Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Under the Wire!

Hello Wifers!  In the words of Barry Manilow, Looks Like We Made It!  It's my last day on one full month of blogging.  The weird thing, I have all kinds of stuff to talk about today, so I'm going to Cliff's Notes it tonight.

A)  Took my day off today, it was completely and utterly kick ass.  I had nothing scheduled, the kids were at school, Current Husband was at work.  I got a Venti Quad Skinny Vanilla Latte, brought it home, cranked the tunes, worked on my office, and hung out with George the Superpet.  My bra stayed on.  It was awesome and made me really pine for my days of being at home.  Must do that again.

B)  Finished The Art of Racing in the Rain.  Holy. Shit.  This is one of the best books I've read in a while.  Beautifully written, love the metaphors and the narrator, and at the end I was smile crying, snot and tears running down my face, breath hitching, the works.  Two day read, couldn't put it down.  Wow.


So worth it.

3) Took Youngest Daughter to the doctor for some warts on her foot.  We had these treated in June, but it turns out that the liquid they put on the warts either burns them off or makes them bigger.  As luck would have it, our warts were very happy to stay right where they are.  We were told she had to get them frozen, and she FREAKED.  I bought her a book she wants while we waited for the nitrogen appointment, and YD was such a trouper.  She had THREE large warts frozen three times each, and she laid there with her little tiny third grade ballerina body and her big eyes, terrified, and held my hand and counted for the doctor.  Afterward, the doctor looked at her in amazement and said, "You were unbelievable.  I have adults that don't handle that nearly as well as you did.  You're a tough kid."  But it's SO HARD to stand there and say reassuring things and hold her hand when you would so much rather be the one getting it than her.  Poor baby.  I'm going to put that in the NO FUN column, and hope when we go back in two weeks that they are completely gone.

4)  I spoke with a friend tonight who is going through a terrible terrible ordeal right now, and I felt helpless again in an entirely different way.  I want to drive over there and pick her up and take her to Canada or Hawaii or Cape Cod or Nashville and get her away from it all for 48 hours.  In some ways it's good for me to have these conversations, because it really makes Perspective kick you in the butt and say, "You?  You have nothing to bitch about lady.  Your life is good." 

This last convo tonight, which ended about 30 minutes ago, also made me think about other friends who might need a chat.  I've been so busy with my job and wrapped up in school starting and my own life that I've been a bit neglectful of some people in my life who are true blue friends.  Here is everyone's assignment today - just send a quick e-mail to a few people in your life you haven't spoken with lately.  It doesn't need to be in-depth, just say "Hey!  I wanted to check in with you quick and say I'm thinking about you!  Here is a virtual margarita - cheers!"  It will pay off in spades, I promise!

So the month of blogging is over!  But now it's going to be September, and the actual second bloggyversary, so I'm going to go all old school for those of you who have read the blog since the get-go, and I'm doing a theme month. 

September is officially Nancy Drew month!


Every blog post will be related to or at least mention Nancy Drew, that ginger bitch from River Heights who drove around town in her convertible and got all up in everyone's bizness.

I'll be back on Friday!  Thanks for reading!



Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Next To Last Day!

It's Day 30 of A Month of Blogging, and honestly I can't believe I did it every day.  I'm usually full of empty promises, made after a couple of glasses of wine, but here I am. Know why?  Do ya?  It's because I like you people I don't even know very well.  You make me laugh.  And that's why even though I can't exercise or diet or even get my kids to places on time, I've managed to blog for two years.  OMG, there's a lot of love on the Internet.  Some of it is love I don't want to know about.  Dirty love.  But not here.  This is good, clean, S&M-free love.  MOST OF THE TIME.  But when the leather chaps come on, I will beat the crap out of you, and you will LIKE IT, Wifers.

Did I just say that out loud?  I've had a beer, and I'm over 42, so all bets are off.

Oldest Daughter and I have an idea for a new CD - it's called "Your Mom Sings Your Favorites", and it's full of popular songs on the radio that I manage to butcher.  For example, Neon Trees' Animal - "Say Goodbye to my heart tonight!" which is actually "Take a bite of my heart tonight".  Or most songs by Gaga.  I manage to mess up a few words in those.  I told OD I'm gonna sing 'em loud and sing 'em proud, because I am 42 and I don't have to sing in tune OR know the words.  I've pushed three human beings out of my vajayjay and been a telemarketer renewing NRA memberships in 1985, so does messing up a Gaga song bother me?  Negative, Ghost Rider.

I took the day off tomorrow, as comp time for my week at the Hooker Convention, and I am so damn excited I can barely stand it.  I'm driving middle schoolers to school tomorrow, and then after 8 a.m. I am free to do what I wish until 1 p.m., because there is an early out tomorrow.  I'm not exactly sure what will happen, but I know it will involve Starbucks, taking off my bra, music blaring in the house, and George the Superpet staring at me with a concerned look on his face.

If you're in the area, stop by!

UPDATE:  I just posted this, and immediately the ads on Adsense changed to "Buy Leather Chaps!"  Everyone, go out and buy your leather chaps, on me!  Let's all be the dominant party on this blog!  It's now an S&M party!

Monday, August 29, 2011

Monday, Monday

I really need to stop sleeping in over the weekend, because then Monday comes and I am so...effing...tired, and all the coffee Juan Valdez can pack over to me on his mule cannot keep me awake.  All day I dream of napping, and it's crazy hectic at work, and then I get home and it's make dinner get OD to her cello lesson take The Son to return the shoes he doesn't like go to the grocery store get everyone showered/homeworked/tucked and pluck George The Superpet's ear hair (yes, I do that) and then one would think I would be ready for bed and SURPRISE!  I'm wide awake.  Sure to be dead ass tired again tomorrow.

I did start this book last night, which is terrific so far:


It's a dog book, so I'm sucked in.  I read these books and I get engrossed, but there's also this voice in the back of my head that says, "You need to write your book" and I say "I don't have time right now" and the voice pesters me until I start yelling at it, "Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to write a book!?!  And one that is actually good and has a story and proper English that people will read that doesn't have sparkly vampires in it because that is so 2010?!"

I love a good book.  I have been reading since I was four, and I love nothing better in life than losing myself in a book, where I am so obsessed with it that I can't put it down, and when I'm forced to put it down I can't stop thinking about when I can pick it back up again.  I will take a good book, and I mean a REALLY good book that is one of the obsession books, over sex, coffee, wine, pasta and tiramisu.  THAT is how much I love books. 

There are loads of books I've been this obsessive with in my life, but ones that pop into my mind immediately are - Jane Austen books (except for Northanger Abbey, which was okay but I could put it down and live), Cowboys Are My Weakness by Pam Houston, The Good People of New York and Out of the Girls Room and Into the Night by Thisbe Nissen, Cooked Little Heart and Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, Devil in the White City by Eric Larson, It Happens Every Day by Isabel Gillies, the entire Twilight series, the entire Harry Potter series, Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, Room by Emma Donoghue, all Jen Lancaster books, the Hunger Games series, and the Dragon Tattoo series by Stieg Larsson.  As a kid, it was Laura Ingalls Wilder, Nancy Drew, The Secret Garden, A Little Princess, The Trumpeter Swan, anything by Judy Blume and of course The Flowers in The Attic series.  Ish.

