Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Today I made the mistake of looking at the search terms that brought people to my blog lately.  I was hoping it would be things like "Good mom" or "Domestic Goddess" or "Feral Cat Porn".  Instead, I found this really odd smorgasborg of things that I now feel compelled to blog about, because I'm a pleaser and I don't want to let Google Search down.

estrogen 44
a day in the wife 14
innocent teens 6
donkey shrek ass 5
teen panty 5
adayinthewife 4
anne taintor postcards 4
hollister guy models 4
nice legs on teens 4
estrogen pictures 3

Estrogen, I get. I'm all about the estrogen. But why do at least five of these search terms seem to be things searched by sex offenders? Innocent teen? Teen panty? Donkey shrek ass? It's a little icky.  Just so we're clear, if you are a pedophile sex offender, YOU'RE ON THE WRONG WEBSITE.  Perhaps even the wrong Internet.  Or planet.  This helps explain why I don't get many comments, other than the fact that Blogger is a dick about comments.  Half of my views are from pedophiles who are male Hollister models into Donkey on Shrek and they see my blog and say, "Whoops!" and click off.  Let's not say "click off" because now it sounds like a sex term.  Let's say "reboot".  No.  "Press Enter"?  No.  Let's say "leave".

As I'm getting all judgey about what people search to accidentally get to my blog, I think about my search terms.  The other day a co-worker told me that she thinks our IT guy at work has been looking at our e-mails and web browsers, and I panicked a little bit, because I bring my work laptop home and it's where I blog.  Here are recent things I have searched and/or Googled:

• Can eunochs have orgasms?
• I have a third nipple - at The Bloggess
• Cats having sex (images)
• Pippa handgun
• Rogers, Arkansas
• Fifty Shades of Gray
• Release Date for Breaking Dawn Part 2
• Swim lesson dates available
• When was Ted Bundy electrocuted?
• "The Show" Malbec

   (Seriously delicious, people.)

 

These are honest searches I've performed.  It's a little awkward, seeing where your brain has been on the Internet.  So I figure there is NO WAY our IT guy is checking this stuff out, or I would have been called into HR a while ago.

 

On a side note, I just ate a quarter pound of Jelly Bellies and I think I'm going to throw up.  Time to pound some Tums and finish The Bloggess's book, which is unsurprisingly hilarious.

 

Here's a picture of me drinking water for the creepy people:

You're welcome.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 80

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws. Or people I work with. Or anyone who lives within 10 miles of me. Or parents of my children's friends. Or cat vandals.


Today's topic: Hump Day Forever


A few nights ago, my house was quiet. This is newsworthy in that my house is never quiet, but the kids went to bed without protest for a change and I had a little 10 p.m. facebook/Twitter time. I'm happily creeping on other people's pages and reading celebrity tweets when I hear this loud THUNK like a water balloon hit the side of the house, and then Raaaaaarwwwwr RAAAAWWWRRRR!!!!

It was immediatey recognizable as cats having sex, but it sounded oddly like vandalism, like someone did a drive-by and instead of throwing a Moltov Cocktail they threw f**king cats at our house. Who hates us so much they'll throw f**kng cats at the house?

Our neighborhood on a daily basis. 

It's like an opium den of cat sex in the yard.

But most of the feral cats are black

and missing signifcant chunks of fur.

I run downstairs to Current Husband's office and start saying, "Did you hear that?" when it's like they are in the room doing it. RRRAAAAAWWRRR! HISS HISS HISS! THUNK THUNK RAWWWWWWRRRR!!!! It's like the National Cat Fornication Service just activated a Cat Sex warning and the siren is going off.  Take Cover!  Take Cover!  We look at each other with wide eyes, like "Is that what sex sounds like?" because it's been awhile and we've forgotten. CH opens the curtains to the egress window in the basement and lo and behold, total cat sex peep show in our window well.  The cats see CH and they literally shoot four feet into the air, mwowling, and we can hear them howl all the way down the dark street.  We so look forward to increasing our brood of 34 feral cats to 87 this spring.

But lest ye think the mating is over in our hood, fear not, gentle reader.  Everyone in our hood is doing the Humpty Hump.

The other day I walked out to show my sister our crumbling chimney when I glanced over to our neighbor's yard, where their yellow lab was busy mounting a visiting chocolate lab.  This was an arranged date, but Zeus is a little short in the leg and was having trouble getting on his taller date.  What he lacked in height, he made up in stamina, and even without the aid of the doggie sex stilts I recommended to the neighbor, he managed to get the job done more efficiently and with less noise than his feline counterparts.  And?  Zeus is a broad daylight kind of guy.  There's no fear there.  It's a "Check it OUT, neighborhood, I've got balls bigger than your cars!"  Meanwhile, George the Superpet, ball-less wonder, stood at the fence, watching sadly.

The next night, George had his chance at love. 

The neighbor was having a little bonfire and invited me over to have a beer with her.  I brought George the Superpet, and the moment he got inside their gate his gaydar went off and he started humping their male dogs like he'd just done a line of coke at the Stonewall Inn in Grenwich Village while the DJ played Lady Gaga.  He was just born this way.  The neighbor's two male, un-neutered labs had to lay down on the grass so George couldn't hump them, and then he just walked around for a bit air-humping.  My neighbor and I were laughing, but I felt a little sorry for him.  He's so repressed, and everyone around him gets to have sex while he's stuck in the house watching the Disney Channel. 

