Where IS Everything?

Merry Christmas Wifers!

I know, I'm an ass and haven't posted, but I think of the blog often.  And then I say, "Meh.  I'm drinking right now."  (NOTE TO MY MOTHER:  No Mom, I'm not drinking all the time.  I don't have a problem.  And perhaps I'm drinking Diet Coke?  I never said it was booze.  Who has the problem NOW?  Take a look at yourself.  What's in your hand?  That's what I thought.)

Really, I've meant to post, and I have a few great things to share, but I can't find my cord to download photos off of my Blackberry.  And then I can't find my charger.  And then I can't find my phone.  In the past week I've lost keys, gifts, eyeliner, a Starbucks gift card, $1400 in credit card receipts for a hooker convention, a red sweater, and my favorite jeans.  Just now, I helped Youngest Daughter through a lost DS emergency, and then I couldn't find my Mike's Hard Lemonade.  I can't find the receipt for the custom door we ordered for Current Husband's office now that we need to pick it up, and I'm losing my mind!  WTF, Universe?  I know there are people in the world battling cancer and depression and oppression and erosion, so I know I need a perspective check, but seriously, WHERE THE HELL IS MY BLACKBERRY CORD?

We had a great Christmas here in Wiferville.  It was all awesomeness and unicorns and ponies.  The kids were great, we had a wonderful bunker-down weekend, Christmas Eve Mass was uncharacteristically short, we sat behind a cute baby, the weather was great and we didn't run out of Gruet or cheesy potato casserole and no major appliances broke or malfunctioned in any way. 

Downside?  I may have undercooked portions of the ham and therefore my family may or may not have trichinosis.  Also?  I got my period four days early and had to go to Walgreens on Christmas Day to buy 60 Super Plus tampons and 48 Super tampons and 48 super maxi pads and a box of Dots and Aleve and a handgun, because honestly it was a Ten Year Period and it's a miracle I didn't need a transfusion or Depends.  The checkout girl said, "How is your Christmas going?" and I looked down at my 108 tampons that were getting me through the next 48 hours and said, "Yeah.  It's shaping up really well right now" and she looked at me in a pityingly way and said, "But you have the Dots!" and then I felt bad because at least I was hemorrhaging to death at home and in flannel sock monkey pajamas and not doing it at Walgreens on duty.  So I said, "It's great, I'm so glad you were open, thanks for working on Christmas!" and she smiled and probably thought, "Yeah, thanks for rubbing it in.  Go eat some more of that Death Ham, bitch."

I have to find that cord because I have a photo on my phone of one of my best Christmas presents EVER.  I'll get right on it.  Side note - super big scare tonight with George the Superpet - my kids called me at work at 4:10, yelling that I need to come home RIGHT NOW because George wasn't using his back leg, was walking like he was drunk, and threw up yellow stuff and then laid down on the floor.  I walked out of the office, freaking out, and on the way home called and told the kids to call the vet that I was bringing him in and I thought, "Dear God, Do NOT let me come home to a dead dog."  I screeched up to the house, threw open the back of the swagga wagon, and tried to figure out how I was going to get a catatonic stroking-out 107 lb poodle in the back by myself, and when I opened the door he came trotting around the corner smiling and wagging and miraculously all better.

BUT STILL.

As an FYI, when I lose George the Superpet, I will NOT. COPE. WELL.  He is only 5, so this kind of behavior is ridonkulous and I won't stand for it.  We've been watching him all night and he is acting perfectly normal, but of course I'm hearing the Voice of Unreason in the back of my head.  I can lose Blackberry cords and eyeliner and Starbucks cards, but the one non-human thing I can't lose right now is my dog.  CH, you have been demoted.  George gets the bed tonight.  Poor little poochie-pie.

I'm Sorry, 1034 Hall Street

Can you believe Christmas is this weekend?  I. Can't. Wait.  Excited kids and good food and elastic waistband pants and sleeping in and staying up late and wine.  Yippee!

Like us, many of you might have celebrated some kind of Christmas last weekend.  The Son had a basketball tournament, so Current Husband's Dad and Stepmom and younger sister came down for the day to see it and have our Christmas.

The Son's first game was at 8:30.  Thrilled that I had to wait for CH's Dad to arrive, and thus could sleep a little later, I missed out on the first game.  They were supposed to arrive around 8:30 a.m., but that came and went and no Dad.  It was inching toward 9 a.m. when the phone rang - it was CH's stepmom, wanting Youngest Daughter to stand in the yard so they could remember where we live.  We moved a year ago, and they've been here once, but their Garmin was still programmed for the old house, which is about three blocks away.  The Stepmom was laughing so hard I could barely understand her; she said they had something to tell us.