On deck right now I have A Tale of Two Cities, Portrait of a Lady, Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch by Hollis Gillespie, It Looked Different on the Model by Laurie Notaro, and am awaiting Stacey Ballis's new book whenever it may come because I did love Good Enough to Eat.  And David Sedaris's Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk.  And With a Little Luck by Caprice Crane.

(I have to stop writing this because I have spent the last 20 minutes going back and adding another book I love to the "obsessed with" list.  Because I'm obsessed.)

But with a Pesky Full Time Job, my work severely cuts into my reading time, and then the Mothering takes over the non-paid-work time, so I find myself reading until all hours of the night and then waking up vowing never to do it again and covering the perpetually deep shadows under my eyes with foundation.  Open Memo to People at Work: I'm not being beaten, I'm reading.

What exactly is my point here?

That I write every single day, and have been writing pretty steadily for 15 years, and I can tell you firsthand that it is DAMN HARD to write a book.  Try it, I dare you.  I'm about 2/3 of the way through my first novel, which is about 60,000 words (the average blog post is about 600-900 words), and I haven't TOUCHED the novel in over a year.  I know how it's going to end.  I just haven't written it down.  And then when you start writing it, it changes.  The book actually takes your thoughts and says, "Bullshit, that would never happen.  THIS is what that character REALLY wants to do!"  I have another book rolling around in my head, and a collection of short stories too.  But guess what?  No publisher is going to pay me to tell them all about the stories and not write them down.  It's that tricky technicality of calling oneself a writer...you actually have to WRITE.

Every week, I say, "once we get through the school year I'll make time to write", then "once we get through the summer, I'll make time to write" and "Once school starts again, I'll make time to write" and now it's "once I finish this freelance project for CH..." and "once we finish the basement..."  One of these days I might actually do it, but honestly people, I'm 42 and I start worrying that I'm never going to purge these words.  It's like John Lennon said, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

Every time I hear the song, "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield, which I'm pretty sure she wrote specifically for me, I think Get Your Ass In Gear, Girl!  Do you have a lifelong ambition that is unmet?  Do you have something you are just dying to do and just don't do it?  What is holding you back?  Am I alone in thinking my epitaph is going to be "Unfulfilled potential?"  Lay it on me, Wifers, if Blogger will let you comment.  What is on your mind?  If you can't comment here, go to the FB page and do it there.  I want to know!


Sunday, August 28, 2011

Wrap It Up Sunday

Finally, after not being able to post all day on Blogger, it is finally back up and running!  WHEW!  I thought I'd have to break the month-long streak, and it's Day 28!  I'm almost there!

I finished The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest last night, so that's a relief.  When I start a book like that, I get a little obsessive and keep finding ways to sneak in another chapter, like faking an intestinal illness or looking for something in my car.  With my book.  I read the first two books in this series a long time ago, but I'm a little bit OCD about my books, and if I have the first two in hardcover, I need the third in hardcover.  This group went the other way, and I had the first two in paperback, so I've been waiting for about two years for Hornet's Nest to go paperback so I can have my set, and they steadfastly refuse to release in paperback.  I finally had to borrow the book from a friend so I could read it already!

So I spent all day yesterday finishing the book, and spent much of today tearing down my basement.  We are finishing the basement so the kids have a place to go with their friends and a place for visitors to stay, but we saved a ton of money by doing the demolition ourselves, and how hard can it be to tear down some walls?


Um...kind of hard?

Look how ugly this bad boy is...Our contractor is coming on Oct. 3 to put up walls and make it gorgeous, but in the interim we are tearing down the icky 1970's walls, powerwashing the cinderblock walls and Dry-Lock painting them, and we are tearing down the ceiling and having it exposed and painted white, because I'm going for sort of a loft-like, industrial look.  I'll admit it, I'm having an IKEA moment down there.

Our guy thinks it will take him and his crew about two weeks to put it all together, so I'm thinking more like three, but hopefully by Nov. 1 we will be able to get some furniture in there and have a little par-tay.  For now, I'm taking an Aleve so my aching back can quit swearing at me, and chasing with a little Gruet.  What?  You are unfamiliar?


Gruet is a fantabulous sparkling wine that is made in New Mexico and is inexpensive and delicioso.  A friend who owned a wine business served it to us once and said, "It's so sad that sparkling wines are reserved for special occasions.  I think sometimes it's a special occasion that you made it home." 

Amen, Brother.

I have fully embraced this philosophy.  Gruet is very yummy with fruit and dessert and on hot summer nights.  And cool fall nights.  Hell, I love it in winter too.  I swear the Gruet company is not paying me for this even though it looks like an advertorial, but no company would pay me for anything because my Mom and her two non-English speaking co-workers don't buy much.  CH and I are celebrating 16 years and two days tonight.

Have a terrific week Wifers!  We are almost at month-end!

Saturday, August 27, 2011

The Last 100 Pages...



Although I had many, many things I needed to do today, I finally started the third Stieg Larsson book last week, and I spent the ENTIRE day reading it.  I am now in the last 100 pages, and I Just...Can't....Stop.  And so, I leave you tonight to see what happens to Lisbeth Salander.  Hope you are all having a great weekend!  Did everyone else love this series?  Are the movies any good, or do I bother ruining a perfectly good book with a bad movie?




Friday, August 26, 2011

Happy Anniversary CH!

Sixteen years ago today, I put on this white dress (even though I'd been having sex with this guy for four years) and drove to the church with two of my college friends and Billy Idol's song "White Wedding" just happened to come on the radio, and we blasted it all the way to the church.  This guy waiting at the altar and I did the vows, did the reception, did the honeymoon, bought the house, had the kids, got the dogs, fought a lot, made up most of the time, have had sickness and health, been richer (in meals) and poorer (in bank accounts), but through thick and thin he's been the one person who has always truly understood me and laughed at my jokes and wiped away my tears and listened.  And even though there are times when I want to hold a pillow over his face until he stops kicking, we take it year by year and it seems to be working out.

This is what we looked like then:



And this is what we EACH had for dessert tonight with our Velvet Devil merlot and Irish Coffees - bread pudding.  Yum.


And that is why I'm not putting up a picture of what we look like tonight.  Because we are both a little sick and bloated from our crazy dinner.  But tomorrow?  Diets!  And exercise!

By the way, I spoke with my fantastic boss this morning about the Homecoming Dance, and he said, "Well, you can't miss THAT!" and we're talking about alternatives so I don't have to leave.  I am very lucky.  Good night, Wifers!   Happy 16th Anniversary, CH, you lucky son-of-a-bitch!

Thursday, August 25, 2011

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

First off, my scan was clean, and I was told that I will probably always have a callback on the mammo because my tissues are dense and stubborn.  AWESOME.  But I told her that I will come back as many times as they want as long as I get the same clean results.

But I have a much, much bigger issue right now, Wifers:  Oldest Daughter was asked to the Homecoming Dance.  By a boy.  It's a bona fide date.  Sweet Baby Jesus.