George, mounting Grandma Jan at Christmas. 

Awkward for everyone.

So, in sum:
1.  Someone is throwing f**king cat bombs at our house in some weird kind of hate crime.
2.  Short dogs have bigger mojo.
3.  George the Superpet is a repressed sex machine.

Spring has sprung, people.  Get out there and enjoy it like an animal.

 

Of Blogs and Birthdays and Baginas and Blow Jobs

Last week I will admit that I was a little bitter because I wanted to go to the Erma Bombeck Writer's Conference, which only happens every two years, and it was on my birthday, and was where I met some kick-ass bloggers last year, one of whom has a book coming out, Mommy Mixology, at http://www.muffintopmommy.com/.

So Janet of MTM went to the conference and is posting all kinds of cool stuff, and The Bearded Iris, whom I love, was also there and posting great stuff, and I'm all "Waaa, waaa, I didn't get to go to EBWW and it was my birthday and no one bought me a cake and I spent it attending OD's musical, waaa." Of COURSE I would rather have been at the musical.  Of course.  But it doesn't stop me from having one of those "But what happened to MY life?  MY interests?" moments.

Then I read The Bearded Iris' blog today and I'm even more pissed I didn't go because I'm afraid now I'm forced to stalk her until I meet her at a conference, because I think we are living similar lives and I need to get a DNA sample to see if we are related somehow.  Here is her blog post, read at will:  http://www.thebeardediris.com/  Here's the skinny if you don't have time to read it yet - her cover as a blogger was blown, and her son's friend told her son that he knew about his mom's blog.  The cold fear of every semi-anonymous blogger, including myself.

I love this photo at The Bearded Iris - she rocks it.

Her last two posts are near and dear to my heart, because I struggle with this very thing.  I started blogging about 12 years ago, so if I had stuck with it I would perhaps be able to live off of blogging and be home with my kids like I'd like to be, but I'm not bitter and that's what's important.  I was also a writer for a local newspaper and had an award-winning column called "Diary of a Mad Housewife."  At the time, it was okay to tell stories about how my daughter called it a "Bagina" and said nothing was EVER coming out of hers.  Or to talk about how my son thought our minister was YD's dad, or how my nursing boobs were hanging out at Henry Doorly Zoo in Omaha at a tour bus stop, all because my kids were little and no one cared.  The only person I was embarrassing was myself, and I was (and am) okay with that.

A couple of years ago, when OD was 13, some moms of her friends were reading the blog, and one of them let slip something that was on a Whoreticulture Friday post.  It was fairly innocuous, BUT, I found myself thinking, "I talk about blow jobs.  Waxing.  Positions.  Farting.  Which teenager is going to completely out my kid at school over my blog because their parents let them read it?"  (THIS IS NOT A BLOG FOR ANYONE UNDER 18.  In case it was unclear.   Because you might think it's funny to share with your teen, but your teen may not have judgement or filters when talking to mine.)  But at the same time, teachers at all three of my kids' schools read it.  Some of their doctors read it.  My in-laws and parents and sister and CH's siblings sometimes read it.  Current Husband and many of his friends read it.  A local mom who hates my living guts for some still-unknown reason reads it to troll for information she can use to get other people to judge me.  It's a sticky wicket. 

Here's a freebie, judgey people - I'm showing off my melons in public again,

while forgetting to suck in my gut.  OD took this picture. Someone call the DHS.

Bloggers generally don't get paid.  I don't.  It takes one to two hours to write a post, which I try to do three times a week.  Because Blogger sucks, I rarely get comments or feedback.  I once got an extremely nasty comment from someone who said that I am a c*nt and they would let CH bend them over (stranger, or local acquaintance?  I'll never know.  C'est la vie.)  It's times like those, and the potential embarrassment factor to the kids, that make you want to quit.  When you stare at your computer screen and say, "Why am I even writing this damn blog for no one?" 

But in the slew of messages I got on my personal facebook page on my birthday, a few stood out as being blog-specific: 

• I was crying laughing last night catching up on your blog!
• Girl, we should SO be celebrating your day at Erma this year :( Hope you have a most AWESOME year, Friend! Get that novel out this year--this is your year! Cheers to you!!!
• Can't tell you how often I read your observations and laugh so hard that I can hardly breathe
• Thank you for making me laugh every single day! :)
• Happy birthday sweetie! Wish we were celebrating at Erma!!! :(
• Hey you hot piece of sass - Happymuthafahkinbirthday!!!!! xoxox

That last one was written by The Insatiable Host, Danon, my favorite Canadian.  We "met" through blogging, and while I've never seen her face I can somehow hear her voice.  Two of the comments are from people I've known for over 20 years.  Two are from people I met at Erma Bombeck in 2010, and two are from people I've never met in person.  I also have a terrific posse of friends who frequently support me and talk up the blog - I've always been a storyteller, and I've threatened to write a book forever (just like every third person on the street does), and that support from friends new and old?  That is the payment.  That is the reason for blogging.  You will all never know how much that support means to me - it keeps me writing.  I just hope the blog never exists at the expense of my kids.