They pulled up in front and walked in the house.  It turns out that CH's Dad really had to use the bathroom, but they were so close he figured he could wait.  By the time they pulled up to our house, he REALLY had to go, so he jumped out of the car, ran to the door, and rang the doorbell repeatedly.  He started yelling, "C'MON JULIE, OPEN UP, I REALLY HAVE TO GO!"  Then he gave up on my getting to the door on time and....

Oh Dear Lord.  He peed in the back yard. 

Just in time to figure out
that it wasn't our house.

They jumped back in the car and took off down the street, where they saw Youngest Daughter, turning blue and jumping up and down.  They came in the house, where The Dad told me his story, and pointed out that, according to the front of his jeans, he didn't even completely make it to the back yard.

People of 1034 Hall Street:
Let me take this opportunity to apologize.  I know it wasn't a pretty sight to look out of your kitchen window, take that first sip of coffee, and see a strange man pissing in your yard, but his prostrate is weak, as is his willpower to turn down pots full of coffee when driving three hours.  He means well.  And if, by chance, he happened to say our last name or address while wetting himself on your front step or back yard, please stop by and pick up your complimentary bottle of Gruet.

You Deserve It.

Who's Ready For A Good Cry?

I don't know about y'all, but every once in a while, on the estro-coaster I'm riding, I have a morning where I just sort of break down and have me a little old fashioned cry-it-out.  Current Husband looked a little nervous, but pulled me over and gave me a hug while I told him all the things that are wrong at the moment.  He listened, and for once didn't try to tell me what to do or how to fix it, or my favorite, tell the person who was hurting my feelings a little bit to "just fuck off".  I got it all out.  I painted the basement and stewed.  I got a call from our school principal, who takes her time on the weekend to drive around picking up Secret Santa gifts to deliver to families in our school community who can't afford to have much of a Christmas, and she told me she was ready to pick up my gift, which I hadn't had time to purchase yet.  Of course, I felt a little grumbly about it, because I was stuck in my Poor Me mode, and thought, "Oh great, ANOTHER thing I have to go out and do today", because aren't those poor little kids who watch the "Haves" get everything they want just a pain in my busy schedule?  And then I saw this:

http://news.yahoo.com/anonymous-donors-pay-off-kmart-layaway-accounts-221000605.html

I tried to embed this story, but no dice, so it's just an old-fashioned link, my friends.  But it's a nice kick in the butt perspective-wise.  No matter how bad my day may be, it's nothing compared to what some people go through this time of year.  And for all of the assholes out there, and I know a couple, there are so many wonderful, giving people with hearts 10 times too large, and I know dozens of this kind, and they DO outnumber the assholes.

 Kids can't help the situations their parents are in, but they can sure see what everyone else is getting at school.  Not only am I going to go out and get my Secret Santa kid his gift now, I'm going to up the ante and get another gift card to go with it, and it's because of the examples of people like the KMart donors, the Bloggess and her Great 2010 Pay-It-Forward, and everyone else who tries to make a difference. 

Yes Virginia, there IS a Santa Claus.  And it's you.
An early Merrry Christmas and blessings to you all!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 74

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 anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or my OB-GYN.

Today's topic: Gettin' Nekkid

First of all, I haven't been.  Ever since the tubes were blocked I've been living a monk-like existence of contemplation and chocolate.  Today I had a quick check-in at the gyno and we are good to go until February, when I get the dye shot up in my turkey cavity and then presumably have to walk around work all day explaining that my pen exploded in my pants pocket.

So, speaking of nakedness...have you ever noticed that nudity is so much about perception?  You see a sculpture of David and think...

I'M CULTURED.

You see this picture of a naked guy and you think:

I'M NOT SURE.

(But this is a Mapplethorpe portrait, and I actually really like most of his stuff.)

Then you see this picture of a naked guy and you think:

I'M CALLING THE POLICE.

When does nudity cross over that line from art to trash?  I was thinking about this today when I perused my new issue of Vanity Fair with Lady Gaga.  There is a photo of her buck-ass naked in Tony Bennett's art studio, with Tony looking on, thinking, "That girl is bendy."  For some reason, I look at this photo and think, "Huh.  She's an odd little thing." and I want to buy her a $2 Subway Meatball Sub.  Or two.

WHAT A KOOKY ARTIST!

Then I see the new "leaked" photo of Lindsay Lohan and I have a totally different reaction:

WHAT A SLUTTY METH ADDICT!

Again, two naked celebrities, two different reactions.  This topic came up at a hooker convention I recently attended.  There was a rug hooked by a grandma displayed:

Yep.  That's her grandson and his bits.  It's an interesting choice, to be sure, and if my mother-in-law gave me this rug I would be like, "Um, you don't need to watch Leo while we're in Bermuda, we're taking him."  Everyone is going to feel awkward when she asks him to do a revision rug when he's 18.