She's excited, I'm excited, we're all excited.  The dude who asked her did it with a really cute note with lots of pictures and riddles, it was sweet.  We already got her a dress while we were in Nashville, thinking she would go with some friends.


I suddenly find myself wishing it was a little more....
how do you say...Nunnish.


So we're all excited.  If you have been staring into my windows for the last two hours, you might be asking yourself, "But if we are all so excited, why is Julie endlessly sobbing?"  Let me tell you why.  Because I discovered that I have a FUCKING HOOKER CONVENTION that weekend in Minnesota. 

I will be six hours away from home while my sweet baby girl will be getting ready for her first homecoming.  It's breaking my heart.  I've been researching flights from Minneapolis, but there are only two non-stop flights from Mpls on Saturday, and one is too early and the other too late.  It's a six hour drive from the convention to home.  The convention ends at 2 p.m.  The dance starts at 8 p.m., but I'm sure they will do something before.  I'm just not seeing how it's going to work.  But I can't miss it.

Son of a Nutcracker. 

I'm off to do some more non-productive sobbing.


Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Going Bareback Again Tomorrow

I honestly wouldn't probably be blogging about this if I wasn't blogging every day this month, but Mom and her two non-English-speaking co-workers need something to do. 

Every time I have a mammogram, I get called back, or as I like to refer to it, "My rack has a second audition."  I was under the impression that this is because my ladies are getting tired of fighting gravity, but yesterday the tech said it is because my tissues are exceptionally compressed, thus giving the illusion of shadows on the scan.  The first time this happened, I wrote goodbye letters to Current Husband and the children.  I got my second scan and all was well and I went on my happy way, and a few weeks later CH found me, panicked, and said, "What the hell is this?!"  He was holding my letter, which made me look slightly suicidal since nothing else was going on, and I had to explain that I wrote the letter when I thought I had cancer, but to just forget about it now.  After asking me a few questions about my happiness level, he was able to start breathing again, because who is going to pack those cold lunches for the vegetarian daughters and buy tampons if I'm not around?

The second time my rack got a callback, I was told it was because skin had folded on top of itself, which is a much different explaination than "compressed tissue", and sounds like I can tuck my boobs into the waistband of my pants.  Again, clean screen the second time around.

Today I got a callback for tomorrow, and I'm relatively unfazed about it because I am always a two-timer, but let me tell you what DOES bother me a little.  When I go to the Center for Women's Health and I get off the elevator and I'm smacked upside the face with a 10 foot tall pink sign that says, "Whose life will YOU be running for?" about Race for the Cure.  And then the breast cancer awareness poster.  And then the next one.  And the next. And the next.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for breast cancer research.  But when I'm going in for my second mammogram, my paranoia about getting diagnosed with breast cancer is already ratcheted up a bit without picking my race team.  I know so many people who have had or are battling some form of cancer that I feel like it's National Geographic's "Seconds From Disaster" - it's not a matter of if, but when.

I'm sure my scan will be just the same as all the others tomorrow, clear, and don't think for a second I haven't been giving myself a cheap feel all night long, so if there was a grain of sand in there I would've found it, but somewhere in the world every day someone's results come back with bad news.  Therefore, maybe this is a nice moment to say that if you're looking for a place to donate your extra bags of cash, cancer research would be a nice place to do it.

But tomorrow?  When the scan is over?  I'm off to Starbucks for my well-deserved Venti Quad Skinny Vanilla Latte before I head back to work.


Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Day 24: Meet The Boss, Girls

Hello Wifers - it's hard to believe it is already Day 24 in my month of blogging, and even harder to believe there is anything to talk about.  So let's get into my mammogram today.

My first breast exposure of the day was upon arrival at work.  There was a very severe thunderstorm this morning when I drove to work, and I don't travel with an umbrella because that would require a degree of planning I don't possess, and REALLY PEOPLE, I don't live in London or Forks, Washington, so why the hell would I tote one of those things around?  I walked in the front door of the plant I work in, and talked to my boss for a minute.  He made fun of me for not carrying an umbrella while I wiped the mascara off my face with a paper towel.  As I walked back to my office, I noticed that the white linen shirt I was wearing was now soaking wet, and was therefore invisible.  I did have a cardigan on, but still.  Say hello to The Boss, Girls.

My second breast exposure today was at the Center for Women's Health, where I disrobed and let a kind yet anonymous woman manipulate my bare breast into a waffle maker.  I made apologies for my stubbly armpits and the lack of perkiness in the ladies, but she just nonchalantly said she had seen it all.  Translation:  "Your floppy tits aren't the worst thing I've seen today." 

I told her that my greatest fear during a mammogram (other than hearing "You have cancer") is that I am going to sneeze during the scan and tear my breast from my body like a velco boob.  You know that boob is firmly wenched down in that vise, and should you move, your skin WILL tear away like a launcher coming off of the shuttle.  I did get out of there with both breasts intact.

After the mammo, I picked up Oldest Daughter, stopped at grocery store for food for elementary school potluck, checked in at home for about 20 minutes, went to said potluck, left there to go straight to meeting at high school, came home at 8:15, got kids in showers, signed planners, confirmed plans for tomorrow night, tucked kids in, and there goes another night I wanted to putz around in my studio room.  School is back in session.

I hope your breasts had a better day than mine.  Tomorrow's work outfit is going to be a burqa.




Monday, August 22, 2011

How Chicago Made YD a Vegetarian

About seven years ago, I watched a PBS special called, "Chicago:  City of the Century".  I am a complete history geek, and I thought it was the coolest thing I had ever seen (on PBS).  I am the one person in the country who doesn't watch reality TV (save Project Runway, but that is art in action) and I can't name any Housewives or Kardashians.  This is where Jen Lancaster and I part ways.  Well, and she is a published author.  And rich.  And doesn't have kids or talk about S.E.X., but other than that we are totally alike.

Anyhoo, this special is AWESOME.  It traces the history of Chicago from being a deserted marsh off of Lake Michigan to present, and honestly I wasn't all that fond of Chicago until I saw the special.  I had to own this FOUR DVD set, because wouldn't the kids be so excited to learn about our closest large city?  And then we could visit it together and talk about what we learned while doing the architectural tour and playing chess and doing a wine flight at a five-star restaurant!!


