Checking in With The Peeps

Hello Peeps.

Current Husband is in the shower and thinks I am getting the kids ready for our 3-hour car ride this morning to his grandmother's 90th birthday.  But instead, I am writing a quick note to you, Wifers.  I love you all, of course, but this is my modus operandi - when I want to avoid something, I simply find something else I'd rather do until I get caught, and then I can bring on a mean martyr complex.  I want to go to the birthday party, but I hate the ride.

SO the Hooker Convention was fun, but I'm sore.  There are a lot of great hookers out there, it's intimidating.

Can you believe someone hooked this picture with tiny strips of wool?

What did you THINK I was talking about?

I get back from the Hooker Convention at about 8 p.m. Thursday, kick back a shot of Nyquil, and go to bed.  The alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m., and after a moment of confusion, I jump out of bed and drive to the home of some friends, one of whom is a Brit.  A legit Brit.  He is too legit to quit being Brit, but he is also now an American.  He had donuts and Starbucks and running commentary on the wedding in a British accent, while watching it on the BBC. *bliss*  Then I raced off to make lunches at 7:30, get to work, get home at 4:30 p.m. and watch the royal wedding again.

Because my friend Mark is dying to hear my opinion on the wedding, I will give you a bulleted synopsis:

• Dress- Loved it. And I did have lace sleeves on my wedding dress, which I am sure influenced Kate when she saw my wedding on TV when she was 14.
• Pippa - Sex on a stick.  Who was getting laid after the reception?
• Oh, that would be Harry.  Maybe with Pippa instead of his sort of frumpy looking Chelsey Davey.  Did she borrow her great aunt's suit for the wedding?
• Fergie's girls - I hate to say it, but they got their mom's fashion sense.
• William - when did you lose all that hair?
• Why does Harry look more like James Hewitt than Charles?

 Exactly.

7:36 p.m.

I was caught blogging and had to stop so I could get in the car and leave.  We attended the party (Happy Birthday CH's Grandma!), found out one of CH's aunts reads the blog when we thought no one in the family knew about it (Hi M!), and then went over to CH's half sister's house to see her get her prom pictures taken and meet her date.  It was fun to see her all glammed up, she looked so pretty, but I am POSITIVE she wanted us to get the hell out of there.  We rolled up in the swagga wagon, unloaded the kids with fast food wrappers falling out, ran into the house, scared the heck out of her date. 

I made them do a picture of her holding up a knife like she was going to stab him, and really, he had nothing to be scared about because it was a bread knife and probably couldn't have done too much damage.  It definitely would have given him time to run before he bled out.  And really, I did her a huge favor, because if that kind of thing is going to freak him out, he really isn't going to last in this family anyway.  He laughed, so he seems to be a keeper.

Oldest Daughter, on the other hand, was completely appalled, and stressing out about her prom pictures, which are probably at least two years away.  She might get Darwined out of the brood.

Off to a Hooker Convention

I'm off to a Hooker Convention in Milwaukee tomorrow, and I need to make sure I have cash for the cash box.  Because everyone needs cash at a Hooker Convention.  No kidding. 

So I'm looking around my house and I'm thinking

I don't know how people do this.

You might be asking yourself, "Self, what the hell is she talking about?"  And if you are asking yourself that, you can join the thousands of people who know me and ask themselves that every time I talk to them.

What I'm talking about is Being A Grown Up.  From the chair I'm sitting in right now, I'm looking at a pile of crap in my family room, all moved up from the basement because the waterproofers are coming next week and the basement has to be empty to jackhammer the floor and inevitably cause my walls to crack or a water main to break.  I'm looking at my dining room table, covered in school lunch boxes and paperwork, magazines I will probably not get to, and junk mail.  The living room has a bathrobe, a Von Maur bag, shoes, blankets, and Wii and xBox paraphenelia.  I can't see the kitchen from here, thank God.  But I know what lurks in there.

Besides all of the ridonkulous cleaning responsibilities I'm shirking, there is the driving.  I feel like lately all we do is spend our time driving.  Driving to school, driving to lessons, driving to work, driving to obligations.  Bleh.  I want to drive to a liquor store, then a book store, then a hammock store, then an ice store, and then a beach, in that order.  But who has the time?  Not I, said the Wife.