I was having dinner with some hookers that night and asked if there is much nudity in rug hooking.  They all looked at each other, and one said, "Are we all thinking about the self-portrait class?"  Apparently there was a class last year where the instructor asked the class to disrobe and sketch their bodies on linen, and then hook themselves naked into a rug.  Even back when I was rockin' this body 20 years ago I wouldn't want my birthday suit immortalized in wool.  If I did do that rug today?  I would totally get rid of this double chin, shave a few inches off the thighs, delete the shadowy area under my muffin top, and my hair would be bountiful and not have these wiry old lady hairs sticking out.  And even with the body revisions in the rug?  Still wouldn't hook it.

When does art become trash?  I guess it's in the eye of the beholder.  But NO ONE is wiping their muddy feet across my ass, that is fo sho.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!

Hello Teen Daughter, Have We Met?

Honestly, I thought I was going to be an awesomely cool Mom of a Teen.

Really, I did.

Stop laughing.

We read and watch Twilight together, and share a crush on Edward.  We both love chocolate milkshakes and hanging out at Starbucks and crab rangoon.  We like SNL and Project Runway and the same music.  We're both sarcastic and curmudgeonly.  But lately, something has come between us:

You bitch.

I don't know exactly WHOSE estrogen is getting in the way.  On Saturday, I had her in tears in the morning, she had me in tears in the afternoon.  I can't tell you who was being unreasonable.  All I can say is that there was so much estrogen in the van that it smelled like cherry chip cupcakes and the Queen Mother and Summer's Eve in there.

This is just a sampling of the accusations flying around on Saturday:

1. I commented on one of her facebook posts and she deleted me.
2. She was 10 minutes late getting in the van when I picked her up at a friend's house.
3. She wouldn't help pick out a sweatshirt/Christmas present for her brother.
4. I mentioned facebook to her boyfriend's mother.
5. She says everyone in our family says she is angry and mean.
6. I pointed out that she is slightly angry/sometimes mean to everyone in the family.
7. She may have said we are the only parents who complain to their teens about scheduling their social lives better vis a vis rides to and from.
8. I might have mentioned that it is unfortunate she ended up with such assholes for parents.

And things really just deteriorated from there.  But on the screaming upside-down roller coaster that is parenting a teenage girl while going through peri-menopausal symptoms yourself, there are exhilirating ups, and there are terrifying downs.  We are back to being friends at the moment, but I can almost hear the chain pulling our car up the steep metal hill - chink chink chink chink chink chink chink - before we hit the top and go plunging downward again.  Perhaps over math homework or texting.  Or the lack of protein in her diet.  Or the windchill.  It could be anything, really.  But I'll take the moment of detente and relish it.

On a side note, she is having terrible cramps and such while enjoying the curse of Eve, and when she went to cello lessons tonight, her male cello instructor said, "You look like you aren't feeling well", and meaning to say something along the lines of It's the Season When People Start to Get Sick, she mistakenly said, "Well it's that time of the month!"

 

Awesome.  I bet he didn't criticize her playing AT ALL tonight.  Be safe, cello instructor.  These are trying times.

Random McRandomstein

It's almost 11 p.m. and I have to get up at 6:30 a.m. for that whole work/school dance routine I do every day, but I want to check in and say that I am now presumably sterile.  I hope.  I did go in to the doctor's' office and I did take a Xanax or two, and let me just tell you that Current Husband had to talk me off the ledge to get in there because I was having my period, EARLY AGAIN, and thought it was going to blow the whole deal, and CH took away my handgun and hung up on the police and walked me to the car.  The acutal procedure hurt a bit more than I thought it would (somewhere between bad menstrual cramp and early labor contraction) and the doctor had to really shove that speculum around because, as I later found out, my fallopean tubes are positioned particularly high.  Huh.  So I came home really doped up and tried to talk to our contractor in the basement and CH came after me much like one might search for a missing dementia patient the the home.  He apologized for me and led me back upstairs to bed, where I fell asleep for five hours until the kids came home from school.  All is well and I am avoiding the contractor.

There was no pillow fight, and nothing in my house is white, and my uterus is still disappointingly music-free.

That said, I have a bunch of random thoughts to get out:

1. Lindsay Lohan's Playboy cover has been leaked.  People still care about LiLo?  And haven't we all seen her naked already?
2. I had to pay $170 for dance recital costumes for a recital in May 2012.  While it is troubling to write a check that large in holiday shopping season for what is probably 3 costumes out of the "Shades of Skanky" catalog, it is making me feel like I'm prepared for SOMETHING in 2012.
3. Just when I think I'm done with Christmas shopping, I remember that I'm So. Not. Done.
4. I took a half day off work today to have an Irish Coffee with another mom just before school got out, and it was lovely.  Sometimes it feels good to be bad. 

That is all for now, Wifers.  I hope you are all enjoying a terrific holiday season!

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 73

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 anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or my OB-GYN.