"Once a swampy, remote outpost of fur traders and Native Americans, Chicago rose to become the CITY OF THE CENTURY. The film chronicles its transformation into the quintessential 19th-century metropolis, amid political struggles, labor unrest, and racial conflicts. Tour the city from every angle, from distinctive architecture and dramatic skyline to conversations with eminent and ordinary Chicagoans, in this rich saga of the Windy City."
Kids LOVE this shit, am I right?  I swear this was a recent plot of Wizards of Waverly Place.  My family groaned every time I brought up my Chicago DVD, but one night, I forced them into it.  "If you just start watching it, you'll love it, I swear!"  I guess seven years is a long time, because my rose-tinted plotline of the first DVD didn't include these sections:

  • White people forcing the Native Americans out, and then being scalped in return.
  • Raging typhoid running through the streams.
  • Irish immigrant children playing with maggots in the street.
  • The Chicago River running red with the blood from the packing houses.
  • Horses getting caught in the muddy streets up to their chests, then shot.
  • Pigs' heads floating in the river from said packing houses.
  • The thousands of people burned to death in the Chicago Fire, and the river being on fire because it was so putrid.
So the kids were REALLY enjoying themselves, when the narrarator went into great detail about pig slaughter.  Specifically about the Hereford Wheel.  This is where the packers would shackle a pig's hind leg to a wheel, thus lifting the squealing pig in the air, and then down to a "sticker", which is a guy with a knife who would slit the pig's throat.  Fortunately, the DVD had actual footage of this happening.  When the sticker got the pig, blood shot out of the pig's neck like a garden hose.  I'm trying to cover Youngest Daughter's eyes, but she is dodging me.  Then, she sits still and gives me a glaring stare.

"Thanks a lot, Mom, now Chicago City of the Century has made me hate bacon."

And it has.  A little girl who could eat 8 pieces of bacon at breakfast if left unwatched will no longer eat meat.  It's been about three weeks since the DVD, and if I pull up at a McDonalds and ask her what she wants, she will honestly still say, "Thanks to Chicago City of the Century, I'll have fries and a smoothie."

What started as a lesson in the rich history of our country turned into a bacon-hating bloodbath.  Now, when my children don't become scholars, I am going to blame PBS.  And Chicago.  City of the Century, indeed.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

I'm Having a Shot for Breakfast

Hello Wifers!

I'm finally back home from the Hooker Convention, which was very fun but tiring.  Hooking takes a LOT of energy.

I arrived at home around 11 p.m. to some happy kids and an even happier Current Husband.  He was actually waiting on the front step when I pulled up.  Of course, I'm all monthly today, CH's luck just ran out.  Not to mention my bitchiness.  George the Superpet is happy though, because this is the time of the month that he hopes someone leaves a bathroom door open so he can rip the garbage apart looking for treasure.  I'm sorry George, I love you, but sometimes dogs are pretty damn gross.

Today, my parents stopped by on their way home from Ohio (they came to the Hooker Convention too, but to see relatives, not for the hooking) and we went out for dinner at Texas Roadhouse, which is sort of our joke because their permanent residence is in Texas, so they drive to Iowa to eat at a Texas Roadhouse.  I know, it's SUPER funny if you're here.  Well, not even then really.  I was a complete glutton and pounded back a 6 ounce filet and loaded baked potato and a Ceasar salad and those damn rolls and a margarita, while my vegetarian daughters ate salad and potatoes and watched me kill myself.  Mongo like steak!  CH looked at the kids like, "Just sit quietly and no sudden movements, it's her time of the month and she is holding a steak knife."

We got home and I decided since I was gone all week, I would do some work in our basement.  We are getting our basement finished, and CH and I decided we would save some money and tear down the current walls ourselves.  How hard can it be?  Well, kind of hard, actually.  I was picking up big chunks of drywall and MOTHERF***ER, I grabbed a rusty nail and punctured my finger.  I had to call Mom and find out if I HAD to get a tetanus shot tonight or if I could wait until tomorrow, because Mom is a nurse, and she said, "I can't remember if it's 12 hours or 24 hours that you need to get it.  And I can't remember if it's 5 or 10 years since you've had your last booster if you need to get another shot.  I'm sure you'll be fine, but if you wake up and your fingers are all twisted, go to the ER."

So Reassuring.

This is from the nurse who would make Hamburger Helper for lunch on Saturday, leave it in the pan on the stove all day, and then warm it up again for dinner, so I'm not always sure if I should be taking her medical advice, but I call My Friend Paige The OB too often about stupid shit like this, and besides, I think her service is blocking me after I drunk dialed them, so I'm taking my chances and waiting until morning.

If you don't hear from me again, it's because I turned into Cujo overnight and I'm frothing at the mouth and have trapped my neighbors in their '84 Ford Escort and am on a first-name basis with the pack of 39 feral cats who live on my street.  I'll miss you people.


Saturday, August 20, 2011

Day 21: Get Out Your Secret Decoder Ring

Today I've decided to shake things up a little bit, and I am going to write this entire blog, which I personally think is the funniest one I've ever written, in invisible ink.










And That?  Is how you tell if David Sedaris is the father of your child.  I'm not kidding.  It really happened.

Have a great weekend!


Friday, August 19, 2011

Day 20: Quantity Over Quality

Remember my pledge to you, Wifers, on this Day 20 of my month of blogging every day -Quantity over Quality.  There are bloggers who do this every day, and I'm here to tell you that I am just not that interesting, so it's a bit of a stretch to go every day.

Today at the Hooker Convention, I had a little crisis.  Hooker equipment has been selling like hotcakes, and yesterday we ran out of a number of our products.  This morning, my parents were driving through the Quad Cities, and called to see if I wanted them to bring some supplies from my company to the show.  I said yes, and gave them my list of what I wanted.  They said Okay, and were en route with an ETA of 2 p.m.  We told two hookers at the table that my parents were driving some things to the show.  Pretty soon, people started coming up to the table saying, "Are your parents here yet?  I need a #7 blade."  "Where are your parents?"  "I thought your parents were supposed to be here by now."

I'm not kidding.  I was being totally hassled by people about my parents being late.  They didn't arrive until 4:30 because of traffic around Chicago, and when they arrived, they were accosted by about 10 hookers who needed to pick their things up.  People were ushering my parents in and carrying things for them.  They were the rock stars.  My dad got a free hat from my boss, so it was all worth it.  Dad will do just about anything for free promotional merchandise.

I then went to my Mennonite family reunion, and just got in, and it's 11 p.m. and I have to get to sleep because I work the show tomorrow from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. and then drive 6 hours home, so I'm scheduling a blog of nothing for tomorrow so I don't break my streak.

Have a great day, Wifers!


Thursday, August 18, 2011

I'm Addicted to Support Undergarments

I'm not going to call this a Whoreticulture Friday post, because technically, support undergarments are not, by nature, whorish.  But.

"My name is Julie the Wife, and I'm addicted to Spanx."

(wifers) "Hi Julie."

I didn't always wear support undergarments.  I didn't really need to for a while, and then I didn't realize I needed to for a while, and then fitted t-shirts and hip-slung jeans came back into vogue and I tried a pair of Spanx on and I was done.  Muffin top = reduced.  Panty lines = gone.  You had me at "How the hell I am going to get these up over my thighs?"  And?  I do love me some gravy.  I ain't quittin you, gravy. 

This morning, I got dressed for my Hooker Convention, and we all know one wants to look one's best at a Hooker Convention.  I put on my trusty pair of support undergarments, and then pulled on my khakis.  Uh-oh.  We have a Code Red.  My khakis had somehow shrunk in the wash (because OBVIOUSLY it had nothing to do with my eating habits), and I could see where my Spanx ended on my thighs through my pants.  Shit.  I took off the Spanks.

Oh Hell No. 