I'd love to hear from other bloggers who have similar situations as Iris.  Do your kids' friends know you blog?  Do you blog under your real name?  Do tell.  I think Iris stirred something up that has been on the minds of bloggers for a long time.

Another Year Bites the Dust

So it's been a busy week in Wiferville - Youngest Daughter's birthday was a week ago, my birthday was Thursday, and Oldest Daughter was in her first high school musical this weekend.

It's a weird thing to have a kid in high school.  In elementary school, your kids start kindergarten and you're all gung ho to get involved and make a difference and make cookies together and feel like you can make a difference and everyone will LIKE you, they'll really LIKE you.  By about third grade all of the moms at my elementary had discovered I'm a total hack at mothering properly, and I went back to work and ruined my home life so now I'm the "Oreos and nail painting" mom who shows up at all school events on my third day without a shower and meth eyes.  Fortunately my kids seem to run on autopilot well, as they are all clean and on honor roll and no one is pregnant or in rehab at this time.

But then your kids get older and this really interesting thing happens - they start getting your jokes and listening to the same music and being fun.  And you realize that you don't need to approval of other moms to be happy, and the focus goes back to guiding this cool person you built through the morass that is middle school.  High school has been the most fun yet, probably because mentally I am a high schooler, so I'm back on the Mother Ship with the other aliens.

Me, dropping kids off at school.  "Beee goooooodddd."

Hand to God, ET looks younger and better rested than I do right now.

My nose is bigger but we could both use some eyebrow work.

Neck and chin?  Identical.  We must share the same grandma.

So OD was in this musical, Anything Goes, and she was Female Passenger and Reporter #1.

She's in the yellow dress in front on the right. 

She's so sweet I could sop her up with a biscuit.

Opening night was Thursday, and all of my bitching about the crazy schedule for the musical and how many redonkulous hours that had to put into it melted away as I watched my baby walk across the stage looking gorgeous and confident and happy, and I cried a little.  A senior girl whom we've known for a few years stepped on the stage as Hope Harcourt, sang her opening song, was completely amazing, and proceeded to make me openly cry like a baby.  I looked over at her parents, who were just moonfaced and smiling, looking at their only child on that stage, and I thought, "Dear God, that's OD in three years."  Three years may seem like a long time, but in high school time that is about 14 months.
Now that you've been spashed with estrogen, some quick bullet points on who was in the audience:

1. Grandma and Grandpa Loud Talker.  I know you are old, and with my advancing age I can respect that.  But if you can't tell that you are talking with each other through the entire first Act louder than the lead is speaking, maybe go home and watch the original version on DVD.
2. Machine Gun Laugher.  Like Fran Drescher, but in monotone and without the charm.  joke.  hehehehehehehehehe.  joke.  hehehehehehehehe.  joke.  hehehehehehehehehe.
3. The entire Whooping Cough ward from the hospital.  Cough drops, people.  They're sold at all major drug stores.
4. "What Did They Say?" Man.  Move on Dude, because you're missing the next joke too.
5. "My Kid's A Lead!" Mom, who laughs before the kid finishes the joke.  Had OD told jokes, or been a lead, this would've been me.
6. The Crying During a Comedy parent.  Me.  Because this just can't be happening.

I'm assuming Anne Hathaway's mom has this same list of concerns.

Have a happy week ahead Wifers!

Glass Half Full, Carton Empty

Last weekend, I awoke and shuffled into the kitchen to make people breakfast.  (Two thought simultaneously went through my head as I typed that - 1) "Every day I'm shuff-uh-lin" and 2) the frontier wives who prepared the thresher's dinners in Little House books.  They seemed like tired women.)

So I make the coffee first, because when you are on an airplane and you're going to crash they very specifically point out in the safety videos that when the oxygen masks drop, you should put yours on first and THEN the child's, because you have to be alive to keep them alive.  Coffee comes first.

I made a move to four different breakfast staples, all with the same result.  Exhibit #1:

I go for the obvious choice - Eggo waffles.  This makes it seem like they are getting a treat without me doing much.  Who can resist the warm buttery syrupy-ness of an Eggo waffle??  But there was no "Leggo my Eggo" in my house, because SOMEONE ate the last one and put the damn box back in the freezer.

I move on to cereal.  Not as impressive, but hey, they'll eat, right?  Box #1 - EMPTY.  Box #2 - EMPTY.  Seriously.  WTF, Family?

Maybe we'll just have toast for breakfast.  Toast and some nice cranberry apple juice, so we can carb up and prevent urinary tract infections, two birds dead.  Oh, but wait.  Someone put the juice back in the fridge, EMPTY.  Not even the crafty "oh there's enough for half a juice glass for someone, I'll put it back".  It was completely empty, no backwash, no nothing.

I stood there for a moment while I did my angry cartoon character imitation.

The thought bubble on this is not yet rated, but is surely inappropriate for delicate ears.