Today's topic: The Factory is Closing


I'm a little bit excited and slightly anxious tonight, because tomorrow is THE BIG DAY.  I am a very fertile Myrtle.  Particularly when I've been drinking, because my eggs get all belligerent and start droppin' it like it's hot, in the club, which happens to be my uterus.  Not one of my children was planned, and all were likely conceived after a night out with Current Husband.  They were all welcomed and loved (note to future Family Therapist), but not particularly planned.  Because that's how I roll, y'all.


For about six years or so, My High School Friend Paige The OB-GYN has been telling me to get things tied up down there with some Mirena or Essure or duct tape.  She's the one who would always get the phone calls that inevitably start with, "Um, Paige, I was out last month and got really drunk, and I'm on antibiotics and I've been scraping lead paint in the basement...." and she would interrupt and say, "You're pregnant again, aren't you."  When we had our trip in Austin, Texas, talk turned once again to Oops babies and sex, and once again, I was told to get on it already.  This time, I did.


I've taken my two horse pills for the night, and tomorrow morning at 9:30 a.m. I'm going in for the Essure procedure.  This is where an actual medical professional jams metal coils in your tubes, and then scar tissue grows in a controlled fashion around said coils, and closes them shut tight and baby-free.  Am I worried about an unknown allergy to nickel?  A possible accidental perforation of my fallopean tubes and emergency surgery?  No.  What am I worried about?  How my hoo-ha appears looking north from my knees.  Because I can't have my doctor walking out of the room and muttering to himself, "That is One. Fugly. Pussy."  It's good to know I have my priorities in order, no?  Maybe it's time to weigh the pros and cons.


PROS
I can be my skanky self again without fear
It's quick and easy and hormone free
My insurance covers it
I have prescriptions for Xanax and Codeine
I can make CH feel guilty about my sacrifice
My family will be like this Essure family on the website:
 

Because I'm coming home from the procedure and painting my entire house white and buying a new white wardrobe for everyone to represent my renewed purity, and we can all have a pillow fight and laugh and yell, "Mommy can have all the sex she wants now!!"


CONS
Slight, but unlikely, chance of nickel allergy or death
People have to see my junk.  Hopefully no more than two people.
According to this photo on the Essure website, my uterus will become an iPod - hopefully an iPod Touch, if you get my drift. 

What will be on YOUR "Julie's Vagina Playlist"?

Actually, I'm moving the uPod on the PRO list.  After three kids I bet that thing can hold a million songs and the last three seasons of Mad Men.


Wish me luck, Wifers!  Happy Whoreticulture Friday and have a great weekend!

The End of the Road

Since I've been a slacker blogger lately, I'm going to play a little catch-up this week.

I mentioned I've been traveling a lot for work, and by "mentioned" I mean complained about in a whiny, self-pitying kind of way.  Vermont is for Lovers, but if I hadn't scored a huge Ben & Jerry's Cracked Up Combo Ice Cream Bar in Fudge Brownie and Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough on the last night I was there, it might have been CNN time for this mom.  Eight days is too many to be away from home, particularly when it's the mom and there are three kids under driving age in the house.  I was ready to get home.

And that's why I cried with Gary at
Chicago's O'Hare airport last Monday.

Let me preface this by saying that they should keep Xanax biscuits at all airports, and a sparkly unicorn sock puppet to feed them to upset travelers.  That is my contribution to the "How To Make Air Travel Bearable" suggestion box.

Those of you who have been following along will know that air travel and I do not mix.  I used to love flying, back in the day when it was fun.  Now it's not only stressful because of the whole get-undressed-to-get-patted scenario, but also because it seems like the airlines have completely lost their shit as far as how to run a business.  I have been in 12 different airplanes over the past three months, and I am here to tell you that no one has fun anymore.  There is no room in the seats, boarding and de-planing are a total nightmare, and there is no room for carry-ons, which everyone brings because no one wants to pay the $25 or more for checking bags.

Take that dubious beginning, and then add me.

In November, a flight I was on was delayed due to fog (not the airline's fault, I grant you), but then all of my tightly scheduled connections were thrown off and I spent 18 hours in airports that day.  Another flight was scheduled too closely to the first one, and my baggage didn't make the connection, and my luggage was lost.  Of course, I didn't PLAN to check my bag, but since I was a lowly Zone 4 in boarding there was no carry-on space, and my bag was forced to check and then was lost.  You'd think I would learn from this experience, but I am truly an old dog.

A few weeks ago, I checked my itenierary to Vermont online, and noticed that the Vermont to Chicago legs of my flight were missing.  I called Expedia to see if they had reserved a scooter for me to drive to Chicago to catch my last flight, but Juan reassured me all was well (Didn't you get the e-mail that those flights were cancelled?  No Juan.  I didn't.  That's why I'm panicking now.)  He e-mailed my new itenierary and indeed, all the dots connected.  Until Monday.