"Double muffin and are those Victoria's secret briefs?  I might even be able to see what color they are through your pants!"  I spent the next hour doing deep knee bends in the middle of my room, so as to stretch the offending pants.  Because I wasn't going anywhere without that muffin contained.  Effing Starbucks and their tempting little carbohydrate bread goods.  I was late for the convention, so I jogged across the courtyard from the hotel to the exhibition hall.  It was weird, but my shirt kept coming untucked.  Those slick little suckers under my pants kept pushing that shirt out like it was a drowning swimmer gasping for air.  I got into the building and tucked it in for the last time.  Of course, 30 minutes later, I realized with horror that I had tucked my t-shirt into the waistband of my Spanx, not my pants.  It barely showed, but STILL.  Who had my back, people?  Where was the sister who said, "Hey, your Spanx are surfacing."

Later in the day, I was talking with a hooker and I laughed so hard that a little bit of snot flew out of my nose, and we both noticed.

I celebrated this evening by eating Beef Tenderloin Tips in Burgundy Sauce with German Spaetzle, mushrooms, asparagus tips, and Bleu cheese.  And then all was well again in the world.

Spanx wearers, Unite!  It is time to get each other's backs.  Tomorrow, I plan to top today's performance by showing up at the convention in a skirt and my bra.

Here is that t-shirt:


Don't I look like someone just told me
 I need to clean the bathrooms at the hotel?

Have a Happy Friday, Wifers!

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

Bring Me Gravy, Or Bring Me Death.

Dudes.

I am so flipping beat up.  Had an awesome day at the Hooker Convention, those ladies wouldn't ever stop coming and waving their credit cards at us, which is awesome.  BUT.  I did not sit or use a bathroom or eat from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m., and my varicose veins were saying, "Sit DOWN, Bitch!" and my back was saying, "Yeah, what they said!" and my teeth were dry from all that smiling and talking.  I did wear my new hooker shirt, and I took a picture, and then I left my camera in the exhibition hall, so no photo.  Tomorrow.

When the show was over for the day and we could leave, we walked to a restaurant called "The Barn" and had the buffet.  My plate was like a 15-year-old boy's - fried chicken, gravy, Mt. Mashed Potato, gravy, roast beef, gravy, BBQ beef, gravy, buttered peas and cherry bread pudding.  And gravy. It was all I could do to not climb into that gravy tray and bathe in it.  We're in Mennonite country, people - my dad's family all still live here, and I KNOW they can cook.  Bring me your gravy, or bring me death.

It is 11 p.m., and I am going to get in my king-sized bed, maybe read a chapter of The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest, and then dream of gravy.  And CH, of course.  With gravy.


Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The Hookers Beat Me Up

DATE:  August 16, 2011
WHO:  Julie the Wife
WHERE:  Archbold, Ohio
WHAT:  Reporting from Hooker Convention
(THE JOKE:  It's a Rug Hooking Convention.  Just sucked the fun right out of it for you, huh?  But you would expect that from a good hooker.  That will be $20.)

It is 11:25 p.m. in Mennonite country, and I am sore all over from my hooker convention.  I drove all day with the woman who used to be the Head Hooker, and is now training me to be the hooker she was and more.  She can't carry any of our equipment, because, as one would expect in our profession, her cyatic nerve is shot.  I unloaded about 300 pounds of equipment, neatly split into about 6 boxes, out of the car and into the Hooker Hall.

Not all of the customers pay with cash or check anymore.   About 95% of our business is done by credit card, and as I mentioned yesterday, my wireless credit card terminal gave me a message that made us think it had a virus.  Again, not a surprise in our line of work.  The bank museum brought me carbon paper credit card slips, so that's what I have to use.  I just spent the past hour hand entering all of the effing information onto our online cc provider, which I can't use because I can't get wireless in the exhibition area.  But I'm not bitter and that's what's important.

The first guy today to walk up to my booth had a big pin on that said, "I'm a Happy Hooker!" and then he looked at me and said, "I'm pissed off at you guys!  You went out of business, I bought a different brand, and then you are back in business!"  (My company bought the rights to wool cutting equipment made by another Iowa company that went out of business due to the passing of the owner - I'm sorry, Tony, that a man's death was inconvenient for your rug hooking purchases.) I said, "But I can sell you a t-shirt that says, "I'm a Happy Hooker!" and he growled at me and said, "I notice you didn't offer to trade me for my other cutter." and walked away. 

NO, ASSHOLE, I DIDN'T.  Because we don't MAKE that crappy cutter.  No trade.  This is not the Wild West.  We are not working in beaver pellets (or ARE we?).  I am going to find TONY tomorrow and rip that effing Happy Hooker pin right off of his gnomey chest.  I wish he would've spat on the ground in my direction. I would've gotten great satisfaction from that.

All of the other hookers seemed happy and satisfied.  I'll take a picture of me tomorrow in our fancy new t-shirt we are selling.  I'm sure you will ALL want one - they make great gifts!

Monday, August 15, 2011

Day 15 - First Day of School

Hello Wifers.

Today was a major accomplishment - I got three kids registered at, paid for, delivered to, and delivered from three different schools.  They had supplies.  They had clean clothes on.  Their teeth were brushed.  They ate lunch, they attended classes, and they lived to tell about it.  My only real glitch is that I am taking up pitchforks against the school bus barn, because busing is free to the high school for kids who live 3 miles or more from the school, but mapquest tells the school that my address is 2.98 miles from the school.  My odometer tells me I am 3.0 to the school from my curb to the parking lot on the most direct route.  But the school wants me to pay $50 each semester for OD to take the bus home.  The problem is that OD won't actually be taking the bus home - it takes the bus 1 hour and 15 minutes to get her that 2.98 miles each night, so I have paid a teenager to drive her home every day, but if that teen is sick or has an issue, then OD has an alternative way home, as I can't leave my hooker job to pick her up.  I know $50 isn't much in the scheme of things, but it's the principle.  The bus barn hasn't heard the end of The Wife.

At work, I packed for my hooker convention.  I have $40K of product packed in the back of a rented Mazda CX-9, and I found out this a.m. that the expensive wireless terminal my company purchased so I can take credit cards at these trade shows is corrupted and cannot be used.  Credit cards make up about 95% of my sales, so this will be a fun week.

It is 10 p.m. and I'm still not packed, and I'm leaving at 8 a.m. for my seven hour drive to Ohio to explain to a lot of hookers that I can't take credit cards, so I'm off to bed.  If I have wireless, I will be blogging tomorrow.  If not, I will write it on paper, copy it, and mail it to all of you.  I ain't quittin' you, Wifers!


Sunday, August 14, 2011

How Short is Too Short in Shorts?

Because tonight at High School Freshman orientation, the assistant principal very assuredly told the parents that if our daughters are caught wearing shorts that are too short, they will be sent home from school.  I am going to add this to my list, called, "Even More Fucking Things to Worry About With A High Schooler."  Dear Hollister, Abercrombie, American Eagle, and Aeropostale - will you PLEASE get together with my principal and come up with an acceptable length of shorts, and I will purchase them.  I will purchase 10.  I will even consider paying double so I don't have to worry about this anymore, because I'm already freaked out by the bus passes that haven't shown up, the confirmation that my PaySchools acct is paid in full hasn't shown up, and the fact that Youngest Daughter informed me tonight that she is completely out of clean underwear and the 12-pack I bought her yesterday is too big.