So I'm off to a Hooker Convention in Milwaukee tomorrow.  Current Husband has a schedule for the next two days telling him where he needs to be and when, starting at 3 p.m., because apparently no one else in the world has a job and that's when things are scheduled in the school system.  I am sharing a hotel room at the Hooker Convention (because NO ONE SLEEPS ALONE AT A HOOKER CONVENTION!) with someone who is sweet as pie, but doesn't drink or swear or probably poop, and so I won't ever really be off duty.  Or be able to poop.

I'm ready for a vacay, but Memorial Day weekend seems to be a looooong way away.  I'll report back from the Hooker Convention, and in the interim, here is something for your viewing pleasure.  Peace and Blessings! Have a great week!

It's Whoreticulture Friday!

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: Pink Butt.




It's ironic, perhaps, that after I posted the Tina Fey Prayer for Daughters, Oldest Daughter and I went shopping at Victoria's Secret.  She received a gift card to VS from my mother, who also gave Youngest Daughter a 950-piece Lego castle for her birthday, thus proving Mom is still holding a grudge from my drinking days in high school.  (What happened in college stayed at college.)


It's interesting to me how much Victoria's Secret is marketed toward teens.  Everyone in my 14-year-old's dance class wears PINK apparel to dance in, and most likely on their privates as well.  I like to call this syndrome "Pink Butt", which I pray is vastly different from Pink Eye and the crusty-runnyness of the latter.

Just an innocent teen, 

going to yoga.

Whatever these teens are being told to wear on their privates I've found is not at all meant to be private.  OD was interested in the yoga section, but she wouldn't know a down dog if it bit her on the calf.  I'm realizing that I am waaay past my semi-slutty days of teenagery and closer to the Methodist Women Morals Squad of my grandmother as I perused the 5-for-$25 panty section, with a waify collegiate type on the display wearing the yoga panties.  Here is a smattering of what they offer:


 

If we're at this point in the disrobing,

I hope you already have one.

Oh dear God. I hope he doesn't.

Please, please, PLEASE

Let him be lactose intolerant.

Perhaps VS should consider making a line of panties designed by parents that can be displayed next to this "yoga" line of underwear.  Here are my suggestions:

And my personal favorite:

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a great weekend, Happy Easter, and I'm sorry Jesus, I will try to behave.

A Prayer for Daughters

I got this from a fellow sor-whore, whose porn star handle is Fluffy LaPort, and it is apparently from Tina Fey's new book, but I can't vouch for that personally.  This is a must-read for anyone with a daughter - someone really gets it!

She very funny lady.  Buy her book here.

"First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.



May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Bea......uty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half. And stick with Beer.


Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.


Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes. And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.


May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

‘My mother did this for me once,’ she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. ‘My mother did this for me.’ And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes."

And yes, my Mother gets MUCH better Mother's Day cards since I had children.

Welcome to ADITW, How May I Help You?

Hello, and welcome to A Day in the Wife!  Would you like a sample red wine and half a Xanax?  No?  Well let me know if you need anything!

Just so you know, old posts are half off tonight!  If you can't find the one you are looking for, maybe I'll have an extra in the back!

Still just looking around?  Sure you don't want to comment?  Let me know if you do!  We're giving away a promotional link to The Bloggess' website with every comment!  It's a retail value of $79:  "The Bloggess: A Retrospective of Sanity and Taxidermy".

Just let me know if you need anything, because I am clearly on commission.

Tonight, I took the young 'uns to my least favorite place - the mall.  Ish.  I only like the mall if I'm going to Barnes and Noble, getting a Starbucks, reading and buying some books, and getting the hell out of there.  Close parking, no gangbangers, no teens in a smoothie fight, no one verbally or physically abusing their kids.

However, I am a frugal mother, and so I have started my back to school shopping now, when the fall and winter stuff is on 50-75% off at Hollister, Abercrombie and American Eagle.  I walk into Hollister and a breasty young co-ed is folding shirts. 

HER:  (looking through me) "Hey! How're ya doin'?"
ME:    "Hey back at you.  I'm nearly 42, so I have some acid reflux and I can't really hold my liquor anymore.  I don't need to ask how you are doing because you are underage and a size 2."