Then I had my coffee and stared at the empty boxes and changed into this:

Because honestly people.  How do you lecture kids on THROWING AWAY THE BOX WHEN IT'S EMPTY?  We all know how it's going to end.  I'm explaining things slowly and loudly, as though I'm talking with foreigners who don't know English, but no matter how loud or how slow I may speak, they just aren't going to get it.  They are going to look at me with the "When is she going to STOP?" face, and look at each other and roll their eyes and hope I don't catch them.   (You'd BETTER hope I don't catch you!)  These children are 15, 12 and 9.  How will they ever have jobs or pay taxes or get themselves to a dentist regularly if they can't throw away the box?  These are the issues I grapple with on a daily basis.  This must've been covered in the 8 a.m. classes I missed in college.

As a side note, take a look at my iPod:

Whenever Oldest Daughter is in the kitchen, she brings her iPod 4th gen 8 gb down, removes my old grandma iPod from the speaker, and plays her music, which is fine.  Until she leaves the kitchen and leaves Grandma laying on the counter to collect toast crumbs up in her craw, and then perhaps she won't play someday.  Put my iPod back in my iPod player, dammit!  Do you know how long I waited for the Beatles to be on iTunes!?!  Have some respect!

Do your people leave empty boxes everywhere?  Because I'm about to call the ACME company and order some kind of elaborate trap for the next person who leaves one in the cabinet.  I'm sure it won't end well for me, but at least I'll have done SOMETHING.

And Mom?  I'm sorry for when I surely did this to you.  You are a saint.

Last One in Single Digits

WARNING:  Anyone who lives in the Quad Cities and sees me coming should politely find something to do in the opposite direction.  I am scheduling a nervous breakdown for next week.   Unless you have a lovely chardonnay or some Xanax or a minivan with a full tank of gas and you're dying to drive kids around, and then I beg you to run toward me.  RUN, FORREST, RUN!  Run into the light!

"Oh Julie," you say.  "Quit yer whinin'!"

POP! That is the sound of me smacking you sort of hard and then saying I was kidding.  Trust me, I KNOW I'm whining.  I've always maintained that I was built to handle the responsibilites of a 27-year-old, maximum.  Right now I'm juggling some priceless Wedgewood china, previously owned by George Washington, all coated in the Ebola Virus, and I know one or more pieces is going to hit the ground and shatter into a million little priceless irretreivable shards and kill all of mankind, and I don't know which one yet, so keep juggling, keep juggling, keep juggling...There are FOUR STRESS POINTS right now in my little life, and I think a number of you mom-types are going through similar scenarios:

1.  THE DRIVING SCHEDULE

Here was our schedule Monday night: 
4:45   Get home from work
5:15   Leave with The Son, his bass, and Oldest Daughter's cello in van.
5:30   Drop Son at string lessons, drive to high school to get
         Oldest Daughter from musical practice.
6:00   OD in cello lesson, Son comes out.  Current Husband meets me in parking lot
         with Youngest Daughter.  YD gets in my car, Son gets in CH car to be driven
         to baseball practice.
6:30   OD leaves cello lesson, drive back to high school to drop her at musical practice.
7:00   Arrive home.  Carry instruments in.  Feed YD.  Let George the Superpet out.
7:15   Let GTS in, put YD and piano bags in car, leave for piano lessons.
7:30   Drop YD at piano, go shop for YD birthday gifts.
8:00   CH takes Son to piano from baseball practice.  Picks up OD from musical practice.
8:30   I pick up The Son and YD from piano, go home.
8:45   Start homework, showers, etc.
10:45  Think "What The Hell Just Happened?"  Assess what can change. 
           Determine nothing can.  Count days until musical is over.  Throw up a little in my 
          mouth.  Take a Prilosec and eat Tums.  Sleep fitfully, dream of dogs on skis.

So because of the high school musical, coupled with the fact that no children drive, our lives have been a little chaotic lately.  Plus, we have three children in three levels of school - elementary, middle, and high school - and this is the time of year when all the shit goes down.  Conferences. Scheduling classes. Solo festivals and concerts to determine what chair you get next year. End of year picnics/festivals/fundraisers/volunteer opportunities.  Sign up for the camps you need to do during the summer. Bleh.  It makes me want to eat Lucky Charms on my mom's green and gold velvet couch and read a Nancy Drew book and imagine what it will be like to get my period someday.

2.  FOREGOING DIET COKE

What in the name of Baby Jesus was I thinking?  This is not the time of year to go on the wagon.  But in the wrestling match between my now-insecure colon and Diet Coke, the colon won.  I am now nearly 72 hours soda-free, and I've never wanted a beer and a smoke more.

3.  TODAY IS YOUNGEST DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY

Nine years ago I was 4 days overdue with my third baby.  We lived in a small town, and I owed a gift shop, so everyone knew I was overdue.  I would waddle down the street and people would yell things at me like, "Eat Eggplant Parmegiana!" or "Watch the movie Chicago!" or "Drink Raspberry Tea!" or "Try Nipple Stimulation!".  I'm not kidding.  So on April 11, 2003, I was sitting on the couch eating Eggplant Parmegiana with Raspberry Tea watching the movie Chicago and giving myself purple nurples when my water finally broke.  Then CH and I were almost hit by a drunk driver going the wrong way on a one-way street into Iowa City en route to the hospital, because the bars were closing.  And then I got my first epidural, thank you God.  Little MuMu Kowski was born the next morning, April 12, bright and early and on her own terms.  Seeing this sweet little muffin turn nine, and knowing it's my last year with a child in a single-digit age, is hitting me kind of hard today.  I took an hour off work and took her into school with her butt-ass-ugly "brownie kites" she wanted me to make, and CH and I took her to lunch at Wendy's today (no Diet Coke!  AAAAHH!), and tonight she wants spaghetti and meatballs and she'll open some Lalaloopsy stuff, and I know this is all so fleeting.  What a cutie patootie.  I already miss her and she's still around for another 10 years.  Do you ever stare at your kids and think, "I HAVE to remember this moment!" like I want to remember their voices and the feel of their little hands holding yours or the smell of their hair...  Jesus, I'm going to cry.  WHERE IS MY DIET COKE!?!?

