself and your relationships.  Value yourself.  Give yourself the gift of respect.  Have a Stuart Smalley moment.  Go on.  It might feel nice.

"You're good enough,
you're smart enough,
and dog gone it, people like you."

Happy Monday, and have a great week, Wifers!  I LIKE YOU!

Friday, December 3, 2010

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 50

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: Disco Stick Riding

I think I’ve mentioned before that I drive a six-pack of middle schoolers to school each morning. Spending that 20 minutes with six middle schoolers can sometimes be exponentially more enjoyable than spending 20 hours with just ONE middle schooler. When they travel in packs, they tend to be funny and somewhat pleasant. When they are Han Solo, they tend to go to The Dark Side.

When middle schoolers are in the van, my beloved NPR is turned to the local station, B-100. The content is decidedly different.

Lately, Lady Gaga’s song, “Disco Stick”, has been in the morning rotation. You really haven’t lived until you’ve been stuck in a car with three sixth grade boys and three eighth grade girls when Gaga is saying, “I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”

“I can see you standing there across the block

With a smile on your mouth and your hand on your HUH!

Don’t think too much, just bust that stick

I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”

Um…do any of you kids have homework? Does everyone have their lunches? Okay, have a good day, and whatever you do , STAY OFF OF THE DISCO STICK!

Listen Ga, I love your fierce independence, really I do. But do you really want to ride the disco stick of a guy who is standing across the block staring at you and masturbating? And? Disco is dead. Lots of people ended up with herpes in the disco era. Let’s reconsider. Perhaps you want to play some scrabble or go to a movie before considering taking a ride on his Antibacterial Bar of Soap or Thoroughly Laminated Commitment Rod?

Here is the other problem I have with this song – and this could be limited to my experience only – but where some people (middle schoolers) may hear a beat or think of dancing in The Club, I just think PENIS. Penis, penis, penis, penis. Perhaps a ballsack. And frankly, it ishes me out a little. I love me some sex, but HELLO, my Grandma Rea was a stalwart Methodist and my Grandma K was a Mennonite. It is not in my blood to look someone in the eye and say, “Allow me to mount your penis.” And I really don’t need to hear anyone else asking for it either.

This brings me to Snoop Dogg. That’s Snoop D-O-double G. I think you’re great, Snoop, I do. I can get with sippin’ on gin and juice, laid back, got my mind on my money and my money on my mind. But Snoop is another perpetrator of ruining sex by describing it too much. His new song is “Wet,” and he SAYS it’s for Prince William’s bachelor party, but I am telling you there is NO EFFING WAY Prince William will get down to this song if the Queen has anything to say about it.

“Can you be my doctor?

Can you fix me up?

Can you wipe me down?

So I can lick you up?


Tell me baby you are wet

I just wanna get you wet

Drip, drip, drip for me mami”

Holy shit. This song might actually cut down on teen pregnancies, because it might make sex sound SO unappealing that no one does it. Just reading the LYRICS to this song makes me want to buy a full length Lanz flannel nightgown and some granny panties.

My friend Paige, the OBGYN, should be seeing an increase in patients if this song is representative of the incontinence sufferers, because if Mami is dripping that hard, she probably needs medical attention and not 15 minutes in heaven with Snoop Dogg.

I’m going to take a moment to guess what Snoop’s video looks like. I’m closing my eyes. I’m concentrating very hard. I think he is going to be wearing a spiffy outfit, maybe a suit or a tux, drinking something from his bejeweled chalice (because he is high class) and then there is going to be a woman slathered in oil and a thong barely covering her Juicy Butt and she will be slithering around on the floor, in sheer ecstasy from just being in Snoop’s presence.

I hope you all have a Happy Whoreticulture Friday and a great weekend. I’m going to have a nice, dry weekend, and might make some time to service the dip stick. (Not you, CH, the oil in the van needs to be changed.)

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Don't Look Into The Light, Part 2

Okay, here is the rest.  I'm telling you, it's a little anti-climactic, but this is cheaper than therapy, and it's really all about me, no?  Because it's a blog.  "Ego-centric" is what we bloggers do.  I'll get you up to speed with this repeat paragraph:

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.I have a whole story about trees that fell over at 1 a.m., really, but I'll save that because I know Mom and CH have to get back to work and they just skim these posts for references to them. Tick tock, Julie, supervisor might be walking by soon!