At Hollister they want to be too cool to wait on you, so they don't say Welcome or any of that old people stuff.  They just want you to know that they will hang with you if need be, maybe invite you to the bonfire where a guy wearing cutoffs is going to play guitar around the bonfire and pass around some beer they bought from their buyer.  Of course, to be in the bonfire picture, you must be wearing Hollister clothing and look like a tanned waif.  With boobs.

My son picks out a few t-shirts, and my daughter picks out a little sundress.  She tries it on, and my son mutters, "Little short, don't you think?"  BUZZ.  That one is back on the rack.  Crap.  I'm late to pick up Youngest Daughter from dance.  I try to call another mom to see if she can grab YD while she is there picking up her daughter, but the music in Hollister is so loud (but not as loud as Abercrombie) that I have to yell at my son, who is 8 inches away from my face, that I'm going outside the store to make a call.

I walk out, try to call the mom, no luck.  We have to move it.  I walk back into Hollister and a breasty young co-ed is folding shirts. HER: (looking through me) "Hey! How're ya doin'?"

We try to check out.  The cashier chick is asking me things, but I can't hear her.  "WHAT?!?"  I say, my face all scrunched up, perfectly displaying my crows' feet.  "I'm sorry?"  She gets closer to me.  "Have you signed up for our e-mails?"  "YES."  "Would you like to save $10 on our sales event for four hours on a weekday three weeks from today?"  "NO."  "Would you like to buy any of our Hollister fragrances?"  "I'M ALREADY WEARING IT, IT SEEPED INTO MY PORES ABOUT 5 MINUTES INTO THE STORE."

I posted this on Facebook earlier, so stale joke alert, but the Hollister fragrance is pure youth - hope, dreams, lust, and fully functional knees.  I found myself looking at the mannquins while Oldest Daughter changed, with their tan plastic bodies and their subtle yet defined muscle tone, no varicose veins or flex spending accounts, and I thought, "Bitches."  So you don't have heads or personalities.  You can wear a size 0 and go surfing with the headless hunks with the button-fly jeans.  You drive a car that not only doesn't, but shouldn't, have a car seat.  You don't have to worry about burning vacation days because EVERY DAY IS A VACATION.

I'm most likely turning 42 as you are reading this post, and honestly?  Getting old is starting to be a bitch.  I love my life, but I would probably love it a little bit more running on the engine of a 25-year-old.  But I was dumber then, and a little bit crazy, so I guess we'll chalk one up to experience and say It's All Good.

Thanks for coming to A Day In The Wife!  Would you like to sign up for our promotional Facebook page?  How about a ADITW credit card, with a promotional interest rate of 0%, just like most of America's interest rate in this blog?

Thanks for shopping, come again!

The Great Negotiator

I see I've been remiss this week in my blog life. Effing full time job. 

I love my job, but man, I had a good gig when I was home full time.  Yes, I did lots of dishes and laundry and swept the dust bunnies under the couch and leafed through every paper that came home from school and made cookies and volunteered, but there were lots of days when George the Superpet and I would spoon in bed at 3 p.m. and take a quick nap together until the kids walked in at 3:30, or George the Superpet and I would read novels on my dreamy huge screened in back porch and drink coffee, or my neighbor would come over and have a frosty beer at 2:30 and we'd watch the preschool girls play in the backyard until school was getting out, and I could blog blog blog to my heart's content.

*sigh*  I miss those days.

My parents have a grapefruit grove in Texas, part of their crazy retirement menagerie, and last week they told me the grapefruit are ripe and ready to be picked, but the picker foreman couldn't come to their grove because he couldn't find any pickers to work for him.  He has used illegals, but doesn't anymore because they get busted, but he said anyone with a US social security number won't work for him because then they'll jeapordize their welfare payments.  Hmmm.  Why, as a stay at home mom, wasn't I getting paid to stay home and raise my kids?  Sounds like a pretty good deal.  "I can't work because then the government won't pay me."  But I'm not bitter and that's what's important, and now I am working full time and paying taxes to the government.  Thus concludes the first ever "ADITW Political Moment!"  And don't think for a moment that you can guess what I am politically because I am a mutt.  It confounds all of my liberal and conservative friends.