4.  I'M TURNING 43 NEXT WEEK

and my face is melting off and my middle is getting thicker and my varicose veins are really putting down some roots and I have acid reflux and apparently some up-and-coming digestive issues and I can't just drink and eat whatever I want to anymore and my hips hurt in the middle of the night and I'm forgetting shit all the time and I'm tired but I can't sleep, and I'm constantly bitching in my head (and on my blog, you're welcome!) about how busy I am, and I feel like I'm running faster and faster on a treadmill and even though I run faster I'm not going anywhere, and I know these kids are going to be out of the house before I know it (three years, it begins....) and I'm going to miss them so much it makes my gut hurt (or that's the Diet Coke) but I can't wrap my head around it because I'm just DRIVING EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME!!!!  And I've stopped drinking Diet Coke!  And my colon is occasionally exploding!

In sum?  Happy Birthday YD, I need a Diet Coke, and for my birthday?  Baby you can drive my car.

And baby I love you.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

A terrible, terrible thing is happening to me. It’s akin to changing my blood type or my eye color, or getting a new identity, or having a sex change. I think my body is starting to reject Diet Coke.


(Take a moment. I know, it’s hard for me to wrap my head around too.)


I’ve been a Diet Coke fan since it was born in 1982. This was the first can design from which I can remember drinking:

Memories.  Like the corners of my mind.

I had a brief fling with Fountain Mountain Dew from about 1988 through 1993, but eventually returned to my original love. I also gave up Diet Coke entirely during my first pregnancy, and drank limited amounts of it during pregnancies number two and three and while I was nursing. But the first thing I had after each baby? A Diet Coke and a very large Tylenol. And then a malt. And then a large pile of blow accompanied by a Neil Sedaka album. (Just kidding Mom. You know I can’t take Neil Sedaka.)

TANGENT ALERT:  I just typed "Images A Pile of Blow" on Google and the weirdest shit ever came up.  I couldn't even pick anything, my mind was so confused, particularly by the 'Reeses peanut butter cup in hair' image.  Might have to quit those now too.  And now back to our story....

I’m the kind of person who won’t have soda if the restaurant exclusively serves Diet Pepsi. Why would I give up the most delicious, refreshing drink in all the free world? Well, I’m going to be deliberately vague so as to not make you lose your cookies, but here goes.


A couple of weeks ago, Current Husband and I went on a little date and had dinner at Biaggi’s. I had the shrimp and crab cannelloni, because CH is allergic to shellfish, so since I don’t cook with it I try to order it when I’m out on the town. It was spectacularly delicious. CH thinks I got sick from the shellfish, I think I got rotavirus from someone. Let’s just say that something terrible has been happening in my colon. Something very, very terrible.


I try to stay away from the bathroom at work. I use it, but not unless I have to, and I restrict myself to #1 activities only. I go home for lunch if I have other business to do. I feel that it’s a favor to me and a courtesy to my co-workers. Let’s keep our biological issues as human beings as separate as possible. The Monday after Biaggi’s, I found myself unable to wait. Or drive. There was no time. NO. TIME. So The Bad Things happened. As I was walking out of the bathroom, another female co-worker, whom I like, was approaching the door. As she put her hand on the knob, I put my hand on her arm.


ME: “Don’t.”
HER: “What?”
ME: “As a friend, I’m telling you not to go in there.”
HER: (smiling but flustered) “But I’m just rinsing out my coffee cup.”
ME: “Not in there, you aren’t. Don’t pass that door for at least an hour.”
HER: (Laughing as I’m leading her to another sink) “You must have what R had last week!”
ME: “Was R sick?”
HER: “I’m not sure, but I know she alternated bathrooms and advised I go at home.”
ME: “Ditto.”


Anyone with a uterus knows that women just don't talk about these things.  But at that moment, I was going to lose her respect in one of two ways - either let her keep walking through the door and into my Cloud of Shame, or to stop her from walking in and admit I have a cranky colon.  I like her, so I chose Option #2 (no pun intended).  And I’m going on Week 2.


I’m finding that The Bad Things happen soon after I drink Diet Coke, and I’ve even been finding that lately Diet Coke doesn’t taste as good. I’ve been on Web MD researching. I’ve tried to eat healthier (okay, not really, but I’ve INTENDED to, which is similar). I’ve texted a friend for the name of her probiotic (Florastor). I have NOT cut back on coffee. I have not given up Pinot Grigio. I have a lot of work to do.


I’m sorry Diet Coke, but I think we’re going to need to take a Ross and Rachel Break. In the words of Neil Sedaka, Breaking Up Is Hard To Do.  Time to do some blow and have a malt.  But not a baby.  (Thanks again, Essure!)