I caught my flight from Vermont at 8 a.m. to LaGuardia.  (SIDE NOTE:  I flew over Ground Zero twice in the last two weeks, and it is very chilling.  I couldn't help but think, "This is what they saw before they crashed."  So sad.)   In LaGuardia, you have to catch a shuttle to another terminal, then go back through security, and run to find your gate.  If you have less than 40 minutes between flights, fuggedaboudit.  I caught my flight to Chicago, and was SO. CLOSE.  The Son had an orchestra concert at 7, and my flight was scheduled to land at 4:30, so it looked good for me to hear it.  Then the flight was delayed due to mechanical problems.  Just what you want to hear in the airport. 

(On my flight out of LaGuardia to Vermont, we were in the plane, strapped in, getting ready to taxi down the runway, when we returned to the gate, because "Our hydraulic pump just broke." OH?  I quickly booked another flight from LaGuardia to Philly, then Philly to Burlington, and got in three hours late.  Dear United:  Never tell us the plane is breaking if you want us to use your airline again.)

SO, BACK TO O'HARE.  We are finally boarding.  I walk up to the gal, she scans my boarding pass, and says, "This passenger has already boarded."  Um, no, she hasn't.  "Yes," she says, "She has."  We look at my ticket.  OhHolyShit that is NOT my name on the boarding pass.  "You'll have to go back to the ticketing agent," she says, and looks past me to the next person.  Now everyone is looking at me like I'm a terrorist, which I am *thisclose* to becoming.  I go back to the ticketing counter and say, "Excuse me, you gave me the wrong boarding pass" which has issues all by itself, as in How do they issue TWO boarding passes to ONE person?  I have to take off my belt, watch, shoes, coat, and scarf and can't bring perfume, hairspray, vodka or certain anti-aging products, but you can issue two boarding passes to the same person?  SECURITY!!!

But Gary has news for me:  "I'm sorry, I don't have you on this flight."  I have news for Gary:  "OH YES I AM."  Gary says, "But you aren't on my list" and I say, voice trembling, "Here is my itenierary.  And I have three kids in Iowa that I've been away from for eight days and I have to be at an orchestra concert in three hours.  I'm on the edge here, Gary,"  Gary says, nervously, "Don't cry..."  and I say, "Oh THIS isn't crying.  I haven't even BEGUN to cry.  It will get much, much worse."  And then Gary quickly prints off a new boarding pass with my name on it and I run to the gate and am the last passenger on the plane.

We are beginning our descent when suddenly it hits me: I checked my bag in Vermont because my connection in LaGuardia was too close and I couldn't chance it with the carry-on.  But the airline didn't have me booked to the Quad Cities, they had me booked to Chicago.  And like a COMPLETE MORON, I packed my laptop, Garmin, digital camera, Blackberry charger, and my paperwork from the show (not credit card numbers or money though, that doesn't leave my person) because I didn't want to lug 40 pounds of electronics and paperwork through the airport.  Right now, my bag is making the rounds at Baggage Claim C in O'Hare, with some clever thief muttering, "Bingo."   I'm an idiot.

I get off the plane, make my lost baggage claim, and go see my people.  Honestly, at this point I'm so tired and so relieved to see my family and an orchestra concert that I don't care about the bag yet.  We go to the concert, have our lovely friends who are visiting from Atlanta over for about 2 hours late Monday night, and then off to bed and work the next day.  I call United baggage claim about four times during the day Tuesday, and the automated voice says, "We haven't located your bag, but remember that 90% of all bags are found."  By 6 p.m., I am feeling like part of the lucky 10%.  It turns out, they did find my bag, and the delivery service was trying to drop off my bag with all of my electronics at the wrong address, even though it is clearly printed in my baggage tag.  I finally got it at 9 p.m., and thank you Jesus everything was inside.

What did I learn?  Nothing.
The End.

Check back in February, when I am not only going back for MORE air travel, I am taking a whole posse of minors with me.  Because my ulcer is not yet fully matured.

What I'm Thankful For

Happy Delayed Thanksgiving, Wifers!

Here are the Top Ten things I am thankful for this Thanksgiving:

1.  I'm done traveling for the year for work.
2.  Village Inn makes pies for taking to Thanksgiving dinners prepared by others.

Nom Nom, Village Inn.

3.  People who know how to cook delicious Thanksgiving meals without my help.
4.  Said people let me go home with minimal cleanup help.
5.  Sleeping in for THREE DAYS.
6.  Breaking Dawn finally coming out, and me finally seeing it.

Thank you, Stephenie Meyer. 

I know this isn't Shakespeare, but STILL. 

7.  Four days off work after 10 days on at work.
8.  Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls with Cream Cheese frosting.

 I think I need this.  Stocking stuffer?

8.  Getting Christmas lights up on house two weekends ago when it was 50 degrees.

Makes me feel like an effing GENIUS.

See George the Superpet looking out the door?