SO - BACK TO THE POINT OF THE BLOG TODAY

Last Tuesday was Youngest Daughter's birthday, so the world stopped for a few days while we had a bank holiday and celebrated.  She turned 8, and I can see how the youngest ones own you.  I look at the teenager, and the pre-teen, and then I look at this little pixie with princess pajamas and Littlest Pet Shop undies and a billion stuffed animals in her room and I realize those days are coming to an end, and the next chapter is looming.  As long as you have young kids, you can be young as well.  I'm going to blink and be an empty nester waiting for my knee replacement.

Current Husband and I took YD to get a new bike, because her last bike was about two feet tall and had training wheels.  On the way to get the bike, CH and I had to power up at Starbucks and got YD some coffee cake.  When I walk to the table, CH and YD are in deep discussion.  I ask what they are talking about.

CH:  "She is telling me why she should get her ears pierced early."
YD:  "Yeah, because everyone in my class has them and I don't and I look like a baby."
ME:  "You don't look like a baby."
YD:  "Even BABIES have their ears pierced and I don't."

CH looks at me and winks, like "let's go ahead and do it."

ME: (caving) "Well, it's a lot of responsibility.  Can you handle it?"
YD:  "Yes, I will keep them clean and take care of them, I promise."
ME:  "Getting ears pierced is a Big Girl thing, like cleaning your room.  If you get your ears pierced, you'll have to keep your room clean."

SCREECH!

YD:  "Alright! I won't get my ears pierced!"
ME:  (stunned) "Wait a minute.  Do you mean that if I was going to get your ears pierced right now, but it means you have to clean your room, you'll say no?"
YD:  "You guys are just looking for a reason to say no anyway."
ME:  "Well I was going to get your ears pierced, but now I know you aren't ready."

I must admit that as a bona fide Bad Housekeeper, I respect her aversion to cleaning her room.  There are books to be read!  Things to do!  The room will just get messed up again anyway, right?  But part of the reason I had three kids was to get some help cleaning the damn house, and now they are jumping ship?  No way, Jose.

We spent the next hour picking out a bike and basket and bell, and YD started to reconsider her position.  She dropped little comments about how she could probably keep her room clean, and how she really should get her ears pierced.  I'm weak.  We pulled into Claire's and let them pierce her for the first time.  She was very brave and proud, and I felt a victory.  It takes very little to make younger kids happy.  It's much tougher with the older ones.  And even though CH and I consider ourselves to err on the side of discipline, I realized I was having these philosophical thoughts about age and happiness as I was cleaning YD's room before her friends came over.

I am such a sucker. 

Happy Birthday YD!

Someone Ate The Baby

"Someone ate the baby,
It's rather sad to say,
Someone ate the baby
And she won't be out to play."

This is from one of my favorite poems, called "Dreadful" by Shel Silverstein, and just to flaunt my obvious coolness I will tell you that I placed fourth in Nebraska State Speech in the category of Children's Literature, or "kiddie lit", in the late 1980's.  I know.  You had no idea you were reading the blog of a STATE SPEECH FOURTH PLACE FINISHER.  In Nebraska, no less.  That's right, be jealous.


As much as I want to frighten you into thinking I'm going to eat your baby, I actually won't unless I can order your baby at the Drive-Thru window at Taco Bell with a Mountain Dew.  If that is the case, however, I suggest you hide your children, because I am currently on a Gluttony Marathon.


Back in the day before I had a Full Time Job I Can't Blog About, I scorned most fast food.  That is a 'special occasion' meal!  Instead, why don't you enjoy some of my June Cleaver Pork Chop Casserole!?  Or some Barbara Billingsly Chicken A La King!?  Occasinally some Carol Brady 'I'll Watch While You Eat Alice's Cookies, but never Gloria Steinem Burgers in Paper!  Now that I'm fresh out of time and motivation, we do a lot of Frozen Pizza or Delivered?  This weekend, however, crossed over the line.