I am making lunches for all of the kids tomorrow because I am not sure about the PaySchools account, and two of my children are now vegetarians because of a PBS video I showed them a few weeks ago called "Chicago, City of the Century."  I'll write about that later this week, because we have all month, right?

The other thing the prinicpal said today?  "Communicate with your kids, because if you don't ask questions before they go out with their friends, the next questions you'll be asking are, 'Did anyone get hurt?  What charges were filed?  When is she due?'"  Oh Dear God.  Buying longer shorts tomorrow.  Secretly implanting daughters with Norplant, and son, if doctor will agree to it.

We had a special dinner tonight and toasted Oldest Daughter, our new high school freshman, and The Son, our new Middle Schooler, and Youngest Daughter, our last child in third grade.  I got a little choked up; they got slightly irritated.  But I'm not sure how all of these kids got old, while I remained a fresh, spry 23.  This just isn't possible.  And I'm slowly coming to realize that when I admonished my parents when I was a high schooler because they "Just Didn't Understand", that they understood perfectly - I was the one who didn't understand.  It's a real bitch to just get that now.  Sorry Mom!

I feel like we've done a good job with the kids - by all appearances, they seem polite and well-mannered and care about school and empathetic, but the minute you start thinking that your kid can do no wrong is when they do.  No kid is above an unplanned pregnancy or a failed test or some tp'ing or underage drinking or sign-stealing, or even some mild bullying.  Facebook and cell phones and the Internet and their access to it, coupled with immaturity, scare the hell out of me.  So here we go, onto our next adventure into the great unknown, with a little prayer for some luck and hope that they will do the right thing, and when they don't, to come to us first.  And let us help.  When they hand you that screaming baby in the hospital and wave while you get in the car, clueless and scared, you don't realize that the most terrifying times in parenthood are still a good 12 years away.

But I'm trying not to think about that stuff - I'm just dropping them off and smiling and waving and hoping that they are embarking on the best part of their journey so far, and then wiping away a tear and chugging a venti quadruple shot skinny vanilla latte.  Because I'm leaving for Ohio on Tuesday for a hooker convention and I'm still not finished packing.

Happy First Day of School, parents.  Here's to a great year that is low on drama and high on grades and happiness!


Saturday, August 13, 2011

Day 13 - Who the Hell Are You People?

Tonight, just for fun, I decided to look up the stats on my little tiny blog.  It's been nearly two years now, let's have a look-see.  I rarely track my stats, since mom and her two co-workers don't read much, but I was completely shocked by what I found.

FIRST - I'm over 300 posts, and nearly 100,000 page views, which is nutty like a fruitcake.

SECOND - Five out of the top ten referring sites to my blog are Russian sites.  Written in Russian.  Why are these non-English speaking websites in Russia referring readers to my blog?  Honestly, the first thing I think is that they are hacking into my computer to get to my bank account, in which case, let me save you some time, Czarina - there's nothing there.  Gwyneth Paltrow's site is www.goop.com, you'll have better luck over there.  My second thought is that they are using me as a drone site to hack into other people's websites, because let's be honest, how many Russians are really reading this for fun?  Am I just being used by the Russian mob?  Let me know if any of you have insight into this.  (Comment:  "No, we are for to like your funny humor site and not to for what you say?  Hacking?  Ignore this and continue with funny humor that links to banks.  Love, Svetlana)

THIRD - Here are the top searches people use that lead to my site.  No shit, people.
  1. a day in the wife: 11
  2. porn in kids books: 11
  3. day in wife:  8
  4. a day in the wife blog:  3
  5. big stripe mosquitoes: 3
  6. grandmas facial: 3
  7. penis trauma: 3
  8. daily schedule of a hooker prostitute: 1 

 Penis trauma I get, but Grandma Facial?  Where the hell did THAT come from?  Who ARE you people?  And why does anyone want to know the daily schedule of a hooker prostitute?  So they know when to schedule their breakfast meeting?  Honestly...I'm thinking it's the Russians.

 

 

 

 

Friday, August 12, 2011

Day 12 - Soul Surfer

First I would like to take a moment to say Thank God it's Friday, and not in a chain-restaurant kind of way.  We celebrated the evening by driving the 2004 Chevy Venture Status Wagon to a local dealership because I liked a 2010 Sienna that had leather and DVD and a sunroof, only to find that said dealership was closed and said van has disappeared.  Instead of grieving the loss of my Swagga Wagon, I took it as a sign that I should drive Old Faithful for another year since she is fully paid for, and instead pour the Swagga money into finishing my basement.


We went to Qdoba to eat, it's a chain restaurant, and because some friends of ours own it and we want them to go out and buy a new Swagga Wagon on burrito money.




Here I am, eating my burrito with my man hands and awkward facial hair.


After quelling my Minivan pain by stuffing queso and a burrito in my craw, we came home and I made a deal with Youngest Daughter that if she rubbed my shoulders and brushed my hair for 30 minutes I would pay for on-demand Soul Surfer.  Nothing is free, kids.  I'm thinking, "Ha!  Brush my hair, SUCKA!" and then I start watching the movie and crying.  Damn you, Soul Surfer, and your inextinguishable optimism and bravery!  And suddenly,  I seem like a big fat loser sitting on my couch and taking advantage of my third grader.


I get up off of the couch, crying and insipired and motivated - I CAN do everything I want!  It's 11 p.m., and I'm going to make all kinds of china mosaics tonight, and write the first chapter of my novel, and start hooking the rug I just drew the pattern for, and I can do it because I have BOTH arms and if Bethanny can do it, so can I!  I walk downstairs and turn on the light in my studio, and then I think, "I'm old and tired.  My back sort of hurts and I'm in the middle of reading a good book.  Perhaps I should let the Soul Surfer be the accomplished one, and I shall be The Appreciator.  The Sofa Surfer.    The Soda Sipper.  The Slothy Stalker.  Wow.  It really drained me to think of those names.  I think my work here is done.


Here is the parade of the people who have popped into the studio while I am trying to work:




Wednesday.

Thursday.
 Friday.

But it's okay.  I'd probably get kind of lonely down here.




Thursday, August 11, 2011

It's Whoreticulture Friday!
Issue 69

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: An Extra Pap in My Step

DISCLAIMER:  Remember, this whole "Oh I'm Going To Blog Every Day" business is about quantity, not quality.  As long as we are all clear.  Are we good?  Good.  Carry on, then.

Earlier this week I mentioned that I had a pap smear.  I know how much fun it is for everyone to read about my personal doctor's visits, so I'm going to elaborate on it.  Of course, by reading further, you are agreeing to the contract that you will not let your child under the age of 20 read this or share the information in this blog with your child, particularly if you live in my area.  If you do, I will be forced to name you in my blog, and gut you like a fish.  Because I live in Mayberry and I WILL find out.  Fun!