9.  Oldest Daughter's Boyfriend for helping to paint walls in basement construction zone.

Who knew I would benefit so greatly from this relationship?

10.  That my wonderful children have taken an interest in baking without help.  These are Butterscotch Milk Chocolate Chip Cookies, and I have eaten a half dozen, easy.  Warm.  With milk.  Just like heaven.

And of course, I'm thankful for YOU, Gentle Readers!

Hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Cookies for everyone!

On the Edge

I just re-read the title of this post and thought, "Yeah, I WISH I was on the Edge!"  I know he's old, but I'd still tap that.


I just re-read the sentence above and thought, "I wonder if Current Husband will get uptight about that?", particularly considering that I've been gone since 6 a.m. last Tuesday morning and he theoretically hasn't been laid.   Not that me being around means he's getting laid, but that's all going to change soon.  I'll explain in a later post.  Probably Whoreticulture Friday material.


Wait...what was I talking about?  Oh yeah, how I'm going fucking crazy in Vermont.  Not even a bored kind of crazy, but a coming-unhinged kind of crazy.  It's nothing personal against Vermont.  Vermont is a sharp dresser and has great hygiene and is very well-mannered.  But I've been here ALONE since last Tuesday, and I'm ready to go all Kanye West on this Taylor Swift state.  It's quaint and lovely and bucolic, but there is no Starbucks to be seen, and the adorable shops are not open when the hooker convention is over, so I can only stare and drool.


The hookers are great, and funny, artistic people.  One woman I overheard this week said, "Be warned, I have a big mouth and thin skin."  I need that on a t-shirt.  Another woman, who is in her sixties, said, "I don't want to call my husband stupid; let's just say he's mentally incapacitated."  I love her.  I could show you a Shutterfly album of pictures of amazing rugs, but the one that really stood out to me is one called "Aries Woman".  It is an unusual piece in that it is very modern and is hooked by someone under the age of 50, a gal named Mariah Krauss here in Vermont.  Check it out:

This is hooked with at least 20 different shades of red, and is hooked with hand-dyed wool that is about 3/32 of an inch wide.  Here is a close-up of one part of it:

Look at that - yes, all of those bumps are hand dyed and hooked 3/32 of an inch pieces of wool.  All kidding aside, it blows my mind, the time it took to hand dye all of that wool in all of the perfect shades and draw the pattern and cut the wool and then to actually hook it and then steam it and mount it...WOW.  Here is her description:

Thanks for letting me geek out there for a bit.  So even though the hookers are fun, I'm with them from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m.  Then I grab something to eat and I'm back in the hotel room for the rest of the night until I go to sleep at midnight, because there is nothing open after 5 p.m.  Sitting in bed with a Subway Steak and Cheese, a plastic tumbler of white wine, and unlimited, uninterrupted tv viewing for the night?  Sure, it's fun for the first night or two, but by Night Five and over 20 hours of HGTV and some History Channel and a few misguided hours with VH1 I was ready to take sleeping pills. 


I'm flying out tomorrow and as I type I'm watching a film biography on Woody Allen, which would be interesting if he hadn't screwed Mia Farrow over by getting it on with their adopted daughter.  He's all smart and funny and talented, blah blah blah, and I just keep thinking "You MF'er, you did it with your kid!"  Soon Yi might not have techinically been his legal daughter, but he did technically take Polaroids of her naked, and she was in the "Child" camp in their house, so sorry Woody, that makes you a pedophile in my book


I'm ready to get home.  Even if it means I go back to my previous role as a vending machine and coordinator of rides and social activities and laundry.  I'll be able to sleep in my bed and shower in my presumably still dirty bathroom and see my kids and go see Breaking Dawn.  (Even though I found out that Oldest Daughter saw it today without me, and I forgive her even if she cheated on us.)  I'm looking forward to it.

Vermont Virgin

Hey peoples.  I am currently stranded in Vermont on a week-long business trip.  Don't get me wrong, Vermont is for Lovers.  It's all the things that Vermont is cliche'd to be:  charming, bucolic, quaint, and full of Volvos and LL Bean and maple syrup.

(Okay, I know this is Maine, but you get the idea.)

 There are charming shops and bistros and charming art galleries and charming vintage homes and it all looks a lot like the movie Baby Boom, starring Diane Keaton.  But.  I'm ready to get the hell out of here and get home.  I'm not a great traveler.  I like being alone for a limited amount of time, but I'm used to noise and demands.  Demands for rides, snacks, sex, meals, playdates and gaming. I'm HGTV'd out, and ready to hit the juice.

This morning at 9 a.m. I visited a quaint little local market and purchased a six pack of Diet Coke, Salt and Vinegar chips, and this bottle of wine, (which says "I will not drink bad wine".)  The clerk may or may not have been alarmed.  I looked at her, smiled, and said, "Breakfast of Champions!"  She chuckled uneasily and gave me my receipt.