It started on Saturday with Starbucks.  Current Husband and I took Youngest Daughter out to buy a new bike for her birthday, which is tomorrow.  We stopped at Starbucks to power up with some coffee and delicious reduced fat coffee cake.  Two hours later, YD had convinced us to get her ears pierced two years early, and we celebrated with frozen pizza.  CH then took YD and two of her friends to see Hop, which The Son declared is "The Worst Movie I've Seen in My Entire Life", and they had candy and popcorn.  The girls came home, and two hours later I went out to get them, and myself, McDonalds.  We then had a Dairy Queen ice cream cake for dessert.  Oddly enough, the girls were up until 2 a.m.  Have any of you Mandatory Reporters left the blog to start filling out your paperwork?  Stick around, it gets better.


I think sometimes when one overeats, there is a perception that somehow one cannot help it.  Like "the Quarter Pounder was halfway gone before I noticed what I was doing".  I have been a victim of this very syndrome.  In this case, though, I have to say that I went above and beyond to sate my need for fatty acids and sugars.


Sunday morning dawned, and after my refreshing five hours of post-slumber party sleep, I thought "I'll get the girls donuts!"  I got in my car and noticed bright orange cones all over the place.  I started driving and noticed that there were police officers at both ends of my street.  I had been imprisoned by a bunch of Fun Run Participants.  For a moment, I felt guilty.  Here are these Healthy Living Exercisers, up at the ass crack of dawn, ready to be even healthier than they were the day before.  But then I got a little cross.  What about MY rights as a Sunday Morning Donut Lover?  Was I to sit quietly and let these fitness people fence me in?  I think not.  I drove to the nearest police officer and rolled down my window.


PO:  "Yes?"
ME:  "I have some 8-year-olds who need donuts ASAP. (LESSON #1:  Always use the children)
PO:  "They start running in 10 minutes, so I'll let you out."
ME:  "Okay, thanks!"
Thirty minutes later, I returned with the donuts.  I saw my first police officer and figured he would not be sympathetic to my cause.  I COULD have offered him a donut, but I only had a dozen and Momma needs her fair share, and I doubt he would be so cliche as to eat a donut in front of a bunch of Fun Runners. I drove around the five blocks to the other end of our neighborhood to a new cop.
PO:  "Yes?"
ME:  "I just live around the corner."  I'm pointing and starting to roll my window up.
PO:  "But the runners will be here soon."
ME:  "But I live about fifty yards from this spot, and there are hungry 8-year-olds waiting for me."
PO:  (skeptical)  "I guess..."
ME:  "Thanks!" (LESSON #2: When you sense you are winning, leave.)


I roll up the window and drive around the cones.  Here come the first runners.  The police officer looks a little panicked, so naturally I step on it to get around the corner before the runners could get to me.  They looked like fast bastards. 


I pulled up in front of my house, and realized that I had just duped two police officers, instigated defensive driving manuevers around saftey cones, and accelerated my car to beat healthy people so I could continue on my Gluttony Marathon.  But those donuts were sugary deliciousness squared.


Did the madness end there?  No.  No it did not.  Tonight Oldest Daughter had a cello solofest at her school, and I didn't have time to put together dinner, so while we waited for her results, I took her to Taco Bell, because Crunchy Cheese Gorditas with Beans are vegetarian friendly.  I ate a Nachos Bell Grande in front of her to remind her how delicious meat can be.  She got a blue ribbon in cello, I got a blue ribbon in Home Economics - Crappy Mother Division.


Before you organized people comment, I have two crock pots and both editions of "Fix It and Forget It", but I tend to Forget It before I Fix It.  I've been to the "Freeze 40 Dinners Ahead of Time" boot camp, but my family only really liked about 10 of the meals, the other ones ended up sort of soggy and lame when they were prepared.  It was like a sad parade of Good Dinner Intentions Gone Awry.  When I have time, I make pretty damn good homemade Crab Rangoon and Garlic Chicken, and get out of my way with the lasagnes, manicotti, and homemade meatballs and garlic bread.  I even do awesome gourmet pizzas and breakfast nights.  But who has the time?  And who will clean it up?  It's like the Little Red Hen around here -

The story of my life.

"Who will prepare this meal?" said the Little Red Hen.
"Not I", said the Cat.
"Not I", said the Dog.
"Not I", said the Mouse.


"Who will clean up this meal?" asked the Little Red Hen.
"Not I", said the Cat.
"Not I", said the Dog.
"Not I", said the Mouse.