Happy Easter!

Since I'm probably rushing around trying to find my shoes to get to church and figuring out how to cook ham without giving people trichonosis, I'm re-printing an older Easter post from what I can now refer to as "The Early Days" of the blog.  Happy Easter, and I dearly hope you have eaten fewer Reese's peanut butter cups than I on this blessed day.

The Son has started baseball, which means we spent an inordinate amount of time in large, grassy areas.  As we are pulling out of the ballpark, we see a costumed Easter Bunny standing in the middle of a huge field where presumable volunteers were throwing a gazillion eggs and candy all over the place.  I shudder.

ME:  "Did you know I was the Easter Bunny once?"
HIM:  "Really?  Like in a costume and everything?"
ME:  "Yes.  When I was Marketing Director at the mall, we had an Easter Egg Hunt, and my bunny bailed at the last minute, so I had to suit up."
HIM:  "Whoa, cool.  What was that like?"
ME:  "Extremely hot and sweaty and painful.  The kids beat me up.  I've tried to block it."
HIM:  "Did you make them mad?"
ME:  "No.  They were non-believers intent on disproving the whole Easter Bunny thing."

It's true.  I was the Crayola Easter Bunny at the Pentacrest in downtown Iowa City in 1995.  Freshly engaged, I thought perhaps with marriage and potential children in my future I should try to soften up toward kids, since they had always sort of annoyed me.  I donned the fur suit, which was hotter than the pits of Hades, and started sweating it out.  Let me just reassure you now that while some of the minor details may have faded, this is a Hand-To-God true story.


I walked over to the field with the assistance of one of the mall cops, because you can't see a damn thing out of those bunny heads.  You can't hear in the bunny head.  You can't walk in the bunny feet.  The Crayola outfit comes complete with pastel-hued overalls with a huge pocket on the front, and white furry feet that are about two feet long.  It's just a train wreck waiting to happen.

 Photo of actual costume.  But my feet were bigger.  

Now you can feel my pain.

When the kids saw me, they went apeshit crazy.  I was like the Beatles after Ed Sullivan, but with candy instead of sex appeal.  I stumbled over the field, little arms from invisible children hugging my legs and tripping over my enormous feet.  I tried to pat them on the head, but managed to poke more than one kid in the eye or punch them in the face.  I couldn't tell if they were screaming in joy or pain, I just knew I Must.  Keep.  Moving.  

 But at least I wasn't THIS guy, because that looks hot.  

And someone might accidentally shoot you.

After a while, the toddlers made way for the fourth graders, who ganged up on me and kept saying, "I know you're not real".  Since my Crayola Easter Bunny costume didn't have a moving jaw, I opted for Mute bunny so as to not ruin it for the believers, and I was more like Helen Keller in this costume than I thought possible, so I just waved and patted at the hecklers while the mall cop tried to shoo them away.  And kids listen so well to mall cops.

 Now picture every one of these kids 

with a club and a taser gun.  Scary, no?

"You're NOT REAL!  I Don't BELIEVE YOU!"  Then the poking and shoving started (the kids, not me).  Sweat was pouring down my back, and I could swear my overalls were sagging.  I started to hyperventilate.  Is this how I was to die?  By asphyxiation in a full fur body suit with long floppy ears and a cute cotton ball tail with a pack of fourth graders kicking the crap out of me like a bunch of skinheads?


Then, it happened.  A kid actually stuck his hand down my overall pocket and started groping around, saying, "You got any candy in there, bunny?"  

That.  Just.  Did it.

"ENOUGH!"  I growled through my enormously disproportionate head.  "You kids need to move away from the Easter Bunny RIGHT! NOW!"  

 Don't.  F*ck.  With.  My.  Pocket.

I stood in my most threatening costumed fantasy creature pose, pastel overalls trembling, sweat pooling in my pants.  I now looked like the rabid Tourettes bunny who had just wet himself.  "You kids had better move along," the mall security guard said quietly and slowly.  The kids went eerily silent, and walked away.  "Um, are you okay in there Julie?"  

"Just get me back to the mall, Bob.  I need to get back to the mall."


The Easter Bunny left a little early, soaked in her own sweat and feeling violated.  She can't remember much from the rest of the day, except that it involved tequila to dull the burning rage she had toward grade schoolers.  I'm not going to say that's the last time I got into a costume, but I will tell you it's the last time I got in one without a sidearm.

As for those kids who touched me?  Let's just say I still have the costume, and the Easter Bunny makes a visit to their houses every damn year.  Bock bock, Easter Bunny.  Bock, bock.

Hump Day and Kardashians

Hey Wifers, what's up?  Say hello to your mother for me.

So it's Hump Day as I'm writing this, and honestly I don't have much going on, so I'm going to just recap today for you.  Since this blog is called A Day In The Wife, I like to occasionally throw in one that is an actual day in my actual life.  In sum, I'm trying to bore you to death.  Here we go:

6:21 a.m. - my clock says 6:21, but it is actually closer to 6:10.  I like to try and trick myself in the morning by setting my clock for a later time, but I know what the actual time is, so who's the fool now?  Oh.  It's still me.  Additionally, I push my snooze twice because I know my snooze gives me another 9 minutes per push.  If I push it twice, I will get up at 6:39, which is actually 6:28.  I get ready to take a shower, but wake The Son up and he has a fit because HE needs to take a shower, so I have a cup of coffee and make some lunches while he uses up the hot water.