We are in a new house, so I feel that Current Husband and I need to spiffy the place up for ChristGiving, meaning let's deck this sucker out in lights! I have CH and The Son drag out the tub of outdoor lights and the wooden ladder, and I climb the ladder to start hanging lights from the gutters. The ladder is a little on the short side, so I have to climb up on the rung that says DANGER! PELLIGRO! and shows a picture of a stick man falling off of a ladder very similar to this one. The mulch is pretty soft, and the legs keep sinking in, so I ask CH to hold the ladder. He obliges, and then uses his time to talk about the view of my ass from the ground, and all of the manly things he is capable of when I descend. I tell him I am having my period and he quits looking, problem solved.

The husband next door is putting their lights up, so CH starts loudly advising me how to hang the lights, because then he is a FOREMAN and not the pussy Ladder Holder. I get about halfway done, and then CH makes a discovery - the next strand of lights is different from the ones that are up. DAMN IT! It's the poltergeist of those elves. I start taking the lights down, because the next two strands match. I get them halfway down, and then CH says, "Wait! The strand that is up already matches the other strand!" so I put the previously hung, then removed, lights back up. I get the second strand up, and CH says, "We should probably plug this in to test them." We look around. Odd. This house has no outdoor outlets. WTF. CH gets the biggest, most safety-orange cord he can find, and plugs it into the kitchen and runs it out the door to the lights. As I am thinking, "Are we going to run this safety orange extension cord out the side door all season?", CH plugs it in, and alas, the second strand of lights is burned out. DOUBLE DAMN! This is going to be CH's ticket to not decorate at all. Don't Look Into The Light, CH! Look away from the lights!

I take down the second strand of lights, and put up a third strand of lights. These are pretty, they have the very droopy double strands that say, "I got these at my local hardware store instead of WalMart." I get them up - but wait! We don't have any more strands! Our house is now two-thirds decorated. By now, I am pissed. I almost pull a stick man move in my anger over the lights, but manage to safely dismount the ladder and step on the elf/reindeer burial ground again. "Let's just decorate the stupid tree," I say, stomping past CH whille he chuckles and shrugs his shoulders at our man-neighbor, who is now putting carefully arranged lit snow globes on the top of his perfectly groomed row of boxelder bushes.

We get to the tree. It IS pretty. We unwrap the lights, but we're smart this time, we plug them in first. The first strand works. The second and third strands have about a third of the lights out. We decide to salvage bulbs from one strand to make one GOOD strand between the two. That is sort of a train wreck, and the kids leave to text and watch Wizards of Waverly Place while CH and I play Junior Electrician. We get it done, the lights work, we put them on the tree. We have the kids come back in, and we have our Norman Rockwell decorating for about 10 minutes, and then the kids start fighting over who gets to put which prime ornament on the tree. We're finally done, it's time for our annual Tree Lighting Ceremony, normally done to Christmas music, but Mommy had to delete her playlist for technical reasons, so this year it was to Jay-Z and Blink 182. I hit the switch, The Son plugs in the lights, and....WHAT THE F***?!?!?!? The rigged up strand of lights is now out. Apparently there was a short in the wiring somewhere that kicked in when it was clipped to the tree. Get back in here, Carol Ann! Do you see the Elf People, Carol Ann?

CH goes outside to roll up the safety orange cord, and when the front door shuts behind him, I see that the extra droopy strands are getting caught in the door. Two of the lights are already smashed. The lights attached to the gutter are now ruined too. Cue the banjo music, we've done moved into the hood. I march out to the end of the hanging strand. CH knows this face. "What are you doing?" I grab the strand and I pull. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK - the lights snap off of the gutter like a machine gun, or coffins popping out of the freshly dug pool in the backyard. I look at the dead lights laying on the ground, and look back up at CH.

"This house is clean."

The only lights working in my house this year are the ones in my fridge as I pull the cork on my chardonnay. I sit back, listen to some very seasonal Jay-Z (I got 99 problems and a bitch ain't one), and gaze upon my half lit tree. I could only be so lucky. A very Merry ChristGiving season to all of you, and my gift to you? Check your light strands before you hang them.

And? Don't build your house on a burial ground for magical creatures.  You're welcome.
(That last part is straight out of The Bloggess playbook.  It's fun to pretend to be The Bloggess once in a while!)