"But who will eat this meal?" asked the Little Red Hen.
"I will!" said the Cat.
"I will!" said the Dog.
"I will!" said the Mouse.


And then the Wife said, "Oh Hell No" and ate every last Nachos Bell Grande herself.

The End.


This week, I promise to try to make healthier meals.  But I just might eat those words.

Slacker Monday!

I do have a post, but it won't go up until tonight.  Until then, I am slacking, big time.


(Side note:  My friend Tricia actually invented the word "Slacker" in 1988.  If she didn't invent it, she introduced it into the mainstream.  I put royalties of one dime in a Mason jar every time I say it, and will present her with $5,000 worth of dimes upon her retirement or menopause, whichever comes first.)


SO.  It is Slacker (cha-ching) Monday, and here is your entertainment until late this evening:


This little nugget of awesomeness comes from Regretsy.com:

Bella Swan, about to deliver her half-vampire baby, travels to Sharpie Island and immediately grows a third breast. After forcing Edward to smell her T-shirt, she attempts to crush him with her massive thighs, but only succeeds in shrinking his feet.

http://www.regretsy.com/2011/04/11/twilight-zone/

And to really phone it in, I'm completely lifting this from The Bloggess, because it's so damn funny I can't stop saying, "Honey Badger don't care.  Honey Badger don't give a shit."  You Bloggess people know EXACTLY what I'm talking about:







See you later, alligators!

It's Whorticulture Friday! Issue 61

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: My scary tool.

I swear, the song going through my head all week is “If you like pina coladas, and gettin’ caught in the rain….”. I need a Me-cation. (When I typed that, I realized it looked like “medication”, which I could also probably use.) This is the view from my desk:

The map is there so I can chart where my distributors are located. But instead, I find myself gazing at it and thinking, “I’d really like a long weekend in Santa Fe. Or Savannah, Georgia. Or Napa Valley….” I want to get on an airplane, fly fly away, bring the two big ass books I’m reading (Keith Richards’ “Life”, and the recent biography of Grant Wood), sit in a hammock on the beach and drink champagne or an extremely cold white wine or a very icy salty margarita, and chill out for a few days. Current Husband optional, I’d love to have him if he can just lie quietly on the beach next to me and accompany me to dinner and be available for nocturnal activities. (PERSONAL NOTE TO CH: I know you are reading this. Do you see that I am actually instigating nocturnal activities away from home? Just like back in my slutty days!) Poor CH. What do I need to do to bring back the magic?


I’m checking e-mail today, and I’m waiting for a message from someone I’m interviewing for an article, so I check junk mail just in case it was filtered. You can find out a lot about yourself if you check your junk e-mail once a month – the Internet really KNOWS me. There are multiple messages from:


• Restaurants announcing I’ve won a week of free meals.


• Airlines announcing I’ve won tickets to tropical destinations.


• Free shipping on American Girl products (possible I got on that list during my night of drunken Jen Lancaster stalking.)


• Virus protection.


• Dating services.


• Messages from Facebook, even though I’ve specifically gone into my account on FB and checked the “Do Not Send to my E-Mail Account” button.


• Travel with my sorority, of which I haven’t actually been an active member in since 1991.


• Ways to enlarge my tool.


Apparently, my tool is not very large, which explains a LOT. The most informative of these e-mails was the one whose subject was “Promo Enlargement”, and the message was “Scare people with your tool today.” I would love nothing more than to scare people with my tool. The website has “growinpants” in the address, but I’m thinking why hide my light under a bushel? No. I’m gonna let it shine. Like the finest chia pet, my enlarged tool should be available to be watched, because it’s interesting in its unpredictability.


Oh Internet, you’ve found the way
to perk up my mundane existence!


This weekend, I’m accompanying my kids to the local hardware store to sell raffle tickets for their school fundraiser. What better place to let out my new gigantic scary tool? I see new computers for the entire school, because there are lots of guys who will pay for the chance to see what would normally be growing in my pants. Tools and hardware stores go together like cats and stirrups.


Sunday the kids have a piano recital at the local retirement home. Somewhere between “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” and “The Theme From Hogwarts”, I’m going to whip out my enlarged scary tool, because old people get bored in those homes, and they probably haven’t seen a good set of tools in a long time. I ask you, what octogenarian doesn’t like a good scare?