I had a long day with the hookers, but they are mostly nice and very artsy and creative.  This show is being held in a historic red round barn in Shelburne, and it is GOR-GEOUS.

The inside is a three floor gallery - this is the third floor gallery, pre-show:

Tonight I arrived back at the hotel and decided to hit the hot tub.  I don't know why, but somehow I am always surprised when I see myself in a swimsuit, like "Hey Rosie O'Donnell, what's up?" and then realize it's me.  Shit.  When I go to the hot tub, I'm alone, but after I get in, I catch myself looking at every man who walks in with suspicion, and I have an inner dialogue going on.  An older, portly dude walks in and I'm thinking "Keep moving Jerry Sandusky", or a younger guy walks through and I'm all, "Look away, Ashton Kutcher, you dog."  I tend to assume every guy is a serial killer, and I formulate ways to defend myself and then kill them.

Whoops.  That's the wine talking.

This is my third night in my room, and at first I liked that I'm on the end on the first floor, so I could pull the rental car up outside and walk right inside the hallway and to my room.  However, I've come to realize that the smokers in the building go outside and smoke right outside of my window.  Super.  Now I have to figure out how to defend against and kill them too.  Effing smokers.  Can't you go about giving yourself cancer quietly?  (Sorry Mom.)  (And Dad.)

I'm also seeing a lot of commercials for chocolate.  It's like HGTV knows I'm trapped and have body issues.

We're getting the basement finished right now, and I told the contractor multiple times that I was leaving for Vermont this week, so if you need me to make any decisions, do it now.  Of course, he ignored me, and I've had e-mails and texts and phone calls asking me to pick a bathroom countertop! - pick a French door! - pick the bathroom door! and I sort of want to defend myself against him, but I'm not in killing mode yet.  But if he asks me about flooring or electrical tomorrow, it's over.  I'M IN VERMONT!  YOU HAD THREE WEEKS!  WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, MY HUSBAND!?!


Current Husband has done well this week getting three kids coordinated.  (I had to put that in here, he reads this, and now he is probably alarmed about my homicidal tendencies.)


Well, Beavis and Butthead is on MTV and I need to see if it's the same.  This is what my life has become.

A Mighty Heart

I like starting my blog posts with apologies, because then your expectations will be low, because Hey, She's Already Apologizing So This Will Suck, and then if anything good comes of it, you, the Reader, are pleasantly surprised.  I'm not above using Reverse Psychology tactics.  You're welcome.

I was going to blog about my friends again, but who the hell wants to hear about THAT?  It's just a bunch of drinking and personal exams by the OB-GYN on site and sex talk and health food and Bacon Cat.  And overage band members.  And the Seven Brothers table our waitress tried to hook us up with.  And boobs.

Tonight, however, I'm getting in a quickie (and not even calling it Whoreticulture Friday!) because tomorrow I volunteered to help the high school orchestra program put out Veteran's Day flags for the Optimists, and I have to be at the school at 6 Effing 30 a.m.  I must REALLY love orchestra, and Veterans, because I am not a morning person by anyone's definition.  I am dragging Oldest Daughter out of bed, and I am forcing her beau to get up and help us as well, which honestly is making me think he is a bit of a peach if he's going to help.  Well played, Freshman Boyfriend.  Well played.

What is distracting me tonight is Mariane Pearl.

Every year my fabulous book club babes go to this International Author's Event with The Women's Connection.  Last year, my friend Julie and I had a couple of drinks, and thought it would be funny to monopolize the photographer at the event.  Well, they had the last laugh when they decided to use a photo of Julie and I tipsy and laughing in all of their fliers, print ads, banners, and TV ads for The Women's Connection.  Tonight, we walked into the room and every table had brochures with photos of me looking like a braying donkey and her looking like the Head Cheerleader, AND there was a huge banner on the stage with our picture on it.

Oh, I'm sorry.  Did you think I was kidding?  But at this camera angle, I like the banner picture better.  When, oh when, will I learn to stop tucking my triple chin in this way for photos?  One of my high school friends this weekend took a picture of me, looked at her camera, and looked at me, and said "You know Jude, you're a cute girl but totally not photogenic."  I conceed that point.

While Mariane Pearl is speaking about the horrific story of her husband and Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl being kidnapped and then killed, the giant screens behind her showed Mariane, and then me and Julie, tipsy and smiling.

Normally, I'm not adverse to being an ass.  However, in this situation, it was a little...um...awkward.

But enough about me (not really).  Mariane Pearl was perfectly lovely, and I have a huge amount of respect for this incredibly smart, resilient woman. She has been through so much, and has seen so much suffering in the world, and yet, she remains hopeful and caring about the world in which we live.  Amazing.  It was a terrific experience, and I hope to see her speak again someday, because I'm so interested in what she has to say.