7:36 a.m. on my bedroom clock, which is 7:24 on my oven clock, which is 7:26 in my van.  We're late.  Anything before 7:26 is early, anything after is late.  I take five middle schoolers to school in the morning, and they like to be there a little early so they can hang out before school and find out what new drama is going on in the life of the American Teenager.  There is another parent who drives a big black Hummer with Iowa Hawkeye plates that, unbeknownst to him, races us to school every day.  We beat him there a lot, but today he beats us.  Damn it.  I'm very competitive with that Hummer.

7:48 a.m. on the van clock.  I get to work, unpack my stuff, get my coffee, and have a few quiet minutes to check my e-mail, voice mail, Facebook, blog, Twitter, and plan my day.  I have one direct report, she is almost always at least 15 minutes late, which is fine because she stays late too, but once she gets there, we all start talking.  I have GOT to find a way to break the talking.  It's not like I don't enjoy talking to her, but I can hear company money cha-changing in the background, and I feel guilty after about 10 minutes.

8 - 11:30 a.m. I deal with hooker issues.  I actually blog about rug hooking.  It is noteworthy that my rug hooking blog does not have a Whoreticulture Friday.

11:30 a.m.  I pick up Oldest Daughter's boyfriend's mom and we go to the high school to buy musical tickets.  I buy $120 worth of tickets.  I have just committed myself to 9 hours of "Anything Goes" in mid-April.  I hope anything goes, because by my third show I'm coming in sweatpants, flip flops and my carrying my full Snoop Dogg chalice.

12:05 p.m. - Drive thru at Taco Bell.  Take my first drink of Mountain Dew and smell my chicken quesadilla and wonder yet again why I can't lose any weight.  It just makes no sense.  Is that an extra taco in my bag? 

12:15 p.m. - Back at work.  I walk in and someone who is off the clock has pulled up a chair and is eating her lunch in my direct report's cubicle, who IS on the clock for another 45 minutes, so after 10 minutes of me and the two men in customer service having to listen to their personal conversation, I say in a sing-song voice, "Okay, time to go, she's still working for 45 minutes!" and they go silent and I'm sure making facial gestures about what a bitch I am, but honestly people.  Let's get back to work.  I'm her boss and you are flaunting it in front of me that you are monopolizing her time and keeping her from working.  You aren't the first, or the last, people to be mad at me today.

12:15 -4:45 p.m. - More hooker issues, including one person who orders product, tells me she is from out of town and will pick it up in our office on Friday, I agree, get off the phone, and realize we are closed on Friday.  I tell her if she calls me on my cell phone when she is done with her tax appointment in town, I will meet her to give her the rug hooking equipment on my day off because I AM A BIG FAT IDIOT WITH A SOFT SPOT FOR OLD HOOKERS WHO DON'T WANT TO PAY SHIPPING.

4:50 p.m. - Drive home, relish the silence.

5:00 p.m. - George the Superpet greets me at the door, shoves his snout in my crotch, and will not allow me to pass until his ears have been adequately scratched.  Walk in, set my stuff down, start making a delicious dinner of Pizza Rolls, along with yogurt with granola.  Seriously people, this is dinner lately.  CH is taking The Son to baseball practice, I'm taking YD to dance class, but we have to stop at the high school and pick up OD from musical practice first. 

6:00 p.m. - Picking up OD from practice when YD announces she has an upset stomach, and actually she has had one all day, and doesn't think she should go to dance.  (NOTE:  She didn't have any pizza rolls, lest ye think the Totino's did it!)  I sigh, say okay, and pick up my phone to text the friend who was meeting me out for an hour while the girls were in dance.  Sorry Friend!

6:30 p.m. - Go to grocery store because a few people are stopping over late tomorrow night for a quick drink.  Check out and see that out of my $200 grocery bill, $100 is for liquor and brownies.  Just the staples for Easter.

7:45 p.m. - Home.  Time to sign planners and homework showers and brush teeth and get ready to do it all again tomorrow. 

8:30 p.m. - Everyone is in their respective bedrooms, reading or studying, and YD comes back out to me.  She is holding an M Magazine, which features about 16 celebrity heads on it, like Taylor Swift and Taylor Lautner and the Beebs.  I think of it as Junior People, and features a lot of Nick and Disney stars.  I never consider the articles.  "Mom.  I need to ask you a question, but don't tell Dad."  Okaaayyyy.  This is always tricky because CH and I make it a practice to tell each other everything.  It's less complicated than lying and I don't have the energy or the memory to do that anymore.  "Well, tell me what it is and I'll let you know if I can keep it a secret."  YD looks sheepish.  I look down and see a picture of the Kardashian sisters in her pre-teen magazine.  Is nothing free of the Kardashians? 

 "Mom...what's a period?"

Fucking Kardashians!!

I guess they are shilling for Kotex now.

So PLEASE, explain to my child how periods work.

And is that "Berlin Wall" supposed to be a metaphor? 

Why do you have a sledge hammer and 6-inch heels? 

In a red dress?  Are YOU the period Khloe?