So of course, Poor CH did not get lucky earlier this week, because you know how sex messes with your junk, and I for one cannot go giddyup in the stirrups and have the doctor going, "Do you have any questions for me?" and be thinking, "I can't believe you showed up here with your scrambled-ass vagina and expect me to take you seriously, you ho-bag."  My appointment was on Tuesday, so CH was thinking Tuesday Night is THE Night!  Poor CH.

I showed up and did the weigh-in.  I was feeling good about the scale because I had a wellness check at work about three weeks ago and the scale showed me some love and said I weighed 152.  This scale was an asshole and said I weighed 161!  Seriously people, I gained 9 pounds in three weeks.  Ice cream, you're going to have to start seeing other people.  However, I'm pretty certain I drank at least 8 pounds of coffee for breakfast and my blood is rich with iron, which we all know is quite heavy.  That's science, people.

I made my way to the exam room and was reading a lovely article about Kyra Sedgewick when the doctor walked in.  I must have looked like I was really into the article, because she gently took it out of my hands and put it back in the magazine rack.  Isn't that MY job?  Although I was in the open-front pink paper bolero jacket with a small paper napkin covering my lady cave, so I suppose she was being helpful.  She started with what is probably a standard question, but I got right on it.

DR:  "Do you have any questions or concerns?"
ME:  "I am SO done having kids.  I want Mirena or Essure.  When can we do this?"
DR:  "Um...okay...well, are you sure you're done having kids?"
ME:  "I never want another baby again.  I have one going to college in four years.  I'm not going back.  If, God Forbid, my husband should die and I married someone else, I would NOT be like 'I want your baby', I would say, 'Let's go to London!' I have three great kids, I don't want to break that streak.  I. AM. DONE.  I'm not always even into having sex because I think I MIGHT get pregnant.  And I have a rash on my chest.  It might be from a fear of pregnancy."
DR:  (Looks panicky and laughs nervously.)  "Okay.  Well, you are very sure - maybe one of the surest people I've spoken with.  Not everyone is.  I think both options are great.  Mirena gets you a metal T-shaped IUD and you don't really have periods, but there are slight risks of uterine tearing, and I've had one of those happen.  There have been a few pregnancies on Mirena.  Essure is permanent and for that we put metal coils in your tubes and then scar tissue grows over them, sealing off your tubes forever.  Then we put contrast dye in your uterus and take an x-ray to see if any dye gets through.  If it doesn't, you're good to go."

This all sounds like a LOT of stuff going into my vagina.  Had I been aware there was so much room in there for all of these items, I might have saved the money on a safe and put everyone's birth certificates and social security cards in there.  I'm going to think about my options, and then after careful consideration, I'm going to see which one is cheaper with my insurance and go that way.

She then asked about my chesty rash.  I flashed her, and she prescribed a cream.  Because NOTHING makes a woman feel sexier than having a rash all over her chest.  It's probably what's kept me from getting knocked up lately.

We did the other standard things a doctor and a woman do in the privacy of their stirrups, and she signed me up for a mammogram.  Great.  I might as well schedule TWO appointments, because I have YET to have a mammogram without having to do a follow-up ultrasound for something suspicious.  Longtime readers might remember my last one, when I had to go back only for them to discover that the skin on my breast had doubled over on itself and created a dark area on the scan.  Super.  My girls are so tired they can actually fold over on themselves like an origami pelican DURING a mammogram.  Jealous?

It all ended well, we agreed to continue seeing each other, and I'm going back for sterilization.  And THAT is what's putting an extra pap in my step.

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  See you tomorrow!

 


Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Day 10 - Teens in a Mall

Before I begin, I'd like to point out a theme in our house.  Now that I'm blogging every day this month, I tend to either write my post at work (sorry employer!), or more likely, at 10 p.m. when everyone has seemingly settled in for the night.  Every night this month that I have been in my studio room, some member of my family has followed me downstairs to talk.





"Mom?  I might have a gland that needs to be expressed."

School starts in these parts on Monday.  Of course, I am unprepared.  Just today I found a ride home for my high schooler, and I still haven't signed her up for the bus as the backup plan.  I just scheduled her golf lessons, and got her cello lessons set up.  I still have to call about the cello case that is overdue, and she doesn't have a lunch bag, an important accessory for a two-year vegetarian.  The Son and Youngest Daughter both need tennis shoes for PE, and YD can't wear flip flops to school so I need non-flip-flop shoes for her.  I can't sign either of them up for piano until Monday.  No one has money in their PaySchools account for lunches, and I'm leaving Tuesday morning for a week-long hooker convention in Mennonite country in Ohio.  Current Husband is in charge of everything.  OY.

If I were to interview for a paid position as "Stay-At-Home Mom", up against other resumes, there is NO WAY I would get the job.  That SAHM Mom job is tough, don't kid yourself.  In addition to the normal laundry-meals-activities-homework-housework-sex stuff, there is added pressure to volunteer and give of yourself to the world at large, because what could you possibly be doing at home? Seriously, my five years at home were some of the hardest because I thought I could do everything, and felt like it was expected.  Now I actually get paid to work, and I while I still do my turn as nail-painter and donater-of-cookies at school functions, I don't feel guilty if I can't.

So, tonight I took Oldest Daughter and The Son to the dreaded mall.  We bought some PE shoes that can stay at the school for PE, and a few shirts for school.  I got to browse through The Gap while OD and TS went to Hollister and Abercrombie, I bought some perfume at Von Maur ("I'd like a bottle of Happy, please."  It was fun to say, and I half hoped they'd pull a bottle of Tanqueray from behind the counter) and then met the teens at American Eagle.  The Son found a pair of shades he liked.

"These are beast, mom," he said.
"Are these for you?" the teenage, tattoed checkout girl asked.
"Yeah."  The Son got a bit of swagger.
"Are you going to rock these shades?  Because if you aren't I won't sell them to you."
The Son was shocked.  Was this teen girl *talking* to him?  "Um, yeah."
I saw a tester for a men's body spray and sprayed a little on TS.  "Hey!"
"It's on sale for $5 a bottle...you will be fighting the girls off," said Tattoed Teen.
(Wow.  She's good.)
"Is it like AXE Squared?" I asked.
"Oh yeah.  The girls will go crazy." She said with a smug nod.
"Well then we don't want any.  I Taser girls." 
"WHAT!?"  The Son was mortified.  I was stomping on his buzz.
"Do you like it?"
"Yes."
"Then you better smell like $5 every time you put it on.  No girls."

I paid for it, laughing a little, but inside I was freaking out.  Holy shit.  He really is getting close to dating age, and some little tramp is going to take MY place someday.  I'm not ready.  I still eat this kid up every day.  Why is it so different when it's your son?  The girls I'm not worried about.  OD is a good girl and has a strong constitution so she'll make it through the heartaches, and YD will be the breaker, not the breakee.  I will be consoling her ex-boyfriends.  "It's not you, it's her.  You'll be better off, trust me."  But The Son?  He's my buddy!  She can't have him!  He's MINE!