Of course, as part of my Author Stalker movement, I had my picture taken with her, but my damn Blackberry wasn't working properly, and quite frankly, takes horrible pictures anymore.  I look at all of my friends' iPhones with great longing.  Here is the pic of me with Mariane, but the photographer couldn't tell if the pic had been taken or not, and we both ended up looking away and then back and my upper jaw moved toward the camera and this is what I ended up with:

How does she still look so cute?  Why does the camera hate me so much?  Is it just me, or does she look like she's signaling for security?

More this weekend, I'm off to bed to prepare for flag planting before dawn.  I must REALLY love our Veterans!

All my Exes Live in Texas

Actual conversation that just took place in my house:


THE SON:  "Here Mom, catch!"
(throws ball at me - I miss it)
THE  SON:  "Um...try again!"
(throws ball at me - I miss it again)
THE SON:  "One more time!"
(Ditto - but this time I pick it up and try to drill it at his head, but instead I drill it directly into the ground two feet in front of me.)
THE SON:  (Cackling laughter) "Wow Mom, that was awesome!  Let's try a little higher!"
ME:  "CH!  The Son is making fun of how I throw!"
CH:  "Oh, your mom is a great thrower - you should see how far she can throw a golf ball down the fairway when she's mad."
THE SON:  "Did you do that Mom?  Was it the same time you peed your pants on the golf course?"
ME:  "Oh, I'm sorry CH, did I disturb your iPad time in bed?  Is it time for you to be rolled?"


And for the record, YES, it was the time I peed my pants on the golf course.  But that was because I was incontinent from successfully completing my third labor with CH's bowling-ball headed babies and my golf club sort of missed the ball and hit the ground really hard.  I also threw my golf ball down the fairway in front of a group of people after actually missing the ball three times at the tee box.  At least I kept things moving.


Last Thursday, I went to work for a few hours (MISTAKE!) and then boarded a plane for Austin, TX to see my women.  This was around noon, and I celebrated with some "Alone/Contemplation Time" at the airport bar.

Just me, George Washington, and some Blue Moon.

But then they announced boarding and I had to slam it.

And then I realized a neighbor was sitting behind me

and watched me slam a beer by myself in the bar,

and then boarded the plane with me.

All class, all the time, People.

Away we went to Dallas, and then to another flight in Austin. I don't mind takeoffs, but I just cringe at every landing. I hate that moment when the tires hit the runway, because I always picture them breaking off and then I'm in a fiery crash and I'm trying to grab my purse to exit the plane, because even in a fiery crash I'm probably going to take my purse. Do you know what a pain it is to get a new driver's license?


(By the way, I KNOW this text is all caddywompus, and I'm trying to get Blogger to change it and it won't, and I'm very tired and I'm not going to even bother pursuing the left-alignment any more. Please make a note of it.)


I found my girls.

Soon, an obliging bar table looked like this.

Our friend Liz arrived, late because her car broke down on the way to her flight in Denver, so she missed it, and got a later flight because she cried at the counter. Then she met a fellow on the plane, "Jim", who made sure she got to our bar okay. Hello Liz. Goodbye Jim. Better luck next flight.

Our next order of business was to get to a grocery store to stock up on food and liquor for the weekend. Instead, we ended up making faces and posing in the store, and went home with little food.

But a good start on the liquor.

We rent houses because we would get kicked out of hotels. We were lucky that our friend Paige has a colleague with a $3 million dollar house that he only uses a couple of months out of the year in Austin, so here was Home Sweet Home, RENT FREE no less, for the next few days:

We spent LOTS of time in that little hot tub on the pool.

Since the house only has three bedrooms, one person was bed-free.  I would have taken the couch or one of the reclining chairs in the theater, but Dee had the short straw that night and she CHOSE to sleep on the floor, which is fun when you're 13 and a real pain in the ass when you are over 40.  But when you're a little tipsy, anything will do.  Here is what Dee's Princess Bed was made of, no shit:

• A "Congrats Wendy" graduation blanket
• A slightly stained quilt that said "To Robert Love Dad"
• A Texas Longhorns blanket
• An inflatable alligator

You've got a purdy mouth, Alligator.

Keep in mind that Dee ended up with Bacon Cat at the spa when we were in Scottsdale, so there is a history of her getting short-shafted with animal products. She might want to reconsider her friend circles. We all know she's too polite to say anything.

The next morning, we discovered the house was attractive to these:

Actual dead scorpion on the floor.

I killed one with a rubber squeegee in the garage.
We also discovered that in the light, you could see into the stone entryway, and that in said entryway there was a little Casita, which in Spanish translates to "You bitches made your friend sleep on the floor with Wendy's blanket and the homoerotic alligator when she could have been in the nicest bed with a private bath in the house".

But then again, my Spanish is a little rusty.

The Casita is on the right. Oops.

Tomorrow: Bikinis, Booze, and Probiotics.