9:30 p.m. - Because of the Kardashian sisters, my soon-to-be 9-year-old is now terrified of getting her period.  I know this is my own fault for not screening her M Magazine, which we buy for Victoria Justice and get a sneaky bitchy Kardashian.  It's like buying a Capri Sun juicebox for your child and finding out it's 10% vodka - you know it's not the BEST thing for her but you don't expect that crap in it.  So she's a little traumatized, and she will also never enjoy a raspberry-filled donut because I sort of used that as my metaphor for a uterus and the lining.  But?  A baby who developed in a raspberry-filled donut?  Would grow up to be the HAPPIEST ADULT EVER.  I wish I was in a raspberry-filled donut right now.  And obviously?  Don't mention this to YD.

10:30 p.m. - Take two Benadryl and finish Mindy Kaling's "Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?"  which is a funny title because it's what I always asked my friends in high school, and what actually happened in college.

11:00 p.m. - WHAT WILL PROBABLY HAPPEN: Go to sleep to fitful dreams that I have overslept and didn't set the alarm.  Wake up at 5:58 (really 5:47) and realize I have about 20 minutes left to sleep.  Cling desperately to the idea that I can still sleep.  Oversleep slightly and get out the door late.

But I do have Good Friday off, so that's good news.  Except for that quick hooker meeting in the afternoon, which is conveniently located near a Starbucks.  The perfect way to start the weekend.  A good Good Friday to you, Wifers!

I've Eaten and I Can't Get Up

I love food.

I mean really, really love food.  Lately, I don't like to make food or clean up from cooking food, so I just order a lot of food.  Fatty, salty, or chocolately food.  And it's all been delicious.  But it's time for the party rockin' to stop in this house, because there is a whole lotta wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle wiggle hey going on in my pants.

I break down the gluttony into a few nicely compartmentalized issues:

A)  GIRL SCOUTS - Those little girls in green get right under my radar every year, with their deceptively sweet sales pitches and pictures of them going to camp or whatever.  This year was yet another banner year in my house, with the purchase of at least 16 boxes of Girl Scout cookies.  I can pack away a half box of Thanks Alot before I even REALIZE the box is open and 10,000 calories are shoved in my pie hole.  Don't even get me started on the Shortbreads.  Thankfully I'm not a Caramel Delights fan, but they are crack to Current Husband.  We're gross.

B)  FRIENDS - all of my friends also love food, and since we never have time to get together we tend to schedule it around meals.  Hey, let's meet for a margarita, and a bucket of chips and a trough of salsa and maybe a vat of cheese.  I love my friends, what am I going to say, NO?  I think not.

C)  BOOK CLUB - I love book club, and not just for the kick-ass chicks in my group, but also because they all make great snacks.  So I pack away 3/4 of a bottle of wine and six handfuls of peanut M&M's and that key lime dip with the little graham crackers and the little bruschetta and some kind of delicious meaty thing ...oh, what book did we read?

D)  KIDS - Because I'm almost NEVER going to say no to McD's or pizza or ice cream.  When you're eating like you're 15 but moving like you're 70 and have the metabolism of a dead person, you're going to keep that Canadian Bacon pizza around your waist to keep you warm in the winter.  It's like I'm one of those Doomsday Preppers, I'm just storing the food in my body because I don't have room in my house.

E)  CURRENT HUSBAND - Because I blame him for everything.  Duh.

So about a month ago, a co-worker was complaining about how fat she's getting and I was all, "Oh I'm getting fatter than you!" and we turned it into one of those woman "whose fatter" smackdowns.  We agreed to a few simple rules to try to make ourselves stop eating the 7th meal and lose a few pounds before we had to show some calf:  Weigh in on the Wii Fit, Drink 900 ml of water per day, exercise 30 minutes PER WEEK.  I mean seriously, it's almost embarrassing how low we set the bar.

I go home and get on the Wii Fit Board to weigh in.  First, I get chastised by the woman voice, as in "Well, is this Julie?  It's been 123 days since you last checked in!"  Yes, yes, save the guilt, I've been busy eating Mexican and Girl Scout cookies.  I get on the board and she gives me the surprised groan, "Oooh!!??" Like WHAT THE HELL, FATTY but she can't say it because I'm the customer.  I cringe and wait.  "You've gained 13.8 pounds since your last visit.  It looks like you've passed the deadline for your goal.  Would you like to set another goal?"

Um, yeah.  I'd like to lose 13.8 pounds and appreciate November Julie more.

So far, I've managed to avoid the Y entirely, because I've had pre-planned dinners out with friends, so instead of getting on the elliptical and listening to Kanye, I've been riding a barstool and listening to the sound of fajitas sizzling.  I am down to 200 ml of water left from my original 900 ml from last week.  I have two lunch dates and two dinner dates scheduled in the next three weeks, and Youngest Daughter's birthday is coming, my birthday is coming, and OD's musical is coming, which means people visiting from out of town to see the musical and me making fatty delicious things for the guests to eat, because I'm a giver that way.  It's all about them, of course.

Unless a burqua comes into fashion in the US for Summer 2012, I'm screwed.  It's all very depressing.  What's an instant mood lifter!?  SUGAR!  I'll just eat this last Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and plot my new strategy.  Like a tape worm.  Or amphetamines.