This is how I will see him forever. 
Which is going to get irritating to everyone.
But seriously, isn't he CUTE?

I guess he's going to Middle School, and he's going to grow up, and his voice is going to change and he'll get girlfriends and move away.  I've always known it's coming, but why is it suddenly seeming so much closer?

This?  This is why I'm eating ice cream every night.  Out of sadness and a need to become so huge and suger-rushed that I will terrify every girl who comes to our house.  And girls?  I do own a Taser gun.  And a stuffed squirrel that will CUT. YOU.



Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Day 9 - Meh.

What does it say about your day when the high point was getting a pap smear? 
But now is not a time to talk about that, I'll save up for a Whoreticulture Friday post. 

TODAY:  I got a hard time in a meeting for something I didn't do, and just about everyone at work then joking referred to me as "Troublemaker!" but after a while you just want to send a company-wide e-mail that says, "I didn't have anything to do with that, and the next person who calls me Troublemaker is going to get punched in the junk."  I returned bottles at the grocery store and figured out about an hour later that I forgot to print my receipt for my money.  I nearly walked out of the gas station without the $20 cash back I punched in, and let the employees make fun of me for that.  You know.  Petty stuff that sort of adds up after a while.  My day vastly improved around 6 p.m. when my friend Julie came over with her kids and had a waaaay overdue pizza and beer with me.  We haven't spent time together since April, so it was really good to sit on the back deck with her.  *deep breath* and then *laugh*.  Okay.  All is well in the world again.

Well, I've made good on my promise so far of quantity over quality for August, and I'm pleased to say this is my 9th day in a row of blogging.  Only 22 more days to go!  I will have you know that this is an Olympic effort, because of course the minute I walked down to my studio, George the Superpet and Youngest Daughter followed me, YD parked herself on a stool in my room, and hasn't stopped talking since.

She's very good at bringing it all back to her.

When she first came downstairs, she sat and looked at my Beatles action figures.  She quizzed me about the Beatles and asked me who my favorite one is - John, BTW - and then she told me how freaky all of the dolls are.  She then noticed the picture on the little shelf of CH and I on our wedding day, which started an avalanche of questions about our wedding and why I wore what I wore.  In thie picture, she is telling me all about the kind of wedding dress she is going to have.  The top will be like a tank top and then a huge puffy floor-length skirt.  And a long veil with flowers.

The she saw my china mosaics that need a coat of polyurethane, and started asking questions about those:  "Which one is your favorite, Mom?"  "Can I help you make one, Mom?"  "How do you decide which plate to use, Mom?"  "Can I organize them for you?"

The little hand is "organizing" by color and theme. 
And attached to an endlessly talking third grader. 

She just saw my caption and stopped talking.  She looked at me and said, "This hand is attached to someone with FEELINGS, Mom!"  She is laughing, but she really wants me to stop blogging and pay attention to her.  And so I shall.

Have a good night, Wifers.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Day 8 - Goodbye, Four Leaf Clover.

Day 8, People.  The Month of Blogging streak is unbroken.  It will be hard next week, as I am traveling to Ohio for a hooker convention and will be...ahem...BUSY.  But I ain't quittin you, Wifers!

So tomorrow I have a pap smear, which by it's very name sounds gross, and it's one of those days where you want to look decent because COME ON.  Someone has to stare into your very soul via your hoo-ha, and you sort of hope there isn't any unsightly hair or bruises and your stomach isn't flopped out on the table on your side.

One of my best friends since fifth grade (yes, someone has known me THAT long and still speaks to me!) is an OB-GYN and actually delivered my niece and nephew, and she's the one whom I alway refer to when I say I badger a doctor friend from high school for advice.  Although I think I was put on the ban list on her paging service last year when I called her service at night a little drunk and told them to tell her that "Me and Meem want to know why she isn't at the party!?!"  (But you were *supposed* to be there, Paige.  Don't make me go to extremes to get you out.  You did that to yourself.)

Anyway, OB-GYN friend says that they see EVERYTHING as far as personal hygeine and body decor, so don't worry about it because they don't see it or talk about it in the break room, which is nice to hear but I think is total BS.  If YOU saw someone's dealio shaved into a four-leaf clover or pierced with a safety pin, wouldn't YOU need to tell someone?  At least your therapist!  And let them talk about OTHER people (and please, God, let me hear it) but I don't want to be in the water cooler talk.  Therefore, I am shaving off my four leaf clover and taking the safety pin out. 

Today, I am walking past a big plate glass window at work that has a mirror effect, and I caught a glimpse of myself and thought, "Whose stomach am I carrying around?  Because THAT?  Is unattractive."  I blame Current Husband and that twenty pound bag of Peanut M&M's he brought home this weekend and forced me to eat at gunpoint.  And the beer and wine he made me buy.  And the ice cream and the shish kebob.  Do you hear me?  CALL THE POLICE, he is fattening me up for something.  Now I have to go disrobe for someone and explain myself.  Well, I probably don't HAVE to explain myself, but I'm sure I will.  It's what I do.

By the way - Happy Birthday Paige!  I'm having a pap smear on your birthday in your honor!  I hope there's theme cake afterward!




Sunday, August 7, 2011

Day 7 - Completion of the Studio

G'Day Wifers!

First off, let's get one thing straight.  I understand that my "studio" is actually a glorified cinder block room in the basement no one else wanted.  I get that.  But in my carefully constructed fantasy world, this is my studio.  It is where I do my little mosaic thingies, and my bad sewing and writing, and where I hide to drink when everyone upstairs is fighting.  The Bloggess and The Edge and The Black Keys are all down here waiting with some peanut M&M's and a case of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale for me to show up and party.  All groups or individuals with "The" in front of their name are welcome to pretend party with The Wife, who will be disappointingly unable to drink more than 2 beers without needing to take a Prilosec and go to bed.  But in my head?  Twenty-two and stone cold fox.

What was I talking about?

Oh yes, the pretend studio.  I'm a little proud of my little room I carved out on a little budget.  It is truly The Little Studio That Could.  Here is a picture of the dark, spider-infested room when I started putting a claim on it a few months ago:


I had already painted the walls with Dry-Loc, which if you've ever painted with that stuff you know it's like painting with sand.  That is icky old tile on the floor, and I've started painting the walls green.  Here is more ugliness:




All of this activity drove George the Superpet nuts, or as we like to call him around the house, Curious George.

He kept coming downstairs to check on me, and would often lie down in the middle of what I was doing, like, "You aren't doing one more thing until you tell me what the hell is going on."

I painted the walls and ordered some fun vinyl flooring, got a work table in, some shelving, and five strands of mismatched white party lights, and voila!  My fort is complete:


The lights are my favorite part.  It looks dark in this picture, but they actually light up the whole room.  One strand I bought at a kick ass shop outside of Kalona, Iowa, called Sister's Garden, if you can get there, by all means DO IT, but they are tiny white lights with these beautiful fabric flowers taped to them so the flowers glow.  So pretty!

Blogger won't let me put any more pictures in this post, so I will post more pictures in a second post tonight.  Scroll down and read the next post, which is actually the second post tonight.  I'm like an effing magician.