Tuesday is Youngest Daughter’s birthday, and her birthday party might be a good place to scare people with my tool. Those little girls have been sheltered for too long. See your future, princesses. It’s scary!


Finally, I think a date night with CH might be a good place to unleash my large scary beast. We’re together. We’re in love. There’s innuendo, and then playfulness, and then minor romping, and then POW! MY SCARY TOOL IS REVEALED! CH screams like a little girl and curls up into a ball in the corner of the room, weeping.


And that, people, is how Golden Anniversaries happen.


“If you’re not into yoga, but you’re into champagne….”

Don't Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

If the blog still had playlist.com and Vanilla Ice hadn't personally crashed my computer, I would be playing The Beatles' song "I'm So Tired".  Just thinking about John Lennon singing that song is making me tired.  I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink, I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink. I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink, no no no....zzzzzzzz.

(She wakes up, wipes drool off of mouth.  She is a drooler and occasional mouth-breather.)

((Isn't it creepy when people refer to themselves in third person? She thinks so, too. Or it sounds like Silence of the Lambs..."It will take the lotion out of the bucket....it will put the lotion on...."))

Where were we?  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Last weekend was So Much Fun Best Time Ever.  Why?  Because we had nothing going on.  Nothing!  Other than dance pictures on Friday night and baseball on Sunday, we were able to lounge around when we wanted and stay in bed as late as we wanted and work on the house or basement or do other things we wanted.  It was loveliness squared.  All that sleeping in and blissful relaxation and non-adherence to any schedule really screwed up this week for me, because on Monday morning at 6:30 a.m. when the alarm went off I realized that I do indeed still have a full time job.

Sunday night was the beginning of the fatigue.  The dinner dishes were cleaned up.  Current Husband and I had tucked in children of tucking age and sent the teen to the Teen Lair and had enjoyed some deliciously cold white wine.  I was sitting down to write a blog post and then I heard a whining in the distance.  No.  It can't be.  Yes, it is.  It was the Tornado Siren, going off across the river.  A few minutes later, our siren started.  George the Superpet assumed his position in the middle of the house, pointed his poodle snout north and let loose with his dog wail of warning.  He sounds like an old man being strangled when he howls, so it really tends to amp up the stress level.  This made all of the children freak out a bit, and we sent them all to the basement with bottled water and copies of our will pinned to their shirts.

We found out about 10 minutes later that it was only a Thunderstorm Warning, and that they now sound the sirens for those as well, which I think is a complete and utter crock.  As a girl who was born and raised on the tornado plains of Nebraska, I will tell you that a lifetime of tornado sirens meaning there is an actual tornado on the ground and cows and silos flying through the air will send me to the basement by habit.  Finding out it's just a thunderstorm makes me feel like I've been duped.  So get your big girl pants on, National Weather Service.  Thunderstorms don't frighten me, tornadoes do.

At about 3 a.m. CH and I both jumped out of bed because of a crash in the house.  It turns out that George must have leaned up against the fireplace on his cushion, and caused the fireplace insert to fall out when he moved.  Hmmm.  Another thing that must have eluded inspection when we bought this house last fall.  Needless to say, George was up for the night, and kept jumping on our bed and pacing because he was still mid-stroke from the crash.

Last night I was all for getting into bed in my pj's and watching the basketball game, but The Son asked me to stay up and watch it with him, and he's so damn cute I can't deny him much, so together we yelled at Butler to quit trying so many 3-pointers and to work your way into the paint!  Try some 2-point shots!  But it wasn't meant to be.  We went out separate ways to bed, only to have Youngest Daughter get up with a bad dream in the middle of the night.  She comes in to spoon with me when these things happen, and she seems to fall right to sleep, while I absorb her kicks and thrashing around sticking her hair all up in my face.  I usually wake up about 45 minutes later with my neck frozen at a 45 degree angle from my shoulder and no covers, while YD sleeps soundly in my spot.

All day today I dreamt of going to bed.  I could feel the warm covers, my cushy pillows, the lovely darkness, my acid reflux.  But now that 11 p.m. draws near, I'm wide awake.  DANG.  If only tomorrow could be a snow day.

When that alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. tomorrow?  Don't wake me up before you Go-Go.  I'm perfectly fine with being solo.

Real Drivers of the QCA

For those of you expecting Whoreticulture Friday, I’m sorry to tell you that WF and I are on a break, like Ross and Rachael. I’m sure we’ll get back together and resume our dysfunctional relationship soon.


Today, I’m writing about my kids, which I recently promised myself I wouldn’t do anymore. I also say I’m going to exercise more and eat fewer donuts and drink less wine, but that doesn’t happen either.

Oldest Daughter recently turned 14, and instead of finding a secret boyfriend or a stash of Cosmo magazines in her room (“14 Ways to Enjoy Kinky Sex!”), I discovered rather quickly that she has been secretly studying the driver’s manual.


Things could be worse – it could be Youngest Daughter, who will surely break curfew on a regular basis and secretly date a vampire. Oldest Daughter has always been very responsible and has a healthy dose of fear of operating large equipment. I find it interesting that in our house, Current Husband is a little more afraid of her driving than I. He sees this:




On the other hand, I see a future where I’m not driving everyone around everywhere. Those nights when I’m making dinner and I find I’m out of onions? No problem, send OD! Running a little behind from work that day and might get the kids to piano late? No problem, send OD! Cello camp starts at 7 a.m.? See you later OD, I’m sleeping in! A mom can dream, no?

 CH has taken OD to practice driving before. The Hobby Lobby parking lot is the best place to go because it’s closed on Sunday, it’s big, and the only obstacles are the lampposts, which our Jetta probably can’t knock down. Probably. But CH is a little nervous about his baby driving, so he’s a little ramped-up when they get in the car. They practiced at the Hobby Lobby lot for a little bit, and then a police cruiser pulled into the lot, and CH told OD to stop because she doesn’t have her learner’s permit, but OD managed to slam on the brakes and skid out a little, and then she freaked out because she thought the po-po was coming to write her up. She got home and vowed never to practice again.

That attitude is NOT going to help me lose my Taxi Driver designation. It was time to take matters into my own hands.

Last weekend, I told OD that if she would practice with me at Hobby Lobby, I would buy her a malt at Whitey’s afterward. OD is easily bought with ice cream, and she agreed. We drove to the Hobby Lobby lot, where there were two other wanna-be’s practicing, and OD got behind the wheel. We spent the first 10 minutes practicing great-grandma driving at 5 mph and power-braking. I opened the door and pretended to throw up. OD asked what I was doing, and I said, “That’s what all of your passengers will be doing if you drive like this.” We picked up the pace a little bit, and then she hit a pothole in the parking lot. She looked at me, nervous, and I said, “Now you yell ‘Damn government! Where do my taxes go?’.” OD said it, and smiled. It felt good to get that repressed anger out. And really – where DO our taxes go?

Then the other drivers left the lot, and it was just the two of us. I told her to get in a place where she had some space to drive, and then floor it.
OD: “Floor It?”
ME: “When you put your foot down on the pedal and go fast.”
OD: “I know what it is. I don’t want to do that.”
ME: “You have to. It’s for safety.”
OD: “How is that safe?”
ME: “Don’t you watch ANY TV? Everyone is involved in a car chase eventually. This is how you will escape the terrorists. Or a bad vampire who is determined to kill you to anger your good vampire boyfriend.”
OD: “Oh. Whatever.”

We can always communicate when we speak Twilight.

Then OD let me know that she was ready for Whitey's, so we switched back. She got her seat belt on, and I turned up the radio, pulled out my cell phone and started to text, and then floored it. We’re shooting across the parking lot, Lady Gaga is yelling at us that she was just Born that Way (does anyone else hear Madonna singing “Express Yourself” when they hear that song?), I’m texting, and OD is yelling, “MOM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?! STOP!” I stopped the car and looked at her.

ME: “Were you scared?”
OD: “OMG! YES! Why did you do that!?”
ME: “To show you why you shouldn’t text or talk on your phone and drive. Did it work?”
OD: “You could have just said it. Sheesh.” And rolled her eyes, because she is 14 and obligated to do that every time we have a conversation.

We got home, and CH asked how it was. OD indicated that it was terrifying, but fun. I imagine this is what it was like to date me in high school. 

Have a great weekend!